Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Porcia makes Uncle Cicero look tame as a kitten purring over milk."

  "Then show me only one thing." Imani turned back toward him, and fire burned in her eyes. "Show me Porcia's corpse, smashed like the statue."

  If only Porcia were a statue I could shove out the window, he thought. The new empress lay beyond the Encircled Sea, behind thick walls and thousands of troops. Seneca didn't know if he was strong enough, even with Imani at his side. This would be a war far greater than the one in Zohar, perhaps greater than any Aelar had ever fought.

  But he said, "I promise." And it was a promise he would keep or die trying.

  Once I wanted the Empire for my own vainglory. I wanted to sit on a throne, to be as a god. To have every woman in the realm worship at my feet. He stared out at the shadowy city. But an emperor is more than a god. An emperor is more than an idol to worship. I must claim the Empire so that no more nations will be crushed and rebel. So that no more blood and death will fill the streets. So that no more boys will swing hammers and nail men into crosses. So that I will no longer be the person that I was.

  Imani sat on the bed. She stared up at him. "And I suppose that you, hot-blooded young soldier that you are, wish to consummate your marriage now."

  He looked at her, and by the gods, his blood did heat up. His eyes strayed to her full lips, the curve of her hips, her slender fingers on her thigh. At once he hardened under his armor.

  She'll let me do it, Seneca realized. She'll let me sleep with her, here in her bed. A moment ago, she detested me, and now she would make love to me.

  He wanted it. He wanted to grab her, to rip off her dress, to turn her over, to fuck her right here, to conquer her—as he had done to Ofeer, to his whores in Aelar. To show her his strength, his dominion over her.

  But no. That was the old him. The one who had invaded Zohar. He forced himself to look away. He had chosen Imani not for her beauty, great as it might be. Not for her sex. He had chosen her to heal this land. To heal all the Empire.

  "I will not force myself upon you." He hesitated for a moment, then dared to stroke her hair. She stared up from the bed, eyes deep pools. He had never seen eyes so large, so wise. "Sleep, Imani, Queen of Nur. Sleep and rest well. I'll be here at your side—not watching you like my uncle but guarding you. I'll keep you safe."

  "My blades will keep me safe." She still wore her twin daggers on her belt.

  He rested his hand on his sword's pommel. "Then our blades will always flash together."

  Her face split into a grin. "Is this another wedding vow? I think you actually meant this one."

  She slept then, lying in her bed. Seneca removed his armor and lay on the floor. He had been to war in Zohar. He had fled Aelar as a refugee. He would survive a night on cold stone. Yet sleep eluded him. He kept thinking of those vultures fighting over the ribcage, and when he finally slept, he dreamed of them. But in his dreams, the vultures had his and Porcia's faces, and it was Imani's corpse they fought over, and Seneca could taste her blood, hot and metallic and sweet like southern wine.

  EPHER

  He sat on his throne, a king of a torn land, a king of ruin. King Epheriah Sela-Elior, descended of Elshalom, his ancient land burning.

  "My king, we cannot continue to feed them." Ramael stared at him, eyes hard. "This is a city at siege. Every drop of water, every morsel of food—it can mean the difference between life and death to our people. And we are feeding our stores to a thousand legionary prisoners in our dungeons. It must end, my king."

  Across the hall, voices rose in agreement. Scores of men and women stood here, the throne room of Zohar's ancient palace. They wore chain mail, and curved blades hung from their hips. A few had modified Aelarian weapons taken from dead legionaries, stripping the crests off the helmets, and wielding steel gladius swords instead of Zohar's iron sickle blades. There were men here from Zohar's Blade, warriors from Shefael's old forces, and simple city folk—bakers, smiths, masons, cobblers—who had taken up arms. Hundreds of other Zoharite warriors patrolled the city streets and manned its walls and towers. This was not an organized military. They had no standard armor or weapons, only a loose command structure, and many had received only rudimentary training. And yet they all fought for their homeland, for their freedom, all willing to die for Zohar.

  And I must keep them alive, Epher thought, gazing at them. Twenty-five thousand Zoharites had fallen during Aelar's invasion—a devastating loss for such a small kingdom. He could not allow more to perish.

  "We will not slaughter our prisoners in cold blood," Epher said, staring at Ramael. "We are not Aelarians. Our righteousness sets us apart from them."

  Ramael's lips twitched. "Then our righteousness will have us starve!"

  Epher gazed at the man. Ramael was tall, handsome despite a broken nose, his beard closely cropped. Epher knew him from Gefen—the grandson of Master Malaci, captured in the war and forced to bear a cross, only for his grandfather to sacrifice his own life to save him. Yes, Ramael knew something of being a prisoner condemned to death.

  "There are a hundred thousand people in this city," Epher said softly. "And more flowing in from the countryside every day, fleeing those legionaries who still crawl across our land. We can afford to feed a thousand more mouths. We can afford to show the Empire that we, in Zohar, value life."

  "Even while we in Zohar die," Ramael muttered, spat onto the floor, and marched off.

  A few guards grabbed him, bending his arms behind his back. "Do not disrespect your king!" one guard said, a hulking man with a thick beard.

  Epher rose from this throne. "It's all right! Ramael is a proud son of Zohar, and he may speak his mind here." As Ramael stormed out of the hall, Epher looked at the soldiers who remained. "Never hesitate to sound your counsel in this hall. We all have families to defend. We're all scared. We all have a voice."

  Yet those words stung him.

  We all have families.

  Iciness washed Epher's belly. His parents were among the thousands slain. Koren and Atalia had been shipped off in chains; he did not know their fate. Ofeer had betrayed him, and Maya had fled into the east. Epher's extended family—Shefael, Yohanan, Kahan, Uncle Benshalom—all lay dead, slain in the war. What family did he have left? Who did he fight for?

  A soft hand touched his shoulder, and he turned to see her there, and warmth melted the ice in his heart. Olive stood as ever by his side. She wore a white dress that revealed her skinned knees, and she wore no jewels or cosmetics, even here in the hall of a king. Her red hair stuck out in all directions, a wild flame. And yet she was beautiful to him, the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, and her smile gave him hope.

  She is who I fight for, he thought. For Olive. He looked at the soldiers in his hall. And for them, for my brothers in arms.

  He walked across the hall, and his people stepped back, forming a path. His chain mail chinking, he walked between the columns, over the ancient mosaic, and out the doors of the palace. A courtyard spread here across the mountain plateau, leading to a marble balustrade. He walked toward the railing, placed his hands on the stone, and gazed upon his city.

  Beth Eloh spread before him, a tapestry of domes, towers, tombs, and countless homes, all jumbled together, barely leaving room for alleyways and a few scattered palm trees. Beyond the eastern walls, the rocky mountainside spread toward the desert. The dunes rolled into the horizon. The sun was low in the sky, painting the western facades of buildings sienna and gold. Every structure here, from home to silo to mere well, was built from the same craggy limestone bricks, a color Epher had never been able to determine. Sometimes he thought the stones white, sometimes eggshell, other times—like now in the sunset—a burnished gold. All of Beth Eloh was built of the same stone, and perhaps all Zoharites were built of the same stock too, as hard and unyielding and ancient as these bricks.

  "There are no more legionaries in the city, aside from the thousand chained underground," Epher said. "And yet how long can we hold these walls? How
long before the wrath of Aelar descends upon us?"

  Olive leaned against him. "We fight them together. King Shefael stood in city three years. Walls thick. Our soldiers brave." She smiled. "And this time, I fight too."

  Epher wished he could share her optimism. True, Shefael had withstood a siege in this city for three years, but he had faced the forces of Yohanan Elior. To face the legions in war was a different story. And Epher knew that sooner or later, those legions would arrive at the city gates. Already Aelarian soldiers—the remains of Seneca and Porcia's invasions—swarmed across the countryside, burning, destroying. Already myriads of Zoharite farmers had fled into the walls of Beth Eloh, fleeing the destruction. And Epher knew: It was only a matter of time before fresh legions arrived from across the sea, before the armies marched upon the walls of Beth Eloh.

  He walked across the courtyard toward the western view. The city walls rose there in the distance, and beyond them spread the western half of the mountain, green with olive, pine, and cypress trees, flowing down toward arable lands and—too far to see from here—the Encircled Sea. Ever had Beth Eloh been the border between life and death, between growing things and rolling dunes, between a sea of water and a sea of sand. A path coiled up the western mountainside, leading toward the Gate of Lions. Thousands of people clogged the road, traveling toward the city, leading their animals.

  "More refugees," Olive said.

  Epher nodded. "We'll go greet them."

  More mouths to feed, he thought, heart sinking. More lives seeking shelter within these crowded walls. More signs of the doom to come.

  They rode out from the palace. Epheriah Sela, King of Zohar, rode on a brown gelding, and Olive rode at his side on a white mare. His bodyguards rode with them, armored for war. Horses were rare and costly in Zohar, only a handful in the entire kingdom, and only the wealthiest and mightiest lords owned them. Here was a display of Zohar's strength, meant to soothe the refugees, to tell them: Zohar is still strong.

  They rode past the Temple, the largest structure in Zohar. Its towers soared, capped with gold, the statue of Porcia finally gone from its courtyard. They rode through a gate in the walls that encircled the inner city, enclosing the Temple and palace. Soon they were riding down the narrow, cobbled roads of the city's crowded neighborhoods. The people bowed as Epher rode by, blessing his name. There was fear in their eyes, but he gave them hope.

  Is it only a fool's hope? Epher thought as he rode.

  He had to believe they had a chance, that they could withstand the coming storm. Nur was successfully rebelling, the stories said. But Nur fought alongside Seneca, an Aelarian noble who commanded legions. Gael still withstood the Empire, but Gael was a massive land, many times the size of Zohar.

  Could we—this small kingdom, a stretch of coast between desert and sea—truly survive? Can I save these people who gaze upon me with admiration and hope?

  Zohar was the oldest kingdom in the world, thousands of years older than Aelar—yet that ice kept filling Epher, the fear that he would be the last king, the final note in an ancient song.

  The Gate of Lions rose ahead, the largest gate among the city's seven, over a thousand years old. Its archway soared, and weeds grew between its stones. Two towers surrounded it, and battlements rose atop its gatehouse. It was through this gate that Porcia Octavius had entered the city, plunging Beth Eloh into chaos and rebellion. Stray cats and a few beggars fled from the king's advance. Two camels lazily rose, chewed their cud, and ambled aside with annoyed grunts.

  "Open the doors!" Epher said to the guards. He dismounted. "Let them in!"

  The thick city doors creaked open, revealing the mountainside where once Epher had fought the legions, the only survivor of the butchery. Today thousands crowded the road, hurrying toward the city, tears in their eyes, prayers on their lips. They led their livestock, mothers carried babes in slings, and elders leaned on staffs or rode in carts. Many brought supplies with them—mostly grain, wine, and olive oil, the three staples of Zoharite diet. Others had nothing, would be more mouths to feed.

  The first travelers entered the gates. An old man led them, his beard long and white, his shoulders squared and his back straight despite his age. Epher recognized him—Amos, a man of Gefen, a mason.

  Epher approached the graybeard. As the people streamed into the city, bringing their animals, their children, their ill and frail, Amos and Epher stepped onto the roadside. The mason stared at Epher with dark eyes.

  "My king," he said. "The ships of the enemy have docked in the harbor of Gefen. Five new legions have landed on our shores, joining the Aelarians already in our land."

  Five legions . . . By God.

  Epher's heart sank, and he sucked in air between his teeth. "Do they march here yet?"

  Amos shook his head, but his eyes remained dark. "Not yet, my king, but I do not doubt their intention. Five legions, all armed for war. They can only have one purpose: to assault the walls of Beth Eloh."

  Epher looked at the people streaming into the city. He recognized many faces. Here were people from Gefen, his hometown on the beach. "Give me news of Gefen."

  The old mason stared steadily into his eyes. His voice shook, whether from grief or rage Epher could not tell. "Tirus Valerius himself landed in the city. He is no longer a mere ambassador. Porcia has named him a consul of Aelar, and he now ranks as high as any in the Empire. There was an attack on his family. A band of rebels, loosely aligned with Zohar's Blade. Just a group of hungry youths, barely armed, but desperate and wild enough to have slain Tirus's wife outside the walls of Gefen."

  "God's balls!" Epher cursed, unable to stop the words, decidedly unkingly, from fleeing his mouth. "If there was any chance of suing for peace, that chance might now be gone."

  He remembered Tirus Valerius and his family well. Many nights, Epher had visited the man's house in Gefen, back when he had been Aelar's ambassador to Zohar. He had suffered many meals with the bald, beefy brute and his wife—a nervous woman named Adriana who spent her life coughing and complaining to her husband. Of course, Epher had been more than willing to suffer the two for a chance to spend time with their daughter.

  "Is . . ." Epher hesitated, then plowed on. "Is Tirus's daughter here too? Claudia Valerius?"

  Amos nodded. "Yes, my king. She and Tirus have taken up residence in your family's old villa. They are mad with grief." The old man clenched his fists. "They began to butcher the people of Gefen for sport, seeking vengeance for the death of Adriana. Many Zoharites stayed in the city, seeking to appease them, but many came here, seeking shelter in Beth Eloh from the madness of the Empire. The legions did not follow. But they will. It will not be long before the eagles leave the coast and descend upon us here."

  And Claudia will be among them, Epher thought. All those memories flooded him. Long walks with Claudia on the beach at night, just a boy and a girl, all the wars and tears of nations forgotten. Lying with her in the garden, telling jokes, seeing her smile. Making love to her in secret, nights of passion, hidden in moonlit gardens or among ancient ruins along the beach. And the last time they had met—in her parents' garden. Kissing her under the boughs of trees, then learning that she had known for weeks—known of the Aelarian invasion, known that she would return to Aelar, likely leaving him to die, that she had kept it a secret from him. Their last argument, her cold eyes, her tight lips.

  More than anything else, he remembered those cold eyes, how he had told her that he loved her, how she had merely stared at him with such an icy, pitiless gaze, as if she had forgotten all their time together, as if it had all been an act. At that moment, in the darkness of the garden, Epher had realized that she had never forgotten—not during their walks along the beach, not while making love, not while laughing together—that she was Aelarian and he a Zoharite, that she was the daughter of a great civilization and he was merely a desert barbarian. He had felt then that Claudia had merely used him—a bit of entertainment during her father's duty in a province she spat on. Epher d
id not think his heart would ever heal. She had shattered it like her armies had shattered the walls of Gefen.

  Olive dismounted her horse and walked toward him. As Epher looked at her, as she held his hand, some of his anxiety faded, and a part of his heart mended. He loved Olive with a flame that could always melt the ice inside him. So long as he had Olive, this new love in his life, there was hope in the world. He held her hand as they watched the people enter the city.

  "You will find safety here in Beth Eloh," Epher said to Amos. "We will give the people shelter, food, water. A storm rises. We will weather it behind these walls."

  Amos nodded and returned to his people, leading them through the city. He had given the man hope, but perhaps less hope filled Epher. Gefen too had thick walls; those walls had fallen to the legions. Thousands of Aelarian soldiers already roamed the countryside, burning, looting, striking terror across Zohar. Now thousands more joined them. How long could one city, even a mighty city like Beth Eloh, stand before them?

  Five whole new legions . . .

  Memories of the war returned to him. Thousands lying dead outside the city walls. Thousands more dying on the Mount of Cedars. Epher sucked in air.

  No, he thought. No, I will not let this city fall. I will not be the king who sees Zohar, a nation three thousand years old, crumble into sand.

  He turned toward one of his guards—Hanan Ben Elem, once a bodyguard to the Sela family in their villa on Pine Hill, now a guard to a king. He was a tall man, lanky but strong, the first streaks of gray in his brown beard. The man who had first told Epher of his father's death on that spring day outside Beth Eloh, the day Epher had woken wounded, still alive, in Olive's care.

  "Hanan," he said, "I want you to travel back to Gefen. Go there as my messenger. I will hand you a scroll with my royal seal. We need to talk to Tirus. To negotiate. To sue for peace."

  Whatever Hanan thought of this proposition he kept to himself, eyes betraying nothing. "Yes, my king."