Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  She looked down at him, and she sighed. "Stand up, Seneca." Her voice was soft. When he rose, she continued speaking. "I'll marry you, and we'll sell the people our puppet show, our lovers' tale. We'll fight Empress Porcia together—Aelarians and Nurians." She caressed his cheek, her fingers long and slender. "But know this, sweet prince. If you betray me, if you do not keep your word . . . you will see my fury, and then you will envy your uncle."

  That day, across the land of Nur, rebels and legionaries laid down their weapons. That day, across port, river, and savanna, peace reigned in the southern province of the Empire, in this ancient kingdom under Aelar's rule. That day no blood flowed, no men died on the cross, no fires burned. A day of quiet. A day of light.

  They set sail that very day—Prince Seneca and Queen Imani. On the Aquila Aureum, the flagship of the Aelarian fleet, they traveled south along the Majina River, leaving the sea and port behind. The realm of Nur spread around them, a vast land, the largest province in the Empire, fifty times the size of Zohar.

  For the first few days, they sailed through a corridor of verdant lands beyond which spread a desert. The river bustled with life. Cranes, ibises, and hippopotamuses lived here, and irrigation canals spread from the river, watering fields of barley, wheat, beans, and yam. Beyond them Seneca saw nothing but dunes and rocky mountains. As they kept sailing south, the land changed. The air dampened and thickened, and the desert gave way to sprawling grasslands. Baobab and acacia trees grew on yellow hills. Different wildlife roamed here. Bison and wildebeests swept across the land, and elephants roamed in herds. In the distance, Seneca often saw giraffes feeding from the tallest trees, and twice he saw a pride of lions drinking from the river. He had seen some of these creatures in the amphitheaters of Aelar before—starved, beaten, twisted into wild beasts that attacked prisoners.

  These animals don't belong in the arena, Seneca realized. When I'm emperor, I'll return the lions of the Amphitheatrum to this land, and I'll outlaw ivory and animal pelts. I'll treat Nur as a precious jewel—to be savored, protected.

  Standing on the ship's deck, he turned away from the landscape and looked at Imani.

  She stood farther back, hands on the balustrade, gazing upon her land. Today she looked like a true queen. She wore a new kalasiri—a narrow dress of white muslin, the fabric embroidered with golden cranes. A tiara shone in her hair, and golden serpents encircled her arms. Twin daggers hung from her belt, the blades curved, the pommels shaped as falcons.

  My betrothed, Seneca thought. Imani was beautiful—among the most beautiful women Seneca had ever seen. Yet as he looked at her, he thought back to Ofeer.

  He remembered meeting the half-Zoharite back on the hills, remembered making love to her in the cave, taking her with him to Aelar. Being so happy just to be with her. To hold her. To protect her from the evil in the world. Ofeer had never been strong like Imani, never been a warrior. She had been fragile, naive, a delicate desert rose for him to protect.

  You're the first woman I ever loved, Ofeer. He lowered his head, and his fists tightened. And you lied to me. When did you know the truth? That we share a father? That our love was sinful, incestuous, unclean?

  He looked back at Imani. She didn't meet his gaze but kept staring at the landscape beyond the river.

  Can I learn to love you too, Imani? And will you ever learn to love me back, or will I always be just a pawn for you, just an ally in your war?

  He approached Imani, and he wanted to talk to her, to tell her everything. About how he had murdered Jerael. About Ofeer. About his father and sister and how they had tormented him, forced him to watch so much death in the arena. He wanted Imani to hold him in her arms, to kiss his forehead, to tell him it would all be all right. He wanted to lay his head against her breast, to close his eyes, to feel safe. Like with Taeer. But when he stood before her, Seneca could say none of those things, and he remembered how Taeer had scolded him, told him to be strong. To act like an emperor.

  Emperors are never afraid, he thought. They always lead, not follow. They always protect, not seek protection.

  Yet Seneca was scared. And he kept seeing the war in Zohar. And finally he looked away from Imani, worried that she would see the fear in him, that she would scorn him like Porcia scorned him, like Ofeer had scorned him at the end, like even Taeer scorned his weakness. He left her on the deck, and he spent the rest of the journey in his cabin belowdecks.

  Finally they reached the city of Shenutep, the capital of Nur—the southernmost city in the Empire and among the largest. Here was a lush city, rustling with countless trees, blooming with flowers. Its obelisks, temples, and towers rose from the leafy canopy. Statues of sphinxes soared here, and dirt roads spread between narrow buildings that rose several stories tall, lined with arched windows. Towering above all were the fabled pyramids of Nur, the tallest structures in the world, dwarfing even the palaces of Aelar and the great Temple in Zohar. They were coated with polished limestone tiles and tipped with precious metal that shone when the sun hit them.

  Around Shenutep spread the savanna and all its riches: the quarries and mines where iron, gemstones, precious metals, and fine marble were plundered from the earth. A center of ivory. A city of knowledge, of wisdom, of art.

  And a city of blood.

  The rebellion still stained the city. As the Aquila Aureum sailed upriver through Shenutep, Seneca saw the remains of violence. Corpses of rebels still hung on crosses and rotted in cages. Spikes rose on a temple's roof, piercing the severed heads of legionaries, crested helmets still attached. Upon a palace wall, painted with blood, appeared words in crude Aelarian: "Vultures go home." Vultures—the insult used across the realm for the eagles of Aelar.

  True vultures fluttered here too. A group stood on the riverbank, feeding on a human corpse. Seneca couldn't tell if the dead was man or woman, Aelarian or Nurian. Two vultures were tugging a ribcage back and forth, fighting over the morsel. As Seneca watched the two birds, he imagined that they were a prince and princess of the wilderness, battling over the remains of an empire. Perhaps he and Porcia were no different. Perhaps all the rulers of these lands around the Encircled Sea were but vultures cawing and tugging at rotting carcasses.

  He looked at Imani again, and he saw that tears streamed down her cheeks as she gazed at her city. He approached and stood beside her.

  She didn't turn toward him, but for the first time since leaving the northern coast, she spoke to him.

  "This city was once fair," Imani said. "Once we built great libraries, observatories, schools, and temples here. Once this was the greatest city in the world, centuries older than Aelar. Then the vultures came, and now those libraries are full of scrolls from a foreign land, and our schools teach the songs and stories of the north, and our temples worship gods of marble. Now the vultures feed upon our dead."

  Seneca didn't know how to comfort her. What could he, a prince of Aelar, say to justify these ruins, the evil his people had brought here? Nor could he promise her the freedom she yearned for. If he were to be emperor, he would rule this province too, and she would serve him.

  "We will be eagles again," was all he could say. "We will fly above this city, not feed from carrion in the dirt."

  She didn't reply, still didn't look at him, and Seneca knew that more than anything, Imani desired freedom—true freedom from him and Porcia and all other Aelarians. She would marry him, yes, but she was reluctantly choosing one master over another.

  "I promise you, Imani," he said. "I'll be good to you. A kind husband."

  Finally she looked at him, and now rage filled her eyes, and her muscles tensed. Her lips pulled back from her teeth. "Never forget this, Seneca Octavius. You are to be my husband for the songs, the stories, the tales that inspire nations to rise up in war. Never in my bed. Never in my heart." She turned away and marched across the deck.

  An amphitheater rose in Shenutep, the largest outside of Aelar, with seats for fifty thousand. Its name was Octavius Theater, for Marcus Oc
tavius had ordered it built a decade ago. The ring of stone arches soared above a canopy of jackalberry trees. Within, tiers of stone seats surrounded a dirt arena. It was here, in view of myriads, that Seneca Octavius and Imani Koteeka wed.

  The amphitheater seats were full. Many in the crowd were Aelarians—legionaries, their wives and children, nobles, merchants, and simple Aelarian citizens who had immigrated to the savanna province, seeking adventure in a new world. A couple hundred onlookers were Zoharites, refugees who had fled their nation's unending wars, only to find themselves embroiled in Nur's rebellion. But most in the crowd were Nurians. Seneca marveled at them, for they were a tall, noble people, their skin and eyes dark brown, their features strong and fair. The men wore simple skirts of white linen, leaving their chests bare, while the women wore kalasiris, formfitting and white. Many wore armlets and anklets shaped as serpents—tin and copper for the poor, gold and platinum for the wealthy.

  Seneca stood in the arena, the crowd's eyes upon him. He wore his best armor, the iron shining with golden filigree shaped as eagles, though he wore no helmet and bore no shield. Several legionaries stood behind him, his honor guard, their armor burnished, their helmets crested—men of Legio VI Nuria, guardians of the south. A laurel rested in Seneca's hair, and he had shaved and splashed his cheeks with rose water. He had always tried to care for his appearance, yet he felt plain—even ugly—when he gazed at Imani.

  The queen of Nur, scion to a long line of monarchs, wore a white kalasiri that hugged her form, hemmed with gold. A tiara shaped as a snake coiled around her mane of curls, staring with ruby eyes, and a garnet the size of a quail's egg shone on her throat. Her honor guard stood with her, ten Nurian soldiers, chests bare, shields and spears in hands, armored only with golden vambraces. Headdresses woven of white cloth and beads draped down to their shoulders.

  With Imani also stood her handmaiden, a demure girl in a white dress, and her brother, Prince Adai. At first glance, Seneca had mistaken Adai for a common soldier. He was tall and powerful, armed with spear and sword, and his eyes were stern. Battle scars covered his chest and arms. He kept staring at Seneca. It was the same stare Jerael and Atalia had given him. A stare of pure loathing.

  My brother-in-law won't love me much more than my older sister, Seneca reflected.

  Two priests stepped forth. One was a priest of Aelar, clad in an embroidered toga, holding a scepter and scroll. The other was a priest of Nur, old and bent, wrapped in blue robes, holding a staff shaped like a serpent. Each recited the prayers of their gods, but Seneca didn't listen. He had never cared much for the gods. The gods were cruel beings, if they did exist. How could he worship deities that allowed such evil to befall the realms they guarded—allowed thousands to perish in war, allowed Porcia to reign, allowed Ofeer to deceive him and shatter his heart? How could gods exist in a world where men ran on stumps, where women burned alive, where boys swung hammers into the hands of lords?

  When the priests finished chanting, Seneca placed a ring on Imani's finger, as was the custom of his people. It was a ring he had plundered in Zohar, taking it from the finger of a dead woman. He had wanted to give the jewel to Ofeer. Amber shone on it, trapping an insect. Perhaps an ironic ring, Seneca thought. It shone on Imani's finger, perhaps trapping her too.

  "Blood flows from the heart to this finger," he said, "and back again. May my love, imbued in this ring, flow ever into your heart."

  Old words. Foolish words. A show for the masses, that was all. She stared at the ring, silent, then took a goblet from her servant. She drank from the wine, then held the goblet to Seneca's lips. He hesitated for a moment, remembering how Valentina's lumer had once poisoned Marcus. But then he drank. If it was poison, so be it; he would die with Imani here, and let the Empire go to hell.

  Yet the wine was sweet and good, and Imani spoke, reciting words in a leaden voice. "May our love grow as vineyards. May our love be sweet as wine. Under sun and stars, through life and death, we are joined."

  She sounded as if she were speaking the names of her worst enemies. Seneca winced to see the hatred in her eyes.

  In time, you'll stop hating me, he thought. You'll realize that I'm not like in the stories. That I'm not like I was. I'll prove this to you, Imani. That I can be more than the boy who conquered Gefen. That I can be better.

  They sealed their marriage with a quick kiss, a mere peck of the lips. Her lips were full and soft and tasted of wine, and they twisted with the slightest hint of disgust when she pulled back from him.

  The land of Nur celebrated the wedding that night. A great feast was held here in the amphitheater. Cooks stepped right out into the arena, roasting gazelles, pigs, and several entire bison on great skewers. Nurian musicians played drums and flutes, dancers donned clay masks and performed for the crowds, and the food was served to all, a free meal for thousands. Across the city streets, along the river, in the port—the nation of Nur celebrated the royal wedding with song, dance, wine, feasts.

  And a promise, Seneca thought. A promise of war.

  That evening, the newlyweds rode a chariot through Shenutep, and Seneca noticed that not everyone in the city cheered. Many stared from roofs and windows with wroth eyes, and one man spat toward the chariot.

  "Vultures go home!" he cried.

  "The rebellion still rises!" called another.

  Legionaries stepped into the crowd, dispersing the dissenters, but their voices echoed in Seneca's head long after they rode by.

  They headed toward the greatest of the pyramids. It shone in the night, limestone surface so polished it reflected the moon, its crest coated with platinum. Seneca and Imani climbed the stairs to the archway, surrounded by guards, and entered the royal hall of Nur.

  Here was a palace of splendor, frescoes on the walls, columns capped with gold. Yet this ancient pyramid, three thousand years old, was morphing into a monument to Aelar. The original frescoes were gone, painted over with scenes of eagles. The statues of ancient Nurian kings and gods had been removed—Seneca had seen them displayed in Aelar—replaced with marble statues of the Aelarian gods. The guards here were legionaries, not Nurian warriors, and when Seneca passed by the throne, he saw that Aelarian letters had been engraved onto its dais: The Puppet Queen.

  This is not how to govern an empire. Seneca tightened his jaw and dug his fingernails into his palm. This is why the people we govern rebel. Because we spit on them. We claim to bring them civilization, yet we efface whatever civilization they have built. We steal their treasure, only to fund the armies to crush their rebellions. He shook his head. This weakens Aelar. We should be a light unto the world, yet they see us as vultures.

  He thought back to the day he had sailed into Zohar. He had come there as a conqueror, eager to vanquish his enemies, to prove his worth as a warrior. He had been a fool. He should have come bearing the gifts of Aelar—education, irrigation, sanitation, architecture, culture. Instead he had come with fire and steel. And now Zohar too rose in rebellion, and a ring of fire surrounded the sea.

  The guards led them to a chamber high in the pyramid, and Seneca and Imani entered alone. It was the queen's bedchamber, his now too. Windows rose from floor to ceiling, revealing the dark city and the savanna beyond, a field of shadows beneath the stars. A giltwood bed stood here, legs carved into rearing horses. A marble statue of Uncle Cicero, life-sized, stood by the bed.

  "He put it here," Imani said softly, staring at the statue. It was the first time she had spoken since the ceremony in the arena. "He told me he wanted to watch me as I slept, that he wanted his face to be the first thing I saw when I woke."

  Seneca thought back to his childhood, how Uncle Cicero had once seen a cat in the city of Aelar, raised his bow and arrow, and shot the animal dead, then laughed as a girl wept over her slain pet.

  Fucking bastard, Seneca thought, then winced to remember how he himself had shot a dog—an animal Maya Sela had tended to. And he realized that, despite his scorn for them, perhaps he wasn't any different f
rom his family, a vulture son of vultures.

  "As it turned out, your face was the last thing he saw," Seneca said. "Before you gored him with an elephant's tusk." He looked at her. "Is that story true?"

  She nodded. "Don't look so worried. I'm all out of tusks."

  Seneca stepped toward the marble statue. He grabbed it, straining, unable to lift it. Slowly, inch by inch, he managed to wobble the statue toward the window.

  "I think you're supposed to make love to me tonight," Imani said, "not hump your marble uncle."

  Seneca groaned, sweating. "Hump my uncle? I'd sooner hump a leprous warthog with the shits." He finally managed to shove the marble statue so that it dangled over the window's ledge. He gazed below to see the pyramid sloping down toward a courtyard. "Would you care to do the honors, my wife?"

  She stepped forward, hesitated, then placed her hand on the statue. "Together."

  They shoved the statue. It tilted over, slammed against the pyramid's slope, and chipped a limestone tile. Seneca winced, for an instant sure the statue would punch a hole through the pyramid and enter its shadowy bowels. But the statue slid down the slope, chipping more stones, and finally crashed onto the courtyard where it shattered.

  "Fuck that son of a whore." Seneca spat.

  Imani nodded. "Fuck that son of a whore."

  He turned back toward her and raised an eyebrow. "Such language for a queen."

  "Said the so-called emperor." Finally some of the hatred left her eyes. He saw the flicker of amusement there.

  "Imani, I'm sorry. Truly." Seneca lowered his head. "I'm sorry for what my uncle did here. To you. To your family. To your kingdom. I'm not him, Imani. I know you don't believe that right now. I just ask that you give me time to show you."

  She stared out into the night. "You say your sister is like your uncle."