A figure was walking across the bridge from the opposite bank, approaching him.
The figure was tall and slender, clad in a dark robe and hood. It held no lamp but walked in darkness, barely visible, head lowered. A shadow among shadows, appearing only when it blocked a distant city light. Finally the figure reached him at the center of the stone bridge, raised its hooded head, and revealed two gleaming eyes, the pupils shaped as sunbursts.
Jaren bowed his head. "Another year, my lady. Another night of whispers."
The figure pulled back the hood, unveiling a fair, ageless face, the skin a golden hue, the hair long and flowing and the color of spring dawn. Her halo shone like fireflies, and her eyes seemed ancient—eyes that had gazed upon distant realms beyond the stars—but her face was smooth, eternal, the face of a statue, pure but cold and timeless.
"I've come to you again," Queen Kalafi said, voice cold and smooth as a dagger slipping between shoulder blades. "All year, I keep you chained across the river. This night you pull my own chain, dragging me here."
"I hold no chain, only truth," Jaren said.
"Truth can be a stronger chain than links of iron. The truth of our daughter has chained my hands for twenty-seven of these nights." Fire gleamed in her eyes. "I felt a flicker of affection for you once—a few moments ago for me, half a lifetime ago for you—but now I feel only hatred. I should slay you now. I should slay you and your children, Elory and Vale—yes, I know their names—and bury this truth in the sand."
Your son already murdered my wife, Jaren thought, the grief twisting inside him. Your son already kidnapped my daughter. What would be death to me now?
Jaren nodded. "You could kill me, my lady. You could have slain me countless times, as your son slays those women he beds. Many times, I've seen Ishtafel pluck a maiden from Tofet, plant his seed inside her for his pleasure, then discard her body—sometimes a body gravid with child—back in our land. Yet you, my queen, still meet me here every year, the man you took into your bed. Your son is cruel but yours is a gentle heart."
She sneered and drew a wavy dagger from her robes. "And your heart will lie at my feet if you anger me. I suggest you do not."
Jaren smiled thinly. "Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, how is she? Give me news of my daughter."
"Meliora is the same as always." Kalafi snorted. "Weak. Addle-headed. No more sensible than a pup. And yet . . . different this year. I showed her a glimpse of the truth. A burning in the bronze bull, though I had to abort the ceremony when she stepped into the flames herself. Rebellion brews in her heart where once only softness dwelled. Perhaps this dagger should carve out Meliora's heart as well. That heart is tainted with your blood."
She needs no dagger, Jaren thought. The Queen of Saraph needed only her words to cut his heart. Whenever she spoke of Meliora, Jaren grieved.
My daughter.
In the darkness of night, the memories of a different night flooded him, a night almost three decades ago. His back had not been crooked, his shoulders not stopped from years in the quarries. His face had not been lined, and no beard had adorned his face. He had been young, strong, perhaps even handsome, a house servant in the palace of the queen. In chambers of endless wealth, the walls and floors themselves made of precious metals and gems, he had tended to the queen. Gently washing her in her warm pool, treating the wound on her side, rubbing her feet, feeding her grapes, a servant to see to all her needs.
And those needs grew.
Her husband's heart was still beating when Kalafi had taken Jaren into her arms, into the hot pool where she soaked. She had stripped off his clothes, leaving him in but his collar. In the salty water, they had made love, her head tossed back, her fingernails digging into him, her wound sticky against him. She had cried out in her pleasure, a beastly sound, like the roar of a dragon. Jaren had closed his eyes, imagining that he himself was a dragon, flying home, flying far to Requiem, to old pillars among ancient trees.
But she had taken everything from him. She had taken the daughter he had planted in her belly. She had taken all his hope, all his dreams, all comforts he might have had in her palace. She had slapped him in chains, discarded him, tossed him into Tofet, letting him keep only his life—perhaps a curse, perhaps her cruelest act of all.
He looked back at the queen who now stood before him, robed on the bridge. She had not changed, still fair and cold as always, while he was a wreck of a man now, haggard, stooped, only in his fifties but feeling twice as old.
"Every year, I come here to ask about my daughter," he said to his queen. "I ask the same this night, but this year, I ask about a different daughter. I ask about Elory."
Elory. A light in his life. The girl who gave Jaren new hope.
I married a woman in Tofet, and she is gone now, slain by Ishtafel. Elory is new life, new light. Elory is a great star in my sky.
Kalafi tilted her head. "Elory is stuck where she belongs, laboring in the bitumen pits, and—"
"My lady, Ishtafel has plucked her from the pit. Elory now serves in the palace . . . serves him. The prince. The man who slew her mother before her eyes. My queen, I beg you." Jaren fell to his knees before her. "I bow before you, and I plead. Give Elory back to me. You have Meliora; let me have my other daughter."
Kalafi narrowed her eyes, considering, calculating. Finally she barked a laugh. "The hypocrisy of weredragons! You thrusted your manhood between my thighs, yet when your daughter craves the manhood of my son, you would refuse her?"
"My daughter craves nothing of him!" Jaren said, unable to curb the rage from entering his voice. He forced himself to breathe deeply, to calm himself. "My queen, please. Elory is a tender child, not yet twenty. She watched Ishtafel slay her friend, then slay her mother before her eyes, and now Ishtafel would . . . would do to her as he would, then discard her body too. Please, my queen. If not for Elory's sake, for mine."
She raised an eyebrow. "And what of my son? Should I ignore his wishes over yours? Should I deprive him of a play thing?" She tilted her head. "Or would you rather Ishtafel take another from among the slaves? That your precious child would be safe, but another's daughter endure him? I thought you nobler than that."
Jaren lowered his head. "All nobility flees before the bonds of family. You know this, my queen. That is why Meliora now lives in splendor. That is why you stand here before me."
"I stand here before you because Meliora is my daughter, because you are her father." Kalafi's lips peeled back into a lurid, carnivorous grin. "But Elory is nothing to me, born from a different woman's womb, and Ishtafel is my son."
Jaren did not want to use threats. Threatening a queen was a dangerous thing. But Elory needed him.
"And you will let me live?" he said. "You will let me, who knows the truth about Meliora, who could speak of her heritage, roam free among the slaves?"
She sneered at him, eyes narrowed. "You try to blackmail me while I hold a blade before you?"
"You could have thrust that blade countless times, my lady. But there is goodness to your heart. I've always seen it. Your heart is encased in iron and steel, and the yoke of your crown is as heavy as the yoke of a slave, but deep within you, the girl from Edinnu still sings. A seraph of righteousness. A seraph whom I once loved . . . who perhaps once loved me. Who perhaps still feels some lingering warmth toward this old, haggard slave."
"I feel nothing but disgust toward you. You are a filthy worm, a dirty creature, and I am ashamed of that night. Ashamed!" Her fists balled up, and she lowered her head. "But yes, Jaren. I loved the man you were. Thus is the curse of immortality—that I linger on, forever fair, watching you here every year . . . fading away, withering, dying before my eyes." She looked back up at him, eyes damp now, her fury gone, replaced with sadness. "Perhaps you're right, and my heart is still full of Edinnu's light and mercy. I would return Elory to you . . . but I cannot. I can no longer resist my son. Even I am frightful around him; he's become more powerful than I had ever imagined. He does as he
would; I cannot control him, cannot take his toys from him, and Elory is his new toy. Beware, Jaren . . . he is becoming strong." Now fear filled Kalafi's eyes. "Ishtafel is a fire I cannot contain, and someday he will be stronger than I am. And he will grant you no mercy."
With that, the Queen of Saraph spun on her heel and walked away, leaving the bridge and returning to Shayeen.
Jaren remained standing on the bridge long after Kalafi vanished into the night.
All I have left is Vale, my son. Meliora—a daughter I've never met. Elory—a daughter I might never see again. He raised his eyes to the sky, imagining that he could see the Draco constellation there, the stars that did not shine here in the south, that ancient tales from the north spoke of in awe. Please, stars of Requiem, if you can hear my prayers from here, grant Elory safety and grant her strength. Grant us all strength.
Slowly Jaren turned, and slowly he walked away, leaving the bridge behind, returning to his hut. In only two or three hours, his labor would continue—a day of the whip, of the pickaxe, of sweat and tearing muscles under the cruel sun. For now, this night, he lay in darkness, thinking of starlight.
ELORY
When Elory stepped into the chamber, Meliora was already awake, sitting by the window, staring outside at the first light of dawn.
Surely the princess had heard the door open, had heard the guards announce Elory's entrance, had heard those guards leave and the door close again, and yet Meliora did not turn around, did not stir. She faced the light, staring between the columns of her balcony, her back to Elory.
The princess of Saraph was perhaps half Vir Requis, but she had the swan wings of a seraph. Those wings now draped across her back, dipping so that the tips rested on the floor. Meliora's hair flowed down between them, a waterfall of molten gold, topped with a thin halo. Elory could not see her sister's face, but she could see ugly burns stretching across her arm.
"My lady?" Elory whispered.
For a long time Meliora did not reply, only sat with her back to Elory, gazing out between the columns. The dawn's light rose, glowing around her like a second halo. Elory's heart quickened; soon the rest of the palace would awaken. What if Tash noticed her absence and reported it? What if Ishtafel heard? Elory stood still, pondering what to do. Should she speak again? Should she flee this chamber? Should she step forward, walk around Meliora, and face her?
She was still debating when finally Meliora spoke, her back still to Elory.
"You are a slave." Her voice was barely a whisper. "You are a weredragon."
Elory winced. She hated that word—weredragon. It was what the seraphim called her kind, what the enemies of Requiem had called her kind for thousands of years. She was Vir Requis, a proud child of Requiem, not a monster to kill or enslave. And yet how could she explain this to Meliora, to a woman who thought herself the purebred daughter of seraphim royalty?
"Yes," she simply replied. "I've come to—"
"You should leave. You're in danger here. No slave is safe around me."
Slowly, Meliora turned around, and for the first time in her life Elory gazed upon her sister's face.
Elory couldn't help it. She took a step back, heart thumping.
He lied. Her eyes watered. My father lied. He lied to me. All my life, he lied to me, trying to comfort me, telling me I have a sister in the palace. Lying. Lying.
Meliora of the Thirteenth Dynasty, Daughter of Queen Kalafi, Lady of Grace, Great of Praises, looked like the purest seraph, not a drop of Vir Requis in her.
Her cheekbones were high, her forehead tall, her skin pale gold. A noble face, the face of a goddess, immortal, impossibly fair, ringed with soft light. No slave had such flawless skin, such full lips, such ageless grace. And yet more than anything, Meliora's eyes scared Elory.
Seraph eyes.
The irises gleamed golden, shining with inner light, and her pupils were shaped as sunbursts. The eyes of immortality, the eyes of a fallen angel. Eyes that had never gazed up at the sky, seeking stars, had never stared down at the dust, seeking the shackles and blood.
"I . . ." Elory hesitated. "I've come to . . ."
To tell you that I'm your sister, she wanted to say. To tell you that you're half Vir Requis, half "weredragon" as you call us. That the blood of a slave courses through you. That only you can break our shackles, raise Requiem, and lead us to our homeland.
Yet she could say none of these things. She felt no more hope, only betrayal.
Lies. Lies.
"Why are you here?" Meliora rose to her feet and approached her, and an edge of despair entered her voice. "Didn't you hear what happened to my last slaves? How they nearly burned in the bull?"
Meliora towered above Elory, a foot taller. Standing before her, her head stubbly, her frame so small, Elory felt like nothing but a slave again, just a slave before a seraph mistress.
Yet here Elory stood, and she would not flee. Perhaps this woman was not her sister. But she was still sister to Ishtafel, to the man who would bed Elory, break her, strangle her if she displeased him. Meliora was, perhaps, still a soul who could help.
I still need her help. I need to learn the truth. I need to learn who she is.
"I've come because I'm scared, my lady." Elory raised her head and met Meliora's gaze, staring into those sunburst eyes. "I've come because Ishtafel, your brother, slew my friend. Because he will slay me if I cannot pleasure him. I've come because all the palace speaks of how you saved two slaves from burning in the bull." Elory knelt and bowed her head. "I've come to pray to you, my lady, that you save me too."
Meliora stared down at her, eyes narrowed, the tension slowly leaving her eyes. Her face softened, and the seraph knelt. She placed a finger under Elory's chin and raised her face toward hers.
"Did he hurt you, child?" Meliora whispered.
Suddenly Elory couldn't stop her tears from falling.
He killed my friend! she wanted to say. He murdered my mother! He threatened to rape me! He destroyed my entire kingdom, and he placed my people in chains! He hurt me in ways that you cannot imagine, Meliora, in ways that you've never been hurt.
But Elory only shook her head, tears streaming, silent, unable to speak.
The door opened behind them.
A seraph stepped into the room, his light falling upon them.
"I did not hurt her," Ishtafel said, smiling thinly. "But I will. Oh, sweet sister . . . I will."
MELIORA
Her brother entered the room, and Meliora froze, kneeling by the slave.
For an instant, as Ishtafel loomed above her, she did not see the brother she had grown up with, laughed with, sung with, the brother who had taught her to play dice, to dance, to fly. She did not see her beloved Ish, the man she had always seen as a hero.
She saw the conqueror.
She saw the warlord who had smitten kingdoms, destroying Requiem and the giants and a hundred nations between them.
She saw the man they said kidnapped slaves from Tofet, strangled them in his bed, and tossed the corpses down for their comrades to see and fear.
Fire burned in his eyes, white and gold, and in them Meliora saw the fall of Requiem, the burning lands of Hakan Teer, the crumbling realms of Fe'an, the cries of millions. A breaking world, shattering under his wrath.
I was lied to, Meliora thought. All her life—deceived. Wrapped in silk. Hidden from what they did—from the cruelty of her mother, from the death that flowed from her brother's hands. All her life—sheltered. All her life—lies. Nothing but lies.
Slowly, she rose to her feet. She was five hundred years younger than him, countless times weaker, a mere girl in the presence of a god of light. Yet she met his gaze, and she spoke clearly.
"You will not touch her."
Ishtafel stared at her a moment longer, eyes narrowed, flaming, seething with his wrath. And then his face softened, and he laughed. His laughter claimed him. He tossed back his head, surrendering to it. It was a horrible sound. Somehow worse even than his anger. Th
e young, bald slave scurried behind Meliora like a pup hiding from a larger dog behind its mistress's legs.
"Sweetest sister." Ishtafel shook his head and wiped a tear from his eyes. "Do you think I'm like Mother? That you can stop me from burning a slave in the bronze bull? Mother loves you, Meliora, and she has always pampered you, has always surrendered to your whims. But Mother fought one war—a war against the gods, a war she lost." Ishtafel took a step closer. "I've slain millions. I ground nations to the dust under my heel, and I showed them no pity. What makes you think I would pity this slave who defied me? I sent the wench to the pleasure pits, thinking she cared to learn how to service me, yet I find her here hiding behind your skirt. She will pay for this crime."
"Crime?" Meliora refused to look away, though her innards trembled. She was young, but she would show him that she was no mere girl, that she too was a ruler, strong enough to resist him. She had defied her mother; she could defy him. "What crime did the girl commit? Trying to stop you from claiming her body, from bedding her, from . . . from defiling her? Trying to stop you from strangling her and tossing her body back to Tofet?"
"She's a slave!" Ishtafel shouted, voice ringing across the room. Birds fled outside. "A weredragon! You speak as if they feel, as if they deserve mercy. They're animals." He reached out, fast as a striking asp, and gripped her arm, digging his fingers into the burns. "Look at you. Look at these wounds! You burned yourself to save a pair of the vermin. You've gone mad."
"I learned the truth!" Meliora shouted back. The pain flared across her. She felt like her brother could rip off her arm. "I learned the truth of what Mother does, what you do. That Tofet is not a land of singing, happy servants, that . . . that it's a land of bloodshed, chains, whips, disease. That . . . that they are human. That they can feel pain."
Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) Page 12
