Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (18 page)

"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 inside 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 the 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."

Her whip lashed again,
and Vale snarled. Shani smirked, hovering before him, so small he could have
snapped her between his jaws.

Burn her,
sounded
a voice within him.
Crush her.

"That's
right." Shani nodded. "Hate me. Try to burn me." She hefted her
shield, and below on the ground, her comrades tugged back their bowstrings.
"I want to see you try."

Vale growled, hovering
before her between the columns. He could do it. He could blow his fire. He
would take a few arrows, but his rage would drive him on, and he'd fly across
the city. He'd charge against the ziggurat himself. He'd slay all those in his
path.

As Shani smiled
wickedly, Vale noticed something for the first time. Each segment of the column
contained the piece of an engraving. As the segments piled up, they formed a
sprawling work of art, a scene coiling up the column. It depicted Ishtafel and
his many battles, his chariots slaying the giants, crushing the demons, and
finally felling dragons from the sky.

Millions of dragons
fought the chariots of fire, and we died.
Vale lowered his head.
What
chance do I have, a single dragon?

"Move!"