Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

For a long moment, they stood together in silence, holding each other. Elory pressed her cheek against Meliora's chest, closed her eyes, and for the first time in her life, she felt safe.

  Finally Meliora spoke. "You're in danger here, Elory."

  Still held in Meliora's arms, Elory raised her head and looked up into Meliora's eyes. "My lady? Will Ishtafel try to—"

  "I will protect you from Ishtafel." Meliora's face hardened. "It's my mother whom I fear. She tried to have my last two slaves burned in the bronze bull. She forbade me from bringing more slaves here. If she finds you . . ." Meliora shook her head. "I'll have to find you work in the ziggurat. Far from Ishtafel and my mother. Somewhere where they won't see you, but where I can visit, help you, find you a good life. I'll do everything I can to protect you, Elory. I don't know how, but I will."

  Elory pulled back from the embrace and looked toward the balcony. She took a few steps forward, moving between a giltwood table, a silver statue of a crane, and a vase full of dried rushes. She stood between porphyry columns and gazed out at the sunlit city.

  Shayeen. The City of Kings. A glorious city of light and beauty, of temples that soared to the sky, lush gardens, obelisks tipped with platinum, soaring statues of the gods that rose as tall as the fallen columns of Requiem.

  A city of chains.

  A city of blood.

  And on the horizon, across the river—Tofet. Six hundred thousand of her kind labored there in chains, digging the bitumen and forming bricks that had built this city.

  "Slay the dragon!" the crowd of seraphim still chanted below.

  They're going to kill one of us. Elory lowered her head, the hot wind billowing her cotton shift. They're slowly killing all of us.

  "Elory?" Meliora asked.

  Elory spun around to face the princess again. The sunlight shone upon the seraph's pale hair and the tips of her wings. And for the first time, Elory saw it. Meliora had the golden eyes of a seraph, the pupils shaped as sunbursts. She had the wings, the tall frame, the beauty, the golden-toned skin of a seraph. She looked so much like one of those cruel deities that at first Elory had doubted her father's story, had doubted that this immortal princess could share her blood.

  But now, finally, Elory saw it.

  It was the softness to Meliora's face—not the iciness in the faces of other seraphim. It was the kindness in her voice. It was the light in her eyes—not the searing light of the sun but a soft, good light. Starlight.

  It's true, Elory thought, and fresh tears budded in her eyes. She's half Vir Requis. She's my father's daughter. My older sister. She's the Princess of Saraph, yet she's one of us.

  "My lady." Elory's voice was barely a whisper. "I'm saved, but six hundred thousand Vir Requis cry out in pain, in chains. Across your empire, the people of Requiem cry for aid." Elory stepped closer, trembling now. "Our people, Meliora. They need you. They need their daughter."

  Meliora's eyes narrowed. Pain, fear, and confusion seemed to battle within them. "I cannot save all weredragons." She lowered her head, the charred tips of her hair brushing her chest. "I'm not as powerful as you think, Elory. I've never even been to Tofet until a few days ago, and I cannot save the weredragons there, I—"

  "Vir Requis." Elory stepped closer, hesitated, then dared to reach out and hold Meliora's hands. "The word weredragon is cruel to our ears. A slur. The name our enemies have used for millennia to demean us, to portray us as monsters. We are Vir Requis, Meliora. Children of Requiem. Our nation." Elory blinked, her eyes damp. "Our nation, Meliora. Yours and mine."

  Meliora pulled her hands free from Elory's grasp and stepped back.

  "I did not create the land of Tofet." Meliora's eyes narrowed further. "That is the work of Ishtafel and my mother. Not mine."

  "Yet it is your land!" Elory stepped closer again, heart hammering, knees swaying. "Your people! Meliora . . ." Elory took a shuddering breath. This truth had to be told. This was a secret she could no longer bear. "My father told me, and when I first saw you, I didn't believe him. But I see it now. I see it in your eyes. You're one of us. Meliora . . ." She trembled. "We share the same father. You're half Vir Requis. You're my sister."

  MELIORA

  She stared down at her slave, tilted her head, and couldn't help it.

  Meliora guffawed.

  "What did you say?" she whispered.

  Sunlight flowed between her columns, glittering on a room of splendor: silver vases, statues of gold and ivory, giltwood tables, platinum candelabra, priceless mosaics, jeweled incense holders, and all the comforts of an empire. Among this wealth stood Elory: a thin slave, shorter than Meliora's shoulders, collared and scarred.

  A weredragon. A mere child.

  "You're my sister," Elory repeated, reaching out to again grasp Meliora's hands. "Your father is Jaren, a slave from Tofet. He's my father too. He knew your mother when he worked in the palace thirty years ago, and—"

  "Stop it!" Meliora shouted, surprised at herself. She should be laughing at this, shaking her head in wonder, not shouting. And yet the shock coursed through her, and she couldn't curb her anger. She hissed and balled her hands into fists. "You've gone too far, Elory. I've saved you from my brother, but you cannot say such things."

  The tears flowed down Elory's cheeks, and the girl was shaking so wildly she looked ready to fall. "But it's true! I can see it in you. I can see the stars of Requiem in your eyes. Your father is not King Harash, Meliora. He's Jaren of Requiem, a man who once loved your mother, Queen Kalafi. You can help us! You can join us!" Elory sobbed, reaching out to her. "You can save us."

  "I am not one of you!" Meliora shoved Elory's hands away, and now she too was trembling. "My father died. He died when I was a girl." The old pain, the fury rose inside her. "My mother killed my father. She poisoned him, murdered him! How dare you mock his memory?"

  Elory blinked, shaking her head. "I . . . Meliora! You—"

  "You will not call me that!" Meliora glared down at the girl. "You forget yourself. You will call me 'my lady' or 'Your Grace,' not my name. I saved you from Ishtafel, but I am not your friend, and I am certainly not your sister." Through her tears, Meliora laughed bitterly. "And I am not a weredragon."

  Elory stared at her, eyes wide, cheeks pale. "A weredragon?" she whispered. "Is that what you still think of us? Of the blood that runs through your veins? You can become a dragon too. I know it. I know it must be true. You wear no collar, and the magic fills you." Elory stepped forward yet again, reaching out to hold Meliora's arms. "Reach for it! Reach for the magic, summon it, become a dragon. You'll know then that I speak truth, Meliora, that—"

  Meliora struck her.

  She had not meant it. She shocked herself. She had never struck anyone before, not in all her life. She gasped with the surprise, and her hand stung, and Elory fell to the floor, her cheek white and red. The slave gazed up at her, eyes wide, mouth open.

  I'm sorry, Meliora thought. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

  She did not understand. She could not! None of this made sense. Why was Elory saying these things? Why did fear grow in Meliora, fear that . . . that this was true?

  No. No!

  She closed her eyes, shaking.

  My father was King Harash! My mother murdered him!

  She dug her fingernails into her palm, eyes screwed shut.

  I flew in shadows, flew over birch forests, flew toward marble columns, a great dragon, my comrades at my sides.

  "No." Her breath shuddered in her lungs. "No. No! You're lying. You're lying!" Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at Elory. The slave still lay on the floor, staring up at her, blood beading on her lip. "You have to leave."

  Elory rose to her feet, clutching her hurt cheek. "My lady." Her voice was soft, hurt, frightened. "You don't have to believe me. You only have to believe your own magic. You only have to try. Our people cry out to you. They cry out for a savior."

  "I am not one of you." Meliora's rage seared her tears dry. "I cannot be your savior. I have no magic withi
n me, no blood of dragons in my veins. I'm only a sheltered, innocent princess who learned that the world is falling around her, that she has no power over an empire her family rules. Now leave. Leave this place! Return to the land whence my brother grabbed you. Return to Tofet. My chariot will take you there."

  When Elory reached toward her again, Meliora grabbed the slave's arms. She pulled her out onto the balcony. She all but shoved Elory into the chariot that waited there, and Meliora could barely see, barely stand straight. All the world was the light of stars, the flames of war, the light of the bronze bull, the darkness of her fear.

  "You have to believe me!" Elory cried from the chariot.

  "Go!" Meliora shouted. "Firehorses, take her to Tofet! Take her from here. Take her away. Never come back. Never."

  The firehorses reared and took flight, wings of fire hiding the sun, and the chariot left the balcony. Elory cried out from within, reaching down to Meliora, calling her name. But the firehorses were swift, carrying the slave off the balcony and across the city.

  "Remember Requiem!" Elory cried, reaching out to her as the chariot flew into the distance. "Use your magic, become a dragon. Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

  "Slay the dragon!" chanted the seraphim below. "Slay the dragon!"

  Meliora stood on the balcony, tears on her cheeks, shaking so badly she had to clutch the railing, staring at it all—the vanishing slave, the city of hatred, the land of chains beyond, and it was too much, too much. Lies. All her life—lies. All her life—crumbling around her.

  Meliora turned away from the view. She tried to stumble back into her room, but she was shaking too badly. She fell to her knees, banging them on the floor, and her wings draped around her, feathers missing and charred. She lowered her head. She wept.

  Lies. All her life—lies.

  Remember Requiem!

  Slay the dragon!

  Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky.

  She knew those words. That prayer. That holiest of prayers. It had filled her dreams since her childhood—her dreams of dragons. Her dreams of stars.

  Meliora knelt on the balcony, burnt, broken, and so afraid, lost in a city of blood and gold and tar. And all around, the chants still rose, pounding against her ears, shaking the balcony, shaking her life.

  "Slay the dragon! Slay the dragon!"

  ELORY

  "Meliora!" she shouted from the chariot of fire. "Remember Requiem! Use your magic!"

  But the princess no longer stood on the balcony, and Elory could barely see from within the chariot. She stood here alone, the firehorses spreading wings, galloping across the sky, carrying her back to the chains, to the yoke, to the pit of bitumen, to the death of hope.

  How had this happened? The fire burned her tears. Meliora was supposed to save her. To save all of them. Now her sister had banished her—back to a slow death in chains, for her, for myriads of her kind.

  "Meliora," Elory whispered, reaching toward the ziggurat, not knowing if any light could still shine upon her life.

  Thousands of seraphim flew across the city, gliding on the wind, still chanting for death. Elory saw that a great chariot of fire, larger than hers, was flying toward the ziggurat's crest, moving close to Meliora's balcony and then soaring higher. Hundreds of seraphim flew around this chariot, chanting, singing, blowing horns. Thousands more stood in the city below or soared to behold the flaming carriage. The banners of the Thirteenth Dynasty unfurled and caught the wind.

  When the distant chariot reached the ziggurat's crest, two figures emerged.

  Elory had not thought her life could shatter further, but as she stared, whatever remained of this world collapsed around her.

  Wreathed in light, his armor and hair woven of purest gold, Ishtafel emerged from the chariot, carrying a beaten, chained slave.

  Vale.

  My brother.

  Elory screamed.

  "Stop!" she cried to the firehorses dragging her chariot. "Take us back. Turn around! Take us back! Please!"

  Yet the firehorses kept flying away from the ziggurat, and Elory screamed again. Something tore in her throat. She tasted blood. Her eyes burned. She reached out to the ziggurat, crying his name.

  "Vale! Vale!"

  She watched, her soul ripping apart, as Ishtafel slammed Vale against the platinum facade of the ziggurat, pinning him against the engraved eye within a sunburst.

  She watched, barely hearing her own scream, hearing only the blood in her ears, as Ishtafel drew a hammer and nails, as the seraph laughed, as he swung the hammer, nailing Vale's hands into the ziggurat.

  She watched, weeping, screaming, as Ishtafel swung his hammer again, nailing Vale's feet into the platinum.

  The Prince of Saraph flew backward, his swan wings spread wide, laughing, a gilded god, triumphant. Before him, upon the ziggurat's crest, Vale hung, nailed into the platinum, arms spread wide, bleeding, still alive.

  "Requiem!" Vale managed to cry. "Remember Requiem!"

  And then his voice faded . . . drowning under the roar of the city, the chanting of seraphim, the horns of victory, and Elory's own screams.

  "Vale! Vale!"

  The firehorses kept dragging her chariot away, and she could only stare, weeping, reaching out to him, as the ziggurat grew more distant behind her.

  Elory tried to shift into a dragon. She summoned all her magic, and her skin began to harden into scales, her fingernails to grow into claws. But the collar—the damn collar—shoved her back into human form. She tried again. For the first time in her life, actual scales appeared on her body—they were lavender, she saw, lavender scales like the ancient Vir Requis heroine Piri, the Healer who had fought the nephilim—but the collar again dug into her neck, cutting her skin, constricting her. She became a human again, a mere slave trapped in a chariot.

  She wanted to jump off. To fall to the city below. To die. To never see it again. To never hear her brother's tortured cry. To forget. To die. To die. She wept.

  The chariot kept racing across the sky, taking her away from her brother, away from her sister, away from the city, away from hope, away from light, away from the blood and screams, away into despair.

  Meliora will not help me, Elory thought, turning northward. She saw it ahead: the huts, quarries, and tar pits of Tofet. But one man still can. Our father.

  ISHTAFEL

  "Behold the blood of Requiem!" His voice rang across the sky. "Behold the wretchedness of the reptile!"

  Ishtafel hovered in the sky, a god of light, wings wide. Arms spread out, Vale hung upon the ziggurat's crest, a dying wretch.

  Master and slave. Ishtafel grinned, sucking in air between his teeth. God and worm.

  "So shall happen to any who strike a seraph!" Ishtafel cried to the city. "Any slave who defies a master will hang upon the Eye of Saraph, and the vultures will eat his flesh."

  The crowd of seraphim roared across the city, cheering, worshiping him, praising his name. Ishtafel rose higher, a god among gods, and in his mind he was flying in Requiem again, slaying the beasts, shattering their halls, burning their forests. He had wanted to find a new enemy, and here he found one—the slaves, the miserable descendants of those warriors he had once crushed.

  I will make you suffer, weredragons. Ishtafel licked his lips and gazed at Tofet on the horizon. The empire will run red with your blood. The cries of your anguished souls, breaking under the yoke, will rise to Edinnu itself.

  As he looked down at the city, he saw them staring. Thousands of them. Slaves. The house slaves of the seraphim—cooks, gardeners, tutors, pleasurers. Thousands of reptiles in human forms, collared, staring at him. Silent. Among them rose the towering statue of Reehan, gilded and beautiful in the sunlight—his precious beloved whom the reptiles had slain. They would pay for that sin, now and every generation.

  "Kneel!" Ishtafel shouted to the city. "Kneel before your god. Kneel, slaves!"

  Yet across the city, they still stood. Still stared.

  One am
ong them raised his hand, and his voice rang across the city. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky." The man stood on a roof, legs chained, hoarse voice rolling across the city. "Remember Requiem!"

  Ishtafel's grin stretched his cheeks. "Yes." His voice was too soft for any to hear. "Remember Requiem. I want you to remember, slaves. To remember how I broke your kingdom."

  He raised his lance. He tossed it. The spear shot through the sky, a beam of light, streaming down toward the city, and pierced the slave below. The creature fell, silenced.

  "Make them kneel!" he cried. "Seraphim, make them all kneel."

  He held his arms out wide, and the seraphim charged. Once more, they flew to battle. Once more, fire and light filled the sky.

  "Remember Requiem!" a slave called, even as the wrath of Saraph descended upon them.

  "Requiem!" cried another. "May our wings forever find your sky."

  Their voices rose together across the city. "Requiem! Requiem!"

  With flailing whips, with thrusting spears, the seraphim descended upon them. Blades drove into flesh. Whips tore into skin. The blood of the vermin splattered the city.

  "Kneel!" Ishtafel cried. "Kneel before your gods!"

  They bled. They cried out in anguish. And across the city, they knelt before him, the living among the dead. Once more, vanquished. Once more, worshiping him.

  Good, he thought. That is what they are. Nothing but worshippers. Nothing but his slaves.

  A voice spoke behind him, hoarse, cracking.

  "A fire has been kindled. Starlight shines. Requiem will rise."

  Ishtafel turned in the sky. His smile grew. "Still alive, are we?"

  Vale hung upon the ziggurat's crest, a thousand feet above the city, his hands and legs nailed into the platinum. His blood dripped from many wounds, but he fixed his eyes on Ishtafel.

  "Something has started here which you cannot stop," Vale said, the words bringing blood to his mouth.

  "Good." Ishtafel nodded. "The city was getting a little dull."