You rest now in the halls of afterlife, Elory thought.
Requiem had fallen; the cruel seraph Ishtafel, her captor, had burned down the forests and toppled the marble halls. But a Requiem woven of starlight still shone above, Elory knew. And in that Requiem all the dragons from Mother's stories—King Aeternum, the founder of Requiem, and all those kings, queens, and heroes who had followed—lived there in the starlight. One could not see the Draco constellation from so far south, here in the empire of Saraph, but Elory knew that those stars shone beyond the horizon. That the celestial halls shone among them. That her mother was at peace.
I have to believe. I have to or my will to continue would flee me. I have to believe that the celestial Requiem shines above, and that we can someday rebuild the earthly Requiem in our fallen forests.
It was only hours ago that a guard had led her here in a blindfold, chaining her in the shadows, then leaving her. Elory had removed the blindfold, but she might as well have kept it on. She looked around her, trying to see through the shadows, but it was too dark. She could make out only the blobs of furniture. A chain ran from her ankle, securing her to a bedpost. She dared to walk a few steps back and forth, to hear the chain clank, to feel around her.
A bed topped with the softest fabric she had ever felt, even softer than her newly scrubbed, lotioned skin. A table with a bowl of grapes she dared not eat. A mosaic on the floor. Beyond that she couldn't reach, only gaze into darkness.
For a long time, Elory simply waited.
He'll come for me, she thought. Somebody will.
She shuddered to think what Ishtafel would do to her. Would he force her to pour him wine, file his nails, comb his hair? Or would he desire more from her—desire to know her . . . as a man knows a woman? Elory swallowed. She had never known a man. The thought of the tall, golden-haired seraph claiming her body, claiming her virginity, perhaps even planting a child within her womb—it made her shiver. Ishtafel was a creature of beauty, his eyes bright, his shoulders broad, a god of grace, yet the thought of him touching her sickened Elory. She would give up all the beauty in the world to return to her hut in Tofet.
She tried to think of that clay hut now, to think of her family. Was Jaren, her wise father, thinking of her now, praying to the stars of Requiem to protect her? Was Vale, her angry and torn brother, railing against the masters, speaking as always of rebelling?
More than she wanted water for her parched throat, more than she wanted food for her tight belly, Elory wanted to speak to her father and brother again. To tell them she was all right. To say goodbye. Tofet, realm of the slaves, was a land of sweat, of breaking bones, of breaking dreams, yet now Elory missed it. Her yoke was gone, her body cleaned, yet she felt more lost, more afraid than ever. She missed her family.
And there is more to my family.
"I have a sister too," she whispered in the dark, tears flowing down to her lips. "A lost sister I've never met. A sister in this very palace. A sister who can help me, who—"
Before she could say more, the door opened.
Lamplight flooded the chamber.
Elory winced, staring into the light. Her heart burst into a gallop. Her instinct was to cower, to cover her eyes, to hide behind the bed and beg for mercy. She resisted that urge.
I am a daughter of Requiem, heir to a proud race. I will not cower.
She squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and stared into the light.
He stepped into the room, a towering seraph, his wings as white as purest snow, his armor a priceless work of gold and jewels, a silver lamp in his hand. The destroyer of Requiem. The heir to Saraph. The murderer of her mother.
"Ishtafel." The word tasted foul on her lips.
The seraph placed his lamp on a table, and for the first time, Elory got a look at the chamber. The place glittered. Murals of seraphim battling sea serpents and demons covered the walls, inlaid with gold and platinum. Gemstones shone on vases, tables, and armchairs. Platinum statues of jackals and ibises glared at her with diamond eyes. Swords hung on racks, and massive skulls—each one so large Elory could have climbed into the jaws—stood in alcoves. In the center of the room rose a canopy bed; the chain from her ankle ran toward its ebony post.
It was a chamber of opulence, every inch of it priceless, yet to Elory it seemed more like a mausoleum.
Wordlessly, Ishtafel approached a table and poured himself a mug of wine. Elory stared at him, wondering why he was pouring his own wine. Was serving him wine not to be her duty? Did this mean she was here for another purpose?
She wanted to speak, to break this silence, to ask him what he wanted of her. But she dared not. She merely stood chained, watching him drink.
He lowered his jeweled cup and began to remove his armor. Again, as he worked the clasps, he asked for no aid. Again Elory's fear grew.
I'm not here to pour his wine. I'm not here to remove his armor. She glanced at his bed. Am I here to service him in that bed?
She glanced back at him. He had removed his breastplate now, and he was working at unstrapping his vambraces. His bare arms were massive; each one seemed larger than Elory's entire body. His chest was wide, muscular, the skin tinted gold; he seemed like a gilded statue brought to life. But he was not perfect, she saw. Four scars, as from claws, ran across his chest, old and white.
Dragon claws, Elory thought.
Still he did not speak. Still he did not glance at her. He removed his greaves off his legs, his last pieces of armor, remaining in a cotton skirt that fell halfway down his thighs. His hair flowed down his back between his wings, a mane of dawn, and Elory was reminded of the flaming manes of the firehorses that had borne her here. The seraph acted as if she were another piece of furniture. Ignoring her, he returned to his mug of wine, drinking as he gazed out the window at the night.
Finally Elory could bear it no longer. She raised her chin and stood straight, trying to stand as tall as she could; she still didn't even reach Ishtafel's shoulders.
"Why did you bring me here?" she said. "How am I to serve you? Will you not speak, will—"
He spun around. She felt his hand before she saw it move. His palm slammed into her cheek, and she cried out and fell to the floor. Blood filled her mouth.
She coughed, struggling to breathe, and stared up at him. He had returned to the window. Once more, he was calmly sipping his wine.
Slowly, Elory rose to her feet. Her chain clanked. She glanced toward the table and she saw Ishtafel's sword there. The blade was longer than she was tall, and it looked heavy, but Elory had been raised bearing yokes and baskets of steaming bitumen. She was small and thin but strong. She could lift this sword, drive it into his back, slay him, and—
And what then? she thought. Remain chained here until the guards entered the chamber, found Ishtafel's body, and dragged her to the bronze bull?
She swallowed, eying the blade. Perhaps there was another path. She could kill Ishtafel, then fall upon the sword. She would have her revenge, then her soul would rise to join her mother. What else did she have to live for? Why even draw breath? She would never see her father and brother again, never see the stars of Requiem or her fallen halls, and—
But I can still see my sister, whispered a voice inside her.
Elory's throat clenched.
My sister.
She did not know if she believed those stories. Stories of a sister who lived here in this palace, who could help her, who could help all the children of Requiem. A lost light.
She looked away from the sword.
I will live. I must. I will find her.
Finally Ishtafel spoke, his back to her, still staring out the window. "You will address me as 'Your Excellence' or 'my lord.' You will remember this or my next strike will not leave you as pretty. Do you understand?"
Elory touched her lip. Her fingers came back bloody. "Why am I here, my lord?" She couldn't help but add a hint of scorn to those last two words. She would do what she must to survive, but she would defy him
when she could, even with just the hint of an insolent tone. "What do you want, my lord?"
He turned toward her. He stared down from his height, eyes gleaming. Those eyes were inhuman. Eyes like those of a bronze statue with fire within its shell, casting out their own light.
They were gods once, Elory thought. Angels in the heavens, fallen, cast out. Broken gods.
In her mind, she saw the Requiem that had been. The Requiem from the old tales. A kingdom where the Vir Requis wore no collars, where they could fly freely as dragons. A kingdom of marble columns in a birch forest. That Old Requiem, fallen five hundred years ago, was a realm of ancient legend, a realm past great distances of time and space, a mere memory of myth. Yet here before her, here in this very chamber, stood the same seraph who had led that old charge, who had crushed Requiem and borne Elory's ancestors to captivity.
"What do I want?"
Ishtafel's voice was soft. He stepped toward Elory. She felt the heat of his body. She struggled against every instinct not to flinch, not to flee. He stood only inches away now, and again she was struck by his size, and how small she felt before him, a mere child. He lowered the hand that had struck her, and she saw droplets of her blood on the palm. Gently, he tugged at the lacings on her cotton shift, undoing them.
"Do you not know, child?"
Again, his voice was smooth, barely a whisper. Her shift fell to the floor, and she covered her breasts with her hands.
"I know of such things." She stared into his eyes; staring at them was an act of defiance. "I know of—" She bit her lip when he raised his hand, then spoke again. "My lord."
"Then come into my bed," he said, "and pleasure me tonight, and sleep in my arms, and I will not hurt you again. Do your duty, daughter of Tofet, and you will find a life of wine, food better than gruel, a roof to shelter you from the sun, perfumes and ointments to smooth and scent your skin. Grant me pleasure or I will grant you pain." His eyes narrowed, burning with just the hint of menace. "Now lie on the bed."
She glanced at that bed. She swallowed. She had endured years of slaving under the sun. She had endured countless lashes of the whip. Why was she so afraid of this?
Perhaps Elory, with her dreams of Requiem and old heroes, had also clung to a different sort of dreams. Dreams of romance. Of love. Dreams of someday meeting a man—even just another slave. Of falling in love. Of living together in a home of their own—even just a hut in the land of Tofet. A fool's dream. Those days of love had ended five hundred years ago; Ishtafel had ended them.
Yet Elory had been raised on stories of old lovers in Requiem: the great King Aeternum and Queen Laira, founders of Requiem; the hero Kyrie Eleison and his beloved, the fiery Agnus Dei; even the stories of the doomed love of King Elethor and Queen Lyana who had led Requiem in war against the phoenixes. Elory wanted such a love for herself. A love of passion and fire and triumph over evil. How could she debase herself here, give her body to this murderer?
The anger grew in his eyes. She saw that. His hand rose again, prepared to strike her, and an image flashed through Elory's mind: the battered, strangled corpse of Mayana, a slave who had failed to please this god of wrath. How could Elory defy him? How could she, so weak, the collar stifling her magic, hope to resist him?
"You tremble." Ishtafel stroked her cheek, then wrapped his hands around her wrists. He lowered her arms, exposing her bare breasts. Elory felt her cheeks flush, felt goose bumps rise across her.
Again she glanced at the sword on the table. No. Even should she grab this sword, she could not hope to overthrow this cruel empire. Even the hero Lucem, the only slave who had ever escaped, had been unable to kill any seraphim. Perhaps only one person could still save Requiem—only her sister. But Elory could still fight, with words if not with the blade.
She looked at Ishtafel, having to crane her neck back to stare into his eyes.
"My lord, I don't know how to pleasure you. But I would learn. There are pleasure slaves in this palace. I know that the seraphim collect fair maidens from the lands of Tofet, take them here, and they are trained in the arts. I'm a virgin, my lord, and my gift of virginity can be given only once. Let me give you this gift not as I am, uneducated in the ways of the flesh." She bit her lip. "Send me to the pleasure slaves, my lord. Let me learn from them the secrets of pleasuring a man. Then I'll return to you, learned, experienced in their ways, and you can claim the virginity of one who can make you cry in pleasure, not one who is meek and afraid."
He frowned. Elory's heart thrashed against her ribs so madly she thought it would leap onto the floor.
Please say yes, she thought. I need time. Time away from this chamber. Time to find my sister. Time to find hope.
"What makes you think I cannot use your body to take my own pleasure?" he finally asked.
"You could conquer me," Elory said. "You could take me roughly, and I would lie beneath you as you groan above me. I know what sex is. I've seen it enough times in the dust of Tofet. But you would gain only the briefest pleasure, the briefest conquest." She kept staring into those golden eyes, though they burned her. "But if I were to learn the true ways of pleasure, my lord, you would find me a gift far greater than Mayana was. Let me go to the pleasure slaves, and let me learn from them. Let me feel their lips against mine, their hands upon my body, and let me learn how to pleasure them so that I may pleasure you."
There. She saw something new in his eyes. Not merely menace, not merely anger, but lust. She had made him desire her, more than he had before. With only a few words, she had kindled new fires inside him.
I have some power over him. He chained me, struck me, rules over my life and my nation, yet I have power over him.
He stared into her eyes as if searching, seeking deceit. He was an ancient being, a god fallen to the earth, and for a moment Elory's breath trembled, and she was sure he could read her mind, see right past her ruse. But perhaps his lust was too great, her naked body too alluring to those scrutinizing eyes. He nodded.
"I will have a man lead you to the pleasure pits," he said. "You will have one week there to learn the art from its mistresses. Then you will return here to this chamber, and you will prove yourself useful to me, or the next pit I toss you into will be a grave in Tofet."
Elory nodded. "I will learn well, my lord."
She closed her eyes and took a shaky breath of relief. She had one week—one week to learn how to love . . . one week to find her sister.
MELIORA
On a spring dawn, Meliora left her palace, flying in a chariot of fire to see her beloved slaves burn.
She didn't want to be here. She wanted to leap out of the chariot, beat her wings, and fly far away—fly to the desert and die of thirst, and let the vultures eat her flesh. That would teach her mother. That would teach them all! If she died in the desert, fleeing her family, they would finally realize what monsters they had been. They would cry and cry, and Meliora would just laugh from the afterlife.
And yet she flew here in this chariot of fire. Because Meliora had to see. She could not believe that Mother's threats were true, that . . . that this bronze bull truly existed. That Mother could truly be so cruel.
She's only trying to scare me. Meliora raised her chin and sucked in air, putting on a show of bravery. I'll show her that I'm not afraid of her. That I don't believe her silly stories.
She looked around her. In all her twenty-seven years, Meliora had never flown this far from the palace.
Several other chariots of fire flew around her: her mother in one, her brother in another, and lords or ladies of Saraph in a dozen more. The firehorses galloped across the sky, a great cavalcade, their manes scattering sparks. Below, Meliora could see Shayeen, the capital of Saraph—the City of Kings. Its eight boulevards spread out like spokes, lined with statues of the gods. The Temple of Kloriana, the Goddess of Wisdom, rose directly below her, columns capped with gold. Farther east, she could see the Temple of Bee'al, god of victory and war, its towers like blades. Soon the chariots flew o
ver the Te'ephim River, and Meliora tried to count the ships below but could not; hundreds were sailing here, returning from distant lands with the sweets, spices, and perfumes she craved.
When Meliora looked behind her, she could see the ziggurat, growing farther and farther—the only home she had ever known. The palace soared a thousand feet high, dwarfing even the city's temples. Two massive statues, shaped as cats with women's heads, guarded the staircase that led to its gates. Each of the statues, depicting the goddess La'eri, stood so tall their eyes were the size of chariots. The ziggurat tapered into a triangular tip, covered in platinum, and upon it shone an eye within a sunburst—the Eye of Saraph, sigil of the empire.
A prison, Meliora thought. No better than the huts of slaves.
She returned her eyes to the north. The chariots were nearing the city's outer walls now, and soon, for the first time in her life, Meliora would fly above them. For the first time, she would leave this city. She would see the land of Tofet, the land her slaves came from.
Meliora took a deep breath. Tofet! So many times she had wished to fly there. To doff her painful, squeezing sandals. To remove the damn golden necklaces and bracelets that always clinked and got in the way. To live free. Free of her mother's incessant brooding about the lost old days. Free of her brother, the man she was to marry, to bear heirs for. Free of all the pressures of the palace. In Tofet, Meliora knew, the weredragon slaves lived a humble yet joyous life. Singing in the sun as they drew from rivers of flowing bitumen. Dancing upon grapes to make wine. Living like birds or butterflies, beings of no wealth yet a rustic happiness.
Meliora scoffed. My mother thinks she can scare me with stories of bronze bulls. I'll show her I'm not afraid of anything.
Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) Page 7
