Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  No camel. No thief. But there—near the spring's source—a flash of red caught her eye, soon vanishing between the trees.

  It was a long walk around the canyon. The sun baked her hair and dried her dress. Finally she circled the crevice, headed over hot stones, and reached a cluster of trees. She stepped between them to find water gushing from between stones, cascading down into the pool.

  A voice rose behind her. "You know, I could just kill you now. Nice arrow to the back."

  Maya spun around, heart leaping into her throat. There! She saw him high in the branches of a fig tree, mostly hidden between the leaves. He held a bow, an arrow nocked and aimed at her. The camel thief.

  He was a young man, no older than her brothers. A shock of black hair covered his head, and stubble grew over his cheeks. His skin was tanned deep bronze, and he wore a cotton tunic.

  "And I can see up your tunic," she said. She could think of nothing else to say.

  The young thief glanced down, flushed, and wobbled on the branch. He tried to pull the tunic down, swayed, and tumbled off the branch.

  He slammed into a second branch, tried to steady himself, and kept falling. His arrow fired, whizzed through the air, and sank into a palm tree. With a thump, he hit the ground.

  Maya ran. She leaped. She pounced onto the thief, driving her knees into his belly. The air left his lungs with an oof. Before he could toss her off, Maya placed her dagger against his throat.

  "One move and I open your neck." She sneered down at him. Her hand trembled, and her heart threatened to leap from her throat, but she kept the dagger pressed against him. "I'm serious."

  The young man dutifully froze. "You couldn't really see up my tunic, could you?"

  Maya shook her head. "Thankfully not, or I'd probably have run away in fright. Now where's my camel?"

  The thief sighed beneath her. "I should have just shot you. By Eloh, I should have just shot you in the back."

  Maya frowned, staring down at him, her dagger still against his neck. "You . . . worship Eloh?" For the first time, she realized that the young man spoke fluent Zoharite, that a lion pendant hung around his neck. "I'm still in Zohar, aren't I?"

  "Zohar? Oh, no. This is Aelar! And I'm the emperor. Didn't you see the palaces?"

  Maya sighed, climbed off him, and sheathed her dagger. She looked around her. "I was traveling for so long. I was sure that I was in Sekadia by now."

  The thief rose to his feet too, rubbing a scrape on his neck. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Sekadia is that way. Just across those dunes, actually. Behold, the eastern might of Zohar!" He swept his arm around him. "Not much to look at." He reached out his palm for her to shake. "Name's Leven."

  She stared at him, not taking his hand. "Where is my camel?"

  Leven shook his head. "Not telling. You can't have him back. See, anything and anyone that wanders into this oasis belongs to us."

  "I don't belong to anyone." Maya glared.

  Leven scoffed. "Be thankful you belong to us now. Farther east, the Sekadian slave traders would slap you in chains, drag you off to the slave markets, and sell you to the highest bidder. Here you just had to give up a camel."

  "Where is my camel?" she shouted, drawing her dagger again.

  Leven grabbed his fallen bow and arrow, and it seemed blood would spill when a harsh voice rose from beyond the trees.

  "Leven? Leven, damn you, boy, what are you doing out there?"

  The young thief cringed at Maya. "Oh, now you've done it." He sighed and lowered his bow. "Well, come on with you. Come meet the family. Might as well."

  Leven turned and walked between the trees. Frowning, Maya followed. Past the palms, she saw a camp, well hidden between boulders and trees. Three tents rose here, and a pot lay on a smoldering embers. Several children hopped around a bearded old man in crimson robes, who sat reading from a scroll. A middle-aged woman stood here too, hands on her hips, clad in white robes and a shawl.

  Among the people stood several goats, sheep, and camels—her own camel, dear Beelam, among them.

  Maya was about to run to her camel when the stern woman shouted, "Leven! Leven, you fool of a boy. You told me that camel just wandered in on its own." The woman sighed and turned toward Maya. "Please forgive my son. I've spared him the rod too often." She grabbed a branch and brandished it. "It's not too late to beat some sense into him."

  Maya thought back to her own mother, how Shiloh had always seemed so stern. Suddenly Shiloh didn't seem so bad after all. Maya's eyes dampened to remember her mother, the woman's kind eyes, warm embrace, and loving smile.

  "Darling!" said Leven's mother. "He made you cry! Oh by God, I'm going to beat him tonight." She stepped closer and pulled Maya into an embrace. "Hush now, child. Are you lost?"

  Maya shook her head, suddenly letting all those tears—tears she could not shed in the desert—fall into this woman's warm embrace. The other camp dwellers gathered around her, even the animals. They introduced themselves. The woman was Zehav, Leven's mother, and the old man was Keremyah, his grandfather. The children were Leven's younger siblings, a little horde of them.

  As they named the last child who hopped about, a moan rose from ahead. Maya frowned and stared. For the first time, she noticed that another child lived in the camp. The boy lay on a rug beneath the trees. He was pale and shivering, and a damp cloth lay on his forehead. Maya approached slowly.

  "Stay away from my brother," Leven said, reaching out to stop her.

  "Leave her alone," said Zehav. "You already stole her camel. Let her see." The stern-looking woman stared at Maya and nodded. "This one has a touch of Luminosity to her. I can see it in her eyes."

  Maya walked toward the trees and knelt by the boy. He lay on a rug, moaning, feverish. Flies bustled around him. When Maya pulled back his blanket, she winced. An ugly wound split open his leg, full of pus and maggots. Maya looked back at Zehav.

  "He fell." Zehav's eyes dampened. "My youngest son. He fell into the canyon a week ago."

  Maya turned back toward the boy. "What's your name?"

  The child couldn't reply, only moan. When Maya touched his arm, she pulled back her hand in alarm. He was burning up.

  "My uncle went to Beth Eloh, seeking a healer," said Leven. "He was supposed to be back by now."

  But he would not return, Maya knew. Not with a healer. Maybe not with his life.

  She inhaled deeply. She tried to ignore those who crowded around her, ignore the moans, the fever, the stench of the wound.

  She listened to the trees rustle. To the waterfall flowing. To the wind in the sand.

  The oasis was alive. A soul, pulsing, breathing in a living desert, in a world that ever spun between sun and moon. In her mind, she saw ancient travelers, lines of camels, bells chinking and women dancing and prayers rising into the sky. The stars shone above, spinning, and the sun baked the land, and flowers bloomed across the desert.

  Eras and histories and a single moment, a breath of life of a world.

  A world of lume.

  Her hands shone as she wove that lume, forming luminescence, magic alight. She still lived in Zohar. She still could draw this light from the eternal spring. The world was all in silver and gold, and she placed her hands upon the boy.

  "What are you doing to him?" Leven said, but he sounded so distant, a mere echo from long gone era. All was eternal. All was the grace of Eloh.

  Her hands worked over the boy, weaving the light into the wound, pulling out the disease, cooling the fever. She let her light fade. She leaned back, breathing heavily, bringing the world back into focus.

  Once more, Maya was here, in a moment of time, in an oasis, a mere girl again.

  Before her, the boy sat up and blinked. The damp cloth fell off his brow. The rot had left his leg. The wound was still there, still bleeding, but free of the disease.

  "Now he can heal," Maya whispered.

  Slowly, the boy rose to his feet.

  Zehav ran forward, tears in her eyes, and
embraced her youngest son, then embraced Maya. Grandfather Keremyah wept too and prayed and praised Maya's name, and even Leven—that accursed camel thief—lowered his head and begged for Maya's forgiveness.

  She let them embrace her, feeling drained.

  So much lume filled me in Beth Eloh, she thought. But I've been using too much, seeping away my strength.

  She felt as if she had just lost a jug full of blood, and she longed to return to Beth Eloh, to soak in the lume, to refill her reserves. Maya understood now why the lumers of Aelar, servants of that distant city in the heart of the Empire, traveled to Beth Eloh on a pilgrimage every year.

  Food is the fuel of the body, Maya realized. Lume is the fuel of the soul, and my soul feels dry.

  "She's pale!" Zehav said. "She's trembling. Quick, children, go put the food on the fire. Get wine. We must let Maya rest."

  Zehav—whom Maya had at first thought so stern and frightening—bustled around the camp, concern in her eyes. Soon everyone sat around the campfire, where Zehav cooked flat breads and skewers of lamb. The young ones rushed about, pouring Maya a glass of wine, washing her feet with a damp cloth, and rubbing ointment onto her burnt skin. Grandfather Keremyah prayed from his scroll, blessing her with ancient words. Even the youngest son, his wound freshly bandaged, hopped about and laughed with his siblings, his life returned.

  A mug of wine in her hand, a steaming plate of lamb and bread on her lap, Maya slowly told her story. She spoke of fleeing war in Gefen, of Porcia Octavius arriving in Beth Eloh, of the kingdom falling, of her father dying. She spoke of Zohar, their proud and ancient kingdom, falling to Aelar, now a province of an empire.

  "And so I'm traveling east," Maya said. "As far east as east goes, until I reach the sea. Avinasi told me that I'd find a center of Luminosity there, beyond the reach of the Empire."

  The oasis family looked at one another, silently. Finally it was Keremyah who spoke.

  "Child, stay here with us." The elder reached out a wrinkled hand and patted her knee. "I'll teach you to pray, to grow herbs, to raise the animals. You'll be safe here, for we are surrounded by sand, an island in the desert. I brought my family here to flee the corruption of Zohar, the women who walked with bare legs in Beth Eloh, profaning their god, and the princes and kings who bickered and fought, and the Aelarian scrolls and theater and poetry that had been invading our land long before their hosts arrived. Here is not only an oasis of life, but an oasis of light, of the light of Eloh. You are a lumer, a child blessed by God. Stay here with us. Stay and bless us, and let us bless you."

  Maya lowered her head. "I thank you, Keremyah. Truly I do. But I can't stay. I'm not yet a lumer. I can feel lume, and I can harvest it into luminescence, and Avinasi taught me a little. But there's much I must learn. Only in the east, across the lands of Sekadia, can I find lumers who will teach me."

  "Will you stay the night, at least?" asked Zehav.

  Maya nodded. "I thank you."

  That night, Maya slept under the stars, and in the morning, Zehav served her a meal of dates, figs, and flat breads dipped in olive oil. Once more, Zehav tried to convince her to remain, and once more, Maya was tempted. This was a good place. A safe place. A place of home, of family, of light.

  But she could not. Avinasi had told her to seek a path of light, and that path stretched east.

  Zehav sighed. "Very well, Maya Sela. If you must travel east to find your fate, I won't stop you. But I will send my son with you, part of the way at least. He'll accompany you to Sekur, a great city in the heart of Sekadia, where you can join a caravan for the rest of your journey."

  Leven was busy climbing a palm tree for dates. When he heard his mother's words, he fell from the tree and groaned.

  "What, Mother?" He leaped to his feet. "No. Why must I go?"

  Zehav swung her branch at him. "Because if you stay, I'll clobber you. You robbed Maya, and in return, she healed your brother. We owe her his life. Take three camels, and protect Maya on her way east." She turned back toward Maya. "The city of Sekur is a long ride from here, a great metropolis in the heart of Sekadia. Many merchants and pilgrims travel back and forth from that city. You'll find transportation from there to the eastern sea." She handed Maya a rolled-up scroll. "Take this with you. It'll guide your way."

  Maya unrolled the scroll and gasped. A map! A beautiful map illustrated with an artist's hand. Maya had seen many maps of the Encircled Sea before, but here was a new map, showing the eastern realms of the world—from Zohar in the west all the way through the deserts of Sekadia to the distant eastern sea.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  "What is a map for the life of my child?" Zehav embraced her. "Bless you, Maya. You are a daughter of light, and you will grow into a great priestess. Farewell, daughter of Zohar. Wherever you go, I will pray for you, and we will always tell your tale."

  Three camels rode out from the oasis that morning. Maya rode on Beelam, while Leven rode on his own animal. A third camel carried their supplies. The oasis grew smaller and smaller behind them, until it was just a green speck on the horizon, then a memory. The desert spread ahead, golden and hot and unforgiving.

  SHILOH

  She stood in the courtyard among thousands, tears in her eyes, watching the desecration of her kingdom.

  The palace of Zohar rose before her, carved of pale stone. Shiloh's ancestor, King Elshalom, had built this palace a thousand years ago, uniting the tribes of coast, hills, and desert. Shiloh's own father had reigned here, her sister after him.

  I left this palace to marry Jerael, she thought, gazing at the white walls and golden columns. But this will always be my home. A home stolen from me. A home profaned.

  The Aelarians covered the palace like maggots on a corpse. Legionaries stood guard on the towers, a man between each pair of columns, javelins in hands. Hundreds of legionaries surrounded the courtyard, armor bright, eagles painted onto their shields. More stood on the palace balcony—the place whence Shiloh's sister, father, grandfather, and monarchs for a thousand years would address the people of Zohar. The place where Shiloh herself had stood so many times as a child, gazing upon her city and the adoring crowds.

  Now the crowds simmered. Around Shiloh, men and women, clad in rough homespun, grumbled and spat. Many uttered curses. One bearded man grabbed his crotch, speaking of what Zohar should do to Emperor Marcus. Standing among them, Shiloh remembered the ruins she had seen along the beaches of the Encircled Sea—the remnants of kingdoms which had rebelled against Aelar, which now lay as stones and bones, cities for crabs.

  "This war is not over," Epher said, standing at her side among the crowd. His hands balled into fists. "Find me a hundred good men and a hundred iron swords, and we will retake this palace."

  Shiloh shook her head. Wind billowed her silken veil. "I already lost my husband. I will not lose my firstborn son. We lost, Epher. Now let us live."

  Three legionaries on the balcony raised silver trumpets, and the wails rolled across the city. The crowd of Zoharites turned to stare.

  An Aelarian man emerged from the palace onto the balcony. While most legionaries wore lorica segmentata—iron strips across the torso—this man wore a fine iron breastplate emblazoned with golden filigree. A crimson cloak draped off his pauldrons, and a crest of red horsehair sprouted from his helm. He was a tall man, towering over his guards, his face as craggy and hard as the palace bricks. Shiloh stood below in the courtyard, a mere commoner now, thousands of Beth Eloh's people around her. Even from here, it seemed to her that this general on the balcony met her gaze. That he knew her name. That he craved to hurt her.

  Shiloh knew this one. She had been to Aelar in her youth. She had seen this face before—a cruel face even then.

  "General Remus Marcellus," she whispered, fingernails digging into her palms. The Dark Eagle. The man who had crucified a hundred children in Leer. The man who had led the legions in Gefen, who had taken Shiloh's children captive.

  On the balcony, Remus raised his arm
s and cried out, voice ringing across the courtyard.

  "People of Zohar! Aelar is your friend."

  The crowd stared. Many muttered. A few cursed under their breath and spat.

  Remus continued speaking. "My name is Remus Marcellus! In his wisdom and glory, my emperor—the beloved Marcus Octavius—has named me governor of this province. Welcome, Zoharites! Welcome to the light and civilization of the Aelarian Empire."

  The grumbles rose louder now across the crowd.

  "Your king, Shefael Elior, shall remain your king," said Remus. "Your city, Beth Eloh, shall remain your home. Bend the knee to Aelar, and serve her glorious emperor, and you will live in peace and prosperity, and Aelar's glory will be your glory. Resist the Empire, and . . ."

  The general nodded.

  Below the balcony, the palace gates creaked open. Legionaries emerged from within, dragging chained prisoners.

  Shiloh covered her mouth, her eyes dampening.

  Dozens of beaten Zoharites emerged onto a sunlit dais. They wore only loincloths, and their backs bled. Chains hobbled their ankles, and crowns of thorns dug into their brows. Each prisoner held a cross, bent under the weight. Their blood dripped onto the palace stones.

  The crowd in the courtyard shouted, and some tried to rush forward, to save their comrades, but a hundred legionaries stood in their way, forming a wall with their shields. The crowd cried out in rage and fear. Epher himself cursed and tried to barrel through the crowd, but Shiloh held her son back.

  Men of Gefen, she knew, staring at the beaten prisoners. Their faces were swollen and bloody, but she knew them. Most were warriors. Men and women who had broken bread at her table, who had played with her children. Among them stood Master Malaci, the kindly old Sage of the Sea, the man who had taught Shiloh's children their numbers and letters, who had taught Jerael himself decades ago.