Atalia wore a gown that Feina had sewn for her. It was deep gray like the sea under a storm, hemmed with blue, split at the thighs to let her ride. The harpist had woven Atalia's black, chin-length hair with thin braids in the style of Gael, adding golden beads and silver bells. Blessedly, the cursed chain around Atalia's ankle was gone. She wore new iron now—a freshly forged sword, long and wide as her forearm, shaped like a leaf. It hung from a belt of gold and silver links shaped as coiling dragons.
Stupid garments, Atalia thought. She felt a little like Ofeer, all dolled up. But she also felt beautiful for the first time in her life.
I'm only marrying him for his armies, she told herself. And because he tied me up and dragged me and forced me to marry him. I hate him. He's a brute and a barbarian, and once I'm done using his armies, I'm likely to chop off his balls with the sword he gave me.
And yet when Atalia looked at Berengar, it was hard to hate him. She saw no cruelty in his blue eyes. Indeed she thought she saw something caring, something soft beneath the rough facade. He wore his silvery breastplate, engraved with stags, and a checkered gold-and-blue cloak, and he bore a sword and shield. Around his neck, he wore his torc, and the gilded finger bones of his enemies dangled from the collar.
With them stood Feina, and she was clad in a flowing blue gown, and her golden hair cascaded down to her waist, strewn with wildflowers. She too wore her golden torc around her neck, and a garland of bluebells wreathed her brow. She held her harp, and a curved sword hung from her belt, the blade worked with silver elks.
Atalia felt sudden jealousy that this shieldmaiden, more beautiful by far, should stand here with Atalia on her wedding day. But then Atalia scoffed at herself. What did it matter who was fairer or who stood here today? These were not her people, and she could not judge their customs. Feina was Berengar's first wife, and Atalia was joining this family. In some ways she was marrying Feina just as much as she was marrying the bearded chieftain.
An old druid stepped forth, clad in flowing purple robes. His beard was long and white, his eyebrows bushy, his face deeply lined. A great bird's skull topped his head, the beak thrusting out like a visor, and he held a staff bedecked with black feathers. He spoke words in Gaelian, which Atalia could not understand. Berengar and Feina spoke too, repeating the druid's words—ancient prayers to the gods of Gael, Atalia guessed.
"Would you like to speak some words in your tongue?" Berengar asked her, speaking Aelarian.
Atalia thought back to weddings in Zohar. She had been to several on the beach. She nodded, closed her eyes, and tried to imagine that she stood back there. That her feet were in the wet sand. That before her rolled the waves of the Encircled Sea, that behind her rose the piney hills where she had lived with her family. She spoke softly in Zoharite, knowing they could not understand, but these were precious words to her. They were words of home.
"If I forget you, Beth Eloh, may I forget my right arm," she whispered the ancient prayer. "If I forget you, city of gold and copper and light, may I forget all love and home. Hear, O Zohar! Ours is the light." She opened her eyes and glared at Berengar. "And if you treat me bad, I'm going to plant my foot so far up your ass I'll kick out your teeth."
The chieftain groaned and rolled his eyes. He held out a torc like the one all here wore. The collar was woven of golden strands, almost a complete circle, its ends tipped with decorative dragon heads. With his powerful hands, Berengar bent the torc, widening the gap between the dragons.
"With this gift, we are bound," he said.
"With this gift, we are bound," Feina repeated.
Together, the Gaelian man and woman placed the torc around Atalia's neck, then bent it so that the dragon heads nearly touched upon her collarbone. It was heavy and thick, and Atalia didn't know if she was strong enough to bend it back open, or if she would forever wear this gold.
"With this gift, we are bound," she whispered.
A feast began. Feina played her harp, and many Gaelians played trumpets and sang. Boars and deer roasted on spits, and mead and wine flowed from horns and goblets. The people danced, children played with wooden swords, and grown warriors dueled for sport. There were jugglers and men who danced with wooden masks, and there were games of dice and leather balls and hoops. The food kept coming: pies stuffed with pheasant and cheese, platters of bright red apples, sizzling sausages, tender hares and crunchy fish. Men competed at feats of strength, lifting logs and boulders, not to be outdone by the shieldmaidens who arm wrestled and boxed and fired arrows at wooden targets.
So many tribes had gathered for the wedding that they flowed down the mountainsides and covered the valley, spreading as far as Atalia could see. A nation gathered here for joy. A nation gathered to feast before fire. For a celebration before war.
Throughout the festivities, Atalia sat on the giltwood chair they had given her, and she thought of home.
I used to always tell my parents that I'd never wear a dress, never marry, that I live only for the sword, she thought. But my phalanx fell. And my home fell. And now I bear a sword from a strange land. She placed her hand on the pommel. And now I live for vengeance. Now I live to smash to walls of Aelar, to find Porcia and Seneca, and to slay them.
Night fell, and the people lit candles until thousands of tiny lights glowed on the mountain, and the stars shone above. Feina played her harp, singing a song of moonlight, of starlight, of the wind through the trees and of old and new love. Atalia didn't need to understand her language to understand this song; she heard its meaning in the pure notes and the pure voice. Her silvery gown flowing, Feina walked through the crowd, passing like a spirit from an ancient tale through the celestial field, a lady of light and song.
Berengar took Atalia's hand in his. His grip was warm and enveloping.
"Let us follow Feina," he said, his voice a comforting rumble like thunder in a retreating storm. "Let us walk the path of stars."
Atalia walked with him among the candles, following the silvery spirit and the harp's song. Indeed it seemed to Atalia that she walked upon a field of stars, floating through an endless sky of shadows and light. And Atalia realized that though Zohar was fair, a spring of lume to the world, there was beauty here too in Gael, ancient magic, and wonders to rival those of the desert.
Feina led them into the golden hall on the mountaintop, past the wide chamber where many warriors had feasted, and into a smaller, private chamber, its walls wooden. A bearskin rug lay by a fireplace, and fur pelts covered a wide bed, its legs carved into rearing stags. A lantern hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow.
"So . . ." Atalia said. "Now that we're married, when do we invade Aelar?"
Feina smiled, placed down her harp, and tugged the lacings of her gown. The silver cotton fell to the floor, revealing her nakedness. The lamplight gilded her body. She was slender but strong, her breasts pale and small, and her navel shone with a jewel. She stepped closer, still smiling softly, and stroked Atalia's black hair.
"You are fair, daughter of the desert," Feina whispered. "I am proud to be joined to you."
Her lips were full, soft, her kiss warm, her tongue seeking, and her hands moved down to free Atalia of her dress. Feina guided her to the bed, laid her down on the fur blanket, and kissed her naked body. Atalia closed her eyes, arched her back, and she surrendered to the pleasure of it. She had made love twice before—to a butcher's boy in Zohar and to Daor in the forest—but never to a woman. This was something different, sweeter, softer, lovemaking like mead, intoxicating.
Larger hands stroked her, and she saw that Berengar stood naked before her. His chest was wide and scarred, and for a moment Atalia was afraid, because he was a large man, brutish, a conqueror and warrior. But he was gentle with her. He entered her slowly, filling her, and again she closed her eyes, and she wrapped her arms around his back. His hair draped around her, and Feina kissed her ear as Atalia moaned into Berengar's neck.
She slept that night between them, her head on Berengar's chest,
and she did not dream of war, nor of vengeance, nor of those she had lost. She dreamed of fields of stars, the song of harps, and the taste of wine and Feina's lips.
The dawn rose to the sounds of horns, drums, and whetstones on iron.
Across the mountain town and the valleys below, the revelers were donning armor, strapping on belts laden with daggers and quivers, and sharpening axes and swords. Men and women hefted their shields, placed on their helmets, and drank mead from horns. Riders mounted horses, and druids chanted prayers. A group of warriors, a hundred or more, were dancing in the dust, beating drums, and chanting for victory.
Atalia stood outside the mead hall, wrapped in a blanket, watching them gather. Thousands upon thousands of warriors mustered across the mountainsides and valleys. Thousands more kept emerging from the forests. Trumpets blared across the land, sending birds fleeing. And still they emerged. Thousands more. The largest army Atalia had ever seen.
There must be a hundred thousand warriors here, she thought, staring in disbelief. She was no stranger to war, but she had never seen so many muster together.
The wedding had ended. War began.
"They're coming here from across Gael," Berengar said, emerging from the mead hall and coming to stand beside her. He wore his armor, his beard flowed across his wide chest, and he held his mighty axe, its blade shaped as dragon wings. "Never before have so many gathered from our land, and more will join us. All of Gael will march. You were right, Atalia. We're not safe here, dwelling in nothing but wooden homes, no brick walls around us. We won a battle against the eagles of Aelar. It's time to win the war." He took her hand in his. "Come with me. I have a gift for you."
He took her back into the mead hall, and Atalia's eyes widened, and a smile tickled her lips. The gift lay on the table, freshly forged.
"Armor," she whispered.
The breastplate fit her snugly, the iron worked with silvery lions. Her vambraces and greaves shone, and her helmet sprouted fangs. Her shield was round, wooden, and stretched with leather, and upon it roared a lion. When Atalia donned the armor and hefted the shield, she felt like a true soldier of Zohar again. Her double-bladed sword hung from her belt, and she strapped an axe to her back.
These were not the armor and weapons she was used to. She had always fought in chain mail, and she had always wielded a sickle sword and sling in battle. But with her breastplate, leaf-shaped sword, and axe, she felt just as mighty, a desert lioness roaring in a northern forest. She was ready for this. She was ready to face Porcia and Seneca again, to face the entire Empire in war.
"Porcia and Seneca tried to drag me into Aelar in chains," Atalia said to her husband. "I'll arrive in Aelar, but I'll arrive wielding iron, an army at my back, a mighty husband at my side."
They left the hall, and they walked down the mountainside. Berengar mounted his snowy stag, and Atalia rode on a midnight horse he had given her. Feina joined them atop her mare. She was clad in silvery armor, bearing shield and sword. Two golden braids emerged from under her horned helmet, falling down to her waist. She still carried her harp across her back.
Others joined them too. Thousands of riders. Thousands of men and women afoot. Wagons rolled between them, laden with supplies of war. They headed down the mountainside, and they moved across the misty valley. All across the forest, they beat drums and blew horns and banged swords on shields. The forces of Gael, countless, spreading into the horizon. An army large enough to crush an empire.
"To Aelar!" Berengar howled from his horse, raising his axe overhead. "To Aelar!"
"To Aelar!" the horde answered his cry. "To war! To war!"
As Atalia rode at the head of the army between her husband and wife, she stared south, and she did not think of the towering walls of Aelar, nor the palaces she would storm, not even the empress she would kill.
She thought of a city by the sea. Of a villa on a piney hill. Of candles and songs and a painting of elephants. Of a family.
"For you, Zohar," she whispered in this cold, northern land. "For you, the beat of my heart. For you, the golden desert. For you, Beth Eloh, the holy city. For my home."
She clutched her sword, and she rode onward, a desert lioness in the cold, ready to roar.
EPHER
It seemed that the screams would never end.
The legions marched through the streets of Beth Eloh, swords thrusting. The blood spilled. The screams echoed. Screams of rage, of terror, of death.
The city bled.
They fell by the thousands.
Epher ran along a rooftop. He whirred his sling, and he hurled his stone down into an alleyway, slamming it into a legionary's helmet. The man fell, but ten more legionaries ran into the alley, and their swords thrust. Two women of the city fell, chests pierced.
"Epher, come!" His companions grabbed him, pulling him from the roof's ledge. They ran onward. All across the roads below, the Aelarians marched and killed. The people fell before them. A legionary's spear drove into a child, skewering the boy. Two soldiers shoved down an old woman and hacked at her with blades.
Epher leaped into an alleyway. His dagger cut a man. His fellow bladesmen lashed their own daggers. Another legionary fell. They leaped into a tunnel, ran, emerged into another home. More corpses awaited them here. More legionaries marched outside.
The bladesmen ran through the city, emerging into alleyways, leaping from rooftops, killing every legionary they could, dying, dying with the thousands.
"Bring me six thousand corpses!" rose the cry across the city—the voice of Prefect Remus Marcellus. "Six thousand corpses will burn!"
And through the city, the slaughter raged—the legions grabbing children, elders, hacking them, loading the corpses into wagons.
"Behold your punishment!" cried Remus, riding his horse through the city. "You fought against us. I killed six hundred. You fought against us again! Now six thousand perish. Smell the death and kneel before us, rats."
A day of death, of mourning. A day of war.
When darkness fell upon Beth Eloh, Epher fell to his knees in an alleyway. Blood flowed around him. He had killed legionaries this day, but he could not stop the slaughter. Across the city, the people had fallen. Six thousand gone.
He lowered his head.
"We should never have resisted," Epher whispered. Blood and tears stained his face. "We should never have fought. I should have died on the cross that first day." He raised his eyes, blinked his tears away, and looked at Olive. "They killed six hundred when I fled the cross. When I fought them still, they slew six thousand. This blood is on my hands."
He looked at his hands—bloody, lacerated, hands he could never clean.
Olive knelt before him, wrapped her arms around him, and held him close. "Only blood of legionaries." She stroked his hair. "Not blood of innocents."
"They died because of me," Epher whispered, holding her. "Because I lived." He looked around him at the death in the alley. "Because I resisted."
Footfalls sounded, and a hand touched his shoulder. "Better to die free than live kneeling, cousin."
Epher turned to see Kahan standing there. The Selas had always been the wild side of the family, warriors, headstrong and foolhardy. Jerael Sela had been tempered by his position, lord of the coast, and by marrying Shiloh Elior, daughter of a king. Yet Jerael's brother, Benshalom Sela, had grown even wilder in his exile, roaming the hills, hunting and fighting and begetting many sons. Benshalom was dead now—slain outside the city walls—but his son Kahan was the warrior reborn. Standing in this alley, covered in blood, Kahan smiled, and a madness filled his eyes—a bloodlust.
"I did not ask for this." Epher rose to his feet. "I did not ask you to save me from crucifixion."
Kahan's smile grew. "And yet you fought with us, and you did not surrender yourself back to those who beat you, who would kill you like they killed so many others. God's will brought you to us, Epher. God made you a warrior in Zohar's Blade, this brotherhood. And God will see us win this war."
/> "If God exists, he forgot us in this land," Epher said. "The days of miracles ended a thousand years ago."
Kahan raised an eyebrow. "I would say, cousin, that God is here more than ever. In our hearts. In our blades. This is the hour when we are most divine, when we worship Eloh more than ever before. This hour, we show our love of God with iron. Eloh will help us cast back our enemies—but only if we become his true warriors, free of fear, full of nothing but devotion."
Epher looked at a severed arm on the ground. A child's arm. "God could earn my devotion by smiting our enemies with lightning, rather than hurling our frail, broken bodies at them."
"Yet we are more than crude tools," said Kahan. "God made us in his image—to make our own choices, to suffer when we sin, to rise to glory when we're pure. And glory will rise. We will push back the enemies from our land, and we will smite them even in Aelar, until God's grace flows across the world."
Horns blasted, filling the alleyway.
"Head to the Temple of Porcia!" rose a voice, speaking in Aelarian. A bell clanged. "At the Temple of Porcia, the corpses will burn, a great sacrifice to the goddess. Come forth, rats, to behold the fire! Come worship Porcia in all her glory, wreathed in the ashes of your dead! Worship her well, and she will show you mercy."
Epher climbed onto a rooftop and stared. A legionary rode a horse, surrounded by several other riders, ringing his bell, crying out the news. "To the Temple of Porcia! To the Temple!"
Epher looked up across the domes, alleyways, and minarets of Beth Eloh. There in the distance, behind thick walls, rose the Mount of Cedars. The Temple shone atop it, the sunlight bright against its gold and marble. There, they said, Eloh had once lived, had burned in the fire. There now rose a great statue of Porcia, visible across the city. There the old priests had burned, and now the people of Zohar were forced to bend the knee to their empress.
The other bladesmen climbed the roof with him. Sandy wind gusted, ruffling their robes and hoods, exposing the daggers strapped across their bodies. Olive's hood blew back from her head, and her red hair streamed.
Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3) Page 24