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."
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
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."
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
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