Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (7 page)

Meliora fluffed her
feathered wings and emitted a long, loud whine. "You don't understand, you
fools."

She pulled her hands
back, though only half her fingernails were painted. She leaped up from her
bed, though her hair was only half-brushed. She whined again—a high, wailing
sound, letting out all her frustration and pain. Those silly slaves would never
understand! Their lives were easy. All they ever did was coo, gossip, giggle,
brush her hair, paint her nails, wash her body, tend to her clothes, serve her
wine—an easy life, a life free from the pressures Meliora faced.

My life is harder
than that of any slave,
she thought.

Meliora perhaps wore a platinum
necklace sporting diamonds and pearls, but it was worse than any slave collar.
She perhaps wore a
kalasiri
dress, the soft white muslin shining with
sapphires and emeralds, but it was rougher on her skin than her slaves' coarse
cotton.

My mother wants me
to marry him . . . Ishtafel. My own brother.

Meliora shuddered.

She flounced across her
chamber between platinum statues of ibises, jeweled vases blooming with
orchids, and ebony tables topped with gold and silver mancala pieces. She came
to stand before her bronze mirror, looked at her reflection, and felt like the
poorest wretch to have ever crawled upon the earth.

She was still
beautiful, Meliora thought. Wondrously beautiful. The most beautiful woman to
have ever lived in this palace—no, the most beautiful to have ever lived
anywhere, at any time. She was a seraph, an immortal being of light, a
princess
of seraphim—a deity among deities, a goddess of gods. Her golden hair flowed
like molten dawn down to her hips. Her eyes shone, just as golden and bright,
the pupils shaped as sunbursts. Her lips were full, pink, pouty. She was short
for a seraph, standing just over six feet tall, but still tall enough to tower
over her weredragon slaves. Most beautiful of all, she thought, were her wings.
They spread out from her back, their feathers snowy white, gleaming in the
light that shone through the windows.

I am magnificent
,
Meliora thought, gazing at her reflection.
Yet now this legendary beauty
will be caged, broken. Now I will become but a womb, a garden for my brother's
seed.

Tears gathered in her
eyes and flowed down her flawless cheeks, coming to rest on her flawless
lips—lips her brother would soon be kissing.

"Your
Excellence!" Kira cried. The slave rushed forth, her cotton shift
rustling, and held out a silver jug and cup. "Would you like me to pour
you more wine?"

"No," Meliora
said. "I've had enough of wine. Enough of you. Enough of this life!"

Her lips quivered, and
she swung her arm, knocking the jug and cup out of the slave's hands. They
clanged onto the floor, spilling their crimson liquid. Meliora felt as if her
own blood were spilling.

"Clean it
up!" Meliora said. At once Kira and Talana grabbed towels, knelt, and
began soaking up the wine. Easy lives. All those two had to clean up was some
spilled wine—not the mess of a royal family. All they had to do was serve her,
not serve a cruel brother, not serve an entire empire.

She was cursed, Meliora
thought, fingers trembling. Cursed to be born to the Queen of Saraph. Cursed to
be the younger sister of a prince returned from a war. Cursed to have this
royal ichor coursing through her veins, pure blood that must be passed into an
heir.

Those damn tears kept
falling.

"Wine," she
whispered. "I want wine. Bring me new wine!"

"Of course, Your
Excellence," said Kira. The little slave—oh, so innocent, so
sheltered!—rose to her feet, rushed to fetch another jug, and poured Meliora a
cup.

Meliora drank. The wine
was awful. Too acidic; it must have been sitting in the open for a day at least.
But she guzzled it down until the warm haze coated her thoughts. When the cup
was empty, she tossed it to the floor, wobbled forward, and stepped between
porphyry columns onto the balcony.

The sunlight fell upon
her, and Meliora gazed at her realm. She placed a hand on her belly.

They want my womb to produce an heir for this land.

The hot wind blew across
Shayeen, scented of frankincense, sandstone, and the distant pits of bitumen
that bubbled on the horizon. The breeze caressed Meliora's hair, kissed her
lips like a lover, and ruffled the long white feathers of her wings. Her
kalasiri
,
inlaid with jewels and golden disks, chinked like laughing spirits. The muslin caressed
her skin, soft to the touch, almost sensual.

If my mother has her
way,
Meliora thought,
it will be my brother who kisses my lips, who
strokes my skin, who removes this muslin from my body and plants his heir
within my womb.
She clenched her fists.
I will not allow it!

She studied the city
below. Shayeen. City of Kings. Jewel of Saraph. The capital of an empire. Her
birthright, the city this marriage would let her rule someday as queen.

The eight Holy Paths flared
out like sunbeams, lined with statues of the Eight Gods. Between these cobbled
boulevards rose columned temples, lush gardens, bathhouses, amphitheaters, and
menageries. Here was a realm of opulence, of pleasure, Edinnu rebuilt upon this
world of exile. Standing upon the ziggurat in the city center, a thousand feet
above the surface, Meliora could see all the way to the city's outer wall. She
felt like a goddess, a deity among deities, an immortal ruler . . . yet one who
was afraid. One who felt chained—as surely as the slaves beyond the horizon
were chained in the land of Tofet.

"I wish I were a
slave," she whispered into the wind. "I wish I were not born into
this bondage, the daughter of a queen."

She envied her slaves.
Envied them! She had never been beyond the horizon to Tofet itself, the land
where thousands of slaves dug for bitumen and built bricks. But Meliora knew that
their lives were easier than hers. They walked free in the open air, basking in
the sunlight, singing as they dug and built. How Meliora wished she could join
them! How she wished to spread her wings, flee this palace, join the
weredragons in Tofet, live free in the open air! Far from this ziggurat. Far
from these golden chains, this gilded cage.

A long time ago, they
said, the weredragons had lived in a distant realm, a place called Requiem, a
land her brother had crushed. Back then, the weredragons had worn no collars,
could become dragons at will. Millions of them had flown in the skies.
Sometimes, on long dark nights, huddled under her silken blankets, Meliora
would dream that she herself lived in Old Requiem, could become a dragon too,
that she flew in a cold sky under distant stars. Sometimes, even during the
days, Meliora remembered those dreams, wished they were real, wished she could
become a dragon, fly away to a distant cold kingdom, escape this life of
torment.

Her fingers curled into
fists. A rage boiled within her.

"Why should I allow
my mother to torture me?" Meliora snarled. "I'm strong. Wise. Fair.
I'm the strongest, most beautiful woman in the world. I won't do anything I
don't want to." She stamped her feet. "I won't! I'll tell her. I'll
tell Mother I refuse. And if she doesn't like that, I swear I'll just fly away.
I'll fly so far that I'll die of starvation in the wilderness, and then they'll
be sorry." Her tears flowed. "Then they'll all be sorry for torturing
me."

She turned away from
the view. She left the balcony, reentering the ziggurat, the palace her dynasty
had ruled since the great uprising five hundred years ago, the year her family
had crushed Requiem, taken the weredragons captive, and overthrown the old
dynasty to usher Saraph into its golden age.

I will tell her,
Meliora thought, fists clenched.
I will tell Mother that I refuse. That I'll
run away and die in the wilderness!

She walked through the
palace. Columns rose alongside, inlaid with silver and gold, their capitals
jeweled. Frescos covered the ceiling, depicting scenes of Old Edinnu, the realm
that was lost. Mosaics spread across the floor, forming a great blue river
where swam stone fish of every kind. Ferns grew from painted vases, rustling in
the wind that flowed through the skylights.

Seraphim soldiers stood
at attention between the columns, clad in steel breastplates, their wings
folded at their sides. Gripping spears and shields, they bowed their heads as
Meliora walked by. Slaves scurried about the palace, bearing jugs of wine,
trays of fruit, fresh linens, and ointments and spices. Clad in simple white
livery and metal collars, they knelt before Meliora, whispering praises of her
glory.

"Move!" she said.
The damn slaves—such lazy creatures—were blocking her way.

The slaves scuttled
back, letting Meliora pass. She left them behind, moving down the glittering
corridors, seeking her mother.

Finally Meliora reached
the Ivory Chamber, her mother's favorite place in the palace. A portico of
columns spread across the northern wall, leading to a balcony lined with potted
palm trees. Beyond spread the blue sky and distant, golden mountains. Light
flooded the chamber, shining on a mosaic floor, walls painted with scenes of
ibises and crocodiles, and vases full of sweetly scented rushes. Ivory statues
of La'eri, feline goddess of royalty, rose along the walls, giving the chamber
its name.

A heated pool steamed
in the middle of the chamber, and in the water, facing the sunlight that
streamed through the balcony, bathed Queen Kalafi.

"Mother,"
Meliora said.

The water rose to the
queen's shoulders. Three slaves stood in the pool with her, young female
weredragons, their collars gilded. Two of the slaves were filing and painting
the queen's fingernails. The third was combing and oiling Kalafi's long, golden
hair. The queen seemed not to have heard Meliora; she remained in the water, staring
out at the sun and sky beyond the columns.

"Mother!"
Meliora stamped her feet. "I will not be ignored."

Kalafi spoke softly,
still not rising from the water, still not turning toward her daughter.
"The turtledoves fly early this year. I can hear them from this chamber.
It's strange, is it not, daughter? That spring begins with the song of birds,
yet their melody heralds the cruel heat of summer. Thus did the gods curse
us—to forever glimpse beauty, never to fully grasp it." She sighed. "It
was always spring in Edinnu. There was no pain in Edinnu."

Meliora rolled her
eyes. She was only twenty-seven, a babe among the immortal seraphim. She had
been born and raised here in this exile, in this palace, within the reign of
this very dynasty. Yet Queen Kalafi was thousands of years old, a seraph who
had fought the gods, who had fallen from heaven, who still yearned for days
long gone.

"Mother, I will
not do this. I will not. I refuse. You cannot make me." Meliora's anger
left her lips with a serpentine hiss. "Send my brother back to his wars.
If you make me marry him, I'm going to run away and die of starvation in the
desert, and then you'll all be sorry."

Slowly, Queen Kalafi
turned and rose from the pool, climbing underwater stairs. The water ran down
her lithe body in rivulets. Kalafi was perhaps an ancient being, thousands of
years old, yet she looked no older than Meliora. Her eyes shone, two suns. Her
hair cascaded down to her hips like molten gold. Her wings unfurled, the water
gleaming upon their white feathers. The sunlight shone upon her nude body.

She was a being of
light, of perfect beauty—perfect but for the scar on her side.

The burn spread beneath
her left ribs, down toward her navel and across her hip, raw and red, an oozing
sash. The ancient gods had given her that wound thousands of years ago, searing
her with godlight. That had been the Day of Banishment. The day the seraphim
had lost their rebellion, the day the gods had exiled them down to the earth.

The wound will never
heal,
Meliora knew. Only the hot, salty water could soothe the pain, giving
relief between bouts of flaring agony. Most monarchs ruled from thrones; Kalafi
ruled from pools and baths.

Slaves rushed forth and
clad Kalafi in an embroidered robe, hiding her nakedness, hiding the wound, the
ugly reminder of their failed uprising.

"Daughter,"
Kalafi said, stepping toward her across the mosaic. "For thousands of
years, Saraph's dynasties have wed brother to sister to preserve the royal
blood. My own husband, may the gods forgive his soul, was also my brother. Only
thus can we remain pure beings."

Kalafi reached out to
caress Meliora's cheek.

"Don't touch
me." Meliora shoved her mother's hand away. "Pure beings?" She
barked a laugh. "When Ishtafel brings weredragon slaves into his bed, is
he a pure being? When you soak in water to hide that ugly, dirty wound of
yours, are you a pure being? I refuse to marry any man, least of all my
brother." Meliora let out a whine, almost a scream. "Bed him yourself
if you wish to keep the blood pure. I will not! I—"

Kalafi struck her.

White light flashed
across Meliora's vision. She hissed and clutched her burning cheek.

"How dare—" Meliora
began.

The queen struck her
again, a blow to the second cheek. "You will not defy me, child."
Kalafi's eyes flared like exploding suns. "For five thousand years, I
roamed this earth. For five hundred of those years, your brother fought wars to
conquer this world, to give us—to give
you
!—a home of light and
splendor. You are but a child. Twenty-seven summers old, a mere babe, spoiled,
impudent. What do you know of pain? What do you know of the agony of our long
banishment, of the fires of war, of the triumphs your brother gave our
race?"

Meliora held her
burning cheek, struggling to keep the tears from her eyes. "I
will
defy you! Yes, I am young. No, I never knew our fall from paradise, and I never
knew our long exile in the desert. Yes, I was born into a life of splendor,
slaves to wait upon me. But that doesn't mean that I will serve you as a slave.
I—"