Read Online Forged in Dragonfire (Flame of Requiem Book 1) by Daniel Arenson - Free Book Online
Authors: Daniel Arenson
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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
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
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