The two lumers—the beautiful woman of the past, woven of light, and the dying woman of the present, skin and bones—raised their arms as one. Wretched and pure, they spoke, two voices mingling together, one musical, the other raspy.
"Hear me, lumers of Zohar!" Light flared out from the imperial lumer, turning the chamber bright as desert noon. Strands of luminescence wove out, coiling, crawling under the doorway, rising to the ceiling, seeping between the bricks. "Hear me, lumers of the desert, daughters of Beth Eloh, mistresses of light! The time has come. We will arise! We will arise! Cast off your chains, sisters of light. With wisdom, with deception, with grace, with blades, with light—arise! The rebellion has begun!"
Ofeer fell to her knees. She felt drained, wearier than she'd ever been. She had been remembering something, a mere dream. She tried to remember again—something about a desert, and . . . The last bits of memory fled from her. She felt like a vessel drained from wine.
"We have to leave," Ofeer whispered, struggling to rise. "Noa said there would be a way out. A trapdoor. A hidden trapdoor leading to safety."
She moved through the room, seeking, but found no exit. There was only the tunnel Ofeer had walked down moments ago—the tunnel that led to the dungeon, to more guards, finally up to a barracks full of legionaries.
"No, no," she said, trembling. "There must be a way out. Noa told me. She said there's an escape. A trapdoor. There has to be."
She moved through the chamber, seeking hidden doors. She shoved the bed aside, finding only a solid floor. The imperial lumer still wove her light, still cried out to her sisters.
Ofeer grabbed her. "We have to leave. Where is the escape tunnel?"
But Ofeer already knew the answer, and her eyes stung.
There is no escape. Noa lied. She sent me here to die.
Such fear filled Ofeer that she wet herself. She had not wet herself since she'd been a young child. The warm liquid poured down her thighs, kept flowing, pooled on the floor. Suddenly pain stabbed her, and Ofeer screamed. She stumbled toward the bed and crashed down. Her legs shook wildly.
"Arise, sisters!" cried the imperial lumer.
"Help me," Ofeer pleaded, tears in her eyes. "Help—" A spasm ran through her, and she screamed again.
From the tunnel rose the voices of guards. Footsteps thumped.
Ofeer clutched the bed, screaming, her legs spread out. Sweat drenched her.
No. No, it's too soon. It's too soon. He's not due for another two months. Please, God, no. No. Not yet. Please.
Her back arched, and she tossed her head back, weeping, praying, shouting.
Please. No. Not yet. Too soon. Please.
She wept as the blood flowed between her legs, covering the bed, dripping to the floor. She screamed as he emerged into the world—coated with her blood and amniotic fluid, so small, too small, as weak as the lumer, red and white, and he gave only a whimper. As light filled the chamber, as the guards cried out, as lumers around the Encircled Sea awakened, her son emerged into the world, gasping for breath, unable to cry.
"Help him," Ofeer pleaded. "Help him . . ."
Her blood kept flowing. She cradled the baby to her chest, willing him to breathe, to live. So small. Wrinkled. Covered with hair. Live. Live. Help . . .
The light covered Ofeer, and then darkness spread.
ABISHAG
For the first time in years, snow fell on Beth Eloh.
The snow coated the cobblestones, dusted the cypresses, and clung to metal domes. The filth of the city—the gutters that overflowed, the stains of old blood and vomit and disease—all vanished under the glimmering powder, and for the first time in her life, Abishag thought the city beautiful, a painting all in white and gold. She had never seen snow, for its fall was like lions in the desert—a thing of legend, emerging into the world only at the most sacred of times.
Yet this day, as the snow fell, no children tossed or sculpted it. No elders spoke of previous storms. No young lovers strolled down glistening boulevards, and no painters worked at capturing the beauty.
This day, this rare snowy day in Beth Eloh, the city prepared for war.
Soldiers ran down the narrow streets, sandals scattering the white fields. People wept and hid in their homes. Boys ran forth, carrying quivers of arrows. A catapult rolled down a road, a lumbering beast of wood and metal. The song of impending war filled Beth Eloh: blaring horns, booming drums, the chants of countless soldiers.
Abishag was weary and shivering. She had been wandering the cold city for hours, seeking that which she had sought all year. Time and time again, she had traversed the walls of the city, passing her hand against ancient bricks, seeking hidden passageways, gates that had been sealed up, hidden behind stones or trees, finding nothing but solid rock. With every step, her hope faded.
She whispered the words of the prophet, tears in her eyes. "Through the Gate of Tears she will enter, wreathed in white, and she will bring healing to the hurt, sustenance to those who hunger, light to those lost in the dark, peace to those who fight."
Abishag was in the dark now, as soldiers manned the walls, as the hosts of the enemy mustered on the hills, and she wanted to believe. That the prophecies were true. That Maya the lumer had foreseen a great blessing. Because Abishag could not live in a world where the prophet had lied. She could not live in a world where eagles fed upon lions, where cities crumbled to sand, where children worshiped the light outside the Temple, where her parents were dead, where she was so hurt, so sick, dying, fading.
"I must believe." She wandered the streets of Beth Eloh, seeking her hope. "That she will come as Maya foresaw. That milk and honey will flow through our city. That the children of Zohar will no longer be sacrificed in the Valley of Ashes and outside the Temple walls."
And yet she returned to that temple. She returned to her consecrated sisters. She returned to the Queen of Whores with her teeth stained with spice, to the little creatures that scurried across them, to the sores, the coins they collected, the coins they returned, to this worship, to this slow death, to this sacrifice to a new Dagon.
The consecrated sisters were doing much holy work this day. With war outside the city, with these last days before desolation, many in the city had come to worship the light. Many men of the city manned the walls, but others had come here, choosing women from among the consecrated. When Abishag approached, many men turned toward her, pulling out coins, but she was young and fair and she only took silver from the priests.
Two boys approached her, wrapped in prayer shawls, turbans on their heads. Their vestments were trimmed with gold, and they held scepters topped with gilded pomegranates. Here were Temple boys, servants to the High Priest. Last summer, Remus Marcellus, cruel eagle of Aelar, had burned the old priests upon the altar, but new men had arisen to replace them. Now the boys reached out to her, silver in their palms.
"Are you Abishag Bat Naeem, consecrated sister?" they asked.
She nodded and they placed silver in her hand. Walls surrounded the Mount of Cedars, as thick as the walls around the city, and the boys took Abishag through the gate and into the acropolis. She had spent three years worshiping outside the Temple, but she had never stepped onto this hallowed ground. The hillside rose before her, green with cedars, and they took a cobbled path up toward the Temple. It was a long, silent climb. This high up the hill, Abishag could turn and see the city sprawl below her beyond the acropolis walls. The rooftops, domes, towers, and alleyways of Beth Eloh spread before her, a great tapestry, teeming with her nation. Beyond the walls, through a haze, she could see the legions covering the hills, an iron noose around the city. It was death—shining, shimmering, ready to flow through this city like poison through veins.
Abishag looked away and stared back up the hill. A third layer of walls rose here, and they passed through another gateway, entering the Temple complex. A vast courtyard spread here, large enough that Abishag's entire old village could have fit here. As they walked across this snowy expanse, A
bishag thought of that old village. Of the grove of pines where she would play as a child, collecting cones and nuts. Of the little stone temple where her parents would take her to light candles and pray. Of walking among the hills with her sheep, watching the sun rise and set, the flowers bloom and fade, the land breathe. Those seemed like memories of another life. How could it have been her—Abishag the consecrated—who had lived there as a child, joyous, only a few years ago? How could she—ravaged, diseased, holy—have ever been that girl? Perhaps that village was only ashes now, destroyed by the legions, and perhaps it had never existed at all, only in the fever dreams of a broken child.
A stone altar rose ahead in the courtyard, reflecting in the polished flagstones below. Blackened bones smoldered atop it, and for a horrible instant Abishag was sure they were human bones, but then she saw the horns, and she remembered seeing the bollocks being delivered into the Temple that morning.
An old man stood at the altar. He seemed ancient to Abishag, though his back was still straight, his shoulders still wide. He wore white robes that shone with silver embroidery, a tasseled prayer shawl hung across his shoulders, and a turban topped his head. A golden plate hung across his chest, glittering with eight jewels of prophecy. The priest's beard was cut just short enough to let those jewels shine. Abishag had seen him from the distance before, leading his fellow priests through the city.
"Nahamiya," she said and bowed before him.
He was a new priest. For decades, the same men had tended to this Temple, finally slain when the legions invaded. After Epher's rebellion, new priests occupied the Temple grounds, resuming worship. A consecrated sister, Maya knew all their secrets, more than any king could. Nahamiya had once worshiped in the wilderness, a haggard traveler, spreading his gospel from village to village. Some had called him a prophet of doom, many others a false prophet, a ragged madman in a dusty cloak. Now Nahamiya lived here in splendor, wearing the vestments of the burned priestly class.
The old man gestured for her to rise. He was a tall man, so tall that she felt dwarfed before him, a mere child again. He placed a hand on her shoulder, glittering with rings. "I have called for you, Abishag the consecrated. At the end of days, before the doom falls upon our city, I have called upon the holy daughter of Beth Eloh to worship with me, with the High Priest of God, in the Holy of Holies."
Abishag gasped. The consecrated sisters had always worshiped outside the walls of the Temple, for some among the old priests had seen them as sinful, even calling the legions God's punishment for the sins of the sisterhood. Among the consecrated, whispers sometimes rose of this greatest honor—to worship with flesh in the Temple itself, in the very Holy of Holies where God's grace dwelled. No sister had ever entered the Temple grounds, let alone the inner sanctum that contained Eloh's ark. That she, Abishag, should be chosen! Her eyes watered.
"Thank you, your holiness," she whispered, trembling. "I will sacrifice myself to our lord. Here in his dwelling!" She could barely breathe. "I will worship him with every fiber of my body!"
The priest took her from the altar, and they walked toward a soaring building, lined with marble columns, topped with gold. When she craned her neck back, Abishag could barely see its top. Here was the tallest building in Zohar, among the tallest in the world. Here did God dwell. Doors were open ahead, leading into the Temple, into this most sacred of places, the heart of this nation. Yet as the priest led her forward, Abishag found tears in her eyes, and her knees trembled. She told herself this wasn't fear, wasn't sadness, merely awe that she had been chosen, that these were tears of joy.
They stepped through the doorway, entering the Temple—entering God's home, entering ground so holy that Abishag covered her eyes.
"Why do you not look upon God's hall?" said the priest.
Abishag trembled. "I dare not gaze upon him."
She felt his fingers on her hand, gentle. "You may unveil your eyes, daughter of Beth Eloh. You have nothing to fear."
When she uncovered her eyes, Abishag winced, expecting the light to sear, to melt her flesh, for Eloh to gaze into her, see her sins, admonish her for walking upon sacred ground. Yet slowly her body relaxed, and her gaze softened. From outside, the Temple was purest marble and gold, beautiful and glittering, truly the house of the lord. Yet here she found a simple interior, not much finer than the courtyard outside the walls where the sisters worshiped. The walls were built of rough limestone bricks, same as those across the city. The floor was deeply scarred. Here was an ancient place, a holy place, but she saw no luminescence. She saw no splendor. She saw simple old stones.
A beam of light fell through the chamber's single window, illuminating a wooden box, large as a bed, that rested on a stone dais. The wood was fresh; she could still smell the sawdust. The top of the box had been removed; it leaned against a wall nearby.
"There it lies," said the priest, gazing with her at the ark. "There does God's spirit dwell."
Abishag blinked. She stepped closer to the ark and peeked inside. It was empty. She looked back up at the priest. "In the stories, the ark is ancient. Many eras ago, our people carried it across the desert, placed it here, built a Temple around it. But . . ." She frowned. "It looks so new."
The priest nodded. "The legionaries burned our old ark upon the altar. We've built this replacement from the finest cedar." He knelt beside her, eyes crinkling with forbidden delight. "Truth is, the last ark wasn't that ancient either. A generation old, at most. Wood tends to rot, to burn, to fall apart. Most High Priests have had to build a new ark."
A tremble seized Abishag. "But . . . if Eloh dwelled in the first ark, where . . ."
The priest touched her chest. "He dwells in your heart." He removed his breastplate and brought her hand to his own chest. "In my heart. He dwells in our flesh when we worship him. We die today, Abishag Bat Naeem. Eloh has sent his wrath against this city, and the walls will fall. Already the legions pound at our gates. We will worship God one last time, naked as the first man and woman he had raised from the soil."
As Nahamiya disrobed, she saw that his skin was wrinkled, his body saggy, his chest covered with white hairs. With all his splendor stripped away—the embroidered robe, the gilded breastplates, the jewels, the fineries—she saw him for what he was. A simple man, the telltale sores upon his flesh. She saw this room for what it was—simple stones. She saw this ark—nothing but wood, the work of men.
There is no holiness here, she thought. A mask, that's all.
She lowered her head, and she tasted her tears, for it seemed to her that all the wonder and magic in the world pulled back like the priest's robes, revealing the ugliness within, that all glory was but gilt painted onto rusted iron.
The priest lifted her, then placed her into the ark, as if laying her body into a coffin. Silver coins shone in the box around her, reflecting the beam of light that fell through the window—the coins so many men had paid to Abishag, which she had returned to the Temple. Nahamiya entered the box with her, stroking her hair, nuzzling her neck, smelling her. Abishag did not want this. She did not want to worship again.
All my life—lies. All my life—I worshiped for an empty box. An empty chamber.
The priest reached to pull open her robe, and Abishag shuddered, tears stinging.
I miss home. I want to go home.
She trembled in the box, the priest lying here with her. And this was no holy ark. This felt more like a coffin.
"Did you speak lies too, Maya?" she whispered. "Did you lie about a savior, about a Gate of Tears?"
The sun traveled the sky outside. The beam of light moved, leaving the box, leaving Abishag in shadow.
"We worship him," mumbled the priest. "We worship him before the end, before the end . . ." And he was trembling. He was afraid. He too was in darkness.
Abishag tilted her head back, and her tears fell, and she sought the fleeing light.
Her breath caught.
As the sunbeam moved, it illuminated the back of the chamber. There,
worked into the brick wall, was a gateway. Upon the arch's stones were engraved teardrops.
"The Gate of Tears," Abishag whispered. "The gate of shattered innocence. The gate of lost children. The gate of salvation."
She wept. It was here inside the Temple. It had been here all along.
She tried to rise from the box.
"Worship him!" said the priest, reaching for her, grabbing her.
"Do not touch me!" Abishag shoved him away. "We will not worship. This is false. This is cruel. But the gate is real." She trembled. "The eighth gate of Beth Eloh. It's here in the Holy of Holies."
The priest sneered, sudden rage in his damp eyes. "They are coming, fool!" he shouted, spittle flying. "They will kill you. They will kill us all." He reached to grab her again. "They—"
"Do not touch me!" she shouted and leaped back. The ark overturned, teetered, then crashed down off the dais. It slammed against the floor, shattering, spilling out Abishag and the priest. Wooden slats flew. The silver coins spilled across the floor.
Abishag leaped to her feet, her leg pierced with a piece of wood. She closed her robe around her nakedness.
"I am no longer consecrated," she whispered.
The priest crouched in the ruins of the ark, a wild animal, sneering, naked, his hair in disarray. With a snarl, like a wolf pouncing upon prey, he leaped toward her. Abishag scurried back. The priest scuttled forward, but his foot landed on one of the spilled silver coins, the price of the consecrated—a coin she herself had earned. He swayed. He took another step, only stepping onto other coins. The silver chinked beneath him, and he fell. It couldn't have been more than an instant, but that fall seem to last an eternity. With a crack, the priest slammed his head against the side of the stone dais. He hit the floor with scattering coins and lay still, blood spilling.
Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4) Page 22