Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  People, Lucem thought, staring at the seraphim on the walls ahead.

  You better hide, Lucem, his friend spoke from under his arm. At least until darkness.

  "If you're so afraid."

  I am.

  "All right then."

  He stepped aside and he hid in a grove of pines, watching the waves and the city until darkness fell. Then he walked again, trying to ignore the thirst and hunger. In the shadows, he slinked through the archway, and he entered the coastal city.

  Hide, Lucem!

  He scurried sideways, sticking to the shadows. Seraphim still flew above, even in the night. Two walked down the road, wings held against their bodies. Fair beings, tall, beautiful, their hair cascading and golden. Clad in armor. Gods. People. People.

  Hiding in the shadows, Lucem heard them talk. They remembered how to talk.

  "—fine wine there tonight, and Leishan is singing," one said.

  "Your night to buy the wine," said the other.

  "It's always my turn when the fine wine is poured, isn't it? Very well, though, we . . ."

  The two seraphim walked by, and their voices faded. Lucem emerged from the shadows, and he slinked after them, rushing from shadow to shadow. Lanterns shone along the cobbled street, and the walls of homes rose all around. More seraphim walked ahead, moving toward a large, brick building with bright windows. The sound of laughter and song rose from within, and Lucem smelled fine food and wine.

  A tavern, Lucem thought. A place of food, of drink, of joy, of companionship. Of talking.

  More seraphim approached, and Lucem retreated into an alleyway between the tavern and a workshop. He crept through the shadows to the back of the tavern. Warm light, the smells of wine and roast duck, and the song of harps and conversation all leaked through the windows. Lucem sat down, pulled his knees to his chest, and closed his eyes.

  "Play for us, Leishan!" a seraph inside cried out.

  "Play for us, Leishan," Lucem whispered.

  "Pass me more duck, my dear!" rose another voice inside the tavern.

  Lucem smacked his lips. "It's delicious. Splendid."

  Inside the merriment and feast continued, and huddling outside in the alley, eyes closed, Lucem was there with them. Talking. Laughing. Eating and drinking. Feeling the horrible demon of loneliness fade—if only for one evening. He stole food from the trash bin. He drank from puddles. He feasted and drank with them—with other living souls.

  Lucem lowered his head. If he had looked like a seraph—tall, fair, with swan wings, with golden eyes—he could perhaps try to find work, save money, book passage on a boat. If he had no collar, he could shift into a dragon, fly overseas, find what remained of Requiem.

  But I'm only an escaped slave. A collared Vir Requis, my magic imprisoned inside me.

  In the darkness, he left the city.

  Once more he walked across the wilderness.

  For days he travelled, and he sang those songs, and he tasted that wine and that roasted duck, and he relived that night over and over—the hints of life, pouring out, washing across him, soothing his loneliness yet making it greater than ever before.

  Finally, weary and famished, he crawled back into his cave. He huddled on his bed of leaves, and he stared up at his friends on the walls—the animals and people he had painted there. They feasted that night, and sang songs, a little tavern of stone here by the river. A little place of light, of comfort, of tears among the rising shadows of madness.

  MELIORA

  For twenty-seven years, Meliora had lived in a palace, sleeping in a canopy bed as soft as gosling wings, eating from golden plates, lounging in chambers where walls were coated with precious metals and gemstones. Tonight, for the first time, she stepped into a true home.

  The clay hut, her family's dwelling, was small. The entire place was no larger than her bed back in the palace. A few candles burned in alcoves in the walls, and a round window afforded a view of several other huts. The floor was bare rock, the ceiling rounded and shadowed. A table stood in the center of the room, topped with bowls of gruel, and piles of straw lay on the floor—the only beds here.

  Ishtafel will send all his wrath to slay me, Meliora thought. Soon the might of his chariots and soldiers will sweep through this city of huts, and he will hunt me like a wolf hunts its prey. But right now, this night, I am at peace. Right now I am at home.

  Her family entered the hut with her: her sister, her brother, her father.

  "It's not much," Jaren said, looking around at the bare walls. "But it's—"

  "Home," Meliora said.

  Elory smiled at Meliora and took her hand. "Sit with us, sister. Let us eat together, and let us pray."

  They sat together on stools around the table. Their elbows touched. Elory closed her eyes, lowered her head, and whispered.

  "As the leaves fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our column, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you are home, you are home." Elory opened her eyes, smiled, and looked up at the shadowy ceiling. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

  The others repeated the words, voices soft. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

  As Meliora spoke the ancient prayer with her family, she remembered her dreams of Requiem, her dreams of flying with her kind, with a family of dragons, and now—here in Tofet—those dreams seemed so real, memories passed down through the generations. Even now, after so long, the memory was alive, the dream was real—her dream, the dream of her family, the dream of countless in chains. And it was too much, too real. Her body trembled, and her eyes dampened, and it seemed like the weight of five hundred years of servitude pressed down on her shoulders like a yoke.

  "Meliora!" Elory said. She leaped from her seat and embraced her. "Are you all right? I'm so sorry. I know that this must be a bit much."

  "It's beautiful," Meliora whispered. "Thank you so much for inviting me into your home, for sharing this prayer with me. Thank you, Elory." She looked at the others. "Thank you, Vale. Thank you . . . Father."

  The two men reached across the tabletop and held her hands, smiling at her, their eyes kind. Queen Kalafi and Prince Ishtafel had never gazed upon Meliora with kindness, not true kindness; they had seen her as a pampered girl, later a womb to produce their heir. But here, in this humble hut, was a place of more warmth, love, and comfort than any palace.

  The candles flickered in a hot breeze through the window, and Meliora noticed, for the first time, that stars were engraved into the clay ceiling. They formed the shape of a dragon.

  "We will see those stars again," Meliora said. "We will see Requiem in our lifetime, and we will rebuild her halls. I promise this to you, my family. I promise."

  VALE

  Night had fallen, and the land of Tofet slept, a short few hours of rest before their labor began anew. Soon the overseers would move between the dark huts, shouting, kicking doors open, breaking the bones of those who did not wake, slaying those who resisted. Soon the labor of Requiem would resume, eighteen hours of toiling under yoke and whip. Soon the cruel sunlight would blaze upon them, burning their shaved heads, blinding their eyes that still gazed toward the lost homeland in the north. Soon another day of agony, bloodshed, and pain would begin—another day, another year, another generation.

  But that is tomorrow, Vale thought, standing in the shadows between clay huts. Tonight . . . tonight things were different. For the first time in five hundred years, tonight hope shone.

  All others slept in their huts, but Vale would not sleep this night. Darkness and silence spread around him, but starlight still filled his eyes, and harps still sang in his ears, and the visions of Requiem still floated through his memories.

  "I saw you," he whispered to the sky. "I saw you, Issari Seran, Princess of Requiem. I saw you, King Aeternum, our greatest father. I saw you, Queen Laira, our mother of life. I saw you, stars of Requiem, dragon of the sky."

  Requiem was rea
l.

  Vale closed his eyes.

  "For so long, I doubted," he whispered. "For so long, I did not believe. I thought that Requiem was a story, a fairy tale, a fantasy told to soothe the weary souls of slaves. To keep us alive in this cruel land. For so long, I thought that nothing existed in the north but more sand, not a land of fallen columns, of birches under a good sky." He opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. "I cannot see you from here, stars of Requiem. But I saw you. I saw you."

  In his mind, he saw them even now—the Draco stars, shaped as a great dragon. Upon him, he still felt her hands—the hands of Issari, one of Requiem's founders, the great healer of light who had defeated the Demon King, who had risen to the sky and formed the dragon's eye.

  "Requiem was real," he whispered.

  A voice behind him answered. "Requiem is real."

  He turned around and saw Meliora there. His half sister walked toward him through the shadows, her halo casting its soft glow. Staring at her, it was hard to believe that Meliora was half Vir Requis; she looked like any other seraph. Her hair was long and golden. Her eyes were the same color, gleaming, the pupils shaped as sunbursts. Even in human form, she sprouted wings, feathery and white. But as she approached, Vale saw that she was unlike any other seraph he had ever seen. Other seraphim stared with flaming, cruel eyes. Other seraphim had faces like stone statues, heartless. Meliora's eyes were warm, her face soft, her lips smiling a bittersweet smile.

  I saw her fly as a great dragon. And I see the dragon magic in her, even now.

  "But Requiem is fallen," he said. "Ishtafel toppled her halls five hundred years ago."

  Meliora reached him and halted. She looked around the city of huts. "I don't know much about Requiem. All I know is what I've read in books, seen in murals, heard in songs—all of them created by seraphim. But I know this much, Vale." She laid her hands on his shoulders and stared into his eyes. "Requiem is not a place. Requiem is not a column of marble, not a forest, not even the sky above us. Requiem is in our souls. Requiem is in our dreams, our hopes, our prayers. Requiem is alive, Vale. She has always been alive—here in Tofet, wherever our hearts beat. Requiem is not forgotten. Requiem was never gone."

  Light and hope shone in Meliora's eyes, but Vale felt something different. The starlight lifted from his eyes, replaced by dragonfire.

  Standing here, collared and hobbled again by his masters, Vale felt as if dragonfire once more filled his belly. Searing. Blinding. A hot fury that burned his innards.

  "If Requiem still lives," Vale said, "let us fight. We fought them together, Meliora. We both fought Ishtafel, and we both tasted his blood. Let the sons and daughters of Requiem march to war. We will cast off our chains. We will overthrow our masters. With you at the head of our column, Meliora, a daughter of Requiem and a daughter of Saraph." Vale clenched his fists. "We will do what our forebears could not. Defeat the seraphim."

  Meliora looked up at the dark sky. Her voice was soft, lost in memory. "Painted across the walls and ceilings of the palace, I saw murals of countless dragons falling before Ishtafel's chariots of fire." She placed a hand against her neck. "I wear no collar, but you do, Vale. So do all other Vir Requis in the empire. If we could not defeat Ishtafel with our magic, what chance do we have without it?" She shook her head. "None. We cannot defeat Ishtafel with strength of arms, and we have no dragonfire to blow."

  Vale looked around him at the land of Tofet. Huts of clay. Huts of misery. Gutters overflowing with night soil. Seraphim masters patrolling the shadowy walls that surrounded this great, outdoor prison. A land of slavery, despair.

  "We cannot remain here," Vale said. "We cannot continue this life. Better to die in fire than live in chains."

  "We need no fire." Meliora held his hands and stared into his eyes. "We need one voice. A people united. Our father marched through the streets of Shayeen, and he faced my mother, and he freed you. He spoke for Requiem, and the stars shone, and you're here now. Healed. Saved." Meliora's eyes shone. "Let all the slaves now march. Let every man, woman, and child of Requiem march together—in chains, whipped, collared—toward the palace of Saraph. And let us speak together, a great voice that the empire will hear: We will be free."

  MELIORA

  In the darkness of night, two hours before the cruel sun would emerge, the slaves of Tofet rose.

  In the shadows of a foreign land, countless miles away from their fallen home, the children of Requiem lit their lights.

  For thousands of nights like this, they had arisen in the dark, chained and collared, lifting pickaxes, yokes, buckets, shovels. For thousands of nights like this, they would toil in the shadows until the cruel sun rose, crying out to stars they could not see.

  This night they left their tools behind.

  This night they raised candles.

  This night they did not hobble forth as slaves. This night they marched as Vir Requis.

  Through the darkness, the lights streamed forth, a river of stars upon the barren land. Through the darkness, six hundred thousand souls flowed. Through the darkness they brought light.

  They flowed out from the huts of Tofet, but they did not move toward the bitumen pits, the quarries, the refineries, the fields of shattered bones where bricks baked in kilns. They did not kneel before their masters. They walked toward the city, a single column. They walked following a new leader, a beacon of their own.

  At the head of the column, she walked. A tall woman, her body bruised and cut. A woman with ragged wings, half their feathers burnt and gone. A woman with the golden eyes of a seraph that shone with the light of Requiem. She no longer wore priceless gowns inlaid with jewels; only a burlap shift covered her body. No longer did blond hair flow from her head; she had shaved it down to stubble. No longer did she wear anklets of platinum and diamonds; iron shackles now bound her legs.

  Only days ago, I was a seraph—a princess of seraphim. Meliora walked, chin raised, leading her people. Now I am a slave. Now I am stronger than I ever was.

  The Te'ephim River flowed before her. For so many years, this river had divided the fair city of Shayeen from Tofet. For so many years, this river had been as a curtain, shielding Meliora from the truth in the north, the horror and shame of her empire. Across the bridge they rose: the walls, temples, obelisks, statues, and palace of Shayeen.

  Today I cross the river again. Today I return to my old home with my new people.

  She looked behind, away from the city of platinum, and she saw those people.

  They were not tall or fair as seraphim. They did not wear gold and muslin and jewels. Their wings could not grow, and their backs were striped, their legs hobbled. But looking at them, Meliora saw true nobility. Her sister walked a few paces behind her, her frame frail but her head held high, her eyes bright. Beside Elory walked her brother, Vale, scarred, his chains clattering, yet nobler than any golden warrior from the fortresses of Saraph. With them walked Jaren, healer, priest of Requiem, his cheeks gaunt and his beard long—a father to them, a father to all Vir Requis.

  And behind Meliora's family walked the multitude: a nation that flowed across the miles. An ancient people. An ancient song. People who had fought endless wars, endless tyrants, who had risen from ruin time and again, who had survived as all other nations fell, who still shone bright, even now, even in chains.

  "Requiem," Meliora whispered.

  She turned back toward the city, and she raised her candle high. She walked ahead of the column, leading her people, until they reached the bridge that spanned the river.

  And here, upon the bridge between slaves and sovereigns, their enemy waited.

  The seraphim flew down from above, an angelic host, wings tipped with dawn. Their spears shone like their haloes, and their shields were disks like many suns. Hundreds or more descended toward the people of Requiem, golden gods, so mighty and fair that even in a host of so many souls, even led in rebellion, some of the Vir Requis knelt and prayed to their masters.

  But Meliora did not kneel. Nor
did her family. She stood facing the seraphim who landed on the bridge. She bore no scepter of royalty, but she held an old wooden staff, the roots on its tip shaped as a dragon's head, and she raised it before her.

  "Halt, children of Saraph!" she called, and her voice—which she had always thought too high, too fair, the voice of a child—boomed across the land. "Lay down your spears, and let me pass! I am Meliora of the Thirteenth Dynasty, daughter of Queen Kalafi. I am Meliora Aeternum, daughter of Requiem. Lay down your blades and let us pass, or the light of Requiem will sear you."

  The seraphim jeered. Their voices rose together, mocking, shouting of weredragons to crush, of miserable slaves to be grinded into the dust. They covered the bridge, a shield of gold and light, spears raised, faces twisted in disdain. On the northern bank, the edge of Tofet, the children of Requiem stood still, staring, silent.

  "Stand aside!" Meliora called. "Stand back from me, seraphim, for I am still your mistress. My hair is gone, as are my gowns, as is my innocence, as is my softness, as is my mercy to any who stand in Requiem's way. The stars of Requiem rise in the north! Stand back or their light will burn you."

  The seraphim's jeers rose louder, and one among them stepped forth. She was a tall seraph, her eyes cruel, her grin twisted, and her golden hair fluttered in the wind. She carried a flaming whip in one hand, a chain in the other. A cut ran across her face, still fresh—the cut of a dragon's claw.

  Shani, Meliora knew. The cruel overseer who had whipped Elory so many times, who had held Vale's chain.

  "I know you, Shani of House Caraf!" Meliora said. "I order you to kneel before me. Kneel for I am your mistress, and I will allow you to live."

  Yet Shani did not kneel. The seraph beat her wings, soared into the air, they plunged down to land before Meliora. The overseer snickered, her crooked smile twisting her scar, and spat on Meliora.