Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  TEMPLES OF DUST

  KINGDOMS OF SAND, BOOK FOUR

  by

  Daniel Arenson

  Table of Contents

  MAP

  CHAPTER ONE: ABISHAG

  CHAPTER TWO: KOREN

  CHAPTER THREE: CAELIUS

  CHAPTER FOUR: CLAUDIA

  CHAPTER FIVE: SENECA

  CHAPTER SIX: EPHER

  CHAPTER SEVEN: CLAUDIA

  CHAPTER EIGHT: MAYA

  CHAPTER NINE: ATALIA

  CHAPTER TEN: PORCIA

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: MAYA

  CHAPTER TWELVE: KOREN

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: SENECA

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: KOREN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: SENECA

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: PORCIA

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: OFEER

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: CLAUDIA

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: OFEER

  CHAPTER TWENTY: ATALIA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: EPHER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: OFEER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: ABISHAG

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: EPHER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: MAYA

  AFTERWORD

  NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

  KEEP IN TOUCH

  Full-sized map: DanielArenson.com/Map

  ABISHAG

  Abishag, daughter of Naeem, had always walked upon light.

  The coins rattled, and the man laced up his trousers and left the alleyway, and Abishag thought of light upon water.

  She wandered the alleyways of Beth Eloh, seeking bread, seeking water from deep wells, her coins of blood and bruises and semen and shame buying life for another day, and she thought of the dawn outside her old window, mottled with ivy, rising across her wall.

  In the darkness, as men gripped her hair, as she wept, as she tasted them, lay beneath them, as they hurt her, she closed her eyes and thought of the light of the Temple, shining high upon the Mount of Cedars.

  Whenever her bleeding stopped, whenever she went into the hut of the old women, whenever she drank the poison they gave her, when she screamed and bled and wept, she thought of Eloh's light, blessing her, consoling her when nothing else could.

  Barefoot, her cloak tattered, her small breasts bared, Abishag the shepherd's daughter worshiped the light with every man who bought her, with every child who died inside her, with every shred of her soul ripped away.

  "Worship the light, sisters!" cried her mistress, the Queen of Whores, arms raised, head tossed back, given to the splendor, to epiphany. "With every man who seeds you, with every act of holiness, you bless God! You bless the Temple!"

  And outside the Temple, the sisterhood gathered. Frail. Broken. Coughing. Sisters of light. Abishag was youngest among them, still fair, still able to fetch a high price. The others were older, tattered after years of worship, their hair strewn with gray, their bare breasts wilted, their mouths and sexes raw with sores. They were like the stray cats who roamed here, feral, consumed with their heat and hunger, consumed with the grace that ever flowed from the Temple, with the disease that ever lurked within. They were her sisters. They were her family.

  "We will look after you," the Queen of Whores had said that first day, embracing Abishag, her breath rancid, her teeth yellow. "You are our sister of light. You will worship with us."

  And yet as Abishag lay in alleyways and huts, the men groaning above her, she thought of a different home, of a humble house on a hill, a flock of sheep, parents who had loved her. Parents who had died in the wars of Yohanan and Shefael three years ago. Parents the Queen of Whores claimed that Abishag had never had—just a dream of another life, a fever dream. The old woman gave her spirits to drink, strong and foul, that made her head spin, and the men who bought her spilled the spice from Sekadia into her mouth, and they thought she would forget, but Abishag still worshiped the old light. Dappled with ivy. Rising across her bedroom wall.

  And she never forget her light.

  She never forgot that day outside the Temple.

  That day on hot stones. Starving, dying, fading away . . . and finding hope.

  "Worship the light, sons of Beth Eloh!" cried the Queen of Whores, padding across the cobbled courtyard. Her arms were held out, jangling with tin bracelets. Her cloak was open, revealing her ravaged breasts, her sex, her ribs. "Worship the light for a shekel, sons of Adom!"

  Abishag and the other sisters followed their queen, shuffling across the courtyard. The ancient, weedy walls of houses and holy places rose around them, craggy and pale as leprosy. Cats hissed from rooftops and alleyways. When Abishag looked behind her, she could see glory: a towering wall of great stones, each taller than her, and beyond the Mount of Cedars, draped with tombstones and trees, and upon its crest the great Temple, as glittering and beautiful as an afterlife, a heaven she could see but never touch. When she looked away, she saw the men in the courtyard. Priests and holy men. Bearded, ancient as these bricks, wrapped in prayer shawls, eyes peering from wrinkled faces. The sisters dragged their feet toward the men, opening their cloaks to reveal their nakedness. Hungry sisters. Hissing sisters. More stray cats, patched with scabs, darkened with bruises.

  Let the fine women of wealth wear henna and perfume, Abishag thought. We are Sisters of the Light. Let our perfume be sweat and sex, and let our jewels be our sores. We are holy.

  The men opened their purses, and they chose women from among the sisters to worship. The eldest, richest man, the man with the long white beard, paid for Abishag. She was young. She was perhaps still fair. She could always fetch silver.

  They worshiped outside the Temple, here in the hot courtyard, surrounded by weedy walls, the glory of God gazing from above. All across the stones, they worshiped, grunted, screamed. Abishag lay on her back, and the old priest groaned above her, and she tilted her head back, and she gazed at the Temple behind her. With her head tossed back, it seemed upside down, its golden towers plunging into the sea, drowning. And she too wanted to fall, to vanish into water and shadow, and she thought of the light. The old man tore her skin and grunted above her and worshiped into her, and Abishag thought of her.

  Of the lumer.

  Of Maya.

  That night before dawn, the consecrated sisters gathered outside the Temple walls, and together they prayed.

  "With our breasts, we bless him," said the Queen of Whores, and she placed a coin outside the Temple gates.

  "With our sex, we bless him," said another, a gaunt woman, her nose broken years ago, and placed down another coin.

  "With seed and blood, we bless him," said Abishag, repeating the holy words of the consecrated, and she placed down one of her own coins—the silver coin from the man with the silver beard, for the most blessed of the consecrated sacrificed her greatest treasures to the light of Eloh. Her precious metal, her womb, her old life. A life of light, dappled with ivy, rising across the wall of her bedroom. A life of parents who had loved her. Of sheep in a field. Of a girl who had wandered the grasslands, crook in hand, who now wandered the weedy streets, sores on her lips. The life of the consecrated, worshiping God with everything she had to give, sacrificing childhood for light. In the morning, the boys would emerge from the Temple, and they would take the coins, and they would take the consecrated in the courtyard, and they would take something from Abishag, because they always took something from her—even now, even after three years, after countless men, still that old light shone inside her, and still they took it. Dapple by dapple. Blood by blood. Child by child poisoned in her womb.

  When the last of the consecrated placed down her coins, Abishag faced them, her sisters in misery, her sisters in disease. She spoke to them softly. "Somed
ay she will come into this city, as the lumer prophesied."

  Her sisters raised their arms. "Someday she will come."

  "This city will flow with milk and honey and wine," Abishag whispered, tears in her eyes, repeating her words—the words of Maya, of the prophet who had blessed them. "Through the Gate of Tears she will enter, wreathed in light, all in white, and she will bring healing to the hurt, sustenance to those who hunger, light to those lost in the dark, peace to those who fight."

  The consecrated sisters crowded together, reaching out so their fingers touched, and their tears flowed. "She who lingers," they whispered. "She who wears a crown of blood."

  As the dawn rose, as the other sisters slept, Abishag walked through the city of Beth Eloh. She had no sandals. She walked barefoot on cobblestones, the same stones ancient prophets had walked on thousands of years ago. The same stones the prophet Maya, the lumer who had blessed her, had walked upon last spring, back when she had given Abishag a coin without demanding a piece of her light, when she had spoken of the savior. The same stones upon which someday the savior would someday walk, all in white, all in light, she who lingers, she who wears a crown of blood. Tears flowed down Abishag's cheeks as she walked down the alleyways, the craggy walls rising at her sides, awnings and archways and balconies hiding the sky. City of blood, of tears, of dead babes, of children dead inside. City of grace. The city that waited.

  "You will enter through the Gate of Tears," Abishag whispered. "And you will heal us. You will bring them back. You will collect all lost children."

  She lowered her head, her tears falling onto her muddy feet. She had lost her own children to the poison, and she too was a child lost. A child waiting for her savior. A child seeking a lost gate.

  Every day, Abishag walked here, searching. She had stood by the Gate of Lions as the cruel Porcia and her eagles had entered the city. She had sought hope by the Gate of Mercy, ancient and crumbling, weeds growing between its stones, but she had found only ghosts, only closed doors and soldiers who mocked her, who tossed stones her way. Today Abishag walked along the ancient walls of Beth Eloh, circling the city from within, passing by seven gates, seeking the mythical eighth gate, seeking a gate lost to history, sealed up, forgotten. Seeking the Gate of Tears. Seeking the gate through which the savior would enter.

  "I must find it," Abishag whispered. "I must open it or she cannot return."

  She walked through the city of kings, the city of paupers, the city of hunger, of whores, of gutters, of gold. She walked along the walls of Beth Eloh, seeking a gate for her savior, passing her hands against ancient stone. The guards of the city found her by a tower, and they struck her, and they took away her cloak, leaving her naked in the dust, and they worshiped with her, and she wandered on. Weeping. Praying. Thinking of light.

  She shuffled through the marketplace, that bustling hive of silk, tin, sweat, wine. "If you find a gate, daughters of Beth Eloh, I charge you—seek the light. Open the doorway so that she may enter." Yet the women scoffed and recoiled from her, for Abishag was a consecrated sister, holy to the priests, abhorred by the people. "If you find a gate of bricks, sons of Beth Eloh, or a gate of tears, I charge you—let her light through." And yet the men scorned her, kicked her, cast her away. And she wandered on.

  And so she wandered the city—Abishag, daughter of Naeem, daughter of a shepherd, her womb a graveyard, her lips a hive of disease, her heart forever yearning for light. Forever the memory of Maya filled her—the lumer, the prophet. Forever the hope for a savior, for she who lingers, filled her. Because she knew that she would not always be lost. She knew that her children would come home.

  At night, Abishag returned to the Temple walls, and she danced there, and she worshiped God in the only way she knew—under men, giving herself to them, head tilted back, giving herself to God, to memory. To searching. To a dream of she who could heal her, who could heal this city, this city of war, of ancient stones, of blood on her thighs, of an orphan girl, weeping, smiling, knowing the savior would not forever linger. She was Abishag, her children lost. She was consecrated. She would be healed.

  KOREN

  "Valentina, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He hung his head in shame. "I'm a complete, total ass."

  Valentina looked at him. "What did you do now, Koren?"

  "It's not what I did now. It's what I realized now." Koren groaned and shook his head. "I hate walking. Hate it. Hate it! I should never, ever have sent our horses fleeing."

  The cobbled road stretched through the wilderness. Oaks, elms, and birches rose alongside, their leaves turning red and gold in the fall. Koren was used to the cypresses and palm trees of Zohar. It was unnatural for trees to lose their leaves like this. It was unnatural for the air to be so cold and misty. They were walking somewhere through Denegar, an imperial province north of Aelar. It was a vast land, many times the size of Zohar, full of barely anything but trees, mist, and those damn cobblestones that hurt his feet. His sandals were already worn down to thin strips of leather, and he knew what was next: his skin and bones.

  Valentina laughed. "Koren! That was weeks ago. And you released the horses to save our lives. If you hadn't sent the legionaries on a wild-goose chase, we'd both be crucified by now."

  "I know!" He tugged his hair. "Exactly! To rest on a nice, solid cross, nailed right up there, no need to move my legs . . . Ah, heaven! Sometimes I just daydream about being allowed to hang on a cross, if only for a moment or two. Would be heaven compared to this damn constant walking." He groaned and gazed down at his sandaled feet. "My blisters have blisters on them, and I didn't even know that's possible."

  Valentina smiled thinly. "There are worse fates than walking, Koren."

  She was right. Of course she was right. Koren cursed his own words. At the thought of crucifixion, his mind strayed back to that day—that most horrible of days. Walking up the path to Pine Hill, whipped and chained. Seneca swinging the hammer, nailing Jerael to the cross. Ofeer pleading for the life of her family, and Jerael bellowing, then only moaning, then dying slowly, dripping on the wood.

  Koren lowered his head.

  I'm a damn fool, he thought.

  A lump filled his throat. Yes, there were worse things than walking, and not just crucifixion. Missing home, for one. Missing his family. He would have walked another ten thousand leagues for news of his family. Was Epher still alive? Who had bought Ofeer at the slave market? And what of Mother and Maya? Koren had been thinking about them with every league walked across the northern hinterlands of the Empire. Slowly, step by step, he began to realize that Atalia was dead, that she had drowned at sea. He began to realize that he'd never see his family again, that perhaps he'd never go home.

  Valentina looked at him, her eyes soft. The young princess of Aelar wore a charcoal cloak, bought at the last village they had passed through. Koren wore a similar garment, and both hid gladius swords under the thick wool—just in case. Valentina had also dyed her hair black. Her natural white hair, the hair of an albino, would have been too easy to recognize, and the legions were everywhere, seeking the escaped princess. Her skin was still alabaster, but now stained with the grime of her journey. The fair, pale princess was nearly unrecognizable, now a mere muddy traveler on the endless roads of the Empire.

  She placed a hand on his arm. "I lost someone from Zohar too," she said softly, as if she had read his mind. "Somebody I loved. My lumer, Iris. She was from Gefen."

  Koren nodded, turning to look at the road ahead. "I knew her." He spoke softly. "I knew all the lumers who were shipped to Aelar. I forced myself to memorize their names. Because of . . ." Because of Maya, he wanted to say but bit down on the words. No. Not yet. He trusted Valentina. He saw the goodness in her heart. But he was not ready to share Maya's secret. Not yet. "Because they were all like sisters to me," he finished.

  Valentina slipped her hand into his. "You'll see Zohar again, Koren. We both will. Iris and I used to dream of visiting the east together. Someday, when Aelar is a republic
again, when there is peace, we'll both sail there. Together."

  Koren wondered if those were just pipe dreams. After so much devastation—the fall of Zohar, the brutality in Aelar, the flight here into the wilderness—it was hard to believe there could ever be peace again.

  "Valentina," he said delicately. "Governor Atticus has spent the past twenty years serving the Octavius family. How do you know he'll welcome us in Elania?"

  She stared at him with hard eyes. "Because my real father, Septimus Cassius, spoke of his loyalty. For twenty years, both men served Marcus, and both men remembered the Republic. Would you forget Zohar in twenty years?"

  Koren shook his head.

  "Nor would Atticus forget the Republic," Valentina said. "Septimus trusted him. And so do I. Atticus Magnus will help us, will fight with us—for the Republic."

  Koren sighed. It seemed to him that they were chasing but a flicker of hope, but a dream. He spoke gently. "That might be true. But there are only three legions in Elania. Even if we can find our way to that island—and it's still damn far away—and even if the island's governor supports our cause . . . it's only three legions. Fifteen thousand men. It's a force large enough to conquer a small kingdom like Zohar, yes. But what are three legions against the might of Aelar?"

  Her face hardened. A gust of wind blew back her hood and tossed dry leaves into her dyed hair. "Yes, he only has three legions, and Porcia commands many." She watched a hawk chasing sparrows overhead. "But Porcia fights many wars. A rebellion in Zohar. An uprising in Nur. The barbarian hordes of Gael in the north. Seneca in the south." She looked at Koren and smiled wryly. "We'll hit her when she's weakest. We'll shatter her reign, and we'll rebuild the Senate. For my father. For Zohar. For all the world."

  Koren didn't care much about the world. The world was a large, cold, miserable place. All he wanted was his home back. Rides with his brother along the beach. Wrestling and fencing with Atalia. Reading old tales with Maya. Right now Koren even missed his time with Ofeer in the slave market. It was strange to miss such a place, but even there—captives of war, about to be sold to the highest bidder—he had been with family. And he missed that night.