Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (10 page)

"What do I
want?"

Ishtafel's voice was
soft. He stepped toward Elory. She felt the heat of his body. She struggled
against every instinct not to flinch, not to flee. He stood only inches away
now, and again she was struck by his size, and how small she felt before him, a
mere child. He lowered the hand that had struck her, and she saw droplets of
her blood on the palm. Gently, he tugged at the lacings on her cotton shift,
undoing them.

"Do you not know,
child?"

Again, his voice was
smooth, barely a whisper. Her shift fell to the floor, and she covered her
breasts with her hands.

"I know of such
things." She stared into his eyes; staring at them was an act of defiance.
"I know of—" She bit her lip when he raised his hand, then spoke
again. "
My lord
."

"Then come into my
bed," he said, "and pleasure me tonight, and sleep in my arms, and I
will not hurt you again. Do your duty, daughter of Tofet, and you will find a
life of wine, food better than gruel, a roof to shelter you from the sun,
perfumes and ointments to smooth and scent your skin. Grant me pleasure or I
will grant you pain." His eyes narrowed, burning with just the hint of
menace. "Now lie on the bed."

She glanced at that
bed. She swallowed. She had endured years of slaving under the sun. She had
endured countless lashes of the whip. Why was she so afraid of this?

Perhaps Elory, with her
dreams of Requiem and old heroes, had also clung to a different sort of dreams.
Dreams of romance. Of love. Dreams of someday meeting a man—even just another
slave. Of falling in love. Of living together in a home of their own—even just
a hut in the land of Tofet. A fool's dream. Those days of love had ended five
hundred years ago; Ishtafel had ended them.

Yet Elory had been raised
on stories of old lovers in Requiem: the great King Aeternum and Queen Laira,
founders of Requiem; the hero Kyrie Eleison and his beloved, the fiery Agnus
Dei; even the stories of the doomed love of King Elethor and Queen Lyana who
had led Requiem in war against the phoenixes. Elory wanted such a love for
herself. A love of passion and fire and triumph over evil. How could she debase
herself here, give her body to this murderer?

The anger grew in his
eyes. She saw that. His hand rose again, prepared to strike her, and an image
flashed through Elory's mind: the battered, strangled corpse of Mayana, a slave
who had failed to please this god of wrath. How could Elory defy him? How could
she, so weak, the collar stifling her magic, hope to resist him?

"You tremble."
Ishtafel stroked her cheek, then wrapped his hands around her wrists. He
lowered her arms, exposing her bare breasts. Elory felt her cheeks flush, felt
goose bumps rise across her.

Again she glanced at
the sword on the table. No. Even should she grab this sword, she could not hope
to overthrow this cruel empire. Even the hero Lucem, the only slave who had
ever escaped, had been unable to kill any seraphim. Perhaps only one person
could still save Requiem—only her sister. But Elory could still fight, with
words if not with the blade.

She looked at Ishtafel,
having to crane her neck back to stare into his eyes.

"My lord, I don't
know how to pleasure you. But I would learn. There are pleasure slaves in this
palace. I know that the seraphim collect fair maidens from the lands of Tofet,
take them here, and they are trained in the arts. I'm a virgin, my lord, and my
gift of virginity can be given only once. Let me give you this gift not as I
am, uneducated in the ways of the flesh." She bit her lip. "Send me
to the pleasure slaves, my lord. Let me learn from them the secrets of
pleasuring a man. Then I'll return to you, learned, experienced in their ways,
and you can claim the virginity of one who can make you cry in pleasure, not
one who is meek and afraid."

He frowned. Elory's
heart thrashed against her ribs so madly she thought it would leap onto the
floor.

Please say yes,
she thought.
I need time. Time away from this chamber. Time to find my
sister. Time to find hope.

"What makes you
think I cannot use your body to take my own pleasure?" he finally asked.

"You could conquer
me," Elory said. "You could take me roughly, and I would lie beneath
you as you groan above me. I know what sex is. I've seen it enough times in the
dust of Tofet. But you would gain only the briefest pleasure, the briefest
conquest." She kept staring into those golden eyes, though they burned
her. "But if I were to learn the true ways of pleasure, my lord, you would
find me a gift far greater than Mayana was. Let me go to the pleasure slaves,
and let me learn from them. Let me feel their lips against mine, their hands
upon my body, and let me learn how to pleasure them so that I may pleasure
you."

There. She saw
something new in his eyes. Not merely menace, not merely anger, but lust. She
had made him desire her, more than he had before. With only a few words, she
had kindled new fires inside him.

I have some power
over him. He chained me, struck me, rules over my life and my nation, yet I
have power over him.

He stared into her eyes
as if searching, seeking deceit. He was an ancient being, a god fallen to the earth,
and for a moment Elory's breath trembled, and she was sure he could read her
mind, see right past her ruse. But perhaps his lust was too great, her naked
body too alluring to those scrutinizing eyes. He nodded.

"I will have a man
lead you to the pleasure pits," he said. "You will have one week
there to learn the art from its mistresses. Then you will return here to this
chamber, and you will prove yourself useful to me, or the next pit I toss you
into will be a grave in Tofet."

Elory nodded. "I
will learn well, my lord."

She closed her eyes and
took a shaky breath of relief. She had one week—one week to learn how to love
. . . one week to find her sister.

 
 
MELIORA

On a spring dawn, Meliora left
her palace, flying in a chariot of fire to see her beloved slaves burn.

She didn't want to be
here. She wanted to leap out of the chariot, beat her wings, and fly far
away—fly to the desert and die of thirst, and let the vultures eat her flesh.
That would teach her mother. That would teach them all! If she died in the
desert, fleeing her family, they would finally realize what monsters they had
been. They would cry and cry, and Meliora would just laugh from the afterlife.

And yet she flew here
in this chariot of fire. Because Meliora had to see. She could not believe that
Mother's threats were true, that . . . that this bronze bull truly existed.
That Mother could truly be so cruel.

She's only trying to
scare me.
Meliora raised her chin and sucked in air, putting on a show of
bravery.
I'll show her that I'm not afraid of her. That I don't believe her
silly stories.

She looked around her.
In all her twenty-seven years, Meliora had never flown this far from the palace.

Several other chariots
of fire flew around her: her mother in one, her brother in another, and lords or
ladies of Saraph in a dozen more. The firehorses galloped across the sky, a
great cavalcade, their manes scattering sparks. Below, Meliora could see Shayeen,
the capital of Saraph—the City of Kings. Its eight boulevards spread out like
spokes, lined with statues of the gods. The Temple of Kloriana, the Goddess of
Wisdom, rose directly below her, columns capped with gold. Farther east, she
could see the Temple of Bee'al, god of victory and war, its towers like blades.
Soon the chariots flew over the Te'ephim River, and Meliora tried to count the
ships below but could not; hundreds were sailing here, returning from distant
lands with the sweets, spices, and perfumes she craved.

When Meliora looked
behind her, she could see the ziggurat, growing farther and farther—the only
home she had ever known. The palace soared a thousand feet high, dwarfing even
the city's temples. Two massive statues, shaped as cats with women's heads,
guarded the staircase that led to its gates. Each of the statues, depicting the
goddess La'eri, stood so tall their eyes were the size of chariots. The
ziggurat tapered into a triangular tip, covered in platinum, and upon it shone
an eye within a sunburst—the Eye of Saraph, sigil of the empire.

A prison,
Meliora thought.
No better than the huts of slaves.

She returned her eyes
to the north. The chariots were nearing the city's outer walls now, and soon,
for the first time in her life, Meliora would fly above them. For the first
time, she would leave this city. She would see the land of Tofet, the land her
slaves came from.

Meliora took a deep
breath. Tofet! So many times she had wished to fly there. To doff her painful,
squeezing sandals. To remove the damn golden necklaces and bracelets that
always clinked and got in the way. To live free. Free of her mother's incessant
brooding about the lost old days. Free of her brother, the man she was to
marry, to bear heirs for. Free of all the pressures of the palace. In Tofet,
Meliora knew, the weredragon slaves lived a humble yet joyous life. Singing in
the sun as they drew from rivers of flowing bitumen. Dancing upon grapes to
make wine. Living like birds or butterflies, beings of no wealth yet a rustic
happiness.

Meliora scoffed.
My mother
thinks she can scare me with stories of bronze bulls. I'll show her I'm not
afraid of anything.

"Are you ready,
daughter?" Queen Kalafi asked, riding in the chariot beside her.
"Ready to see your slaves burn in the bronze bull, a punishment for your
defiance?"

The queen had put on a
show, sending troops to grab Meliora's slaves from her chamber. Meliora had not
seen the pair—the dark, demure Kira and the pale, petite Talana—since last
night.

"I'll see what
I'll see," Meliora replied.

She did not believe
this theater for an instant. Oh, perhaps Mother would arrange some fake bull.
Perhaps she would even have Kira and Talana waiting there in chains, soldiers guarding
them. A show, that was all.

Mother wants me to
cry, to beg, but I won't. I'll force her to keep going, to keep performing this
theater, until she's forced to stop, forced to admit I'm brave.
She balled
her hands into fists.
I'll never marry my brother. Never. Not even if Mother
steals away every last slave in the palace.

She was going to tell
Mother that, to tell her that she'd run away if forced to marry, to scream and
cry and stamp her feet, maybe even hold her breath until she turned purple. But
before Meliora could speak another word, the cavalcade of chariots flew over
the outer walls of the city, and Meliora found herself staring at the land of
Tofet on the horizon.

Meliora lost her
breath.

The land of slaves
still lay beyond several miles of wilderness, but every heartbeat, it grew
closer. Every mile the chariots crossed, Meliora's brow creased further.
Whenever she had thought of Tofet, this land whence the palace slaves came, she
had imagined a great garden. A place of brooks bubbling through meadows, of fig
and palm and apple trees to shade resting slaves, of gleaming orbs of bitumen
that shone like jewels in carts, the miners whistling joyously as they rolled forth
the treasure. But ahead of her, Meliora saw no trees or streams, heard no
singing or birds, smelled no sweet perfume of flowers.

Ahead of her, she saw a
nightmare.

There were no jolly,
bearded miners, whistling as they wheeled carts of black gemstones. Instead,
she saw dragons—real dragons, the weredragon slaves without their collars
on—digging in a massive pit nearly the size of the entire city behind Meliora.
Meliora had only seen dragons several times in her life before, chained beasts
who hauled great stones while building temples in the city. As the dragons
below dug with claws like swords, tar gushed up from the depths, seeping across
the pit. Even from up here, still flying in the distance, Meliora could smell
the stench.

Thousands of skinny
oxen moved about the pit, yokes around their necks, hauling the bitumen in
baskets. Seraphim stood around the animals, lashing whips of fire at any who
dallied or fell. Meliora rose in her seat, inhaled sharply, and balled up her
fists. No animals should be treated so! Animals were made to be patted,
cuddled, kept in the gardens, not whipped and forced to labor in the blinding
sunlight. Meliora would speak to these seraphim below, she would—

She lost her breath.

Gods.

She stared down, eyes
burning. Her hands loosened.

Those poor, whipped
creatures below, laboring under the yokes, weren't oxen.

"They're slaves,"
Meliora whispered. "Weredragon slaves."

Countless weredragons
covered the land of Tofet below. They hauled bitumen from the pits, the sticky
tar that was used to caulk ships, form bricks and mortar, and hold together jewelry
and mosaics. They labored in rocky fields, shaping clay into bricks using
wooden molds. They dug irrigation ditches and plowed fields, no animals to help
them, the masters whipping their backs every step. And they died. Everywhere
Meliora looked, they were dying. Their corpses stank in wagons. The whole place
reeked of death, of sweat, of blood, of terror.

"No," Meliora
whispered, tears in her eyes.

How could this be? She
knew weredragons! She herself owned weredragons! In the palace, they were meek
little things, a foot or two shorter than the seraphim, slender little servants
with shaved heads and collars to keep their dragon forms at bay. Not . . . not
these filthy, beaten creatures, covered in tar and sand and blood. Not this
hive of agony.

"You grow pale,
daughter." Queen Kalafi smiled thinly, flying her chariot closer to
Meliora's. "Finally, the pampered child of the palace gets a whiff of the
world. Are you going to cry, little girl?"