Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  Epher trembled with rage. How could his mother debase herself so? Had she knelt like this nineteen years ago before Marcus Octavius raped her, placing Ofeer in her belly? How long would Zohar kneel while the Empire butchered, enslaved, and raped their nation?

  We are a hundred thousand souls in this city, Epher thought. A million other Zoharites live beyond these walls. We can rise up. We can kill them. We can take back our homeland. With stones, with breadknives, with farm tools. He dug his fingernails into his palms. Like we slew six legionaries in the courtyard, we can slay them all.

  Remus stared down at the kneeling Shiloh. His brow furrowed, and he looked up and stared at Epher. Their eyes met. Epher stared back, fists clenched, unable to hide the rage on his face. Remus's eyes were heartless, almost like the eyes of a corpse. The prefect spoke to Shiloh, but he kept his gaze on Epher.

  "Very well, Shiloh Sela," Remus said. "I will spare the six hundred . . . in exchange for one life. Your son's."

  "Dominus!" King Shefael said. The burly man lolloped forth, cheeks flushing. "Perhaps I can offer another lord from my court, or—"

  "Please, Lord Remus!" Shiloh said, tears in her eyes. "Not him. I beg you. I've already lost a son. I—"

  "Go away, cunt!" Olive was screaming at Remus, clutching Epher's arm as if to protect him. "Get lost! Get lost, whore! Fucking whore!"

  Legionaries across the balcony smirked, and everyone seemed to be talking at once, and below in the city the screams still rose and the rams still swung. Through the chaos, Epher remained very still, not breaking his stare. Remus stared back into his eyes, and finally Epher saw a hint of humanity on that stony face.

  Remus was smiling.

  "Yes," Epher whispered.

  Nobody seemed to hear him. Shiloh was still begging, Shefael was stuttering and mumbling and saying something about Epher being his dear cousin, and Olive was still shrieking curses. Epher and Remus kept staring at each other.

  "Yes," Epher repeated, louder now. "Yes! I'll do this. Take me, Remus. Nail me into a cross and spare the lives of six hundred of my people. This is Zoharite pride. This is Zoharite compassion."

  Remus didn't have to say anything, only to nod. His legionaries stepped across the balcony and grabbed Epher, tugging his arms behind his back, shoving Olive aside. The young woman screamed, cursed, spat, kicked, scratched, only for legionaries to grab her limbs and pin her to the ground.

  "Remus, no!" Shiloh cried, stepped toward him, trying to reach him. "Lord Remus, I beg you! Take me. Take me instead."

  "Epher, no!" Olive screamed from the ground. "Olive love you. Olive love—" A legionary gagged her.

  "Take him to the dungeon beneath the palace," Remus said. "At dawn, he'll bear his cross for the city to see. All of Beth Eloh will hear the screams of Epheriah Sela, the Prince of Rats."

  "I won't scream," Epher said. And he knew that he was lying.

  As his mother cried out, as Olive flailed on the floor, as Shefael still mumbled and wrung his hands, the legionaries manhandled Epher across the courtyard. He held his head high, refusing to let himself be dragged.

  "I die saving life," he said, loud enough for the others to hear. "Everyone across the Empire will see that Zohar loves life and Aelar craves death."

  His mother was on her knees, crying out, tears on her cheeks. Olive stared at him from the floor, legionaries still pinning her down, love in her eyes.

  Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Olive. I love you.

  They dragged him off the courtyard, down underground, down into darkness, down into the long, cold, last night of his life.

  OFEER

  "Why?" Ofeer asked, staring out the window at the gardens, her eyes burning. "Why did you buy me?"

  Seneca placed a hand on her shoulder. "To bring you here. To this palace. To live with me."

  She wheeled around toward him. They stood in his suite, which occupied several rooms in the eastern wing of the palace. This room, brightly sunlit, was the library. Through two doors at the back, she could see corridors leading toward his bedchamber, a personal armory, and other rooms she hadn't yet explored. Ofeer remembered comforting him in the Sela library in the villa on Pine Hill, a dusty, crowded place full of scrolls in rough alcoves. This library put that old chamber to shame. Here countless scrolls stood on shelves, wrapped around giltwood rollers, topped with silver eagles, each a masterpiece. Scrolls about warfare, about plants and animals, about history, about the lineages of Aelar, scrolls of stories and myths.

  Maya would love it here, Ofeer knew. But she herself had no use for these scrolls. She wanted answers. She wanted truth. She wanted to stop being tossed through her life like driftwood in a storm, to find who she was, who she could be.

  "You brought me here as a slave," Ofeer said, gesturing down at her garment. She no longer wore her fine, dyed stola, the dress of a noblewoman. Instead, Seneca had clad her in a simple white tunic. Her captors had seized her eagle pendant from around her neck. Instead she wore a crude iron collar. From it hung a metal tag, like one a dog might wear, and upon it were engraved words: I have escaped! If you find me, return me to the Acropolis, to Prince Seneca Octavius, for a thousand denarius reward.

  Seneca nodded. "That's what you are now. A slave. A slave I purchased."

  Ofeer hissed and grabbed his shoulders, digging her fingernails past his toga and into his skin. "You said you'd bring me here as your princess."

  Seneca raised an eyebrow. "Did I? I believe I called it 'concubine.' That you will still be, just wearing an iron collar instead of a golden necklace." He shrugged. "I took you here in my chariot of gold, Ofeer. You stood at my side—with me, a prince of Aelar!—clad in splendor, waving to a crowd of a million souls. You chose to flee that life. You chose to join the slaves. You brought this upon yourself. Be thankful that I saved you from whatever wretched scum might have bought you. I paid good money for you, Ofeer. If I hadn't, you'd no doubt have been sold to a brothel, made an expensive whore."

  "And what am I now then, if not an expensive whore?"

  "My expensive whore." He snorted. "You'd be fucking twenty men a night at the brothels."

  "And you can only manage twice a night," she said, stiffly. "I suppose I should be grateful."

  He reached for her breast. "I can manage three times a night. I've proven that to you."

  She shoved his hand away, shuddering. She swore that she would never let him touch her again. Never. He did not know who she was, did not know they were half siblings.

  I have two fathers, Ofeer thought. One whom we share. One whom you murdered.

  His eyes narrowed, kindled with anger. "Perhaps I should have left you in the market."

  "Perhaps you should have left me in Zohar," she said.

  His laughter snorted out from him. "You begged me to take you to Aelar. You begged me! I hadn't known you for an hour, and you were dragging me into the cave and tugging off your dress."

  Ofeer looked away from him, eyes stinging now. "I was a fool."

  She meant those words. What she wouldn't give to turn back time, to go back to that day, to run—to run from him, run from this cruel prince, this twisted family, this whole twisted empire.

  "So what do you want from me?" Seneca said. "To send you back? Zohar is fallen, Ofeer. Fallen! There is nothing but Aelar now. Nothing but a great empire that sprawls around the Encircled Sea."

  "There is Gael." Ofeer met his gaze, chin raised. "Gael still fights."

  She thought back to the battle at sea, how the Gaelian fleet had smashed into the Aelarian armada, how so many ships had sunk, how so many had died—Atalia perhaps among them.

  "Then go there." Seneca snickered. "Flee this palace in the dead of night, and whore your way across the northern roads until you reach the forests, and go to the bearded barbarians, and tell them: I am Ofeer, a girl who never held anything heavier than a cock, give me a sword and let me fight with you!"

  "Yours is particularly lightweight," she said.

  He snorted and turned
toward the window. He stared outside at the gardens where flowers bloomed and birds sang. A sigh ran through him, and his anger seemed to melt. "Perhaps I should join you there. Perhaps we should both travel to Gael and fight with the brutes. The gods know when Porcia becomes empress, there'll be no more place for me here."

  Ofeer felt her own rage die down. She stepped closer to him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and looked outside the window too. The gardens sprawled between marble columns, each one topped with a statue of a god or mythological creature. Pebbly paths spread between thickets and fruit trees, and a fountain rose beyond flowerbeds.

  In the distance, Ofeer could see the famous Princess Valentina, Seneca's younger sister. The girl was fabled across the Empire, famous for her kind demeanor and strange appearance. The girl was an albino, her hair milky white, her skin like a sheet. Ofeer could see that even from this distance, and she envied the girl.

  We're of an age, Ofeer knew, Valentina and I. Both the daughters of Marcus Octavius. But while she's white and was raised in a palace, I'm dark and was raised in the desert. I would very much like to speak to you, Valentina.

  But at that moment, Ofeer looked away from the princess and looked at the prince instead.

  "So you spoke to him?" Ofeer said. "You spoke to your father, and you told him what I coached you to say?"

  Seneca nodded. "I did. I told him everything. Just like we practiced. That ports are what make Aelar powerful, and that I conquered the last port in the Encircled Sea. I told him that I conquered the city with blood and fire, and that Porcia merely struck a deal with a king who had already sat on the throne, essentially changing nothing. But . . ." He looked down. "Porcia was convincing. She boasted of defeating Yohanan, yes, like we predicted. But she also said other things. How the lume matters more than a port, and how Beth Eloh is the fountain of lume, the place where we get our lumers. And how making deals with puppet kings is what gives Aelar its true strength, more than the might of our swords. Father seemed impressed with her. She humiliated me, Ofeer." Bitterness twisted his voice. "Everything I said, she somehow turned against me. She made me look like a callow boy, herself a seasoned leader. Father didn't name an heir, not on the spot. He'll announce his heir tomorrow. Tomorrow, Ofeer! He'll hold great games to celebrate ten years since defeating Phedia, and there—over the corpses in the arena—he'll reveal his choice. When we spoke, he favored Porcia. I could see it in his eyes. Tomorrow, Ofeer. Tomorrow it ends."

  Ofeer sucked in air and stared at a shelf. Her eyes landed on a scroll labelled A History of Leer. The kingdom of Leer was well known in Zohar—a kingdom that had rebelled against Aelar, that was effaced off the map, all its halls toppled, all its inhabitants slain. Should Porcia ascend to the throne, would Zohar too be destroyed, and all other kingdoms around the Encircled Sea?

  True, Porcia had not destroyed Beth Eloh, if the stories were to be believed, merely turned cousin Shefael into a client king. Yet she had done this to impress Marcus Octavius. Porcia had also arrived in Gefen and tossed a severed member at Seneca. Porcia was also rumored to carve the hearts out of her enemies and feast upon them. Porcia had also dragged severed heads behind her chariots through the streets of Aelar. Such a woman, made empress, would not hesitate to plunge the world into chaos and bloodshed worse than anything Marcus Octavius had ever done. Zohar would not merely be a province under her reign; it would be a graveyard.

  Ofeer shuddered. Seneca was perhaps cowardly, proud, maybe even wicked. But she could manipulate him. With the right words, some sharp and some soft, Ofeer could bend Seneca to her will. If he sat on the throne of Aelar, and she served at his side—even just as a slave—she could still wield some influence.

  But Porcia? Ofeer could not even imagine what an inferno this world would become with that madwoman ruling it.

  I cannot let Porcia reign. For the sake of Zohar. For the sake of my family. For the sake of the entire world, Porcia must not ascend.

  She turned back toward Seneca. "So he hasn't decided yet," she said. "Not a final decision, in any case. You have until tomorrow to sway him. There's still hope for you."

  He laughed mirthlessly. "What hope? What can I possibly do in the last few hours? Am I to launch a new campaign this morning, maybe conquer all of Gael by tomorrow? Perhaps bring Sekadia down to its knees before dawn? Unless you can figure out a way to do that, it's hopeless."

  Ofeer grabbed him. "Do not abandon hope now. Are you a prince or a weakling? There's still something you can do—something to sway your father's mind."

  "What?" His eyes narrowed and his breath shook.

  Ofeer turned away from him, staring outside the window, silent.

  "What?" Seneca said, louder this time, and pulled her back toward him.

  She raised her chin. "I'll offer you my counsel, Seneca, but not for free. No longer. I'll tell you how you can win your inheritance. And in exchange, I want something."

  "What, your freedom?"

  She shook her head. "No." She stared into his eyes, refusing to show weakness. "I want you to find out what happened to my siblings. Find who bought Koren at the slave market, and buy him for a higher price. Bring him here, to serve in this palace, with me. I would not have my brother toiling in the fields or mines, not when he can be a palace slave at my side. And . . . my other siblings. Epher. Atalia. Maya. Pull strings. Consult with your lumer. Bring me news of them, and make sure no harm will come to them. If you promise me this, I will counsel you."

  "You ask a lot." His face flushed with anger. "You ask too much."

  She shrugged and turned away. "So let Porcia become heiress."

  Seneca groaned. "I'll buy Koren for you, all right? I can promise you that. The boy won't be hard to find. As for the others, well, that bitch Atalia is dead. Drowned in the sea. I can tell you that already. As for Epher and Maya . . . I'll get my lumer to use her Sight, but I can't promise that you'll like the news." He grabbed her arm, spinning her back toward him. "Now tell me. What do I do?"

  Ofeer smiled crookedly and touched his cheek. "If you cannot glorify your own position in your father's eyes, you can do the next best thing. You can tarnish Porcia."

  "Tarnish Porcia?" He frowned. "How? The woman is a goddamn heroine in my father's eyes. She's strong. She's cruel. She's adored by all."

  "Not by all." Ofeer shook her head, remembering what she had seen back in Zohar. "Porcia has an enemy. One who hates her more than you or I ever could. An enemy who knows her more than you or I ever could. Everybody has some dirt under their fingernails, even heroines like Porcia. Everyone has skeletons in their closet that, if released, could destroy them. You must simply go to the right source."

  "Who?" Seneca said. "Who would have the dirt on Porcia?"

  Ofeer smiled. "Her lumer. Worm."

  SENECA

  He slunk through the palace at night, barefoot, barely daring to breathe, sure that his heartbeat was so loud the entire city could hear.

  The corridor spread before him. He passed by libraries, a chapel, a private bathhouse, armories, and the chambers of servants. He moved toward her wing of the palace. Her little empire within an empire. The realm of Porcia Octavius.

  His older sister occupied the southern section of the palace, the one overlooking the Amphitheatrum. While Seneca kept his chambers mostly clean and neat, here was a grisly realm. A deformed skeleton stood on a pedestal in the corridor, its back crooked, its bones and skull overgrown with lumps. In a dining room, skulls topped a table, sawed open to form mugs. The library held scrolls of demonic incantations, and the fireplace held bleached bones. An armory contained a host of weapons—swords, daggers, spears, hammers, axes—all hanging through the ribs of skeletons, the grim racks formed from vanquished enemies.

  Soon Seneca passed by Porcia's bedchamber. The door was closed, and two Magisterians stood outside. The guards reached for their swords as Seneca arrived, then recognized him and knelt with a clatter of armor.

  "Hush!" he mouthed, mortified that Porcia should wa
ke. If she caught him skulking here, she would slay him, he knew. She would grab one of her weapons, and she would drive it through his chest. He froze, for an instant sure the clanking had woken her. A harsh snore sounded behind the door . . . then relaxed into deep breath.

  Seneca exhaled in relief. He pressed a silver into each guard's hand and placed his fingers against his lips. They nodded, understanding, and pocketed the coins.

  He kept walking. He knew where he'd find her. The same place where Porcia kept all her favorite treasures.

  Soon Seneca reached the end of the corridor and began climbing the spiraling staircase up the tower. He hadn't been here for years. Only once, when he was ten, had Seneca dared climb Porcia's tower, seeking the curiosities within. He had caught only a quick glimpse of the collection before Porcia, a youth of thirteen, had caught him. In punishment, she had sliced him with one of these ancient, rusty instruments. He still bore the scar.

  Fear had kept him from the tower since, but today Seneca would dare. Today he was a man, a conqueror, and—if he succeeded—an emperor.

  After a climb that seemed to last an eternity, he reached a door. Sweat trickled down his back. His pulse pounded in his ears. The door was locked; he had expected this. He took from his pocket the key Taeer had made him. The lumer had used her most powerful magic, calling upon the Muse, one of the four pillars of Luminosity, enhancing skills in music, dance, art, and craftwork.

  This key, Taeer had sworn, would open every door in the palace.

  "If you lied to me, Taeer," he muttered, "I'll turn you into one of Porcia's skeleton sword racks."

  His hand was clammy, barely able to hold the key. Finally he managed slipping it into the lock. He breathed out shakily as the door opened.

  A shady cavern awaited him, the heart of Porcia's museum of the macabre. Her most prized possessions hid here. Shrunken heads hung from the ceiling. Glass jars contained deformed animals: calves with eight legs, lambs with two faces, snakes with two heads. Living creatures hissed and drooled in cages: the dog she had created, cutting and sewing two animals together, forming a conjoined twin; and a hairless cat with two bodies and eight legs, another creature she had made with thread and needle. In a glass case, beetles bustled over the corpse of a child, fattening off the flesh. Rusty torture instruments hung on the walls: pincers, saws, finger-crushers, hammers, sickles, helmets full of blades and screws. Paintings covered the walls, depicting medical maladies from across the world: a man with two members, a woman with a neck swollen larger than her head, a child with a pointed cranium and a hunched back, and a dozen others. Here were Porcia's most precious prizes, her treasure trove of the obscene.