Fire rained.
Shrieking, laughing, praying to their gods, the seraphim descended upon the children of Requiem with spear and arrow, decimating the slaves, and a forest of the dead rose, corpses upon pikes.
Requiem shattered.
The screams rose, then tore, then fell silent.
Tash knew that all her life, she would remember the slaughter she saw here. She knew that if Requiem survived, her people would forever remember this day, the decimation of the slaves, the massacre of sixty thousand souls, their voices forever silenced, their light forever darkened. And she knew that she herself could never return to that glittering pit, to the smoke of hintan and incense, to the kingdom she had carved beneath the mountain.
Once Tash had thought herself merely a pleasurer, a queen of the glittering goddesses of the underworld. That life had ended. This day she was a daughter of Requiem.
The fire seared her tears dry, and Tash forced herself to stare at the slaughter. At the blood on the streets of Shayeen. At the piles of dead. At the seraphim who still dipped from the sky, thrusting spears, slaughtering the fleeing children of Requiem. She forced herself to see this, as King Benedictus in days of old had seen the slaughter at Lanburg Fields in Requiem's ancient war against the griffins, as Queen Lyana had seen the phoenixes descending upon the marble halls of Nova Vita, Requiem's lost capital.
I'm not a warrior like they were. Tash touched the collar around her neck. I have no legendary sword to wield, nor can I become a dragon and blow my fire. She reached down between her legs, feeling the pain Ishtafel had left. But I still have this weapon, this weapon I've always fought with. And I will fight for Requiem. For our savior.
She looked at the white feather in her hand. It was nearly as long as Tash's forearm. Meliora's feather. The feather of the great Princess of Saraph . . . and the great leader of Requiem.
Tash turned away from the city.
She faced the towering wall across from the portico. A fresco appeared there, several times her height, showing the fall of Requiem. Painted dragons fell while seraphim fired their arrows, and above them all flew the tyrant.
"You cut off her wings," Tash whispered. "You hurt me. You slaughtered thousands. You did not think slaves could fight you, Ishtafel, but I will fight. I remember Requiem."
MELIORA
She lay in darkness, alone, her phantom wings aflame.
How long had she languished here in this prison cell? Meliora didn't know. There was no night or day here, no way to tell the passage of time. A guard arrived sometimes, slid open a small metal square on the doorway, and shoved in a bowl of gruel and a cup of water. Whether she had three meals a day or one, Meliora could not tell. She could have been in here for days, perhaps weeks.
And still her wings burned.
Their fire lit the cell with a hot, red light, crackling, illuminating brick walls, a craggy floor, and a ceiling coated with spiderwebs. A chamber so small Meliora had no room to lie down, only curl up in the corner. She kept reaching over her back, trying to extinguish those flames on her wings, but felt nothing. Her hands passed through them.
Missing. Gone. She shuddered. Ishtafel cut them off.
Meliora could still feel them there as they said soldiers sometimes felt missing limbs. Yet the wings had fallen from the balcony, and the firelight did not come from burning feathers. It came from the halo on her head.
Wincing, Meliora reached over her head again, then pulled her seared fingers back. The fire crackled with new vigor. She ached for a mirror, ached to see what burned above her head. Her old halo, a thin ring of soft light, was gone. Instead flames now seemed to wreath her brow, a crown of dragonfire.
"Who am I now?" she whispered in the shadows. "What am I?"
Her mother was Queen Kalafi, a seraph fallen from Edinnu, but did the holy ichor still flow through Meliora's veins? She had thought herself a noble seraph princess, pure and fair, yet her long golden hair was gone; only stubble now covered her head. Her wings, once curtains of white, were gone too. Her halo was a thing of flame that burned her own fingers. Who was she now?
"A child of Requiem," she whispered.
She closed her eyes, and she thought of Requiem. She had grown up seeing that ancient kingdom of dragons. All her life, she had gazed upon Requiem in frescos, mosaics, paintings, engravings on great palace walls and temple columns. All her life, she had heard of a kingdom of reptiles, of ruthless enemies that Ishtafel had conquered.
And all her life, Meliora had dreamed of that distant, fallen land—and in her dreams, Requiem still stood, and she flew among the dragons, one of their number, not beastly but noble and proud, and the stars of the dragon shone above her.
Perhaps I've always known that I'm a child of starlight.
That land of marble halls and birch woods had fallen, but Requiem still lived. It lived here in Saraph—in the land of Tofet beyond the City of Kings. It lived in the thousands of huts. It lived in the small home of her father, the priest Jaren, and her siblings, Vale and Elory. It lived in the hearts of the slaves who had marched behind Meliora into the city, stood before the palace, and cried out for freedom. And it still lived within Meliora—a memory of starlight, a torch of dragonfire she vowed to keep carrying.
She could feel the magic deep inside her, warm, tingly. She tried to summon it again, to become the dragon. As a dragon, she could shatter the prison door, storm through the halls, burn all in her path. Breathing deeply, Meliora let the magic flow through her, rising, filling her like healing energy. Scales began to rise across her body, pearly white, and her fingernails lengthened, and—
The collar tightened around her neck.
Meliora gasped in pain, and her magic petered away.
Her scales vanished, and she fell to the floor, trembling, bile in her throat. She clawed at her collar, but it was forged of solid iron, engraved with runes of power. No saw or blade in the empire could cut through this collar, no fire could melt it—certainly not her fingernails.
But there is a key that can open it.
Coughing, weak from her wounds and hunger, Meliora reached into the pocket of her burlap shift. She pulled out the ancient relic she had snatched in the battle—the Keeper's Key.
Or at least what was left of it. For hundreds of years, the Keeper's Key had hung around Queen Kalafi's neck, allowing the royal family of Saraph to remove the collars from choice slaves. Only a few Vir Requis were ever allowed to become dragons—to dig in the tar pits, to haul heavy stones, and sometimes to entertain the people in the arena in mock battles from the old war.
But Ishtafel had crushed that key in his palm, forever sealing the Vir Requis—and her among them—in their human forms. Meliora examined the remains of the key. It lay in her palm, crumpled into a ball of crimson metal. The old runes upon it, written in gold, were barely visible, only a few squiggly lines.
Once again, Meliora tried to unbend the key, to tug the metal back into its long slender form. But she could not; she didn't have Ishtafel's strength, and even if she did, would she simply snap the key when trying to straighten it? As she had countless times, she brought the twisted ball of metal to her collar, hoping against hope that this time—finally!—it would work. The few crumpled runes on the key—whatever was still visible—gave but a soft glow, then fizzled away. The collar remained locked.
Meliora sighed and returned the crushed key to her pocket. If only she had grabbed the key from Ishtafel in time! She had flown so close. She could have burned him, stolen the key, freed the slaves, led a nation of dragons home to Requiem. Yet now she lingered here in a prison cell. Now the slaves cried out in agony, suffering under an even crueler tyrant.
"Perhaps I should have married him," Meliora whispered, eyes stinging. "Perhaps I should never have raced Ishtafel in the chariots, tried to save Elory from his clutches, led the slaves in revolt. Perhaps I should have birthed his heir, been a mother to our child of pure blood. My own mother would still be alive, and I would still be a princess,
still have my wings."
But no. That would have been only an illusion. That would have been just as much a prison cell. Meliora knew the truth now—knew that her father was Jaren the slave. Knew that she was half Vir Requis.
"I will not forget you, stars of my fathers," she whispered in the shadows. "Not for all the palaces and gold in the empire. Requiem! May our wings forever find your—"
The lock on the cell door clattered.
Meliora froze, then scuttled backward, leaped to her feet, and hissed.
The heavy stone door creaked open. Torchlight flooded the chamber, brighter than her halo, crackling and casting out sparks. Meliora winced, staring at the dark, towering figure who stood in the doorway, wings spread out, head haloed with golden light.
"Hello, sweet sister," the figure whispered, voice smooth and deadly like a steel blade, and stepped into the chamber.
Meliora sneered. "Ishtafel."
He smiled thinly and stepped closer, the heat of his torch singeing her body. While she was covered in scratches, bruises, and dried blood, clad in rags, Ishtafel looked more resplendent than ever. Rubies shone upon his gilded breastplate, the metal forged to mimic the shape of his bare torso. His hair hung down his back, lush and golden. A crown rested on his head, mimicking his halo, and a lush cape of samite hung across his shoulders.
"My, my, but aren't you a wretched sight." He tsked his tongue. "Filth does not become you, sister. You were fair once."
"And I thought you noble once," she said. "Yet I saw the filth within you. I saw the blood of Mother, the blood of Requiem upon your hands. The blood of my own wings. You stand before me in gold, but you are covered with more filth than I ever will be."
He raised an eyebrow. "And so sweet little Meliora, the princess who once could speak of nothing but puppies and cupcakes, now waxes poetic about righteousness and evil. This cell has made you a philosopher."
She shook her head. "Not this cell but truth. I am no longer that innocent princess, it is true, not because I languish in the underground but because I know who I am. I know that dragon blood flows through me."
Sudden anger twisted his face. His eyes narrowed, the golden irises blazing around his sunburst pupils. His lips peeled back, baring his teeth like a rabid wolf over meat. He lashed his hand, slashing his fingernails across her cheek. She yelped. Ishtafel pulled his hand back, examining her blood on his fingertips. He licked a drop.
"True." He smacked his lips. "I do taste the dragon filth. But I also taste the ichor of the Thirteenth Dynasty, the pure, golden blood of my own lineage. Mother is dead. No other women of our family live. And that blood must be preserved." He grinned and licked his lips, smearing her blood across them. "Now that you've had time to languish in darkness, and now that your slave friends are broken, you will come to my chamber. You will clean up. You will wear gowns again. You will feed upon the fine fare your slaves grow. You will wed me, as planned, and you will bear me an heir."
She snorted. "So you would have an heir tainted with slave blood?"
"I will not." His grin grew wider. "You will bear me a daughter, Meliora. And she will bear me a daughter too, on and on, until the dragon blood is bred out of our line. We are immortal, my dear, and we can wait. We have time. In a few generations, the dragon blood will be gone from our family, and the Thirteenth Dynasty will be pure again. I spent five hundred years battling our enemies, burning out the impurity from the world. I can spend five hundred more breeding out the impurity from my family."
"You are insane," Meliora whispered.
He shook his head. "I am a god, sister. And gods strike down their enemies." He reached out his hand to her. "But you need not suffer. I have punished you, sister. I have punished you justly, and you have suffered for your sins. But you will find me a merciful god. Return with me to the palace, wed me, grow my daughters in your womb, and you will return to your puppies, your cupcakes, your days of careless wonder. Once more, you will sleep on a bed of silk, giggle in the gardens, and enjoy a life in the splendor I have built."
She stared at him, eyes narrowed, and shook her head slightly. "I don't know who you are." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "I don't know where my brother is. Where is the brother who would run with me through the gardens, teach me to fish, teach me the names of birds? Where is the brother who pretended to drink tea from my toy cups, who taught me to spit off the balcony, who always laughed at the stupid jokes I read in my books?" She took a step back from him, and her back pressed against the wall. Her phantom wings flared—the wings he had cut off. "He is dead now."
"He is very much alive, I assure you." He reached out and took her hand. "Perhaps we both have changed. Yet one thing remains: our duty to Saraph."
She tugged her hand free. "My duty is only to Requiem. I will not become your wife, and I will not bear your heirs, and I will not return to who I was. That princess too is dead, as dead as the man you once were. I would rather choose a life of chains, true to myself, than a life of lies in a palace."
Once more rage flared across his face. His halo crackled, and his eyes blazed. "You will have no chains, sister, only a cell. Only darkness." He laughed. "We are immortals, Meliora. Enjoy the next hundred years in darkness. I will see you next century . . . and maybe then you will change your mind."
He stepped outside the chamber.
Meliora leaped toward him, shouting.
He slammed the door shut, knocking her down. She fell onto the stone floor, banging her elbows, and the door's lock clanked shut, leaving her in darkness.
She pounded at the door, screaming. "Ishtafel! Ishtafel! Wait!" She fell to her knees, and tears burned in her eyes. "I changed my mind! Let me out! Let me out . . ."
Yet he would not answer.
He would not return.
She had been in this chamber for only a few days, and it felt like an eternity. A hundred years of solitude awaited her.
Will he really leave me here for a century? When I emerge, Elory, Jaren, Vale . . . my family . . . they will be gone. And who will I be? A creature driven mad, a sniveling wreck.
"Ishtafel!" she cried, scratching again at the door until her fingernails bled. "Ishtafel!"
Nothing but silence answered her, and Meliora pressed her head against the door. Her halo of dragonfire crackled above her head, searing the stone.
I am dragonfire.
I am a daughter of Requiem.
I am free.
Meliora curled up on the floor, hugged her knees, and closed her eyes. She imagined herself as a dragon of gold and silver, feathers ruffling in the wind, gliding in the sky of her home.
TASH
She walked through the labyrinth beneath the ziggurat, holding her hookah of bubbling spice, a warrior of Requiem armed with smoke and gemstones.
Her anklets jangled with every step, the gold embedded with topaz. A ring shone on her finger, a gift from a sailor on a hot night last summer. Her only armor was her silken trousers and top, and she held her hookah before her like a sword. The green liquid inside bubbled, heated by embers in a hidden chamber, and purple smoke rose from the nozzle, dancing around Tash like demons of forgetfulness. It had been three years since Tash had danced with that demon; she had tamed it, used it as her familiar, her secret assassin.
I will fight for you, Requiem, the way I can. Fate made me a pleasurer. I will fight with pleasure instead of steel or dragonfire.
The dungeons beneath the ziggurat were deep, a place of many hidden kingdoms. Not only the pleasure pit hid here underground, but many other domains—the cisterns that stored water for the city of Shayeen, armories full of lances and shields, stores of grain and salted meats, glittering halls full of treasures . . . and the city dungeons. Here in the darkness languished the prisoners of the Thirteenth Dynasty. Here in the darkness waited hope.
"I will find you, Meliora," Tash whispered. "You don't know me, but I fight for you."
She thought back to that day in the gardens, seeing the march through the c
ity. She had sat upon the lap of a seraph, giggling at his jokes, feeding him grapes, serving the masters, and she had seen six hundred thousand slaves marching for freedom, unafraid. She had seen a leader walk before them, rise as a feathered dragon—Meliora the Merciful. The shame of that day still burned through Tash. Her people had fought, bled, many died, fighting for freedom, fighting for Meliora.
And I just watched. I just fled.
And she remembered Ishtafel clutching her, fingers still bloody, thrusting into her, mounting her, taking her like a rabid dog takes a bitch.
Someday I will kill you, Ishtafel, Tash silently swore. Perhaps you are a god of light, but I serve the stars of Requiem, and their light is soft, cold, impossible to see in the sunlight, yet stronger than you know.
She reached into her pocket with her free hand, and she felt the feather there—the feather from Meliora's wing. A token of hope.
She walked down a staircase, hookah bubbling, heading deeper underground than she'd ever gone—deeper even than the pleasure pit. She reached a craggy corridor lined with torches. Muffled screams rose from ahead, and footsteps thumped. A deep voice laughed, a whip lashed, and a scream rose again.
Tash paused and gulped. Cold sweat trickled down her back.
The dungeons.
She forced herself to take a deep breath, inhaling just a little of the lavender smoke. She would be brave. She would be brave like the great heroes of Requiem. Like Issari, the Priestess in White, who shone in the sky. Like King Benedictus who had fought the griffins. Like Queen Fidelity the Wise who had fought the cruel Templers and rededicated the halls of Requiem.
Tash was no noble heroine like them. She was not tall, not proud, not a warrior in armor, not noble. She was only a pleasurer, no better than a whore, clad in the garments of her shame. But Meliora was pure. Meliora was noble. And Meliora needed her.
Tash raised her chin and walked on.
She reached an iron door set into a stone archway—the entrance to the dungeons. Two seraph guards stood here, wearing steel armor, holding spears and shields. Their eyes cast their own light, gleaming through the holes in their helmets.
Crown of Dragonfire Page 2
