Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  She closed her eyes, nestling against him. She was falling asleep when the shriek rose, tearing through the hold, rousing her.

  "Slaves! Up! Are you lazy bastards here to sleep or to row?"

  Atalia opened her eyes and rose from the floor. She stared, blinking in the shadows. A woman was stepping down into the hold from the upper deck, holding a spear. She wore a dark breastplate, a skirt of studded leather strips hung halfway down her thighs, and a leather pack hung at her side. Her hair was long, wavy, and brown. Her face was sharp, almost jagged—the chin pointed, the cheekbones high, the grin tapering to daggerlike points. A grin that could cut iron.

  Atalia had never seen this woman before, but she had heard that shrill voice shrieking above deck. She had heard countless tales of this woman. Her cruelty was infamous across the world. The Aelarian Assassin. The cannibal who ate the hearts of her victims.

  "Porcia Octavius," Atalia hissed.

  The princess of Aelar walked through the hold between the rowers. Every man she passed, Porcia swung her spear like a staff. Cutting flesh. Raising screams. Spilling blood.

  "Up!" she screamed. "Lazy worms. You're not here to rest. Row!"

  Atalia grunted. They had been rowing for hours without rest. But as Porcia drove her spear into a man's foot ahead, Atalia reluctantly returned to the bench and grabbed the oar. Daor rose with her.

  The oars moved again, propelling the ship onward. Porcia kept walking down the hold, inspecting slave by slave. A cruel smile tugged back her lips, revealing teeth like those of a wolf, the fangs unnaturally long.

  When Porcia got closer, she slowed down, and her eyes narrowed.

  Keep walking, Atalia thought, staring at the whipped back of the slave before her. Just keep walking, princess.

  But Porcia stopped. She stared. Atalia refused to look at her, kept staring at that whipped back, kept rowing. Yet Porcia would not walk on.

  "It's you, isn't it?" Porcia's voice slithered, as smooth as a snake over hot stones. "The Sela whelp."

  Atalia couldn't help it. She leaped to her feet, released the oar, and raised her fists with a snarl.

  "Commander!" Daor said, trying to pull her back down, but Atalia shoved him off. She stood, her ankle chained to the floor, glaring at Porcia.

  I'm taller than her. Atalia's snarl turned into a savage grin. I'm stronger. I can break her.

  Porcia perhaps was shorter, but she wore iron armor, and she held a spear. The princess tilted her head and raised an eyebrow.

  "You've got fire to you." Porcia nodded. "I like that. I respect a strong woman. Around the Encircled Sea, too many women are meek cowards who submit to their men."

  "I submit to no one," Atalia said.

  Porcia raised her spear, bringing the blade toward Atalia's cheek. Atalia winced as the spear drew a thin line. She felt her blood drip.

  "You will submit to me," Porcia whispered, eyes ablaze with a strange fire, her grin widening. It was an inhuman grin, her lips tapering into points, revealing nearly all her teeth. A demon grin. "Once we're in Aelar, you will be mine. Mine to torment. Mine to break. My slaves last a long time in the arena, Atalia Sela. I choose the best, and I train them hard, and they do not die easily. But oh . . . they suffer. You will suffer the fangs of lions and the claws of the tigers. You will suffer the swords of the Empire's cruelest gladiators. And you will live."

  The princess pulled back her spear, brought the blade to her mouth, and licked the blood.

  Yes, I will live, Porcia, Atalia thought, staring at the princess. I will live long enough to rip out your throat.

  "I brought you a gift." Porcia reached into her pack and pulled out something round and malodorous. "Somebody you knew, I think?"

  Porcia tossed the severed head at Atalia's feet.

  Atalia screamed.

  She looked away. She retched, losing the gruel she had eaten hours ago. Daor cried out at her side. She had seen it for only a second, but Atalia knew the image would never leave her.

  Yohanan's head. Her cousin. Fallen prince of Zohar.

  "I preserved it for you," Porcia said. "I used just the right chemicals. It'll last a long time and keep you company. I thought you might miss your family down here." Porcia laughed. "In time, I'll bring you the rest of them."

  The princess's footfalls thumped as she left the hold. The ship tilted and the head rolled, vanishing into the shadows. Atalia kept gagging, eyes stinging, blood dripping.

  I will kill you, Porcia, she vowed. Put a sword in my hand, put me in the arena, and I will raise every gladiator in Aelar against you.

  "I will kill you," she whispered, tasting her bile and blood. "I swear this. I swear on my father. I swear on my god. I will kill you, Porcia Octavius."

  The ship sailed on through the night. With every stroke of the oars, Atalia imagined that she was swinging a blade, cutting Porcia's mocking face.

  VALENTINA

  Dozens of lords and ladies splashed in the water, and laughter rang through the bathhouse, but Princess Valentina Octavius felt frozen, and she could think only one thought, over and over.

  He's my father. The fool. The wretched slave. This bearded brute. I'm his daughter.

  Frescoes covered the walls around the heated pool, depicting dolphins, fish, and sea nymphs, while a mosaic adorned the pool floor, its tiles forming seashells and starfish. An aqueduct supplied water from a hot spring, steaming and aromatic. Columns surrounded the bathhouse, topped with marble statues of nude gods.

  Many of the patrons, just as naked, were far less godly, yet there was no shame here, for Aelarians believed that all flesh was but a tribute to the heavens. Generals, returned from the wars in Gael, proudly displayed their scars. Their wives chatted on the pool's rim, feet splashing in the water, their bellies and breasts stretched from childbirth and nursing.

  Valentina remained submerged, the water up to her chin. She had always felt ashamed here, her body exposed to the bathers—the body of an albino, a body she had never let anyone but Iris, her lover, see.

  But Iris is dead now, Valentina thought. You murdered her.

  The pain of Iris's death grew daily. Valentina did not think it would ever leave her. Every morning, when Valentina woke, the bed felt cold and empty without Iris by her side. Every night, when Valentina lay down to sleep, she could not bear to lie there without Iris—her lumer, her lover—in her arms. She dreamed of Iris most nights, wonderful dreams, dreams that the lumer was still alive. Dreams of Iris's dark eyes, bright smile, brave soul. And darker dreams—memories of Iris's corpse in the grass, strangled at Emperor Marcus's feet.

  Valentina lowered her head. Part of her raged at Iris. You knew! You were a lumer. You must have known that Septimus is my father! Why did you lie?

  But of course, Valentina knew why. She knew that Marcus would act to keep the secret safe. That he must have threatened Iris—knowing she would see the truth with her magic—forcing her to lie about Valentina's parentage.

  So you poisoned him, Iris, Valentina thought. You poisoned him so that you could finally tell me the truth. So that we could finally escape him. But now you're gone, and now I feel so lost.

  The water up to her neck, Valentina raised her eyes in the pool, and she stared at Marcus.

  The emperor and his memento mori bathed together. They always bathed together—Marcus and Mingo, emperor and fool, her false father and her true father.

  Emperor Marcus, though already fifty years old, still had the body of a young man, wide and muscular and bearing the scars of battle. Always Marcus brought with him his memento mori, a slave to remind the emperor of his own mortality—that all mortals, even emperors, were not truly like gods of marble but mere withering flesh. Mingo looked the part, appropriately withered. His frame was scrawny, almost skeletal, the skin wrinkled. His gray beard hung low, and his hair was a wild mess of tangles. Both men were of an age, but while Marcus lived in a palace, dining on fine fare, Mingo lived in the kennels, feeding on whatever the other slaves tossed him,
often only apple cores and bread crust.

  But he's not really named Mingo, Valentina thought. His name is Septimus Cassius. The senator who once fought Marcus, who tried to keep Aelar a republic. The man whose family I was stolen from. My father.

  Emperor Marcus stood on the rim of the pool, the steam hiding his nakedness. He raised a sponge on a stick like a scepter.

  "My friends!" the emperor called out. "We are here to celebrate the fall of Zohar!"

  Across the bathhouse, the nobles of Aelar cheered and laughed. Valentina remained silent. Lumers, she knew, could communicate over great distances, sending messages through their luminescence; the news of Zohar's fall had traveled quickly.

  The thought of Luminosity twisted Valentina's heart. To most Aelarians, lumers were like horses or mules or slaves, simple beasts to serve them. Porcia beat her lumer, the meek girl she called Worm. Seneca treated his own lumer, the mysterious Taeer, as no more than a whore.

  But I loved my lumer, Valentina thought. How must these lumers have felt—Worm, Taeer, a hundred others across Aelar—to learn that their homeland had fallen?

  "Princess Porcia and Prince Seneca will return to Aelar within a fortnight," said Marcus, "and we will hold a victorious march in their honor. As they sail across the sea, we celebrate here in a little sea of our own."

  "Hail Princess Porcia, whose sword thrusts into the hearts of her enemies, whose cruelty knows no bound!" cried Mingo the fool. He stood on the pool's edge and gave a little pirouette. "And hail Prince Seneca, whose prick thrusts into the loins of foreign whores, and whose pride is even larger!"

  The crowd roared with laughter, and Valentine felt herself blush. She hated blushing. With her pale cheeks, she always turned bright red.

  "Forgive my fool!" said the emperor, laughing. Marcus only ever laughed around Mingo. "He's honest to a fault."

  He's honest, but he's no fool, Valentina thought, looking at the pair. The truth still shocked her. The truth Iris had hidden from her. The truth Mingo had finally revealed.

  Valentina found herself trembling. All her life, she had felt different from the Octavius family. Her face rounder. Her heart gentler. No statues of Valentina rose in the city, while statues of Marcus, Porcia, and Seneca soared in the Acropolis, watching over the Empire. So yes, the truth shocked her . . . and yet felt as true and comforting as a mother's embrace.

  And if Marcus discovers that I know, he will strangle me. He will kill me like he killed Iris. Like he killed my true brothers.

  Yes, Valentina had heard those stories. The nobles and soldiers no longer spoke of them—they dared not—but servants and slaves dared, whispering in halls and deep chambers beneath the palaces, places where Valentina often sought refuge from the court, often heard the secrets that echoed.

  It had been nearly two decades ago that General Marcus Octavius, the hero who had conquered many lands, had finally conquered his own land. That day, he had marched into the Senate, announced himself the Emperor of Aelar, demanded the senators serve him . . . and plunged Aelar into a bitter civil war.

  The war had raged for years. Septimus Cassius, consul of the Senate, had refused to bend the knee to Marcus, had summoned armies to his call. The Cassius family fought bravely, nearly freed Aelar from Marcus's grasp. But its armies fell. The House of Cassius shattered. When the war ended, the Senate remained standing—half its senators slain, the others sworn to serve Emperor Marcus Octavius, to run his empire for him while he conquered all lands still remaining around the Encircled Sea.

  Septimus Cassius remained too—his toga replaced with a loincloth, his back bent, his beard long, his mind and body broken—now a fool named Mingo. Forced to linger on while his sons lay buried. Forced to forever see his old enemy shine, his beloved Republic gone.

  And forced to see me, Valentina thought. Septimus's youngest daughter. Her eyes teared up. Marcus not only wanted my father to see his glory. He wanted him to see me—to see me raised as his enemy's daughter. For nobody else to know the horrible truth. But I know the truth now. Anger flared inside her as she stared at Marcus through the mist of the bathhouse. I know who you are, Marcus Octavius. I know that you murdered my lover. I know that you murdered my true brothers. I know that you think Mingo is but a fool, but he's not. His spirit is not yet broken. He is still Septimus Cassius, the senator who defied you, and he is still my father.

  "Behold!" cried Mingo-who-was-Septimus, interrupting her thoughts. "I am the great Emperor Marcus! See my magnificence!"

  The bearded, naked slave was standing on the aqueduct that delivered heated water to the pool. On tiptoes, arms windmilling, the fool walked along the stone rim of the aqueduct.

  "Be careful, Emperor Marcus!" cried a lady from the pool, tittering. "You will fall and split your imperial head!"

  "Nonsense!" Mingo cried. "I am crossing the Ponatius Bridge over the rushing Volaga River, on my way to crush the barbarians of Gael." He took another few steps along the aqueduct, moving toward the pool. "I am as immortal as the gods, my body made of iron, my piss molten gold." He gave a pirouette. "Behold my glory, I—"

  With a yelp, Mingo fell. Valentina's heart leaped. The slave nearly hit the rim of the pool. By a miracle, he missed the hard stones and crashed into the water. The crowd of bathers roared with laughter and clapped their hands.

  "Be careful, O Glorious Emperor Marcus!" said the true Marcus.

  The bearded slave nodded in the water. "The stones are slippery, dominus. Far more dangerous than a horde of Gaelian barbarians."

  "Far more dangerous indeed!" agreed Marcus, laughing. "Now go swim, my fool, for you still stink of the dogs you lie with. Go bathe while I speak to my generals."

  Mingo swam on his back, spurting out water like a fountain. Bathers laughed and fled from his advance. Some of the younger women cringed in disgust, and their lovers—rugged, laughing men—protected them in their arms from the withered creature swimming by.

  My father, Valentina thought. The fool. The creature. A pathetic wretch to fear and mock. And I would prefer him as a father over Marcus—any day.

  She noticed that he was swimming toward her, arms flailing and splashing. Valentina remained frozen in the bathhouse, the hot water rising up to her chin. She wanted to flee. If the emperor saw her talking to Mingo, he would suspect. He would kill Mingo, perhaps kill Valentina herself. She knew this. Marcus couldn't know that Valentina had learned the truth; it was impossible. Yet as the fool swam toward her, she found herself frozen.

  He swam by her, then paused for just a breath. When he gazed at her, his face changed—for just a heartbeat. The folly left his eyes. Suddenly, even bearded and wild as he was, Mingo was Senator Septimus Cassius again. The man who had governed the Republic. The man who had resisted the Empire.

  "Midnight," he whispered. "The wharfs."

  His eyes stared into hers—somber, serious, intelligent eyes . . . then once more the eyes of a fool. He spurted water upward, then swam on, sending a group of young bathers fleeing.

  That evening, Valentina lay in her bed, feeling so alone, so cold. She hugged her pillows, tucked her blankets under her feet, but still felt so empty. She missed Iris. She tried to imagine her lumer—her kind brown eyes, smooth black hair, smiling lips—but she kept seeing the corpse on the grass, naked and strangled, Emperor Marcus standing above.

  Finally Valentina rose from bed and donned her simplest stola, a mere sheet of white linen bound with a silver fibula. Over it, she wrapped a gray cloak. She tiptoed out of her chambers, made her way down the corridor, and into the gardens. As she passed that place—the place where Iris had died—Valentina quickened her step. Soon she left the palace grounds.

  The Aelarian Acropolis spread around her across the hills, the center of the city, of the Empire's glory. Triumphal arches, columned temples, the great library, the amphitheater, the colossal statues of Marcus and his children—all rose across the Acropolis, the greatest buildings in the world. Stories told that Nur had towering pyramids, taller than bu
ildings here, but that they were crude, ugly things. They said that Zohar had palaces of wonder, but that they were ancient, craggy, crumbling, mere relics of lost glory. Here was the true heart of the civilized world, here in the center of Aelar, yet Valentina felt trapped.

  She reached into her pocket and felt Iris's letter there. Its words echoed in her mind.

  Find a swift ship. Sail to Zohar, and come to a city called Gefen on the coast. You will walk along the beach there, admiring the seashells and smooth stones and palm trees, and you will feel great peace, the peace of lume flowing across you, soothing all your fear, all your pain. And as you walk there, you will see a girl . . .

  The pain seemed too great for Valentina to bear. She had come so close to fleeing. To sailing to Zohar with Iris. To escaping this place of lies, poison, secrets, so much fear. But Iris was gone now, and Valentina would never walk along that eastern beach with the woman she loved.

  She walked between temples, making her way downhill, until she left the Acropolis. She moved through the city. Aelar was large, and it was a long walk to the wharfs. She could have taken her horse, but horses drew attention. This night Valentina moved like a shadow, wrapped in her cloak, disguised as a mere commoner. She tugged her hood low, hiding her white face, white hair, and colorless eyes, a countenance all in Aelar would recognize. Clouds hid the moon, and the oil street lamps could not penetrate the shadows of her hood.

  She walked for hours. She walked down street after street, between brick homes with tiled roofs, past columned temples, along the river, through a grove of cypresses. With every step, fear grew in her heart, and she wanted to run back to the palace, or hide in an alleyway, or flee the city altogether. Yet she forced herself to keep going. To find him. Her father.

  Finally, in the darkness, she reached Aelaria Maritima, the port of Aelar.

  At once Valentina realized the folly of her journey here. Aelaria Maritima was massive. Of course it was. She had been here before, several times, but in her distress and fear, she had not paused to consider its size. The boardwalk stretched for a league or longer. Great breakwaters thrust into the sea, lined with towers and colonnades. Hundreds of buildings rose here, maybe thousands—taverns, houses, workshops, temples, bathhouses, gymnasiums, even theaters. Just the port of Aelar was a city in its own right, bustling with activity even at midnight. Prostitutes leaned against statues of old heroes, breasts exposed. Legionaries gambled in taverns, and drunkards swayed along the boardwalk. Beggars lurked in shadows, and youths were playing with wooden swords. The smell of fish, tar, sweat, and ale filled Aelaria Maritima, and lanterns swung on the masts of a thousand anchored ships.