Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  Will you return here now, Seneca? Ofeer thought. Will you come to claim your prize?

  Again disgust filled her. If she saw Seneca again, Ofeer decided, she would kill him—kill him like he had threatened to kill her, like he had killed Jerael, like he had killed countless in Zohar.

  And yet . . . and yet he is your father, my child. Ofeer placed her hand on her belly, her fury fading. What kind of life could she possibly give her child? She was nobody now. Perhaps she had been born into wealth, but now she was nothing but a beggar, sleeping in a spare room in Ohel Adom, not a coin to her name. Seneca could give her child wealth, power, a life in villas and palaces—the life Ofeer had lived in Zohar, had thrown away. She tightened her lips and kept walking. She would cross that bridge when she came to it. For now she would not worry about Seneca. Perhaps, if she succeeded at her task, the lumer's rebellion would send Seneca to his grave. She would not mourn him.

  Finally, when she was breathing raggedly again, she reached the gates of the Acropolis.

  The walls soared before her, shielding the inner city of Aelar's echelon. Twenty or more guards stood here, breastplates burnished, helmets crested, cloaks blood-red. Ofeer strode up to them and raised her chin.

  "My name is Ofeer Sela," she said. "I was Seneca's slave and paramour, and I carry his child in my belly."

  Her heart thrashed in her chest, and she felt dizzy, but she did not falter and her voice did not shake. The guards reacted as Noa had told her they would. Their eyes widened, and they surrounded her at once. They tugged open the gates, and they rushed her into the Acropolis, into this marble prison Ofeer had fled months ago.

  They took her through the Acropolis, and Ofeer passed by these halls of splendor and dominion. The temples to the Aelarian gods, cruel idols of marble. The imperial palace where she had confronted her father, where she had seen his cruelty. The massive Amphitheatrum, the greatest theater in the Empire, large enough to seat eighty thousand spectators as gladiators slew one another in the arena. Here were the halls Ofeer had always dreamed of, majestic works of architecture, yet suddenly they seemed to Ofeer as ephemeral as sandcastles. Emperor Marcus had died. So had his daughter. All this glory was fleeting, a mere facade.

  True glory takes no form, Ofeer thought. It is love and light.

  But it was not to these wondrous buildings that the guards took her. Instead, they led her to a simple barracks, a square and humble building behind cypresses. It seemed out of place here in the Acropolis, hidden away. Ofeer had never noticed it, even during her time living here with Seneca. Pines shaded a cobbled path that led to the building. More guards stood here, and they took Ofeer through an archway.

  Sunlight drenched a cobbled courtyard strewn with pine needles. Several Magisterian guards, drilling with swords and spears, paused to stare as Ofeer walked by. The guards took Ofeer between two pines, through an archway, and toward a doorway. They knocked, heard an "enter!" from within, and took Ofeer into a humble chamber.

  A young man sat here at a desk, busy writing in a scroll. He did not look up from his work. He wore a simple toga, white and unadorned, his only embellishment a pin of a laureled eagle—symbol of the Magisterian Guard. And yet he seemed smaller than any guard Ofeer had seen, short, almost scrawny, and soft-cheeked, and his brown hair fell limply across his pale forehead. The Magisterian Guard was an elite unit; only those who proved themselves in the legions could join its service. And yet this man seemed too boyish, more of a scribe than a deadly warrior. As he wrote away, a collared slave stood behind him. The young woman was dressed as Dia, the goddess of spring, her flowing stola revealing one breast, and she held a jug of wine. The slave stood stiffly, met Ofeer's eyes briefly—and there was something pleading there, something pained—then looked away.

  Finally the young man placed down his quill, and he looked up at the guards and Ofeer. When his eyes met Ofeer's, she lost her breath.

  No, he's not young, she thought.

  His face was boyish, his frame frail, his hair soft—but his eyes were old. Though the man's lips rose in a pleasant smile, his eyes remained cold. There was madness in those eyes. There was cruelty. There was the desire to conquer, to break. Ofeer would recognize such eyes anywhere; Seneca had them too.

  "Dominus Caelius!" said one of the guards, holding Ofeer's arm. "This one surrendered herself at the Acropolis gates. She claims to be the renegade Ofeer Sela."

  Caelius's smile never faltered. He leaned back in his seat. "Do you like my goddess?" he said to Ofeer, not breaking his stare.

  "Your . . . goddess, dominus?"

  Caelius nodded and gestured at his slave, the woman dressed as Dia. "I saw you admiring her while I worked. She's a splendid specimen, isn't she? Brought her from the Gaelian front. You see, marble statues are so dreadfully expensive, and I like the Magisterian Guard to be as efficient and austere as possible. I allow us no lavishness. A living statue is both more economic and, if you ask me, more pleasant to look at." He rose from his seat, walked around the desk, and approached Ofeer. "How far along are you?"

  Ofeer glanced down at her belly. "Just over seven months, dominus."

  "How lovely! May I?" Caelius placed his hand on her belly. "Truly, there is no miracle in the realms of gods or men greater than a child in a womb." He smiled at Ofeer, that sweet, boyish smile beneath the cruel man's eyes. "And I assume the child is Seneca's?"

  She nodded. "Yes, dominus. I was his slave. I fled him." She lowered her head, repeating the words Noa had taught her. "But in my exile, I found only hunger, only fear. I've returned to the Acropolis to beg to be a slave again. Let me serve here, and let my child have a home."

  Caelius's smile never faltered. "And do you think, girl, that we want another Octavius whelp in the Acropolis?"

  Ofeer blinked. "I . . . His name would not be Octavius, he—"

  Caelius's hand moved so quickly she felt the pain before she saw him move. His palm struck her cheek, blasting white light across her, tearing her lip, scattering blood. Ofeer gasped and tried to step back, but the guards held her firmly.

  "Your spawn is still tainted with Octavius blood!" shouted Caelius, voice ringing through the chamber, shrill. "He will still be impure. Filthy." Caelius snorted and seemed to struggle to lower his voice. "We just got rid of two Octavius tyrants, not to let another into their hall."

  Ofeer's head spun. She panted. In her belly, her son kicked madly. Noa had not warned her of this. "Dominus, he will never know his surname!" Her voice shook. "He will never know who his father is. I promise you. I . . ."

  Her voice died as Caelius drew a dagger from his belt. He flipped the blade, balanced it for an instant on his finger, then placed the tip on Ofeer's belly. She cringed, daring not move, as he trailed the blade down to her navel.

  "A child of Octavius," he whispered. "A grandson of Marcus Octavius, a brute who understood nothing but brawn. Nephew to Porcia Octavius, a sadist and glutton who emptied the coffers of the empire. The son of Seneca, a foolish, temperamental boy who wastes his days away in brothels and calls himself a conqueror. What should we do with such a child?"

  Ofeer sucked in breath. She dared to stare steadily into Caelius's eyes. "Seneca Octavius murdered my father and enslaved me. Porcia Octavius destroyed my homeland. I despise the Octavius family. But I would have this child live. I would have him be everything they are not. I would have him be pure, strong, noble—and that, dominus, will be a greater curse to Octavius than his death ever could."

  Caelius stared at her, considering, and then his smile spread into a toothy grin. He sheathed his dagger. "Well spoken! This one is quick as a whip." He looked at the guards. "Release her arms. Let her stand freely." He paced the room, tapping his chin. "A child of Octavius . . . Yes, perhaps such a babe could prove useful, should I need to bend Seneca to my will." He glanced back at Ofeer, seeming to stare through her, to speak to himself. "And this one is the sister of Epheriah Sela, the pup who causes us so much trouble in Zohar. A good bargaining chip for two ene
mies. Too precious a gift to just discard." He licked his lips, stepped closer to Ofeer, and kissed her forehead. "You are a great gift, Ofeer Sela, and a marvelous woman. You are a greater treasure than any goddess."

  She narrowed her eyes, staring back at him. So it was this boy who commanded the Magisterian Guard, who now ruled the Empire, at least until another emperor arose; and perhaps even then.

  Why are those in power always cruel? she thought. Emperor Marcus. Empress Porcia. Dominus Caelius. Prince Seneca in his self-proclaimed Southern Empire. Even Shefael Elior, her cousin, back in Beth Eloh. Power attracts the cruel like rotten meat attracts buzzards. That is all these men are: buzzards, foul, feeding on carrion and calling it a feast.

  She stared into Caelius's eyes, allowing herself the slightest of smiles. "Thank you, dominus."

  But you will not feed forever, she thought. I will find the imperial lumer, and all her sisters will rise. Your days of scavenging will soon end.

  He stroked her cheek, which he had bruised. "You will have a home here, Ofeer of Zohar. As you desired." He looked at his guards. "Take her to the dungeons. Lock her in a cell alone. We'll keep her there until Tirus arrives and we decide what to do with her. Oh, and after that—go man the fucking northern gates, will you? Haven't you heard the Gaelian horde is near?"

  As the guards dragged her from the chamber, Ofeer shared a glance with the slave in the costume.

  The empire will fall, sister, Ofeer thought, willing the words into her stare. We will rise.

  Then the guards pulled her underground, and they delved into a realm of cold darkness and echoing screams.

  ATALIA

  The world burned, and they swarmed onward—to victory, to devastation, to the death of civilization.

  Like locusts, the Gaelian horde covered the fields of Aelar, the great wheat basin that fed an empire. And they burned. The flames rose, and the smoke unfurled and covered the sky, a second army, shadowing the land, raining ash. Villages crumbled. Towns blazed. Refugees fled before them, mothers crying out, holding their babes close, fathers helpless to defend them. As the barbarian horde marched on, their boots scattered the bones of babies, tiny skulls not yet fused together, tiny ribcages like cradles, burnt, blackened, snapping, soon vanishing under the falling ash. The legions marched toward them, they cried out in war, thousands died as one, and it seemed that the land itself bled. And the horde swarmed onward.

  Atalia stood in fields of death, arms raised, roaring, covered in blood. The corpses lay around her, a rotting sea like the sea she had once sunk in. Legionaries lay, shattered, limbs strewn, helmets caved in, jaws cut loose, screaming silently. Gaelians lay among them, mounds of fur and golden hair and metal, pierced with arrows and spears, cut open with blades, their innards spilling out in pink, wet, glistening mounds. But a hundred thousand Gaelians had emerged from the forests to fight, and even as their thousands fell, the living roared for victory, for the glory of their gods, for the burning of the world. And they swarmed onward.

  During the days, she screamed. She killed. She bled. She howled for Zohar, for the burning of Aelar, for vengeance. During the nights, she wept, shedding silent tears for who she had become, for what they did here. And they swarmed onward.

  I faced evil, Atalia thought, standing in another red field, her foot on the severed head of a centurion. A village blazed behind her, its fields consumed, its animals slaughtered, its people burnt. I stared into the face of my enemy, and I saw my own face.

  The wind blew, tasting of ash, of the dead. Atalia stood, head lowered, cloak and hair billowing. The corpse of the centurion lay below her, and countless corpses lay around her, and their blood stained her armor, stained her hands, forever stained her soul. Her eyes stung with tears.

  "You came into our land, Seneca." She spoke with her head lowered, eyes narrowed to slits. "And you butchered us, and you butchered my father. You came to our city, Porcia. And you slew thousands, and you tossed the head of my cousin at my feet." She raised her head and stared south, and her tears flowed down her cheeks. "And now I've become worse than you ever were. Now I become what I hated, what I feared."

  The hosts roared behind her. Fifty thousand Gaelians still screamed for blood. Half their host had perished between the forest and these killing fields, but still they burned, still their footfalls shook the world. And they swarmed onward.

  At night, the memories filled Atalia, past lives rising as ghosts from battlefields. A young girl, tossing aside her dolls, playing with her brothers' toy soldiers. A wild youth on the beaches, scorning dresses and dances, battling her brothers with wooden swords. A young woman, scoffing at prayers in the Temple, instead reading scrolls of old battles—of Queen Safir, great heroine of Zohar, slaying the demons of Ashael; of King Elshalom battling the heathen tribes; of the great heroes who had led Zohar home from captivity in Nur, slaying the enemies in their path. Battles of ink and parchment. Battles of ancient song. Battles that rose in her mind like great paintings, bloodless, things of light and beauty, the armor shining, the blades held high, catching the sun, as evil fled before nobility. A soldier. A soldier in a training yard, drilling with a sword of true iron, rising in the ranks, soon commanding a phalanx of a hundred warriors. A segen, nineteen and proud and full of piss and poison.

  A woman in fields of death. A woman in war.

  For those dreams had ended, and here in the Aelarian countryside, Atalia found what she had always craved, had craved since that young girl had tossed aside her dolls and picked up wooden soldiers. She had found her battles. She had become Safir reborn. And she had found the bones of babies, burnt inside the embrace of their mothers. She had found the corpses of women, bruised, raped, their throats slit open. She had found her evil demons—lying around her as tatters of flesh, a child's severed foot, an old woman still raising her arms, a silent plea for mercy.

  All my dreams have come true, Atalia thought. All my nightmares have taken flesh.

  That night, Atalia stepped into the tent of her chieftain. Its walls were sewn from rich green and yellow wool, embroidered with harts. A brazier crackled in the center of the tent, its smoke wafting toward a hole in the roof, and Atalia saw the burning villages, and in the embers she saw burning skulls. Berengar doffed his armor, removed his bloodied furs and cottons, and stood naked in the tent, drinking wine from a horn. His chest was wide, his arms strong enough to shatter worlds, his body scarred, bandaged, his beard flowing and strewn with bone beads. Feina sat by him on a giltwood chair, its legs carved as claws, and played her harp. The firelight shone in her eyes. They were creatures of beauty, both of them, golden and godly, beings from fairy stories. Yet only hours ago, Atalia had seen Berengar rip the arm off a pleading, terrified legionary, a boy no older than eighteen, and she had seen Feina—delicate, enchanted Feina, this harpist risen from legend—scream with fury as she swung her blades, slashing the throats of her enemies.

  Berengar approached Atalia, gave her wine, and kissed her forehead.

  "We celebrate another day of victory," he said.

  Feina approached too and stroked Atalia's cheek. "You proved yourself on the battlefield today, Atalia of Zohar! I am proud to be bonded to you. Let us drink wine. Let us play music. Let us make love. Tomorrow we reach the walls of Aelar!"

  Yet as they stroked her, as they kissed her, Atalia turned away. She looked down to her feet. All the splendor of this tent—the fine embroidery, the giltwood furniture, the trophies of war, the jeweled horns of wine—it all seemed ugly to her. Tools of death. And every time she blinked, she could see those visions—the boy begging before Berengar ripped off his arm. Feina screaming in rage as the blood splashed her face. Seneca swinging the hammer, nailing Jerael into the cross. Koren carted off in chains. Gefen falling. Her land burning. Atalia raised her hands, and she saw the blood on them, and she trembled. She fell to her knees. She wept.

  "Atalia!" Feina knelt before her, concern in her eyes, and held her hands. "Sweetness!"

  Atalia sobbed. "
I can't do this," she whispered. "I can't do what you do. We have to go back. We have to stop." Feina embraced her, and Atalia wept in her arms. "I'm not who I thought I was. We have to stop. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for everything."

  She had never been one for temples, but now she felt so far from Eloh's grace, so far from her family. I am not Safir, she thought. I am not a heroine fighting evil. I am Porcia. I am Seneca. I am lost in shadow.

  "Sweetness," Feina cooed, stroking her hair. "You are brave and noble, and we love you, and we are proud to fight with you."

  "Brave?" Atalia barked a laugh, tears on her cheeks. "I am terrified. Noble? There is no nobility here." She rose to her feet, eyes damp, and stared at her husband. "We came here to fight evil. To free the world of Porcia Octavius. Well, Porcia is dead now. Her own people butchered her. And now we sweep across the land, slaying thousands, burning, destroying. We are worse than Aelar ever was! We—"

  Berengar grabbed her, sneering. "Atalia! Enough of this. Enough. We cannot go back now, we—"

  "We must go back!"

  "We cannot!" he roared. "Look outside this tent. Look at this land! Yes, we burned it. We ravaged it. We slaughtered thousands. Would you have this be in vain? Would you have us retreat now, a day from the walls of Aelar, all those dead—for nothing?"

  "I will have no more killed!" Atalia shouted, still sobbing. "I would end this. I would end this before another single soul dies. I would gladly live under the yoke of Aelar, gladly kneel before whatever new emperor they raise, if we can have peace."