Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Let trees grow here," she said. "Let these seeds become coiling, beautiful trees that give shade and fruit to many. In the Book of Eloh it's said that we return to the soil, but I pray that you grow as new life, my sisters, that you make this town beautiful again."

  The sea whispered, and the olive trees that already grew here rustled in the salty breeze.

  Maya hefted her pack across her shoulders, and she turned away from the house of Luminosity. She walked through the city, alone, but the light would forever be inside her. It was time to go home.

  KOREN

  They stood on the ferry, gazing at the white cliffs rising from mist.

  "Elania," Valentina whispered. The cold sea wind billowed her charcoal cloak and dyed black hair. "The enchanted isle."

  Koren stood at her side, shivering in his cloak, his hands shoved into his armpits. "It looks miserable. And cold. And wet." He sighed. "You couldn't find us some warm island in the Encircled Sea for our exile, could you? A place full of sweet summer wine, adorable lambs who walk right up and let you cook them, and scantily clad maidens?" He stared at the island ahead and shuddered. "God's balls, this is a desolate rock at the end of the world."

  She smiled at him wanly and patted his arm. "We'll find you some wine, and we'll find you some lamb."

  He dared to hope. "And the scantily clad maidens?"

  Valentina sighed and shook her head. "I'm keeping my cloak on. Too cold."

  Koren groaned. "Fine. Two out of three ain't bad."

  The ferry was small, barely as long as Koren was tall. The old ferryman stood behind them, wrapped in gray robes, his beard long and white, a scarf wrapped around his eyes. The blind elder hummed a tune as he oared, propelling the ferry onward across the narrow sea. When Koren turned back south, he could see the mainland of the continent—the vast lands north of the Encircled Sea that contained Gael, Aelar, and a hundred conquered lands. It had been a long, miserable journey here. Koren had long ago lost count of the days, the weeks, the months. Finally here, in the northern sea, the long road blurred in his mind, as if he were waking from a nightmare. He remembered nights on the roadside, huddled by a campfire. Long days traveling afoot—first along roads, then through forests, hiding from the legions. And finally the port, into the sea—and northward, onward to the island.

  The old man navigated his ferry around boulders, finally rowing the boat to a rickety pier. Koren looked around him. He hadn't expected a massive, wondrous port like Aelaria Maritima, but he had hoped for at least a bustling marina like Gefen's, a place to buy some fried fish, a few beers, and a downy bed for the night. But this port, on the southern coast of Elania, was just . . . well, just this single wooden pier. A few wooden slats were missing, and what remained had surrendered to mold and barnacles. The pier stretched toward a cold, gray beach, and beyond soared the white cliffs, stretching along Elania like a defensive wall.

  Koren turned toward the old ferryman. "This is the wrong place. Where are the fried fish, the beer, the soft downy beds?"

  The graybeard stared at him blankly.

  "Looks like it's stale old crackers for a while longer," Valentina said. She paid the old man a few coins and stepped onto the pier. "Come, Koren."

  He stood in the ferry, cringing. "Are you sure there's not another province where you know the commander of three legions? One less . . . cliffy?"

  She groaned, the wind fluttering her cloak. "Koren!"

  With a sigh, he stepped onto the pier too. The wooden slats creaked, and the cobalt water rushed beneath. By the time they stepped onto the beach, the ferryman was already rowing back to the distant southern coast, which now lay beyond the horizon. A cold wind blew, and a single gull cawed above.

  "The bird is laughing at us." Koren pointed. "That was a laugh."

  But Valentina was already walking toward the cliff. "Hurry up, Koren! Look, a staircase. Once we find Atticus, you'll have your wine."

  Koren gave the cliff a dubious stare. It was perfectly vertical, as white as Valentina's skin, and tall enough to dwarf the Temple in Beth Eloh. What Valentina had called a staircase was no more than a rough path that zigzagged up the cliff, barely wide enough to let a person stand.

  "Fuck me, even the marble quarry was better than this." He sighed. "All right! All right. We climb. The things I do for wine!"

  Valentina smiled at him. "It'll be worth it, Koren. Once we reach the top, Atticus will give us a royal welcome. A feast. Probably a play in the theater. All the wine that you could drink. And best of all . . ." Her eyes lit up. "He commands three legions, and he's loyal to my family—my real family. He'll help us fight Porcia. Once he hears of her cruelty, he'll help us."

  Koren found it hard to share her optimism. All his life, he had counted on help from stronger, older warriors, and all his life, the great heroes had failed. His cousin Yohanan—tall, strong, brave—had fallen upon the heights. Uncle Benshalom, the greatest warrior in Zohar—slain by Porcia's men. Atalia, brave and strong—drowned in the sea. Even Father, the great Lord Jerael Sela . . . Koren lowered his head. It seemed like all those wise, older folk had failed to protect the world, allowing it to fall into the hands of monsters like Seneca, Porcia, and Claudia.

  He looked at Valentina. She began to climb the stairs up the cliff.

  Is she still naive? he thought. The righteous perish in this world. The cruel survive.

  He looked at his hands. He had washed off the blood—the blood of men he'd slain in Zohar, the blood of men he'd slain on the road. Perhaps he, Koren, was becoming something like those monsters, a man like Seneca, unafraid to murder others to gain what he wanted. Koren clenched his jaw, and his eyes stung.

  No, I cannot allow myself to become like them. That's not who I am. Not who I will be.

  "Koren!" Valentina looked over her shoulder and gestured for him to follow. "Hurry up!"

  He looked at her. A slender young woman, only nineteen, soft-spoken and kind.

  She will die, he thought. Her kind always dies. He clenched his jaw. Then I will become that man. I will become the killer. To protect her. Let me stain my hands, my soul, so that she can remain pure.

  He followed her.

  They climbed for hours, pausing now and then for rest, then climbing onward. The icy wind kept gusting, almost blowing Koren down to his death. He cursed every gust, cursed every step, cursed every legionary in Porcia's army. The beach soon became a pale strip below, and the sea spread in the south, dark blue and gray. After climbing high enough, Koren could just make out the continent south of the island, that vast land between the Encircled Sea and this hellhole.

  When the sun was setting, they reached the top of the cliff and found sprawling grasslands. Koren took two steps, then collapsed and lay on the grass, breathing raggedly.

  "Next time, just take me back to the marble quarries," he said, then closed his eyes and slept.

  They woke at dawn to find that the clouds had parted, and the sun shone upon mist and dew. The sea below appeared vibrant blue today, its grayness gone. When Koren looked north, he saw the grasslands spreading toward distant forests and, on the horizon, just the hint of mountains. A dirt road coiled through the grasslands, and they walked, leaving the cliffs behind.

  "Are you sure you know where you're going?" Koren asked.

  Valentina shook her head. "I never claimed to know where I'm going. But look." She pointed ahead. "See there, in the distance? That's a cobbled road. Only Aelarians build cobbled roads. It'll lead us to Atticus."

  The dirt path connected with the paved road, and they walked north across the grasslands. Soon Koren began to see more signs of civilization. Hills rolled alongside the road, and dolmens rose upon them—crude doorways, formed from three rectangular boulders, that led to tombs within the hills. Koren frowned to see them. He had seen similar dolmens in Erez, the hilly north of Zohar where Uncle Benshalom had lived. Benshalom had told him the megaliths were ancient, predating even Zohar and Nur. Had whoever built the tombs in Zohar built these one
s too? If so, their empire must have been massive, as large as Aelar's or larger. Now all that remained of them were old stones.

  It began to rain again. They trudged onward, soaking wet. Farther down the road, Koren beheld a great henge of similar boulders, like many dolmens arranged in a ring. The stones were weathered, mossy, and inlaid with runes.

  "It's a henge," he said. "There are henges like this in Zohar too. When I was a child, my parents took me to see one in the northern hills. My parents told me they were ancient, thousands of years old, and that nobody knew who built them. The same people must have spread across the world. Never imagined I'd see their ruins here in Elania too. I wonder whatever happened to the buggers."

  Valentina looked at a hill beyond the henge. "Maybe they're still here."

  Koren looked and his eyes widened. Men stood on a distant hilltop, gazing down at the road. It was hard to see from this distance, especially through the drizzle, but they seemed to wear gray and blue robes, and their beards were red and white, flowing down to their waists. They held gnarled staffs.

  "Who are they?" Koren said, eying them as he and Valentina kept walking down the road.

  "Native Elanians," she said. "I've seen a handful in Aelar but have never spoken to them. I think they're shy."

  Koren nodded. "Good. Excellent! I love shy people. They tend to try to kill you less often, which would be a nice little change of pace."

  The sun set again, and they slept on the roadside. Blessedly, the next morning brought them to a village, the first one they had seen on the island. A temple to Dia rose here, not much larger than a typical house. An idol of the Aelarian goddess rose outside the temple's portico, shaped as a woman spilling water from a jug, her marble robes exposing one breast—goddess of spring and plenty, woefully out of place on this cold, rainy island. While the temple was decidedly Aelarian, the village huts were not. They were simple dwellings, built of wood and topped with thatch. A wooden palisade surrounded the settlement, and a legionary stood at the gate, wet, shivering, and miserable.

  "Hello, son of Aelar!" Valentina said, approaching the palisade. "May Dia, goddess of spring, bless you."

  The young man gave Valentina and Koren a wary look, then spat. "Dia has never been to this island. Spring has never been to this island." The rain pattered against his helmet. "When I joined the legions, they told me I'd be stationed in Berenia."

  "What's in Berenia?" Koren asked.

  The gatekeeper tucked his hands under his armpits and shivered. "Sunlight? Wine? Scantily clad maidens?"

  Koren gasped and turned toward Valentina. "I told you! I told you such a place exists!"

  Ignoring him, Valentina spoke to the gatekeeper. "I've come here straight from Aelar, bearing a message to Governor Atticus Magnus. Our ship sank in the straight. Only my Zoharite slave and I survived." She ignored Koren's gasp of protest. "How far are we from Atticus's residence?"

  The gatekeeper raised an eyebrow. "You mean the city of Tilium?" He sighed. "Two days north along the road. Not a bad city. They even have a bathhouse and theater. Fuck me, I'd tolerate Tilium if I had to stay on this island. Beats this shithole of a village." A ghost of hope filled his eyes. "If you really meet Governor Atticus, maybe put in a good word for me? And, um . . . forget the cursing. This cold weather freezes a man's courtesies."

  Valentina nodded and gave the man few denarii. They spent the night in the village tavern, where Koren finally enjoyed a hot meal and a mug of cider. At dawn they hit the road again, walking for two days through fields and forest. At times, in the distance, they saw the villages of native Elanians. The settlements rarely included more than twenty huts thatched with straw, and their people—tall, fair, and red of hair—stared from the distance but did not approach. Many of the villages displayed a blend of native and Aelarian culture. Some had stone buildings, built in the Aelarian style, among the wooden huts: temples, bathhouses, courthouses, even a small theater in one town. These settlements had legionaries guarding their gates.

  This is what's happening to Zohar, Koren thought. Aelar is bringing their culture, their religion, and their soldiers into our towns, taking over, forcing us to become like them until all traces of our ancient culture fade . . . and only Aelar remains.

  They were traveling across a grassy hill, moving through a copse of oaks, when they beheld many figures in a misty valley. Koren and Valentina crouched between the roots of a gnarled oak with a crown of red leaves, clutching each other's hands as they stared down into the mist. It seemed like an army of ghosts, a thousand or more, their voices muffled. Koren huddled lower, wincing as he crinkled dry leaves beneath him. He stared between the mossy, twisting roots that rose around him like a cage. The mist was thick, but he glimpsed red hair, checkered garments, and iron—helmets, axes, spears. Guttural voices rose from the valley, and many feet thumped. A horn blared, an astral sound, a keen of spirits from another world. When Koren looked toward the sound, he glimpsed a rider in the mist, tall and broad, his chest bare. He held a scrimshawed horn, and a sword hung at his side. His beard and hair were long and wild and the color of fire. The figure rode onward, vanishing again into mist, and the host followed.

  "Elanians," he whispered. "And these ones seem less shy than the others."

  Valentina stared, eyes haunted. "They're marching north. To Tilium." She turned toward Koren, cheeks flushed pink. "There is war here."

  Below in the valley, the host grew more distant, soon rising to march across the northern hills. They vanished into a forest of oaks, beech, and ash. Koren and Valentina remained among the roots, shaken by the sight.

  "There is war everywhere," Koren said. "It's the nature of men. Before Aelar invaded my country, my cousins fought each other. Before that, we fought Nur, Sekadia, Kalintia, the Ashenites . . . pretty much everyone. Wherever men build and toil and raise civilizations, they will seek to burn and destroy and reduce civilizations to ash."

  Valentina rose to her feet. "Well, I am no man. I will see the Republic restored, and I will see her become a force for peace."

  Koren stood up too, sudden anger rising in him. He had been following Valentina for months through the wilderness, abandoning any world he had known—for what, naivety?

  "Peace?" he said, a hint of anger entering his voice. "And when the Gaelians swarm to Aelar and assault her walls, ready to slay the men, rape the women, and enslave the children—you will speak to them of peace? When Seneca sails into Aelaria Maritima, seeking to rule the Empire with blood, seeking to slaughter every soldier in his way and crush the provinces, you will speak of peace?" He shook his head. "Peace is a fairy tale. A dream."

  "Then I will keep dreaming!" Valentina said, voice so loud Koren cringed, worried the distant Elanians would hear. "I'd rather dream than live in your reality. It is hopelessness, cynicism, and despair that would lead this world to ruin. Maybe the dreamers might yet save it."

  Hopelessness, Koren thought. Cynicism. Despair. When had those demons infiltrated him? This wasn't him. He was Koren Sela, the second son of a great house, a boy who had always shirked his duties to romance common girls, sing dirty limericks with Atalia and laugh when their mother frowned, who delighted in making silly faces until Maya burst out laughing. Epher had always been the serious one, Atalia brave, Ofeer hurt, Maya sweet—and him, Koren, always happy, always funny, a light even in the darkest shadow.

  But that boy died in Gefen, Koren thought. That boy grew into a man who kills. A man who sees no end to killing.

  "This isn't who I am," Koren whispered. "But this is who I have to be."

  Valentina's gaze softened. She placed a hand on his cheek. "Not anymore. Not with me." She embraced him. "There is still hope in you. I know it. That's why you're still here with me. You grumble, and you call me a dreamer, but you don't leave. Because you still believe."

  "Believe in what?" His voice was barely a whisper.

  She caressed his hair. "That you can still be the person you were. Before this. Before the world burned."
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  Twilight spread around them, gilding the mist, and the foliage of oaks and beeches blazed like wildfires. They set camp here on the hill, lit a campfire, and lay together under their single blanket. The fire crackled and the cold wind blew, ruffling the blanket, and Koren couldn't stop seeing it. The legionaries in the tavern. His blade sinking into them. The blood washing him.

  "I'll try, Valentina," he whispered. "I'll try to believe. But there is so much darkness. I don't know if light can ever shine again."

  He couldn't see her in the shadows, but he felt her press against him, her arms wrap around him. "A single candle can lead one through shadow. Let us be that candle. Walk this dark path with me."

  As she spoke, her lips brushed against his cheek, and he stroked her hair—silken, long, flowing between his fingers. Her lips moved just the slightest, brushing the corner of his mouth, and he kissed her. For a long moment they kissed in the shadows, holding each other under the blanket, until he tasted her tears.

  "Why do you weep?" he asked her.

  She buried her face against his neck. "For one whom I lost. Whom I loved. One whom Marcus murdered."

  "Iris," he said. "From Gefen."

  He turned his head away. She kisses me and thinks of her.

  She pulled his head back toward her, and she kissed him again. "I weep because I'm afraid. Afraid of loving you. Afraid of losing you too. Afraid that . . . that you were right. That I'm only a naive girl. That I cannot heal this world."

  He shook his head. "No, I was wrong. Never be afraid to love. Never be afraid to dream. Never be afraid to hope."

  She slept in his arms that night, and for a long time Koren lay awake, stroking her hair, listening to her soft breath. He had kissed girls before, had even been in love with Naima, a shepherdess with large green eyes, but that had been the love of a boy, of youth in sunshine.