Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (19 page)

Shani whipped him
again, cracking another scale. Grimacing, Vale flew down to lift another
stone—this segment showed an engraving of Ishtafel lancing a beastly dragon.
Vale's claws, wings, and legs all ached, just as much as he had ached as a man
toiling in the quarry. Another bite of the whip had him flying higher, carrying
the stone.

But as Ishtafel is
hero to Saraph, so does Requiem have a hero,
he thought, placing the stone
down atop the column.

One among them had
escaped.

Ten years ago, he had
risen—a hero named Lucem, a young Vir Requis, a maker of mortar. He had scaled
the wall surrounding Tofet. He had fled to freedom. He had given hope to a
nation in chains.

Only one in five
hundred years . . . one that proved it could be done.

Vale took a deep
breath, staring at the ziggurat in the distance.

If Lucem fled, so
can I. So can Elory. I will do this. I will fly to her.
He looked back at
Shani.
I will burn this seraph, burn them all, and fly. Fly as fast as I can.
And if I die above the city, I will die in fire. I will die free.

"Faster!" Shani
cried, hovering before him, her swan wings spread wide. "Down, worm. More
stones. Go!"

Her whip lashed,
slamming against his cheek, cracking the small scales that grew there. His
blood dripped.

Burn her.

Vale took a deep
breath, prepared to blow his dragonfire.

Horns.

Horns blared across the
city, a magnificent fanfare.

Hovering above the
columns, Vale turned toward the sound, and saw the ziggurat bathed in light.
Fire blazed as two chariots emerged from archways on its crest like bees
leaving a hive.

Dragon eyes were sharp,
and even from this distance, Vale saw the banner fluttering from the chariots.
An eye within a sunburst. The Eye of Saraph. Sigil of the Thirteenth Dynasty.

Ishtafel's chariot.

Vale swallowed his
fire, forgetting about Shani, saving his flames for another foe.

There is my true
enemy.

 
 
MELIORA

At high noon, the lords and
ladies of Saraph emerged from the ziggurat to drink wine, watch the chariots
race, and see a life destroyed.

On a balcony high upon
the ziggurat, Meliora stood in her chariot of fire, forcing herself to take
deep, shuddering breaths. She clutched the reins so hard they dug into her
palms. Her gilded breastplate felt too tight—she had never worn one
before—and her shield was too heavy. A spear stood at her side, ready to grip,
a weapon she had never wielded.

A life ends today,
she thought, gazing at the city below.
If I lose this race, my brother will
claim Elory, fulfill his desires, then when he's grown weary of her, crush and
discard her corpse.
Meliora shuddered.
And then he will do the same to
me.

She glanced over at Ishtafel.
He stood in his own chariot of fire upon the ziggurat, lance and shield in
hand, breastplate so polished its light blinded her. His four firehorses
nickered and kicked the air, scattering sparks. Most firehorses, those used for
daily flights, spread wide wings of flame. Not the steeds of the races. These
ones, woven of fire like their comrades, sported no wings; these ones would
gallop on hooves of brimstone, tugging the chariots over every cobblestone,
crack, and pebble between here and Tofet.

"Race well,
sister!" Ishtafel called out to her. "Like the javelin flies!"

Ishtafel seemed more
alive than Meliora had ever seen him. His teeth shone in his grin, blindingly
white. His hair streamed like a banner. He wore no helm, but a gilded
breastplate enclosed his torso, leaving his arms bare. He was a study in
beauty, an epitome of youthful vigor, the warrior from the legends, the hero
countless women across the empire desired.

Once I too thought
him a hero,
Meliora thought.
Once I thought him the greatest,
handsomest, noblest warrior in Saraph.

Now, looking at him,
Meliora saw not a deity of light but a cruel god.

If she lost this race,
she would grow to envy Elory, perhaps. The girl would last a week, maybe a
month in Ishtafel's chamber, her corpse then discarded.

But I . . .
Meliora winced. She herself would linger for centuries in his service, have to
birth his son, have to see that son grow into a tyrant, have to watch that son
grind the weredragons under his heel. And should Meliora so much as speak a
word of resistance, she too would find a bad fig on her plate—or a dagger in
the night.

She forced herself to
take a deep breath, to raise her chin, to square her shoulders.

So I must win this
race.

She looked around her.
Her chariot stood on a balcony that thrust out from the ziggurat, a thousand
feet above the city, tethered to four wingless, crackling firehorses, beasts of
living flame. It was a small chariot, large enough for only a single rider, fire
over coals, crackling and casting out light and sparks. The limestone facades
of the ziggurat sloped below her toward the city, and above her soared the
palace crest, a platinum triangle, large enough to be a palace in its own
right, brilliant in the sunlight, engraved with a massive Eye of Saraph, the
sunburst pupil larger than a man.

Many seraphim flew
around the palace, dressed in white and gold. Soldiers hovered in breastplates,
helms, and sandals, holding lances and shields. Lords and ladies flew in
flowing muslin, wheeling in the sky, wings spread wide, drinking from horns of
wine. A million more seraphim—people of the city—stood below, spreading into
the distance, watching from the roofs of temples and forts, from the decks of
ships, from the balconies of homes, from the cobbled streets. Even the slaves
below—collared workers and a handful of chained dragons—turned to stare
toward the ziggurat.

In the distance, so far
she could barely see it, the city gates led to the desert, and there—just
beyond the horizon—lay the land of Tofet. There stood the bronze bull, the god
Malok. There rose the golden idol Meliora must reach before her brother . . .
or see Elory burn, and see her own life shatter.

At Meliora's sides, two
young seraphim, cherubs with soft wings, raised silver trumpets and blew a
fanfare. As the sound rolled across the sky, Queen Kalafi herself emerged onto
the balcony. The queen wore a resplendent kalasiri, the white muslin inlaid
with ten thousand diamonds that caught the sun and shone. Upon her brow she
wore her serpent tiara, forged of platinum and inlaid with jewels taken from
the fallen halls of Requiem. The queen spread out her wings, displaying the
jewels that shone there, woven into her feathers, and she raised her arms with
them.

"Children of
Saraph!" the queen cried. "We bask in glory. Here in the center of an
empire that sprawls across the world. Ishtafel has returned, and a new Edinnu
rises!"

Across the city, the
people cheered.

"The Eight Gods
cast us out from the heavens," Kalafi continued. "But we have risen
again! To celebrate our triumph, to worship the Eight Gods with our new light,
we mark our victory with a great race—a race of nobility. Ishtafel and
Meliora, children of the glorious, eternal dynasty, will ride with fire through
Shayeen—to the god Malok, to eternal joy and victory."

As the people cheered,
Meliora stared across the distance. There was no glory to Malok, the cruel
bronze idol who sang as he digested his victims. There was no eternal joy in an
empire built upon the blood and broken backs of slaves. But there was hope,
just a sliver—hope to save a life.

Every life is a
world,
Meliora thought.
Whatever gods might hear my prayers, give me
strength, give me speed, help me save Elory . . . and help me save myself.

She stared toward the
horizon again. She couldn't see Malok from here, her destination, only a glint
in the distance. The bronze bull rose ten leagues away, a full thirty miles.
Last time Meliora had ridden there in a chariot of fire, she had flown leisurely
above the city, and it had taken her three hours to reach the land of Tofet.

Now, by the laws of the
race, she would ride on the ground. Now she would race her firehorses as fast
as they'd go.

Ishtafel leaned toward
her from his chariot. He gripped the reins with one hand, his whip with the
other. "Ready, sister?"

She stared at him,
holding her own whip and reins. "Let's ride."

The cherubim raised
their horns again. Silence fell across the land.

Even the wind stilled,
and the only movement came from a flock of sparrows flitting ahead.

With a blast that made
Meliora start, the cherubim's trumpets blared.

The firehorses bucked.

The race began.

With showering flame,
with thundering hooves, with a roaring crowd, the firehorses galloped down the
ziggurat's slope.

Meliora grimaced,
clenching her jaw so tightly she thought her teeth would shatter. The chariot
rattled madly down the brick facade of the palace, like a sled down a rocky mountainside.
Her neck felt ready to snap, her head to fly off into the distance, her arms to
dislocate. Every segment in her spine knocked together, and the sound was
deafening, a horrible storm of her firehorses' hooves, of brimstone thundering
against the ziggurat, of her chariot bouncing, of her body slamming back and
forth. All around her, the crowd roared, and Meliora felt ready to pass out.
She could see nothing—only fire, only sparks, smoke, streaks of color.

"Ishtafel!"
the crowd roared, muffled beyond the thundering. "Ishtafel!"

Meliora could not see
her brother. It was all she could do to cling to the reins, to remain in her
chariot. The speed was terrifying. Meliora had flown in chariots of fire
before—leisurely flights, the breeze stroking her cheeks. Now a shrieking
wind, hot as the flames of the Abyss, stinging with sparks of fire, slammed
against her face, whipped her hair, screamed in her ears. Still she rattled
down the ziggurat, a boulder down a mountain.

"Ishtafel!
Ishtafel!" the crowd chanted.

Meliora's firehorses galloped
down a staircase built into the ziggurat's slope, and her chariot leaped into
the air, slammed back down onto the rock, leaped again. Fire showered in a
great fountain, and Meliora was tossed from her seat. She flew through the air,
clinging to the reins, nearly falling out.

I can't do this. I
can't. I can't.

Terror flooded her, and
still they roared down the ziggurat, the horses screaming, the fire washing
across her. The chariot tilted and Meliora screamed.

Her chariot slammed
onto its side, nearly spilling her from her seat. Still they clattered,
stormed, flamed down the ziggurat's facade.

"Ishtafel!
Ishtafel!"

The firehorses kept
galloping. They reached the bottom of the ziggurat and kept racing, pulling her
across a cobbled boulevard. Meliora cried out in pain. The road scraped across
her shoulder, tearing the skin. He chariot still lay on its side. Sparks
showered. Fire and smoke engulfed her. She could see nothing but the inferno,
hear nothing but the roar of hooves and her own screams.

She wanted to let go.
To fall from the overturned chariot, to roll across the road, to die.

I can't do this.

"Ishtafel!"
they chanted. "Ishtafel!" And among them, a single voice, high,
distant. "Meliora! Meliora!"

She fell from the
chariot.

She dragged across the
cobblestones, screaming as the road tore into her, as the horses kept galloping.
She clung to the reins with all her strength, the chariot bouncing across the
road with her, still scraping along its side, showering flame, scattering coals.

"Meliora!
Meliora!"

Dragging behind the
galloping firehorses, she saw them.

The slaves.

They stood on roofs, in
gardens, in construction sites. They stood among their masters, and they were
chanting. Chanting her name.

"Meliora the
Merciful! Ride, Meliora!"

She gasped in pain. Her
blood dripped. Her skin tore. Their faces streamed before her, blurred into
smudges, but she still saw their eyes. Their collars. Their hope.

"Meliora the
Merciful! Ride, ride!"

Meliora screamed,
shoved down her wing, tugged the reins, and dragged herself back into the
fallen chariot. The firehorses kept racing down the boulevard, and Meliora
thrust her hand against the cobblestones, ripping her skin, shoving the chariot
back up.

She cried out in pain.
Blood spurted from her hand, but she kept clinging to the reins. She had lost
her whip, but the firehorses kept charging forth, and Meliora stood in the
chariot again—bloody, cut, still in the race.

"Meliora,
Meliora!" the slaves chanted, even as their masters shouted and whipped
them. "Ride, Meliora, Savior of Slaves!"

She rode.

Sparks of flame roaring
around her, smoke engulfing her, her blood dripping, her hair streaming, she
rode.

She was heading down
the Boulevard of the Victorious, one of the city's eight main arteries. Statues
of the god Bee'al, a man with the head of a cobra, rose at her sides, hundreds
of feet tall. Slaves and seraphim stood on the roofs of homes and temples,
chanting and cheering.

Ishtafel rode in the
distance ahead of her. He must have been a mile away.

Even in the heat of her
flaming chariot, cold fear flooded Meliora.

She gritted her teeth.
She clutched the reins. She had no whip, but she cried out to her firehorses,
"Ride! Ride!"

The four beasts of
flame galloped.

Meliora streamed across
the boulevard like a comet, trailing fire—a creature of light, of heat, the
wind in her hair, the sparks searing her skin. Her muslin kalasiri was torn,
burnt, her skin red. She pulled her wings closer to her body, leaned forward,
and charged forth. An immortal. A warrior.