Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Not here, dominus," she whispered, then smiled. "Come with me. Down below deck."

  Seneca narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her. When he had been only a baby, Taeer had been shipped over from Zohar—a girl of twelve, a young lumer to serve the prince of Aelar. She had known him all his life, had tended to him, taught him . . . then when he was old enough, she had become his lover. All his life, even as a warrior, Taeer had mocked him, smiled crookedly, winked at him, saw him as a boy. When he had stared into her eyes only moments ago, he had seen himself an emperor. Had she seen something in his eyes—something that made her flinch for just that instant, fear him for just a heartbeat?

  He laughed as he swung the hammer.

  He moaned above Ofeer, thrusting into her as Jerael died outside the window.

  The blood drenched him.

  Murderer. Murderer!

  A monster. Monster!

  Seneca tightened his jaw.

  Is this what you saw, Taeer? Is this why you fear me?

  She took his hand in hers, and she guided him down below deck. Once hundreds of galley slaves had rowed here, Koren Sela among them. Now they were gone, slaves in Aelar. Now the oars lay still, only the wind guiding the ship onward. A single lamp hung from the wall, and Taeer guided him through shadows toward a doorway. They entered his cabin.

  Here was a room fit for an emperor. Gold and jewels shone on the walls, and candles burned inside glass holders. Taeer doffed her silks, remaining naked before him. Seneca admired her body in the candlelight. Ofeer was lithe, almost boyish, but Taeer was all curves. He worked at his own clothes, pulling them off, and—

  The hammer swung.

  He laughed. He laughed as the cross rose and—

  He stood naked before Taeer, and they lay down together on his bed. He lay on his back, and she nestled beside him, reaching down to stroke his manhood, slowly, her fingers only fluttering, yet his lust would not awaken.

  "Dominus?" she whispered, a line appearing on her brow. "Does the eagle of Aelar sleep?"

  He glanced down at himself, then back at her.

  The man ran on stumps. The woman burned, and the screams filled his mind, and he couldn't forget, why did she want him to forget? How could she not see, how could any of them understand? Even Valentina had not understood. Nobody understood.

  Taeer still stroked him, yet he remained flaccid.

  "Taeer, can you use Luminosity?" he whispered. "Like you did that time when kissing me . . . when we were in the port at Gefen."

  She raised an eyebrow. "When I used my Luminosity then, I cut you, my emperor. Don't you remember?" She stroked his arm where he still bore the small white scars of her fingernails.

  "Do it," he said. "Use your magic. Even if you cut me."

  I want you to cut me, he thought. I want it to hurt. I want to forget everything, to forget the memories.

  Taeer's fingers soon glowed, and as she stroked him, tingling warmth filled Seneca. Her grin grew.

  "That's better," she whispered, eyes like lanterns. "Now the eagle takes flight."

  She tried to climb atop him, to ride him as she often did, but Seneca rolled her onto her back, and he mounted her, entering her with a single thrust. She moaned and wrapped her limbs around him, and the light flowed over them, blinding, and he moved atop her, consumed with luminescence.

  "My emperor." She grabbed his shoulders, digging her fingernails into him. "My conqueror."

  He moved faster. Clutching her desperately. The bed shook as if the ship were caught in a storm. And as he made love to Taeer, he was there again—back in the villa in Zohar. And it was Ofeer beneath him. Ofeer, lying still as if dead, head slumped sideways, not even moving or moaning as he bedded her, as if he were bedding a corpse, and outside the window Jerael was dying, and she was his sister—she was his sister! She was Emperor Marcus's bastard! And he didn't know. And he hated her. And he loved her. And he missed her. And he wanted her again, his Ofeer, he wanted to go back. To go back to the beginning, to never sail to Zohar. To never see the man running on stumps, and the woman burning, and the disemboweled soldier, and now he was weeping. Now his tears flowed, even as he climaxed into Taeer, even as light exploded around them. He wept.

  He rolled off Taeer and lay on his back again, feeling drained, too weak to move. He stared at the ceiling.

  Taeer propped herself onto her elbows and stared at him.

  "Stop it," she said.

  "What?" he whispered.

  She gripped his head, yanking it toward her. "Your tears. Stop it. You are an emperor."

  "I'm not an emperor!" he shouted, spittle flying. "My sister took the throne! Did you miss that, you stupid bitch, you—"

  Taeer slapped him, knocking his head back.

  He gasped and stared at her, eyes narrowed, chest rising and falling. "Hit me again and—"

  She hit him again, harder this time. His lip split and he tasted blood.

  "What—" he began. "Taeer, what—"

  "Are you going to cry again?" She glared at him. "Are you going to curl up and sob like you did as a baby? Are you going to pity yourself because your sister won your last battle? Are you going to pine for Ofeer? When you were a baby, I would comfort you when you cried. But no more. If you think I will tolerate a grown man—an emperor!—crying in bed with me, you are wrong. You will strengthen yourself, Seneca. Or you will jump off this ship and let the sea claim you."

  He took deep breaths. He had never known Taeer to speak like this.

  "You're my lumer," he said. "You vowed to serve me. To obey me."

  She scoffed. "Your father brought me to Aelar. He's dead now. Right now our empire is this. This ship! That's all. If you're to reclaim the great empire that surrounds the Encircled Sea, you'll need all your strength. No more tears, Seneca. No more childhood. You're a man now. You will muster the armies in Nur, and you will return to Aelar, and you will seize the throne."

  "We'll do it together."

  Taeer shook her head. "No. I'm a Zoharite. I'm a lumer. I'm little more than your slave, as you so graciously reminded me. Too long have you leaned on Ofeer, on me, on your own self-pity. Stand strong now. Stand before us, not among us. Lead us."

  Seneca nodded.

  He left the bed, and he dressed in his armor—the armor of a great ruler. The breastplate was forged of iron, filigreed with golden eagles. The leather pteruge straps hung across his thighs, studded with iron bolts. A red crest rose from his helmet, and when he grabbed his spear and shield, he felt as if the armor not only shielded him from enemy's blows. It also shielded him from the pain inside, armor from memories, from loss.

  He returned to the deck, stared south, and saw it there. Lights on the horizon.

  "The land of Nur," he said.

  Taeer came to stand beside him, and she placed her hand on his shoulder. "Here your conquest begins."

  As Seneca watched the distant lights, he imagined the lights of Aelar, the great city in the center of the Aelarian Empire. He would return there someday, he vowed—return strong, proud, no pain inside him . . . and no pity for his enemies.

  No more tears. No more memories. He inhaled deeply, already smelling the distant spices of Nur in the wind. Only iron and gold.

  Dawn rose, spilling over the ship like flowing luminescence, as they sailed toward the southern city.

  EPHER

  He stood on the balcony, wrapped in cloak and hood, gazing upon the city of God.

  Beth Eloh sprawled around him in the dawn. Most of his life, whenever Epher visited Beth Eloh, he had stayed in the inner city upon the Mount of Cedars. There, behind high walls, Epher would spend time in the palace with his aunt, Queen Sifora, and pray at the Temple, the greatest building in Zohar, perhaps in the world. The inner city was a place of gold, of polished limestone, of gemstones and frankincense, of queens and kings and high priests—the heart of a kingdom.

  Standing here, the Mount of Cedars was distant, a mere glint across the city. Epher dwelled now in the warren of Beth El
oh, far from the elites, among a hundred thousand commoners. The streets were so narrow Epher could barely see them. Countless houses crowded together here, connected by bridges and walkways and archways, roofs nearly touching, forming a massive complex, as if the entire city were a single building formed of thousands of corridors and chambers cobbled together.

  The same limestone bricks, large and craggy and pale white, formed every wall, tower, bridge, and cobblestone across the city. Some domes were bare stone, splotched with bird droppings; others were coated with copper, bronze, and even silver. Other buildings supported tiled roofs, and some sprouted minarets on pale towers. No two buildings were alike; they all grew at random angles, some tilted, some squat, some tall and narrow, some sporting decorative archways and balconies, others mere cubes of stone. A few cypress and palm trees grew between the homes, several camels flicked their tails in an alleyway, and stray cats hissed on rooftops, but mostly this was a place of stone and metal, of light and of hope.

  And of rage, Epher thought. Of cruelty.

  Everywhere he looked, he saw them. The legionaries. They patrolled the streets, armor bright in the sunlight, cloaks and crests crimson. They stood on rooftops, spears in hands. On the distant Mount of Cedars, their banners draped from the palace walls. Two entire legions still filled this city like poison in blood, ten thousand killers from across the Encircled Sea.

  "You need come inside." Olive stepped onto the balcony with him, wrapped in a white cloak and veil. "Outside dangerous. Legionaries see you."

  Epher turned toward her. Olive stared at the city with him, her pale hands on the balcony's stone balustrade. The tips of her red hair peeked from her white hood, and her veil hid her mouth. Only her freckled nose and green eyes were bared.

  "And you as well," he said, placing his palm on her hand. "You're undercover too, you know."

  "Under . . . cover?" She tugged at the hood covering her head.

  He nodded. "A hood is a sort of cover, yes."

  "Underhood." Olive nodded. "I'm underhood."

  Armor clanked as two legionaries emerged around a corner and walked across the alleyway below. Cats hissed and fled from them. Epher held Olive's arm and guided her off the balcony, back into their hideout.

  Epher had lost count of how many houses they had moved these past couple of weeks. Every day or two, they plunged down into the tunnels beneath the city, scurrying in darkness, emerging into a new home, sometimes a full mil away from the old one. The hideaways all blurred together. This one seemed like any other. Candles stood in alcoves on the walls, and straw mattresses topped narrow beds. Decorative pomegranates hung from the walls, some formed of clay, others of tin and one even of silver—ancient symbols of Zohar. Curtains hid the windows, allowing only dusty beams of light to penetrate the chamber.

  A handful of bladesmen stood here—rebels of Zohar's Blade. Their beards were long and dark, their eyes darker. They stood wrapped in prayer shawls, holding scrolls, rocking as they prayed to Eloh. Epher saw the hilts of daggers strapped across their bodies. Each bladesman held a full twenty daggers under his robes—across the belt, chest, and legs. Blades to slay eagles.

  A hatch in the floor opened, and out emerged a man, taller than his comrades. He looked much like his father, Benshalom. He was gaunt, his hair and beard wild, his eyes feverish. But while age had tempered Benshalom, graying his hair and granting him wisdom, Kahan Sela still seemed like a clay vessel full of fire, ready to overspill.

  I have two cousins left in this world, Epher thought. On my mother's side—Shefael Elior, puppet king, cowardly and servile, bending the knee to Aelar. On my father's side—Kahan Sela, a man who would burn the world if he could burn a single legionary with it. A cowering hare and a rabid dog.

  "Cousin!" Kahan lowered his scroll, tightened his shawl around his neck, and approached Epher with open arms. His teeth were blindingly white against his dark beard. "You look strong and mighty this day. All your wounds are washed away, and you're ready to keep fighting the enemy with us."

  Epher pulled down his cousin's arms, refusing the embrace. "Six hundred died, Kahan. Six hundred still rot in the Valley of Ashes. Punishment for what you did in the alleyway."

  Kahan's smile vanished, and he frowned. "For saving your life, Epher. For saving you from crucifixion."

  "A crucifixion I chose!" Epher's rage rose inside him. "I surrendered myself to Remus to save the six hundred innocents. He'd have taken my life and spared theirs. You saved me, yes, and now they're dead, now—"

  "Epheriah Sela!" Kahan's voice was almost a shout, far too loud for men in hiding, and he grabbed Epher's arms. "Listen to yourself. Do you blame us, children of Zohar, for the cruelty of the heathens? We do not play their games of bartering. We do not surrender one life to save others. We are not their toys to torment." Light filled Kahan's eyes. "We are warriors of Eloh, and we will make the Aelarians pay. We will paint the city with their blood, and we will cleanse our Temple from the abomination they have profaned it with."

  Across the room, the bladesmen drew their daggers.

  "By God's grace, the heathens will die," said one man.

  "We will drive them all back into the sea," said another man.

  The others all nodded, eyes alight, cursing the enemy. Epher thought back to his mother's words, to her journey around the Encircled Sea as a youth, the ruins she had seen.

  "For every legionary we kill," Epher said, "they will crucify hundreds of our people." He shook his head. "How can we fight the enemy when we have so much to lose? Sometimes I wonder if my mother is right. If it's better to kneel and live than roar and die."

  One of the bladesmen scoffed. "The boy listens to his mother for advice in war?"

  Epher turned his gaze toward the man. "I fought this war in the hills of Ma'oz and in the fields outside Beth Eloh. I slew more legionaries than I can count. Where were you when the battle raged, when King Yohanan led ten thousand against the enemy? Cowering here in shadows? Yes, I listen to my mother, a wise woman descended of Elshalom. She taught me that poking a sleeping giant is folly."

  The man's face darkened, and he raised his blade. Kahan stepped forward, pulling the man back. "It's all right, Terael. He's not our enemy." Kahan turned back toward Epher. "That giant is no longer sleeping, Epher. You saw the crosses on the hill. You saw the dead—the ten thousand slain outside Beth Eloh. You know of the destruction in Gefen. And you saw us fight them. You saw us cut them down in the alleyway. The giant is wide awake, and he is already poked." Kahan let a smile stretch his lips. "By God, I say we poke him harder. Are you with us, Epher?"

  Epher lowered his head, jaw tight.

  The Aelarians killed my father. They took my siblings captive. They murdered myriads across my land. He sucked in air. He could barely breathe. Yet if we fight them, more blood will drench this land.

  He wished he could speak to his mother, or to Atalia, or even to Koren. He wanted to hold Olive close, to whisper to her, to hear her counsel. Did he dare join these men, dare fight an empire?

  They killed my father.

  His breath shuddered.

  If we fight, they will kill more.

  He clenched his fists.

  They took Atalia and Koren captive.

  He raised his head and turned back toward the balcony. There, outside, it lay—the land he loved. A land of milk and honey, of gold and light, of ancient songs and grace. A land where men could no longer worship Eloh, forced instead to kneel before an idol of Porcia. A land where children were now made to study Aelarian lore, not the teachings of Zohar. A land where Zoharites were fed to lions for the conquerors' delight. A land that was dying, consumed, absorbed into the Empire's belly.

  If I can still save Zohar, then I must fight.

  He turned back toward Kahan and gripped his arm. "We cannot defeat this empire," Epher said. "Even should every man in Zohar rise up in rebellion, we're too few. But if we bleed them, if we ravage their ranks, we can sue for peace. We can return the worship of Eloh
to our Temple. We can end the murder of our innocents in the arenas. Perhaps we cannot overthrow the chains of Aelar, but we can save the nation that we were."

  A few of the bladesmen grumbled at this.

  "We fight for nothing less than complete independence," said one man.

  "We fight to destroy the Empire, to send Aelar crumbling into the dust," said another.

  "He is cowardly like his cousin Shefael!" cried another bladesman.

  Kahan spun toward his comrades, face twisted with rage. "Shefael does not stand here among us. Epher is his own man." He turned his eyes from one man to another, then back to Epher. "Perhaps we disagree about our means and our ends, but we will fight together." He clasped Epher's shoulders and leaned forward so that they stood forehead to forehead. "We fight together for Eloh. We will slay legionaries together."

  They sat together on the floor, eating a simple meal of chickpeas, bread, and olive oil. Kahan unrolled a map of the city, showing both the streets above and the tunnels beneath.

  "Today is the Robigalia," Kahan said. "An Aelarian festival when the heathens burn dogs in great fires, sacrifices meant to protect their fields from disease. For days now we've seen legionaries collect stray dogs from across the city, preparing to burn them. I say that today we show the world who the true dogs are. We will burn the Aelarians, for they are dogs that are sons of dogs."

  "Wall-pissers," said another bladesman.

  "Ungodly heathens," said another.

  Epher looked at Olive. When he had first met her, he had seen a fierce animal, a wild thing. Yet now there was fear in Olive's eyes. Not caring if he appeared weak, ignoring the snickers, Epher clasped her hand. She leaned against him and kissed his neck.

  "Are you ready, Epher?" Kahan said, voice soft now.

  Epher inhaled deeply.

  Ready to kill again? Ready for more bloodshed? Ready for war? No. He would never be ready for blades cutting flesh, for the screams, for the stench of death. In the old stories—the ones from the Book of Eloh—warriors were noble heroes, death a thing of glory. But Epher had seen organs spill from sliced bellies, had seen men with burnt faces, had seen thousands of mutilated corpses, had smelled death—smelled the blood and offal and shit and rot, had heard the cawing of crows, the screams, the prayers, the men calling out for their mothers as they died. No. He was not ready.