Crown of Dragonfire (4 page)

The other guard's eyes
widened. "Why don't we get a gift?"

Erish groaned. "Because
we're only gate guards, that's why. Lowest on the totem, as always. Cell guards
always get all the perks."

"Sorry, boys." Tash
reached up to pat their helmets, one guard at a time. "Maybe you'll get lucky
next hunting trip you guard."

They grumbled, but they
pulled the iron door open, revealing a corridor lined with prison cells. Tash
sauntered through, carrying her hookah. The door shut behind her, sealing her
in the palace dungeons.

Most prisoners in the
empire were executed—sometimes inside the bronze bull, sometimes by a simple
beheading, sometimes crucified on the hills or nailed to the ziggurat's crest.
Here, underground, languished the greatest enemies of the Thirteenth Dynasty,
those not allowed the mercy of death. Rebels. Traitors. Immortal seraphim
doomed to languish in the darkness, lingering for eternity in their cells,
driven mad—some had been mad for centuries. The doors were heavy stone; they
looked less like the doors of a prison, more like the doors of tombs. Screams
rolled through the hall, muffled, a sound like ghosts. Here rotted the living
dead.

"Where are you,
Meliora?" Tash whispered.

A third guard stood
here, keys jangling from his belt. The brute spun toward her. Most seraphim
were noble, beautiful beings, their bodies chiseled, their faces fair. This man
was an exception; years of servitude underground had left him pale, and his
hair was such a fine blond it was nearly white. His back was stooped, his gut
large. Seraphim were children of the sun; in darkness they withered.

"What—" the guard
began, then bit his tongue. His eyes traveled down and up again, taking in Tash's
body like a thirsty lion laps up water.

She smiled and
curtsied. "Good day, sir! I am Tash of the pleasure pit. My lord, King Ishtafel
the Glorious, Great in Graces, has sent me here as a gift to you. He knows that
you guard Meliora, his sister . . ." She made sure to note which cell the guard's
eyes flicked toward. ". . . and he has commanded me to come here bearing gifts."

The guard frowned, his
shelf of a brow pushing low over small, far-set eyes. "What gifts?"

Tash placed down her
hookah between them. Heated by the embers, the spice bubbled, filling the
corridor with its intoxicating, spicy-sweet scent. "This gift." Maintaining eye
contact, she doffed her top and trousers, letting them fall to the floor,
exposing her nakedness. "And this."

The guard's eyes
widened. Saliva dribbled down his chin. He reached out to her breast.

Tash slapped his hand
away with a gasp, all coy indignation. "Not yet, sir!" She smiled coquettishly.
"Enjoy some spice with me first."

"But—"

"Listen to your
pleasurer!" She stepped closer, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered into his
ear. "Let me do my work. Just follow my every command, sir, and I promise you a
night you will never forget. You will soon scream with pleasure louder than
these prisoners scream in pain."

His sunburst pupils dilated,
and his breathing grew heavy. "I . . . spice?"

Tash nodded, letting
her lips touch his ear. "Hintan. The Treasure of the Desert. The Green Spirit.
Have you never tried the spice, my lord?" She held up the hookah's nozzle. "Try
it, my lord! Breathe deeply. Let its magic fill you."

He hesitated, then took
the nozzle and gently puffed. At once he coughed, scattering purple smoke. "It's
. . . sweet. And burning."

Tash took the nozzle
from him. "Let me show you."

Smiling at him, never
removing her eyes from his, she placed her lips around the nozzle. She breathed
in but did not inhale. This spice inside the hookah was no ordinary hintan, not
the kind even the most decadent of pleasurers smoked. Here was the distilled
essence of the spice, purified again and again, powerful enough to knock out
dragons. Tash breathed out, not letting any of the smoke fill her lungs. Even
so, her head spun, and her fear faded under waves of joy—perhaps a good thing
now.

The guard took the
nozzle, and this time he breathed deeply.

"Inhale," Tash said. "Fill
your lungs. It'll make the pleasure even greater."

He inhaled and his
pupils dilated further. A thin smile spread across his lips, and his eyes
rolled back. "It's . . . sweet. It's . . ."

Tash placed a hand on
his chest. The guard collapsed and hit the ground with a clatter of keys.

She cringed.
Shh!

Tash glanced behind her
at the iron door that led into the dungeon, but it remained shut. The guards
outside had not heard their friend collapse, it seemed, but Tash's heart beat
so madly she thought they must hear it pounding. Trying to steady her trembling
fingers, she pulled her clothes back on, then grabbed the guard's belt and
tugged it off.

"I bet you wish I were
doing this under different circumstances," she whispered.

She unslung the keys
off his belt. The guard lay on his back, drooling, chest rising and falling in
his stupor.

"Gimosh!" cried a voice
outside the iron door.

Tash froze and grabbed
the fallen guard's spear.

"Gimosh!" the voice
repeated. "You remember where to stick it, don't you?" The guards outside
laughed.

Tash grumbled. She
prayed the brutes outside didn't enter for a glimpse of the show—a show now
cancelled. She rushed toward one of the stone cell doors—the door the fallen
guard had glanced at when Tash had said "Meliora."

Clutching the spear in
one hand, she placed a key into the lock . . . and turned it.

The lock clacked,
spilling rust.

Tash inhaled deeply,
pressed her shoulder against the stone door, and pushed. The door creaked open,
maddeningly loud. Tash cursed and let out a moan, feigning mad pleasure, hiding
the sound of the creaking door; the hoots from outside the dungeon further
masked the sound.

Finally the door had
opened, revealing nothing but shadows.

"Meliora?" Tash whispered.
She tiptoed into the cell. "Lady Meliora? I'm here to rescue you. I—"

A scream blasted her.

A wretched, pale
creature leaped forth, lashing curling fingernails that must have grown two
feet long.

Tash yelped and jumped
back.

The creature hissed,
its teeth gone. Only thin strands of hair grew from its scalp, and its skin
clung to bones, nearly no fat or muscle on its body. Wretched wings grew from
the beast's back, a few scattered feathers still clinging to them. Its one eye
was gone, and the other blazed with hatred, the pupil shaped like a sun.

Tash thrust her spear,
goading it back. She cried out, "Gimosh! Yes, Gimosh!"

Please don't let the
guards outside hear.

The creature inside
squealed, and Tash's spear lashed against its arm. With a wail, it retreated
back into the cell. Tash grabbed the door and began to pull it shut.

She paused.

Her eyes dampened.

She thrust her spear
through the doorway with all her strength, digging her heels into the floor,
impaling the poor creature's heart. The seraph—or at least, the creature that
had once been a seraph—let out a gasp . . . a sound almost thankful. It
collapsed to the floor.

Tash spun away from the
cell, spear in one hand, keys in the other. She gazed across the hall.

"Gimosh!" rose the voice
of a guard outside the dungeon. "Gimosh, care to share her?"

Tash cursed. "Let him
have his fun first!" she shouted at the door. "You can be next."

She moved across the
craggy corridor, gazing at the cells. Twenty or more lined the walls, and each
could contain another wretched, rotting creature. Which one did Meliora
languish behind? Tash dared not call out the princess's name.

Orange light caught her
eye.

Tash spun toward a
cell. The light rose around the doorframe.

The light of
dragonfire.

The light of
Requiem,
Tash thought.

More than anyone in the
palace—more even than the mightiest lords and ladies—the pleasurers were the
mistresses of information. Every man who visited her den spoke his secrets, and
Tash knew that upon Meliora's head no longer shone a halo of golden light.
Meliora the Merciful was now crowned with dragonfire.

Tash stepped toward the
cell, placed her key into the lock, and pushed open the door.

Meliora stared back at
her.

Many times in her life,
walking through the palace to visit this or that lord, Tash had seen Meliora
from a distance—a tall, beautiful seraph, her wings pure white, her halo
golden, her skin fair and her eyes shining, her body shimmering with jewels.
Ahead of her now stood a woman Tash barely recognized. Meliora's hair, wings, and
jewels were gone, and dried blood and dirt stained her body. She wore only
burnt rags. Yet her eyes were still strong, fiery with life—seraph eyes. Upon
her head crackled a new halo, woven of red and orange flame.

"Tash," she whispered.

Tash's eyes widened. "You
know my name, my lady?"

Meliora nodded. "I've
seen you wander the palace. I know about the . . . pleasure pit. I've often—"

The lock on the iron
door—the one leading into the corridor of cells—rattled.

"Gimosh! Gimosh, you
done in there?" rose the voice of the guards.

Tash hissed. "We're
about to have company." She shoved her spear into Meliora's hands. "Know how to
use this?"

"Stick it into people?"
Meliora gave her a wan smile.

"That's the gist of it."
Tash knelt and lifted her hookah; the liquid spice still bubbled within over
its embers.

The iron door creaked
open, and the two guards stepped into the dungeon.

Tash ran toward them
and lobbed her hookah across the corridor. The glass vessel shattered against
one guard, spilling boiling liquid. The seraph screamed, his wings caught
flame, and he fell.

Meliora raced forward
and tossed her spear. The projectile flew across the hall and its blade slammed
into a guard's thigh. The man cried out and fell. Eyes narrowed, lips tight,
Meliora ran closer, knelt, and lifted the fallen spear.

The guard raised his
own lance.

Meliora knocked it
aside and thrust her spear with a cry. The blade crashed into the guard's neck
and emerged from the other side.

The burnt guard on the
floor began to rise. Meliora spun toward him and drove her spear down, impaling
the seraph. He gave a last gasp, then fell limp.

"Bloody stars," Tash
whispered, staring at Meliora. Where was the innocent, soft-cheeked princess
she had known? Before her she saw a killer, the blood of her enemies staining
her arms.

"Come," Meliora said. "We
must hurry."

"Wait." Tears filled
Tash's eyes to remember the poor creature she had seen in the cell. "One more
minute."

Tash raced along the corridor,
opening cell by cell, revealing the poor wretches within. Some cowered in the
corner, blinded by the torchlight. Others squealed, hissed, screamed. A few
wept and begged. Only one began to crawl out of the cell, a pathetic being,
thinned down to bones.

"We need to help them,"
Meliora whispered, staring at the miserable creatures. She shuddered. "I . . .
I almost became one of them."

Tash lowered her head. "We'll
never make it out alive dragging them with us. We opened a door to their
freedom. That's all we can do now, unless we choose to kill them. Their fate is
in the hands of the gods now. Perhaps they still remember what they once were,
and they will make their own way to freedom through the dark labyrinth that
awaits us and them." She knelt, took a dagger from a dead guard, placed it into
her belt, then took Meliora's hand. "Come, my lady. Now we will flee. Quickly
now."

They ran out of the
dungeon, entering the long, coiling burrows that snaked beneath the ziggurat.
As they passed by a shadowy corner, Tash reached down, pulled loose a brick
near the floor, and retrieved a cloak from within. The underground was full of
such hidden alcoves and passages, the secrets known only to the pleasurers,
those who made it their trade to please men . . . and to know everything that
transpired in the palace. Tash handed the garment to Meliora.

"Here, my lady. A cloak
and hood."

Meliora donned the
garment and pulled the hood low over her head. The wool seemed to douse her
crackling halo; smoke draped across Meliora's brow as the fires extinguished.
To the world, she now appeared as nothing but another slave. She snapped the
spear in two across her knee, discarded the bottom half, and hid the business
end under her cloak.

The two kept walking
together—a tall woman hidden in a cloak, and a slender young pleasurer all in
silk and jewels. They made their way through the darkness, seeking the light.

 
 
MELIORA

They climbed the stairs,
leaving the underground, and stepped back into the light of the world.

They stood in a small,
cobbled courtyard in the shadow of the ziggurat. A path led to a narrow road
into the city. In the distance, Meliora could see the obelisks, temples, and
palm trees of Shayeen. She paused for just a few heartbeats, breathing deeply,
savoring the touch of air on her skin, the sunlight upon her face. She had not
thought she would ever feel fresh air and sunlight again.

She turned toward Tash.
The young slave stood nearly a foot shorter, her jewels gleaming in the
sunlight. She looked like the kind of slave Meliora would have once wrinkled
her nose at—a piece of meat for the pleasures of men. Yet now Tash seemed to
her a woman wiser and braver than all the soldiers in Saraph's army.

"Thank you, Tash," she
whispered. "Will you return to the pleasure pits now? If you want, I'll take
you with me."

"Where do you go?" Tash
asked.