KINGS OF RUIN

KINGDOMS OF SAND BOOK 1

by

Daniel Arenson

Table of Contents

MAP

CHAPTER ONE: MAYA

CHAPTER TWO: EPHER

CHAPTER THREE: OFEER

CHAPTER FOUR: MARCUS

CHAPTER FIVE: SHILOH

CHAPTER SIX: JERAEL

CHAPTER SEVEN: SENECA

CHAPTER EIGHT: VALENTINA

CHAPTER NINE: OFEER

CHAPTER TEN: JERAEL

CHAPTER ELEVEN: MAYA

CHAPTER TWELVE: EPHER

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: SENECA

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: JERAEL

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: OFEER

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: SENECA

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: VALENTINA

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: ATALIA

CHAPTER NINETEEN: EPHER

CHAPTER TWENTY: PORCIA

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: JERAEL

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: SHILOH

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: OFEER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: PORCIA

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: JERAEL

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: VALENTINA

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: EPHER

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: SHILOH

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: EPHER

CHAPTER THIRTY: JERAEL

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: KOREN

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: JERAEL

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: KOREN

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: MAYA

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: YOHANAN

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: JERAEL

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: MARCUS

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: VALENTINA

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: YOHANAN

CHAPTER FORTY: EPHER

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: SHILOH

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: OFEER

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: MAYA

SAMPLE CHAPTER: OFEER

AFTERWORD

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

KEEP IN TOUCH

MAP

map
Full-sized map: DanielArenson.com/Map

MAYA

The dog came to her from the hills. His skin draped over jutting bones, and mange infested his fur. The animal's back leg was twisted, and he whimpered as he limped, tongue hanging loose. Flies bustled around the poor creature like vultures waiting for carrion, and the stench of his own waste clung to him, mingling with the scent of spring flowers.

The sun shone above, and those flowers—anemones, cyclamens, and almond blossoms—bloomed across the hills. Leaves budded on the olive trees and mint bushes, turtle doves sang in the pines, and the sea whispered in the west, glinting in the sunlight. It seemed unfair, a cruel joke of the heavens, that such wretched life should exist in a springtime of such beauty.

Maya stood frozen for a moment, heart thudding, for she had never seen life twisted in such a way. She could hardly believe that the dog lived, that it wasn't some shed or repha or another demon of Ashael. Then the dog raised his furless head, and his eyes met hers, and she saw humanity.

It could not have been humanity, of course—it was only an animal—but at that moment, for the first time in her life, Maya realized that the souls of animals were just as aware, just as pained, just as lost as hers.

"Poor thing," she whispered, tears in her eyes.

She made to step toward the dog, but a hand grabbed her shoulder, holding her back.

"Don't go near it. It stinks. Makes me sick."

Maya turned around to face her older sister. "Let me go. I have to help him."

Ofeer shook her head. "If you want to help that mutt, why don't you kill it? You'd be doing the miserable thing a favor. It's dying already, and besides, all dogs are wall-pissers."

Tears in her eyes, Maya stared at her sister, shocked at how Ofeer's eyes suddenly seemed less human than the dog's.

Slender and fair, Ofeer was eighteen, three years older than Maya—already a grown woman yet still unwed. Like most dwellers of Zohar, this coastal kingdom of the east, Ofeer had dark eyes, olive-toned skin, and black hair, though her hair was smooth, not curly and untamed like Maya's. The young woman wore a cotton simlah, the simple dress of this land, and leather sandals. She looked like any other Zoharite, and she was treated as such, yet Maya knew the truth—that Ofeer was only her half sister. That the dark beauty's father was not the wise, noble Jerael Sela, Lord of the Coast, but rather a man of the distant Aelarian Empire.

Ofeer did not have the paler skin, the taller carriage, or the lush stola garment of an Aelarian. She looked nothing like those foreign merchants and ambassadors who often visited the port. Yet there was something in those brown eyes—something pained, soulless, even cruel—that hinted at the bloodstained empire's malice.

Seeking comfort, Maya clutched the pendant she wore around her neck, the gold shaped as a lion. It was an ancient symbol of Zohar, and all those in her family—her older siblings, her parents, her uncle and cousins—wore the same pendant. All but Ofeer. In an act of defiance, perhaps mockery, the dark-haired girl wore a platinum eagle on a chain—sigil of the Aelarian Empire, the land of her father.

"You are a wall—a wall—" Maya's cheeks heated, and she blurted out the words. "A wall-pisser!"

With that, Maya tore herself free from her sister's grip, turned away, and ran toward the dog.

The animal had collapsed onto the hilltop and lay panting. Maya knelt above him, and she could barely believe this dog still lived. Mange had claimed most of his fur, and raw sores ruptured the bare skin. He was so thin she could see the shape of his skeleton, could count the bones. Only the dog's eyes seemed unaffected, staring at her, and his tongue slipped out to lick her hand. He lay among the flowers, rotting and dying, a creature of winter melting in the spring.

He must have come from Beth Eloh, Maya thought. She had been to that city only once, years ago, but she had never forgotten the many stray dogs wandering outside the walls, kicked out from the crowded neighborhoods within. The capital city of Zohar rose upon a mountain three days away. This dog must have walked all the way from there, probably finding no food or water in the wilderness.

"What's your name?" Maya asked, placing a hand on the dog's head.

"You're going to get fleas." Ofeer made a gagging sound. "Bash its head in with a rock, or if you're too cowardly, move aside and let me do it. I've killed rats at the port before, and this is no different."

Maya grimaced. "This isn't the port."

Ofeer snorted. "You spend your life in your father's villa on Pine Hill, and if you ever leave your pampered little palace, you just roam around these hills of flowers and butterflies. But I've never been afraid to enter the walls of Gefen. To go to the port. To visit the taverns by the water. To live. I'm not afraid of ugliness, and I'm not weak like you."

Still patting the dog, Maya glared over her shoulder at Ofeer. The older woman stood a few feet away, hands on her hips, a crooked smile on her dark face.

"You don't go there to live," Maya said. "You go to those dockside taverns to meet men, and you . . . you . . ." Her cheeks flushed hotter, and this time she could not complete her sentence.

"I fuck them, yes." Ofeer nodded. "I know that's what Mother says about me. What they all say. Maybe it's true." She scoffed. "And maybe you should join me next time. Go fuck a man yourself. Leave your countryside villa and experience real life—not just your flowers and scrolls, but gambling, and booze, and sailors dying in knife fights, and men's cocks inside you."

"It's your villa too!" Tears stung Maya's eyes. "You're part of our family. You just act like you don't care, like you're not one of us, just because—" She bit down on her words. Completing sentences had become a challenge this day.

Ofeer nodded, eyes narrowed, and spoke softly. "Say it. Go on."

"Just because your father is Aelarian. Just because you're a bastard. There, I said it." Maya blinked away her tears. "You act like you're something special, like you're better than us. But nobody cares who your father is. Nobody! You were raised in our family, in our house, in our kingdom. You're nothing but a Zoharite now, just a simple girl from a little kingdom nobody cares about. So pull your head out of your bottom."

Her cheeks wouldn't stop burning, and Maya slapped a hand across her mouth, surprised at her own crudeness. Too much time with Ofeer was rubbing off on her.

"Out of my bottom?" Ofeer laughed and bowed, affecting a highborn accent. "Well, how splendid to discuss my royal derriere! I forgot that you speak of asses only when needing a beast to carry your crates of silks."

Maya stared west, and the day seemed to grow colder. The hills rolled down for several miles, rich with wild grass, fig and carob trees that gave forth sweet fruit, and chalk and granite boulders that rose like statues. A dirt path snaked between the hills, leading toward farmlands and vineyards. Beyond them, date palms lined a golden beach. A bay plunged into the land, and many ships filled the cove, sails brilliant in the sunlight. The city of Gefen embraced the harbor, its walls high, its streets cobbled. Maya's family—the ancient House of Sela—owned all these lands, from hills to sea. They were among the wealthiest families in Zohar, second in power only to the royal family in the east.

Yet all their wealth, their power, their ships, their vineyards and farmlands and stables—all was like a garlic's peel compared to the might across the sea. To the Aelarian Empire. To that vast, sprawling civilization that ruled every other port around the Encircled Sea. That power that was ever rising, its shadow ever threatening to eclipse all that Maya's family had built here.

Maya pushed those thoughts away for now. She returned her eyes to the dog. He still lay by her, still licking her hand.

Maya closed her eyes.

"Let me help you, friend," she whispered.

"There's nothing you can do for that wall-pisser." Ofeer hawked and spat. "Beyond help, that one is. I told you. Pick up that rock there. A quick dash to the skull should do the trick."

But there was something Maya could do. There was a light inside her. The light she had sometimes felt along the sea, in the vineyards and gardens around her villa, and here on the hills.

There was Luminosity.

Maya knew that Luminosity was forbidden to her. She had been ten years old when first discovering the power, using it to heal her mother's finger, which the woman had cut while carving pomegranates for the harvest feast. Like the lion, the pomegranate was an ancient symbol of Zohar, and Shiloh had thought it a sign of great misfortune that she had bloodied one. Shiloh Sela—a kind, gentle matriarch—had struck Maya that day. Had wept. Had shouted. Had made Maya vow to never summon that light again, not even to heal the dying, let alone a mere sliced finger.

"Do you know what they do to lumers?" Mother had shouted, eyes red.

Maya knew. Lumers had no titles, no family names, no villas, no golden jewels. Lumers were chained and sent overseas, tributes to Aelar, forced to serve that cruel empire in its towering cities of marble and iron. Should her Luminosity be discovered, Maya knew, she would join the next tribute—just another lumer, exported in a boat's belly, a gift to appease the emperor and keep his armada at bay.

Yet now Maya refused to think about foreign empires, chains and ships, and her mother's wrath. Right now a dog was dying beneath her hands. Right now a soul with human eyes needed her.

Right now Maya would draw the forbidden light.

She raised her head, took a deep breath, and looked around her. The fig and carob trees swayed, and the turtle doves sang. Beyond the stench of the dog, she could smell the anemones and even the distant sea. There was magic to this land, there was that invisible force some called lume. It floated between the rustling leaves. It rode the waves. It nestled between the hills. It soaked the land of Zohar, found nowhere else in the world, invisible, odorless, tasteless, impossible for most people to sense. But Maya had always been a daughter of Luminosity, had always sensed what others could not.

She inhaled deeply, drawing the lume from the land around her, letting it fill her, warm her like mulled wine, raise her awareness to a higher level.

The world breathed around her.

The sea moved, whispered, called to her. The sun rose and fell and rose, an endless dance. The forests aged, withered, and sprouted anew. All human lives in the desert and the Encircled Sea seemed fleeting, mere dandelion seeds in the wind, and the world itself became a single living being—with Maya a part of it. Breathing with it. Drawing from its energy into her body and palms.

She took the lume, and she luminated it within her.

She stared down at her hands, and she saw them glowing.

"Luminescence," she whispered. "Refined lume."

Ofeer cursed behind her, but Maya barely heard her sister; the woman seemed smaller than a grain of sand on an endless beach.

The luminescence flowed through her, and Maya let the golden, glowing tendrils flow from her hands into the dog.

She felt him—not just the bones, the raw skin, the mangy fur. But the life. The soul. The light. Everything was illuminated to her, flowing around her, the dog's birth, his suckling at the teat, his years of scurrying through the alleys of Beth Eloh, his journey here. His pain. His fear. His love for her, a love only moments old yet already fuller, truer than the love most humans ever felt. Maya wove her light around his pain, soothing, healing.

Live, friend. Heal.

The golden light faded.

Maya blinked, letting the luminescence drift away. Her awareness shrank, the lines of time and existence smoothing out, leaving her just a girl again, a single soul in a single moment.

Before her, the dog rose to his feet.

His fur was still patchy, his frame still skeletal, but the sores had closed across his skin, and no more pain filled his eyes. The illness was out, and the light of luminescence filled him. Now the animal could heal, regaining weight and strength every day. Now, Maya knew, the dog would never leave her side, would be a companion whose love was eternal like the sea.

The dog licked her hand, gratitude in his eyes.

A whistle tore the air.

An arrow drove into the dog's head and emerged from the other side.

With a strangled cry, the dog thudded down, dead before he hit the ground.

Maya's heart seemed to freeze and shatter. She spun around, eyes wide, hands curling into fists.

The first thing she saw was Ofeer. The girl was staring westward, a tight smile spreading across her face, her eyes bright. At first Maya thought that her half sister had shot the dog, but no—Ofeer carried no bow.

That was when Maya saw the young man walking across the hills toward them.

He was only a youth, probably a year or two shy of twenty. His skin was lighter than hers. Not as white as the barbarians in the northern forests, but paler than the olive tone of a Zoharite. His hair was chestnut, blond when the light hit it right, and his eyes were deep brown flecked with gold, the color of gilt peeling off mahogany. The boy's face was petulant, the lips pouty, almost cherubic, and there was a certain beauty to him. Not a rugged, masculine beauty like Maya's older brothers possessed but something softer, finer, like a venomous snake emerging from a basket, clad in scales like a coat of precious metal.

Indeed, this boy wore his own gilded raiment. His steel breastplate shone, forged to mimic a muscular bare chest, gleaming with filigree. A rich cloak draped across his shoulders, fastened with an eagle fibula the size of a fist, its golden talons clutching a sapphire. A gladius sword hung at his side, the scabbard jeweled. Finally, the boy held a bow, and arrows filled a quiver upon his hip.

"Damn mutts infesting this maggoty land." The boy spat. "Three bitches on a hill, but only two with nice teats."

Maya stared beyond the boy, westward toward the sea. On the horizon she saw them—a hundred ships or more, bearing the eagle banners. An Aelarian armada.

She returned her eyes to the Aelarian boy.

"Leave this place, eaglet." Maya grabbed a rock—the same rock Ofeer had wanted to use on the dog's skull. She spoke in his tongue, which all Sela children studied. "Leave now before I bash your head in."

Ofeer looked at Maya, a crooked smile on her lips, her eyes shining strangely. "Eaglet? Do you know who we speak to, sister?" The black-haired woman turned back toward the boy and knelt. "Hail the Empire, Seneca Octavius, Prince of Aelar!"

The boy looked over the kneeling woman, and his eyes met Maya's. Those pouty lips smirked.

Maya's world, only moments ago so fair, seemed to crumble around her. The fleet sailed into the harbor. The flies bustled around the dead dog, feasting, their long wait finally over.

EPHER

"He went hunting." Epher stood on the ramparts, clutched the hilt of his sword, and stared at the Aelarian ships in the harbor. "Seneca Octavius, Prince of the Aelarian Empire, sailed here with an armada large enough to conquer the coast . . . and went hunting."

His sister stood beside him, clad in scale armor, a bow in hand. A sword hung from her belt, the iron blade shaped like a sickle. On her right hip, she bore a sling and a pouch of sea stones. Her troops stood along the wall with her, similarly armed and armored, staring at the water. Atalia was only nineteen, four years younger than Epher, yet already a segen in the coastal garrison, commanding a hundred warriors. Staring off the ramparts, she hawked noisily and spat into the sea as if spitting on the entire Aelarian fleet.

"That pup should try to hunt me." Atalia snorted. "I'll shove my sword up his ass. Bet he'll like it too."

Epher stared at her. Third born of the Sela family, Atalia had their father's tall build, light brown skin, and dark eyes. The wind billowed her chin-length black hair and woolen cloak. A golden lion pendant hung around her neck, same as the one he wore. Atalia was a fierce warrior, Epher knew, but too wild, too uncouth, too headstrong.

"We can't defeat this army with the sword." Epher released his own hilt and placed both hands on a merlon. "You know what happened last time we fought the Aelarians."

Atalia scoffed. "Ofeer happened."

Epher winced. He was used to Atalia cussing, but these words stabbed him with infinite more harshness. One could talk of shoving swords up backsides—soldiers often spoke such words, hiding their fear behind bravado and vulgarity—but one never discussed Ofeer's heritage. The old war had been bad enough; to dredge up that memory seemed a pain too great to bear.

And yet the words had been spoken. The memory was loose. Epher had been five, old enough to remember, old enough to understand. Again he felt the soldiers grip him and hold a knife to his throat. Again he heard his mother shouting, offering herself in exchange for his life. Again he saw the soldiers drag Mother off, saw the babe born nine months later, a dark child with the blood of Aelar in her veins. A child created in war and fear. A child created to save Epher's life. He never spoke of that day—not to his mother, not to Ofeer—but those memories had never left him.

That summer long ago, Epher thought, the Empire burned our family's ships, seized our island, and yes—created Ofeer. If a second war flares, will it be my sisters—wild Atalia, haunted Ofeer, sweet Maya—the enemy claims as trophies?

He stared at the harbor. The wall on which he stood plunged down, the height of many men, toward the beach. A cobbled boardwalk stretched along the coast, bristling with abandoned carts and stalls. Most days, peddlers stood on that boardwalk, hawking apricots, fresh oysters, and spiced meats on skewers, and many city folk wandered between them and lounged on the sand. Now they were gone, leaving the hot cobblestones to the stray cats and dogs. The land curved here, forming a natural cove of shallow green water. Two breakwaters, constructed of boulders as large as cattle, extended the harbor, engulfing the sea in a rocky embrace.

Within these shallow waters loomed the Aelarian fleet.

Fifty quinquereme ships towered, long wooden galleys lined with shields and ninety oars per side. They reminded Epher of centipedes with many wooden legs. Their sails were folded, but banners still thudded from their masts, displaying the Aquila—a golden eagle upon a crimson field, sigil of Aelar. Hundreds of legionaries stood on the galleys' decks, clad in lorica segmentata—iron strips fastened to leather. Many smaller ships floated among their larger brethren, swift machines of war, and on their decks rested ballistae—great metal crossbows that could fire bolts as large as men. Rams thrust out from the galleys' prows, shaped as eagles, beaks ready to crush the hulls of enemy ships.

"As if we still have ships to fight with," Epher muttered.

"We should never have agreed to disband our fleet," Atalia said. "We should never have agreed to send Aelar our lumers. We surrendered like whores to sailors the last war, leaving us defenseless. If we still had ships and lumers, we'd crush this armada and fill our harbor with eagle bones."

"If we hadn't surrendered, we'd now be fighting as ghosts," Epher said. "We gave them our ships, our lumers, our gold . . . and our mother's womb. We kept our lives."

"Then we'll undo that shame." Atalia drew her sword with a hiss. "We'll charge down to the beach. We'll fight—we still have merchant ships, and we'll fight with those. We still have swords and slings. We'll crush those cockroaches! We'll show them Zoharite pride and—"

"Sister!" Epher grabbed her wrist and pulled her sword down. "Calm yourself. You're a segen in the hosts of Zohar, not queen. It's not for you to decide whether Zohar goes to war or not."

Atalia spat again, aiming at the ships below. "They didn't sail in to buy our frankincense, tour our vineyards, and fuck our whores." She gave Epher a crooked smile. "They came here to fight. War is upon us, like it or not. Our parents lost the last war. This time we kill the bastards."

Her dark eyes shone with bloodlust, her lips tightened, and the sun glinted on her iron scales. Atalia had served in the hosts for only two years now, and as third in line to Sela's fortune, she could hope to someday command the entire coastal garrison. Yet there her ascent would end. He, Epheriah Sela, firstborn son of Jerael, would someday inherit this port, the city that nestled it, and the hills and vineyards that sprawled for parsa'ot along the coast. His fate was to become more than a soldier, to learn more than warfare, and the yoke upon his shoulders was greater than Atalia could know.

Her task is simply to kill, Epher thought. Mine is to protect life.

A whistle rose like steam from a kettle.

"Ho, brother! Ho, sister!" The cry rolled across the city. "Why are you here on the wall when all the fun's back on the hill?"

Epher turned away from the harbor, placed his back to the ramparts, and faced the city of Gefen. A sigh ran through him.

"Koren," he muttered.

If there's anyone less responsible than Atalia, he thought, it's my younger brother.

Second son of Jerael Sela, Koren leaped across the roofs of the city, clad in baggy cotton pants, leaving his feet and torso bare. He raced along the roof of a temple, incurring curses from priests in the windows, and vaulted across an alleyway. He thumped onto a granary and kept running, scattering the mourning doves who had come seeking seeds. Grinning, he leaped across the flat roofs of homes, hopping between the potted herbs and dried fruit the commoners harvested in the sunlight. Finally Koren reached the city's coastal wall, ran upstairs, and joined his siblings at the battlements.

"Atalia!" Koren's grin widened, his teeth brilliantly white against his tanned face. A lion medallion, forged of gold, shone just as brightly against his bare chest. "How many ships did you sink yet?"

The tall, raven-haired warrior grumbled. "Epher won't let me fight."

Koren's eyes widened. He spun toward his older brother, indignant. "Epheriah! To deny a woman the pleasure of sinking an imperial fleet! Why, it's positively barbarous. What kind of brute are you?"

Epher glanced down at his tunic, shirt of iron scales, and woolen cloak, then back at Koren. "A brute who at least can dress himself. Put on a tunic and some armor, brother. You're a son of Sela, not a fisherman."

Koren raised his eyebrows. "What, and deprive the lovely ladies of Aelar the sight of my chiseled godliness? I hear they have marble statues in Aelar that look like me." He looked over the wall toward the ships and cringed. "God's sweaty balls, I'm actually not sure there are any lovely ladies down there. Just a bunch of stern legionaries with spears up their backsides. Almost as stiff and ugly as Atalia, they are."

Atalia growled, grabbed Koren's ear, and twisted it. "Why are you here? Did they run out of booze in the city taverns?"

Koren grimaced and pried her fingers off. "Tragically, with the embargo on our port a full morning old, I've already drunk this city dry. But no, that's not why I'm here. Father sent me to fetch you two. The little imperial pup's almost done hunting, and we're to negotiate back in the villa. Father wants us all there. God knows why. You'd probably just stick the boy with your blade."

Atalia patted the pommel of her sword. "I probably will. Up his ass."

"Atalia! Language! How could you speak such a horrible word?" Koren shook his head. "You mean that you'll certainly stick your sword up his ass."

The two burst into raucous laughter, even as the ships harbored only a hundred yards away, even as a cruel empire threatened to engulf this land.

"Enough!" Epher roared. "Atalia, you're not sticking anyone anywhere with anything. Not until we know this is war. Koren, you're not to antagonize the prince, and you're to remain silent and proper during negotiations. You two are children of House Sela, an ancient and venerated family, your blood noble. I want you to act like it." He began to walk down the wall's staircase, moving into the city of Gefen. "Now come with me, and be on your toes. We can still resolve this peacefully."

"Said the hare to the hungry eagle," Atalia muttered, walking with him down the wall.

As they crossed a courtyard, leaving the wall and ships behind, a shiver ran through Epher.

For the first time today, Atalia speaks wisdom, he thought. A great eagle of the west has landed in our kingdom, and while a hare might flounder and bite in the grip of talons, sooner or later the beak will feast.

Again the memories of that old war—a war too many years ago for his younger siblings to remember—pounded through Epher. As he walked through the city with Atalia and Koren, Epher could not stop reliving it, over and over: legionaries dragging him away, a cold dagger against his throat, and his mother screaming.

OFEER

As they walked across the hills, heading to her mother's home, Ofeer kept looking over at Seneca Octavius, Prince of Aelar, the handsomest man she had ever seen.

In the taverns of Gefen by the sea, the sailors and soldiers scoffed at the Aelarians. Bearded brutes with dark skin, uncivilized and crude, the Zoharites would mock the Aelarians for their fine robes, clean-shaven cheeks, and polished jewels. Those sailors who'd been to the Empire claimed that Aelarian men knew not the difference between the holes, that they buggered their women like they buggered their little boys.

Yet when Ofeer looked at Seneca, when she saw his eyes trail down her body, she knew those stories were false. The Aelarian prince knew all about women's bodies, and he desired hers.

The hills outside Gefen rolled around them. They walked along a path formed of shattered chalk and granite, heading toward the sea that whispered a parasa away. Mint bushes, pines, and pomegranate trees rustled at their sides, the stunted plants of Zohar, so ugly compared to the lofty trees that surely grew across the sea. The turtle doves sang and wild goats wandered upon a distant hilltop, plain beasts compared to the noble animals that lived in the Empire. Seneca's soldiers—three tall men in armor—carried slain goats across their shoulders, all felled by Seneca's own arrows. The dog they had left behind.

Ofeer looked over her shoulder and glared at her half sister. Maya walked several paces behind, still sulking over the death of the wall-pisser.

"Hurry up, straggler!" Ofeer called. "Or we're going to stick you too with an arrow and carry your corpse with the goats."

The young woman, fifteen years old but pouty as a child, quickened her step. Maya's black curls lay across her face, a vain attempt to hide her tears, and her fists clutched her woolen dress. The girl was an embarrassment. Surely the Aelarians thought this a land of mice, of weaklings who cried over a dead dog. Ofeer wished they could have left her sister behind with the corpse.

I won't let you ruin this for me, Maya, Ofeer swore silently, clenching her own fists. For years I've waited to meet my people—my real people—and I will not let you shame me.

Ofeer turned away from her half sister. She returned her eyes to Seneca, and her anger melted.

Prince Seneca Octavius was beautiful—more beautiful, civilized, wise, and strong than any man in Zohar. Unlike the brutish men of this land, he wore no beard. His skin was pale, not dark like hers, and his hair was a brown so light it was nearly blond. Even Ofeer's own brothers—the stern Epher and the ne'er-do-well Koren—wore only rough wool, despite being sons of Sela, supposedly among Zohar's wealthiest families. Meanwhile, Seneca Octavius wore priceless armor, the iron filigreed with golden motifs, and a jeweled eagle clasped his richly woven cloak.

"Your eagle brooch is splendid, my prince," Ofeer said. "May I touch it?"

"It's a fibula." Anger flashed across Seneca's eyes. "Do I look like a fisherman's wife that I should wear a brooch?"

Ofeer cursed herself, cursed her family, cursed this damn benighted land that hadn't taught her the proper words for royalty. With her plain cotton dress, tanned skin, and unadorned black hair, Ofeer must have seemed to him no more civilized than an ape. She had seen Aelarians in the port before, merchants and traders and statesmen, distinguished men with richly woven togas and graying hair. They had never looked approvingly upon her, would sooner fuck a wild ass than take her into their beds. Would Seneca too see her as nothing but a beast?

"Forgive me, dominus," Ofeer said, using the Aelarian title for lord and master. She bowed her head. "I was never taught the proper words for the fineries of Aelar. Do not look upon me that I am crude, that I am swarthy. My mother made me the keeper of our vineyard, and the sun has tanned me. My father taught me nothing but the scrolls and songs of Zohar, the ancient scribblings of shamans, useless in this age of Aelarian enlightenment." She dared raise her eyes, dared meet his gaze. His eyes were the color of glory, of distant splendor, of home. "But though I am a dark and uncivilized to your eyes, Aelarian blood flows through my veins. My father was a man of the Empire."

The prince looked at her, eyes narrowed, letting his gaze linger on her breasts, then stared back into her eyes. "Yes. Yes, I can see that in you. You're dark as coal but you're fair. Graceful. There's something of Aelar's beauty in you." He nodded. "You may touch my fibula."

Ofeer's heart fluttered in her breast.

He thinks me fair!

Ofeer had lain with men before in the port, yet she had cared only for their cocks and cheap wine, nothing more. She had found some pleasure with them, yes, some distraction from the pain of being the half-breed, the shame of her family. But she had never found love with them. How could she? There was no tenderness to Zoharite men; they were uncivilized, mere beasts. But now, here on these hills, Ofeer finally found a noble man from overseas, civilized and pale, a prince who called her beautiful. A prince who could offer her more than a bed for the night; he could offer her a life of joy, a life in Aelar, the life she had always deserved. Her heart threatened to escape through her mouth, and her fingers—slender fingers, so dark by his white skin—trembled as she reached out and caressed the golden eagle clasping his cloak.

"It's a very fine fibula, dominus."

He stared at the pendant that hung around her neck. "You wear the Aquila too."

Ofeer nodded, breath shaky, and felt lightheaded. "Would you like to touch mine, dominus? It's not as fine as yours, but its wings are just as proud. I forever wear the eagle of Aelar, not the lion of Zohar, for though I was born and raised here in the east, my heart beats for the west."

Seneca reached down to caress her platinum amulet, then let his fingers stray down to skim the tops of her breasts.

Fear pounded through Ofeer. She had been with men before but never a prince. Would he think her forward, a mere barbarian currying favor?

Be brave, Ofeer, she told herself. If you ever want to leave this backward land, and if you ever want to see the Empire, you must be brave. You must dare. My brothers think themselves brave with their swords, yet I fight my wars with my words, with my body, and with the fierceness in my heart.

"There's a cave nearby, my prince," she whispered, lips trembling, as his fingers caressed her—fingers not dry and callused like hers but soft, pale, ringed with gold. "The sun in the east is hot, and should you wish to rest on your way to my mother's home . . ." She let her words trail off, but she spoke the rest with her eyes.

He understood. He stroked her hair, letting the smooth black strands flow between his fingers. "You are dark but fair, Ofeer the Zoharite, keeper of her mother's vineyard. Lead me to this cave."

They continued walking down the path—a prince of Aelar, a half-breed bastard, soldiers bearing slain goats, and a weepy girl with a fragile heart. Ahead, Ofeer could see the vineyards and farmlands in the valley, beyond them the city of Gefen and the sea. When the path rounded a hill and they stood between pine trees, she could see her mother's villa in the distance. The house rose on a hilltop, the country retreat of the Sela family, overlooking the port city. A house of shame. A house of lies.

For an instant Ofeer stood still and just stared. Fire burned inside her, and her fingernails dug into her palms.

For the four other Sela children, this was a home of peace, of love. But to Ofeer it had always been a cage. She had grown up here knowing she was different, knowing she was a bastard—more than just a bastard but a half-breed. No matter how much Ofeer would scream, her mother would never reveal the name of Ofeer's true father.

"Your only father now is Lord Jerael Sela," Shiloh would say. "And he loves you, Ofeer."

"He's not my father!" a bitter, sobbing girl would shout. "My father is a great lord of Aelar. And you can keep his name secret, but he'll come for me someday. He'll come here with a fleet and he'll burn this house down, and he's going to take me home. To Aelar. Far from this place. Far from you!"

That old pain had never left Ofeer. For many years, she had fled that pain into the taverns of Gefen, seeking temporary pleasure in the bottom of her cups, in the hookahs of spice, and the beds of bearded men. And now, finally, after eighteen years of loneliness, they had come to her. The Aelarians. Her father perhaps did not sail here, but a beautiful prince had come from overseas. Come to rescue her. To tell her she was beautiful. To love her.

"Are you all right?" Seneca asked, scrutinizing her. "You tremble."

Ofeer forced herself to take a shaky breath, to loosen her fists. "I'm fine, dominus. Just . . . bad memories of this place."

Once more anger flashed across Seneca's eyes, setting them astorm, and he clutched the hilt of his gladius sword. But this time his anger was not directed at her.

"This place is a barbarous wasteland. It pains me that a woman so fair, so graceful, with the blood of Aelar in her veins, should have grown up here in the east." He looked around him. "A wilderness. You should see Aelar, Ofeer! The temples that soar into the sky, their columns engraved with reliefs of ancient battles, their capitals gilded, their beauty rivaling the gods they worship. The palaces whose very walls shine with jewels. The amphitheater where poets, playwrights, and gladiators perform for a crowd more plentiful than all the souls in this backwater city below."

Ofeer could barely breathe, and her eyes dampened. "I would love to see Aelar, dominus. It's always been my dream to set foot upon the land of my father."

He nodded. "Perhaps I'll take you there someday. But now—I see a cave before us. Is this the place?"

She nodded. "Come, my prince."

Again Ofeer dared. Heart thudding against her ribs, she took his hand. He did not pull back, and his grip tightened around her, warm and engulfing. They walked between the pines toward the cave in the hillside, the place where Maya so often came to read her scrolls.

"Men, guard the hillside," Seneca said to his soldiers.

The towering men nodded, laid down the game they carried, and rested their hands on the pommels of their broad, short swords. Ofeer led her prince across a patch of grass toward the cave.

"You can't go in there!" For the first time since the dog had died, Maya spoke, not even bothering to speak in Aelarian, which Seneca would understand, but rather using the guttural, harsh language of Zohar. "Mother would want us back home quickly."

Gods damn it! Ofeer spun around. The damn girl was ruining everything. For years, Ofeer had waited for this moment, for a prince of Aelar to come and save her, and now her simpleton of a sister would jeopardize everything Ofeer had always dreamed of.

She glowered at the girl. Maya stared back. The wind blew back the girl's dark curls, revealing a stern face, the cheeks damp with tears, the brown eyes still watery.

"Then go to Mother yourself," Ofeer said, speaking Aelarian, the beautiful language all Sela children learned, that someday all the world would speak. "You two can go shit in the sea for all I care."

She spat at her sister's feet, then entered the cave with her prince.

It was a small cave, no larger than her bedroom in the villa on Pine Hill. Long ago, Maya had placed a rug on the craggy floor and piled up parchment scrolls, a little haunt where she could read. A few candles stood in iron holders, half-melted. A string stretched across the cave's entrance, and a curtain of glass beads hung from it. When Ofeer pulled the curtain shut, the sunlight gleamed in the translucent orbs, casting dancing lights across the cave.

Ofeer shoved her sister's scrolls aside, grabbed the hem of her cotton dress, and pulled off the garment. She stood before Seneca, naked in the mottles of sunlight, and stared into his eyes.

"This is but a humble cave, dominus, not a fine abode of marble and gold. My dress is but coarse cotton, not fine muslin and silk. My skin and eyes are dark, and I'm no pale beauty like those of Aelar. But this body is yours."

"You are dark and fair, daughter of Zohar," Seneca whispered.

He removed his armor, piece by piece, remaining in a linen tunic. Ofeer helped him doff the garment and knelt before him. His manhood hardened at once, before she had even touched it, and for a moment Ofeer was taken aback, for she had never seen an uncircumcised member. But of course a man of Aelar would leave the foreskin intact, for he was no barbarian of the east. She took him into her mouth until he moaned with pleasure, and his hands clutched her hair.

Before he could release his seed, Ofeer pulled away and lay on her back on the rug. She let her fingers trail down between her legs, then slipped them inside her.

"Come to me, my prince."

He lay on the rug beside her, grabbed her, and rolled her onto her stomach. Ofeer gasped and those old stories returned to her. But the men of the port had been wrong. Prince Seneca of Aelar took her from behind, like a dog takes a bitch, but not as a man takes a boy. His hands cupped her small breasts, and she moaned into the rug and finally let out a muffled cry.

When he pulled out from her, she nestled against him. "Will you hold me, my prince?" she whispered. "For a few moments?"

But he rose to his feet, and already he began to buckle on his armor. "Stand up. Pull your dress back on. We don't have a few moments. This kingdom is ripe for the taking, and I plan to take it." He stared down at her naked body, and his voice softened. "When Zohar is mine, perhaps I'll take you with me on my ship back to Aelar. You would warm my bed on the journey, and across the sea, I'll show you true civilization. You will see the temples of the gods, and I will fuck you in the palace of an emperor."

As she lay on the rug below him, Ofeer suddenly felt cold, even in the heat of this southeastern land. She had lain with enough men in the port, had seen enough of them leave her to return to their gambling and booze. Strangely, more than she longed to see temples and palaces, Ofeer simply wanted her prince to lie down beside her, to hold her, to stroke her hair and whisper into her ear. And yet he stepped out of the cave, leaving her in the shadows.

Ofeer stood up and pulled on her dress. She must remember that the ways of Aelar were foreign to her. She had been raised here in Zohar, and she mustn't be soft and weepy like Maya.

"He's a great prince, and he'll show me an empire," she whispered, surprised to find tears in her eyes. "He will fuck me in the palace of an emperor."

For years Ofeer had dreamed of this, yet now the words tasted sour, and pain filled her loins. She stepped out of the cave and into the sunlight, and she joined him on the winding path toward the sea.

MARCUS

He rode his chariot, leading the procession of marching legionaries, plundered treasure, and thousands of prisoners with crosses on their backs.

The cobbled road coiled across the hills between cypress and olive trees. The procession spread for a mile behind Emperor Marcus Octavius, a cavalcade of triumph. From across the farmlands, the plebeians had arrived to line the roadsides and watch from the hilltops, cheering their emperor's return to Aelar.

For a year, I fought the barbarians overseas, Marcus thought. For a year, Aelar awaited me in shadow. Now my light returns.

He was as the sun. His chariot was gilded, and white fabrics embroidered with silver and inlaid with jewels bedecked its four horses. Marcus himself wore a splendid toga, the wool deep purple trimmed with gold, and a laurel rested on his head. He remembered traveling this very road thirty years ago, a mere legionary, a young soldier returning from his first war, following his general in their triumphant homecoming. Now Marcus rode here as an emperor, leading the march of his greatest triumph.

Behind him, the ten thousand prisoners cried out in pain. They marched naked, the sun baking them, the whips cutting them. Chains clattered around their ankles. Marcus turned his head, stared at their suffering, and though he rarely smiled—his soldiers mocked him for his face of stone—he allowed his eyes to narrow in amusement.

"Their suffering is too great to bear," said Mingo, the slave who shared Marcus's chariot. The man wore only a loincloth, and his body was skeletal, the ribs visible against the filthy skin. His scraggly white hair and beard hung down to his hips.

"They will bear it for a while longer," said Marcus to his slave. "The kingdom of Leer dared to rise up against us. Dared to battle Aelar. Their suffering will be long and great."

The old man nodded. "They wait for death's welcoming arms. As do I."

Marcus snorted. "You will live much longer than they do."

The bony man nodded. The slave was a memento mori, his presence a continuous reminder of Marcus's own mortality. Many years ago, Mingo had boasted another name, the name of a powerful senator, a dignitary who had fought to keep Aelar a republic. Many claimed that, in those years, Mingo had looked remarkably like Marcus—the same beak nose, thin mouth, tall and proud brow. A strong face. Noble and cruel as a vulture. Many had mistaken them for brothers, even during the war between their families.

But those days were long gone. Mingo's true name was forgotten. His house was destroyed, his sons slain, and his youngest daughter—sweet Valentina—raised in Marcus's own house. And over the years, Mingo's face—once so noble—had withered, hiding behind a shroud of a beard. The eyes had lost their pride, now drowning between wrinkles.

Some in Aelar scoffed at the tradition, and perhaps in hidden chambers they called Marcus a fool. And yet Marcus kept this slave with him, for he had seen too many senators, generals, and nobles fall to the oldest and greatest folly: believing themselves gods. Marcus had become emperor seventeen years ago, the very day he had defeated his rivals in the Senate. He was the first emperor of an ancient civilization, and he rode in a chariot of gold, leading a procession of splendor, heading toward a palace in an eternal city. And so he kept his memento mori always close, always chained and naked, and whenever Marcus looked at his rival-turned-slave, he remembered: I too am but a man, slowly withering away. I am not a god.

Marcus tugged the reins, halting his chariot.

"Another one!" he shouted, voice rolling across the hills.

Behind him, the march halted. The slaves moaned, drenched in sweat and blood. Behind them, farther down the road and spreading into the valley, the legionaries slammed their heels together and stood at attention, and the sunlight gleamed on their armor and crested helmets. Down that road, for many miles, the crosses rose. Every fifty paces, a prisoner languished on the cross, dying in the sunlight, food for crows.

Marcus stared at them, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. Only months ago, these wretched Leerians had worn patches of armor, had manned the walls of their city across the Encircled Sea, had burned a temple to Aelar's gods and beheaded their governor.

"Look at them now," Marcus said to his slave. "Thus is the fate of any who rejects Aelar's light."

"A just fate, dominus," said the withered, bearded man.

On the roadside, his legionaries grabbed one of the prisoners, a brutish man, his skin tattered by the whip, the cross twisting his shoulders. Marcus watched from his chariot. The soldiers took the cross from the prisoner and laid it on the road. For a brief moment, the chained man seemed almost relieved, his long burden—the cross he had borne for so many miles—finally off his back. There was something sad and broken in his eyes, a weakness that Marcus had often seen in the lesser races.

The man's brief respite ended when the legionaries shoved him against the cross. The soldiers grabbed the prisoner's arms and twisted them, dislocating bones from sockets, shoving the ribs deep into the belly. The man screamed and the hammers rose. The hammers fell and the nails drove into the twisted hands, then into the feet, and the cross rose. It loomed above the roadside, blood dripping down its cedar beam, and the plebeians across the hills cheered.

With the first few crosses Marcus's men had raised, now twenty leagues south from here, the crows had hesitated, sometimes waiting until the procession had traveled by to feast, sometimes not feeding at all, perhaps waiting for the prisoners on the crosses to die. By now, the crows had learned that they were welcomed to these meals. Marcus had no sooner whipped his horses than the crows dived in, squawked, and began to devour the crucified man. Clever birds. Not as noble as the eagle that appeared on Marcus's standards, but quick-witted and dear to him.

The procession moved onward, displaying both the prisoners and the spoils of war to the plebeians. The legionaries marching behind Marcus had fought with him in Leer, and they now held their trophies high. In the sunlight gleamed silver vases, candelabra the size of men, marble statues, chests of jewels, sacks of coins, and wild animals in cages. The treasures of a fallen kingdom gleamed along the road, a serpent of precious metals and gemstones.

They stopped again, fifty paces along. Another cross rose. Another captive screamed. The crows fed and the procession moved onward.

They had begun the triumphant march seven days ago with ten thousand captives of war, marching down the road from Polonia toward the city of Aelar. Five thousand captives now remained, most of them—the strong and obedient ones—to be sold in the slave markets. The frail, the sick, the recalcitrant all lined the road behind them, five thousand crosses spreading across the leagues. Finally now, with the last few Leerians crucified on the hills, the procession saw the city of Aelar—namesake of the Empire—in the north.

The city sprawled across the hilltops, the largest city in the world, home to a million souls, heart of the Aelarian Empire which surrounded the Encircled Sea. The walls of Aelar soared, topped with banners displaying a golden eagle, wings spread, upon a crimson field. The Gate of Triumph rose before Marcus, the grandest among the city's eight gates. The archway loomed nearly the full height of the walls, so large palaces could be constructed within it. Statues of the gods stood atop the arch, gilded and gleaming, raising their blades to the sky. Words were engraved into the stone, each letter large as a man:

The Aelarian Senate and people dedicate these glorious gates to the divine Marcus Octavius, Eternal Emperor, Defeater of Cassius, Lord of the Encircled Sea.

Those words stung Marcus whenever he rode toward these gates. Sitting in his chariot at the head of his hosts, he frowned at them.

"The words mock you, dominus," said Mingo, once named Cassius. The greybeard shifted his weight in the chariot, his chains clattering. "Perhaps you think them carved prematurely."

Marcus scowled at the slave. "Do you doubt my divinity?"

The slave pursed his lips. "You defeated the Leerians, these wretches who hang from crosses behind us, whose women will be sold in our slave markets, their flesh to warm the beds of heroic Aelarians. You claimed a great port in the Encircled Sea, one of many your empire rules. This is true, dominus. And yet there are those who still defy you. The port of Gefen, in the kingdom of Zohar, is still the bastion of the bearded heathens who chop off the tips of their cocks and piss blood on eagles."

"You're one to speak of beards," Marcus said, staring at the slave's scraggly white hairs.

Mingo cackled. There was still a glimmer of light in those eyes, the old defiance that had once driven the man to lead armies against Marcus, a doomed attempt to shatter his throne.

You sought to destroy me, Marcus thought, staring at the slave. You butchered thousands of my men. You murdered my pregnant wife. So I carved a daughter out from your own wife's womb. And now I slowly, year by year, carve your own life away.

"My beard is long," said Mingo, "my body frail, and I am but a wretch, dominus. Yet I grow my beard in chains. The Zoharites grow theirs sitting comfortably in their cities, spitting in your eye, all while that eye gazes upon words that deem you their lord!"

Marcus clenched his fists. It was a terrible sin to strike a memento mori. The aging, withered slave existed to remind Marcus of his own mortality; to strike him would be like striking himself. He forced himself to loosen his fists.

"Silence your tongue, Mingo," Marcus said. "I do not keep you here to speak."

"Only to remind you of certain truths." Mingo nodded. "The truth of bodies that decay. Of words that deceive. Of a certain kingdom that still stands."

Marcus clutched his whip as the chariot rode toward the gates. His lip gave a single twitch. "My children advance toward Zohar, Prince Seneca from the sea, Princess Porcia from the northern hills, and each commands three legions. The kingdom will crumble between them. The lume of Zohar will be ours."

But Mingo only thrust out his lips and raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps, dominus. Yet even the offspring of mighty eagles are often but weak hatchlings, unable to fly on their own, crashing down to their deaths as soon as their mother shoves them from the nest."

Now Marcus's lips peeled back in a snarl. "You speak to me of children? You forget that another's eaglet still hides in my nest. Valentina Octavius, once known as Valentina Cassius." He sneered at his slave. "A child who was once dear to you, I believe. A child you once called Daughter. Pray to the gods, Mingo who once had another name. Pray that your words are wrong, that your fellow bearded louts fall before the eagles. For if Aelar ever burns, Valentina will be first to burn with it, and you will hear her scream."

They entered the city. Past the Gate of Triumph spread a cobbled boulevard, wide enough for five horses to walk abreast, leading through the city. People lined the roadsides, cheering for their emperor. Girls in white linen ran ahead, tossing apple blossoms onto the road. Musicians blew trumpets and beat drums. All the city praised the heroes returning home with their spoils of war.

Marcus rode his chariot down the boulevard, displaying those spoils for the people—the gold, the jewels, the rich animal pelts, the women who walked collared and nude. Colonnades lined the roadsides, the marble pillars soaring, supporting gilded statues of the gods. Temples rose on hills, dwarfing the cypress trees, their porticos sporting columns with capitals engraved as eagles. Villas crested other hills, and side roads revealed apartment buildings built of limestone, seven stories tall.

They marched for hours, moving through the city. At every block, the commoners cried out for their emperor, leered at the marching captives, and raised their fists in salute to the brave soldiers returning home. The musicians played, and slaves across the city brought forth platters of cakes, bowls of fruit, and jugs of wine. A million souls feasted and drank and danced, and still the procession moved onward.

Finally Marcus reached the Aelarian Acropolis, the heart of this city, indeed the heart of the empire. Here was a city within a city, the center of his power.

A wide dirt road encircled the Acropolis, lined with tiers of stone seats—the field where chariots would race for the pleasure of both lords and commoners. Beyond towered great walls topped with battlements, and behind them rose hills. On those hills shone the monuments of the Empire—temples to the gods, a palace of marble, an amphitheater that could seat myriads, and the domed Senate whence the Republic had once ruled, where now the senators bent the knee to their emperor.

Many of Marcus's generals—and his own children—believed him a fool for allowing the Senate to remain standing, the senators to continue their work. Porcia often demanded to burn the great domed building to the ground, to slay the senators within, to efface all memory of the fallen Republic. Marcus had always refused.

The senators managed the trade, the tax collection, the farmlands, the census, the laws and courts, entertainment, art. Without them, Marcus knew, he was nothing but a man with a palace. Without them the Empire would fall. And so he kept the senators fat, wealthy, and subservient. Pets on his leash. Senator Cassius had risen against him. Senator Cassius now rode at his side, a wretched slave, a sniveling fool named Mingo.

Let the others kneel, he thought, and let them run my empire.

Near the Senate soared a colossus, a towering golden statue, depicting him—Emperor Marcus Octavius. The statue gazed upon the Empire, eyes hard, the nose proud and dipping down over thin lips, the balding head topped with a laurel.

"Two doppelgangers," Mingo remarked at his side, a smirk on his lips. "One carved of gold, the other a miserable wretch caked with sweat and shit. I wonder, dominus, which will last longer?"

"The one caked with shit," Marcus said. "I'm not letting you die anytime soon."

Mingo cackled. "Then I failed at my task, reminding you of the mortality of all men . . . and all empires."

The procession moved onward through the Acropolis, between the temples, the Senate, the statues, and the palace. They made their way uphill toward the Amphitheatrum, the largest amphitheater in the Empire. The ring of stone rose many stories high, each tier formed of engraved galleries, statues standing between the arches. The procession flowed through the gateway and into the arena.

Eighty thousand people filled the Amphitheatrum, leaving not an empty seat. They roared as their emperor, the mighty Marcus Octavius, rode his golden chariot across the arena. They marveled at his jeweled horses, at his splendid raiment of deep purple and gold, and they laughed at the memento mori who stood on one foot and pirouetted, only to fall from the chariot into the dust. Legionaries stepped into the arena too, five hundred of Aelar's finest, clad in shimmering armor, red crests of horsehair proudly rising from their helmets. They arranged the spoils of war in the arena as the crowd roared. The treasures shone.

Soon the captives would enter the arena too, displaying their nakedness to the crowd, and the lords of Aelar would bid for them, paying gold for their flesh. Soon chariots would race around the Acropolis, and wine would flow for days. Soon there would be songs, dancing, great feasts in the palace to commemorate this victory.

But not yet.

First Marcus would truly end this war.

He rode his chariot to the center of the arena and halted. The crowd fell silent around him. All eyes were upon him. Atop the archways leading into the amphitheater reared golden horses, and they too seemed to stare. Even the birds fell silent in the sky.

Marcus Octavius raised his fist, turned toward the archway he had entered, and shouted, "Bring them forth!"

Three generals rode into the arena, clad in full regalia, breastplates bright and cloaks flowing. Chains ran from the horses, pulling forth five captives: a ragged man, his skin hanging loose from many beatings; a woman, her face swollen with bruises, her head shaved and dripping blood; and three children, one barely old enough to walk, iron collars around their necks.

"Behold!" Marcus Octavius cried. "Behold, Aelar, the royal family of Leer! See their wretchedness, and see them bow before me!"

Soldiers stepped forth. Whips cracked and clubs swung into spines. The royal family of his enemies fell into the dust. Chains yanked their ravaged bodies, and sandals pressed onto their hamstrings, forcing them to kneel. The broken family cried out in pain, bodies shattered. Their blood soaked the sand.

Marcus rode his chariot in rings around them, and his voice boomed, filling the arena, reaching the ears of every man, woman, and child in the audience.

"The land of Leer rose up against us!" he said. "We allowed these barbarians to govern themselves, if only they paid tribute to the glory of Aelar, if only they worshipped our gods. And yet they burned down the temples we had built them!" The crowd rumbled in rage, and Marcus shouted even louder. "They called themselves a free nation, and they burned our ships in their harbor, and they beheaded our governor and raised a king and queen of their own. Now the world sees the price of their defiance!"

He rode toward the sidelines, alighted from his chariot, and climbed the stairs up the tiers. He took his seat, a throne of gold under an embroidered canopy. His memento mori knelt at his feet like a dog. Other slaves were already waiting here—collared women in silk stolas, kneeling on rugs. They held forth golden dishes full of grapes, honeyed nuts, and wine, but Marcus waved them aside. He leaned forward in his seat, staring down at the arena, and licked his teeth.

The legionaries too departed the arena, leaving only the beaten family there. The Leerians tried to rise but fell again, spines shattered. The children wailed, and the father made a wretched attempt to crawl across the sand, to reach the staircase Marcus had climbed, as if still hoping to reach the emperor and fight. Marcus remembered the battle only a month ago, when he had faced this brute on the field, when he had smashed the man's teeth.

"Now your suffering finally ends, King of Leer," Marcus whispered.

"All who live must die," said Mingo, lapping wine from a bowl on the floor. "Even the greatest rulers."

Trumpets blared across the amphitheater. Below in the arena, a hidden door opened on the floor. And the lions emerged.

The crowd roared in delight. Young women laughed and pointed. Children squealed in joy, sitting on their fathers' shoulders. Men cried out raucously between gulps of wine. The lions in the arena ignored the crowd. For long days, their handlers had starved them, and now the magnificent beasts feasted. The animals did not go straight for the throat; they had been raised to favor living prey. They gnawed first on the limbs as the captives screamed. They tugged out the entrails and dragged them through the sand, and still the Leerians writhed and begged. Their screams were a horrid sound, torn, inhuman.

As the crowd cheered and the blood spilled, Marcus looked away. He raised his eyes and stared across the arena.

On a hill beyond, visible even from here, rose his great golden statue, watching over the Empire. Two lesser statues stood behind it, gleaming in the sunset. A statue of Princess Porcia, his firstborn, and a statue of Prince Seneca, his son.

All who live must die. The words echoed in Marcus's mind. Even the greatest rulers.

Marcus was fifty years old. He did not know if his death lurked in the next campaign, or if he would die thirty years from now, lying feebly in a bed. He did not know if Aelar would stand, or if more around the Encircled Sea would rebel and bring these temples and palaces crashing down.

You will live after me, my heir, he thought. You, Porcia the Strong. Or you, Seneca the Proud. Whoever captures me the land of Zohar, the world's fountain of lume, shall rule in this great city of Aelar. Whoever rules Zohar shall rule an empire.

"Very soon now," Marcus said, "one of my children will bring me the spoils of Zohar too: their women to warm our beds, their lumers to raise our halls, and their royal family to feed our lions. And then, when either Porcia or Seneca brings me these imperial gifts, we will have an heir to Aelar."

Mingo raised his head from his bowl. Wine stained his mouth, the color of blood.

"Very soon now," the slave agreed, "Aelar will have a new ruler."

Marcus stared back at the lions. They had torn the heads free from the bodies, and they were feasting on the bones and blood of a kingdom.

SHILOH

She stood in her garden, looked around her, and saw endless memories, some of joy and others of blood.

A pine rose before her, trunk twisting and bark rough, sending forth many branches heavy with needles and cones. In its shade, Shiloh had placed stones from the sea, an old bronze urn painted with gazelles, and the limestone statue of a maiden. Between these treasures, Shiloh had spent years nurturing her cyclamens, and now the lavender flowers bloomed, mottled with what light fell between the pine branches. She had always loved cyclamens. The flowers were more fragile than the anemones or lantanas she grew on the patio of her house, and they favored the shade, growing best near rocks and statues, as if the flowers sought safety in stone. Perhaps Shiloh had always felt an affinity with cyclamens, for she herself felt fragile, blossoming only in safety, hiding away from a world where hardier breeds thrived.

A kingfisher fluttered above, landed on a branch, and sang, and Shiloh remembered the first time she had seen kingfishers. She had been only a youth, sixteen summers old, when she had moved into Lord Jerael Sela's home, when she had first seen this pine, heard the kingfisher's song. A sheltered princess, the youngest daughter of Zohar's king, she had only seen the sea in mosaics of sapphires and lapis lazuli. For twenty-four years since that summer, Shiloh had tended to this home by the true sea, and she had given her lord six children—one who died, five who had grown, who would soon fly away as the kingfishers did every winter.

No, I did not give him six children, Shiloh thought, sudden pain stabbing her. I gave my husband five, and a sixth was shoved into me.

And now the memories of blood resurfaced. Shiloh stood by her pine and stared westward. Beyond the line of cypresses, the farmlands and vineyards, and the city of Gefen it lay—the Encircled Sea.

You sailed across the sea nineteen years ago, Marcus Octavius, she thought. You took our island. You took our fleet. And you took my womb.

Shiloh placed her hands on her belly, remembering how it had swelled with the child of Aelar. How she had feared that the child would be a boy, that he would grow to look like his father, like the general who had demanded a night in her bed in exchange for her sons' lives. How Shiloh had wept tears of joy to see a girl emerge from her womb, a beautiful child who had inherited Shiloh's dark hair and olive skin, who looked like her and nothing like her father. Shiloh had vowed to love that daughter forever, and she had named her Ofeer, a beloved child.

"I raised her in the ways of Zohar, Marcus Octavius," Shiloh whispered, gazing at the sea. "You became an emperor, and I remained here, a mother, a gardener, a haunted woman. And now your ships return to my port. Now your son hunts on our hills. Now this garden I've grown threatens to burn in your fire."

A voice rose behind her, deep and soothing as the sea. "We will hold back this fire, daughter of Zohar. Your garden will bloom for many years."

She turned around, and she saw him emerge from their home, the rock to her cyclamen. Though fear still filled her, that fear eased at the sight of him, like a wound under a balm. Lord Jerael Sela was a tall man, taller than his sons, and broad of shoulders, his arms wide. His hair was thick and grizzled, the white rivaling the black, while his close-cropped beard had all but surrendered to the frost of time. But his eyebrows were still jet black, bushy, and shadowing kind brown eyes. His skin was tanned a rich bronze, and his features were strong—the nose proud, the jaw wide, the upper lip prominent. It was a face both hard as stone and warm as a hearth, both noble as a soldier's and kindly as a father's.

Jerael wore only a cotton robe over a humble tunic, worn sandals held his feet, and a lion medallion was his only jewel—but here before her stood the patriarch of House Sela, the most powerful man in Zohar aside from the quarreling princes in the east. This humble man in cotton ruled all the lands one could see from Pine Hill—the vineyards, the farms, the hills and valleys, and most precious of all, the port city of Gefen, the gateway to the Encircled Sea.

Queen Sifora Elior, my dear sister, is dead, Shiloh thought. My nephews, Prince Yohanan and Prince Shefael, battle for the throne. Aelarians sail into our port. My husband is the one solid pillar we still have in the storm.

"For a quarter century," Shiloh said, "I tended to our home, to our garden, to our children. We've withstood many storms together, my lord. We will face this one too, standing strong, as we always have, though fear beats in my heart."

He stepped closer and embraced her. His arms were so powerful; she thought that they could hold the world together. She leaned her cheek against his chest, and her braid trailed down to nestle between their navels. Her braid too was no longer pure black but strewn with silver. Some of the elder women in Beth Eloh, even here in Gefen, had taken to dyeing their hair, but Shiloh saw no use in fighting age. She had lived for forty springs upon this earth, and she wore no cosmetics to hide the lines on her face, no color in her hair, no fine fabrics from overseas. Every line on her brow was a mark of strength, of a woman who had fought for her family, who had built a home.

She turned her head and looked at their home, the ancestral villa of the Sela family. The house rose a parasa east of the city of Gefen, a country retreat for the lords of this land. It was a large house, built of brick and clay, with many bedrooms for her children, for grandchildren she did not know if she'd now have. Cypresses grew around its walls, and flowers bloomed on its windowsills. A house of so many memories—of babes smiling, toddlers running through the halls, of joyous feasts, of quiet nights spent reading or singing, of the Night of Lights when candles cast back the shadows and her family prayed together. Not just a house. Her life, the life of her family. A world.

And one night, Marcus Octavius came into this home, Shiloh thought. Nineteen years ago. A general who had become an emperor. A man who would have killed my sons, if I had refused to let him place a daughter in my womb. I sent him back into the sea that night and now that sea rises again, its waves threatening to wash over us all.

"The boys return," Jerael said, turning toward that sea.

Shiloh turned westward. They came walking from the city below, traveling the dirt path toward Pine Hill and the house that stood here.

Epheriah walked at the lead, firstborn of Sela, a tall young man with his father's broad shoulders and wide jaw, his black hair tightly curled, a sword upon his thigh. He was only twenty-three, yet already the burdens of an older man filled his eyes. Heir to House Sela and all her lands, Epher understood more than anyone the fragility of this port, the last free cove in an Encircled Sea where an empire swelled.

Behind him walked Koren, second born, twenty-one years of age. Slender and quick, Koren walked bare chested and barefoot, whistling and grinning, even now with the storm rising. Shiloh knew her son, knew that Koren's jests and smirks hid a fear deep inside him. She could see that fear in the young man's dark eyes, colder than ever.

Following her brothers walked Atalia, third born to Sela, geared for war, her scale armor clanking, her belt heavy with sword and sling, a bow in her hands. Jokingly, Shiloh and her husband often called Atalia one of the boys, for the girl would cuss and fight among them. Tall and strong, Atalia was more like her brothers than her sisters. She had none of Ofeer's grace, none of Maya's sweetness. Atalia was a lioness, a soldier in the hosts of Zohar, born for war.

Yet if war flares, Shiloh thought, all the might of Atalia and our hosts would not hold back the wrath of Aelar. She clutched her lion medallion, raised her eyes, and prayed to the heavens. Please, Eloh, protect your children. Give us strength. Do not let this land which you have blessed fall to the enemy in our port.

Yet her god was silent, as ever he was. In temples across Zohar, the priests prayed to Eloh, the Lord of Light who had chosen the Zoharites from among all the people of the earth. Yet Eloh had not saved Shiloh's brothers in the war two decades ago. He had not stopped Aelar from sinking a hundred Zoharite ships. Perhaps the children of Zohar had sinned, and perhaps their god had abandoned them.

Or perhaps we've always been abandoned, she thought, orphaned children in a land that burns us.

"Hullo, Mother," said Koren when he reached the garden. He planted a kiss on Shiloh's cheek. "Did you know that there's an army in our harbor?"

Atalia shoved him aside and drew her sword. "And I say we fight them. Father!" She turned toward Jerael, eyes flashing. "We raise the banners. We summon the hosts from across the land. We burn the bastards down, and I will fight on the front line."

Before anyone could say more, a shriek sounded above, followed by a pathetic mewl.

They all raised their heads and stared skyward.

"God's balls," Atalia cursed.

Epher, stern and bearded, prayed under his breath, voice strained. "Hear, O Zohar! Ours is the light. Ours is the light. Ours is the light . . ."

Shiloh stared at the spectacle above, and she felt as though her innards had turned to brittle glass, cracking, shattering, cutting her, all her hope breaking into glistening shards. An eagle flew above, heading toward them from the sea. Its screeches echoed across the sky, and its wingspan was longer than a man's open arms.

"It's holding something." Koren squinted up at it. "What is it? A rabbit?"

"Too large to be a rabbit," said Jerael, taller and wider than his son, frowning up at the aerial struggle. "It looks like . . ."

A lion cub, Shiloh knew.

The eagle flew closer, soon flying directly overhead. In its talons, the lion cub still lived, struggling, wailing. The eagle tried to rise higher, to glide toward the hills with its prize, but the cub gave a great twist, and its paws lashed. Blood dripped. Finally the cub tore free and fell, fell, fell for what seemed like ages as Shiloh stared, and in her mind she saw thousands falling.

Finally the lion cub slammed down onto the hillside, only a few amot away, and lay still. The eagle flew onward.

"Dead." Atalia stepped closer and poked it with a stick. "Poor little bugger."

"It's a sign," said Epher, staring with dark eyes. More somber than his younger siblings, he often saw meaning in the doings of sky and land and sea.

"Nonsense." Atalia snorted. "No such things as signs. You think sheep turds are signs."

Shiloh wanted to believe her daughter, wanted to believe this was but a coincidence, yet she hadn't seen a lion in years, had never seen an eagle. Just a trick of the Aelarian fleet, she told herself. Just a game they played, releasing the animals from a ship.

Yet when Shiloh gazed at that lion cub, its dead eyes stared back, and she remembered the thousands of dead eyes that had stared at her nineteen years ago, and she remembered the eyes of Marcus Octavius, boring into her as his naked body pressed against hers.

The eagle gave a last cry and vanished into the east.

They all stared toward the eastern hills, as if they could still see it. But instead they saw a sight even more disturbing, a sight that sent new icy shards cutting through Shiloh.

"An eagle has flown away," Epher muttered. "Now a viper slithers toward us. Let us hear his hisses, and then we'll know if today we die."

There on the eastern hills Shiloh saw them: her youngest daughters, walking with the Prince of Aelar and his guards, armored legionaries like those who had cut down Shiloh's brothers.

"We're back from the hunt!" Prince Seneca announced, carrying freshly killed game. "Caught us three goats and two bitches."

The prince's laughter rolled across the hills, and Shiloh could only hear those old screams.

JERAEL

They met in the dining hall of his home—his men-at-arms, his wife, his children, and thirteen men of Aelar clad for war.

This had always been Jerael's favorite room in the villa, a place of warmth, of fond memories, of family and prayer. The villa was large, and he was wealthy, but here was a humble room, almost rustic. The walls were painted an earthy beige, adorned with clay pomegranates—ancient symbols of Zohar, some said more ancient than the lion—painted blue, red, and gold, the works of his children in their childhoods. A mezzanine rose above, spanning the second floor, the place where his children had performed countless plays for adoring parents below. A painting dominated one wall, as large as the dinner table, depicting elephants traveling through the wilderness.

This room was always steeped with memory. Festivals of Light, the family lighting candles in seashell holders, worshiping Eloh, the god of light. Harvest fairs, the table overflowing with baskets of grapes, fresh figs, persimmons, and sheaves of wheat. Simple evenings with his family, praying from the Book of Light, eating bread and butter and fried fish from the Encircled Sea. Long nights of grief too, mourning those who had fallen in the old war, praying for the ill, and one night—long ago—crying out in pain at the loss of his child, his youngest son, his sweet Mica, who had lived for but a single day.

Jerael's life, his joy, his pain, his love—here in this room, at this table.

And now—the eagles in this room, the enemy who had slain thousands of his men, who had shattered his fleet, shattered his family—here at this table where they had healed.

Prince Seneca sat at the head of the table, and his soldiers stood behind him. The Aelarian boy—only nineteen, same age as Atalia—raised a clay cup and sipped the crimson wine. His face twisted, and he spat.

"Pig piss." Seneca tossed the cup down, shattering it against the floor. The wine spread and ran in the grooves between the mosaic tiles. "I haven't sailed for eighteen days to drink pig piss. Haven't you got any proper wine in this wasteland?"

The prince's soldiers stood stiffly behind him, clutching their spears, faces blank, and not a snicker rose from them. They were tall men, taller than most Zoharites, clean-shaven. Iron strips formed their armor, and their helmets sprouted bristly red crests. At the other side of the chamber, Jerael's own men—guards of the villa—exchanged dark looks. These men wore iron scales, no gold or silver adorned their armor, and beards hid their cheeks. Their hands strayed toward the hilts of their swords, and Jerael could taste the hatred in the air, could smell it, hot and metallic, a cauldron ready to overflow.

"We have Aelarian vintages in our cellar," Jerael said to the prince. "I thought that, when visiting the east, you would care for a new taste. Though if our Zoharite wine offends you, my servants would be glad to offer you a taste of home."

"A new taste?" Seneca smirked and glanced at Ofeer, who sat at the table between her sisters. "I've tasted enough of this land." He waved at a servant. "You, fetch us new wine! Good, strong wine from Aelar, thick and deep red. From the vineyards of Polonia, if you've got it."

The servant, an elder named Eloperetz who had been serving the Selas for decades, bowed his head and spoke in flawless Aelarian. "Yes, dominus. My pleasure." He turned and left the chamber.

For a few moments, with the goats still cooking in the kitchen and the Aelarians not yet drinking, an uncomfortable silence filled the dining room. No, not silence, Jerael decided; they spoke with a hundred subtle sounds. The scale armor of his men-at-arms chinked as they shifted their weight, well balanced on their feet and ready to leap into battle, even here within the home of their master. A soldier herself, Atalia sat at the table, looking far more uncomfortable in her cotton dress than she ever did in armor, her breath hissing as she kept glancing at the breadknife on the tabletop. Ofeer, graceful and quick while Atalia was strong and fast, kept smirking and glancing toward the prince.

I've tasted enough of this land.

The prince's words echoed in Jerael's mind and brought bile to his throat. He did not know if Seneca had touched Ofeer, but the two certainly exchanged enough looks at the table.

Rage simmered inside Jerael, an old fire that crackled with new kindling. Nineteen years ago, with his fleet burning and thousands of his soldiers dead, Jerael had wanted to refuse to surrender, to reject Marcus's terms, to fall back with his wife to Beth Eloh, to fight on.

But he had my sons. Jerael's hands closed into fists under the table. He had Epher and Koren, and he would release them . . . in exchange for a night with my wife.

And now that general was emperor. And now Marcus's son stood here in Jerael's house, a young man with eyes just as cruel, with lips just as sharp, with the same armor, the same blade, the same malice.

Jerael stared across the table at the boy. Prince Seneca Octavius was only a year older than Ofeer. While Ofeer had been born with blood and tears, the child of war, Seneca had been born in splendor, his birth celebrated across the Empire—a child of victory. The prince wore that splendor upon his person. Golden filigree adorned his iron armor, jewels shone on his sword's hilt, and a diamond-studded eagle held his cloak. The boy's face was pale, soft, almost pouty, the hair light brown, the eyes flecked with gold. Jerael struggled to curb the terrible, wonderful fantasy of driving his sword into that face.

Finally it was Atalia who could stand the silence no longer. The young woman leaped to her feet, clutching her butter knife like a sword. Sweat gleamed on her dark skin, and her black, chin-length hair clung to her damp cheeks. Her eyes flashed.

"Why are you here?" Atalia bared her teeth like a rabid dog. "You didn't come to Zohar to hunt goats, drink wine, and stare at my sister's tits. What do you want?"

Jerael cursed and prepared to grab his sword from the wall, expecting bloodshed. But Prince Seneca only stared at Atalia as one would stare at a growling pup. He was no taller than Atalia and doubtfully stronger, and if the two were fighting in an Aelarian arena, Jerael would have put his coin on Atalia without a moment's hesitation. Yet Seneca laughed.

"See how the pomegranate shows its thorns!" he said, looking over his shoulder at his guards.

"Pomegranates have no thorns," Atalia said. "You're thinking of a rose, a dainty flower. I'm no rose, Prince Seneca. Do not let my dress fool you. I'm a desert lioness, defender of my people. You might sit at our table, but you are an invader." She clutched her knife tighter. "State your purpose here, or I'll gut you like a fish."

"Atalia, enough!" Jerael said. He leaned forward, grabbed his daughter's wrist, and tugged the knife free. "Sit down. Prince Seneca is a guest in our home. Have you forgotten Zoharite hospitality?"

Atalia hawked and prepared to spit. At a glare from Jerael, she grumbled, swallowed, and sat down. She clutched the edges of her seat, fuming.

"Better put a muzzle on that one, Sela." Seneca stared at the woman with a mixture of disgust and fascination. "We could use a brute like her in the Aelarian Arena. Ship her overseas, and I'll have her fighting lions and tigers within a month."

Atalia opened her mouth, about to say more, but another glare from Jerael left her simmering in silence. Across the dining room, all were preparing for battle. Epher kept glancing toward the back door; the corridor beyond led to the armory. Even Koren, almost always grinning and laughing, stared around with narrowed eyes, lips a tight line. Maya, the youngest, seemed close to tears, her lips trembling. Only Ofeer was smiling thinly, sitting straight in her chair, chin raised, apparently loving every moment.

This is not the right way to begin negotiations. Jerael had to force himself to remain calm, to hide the turmoil inside him. Perhaps he had been wrong to allow his children here. He had thought them old enough—even Maya, his youngest, was already fifteen, a grown woman by the laws of Zohar—yet now they all seemed too young to him, inexperienced, unable to handle this rising tide.

Yet I wasn't much older than Epher when Aelar first attacked us, Jerael thought, gazing at his firstborn son. He'll have to learn to hold back the eagle that rises. They all will.

Zohar was an ancient kingdom. For three thousand years, the Zoharites had lived between Beth Eloh in the desert and Gefen on the coast. They had survived many wars, had clung to their belief in Eloh, to their tongue, their songs, their ancient glory. Yet now a young empire rose, threatening to swallow the Encircled Sea. Now only Zohar remained free, clinging to the last fragment of the coast.

We took arms once against Aelar, he thought, and we lost so much. We cannot hold back the eagle with blades and arrows, but perhaps we can appease him with wine, with goats to hunt, with tributes of lumers. Perhaps we can be as the reed, bending under the storm, while so many trees around us crack.

"Ah, here comes the wine!" Prince Seneca said. "Bring it here, slave."

White-haired Eloperetz stepped forth, carrying a jug of Aelarian wine. "I am but a humble servant of Sela and God, my prince. There are no more slaves in Zohar."

Seneca snorted. "No slaves? Then who do you feed to the lions?"

"We've not seen a lion in Zohar in years," replied the old man.

"Probably because you have no slaves to feed to them. Now let's taste this wine from home. Pour it here." Seneca held out his cup, then drank. "Ah, now this is proper wine! Good. Earthy. Not the pig piss you Zoharites drink."

Jerael saw Koren smirk, and he glared at his son. All the Sela children knew the truth: they had no Aelarian wine in their cellars, only the same Zoharite vintage.

The hunted goats were served next, prepared by Jerael's cook in Zoharite style. Skewers held chunks of the meat, steaming hot, and the scent of garlic, lemon juice, cumin, and coriander tickled the nostrils. The dripping skewers rested on piles of bulgur mixed with pine nuts, mushrooms, and chickpeas. In silver dishes, Eloperetz served olives dripping with oil, fried eggplants, yogurt garnished with honey, and fig cakes. Fresh flatbreads steamed, topped with olive oil, oregano, and thyme. They all ate. Even Seneca, for all his mockery of the wine, feasted with gusto.

If we cannot hold back the tide, Jerael thought, the Aelarians will consume us all. They will devour all the meat and milk of this land. They will take our women as their slaves. They will live in our homes, and they will ransack our temples, and Zohar will be but an engraving on some triumphal archway in Aelar, celebrating our fall.

Atalia was young and fierce, and she believed that wars were won with blade and arrow. But Jerael was older and perhaps wiser, and he knew that the mouse defeated the eagle not with its claws but by, perhaps, offering a sweeter meal.

"Fine fare." Seneca grabbed another skewer of steaming goat. "Of course, it tastes like sawdust compared to the feasts of Aelar, but a fine offering for barbarians."

Atalia fumed again, hand trembling around her fork.

Jerael only nodded, refusing to show his anger. "We're proud of our hospitality in Zohar. In our nomadic days, three thousand years ago, when we still lived in desert tribes, we Zoharites would proudly open our tents to any wanderers seeking shade, a meal, and water to wash their feet. We've since spread to the coast, but we still remember our desert hospitality."

"Ah, the coast!" said Seneca. "Premium location, a scrap of beach along the Encircled Sea, isn't it? Kingdoms battle. Armies clash. Empires rise. All squabbling to claim as much sand as we can—not the dry sand of the desert but the sand of the coast, as wet and precious as the port between a woman's legs." He laughed at his own joke. "Aelar has grown mighty by claiming most of the coastlands around the Encircled Sea, though there are still some who stand in our path to total dominance."

At that, the prince laughed again, more raucously, as if telling the world's greatest joke rather than uttering a threat.

"The port of Gefen is always open to the ships of Aelar," Jerael said. "We're proud to welcome merchants, explorers, even soldiers of mighty Aelar, and to show them all our hospitality."

"Yes, yes." Seneca sipped his wine. "You've been proud to welcome us since my father burned your fleet. But while every cubit of coast is worth a hoard of gold, there is a greater prize, a treasure the Empire values even more than this port."

Jerael stared at the prince across the tabletop. "Lume."

Seneca slapped the tabletop, rattling the dishes. "Lume! Lume and those who can weave it into luminescence." He huffed. "If you ask me, lumers are as worthless as fishermen's wives who see the future in bones or the augers who study the flight of birds. The magic of women, it is. We men deal with iron, do we not, Jerael?" The prince leaned across the table, eyes strangely lit. "You've thrust your sword into the hearts of Aelarians before, haven't you?"

Yes, I deal in iron, Jerael thought. And do not for an instant imagine that this metal—the metal that raised empires and crushed civilizations—is but a shadow under the light of Luminosity. Only women can become lumers, and they are mightier than the greatest priests or kings in our land.

He looked at his youngest. Maya sat quietly before her plate, eating little. Her mane of black curls framed her face, and her dark eyes met his, staring solemnly. For a long time now, Jerael had known the truth. He had suspected since the child's first year, and that suspicion had only grown. He had seen the light rising from Maya's bedchamber at night, had seen the girl run to the hills to find and heal her wounded animals.

Maya was one of the few, of the handful born in Zohar every year. A girl able to detect lume, to draw the material like bitumen drawn from the earth, to refine it into the glowing luminescence—the stuff of magic.

The girl had begged Jerael to travel to Beth Eloh, to learn Luminosity from the mistresses in the city, and Jerael had always refused. Few lumers were born in Zohar these days; last year Zohar had sent only five to Aelar, falling short of its promised tribute of seven. Should Maya's magic be discovered, she would be slapped in chains, shoved into the bowels of a ship, and sent off to Aelar to heal their wounds, raise their temples, and foresee their future in the light.

Jerael returned his eyes to the Aelarian prince. "We fell short of our tribute last summer, but the lume will continue to flow. Aelar will have its lumers."

Seneca leaned back in his seat, his plate empty. He licked his knife, eyes shrewd. "Yet you, Lord Jerael Sela, do not train lumers. They're trained in Beth Eloh, a city under siege. Your old queen is dead. She was your sister-in-law, wasn't she? And now her sons squabble for power, and Zohar is kingless, torn by civil war. How does Aelar know that more lumers will arrive? Last year we received only five. Perhaps this year, with your civil war, we'll receive none. The lume must flow, Sela. We've allowed Zohar to remain independent, allowed the rats to rule the trash heap, but do not think our mercy eternal."

Jerael bowed his head. "I will set to Beth Eloh at once. I will inform both princes of your concerns. Sooner or later, one of them will win this war, and Zohar will have a king again. And—"

"We will not wait!" Seneca's voice was so loud Maya jumped in her seat. "This rat war has been going on for three years, and still this land remains kingless, lawless, and the lume dries up. No. My father will no longer tolerate this chaos in the desert. Zohar will have a new king." A thin, twitching smile spread across Seneca's face. "And his name will be Jerael Sela."

SENECA

His insides roiled. Cold sweat trickled down his back. He wanted to flee this house, to flee back to his ships, to flee back home to Aelar. He was trapped here—trapped! An eagle in a cage, the lions surrounding him, leaning in, ready to feast. That rabid beast Atalia kept reaching for her knife, and her father—that brute, that untamed ape—looked strong enough to shatter Seneca's armor and every bone within using his bare hands.

Calm yourself! a voice rose inside him. You are a prince of Aelar. Show no fear. Show only dominance, only cruelty, or they will carve you up and serve you on these skewers.

He could not fail here. This was not a drill in the castra of Aelar, fortresses where common soldiers would swing dull blades for a while, then capitulate and let their prince win. No. These eastern barbarians, with their beards and swarthy skin, would not hesitate to rip out his entrails. He mustn't show them an instant of doubt.

This was about more than a port, more even than lume. Seneca knew this. This was a test—a test for him and for Porcia. His sister would be invading from the north, leading fifteen thousand legionaries, heading toward Beth Eloh. If she took that city first, if she secured the lume . . .

Then it will be her ass on Aelar's throne when Father dies, Seneca thought. He balled his hands into fists. He would not let Porcia win.

"A king?" said Jerael Sela, that hairy beast, interrupting Seneca's thoughts. "I'm perhaps wealthy, Prince Seneca, and perhaps lord of a port, but I do not have royal blood."

Seneca forced himself to stare into the barbarian's eyes. He had expected to find a weak, sniveling little toad; certainly the Zoharite slaves in Aelar, captured in the war nineteen years ago, were subservient. Seneca had not expected this. Jerael stood tall and broad, probably twice Seneca's weight, most of that weight in muscle. Perhaps Lord Jerael's hair was graying, his beard all but gone to white, but those arms were still strong. Those eyes, peering from under bushy black eyebrows, were the eyes of a beast, not a man.

He wants to kill me, Seneca thought. He's forcing himself to remain calm, to negotiate. But he wants nothing more than to grab me with those meaty paws, tear through my ribs, and rip out my heart.

Seneca glanced toward Ofeer. The young woman was everything Jerael was not. While Jerael was brutish and burly, Ofeer was slender, graceful. Swarthy too, yes—her skin was light brown, her hair jet black, her eyes mahogany—but a creature of beauty nonetheless.

And I fucked her, Seneca thought, looking back at Jerael. I fucked your daughter in a cave, and I'm going to do it again and again, and you're going to know. And you're going to be helpless to stop it.

But then Seneca remembered. Of course. Ofeer wasn't even Jerael's daughter. She had told him on the hills—her father was a man of Aelar, perhaps a soldier who had invaded this land in the war. That explained her beauty, but it made the victory of claiming her body a hollow one.

Seneca looked back at the brute. "I will make you a king. Your two princes have been battling for too long, rats who squabble while the cheese rots. I've brought three legions from Aelar, armed for war. You command three thousand troops of your own. You will open the gates of your city, and you will let my men through, and then you will accompany us to Beth Eloh. Together—my host and yours—we will take this city. I'll give you the throne of Zohar, Sela, and you will keep the lume flowing."

And the throne of the empire will be mine, Seneca added silently. And my sister will kneel before me.

For a moment, all were silent. The five Sela children glanced at one another. Jerael's wife—that graying crone—gasped and looked at her husband. The Zoharite soldiers at the back of the room narrowed their eyes.

It was Atalia who broke the silence.

She leaped to her feet, knocking back her chair with a clatter. She grabbed one of her guards' swords, drew the blade, and pointed it at Seneca.

"What game are you playing, you son of a seaside whore?" Her eyes blazed, and her lips peeled back in a snarl. "I will skewer you if you're lying."

Fear—cold and unyielding as the ice of northern Gael—flooded Seneca. If Jerael was an animal, his eldest daughter was a demon of the underworld. Sweat dampened her hair, her eyes burned with erupting flames, and her sword was dark iron, aimed at his neck.

Seneca could not even draw his own blade. It was a struggle not to wet himself, let alone take up arms.

His bodyguards, however, had no such problem. They were no simple legionaries but men of the Magisterian Guard, elite warriors tasked with protecting the emperor and his family. They drew their gladius swords at once, pulled Seneca back, and stepped forward to protect their prince. Across the dining room, beneath that damn painting of elephants, Jerael's own guards drew their blades. The other Sela children leaped to their feet too, weaponless but reaching for forks and knives, and it was time for blood.

She's going to kill me, Seneca thought, staring at Atalia with dread from behind his bodyguards. Their eyes met. She's going to carve me open, her or her men, and it's over. Porcia will take Aelar's throne, and I'll be food for the dogs.

"Enough!" Jerael roared. "Men, lower your weapons. Atalia—get out of here! Shiloh—take her away."

Shiloh—his wife, the woman with the graying braid—pulled her daughter back, whispering soothing words. Atalia shouted and swung her sword at Seneca, but with surprising strength, her slender mother managed to pull her out of the dining room. Everyone was shouting.

"Atalia, you lumbering beast!" Ofeer was yelling at the doorway after her sister. "You're lucky the prince didn't carve out your throat!"

"Shut your mouth!" little Maya was shouting at Ofeer, holding a fork like a weapon. "Atalia is ten times the woman you are, you wall-pisser."

The two Sela boys—tall and noble Epher and smirking Koren—were busy shouting at their sisters to be silent. The guards all stood with drawn weapons, confusion replacing the rage on their faces.

"It's all right," Seneca said to his men. He waved down their blades. "The rabid bitch is gone. Sheath your swords."

Slowly the storm eased, and the Magisterian Guard returned to stand by the walls, and the others returned to their seats. With calm restored, Seneca raised his chin and placed his hands beneath the tabletop, hiding their tremble. He stared toward the doorway Atalia had vanished through.

I don't know if your father will accept my offer, Atalia. I don't know if this land will bend the knee or burn. But one thing I know. One day I will kill you, Atalia Sela. I swear this on the gods. I will kill you.

With order restored, Seneca drank from his wine, a gulp too deep for wisdom perhaps, but he needed its strength. Ale for courage, wine for strength, blood for lust, went the old saying. Seneca had seen no ale in this kingdom, but he would have his share of the other two before this campaign was done.

"Yes, a king, Sela," he said, staring at Jerael across the tabletop. "A king who'll bend the knee to Aelar. Your old queen used to bend the knee and suck my father's cock, and he let her keep her throne, let her rule over this band of desert rats. You will do the same, and once the lumers continue arriving, my fleet and I will sail away. Aelar has no wish to embroil its troops here in the backwater of the world."

Jerael stared at him, and for just a moment—a moment that seemed to last a lifetime—there was unadulterated hatred in those dark eyes, hatred hotter and far more dangerous than anything that had burned in Atalia's eyes.

"Often birds will fly through a window in a home," Jerael said, speaking slowly. "They are then loath to leave."

"Aelar is no finch or lark or pipit," said Seneca, "no clumsy bird that would bang against the walls. Aelar is an eagle, and eagles fly high, having little concern for what rats scurry below." He licked his lips. "Unless they're hungry."

And so there it was. The offer was on the table.

If Jerael accepts, and if we take Beth Eloh together, Father will name me his heir, Seneca thought. I will return home a hero, the man who subdued the conflict in Zohar. My sister will return home in shame.

He wondered where Porcia was now. The beast—three years his senior—reminded him a little of Atalia, a wild woman who loved the blade. But while Atalia was mindless and rabid, Porcia was intelligent, deadly, her every move calculating. Was Porcia Octavius already besieging Beth Eloh, having traversed the northern hills?

If she beats me to the rats' temple, I'll be nothing, Seneca thought. A disgrace, the throne forever beyond my reach.

"Well, speak!" he demanded, staring at Jerael. "Do you accept? I offered you a crown! Do you turn me down?"

The patriarch of House Sela would not tear his eyes away. Silence filled the room. Not a piece of armor chinked. The air now seemed more dangerous than when blades had shone.

"And once I'm on the throne of Zohar," Jerael said, still speaking slowly as if considering every word, "what makes you think I will serve as your father's puppet? That is what you seek here. A puppet king for a puppet state."

A grin spread across Seneca's face, a grin so wide it hurt his cheeks, a grin to drown all his fear.

"Last time our nations fought, you whored out your own wife to the legions. You let a man of Aelar fuck her, and then you raised the bastard child instead of drowning her in a bucket. A man who offered his own wife will offer us all the lumers in Zohar."

For the first time, rage showed on Jerael's face. His eyebrows—impossibly thick, impossibly black—pushed down over blazing eyes. His muscles tensed. His fingers twitched as if aching to draw a sword. His face flushed crimson.

I should kill him now, Seneca thought. But I need the old lion. I need his troops. I need his strength working for me.

"Leave this house." Jerael hissed the words through a clenched jaw. "Leave now, Prince Seneca Octavius. Return to your ship. I will consider your offer. I will pray to my god. Tomorrow at dawn, look to the gates of Gefen, and you will find them opened or find them locked and guarded. That will be your answer."

It was the best Seneca could hope for today. He nodded and rose to his feet. He snapped his fingers and walked toward the door, his guards clanking behind him.

As he passed by Ofeer, Seneca leaned down and whispered into her ear, "Remember my words in the cave."

Seneca raised his head, gave Jerael a look and thin smile, and left the house.

VALENTINA

Valentina Octavius, Princess of Aelar, lay on her bed, eyes closed, lips parted, her lumer's kisses flowing across her body like mottles of sunlight on a spring garden.

"Iris," she whispered, over and over, holding her lover. "Gods. Iris!"

The dark-eyed, olive-skinned woman silenced her with a kiss. "Your father will hear us, domina."

"Don't stop." Valentina moaned. "Please."

She buried her milky white hands in her lumer's midnight hair. As their naked bodies moved together, the luminescence flowed across them, tingles of gold, intoxicating, making Valentina cry out louder, so loud that Iris had to place a hand over her mouth. The pleasure was too real, too intense, almost painful, rising so high Valentina could not bear it. Finally she screamed, voice muffled under her lumer's palm, then lay shuddering in the bed.

Iris nestled against her, their bodies slick with sweat, and kissed her ear. "I love waking up like this, domina."

Valentina lay breathing heavily, unable to speak, unable to move, too weak to even curl her fingers. Her heart beat against her ribs like a trapped bird in a cage. She gazed at her ceiling, where pastel murals of lapwings, swans, and herons flew. Finally Valentina rolled over in bed and gazed at her lumer. She stroked Iris's damp hair.

"He'll find out," she whispered. "My father will find out."

Iris shook her head. "Emperor Marcus Octavius is wise and strong, domina, but he knows not what happens in this chamber. Here is our domain."

Valentina looked around her chamber. A princess of Aelar, she lived here in splendor. Giltwood furniture stood on marble floors. Statues of leopards, jackals, and stallions rose between potted plants. Here she had the wealth of an empire: chests of jewels, cabinets of priceless silks and wool, and most precious of all, her own lumer, her sweet Iris.

She kissed Iris's forehead. "I was so scared years ago when they brought you to me." With her white fingers, she held Iris's dark, slender hand. "So sad, motherless and lonely. I cried every day, but you comforted me. You've been my comfort, my light, my love since that day. We are women now, and my father wants me to marry, but I only want to stay here with you. Forever."

Iris nodded. "I cried so much on the ship here, leaving Zohar behind, coming to a new land, to a place called Aelar. But I'm so blessed." She brushed strands of white hair back from Valentina's damp forehead. "Here, with you, I found new light in my life."

With sweetness still tingling through her, Valentina rose from her bed. She approached her tall bronze mirror and gazed at her reflection. She looked like one of the marble statues that rose across the city. Her body, her hair, her eyebrows, her eyelashes—all were purest white. Even her irises lacked pigment. She was an albino, a cursed one. In the dregs of the city, they doomed the colorless to burning in fire, a sacrifice to the gods, then used their ashes in medicine.

But I'm a princess of Aelar, she thought. A trophy to be bartered off to a suitor, to forge alliances, to birth heirs . . . when all I want to do is stay here. With her.

She spun away from the mirror, facing Iris again. The Zoharite woman still lay on the bed, her raven hair pooled around her, the sunlight shining on her copper skin.

"Let us escape," Valentina said. "Let us sail away. Far from this place. Let us travel together to Zohar." She knelt by the bed and held Iris's hands. "You can show me all those places you've told me of—the mountains in the north, the olive groves, the ancient city of Beth Eloh with all its gold and magic." Her eyes dampened. "We can live there together, you and I, free from all this."

Iris blinked. "Domina! You're a princess here, living in wealth. Why should you seek to escape this life, to choose the life of a refugee?"

"A life with you!"

Iris sat up in bed and touched Valentina's cheek. "You have me, my princess. Always. Even should you wed one of your suitors, I will always be your lumer. I will never leave your side." She frowned and cocked her head. "I hear the footsteps of slaves outside. Soon they'll come to change your linens, to dress and serve you, and they gossip more than chickadees chirp. I must leave, domina. But I'll always return to you."

Iris rose quickly, pulled on her tunic, and parted from Valentina with a kiss, leaving her cold, empty, trapped in a gilded cage.

Her slaves entered the chamber next, a pair of Nurians with mahogany skin, braided hair, and liquid brown eyes. They brushed Valentina's milky hair while cooing about its beauty, and they dressed her in a stola of lavender linen. Other slaves brought a basket of freshly baked breads, hot butter, fried fish, apples and grapes, and sweet tea with honey. Yet Valentina found no appetite, and just the sight of the food twisted her belly.

"Take the food back to the kitchens," she said. "Or eat it yourselves. I'll spend my morning in the garden."

"But my princess!" said one of the slaves. "Your father, the glorious Emperor Marcus, may the gods forever praise his name, has arranged an appointment for you. General Cyprian has returned from the Gaelian campaign, and he seeks to court you. A deer hunt has been arranged in the northern hills, and he requests your company while—"

"General Cyprian is twice my age and twice divorced," Valentina said. "He can go hunt deer if he likes, but he will not hunt me."

With that, Valentina left her chamber and her slaves. She walked through the palace. Marble columns rose at her sides, their gilded capitals shaped as eagles. Statues of the gods stood between them. Aelia, goddess of music and namesake of the Empire, stood holding a silent lyre. Vin, god of wine, cavorted naked on goat legs, holding a jug of wine. Valentina's favorite was Junia, goddess of wisdom, always depicted holding a scroll; it was the goddess Valentina prayed to most. As a child, Valentina had thought that she herself was a goddess, for she looked like a marble statue, her skin and hair just as pale.

She stepped under an archway into the gardens, perhaps her favorite place in Aelar. The gardens had always been a sanctuary to Valentina, a place to escape the bustle of court, the noise and crowds of the city, and the madness she recognized in her older sister. Yet today even this haven made her shiver. Porticos of marble columns surrounded the gardens, topped with gilded cupids, arrows ready to pierce the breasts of lovers. While she had once thought them silly, today these cupids frightened Valentina. They seemed to demand that she accept a suitor, love a man. She trembled at the thought. A suitor's hands upon her seemed worse than lions devouring prey, and again Valentina wished she could sail away with Iris, travel to the mystical, eastern land of Zohar, to live in the desert far from any statue or suitor.

She looked away from the cupids, shoving the thought of them aside. She wouldn't let them ruin her safe place. Many flowers grew from clay urns around the columns, and a small waterfall cascaded from an aqueduct into a pool. Finches splashed in a stone bath while hummingbirds fed from sage blossoms. Valentina could barely see the palace from here, barely see any buildings, only the top tier of the Amphitheatrum between the cypresses. The entire Aelarian Acropolis had become a place of fear to her. Only here, with birds and flowers, could Valentina Octavius, youngest child of Emperor Marcus, seek some peace.

At least until the half-naked slave crept into the gardens.

He frightened her. He frightened her more than the cupids' arrows, more than the court, almost as much as the screams that sometimes rose from the amphitheater. Valentina had never seen a man so thin. He wore only a loincloth, and his ribs poked at his skin. His toenails were long and yellow, and a scraggly beard hung down to his navel, almost as long as his hair. When he smiled at her, he revealed several missing teeth.

Valentina knew him. She had seen him countless times, skulking in the palace, following her father around, even riding with Marcus in his golden chariot. Always there, always a shadow, always a stench even in gardens of spring flowers.

"What do you want?" Valentina tried to sound stern like her sister Porcia, but her voice was barely a whisper; she doubted the man could even hear her. "You're not allowed in the gardens. Go away."

She looked around her, hoping to find men of the Magisterian Guard, but she was alone here with the old slave. She knew why Father kept this creature here. Mingo was no ordinary slave. He was a memento mori, a reminder of mortality, chosen years ago due to his features resembling the emperor's. Over the years, while Marcus Octavius remained in health, Mingo—fed scraps, living in the kennels—had withered.

Why do you keep him here? Valentina had asked her father many times. He frightens me.

He frightens me too, the emperor had confessed. And that is why I keep him near. He's a reminder that we, the rulers of Aelar, are but mortals too, that we age, fade away, sweat and stink. Just living beings.

Yet Valentina needed no such reminder; she had become aware of her mortality years ago, when one of the kennel hounds had sneaked into the palace and devoured her kittens. This slave too seemed like a ravenous dog to her, likely to bite.

"Not allowed in the gardens?" Despite her warning, Mingo hobbled toward her, chains jangling between his ankles. "I'm like a shadow, child, allowed everywhere the sun shines."

His voice was soft. She had expected his usual cackle, which he often used in court—a jarring sound that would echo between the walls. But he seemed different today, his eyes—normally mocking—now sad.

"Stand back!" Valentina had never liked blades—they frightened her, even from a distance—but now she wished she were brave like Porcia and Seneca, armed with a sword. "Father will hear of this."

"Father?" Mingo raised his eyebrows. "You mean Emperor Marcus Octavius?"

"Of course I do."

Valentina took a step away, her stola rustling. She wanted to flee these gardens, to race back to her chamber in the palace, to seek instead solace in her scrolls. But something in Mingo's eyes shackled her here, connecting her to him as surely as chains connected his ankles.

Mingo stood on the grass and admired the trees. "Ah, the first robins of spring! And is that a hoopoe I hear? The little eggs are hatching, and new song fills the air. And—oh! Look at that branch, there in the pine. A cuckoo."

Valentina stared at the nest he pointed to. "That's a robin's nest."

"But not a robin within it. Look closer."

She stepped closer and squinted. It was hard to see from down here. Holding her stola around her legs, she stepped onto the stone bench and peered at the nest. She could just make out a bird inside, brown and white, too large for the nest, barely fitting. A smaller robin stood on a nearby twig, feeding the much larger bird in the nest, as if it were her hatchling.

"A large bird has invaded the nest," Valentina said. "The mother robin is feeding it. What happened to the robin eggs?"

"Look below," said Mingo.

She looked down at the grass and gasped. Robin's eggs. Smashed. The baby robins had died, all but one. It squirmed, struggling to emerge from the shell, featherless and pink. Valentina gasped and tears sprang into her eyes. She ran, lifted the baby bird, and helped peel off the last scraps of shell. It lay in her hands, dying. She felt at once affinity for it, a creature without feathers in the hand of a woman without color. Valentina had never known her mother; the woman had died in childbirth. Valentina herself had always felt like a motherless bird, lost and cold.

"Did you do this?" Valentina said, voice stern, raising her eyes to glare at Mingo.

"It is the way of the cuckoo." Mingo gazed at the robin hatchling in her hand, and his eyes softened. "The mother cuckoo builds no nest of her own. She lays her eggs in robins' nests. When the cuckoo offspring emerges, the mother robin will tend to it lovingly, as if it were her own. The robin hatchlings do not survive. The cuckoos cast them out into the harsh world."

"This one will survive," Valentina vowed, holding the bird close to her breast.

"Perhaps," said Mingo. "Though it will never know its true parents, nor will the cuckoo hatchling who sits in the nest, gorging itself."

"Is that why you've come here? To tell me stories of cuckoos and robins?"

Mingo smiled thinly. "I tell many tales, my child. Tales of cuckoos and robins. Tales of eagles and snakes. Tales of time that passes, of one father in gold, one who withers away. Perhaps we're not so different from the animals." He bowed his head to her. "Keep seeking cuckoos, child. Perhaps you'll find more birds to save."

With that, the frail old man turned and hobbled away, leaving the gardens.

Valentina left the gardens too. She walked down the cobbled road in the heart of the Acropolis. Around her rose the great monuments of the Aelarian Empire: temples capped with gold, the domed Senate, the Amphitheatrum, and the palace that was her home. On a hill ahead rose three statues, tall as towers, coated with gold: a statue of her father and older siblings. Emperor Marcus Octavius, Princess Porcia, and Prince Seneca all loomed over the city, clad in armor, blades raised.

Valentina had once asked Father why he hadn't commissioned a statue of her. He had replied that she was too young, too inexperienced in governing. Yet now, staring at the statues, Valentina wondered if she'd ever fit in among them. She was only a fragile thing, a wispy albino, frightened of knives. She had never even donned armor.

"Perhaps I'm like a cuckoo bird," she whispered, "and I don't fit in my nest."

She looked at the robin hatchling which still lay in her palm, twitching. Valentina tried to imagine that she had different parents, somewhere far away, and that somewhere Emperor Marcus had a different child, a daughter lost and afraid, far from her nest, like the robin in Valentina's hand.

OFEER

She moved through her bedchamber, tears on her cheeks, stuffing her belongings into a leather pack.

"I'm leaving this damn place." Ofeer could taste her salty tears. "I hate this house. I hate this family. I hate this goddamn kingdom, and I'm leaving. With him." She could barely see through her tears. "With my prince."

Her fingers trembled and her breath shook. She forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. She shoved another tunic into her pack, then considered packing her old doll as well, a ragged rabbit of wool. She decided against it. That was a toy of her miserable childhood, a time that was ending.

Finally the day had come. The day she left. Ofeer had never belonged here in Zohar. In her veins flowed the blood of Aelar, of civilization. Of men like Seneca—who shaved their beards, who wore fineries, who spoke with eloquence. Men from a land of great temples, sprawling gardens, and cities of wonder, not seaside trash heaps in the forgotten outposts of the world.

The door to her chamber opened, and Ofeer spun around to see Shiloh in the doorway.

"What do you want, Mother?" Ofeer spat out.

She hated that she looked like Shiloh. Hated it! Her mother too was dark, slender, graceful, shared the same delicate features, though while Ofeer's hair was long and black and cascaded down her back, Shiloh's hair was graying and braided.

"Where are you going?" Shiloh's voice was soft, sad yet simmering with anger.

"Away from this place." Ofeer shoved her favorite lantern into her pack, the clay shaped like a dove. "I'm going with them. To Aelar."

Shiloh stepped forward and made to grab Ofeer's pack. "You are not. What nonsense has gotten into you?"

"Nonsense?" Ofeer tugged the pack back, spilling its contents. She barked a laugh. "You call the greatest empire in the world nonsense? Aelar is a land of palaces, not crude clay huts on a hill. Aelar is a land of temples that worship real gods, gods sculpted of marble and coated with jewels, not some invisible spirit. Aelar is a land of great cities, of towering mountains larger than these hills, of great amphitheaters that seat a hundred thousand souls and—"

"Amphitheaters where they feed slaves to lions," Shiloh said.

"Good!" Ofeer rubbed tears off her cheeks. "Here I live like a slave, languishing away. I'd rather a lion ate me. I'd rather fight for my life than rot here in this house. He's going to show me all those places. Prince Seneca is educated and civilized and handsome, and he's going to take me there, Mother, and show me wonders. He's not some unwashed brute like that man you married—"

Shiloh slapped her. Hard. A blow that knocked Ofeer's head to the side and shot white light across her eyes.

"You're a fool," Shiloh hissed. "You will not speak of your father that way. You—"

"Jerael is not my father!" Ofeer's tears would not stop flowing. "He's father to the true Sela children. To Epher and Koren and Atalia and Maya and Mica. Not to me. And he never let me forget that. I see how he loves the others more than me. But I don't care. I never cared! My father is a noble Aelarian, and I'm going to find him, and I'm going to live in a proper palace."

Shiloh stared at her, very still, very silent, her eyes red. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, barely more than a whisper, steady yet dripping pain.

"Ofeer, your father is Marcus Octavius, Emperor of Aelar."

Ofeer stared at her mother, for a moment speechless.

She began to tremble.

Her breath came in short, shaky spurts.

"You lie," Ofeer finally whispered. "You pathetic, manipulative liar." Her voice rose to a shout, and she grabbed and shook her mother. "Do you think your cruel joke will keep me here?"

"I speak truth," Shiloh whispered, her eyes damp. "Marcus Octavius, then a general in the legions, sank our fleet and invaded our island of Cadom. He took your brothers captive, Ofeer. He would have killed them, had I not let him into my bed, and—"

"You're a liar!" Ofeer screamed. She snorted out something halfway between sob and laugh. "You expect me to believe that? That for all these years, you lied to me, led me to believe my father was a traveling merchant or legionary—and now tell me that I'm the daughter of an emperor? That I'm Seneca's sister? No, Mother, that can't be true. Do you want to know why? Because I fucked him." She laughed hysterically, her hair damp, sticking to her face. "I fucked Seneca, just like you fucked a merchant long ago, and I loved it, Mother. I loved it, and I'm sailing away with him, and you can't stop me."

Shiloh stared in horror, weeping, and Ofeer shoved her aside and stormed out of her bedchamber. She realized an instant too late that she had left her pack behind. So be it. Ofeer did not need her old, ragged clothes. Seneca would buy her new clothes, fine linen stolas in the style of Aelarian noblewomen, and many jewels. He wasn't her brother at all. Mother was just a miserable liar. He was her beautiful prince, and he loved her, and Ofeer would live with him in a palace, far away from this wretched place.

She ran down the hallway, shoving past her siblings. Her sandals clanked across the mosaic of birds and gazelles that spread across the foyer's floor. She pushed open the sandalwood doors and ran out into the garden. Finches fled from the pomegranate trees, and Ofeer ran onward, hair streaming and tears drying in the wind.

"Daughter!" Shiloh cried from the doorway. "Daughter, come back to me!"

But Ofeer only laughed. She ran onward, moving down the pebbly path and into the vineyard her mother had made her tend. She spread out her arms, tossed back her head, and kept running, the sunlight on her face. All her pain, her fear, her shame at being a bastard, her loneliness in the cage—all seemed to fade, to melt under the sunlight. Ignoring her mother's cries, Ofeer of Aelar ran downhill and between the pines, heading toward the sea which had always called her home.

JERAEL

Here on Pine Hill, in his home, the world shattered.

He stood on the patio by the gardens. A fig tree and pomegranate tree rustled. Several of their leaves floated on the pond and lay on the wooden table and chairs that stood between the cyclamens and jasmines. His children used to splash in that pond. His family had spent many spring days eating here, outside, at this wooden table. Every stone, every tree, every chamber, every corner of this villa on the hill—a memory. A precious prize he might never see again.

The sun began to set. Would it rise on a world of peace or a world aflame?

"Ofeer's gone." Shiloh ran up to him, eyes wide and damp. "I tried to stop her, but she runs so fast. She ran off to find the Aelarians, talking about how she wants to sail back to Aelar with them."

Jerael looked at his wife, the woman he loved more than any in this world. At forty years of age, Shiloh's braid had begun to gray, and crows' feet tugged at her eyes. But she was still beautiful, more than ever, her features delicate, her skin soft, her body slender under her cotton dress.

She bore me six children, Jerael thought. One who died the day he was born. One who was quickened by another man—a man who now sends forth his son with an army, who wants to put me on the throne of Zohar.

"This fleet will not be returning to Aelar," Jerael said softly. "Not for many days. Ofeer has run away several times before, threatening to catch a ship to Aelar. We've always found her wandering the beach or hiding in a portside tavern. The girl is confused. I would be too in her place. We'll bring her back, Shiloh, I promise you." He turned toward the two guards who stood with him in the garden, tall men in scale armor, faces stern. "Yoram. Joren. Search the beach and the port for Ofeer. But do not approach the forces of Aelar. When you find Ofeer, take her to my city home, and guard her until I arrive."

The men nodded. No sooner had they left the garden than Jerael's children emerged from the house. They gathered around him under the trees. The sun was setting, soon sinking between the branches of the pomegranate tree, casting dapples of light. Atalia had donned her iron scales and helmet, and her sword and sling hung from her hips. The boys too had grabbed their swords; the blades were curved, forged of dark iron. Little Maya, only fifteen years old, had strapped a belt around her waist, and a kitchen knife hung from it.

Jerael looked at them, and his eyes dampened.

My children—ready to fight for their home.

Even Epher, twenty-three and as tall as his father, and Atalia, a fierce warrior who commanded men in the hosts, still seemed so young to him.

"What do we do, Father?" Maya whispered. "Are you . . . are you going to do it? Help Seneca march to Beth Eloh, and . . .?"

"No." Jerael shook his head. "I will not."

Koren stepped forward, eyes widening. The young man rarely lost his smile, but now shock suffused his face. "Father! Why? We could end this civil war. You could be king! Which would make me a prince, and princedom quite becomes me. I'm already as handsome as one, so why not make it official? And besides . . ." He nervously coiled his fingers around the hilt of his sword. "If you refuse, it would be war. Not even a nice, tidy little civil war like the ones our cousins are fighting in Beth Eloh. It would be war against Aelar." Koren gulped. "I think fighting a massive empire that rules most of the known world becomes me a bit less than princedom."

Atalia snorted, blowing back a strand of hair, and hefted her blade. "I'm not scared of war. I'm going to slay them all, one by one, with my arrows and my sling stones, and if any of those Aelarian bastards manage to scale the walls, my sword will stick 'em right where they like being buggered."

"Language!" Maya said, glaring at her older sister.

"Enough!" Jerael said. "All of you. Be silent and listen. A storm has risen, and we'll only withstand it united."

"Tell that to Ofeer," Atalia muttered, ignoring a stern look from her mother. "I heard she ran off to join the Empire. Let 'em have her, I say."

"Atalia, I said silence!" Jerael said, letting anger invade his voice, then exhaled slowly. His voice softened. "No, I won't accept the Empire's offer. I knew this as soon as Seneca uttered his proposal. I told the boy that I needed a night of prayer. But what I truly needed was time to talk to you. To my family."

They all stared at him, and their eyes softened.

"Why?" Koren whispered.

"We cannot allow a host of Aelarians into our kingdom," Jerael said. "Not even to end a civil war. Not even if the Prince of Aelar offers me Zohar's throne. I would be a puppet to them, the emperor forever pulling my strings, his troops forever patrolling the streets of Beth Eloh and Gefen and the rest of our land. I would sit on a throne, yes, but only as a servant of Marcus Octavius, not a free king. And so here, on the coast, we will make a stand. We will hold back the enemy. We will fight."

"Yes!" Atalia drew her sword and pointed the blade skyward. "For Zohar! For blood and glory!"

Jerael shook his head. "Not for blood, not for glory, only for freedom. I will raise the garrison in Gefen, and I will man the walls with them, and we will hold back the tide from the sea."

Shiloh stepped closer to him, concern in her eyes. Jerael saw the memories in those dark eyes—the war nineteen years ago, the ships of Zohar sinking, the island villages burning, the thousands dying.

"We have three thousand soldiers along the coast," Shiloh said. "It's a mighty army, but the Empire is mightier. We cannot defeat Aelar with only three thousand soldiers, brave as they are."

"No, we cannot," Jerael said. "But three thousand can hold them back until aid arrives. You'll go fetch us this aid, Shiloh. You and Maya both." He held his wife with one arm, and with the other, he pulled his youngest child close. "Shiloh. Maya. I ask you to travel to Beth Eloh. Take the horses, and you'll be there in three days, two if you travel swiftly enough. Speak to the dueling princes who fight there. You must convince them to set aside their war, to march here, to stop Aelar before they overwhelm our walls."

"I won't leave you!" said Shiloh.

"Nor will I!" Maya grabbed her knife. "I can fight."

Jerael held his youngest daughter close and kissed her head of curly hair. "The bravest fighter in Zohar. But now I need you to take a different road." He turned toward his wife. "Shiloh, the princes have been fighting a brutal war for three years now. If they will listen to anyone, it will be to Shiloh Sela, their beloved aunt. Travel east with Maya. Bring back your nephews and their hosts, a great army all in iron."

The true reason for sending them east Jerael kept to himself. That reason was in the memories that still filled his wife's eyes. Memories of Marcus Octavius kidnapping their sons, swapping their lives for a night with Shiloh. Those nightmares still kept Jerael awake at night, and he could not bear to fight here in Gefen with his wife and daughter near the troops of the enemy. Atalia was armed for war, and he would never ask her to abandon the soldiers she led. But Shiloh was too haunted, Maya too young.

So let us, the warriors, guard the wall. Let my wife and youngest travel away from here . . . and return with myriads of soldiers protecting them.

Shiloh and Maya looked at him, and perhaps they saw that true reason in his eyes. They both nodded.

"We'll leave before dawn," Shiloh said, then tears filled her eyes, and she pulled Jerael into her embrace. "Find Ofeer. Find her and keep her safe. Keep them all safe. I love you, my husband, my Jerael. I love you more than the stars love the night, than the sea loves the shore. Farewell, Guardian of Zohar, my beloved."

He held her for a long time, the woman he loved.

"Do you remember how we met?" he asked her.

She nodded, still holding him. "On the beach."

"I was a young man." Jerael could see it before him again. "Just a young, foolish man born into wealth."

Shiloh smiled through her tears. "And I was a young, foolish woman, a princess who roamed the beach barefoot, delighting in the simple pleasures of commoners. I was looking for shells to weave into necklaces—I who could buy a hundred necklaces of gold and gemstones." She laughed softly. "Only a fool would collect seashells when she could buy rubies and sapphires."

"You were wise," he said, "and knew all the names of the shells, and the rocks, and the birds above, and the flowers that grew across this land that we love. And you've grown even wiser, even more beautiful. We'll walk along that beach again, Shiloh, I swear this to you. We'll walk there and collect shells in times of peace, barefoot in the sand."

Shiloh and Maya then stepped into the house to gather supplies. Meanwhile, old Eloperetz walked toward the stables to prepare the horses for the journey. Night had fallen, and the stars shone above. The moon glowed. Jerael remained in the gardens with his three eldest: Epher, tall and somber; Koren, quick and clever; and Atalia, the warrior among them, she who had always been one of the boys.

"While Mother and Maya ride out," Epher said, "we prepare for war."

Koren sighed. "A bloody prince, I could have been. I tell you, a bloody prince!" He patted his sword. "Ah well, I suppose it's time to get this blade wet. The blood of Aelar is like wine to it."

Jerael looked at his boys, and a deep coldness filled him. He spoke so softly he could barely hear his own voice.

"No, boys. You two will also ride out tonight."

Their eyes widened, and they began to object at once.

"What? Father, no!" Epher said. "I'm heir to House Sela. Gefen is my home. I won't flee from battle."

"Nor will I," said Koren. "Atalia here needs somebody to save her life." He yelped as his sister punched him.

Jerael smiled thinly. "I do not ask you to abandon Gefen, nor to flee from battle. I ask you to bring aid as well, but not from Beth Eloh. You must take the two remaining horses, and you must travel north as fast as you can. Travel to the mountains of Erez. Raise the wild tribes that dwell there. Bring their forces here to the port."

Their eyes widened even further.

"Father!" Epher said. "The tribesmen are wild and uncivilized."

"That's what the Aelarians say of us," Jerael countered. "Of all of us. The hillsfolk of the north are Zoharites, just like us. They speak our language. They worship Eloh. They sing our songs, and they celebrate our holy days. And they will fight for us, brave and strong. It's two days north to the mountains, maybe three. You must travel swiftly. The walls of Gefen are built for a long siege. We will hold those walls until you return."

The boys looked at each other. Jerael knew they did not like this idea.

Nor would I at their age, he thought. I would have wanted to stay here, to fight at my home.

Epher turned back toward him. "The people of Gefen need to see me here, fighting with them."

"The people of the hills need to see you," Jerael said. "Go to Uncle Benshalom. He'll heed your counsel. He'll follow you here to war."

Will my brother truly listen? Jerael wondered. Benshalom was two years younger than him, a wild flame of a man. In their youth here in Gefen, Benshalom had felt like a trapped animal within the walls of the city, even within the walls of the villa on Pine Hill. The boy would race into the wilderness, hunt with spears, live fierce among the trees, often not returning for days. The child of nobility, Benshalom preferred to live as a hunter, a man of the wild.

Then one day, after Eriel died, you left for good, Jerael remembered.

Eriel, their younger brother, had been only twenty when he died at Cadom—a handsome, smiling young man, forever young in their memories. After his fall, Benshalom had finally left this villa, had traveled north, had united the wild men who lived in the rocky hills of northern Zohar. Across the kingdom, they now spoke of him—the fierce warrior, an untamed man who held no loyalty to queen nor king, who saw the northern hills as free lands that owed no fealty to Beth Eloh. Benshalom had returned to Gefen only once—a visit for only a few days, one that had filled the villa with tension, that had left Benshalom feeling trapped again. He had not returned since.

Will my brother listen to my sons? Jerael thought. Will Benshalom hear reason, bring his men to fight for a kingdom he barely feels he belongs to?

"Let Epher go, but let me stay," Koren said, interrupting Jerael's thoughts. "Uncle Ben probably barely remembers me."

Jerael sighed. "If I recall correctly, the one time Benshalom visited our villa, you placed a frog on his plate and a serpent beneath his blanket. His howl woke half the city. I doubt he forgot your face, Koren."

"The serpent wasn't venomous!" Koren said. "He's my beloved pet. Or was until Uncle Ben tossed him into the forest. I still say old Benshalom frightened my snake far more than the other way around." He sighed. "But very well, I'll go north with Epher. Maybe I'll find another snake on the way."

More hugs were exchanged, these ones stiff and struggling to cling to manliness, as the stars shone above and the crickets chirped.

"Don't you get lost on the way." Atalia punched Epher's chest—hard enough to knock the young man back a step. "And you, Koren." She punched him too, a blow to the gut that knocked the wind out of him. "Don't walk into any trees while ogling the northern girls."

"That only happened to me once!" Koren bristled. "Well, once and a half. And they were very little trees. Shrubs, really."

The boys too entered the house to pack supplies for the journey. For a moment, Jerael remained alone on Pine Hill with Atalia. He felt empty. He felt scared.

Thousands screaming, hands reaching out from the water.

Ships burning.

Marcus holding a dagger to his boys' throats.

His wife walking toward him, face blank, the wind blowing her black hair.

Atalia touched his arm, bringing him back to the present. "We will win, Father. You and I, on the walls of Gefen. We will hold them back."

Am I making a mistake? Jerael thought. Should we allow the Aelarians in, let them crush the hosts of the two princes, let them place me as their puppet on the throne? If my family dies in this war, because of me . . .

He tightened his lip. But no. He had made his decision. Zohar had shone for three thousand years in this land. He would not allow Aelar to claim it. Not without a fight from him, guardian of the coast. He would be remembered as one who defied the enemy, not served them.

He nodded. "You and I, Atalia. Against the wrath of an empire."

MAYA

How did one say goodbye? How did one leave a home, not knowing if that home would exist at the end of the journey? As Maya moved through her bedchamber, stuffing her belongings into her pack, she wanted to believe she would be back here in a few days, that the eagles would fly away, that soon all this terror would end.

But Maya could not believe that. She wasn't a little girl anymore. She was fifteen and knew that the world was cruel, that war was here.

Her eyes stung and her fingers trembled. She lifted her old doll from her bed, a raggedy rabbit made of felt, then put it back down. No. She would have to say goodbye to her childhood as well as her home. She took a few scrolls from her shelf, her favorite ones, the ones with poetry about lovers and animals. These she packed, for on a road of darkness she would need a reminder of beauty and light. Her spare simlah dress went into her pack too, and the little wooden camel Koren had carved for her, and the geode she had once found near the beach. She would want to keep these mementos.

As she packed her clay lantern, the one shaped like a dove, Maya realized that she wasn't packing for a weeklong journey to Beth Eloh and back. Not anymore. She was packing knowing she would never see this house again.

She had to leave this room. She could not pack everything, but everything in her chamber—the seashells on the shelf, the scrolls of prayer, the little model ship, her olivewood box of spices, the mancala board with snail shells for pieces—it was all too sweet, too painful, redolent with too many memories.

Tears in her eyes, Maya turned and left her room, carrying a lantern. She moved through the house, this large villa, almost a palace to her. She let her bare feet walk across the mosaic in the courtyard, the tiny stones forming the shapes of falcons, sparrows, wolves, hinds, turtles, and many other animals of Zohar. She stood on the mezzanine over the dining room, and she looked at the great painting—it was wider than she was tall—of the elephants. She walked into the kitchen and the pantry behind it, smelling the dates, oats, figs, dries apricots, the smells of home.

"Please, God," she whispered, standing in the pantry. "Please don't let the eagles destroy this place. Please don't let them kill my family like Seneca killed the dog."

A voice spoke behind her. "They won't kill anyone. Not so long as I defend our home."

Maya turned. In the lamplight, she saw Atalia.

Her sister was nineteen, third born to Lord Jerael Sela and Shiloh. Growing up, Maya had always thought Atalia so old, so tall, so powerful, far closer to her parents in importance and age than to herself. Even now, fifteen and a woman herself, Maya thought her sister a true heroine. Atalia stood much taller than her, almost as tall as the boys. Her black hair was smooth, like Ofeer's, but cut to the length of her chin. And while Ofeer was slender and willowy, Atalia was powerful, graceful, built for war, less like a beautiful bird and more like a lioness, deadly and hungry. Even here, in their home, Atalia wore her full coat of scales, and her curved sword hung at her side. The woman led an entire phalanx in the army—a full hundred warriors—and she was the bravest, strongest person Maya knew. If anyone could hold back the eagles, it was her.

"You have to kill Seneca," Maya suddenly blurted out. "You have to. He's . . . he's a monster."

Atalia stepped closer and placed her hands on Maya's shoulders. "I promise you, little sister. If that pup Seneca dares growl at me again, I will shove my sword so far up his ass, I'll clean his teeth with it."

Maya wrinkled her nose, but she couldn't help but laugh. "You're horrible, Atalia."

Her older sister smiled, then embraced her. "Stay safe, Maya. Stay near Mother. Bring us back a whole bunch of warriors from Beth Eloh. Not that I need them! But they deserve some fun too."

Maya laid her cheek against Atalia's armored chest. "I'm going to miss you, big sister. I'm going to miss this house. I'm going to miss you all."

"Maya!" Atalia held her at arm's length and laughed. "You sound like you're saying goodbye forever. A week or two from now, we'll all be back in the dining room, having a good meal—one without sniveling Aelarians in the room—and laugh about all this."

Maya wished she could believe those words. Yet she wasn't a soldier like Atalia or Epher or father. She was a daughter of lume, ever able to sense the movements of the waves and sky, the breathing of the world, the passage of time. She had reached a great shift in her life, in the life of her family, her city, her kingdom. Something was ripping apart. Something was tearing through the fabric of lume that wove around Zohar. Her life, her family, the entire Encircled Sea would never be the same. Maya knew this in her bones, as surely as she had ever known anything, yet could only nod. How could she explain her fear to her sister?

Atalia's eyes softened. She reached to her belt and unstrapped her dagger. She handed it to Maya. "I want you to have this. Bit sharper than that butter knife you've been wielding."

Maya took the sheathed weapon. The hilt was carved of olivewood, wrapped in leather, and the pommel was forged of iron, shaped as a pomegranate with three spikes. Hesitantly, she drew the blade. It gleamed.

Maya looked back up at her sister. "It's your favorite dagger."

"I still have many blades. I want you to have this one. It'll keep you safe on the road to Beth Eloh. But bring it back to me! I expect to have this dagger with me again in a week."

Maya nodded and attached the dagger to her belt, then hugged her sister again, a crushing embrace, and her tears flowed between the iron scales.

When Maya stepped back out into the gardens, the boys were already saddling their horses. Epher, the oldest of the children, was preparing Moosh, a chestnut gelding, a tall and noble animal. Epher worked in silence, buckling the saddle, eyes dark. The heir of Gefen, Epheriah Sela had always carried a burden on his shoulders, one his younger siblings could not understand. Someday, many years from now, Epher would rule this house on Pine Hill, the city by the sea, and all the farms and vineyards and countryside around them, and he would be tasked with protecting this precious scrap of coast, the last port the Aelarians had not yet claimed.

By him stood Koren, his younger brother. Koren was twenty-one years old, a grown man, yet to Maya he always seemed about the same age as her. Even now Koren grinned as he saddled his horse, and he sang a lively tune. He stood almost as tall as his brother but was thinner, quicker, and while Epher's beard was already thick, Koren sported only stubble, and his hair dangled in a messy mop. When he saw Maya, Koren's grin widened, and he walked toward her.

"Hullo, little lumer," he said. Mother hated when he called her that, but Mother was by the vineyard now, talking to Father in the darkness.

Maya couldn't help but smile. "I'm not a real lumer. Mother won't let me find a teacher. Maybe in Beth Eloh I can find one."

He mussed her hair. Maya had often wished she had hair like her sisters, smooth and easy to manage. Hers was a wild mane of endless curls, and whenever Koren messed them up, they became even wilder.

"If you do, can you learn how to make people grow pigs' tails?" Koren said. "Ofeer would look lovely with one."

Maya laughed and hugged her brother. "I'll see you soon, Koren," she whispered, hating that she felt like she was lying.

Epher approached her next. Throughout her life, Maya had often thought of Epher as a second father more than a brother. He was eight years older than her; he had always seemed like an adult. The tall, somber man stared into her eyes.

"Be brave, Maya," he told her. "Stay close to Mother."

She nodded. "I will."

Epher held out an olivewood box. "Take this with you. For good luck."

She took the box and opened it. Inside, wrapped in silk, was a polished ram's horn, curved and mottled with black and brown. Many in Zohar blew rams' horns on holy days; they were symbols of purity and good fortune. In the old stories, the legendary King Elshalom had sounded the horn to summon armies to his call.

"Thank you," Maya whispered.

"Sound the horn in Beth Eloh," Epher said. "Maybe it'll bring us good fortune."

"I will," she promised, placing the horn back into the box, then placing the box into her pack.

Finally her father approached her. Jerael stood even taller than his sons and wider, built of muscles over big bones, his arms so strong Maya thought he could smash the Aelarian fleet with only his fists. He had put on his armor, and his eyes stared from under his massive black eyebrows. His beard was mostly white now, closely cropped against his copper skin, as were his temples, but those eyebrows remained dark as night.

Maya leaped toward him and embraced him, her cheek against his wide chest.

"I'll see you again soon, sweet Maya," her father said. "In only a few days. I promise you."

His words were strong, confident, not a single crack or stutter to them. Yet Maya was a daughter of Luminosity, and she sensed the storm inside him, the fear within his armor.

"I too have a gift for you," said Jerael. "To keep you safe on the road."

He handed her an embroidered velvet purse. When she opened it, Maya found a tasseled scarf of blue and gold, a holy artifact. Maya gasped. In Zohar, women were equal to men, and in some ways superior; they could join the army and fight alongside their brothers, they could ascend to the throne, and unlike the men, they could become lumers and weave the light of Eloh. A prayer scarf, however, belonged to men alone. Every boy of Zohar, at age thirteen, spent a week meditating in the wilderness, hunting for his food, praying to his god. When he returned, his parents wove him a tasseled scarf of blue and gold, a symbol of his purity, of his coming of age.

"But . . . Father!" She looked up at him. "I can't take this. I'm a girl."

And now his voice did betray his emotions. His eyes dampened. "I wove this scarf for Mica, many years ago. He never grew to wear it. I want you to have it."

Maya's tears stung her eyes. Her sweet brother had lived for only a day, and now he rested in the garden beneath the pomegranate tree. She nodded, took the scarf, and wrapped it around her neck. "I'll wear it on the journey." She hugged her father again.

As the boys mounted their horses, and as Mother emerged from the stables with two more horses, Maya wished Ofeer were here. As much as she clashed with her sister, Maya deeply wanted to hug her too, to say goodbye. Ofeer was closest to her in age, only three years older; they had always been the two youngsters, the silly little girls of the family. But Ofeer had changed, had become something dark, hurt, angry.

Where are you, Ofeer? Come back to this home. Come back to your family. I'll miss you too.

The boys rode out then, after many hugs and prayers and tears, heading north toward the hills. Maya rode with her mother, heading eastward along a dirt path, the moon shining overhead. The wind ruffled her curls and tasseled scarf, and she tightened the cotton garment around her neck. When they crested a hilltop, Maya turned in her saddle and gazed back west toward her home.

The villa stood there on Pine Hill as it always had. Father and Atalia still stood in the yard, watching them leave, their hands raised in farewell.

We were eight souls, Maya thought. Now only three remain on Pine Hill—two to defend it, one sleeping underground. Now I'm scared. Now I don't know if we'll ever come together again.

The fear was almost too great to bear. Mother must have seen her anxiety. The slender woman rode closer, reached out, and placed a hand on Maya's knee.

"We'll see them again soon," Mother said, smiling softly, her teeth pale in the night.

Maya nodded, wishing she could believe that, praying it was true. They rode onward until Pine Hill disappeared in the distant shadows.

EPHER

They rode their horses across the dark hills, two brothers in shadows, leaving their home behind.

The city of Gefen sprawled in the west along the coast, its lights twinkling, a hundred enemy ships waiting in its harbor—waiting for dawn, waiting for war.

"I have to enter the city," Epher said. "Koren, I have to see her. To say goodbye." His voice dropped. "To warn her."

Koren held a tin lantern. Its light revealed a rising eyebrow. "Epher, I told you. Old Master Malaci's cat is a lovely critter, but she hates being woken this late."

"You know who I mean." Epher tugged his reins, halting his horse. "Koren, I have to. Give me an hour. Just an hour. Will you wait for me?"

His younger brother sighed. "Epher, the girl is Aelarian. Her people are besieging our city. Why don't you find a lovely little venomous snake, maybe a she-demon from Ashael, or an amorous leper to love? All safer choices."

Epher groaned. He had heard this talk a thousand times before. Koren was the only one in his family who knew about Claudia; the others would have reacted far worse.

"An hour," Epher said. "I beg you."

"I don't see begging." Koren pointed at the ground. "I want proper groveling. A good kissing of my horse's hooves to start, followed by a poem about my magnificence, then perhaps a donation of fifty shekels to appease my wrath."

Epher groaned. "Wait for me, or when we come back home, I'll tell Ofeer about that time I caught you wearing her dress."

Koren blanched. "You know I was just rehearsing for a play!" He groaned. "Go. Go! Take your hour."

Epher nodded, his nervousness only growing. He pressed his heels into his horse's sides. Old Moosh, a brown gelding, headed downhill toward the city of Gefen.

The gates of Gefen were normally open to all, only a single guard yawning at them. Those gates were closed this night, and many warriors stood on the gatehouse battlements. All here, however, knew Epher's face and name. He was Lord Epheriah Sela, heir to this city, the port, the coast, and the hills. His father ruled these lands, and his mother was sister to the late queen. The guards bowed before him and pulled open the city gates. His fingers tingling, Epher rode into Gefen.

The streets were silent tonight. The people hid inside their small brick homes, peering through the windows. Epher heard no sound but the clanking of Moosh's hooves along the cobblestones. When he turned a corner and crested a hill, he could see the harbor down the street, the lights of the Aelarian ships there. Thousands of legionaries stood on those decks, waiting for dawn, waiting to storm through this city.

Soon he was riding down Cypress Road, named for the palisade of trees that grew alongside, offering privacy from the busy streets of Gefen. Here was the wealthiest road in the city. The manors of merchants and lords rose behind the cover of trees, and the sea whispered beyond them. Epher rode, holding a lantern. Not that he needed the light; he had ridden here so many nights. But those had all been nights of secret excitement, of joy. Now as he rode, the cypresses alongside the road seemed to close in around him, and stones seemed to fill his chest.

Finally Epher saw it ahead: an iron gate blocking a pebbly path. He dismounted, tethered his horse, and reached into his pocket for the key. Past the gates, the path led him through a garden toward a white villa. This was nothing like his family's villa outside the city walls. His family's home was a place of comfort and warmth. This villa rose twice the size, all icy marble, its columns supporting a pediment engraved with the Aelarian gods. Glass lanterns—real glass, costlier than gold—hung from poles in the garden, shining like moons. If the coast of Zohar had anything akin to a palace, it was this—home of Tirus Valerius, Aelar's ambassador to Zohar . . . and his daughter.

Epher was walking toward the villa's portico when a pebble hit him, and a voice whispered from the trees to his right.

"A thief! I'm going to have to crucify you!" A giggle sounded in the shadows. "Come here, you swarthy intruder."

Epher couldn't help but grin—even with the fear, even with looming war, just the sound of her voice kindled joy inside him. He walked toward the cedars, and he saw her there.

Claudia smiled at him, that old mocking smile of hers, her chin raised, her hands on her hips. She wore a silk stola garment in the style of wealthy Aelarian women. The azure fabric shone with silver embroidery, complementing her pale skin. A string of sapphires shone around her neck. A delicate net strewn with diamonds held her hair back in a bun, allowing a handful of carefully arranged curls to fall across her brow—a hairstyle popular in Aelar this year, one some wealthy women in Zohar had even begun to emulate. Claudia was everything he was not—pale, delicate, refined. If he was a wild desert lion, she was a splendid bird of many colors.

"Claudia." He took her hand in his. "I had to talk to you. I—"

She hushed him with a finger to his lips. "Shush. I haven't ravaged you yet."

She tightened her grip on his hand, turned, and ran through the dark garden. Epher followed, and she took him past a palisade of cypresses toward a moonlit lawn. A stone table rose here by a pool, and flowers bloomed in vases. The villa rose farther back behind the trees. Epher tried to speak again, but this time Claudia silenced him with a kiss. She pressed against him, her hands in his hair, tugging at his tunic.

"Take this off," she mumbled. "Make love to me. Here on the table."

He wanted to. Oh God above, he wanted to. For three years now, he had loved Claudia, had been coming here into her garden, meeting her on the beach at night, even—sometimes, when everyone else slept—sneaking her into his family's villa on Pine Hill. For a moment, he surrendered to her warmth, her love, her soft lips, the joy she brought him. He kissed her, letting her pull off his tunic, feeling her body move beneath her silken stola. But then he pulled back.

"Claudia, wait. We have to talk."

She pouted. "First sex. Then talking. I haven't seen you in three days." She hiked up her stola around her hips, pressed herself against him again, and whispered into his ear. "Take me here on the table. Please, Epher."

Gently, he pried her hands loose, and he looked into her eyes. "Claudia, there's an Aelarian fleet in the port. They bear three legions, all ready for battle. It'll be war, almost certainly. You have to leave this city, at least for a while. Every Aelarian here will be in danger."

Claudia sighed and looked away. She spoke in a low voice. "I know, Epher. I've known for a long time. My father has been recalled to Aelar. Our ship already waits, loaded with our belongings. We're setting sail before dawn."

Epher blinked, for a moment speechless. "You . . . you knew about this?" He frowned. "For how long?"

She shrugged. "A few months." She reached for him again, tried to kiss him, but he held her back.

"A few months?" he said, too loudly—loud enough that her family in the villa might have heard. "And you didn't tell me? You knew my land was in danger, and . . . All those times we met here, all those long walks on the beach, all those dinners with your parents, and you told me nothing?"

She touched his cheek, her eyes soft. "Oh, Epher, I couldn't tell you. My father made me promise not to tell anyone. If your people knew, they would suspect trouble. They would muster a larger army, raise greater defenses. And . . . well, now the legions are in the port, and now I'm leaving, so . . . well, now you know."

He blinked again. "Claudia! I . . ." His voice dropped to a whisper. "You should have told me."

Now her eyes flashed, filling with sudden anger. "I should have done nothing of the sort. I'm the daughter of an Aelarian lord, Epher. My duties are to my empire. Not to you."

He winced. "I thought you loved me, Claudia. I thought you would care more that you were recalled to Aelar. I thought you'd—"

"What, shed a tear?" Claudia rearranged her stola and raised her chin. "Write you a love song? You know I'm not a sentimental girl. You've always known that. You wooed me because I have great tits, because I love to fuck you, and because I'm an exotic beauty of pale skin. Not because we had any sort of future. You've always known that."

He pulled on his tunic. He felt frozen. He turned away, then looked back at her. "Why do you only tell me now? When I came into the garden, why did you . . . why did you try to . . ."

"What, let you fuck me first?" She shrugged. "Because I like that. I wanted that. I deserved that—at least one more time before I leave. And I knew that if I told you first—told you I'm sailing away tonight—you'd do what you're doing now. You'd get upset."

"Of course I'm upset!" His eyes stung. "Aren't you? You should have told me. And what if I hadn't come here tonight? Would you have just slipped off before dawn without a word? After all these times we've spent together, you at least owe me a—"

"I owe you nothing, Epheriah Sela." She glared at him. "Nothing. I'm the daughter of an Aelarian praetor. I'm among the most powerful women in the world. You are a Zoharite, nothing more. I enjoyed our time together. Truly I did. But do not ever think that I owe you a thing."

"I loved you once," he said. "But now I don't know who you are."

Claudia fixed him with a dry stare. "Or maybe now you know exactly who I am."

Epher could bear it no more. He turned and left the garden. He rode back to the hills outside the city, and he rejoined his brother.

At first Koren opened his mouth, perhaps prepared for another jape. Then he looked away, remaining silent, perhaps seeing the turmoil on Epher's face. The two brothers rode on through the darkness, leaving the city behind.

SENECA

He stood on the prow of the Aquila Aureum, flagship of his fleet, staring at the heathen city.

"Pathetic." Seneca scoffed. "Look at them. They barely have a hundred candles among them to cast back the darkness. Aelar shines with a million lanterns, while the barbarians lurk in shadows."

Fifty thousand Zoharites lived here in the city of Gefen. It was the second largest city in their kingdom, following Beth Eloh in the eastern mountains. Yet there was no splendor here. The walls were tall but crude, the bricks carved of craggy limestone. A temple was barely visible beyond them, its dome simple clay, no gilt or statues adorning it. Back in Aelar, a city of a million souls, colossal statues of gold soared taller than these walls. Armies marched under archways engraved with scenes of battle. Palaces and temples glittered, shining with many lanterns. The night never fell upon Aelar, they said, but here the night cloaked the land like a shroud, and even during the daytime, the sunlight had illuminated only crude stone and the dregs of humanity.

"The Zoharites will not open their gates," said Remus Marcellus, commander of the fleet. "It will be war."

Seneca looked at the general. The man towered over him, as he towered over most men. Remus wore splendid armor, golden eagles embossed upon his iron breastplate, a red crest of horsehair rising from his filigreed helm. Yet despite his regalia, Remus Marcellus seemed less like a creature of splendor, more like a prowling beast whose fine coat belied its cruelty. The face was leathery, and deep grooves framed thin lips.

But more than anything, people noticed Remus's eyes. They were dark eyes, dark as a viper's heart, cold and hard. As those eyes stared at the port, they vowed death more surely than a prophet of doom. Seneca remembered the stories told about Remus Marcellus, that the general had crucified two thousand children on the coast of Leer. Not because Remus was bloodthirsty. Not because he was cruel. But because he was efficient, and fear was more efficient than iron around the Encircled Sea.

He scares me, Seneca thought. On a whim, he can turn against me. I must keep him on a short leash.

"I don't want war," Seneca said. "Not here on the coast, so far from Beth Eloh. Not with only the three legions my father gave me." Gave me, not us. "We need Sela's help if we're to reach the capital."

Remus Marcellus turned those cold, hard eyes upon Seneca. The gaze wasn't a glare, barely even a stare, just a blank look—and yet those eyes still pierced Seneca. Eyes that were windows to a hundred past battles, to a thousand men killed. Eyes that danced with the dead. It was all Seneca could do to meet Remus's gaze, to resist taking a step back.

"My prince," the general said, "what is Beth Eloh but a hive of rats on a hill, a place where heathens dance to their invisible god and priests rut in the sand with desert whores? Aelar reigns because she rules the ports around the Encircled Sea. Our strength has ever been in the sand of the coast, not the sand of the desert."

Beth Eloh is the key that unlocks the chest of my inheritance, Seneca thought. Beth Eloh is the trophy my sister races toward. Beth Eloh is my father's love. Beth Eloh is Aelar herself and my ass on her throne.

But he could not say these things to Remus Marcellus. What did this general care for the battle between a prince and princess of House Octavius? The man was a soldier, that was all. A mighty soldier, yes, one who commanded many, one who wore the finest regalia, one with eyes like stones, but a soldier still. And soldiers always obeyed. Soldiers did not ask questions.

"If he doesn't open the gates at dawn, he's a fool," Seneca said. "I offered to make him a king. A puppet king, yes, but a king nonetheless. I want his forces. I want his three thousand warriors leading our way to Beth Eloh. I want them dying on the front lines of their civil war, paving our road to their capital." Seneca clenched his fists, staring at the city beyond the water. "But if he refuses, we will shatter those gates. We will kill his men. We will enslave his women and children. We will tear down every building in this city and plow a field where it stood."

One way or another, he vowed silently, I will win the lume for Father. I will become his heir. And when I'm emperor, Porcia won't be worthy of licking my sandals.

He turned away from the prow and walked across the deck of the Aquila Aureum. She was a large quinquereme ship, a gift from his father, given to Seneca last autumn for his nineteenth birthday. Her hull was painted crimson and inlaid with golden filigree, lined with ninety oars and shields per side. Her great sails were now folded, but when unfurled, they revealed glorious eagles between laurels, wings spread across bloodred fields. A wooden fortress rose from the deck, topped with battlements and archers.

Many legionaries stood at attention as Seneca walked by, geared for war. Many more slept within the bowels of the ship. Across the port, other Aelarian ships waited in the shadows, the moonlight glinting on their legionaries' armor. Some of these men had seen battle in the great wars against Leer and Gael. Others had never thrust a blade outside the practice yard; soon they would be tested.

Seneca grabbed a lantern, stepped through a hatch in the deck, and entered the body of the ship. A ladder led down to a dusty, elongated chamber. Hundreds of galley slaves sat here, chained to their oars. They stared up with hollow eyes, their backs whipped. They had not left this ship for three weeks. As Seneca stared at their blank faces, he imagined the Sela family chained here to the oars, forced to propel his fleet to future victories.

"Soon you'll sit here with them, Atalia," Seneca whispered as he walked through the ship. "You'll carry me across the Encircled Sea, chained and whipped, until I finally allow you a slow death in the arena. No lions for you, I think, but a nice, slow crucifixion that lasts for days."

He licked his lips to imagine the tall, beastly woman on the cross. He vowed to nail her in himself, right beside the rest of them—that brute Jerael, his meek wife, and all the others.

"But not you, Ofeer." Seneca's blood heated at the memory of her. "You'll be there with me, laughing as they die."

He savored the thought of Ofeer the half-Zoharite. There was something about her more intoxicating than wine. The noblewomen in Aelar were fair, to be sure, but too proper, too dull—pale beauties who knew everything about the gods and nothing about how to suck a cock. Ofeer was different. With her olive skin, black eyes, and mocking lips, she was exotic, endlessly tempting. Her body had wriggled nicely under his, and her breasts had perfectly fit his hands. He wanted her. He wanted her again and again, every morning and every night—a woman with the grace of Aelar and the wild beauty of the desert.

But now—now another woman of Zohar awaited him.

Past the rowers, he opened a wooden door and stepped into his cabin. It was no imperial chamber such as those in his Aelarian palaces, but it was comfortable enough. Curving cedar panels formed the walls, polished to a sheen, supporting shelves of scrolls. Nurian rugs covered the floor, embroidered with ibises and elephants. Candles burned in eagle-shaped sconces, casting golden light onto a giltwood table, an upholstered chair, and a bed topped with quilts far too thick for this hot eastern realm.

Taeer was reclining on the bed, awaiting him, staring from under thick lashes. She wore red silk hemmed with gold, and a belt of coins encircled her waist. A Zoharite, she had deep brown eyes, full lips painted crimson, and curly black hair that cascaded across her shoulders and onto the bed. A golden eagle pendant hung between her breasts, sigil of the empire she now served.

"They will fight you," Taeer said, voice as dusky as her skin. "I've foreseen it in the luminescence."

And suddenly everything that Seneca had been above deck—the noble prince, the great warrior, the commander to strike fear into men's hearts—suddenly here, standing before Taeer, that man seemed to shatter. Seneca lowered his head, and his breath trembled.

"Taeer," he whispered, eyes stinging. "Taeer, I'm afraid."

She rose from the bed like red smoke unfurling from fire. Her eyes shone like her jewels. She walked toward him, smiling thinly, and embraced him. He laid his head against her shoulder; she was tall enough for it. She embraced him, cooing into his ear, and he held her close. She smelled of myrrh, of rose oil, of his childhood.

"My sweet, noble prince." She trailed her fingernails down his cheek. "You're not afraid, sweetling. You're merely eager for battle."

Taeer had been with him for most of his life. He had been only a toddler when she had arrived in Aelar, a tribute from Zohar, a girl of twelve—a lumer to serve him. And all his life, she had served him—changing his swaddling clothes, singing to him, and eventually, when they grew older, joining him in his bed. Now, standing here in his cabin, she pressed her lips against his, and they kissed. Her kiss was hot, wet, her tongue seeking, her hands gripping his hair.

"I'm only eager for battle," he repeated.

She nodded, smiling crookedly, and played with his hair. "You are a great warrior. The Zoharites cower before you."

Seneca thought back to the villa on the hill. He had tried to intimidate the Sela family. To show them he was a conqueror. But Atalia had grabbed a knife, pointed it at him, nearly killed him. Soon Seneca was shaking.

"There was a woman," he said. "Her name is Atalia. She . . . she tried to kill me. She'll be standing on the walls of Gefen now, waiting for me."

Taeer pulled him toward the bed, sat him down, and sat beside him. She stroked his cheek. "The people of Gefen wait for you to liberate them, to welcome them into the Empire as you welcomed me. Atalia cannot hurt you, my prince. Nobody can hurt you. If you fight your enemies, you will emerge victorious."

He reached for a cup of wine on the table. His hand shook as he drained it. "Taeer, can you look into the light? Use your Luminosity. Tell me what you see."

A smile played across her lips. "I thought you didn't believe in Luminosity. Women's magic, you've called it."

He regarded her. Sometimes there was something Seneca did not like in Taeer's eyes. Sometimes there was mockery there. Sometimes even when she kissed him, lay with him, he wondered who served who. Sometimes when he fell asleep in her arms, he wondered if he'd wake up with a knife in his back. And yet he always came back to her. He always sought her comfort, her wisdom, her kisses.

Only with you can I be afraid. And only you can calm the fear.

"You are my lumer," he said, looking into her dark eyes. "You are sworn to serve me. Do not forget that, Taeer. If I tell you to do something, you must do it."

Her smile widened, and she nodded. "Spoken like a true prince." She inhaled deeply, raised her chin, and closed her eyes. Hints of light gathered around her fingers. Soon the glow intensified, flowing around her arms, down her body. When she opened her eyes, they blazed like two lanterns, so bright that Seneca winced. He had seen Taeer refine the lume before, turning it into luminescence, the magic of lumers—but never this bright.

We're in Zohar now, he reminded himself. The world's spring of lume. Here her magic burns brightest. And a soft voice whispered in his mind, unbidden: Here she is most dangerous.

"I gaze into the light," Taeer whispered, voice astral. "The Foresight unfurls before me. I see you . . . attacking the walls of Gefen."

Seneca hissed. "So it will be war. What do you see? Who will win? Will Atalia die?"

She inhaled deeply, the light spinning around her. Her hair rose as if floating in water, crackling with light. "I see you—Seneca Octavius—victorious, standing over the corpses of your enemies. I see all the Empire kneeling before you."

Seneca sucked in breath between his teeth. He leaned forward. "What of Porcia?"

"She kneels too." Taeer grabbed his arms, wrapping her fingers around him. "She kneels before her emperor!"

Elation leaped in Seneca. He would win! He would conquer this land, and his father would name him heir! He would make Porcia kneel. He would make Atalia kneel too. They would all kneel before him, and he would never more be afraid, and—

He cringed. Taeer's grip was tightening around his arms. It hurt. The light engulfed her, her eyes blinded him, and her fingernails pierced his skin. His blood dripped. She shone like a seraph of retribution, a demon of shadows and light.

"Enough!" he said, trying to pry her off. "Douse your light."

But her fingernails dug deeper, and his blood dripped onto the bed. He could not pry her loose.

"A field of corpses spreads before you!" she whispered. "All the land bleeds. All fear and flee you, mighty Seneca Octavius."

She leaned toward him and kissed him again—but now it was a burning kiss, her light flowing through him, searing, filling him with visions of corpses, of burning bones, of—

He shouted and ripped her off him, like ripping off a leech. As she fell back, her teeth tore through his lip, and he tasted blood. The light faded. Once more Taeer appeared human, a Zoharite woman in red silks, her last few flickers of luminescence rising like mist. Shadows filled the cabin. Seneca grimaced.

"What the abyss was that?" he said, wanting to shout, but his voice was weak, shaky. "You cut me. You bloody cut me."

Taeer licked his blood off her lips. "Forgive me, my prince. We're in Zohar now. My homeland is rife with lume. It flows through the air, pulses through the sea beneath us. In my passion, I could not control it."

He grimaced. "Well, be more careful next time." He touched his bottom lip. His fingers came away bloody, and he grimaced. "By the goddess's teats."

"The only teats you may think of are mine, my prince." Taeer walked toward the table, poured wine into a goblet, and drank, staining her lips. It was the color of his blood. "Not a goddess's. Not Ofeer's."

He narrowed his eyes. "How—"

Taeer placed a finger against his lips. His blood still painted her fingernail. "I told you, my prince. This realm is rife with lume. My powers are at their greatest here in Zohar. I saw Ofeer, a youth of dark eyes, a youth who tempted you in a cave."

Seneca turned away from her. The pain still flared. He forced in a shaky breath. "We must be cautious. We cannot rely on the fortunes of some ancient magic. It's a fickle thing. We must fight this war with all our courage, our strength, and our wisdom. The future often flickers and changes like shadows cast by candlelight."

He had never trusted Luminosity. He rarely asked Taeer to use the ancient magic. It was a barbaric tradition, and Seneca thought his father far too obsessed with controlling the lume that rose in Zohar and fueled the magic. Yet Seneca could not deny the glow that had suffused Taeer's hands, that had flowed from her into him. He could not deny the excitement that now bubbled through him.

I will be emperor. He tried to imagine it—himself on the throne, ruling the Encircled Sea, Taeer at his one side, Ofeer at the other, and Porcia kneeling before them like a dog begging for mercy. The thought was intoxicating, more than a thousand nights with Taeer. Sex, war, wealth—it all came down to power, and ultimate power resided in Aelar's throne room.

Ale for courage, wine for strength, blood for lust, went the old saying. Power trumped them all.

The lumer wiped a last bead of blood off his chin, then sucked her finger.

"Remember my words, my prince," Taeer whispered. "She's here."

A knock sounded on the door.

Seneca collected himself, and Taeer returned to the bed and lay on her side, her goblet of wine in hand.

"What is it?" he demanded.

The door to his cabin opened. A young legionary stood there, clad in armor, and slammed his fist against his chest in salute. He had red hair, rare for an Aelarian. He probably heralded from the northern forests near the Gaelian border. His name was Justus or Justinus or something of the sort, Seneca thought.

"My prince!" the legionary said. "We caught one. A Zoharite. We found her rowing a dinghy toward the ship. She claims she knows you, claims she's the daughter of Sela, and—"

"Ofeer," Seneca whispered.

"Yes, my prince, that's the name she gave us. We slapped her in irons, and we're holding her in the brig."

Rage flared in Seneca. They had chained Ofeer? Locked her up? He ground his teeth, shoved past the guard, and marched through the ship. Behind him, he could hear Taeer laughing.

JERAEL

He stood in the courtyard, facing three thousand soldiers—men, women, and youths, many of whom would not see another night.

How do I do this? Jerael thought. How do I see thousands die again—when the screams from the last war still haunt my nightmares?

As they stared at him in the darkness, again the doubt filled Jerael. He should have taken Seneca's offer. He should have joined Aelar, marched with the legions to Beth Eloh, disposed of the princes, and resumed the tributes of lumers. His kingdom would perhaps lose its freedom, and he would serve as a puppet to a cruel emperor—but they would live! The people of this kingdom, of his city, his own family—they would live!

They stared at him. Warriors. Some barely old enough to shave.

How many of them will I bury when the sun rises?

"All right, you pathetic little maggots!" Atalia shouted, marching across the cobblestones, sword drawn. "Do you really want to live forever? Well, I've got good news. You're all going to bugger Aelarians at dawn, or you're going straight up to heaven to fuck angels and kiss God's hairy ass." She spat onto the cobblestones. "But I'm not letting any one of you useless scum die without taking at least ten Aelarians with you. Is that clear, you ruthless bastards?"

A few disheartened cheers rose. There was too much fear here. Too many shadows for bravado. A few of the youngest soldiers, mother's milk still on their lips, were shivering.

"I said," Atalia shouted, "are you ready to fuck Aelarians up the ass with Zoharite iron?"

"I am ready to fuck!" cried one old man, beard long and white, and raised his sword with a wavering arm. He smiled toothlessly.

Jerael sighed and guided his daughter back. "It's all right, Atalia. Let me speak to them."

He faced the three thousand. They all wore scale armor. Curved iron swords were strapped to their thighs, slings dangled from their belts, and across their backs hung bows and quivers. They were well armed but inexperienced. Only a few of the oldest had seen battle, back in the war against Aelar on the island of Cadom.

"Dawn is an hour away," Jerael said to them. "A dawn of fear. A dawn of blood. But also a dawn of courage. For many years, we watched Aelar take from us. They took our island and took our fleet. They took thousands of our soldiers. They take seven of our daughters every year, forcing them to use their magic to build temples to foreign gods. Now the eagles come again, and they want to take more. They want to take our freedom. But when dawn rises, we will tell them: You cannot take more!"

The soldiers nodded, lips tight. Old men. Young men. Women, some with children at home. Some soldiers barely older than children themselves. They raised their weapons.

"I cannot promise you victory," said Jerael. "I cannot promise that you'll all live. But I promise you this: You will be brave. You will fight to protect your families, your kingdom, your heritage. You are sons and daughters of Zohar! You are guardians of light. Your people have lived in this land for three thousand years, long before Aelar's first eagles flew. For our kingdom, for our god, for our families, for our home—at dawn we fight!"

"At dawn we die!" cried a young soldier, raising his spear high, and he meant it not as a cry of fear but of pride, of courage.

"At dawn we die!" the warriors cried, spears and swords rising together.

"At dawn we die!" Atalia howled, voice hoarse, tendons rising on her neck and her sword raised high.

Jerael left the courtyard, and they marched behind him. They walked down the cobbled streets of Gefen, heading toward the sea. The people of the city emerged from their stone homes, lined the streets, and lit clay lanterns. The wicks flickered in the oil, weak at first, growing brighter. A path of light led the soldiers' way to the sea. A path of light had forever guided Jerael's journey—the light of his god, the light in his wife's eyes, the light of his children. The light of Luminosity that blessed his land. Now the lights of all his people guided him forward.

"Hear, O Zohar!" a woman cried from her doorway. "Ours is the light."

The ancient prayer of their people. The prayer uttered at births and deaths. The prayer whispered over the dying. The prayer their ancestors had sung in the desert three thousand years ago, seeking a path to the sea.

"Ours is the light," Jerael said, and the soldiers repeated the words behind him, voices awed. "Ours is the light."

They reached the city's wall. They climbed the staircase that rose toward the battlements. They stood at the ramparts, spreading across the western flank of the city, looking at the sea.

Down in the cove, the fleet of Aelar waited. Fifty massive galleys, hundreds of soldiers on each deck. Dozens of smaller vessels armed with ballistae and catapults. The enemy's lanterns burned bright, shining off armor, spears, swords, and arrows. Wall and water. Light and fire. The two forces stared at each other, waiting for the dawn.

OFEER

The chains bound her wrists and ankles, and her cheek blazed where they had struck her. Ofeer leaped toward the door and banged her shoulder against it.

"Let me out!" she shouted. "I'm Aelarian! Gods damn it, let me out of here!"

The door did not budge. The manacles chafed her skin, and now her shoulder ached too. Ofeer could barely see a thing; the only light came from under the door. The brig was small, too small to lie down in.

"You're going to pay for this!" Ofeer cried, voice hoarse. "Seneca is going to free me, and he's going to flay you all!"

No answer came, and she fell to her knees, cursing. This was not how she had imagined things. All the way here, running down Pine Hill, around the city walls, along the beach, and onto the boardwalk, Ofeer had imagined the wonders that awaited her. In the darkness, she had seen it: Seneca clad in a flowing purple toga, welcoming her to his fleet of light and gold and jewels, placing a tiara upon her head. And then the two of them, sailing west, sailing off to Aelar, to a world of marble columns, palaces, menageries with a thousand animals, and endless wealth.

Yet when Ofeer had arrived on the boardwalk, when she had grabbed the dinghy and rowed to the flagship, the soldiers had seized her. Had struck her cheek. Had chained her and placed her here, as if she were a common Zoharite, not a woman with an Aelarian father. Had they not seen her eagle pendant?

Tears burned in Ofeer's eyes. It was humiliating. Utterly humiliating. She could imagine her family getting word of this, how Maya would pity her, how Atalia would scoff, how Mother would weep. How they'd all feel sorry for poor, miserable Ofeer. They hated her. They all hated her! And Ofeer hated them. She hated this whole damn world and everyone in it, other than Seneca.

"Seneca will save me," Ofeer whispered. "He's my prince. He's going to save me, and we're going to sail away to a wonderful world."

The lock clicked.

The door swung open.

And there he stood. Her prince.

"Seneca!" Ofeer cried, leaping to her feet.

He had doffed his armor, but he wore a resplendent toga of purple wool. Only the wealthiest could afford purple fabrics; the dye was obtained from rare sea mollusks, each drop worth a golden coin. An eagle pendant shone across his chest, inlaid with rubies and garnets. A laurel of golden leaves rested on his head of chestnut hair. He was beautiful, she thought—an angel come from a distant paradise to save her.

Ofeer stepped out of the brig, and they stood inside the ship's hold, lanterns glowing around them. Farther back, lines of slaves sat at the oars, chained as she was. Many of the slaves had the mahogany skin and curled hair of Nurians—captives from the southern land of rebels. Other slaves had the olive skin and brown eyes of Zoharites—captives from the war nineteen years ago. Ofeer cringed to see them. She looked away. Let the slaves remain by their oars. Here, in this nook by the stairs, it was only her prince and her.

Seneca caressed her bruised cheek, and her heart fluttered.

"What did they do to you?" he whispered, and rage kindled in his eyes.

"I tried to tell them." Ofeer's voice trembled, and she could not stop shaking at his touch. "I told them that my father is Aelarian, that I know you. But the soldier—the one with red hair—he wouldn't believe me."

Seneca knelt and unlocked the shackles around her ankles, then those around her wrists. All the while he said nothing, and that rage burned in his eyes.

"Is he the one who struck you?" he finally said, speaking through a tight jaw. "Justus? The one with red hair?"

Ofeer raised her hand to hide her bruised cheek. "It doesn't hurt much. It was my fault. I struck him first."

"You're a girl who can't weigh more than a hundred-and-seventy librae. He's a man of the legions. It wasn't your fault." He tucked an errant strand of her hair behind her ear. "You were right to come to me, Ofeer. I promise you: No one will hurt you again. Not the legionaries. Not the brutes you grew up with. Your father was Aelarian. You're safe here."

Suddenly Mother's words returned to Ofeer.

Your father, Ofeer, is Marcus Octavius, Emperor of Aelar.

Ofeer stared at Seneca Octavius, seeking the resemblance to her own face. There was none. Of course there was none. Mother had lied—as she had been lying all her life. Ofeer could not be the daughter of an emperor. She could not be Seneca's half sister. He was too beautiful, and she still desired him too much.

Just more lies, Ofeer thought. More lies to keep me trapped. But I escaped, and I found my prince.

"I'm safe here," she repeated, whispering the words, love and relief flowing through her. After so many years, she was safe.

"Come with me."

He took her hand, and her heart beat faster. He led her through the ship, past chained slaves at the oars, and up wooden stairs. They emerged onto the deck. The moon hung above, full and shining for her and Seneca. A hundred soldiers or more stood here, clad in polished armor and red cloaks. As Ofeer walked with Seneca, she imagined that they were walking toward a wedding arch, that all the guards honored them, that the Empire celebrated their love.

She looked east toward the coast. The walls of Gefen rose there in the darkness, and rage and shame mingled in Ofeer. The sight sickened her. For so long, she had sought her comforts within those walls, drinking in taverns, fucking bearded men for quick nights of pleasure, trying to escape herself, her life. Those walls had trapped her within that hive. Jerael Sela saw them as defensive walls, but for Ofeer they had been prison walls. Every time she had let a sweating man thrust into her, Ofeer had closed her eyes, imagining that it was an Aelarian prince, imagining that she lay on a fine canopy bed in distant Aelar, the land of her father.

She stared at those craggy walls across the harbor, fists clenched so tightly her fingernails dug into her palms.

I did it, she thought, teeth grinding. I did it, Jerael. I did it, Mother. I escaped you.

"Is this him?" Seneca's voice was strained. He pointed at a legionary who stood on the deck. "Is this the man who struck you?"

Ofeer blinked, turned away from the walls, and looked at the legionary. He wore a helmet now, but she recognized the green eyes, the reddish eyebrows. He stood at attention among his fellow soldiers, chin raised. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.

"Please, my prince," Ofeer said. "He was only performing his task, guarding you. He couldn't have known I wasn't a rabid Zoharite come to slit your throat in the night."

Seneca turned toward her. "But you told him. You told him who you are! That your father is Aelarian. That you're my friend." His voice rose to a shout. "Is that him?"

Ofeer's heart still beat quickly, but now it beat with fear. She knelt before Seneca and bowed her head. "Please, my prince. I . . . I don't know. I . . ."

Seneca knelt too. He placed a finger under Ofeer's chin and raised her head. His voice softened. "Just tell me the truth, sweetness. Don't be afraid. You never have to be afraid again. No harm will come to him. I simply want to know the truth."

Ofeer exhaled shakily. She glanced back up at the legionary and nodded. "It was him who struck me, my prince. But it no longer hurts."

Seneca nodded. He rose to his feet and turned toward a line of other soldiers.

"Seize him," the prince commanded. "Seize Justus the legionary, strip him of his armor, and tie him to the mast."

Legionaries stepped forth and grabbed Justus. The redheaded man cried out, begging the prince, apologizing over and over, but Seneca would hear none of it. Piece by piece, the legionaries tore off their disgraced comrade's armor, leaving Justus in but a tunic. With chains—the same chains that had bound Ofeer—they secured Justus to the ship's mast.

"My prince," Ofeer said, "please don't hurt him. I forgive him."

Seneca stared at the bound prisoner and licked his lips. He looked back at Ofeer. "Your heart is gentle, Ofeer the half Zoharite, keeper of her mother's vineyard. But no gentle heart survives in the legions. He must learn discipline. As he caused you pain, he will feel pain." Seneca nodded toward a tall, burly legionary with golden eagles on his pauldrons. "Decimus! Twenty lashes. Make them count."

"Yes, dominus," said the legionary. With a meaty hand, he raised a cat-o'-nine-tails, its leather straps tipped with iron bolts.

The lashing began.

Justus screamed.

The skin tore and the blood sprayed.

Seneca watched, eyes glittering, a smile twitching on his face.

Ofeer stood with him, forcing herself to watch, willing herself not to tremble. She tried to pretend that she had seen this all before. That she knew all about discipline in the legions, all about the hardship of the fleet, all about justice. She raised her chin, staring, letting them all see that she stared, especially Seneca. Letting them all know that she was one of them. That she knew of lashings, of blood, that these things just had to be done. There were no gentle hearts in the legions. She was Aelarian. She knew this. Of course she did.

The lash flew again and again. It was only twenty lashes—it had to be—but they seemed to last for hours. Each lash was actually nine blows, the nine tails of the cat tearing into Justus, tearing into Ofeer's eyes. She knew that she would dream of them next time she slept. She knew that she would never forget the stench of the beating, of Justus soiling himself, this miasma of blood and shit and the salt from the sea and her own cold sweat.

Finally, after the passage of ages, after the rise and fall of nations, the beating ended. The legionaries unchained their comrade, grabbed him under the arms, and dragged him away, leaving a trail of blood across the deck.

Seneca turned toward Ofeer. He stroked her hair. "Are you frightened, little eaglet?"

She shook her head. "I'm not."

He smiled. "Such a sweet little liar. Two lies in one night. But you will learn, Ofeer the half Zoharite. You will learn to be honest with me. You will learn how things are done. You will learn why Aelar is an empire and Zohar is a backwater. Soon you will be strong." He turned toward the east, and he grinned. "Ah! Look there. The first hints of dawn."

She turned to look. Red blotches stained the sky over the city. Ofeer remembered watching the sunrise from Pine Hill, gazing out her window with the jasmines on the sill, back when she had been naive, when she had been weak, when she had not felt so afraid.

A golden glow caught her eye, and Ofeer turned toward it. A dark-haired woman stood across the deck, clad in crimson, staring at her. Luminescence shone around her hands, then trailed up her body and faded, leaving only three lights: a glow in her eagle pendant and two serpentine eyes.

SENECA

He stood on the ship's prow at dawn, resplendent in iron and gold, and stared at the city of Gefen, prepared to pluck the plum.

"Look at them," Seneca said. "Look at those rats lining the ramparts. They prepare for war. So war is what they'll get."

He wore his finest armor this morning, the breastplate molded to mimic his muscles, filigreed in gold. Pauldrons flared out from his shoulders, engraved with eagles. A red crest rose from his helmet, ruffling in the salty wind. His pteruges hung down across his thighs—strips of leather studded with metal bolts. He held a spear, and his gladius sword hung from his belt, both blades thirsty for blood.

Many other soldiers stood on the deck with him, line by line, armored and armed for war. Across the harbor, other quinquereme galleys held thousands of troops, and many smaller ships arranged themselves between them, carrying ballistae and catapults.

On the walls of the city, they stood—the Zoharites. They wore only crude scales, and they wielded curved swords of iron, weapons barely more elegant than sickles. There was no discipline to them, no splendor. An army of barbarians. Seneca tried to single out Jerael and his spawn, but he was still too far from the walls.

Too far, perhaps, to make out individual faces, but not too far to call out to them.

"Jerael Sela!" Seneca cried, coning his hand around his mouth. "Open the gates! Welcome the forces of Aelar, and we will bathe this city with light and glory!"

And then Seneca saw him—a distant figure over the gatehouse, taller than the others, calling out to him. The voice was barely audible from this distance, but Seneca heard every word.

"Sail back with tribute, Seneca Octavius!" Golden treasures rained from the battlements. From here, Seneca could not tell if they were coins or chalices or jewels. "Accept our gifts of Zohar, take them to your father, and return home with your pride! These gates are closed to you."

Seneca snorted. He turned to look at General Remus, the towering man who stood at his side. "He thinks he can buy me off with gold as if I'm a seaside whore. I desire more than his trinkets. My prize will be this port."

Remus stared down at him, those dark eyes emotionless. The man was so tall he always stared down at you. Seneca shuddered to remember the stories of Remus crucifying hundreds of children in Leer, yet perhaps this was just the sort of man Seneca needed with him here.

"If Beth Eloh is the prize you crave, my prince, we are wasting our men here. We can land upshore, several leagues from this city, and march across the hills toward Beth Eloh. We'll need the full force of our army to seize the capital."

"Are you mad?" Seneca scoffed. "What use is Beth Eloh, a pile of rocks on a desert mountain, without the port to connect us to the sea? I've come here to conquer all of Zohar. The coast. The capital. All its treasures. And this city will be my first prize."

Remus's eyes narrowed only the slightest. "Your sister, blessed Porcia Octavius, will be marching south toward Beth Eloh. An attack on Gefen can last for days, maybe weeks or months, and—"

"Who's the prince here?" Seneca said. "Do not second-guess me, Remus Marcellus. I know very well what my sister is doing. Let her crash against the walls of Beth Eloh. Let her fight the dueling princes there. Let them kill one another until only the last rabid dogs are left." Seneca grinned. "Meanwhile, I will seize this port—a great gift to the Empire—then march east to find Porcia's forces weakened, Beth Eloh ready to pluck like a plum. We'll return to the emperor victorious, conquerors of both sea and desert." He reached up and placed a hand on Remus's pauldron. "They'll sing songs of us, Remus. They'll build monuments in our honor, towering engravings showing us capturing the land of lume."

The ship swayed in a gust of wind. Seneca stared at the city walls and licked his lips.

You will fall, Gefen.

The other reason for attacking this city—perhaps the main reason now—Seneca kept to himself.

You're up there, Atalia. On the wall. You and Jerael and the rest of your miserable family. I vowed to kill you. I will keep this vow today.

He turned his back to the city. He looked at his army—three entire legions upon a fleet of might. Legio II Stella Mare, the Sea Stars, their sigil a star and wave—five thousand soldiers fresh from vanquishing the rebels in Leer. Legio IX Triumphalis, the Triumphant, ruthless killers who had slain countless Nurians in the south. Legio IV Fortis, the Brave, masters of siege and machinery of war, their rams and catapults able to topple any wall. The sun rose higher, shining against their armor and spearheads. Seneca's arms trembled, his breath rattled in his chest, and his skull felt too tight. He forced a smile, finding himself grinning rabidly.

He looked over toward Ofeer. She stood by the ship's balustrade, the wind billowing her woolen tunic and long black hair. She met his gaze, her eyes afraid. Seneca would prove his worth to her today—to her, to his father, to his men, to all the Empire. He gave Ofeer a small nod. Next time he made love to her, it would be as a conqueror.

"Eagles of Aelar!" he shouted. "Knock down their walls! Take their city! Slay the men and take the women and crucify the children!" The blood roared in Seneca's ears, and he raised his spear overhead, voice rising to a shriek. "Zohar will be ours!"

Across the fleet, the legionaries raised their spears and cried out for Aelar. Catapults creaked. Men turned winches, cranking back ballistae. Archers loaded flaming arrows.

"My prince, I—" Ofeer began, stepping toward him, but he ignored her, too consumed with bloodlust, with the light of the sun upon his glory.

"Fire!" Seneca howled, grinning savagely, spear held high. "Send these bastards to the abyss!"

With deafening shrieks and blinding fire, the wrath of eagles flew toward the city.

VALENTINA

It was on Festum Messis, the greatest of the spring festivals, that her father was poisoned.

Valentina Octavius had been awaiting this day all winter, marking the days on a wax tablet, for it had ever been her favorite day of the year. Life in Aelar was full of festivals, a great celebration every week. Most Valentina did not care for. She cringed at the thought of the Fordicidia, the festival of fertility, when pregnant cows were sacrificed in public squares, both mother and unborn calves then consumed. Even more, she hated the Robigalia, when dogs from across the city were burned in fire, sacrifices to protect grain fields from disease. Most of all, perhaps, she detested the Ludi Victoriae, the Victorious Games, commemorating triumphs in ancient wars. The screams of gladiators, slain in the arena to celebrate old battles, still haunted her dreams.

But today—Festum Messis—was a time for spring, for flowers, for music, for a little joy in a world soaked in blood.

Valentina had barely slept the night before. She tried to tell herself it was from excitement. Not at all those dreams she had been having night after night—dreams of cuckoos and baby robins, of skeletal old men skulking into gardens, speaking of birds and fathers. At dawn, Valentina finally sprang out of bed, grateful for the darkness to be gone, for the winter to be over, that she was the daughter of an emperor.

Her baby robin saw her awake, rose in the nest she had built him, and opened his beak. Valentina fed him from a vial, a meal of pine nuts she had taken from the palace kitchens. Valentina herself was motherless—her mother had died in childbirth—and she vowed to be as a mother to this young bird. Chicken Leg, she had named him, for when she had found him, he'd been as featherless and pale as a raw piece of poultry.

She rang a bell, and her servants entered her chamber of marble and flowers, and now it was Valentina who received care. Her girls—slaves taken from Nur, dark and demure beauties—washed and perfumed her milky skin. They brushed her snowy hair. They dressed her in an azure stola, the fabric embroidered with silver eagles. When finally the serving girls held a mirror before her, Valentina saw a ghostly young albino, and the blue linen only seemed to bring out the paleness of her skin, hair, and eyes, leaving her looking like a living marble statue, like one of the thousands that filled the city of Aelar.

That day, wine, gold, and great merriment filled the city alongside its marble gods. Flowers grew everywhere from stone pots, their sweet scent wafting across the streets. Soldiers stood in burnished armor, while the people wore their finest togas—white wool for the poor, fabrics dyed ultramarine and purple for the wealthy. Valentina's father wore his imperial garment, deep purple trimmed with gold, and a gilded laurel rested on his head. Most days Emperor Marcus was always frowning, always stern, like his face in the towering statue that rose above the Acropolis, but today he was relaxed, a thin smile on his lips. Valentina rode with him in his chariot, thankful that for once his memento mori—the hideous old man who had frightened her in the gardens—did not ride with them.

They rode through the city as people tossed flowers before them, as musicians and jugglers and puppeteers performed on every roadside. They watched other chariots—these ones small and swift—race as a crowd roared. Hand in hand, emperor and princess entered the Amphitheatrum, sat on cushions under a silken canopy, and watched the best dancers in the Empire perform dances of spring and hope. No blood spilled today—not in the races, not in the arena—for here was a day of renewal.

Let this day banish the fear from my breast, Valentina thought. Let it bring a spring into my own life.

Below in the arena, musicians were playing the Dawn of Spring while dancers held up fronds and laurels. Again Valentina thought back to that day in the garden, how the old man had crept toward her, had frightened her with his stories and riddles. Stories of switched birds and switched children. Stories of fathers who weren't fathers.

Valentina looked toward Emperor Marcus Octavius. He sat beside her in the amphitheater, watching the dance, his hard face—proud of nose, high of brow, thin of lips—at a rare moment of ease. No, she did not look like him. And it wasn't just that his skin was tanned and hers was ghostly white, that his hair was grizzled while hers was like poured milk. She did not have his strong frame, the hard lines, the prominent chin, the regality. Nor did she look like Porcia and Seneca, her brave older siblings who were fighting the Zoharites. Since that day in the gardens, Valentina herself had felt like her baby robin, cast out from her true nest, raised in a palace.

Where does the young cuckoo fly? she wondered. If I were switched too, where does the true Valentina—the true third child of Octavius—now dwell?

"You do not watch the show?" Marcus asked her, a thin smile on his face.

Of course he's my father, Valentina thought, gazing at the emperor. I see the love in his eyes. The man who raised me alone after my mother died. A kind, proud father who protects me from the evils of the world.

That night, they held a banquet in the Temple of Dia, the goddess of spring. The lords and ladies of Aelar reclined on cushions, reaching toward low tables for the feast. All the fruits of Aelar filled silver vessels, while wine from across the Empire flowed from earthen jugs. Flautists and lyrists performed as the cooks labored in the kitchens, preparing the main courses. Slave girls danced, bare breasted, jangling timbrels. Valentina's belly soured to see that Mingo, the memento mori, had come to this feast, that he lounged on a cushion at her father's side. His bare back, the skin wrinkled and the spine prominent, was not the worst of him; Valentina could forgive the flaws of body, for she herself was flawed. It was his eyes, the way they sometimes glanced toward her, and his words that still echoed in her mind that disturbed her.

Trumpets blared and slaves entered the chamber, bringing the main courses: roasted peacocks with their tail feathers reattached; raw oysters on beds of ice from the mountains; boiled shellfish and lobsters dripping with butter; and whole sows on beds of carrots, apples in their mouths. The lords and ladies applauded with each dish brought forth, but none yet ate.

When the last platter was placed on the low tables, Emperor Marcus raised his goblet of wine.

"Now feast, Mingo!" he said. "Enjoy the meal of an emperor!"

The bearded old man rose to his feet, chains jangling, and gave a little bow. At feasts, the emperor let his memento mori drink wine, and Mingo raised his own goblet, nearly empty. "Gladly, dominus, the great and exulted Marcus Octavius who bears my likeness!"

The fool grabbed two sprigs of rosemary from the table and placed them behind his ears, a mockery of the laurels Marcus wore, then swung a knife like a sword. The crowd of diners roared with laughter, and some pelted the old man with grapes, but Valentina did not miss the knowing, sober glance Mingo gave her.

The old slave danced between the tables, tasting from every dish—a slurp of soup, a nibble of peacock, a crunch of roasted nuts. Bowl by bowl, platter by platter, Mingo tasted the meals. With his loincloth, white hair, and wretched appearance, he served to remind Marcus of his mortality. Should a poisoner ever make his way into the kitchens, Mingo would remind the emperor of that mortality with a mortal bite.

"Delicious, nutritious!" Mingo smacked his lips. "The spiced oranges are particularly fine this time of year." He nibbled on a stewed pear. "Divine! A festival for the palate. It's funny, is it not?"

"What is?" asked Marcus, laughing with the others. The emperor was infamous for his near-permanent scowl. It was only his memento mori, this mockery of his own imperial self, that could make him laugh.

Mingo patted his belly. "That the feast of emperors and the slop of slaves both end up the same way—food for flies."

A few of the lords and ladies wrinkled their noses, but Marcus only roared with laughter. "Forgive my slave! Forgive him. His crudeness reminds us all of things we'd rather forget. Sit down, good man! The food is safe to eat."

"The flies will be the judges of that," said Mingo. "They feed upon what we expel—both our food and our flesh, when we end our meals and when we end our lives."

Chains jingling around his ankles, the mememto mori lay back down upon the cushions beside Valentina. She cringed, shifting away from him, directing her attention toward a young man who reclined at her other side—a suitor who had been wooing her for months now, seeking her surname more than her love, no doubt. As the young prefect regaled her with tales of his prowess—he had fought for a year in Leer, finally scaling the walls of their city to ransack and loot—Valentina pretended to listen, faking her smiles. But all the while, she thought of her bird at home, a robin in a palace, stolen from his nest.

". . . and the bastard Leerians actually fought with bronze blades. Bronze!" The young nobleman snorted. "Now, Valentina, yours is a soft heart, and perhaps you are unfamiliar with the ways of war. But when a solid steel sword, forged in the best castrum in Aelar, meets a bronze blade forged in some backyard smithie, do you know what happens?"

"Violets," she said.

The nobleman blinked at her, holding his hand halfway toward a dish of roasted sparrows. "Violets?"

"The violets are blooming rather nicely this time of year, aren't they?" Valentina said. "They fill the streets of Aelar, and I can smell them from my window. Talk to me of flowers, not of swords."

He blinked again but nodded, probably thinking her soft in the head. "Splendid violets. Quite fragrant." He grabbed his roasted sparrow, then turned his attention toward his friend at his left, another noble veteran of the war.

With another suitor successfully repelled, Valentina was about to find a way to slink outside when her father began to cough.

Valentina turned toward him. "Father, are you all right? Is your soup too spicy?"

Marcus Octavius was not a man of great appetites. Unlike many of the nobles, he did not indulge on too much wine, too much food, too much gold or fineries. Often he drank only one cup per meal, and he ate just enough to feed his body and not a bite more. Even today, rather than pile his plate high like some of his fellow diners, he had chosen only a bowl of pine nut soup.

"Father!" Valentina said again.

The emperor was turning red, clutching his belly. He tried to speak, unable to, only a rasp leaving his throat.

Lords and ladies leaped to their feet, rushing forth. Men of the Magisterian Guard raced toward their emperor. Marcus collapsed, knocking his bowl over, spreading the soup across the floor—a creamy liquid interspersed with pine nuts.

"He's choking!" Valentina said. "Somebody fetch the physician!" She knelt above him. "Father, please! Father!"

As the diners bustled, calling for a healer, and as Valentina knelt above her father, trying to resuscitate him, the singing of the memento mori rose above the din.

"Food for flies, food for flies!" the old man sang, dancing about with jangling chains. "All we are is food for flies."

For seven days and nights, the emperor lay in his chamber, shivering with fever, vomiting, unable to keep anything down. His flesh seemed to melt away, his eyes to sink into his skull. Everything they fed him, even just dry bread, seemed to toss him into another fit of agony.

Only once did Valentina leave his chambers, to check on Chicken Leg, her dear robin. She found the bird dead in his cage, his meal of pine nuts spilled around him. His lifeless eyes stared at her, and that voice kept echoing in her mind. Food for flies, food for flies!

On the eighth day, the physician judged the position of the stars, gazed into the entrails of a slaughtered fowl, and announced that Marcus would live. Indeed, the emperor felt well enough to sit in the gardens that day, to sip tea and eat bread soaked in milk. That day, Valentina left her father to gaze at the flowers and birds. She walked through the Acropolis, stepping between temples, fortresses, statues, and the towering amphitheater. Finally she made her way to the kennels.

She found Mingo there, huddled among the hounds—his home.

"Hello, Valentina." His voice was soft. All that he had been at the feast—dancing, joking, singing—was gone. He was a different man now, standing straight, eyes sad.

She stepped toward him, rage kindling inside her. "It was the pine nuts. But I saw you taste them. I saw you!"

He nodded, still seeming so sad. "You saw me sip the soup, but did you see me eat the nuts that floated within it? We see what we want to see, child. The Empire is an arena, and we are all actors, singers, gladiators—all performers for a crowd. Some look at me and see a crazy old man, a fool. Some look at you and see a princess, the daughter of an emperor."

"I am the daughter of an emperor!" She was yelling now. She never yelled, but she could not stop herself. The hounds startled and howled.

Mingo shook his sad, wrinkled head, his shaggy hair and beard swaying. He sighed. "Do you know who I am, child?"

"A fool. A slave. A memento mori. A reminder of mortality."

"That is how I appear. Perhaps I should ask: Do you know who I was?"

Valentina bit her lip. She knew this too. And now her voice dropped to a whisper. "You were named Cassius once. Septimus Cassius. A great lord, a rival to my father, a tyrant who sought to slay him, to undo all that he wanted for Aelar."

"A tyrant?" The tufted white eyebrows rose. "No, child. Only a senator. A rich, powerful senator, but just a senator nonetheless, one who loved the Republic of Aelar. One who wept to see Marcus Octavius tear down that ancient Republic, bend the Senate to his will, and build an empire in its stead. One who fought against tyranny. One who fought to maintain the great democracy of Aelar, the democracy that once made us strong." He lowered his head. "One who paid greatly for his fight. One who lost his lands, his titles, his dignity . . . even his daughter."

Now the slave raised his eyes and met her gaze, and she read his unspoken words in them.

"You think . . ." She took a step back. "You think that I'm her, don't you? That's what you meant when you told me your tale of robins and cuckoos. You think I'm your daughter."

The hounds settled, and Mingo stood between them, a tear on his cheek. "Emperor Marcus Octavius has three children. Porcia, cruel and bloodthirsty. Seneca, proud and broken. And a third child, a lost daughter, one whose name is Ofeer, one who's lost in an eastern kingdom of sand. You, Valentina Cassius, were born to different parents. You are my sweetest, youngest child, the only one who survived after Marcus butchered my family. Our families fought—a horrible, devastating war. His wife was pregnant; so was mine. His wife died in the war; so did mine. His own babe perished; mine survived . . . and was stolen. A sweet, pale child—clutched from my nest, taken to his palace, but never forgotten, always loved. I love you, Valentina, and all that I've done here, I've done to protect you, and to protect our beloved Aelar."

"Did you poison him?" Valentina whispered, trembling now.

Footsteps sounded outside the kennels, and she turned to see legionaries marching outside on patrol, red crests rising from their helmets. Chains jangled. When she turned back toward Mingo, she no longer saw the sad man, only a dancing fool again, kicking his hobbled feet and singing of flies.

ATALIA

At dawn we die!

The words echoed in Atalia's ears as dawn rose, as death soared toward her.

The warships unleashed their fury. A hundred boulders, flaming like the sun, rolled across the sky. Iron bolts, longer than she was tall, whistled as they raced over the sea. Thousands of arrows flew, tipped with fire. It was death. It was the fall of lions, the fall of a nation.

We should have surrendered, Atalia thought, staring from the ramparts, frozen. We will die. We will all die.

She snarled.

No. Not yet.

"Stand your ground!" she shouted. "Warriors of Zohar, stand—"

The inferno slammed against them.

Atalia screamed.

A flaming boulder crashed into the merlon beside her. Fire blazed across her armor. Bricks shattered. Shards of stone flew through the air, jabbing her. One scraped across her cheek, and her blood spurted. Dozens of other boulders crashed into the city walls, chipping bricks. An entire merlon cracked and fell to the courtyard, crushing a man below. Atalia clung to a second merlon, her legs swaying, and above she heard the whistles—deafening, louder than a thousand eagles. The ballistae's projectiles flew overhead—jagged iron shards, the talons of gods. They arched down into the city. They slammed into homes, shattering walls, tearing through roofs, tearing through men and women, mothers and children. With them flew the arrows, aflame, driving into roofs, gardens, people, burning, spreading their fire through Gefen.

They'll slay us before they land a single man ashore, Atalia thought with horror.

Horror. Yes, that was what she felt now. No more bloodlust. No more pride, no more excitement for the fight. Just that terror, all-consuming, flowing through her.

How did this happen? How can this be? This has to be a dream, just a nightmare, just—

"Fire your arrows!" The voice roared beside her, deep, powerful, rich with command. "Zohar, fire!"

Atalia looked toward that booming voice, and she saw him there on the crackled battlements—Jerael Sela. But gone was the kindly, gentle giant she had known, a father who played with his children and sang while lighting holy candles. Before her stood a warrior, a bear of a man, taller than any other soldier on the wall, his graying hair wild, his beard white against his tanned face, his eyes blazing. He tugged back his bowstring, an arrow nocked.

Atalia sucked in a deep breath.

Her fingers trembled, and the terror still shuddered through her chest, but she managed to grab an arrow from her quiver. She lit the tip from a brazier on the wall. She nocked and drew, and around her a thousand other warriors did the same.

They fired their arrows.

"Now you will taste Zoharite iron," Atalia hissed between clenched teeth.

The thousand arrows rose skyward, then arched down toward the fleet in the harbor. Many arrows missed their targets, sizzling into the water. Many others shattered against the enemy hulls and shields. But some found their marks. One arrow hit a folded sail, and the fire spread across the canvas. Another arrow drove between two legionaries' shields and slammed into a man, knocking him overboard.

Again the inferno flew from the ships.

Trebuchets twanged below upon the decks, hurling boulders coated with burning tar. One boulder slammed into the wall beneath Atalia, and chips of limestone rained onto the beach. Another boulder sailed overhead, and Atalia turned to see it slam into a home in the city, crushing the wall, and screams rose from within. More boulders crashed into the city. A ballista's bolt—a chunk of jagged iron as large as a man—slammed into another nearby merlon, shattering it. The defender behind the merlon screamed as the iron drove into his chest, knocking him down to the courtyard. More boulders slammed into the walls. More Zoharites cried out and fell, burning, bones crushed.

The battle spun around Atalia.

Her breath rose to a pant. Her heart felt ready to escape her chest. She drew another arrow. She tried to nock it, but her fingers trembled too madly, and it clattered down and fell to the courtyard. More boulders flew. Arrows streaked all around her, whistling through the crenels. One scraped across her thigh, and she cried out.

I'm going to die. I can't do this. I can't. I—

A scream rose. One of her soldiers, the men she had commanded in battle, clutched an arrow shaft in his chest. He fell and shattered against the courtyard below, cracking his skull, leaking his innards. Another boulder slammed into the rampart only a foot away, roaring fire, scattering stones. A brick slammed into a soldier's face—a boy Atalia had often played dice with—shattering his teeth, crushing the skull. Another man raced across the wall, burning, crying out for his mother. Men stood at arrowslits below, but flaming barrels soon flew, spilling blazing oil through the slits, burning the archers, sending them crashing down like comets.

"I . . . we have to fight," Atalia whispered. "We . . ."

She fumbled for another arrow. She managed to nock it but was shaking too badly. Her arrow whizzed skyward, as if she were hunting birds, then plunged toward the beach and embedded itself harmlessly in the sand.

And then Atalia saw them.

Thousands of them.

They were rowing landing craft, small rowboats, twenty legionaries in each. The vessels moved forth from the quinquereme ships like baby spiders leaving their mothers. The legionaries chanted as they rowed, and men beat war drums.

Boom. Boom.

They rowed through the battle. Arrows rained, but the legionaries held scutum shields over their heads and to their sides, forming a shell of wood, leather, and bronze. And still the drums beat.

Boom. Doom. Doom.

I can't do this.

Boom.

I'm not the warrior I thought I was.

Doom.

Tears stung Atalia's eyes.

Boom. Doom.

"We come, we see, we kill!" rose the cries from below, the voices of demons, of endless cruelty. "Hail Aelar! Knock down the walls! Slay the men and capture the women! The eagles fly!"

A fog seemed to cover Atalia. A ringing rose in her ear, overpowering even the drums and whistling ballistae and roaring stones. Fire crackled behind her, and smoke stung her nostrils, and still those boulders flew, crashing into houses behind her. Then ringing. Just ringing, and a voice, and a hand grabbing her shoulder.

"Atalia!" She saw her father's face, covered in ash, bleeding. "Atalia, fight them!"

She blinked. She looked around. Many of her soldiers had fallen, but many still lived.

Atalia clenched her fists.

If I die, I die with pride. A lioness. Fighting.

"Shoot them down!" Atalia shouted, voice hoarse, torn and bleeding. "Aim for the landing craft! Shoot them down!"

She could barely see through the smoke. Crimson and black ash covered the sky, hiding the sun, casting red shadows over the land. She managed to steady her fingers, to fire another arrow.

Hundreds of other Zoharites fired around her. The arrows sailed toward the landing craft, but the legionaries kept rowing, encased in metal and wood. Their shields locked into place above and to their sides. The arrows could not penetrate them. The first Aelarians reached the beaches, and the arrows whizzed down, slamming against shields, and still the legionaries advanced. The enemy spread across the beach for the entire width of Gefen. The arrows kept flying. Several pierced the shields and lodged there, doing the legionaries no harm. Most glanced off the shields and hit the sand, fizzling away.

"Shoot them dow—" Atalia began.

A flaming barrel slammed into the ramparts, spilling burning oil.

Atalia leaped back from the flames. The fire raced across the wall. More warriors of Zohar screamed and fell. One woman kept firing arrows even as she burned. Below along the coast, the legionaries began circling the city, moving in centuries, each unit encased in shields, holding their spears before them.

"Oil." Atalia raised her voice to a howl. "Oil! Bring oil! Bring wood! Let's burn—"

She screamed.

A boulder slammed into the merlon where she stood, shattering it.

Atalia fell.

She tumbled off the wall, stones battering her, fire raging across her arm. She reached up, falling, knowing she was going to die. The wall crumbled around her, and—

He caught her.

Her father's strong arm reached down, and his hand wrapped around her wrist.

He pulled her back onto the wall. Half the crenellations had cracked or collapsed. So many warriors lay dead around them, pierced, crushed, burning. Hundreds lay dead in the courtyard below. Faces she knew. Faces now caved in, melted by the fire.

And still the enemy advanced, circling the city.

"I . . . I thought we could hold them back," Atalia whispered, tears flowing down her cheeks. "I thought I was a warrior. That I could slay them. I'm a coward. I'm weak. I'm so scared, Father. I'm so scared."

Jerael clutched her shoulder and glared into her eyes. "You are a daughter of Zohar. You are a daughter of Sela. You are my daughter, and you are strong. Fight them! With arrows, with oil, with pride. We still fight!"

Zoharites were laying down slats of wood along the stairs that led up the wall. Others shoved up cauldrons of bubbling oil. Some shoved the pots with gloves; others pushed with bare hands even as their skin sizzled, even as they howled with pain. And still the flaming barrels and bolts flew overhead, slamming into homes. The city burned.

Atalia still shook. She could not stop shedding tears. She wanted to run, to hide in the city, to escape to the little home her family kept within these walls. She wanted to crawl into the cellar, to hold her knees, to weep for the shame of it. For not only the city shattered this day, but also herself, who she had thought she was.

I'm so scared. I'm not a warrior. But I will fight nonetheless. Even as I tremble, even as I weep, even if I die before killing a man . . . I will fight.

She scurried over patches of fire and bricks toward battlements that still stood. She tore off strips from the tunic beneath her armor, wrapped them around her hands, and shoved one of the cauldrons of oil. Together with another soldier—a gruff old man with a scarred cheek—she tilted the cauldron over the wall.

Arrows flew, slamming into the cauldron. One arrow found the scarred soldier, and he cried and fell. Atalia grimaced and shoved the cauldron with both hands, struggling against the weight, shielded from the arrows.

The oil sizzled down toward the beach.

It washed over the shields of legionaries, and the men screamed.

Atalia gave the cauldron another great shove, and it tumbled off the wall and slammed into the shields below, knocking down Aelarians. At once she loaded an arrow and fired, hitting a legionary.

The man fell, burnt and pierced with her arrow.

I killed a man. For the first time, I killed.

Atalia cried out in triumph.

"I killed a man! I killed, I—"

She could not even complete her sentence. She doubled over, shivered, and gagged, losing the contents of her stomach onto the wall.

I killed a man.

Fresh tears fell.

The wall shook as more projectiles hit it, and the screams rose behind her—the screams of the city people, mothers and children and elders trapped under rubble.

Atalia Sela had climbed this wall a warrior, prepared for glory. She ended up on her knees, vomiting onto the stones, her thighs slick from wetting herself, the faces of her dead comrades spreading around her, the eyes still staring, eyes she knew would never leave her.

EPHER

They rode their horses, heading northward along the beach, leaving their home behind.

"Damn it, Epher, we should be there." Riding beside him, Koren drew his sword and sliced the air. "We should be on the walls of Gefen—with Father, with Atalia, with all the rest of them—fighting those bastard eagles. Not enjoying this romantic little horseback ride along the beach. We're missing all the fun."

Epher sighed and looked at his younger brother. Koren had doffed his armor in the heat, draping the suit of scales across his horse's back, remaining in woolen trousers. His sling and iron sword still hung from his belt. As he rode, he kept glancing behind him, though Gefen was already too far to see.

"Fun?" Epher shook his head. "I don't know that war is fun, but I too wish we were back in Gefen, fighting with the others. It feels almost cowardly to be riding here while they fight. I just hope they leave us enough Aelarians to kill when we get back. It's still a long ride to the mountains."

Epher looked around him as they rode. The Encircled Sea whispered to his left, the waves caressing the sand. Cliffs rose to his right, broken by the odd cave, and beyond them rolled sandy hills. Palm trees swayed in the distance, and gulls flew above.

"It'll take all of today, and probably all of tomorrow, before we reach the mountains," said Koren. "Two full days! And another two days back. And God knows how long it'll take to find Uncle Ben in the wilderness and convince him to muster his warriors. It might be a week before we're back in Gefen, maybe longer. How many Aelarians do you reckon there are? Ten thousand? Twenty? Atalia will kill them all in a week. No fun at all left for poor, poor Koren."

"I'm not so sure." Epher spoke in a low voice. "Our sister perhaps is brave, and she can swing her sword well in the training yard, but she's never swung it in battle. Father fought against Aelar before, but he lost that war, and besides—Father is old now, almost fifty, his beard almost entirely white. Meanwhile, the Aelarians . . ." Epher shuddered. "They say they move like a machine. Every shield in its spot. Every spear at just the right angle. Not an army of individual men but of cogs in an automaton, like toy soldiers connected by rods, all moving together. The army that conquered nearly all the Encircled Sea . . . with only our port left. And now all their fury burns that port."

Koren tilted his head, giving Epher a sidelong glance. "Well, aren't you a bundle of joy this morning. The picture of optimism, you are." Koren snorted, blowing back a strand of his dark hair. "So what, they're good fighters. So are we. Aelarian civilization is what, six hundred years old? Seven? Babies! We Zoharites have been living here for three thousand years, and we've faced some nasty enemies before. We'll take care of these eagles, brother. Don't you worry. Gefen will stand."

Epher stared east toward the cliffs and hills. The land of Zohar. A small kingdom, barely visible on world maps by its massive neighbors. An ancient realm of light, of the lume only a few every year could summon. His homeland. He thought of all his years here, joyous, free. Racing along this beach with his siblings, hunting in the hills. Seeking hidden treasure in those caves where rested the bones of ancient men. Pilgrimages to Beth Eloh, the holy city whence the lume flowed, and prayers and songs in the temples where crystals shone. And finally memories of the family house, the villa on Pine Hill. Love. Family. Dreams for a future. All these, which he had always thought as timeless as sea and sand, could now vanish, ephemeral like the tide. Vanish like Claudia. Just a dream.

"It's not only Gefen, our little home by the sea, that I'm worried about. Aelar's forces might soon swarm across all of Zohar." Epher patted the iron sword that hung from his belt. "Might be we'll get to swing our blades before we even return home."

"Good!" Koren sliced the air. "I look forward to some excitement. Boring rides along the beach are not for Koren Sela, brave adventurer and hero. Oh no. I'm all about fighting the good fight, about courageously vanquishing evil, about—God above!"

Koren squealed. A whistle pierced the air. An arrow flew from the cliff and grazed Koren's head, slicing the hair before flying off into the sea.

The horses reared and whinnied.

A battle cry sounded above, high pitched, yipping.

"God's cock!" Epher cursed.

Koren struggled to regain control of his horse while grabbing his sling, but he only managed falling into the sand. The horse bolted off.

"Aelarians!" Koren cried, loading a stone into his sling. "Aelarians attack!"

Epher tugged the reins until his horse calmed. He grabbed his own sling and stone and stared toward the cliff.

Another arrow flew.

Epher cursed again and kneed his horse, trying to dodge the missile, knowing he was too late. The arrow sailed toward him and hit his torso.

He grimaced, expecting pain, blood, even death. But the arrow merely tangled between the iron scales. No metal head tipped it. It was simply a pointed stick, no thicker than his finger, slightly curved and knotted, like the arrow a child might carve from a fallen branch.

"Stupid whore!" rose a voice above. "Go away, go away! Stupid bitch!"

Epher stared toward the source of the voice. His eyes widened.

By Eloh . . .

It was not a host of angry Aelarians above but a young woman. A very naked young woman. She stood atop the cliff, holding a bow. Her red hair hung down past her hips. She gave a wordless battle cry and jumped off the cliff, and Epher lost his breath, sure that she'd plunge down to her death. But the woman moved assuredly like a goat, leaping from jutting stone to stone, and with a few quick hops, she reached the bottom of the cliff and hit the sand.

"Go away, go away!" she shouted. "Stupid whore. Stupid cunt!"

The woman knelt, nocked another stick into her bow—it was hard to think of it as an arrow—and fired again. Once more she hit Epher, but once more his armor protected him.

Epher dismounted his horse. Koren came to stand beside him. The brothers stared.

"By Eloh's beard," Koren said. "What is she?"

The young woman was out of arrows. She crouched before them, hissing, teeth bared. Mud, sap, and sand covered her naked body, hiding her skin. Wild green eyes stared between tangles of her matted red hair. Those were rare colors in Zohar. Epher had never seen anyone with red hair before, though the old stories said that King Elshalom, the first monarch of Zohar who had reigned a thousand years ago, had such hair.

Epher hung his sling back on his belt and took a step toward the woman, holding out his empty palms. "We won't hurt you. Do you need help? Are you hurt?"

The young woman—she looked to be about his age—gave a savage cry. She swung her bow before her like a staff. It too looked homemade, just a curved stick with a string. Perhaps homemade was the wrong term, Epher decided; this woman did not look like she had a home.

"Cunt!" She spat at him. "Stupid bitch. Whore! Go away. Go away!"

Koren chewed his lip. "That's about all she says."

The woman ran closer toward them, teeth snapping and fingernails raised like claws. She leaped into the air and landed on Epher, knocking him down. She clawed at him and sank her teeth into his wrist.

"God damn it!" he cried, struggling to free himself.

Koren raced forward and tried to grab the woman, but she gave him a swift kick to the shin, then leaped toward him. She slashed her claws across Koren's face, drawing bloody lines.

Epher rose to his feet and grabbed her arms. She screamed and thrashed, hair flailing. She kicked wildly and hit Koren's stomach. He doubled over, then managed to grab her ankles and hold her legs. The brothers now held the woman elevated between them. She floundered, twisted her head around, and spat in Epher's eye.

"Cunt!" she screamed. "Whore! Bitch! Go away, go away!"

"We won't hurt you," Epher said, struggling to hold her arms as she squirmed. His wrist was bleeding from her bite. "We can help you. Are you hungry? You look hungry."

"Whore! Cu—" She stopped struggling so suddenly Epher nearly dropped her. She stared at him, head tilted back, mouth watering.

"Hungry?" he said.

The woman licked her lips.

"So she wants food," Koren said. "Was she trying to hunt us? I think she was trying to hunt us." He looked at the tooth marks on Epher's wrist. "By God, big brother. She's a cannibal. A goddamn cannibal."

"Put her down, Koren," he said softly. "She won't fight anymore."

"Good, then you feed her—hopefully not another hand. My damn horse ran off. I'm going to bring it back."

They lay the woman down on the sand, and she immediately leaped to a crouching position. While Koren raced along the beach to find his mare, Epher approached his own horse and reached toward the pack that hung from the saddle.

The young woman pounced, grabbed the pack, and began tugging at it.

"Hold on!" Epher said, trying to hold her back, but the woman—despite her slender frame—was surprisingly strong. She all but ripped the pack open, and rolls of bread, a wheel of cheese, and several dried figs and dates fell into the sand.

The woman tore into the food, stuffing so much into her mouth her cheeks swelled. She did not even seem to care that sand coated the meal.

"Hun," she said while chewing. "Hun. Hunry."

"Hungry?" he asked her.

"Hunry!"

Epher knelt and stared at her. It was hard to see her face; mud caked it, and all that matted red hair hid her features. Only her eyes were visible, large and green in her gaunt face.

Epher reached into his ravaged pack, pulled out his spare woolen tunic, and handed it to her.

"Here, put this on."

She gulped down her mouthful of food, took the tunic from him, and began gnawing on the fabric.

"No!" He tugged it free, ignoring her wail of protest. "It's not food, it's—"

"Hunry!"

"It's not for eating! Nor am I." His wrist still hurt. "You put it on yourself. It's clothes. Like this." He gestured at his coat of scales.

She blinked at him, not seeming to understand. "Cunt?" she said, voice inquisitive. "Fucking bitch. Go away? Like ish. Like ish."

She repeats what she hears, Epher realized.

"Like this," he repeated and tried to pull the tunic over her head.

She squealed, the sound of a frightened animal. Tears sprang into her eyes. She snatched the tunic from him, remaining naked, and spun around. She ran toward the cliff and scurried up the stone facade, dragging the tunic behind her. Soon she vanished among the hills.

Koren returned with his horse. "Where's your ravenous friend?"

"Saw you coming and took off." Epher stared at the cliff, knowing he'd never be able to climb it. "Strange one, she is. Doubt she's seen too many other humans."

"Not sure she's human," said Koren. "Might be a spirit. Lots of spirits here in the north."

"We're only a few hours north of Gefen. Hardly the spirit world."

Koren climbed back onto his horse. "Well, I know what I saw. Creature with flaming red hair, and that's no natural color, and one that can climb a sheer wall of stone. That there, my friend, was no human. A demon or an angel, or some other strange creature from another world."

"Humans are stranger than any demon or devil in our lore." Epher too mounted his horse. "I'd like to follow her, to learn more about her, but we've got to keep going, to find Uncle Ben and his host of filthy hillsfolk." He kneed his horse. "Hasha! Go!"

As the brothers kept riding north, Epher looked over his shoulder once, staring back south. High on the distant cliff she stood, staring his way, a wild woman with red hair.

PORCIA

Porcia Octavius, Princess of Aelar, stood on the hilltop, stared down at the land of the heathens, and licked the blood off her lips.

"There she is." Porcia grinned, the lion's blood hot and coppery in her mouth. "The land of Zohar. The land we will devour."

The lion was still alive beneath her, a great male, his mane caked with blood, his flank cut open to reveal the ribs. Vultures circled above the hills, awaiting their turn to feast. Carrion birds. Weak, foul things that did not even kill their own prey. Porcia knelt above the lion, thrust her dagger down again, and carved out a chunk of meat. The lion was too weak to roar, only mewled. Porcia tore into the meat, teeth ripping the tendons, tongue lapping the blood. A sacrifice to her gods. A feast for a conqueror.

She straightened, turned around, and faced her men. She raised a dripping chunk of meat.

"We've entered Zohar, eagles of Aelar!" she cried, the blood smearing her face. "We will devour this land as we devour this lion. We come, we see, we kill!"

Fifteen thousand of Aelar's best raised their spears. Their voices rolled across the hills, sending the vultures fleeing. "We come, we see, we kill!"

Porcia's smile widened. Father had given her and Seneca three legions each to play their little game. Her three stood on the hills, the empire's finest killers. Legio VII Ferrata, the Ironclad, their standards displaying a charging bull, five thousand legionaries all in iron—the legion that had vanquished the pagans of Phedia. Legio V Victrix, the Victorious, their sigil a crowned eagle—the legion that had brutalized Gael's wild tribes in the cold north. Legio XIII Lamina, the Blades, their sigil an eagle clutching swords—an auxiliary unit conscripted from across the Empire, ruthless killers who had crushed the land of Berenia, carving its people like butchers carving meat.

Here was the best heavy infantry in the world, Porcia knew, not men who had grown soft at sea but hardened warriors of the wilderness, men who could march across mountain, swamp, and desert, bearing their heavy armor as if it were silk, ready to slay any in their path.

The wind gusted, blowing Porcia's brown locks against her face, staining them with blood. She shoved the hair back and lifted her helmet from the grass. Many generals wore helmets filigreed with gold, works of art. Her own little brother, the sniveling Seneca, wore such fineries. But not Porcia. Her helmet was simple iron, dark and thick, the same helmet her legionaries wore. A red crest of horsehair rose from it, her only symbol of command. Her breastplate was no more elaborate, unadorned iron forged to mimic the curve of her body. Bolts studded her pteruges, the leather straps that draped across her thighs. She placed her helmet on her head, sheathed her dagger, grabbed her spear, and turned back toward the south, ready for war.

The hills of northern Zohar spread into the distance, covered with tussocks and wild grass, thrusting up charcoal boulders like the teeth of buried beasts. Pines and oaks clung to the hillsides, grew from rocky crests, and crowded in distant valleys. Far from here, beyond the horizon, lay the desert mountain, and upon it Beth Eloh. Capital of Zohar. City of lume. The city she would capture.

"Did you know, Worm," Porcia said to her lumer, "the Zoharites draft their women into their army. For every man in their horde there fights a woman. I respect them for that. I'm still going to kill them, of course. But I'll respect their women when I shove my spear into their hearts."

Kneeling in the mud, Worm nodded. "Yes, domina."

Porcia looked down at the girl. The lumer was a pathetic little wretch, clad in rags, a slave's collar around her neck. Her back was striped from many beatings, and her left eye was swollen where Porcia had struck her that morning. Worm's hair was black, her skin coppery, her body frail. While Porcia was strong and noble, her hair chestnut brown, her skin pale, a warrior of light, this sniveling lumer was lower than a dog.

Every year, the Zoharites sent seven lumers into Aelar, tributes paid since losing their war nineteen years ago. The Empire's mightiest—princes, consuls, senators, generals—were bonded to lumers, magic users who were more valuable than ten thousand slaves. Porcia had received her first lumer in her childhood, a defiant wretch who had once shattered Porcia's favorite mug. Porcia had shattered the woman's skull. Three years ago, she had taken on Worm. The girl had dared refer to herself by her given name once; Porcia had broken her arm in punishment. Now she remained only Worm. So far, the lumer had proven herself resilient. No matter how often Porcia's fists flew, Worm always obeyed. They were submissive creatures, the Zoharites. They would kneel and beg before Porcia slew them.

"Stand up!" Porcia barked. "Look south. Tell me what you see."

Worm rose to her feet, trembling. Porcia had not fed her for two days now. She wanted her lumer hungry, feeding on nothing but the lume they claimed filled this land. Porcia could not see the lume, not hear it, not smell it, but lumers could suck it from Zohar's air like a seaside whore sucks a cock.

Worm stood on the hill, lowered her head, and closed her eyes. The wind gusted, billowing her burlap rags and rustling the grass around her bare feet. Her raven hair streamed in the wind, strewn with dry leaves. For a long moment, as the soldiers stood behind, as Porcia watched, Worm merely breathed, chest rising and falling.

Porcia hefted her lance. She should beat the girl senseless. Why wasn't she doing anything? This was supposed to be the world's reservoir of lume, the kingdom lumers visited every year to replenish their stock. Just a week in Zohar gave a lumer enough lume to draw upon for a year back in Aelar. And now Worm simply stood here, breathing?

Porcia took a step closer, raising her spear, and then it happened.

Worm's hands began to glow.

The lume gathered around the slender fingers, lighting up, becoming what the Zoharites called luminescence—refined lume. Like a lantern's oil fueled its flame, the lume fueled the luminescence, weaving around Worm's hands, crawling up her arms, shining like molten gold. Worm raised her head and opened her eyes, and those eyes glowed, even the bruised one.

Porcia couldn't help it. She took a step back.

She had seen her lumer use her magic before, but that was back in Aelar, drawing upon what lume she had gathered on her yearly pilgrimage here. She had never seen a lumer in her natural habitat. She had never seen the eyes glow. Standing on the hill, a Zoharite in her ancient homeland, Worm no longer seemed frail. She stood tall, shoulders squared, head held back.

"One prince behind the walls," said Worm, and her voice was no longer the meek whisper of a slave. It was the ancient voice of a nation. "One prince at the gates. The lion cubs battle at Beth Eloh."

Porcia smiled thinly. "Yohanan Elior, eldest son of the dead Rat Queen, skulks outside his mother's hive. Shefael Elior, his younger brother, cowers within the walls. For three years, the spawn of rats have been warring, and still one cannot defeat the other." She snorted. "Not yet."

Porcia stared south as if she could see the desert from here. She had never seen Beth Eloh, but she had heard tales of that ancient city—a city that had ruled the desert mountains thousands of years before Aelar had risen. It was home to rats, to be sure, but its walls were thick, its fortresses great. Here were no barbarians like the brutes of the north, wild men who wore no armor, who scurried between trees. No. These desert rats would wear iron and fight from stone towers.

She tapped her fingers against her hip. Porcia lived for bloodshed, for conquest, for victory, but she was no brute like the northerners, no fool like her brother.

We will rule the world not only with our superior strength, but with our superior intelligence, she thought.

"The prince inside the walls," Porcia said. "The younger cub. Shefael. He would have a lumer of his own."

"Yes, domina." Worm still glowed with the luminescence, her voice ethereal, her eyes like cauldrons of molten metal. The grass crackled around her feet. "I see a light within stone. I see power within the walls. I see a crown upon a cub. I see a sun beside him." Worm grimaced and wrapped her arms around her stomach. The light blazed around her. "The cub's paws bleed. The cub's eyes bleed. The cub is so thin. The cub's bones bleed. The walls crack. The light burns."

Porcia sucked in air between clenched teeth. "Yes, of course. Shefael languishes in a besieged city. His lumer cannot help him." A grin spread across Porcia's face. "But we can. Send his lumer a message, Worm. Tell her that Porcia Octavius, Princess of Aelar, is willing to help her bleeding cub. Tell her that we will vanquish the army at his gates . . . in exchange for some gifts, of course. A few chests of gold, a promise of more lumers, and a royal welcome in the city of Beth Eloh."

The light intensified around Worm. Her eyes sent forth beams. Luminescence coiled around her, crept down her legs, spilled across the grass, then rose as a shimmering apparition. A ghostly figure floated before Worm, woven of light, nearly dispersing in the wind, only to reform. It was a woman—a woman with no body, a reflection of a spirit, dancing like luminous smoke. Two eyes opened in the phantom, emitting strands of light, meeting Worm's gaze, joining the two figures—a woman encased in light and woman with no form.

Worm gasped.

The light vanished. The apparition scattered like moonlight at dawn.

The slave fell to her knees, shaking, clawing at her iron collar as she struggled for breath. The last flickers of luminescence clung to Worm before fading, leaving her tunic crackling.

"Well?" Porcia grabbed the slave's hair and tugged her head back. "What did they say?"

Worm stared down at the grass, daring not meet her princess's eyes. "I spoke to Avinasi, royal lumer to Prince Shefael Elior who styles himself King of Zohar." She shuddered, eyes leaking tears. "The city of Beth Eloh has been languishing for a year under siege, hungry, ill, afraid. The forces of Prince Yohanan the Treacherous attack the gates daily, and—"

Porcia struck her, knocking her down. "I know all that, Worm. Do you think me a fool?" She spat. "Do not lecture me on warfare, you sniveling whore. Did your fellow rat, this Prince Shefael and his bitch lumer, accept my offer?"

The slave shuddered in the grass, blood on her lips. "He accepts, my princess. Gladly. He vows that should you defeat his brother's forces outside his walls, he will open the city gates to your glory, paying for each sack of wheat with gold."

Porcia's grin widened. Perfect.

"We make to Beth Eloh," Porcia said. "We dispose of the rats outside the walls . . . and receive a royal welcome in the city." She bit deeply into her chunk of lion meat and let the blood drip down her chin. "Of course, once in the city . . . there's no saying what three legions of hungry eagles might decide to feed on." She stroked her lumer's hair. "You did well, Worm. You may eat."

Porcia tossed the gobbet of flesh at her lumer, splattering her with blood. The girl knelt in the grass, feeding on the raw meat, lapping at the blood, her first meal in two days.

"Legions, march!" Porcia cried. "To war, to conquest, to victory!"

"To victory!" the legions cried.

They marched, moving line by line, shields at their sides, spears raised. The road to Beth Eloh was still long; it would be three days before they reached the desert. But what were three days to an eternal empress? Beth Eloh, Porcia knew, was not merely the capital of Zohar, not merely the world's reservoir of lume.

It was the throne of an empire.

"Go forth," her father had told his children. "Seneca from the sea, Porcia from the hills. Conquer the ancient land of lume. Whoever brings me this prize shall be my heir."

As Porcia marched at the head of her legions, Worm scurrying at her side, she imagined the glory of it: the falling walls of Beth Eloh, the great palaces of Aelar, the Encircled Sea under her command, and Seneca—weak, whimpering Seneca—groveling at her feet, begging for life before she tossed him into the arena.

"The world is ours to devour, sweet Worm," she said. "We will feast upon its flesh."

They marched onward, moving downhill. Behind them, the lion carcass rotted, and the vultures finally fed.

JERAEL

Again they die.

Fire lit the darkness, and around him they fell. A night of blood. A night of flame. A night of death, of memory, of war.

"Father, they're tearing us down!" Atalia cried somewhere in the distance.

Jerael, they've got the children! Shiloh cried in his memories.

"Lord Sela, the eastern turret has fallen!" shouted a young soldier, instants before an arrow slammed into his neck.

Lord Sela, our fleet is gone, they're on the beaches, they're slaying the children! cried a soldier from his past, instants before a spear drove through his neck.

In the darkness, the two wars mingled. A war Jerael had fought as a young father at sea. A war he fought as the great lord of a crumbling city.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Atalia. I didn't want you to know. He looked at his daughter. She screamed at his side, firing her arrows from the wall, as all around the flames burned, as the boulders of the enemy kept sailing overhead. I didn't want you to know what war is.

He fired his arrows at the enemy. He slung the wounded across his shoulders, carrying them to shelter. He comforted the dying and grieving. The eyes of the fallen stared, accusing, crying out to him. Why, Jerael, why didn't you surrender? Why didn't you peacefully let Aelar into this city?

"I could not." He turned away from them. He kept firing his arrows from the wall.

We could have lived!

"You would have lived in chains."

Now we die. We die again! We die because of you.

Jerael roared, guilt and fear pulsing through him. No. No, he could not give in to guilt, to fear, to rage. He had made his choice. He had chosen to stand and fight. He was Lord of Gefen, ruler of these people, and he would stand tall at their lead. He would hold back the enemy.

"Hold them back!" he cried. "Send them back into the sea!"

Yet the bloodshed continued throughout the night, the walls trembling, and fire raged through arrowslits, and buildings crumbled in the city. A night of blood. A night of memories. Until the dawn rose.

Jerael had always loved the sunrise, had loved to stand on Pine Hill, to gaze upon his beloved land in the dawn. This morning the sun rose over ruin.

For a brief moment in the sun, the battle lulled as soldiers raised their eyes, blinking out the smoke and tears and blood, and gazed at what they had wrought.

Hundreds of buildings across Gefen had crumbled, burying families within. People bustled across the ruins, pulling off bricks, pulling out bodies. Scattered fires burned, and the city's few wells could not draw enough water to extinguish them. Around the city, many of the battlements had crumbled. Merlons, turrets, fortified towers—they lay in ruin, smashed by the catapults. The corpses of soldiers still lay on ramparts and behind arrowslits, burnt by the enemy's oil. Beneath the battlements, however, the walls were thicker and sturdier. They had survived the assault as the trunks of great oaks might survive a storm that shatters their branches.

"Father . . ." Atalia whispered, standing at his side on the wall. Tears filled her eyes, and a gash bled on her cheek. Suddenly she seemed so young—no longer a segen in Zohar's hosts but just a girl. "So many dead."

She stepped closer to him, and Jerael wrapped her in his arms. She was a brave warrior who commanded men in battle, yet she seemed so fragile in his embrace, a trembling sparrow. He remembered how he used to hold her in her childhood, comforting her after a nightmare.

"You are brave, Atalia." He tucked a strand of her bloody hair behind her ear. "You are a lioness of Zohar, a warrior of God."

She looked up at him. Her tears drew lines through the ash on her face. "I failed you, Father. I thought I was a warrior. I thought I could slay them all. I thought that I would lead a charge into the enemy's ranks, would slay Seneca on the battlefield. Like in the stories! Like in the old stories I used to read. But I'm so scared." She leaned her cheek against his chest, sobbing. "I'm so scared."

He stood, holding her as the sun rose around them, as smoke curled up from burning corpses.

I'm so sorry, my daughter, he thought. I never taught you about war. You grew up thinking battle a thing of splendor, of glory, of light. You saw war for the first time, my daughter. You saw entrails ripped from men's stomachs. You saw babies crushed with stones. You saw mothers burn in flame. You smelled the blood and cooking flesh. You will never more be whole. I never was.

Looking at her, Jerael realized that war killed more than those it buried in graves. It killed the living too. Even those who survived this siege would never truly live again, only as ghosts of their former selves.

Atalia pulled back from him. She stared toward the hills and fields. "They're mustering for more."

Jerael gazed with her outside the city. As devastating as the destruction within the walls was, the true horror still lurked outside Gefen. Throughout the night, while bombarding the walls, the Aelarians had completed their invasion of the coast. Three legions now surrounded the city, fifteen thousand men in all, forming a ring of iron that stretched across the fields and hills. In the distance, a parasa north, Jerael could just make out his villa on Pine Hill. An eagle flag now rose from it.

Not only legionaries were out there. Slaves too spread across the hills, as many as their masters. Unlike the legionaries who wore armor and bore swords, the slaves wore only burlap, and chains hobbled their ankles, letting them walk but not run. While the soldiers stood in formations, the slaves were busy felling trees, constructing palisades, raising tents, and assembling siege engines of wood and iron. Watching them toil, Jerael could not make out their faces, but many of the slaves had darker skin than the Aelarians—some with olive skin like his own, others mahogany. Here were slaves from foreign campaigns, taken captive from battlefields, forced to labor in the continuing wars of Aelar.

Jerael wondered how many among them were Zoharites, seized in the war nineteen years ago. He thought of that war, of his friends and brothers who had fought at his side. He had never found the body of Eriel, his younger brother; of Shiloh's brothers; of so many boys he had grown up with, had fought with at Cadom. Jerael had raised monuments for their honor on Pine Hill, had declared them dead, given their families the closure they needed. Yet now he wondered: How many of those boys lost nineteen years ago now labored outside Gefen, toiling for those they had once fought?

As Jerael stared, he sought Ofeer in the crowd, but he could not see her. He thought back to that day, eighteen years ago, when Shiloh had given birth to the child of Marcus Octavius, the cruel general—now emperor—who had captured Shiloh's sons, who had raped her, who had slain thousands.

I thought that I would hate the child, Jerael remembered. But when Ofeer emerged, I loved her at once, as if she were my own daughter. Where are you, Ofeer? Are you hiding in this city? Are you out there with the legions, with those you think of as your countrymen?

"What do we do, Father?" Atalia asked, turning toward him. "Do we meet them in the field? Do we ride out?"

He shook his head. "No. We cannot face Aelar in open battle. Not few as we are. We are fewer than three thousand troops, nor are we as skilled at war. Look at the legions of Aelar, daughter. See how they move as one, contubernia within centuries, centuries within cohorts, cohorts within legions. Every shield, every spear at just the right angle. A machine of war that has conquered the Encircled Sea."

"But they did not conquer us," said Atalia. "Not yet."

He smiled thinly. "Not yet. These walls are thick, my daughter. True, the boulders of the enemy knocked down many of our battlements. Merlons, turrets, towers—all went crashing down. Arrowslits cracked, and fire raged through them, and their archers fell. But the walls beneath the battlements . . ." He stamped his feet against the wall they stood on. "They are thicker. A merlon is two feet thick. A turret even thinner. But the walls supporting them are wider than I am tall, and no catapult can shatter them. And so we wait. We wait for our family. For Epher and Koren to return with an army of hillsfolk. For Shiloh and Maya to return with the armies of Beth Eloh, uniting the two princes to fight with us. We must only survive behind these walls for a few days, and then Aelar will see the true wrath and might of Zohar."

Atalia's eyes were finally dry. She stared toward the northern fields. "Our walls are thick, yes, Father. But not our gates. And a ram comes to smash them."

Jerael stared, heart sinking. A wooden beast was rolling forth from the hills. Great wheels lined its sides, and wooden panels formed walls and a roof, covered with animal hides. It looked almost like an upside down ship. An opening at the front revealed its innards. Several legionaries stood inside the beast on platforms, and between them a great battering ram hung from chains. The beam was the size of an oak tree, and an iron ram's head was attached to it, the horns curled, embers burning in the nostrils.

Though sunlight fell upon Jerael, the world seemed dark.

"Fetch oil," he said. "Fetch boulders to throw." He turned away from Atalia and bellowed across the city. "Warriors of Zohar, to the Gate of Olives! Bring oil and stone!"

Soldiers raced across the wall and the city below. Shouts rose from the Zoharite camp, while chants rose from the Aelarians, and war drums beat.

"Smash the gates!" cried the Aelarians.

"For the victory of eagles!"

"For empire and conquest!"

A shrill voice rose from the Aelarians, carrying across the distance. "Break into the city and slay every man!" Prince Seneca stood on a hilltop, his armor brilliant in the sun, raising an eagle standard. "Rape their women! Crucify their children! Bring me the Selas alive, so I can crucify those pigs myself!"

Jerael ran onto the gatehouse and stood between cracked merlons. Atalia raced up to his side. Two towers framed the gates, topped with battlements and full of arrowslits. A rampart spread between the towers, and beneath it a stone archway held a pair of thick oak doors banded with iron. The battering ram kept rolling forth, a fortress on wheels, the ram's iron head snorting out smoke.

"Bring oil!" Jerael cried, looking over his shoulder. "Bring stones!"

Across the walls, Zoharites fired arrows. A rain of wood and iron slammed onto the battering ram, peppering the roof and walls. Soon hundreds of arrows rose from the structure like porcupine quills, not harming the legionaries within. Many of the arrows were aflame, but painted animal hides covered the structure, fireproof.

The ram pulled back on great chains, the iron head disappearing into the structure . . . then swung forth.

The ram slammed into the gates.

The walls shook. Jerael had to grab a merlon for support.

"Oil!" rose a shout below. "Back, move back, oil!"

Jerael turned to see soldiers hauling a cauldron up the wall, shoving it upstairs along wooden slats. When it reached the gatehouse, Jerael and Atalia shoved the pot, spilling the oil through murder holes at their feet.

The oil cascaded downward.

The water flowed into ships.

"Swift as eagles!" the legionaries cried below, protected within the battering ram's walls even as the oil sizzled across the animal hides and wood. "For conquest and glory!"

The battering ram swung back again, then drove forth with the wrath of a god.

The figureheads slammed into his ships.

The gates shook, and chips of wood flew.

"Stones!" Jerael shouted, hoarse. "Toss down stones!"

Sacks of bricks rose on ropes, and the Zoharites tossed them down, but they could not shatter the battering ram. It swung again, crashing into the gates, and more chips of wood flew.

"Swift as eagles!" the legionaries chanted.

Jerael, he has the boys!

The battering ram swung again.

Marcus Octavius grinned, holding a dagger to Epher's neck, and the toddler cried in fear.

Father! young Epher cried, trembling.

"Father!" Atalia shouted. "Father, they're going to smash the gates!"

No, he thought. No they're not.

Jerael stared across the fields toward the distant hill. His gaze found Seneca. The boy stood there, all in iron and gold. A boy the age of Atalia. The child of the emperor. The child of the man who had crushed Jerael's life.

You will not win, Marcus Octavius, Jerael vowed silently . . . and leaped from the wall.

"Father!" Atalia cried.

He plunged down and slammed against the siege engine roof. He slid, snapping arrows, and hit the ground with a thud.

Legionaries came racing forward from the hills.

Jerael ran past the siege engine's towering wheels and leaped into the structure.

Ten legionaries stood within, holding iron rings in the battering ram, tugging the beam backward on its chains. Jerael charged toward them, sword swinging.

"The lion of Zohar roars!" rose a cry from outside. "Ours is the light!"

Feet slammed against the roof.

The legionaries released the ram, letting it slam again into the gates, and drew their swords. They raced across wooden platforms toward Jerael.

An enemy sword swung.

In the shadows of the siege engine, Jerael parried and reposted, driving his blade into a man's throat.

"Leave some for me, Father!" Atalia cried, leaping into the structure with him. A legionary raced toward her, and Atalia ducked under his swinging blade, then thrust her sword up, piercing the man's jaw, driving her blade deep into the skull. She tugged it back with a shower of blood and teeth.

More feet thumped against the siege engine's roof, and more Zoharites leaped inside, swinging blades. Two men began spraying oil from leather skins across the wooden innards. Outside on the field, thousands of legionaries were racing forward, and flaming arrows came flying their way.

Jerael swung his blade, severing the leg of the ram's last defender. The legionary crashed down onto the wooden platform, stump spurting, still clinging to the ram with one hand.

"Out!" Jerael bellowed to his comrades. "Out, back to the city!"

Atalia leaped out from the siege engine, followed by five more Zoharite soldiers, leaving puddles of oil.

The flaming arrows flew.

Still inside the wooden structure, Jerael ran down the platforms alongside the battering ram.

The flaming arrows entered the siege engine.

Fire blasted.

Jerael leaped.

The flames washed across his feet, and Jerael hit the ground outside. The city's cracked gates loomed above him. When he spun around, he saw the siege engine blazing. The ram's head thrust out from the inferno, seeming almost alive, almost enraged that it should burn. The wounded legionary, the man whose leg Jerael had taken, screamed inside the blaze.

"Lord Jerael!" cried a voice from above. "My lord, climb!"

He looked up to see Zoharites lowering ropes from the gatehouse battlements. More arrows flew from the hills, and legionaries came running.

Jerael grabbed one rope, and Atalia grabbed another. They began scurrying upward, feet against the wall. Arrows flew. One slammed into Atalia's armor, denting the iron but doing her no harm. Another arrow drove into Jerael's leg, and he groaned but kept climbing. Another arrow tore down a Zoharite soldier, and the man fell from the rope. Instantly legionaries leaped onto him with swords, and his blood sprayed.

Atalia reached the battlements first, then helped Jerael climb back onto the wall. Another Zoharite fell, and only one reached the battlements with them.

Below the wall, the siege engine still blazed. Its wooden shell cracked and collapsed, and the ram fell, crushing the platform beneath it. The iron head glared from flames.

All around Jerael, the ships burned and sank, ghosts of memory, and the fire washed across his brother.

"You eagles will be lion shit!" Atalia was screaming, waving her sword over her head. "See what we did to that wooden cock of yours? You tried to fuck us with it, so we chopped it off. And we're going to chop off your real cocks too, you sheep-fuckers!"

The young woman was laughing as she shouted, but weeping too, the tears streaming through ash and blood.

As Jerael stared at Atalia, a new memory filled him. This was not a memory of the war nineteen years ago, not a memory of sinking ships, of a burning brother. It was a memory of his family. Of young Atalia playing with her wooden sword with the boys, of sweet little Maya reading a scroll, of Ofeer chattering to her dolls, of Shiloh lighting candles and praying. A memory of them all at the dining room table beneath the painting of elephants, singing together.

"We'll kill you all!" Atalia screamed, brandishing her bloody sword, voice torn with grief and fear, blood covering her armor. "Every last one of you!"

More than ever, Jerael knew that those days were over—that Atalia would never more be that sweet girl, that his family would never more know peace, know joy, that even should they survive this war, they were forever broken. And that memory of home, of a meal with candles, with a painting of elephants, with his family—that memory hurt him more than the memory of a sinking fleet.

The catapults below tossed their boulders. The Zoharite arrows flew. Bricks and blood rained. The battle for Gefen continued.

SHILOH

Three days after her world had crashed around her, after the eagles had descended with their wrath upon the lions, Shiloh and her daughter beheld the city of Beth Eloh in the distance.

"The holy city," Maya whispered, tears in her eyes. Sitting on her white horse, the girl lowered her head. "Blessed be the Lord of Light. Praises be upon his dwelling in our earthly world. Ours is the light."

They had been riding up this road for hours now. It was not a wide, cobbled boulevard like those that stretched across the Aelarian Empire, the stones so smooth carriages barely bounced when rolling across them. Nor was this road pleasant and shaded like the paths that coiled around the hills of Gefen, affording a view of the sea. Here was a rough, steep road that climbed the mountains, a struggle for their horses. Limestone boulders loomed along the path, and scattered olive trees grew across the mountainside, their trunks twisting, their leaves dark green tinged with gray. Some of these trees, the tales said, were thousands of years old, trees that had grown here when the first wild tribes of Zohar had climbed these mountains.

Ahead of them, the mountains leveled into a plateau that sprawled eastward, tan and dry. Here rose Beth Eloh, capital city of Zohar, like a lion perched atop a tall stone, gazing upon his territory.

The city was still distant—several parsa'ot away—but so large Shiloh could see it clearly from here. The walls of Beth Eloh soared, formed of ancient sandstone, topped with battlements. Beyond rose the roofs and towers of the city, crowded together, a hive of stone and gold and copper and light. Minarets rose into the sky, pale and thin as bones. Domes topped thousands of homes, the stone bare and white in the poorer neighborhoods, coppered or gilded where rich men dwelled. Palm and cypress trees grew along cobbled streets and framed cemeteries where ancient warriors rested. Towering above all other structures, a vast temple soared into the sky, columns capped with gold.

Gefen, Shiloh's hometown by the sea, was an old city too; its walls had stood for hundreds of years. Aelar was ancient, sailing the Encircled Sea for centuries. Both those were as babes by the antiquity of Beth Eloh. Every stone here exuded time. Countless ghosts of ancient priests, prophets, and pilgrims haunted this place.

For three thousand years, the Zoharites had worshipped in this city. Here was the city King Elshalom had named his capital. The place where the Zoharite tribes, lost in the desert, had first built walls, first forged a nation. The city where they said the spirit of God himself dwelled.

Beth Eloh. City of stone and copper. City of gold and light. City of memories.

City of lume.

"It's . . . it's too much," Maya whispered on her horse, tears in her eyes. "It's so old . . ."

Maya had not been to this city for a decade now. Shiloh had forbidden the girl to come here since discovering her magic. Every harvest, when the rest of the Sela family traveled to Beth Eloh on pilgrimage, Shiloh left her youngest daughter in the care of Master Malaci in Gefen. There was too much lume here, too much of the ancient magic that would see Maya chained and shipped to Aelar.

And now it's happening, Shiloh thought, looking at her daughter. What I feared, what I fought to prevent all these years.

Eyes dazed, Maya managed to dismount her horse, and she knelt in the dust. She trembled, and tears ran down her cheeks.

"So much lume," Maya whispered. "I can feel it, Mother! It's flowing here. Everywhere. It's so old. The prophets, Mother! I can hear them. I can see them dancing. Too much. Too many souls, too old." She gasped, and her back arched, and she stared toward the city. "The light. The light. So much light. Praise the Lord of Light."

Maya's hands began to glow, and her eyes shone like pools of molten gold. The light snaked across her, rising in wisps as she wept, scattering dust and pebbles across the road.

Shiloh dismounted her horse and marched toward her daughter.

"I feel him, Mother," Maya whispered, her voice a thousand voices, her tears steaming in the luminescence. "I feel God. He dwells here. Praise him! Praise—"

Shiloh slapped her.

Maya gasped and the luminescence petered away. The girl clutched her cheek.

"Listen to me, girl." Shiloh knelt before her daughter and clutched her shoulders. "You will keep control here. You will not illuminate again. Do you understand?"

Maya blinked several times as if waking from slumber. "I can't control it."

"You will control it." Shiloh glared at her. "Do you know what happens to lumers, Maya?"

Maya nodded, forced a deep breath, and recited the same words Shiloh had made her recite countless times. "Lumers are slapped in chains. Lumers are shipped off to Aelar. Lumers become slaves. I will never summon lume. I will never weave luminescence." She sighed. "I will hide my magic until the day I die."

"And if you don't, that day won't be far off, because I'm going to kill you myself." Shiloh narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing her daughter, seeking conceit. Once satisfied, she sighed and embraced Maya. "I tell you this because I love you, my sweet daughter. Because I want to keep you safe."

She stroked Maya's curly black hair, a mane so wild they could never tame it. Atalia and Ofeer had straight, silky hair, but Maya's had always been a great tangle.

I love you more than you can imagine, sweet daughter, Shiloh thought. You're my youngest child, my precious princess. I cannot bear the thought of losing you.

Maya was fifteen, no longer a child, but as Shiloh held her, she felt like a mother nursing her babe. She thought of the babe she had lost, the precious boy she had birthed eleven years ago, a child who had lived for only a day. The memory of sweet Mica never left her mind, but it filled her most powerfully whenever she thought of Maya's Luminosity.

Please, God, do not let me lose another child, Shiloh prayed silently. I already lost one child. I already lost my brothers in the war. Please, God of Zohar, keep Maya safe. Keep all my children safe.

Maya sniffed and wrapped her arms around Shiloh. They knelt together on the road, holding each other.

"But don't you think, Mother," Maya said, "that if I found a Luminosity teacher, I'd learn how to control it? There are Luminosity teachers here in Beth Eloh. There's even a lumer here! She serves Cousin Shefael. Her name is Avinasi, and many scrolls speak of her might. Can I meet her?"

"Maya!" Shiloh frowned. "I told you. You just promised me!"

"I know. I know." Maya lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry. No more Luminosity. I'll control it. I promise."

This was not a new request. Countless times, Maya had begged her parents to send her to Beth Eloh to find a Luminosity teacher, perhaps even to study from Avinasi herself, the fabled lumer who served Prince Shefael, whom Emperor Marcus Octavius allowed to remain in Zohar. Sometimes it seemed like Jerael would almost agree, perhaps would at least allow Maya to read Master Malaci's scrolls on Luminosity—scrolls banned to Maya. Yet Shiloh had always remained firm.

"Maya is never to approach Beth Eloh again," she had said. "And if I catch Master Malaci giving her a scroll on Luminosity, I'll have the old fool's library torn down."

That library was far now, and Beth Eloh was close, the fountain that sprouted the world's lume. Shiloh vowed to protect her child from this holy light—the magic that for millennia had blessed their people, that today could doom Maya to chains.

They continued riding up the mountainside, heading toward the holy city. Beth Eloh had not seemed so far, but it took several more hours of hard riding to finally reach the plateau upon which it spread. They must have been a mil above sea level now, maybe even a full parasa high. Here on the mountains of Eloh lay the gateway to the desert. When Shiloh gazed back west, she could see the mountainsides sloping down, green with olive trees, pines, and cypresses, leading to distant arable lands beyond which—too far to see from here—lay Gefen and the sea.

But when she looked east, the mountainsides were barren, tan, and rocky, only scattered brambles growing across them. The slopes spread down toward the desert. Distant dunes rolled into a hazy horizon. Beige. Lifeless. Stretching into eternity. Here on the mountain the world ended; beyond was nothing but wastelands, cruel and dead.

Between forest and desert rose the city of Beth Eloh . . . and thousands of troops.

Here were no legionaries, marching in perfect precision, eagles on their shields. These troops were darker, their eyes brown and brooding, both bearded men and fierce women with braids in their hair. All wore iron scales and bore sickle swords, and slings hung from their belts. They camped outside the city, some patrolling, many lying under olive and fig trees. Campfires burned across the rocky plateau, and the smells of baking breads and cooking meat tickled the nostrils. The host had many horses, a few camels too, and even a handful of chariots. They seemed to spread for parsa'ot, surrounding the city of Beth Eloh in an iron noose. Their banners thudded in the wind, displaying the lion of Zohar, a crown on his head.

"Prince Yohanan's host," Shiloh said.

Maya nodded and pointed at the city walls. "And look, on the battlements! More Zoharite soldiers."

Indeed, hundreds of warriors lined the walls of the city, holding bows and spears. These men and women had no baking bread, no cooking meat. Their skin was ashen, their faces cadaverous, their eyes sunken and weary. Here were the warriors sworn to Prince Shefael, younger of the late queen's sons. They perhaps had the city, but they looked close to losing the war, at least judging by their gauntness.

"For now, your cousins seemed to have reached an impasse," Shiloh said to her daughter. "If only we can convince those foolish boys to stop their bickering, to march west with us, and to defeat the true enemy—the eagles of Aelar. After three years of this civil war, perhaps a hungry eagle is just what these lion cubs need."

Maya stared at her, eyes glazed. The girl was ashen, shivering, blinking too much. She hugged herself. "Perhaps." Her voice was soft, the voice of one suffering from a long illness.

Shiloh sighed and tried to smooth her daughter's mane of curls. Perhaps she shouldn't have brought Maya here. Yet here they were, atop the mountain, the spring of lume flowing into the world. Shiloh herself could not sense the lume. To her, this was a mountain of antiquity, of beauty, of fear, the heart of her people. Every stone here, every olive tree, every limestone brick in the walls—all bore the weight of history and her nation's future. Yet how insignificant that must all seem to Maya! How did this mountain and city appear to the girl? Like a storm of light, like a great sea of magic, and she herself caught in the maelstrom? Shiloh felt like a deaf woman in a hall of great music, oblivious to a song of eternal beauty all around her—just beyond her senses.

"Turn back, pilgrims!" rose a voice from ahead. "City gates are closed. Don't you know there's a war?"

Shiloh turned to see a tall, gaunt soldier approach, his black beard cropped close. Rust clung to his scale armor, and he wore old leather vambraces and sandals. A sword hung from his left side, a sling and stones from the right. An aroma of sweat and oil clung to him, and a scar ran down his cheek. He seemed about thirty years old, perhaps a few years older, but careworn as an elder who'd seen too many battles.

Shiloh stared at him, eyebrow raised. "And since when do princes dress in rusted scales and guard their camps as lowborn soldiers?"

The haggard man stepped closer, eyes dark, and a scowl twisted his face. His hand trailed toward the hilt of his sword, and such fire burned in his eyes that Maya took a step back.

"Since this prince became a king," he said. "And since this king saw two splendid horses, far more valuable than any humble pilgrims could own, climbing his mountain."

Shiloh jabbed his chest. "You, Prince Yohanan, should learn proper hospitality."

His scowl deepened, his eyes so cruel that Maya drew her dagger . . . but then a great, toothy grin split Yohanan's face, and he pulled Shiloh into his embrace.

"Aunt Shiloh! You could always make me feel like a child."

"I knew you as a child," she said, wrapped in his arms. "I changed your soiled swaddling clothes when you were but a babe."

He laughed—a deep hearty laugh. "By God, how long has it been?"

"Three years since I visited Beth Eloh," Shiloh said softly. "Not since your mother passed. My sister was a strong woman, wise and brave." She lowered her head. "And longer since you visited us in Gefen."

Yohanan—eldest son of the late Queen Sifora Elior, descended of King Elshalom himself—sighed. "Too long, Aunt. Do you still have that pomegranate tree in your yard? And the painting of the elephants in the dining room?"

"Both are still there. And that dining room is always open to you."

He held her hands in his. "I miss that place. And I miss Uncle Jerael. He's the wisest man I know. I grew up without a father, and I've always thought of Jerael as one. I've always admired him, wanted to be him." He turned his head, and his eyes narrowed. "And is this Maya, this woman who draws a dagger against her king?"

Maya stared at him, dagger still held in her hand. "I didn't recognize you, cousin. You look horrible."

Yohanan stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. "I do. And you've grown! By the light. You were only a child when I last met you." He bowed his head. "Three years of war seem like an era to those who fight it. And they seem even longer when I see a child who's become a woman. I would welcome you into Beth Eloh, Maya, and have a feast in your honor, had my weasel of a brother not locked us fine folk outside the walls."

He calls his brother a weasel, Shiloh thought, yet to the Aelarians we are all rats—vermin to crush.

Yohanan looked back at her, eyebrows pushed low over his dark eyes. His voice softened. "Are you all right, Aunt Shiloh? You tremble. You did not come here merely to visit, did you? You come bearing ill news."

She nodded. "Ill news and hope." She looked around at the many soldiers who walked back and forth. "Where can we talk in solitude?"

"There's not much solitude in the camp, and I sleep among my soldiers under the open sky. But there's an olive grove nearby, a place where I often pray. Let us speak there." He winked at Maya. "And keep your dagger drawn, cousin. If the weasel emerges from his lair, maybe you'll be lucky enough to be the one who slays him."

They walked through the camp, passing by thousands of soldiers—soldiers who should be in the west, fighting the Aelarians on the coast. Several men sat on boulders, playing dice. Two women drilled on a dusty patch of land, lashing spears against shields. Engineers were repairing a damaged catapult. Arrows bristled upon its wooden beam, and a rope was severed. One soldier walked by, pushing a wheelbarrow. Within sat a legless soldier who drank wine from a clay mug. Beyond the camp, trees had been cut down, and graves spread in rows, some of them fresh.

This is what three years of war looks like, Shiloh thought. A weary force, wounded, haggard. Fear grew in her. She wondered how the true war—the war against Aelar—was faring in the west, whether Gefen still stood. Even should those seaside walls stand, could the soldiers here turn the tide, defeat the legionaries—that machine of war?

Finally they reached the olive grove, and Yohanan led them between the twisting trees.

"Did you know, Maya," the prince said, "some of these trees are two thousand years old. They were here when King Elshalom united the tribes into a kingdom. They were here when we escaped our captivity from the Sekadians and rebuilt this city. And soon these trees will witness more history—the triumph of King Yohanan over his usurper brother and the restoration of Zohar to her rightful heir."

Shiloh placed her hand on the prince's shoulder. He loomed above her, so much taller, but she stared steadily into his eyes. There was no more time to dally.

"Aelar attacks," Shiloh said. "Prince Seneca Octavius himself, son of Emperor Marcus, has invaded our port with an armada. Gefen is besieged! I've come to ask for aid—from you. And from your brother. The armies of Zohar must unite and march west. Today. At once."

Yohanan stared at her. His mouth dropped open, then closed. His face grew ashen, and he turned away from her. He stared at the old olive trees. He said nothing.

"Yohanan," Shiloh said, "I know you wish to think, to pray, perhaps to speak to your officers, but we have no time. The enemy invades, and their purpose is one: destroy Zohar. We must face them. United as a family. United as a nation."

He still faced away from her. Slowly his hands curled into fists. When he turned back toward her, his face was haunted, a mask of grief and fear.

"My mother died three years ago," he said, voice strained. "And she named my younger brother heir. She named him! Him! Shefael—a year younger, a drunkard, a man who had never wielded a sword. Him she named heir over me—older, stronger, wiser, a soldier. For three years I fought him, Shiloh. For three years I hated him. For three years I watched thousands of soldiers, the salt of the earth, the sons and daughters of our beautiful land, die to remove the tyrant from the throne. And you ask me now to join him! To march away from this city—on the eve of claiming it—to fight a new enemy. You ask me to undo all that I've done in my life, perhaps to forever lose my throne—and to decide within a moment!"

Shiloh nodded. "These are the decisions kings must make."

"Kings?" Yohanan said, and a cold madness filled his eyes. "Many in Zohar are and have been called kings. We squabble like crows as our halls crumble, as our forests burn, as we ravage those lands we seek to bless. We speak of glory and legacy as all the works of men are laid to waste. We wear crowns of rust and sit upon thrones of ash. What are we but kings of ruin?"

"We've not yet fallen to ruin." Shiloh placed a hand on his cheek. "Do not give up hope, son of Zohar. There's still light in the darkness. The light of our god, our kingdom, and our people still shines."

He dropped to his knees before her, and he took her hands in his. He took a deep breath. "I've decided, Aunt Shiloh. Within a moment, as you asked. The choices of kings—made within heartbeats, reverberating for generations."

She held her breath, staring at him. "What have you decided?" she whispered.

Yohanan's hands tightened around hers. "I will fight with you, dearest aunt. I will fight the eagles for the glory of lions. But only if Shefael fights with us. Alone we're too weak. Only united can we cast back this new darkness. Go to the city gates. He will allow you passage; you've always been dear to him. Join his forces to our fight, and we will send the eagles back into the sea."

Shiloh let out a shaky breath of relief. She pulled her hands free and caressed her nephew's hair. "Thank you, Yohanan."

"Don't thank me yet." His eyes darkened, and he turned to look at the city walls. "Shefael is prideful and cruel, and he will think himself safe from Aelar behind the walls. Perhaps he would welcome the legions here, letting them crawl across our land to vanquish me. Go into Beth Eloh, Shiloh, and go with my blessings and prayers. But do not raise your hopes, for a darkness has fallen upon Shefael's mind, and all the light of God and Luminosity cannot banish it."

OFEER

Her prince returned from battle at dusk, stinking of sweat and horse and wine, a goblet in his hand.

Ofeer had spent the day in his tent of splendor. The rugs were soft, embroidered with eagles. A giltwood bed supported tasseled cushions, silver dishes held grapes, figs, apples, and sweet almonds, and wine filled clay jugs. Yet Ofeer did not eat or drink, barely spared the fineries a glance. She spent her days listening to the sounds of battle outside. The clash of boulders. The whistles of arrows. The chanting of soldiers and the screams of the dying. Every time a scream rose, she wondered if it was a family member.

"You scorned me all my life for my blood," Ofeer whispered all day, over and over as she sat in her tent. Her fists trembled. "I was just a bastard to you. You kept me trapped in this miserable hive." She laughed, a cracking, broken sound. "Now you see the might of us Aelarians."

Yet as Ofeer laughed, tears filled her eyes. Whenever she imagined her mother dying, the joy made her laugh and dance, then double over and weep. When once Ofeer thought she heard Atalia scream outside, she shouted in triumph and punched the air, then curled up and shivered. She hated them. She loved them. She was scared. She was so scared.

I want to go home, whispered a voice inside her, the voice of a little girl. I want to go back to the house on Pine Hill. To sit at the dining room table between Maya and Atalia, under the painting of the elephants. To paint in the gardens. I want my mother to hug me and—

Ofeer slapped herself.

"Stupid girl!" She punched the table, bloodying her fist. "You're not a weak, pathetic little bitch like Maya. You are Ofeer, the daughter of an Aelarian, the—"

The daughter of an emperor.

The thought came into her mind, unbidden. Her mother had spoken those words, had tried to make Ofeer believe that Marcus Octavius himself was her father. Ofeer barked a laugh. She paced the tent, blood dripping from her hand.

"I'm not so easily fooled, Mother. Prince Seneca loves me. And I love him. He's not my half brother. He's my prince, my beautiful prince, and I'm going to marry him someday, and then you'll be sorry. You'll all be so sorry for how you mocked me. I'm going to live in a beautiful palace, and your city will be nothing but dust."

Ofeer pulled the embroidered tent flap open, exposing the scene outside. The sun was setting, casting red light across the hills and fields. The legionaries stood before her, firing their catapults at Gefen. Great boulders and flaming barrels flew, some slamming into the city's walls, others flying over the battlements to crush houses. Zoharite soldiers stood on the walls, firing arrows, but could not hold back the assault.

It was then, standing in the open door of her tent, that Ofeer saw her prince return drunk from the field.

"Ofeer!" he cried to her, raising his mug in salute. Droplets of wine splashed out like blood. "Do you see the glory? The rats cower in their hive, hiding from my light. Soon we will smash those walls down."

Ofeer wiped the tears from her eyes. "I see your glory, my prince!"

He is my prince, she told herself. He is my beautiful, victorious prince, and he'll take me to live in a faraway palace in a world of wonder. He's not my brother. My mother is a liar, and she'll be sorry once I'm gone. She'll be so sorry once I marry Seneca and forget all about her and what she did to me.

Her noble prince stumbled into the tent, reeking of booze and battle, and Ofeer followed him like a dog on her master's heels. He grabbed a flagon and refilled his cup, then filled a second cup for her.

"Let us drink for the victory of eagles." He raised his chalice.

"Swift as eagles!" Ofeer said, speaking the old words of Aelar—words she had repeated over and over as a child, hiding in the hills, dreaming of this moment.

Outside the catapults still fired and men still screamed, but in here there was no death, no blood, only love. They drank. Then they drank some more. They lay on his bed, and she allowed him to feed her grapes, and she kissed him, passing the grapes back into his mouth, and laughed, and laughed some more, and fell onto the rug, and laughed as he caught her and pulled her back up. They drank. And outside still rose the screams.

She stumbled outside then, on hands and knees, and threw up, losing the wine, the grapes, and she saw the battle ahead of her. She saw a man fall dead from the wall. She saw the fire rage across Gefen, rising from the port where she had spent so much of her youth, gambling and drinking and fucking and dreaming and hiding, hiding in the shadows, hiding from who she was, and she wept again.

"Come back, my swarthy little princess of darkness!" Seneca laughed behind her. "Come back to me, my lioness!"

"I'm an eagle," Ofeer said, but he ignored her. He grabbed her and pulled her back into the tent. She drank some more. She had to wash out the taste of vomit from her mouth, and so she emptied two more cups, and then she kissed him. She kissed him hard, her fingers in his hair.

"Make me forget," she whispered. "Hurt me. Hurt me so much until I forget it all."

She tugged off her dress, entangling herself, tearing the cotton. She lay on her back on the bed, then remembered how he liked it, and she rolled onto her belly and closed her eyes. He mounted her. He took her hard. He hurt her.

"Harder," she moaned. "Harder. Hard as you can. Make me forget."

She cried out as he fucked her, and she laughed, laughed, moaned, screamed into the cushions, screamed like the dying outside. And he made her forget. For just a few moments, with wine and sex and gold, he made her forget.

He pulled out from her, and he lay at her side on the bed. She rolled onto her back, feeling his seed drip down her thighs, staining the beautifully embroidered eagles on his silken sheets.

"Hold me," Ofeer whispered into his ear, nestling against him. "Please hold me, Seneca. Hold me and make me feel safe. Tell me everything will be all right."

He only answered with a snore, drooling in his slumber.

She tried to roll him over, to sling his arms around her, but he was too heavy. She tried cuddling at his side, but he sprawled out, taking up most of the bed. She felt empty. She wrapped her arms around her nakedness, feeling cold even in the heat of the tent.

"I love you," she whispered to her prince. He did not wake.

Ofeer rose from the bed. Her dress was ripped, so she grabbed one of Seneca's togas from his giltwood chest. The wool was dyed ultramarine—the costliest of dyes, obtained from powdered lapis lazuli, gemstones imported from distant Sekadia beyond the reaches of the Empire. The garment was probably worth more than the villa on Pine Hill and everything in it, costlier than a breastplate of gold. Ofeer wasn't sure how to don it, so she wrapped it around herself like a sheet and stepped outside. The sun had fallen, though fires lit the night, and thousands of legionaries still moved around her, loading more stones into catapults.

She walked among the soldiers, wrapped in the toga. Eyes turned to follow her. One legionary guffawed, elbowed his friend, and whispered of a swarthy whore in the ranks. Another legionary silenced him with a glare, speaking of "the prince's whore." Ofeer ignored them. She was no harlot. Her prince loved her. She knew this. So what if he wouldn't hold her after sex? He was just weary from his victories. Once this land was his, she would live in his palace, and these soldiers would kneel before her.

She knew the secret paths of these hills and fields; she had run through them so many times in her childhood. She passed the legions, and she walked across sandy hills bristly with tussocks, leaving the battle behind. Farther from the burning city, the night darkened. Ancient ruins rose here from the sand—the shells of homes, a fallen archway, a statue smoothed by centuries of rain—remnants from the wild tribes of Zoharites who had lived here before King Elshalom had forged them a kingdom. Nothing remained of those old villages now—only these bricks—and Ofeer wondered if in hundreds of years, a woman would walk over the ruins of Gefen and wonder about the lives of its dwellers.

Finally, past towering boulders and a rocky slope, Ofeer made her way down to the beach. The walls of Gefen rose two milim to the north, lit with fire. The sounds of battle sounded faded from here. Ofeer walked until the waves washed her toes, and then she sat on the wet sand, not even caring that she dirtied Seneca's toga. She wrapped the costly fabric more closely around her and gazed at the water.

"I'm sorry, Mother," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I miss you so much."

More than anything—more than palaces, more than endless wine—Ofeer suddenly wanted her mother to hug her. She wanted to be near Shiloh again—wise, stern, gentle Shiloh—wanted to feel her mother's arms wrap around her, holding her so close, keeping her safe.

Yet how could Ofeer return now? Gefen was so close yet beyond her reach, and perhaps Mother wasn't even in Gefen but had fled to another city, maybe Beth Eloh in the east. Ofeer wept as she stared at the waves.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way," she said, tasting her tears. "He was supposed to love me. The legionaries were supposed to accept me as one of their own, not call me a whore. None of this should have happened, and I'm so scared, Mother. I want you to be with me."

A soft voice spoke behind her—not in Aelarian but in Zoharite, her mother's tongue. "Your mother loves you, child."

Ofeer spun around, for an instant daring to hope that Mother had found her, but no. It was not the slender Shiloh who stood there, a braid across her shoulder, but a different woman, clad in crimson, her lips red and full of secrets, her eyes staring from beneath heavy lashes.

"Taeer," Ofeer said. She had seen the lumer skulking around her prince.

"Taeer Bat Ami of Beth Eloh, now of Aelar."

The lumer approached her, and Ofeer made to leap to her feet, but she wobbled and fell back down. Taeer sat beside her on the sand, not minding that she dirtied her fine silks. The lumer's golden jewels shone in the moonlight, and Ofeer noticed that an eagle pendant—similar to the one Ofeer herself wore—hung around Taeer's neck.

"Don't even speak to me in Zoharite," Ofeer said, switching to Aelarian, the language she had studied from Master Malaci.

"I thought you would appreciate the language of your home," said Taeer, still speaking Zoharite. "It's a terrible thing to do, to leave your home. Isn't it?"

"My home is in Aelar." Ofeer stared across the water. "Out there, far in the southwest."

"Aelar is in the northwest," Taeer said softly.

Ofeer spun toward the woman, eyes flashing. "What do you know of Aelar? You're just a lumer." She spat. "Even my sister . . ."

. . . is a lumer, Ofeer wanted to say, but she held her tongue. If anyone here knew of Maya's secret magic, and if they found her, they would ship the girl over as a slave. Ofeer imagined little Maya in irons, and pain filled her. She hated Maya. Hated her! Didn't she? The girl was insufferable, always skulking about, sniffling and weeping. It was just that Ofeer did not want Maya anywhere near Aelar, that was all. Suffering the girl in Zohar had been bad enough; Ofeer did not want her in her perfect land across the sea. That was the only reason she hesitated. Wasn't it?

". . . knows more about maps," Ofeer finished her sentence, lamely.

Taeer gazed with her across the water. "I've lived in Aelar for nineteen years, since the island of Cadom was lost, since Seneca was born. I was only twelve when they shipped me over, when they bound me to the prince. I was one of Zohar's first tributes. I return to Zohar every year on a pilgrimage and replenish my lume, and the journey home always feels so short, and I always miss Zohar once I've returned to Aelar."

"Why?" Ofeer asked, voice softer now. "They say Aelar is wonderful. That her towers kiss the sky. That angelic choirs sing in her temples. That great actors perform in her amphitheaters. That statues line every street."

"Those things are true." Taeer nodded. "Her towers do kiss the sky, their mortar mingled with the blood of slaves. Choirs do sing in her temples—after sacrificing the living to the gods. Actors do perform in amphitheaters—before the lions feast upon prisoners. Statues do line every street, but so do crucified men and women, rotting in the sun."

Ofeer thought of the beaten legionary on the ship, how the whips had torn into his back, how he had screamed, how Seneca had shown him no mercy.

"That's how empires are built," said Ofeer. "With blood. That's the only way to survive in this world." Yet her words tasted stale. That was Seneca speaking.

Taeer turned back toward her, and Ofeer's heart missed a beat. There was light in Taeer's eyes, golden, all-seeing. Tendrils of luminescence wove around her fingertips.

"There's more than one way to build an empire," said the lumer. "For here in Zohar shines an empire of light. This empire has no soaring towers, no great temples, no earthly glory, for she is woven of splendor."

"What do you want?" Ofeer rose to her feet, and though her head still spun, this time she remained standing. "You didn't come here to show off your magic tricks."

Taeer rose too. Ofeer felt small before her, weak, naive and young, nothing but a waif of a girl. The lumer was taller, curved in the places that men liked, and beautiful with her red lips and deep eyes, and suddenly jealousy filled Ofeer that such an enchantress was bonded to Seneca, had spent so many years at his side. A horrible vision filled Ofeer—a vision of Taeer making love to him. Ofeer had seen the scratches and tooth marks on Seneca's naked flesh, and in her stupor, she had thought them injuries from battle, yet now she wasn't so sure.

"I came here to tell you two truths," said Taeer the lumer. "The first I already told you: that your mother loves you."

"That is a lie," Ofeer whispered, but of this too she was unsure.

Taeer ignored her. "The second truth you already know, though you drown it under your shame and pride. Your mother told you this truth before you ran from her, the truth of who your father is." The lumer leaned closer, stroked Ofeer's hair, and whispered into her ear. "You are the child of an emperor."

Ofeer tried to shove the woman, but suddenly Taeer was several feet away, then gone into shadows. Ofeer's knees wobbled, and she fell onto the sand. A wave rose from the sea, dampening her hair, entering her nostrils.

"No," Ofeer whispered, sand and salty water in her mouth. "Lies. They all lie to me. They all . . ." She pushed herself onto her elbows and lowered her head, her hair hanging down into the water. "I fucked my brother. Oh God above, I fucked my own brother."

The words, coming out of her mouth like that, made her laugh.

She laughed and laughed until her cheeks hurt, until her sides ached, and she fell onto her back and laughed some more, laughing with as much pain and abandon as when he had fucked her.

It's true, it's true, it's true.

Ofeer stood up and walked into the sea until the water rose to her knees, soaking her toga. She raised her arms, letting the garment fall into the water, and laughed at the moon and the sea.

"I wanted to become the wife of a prince, to return with him as his prize." She tasted the sea on her lips. "But I will be an empress."

PORCIA

They were only hours into Zohar when she saw a hive of the rats.

The village nestled in a valley, a backwater of several brick houses, a few gardens, a pen of sheep, and a small stone temple. The place could not have supported more than a hundred souls. Rocky hills rose around the village, thick with granite boulders and pines.

"Look, Worm," Porcia said, riding at the lead of her legions. "Your countrymen! Fellow maggots to crush."

Worm walked at her side, clad in rags, her iron collar caked with mud. Her left eye was still puffy, her back still striped. Her eyes dampened.

"Yes, domina." The lumer dared not meet her eyes. "You will crush them."

Behind them, fifteen thousand legionaries marched and rode along the dirt path that snaked between the hills and valleys of Erez, the northern wilderness of Zohar. Porcia had brought a thousand horses with her, and the beasts were struggling. The paths here were narrow, the hills steep, but the cavalry would prove itself invaluable once they reached the desert. At Beth Eloh, a few days south from here, their true test waited.

But here . . . here we can whet our appetite.

"Look there, Worm." Porcia pointed at a distant mountain shaped like a camel's hump. On its crest rose a walled town, a fortress in its center, still several leagues away. "The fortress of Ma'oz. More rats cower there. They can see us now. Do you think they'll storm forth to challenge us, or will they hide behind their walls like good rats?"

Worm looked at her feet. "I think they'll hide."

"I do too." Porcia led her horse around a boulder that had fallen onto the path. "You see, Worm, your kind are weak, sniveling little creatures, misshapen, hideous with your swarthy, hairy skin, your minds no sharper than that of my horse. But more than anything, a Zoharite is cowardly. He hides behind walls when superior races would fight for honor."

Worm raised her eyes, just a flick, then her mouth closed tightly. She lowered her head again, perhaps remembering Porcia's many beatings, and nodded. "We are cowardly."

Below in the village, a few farmers raised their heads, saw the host approach from the mountains, and cried out in fear. More people emerged from the stone houses and began to flee, racing toward the distant fortified mountain.

"The first catch of the day." Porcia licked her lips, already imagining the taste of blood. "Legions! Quench your thirst. Tear down the rats. Swift as eagles!"

"Swift as eagles!" they cried . . . and charged.

Porcia kneed her horse and galloped. The wind billowed her red cloak and her helmet's crest. Behind her, the roar of the legions tore across the land. The rats scurried out from their homes, mothers holding babes, fathers turning toward the legions with pitchforks and breadknives. Sheep bleated.

"We came!" Porcia shouted, galloping downhill into the valley. "We saw!" She grinned savagely and thrust her spear. "We killed."

Her spear thrust into a mother's back, crashing through her torso, through her babe, emerging with a shower of blood.

The cavalry charged through the town, trampling gardens, trampling children. Porcia laughed as she fought, as she cut them down. A few villagers tried to attack, waving their sickles. Porcia swung her gladius, severing a man's arm, and galloped past him. She knocked down a toddler, and her horse's hooves snapped the child's bones and crushed his skull.

A few Zoharites managed to flee the village, to run up a rocky slope where no horse could ride. Porcia grabbed the crossbow that hung from her saddle, closed one eye, and aimed.

"This isn't a battle," she whispered, raising the crossbow toward a fleeing woman. "This is a rat hunt."

She fired.

Her quarrel crashed into the woman's back.

Porcia loaded another quarrel and cranked the string back.

"I came." She shot down a limping elder. "I saw." Her quarrel tore through a young boy. "I killed." She shot again, slaying a mother. The woman's babe fell from her lifeless arms.

Porcia looked around her. Corpses lay across the village, cut and crushed. The legionaries stood between the houses, atop the hills, across the fields, roaring for victory. A few men were looting already, feasting on fruit, bread, and mutton. No village men or boys survived, but a handful of legionaries were dragging a young woman into a home. It was a habit her father frowned upon, Porcia knew, but one she allowed her men. Glory alone could not sustain the legions. That was what her father did not grasp. It was the spoils of war—hearty village food, treasures of gold, and foreign women—that her men craved more than honor.

Men care more for conquering cunts than kingdoms, she thought.

Porcia wanted to join the festivities when she heard the shrill sound. A baby crying. The sound came from the hills where Porcia had shot those attempting to flee.

A grin stretched across her face, and Porcia dismounted her horse. She climbed uphill, moving between the granite boulders, the pines, and the corpses. The urchin's cry rose louder. Porcia followed the sound and found the baby trapped under his mother's corpse. A little boy. Freshly circumcised, by the looks of it—a habit of these heathens.

"I will cut more than your little cock," Porcia cooed.

She drew her dagger. She silenced the screams.

She tossed both babe and dagger aside. She knelt by the corpse of its mother and flipped the woman onto her stomach. A young one. Couldn't have been older than sixteen. Pretty, Porcia thought, despite the dark hair.

Prey for eagles.

Porcia needed no blade for this work. Her fingers were talons. She was a mighty eagle, and she ripped into her prey, digging, cracking open the ribs. Her talons reached deep, wrapped around the heart, and tore it free.

"Swift as eagles." Porcia rose to her feet, holding the heart above her head. The hot blood dripped onto her helmet and ran down her face. "For the glory of Aelar!"

A few legionaries cheered, but most simply stared. They too were weak. They had grown accustomed to fighting under her father. To hesitate. To show their enemy mercy. Porcia would cut that weakness out of them as surely as she'd cut out this heart.

She brought the dripping organ to her lips, and she tore into it, tugging chunks free, feasting.

"I eat the heart of a woman!" she cried, voice rolling across the valley and hills. "And now we head toward the heart of a nation. We march to Beth Eloh! There too shall we feast."

She licked the blood off her lips. She would devour all this land. All the hearts of Zohar would be hers. She would make this a land of her conquest, of her glory, of her hunger. She would return to Aelar leaving a graveyard, a wasteland of bones. She would return as a great conqueror, return to become her father's heir.

Soon Zohar will be mine. And then the Empire.

She rode on, leaving the corpses to rot. The worm walked at her side, while the legions snaked behind her on the dirt path. Behind them, the vultures feasted.

As she rode between the hills, Porcia glanced up toward Ma'oz, the walled town and fortress on the mountaintop. She smiled thinly.

"You were right, Worm," she said to the lumer who walked beside her. "The rats remained behind their walls. We will leave them there to cower. But the walls of Beth Eloh will fall before us."

"Yes, domina," said Worm, eyes downcast, her rags stained with blood.

Porcia swallowed her last bite of heart and rode on.

JERAEL

"Can you build them?" Jerael said. "Just like those."

Master Malaci stood on the wall with him, gazing at the field. He was a scrawny old man, robed in homespun, his beard long and white. He leaned over the battlements, squinting and blinking, struggling to bring the view into focus. In the fields outside the city rose the enemy catapults, trebuchets, and ballistae, armed with boulders, barrels of oil, and iron bolts.

"Those are things of war, Jerael." The old sage's voice was high pitched and breathy. "Machines to kill, to destroy, to crush."

Jerael nodded. "Which they've been doing. To us. Which is why we need some of our own."

The old man huffed, raised his chin, and straightened to his full height—which was firmly below Jerael's shoulders. "I am a man of knowledge, Jerael Sela. A man of scrolls, of medicine, of astronomy, of lore. Never of violence. I detest violence, for it's a thing of darkness, and I serve life."

Jerael sighed and placed a hand on Malaci's shoulder. "And we're blessed to have such a righteous man in our city. I—"

A catapult clanked in the field. A boulder flew toward them. Across the wall, a hundred Zoharite soldiers grimaced and knelt.

Jerael cursed, ducked, and shielded Malaci with his body. The boulder slammed into the battlements before them. Bricks and dust flew. The wall shook. Other boulders sailed overhead, cleared the wall, and slammed into the city. Roofs shattered. Screams rose from below, and a woman wailed, calling out the names of her loved ones.

Jerael straightened and pulled Malaci back to his feet; the old man had fallen to his knees.

"Do you see, Jerael, what tools of war can do?" Malaci stared at the ravaged city, eyes damp. "So much destruction. So many lives lost. I will take no part in such horrors." He puffed out his frail chest. "How could I contribute to this violence?"

"Dear Malaci." Jerael dusted rubble off the old man's shoulders. "You've been a friend all my life. When I was but a boy, I admired you more than any warrior or prince. You were—and are—a man of scrolls. Of knowledge. A man who builds rather than destroys. You are the model of a Zoharite, humble and wise. You do not wish to kill. You care for life. Yet now, Malaci, our life is in peril. Now I need your mind and hands to protect life."

Malaci stared at the city, then back toward the legions and machines in the field. A sigh ran through him, and when he spoke again, his voice was low, somber.

"Do you think you can win this, Jerael?"

"I don't know." Jerael gazed toward his home on Pine Hill, at the eagle flag that rose atop it. "They outnumber us, and many more might be sailing our way even as we speak. Even should my family return with aid, I don't know if it'll be enough." He stared into Malaci's eyes. "But I know this. Zohar has survived in this land for three thousand years. We survived many wars. We survived slavery in Nur and captivity in Sekadia. Even when our halls fell, we rose again. I believe that we'll withstand this storm too. But I still need your mind. Not because I crave to kill the enemy, but because I want to protect all that we've built here. My daughter. Your scrolls and the knowledge within them. Fifty thousand souls in Gefen, and a million souls that live in this kingdom. We must protect them, Malaci. I with my sword and you with your mind."

Malaci lowered his head, shoulders stooping, then looked up with damp eyes and nodded. "I will build you catapults, Jerael Sela. I will build you trebuchets. Give me a hundred workers, and I will mount weapons upon our walls."

Leaning on his staff, the old man descended the staircase that led to the courtyard. Jerael remained on the wall, here with his soldiers, staring eastward, staring at the forces besieging his home.

Please, God, he prayed silently. Let my wife and daughter return with aid from the city. Let my boys return with aid from the hills. Protect us, Lord of Light. Shine your light upon us.

Yet no answer came from his god. Jerael wondered, as he had wondered nineteen years ago in Cadom, whether Eloh had abandoned them—whether he truly existed at all. What if Zohar had no shepherd, no guardian above? What if there were no gods, if the world were but a stage where men wrote their own plays? If God truly existed, how could Jerael's brother, brave Eliel, have fallen at Cadom? How could his son, sweet Mica, have died after only one day of life? How could this terror now be falling upon this city?

"If Zohar has no protector above," Jerael spoke softly into the sandy wind, "I will be her protector here under the sun. If no god defends us, my sword and shield will, as long as I can lift them."

"Father! Father, hurry!" Atalia's voice rose from below, and Jerael looked down to see her racing across the courtyard and up the wall. "Father, they're coming toward the southern wall!"

"What is?" He frowned. "Atalia, what?"

"Towers!" Sweat shone on her brow. "Towers of wood and leather, bearing archers! Towers on wheels."

Jerael's heart sank. He turned toward the other soldiers on the wall. "Fifth phalanx! With me. To the southern wall!"

He raced downstairs toward the courtyard, and a hundred warriors followed. They ran through the city, passing by toppled houses, wounded soldiers who lay shivering and dying, and a temple where priests prayed for salvation. Soon they raced up more stairs, heading onto the southern wall of Gefen.

In the distance Jerael saw them, drawing nearer.

"Siege towers," he muttered.

Atalia sneered. Blood splashed her armor and caked her hair. Ash smeared her face, and stitches held together a cut on her cheek. Her eyes blazed with fire, and she turned toward the warriors of her phalanx. The dour men and women stood along the wall, coated with just as much blood and dust, many of them wounded and bandaged. Some were barely more than boys and girls.

"Phalanx, draw your arrows!" Atalia said. "Light them with fire."

Jerael turned toward the phalanx that had followed him here from the southern wall. "Warriors of Zohar, draw arrows of fire!"

All across the wall, the warriors lit the tips of their arrows. Jerael stared at the approaching siege towers and cursed. There were three of them. Each tower stood the height of several men—as tall as the city walls. Their wheels creaked. Wooden beams formed their walls, overlain with leather. Battlements of iron plates topped the towers, and behind them waited legionaries. Dozens of slaves toiled in the field, pulling the siege engines toward the city wall.

"Shoot the slaves below!" Atalia shouted. "Shoot the—"

"No!" Jerael bellowed. "Men, no!"

Atalia spun toward him, eyes flashing. "Father, why—"

"Look!"

He pointed toward the slaves who were tugging and shoving the siege towers. Atalia stared and her face blanched.

"God's balls." She hissed. "They're . . . Zoharites."

The slaves below wore only loincloths, and their beards flowed down their chests, gray with age. Crowns of thorns topped their heads, cutting the skin, and blood dripped from lashes on their backs. Each man bore a wooden sign around his neck, displaying the words: "Rat of Zohar."

"They were taken in the last war," Atalia whispered. "Nineteen years ago. God, Father. They've been slaves for two decades."

Jerael's hand shook around his bow.

Are you among them, Eliel? Do you toil here too?

His younger brother, only twenty during the last war, had vanished in the slaughter at Cadom. His body had never been found, presumed drowned at sea. But Jerael had always clung to hope. Now he sought his brother's face among the slaves below, yet all those faces looked the same: haggard, bearded, the eyes dead.

No. You died, Eliel. You had to have died. Jerael gnashed his teeth. I could not live in a world that would inflict such pain upon you, that would turn a proud, handsome youth into a wretch.

Jerael forced a deep breath and shouted, "Men, fire at the towers! Burn them down!"

He loaded a flaming arrow and fired. Atalia shouted. Hundreds of arrows sailed from the wall and slammed into the siege towers.

The towers kept rolling. The arrows sank into the animal hides coating the surface and petered out. More arrows flew, and soon the siege towers were bristling with them, but still the structures did not burn.

"Fireproof." Atalia spat, drew her sword, and smiled crookedly. "Good. My blade has been thirsty."

The siege towers kept rolling closer, ama by ama. War drums beat. Legionaries chanted in the distance. "We come, we see, we kill!" More arrows flew—these ones from within the siege towers. Jerael and his warriors cursed and ducked behind crenellations, and the arrows slammed into the stones.

"We come, we see, we kill!"

The chants continued. The drums beat. A few warriors on the wall, in a desperate attempt to stop the onslaught, fired their arrows at the slaves below, slaying their own people. But it was too late to stop the assault.

With a great cheer from the legionaries, with a great battle cry from the Zoharites, the three siege towers reached the city wall.

Gangplanks dropped from the siege towers, tipped with metal claws, and slammed onto the walls. From within the structures of wood, metal, and leather, the legionaries emerged.

They did not come rushing onto the walls, swinging blades and howling for conquest. They barely seemed human as they advanced, step by synchronized step, themselves engines of war. They held their shields before and around them, forming a cocoon of metal that no arrow could pierce, and their spears thrust out from the shell.

"Ours is the light!" Atalia cried, leaped forward, and swung her blade.

Jerael ran with her, and their swords swung together.

Blood painted the walls.

The legionaries spread out, hiding behind tall shields, spears thrusting. Zoharites screamed, pierced by the blades, and fell from the wall. More gangplanks slammed down, and more legionaries emerged from their towers, machines of metal, of blades, demons bred to kill.

Jerael's blade spun in arcs. A spear lashed across his armor, scattering metal scales. He roared, knocked the spear aside, and barreled forth, slamming himself against the enemy's shield, shoving him against the battlements. Atalia cried wordlessly, sword swinging down, cutting through metal, cutting through flesh. Across the wall, spears and swords, arrows and sling stones, fire and blood, all rose in a fury, a song of death.

Nineteen years ago, I fought with my brother, and I lost him at sea. Jerael's sickle sword lashed again and again, knocking spears aside, denting shields, cutting flesh. Today I fight with my daughter. Today we will defeat you.

Atalia laughed, wept, shouted as she fought. The blood of her enemies splattered her, and her own blood seeped, but still her sword swung, and in her eyes Jerael saw it: the terror, the loss of humanity, the madness, the crippling, haunting ghosts that filled every soldier's eyes, the ghosts that had haunted his own heart for nineteen years, the ghosts he knew would never leave Atalia.

"Lord Jerael!" rose a cry from the distance. "Lord Jerael, they've breached the city! They tunneled under the wall!"

Jerael turned to look eastward. Half a mil away, he saw them. Legionaries pouring into the city, emerging from a tunnel and already racing through the streets, slaying all in their path.

"Atalia, keep this wall safe!" he cried. "Keep fighting those siege towers!"

He left her there. He ran. Zoharite warriors ran with him, bloodied swords drawn, slings firing stones at the enemy. They emerged from under the walls, legionary by legionary, shields held before them, spears thrusting. The corpses of women and children lay at their feet.

The eyes stared at him, dead, forever accusing.

The eyes of his people.

The eyes of his brother as he fell, as he vanished into the sea.

They will all stare. They will all stare at me as they die.

Jerael charged into battle, and his sword sprayed blood. Spears cut him. An arrow drove into his shoulder, and he bellowed but kept fighting. The legionaries were everywhere—emerging from siege towers onto the walls, leaping up from another tunnel, racing into the streets. Mothers cried as legionaries tore the babes from their breasts and slit their throats. City folk fled deeper into the city; others charged into battle, waving bread knives, frying pans, rolling pins. The sun fell upon Gefen but the fires of war lit the night.

"We do not fall this night!" Jerael cried, sword raised. "Arise, warriors of Zohar! Arise, warriors of light! We do not die this night. This night we fight! This night we stand!"

Atalia stood on the wall above, drenched in blood, and roared hoarsely, sword held above her head. Across the city, they cried for battle—the last defenders of Gefen, lost in darkness, heirs to an ancient light. Together they fought. Together they bled. Together they killed and died.

It was dawn before they repelled the attack, destroyed the siege towers with oil and flame, slew the invaders, and sealed the tunnels before more legionaries could emerge. No birds sang that dawn, and smoke hid the sky, and only sickly red light fell upon the ravaged city. A dawn of death. A dawn of hope.

Jerael stood in the courtyard among corpses, and he finally lowered his sword. Blood soaked his hands, his arms, his armor, and his hair clung to his head with sweat. Atalia panted at his side, grinning savagely, her tears seared dry. Around them spread the remains of the dead: severed limbs, spilled entrails, torsos and heads too burnt and crushed to recognize. Blood, offal, and gobbets of flesh spread across the cobblestones in a macabre rug, already buzzing with flies.

"We held them back." Atalia spat out blood. "We held our city."

"At a heavy cost." Jerael looked around him, and his voice was low. "Too heavy."

Three thousand warriors had defied Aelar, had risen to the walls of Gefen to defend their city. Only a thousand remained.

Leaving the dead, Jerael climbed back onto the wall, stood between the ravaged battlements, and stared at the countryside. Only a few hundred legionaries had fallen. Nearly fifteen thousand still remained in the field, already building new siege towers, loading new boulders into their catapults.

Among them, sitting on a splendid horse, Prince Seneca raised his hand in a mock salute.

"Hail, Lord of Rats!" the prince cried, drank from a goblet, and laughed. "Get your daughter ready, rat! I'm going to feed Atalia to the lions after I nail you to the cross!"

As Jerael stared at the troops outside his city, he knew: We cannot survive the next assault. If they break in again, we will all die.

"Come back to us, my sons," Jerael whispered. "Come back to me, my wife and girl. Bring back light for we are in darkness."

He returned to the courtyard, and he walked down the streets until he reached the small home he kept in Gefen. For the first time since the ships of Aelar had sailed into his port, Jerael Sela slept.

VALENTINA

She met her lumer in the library, surrounded by countless scrolls, seeking a truth written on no page.

"Iris," she whispered, holding the lumer's hands. "I must see."

The young Zoharite wore a cloak and hood, glancing around nervously. The library was full of shadows, and only a few scattered lanterns glowed high on the walls. Rows of columns stretched into the darkness, and the countless shelves of knowledge muffled any echo.

"My princess," said Iris, "we lumers are given the gift of Sight. It's one of the Four Pillars of Luminosity. Many claim that Sight is the most dangerous among them." She shuddered. "Healing is a great deed, blessed by Eloh, the Lord of Light. Muse lets us sculpt, paint, sing, build, bring joy into the world, and it too is blessed. Foresight is more perilous, for its visions are often murky, easy to misunderstand, easy to change. But Sight . . ." Iris clasped Valentina's hands. "To see the truth—the unalterable, solid truth—can drive people mad. A philosopher who recognizes his folly. A queen who learns that her worshipers despise her. A warrior who sees his own cowardice. Sight is the pillar I fear most."

"Yet that is the pillar you must summon today," said Valentina. "I've never asked you to use Sight before, Iris. I've had you use Healing on my pale skin when the sun burns it, on my eyes when they hurt in bright lights. I've had you use Muse to play me music, to dance for me, and . . ." Her cheeks flushed. "And to make love to me. I've asked you to use Foresight to tell me when the birds of spring will arrive. I've never asked you to use the Sight, but now I ask you. Now I command you. Please, Iris."

The lumer glanced around her, as if seeking spies in the shadows, then back at Valentina. "I haven't been on my pilgrimage to Zohar for a year now. My reserves of lume are low. But I'll try." She lowered her head. "What do you want to see?

Valentina found herself trembling. She forced herself to breathe deeply. "I want to see who my father is."

Iris blinked. "My princess! Your father is Emperor Marcus Octavius. What do you mean?"

Trembling more wildly now, Valentina held Iris's hands, and she told her everything: about the cuckoo and the robin, about Mingo's words, about her own suspicions. Iris listened silently, eyes wide.

"Oh, Iris, I think that . . . oh gods, it sounds crazy! But I think that Mingo—no, his real name is Senator Septimus Cassius—might be my true father." Valentina's voice dropped to a whisper. "And I think that he poisoned the emperor. Can you use Luminosity? Can you see the truth?"

Now Iris began to shake. Her eyes darted, and she licked her lips. "Domina, please." She tugged Valentina's hands. "Forget about these matters. Some things are best left unknown. Come with me back to your chamber. The slaves will prepare the honey tea we like, and I—"

"Iris!" Valentina frowned. "I'm frightened too. We will be brave. You've always served me loyally. Won't you do this for me?"

The lumer clenched and unclenched her fists, and she nervously licked her lips. She leaned closer and stroked Valentina's hair.

"Please, my princess." She kissed Valentina's ear. "Let's return to your chamber. With my last reserves of lume, I'll make love to you. I'll make you moan with pleasure greater than you've ever felt. I need to kiss you, to—"

"Enough!" Valentina grabbed Iris's hand and pushed it away from her. "Do you forget yourself? I've let you into my bed too willingly, perhaps. I'm still your princess, and you're still my lumer. Unless you see and prove me wrong. Unless you tell me that my father isn't who I think he is."

Iris took a deep, shuddering breath, pain in her eyes. "All right, domina. I'll try."

The lumer closed her eyes and breathed deeply. No lume flowed here in Aelar; indeed, none had been found anywhere outside Zohar. Yet on their pilgrimages to their homeland, Aelar's captive lumers absorbed enough of the invisible material to last a year. Iris was now thinking of Zohar, Valentina knew—of those olive groves, those tan mountains, those cities of gold and copper and stone, of the eastern desert of rolling dunes. Soon the lume began to glow around the lumer's hands as she wove it into luminescence—magic ignited. As a lantern could turn oil into flame, so could Iris turn lume into luminescence. When the lumer finally opened her eyes, they shone like coins in the sun.

"I see." Iris's voice was astral, many voices speaking together, coming from another world. Strands of light wreathed around her arms. "I see a father. A birth. A babe. I see . . . poison." She shuddered, doubled over, and stared up at Valentina, eyes luminous. "Illness! Evil. Great evil in Aelar, whispers in the halls, and poison and daggers. I see . . . I see . . . too much. Truths. Lies. Lies."

"Iris!" Valentina grabbed her lumer. "You're shaking."

Iris grabbed Valentina's arms, fingers digging, hurting her. "I see. I know."

The lumer coughed violently, fell to her knees, and released her magic. The luminescence fled from her like glowing steam, vanishing into the shadows of the library. For long moments, Iris could only gasp, struggling to steady her breath. Valentina had a horrible memory of the emperor—her father?—choking at his banquet.

"Iris." She held her lumer. "Breathe. Breathe."

Finally the young Zoharite calmed and inhaled deeply. "I'm all right. Sight . . . takes a lot out of a lumer."

They knelt together on the mosaic floor of the library, the lanterns shining around them, the countless scrolls containing endless truths—but there was only one truth Valentina cared about now, one hidden inside her lumer.

"What did you see?" she whispered.

Iris took another deep breath. "Emperor Marcus Octavius is your true father. Mingo, the memento mori, lied to you . . . and poisoned the emperor."

EPHER

As they rode across the mountains, seeking hope between the pines, Epher could not shake the feeling that they were being followed, being watched.

"I heard something." Epher twisted around on his horse, staring behind him. "Did you hear it?"

"My stomach rumbling." Riding beside him, Koren patted his armored belly. "I'm famished. Let's hunt a deer, build a big fire, and feast."

Epher grumbled. "We just ate breakfast."

"We had bread. Bread, Epher!" Koren made a gagging sound. "Do you know what they feed prisoners in dungeons for breakfast? Bread. And I bet theirs is fresher. We're the children of lions, and meat is our meal."

Epher groaned, reached into his pack, and pulled out a bundle of dry dates still on the branch. He tossed them to his younger brother. "Here, eat these and be quiet."

Koren began to chew lustfully. God knew how the young man stayed so thin; throughout the trip, Koren had barely stopped eating long enough to complain.

"More." Koren swallowed the last date and reached for Epher's pack. "You have fig cakes in there, don't you?"

"You ate them all." Epher glared at his younger brother. "And stop pouting. You're twenty-one years old. Father was already Lord of Gefen at your age. Think about our responsibility to our home, family, and kingdom, not your belly."

For a moment they were silent. The horses continued traveling between the pines, heading up the mountainside. The Erez mountains weren't particularly steep or tall, but many pines and boulders covered them, and the going was slow. Pinecones and needles lay across the earth, and sparrows bustled between the branches. The sun was bright, the air sticky and sweltering, and a stream gurgled to their left over rocky stones.

Somewhere out here, in this wilderness of northern Zohar, lived Benshalom Sela and his hillsfolk.

Over a thousand years ago, Master Malaci would say, empires and kingdoms had begun to rise around the Encircled Sea, and all people who shared tongues and gods formed nations, built cities, and crowned kings. It was the hero Elshalom who had united the tribes of Zohar—the wild nomads of the desert, the wise people of the coast, the southerners of the rocky mountains—and had forged them a kingdom. Elshalom had named Beth Eloh—ancient even in those days—his capital, and the priest Shemesh had anointed him with holy oil, naming him king. All the tribes that worshiped Eloh, who could harvest lume, had finally united into a kingdom among kingdoms.

Yet some Zoharites even now maintained their wild ways. The hillsfolk of the north still lived wild, and many claimed that they held little loyalty to Beth Eloh, that theirs were still the old ways. That they saw Ma'oz, their fortress in the north, as their true capital. That they cared little for the doings in the south, that their tribe meant more than their kingdom.

Yet now they must march south to fight for our kingdom, Epher thought, or that kingdom will cease to exist, and all Zoharites will perish.

Koren finally broke the silence. "I am thinking about all those things. About our duty, and kingdom, and how much trouble Gefen is in, and . . . about meeting Uncle Ben again. And that's why I eat. I eat when I'm nervous."

Epher nudged his horse a little closer to Koren's, reached across the saddle, and patted his younger brother's shoulder. "We've withstood enemies before. We'll withstand the Aelarians too."

"The Aelarians? To hell with those buggers. I'm worried about our uncle!"

Epher's eyes widened. "Uncle Ben? He's one of us. He's family."

"I know, I know." Koren absentmindedly rubbed his cheek. "It's just that he's always frightened me. By God's teats, Epher. I think he scares me more than Prince Seneca did. Seneca is just a pouty little princeling with a powerful father. But Uncle Ben is himself powerful, and I can't forget that time he struck me, back when he visited Gefen."

"Maybe you shouldn't have stuffed a frog into his beard."

"Maybe not." Koren nodded. "And I probably shouldn't have smeared oil on his saddle and laughed when he slipped off. Or painted those naked ladies on his shield. But I do those things to everyone. You know that. Most people laugh. When you're like me—not an heir like you, not a warrior like Atalia, not pretty like Ofeer, not wise like Maya—well, you tell jokes. Because what else have you got other than making people laugh? But old Uncle Ben never laughed. Just stared with those horrible eyes, and you saw how serious he was. You saw in his eyes how many men he had killed. You feel so weak around him, so . . . unimportant."

"Wait a minute." Epher frowned. "You think Ofeer is the pretty one? What about me?"

Koren groaned. "You're beautiful. Happy? I just hope that old bearded brute follows us home. If he slapped me over a frog, I'd love to see what he does to Seneca. Those legionaries might fight with unbreakable iron, ruthless efficiency, and lovely little skirts, but they haven't yet met Zohar's greatest warrior. And—" Koren frowned, then looked over his shoulder. "All right, I heard that one."

Epher had heard it too. A snapping twig behind them. He twisted around in the saddle, scanning the landscape, but saw nobody. The dirt path coiled down the mountainside, disappearing among the hills and valleys below. The canopy of pines spread for parsa'ot like a green carpet upon the land. So far Epher could barely see it, the sea stretched across the horizon. If anyone was following them, they could easily hide; the pines along the path were thick, their trunks wide and twisting, their branches low, offering endless hiding places.

"Maybe just a deer," Epher said.

Koren licked his lips. "Love me some deer. Let's find him. Let's—"

A new sound rose, and both brothers heard this one clearly. This sound, however, came from ahead. Chanting. Drums. And soon, as the sounds drew closer, thumping sandals and hooves.

The brothers glanced at each other, then kneed their horses and rode uphill. The sounds grew louder as they rode. Thousands of men were marching below to the drum beat, it seemed. Near a forested crest, the brothers dismounted, crept between the trees, and stared down into a snaking gorge.

Epher's heart sank.

"Ours is the light," he whispered, lips stiff.

"Son of a dog," Koren muttered.

Below they marched—three legions of the Aelarian army. Their standards rose high, some displaying crowned eagles, others eagles clutching arrows, and some bulls. A thousand horses or more walked at the vanguard. Thousands of troops marched behind, armored and bearing shields and spears.

As the legions moved closer, Epher huddled between the trees, staring down toward the valley, barely daring to breathe. Soon they were moving right below him, only a ris or two away. At the head of the column rode a woman on a white horse. She wore iron armor—breastplate, greaves, vambraces, pauldrons, and studded leather pteruges—of fine make but unadorned, displaying no filigree. The iron was dark, almost charcoal. A red crest of horsehair rose from her helmet, her only adornment. Her own hair was brown and curled, emerging from beneath her helmet. Epher could not see her face well from this distance, but it seemed to him pale, cruel, grinning like a wolf.

At the rider's side walked a woman, collared and chained, her burlap tunic in tatters. Her hair was long and black. Golden light glowed on her hands, then faded as the rider lashed her crop, slamming it against the walker's back.

"That woman who's walking by the horse," Epher whispered, voice shaking with rage. "She's a lumer. A Zoharite."

Koren shuddered and spoke in a whisper too. "The rider. The one with dark armor. I think that's Porcia Octavius, eldest child of Emperor Marcus. If Seneca is invading the coast, this might be his older sister." He knelt lower behind the branches. "Look at her standard. An eagle with a laurel on its head and a sword in its talons. That's the sigil of House Octavius."

Epher gripped his own sword. Ice seemed to fill him, then fire.

My home. My people. We're going to fall. We're going to be crushed under the Empire's heel like every other kingdom around the Encircled Sea.

"For the glory of eagles!" cried the voices below.

"For the death of rats!" they chanted.

The horses kept riding by, row by row. The last of the beasts dragged corpses on chains. Barely anything remained of the bodies, just bones, tatters of flesh, and spines trailing in the dust. Epher did not need to see more to know the dead were Zoharites.

That's what they're going to do to all of us, he thought. Butcher us. Every man, woman, and child in this kingdom until nobody is left.

Epher held his brother's arm. He was about to slink back toward the horses, to keep traveling north to find the hillsfolk, when a bird cawed . . . and the forest erupted with wails.

The pines trembled.

Hundreds of shouts rose between the trees, and hundreds of arrows whistled down toward the legionaries.

"Ours is the light!" rose a howl a few amot away, as a warrior burst out from the branches of a pine, clad in gray and green, firing arrows.

"The lions roar!" shouted another warrior, a wild woman with braided black hair, firing her sling down toward the legionaries.

Epher's heart burst into a gallop. Zoharite hillsfolk! Benshalom's warriors?

He looked at Koren. His younger brother stared back, lips tight. Both brothers nodded, grabbed their bows, and cried out wordlessly. They joined their arrows to the assault.

The volley rained into the gorge. Several horses screamed and collapsed, spilling their riders. A legionary clutched his face; an arrow had driven into his skull. Many other arrows slammed into armor and shields. At the vanguard, Porcia Octavius howled, sword raised, and her horse reared.

"Slay the rats!" she shrieked, voice echoing in the gully, inhuman, impossibly loud. "Crush their bones and rip out their hearts!"

Chest pounding with excitement, Epher fired. His arrow sailed down toward Porcia, hit her breastplate, and glanced off.

The princess of Aelar raised her head and stared at him.

Even across their distance, their eyes met.

For an instant, Epher's heart froze, and cold sweat washed him.

There was no humanity to Porcia's eyes, only bloodlust and madness. They were the eyes of a demon.

"The lions roar!" Koren cried at his side, grabbed Epher, and pulled him downward. "Come on, brother, time to swing our swords."

Epher tore his eyes away from Porcia, shuddering. In the gorge, the legionaries weren't bothering to fire their own arrows; the attackers were too well hidden in the trees. Instead, centuries were detaching from their cohorts, arranging shields around themselves, aiming their spears, and marching up the mountainsides. More arrows and sling stones rained from the trees, and Zoharite warriors jeered.

"Cut off the eagle's wings!" rose a deep voice in the distance. "For the Lord of the Light, send these birds to Ashael!"

Epher knew that booming voice.

Uncle Benshalom.

Epher could not see the bearded warrior, could barely see any of the Zoharites, only flashes of hair and blades as they raced between the pines, firing at the enemy.

"Come out from your trees, coward!" Porcia cried below. "You scurry and hide like rats."

Several legionaries crashed through the forest toward Epher and Koren, spears thrusting. Epher loaded his sling, spun it until it whistled, then loosed the stone. The projectile streamed forth and slammed into a legionary's helmet, knocking him down. Meanwhile, Koren shot an arrow, and more arrows flew from the trees' canopy.

Armor clanking, the legionaries reached the brothers. Spears thrust. Epher sidestepped and swung his sword, knocking a spear aside. More legionaries closed in around him.

"Run, you fools!" cried a Zoharite warrior, racing by them, then vanished between the trees. "Don't take them head on, fight from the forest!"

More spears thrust. Epher dodged one blow and parried another. He began to run, whipping between the pines. Koren ran at his side, stopping every few steps to fire an arrow.

The battle filled the forest. The Zoharites raced everywhere, some afoot, others in the trees. Sling stones and arrows filled the air. Another legionary fell. A spear drove upward, impaling a Zoharite warrior—a mere boy, no older than thirteen. Epher whipped around a group of legionaries, grabbed a branch, hurled himself up, and fired another arrow. Koren fought at his side, laughing, sling stones flying.

A Zoharite fell before them, pierced with a javelin—a young woman with brown hair, her chest cracked open. Epher snarled and raced toward the legionary who had slain her—a beefy, armored man with dark eyes. Before the brute could tug his spear free, Epher leaped over the corpse and drove his sword down with all his strength. The iron crashed through the legionary's helmet and cracked the skull. As the enemy screamed, Epher stepped back, lashed his sword, and drove the blade into the legionary's neck. The man fell, blood spurting.

"Cut down the rats!" rose Porcia's voice from the distance, drawing closer. "Crack their skulls and suck the brains! Swift as eagles! We kill, we kill!"

Thousands of legionaries were now moving through the forest. They were traveling in formations of ten, shields surrounding them, spears thrusting out from the enclosures, looking like great metal porcupines. Arrows rained onto them but could not break through the shell. Another two Zoharites fell, cut with gladius swords, trampled under Aelarian feet.

"To Ma'oz!" rose the booming voice of Benshalom Sela. "Back to Ma'oz!"

Across the forest, the hillsfolk yipped and howled and began racing north between the pines, vanishing between the trunks, heading up the mountainside.

"Where are our horses?" Koren cried.

"I don't know!" Epher said. "Back on the southern slope, but it's swarming with legionaries."

Three Zoharites ran past them, dressed in flapping furs and wool, firing slings at the enemy, racing onward.

"We can't leave Moosh and Teresh," Koren said. "That Porcia witch will butcher them."

Epher glanced over his shoulder, seeking a path back toward the horses. Moosh and Teresh weren't just their mounts; they were beloved pets, horses that had been with the Sela family for years. But the forest behind them was now overrun with the enemy.

Epher cursed, hoping the legionaries would treat the horses well. He kept running, pulling Koren with him.

They had hesitated for too long. The fleeing Zoharites were now far ahead, their cries distant in the north. Epher could no longer even hear Benshalom's howls. More legionaries raced uphill, crashing through the brush, scattering branches and pine cones. Five emerged from behind a towering boulder, and the brothers swerved the other way. They raced down a rocky slope, only for more legionaries to emerge from a gully, spears glinting. Epher cursed and pulled Koren with him, and they raced between the pines. The legionaries were everywhere, closing in like wolves around prey.

Damn it! Epher's heart banged against his ribs. Would he die here before even summoning aid for Gefen?

The Aelarian sandals stomped behind him. More legionaries moved ahead. Four soldiers burst out from between trees, charging toward the brothers.

Koren fired a sling stone, denting one legionary's armor. Both brothers clutched their swords.

The four legionaries advanced from all sides, forming an iron noose around the brothers. The Aelarians sneered, bloodlust in their eyes. Their armor was thicker, their weapons longer. The crowned eagles on their breastplates denoted Legio V Victrix, a legion which had fought for years in the forests of Gael. Here were seasoned killers.

We're no match for them, Epher knew, fear pounding through him. Not even if our numbers were equal.

"Time to skin some rats," said one legionary.

The brothers raised their swords together.

"For light!" Koren cried.

"The lions of Zohar roar!" shouted Epher.

The brothers charged toward their enemies, swords swinging.

A spear thrust toward Epher. He leaped aside, parried the blow with his sword, then swung the blade madly before him, forcing the legionary back. Never losing a step, Epher knelt, grabbed a stone, and tossed it at the Aelarian's face, bloodying his nose. A second legionary attacked with his spear, scraping across Epher's armor, cracking scales. Epher ignored the pain, thrust his sword, drove the blade into the bleeding legionary's thigh. At once he spun, knocking aside the other man's spear.

Koren fought at his side, dodging, ducking, trying to hold back the two legionaries attacking him. A spear drove into his side, scattering scales, cutting the flesh. Koren roared. His blade flashed, severing a legionary's hand. A second spear hit Koren, cutting his shoulder, knocking him down.

More legionaries came racing forward. Epher ducked under a spear and lashed his sickle blade, knocking back a legionary. Two more emerged from the trees, and a spear scraped across Epher's arm, and he bellowed in agony. His blood spilled onto the pine needles. A boot hit the back of his leg, and he fell. Two legionaries leered above him, spears raised, ready to thrust down.

Epher saw his death.

He saw his life.

He saw his home on Pine Hill, the pomegranate tree that grew over his brother's grave, the painting of elephants, the whispering sea.

He saw his family.

He saw the blades of spears and the eyes of his killers.

He saw an arrow fly.

No, not an arrow—just a sharpened stick, knobby and stripped of bark. It whistled over Epher and slammed into a legionary's eye.

"Go away, go away!" rose a high cry behind him.

Epher leaped up and swung his sword. He knocked aside a spear, then severed the hand that held it, then drove his blade into the man's chest. He swung in the other direction, slashing the blinded legionary's throat.

Another arrow flew. It glanced off a legionary's helmet, doing the man no harm, but distracting him—long enough for Koren to cut the man down.

"Goddamn whore!" rose the voice again, twisted with delight.

Epher turned and saw her there, crouched among a pine's branches. The girl from the beach. She had finally donned the tunic Epher had given her, but her red hair was still wild as ever, sticky with sap and strewn with pine needles. She grinned at him, clutching her makeshift bow, then vanished into the foliage.

The brothers ran.

Leaving the corpses, they entered a gully, the forest canopy thick above them. A dry streambed snaked ahead, mossy boulders filling it like cobblestones on a road. The mountainsides sloped upward from the ravine, thick with pines and oaks, and Epher heard the Zoharites atop the northern slope. The brothers climbed.

They emerged onto a rocky crest, scaled a boulder, and saw another distant gorge. The legionaries were regrouping below, resuming their journey southward.

"That's it, run away!" Koren said, though his voice was weak, and he panted. Sweat soaked his clothes and hair, and he mopped his brow. A cut on his shoulder and another on his side leaked blood.

Epher spat and clutched the wound on his forearm. It was an ugly cut. "Not running away from us so much as running to Beth Eloh. We're not worth their time. Porcia is simply picking her battles. She's heading to the capital in the south." He cringed. "To Mother and Maya."

Koren inhaled sharply. "We must follow. We can't let those wall-pissers harm Mother and Maya. We—"

"We're right where we need to be," Epher said. "Doing as father commanded. Finding aid. Look, Koren."

Epher turned away from the gorge and stared at a boulder that rose into sunlight. Koren turned too and made a choking sound.

On the stone, a dripping sword in his hand, stood Benshalom Sela.

SHILOH

She stood before the Gate of Mercy, the oldest of the seven gateways into Beth Eloh, the ancient city of God. For the first time in a year, since brother had besieged brother, these ancient doors creaked open.

This gateway was three thousand years old—among the oldest structures in Zohar, indeed among the oldest in the world. The limestone bricks were craggy, cracked, so misshapen they seemed ready to collapse. Shiloh could not decide their color; sometimes they seemed an eggshell tone, but at the right angle, under the sun, the bricks turned a burnished gold. An engraving appeared upon the keystone, but it was so worn by time Shiloh could not guess what it had once depicted. Crumbling arrowslits peered from the weedy walls, and parapets rose above, lined with soldiers armed with bows and slings. Within the archway stood ancient cedar doors, banded with rusting bronze.

"Through the gates she will come," Maya whispered. The child stood at Shiloh's side. Her eyes stared ahead but she seemed to be gazing upon another world. Her face was blank, her arms hung limply at her sides, and her voice was astral, as if another spoke through her mouth. "The messiah. The savior of lions. As the hosts of the world flow into the land of light, as the great battle rages, through the Gate of Tears she will walk." Tears streamed down Maya's cheeks. "Through the gates, she will bring the light of God and salvation, and beyond them she will bleed."

The Gate of Tears, Shiloh thought and a shudder ran through her. The mythical eighth gate of Beth Eloh. A hidden gate, sealed up centuries ago, a gate lost to history. A gate prophesied to open only at Zohar's darkest hour.

Luminescence gathered around Maya's fingers and shone in her eyes. Her dark curls rose as if floating underwater.

"Maya!" Shiloh said.

"I see her," Maya whispered, voice trembling. "All in white. All in light. Wearing a crown of blood. I—"

Shiloh grabbed her daughter and shook her. "Maya! Look at me. Let go of your light and look at me."

Maya shuddered and blinked, turning her glowing eyes toward Shiloh. The light faded. Maya seemed to be waking from a dream, looking around in confusion.

"I . . . I'm sorry, Mother." Maya licked her lips. "It's so hard. So much lume. So many visions. The future. The past. All woven of light and iron and stone."

Shiloh brushed back a lock of Maya's hair. She thought back to how she had struck Maya that day years ago, when Maya had first summoned her magic, had healed Shiloh's bleeding finger. Pain still filled Shiloh, for her daughter had a great gift—a gift once prized across Zohar, a gift from God, a holy blessing.

And I'm hiding her light, Shiloh thought. I'm crushing her gift. I'm cutting out a part of her.

"You must control it, Maya. Even here." Shiloh kissed her daughter's forehead. "You bear the name of Sela, and you are known and loved across the land. Word of your magic would spread across the realm like dawn spreads across the sky."

Maya nodded, head lowered.

Years ago, Shiloh knew, lumers lived in temples, beloved across Zohar, using their light to heal and protect and counsel kings and priests. Now their light shone in Aelar. Now their magic raised temples to cruel gods, illuminated the fortunes of conquest, and served tyrants of iron and blood. Now the light of Zohar faded, and the flames of Aelar rose.

Shiloh returned her eyes to the gates, holding her daughter close. For the first time in a year of siege, the old wooden doors had opened, revealing a cobbled street. Ten guards in scale armor stood here, haggard men, their cheeks gaunt, their eyes sunken, their hair matted. A year of siege showed in their ashen skin, their thin limbs, their cracked lips. Yet they still held bows nocked with arrows, and swords hung upon their thighs.

One of the soldiers of the city took a step forward. Despite his frail frame, he raised his chin and called in a clear voice, "Step forth, Shiloh Bat Rahamyah, and step forth, Maya Bat Shiloh, daughters of House Elior and House Sela! And let none others approach, lest our arrows fell them."

Shiloh glanced behind her and saw an open field. On her own orders, Prince Yohanan had pulled his warriors back from the Gate of Mercy, leaving an expanse of sand and dust and creeping beetles. Once olive and cypress trees had grown here in the shade of the wall; they had been cut down in years of civil war, ancient trees almost as old as this city. Shiloh returned her eyes toward the gateway, took her daughter's hand in hers, and stepped into the City of God.

Shiloh had not the gift of a lumer. She could not feel the lume that bound the kingdom together, that flowed from this city. Yet even she could sense the antiquity, the power, the memories of Beth Eloh. As she walked along the cobbled road, limestone homes at her sides, she felt something of what Maya must feel wherever she went—an overwhelming grace that flowed around her, that soaked every stone. Shiloh could feel the age of this place. These bricks had risen here for millennia, had seen the first kings and queens, the armies of twenty nations marching between them, had heard the words of prophets and the songs of ancient slaves returning home.

And now, perhaps, we add our voices to this great, ancient song, Shiloh thought, following the guards through the streets.

Beth Eloh was not only the oldest and largest city in Zohar, but also the most crowded. The streets were barely wide enough for her to walk alongside Maya. The walls of homes and shops rose at their sides, built of the same craggy, pale bricks of limestone. Here was a city built atop a mountain, and the roads rose and fell, revealing views of the city with every crest. Atop one hill, Shiloh saw a valley slide into haze, lined with many domed homes. Around a corner, peering between two palm trees, she beheld a cemetery that flowed down a hillside, the white tombstones as crowded as the city houses, so close together they touched, leaving no room for grass or trees or flowers. On another hillside she saw a house capped with a bronze dome—the fabled tomb of Elshalom himself, the first King of Zohar. From some streets upon the taller hills, Shiloh could see beyond the city walls, out onto the mountains. The forces of Yohanan still spread around the city, a noose of iron, more constricting every day.

"So many voices," Maya whispered, tears still flowing, and her hand trembled in Shiloh's grip. "I'm trying, Mother. I'm trying not to listen."

"Focus on the living, Maya," Shiloh said as they walked, following the city guards. "Not on the dead. Not on the unborn."

Many of those living filled this city. A hundred thousand souls inhabited Beth Eloh; the city was twice the size of Geffen. Some wandered the streets, clad in tunics of undyed cotton or wool, shawls covering their hair. Many others peered from stone windows, eyes haunted, deep set in gaunt faces. A child languished under an awning, skin white with leprosy. Animals shared this city too, camels with jangling saddles, donkeys bearing baskets, and stray cats, and they too were frail, their ribs pushing against their hides, their mouths foaming with hunger.

Gutters ran alongside the roads, clogged with human waste. Here was a dry city, only a few wells and cisterns supplying its water. These gutters would not be cleared until winter, half a year away, when the first rains fell. The stench of sewage rose so mightily it spun Shiloh's head. Here was a holy city—a city of gold, memory, and piousness, but also a city of hunger, disease, and shit.

When Shiloh followed the guards through a market, she saw vendors hawking whatever food they still found: the old bones of chickens for soup, the meat already gone; a few carobs and olives taken from the last trees; and brittle bread that seemed made from sand. Most of the market's carts were barren, their goods long gone. Children sat against brick walls, moaning, bellies extended with hunger. Eyes damp, Shiloh placed coins into the hands of those children strong enough to approach and beg, yet what good was copper or silver with no food to buy?

Finally, as they passed by the corpses of a starved mother and child, Shiloh could not maintain her silence.

"Why does he do this?" she said to the guards. "Why does Prince Shefael keep his gates closed when he can make peace with his brother, when he can end this siege?"

One of the city guards—the man who had first spoken to her at the gates—gazed at her with weary eyes. "The tyrant Yohanan Elior will never set foot in this city, and my glorious lord, King Shefael, will wipe his name off the earth." Yet there was no conviction to his voice, no rage; he was reciting.

They kept walking through the city, moving along cobbled roads, through courtyards lined with date palms, and finally toward a hill leafy with olive and cedar trees. In a city of stone and copper and bronze, here was a rare place of greenery. Here was the tallest hill in the city, gazing down upon the labyrinth of coiling streets. A thick wall, topped with battlements, surrounded this hill like the wall of a city. Indeed here was a city within a city, blessed with holiness and fortified with ancient stones.

"The Mount of Cedars," Maya whispered, trembling so wildly Shiloh thought the girl might collapse. "The lume flows from here, Mother. All of it." Her voice was barely audible, barely more than breath. "The spirit of God dwells here."

"And of men," Shiloh said, staring ahead.

Beyond the wall, two great structures rose atop the Mount of Cedars, marvels of light and stone. Two guardians of Zohar. Two beacons of power and majesty.

The Temple was the larger of the two. Thick walls rose around it, square towers sprouting from their corners. Within the enclosure rose many buildings, the largest among them soaring high above the walls, its surface so polished it reflected the sun. Columns rose here, their capitals gilded, and gold parapets circled the roof like laurels. Even from the distance, Shiloh could see priests standing on a dais, blowing rams' horns while leading a bull to sacrifice.

Shiloh turned toward the second building on the hill. Here rose the Palace of Zohar, smaller than the Temple but just as splendid. Walls surrounded this complex too, heavily fortified, their turrets capped with domes. Several towers rose within these walls, circular and framed with gilded columns. The central tower dwarfed its brethren, soaring toward a ring of columns and between them a dome, like a crown around a bald head.

"God and crown," Shiloh said, holding her daughter's hand. "Spirit and flesh. High priest and king. The two hearts of Zohar."

She knew that long ago, before King Elshalom, it was the High Priest who had ruled the tribes of Zohar, speaking with God's voice. But those were the old days, the days before temples or palaces had risen on hills. For a thousand years now, two men had governed this land: a priest in a temple, a king in a palace. Yet even that, perhaps, was untrue these days, for all her life, it had seemed like the priests of Zohar remained locked in the Temple, caring more for worship than the lives of men and women. And so Zohar, perhaps, remained in the hands of its king or queen alone.

And now we have no true king, Shiloh thought. Only two bickering princes while an emperor's eagles circle above.

"Worship the light for a shekel! Only a shekel, my lords."

The voice rose from ahead, and Shiloh raised her eyes to see several women advance, barefoot, their robes opened to show their nakedness. Their bodies were frail, their breasts thin and wilted, their thighs too narrow, and hunger filled their eyes. Other naked women languished ahead around the walls that circled the Mount of Cedars.

"Only a shekel for worship, my lords," said one, desperation in her eyes, white streaks in her hair.

"Get lost, dogs!" said one guard, knocking them aside with his spear.

The women began to scatter, trying to spit but too thirsty to produce saliva. Shiloh stared at the scrawny prostitutes with pity mingled with disgust, not sure which emotion she felt more. Here were women reduced to a state lower than dogs, selling their wilting bodies in a vain attempt to feed their decay. They shuffled away, perhaps hoping to find a soldier with a few coppers left to spare.

"Wait!"

The voice echoed, and Shiloh turned to see that Maya had spoken. The girl pulled her hand free from Shiloh's grip and stepped across the cobbled street.

"Wait," Maya said again. "Come here, daughters of Beth Eloh."

The prostitutes approached wearily, robes wrapped around them again to hide their nakedness. Hunger filled their eyes, and their white tongues licked their cracked lips. They gathered around Maya, stinking, starving things, fleas in their robes, their hair matted. Shiloh had the terrible thought that their disease would leap onto her daughter, infecting her with sores and leprosy. She wanted to intervene, to pull her daughter free from the ring of them, but she could not shield her daughter forever from the ugliness in this world. She watched.

"Why do you sell your bodies?" Maya asked.

"We have nothing else to sell," said one of the women. "We're hungry. There's no food in this city. There's only hunger here."

"But there is light too." Maya's fingers began to glow. "There is the light of Luminosity, the grace of God."

"We cannot eat grace," said another prostitute, a young thing, only a child, no older than eleven or twelve. "We need bread and milk and water and honey."

"This city will flow with milk and honey and wine," said Maya. "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."

"Who?" the women said, raising their grubby hands, the fingers knobby.

"She whom I have foreseen," Maya said, "She who lingers. She who wears a crown of blood." She lowered her head, and the light faded from her fingers. "I don't know her name, and I don't know the time of her arrival. But here, let this sustain you while you wait for her coming."

Maya reached into her pack and pulled out loafs of bread, two skins of wine, and a purse of coins. The women approached, one by one. Maya placed a piece of bread into the hand of each woman, and she let each drink from her wine, and finally placed a coin into each hand. The prostitutes dispersed, whispering in awe of the woman who glowed . . . and of the woman in white who would enter the holy gates.

Shiloh took her daughter's hand, and they kept walking, taking a cobbled path toward the wall that surrounded the Mount of Cedars. Past a gatehouse, they climbed the hillside, moving between ancient trees, approaching the palace. The pale walls soared, engraved with lions and pomegranates, and the doors were gilded. More guards stood here, clad in finer armor than the others, their beards dark and their shields bright. More words were exchanged here, and soon those golden doors opened, allowing passage through the walls of the palace complex.

If the Mount of Cedars was a city within a city, here was a third city, all of limestone, marble, and gold. A cobbled courtyard spread ahead, lined with columns capped with gold. Many buildings rose here, all built from the same pale, rugged limestone as the rest of the city. Shiloh saw stables, fortified towers, and armories. Gardens stood alongside the protective walls, lush with trees bearing figs, dates, pomegranates, carobs, almonds, and olives. Many soldiers moved about the complex, armed with spears and swords. Ahead rose the palace proper, a massive building, large enough to house hundreds of souls. It rose many stories tall, encircled with several tiers of arches, crested with a dome and crown of columns.

My childhood home, Shiloh thought, for she was the daughter of King Rahamyah and the sister of Queen Sifora—both now gone, faded into legend, two more ghosts in this city of memories.

When Shiloh glanced at Maya, she saw that her daughter seemed more like her old self, her breath clearer, her eyes more alert.

"It's not as bad here near the palace," Maya said. "Here's a place of men more than lume."

A place men have fought over for years, Shiloh thought. A place where eagles will rip into lions, unless I can convince a cub to join his brother.

Accompanied by soldiers, Shiloh and Maya entered the main palace hall. A grand chamber awaited them, lined with porphyry columns. A mosaic covered the floor, depicting lions racing across the desert, hunting hinds while birds of every kind flew above. Shiloh smiled wryly to see a tiled eagle spread its wings. This mosaic had covered this floor for a thousand years, long before there'd been an Aelar, before the eagle's wings had shadowed Zohar.

Many guards stood here, far more than Shiloh had ever seen in this palace. But then again, she hadn't been here in years, not since her older sister, Queen Sifora, had died. Dear Sifora had never spent much time in this hall, preferring the shade of the gardens or the humbler chambers in the back of the palace.

Yet the new claimant to the crown, it seemed, found this hall rather welcoming. Prince Shefael Elior sat ahead on a throne of gold, draped in a majestic ultramarine robe embroidered with golden pomegranates. Rugs of red and gold spread around the throne, and frankincense burned in jeweled vessels, sending forth a sweet scent. Concubines, pleasantly curved and scantily clad, lounged around the throne on tasseled cushions, smoking hookahs, their faces painted, their bared bellies revealing jewels in the navels.

The prince was busy feasting from bowls of dates and grapes, and he held a mug of wine in one hand. When he saw Shiloh enter, however, he waved aside his dishes and rose to his feet. Shiloh remembered a scrawny young man, but the throne had filled his frame, and now his ample belly pushed against his fine raiment.

"Shiloh! My guards told me of your approach." Shefael stepped off his throne's dais and walked toward her, arms opened. "Welcome, my dear aunt! And little Maya. How you've grown, my sweet cousin! Come, drink wine with me, feast upon these chilled grapes."

Shiloh walked toward him, squared her shoulders, and slapped his cheek. Hard.

At once guards advanced with spears, and the concubines wailed. Even Maya gasped.

"Put down your weapons!" Shiloh said, glaring at the men. "You will not interfere with me disciplining my nephew." She turned her stare at the beefy, bearded prince. "How dare you cower here, feasting and drinking, while your people hunger and thirst?"

Shefael clutched his cheek, hiding the red mark her hand had left. He blustered for a moment before finding the ability to speak. "Cowering? I've been fighting a war, aunt. Winning a war. Yohanan languishes outside these walls, while—"

"While your people languish with him." She wrenched his wine goblet from him. "Have you been outside your palace this year and seen the state of your city?"

His jaw tightened, and his dark eyes burned. "I know the state of Beth Eloh. I know what Yohanan has done to it. He has besieged us for a year now, after two years of battling me in the wilderness. Yet the throne is mine, Aunt. My mother—your own sister!—named me her heir. This is my palace, and here I eat my meals, and here I sleep, and here—"

"And here you will die if you don't heed sense." Shiloh grabbed his shoulders and stared at him. "Shefael, your mother might be dead now, but I'm still here, and I bring you tidings. Aelar attacks! The Empire invades the coast. Her legionaries besiege Gefen and—"

It was his turn to interrupt. "I know."

That gave her pause. Shiloh frowned and took a step back, and her chest seemed to tighten. "You . . . know?"

He turned away from her, perhaps finally ashamed to show his face. "She told me. She tells me everything. But what could I have done, Aunt? Marched out to war, leaving the throne for Yohanan to grab? No. I had to stay. To wait."

Of course, Shiloh thought, heart sinking. She told him.

And from the shadows behind the throne, she emerged.

"Avinasi," Shiloh said, not bothering to mask the disgust in her voice.

The lumer was ancient; she had been old when Shiloh had been young. Her hair was snowy white, her face deeply lined, her shoulders stooped. And yet her eyes, the lids heavy and painted, still stared with wisdom. She wore fine silks woven with coins, a cloak wrapped around her even in the heat, and golden rings hung from ears so drooping they seemed to be melting. An amulet gleamed on her chest, shaped as a candelabrum with four candles—symbol of Luminosity.

"Shiloh Sela. And with her, little Maya, a child of Luminosity." The crone smiled at Maya, yet it was a wicked, ugly smile, almost a leer. "Have you come at last to learn the ways of light from me, precious child?"

"My mother said lumers are shipped off in chains," said Maya.

Avinasi stepped closer and caressed Maya's cheek, her knobby fingers tipped with long, painted nails like claws. "And yet I remain here, bonded to King Shefael, true lord of Zohar. No chains can hold me, for I weave the light of our lord."

"Enough of this," Shiloh said. "Shefael, listen to me. You must join your brother. You two must march together to the coast and stop this attack. I spoke to Yohanan. He'll march with you. Forget your quarrel with him for now, and face the true enemy."

But the prince still faced away from her, and his fists tightened at his sides. Even his rich cloak of blue and silver could not hide the stiffness of his shoulders. Finally he spun back toward Shiloh, and his face was haunted, sweat on his brow.

"I had no choice," the prince whispered. "He made me do it. Yohanan made me!"

Shiloh stared at him, the realization filling her, the horror spinning her head.

"What did you do?" she whispered.

Shefael lowered his head, overcome, able to say no more. Avinasi stepped up toward her king, her eyes lit with fire, her smile stretched across her withered face.

"My noble Shefael, King of Zohar, chose a path of light," said the old lumer. "The hard path lesser rulers would cower from. Don your finest garments, Shiloh and Maya of the coast! Adorn yourselves with jewels and silks, and fill your hearts with praise! A host of eagles fly forth to crush Yohanan the Tyrant, to deliver this city from his evil. Soon we will feast in the company of Aelar! Soon the bounty of an empire will fill this city! She is coming, Shiloh. A savior will enter the gates of this city, as your daughter foresaw. Soon we will welcome Porcia Octavius in our hall of gold."

All light seemed to fade from this hall. All hope seemed to flow from her heart. Shiloh fell to her knees, banging them against the eagle mosaic. Her daughter wrapped her arms around her, and the laughter of Avinasi echoed through the hall.

EPHER

Blood soaking their bandages, the brothers took the long, hard road up to Ma'oz.

The walled acropolis crowned a jagged mountaintop, the sentinel of North Zohar. Hills and valleys flowed around the mountain, thick with pines, and dry river beds snaked through ravines like roads. Flint and basalt boulders dotted the land, some larger than men, while dolmens rose upon hilltops—the tombs of ancient men. Vultures glided overhead, a hundred or more, scanning the land, dipping down, feasting upon the remains of the battle, cleaning off the flesh to leave the forest pristine.

Sweat soaked Epher as he walked, dripping beneath his armor, dampening his bandages along with the blood. The path was narrow, unpaved, barely visible, just a shallow groove winding up the mountainside. When he looked up, Epher could see the city on the mountaintop, still maddeningly far away. Walls surrounded the acropolis, the bricks dark gray, and beyond them Epher saw the roofs of houses, a domed temple, and a fortress's towers.

Epher shuddered to think of the thousands of legionaries still crawling across the land. Porcia must have seen Ma'oz, must have decided to leave it standing, to save her soldiers for a greater prize in the south: Beth Eloh.

Where Mother and Maya are.

Hundreds of hillsfolk were climbing the road with Epher, wild men and women in fur and wool, armed with chipped swords, spears, slings, and bows, some of the arrows tipped with mere stone instead of metal. Here were a poor people, yet fierce and proud. They were heading back to their city on the hilltop, but Epher wanted to shout, to grab them, to pull them south toward Gefen and Beth Eloh, not to stay here in the north.

"Don't you worry, son." A hand slapped Epher's back, shooting pain through his wounds. "I can see the turmoil all over you like a demon. You want to rush back into battle, to kill again. Indulge an old man. Sit with me first among stone walls, feast with me on wild deer and drink my wine, and there I'll hear your counsel."

Epher turned toward Benshalom. As a child, he had thought his uncle a beast who could topple mountains. Now Epher realized how much smaller Uncle Benshalom actually was—no larger than him. And yet there was a gritty toughness to the man, like old sunbaked leather that wouldn't tear. While in Gefen most men kept their beards closely cropped, Benshalom's beard flowed down his chest, the color of dust. His hair was just as wild and gray. But the eyes were what Epher noticed most—gray eyes, a rare color in Zohar, and hard as these granite mountains. The eyes of one who had killed many, who had seen many friends die. Benshalom wore no armor, only rough wool and a tasseled scarf, but he carried a curved sword that Epher wagered could cut down a hundred armored legionaries before chipping.

"It better be a short feast," Epher said. "Eating deer and drinking wine are fine pursuits. Not as fine as fighting Aelarians."

Benshalom roared with approval and slapped his back again. "Aye, and you slew several. You've become a warrior, no longer the scrawny youth I once knew."

"I killed a few too." Koren hopped up toward them. His scale armor was now draped across a donkey traveling uphill with them. Bandages covered Koren's wounds where once iron had armored him. "At least three. Maybe four. I lost count, to be honest. Killed a whole bunch right at the end."

Benshalom turned his eyes toward the mop-headed young man. "Well, well, Koren, my little nephew. You've certainly become a warrior. No longer the little boy who, if I recall correctly, once stuffed a frog into my beard and painted obscenities onto my shield."

Koren cringed and took a step back, as if expecting another cuff from Benshalom, a repeat of the one from years ago. Benshalom advanced toward him, eyes dark, and when Koren took another step back, he hit the edge of the road. The young man teetered, arms windmilling, close to tumbling down the mountainside.

With a grunt, Benshalom lashed out his hand.

Koren winced.

The bearded, lanky warrior grabbed Koren by the collar and tugged him back onto the path. And then Benshalom indeed cuffed him—hard on the back, laughing deeply, those gray eyes sparkling.

"I still frighten you, boy!" Benshalom thundered. "You tremble."

"It's cold up here." Koren raised his chin, struggling to maintain some dignity. The wind indeed gusted, ruffling their hair. "And you're just lucky I haven't found any frogs here yet."

Benshalom slung his arm around Koren, and the two kept walking uphill together.

As Epher walked with them, he thought back to the girl with the wild red hair. He wondered if she was still following. He kept looking toward the hills and valleys below, hoping to glimpse red hair, but never saw her again. The girl refused to leave his mind—her muddy body leaping through the sand toward him, her green eyes gazing into his, her smile and laughter, the strange way she spoke.

"Uncle Ben," Epher said, "during the battle, a young woman fought with me. Well, saved me, to be honest. A wild thing with red hair and green eyes, one who couldn't speak more than a few words, who shot only pointed sticks instead of arrows."

Benshalom's tufted eyebrows rose high. "Ah, so the little demon's back! Aye, we know of her here on these hills. A wild one indeed. Simpleminded. We call her Red."

"Who is she?" Epher asked, thinking that if Red were indeed a demon, he quite preferred demons to the company of angels.

"There are three mysteries in the world, dear nephew. The ways of God, the wars of men, and Red." Benshalom laughed. "Some say the girl was raised by wolves, others say she's a child of vultures. Skulks about here some springs and summers, vanishes in the cold. Never heard of her drawing so close to a man before. She must like you."

Finally they reached the walls of Ma'oz, the great acropolis of the north. Its walls spread around the jagged hilltop, supporting turrets and towers. Past the gates awaited a labyrinth of a city, all basalt cobblestones, crowded brick homes, and snaking alleys that twisted up and down. Chickens clucked, lambs bleated in weedy yards, and many people moved between the homes, dressed in woolen tunics. A small temple rose ahead, lined with columns, topped with a silver dome shaped as a pomegranate. Beyond rose the fortress Epher had seen from below, an edifice of dark stone like a continuation of the hilltop, crowned with merlons.

Inside that fortress, the feast was served. Cooks brought forth steaming slabs of deer, served on beds of wild mushrooms and pine nuts. Wine and ale flowed from clay jugs, and bread steamed on platters, rich with butter. A hundred hillsfolk or more filled the fortress hall, sitting at trestle tables, bragging of their kills. The treasures of the battle—a handful of Aelarian helmets and swords—stood on the table among the platters of food. The stars shone outside and torches filled the hall, casting back the shadows.

Epher ate little. The meat was rich, fatty, so soft it melted off the bone, but it tasted like ash. Finally he could bear it no longer. He rose to his feet and turned toward his host.

"Uncle Ben, we can't linger here much longer. Three legions attack the coast of Gefen. Three more march south even as we speak. Yes, we slew a few of their men, but the rest still travel to Beth Eloh. Let us march out. To war!" He gestured across the hall. "Many warriors dine here. Let them return to battle, to claim not just a few helmets but our freedom."

All eyes turned toward him. Silence fell across the hall. Koren paused from feasting, cheeks stuffed with roast deer.

Benshalom stared at him from his seat, holding a flagon of ale. Slowly he stood too and stared into Epher's eyes, his gaze dark.

"Epher, look around you. What do you see?"

Epher looked. "A hall of warriors."

"A hall of survivors!" Benshalom swept his arm across the room. "When the Nurians invaded our land two thousand years ago, we survived in this hall of stone. When the Sekadians of the east ravaged our land, we northerners survived. War after war, generation after generation, the city of Ma'oz stood. No enemy has ever been able to pass the ravines, to scale the mountainsides, to shatter our walls. Now the legions of Aelar roam the lands of Zohar. What would you have us do? Meet them in open battle on an open field?" Benshalom snorted.

"Yes," Epher said. "I'm not afraid."

"That's because you're a fool." Benshalom glared at him. "All wise warriors are afraid. Those who know no fear don't survive many battles. The Aelarians wear armor of thick iron. Their shields cannot be broken. Their spears are long and cruel. They are bred to slay enemies in the field. But they cannot break stone walls. They cannot shatter mountains. And so we, the hillsfolk, will fight as we always have. We'll break their supply lines. We'll pester them at every turn, like bees stinging at a charging bear. Whenever their wagons of food, weapons, and fresh troops arrive in our gullies, we'll fire our arrows. We'll let them languish between the walls of Ma'oz in the north and the walls of Beth Eloh in the south. We stung them once today. We will sting them many more times."

"So you'll just stay here?" Epher could not help himself. He raised his voice and pounded the tabletop. "My father and sister are in Gefen! My mother and other sister are in Beth Eloh. They need help. Your own family."

His uncle's cold, gray eyes chilled him, and at once Epher felt like a mere pup. His cheeks burned.

"And do you think the warriors here have no parents, no siblings, no families of their own?" Benshalom said. "Did you come here to help your family or to fight for Zohar?"

"Both," Epher said. "We can't win this war by staying behind brick walls. Not here. Not in Gefen. Not in Beth Eloh. We can't abandon the rest of Zohar, not when eagles fly. I beg you, Uncle. Fight with me. Fight for our kingdom."

"Our kingdom?" Benshalom blustered, and now anger filled his eyes. "What kingdom is that, nephew? We have no king, only two squabbling cubs. Beth Eloh?" He scoffed. "When has Beth Eloh ever cared for us in the north? They build temples of gold and rest their asses on tasseled pillows, while we here live among stone and iron. I owe Beth Eloh no fealty."

"But you still love Zohar," Epher said softly. "You wear the lion medallion proudly around your neck. A temple to the Lord of Light rises in your city. Before we began to feast and drink, you prayed with me. You prayed to God, and you prayed for Zohar. True, my cousins squabble over the throne. True, the politics of Beth Eloh are foreign to you in Ma'oz, as they're foreign to us in Gefen. But we share something, you and I." Epher dared to place his hand on Benshalom's shoulder. "A love for our kingdom. For Zohar. For our people. We are lions. Let us roar together."

Benshalom snorted and bit into an apple. "A fine speech, lad. Stirring. Truly words for the ages. But my loyalties lie here—in Ma'oz. I serve the people in this hall. Nobody else."

Epher looked at those people. Men and women. Some elders, others mere youths. Their faces were still dirty with mud and blood from the battle, and the sap of pines covered their woolen tunics and skin. Their swords still hung at their sides. They all stared at him, lips tight, chins raised. And he saw in their eyes that they would fight—that if Benshalom asked them, they would march with him, fight for Zohar.

Epher looked back at Benshalom, and he spoke softly, words for only the gruff warrior to hear. "If Beth Eloh falls, uncle, there will be no Ma'oz. If the Aelarians conquer our capital, if Zohar falls to their talons, they will swarm across every part of this land. The mountains will be hard for them to climb, and these walls will take them some time to break—but they will break them, and there will be nothing to hold back their fire. You cannot hide here forever. If there's any hope at all, it lies in Zohar fighting as one."

His bearded uncle turned toward him, and Epher expected to see rage, perhaps scorn in the man's eyes. But he saw fear.

I never knew you could be afraid, Epher thought, staring at his uncle. You are strong. You are the greatest warrior in Zohar. But you are afraid.

Epher had to look away. All his life, he had thought Benshalom a great flame, a wild beast of a man, the bright blade of their family. Now he realized that perhaps Benshalom had always been afraid, that fear had driven him here to these mountains, that fear had always fueled the fire inside him.

When he finally looked back at his uncle, Benshalom nodded slowly. Suddenly he seemed a decade older. Wrinkled. Weary. The old man leaned closer, held Epher's arm, and whispered into his ear.

"We are leaders, son." His voice shook. "We must remain strong for them." Then he pulled back, and suddenly his face changed—no longer the face of a frightened old man. He was the wild warrior again, as if he had placed on a mask. He roared—a great roar that echoed across the hall. He slapped Epher so hard across the back Epher nearly crashed onto the table.

"Definitely, a man you've become!" Benshalom slung his arm around Epher and squeezed. "Aye, dear nephew. I'll fight with you. We have seven thousand warriors in the north. I'll send two thousand to help your father in Gefen, two thousand to help the princes in Beth Eloh. The rest will stay here to defend the north."

Epher sank into his seat, relief flowing across him. It wasn't much. It was a small flame by the inferno of Aelar. But it was hope—a little light in the darkness.

"Now can we please keep eating?" Koren said, reaching for another slab of deer. "And where's that almond honey pie we were promised?"

As his brother resumed stuffing his cheeks, Epher ate little. The fear was too great, and he kept seeing it over and over in his mind: Porcia, staring at him from the gully, smiling thinly.

JERAEL

"Fire!" he cried.

Across the northern wall of Gefen, the trebuchets twanged.

Great chunks of the wall, felled by the Aelarian catapults, now soared into the air. Merlons, clusters of bricks, a shattered turret—they arced toward the legionaries outside the city.

A cry rose from the enemy forces. They scattered. Bricks rained onto shields. An entire merlon slammed into the Aelarian cavalry, shattering three horses and riders. More stones clanged against armor and shields.

Atalia waved her sword from the crumbling wall of Gefen. "How do you like that?" Her voice was hoarse, her face gray and red with dust and blood. "You wanted to break our wall? Well, enjoy the pieces!"

Across the wall, other Zoharite soldiers cheered too, but their voices were weak, their arms weary as they raised their weapons. They had been fighting for too long. Many were wounded, others ill. For a day and night now, the Aelarians had been tossing not stones but rotting animal corpses into the city. Even now, the legions' catapults fired, and maggoty boars and deer sailed across the walls, then splattered across the roofs and streets, spreading disease.

"Load more stones," Jerael said, wheezing, brow feverish. The damn sun was too hot, his throat too dry. "Whatever bricks you can find in this city. Keep firing them."

He placed his hand against one of the trebuchets designed by Master Malaci. There had never been many trees in Gefen, only a few date palms and fig trees. They had been cut down, their trunks now forming these machines of war. As Jerael patted the rough wood, he found his hand shaking. Blood dripped from the knuckles. He could not remember when he had last slept, eaten, or drunk. Nights and days all blurred together into an endless battle, and the catapults never stopped firing. The defenders had fired their last arrows that morning; now they fired mere sticks topped with stone.

Jerael stared toward the northern hills. "Come back to me, my sons," he said softly. "Come back with aid, Epher and Koren. We need you." He turned toward his daughter. "Atalia, come, let's inspect the eastern wall."

She nodded. Atalia looked like Jerael felt. While her sisters were dainty, Atalia had always been strong, robust, able to ride, duel, and wrestle with her brothers and hold her own. Now, however, her cheeks were gaunt, her eyes sunken, her hair matted and sticking to her face. Sweat beaded on her brow and shone on her eyelashes. Yet she still held her chin high and back straight.

They walked along the wall together. Like Jerael and Atalia, the thick walls around Gefen had withstood days of assault, but they too had seen better days. Most of the merlons had cracked, and half or more had shattered. Only a few turrets still stood, and ballista and catapult stones had smashed the arrowslits. Worse, hundreds of the wall's defenders had fallen with the smashed defenses. As Jerael and Atalia moved across the dilapidated walkway, they encountered only half the usual patrol. The men and women they passed stared toward the enemy with weary, sunken eyes. Everyone nursed wounds. Many were not the original defenders who had stood here, trained for war, but old men and youths, new conscripts from the city who wore the armor of their fallen fathers, siblings, and children.

In the west, the city sprawled toward the sea. Houses, temples, silos—so many crushed or burnt. An old man shoved a wheelbarrow down a cobbled street, carrying bodies to burial. Farther out, in the harbor, the Aelarian ships still anchored, and Jerael knew that any day now, more could arrive from the Empire across the sea.

When Jerael looked to the east, to the countryside, he saw the Aelarian garrison. Wooden palisades surrounded it, and tents rose in clusters. Many legionaries roamed across Pine Hill, cutting down the trees to build new siege engines. Jerael could no longer see Prince Seneca, and he wondered if the boy now lived in the villa, sleeping in the bed Jerael had shared with his wife.

Are you out there with them, Ofeer? he wondered, as he had been wondering since the battle had begun. Where are you, my child?

"I count twelve kills for me," Atalia was saying as they walked. She panted, weak with exhaustion, and Jerael knew she was talking to drown her fear, to forget her weariness. "Maybe fourteen if I count firing that catapult stone, though I'm not sure how many it killed. Definitely twelve legionaries with my arrows and sword." She wiped sweat off her brow and squinted in the sunlight. "How many enemies do you reckon Queen Safir killed in her first battle, when she fought the fire-demons of the desert?"

"Not many more than you, I'm sure," Jerael said.

They passed by a corpse on the wall, a young soldier with a burnt, melted face. Priests were loading him onto a litter and carrying him down the wall to a courtyard. Atalia looked at the body, her eyes dampened, and a shudder ran through her. For a moment she looked ready to weep, but then she clenched her fists. They shook. She stared back into the countryside.

"I'm going to kill far more than twelve, of course," she said. "At least a hundred before we win the battle. When Epher and Koren get back, I'll never let them forget that I killed so many more Aelarians than they did. I won't even leave many alive for them, of course, because now that we have trebuchets, we . . ."

They passed around a guard tower, and her voice trailed off.

Jerael clutched the ramparts and stared. His heart sank. Whatever hope had remained in him cracked and crumbled to dust.

"What are they doing?" Atalia whispered.

Below in the field, hundreds of slaves were toiling. Some were Aelarians, perhaps criminals spared the cross. Other slaves were Nurians with mahogany skin, captured in the great southern province, largest in the Empire. Most were fellow Zoharites, taken captive nineteen years ago in the war, their bodies frail, their beards long and white. They were busy hauling baskets of soil, shoving wheelbarrows full of stones, and carrying jugs of water. Other slaves were constructing scaffolds and frameworks of wood.

God save us.

"They're building a ramp," Jerael said. "A ramp as high as the wall."

Atalia snarled and loaded a stone into her sling. Across the wall, other warriors rushed forth, loading their own slings, some placing makeshift arrows into their bows.

"No!" Jerael waved their weapons down. "We will not kill slaves."

"But—Father!" Atalia spun toward him. "We have to stop them. If they build this ramp, they—"

"They will enter the city." Jerael nodded. "And we will fight them. In the streets. In our homes."

Atalia grabbed his arm. "This city is full of elders, children, babes. The legionaries will not distinguish between warriors and the old, the young, the infirm. They will kill anyone they find. We cannot let them enter."

"Would you have the blood of slaves on your hands, Atalia?" Jerael said softly. "The slaves of other nations, and slaves of our own kingdom?"

"Yes." She nodded. "If I must kill hundreds of slaves to save thousands in this city, I will."

She raised her sling and began to whirl it. Jerael pulled her arm down. "No. You will not."

She scowled. "Father, why? Would you rather see this city destroyed?" Around her, other warriors were drawing closer on the wall, muttering agreements. Below in the field, the slaves still toiled.

"I would rather we fight with honor, that we maintain our purity," Jerael said. "Someday we all must die, either in battle today or in our homes, many years from now. And when we die, we will face the judgment of our god. I will have us face Eloh with clean hands, clean souls."

"It sounds like you're choosing to die today rather than many years from now," Atalia said.

"Perhaps." Jerael looked back toward the construction. Slaves were spilling piles of rock and sand into the wooden framework. "But I don't think hope is lost. We'll move a hundred men onto this segment of wall, hundreds more into the courtyard below." He looked down at the city. "As the enemy builds the ramp, we'll build a second wall. See the silo, those homes, that smithie? They're built of solid stone. We'll place men inside them, and we'll connect them with new walls. We have time to prepare. Perhaps the enemy will reach the top of our wall, but I promise you: They will not advance very far." He smiled grimly. "In the courtyard below, we'll build a gauntlet of fire and death for the Aelarians."

All that day, as the slaves toiled outside the walls, the defenders of Gefen toiled within. Jerael worked among them, swinging a hammer, mixing mortar, laying bricks. Hour by hour, the defenses rose within the city. Crude walls to block alleyways, makeshift arrowslits built into them. Defenses upon the roofs of homes, nests for archers and slingers. Hollow lookouts for swordsmen in homes and shops. Cauldrons of oil bubbled on balconies, prepared to spill onto enemy invaders. As the civilians moved westward through the city toward the sea, the eastern neighborhood became a great barracks, hundreds of soldiers spread across it.

A thousand of us remain, Jerael thought as he worked, securing a basket of bricks to a rooftop; a rope would send it spilling into the alleyway. Against fifteen thousand of the world's most ruthless killers.

When evening fell, Jerael wiped sweat off his brow. Atalia leaned forward at his side, hands on her thighs, panting.

"Let's go fire more trebuchets," she said. "Rack up our count before the boys are back."

Jerael's breath sawed at his throat. "When's the last time you slept?"

She snorted. "Who cares? I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"You'll be able to kill more Aelarians well rested. It'll take them a while longer to complete that ramp. Let's sleep. Let's eat. Let's gather our strength before the battle."

Atalia seemed ready to object. She opened her mouth, no doubt about to insist that she was a warrior, that she could fight for years without a blink. But then she wobbled and nodded.

They walked down the streets of Gefen. Only days ago—it seemed the passage of eras—palm and fig trees had lined these streets. Turtle doves and sparrows had sung in the sky, and gardens had bloomed on rooftops. People had walked in white linen tunics, and priests had prayed in the city temples. Gefen had been a city of peace, of beauty, of flowers and water and light, a jewel of the Encircled Sea. The trees had been cut down, the gardens had burned. People huddled in their homes, wounded, grieving, afraid. The only birds now were the crows, dipping down to collapsed houses, seeking a meal.

Finally they reached the small home they kept within the city walls. It was built of pitted limestone bricks, golden in the sunlight. A stone archway held a pine door, painted azure, a color many in Zohar associated with good fortune. A ceramic pomegranate hung on that door, painted red; Atalia had made it in her childhood. Once a fig tree had grown here, shading the house. Now only a stump remained, the trunk used in one of the city's catapults.

Jerael and Atalia stepped inside. The house was smaller than their villa on Pine Hill, only containing three rooms. When the family would stay here together, Jerael and his wife would sleep in one room, the boys in another, the girls in the third.

Now only Atalia and I are here. And I can't stop being afraid for my family.

Jerael saw signs of them everywhere. One of his wife's dresses still hung on the wall, white linen embroidered with golden lionesses. Maya's scrolls still topped a small table. Ofeer's handheld mirror lay on a bed; she had always been so proud of her hair. Wooden soldiers stood on the windowsills, toys Atalia and the boys use to play with, sometimes fought over.

Atalia looked around the house, and Jerael knew she was remembering the same things. She lifted one of the toy soldiers, sat on the bed, and sighed.

"Koren always thought this one was his." She hefted the toy. "I'd get so angry, twist his arm, and steal it from him. I made him cry, even though he's two years older." She blinked tears from her eyes. "I'm so sorry I did that. I don't know why I did it. I wish I could go back now, could give Koren the toy, tell him it's his soldier. I'm so scared I'll never see the boys again, never see Ofeer and Maya and Mother. I just want to go back to those old days. When we were happy."

Jerael sat at her side and placed an arm around her. She leaned against his shoulder, her body shaking with sobs.

"We'll return to those old days," he said. "We'll all live here again."

"Only now we're the soldiers." Tears spiked Atalia's lashes. "We used to play so often at war. But this isn't a game."

Jerael smiled thinly. "Ofeer never played at war. She liked pretty dolls with long hair she could brush. And Maya mostly read scrolls instead of fighting."

A sigh ran through Atalia. "I used to get so mad at Ofeer. I hated her, Father. Often I really did. But now I miss her too. Do you really think we can do this? That we can survive the eagles, that we can live here again, all of us? Don't lie. Tell me what you think." She stared at him with damp brown eyes.

"I don't know," he said slowly. "I don't know if all of us will live. If any of us will. But I know that hope is not lost. So long as we draw breath, so long as we can raise swords, there is hope."

She nodded and hugged him.

As catapults thundered, as the city shook with crashing boulders, they slept.

KOREN

The courtyard bustled around them, a hive of warriors, children running underfoot, and braying donkeys. Thousands of people filled the squares and streets of Ma'oz, this walled city of the northern mountains, moving to and fro, packing supplies, sharpening blades, and praying. In the center of this maelstrom they stood—two brothers, two boys of the coast, far from home.

"Are you sure, Epher?" Koren placed a hand on his older brother's shoulder. "We could use you in Gefen. Damn it, it's our home, the city you're due to inherit someday. You should be there. With me, with Father, with Atalia. For God's sake—Atalia! She'll never stop taunting you if you don't join the battle."

Epher winced, and his hand flexed around his sword's hilt. "That's why I can't go with you. Gefen will have you, Father, and Atalia—brave warriors of Sela. But Mother and Maya are alone in Beth Eloh."

Koren nodded. "Yes, quite alone in a city of a hundred thousand souls."

"Sometimes you're most alone when in a crowd." Epher stepped aside to dodge a trundling donkey, quivers of arrows piled onto its back. "Mother and Maya don't know that Porcia marches toward their city. They're trapped now—trapped between Porcia in the north, Seneca in the west, and dueling princes in Beth Eloh. I have to be there. To look after them."

Koren bit his lip. "I know, but damn it, Epher. Gefen needs you too. It's our home. Our home! And . . . I don't want to go there alone."

A wry smile tugged Epher's lips. "Alone with two thousand of Uncle Ben's warriors."

Koren sighed. His brother was speaking wisdom. As usual. Why did Epher have to make so much goddamn sense all the time? He placed a hand on Epher's shoulder.

"Brother, when I was very young, I remember thinking you were so old, so strong. You're only two years older, but I thought you were more like Father than me and the girls. A righteous, wise man. I looked up to you so much. You were my hero." Koren sighed. "I didn't realize what a complete and utter twat you are."

Epher rolled his eyes. "Yes, you certainly looked up to me when you and Atalia kept sneaking into the bathhouse when I was washing."

"That was Atalia's doing! She wanted to see what a cock looks like, and I wouldn't show her mine." Koren grinned. "Can't say yours impressed her much. I remember her saying something along the lines of . . . her sword was far longer and deadlier, and she'd rather skewer men's guts than women's cunts. Mental, that one is."

Finally Epher cracked a smile, and soon the brothers were laughing.

"Do you remember the time," Epher said, "when Ofeer was brushing that hair of hers—God, she's proud of her hair—and Atalia smeared mud onto it?"

Koren nodded. "Ofeer cried. She actually shed tears! I felt bad for her. She was lucky, though. One time Atalia dumped an actual chamber pot onto my head. Luckily wasn't more than Maya's piss in it—it was back when Maya was just learning to piss in the pot. I bet Atalia is now spilling burning oil onto Aelarians. Bit worse than toddler piss." Koren sighed. "I'll miss you there, big brother, when we're having fun."

Epher turned southward. He gazed beyond the crowd of warriors and animals toward the city gates. "I dare say there will be fun in Beth Eloh too. In the battle, back at the gorge, I made eye contact with Porcia Octavius. Still gives me the chills." He shuddered. "If you think Atalia is bad, you haven't looked into Porcia's eyes. Our sister is fire, but that one . . . Porcia is an inferno that will burn this entire land unless we put it out."

"Then you will put it out." Koren nodded. "And I'll meet Seneca in Gefen, and I'll stick my sword right into his gut. Atalia will be proud, unless she meets him first."

Across the courtyard, warriors began moving toward the gates. Few of the hillsfolk could afford iron armor like Epher and Koren wore; metal was rare here, too rare for armor, used only for swords, spears, and arrowheads. Instead the warriors wore boiled, hardened leather. Men wrapped prayer shawls around their necks, and their beards were long. Just as many women fought in the horde, their hair braided, their faces painted with green and brown stripes, and their swords and spears were just as long as the men's. Beasts of burden moved among the warriors, laden with arrows, wine, bread, and firewood.

"Fierce as lions!" a tall woman cried, her hair a brown mane. She brandished a spear.

"Time to rip into eagles!" bellowed a beefy man, his hair a mop of curls, his face red behind his beard.

"Boys!" Benshalom marched toward them, scarf billowing in the wind, fastened with a lion fibula. "Ready to march out?"

Koren glanced toward the wild warrior and cringed. Decked for war, Benshalom seemed more beast than man. Two spears and a shield were strapped across his back, three blades hung from his belt, and he had braided his white beard. Benshalom perhaps was not the largest of men, not much larger than Koren, but Koren suspected that should his uncle ever meet Marcus Octavius in battle, the emperor would piss his royal toga.

"I'm ready." Koren tried to sound brave. "Time for lions to roar!" Sadly, his voice sounded more like a kitten's squeak than a lion's roar.

Four thousand warriors drained from Ma'oz, their families watching from windows and roofs, waving and weeping and praying. Epher and Koren joined them, stepping through the city gates and down the mountain path. The trail had seemed endless when Koren had climbed it, yet now it seemed to reach the valley in moments. The way forked here, and the host split in two. Two thousand warriors began marching southeast; the path would lead them to Beth Eloh, a five days' march. Another two thousand would march west toward the coast, then south to Gefen.

Here, as the forces split, Epher and Koren paused. They stared at each other, wordless.

"Come on, Epher!" Benshalom roared from down the road, waving a blade. "We march south to stick Porcia's head on a spike."

Epher turned to look at the wild-haired warrior, then back at Koren. "I guess this is goodbye, baby brother."

"Not for long," Koren said. "You'll take care of Mother and Maya, and I'll go save Atalia's ass, and soon enough we'll be back on Pine Hill. All of us. Even Ofeer. I'll miss you, brother. I—oh damn it, let me just hug you."

They embraced, and Koren did not want to let go, did not want to lose the last family member still here with him. Dread filled him that releasing Epher now meant he'd be alone forever, that he'd never see his family again. In Koren's nightmares, they all burned—his parents, his siblings, his kingdom—leaving him alone, lingering in a world of ash.

"We'll see each other soon," Epher said, clutching Koren. "I promise you. I promise."

"To war, to war!" cried the warriors. "The lions roar!"

As Koren marched west among two thousand howling warriors, he kept looking toward the second path, trying to see Epher in the other host, but soon hills came between the armies, and he did not see his brother again.

JERAEL

At nightfall the enemy crossed the wall.

At nightfall the eagles flew.

At nightfall the hope of Gefen shattered.

Jerael stood on what remained of the city battlements, the courtyard behind him, the enemy ahead. Torches crackled at his sides, and he raised his sword and shield. Before him, a hundred legionaries climbed the earthen ramp, surrounded with shields, and drove their spears toward him.

"Ours is the light!" Jerael bellowed in the shadows and firelight. "Zohar!"

"Zohar!" Atalia cried, standing as always at his side, raising blade and shield.

"Zohar!" roared a thousand warriors of a small, sandy kingdom, manning the wall, the courtyard, and roofs below.

Their voices rang and their blood spilled.

Jerael fought like he had never fought. His sickle sword swung in a fury, knocking spears aside, slamming at shields. At his sides, his warriors shouted for their kingdom, bled for their kingdom, died for their kingdom. The swords of Zohar found only shields to hit. The spears of the enemy tore through scale armor, sending Zoharites crashing off the wall.

"Come, see, kill!" the Aelarians chanted, climbing the ramp, shoving onto the wall, encased in metal. "Come, see, kill!" Man by man, segment by segment in a great beast of iron, they rose. "Come, see, kill!"

And the Zoharites—their armor weaker, their weapons shorter—fell before them.

"Fall back!" Jerael cried. "Fall back!"

Covered in blood and ash, the last warriors of Gefen retreated from the wall, some racing downstairs to the courtyard, others vaulting through the air to land on city roofs. Before them, the Aelarians covered the walls like ants covering a corpse, more and more rising, spreading out, spears thrusting from between walls of shields.

"Butcher the rats!" rose a voice from beyond the wall—high-pitched, twisted. The voice of Prince Seneca. "Leave the Sela whore and her father for me. Slaughter the others."

Jerael stood in the courtyard as the Aelarians descended the stairs, his dripping sword raised, sweat in his eyes.

"Come face me then, Seneca!" he roared. "Come face me, man to boy! Stop hiding behind the shields of your men, and face me like a man yourself. Or are you a coward?"

No reply came from the prince, only the roar of the legionaries and their stabbing spears. They streamed into the courtyard, a hundred men, two hundred, moving in units, surrounded by shields, an engine of war. Jerael and his warriors fell back before them, retreating through the doors of houses, letting the enemy spill into Gefen.

Jerael barged into a home, its family vacated, and raced upstairs onto the roof. Hundreds of Zoharite warriors rose onto rooftops around him. Hundreds of Aelarians crowded into the courtyard below, finding the streets and alleyways blocked with brick walls, and still more emerged from the ramp, down the stairs, and into the city.

Jerael sneered.

Now you die.

"Oil!" he roared and yanked the rope.

Across the rooftops, Zoharites tugged twenty other ropes.

The massive cauldrons tilted on the rooftops, spilling their sizzling contents into the courtyard. Legionaries screamed, falling, ripping off their armor. Welts rose across their skin. Eyes melted.

"Fire!" Jerael shouted, grabbed an arrow, and kindled it.

Hundreds of flaming arrows sailed toward the courtyard. The oil burst into flame, engulfing legionaries, spreading across the courtyard. The screams rose higher. Men cried out for mercy, cried for their mothers, reached out blazing hands.

"Stones!" Jerael cried, tugging another rope. Across the roofs, his men pulled ropes with him. Sacks opened, spilling heavy stones, each the size of a man's head. The boulders rolled into the courtyard and slammed into the burning legionaries.

"Oil, fire, stones!" Atalia shouted, waving her weapons on a rooftop. "The lions roar! Come on, you sons of whores, you dogs who piss on walls!" She roared, blood on her face, eyes red, body cut and bruised a hundred times. "Plenty more for all of you, so come on! Come in!"

And more entered the city. Century after century. They trampled the corpses of their dead. They marched across the wall, sling stones slamming against their shields. They swarmed into street after street. They shattered the gates from within, and a thousand more Aelarians entered. The arrows flew, and their spears lashed, and they stormed into house after house, slaying all those within, and blood spilled across the city of Gefen.

A night of blood, of death, of flame. A night of walls crashing down. A night lions roared and died.

Across the city, they fell, the last warriors of the coast. A young soldier, only fourteen years old, screamed at Jerael's side, a spear crashing through his chest. A woman—she looked so much like Atalia—crashed down, trampled beneath the sandals of legionaries, her skull crushed. A spear drove into a grizzled warrior who had survived many wars, then pulled back, tugging out entrails. Jerael swung his blade, trying to hold them back, unable to stop the tide, the thousands of legionaries flowing through the city. They fought on the streets, in homes, on roofs. A legionary grabbed a babe, laughed, and tossed it into the air for another legionary to spear. Two legionaries ripped a daughter from her mother's arms, tore off her clothes, shoved a spear between her legs and laughed, thrusting their hips as they drove the spear deeper until it crashed out from her chest.

Jerael and Atalia rose onto the roof of their old home, the little house on the narrow street, by the stump of the fig tree. They stood together, back to back, gazing at the legionaries that filled the streets of Gefen. Thousands of them, as relentless and eternal as the sea.

Dawn rose, and Jerael knew that it was over.

"We do not surrender," Atalia whispered. "We do not let them take us alive."

Jerael clutched his sword with a trembling hand, knowing he could not do this, knowing that he must.

I'll do it quickly. His teeth ground. My blade into my daughter's heart, then into my own. Forgive me, God. Forgive me, forgive me.

His blade caught the morning light, and Atalia turned toward him, chin raised, eyes closed, tears on her cheeks.

"Do it quickly," she whispered. "I love you, Father. I love you so much."

She had never been braver.

Jerael raised his blade.

Horns.

Horns blew from the north.

Not the brass horns of Aelar but rams' horns, keening horns, horns of light, of Zohar.

Jerael looked to the hills beyond the city, and there he saw them. They emerged from the dawn, marching together, blades bright in the sunrise. An army of light and hope. Jerael's tears fell.

"The lions of Zohar still fight. Our city still stands."

KOREN

Koren had never known more fear.

As he ran into the city of Gefen, his heart thrashed against his ribs. His breath shook. His skull seemed to constrict, and he could barely breathe. Two thousand warriors of the hills, men and women in boiled leather, faces covered in war paint, roared at his sides. Their swords, axes, and spears shone. And Koren ran with them, roaring more in terror than rage, his sword—his old sword from his youth, the one his father had given him—raised before him.

"Slay the heathens!" shouted a Zoharite warrior at his side, her face twisted with rage.

"Cast them back into the sea!" cried a bearded man, swinging an axe.

"Father!" Koren cried. "Atalia!"

They stormed through the gates and down Potter Road. The legionaries turned toward them, shields clattering together, forming a wall. Their spears drove forth. Koren swung his sword, knocking a spear aside. The blade scraped across his armor, showering sparks. The bearded man at his side drove down his axe, cleaving an Aelarian shield. Koren shoved his blade into the opening, hit flesh, drew blood. He thrust again. Again. He tore through armor and the legionary fell, but more advanced, and flames and death covered the city.

On a street where Koren had once dueled his brother with wooden swords, he drove his blade into a man's throat. In a courtyard where he would draw with chalk, he painted the cobblestones with blood. In a garden where he and Maya had once watched baby birds in a nest, he watched an Aelarian cling to his spilling organs, trying to tuck them back in, calling for his mother. And Koren knew that should he survive this night, these streets would never more hold memories of family and love, only memories of broken flesh, shattered bones, severed limbs, screams and burning bodies.

"Father!" he cried hoarsely. "Atalia!"

A Zoharite warrior fell before him, throat slit—a young woman, no older than Maya, her sword clattering down from her hand. Another warrior of the northern hills, a gruff man with a grizzled beard, stumbled through the streets, a hole in his belly, his eyes burnt away, an arrow in his chest. Koren found himself stepping over corpses. He stumbled forward, slew a legionary, and knocked over a charred cradle, spilling out a burnt baby. He was lost. Trapped in a labyrinth of death. He no longer knew these streets. They had become the arteries of a giant, gushing with blood.

I died, Koren thought. I died and my soul sank to Ashael, forever cursed.

A spear drove toward him, nicking his thigh. He fell to his knees. The spear thrust again, tearing through his armor, stinging his chest. The legionary stood in fire, a demon of smoke and brimstone. Koren tried to knock the spear aside, but it tore his armor open, and his sword fell from his hand.

He was a boy, swimming in the sea with his brother, seeking hidden coins from sunken ships.

He was a young man, receiving his first prayer shawl and sword.

He was a son, a brother, sitting at the dining table before a feast, his family around him, candles casting their light, a painting of elephants above him, laughter and joy filling his home.

He was a soldier, his family far, dying alone.

The spear lashed again.

"Koren!"

The voice rose from another world, perhaps the voice of God, calling him to the sky.

"Koren, you piece of pig shit, get up!"

Koren raised his eyes and saw her there, a shadow leaping from a rooftop, plunging down a spear. The blade crashed into the legionary before Koren, driving through the shoulder and out the belly. The man collapsed, and Atalia landed on the cobblestones, snarling and panting, covered in blood.

She reached down her hand, grabbed him, and yanked him to his feet. "Hullo, Koren."

"Hullo, Atalia. I'm here to, um . . . rescue you?"

A legionary raced toward them. Atalia swung her sword, barely bothering to turn around, cutting the man down. "Excellent work so far. Just try to do more rescuing while standing and killing enemies, less by resting on the ground."

An arrow sailed from above and slammed into Koren's shield. He spun his sling, fired a stone, and hit a legionary on a roof. "Where's Father?"

"Fighting by the boardwalk." Atalia ducked and lashed her blade at a legionary's knees, knocking him down, then plunged her sword into his face. "Where's our older brother? Where's Epher?"

Koren began moving down the street, heading west toward the shore. Bloodstained houses rose at his sides, people cowering within, while legionaries and Zoharites fought on side streets. "Chose to go to Beth Eloh," he said. "Turns out there's some fun there too."

Atalia spat, walking at his side. "He was probably just worried I'd kill more legionaries than him over here."

"That's what I told him!"

They made their way through the cobbled streets of Gefen, the brick walls close at their sides. The stumps of palm trees rose among the corpses. Every step they took, another Zoharite died—warriors on roofs and in alleyways, mothers, children. The legionaries stormed everywhere, clogging the city, hunting them down.

Finally Koren saw a round, columned courtyard between brick shops. Beyond it, a road led to the boardwalk. The sea spread ahead, and the ships of the enemy still anchored there, lanterns swaying. Fig trees had once grown here, and peddlers had sold honey cakes and steaming mint tea. Koren remembered playing here as a child, the cobblestones so hot under his feet he could not stop bouncing around, then running toward the sea and swimming for hours. The trees were gone now, the shops empty, the cobblestones sticky with hot blood.

"Let's make our way to the water," Atalia said. "We'll drown some eagles."

They were crossing the courtyard when the towering general emerged from between two columns. Koren froze, sucked in breath, and raised his sword. The legionary was taller than any man Koren had ever seen, even taller than Father. He wore fine armor, the dark iron lined with gold. His pauldrons spread out, embossed with eagles, while a red crest flared from his helmet. His face seemed just as hard as the armor—lined, cruel, the eyes dark and heartless.

This could only be one man—the man they whispered about around the Encircled Sea. The Sea Demon. The giant of a general who had conquered countless lands, slain countless innocents.

"General Remus Marcellus," Koren muttered. He remembered the stories. The stories every child had heard. It was Remus who had crucified a hundred children in the land of Leer, driving the nails in himself, simply to strike fear into their fathers and brothers.

Atalia spat. "I like tall men." She hefted her sword. "It's fun cutting them down to size."

With a roar, Atalia charged. Koren joined her, hand trembling but blade still raised. Before they could cross the courtyard, a hundred legionaries or more emerged between the columns, forming a wall of iron around the siblings. The Aelarians' shields rose, painted with golden eagles on red fields. Heavy iron bolts—large as fists—bulged from the centers. Atalia's sword slammed into one shield, Koren's into another, barely even denting them.

"The Sela pups." Remus stared at them from behind his men. "The prince wants them alive. We will give him his gifts." A thin smile stretched across the general's stony face. "But break them first."

The soldiers dropped their spears and advanced in a ring, shields held before them.

"Coward!" Atalia shouted and spat toward Remus. "Draw your sword and face me like a man, you son of a dog."

Yet the general still stood between the columns, staring over the heads of his troops. The hundred legionaries advanced step by step, closing in around Koren and Atalia, hidden behind their red and gold shields. The siblings stood back to back, splashed in blood, their scale armor tattered, their curved swords chipped.

"They're not taking us alive," Atalia said. "Koren, if they get close to capturing us, we fall on our swords."

Koren's eyes widened. "To Ashael with that! I want to live. Fight with me!"

Arms trembling, he charged and swung his blade. The iron crashed into a shield, cutting through layers of leather and canvas and chipping the hard wood beneath. But the shield drove forward, and the iron stud in its center slammed into Koren with the force of a giant's fist. He grunted and fell back, swung his sword again, and hit the rim of the shield, but he could not crack the metal lining. Another legionary stepped forth, shoving his shield before him like a ram, slamming it into Koren. He cried out, stumbled backward, and hit Atalia. Another shield crashed into him, chipping his armor.

Atalia fought behind him, screaming, sword flying madly. She managed to shatter one shield, to tear into the legionary holding it, but another man slammed his shield against her head, and she cried and fell.

"Atalia!" Koren knelt beside her, holding his sword up with one hand, trying to grab her with the other. A shield slammed down onto his head, and the world spun, and stars floated before him. More legionaries kept pouring into the square, hundreds of them, moving between the columns, slamming their shields onto Koren and Atalia. Their blood flowed between the cobblestones.

"Remus!" Koren roared. "Father! Father!"

He tried to rise. A shield pounded him again. He fell. Atalia lay at his side, unconscious, maybe dead, bleeding from a gash on her head. The shields kept hitting him, the metal cracking his armor, cracking his body, and blood filled Koren's mouth. He could barely see anything, just those eagle shields swooping, biting at him, tearing him apart.

"Father!" he cried, as he had cried years ago, in his childhood, when neighborhood children would taunt and strike him. "Father, please!"

"Stand back!" rose a voice, deep like thunder. "Let me through."

The shields pulled back, and Koren pushed himself onto hands and knees, vomiting blood. Atalia still wouldn't move. Koren looked up, trembling, to see General Remus walking toward him across the bloodied cobblestones.

Koren managed to rise to his feet. He raised his sword.

The towering general, a good foot taller, knocked Koren's blade aside with his spear and drove forward his shield. The metal slammed into Koren, and all the sun and moon and stars went out, and he fell, fell, fell endlessly into a black sea.

MAYA

The palace had become a place of shouting and tears. A place where her mother scolded the king of Zohar. A place where fear seeped from the walls. A place that Maya kept seeing burning, crumbling, full of corpses. Finally she had been unable to bear it. And so she had fled the chamber they had given her, had raced through the halls, up the stairs, and had come here—here onto the roof of the palace, gazing out onto Beth Eloh and the world beyond.

A great dome rose here, a walkway around it, lined with columns, like a crown surrounding a bald head. As Maya walked along the columned path around the dome, she could see different views of the world, and she paused between each pair of columns, gazing.

She could see all of Beth Eloh from here, spreading around her across the mountain plateau, enclosed within the fortified walls. Countless domes, white roofs, and steeples rose from the city, a patchwork of stone, gold, copper, and light. Cypress trees grew among them, and many tombstones crowded in cemeteries, the fallen of millennia. Maya had visited this city as a child, and she remembered a bustling metropolis, its markets crowded with thousands, a city of silks, spices, jangling bells, so many sounds and colors. Today the people shuffled weakly down the cobbled streets. The camels lay in the sun, ribs pushing against matted fur. An ancient city, languishing like the dog Maya had found on the hills, perhaps an outcast from this hive.

She kept circling the dome, staring toward the landscape beyond the walls. In the west, the mountainsides were green and lush with spring. Cypresses, pines, and olive groves grew there, a verdant carpet rolling down toward farmlands. Beyond those farms—too far to see from here—her home of Gefen nestled along the coast. When Maya turned eastward, however, she beheld a different landscape. Here were no trees, no farms, no waiting sea. The eastern mountainside was barren, tan, rocky, sloping down to the desert. The dunes rolled into the horizon, gilded in the sunlight. Camels walked across a distant peak, soon vanishing from view. Beyond this dry wilderness, still several parsa'ot away, spread the kingdom of Sekadia, an ancient enemy.

Sandy wind blew from that desert, billowing Maya's hair, dusting her face with coppery sand. A storm was rising on the horizon, umber and burnished copper, clouds of sand moving toward the city. As Maya gazed upon the rising sandstorm, she imagined towers, temples, entire kingdoms in its clouds. What did the sand care for the works and wars of men? To that storm, even an ancient kingdom, even a frightened girl, were but sustenance to consume.

Finally Maya turned to look at the crest that rose in the south, only a short walking distance away. Here soared the Temple—a great complex, larger even than this palace, a city within a city. Maya stood on the roof of Zohar's palace, but the Temple was the true heart of the kingdom. Thousands of the city's people prayed in its courtyard, for today was the Day of Penitence, the holiest day of the Zoharite year, a day when all in this kingdom prayed for forgiveness from sin. Priests stood outside the Holy of Holies, a towering building, capped in gold, said to house God's spirit itself. The old men stood clad in splendor, jeweled breastplates on their chests, their beards long and white, their turbans embroidered with gold, and they blew curling kudu horns whose wails rolled across the city.

"Lord of Light, forgive my own sins this day," Maya whispered, tears in her eyes. "Forgive me that I could not save the dog you sent me on the hills. Forgive me that I always scorned Ofeer, that I failed to bring her into your light. Forgive us all, God. Forgive us this war between our princes, forgive us for building temples and palaces of gold while our people hunger. Please do not punish us with the scourge of Aelar. Please deliver us from their darkness."

A crinkly voice rose behind her. "There is no forgiveness for the sins of Zohar, child, no deliverance from shadow. Not in this world of iron and blood. All we can do is seek truth in the splendor of Luminosity."

Maya turned around to see Avinasi, the lumer bonded to King Shefael. In open daylight, the woman seemed more ancient than ever. Her skin hung like wet papyrus, and her fingers were knobby like olive tree roots. Yet her eyes still shone with wisdom. As the old woman stepped toward Maya, the coins sewn into her silken gown jangled.

A pendant gleamed on the lumer's chest. It drew Maya's eye, and she could not look away. The jewel was shaped as a candelabrum with four candles, each with a ruby flame—the ancient sigil of Luminosity. Four lights. Four Pillars of Luminosity. Healing. Muse. Sight. Foresight. The four cornerstones of magic.

"My mother says Zoharites are not to use Luminosity," Maya said, forcing her eyes away from the pendant. "She said that all lumers are bound in chains, sent to Aelar, forced to serve the Empire."

The old woman stepped closer. A scent of frankincense, myrrh, and olive oil clung to her. "Yet I am a lumer, and I remain in Zohar. How is that, my child?"

"I don't know," Maya said.

"You do." Avinasi smiled thinly, revealing the tips of toothless gums.

Maya swallowed. "You've served Zohar loyally for many years, Avinasi, and are well respected both here and across the sea. In honor of your wisdom, Emperor Marcus has allowed you to remain in your homeland."

The lumer barked a hoarse laugh. "A diplomatic way of calling me old. Yes, child, you speak truth. I'm too frail to be sent overseas. I would only take up space in the ships of Aelar, likely to arrive dead in that distant kingdom. Ah, but you, child . . ." Avinasi reached out her stick-thin fingers and caressed Maya's cheek. "You are young, in the full bloom of youth. How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"I was younger than you when I first studied Luminosity from the eastern mistresses, when I gazed fully into the light. You have the gift, do you not? I can sense it in you. Your body, your heart, your soul, your mind—they are soaked with lume, as bread soaks oil."

Maya lowered her head. "I have the gift, Avinasi, though my mother has banned it. I dare not luminate the lume, lest the eagles of Aelar fetch me, fly me to their nests."

Avinasi walked toward the edge of the palace balcony. She stood between two columns, staring eastward. The sandy wind billowed and jangled her gown. "Tell me, child, what do you see in the east?"

"Sand," Maya said. "Dunes. An endless desert. The wilderness beyond our kingdom. The end of the world."

"There is no end to the world, child, and while the earthly kingdom of Zohar has its boundaries, the kingdom of Luminosity is eternal and infinite. There is life beyond the desert. There is a secret place." Avinasi turned toward her, eyes narrowing, and clutched her hand. "The eagles have not plucked all lumers. I've been sending a precious few, a hidden handful, to my eastern sisters, ancient mistresses who shine and teach beyond the desert. This city of Beth Eloh is the world's greatest fountain of lume, but there is another spring, child . . . a hidden light. A place where lumers can be free."

Maya's eyes widened. She gasped. "But . . . Master Malaci, the sage of Gefen, claims that lume can be found only in Zohar."

The winds gusted, blowing a thin veil of sand onto the city. "Master Malaci is wise in the ways of astronomy, herbology, and lore, but we, child, we are the mistresses of magic. Men deal with earth and metal and flesh; we women are beings of light. Our life force, the precious lume, is like the bitumen buried under the earth. Invisible to all who know its secret dwellings. The ancients built Beth Eloh here on this mountain, for here the flow of lume is a geyser. But as bitumen can be found buried in small, distant pockets, so can lume." Avinasi pointed toward the east. "And there, far beyond the endless distance, beyond deserts and mountains and the halls of cruel kings, a thin trickle of lume flows—no more than a hint, detectable to only the greatest lumers." Avinasi turned back toward Maya and grabbed her arms, her fingers coiling and tightening like shackles. "You must travel there, child. You must cross the desert, and you must seek my sisters, for a great storm rises, a storm that will bury our light."

The sandy wind billowed her hair, and Maya gasped, caught in the grip of the old woman. Avinasi's blazing green eyes seemed to strip off her clothes, her skin, exposing her very soul, all her innermost dreams and secrets.

"I . . . I can't," Maya said, trembling.

"Do you not wish to study Luminosity, child?"

"I do. More than anything!" Maya nodded emphatically. "But my mother—"

"—does not understand the ways of light."

Maya lowered her head. "She does not. She struck me once, when I summoned luminescence to heal her cut finger. But she did so because she loves me, because she wants to keep me safe. I can't leave her, Avinasi. I can't leave my family or the rest of Zohar, not at this hour of great darkness. How can I just run away?"

"Run away?" Avinasi stroked her hair. "You've been running away all your life, child. Running from your true destiny. Hiding from who you can become, a great lumer, a figure of mercy and effulgence. It's time to walk the path of light, a path that will lead you east, to knowledge, to grace."

Maya looked away. Her eyes dampened. "I'm sorry, Avinasi. I want this more than anything, but I can't. As you do not abandon your king, I cannot abandon my mother."

A strange smile crinkled Avinasi's face. "Do you sense it, child?"

Something in Avinasi's eyes made Maya shiver. "Sense what?"

"Use the lume. Illuminate it and see. Your mother isn't here, and I will guide you, a first lesson."

Maya meant to refuse. She still shuddered to remember how she had summoned so much lume outside the city, how the luminescence had nearly drowned her, and she had promised her mother. And yet so much lume flowed here in Beth Eloh, and so much soaked her body, that she could not help it. The mere suggestion of luminating it shattered her walls. The lume flowed through Maya, and she ignited it, weaving it around her, letting it glow, flow around her, turn into luminescence—into magic. The light shone in her eyes.

"You are strong in the magic," said Avinasi. "You are a child of great light. Control it, Maya Sela! You summon too much. It will burn you. Master the luminescence lest it masters you."

Yet Maya could barely hear the old lumer. She fell to her knees, overwhelmed, weeping. So much light. So much history. The past, the future, the present, rolling around her, all woven of light. She saw the dog approaching her from the hill. She saw her sisters—a warrior on a wall, a tortured soul in a tent. She saw her brothers—afraid, facing war. Their voices called to her. The voices of her family. The voices of a million souls, of ancient tribes, of outcasts, of dying boys, of burning children, of crucified fathers. She saw this city a thousand times, a city of ancient prophets, a city of great kings, a city burning, a city crumbling, a—

"Master it!" Hands reached through the light to grasp her. "You're like a cracked dam, seeping all its water. Shape the luminescence! Weave it around you. Focus on the northern hills. Listen. Seek the glow there."

Maya trembled, on her knees, the glow spinning around her, struggling to grab the strands, to wrestle them under her command. So many visions filled the light. Her father crying out to her, blood on his brow. Ofeer weeping, reaching to her. Her brothers dying on the field. Visions. Dreams. Possible futures, interweaving, shattering, reforming. Maya clenched her jaw.

"Weave the light, child." Avinasi's voice rose through the storm, a single pillar of calmness. "Weave it into a thin strand. Focus to the north. Use the Sight."

Maya gasped for breath, focusing, grabbing the light, letting it slip away, grabbing it again, pulling it downward. And she was doing it. Weaving the strands. Bending them to her will. She laughed, suddenly no longer tumbling through a storm but riding its waves, staring north, seeing.

And she saw.

Her tears burned down her cheeks.

"I see, Avinasi! I see . . . a light. Like the moon. A strong light wrapped in chains. Hurt." Maya cringed. "So much pain. It . . . it's taking form! It looks like a woman. A woman all in light, but fading and flickering, hurt."

Avinasi nodded. "You see another lumer. Her mistress, the cruel Porcia Octavius, calls her Worm, though her true name is Noa Bat Seean, a daughter of Zohar in chains. Her light reached out to me only days ago. She asked me to come here, to Beth Eloh, for our gates to open and welcome her. Do you see who walks with her?"

Maya narrowed her eyes, staring into the light . . . and she saw.

She gasped and lost her magic. Her luminescence fled like wine from a shattered jug.

Maya ran. Panting, she leaped between two columns, grabbed them for support, and stared north. The wind gusted, whipping her hair, tossing sand onto her.

"They're coming," Maya whispered. "Only hours away. Spears. Iron. Sand and death."

She spun away from the view. She forgot about her magic, forgot about the secrets of the east, forgot about Avinasi. Maya raced into the palace, seeking her mother.

YOHANAN

Yohanan Elior, eldest son of late Queen Sifora, paced his tent, his belly knotting.

"Aelar invades." He gripped the hilt of his sword. "An empire of eagles attacks, and we languish here outside the walls of Beth Eloh. Damn it, my aunt is right. My brother and I need to end this conflict."

"Yet what can you do?" Ishay lounged on the bed, plucking a lyre's strings. Candles glowed around him. "You've sent your aunt into the city to speak sense to your brother. Come now, lie down beside me. Drink wine and rest."

"Rest?" Yohanan scoffed. "How can I rest when I'm here, trapped between the closed gates of my city and an invasion of eagles?"

Ishay plucked a random lyre string. "I'm resting successfully."

"You always rest." Yohanan pointed at the younger man. "You have no concept of the burden of a king."

"And thank God for that!" Ishay placed down his lyre, sipped wine, and stretched.

Yohanan spent a moment looking at his companion. Sometimes Ishay could be infuriating. He was a young man, barely more than a boy, and fair to look upon. His curly brown hair was just long enough to fall across his ears and forehead, and his eyes were grayish green, the color of a forest under a storm. Unlike Yohanan, who wore armor and bore a sword, Ishay lay in a cotton tunic, and his blade lay on the floor.

Yohanan thought back to that day, three years ago, when Ishay had first come into his life. A cocky youth, the son of a shepherd. Slender and fair, clad in only a tunic, armed with only a sling.

Shefael tried to kill me that day, Yohanan thought. My own brother.

The five brutes, the champions of Shefael's army, had come upon Yohanan in an olive grove, determined to slay the eldest son of Queen Sifora. Their mother had not been dead a week, and already Shefael had sent his knives after his brother. Yohanan had fought them well, had slain two before a blow knocked him down. The three remaining assassins towered above him, grinning, knives raised, and Yohanan prayed to God to save his life or welcome him into his eternal grace.

And God had answered his prayers. Answered with a beautiful youth, a shepherd's boy with crook and sling. Those smooth river stones had sailed through the air, had slammed into the forehead of assassin after assassin, slaying them between the olive trees.

Older now, gaunter, harder, Yohanan stood in the tent and gazed upon his companion, this boy who had barely changed even through three years of fire.

"Three years ago," Yohanan said, "you delivered me from my brother. You gave me my life, and you gave me your love, and since that day, Ishay, you've fought with me against him, against the man who still tries to kill me. You know the cruelty of Shefael. The hatred he bears me, bears us. Join us? He will refuse. You know this. Shefael would rather hide behind the walls and see Aelar smash us against them. He would rather see Emperor Marcus Octavius rule Zohar than his own brother."

"Then he's a fool." Ishay rose from bed and walked toward him. "Then we'll defeat them both. If the legions of Aelar reach us here, we'll cast them back into the sea, with or without your brother."

Yohanan stared at the map on his table, showing the known world. He gazed upon the kingdom of Zohar—a narrow strip of land, trapped between sea and sand, so small one could traverse it within mere days. To the south loomed the land of Nur, fifty times the size of Zohar; the ancient savanna civilization, once the mightiest kingdom in the world, was now the largest province in the Aelarian Empire. East of Zohar spread the kingdom of Sekadia, still free, still vast, a full hundred times the size of Zohar; here sprawled the great desert power that Aelar had not yet crushed. And in the northwest, across the Encircled Sea—Aelar itself, a mere city on the coast, a beast that spread its tentacles across the world, pulling nation after nation into its embrace, building the mightiest empire in history. On this map, Zohar was but a speck, small as a scorpion caught between battling elephants. What hope did Yohanan have to remain free in this world of fire and sand?

"We need him," Yohanan said. "God damn it, we need Shefael. We need his troops. We need his horses."

"You have me. That counts for something, doesn't it?" Ishay stroked Yohanan's hair. "You've always had me, in light and darkness, in peace and in war. You always have my sword, my music, my love."

Ishay's lips were soft against his, his hair scented of frankincense, his hands flowing like myrrh. Yohanan nodded and caressed his companion's cheek.

"I know, Ishay. I love you more than I love Zohar, more than the sun loves the sky, more than I could ever love a woman."

The young musician scoffed. "When have you ever loved a woman in any capacity?"

Yohanan bristled. "You injure me, my Ishay. You know how I loved my mother! But you're right. Remember the time my parents tried to marry me to that woman from the southern fort—what was her name?"

"Lee'el."

"Lee'el! That's it. Sweet enough girl, but a blade I'm glad I dodged." Yohanan sighed. "Someday when I'm king, I'll be forced to marry, to father heirs. In some ways I'm thankful this war has delayed the inevitable. Though I suppose now, with Aelar's invasion, it all falls apart. This dream we had of winning the throne. What good is a throne if the kingdom falls?"

"Don't let despair claim you. I won't allow it." Ishay's eyes hardened. "Someday when you're king? You are a king. You are your mother's firstborn. You lead your people bravely, not cowering in a palace while they starve. You are now, and always will be, the King of Zohar, and you will lead us both into Beth Eloh and to victory against Aelar. And I'm proud to fight at your side." He kissed Yohanan's cheek, then kissed his lips again. "Now will you lie down and rest?"

"No." Yohanan grabbed Ishay's hand. "Come with me, shepherd's boy. Walk with me outside. I can't languish in this tent a moment longer. I must walk outside among my warriors, let them see they still have a king."

They left the tent together. Their camp sprawled across the dark mountainside, thousands of warriors—men, women, youths—walking to and fro, clad in armor, armed with spears and swords. The moon shone above. Olive trees clung to the mountain, trunks gnarled like ancient faces, their fruit long gone. Beasts moved here too—fine horses, weary with war; camels laden with saddles and weapons; cows and sheep, givers of milk and meat; and donkeys hauling wood and water. In this war of kings, even the beasts of the field fought for this land.

The wall of Beth Eloh soared a mil away, the wall they had been trying to breach for a year now. Yohanan stared at the city battlements, at the towers that rose beyond them, topped with gold and copper and silver. Yohanan had not the gift of Luminosity—no man in Zohar did, and only a handful of women—but whenever he gazed upon the City of God, he felt its holiness, its antiquity.

"City of Kings," Yohanan said softly. "City of copper and light. Home of God and fountain of Luminosity. For three years now, it has hurt me, Ishay. That my mother named Shefael heir. But that pain is nothing compared to the pain I would feel should Aelar shatter these walls, should profane these holy stones, should raise their false idols in the Temple that has given us light for a thousand years."

Ishay placed a hand on his shoulder, and they gazed together at the city. "Queen Sifora's final will was forged. You know I believe that. I always have. The handwriting was hers, yes, but done with Shefael's hand. He will not keep this city, nor will Aelar claim it. You are the one true king of Zohar. God's grace shines upon you. A path of darkness spreads before you, my king, but it ends in light."

Yohanan ran his fingers between the leaves of an olive tree. Slender, dark, firm leaves like little blades. He remembered how, as a child, he and his brother would pick these leaves. They would carefully perforate one leaf—just a slit—and place a second leaf into the tear, forming a little boat with a sail. Their leaf boats would always tilt over in puddles, yet the siblings would spend hours building more. It was funny, Yohanan thought. They had been princes, sons of a great queen, with the finest toys from across the world—little soldiers that moved when you wound them up, platinum animals with ruby eyes, dice of precious metals, and model ships that were masterworks of polished wood and cloth. And yet they had preferred building boats from olive leaves, playing with emptied snail shells, with pine cones and apricot seeds, with the toys of common children.

And now we play with armies, Yohanan thought. Now we play a game of swords and arrows and thrones.

"I wonder, Ishay," he said softly, "how many other kingdoms thought the same. How many kings, queens, and warriors around the Encircled Sea spoke of their gods blessing them, of paths of light, of royalty and timeless divinity. They all fell. Leer. Berenia. Nur. Phedia. Kalintia. Denegar. One by one, washed under the waves like kingdoms of sand."

"We are no kingdom of sand," Ishay said. "We are a kingdom of iron, of gold, and of light."

Iron can rust, Yohanan thought. Gold can melt. Light can fall into shadow.

As if to confirm his fears, distant drums beat.

Across the camp, warriors frowned and stared. Some fell to their knees and began to pray. Others drew their swords and arrows.

Horns blew. Horns of warning and horns of war.

Yohanan ran. He leaped onto his camel, and Ishay mounted a second dromedary. They rode through the camp, racing between warriors and olive trees. More camels and horses galloped with them, and soldiers ran, and still those horns blared, and still those drums beat.

They raced up a dry, rocky hill that bulged atop the plateau, affording a view of the landscape for parsa'ot around. Sandy wind blew, scented of the desert.

Yohanan halted his camel and stared.

Paths of darkness, he thought. A city of stone and light. A boy who came into my life with sling and faith. An ancient kingdom under God's grace, a people who stood and sang and prayed and lived for thousands of years, from wild tribes in the desert to kings on thrones of gold. All will fall. All will burn.

There, from the north, they marched. Thousands of legionaries, all in iron, their spears rising like a forest. The army that had never been vanquished, the army that had conquered the world. Their standards rose high, glinting in the sunlight—eagles of gold, eagles of wrath, eagles of death.

Yohanan drew his sword and held it high. Ishay raised his sling.

"It is time for war," Yohanan said. "It is time for blood, for fire, for walls to tumble down. It is time for lions to roar."

JERAEL

In the darkness of starless night, the sea moaning like an unfed beast, Jerael Sela stood alone.

Around him lay the corpses of his comrades, men and women—some his old friends from the war nineteen years ago, others born since those dark days. Dead legionaries lay among them—many of them corpses he had made. In alleyways, on rooftops, in doorframes, across windowsills they lay—the fallen. The sun had set upon a city that had once bloomed, that now bustled with flies and crows.

A fallen city, Jerael thought. Gefen is lost.

No more warriors of Zohar fought around him. He could hear only scattered sounds of battle from deeper in the city, soon fading under the victorious chants of Aelar. Not even the hillsfolk, their hope from the dawn, had been able to stop this tide. The eagle banners rose from the temples, from the city fortress, from his own home. And here, on the boardwalk by the sea, Jerael stood alone to face them. His final battle.

The waves rose at his side, spraying across the cobbled boardwalk. In the water swayed the ships of the enemy, lined with oars, emptied vessels that had spilled forth their venom.

Along the boardwalk they approached him, coming from both sides. Hundreds of legionaries, many astride horses, their spears pointing his way. Jerael knew that he would die this dawn, and death would have come as a relief if not for the terror inside him.

Where are you, my family? Jerael's eyes stung. Where are you, my wife, my beautiful and wise companion? Where are you, my boys, my Epher and Koren? Where are you, my brave daughters, Atalia, Ofeer, Maya? Have you fallen?

The legionaries advanced closer, surrounding him. A spear stabbed him, nicking his side. Another spear scraped across his leg. Jerael was too weak to cry out, and his sword could not stop them. Another spear thrust. They would kill him slowly, cut by cut, bleeding him drop by drop.

"Stop!" rose a shrill voice. "Lower your weapons. I told you I wanted him alive, damn it."

The legionaries on the boardwalk halted and parted, standing at attention. A noble stallion walked forth, black as sin. Prince Seneca rode in the saddle, resplendent in the dawn. His rich crimson cloak billowed behind him, embroidered with eagles. His filigreed armor shone in the morning like a second sun. A laurel rested upon his brown hair, and his lips twisted in contempt. No blood yet stained his blade.

"Make room, make room!" Seneca said. "Let me see him."

When the horse reached Jerael, the young prince dismounted, and a soldier took the stallion aside. They stood facing each other on the boardwalk. A ragged lord, his armor torn, his flesh cut countless times, gasping for breath, struggling to stay standing after so many days of battle. A young prince in the prime of his youth, his armor spotless, his eyes bright with vigor, a gladius in his hand, the blade gleaming and sharpened to a razor's edge.

"We should have ended this at my home." Jerael spat out blood. "On Pine Hill."

Seneca nodded. "Oh, we will. But first we dance." He hefted his sword and gave the blade a few swings, slicing the air. "Eagle's Talon, I've named her. A blade forged in the heart of Aelar. A lumer infused her steel with luminescence, did you know? She shines with magic, stronger than any other blade. Funny, isn't it? That a blade forged by one of your own whores should spill your blood?"

"I will never fear the light of Luminosity," Jerael said. "For it's the light of the kingdom and God that I love."

Seneca's face twisted with a snarl. He raised his blade and ran toward Jerael.

Jerael could barely stand. He had fought for too long without sleep, food, or water, had lost too much blood, had seen too many die. Even now his wounds dripped, and his body begged to die. But he refused to fall. He raised his sword. Eagle's Talon swung toward him, and Jerael parried the blow.

The blades clanged—a broad, steel sword of Aelar and a curved, iron sword of the east.

The blades pulled back. The legionaries formed a ring around the combatants, enclosing them within walls of shields. Seneca thrust his blade again. Jerael parried the second blow, his feet sloshing in his own blood, and reposted.

The sickle sword slammed into Seneca's breastplate, shattering an embossed, golden eagle.

The prince screamed, face red, and swung his blade down hard. Jerael raised his sword, just barely parrying. Seneca hacked again and again like a butcher with an axe. The boy wasn't particularly large, but Jerael was surprised at his strength, at his skill. The prince had trained with the best swordmasters in Aelar, and Jerael was too weak, too hurt, too old. A blow from Seneca's gladius sliced his shoulder, ripping the armor, tearing the skin, scattering blood. The prince hooted.

"Do you like the taste of my steel?" Seneca laughed. "Come taste it again."

The blades swung again, clashed together. Jerael grunted, managed to hit Seneca once more, but his sword could not penetrate the prince's fine armor. His curved blade was forged of Zoharite iron, for the secrets of steel—harder, sharper—were known only in Aelar.

"You grow tired." Seneca grinned savagely. "I see it in you. You can't defeat me."

Jerael bellowed and swung his blade with both hands, but Seneca sidestepped, lashed his sword, and cut Jerael's flank. With a groan, Jerael stumbled aside, barely parrying another blow.

Please, God, he prayed silently. I do not expect to live today. But let me slay this tyrant before I perish.

"Are you praying?" Seneca narrowed his eyes. "I can see your lips move. I spit on your god, Jerael. I spit on Eloh."

The blades clashed. Sparks flew.

"Then his judgment will be upon you," Jerael managed to rasp. The two circled each other, blades red. "In the next life, if not in this one."

"Oh, and I intend to quite enjoy the rest of this life." The blades clashed again. "I told you that I fucked Ofeer, didn't I? She loved it, and afterward, she confessed to me how much she hates you. I will do the same to Atalia. I have her captive, did you know? I will fuck her every night in your bed, and I won't let you die before you hear her screams." The prince's blade lashed. "And she's going to love it."

Jerael tried to parry, but he was too slow, too hurt. The prince's sword, shining in the dawn, drove into his arm.

Jerael's blood splattered the cobblestones.

Sneering, Seneca swung his blade again, hitting Jerael's leg.

He fell. His knees banged against the boardwalk. Another blow knocked the sword from his hand.

"So this is the fabled Lion of Zohar." Seneca stared down at him, sword dripping, and scoffed. "This is the famous Lord Sela." The prince spat on him. "Not much of a lion at all."

"Hear, O Zohar," Jerael whispered, trembling, bleeding, staring up at the prince. "Ours is the light."

And the lion gave his last roar.

Jerael leaped to his feet, arms lashing, knocking Seneca's sword aside.

The prince squealed and stepped back, eyes widening.

Jerael barreled into the prince, putting all his weight into it. Seneca cried out and stumbled, crashing down, and Jerael grabbed his head, slammed it against the cobblestones, again, again, cracking the helmet. He bellowed, grabbed Seneca's throat, and squeezed, squeezed, crushing the neck, watching Seneca's face turn red, then purple, pinning the boy down, fingers tightening, and—

Pain.

Pain blazed across Jerael's shoulder as a spear drove into him. He fell, gasping, clutching his wound. He slammed onto the cobblestones, and legionaries raised spears above him.

"Stop!" Seneca's voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, and the prince gasped for air. "Stop. He's mine. He's mine!"

Seneca rose to his feet. Jerael tried to rise too but could not. His strength was gone.

I'm sorry, my wife, he thought, lying in his blood. I'm sorry, my children. I'm sorry, Zohar. I failed you.

Seneca grabbed a slave's collar and chain from his horse's saddlebag, stepped forward, and knelt. He closed the iron around Jerael's neck. The prince stared down at him, sneering, his face still red, blood trickling down his temple.

"Now, sand rat," Seneca said, "it's time to go home."

MARCUS

He sat in the midnight gardens, risen from the dead, embers in his belly.

The crickets sang around him, and the moon shone above. After so long abed, shivering and hallucinating, Marcus welcomed the chill breeze, the sound of rustling trees, the stars above.

I still live. If not for my dear memento mori, I would truly think myself immortal now.

The past two weeks were a blur, a fever dream of vomiting and shitting every morsel he dared eat—had ever eaten in his life, it seemed—of shivering in heat, even the icy cloths his slaves brought him unable to cool him. For those days, Marcus had felt like a demon lived in his gut, cutting, biting, burning. He had become an oven full of flame, a wracked mind trapped in a blazing shell. Marcus had survived injuries in his campaigns—a spear to the thigh in Leer, an arrow in the back in Phedia—but those had felt no more painful than a playful maiden's pinch compared to the fire of poison.

But I lived.

He rose from the bench and breathed in the cool air.

I survived. And they will pay.

He stared past the garden's columns toward Imperium Hill. In the moonlight, he could just make them out. A hundred crosses. Upon them hung the dying bodies of the temple's cooks, butchers, waiters, and their families. One was still screaming. Marcus could hear it even from here.

Movement caught his eye.

Marcus turned his head. A shadow was moving down the portico of columns to his left, behind the fig trees. Dark robes fluttered. The figure emerged from between the columns, glancing from side to side, and walked across the grass toward him. In the moonlight, she pulled back her hood, revealing a slender face, dark eyes, and long black hair. An iron collar encircled her neck.

"Iris." Marcus nodded to her. "Thank you for meeting me here, my darling."

The Zoharite was trembling, eyes darting. She knelt and bowed her head. "My emperor. I serve you, dominus, as always."

He stepped closer and stood above her. He caressed her hair. Silky, dark hair that flowed between his fingers. "Did she come to you with questions?" he asked.

The lumer tried to rise, but he placed a hand on her head, keeping her kneeling. "Yes, dominus." She stared at the grass. "Princess Valentina came to me, as you said she would, asking of her . . ." She swallowed. "Asking of her father."

He lowered his fingers to stroke her cheek. "And what did you tell her?"

Iris glanced up at him, then quickly down again. "As you instructed me, dominus. I told her the truth. The truth you told me. That you are her father. That Mingo lied. That he poisoned you."

"Excellent!" Marcus said. "Well done, my darling. As always, you serve me well."

"I always seek to serve you, dominus."

As she knelt before him, Marcus pulled open his toga, letting the chilly night air cool his naked flesh. He reached under her chin and pulled her head up. "And you will continue to serve me."

Iris nodded and she served him, his hand in her hair, as the crickets chirped around them, as the breeze blew the sweat off his brow.

"You've proven yourself invaluable, Iris." He pushed her head back, knelt before her, and lay her down on the grass. "Such a sweet Zoharite, a precious little bird in my court."

He grabbed her tunic, as he had grabbed it many times before, pulling it free from her slender, swarthy body. This night he ripped it, shredding the cotton, exposing her breasts, the dark nipples firm in the cool breeze. He mounted her, twice her size, nearly crushing her, thrusting into her.

"Yes, dominus," Iris whispered beneath him, lying on the grass.

Marcus moved faster, and he knew she wanted this. She craved this. She was eager to accept him, and her body moved beneath his, her hips grinding against him. She moaned, and he grabbed her hands, and their fingers coiled together.

"Do you think I don't know, sweet dove of the desert?" he asked, moving faster now.

Iris moaned louder, eyes closed. "Know what, dominus?"

He squeezed her hands in his. "That you're fucking my daughter."

Her eyes opened. Fear suffused her face. "I—"

"Hush now." Marcus pulled one hand free and placed a finger against her lips. "It's all right. I've known that for a long time. The whole palace has known, I dare say. You two have been making quite a ruckus at nights." He thrust harder into her, again and again, like a beast. "I don't mind. I don't mind taking you where my sweet daughter has kissed you so many nights."

Her eyes closed again, and her hips moved faster now, and sweat soaked her body. "Take me, dominus. Take me harder. You are better than she is."

His fingers moved down toward her neck. "And do you think, sweet dove, that I didn't know your second secret?" Sweat dripped from him, and they moved in a rhythm, crushing the grass and flowers beneath them. "You really think I don't have lumers of my own? That I didn't know that you—you, Iris, my daughter's sweet pet, and not Mingo—poisoned the pine nuts?"

Her eyes snapped open, and she opened her mouth to scream.

He wrapped his hands around her throat, cutting off the sound.

"Oh yes, sweet turtle dove." His thrusting only intensified. "I knew all along. That it was you who wanted me dead, you who poisoned me, you who thought that if only I were dead, you could gain Valentina's love for yourself. But you failed, sweet little dove. How you failed!"

She thrashed beneath him, trying to free herself, but he kept moving atop her, kept squeezing her throat, using both hands now. She gasped for air, finding none. She clawed at his back, ripping the skin, tried to shove him off, could not. His hands tightened, squeezing, constricting, cracking, snapping. Her face turned blue, and still he fucked her, hard, fast, fucked her like he'd never fucked another woman, and when he climaxed it was into her corpse.

He pulled out from her, and he lay at her side. Gods, that had felt good. For the first time in weeks, maybe in years, Marcus felt healthy, felt young. He stroked Iris's cheek. Her eyes stared up, lifeless, her mouth open and seeking air that would never come.

"You had the Sight." He pushed back a lock of damp hair from her forehead. "But you failed to see the most important truth. That none, sweet turtle dove, defy Marcus Octavius and live."

VALENTINA

When she woke up, it was still dark outside, and her bed was cold, unnaturally cold for spring. Valentina rolled over, seeking Iris's warmth; like so many nights, she had fallen asleep in her lumer's arms. But she found only emptiness, only more cold.

"Iris?" she whispered.

Valentina blinked the sleep out of her eyes. At first, she thought nothing of it. Iris must have just snuck out before dawn. Often Iris had spoken of slaves entering these chambers too early, gossiping about the lumer they found in their princess's bed. A note lay folded on the pillow where Iris had lain, a pale square in the moonlight.

Valentina's heart gave a twist. A chill filled her, colder than the night, a deep fear she could not explain. She lit her oil lantern, unfolded the note, and read.

Her chest constricted. Her jaw tightened. She dressed hurriedly, folded the note, and placed it into her pocket.

She left her room, barefoot, shivering.

Gods. Oh Gods. No. Please no.

Her fingers wouldn't stop trembling. Valentina could barely breathe. She had to find her. She had to stop her.

We have to leave. We have to escape this place. Together, Iris. You and I. Tears flowed down Valentina's cheeks to her lips. We'll run away together, to Zohar, like we always wanted.

Valentina ran.

She raced through the sleeping palace, down marble corridors, between statues of gods—cruel gods who had allowed this to happen. Her heart threatened to leap from her mouth. Lies. All of it—lies. The entire palace, the Empire, all her life seemed to collapse around Valentina.

She was racing down an arcade of columns when she saw her father standing in the gardens.

Valentina froze.

There he stood. The man she loved. The man she dreaded. Marcus Octavius, Emperor of Aelar.

He turned toward her, the moonlight limning his form. A lump lay at his feet, dark hair spreading out in a puddle.

Valentina approached slowly, the grass wet beneath her bare feet.

She was beautiful in death. She lay where they had often lain together, two girls on the grass, gazing up at the clouds, dreaming of faraway lands. She was naked, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes bugging out, but she was beautiful. She was her Iris.

"It's a funny thing," Marcus said. "It wasn't a rebel. It wasn't an assassin from a distant land. It wasn't even a disgruntled cook." The emperor sighed. "I shudder to think that the lumer I allowed into our palace, the one who often entered your own room, is the one who poisoned me." He turned toward Valentina and took her hands in his. "I'm sorry, my sweet daughter. I'll get you a new lumer. Two if you like."

Valentina nodded, biting her lip, refusing to shed a tear. She embraced the emperor, hiding her turmoil against his chest.

"Thank you, Father," she whispered. "I love you."

"And I love you, sweetest daughter."

When dawn rose, Iris was not given the honor of a loyal slave. There was no burial for her in a cemetery, not even a burning in the pyre like the funerals of the pagans of old. Trumpets blared as horses carried the remains across Aelar, hanging a piece from each gate. Arms. Legs. A torso. And finally, in the Acropolis itself, Iris's head upon a spike, food for crows.

Valentina did not return to the garden that day, nor to her chambers. She did not gaze upon the remains of Iris, nor upon the cooks and cleaners and cupbearers crucified on the hill, some still alive. Instead, she went to the library. That place where Iris had summoned her magic, where, perhaps, she had chosen this path. Among scrolls from ages lost, Valentina unfolded the note she had found on the pillow, and she read it again and again.

Dearest Valentina,

I'm so sorry.

I love you. And I betrayed you. I lied to you. I've been lying to you all your life. And now I must leave, because I love you too much to hurt you, to lie to you again. I'm so afraid.

I did what for many years I dreamed of. I finally dared—for us. I thought that, if I succeeded, we could love each other freely. But I failed, and now I'm more afraid than ever.

He lives, and he will know what I did. And so now I must leave. I must leave you, leave Aelar. I must travel back to my home, to Zohar, to hide. But I cannot take you with me. I know that we dreamed of traveling there together, but his arm is long. If he finds me, he will kill me, kill all those with me, and I cannot put you in danger.

Live your life, Valentina, a life of joy and light. Grow your flowers, and read your scrolls, and tend to your birds, and remember that I love you.

Someday this will end, Valentina. Someday he will die. Perhaps from poison, perhaps a knife in the back, perhaps in war, perhaps even from old age. That day, when we are safe, if you still love me by then, find a swift ship. Sail to Zohar, and come to a city called Gefen on the coast. You will walk along the beach there, admiring the seashells and smooth stones and palm trees, and you will feel great peace, the peace of lume flowing across you, soothing all your fear, all your pain.

And as you walk there, you will see a girl—perhaps a woman, perhaps even an old woman—walking along the shore, collecting seashells too. Her hair will be long and black, or perhaps streaked with silver, or perhaps fully white. She will run to you, and hold your hands, and kiss you with a thousand kisses, and she will love you. Because every day, Valentina, from this day until that day, that woman will wait for you. And every day, she will walk along that shore, and gaze upon the sea, and watch for a ship sailing in, watch for a soul she misses. A soul she will always love.

Yours always, with my magic, with my soul, with my heart,

Iris

That evening, Valentina visited the kennels again. He waited there for her. Perhaps he had known she would come.

"Hello, Valentina," Mingo said. The emperor's reminder of mortality. The frail, bearded slave. A chained, beaten man with warm eyes.

No. Not Mingo. Septimus Cassius.

Valentina walked toward him and embraced him.

"Hello, Father," she whispered.

YOHANAN

The enemy rose from the north, line upon line, the legions of Aelar. The sun rose with them, shining on their shields and armor, and their banners rose in a forest, displaying golden eagles. Their cavalry rode at the vanguard, and behind marched legions of heavy infantry.

Yohanan sat on his camel outside the city of Beth Eloh, staring down the mountain at the approaching host, and his heart seemed to freeze. The wind blew, scattering sand, ruffling his hair, and filling his beard.

It's the end, he thought. The end of Zohar. The end of light.

Thousands of soldiers gathered behind him, some on camels and horses, most afoot—sons and daughters of Zohar, the salt of the earth. Their hearts were brave, Yohanan knew, their iron strong, and they had fought for years against the forces of Shefael and were no strangers to war. Yet here, coming from the north, was an enemy beyond their might. Yohanan had never faced Aelarians in battle, had never seen their legions march in their full wrath. But gazing at them now, he knew why they had conquered the Encircled Sea.

"They march as one beast," he said. "Their shields form protective walls around them. Their every spear rises at the same angle. Their every footstep hits the earth to the beat of their drums. Even their horses wear armor and walk as soldiers. We're but a rabble compared to them."

At his side, Ishay Ben Elom sat on his own camel. The young shepherd had placed aside his lyre and crook, and now he held sword and spear, and a sling hung from his belt. He stared south at the approaching host, eyes dark, but a thin smile raised his lips.

"We're a rabble, but we fight in our homeland, and the Lord of Light fights with us." Ishay turned his head toward Yohanan. "You are our king, Yohanan Elior, and your people will follow you to victory."

Yohanan gazed at his companion, the boy who had saved his life, tossing his sling stones against the assassins Shefael had sent after him. Three years had passed since that day—three years of blood and fire and hunger and death—but the light of youth still shone in Ishay's eyes, a beauty unmarred by war, a courage that no fear could crush.

"You should put on your armor," Yohanan said, looking at Ishay's woolen tunic.

The young man shook his head, his smile stoic. "Armor slows you down. God's protection is all the armor I need today."

When Yohanan stared back toward the approaching legions, he was thankful for his own coat of scales, each piece of iron sewn onto boiled leather. He raised his sword above his head, the iron curved and dark. But he turned away from the legions advancing from the north. He faced the walls of Beth Eloh, the city he had been besieging for a year now, the city where his brother dwelled.

"Shefael!" Yohanan called from the hilltop. "Hear me, Brother! Open the gates and come fight at my side. Fight with me, Brother, now when eagles fly!"

On the walls of the ancient city, his brother's soldiers stared from the battlements, silent. The sandy wind billowed their banners. The gates did not open. In the north, the drums beat louder, the sandals thumped, and the chants of the enemy rose.

Yohanan rode his camel along the walls of Beth Eloh. "Brother! Place aside this feud between us. Fight with me! Fight against the eagles of Aelar. Let the lions roar together. Shefael, we need your men—fight with us!"

Still the soldiers on the wall stared down sullenly. Still the enemy drums beat. The chants of the Aelarians could be heard clearly now. Yohanan spoke their language well, and he now cursed that knowledge, for the words chilled his spine.

"We come!" the legionaries of Aelar cried. "We see! We kill!"

Yohanan's ribs felt so tight they could snap. He galloped along the walls of Beth Eloh, crying out.

"Shefael, only together can we beat them! Ride out with me—brother and brother! Let us fight together. For Zohar."

And finally, above the Gate of Lions, his brother stepped onto the wall.

Shefael stared down from the gatehouse battlements. He wore a rich, purple robe woven with golden thread, and a crown sat atop his head. He had grown larger during the siege, his cheeks red beneath his beard, his belly ample, feasting and drinking while his people hungered and thirsted. At his side stood Avinasi, ancient lumer of the throne.

From the north the chants rose louder. The drums beat.

"Brother!" Yohanan called from his camel. "Fight with me."

"Brother?" Shefael called down from the wall. "Is that what you call me? For three years you called me a usurper, a tyrant, an illegitimate king. Now, when death marches upon you, you call me Brother?" Shefael shook his head. "No, Yohanan. For too long you fought me, cursed me, sought to steal what is mine. The eagles of Aelar are an enemy to you, but not to me. Porcia Octavius will receive a heroine's welcome in my city. But not before she cuts you down and scatters your bones across the desert. Goodbye, Yohanan Elior, rebel of Zohar, and may the Lord of Light curse your soul."

With a flourish of robes, Shefael and his lumer vanished off the battlements, returning into the safety of the city.

The drums beat louder.

The eagle standards rose.

Yohanan rode back toward the hill, and Ishay came to his side again, and behind them spread the warriors who had followed them for three years. Ahead the legionaries were climbing the mountainside toward them, so close now that Yohanan could stare into their eyes. Porcia Octavius herself rode at their lead on a stallion, a woman with brown curls, a mocking face, and dark armor.

Yohanan rode a few paces forward, then turned to face his soldiers. He rode across the vanguard.

"Warriors of Zohar!" he called. "A new enemy has risen, a foreign power that would see our kingdom crushed. Shefael hides in his city, but you do not stand alone. God fights with you. I fight with you! Raise a roar that will sound across the generations. Ours is the light!"

Thousands of his warriors, men and women in leather and iron, raised spears and swords. Their voices rolled across the mountains and city. "Ours is the light!"

Under the simmering sun, the hosts of Zohar charged down the mountain. Camels and horses galloped. Men and women ran behind them, brandishing swords and spears. Toward them stormed the cavalry of Aelar, thousands of armored horses, their riders holding lances.

Yohanan and Ishay rode together, side by side, weapons raised.

For death. For light. For Zohar.

Upon the mountainside, the forces slammed together.

Under the blinding sun, between the olive groves, they battled. On the mountain of God, between city and desert, Yohanan—King of Zohar—fought his greatest war. On holy ground, outside the city of his mother, in the light of Beth Eloh, the lions of Zohar roared.

Upon the mountain they fought.

Upon the mountain they died.

As Yohanan swung his sword, all around him they fell. Those who had followed him through fire and rain. Those who had grown up under his banners. Those who had survived so many battles, who had crossed deserts, scaled mountains, who had gone hungry, who had bled, who had sung, who had prayed, who had served him as a king. Around him—his warriors, his friends, his family—they died.

An Aelarian stallion galloped through a cloud of sand. The rider thrust his spear. Yohanan pulled his camel aside, swung his blade, and severed the legionary's arm. Another horse charged from his left. His camel raced forth, and Yohanan rose in the saddle, sword parrying a spear, then driving down. Blood rose through clouds of dust. Infantrymen raced across the mountainside, and among olive trees they cut one another down.

Gereshon, a graybeard who had fought alongside Yohanan this entire war, cried out, an arrow in his chest, and fell. Namina, a woman with many dark braids, who had once kissed Yohanan in the vineyards in their youth, screamed as a spear pierced her chest, then fell, trampled under horses.

"Rally here!" Yohanan cried. "Break through their lines! Cut them down!"

But the Zoharites had always been wild warriors, men and women risen from the desert tribes, free as spirits of sand. They fought like a storm. Before them, the Aelarians fought as a great automaton of metal and wood. Each legionary who fell, exposing a chink in the living armor, was at once replaced. Always they advanced, pinning the Zoharites against the walls of their city, cutting them down.

And always Ishay fought at his side.

Through the storms of sand, through Yohanan's darkest nights, through his dreams of light, Ishay had always shone there, a sun to his storming sea. Even as their camels fell beneath them, even as their army crumbled across the mountainside, Ishay fought with him, slender, fair of face, quick of blade, strong of faith.

We are lions, Yohanan would tell him on dark nights when nearly no hope could be found. We will always roar together.

They fought together, killed together, bled together, as around them their dream shattered. As the thousands died. As lions fell. A last battle. A final song before the long night.

Through the clouds of dust, her horse trampling over corpses, she rode. A woman in dark armor, a bloody spear in one hand, a severed head in the other. A woman with brown curls matted with the blood of her enemies. A woman with cruel eyes, the eyes of a bird of prey. Yohanan had met her ten years ago, when he had visited Aelar with his parents—his first and only time out of Zohar. She had been a surly girl, berating any slave who passed, sentencing a gardener to death for his crime of pruning a bush she favored. She had grown, become a woman, a demon, death taken flesh.

"Porcia Octavius, daughter of Emperor Marcus," Yohanan said, standing among the dead beneath the wall of that city he would no longer enter.

The Princess of Aelar tossed the severed head down at his feet. The lifeless eyes gazed up at Yohanan. He recognized her. Shaniel Bat Shemesh, a chandler's daughter. Yohanan had once spent a night awake at her side, comforting her after her brother had fallen.

Yohanan raised his eyes and stared at the woman on the horse. Porcia licked blood off her lips and grinned.

"Prince Yohanan Elior, son of Sifora!" Porcia laughed, a high, trilling sound. "I remember you. You visited my city once. If I recall correctly, you tried to touch one of my jeweled daggers, so I stabbed your hand with it."

Yohanan would not remove his eyes from hers. "I still carry the scar. I see you now bear a larger weapon than a dagger."

She nodded and hefted her spear. "It slew many of your warriors. Do you want to see how sharp it is?"

A whistling rose, shrill, stirring the air. Yohanan looked to see that Ishay was spinning his sling—the same sling he had spun three years ago, saving Yohanan's life from the assassins. A river stone was set into the leather pouch.

"Your spear is long," Ishay said to the princess. "Your armor is thick. Your horse is tall and your army mighty. But I wear the armor of God. I fight for the Lord of Light. You come to us with iron, with cavalry, with drums and many marching men. But I come to you in the name of Eloh, and in his name I will strike you down, so that your flesh is food for crows and jackals."

Porcia scoffed on her horse. "Am I a skulking wolf among sheep, that you should threaten me with a shepherd's weapon?"

"The Lord of Light is my shepherd," Ishay said. "I am but his servant. I slew wolves in the fields, protecting my sheep, and now I will slay an eagle."

His stone flew. Porcia grabbed a shield that hung at her side and raised it.

The river stone slammed into the shield, shattering the wood into a thousand pieces. The shards rained.

Laughing, Porcia tossed her spear.

The weapon dived through the air and slammed into Ishay's chest.

Yohanan stared, sword in his hand, torn between running toward Porcia and toward his companion.

Ishay managed to pull the spear free, then fell and hit the ground, a gushing hole in his chest. Yohanan rushed toward his lover and knelt above him.

Let Porcia kill me if she must. The world has ended. All light has gone dark.

"Ishay," he said, holding his companion in his arms.

The young man's eyes were growing dim. "My prince. My king. My love."

"Live," Yohanan whispered. "Sound your roar with mine. Two lions."

But the blood flowed, and the breath faded, and the heart—the heart that had loved Yohanan—stilled. Yohanan held the lifeless shepherd in his arms, and kissed his brow, and his tears fell. He tossed back his head and cried up to the sky, cursing this war, cursing his god, and would not release Ishay from his arms. The blood and dust coated them both.

"You were swifter than eagles," Yohanan said. "You were stronger than lions. Let none in Aelar hear the tidings. Let none across the sea know your name. Let them not dance and sing for your fall. But let all across this mountain and desert mourn, and let them tear their cloaks, and let the sun stop shining, and let the birds silence their song, for you are fallen. I love you more than flowers love the rain, more than sails love the wind, more than sea loves the sand. Daughters and sons of Zohar! Weep for him. How the mighty has fallen! How the land weeps! Zohar has lost her shepherd. I have lost my light."

Gently, Yohanan laid his beloved down, then rose to stare at Porcia.

He ran toward her with his sword.

Her arrow flew and crashed through his armor.

A dozen other arrows flew from all sides as the legionaries approached, stepping over the dead.

Yohanan fell. He seemed to fall forever. He did not feel himself hitting the ground. He crawled, and he lay beside Ishay, and held the shepherd's hand.

"This is not a land of blood and dust," Yohanan whispered. "This is not a land of war or hunger or pain. This is a land of doves who fly in the spring. Of maidens clad in white linen, dancing upon grapes to make the wine, while their brothers sing in golden fields. Of timbrels and lyres, of sweet honey and milk, of olive groves and wells of deep sweet water. A land of shepherds, of poets, of lovers. A land of frankincense and myrrh and the scent of flowers. Thus let us remember Zohar, a place of beauty and music and light."

Yohanan Elior closed his eyes, and he could see them: fields of swaying wheat and vineyards, flowing down toward the sand and sea.

EPHER

He walked up the mountain, and he saw them there: the legions of Aelar, tearing through Zoharite soldiers outside the city of Beth Eloh.

Epher froze.

For a few heartbeats, he could not move.

We're too late, he thought. God, we're too late.

Porcia's forces covered the mountaintop, thousands upon thousands. A few Zoharites still fought—the forces of Yohanan Elior, Epher's cousin—but they were falling fast, trapped between walls of stone and walls of Aelarian shields. The Empire's trumpets were already blaring in triumph, and the eagle banners rose high. Barely any Zoharites still lived, a mere handful, fading away.

We can't win. Epher's throat felt too tight to swallow the lump that grew there. We're too few. Too weak. Fighting in the ancient ways, falling before a ruthless modern military.

Around him walked only two thousand warriors from the northern hills, wild men and women, clad in boiled leather, clutching weapons of jagged iron. They too were afraid. They stared ahead, pale, whispering prayers. One man fell to his knees, lips moving feverishly.

Epher had expected to see the princes united, Yohanan and Shefael battling side by side, surrounding the invaders. He had expected to charge toward glorious victory, to smite the Aelarians upon the mountaintop. But Yohanan's forces were those lying dead on dusty fields and in olive groves, while the city walls remained closed, the troops of Shefael watching from the battlements, firing no arrow or javelin.

A strong hand grabbed his arm. Epher turned to see his uncle staring at him. The warrior's eyes were dark, and the sandy wind ruffled his gray beard.

"We face death in battle," Benshalom said.

Ahead the Aelarians had noticed them. A line of cavalry was turning on the mountaintop to charge downhill. Epher sucked in breath between his teeth. His hand trembled, but he managed to draw and raise his sword.

"I am Epheriah Sela, son of Lord Jerael, heir to Gefen, protector of Zohar. I will not flee from battle. I will face the enemy even should I die upon the heights."

Benshalom growled and drew his twin blades, and Epher realized that this warrior—this fabled, grizzled fighter who had slain so many enemies—was afraid. Afraid for himself. Afraid for those who followed him. Afraid for his nation. Yet he did not turn to flee, even as the horses charged down toward them.

"Sound your roar, lions!" Benshalom cried.

Epher raised his sword. Across the mountainside, two thousand warriors of the hills raised their weapons, raised their cries. Epher ran. Benshalom ran with him. The thousands followed, the lions of light, roaring their rage.

The imperial horses galloped downhill, their riders aiming spears.

Howling, the warriors of the hills ran toward them, swords and shields held before them.

The forces clashed together in a storm of blood and dust and shattering iron.

Horses trampled men and women. Spears and arrows flew and swords swung. A spear slammed into Hania, a woman who fought at Epher's side, crashing through her chest and out her back. A young man named Johan, the son of a potter who had shared grapes with Epher a day ago, clutched his slit throat, trying to stop the blood. All around him, they fell to spear, to sword, to the trampling hooves.

Epher fought among them. His iron sword, the sword his father had given him, slammed into shields, into men, spraying blood across the mountain. He grabbed a javelin from a fallen legionary, tossed it, speared another man. All around him, they fell, and still he fought. A spear slashed across his thigh, opening his old wound, and still Epher swung his sword.

He fought for waves over a gleaming shore, kindled in sunset.

He fought for a house on a hill, for pomegranate trees, for laughter among cyclamens.

He fought for a family, praying, singing, laughing together at a table of plenty, beneath a painting of elephants, in warmth and candlelight.

He fought for those he loved. A noble father. A wise mother. For Koren, a brother with a ready smile and kind heart. For Atalia, strong, brave, fragile Atalia. For Ofeer, broken, haunted, pained, still seeking light in her world of darkness. For Maya, sweetest child, innocent yet stronger than she knew. For a brother buried under the tree, who had shone his light for but a day, whose memory would always be with him. For a million souls across the land of Zohar, all of them his brothers and sisters.

A man screamed beside him, a sword severing his leg. A woman fell at his side, a spear tearing open her belly. As around him they died, Epher saw his family. Koren and him running along the beach, splashing through the waves, seeking sunken gold and treasure. Atalia wrestling him in the sand, crying when he beat her, laughing when she won. Maya reading her scrolls. Ofeer in a rare moment of joy, laughing as she performed with the puppets Master Malaci had sewn for her. His mother and father, embracing him, protecting him from all the evils in the world. He fought in a sea of evil, in a world of blood and death, but their warmth still filled him, and their light still shone upon him.

I am a son of Zohar. I am a son of Sela. Light will always guide my way.

At his side, Benshalom fell, a spear in his chest. Before him they still charged, the legionaries of Aelar, and on the mountaintop she reared on her stallion, laughing—Porcia Octavius. An arrow slammed into Epher's shoulder. He swung his sword, and a spear knocked it aside, then drove into his side. He fell. He lay among the dead, and they stared at him, eyes lifeless, hands reaching toward him, his brothers and sisters even in death, even in the fall of their kingdom.

One hand, still alive, reached out and grabbed his.

Epher clutched it, the hand of a stranger, a fellow warrior.

We will hold each other in death. We will enter the undiscovered country together.

The hand tugged him.

"Go away!"

The voice was high, urgent.

"Go away, whore. Get lost!"

Still she spoke with concern. A face thrust down, framed with wild red hair. Green eyes peered at Epher through the haze.

"Hungry," he whispered, struggling to stay awake, lying in his blood.

"Hungry, hungry." She tugged at him. "Go away!"

She yanked him up. She was surprisingly strong for such a slender thing. They stumbled through a field of death. She dragged him, pulled him toward two horses. Epher struggled to focus his eyes, and he gasped, even as his wounds dripped.

Moosh! Teresh! The horses he had lost in the mountains of Ma'oz!

Hungry all but shoved him onto one horse. He slumped in the saddle, head drooping, consciousness fading. Around him they still battled, the legionaries slaying the last Zoharites, already cheering for their victory. Ahead of him, he glimpsed the wild woman climbing onto the second horse. She still wore the tunic he had given her at the beach.

"Go away!" she said. "Go, go away. Go! Hungry!"

The horses began to move, then gallop, fleeing down the mountainside, fleeing the blood, the city, the thousands of dead. Epher's chin hit his chest. He fell. He fell forever, tumbling into an endless darkness, vanishing into a hole he could never climb out of.

SHILOH

"This is madness!" She grabbed Shefael's arm. "You cannot mean to let her enter the city."

They stood on the battlements crowning the Gate of Lions, the largest of the city's gates. The rampart was ancient, the bricks laid here thousands of years ago. These gates had withstood invader after invader. Would they now fall?

Shiloh gazed west off the battlements. In the wilderness she saw them—the legions of Aelar. Few legionaries had fallen in the battle, and they had ravaged the forces of Yohanan and Benshalom. Thousands of Zoharite warriors lay dead across the mountainside. Even as she watched, several legionaries were moving between the fallen, seeking the wounded, spearing them. The crows feasted. The stench filled the hot air.

Did you fight here, did you die here, my sons? Shiloh thought, eyes damp.

Her husband had sent Epher and Koren north—to the wilderness of Erez, to bring aid from Benshalom. The hillsfolk had come. Had died. Shiloh kept scanning the dead, trying—dreading—to find her sons among the slain. Yet all the corpses looked the same from up here. Splotches across the bleeding landscape.

At the head of the forces, Princess Porcia came riding toward the gates, armor splashed with blood.

"Release me." Shefael stood at Shiloh's side on the gatehouse. He tugged his arm free, cringing as her fingernails tore the embroidered blue fabric. "What would you have me do? Face an empire in war?" He shouted down toward the guards who stood below within the city. "Open the gates! Let them in."

"Keep those gates closed!" Shiloh cried down, then spun toward her nephew. "Damn you, Shefael. You saw what they did out there. What do you think they'll do inside the city?" She grabbed both his arms this time. "Fight them. You've been fighting Yohanan for three years, and you remained safe within these walls. If you fought your own brother, you can fight Aelar."

He snorted. "My brother was nothing but a pathetic cub playing the game of kings. No, aunt. There is no stopping the forces of Aelar. We cannot defeat them in war. Even should these walls stand, what aid would come for us? From Gefen?" He scoffed. "From the southern desert barbarians? No, I would not fight these legionaries. I will welcome them as heroes. Porcia has already agreed. She will allow me to keep my throne. Men! The gates! Open them!"

Below in the courtyard, the guards unlocked the gates, removed the beams that secured them shut, and tugged them open. Shefael spun on his heel and stepped down the wall, heading toward those gates.

Yes, you will keep your throne, Shiloh thought, looking down at him. As a puppet to an emperor. Less a true king than your brother ever was.

Her dress fluttering and her curls bouncing, Maya ran up the wall. She came to stand at Shiloh's side. Shiloh took her daughter's hand in hers. They stood together on the wall of Beth Eloh, tears in their eyes, watching the gates open.

Drums beat. Horns blared.

"Welcome, welcome!" cried Shefael, standing below upon the road, arms spread wide. "Welcome, noble guests, into the City of Gold and Light!"

Through the gates they entered, all in splendor and blood. Porcia rode first, coated in iron, her dark armor still bloody. A thin smile played on her lips, and her horse's hooves clattered against the cobblestones. The Princess of Aelar gazed around at the city, eyes narrowing with amusement. She held a spear, and upon it gaped the skewered head of Prince Yohanan.

"Mother," Maya whispered and embraced her. "Is that . . . is that Cousin Yohanan?"

"Look away," Shiloh said, gazing down from the gatehouse, jaw locked. She held her daughter's face against her chest. "Keep your eyes closed, my sweetness."

Porcia kept riding, nodding to the roadsides where knelt the people of the city, starving after a year of siege. Mockery filled the princess's eyes. Behind her the horns blew a fanfare and the drums played, no longer a booming chant of war but a jaunty, victorious beat.

"Welcome, savior!" cried Shefael, standing on the roadside like a commoner. He bowed before Porcia, dirtying his blue robes in the dust. "Welcome, Porcia Octavius, who delivered us from evil."

Behind the princess followed the cavalry, rider by rider, armor bright, helmets crested, shields painted red and gold. After them marched the infantry, holding aloft their standards, wooden beams topped with golden eagles. The trophies of their conquest they held too—swords and cloven shields of the enemy. They snaked through the city, thousands of them, marching as one.

All across the roadside, the people of Beth Eloh wept and prayed. Some knelt. As Shiloh watched from the wall, one man raced onto the road, his beard long and gray.

"Leave this place, filth!" He tossed a stone. "This is holy ground."

Porcia's horse never even broke stride. From its back, the princess shot an arrow, knocking down the man, then trampled over him. The other horses followed, leaving nothing but shattered flesh upon the road.

The tears flowed down Shiloh's cheeks, and she thought of home—of her husband, of her children. She imagined them dead like so many here, imagined the Aelarians marching through Gefen, invading her home, destroying all that she had ever loved.

"I love you, Maya," she whispered, holding her daughter close, and their tears mingled together. "I love you so much. I will never leave you. Never. You and I will be together always."

Even if we never see our family again, she thought silently, the pain too great to bear. Even if this kingdom never rises from the darkness.

"Greetings, sons and daughters of Zohar!" Porcia cried from her horse, riding through the city. "Welcome to the light, the splendor, the glory of Aelar! Kneel before me, and praise my name, sons and daughters of the Empire."

The procession continued, line by line of troops entering the city, sandals clattering with the drums, spears held high, a cavalcade of triumph, of victory, of a fallen kingdom.

The wind gusted, blowing sand across Shiloh and her daughter, and as she stood on the wall, it seemed to Shiloh that all of Zohar, that all the lands around the Encircled Sea, were but kingdoms of sand, blowing away, crumbling under the storm.

That evening, the city feasted.

For the first time in a year, farmers from parsa'ot around delivered grain, fruit, and even meat—normally eaten only by the wealthiest Zoharites—into the city. Wine flowed from jugs, and the people sang, and Shiloh's heart twisted to see that under Aelar's yoke the city bloomed.

In the palace upon the Mount of Cedars, the Aelarians dined. In the manner of Aelar, they set out low tables, and instead of chairs, they reclined on tasseled pillows which they grabbed from bedchambers across the palace. Cooks—the same who had once prepared Shefael's feasts—now served the conquerors the bounty of the kingdom. Porcia reclined at the head of the table, and her generals lounged around her, raising mugs of wine. Shefael himself ran from Aelarian to Aelarian, clad in lavender and gold, his crown wobbling, like some fool hired to play the role of a king for his masters to scoff at.

Finally Shiloh could bear the spectacle no longer. As a legionary tripped Shefael, as the disgraced king attempted to laugh with the crowd, Shiloh took her daughter's hand in hers. Both slipped out from the palace, walked across the courtyard, and stood outside in the night. Below the hill, countless lanterns lit the city, and thousands of legionaries marched along the streets.

Maya shuddered. "Mother, I'm scared. What happened to Father? What happened to my brothers and sisters?"

Shiloh gazed across the city, but she could no longer see the wilderness beyond, nothing but shadows. "We must pray for them. We must keep hope."

A gale of laughter rose from the palace behind. Below in the city, the sandals still thumped and an Aelarian song of conquest rose.

Maya lowered her head, and a faint glow appeared on her fingers. "Mother . . . I don't know if I can hold it. I don't know if I can stop the luminescence. What if they see me?"

"They must not." Shiloh grabbed her daughter's hands, stifling their glow, and the luminescence faded. "You must fight harder than you've ever fought. This is our war, Maya. A new war. A war to remain hidden in plain sight. A war to survive. This war we will fight with all our wits and will, so that we may live to see our family again. You are so precious, Maya. You must stay with me always. I will keep you safe. I promise. I promise."

Maya nodded. The wind gusted, scented of sand, blowing their hair. Mother and daughter held each other, standing on the hill, gazing at a fallen kingdom.

OFEER

She stood on Pine Hill under her mother's pomegranate tree, watching her family come home.

The villa, the house she had been born and raised in, rose behind her, shaded by cypress and fig trees. Ofeer had moved back into the house a few days ago, sleeping in her mother's old bed, but it had become a cage to her, a place of too many memories, of sweetness and pain and regret battling within her. She had taken to spending her days here in the garden, watching Gefen from the hill, just standing here, just gazing, just waiting for her prince to return here every night, to take her into her mother's bed, to make love to her. Just waiting to see who survived—the man she had once thought her father . . . or the man she had once thought her prince.

But Jerael is not my father. And Seneca is not my prince but my brother. And I . . . I no longer know who I am.

Most of the flowers were gone from the garden now, trampled under the legionaries' sandals. Most of the trees had been cut down. Piles of wooden slats and beams lay across the yard, along with hammers and nails, the scraps left over from constructing siege engines. They formed a strange miniature city in the garden, like the roots of giant trees without trunks.

The day seemed too cool for spring. Most springs in Zohar were hot and lazy, hotter than summers in Aelar, they said, a time when the sun beat down, allowing flowers and grass only a couple of precious weeks of color before the crushing summer wilted them. Yet now a chill wind blew, coming from the sea, blowing Ofeer's hair and billowing her cotton dress. Grass rustled across the hills. Up those hills they climbed, a hundred legionaries, a noble prince, and what remained of Ofeer's family.

They made their way up a pebbly path, around the well, and through the vineyard Mother had always made Ofeer tend to. Finally they climbed the trail to this garden, to this villa on Pine Hill, staining the road with blood. Seneca rode on a horse, glorious in the sunlight, his armor like a second sun. General Remus Marcellus rode at Seneca's side, towering above his prince. Behind the horses they walked, clad in rags, their backs whipped, collared and chained. Jerael, the man Ofeer had hated, the man who had raised her as a father. Koren, his face swollen, his back bleeding. Atalia, the warrior Ofeer had always scorned, feared, mocked—sweet Atalia, beaten, shuffling forward in chains. Around them marched the legionaries of Aelar, goading the prisoners, whipping them onward.

Ofeer stared.

There they are. The people I hate. The man who never loved me like he loved his true children. The siblings who always looked down at me. The people I love. The people who love me.

Tears streamed down Ofeer's cheeks, but she did not tremble, and she did not look away.

Finally the procession reached Pine Hill and entered the gardens where Ofeer stood, in the shade of the villa and its trees.

"I've brought you a princely gift!" Seneca said from his horse. "Behold, Ofeer, keeper of her mother's vineyard. I caught three of the rats who tortured you."

The prince dismounted from his horse and gave Jerael a kick, knocking the large man to his knees. With a few swipes of his spear, he knocked down Koren and Atalia too. Gags filled the prisoners' mouths. Atalia was shouting something, but the sound was muffled. Chains wrapped around their ankles and hands, and the collars chafed at their necks. All three were bandaged with dirty cloth. All three stared at Ofeer, and she wanted to look away, to look at anything but her family, but she could not. Their eyes were not accusing. They were sad. They were sad for her.

"I slew thousands of the rats myself," Seneca said, pacing the yard. He patted the blade that hung from his belt. "Eagle's Talon drank her share of blood. These ones I kept alive for us, Ofeer."

She whispered to him.

"What?" Seneca stepped closer toward her, eyes narrowing. "I can't hear you."

"Release them," Ofeer whispered again, and now she trembled. "Please."

Seneca stared at her, raised his eyebrow, then guffawed, an explosive sound that snorted out from his nostrils. "Release them? Ofeer, are you mad? Don't you remember those stories you told me?" He took her hands in his. "About how Jerael loved your siblings more than you, how you felt so ashamed around him? Or how Koren always played with his brother and other sisters, not with you? Or how Atalia would mock you so much, how you cried and hid from her?"

"Please," Ofeer whispered, tasting her tears. "Please, Seneca, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything I told you. I was upset. I didn't mean it. Please, my prince, release them."

Seneca's eyes hardened. He released her hands and took a step back, trampling the cyclamens Mother had loved so much. He stared into Ofeer's eyes.

"I thought you would be glad to receive my gifts."

"I am, my prince! You are most noble, most brave, and most merciful. Show me your princely mercy by releasing your prisoners."

Seneca raised his hand to strike her, and Ofeer cowered, but the blow never fell. Forcing deep breaths, Seneca lowered his hand.

"You want mercy for them?" His voice was iron. "You want to see them freed? I will grant them a trial. A fair trial! And we will see if they're deserving of my princely mercy." He spun toward his soldiers. "Stand them up!" His voice rose louder, maniacal. "Let them face trial for their crimes."

Legionaries grabbed the three prisoners and tugged them to their feet. Still they stared at her. Atalia's gag fell from her mouth, and she managed to scream.

"You filthy, wall-pissing dog!" she cried at Ofeer. "Damn you, you traitor, I'm going to—"

Legionaries slammed the gag back into her mouth and tied it again, tighter this time, digging it into Atalia's cheeks. Still she screamed, voice muffled again, thrashing in her bonds. Koren and Jerael stood at her side, no longer struggling. The lashes of whips covered their torsos.

"Now," said Seneca, pacing before them. He tossed aside his spear, drew his sword, and tapped the flat of the blade against his palm. "First, you, the brute." He pointed his sword at Jerael. "Your crimes! Let us all hear them. You rose up in rebellion against Aelar. You dared to slay legionaries along our coast. You dared to assault a prince." With every offense announced, Seneca's face grew redder, his eyes madder. "You dared to hurt my Ofeer, my sweet lady of the east. What do you have to say for yourself?" He stepped forward, cackling, and ripped off Jerael's gag. "Well? Speak."

Jerael raised his great shaggy head, beard matted, one eye swollen. Ignoring Seneca, he looked at Koren and Atalia.

"I love you, my children," Jerael said, voice deep and soft like distant rolling thunder. "More than you can imagine. I will always love you, in this life and the next. Be brave, my children. Be brave and know that I'm always with you." He turned his head, and now he looked into Ofeer's eyes. "Ofeer. I'm not your father in blood. But I've always loved you as a father, and I love you still, my sweet Ofeer, and I forgive you. I forgive you. You will always be loved."

The tears kept flowing down Ofeer's cheeks.

Seneca cackled. "Hear the fool! He doesn't even deny his crimes." He swung his sword wildly. "He speaks of love and forgiveness, yet who can forgive his crimes, all those he slew?" He spun toward Jerael, eyes blazing. "I offered you a kingdom, rat. I would have put you on a throne. But you turned against me. I deem you: guilty! Guilty!" The prince's voice rang across the hill, twisted with joy and madness. "And the only punishment is crucifixion! Men, prepare the cross!"

Ofeer ran forward and grabbed Seneca. "My prince, please! Mercy! Mercy!"

Seneca only laughed. "Mercy? What mercy did he show us? Show you? Stand back." He shoved Ofeer aside. "There, those beams! Raise the cross."

Ofeer fell to her knees, chest shaking, her hair falling across her face. Legionaries grabbed wooden beams from the yard, set there to build siege engines, and began constructing a cross.

"Father!" Ofeer cried, trying to run to Jerael, but General Remus grabbed her, holding her back. She struggled and kicked, but his grip was iron.

It was only moments before the cross was ready, lying on the ground. Legionaries shoved Jerael down. Once her father had been so strong, Ofeer thought. Once he could have killed them all with his bare hands. But Jerael was wounded now, ashen from blood loss, cut too many times, weak as a child. The legionaries placed Jerael upon the cross. The soldiers stretched out his arms and twisted them. The joints dislocated with a sickening crack, and Ofeer sobbed. The legionaries shoved those twisted arms onto the wooden cross and bound them with rope. One man raised a nail and hammer.

"No, wait," Seneca said, and Ofeer wept in relief, thinking that mercy would finally be granted. But Seneca only marched forward and grabbed the hammer and nail from the legionary. "Let me do it."

Seneca placed the nail against Jerael's palm and raised the hammer.

Ofeer screwed her eyes shut, but she could still hear it. Still hear the metal pushing into the flesh and wood. Still hear Jerael bellow, cry out prayers. Ofeer opened her eyes to slits, saw the hammer pounding a nail into the second hand, then the feet, and then she could see nothing but her tears. Koren and Atalia were struggling in their chains, screaming into their gags.

"Behold!" Seneca said, laughing. He walked toward Ofeer, grabbed her head, and twisted it toward the cross. "Look, Ofeer! Watch it." He grabbed her eyelids and tugged them open. "Savor it."

The legionaries raised the cross, dropping it into a hole they had dug. Jerael hung upon it, arms dislocated and twisted like damp cloth, palms and feet nailed into the wood. His body bled from many cuts. But still he lived, struggling for breath as his ribs pushed against his organs.

Finally Ofeer managed to tug herself free from the legionaries holding her. She ran toward the cross, knelt before it, and hugged her father's feet.

"I love you, Father," she whispered, weeping. "I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please die. Please die quickly. Please. Please." The sobs racked her body.

Seneca scoffed, walked past her, and approached Koren and Atalia. The two were shaking, tears in their eyes, unable to free themselves from the chains and the legionaries who held them.

"And now . . . these two." Seneca stared at them. "The lion cubs. You two dared to rise against Aelar. When you should have knelt, you raised swords against me. Koren and Atalia Sela, rats of Zohar, I deem you: guilty! Guilty!" He laughed, head tossed back, voice echoing across the hill. "Guilty!"

Slowly, Ofeer released her father's legs. She stood up. The wind blew from the sea, rustling the grass beneath her bare feet, streaming her black hair. She walked toward Seneca, her tears dry now, and knelt before him, and she kissed his feet.

"Please, my prince." She gazed up at him. "For the love that I bear you. For any affection you might feel toward me. Spare their lives. I beg you."

Seneca was still laughing, but as she knelt, his laughter died, and the madness fled from his eyes. He looked down at her kneeling before him, and he stroked her hair.

"Your heart is truly gentle, my keeper of vineyards," he said.

Ofeer nodded, holding his legs as she had held the legs of her father on the cross. "And yours is a noble, strong heart, my prince. Mine is weak. For the sake of my heart—a heart that loves you—let Koren and Atalia live. I would be yours forever, serving you in your camps of war and your halls of victory, should you, great prince, grant them mercy."

Seneca gently pulled her to her feet, and he stroked her cheek. "Of course, Ofeer, keeper of her mother's vineyard. I am most merciful." As Ofeer trembled with relief, Seneca turned toward his men. "Legionaries! Take these two rats back to the port. Toss them into our ships, along with the other slaves we captured. Put them in separate ships; they've spent their last day together."

"Dominus—" Ofeer began, more fear filling her.

Seneca ignored her. "Send Koren and Atalia Sela as gifts to my father! Send with them as many slaves as the ships can hold. Leave me my Aquila Aureum here in the port. When I'm done conquering this kingdom, I'll return with the throne of Zohar . . . and with Jerael Sela's bones."

Jerael moaned, still alive on the cross, his blood running down to the grass. Ofeer fell back to her knees, shouting, reaching toward her siblings. The legionaries began manhandling Koren and Atalia back downhill, back toward the sea where the ships awaited.

"Let them go," Ofeer whispered. "Please. Please."

"I gave them the mercy you asked for." Seneca grabbed her arm. "I spared their lives. They'll live in Aelar. Perhaps someday, when you and I return home, they'll serve us as our personal slaves. Come, Ofeer. Stand. Walk with me."

She was too weak to resist him. She let him pull her to her feet, let him lead her away from the garden, into the villa. They walked through the dining room, under the painting of the elephants. They entered her parents' bedroom, and Seneca laid her on the bed. He poured wine, and his hands trembled, and feverish sweat beaded on his brow, and Ofeer realized that he was afraid. Terrified. He drank, cup after cup, until his face was red and his eyes glazed.

He lay atop her then, pulling up her dress, and Ofeer closed her eyes as he thrust into her, not even caring anymore, not caring that he was her brother, not caring that she lived, wanting to die, just wanting it all to end, for the terror to stop. He grunted above her, falling asleep before he could climax, and Ofeer clenched her fists, crushed beneath his weight, and she could not stop seeing it: Jerael on the cross, her siblings hauled off in chains, and the ruin of her home and kingdom.

MAYA

The dog still came to her in her dreams. He limped across dusky hills, his back leg twisted. His skin draped across his jutting bones, and his fur had all but fallen. Mange covered his skin with raw, red sores, and his tongue hung loose. Crows bustled above the animal, diving to peck at the infected flesh, to tear off chunks, as crows did to men outside this realm of slumber. And still the dog lived in her dreams, even as the crows and vultures tore the meat off the bones, and still he gazed at her, pleading for mercy, until the beaks took his eyes.

And in those dreams, Maya could never heal him. Her magic never came to her, and try as she may, she could not luminate the lume, not turn it into that glow that could heal the dog, that could heal soldiers, that could heal kingdoms that crumbled in the wind. And in some dreams, it was not the dog who came to her, dying, food for crows. In those dreams it was her father, wise and strong Jerael on a cross, birds upon him, dying slowly through sunrise and sunset and sunrise again.

It was that last dream that woke Maya in the dead of night in the city of Beth Eloh. She lay still in bed, unable to move, barely able to breathe, for the dream had felt so real, almost like the Sight she had used under Avinasi's tutelage. Finally Maya managed to move her head, to gaze around her.

She lay in a chamber in the palace, one Shefael had given her and her mother. Moonlight streamed through the stone window. A lyre hung on the wall, and a rich rug covered the floor. It was hot in the chamber, stifling, and every breath felt like inhaling soup.

At Maya's side, she saw the second bed where her mother slept. Shiloh lay on her side, face twisted with worry and pain, even in sleep. The woman's long braid coiled like a serpent, silver in the moonlight. Maya remembered a woman who would laugh, sing, dance. A woman with boundless energy, who'd run around a house full of children, scolding, hugging, healing, teasing, loving them all. It seemed to Maya like that woman was gone, replaced with somebody hurt, weary, consumed with fear.

And who am I now? Maya thought. Surely not the same girl she had been only months ago, innocent, knowing no fear. Now she was always afraid.

Maya did not know if these dreams would always haunt her, if the memories would ever fade. Seneca shooting the dog. Her cousin Yohanan's head on a spear. Thousands of dead beyond the wall, crows and vultures pecking at them. The legions of Aelar marching down the street, spearing and trampling any who dared defy them. Even here, in the darkness of her chamber, those visions kept dancing before her, and Maya thought that no sunlight could ever banish them.

While her mother slept, she approached the table by the window, where the servants had lain a ewer of water, a plate of dried fruit, and some papyrus and ink. Maya sat on the wicker chair, took a sheet of papyrus, and began to write.

Dearest Mother,

When I was very young, we lost a light in our family. We buried a precious child, a boy named Mica, a boy we love so much. You held me that day, when his light darkened, and we wept. You told me that I'm your sweetest child, your precious gift, that I must never leave you.

I'm no longer very young, and I feel that I've aged many years this spring. As we stood in the city of God before the palace of our kingdom, you held me again, and you told me that I'm precious, and you told me that I must never leave.

Yet even now, as I write these words, my hand glows, a light I cannot darken, a light I must follow as sailors follow the northern star. I cannot hide the gift the Lord of Light has given me, even though it places me in danger, even though they would chain me, hurt me, steal me from you.

And so now I must do what I promised I would not. Now I must leave.

You will be safe, Mother, for the war has ended, and we lost, but you will still find a home in Zohar. A home beneath a sky of eagles, but a home nonetheless. You will return to our villa on the hill, and you will be with our family. And you will find a life of peace. A home under different banners.

But Zohar can no longer be a home to me.

I must walk the paths that Luminosity lays before me, paths of light through shadow. Where they take me, I don't know. I only know that tonight is farewell. That tonight I must part from the woman I love most in the world. From my mother.

You are my light in the darkness. You are the beacon of my soul. You are always the prayer on my lips, my guiding star. I love you always, with all my heart, no matter where I go.

Maya

She left the note on the table, and while her mother slept, she stepped out of the room.

She made her way through the dark city, wrapped in her cloak, her pack slung across her shoulder. At the gates, she paid the boys who lounged with their camels, selling pipes and lanterns and beads of clay. Her coins were forged of gold, coins from a wealthy family now shattered like this city, like her life.

When dawn rose, Maya rode out the city gates on the camel she had bought. The heat swam around her, and already sweat dripped down her back. She pulled her shawl over her head, the one her father had given her, to protect her from the sunlight. From her belt hung Atalia's dagger, and in her pack she carried the ram's horn, a gift from Epher, and in her heart she carried the gifts of her mother—gifts of wisdom, of courage.

Before her, in the east, spread the desert. Rolling into the horizon, the edge of her kingdom, a sea of sand. Her camel snorted, and sitting in the saddle, Maya reached down to stroke its rough hide.

"Ride east," she whispered. "Take me across this sea."

As the sun climbed the sky, she rode, leaving Beth Eloh behind. The desert wind gusted, scented of sand, and ram horns blew in the city behind her, a prayer of dawn and mourning. Maya did not look back. She rode east across the dunes, seeking a teacher of Luminosity, a life free from fear, and a path of light.

The story continues in Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2).

Click here to read the next book in the series:

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Or flip the page to read a free sample chapter.

Here is a free sample chapter from Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2):

OFEER

On a warm spring morning, the birds singing and the flowers blooming, Ofeer stepped into the gardens to pull her father's corpse off the cross.

Jerael Sela, Lord of the Coast, hung there outside his villa, overlooking the hills and distant sea. The legionaries had dislocated his arms, twisting them like wet rags before nailing the palms into the wood. Three days in the sun had done the rest. Blood dripped down the ravaged body, and the crows were still working at the flesh, tugging off strips, burrowing down to bones. The eyes were already gone.

For three days and nights, Ofeer had heard it. For three days and nights, she had remained in the villa, lying in Jerael's own bed, letting Seneca—the man who had crucified him—fuck her over and over as Jerael moaned outside, as Seneca moaned above her, as the crows cawed, as the legionaries jeered. For three days, Ofeer had felt crucified herself, pinned to that bed, pinned under Prince Seneca, her half-brother, pinned under all her guilt, her misery, her drunken stupor. And on this fourth dawn, his moans had died, and Ofeer had emerged from a state like death, come here into the garden to bury the only father she had ever known.

She stared at the corpse. It reminded Ofeer of the dog she had seen roaming these hills. By Eloh, it hadn't even been a month ago; it felt like a lifetime. The cur too had withered, rotted, dying for days before Seneca had put an arrow in its head. That had been the day this had all started, the day the Aelarians had come into their lives, the day the Sela family had shattered like their nation, like this body on the cross.

Ofeer's eyes dampened. She padded closer, hesitantly, the dewy grass squelching under her bare feet. Suddenly a great fear filled her that Jerael was still alive, that when she approached, he would moan, turn those empty eye sockets toward her, speak in a raspy voice, accusing her.

Your fault. Your fault. Traitor. Traitor.

Yet he simply hung there, and the only movement came from a crow that still stood on his shoulder, pecking at skin.

"Shoo!" Ofeer blurted out, and tears fled her eyes. "Shoo!"

She lifted a stone and tossed it, missing the bird, but it was enough to send it fleeing. As the crow flew, it glared down at her, cawing.

Caw, caw! was the sound, but Ofeer heard other words. Traitor. Traitor.

She trembled as she stood before the dead man on the cross, then fell to her knees.

"Father," she whispered. "Father, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Of course, Jerael was not her true father, not her father in blood. It had been Marcus Octavius, Emperor of Aelar, who had raped her mother in the war, who had planted Ofeer into her belly. For all her eighteen years, it seemed, Ofeer had railed against Jerael—against this man who had raised her, had loved her, had seen her as a true daughter.

"I betrayed you," she whispered, her tears salty on her lips. "I joined the invaders of Aelar. I watched them kill, destroy. And only now can I call you 'Father.'"

It was slow work, pulling Jerael free from the cross. A few men of the Magisterian Guard, who had been standing around the garden, approached to aid Ofeer. Perhaps some pity did fill their hearts, hidden deep within layers of iron armor and the iron will drilled into the soldiers of Aelar. Yet the grave Ofeer dug on her own. This was work she would allow no Aelarian to perform. Jerael had raised her, had called her 'daughter,' and she owed him this. A last honor. A last plea for redemption.

"I'm not a Sela by blood," she whispered, digging the grave. "But I am by name. A name you let me bear. No foreign invaders will profane your final rest. It's your daughter who lays you down."

Ofeer did not know how long it took to dig, perhaps just an hour, perhaps most of the day. She worked in silence, sweat dampening her cotton dress. She buried him under the pomegranate tree that he had loved, in view of the coast below which he had ruled. She rolled a boulder toward the grave, a makeshift tombstone, and she carved his name upon it, and gently she uprooted and replanted cyclamens upon his grave.

Beside the grave of Jerael Sela rose a smaller tombstone, an older grave. Here, in view of the sea, rested Mica Sela, Ofeer's younger brother. She still remembered the day he had died—the same day he had been born. Twelve years had passed, and now father and son lay side by side.

Ofeer looked away from the graves and gazed west. Past fields and vineyards lay the city of Gefen, and beyond it the sea. Even from here on Pine Hill, she could make out the foam on the waves, white lines upon the green water. The distant scent of salt filled her nostrils, and Ofeer remembered those days long ago, from before the rage and pain of youth had filled her. Days when she and her family would ride their horses down to the sea, run along the sand, collect seashells, bathe, laugh. The boys and Atalia always went diving underwater, seeking sunken coins, and Ofeer would be so afraid that they would drown, so afraid to lose them.

And now our family is broken, she thought. Now two among us are dead, and the others lost.

Mother and Maya—caught in the war in the east, perhaps trapped in Beth Eloh, the capital city on the mountain where Porcia Octavius fought. Koren and Atalia—slaves in chains, trapped in the bowels of those Aelarian ships that still anchored in the harbor. Epher—missing in the north, perhaps dead. Jerael and Mica—buried here at her feet.

And me, Ofeer thought, the wind blowing her long black hair. A lost woman.

For so many years, through the bitter days and wild nights of her youth, Ofeer had wandered along the port. Drinking. Gambling. Crying. Fucking. Dreaming. Gazing across the sea, praying to someday reach the land of Aelar. To join her true father there. To leave Zohar—this land she had thought so backward, so stifling—far behind, lost in distance and memory.

"Who am I now?" she whispered, gazing toward that sea again. "Where is my home and who do I serve?"

Hers was the blood of both eagles and lions, and she did not know.

"So the bugger finally died." The voice rose behind her. "About time. The son of a whore's groans were keeping me up at night."

Ofeer turned around. Her childhood home rose before her, shaded by pines and cypresses. The villa was built of pale sandstone, the doorframe painted azure, the windowsills blooming with flowers. The house where she had grown up. The house from which the Sela family had ruled over the port for generations. The house that now belonged to the conquerors from Aelar.

Prince Seneca stood in the doorway, dressed in a deep purple toga lined with gold. The fabric was wrinkled and stained, hanging loose to reveal half of Seneca's chest. His face was unshaven, his eyes still blurry, and he held a goblet of wine. Since conquering Gefen four days ago, the young prince—he was only nineteen, a year older than her—had been celebrating his victory in an orgy of booze, music, crucifixions, and sex. He had invaded this land clad in iron and gold, every one of his brown hairs perfectly combed. War had left him looking like a different man, a decade aged.

There was more than drunkenness in his eyes, Ofeer saw, gazing into them. There was haunting fear. He had seen things in battle he could not forget. And Ofeer knew then that the wine, the sex, the torture and death of Jerael—those had not been to celebrate his victory but to forget it.

She nodded. "Lord Jerael Sela is now at peace."

"Lord Jerael?" Seneca scoffed and stumbled across the garden, pausing to gulp more wine. "No, Ofeer, my sweet beauty of the east. He was no more a lord than a pig is king of a sty. He hurt you. All these years he hurt you." He reached out to stroke her hair, his fingers rough, his eyes red. "He can no longer hurt you. Nobody will hurt you again."

Sudden rage flared in Ofeer. For too long, she had allowed this. Allowed him to stroke her, to fuck her, to toy with her, to lie to her. She shoved his hand away.

"I begged you for his life," she hissed. "I did not ask for this. Do not dare pin this on me."

Yet even as she spoke those words, Jerael's blood stained her hands. She had run from Jerael when he had needed her most. She had joined those besieging his city. She had entered the bed of Seneca, the man who had murdered him. Did she truly think that burying Jerael, that lashing out against Seneca, could cleanse her soul? No. Ofeer gazed down at her hands, at the dirt and dried flecks of blood, and she knew that she could never clean them.

She expected Seneca to rage at this, perhaps even to strike her. But instead his eyes softened, and he took her hands in his.

"Your heart is gentle," he said. "And death is such a terrible thing when you first behold it. I'm a great warrior, and I've slain many men, and my heart is hardened. I often forget how traumatic death can be to those young and soft." He winced. "The way the guts hang from sliced bellies. The way the crows peck at the eyes. The stench of it. Gods, the stench of blood and shit and rotting flesh. You never hear about those in the great epics. You never see those from the high seats in an amphitheater. But here . . ."

Again his eyes took on that haunted look, staring beyond her, staring parsa'ot away, and Ofeer knew that he wasn't talking about her.

"You poor, proud, stupid boy," she whispered. "You have no idea, do you?"

He had no idea what war meant. He had no idea that they shared a father. He had no idea that all those times in his tent, in her mother's bed, he had lain with his half-sister. He had no idea that she scorned him, that she was afraid—perhaps not even that he himself was afraid.

And I'm just as foolish as he is.

Seneca drained his goblet and tossed it aside. "You grow bold, Ofeer. And I like that. I have no use for meek women. The meek die in this world. The meek are worms for us rulers to stomp on. I conquered the coast of Zohar for the glory of Aelar, but my conquest is not complete." He turned to stare toward the eastern hills. They spread for parsa'ot, leafy with pines and wild grass. "There are mountains east of here. Jagged dry mountains that guard the desert. And on them rises a city called Beth Eloh, the capital of this kingdom. The spring whence lume flows. We head there now, Ofeer. All three legions. My sister will already be there, bloodying her forces while ours prepare for glory. Once I conquer the capital, my father will name me his heir." He grabbed Ofeer's arm and bared his teeth, and a wild light burned in his eyes. "And you will be my concubine, my pet of the east, a dark beauty for all the lords and ladies of Aelar to see and desire. They will envy me for my prize."

She let him hold her arm. She let him brag, let him sneer. She stared into his eyes, lips tight.

I am your sister. I too am a child of Marcus Octavius. I will not be a war trophy for you, Seneca. I will talk to the emperor. I will demand his surname. And I will be a princess of an empire.

Movement caught her eye. She stared over Seneca's shoulder, back toward the eastern hills, and squinted.

Horses. A hundred horses or more came galloping toward them, their riders raising the eagle standards of Aelar.

Seneca turned to stare too, and his face paled.

"Porcia," he whispered.

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AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading Kings of Ruin. I hope you enjoyed the novel. Want to know when I release the next Kingdoms of Sand novel?

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I've written many novels in other series too. Find a list of them all by flipping the page.

Thank you again, dear reader, and I hope we meet again between the pages of another book.

Daniel

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

KINGDOMS OF SAND

Kings of Ruin

Crowns of Rust

Thrones of Ash

Temples of Dust

Halls of Shadows

Echoes of Light

EARTHRISE

Earth Alone

Earth Lost

Earth Rising

Earth Fire

Earth Shadows

Earth Valor

Earth Reborn

Earth Honor

Earth Eternal

THE MOTH SAGA

Moth

Empires of Moth

Secrets of Moth

Daughter of Moth

Shadows of Moth

Legacy of Moth

REQUIEM

Dawn of Dragons

Requiem's Song

Requiem's Hope

Requiem's Prayer

The Complete Trilogy

Song of Dragons

Blood of Requiem

Tears of Requiem

Light of Requiem

The Complete Trilogy

Dragonlore

A Dawn of Dragonfire

A Day of Dragon Blood

A Night of Dragon Wings

The Complete Trilogy

The Dragon War

A Legacy of Light

A Birthright of Blood

A Memory of Fire

The Complete Trilogy

Requiem for Dragons

Dragons Lost

Dragons Reborn

Dragons Rising

The Complete Trilogy

Flame of Requiem

Forged in Dragonfire

Crown of Dragonfire

Pillars of Dragonfire

The Complete Trilogy

ALIEN HUNTERS

Alien Hunters

Alien Sky

Alien Shadows

OTHER WORLDS

Eye of the Wizard

Wand of the Witch

Firefly Island

The Gods of Dream

Flaming Dove

KEEP IN TOUCH

www.DanielArenson.com

Daniel@DanielArenson.com

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