Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  "My prince?" she asked, raising her eyes in concern.

  Her fingers worked, but nothing happened, and Seneca closed his eyes.

  "Hold me," he whispered.

  They held him, one at each side, their arms wrapped around him.

  "Just hold me," he whispered. "Please. Please. Just tell me it will be all right."

  "It will be all right," Mariana said softly, stroking his hair.

  Calina kissed his cheek. "My desert hero."

  He screwed his eyes shut, unable to stop the tears from flowing, unable to stop seeing the dead, unable to stop seeing himself swinging the hammer. He missed Ofeer. He missed being a boy, a boy unaware of war, of the war in Zohar, of the war here in Aelar. He wept.

  I'm sorry, he thought. I'm sorry, Jerael. I'm sorry, Ofeer. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

  He couldn't stop shaking, couldn't stop crying, even as Mariana and Calina held him, until finally he slept in their arms, and he dreamed that he lay with Ofeer back in a villa overlooking the sea.

  VALENTINA

  Valentina approached her sister slowly, hands clasped behind her back, breath trembling.

  No, Valentina thought. No, not my sister. She's the daughter of Marcus, and I'm the daughter of Septimus, and I fear her more than ever.

  "Porcia?" she whispered, her voice shaking. Her heart seemed ready to leap from her chest.

  Five years her senior, Porcia stood at the stone altar in the dark bowels of the Temple of Camulus, the god of war. The stench of blood and raw meat filled the stone chamber. Flies buzzed. When Valentina stepped closer, she saw what Porcia was doing, and she nearly gagged. The princess was kneeling over a corpse—a human corpse—digging her knife through its chest.

  "Valentina!" Porcia raised her eyes from her work, smiling. Blood stained her hands.

  Valentina stood frozen, wanting to flee. The blood dripped across the stone altar, reflecting the light of the lanterns that hung on the walls, then ran in rivulets across the mosaic on the floor.

  "I . . . Porcia, what . . ." Valentina stammered.

  The princess placed down her knife. The body gave a twitch—still alive!—then lay still. Valentina could barely tell if the body was old or young, man or woman; it had been mutilated beyond recognition, the organs pulled out and arranged across the altar, as a soothsayer might seek the future in the organs of a hen.

  "One of the captives from Zohar," Porcia said. "An old man. Weak with disease. Would have been useless in the slave market." She looked toward an obsidian statue of the God of War, towering and dark, glaring with stone eyes across the temple. "A good sacrifice for Camulus, though."

  Valentina couldn't bear to look at the grisly scene. All her life, she had feared Porcia. The girl who would stone cats and behead them for sport. Who would laugh as lions devoured gladiators in the arena. Who herself would fight prisoners, slaying them for the crowds, then rip out their hearts. Valentina had often feared that this cruel blood flowed through her own veins.

  Thank the gods I'm a daughter of Cassius, Valentina thought. But Porcia doesn't know. She must never know. If she knows I'm not her sister, she'll sacrifice me on this altar too.

  Porcia stepped toward her and embraced her, bloodying Valentina's stola. The woman still wore her dark armor, the breastplate dented and scratched and flecked with old blood, and her blades still hung from her belt.

  "Sister!" Porcia said and kissed Valentina's cheek. "Where were you today? Why didn't you come see your older sister return victorious from war? You should have come see the Triumphal Parade! Seneca and I paraded the captives through the entire city. A few died on the way. It was glorious."

  Valentina had seen one Triumphal Parade before—her father leading the captives of Phedia a decade ago, when she had been only a child. Valentina had refused to witness those marches of splendor and death since.

  She forced herself to embrace Porcia, to kiss her cheek.

  I must play this game for a while longer. Until we're ready. Until the spiders strike.

  "Where is Seneca?" Valentina asked. "I thought I'd find him here too."

  In truth, it was Seneca she had come to see, Seneca she had always loved. Throughout her childhood, Valentina had always feared Porcia. She had seen Porcia's madness, even then—seen the youth strike her servants, brutalize her little brother, even condemn a cook to crucifixion for burning her favorite dish. True, Valentina herself had never suffered this wrath; Porcia had always seen her as a pet, a precious little thing to protect, to possess. Yet if Porcia showed her some twisted love, Valentina could not return it; she could feel no tenderness to the woman she'd seen skin a dog alive for the Robigalia, laughing as the animal screamed. But Seneca—he had always been the only family Valentina loved, a love not born of duty nor fear but true affection. Seneca had always been kind to her, had always played with her in the gardens, listened to her sing her songs, even played dolls with her. To Marcus and Porcia, Valentina had always been a possession; to Seneca she was a sister.

  I'm not your true sister, Seneca, Valentina thought, but I still love you.

  Porcia scoffed. "Our cowardly brother has no time to pray to the god of war, not even after a campaign. For centuries, the victors of Aelar, after a Triumphal Parade, would come here, to this place—to worship Camulus, to sacrifice blood to him. But Seneca is weak. Seneca is a sniveling pup, not a conqueror. I saw him flee the Acropolis, tears in his eyes. He's probably spending the night in a brothel." Shaking her head in disgust, Porcia returned to the altar. She drove her blade back into the corpse, carving out another organ. "Will you pray with me, Valentina? I can fetch another slave for you to sacrifice. It's a great honor to Camulus."

  Valentina shook her head. "I'm no warrior, Porcia. I know how to sing, to play the lyre, to recite poetry, not to kill." She bowed her head. "I'll go find Seneca. I'll bring him home."

  Porcia snorted. "Let him rot, wherever he is. You spend too much time with the boy. You're a woman now, Valentina. No longer a child. You must learn the ways of death and conquest."

  I will learn, Valentina thought, and I will kill, but not like you think.

  She bowed her head and retreated from the temple.

  Valentina walked through the dark Acropolis, moving among temples, the palace, the amphitheater, the Senate. Wrapped in a cloak and hood, she stepped through the Imperium Gate, entering the outer city. The Acropolis—the inner city where those in power dwelled—was a place of marble columns, golden statues, of splendor and glory and knives that stabbed in the dark. The rest of Aelar, spreading around the Acropolis's hills, was a different place—a place of narrow streets, of apartment buildings that rose seven or eight stories tall, of taverns full of drunkards, of brothels full of lechers, of pickpockets and gamblers and ten-denarii whores.

  Valentina knew where to find Seneca. The same place she had dragged him back from a dozen times. She walked through the night, wrapped in her cloak. When she passed by a pair of drunken, rowdy men, her heart leaped, and she hurried down the street. A legionary stood at a street corner, ignoring a legless beggar. A few people leaned off their balconies, staring down as they smoked hintan pipes. If anyone recognized her, Valentina knew, they wouldn't hesitate to kidnap, even to kill her; she was a princess of Aelar, worth a fortune in ransom, alive or dead. But she had become an expert at hiding her white hair under her hood, for choosing the right shadows to slink through.

  It was here, in this warren, that Valentina had been meeting her father—her true father—for several nights in a row now. Whispering. Planning in the shadows. Sharpening their blades. Here she was a shadow herself.

  Soon the houses grew larger, and Valentina passed down rows of small villas—the homes of Aelar's more prosperous merchants, officials, and tradesmen. Simple porticos, four columns a piece, rose along their patios, and many had humble gardens and even private pools. Down a few more streets, Valentina came across it—the Lunapar.

  The brothel rose two stories tall, its windows made of cost
ly glass, its door elaborately carved with phalli and dancing nude women. It was one of the nicest of such establishments in the city. Valentina had seen her share of senators and generals slink through this carved doorway. Some claimed that it was from the Lunapar, not the palace or the Senate, that Aelar was governed.

  Valentina entered the brothel and pulled back her hood. The women at the door recognized her, embraced her, kissed her cheek; she had come here often enough to pick up her drunken brother. Valentina made her way across the common room, stepping across lush rugs between murals depicting all the ways to make love, murals that made her blush and look away. She climbed upstairs, trailing her hand across a balustrade carved into the shape of nude men and women, and made her way to the room down the corridor—his usual room.

  When she stepped inside, she found Seneca asleep in bed. Two prostitutes lay at his sides, naked, blinking and rising from slumber. It was still dark outside, but several oil lanterns glowed on the walls. At a gesture from Valentina, the pair of women rose from the bed, pulled sheets over themselves, and left the chamber.

  Valentina walked closer to the bed and stood over Seneca. He lay on his back, still asleep, the lamplight on his face. Valentina sighed.

  You poor boy, she thought.

  During the days, Seneca wore elaborate armor, carried sword and spear, rode in fine chariots, and boasted of his prowess in battle and bed. Lying here, naked, he seemed so small to Valentina, so weak. Only a young man, not yet twenty. Thin—too thin, she thought. His face soft, his hair fawn brown.

  Just a child.

  "Seneca," she said.

  He blinked and moaned. "Wine."

  She sat on the bed and placed her hand on his chest. "Brother, wake up."

  "Wine!" he said. "Damn it, bring me wine. I need wine before I fuck you. I—" His eyes finally focused, and he blinked at Valentina, then gasped and tugged the blanket up his chest. "Valentina! What the fuck are you doing here?"

  She glared at him. "I've come to drag you home. You're drunk. Or hungover." She sniffed. He stank of old wine. "I think you're both drunk and hungover at the same time, and I didn't even know that was possible."

  He tried to rise onto his elbows, swayed, and fell onto his back. He reached toward a side table, pawing at a flagon of wine, and knocked it over. The crimson wine soaked the rug.

  "Gods damn it!" Seneca said, tears in his eyes. "Wine! I want win—"

  Valentina slapped him. "Enough wine."

  He hissed and clutched his red cheek, staring at her with frightened, bloodshot eyes. "You hit me."

  She raised her palm. "And I'll hit you again. And again. Until you come to your senses. Seneca, you returned to Aelar a war hero. Porcia is receiving adulation in the Acropolis. And you cower here with wine and sex and self-pity."

  A tear now ran down his cheek. He looked away from her, still lying in bed. "You don't understand, Valentina," he whispered. "I . . . I saw things. I saw men burning, still alive, running in flames. I saw a man with his legs cut off, running on the stumps. I killed people." He looked back at her, eyes haunted, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I crucified somebody."

  His tears were falling freely now, and Valentina's rage ebbed. She pulled him up and embraced him.

  "It's over now," she said. "It's over, sweet brother. The war is over. You won. I'm here with you now, to take care of you, to love you."

  Seneca sobbed, holding her close. "Thank you. My sweet Valentina." He caressed her milk-white hair, his fingers trembling. "What would I be without my little sister?"

  You have only an older sister, Valentina thought, and she is a murderous monster. I'm just one who still loves you.

  She kissed his cheek. "Come, Seneca. Put on some clothes. Return with me to the palace."

  He rose from bed, grabbed a tunic, and pulled it over his body. It was no proper attire for a prince, merely what soldiers wore beneath their armor, but evidently he had come here wearing nothing else. He stared ruefully at the spilled wine, then back at Valentina.

  "Not yet. I did something bad, Valentina. Something I need to fix." He took a shuddering breath. "Go home and wait for me. My war is not yet done."

  MAYA

  She thought the journey would never end. She thought that this was her life now—a sack of beaten meat, burnt in the sun, withering away and praying for death. She thought that this was death. She thought this was an eternity of torment, an unending sacrifice to a cruel god.

  The shamans far in northern Gael, Maya had once read in a scroll, believed that the souls of sinners froze forever in an underworld of ice, but Maya could not believe that. A torturous afterlife could not be cold. Torture was hot. It was the sun. It was the unending desert of sand.

  And it was rope—rope that dug into her wrists and ankles.

  And it was stench—the stench of the men who surrounded her, of the camel that bore her.

  And it was the sound of them, the horrible sound of their hawking, their spitting, their guttural laughter as they taunted her, the sound of their leather whips as they cracked in the air, as they slammed into her.

  Another day began—another day after an eternity of days. A day of captivity, stolen by the bone-raiders.

  Maya dared open her eyes, dared stare into the searing light, though as always the sight made her shiver, made her stomach writhe. She lay slung across a camel like a sack, bound and gagged. The bone-raiders rode around her on their own camels. She couldn't tell how many rode here; she had tried to count them, sometimes counting eight, other times a dozen. The men never removed their white robes and hoods, and masks formed of skulls hid their faces. Only their eyes were visible, bright blue like fires of the sky. Their camels too wore their own masks, theirs made from the skulls of fallen camels, strapped across their faces with leather thongs. Sometimes Maya thought the bone-raiders mortal men, their mounts mere camels, but often she thought them undead chimeras, fused together, risen from the sand and tasked with tormenting the living.

  She was trussed up like a lamb to the slaughter, bouncing on her camel, her body whipped, burnt in the sunlight, weary with thirst and hunger. She could barely muster the strength to raise her head. She looked around her, squinting in the sunlight. Dawn had only just risen, but already it was banishing the cold of night, replacing it with scorching heat. She had lost count of how many days and nights they had ridden. The bone-raiders never set camp. If they ate and slept, they did so in their saddles, an existence of ever moving onward, cutting across the dunes.

  Maya twisted her neck from side to side, and finally she saw him. Leven hung across a camel farther back. The animal was a haggard beast, wearing its bone mask, a ghastly countenance painted with dry blood. The young thief who had once stolen Maya's camel was now a camel's captive. The irony did not escape Maya, weary as she was. Leven too was bound and gagged, tied to the camel like just another sack of supplies. He met her gaze and winked, and he seemed to grin around his gag. Maya decided that nothing could dampen Leven's spirits, not if the demon Dagon himself rose from the sand to brand him with fiery rods.

  "Drink." The guttural voice spoke beside her. "Drink."

  She turned her head to see one of the bone-raiders approach on foot. The wind gusted around him, billowing his robes and raising demons of sand. His blue eyes blazed through the sockets of his skull mask. He held a drinking skin, which he uncorked and held up to her mouth. He tore off her gag.

  "Drink," he repeated. His voice was boulders grinding together. "Drink."

  She remembered the last time he had forced the liquid into her mouth. It had left her body as soon as it had entered, and her belly had roiled for hours. When she shook her head, the raider grabbed her jaw, prying it open, and forced the liquid into her mouth. It was a viscous stew, hot and thick with meat and oil, like drinking raw death. Maya gagged, but the raider kept the liquid pouring as she sputtered, struggling to swallow.

  Finally the man pulled the skin free from her mouth. He laughed. "Khasan! Good for you. Keep y
ou alive."

  He spoke in Sekadian, the language of the east, but Maya understood him. She had read many scrolls in Sekadian back home, and several Elohist songs were chanted in this tongue, for the children of Zohar had once been slaves here in the eastern desert. Khasan meant strength, she thought—liquid strength.

  "It tastes like a buzzard's ass," she told the bone-raider, hoping she was speaking Sekadian correctly. When the man laughed, she assumed she was.

  I can make them laugh, Maya thought, wincing to remember the beatings she had endured. If I can make them laugh, maybe they won't hurt me anymore.

  They rode onward. They always rode onward. At first Maya had thought the desert the same every day. She had been wrong. The desert was like the sea—different whenever you looked at it. One day, as they rode atop a great dune the size of a mountain, Maya beheld ruins below, half-buried in the sand. Rows of columns rose, their capitals shaped as snarling bats. Statues lay fallen, growling silently, shaped as chimeras of lions, serpents, goats, and other creatures morphed together. Another day, Maya saw the bones of great creatures in the sand—massive creatures, as large as the whales from the stories. Their ribs rose like porticos of columns, and their skulls lay in the sand, teeth like swords. She wondered if a sea had once covered this desert, if whales had died here, but when she saw bones stretch out from the spines, she wondered if these had been wings, if she gazed upon the remains of dragons.

  At nights the temperature dropped so low Maya shivered on the camel. When she twisted her head around, she could see the stars—countless stars, great blankets of them, rivers of them flowing above. One morning, clouds gathered and a drizzle fell, and a rainbow spread across the sky, arching from horizon to horizon. Millions of white flowers bloomed from the sand, roused by the rain, a carpet of white that coated the desert, then wilted, gone within an hour.

  Some days the camels rode closer together to pass through a gorge. One time, traversing the narrow passageway, Maya found herself riding near Leven—both slumped across their camels like sacks. Soon they were so close Maya could touch her cheek to his. They whispered to each other through their gags, voices muffled, words slurred—a little bit of companionship, a little bit of home.