Valentina stared at the nest he pointed to. "That's a robin's nest."
"But not a robin within it. Look closer."
She stepped closer and squinted. It was hard to see from down here. Holding her stola around her legs, she stepped onto the stone bench and peered at the nest. She could just make out a bird inside, brown and white, too large for the nest, barely fitting. A smaller robin stood on a nearby twig, feeding the much larger bird in the nest, as if it were her hatchling.
"A large bird has invaded the nest," Valentina said. "The mother robin is feeding it. What happened to the robin eggs?"
"Look below," said Mingo.
She looked down at the grass and gasped. Robin's eggs. Smashed. The baby robins had died, all but one. It squirmed, struggling to emerge from the shell, featherless and pink. Valentina gasped and tears sprang into her eyes. She ran, lifted the baby bird, and helped peel off the last scraps of shell. It lay in her hands, dying. She felt at once affinity for it, a creature without feathers in the hand of a woman without color. Valentina had never known her mother; the woman had died in childbirth. Valentina herself had always felt like a motherless bird, lost and cold.
"Did you do this?" Valentina said, voice stern, raising her eyes to glare at Mingo.
"It is the way of the cuckoo." Mingo gazed at the robin hatchling in her hand, and his eyes softened. "The mother cuckoo builds no nest of her own. She lays her eggs in robins' nests. When the cuckoo offspring emerges, the mother robin will tend to it lovingly, as if it were her own. The robin hatchlings do not survive. The cuckoos cast them out into the harsh world."
"This one will survive," Valentina vowed, holding the bird close to her breast.
"Perhaps," said Mingo. "Though it will never know its true parents, nor will the cuckoo hatchling who sits in the nest, gorging itself."
"Is that why you've come here? To tell me stories of cuckoos and robins?"
Mingo smiled thinly. "I tell many tales, my child. Tales of cuckoos and robins. Tales of eagles and snakes. Tales of time that passes, of one father in gold, one who withers away. Perhaps we're not so different from the animals." He bowed his head to her. "Keep seeking cuckoos, child. Perhaps you'll find more birds to save."
With that, the frail old man turned and hobbled away, leaving the gardens.
Valentina left the gardens too. She walked down the cobbled road in the heart of the Acropolis. Around her rose the great monuments of the Aelarian Empire: temples capped with gold, the domed Senate, the Amphitheatrum, and the palace that was her home. On a hill ahead rose three statues, tall as towers, coated with gold: a statue of her father and older siblings. Emperor Marcus Octavius, Princess Porcia, and Prince Seneca all loomed over the city, clad in armor, blades raised.
Valentina had once asked Father why he hadn't commissioned a statue of her. He had replied that she was too young, too inexperienced in governing. Yet now, staring at the statues, Valentina wondered if she'd ever fit in among them. She was only a fragile thing, a wispy albino, frightened of knives. She had never even donned armor.
"Perhaps I'm like a cuckoo bird," she whispered, "and I don't fit in my nest."
She looked at the robin hatchling which still lay in her palm, twitching. Valentina tried to imagine that she had different parents, somewhere far away, and that somewhere Emperor Marcus had a different child, a daughter lost and afraid, far from her nest, like the robin in Valentina's hand.
OFEER
She moved through her bedchamber, tears on her cheeks, stuffing her belongings into a leather pack.
"I'm leaving this damn place." Ofeer could taste her salty tears. "I hate this house. I hate this family. I hate this goddamn kingdom, and I'm leaving. With him." She could barely see through her tears. "With my prince."
Her fingers trembled and her breath shook. She forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. She shoved another tunic into her pack, then considered packing her old doll as well, a ragged rabbit of wool. She decided against it. That was a toy of her miserable childhood, a time that was ending.
Finally the day had come. The day she left. Ofeer had never belonged here in Zohar. In her veins flowed the blood of Aelar, of civilization. Of men like Seneca—who shaved their beards, who wore fineries, who spoke with eloquence. Men from a land of great temples, sprawling gardens, and cities of wonder, not seaside trash heaps in the forgotten outposts of the world.
The door to her chamber opened, and Ofeer spun around to see Shiloh in the doorway.
"What do you want, Mother?" Ofeer spat out.
She hated that she looked like Shiloh. Hated it! Her mother too was dark, slender, graceful, shared the same delicate features, though while Ofeer's hair was long and black and cascaded down her back, Shiloh's hair was graying and braided.
"Where are you going?" Shiloh's voice was soft, sad yet simmering with anger.
"Away from this place." Ofeer shoved her favorite lantern into her pack, the clay shaped like a dove. "I'm going with them. To Aelar."
Shiloh stepped forward and made to grab Ofeer's pack. "You are not. What nonsense has gotten into you?"
"Nonsense?" Ofeer tugged the pack back, spilling its contents. She barked a laugh. "You call the greatest empire in the world nonsense? Aelar is a land of palaces, not crude clay huts on a hill. Aelar is a land of temples that worship real gods, gods sculpted of marble and coated with jewels, not some invisible spirit. Aelar is a land of great cities, of towering mountains larger than these hills, of great amphitheaters that seat a hundred thousand souls and—"
"Amphitheaters where they feed slaves to lions," Shiloh said.
"Good!" Ofeer rubbed tears off her cheeks. "Here I live like a slave, languishing away. I'd rather a lion ate me. I'd rather fight for my life than rot here in this house. He's going to show me all those places. Prince Seneca is educated and civilized and handsome, and he's going to take me there, Mother, and show me wonders. He's not some unwashed brute like that man you married—"
Shiloh slapped her. Hard. A blow that knocked Ofeer's head to the side and shot white light across her eyes.
"You're a fool," Shiloh hissed. "You will not speak of your father that way. You—"
"Jerael is not my father!" Ofeer's tears would not stop flowing. "He's father to the true Sela children. To Epher and Koren and Atalia and Maya and Mica. Not to me. And he never let me forget that. I see how he loves the others more than me. But I don't care. I never cared! My father is a noble Aelarian, and I'm going to find him, and I'm going to live in a proper palace."
Shiloh stared at her, very still, very silent, her eyes red. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, barely more than a whisper, steady yet dripping pain.
"Ofeer, your father is Marcus Octavius, Emperor of Aelar."
Ofeer stared at her mother, for a moment speechless.
She began to tremble.
Her breath came in short, shaky spurts.
"You lie," Ofeer finally whispered. "You pathetic, manipulative liar." Her voice rose to a shout, and she grabbed and shook her mother. "Do you think your cruel joke will keep me here?"
"I speak truth," Shiloh whispered, her eyes damp. "Marcus Octavius, then a general in the legions, sank our fleet and invaded our island of Cadom. He took your brothers captive, Ofeer. He would have killed them, had I not let him into my bed, and—"
"You're a liar!" Ofeer screamed. She snorted out something halfway between sob and laugh. "You expect me to believe that? That for all these years, you lied to me, led me to believe my father was a traveling merchant or legionary—and now tell me that I'm the daughter of an emperor? That I'm Seneca's sister? No, Mother, that can't be true. Do you want to know why? Because I fucked him." She laughed hysterically, her hair damp, sticking to her face. "I fucked Seneca, just like you fucked a merchant long ago, and I loved it, Mother. I loved it, and I'm sailing away with him, and you can't stop me."
Shiloh stared in horror, weeping, and Ofeer shoved her aside and stormed out of her bedchamber. She realized an
instant too late that she had left her pack behind. So be it. Ofeer did not need her old, ragged clothes. Seneca would buy her new clothes, fine linen stolas in the style of Aelarian noblewomen, and many jewels. He wasn't her brother at all. Mother was just a miserable liar. He was her beautiful prince, and he loved her, and Ofeer would live with him in a palace, far away from this wretched place.
She ran down the hallway, shoving past her siblings. Her sandals clanked across the mosaic of birds and gazelles that spread across the foyer's floor. She pushed open the sandalwood doors and ran out into the garden. Finches fled from the pomegranate trees, and Ofeer ran onward, hair streaming and tears drying in the wind.
"Daughter!" Shiloh cried from the doorway. "Daughter, come back to me!"
But Ofeer only laughed. She ran onward, moving down the pebbly path and into the vineyard her mother had made her tend. She spread out her arms, tossed back her head, and kept running, the sunlight on her face. All her pain, her fear, her shame at being a bastard, her loneliness in the cage—all seemed to fade, to melt under the sunlight. Ignoring her mother's cries, Ofeer of Aelar ran downhill and between the pines, heading toward the sea which had always called her home.
JERAEL
Here on Pine Hill, in his home, the world shattered.
He stood on the patio by the gardens. A fig tree and pomegranate tree rustled. Several of their leaves floated on the pond and lay on the wooden table and chairs that stood between the cyclamens and jasmines. His children used to splash in that pond. His family had spent many spring days eating here, outside, at this wooden table. Every stone, every tree, every chamber, every corner of this villa on the hill—a memory. A precious prize he might never see again.
The sun began to set. Would it rise on a world of peace or a world aflame?
"Ofeer's gone." Shiloh ran up to him, eyes wide and damp. "I tried to stop her, but she runs so fast. She ran off to find the Aelarians, talking about how she wants to sail back to Aelar with them."
Jerael looked at his wife, the woman he loved more than any in this world. At forty years of age, Shiloh's braid had begun to gray, and crows' feet tugged at her eyes. But she was still beautiful, more than ever, her features delicate, her skin soft, her body slender under her cotton dress.
She bore me six children, Jerael thought. One who died the day he was born. One who was quickened by another man—a man who now sends forth his son with an army, who wants to put me on the throne of Zohar.
"This fleet will not be returning to Aelar," Jerael said softly. "Not for many days. Ofeer has run away several times before, threatening to catch a ship to Aelar. We've always found her wandering the beach or hiding in a portside tavern. The girl is confused. I would be too in her place. We'll bring her back, Shiloh, I promise you." He turned toward the two guards who stood with him in the garden, tall men in scale armor, faces stern. "Yoram. Joren. Search the beach and the port for Ofeer. But do not approach the forces of Aelar. When you find Ofeer, take her to my city home, and guard her until I arrive."
The men nodded. No sooner had they left the garden than Jerael's children emerged from the house. They gathered around him under the trees. The sun was setting, soon sinking between the branches of the pomegranate tree, casting dapples of light. Atalia had donned her iron scales and helmet, and her sword and sling hung from her hips. The boys too had grabbed their swords; the blades were curved, forged of dark iron. Little Maya, only fifteen years old, had strapped a belt around her waist, and a kitchen knife hung from it.
Jerael looked at them, and his eyes dampened.
My children—ready to fight for their home.
Even Epher, twenty-three and as tall as his father, and Atalia, a fierce warrior who commanded men in the hosts, still seemed so young to him.
"What do we do, Father?" Maya whispered. "Are you . . . are you going to do it? Help Seneca march to Beth Eloh, and . . .?"
"No." Jerael shook his head. "I will not."
Koren stepped forward, eyes widening. The young man rarely lost his smile, but now shock suffused his face. "Father! Why? We could end this civil war. You could be king! Which would make me a prince, and princedom quite becomes me. I'm already as handsome as one, so why not make it official? And besides . . ." He nervously coiled his fingers around the hilt of his sword. "If you refuse, it would be war. Not even a nice, tidy little civil war like the ones our cousins are fighting in Beth Eloh. It would be war against Aelar." Koren gulped. "I think fighting a massive empire that rules most of the known world becomes me a bit less than princedom."
Atalia snorted, blowing back a strand of hair, and hefted her blade. "I'm not scared of war. I'm going to slay them all, one by one, with my arrows and my sling stones, and if any of those Aelarian bastards manage to scale the walls, my sword will stick 'em right where they like being buggered."
"Language!" Maya said, glaring at her older sister.
"Enough!" Jerael said. "All of you. Be silent and listen. A storm has risen, and we'll only withstand it united."
"Tell that to Ofeer," Atalia muttered, ignoring a stern look from her mother. "I heard she ran off to join the Empire. Let 'em have her, I say."
"Atalia, I said silence!" Jerael said, letting anger invade his voice, then exhaled slowly. His voice softened. "No, I won't accept the Empire's offer. I knew this as soon as Seneca uttered his proposal. I told the boy that I needed a night of prayer. But what I truly needed was time to talk to you. To my family."
They all stared at him, and their eyes softened.
"Why?" Koren whispered.
"We cannot allow a host of Aelarians into our kingdom," Jerael said. "Not even to end a civil war. Not even if the Prince of Aelar offers me Zohar's throne. I would be a puppet to them, the emperor forever pulling my strings, his troops forever patrolling the streets of Beth Eloh and Gefen and the rest of our land. I would sit on a throne, yes, but only as a servant of Marcus Octavius, not a free king. And so here, on the coast, we will make a stand. We will hold back the enemy. We will fight."
"Yes!" Atalia drew her sword and pointed the blade skyward. "For Zohar! For blood and glory!"
Jerael shook his head. "Not for blood, not for glory, only for freedom. I will raise the garrison in Gefen, and I will man the walls with them, and we will hold back the tide from the sea."
Shiloh stepped closer to him, concern in her eyes. Jerael saw the memories in those dark eyes—the war nineteen years ago, the ships of Zohar sinking, the island villages burning, the thousands dying.
"We have three thousand soldiers along the coast," Shiloh said. "It's a mighty army, but the Empire is mightier. We cannot defeat Aelar with only three thousand soldiers, brave as they are."
"No, we cannot," Jerael said. "But three thousand can hold them back until aid arrives. You'll go fetch us this aid, Shiloh. You and Maya both." He held his wife with one arm, and with the other, he pulled his youngest child close. "Shiloh. Maya. I ask you to travel to Beth Eloh. Take the horses, and you'll be there in three days, two if you travel swiftly enough. Speak to the dueling princes who fight there. You must convince them to set aside their war, to march here, to stop Aelar before they overwhelm our walls."
"I won't leave you!" said Shiloh.
"Nor will I!" Maya grabbed her knife. "I can fight."
Jerael held his youngest daughter close and kissed her head of curly hair. "The bravest fighter in Zohar. But now I need you to take a different road." He turned toward his wife. "Shiloh, the princes have been fighting a brutal war for three years now. If they will listen to anyone, it will be to Shiloh Sela, their beloved aunt. Travel east with Maya. Bring back your nephews and their hosts, a great army all in iron."
The true reason for sending them east Jerael kept to himself. That reason was in the memories that still filled his wife's eyes. Memories of Marcus Octavius kidnapping their sons, swapping their lives for a night with Shiloh. Those nightmares still kept Jerael awake at night, and he could not bear to fight here in Gefen with his wife and daughter nea
r the troops of the enemy. Atalia was armed for war, and he would never ask her to abandon the soldiers she led. But Shiloh was too haunted, Maya too young.
So let us, the warriors, guard the wall. Let my wife and youngest travel away from here . . . and return with myriads of soldiers protecting them.
Shiloh and Maya looked at him, and perhaps they saw that true reason in his eyes. They both nodded.
"We'll leave before dawn," Shiloh said, then tears filled her eyes, and she pulled Jerael into her embrace. "Find Ofeer. Find her and keep her safe. Keep them all safe. I love you, my husband, my Jerael. I love you more than the stars love the night, than the sea loves the shore. Farewell, Guardian of Zohar, my beloved."
He held her for a long time, the woman he loved.
"Do you remember how we met?" he asked her.
She nodded, still holding him. "On the beach."
"I was a young man." Jerael could see it before him again. "Just a young, foolish man born into wealth."
Shiloh smiled through her tears. "And I was a young, foolish woman, a princess who roamed the beach barefoot, delighting in the simple pleasures of commoners. I was looking for shells to weave into necklaces—I who could buy a hundred necklaces of gold and gemstones." She laughed softly. "Only a fool would collect seashells when she could buy rubies and sapphires."
"You were wise," he said, "and knew all the names of the shells, and the rocks, and the birds above, and the flowers that grew across this land that we love. And you've grown even wiser, even more beautiful. We'll walk along that beach again, Shiloh, I swear this to you. We'll walk there and collect shells in times of peace, barefoot in the sand."
Shiloh and Maya then stepped into the house to gather supplies. Meanwhile, old Eloperetz walked toward the stables to prepare the horses for the journey. Night had fallen, and the stars shone above. The moon glowed. Jerael remained in the gardens with his three eldest: Epher, tall and somber; Koren, quick and clever; and Atalia, the warrior among them, she who had always been one of the boys.
Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1) Page 7