Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (16 page)

 
 
JAREN

In the darkness of night, no
moon in the sky, Jaren walked through the tortured land of Tofet.

The towering limestone
walls, topped with seraphim guards. The huts of slaves. The bitumen pits where
his wife had died, where his daughter had labored. The quarries where his son
toiled every day, back almost breaking. The refineries and fields where bricks
were made, the fields where slaves struggled to raise crops from the dry
land—crops they would never eat. A land of misery, the Abyss risen onto the earth,
a prison surrounded by hosts of seraphim, an enemy they could not slay.

A land of tears,
Jaren thought.
The land where I lost my wife, where I saw my daughter
kidnapped by the demon.

He grimaced to think of
Ishtafel. In the lore of Requiem, he was a tyrant, the seraph who had destroyed
Requiem, who had slain a million of their kind, who had taken myriads here to
slavery. In the lore of Saraph, he was a hero, the noble and handsome warrior
who had conquered the world.

"And to you, my
beloved Kalafi . . . he is a son."

As he walked through
the darkness, Jaren lowered his head. All his life, he had tried to give hope
to the children of Requiem, to cling to that hope, to cling to morality, to
decency, to joy—even here, even in chains. Yet that day . . . that day long
ago, he had shamed his people. That shame still lived inside him, even now.

I loved you, Kalafi,
and I will always hate myself for it.

Jaren kept walking, and
finally he saw the bridge ahead, spanning the Te'ephim River. The edge of
Tofet. Beyond that arching stone bridge it lay—Shayeen, the City of Kings. The
place where their bricks, bitumen, all their labor went. The great wonder of
the world. The place that was now forbidden to him. The place where he had
first met her—the first woman he had loved.

He glanced toward the
sky. By the position of the stars, it was midnight, a week before the summer
solstice. Just another night, not a festival to any god or hero. A forgotten
night in the calendar. The same night he came here every year.

It was time.

Chains clanking, he
stepped onto the bridge and walked, the water flowing below him. The bridge was
wide enough to let twenty men walk abreast, built of sturdy stone. At its far
side stood walls and towers and seraphim upon them, but Jaren would not walk
that far, perhaps never again. When he reached the center of the bridge, he
paused.

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?