TEMPLES OF DUST

KINGDOMS OF SAND, BOOK FOUR

by

Daniel Arenson

Table of Contents

MAP

CHAPTER ONE: ABISHAG

CHAPTER TWO: KOREN

CHAPTER THREE: CAELIUS

CHAPTER FOUR: CLAUDIA

CHAPTER FIVE: SENECA

CHAPTER SIX: EPHER

CHAPTER SEVEN: CLAUDIA

CHAPTER EIGHT: MAYA

CHAPTER NINE: ATALIA

CHAPTER TEN: PORCIA

CHAPTER ELEVEN: MAYA

CHAPTER TWELVE: KOREN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: SENECA

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: KOREN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: SENECA

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: PORCIA

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: OFEER

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: CLAUDIA

CHAPTER NINETEEN: OFEER

CHAPTER TWENTY: ATALIA

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: EPHER

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: OFEER

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: ABISHAG

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: EPHER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: MAYA

AFTERWORD

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

KEEP IN TOUCH

MAP

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Full-sized map: DanielArenson.com/Map

ABISHAG

Abishag, daughter of Naeem, had always walked upon light.

The coins rattled, and the man laced up his trousers and left the alleyway, and Abishag thought of light upon water.

She wandered the alleyways of Beth Eloh, seeking bread, seeking water from deep wells, her coins of blood and bruises and semen and shame buying life for another day, and she thought of the dawn outside her old window, mottled with ivy, rising across her wall.

In the darkness, as men gripped her hair, as she wept, as she tasted them, lay beneath them, as they hurt her, she closed her eyes and thought of the light of the Temple, shining high upon the Mount of Cedars.

Whenever her bleeding stopped, whenever she went into the hut of the old women, whenever she drank the poison they gave her, when she screamed and bled and wept, she thought of Eloh's light, blessing her, consoling her when nothing else could.

Barefoot, her cloak tattered, her small breasts bared, Abishag the shepherd's daughter worshiped the light with every man who bought her, with every child who died inside her, with every shred of her soul ripped away.

"Worship the light, sisters!" cried her mistress, the Queen of Whores, arms raised, head tossed back, given to the splendor, to epiphany. "With every man who seeds you, with every act of holiness, you bless God! You bless the Temple!"

And outside the Temple, the sisterhood gathered. Frail. Broken. Coughing. Sisters of light. Abishag was youngest among them, still fair, still able to fetch a high price. The others were older, tattered after years of worship, their hair strewn with gray, their bare breasts wilted, their mouths and sexes raw with sores. They were like the stray cats who roamed here, feral, consumed with their heat and hunger, consumed with the grace that ever flowed from the Temple, with the disease that ever lurked within. They were her sisters. They were her family.

"We will look after you," the Queen of Whores had said that first day, embracing Abishag, her breath rancid, her teeth yellow. "You are our sister of light. You will worship with us."

And yet as Abishag lay in alleyways and huts, the men groaning above her, she thought of a different home, of a humble house on a hill, a flock of sheep, parents who had loved her. Parents who had died in the wars of Yohanan and Shefael three years ago. Parents the Queen of Whores claimed that Abishag had never had—just a dream of another life, a fever dream. The old woman gave her spirits to drink, strong and foul, that made her head spin, and the men who bought her spilled the spice from Sekadia into her mouth, and they thought she would forget, but Abishag still worshiped the old light. Dappled with ivy. Rising across her bedroom wall.

And she never forget her light.

She never forgot that day outside the Temple.

That day on hot stones. Starving, dying, fading away . . . and finding hope.

"Worship the light, sons of Beth Eloh!" cried the Queen of Whores, padding across the cobbled courtyard. Her arms were held out, jangling with tin bracelets. Her cloak was open, revealing her ravaged breasts, her sex, her ribs. "Worship the light for a shekel, sons of Adom!"

Abishag and the other sisters followed their queen, shuffling across the courtyard. The ancient, weedy walls of houses and holy places rose around them, craggy and pale as leprosy. Cats hissed from rooftops and alleyways. When Abishag looked behind her, she could see glory: a towering wall of great stones, each taller than her, and beyond the Mount of Cedars, draped with tombstones and trees, and upon its crest the great Temple, as glittering and beautiful as an afterlife, a heaven she could see but never touch. When she looked away, she saw the men in the courtyard. Priests and holy men. Bearded, ancient as these bricks, wrapped in prayer shawls, eyes peering from wrinkled faces. The sisters dragged their feet toward the men, opening their cloaks to reveal their nakedness. Hungry sisters. Hissing sisters. More stray cats, patched with scabs, darkened with bruises.

Let the fine women of wealth wear henna and perfume, Abishag thought. We are Sisters of the Light. Let our perfume be sweat and sex, and let our jewels be our sores. We are holy.

The men opened their purses, and they chose women from among the sisters to worship. The eldest, richest man, the man with the long white beard, paid for Abishag. She was young. She was perhaps still fair. She could always fetch silver.

They worshiped outside the Temple, here in the hot courtyard, surrounded by weedy walls, the glory of God gazing from above. All across the stones, they worshiped, grunted, screamed. Abishag lay on her back, and the old priest groaned above her, and she tilted her head back, and she gazed at the Temple behind her. With her head tossed back, it seemed upside down, its golden towers plunging into the sea, drowning. And she too wanted to fall, to vanish into water and shadow, and she thought of the light. The old man tore her skin and grunted above her and worshiped into her, and Abishag thought of her.

Of the lumer.

Of Maya.

That night before dawn, the consecrated sisters gathered outside the Temple walls, and together they prayed.

"With our breasts, we bless him," said the Queen of Whores, and she placed a coin outside the Temple gates.

"With our sex, we bless him," said another, a gaunt woman, her nose broken years ago, and placed down another coin.

"With seed and blood, we bless him," said Abishag, repeating the holy words of the consecrated, and she placed down one of her own coins—the silver coin from the man with the silver beard, for the most blessed of the consecrated sacrificed her greatest treasures to the light of Eloh. Her precious metal, her womb, her old life. A life of light, dappled with ivy, rising across the wall of her bedroom. A life of parents who had loved her. Of sheep in a field. Of a girl who had wandered the grasslands, crook in hand, who now wandered the weedy streets, sores on her lips. The life of the consecrated, worshiping God with everything she had to give, sacrificing childhood for light. In the morning, the boys would emerge from the Temple, and they would take the coins, and they would take the consecrated in the courtyard, and they would take something from Abishag, because they always took something from her—even now, even after three years, after countless men, still that old light shone inside her, and still they took it. Dapple by dapple. Blood by blood. Child by child poisoned in her womb.

When the last of the consecrated placed down her coins, Abishag faced them, her sisters in misery, her sisters in disease. She spoke to them softly. "Someday she will come into this city, as the lumer prophesied."

Her sisters raised their arms. "Someday she will come."

"This city will flow with milk and honey and wine," Abishag whispered, tears in her eyes, repeating her words—the words of Maya, of the prophet who had blessed them. "Through the Gate of Tears she will enter, wreathed in light, all 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."

The consecrated sisters crowded together, reaching out so their fingers touched, and their tears flowed. "She who lingers," they whispered. "She who wears a crown of blood."

As the dawn rose, as the other sisters slept, Abishag walked through the city of Beth Eloh. She had no sandals. She walked barefoot on cobblestones, the same stones ancient prophets had walked on thousands of years ago. The same stones the prophet Maya, the lumer who had blessed her, had walked upon last spring, back when she had given Abishag a coin without demanding a piece of her light, when she had spoken of the savior. The same stones upon which someday the savior would someday walk, all in white, all in light, she who lingers, she who wears a crown of blood. Tears flowed down Abishag's cheeks as she walked down the alleyways, the craggy walls rising at her sides, awnings and archways and balconies hiding the sky. City of blood, of tears, of dead babes, of children dead inside. City of grace. The city that waited.

"You will enter through the Gate of Tears," Abishag whispered. "And you will heal us. You will bring them back. You will collect all lost children."

She lowered her head, her tears falling onto her muddy feet. She had lost her own children to the poison, and she too was a child lost. A child waiting for her savior. A child seeking a lost gate.

Every day, Abishag walked here, searching. She had stood by the Gate of Lions as the cruel Porcia and her eagles had entered the city. She had sought hope by the Gate of Mercy, ancient and crumbling, weeds growing between its stones, but she had found only ghosts, only closed doors and soldiers who mocked her, who tossed stones her way. Today Abishag walked along the ancient walls of Beth Eloh, circling the city from within, passing by seven gates, seeking the mythical eighth gate, seeking a gate lost to history, sealed up, forgotten. Seeking the Gate of Tears. Seeking the gate through which the savior would enter.

"I must find it," Abishag whispered. "I must open it or she cannot return."

She walked through the city of kings, the city of paupers, the city of hunger, of whores, of gutters, of gold. She walked along the walls of Beth Eloh, seeking a gate for her savior, passing her hands against ancient stone. The guards of the city found her by a tower, and they struck her, and they took away her cloak, leaving her naked in the dust, and they worshiped with her, and she wandered on. Weeping. Praying. Thinking of light.

She shuffled through the marketplace, that bustling hive of silk, tin, sweat, wine. "If you find a gate, daughters of Beth Eloh, I charge you—seek the light. Open the doorway so that she may enter." Yet the women scoffed and recoiled from her, for Abishag was a consecrated sister, holy to the priests, abhorred by the people. "If you find a gate of bricks, sons of Beth Eloh, or a gate of tears, I charge you—let her light through." And yet the men scorned her, kicked her, cast her away. And she wandered on.

And so she wandered the city—Abishag, daughter of Naeem, daughter of a shepherd, her womb a graveyard, her lips a hive of disease, her heart forever yearning for light. Forever the memory of Maya filled her—the lumer, the prophet. Forever the hope for a savior, for she who lingers, filled her. Because she knew that she would not always be lost. She knew that her children would come home.

At night, Abishag returned to the Temple walls, and she danced there, and she worshiped God in the only way she knew—under men, giving herself to them, head tilted back, giving herself to God, to memory. To searching. To a dream of she who could heal her, who could heal this city, this city of war, of ancient stones, of blood on her thighs, of an orphan girl, weeping, smiling, knowing the savior would not forever linger. She was Abishag, her children lost. She was consecrated. She would be healed.

KOREN

"Valentina, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He hung his head in shame. "I'm a complete, total ass."

Valentina looked at him. "What did you do now, Koren?"

"It's not what I did now. It's what I realized now." Koren groaned and shook his head. "I hate walking. Hate it. Hate it! I should never, ever have sent our horses fleeing."

The cobbled road stretched through the wilderness. Oaks, elms, and birches rose alongside, their leaves turning red and gold in the fall. Koren was used to the cypresses and palm trees of Zohar. It was unnatural for trees to lose their leaves like this. It was unnatural for the air to be so cold and misty. They were walking somewhere through Denegar, an imperial province north of Aelar. It was a vast land, many times the size of Zohar, full of barely anything but trees, mist, and those damn cobblestones that hurt his feet. His sandals were already worn down to thin strips of leather, and he knew what was next: his skin and bones.

Valentina laughed. "Koren! That was weeks ago. And you released the horses to save our lives. If you hadn't sent the legionaries on a wild-goose chase, we'd both be crucified by now."

"I know!" He tugged his hair. "Exactly! To rest on a nice, solid cross, nailed right up there, no need to move my legs . . . Ah, heaven! Sometimes I just daydream about being allowed to hang on a cross, if only for a moment or two. Would be heaven compared to this damn constant walking." He groaned and gazed down at his sandaled feet. "My blisters have blisters on them, and I didn't even know that's possible."

Valentina smiled thinly. "There are worse fates than walking, Koren."

She was right. Of course she was right. Koren cursed his own words. At the thought of crucifixion, his mind strayed back to that day—that most horrible of days. Walking up the path to Pine Hill, whipped and chained. Seneca swinging the hammer, nailing Jerael to the cross. Ofeer pleading for the life of her family, and Jerael bellowing, then only moaning, then dying slowly, dripping on the wood.

Koren lowered his head.

I'm a damn fool, he thought.

A lump filled his throat. Yes, there were worse things than walking, and not just crucifixion. Missing home, for one. Missing his family. He would have walked another ten thousand leagues for news of his family. Was Epher still alive? Who had bought Ofeer at the slave market? And what of Mother and Maya? Koren had been thinking about them with every league walked across the northern hinterlands of the Empire. Slowly, step by step, he began to realize that Atalia was dead, that she had drowned at sea. He began to realize that he'd never see his family again, that perhaps he'd never go home.

Valentina looked at him, her eyes soft. The young princess of Aelar wore a charcoal cloak, bought at the last village they had passed through. Koren wore a similar garment, and both hid gladius swords under the thick wool—just in case. Valentina had also dyed her hair black. Her natural white hair, the hair of an albino, would have been too easy to recognize, and the legions were everywhere, seeking the escaped princess. Her skin was still alabaster, but now stained with the grime of her journey. The fair, pale princess was nearly unrecognizable, now a mere muddy traveler on the endless roads of the Empire.

She placed a hand on his arm. "I lost someone from Zohar too," she said softly, as if she had read his mind. "Somebody I loved. My lumer, Iris. She was from Gefen."

Koren nodded, turning to look at the road ahead. "I knew her." He spoke softly. "I knew all the lumers who were shipped to Aelar. I forced myself to memorize their names. Because of . . ." Because of Maya, he wanted to say but bit down on the words. No. Not yet. He trusted Valentina. He saw the goodness in her heart. But he was not ready to share Maya's secret. Not yet. "Because they were all like sisters to me," he finished.

Valentina slipped her hand into his. "You'll see Zohar again, Koren. We both will. Iris and I used to dream of visiting the east together. Someday, when Aelar is a republic again, when there is peace, we'll both sail there. Together."

Koren wondered if those were just pipe dreams. After so much devastation—the fall of Zohar, the brutality in Aelar, the flight here into the wilderness—it was hard to believe there could ever be peace again.

"Valentina," he said delicately. "Governor Atticus has spent the past twenty years serving the Octavius family. How do you know he'll welcome us in Elania?"

She stared at him with hard eyes. "Because my real father, Septimus Cassius, spoke of his loyalty. For twenty years, both men served Marcus, and both men remembered the Republic. Would you forget Zohar in twenty years?"

Koren shook his head.

"Nor would Atticus forget the Republic," Valentina said. "Septimus trusted him. And so do I. Atticus Magnus will help us, will fight with us—for the Republic."

Koren sighed. It seemed to him that they were chasing but a flicker of hope, but a dream. He spoke gently. "That might be true. But there are only three legions in Elania. Even if we can find our way to that island—and it's still damn far away—and even if the island's governor supports our cause . . . it's only three legions. Fifteen thousand men. It's a force large enough to conquer a small kingdom like Zohar, yes. But what are three legions against the might of Aelar?"

Her face hardened. A gust of wind blew back her hood and tossed dry leaves into her dyed hair. "Yes, he only has three legions, and Porcia commands many." She watched a hawk chasing sparrows overhead. "But Porcia fights many wars. A rebellion in Zohar. An uprising in Nur. The barbarian hordes of Gael in the north. Seneca in the south." She looked at Koren and smiled wryly. "We'll hit her when she's weakest. We'll shatter her reign, and we'll rebuild the Senate. For my father. For Zohar. For all the world."

Koren didn't care much about the world. The world was a large, cold, miserable place. All he wanted was his home back. Rides with his brother along the beach. Wrestling and fencing with Atalia. Reading old tales with Maya. Right now Koren even missed his time with Ofeer in the slave market. It was strange to miss such a place, but even there—captives of war, about to be sold to the highest bidder—he had been with family. And he missed that night.

Even if it was with bloody Ofeer, he thought, a sheep so black she'd make the midnight seem bright.

The sky began to darken, and the road stretched onward through the wilderness. Crickets chirped and the stars emerged. Koren pulled out his oil lantern from his pack—a purchase from the last town—and they walked onward in the darkness. They were about to set camp on the roadside, as they had these past few nights, when the lights of a village shone ahead.

"Thank goodness," Koren said. "Maybe they'll have an inn with an actual bed. Or a barn. Hell, after so many nights sleeping outside in the cold, I'd take an outhouse."

Koren and Valentina approached to find a crossroads. One road stretched from Aelar in the south toward the northern coast. The second road stretched from the western sea toward Gael in the east. Here did these two great highways, built generations ago, intersect. Most civilizations only paved roads within their cities, not the countryside. The Aelarians were proud of their roads, masterworks of cobblestones and mortar that traversed the Empire, and crossroads were holy places. A temple rose here to Peregrinis, the Aelarian god of travel, said to be the son of Aelia, goddess of music, and of Vin, the god of wine. As Koren stared at the statue of Peregrinis—a smiling man in sandals, a pack across his shoulder—he reflected that he much preferred the deity's father. Words were engraved onto the statue's pedestal: Blessed be those who travel to Aelar, and may those who leave her light soon find their way home.

Along with the temple, several shops rose here, closed for the night. Words were engraved onto their marble pediments, describing the wares within: sandals, lanterns, dried fruit, water skins, medicine, and other supplies for travelers on the long road. The Empire was large, and journeys between its provinces could take weeks, even months. But there was help along the way.

Say what you like about the Aelarians, Koren thought, the bastards know how to keep you moving.

It was more than could be said for Zohar and its network of dirt paths, many of them naturally carved by goats and barely discernible to human eyes. At least Zoharites, with their tiny kingdom, didn't have to worry as much about weary feet. With a swift horse or a good walking staff, you could cross all of Zohar within a few days. The Aelarian Empire, meanwhile, could take months to traverse—months of sore muscles and blisters and boredom.

"Look, Koren." Valentina pointed. "The inn's still open."

Koren turned to see the building, the largest one in the village aside from the temple. It rose three stories tall, built of sturdy bricks and topped with a tiled roof. Lights shone in the windows, and smoke plumed from three chimneys.

"Not sure about this, Val," he said. "Inns tend to have travelers. Travelers tend to relish human company, then rush back to Aelar and report to the empress about a couple of suspicious-looking people who might just be the escaped princess and the brother of Zohar's king. You know, just the two most wanted people in the Empire."

"Nonsense." She pointed at her hair. "Dyed black. See?" She pointed at his cheeks. "Shaved cheeks, no beard. Nobody will recognize us, Koren."

He rubbed his cheeks. They were smooth for the first time in years. It wasn't much of a disguise, but Valentina was already walking toward the inn. And by the gods' marble balls, Koren could smell it. His mouth watered. Food. Bread was in there. He sniffed. And lamb! And . . . He drooled. Wine.

His belly rumbled. For days now, they had subsisted on crackers, brackish water, and cold smoked sausages.

"All right!" he said. "But if Porcia's in there, I'm only staying for one cup of wine. Two tops, if it's a good vintage."

Four marble columns formed the inn's portico, and its triangular pediment displayed engravings of common travelers rather than gods or heroes, the men and women enjoying a marble feast. When Koren and Valentina stepped inside, they found a bustling hall, full of light and mirth despite the late hour. Frescoes covered the walls, each depicting a different land. The northern wall showed a scene of misty Elania, the northern island with its white cliffs and rolling hills, the most distant province in the Empire. The western wall showed the sunny beaches of Berenia, the western border of the Empire. The eastern wall portrayed the forests of Gael, beasts and barbarians hiding between the tree trunks. The finest fresco sprawled across the southern wall, displaying the glorious city of Aelar, painted with thousands of towers and rooftops.

Many travelers reclined on divans across the hall, enjoying meals served on low tables. A fireplace crackled, musicians played lyres and citharas, and servers moved back and forth, carrying jugs of wine. Koren hesitated for a moment and felt for the sword hidden under his cloak. He scanned the crowd for legionaries or perhaps a deranged cannibal empress, but the place seemed safe enough. Only a few of the travelers were ethnically Aelarians. Most were local northerners, tall and broad and blond. Perhaps their grandparents had fought the Republic, but here were people born under conquest.

Once he felt secure enough, Koren made a beeline to the back of the hall, where food was steaming. A granite counter stretched here over braziers full of embers. Holes were cut into the counter, and metal pots lay within, kept warm by the embers beneath. Above each dish, a mosaic described its ingredients and price. Koren grabbed a plate and began piling it high with chicken legs, beef stew, and—oh thank Eloh—lamb cooked with mint and pepper. Valentina looked at him over a plate of grapes, a bright red apple, two small oranges, and fresh greens.

"You really should eat more fruit and vegetables," she said. "You'd be less cranky with proper nutrition."

He widened his eyes in protest. "There's mint on my lamb! Mint's a vegetable."

She groaned. "Too much meat."

"What? I skipped the bowl of snails!" He glanced at the shells and cringed.

Valentina rolled her eyes and paid for their plates. His cost five times more.

There was only one free couch in the common room, set before a low table. Koren approached and sat down, but Valentina shook her head.

"Aelarians don't sit down while eating." She nudged him away and lay on her side, propped up on one elbow.

"Good thing I'm not Aelarian." Koren sat by her feet. The couch was so low his knees rose to his shoulders.

For a moment they ate in silence. Valentina was right. Sitting down on these low Aelarian couches was about as comfortable as hanging in a gibbet. When he shifted, joints creaking, Valentina patted a section of the couch behind her. Koren swallowed a bite of lamb and lay on his side behind her. She was slender, her waist narrow, and Koren could easily reach over her for his plate on the table. A server poured them mugs of spiced wine. Koren drank one cup. Another. The warmth of the drink filled him, though not as much as the warmth of Valentina's body. It was hard to concentrate on his meal like this, lying pressed up to her. Every nerve in his body seemed heightened, feeling the softness of her clothes, of her body beneath. Perhaps it was the wine, but Koren's blood heated.

"Your hair smells nice," he said, lamely, cursing the wine that brought such words to his mouth.

She turned toward him, still reclining on the couch. "It must be the dye I used."

God above, when she faced him, it wasn't much better. Their thighs touched, and she just had to lean a little bit closer for their chests to touch. Koren swallowed a lump in his throat. God damn it. This wasn't Zohar, and he wasn't spending time with a port-side girl with a ready grin and coquettish lips. This was the bloody princess of an empire—one who technically owned him.

He reached out and stroked her hair. Damn it—what was in that wine?

"It's very smooth," he said.

She nodded. "Thank you."

She was beautiful. Koren couldn't look away. She wasn't like Claudia—wasn't domineering, cruel, selfish. Valentina was all softness, sweetness, her eyes so kind. Koren leaned forward, just slightly. He remembered how he would lie with Claudia, over and over, in the bathhouse, in her bed. Would that he could make love to Valentina! It would be more pleasurable than a thousand nights with Claudia.

"Um . . . Val." He swallowed, suddenly nervous. "This is probably the wine talking, but . . . Well, can I kiss you? Just your cheek, if you want!"

Her eyes widened. "What? Kiss me? Why would you want to do that?"

He winced. "Because . . . I like you? And . . . you're pretty? And . . ." He shook his fist at his cup of wine. "This is all your fault!"

Valentina sighed, leaned forward, and kissed his forehead. "How's that?"

It was nice, but not quite what Koren had expected. He looked away from her, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Valentina. I was presumptuous. You're a princess, and I'm just a slave."

Your slave, he thought. And just a few weeks ago—Claudia's slave.

He didn't want to talk to Valentina about that. Claudia was a beautiful woman, powerful too, the desire of many men across the world, yet Koren felt strangely embarrassed by their tryst. It had never been something he had wanted. He had never felt like this about Claudia, not the tingly sensation he felt around Valentina.

"It's not that," Valentina said, still very close to him. "I love another. I gave my heart to Iris, my lumer. She's gone now. Marcus Octavius murdered her." Something hard and cold filled her eyes, but then her gaze softened again. "I don't see myself ever loving, even properly kissing, somebody else. You understand, don't you?"

Koren opened his mouth, then closed it, lost for words. He had known women in Zohar who had loved other women. And his cousin, Yohanan, had loved another man.

"Do you mean . . . you loved her, like . . . like a woman loves a man?"

"I mean, Koren, that we should probably finish our meals, rent a room, and sleep off this wine."

He nodded. "Good. I like sleeping."

He was reaching toward Valentina's plate, hoping to steal a grape, when he saw them enter the tavern. Three legionaries, all in armor, swords on their thighs.

Koren froze, hand halfway toward the plate. His pulse quickened. Valentina stiffened beside him.

They're just travelers looking for some food and wine, Koren told himself, trying to steady his racing heart.

The legionaries stepped into the center of the common room, their sandals muddying the mosaic floor. One of the men, his helmet sporting a red crest of horsehair, spoke in a loud voice that filled the hall.

"Good evening, friends! We seek two travelers! An albino woman, her skin white as milk, and a young Zoharite man. Have you seen such travelers? Any information leading to their apprehension will be rewarded by Empress Porcia!"

Koren's heart, already racing, now tried to leap from his mouth. He remained lying on the couch, but his hand now strayed toward the short sword hidden under his cloak. He saw Valentina's hand stray down to her own hidden blade. Her hand trembled.

"Wait," Koren whispered to her. "Not yet."

The legionaries walked through the tavern. Silence fell. All conversation and laughter had died, and all the eating and drinking had stopped. A few people glanced toward Valentina and Koren, frowning, then back at the legionaries.

"An albino and a Zoharite!" the legionary repeated, marching through the hall. "The albino might have dyed her hair. The Zoharite should be easier to spot." The soldier stared from one table to another, then looked directly at Koren and met his gaze. The legionary's eyes widened the slightest, and he began to march toward Koren and Valentina.

"Just play along," Koren whispered into Valentina's ear . . . then leaped off the couch and gave a theatrical bow.

"Hello, hello, my dear soldier friend!" Koren said, speaking in flawless Aelarian—at least, Master Malaci had always told him his Aelarian was flawless. "An albino and a Zoharite, an albino and a Zoharite . . ." He tapped his chin. "Nope, can't say that I've seen them. Myself, I'm Sekadian. We're often mistaken for our fellow desert dwellers. And my companion, well . . . She's a bit pale, yes, but who isn't in this cloudy northern land? Come to think of it, I do believe I've seen an albino and Zoharite on the road heading east to Gael, and—"

"That's enough." The soldier drew his sword. "You'll have to come with us." His friends, two fellow legionaries, stepped forth too, drawing their own blades.

Oh no, Koren thought. I'm not walking all the way back to Aelar.

As the soldiers advanced toward him, Koren drew his blade.

"Now, now, friends," Koren said. "I'm just a weary traveler and expert swordsman, and I don't want trouble, but if you really want to fight, I—" He cringed as they charged, blades swinging. "Okay, you want to fight!"

He raised his sword, parrying a legionary's blade. The steel clanged. Another legionary's sword swung down, and Valentina shouted and leaped forward with her own sword, diverting the blow.

"I knew it." Koren swung his blade and kicked, knocking a man back. "Finally we could have spent a night in a real bed, not the roadside, and the Empire just had to ruin it."

The legionaries regrouped and circled them. Koren and Valentina stood back-to-back, blades raised. Across the inn, most of the people fled outside or upstairs, though some stood along the walls, cheering for the legions. Koren was the son of nobility, and he had been trained by the best sword masters in Gefen, though these legionaries were just as well trained. Two men attacked Koren at once, one from each side. He parried one blade and kicked, knocking over a table, and the second man stumbled. As the first legionary swung again, Koren vaulted over the overturned table, landed by the fallen legionary, and drove down his sword into the man's back, right between the lacing that held the armor together. Blood spurted and the legionary screamed.

The first soldier leaped over the fallen table too, blade swinging. Koren ducked, lashed his blade, and hit the man's armor. Valentina screamed, walking backward toward the wall, desperately parrying the blows of the third legionary.

As he fought, Koren was back there again. Back in Gefen. Fighting alongside Atalia, surrounded by the enemy, watching his city fall. Watching his people, his friends, his father die.

A blade scraped across Valentina's arm, ripping her cloak, tearing her skin. She screamed and looked at Koren, terror in her eyes.

Koren howled, rage flaring inside him.

No.

He had seen thousands die. He had seen Atalia drown. He had seen Seneca nail his father to the cross.

I will not see them butcher Valentina too.

With a roar, he swung his blade, parrying the legionary's gladius. He retreated, step by step, moving back toward the counter with the sizzling meals. The legionary drove his blade forward. The steel nicked Koren's shoulder, and he grunted.

"You're a good fighter, rat." The legionary grinned. "You'll do well in the arena when my empress makes you fight her lions."

Koren's back hit the counter. He blocked another blow.

"I'm a Zoharite." Swinging his sword with one hand, he reached behind him and grabbed the rim of a heavy iron pot. "We are the lions."

With a howl, Koren yanked the pot out from its socket in the counter, then swung it forward.

The metal clanged against the legionary's helmet. The meal—a bubbling lamb stew—spilled over the man's face.

As the legionary screamed, Koren drove his blade into the man's neck.

He yanked the blade free and ran, not even waiting to see the legionary fall. Only one legionary still lived, cornering Valentina. Her sword had fallen, and her arm bled.

"You're nothing but a dirty lupa," the legionary was saying, grabbing at her, tearing her cloak. "Might be I'll fuck you myself before Porcia tosses you into the brothels where you belon—"

Koren swung his sword, driving the blade through the man's arm, down to the elbow, and the metal banged against bone. As the man screamed, Koren grabbed him, yanked him off Valentina, and shoved him down. The legionary fell, arm spurting blood, nearly severed. Koren placed his foot on the man's chest, raised his sword, and prepared to end the battle.

"I never liked fighting," Koren said, panting, shoulder bleeding. "I always preferred a good drink, a few jokes, a jolly song. But I am a son of Sela, a son of Elior. I am a son of the desert. The blood of Elshalom runs through me, and the blood of many legionaries stains my hands." His eyes dampened. "This is not who I wanted to be. But you made me a killer. And so now I will kill."

As the fallen legionary stared up in horror, his sword fallen, Koren raised his gladius higher, prepared to drive down the killing blow.

"Koren, wait!" Valentina cried, clutching her wound.

Koren stood, panting, staring down at the fallen legionary. "Valentina, look away."

"Koren, please." She reached out to him. "He doesn't need to die."

He looked at her, then back at the man below. "He tried to take us to Porcia for slow death, or to kill us himself. He would have ripped off your cloak and . . ." He sneered. "He is the enemy."

Valentina placed a hand on his arm. "And yet he's disarmed. He's wounded. He's no longer a threat to us." She stared at Koren. "The battle is over. You don't have to kill again."

Koren lowered his head and clenched his teeth. Tears burned down his cheeks. "I have to kill. I have to. I killed many in Zohar. I killed two men just now, and I will gladly kill a third. That's what this war made me." His knees were trembling. "And I will feel no guilt."

Valentina stroked his hair, and her voice was soft. "War changes us, hardens us, places demons within us. But I'm with you, Koren. And I know the goodness in your heart. You are a soldier, a fighter, but not a murderer."

He scoffed. "So killing him is murder?" He stared down at the fallen legionary. The man lay pinned under his boot, arm still spurting blood, cut halfway through the bone. "If we let him live, he'll go to Porcia. He'll tell her what he saw. And she'll send the wrath of the legions up this road."

Valentina narrowed her eyes, and now an edge filled her voice. "And can you say with certainty that none in this tavern, merchants and pilgrims and other travelers, won't do the same? Or will you kill them all too to conceal our tracks?"

Koren hadn't thought of that. He looked around him at the tavern. People stared, pressed against the walls, fear in their eyes. The cook stood at the kitchen doorway, cleaver in hand. Two dead legionaries lay on the floor. Everyone stared at Koren. To them, he was a monster. An outlaw who had just butchered two young men out doing their job on the road.

Is this who I am? Koren thought, his tears stinging.

"I didn't want this," he said, voice soft at first, then spoke louder, loud enough for everyone to hear. "This isn't who I wanted to be. They took me here in chains. They made me kill. I . . . I'm just a stupid boy who makes stupid jokes and stutters around pretty girls. And I just want to go home." A tear fell. "I just want to go back to who I was. But I can't." He shook his head, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I can't." He stared down at the wounded legionary, and suddenly Koren realized how young the man was, probably no older than twenty. Koren looked back up at the crowd. "Find him a tourniquet. Bind his arm. He might not have to lose it. He might live."

"And if you live," Valentina said softly to the legionary, "remember that the dream of the Republic lives too. That someday you will serve the Republic again, not the Empire."

They left the tavern. Wounds bandaged, Koren and Valentina walked between the trees, traveling off-road, crossing an entire league before they dared to stop. The oaks and maples spread around them, only the moonlight providing the faintest illumination. Animals rustled in the brush, and once Koren would have been frightened to walk here in the dark, but shadows, animals, or stories of ghosts could no longer frighten him.

In a little clearing, they lay down on cold hard ground. There was more room here than the couch in the tavern, but Valentina still lay close to him, and she wrapped her arms around him, and she kissed his forehead.

"Thank you, Koren," she whispered. "You saved our lives, and you're a good man."

He closed his eyes, seeking comfort in her embrace, but as the night stretched on, he couldn't stop seeing it—the dead legionaries, the blood on his hands, and the crowd staring at him with fear only matched by the horror in his heart.

CAELIUS

"The empress must die."

The words echoed across the catacombs, slithering like living beings along the wet walls, columns, and vaults.

Standing in the shadows, holding a lantern, Tirus scowled. "Lower your voice. The walls have ears. Even here."

Caelius allowed himself a wide grin, lips pressed together, cheeks rising so high they crinkled his eyes. It was a smile he had practiced many times in front of the mirror. A smile he knew unnerved people. A smile that transformed his pale, youthful face into a mask of grotesque comedy.

"You forget, Tirus. I command the Magisterian Guard. All hidden ears in this city are mine."

The man standing before him snorted. The two could not have made a more unlikely pair. Tirus was stocky, all fat over muscle and big bones, and his head was large, round, and completely bald, the nose bulbous, the brow wrinkled. If a boulder could rise and walk, it would look something like Consul Tirus Valerius. Yes, the brute was a consul now, promoted from praetor. Porcia had slain too many talented men in the highest echelon. She was now replacing them with burly beasts.

While I am small, thin, boyish, Caelius thought. He knew that many mistook him for a mere youth, not a thirty-two-year-old man. Walking through the city, clad in a simple toga, Caelius appeared like a mere boy on his way to school, scrawny and pale, his brown hair falling limply across his brow. A pretty face. That was a word they often used. Pretty. It was a word he had used. Marcus Octavius. It was a word Caelius had come to hate. No, not merely to hate. Hate was too soft a word. Caelius was not a man who hated. He was a man who despised.

"Why did you summon me here?" Tirus barked. He looked around him in disgust. Moisture dripped down the walls, and cobwebs clung to limestone columns. The tombs spread along the walls, burrows holding the ashes of countless of the city's plebeians. "We could have met in my villa outside the city. My slaves would pour wine, and my daughter would sing for us."

Caelius had seen the man's daughter many times, knew all her secrets, had peered through her bedroom window more than once as she slept. Claudia Valerius was a pretty young thing, far too intelligent for her own good.

She'll make a good match for me someday, Caelius thought, his grin widening, hurting his cheeks. Just wait, Marcus Octavius. Just wait, Porcia. That boy you scorned will yet marry a princess and spit on your graves.

"Tirus, do you know how I command this city?" he said.

The beefy consul scowled. "Don't be coy. You command the Magisterian Guard, not Aelar."

Caelius drew a dagger from his belt. A pretty blade, slender, unadorned, yet deadly. It was much like him. He balanced it on his palm. "I know everything that goes on in this city. Every rat that scurries. Every whore who moans. Every man who fucks a slave in his wife's bed. Every father who sells his earnings for a taste of hintan, the spice of the east. Every mother who grieves for a lost child. Every soldier dreaming of fortune. Every young centurion who dreams of conquest and glory. I know them all, because I am no one. I wear no fineries. I wear no face but that of a humble boy; only last year a wine merchant mistook me for a child. I do not visit villas. I do not drink fine wines. I do not mingle with great lords such as yourself." He bowed his head. "I am a creature of shadow. Those in shadow rule the world while the asses of lesser men warm thrones of gold."

"Keep your shadows," said Tirus. "And give my ass a throne. But first vacate it of our empress's posterior. Enough of your posturings and platitudes. Kill the bitch and be done with it."

Oh, but I will, soon enough, Caelius vowed silently, caressing his dagger. I will plunge this blade into your heart, Porcia Octavius.

He winced in sudden pain. The memory rose through him. A place of shadows and death, much like this place, but far away. Leagues away and many years past. A place of twisting trees, of marching legions, of corpses everywhere. A place where a scrawny soldier, only eighteen years old, had beheld the wrath of Gael, had tried to fight, had wet himself, had wept. A place where his commander—a brute named Marcus Octavius—had mocked him. Had seized him. Had tossed him to his men.

The boy had screamed as the soldiers ripped off his armor. As they stripped him bare and shoved him down. As they beat him, brutalized him, spat on him. And above it all—even louder than his screams—her laughter.

Yes, you laughed then, Porcia, Caelius thought. You laughed as your father tossed me to his wild dogs. I was nothing but a joke to you. An omega wolf for the pack to torment.

Standing here in the catacombs, fourteen years later, Caelius still found tears in his eyes. He turned away, sneered, and clenched his fists. He let his rage burn those tears away.

The Octavius family had forgotten that young, brutalized boy. Most people forgot Caelius. His face was ordinary. His presence bland. His invisibility had always been his gift. The gift that had let him rise, let him become the youngest commander of the Magisterian Guard in history, only thirty-two, younger by looks, and with the power to name emperors.

And the power to kill you, Porcia. He ran his finger along his dagger's blade. My only regret is that your filthy slave killed you, Marcus, before I could.

Caelius looked back at Tirus, forcing the smile back to his lips. "You greatly desire the throne, do you? You crave the power. The wine. The harem. The eternal glory."

Tirus snorted. "You're not talking to an Octavius, boy. What I care about is the Empire. And Porcia's running it to the ground. She's emptied the treasuries on pleasure barges and endless festivals. She makes a mockery of our palace with her orgies and sacrilege. The woman's a goddamn imbecile. Her father, at least, knew how to run things. I will too."

Yes, Caelius thought. Her father was quite efficient. Her father knew all about conquering lands, all about butchering thousands, all about tossing a boy—a thin, terrified boy—to his dogs.

Yet as the rage flowed through him, Caelius kept smiling. Emotions were weakness. Caelius would keep them behind his mask.

"Tirus," he said, "the throne will have to wait for your ample backside to warm it. Return to Zohar. The desert still needs you."

The burly man's eyes widened. His face flushed in the lamplight. "I've spent enough time in that fucking backwater."

"And that fucking backwater has descended into chaos without you," said Caelius. "Epheriah Sela, that boy who styles himself King of the Zoharites, is causing us some real trouble. His forces have slaughtered two entire legions, a task few in the Empire can accomplish. He's walled up now in Beth Eloh, a city that's built like a fortress. I want you to take three legions, Tirus, and to take care of this."

Tirus spat. "Yes, I know the Sela boy well. He used to fuck my own daughter in my own home. I wouldn't mind feeding him to the lions in the Amphitheatrum. I'm going to need five legions. I want the job done right. Porcia half-assed the job, and now Zohar is in chaos. I'll set things right."

Caelius nodded. The legions were all brutes anyway, half of them auxiliaries comprised of conquered barbarians. Good fodder for the provinces. The true, elite warriors served Caelius, here in this city, soldiers of the Magisterian Guard.

"I'll be watching you, Tirus," he said. "My eyes gaze far, and my arm is long. Do not think to displease me. Or it will be your rancid flesh the lions feed upon."

He turned and left.

That night, Caelius chose to walk home rather than ride his horse or take a chariot. He enjoyed walking the streets of Aelar at night. They too were like the catacombs beneath the city, twisting mazes of shadows, of souls. All those who wandered Aelar at night—the drunkards, the pickpockets, the whores—all were the living dead, as rotten as the corpses underground.

He did not worry about anyone recognizing him. He was Prefect Caelius Petronius, new commander of the Magisterian Guard, among the most powerful men in the world . . . and yet a shadow. A ghost. A mere young man in a toga, with a forgettable face, not particularly tall or strong, not particularly intimidating, a man who could be mistaken for a mere boy wandering the streets for his first taste of sin, perhaps a puff of hintan or the touch of a lupa.

The mighty generals die, Caelius thought. Marcus Octavius, proud and cruel, is dead. General Remus Marcellus, tall and deadly and terrifying to behold, is dead. Soon Porcia and Seneca, squawking birds of prey, will be dead. But I will remain. A ghost in the machine. Puppeteer to a thousand squalling, posturing puppets.

He walked the dark streets, his place of contemplation, relaxation. Buildings rose at his side, seven or eight stories tall, only a few scattered candles burning in their windows. Far in the distance, the Acropolis rose on the dark hills, a cluster of lights. There, for so many years, Marcus Octavius had ruled. There Porcia now reigned. Her laughter mocked him. Still, after all this time, her laughter echoed.

"Spare a denarius?" A beggar hobbled his way, leg twisted. "Spare a denarius for a veteran of Zohar?"

Caelius stared at the poor brute. "Ah, a fellow veteran! I myself was once a man of the legions."

The beggar smelled of hintan, the Sekadian spice they loved on these streets—a cheap brew, judging by the man's purple teeth, not the refined powder Caelius enjoyed.

"Did you fight in Zohar too, dominus? I fought in the war twenty years ago, not the one now. Ah, back then, that was the real war." The beggar coughed, chest rattling, and scratched his stubble. "Still got damn sand in my lungs." He reached out a trembling hand. "Spare a denarius?"

"Zohar?" Caelius shook his head. "No. No, not Zohar. I'm a veteran of Phedia."

"Phedia, dominus?" The beggar's brow furrowed. "That was . . . over a decade ago. Beg my pardon, but you look like a mere boy no older than my son. At least, the age he was when I last saw him."

Caelius smiled thinly. "I'm thirty-two. A common mistake." He sighed. "Yes, I fought in Phedia fourteen years ago. A lowly soldier from a lowly family. I served under Marcus Octavius himself."

The beggar gasped. "An honor, dominus! He was a great man."

"Oh yes, a great man." Caelius nodded. "He was great at beating those soldiers he thought too weak, too small. He was great at making you even smaller. He was great at tossing you to his brutes, at—" He clenched his fists. "But the man's dead now. It's in the past."

The beggar nodded sympathetically, hand still reaching out. "A denarius, dominus?"

"Ah! Yes, of course." Caelius nodded. "A man's mind does tend to wander." He reached into his toga and pulled out his iron rod. "Here's a little gift for you."

He swung the club. The iron slammed into the beggar's skull with a crack. The man screamed and fell.

"See, words are so hard to understand sometimes." Caelius swung the rod down, slamming the iron against the beggar's chest, cracking ribs. "The playwrights are always told to show, not tell." Another swing of the rod shattered the man's teeth; he gurgled on blood. "He beat me a little like this. See? And like this. A blow to the head. A blow to the chest. A blow between the legs." Caelius swung his rod again and again. "Marcus Octavius thought to make me strong. Perhaps he did. Or perhaps he simply sought to entertain his deranged little daughter. Tell me, are you entertained?"

The beggar twitched on the roadside, spitting blood, spitting teeth, his bones shattered, his life slipping away. He raised one shaky hand, perhaps an attempt to stave off another blow, perhaps still begging for coins, even with his dying breath. Caelius swung his rod, cracking the skull open, finally ending the wretch's pathetic stay on this earth. One less shadow for his midnight strolls. One more ghost for the catacombs.

"I almost forgot." Caelius tossed a denarius onto the corpse. "Don't spend it all on the spice."

Caelius kept walking, whistling now. These strolls could always soothe him. As he passed under the aqueducts where the cheap whores lived, he considered hiring one for the night, considered strangling her as he sometimes did to the girls, but not tonight. All things in moderation. Excess was for the weak. For people like that beggar, spending their meager coins on the spice. For people like Porcia, wasting the wealth of an empire. Those with no self-control always ended up dead at Caelius's feet.

He paused only to buy a little spice—just a pinch, just a few inhalations to keep the memories at bay—and kept walking, leaving the slums behind. Soon he was walking in the wealthy streets near the Acropolis, a place of wide roads lined with oil streetlamps, of fine villas, of private gardens, of guards who stood at every street corner. Guards who served him. Guards who didn't even recognize his face.

Finally he reached his home, a lovely little villa, one among thousands on these streets. Nothing out of the usual. Nothing too gaudy. A beautiful little home like those of many merchants, retired centurions, slave owners, families with some gold in their coffers. He paused outside the garden gates, stood under the light of the oil lantern, and examined himself. Slowly. Meticulously. Searching for any stain of blood on his toga, any scrape on his body, any dusting of the spice. Clean as always.

Caelius cleared his throat, brushed back his hair, and entered his home.

"Daddy!" His daughter ran toward him, only three years old, and he scooped her into his arms.

"Sweetness!" He kissed her. "It's so late. Why are you still up?"

"I missed you, Daddy. I wouldn't go to sleep without you."

His wife stepped downstairs and approached him, dressed in her sleeping tunic, her brown hair tousled. She gave him a sleepy grin. "How did your council go?"

Caelius yawned. "Dull as always. Not nearly as interesting as you are." He stepped toward her, gave her backside a pat, and kissed her cheek when she gasped and laughed.

His daughter leaped onto him. "Carry me, Daddy!"

He carried her through the house for a while, pretending to be a dragon as the girl squealed in delight, then told her a story and put her to bed. Once she was sound asleep, Caelius took his wife into their bedroom, and they drank a cup of wine, and he made love to her. Gentle love. Love with kisses, caresses, soft moans. Not one of the violent, loud, intoxicating encounters he enjoyed under the aqueducts. Perhaps tomorrow night he would enjoy one of those. For this night, let him be perfect. Let him be happy. Let him live the life the Octavius family had tried so hard to deny him.

As he made love to his wife, he still felt it. Still saw it. Marcus Octavius tossing him to his soldiers, and the men shattering him. But that was all right. That was in the past. And Caelius would have his revenge, and he would not rest until every Octavius was dead.

He fell asleep holding his wife, his nose pressed against her soft hair, his hand cupping her breast, his weary loins pressed against her backside. He was happy.

CLAUDIA

After half a year in Aelar, Claudia Valerius—among the most powerful women in the Empire—sailed back into Zohar, into the only home she had known until the legions had toppled it to the ground.

"You always thought me a foreigner, Epher," she said softly, standing at the prow of the ship, the sea air kissing her cheeks. "But this was home for me too."

The city of Gefen—the city where she had been born, raised, fallen in love—spread before her along the coast. Once it had been a bustling port, a city of marvels. In its ruin it looked like mere castles children built in the sand, melted by the waves.

Her father snorted at her side. "After six months in Aelar, it's hard to find Gefen impressive, isn't it?" The burly consul squinted, examining the ruins ahead. "By the gods, what a pile of shit. I'm sorry, Claudia." He turned to look at her. "I'm sorry I had to raise you here in the east, not back in Aelar where a refined beauty such as yourself belongs. But I promise you this—we will rebuild this city. We will name it Valeria Maritima, capital of this new province of Aelaria Orientalis. This city will become the jewel of the Empire. A jewel as fine as you are."

Claudia stared at her father, seeking some conceit. But his broad face—the jaw wide if jowly, the nose bulbous, the bald head massive and lumpy—seemed honest enough. She turned back toward Gefen. As their galley rowed closer, rocking gently on the warm waters of the Encircled Sea, more details emerged. The walls which had once lined the coast still stood, but many pockmarks appeared across them, and their battlements had fallen. The Sea Gate, the towering archway which led from the port to the city streets, still stood—it was the gate Seneca had marched through in victory—but the towers around it had crumbled, and skeletons still hung at its sides. The piers still stretched into the water, but while once the boardwalk had bustled with merchants, fishermen, and peddlers hawking everything from apricots to cheap jewels, now the docks seemed lifeless. The Empire's warships harbored here, and legionaries stood like statues, guarding the city. No Zoharites could be seen.

But the biggest change was in Claudia's heart. She was Aelarian, and she worshiped the Aelarian gods, and her heart served the Empire, and yet . . . And yet she had been born here, the only daughter of Aelar's ambassador to Zohar. She had been raised on this beach. In her childhood, her father had taken her back to Aelar every other summer, and they would spend a glorious few weeks in their Aelarian villa and in the palaces of the capital, mingling with the imperial family, attending the chariot races and gladiator fights, and feasting upon delicacies from across the world. And whenever they would return here—to her father's work, to this city in the eastern province—Claudia had always felt like coming home. As a child, standing on this very ship, sailing toward Gefen, she had always bounced with excitement, eager to run over the hills again, to taste the simple flatbreads and chickpea paste the locals ate, and—as she had grown older—to spend time with Epher. With her lover.

She had been only a child, fourteen years old, when she had begun to meet Epher in secret, to kiss him in her father's garden, to visit the villa on Pine Hill more often than diplomacy dictated. For nearly a decade, she had loved him. He did not know that. She had never spoken those words, that horrible phrase "I love you." Perhaps she had feared her emotions. Perhaps she wanted to keep that distance between her and Epher, to make sure they never forgot their roles, that she was a daughter of Aelar, that she was his superior. So yes, she had kept that distance between them, had fucked him a thousand times but never made love to him.

And she had regretted that at the end. And now she missed him. And now, sailing here, to her home, none of those old tingles of anticipation filled her.

Epher no longer lives in this city, she thought. He rules now in Beth Eloh, holed up in his fortress, commanding a doomed rebellion. And I . . . I sail here no longer as an ambassador's daughter but a woman who will crush him.

"No, Father," Claudia said softly as their galley sailed past the breakwaters and into the harbor. "This wasn't always a pile of shit. We made it so."

He raised an eyebrow. "Have we? Yes. Yes, I suppose that's true." He harrumphed. "Still, this city will be glorious again. Look, daughter. See there, just outside the walls. Already the first monument to our victory rises."

He pointed and she looked. It rose outside the city walls; there would be no room for such a structure within the city. A theater. It was smaller than the Amphitheatrum, the massive amphitheater in the Aelarian Acropolis where a hundred thousand souls gathered to watch gladiators fight, mock ships sail, and beasts from across the world feast upon prisoners. Perhaps only five thousand people would fit into this theater, but it was still splendid enough for the provinces, dwarfing every other building along the Zoharite coast. Scaffoldings covered the archways and tiers of seats that had been completed. Workers bustled across the structure, busy laying down more bricks. Beyond, Claudia glimpsed another construction project—an aqueduct that stretched from the hills down to the city.

And so the home I've always known will be replaced with an Aelarian city, Claudia thought. We will have theater, bathhouses instead of wells, temples to the gods, and the culture of the Aelarian civilization lighting the benighted east. And perhaps I will no longer feel torn. Perhaps I will no longer feel like a Zoharite.

Their ship docked at a pier, and legionaries marched forth from the boardwalk to lay down a gangplank. The cries of gulls filled the air, and the scent of fresh fish, salt, and the distant piney hills filled the air.

Finally, for the first time in days, Claudia's mother emerged from the ship's hold. Adriana Valerius looked much like her daughter—pale skin, brown hair arranged in perfectly tended ringlets across her forehead, and the wide hips that cursed the women in their family, a trait that perhaps aided their fertility but gave them a coarse, plebeian look. Forty years old, a decade younger than her husband, Adriana held an embroidered kerchief to her mouth.

"I positively loathe the sea." She glared at her husband like she had been glaring for the seventeen days of their journey. "I don't know why you keep forcing me to sail here, back and forth, back and forth. You promised we'd only take this trip every five years, and now it's been only six months and I'm frail again."

Tirus—who found the sea invigorating—kissed his wife's cheek. "The eastern air is good for your constitution. You know that."

Again she glared, eyes shooting daggers. "My constitution was perfectly fine in our villa in the Aelarian countryside, an estate larger than this entire city."

Tirus roared with laughter. "See how your mother exaggerates!" he said to Claudia. "That's where you got the trait. Be a dear, Claudia, and go fetch the girl. Before you drag her out, have her send word to Aelar that we've arrived."

Claudia nodded, relieved to find some escape, if only momentarily, from her parents' incessant bickering, to find some relief from this sadness that filled her, this iconoclastic resurrection of the only place she had ever called home. She stepped down into the hold of the galley, a place of shadows, of heat, of the stench of human waste and sweat and blood. She walked between the rowers, many of them slaves captured here in Zohar, their bare backs whipped.

Koren was once a galley slave, she reflected as she walked here. He too had languished in a ship, his back bare, bleeding, rowing the Empire's might across the sea.

Strangely, Claudia missed the boy. She had enjoyed her brief time with him in Aelar. She had made Koren pour her wine, serve her meals, wash her clothes, and pleasure her in bed. She had always known it was temporary—sooner or later she would have brought him here, tortured him to bring Epher out from his hiding hole. But she had let the boy go. She had let Valentina take him into exile. Often since that day, Claudia had cursed herself for her weakness, her compassion.

Empress Porcia would never have shown him mercy, she thought. If she were smart enough, she would have taken him to the walls of Beth Eloh. She would have broken him—taking finger after finger, flaying piece after piece of skin, agreeing to relent only in exchange for Epher's life. A sigh ran through Claudia. I'm not as strong as Porcia. I'm perhaps more clever, certainly more stolid, but weaker. My weakness will be my undoing here.

Here in Zohar, she would have to be stronger, harder, crueler. Only the cruel survived in this world. Because her task had not changed. Claudia had not come here to idle her time away in theaters. She had not come here to reminisce about home. She had not come here to rebuild an ancient city into a bustling Aelarian port.

"I came here for you, Epher," she whispered as she walked between the rowers. "I came here to hurt you. I came here to destroy everything you hold dear. But I also came here to save your life . . . because I love you."

Finally she reached the brig. A heavy door was set here, secured with three padlocks. Claudia took the ring of keys from her belt and opened the locks, one by one, then pulled the door open.

The lumer sat in the corner, wrists chained behind her back, ankles hobbled, her neck collared in iron. She gazed up at Claudia, wincing in the light that flooded the chamber. She was a mere child, thirteen years old, her black hair cropped short, her skin light brown. Claudia had never trusted lumers much. She had always thought that the witches knew far too much, held too much power in the Empire, that someday, like mad dogs, they would turn on their masters. And yet her father—the man could be as stubborn as a stone mule—had insisted on owning one of the magic users. And so Claudia herself had chosen this one. Meek. Frightened. Young. Too weak to cause much damage.

Let Seneca Octavius take Taeer into his bed, she thought. I will keep my lumer chained.

"Stand up, child." Claudia gestured. "You're home."

Leean struggled to her feet, chains clattering. "Are we in Zohar?" the girl asked. "Will I see my parents?"

Claudia tilted her head. "This land is no longer called Zohar. We are in Aelaria Orientalis, the easternmost province of the glorious Empire. As for your parents—they're most likely dead, or will be soon. Your only family now is mine. Now send a message to Aelar. Contact the empress's lumer. Tell her that we're here."

The girl's eyes filled with tears. "She frightens me."

"The cat-o'-nine-tails should frighten you," Claudia said. "You will do what you're told, or you will taste its kisses."

The lumer nodded and lowered her head. She took a few deep breaths, and the lume ignited across her, glowing as luminescence—the magic that flowed from this land, that only a handful of Zoharite women could summon. The glow filled Leean's eyes, streamed down her arms, and rose as tendrils in the brig. It intensified, forming a third figure in the cabin—a ghostly being, woven of light, vaguely formed as a thin woman who lay on the floor, limbs slung out, a pulsing apparition.

The imperial lumer, Claudia thought, staring down at the supine form of light.

She had never seen the lumer who had served Emperor Marcus, who now served Empress Porcia. She did not know where the wretch was kept, did not know her name. The closest glance Claudia ever got was this—an astral representation from across the sea, a creature like a corpse, pulsing, faceless, woven of the magic.

The two lumers—Leean, chained here in the brig, and the lumer across the sea—seemed to be conversing. Light streamed back and forth between them like words sent across the leagues. Finally the ghostly lumer convulsed, and the magic sputtered and faded. Shadows filled the cabin again, and Leean fell to her knees. The girl trembled, tears running down her cheeks.

"She's hurt," Leean whispered. "She's so hurt."

Claudia grabbed the girl and yanked her to her feet. "You told her we're here?"

Trembling, Leean nodded. "I did."

Claudia nodded. Good. They had a strong, solid link to Empress Porcia, even from here. Conversations between lumers didn't always work, especially with the younger ones, and Leean was about as young as lumers came. But so long as the girl did her job, there would be no need for the agonizing slow communications of ships sailing back and forth. Empress Porcia would be kept updated with all the doings in Zohar—the building of its monuments . . . and the breaking of its new king.

They left the brig, walked through the hold, and emerged again onto the deck. Leean blinked feebly, seeing light and breathing fresh air for the first time since leaving Aelar seventeen days ago. Tirus was already walking along the boardwalk, wrapped in his fine toga. His wife rode behind on a palanquin, shading herself with a parasol. It was autumn in Zohar, and yet the sun was still hot and blinding, as hot as summers in Aelar. Claudia had never minded the heat much, but her mother couldn't stand it, often complaining of sweat and languor.

Claudia stepped off the ship with her lumer. For a moment they stood, finding their land legs, before walking along the pier and onto the boardwalk. Several legionaries walked behind and before them, eyes darting, hands on the hilts of their swords.

"This is dangerous." Mother was scolding her husband from her palanquin. "This is land under rebellion. We need more guards."

Tirus snorted. "Nonsense. The rebellion is three days east from here, in Beth Eloh. And don't worry. They will feel our wrath."

Claudia turned back toward the harbor. Indeed, she saw the wrath of Aelar there. Many ships filled the Encircled Sea, sailing into the harbor. Here was a massive army, larger even than the last invasion of Gael. Five fresh legions, twenty-five thousand men in all, were descending upon Zohar. Here was a force to burn the countryside, to slaughter the farmers, and to shatter the walls of Beth Eloh and slay everyone within.

Unless I can stop them, Claudia thought. Unless I can talk sense into Epher. She took a deep, shuddering breath. You will kneel before me, Epher. You will be my slave, same as your brother was. Or by the gods, I cannot protect you and your nation.

The Valerius family—along with their guards, their lumer, and palanquins bearing their baggage—approached the city gate. A man emerged from within to greet them. He was thin, hook-nosed, and clad in a white toga and an ultramarine sash. Many rings glittered on his fingers, sporting emeralds and sapphires—among the most precious stones in the Empire. His hair was slicked back, scented so strongly of rose oil that Claudia could smell it even from several pedes away. He wore more eyeliner than she did. She recognized him. Here stood Gervasius, a gaudy little toad, well connected back in Aelar.

"Welcome, welcome!" Gervasius said, bowing with a flourish of his toga. "Consul Tirus! An honor. An honor to welcome you back to Aelaria Orientalis. Lady Adriana! You are as beautiful as always. The sea air agrees with you. Your grace grows with every year."

"As does her backside," Tirus muttered—too softly for anyone but Claudia to hear. She rolled her eyes.

"Ah, and Domina Claudia!" The garish man turned toward her, knelt, and kissed her hand. His lips were wet. "Welcome home. I believe you will find Gefen—pardon, I should call it by its new name, Valeria Maritima—more splendorous than ever."

"It certainly smells different," Claudia said, struggling not to gag as the maudlin aroma of rose oil, myrrh, and perfumes she could not name wafted from the man. "How are you, Gervasius?"

He grinned, revealing white teeth. "My mood has much improved, seeing this mighty fleet—headed by a mighty family—sail into the harbor. Come now, come! You are weary from the journey, I know, but I must boast of the city's new accomplishments. Truly, this shall become the jewel of the Empire, a glittering tribute to our new empress."

They followed him through the gateway, and Claudia glanced at the skeletons that hung there. Wooden signs still clung to the bones. Rebel rats, they read, the words scrawled in both Aelarian and Zoharite. She wondered if she had known these dead. Gefen had never been small, home to fifty thousand people at its height, but Claudia had known many of its inhabitants, especially boys her age. Boys who had rebelled against the Empire. Boys who now lay buried or hung from chains.

And one boy who will yet kneel, she thought. Or he too will hang.

For a long hour Gervasius rode his horse, showing them the new wonders that were springing up in Gefen. A towering marble statue of Empress Porcia, still covered in scaffolds, the body not yet carved. The foundation of what would become a temple to Dia, goddess of spring; it was nothing but a hole in the ground now, but Gervasius showed off the designs with gusto. The new aqueduct, which did not yet deliver water, but would be sure to fill bathhouses across the city that would rival those in Aelar. And of course, the crown jewel—the great theater, set to open within only a month.

"It's all paid for with Zoharite gold, of course," Gervasius prattled on. "The city's coffers were full of it. The Zoharites hoarded their treasure, but Empress Porcia believes that gold is useless buried underground. Here it raises wonders that will shine eternally."

As Claudia looked around, she wondered how much that gold truly paid for. Many of the workers were slaves, local Zoharites, collared and whipped. She recognized a few. They were gaunter now, haunted, bleeding, but she remembered them as hearty city folk, bakers and fishermen and soldiers. Many other Zoharites still lived here as free citizens, but fear filled their eyes. They peered from their windows, fled down side roads, and glanced at the procession of Aelarian nobility like cats eying a pack of rabid dogs.

"They're being treated well," Gervasius said, noticing how Claudia's gaze kept turning toward the locals. "We've outlawed their barbaric religion, of course, and we toppled their temple, and yes, we enslaved a few of the more recalcitrant rats. But the rest will soon become citizens of Aelar. They're already studying our language—we teach them ourselves!—and are learning to worship our gods. Those who resist, well . . ." As they passed by a line of crosses, Zoharites dying slowly as the crows fed, Gervasius grimaced and covered his nose with his kerchief. "Well, they learn their lessons, much to the chagrin of our nostrils."

Claudia looked at the crosses. Ten Zoharites hung there, all still alive, their skin flayed, their arms dislocated. She knew one of them. A baker she would buy fig cakes from before Restday. He met her gaze, eyes glassy, flies on his face. She thought of the stories, how Seneca Octavius had crucified Jerael, swinging the hammer himself.

Epher will not soon forget what we did to his family. Claudia sighed. This will not be easy.

"Enough of this," Claudia said. "We're weary from a long time at sea. Gervasius, return to your business." She turned toward Tirus. "Father, let us travel to the villa on the hill, the Selas' old home. We'll be staying there."

Yes. That seemed right. She could not bear to stay in her old house here in the city. Everything was too different. She needed to leave Gefen's walls. She could not breathe here. She needed to be in Epher's old countryside home, to still feel close to him.

Gervasius cleared his throat and wiped sweat off his forehead. "My lady Claudia, if I may be so bold . . . Perhaps it's best to stay here in the city, in your old home by the water. The villa on the hill lies outside the city walls, and there are brigands and rebels who wander that land. The Zoharites are rebelling, after all."

Claudia gave him a thin smile. "And let me guess. The villa is also where you've been staying."

The man's cheeks flushed crimson, prompting Tirus to laugh. The burly consul slapped the gangly Gervasius on the back.

"Witness my daughter's wit!" Tirus boomed. "It's greater than my own. She would make a good consul of Aelar someday. I will heed her wisdom. We head to the villa! If that is where Claudia wishes to stay, that is where we will reside. At least until this land is subjugated and a proper palace can be raised."

They exited the city through the Gate of Olives, the eastern gate of the city, and traveled along a dirt path up the piney hills. They took twenty guards with them, leaving Gervasius behind. Claudia refused a palanquin and instead chose a white mare from the city stables. The family lumer walked with the guards, while Tirus rode ahead, leading the way. Mother took her palanquin as always, fanning herself and complaining about the heat, the buzz of insects, and the sweat that dripped across the slaves who bore her.

As they rode, Claudia glanced behind her. Most of the fleet was now docking, and the legions were emerging from the vessels. The sunlight glinted on thousands of spears and helmets. She looked back east, staring across the hills, imagining Beth Eloh in the distance. She had been to that city several times. It was built like a fortress, massive, surrounded by parapets and towers. If the stories were to be believed, Epher had managed to butcher or cast out the legionaries from within—a stunning victory for him. Now he holed up in his desert city.

No doubt, he knows we're coming, Claudia thought. You cannot hide forever, Epher. You cannot or they will kill you. You must kneel before me.

The villa rose before her—Ein Sela, the ancestral home of the Sela family. It was a small villa by Aelarian standards, certainly smaller than the Valerius family villa outside the city of Aelar. But it was comfortable compared to the crowded city streets and the brick home by the water, the house where Claudia had been raised. Cypress and pomegranate trees rose above a garden, and lantana flowers bloomed in the windowsills. Claudia remembered many evenings spent here, dining with the Sela family, sneaking secret glances at Epher. None had known about their love, and those evenings had been hours of agonizing anticipation, building up and up, tingling her, until at night—with everyone else asleep—they would come to these hills, lie beneath the trees, and surrender to their passion.

Claudia wished she could go back to those days. To be just a girl in love again, not the daughter of a consul, not an Aelarian here to crush a rebellion, but just a girl—her, him, these hills, their love.

But those days were over. Claudia tightened her lips. There was no use pining like a lovesick child. She was not here to love Epher. She was here to break him.

They were only minutes away from the villa when the shouts rose, and Claudia's heart burst into a gallop.

"For Zohar!" rose the cries. "Blessed be King Epher!"

They emerged from behind the trees—a band of ragged Zoharites, bearded, gaunt. Their arrows flew.

Claudia's mare whinnied and reared. An arrow slammed into its flank, missing Claudia's thigh by a mere digitus. The animal fell, and Claudia spilled off its back, banging her hip against the ground.

Screams rolled across the hill. More arrows flew. Across the imperial convoy, the legionaries were tossing spears at the enemy, and the Zoharites kept advancing, and Tirus grabbed a gladius and raised the sword.

Claudia's heart galloped. Cold sweat drenched her. Her limbs trembled. She swallowed the fear, drew the dagger she kept at her hip, and crouched by her horse. The animal still lived, kicking miserably, the arrow embedded in its side.

The battle raged around her. The Zoharites bore curved, ugly blades, rusted and chipped. The legionaries fought back with their broad gladius swords. Blades clanged. Tirus wore only a toga, but he fought among his men, swinging his sword at a cadaverous Zoharite.

The damn fools are half-starved, Claudia thought.

The Zoharites wore no armor, only rags, their ribs showing. She doubted they had eaten much since their land had fallen six months ago. Their hunger had led to madness; their eyes shone, feverish. One man's blade slashed through a legionary's throat, and blood showered. Two Zoharites fell to the spears of the Empire, but another rebel swung a sling, and a stone slammed into a legionary. The soldier fell, and Zoharites descended upon him, slamming down blades and stones.

Claudia struggled for air, and she couldn't stop shaking. Would she die here on the coast where she had spent most of her life?

"Eagle scum." A Zoharite advanced toward her, blade raised, grin mad. "I'm going to slice you open."

The man ran toward her, sword swinging.

Claudia stared for an instant, waiting for her father, for the legionaries, even for her lumer to save her. But no aid came; the others were fighting their own melees.

Claudia did the only thing she could think of doing. She grabbed a granite stone, and she tossed it.

She was not particularly strong, and she had never trained in war, but her aim was solid enough. The stone slammed into the Zoharite's face, crushing his nose, and blood spurted. He did not fall. Still he ran toward her, and still his sword swung. Claudia leaped aside, and the blade missed her, slamming instead into her horse. The animal screamed and kicked.

Before the man could tug his blade free, Claudia thrust her dagger. The blade scraped across the man's forearm, digging down to the bone. He screamed. His blood spurted onto Claudia's stola. She stared in horror as he raised his blade again. He took a step toward her . . . and a kicking hoof found him.

The Zoharite fell, his leg shattered. He dropped his sword and screamed.

Claudia stared down at him.

He's just a boy, she realized. He couldn't have been older than sixteen or seventeen. Just a foolish, hungry boy who thought himself brave for fighting instead of kneeling.

She knelt above him.

"What's your name?" she whispered as the battle still raged around them.

He grimaced, his leg broken, his arm cut open, his nose crushed. He choked on blood. "Please," he whispered. "Please, I . . . I'm Ben'el."

Claudia sighed and stroked his hair. "You're sweet, Ben'el. Truly you are, and truly I'm sorry."

Gently, she slid her dagger into his neck. He gave a last spurt, then fell still.

The battle died down around them. Tirus slew the last Zoharite with a swing of his gladius. The corpses lay across the hillsides, most of them Zoharites, a few Aelarians. Claudia panted and walked through the killing field, nausea rising inside her. She had never seen battle up close. She had never taken a life until now. As she passed by a disemboweled man, his entrails slung across the path, slick and pink, she couldn't help it. She fell to her knees, and she vomited for the first time since she'd been a child.

"Claudia . . ." Her father stood above her, voice gentle. "Claudia, close your eyes. Close your eyes and walk with me."

Kneeling, she wiped her mouth and swallowed the taste of vomit. Her eyes narrowed. There was something wrong with her father's voice. Something too soft. Something she had never heard there before.

Frowning, she rose to her feet.

"Claudia—" Tirus tried again, reaching toward her. She shook off his hand and walked through the battlefield.

There it lay on the ground. A gilded, jeweled palanquin. And there she lay—Claudia's mother, her neck slit open like a second mouth, her eyes glassy and staring. Flies were already bustling across the corpse.

Claudia stared, silent, her knees trembling.

"Pity," Claudia finally whispered. "I did think the eastern air would have been good for her."

Then her tears flowed, and she turned away, and she wept against her father's chest as he stroked her hair with his thick, clumsy fingers.

That night, Claudia lay in Epher's old bedchamber in the villa. She lay on his bed—the bed he had sneaked her into several times in the dark, taking her silently as his family slept across the hall. Lying here, curled up, tears in her eyes, Claudia could hear them from the dining room. Her father was pounding the tabletop, vowing vengeance, demanding to slay every last Zoharite in this land, to bring him King Epher's head. His soldiers all cried out agreements, each vowing to slay a thousand of the desert rats.

But as Claudia lay here in the shadows, she did not crave death, did not crave killing. She could see it over and over—Ben'el's young face, his pleading eyes, and how she had felt nothing—no guilt, no pain—as she had slid the dagger into his neck. And she knew his face would never leave her. And she knew that for the rest of her days, she would be Claudia Valerius, the woman who had taken a boy's life. A girl without a mother.

She grabbed one of Epher's pillows and clung to it. It still smelled of him. By the gods, even after all this time, the pillow smelled like his body. She closed her eyes, and she missed him, and she loved him, and she knew that someday soon she would have to kill him too.

SENECA

The savanna queen smashed off the leg of a chair, raised the pointed shard of wood, and bared her teeth.

"Reach to draw your sword," Imani said, "and this stick goes into your throat."

Seneca sighed. Every time he tried to approach Imani in her chamber, she was like this. Snarling. Threatening to kill him. Once, only last week, she had tossed a floor tile—she had ripped it free herself—and slashed his cheek.

"Sooner or later, Imani, you'll realize that I don't visit you here to kill you," he said. "Just to talk."

"I don't want to hear your words." Imani glared at him. "You're an Aelarian. You're my enemy."

He shrugged and looked around him. "Am I? Then perhaps I should toss you into a dank prison cell, not the finest room in the city of Tereen."

Yes, he had given her this chamber of opulence, hoping to soften her resistance. They stood in the old bedchamber of the late Lord Fabricus, the sniveling toad Seneca had delighted in slaying. This palace on the coast of Nur was his now, and all that was in it: the wealth of coins and jewels and artwork, the slaves and soldiers, and this disgraced queen.

The tall, arched windows afforded a view of this southern province. The Majina River flowed between rushes and trees, thick with oared galleys, reed boats, and sailing ships. Temples and homes and granaries rose along its banks. This river would lead him farther south—south to the legendary city of Shenutep, heart of the savanna, this land of ivory, diamonds, gold . . . and enough soldiers to conquer an empire.

All of Nur is mine now, Seneca thought. Uncle Cicero is dead, slain by this queen who snarls before me. Fabricus lies rotting, dead by my own sword. Now the wealth and might of this land are mine, and soon . . . soon Aelar will be mine too. Soon Porcia will join the dead.

Queen Imani growled, the pointed stick steady in her hand.

"Lead me out of this palace," she said. "Give me a ship. Let me sail south, back to Shenutep. Do this and I will spare your life."

Seneca watched her, arms hanging at his sides, making no move to retreat nor draw a weapon. Imani wore a kalasiri of white muslin, and golden serpents encircled her arms. She had been stripped of her crown, yet Seneca was struck by her grace, her nobility. She was older than him, probably closer to thirty than to his own twenty years, but still in the prime of her beauty. Seneca marveled at the smoothness of her dark brown skin, the lushness of her mane of black curls, and mostly the fire in her eyes. This one was a warrior, noble, brave. A fitting queen to fight at his side. A fitting wife.

"And what awaits you in Shenutep?" Seneca said. "To rule as what—Porcia's puppet? To be first among slaves? To govern a dying province, a land for Porcia to rape and plunder and crush? Yes, you slew Cicero, but there are a thousand Ciceros in Aelar, all lined up to replace him. All of Nur is embroiled in rebellion. Aelarians fight Nurians, and this is a war you cannot win." He shook his head. "There's nothing for you down in Shenutep. Perhaps it was once the capital of a free, proud kingdom. Today it's rotting, the largest hog in a slaughterhouse."

Imani hissed and took a step closer, her makeshift weapon pointed at his neck. "Yes, I killed Cicero. I can kill you too, boy."

Skewered Cicero with an elephant's tusk, Seneca thought. By Dia's marble tits.

He raised an eyebrow. "And I suppose that after killing me, you'll swim to Aelar, kill fifteen thousand soldiers of the Magisterian Guard, and finally slay Empress Porcia . . . using a chair's leg?" Seneca allowed himself a small smile. "If you want to win this war, Imani, it won't be done with pointed sticks. You'll need ships—Aelarian ships. You'll need soldiers—Aelarian soldiers. You'll need the might of the imperial armada and legions. All these I can give you."

Her eyes narrowed. "You wish your sister dead?"

"I wish her very much alive," said Seneca. "Death is too kind for one such as Porcia. No, Imani, I won't kill her for many years. I'll keep Porcia alive. To see me become emperor. To see temples and statues rising in my name, while her legacy is defaced. I will fight her, and I will defeat her. There are fifty Aelarian ships stationed here in Nur. There are two legions across this land—one here at the port, one in Shenutep—ten thousand men in all."

Hesitation filled Imani's eyes. Her resolve was slipping. She tightened her grip on her stick and raised her chin. "So leave. Take those legions and leave! Sail back across the Encircled Sea to Aelar, and face your sister there, and leave us."

Seneca sighed. "If only I could, dearest Imani. Yes, I command fifty ships and ten thousand men. My sister commands twenty times more. Hundreds of ships, hundreds of thousands of legionaries—all serve her. I can defeat her, Queen Imani, but not alone." He took a step closer to her, so close her stick nearly grazed his throat. "Together. Nur has ships of its own. Nur has warriors—the rebels who have been fighting the legions. We must cease fighting each other. Let us fight together, you and I—against Porcia."

Slowly, Imani lowered her stick. Her chest rose and fell, and fear and fury still filled her eyes. "Why should I help you?"

Seneca approached an ornate table by the window, its legs carved as giraffes. He lifted a silver jug inlaid with amethysts and poured wine into two cups. He offered one to Imani. When she didn't react, he placed it back on the table and drank from his.

"Because I have much to give you," Seneca said. The wine was rich and warm, sweeter than northern wines. "When I'm emperor, I won't be a tyrant like my family. That's not me, Imani. I don't desire to grind the province under my heel. Help me win the throne of Aelar, and you'll return to your own throne. You'll serve the Empire, yes. I'll appoint a new governor to oversee the province of Nur. But I promise you, Imani, I will appoint a governor who's fair and tolerant, not a brute like my uncle Cicero. Yes, I confess it—Cicero was not the most delicate flower in the vase. I won't interfere with how you rule Nur. You'll still pay Aelar its taxes, yes, but I'll reduce them, and I'll withdraw an entire legion from this land. I'll once more let Nur worship its old gods. You will no longer bow before the statues of Aelar's pantheon." He licked the wine from his teeth. "You'll have more freedom than you've known in years, Imani. But that will never happen while Porcia rules the Empire. Help me dethrone her. As my fellow warrior. As my wife."

She spat—right on the mosaic floor, hitting a poor gazelle formed of shimmering tiles. "Find yourself an Aelarian princess to wed, one with ivory skin and cascading locks and sapphire eyes, pampered and powdered. I am a warrior and queen of the savanna. I need no husband."

"Oh, but you do." He placed down his mug of wine. Before Imani could react, he grabbed her wrist. She tugged back but he refused to release her. "You need me, Imani Koteeka, Queen of Nur. And I need you. Our people—rebels and legionaries alike—would not follow some alliance of convenience. They will follow a husband and wife." A smile stretched across his lips. "Imagine it! An emperor of Aelar, noble and fair, a true hero for the people to worship. And a queen of darkness, beautiful and brave. Two great rulers, bound by love, fighting a usurper and tyrant." Seneca sighed theatrically. "It's a tale for bards! A tale that will echo across the ages. Two young lovers fighting an empire."

Imani's rage finally seemed to leave her. She turned toward the window and gazed out at her kingdom. Ibises and cranes fluttered across the river, and lush farmlands sprawled beyond, leading to the desert. In the north, just visible from this angle, the sea glimmered. Both the military ships of Aelar and the merchant and fishing barges of Nur anchored in the cove. Obelisks and temples soared from the city, and statues rose, just as tall, depicting men and women with the heads of beasts. A statue of Marcus Octavius still rose here, installed by Cicero; Seneca would have the face scraped off and replaced with his own countenance before this war was over.

The wind ruffled Imani's hair. She spoke softly. "They tell tales of you in the south. The Little Monster, they call you. Seneca the Sadist. They say that you bathe in the blood of your enemies, that you wear a necklace of skulls, that you lie with goats."

Seneca smiled thinly. "I bathe in regular water, I assure you. I wear only this golden chain around my neck. Skulls would get quite heavy, and as you can see, I'm not a particularly large man. As for goats . . . while I admit I do enjoy their meat in a rich stew, I prefer the company of women for my bed. Tales are like that. Meant to inspire dread or scorn . . . or to inspire the hearts of nations. As our story will."

As he spoke those words, Seneca thought back to the tales in Porcia's journal. Tales of her depravity, of orgies in Aelar and in military camps across the Empire. Those tales had been true, written in Porcia's handwriting. He shuddered to think what sins Porcia was committing, what filth she was staining his empire with.

And he thought of his own sins. He thought of shooting the stray dog on the hill. He thought of swinging the hammer, of nailing Jerael into the cross. He thought of fucking Ofeer—his own sister!—in Jerael's bed as the man died outside the window. He thought of all those he had killed in Gefen, of the thousands of dead, their blood still on his hands. He thought of Fabricus, dead and burned, more blood to stain Seneca's soul.

He finally released Imani's wrist, and he knelt before her. He bowed his head.

"My queen, I'm not a perfect man." His voice was soft, tight with pain. "I killed people. People who did not deserve to die. I drank, and I whored, and I fought in wars of conquest." He looked up into her eyes, still kneeling before her. "I'm not a good man, Imani. I'm not a noble hero. But I promise you: I am better than my sister. I am better than Cicero. And together, we will make this empire a better place."

She looked down at him, and she sighed. "Stand up, Seneca." Her voice was soft. When he rose, she continued speaking. "I'll marry you, and we'll sell the people our puppet show, our lovers' tale. We'll fight Empress Porcia together—Aelarians and Nurians." She caressed his cheek, her fingers long and slender. "But know this, sweet prince. If you betray me, if you do not keep your word . . . you will see my fury, and then you will envy your uncle."

That day, across the land of Nur, rebels and legionaries laid down their weapons. That day, across port, river, and savanna, peace reigned in the southern province of the Empire, in this ancient kingdom under Aelar's rule. That day no blood flowed, no men died on the cross, no fires burned. A day of quiet. A day of light.

They set sail that very day—Prince Seneca and Queen Imani. On the Aquila Aureum, the flagship of the Aelarian fleet, they traveled south along the Majina River, leaving the sea and port behind. The realm of Nur spread around them, a vast land, the largest province in the Empire, fifty times the size of Zohar.

For the first few days, they sailed through a corridor of verdant lands beyond which spread a desert. The river bustled with life. Cranes, ibises, and hippopotamuses lived here, and irrigation canals spread from the river, watering fields of barley, wheat, beans, and yam. Beyond them Seneca saw nothing but dunes and rocky mountains. As they kept sailing south, the land changed. The air dampened and thickened, and the desert gave way to sprawling grasslands. Baobab and acacia trees grew on yellow hills. Different wildlife roamed here. Bison and wildebeests swept across the land, and elephants roamed in herds. In the distance, Seneca often saw giraffes feeding from the tallest trees, and twice he saw a pride of lions drinking from the river. He had seen some of these creatures in the amphitheaters of Aelar before—starved, beaten, twisted into wild beasts that attacked prisoners.

These animals don't belong in the arena, Seneca realized. When I'm emperor, I'll return the lions of the Amphitheatrum to this land, and I'll outlaw ivory and animal pelts. I'll treat Nur as a precious jewel—to be savored, protected.

Standing on the ship's deck, he turned away from the landscape and looked at Imani.

She stood farther back, hands on the balustrade, gazing upon her land. Today she looked like a true queen. She wore a new kalasiri—a narrow dress of white muslin, the fabric embroidered with golden cranes. A tiara shone in her hair, and golden serpents encircled her arms. Twin daggers hung from her belt, the blades curved, the pommels shaped as falcons.

My betrothed, Seneca thought. Imani was beautiful—among the most beautiful women Seneca had ever seen. Yet as he looked at her, he thought back to Ofeer.

He remembered meeting the half-Zoharite back on the hills, remembered making love to her in the cave, taking her with him to Aelar. Being so happy just to be with her. To hold her. To protect her from the evil in the world. Ofeer had never been strong like Imani, never been a warrior. She had been fragile, naive, a delicate desert rose for him to protect.

You're the first woman I ever loved, Ofeer. He lowered his head, and his fists tightened. And you lied to me. When did you know the truth? That we share a father? That our love was sinful, incestuous, unclean?

He looked back at Imani. She didn't meet his gaze but kept staring at the landscape beyond the river.

Can I learn to love you too, Imani? And will you ever learn to love me back, or will I always be just a pawn for you, just an ally in your war?

He approached Imani, and he wanted to talk to her, to tell her everything. About how he had murdered Jerael. About Ofeer. About his father and sister and how they had tormented him, forced him to watch so much death in the arena. He wanted Imani to hold him in her arms, to kiss his forehead, to tell him it would all be all right. He wanted to lay his head against her breast, to close his eyes, to feel safe. Like with Taeer. But when he stood before her, Seneca could say none of those things, and he remembered how Taeer had scolded him, told him to be strong. To act like an emperor.

Emperors are never afraid, he thought. They always lead, not follow. They always protect, not seek protection.

Yet Seneca was scared. And he kept seeing the war in Zohar. And finally he looked away from Imani, worried that she would see the fear in him, that she would scorn him like Porcia scorned him, like Ofeer had scorned him at the end, like even Taeer scorned his weakness. He left her on the deck, and he spent the rest of the journey in his cabin belowdecks.

Finally they reached the city of Shenutep, the capital of Nur—the southernmost city in the Empire and among the largest. Here was a lush city, rustling with countless trees, blooming with flowers. Its obelisks, temples, and towers rose from the leafy canopy. Statues of sphinxes soared here, and dirt roads spread between narrow buildings that rose several stories tall, lined with arched windows. Towering above all were the fabled pyramids of Nur, the tallest structures in the world, dwarfing even the palaces of Aelar and the great Temple in Zohar. They were coated with polished limestone tiles and tipped with precious metal that shone when the sun hit them.

Around Shenutep spread the savanna and all its riches: the quarries and mines where iron, gemstones, precious metals, and fine marble were plundered from the earth. A center of ivory. A city of knowledge, of wisdom, of art.

And a city of blood.

The rebellion still stained the city. As the Aquila Aureum sailed upriver through Shenutep, Seneca saw the remains of violence. Corpses of rebels still hung on crosses and rotted in cages. Spikes rose on a temple's roof, piercing the severed heads of legionaries, crested helmets still attached. Upon a palace wall, painted with blood, appeared words in crude Aelarian: "Vultures go home." Vultures—the insult used across the realm for the eagles of Aelar.

True vultures fluttered here too. A group stood on the riverbank, feeding on a human corpse. Seneca couldn't tell if the dead was man or woman, Aelarian or Nurian. Two vultures were tugging a ribcage back and forth, fighting over the morsel. As Seneca watched the two birds, he imagined that they were a prince and princess of the wilderness, battling over the remains of an empire. Perhaps he and Porcia were no different. Perhaps all the rulers of these lands around the Encircled Sea were but vultures cawing and tugging at rotting carcasses.

He looked at Imani again, and he saw that tears streamed down her cheeks as she gazed at her city. He approached and stood beside her.

She didn't turn toward him, but for the first time since leaving the northern coast, she spoke to him.

"This city was once fair," Imani said. "Once we built great libraries, observatories, schools, and temples here. Once this was the greatest city in the world, centuries older than Aelar. Then the vultures came, and now those libraries are full of scrolls from a foreign land, and our schools teach the songs and stories of the north, and our temples worship gods of marble. Now the vultures feed upon our dead."

Seneca didn't know how to comfort her. What could he, a prince of Aelar, say to justify these ruins, the evil his people had brought here? Nor could he promise her the freedom she yearned for. If he were to be emperor, he would rule this province too, and she would serve him.

"We will be eagles again," was all he could say. "We will fly above this city, not feed from carrion in the dirt."

She didn't reply, still didn't look at him, and Seneca knew that more than anything, Imani desired freedom—true freedom from him and Porcia and all other Aelarians. She would marry him, yes, but she was reluctantly choosing one master over another.

"I promise you, Imani," he said. "I'll be good to you. A kind husband."

Finally she looked at him, and now rage filled her eyes, and her muscles tensed. Her lips pulled back from her teeth. "Never forget this, Seneca Octavius. You are to be my husband for the songs, the stories, the tales that inspire nations to rise up in war. Never in my bed. Never in my heart." She turned away and marched across the deck.

An amphitheater rose in Shenutep, the largest outside of Aelar, with seats for fifty thousand. Its name was Octavius Theater, for Marcus Octavius had ordered it built a decade ago. The ring of stone arches soared above a canopy of jackalberry trees. Within, tiers of stone seats surrounded a dirt arena. It was here, in view of myriads, that Seneca Octavius and Imani Koteeka wed.

The amphitheater seats were full. Many in the crowd were Aelarians—legionaries, their wives and children, nobles, merchants, and simple Aelarian citizens who had immigrated to the savanna province, seeking adventure in a new world. A couple hundred onlookers were Zoharites, refugees who had fled their nation's unending wars, only to find themselves embroiled in Nur's rebellion. But most in the crowd were Nurians. Seneca marveled at them, for they were a tall, noble people, their skin and eyes dark brown, their features strong and fair. The men wore simple skirts of white linen, leaving their chests bare, while the women wore kalasiris, formfitting and white. Many wore armlets and anklets shaped as serpents—tin and copper for the poor, gold and platinum for the wealthy.

Seneca stood in the arena, the crowd's eyes upon him. He wore his best armor, the iron shining with golden filigree shaped as eagles, though he wore no helmet and bore no shield. Several legionaries stood behind him, his honor guard, their armor burnished, their helmets crested—men of Legio VI Nuria, guardians of the south. A laurel rested in Seneca's hair, and he had shaved and splashed his cheeks with rose water. He had always tried to care for his appearance, yet he felt plain—even ugly—when he gazed at Imani.

The queen of Nur, scion to a long line of monarchs, wore a white kalasiri that hugged her form, hemmed with gold. A tiara shaped as a snake coiled around her mane of curls, staring with ruby eyes, and a garnet the size of a quail's egg shone on her throat. Her honor guard stood with her, ten Nurian soldiers, chests bare, shields and spears in hands, armored only with golden vambraces. Headdresses woven of white cloth and beads draped down to their shoulders.

With Imani also stood her handmaiden, a demure girl in a white dress, and her brother, Prince Adai. At first glance, Seneca had mistaken Adai for a common soldier. He was tall and powerful, armed with spear and sword, and his eyes were stern. Battle scars covered his chest and arms. He kept staring at Seneca. It was the same stare Jerael and Atalia had given him. A stare of pure loathing.

My brother-in-law won't love me much more than my older sister, Seneca reflected.

Two priests stepped forth. One was a priest of Aelar, clad in an embroidered toga, holding a scepter and scroll. The other was a priest of Nur, old and bent, wrapped in blue robes, holding a staff shaped like a serpent. Each recited the prayers of their gods, but Seneca didn't listen. He had never cared much for the gods. The gods were cruel beings, if they did exist. How could he worship deities that allowed such evil to befall the realms they guarded—allowed thousands to perish in war, allowed Porcia to reign, allowed Ofeer to deceive him and shatter his heart? How could gods exist in a world where men ran on stumps, where women burned alive, where boys swung hammers into the hands of lords?

When the priests finished chanting, Seneca placed a ring on Imani's finger, as was the custom of his people. It was a ring he had plundered in Zohar, taking it from the finger of a dead woman. He had wanted to give the jewel to Ofeer. Amber shone on it, trapping an insect. Perhaps an ironic ring, Seneca thought. It shone on Imani's finger, perhaps trapping her too.

"Blood flows from the heart to this finger," he said, "and back again. May my love, imbued in this ring, flow ever into your heart."

Old words. Foolish words. A show for the masses, that was all. She stared at the ring, silent, then took a goblet from her servant. She drank from the wine, then held the goblet to Seneca's lips. He hesitated for a moment, remembering how Valentina's lumer had once poisoned Marcus. But then he drank. If it was poison, so be it; he would die with Imani here, and let the Empire go to hell.

Yet the wine was sweet and good, and Imani spoke, reciting words in a leaden voice. "May our love grow as vineyards. May our love be sweet as wine. Under sun and stars, through life and death, we are joined."

She sounded as if she were speaking the names of her worst enemies. Seneca winced to see the hatred in her eyes.

In time, you'll stop hating me, he thought. You'll realize that I'm not like in the stories. That I'm not like I was. I'll prove this to you, Imani. That I can be more than the boy who conquered Gefen. That I can be better.

They sealed their marriage with a quick kiss, a mere peck of the lips. Her lips were full and soft and tasted of wine, and they twisted with the slightest hint of disgust when she pulled back from him.

The land of Nur celebrated the wedding that night. A great feast was held here in the amphitheater. Cooks stepped right out into the arena, roasting gazelles, pigs, and several entire bison on great skewers. Nurian musicians played drums and flutes, dancers donned clay masks and performed for the crowds, and the food was served to all, a free meal for thousands. Across the city streets, along the river, in the port—the nation of Nur celebrated the royal wedding with song, dance, wine, feasts.

And a promise, Seneca thought. A promise of war.

That evening, the newlyweds rode a chariot through Shenutep, and Seneca noticed that not everyone in the city cheered. Many stared from roofs and windows with wroth eyes, and one man spat toward the chariot.

"Vultures go home!" he cried.

"The rebellion still rises!" called another.

Legionaries stepped into the crowd, dispersing the dissenters, but their voices echoed in Seneca's head long after they rode by.

They headed toward the greatest of the pyramids. It shone in the night, limestone surface so polished it reflected the moon, its crest coated with platinum. Seneca and Imani climbed the stairs to the archway, surrounded by guards, and entered the royal hall of Nur.

Here was a palace of splendor, frescoes on the walls, columns capped with gold. Yet this ancient pyramid, three thousand years old, was morphing into a monument to Aelar. The original frescoes were gone, painted over with scenes of eagles. The statues of ancient Nurian kings and gods had been removed—Seneca had seen them displayed in Aelar—replaced with marble statues of the Aelarian gods. The guards here were legionaries, not Nurian warriors, and when Seneca passed by the throne, he saw that Aelarian letters had been engraved onto its dais: The Puppet Queen.

This is not how to govern an empire. Seneca tightened his jaw and dug his fingernails into his palm. This is why the people we govern rebel. Because we spit on them. We claim to bring them civilization, yet we efface whatever civilization they have built. We steal their treasure, only to fund the armies to crush their rebellions. He shook his head. This weakens Aelar. We should be a light unto the world, yet they see us as vultures.

He thought back to the day he had sailed into Zohar. He had come there as a conqueror, eager to vanquish his enemies, to prove his worth as a warrior. He had been a fool. He should have come bearing the gifts of Aelar—education, irrigation, sanitation, architecture, culture. Instead he had come with fire and steel. And now Zohar too rose in rebellion, and a ring of fire surrounded the sea.

The guards led them to a chamber high in the pyramid, and Seneca and Imani entered alone. It was the queen's bedchamber, his now too. Windows rose from floor to ceiling, revealing the dark city and the savanna beyond, a field of shadows beneath the stars. A giltwood bed stood here, legs carved into rearing horses. A marble statue of Uncle Cicero, life-sized, stood by the bed.

"He put it here," Imani said softly, staring at the statue. It was the first time she had spoken since the ceremony in the arena. "He told me he wanted to watch me as I slept, that he wanted his face to be the first thing I saw when I woke."

Seneca thought back to his childhood, how Uncle Cicero had once seen a cat in the city of Aelar, raised his bow and arrow, and shot the animal dead, then laughed as a girl wept over her slain pet.

Fucking bastard, Seneca thought, then winced to remember how he himself had shot a dog—an animal Maya Sela had tended to. And he realized that, despite his scorn for them, perhaps he wasn't any different from his family, a vulture son of vultures.

"As it turned out, your face was the last thing he saw," Seneca said. "Before you gored him with an elephant's tusk." He looked at her. "Is that story true?"

She nodded. "Don't look so worried. I'm all out of tusks."

Seneca stepped toward the marble statue. He grabbed it, straining, unable to lift it. Slowly, inch by inch, he managed to wobble the statue toward the window.

"I think you're supposed to make love to me tonight," Imani said, "not hump your marble uncle."

Seneca groaned, sweating. "Hump my uncle? I'd sooner hump a leprous warthog with the shits." He finally managed to shove the marble statue so that it dangled over the window's ledge. He gazed below to see the pyramid sloping down toward a courtyard. "Would you care to do the honors, my wife?"

She stepped forward, hesitated, then placed her hand on the statue. "Together."

They shoved the statue. It tilted over, slammed against the pyramid's slope, and chipped a limestone tile. Seneca winced, for an instant sure the statue would punch a hole through the pyramid and enter its shadowy bowels. But the statue slid down the slope, chipping more stones, and finally crashed onto the courtyard where it shattered.

"Fuck that son of a whore." Seneca spat.

Imani nodded. "Fuck that son of a whore."

He turned back toward her and raised an eyebrow. "Such language for a queen."

"Said the so-called emperor." Finally some of the hatred left her eyes. He saw the flicker of amusement there.

"Imani, I'm sorry. Truly." Seneca lowered his head. "I'm sorry for what my uncle did here. To you. To your family. To your kingdom. I'm not him, Imani. I know you don't believe that right now. I just ask that you give me time to show you."

She stared out into the night. "You say your sister is like your uncle."

"Porcia makes Uncle Cicero look tame as a kitten purring over milk."

"Then show me only one thing." Imani turned back toward him, and fire burned in her eyes. "Show me Porcia's corpse, smashed like the statue."

If only Porcia were a statue I could shove out the window, he thought. The new empress lay beyond the Encircled Sea, behind thick walls and thousands of troops. Seneca didn't know if he was strong enough, even with Imani at his side. This would be a war far greater than the one in Zohar, perhaps greater than any Aelar had ever fought.

But he said, "I promise." And it was a promise he would keep or die trying.

Once I wanted the Empire for my own vainglory. I wanted to sit on a throne, to be as a god. To have every woman in the realm worship at my feet. He stared out at the shadowy city. But an emperor is more than a god. An emperor is more than an idol to worship. I must claim the Empire so that no more nations will be crushed and rebel. So that no more blood and death will fill the streets. So that no more boys will swing hammers and nail men into crosses. So that I will no longer be the person that I was.

Imani sat on the bed. She stared up at him. "And I suppose that you, hot-blooded young soldier that you are, wish to consummate your marriage now."

He looked at her, and by the gods, his blood did heat up. His eyes strayed to her full lips, the curve of her hips, her slender fingers on her thigh. At once he hardened under his armor.

She'll let me do it, Seneca realized. She'll let me sleep with her, here in her bed. A moment ago, she detested me, and now she would make love to me.

He wanted it. He wanted to grab her, to rip off her dress, to turn her over, to fuck her right here, to conquer her—as he had done to Ofeer, to his whores in Aelar. To show her his strength, his dominion over her.

But no. That was the old him. The one who had invaded Zohar. He forced himself to look away. He had chosen Imani not for her beauty, great as it might be. Not for her sex. He had chosen her to heal this land. To heal all the Empire.

"I will not force myself upon you." He hesitated for a moment, then dared to stroke her hair. She stared up from the bed, eyes deep pools. He had never seen eyes so large, so wise. "Sleep, Imani, Queen of Nur. Sleep and rest well. I'll be here at your side—not watching you like my uncle but guarding you. I'll keep you safe."

"My blades will keep me safe." She still wore her twin daggers on her belt.

He rested his hand on his sword's pommel. "Then our blades will always flash together."

Her face split into a grin. "Is this another wedding vow? I think you actually meant this one."

She slept then, lying in her bed. Seneca removed his armor and lay on the floor. He had been to war in Zohar. He had fled Aelar as a refugee. He would survive a night on cold stone. Yet sleep eluded him. He kept thinking of those vultures fighting over the ribcage, and when he finally slept, he dreamed of them. But in his dreams, the vultures had his and Porcia's faces, and it was Imani's corpse they fought over, and Seneca could taste her blood, hot and metallic and sweet like southern wine.

EPHER

He sat on his throne, a king of a torn land, a king of ruin. King Epheriah Sela-Elior, descended of Elshalom, his ancient land burning.

"My king, we cannot continue to feed them." Ramael stared at him, eyes hard. "This is a city at siege. Every drop of water, every morsel of food—it can mean the difference between life and death to our people. And we are feeding our stores to a thousand legionary prisoners in our dungeons. It must end, my king."

Across the hall, voices rose in agreement. Scores of men and women stood here, the throne room of Zohar's ancient palace. They wore chain mail, and curved blades hung from their hips. A few had modified Aelarian weapons taken from dead legionaries, stripping the crests off the helmets, and wielding steel gladius swords instead of Zohar's iron sickle blades. There were men here from Zohar's Blade, warriors from Shefael's old forces, and simple city folk—bakers, smiths, masons, cobblers—who had taken up arms. Hundreds of other Zoharite warriors patrolled the city streets and manned its walls and towers. This was not an organized military. They had no standard armor or weapons, only a loose command structure, and many had received only rudimentary training. And yet they all fought for their homeland, for their freedom, all willing to die for Zohar.

And I must keep them alive, Epher thought, gazing at them. Twenty-five thousand Zoharites had fallen during Aelar's invasion—a devastating loss for such a small kingdom. He could not allow more to perish.

"We will not slaughter our prisoners in cold blood," Epher said, staring at Ramael. "We are not Aelarians. Our righteousness sets us apart from them."

Ramael's lips twitched. "Then our righteousness will have us starve!"

Epher gazed at the man. Ramael was tall, handsome despite a broken nose, his beard closely cropped. Epher knew him from Gefen—the grandson of Master Malaci, captured in the war and forced to bear a cross, only for his grandfather to sacrifice his own life to save him. Yes, Ramael knew something of being a prisoner condemned to death.

"There are a hundred thousand people in this city," Epher said softly. "And more flowing in from the countryside every day, fleeing those legionaries who still crawl across our land. We can afford to feed a thousand more mouths. We can afford to show the Empire that we, in Zohar, value life."

"Even while we in Zohar die," Ramael muttered, spat onto the floor, and marched off.

A few guards grabbed him, bending his arms behind his back. "Do not disrespect your king!" one guard said, a hulking man with a thick beard.

Epher rose from this throne. "It's all right! Ramael is a proud son of Zohar, and he may speak his mind here." As Ramael stormed out of the hall, Epher looked at the soldiers who remained. "Never hesitate to sound your counsel in this hall. We all have families to defend. We're all scared. We all have a voice."

Yet those words stung him.

We all have families.

Iciness washed Epher's belly. His parents were among the thousands slain. Koren and Atalia had been shipped off in chains; he did not know their fate. Ofeer had betrayed him, and Maya had fled into the east. Epher's extended family—Shefael, Yohanan, Kahan, Uncle Benshalom—all lay dead, slain in the war. What family did he have left? Who did he fight for?

A soft hand touched his shoulder, and he turned to see her there, and warmth melted the ice in his heart. Olive stood as ever by his side. She wore a white dress that revealed her skinned knees, and she wore no jewels or cosmetics, even here in the hall of a king. Her red hair stuck out in all directions, a wild flame. And yet she was beautiful to him, the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, and her smile gave him hope.

She is who I fight for, he thought. For Olive. He looked at the soldiers in his hall. And for them, for my brothers in arms.

He walked across the hall, and his people stepped back, forming a path. His chain mail chinking, he walked between the columns, over the ancient mosaic, and out the doors of the palace. A courtyard spread here across the mountain plateau, leading to a marble balustrade. He walked toward the railing, placed his hands on the stone, and gazed upon his city.

Beth Eloh spread before him, a tapestry of domes, towers, tombs, and countless homes, all jumbled together, barely leaving room for alleyways and a few scattered palm trees. Beyond the eastern walls, the rocky mountainside spread toward the desert. The dunes rolled into the horizon. The sun was low in the sky, painting the western facades of buildings sienna and gold. Every structure here, from home to silo to mere well, was built from the same craggy limestone bricks, a color Epher had never been able to determine. Sometimes he thought the stones white, sometimes eggshell, other times—like now in the sunset—a burnished gold. All of Beth Eloh was built of the same stone, and perhaps all Zoharites were built of the same stock too, as hard and unyielding and ancient as these bricks.

"There are no more legionaries in the city, aside from the thousand chained underground," Epher said. "And yet how long can we hold these walls? How long before the wrath of Aelar descends upon us?"

Olive leaned against him. "We fight them together. King Shefael stood in city three years. Walls thick. Our soldiers brave." She smiled. "And this time, I fight too."

Epher wished he could share her optimism. True, Shefael had withstood a siege in this city for three years, but he had faced the forces of Yohanan Elior. To face the legions in war was a different story. And Epher knew that sooner or later, those legions would arrive at the city gates. Already Aelarian soldiers—the remains of Seneca and Porcia's invasions—swarmed across the countryside, burning, destroying. Already myriads of Zoharite farmers had fled into the walls of Beth Eloh, fleeing the destruction. And Epher knew: It was only a matter of time before fresh legions arrived from across the sea, before the armies marched upon the walls of Beth Eloh.

He walked across the courtyard toward the western view. The city walls rose there in the distance, and beyond them spread the western half of the mountain, green with olive, pine, and cypress trees, flowing down toward arable lands and—too far to see from here—the Encircled Sea. Ever had Beth Eloh been the border between life and death, between growing things and rolling dunes, between a sea of water and a sea of sand. A path coiled up the western mountainside, leading toward the Gate of Lions. Thousands of people clogged the road, traveling toward the city, leading their animals.

"More refugees," Olive said.

Epher nodded. "We'll go greet them."

More mouths to feed, he thought, heart sinking. More lives seeking shelter within these crowded walls. More signs of the doom to come.

They rode out from the palace. Epheriah Sela, King of Zohar, rode on a brown gelding, and Olive rode at his side on a white mare. His bodyguards rode with them, armored for war. Horses were rare and costly in Zohar, only a handful in the entire kingdom, and only the wealthiest and mightiest lords owned them. Here was a display of Zohar's strength, meant to soothe the refugees, to tell them: Zohar is still strong.

They rode past the Temple, the largest structure in Zohar. Its towers soared, capped with gold, the statue of Porcia finally gone from its courtyard. They rode through a gate in the walls that encircled the inner city, enclosing the Temple and palace. Soon they were riding down the narrow, cobbled roads of the city's crowded neighborhoods. The people bowed as Epher rode by, blessing his name. There was fear in their eyes, but he gave them hope.

Is it only a fool's hope? Epher thought as he rode.

He had to believe they had a chance, that they could withstand the coming storm. Nur was successfully rebelling, the stories said. But Nur fought alongside Seneca, an Aelarian noble who commanded legions. Gael still withstood the Empire, but Gael was a massive land, many times the size of Zohar.

Could we—this small kingdom, a stretch of coast between desert and sea—truly survive? Can I save these people who gaze upon me with admiration and hope?

Zohar was the oldest kingdom in the world, thousands of years older than Aelar—yet that ice kept filling Epher, the fear that he would be the last king, the final note in an ancient song.

The Gate of Lions rose ahead, the largest gate among the city's seven, over a thousand years old. Its archway soared, and weeds grew between its stones. Two towers surrounded it, and battlements rose atop its gatehouse. It was through this gate that Porcia Octavius had entered the city, plunging Beth Eloh into chaos and rebellion. Stray cats and a few beggars fled from the king's advance. Two camels lazily rose, chewed their cud, and ambled aside with annoyed grunts.

"Open the doors!" Epher said to the guards. He dismounted. "Let them in!"

The thick city doors creaked open, revealing the mountainside where once Epher had fought the legions, the only survivor of the butchery. Today thousands crowded the road, hurrying toward the city, tears in their eyes, prayers on their lips. They led their livestock, mothers carried babes in slings, and elders leaned on staffs or rode in carts. Many brought supplies with them—mostly grain, wine, and olive oil, the three staples of Zoharite diet. Others had nothing, would be more mouths to feed.

The first travelers entered the gates. An old man led them, his beard long and white, his shoulders squared and his back straight despite his age. Epher recognized him—Amos, a man of Gefen, a mason.

Epher approached the graybeard. As the people streamed into the city, bringing their animals, their children, their ill and frail, Amos and Epher stepped onto the roadside. The mason stared at Epher with dark eyes.

"My king," he said. "The ships of the enemy have docked in the harbor of Gefen. Five new legions have landed on our shores, joining the Aelarians already in our land."

Five legions . . . By God.

Epher's heart sank, and he sucked in air between his teeth. "Do they march here yet?"

Amos shook his head, but his eyes remained dark. "Not yet, my king, but I do not doubt their intention. Five legions, all armed for war. They can only have one purpose: to assault the walls of Beth Eloh."

Epher looked at the people streaming into the city. He recognized many faces. Here were people from Gefen, his hometown on the beach. "Give me news of Gefen."

The old mason stared steadily into his eyes. His voice shook, whether from grief or rage Epher could not tell. "Tirus Valerius himself landed in the city. He is no longer a mere ambassador. Porcia has named him a consul of Aelar, and he now ranks as high as any in the Empire. There was an attack on his family. A band of rebels, loosely aligned with Zohar's Blade. Just a group of hungry youths, barely armed, but desperate and wild enough to have slain Tirus's wife outside the walls of Gefen."

"God's balls!" Epher cursed, unable to stop the words, decidedly unkingly, from fleeing his mouth. "If there was any chance of suing for peace, that chance might now be gone."

He remembered Tirus Valerius and his family well. Many nights, Epher had visited the man's house in Gefen, back when he had been Aelar's ambassador to Zohar. He had suffered many meals with the bald, beefy brute and his wife—a nervous woman named Adriana who spent her life coughing and complaining to her husband. Of course, Epher had been more than willing to suffer the two for a chance to spend time with their daughter.

"Is . . ." Epher hesitated, then plowed on. "Is Tirus's daughter here too? Claudia Valerius?"

Amos nodded. "Yes, my king. She and Tirus have taken up residence in your family's old villa. They are mad with grief." The old man clenched his fists. "They began to butcher the people of Gefen for sport, seeking vengeance for the death of Adriana. Many Zoharites stayed in the city, seeking to appease them, but many came here, seeking shelter in Beth Eloh from the madness of the Empire. The legions did not follow. But they will. It will not be long before the eagles leave the coast and descend upon us here."

And Claudia will be among them, Epher thought. All those memories flooded him. Long walks with Claudia on the beach at night, just a boy and a girl, all the wars and tears of nations forgotten. Lying with her in the garden, telling jokes, seeing her smile. Making love to her in secret, nights of passion, hidden in moonlit gardens or among ancient ruins along the beach. And the last time they had met—in her parents' garden. Kissing her under the boughs of trees, then learning that she had known for weeks—known of the Aelarian invasion, known that she would return to Aelar, likely leaving him to die, that she had kept it a secret from him. Their last argument, her cold eyes, her tight lips.

More than anything else, he remembered those cold eyes, how he had told her that he loved her, how she had merely stared at him with such an icy, pitiless gaze, as if she had forgotten all their time together, as if it had all been an act. At that moment, in the darkness of the garden, Epher had realized that she had never forgotten—not during their walks along the beach, not while making love, not while laughing together—that she was Aelarian and he a Zoharite, that she was the daughter of a great civilization and he was merely a desert barbarian. He had felt then that Claudia had merely used him—a bit of entertainment during her father's duty in a province she spat on. Epher did not think his heart would ever heal. She had shattered it like her armies had shattered the walls of Gefen.

Olive dismounted her horse and walked toward him. As Epher looked at her, as she held his hand, some of his anxiety faded, and a part of his heart mended. He loved Olive with a flame that could always melt the ice inside him. So long as he had Olive, this new love in his life, there was hope in the world. He held her hand as they watched the people enter the city.

"You will find safety here in Beth Eloh," Epher said to Amos. "We will give the people shelter, food, water. A storm rises. We will weather it behind these walls."

Amos nodded and returned to his people, leading them through the city. He had given the man hope, but perhaps less hope filled Epher. Gefen too had thick walls; those walls had fallen to the legions. Thousands of Aelarian soldiers already roamed the countryside, burning, looting, striking terror across Zohar. Now thousands more joined them. How long could one city, even a mighty city like Beth Eloh, stand before them?

Five whole new legions . . .

Memories of the war returned to him. Thousands lying dead outside the city walls. Thousands more dying on the Mount of Cedars. Epher sucked in air.

No, he thought. No, I will not let this city fall. I will not be the king who sees Zohar, a nation three thousand years old, crumble into sand.

He turned toward one of his guards—Hanan Ben Elem, once a bodyguard to the Sela family in their villa on Pine Hill, now a guard to a king. He was a tall man, lanky but strong, the first streaks of gray in his brown beard. The man who had first told Epher of his father's death on that spring day outside Beth Eloh, the day Epher had woken wounded, still alive, in Olive's care.

"Hanan," he said, "I want you to travel back to Gefen. Go there as my messenger. I will hand you a scroll with my royal seal. We need to talk to Tirus. To negotiate. To sue for peace."

Whatever Hanan thought of this proposition he kept to himself, eyes betraying nothing. "Yes, my king."

"Go prepare for your journey. Come to my chamber tonight at sundown, and I'll hand you a scroll—my terms for Tirus Valerius. You'll ride out tonight. Maybe we can still resolve this without more bloodshed."

That afternoon, Epher sat in his chamber, staring at the empty scroll, then pacing, thinking, debating with himself. For those hours, Olive sat in the chamber, watching him, a soothing presence, speaking to him softly, offering advice, leaving the final decisions to him. Finally Epher wrote, struggling to keep his hand steady.

To Tirus Valerius, consul of Aelar,

March against us, and your legions will perish. We will slaughter them as we slaughtered the legions who dared enter the walls of Beth Eloh. The armies of Zohar are strong, and the light of Eloh shines on us. If you choose war, our wrath will descend upon you. As the wrath of Gael smote three legions, we will smite five, and we will smite any others that land on our beaches.

While Zohar excels at war, she loves peace. Zohar recognizes the nobility of Aelar and her dominion over the Encircled Sea. We will pay tribute to Aelar—as nations around the sea pay tribute. We will send gold and grain, and we will allow Aelar free access to our port.

Epher paused, grimacing. The next words pained him—pained him more than anything he had ever written. And yet he wrote them.

We will accept a governor from Aelar, and we will become a province of the Aelarian civilization, joining the family of nations around the Encircled Sea. Yet the Temple will remain dedicated to Eloh, and no Aelarian shall set foot upon that hallowed ground, and new priests will rise among us to command our daily affairs. We will continue to speak our language, sing our songs, tell our tales. If we keep our way of life, our religion, our courts, and our culture—we will accept your rule. We will become a province, and we will have peace.

Hand me your guarantee that it shall be so, and I will open the gates of Beth Eloh, and I will welcome you into my hall. Refuse me and this land will become a burial ground for the sons of Aelar.

Epheriah Sela Ben Jerael, of the line of Elior, King of Zohar

He placed down his quill, feeling drained, haggard, aged by a decade.

"And so there it is," Epher said, hands on the tabletop. "I sacrifice our freedom for a hope to live. I surrender."

Olive stepped closer to him, sat on his lap, and slung her arms around him. She kissed his forehead. "Sometimes surrender is wisest choice. You choose life. Aelar is death, destruction. We Zoharites. We always choose life."

Epher marveled at how, within only half a year, she had learned to speak nearly perfect Zoharite. When he had first found her in the wilderness, she hadn't spoken any language. He held her and kissed her—desperately, deeply. She slung her arms around him, kissing him back, and he tasted her tears on his lips. He lifted her tunic and slipped it over her head, exposing her body, pale, strewn with freckles like stars. She tugged at his tunic, pulling it free, and slung her legs around him. They made love on his chair, her back arched, her hair draping back across the scroll he had written. She moaned, and he held her, clutched her, drowning. Needing to be strong. Needing to be a king. Needing her. His inkpot fell over, and the blackness spread across the floor.

They lay in his bed that night, the scroll delivered in the darkness. His bed was large, its beams carved of cedar, and the mattress soft, but he could find no rest. Olive lay in his arms, naked, her body pale in the moonlight. Epher gazed up at the dark ceiling.

I don't know how to be strong like you, Father, he thought. I don't know how to be wise like you, Mother. But I'm trying. And I'm afraid.

He wondered if all kings had been like this—strong in the day, afraid at night, armored in iron, consumed with doubt like worms digging from within. Perhaps kings were like kingdoms, all iron and rust, stone and sand, glorious for an era before fading into the ground. He closed his eyes, held Olive close, and waited for dawn.

CLAUDIA

She sat in the theater, a daughter mourning, a woman raging, waiting to see desert rats fight to the death.

The walls of Gefen rose to the north, just down the road. No—not Gefen. That cursed name would be forgotten. This city where Claudia had been born, raised, where she had seen her mother slaughtered—this city was now known as Valeria Maritima, a rising jewel of Aelarian civilization, a glorious city to celebrate Claudia's family. Most of the rats had fled the city, seeking shelter in their mountains. But there would be no shelter from the wrath of eagles. There would be no shelter from the fury of a daughter torn by grief.

You murdered her. Claudia clenched her fists. You murdered my mother, Zoharites. She will be avenged.

Her father sat at her side, his toga draped across his stocky frame, and the sunlight gleamed on his massive bald head. Five thousand others filled the semicircular theater with them, hiding the tiers of stone seats—soldiers, merchants, dignitaries, all Aelarians. Unlike the great theaters in Aelar, built in a ring, this theater was open at one end, revealing the beach and sea. The waves flowed ahead, kindled in sunlight, bright blue splotched with green where boulders rose underwater, bristly with algae.

"Welcome, welcome to the inaugural performance of Valeria Maritima Theater!" boomed a voice, and Claudia looked down to the sandy arena. Gervasius emerged from an archway built into the theater and strutted around the arena, arms raised. The city's new lord wore a resplendent sash embroidered with many colors. Two musicians walked at his side and blew a fanfare on silver trumpets. More musicians emerged, wearing pastel tunics, and played citharas, lutes, and lyres.

At Claudia's side, her father tapped his thick fingers, his lips a thin line, visibly bored. The man had never appreciated the fine arts. Tirus had always been happiest going over his ledgers, scolding his servants, hunting and feasting on the meat, and visiting brothels—always a man of business or carnal pleasures.

"This theater is an extravagance the Empire cannot afford," he muttered.

Claudia raised an eyebrow. "The Zoharites paid for it, Father. And built it! I'll rather enjoy seeing them die in a monument they themselves raised."

Tirus harrumphed. "Personally, I'd like to see these musicians killed in the arena."

Dancers soon entered the arena, young nude women, wearing nothing but laurels. Now Claudia finally saw her father perk up, his interest—and, undoubtedly, his loins—stirring. The women performed a dance of the seasons, bearing palm fronds for spring, parasols for summer, gourds for autumn, and white scarfs—Claudia supposed they were meant to be clouds—for winter. It was ridiculous. There were only two seasons here in Zohar: summer and inferno.

A comedy followed, full of stock characters Claudia had seen in countless performances in Aelar. The villain was a leno, a brothel owner, bald and greedy and hunched over, going nowhere without his money sack. The adulescens, the hero, was young and naive and handsome, deeply in love, clad in crimson. The virgo, the heroine, was beautiful, virtuous, and utterly boring to Claudia; the girl had the mind of a cow. And yet the hero spent the play pining for her, battling the evil leno who owned her as a slave. When the hero finally gained his maiden and carried her off, prepared to deflower her offstage, the crowd cheered. Claudia yawned. Women in these plays were always treated as prizes. They could easily be substituted with a pile of golden coins.

I'm going to ask Empress Porcia to have this playwright's bullocks cut off, she thought. Then he can perform as a virgo.

Finally, when Claudia was already antsy to leave, and with her bladder uncomfortably full, the trumpeters blew another fanfare, and the highlight of the day began.

Two gladiators stepped out into the arena. The crowd cheered wildly. Tirus, who had been drowsing through the play, leaned forward in his seat and licked his lips. If there was anything he loved more than tits and wine, it was blood. Claudia too stared with interest. The men below were not professional gladiators, not like the greats who fought in the Amphitheatrum in Aelar. They were Zoharites, and frightened ones. Their backs were whipped, and their masters—Aelarians in armor—stood behind them, holding spears and lashes. The two gladiators stumbled into the arena, eyes darting, wearing nothing but subligaculi around their loins.

Father had his nude dancers to ogle, Claudia thought as she leaned forward, lips peeled back. Now it's my turn to enjoy the sights.

At first the gladiators refused to fight, even tossed down their swords in protest. Legionaries had to advance into the arena, raise crude crosses, and nail up the two men as the crowd howled. Two more Zoharites, also beaten and half-naked, were brought out. They too held crude swords. On the crosses, their recalcitrant brothers were still alive, moaning and bleeding. If they were lucky, they'd die tonight; otherwise they might last for days.

"The victor shall live to fight another day!" said the slavedriver to these two new gladiators. "The loser will enjoy a quick death."

Claudia licked her lips. She knew one of these gladiators! He had been a wine merchant once in Gefen. She had enjoyed buying his bottles, would sometimes imagine him when Epher fucked her. He was a handsome one, even now, whipped and frightened. His opponent was unfamiliar to her. He had the rough look of a fisherman, and Claudia immediately hoped that he lost. If the wine merchant won, perhaps she could summon him to her villa, could let him fuck her for real. Maybe she would take him with her to Beth Eloh, force Epher to watch it.

As the two previous men moaned on their crosses, the two new gladiators began to fight, hesitantly at first, then swinging their swords with more vigor. The crowd cheered, and Claudia rose in her seat and cheered the loudest when the wine merchant scored a blow, slicing his blade across the fisherman's ribs. But her joy soon soured. The fisherman, screaming, slammed his sword into the wine merchant's chest, and the beautiful boy fell down dead. It was a relief to see the fisherman plunge the blade into his own heart next, calling out to his god before he fell and died—but only a slight relief.

The fights continued, Zoharite after Zoharite brought out, each victor forced to fight again and again until he finally died. Those who refused to fight decorated new crosses. Claudia's bladder soon felt ready to burst, but she dared not leave, not miss an instant. She lost count of how many died here today, and their blood soaked the sandy arena.

"You murdered my mother," she whispered, clutching her stola, fists trembling. "You murdered her, you sons of pigs. Now all of Zohar will weep."

Tears filled her own eyes, but she wiped them away and grinned as another man died.

They rode back to the villa on Pine Hill—her, her father, and a hundred legionaries. The trees alongside the road had been cut down, offering no hiding places for rebels—and sadly, no place to relieve herself until they finally reached home. A palisade of sharpened wooden stakes now surrounded the hill, and legionaries patrolled the perimeter. The place was now secure, but all the legionaries in the world could not bring Mother back.

The sun was setting into the sea, and Tirus, Claudia, and several Aelarian generals and dignitaries sat in the garden to dine. Slaves—Zoharite girls captured in Gefen—brought out the feast: fried fish caught fresh that day; greens mixed with nuts and berries; chickpeas and mushrooms drizzled with olive oil; and flat breads topped with yogurt, sliced olives, and oregano. Zoharite wine was served, crimson and dry, and several bottles from Aelar, spiced and aromatic.

Claudia was scolding a servant—the damn girl had poured the wrong wine—when galloping hooves sounded, and she turned to see the Zoharite riding from the eastern hills.

She rose to her feet at once, eyes narrowed. The rider was bearded, haggard, and a ragged cloak hung across his shoulders. At once, the legionaries who secured the villa rode out to meet the rider. Claudia watched from the garden. Horses were costly even in affluent Aelar; here in Zohar, only the absolute wealthiest men could own them. This rider, despite his ragged appearance, must have been important.

A legionary approached the garden, leaned down, and whispered to Tirus. The consul listened, brow furrowed, and nodded. Within a few moments, more legionaries entered the garden, surrounding the Zoharite rider. Claudia stood by the table, staring at him. He was a tall, rawboned man. She recognized him. He had served in this very villa when the Sela family had lived here, one of the family's bodyguards.

"Your name is Hanan," she said, walking toward him, speaking in Zoharite. "Isn't it?"

The tall man breathed heavily. He looked a decade older than she remembered, gray now strewn through his beard. He bowed his head to her. "You are kind to remember, Domina Claudia." He turned toward Tirus next and bowed his head. "King Epheriah sends his blessing, Consul Tirus, along with this gift."

The man held out a wooden box. Claudia frowned, stepped forward, and yanked it from his grasp. She opened the box to reveal a fist-sized gemstone, engraved into the shape of a lion's head. She scoffed. "Why should we Aelarians desire a lion?" She tossed the crystal down. It split in two. "And Epher is no king. He's nothing but a rebel, one who will soon kneel before us."

Hanan's eyes darkened, and he held out a scroll toward Tirus. "Epheriah, be he king or rebel, sends this too."

The consul grabbed the scroll and unrolled it. His brow furrowed, and soon he snorted. Claudia read the words with him.

Epher is afraid, Claudia thought. He's weak.

She raised her eyes from the scroll and stared at Hanan. "What is the meaning of this drivel?"

Hanan bowed his head yet again. His neck must have been as soft as a sprig. "King Epheriah's terms, Lady Claudia."

"His terms?" Claudia shouted. "His terms? He would give us terms?" She crumpled the parchment and tossed it at the man. "He hides in his cesspool like a rat, and he would deliver us terms?" She scoffed. "He cowers and yet threatens us!"

"Claudia!" Tirus roared. He placed a meaty hand on her shoulder, and his voice softened. "My darling, my daughter. Why don't you go into the villa and practice your lute, and I will—"

"I will not practice my lute while a province rises in rebellion." She glared at her father. "If I were your son, would you send me to the lute? I am not some virgo from a play." She looked over her shoulder. "Leean! Come to me, lumer. Guards—bring me the lumer!"

Guards stepped forth, dragging the young Leean. The girl hobbled forward, ankles chained, wrists bound behind her back. Her hair was cut just long enough to cover her eyes, and she gazed up at Claudia with fright.

"I need you to send a message," Claudia said. "To Avinasi, lumer of Zohar's so-called kings."

"Claudia—" Tirus began.

She glared at her father. "I know what I'm doing." She looked back at the girl. "Well, go on! Use your witchcraft. Contact the crone!"

The girl swallowed and shut her eyes. For a long time nothing happened, and Claudia tapped her foot, but finally the glow of luminescence flowed across Leean, spread out from her in strands, and formed a luminous figure before her. The apparition flickered, vanishing and reappearing, vaguely shaped like an old woman. Avinasi—lumer of the Zoharite court.

"Now repeat my words to her," Claudia said. "A week hence, the legions of Aelar will arrive at the Gate of Lions. I expect to find those gates open. The Temple on the Mount of Cedars will once more raise a statue of Empress Porcia, and the palace will become the home of Tirus Valerius. The barbaric religion of Elohism will be disbanded. The people of Zohar will no longer worship their invisible god, no longer circumcise their sons, no longer read their ancient scrolls. Every copy of the Book of Eloh will be burned. Every Zoharite child will learn Aelarian. Any tongue that speaks Zoharite will be cut out. Like this city on the coast, Beth Eloh will become a city of Aelar, renamed Orientia Capitolina, and its people will become Aelarians, worshiping our gods and worshiping Empress Porcia. Any who refuse will die. Painfully." Claudia smiled thinly. "If I have to, I will slay every last desert rat and reduce this province to rubble."

Leean conveyed the words over the luminescence, the light pulsing, flowing, thrumming, a language of light.

Claudia stared at the astral, glowing figure of Avinasi, only vaguely humanoid.

"Avinasi," Claudia said. "Can you see me? Can you hear me?"

The glowing figure seemed to turn its head. Glowing white eyes regarded Claudia.

"I want you to see something," Claudia said. "I want you and Epher both to see this."

She looked at her father. Tirus's broad face was stern. He knew her thoughts. He nodded at her.

Claudia smiled thinly and turned to her guards. "Men, bring forth Hanan. Cut off his nodding head."

Hanan drew his blade and lunged at the soldiers.

His sword slammed into a legionary's armor, denting the iron. A gladius swung, hitting Hanan's leg, cutting deep, forcing the man to kneel. Before he could rise again, legionaries grabbed his arms and yanked them back.

"Keep the light flowing," Claudia told Leean. "Keep them looking." She stared into the glow and raised her voice. "Can you see this, Avinasi? Can you see this, Epher? This is what happens to desert rats who defy the eagles."

It was Tirus who did the deed, slicing at Hanan's neck again and again. It took several swipes to finally sever the head. Funny—it wasn't quite as wilted after all. The head rolled toward Claudia, and she gazed down at it in disgust. Ugly brute.

"You may return to the house, Leean," she said.

The luminescence vanished. The lumer all but fled, chains clanking, shuddering with sobs.

"Their fucking necks are made of solid leather." Tirus wiped his sword with a handkerchief. "Almost ruined my blade." He groaned, unable to remove all the blood, and finally tossed the gladius aside in disgust. "Damn thing stinks."

Ignoring her father, Claudia turned toward one of her guards. "Take the head. Preserve and pack it. We'll take it with us to Beth Eloh, and we will return it to Epher." She smiled thinly. "I have a feeling we'll deliver him many more heads before this is over."

Your men killed my mother, Claudia thought, jaw clenched, fists trembling. So you will pay, Epher. You will know grief like I know it.

That night, Claudia again lay in Epher's bed, and again no sleep found her. She kept seeing it—the boy dying on the hill, and herself plunging the dagger into his neck, taking his life. The gladiators dying in the arena. Hanan's head at her feet. So much death, so much brutality here in the provinces, and Claudia trembled, weeping for who she had been, who she was.

"I never wanted this," she whispered into Epher's pillow. "You made me. You made me do this."

When still sleep would not find her, she went to the guard stationed outside her door, and she took him into Epher's bed. She lay there, as she had many times in her youth, and she let the guard fuck her, and she moaned into his palm, and as her legs wrapped around him, she imagined that it was Epher, her sweet Epher, the love of her life, that she was with him here again, a noblewoman of Aelar and the desert boy she loved. When she climaxed, she shouted his name.

She sent the guard back to her doorway, and Claudia finally slept, hugging Epher's pillow, pretending he was here with her, knowing she would soon see him again.

MAYA

She lay on the floor, moaning, the poison like blades cutting her insides. Her eyes leaked tears. She vomited. She spasmed. She was dying. Dying again.

No.

Maya gritted her teeth, shivering.

You've done this a hundred times. Fight it. Heal it.

She took in shuddering breaths and reached for the lume. Trembling, convulsing, she wove it into luminescence. She sent the light through her body, as the book taught, flowing with her breath to every part of her, into her organs, along her veins, through her bones. Soothing. Illuminating. Casting out the poison. Breath by breath, she calmed, the luminescence cleansing her.

Finally Maya rose to her feet, drenched in sweat but healed. Another poisoned meal she had survived.

For a long moment she stood in the cell. She had come to think of this chamber as a prison cell. A clay box, confining, only her, the table, the chair, the scroll. She had lost count of the days and nights. It seemed that she had been locked in here for years, for eras, the rise and fall of nations, born and reborn here. Hurting. Healing.

She never knew which meal would be poisoned. Sometimes days went by without a single bad fig, and then—pain, retching, devastating fire in her bowels until she could summon the light. And sometimes it was not the poison. Sometimes it was Namtar's staff, flying again and again, bruising, cutting, breaking Maya down, shattering her like a clay doll until she could summon the light, could mend herself, could rise again.

She learned Luminosity in this cell. But she also learned pain, and she learned madness, and she learned how close a woman could come to an animal state, reduced to nothing but fear and misery and hunger and the love of a mistress.

She returned to the table. She sat down. The scroll was halfway full—the work of countless hours and generations of wisdom. Hundreds of thousands of small, delicate words filled the parchment that wrapped around the right roller. The parchment around the left roller was still empty, still awaiting Maya's gentle strokes of the quill. Every day, from dawn and well into the night, she labored here. Using the Sight to gaze into the scroll in the library outside her cell. Using Muse to write the gentle calligraphy, knowing that a simple mistake—a stroke too long, too short, just a drop of ink spilled—would ruin the entire scroll. Using Healing whenever Mistress Namtar beat or poisoned her, using Healing to soothe the madness of isolation, the insanity of a trapped animal in a box.

And every day, as she wrote, she learned.

She learned the stories of the first lumers, women in ancient desert tribes, first to have seen the light, who had led their people to a land in the west, a land between desert and sea, a land overflowing with lume. She learned the words of the first great teachers, wise women who had taught their daughters to harness the lume, to weave it into form. She learned the deepest secrets of the pillars: how to see into men's hearts and minds, how to explore the branches of possibilities, how to build, create, heal, harness the light into terrible power.

And every evening, Namtar quizzed her. Every night, question after question. For every failed answer—a smack of the staff. For every right answer—nothing but a nod, a grunt, another question.

And every night, when her work was done, Maya lay on the hard floor, and she remembered.

Not with Luminosity. Not with the Sight. Memories warmer, deeper. Memories of a girl alone, far from home. Lying on the floor, she imagined that she lay home in her bed, in the villa on Pine Hill. That outside her door was not a stern lumer and silent pupils but a family. In her dreams at night, Maya laughed with Epher and Koren, rolling with them on the beach. She ran with Atalia across the hills, struggling to keep up, as her older sister swung branches and pretended to fight monsters. She sat with Ofeer by the cooking fire, listening to the girl speak of distant cities and their wonders. She lay between her parents, feeling safe.

In other dreams, they were all together, a family united, sitting at the dining table on Restday. The candles burned, and fresh braided bread steamed on the table, and they were happy. They were together, singing old songs. And though they were joyous, Maya woke from those dreams weeping, for she knew—not with Foresight, not with any magic—that those days were over. That she would nevermore sit under a painting of elephants, nevermore see her family together again, that if she returned to the villa she would find only dust, only ghosts.

One morning, indistinguishable from so many mornings in her cell, Maya sat by her scroll, used the Sight to see the scroll beyond the wall, and found no words.

Maya frowned.

At first she thought that the Sight had failed her. She refocused, sent the light out again, seeing through the wall, down the corridor, into the library in the chamber overlooking the sea. Again she peered into the scroll, the Luminous Writ, the complete book for her to copy, and she found it not complete at all.

The library's copy of the Luminous Writ, the one she'd been painstakingly copying into her own scroll . . . ended halfway through. The remaining parchment, enough for many more words, was blank.

Maya rose from her seat, letting her magic fade away.

If she were Ofeer, she'd have uttered a loud, lewd curse.

She groaned and grabbed her hair.

"Only half a book!" She paced the room. "It's only half written."

She took a deep breath. Fine. Fine! So what? She would find another copy. There were many copies of the Luminous Writ in the world. There was the one in Beth Eloh, buried deep under the Temple. There was the copy in Gefen, at least had been one in Master Malaci's library. And surely there had to be a copy in Aelar, home to the world's largest library. There—many copies! An entire . . . three that she knew of.

Maya sighed.

With a deep breath, she summoned her light.

She sent out her Sight.

She spread her tendrils through the house, seeking, rummaging, finding no more copies here. She wove more luminescence. She flowed through tunnels of light, sending her eye across the town, into the desert, flowing over dunes, over dragon bones, over ancient cities rising, falling, kingdoms of glory and kingdoms of sand, seeking her home by the sea.

"Zohar," she whispered.

She could just see it. A kingdom of light, a great sunrise of lume, a pillar of light, rising in the west, blinding her. She reached into the light, then pulled back, blinded, burnt. She sucked in air, tried to see farther, to part the curtains. She could just make out a mountain, a city upon it, seven gates where armies, pilgrims, countless travelers flowed, and an eighth gate. A Gate of Tears. A figure, all in white, all—

Maya sucked in air. No. Focus.

She tried to reach farther. To find the Temple. To find the book the priests kept there. But she saw her mother—falling, dying. She saw her brother, bleeding on a throne. She saw the man in the—

She yelled out and her magic snapped.

She fell to her knees, back in the east, kneeling on the clay floor.

No. Do not gaze upon him. Not yet. He will wait.

For hours—for eternities—Maya tried to see, to gaze across the distance, to find another copy of the Luminous Writ. One time she could almost just see the Temple, surrounded with many coiling halos, before the magic overflowed, searing her, crackling her hair. When she fell, her skin was burnt as from days in the sun.

"It's too far," she whispered that night to Mistress Namtar. "I tried to find another copy, but it's too far, and too much light suffuses Beth Eloh. I can't see."

But the staff still beat her. And the poison made her retch. And she wept all night, curled up, hurting, having used too much lume, left too weak to heal herself. She woke up that morning in her own sweat, piss, and vomit.

It was not going to work. Maya curled her fists.

"I can't do this!" she told Namtar that morning. "The farther I look, the blurrier the Sight is, and I break, branch off, see the future, no longer knowing Sight from Foresight."

The old lumer stared at her, a hint of mirth in her eyes, and nodded. She left the chamber without a word.

Maya remained in her cell, head tilted, breakfast untouched.

"Foresight," she whispered.

Her breath quickened. So far, this exercise had taught her the three other pillars: Sight to gaze to the library down the corridor, Muse to transcribe the words, Healing to cast out the weariness and poison. But so far, she had only read about Foresight, not used it.

Maya covered her mouth.

No. It was impossible. It could never work! And yet . . .

She closed her eyes and summoned her magic.

She had never used Foresight willingly. It had tried to grab her—outside the gates of Beth Eloh, in her dreams, in her projection across the desert. She had always feared this magic, and yet now she grabbed it. She wrestled it. She gazed down the paths.

She streamed. She moved at lightning speed, whipping from possibility to possibility. She died in this chamber. She died in a fire. She lived to old, wrinkled age, becoming a mistress of this very house, a teacher of Luminosity. She wept over the grave of a child. She laughed with many children. She fought a dark man. She served as a slave in Aelar. She failed her studies. Countless futures, weaving, intersecting, branching out, changing with every breath, every choice. It was a tree. No—not branches. It seemed like branches only when traveling the paths. From above . . . waves. Great waves of possibilities, drawing lines in the sand.

And there, in this chamber with her . . . a girl. A girl with olive skin, long curly hair, large brown eyes. A girl far from home.

A lumer.

A lumer writing down the final words in a completed Luminous Writ.

Down this path, I succeeded, Maya thought, staring at her future self. I finished the scroll. I became a lumer.

Down the path of Foresight, the future Maya raised her head from the scroll and looked at her. The future girl smiled softly and nodded. Present and future, linked across the timeless kingdom of Luminosity, a serpent biting its tail, an eternal flame.

Maya—the present Maya, her scroll still incomplete—gazed into her own future scroll, and she copied from herself.

She wrote down new words.

She toiled on.

Floating in the luminescence, she lost track of time. She wrote day and night, peering into the future to copy her own work. Finally, after what seemed like years, Maya wrote down the last words in the Luminous Writ:

The grace of Luminosity flows eternal. The lumer's candle shall always burn.

Eyes damp, her work complete, Maya laid down her quill. She raised her eyes from the completed scroll, and she peered across the room, and there—a pale light peering from shadows—a younger Maya gazed at her. In the present, she smiled softly at that scared girl and nodded.

Maya winced.

Fire.

Fire burned in the luminescence.

Every hair on her body rose, and her teeth ached as if trying to flee her gums. Ahead of her, one of the paths of possibility blazed with white fire, and Maya smelled smoke, heard shouts, saw the dead falling.

The paths of light all thrummed around her, burning, disintegrating. Smoke flowed across Maya. Shouts and screams filled the chamber. Maya's magic tore away like a bandage ripped off a sticky wound, and she found herself back in her cell, trapped as fire blazed outside.

She ran toward the window, rose onto her toes, and peered outside. Her heart sank.

There were dozens of them. Warriors in black robes, faces veiled, carrying sickles. On a wheeled platform rose their idol, a bronze man with a dog's head. A few of the men moved through the garden with torches, setting the olive trees aflame. At the head of the mob stood the tall, gaunt man Maya had encountered when first entering the town—Saentek, warlord of the Dagonites.

"Slay the lumers!" he howled, face twisted with hatred, eyes bugging out. "Warriors of Dagon, fear no evil and slay them all!"

With battle cries, the warriors ran toward the house, swinging swords and torches, and Maya screamed.

ATALIA

She swung her sword, eviscerating a man, and laughed as the blood showered her.

"Fuck Aelar!" Atalia screamed, voice hoarse, blood on her face, entrails dripping down her arm. "Fuck Porcia!"

"Fuck Aelar!" repeated a hundred thousand barbarians, bearded, brutish, waving their shields and axes. "Gael rises!"

The killing field spread around them. Thousands of legionaries lay slain across the grasslands, armor shattered, limbs strewn. Bowels lay in mud. Rivulets of blood watered the earth. The crows were feasting, dipping down, ripping off flesh, cawing, bustling. Thousands of Gaelians lay dead here too, slain by gladius and spear and arrow, blood staining their golden beards and braids.

But countless living barbarians, a massive horde, still spread across the land. They roared for victory. Tall, powerful men, wearing only patches of armor, raised hammers and axes and blades, their beards braided for every kill. Fierce women, beasts of Ashael, shrieked for their victory, the blood of their enemies on their arms and faces. A sea of round wooden shields rose high, displaying the sigils of many tribes—bears, wyverns, harts, thorns, dragons.

And one lioness, Atalia thought, standing in the carnage, the slayer of many men. One last soldier of Zohar, far from the desert, close to eternal glory.

She pulled off her helmet, the one Berengar had gifted her. It was shaped as a lion's head, complete with fangs. A blow from an enemy sword had scratched off its silver coating, revealing the dark iron beneath. Enemy blood had splashed its metal fangs, as if the lion had just fed. Atalia pushed back her sweaty hair and spat out her own blood. A blow from an enemy's shield had cracked her lips, but the taste of blood only made her smile. She looked around her and nodded.

"We butchered those wall-pissing sons of dogs." She turned toward her husband and wife, eyes flashing. "We fucked them right up their asses with Gaelian iron."

"And with Zoharite pride," said Berengar, chieftain of many tribes. Enemy blades had chipped his breastplate, and cuts covered his arms. One antler on his helmet had broken, and a blow had knocked out one of his teeth, and yet he gave Atalia a small smile. "You fought well."

All her life, Atalia had felt gangly, too tall, too strong, especially around petite beauties like Ofeer. But she felt positively dwarfed by this chieftain, by this man who had captured her in war, fought her, then married her. In the battle, he had loomed above the legionaries, like a man battling children, and his great axe had swung with a fury, felling many men. Those men now lay at his feet—the mighty legionaries, legendary warriors, butchered.

Atalia climbed onto a corpse, wrapped her arms around her husband's shoulders, and kissed him—deeply, passionately, a coppery red kiss.

"Soon we will fight at the walls of Aelar, my love," she said, stroking his beard.

"A hundred more leagues to cross." Berengar nodded. "A hundred more leagues of blood and glory, and the Empire falls."

Atalia looked around her. The grasslands spread into the distance. Far behind her, in the north, she could just make out the forests of Gael. In every other direction, the plains of Aelar spread, the heartland of the Empire. It was here that, seven hundred years ago, farmers and hunters had begun to build cities, to speak the same language, to forge the civilization they called Aelar, named after Aelia, an ancient goddess of music and art. Here the Empire had begun, and here it would end.

Farmlands spread into the distance, and Atalia could just make out a fortress by a stream. The legions had tried to stop them here. The legions had died here. Far south, beyond the horizon, it awaited her. The city of Aelar. The city she had never seen, yet one that filled her dreams every night. The greatest city in the world. A city with as many people within its walls as all the people of Zohar. A city that ruled all but several pockets of resistance in the world.

"A city that will fall," she whispered. "A city we will send tumbling to the ground."

"Gael is victorious!" rose a cry, and Atalia turned to see Feina walk between the corpses toward them. The shieldmaiden had donned armor, its silver dragon filigrees chipped and peeling. A soaked bandage wrapped around her thigh, and ash coated her cheeks and golden hair. She held her winged helmet under her arm, and her shield displayed a golden harp on a green field. She held her curved sword with one hand, and with the other she gripped a fistful of a legionary's hair. The severed head dangled, mouth open in a silent scream, leaving a dripping trail. The fairy queen Atalia had met in the forest had become a beast of blood, drenched in death, brutal and beautiful.

"Linus Lepidius, commander of the northern garrison." Feina tossed down the head. "I cut off his head myself."

"Greedy pig." Atalia spat at Feina's feet. "I was going to kill the bastard."

Feina gave her a crooked smile. "You fought well, lioness, but the prize was mine." The shieldmaiden kicked the severed head aside, placed her hand in Atalia's hair, and kissed her hard on the lips. "Better luck next time, our wife."

Atalia stared south, sneering. "I'm saving my luck for Porcia. That bitch's head is mine."

She lowered her head and closed her eyes, remembering the one time she had met Porcia. The woman hadn't been empress then, just an insane conqueror who had captured Zohar. Atalia had sat in the belly of a galley, whipped, beaten, chained to an oar. Porcia had visited her, smiling thinly, and tossed a head at her feet—the head of Yohanan Elior. Atalia's cousin.

Atalia clenched her fists, opened her eyes, and gazed down at another head—the severed head of this defeated legion's commander. And suddenly, gazing upon it, it seemed to Atalia to look remarkably like Yohanan's head. The same brown eyes. The same strong jaw, proud nose. For a terrible instant, Atalia was sure that it was Yohanan, but of course that was impossible; her cousin had died long ago.

She looked up at Feina, looked at Berengar, looked at the hundred thousand Gaelian warriors who spread across the countryside. Warriors she had brought here, and ice filled Atalia, even in the heat of victory.

Did we commit evil as Porcia did? How can we call ourselves righteous when we too slay men, conquer lands, claim heads as trophies? Are we any less monstrous?

Berengar was holding Feina in his arms now, kissing her, standing among the corpses, and Atalia did not know if to love or fear her new family.

She tightened her jaw and stared back south.

Perhaps I summoned monsters to slay monsters, she thought. But the heroes die in this world. The monsters live. And maybe, if I can get enough monsters to slay monsters, I can still cleanse this world, can still save my homeland.

"You started this, Porcia," she whispered. "But I will finish it."

She mounted her horse, a black stallion, a gift from her husband. "We ride onward." She raised her sword overhead. "To Aelar!"

Thousands echoed her cry. "To Aelar!"

Berengar rode on his great white stag, a beast larger than any horse, and Feina rode on her silvery mare. Many other horses rode behind them, but most of the army walked, swarming across the wilderness like locusts. It was hard to think of the Gaelian hosts as a mere army. Here was a nation on the move. Men and their wives fought side by side. Many children followed them, nobody back home to feed them. Thousands were not warriors, and they bore no weapons. Washerwomen. Blacksmiths. Cooks. Cobblers. Prostitutes. Peddlers selling anything from buttons to cutlery to pewter charms. As she gazed at them, Atalia remembered the old legends from her homeland, of the nation of Zohar leaving captivity in Nur over a thousand years ago, migrating across the desert and back into a homeland of milk and honey. If those legends were true, that ancient exodus must have looked like this.

"The world is changing," she said softly. "Nations are rising, falling, sweeping across the world. The old order will crumble like sandcastles under waves. Once the world falls, it will be our task to rebuild it. Stronger. Better than before."

As they swept south, a town appeared in the distance. Atalia spotted a few temples, a few granaries, a small theater, and clusters of houses. She guessed that several thousand people lived there. As they rode closer, she saw many Aelarians fleeing the town south along the road. The Gaelians saw the town too. They roared, waved their weapons, and ran toward it.

Atalia turned toward her husband. "This is not Aelar. We should avoid this town."

But the Gaelian horde was not known for its structure or discipline. Here was more of a mob than an organized military. At the sight of this prize, they swarmed, howling, hornets roused from a nest. Atalia sneered and dug her heels into her stallion, charging with the host. Tens of thousands rode and ran with her, their roar deafening. Ahead, the Aelarians were draining from the city, crying out in fear. Here were not legionaries but simple townsfolk, carrying their children, leaving their belongings behind as the tidal wave crashed against the town walls, and the rams of Gael smashed the gates.

"Stop this!" Atalia roared, sitting astride her horse outside the town. "Hosts of Gael, rally here! Southward!"

Yet she was only the wife of a single chieftain, and many tribes had gathered here, wyverns and boars, bears and wolves, thorns and stags, only loosely bound and all hungry for plunder. The Gaelians swarmed through the city gates, trampling one another, weapons raised, voices hoarse. Atalia cursed and kneed her horse, charging between the men, knocking them back, until she too entered the town.

She halted her horse and stared, eyes wide with horror, fists trembling.

A boulevard stretched ahead, lined with columns bearing statues of the gods, and between them rose taverns and shops. The Gaelians were smashing doors and windows and tugging out their prizes. Two bearded men lay on the street, holding up jugs of wine, pouring the drink into their mouths. Several Gaelian women laughed as they rummaged through a bakery, pulling out loaves of bread and tossing them to their fellow warriors. A few Aelarian corpses already lay on the street, trampled. Other Aelarians were fleeing deeper into the city. Several men, blood still staining their golden beards, grabbed an Aelarian girl and dragged her behind a smithy. Her screams tore across the street.

"Stop this!" Atalia shouted. She galloped forth, knocking people back. She made her way around the smithy, seeking the Gaelians who had grabbed the girl, but she could no longer see them. A scream rose from behind her, and she whipped her head around to see an Aelarian brandishing a razor, his back to his barbershop. A Gaelian warrior laughed as she swung her hammer, driving it into the man's head, shattering the skull. A few other Gaelians rummaged through the corpse's pockets, pulling out coins.

"Enough!" Atalia demanded. She rode her horse toward the killers. "Do not steal from the dead!"

But the brutes only snorted and wandered down the street, vanishing into the crowd. Every doorway had been shattered, every shop looted. Atalia rode farther down the street, finally reaching a courtyard in the town center. A temple rose here, its marble columns capped with silver. Gaelians were already scaling the columns and chipping at the precious metal. Others were tugging a towering statue of Marcus Octavius, then cheering as it slammed down and shattered. More Gaelians were racing up a pale staircase, between columns, and into the temple. Screams rose from within.

She kneed her horse, and the animal charged up the stairs, and they burst into the temple.

A vast hall awaited them. A mosaic sprawled across the floor, and pastel frescoes adorned the ceiling. Marble statues of the gods stood between columns. A sunbeam fell through an oculus, shining upon an altar. In this hall of beauty, the horror unfolded. Hundreds of Aelarians had fled here. Elders. Children. Mothers clutching crying babes. Fathers holding bread knives and staffs. Most of the Gaelians ignored the civilians; they were busy plundering gold and jewels. But a few barbarians, scarred and tattooed and clad in fur and iron, laughed as they swung their weapons, cutting down Aelarians. One man tore a babe from his mother, tossed the child into the air, and swung his axe. The mother screamed, only for another Gaelian—a laughing woman, her blond hair flowing from under her helmet—to lash a sword across the mother's neck.

"Don't kill the women, damn it!" shouted a Gaelian man. "They can birth good Gaelian babes." He and his friends grabbed screaming Aelarian girls, tearing their stolas, and dragged them off.

Atalia had seen enough. She kneed her horse and rode through the temple. With a swing of her sword, she sliced open the neck of a Gaelian.

The bearded man fell, blood spraying the woman he had grabbed. The young Aelarian fled, weeping.

"Anyone else want to taste my blade?" Atalia shouted, wheeling her horse around. The Gaelian's blood had sprayed her face, hot and sickening. She spat. "You will not plunder and murder and rape! Not so long as I'm your chieftain's wife. You will obey me, or I will kill you all."

The Gaelians lost their mirth. They stared at her. One man spat. These were no warriors of the Galdurin tribe to which her husband—to which she herself—belonged. Their symbol was not a stag but a wolf, and like true wolves, they were hungry for flesh, and their eyes blazed with bloodlust. They surrounded her, beefy men—each large enough to have dwarfed even Jerael Sela—and women as tall and wild as she was. Tattoos snaked across their arms, and dents and stains covered their shields and patches of armor. Their weapons rose around her—axes, spears, swords.

"So the schaten dezin reveals her true nature," rose a voice from the crowd, and a woman stepped forth. She wore a wolf's cloak, the hood formed from the animal's head, its teeth still attached. Beneath that hood snarled a face just as beastly. The woman's own teeth had been sharpened, mimicking the teeth of her hood, and her eyes burned. Iron disks had widened her earlobes, and decorative burn scars spread up her arms. In each hand, she held an ugly curved blade. Atalia recognized her.

"Stand back, Helegrad, chieftain of the Osgoth tribe." Atalia stared down from her horse. "Your tribe is mighty, but you bowed before my husband. I am your mistress."

The wolf chieftain laughed and spun in a circle, her blades raised. "Hear the swarthy foreigner! She protects her kind. Zoharites, Aelarians—they're all the same scum. And I will not take commands from a brown-skinned, cock-sucking, foreign whore."

Before Atalia could react, the chieftain leaped forward, moving at terrible speed, and swung her blades.

Atalia shouted, and her horse reared. One blade sank into the horse's leg. Another sliced through its neck. Blood sprayed in a curtain, and Atalia fell. Her back slammed onto the ground.

At once—by God, the woman was fast—the chieftain plunged toward her, blades dripping. Atalia screamed and rolled. The blades slammed into the mosaic floor, chipping stones.

As Atalia leaped to her feet, one of Helegrad's blades tore across her hip. Atalia screamed. She lashed her own sword, but the chieftain blocked her blows. Sparks flew. The Gaelians formed a ring around them, roaring and pounding their fists.

"We Zoharites might appear as Aelarians to you." Atalia swung her blade again and again, trying to land blows. "But we are not murderers. We fight for life."

Helegrad laughed. "Even the life of your enemies."

The chieftain's blades thrust, and Atalia raised her shield, catching one blow. The other blade sliced across her arm, and she grimaced.

"The legions are my enemy." Atalia pressed forth her attack. "Not these people. Not you. Lay down your swords now, and stop this madness."

Helegrad laughed, parrying every blow, and soon Atalia found herself on the defensive. The chieftain's blades flew with a fury. One blow cracked Atalia's shield. Another chipped her breastplate and thudded in her chest.

"I'm going to crack your skull open and piss inside it." Helegrad laughed and lashed her blade, and the blow slammed into Atalia's helmet. She cried out, fell back a step, and barely raised her shield in time to block another blow.

The swords kept swinging, and soon Atalia's back hit a column, and the twin blades rose. Atalia raised her shield, and the blades slammed through it. The shield shattered, scattering wooden fragments. Atalia fell to one knee, crying out, bleeding. Helegrad stood above her, sneered, and spat on her. Atalia stared up, eyes narrowed, sword held before her, panting, her own blood dripping.

Helegrad raised her swords, then screamed.

A young woman rose behind her, pulling a dagger out from the chieftain's thigh—the young woman Atalia had saved from the brutes.

Screaming, Helegrad spun around. One of her blades lashed, and the woman's arm flew across the hall. The second blade plunged into the young Aelarian's chest.

Atalia swung her own sword, screaming. Her blade severed one of Helegrad's legs and sank deep into the second one.

Helegrad crashed to the floor.

The crowd of onlookers roared.

Trembles seized Atalia. She panted. She stood above Helegrad. The chieftain had dropped her blades and clutched her stump. The blood gushed out. The Gaelian stared up at Atalia, face ashen, eyes full of pain, of fear, but also of fury.

"Go ahead," Helegrad hissed. "Kill me. Do it. Do it or you are a coward. You—"

Atalia sheathed her sword. She shook her head sadly. "Fuck you." She raised her eyes and stared at the others. "Now leave this place! Follow me—out of the town. I command you now. I defeated your chieftain."

They all stared at her, sullen.

One man spat at her. "You're nothing but a fucking coward."

Another Gaelian—an ugly bastard with one eye—snorted. "You don't even dare slay your wounded enemy." He reached toward an Aelarian boy who cowered in the corner. "I'll take my plunder. I—"

A dagger flew across the temple and slammed into his throat.

Atalia spun around to see Berengar and Feina ride into the temple, he astride his white stag, she astride her mare.

"Enough!" Berengar boomed, towering above all other warriors, the sunlight breaking into beams around him. "Wolf tribe, leave this temple, and leave this city. We continue south."

A few of the wolves left the temple, but others remained, glaring.

"Will we not claim our prizes?" shouted one man.

"Will a wolf take orders from a lion?" cried a woman.

More voices rose in protest.

"You will take orders from me!" Berengar said. "Or you will die at my blade. You will not take women or boys from among the Aelarians, and you will not murder mothers or children. Take the gold and grain. Take your wine and steel. Take the lives of any men who rise up against you. But take no more."

Atalia opened her mouth in protest. "I won't let them plunder and—"

"You will be silent!" Berengar roared, turning toward her, face red. "You will not question my command. Leave this town. All of you. And don't think, Atalia, that I will hesitate to slit your throat too if you disobey me."

She glared at her husband, shock and pain pulsing through her. She wanted to spit at him, to shout at him, to curse and cut him, but tears stung her eyes. She turned away. She rode out of the town.

That evening, she stood on a hill, watching thousands of wolf warriors leave the camp and travel back north, returning to the forests of Gael. Thousands of killers. Thousands who would have stormed the walls of Aelar, cut through the legions, and stormed the Acropolis where lived the empress. She watched them desert, and she spat and cursed them.

"Fuck them." She thrust two fingers toward them, a Zoharite gesture of scorn. "We still have our other tribes. We'll destroy Aelar without those cowardly pups." She turned toward her husband who stood at her side. "And fuck you too."

Berengar stared at the defecting tribe, eyes dark. "You are a fool."

She sneered and drew her blade. "This fool can still cut off that cock you love to fuck me with. We did not come to Aelar to plunder, to pillage, to act like barbarians. We came here to . . ."

Her voice died as he turned his gaze upon her, for she saw a deep, simmering rage in his eyes. Not the rage of a warrior. Not the heat of battle. A cold fire. It scared her.

"What did you think that war is?"

She gestured at the town below, thousands of its people slaughtered, thousands others taken as slaves, its temples and homes looted. "Not this! Not mindless brutality. We came here to topple a tyranny." She pointed her blade at him. "How are we different than Porcia if we do this?"

He grabbed her wrist and twisted, and she grimaced and dropped her sword. She tried to pull back, but he held her arm with an iron grip.

"Did you think war is noble heroes slaying cackling villains? Did you think war is light banishing shadow? War is bloody, my wife. War is butchered mothers on the streets. War is babes impaled on spears. War is plunder, war is rape, war is everything they leave out of the old tales. Poets don't sing of those details. Children grow up thinking war is glorious and noble, entertaining as a play or song." He gestured at the town below. "This is war."

Atalia lowered her head, and tears stung her eyes. She remembered growing up reading such tales—tales of heroes slaying villains in legendary, bloodless battles of glory. And she remembered herself on the walls of Gefen, fighting her first battle, ending the day on her knees, weeping and vomiting, surrounded by disemboweled, dismembered corpses.

She raised her eyes. She blinked away tears, and she whispered to her husband. "We can be better than that. Zohar is better than that. Zohar never plundered. Zohar never destroyed."

"Is that so?" Berengar stared at her steadily. "When Zohar returned from captivity in Nur, did she not slay every Kalintian, Sekadian, and wandering tribe who had taken residence in her land?"

"That was different! Our land had been stolen."

"All lands were stolen at one point or another," said Berengar. "All we men do—all we've ever done—is conquer, destroy, kill, and build upon the ashes, only for other men to someday take our place."

"I am no man." Atalia raised her chin. "And I refuse to play your games."

"And what will you do when we reach Aelar?" Berengar pointed south. "When we break the walls, and when we storm the city, and when the horde of Gael swarms through the streets—will you try to hold us back? Will you prefer to see Porcia on the throne than the city burn? Tell me honestly. If you cannot stomach war, then you should not have started one."

"I started nothing!" she shouted, and now her tears flowed, and her body shook. "It was Seneca who invaded my home, who butchered my father! It was Porcia who cut off my cousin's head! It was Aelar that started this war! I never wanted this. Any of it! I only wanted to . . ."

To become a soldier, she thought. To lead men in war. To fight. To slay enemies. To do what now I cannot stomach.

She lowered her head, all her words gone, and wept.

That night in his tent, they made love as they did every night, for the warriors of Gael had great appetites, and they believed that sex gave warriors might in battle. Every other night, Atalia had lain on her back as Berengar had mounted her, and she would wrap her limbs around him and moan into his neck. But this night she laid him on his back, and she rode him, her back arched, her eyes closed, as his hands grabbed her hips. She surrendered herself to their lovemaking, her eyes closed, her head tossed back, yet as she rode him in the darkness, she was riding her horse through the burning town, and as he clutched at her breasts, his hands were like the hands of dying children, reaching for her, seeking help, drowning soldiers, drowning slaves in the sea as fire blazed all around. With every thrust of her hips, she rode through devastation, watching them die—trampling them, killing him. She dug her fingernails into her husband's chest so deeply that she cut him, and that only seemed to increase his pleasure as he bucked below her, his face contorted. And she saw the face of her father on the cross. And she saw Daor drown. And she saw all the Aelarians she had killed, and the blood covered her hands—the blood of her husband, the blood of countless souls, crying out to her, cursing her. When she climaxed above him, she screamed and wept.

She lay in his arms that night, her tears wetting his chest. As he slept, the candles burned around them, and Atalia gazed at her hand. Flecks of blood still stained her fingernails. She did not know whose blood it was. She did not know who she was.

PORCIA

She sat on her throne, legs slung across one armrest, goblet of wine in hand.

"Bring them in!" she cried. "Bring in the traitors! Let them entertain us."

Her harem spread around her. Her special jewels. Women in flimsy silks lounged across the throne room, their breasts exposed, their navels jeweled, puffing on hookahs. Beautiful bare-chested men wrestled and trained with swords, glistening with sweat. Several concubines lay unconscious, hookahs and jugs of wine toppled at their sides. Among these living trophies spread the treasures of Porcia's glory: statues, chalices, chests spilling gemstones and coins, exotic animal pelts, and birds of many colors that squawked in cages. The wealth of the Empire, here at her feet.

But it wasn't enough.

It couldn't silence the voices inside her.

Seneca is coming to kill you.

Porcia dug her fingernails into her palms.

Valentina plans to overthrow you.

She gasped for air.

The Gaelian horde will shatter your walls.

Her head spun.

The Zoharites will butcher you.

The visions all floated around Porcia. Pulsing hearts, dripping between her teeth, growing into babies and new men inside her. Flayed warriors advancing toward her, reaching out raven talons. Creatures in togas, twisted senators with the heads of pigs, squealing, squealing, so loud, so loud.

We're waiting for you. Demons, twisted, bearing razors. We're here, Porcia. We're here in the afterlife. Waiting. Join us. Join us.

"Bring them in!" she shouted again, tears in her eyes, and gulped more wine. "Bring the traitors."

She emptied her goblet and tossed it aside. The wine soothed her, flowed over the visions, silenced them for another hour. Nobody understood the burden of power. Nobody understood how she had suffered, how she had fought, killed, seen so many broken and burnt. How the scars of war would always fill her. How those demons always taunted her. How all the sex, wine, spice, death, gold, endless pleasures—how she had earned them, craved them, needed them. How the creatures with the pig heads demanded them. How they squealed until they got their fill.

The doors to her palace opened. Guards marched in, dragging chained prisoners.

Porcia allowed a thin smile to lift her lips. She swallowed hard.

"The entertainment has arrived!" she announced. Those in her harem who still clung to consciousness cheered.

There were three of them. Traitors from the city. A Zoharite girl, limbs stick thin and brown. A Gaelian woman, her blond hair in tangles, tears in her eyes. A Nurian man, face puffed with bruises, wrists manacled behind his back.

Porcia rose from her throne and tossed her chalice at them, spraying wine. "Traitors!" she cried. "Spies! Rebels here in our city!"

Her harem hissed and tossed their mugs at the three prisoners. "Traitors, traitors!"

The guards manhandled the three foreigners into the center of the throne room. Filthy, dripping blood, they stood among splendor. Marble columns, golden statues, and jeweled concubines surrounded the three wretches.

"Please, domina," said the Zoharite girl, bowing before Porcia. "We are Aelarian citizens. I was born in Aelar, my empress. I have my citizenship scroll at home, and—"

A guard struck her, knocking her down. "Silence, traitor."

The Nurian man spoke next. "My empress, please. I am but a humble mason, a free citizen as well. I moved to Aelar long before the rebellion began in my homeland. I—"

"Silence, rebel maggot!" A blow from a guard bloodied the Nurian's lip.

The Gaelian woman did not speak, just trembled, tears flowing down her bruised cheeks.

Porcia stared at them, shaking.

She stared at the Gaelian, and she saw the barbarian horde, howling, charging south through the forest, slaying her legions, stealing her eagles, vowing to send her walls crumbling down.

She stared at the Nurian, and she saw her brother in the south, marrying the Whore Queen Imani, raising fleets, gathering swarms of Nurian brutes to rape her and steal her throne.

She stared at the Zoharite, and she saw the death around Beth Eloh, the ten thousand swarthy heathens storming toward her.

"They want to steal this from me," Porcia whispered, digging her fingernails into her palms, and her blood dripped onto her thighs. "They want to destroy us. To topple this civilization that we built. Bring out the dogs!" Her voice rose to a howl. "Bring them out! Let them feed!"

The harem cheered and erupted in wild barking, mimicking the hounds. One man took a concubine and humped her from behind as she moaned, a bitch in heat. At the back of the hall, guards opened a doorway, revealing a tunnel. Deeper barks rose from the darkness. Great beasts emerged, snarling, snapping their teeth, black dogs larger and heavier than Porcia. Their trainers dragged behind them, desperately clinging to the dogs' leashes. These beasts had not fed for days, growing mad with hunger.

Finally the dogs pulled free from their trainers and lunged.

The prisoners tried to flee, but the guards blocked their way with spears and shields. The dogs leaped. The prisoners fell. The dogs fed.

Porcia returned to her throne, slung her legs across an armrest, and watched the show. Her harem crowded behind her, peering with delight that soon changed to horror, with cheers that soon changed to screams and tears. The dogs tore limbs off torsos, ripped out necks, tugged out entrails. One animal managed to tear out several ribs. The Gaelian woman lived longest, ripped apart yet still screaming, then mewling, then only weeping as the dogs devoured her. Finally she too was silent.

"Enjoy the show, my friends and lovers!" Porcia said. "Wine. More wine!"

One of her concubines cowered in the corner, weeping as her friend tried to console her. The dogs were led away, bellies full, blood on their maws, leaving bones behind. Porcia would let those bones stink for a while longer. Let them be a reminder. Let them stifle the memories. Let all know that treachery would be punished.

Let the voices stop.

She drank, and finally she slept on her throne, and she dreamed of dancing men with pig heads, of barbarian hosts, and of endless mountains of bones.

MAYA

Maya stood in the cell, struggling to breathe, as the Dagonites swarmed around the house of Luminosity like mad dogs at a chicken coop. Shouts rose from beyond the walls. Smoke wafted into her chamber.

"Slay the heathens!" rose a deep voice.

"They're breaking in!" cried a girl.

"Lumers!" An old woman's voice—Namtar! "Lumers, to me! Gather here. Summon your light!"

A man cried out, "Cut them down!"

The smell of burning flesh flared. More screams rose.

Maya panted, head reeling, heart pounding. She raced toward the door and grabbed the knob. Locked. She ran toward her window, leaped up, and grabbed the bars. They wouldn't budge. She stood in the center of the room, breathing heavily, eyes stinging.

A heavy hand rattled the doorknob. The door shook as somebody slammed against it. Maya took a step back. With a shower of wooden shards, the door crashed open, and a Dagonite burst into the chamber. He was a tall man, lanky, his face long, his beard oily. He wore a dark robe and held a sickle.

"Found one!" he cried over his shoulder, laughing, and advanced toward Maya, sickle raised.

Maya grabbed her inkpot and hurled it. She had spent many years with her brothers, tossing pinecones at targets, and this throw too hit its mark. The vessel slammed into the man's face, shattered, and spilled ink over his eyes. The man roared and swung his sickle blindly. Maya leaped back and hissed. The blade sliced a lock of her hair. The Dagonite wiped at his eyes, cursing, and Maya whipped around him and barged out into the corridor.

She knew the layout of this house well; she had traversed these corridors many times with her Sight. She ran down the corridor, only to skid to a halt. Several Dagonites stood ahead of her, kicking open doors. They turned toward her, bloodlust in their eyes, and ran her way. Maya turned and fled, swerved down another corridor, and raced into the library. Several other pupils stood here. Maya had spent half a year in this house, but she had never met these girls, only glimpsed them when using her Sight. Dagonites were banging at the door, struggling to break into the library. Through a barred window Maya saw many others outside—a hundred or more—banging at the house as if they could break the walls.

"Grab weapons!" Maya said, racing toward the shelves. "Anything you can find!"

Maya spotted her pack on a shelf, the one she had brought here all the way from Zohar. She grabbed it, rummaged, and pulled out two knives—a small one for daily tasks and a larger dagger with a horn hilt, the one Atalia had given her. She handed the knife to a girl, then drew the dagger. Two other pupils tossed scrolls aside, tore wooden shelves off the wall, and raised them like clubs. The door shattered, and Dagonites crashed into the room, holding torches and sickles.

"Leave this house!" Maya cried, summoned her magic, and let the light blast out.

Luminescence was a force for healing, for art, for knowledge, and it could not harm another soul. But it was bright enough to blind them, to scare them. As the Dagonites covered their eyes, Maya ran forward and lashed her dagger. The blade scraped across a man's thigh. A torch swung her way, and Maya leaped back. The other girls blasted their own light and swung their own weapons.

"Lumers, to me!" rose a cry. "Lumers!"

"Namtar," Maya whispered. She turned toward the others. "Run! With me!"

They charged toward the doorway. Maya thrust her blade, cutting another man. She screamed as a torch blazed across her. Her tunic kindled. She patted at the flames, burning her hand. She ran onward, slamming into a man, spreading her fire over him. He screamed. Maya ran onward, and the pupils ran with her. A sickle swung, and a pupil screamed, her belly sliced open, her blood gushing. A Dagonite cut down another girl. The survivors kept running, bursting into a corridor. Maya fell, screaming, rolling, patting off the fire. She rose, ugly welts across her side. The luminescence still flowed around her fingers, and she touched her wounds, and the pain eased.

More Dagonites ran toward her, and Maya shouted and raised her hands. Light flared out, forming a shield—like the shield she had raised in the desert. Some sickles clanged against the light, but others tore through, and one blade cut Maya's arm down to the bone. The pain was furious, flaming, a raging demon, but Maya plowed onward, driving the light forward, holding them back. Another pupil fell, and three more girls walked with Maya. They fought their way into the front hall.

The door had smashed—the same door Maya had knocked on half a year ago, begging to join the school. Namtar stood in the foyer, two pupils at her side. The girls held knives while Namtar raised her staff. Two pupils lay dead at Namtar's feet.

Dagonites crowded the chamber, and many more stood outside. Smoke flowed through the house, and Maya coughed violently, and her head spun, and her blood still dripped. She came to stand by her mistress. The lumers of Suna—one old teacher and six girls—stood back-to-back, hands wreathed with light.

"I command you—stand back!" Namtar said, and though the old woman was small and frail, she suddenly seemed like a giant. Her eyes blazed with light, and luminous strands flowed around her arms. "I will curse you all, and I will curse your children and your grandchildren."

Saentek, chief of the Dagonites, approached—the same man who had accosted Maya on her first day in this town. "You are harmless, crone. If you could truly hurt us, why do your girls lie dead at your feet?" He laughed—a sound like cracking bones. "We are done being intimidated by old women and girls. Dagonites! Slay them!"

The men roared and charged.

"Fight them!" Maya cried. "Use your Muse—fight!"

She summoned her magic. She used the Muse—that pillar that enabled creation, the sculpting of perfect forms, the painting of frescoes, the calligraphy in her book, the art of love. She tried to apply it to her knife, to find the dance and beauty of battle. But her stroke missed. A sickle cut her shoulder. Another blade sliced her thigh. Swords drove into a girl at her side. A blade sank into another pupil's neck, and her head wilted, nearly severed. A third girl screamed, engulfed in flame. Smirking, Saentek swung his sickle, cutting into Namtar's side, and the mistress of Luminosity fell. The lumers' weapons clattered across the floor. Maya had come to this house to learn, and she learned a valuable lesson today: that Luminosity was a tool of healing, that Muse was a magic of creation, and she could not use the light to harm others.

She reformed her shield around her, the one that had cast back the dragons. Sickles slammed into the light, but a torch made its way through, burning her. Maya fell to her knees. In the desert, she had used the lume she had soaked up in Zohar—stronger, thicker magic. Here in the east, she had only the flitting, fine lume of this town, a weaker reservoir, and her shield collapsed. Namtar lay beside her, clutching her wound, gasping for breath. The pupils lay dead, and the Dagonites moved in, leering at Maya, sickles raised. Beyond them, outside the door, she could see their idol. The statue of Dagon, taller than a man, rolled forth on bronze wheels. The idol was shaped as a muscular man with the head of a dog, holding a sickle and a sheaf of wheat.

Maya raised her chin.

No, I cannot use Muse to hurt them, she thought. A lumer does not fight with violence but with wisdom.

She clung to her Muse, and she spoke.

Her voice boomed out—deep, echoing. In the legends of her people, ancient lumers had spoken from mountaintops, their voices heard for parsa'ot, leading the people out of slavery in Nur, leading them home from captivity in Sekadia, giving them Eloh's commandments from the Temple of Beth Eloh. Bnot Kol, the legends had called those lumers—daughters of the voice, speaking with God's authority. Now Maya spoke with a voice from those tales, a voice of holiness, of ancient wrath and divinity. She tossed that voice—sending it out from her, letting it flow from the statue of Dagon, roll across his adherents, fill this chamber, and echo.

"Lay down your sickles, worshippers of Dagon!" the voice boomed. "Kneel and kill no more, for in this house, you have grieved me."

The Dagonites spun around toward their god. The idol rose there in the garden. Maya focused, streaming forth her light, and the idol's eyes shone.

"My lord!" cried Saentek, kneeling, arms raised. "You speak to us!"

"Slay no more!" boomed Dagon. "I am a god of growing things. A god of soil, water, wheat, and life. Nevermore will you kill another in my name. Leave this house! Leave and never return, for lumers shall henceforth be holy to you, and you will cherish and bless them."

As the Dagonites retreated, taking their idol, Maya knelt by her mistress. Namtar lay on the floor, cut deep, her lifeblood flowing across the floor.

"I will heal you," Maya whispered, pulling open Namtar's cloak, then gasped. She felt the blood drain from her face. Under her cloak, her belly was cut open, and her entrails had spilled out, pink, wet, falling to the floor. Maya looked up and met Namtar's gaze.

"I am beyond healing," the old woman whispered.

Maya shook her head, tears in her eyes. "No. No! This is magic. This can heal you. I can . . ." She reached toward the wound, hesitating, not knowing what to do. She summoned her magic, let the light flow to the wound . . . but as the wound began to close, Namtar cried out. The closing wound was only tightening around the spilling organs, and fresh blood flowed, and Maya's tears fell. She moved her glowing hands upward, placed them against Namtar's brow, and let the light ease her pain. The old woman's face calmed.

"I'm sorry," Maya said, trembling. "I don't know what to do."

Namtar reached up a shaky hand and clutched Maya's arm. "You know. You must return. You must go home, and you must face him there."

Maya lowered her head. "I'm not ready. I didn't study enough. I . . . I need to learn so much more from you."

The old woman smiled weakly. "You've completed the Luminous Writ. You're ready, child. You are now a lumer. I'm proud of you."

But Maya only wept. What use was being a lumer if she had failed to save the house of Luminosity? If she could not even heal her teacher?

"I'm scared," she whispered, and she thought of that shadow, that dark figure she had seen on the hill and in her dreams. It was him she must face. She knew that's what Namtar had meant. Yet she had never learned his name.

"Scared?" said Namtar. "So are all who do great deeds. It is fear that is common to all great women. It is fear that all those who change the world must face. But fear is a thing of shadows. Remember that, child. Focus on the light, for the light is love—eternal, unconditional, and it will always keep you safe. I will be there for you, my soul risen into grace. Go to them now, Maya. Go to them who wait, who need you. They will teach you more than I ever could." Light filled the old lumer's eyes. "The grace of Luminosity flows eternal. The lumer's candle shall always burn."

Maya buried them in the olive grove—her teacher, her sisters, lumers. People from Suna emerged to help her dig the graves—old women, children, mothers, elder men, all those the lumers had helped in this town, those Namtar and her pupils had healed, comforted, whose darkness they had lit. Dozens gathered to lay their bodies down, and Maya wept, for she realized that even here, so far from home, the light was loved and her people were blessed. Maya had no flowers to place upon their graves, and so she planted olive pits, one in each grave, and she blessed each with a drop of light.

"Let trees grow here," she said. "Let these seeds become coiling, beautiful trees that give shade and fruit to many. In the Book of Eloh it's said that we return to the soil, but I pray that you grow as new life, my sisters, that you make this town beautiful again."

The sea whispered, and the olive trees that already grew here rustled in the salty breeze.

Maya hefted her pack across her shoulders, and she turned away from the house of Luminosity. She walked through the city, alone, but the light would forever be inside her. It was time to go home.

KOREN

They stood on the ferry, gazing at the white cliffs rising from mist.

"Elania," Valentina whispered. The cold sea wind billowed her charcoal cloak and dyed black hair. "The enchanted isle."

Koren stood at her side, shivering in his cloak, his hands shoved into his armpits. "It looks miserable. And cold. And wet." He sighed. "You couldn't find us some warm island in the Encircled Sea for our exile, could you? A place full of sweet summer wine, adorable lambs who walk right up and let you cook them, and scantily clad maidens?" He stared at the island ahead and shuddered. "God's balls, this is a desolate rock at the end of the world."

She smiled at him wanly and patted his arm. "We'll find you some wine, and we'll find you some lamb."

He dared to hope. "And the scantily clad maidens?"

Valentina sighed and shook her head. "I'm keeping my cloak on. Too cold."

Koren groaned. "Fine. Two out of three ain't bad."

The ferry was small, barely as long as Koren was tall. The old ferryman stood behind them, wrapped in gray robes, his beard long and white, a scarf wrapped around his eyes. The blind elder hummed a tune as he oared, propelling the ferry onward across the narrow sea. When Koren turned back south, he could see the mainland of the continent—the vast lands north of the Encircled Sea that contained Gael, Aelar, and a hundred conquered lands. It had been a long, miserable journey here. Koren had long ago lost count of the days, the weeks, the months. Finally here, in the northern sea, the long road blurred in his mind, as if he were waking from a nightmare. He remembered nights on the roadside, huddled by a campfire. Long days traveling afoot—first along roads, then through forests, hiding from the legions. And finally the port, into the sea—and northward, onward to the island.

The old man navigated his ferry around boulders, finally rowing the boat to a rickety pier. Koren looked around him. He hadn't expected a massive, wondrous port like Aelaria Maritima, but he had hoped for at least a bustling marina like Gefen's, a place to buy some fried fish, a few beers, and a downy bed for the night. But this port, on the southern coast of Elania, was just . . . well, just this single wooden pier. A few wooden slats were missing, and what remained had surrendered to mold and barnacles. The pier stretched toward a cold, gray beach, and beyond soared the white cliffs, stretching along Elania like a defensive wall.

Koren turned toward the old ferryman. "This is the wrong place. Where are the fried fish, the beer, the soft downy beds?"

The graybeard stared at him blankly.

"Looks like it's stale old crackers for a while longer," Valentina said. She paid the old man a few coins and stepped onto the pier. "Come, Koren."

He stood in the ferry, cringing. "Are you sure there's not another province where you know the commander of three legions? One less . . . cliffy?"

She groaned, the wind fluttering her cloak. "Koren!"

With a sigh, he stepped onto the pier too. The wooden slats creaked, and the cobalt water rushed beneath. By the time they stepped onto the beach, the ferryman was already rowing back to the distant southern coast, which now lay beyond the horizon. A cold wind blew, and a single gull cawed above.

"The bird is laughing at us." Koren pointed. "That was a laugh."

But Valentina was already walking toward the cliff. "Hurry up, Koren! Look, a staircase. Once we find Atticus, you'll have your wine."

Koren gave the cliff a dubious stare. It was perfectly vertical, as white as Valentina's skin, and tall enough to dwarf the Temple in Beth Eloh. What Valentina had called a staircase was no more than a rough path that zigzagged up the cliff, barely wide enough to let a person stand.

"Fuck me, even the marble quarry was better than this." He sighed. "All right! All right. We climb. The things I do for wine!"

Valentina smiled at him. "It'll be worth it, Koren. Once we reach the top, Atticus will give us a royal welcome. A feast. Probably a play in the theater. All the wine that you could drink. And best of all . . ." Her eyes lit up. "He commands three legions, and he's loyal to my family—my real family. He'll help us fight Porcia. Once he hears of her cruelty, he'll help us."

Koren found it hard to share her optimism. All his life, he had counted on help from stronger, older warriors, and all his life, the great heroes had failed. His cousin Yohanan—tall, strong, brave—had fallen upon the heights. Uncle Benshalom, the greatest warrior in Zohar—slain by Porcia's men. Atalia, brave and strong—drowned in the sea. Even Father, the great Lord Jerael Sela . . . Koren lowered his head. It seemed like all those wise, older folk had failed to protect the world, allowing it to fall into the hands of monsters like Seneca, Porcia, and Claudia.

He looked at Valentina. She began to climb the stairs up the cliff.

Is she still naive? he thought. The righteous perish in this world. The cruel survive.

He looked at his hands. He had washed off the blood—the blood of men he'd slain in Zohar, the blood of men he'd slain on the road. Perhaps he, Koren, was becoming something like those monsters, a man like Seneca, unafraid to murder others to gain what he wanted. Koren clenched his jaw, and his eyes stung.

No, I cannot allow myself to become like them. That's not who I am. Not who I will be.

"Koren!" Valentina looked over her shoulder and gestured for him to follow. "Hurry up!"

He looked at her. A slender young woman, only nineteen, soft-spoken and kind.

She will die, he thought. Her kind always dies. He clenched his jaw. Then I will become that man. I will become the killer. To protect her. Let me stain my hands, my soul, so that she can remain pure.

He followed her.

They climbed for hours, pausing now and then for rest, then climbing onward. The icy wind kept gusting, almost blowing Koren down to his death. He cursed every gust, cursed every step, cursed every legionary in Porcia's army. The beach soon became a pale strip below, and the sea spread in the south, dark blue and gray. After climbing high enough, Koren could just make out the continent south of the island, that vast land between the Encircled Sea and this hellhole.

When the sun was setting, they reached the top of the cliff and found sprawling grasslands. Koren took two steps, then collapsed and lay on the grass, breathing raggedly.

"Next time, just take me back to the marble quarries," he said, then closed his eyes and slept.

They woke at dawn to find that the clouds had parted, and the sun shone upon mist and dew. The sea below appeared vibrant blue today, its grayness gone. When Koren looked north, he saw the grasslands spreading toward distant forests and, on the horizon, just the hint of mountains. A dirt road coiled through the grasslands, and they walked, leaving the cliffs behind.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" Koren asked.

Valentina shook her head. "I never claimed to know where I'm going. But look." She pointed ahead. "See there, in the distance? That's a cobbled road. Only Aelarians build cobbled roads. It'll lead us to Atticus."

The dirt path connected with the paved road, and they walked north across the grasslands. Soon Koren began to see more signs of civilization. Hills rolled alongside the road, and dolmens rose upon them—crude doorways, formed from three rectangular boulders, that led to tombs within the hills. Koren frowned to see them. He had seen similar dolmens in Erez, the hilly north of Zohar where Uncle Benshalom had lived. Benshalom had told him the megaliths were ancient, predating even Zohar and Nur. Had whoever built the tombs in Zohar built these ones too? If so, their empire must have been massive, as large as Aelar's or larger. Now all that remained of them were old stones.

It began to rain again. They trudged onward, soaking wet. Farther down the road, Koren beheld a great henge of similar boulders, like many dolmens arranged in a ring. The stones were weathered, mossy, and inlaid with runes.

"It's a henge," he said. "There are henges like this in Zohar too. When I was a child, my parents took me to see one in the northern hills. My parents told me they were ancient, thousands of years old, and that nobody knew who built them. The same people must have spread across the world. Never imagined I'd see their ruins here in Elania too. I wonder whatever happened to the buggers."

Valentina looked at a hill beyond the henge. "Maybe they're still here."

Koren looked and his eyes widened. Men stood on a distant hilltop, gazing down at the road. It was hard to see from this distance, especially through the drizzle, but they seemed to wear gray and blue robes, and their beards were red and white, flowing down to their waists. They held gnarled staffs.

"Who are they?" Koren said, eying them as he and Valentina kept walking down the road.

"Native Elanians," she said. "I've seen a handful in Aelar but have never spoken to them. I think they're shy."

Koren nodded. "Good. Excellent! I love shy people. They tend to try to kill you less often, which would be a nice little change of pace."

The sun set again, and they slept on the roadside. Blessedly, the next morning brought them to a village, the first one they had seen on the island. A temple to Dia rose here, not much larger than a typical house. An idol of the Aelarian goddess rose outside the temple's portico, shaped as a woman spilling water from a jug, her marble robes exposing one breast—goddess of spring and plenty, woefully out of place on this cold, rainy island. While the temple was decidedly Aelarian, the village huts were not. They were simple dwellings, built of wood and topped with thatch. A wooden palisade surrounded the settlement, and a legionary stood at the gate, wet, shivering, and miserable.

"Hello, son of Aelar!" Valentina said, approaching the palisade. "May Dia, goddess of spring, bless you."

The young man gave Valentina and Koren a wary look, then spat. "Dia has never been to this island. Spring has never been to this island." The rain pattered against his helmet. "When I joined the legions, they told me I'd be stationed in Berenia."

"What's in Berenia?" Koren asked.

The gatekeeper tucked his hands under his armpits and shivered. "Sunlight? Wine? Scantily clad maidens?"

Koren gasped and turned toward Valentina. "I told you! I told you such a place exists!"

Ignoring him, Valentina spoke to the gatekeeper. "I've come here straight from Aelar, bearing a message to Governor Atticus Magnus. Our ship sank in the straight. Only my Zoharite slave and I survived." She ignored Koren's gasp of protest. "How far are we from Atticus's residence?"

The gatekeeper raised an eyebrow. "You mean the city of Tilium?" He sighed. "Two days north along the road. Not a bad city. They even have a bathhouse and theater. Fuck me, I'd tolerate Tilium if I had to stay on this island. Beats this shithole of a village." A ghost of hope filled his eyes. "If you really meet Governor Atticus, maybe put in a good word for me? And, um . . . forget the cursing. This cold weather freezes a man's courtesies."

Valentina nodded and gave the man few denarii. They spent the night in the village tavern, where Koren finally enjoyed a hot meal and a mug of cider. At dawn they hit the road again, walking for two days through fields and forest. At times, in the distance, they saw the villages of native Elanians. The settlements rarely included more than twenty huts thatched with straw, and their people—tall, fair, and red of hair—stared from the distance but did not approach. Many of the villages displayed a blend of native and Aelarian culture. Some had stone buildings, built in the Aelarian style, among the wooden huts: temples, bathhouses, courthouses, even a small theater in one town. These settlements had legionaries guarding their gates.

This is what's happening to Zohar, Koren thought. Aelar is bringing their culture, their religion, and their soldiers into our towns, taking over, forcing us to become like them until all traces of our ancient culture fade . . . and only Aelar remains.

They were traveling across a grassy hill, moving through a copse of oaks, when they beheld many figures in a misty valley. Koren and Valentina crouched between the roots of a gnarled oak with a crown of red leaves, clutching each other's hands as they stared down into the mist. It seemed like an army of ghosts, a thousand or more, their voices muffled. Koren huddled lower, wincing as he crinkled dry leaves beneath him. He stared between the mossy, twisting roots that rose around him like a cage. The mist was thick, but he glimpsed red hair, checkered garments, and iron—helmets, axes, spears. Guttural voices rose from the valley, and many feet thumped. A horn blared, an astral sound, a keen of spirits from another world. When Koren looked toward the sound, he glimpsed a rider in the mist, tall and broad, his chest bare. He held a scrimshawed horn, and a sword hung at his side. His beard and hair were long and wild and the color of fire. The figure rode onward, vanishing again into mist, and the host followed.

"Elanians," he whispered. "And these ones seem less shy than the others."

Valentina stared, eyes haunted. "They're marching north. To Tilium." She turned toward Koren, cheeks flushed pink. "There is war here."

Below in the valley, the host grew more distant, soon rising to march across the northern hills. They vanished into a forest of oaks, beech, and ash. Koren and Valentina remained among the roots, shaken by the sight.

"There is war everywhere," Koren said. "It's the nature of men. Before Aelar invaded my country, my cousins fought each other. Before that, we fought Nur, Sekadia, Kalintia, the Ashenites . . . pretty much everyone. Wherever men build and toil and raise civilizations, they will seek to burn and destroy and reduce civilizations to ash."

Valentina rose to her feet. "Well, I am no man. I will see the Republic restored, and I will see her become a force for peace."

Koren stood up too, sudden anger rising in him. He had been following Valentina for months through the wilderness, abandoning any world he had known—for what, naivety?

"Peace?" he said, a hint of anger entering his voice. "And when the Gaelians swarm to Aelar and assault her walls, ready to slay the men, rape the women, and enslave the children—you will speak to them of peace? When Seneca sails into Aelaria Maritima, seeking to rule the Empire with blood, seeking to slaughter every soldier in his way and crush the provinces, you will speak of peace?" He shook his head. "Peace is a fairy tale. A dream."

"Then I will keep dreaming!" Valentina said, voice so loud Koren cringed, worried the distant Elanians would hear. "I'd rather dream than live in your reality. It is hopelessness, cynicism, and despair that would lead this world to ruin. Maybe the dreamers might yet save it."

Hopelessness, Koren thought. Cynicism. Despair. When had those demons infiltrated him? This wasn't him. He was Koren Sela, the second son of a great house, a boy who had always shirked his duties to romance common girls, sing dirty limericks with Atalia and laugh when their mother frowned, who delighted in making silly faces until Maya burst out laughing. Epher had always been the serious one, Atalia brave, Ofeer hurt, Maya sweet—and him, Koren, always happy, always funny, a light even in the darkest shadow.

But that boy died in Gefen, Koren thought. That boy grew into a man who kills. A man who sees no end to killing.

"This isn't who I am," Koren whispered. "But this is who I have to be."

Valentina's gaze softened. She placed a hand on his cheek. "Not anymore. Not with me." She embraced him. "There is still hope in you. I know it. That's why you're still here with me. You grumble, and you call me a dreamer, but you don't leave. Because you still believe."

"Believe in what?" His voice was barely a whisper.

She caressed his hair. "That you can still be the person you were. Before this. Before the world burned."

Twilight spread around them, gilding the mist, and the foliage of oaks and beeches blazed like wildfires. They set camp here on the hill, lit a campfire, and lay together under their single blanket. The fire crackled and the cold wind blew, ruffling the blanket, and Koren couldn't stop seeing it. The legionaries in the tavern. His blade sinking into them. The blood washing him.

"I'll try, Valentina," he whispered. "I'll try to believe. But there is so much darkness. I don't know if light can ever shine again."

He couldn't see her in the shadows, but he felt her press against him, her arms wrap around him. "A single candle can lead one through shadow. Let us be that candle. Walk this dark path with me."

As she spoke, her lips brushed against his cheek, and he stroked her hair—silken, long, flowing between his fingers. Her lips moved just the slightest, brushing the corner of his mouth, and he kissed her. For a long moment they kissed in the shadows, holding each other under the blanket, until he tasted her tears.

"Why do you weep?" he asked her.

She buried her face against his neck. "For one whom I lost. Whom I loved. One whom Marcus murdered."

"Iris," he said. "From Gefen."

He turned his head away. She kisses me and thinks of her.

She pulled his head back toward her, and she kissed him again. "I weep because I'm afraid. Afraid of loving you. Afraid of losing you too. Afraid that . . . that you were right. That I'm only a naive girl. That I cannot heal this world."

He shook his head. "No, I was wrong. Never be afraid to love. Never be afraid to dream. Never be afraid to hope."

She slept in his arms that night, and for a long time Koren lay awake, stroking her hair, listening to her soft breath. He had kissed girls before, had even been in love with Naima, a shepherdess with large green eyes, but that had been the love of a boy, of youth in sunshine.

I love you, Valentina, he thought. I love you in shadow and in flame. You are my candle in the dark.

Finally he slept too, his arms wrapped around her, until the dawn rose.

SENECA

He stood on the villa's balcony, watching three hundred ships gather in the port, a vast armada, a fleet of might, a mere flicker of hope to hold back the storm.

Tereen, Seneca thought. Here I first came into Nur. Here the fate of this province, and my empire, will be decided.

He had not lingered long in Shenutep, Nur's capital in the south—just long enough to marry his wife, to muster the legion garrisoned there, and to summon the hordes of Nurian rebels. Then back here, north along the Majina River, to this Aelarian villa in Tereen, the place where he had killed a man and freed a queen. Back to the Encircled Sea. Back to the port. Back to war. There before him, across the delta and in the sea, the ships sailed for him. There they would burn. There they would sink. There he would face Porcia again.

She's coming here, Seneca thought, remembering his lumer's warning. Her fleet sails to Nur. In Nur the fate of the Empire will be determined.

"Will it be enough?" Imani whispered. "Enough to stop her?"

Seneca turned to look at his wife. The dawn caressed her, the fairest of women, her hair a midnight mane, her body clad in purest white muslin trimmed with gold. Flowers bloomed around her in stone urns, and birds of many colors perched on the stone balustrade before her, yet they could not compete with Imani's beauty.

I came here to fight for Aelar, Seneca thought. For a throne to sit on. Yet I found a treasure in the south. I found Imani.

"I don't know," he confessed. "We command many ships, but Porcia's fleet is mightier. On the shores and riverbanks of Nur, thousands of warriors muster, Nurians and Aelarians alike. Yet Porcia commands more."

"This is our home," Imani said. "Men will fight more bravely for their home than for a distant province."

You don't love me, Seneca thought. You married me for the legions I command here, for my ships, for a chance that I can repel Porcia.

He cursed himself. The thoughts of an overemotional boy, not a leader. Besides, how was he any different? Had he married Imani for love? Of course not. She desired his army; he desired hers. Thousands of Nurian warriors, wild men and women eager for war, served Queen Imani. Many ships sailed under her command, merchant and fishing vessels converted into military machines.

So why did he keep gazing at her lips, longing to kiss them? Why the constant urge to stroke her hair, to hold her? Why did it hurt so much when Imani didn't gaze at him with any affection?

"That's true," Seneca lied, thinking of how Zohar had fallen, how a hundred other nations, defending their homes with equal fervor, had fallen to Aelar.

But those nations hadn't had him fighting with them, he told himself. They had been abandoned, standing before Aelar alone. This was different. This wasn't just a war between an empire and a kingdom. This was a war between him and his sister.

"Then we will win." Eyes alight, Imani held his hands. "When she sails against us, we'll cast her back into the sea."

Her hands were so warm, her fingers long and slender.

Stop it, Seneca told himself. Don't you remember what happened in Zohar? You met Ofeer, and at the sight of a pretty girl, you forgot your task, instead playing stupid, lovesick games. If I'm to be emperor, Imani must mean nothing to me—nothing but a pawn, a trophy, a banner around which to rally the troops. I must burn the prince. I must become the emperor.

He forced himself to ignore the warmth of her hands, the beauty of her eyes. Instead he envisioned Porcia's face—her sharp features, maniacal smile, cruel eyes—and he imagined her burning, screaming in his fire, begging him for mercy he would not grant.

"Let us walk among the troops," he said. "Let them see us—a prince of Aelar and a queen of Nur—joined in marriage, joined in battle. Let our story inspire them."

A false story, he thought. A show, that is all. Remember that, Seneca Octavius. This is just a farce. Never forget your task here.

They left the balcony, exited the late Lord Fabricus's mansion, and entered a chariot of gold and silver. Four white horses pulled Seneca and Imani through Tereen, the great port city of Nur. Around them rode their guard—ten horsed legionaries at one side, an elephant at the other side, bearing Nurian archers in its howdah. Their banners rose together—the Aelarian eagle, golden on a crimson field, and the Nurian ibis, a silvery bird on blue.

Two birds for two nations, Seneca thought. One bird of prey, one of beauty. Fitting.

The Majina River, the great artery of Nur, broke here into a delta of many rivulets, all flowing into the Encircled Sea. Palm trees and mangroves rustled along the water, and cranes and ibises fluttered across the sky, unaware of the looming war. Obelisks tipped with gold and silver, sandstone sphinxes that soared as tall as palaces, and columned temples rose from the canopy. The air was thick with the scent of water and leaf, oil and sweat, iron and spice.

And everywhere they rallied—the forces of Nur.

Along the boardwalk, the Nurian soldiers stood facing the sea. Men and women kept vigil, wearing white cotton, armored only with greaves, vambraces, and helmets shaped like ibis heads. They held javelins and round shields, and semicircular khopesh swords hung from their waists. Thousands mustered here—once rebels in the underground, now an army.

Imani stepped out from the chariot, and she walked along the line of troops, speaking to the warriors, laughing with them, embracing them, praying with them.

She's not like an empress, Seneca thought, still standing in the chariot. She's one of her people, not holy, not a deity. He remembered how his father, back in Aelar, had gone everywhere with a memento mori, a reminder of mortality. Yet that had been only a mockery, and that slave had betrayed the emperor. Imani needed no such gruesome reminders of her humanity. She showed that humanity not with chains, not with a haggard doppelganger, but with her smile, her kindness.

They kept riding, crossed a bridge, and approached Castrum Mare, a bastion of Aelar's might that overlooked the sea. Walls surrounded the compound, topped with legionaries. They rode through the gates, entering a courtyard that sprawled before a fortress. To the north rose the tallest walls, and through their arrowslits Seneca could see the Encircled Sea.

More troops gathered here, line by line—legionaries with tall scutum shields, armored in lorica segmentata. They raised two holy Aquila standards. Two legions mustered here, ten thousand men in all: Legio XI Nuria, brought north along the river from Shenutep, the legion Cicero had once commanded, their sigil an eagle clutching elephant tusks; and Legio X Ibisa, long stationed here in Tereen's port, once under Fabricus's command, their symbol an eagle slaying an ibis.

Seneca halted the chariot, took Imani's hand, and alighted with her.

He faced the troops, and he didn't know what to say. He wanted to be like Imani—to laugh with them, to slap their shoulders, to tell jokes, to be one of the people. But in truth, these soldiers scared him. Most were taller than him, wider, stronger, older. He was only twenty, not particularly strong, not particularly tall, his cheeks soft. A boy, that was all.

In Zohar, I made them bow before me, worship me as an idol, Seneca remembered. But that would no longer work here in Nur. Before, Seneca had the might of the Empire behind him—his father, his armada, the full wrath of the imperial legions. He was weaker now, commanding only ten thousand men, only three hundred ships—most of them not even warships, just merchant barges and fishermen's dinghies seized by his army. He was no idol to worship, but nor was he one of these men. If not a hero or a comrade, who was he to them?

How do I inspire them? he thought. How do I rally them around me?

No, he was no man of the people. Nor was he a prince to be feared, not anymore.

But he wasn't Porcia either. And that, perhaps, was good enough.

"My name is Seneca Octavius," he said to these men. "Son of Emperor Marcus, who was murdered in the bathhouse. My father turned Aelar, once a weak republic, into a great empire. He conquered this land. He brought Aelarian civilization to every realm around the Encircled Sea. Yet now that civilization crumbles." Seneca looked at the men, one by one. "Now Marcus lies dead, and his daughter, the cruel Porcia, sits on the throne. A woman who murdered the senators of our holy city. A woman who surrounds herself with gold, jewels, wine, and slaves as the Empire crumbles around her. A woman who cares not for the light of Aelar but for her own vainglory and pleasures. And now Porcia seeks to send her forces here to Nur, to bring us under her dominion, so that we may worship her as Aelar crumbles into sand. But I say Aelar will stand strong!"

The soldiers stared at him, silent. Seneca knew what they were thinking. What difference did it make to them who occupied the throne, him or Porcia? To them, the emperor was inconsequential. They cared for their purses, their families, a dream of retirement in the countryside, not the games of the mighty.

Seneca drew and raised his sword, trying a new approach. "I say that the wealth of the Empire belongs to its people—not its emperor. Porcia has stolen the wealth of Nur, has squandered that wealth on statues and monuments, on feasts and orgies. That wealth belongs to you! Once Porcia is crushed, I vow to you, soldiers of Aelar. I will smash her statues of gold, her jewels with many gemstones, and each man among you will receive his share. You and your families will grow wealthy, as will the people of Nur. Aelar for all! Porcia must fall! Porcia must fall!"

A few soldiers hesitantly raised their blades.

"Porcia must fall!" one man repeated the cry.

"Porcia must fall!" a few added, halfheartedly, glancing around. The chant soon died.

Seneca turned away. He climbed back into his chariot. He left the fortress, Imani at his side. His belly soured, and his throat burned with bile.

They rode back to the mansion by the water, the place where Seneca had first met Imani, had slain her master and freed her from the cage. The pyramids of Shenutep rose far in the south, too far to see, back in the heartland of Nur. As the war loomed, Seneca and Imani had moved here—to the northern port—to watch the sea. To wait. To face Porcia when her forces landed here. And here she would land, in this port—the gateway to Nur. Here had Taeer, his loyal lumer, foreseen his great battle, though even she could not foresee its outcome. Here in Tereen would Seneca's fate, and the fate of all the Empire, be settled.

The sun began to set. Seneca and Imani entered the bedchamber, a large room high in the villa, overlooking the Encircled Sea. Hundreds of ships moored outside, the sunset painting their sails red, and it seemed to Seneca like those sails were burning, like his fleet was already caught in the flames of war. Old screams echoed in his mind—men dying in Gefen, legionaries burning, a hammer swinging, a man on the cross. Seneca closed his eyes and lowered his head.

"I don't know how to inspire them." His voice was soft. "I don't know how to make them cheer, to rally them, to kindle the fires of ambition within them." He turned toward Imani. "Perhaps I lost that fire myself."

Imani placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then perhaps you've grown wiser."

"Wiser?" Seneca sighed. "What does wisdom give me? I was foolish when I sailed into Zohar. A foolish boy with fire in his belly, eager to prove his worth, to kill, to conquer. And I did those things, Imani. I killed. I conquered. I slew men, fucked women, plundered gold, claimed land for the Empire. I showed my worth. Perhaps only fools can lead men in war. Perhaps war is the playground of boys, not men."

"Or perhaps the playground of women." A crooked smile played on her lips. "Perhaps you should leave the fighting to me."

"Last time you fought alone, you ended up in a cage," he snapped, then immediately regretted those words. He saw the pain in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Imani. I'm sorry. I . . . I'm scared." He swallowed. "I don't like to admit this, but I'm scared. That the men won't follow me to battle, not like yours follow you. That Porcia's forces will swarm across this port. That she'll capture me, torture me, crucify me. That all the Empire will come under her dominion. This isn't how it was supposed to happen." He clenched his fists. "This was never meant to be."

Imani's eyebrows rose. "Never meant to be? So say all in life, other than those who make no plans, who simply sail where the wind takes them. All those who navigate the sea face changing winds. The wise adjust their sails."

Seneca stared back out the window. Three hundred ships. Twenty thousand warriors. An impressive army, larger than what many nations commanded, but nothing compared to what Porcia wielded.

Zohar burned, and so will we, Seneca thought. He forced in a breath. Yet I will not run. I will fight you, Porcia. I will fight even if you slay every one of my men, and then I will fight you alone. So long as I live, you will not sit easy on your throne. I vow this to you, Porcia. So long as breath fills my lungs, I will fight you.

Imani removed her jewels and kalasiri, remaining in a thin cotton shift. She climbed into the bed—a wide canopy bed, its posts engraved with birds, zebras, giraffes, and elephants. When she laid her head on the pillow, her hair spread around her in a midnight sea. Seneca removed his armor, blew out the candles, and lay down on the floor.

After a moment, Imani spoke in the darkness. "Seneca?"

"Imani," he said, lying on the cold stone.

"It's a large bed. You can share it." She peeked over the mattress. "I don't mean you're allowed to touch me. But you can lie beside me."

Relieved, Seneca climbed into bed with her. They lay side by side. The bed was just small enough that he could feel her warmth, and when his fingers accidentally brushed her hand, she did not pull back.

She turned her head toward him. "Goodnight, my husband."

A year ago, Seneca would have grabbed her, would have torn at her clothes, would have fucked her like he had fucked Ofeer in the cave, would have conquered her—a foreign beauty to satisfy his needs, a treasure like so many plundered jewels. But he was no longer that boy, refused to be that boy. He leaned closer, hesitated a moment, then kissed her forehead. She did not resist.

"Goodnight, Imani."

No sooner did he close his eyes than the bells clanged, the drums beat, and the shouts rose outside.

Seneca's eyes snapped open, and he leaped up in bed; he hadn't realized that he'd fallen asleep. Imani rose at his side, eyes wide.

They left the bed, hurried onto the balcony, and gazed out at the port.

"Gods," Seneca whispered, his knees trembling, his breath rattling.

Troops were running along the boardwalk below. Horses galloped and soldiers raced through the city. Atop Castrum Mare, legionaries banged war drums, and the ships in the port clanged bells and bustled with sailors and archers.

"It's too soon," Seneca said. "How did she get here so fast? We're not ready."

Imani hissed at his side, baring her teeth. "We're ready. With fire, with iron, with courage—we fight."

From the horizon, they sailed toward the port. Hundreds of galleys, sails wide, masts alight with lanterns. Even in the darkness, Seneca could see their banners—the golden eagles of Aelar. Their distant drums beat, and their legionaries chanted. The armada stormed through the night, bringing with them a promise of fire, of bloodshed, and a battle for the throne of an empire.

KOREN

After long days of travel through the wilderness of Elania, Koren beheld a distant city by a river.

From here, Koren couldn't see much. He made out brick walls lined with battlements, and beyond them domes, towers, fortresses, and the top tier of a theater. He hadn't expected to find a city this large—it seemed as large as Gefen—in such a remote province. Judging by the architecture, this city was Aelarian.

"A little oasis of home, isn't it?" Koren said. "A touch of Aelarian civilization, here at the end of the world. Theater, bathhouses, chariot races, and good old conquest and killing."

Valentina sighed and slipped her hand into his. She spoke softly. "Aelarian civilization isn't all bad."

He raised an eyebrow as they walked along the cobbled road. Her hand felt so damn warm that his entire body tingled. It was hard to focus on anything else. "Isn't your motto something like: We came, we saw, we killed?"

She cringed. "The motto of the legions. Of the Octavius family. But not of all Aelarians. Even during its days of a Republic, as my father served in the Senate, Aelar expanded, colonized, spread to all corners of the world."

Koren frowned. "So how was the Republic any better than the Empire? Even back then, your people conquered, butchered, enslaved."

She had the grace to lower her head. "Perhaps. Perhaps I am naive and romanticize the Republic. I was only a babe when it fell." She looked at him. "But Aelar isn't just those things. It's also roads that crisscross the world." She stamped her foot against the cobbled road. "It's sanitation. It's law and order. It's literacy. It's civilization. If Aelar were not here on this island, the natives would still be living in huts and caves. But now many of their villages are building bathhouses, brick homes, schools. They drink fresh water from aqueducts. They sit on toilets rather than squat in bushes. Their children learn to read and write; nobody here was literate before us. Aelar doesn't just seek to conquer. It seeks to civilize."

Koren bristled, and now some anger found him. "And who's to say the world wants to be civilized? Who's to say we want your gods, your language, your theater?" He shook his head sadly. "Maybe Zohar doesn't have bathhouses and amphitheaters and soldiers patrolling the streets, and maybe our roads aren't paved, and maybe our god seems foolish to you. But we've been rather happy doing things our way for the past three thousand years. And I reckon the hundred kingdoms Aelar conquered were fairly happy too. If people were that eager to welcome Aelar, half the lands around the Encircled Sea wouldn't be rebelling right now . . . or reduced to rubble."

He realized that he had raised his voice, that he was letting his anger take over. He was about to apologize for his rage when Valentina nodded, her eyes damp. She squeezed his hand.

"That is not the Aelar I envision," she whispered. "That is a cruel, bloodthirsty Aelar, and not the one I want, not the one my father wanted. Not all Aelarians are cruel. We're not all like Porcia."

"That's not what I meant—" he began, but soon tears were flowing down Valentina's cheeks, and Koren cursed himself. This wasn't him. He was the one who made jokes, who kept everyone happy, not one to rant and scold others like Ofeer always did. He sighed. "I'm sorry, all right? Maybe you're right. Maybe if we find this Atticus Magnus of yours, and he can help us restore the Republic, the world might be just a tad less miserable."

Valentina gazed at him with her huge, wet eyes. Her lips trembled as she spoke. "I believe in the Republic, Koren. I have to believe in it. It's why I'm here. It's what my father—my true father—suffered for, fought for, died for. I will do whatever I can to make Aelar a Republic again, and to make this world a gentler, kinder place. For Aelarians. For Zoharites. For everyone who suffers under Porcia's reign. Will you help me?"

Damn the girl. Somehow she had managed to make him feel like a donkey's backside, and a smelly one at that. He paused on the road and pulled her into an embrace.

"Of course," he said and kissed her forehead. "That's why I'm here. With you."

He thought back to his time with Claudia—days spent pouring wine, bathing in the sunlight, and making love to Claudia on a soft bed. He realized that standing here, weary and hungry and wet with rain, holding Valentina in his arms, he was happier than he'd ever been on Claudia's estate. He never wanted to let Valentina go. She was the best thing to have happened to him in a miserable year.

And yet her words from the tavern in Denegar returned to him.

I love another. I gave my heart to Iris, my lumer. I don't see myself ever loving another.

It was raining when they reached the river, and sunset painted the water crimson and gold. A great stone bridge spanned the river, leading to the walls of Tilium. Koren had never imagined that bridges could be as massive and beautiful as palaces, but this bridge sported arches and towers that would not shame a king's residence. Where each two arches met, marble pedestals rose, supporting statues of Aelarian generals and gods, their laurels and spears gilded. Two decorative columns, capped with golden eagles, flanked the entrance to the bridge. Several legionaries stood here, holding lanterns. The crests on their helms gleamed with raindrops. As Valentina and Koren approached, the guards moved to block their passage.

"Name and purpose," one guard said, stifling a yawn.

Valentina pulled back her cloak, raised her chin, and squared her shoulders. Over the past few rainy days, the dye had washed out from her hair. It once more shone snowy white, as pale as her skin. She gave the guards a proud look.

"My name is Valentina Cassius, daughter of Septimus Cassius, adopted daughter of Marcus Octavius, stepsister of Porcia Octavius, Empress of Aelar. I've come here to speak to Consul Atticus Magnus, an old friend of my father's, and to advise him on matters relating to the very fate of our empire."

Koren stepped up beside her and waved. "I'm Koren. I'm helping."

The guards' eyes widened, their boredom vanishing. They consulted among themselves. A few of these soldiers, Koren saw, had blue eyes and red stubble on their cheeks. They were natives of Elania, Koren realized, drafted into the legions, turned into Aelarians. He wondered if back home, in Zohar, young men were now wearing lorica segmentata and bearing gladius swords, serving Porcia as auxiliaries. The thought sickened him.

"Come with us," said one of the guards. "We'll take you to our lord."

Valentina sighed in relief and smiled. "Thank you, friends."

Three guards detached from the group and began to walk across the bridge. Valentina and Koren followed. The water rushed below and the rain kept falling. As they approached the city, Koren leaned toward Valentina.

"Valentina," Koren whispered. "Haven't we just spent the past couple of months hiding from legionaries? And now we've walked right up to them?"

"These legions are commanded by a family friend," Valentina said. "They are our allies." But there was nervousness in her voice, and her fingers twisted.

They walked through the city, following the guards. It seemed strange to Koren, to see this island of Aelarian civilization so far north across the sea. They passed by columned temples to the Aelarian pantheon, statues of Aelarian generals that rose on columns, a public bathhouse, and a theater that rose several stories tall, lined with arches. Cheers rose from within, accompanied by screams and the ring of clashing steel. Many people walked the streets, moving between shops and homes, clad in togas, stolas, and tunics. Many of the people seemed to be ethnic Aelarians, their hair brown or black, their eyes dark, but many others were native Elanians—their skin pale, their hair red or yellow, and they too dressed as Aelarians. This was the vision Valentina had spoken of—the people of the world united, their cultures erased, civilized, turned into Aelarians. To Koren, this seemed a poorer world.

Legionaries walked these streets too. They stood at every street corner, armed for war. A fortress rose between the houses, and Koren glimpsed a hundred soldiers in its courtyard, marching and drilling. He thought of that army he had seen in the wilderness. Even here in distant Elania, on the far edge of the world, the air smelled of war.

It seemed like wherever he went, he found strife, and he wondered if it were possible for men to build more than they destroyed, to create civilizations without shattering nations. He remembered being a child, playing on the beach with his siblings. He and Epher would always build castles in the sand, elaborate structures, complete with towers, walls, moats, walkways, and bridges. Yet they would never build those castles on dry sand, far from the waves. No. They purposefully built them in the path of the waves, knowing that the tide would rise, that the water would come gushing over their creations. For hours they would dig moats, build layers of curtain walls, speak of defense against the forthcoming watery assault. And when the waves hit, the brothers would hoot with pleasure, watching the moats fill, the defensive walls melt, and a few towers crumble—then rejoice at whatever parts of their castles still stood.

It had been just the game of children, yet now Koren wondered. Even then, they had shied away from building sandy villas on dry land. They played at construction and destruction, at splendor and ruin. Perhaps all the works of men were like the games of children—a struggle to build and destroy, to raise kingdoms and watch them washed away into the sand.

All we build are kingdoms of sand, he reflected. From plebeian to emperor, we are all just children hooting at collapsing towers.

Finally they reached a massive building, even larger than the theater. Koren was surprised to see a structure so large and grand here in the provinces. Columns rose in a portico, enclosing several archways, and engravings of eagles covered the pediment above. A triangular roof, tiled red, supported three bronze statues—one of Emperor Marcus, the other of Empress Porcia, and the third of Prince Seneca. All three held gilded swords. Around the portico, the building spread along several blocks, lined with arched windows, like a defensive wall around a city. Through the windows, Koren could see many legionaries marching in a courtyard.

Valentina speaks of bringing civilization to the wilderness, Koren thought. Sure takes a lot of swords to civilize a place.

He stared up at the statue of Seneca Octavius. The man who had murdered his father. Nausea rose in Koren. He liked this island less and less every day.

"The forum of Tilium," Valentina said, gazing at the building. "The center of Aelarian civilization in Elania."

"And the center of her cruelty," said Koren, gazing at the soldiers manning the compound.

"Valentina Octavius!" boomed a voice, and a man emerged from the forum, arms outstretched. He wore armor, the breastplate decorated with golden eagles, and a gladius hung from his belt. A deep scar ran across his head, plunging into the skull like a canyon, claiming one eye. That other eye shone. "How you've grown! When my men announced that you had arrived in the city, I could scarcely believe it. We've been worried here in Elania since hearing of your exile."

When the man embraced her and kissed her cheek, Valentina frowned and pulled back. "Do I know you?"

The man laughed. "I knew you when you were just a babe. But of course you don't remember. I am Flavius, an old friend of your father's. I humbly command the legions of this city. Come, come! Your friend Atticus awaits you."

They walked through the gateway, passing under the statues of the imperial family, and entered a vast, cobbled expanse that formed an inner city. Barracks rose here in rows, and a temple towered farther back, crowned with a statue of Dia. Countless legionaries marched here, and there could be no more doubt. Here was a city preparing for war. As they walked down a road between barracks, Flavius prattled on.

"We've heard all about your escape from Aelar, of course." His teeth shone in his smile. "And your companion must be Koren Sela, yes?" He gave a hearty laugh. "As you can see, even in the most distant provinces, we're not out of touch. I must say, dearest Valentina, Atticus would not stop talking about you, not since he heard you had fled Empress Porcia." Flavius's smile vanished, and he tsked his tongue. "Such a terrible thing, isn't it? Such bloodshed in the capital. I can't say I blame you for fleeing. Atticus always did believe the Empire was inherently violent, that the Republic must rise again."

Valentina flashed Koren a hopeful glance.

I told you! she mouthed silently, smiling, then turned toward Flavius.

"How is Atticus?" she said. "He's a good friend of my family. Why did he not come to greet us at the gates?"

They stepped around a statue of a rider, his horse rearing. There was no mistaking Marcus Octavius's harsh bronze countenance. Past the statue, Koren froze and stared. His heart sank to his pelvis.

Oh fuck.

"I wish I could have brought Atticus a gift," Valentina was saying. "He was always so fond of tangerine jam! Do you get tangerines here? I should . . ."

Her voice trailed off, and she stared too, the blood draining from her face.

Ahead rose a cross. A corpse hung from it, weeks old by the looks of it, barely anything left but bone. A sign hung around the skeleton's neck, its words written with a confident hand: The pig Atticus Magnus, traitor to the Empire.

Valentina screamed.

Flavius gazed at the corpse with them, nodding sadly. "As I was saying . . . the man did always believe in restoring the Republic. Even in this distant province, we do not tolerate traitors to the Empire."

Koren took a step back and drew his sword. Valentina hissed and came to stand beside him, drawing her own weapon. Legionaries advanced from all sides, forming a ring around them.

"You never take me anywhere nice," Koren said to Valentina. "Next time, I'm choosing our holiday destination."

They stood back-to-back, and the legionaries closed in. Above them, a gull cried out, far from the sea. The bastard was definitely laughing at him.

SENECA

The chariot raced through the dark city, sparks flying under its wheels. Its horses thundered, black stallions, shadows in the night.

"Faster," Seneca said. "Faster. Faster!"

They roared through shadows. The chariot bounced madly over the cobblestones, careening between the brick buildings of Tereen, port city of Nur. All around them soldiers ran, riders galloped, men shouted for war, and the drums kept beating.

Across the city, horns kept blaring.

Boom, boom, beat the drums. War. War. War.

"Faster!" Seneca shouted, whipping the horses. "Faster!"

The horses thundered onward. Imani stood in the chariot at his side, her breastplate engraved with golden ibises, her spear in hand. She wore a helmet, and she bore a tall shield. Seneca wore his own armor, a breastplate emblazoned with lions, and a crest rose from his helmet. A prince of the sea. A savanna warrior. Dawn and dusk. Husband and wife. Today they and their nations fought together.

Against you, Porcia. Seneca sneered. I will cast your men into the sea.

"Warriors of Nur!" Imani shouted at his side, waving her spear overhead. Feathers and bones dangled from the shaft. "To the port! To your ships! To war, to war!"

Across the streets of Tereen, the Nurian soldiers ran. They were tall, powerful warriors, chests bare, arms ringed with metal. They wore helmets and bore spears, shields, and khopesh swords with semicircular blades. They roared as they ran, streaming north toward the sea. Many women fought among them, wild and fierce, armed with spears and bows, howling for war.

"Sons of Aelar!" Seneca shouted from the chariot. They leaped over a crooked flagstone and landed hard, spraying sparks. "Eagles! Rise, rise now! With me, with Seneca Octavius! For the light of Aelar! For the gods! With me, to war, to war!"

The legionaries ran with him, clanking in their armor, shields forming walls around them. Only two legions, that was all; two among seventy in the Empire. Ten thousand men. His entire imperial army—but a speck by the might of Porcia.

They careened around a corner, the road sloped down, and there ahead Seneca saw it.

The Encircled Sea.

Hundreds of Porcia's ships were sailing forth, almost at the port now, their lanterns bright, their war drums booming. The chants of their soldiers rose on the wind, vowing death, vowing conquest.

Seneca sucked in air, reached out, and clasped Imani's arm.

"We forge our empire here tonight, my wife." He forced a smile. "Tonight we show the world that we are mighty."

Imani looked at him. There was no fear in her eyes, only courage, the steel of a true warrior.

"Tonight," she said, "we are free."

Nur's ships were detaching from the boardwalk and sailing into the dark waters to meet the enemy. The chariot roared down the cobbled road, clattered onto the boardwalk, and Seneca tugged the reins. The horses reared and the chariot nearly overturned.

Before them it loomed: the Aquila Aureum, the flagship of the Aelarian fleet, now the flagship of the Southern Empire. The ship Seneca had sailed to Zohar as a boy, leading an armada. The ship on which he had fled Porcia, coming to this southern land. The ship that would now lead him to death or victory.

Seneca leaped from the chariot and ran along the gangplank. Imani ran behind him.

"Row!" Seneca cried hoarsely, pointing his gladius toward the enemy. "Meet them head on. To war, to war!"

"To war!" shouted his soldiers, two hundred men on the deck. Sailors scurried, racing up masts, tugging ropes. The galley's oars began to move. The Aquila Aureum left the boardwalk, slowly at first, then gaining speed, soon charging through the harbor.

Hundreds of ships sailed around them, both his own Aelarian galleys and the native vessels of Nur, all topped with howling soldiers. Hundreds of ships sailed from ahead, the forces of Porcia Octavius, an armada sent here with a single purpose.

To kill me, Seneca knew.

He stepped toward the prow. He grabbed a bow, lit an arrow, and nocked it.

He was swinging his hammer and raising the cross.

A man ran on stumps.

A woman burned.

Seneca smiled thinly, teeth clenched.

Once I fought for conquest. Now I fight to defend a nation. I will know no fear.

With screams, fire, sound, and fury, the battle for his life began.

Countless flaming arrows flew from the enemy ships, arching through the night sky, falling stars. Catapults twanged, hurling burning barrels. Ballistae thrummed, firing iron bolts the size of men. The death rained toward Seneca and Imani, lighting the night.

"Burn them down!" Seneca shouted and fired his bow.

His flaming arrow shot through the night, its light reflecting across the water. An instant later, thousands of his soldiers, standing atop hundreds of ships, loosed their own arrows. The whistles filled the air, deafening.

"Shields!" Imani shouted. "Shields up!"

Seneca crouched and raised his shield overhead. The flaming arrows of the enemy rained across his ship. They pattered against his shield. One arrow tore through the layers of wood and leather, emerging to scrape Seneca's cheek, instantly cauterizing the wound. The other arrows slammed down all around him, hitting the deck, tearing through the sails, slamming into the oars. Imani hissed, shield overhead, the arrows slamming into the wood. A legionary screamed behind her and fell, clutching his chest. A sailor tumbled from a mast and slammed onto the deck, pierced with arrows.

Across Seneca's fleet, the screams rose. He peered from under his shield to see a ballista's bolt slam into a ship, tearing through the hull, and water gushed in. A flaming barrel hit another ship, shattered, and spilled burning death across the deck. Men raced, aflame, and leaped into the water.

Kill the rats! Seneca screamed in his memories.

He laughed, dueling Jerael, cutting him, whipping him, nailing him into the cross.

He sneered, drenched in sweat, fucking Ofeer in her own father's bed as that father died outside the window.

He wept, so afraid, unable to hide those visions, seeing it again and again, the men burning, the severed limbs, the walls of Gefen crumbling, his soul burning with hatred, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't—

"Seneca, fire your bow!" Imani grabbed him. "Fire, fire! Burn them down!"

Seneca sucked in air. He rose to his feet to see Porcia's fleet closer now, charging toward them, firing all their weapons. Arrows, iron bolts, boulders, flaming barrels—the inferno soared through the night toward him.

"Fire!" Seneca shouted. "Archers, fire! Trebuchets, fire!"

He fired another arrow toward the enemy ships. Thousands of other arrows flew with his. On the boardwalk behind him, his trebuchets swung, hurling boulders. The craggy stones sailed overhead, clearing Seneca's fleet and slamming into the armada ahead.

Fire lit the darkness. A boulder slammed into one of Porcia's ships, shattering the hull and deck. Men screamed and fell. The other galleys sailed onward, hulking black shadows, their oars beating. Some burned but still sailed forth, demonic ships of wrath. Demons. Demons of the underworld, risen into the world, vultures hunting in the darkness.

I will not fear them. I will slay all my enemies. I am Seneca Octavius. I am an emperor. I will be brave. Tonight I am free.

"Tonight we are free!" he cried.

"Tonight we are free!" Imani answered his call.

A barrel slammed into a ship at his left, spilling inferno over its soldiers. An iron bolt longer than a man tore into a ship at his right, sinking the vessel. The Aquila Aureum kept charging. Peppered with arrows, burning, punched with holes, the flagship kept sailing, faster with every beat of the oars, storming toward the enemy.

Seneca sucked in air and grabbed the balustrade.

Taste our iron, Porcia.

With a roar that seemed to crack the sky, with shattering wood, with death, with screams, with men calling for their mothers and burning and drowning in darkness and torn apart by iron and steel, the fleets slammed together.

Seneca screamed, clinging on. Ahead of him, only a few feet away, the ram of the Aquila Aureum—a great shard of iron shaped as an eagle—slammed into one of Porcia's hulking galleys. An enemy's ram tore into the Aquila Aureum's starboard, cracking wood, cutting the ship open. Water roared. Men screamed. Oars snapped and vanished underwater, and the enemy ship pressed up against them. Ropes swung and gangplanks slammed down, and with howls of war, Porcia's legionaries leaped onto the Aureum.

Seneca tossed down his bow and drew his sword.

"With me, Imani!" he cried. "For Nur!"

She snarled, teeth shining in the firelight, raising shield and spear. "For Nur!"

They charged toward the enemy.

Across the deck of the Aquila Aureum, the battle raged. Legionary fought legionary. Aquila standards rose, shining in the night. The men had no room to fight as units; the battle became a brawl, a mindless slaughter. Men laughed as they hacked at their brothers, ripping off limbs, snapping through bones. Seneca's heart thrashed, and sweat washed him as he swung his sword. A hulking legionary raced toward him, leering, thrusting his gladius. Seneca raised his shield, catching the blow.

I trained in the Acropolis with the finest of swordsmen.

He screamed and swung his own sword, denting his enemy's armor, then parrying another blow.

I fought Jerael Sela himself and defeated him.

Seneca parried again, fell back a step, and hit the balustrade. His opponent smirked and pressed on the attack.

I will not fear. Tonight I am free.

Seneca roared and swung his gladius in a fury, parrying thrusts, landing blows of his own, adding dent after dent to his enemy's armor.

I am not who I was. I am stronger, braver, wiser. I am righteous. I will not die tonight.

With a cry, Seneca swung his shield, diverting a blow from his enemy's sword, then thrust his gladius with all his might. The razor-sharp, castrum-forged steel blade punched through the legionary's shield, drove deeper, and sliced through the torso until it sank to the hilt.

Seneca yanked back the blade with a shower of blood, letting his enemy crumble onto the deck.

Again I killed.

Seneca panted and spat. His limbs shook. Around him, across the Aureum's deck, the battle still raged. Across the harbor, hundreds of ships clashed. Arrows shrieked overhead. The catapults and trebuchets still fired. Boulders sailed through the sky, slammed down, tore through decks, tore through men. Corpses sank in the bloodied waters, and the sea itself burned. Flotsam spread for leagues, ablaze, as men desperately scrambled for purchase before sinking into the darkness. A flaming ship sailed by, its sailors burning, screaming, and the sparks showered onto Seneca, and heat blasted him, and smoke filled his nostrils.

The world burns.

"Porcia!" he shouted. "Porcia, are you here? Did you come here to face me, or do you still cower in Aelar? Your reign is over, Porcia!"

He moved across the deck. He lashed his gladius, slaying another man. Imani fought at his side, thrusting her spear, cutting through men. They stepped over corpses. They cut down the last of the invaders, shoving their corpses into the sea.

"Empress Porcia's reign ends!" Seneca shouted. "Hear me, legions! Porcia's reign ends! Seneca Octavius is your emperor!"

"Hail Seneca!" Imani cried, raising her bloody spear.

"Hail Seneca, hail Seneca!" echoed his men, and the cry rose across the fleet.

Seneca inhaled smoke, coughed, grinned, slew another man. He pointed his sword toward a towering enemy galley, a fortress of wood topped with archers.

"For Aelar!" Seneca shouted. "Ram them! Cut them down!"

The Aquila Aureum sailed forth, plowing through burning flotsam and drowning men. Arrows kept raining. One glanced off Seneca's helmet. Another sank into Imani's shield. More arrows cut down legionaries around them. With an ear-piercing crack, the Aquila Aureum's ram slammed into the enemy ship. Wooden planks shattered. Chunks of wood flew through the air. Archers fired from the wooden tower on the deck, but the ship listed, and the tower cracked. Archers tumbled down.

"Board them, cut their men down!" Seneca cried.

Gangplanks slammed down. Seneca's legionaries raced onto the damaged ship. Swords rang. Limbs scattered. Men fell, blood gushing, sliding into the water.

Seneca struggled to breathe. Every breath was an agony of smoke and terror. His cheek bled. His leg spurted blood; he did not remember wounding it. All around him, thousands were dying. This was slaughter on a scale he had never seen, not even in Gefen. Countless legionaries and Nurians burned, drowned, vanished into fire and water. Ahead of him, atop another ship, Nurian warriors thrust their spears against legionaries. Farther back, a boulder slammed into another ship, shattering the deck and mast. Its men fell into the water, only for another ship to plow over them.

And still the enemy ships emerged from the darkness.

"More of them!" Imani shouted, pointing her spear toward the north. A gash bled on her forehead, and a sword had cracked her armor and bloodied her chest. Still she stood, panting, holding her weapon and shield. "A hundred more!"

Seneca stared north and his heart seemed to shatter. A second wave of enemy ships was emerging over the horizon, lighting the night. More drums beat. More enemy soldiers chanted.

All of Porcia's wrath is descending upon Nur, Seneca thought. Even with the wars in Gael and Zohar, she's unleashing her fury here. For me. For my head.

Standing beside him on the bloodied deck, Imani clasped his hand.

"No surrender," the Queen of Nur said.

He stared at the advancing ships. "Death or victory."

The drums beat ahead, and he heard their answer.

Death. Death. Death.

More arrows, bolts, and barrels flew from the new wave of ships. The death rained onto Seneca and his army.

An iron shard the size of a tree slammed into the Aquila Aureum, driving a hole through the deck, plunging into the hold. Men screamed and died. Water gushed into the ship, and Seneca clung to the balustrade. Imani fell at his side, and he reached out, grabbed her. Planks rose from the deck like teeth, impaling men. The galley listed, and the water still roared, filling the hold. Oars snapped.

Seneca tried to pull Imani up, but more arrows fell. He released the balustrade and raised his shield. The arrows slammed down, and he slid along the tilted deck. He slammed into a jutting shard of wood and screamed. The plank shattered against his armor, and Imani nearly slipped from his grip.

"Seneca!" she cried.

An arrow slammed into his shoulder, punched through the iron, bit his flesh. He spun across the deck, falling, and water blasted against him. He gripped Imani's fingers. She slipped over the edge, and her legs dangled over the water. Corpses were sinking below her, and shards of ships burned. A flaming barrel flew overhead and slammed into the Aquila Aureum only feet away. The masts and sails burned. The water kept rushing in. Smoke rose in clouds and more men died, sliding across the deck, slamming into Seneca.

"Seneca . . ." Imani said, fingers slipping from his grip.

He snarled. "We live tonight, Imani. We live tonight! Tonight we are free. Tonight we are victorious. Drop your spear and hold on!"

She swung up her second arm, letting her spear vanish into the churning water. She grabbed his wrist. He gave her a mighty tug, pulling her back onto the shattered deck.

The ship kept sinking and burning around them. Still the arrows flew. Imani wrenched a gladius free from a corpse. They ran together, leaped off the balustrade, and sailed through the air. They slammed onto the deck of another ship—a Nurian vessel—awash with enemy legionaries.

"For Nur!" Seneca cried.

"For Nur!" Imani shouted, thrusting her sword.

They ran across the ship, weapons flashing, only for barrels to slam down before them, shattering the deck, tearing men apart. Hundreds of warriors fell, rolling off the wreckage, vanishing into the water.

Seneca fell.

Black water enveloped him.

Sea. Fire. Blood.

Men thrashed around him in the black sea, reaching up, bubbles rising from their nostrils, trying to rise, sinking in their armor, screaming underwater. The fire burned above.

Seneca kicked wildly. His head was submerged. The surface grew more distant, and the corpses sank all around him, and ships sank with them, and he couldn't breathe, and his lungs ached, and his blood rose. The water grew darker, colder, tugging him down. The sea seemed bottomless.

He slashed his sword madly, ripping at the straps on his breastplate, and tugged the armor off.

"Imani!" he cried, voice casting bubbles into the sea.

She was thrashing underwater at his side. Her helmet was gone, and her hair coiled around her. She too was tugging off her armor and kicking, struggling to rise.

Their gazes met underwater.

We live tonight, Seneca thought.

Their hands clasped together, and they kicked, and they rose through the water. They ascended through bodies, through sinking swords and arrows, through blood, through the devastation of war. Their heads burst over the surface, and they gulped down air.

Around them the sea burned. Their ships were sinking. In every direction they fell—her Nurian warriors, his legionaries. Thousands dying in the water, their ships shattering, sinking.

We can't win, Seneca realized, floundering in the water. She's too strong. I was a fool.

He couldn't see Porcia here. He called to her, but no voice answered.

She didn't come, Seneca realized. She sent her army, but she remained in Aelar, beyond my grip.

He roared, imagining her, comfortable in her palace while the blood washed him.

"Coward!" he shouted.

In the din of the battle, he imagined her voice, echoing through the storm of war.

Now you die, Seneca. Die. Die.

The demonic presence weighed down on him, ready to crush him, to drown him in the water. He could no longer see the stars, and her ships kept sailing forth. Several of her galleys attached themselves to the boardwalk, and her warriors stormed into the city. Soon they would spread across Nur, reclaiming the province, slaying all those loyal to him.

They'll find me, Seneca thought. They'll take me back to Porcia. She'll flay me in the arena, crucify my skinless body, leave me to die in the sun as the crowd cheers and the flies feast.

The fear was too great. His wounds were too deep. He began to sink again.

Imani's hand tightened around his. She shouted through the roar of battle.

"Hold on, Seneca! Swim! Swim!"

He looked into her eyes, and he saw true concern. He saw . . . love. Love for him. He had never seen love in Ofeer's eyes, only blind worship, then disgust. He had never seen love in the eyes of the whores he would buy.

Imani wants me to live. She truly cares for me. His eyes dampened. My wife.

He kicked in the water, and he swam.

They swam between the corpses, the wreckage, the sinking ships, the raining arrows. They swam until they returned to the boardwalk, and they climbed onto the wet stones.

Seneca stood between land and water and beheld the underworld risen.

The ships sank behind him. The port city burned ahead. The forces of Porcia Octavius were racing along the streets, cutting people down. Children ran, burning, and leaped into the water, only for arrows to pierce them. Nurians fought and died in alleyways. The catapults were firing from Porcia's fleet, tearing down buildings. Archways and towers crumbled.

Today we live.

"For Nur," Seneca whispered.

Imani nodded. "For freedom."

They took new spears from fallen warriors. And they fought.

"For Nur!"

"For freedom!"

They fought on the boardwalk. They fought in the alleyways and in courtyards. They fought along riverbanks and on the roofs of crumbling homes. Around them they rallied—the last of Seneca's legionaries, the warriors of Nur, the people of this southern land, crushed, broken, brutalized. The city rose in a true rebellion, not only warriors but children, elders, nursing mothers, hurling stones, fighting with kitchen knives and clubs. This night all in Nur were soldiers. This night the entire land was an army.

This night Seneca and Imani refused to die. This night they fought. This night they lived. This night they were free.

Porcia's legionaries surrounded them, moving closer, swords thrusting from between their shields. Howls rose, and dark figures leaped from the roofs. With a battle cry, Prince Adai, Imani's brother, landed among the legionaries and swung a khopesh in each hand. Hundreds of other Nurians, once rebels and now soldiers of the savanna, landed around him, lashing their weapons. Legionaries fell, and more Nurians flowed forth, roaring for their kingdom, for a land crushed, a land now rising up, doing what no land had ever done.

We're casting them back, Seneca realized, fighting on the street, cutting down the enemy. We're defeating her. We're living.

They had perished in the sea. Here, on land, on this raped and ravaged land of Nur, here the tide turned.

Here they fought for freedom, and here an entire nation rose, soldiers and commoners alike, casting back the enemy.

The sun had set on terror. It rose on blood, death, and victory.

"Victory!" Imani shouted, standing on a temple's tower, raising her spear.

"Victory!" Seneca cried, standing at her side, sword in hand. His armor was shattered. His body was cut, bruised, dripping. But he was victorious.

"The city stands!" he shouted. "Nur stands! Nur stands!"

Across the city of Tereen, they spread. What remained of his legions—only a couple hundred men. The armies of Nur—a scattered few thousand. Around them—thousands of dead. The husks of ships sank in the water. On the boardwalk, catapults still fired, driving off what enemy ships had not yet sunken.

Those last ships turned to flee.

The ruin of Porcia's army spread across the streets, the delta, and the coast.

"Victory," Seneca whispered, turning toward Imani on the tower top.

She took his hands, and her eyes shone, and the smallest of smiles raised the corners of her mouth. A wild, savage smile. A smile full of fear, hatred, and joy. They stood together on the tallest tower in Tereen. Across the city, the survivors cheered.

"Look, Imani," Seneca said, sweeping his arm across the port city, the sea, the delta, the river that flowed from the savanna. "Look. Do you see it?"

Her eyes shone in the dawn. "I see it. I see Nur."

He shook his head. "You see an empire. Our empire. The great Southern Empire that we rule." He placed his hands on her waist. "It's ours, Imani. We will do great things here. We will raise new armies and new fleets, and we will build palaces, and for eternity, people will remember our names. Seneca. Imani. Emperor and empress of the south, of the sea, and soon of the world. This is only the beginning. I promise you this. The sun sets upon Porcia's domain, and our dawn rises."

He kissed her. She hesitated at first, then kissed him back, hungrily, eagerly, and tears spilled down her cheeks.

"I love you, Imani Koteeka, my wife." He stroked her cheek. "Our love will light the world."

They kissed desperately. They stood alone atop the tower. Around them spread the glory, the death, the blood, the sunrise upon ruin and empire. His hands explored her, peeling off the tatters of her clothes, exposing her body—bruised, cut, a warrior's body. She leaned against the parapets, the sunrise in her hair, her eyes closed. He made love to her there, in the dawn of their victory, pressing her against the battlements, as the smoke wafted from the city, as the bells of glory rang. They moaned together, naked, joined, consummating their marriage atop the city, the empire, all the world. The world that was burning. The world he would cleanse. The world he would rule.

PORCIA

She stood on the hillside, looked down at the lake, and pursed her lips.

"It's a bit small."

At her side, Ambrosia opened her eyes wide. She was a pretty thing, ethnically Aelarian but blond and blue-eyed, heralding from the northern hills near the border. A rare treasure in the court. Porcia liked pretty little things. Ambrosia was as a jewel, shining in the sunlight.

"My empress, the ship is as large as a palace!" Ambrosia gazed down at the lake, awe in her eyes. "Truly a masterwork."

Porcia snorted. "My palace back in the city is larger. I ordered a floating palace, and this is what I get?"

The Luciana Nave floated in the lake, still under construction. Truth be told, it was the largest ship Porcia had ever seen, larger than she had imagined a ship could be. It dwarfed even the massive quinquereme warship, which floated by it for scale. A thousand men could squeeze into a quinquereme; they would feel roomy on the palatial vessel below. The ship wasn't yet seaworthy, but Porcia had decided to name it the Luciana Nave after her mother. It was three hundred feet long and a hundred feet wide, they told her. It was too bulky to ever sail downriver to the Encircled Sea or fight in battles, and in this lake it would remain, a sanctuary for an empress. Why should she sail south to war with her brother? She had generals for that. She had earned her rest here. Earned a ship of pleasure rather than one of blood and shit and sweat. She had fought for years; let her enjoy her glory.

"Come, Ambrosia, let us take a closer look."

Porcia motioned for her guards, and soon she and Ambrosia were riding in a palanquin, borne by slaves, heading down toward the lake. Ten other palanquins traveled at their sides, full of her harem, the young men and women Porcia had plucked from across the Empire—more pretty things, shining jewels, her coterie. Three hundred soldiers of the Magisterian Guard walked with her, their armor gilded, their helmets shining with jewels. Porcia had never much cared for jewels in the legions—a campaign was a place for blood, for iron, for fire—but an empress needed to shine. She was the greatest light in the world. She would shine brighter than any emperor before her, and all the world would worship her light.

They reached the lakeside. The sun shone, and the air was warm. The water was crystal blue, and forested mountains surrounded it, lush and green even in autumn. It was a place of beauty, only a day's ride from the city, a place where Porcia had spent many summers as a child. A place her mother had loved. Her slaves carried her along a pier, and Porcia alighted onto the deck of the Luciana Nave. Her harem and guards joined her.

The shipwrights greeted her there, bowing before her. Their chief was a wiry man, his hair as snowy white as his toga.

"Welcome, glorious Empress Porcia, daughter of Aelia!"

Porcia scoffed. She had never cared much for Aelia, the goddess of music, said to have founded the city of Aelar centuries ago. She had always preferred to worship Camulus, god of war, but perhaps those days of blood were behind her.

I shed rivers of blood, she thought. Now I will enjoy the spoils.

She looked across the deck. "I told you I wanted blue marble." She took a few steps, her sandals clattering against the white marble tiles that coated the ship's deck. "Not this cheap white shit."

The shipwright glanced up, then quickly bowed his head again. He hurried to catch up as Porcia walked across the marbled deck. The guards and harem followed.

"My empress, we have tiled the deck with the finest marble in Aelar, brought straight from the Valerius quarries. Nobody has ever marbled a ship's deck before, and—"

She turned toward him and gave him a withering stare. "I asked for blue marble. As blue as this lake and the sky above. Rip off this shit and toss it overboard, and if you cannot find blue marble, you will coat this deck with sapphires."

As the shipwright nodded, Ambrosia leaned close to Porcia and whispered in her ear, "Are you sure you can afford this, domina?" She giggled. "We might need to conquer a few more kingdoms."

Porcia nodded. "Then we will conquer them. Then we will strip Zohar bare of gold. Then we will bring Sekadia to its knees and plunder its halls. This ship's deck will shine, blue as the sacred lake upon which it sails." She looked back at the shipwright. "Show me the rest. Show me the galleries!"

They kept walking across the ship. Structures rose ahead upon the deck, little palaces. Decorative doors, engraved with mythological scenes, led into a fine hall. Workers were kneeling on the floor, assembling a mosaic depicting the fall of Zohar. Painters stood on ladders, adding feathers to pastel eagles that flew across the ceiling. A few men were busy erecting a statue onto a pedestal; it depicted Porcia herself, dressed as the goddess Dia, one breast exposed, an overflowing jug under her arm. As she entered the hall, the workers ceased their labor and bowed before her.

Porcia spent a while examining the hall, pointing at objects.

"This banister. I want it shining with jewels. The window frames! Gods, are you using cedar? I want giltwood." She frowned at her statue. "My nose is not that large. Make it smaller. And my hips aren't that wide." She suspected that last claim was false, but she was ready to slay anyone who contradicted her. "Next room!"

She explored chamber after chamber in her imperial palace. The dining room's tables stood on plain legs. She ordered them replaced with platinum claws. The bedchamber was too small. She ordered it torn down and rebuilt, large enough to contain a massive bed where she and her coterie could sleep together. The toilets in the privy were plain marble. She ordered them replaced with gold; she would not piss on stone like the plebeians.

A marble staircase, its banister forged of silver, led her to the lower level. A grand hall spread belowdecks, lined with statues of the gods. There were holes for oars, each one filled with a golden ring shaped as an animal's roaring mouth. There were no rowers here yet, but Porcia could already imagine them—line after line of men, shirtless and beautiful, worshiping her, propelling her glory across the water.

"I want these statues gilded," she said to her shipwright. "No, not gilded. I want them all to be pure gold, inside and out. And the oars! I want them coated with gemstones so that they shine with every stroke."

Past the hall, she made her way to the ship's bathhouse. Arched windows revealed the lake and mountains. A stone staircase led into a pool. It was large enough for twenty bathers and already full of water. Lead pipes shaped as dragons, complete with fanged mouths, spilled water into the pool. Steam rose, nearly obscuring mosaics of dolphins and divers across the walls.

"My empress, this is the first ship in the Empire with heated plumbing," said the shipwright. "We invented a new system of pumps. We can draw the water from the lake, heat it in hidden chambers over coals, and guarantee a continuous flow of hot water to the pool. It will keep you warm in the cool months ahead." He pointed toward a marble basin by a wall. "That pipe there, meanwhile, delivers cool, refreshing drinking water. And do you see that basin? The one shaped as grapes? The tap delivers wine from a hidden cask, the finest wine from the southern vineyards."

Porcia nodded in approval. So far, this was the only room that seemed up to standard.

My father died in a bathhouse, she thought. She had ordered the Aelarian Bathhouse torn down. Here, far from all her enemies, far from all the sniveling, conniving commoners who filled the city, she would bathe in splendor.

"I don't want hot water in this pool," she said. "I want to bathe in warm milk. It replenishes the skin. Can you replace the water with milk?"

She was growing bored with seeing the man's eyes widen. He gulped, hesitated, then nodded. "Of course, my empress."

A cold wind blew through the windows. Gods damn it, why did they not fit them with glass? Porcia hated the thought of coming winter. There was melancholy in winter. There was madness that dwelled in the cold season and the rain.

"My empress, let us bathe!" Ambrosia said, hopping and grinning. "Let us test the grandest bathhouse in the Empire!" She bit her lip. "We can test the wine too!"

Porcia had not bathed in a bathhouse since her father had died in one, instead using a portable bath in her private chambers. But she nodded. It was time to put the past behind. It was time to enjoy all that she had worked for, fought for, suffered for. To enjoy the hot water. This floating palace. The wine. The harem. All the spoils of an empire. She was a goddess now, as holy as Dia or Camulus.

I've always been smarter, fiercer than mere mortals. Now the world knows this.

She nodded and turned toward her guards. "Guard the doors. There are assassins everywhere." She turned toward Ambrosia. "Disrobe me. Then disrobe yourself." She looked at the rest of her harem, twenty men and women, the beauties of the Empire. "All of you! Let us bathe together. Let us share the wine and share the glory."

They pulled off her stola, then undressed themselves—her precious flowers, her glittering jewels, chosen for their beauty. She would never be alone again, Porcia swore. She would nevermore be alone with that demon inside her. With that sadness. With that fear that kept clawing, screaming in her mind.

Seneca is coming to kill you.

Valentina is plotting to slay you.

The Zoharites will pillage and rape you.

The Nurians will shatter your halls.

The Gaelians will rip you apart.

All those voices. All those cackling demons. No. Porcia would never listen to them again. The jewels, the gold, the harem, the laughter, the sex, the wine—they drowned out those voices. Porcia would bend this world to her will, take every precious jewel in it, and once she had it all, once she was a goddess of purest excess, those voices could never haunt her again.

She stepped into the pool and let the warm water caress her body—a body scarred by so many wars, marred by cuts of sword, axe, arrow, by the kiss of fire. A body that had grown strong, nourished by the hearts of her enemies. A body that all her servants worshiped. A body that still screamed with ghosts, with the memories of her campaigns, other bodies, bodies crushed, eviscerated, burning, dancing around her. They always danced around her, dripping, the jaws torn off, laughing, laughing around her. But the splendor would silence them. The light of jewels burned them. The light of her glory banished them.

Her harem joined the water with her, their bodies unmarked, beautiful, jewels in their navels, jewels around their fingers.

Seneca is coming to slay you.

"Wine!" Porcia shouted, and a servant passed her a mug. She drank deeply.

Valentina is plotting to overthrow you.

She grabbed a man, and she pulled him toward her, pulled him inside her, and moaned against the pool wall.

The Zoharites will pillage and rape you.

She grabbed a woman, kissed her deeply, clutching her hair, weeping into the pool.

They will shatter your halls. They will rip you apart.

"More wine!" she called, and her head swam. A man passed her another cup, but Porcia spilled it, and the precious crimson liquid spread through the pool. She kissed the man, fucked him, tugged her fingernails down his back, and the voices were silenced, and she drank again.

"Wash me," she said. "Wash me hard. Scrub my skin. Scrub off the filth."

There were tears in her eyes, but they would never know. Not here in the steam. They would wash her clean. They would wash off the scars. Wash off the fire. Wash off all the blood, the shame, the sin. All the things she had done. All the dead who still screamed inside her. All the dead she had eaten, forever part of her, forever scratching from within.

They gathered around her, the beauties of her harem, forming a ring. A slave brought forth a tray of sponges and scented oils, and each one of her concubines took a sponge.

"Wash me clean," she whispered.

One of her harem slaves approached, a beautiful boy with dark eyes and full lips, a boy she loved to kiss. He brought a sponge to her breast.

"I will wash you clean," he whispered, pressing the sponge hard against her.

The pain bloomed across Porcia, and she gasped. Her teeth clenched. Her brow furrowed, and she shoved the boy away.

She gazed down at her chest.

A wound pierced her breast, gushing blood.

"I will wash you clean," said another servant, a beautiful Nurian girl with deep brown skin. She pressed a sponge against Porcia's side, delicately at first, then more firmly.

Porcia screamed and shoved her off. Pain flared at her ribs, and this time she saw it—a blade hidden in the sponge. Her blood spurted.

"Fucking trait—" she began when agony blazed across her back.

"I will wash you clean," said a slave behind her, and she felt his cock press against her backside, and she felt his blade plunge between her shoulder blades.

"We will all wash you clean." Another sponge, this time to her belly. Another blade. She flailed, trying to hold them off, her head spinning.

"We will wash this empire clean." Another slave. Another sponge. Another hidden blade, cutting under her ribs.

"All your sins are washed away, Porcia Octavius."

She screamed as a blade pierced her kidney.

She could barely remain standing. The blood flowed from her, filling the pool, dancing like red demons. Porcia wept.

"Please," she whispered. "Ambrosia, please."

Through the haze, she could see her finest beauty, her dearest friend. Ambrosia approached, hair golden, and came to stand before Porcia in the water. Ambrosia kissed her—gently, lovingly—and stroked her hair.

"You are clean," Ambrosia whispered . . . and the blade hidden in her sponge drove into Porcia's chest.

They all swam back from her. They all left the pool, red with her blood. Porcia's head spun. She couldn't breathe. She wept. Traitors. Traitors . . . They danced around her. All those she had slain in her campaigns. All the Zoharites, broken, burnt, entrails dancing, limbs shattered, hearts eaten, all those she had killed. All dancing around her. Mocking. A ring of mockery.

"I am a goddess!" she shrieked, head tossed back, blood in her mouth. "You cannot kill me. You cannot! I am a goddess of Aelar! I will rule this fucking world!"

She took a step through the water. She took another. She climbed the underwater staircase, bent over, bleeding from many cuts, blood gushing, but she was an empress, she was a goddess, she was Porcia Octavius and she would not die so easily, she would not die in a fucking pool like her father. She reached the pool's edge, tossed her arms open, and she howled—back arched, mouth open wide, a howl of fury that shook the ship, a howl of a goddess of death, a howl of a thousand dead, a howl of falling nations, a howl of kingdoms slain at her hands, a howl of dying children, a howl of falling walls, a howl of burning history, a howl of a girl, afraid, hiding in the shadows from all the demons of her dreams.

And through the blood, through the raining smoke, through the inferno already blazing around her, he emerged. A young man in armor. A boy. His face forgettable, soft. The new commander of the Magisterian Guard, the man she had appointed, the boy she had entrusted with her life.

"Caelius," she whispered to him, tears on her cheeks. "Caelius, save me. Please."

He stepped closer to her, smiling thinly. He had a beautiful smile, her beautiful boy. He held her red, dripping hand. He leaned forward and whispered into her ear.

"Do you remember a soldier, fourteen years ago, in the Phedian campaign?" he said. "A short, slender boy, tossed to the wolves, beaten, buggered, as you laughed? Oh, how you laughed, Porcia Octavius."

And she remembered. And she wept. "Please. I'm sorry. Please."

He brushed back a lock of her hair. "You are so beautiful," he said, and he swiped his dagger across her throat.

As Porcia fell, her blood gushing, as she landed back in her pool, she smiled, because she was beautiful. She was a goddess. She would always be worshiped. She sank into the red water, and the demons laughed around her, bared their teeth, and swarmed in.

OFEER

As her child kicked within her swelling belly, Ofeer sat in Ohel Adom, the small Zoharite temple in Aelar. A shawl covered her hair, and she prayed softly.

Back in Zohar, Ofeer had never liked praying in temples. When her mother dragged the family there on Restdays, Ofeer would often sneak out, head to the port, and spend the morning walking along the sea or visiting taverns. For the Day of Atonement, the holiest day of the Zoharite year, Jerael Sela would insist that the family travel to Beth Eloh—a full three days away from Gefen—and pray in the Temple upon the Mount of Cedars. For the last three Days of Atonement, Ofeer had hidden in the alleyways of Gefen, refusing to travel east, forcing her family to take the trip without her, and for a week—a blessed week, indeed the holiest week of the year—Ofeer would find pleasure in the port. She would drink wine until her head spun, smoke hintan until she could do little more than giggle uncontrollably, and let the sailors take her in their beds. Whenever they fucked her, Ofeer—even through the haze of wine and hintan—would close her eyes, clench her fists, and imagine that it was a beautiful prince of Aelar making love to her. She would imagine that, as her head spun, she lay in a ship that rose and fell upon the waves, taking her to Aelar, to a land of wonder and majesty.

And finally I met that prince, Ofeer thought. And I sailed on that ship, and I came to this land—here to Aelar. She inhaled deeply, letting the peace and grace fill her. I had to leave the land of God to find God in a distant land. I had to enter Aelar to banish the Aelarian from my heart.

Ohel Adom, here in the crowded streets of Aelar, was a humble place. Here was not a vast, glittering hall like the temple in Gefen, a place where priests stood high upon cedar daises, where chandeliers of many crystals gleamed in the light of a thousand candles. And it was certainly humbler than the Temple, the massive shrine in Beth Eloh, a building as grand as Aelar's imperial palace. Here was a simple house, smaller than the villa on Pine Hill. A few pews stood here, carved of pine. A pulpit rose ahead, built from the same unadorned wood. There were only two objects of wealth here: a silver pomegranate, large as a dinner plate, which hung on the wall, an ancient symbol of Zohar; and a massive scroll of the Book of Eloh, costlier and holier by far.

The scroll lay on the pulpit, draped with deep purple fabric embroidered with golden lions. Two other pomegranates, these too carved of silver, topped the scroll's rollers. A scroll this large could take two years to produce, every word—and it contained hundreds of thousands of words—lovingly inscribed on costly parchment. This copy of the Book of Eloh was probably worth more than the building that contained it. The scroll was rolled up now, its ancient wisdom hidden.

The priest who normally stood at the pulpit, a kindly old man named Shaveet, stood in the temple's kitchen at the back, preparing meals for the city's poor Zoharites who often came here for wine and bread. The morning prayers had ended, and Ofeer sat alone.

No, perhaps not alone. Ofeer gazed at the ceiling. A mosaic sprawled there, depicting a rampant Lion of Zohar, the symbol all Selas wore around their necks, the symbol Ofeer had always scorned and rejected. Are you here with me, Eloh?

They said that Eloh's spirit dwelled in an ark within the Holy of Holies, the inner sanctum in the Temple in Beth Eloh. That land lay far from here, eighteen days away with the swiftest ship and good wind. There was no lume in this land, aside from what lumers soaked up on their yearly pilgrimages to the east. This was a land foreign to Eloh, the god of her people, and yet Ofeer remembered that presence she had felt, that light she had seen, that voice that had spoken in her mind.

Child, be strong. I will protect you.

Ofeer closed her eyes, letting the memory fill her.

I am with you, Ofeer Sela. Always.

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

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

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

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

Because I already lost a child.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Porcia dead.

"Does this grieve you?" Noa said.

Ofeer looked away.

Porcia. My older sister. Dead.

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

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

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

This empire . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A rebellion?" she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The imperial lumer," Ofeer whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

CLAUDIA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But his face morphed in her memory, becoming the face of her mother. Eyes gazing lifelessly. Throat slashed open. Claudia had killed the Zoharite boy, one of the rebels, who had killed her mother. She wished she could kill him again, kill him every day for eternity. Porcia had once told her that killing was like fucking a man. It was hard at first, painful, frightening, but got easier the more you did it until it became a great pleasure, visceral, satisfying like nothing else. Claudia had never understood, but she vowed to learn that truth here in Zohar.

"They will bow before us," she whispered. "Or we will kill them all."

Her father stood in a chariot at her side, its wooden panels inlaid with precious metals, its wheels thrusting out scythes. Tirus Valerius wore a breastplate across his wide torso, forged to mimic a younger man's muscles. A helmet—among the largest in this army, no doubt—topped his bulbous head, sprouting a crimson crest. Here stood the man Tirus had been in Claudia's childhood—a man so strong she thought he could shatter the world. For years, Tirus had served in the Magisterian Guard, rising high in the ranks, before taking the role of ambassador to Zohar. Two decades of administrative work had, perhaps, softened him, but now he was the soldier again. With his burly frame, large hands that gripped sword and reins, and his heavy jaw and hard eyes, he appeared to Claudia as mighty as eagles.

"I'll speak to that Epher pup myself." Tirus snorted. "I remember the boy well. I'll shatter his spine in my hands. But I'll keep him alive and groveling. Perhaps we'll make him into a memento mori, like that foul creature Marcus once had."

Claudia nodded. "That will please me. I'll enjoy seeing him groveling at our feet, his back broken."

You used to kiss my lips, Epher. But soon you will kiss my feet.

She looked at the sniveling creature that stood with her in her chariot. "Soon he will join you, my dear!" Claudia said. "Soon he'll become a wretch like you. Would you like to see that?"

The young lumer stood at her side, head lowered. Claudia had dressed Leean in a fine stola, perfumed her skin, and bound her with chains of gold. She would not begin this march of triumph with the foul, haggard creature she had pulled out from her ship's brig. Yet she could still see the ruin in the girl. It was in her eyes—the subservience, the fear beaten into her. The shattering of the soul.

"What, you are silent?" Claudia said to the girl. "Maybe we should break your spine too. I bet you'd make some noises then."

Tirus grunted. "Claudia, stop torturing the poor thing."

Claudia glared her father. She had seen how, as Leean had been growing, her father's stares had been lingering. She knew that the old man had begun to lust after the lumer. She had seen those looks Tirus gave the girl, the same looks he used to give Ofeer. She had seen Tirus enter the lumer's chamber at night, had seen the bruises—shaped as fat fingers—on Leean's flesh. The thought sickened Claudia.

I should slice up the girl's face, she thought. Make her ugly. It would be doing her a favor. It would keep my father away. All men are dogs who crave flesh.

She turned back toward Leean, trying to imagine how she'd look with a sliced face, and saw the glow fill the girl's eyes.

Claudia struck her. "How dare you use Luminosity without my approval!"

The girl fell from the chariot and landed on the rocky ground. And the glow only grew, now flowing across her chest, reaching out tendrils.

"Treacherous little dog." Tirus stepped off his chariot and approached the girl. He kicked her belly, then grabbed her hair, yanking her up. "I told you, Claudia, we should never have brought a fucking lumer here, we—"

Tirus grunted and fell back as light blasted out from Leean, forming an astral figure in the field. The apparition lay supine, skeletal, limbs like ropes. Claudia gasped.

"The imperial lumer," she whispered.

Claudia had been using Leean to send regular messages to Aelar, but the imperial lumer—a creature nobody but the emperor ever saw—had never initiated contact before. Across the field, thousands of legionaries stared. Tirus and Claudia stood by the lumer, watching the light flow back and forth between the child and the lumer across the sea.

When finally the light died and the apparition vanished, Leean fell to her knees, breathing raggedly. Her lip still bled from where Claudia had struck her.

"Well?" Claudia knelt and dropped her voice to a whisper. This was no conversation for the soldiers behind them to hear. "What news from Aelar? Speak!"

Leean raised her eyes, and for the first time, the lumer dared to make eye contact with Claudia. There was pain and fear in those eyes, but also . . . Yes, there was no mistaking it. Also smugness.

"Empress Porcia," said the lumer, "is dead."

Claudia stared at the girl, then rose and turned toward her father.

"Oh fuck," she blurted out.

Tirus's face remained hard. His only sign of emotion was a twitch to his lips. He placed a hand on Leean's shoulder and took her several paces away, out of the legionaries' earshot. He spoke calmly, betraying nothing of the turmoil that surely raged within him.

"How did she die, Leean?" His voice was almost soft, almost tender, as if he hadn't just kicked the girl. "Tell me everything."

"It was the Magisterian Guard that killed her," said Leean. "Caelius orchestrated the whole thing, and he enlisted the help of those closest to her. Every man and woman in Porcia's harem took a stab, but it was Caelius who struck the final, lethal blow. Caelius and the Guard are now stewarding the Empire until a new emperor sits on the throne."

"Fuck me," Claudia said, a tremble seizing her legs. "Oh fuck me."

Tirus scoffed. "Are you so shocked, daughter? The only thing that surprises me is that it took this long." He sighed and shook his head. "The bitch was asking for a few knives in the back."

Claudia gasped. "Father! Porcia was my friend. A good friend." She winced to remember all those long conversations with Porcia, walking through the gardens, hearing the woman's tales of war and wonder. "Granted, she was a bit . . . excessive, especially toward the end. But for the Magisterian Guard—sworn to defend the throne!—to assassinate her? We should have all those fucking dogs crucified, and that pup Caelius flayed to boot."

"Excessive?" Tirus scoffed. "The woman drained the Empire's coffers to build herself pleasure barges and halls of sin. All while we're fighting wars on several fronts. Costly wars. Your friend had it coming to her, make no mistake, and I won't shed a tear for her fate. It's the Magisterian Guard's task to defend the throne, yes—from enemies and from raving mad nightmares like Porcia Fucking Octavius."

"Nevertheless, I don't trust Caelius." Claudia shuddered. "His smiles have always unnerved me, and I don't know if any emperor would be safe with him skulking around the throne." She turned back toward Leean. "You say that Caelius is keeping the throne warm with his skinny little ass. Who's he saving it for? Has the Guard chosen a new emperor yet?" Sudden fear struck her. "Is Seneca planning to return? Fuck me, that sniveling boy's even worse than Caelius."

Leean glanced toward Tirus, then back at Claudia. The smallest of smiles seemed to touch the lumer's lips, just a hint soon gone.

"The Magisterian Guard has chosen a new emperor. They have chosen Tirus Valerius. Your father." The hint of mirth touched the lumer's eyes. "Caelius himself delivered the message. He asks that Tirus returns to Aelar at once . . . before Seneca does."

Claudia stared at the girl, at the legions, then at her father. No. Something here did not add up.

"Why?" Claudia whispered, brow furrowed. She paced, then paused and looked at her father. "If Caelius wanted you as the new emperor, why now? Why didn't he assassinate Porcia before you left the city? Or why not await your return?" Her frown deepened. "It's a trap. It has to be. He'll pit you and Seneca against each other, or perhaps he plans to ambush you at sea. He—"

"Think, Claudia." Tirus sighed. "You've always been clever." When she gave him a blank stare, he rolled his eyes. "If the boy slew the she-devil while I was still in Aelar, then placed me on the throne the next day . . ."

Claudia nodded. "Then all would suspect that you orchestrated the killing."

Tirus smiled thinly. "It had to happen while I was here in Zohar. I had to be recalled in haste. I—"

"You fucking planned this!" Claudia shoved her father. "Gods damn it, you fucking killed her!"

"Please." Tirus brushed her away. "The Magisterians would have killed Porcia sooner or later, with or without my collusion. I merely helped . . . expedite the process." He cleared his throat. "Granted, I was hoping Caelius would have done the deed a few days earlier. I was worried that I might actually have to assault Beth Eloh myself." He cringed. "Gods, can you imagine it? Me charging into that cesspool? I'd never get the stink out."

Claudia's mind reeled. Gods. Oh gods. Her father—killing her friend. Her father—to be emperor! She inhaled sharply.

I'm going to be an emperor's daughter. I'm going to be an empress when he's dead. And at the rate he stuffs himself with blood sausages and wine, that day's not too far off.

"We must return to Aelar," Claudia said. "At once. Fuck Epher and his rat hive of a city. We go back before that pup Seneca shows up. Oh, he'll sail back from Nur now, there's no doubt of that. And we'll be there to chop off his cock before we nail him to the cross. We go to the ships—now! We—"

"We do nothing," said Tirus. "I return to Aelar. You and the legions will remain here, and you will complete the task at hand."

Claudia looked back at the legions, then at her father. She leaned closer, grabbed him, and hissed into his ear.

"Me? You want me to lead the siege of Beth Eloh?"

He barked a laugh. "Our generals will lead the siege. You will be there, representing me, representing the imperial family of Aelar. And you will be there to talk sense into that boy you used to sneak into our home." He clasped her arm. "Do this for Aelar, Claudia. And for the House of Valerius. We need victory in Zohar for our reign to thrive, for the people of Aelar to love us. Conquest will be our first gift to our empire. You do not need me with you. Do this, and both Aelar and Zohar will be ours."

Her head kept spinning. Porcia, her friend, her empress—dead. Her father—to be emperor. Seneca—preparing a move on the throne, all while Aelar's best legions were here in the eastern desert. She breathed heavily. The world reeled. She felt faint. She—

Stop this, she told herself. Stop it! You're not some meek, addle-minded girl like Valentina. You are Claudia Valerius, soon to be the heiress of an empire, soon to be the conqueror of Zohar. You are strong. You are intelligent. You are ready for this.

"Go," she said to her father. "Our reign begins now. Oh, and . . . leave me the little lumer, will you? Soon the imperial lumer will be yours."

Her father nodded and shoved Leean toward Claudia. She grabbed the girl as Tirus whipped his horses. His chariot thundered back toward the port, raising clouds of dust. Claudia climbed into her own chariot, pulling Leean in with her. They rode along the lines of legionaries, this host to crush the rebellion and crush her lover's spine.

"Legions!" Claudia cried, fist raised. "I, Claudia Valerius, will lead you to Beth Eloh, to conquest, to glory! We come, we see, we kill!"

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

"Porcia Octavius is dead!" she cried. "But Aelar lives on. Glory lives eternal. To Beth Eloh!"

The army moved out, leaving the glorious city of Valeria Maritima, once known as Gefen, with all its wonders. As they moved east across the hills, Claudia smiled thinly. She much preferred the city's new name. When she was done with this backwater province, all memory of Zohar would be lost. There would be only Aelar in the world, only the wonders of her own civilization—not this land she had been born in, lost in, always a stranger in. In Zohar, growing up, falling in love, she had always been an outsider.

"But now Aelar rises." Her smile widened. "Now it's you, Epher, who will be afraid and alone. I'm no warrior like Porcia, but I know how to hurt you. And sweet, sweet Epher . . . I will hurt you so much."

OFEER

For the first time since Marcus had died, Ofeer headed back toward the Aelarian Acropolis—the place she had been a slave, the place where she now sought freedom for Zohar.

She walked along the busy streets of Aelar, her sandals clattering against the cobblestones. The city people walked around her, citizens in togas and stolas, the poor in ragged tunics, and many travelers in the traditional garments of their homelands: zebra pelts, black robes and hoods, and pastel fabrics chinking with beads. Donkeys pulled carts along the streets, moving to and from markets, bearing watermelons, jugs of olive oil, rolls of fabric, and exotic animals in cages. The buildings rose alongside, so close their balconies almost touched. Countless Aelarians stood in the windows, chatting over the streets, watering pots of herbs, tossing down sunflower seed shells, or beating elaborate Sekadian rugs.

Yet this was not the same city Ofeer had arrived in last year. Today, more soldiers than ever patrolled the streets. A catapult rolled down one avenue, forcing people aside. Wagons rolled down another road, laden with cauldrons, firewood, and many piles of arrows and javelins—an entire forest of them, enough to slay nations. More and more troops kept heading toward the city walls, laughing and bragging as they marched.

"Gaelian fuckers almost here," said one legionary to his friend.

The second legionary laughed. "Good. I heard they bring their women with them. I could use a nice pair of white Gaelian tits in my bed tonight."

Ofeer ignored the troops, stepping aside whenever they passed. This was not her war. Her only battlefield lay back in Zohar . . . and ahead in the Acropolis.

Still a parasa away, Ofeer could see the Acropolis already: the walled hills in the city center, rising from the warren, cypresses growing among marble halls.

As Ofeer walked through this hive of wonder and squalor, Noa's words kept echoing through her mind. Swarms of legionaries—closing in on Beth Eloh. Claudia herself—vowing to destroy the city, to slay every last Zoharite. A dark shadow of evil—moving toward her homeland.

Ofeer lowered her head, and memories of Zohar flowed through her, so powerful she almost felt like a lumer drawing her magic. She was at the sea again, hearing those whispering waves, smelling the salt, feeling the sand beneath her feet, seeing the sunset drip across the water. She was walking on the hills, her callused feet stepping on ancient chalk and crumbly soil, and around bloomed life: ancient olive and carob trees, wise old spirits overlooking the sea, and twisted pines that thrust out many branches for climbing, and fields of anemones and cyclamens that rustled in the spring breeze. She heard the turtledoves and the ram horns blowing from the temples, ushering in the holy days.

In her mind, she walked again through Beth Eloh, a city of quiet stones, every building built of the same limestone, craggy and of indeterminable color—white in the summer noon, golden in sunrise, burnished bronze in dusk, each stone thousands of years old, whispering the stories of countless pilgrims and prophets. Only five hundred years ago, Aelar—this vast city of a million souls—had not existed, and Beth Eloh had been ancient beyond measure even then, and her family, the dynasty of Elior, had ruled in the palace upon the Mount of Cedars.

I used to hate Zohar, Ofeer thought. She had always scorned its twisted, stunted trees, thinking them so ugly by the marvelous oaks she had heard soared in Aelar. She had always scoffed at Beth Eloh, a crumbling old city in a forsaken desert, instead dreaming of Aelar—a beacon of modernity and civilization. Yet now, walking here so far from home, Ofeer would have given anything to save her homeland.

She touched the collar around her neck, the new metal collar Noa had given her.

And I will have to give everything, she thought. Everything that I am. All these memories inside me. All that I ever was, all that I always denied about myself.

The imperial lumer needed her lume, and that lume flowed through Ofeer like lifeblood. Ofeer could not weave it herself, but it filled her, soaked her every memory of Zohar.

Still far from the Acropolis, Ofeer stepped into an alleyway, leaned against the wall, and took deep breaths. Only months ago, she had easily explored these streets for hours, but now walking only short distances winded her. Her stomach had swelled so large it seemed obscene to her, and her feet and fingers were swelling with it. The child in her womb woke and wriggled.

As Ofeer caught her breath, she glanced around, making sure nobody was there to see. Only a few cats filled the alleyway—an old tabby and several kittens nursing from their mother. When she was certain nobody was watching, Ofeer pressed her fingers to the collar the way Noa had taught her. The iron snapped open, and Ofeer pulled the collar off. Noa had forged the collar herself, using her Muse. When worn around the neck, it appeared like any other slave collar, the kind countless wore in this city. Yet when Ofeer pressed down again, a hidden compartment opened, and a key thrust out like a tongue.

This key will open any lock in the palace, Noa had told her. Use this key to find the imperial lumer. You must succeed or Zohar will fall.

Ofeer took deep breaths, reviewing the plan, whispering of it to her babe.

"Remember, we approach the Acropolis guards, and I'll tell them who I am: Ofeer Sela, once paramour to Prince Seneca." She shuddered to remember those days, being Seneca's lover, then his slave. No, perhaps always his slave, even back in Zohar. The thought of him being father to her child sent waves of nausea through her. Ofeer shoved him away from her mind, returning her thoughts to her task. "The guards will take us straight to the dungeon, if Noa spoke truth. And then we use this key. When the guards change shifts, we sneak out, and we find the imperial lumer who's buried there." Ofeer clutched the key in her fist. "We give her everything—all the lume we still have, all these memories of home. We give her the power to raise the lumers of the world in rebellion."

She pushed the key back into its compartment and snapped the collar shut around her neck. She kept walking through the city. As she headed farther north, the apartment blocks gave way to wealthier streets. Villas rose here—some large and others smaller but all lavish compared to the apartments the commoners lived in. They rose three stories high, some sporting simple porticoes framed with limestone, even marble columns. Among them rose temples, theaters, and shops. On normal days, here was a neighborhood of peace and plenty, yet unease hung in the air today. The Magisterian Guard stood everywhere, a man at every street corner and public building. Empress Porcia had fallen, and no new emperor had risen. Until one emerged to rule the throne, it would be the Guard holding this empire together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, he's not young, she thought.

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

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

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

"Your . . . goddess, dominus?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ATALIA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We must go back!"

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

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

"Peace?" Berengar's eyes blazed. "What peace can there be now? It's too late for peace, Atalia. It was too late for peace when Aelar invaded our forests. It was too late for peace when they flayed your father and nailed his dying flesh to the cross. It was too late for peace when they butchered tens of thousands in Zohar. And it's too late for peace now, with countless dead across the world, and an end to this war only days away." His voice softened. His grip on her relaxed. "Atalia. My wife. My love. We're almost there. Tomorrow we'll see them—the white walls of the city. Of Aelar. Of an end to war."

Atalia lowered her head. "I know what awaits us in Aelar," she whispered. "A city of a million people, a city as large as all of Zohar. Burning. Crumbling to the ground. A world collapsing into chaos."

"A world in which Zohar will be free," said Berengar. "A world in which Gael, Nur, Elania, and all other lands regain their freedom. These are the choices leaders must make, the choices most people never face. Sometimes we must slay thousands to save millions. Sometimes we must burn cities to save nations."

And burn little girls who played on the beach, Atalia thought. Burn old dreams of heroism. Burn a stupid, naive girl who trained with wooden swords, dreaming of bloodless battles and the glory of triumph.

She nodded, head lowered, tears in her eyes.

"I'm already cursed," she whispered. "If there's any afterlife, and if there's any punishment for sinners, I've earned it tenfold. I'm beyond redemption." She raised her head and stared into her husband's eyes. "So let us end this."

She slept that night between Berengar and Feina, wrapped in their warmth, held in their soft embraces—the comfort of killers, like a child sleeping between serpents.

In the dawn, the hosts of Gael swept onward across the plains of Aelar. All the legions that had come between them lay dead, rotting, trailing back toward the northern forests. The Gaelians marched these last few leagues unopposed, animals and farmers fleeing before them. A red sun rose. A blood sun. Crimson smoke cloaked the sky, and crows swarmed. The birds had learned to follow the horde, learned that meals awaited them. And there, with the noon sun a red stain above, dripping through the veil of smoke, Atalia saw them.

The walls and towers of Aelar—there before her in the south, rising before the Encircled Sea.

"Aelar," she whispered, halting her black horse. "Slaughter and war. Burning fire. The end of the land and the end of the world."

Berengar sat at her side on his white stag. Feina rode up on her mare. Behind them spread the tens of thousands—riders in fur and iron, footmen roaring, a nation waving axes, spears, hammers, shields, the swarm of the barbarians, bearded, stinking, howling for war. Their cries shook the land.

"For victory," said Berengar.

"For the songs of generations," said Feina.

Atalia gazed at her helmet—shaped like a sneering lion—a symbol of home. She placed it on her head, and she drew her sword.

For you, Father, she thought. For you, my family. For Zohar. And for one girl with a wooden sword who died between a forest and white walls.

"Gael, forward!" she bellowed. "To Aelar! To death! To endless glory!"

And with roars that shook the world, with flashing weapons and thundering hooves, with a promise of blood and tumbling walls, they stormed forth—toward Aelar, toward a crumbling world and endless fire.

EPHER

"Listen to me. Listen! You will contact her. You will speak to Maya through the light. You will tell me if she lives. Do you hear me? Avinasi, do you hear?"

Lying in bed, the old woman gave Epher a blank gaze, a weak smile. Over the past few months, the ancient royal lumer had seemed to melt, her flesh dripping like wax, leaving her skeletal, draped with skin, a ghost of who she had been. At times, the lumer seemed almost lucid—lucid enough to draw a little magic, to gaze west to the coast, to warn him of the legions mustering. But most of the time Avinasi spoke as from a dream, gazing at a hidden world.

"Doom," she whispered, reaching out to him, eyes open but blind. "The walls of Beth Eloh—falling. Punishment. Wrath. Ruin." Her hand curled, a claw, the fingers twisting, and Epher grasped it. Her finger bones felt so frail, mere twigs.

"Avinasi," he said softly. "I need you to summon your luminescence. To call Maya. To tell me where she is. Is she alive?"

She gripped his hand, surprisingly strong. Her toothless mouth opened and closed. "All will fall. All will shatter. But she will rise."

Epher sighed. Avinasi had always seemed old. Even in Epher's childhood, she had been ancient beyond measure, wrinkled, wise, all-knowing. But in the past six months, Avinasi had seemed to age an extra six decades, to shrink to half her previous size, this strip of skin and bones, able to just lie in bed, no control over her bowels, no control of her mind. She lay in a fine bed carved of cedar, in a fine room whose walls were coated with mosaics, but the place stank of death, and no fire could warm it.

Epher pried off the lumer's clawlike hand, rose from his chair, and turned toward Olive. "All she can do is speak of doom. And without even using the magic." He sighed again. "It seems that soon I will be a king without a lumer. The first one in . . . well, ever, I suppose."

And perhaps the last king too, if the old woman is to be believed, he added silently.

"You have me," Olive said softly. She wore a white dress, and the light from the windows kindled her hair of fire.

"The walls will shatter!" Avinasi cried. "The daughters of Beth Eloh will weep! The sons of—" Coughing seized her, and soon she was whimpering, consumed by the growth of illness within her, the pale roots that spread inside her body, a disease beyond even her own healing. Her attendants—two women in white—dabbed the old lumer's brow with damp cloth and whispered blessings.

"Every goddamn physician in the city has seen her," Epher said. "Every girl we could find with just a hint of Luminosity—both of them—have tried to work their wonders. They tell me we'll be lucky if she lives to see another dawn." He turned toward the window and stared outside at the city—a city preparing for war. "We'll be lucky if any of us live to see another dawn."

Olive came to stand between him and the window. She placed a hand on his cheek. "You is our king, Epher. We need your strength. We believe in your strength. You no sink in despair. You need give us hope."

Hope? he thought. What hope was there left in this land? The legions advanced toward Beth Eloh, the countryside burned, Gefen lay in ruin, and all that stood between him and Zohar's fall were a few ancient walls.

But Olive took his hands in hers, and she gazed at him softly, and as always around her, his fear faded, and all those voices in his mind softened.

"You heal me like Luminosity." He smiled and cupped her cheek in his hand. "You can always see some light."

He kissed her lips. She was goodness. She was a love that would always warm him. Perhaps they would not last the year, not even the month, maybe not even the day. He vowed to cherish every last moment with Olive, every last light before the darkness.

"Doom," whispered Avinasi from her bed, head tilted back, eyes closed. "Walls falling . . . and she will come . . ."

Leaving the lumer to her attendants, Epher and Olive left the chamber, this beautiful and foul room high in the palace. With only a handful of guards, they walked through the city. In times of peace, a hundred thousand souls lived within the crowded streets of Beth Eloh, crammed together into this box of stone atop the mountain. Today, with the legions swarming across the countryside, that number must have grown fivefold. For months now, they had been streaming into the city: farmers, villagers, loggers, fishermen. Refugees. All told the same stories: cohorts of Aelarians burning villages, stealing crops, stealing women, butchering men. Zohar's Blade had slain the legionaries within the city, but thousands had remained across the kingdom. And if Avinasi's few coherent words were to be believed, thousands more were now advancing from Gefen toward these walls.

Epher and Olive traveled down the Mount of Cedars, the inner city, the acropolis in the heart of Beth Eloh, the holiest ground of Zohar. The palace rose behind them, built by King Elshalom; even then, a thousand years ago, Zohar had been ancient. The Temple soared to their west, among the largest buildings in the world, dwarfing even the temples in Aelar, though perhaps the grace of God was gone now. The legions had burned the ark within, said to have held Eloh's spirit, and the High Priests had been slain.

Perhaps God is dead, Epher thought. Perhaps they butchered him like they butchered myriads of our people. Or perhaps our Lord of Light abandoned us, his holy children, millennia ago, and destruction after destruction, we are blind to see it, too stubborn to believe it.

Soon they were walking through the necropolis that spread across the southern slope of the mount. Epher did not walk here often, usually preferring to descend the other slopes. But today he walked among these ancient graves, Olive and his guards walking behind him. Here was the oldest cemetery in Zohar; many of these tombs were over a thousand years old, twice as old as even the most ancient ruins in Aelar. Here, on this mountain where they said Eloh dwelled, rested the bones of legendary kings, princes, heroes, prophets, a second city. No grass grew here, no trees, no life—only memories, only stones, the tombstones so crowded Epher could barely make his way between them, their epitaphs so faded he could not read them. Perhaps that was all that would remain of Beth Eloh. Perhaps a future traveler would find nothing but a city of old stones, faded by a thousand years of wind and rain and searing summer, old ghosts and memories that whispered.

They reached the walls that circled the Mount, and they walked through a gateway into the outer city. A group of women stood there, robes open, sores on their lips. Epher had told his guards to disperse the Consecrated Sisterhood. He knew that some High Priests had tolerated them, even worshiped with them. But the priests were dead now, and Epher would not tolerate sacred prostitution in his city.

"Worship Eloh for a coin!" one woman cried, only for the others to pull her back into the shadows, where they knelt, recognizing their king.

Epher frowned and approached them. "Stand up."

The women rose, some of them old, others barely more than youths. Their breasts were bare, their faces made up with garish cosmetics, and cheap jewels hung around their necks—tin, brass, copper. Most were haggard, ribs pressing against their skin, their genitals inflamed. At a nod from Epher, a guard moved among them, pulling their robes shut, hiding their shame.

"You make good money here," Epher said to them. "You should not be living in squalor."

"We return our coins to the Temple, my king," said one woman, her front teeth missing. "All but the last few coppers. We worship the light."

"Worship the light, my king!" said the first woman who had spoken, a dazed look in her eyes, the telltale mark of hintan. "Worship the light for a coin! Worship Eloh outside the holy Temple."

Epher's frown deepened. "This is not worship. This is sin. I will not tolerate prostitution in the city of Elshalom."

A woman stepped closer to him, eyes flashing, cheeks flushing. "We are kadesh! We are consecrated. Do not mistake us for prostitutes. Our bodies worship the light of God."

"Perhaps God no longer dwells in this city," said Epher. "Only your shame and misery. A storm is coming. Leave this place. Do not die here. Not like this."

One of the consecrated approached him, and Epher felt all his anger at these sisters fade, replaced with pity.

She's barely more than a child, he thought.

The girl stood no taller than his shoulder, thin as a twig. Her skin was not yet ravaged with illness, her hair dark and smooth, her eyes large and still full of some hope, some light.

"There is shame and misery in this life," the girl said to him. "But all our suffering brings her closer. The day is near. She will not linger much longer. She will enter this city, and she will bring milk and honey, healing, blessings."

Epher knelt before the child. He took her hand in his. Her fingers were slender, scabbed. "Who, child?" he whispered.

The girl's eyes shone. "We do not know her name. Our savior. A woman in white. A woman in light. Through the Gate of Tears, she will enter this city." Now tears filled her eyes, and she lowered her head. "Though I cannot find the gate. I have traveled across the city, seeking it on every wall, but the guards of the walls strike me, and I fail at my task. But I still believe, my king. I believe that God's light shines, that he wants his child to return home."

"What's your name?" Epher said.

"Abishag, daughter of Naeem."

"One of my guards will take you to my palace, Abishag Bat Naeem. I would have you serve as my cupbearer. These streets are too cruel for one so young."

She bowed her head. "You are kind, King Epheriah, and blessed, but I cannot leave these streets. For here is my task. My search continues. I must find the Gate of Tears so that she may enter Beth Eloh." She hesitated, then reached out and touched his cheek. "Be brave, King Epheriah, and do not abandon hope. Our savior comes."

With that, the girl left him, vanishing into the alleyways.

The king and his guards continued to walk through the city. These streets had always been crowded, but now Epher could barely make his way through. Hundreds of thousands crammed into these walls, every family hosting as many refugees as would fit into their home. Many other refugees simply lived on the streets. Faces peered from every window. People knelt on every roadside, balcony, and rooftop. Thousands had raised camps in the markets, courtyards, graveyards. Epher did not know how many people had made it here from the countryside, how many had died in the villages and farmlands, but here around him—gathered together—was the nation of Zohar, here within these walls. An ancient people. A people who had suffered slavery, captivity, war after war, who sought life, who sought hope—in him, in their king.

As Epher passed among them, he blessed them, nodded to them, spoke to them—to soldiers, tradesmen, beggars, the ill. They had to see that their king stood among them, that he still fought, that there was still hope as the storm approached.

Yet who do I look to for hope? Epher thought.

They rode down Shemesh Road, an ancient path that circled the Valley of Ashes. If there was an unholy place in Beth Eloh, surely it was here. Before King Elshalom had united this city, idolaters would sacrifice their children in this valley, burning them in bronze bulls to appease their false gods. It was here, only months ago, that Remus Marcellus had crucified six hundred souls—nearly crucified Epher himself. Refugees crammed the city, and they had come here too, setting crude camps in the cursed valley, this place where none had ever dared raise homes.

Prophets stood along Shemesh Road, long of beard, thin of limbs. Some wore ragged tunics. Others wore nothing but loincloths, and dust caked their bodies.

"Beth Eloh will fall!" shouted one prophet, beard gray, eyes mad. "God has cursed this city. He has cursed us for the whores who gather at our Temple, for the greed of kings who sit in halls of gold, for the shame of Beth Eloh's daughters who paint and perfume their bodies, who sell their flesh upon hallowed ground. Repent, sinners, lest the scourge of Eloh falls upon you, and his eagle warriors cast down your bones!"

Epher kept walking, moving down the road.

"Zohar burns!" shouted a man, waving a staff topped with a crow's skull. "As it is written: the walls of the holy city will fall! The daughters of Beth Eloh will weep for their sons and husbands, and blood will fill the valley. Behold, the eagles fly! The lions will perish. The bones of children will lie under sand! The sins of Zohar have raised the eagles of wrath."

As Epher kept walking, he passed prophet after prophet, man after man vowing doom and desolation, punishments for pride, arrogance, greed, promiscuity.

"Fucking cunts," Olive muttered, walking by them. She thrust two fingers at one prophet. "My prophecy is you fuck off."

Epher pulled her away. "Olive, you're the companion of a king now."

She snorted. "I can still say fuck. I just say it louder."

"King Epheriah!" rose a voice behind. "King Epheriah! Hear me! Eagles fly!"

At first Epher thought it another prophet who had shouted, but he turned around to see a man running toward him, clad in armor, a sword at his side. It was Ramael, Master Malaci's grandson. Last Epher had seen the man, he had stormed out from the throne room in rage, but now fear filled Ramael's eyes.

"King Epheriah!" He reached Epher and leaned over, panting, drenched with sweat. "The southern road. They march! They march up the mountain toward the city. Three legions. Men speak of two more marching up the western road." He grabbed Epher's arms. "It's war. It's here."

Olive gripped his hand and looked at Epher with huge eyes, all her fury gone. Epher sucked in air. He nodded.

"I head to the southern wall," he said. "Ramael, muster the hosts. Every man, woman, and child with a weapon. Let us cover every wall and tower in this city."

He marched down the road, Olive at his side, his guards around him. They made their way through the city, past streets where people cried out in fear, where elders prayed, where babes wept, where whispers and wails rose of doom. Finally Epher reached the southern wall. The Gate of Flowers rose here, ancient and crumbling, speaking of past splendor. Epher had not seen flowers here for years, but in ancient times, it was said that the maidens of Zohar would bring forth carts of flowers through these gates, gifts to the Temple. Today all that remained of that old tradition was a blossom carved onto the craggy keystone.

He climbed onto the wall and stood at the battlements that rose atop the gate. His warriors spread out at his sides, manning the wall, bows and slings in hand. He stared toward the eastern mountainside, and he saw them there in the distance.

The legions marched up the mountain road, unit by unit, the sun on their armor. Chariots. Horsemen. Thousands of infantrymen. Wagons rolled with them, carrying the engines of war. When Epher looked westward, he saw more legions there, crawling up toward the other city gates. The noose of Aelar tightened around Beth Eloh. Their war drums boomed. Their horns blared. Soon he could hear the rumble of their footfalls, a storm fast approaching. He counted five legions—a massive host, large enough to topple nations. Some legions were fresh arrivals from overseas, others had spent the past six months burning Zohar's countryside. All were converging here for their final battle. For the final subjugation of Zohar.

Hope is lost, Epher thought. All light fades.

With a flutter of wings, a single dove flew above him, fleeing the city, then glided into the distance.

"The dove is fleeing," said Olive.

"And the eagles fly forth," Epher replied.

Cries rose across Beth Eloh. Great bells clanged in the Temple, their peal rolling across the city. Horns blared. Drums beat. Warriors shouted, sandals clattered, armor chinked. They ran up the walls—thousands of Zoharite warriors, gleaned from the ravaged hosts, from Zohar's Blade, from simple homes across the city. They wore what armor they had: scaled tunics forged in the city smithies, breastplates plundered from the legions, boiled leather sewn with rusty iron rings, or mere slats of iron and tin cobbled across tunics. Men and women stood side by side, some old and white-haired, others mere boys, too young to grow beards. They covered the walls of the city, a last ring of lions defending their den.

Closer they marched, the legions of Aelar, the military machine that had subjugated the world. They moved with precision, not a footfall out of place. Every suit of armor was alike, every spear glinted, every shield displayed the eagle symbol. Epher counted five Aquilae among them—great standards topped with golden eagles, idols of war. Their chariots roared. Their catapults trundled forth. Along the roadsides, as they advanced, they paused to raise crosses, to nail up Zoharites they had captured along their path. The screams tore across the mountainsides.

Epher stood, gripping the hilt of his sword, its pommel shaped as a lion. Olive stood at his side, a dagger in each hand, a sneer on her lips. Up the dirt road the legions marched, and they came to a halt just beyond the range of the city's arrows. Their drums ceased their beatings. Their horns fell silent. The screams of the crucified along the road died down to moans. From the imperial hosts rode forth a single chariot, a single Aelarian within it. Its four horses drew the Aelarian toward the Gate of Flowers.

Across the wall, soldiers drew back bowstrings. Epher held up his hand, holding off the volley.

"Wait," he said. "Wait."

The chariot rolled to a standstill outside the gate. A woman stood in the chariot, her armor gilded, her sword shining with jewels. She stared up at Epher and pulled off her helmet. Her brown hair spilled out, and she gave him a small smile.

In the eerie silence, her voice—even from the distance—sounded loud, as if she were once more holding him, speaking into his ear.

"Hello, Epher."

The world seemed to roll around him. If the walls themselves crumbled and the land opened up, Epher could not have felt more dismay. He met her eyes, and she gave him a small smile.

"Claudia," he said.

OFEER

She knelt in the dungeon, knees against the craggy floor, her ankle chained to the wall. Rats scurried around her, and her child kicked in her belly, and Ofeer forced herself to take deep breaths, to quell the fear inside her. A nightmare shot through her: that she would go into labor here in this dungeon, that her child would emerge onto the sticky floor, that the rats would—

No.

Ofeer forced another deep breath and loosened her fists, realizing that she'd been digging her fingernails into her palm.

I have a skeleton key, she told herself. I can escape this place. I can find the imperial lumer, and soon all the lumers will rise in rebellion.

She knew that she could trust Noa. The young lumer had saved Ofeer's life and the life of her child. Noa had sent her on this quest, and Ofeer would complete it. She would not let Noa, her homeland, and her family down.

She whispered the words the lumer had told her, the words Ofeer had memorized and recited countless times. "They'll lock you in the dungeon. Use the key. Leave your cell. Find the tunnel that leads deeper. Open the door. Find the lumer. Give her your lume. Open the trapdoor in her cell, crawl through the pipe, and you'll emerge outside the Acropolis walls."

Ofeer's breath shuddered. Well, she had completed the first part at least. She was here in the dungeon. The Magisterian Guard had locked her here hours ago, just as Noa had foreseen. That just left using the key. Leaving her cell. Finding a tunnel. Finding a door. Finding the lumer. Giving her lume. Finding a trapdoor. Crawling through a pipe to freedom.

In the shadows of the cell, the words all seemed to twist and coil in Ofeer's mind. Wait. Had she gotten the order right? Did she seek a tunnel first? Or a trapdoor? When was she supposed to crawl?

"Calm yourself, Ofeer." She inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. "Calm yourself. You know what to do. You can do this. It's all going according to plan."

The wooden door of her prison cell rose before her, scratched by the previous prisoners' fingernails. Ofeer stood up and peered through the small, barred window in the door. Outside in the corridor, she could still see the guard pacing.

I just have to wait until he needs to piss, she thought. Or until the guards shift. Then I can use my key. Then I can escape.

She touched her collar, not yet daring to open it. Soon. Soon.

As the guard paced outside, Ofeer paced her cell. It was a small, dank place, about as wide as she was tall. Her chain clanked, running from her ankle to a ring in the wall. The bricks rose around her, and only the lantern in the hallway outside cast its dim light. The rats kept scurrying, passing back and forth through a hole in the wall. One of the creatures carried a bone in its jaws; it looked sickeningly like a human finger bone. It came to sniff at her, its whiskers jabbing her leg, and Ofeer kicked it aside in disgust.

"I don't have to fear this place," Ofeer whispered to herself. "I survived the port of Gefen. I survived slavery. I will survive this. I—"

A scream rose through the dungeon, echoing, then faded to weeping and whimpers. A man laughed. Ofeer froze, and the scream returned.

"Please, master!" cried a man. "Please, not—" The scream rose again.

Ofeer sat down and covered her ears and screwed her eyes shut. Even from here she could smell the blood and shit and fear. The whole dungeon was rank with it. She wondered if they would torture her too before she could escape, and her breath rose to a pant, and she wanted to place her hands on her belly, to comfort her child, but that would leave her ears free, and the screams kept rising, and—

No. Stop. Control your thoughts. Control your breathing.

Ofeer forced her mind away from this dungeon, from the stench, from the screams. She returned her thoughts to Zohar, to her home across the sea. She pretended that she lay in her old bed, that Maya lay at her side. The ivy would be growing through the window shutters, casting dapples of dawn across the tiled floor, the shelves of scrolls, and the dolls Ofeer would tend to. Soon Ofeer would rise from bed, eat breakfast with her family—fresh eggs, tangy cheese, and bread dipped in olive oil—then work in the vineyard. How she had hated working in the vineyard! The sun would keep tanning her, only making her darker, and Ofeer hated being so dark, hated feeling like a Zoharite. She had always wanted to be pale and beautiful like an Aelarian.

Yet now, here in the dungeon, Ofeer had never felt so connected to Zohar. She even missed working in the vineyard, feeling the sun bake her black hair, smelling the grapes and leaves and soil. Then, when her work was done, she would run down to the sea. She would walk alone on the sand, collecting seashells—she had hundreds in her chamber—and then strip naked in the sunset and swim, just swim as the sun painted the water gold, rising and falling with the waves. Some nights she had slept on the beach, trying to count the stars.

Ofeer could taste that salty sea again, and she realized that she was weeping, that her tears flowed down to her lips.

"I miss you, my family," she whispered.

She would have given anything—the very palace of Aelar—to hug her mother again. To speak to Jerael and tell him she was sorry. To learn from Epher's wisdom, laugh with Koren, learn from Atalia to swing a sword.

"And to see you again, Maya," Ofeer said. "To hug you. To tell you that I love you. That I'm so sorry."

She rubbed her eyes. Tears would not help her now. There was only one way to save her home, to save her family, to see them again. She had to reach the imperial lumer, to give her more lume from Zohar--the lume that still clung to Ofeer like pollen. Only thus could the lumer light a beacon, broadcast a signal to a hundred lumers around the sea. A call to rise up. To topple the Empire. To save the light of Zohar. Perhaps, if the rebellion succeeded, Ofeer might even have time to sail back to Zohar, to give birth back home, to raise her child far from this hive of blades and buzzards and blood.

She peered again between the bars worked into the door's small window. The guard paced down the hall, then vanished around a corner—perhaps gone to relieve himself.

It was time.

"Use the key," Ofeer whispered, repeating Noa's words. "Leave your cell. Find the tunnel that leads deeper. Open the door. Find the lumer. Give her your lume. Open the trapdoor in her cell, crawl through the pipe, and you'll emerge outside the Acropolis walls."

Ofeer pressed the secret button on the collar Noa had given her, snapping it open, and pulled it off her neck. With another click, the key emerged—a key forged with Luminosity, able to open any lock. She held her breath as she placed the key into the manacle around her ankle, and fear flooded her that Noa had made a mistake, that the key would jam. She gave it a turn. The manacle would not open, and Ofeer's heart thrashed, and her fingers trembled. She gave the key another turn, jangling, praying . . . and the manacle snapped open. Her ankle was free.

She looked again through the bars. The guard was still gone around the corner, but she heard him humming a tune. Heart in her throat, Ofeer placed her key into the door's lock, shut her eyes, and gave a turn.

The lock gave a loud click.

Ofeer froze, sure the guard would hear, but he kept humming behind the corner. Ofeer pushed the door.

It creaked—loudly.

Ofeer froze, cringing. She sucked in breath. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

A scream rose across the dungeon again. "Please, masters! Please free me. Please! Mercy! Please!"

As the scream sounded, Ofeer shoved the door the rest of the way open, hiding the creaks.

She emerged into the corridor. Cells lined the walls, whimpers and screams rising from within them. According to Noa, the imperial lumer languished in a lower level, buried deep underground. Key in hand, Ofeer walked down the corridor, seeking a way down deeper.

As she walked, she couldn't help but glance into the cells alongside, and Ofeer cringed. Some prisoners clung to the barred windows, fingers missing their nails, eyes bloodshot. Some grinned madly, teeth gone from their gums. A few prisoners huddled at the back of their chambers. Ofeer could only make out raw, broken flesh, tortured with whips and fire.

Why did you send me here, Noa? Ofeer thought, the fear growing in her. Perhaps sensing her terror, the baby kicked in her womb. Ofeer swallowed and kept walking, and ahead she saw a staircase that plunged deeper. She stepped closer, barely daring to breathe, when the guard emerged from around the corner.

The man froze and stared.

He reached for his gladius.

Ofeer grimaced and fell to her knees.

"Please, dominus!" she cried out. "My baby is coming. My baby is coming!"

The guard's eyes widened. He hurried forward and knelt beside her. He stared at her belly.

"Fuck me," he whispered.

Thankfully, Ofeer had seen enough plays in her life to know something about acting.

"Please." She clasped his hand. "Please. You have to help me deliver him. He's coming out. Please—" She sat down, spread her legs, and let out a scream.

The guard knelt before her, dropping his sword, and stared between her legs. "What do I do?" he said. "I—"

Ofeer grabbed his sword, leaped up, and thrust the blade with a howl.

The iron slammed into his neck.

Eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, Ofeer shoved with all her might. The guard gurgled, wrapping his hands around the sword, and Ofeer kept shoving, cutting deeper, like cutting into raw steak, until finally the blade sank down to the hilt, emerging from the back of the man's neck.

She released the hilt and stumbled back, gasping for breath. The guard fell with a clatter and moved no more.

I killed a man. She took another step back, head spinning, feeling faint. I killed. I took a life. An innocent life.

She stumbled into the corner and vomited—a loud, painful, demonic expelling of her terror. She shuddered.

Keep going. For Zohar. For your son.

She gasped for breath, blood on her hands.

Hurry!

She leaned down. She tugged the sword free from the dead guard. She walked onward, stepped onto the staircase, and plunged deeper into the dungeon.

The staircase was so narrow her shoulders brushed against the walls. The darkness soon became complete, and Ofeer cursed under her breath, wishing she had a candle or lamp. She held one hand against the wall, and she pointed her sword forward, slicing the shadows. She forced herself to walk slowly, to feel for each step. With a child inside her, she could not risk a fall. It seemed the passage of eras before the staircase finally ended, and Ofeer found herself walking down a narrow corridor. Here too the darkness was complete, and she kept her hand against one wall. The way was so narrow she could barely squeeze through, and the brick walls rubbed against her arms and hips. Soon she was walking hunched over, the ceiling brushing her head.

Finally—Ofeer imagined that she had walked so far she'd emerge in Zohar—she saw a faint glow ahead. It was no brighter than a candle, but after so long in darkness, it was beautiful as dawn over the desert. Ofeer walked closer and reached the end of the tunnel. A door stood here, worked into the stone. The faint glow emerged from beneath it. A foul odor rose here too, and Ofeer covered her nose as she walked.

The glow of luminescence, she thought.

With a trembling hand, she placed her key into the lock and opened the door.

She stepped inside, and her eyes dampened, and sadness flowed through her like cold water through sand.

A woman lay here on a stained bed, her limbs tied to the posts. She was skeletal and naked, her pale skin infected with oozing sores. Her hair was wispy and gray, her face cadaverous, little more than a skull draped with skin. Maggots squirmed across the bed and over the woman's legs. The chamber reeked of human waste, of rot, of disease.

The imperial lumer, Ofeer knew.

She lowered her head, suddenly all her worries seeming inconsequential. All she had suffered—Seneca's advances, her slavery, her homelessness in Aelar—all seemed like a garlic's peel by this misery, by this inhuman suffering.

She approached the bed, barely able to breathe the noxious air. The imperial lumer opened rheumy eyes—they seemed so large in her gaunt face—and gazed at her.

"Hello, Ofeer Sela," the diseased woman whispered.

Ofeer glanced behind her at the doorway, waiting for guards to appear at any moment. As soon as the dead man was discovered, no place would be safe. Hurriedly, Ofeer returned to the imperial lumer, lowered her sword, and sawed through the ropes binding the woman to the bed.

"Noa sent me," Ofeer said. "The rebellion must begin. You—"

"I know, child," whispered the lumer, voice hoarse. Three teeth were missing from her mouth. Even with the ropes cut, she still lay abed, limbs spread out. "I see all through the Luminosity. But I have not been to Zohar in years, and my lume is all but gone."

Ofeer nodded and knelt by the bed. "Noa claims that some lume still clings to me, like sand after a day at the beach. I was in Zohar only half a year ago, and since then, Noa infused me with even more lume when healing me."

The imperial lumer struggled to move an arm, coughed, breathed heavily. "Help me . . . Help me sit up. For the first time in years, help me sit up."

When Ofeer placed her arms around the lumer, she could feel the bones beneath the skin, as brittle as the bones of birds. The lumer seemed to weigh almost nothing. Her joints creaked and her sores bled as Ofeer helped her sit up. Her hip bones thrust out, and her shoulder blades were like rancid wings. Ofeer removed her tunic, remaining in her undertunic, and wrapped the linen around the skeletal lumer.

As the lumer wheezed, rage filled Ofeer. Rage that the Octavius family had treated this woman like an animal. Nobody deserved such torture. Ofeer thought back to the dog on Pine Hill, the one Maya had healed, only for Seneca to later shoot it dead. Perhaps death would be a mercy for souls so ravaged.

For a long moment, the lumer merely breathed, ribs rising and falling. Ofeer kept glancing at the door.

"We must hurry," she said. "What do I do?"

"Hold my hand," rasped the lumer.

Ofeer held the woman's thin hand, like holding a bird's talon. The lumer raised her other hand, joints creaking, and placed it against Ofeer's cheek. Her eyes closed.

"Remember, child," the lumer whispered. "Remember Zohar."

Ofeer thought back to her home. Lighting candles on Restday beneath a painting of elephants. The song of timbrels and lyres as maidens danced on grapes, as young men came to seek brides among them. Pilgrimages to Beth Eloh, the roads thick with travelers bringing produce and livestock to the ancient city. The cobbled streets of Beth Eloh that snaked between countless homes, the sun gleaming on bronze and gold domes, and the song of rams' horns from the Temple.

Yet those memories began fading, like dreams melting under sunlight. She could barely cling to them, and fear filled Ofeer that she would forget her homeland, that she would forget herself, after so many years of struggling to understand who she was. When she opened her eyes, she saw that luminescence spread across the imperial lumer. Already some of her pallor left her, and her eyes shone. Slowly, this ancient and ravaged woman rose to her feet, and the light intensified, wreathing across her, cloaking her with grace. In the light, an astral figure appeared, overlaying the ruin of a woman, and Ofeer saw a hint, like a reflection in a pool, of who she had been—a beautiful woman with flowing dark hair, a woman of Zohar, rising from the desert.

The two lumers—the beautiful woman of the past, woven of light, and the dying woman of the present, skin and bones—raised their arms as one. Wretched and pure, they spoke, two voices mingling together, one musical, the other raspy.

"Hear me, lumers of Zohar!" Light flared out from the imperial lumer, turning the chamber bright as desert noon. Strands of luminescence wove out, coiling, crawling under the doorway, rising to the ceiling, seeping between the bricks. "Hear me, lumers of the desert, daughters of Beth Eloh, mistresses of light! The time has come. We will arise! We will arise! Cast off your chains, sisters of light. With wisdom, with deception, with grace, with blades, with light—arise! The rebellion has begun!"

Ofeer fell to her knees. She felt drained, wearier than she'd ever been. She had been remembering something, a mere dream. She tried to remember again—something about a desert, and . . . The last bits of memory fled from her. She felt like a vessel drained from wine.

"We have to leave," Ofeer whispered, struggling to rise. "Noa said there would be a way out. A trapdoor. A hidden trapdoor leading to safety."

She moved through the room, seeking, but found no exit. There was only the tunnel Ofeer had walked down moments ago—the tunnel that led to the dungeon, to more guards, finally up to a barracks full of legionaries.

"No, no," she said, trembling. "There must be a way out. Noa told me. She said there's an escape. A trapdoor. There has to be."

She moved through the chamber, seeking hidden doors. She shoved the bed aside, finding only a solid floor. The imperial lumer still wove her light, still cried out to her sisters.

Ofeer grabbed her. "We have to leave. Where is the escape tunnel?"

But Ofeer already knew the answer, and her eyes stung.

There is no escape. Noa lied. She sent me here to die.

Such fear filled Ofeer that she wet herself. She had not wet herself since she'd been a young child. The warm liquid poured down her thighs, kept flowing, pooled on the floor. Suddenly pain stabbed her, and Ofeer screamed. She stumbled toward the bed and crashed down. Her legs shook wildly.

"Arise, sisters!" cried the imperial lumer.

"Help me," Ofeer pleaded, tears in her eyes. "Help—" A spasm ran through her, and she screamed again.

From the tunnel rose the voices of guards. Footsteps thumped.

Ofeer clutched the bed, screaming, her legs spread out. Sweat drenched her.

No. No, it's too soon. It's too soon. He's not due for another two months. Please, God, no. No. Not yet. Please.

Her back arched, and she tossed her head back, weeping, praying, shouting.

Please. No. Not yet. Too soon. Please.

She wept as the blood flowed between her legs, covering the bed, dripping to the floor. She screamed as he emerged into the world—coated with her blood and amniotic fluid, so small, too small, as weak as the lumer, red and white, and he gave only a whimper. As light filled the chamber, as the guards cried out, as lumers around the Encircled Sea awakened, her son emerged into the world, gasping for breath, unable to cry.

"Help him," Ofeer pleaded. "Help him . . ."

Her blood kept flowing. She cradled the baby to her chest, willing him to breathe, to live. So small. Wrinkled. Covered with hair. Live. Live. Help . . .

The light covered Ofeer, and then darkness spread.

ABISHAG

For the first time in years, snow fell on Beth Eloh.

The snow coated the cobblestones, dusted the cypresses, and clung to metal domes. The filth of the city—the gutters that overflowed, the stains of old blood and vomit and disease—all vanished under the glimmering powder, and for the first time in her life, Abishag thought the city beautiful, a painting all in white and gold. She had never seen snow, for its fall was like lions in the desert—a thing of legend, emerging into the world only at the most sacred of times.

Yet this day, as the snow fell, no children tossed or sculpted it. No elders spoke of previous storms. No young lovers strolled down glistening boulevards, and no painters worked at capturing the beauty.

This day, this rare snowy day in Beth Eloh, the city prepared for war.

Soldiers ran down the narrow streets, sandals scattering the white fields. People wept and hid in their homes. Boys ran forth, carrying quivers of arrows. A catapult rolled down a road, a lumbering beast of wood and metal. The song of impending war filled Beth Eloh: blaring horns, booming drums, the chants of countless soldiers.

Abishag was weary and shivering. She had been wandering the cold city for hours, seeking that which she had sought all year. Time and time again, she had traversed the walls of the city, passing her hand against ancient bricks, seeking hidden passageways, gates that had been sealed up, hidden behind stones or trees, finding nothing but solid rock. With every step, her hope faded.

She whispered the words of the prophet, tears in her eyes. "Through the Gate of Tears she will enter, wreathed in white, and she will bring healing to the hurt, sustenance to those who hunger, light to those lost in the dark, peace to those who fight."

Abishag was in the dark now, as soldiers manned the walls, as the hosts of the enemy mustered on the hills, and she wanted to believe. That the prophecies were true. That Maya the lumer had foreseen a great blessing. Because Abishag could not live in a world where the prophet had lied. She could not live in a world where eagles fed upon lions, where cities crumbled to sand, where children worshiped the light outside the Temple, where her parents were dead, where she was so hurt, so sick, dying, fading.

"I must believe." She wandered the streets of Beth Eloh, seeking her hope. "That she will come as Maya foresaw. That milk and honey will flow through our city. That the children of Zohar will no longer be sacrificed in the Valley of Ashes and outside the Temple walls."

And yet she returned to that temple. She returned to her consecrated sisters. She returned to the Queen of Whores with her teeth stained with spice, to the little creatures that scurried across them, to the sores, the coins they collected, the coins they returned, to this worship, to this slow death, to this sacrifice to a new Dagon.

The consecrated sisters were doing much holy work this day. With war outside the city, with these last days before desolation, many in the city had come to worship the light. Many men of the city manned the walls, but others had come here, choosing women from among the consecrated. When Abishag approached, many men turned toward her, pulling out coins, but she was young and fair and she only took silver from the priests.

Two boys approached her, wrapped in prayer shawls, turbans on their heads. Their vestments were trimmed with gold, and they held scepters topped with gilded pomegranates. Here were Temple boys, servants to the High Priest. Last summer, Remus Marcellus, cruel eagle of Aelar, had burned the old priests upon the altar, but new men had arisen to replace them. Now the boys reached out to her, silver in their palms.

"Are you Abishag Bat Naeem, consecrated sister?" they asked.

She nodded and they placed silver in her hand. Walls surrounded the Mount of Cedars, as thick as the walls around the city, and the boys took Abishag through the gate and into the acropolis. She had spent three years worshiping outside the Temple, but she had never stepped onto this hallowed ground. The hillside rose before her, green with cedars, and they took a cobbled path up toward the Temple. It was a long, silent climb. This high up the hill, Abishag could turn and see the city sprawl below her beyond the acropolis walls. The rooftops, domes, towers, and alleyways of Beth Eloh spread before her, a great tapestry, teeming with her nation. Beyond the walls, through a haze, she could see the legions covering the hills, an iron noose around the city. It was death—shining, shimmering, ready to flow through this city like poison through veins.

Abishag looked away and stared back up the hill. A third layer of walls rose here, and they passed through another gateway, entering the Temple complex. A vast courtyard spread here, large enough that Abishag's entire old village could have fit here. As they walked across this snowy expanse, Abishag thought of that old village. Of the grove of pines where she would play as a child, collecting cones and nuts. Of the little stone temple where her parents would take her to light candles and pray. Of walking among the hills with her sheep, watching the sun rise and set, the flowers bloom and fade, the land breathe. Those seemed like memories of another life. How could it have been her—Abishag the consecrated—who had lived there as a child, joyous, only a few years ago? How could she—ravaged, diseased, holy—have ever been that girl? Perhaps that village was only ashes now, destroyed by the legions, and perhaps it had never existed at all, only in the fever dreams of a broken child.

A stone altar rose ahead in the courtyard, reflecting in the polished flagstones below. Blackened bones smoldered atop it, and for a horrible instant Abishag was sure they were human bones, but then she saw the horns, and she remembered seeing the bollocks being delivered into the Temple that morning.

An old man stood at the altar. He seemed ancient to Abishag, though his back was still straight, his shoulders still wide. He wore white robes that shone with silver embroidery, a tasseled prayer shawl hung across his shoulders, and a turban topped his head. A golden plate hung across his chest, glittering with eight jewels of prophecy. The priest's beard was cut just short enough to let those jewels shine. Abishag had seen him from the distance before, leading his fellow priests through the city.

"Nahamiya," she said and bowed before him.

He was a new priest. For decades, the same men had tended to this Temple, finally slain when the legions invaded. After Epher's rebellion, new priests occupied the Temple grounds, resuming worship. A consecrated sister, Maya knew all their secrets, more than any king could. Nahamiya had once worshiped in the wilderness, a haggard traveler, spreading his gospel from village to village. Some had called him a prophet of doom, many others a false prophet, a ragged madman in a dusty cloak. Now Nahamiya lived here in splendor, wearing the vestments of the burned priestly class.

The old man gestured for her to rise. He was a tall man, so tall that she felt dwarfed before him, a mere child again. He placed a hand on her shoulder, glittering with rings. "I have called for you, Abishag the consecrated. At the end of days, before the doom falls upon our city, I have called upon the holy daughter of Beth Eloh to worship with me, with the High Priest of God, in the Holy of Holies."

Abishag gasped. The consecrated sisters had always worshiped outside the walls of the Temple, for some among the old priests had seen them as sinful, even calling the legions God's punishment for the sins of the sisterhood. Among the consecrated, whispers sometimes rose of this greatest honor—to worship with flesh in the Temple itself, in the very Holy of Holies where God's grace dwelled. No sister had ever entered the Temple grounds, let alone the inner sanctum that contained Eloh's ark. That she, Abishag, should be chosen! Her eyes watered.

"Thank you, your holiness," she whispered, trembling. "I will sacrifice myself to our lord. Here in his dwelling!" She could barely breathe. "I will worship him with every fiber of my body!"

The priest took her from the altar, and they walked toward a soaring building, lined with marble columns, topped with gold. When she craned her neck back, Abishag could barely see its top. Here was the tallest building in Zohar, among the tallest in the world. Here did God dwell. Doors were open ahead, leading into the Temple, into this most sacred of places, the heart of this nation. Yet as the priest led her forward, Abishag found tears in her eyes, and her knees trembled. She told herself this wasn't fear, wasn't sadness, merely awe that she had been chosen, that these were tears of joy.

They stepped through the doorway, entering the Temple—entering God's home, entering ground so holy that Abishag covered her eyes.

"Why do you not look upon God's hall?" said the priest.

Abishag trembled. "I dare not gaze upon him."

She felt his fingers on her hand, gentle. "You may unveil your eyes, daughter of Beth Eloh. You have nothing to fear."

When she uncovered her eyes, Abishag winced, expecting the light to sear, to melt her flesh, for Eloh to gaze into her, see her sins, admonish her for walking upon sacred ground. Yet slowly her body relaxed, and her gaze softened. From outside, the Temple was purest marble and gold, beautiful and glittering, truly the house of the lord. Yet here she found a simple interior, not much finer than the courtyard outside the walls where the sisters worshiped. The walls were built of rough limestone bricks, same as those across the city. The floor was deeply scarred. Here was an ancient place, a holy place, but she saw no luminescence. She saw no splendor. She saw simple old stones.

A beam of light fell through the chamber's single window, illuminating a wooden box, large as a bed, that rested on a stone dais. The wood was fresh; she could still smell the sawdust. The top of the box had been removed; it leaned against a wall nearby.

"There it lies," said the priest, gazing with her at the ark. "There does God's spirit dwell."

Abishag blinked. She stepped closer to the ark and peeked inside. It was empty. She looked back up at the priest. "In the stories, the ark is ancient. Many eras ago, our people carried it across the desert, placed it here, built a Temple around it. But . . ." She frowned. "It looks so new."

The priest nodded. "The legionaries burned our old ark upon the altar. We've built this replacement from the finest cedar." He knelt beside her, eyes crinkling with forbidden delight. "Truth is, the last ark wasn't that ancient either. A generation old, at most. Wood tends to rot, to burn, to fall apart. Most High Priests have had to build a new ark."

A tremble seized Abishag. "But . . . if Eloh dwelled in the first ark, where . . ."

The priest touched her chest. "He dwells in your heart." He removed his breastplate and brought her hand to his own chest. "In my heart. He dwells in our flesh when we worship him. We die today, Abishag Bat Naeem. Eloh has sent his wrath against this city, and the walls will fall. Already the legions pound at our gates. We will worship God one last time, naked as the first man and woman he had raised from the soil."

As Nahamiya disrobed, she saw that his skin was wrinkled, his body saggy, his chest covered with white hairs. With all his splendor stripped away—the embroidered robe, the gilded breastplates, the jewels, the fineries—she saw him for what he was. A simple man, the telltale sores upon his flesh. She saw this room for what it was—simple stones. She saw this ark—nothing but wood, the work of men.

There is no holiness here, she thought. A mask, that's all.

She lowered her head, and she tasted her tears, for it seemed to her that all the wonder and magic in the world pulled back like the priest's robes, revealing the ugliness within, that all glory was but gilt painted onto rusted iron.

The priest lifted her, then placed her into the ark, as if laying her body into a coffin. Silver coins shone in the box around her, reflecting the beam of light that fell through the window—the coins so many men had paid to Abishag, which she had returned to the Temple. Nahamiya entered the box with her, stroking her hair, nuzzling her neck, smelling her. Abishag did not want this. She did not want to worship again.

All my life—lies. All my life—I worshiped for an empty box. An empty chamber.

The priest reached to pull open her robe, and Abishag shuddered, tears stinging.

I miss home. I want to go home.

She trembled in the box, the priest lying here with her. And this was no holy ark. This felt more like a coffin.

"Did you speak lies too, Maya?" she whispered. "Did you lie about a savior, about a Gate of Tears?"

The sun traveled the sky outside. The beam of light moved, leaving the box, leaving Abishag in shadow.

"We worship him," mumbled the priest. "We worship him before the end, before the end . . ." And he was trembling. He was afraid. He too was in darkness.

Abishag tilted her head back, and her tears fell, and she sought the fleeing light.

Her breath caught.

As the sunbeam moved, it illuminated the back of the chamber. There, worked into the brick wall, was a gateway. Upon the arch's stones were engraved teardrops.

"The Gate of Tears," Abishag whispered. "The gate of shattered innocence. The gate of lost children. The gate of salvation."

She wept. It was here inside the Temple. It had been here all along.

She tried to rise from the box.

"Worship him!" said the priest, reaching for her, grabbing her.

"Do not touch me!" Abishag shoved him away. "We will not worship. This is false. This is cruel. But the gate is real." She trembled. "The eighth gate of Beth Eloh. It's here in the Holy of Holies."

The priest sneered, sudden rage in his damp eyes. "They are coming, fool!" he shouted, spittle flying. "They will kill you. They will kill us all." He reached to grab her again. "They—"

"Do not touch me!" she shouted and leaped back. The ark overturned, teetered, then crashed down off the dais. It slammed against the floor, shattering, spilling out Abishag and the priest. Wooden slats flew. The silver coins spilled across the floor.

Abishag leaped to her feet, her leg pierced with a piece of wood. She closed her robe around her nakedness.

"I am no longer consecrated," she whispered.

The priest crouched in the ruins of the ark, a wild animal, sneering, naked, his hair in disarray. With a snarl, like a wolf pouncing upon prey, he leaped toward her. Abishag scurried back. The priest scuttled forward, but his foot landed on one of the spilled silver coins, the price of the consecrated—a coin she herself had earned. He swayed. He took another step, only stepping onto other coins. The silver chinked beneath him, and he fell. It couldn't have been more than an instant, but that fall seem to last an eternity. With a crack, the priest slammed his head against the side of the stone dais. He hit the floor with scattering coins and lay still, blood spilling.

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

She spun around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abishag stepped outside and found herself on a mountainside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes widened.

Abishag ran.

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

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

Abishag knelt before her, weeping.

"Maya," she whispered.

EPHER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epher made to walk forward when Olive grabbed his arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is Porcia—" he began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAYA

In the darkness, Maya walked many paths.

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

She was a youth, afraid, the lume inside a girl, a girl in two worlds—one which she shared with her family, one that was invisible to all others, a world vast, wondrous, a world she could not understand. A world she knew she had always belonged to.

She walked up a dirt path, seeking solace, seeking some understanding with her sister, and she walked toward an old, dying dog, and she saw him die, and she walked back toward a home that fell, a sea that stormed.

She walked toward a city of ancient generations, a city whose stones whispered to her, a city of lume, of grace, of copper and gold, of song and sadness, of iron and sand, gold and rust, splendor and shadow.

And she walked away from her mother. She walked into the desert. She walked into a home that had fallen.

As she walked down this dark tunnel through the mountain, Maya walked all those paths again, and she realized now that all those paths—the beaches of her childhood, the hills of her youth, the desert of her exile—all those paths had always led here. She had always just walked this one path, a path that would lead her to shadows under a mountain, to darkness, lead her into the city of kings, the city of the dying, the city of shadow and of Luminosity.

"The city weeps," Maya said, walking down the tunnel. "The city cries out in fear."

Abishag walked a step behind her, holding her hand. "You will bring them hope. You will bring them light in darkness."

As Maya walked, the lume filled her—rich, ancient, the lume that had always flowed from this mountain, from Beth Eloh. Maya breathed it, let it wash across her, so much more concentrated than the lume she had found in the east. With every breath, she could feel the city above, the children of Zohar gathered within the walls as the legions tried to break in. She felt the antiquity. The beauty. The beauty that brought tears to her eyes—of sunrise on limestone, of palm trees in the good air, of her people's song that flowed from desert to sea. Maya could not stop it; without even meaning to, she kindled the lume, and the luminescence flowed across her, lighting the tunnel, lighting her form.

After what seemed like the passage of eras, from the first tribes of Zohar to the greatest kings, she reached the end of the tunnel, and she faced an archway.

"It leads into the Temple," said Abishag. "Into the Holy of Holies."

Maya paused, the light intensifying, wreathing around her, gentle, loving. Luminosity was love. Eternal.

"This place is holy," Maya whispered, her voice flowing through the ages, flowing in countless waves, across countless dunes. "Here is the spring of Luminosity."

When she had left her home on Pine Hill long ago, her family had given her three gifts. Atalia had gifted her a dagger; Maya had used it in the house of Luminosity, but she would not use it here, for she would not shed blood in this city. Her brother had given her a ram's horn, like the horn the priests blew in temples. Now she took this horn from her pack, and she handed it to Abishag. Jerael had given her the most precious gift—the prayer shawl he had sewn for Mica, sweet Mica who had lived for only a day. Now Maya took this holy garment, and she wrapped the white cotton around herself, a vestment of Eloh for his Temple, for his hallowed ground.

Standing at her side, Abishag blew into the horn—a high cry, a song of hope. It was a call that Maya knew he could hear—the man in the shadows, her adversary, the one she would have to face here. Wreathed in her brother's shawl and the light of Luminosity, Maya stepped through the Gate of Tears, entering the city of despair, of prophecy, and of ancient hope.

The story continues in Halls of Shadow (Kingdoms of Sand Book 5).

Click here to read the next book in the series:

DanielArenson.com/HallsofShadow

AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading Temples of Dust. 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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