Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) (9 page)

Smiling savagely, Shani
grabbed his fist in her hand. She squeezed, her grin stretching into a rabid,
toothy snarl.

Vale screamed, his hand
crushed.

"Yes, you will
scream like she did." Shani tightened her grip. The seraph was taller than
Vale, stronger, ancient beyond measure. Vale howled and swung his other fist,
only bloodying his knuckles against her.

Agony exploded across
his back. He screamed, falling to his knees. Another blow hit him, knocking him
down. Vale tried to turn around, glimpsed the second seraph raising his fist,
and then another blow slammed into him. Light flared. Vale hit the ground.

"Cease this!"
Jaren cried somewhere in the distance—miles away. A fading sound. Vale could
barely hear his father, barely hear anything but his own screams. The blows
kept raining onto him.

"Father!" he
cried. "Father! Requiem!"

"Enough!" Jaren
shouted, but the voice was a muffled cry from another world, a whisper, then
nothing. The world washed away under the blood.

"Wait." Shani
spoke somewhere in the haze. "Stop. Keep him alive. We'll burn him in the
bronze bull tomorrow." She laughed. "I'd like to hear the bull
sing."

The blows stopped but
the pain still bloomed across Vale. In his memories, he could see that bronze
bull again, the fires burning below it, the screams rising through its pipes to
emerge as a melodious song—a song of burning flesh, burning souls, of his
death in the forge.

So I will burn.
A
thin smile stretched across his lips, and he tasted blood.
It's a good death
for a Vir Requis.

So hurt he could barely
see, barely hear, he managed to spit blood onto Shani's feet.

The seraph cursed and
drove her foot forward. Light exploded, then died to darkness, and Vale felt no
more.

 
 
ELORY

She knelt in the dark,
chained, shivering, the fear like a living beast coiling within her.

He's coming for me.
He's coming to hurt me. The man who killed my mother.

She tried to stop the
tears from falling. She tried to be brave, to be like the old heroines of
Requiem from her father's stories. To be brave like Mother had been, defying
the masters with her last breath. Yet still those damn tears fell, and still
Elory trembled.

The past few hours were
a blur, a dreamscape of color and sound, so hazy and surreal Elory wondered if
it hadn't been a true dream, if she wouldn't soon wake back in her hut in
Tofet. She recalled the heat of the chariot of fire, a flight over the desert,
the smudged glimpses of a great city below. And then jeweled columns shining
with light. Mosaic floors depicting all the fish of the seas. The labyrinthine corridors of a
palace, a realm as confusing as another world.

And she recalled other
slaves too. Other Vir Requis. But not ones like those from Tofet. Here, in this
realm of gold and jewels, the slaves' skin was paler, for the sun did not burn
them. Their shoulders did not stoop under a yoke, and their legs did not bend
under baskets of bricks, and no hot tar stained their feet. Elory flushed to
remember them stripping her naked, scrubbing her tarred skin until it reddened,
shaving the downy hair that grew on her body, soothing her wounds with ointment,
and finally cladding her in this cotton shift.

She knelt now in the
dark chamber. Cleaned. Bandaged. Shaved. Perfumed with a hint of frankincense.
Yet still her ankles were hobbled, and still the collar encircled her neck.

Still a slave. Still a
daughter mourning.

Elory lowered her head.
Still that vision played in her mind, again and again. She knew it would never
leave her. Her mother, a silver dragon, calling her name, flying toward her . .
. and the lances, the arrows, the swords . . . the blood raining . . . the
severed limbs, the anguished eyes, and . . .

"No," Elory
whispered. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
I will not let that
vision fill me. I refuse.

Instead, she conjured
up older, kinder memories. Her mother comforting her after the overseers would
whip Elory's back. Her mother holding her, singing to her the old songs of
Requiem, whispering of the day when the dragons would rise again, overthrow
their masters, and fly home. Elory would remember that woman instead: the
kindly mother, face sunburnt and weathered but still beautiful, eyes still
dreaming, still hoping, loving her.

You rest now in the
halls of afterlife,
Elory thought.

Requiem had fallen; the cruel seraph Ishtafel, her captor, had burned down the forests
and toppled the marble halls. But a Requiem woven of starlight still shone
above, Elory knew. And in that Requiem all the dragons from Mother's
stories—King Aeternum, the founder of Requiem, and all those kings, queens,
and heroes who had followed—lived there in the starlight. One could not see
the Draco constellation from so far south, here in the empire of Saraph, but
Elory knew that those stars shone beyond the horizon. That the celestial halls
shone among them. That her mother was at peace.

I have to believe. I
have to or my will to continue would flee me.
I have to believe that the
celestial Requiem shines above, and that we can someday rebuild the earthly
Requiem in our fallen forests.

It was only hours ago
that a guard had led her here in a blindfold, chaining her in the shadows, then
leaving her. Elory had removed the blindfold, but she might as well have kept
it on. She looked around her, trying to see through the shadows, but it was too
dark. She could make out only the blobs of furniture. A chain ran from her
ankle, securing her to a bedpost. She dared to walk a few steps back and forth,
to hear the chain clank, to feel around her.

A bed topped with the
softest fabric she had ever felt, even softer than her newly scrubbed, lotioned
skin. A table with a bowl of grapes she dared not eat. A mosaic on the floor.
Beyond that she couldn't reach, only gaze into darkness.

For a long time, Elory
simply waited.

He'll come for me,
she thought.
Somebody will.

She shuddered to think
what Ishtafel would do to her. Would he force her to pour him wine, file his
nails, comb his hair? Or would he desire more from her—desire to know her . .
. as a man knows a woman? Elory swallowed. She had never known a man. The
thought of the tall, golden-haired seraph claiming her body, claiming her
virginity, perhaps even planting a child within her womb—it made her shiver.
Ishtafel was a creature of beauty, his eyes bright, his shoulders broad, a god
of grace, yet the thought of him touching her sickened Elory. She would give up
all the beauty in the world to return to her hut in Tofet.

She tried to think of
that clay hut now, to think of her family. Was Jaren, her wise father, thinking
of her now, praying to the stars of Requiem to protect her? Was Vale, her angry
and torn brother, railing against the masters, speaking as always of rebelling?

More than she wanted
water for her parched throat, more than she wanted food for her tight belly, Elory
wanted to speak to her father and brother again. To tell them she was all
right. To say goodbye. Tofet, realm of the slaves, was a land of sweat, of
breaking bones, of breaking dreams, yet now Elory missed it. Her yoke was gone,
her body cleaned, yet she felt more lost, more afraid than ever. She missed her
family.

And there is more to
my family.

"I have a sister
too," she whispered in the dark, tears flowing down to her lips. "A
lost sister I've never met. A sister in this very palace. A sister who can help
me, who—"

Before she could say
more, the door opened.

Lamplight flooded the
chamber.

Elory winced, staring
into the light. Her heart burst into a gallop. Her instinct was to cower, to
cover her eyes, to hide behind the bed and beg for mercy. She resisted that
urge.

I am a daughter of
Requiem, heir to a proud race. I will not cower.

She squared her
shoulders, raised her chin, and stared into the light.

He stepped into the
room, a towering seraph, his wings as white as purest snow, his armor a
priceless work of gold and jewels, a silver lamp in his hand. The destroyer of
Requiem. The heir to Saraph. The murderer of her mother.

"Ishtafel."
The word tasted foul on her lips.

The seraph placed his
lamp on a table, and for the first time, Elory got a look at the chamber. The
place glittered. Murals of seraphim battling sea serpents and demons covered
the walls, inlaid with gold and platinum. Gemstones shone on vases, tables, and
armchairs. Platinum statues of jackals and ibises glared at her with diamond
eyes. Swords hung on racks, and massive skulls—each one so large Elory could have
climbed into the jaws—stood in alcoves. In the center of the room rose a
canopy bed; the chain from her ankle ran toward its ebony post.

It was a chamber of
opulence, every inch of it priceless, yet to Elory it seemed more like a mausoleum.

Wordlessly, Ishtafel
approached a table and poured himself a mug of wine. Elory stared at him,
wondering why he was pouring his own wine. Was serving him wine not to be her
duty? Did this mean she was here for another purpose?

She wanted to speak, to
break this silence, to ask him what he wanted of her. But she dared not. She
merely stood chained, watching him drink.

He lowered his jeweled
cup and began to remove his armor. Again, as he worked the clasps, he asked for
no aid. Again Elory's fear grew.

I'm not here to pour
his wine. I'm not here to remove his armor.
She glanced at his bed.
Am I
here to service him in that bed?

She glanced back at
him. He had removed his breastplate now, and he was working at unstrapping his
vambraces. His bare arms were massive; each one seemed larger than Elory's
entire body. His chest was wide, muscular, the skin tinted gold; he seemed like
a gilded statue brought to life. But he was not perfect, she saw. Four scars,
as from claws, ran across his chest, old and white.

Dragon claws,
Elory thought.

Still he did not speak.
Still he did not glance at her. He removed his greaves off his legs, his last
pieces of armor, remaining in a cotton skirt that fell halfway down his thighs.
His hair flowed down his back between his wings, a mane of dawn, and Elory was
reminded of the flaming manes of the firehorses that had borne her here. The
seraph acted as if she were another piece of furniture. Ignoring her, he
returned to his mug of wine, drinking as he gazed out the window at the night.

Finally Elory could
bear it no longer. She raised her chin and stood straight, trying to stand as
tall as she could; she still didn't even reach Ishtafel's shoulders.

"Why did you bring
me here?" she said. "How am I to serve you? Will you not speak,
will—"

He spun around. She
felt his hand before she saw it move. His palm slammed into her cheek, and she
cried out and fell to the floor. Blood filled her mouth.

She coughed, struggling
to breathe, and stared up at him. He had returned to the window. Once more, he
was calmly sipping his wine.

Slowly, Elory rose to
her feet. Her chain clanked. She glanced toward the table and she saw
Ishtafel's sword there. The blade was longer than she was tall, and it looked
heavy, but Elory had been raised bearing yokes and baskets of steaming bitumen.
She was small and thin but strong. She could lift this sword, drive it into his
back, slay him, and—

And what then?
she thought. Remain chained here until the guards entered the chamber, found
Ishtafel's body, and dragged her to the bronze bull?

She swallowed, eying
the blade. Perhaps there was another path. She could kill Ishtafel, then fall
upon the sword. She would have her revenge, then her soul would rise to join
her mother. What else did she have to live for? Why even draw breath? She would
never see her father and brother again, never see the stars of Requiem or her
fallen halls, and—

But I can still see
my sister,
whispered a voice inside her.

Elory's throat
clenched.

My sister.

She did not know if she
believed those stories. Stories of a sister who lived here in this palace, who
could help her, who could help all the children of Requiem. A lost light.

She looked away from
the sword.

I will
live. I must. I will find her.

Finally Ishtafel spoke,
his back to her, still staring out the window. "You will address me as 'Your
Excellence' or 'my lord.' You will remember this or my next strike will not
leave you as pretty. Do you understand?"

Elory touched her lip.
Her fingers came back bloody. "Why am I here,
my lord
?" She
couldn't help but add a hint of scorn to those last two words. She would do
what she must to survive, but she would defy him when she could, even with just
the hint of an insolent tone. "What do you want,
my lord
?"

He turned toward her.
He stared down from his height, eyes gleaming. Those eyes were inhuman. Eyes
like those of a bronze statue with fire within its shell, casting out their own
light.

They were gods once,
Elory thought.
Angels in the heavens, fallen, cast out. Broken gods.

In her mind, she saw
the Requiem that had been. The Requiem from the old tales. A kingdom where the
Vir Requis wore no collars, where they could fly freely as dragons. A kingdom
of marble columns in a birch forest. That Old Requiem, fallen five hundred
years ago, was a realm of ancient legend, a realm past great distances of time
and space, a mere memory of myth. Yet here before her, here in this very
chamber, stood the same seraph who had led that old charge, who had crushed
Requiem and borne Elory's ancestors to captivity.