"Are you ready, daughter?" Queen Kalafi asked, riding in the chariot beside her. "Ready to see your slaves burn in the bronze bull, a punishment for your defiance?"
The queen had put on a show, sending troops to grab Meliora's slaves from her chamber. Meliora had not seen the pair—the dark, demure Kira and the pale, petite Talana—since last night.
"I'll see what I'll see," Meliora replied.
She did not believe this theater for an instant. Oh, perhaps Mother would arrange some fake bull. Perhaps she would even have Kira and Talana waiting there in chains, soldiers guarding them. A show, that was all.
Mother wants me to cry, to beg, but I won't. I'll force her to keep going, to keep performing this theater, until she's forced to stop, forced to admit I'm brave. She balled her hands into fists. I'll never marry my brother. Never. Not even if Mother steals away every last slave in the palace.
She was going to tell Mother that, to tell her that she'd run away if forced to marry, to scream and cry and stamp her feet, maybe even hold her breath until she turned purple. But before Meliora could speak another word, the cavalcade of chariots flew over the outer walls of the city, and Meliora found herself staring at the land of Tofet on the horizon.
Meliora lost her breath.
The land of slaves still lay beyond several miles of wilderness, but every heartbeat, it grew closer. Every mile the chariots crossed, Meliora's brow creased further. Whenever she had thought of Tofet, this land whence the palace slaves came, she had imagined a great garden. A place of brooks bubbling through meadows, of fig and palm and apple trees to shade resting slaves, of gleaming orbs of bitumen that shone like jewels in carts, the miners whistling joyously as they rolled forth the treasure. But ahead of her, Meliora saw no trees or streams, heard no singing or birds, smelled no sweet perfume of flowers.
Ahead of her, she saw a nightmare.
There were no jolly, bearded miners, whistling as they wheeled carts of black gemstones. Instead, she saw dragons—real dragons, the weredragon slaves without their collars on—digging in a massive pit nearly the size of the entire city behind Meliora. Meliora had only seen dragons several times in her life before, chained beasts who hauled great stones while building temples in the city. As the dragons below dug with claws like swords, tar gushed up from the depths, seeping across the pit. Even from up here, still flying in the distance, Meliora could smell the stench.
Thousands of skinny oxen moved about the pit, yokes around their necks, hauling the bitumen in baskets. Seraphim stood around the animals, lashing whips of fire at any who dallied or fell. Meliora rose in her seat, inhaled sharply, and balled up her fists. No animals should be treated so! Animals were made to be patted, cuddled, kept in the gardens, not whipped and forced to labor in the blinding sunlight. Meliora would speak to these seraphim below, she would—
She lost her breath.
Gods.
She stared down, eyes burning. Her hands loosened.
Those poor, whipped creatures below, laboring under the yokes, weren't oxen.
"They're slaves," Meliora whispered. "Weredragon slaves."
Countless weredragons covered the land of Tofet below. They hauled bitumen from the pits, the sticky tar that was used to caulk ships, form bricks and mortar, and hold together jewelry and mosaics. They labored in rocky fields, shaping clay into bricks using wooden molds. They dug irrigation ditches and plowed fields, no animals to help them, the masters whipping their backs every step. And they died. Everywhere Meliora looked, they were dying. Their corpses stank in wagons. The whole place reeked of death, of sweat, of blood, of terror.
"No," Meliora whispered, tears in her eyes.
How could this be? She knew weredragons! She herself owned weredragons! In the palace, they were meek little things, a foot or two shorter than the seraphim, slender little servants with shaved heads and collars to keep their dragon forms at bay. Not . . . not these filthy, beaten creatures, covered in tar and sand and blood. Not this hive of agony.
"You grow pale, daughter." Queen Kalafi smiled thinly, flying her chariot closer to Meliora's. "Finally, the pampered child of the palace gets a whiff of the world. Are you going to cry, little girl?"
Meliora growled at her mother. "You think I'm weak because I'm young? Because I didn't fight in wars like you and Ishtafel?" She snorted. "I'm stronger than you know."
The queen nodded. "Aye, very strong, child. So strong you think you can defy my wishes, throw tantrums, and refuse to bear me a pure heir. We'll see how strong you are when your little slaves sing in the bull. Ah!" Kalafi pointed. "There it is. We draw near."
Meliora stared back down at the land of Tofet, and she saw it there. For the second time since leaving the city, she lost her breath.
The bronze bull. Malok.
The idol stood on a hill, twice the size of a regular bull, its head lowered, its horns raised, a beast ready to charge. Its bronze body gleamed in the sunlight, blinding. Firewood and kindling were arranged below it, soaked with oil. Meliora had seen statues before—the City of Kings was full of them, idols far larger than this one—yet this bull filled her with dread. Its red eyes seemed to stare at her from below.
The stories are true, Meliora thought, trembling. They cook people inside it, they—
She tightened her lips.
No. Foolishness. She wouldn't let her mother win this one. Meliora tore her gaze away from the bull and glared at the queen. This was all a ruse. All a show. No doubt, Kalafi had placed the yokes on these slaves, covered them with fake blood, placed this silly bull here to torment here, and had arranged the whole thing. It was just bad theater, that was all. Just some elaborate punishment concocted to terrify Meliora into marrying her brother. The slaves below were just actors. As soon as Meliora turned and left, they would doff their yokes and return to their songs.
Meliora nodded. I won't be fooled.
"Let's hear the bull sing, Mother." She forced herself to laugh. "I'd love to hear it."
Meliora swung her lash, and her firehorses began to descend, pulling her chariot of fire down toward the bronze bull. She smiled thinly. Mother would be forced to stop this charade soon, forced to admit that she had lost. And Meliora would only laugh, proving her strength.
I will trick the trickster.
As she descended, she saw that many slaves were gathering on the hill around Malok. All were hobbled and collared, and seraphim overseers stood among them, flaming whips in hand. Most of the slaves wore rags, but a handful were naked, standing together in a wooden corral beside the bronze bull. Their backs were whipped, their arms shackled.
The condemned to be burned, Meliora realized.
Across the hill, both the weredragon slaves and seraphim overseers knelt as the royal chariots descended. Meliora's chariot landed first, and she emerged from the flames to stand on the hilltop by Malok. The bronze idol shone above the pyre of wood and kindling, and still its eyes seemed to stare into Meliora. Cruel eyes. Carved of metal yet somehow living, taunting her. She could see that a door was fitted onto the bull's flank.
They burn the prisoners within. Meliora remembered the stories. They cook them in there, cook them until they scream, and the screams flow through pipes to make the bull sing melodiously, and—
She shook her head wildly and forced herself to laugh. She was not fooled by this fake idol! It probably wasn't even made of real bronze, just painted wood. As for these slaves around her, kneeling and broken? Actors! That was all. Fake blood taken from a troupe of performers.
The other chariots landed around her, and the lords of Saraph emerged. Ishtafel inhaled deeply as if savoring the scent of blood, and a smile stretched across his face. The golden prince gave Meliora the slightest of winks. Queen Kalafi winced as she alighted from her chariot, sudden pain twisting across her face. Too far from her salted baths, her wound always began to ache.
"Nice try, Mother," Meliora said. "But I'm not scared of this place. I—"
"My lady!" rose the anguished
cry behind her. "My lady Meliora, please!"
Meliora spun around and felt the blood drain from her face.
"Gods," she whispered.
Kira and Talana, her dear palace slaves, stood in the corral with the other condemned weredragons. Meliora had looked past them only moments ago, not recognizing them. The two had been beaten. Their faces were swollen, the skin purple with bruises, cuts bleeding on their lips and foreheads. Firewhips had striped their backs, tearing into the skin and cauterizing the wounds. Kira—sweet little Kira who had painted Meliora's fingernails so many times—was shivering, her arm hanging at an odd angle, dislocated and swelling.
"Please help us, my princess," Talana said, voice slurred, barely seeping past her swollen lips.
Even with her limbs chained, Kira managed to kneel. "We're sorry, my princess! We're sorry for our sins. Spare us the bull."
Meliora trembled. Cold sweat washed her. She panted, her head spun, and blackness began to spread across her vision. No. No! How could this be real? This had to be an act, just a show, but why did the blood smell real? Why was she trembling so? She was going to faint. Going to faint right here, but she had to save them, had to help her slaves, had to—
"Soon they will scream," Kalafi said. The queen approached and placed a hand on Meliora's shoulder. "Soon the bull will sing."
Meliora gasped for breath, forcing herself to suck in air. The world kept spinning around her. She was going to faint, here before her brother, before her mother, before the watching slaves. She couldn't. She had to stop this! This had to be fake, had to. How could this be real?
Meliora was consumed with the overwhelming urge to flee. She wanted to rush back into her chariot, to fly home to her palace, to never emerge again—to hide among her statues, her jewels, her mosaics and murals, her gardens and her libraries, to never return into this world. To never see the yokes, the whips, the blood. She was princess of Saraph. She could leave this place. She could escape all this pain. She could marry Ishtafel as Mother had commanded, return to her gilded cage, and—
"No," she whispered, breath shaking in her lungs.
She could not abandon Kira and Talana. They were only slaves, it was true. Only mortal weredragons, creatures no more important than cats or dogs. But they were her slaves. And Meliora could not see them suffer.
Though the sight shot terror through her, Meliora forced herself to look back at her slaves. At the bruises swelling across their faces. At the burnt welts on their backs. At the chains cutting into their limbs. This was real, Meliora realized. Her mother's soldiers had truly beaten her precious pets.
But I'm going to save you, Meliora thought.
She took a step toward the slaves.
A hand gripped her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks.
"Wait, daughter!" Kalafi tightened her grip, holding her from behind. The queen stood several inches taller than Meliora, stronger, thousands of years older, her hands like vises. "Wait and listen. The first slave is about to sing!"
Meliora stared, cold sweat dampening her jeweled muslin dress, as seraphim dragged forth one of the naked, chained slaves from the corral. He was an old man, haggard, shoulders slumped and back crooked. One of his eyes vanished into an ugly scar. The seraphim manhandled him toward the bronze bull.
"Do you know what his crime was?" Kalafi leaned down to whisper into Meliora's ear. "He failed to make two thousand bricks a day. He made only half that many. Now he will sing for us, and you will listen."
Meliora wanted to flee, wanted to leap forward to help, wanted to do anything but stand here and watch, but her Mother's grip was iron. Meliora stood, tears in her eyes, watching as the seraphim opened a bronze door on the bull's flank.
The old weredragon stared into the bull and tried to resist, tried to free himself from the seraphim soldiers, but he was so frail he could barely even stand. He tossed back his head and opened his mouth, revealing toothless gums. He cried out, voice torn, hoarse, cracking, yet loud enough to roll across the hill.
"Remember Requiem!" The slave raised his manacled arms toward the heavens. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."
"Impudent reptile!" One of the seraphim guards kicked the man. Meliora grimaced to hear the crack of a snapped rib. The soldiers gripped the slave, lifted him into the air, and shoved him into the bull. They slammed the bronze door shut, sealing the slave within.
"He tried to sing to Requiem," Kalafi whispered, lips touching Meliora's ear. "Now he'll sing the melodious song of Saraph's glory."
The seraphim guards held a torch to the pyre beneath the bull's belly. Soaked in oil and stuffed with kindling, the wood burst into flame at once. Sparks showered out, logs crackled, and the heat bathed Meliora, so potent she winced for fear of her eyeballs burning.
The bull's underbelly began to redden. The heat spread across the flanks, down the legs, across the lowered head. Malok's eyes burned, and the bull began to sing.
The slave inside was the one screaming, Meliora knew—screaming as his flesh boiled. But the screams, passing through the pipes inside the bull, emerged from its mouth in a beautiful, astral song. The music of flutes, ethereal, a sound like the song of the seraphim back in the heavenly realm of Edinnu.
And across the hill, the seraphim began to sing with the bull. Their voices rose together—the queen's, Ishtafel's, the dozen nobles, all singing to the music, their voices fair and sad. A song of their lost realm, the paradise their gods had banished them from. A song of lost fields of clouds gilded in the dawn, of rivers of silver that flowed through meadows, of trees that bore a thousand kinds of fruit, of fields that yielded endless crops, a land with no pain, no toil. A land lost. A prayer never forgotten.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Kalafi whispered to Meliora. "The song of our people."
Yet Meliora did not sing with them. She stared, tears on her cheeks, as the fire burned, as the bull's song died. When the last note had sounded, the seraphim opened the bronze door.
Bones and red-hot chains spilled out onto the pyre.
Meliora looked away, wincing. Her fists trembled at her sides.
This was no show. The god Malok. The brutality of Tofet. The looming death of her slaves. It was all real.
Meliora felt as if her own ribs were shattering.
Something changed in her life this morning, Meliora knew. Even if she returned to her palace, to her life in that gilded cage, she would never forget this place, never forget that song of her people—a song woven from the screams of Requiem.
"Cook the next ones!" Kalafi cried, voice shrill. The queen grinned madly, a grin that showed nearly all her teeth down to the molars. Her cheeks flushed; whether from the heat or excitement, Meliora did not know. "Toss in the pair! Make them sing."
The soldiers grabbed two more slaves—Kira and Talana.
Before she even realized what she was doing, Meliora tugged herself free from her mother's grasp, leaped forth, and shouted for the crowd to hear.
"No!"
The soldiers froze, holding the beaten slaves a foot away from the heated bull. The other slaves, thousands across the hill, turned to stare. The noble seraphim, standing before their chariots of fire, whispered amongst themselves.
"No," Meliora repeated. Her chest shook, her knees knocked, but she forced herself to raise her chin, to square her shoulders, to keep speaking loudly. "Stop this. Enough. Enough!"
The soldiers stared between Meliora and the queen. Tears were flowing from Kira and Talana's bruised eyes, along their broken cheeks, and to their bloody mouths.
"I'm going to save you," Meliora whispered to them. "I'm going to bring you home." She spun away from the bull to face the queen. "Mother, enough of this. I've learned this lesson you tried to teach me. Release them and end this."
The queen was resplendent in the sunlight, clad in a kalasiri woven with precious gems and golden beads. A tiara topped her blond hair, shaped as a serpent with ruby eyes. Her wings spread wide, blindingly white in the sun. Kalafi—Queen of
Saraph, fallen angel—smiled in delight.
"You would have me renege on my promise?" Kalafi tilted her head, jewels jangling. "I vowed to teach you a lesson, daughter. You defied me. You refused to marry Ishtafel. You robbed our family of a future heir. So I will rob you of your slaves. Sing with us this time, Meliora! Sing with the bull as the weredragons burn!" The queen nodded at the soldiers who held the slaves. "Place them in the belly of Malok."
The guards began to drag the slaves back toward the bull.
"No!" Meliora shouted.
She raced across the hilltop, leaped forward, and placed herself between the bull and the slaves. Her heart thrashed. Her hair whipped in the wind. The sparks from the flames bit her ankles, and the heat of the bronze bull—only inches away—baked her back. She glared at the seraphim before her.
"Return these slaves to their homes," she told the seraphim, then spun toward the queen. "I refuse to let this happen. Yes, I defy you again, Mother." Her heart seemed ready to escape her throat, her knees shook wildly, and breath rattled in her lungs, but she refused to back down. "End this."
Kalafi's smile vanished. She stared at Meliora, and the amusement died in the queen's eyes, replaced with cold, murderous venom. Here was a woman who had defied the gods themselves. What chance did Meliora have facing her?
And yet Meliora faced her. She stared into her mother's eyes, refusing to look away. Something had broken inside of Meliora today, an innocence had shattered, and she was a different person. She had never fought against the gods like her mother, had never conquered realms across the world like her brother. Here was her war: a war against her family, a war to save only two . . . two slaves who had been with her for years. Two slaves who needed her.
"Back down, Meliora—" Kalafi began.
"I will not!" Meliora shouted. She knew her mother. Kalafi lived for her vainglory, to present herself as a goddess, infallible, perfect in her grace. More than anything, her mother feared this image shattering.
So let me humiliate her, Meliora thought. Let the people see that she cannot control even her own daughter, let alone an empire.
Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) Page 8
