Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (6 page)

After two more mugs of
wine, he rose to his feet. He raised his mug, and across the hall, seraphim and
slaves alike fell silent and turned to stare.

"Seraphim!"
Ishtafel cried to them. "Raise your mugs with mine. Today is the Day of
Rebirth. On this day, four thousand and four years ago, the Eight Gods punished
us for our pride. They struck down our parents, those who had rebelled against
them. They burned my own mother—your queen!—inflicting a wound upon her so
dire that even today, so many years later, she languishes in pain rather than
drinking with us here."

The faces grew dour.
Seraphim lowered their heads. The banishment—it was an open wound upon his
mother, the Queen of Saraph, but no less an open wound even to those, like
Ishtafel, who had been born here in exile, who had never seen the lost paradise.
The fall of Edinnu still cast a shadow upon all in Saraph.

"But we built a
new kingdom!" Ishtafel said, louder now. "We fell to this world
scared, scarred, cast out from paradise. But we fought. My father vanquished
many enemies, building a great city in this land before his death. And I
completed his work! Five hundred years ago, I crushed the kingdom of Requiem,
taking the weredragons here to serve us as gods. Since that time, I fought
every enemy that has risen against us, and I cast their bones into the dust.
The last giant fell last moon, and now—now we in Saraph are masters of this
world, gods of a new Edinnu!"

The seraphim roared in
approval. Their eyes shone like their haloes. Their wings spread out. Only the
slaves did not join the cheers; the little weredragons lowered their eyes,
perhaps remembering their own fallen kingdom, a realm they would never more
rebuild.

"So drink,
friends!" said Ishtafel. "As my mother suffers from her wound, as our
enemies lay dead around us, drink and be joyous, for we are gods. We—"

The hall doors slammed
open with a clang.

Hissing in annoyance,
Ishtafel spun to see who had dared interrupt his speech.

A woman stepped into
the hall, clad in light, and Ishtafel's anger melted like snow under spring's
dawn.

"Meliora," he
whispered.

His sister was short
for a seraph, no more than six feet tall, a childlike princess, cherubic and
soft. She was not yet thirty, a babe among the immortals, the youngest in this
hall. She gazed around with huge eyes like pools of molten gold—innocent eyes,
eyes that had never gazed upon blood or war. She wore a muslin
kalasiri
dress, the white fabric embroidered with ibises, and a medallion of the Eye of
Saraph shone upon her throat. Her hair flowed down to her hips, the color of
dawn, and her wings were the white of purest snow. Her halo was so thin Ishtafel
could barely see it, a ring of gold no wider than a thread.

Ishtafel paused, simply
staring at her. Whenever he gazed upon his beloved sister, he lost his breath.
Here was the purest among them—a seraph unsullied by war, by the fall from heaven.
The most beautiful being on this world, a precious goddess to cherish, to
worship, to forever protect. Ishtafel had lived for five hundred years, had
hated many, had slain more. But since Reehan had died in the tunnels beneath
Requiem, centuries ago, Ishtafel had not loved another soul. Not until
twenty-seven years ago, when Meliora had been born.

It's not only the
Day of Rebirth,
he thought.
It's my sister's birthday. It's the holiest
day of the year.

"Meliora!" he
called to her, holding out his hands as the other seraphim knelt before their
princess. "Come to me. Dance with me."

A grin split her face,
and she ran toward him across the mosaic, feet padding against the dragons of
many tiles. Her two personal slaves followed—a pair of young, bald women whom
Meliora took wherever she went like a girl with favorite pets.

"I love to
dance!" Meliora said. "Can Kira and Talana dance with us?"

Ishtafel laughed.
"Your pets are weredragons, my dear. Let them join the other slaves and
help clean the empty plates."

Meliora bit her lip,
looked at the two collared weredragons, then back at Ishtafel. "But . . .
I want to teach them to dance too! I taught them already to sing the Song of
the Silver Tree, and—"

"Meliora!"
Ishtafel frowned. "That is a holy song of Edinnu. You had your slaves
profane it with weredragon lips? Mother would have them burned in the bronze
bull if she knew."

Meliora's bottom lip
wobbled, and tears flooded her eyes. "No," she whispered.
"Please don't tell Mother. Please! I'm sorry. Don't send them to the
bull!" She lowered her head, tears flowing.

"Sister!"
Ishtafel pulled her into an embrace. "Don't weep. I forget that you're but
an innocent, silly thing with barely more sense than a child."

Meliora nodded. "I
know that I'm silly, but don't scare me like that. I get so scared, Ishtafel!
So scared of the bull. I dream of him sometimes, that he invades my bed, that .
. ." Her cheeks flushed. "I promise not to teach Kira and Talana any
more songs. I promise! I'll dance with you alone."

Ishtafel nodded at the
musicians on the balcony, and they began to play his favorite song—the Burning
of Requiem. It was a song of his first victory, a song commemorating that
glorious war five centuries ago—he had been barely older than Meliora was
now—when he had crushed the weredragons, toppled their halls, and brought them
here in collars. Normally a robust marching song, the harpists played a soft,
slow version of it, letting Ishtafel and Meliora sway gently in the hall. The
other seraphim watched, heads bowed, giving their prince and princess the first
dance of the night.

"When I was away
in the south, fighting the giants, I missed you every day." Ishtafel
tucked an errant strand of Meliora's hair behind her ear. "I thought of
you every night before I went to sleep, and I remembered your face every
morning as I slew more of our enemies."

Meliora's eyes shone.
"I thought of you too, brother! I drew paintings of you, did you know? I went
into the gardens every morning to paint you, and to watch the birds and the
butterflies, and sometimes I'd try to count the flowers. I could never count
them all, though. We have some new flowers this spring! I'll show you tomorrow,
and there are some baby birds in the fig tree by the fountain."

He kissed her forehead.
"Such a silly thing you are!" He laughed. "I speak to you of war
and conquest, and you speak to me of birds and butterflies. But that's how I
love you, sister. Pure. Your hands unstained with blood. Your eyes unsullied by
the sight of death and war."

Meliora nodded,
grinning. "War is for boys! I'm a princess of flowers. You can have the
blood. I'll keep the baby birds."

The first song ended,
and more music played, and more seraphim joined them in the dance. The sunbeams
falling through the oculus gleamed on the golden tables, jeweled dishes, and
the statues of gods that rose between the gilded columns. The birds painted
onto the domed ceiling and the mosaic beasts glittered and seemed almost to be
living things. The feasting, the drinking, and the dancing would continue all
day and long into the night. By the time Ishtafel returned to his bedchamber
and sought pleasure from his new slave, he would be well fed, a little drunk,
and as weary as after a battle.

Yet despite the
splendor of this place, despite the glory of his victory, a nervousness filled
Ishtafel.

The time has come,
he thought.
After five hundred years of war, the time is here . . . the time
to tell my sister.

He could hesitate no
longer. He took a deep breath, cupped his sister's cheek in his palm, and spoke
softly.

"Meliora, today is
a special year for us. It's not only five hundred years since I crushed
Requiem. Not only the year I defeated the stone giants, our last enemies in the
world. It's also the year that I will marry. That I will give Saraph an
heir."

Meliora's eyes widened,
and she grinned and bounced. "A wedding! A royal wedding! Who will you
choose? Perhaps Lady Teelan? She's very beautiful, and she loves baby birds
too! Or—I know!—you can marry Lady Merishan! She's a friend of mine. She lets
me play with her puppies sometimes. Oh, I can't wait! I can help her choose
fabrics for her wedding gown, and—"

"Meliora."
Ishtafel's voice dropped, grew solemn. "You've heard tales of the old
dynasties."

Meliora tilted her
head. "Of course." She recited as if reading from a book. "Ours
is the Thirteenth Dynasty, the Dynasty of Kalafi. Twelve dynasties have ruled
Saraph since our banishment. The first, the Telaka Dynasty, wandered the
wilderness. The second, the—"

"Meliora, do you
know how those dynasties ruled for thousands of years? With purity of blood.
With a refusal to dilute their nobility. Those who failed at this task, who
married for love or lust, saw their dynasties fall." He sighed. "If
you ask me, that's foolishness. A mere superstition. In all my wars, I saw
humble soldiers of low blood slay many beasts, while nobles of old families
perished in the mud. A man rules by the blood he spills, not the blood in his
veins. And yet Mother is a superstitious woman. All those who still remember
Edinnu, who were born in our old realm in the heavens, are so." He stroked
Meliora's hair. "It's Mother who commands this. You must understand that
this is her wish, not my own. Yet she is our queen, and we will obey her."

A small line appeared on
Meliora's brow. "What do you mean, brother? What . . . whose blood could
be purer than the ladies of the court?"

"The blood of a
princess." Ishtafel placed his finger against her throat, feeling her
pulse. "Your blood."

Still Meliora seemed
confused. "But . . . how . . .?"

Ishtafel sighed again.
Meliora was beautiful, innocent, yet a silly thing indeed. "It will be for
the good of Saraph, my sister. An heir of pure blood, a child purely of our
dynasty, undiluted, will bring a glory to Saraph to last a hundred thousand
years."

Slowly understanding
dawned in her eyes. "You wish . . . to marry me?" Meliora gasped,
stepped back from him, and blanched. "Mother commands us to marry, to . .
. to make a baby?" Confusion and disgust battled on her face.

Ishtafel glanced around
him. Damn it! Other seraphim had heard her. People were staring. Even slaves.
He had hoped to break the news to his people on another night, but it seemed
the secret was out.

He cleared his throat.
He stepped toward the table, grabbed a goblet of wine, and raised it overhead.

"My friends!"
he cried. "Hear me! My sister and I have an announcement to make."
The seraphim turned toward him, and Ishtafel stared across the crowd—those he
would someday rule as king. "For five hundred years, my family has ruled
Saraph, a dynasty that saw us finally conquer this world we fell to, that
brought us the weredragons to serve us, that saw us create a new kingdom of
wealth and prosperity. The time has come to create a new heir, a third
generation for our family. Our royal blood will be preserved for a hundred
thousand years. On the summer solstice, two moons hence, I will marry my sister.
Meliora and I will bear Saraph a prince!"

The seraphim cheered.
Even a few of the slaves cried out his name. Many seraphim here had lived five
hundred years ago, back when Reehan—his first betrothed—had died. They
rejoiced that their prince found new love at last. Wine now flowed and the
trumpets blew. All celebrated . . . all but Meliora.

The young princess
stepped closer to Ishtafel, tears in her eyes, and slapped his cheek.

As he sucked in air and
stared with shock, the girl spun on her heel, grabbed her slaves' hands, and fled
the hall.

The cheering died.

Everyone stared.

Gods damn.

Fury—hot and
unadulterated—filled Ishtafel. He forced it down with all his might.

He cleared his throat.
"Well, my friends have warned me that wives are harder to defeat than
dragons."

He forced himself to
laugh. It wasn't much of a joke, yet the crowd laughed. He was their prince;
they'd laugh at anything he himself laughed at. Yet as his laughter rolled
across the hall, the rage flowed through Ishtafel, and his fingernails dug into
his palms.

You humiliated me,
Meliora.
He drank deeply from his cup.
You will bear my child, and you
will pay for your insolence.

The feast continued. It
would be a triumphant feast that never ended.

 
 
MELIORA

"I won't do it."
Meliora pouted and stamped her feet. "I won't, I won't, I won't! I won't
marry my own brother."

She stood in a chamber
of opulence. A mosaic of precious stones covered the floor, depicting colorful
fish swimming in a sapphire sea. Lines of silver and platinum coiled around
limestone columns, rising toward capitals of purest gold. A fresco sprawled
across the vaulted ceiling, recreating the lost paradise of Edinnu. And yet,
despite all the gemstones and precious metals, despite the golden vases and
ivory statuettes that covered her shelves, despite the scent of frankincense
and the haze of wine, Meliora felt trapped here. A prisoner. Lower than a
slave.

"Your Excellence,
Ishtafel is most handsome." Kira, a young slave, looked up from painting
Meliora's fingernails. Her eyes were large and dark, her skin light brown, and
black stubble covered her head. She spoke with awe in her voice. "His eyes
shine like suns, and his hair flows like molten gold. All the women of the
realm whisper of his magnificence."

"He is most
handsome," agreed Talana, her second slave, who was busy brushing
Meliora's hair. While Kira was dark and demure, Talana had skin as pale as
milk, strewn with many freckles, and stubble the color of fire covered her
head. "You are most fortunate, Your Excellence."