Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  Child, be strong. I will protect you.

  Ofeer closed her eyes, letting the memory fill her.

  I am with you, Ofeer Sela. Always.

  The voice had been sad. It was the sadness that, more than anything, had touched her. Whoever had spoken to her—that astral being had grieved that evil filled the world, unable to banish it, perhaps not omnipotent but omnibenevolent, loving Ofeer unconditionally.

  "Was that you who spoke to me, Eloh?" she whispered. "Was it merely a voice of my own imagination, or was it your voice speaking through the luminescence?"

  Whoever had spoken to her—that voice did not speak again. Yet sitting here alone in this humble temple, so far from Beth Eloh, Ofeer could feel the grace and peace of that being, soothing her, washing her fear and pain away. All the pain of her youth—the pain that had driven her to drink, to smoke hintan, to lie with sailors—all that pain had never vanished in the port, but here the waves of holiness washed it away, leaving her pure.

  Again the child kicked, and Ofeer placed a hand on her belly. It had been seven months since she had lain with Seneca in the cave, and her belly now swelled and pressed against her tunic. She feared what would happen in two months. Would the child look like the cruel Seneca, an eternal reminder of the tyrant? Would he be malformed, as they said the children of incest often were? How could she be a mother—a penniless girl, an escaped slave, no husband or parents to help her? She feared the pain of childbirth. She feared the blood, the ripping, the screams. In the deepest shadows of her heart, she feared that, like her little brother Mica, her child would not survive outside the womb.

  Because I already lost a child.

  Now a pang of pain shot through Ofeer, and she lowered her head and closed her eyes. Yes, she did not often let that memory rise. For a long time she had stifled it, had seen it as a mere nightmare, not reality. She had been only fifteen, only a child, a scrawny youth yet already pretty—pretty enough for a sailor to covet her, to fill her womb. She had been pregnant for two months, so fearful of her mother's wrath. And then a horrible night, bleeding into the sea, emerging from the salty waters no longer afraid, yet so hurt, shattered. Her childhood had ended that night, and a second life had begun.

  "And let my third life begin now," Ofeer whispered, speaking in Zoharite, a language she had once thought so ugly, so guttural, a language she now thought holy. "Please, Eloh. I know that I've sinned. I drank and I lied and I lay with men. I betrayed my homeland, and I hurt my family. I'm not a good person. But please, Eloh, my child is pure. Let him live. Give him health. I am not a good woman, but give me the strength to be a good mother."

  Footsteps shuffled behind her, and Ofeer hurriedly wiped tears from her eyes. She turned to see a figure enter the temple, hidden in a tan cloak and hood. The figure stepped between the pews, sat beside Ofeer, and pulled back the hood, revealing a thin face framed by long black hair.

  "Noa," Ofeer said. The lumer who had once served Porcia, beaten, kept in a cage, and called a worm. The lumer who had saved Ofeer's life, saved the life of her child. Ofeer had not seen Noa since that night, and she fumbled with her tongue, her eyes dampening anew. "Noa, they said you left the city. That you fled overseas. Porcia is hunting you everywhere! The empress placed a fifty-thousand-denarii award on your head, and—"

  "Porcia Octavius," Noa said calmly, "is dead."

  Ofeer's jaw hung open. She blinked, then closed it.

  Porcia dead.

  "Does this grieve you?" Noa said.

  Ofeer looked away.

  Porcia. My older sister. Dead.

  Ofeer thought back to the first time she had seen Porcia. The woman had ridden to Pine Hill, returning from her conquest of Beth Eloh, to slap a grisly gift—a man's severed member—against Seneca's chest. Later, leaving the port, Ofeer had seen Porcia—not yet empress—carry the head of Yohanan Elior, then drag several other Zoharite heads behind her chariot, parading them along the streets of Aelar.

  "She's my sister," Ofeer whispered, fingers trembling. "And if she's truly dead, I'm happy."

  Noa smiled thinly. "As am I. More than anyone else in this empire."

  This empire . . .

  Ofeer rose to her feet so suddenly she banged her knees against the pew ahead. "What will happen to the Empire now?" She ran toward the window and peered outside, half expecting to see the city burning but finding only a simple, cobbled street. She spun back toward Noa. "Who will be the new emperor? Will . . ." Her belly churned, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Will Seneca return?"

  The lumer rose to her feet, approached Ofeer, and took her hands. "Ofeer, you are safe from him. I promise you. The Magisterian Guard has taken command of the Empire until a new emperor is chosen. They will protect this city, and I will protect you. But today . . . today I need your help."

  Ofeer stared into the woman's dark eyes—eyes so large in her thin face. She remembered those eyes staring at her through darkness—through the greatest darkness of Ofeer's life—bringing her hope, healing, light in shadow.

  "You saved my life," Ofeer said, squeezing Noa's hands. "You saved the child in my belly. I would do anything for you. But I'm just a girl, powerless. How could I help a great lumer like you?"

  Noa turned to look at the pulpit, at the scroll that rested there, so large and heavy Ofeer could not lift it.

  "The Book of Eloh," Noa said. "For a thousand years, the priests of our land, old men with long white beards, read its words in temples of marble and gold. For a thousand years, the people of Zohar united around the guardians of this scripture, those who wear holy vestments and shine with jewels." Noa turned back toward Ofeer, a strange smile on her lips. "Yet we women have always been those truly touched with Eloh's grace. We cannot become priests, and we cannot wear prayer shawls, and we cannot read these holy words. Yet it is we women of Zohar who can touch Eloh's grace, who can weave the lume he gives us, who can illuminate the world."

  "Only several women," said Ofeer. "I've never had the gift. And I'm half-Aelarian."

  She thought of Maya—sweet Maya whom Ofeer had always tormented. So many times, Ofeer had scorned the girl, had hated everything Maya was, everything Ofeer could not be—sweet, pure, pious, all those qualities Ofeer had thought beyond her reach. Now Maya was gone, perhaps dead, and Ofeer had never had a chance to hug her, to tell her that she was sorry, that she loved her.

  "The gift is inside you." Noa placed a hand on Ofeer's belly. "For you can create life, and this is the greatest magic, the greatest gift of Eloh, greater than any of the Four Pillars."

  "Is he . . ." Ofeer hesitated. "Is the babe healthy? Or is he . . ." She thought of some of the beggars she had seen once in Beth Eloh, backs crooked, limbs malformed, faces covered in tumors, said to be a punishment from God for the sins of Zohar. And surely Ofeer had sinned, perhaps more than any other woman of her land.

  "I cannot see him," Noa said. "But when I healed you, when I sent luminescence into you, I heard his heartbeat, and it was strong. A lion's heart."

  "And yet also an eagle's heart," Ofeer said, "for his father is Aelarian, as is mine. He's only a quarter Zoharite."

  Noa's smile grew. "We are all children of Eloh, Ofeer. All those who walk, fight, and die upon this earth. Eloh created all nations, not only Zohar, and Aelarians too are his children." Her smile faded, and she took Ofeer's hand in hers. "And now all people of the world are threatened. Now an evil rises in the east. I have seen him in the east. He is stirring. He is rising again into the world."

  Even here in this holy temple, this sanctuary of light in a city of sin, fear filled Ofeer. She shivered. "Who? Do you mean Seneca?"

  "Seneca is but a pup, harmless compared to he who walks again. To the man in the shadows. The man with the furrowed gray skin."

  Ofeer could not help but shudder. "Who is he?" she whispered.

  "The great adversary," Noa said. "The enemy that even Eloh cannot vanquish. He is evil taken form, delighting in malice, in pain. For many years, he hid in darkness,
yet now the shadow moves again in the desert. I have seen him in the luminescence. He walks toward Beth Eloh; it has ever been his city. He was there when the heathens burned their children in the Valley of Ashes, sacrificing them to false gods. He was there when the Sekadians shattered the walls and took our people captive. And he will be there when she returns into the city, when she steps through the Gate of Tears. When the savior beings light into Beth Eloh, he will bring darkness. He thrives on death and chaos, and this is an era for both."

  Ofeer looked back at the scroll, seeking comfort. Yes, she had heard tales of the adversary. He appeared only once in the Book of Eloh, yet that single mention had sprouted a thousand tales of terror.

  "Why do you tell me this?" Ofeer whispered, pulling her hand free. She placed her arms across her belly as if to protect the child within.

  "To scare you," Noa said. "To make you understand the danger we're in. Only light can cast back the darkness. Only a kingdom of Luminosity, strong and eternal, can banish this shadow. And now Zohar threatens to fall. Even as we speak, Claudia Valerius leads the legions of Aelar toward Beth Eloh, prepared to shatter those walls. Even now, she who was prophesied—all in white, all in light—travels toward the city, and he travels behind her. The pieces are moving. The great war of our time is about to begin. A war between Aelar and Zohar, but also a war between the light and the darkness, between the savior and the man in the shadows. And that is why I need your help, Ofeer. On these days, all Zoharites must fight, for it will be we daughters of the desert who will keep the light shining."

  Ofeer understood little of this. Noa spoke in riddles, much like Avinasi, the old royal lumer back home. "What can I do in a war between nations, between gods?" Ofeer said. "I'm no one."

  Fire kindled in Noa's eyes, and she grasped Ofeer's shoulders. "You are the daughter of Marcus Octavius, once the emperor of Aelar. You are the daughter of Shiloh Elior, herself the daughter of a king. The blood of two mighty dynasties flows through you. But more than that, you are a daughter of Eloh. You are a living, breathing being, touched with light—and that is holy, for every living being is a miracle. And now—for light, for life—we all must rise together." Noa leaned closer and whispered into Ofeer's ear. "Now we—the Zoharites of the diaspora, those who dwell across the Empire—now it's our turn to fight."

  Ofeer blinked, staring at the young lumer. Noa seemed in her twenties—no older than Epher or Koren—yet she spoke with the authority and wisdom of Avinasi herself.

  "A rebellion?" she whispered.

  Noa nodded, her stare penetrating, burning with dark flames. "For too long have we lumers served the Empire. For too long we built her palaces, carved her idols, sang her songs. Now it's our time to rise in rebellion. Now it's time for lumers around the Encircled Sea to rise against our masters. We cannot let Zohar fall to shadow. We cannot! The lumers' rebellion is about to begin. And all Zoharites around the Encircled Sea must rise with us. Hundreds of thousands of Zoharites live beyond Zohar's border. Thousands here in the city of Aelar, many of them mere slaves. Thousands in the conquered cities of Kalintia. Thousands live in Nur. Every port around the Encircled Sea has a Zoharite quarter, a small temple to Eloh, a lumer serving the local Aelarian governor. Individually, every community is small—a thousand here, a thousand there. United, we are a great nation—and like Zohar in the east, the Zohar of the diaspora will rise in rebellion." A chaotic smile touched Noa's lips. "And we have something that Zohar does not. We have lumers."

  A lump filled Ofeer's throat. Rebellion? She was no soldier like Epher, Koren, and Atalia. She had no magic like Maya. What did Ofeer know of war? She was seven months pregnant besides. She could barely waddle without wheezing, let alone swing a sword.

  "How can I help?" she asked, meaning the question to be a challenge, realizing too late that it sounded like an offer.

  "Come with me, Ofeer." Noa rose from the pew. "If you are truly a daughter of Eloh, and if truly a love of Zohar fills your heart, follow."

  Noa walked between the pews, and Ofeer followed. They walked upstairs, passing by the chambers where lived several Zoharites, tenders of the temple, then climbed a ladder and emerged onto the rooftop. Ohel Adom was only two stories tall. The apartment buildings on the block dwarfed it, three times as tall. Yet the temple was positioned alongside a boulevard, just where the road curved and swept upward. Standing here on the roof, when Ofeer gazed north along the avenue, she could see the Acropolis in the city center. It was distant—Ofeer could have held out her hand and obscured the entire complex—yet shone like a great jewel.

  The Magisterian Guard was out in force today. Its soldiers stood along the streets and upon towers. An eerie silence hovered over the streets. Porcia—dead. The Guard—taken control of the city. Ofeer remembered the violence after Marcus had died, the thousands who had fought and fell across the city, the fire that had blazed, the blood that had flowed. And yet today, after the empress's death, the city was more like a tomb than a battlefield. Cold. Silent.

  "What do see there?" Noa asked, pointing toward the Acropolis in the distance.

  "The center of an empire," said Ofeer. "The heart of Aelar."

  Noa smiled thinly, the wind blowing back her long black hair, and Ofeer was shocked to see the lumer's eyes dampen.

  "She kept me there in a cage," Noa said, voice soft. "She caged me, and she beat me, and she fed me filth, and she reduced me to an animal. In that palace upon that hill, the heart of Aelar, Porcia Octavius broke me. But all my suffering—her fists, her taunts, her cruelty—all that was luxury compared to another who suffers there, to the lumer who served Marcus, who then served Porcia, and who will serve the next emperor."

  Ofeer shuddered. Yes, during her brief life in the palace, she had heard whispers of the imperial lumer. It was said that none but the emperor of Aelar ever gazed upon that mystical, wretched being. Ofeer had met several lumers in her life—the ancient Avinasi, the mysterious Taeer, and of course Noa who had healed her. But nobody she knew had ever met the emperor's lumer.

  "The imperial lumer," Ofeer whispered.

  Noa nodded. "As the Acropolis is the heart of Aelar, in many ways, it is the heart of Luminosity. For the mightiest lumer in the world lives buried beneath that hill. I am strong in the ways of Luminosity. I studied from Avinasi herself. Yet my power is but a flickering candle by the searing bonfire of the imperial lumer. With my luminescence, I can speak to some of my sisters, those I know well. I can still talk to Avinasi, my old mistress—though her words fade as she ages. I still speak regularly to Taeer, my dearest of sisters. But there are over a hundred lumers around the Encircled Sea, most of whom are beyond my reach. It's time to summon the sisters. It's time to send word around the Encircled Sea that our war—the war we've been preparing for since leaving our homeland in chains—begins."

  Ofeer wrung her hands. "And the imperial lumer can do this?" Her voice shook. "She can send word to all the hundred lumers, to the communities of Zoharites around the sea?"

  "She can," Noa said. "But she—even she, the greatest among us—is kept in darkness. Porcia became fearful of her—and she was right to be afraid. The empress forbade the imperial lumer from visiting Zohar, to soak up more lume, keeping her powers minimal. Without more lume, the imperial lumer cannot reach out across the entire Encircled Sea, not to contact all her sisters. Her health, like her magic, deteriorates. Some say she is only days away from death. Even if Porcia would allow her a trip to Zohar, it is likely the journey would kill her. If the imperial lumer is to summon the sisters, she needs more lume."

  Ofeer lowered her head, and the wind billowed her hair, scented of spice and smoke. "Then is it hopeless?"

  "There is hope. We cannot bring the imperial lumer to Zohar, to the world's source of lume." Noa clasped Ofeer's hand. "But we can bring lume to her. You were in Zohar only half a year ago. Lume still clings to you, fills you. Both the lume you soaked up and the lume I gave you that night." Noa leaned closer and inhaled, as if savoring the scent o
f magic. "It will be enough. This will be your part in the war. You must return to the Acropolis, Ofeer. In the darkest, deepest dungeon beneath the hill, you must seek the imperial lumer. And you must give her the lume, the power, the flame to kindle the great rebellion of light."

  CLAUDIA

  The legions mustered outside the walls of Gefen—fifteen thousand killers, prepared for war, prepared to march to Beth Eloh and bring Epher to his knees.

  "You will kneel before me, Epher," Claudia whispered, standing in her chariot, gazing east toward the wilderness. "You will kneel at my feet, and you will worship my gods, and you will worship me . . . or you will die, my love."

  The legions chanted around her, raising their swords, stamping their feet, a roar like a storm.

  "We come, we see, we kill!" they cried. "We come, we see, we kill!"

  The dawn shone against their shields, their helmets, their blades. Their eyes burned with as much light. Porcia and Seneca had come here to conquer the land, but they had fled before the work was done.

  We will finish the job, Claudia thought. We will crush this rebellion. And I will crush you, Epher.

  She closed her eyes and brought his face to mind. A solemn face. He had always been so solemn. His strong jaw hidden under a short beard. Wise brown eyes, too wise, too burdened for one so young. How she had once loved gazing upon his face! She had sometimes lain for hours at his side, simply admiring his beauty, stroking him, kissing him, delighting in the mere presence of him. She remembered those nights on the beach, sitting among ancient ruins, drinking wine as the waves whispered, swimming under the stars, the water still warm, and his lips so warm, and their bodies pressed together. She had felt so safe in his arms. An Aelarian girl, so far from home, lost in this land of heathens, so afraid—yet so safe whenever he held her.