Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (28 page)

 
 
MELIORA

In the darkness of night,
two hours before the cruel sun would emerge, the slaves of Tofet rose.

In the shadows of a
foreign land, countless miles away from their fallen home, the children of
Requiem lit their lights.

For thousands of nights
like this, they had arisen in the dark, chained and collared, lifting pickaxes,
yokes, buckets, shovels. For thousands of nights like this, they would toil in
the shadows until the cruel sun rose, crying out to stars they could not see.

This night they left
their tools behind.

This night they raised
candles.

This night they did not
hobble forth as slaves. This night they marched as Vir Requis.

Through the darkness,
the lights streamed forth, a river of stars upon the barren land. Through the
darkness, six hundred thousand souls flowed. Through the darkness they brought
light.

They flowed out from
the huts of Tofet, but they did not move toward the bitumen pits, the quarries,
the refineries, the fields of shattered bones where bricks baked in kilns. They
did not kneel before their masters. They walked toward the city, a single
column. They walked following a new leader, a beacon of their own.

At the head of the
column, she walked. A tall woman, her body bruised and cut. A woman with ragged
wings, half their feathers burnt and gone. A woman with the golden eyes of a
seraph that shone with the light of Requiem. She no longer wore priceless gowns
inlaid with jewels; only a burlap shift covered her body. No longer did blond
hair flow from her head; she had shaved it down to stubble. No longer did she
wear anklets of platinum and diamonds; iron shackles now bound her legs.

Only days ago, I was
a seraph—a princess of seraphim.
Meliora walked, chin raised, leading her
people.
Now I am a slave. Now I am stronger than I ever was.

The Te'ephim River flowed
before her. For so many years, this river had divided the fair city of Shayeen from
Tofet. For so many years, this river had been as a curtain, shielding Meliora
from the truth in the north, the horror and shame of her empire. Across the
bridge they rose: the walls, temples, obelisks, statues, and palace of Shayeen.

Today I cross the
river again. Today I return to my old home with my new people.

She looked behind, away
from the city of platinum, and she saw those people.

They were not tall or
fair as seraphim. They did not wear gold and muslin and jewels. Their wings
could not grow, and their backs were striped, their legs hobbled. But looking at
them, Meliora saw true nobility. Her sister walked a few paces behind her, her
frame frail but her head held high, her eyes bright. Beside Elory walked her
brother, Vale, scarred, his chains clattering, yet nobler than any golden warrior
from the fortresses of Saraph. With them walked Jaren, healer, priest of
Requiem, his cheeks gaunt and his beard long—a father to them, a father to all
Vir Requis.

And behind Meliora's
family walked the multitude: a nation that flowed across the miles. An ancient
people. An ancient song. People who had fought endless wars, endless tyrants,
who had risen from ruin time and again, who had survived as all other nations
fell, who still shone bright, even now, even in chains.

"Requiem,"
Meliora whispered.

She turned back toward
the city, and she raised her candle high. She walked ahead of the column,
leading her people, until they reached the bridge that spanned the river.

And here, upon the
bridge between slaves and sovereigns, their enemy waited.

The seraphim flew down
from above, an angelic host, wings tipped with dawn. Their spears shone like
their haloes, and their shields were disks like many suns. Hundreds or more
descended toward the people of Requiem, golden gods, so mighty and fair that
even in a host of so many souls, even led in rebellion, some of the Vir Requis
knelt and prayed to their masters.

But Meliora did not
kneel. Nor did her family. She stood facing the seraphim who landed on the
bridge. She bore no scepter of royalty, but she held an old wooden staff, the
roots on its tip shaped as a dragon's head, and she raised it before her.

"Halt, children of
Saraph!" she called, and her voice—which she had always thought too high,
too fair, the voice of a child—boomed across the land. "Lay down your
spears, and let me pass! I am Meliora of the Thirteenth Dynasty, daughter of
Queen Kalafi. I am Meliora Aeternum, daughter of Requiem. Lay down your blades
and let us pass, or the light of Requiem will sear you."

The seraphim jeered.
Their voices rose together, mocking, shouting of weredragons to crush, of
miserable slaves to be grinded into the dust. They covered the bridge, a shield
of gold and light, spears raised, faces twisted in disdain. On the northern bank,
the edge of Tofet, the children of Requiem stood still, staring, silent.

"Stand
aside!" Meliora called. "Stand back from me, seraphim, for I am still
your mistress. My hair is gone, as are my gowns, as is my innocence, as is my
softness, as is my mercy to any who stand in Requiem's way. The stars of
Requiem rise in the north! Stand back or their light will burn you."

The seraphim's jeers
rose louder, and one among them stepped forth. She was a tall seraph, her eyes
cruel, her grin twisted, and her golden hair fluttered in the wind. She carried
a flaming whip in one hand, a chain in the other. A cut ran across her face,
still fresh—the cut of a dragon's claw.

Shani
, Meliora
knew. The cruel overseer who had whipped Elory so many times, who had held Vale's
chain.

"I know you, Shani
of House Caraf!" Meliora said. "I order you to kneel before me. Kneel
for I am your mistress, and I will allow you to live."

Yet Shani did not
kneel. The seraph beat her wings, soared into the air, they plunged down to land
before Meliora. The overseer snickered, her crooked smile twisting her scar,
and spat on Meliora.

"I do not kneel
before reptiles." Shani hefted the chain she bore. "I know who you
are, Meliora the weredragon. This chain bound your brother. Now it will shatter
your bones."

Slowly, staring at the
seraph, Meliora wiped the spit off her face. "I will give you one more
chance, Shani the Overseer. Kneel now before your mistress, or—"

Shani snorted. "I
serve only Ishtafel, not his half-breed, reptilian whore of a sister." She
beat her wings, rose into the air, and swung her chain. "You will kneel on
shattered legs before I let you die."

Behind Meliora, her
family cried out wordlessly. The chain swung down, each link the size of a
fist. Meliora did not step back. She raised her staff before her.

The chain slammed into
the wood, wrapped around the shaft, and locked into place.

Meliora swung her staff
like a sword, yanking Shani sideways, and slammed the seraph down onto the
earth.

"I told you that
you will kneel," Meliora said softly.

Shani leaped up,
sneering, and beat her wings. She soared toward the sky, the rising sun at her
back. With a howl, the overseer plunged down, a goddess of vengeance, swinging
her chain in one hand, her firewhip in the other.

"Die now,
reptile!"

"Meliora!"
Elory cried.

Let the light of the
stars flow through me.
Meliora looked to the sky, calling upon the light of
Requiem.
Let me rise.

As flame and chain came
down, Meliora rose.

Her wings grew longer,
feathers gilded in the sunrise. Her claws reached out, and her pearly scales
chinked, and she soared, a feathered dragon of sunlight and starlight.

Shani's chain slammed
into her shoulder, cracking scales. The seraph's firewhip drove into Meliora's
wing, cutting through feathers and burning the flesh beneath. But still the silver-and-gold
dragon soared, and her jaws opened, and she blew out her fire—a white jet,
spinning and humming, a great harp string, a column like the one Aeternum had
raised in a forest five thousand years ago.

Shani screamed.

The white flames
slammed into the seraph.

Meliora flew higher,
blasting out her flames, bathing Shani. The seraph cried out, wings beating,
burning, her feathers turning black and falling. Shani tried to emerge from
the inferno, tried to reach Meliora, to swing her weapons. But the flames kept
washing over her, stripping off her hair, melting her armor, melting her flesh.

Finally Meliora let her
flames die.

Shani fell and landed
on the riverbank, a blackened corpse, ashes fluttering off bones.

Meliora rose even
higher in the sky and spread her feathered dragon wings. The sun rose in the
east, bathing her with golden light. Her tail flailed, tipped with feathers,
and she could see the city ahead, drenched in light.

"So shall happen
to all who stand before the children of Requiem!" Meliora cried, her voice
booming across the land. "I am Meliora. I was one of you, Saraph! I served
as your princess! But now I serve a greater light. Stand aside and lay down your
blades! I come here not in war, not to conquer, not to burn. I come to show Shayeen
the plight of Requiem, to show them the chains, the scars, the horror they had
never seen. I bring Requiem into the city it built, and we will stand before
the palace whose mortar is mixed with the blood of dragons. I come with only
light, but if you do not stand aside, my fire will burn you."

She spun in the sky,
blasting fire skyward, a great column of white light, King's Column risen in
the south. Below her, the multitudes of slaves—descendants of the great
warriors of the north—raised their candles, many smaller lights adding
together to a constellation, a sky, a beacon of hope, of rededication.

"Remember
Requiem!" they chanted. "Remember Requiem!"

As the slaves sang, as
the lights burned, and as Meliora blew her flaming pillar, the seraphim took
flight off the bridge.

At first Meliora
thought they would attack, thought that she would have to fight them all, that
that they would swoop with whips and blades and slay thousands . . . but as she
watched, the light in her eyes, the overseers flew down to the riverbank,
lowered their heads, and lowered their weapons.

"Follow, children
of Requiem!" Meliora cried down to them, still hovering above as a dragon.
"We enter Shayeen. We march to Queen Kalafi. We demand our collars
removed. We demand freedom."

She flew before the
camp, blowing her fire, and the children of Requiem walked below her. They
crossed the bridge, holding their candles high, singing the old songs of
Requiem. One by one, thousand by thousand, the slaves entered the City of
Kings, and Meliora flew above them, and across the city seraphim stared but
dared not attack, for they saw a goddess of scales and white fire.

But I am no goddess,
Meliora thought as the people of Requiem walked down the boulevard between
statues of the Eight.
I'm only a girl, exiled, torn, afraid . . . but I
found new strength. In a world crumbling under lies, I found new truth. I found
a new people. I found a new family.

They marched toward the
palace, six hundred thousand strong, and their voices rose together in an old
song.

"Requiem! May our
wings forever find your sky."

 
 
KALAFI

The wound blazed.

Always it blazed.
Always the hands of the gods flared on her side, an eternal curse of their
cruelty, a holy leprosy that would never heal. Yet now, this dawn, it flared
with a new intensity Kalafi had not felt since falling from the sky three
thousand years ago.

Morning's light
streamed between the balcony's columns, red as blood. Kalafi lay in her salted
pool, wincing in pain. She had spent all night in the water—the first time
she had done so in years—and the water was cold now, too damn cold, yellowish
with her wound's discharge. She needed more heated water, more salt, she needed
her slaves here, yet her beast of a son had slain half the slaves in the palace
in his overnight rampage. And so she lingered here, shivering now, afraid.

Kalafi had not been
afraid in years.

I should have killed
her,
Kalafi thought.
I should have killed my daughter a thousand times.

What madness had driven
her to birth an impure creature, a half-breed, tainting the blood of seraphim
with the reptilian curse? Kalafi could have mated with another—with her own
son, if she were so concerned with purity of blood. Yet she had fallen to her
temptation, had allowed that reptile to place his seed inside her. Jaren had
been young only days ago, it seemed, yet now he was old, withered, a priest who
had called upon ancient gods, who had summoned down the wrath of starlight.

And I should have
killed you too, Ishtafel,
she thought. Once she had been so proud of her
son—a mighty warrior who had conquered this world, had built them a new
paradise in a land of old pain. A beautiful being, untainted with memories of
Edinnu, with old wounds that would never heal. How she had loved him! Yet the
warrior had become a beast, an animal unable to curb his instinct, a mindless
god who raped, tortured, butchered for sport, no end to his cravings, no
boundary to his appetites.

"I birthed two
monsters," Kalafi whispered.

"No, Mother. One
monster. One son stronger than you've ever been."

Kalafi spun in the
water and saw Ishtafel enter the room. She hissed.

"Leave this
place!" She covered her nakedness with her arms. "I told you to never
enter this chamber."

Yet he stepped closer
across the mosaic of fish that sprawled across the floor. His armor was
cracked, and blood and gore dripped off his hands and face. Bits of flesh
dangled between his teeth, as if he were a wolf raising his head from a
carcass.