Because there are those who would harm me, Porcia thought, digging her fingernails into the throne, chipping the gold. Seneca raises an army to slay me. The Zoharites would see me burned. She looked around her at the throne room, at the slumbering men and women, at the soldiers around them. Even here, in my hall, traitors everywhere.
One of these people hid a dagger. Or poison. Or a garrote. Porcia knew it. Knew it! They would poison her like they poisoned Father, or they would drown her in the bathhouse, or they would stab her in her sleep. It could be anyone. One of the men and women she had taken as concubines. A cook. A slave. A guard. It could be Worm—Worm who had fled her in the war, hiding in the shadows, plotting her revenge. It could be Valentina. Even sweet Valentina, her dearest sister, could be plotting.
I need to kill them, Porcia thought. I need to kill them all. Every last one! They're all enemies. Her eyes darted. Valentina is out there somewhere, plotting against me. She thinks she can be empress. Porcia sucked in a shaky breath. There are more senators hiding in the city, planning to rebuild the Senate, planning to burn me. Seneca plans to raise all of Nur against me.
A woman moaned on the floor, opened her eyes, and reached for a goblet of wine. The concubine knocked it over, then closed her eyes and snored again. Porcia stared down at her. She forgot this one's name. She forced herself to take deep breaths, to calm the flames inside her.
She was safe here. The drunkards on the floor couldn't harm her. They couldn't even lift a cup of wine. As for the guards? Porcia stared at them too. Stiff, somber men, crests on their helmets, spears in their hands. All of them had fought with her in Zohar, slaying the forces of King Yohanan. If they wanted to kill her, they could have done it then, in the heat of battle. And as for Valentina? Her sister was as sweet and harmless as a kitten.
Porcia inhaled deeply.
"I'm safe," she whispered. "I'm safe. I'm safe."
She reached for her own mug of wine and drank, just enough to steel her resolve. Wine was a heroine's drink. It gave her the strength she needed. As lumers sucked on lume, she fortified herself on wine. Ale for courage, wine for strength, blood for lust, as the old saying went.
Before she could empty her cup, the doors to her halls opened, and a ragged, bleeding legionary stumbled inside. His shield displayed a Capricorn—a goat with a fish tail—denoting him a man of Legio III Gaelia, a legion that fought in the north along the Gaelian border.
"Empress Porcia!" the soldier cried, voice echoing through the hall, rousing even the drunkards.
Porcia leaped from her throne. Her blood pounded in her ears. The man limped across the mosaic floor toward her, scattering the coins and gemstones. A bandage wrapped around his torso, red with blood. He clutched the wound with one hand, still holding his shield with the other. His sword hung from his belt, also bloody.
"Empress Porcia," he repeated, swaying before her. "I come from Gael. I rode all the way here. For a fortnight I rode. I bring you evil tidings."
Porcia gritted her teeth. Her fists clenched. Horror leaped through her. Sweat beaded on her brow and dripped down her spine.
"What?" she said. "Tell me."
"Ambushed!" the soldier said. "Our legion marched with Legio VI and Legio VII. We received word of trouble across the Eldar River, a group of Gaelians assaulting our outpost. Our three legions took a low trail between the hills, heading to the Vale of Hesvur, to crush the uprising. We marched with two auxiliary legions too. On the way, when rain soaked our bowstrings and our feet slogged through mud, they attacked. A hundred thousand Gaelians or more, many tribes united, rushing down the hills, driving us east. When we reached the mouth of the vale, a wall of boulders and mortar awaited us, blocking our passage, with many enemy archers atop it." He lowered his head. "Our shields were waterlogged. They had the higher group. We fought the barbarians well, but . . ."
"How many dead?" Porcia said. "How many legionaries fell?"
He looked up at her, silent for a moment. Finally: "All of them. I'm the one survivor."
She stared at him. For another moment Porcia couldn't speak.
All of them.
In its seven hundred years of civilization and warfare, Aelar had not won every battle. There had been campaigns lost. There had been legions crushed. But never—not in seven hundred years—had an entire legion, five thousand men in all, been completely wiped out. And here—with herself an empress for only a month!—three whole legions and their auxiliaries. Gone. Completely gone aside from the man who stood before her.
I will go down in history as our most wretched ruler, Porcia realized, eyes stinging, breath shaking.
"And the Aquilae?" she whispered.
The golden eagle standards were not merely banners to inspire men in war. They were holy artifacts. They were gods, divine, blessing the legions. If the Zoharites worshiped their box in their Temple, and if the Nurians worshiped their spirit animals, the Aelarians—soldiers born and bred—worshiped their Aquilae, their deities of war.
"Gone," said the soldier. "All three Aquilae—gone to the Gaelians, their prizes of war."
Porcia screamed. She screamed so loudly the concubines in her hall woke and fled, screamed so loudly this palace, this city, this entire empire seemed to shake. The loss of a single Aquila was devastating. To lose all three . . .
"My empress," said the soldier, "there was a Zoharite fighting among the enemies. A tall, beastly woman with dark skin and darker hair, fire in her eyes. She fought with an axe, cleaving men. A living demon risen from the underworld. A companion was with her, chanting her name as she fought. She is Atalia Sela, cousin to King Shefael in Zohar, sister to Epheriah the rebel. She took one of the Aquilae, and . . ." The soldier bowed his head. "In the battle, she cried out your name. She said . . . she said she's coming here, Empress Porcia. Coming here to kill you."
The wounded soldier fell to his knees, and at first Porcia thought he was kneeling before her. Then he tilted over, and his head hit the floor, and he rose no more.
Porcia screamed again. She drew her sword with a hiss. She raced toward a concubine who cowered behind a column, dragged the girl forward, and plunged her sword into her belly. As the concubine fell, Porcia tugged her blade back with a shower of blood. She panted, blood on her face. Not enough. Not enough! She needed to kill more. She needed to kill thousands, millions. She needed to butcher the Gaelians, to slaughter the Zoharites, to massacre the Nurians. Atalia—fighting in the north, coming here to kill her. Epher—rebelling with the Zoharites, plotting to drive her legions into the sea. Seneca, her own brother—marrying that Nurian whore, mustering his forces for an invasion.
Three legions wiped out.
Three eagles gone.
Porcia sucked in breath after breath, trembling. So be it. So be it! She had wanted to be an empress of wealth, of plenty, of gold, gemstones, sex, wine—a goddess of splendor. But she could be a goddess of blood too. A goddess of fire, of wrath, of retribution.
She would show them what death means.
"I will be an empress of war," she whispered.
She marched across the hall, scattering the coins. She burst out the doors onto the portico. She stormed past the columns, stood above the marble steps, and gazed upon her empire. The Amphitheatrum rose to her right, the temples to her left. The walls of the Acropolis snaked below, and beyond them spread the city of Aelar, home to a million souls. On the horizon, Porcia could see the Encircled Sea, gray under the clouds. Around that sea the fire burned, a noose tightening around her.
And around that sea, her troops awaited her orders.
She had lost three legions, yes. But seventy other legions still served her across the Empire, a force to dwarf all other militaries. She would pull them back from the ruins of Berenia and Phedia. The Gaelians had slain three of her legions, so she would send nine to crush them. The Zoharites rebelled, so she would send her most ruthless killers to smash them. Her brother was fucking a barbarian whore and mustering the heathens for assault, so Porcia wo
uld summon her armada, and she would sail into his port and burn him down.
"This world will shatter and bleed," Porcia said into the wind. "You all thought to test me. You all thought me weak, a pampered princess." She slashed her gladius across her palm, tightened her fist, and let the blood drip. "I vow by my blood, I will show you my strength. I will watch every city, every building, every living soul in this world fall before I watch my palace crumble. My father forged the Empire. I will temper it with my hammer and my fire."
ATALIA
After days of travel through the misty forest, the Gaelian tribes reached the mountain.
It soared ahead, draped with pines. A city sprawled atop the mountain, and Atalia's eyes widened to see it. She had not imagined that the Gaelians had cities; she had thought they simply lived in the forests as wild beasts. The sight of buildings—made of wood, not stone, but buildings nonetheless—both shocked and comforted her. It had been so long since she'd seen civilization.
She kneed the horse her betrothed had given her—a wild stallion, black as sin. The beast galloped across the valley, and wind blew back Atalia's hair. Mist flurried around her. She held her Aquila, the standard she had captured in the battle, and the golden eagle seemed to fly, bright in the sunlight.
Berengar rode his white stag beside her, and the other riders of the camp followed. Feina galloped upon a snowy mare, golden hair streaming, her eyes bright.
My future husband and wife, Atalia thought, staring at the pair.
It had been days since she had learned that, by knocking Berengar down, she had unknowingly betrothed him. Since then, Atalia had been riding at his side rather than dragging on a rope behind him. She still hated him. Of course she still hated him. Yet whenever she looked at him, she found that a strange tingle filled her.
I'm going to marry him. Here in this city, the heart of Gael. I'm going to share his bed. I'm going to bear his children.
Atalia shuddered at the thought, and yet . . . and yet she wanted this. Craved it.
Berengar rules armies. He united seven tribes, and he can unite more. As his wife, I'll rule a nation . . . a nation that can crush Aelar.
Atalia had never forgotten her task, why she had come here. It was to find allies. To find an army. She had been this army's prisoner. Soon she would command it as the chieftain's wife.
They rode onward, and the mountain grew closer. Here was a small city, smaller than the bustling Gefen by the sea, but the largest settlement Atalia had seen here in the north. Its dwellings were built of wood and straw, not limestone like the buildings of Zohar. Even the walls around the city were constructed of sharpened logs, not bricks. Soon the procession passed through a gate in these walls, and Atalia found herself riding down a dirt road.
"Welcome to Eldstad," said Berengar. "The great dwelling of warriors."
The Gaelians perhaps had learned the secrets of metallurgy, and they built swift ships and formed many fine jewels, but their homes were humble affairs, topped with thatch roofs. Children ran alongside the unpaved road, cheering as the warriors returned home. Young women rushed forth, bearing gifts of flowers, fruit, and wine for the victors. Robed druids prayed, and the wounded were led into huts of healing. Feina played a song on her harp, and soon many warriors were singing.
Many of the townsfolk gaped at Atalia, unashamed to stare. A few children ran toward her, gasped, then fled and hid. They all chattered in their language. Atalia could imagine why. She looked as odd here as a lioness among bears. Her skin was darker—not as dark as a Nurian's, perhaps, but downright swarthy in this land of pale giants. Her hair was black and unbraided, her eyes brown. Atalia had grown up in a bustling port city, and she had seen foreigners before, but these people had obviously never seen anyone but other Gaelians.
A little girl ran toward Atalia, touched her leg, then ran off to whisper excitedly with her friends.
"They think me a monster," Atalia said to Berengar.
Riding at her side on his stag, the chieftain smiled thinly. "The children say that you are Nachtfrau—the Princess of the Night, a mythical spirit from the tales we tell them."
Over the past few days, Berengar had begun to slowly open up to her. The first day, after she had beaten him, he had said nothing to her, only grunted and groaned whenever she approached. But slowly, day by day, the brute had begun to answer her questions, to treat her almost as an equal to Feina.
I gained his respect with my fists, Atalia thought. And I will gain his respect with my wits and my heart.
"Nachtfrau?" Atalia asked. "An evil spirit?"
Berengar's smile widened. "In our tales, it was the sun spirit who grew evil, casting a cruel summer across the land, one that wilted the crops and burned the forests. It was Nachtfrau, a spirit of darkness, who fought the sun, who beat back the flames, who returned balance to the seasons."
"Battling back the fire." Atalia nodded. "I could live with that. When I was a child, I used to pretend to be Safir, an ancient Zoharite queen who fought the fire demons of the desert. Nachtfrau sounds like the same kind of woman."
Yet despite Berengar's comforting words, Atalia noticed that not all in this town gazed upon her with wonder. One woman hissed at her, and another made a sign against evil. A scraggly, one-eyed man even spat her way. These ones muttered other words. Atalia could not understand them, but she knew they were curses.
I'm dark, and I'm strange, and some here will see me as magical, others as cursed. But I'm still Atalia Sela, lioness of Zohar. I will never forget the light of Beth Eloh. I swear this. I will never forget the desert from where I came.
They kept riding higher through the city. On the mountaintop rose a great hall, large as a palace, its walls formed from thick trunks, engraved with leaping elks, falcons, and dragons, the animals shining with peeling old gilt. Its triangular roof slanted nearly to the ground, thatched with straw. Back in Zohar, where men knew how to raise palaces of limestone and marble, this would seem no more than a fine stable, yet perched atop this mountain, overlooking the forested slopes and valleys beyond, this dwelling exuded a rustic majesty. There could be no doubt: here was the home of a king.
Guardians stood at the doors, bedecked in checkered cloaks of green and yellow, and gilt shone upon their horned helmets. Their beards were long, braided, and fair, and they knelt before Berengar and his wife. The doors were carved of oak, banded with iron, and engraved with leaping stags. When the guards pulled them open, they revealed a wide hall.
"We stand before the Mettensal," Berengar said. "The heart of the Galdurin tribe. My home."
"And soon to be your home, Atalia of the desert," said Feina. "Once you're wed into our union, you will command this hall with us."
They stepped through the doorway into the mead hall. The floor was formed of rings of wood, slices of tree trunks, placed close together, clay filling the spaces between them. Oaken beams rose as columns, engraved with coiling lines. The stuffed heads of stags and bears hung from the walls between draping rugs of crimson and golden wool. Iron wheels hung from the towering ceiling, topped with candles.
Trestle tables stood here, and servants were already entering the hall, bringing forth a feast. Berengar sat at the head of the table, and Feina sat at his right-hand side. The chieftain invited Atalia to sit at his left side, a place she took hesitantly. Hundreds of Gaelian warriors filled the hall, taking their seats and slamming flagons against the tabletops.
Servants in woolen tunics and copper bracelets laid the feast upon the tables. After months of privation, Atalia's nostrils flared and her head swam at the delicious scents. There were breads fresh from the oven, golden butter, and bowls of grapes, nuts, and apples. Silver platters held steaming slabs of venison and roast pheasants, served on beds of wild mushrooms and walnuts. Atalia ignored her manners, leaning across the table to reach the food. She piled her clay plate high, constructing elaborate piles of meat, bread, and mushrooms, pouring gravy above it all. For the first time in days, Atalia placed aside her Aquil
a. She feasted with a knife in one hand, a hunk of bread in the other, and she washed her bites down with mead poured from a horn.
Atalia had once spent a meal at the house of Claudia Valerius and her father, Aelar's ambassadors to Zohar. The Aelarians had reclined on low couches and eaten—all while lying down!—from a low table. They had only nibbled on their food, wiping their fingers and faces after each bite, as if a splatter of sauce or a belch would offend the gods.
If the Aelarian gods entered this hall, Atalia thought, they'd flee in horror.
The Gaelians ate with as much gusto as she did, raising a chorus of chomping, belching, gulping, and roars of laughter with every joke told. Beer foam covered mustaches. Men tossed bones to dogs who scampered and yipped under the tables. Two men wrestled over a steak on the floor, while another man lay on his back, drinking gravy from a dish shaped like a dragon galley.
Ofeer would hate it, Atalia thought. But this is my kind of hall.
Yet perhaps not. Perhaps she wasn't as welcomed here as she thought. Once her hunger had abated, Atalia felt the eyes of many Gaelians upon her. Not all gazed at her with love, and some muttered under their breath.
Again, Atalia remembered how Ofeer had been ashamed of her darkness. Here in this hall of golden, noble warriors, Atalia could easily feel ashamed of her olive-toned skin, her black hair, her dark eyes, her sharp features, a desert woman in the grand hall of elfin warriors of sunlight. But Atalia refused to surrender to that shame. She was perhaps dark. She was perhaps not as beautiful as Feina and the other women of this hall. But she was a lioness. In her veins flowed the blood of ancient desert queens and kings. She raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and clutched her eagle standard, her trophy of war. Anyone in this hall who gazed upon her with an evil eye, Atalia met their gaze, staring back proudly until they looked away.
Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3) Page 19