Ishtafel released her arm. He stepped back. His face softened, and his eyes became almost sad. "Sweetest sister." He sighed and turned toward the balcony, watching the birds in the distance. "The weredragons are like birds. Yes, perhaps they feel pain if you crush one in your fist. And yes, like birds, they can be pleasant pets, pretty and joyous." He turned back toward her. "But like the birds whose meat fills our bellies, like the birds whose feathers fill our pillows, they are ours. They exist to serve us. You would cry if you saw how chickens are slaughtered, Meliora. All children cry when they learn the pain that beasts suffer to serve men and women. They learn to outgrow it, and you will outgrow this. Soon the pain of slaves will be no more meaningful to you than the pain of birds or beasts."
Birds and beasts don't come into my chamber, begging for aid, Meliora thought. Birds and beasts do not speak, do not pray to lost kingdoms. No man boasts of slaying birds and beasts in battle, yet engravings of Ishtafel's conquest of Requiem cover the halls of this palace.
She looked at the slave. The girl knelt behind her, thin, almost famished, her skin bronzed from a lifetime in the sun, her shoulders still bent from the yoke, her ankles still chafed and scabbed from the shackles, her neck still collared.
Meliora knew what those collars did. As a child, over and over, she had heard Mother's warnings. Never remove their collars! Never, not even for a second, not unless a hundred soldiers with bows and lances gather.
They're weredragons, Meliora thought. A race of people with magic. The magic to become dragons. Only the collars keep them in human forms. Without her collar right now, this very slave girl could become a dragon . . . could burn both me and Ishtafel to ash.
Meliora tried to imagine the Requiem that had been. All the slaves in Saraph—six hundred thousand of them—flying free as dragons, wings hiding the sun, dragonfire casting its red light. A proud nation. Strong. A nation that could burn this city to the ground.
Suddenly Meliora felt something inside her, a tickling warmth, an urge to become a dragon. To spread not her feathered wings but creaking, leathern wings, to wear not muslin but a coat of scales, to roar out fire, to fly with her kin over forest and river, seeking marble columns. Again she thought of her recurring dreams, those dreams that emerged only on darkest nights—herself as a dragon, flying under strange stars, flying with the dragons of Requiem.
"They're not birds or beasts," she whispered. "They are dragons."
"They are slaves!" Ishtafel shouted. "Dragons? I slew the dragons! With an army of fire, I felled them from the sky. I made them what they are, miserable, wretches, worms—"
"Do not pride yourself on cruelty." Meliora stared into his eyes, speaking slowly. "There is no pride in conquest or bloodshed, only in kindness, only in decency. You enslave six hundred thousand. I saved two from the bull, and now I will save a third from you. That makes me worth more than all your wars could ever make you."
He raised his hand to strike her.
He had never raised his hand upon her before. All their lives, he had been her protector, her friend, her hero. As a child, when she would steal his armor and wear the oversized breastplate as a joke, he would laugh and muss her hair. When she had once placed a frog on his plate, horrifying their mother, he had roared with laughter.
Yet now he swung his hand toward her.
Meliora raised her own hand, blocking the blow.
Their arms slammed together, and the pain flared through her, but she wouldn't look away. She stared into his eyes.
"You've crossed a line, sister," he said.
"No." She shook her head slowly, hair swaying. "I did not cross a line but drew one in the sand. This woman is mine. You will not touch her. No more slaves will die at your hands. No more will they burn in the bull. I will burn down this palace, dying in the flames, to save only one."
Ishtafel's eyes narrowed the slightest. "There are other ways to die. Not only deaths in great pyres, but quiet deaths . . . as Father died."
"Father choked on a fig," she said.
Ishtafel snorted out a laugh. "Yes, child. A fig. You'll find that those who get in the dynasty's way . . . tend to find the bad figs."
Meliora's eyes stung. Her head spun. Her entire life was crashing around her, as surely as if the ziggurat itself could crumble.
My father . . . murdered?
Lies.
My entire life—lies.
She took a deep breath. So I will fight this fire with fire.
"Then let us play a game." She raised her chin. "You are fond of games, aren't you, brother? You are proud of your strength, your speed, your chariot of fire that charges into battle. I have a chariot too. Let us fly. Let us race our chariots across the city, from this ziggurat to the gates of the desert, to the land of Tofet. The wager will be this slave."
Ishtafel raised his eyebrow. "A chariot race?" He barked a laugh. "Sister, what makes you think I will play with you?"
She allowed a crooked smile to touch her lips, struggling to stop it from trembling. "Because you believe you are strong, fast, a hero. You believe that you can beat me. Race me, brother. Today. If I win, this girl is mine." She glanced at the girl who still hid behind her, then back at her brother. "She'll be my new slave, replacing those Mother stole from me."
Ishtafel took a step back, and amusement seemed to overshadow his rage. He smiled thinly, stared at the slave, and licked his lips. Then he returned his eyes to Meliora.
"And if I win," he said, "you will join me in a new feast in our grand hall. And before the lords and ladies of Saraph, you will kneel before me, and you will kiss my hand, and you will agree—with all to hear!—to be my wife, to bear me a son."
Meliora bared her teeth at him, sucking in air.
"Very well." She hissed. "We race. When the sun hits its zenith."
Ishtafel caressed her, running his fingers down her side to her hip, finally placing them on her belly. "This womb will bear a great prince of Saraph."
Meliora shoved his hand away. He nodded, winked at the slave behind Meliora, then left the chamber. His voice echoed from the hallway. "We ride at high noon!"
Meliora turned toward the slave. She knelt before her.
"What's your name?" she asked, voice soft.
The girl's trembling had ceased, and her eyes shone. "Elory. Daughter of Jaren."
Meliora took Elory's hands in hers and squeezed them. "You will be safe, Elory. I promise you. You will be safe with me."
The girl hesitated for a moment, then embraced Meliora. It shocked Meliora at first—slaves were never this brazen!—but perhaps . . . perhaps Meliora had to stop thinking of her as a slave. Perhaps she was a new friend.
"You're safe, child," she whispered, holding Elory in her arms. "You're safe."
Yet as she held the girl, Meliora wondered. Ishtafel was the greatest rider in Saraph, a man who had led hosts of chariots to war. Was Elory truly safe, or would the girl sing in the bull on Meliora's wedding day?
VALE
For the first time in his life, Vale was going to turn into a dragon.
Dawn rose around him across Shayeen, glinting off the platinum crests of obelisks, the gilded capitals of temples' columns, and the ziggurat that rose in the distance, soaring above the city. Though he had toiled all his life in the quarries, carving the bricks to build this glory, Vale had never seen the City of Kings. It was a place of wonder, of might, of magic.
Yet it paled in comparison to the magic inside him.
Since before he could remember, Vale had worn a collar infused with a seraph curse, holding his magic at bay. He now stood in a construction site, columns rising around him. Scaffoldings clung to the pillars, and slaves toiled across the site, digging, chipping, mortaring, climbing. Seraph slave drivers surrounded Vale, armed with whips, arrows, and spears. He was still trapped, still a slave in a foreign land.
But for the first time, he wore no collar, and no chains hobbled his feet.
For the first time, he felt his magic well up insid
e him.
He closed his eyes, savoring it. He didn't want anything to interfere with this, with the ancient magic of his people, the power he had always felt itching, had never been able to draw. Vale had come to this city to fly to battle, to save his sister, perhaps to die in war, but right now he didn't want to think of blood or flame.
He thought of starlight.
They said that a constellation shaped as a dragon shone in the northern skies of Requiem. Vale had never believed those stories, yet now he saw stars behind his eyelids. Now he felt silver light fill him. It was a feeling like mulled wine on a cold night, like gliding on the wind, like everything good and right in the world.
Vale inhaled deeply, suddenly wanting to weep. For twenty-one years, he had suffered under the cruel sunlight, under the whip, under the heel of his masters, but now . . . this moment . . . this moment was wonder.
He was changing. Even with his eyes closed, he knew that. Growing taller. His fingers lengthening. His body widening. He heard the chinking of scales, and in his mind, he was flying over Requiem, and that ancient kingdom was real. The halls of his forebears rose toward the stars, carved of purest white marble. The birch trees rustled. His family flew at his side, and a thousand other dragons flew around them. The Draco constellation shone above, and they were blessed. They were free. They were Vir Requis.
"Requiem," he whispered, tasting fire in his mouth, smelling smoke. "May our wings forever find your sky."
He heard a chinking, a creaking, a scraping against the cobblestones. Vale opened his eyes.
He looked down upon small slaves and seraphim, no taller than his belly. When he tilted his head farther down, he saw claws and legs coated with gleaming blues scales—not the faded, azure of the sky but a rich cobalt, shining like sapphires, like the sea in the tales of his father.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and exhaled. Smoke blasted down onto the cobblestones.
By the stars of Requiem.
Eyes damp, he looked over his shoulder and saw his body—the body of a dragon. Powerful. Covered in the same blue scales, each a jewel. A tail flicked behind him, tipped with spikes, and he spread his wings—leathern wings, indigo colored, tipped with brilliant white claws covered with azure mottles. He smiled, then laughed, a deep laughter, tears in his eyes, and sparks of fire left his maw. When he turned his head forward again, he saw himself reflected in a seraph's shield: a blue dragon, his jaws lined with sharp teeth like daggers, his head tipped with alabaster horns.
For that moment, all his pain, all his rage, the fall and captivity of Requiem—all was forgotten for the length of a few breaths. All was as it should be.
This . . . this is how we were meant to live.
The seraphim cracked their whips and aimed their lances and arrows.
"Chain him!" barked one seraph, and others raced forth with heavy shackles. "Chain the left leg!"
The feeling of peace vanished, and rage flared in Vale. Rage had always been a sickening feeling to him, a helpless fury, a wild animal in a cage. Yet now . . . now rage was fire, a fire that rose in his belly and filled his gullet. Now rage was a wonderful thing, no longer the warmth of starlight but the searing heat of dragonfire.
For the first time in his life, Vale was mighty.
For the first time in his life, he could fight back.
As the seraphim raced forward with chains, Vale bristled. His wings creaked. Why should he let them chain him? He wore no collar. He was a dragon. He was a warrior of Requiem. He could blow his dragonfire; he felt it in his throat, ready to expel. He could lash his claws, snap his jaws, whip his spiked tail. He could slay these seraphim; they were larger than his human form but so small by a dragon.
A growl rose in his throat, and sparks left his maw, reflecting in the seraphim's armor. The overseers carrying the chain paused, hesitating.
"Easy, beast." One of the seraphim—Shani, the same woman who had beaten Elory so many times—cracked her flaming whip. "Be a good little reptile, or we'll rip off every one of your scales. We slew a million of your kind in Requiem. I think we can handle you. Men! Slap the chain onto his ankle. Now!"
Vale growled again. He stretched out his wings, their leathern membranes creaking, and raised his tail with a clatter of scales. His claws scratched the dirt. Smoke puffed out from his nostrils. The overseers tugged back their bowstrings and raised their lances.
"Now, now, little reptile." Shani smiled thinly, standing before him. "Are you going to haul stones like a nice beast of burden, or are we going to have to shatter those pretty blue scales with our arrows?"
Vale lowered his wings and tail.
I must live for now. I must fly with the stones to the temple's crest. I must save Elory, not die here in a construction site.
A single glance at the ziggurat in the distance quelled his anger. The Eye of Saraph upon its crest stared back at him across the miles. It was there that Elory was trapped, serving Ishtafel. It was to reach that palace that Vale had to live.
The seraphim approached, and the manacle snapped around his ankle.
"Good . . ." Shani cooed. She approached and stroked his snout. "Now, you might get an idea into your mind that, once airborne, you could release your magic. That you could fall out of the chain, then shift into a dragon again and fly free." Her smile widened into a grin. "I urge you to try it. The shackle around your leg—do you feel how it squeezes? If you try to shift back into a human, and your leg shrinks, this manacle will tighten at once. Before your human leg can slip out, it will grab you, and you will crash down—unable to become a dragon again without ripping off your leg. I will enjoy seeing you smash onto the cobblestones. Many slaves have." She tugged the chain taut. "You're on my leash now."
Vale grunted. He had indeed contemplated that very plan. In his dreams all night, he had soared as a dragon in chains, released his magic in the air, and slipped from the manacles as a man . . . falling, falling . . . then soaring again, free, unchained. Now that dream crashed around him.
"Do you understand?" Shani cracked her whip. "Answer me!"
Vale grumbled his reply, speaking for the first time with his dragon throat, his voice deeper, rumbling, a sound of boulders rolling. "Yes, my lady."
"Now lift the stone. Fly!"
He moved toward the stone, a heavy disk, the segment of a column. It was so wide that, were he still in human form, his arms would not wrap around it. He gripped the stone in his claws, grunted, and flapped his wings.
Air blew across the yard, raising dust and pebbles and billowing the seraphim's hair. Vale rose a foot into the air. He gave his wings a mighty flap, rose another foot. The stone still lay on the ground, his claws around it. A few more flaps of his wings, a tug, and he was flying.
For the first time in his life, he flew as a dragon.
He laughed.
He was still a slave. A chain ran from his ankle to Shani's hand. He carried a great stone that threatened to dislocate his front legs. But by the stars of Requiem—he was a dragon, and he was flying.
He kept beating his wings, scattering dust below, rising higher. The shell of the Conqueror's Temple—Ishtafel's new monument of victory—rose before him. Its columns were still growing, built of round stones placed one atop the other. Scaffolding grew around the columns like scabs of leprosy, and slaves stood there in human forms, holding buckets of mortar.
Vale flew until he reached the top of a half-completed column. The chain tightened, and when he glanced down, he saw Shani a hundred feet below, holding the other end of the chain.
"That's high enough, reptile!" she shouted. "Lower the stone."
A sudden, searing need filled Vale to toss that stone down, to crush Shani under its weight. Yet dozens of other seraphim spread around him. He could crush one, maybe two with his burden. The rest would shoot him down.
I must live. I must survive for you, Elory.
Beating his wings and hovering, Vale lowered the limestone segment onto the top of the column. The workers on th
e scaffolding hurried to adjust the stone and apply more mortar, while other slaves drove metal spikes through holes in the top, further securing the segment. The column now rose two feet taller, with another two hundred feet to go.
Panting, Vale hovered in the air and looked around him. From up here, he could see a better view of the city. Several other structures were under construction: a massive archway, a hundred feet tall; a statue of the god Bee'al, a warrior with the head of a cobra, as lofty as a palace; and a new port along the river, its piers bustling with builders. When Vale glanced north, he could just make out the edge of Tofet.
Sudden guilt filled Vale. His father still languished there, alone—his wife dead, his children all missing.
I parted from you in anger, Father. But I will see you again. He ground his teeth. When I escape from the palace with Elory, I will grab you too.
He looked south toward the ziggurat. It rose across the city, the tallest building here, as large as a city itself. Somewhere in there, Elory was chained. Somewhere in there, Meliora—also his sister—ruled as a princess. Vale had to find them, had to—
"Down, reptile!" Shani tugged the chain. "Down to fetch another stone."
With a grunt and puff of smoke, Vale flew lower. He lifted another stone. He flew up again.
He labored on.
As he worked, he kept thinking. He had to escape. He had to fly across the city, reach the ziggurat, find his sister. Yet whenever he so much as glanced that way, Shani tugged the chain, and the other overseers cracked their whips.
Even if I break free from this chain, how will I ever reach the ziggurat? The seraphim would shoot him down. A million more lived across the city, each with wings that could fly—faster than dragons, if the stories were to be believed. Many of them were armed with arrows and lances. And even should Vale reach the ziggurat, how would he make it inside? How would he survive navigating the labyrinth of corridors within?
Is Elory lost to me?
"Faster, lizard!" Shani shouted. The seraph beat her wings, flew up toward him, and lashed her whip. The flaming thong slammed against Vale's back, cracking several scales, and he yowled with pain. "Keep working, worm."
Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) Page 13
