Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Meliora, today is a special year for us. It's not only five hundred years since I crushed Requiem. Not only the year I defeated the stone giants, our last enemies in the world. It's also the year that I will marry. That I will give Saraph an heir."

  Meliora's eyes widened, and she grinned and bounced. "A wedding! A royal wedding! Who will you choose? Perhaps Lady Teelan? She's very beautiful, and she loves baby birds too! Or—I know!—you can marry Lady Merishan! She's a friend of mine. She lets me play with her puppies sometimes. Oh, I can't wait! I can help her choose fabrics for her wedding gown, and—"

  "Meliora." Ishtafel's voice dropped, grew solemn. "You've heard tales of the old dynasties."

  Meliora tilted her head. "Of course." She recited as if reading from a book. "Ours is the Thirteenth Dynasty, the Dynasty of Kalafi. Twelve dynasties have ruled Saraph since our banishment. The first, the Telaka Dynasty, wandered the wilderness. The second, the—"

  "Meliora, do you know how those dynasties ruled for thousands of years? With purity of blood. With a refusal to dilute their nobility. Those who failed at this task, who married for love or lust, saw their dynasties fall." He sighed. "If you ask me, that's foolishness. A mere superstition. In all my wars, I saw humble soldiers of low blood slay many beasts, while nobles of old families perished in the mud. A man rules by the blood he spills, not the blood in his veins. And yet Mother is a superstitious woman. All those who still remember Edinnu, who were born in our old realm in the heavens, are so." He stroked Meliora's hair. "It's Mother who commands this. You must understand that this is her wish, not my own. Yet she is our queen, and we will obey her."

  A small line appeared on Meliora's brow. "What do you mean, brother? What . . . whose blood could be purer than the ladies of the court?"

  "The blood of a princess." Ishtafel placed his finger against her throat, feeling her pulse. "Your blood."

  Still Meliora seemed confused. "But . . . how . . .?"

  Ishtafel sighed again. Meliora was beautiful, innocent, yet a silly thing indeed. "It will be for the good of Saraph, my sister. An heir of pure blood, a child purely of our dynasty, undiluted, will bring a glory to Saraph to last a hundred thousand years."

  Slowly understanding dawned in her eyes. "You wish . . . to marry me?" Meliora gasped, stepped back from him, and blanched. "Mother commands us to marry, to . . . to make a baby?" Confusion and disgust battled on her face.

  Ishtafel glanced around him. Damn it! Other seraphim had heard her. People were staring. Even slaves. He had hoped to break the news to his people on another night, but it seemed the secret was out.

  He cleared his throat. He stepped toward the table, grabbed a goblet of wine, and raised it overhead.

  "My friends!" he cried. "Hear me! My sister and I have an announcement to make." The seraphim turned toward him, and Ishtafel stared across the crowd—those he would someday rule as king. "For five hundred years, my family has ruled Saraph, a dynasty that saw us finally conquer this world we fell to, that brought us the weredragons to serve us, that saw us create a new kingdom of wealth and prosperity. The time has come to create a new heir, a third generation for our family. Our royal blood will be preserved for a hundred thousand years. On the summer solstice, two moons hence, I will marry my sister. Meliora and I will bear Saraph a prince!"

  The seraphim cheered. Even a few of the slaves cried out his name. Many seraphim here had lived five hundred years ago, back when Reehan—his first betrothed—had died. They rejoiced that their prince found new love at last. Wine now flowed and the trumpets blew. All celebrated . . . all but Meliora.

  The young princess stepped closer to Ishtafel, tears in her eyes, and slapped his cheek.

  As he sucked in air and stared with shock, the girl spun on her heel, grabbed her slaves' hands, and fled the hall.

  The cheering died.

  Everyone stared.

  Gods damn.

  Fury—hot and unadulterated—filled Ishtafel. He forced it down with all his might.

  He cleared his throat. "Well, my friends have warned me that wives are harder to defeat than dragons."

  He forced himself to laugh. It wasn't much of a joke, yet the crowd laughed. He was their prince; they'd laugh at anything he himself laughed at. Yet as his laughter rolled across the hall, the rage flowed through Ishtafel, and his fingernails dug into his palms.

  You humiliated me, Meliora. He drank deeply from his cup. You will bear my child, and you will pay for your insolence.

  The feast continued. It would be a triumphant feast that never ended.

  MELIORA

  "I won't do it." Meliora pouted and stamped her feet. "I won't, I won't, I won't! I won't marry my own brother."

  She stood in a chamber of opulence. A mosaic of precious stones covered the floor, depicting colorful fish swimming in a sapphire sea. Lines of silver and platinum coiled around limestone columns, rising toward capitals of purest gold. A fresco sprawled across the vaulted ceiling, recreating the lost paradise of Edinnu. And yet, despite all the gemstones and precious metals, despite the golden vases and ivory statuettes that covered her shelves, despite the scent of frankincense and the haze of wine, Meliora felt trapped here. A prisoner. Lower than a slave.

  "Your Excellence, Ishtafel is most handsome." Kira, a young slave, looked up from painting Meliora's fingernails. Her eyes were large and dark, her skin light brown, and black stubble covered her head. She spoke with awe in her voice. "His eyes shine like suns, and his hair flows like molten gold. All the women of the realm whisper of his magnificence."

  "He is most handsome," agreed Talana, her second slave, who was busy brushing Meliora's hair. While Kira was dark and demure, Talana had skin as pale as milk, strewn with many freckles, and stubble the color of fire covered her head. "You are most fortunate, Your Excellence."

  Meliora fluffed her feathered wings and emitted a long, loud whine. "You don't understand, you fools."

  She pulled her hands back, though only half her fingernails were painted. She leaped up from her bed, though her hair was only half-brushed. She whined again—a high, wailing sound, letting out all her frustration and pain. Those silly slaves would never understand! Their lives were easy. All they ever did was coo, gossip, giggle, brush her hair, paint her nails, wash her body, tend to her clothes, serve her wine—an easy life, a life free from the pressures Meliora faced.

  My life is harder than that of any slave, she thought.

  Meliora perhaps wore a platinum necklace sporting diamonds and pearls, but it was worse than any slave collar. She perhaps wore a kalasiri dress, the soft white muslin shining with sapphires and emeralds, but it was rougher on her skin than her slaves' coarse cotton.

  My mother wants me to marry him . . . Ishtafel. My own brother.

  Meliora shuddered.

  She flounced across her chamber between platinum statues of ibises, jeweled vases blooming with orchids, and ebony tables topped with gold and silver mancala pieces. She came to stand before her bronze mirror, looked at her reflection, and felt like the poorest wretch to have ever crawled upon the earth.

  She was still beautiful, Meliora thought. Wondrously beautiful. The most beautiful woman to have ever lived in this palace—no, the most beautiful to have ever lived anywhere, at any time. She was a seraph, an immortal being of light, a princess of seraphim—a deity among deities, a goddess of gods. Her golden hair flowed like molten dawn down to her hips. Her eyes shone, just as golden and bright, the pupils shaped as sunbursts. Her lips were full, pink, pouty. She was short for a seraph, standing just over six feet tall, but still tall enough to tower over her weredragon slaves. Most beautiful of all, she thought, were her wings. They spread out from her back, their feathers snowy white, gleaming in the light that shone through the windows.

  I am magnificent, Meliora thought, gazing at her reflection. Yet now this legendary beauty will be caged, broken. Now I will become but a womb, a garden for my brother's seed.

  Tears gathered in her eyes and flowed
down her flawless cheeks, coming to rest on her flawless lips—lips her brother would soon be kissing.

  "Your Excellence!" Kira cried. The slave rushed forth, her cotton shift rustling, and held out a silver jug and cup. "Would you like me to pour you more wine?"

  "No," Meliora said. "I've had enough of wine. Enough of you. Enough of this life!"

  Her lips quivered, and she swung her arm, knocking the jug and cup out of the slave's hands. They clanged onto the floor, spilling their crimson liquid. Meliora felt as if her own blood were spilling.

  "Clean it up!" Meliora said. At once Kira and Talana grabbed towels, knelt, and began soaking up the wine. Easy lives. All those two had to clean up was some spilled wine—not the mess of a royal family. All they had to do was serve her, not serve a cruel brother, not serve an entire empire.

  She was cursed, Meliora thought, fingers trembling. Cursed to be born to the Queen of Saraph. Cursed to be the younger sister of a prince returned from a war. Cursed to have this royal ichor coursing through her veins, pure blood that must be passed into an heir.

  Those damn tears kept falling.

  "Wine," she whispered. "I want wine. Bring me new wine!"

  "Of course, Your Excellence," said Kira. The little slave—oh, so innocent, so sheltered!—rose to her feet, rushed to fetch another jug, and poured Meliora a cup.

  Meliora drank. The wine was awful. Too acidic; it must have been sitting in the open for a day at least. But she guzzled it down until the warm haze coated her thoughts. When the cup was empty, she tossed it to the floor, wobbled forward, and stepped between porphyry columns onto the balcony.

  The sunlight fell upon her, and Meliora gazed at her realm. She placed a hand on her belly.

  They want my womb to produce an heir for this land.

  The hot wind blew across Shayeen, scented of frankincense, sandstone, and the distant pits of bitumen that bubbled on the horizon. The breeze caressed Meliora's hair, kissed her lips like a lover, and ruffled the long white feathers of her wings. Her kalasiri, inlaid with jewels and golden disks, chinked like laughing spirits. The muslin caressed her skin, soft to the touch, almost sensual.

  If my mother has her way, Meliora thought, it will be my brother who kisses my lips, who strokes my skin, who removes this muslin from my body and plants his heir within my womb. She clenched her fists. I will not allow it!

  She studied the city below. Shayeen. City of Kings. Jewel of Saraph. The capital of an empire. Her birthright, the city this marriage would let her rule someday as queen.

  The eight Holy Paths flared out like sunbeams, lined with statues of the Eight Gods. Between these cobbled boulevards rose columned temples, lush gardens, bathhouses, amphitheaters, and menageries. Here was a realm of opulence, of pleasure, Edinnu rebuilt upon this world of exile. Standing upon the ziggurat in the city center, a thousand feet above the surface, Meliora could see all the way to the city's outer wall. She felt like a goddess, a deity among deities, an immortal ruler . . . yet one who was afraid. One who felt chained—as surely as the slaves beyond the horizon were chained in the land of Tofet.

  "I wish I were a slave," she whispered into the wind. "I wish I were not born into this bondage, the daughter of a queen."

  She envied her slaves. Envied them! She had never been beyond the horizon to Tofet itself, the land where thousands of slaves dug for bitumen and built bricks. But Meliora knew that their lives were easier than hers. They walked free in the open air, basking in the sunlight, singing as they dug and built. How Meliora wished she could join them! How she wished to spread her wings, flee this palace, join the weredragons in Tofet, live free in the open air! Far from this ziggurat. Far from these golden chains, this gilded cage.

  A long time ago, they said, the weredragons had lived in a distant realm, a place called Requiem, a land her brother had crushed. Back then, the weredragons had worn no collars, could become dragons at will. Millions of them had flown in the skies. Sometimes, on long dark nights, huddled under her silken blankets, Meliora would dream that she herself lived in Old Requiem, could become a dragon too, that she flew in a cold sky under distant stars. Sometimes, even during the days, Meliora remembered those dreams, wished they were real, wished she could become a dragon, fly away to a distant cold kingdom, escape this life of torment.

  Her fingers curled into fists. A rage boiled within her.

  "Why should I allow my mother to torture me?" Meliora snarled. "I'm strong. Wise. Fair. I'm the strongest, most beautiful woman in the world. I won't do anything I don't want to." She stamped her feet. "I won't! I'll tell her. I'll tell Mother I refuse. And if she doesn't like that, I swear I'll just fly away. I'll fly so far that I'll die of starvation in the wilderness, and then they'll be sorry." Her tears flowed. "Then they'll all be sorry for torturing me."

  She turned away from the view. She left the balcony, reentering the ziggurat, the palace her dynasty had ruled since the great uprising five hundred years ago, the year her family had crushed Requiem, taken the weredragons captive, and overthrown the old dynasty to usher Saraph into its golden age.

  I will tell her, Meliora thought, fists clenched. I will tell Mother that I refuse. That I'll run away and die in the wilderness!

  She walked through the palace. Columns rose alongside, inlaid with silver and gold, their capitals jeweled. Frescos covered the ceiling, depicting scenes of Old Edinnu, the realm that was lost. Mosaics spread across the floor, forming a great blue river where swam stone fish of every kind. Ferns grew from painted vases, rustling in the wind that flowed through the skylights.

  Seraphim soldiers stood at attention between the columns, clad in steel breastplates, their wings folded at their sides. Gripping spears and shields, they bowed their heads as Meliora walked by. Slaves scurried about the palace, bearing jugs of wine, trays of fruit, fresh linens, and ointments and spices. Clad in simple white livery and metal collars, they knelt before Meliora, whispering praises of her glory.

  "Move!" she said. The damn slaves—such lazy creatures—were blocking her way.

  The slaves scuttled back, letting Meliora pass. She left them behind, moving down the glittering corridors, seeking her mother.

  Finally Meliora reached the Ivory Chamber, her mother's favorite place in the palace. A portico of columns spread across the northern wall, leading to a balcony lined with potted palm trees. Beyond spread the blue sky and distant, golden mountains. Light flooded the chamber, shining on a mosaic floor, walls painted with scenes of ibises and crocodiles, and vases full of sweetly scented rushes. Ivory statues of La'eri, feline goddess of royalty, rose along the walls, giving the chamber its name.

  A heated pool steamed in the middle of the chamber, and in the water, facing the sunlight that streamed through the balcony, bathed Queen Kalafi.

  "Mother," Meliora said.

  The water rose to the queen's shoulders. Three slaves stood in the pool with her, young female weredragons, their collars gilded. Two of the slaves were filing and painting the queen's fingernails. The third was combing and oiling Kalafi's long, golden hair. The queen seemed not to have heard Meliora; she remained in the water, staring out at the sun and sky beyond the columns.

  "Mother!" Meliora stamped her feet. "I will not be ignored."

  Kalafi spoke softly, still not rising from the water, still not turning toward her daughter. "The turtledoves fly early this year. I can hear them from this chamber. It's strange, is it not, daughter? That spring begins with the song of birds, yet their melody heralds the cruel heat of summer. Thus did the gods curse us—to forever glimpse beauty, never to fully grasp it." She sighed. "It was always spring in Edinnu. There was no pain in Edinnu."

  Meliora rolled her eyes. She was only twenty-seven, a babe among the immortal seraphim. She had been born and raised here in this exile, in this palace, within the reign of this very dynasty. Yet Queen Kalafi was thousands of years old, a seraph who had fought the gods, who had fallen from heaven, who still yearned for days long gone.

  "
Mother, I will not do this. I will not. I refuse. You cannot make me." Meliora's anger left her lips with a serpentine hiss. "Send my brother back to his wars. If you make me marry him, I'm going to run away and die of starvation in the desert, and then you'll all be sorry."

  Slowly, Queen Kalafi turned and rose from the pool, climbing underwater stairs. The water ran down her lithe body in rivulets. Kalafi was perhaps an ancient being, thousands of years old, yet she looked no older than Meliora. Her eyes shone, two suns. Her hair cascaded down to her hips like molten gold. Her wings unfurled, the water gleaming upon their white feathers. The sunlight shone upon her nude body.

  She was a being of light, of perfect beauty—perfect but for the scar on her side.

  The burn spread beneath her left ribs, down toward her navel and across her hip, raw and red, an oozing sash. The ancient gods had given her that wound thousands of years ago, searing her with godlight. That had been the Day of Banishment. The day the seraphim had lost their rebellion, the day the gods had exiled them down to the earth.

  The wound will never heal, Meliora knew. Only the hot, salty water could soothe the pain, giving relief between bouts of flaring agony. Most monarchs ruled from thrones; Kalafi ruled from pools and baths.

  Slaves rushed forth and clad Kalafi in an embroidered robe, hiding her nakedness, hiding the wound, the ugly reminder of their failed uprising.

  "Daughter," Kalafi said, stepping toward her across the mosaic. "For thousands of years, Saraph's dynasties have wed brother to sister to preserve the royal blood. My own husband, may the gods forgive his soul, was also my brother. Only thus can we remain pure beings."

  Kalafi reached out to caress Meliora's cheek.

  "Don't touch me." Meliora shoved her mother's hand away. "Pure beings?" She barked a laugh. "When Ishtafel brings weredragon slaves into his bed, is he a pure being? When you soak in water to hide that ugly, dirty wound of yours, are you a pure being? I refuse to marry any man, least of all my brother." Meliora let out a whine, almost a scream. "Bed him yourself if you wish to keep the blood pure. I will not! I—"