Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (27 page)

At noon he saw a city ahead.
No walls rose around it, and he saw obelisks capped with gold, great cathedrals
soaring to the sky, grand palaces and humbler homes. Above the roofs rose
banners, showing an eye within a sunburst—symbol of Saraph. The city spread
along the coast, sending ships into the waters. A city of seraphim.

Lucem stared, eyes damp.
"People," he whispered. "People."

No!
his wooden friend
said.
Not people. Seraphim! Seraphim aren't people.

"You're not people,
you're just a block of wood," Lucem said. "Be quiet or I'm going to
toss you into the sea."

I'll float,
said the
block of wood.
But you'll just drown trying to save me.

"Hush!" he said.
"
I
need to keep talking.
You
need to be quiet."

The block of wood glared at
him. Lucem tucked her under his sleeve and kept walking, approaching the city.
He could see more details now. Seraphim flew above upon swan wings. Bells rang
in a steeple. Two towering statues rose ahead, shaped as serpopards—felines
with necks longer than their bodies. Those necks curved and coiled around each
other, forming a gateway that led into the city.

People,
Lucem thought,
staring at the seraphim on the walls ahead.

You better hide, Lucem,
his friend spoke from under his arm.
At least until darkness.

"If you're so
afraid."

I am.

"All right then."

He stepped aside and he hid
in a grove of pines, watching the waves and the city until darkness fell. Then
he walked again, trying to ignore the thirst and hunger. In the shadows, he
slinked through the archway, and he entered the coastal city.

Hide, Lucem!

He scurried sideways,
sticking to the shadows. Seraphim still flew above, even in the night. Two
walked down the road, wings held against their bodies. Fair beings, tall,
beautiful, their hair cascading and golden. Clad in armor. Gods. People.
People.

Hiding in the shadows, Lucem
heard them talk. They remembered how to talk.

"—fine wine there
tonight, and Leishan is singing," one said.

"Your night to buy the
wine," said the other.

"It's always my turn
when the fine wine is poured, isn't it? Very well, though, we . . ."

The two seraphim walked by,
and their voices faded. Lucem emerged from the shadows, and he slinked after
them, rushing from shadow to shadow. Lanterns shone along the cobbled street,
and the walls of homes rose all around. More seraphim walked ahead, moving
toward a large, brick building with bright windows. The sound of laughter and
song rose from within, and Lucem smelled fine food and wine.

A tavern,
Lucem
thought. A place of food, of drink, of joy, of companionship. Of talking.

More seraphim approached, and
Lucem retreated into an alleyway between the tavern and a workshop. He crept
through the shadows to the back of the tavern. Warm light, the smells of wine
and roast duck, and the song of harps and conversation all leaked through the
windows. Lucem sat down, pulled his knees to his chest, and closed his eyes.

"Play for us,
Leishan!" a seraph inside cried out.

"Play for us,
Leishan," Lucem whispered.

"Pass me more duck, my
dear!" rose another voice inside the tavern.

Lucem smacked his lips.
"It's delicious. Splendid."

Inside the merriment and
feast continued, and huddling outside in the alley, eyes closed, Lucem was
there with them. Talking. Laughing. Eating and drinking. Feeling the horrible
demon of loneliness fade—if only for one evening. He stole food from the trash
bin. He drank from puddles. He feasted and drank with them—with other living
souls.

Lucem lowered his head. If he
had looked like a seraph—tall, fair, with swan wings, with golden eyes—he
could perhaps try to find work, save money, book passage on a boat. If he had
no collar, he could shift into a dragon, fly overseas, find what remained of
Requiem.

But I'm only an escaped
slave. A collared Vir Requis, my magic imprisoned inside me.

In the darkness, he left the
city.

Once more he walked across
the wilderness.

For days he travelled, and he
sang those songs, and he tasted that wine and that roasted duck, and he relived
that night over and over—the hints of life, pouring out, washing across him,
soothing his loneliness yet making it greater than ever before.

Finally, weary and famished,
he crawled back into his cave. He huddled on his bed of leaves, and he stared
up at his friends on the walls—the animals and people he had painted there.
They feasted that night, and sang songs, a little tavern of stone here by the
river. A little place of light, of comfort, of tears among the rising shadows
of madness.

 
 
MELIORA

For twenty-seven years,
Meliora had lived in a palace, sleeping in a canopy bed as soft as gosling
wings, eating from golden plates, lounging in chambers where walls were coated
with precious metals and gemstones. Tonight, for the first time, she stepped
into a true home.

The clay hut, her
family's dwelling, was small. The entire place was no larger than her bed back
in the palace. A few candles burned in alcoves in the walls, and a round window
afforded a view of several other huts. The floor was bare rock, the ceiling
rounded and shadowed. A table stood in the center of the room, topped with
bowls of gruel, and piles of straw lay on the floor—the only beds here.

Ishtafel will send
all his wrath to slay me,
Meliora thought.
Soon the might of his
chariots and soldiers will sweep through this city of huts, and he will hunt me
like a wolf hunts its prey. But right now, this night, I am at peace. Right now
I am at home.

Her family entered the
hut with her: her sister, her brother, her father.

"It's not
much," Jaren said, looking around at the bare walls. "But it's—"

"Home,"
Meliora said.

Elory smiled at Meliora
and took her hand. "Sit with us, sister. Let us eat together, and let us
pray."

They sat together on
stools around the table. Their elbows touched. Elory closed her eyes, lowered
her head, and whispered.

"As the leaves
fall upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our
column, as the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of
the woods, you are home, you are home." Elory opened her eyes, smiled, and
looked up at the shadowy ceiling. "Requiem! May our wings forever find
your sky."

The others repeated the
words, voices soft. "Requiem! May our wings forever find your sky."

As Meliora spoke the
ancient prayer with her family, she remembered her dreams of Requiem, her dreams
of flying with her kind, with a family of dragons, and now—here in
Tofet—those dreams seemed so real, memories passed down through the
generations. Even now, after so long, the memory was alive, the dream was
real—her dream, the dream of her family, the dream of countless in chains. And
it was too much, too real. Her body trembled, and her eyes dampened, and it
seemed like the weight of five hundred years of servitude pressed down on her
shoulders like a yoke.

"Meliora!"
Elory said. She leaped from her seat and embraced her. "Are you all right?
I'm so sorry. I know that this must be a bit much."

"It's
beautiful," Meliora whispered. "Thank you so much for inviting me
into your home, for sharing this prayer with me. Thank you, Elory." She
looked at the others. "Thank you, Vale. Thank you . . . Father."

The two men reached
across the tabletop and held her hands, smiling at her, their eyes kind. Queen
Kalafi and Prince Ishtafel had never gazed upon Meliora with kindness, not true
kindness; they had seen her as a pampered girl, later a womb to produce their
heir. But here, in this humble hut, was a place of more warmth, love, and
comfort than any palace.

The candles flickered
in a hot breeze through the window, and Meliora noticed, for the first time, that
stars were engraved into the clay ceiling. They formed the shape of a dragon.

"We will see those
stars again," Meliora said. "We will see Requiem in our lifetime, and
we will rebuild her halls. I promise this to you, my family. I promise."

 
 
VALE

Night had fallen, and the
land of Tofet slept, a short few hours of rest before their labor began anew.
Soon the overseers would move between the dark huts, shouting, kicking doors
open, breaking the bones of those who did not wake, slaying those who resisted.
Soon the labor of Requiem would resume, eighteen hours of toiling under yoke
and whip. Soon the cruel sunlight would blaze upon them, burning their shaved
heads, blinding their eyes that still gazed toward the lost homeland in the
north. Soon another day of agony, bloodshed, and pain would begin—another day,
another year, another generation.

But that is
tomorrow,
Vale thought, standing in the shadows between clay huts. Tonight
. . . tonight things were different. For the first time in five hundred years,
tonight hope shone.

All others slept in
their huts, but Vale would not sleep this night. Darkness and silence spread
around him, but starlight still filled his eyes, and harps still sang in his
ears, and the visions of Requiem still floated through his memories.

"I saw you,"
he whispered to the sky. "I saw you, Issari Seran, Princess of Requiem. I
saw you, King Aeternum, our greatest father. I saw you, Queen Laira, our mother
of life. I saw you, stars of Requiem, dragon of the sky."

Requiem was real.

Vale closed his eyes.

"For so long, I
doubted," he whispered. "For so long, I did not believe. I thought
that Requiem was a story, a fairy tale, a fantasy told to soothe the weary
souls of slaves. To keep us alive in this cruel land. For so long, I thought
that nothing existed in the north but more sand, not a land of fallen columns,
of birches under a good sky." He opened his eyes and looked up at the sky.
"I cannot see you from here, stars of Requiem. But I saw you. I saw
you."

In his mind, he saw
them even now—the Draco stars, shaped as a great dragon. Upon him, he still
felt her hands—the hands of Issari, one of Requiem's founders, the great
healer of light who had defeated the Demon King, who had risen to the sky and
formed the dragon's eye.

"Requiem was
real," he whispered.

A voice behind him
answered. "Requiem
is
real."

He turned around and
saw Meliora there. His half sister walked toward him through the shadows, her
halo casting its soft glow. Staring at her, it was hard to believe that Meliora
was half Vir Requis; she looked like any other seraph. Her hair was long and
golden. Her eyes were the same color, gleaming, the pupils shaped as sunbursts.
Even in human form, she sprouted wings, feathery and white. But as she approached,
Vale saw that she was unlike any other seraph he had ever seen. Other seraphim
stared with flaming, cruel eyes. Other seraphim had faces like stone statues,
heartless. Meliora's eyes were warm, her face soft, her lips smiling a
bittersweet smile.

I saw her fly as a
great dragon. And I see the dragon magic in her, even now.

"But Requiem is
fallen," he said. "Ishtafel toppled her halls five hundred years
ago."

Meliora reached him and
halted. She looked around the city of huts. "I don't know much about
Requiem. All I know is what I've read in books, seen in murals, heard in
songs—all of them created by seraphim. But I know this much, Vale." She
laid her hands on his shoulders and stared into his eyes. "Requiem is not
a
place
. Requiem is not a column of marble, not a forest, not even the
sky above us. Requiem is in our souls. Requiem is in our dreams, our hopes, our
prayers. Requiem is alive, Vale. She has always been alive—here in Tofet,
wherever our hearts beat. Requiem is not forgotten. Requiem was never
gone."

Light and hope shone in
Meliora's eyes, but Vale felt something different. The starlight lifted from
his eyes, replaced by dragonfire.

Standing here, collared
and hobbled again by his masters, Vale felt as if dragonfire once more filled
his belly. Searing. Blinding. A hot fury that burned his innards.

"If Requiem still
lives," Vale said, "let us fight. We fought them together, Meliora.
We both fought Ishtafel, and we both tasted his blood. Let the sons and
daughters of Requiem march to war. We will cast off our chains. We will
overthrow our masters. With you at the head of our column, Meliora, a daughter
of Requiem and a daughter of Saraph." Vale clenched his fists. "We
will do what our forebears could not. Defeat the seraphim."

Meliora looked up at
the dark sky. Her voice was soft, lost in memory. "Painted across the
walls and ceilings of the palace, I saw murals of countless dragons falling
before Ishtafel's chariots of fire." She placed a hand against her neck.
"I wear no collar, but you do, Vale. So do all other Vir Requis in the
empire. If we could not defeat Ishtafel with our magic, what chance do we have
without it?" She shook her head. "None. We cannot defeat Ishtafel
with strength of arms, and we have no dragonfire to blow."

Vale looked around him
at the land of Tofet. Huts of clay. Huts of misery. Gutters overflowing with night
soil. Seraphim masters patrolling the shadowy walls that surrounded this great,
outdoor prison. A land of slavery, despair.

"We cannot remain here,"
Vale said. "We cannot continue this life. Better to die in fire than live
in chains."

"We need no
fire." Meliora held his hands and stared into his eyes. "We need one
voice. A people united. Our father marched through the streets of Shayeen, and
he faced my mother, and he freed you. He spoke for Requiem, and the stars
shone, and you're here now. Healed. Saved." Meliora's eyes shone.
"Let all the slaves now march. Let every man, woman, and child of Requiem
march together—in chains, whipped, collared—toward the palace of Saraph. And
let us speak together, a great voice that the empire will hear: We will be
free."