Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (23 page)

"Call out
louder!" Ishtafel said. "Call so the vultures will hear. Ah! There
they are. Look! They've come to dine."

Gazing into the sky,
Ishtafel laughed and opened his arms, welcoming them down. The vultures circled
above once more, then swooped to feast.

 
 
MELIORA

The chanting and screaming
rose from outside, and Meliora covered her ears, wanting to silence the city,
the screams, the songs, the endless din that would not cease its roar.

Lies. Lies.

Elory's words thrummed
through her. Meliora stumbled across her chamber, fell onto her bed, covered
her head with a pillow. She wanted to silence it all. The shouts and songs of
seraphim outside, the screaming, the endless voices in her mind, the endless
memories.

Memories not her own.

Memories of ancient
lives.

Memories of dragons.

"No. No!"

She covered her ears,
shoved her face against the bed, but even if she could silence the sounds, she
could not silence her thoughts.

You are one of us,
Meliora! You can become a dragon.

"I am a
seraph!" she shouted into her bed. "I am a Princess of Saraph!"

You are a dragon.

Her fists shook.

I am the wind. I am
fire. I am dragonfire.

"Remember
Requiem!" the voices chanted outside . . . then fell silent.

Meliora rose from her
bed.

She walked back onto
her balcony.

She stared outside at
the city and cried out in horror.

Seraphim were storming
across the sky, swooping to the city, killing slaves. Blood dripped onto the
balcony, and Meliora looked up to see a slave nailed to the ziggurat above her,
moaning, barely alive. The city screamed in anguish, and the seraphim cheered,
and above the carnage flew Ishtafel, laughing, his arms spread wide.

No.

Meliora's head spun.

Gods, no.

She let out a roar,
wings spread out.

"No!"

She had not thought
herself capable of more fear, more shock. She had not thought the world could
tear any wider. Yet this seemed a storm, a shattering, a tragedy worse than
anything Meliora had experienced. She howled with her fury, howled for the
blood of Requiem, for the cruel light of Saraph, for a nation tearing apart,
and Meliora flew.

She soared through the
sky, a seraph of light, crying out her fury.

She soared toward the
sun, a dragon roaring in rage, a dragon blowing fire.

Seraphim turned toward
her, gasping, crying out in fear.

Meliora roared and
blasted her flames.

Dragonfire.

Dragonfire screamed,
spinning, crackling, gushing forth, slamming into seraphim, burning them down,
and Meliora roared, and she wept, and her heart thrashed.

I am the wind.

I am
fire.

I am
dragonfire.

She spread her wings
wide, wider than they had ever spread. She reached out her claws. Her tail
lashed and her scales clattered, and she was dreaming, had to be dreaming, this
couldn't be real, this was a dream, a dream, a lie, a dream . . .

"Requiem
rises!" the slaves cried below. "Meliora the Merciful! Meliora of
Requiem flies!"

Her tears fell, and
Meliora wheeled in the sky, back toward the ziggurat, and she saw herself
reflected in the platinum facade.

I am dragonfire.

She flew as a dragon,
long and slender, a dragon with colors of starlight and sunlight, silver tipped
with gold. Her scales were small and round like pearls, and long white feathers
grew from her wings, from her tail, along her back like a mane. A halo still
shone above her head. A great creature of light, half reptile, half bird, a
dragon like a swan, white and long, eyes golden, roaring white fire.

I am a dragon of
Requiem.

Her tears fell as
jewels, and her fire stormed forth.

It was true. She beat
her wings, a dragon in the wind. Elory was speaking truth.

"For
Requiem!" Meliora cried out, her voice deep, roaring across the sky.

And above she saw him,
swooping down, a god of light in a chariot of fire.

Her brother.

"You too will be
vulture food, dragon!" Ishtafel cried. "You too will feed the
birds!"

She growled, flying up
toward him. "You will not kill him, brother. And you will not kill me."

In his chariot of fire,
he hesitated. His eyes widened. "Meliora?"

She blew her white
fire.

He raised his shield,
and the flames engulfed it, screaming, showering around him, exploding like a
sun.

With a roar, with
showering flame, with smoke, with blood, with flaring light, dragon and chariot
slammed together.

I am dragonfire.

Meliora did not know if
this was real or a dream. She did not know how this could be, how she could be
flying as a dragon, how she could have carried the blood of Requiem within her
for so long. But she knew that she had to fight him. Had to kill him. Had to
stop her beloved, horrible brother. And so she roared, and she fought
him—fought him like the dragons of old—lashing her claws, snapping her jaws,
calling out.

"Requiem!
Requiem!" She roared out in her rage. "I won't let you hurt them,
Ishtafel. I won't let you hurt another soul. It ends now."

Her claws grabbed his
shield, trying to yank it free. Her tail lashed, slamming into his chariot. Her
wings spread out, burning, and she felt like a phoenix, like a creature woven
of living flame, of starlight and firelight.

He rose in his chariot,
burnt, his armor dented, and stared at her. Their eyes met. She saw her face
reflected in his golden eyes: the head of a white dragon, a creature risen from
myth. And she saw the shock in his eyes, the understanding, the realization.

"It
is
you,
Meliora." He shook his head in disbelief, then narrowed his eyes and
raised his lance. "Of course.
Of course.
Mother poisoning Father,
the secrets in her eyes, the weakness in your heart . . ." He sucked in
air and snarled. "Of course."

With a roar, he thrust
his lance.

The blade crashed into
Meliora's shoulder, cracked her scales, and bit into her flesh.

Ishtafel loomed above
her, leaning from his chariot of fire, driving the blade deeper.

"So you will die
with them, sweet Meliora." He grinned—a maniacal grin, showing nearly all
his teeth. "Instead of marrying you, I will smite you upon the city you
profane."

He tugged the lance
free and prepared to thrust again. Meliora screamed and blasted her fire.

Ishtafel's chariot rose
higher, its firehorses rearing, screaming like storms. Meliora flew higher,
dragonfire showering forth, claws lashing.

His chariot swooped,
and his lance slammed into her again, digging into the same wound.

Meliora roared with
pain.

Something shattered
inside her.

Her magic spilled out
like her blood, a mist of starlight.

She fell through the
sky, a seraph again, swan wings beating uselessly. She spun. She tumbled. The
chariot dived after her, Ishtafel sneering within, aiming his lance.

I am dragonfire.

She summoned the magic
again—the ancient magic of Requiem, forever a part of her, hidden but now hers
to wield. She soared, a dragon again, and slammed into him.

Her claws lashed in a
fury. Her jaws snapped. Her fire sputtered.

I have to stop him.
I have to destroy him, to . . . to kill him.
Her tears and blood mingled as
she fought.
For Elory, for poor Elory whom I banished, my sister. For the
slave nailed into the ziggurat behind me. For all the slaves across this land.
For a free people. For the Vir Requis.

She lashed her claws,
tearing into Ishtafel's breastplate, scattering the gilt, shattering the steel,
cutting his skin, shedding his blood, the ichor of Saraph, burning her paw.

He's an immortal
god, but I am a dragon of Requiem.

He shouted, rose in his
chariot, and drew a sword—a long, curved blade, a shard of sunlight.

He thrust the blade,
driving it into her chest.

Meliora screamed
silently.

Her white fire rose,
becoming a pillar of light. Her head rolled back. Her breath died.

She fell.

She fell as a dragon,
pierced with his light.

She fell as a woman,
her wings shedding feathers.

She fell as Meliora, as
a princess of seraphim, as a daughter of Requiem, as a sister. A sister.

Forgive me, Elory.
Forgive me.

Fire shone above her,
and the sun blinded her, and the roar of the crowd flowed across her. She
crashed through stone and wood and light and darkness.

 
 
JAREN

He walked through the city
of Shayeen, chains around his feet, a collar around his neck, his head held
high.

Coated in tar and dust,
his back whipped, his frame frail, he walked with squared shoulders. He carried
a staff of twisting wood, but his back was straight. He stared ahead, walking
unafraid even through the land of the masters, for even in the searing sunlight
of Saraph, he walked upon a path of starlight.

"The stars of
Requiem will guide our way, daughter," he said to Elory. "Fear not
and stray not from my side. Issari's Star shines upon us."

Elory walked at his
side, trembling, afraid, but still walking with her head held high. No chains
hobbled her feet. Several days' growth of hair covered her head, and her eyes
shone with tears. Together, side by side, father and daughter walked along the
boulevard between the statues of old gods.

"They will stop
us." Elory glanced around nervously, fists clenching and unclenching.
"They will slay us."

Jaren kept walking,
chin raised, staff tapping, chains jangling. "We walk upon starlight. They
will not stop us."

Indeed, it seemed that
barely any of the seraphim noticed them. The golden masters flew above, heading
toward the ziggurat in the distance. Other slaves bustled all around, some
chanting for Requiem upon roofs, others kneeling in the dust, others dead, seraph
arrows in their chests. Shayeen spun around them, flaring with fire, with
blood, with starlight.

Ahead, before the
ziggurat, a great, beautiful creature fell from the sky. Her scales gleamed
like pearls and gold, and her wings spread out, white as swan feathers, a being
halfway between dragon and swan. As she fell, she became a woman, a seraph with
broken wings, tumbling down and vanishing in light.

"Meliora!"
Elory said, gasping. "Meliora fell!"

Jaren kept walking,
never faltering, never removing his gaze from the ziggurat ahead. "And
Vale still lives upon the Eye."

Ahead he saw his son.
Nailed to the great engraving of the Eye of Saraph, an eye within a sunburst, a
thousand feet above the city. Barely visible from here. A speck of life.
Flickering. Dying.

My son.

Seraphim streamed above
them. Slaves roared on the streets and roofs, crying out to Meliora, to the "Princess-Slave!"
The city bustled, flooded with death and hope, and soon others joined Jaren. A
young boy, an arrow in his shoulder. A girl carrying her sister. A mother with
her babe. An old man and woman. Collared. Beaten. Cut. Slaves.

A dozen slaves marched
behind him. Then a hundred. Then a thousand marching together—ankles hobbled,
backs whipped, heads shaved. The people of Requiem.

"Kneel,
slaves!" cried a seraph, swooping toward him. He thrust his lance,
spearing a slave child.

"Turn back,
worms!" shouted another seraph and fired an arrow. The missile slammed
into a woman. She clutched her chest and fell.

Jaren kept walking. Elory
walked at his side. The thousands walked behind them.

"Kneel, slaves!
Turn back."

More arrows flew. More
spears thrust. More slaves fell.

Jaren kept walking,
staff held before him, and more slaves joined them, emerging from homes and
alleyways, forming a great throng. They wore only rags, but they carried
shields of starlight.

"Remember
Requiem!" cried one man.

"Remember
Requiem!" rose the voices across the crowd.

They walked until they
reached the base of the ziggurat, and there Jaren stopped and raised his staff.
He stared up to the building's crest. To Vale. He could barely see his son from
the distance. He did not know if Vale still lived. But he believed. He thought
he heard his son call out, his voice flowing on the wind. Calling him. Calling his
father.

Jaren held his staff
high. "Kalafi! Queen Kalafi, hear me!"

The seraphim flowed
down toward him in flaming chariots, arrows firing. Ishtafel led the charge,
roaring like a wild, rabid demon of sunfire.

Be with me, stars of
Requiem.

Jaren inhaled deeply,
raised his staff, and thought of the Draco constellation, the great dragon in
the sky, the protector of Requiem. The gods of a cruel world flew toward him,
but he worshipped an older god. A god of distant lands. A god of dragons.

Light.

Starlight flared out
from his staff, the Shield of Requiem. The fire of the seraphim blasted against
it, scattering. Their arrows flew aside. The chariots tumbled backward, and the
starlight spread out in a great dome, protecting the children of Requiem within
its glow.

"Kalafi!"
Jaren shouted, voice booming now. "Queen Kalafi, come speak to me, to
Jaren Aeternum of Requiem. Come speak or the truth of Saraph and Requiem will
spill forth like my light!"

The city seemed to
freeze. Jaren stood on the road, staring up at the ziggurat, at his dying son,
at the center of Saraph's power, at the palace where he had loved a queen,
where his daughter had been born, where a son would live or where the truth of
a daughter would roll across an empire. Everyone stared now—seraphim, slaves,
all listening, all waiting to hear his words.