Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  He realized that he had raised his voice, that he was letting his anger take over. He was about to apologize for his rage when Valentina nodded, her eyes damp. She squeezed his hand.

  "That is not the Aelar I envision," she whispered. "That is a cruel, bloodthirsty Aelar, and not the one I want, not the one my father wanted. Not all Aelarians are cruel. We're not all like Porcia."

  "That's not what I meant—" he began, but soon tears were flowing down Valentina's cheeks, and Koren cursed himself. This wasn't him. He was the one who made jokes, who kept everyone happy, not one to rant and scold others like Ofeer always did. He sighed. "I'm sorry, all right? Maybe you're right. Maybe if we find this Atticus Magnus of yours, and he can help us restore the Republic, the world might be just a tad less miserable."

  Valentina gazed at him with her huge, wet eyes. Her lips trembled as she spoke. "I believe in the Republic, Koren. I have to believe in it. It's why I'm here. It's what my father—my true father—suffered for, fought for, died for. I will do whatever I can to make Aelar a Republic again, and to make this world a gentler, kinder place. For Aelarians. For Zoharites. For everyone who suffers under Porcia's reign. Will you help me?"

  Damn the girl. Somehow she had managed to make him feel like a donkey's backside, and a smelly one at that. He paused on the road and pulled her into an embrace.

  "Of course," he said and kissed her forehead. "That's why I'm here. With you."

  He thought back to his time with Claudia—days spent pouring wine, bathing in the sunlight, and making love to Claudia on a soft bed. He realized that standing here, weary and hungry and wet with rain, holding Valentina in his arms, he was happier than he'd ever been on Claudia's estate. He never wanted to let Valentina go. She was the best thing to have happened to him in a miserable year.

  And yet her words from the tavern in Denegar returned to him.

  I love another. I gave my heart to Iris, my lumer. I don't see myself ever loving another.

  It was raining when they reached the river, and sunset painted the water crimson and gold. A great stone bridge spanned the river, leading to the walls of Tilium. Koren had never imagined that bridges could be as massive and beautiful as palaces, but this bridge sported arches and towers that would not shame a king's residence. Where each two arches met, marble pedestals rose, supporting statues of Aelarian generals and gods, their laurels and spears gilded. Two decorative columns, capped with golden eagles, flanked the entrance to the bridge. Several legionaries stood here, holding lanterns. The crests on their helms gleamed with raindrops. As Valentina and Koren approached, the guards moved to block their passage.

  "Name and purpose," one guard said, stifling a yawn.

  Valentina pulled back her cloak, raised her chin, and squared her shoulders. Over the past few rainy days, the dye had washed out from her hair. It once more shone snowy white, as pale as her skin. She gave the guards a proud look.

  "My name is Valentina Cassius, daughter of Septimus Cassius, adopted daughter of Marcus Octavius, stepsister of Porcia Octavius, Empress of Aelar. I've come here to speak to Consul Atticus Magnus, an old friend of my father's, and to advise him on matters relating to the very fate of our empire."

  Koren stepped up beside her and waved. "I'm Koren. I'm helping."

  The guards' eyes widened, their boredom vanishing. They consulted among themselves. A few of these soldiers, Koren saw, had blue eyes and red stubble on their cheeks. They were natives of Elania, Koren realized, drafted into the legions, turned into Aelarians. He wondered if back home, in Zohar, young men were now wearing lorica segmentata and bearing gladius swords, serving Porcia as auxiliaries. The thought sickened him.

  "Come with us," said one of the guards. "We'll take you to our lord."

  Valentina sighed in relief and smiled. "Thank you, friends."

  Three guards detached from the group and began to walk across the bridge. Valentina and Koren followed. The water rushed below and the rain kept falling. As they approached the city, Koren leaned toward Valentina.

  "Valentina," Koren whispered. "Haven't we just spent the past couple of months hiding from legionaries? And now we've walked right up to them?"

  "These legions are commanded by a family friend," Valentina said. "They are our allies." But there was nervousness in her voice, and her fingers twisted.

  They walked through the city, following the guards. It seemed strange to Koren, to see this island of Aelarian civilization so far north across the sea. They passed by columned temples to the Aelarian pantheon, statues of Aelarian generals that rose on columns, a public bathhouse, and a theater that rose several stories tall, lined with arches. Cheers rose from within, accompanied by screams and the ring of clashing steel. Many people walked the streets, moving between shops and homes, clad in togas, stolas, and tunics. Many of the people seemed to be ethnic Aelarians, their hair brown or black, their eyes dark, but many others were native Elanians—their skin pale, their hair red or yellow, and they too dressed as Aelarians. This was the vision Valentina had spoken of—the people of the world united, their cultures erased, civilized, turned into Aelarians. To Koren, this seemed a poorer world.

  Legionaries walked these streets too. They stood at every street corner, armed for war. A fortress rose between the houses, and Koren glimpsed a hundred soldiers in its courtyard, marching and drilling. He thought of that army he had seen in the wilderness. Even here in distant Elania, on the far edge of the world, the air smelled of war.

  It seemed like wherever he went, he found strife, and he wondered if it were possible for men to build more than they destroyed, to create civilizations without shattering nations. He remembered being a child, playing on the beach with his siblings. He and Epher would always build castles in the sand, elaborate structures, complete with towers, walls, moats, walkways, and bridges. Yet they would never build those castles on dry sand, far from the waves. No. They purposefully built them in the path of the waves, knowing that the tide would rise, that the water would come gushing over their creations. For hours they would dig moats, build layers of curtain walls, speak of defense against the forthcoming watery assault. And when the waves hit, the brothers would hoot with pleasure, watching the moats fill, the defensive walls melt, and a few towers crumble—then rejoice at whatever parts of their castles still stood.

  It had been just the game of children, yet now Koren wondered. Even then, they had shied away from building sandy villas on dry land. They played at construction and destruction, at splendor and ruin. Perhaps all the works of men were like the games of children—a struggle to build and destroy, to raise kingdoms and watch them washed away into the sand.

  All we build are kingdoms of sand, he reflected. From plebeian to emperor, we are all just children hooting at collapsing towers.

  Finally they reached a massive building, even larger than the theater. Koren was surprised to see a structure so large and grand here in the provinces. Columns rose in a portico, enclosing several archways, and engravings of eagles covered the pediment above. A triangular roof, tiled red, supported three bronze statues—one of Emperor Marcus, the other of Empress Porcia, and the third of Prince Seneca. All three held gilded swords. Around the portico, the building spread along several blocks, lined with arched windows, like a defensive wall around a city. Through the windows, Koren could see many legionaries marching in a courtyard.

  Valentina speaks of bringing civilization to the wilderness, Koren thought. Sure takes a lot of swords to civilize a place.

  He stared up at the statue of Seneca Octavius. The man who had murdered his father. Nausea rose in Koren. He liked this island less and less every day.

  "The forum of Tilium," Valentina said, gazing at the building. "The center of Aelarian civilization in Elania."

  "And the center of her cruelty," said Koren, gazing at the soldiers manning the compound.

  "Valentina Octavius!" boomed a voice, and a man emerged from the forum, arms outstretched. He wore armor, the breastplate decorated with
golden eagles, and a gladius hung from his belt. A deep scar ran across his head, plunging into the skull like a canyon, claiming one eye. That other eye shone. "How you've grown! When my men announced that you had arrived in the city, I could scarcely believe it. We've been worried here in Elania since hearing of your exile."

  When the man embraced her and kissed her cheek, Valentina frowned and pulled back. "Do I know you?"

  The man laughed. "I knew you when you were just a babe. But of course you don't remember. I am Flavius, an old friend of your father's. I humbly command the legions of this city. Come, come! Your friend Atticus awaits you."

  They walked through the gateway, passing under the statues of the imperial family, and entered a vast, cobbled expanse that formed an inner city. Barracks rose here in rows, and a temple towered farther back, crowned with a statue of Dia. Countless legionaries marched here, and there could be no more doubt. Here was a city preparing for war. As they walked down a road between barracks, Flavius prattled on.

  "We've heard all about your escape from Aelar, of course." His teeth shone in his smile. "And your companion must be Koren Sela, yes?" He gave a hearty laugh. "As you can see, even in the most distant provinces, we're not out of touch. I must say, dearest Valentina, Atticus would not stop talking about you, not since he heard you had fled Empress Porcia." Flavius's smile vanished, and he tsked his tongue. "Such a terrible thing, isn't it? Such bloodshed in the capital. I can't say I blame you for fleeing. Atticus always did believe the Empire was inherently violent, that the Republic must rise again."

  Valentina flashed Koren a hopeful glance.

  I told you! she mouthed silently, smiling, then turned toward Flavius.

  "How is Atticus?" she said. "He's a good friend of my family. Why did he not come to greet us at the gates?"

  They stepped around a statue of a rider, his horse rearing. There was no mistaking Marcus Octavius's harsh bronze countenance. Past the statue, Koren froze and stared. His heart sank to his pelvis.

  Oh fuck.

  "I wish I could have brought Atticus a gift," Valentina was saying. "He was always so fond of tangerine jam! Do you get tangerines here? I should . . ."

  Her voice trailed off, and she stared too, the blood draining from her face.

  Ahead rose a cross. A corpse hung from it, weeks old by the looks of it, barely anything left but bone. A sign hung around the skeleton's neck, its words written with a confident hand: The pig Atticus Magnus, traitor to the Empire.

  Valentina screamed.

  Flavius gazed at the corpse with them, nodding sadly. "As I was saying . . . the man did always believe in restoring the Republic. Even in this distant province, we do not tolerate traitors to the Empire."

  Koren took a step back and drew his sword. Valentina hissed and came to stand beside him, drawing her own weapon. Legionaries advanced from all sides, forming a ring around them.

  "You never take me anywhere nice," Koren said to Valentina. "Next time, I'm choosing our holiday destination."

  They stood back-to-back, and the legionaries closed in. Above them, a gull cried out, far from the sea. The bastard was definitely laughing at him.

  SENECA

  The chariot raced through the dark city, sparks flying under its wheels. Its horses thundered, black stallions, shadows in the night.

  "Faster," Seneca said. "Faster. Faster!"

  They roared through shadows. The chariot bounced madly over the cobblestones, careening between the brick buildings of Tereen, port city of Nur. All around them soldiers ran, riders galloped, men shouted for war, and the drums kept beating.

  Across the city, horns kept blaring.

  Boom, boom, beat the drums. War. War. War.

  "Faster!" Seneca shouted, whipping the horses. "Faster!"

  The horses thundered onward. Imani stood in the chariot at his side, her breastplate engraved with golden ibises, her spear in hand. She wore a helmet, and she bore a tall shield. Seneca wore his own armor, a breastplate emblazoned with lions, and a crest rose from his helmet. A prince of the sea. A savanna warrior. Dawn and dusk. Husband and wife. Today they and their nations fought together.

  Against you, Porcia. Seneca sneered. I will cast your men into the sea.

  "Warriors of Nur!" Imani shouted at his side, waving her spear overhead. Feathers and bones dangled from the shaft. "To the port! To your ships! To war, to war!"

  Across the streets of Tereen, the Nurian soldiers ran. They were tall, powerful warriors, chests bare, arms ringed with metal. They wore helmets and bore spears, shields, and khopesh swords with semicircular blades. They roared as they ran, streaming north toward the sea. Many women fought among them, wild and fierce, armed with spears and bows, howling for war.

  "Sons of Aelar!" Seneca shouted from the chariot. They leaped over a crooked flagstone and landed hard, spraying sparks. "Eagles! Rise, rise now! With me, with Seneca Octavius! For the light of Aelar! For the gods! With me, to war, to war!"

  The legionaries ran with him, clanking in their armor, shields forming walls around them. Only two legions, that was all; two among seventy in the Empire. Ten thousand men. His entire imperial army—but a speck by the might of Porcia.

  They careened around a corner, the road sloped down, and there ahead Seneca saw it.

  The Encircled Sea.

  Hundreds of Porcia's ships were sailing forth, almost at the port now, their lanterns bright, their war drums booming. The chants of their soldiers rose on the wind, vowing death, vowing conquest.

  Seneca sucked in air, reached out, and clasped Imani's arm.

  "We forge our empire here tonight, my wife." He forced a smile. "Tonight we show the world that we are mighty."

  Imani looked at him. There was no fear in her eyes, only courage, the steel of a true warrior.

  "Tonight," she said, "we are free."

  Nur's ships were detaching from the boardwalk and sailing into the dark waters to meet the enemy. The chariot roared down the cobbled road, clattered onto the boardwalk, and Seneca tugged the reins. The horses reared and the chariot nearly overturned.

  Before them it loomed: the Aquila Aureum, the flagship of the Aelarian fleet, now the flagship of the Southern Empire. The ship Seneca had sailed to Zohar as a boy, leading an armada. The ship on which he had fled Porcia, coming to this southern land. The ship that would now lead him to death or victory.

  Seneca leaped from the chariot and ran along the gangplank. Imani ran behind him.

  "Row!" Seneca cried hoarsely, pointing his gladius toward the enemy. "Meet them head on. To war, to war!"

  "To war!" shouted his soldiers, two hundred men on the deck. Sailors scurried, racing up masts, tugging ropes. The galley's oars began to move. The Aquila Aureum left the boardwalk, slowly at first, then gaining speed, soon charging through the harbor.

  Hundreds of ships sailed around them, both his own Aelarian galleys and the native vessels of Nur, all topped with howling soldiers. Hundreds of ships sailed from ahead, the forces of Porcia Octavius, an armada sent here with a single purpose.

  To kill me, Seneca knew.

  He stepped toward the prow. He grabbed a bow, lit an arrow, and nocked it.

  He was swinging his hammer and raising the cross.

  A man ran on stumps.

  A woman burned.

  Seneca smiled thinly, teeth clenched.

  Once I fought for conquest. Now I fight to defend a nation. I will know no fear.

  With screams, fire, sound, and fury, the battle for his life began.

  Countless flaming arrows flew from the enemy ships, arching through the night sky, falling stars. Catapults twanged, hurling burning barrels. Ballistae thrummed, firing iron bolts the size of men. The death rained toward Seneca and Imani, lighting the night.

  "Burn them down!" Seneca shouted and fired his bow.

  His flaming arrow shot through the night, its light reflecting across the water. An instant later, thousands of his soldiers, standing atop hundreds of ships, loosed their own arrows
. The whistles filled the air, deafening.

  "Shields!" Imani shouted. "Shields up!"

  Seneca crouched and raised his shield overhead. The flaming arrows of the enemy rained across his ship. They pattered against his shield. One arrow tore through the layers of wood and leather, emerging to scrape Seneca's cheek, instantly cauterizing the wound. The other arrows slammed down all around him, hitting the deck, tearing through the sails, slamming into the oars. Imani hissed, shield overhead, the arrows slamming into the wood. A legionary screamed behind her and fell, clutching his chest. A sailor tumbled from a mast and slammed onto the deck, pierced with arrows.

  Across Seneca's fleet, the screams rose. He peered from under his shield to see a ballista's bolt slam into a ship, tearing through the hull, and water gushed in. A flaming barrel hit another ship, shattered, and spilled burning death across the deck. Men raced, aflame, and leaped into the water.

  Kill the rats! Seneca screamed in his memories.

  He laughed, dueling Jerael, cutting him, whipping him, nailing him into the cross.

  He sneered, drenched in sweat, fucking Ofeer in her own father's bed as that father died outside the window.

  He wept, so afraid, unable to hide those visions, seeing it again and again, the men burning, the severed limbs, the walls of Gefen crumbling, his soul burning with hatred, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't—

  "Seneca, fire your bow!" Imani grabbed him. "Fire, fire! Burn them down!"

  Seneca sucked in air. He rose to his feet to see Porcia's fleet closer now, charging toward them, firing all their weapons. Arrows, iron bolts, boulders, flaming barrels—the inferno soared through the night toward him.

  "Fire!" Seneca shouted. "Archers, fire! Trebuchets, fire!"

  He fired another arrow toward the enemy ships. Thousands of other arrows flew with his. On the boardwalk behind him, his trebuchets swung, hurling boulders. The craggy stones sailed overhead, clearing Seneca's fleet and slamming into the armada ahead.

  Fire lit the darkness. A boulder slammed into one of Porcia's ships, shattering the hull and deck. Men screamed and fell. The other galleys sailed onward, hulking black shadows, their oars beating. Some burned but still sailed forth, demonic ships of wrath. Demons. Demons of the underworld, risen into the world, vultures hunting in the darkness.