Crown of Dragonfire (10 page)

Again, Vale couldn't
help but notice Tash at his side, pressing against him, slender yet curved, her
hair against his shoulder. Yet again, he forced the thought of her away.

More chariots streamed
outside, fire raining. More seraphim cried out.

Inside the cave, the
companions huddled in silence. Meliora leaned against the back of the cave,
pale, her wounds still bandaged. Elory prayed, lips moving silently.

"We wait until
darkness," Vale said. "When night falls again, we move out. Meliora and Elory
to find the Keymaker. Tash and I to find the Chest of Plenty."

If they truly exist,
he thought. Perhaps both were merely old legends. But Vale had to believe, for
if those were mere legends, then what hope was there for Requiem to be real?
And Requiem was real, had to be real, even after five hundred years of
servitude. That land had to exist, far in the north beyond desert, sea, and
forest, or there was no hope at all, and he might as well burn in the fires.

"We will find them,"
Meliora whispered, sweat on her brow, her cheeks gaunt. "We will bring back
hope."

Vale nodded, reached
out, and took her hand in his. "We will see Requiem again. We will find her
sky."

"But not before we
sleep." Meliora closed her eyes.

They were wounded and
weak, but most of all weary. They lay down together in the cave; it was just
large enough if they lay pressed together. As soon as Vale closed his eyes, he
fell into a deep slumber, and he dreamed of whips, bricks, and endless fire.

 
 
ISHTAFEL

He stood on the boardwalk,
facing the three trembling soldiers—three traitors to the realm.

"Now then," Ishtafel
said, pacing before them. "I heard you found some lovely jewels last night,
didn't you? Oh, I am rather fond of the art of jewelry making. I possess many
fine jewels myself. I own the Horn of Fidelium, did you know? Encrusted with
the finest sapphires from the Arctic."

The guards hung before
him from wooden levers, chained and dripping blood, their breath sawing at
their lungs. These cedar beams were normally used to haul crates from the
boats; they could quite easily bear the weight of three seraphim . . . three
who would soon be much lighter.

"Forgive us, my lord,"
said one soldier. Blood dripped from his mouth, and his voice lisped between
his shattered teeth. "We didn't know it was her, my lord. We—"

"Please!" Ishtafel
raised his hand. "I understand! No need to beg. A stranger flowed by on the
river. On a night when the city was searching for escaped prisoners, and the
skies were lit with flaming chariots, it could have been anyone! And after all,
the sailors tossed you such beautiful pieces of art."

Ishtafel examined the
jewels in his hand, seized from these soldiers. Two anklets of silver, worked with
topaz. A bracelet of impure gold inlaid with tiger's eyes. The jewels of a
pleasurer, given to her by her seraphim lovers.
Her
jewels, the
brown-haired little harlot he had claimed underground. The one who had fled
with Meliora.

"My lord," rasped
another soldier, hanging from the beam on chains. "Forgive us, my lord. Send us
out to hunt them! We will scour the land, we—"

"You will scour the
land?" Ishtafel
tsk
ed his tongue. "But my friend! You saw the escaped
prisoners here on this very river. They sailed right by you! And you accepted
their bribe. You let them sail on." Ishtafel tilted his head. "Perhaps you too
are traitors to my crown?"

The soldiers began to
beg, to pray, to praise him. They jangled on their chains, blood dripping.
Ishtafel walked across the boardwalk, turning winches, moving the beams to
dangle the prisoners over the water—just a foot away from the boardwalk. As
their blood splashed into the river, the crocodiles within—massive,
black-skinned beasts, twice the size of the crocodiles of the northern
swamps—reared from the water. The beasts splashed, snapping their jaws,
desperate for a meal.

"Please, my lord!" one
soldier begged. "Forgive us!"

Ishtafel smiled thinly.
"I am the King of Saraph. I am strong. I am proud. I am wise. They call my
sister 'Meliora the Merciful.' That is not a quality to boast of."

He drew his sword and
approached one soldier.

The man begged,
screaming before Ishtafel even touched him.

The blade lashed. Blood
sprayed. Half the man's foot splashed down into the water.

As the dangling soldier
screamed, blood gushing, the crocodiles below thrashed in the water. One caught
the morsel and swallowed, and the others snapped their jaws at the dripping
blood.

"Oh, they are getting
hungry!" Ishtafel said. "Look at my lovely pets." He sighed. "Poetic justice, isn't
it? That the river where you suffered your shame should now feed upon your blood?"

He approached a second
dangling soldier. The man pleaded, tears on his cheeks.

"Please, my lord!
Please. My wife is pregnant, my lord. I only wanted a bauble for her, I only—"

Ishtafel swung his
blade again. The man's toes fell into the water, and the crocodiles grabbed
them.

Ishtafel kept moving
between the soldiers. Slowly. Savoring the hot day, the scent of blood, the
fervor of his river pets. He sliced the meal bit by bit—easier for the
digestion—until the men no longer screamed. He slashed up what remained,
letting the last morsels fall into the river, then spread his wings and took
flight.

He soared higher and
higher, the wind shrieking around him, rising until the air chilled and his
head felt light. He could see for miles from here. South of the river spread Shayeen,
glorious in the sunlight, its temples and palaces forming a tapestry, the
ziggurat a jewel in its center. North of the water sprawled that wretched,
filthy land of Tofet. Even from so far away, he could see the miserable slaves
toiling, mere ants from up here.

"You escaped me,
Meliora," Ishtafel whispered. "You and three other vermin slaves. Your people
will pay for your sin. The river will run red with the blood of Requiem." A
smile stretched across his lips. "I've only whetted your appetite, my dearest river
pets. You will feed more. The elderly, the weak, the useless slaves who cannot
meet their quotas . . . they shall fill your bellies, my lovelies."

He stared beyond the
walls. The river spread into the distance between smoldering lands. She was out
there somewhere—burnt in a field, drowned in the water, or still running.
Thousands of chariots were streaming over the landscape, flying across the
horizons, covering the sky with fire.

"Wherever you are,
sweet sister, I will find you." Ishtafel licked his lips, remembering the taste
of Meliora's blood. "I will bring you home."

 
 
MELIORA

As the sun set, the four
escaped slaves stepped out of the cave into a ravaged landscape.

When first entering the
wilderness, this mythical world beyond the walls, Meliora had thought it
beautiful—a land full of animals, plants, clear skies, and wonderful
landscapes. For once, her fairy-tale dreams from childhood had seemed true—the
world was truly full of wonder and magic.

Yet now, after a night
of fire, the landscape lay in desolation.

Scattered fires still
burned in the darkness, the last bushes and trees crackling. In their light,
Meliora could make out lumps along the riverbanks—dead crocodiles,
hippopotamuses, and other animals of the Te'ephim River. The flowers were gone.
No more birds sang, and no more wonder filled the world. Ishtafel's chariots
had come, burned, and flown on, seeking her. She knew that they would never
stop—not until they found her . . . or until she found the Keymaker and freed
the dragons of Requiem.

I will free them,
Meliora
vowed, fists shaking at her sides.
And then the empire will truly burn.

Elory came to stand at
her side, and the scattered fires reflected in her brown eyes. "Are you ready,
Meliora?" Elory gently touched her fingertips. "You're still wounded."

Meliora winced, just
the touch of Elory's fingers stabbing her with pain. Her wings had been gone
for perhaps a fortnight now but still ached; she could still feel them on her
back, twitching, apparitions that perhaps would always haunt her. The new wound
on her thigh, the lash of a seraph's spear over the river, blazed with more
immediate pain. She felt lightheaded, her brow hot. Perhaps she was feverish.
She could not remember the last time she'd had a proper meal, only a little gruel
yesterday. She craved nothing more than to lie down in the cave and sleep some
more.

"I'm ready," Meliora
said. "My wounds are but a trifle compared to the pain inflicted upon those in
Tofet. We march on. We have no boat but we have our feet." She smiled thinly at
Elory. "We'll find the Keymaker. He'll fix the key."

Elory looked up at
Meliora, no taller than her shoulder, weakened by years under the yoke, but her
eyes shone with strength. "We'll find him together."

Vale and Tash emerged
from the cave and joined them, both wrapped in their burlap cloaks. A tall man,
young yet already haggard, his head shaved, his cheeks gaunt and his eyes
simmering with endless rage. A young woman, her body softer, her hair long and
brown, the fineries of the palace washing off her, as surely as they had washed
off Meliora. Tash's hair no longer shone with scented oils, and perfume no
longer sweetened her skin, and her only remaining jewels were her ring—its top
engraved with a forged sigil—and the diamond in her navel.

"The time has come to
say farewell," Vale said, and for once, his voice was soft, a voice like a
flowing river more than a jagged stone. "Tash and I travel east to find the
Chest of Plenty."

Meliora nodded. "And
Elory and I travel west to find the Keymaker on the mountain. Let us meet back
here in this cave, though I don't know how long our quests will take."

And I don't know how
long the Vir Requis can still survive under Ishtafel's whip,
she added
silently.

She stepped closer to
Vale, hesitated, then embraced him. At first he stood stiffly, but then he
wrapped his arms around Meliora and held her in the darkness.

"I only just found you,
my brother, and now I must leave you." She touched his cheek. "Sometimes I almost
doubt that it's real. That you're real. That I have a brother who's kind and
noble. A brother who saved my life in the river. Who fights with me for
Requiem. I love you, Vale."

His embrace was warm. "And
I love you, Meliora. I always have. All my life, my father told Elory and me
stories of you, of our princess sister the seraph. Finally meeting you has been
the best thing in my life. I know we'll see each other again soon. We will fly
together as dragons, sister."

Meliora embraced Tash next,
holding her close, and Elory hugged her brother and shed a tear. And then they
were parted. Then they were torn apart in the darkness. Then Meliora was
walking into the shadows, leaving Tash and Vale—the two souls who had saved
her life, one after the other—in a world of darkness and fire.

She looked up at the
sky, and though Meliora could not see the stars of Requiem from so far south,
she prayed to them.

Please, stars of my
father. Grant them safety. Grant safety to all of your children. Let me see
Vale and Tash again. Let me fly with them and with all our people in the sky of
Requiem.

 
 
VALE

"Are you sure you know where
we're going?" Vale squinted, staring around him, struggling to see in the
darkness. "I can barely see a thing, and your map is barely more than
scribbles."

Tash placed her hands
on her hips and glowered at him. "It's more than scribbles. It's a fine work of
cartography. I do not draw scribbles, Vale. We just have to keep the Te'ephim River
to our right, and it'll lead us to the sea. All rivers lead to the sea, you
know."

Vale had not known
that. He knew how to mix clay, bitumen, and straw, forming bricks for homes and
granaries. He knew how to swing a pickaxe, carving out large stones for
statues, columns, and temples. He knew how to endure hours of thirst and
hunger, how to suffer the whip without falling, how to heal the wounds of whips
across his family's backs. What did he know of geography, cartography, of
anything in this world beyond the walls of Tofet—a world he had once thought a
mere myth?

"I can't see the river,"
he said.

"I can." Tash pointed. "Do
you see those glimmers in the distance? That's the moon reflecting on the
water. And look, up there." She pointed skyward. "See that bright star? That's
Kloriana's Star, holy among the seraphim, and it always shines in the east. We're
going the right way."

Vale stared at her. In
the darkness, Tash was merely a shadow, black on black. Aside from the
moonlight on her hair, he might not have seen her. And yet he could smell her.
Even after a night and day of flight, Tash did not smell like most slaves, the
smell of sweat, blood, burnt flesh. She had a faint scent of jasmine, hintan, a
touch of lavender, perhaps lingering remnants of the perfumes she had worn in
the pleasure pits.

It would have been dark
in the pleasure pits too, Vale thought. And Tash would be naked, perfumed,
delighting men with her talents.

In the darkness, he
felt his cheeks heat up again. He did not like these feelings. The old tales of
Requiem were full of stories of lovers: the great King Aeternum and Queen
Laira, founders of Requiem; the tragic story of Benedictus and Lacrimosa, torn
apart by Requiem's great wars against the griffins, whose love lit the world;
the tales of King Elethor and Queen Lyana who had fought the phoenixes and
rebuilt Requiem from ruin; and poems of Tilla and Rune, lovers on opposite
sides of Requiem's civil war. Those old stories were full of romance, but this
had always seemed a mythical concept to Vale. In his twenty-one years, he had never
spared a thought for love. What would he know of such things? No more than he
knew about maps.