Crown of Dragonfire Read Free Page B

and
returned the crushed key to her pocket. If only she had grabbed the key from
Ishtafel in time! She had flown so close. She could have burned him, stolen the
key, freed the slaves, led a nation of dragons home to Requiem. Yet now she
lingered here in a prison cell. Now the slaves cried out in agony, suffering
under an even crueler tyrant.
    "Perhaps I should have
married him," Meliora whispered, eyes stinging. "Perhaps I should never have
raced Ishtafel in the chariots, tried to save Elory from his clutches, led the
slaves in revolt. Perhaps I should have birthed his heir, been a mother to our
child of pure blood. My own mother would still be alive, and I would still be a
princess, still have my wings."
    But no. That would have
been only an illusion. That would have been just as much a prison cell. Meliora
knew the truth now—knew that her father was Jaren the slave. Knew that she was
half Vir Requis.
    "I will not forget you,
stars of my fathers," she whispered in the shadows. "Not for all the palaces
and gold in the empire. Requiem! May our wings forever find your—"
    The lock on the cell
door clattered.
    Meliora froze, then
scuttled backward, leaped to her feet, and hissed.
    The heavy stone door
creaked open. Torchlight flooded the chamber, brighter than her halo, crackling
and casting out sparks. Meliora winced, staring at the dark, towering figure
who stood in the doorway, wings spread out, head haloed with golden light.
    "Hello, sweet sister,"
the figure whispered, voice smooth and deadly like a steel blade, and stepped
into the chamber.
    Meliora sneered. "Ishtafel."
    He smiled thinly and
stepped closer, the heat of his torch singeing her body. While she was covered
in scratches, bruises, and dried blood, clad in rags, Ishtafel looked more
resplendent than ever. Rubies shone upon his gilded breastplate, the metal
forged to mimic the shape of his bare torso. His hair hung down his back, lush
and golden. A crown rested on his head, mimicking his halo, and a lush cape of
samite hung across his shoulders.
    "My, my, but aren't you
a wretched sight." He tsked his tongue. "Filth does not become you, sister. You
were fair once."
    "And I thought you
noble once," she said. "Yet I saw the filth within you. I saw the blood of
Mother, the blood of Requiem upon your hands. The blood of my own wings. You
stand before me in gold, but you are covered with more filth than I ever will
be."
    He raised an eyebrow. "And
so sweet little Meliora, the princess who once could speak of nothing but
puppies and cupcakes, now waxes poetic about righteousness and evil. This cell
has made you a philosopher."
    She shook her head. "Not
this cell but truth. I am no longer that innocent princess, it is true, not
because I languish in the underground but because I know who I am. I know that
dragon blood flows through me."
    Sudden anger twisted
his face. His eyes narrowed, the golden irises blazing around his sunburst
pupils. His lips peeled back, baring his teeth like a rabid wolf over meat. He
lashed his hand, slashing his fingernails across her cheek. She yelped.
Ishtafel pulled his hand back, examining her blood on his fingertips. He licked
a drop.
    "True." He smacked his
lips. "I do taste the dragon filth. But I also taste the ichor of the
Thirteenth Dynasty, the pure, golden blood of my own lineage. Mother is dead.
No other women of our family live. And that blood must be preserved." He
grinned and licked his lips, smearing her blood across them. "Now that you've
had time to languish in darkness, and now that your slave friends are broken,
you will come to my chamber. You will clean up. You will wear gowns again. You
will feed upon the fine fare your slaves grow. You will wed me, as planned, and
you will bear me an heir."
    She snorted. "So you
would have an heir tainted with slave blood?"
    "I will not." His grin
grew wider. "You will bear me a daughter, Meliora. And she will bear me a
daughter too, on and on, until the dragon blood is bred out of