Dearest Valentina,
I'm so sorry.
I love you. And I betrayed you. I lied to you. I've been lying to you all your life. And now I must leave, because I love you too much to hurt you, to lie to you again. I'm so afraid.
I did what for many years I dreamed of. I finally dared—for us. I thought that, if I succeeded, we could love each other freely. But I failed, and now I'm more afraid than ever.
He lives, and he will know what I did. And so now I must leave. I must leave you, leave Aelar. I must travel back to my home, to Zohar, to hide. But I cannot take you with me. I know that we dreamed of traveling there together, but his arm is long. If he finds me, he will kill me, kill all those with me, and I cannot put you in danger.
Live your life, Valentina, a life of joy and light. Grow your flowers, and read your scrolls, and tend to your birds, and remember that I love you.
Someday this will end, Valentina. Someday he will die. Perhaps from poison, perhaps a knife in the back, perhaps in war, perhaps even from old age. That day, when we are safe, if you still love me by then, 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—perhaps a woman, perhaps even an old woman—walking along the shore, collecting seashells too. Her hair will be long and black, or perhaps streaked with silver, or perhaps fully white. She will run to you, and hold your hands, and kiss you with a thousand kisses, and she will love you. Because every day, Valentina, from this day until that day, that woman will wait for you. And every day, she will walk along that shore, and gaze upon the sea, and watch for a ship sailing in, watch for a soul she misses. A soul she will always love.
Yours always, with my magic, with my soul, with my heart,
Iris
That evening, Valentina visited the kennels again. He waited there for her. Perhaps he had known she would come.
"Hello, Valentina," Mingo said. The emperor's reminder of mortality. The frail, bearded slave. A chained, beaten man with warm eyes.
No. Not Mingo. Septimus Cassius.
Valentina walked toward him and embraced him.
"Hello, Father," she whispered.
YOHANAN
The enemy rose from the north, line upon line, the legions of Aelar. The sun rose with them, shining on their shields and armor, and their banners rose in a forest, displaying golden eagles. Their cavalry rode at the vanguard, and behind marched legions of heavy infantry.
Yohanan sat on his camel outside the city of Beth Eloh, staring down the mountain at the approaching host, and his heart seemed to freeze. The wind blew, scattering sand, ruffling his hair, and filling his beard.
It's the end, he thought. The end of Zohar. The end of light.
Thousands of soldiers gathered behind him, some on camels and horses, most afoot—sons and daughters of Zohar, the salt of the earth. Their hearts were brave, Yohanan knew, their iron strong, and they had fought for years against the forces of Shefael and were no strangers to war. Yet here, coming from the north, was an enemy beyond their might. Yohanan had never faced Aelarians in battle, had never seen their legions march in their full wrath. But gazing at them now, he knew why they had conquered the Encircled Sea.
"They march as one beast," he said. "Their shields form protective walls around them. Their every spear rises at the same angle. Their every footstep hits the earth to the beat of their drums. Even their horses wear armor and walk as soldiers. We're but a rabble compared to them."
At his side, Ishay Ben Elom sat on his own camel. The young shepherd had placed aside his lyre and crook, and now he held sword and spear, and a sling hung from his belt. He stared south at the approaching host, eyes dark, but a thin smile raised his lips.
"We're a rabble, but we fight in our homeland, and the Lord of Light fights with us." Ishay turned his head toward Yohanan. "You are our king, Yohanan Elior, and your people will follow you to victory."
Yohanan gazed at his companion, the boy who had saved his life, tossing his sling stones against the assassins Shefael had sent after him. Three years had passed since that day—three years of blood and fire and hunger and death—but the light of youth still shone in Ishay's eyes, a beauty unmarred by war, a courage that no fear could crush.
"You should put on your armor," Yohanan said, looking at Ishay's woolen tunic.
The young man shook his head, his smile stoic. "Armor slows you down. God's protection is all the armor I need today."
When Yohanan stared back toward the approaching legions, he was thankful for his own coat of scales, each piece of iron sewn onto boiled leather. He raised his sword above his head, the iron curved and dark. But he turned away from the legions advancing from the north. He faced the walls of Beth Eloh, the city he had been besieging for a year now, the city where his brother dwelled.
"Shefael!" Yohanan called from the hilltop. "Hear me, Brother! Open the gates and come fight at my side. Fight with me, Brother, now when eagles fly!"
On the walls of the ancient city, his brother's soldiers stared from the battlements, silent. The sandy wind billowed their banners. The gates did not open. In the north, the drums beat louder, the sandals thumped, and the chants of the enemy rose.
Yohanan rode his camel along the walls of Beth Eloh. "Brother! Place aside this feud between us. Fight with me! Fight against the eagles of Aelar. Let the lions roar together. Shefael, we need your men—fight with us!"
Still the soldiers on the wall stared down sullenly. Still the enemy drums beat. The chants of the Aelarians could be heard clearly now. Yohanan spoke their language well, and he now cursed that knowledge, for the words chilled his spine.
"We come!" the legionaries of Aelar cried. "We see! We kill!"
Yohanan's ribs felt so tight they could snap. He galloped along the walls of Beth Eloh, crying out.
"Shefael, only together can we beat them! Ride out with me—brother and brother! Let us fight together. For Zohar."
And finally, above the Gate of Lions, his brother stepped onto the wall.
Shefael stared down from the gatehouse battlements. He wore a rich, purple robe woven with golden thread, and a crown sat atop his head. He had grown larger during the siege, his cheeks red beneath his beard, his belly ample, feasting and drinking while his people hungered and thirsted. At his side stood Avinasi, ancient lumer of the throne.
From the north the chants rose louder. The drums beat.
"Brother!" Yohanan called from his camel. "Fight with me."
"Brother?" Shefael called down from the wall. "Is that what you call me? For three years you called me a usurper, a tyrant, an illegitimate king. Now, when death marches upon you, you call me Brother?" Shefael shook his head. "No, Yohanan. For too long you fought me, cursed me, sought to steal what is mine. The eagles of Aelar are an enemy to you, but not to me. Porcia Octavius will receive a heroine's welcome in my city. But not before she cuts you down and scatters your bones across the desert. Goodbye, Yohanan Elior, rebel of Zohar, and may the Lord of Light curse your soul."
With a flourish of robes, Shefael and his lumer vanished off the battlements, returning into the safety of the city.
The drums beat louder.
The eagle standards rose.
Yohanan rode back toward the hill, and Ishay came to his side again, and behind them spread the warriors who had followed them for three years. Ahead the legionaries were climbing the mountainside toward them, so close now that Yohanan could stare into their eyes. Porcia Octavius herself rode at their lead on a stallion, a woman with brown curls, a mocking face, and dark armor.
Yohanan rode a few paces forward, then turned to face his soldiers. He rode across the vanguard.
"Warriors of Zohar!" he called. "A new enemy has risen, a foreign power that would see our kingdom crushed. Shefael hi
des in his city, but you do not stand alone. God fights with you. I fight with you! Raise a roar that will sound across the generations. Ours is the light!"
Thousands of his warriors, men and women in leather and iron, raised spears and swords. Their voices rolled across the mountains and city. "Ours is the light!"
Under the simmering sun, the hosts of Zohar charged down the mountain. Camels and horses galloped. Men and women ran behind them, brandishing swords and spears. Toward them stormed the cavalry of Aelar, thousands of armored horses, their riders holding lances.
Yohanan and Ishay rode together, side by side, weapons raised.
For death. For light. For Zohar.
Upon the mountainside, the forces slammed together.
Under the blinding sun, between the olive groves, they battled. On the mountain of God, between city and desert, Yohanan—King of Zohar—fought his greatest war. On holy ground, outside the city of his mother, in the light of Beth Eloh, the lions of Zohar roared.
Upon the mountain they fought.
Upon the mountain they died.
As Yohanan swung his sword, all around him they fell. Those who had followed him through fire and rain. Those who had grown up under his banners. Those who had survived so many battles, who had crossed deserts, scaled mountains, who had gone hungry, who had bled, who had sung, who had prayed, who had served him as a king. Around him—his warriors, his friends, his family—they died.
An Aelarian stallion galloped through a cloud of sand. The rider thrust his spear. Yohanan pulled his camel aside, swung his blade, and severed the legionary's arm. Another horse charged from his left. His camel raced forth, and Yohanan rose in the saddle, sword parrying a spear, then driving down. Blood rose through clouds of dust. Infantrymen raced across the mountainside, and among olive trees they cut one another down.
Gereshon, a graybeard who had fought alongside Yohanan this entire war, cried out, an arrow in his chest, and fell. Namina, a woman with many dark braids, who had once kissed Yohanan in the vineyards in their youth, screamed as a spear pierced her chest, then fell, trampled under horses.
"Rally here!" Yohanan cried. "Break through their lines! Cut them down!"
But the Zoharites had always been wild warriors, men and women risen from the desert tribes, free as spirits of sand. They fought like a storm. Before them, the Aelarians fought as a great automaton of metal and wood. Each legionary who fell, exposing a chink in the living armor, was at once replaced. Always they advanced, pinning the Zoharites against the walls of their city, cutting them down.
And always Ishay fought at his side.
Through the storms of sand, through Yohanan's darkest nights, through his dreams of light, Ishay had always shone there, a sun to his storming sea. Even as their camels fell beneath them, even as their army crumbled across the mountainside, Ishay fought with him, slender, fair of face, quick of blade, strong of faith.
We are lions, Yohanan would tell him on dark nights when nearly no hope could be found. We will always roar together.
They fought together, killed together, bled together, as around them their dream shattered. As the thousands died. As lions fell. A last battle. A final song before the long night.
Through the clouds of dust, her horse trampling over corpses, she rode. A woman in dark armor, a bloody spear in one hand, a severed head in the other. A woman with brown curls matted with the blood of her enemies. A woman with cruel eyes, the eyes of a bird of prey. Yohanan had met her ten years ago, when he had visited Aelar with his parents—his first and only time out of Zohar. She had been a surly girl, berating any slave who passed, sentencing a gardener to death for his crime of pruning a bush she favored. She had grown, become a woman, a demon, death taken flesh.
"Porcia Octavius, daughter of Emperor Marcus," Yohanan said, standing among the dead beneath the wall of that city he would no longer enter.
The Princess of Aelar tossed the severed head down at his feet. The lifeless eyes gazed up at Yohanan. He recognized her. Shaniel Bat Shemesh, a chandler's daughter. Yohanan had once spent a night awake at her side, comforting her after her brother had fallen.
Yohanan raised his eyes and stared at the woman on the horse. Porcia licked blood off her lips and grinned.
"Prince Yohanan Elior, son of Sifora!" Porcia laughed, a high, trilling sound. "I remember you. You visited my city once. If I recall correctly, you tried to touch one of my jeweled daggers, so I stabbed your hand with it."
Yohanan would not remove his eyes from hers. "I still carry the scar. I see you now bear a larger weapon than a dagger."
She nodded and hefted her spear. "It slew many of your warriors. Do you want to see how sharp it is?"
A whistling rose, shrill, stirring the air. Yohanan looked to see that Ishay was spinning his sling—the same sling he had spun three years ago, saving Yohanan's life from the assassins. A river stone was set into the leather pouch.
"Your spear is long," Ishay said to the princess. "Your armor is thick. Your horse is tall and your army mighty. But I wear the armor of God. I fight for the Lord of Light. You come to us with iron, with cavalry, with drums and many marching men. But I come to you in the name of Eloh, and in his name I will strike you down, so that your flesh is food for crows and jackals."
Porcia scoffed on her horse. "Am I a skulking wolf among sheep, that you should threaten me with a shepherd's weapon?"
"The Lord of Light is my shepherd," Ishay said. "I am but his servant. I slew wolves in the fields, protecting my sheep, and now I will slay an eagle."
His stone flew. Porcia grabbed a shield that hung at her side and raised it.
The river stone slammed into the shield, shattering the wood into a thousand pieces. The shards rained.
Laughing, Porcia tossed her spear.
The weapon dived through the air and slammed into Ishay's chest.
Yohanan stared, sword in his hand, torn between running toward Porcia and toward his companion.
Ishay managed to pull the spear free, then fell and hit the ground, a gushing hole in his chest. Yohanan rushed toward his lover and knelt above him.
Let Porcia kill me if she must. The world has ended. All light has gone dark.
"Ishay," he said, holding his companion in his arms.
The young man's eyes were growing dim. "My prince. My king. My love."
"Live," Yohanan whispered. "Sound your roar with mine. Two lions."
But the blood flowed, and the breath faded, and the heart—the heart that had loved Yohanan—stilled. Yohanan held the lifeless shepherd in his arms, and kissed his brow, and his tears fell. He tossed back his head and cried up to the sky, cursing this war, cursing his god, and would not release Ishay from his arms. The blood and dust coated them both.
"You were swifter than eagles," Yohanan said. "You were stronger than lions. Let none in Aelar hear the tidings. Let none across the sea know your name. Let them not dance and sing for your fall. But let all across this mountain and desert mourn, and let them tear their cloaks, and let the sun stop shining, and let the birds silence their song, for you are fallen. I love you more than flowers love the rain, more than sails love the wind, more than sea loves the sand. Daughters and sons of Zohar! Weep for him. How the mighty has fallen! How the land weeps! Zohar has lost her shepherd. I have lost my light."
Gently, Yohanan laid his beloved down, then rose to stare at Porcia.
He ran toward her with his sword.
Her arrow flew and crashed through his armor.
A dozen other arrows flew from all sides as the legionaries approached, stepping over the dead.
Yohanan fell. He seemed to fall forever. He did not feel himself hitting the ground. He crawled, and he lay beside Ishay, and held the shepherd's hand.
"This is not a land of blood and dust," Yohanan whispered. "This is not a land of war or hunger or pain. This is a land of doves who fly in the spring. Of maidens clad in white linen, dancing upon grapes to make the wine, while their brothers sing in golden fie
lds. Of timbrels and lyres, of sweet honey and milk, of olive groves and wells of deep sweet water. A land of shepherds, of poets, of lovers. A land of frankincense and myrrh and the scent of flowers. Thus let us remember Zohar, a place of beauty and music and light."
Yohanan Elior closed his eyes, and he could see them: fields of swaying wheat and vineyards, flowing down toward the sand and sea.
EPHER
He walked up the mountain, and he saw them there: the legions of Aelar, tearing through Zoharite soldiers outside the city of Beth Eloh.
Epher froze.
For a few heartbeats, he could not move.
We're too late, he thought. God, we're too late.
Porcia's forces covered the mountaintop, thousands upon thousands. A few Zoharites still fought—the forces of Yohanan Elior, Epher's cousin—but they were falling fast, trapped between walls of stone and walls of Aelarian shields. The Empire's trumpets were already blaring in triumph, and the eagle banners rose high. Barely any Zoharites still lived, a mere handful, fading away.
We can't win. Epher's throat felt too tight to swallow the lump that grew there. We're too few. Too weak. Fighting in the ancient ways, falling before a ruthless modern military.
Around him walked only two thousand warriors from the northern hills, wild men and women, clad in boiled leather, clutching weapons of jagged iron. They too were afraid. They stared ahead, pale, whispering prayers. One man fell to his knees, lips moving feverishly.
Epher had expected to see the princes united, Yohanan and Shefael battling side by side, surrounding the invaders. He had expected to charge toward glorious victory, to smite the Aelarians upon the mountaintop. But Yohanan's forces were those lying dead on dusty fields and in olive groves, while the city walls remained closed, the troops of Shefael watching from the battlements, firing no arrow or javelin.
A strong hand grabbed his arm. Epher turned to see his uncle staring at him. The warrior's eyes were dark, and the sandy wind ruffled his gray beard.
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