He drew a dagger from his belt. He flew closer to Vale and scraped the blade across the slave's side. Vale screamed.
"Call out louder!" Ishtafel said. "Call so the vultures will hear. Ah! There they are. Look! They've come to dine."
Gazing into the sky, Ishtafel laughed and opened his arms, welcoming them down. The vultures circled above once more, then swooped to feast.
MELIORA
The chanting and screaming rose from outside, and Meliora covered her ears, wanting to silence the city, the screams, the songs, the endless din that would not cease its roar.
Lies. Lies.
Elory's words thrummed through her. Meliora stumbled across her chamber, fell onto her bed, covered her head with a pillow. She wanted to silence it all. The shouts and songs of seraphim outside, the screaming, the endless voices in her mind, the endless memories.
Memories not her own.
Memories of ancient lives.
Memories of dragons.
"No. No!"
She covered her ears, shoved her face against the bed, but even if she could silence the sounds, she could not silence her thoughts.
You are one of us, Meliora! You can become a dragon.
"I am a seraph!" she shouted into her bed. "I am a Princess of Saraph!"
You are a dragon.
Her fists shook.
I am the wind. I am fire. I am dragonfire.
"Remember Requiem!" the voices chanted outside . . . then fell silent.
Meliora rose from her bed.
She walked back onto her balcony.
She stared outside at the city and cried out in horror.
Seraphim were storming across the sky, swooping to the city, killing slaves. Blood dripped onto the balcony, and Meliora looked up to see a slave nailed to the ziggurat above her, moaning, barely alive. The city screamed in anguish, and the seraphim cheered, and above the carnage flew Ishtafel, laughing, his arms spread wide.
No.
Meliora's head spun.
Gods, no.
She let out a roar, wings spread out.
"No!"
She had not thought herself capable of more fear, more shock. She had not thought the world could tear any wider. Yet this seemed a storm, a shattering, a tragedy worse than anything Meliora had experienced. She howled with her fury, howled for the blood of Requiem, for the cruel light of Saraph, for a nation tearing apart, and Meliora flew.
She soared through the sky, a seraph of light, crying out her fury.
She soared toward the sun, a dragon roaring in rage, a dragon blowing fire.
Seraphim turned toward her, gasping, crying out in fear.
Meliora roared and blasted her flames.
Dragonfire.
Dragonfire screamed, spinning, crackling, gushing forth, slamming into seraphim, burning them down, and Meliora roared, and she wept, and her heart thrashed.
I am the wind.
I am fire.
I am dragonfire.
She spread her wings wide, wider than they had ever spread. She reached out her claws. Her tail lashed and her scales clattered, and she was dreaming, had to be dreaming, this couldn't be real, this was a dream, a dream, a lie, a dream . . .
"Requiem rises!" the slaves cried below. "Meliora the Merciful! Meliora of Requiem flies!"
Her tears fell, and Meliora wheeled in the sky, back toward the ziggurat, and she saw herself reflected in the platinum facade.
I am dragonfire.
She flew as a dragon, long and slender, a dragon with colors of starlight and sunlight, silver tipped with gold. Her scales were small and round like pearls, and long white feathers grew from her wings, from her tail, along her back like a mane. A halo still shone above her head. A great creature of light, half reptile, half bird, a dragon like a swan, white and long, eyes golden, roaring white fire.
I am a dragon of Requiem.
Her tears fell as jewels, and her fire stormed forth.
It was true. She beat her wings, a dragon in the wind. Elory was speaking truth.
"For Requiem!" Meliora cried out, her voice deep, roaring across the sky.
And above she saw him, swooping down, a god of light in a chariot of fire.
Her brother.
"You too will be vulture food, dragon!" Ishtafel cried. "You too will feed the birds!"
She growled, flying up toward him. "You will not kill him, brother. And you will not kill me."
In his chariot of fire, he hesitated. His eyes widened. "Meliora?"
She blew her white fire.
He raised his shield, and the flames engulfed it, screaming, showering around him, exploding like a sun.
With a roar, with showering flame, with smoke, with blood, with flaring light, dragon and chariot slammed together.
I am dragonfire.
Meliora did not know if this was real or a dream. She did not know how this could be, how she could be flying as a dragon, how she could have carried the blood of Requiem within her for so long. But she knew that she had to fight him. Had to kill him. Had to stop her beloved, horrible brother. And so she roared, and she fought him—fought him like the dragons of old—lashing her claws, snapping her jaws, calling out.
"Requiem! Requiem!" She roared out in her rage. "I won't let you hurt them, Ishtafel. I won't let you hurt another soul. It ends now."
Her claws grabbed his shield, trying to yank it free. Her tail lashed, slamming into his chariot. Her wings spread out, burning, and she felt like a phoenix, like a creature woven of living flame, of starlight and firelight.
He rose in his chariot, burnt, his armor dented, and stared at her. Their eyes met. She saw her face reflected in his golden eyes: the head of a white dragon, a creature risen from myth. And she saw the shock in his eyes, the understanding, the realization.
"It is you, Meliora." He shook his head in disbelief, then narrowed his eyes and raised his lance. "Of course. Of course. Mother poisoning Father, the secrets in her eyes, the weakness in your heart . . ." He sucked in air and snarled. "Of course."
With a roar, he thrust his lance.
The blade crashed into Meliora's shoulder, cracked her scales, and bit into her flesh.
Ishtafel loomed above her, leaning from his chariot of fire, driving the blade deeper.
"So you will die with them, sweet Meliora." He grinned—a maniacal grin, showing nearly all his teeth. "Instead of marrying you, I will smite you upon the city you profane."
He tugged the lance free and prepared to thrust again. Meliora screamed and blasted her fire.
Ishtafel's chariot rose higher, its firehorses rearing, screaming like storms. Meliora flew higher, dragonfire showering forth, claws lashing.
His chariot swooped, and his lance slammed into her again, digging into the same wound.
Meliora roared with pain.
Something shattered inside her.
Her magic spilled out like her blood, a mist of starlight.
She fell through the sky, a seraph again, swan wings beating uselessly. She spun. She tumbled. The chariot dived after her, Ishtafel sneering within, aiming his lance.
I am dragonfire.
She summoned the magic again—the ancient magic of Requiem, forever a part of her, hidden but now hers to wield. She soared, a dragon again, and slammed into him.
Her claws lashed in a fury. Her jaws snapped. Her fire sputtered.
I have to stop him. I have to destroy him, to . . . to kill him. Her tears and blood mingled as she fought. For Elory, for poor Elory whom I banished, my sister. For the slave nailed into the ziggurat behind me. For all the slaves across this land. For a free people. For the Vir Requis.
She lashed her claws, tearing into Ishtafel's breastplate, scattering the gilt, shattering the steel, cutting his skin, shedding his blood, the ichor of Saraph, burning her paw.
He's an immortal god, but I am a dragon of Requiem.
He shouted, rose in his chariot, and drew a sword—a long, curved blade, a shard of sunlight.
&n
bsp; He thrust the blade, driving it into her chest.
Meliora screamed silently.
Her white fire rose, becoming a pillar of light. Her head rolled back. Her breath died.
She fell.
She fell as a dragon, pierced with his light.
She fell as a woman, her wings shedding feathers.
She fell as Meliora, as a princess of seraphim, as a daughter of Requiem, as a sister. A sister.
Forgive me, Elory. Forgive me.
Fire shone above her, and the sun blinded her, and the roar of the crowd flowed across her. She crashed through stone and wood and light and darkness.
JAREN
He walked through the city of Shayeen, chains around his feet, a collar around his neck, his head held high.
Coated in tar and dust, his back whipped, his frame frail, he walked with squared shoulders. He carried a staff of twisting wood, but his back was straight. He stared ahead, walking unafraid even through the land of the masters, for even in the searing sunlight of Saraph, he walked upon a path of starlight.
"The stars of Requiem will guide our way, daughter," he said to Elory. "Fear not and stray not from my side. Issari's Star shines upon us."
Elory walked at his side, trembling, afraid, but still walking with her head held high. No chains hobbled her feet. Several days' growth of hair covered her head, and her eyes shone with tears. Together, side by side, father and daughter walked along the boulevard between the statues of old gods.
"They will stop us." Elory glanced around nervously, fists clenching and unclenching. "They will slay us."
Jaren kept walking, chin raised, staff tapping, chains jangling. "We walk upon starlight. They will not stop us."
Indeed, it seemed that barely any of the seraphim noticed them. The golden masters flew above, heading toward the ziggurat in the distance. Other slaves bustled all around, some chanting for Requiem upon roofs, others kneeling in the dust, others dead, seraph arrows in their chests. Shayeen spun around them, flaring with fire, with blood, with starlight.
Ahead, before the ziggurat, a great, beautiful creature fell from the sky. Her scales gleamed like pearls and gold, and her wings spread out, white as swan feathers, a being halfway between dragon and swan. As she fell, she became a woman, a seraph with broken wings, tumbling down and vanishing in light.
"Meliora!" Elory said, gasping. "Meliora fell!"
Jaren kept walking, never faltering, never removing his gaze from the ziggurat ahead. "And Vale still lives upon the Eye."
Ahead he saw his son. Nailed to the great engraving of the Eye of Saraph, an eye within a sunburst, a thousand feet above the city. Barely visible from here. A speck of life. Flickering. Dying.
My son.
Seraphim streamed above them. Slaves roared on the streets and roofs, crying out to Meliora, to the "Princess-Slave!" The city bustled, flooded with death and hope, and soon others joined Jaren. A young boy, an arrow in his shoulder. A girl carrying her sister. A mother with her babe. An old man and woman. Collared. Beaten. Cut. Slaves.
A dozen slaves marched behind him. Then a hundred. Then a thousand marching together—ankles hobbled, backs whipped, heads shaved. The people of Requiem.
"Kneel, slaves!" cried a seraph, swooping toward him. He thrust his lance, spearing a slave child.
"Turn back, worms!" shouted another seraph and fired an arrow. The missile slammed into a woman. She clutched her chest and fell.
Jaren kept walking. Elory walked at his side. The thousands walked behind them.
"Kneel, slaves! Turn back."
More arrows flew. More spears thrust. More slaves fell.
Jaren kept walking, staff held before him, and more slaves joined them, emerging from homes and alleyways, forming a great throng. They wore only rags, but they carried shields of starlight.
"Remember Requiem!" cried one man.
"Remember Requiem!" rose the voices across the crowd.
They walked until they reached the base of the ziggurat, and there Jaren stopped and raised his staff. He stared up to the building's crest. To Vale. He could barely see his son from the distance. He did not know if Vale still lived. But he believed. He thought he heard his son call out, his voice flowing on the wind. Calling him. Calling his father.
Jaren held his staff high. "Kalafi! Queen Kalafi, hear me!"
The seraphim flowed down toward him in flaming chariots, arrows firing. Ishtafel led the charge, roaring like a wild, rabid demon of sunfire.
Be with me, stars of Requiem.
Jaren inhaled deeply, raised his staff, and thought of the Draco constellation, the great dragon in the sky, the protector of Requiem. The gods of a cruel world flew toward him, but he worshipped an older god. A god of distant lands. A god of dragons.
Light.
Starlight flared out from his staff, the Shield of Requiem. The fire of the seraphim blasted against it, scattering. Their arrows flew aside. The chariots tumbled backward, and the starlight spread out in a great dome, protecting the children of Requiem within its glow.
"Kalafi!" Jaren shouted, voice booming now. "Queen Kalafi, come speak to me, to Jaren Aeternum of Requiem. Come speak or the truth of Saraph and Requiem will spill forth like my light!"
The city seemed to freeze. Jaren stood on the road, staring up at the ziggurat, at his dying son, at the center of Saraph's power, at the palace where he had loved a queen, where his daughter had been born, where a son would live or where the truth of a daughter would roll across an empire. Everyone stared now—seraphim, slaves, all listening, all waiting to hear his words.
"The empire will hear me speak!" Jaren cried. "Seraphim and slaves will hear of Meliora, will hear of you, Kalafi! Free my son. Free Vale of Requiem! Free him or all will hear of a night long ago."
Of a young slave, Jaren added silently. A young man who had served a queen. A queen who had slain her husband, who had loved the young man, who had betrayed her dynasty, who held a secret . . . a secret that could save a life.
And onto the balcony she came, clad in muslin and diamonds, a crown on her head, fear in her eyes. Queen Kalafi, Great in Graces. Mother of his child.
She stood in the distance, so far he could barely see her, but he gazed upon her with the light of his stars. He stared into her eyes.
"Enough!" Jaren said. "Free him. Free my son!"
Free him or the empire will know who fathered your daughter, Jaren added silently. And he knew she could hear those words too. She stood in a great palace, a queen of gold and plenty, beautiful and immortal. He stood below on bloody earth, a slave in chains, ragged and aging. Across the distance, they stared into each other's eyes.
Thirty years ago, when I was young and fair, a servant in your palace, you took me into your bed. I gave you a daughter. Give me back my son.
Kalafi nodded.
She spoke two words—words for her servants, words he could hear even down here.
"Free him."
As the city watched, seraphim flew toward Vale. He screamed as they tugged the nails from his hands and feet . . . then fell silent. On the wings of seraphim, he glided down toward the ground, and the cruel masters of light laid Jaren's son at his feet.
"Oh, Vale," Elory whispered. She knelt by her brother and placed her hand on his cheek.
The other slaves gathered around, crying out in dismay, and seraphim laughed and shouted. Jaren knelt too before his son—the poor, ravaged thing they had turned his son into.
Vale lay shuddering, struggling for breath, his lifeblood leaking away, cut a thousand times. Dying. Ashen. Barely any life still in him.
"Vale!" Elory cried, trying to staunch his wounds. "Oh sweet Vale."
Beaten, broken, bleeding, Vale opened his mouth. He tried to speak, but only hoarse words left him. His teeth had been bashed in, his eye socket cracked, and a cut on his side exposed his organs. Vultures had pecked at his flesh, ripping bits off, tugging bits out. Elory wept, closed her eyes, and held Vale's ravaged hands.
Jaren
looked up at the sky. The sun of this cruel southern empire beat down, white and blinding. But that sunlight was only a curtain, only a cage. Beyond it, far beyond the distance, shone the stars. The stars of Requiem were not visible from this land, but Jaren knew they were up there, knew they could hear him, blessed him.
"Stars of Requiem," Jaren prayed, staring up into the light, past the light, into darkness, to the gods of his forebears. "Shine upon him, Draco constellation. Shine your light. Heal your son."
Jaren thought that he could see them above, even past the sky of seraphim: the halls of Requiem, woven of starlight, twins to the fallen marble halls in a burnt forest. And they were waiting there: the heroes of Requiem, great kings and queens, warriors and poets, his own wife. Waiting for Vale, waiting to welcome him into their embrace.
"Now is not his time," Jaren whispered to them. "Let him live, stars of Requiem, souls of the Vir Requis. Heal his body. Let him live longer under the sun."
It seemed to Jaren as he stared skyward, as Elory wept, that he heard the song of harps from above, that he heard the souls of the fallen.
Let him rest, they said. Let him no longer suffer in chains.
Jaren shook his head. "He still has work upon this world. He still must walk at my side. He will not rest while his people languish. Let my son live. Let him fight."
The Draco constellation shone above, stars forming a great dragon with a gleaming eye.
Strands of starlight fell like rain.
The tears of Requiem shone upon the world.
The light of those who had come before. The light of stars. The light of dragons. It fell in curtains, gleaming, healing in the cruel sunlight.
"Breathe, Vale!" Elory shouted, the light cascading across her. She looked toward Jaren, eyes wet, holding her brother in her arms. "He's not breathing!"
The light kept falling, a silver rain, breaking apart, scattering, lifting Vale like a mother lifting a lifeless child. He hovered before them, limp, broken, wrapped in strands of starlight. The song of harps played in the wind, the song of Requiem.
You will always find our sky.
"Heal him, stars," Jaren whispered. "Heal my son so that he might walk your path upon the world."
Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) Page 17
