She yelped.
They both slammed onto the grassy hillside and rolled.
The horses kept galloping.
"What—?" she began.
"Hush!"
He scurried behind a bush, pulling Valentina with him. The shadows enveloped them. Bruises screamed in agony across Koren's side.
An instant later, the soldiers thundered by on their stallions, firing arrows and crying out for their quarry. They continued pursuing the two fleeing horses, leaving Koren and Valentina behind.
They crouched among the leaves, silent, bleeding and battered, until the sounds of thundering hooves vanished in the distance.
Finally Valentina rose to her feet. He could barely see her—only a hint of moonlight filtered through the canopy—but he could tell she was glaring at him.
"We needed those horses," she said. "They carried supplies. Weapons. Food. Water. And . . . they were my friends."
Koren thought she blushed at those last words, but he remembered how he had felt about Moosh and Teresh, his two horses back in Gefen. He still missed those dear old beasts.
"I'm sorry, Valentina," he said. "It was the only way to shake off pursuit."
She sighed and looked around her at the dark forest. A distant wolf howled.
"Do you have any idea how long it'll take us to reach the northern ocean without horses or money?"
Koren counted on his fingers, frowning. "Ten . . . maybe twenty centuries?"
She jabbed her finger against his chest. "If we're lucky! And even once we reach the ocean, gods know how we'll afford passage on a ship north to the Elanian Isles. My money was in the saddlebags."
Koren touched his wound and winced. His fingers came away bloody, but he didn't think the cut was deep. He had nothing to bandage it with, and it was too dark to see anyway.
"Elania," he muttered. "Why Elania? Why the most distant, secluded, most desolate province in the Empire?"
Valentina placed her hands on her hips. "Because it's the most distant, secluded, and desolate province in the Empire. Because Porcia can't reach us there. And because it's home to three entire legions."
Koren groaned. "Valentina! If there are three legions in Elania, how will we be safe there? Three legions! That's . . ." He counted on his fingers again. "A lot of soldiers! On an island. An island! Why would we go there? Why would I go there?" He grabbed his head and sat down. "I was having a lovely time back at Claudia's place. I lived in a villa. My job was to pour wine in the shade and make love to a beautiful woman. Not be stuck on an island with three legions of killers."
Valentina sighed and sat down beside him. She spoke softly. "How's your arm?"
"Hurts," he said.
"Does it? A little scratch from an arrow?" She jabbed him right in the wound, making him yowl. "How about that?"
"Ow! Stop it." Koren wriggled away from her.
"Oh, did that hurt too?" Valentina said. "Well, that's nothing compared to what Praetor Tirus Valerius's men would have done to you, once they had brought you to Zohar. They'd have tortured you, Koren. Tortured you right in Beth Eloh, to lure your brother out from hiding. They'd have flayed bits of your skin and rubbed the raw flesh with salt. Maybe ripped off a few fingers. Maybe ripped off that lovely little bit of yours that Claudia seemed to enjoy so much."
Koren felt the blood drain from his face. "But I love that little bit of mine!"
"And I saved it," Valentina said. "I saved you because of the promise I made Ofeer. I promised her that if I found you, I'd keep you safe. And that's what I intend to do."
Koren rubbed his head. "So why Elania and its three legions?"
Valentina smiled in the moonlight. "Because I know the man who commands those three legions. Governor Atticus Magnus." Her smile vanished, and her face became wistful. "He was my father's friend."
Koren tilted his head. "He was friends with Emperor Marcus? How does that help us? I thought we were escaping your family."
She lowered her head. For a long time she did not speak.
And then she told him.
She told him of her true father—Senator Septimus Cassius. She told him of the conspiracy to kill Marcus, and how it had backfired when Porcia had claimed the throne and slain the senators. And she told him of her dream—a dream to see the Empire dismantled, to restore the Republic, to bring new senators into power.
"In Elania, I can rekindle that dream." Valentina finished her tale. "With Governor Atticus's help. If he's still loyal to my family—my true family, the House of Cassius—he will help us fight Porcia."
Koren's head spun. Valentina wasn't an Octavius? That certainly explained a lot, but . . .
"Val, this makes no sense. Why would Marcus let his old enemy's friend—a man sympathetic to the Republic—continue to govern a province? Granted, Elania is the most distant, godforsaken, cold and desolate province of them all, but still. A province! Wouldn't Marcus have wiped out his enemies?"
Valentina smiled thinly. "Only those enemies he knew of. There are still those loyal to the Republic across the Empire, but they've been hiding their loyalties. They've been paying lip service to their emperor. But now Marcus is dead, and now the Senate has crumbled, and now the Empire is in chaos. Now it's time for all those people—me, Atticus, countless others—to reveal our loyalties. To rise up. To topple the Empire and rebuild the Republic of old. Oh, and don't call me Val."
Koren thought about this for a moment, then sighed. "Empire, Republic . . . same thing to me. This isn't my war. My war is in Zohar."
"The war covers the entire world," Valentina said. "When we fight Porcia in her own city, we're fighting for Zohar, for Nur, for Gael, for all lands struggling against the Empire, for all lands that fell to its cruelty. Fight with me, Koren. Help me reach Elania and raise an army to dethrone Porcia and dismantle the Empire once and for all."
Koren yawned. "Seems like a lot of work. I think I'll get a good night's sleep before we do all that. It's always easier to topple empires in the morning."
He lay down on a bed of leaves and grass. For a moment Valentina sat upright, staring into the darkness, but then she lay down beside him. The distant wolf no longer howled, and crickets chirped. The horses and legionaries had long gone silent. He lay for a few moments, unable to sleep.
"Valentina," he finally whispered.
After a moment: "Yes?"
"Thank you," Koren said. "For saving my life."
She wiggled closer until their bodies touched. She hesitated for a moment, then kissed his cheek. "Same back at you."
He closed his eyes again, and soon he slept, Valentina curled up against him. He dreamed of the desert, of milk and honey, and of a home that seemed farther than ever.
SHILOH
On the Day of Atonement, she awoke in her small chamber in the palace of Zohar, a rough cell where once servants had lived, where today she was humbled.
She rose from her bed, walked onto her balcony, and stared upon Beth Eloh on its holiest day. The Day of Atonement. The holiest day of the Zoharite year. No horns blew from the Temple this day; its priests had burned. No offerings of grain, gold, and plenty flowed from the countryside into the city; all those gifts now went to the Empire. On this most solemn of days, the day when all God's children prayed for forgiveness, a stillness lay upon Beth Eloh.
The ancient city sprawled before Shiloh, a field of domes, minarets, and pale rooftops, the houses so close together she could barely see the labyrinth of streets. Palm trees swayed in courtyards, and the tombstones in cemeteries crowded together as closely as cobblestones. A cold wind blew, the kinder, gentler air of fall, blowing away the searing heat of the long desert summer. A time for fasting. A time for prayer.
The markets were closed. The shops had locked their doors. No smoke rose from cooking fires, and no children played in the streets. The people prayed. Their Temple had been stolen, and a statue of Empress Porcia now rose there, gazing upon her province. But the children of Zohar gathered in the streets, in the courtyards
, upon balconies and rooftops, and their song flowed toward Shiloh. Songs of sadness. Songs of grief. The men stood wrapped in prayer shawls, and the women wore white dresses, and they prayed not for the Empire's fall, not for freedom—but for absolution.
"Forgive us, Eloh," chanted a distant priest in a courtyard, swaying as he faced the lost Temple. "Forgive your children for our greed, our arrogance, for straying from your path. Forgive us, merciful Lord of Light."
The crowds below chanted the words, and Shiloh turned away from the view. Her husband had always loved the fall, a relief from the heat, but for Shiloh the season had always seemed too melancholy. A season when oaks lost their leaves, when the sun set too early, when even the bounties of harvest could not ease her fear of winter.
Hearing those chants from the city, facing her barren chamber in the palace her family had once ruled, sudden rage filled Shiloh.
"Why should we beg forgiveness?" she hissed. "Why should we pray and speak of our sins, when the sins of the world fall upon us?"
On a day for quiet introspection, it was fury that filled her—fury that her children were missing, that her husband was gone, that this land wept under the yoke of an empire. Perhaps this was the fury Epher felt, the fury that had driven him underground, to raise blades against the legions.
And now tears flowed. Tears of mourning, tears of fear. The shadows gathered around Shiloh, and she could find no light to banish them. Back in the villa on Pine Hill, she would tend to her cyclamens when the gloom of fall constricted her—gentle flowers that grew by stones, that grew over the grave of her son. She had found some solace in the delicate petals, the boulders and statues in her garden protecting them from the wind. Her husband had protected her. Her family had protected her. She had always been like a cyclamen. Now she felt exposed. Now the grief of a nation, rising in song from the city, seemed all her own.
Mother of Zohar, they called her. The daughter of a king. A mere flower, alone in the wind, no stone to shelter her.
She walked through the palace, the place she had once ruled, the place now full of legionaries, of the statues of Aelar's pantheon. Beautiful gods of marble. Gods of grace, gods of cruelty. Gods that were just cold stone. Gods that were perhaps more real than the invisible spirit that today, on this holiest of days, could not hear her prayers, that had forsaken his chosen nation.
She passed through these halls of memory. Where two legionaries stood, Shiloh remembered the guards of her father—men now sent to the north, to be tortured, broken into submission, and rebuilt as soldiers of the Aelarian auxiliaries. Past a row of columns where marble idols stood, Shiloh remembered walking with her sister, tossing silver coins down toward the city below, making wishes as the people collected the wealth. The memories of a girl born into privilege, who had known a better life than most in this world—who had seen this world burn. Who had seen all her memories stripped bare, mocked, reformed around her until they lost all meaning.
I tried to give you a good life too, my children, she thought as she walked these halls. I could not give you a life in a palace, but may the memories of our home—a home of light, of joy, of family—give you some strength in the darkness ahead.
Thinking of her children was almost too much to bear, and the tears stung her eyes. Epher—hiding in the city, fighting his war of shadows. Koren and Atalia—slaves in chains, serving their masters in Aelar. Ofeer—sweet, sad Ofeer, the saddest of her children—perhaps a slave too. Maya—fled into the desert, perhaps never to return. Mica—her sweet boy, forever a baby, forever sleeping, his grave now desecrated, crushed under the sandals of the legions.
"We tried to give them a good life, Jerael," she whispered, and now her tears flowed to her lips. "We failed."
She paused from walking by a portico of columns, and between them she could see the western city, and beyond the walls the killing field where Yohanan and thousands of others had died. She fell to her knees here, facing her kingdom, and lowered her head, and her body shook with sobs.
"Forgive me, Eloh," she whispered. "Forgive me for my sins. Forgive me for failing to be a good mother. For failing to keep my children safe." She trembled. "I committed the most horrible sin a mother could commit. I did not keep my children safe."
A day of atonement. A day of tears. Why was it, Shiloh wondered, that the holiest day in the Zoharite year was a day of solemnity? In Aelar, the greatest festivals were days of parades, fanfare, of glory and blood, days when gladiators fought and chariots raced, when a city celebrated. In Nur they danced, bedecked in splendor, praising life. In eastern Sekadia holy days were affairs of song, of thousands dancing together, of military marches and feasts to last for days.
Here in Zohar, we fast, Shiloh thought. We pray. We weep. We beg forgiveness. Perhaps ours has always been a kingdom of tears, surrounded by kingdoms of splendor.
Leaving the view of the city, she made her way to the palace's holy pool. In Aelar, Shiloh knew, the people bathed in great bathhouses, palaces unto themselves, social affairs where emperors and plebeians alike were as equals, merely naked flesh exposed to all eyes. Here in Zohar, a private chamber hid the pool, a reservoir of water just large enough for a single person to enter. Shiloh entered this small chamber, no larger than her bedchamber higher in the palace, and gazed down at the water. It was in this water that brides purified themselves before marriage, that soldiers cleansed themselves after shedding blood in war, that kings and queens sought absolution from sin. A private place where only God could gaze upon her.
She removed her cloak and tunic, remaining naked before the pool. She remembered how once, a quarter century ago, she had felt a mixture of shyness and pride when first revealing her naked body to Jerael. Time and six childbirths had done their work, leaving her belly marked and stretched, leaving her breasts lower than in her youth. Here was the sacrifice mothers had always made for their children, the vow to give of their own lives—their bodies, their milk, their soul—to their offspring. A vow that, today more than any other day, Shiloh felt that she had betrayed.
She stepped into the pool, descending the underwater stairs until the water rose to her chin. It was cold. Cold as the winter that approached. Cold as the grief and fear that had filled her all year. Her body bore the marks of childhood, and yet she was alone here, come for ablution. Seeking water, prayer, the grace of god to cleanse her from this grief and fear. From her sin.
"Forgive me, Eloh," she prayed. "Keep my children safe."
She left the pool, donned her clothes, and walked again through the palace. She would return to her chamber, where for the first time in years, she would fast this Day of Atonement. She had quit fasting on the holy days many years ago, losing her faith after Mica's death, but today, this year with all her children threatened, perhaps she was rediscovering her faith. Perhaps she needed that faith to hold herself together.
She moved hurriedly through the palace, ignoring the legionaries who watched her, who snickered, who called out lewdly after her. She stepped back into her chamber . . . and she found a man there.
He stood robed and hooded in coarse fabric, his back to her, and Shiloh hissed, wishing she had a weapon, ready to call for the guards. But her fear soon fled. It was him. Of course it was him. She would recognize him anywhere.
"How did you get here?" she whispered, closing the door behind her.
He turned toward her, eyes haunted. Her Epher.
"Mother," he whispered.
And he needed her. He was taller than her, so much stronger, a warrior in a rebellion, but he needed her. He knelt before her, and she embraced him, her sweet son, and she thought of all those days, so many years ago, when she would hold the precious babe—her firstborn son. Discovering laughter with him. Discovering love.
"What happened, Epher?" She stroked his hair. "What is it?"
He looked up at her. Her curious babe, new in the world. Her wise son, learning to speak, to walk, to write. Her broken, haunted soldier, bearded and ragged, bruises and cuts covering
his face.
"I had a dream." Still kneeling before her, held in her arms, he turned his head to look out the window, and his voice was soft. "I dreamed a great wave flowed over this city, that a great cry rose in Zohar. I dreamed of a gate opening that had not been opened in generations. I dreamed of a savior entering the city, but a shadow too." He looked back at her, eyes damp. "I dreamed that you died, Mother."
She seemed to shatter. All she could do was stare at him, frozen like one of the idols in this palace. Then she knelt too, pulling him into a tight embrace. She rocked him.
"It was only a dream, my son. I'm here. Mother is right here with you. I . . ."
She could say no more. For the first time in years, perhaps the first time since Mica had died, Shiloh truly wept.
"I love you, Mother," he said, weeping too. "I wanted to see you on this holy day."
She wiped the tears off his cheeks. "You will see me on many more days. I will always be with you. I promise. I love you, Epher."
And thus do I sin again, she thought. Thus do I lie. I cannot protect him. I cannot keep my son safe.
They held each other on this holiest of days, and the song of Zohar rose outside—a song of grief, of prayer, pleading for forgiveness, pleading for mercy.
ATALIA
On a cold day under lavender skies, Atalia married the man she had sought through sea and forest, the man who would send the walls of her enemies tumbling down, the man who had taken her captive and now was taking her as his wife.
They stood atop the mountain, the gilded mead hall behind them, the forested valley below. The crowd covered the mountainside, gathering to watch their chieftain wed his new bride. Many tribes of Gael had united under his rule. They still dressed for battle, for they were people of iron, and they carried their axes, hammers, swords, and maces, and their checkered cloaks billowed in the wind. The sunset gleamed upon their torcs, the thick rings of gold that encircled their necks.
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