"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything, Ofeer." He handed her a small obsidian box. "I brought you something."
She took the box from him and opened it. Inside shone a golden ring with an indigo stone. She raised her eyes and looked at Seneca, silent.
"It's lapis lazuli," he said. "We found it in Gefen. It's not the most precious stone, I know. In Aelar, I promise you finer gems—rubies and diamonds and sapphires the color of sky. But I wanted you to have this for now." He took her hand and slipped the ring onto her finger. "To say I'm sorry. I showed weakness in Gefen. I angered you. The burden of command is sometimes heavy to bear. Please accept this gift of my conquest."
A gift you plundered, Ofeer thought, staring at him.
She knew the woman who had worn this ring, the wealthy wife of a merchant who had owned a fabric shop on the coast, a place where Ofeer would shop for silk scarves. She wondered if that shop still stood, if the ring's original owner still lived.
She turned back toward the prow, stared again across the water.
"You don't like it," Seneca said. "I know. You don't just want Zoharite jewels. You want the treasures of Aelar, and they will be yours. I'm the prince of an empire, Ofeer. If we can convince my father to name me heir, if we can get rid of Porcia, I'll be emperor someday. And then the wealth and glory of Aelar will be yours."
And then I will be the whore of Aelar, Ofeer thought. Concubine to my own brother.
She lowered her head. This is not what Ofeer had wanted. She had wanted treasures, yes. She had wanted to see an empire. But not like this.
"All I ever wanted," she whispered, "is to belong."
"You do belong." Seneca squeezed her hands in his. "You belong with me."
He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head aside. He placed a hand on the small of her back, and his touch disgusted her. She couldn't help but grimace.
"I'm sorry, my prince," she said. "The sea doesn't agree with me. My stomach churns."
For an instant, rage twisted his face—burning rage that he did not get what he wanted. She knew that very, very rarely Seneca did not get what he wanted. But the moment passed, quick as it had come. He nodded.
"You're seasick. You've spent your life on land, but you'll gain your sea legs before the journey is over." He kissed her cheek, reached up, and squeezed her breast. "Come to my cabin when you feel better. I'll make you forget all those memories of home."
Tell him, spoke a voice deep inside Ofeer. Tell him the truth. Tell him that he's your half brother. Tell him that you can no longer kiss him, no longer warm his bed. Tell him that you've sinned, formed an unclean, incestuous bond. Tell him the truth!
Yet Ofeer could not, even as he held her breast, as his eyes lusted for her, as his hardness pressed against her thigh.
If I tell him, he'll be enraged, she thought. He'll refuse to believe me. He'll toss me overboard. He'll murder me, as surely as he murdered Jerael.
And so she only smiled wanly, then shuddered in disgust once he had left. She remained on the prow, staring across the sea.
What will I find when we reach you, Aelar? she thought. Will I find myself trapped in Seneca's talons, as I had been trapped in Zohar? Will I dare confront my father, demand he acknowledge me as his daughter? Will I finally dare tell the truth to Seneca, and when I do, will I dare face his wrath?
Ofeer did not know the answers. She did not know what land she would find beyond the sea. She did not know what life awaited her—a life in the court of an emperor, or a life surviving on her own, fleeing Seneca and their sin.
A voice spoke beside her, and again Ofeer started.
"It's strange, daughter of Zohar, how your seasickness turns your face green only when the prince is nearby."
Ofeer spun around to see Taeer, Seneca's lumer. The Zoharite was taller than Ofeer, at least a decade older, and far wiser. That wisdom shone in her dark eyes and curled her full, painted lips into a mysterious smile. A cloak of crimson silk fluttered around Taeer's body, and the dress beneath plunged low, revealing a golden lion amulet that hung between her breasts. Golden bracelets, shaped as snakes, curled around her wrists, and her fingernails were painted the color of blood. A scent of frankincense clung to her, flowing into Ofeer's nostrils even as the sea wind blew.
Ofeer stared at this woman, eyes narrowed.
Who are you, Taeer? she thought. You paint your face and clad yourself in silk like a courtesan, yet you wield powerful magic—powerful enough to serve a prince.
Staring into those dark eyes, Ofeer had the uncomfortable sense that Taeer's gaze was undressing her, peeling back her cloak and skin and muscles, gazing into her very soul, mocking her innermost secrets.
"What do you want?" Ofeer said.
"To help a fellow daughter of Zohar," said the lumer, a small smile still on her lips. A mocking smile.
She thinks me a fool.
"I am a daughter of Aelar just as much," Ofeer said.
One of Taeer's arched eyebrows rose. "Yet you've never been to Aelar. And yet you wander this ship like a lioness trapped in a cage. And yet you cringe when my prince touches you."
"He's my brother," Ofeer said, not bothering to mask the bitterness in her voice. "You told me that on the beach. My half brother, at least." Ofeer lowered her head, and the wind gusted, billowing her hair and cloak. "Sometimes I wish you and my mother had never told me the truth." When she raised her eyes, they were damp. "Does my pain amuse you, Taeer Bat Ami?"
"The folly of humanity amuses me," the lumer replied, still smiling thinly. "Men and women battling over ports and cities, killing, conquering, fucking, birthing, dying . . . the endless dance of humanity, all for nothing but sand. The true kingdom of glory lies in Luminosity, in the light of Eloh, not in stones and water and flesh."
"And yet my flesh is what Seneca desires," Ofeer said. "And the stones and sand of Zohar are what he claimed. Taeer, I'm afraid. I told him I'm seasick, but that angered him. His lust knows no bounds. Perhaps I can spurn his advances on this ship, feigning sickness. But once I reach Aelar, what should I do? If I tell him the truth—tell him that I'm his sister, that his desire is incestuous—he'd be mad. So mad." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He would kill me, Taeer. Just like he killed so many in Zohar, like he killed Jerael. What do I do? If you truly care for me, truly want to help me . . . grant me your wisdom."
Ofeer didn't know why she was telling Taeer these things. She didn't know if she could trust the lumer—any lumer. And after all, Taeer was Seneca's closest companion and confidant, bonded to him since he'd been a child.
Perhaps I'm just scared, Ofeer thought. And I just need an older, wiser woman from home to help me on this ship of Aelarian men.
"Wisdom?" Taeer said. The wind jangled her golden earrings, and the sun shone in the emerald eyes of her serpentine bracelets. "Wisdom is what one grows from pain. Wisdom is a light that shines in darkness. I cannot grant you wisdom nor counsel; you must find your own luminous path to their gates. But I will aid you still. Seneca is lustful, that is true, and prideful, and wrathful. Over our years together, I've served him with light, but with flesh too; he craves my flesh more than my luminescence. I will go to his bed this night, and he will release his lust into me, and every night until we reach Aelar." Taeer smiled thinly. "I will drain his desire, sparing it from you."
Only days ago, Ofeer would have felt jealous, would have raged at the thought of Seneca in bed with another woman. Now she felt nothing but relief.
"And once we reach Aelar?" Ofeer whispered.
Taeer stroked Ofeer's cheek, those long bloodred nails whispering across the skin. "There are four pillars to Luminosity, child. Healing. Muse. Sight. Foresight. That last pillar would reveal your future to me, but I choose not to summon this magic. I've guided generals and princes along paths of fire and blood, and I watched their own pride twist the paths I had foreseen, leading them to doom. Remembering the past can be a burden; knowing the future can be a curse. Find your own paths. Follow your own light. I
will be there, not guiding your way, but shining in darkest shadows."
Ofeer blinked, her eyes suddenly tearing up. When she could see again, Taeer was gone. Once more she stood alone at the prow. With a deep sigh, Ofeer stared at the sea, trying to imagine the towers, temples, and secrets that lay beyond the horizon.
Ofeer lowered her eyes and looked down at her feet. The thought kept niggling, calling to her, a force she could no longer resist.
For not only Ofeer Sela now sails to a new empire. He is there, beneath my feet.
Ofeer turned around. She sucked in breath and clenched her fists. It was time to enter the darkness.
KOREN
Boom. Boom.
The drum beat.
"Oar! Oar!" the overseer cried.
Sweat drenched Koren, and his manacles chafed his ankles and wrists. His muscles cramped, but whenever he slowed from oaring, the whip lashed again, cutting into his back.
Boom, boom, pounded the drums.
Whish, crack! cried the whip.
"So what time do they bring us wine and cheese?" Koren asked the slave at his side. "Or do they serve ale and lamb? I'd take ale and lamb too, ideally with some nice mint sauce." He smacked his lips. "I'm not picky—ow!"
The whip lashed again. "Keep rowing, slave, and keep silent."
The overseer was a leathery man with one eye. They whispered that the brute had been a galley slave himself once, had lost his eye after striking a master. Whether the story was true or not, Koren couldn't say. What was certain was that the one-eyed overseer delighted in his current role.
"It's nice to see a man take such satisfaction in his work," Koren said, grimacing as the blood dripped down his back. "Passion! Makes the day go by much faster."
His chains clanked as Koren kept oaring, trying to summon as much vigor as the overseer showed when whipping slaves. The brute spat, grumbled, and walked on. The oars kept pounding.
"You know," Koren said to the slave at his side, "he's rather a conversationalist, that overseer. He gave me an actual grunt! More than I've heard from you in a while."
His fellow rower sat on the wooden bench so close their bodies touched. He was an older fellow, his beard long and gray—a Zoharite by the looks of him, perhaps one captured in the war nineteen years ago. The old man gave Koren a sad look, then stared back at his oar. He rowed onward.
Koren sighed. "So, old boy, tell me." He talked as he rowed. "Which do you prefer—the single-humped dromedary, or are you a champion of the two-humped variety? Wars have been fought over humps, you know."
The slave still said nothing.
"So you're not interested in conversation," Koren said. "Would you like to sing then? All right, we'll sing 'The Maiden of Gael.'" Koren cleared his throat. "One, two, three—"
Before Koren could launch into a song, the whip lashed again. "Silence! Row!"
Koren bit down on his tongue, cursing the pain. His back was a raw mess by now, but damn it, he couldn't just row silently. He had to talk, to sing, to find some distraction from this pain, this fear. Anytime Koren fell silent, he could see it again—his father on the cross. With every breath, Koren worried about his family. About Atalia, who was taken captive with him, but was not on this ship. About Ofeer, who had joined the Aelarians. About Mother and Maya who had traveled to Beth Eloh. About Epher who fought with the hillsfolk. Were they still alive? Was he the last Sela?
No. Koren could not allow this terror to consume him. Physical pain was nothing compared to the pain inside him.
"It's no use, Zoharite," rose a deep voice behind him, a voice like thunder and wind in caves. "Old Graybeard won't speak a word. We don't even know his name."
Koren glanced over his shoulder at the slave behind him. He was a man from Nur, the southern empire that had fallen to Aelar. His skin was so dark it was nearly black, bleeding where the whip had lashed him. His head was bald, his eyes weary. The man had spoken in Aelarian—the lingua franca of the Encircled Sea—his accent heavy.
"What happened to him?" Koren said.
"They say his wife and sons burned before his eyes," said the Nurian. "He's been rowing here since then, nineteen years now. Poor bastard."
"How long have you been rowing?" Koren asked.
"Three years myself," said the Nurian. "Feels like three hundred. I killed a legionary in Nur. I did it for Queen Imani, bless her name. Stabbed the man right between the shoulder blades." The slave laughed, a laughter that soon turned to coughing. Blood speckled his lips. "Was worth it."
Koren cringed. He did not crave to row here for three years himself, let alone decades like his neighbor. Was this his fate now—to remain here until he grew a long white beard, until he finally died of old age or the beatings of the whip, still chained to the oar?
Damn it, I wish Atalia were with me at least, he thought. She'd sing with me.
He had not seen his sister since the day Father had died. On Seneca's orders, they were kept separated. If Atalia too was now a galley slave, she was rowing in a different ship. Sometimes Koren would look through his oar hole, trying to see the other Aelarian galleys that sailed there, trying to spot Atalia or Ofeer or Seneca on them. But they always sailed too far away, their passengers too small to recognize.
Movement ahead caught his eye. Koren raised his head. A figure was climbing down into the ship's hold. As the figure kept descending the stairs, Koren saw sandaled feet, then a cotton dress, and finally black hair framing a tanned face.
Koren had never been quick to anger, but now rage flared through him. His fists trembled around the oar.
"Ofeer," he hissed.
She walked through the hold, her footsteps hesitant. Koren couldn't fault her for her look of disgust. On the outside, the ship was a work of beauty—its sails striped white and red, its hull painted with green and gold motifs, its balustrade engraved with figures of gods, its figurehead a decorative eagle. Belowdecks, however, lurked a different world. Here was a place of sweat, blood, human waste, and misery. A place of lashing whips, of jangling chains, of men and women reduced to animals, praying only for death.
Ofeer walked over the filth, coming to stand beside Koren. She was still beautiful as always, her skin clean, her hair neatly brushed, her dress fine cotton. Her pendant—the eagle of Aelar—hung around her neck. Koren, meanwhile, must have looked like some swamp creature, covered in blood, sweat, and filth.
"Koren," she whispered.
Suddenly he no longer felt like talking. He looked away, still oaring.
Ofeer placed a hand on his shoulder—his shoulder cut by the whip.
"Koren, I'm sorry." Her voice shook. "I . . . I'm going to talk to Seneca. I'm going to get you out of here—as soon as we reach Aelar. Atalia too. I'll speak to the emperor if I must. I—"
"You killed him." Koren ground his teeth, unable to stop the venom. "You killed my father."
Ofeer's tears splashed him. "I begged for his life. I begged Seneca to spare Jerael. I . . . I buried him myself, I—"
"Leave me." Koren wouldn't look at her. "You made your choice. You chose to live among the Aelarians. You chose Seneca over the family that raised you. Go to him. Get out of this place. You are Ofeer the Aelarian, too fine a lady for the bowels of a ship."
"Koren, please." She grabbed his knee. "I beg you. Please forgive me. I can help you. I can still make this right. I'm your sister, please—"
"You are not my sister." Koren put all his might into the oar. "I have two sisters: Atalia, whom you put in chains too, and Maya, who thankfully fled you. You and I are no longer family."
Tears streamed down Ofeer's cheeks. She trembled. "I love you, Koren."
"Leave!" he shouted.
Her face hardened. Her eyes narrowed, still leaking tears. Her mouth thinned into a line. Ofeer nodded, turned, and left the hold.
Koren continued to row, silent, staring at the scarred back of the slave before him.
MAYA
"Stop!" she shouted. "Thief, stop!"
Maya raced
through the oasis, her wet dress clinging to her torso and slapping against her legs. Her heart thrashed, and she panted.
"Bring back my camel!"
The palm trees rustled ahead, and she glimpsed the thief making his way down the canyon. He was riding Beelam, her poor camel. Without her mount, Maya knew, she was doomed to remain in this oasis, trapped here as surely as a castaway on an island.
As Maya ran between the fig and palm trees, she drew her dagger with the pomegranate pommel, the one Atalia had given her. Soon the camel and thief vanished from view. The ground became rocky, the trees sparse, leaving no tracks.
He's going to take the camel into the desert, Maya thought, breath shaking in her lungs. He's going to leave me stranded here.
She cursed the thief. She cursed herself for ever coming here. Why hadn't she asked Shefael to send guards with her? Her cousin might have given her a royal escort. Why hadn't she asked Mother to come with her? Perhaps Shiloh would have agreed. Instead Maya had slunk out in the night, terrified of the Aelarians. All because of what Avinasi had said. All because of words from some old lumer who had probably worked for Aelar. The lumer's words echoed in Maya's mind.
This city of Beth Eloh is the world's greatest fountain of myst, but there is another spring, child . . . a hidden light. A place where lumers can be free. You must travel there, child. You must cross the desert, and you must seek my sisters.
And so Maya had come here, traveling east with no map or plan, only with her camel, with fear in her heart. Only to find herself stranded, lost, dying.
Finally she stopped running, placed her hands on her knees, and breathed deeply. Her head spun. She was still sick with too much sunlight, with hunger and thirst. The spring water flowed to her left, down to a mere trickle over stones. To her right, a rough staircase had been carved into the canyon wall. Maya climbed. Perhaps from above, she would find a better view of the canyon and the desert beyond, could still find her camel.
When she emerged from the canyon, she stood for a moment, panting. She shielded her eyes from the sunlight and stared around, squinting. The oasis filled the canyon with greenery and spread around its rim, a cluster of palms and dates and grass. All around rolled the dunes and rocky hills of the desert. Across the canyon, the waterfall sprouted from the spring, cascading into the pool where she had bathed.
Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2) Page 6