Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  Abishag froze for a moment, staring at the bleeding, naked priest, not sure if he was dead.

  She spun around.

  She stepped toward the Gate of Tears. It rose before her, carved of craggy stones, not beautiful like the exterior of the Temple, but now Abishag knew that her tears were truly joyous, and now she knew that there was truly light in darkness, truly hope even in this despair.

  "Through the Gate of Tears she will enter," she whispered, "and she will bring healing to the hurt, sustenance to those who hunger, light to those lost in the dark."

  A moan rose behind her. Wood creaked as the priest moved, still alive, struggling to rise. Abishag inhaled deeply and ran through the secret gate.

  A tunnel awaited her. Abishag had no lamp, no candle. She walked through darkness, her left hand held before her, the other trailing along the wall. Within a few steps, the darkness was complete. She kept walking, feeling for obstacles, steps hesitant. The tunnel narrowed; soon her shoulders brushed against the walls and her head skimmed the ceiling. A few more steps and she had to walk hunched over. The pathway sloped downward, and Abishag worried that she would get stuck here, trapped between the tight walls, or that she would run out of air. Already her breathing became labored.

  Where did this path lead? Would it take her to Ashael, the dark and cold underworld of legend? Who had carved this tunnel? She did not know. For a thousand years, nobody but the High Priests had entered the Holy of Holies, had known about the secrets within. If truly this was the gate from the prophecy, would it lead to some dark afterlife, a place of angels and demons?

  Abishag gasped for air, and soon she was walking at a crouch, twisting her body to squeeze around corners as the path twisted. She could almost feel the weight—the overwhelming weight of the Mount of Cedars above her, the weight of the city, the weight of the nation crowded into the walls above.

  It seemed that she walked for parsa'ot, worming her way through the darkness. Stairs sometimes took her upward or downward. The floor and walls were clammy, craggy, and the smell of moss filled her nostrils. She thought that surely she had left the mortal world behind. Sometimes she paused, wanted to turn back, to return to the Temple. Sometimes she thought the way would never end. She walked onward.

  I cannot turn back, she thought. There is nothing back there but the priest, the city of pain, the sisterhood, the eagles. Eloh led me here. As she walked in darkness, she knew this must be true. Only the High Priests can enter the Temple . . . and a young, fair consecrated sister, worth silver.

  "I was meant to find this place," she whispered. "This is why I suffered. This is why I worshipedworshiped. This is why I sold myself to the pleasures of men. This is how I found Eloh—not under a man, not inside a box, but in a secret tunnel, a gate that only I could find." She lowered her head. "I'm sorry, Eloh. I'm sorry that I lost my faith. You were always there with me, guiding me here."

  It seemed like hours before she saw soft light ahead. At first the light was soft, a mere haze soon fading, and Abishag thought that perhaps she was simply seeing floaters of light like sometimes when she hadn't eaten for a day. But the light grew, and she smelled cold, fresh air and hint of rain. She walked onward, and she saw it ahead—afternoon light, pale blue and white, curtained with snow.

  Abishag stepped outside and found herself on a mountainside.

  The rocky slope spread around her, dusted with snow, and a small cave opened behind her, a mere crack in the mountain. White clouds veiled the sky, but beams of light broke through, falling down upon the desert. In the distance rolled endless dunes. When Abishag turned around and stared up the mountainside, she could see the legions in the distance, surrounding the walls of Beth Eloh.

  An escape tunnel, she realized. A tunnel carved by ancient priests, its purpose perhaps forgotten. A tunnel to flee the city should the wrath of gods or men fall upon it.

  Abishag fell to her knees, the snow melting on her face, washing her clean. The ash, the dirt, the shame—so many years of shame—all seemed to flow down the mountainside, and she returned her gaze to the light, and she wept.

  "Let me be cleansed, Eloh," she whispered. "Let me be cleansed of sin, of my disease, of all my memories. Let me be who I was."

  And in the snowy distance, there where the beams of light fell upon the desert, Abishag could see it—see herself as she had been. A vision. A girl. A girl from a village, still pure, still unhurt, still joyous. A girl who had never worshiped outside the Temple but who had worshiped the grass, the sky, the snow, the light that fell between storm clouds.

  That girl walked closer, and Abishag squinted to bring her into focus.

  No, this isn't a memory. This isn't me.

  Her eyes widened.

  Abishag ran.

  She ran down the mountainside. She ran through fields of grass in a faraway home. She ran through a city of pain, disease, hands, mouths, old stones and hunger. She ran through the rain, ran cleansed, ran to hope. Ran to her. Ran to the one who had set Abishag on this path. Ran to the one she recognized, the one she had always known would come. The one who had foretold and who had returned. The one Abishag had suffered, hurt, broke, wept, dreamed to find. The one who was coming home.

  Abishag reached the woman upon the foothills where mountain met desert. A thin, young, weary woman, snowflakes clinging to her black curls, a pack on her back, light in her eyes.

  Abishag knelt before her, weeping.

  "Maya," she whispered.

  EPHER

  Creaking and shedding snow, the ancient gates of Beth Eloh opened, and Epher rode out of the city.

  His retinue rode around him: Ramael, grandson of Malaci, staring with dark eyes; Amos, leader of Gefen's refugees, his beard long and white; three soldiers all in iron, swords upon their thighs; and Olive, clad in armor, many daggers hanging from her belt. Thousands of warriors waited behind on the walls and towers of the city. For the parley, Epher had taken only those closest to him, only a handful riding toward a sea of countless enemies.

  The hosts of Aelar sprawled before them across the snowy mountainsides, an army larger than any Epher had ever seen, had ever imagined, the legionaries as plentiful as grains of sand upon a beach. Centuries—units of a hundred men—stood within cohorts, and cohorts stood within legions, square by square of men in armor, lances catching the sunlight, a forest of malice. Chariots stood in rows, and siege engines towered, great catapults and wooden towers and trebuchets, ready to send death over the walls of Beth Eloh. They covered the mountains all around the city, spreading west toward the farms and east toward the desert.

  It is Ashael, cursed land of the underworld, risen onto the earth, Epher thought. It is the death of nations. It is the death of all those I love, all those who remain.

  Clutching the hilt of his sword, his armor weighing down on him, he rode toward them.

  "Fucking bastards." Olive sneered at the hosts and spat. "We charge through them. We butcher their leader. We can take all of them."

  Epher shook his head. "First we talk. Then we fight."

  Olive fingered one of her daggers. "Talking is boring."

  Five chariots detached from the hosts and thundered along a dirt road. In four chariots stood legionary generals. In the fifth rode Claudia, a breastplate across her chest, a blood-red cloak draped across her shoulders.

  You used to hate red, Epher thought, remembering a different woman, smiling in the sunlight, resplendent in azure silk. Her voice rose in his memory—a voice from a different time, a time of lying together in gardens, limbs entwined, love filling them. I've always loved azure, she had said on that spring day years ago. It makes me feel as if I'm wearing the sky.

  The two groups rode along the dirt path, raising clouds of dust, toward a small plateau between the city walls and the besieging hosts. Years ago, a leper colony had coated this stretch of flat land, and though a fire had consumed the place in Epher's childhood, few had since dared set foot here. Today Claudia, Epher, and their retinues halted here.
A place to talk. A place to seal the fate of nations.

  Fitting that we should speak where lepers rotted and fire burned, Epher thought, dismounting his horse. This ground has always been cursed.

  The two groups stood across the plateau, still too distant to talk, but not so distant that Epher couldn't stare into Claudia's eyes. She alighted from her chariot and met his gaze. He had always known her to wear her hair in a bun, draped with a net strewn with diamonds, arranging a handful of curls across her forehead—a style popular among wealthy Aelarian women. Today Claudia wore a military helmet, its crest red. She watched him across the plateau as her men raised a tent, its crimson fabric embroidered with amber eagles. As her men stepped back, Claudia stared at Epher, gave him the slightest of smiles, and stepped into the tent.

  Epher made to walk forward when Olive grabbed his arm.

  "Kill her," Olive hissed, eyes blazing. "Snap her fucking neck. End this."

  Epher turned toward Olive—this new woman in his life, this woman he loved even more than Zohar itself.

  My parents fell. My siblings are scattered across a burning world. Claudia, the woman I once loved, leads a host to slay every last soul in my kingdom. You are all I have left, Olive. He caressed her freckled cheek. No matter what happens today, I love you.

  He didn't need to speak those words. Olive saw them in his eyes; he knew that. She touched his cheek, and her eyes dampened. He turned away from her and his men. He walked across the limestone plateau where once lepers had rotted away, where fire had burned them, and as his sandals scattered dust, he imagined it to be the ashes of men. He reached the tent, pulled back the flap, and stepped into the shadows.

  At once Claudia leaped toward him, so fast that Epher was sure she was lunging to stab him. But she held no weapon. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezed him, and kissed him again and again.

  "Epher," Claudia mumbled, and tears flooded her eyes, and she laid her cheek against his shoulder. "Oh, Epher. I wanted so much to hate you now. But I missed you. I missed you so much." She spoke in flawless Zoharite without the trace of an accent. She looked up into his eyes, tears on her cheeks, and kissed his lips. "I still love you, you bastard."

  For a moment—just a moment, brief as the sun dipping into the sea, as dreams flitting away at dawn—Epher allowed himself to hold her, to kiss her. For just that moment, he was no longer King Epheriah Sela, king of Zohar, a grieving man, his beard thick, his eyes dark, the weight of a nation upon his shoulders. As he held her, he was just Epher again, a youth growing up by the beach, a son of privilege and endless summer days, and she was just Claudia again, not a leader of hosts but a girl he loved. In that brief kiss were all the kisses they had shared—on the beach of Gefen, dreaming of distant lands; under his blankets, cuddled in the night; and that last kiss they had shared, the night Prince Seneca had invaded their land, the night she had left.

  And then the moment ended, and those youths faded into buried memories. Epher held her wrists, extricating himself from her embrace, and stared into her eyes.

  "You came here to kill me." He tightened his grip around her wrists. "Your hosts have butchered thousands across my land, and now you come to butcher countless more in this city. And you greet me with a kiss, with a declaration of love?"

  For an instant, rage—pure, searing—filled Claudia's eyes. Her body stiffened, her jaw tightened, but then she seemed almost to melt, all the fury leaving her eyes.

  "I did not choose this divide between us," she said. "I did not choose to be born Aelarian, for you to be born Zoharite, for our nations to clash. Yes, you call yourself King of Zohar now. And yes, I came here leading a great host, even as my father sails back to Aelar to sit on her throne. But we're still Epher and Claudia. Still those two youths from Gefen, two youths in love."

  Epher released her wrists and turned away. Her father—new emperor?

  "Is Porcia—" he began.

  "Dead," Claudia said. "The Octavius dynasty has ended. It's my family, the House of Valerius, that now leads the greatest empire the world has ever known, the empire that will soon engulf the world. I'm strong now, Epher. Stronger than you ever knew. Stronger than you can imagine. Strong enough that I can crush you in my fist, as easily as a girl crushing a bold insect that thought to sting her." She placed her hand on his arm. "Epher . . . I can hurt you. I can hurt you so badly. I can, with a single word, command the complete genocide of every last Zoharite, and I can see your city reduced to rubble."

  Epher stared into her eyes, not knowing who she was, not recognizing the ice he saw there. Where was the woman he had loved? The woman he had run with along the beach, made love to under the stars, the woman who had once brought him so much joy?

  "Is that why you invited me into this tent?" he said. "To brag of your might? To threaten my destruction?"

  She shook her head. "To avoid your destruction. Yes, we are still the same Epher and Claudia, but now we lead nations. Now our choices can mean life or death for millions." She placed a hand on his arm. "You don't have to die. You don't have to see Zohar fall. Let me into your city, and let me rule in your palace, and you will rule at my side. We'll be together again. Epher and Claudia, in love. We'll be as we were, and I promise you, Epher. I promise: Your people will live."

  He grabbed her wrist again, pulled her hand off him, and glared at her. "Yes, they will live as they lived in Gefen. Forced to bow before your marble idols. Forced to fight in the arena to entertain Aelarian nobles. The scrolls of our scripture will burn, and our Temple will fall, and all our culture—our religion, our songs, our tales, even our language—will fade. You will transform us into Aelarians. Perhaps we will not die by sword or spear, but Zohar will be dead nonetheless."

  Claudia caressed his cheek, leaned forward, and kissed his ear. "Oh, sweetest Epher. Zohar died the day Seneca dropped anchor in your harbor. Choose now, my love. Become Aelarian, abandon the barbarism of the desert, and rule this city with me. We will rename it Orientia Capitolina, the capital of the east, and its glory will be second only to Aelar itself. Resist me . . . and sweetest Epher, you will live long enough to see this city sink into the Abyss before I send you there after it."

  Olive's words echoed in Epher's mind. Kill her. Snap her fucking neck. End this.

  He looked at Claudia. Her round, pale face. Her large hazel eyes. Those lips he had loved to kiss. He could so easily wrap his hands around her neck, squeeze, squeeze, watch the life flee her.

  Yet to what end? Even should he kill Claudia, murder the woman he had loved, another would rise from the hosts to lead the assault. No. Epher could not bring himself to harm her, not even as she threatened the annihilation of his race.

  He looked away from her. He stared at a golden eagle embroidered on the tent wall.

  Porcia—dead. Claudia's father—sailing back to Aelar to claim the throne. Epher's mind stormed. If he knew anything about Aelarian politics, a transition of dynasties would not go smoothly. Seneca still lived in Nur, they said, commanding what he called the Southern Empire. Princess Valentina had vanished from the capital, perhaps seeking to gather allies and make her own claim. They said that the Gaelian horde was on the march, threatening the very walls of Aelar. The Empire was cracking.

  Perhaps I can still hold them back, Epher thought. Perhaps now is the time to inflict another crack in Aelar's shaky dominion. Perhaps we can still live to see Aelar fall.

  Only last year—by God, it seemed another lifetime—Shefael had opened the gates of this city, allowing the Aelarians in, plunging Beth Eloh into chaos and bloodshed. Epher had not fought, killed, nearly died to surrender like his cousin had.

  Claudia was looking at him, awaiting his response. Gingerly, Epher stroked her cheek—that cheek he had always loved to caress, to kiss. The hint of a smile trembled on her lips. And for just an instant, again she was the old Claudia, and Epher could almost imagine that this past year had never happened, that this was just a nightmare, that he could wake up with her in his bed, kiss her, and
walk with her down toward the sea.

  "Claudia, I loved you. I loved you more than you ever knew. Perhaps a part of me will always love you. And perhaps I cannot hope to defeat you in war. But war it will be between us. Perhaps it was always meant to come to this." Epher hesitated, then kissed her forehead. "We never got to properly say goodbye. Goodbye, Claudia. The next time we meet, one of us will be dead."

  He left her in the tent. He rode away from the plateau, Olive and his men riding with him. Dust rose in clouds as they galloped back toward the city gates. Before reentering Beth Eloh, Epher turned around once, and he saw Claudia standing outside her tent, staring at him.

  Before the city gates even boomed shut behind him, Epher heard the drums of war.

  He took the craggy stairs up the city wall and stood at the battlements. Olive followed, stood at his side, and clasped his hand. Hundreds of other soldiers manned the wall with him, a single line of defense against the endless horde.

  "I'm with you, Epher," Olive whispered, her grip tight, her voice shaky. "Always."

  Below across the mountainsides, the hosts of Aelar roared for war. Drums beat. The butts of spears banged against the ground. Thousands of voices cried out for conquest. The walls shook, and cries of fear rose from the city streets. At the lead of the hosts, she stood. Staring up at him. She placed her helmet on her head, then raised her fist.

  Catapults creaked. Trebuchets twanged. Ten thousand arrows ignited, and bowstrings pulled back. With shrieks, roars, and howling flame, death flew toward Beth Eloh.

  MAYA

  In the darkness, Maya walked many paths.

  She was a girl, afraid, a girl who felt, a girl who saw what others could not. As her brothers wrestled in the sand, as her sisters laughed and cried, Maya stood alone on the beach, staring at the dark waves, staring for hours, hearing the whispers of waterdepths. As they called her to the dinner table, as they called her to play games, to laugh with them, to join in their warmth and love, Maya stood outside in the garden, staring at the stars, seeing countless worlds. As her siblings ran among ruins, swinging wooden swords, she stood aside, staring at old stones, seeing the lives of the ancients floating past her, ghosts and whispers. As Atalia built spears and arrows from fallen branches, as Koren and Epher climbed trees, Maya walked alone in the forests, feeling the life of growing things, the spirits all around her, the world breathing. She had always seen what they could not—so many souls around her, so many lights. She could always hear so many songs.