THRONES OF ASH

KINGDOMS OF SAND, BOOK THREE

by

Daniel Arenson

Table of Contents

MAP

CHAPTER ONE: IMANI

CHAPTER TWO: MAYA

CHAPTER THREE: OFEER

CHAPTER FOUR: PORCIA

CHAPTER FIVE: ATALIA

CHAPTER SIX: ADAI

CHAPTER SEVEN: MAYA

CHAPTER EIGHT: SHILOH

CHAPTER NINE: KOREN

CHAPTER TEN: IMANI

CHAPTER ELEVEN: MAYA

CHAPTER TWELVE: ATALIA

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: SENECA

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: EPHER

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: OFEER

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: SENECA

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: PORCIA

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: ATALIA

CHAPTER NINETEEN: VALENTINA

CHAPTER TWENTY: SHILOH

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: OFEER

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: KOREN

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: SHILOH

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: ATALIA

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: EPHER

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: OFEER

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: EPHER

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: OFEER

AFTERWORD

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

KEEP IN TOUCH

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Full-sized map: DanielArenson.com/Map

IMANI

She stood in the savanna, tears in her eyes, watching the men butcher the mother giraffes like they had butchered her own mother.

"Enough!" Imani stepped toward the hunters. "Put down your bows. You've shed ample blood."

Seven giraffe carcasses, all mothers, lay across the savanna. In death, their necks rose as arches, the heads pressed against the ground, eyes shut, long lashes in the dust. Arrows rose from their hides, and blood dripped from the wounds. Their calves wailed, clinging to the corpses, refusing to leave their slain mothers.

Several more giraffes were fleeing across the grasslands, and the hunters pursued, firing arrows. Here were no Nurian hunters, dour men in loincloths who raced barefoot across the savanna, hunting to feed their families, picking out only the weak and elderly beasts. No. Here were trophy hunters from across the sea, men of Aelar, clad in fine togas and jewels, riding upon those northern beasts they called horses. They hooted as they hunted, laughing with every kill. One man stepped behind a corpse, kicked aside a wailing calf, and mimicked humping the dead mother. His comrades roared with laughter.

The horses surrounded another giraffe. The foreigners raised their bows. More arrows flew. The animal tried to flee, bleeding, crying out, nearly trampling her own calves. An arrow slammed into her neck, and the giraffe fell.

"Consul Cicero, enough!" Imani stepped toward the lanky man who stood on the hill, watching the hunt. "I told you that you may hunt the elder giraffes, the ones near death already. These are mothers! Their calves will die without them."

The Aelarian governor turned toward her. He was a cadaverous man. His lips were so thin they vanished into his tight smile, leaving but a slit. His chin thrust out, sharp and cleft, and lines marred his brow like cracks in stone. His nose was sharp, beaklike, and a ring of gray hair surrounded his head, giving him the appearance of some pale vulture ready to feed on carrion.

They are vultures, Imani thought. Vultures who feed on what remains of my kingdom.

Consul Cicero Octavius. Brother of Emperor Marcus himself. The man who had doomed Imani's mother to death.

"But my dear queen!" said Cicero. "The hides of giraffes fetch a fair price in Aelar. And your little rebellions here in Nur—men in shadows, slitting throats and stabbing backs in the rat hives you call cities—are quite expensive to crush." He drank from a horn of wine and passed it to her. "Here, drink. Fine vintage from Aelar. Enjoy the show. See how the noble beasts fall! We should bring a few live ones back home, slay them in our amphitheater for sport."

Imani caught sight of herself reflected in Cicero's breastplate. She was a tall woman of twenty-seven years, her skin rich mahogany, her hair a mane of black curls. A golden tiara, worked with rubies and garnets, held that hair back from her brow. Rings hung from her ears, and chinking bracelets encircled her wrists. She wore a kalasiri dress of white muslin, hemmed with golden embroidery. A pendant shaped as an ibis, sigil of her kingdom, rested between her breasts. An elephant, draped in scarlet fabric, stood at her side—her dear companion Huko, once her mother's mount, passed down to Imani with her crown.

She was a queen now. Queen Imani Koteeka. Queen since these men had taken her mother to Aelar, butchered her in their arena, and hung her remains upon that northern city's gates. Imani now led this ancient kingdom called Nur, this province of a cruel empire, and her tiara and her family name denoted her royalty. Yet she was no more a true queen than a wooden doll in a mummer's play. How could she rule Nur if she couldn't even protect the animals that lived here, let alone her own people, from the butchers from oversea?

The horses thundered by. The Aelarians laughed in the saddles, puissant lords and ladies, their cheeks flushed with wine. They fired their arrows at another giraffe. They hit both mother and calf this time, then cheered as the animals fell.

Imani ground her teeth and looked aside. "I'll melt the statue," she hissed.

Cicero Octavius lowered his horn of wine and raised an eyebrow. "What was that, my swarthy sweetling?"

She clenched her fists. She forced herself to bow her head. "I'll melt it. The statue of my mother. A hundred stones of gold. Just stop this slaughter."

"Ah!" That slit of a mouth opened in a smile, revealing sharp, small teeth. "There. You see, my dusky little queen? We are not unreasonable men, we Aelarians. Very well." Cicero raised his hand and cried out to the hunters in the valley. "Now then! Friends, friends! We've had our fun. Skin the slain beasts, and let the others go."

An Aelarian noblewoman turned her mare toward him. She had the pale skin of the north, the color of cream, and an ivory broach pinned her smooth brown hair. Her toga was dyed lavender, trimmed with silver. "But Lord Cicero!" she called to him, laughing. "Our hunt has only begun. Won't you join us? See how their necks curve in death like the arches of Aelar. Splendid beasts."

"Now, now, Sabina," said the governor. "Leave some for the next hunt. Come, we'll return to Shenutep and dine on fresh peacock. Lady Paulina has just bought a few more dancing slaves, beasts from the deep southern rainforest, and she'll be quite upset if we miss their debut performance."

The noblemen and women sighed, laughed, and nodded. They dismounted their horses, rested in a baobab grove, drank more wine, and nibbled on sweet clusters of almonds and honey. As the Aelarians lounged, their bodyguards—legionaries in armor—worked at skinning the dead giraffes. Soon the prized pelts lay dripping in a wagon, and flies bustled around the skinned carcasses. Even now, the giraffe calves crowded around their mothers' remains, crying out plaintively.

"We must bring the meat to the villages," Imani said, turning toward the governor. "Tell your men to carve the animals. Summon more wagons and bring the meat to those who hunger."

Cicero scoffed. "Meat? We have plenty of peacocks and doves back at the palace. We shall leave the carcasses for the flies. I won't dirty our wagons with this filth." He mounted his horse and turned toward the baobab grove. "Come, friends! Let us return in triumph from the hunt, like the great warriors who vanquished this kingdom long ago."

The procession rode out. Some of the Aelarian women, exhausted by the heat, rode in carriages, fanning themselves as the sun beat down upon the savanna. The men rode ahead on their horses, already boasting of their kills. Cicero, governor of the province of Nur, rode at the lead, his armor bright.

"Are you coming, Imani?" he called back to her.

She stood by Huko, her dear elephant, and would not budge. The orphaned giraffes still wailed, some lying down by their skinned mothers, refusing to move. Imani couldn't abandon them.

"Very well, you may linger out here until you grow hungry," said Cicero. "Then you'll crawl back to me like a good pup."

The cavalcade of Aelarians, conquerors and masters of this realm, rode onward, soon descending the hill and disappearing from view.

Head lowered, young Kira approached Imani. The girl was sixteen and frightened of the world, and she had hidden behind the elephant during the hunt. Imani had found the orphan begging on the streets of Shenutep, had brought her into the royal pyramid, had bathed her, had dressed her in cotton livery. The child who had begged, stolen, and sold her body for food now dined at the side of a queen—or at least a puppet queen to cruel puppeteers.

"My queen, what shall we do?" Kira asked. Her hair hung in a hundred braids, framing a dark, round face, and her large brown eyes stared at her toes. A tear streamed down her cheek. "The orphans will die without their mothers."

Imani stroked her handmaiden's cheek, drying her tears. "I did not abandon you, dearest Kira, when I found you alone, a frightened orphan. And we won't abandon these calves, for they're no less important than us humans who live in Nur. We'll bring them back to Shenutep. We'll tend to them in the royal gardens."

"But . . . my queen!" Kira shuddered. "The ladies of Aelar enjoy sitting in the gardens. They rarely lounge elsewhere. They claim the city stinks of swine."

"And soon the gardens will stink of giraffe shit." Imani winked. "Perhaps that will drive off the Aelarians."

Kira gasped and covered her mouth, then giggled. "I would like that."

"Now come, help me herd them." Imani's smile died on her lips, and her shoulders slumped. "It'll be a long walk for the calves, and a longer first night without their mothers."

It was gentle work, separating the calves from the skinned carcasses. With caresses and coos, Imani and Kira, queen and handmaiden, managed to herd the giraffe calves a few steps across the grass.

"Ride on Huko," Imani said to Kira. "I'll walk among the calves."

The girl's eyes widened. "A servant will ride the royal elephant while a queen walks?"

Imani stroked the head of a frightened calf. The giraffe licked her palm; he was only a few weeks old and already taller than Imani. The other calves crowded around, bleating, looking back toward the carcasses, seeking their mothers.

"A true queen walks among her subjects rather than riding above them. And I am queen of all this land—its people, its animals, the trees, the river, the majesty and memories of our home."

But not of the Aelarians, she added silently. Not of those foreigners from across the northern sea who ravage and rape our ancient land. The foreigners who killed these calves' mothers. Who murdered my own mother.

Kira rode the elephant, and Imani walked behind with the calves. They made their way across the savanna of Nur, the largest and southernmost province of the Aelarian Empire. The yellow grass spread as far as Imani could see. Scattered baobab and acacia trees dotted the landscape, and the Majina River gushed northward, the vein of Nur, giver of life. Hawks circled above, and a pride of lions stared from atop boulders, perhaps tempted to pounce upon the giraffe calves, but a trumpeting from Huko discouraged their hunt. The giraffe calves whimpered, frightened, trying to flee. Imani kept moving between them, soothing them, herding them onward.

Finally, past farms of barley and beans and yams, Imani beheld her city, the capital of Nur.

The walls of Shenutep rose tall and strong, walls that had stood for a thousand years, repelling invaders from many lands before falling to Aelar a mere generation ago. The Majina River flowed into the city, passing under a massive stone bridge—among the largest in the world—that connected two walls. Reed ships sailed through the bridge's archways, entering the city with gifts of spices, gemstones, produce, cotton, wool, and iron ore from distant lands.

Huko the elephant knew the way. He confidently walked along the dirt road toward the Ivory Gate, the city's southern entrance. Two statues stood here, shaped as men with elephant heads. Each statue rose the height of a tower, carved of limestone, the tusks forged of iron and coated with platinum. Stone crowns topped the statues' heads, green with moss, forming battlements for guards.

Years ago, proud Nurian guards had stood atop these towers, clad in bronze, defending their capital. Today no Nurian could bear a weapon or wear armor. Aelarians now manned the elephant towers, legionaries in lorica segmentata, the new masters of the city. Once, Shenutep's gatekeepers would have bowed and praised their queen's return. Today the legionaries frowned, arrows nocked in their bows, prepared to fire upon any visitor who displeased them—commoner or queen.

These were once the gates to my capital, Imani thought. They're now the gates to my prison.

"The beggar queen returns!" cried a legionary from a tower. "She walks afoot among beasts, stepping in elephant shit."

His companion roared with laughter. "All Nurians are beasts. The elephants have got more sense than them."

When Imani's mother, grandmother, and many queens before them would return to this city, the people would toss flower petals and praise their names. As Imani walked through the gates of Shenutep, legionaries pelted her with apple cores and fish bones. One pulled out his cock and pissed toward her; she barely dodged the spray. She ignored those brutes. They could not steal her pride, could not steal who she was.

I am Imani Koteeka, daughter of Anaya, Queen of Nur, whether I walk over rose petals or legionary piss.

She entered her city, herding the giraffe calves.

Cicero and his companions could no longer be seen. They had reached this city long before her, would now be dining and whoring in the palaces, boasting of their kills. Imani and her handmaiden walked through Shenutep, a city of lost splendor. A city that her forebears had built to greatness, generation after generation, her mother, her grandmother, the queens and kings of her family going back to time immemorial.

And my reign might be the last.

Once proud warriors of Nur had served here, armed with spears and wooden shields, brave men and women who had built a vast kingdom. Today those warriors lay dead, their bones scattered. Legionaries lined the streets now, filled alehouses and brothels, and devoured the produce of thin farmers. Once, at street corners, kindly priests would distribute beans, yams, and grains from baskets, feeding the hungry. Today at these same street corners rose crosses, and upon them died all those who had displeased the legionaries—thieves, beggars, rebels, children.

Old tapestries, paintings, and codices, which Imani had admired in childhood, had depicted this city as a hive of Nurian culture and enlightenment. Those works of art had burned; so had the culture they had shown. The ancient treasures of Nur—lush gardens where sages would meditate, statues of animals bedecked with flowers, trees whose trunks had been guided over centuries into the shapes of gods—all had burned. All were gone, existing only in fading memory.

Today foreign temples rose here, lined with marble columns, built in the Aelarian style. Within them stood the marble gods of the north, nude men and women who bickered in the heavens and cared not for the doings of humans on the earth. The traditional homes of Nur still stood here, built of mudbrick and topped with straw roofs. But many Aelarian structures now rose among them—aqueducts, fortresses for the legions, and even a towering amphitheater where the masters fed Nurian rebels to lions. Slowly, building by building, the land of Nur was fading, and Aelar was rising in the savanna.

A city crushed, Imani thought, gazing at her people. Most hid in their homes, peering from windows. Others hurried home from the markets, heads lowered, suffering the taunts of legionaries. Many Nurians lay on the dirt roads, dwindling away, starving, their food stolen to feed the thousands of Aelarians who had descended upon this city like vampire bats upon a cow, sucking it dry.

"Bless you, Queen Imani!" An old man stepped toward her. He wore only a loincloth, and bruises covered him. Several of his teeth were missing. "May the spirits praise you, our queen, may—"

"Old man!" A legionary stepped forward from the roadside. He was a tall man, his skin pale, his eyes sallow. He wore lorica segmentata, the armor of Aelar, and a red crest rose from his helmet. A gladius hung from his belt, and he held a javelin. "You dare speak of spirits? Kneel! Kneel and praise the gods of Aelar."

Two more legionaries approached, whips in hand. The old man spat toward them. "I spit on your marble gods. I worship the old spirits, and I worship Queen Imani Koteeka. I—"

The legionaries swung their whips. The leather lashes, tipped with iron bolts, tore into the elder. He fell, blood spraying the road.

"Stop!" Imani cried, racing forth. The giraffe calves wailed, and one began to flee. "Stop this."

She raced around the old man, placing herself between him and the legionaries. A whip corkscrewed around her arm, and the metal tip hit her hand, cutting the flesh.

"Step aside, Queen of Whores." A legionary tugged back the lash, freeing Imani's arm with a spray of blood. "Don't think we won't hesitate to flay that black skin of yours too."

She raised her chin. She was a tall woman, almost as tall as this Aelarian. When she squared her shoulders, when she glared at him, she saw that he was cowed. She bore no weapons, and she wore no armor—she was allowed none—but she was still a queen, and she let him know that with her stare.

"You forget yourself, soldier," she said. "I am still Queen of Nur, by grace of Cicero Octavius, governor of this province, and by decree of Marcus Octavius himself, our emperor. You will stand aside."

But the legionaries only scoffed, looking at one another with amusement.

One grabbed his crotch. "You can be queen of my cock for a night."

"I would never find something so small in the darkness," she said. She tugged three bracelets off her arm, each forged of silver and worked with topaz stones. She tossed them at the men. "Take these to the taverns of your choice, and find your comfort in your cups. Leave this old man alone."

The legionaries' eyes widened; they did not often see silver. They scooped up the bracelets and left, snickering among themselves. Imani had taken to wearing many jewels during her outings, not for her own vainglory but to save lives, bribe after bribe, depleting the wealth of a nation to save its people.

She knelt by the beaten man. "Grandfather, can you walk? They're gone."

He shivered, back bleeding, and kissed her hand. "Bless you, Queen Imani, and may the spirits curse the jackals of the north."

She cleaned his blood with her dress, helped him rise, and gave him a bracelet and three golden coins. She walked on, leading the giraffe calves through the city, heading home.

Three pyramids rose in the center of the city, towering over the houses, markets, and acacias. Travelers said that here were the tallest buildings in the world, dwarfing even the greatest palaces in Aelar or Zohar. Even Cicero had once confessed as much to Imani. The Pyramids of Shenutep were not only the world's largest structures but the oldest too. For three thousand years, they had risen here, the center of Nur's power. Back when the Zoharites had been but desert nomads, when Aelar had been but a wilderness where brutes rutted in the mud, these pyramids had soared, home to the savanna's kings and queens.

Palm trees grew around the pyramids, seeming small as grazed grass by the structures' might. Even the birds dared not fly to their heights. They were built of great sandstone bricks, so polished they reflected the sun, and precious metals capped their tips—silver on one, gold on another, platinum on the third and tallest. One for the spirits, one for men, and one for the queen, was the old saying. The three pillars of Nur.

Kira led the way upon the elephant, and they herded the giraffes along a great stone bridge, formed of many limestone arches, that spanned the river. Ships sailed below, sails wide, while cranes and ibises and herons waded among the rushes. Across the river, at the base of the pyramids, spread the fabled gardens of Nur. Trees and flowers of every kind grew here, and streams flowed between them. The gardens were vast, a place where one could get lost for hours. The old statues of the spirits, carved from basalt and wood, had been smashed long ago, and now marble Aelarian statues rose here. The tallest among them, standing at the entrance to the gardens, depicted Emperor Marcus Octavius—a muscular and stern man, his nose aquiline and his brow furrowed, his stone eyes following Imani as she walked.

"Kira, go to the milkmaids, and fetch jugs of milk for the calves," Imani said, corralling the giraffes onto a stretch of grass by a stream. "Then soak soft cloths with the milk, and feed the calves. Bring more servants to help you."

With that, Imani turned and climbed the great staircase that rose along her pyramid's flank—the tallest of the three, the one capped with platinum. She needed to escape to her chambers. After a day of death and blood, she needed silence, to close her eyes, to pray.

Today, ten years ago, my mother died. Today will always be a day of grief.

It was a long climb, and with every step, Imani remembered that day ten years ago. She had been only seventeen, too young to govern, too young to inherit this—this pyramid, this kingdom, this burden of an invading empire. She could still hear the screams as Cicero Octavius dragged off her mother, as he beat her, sliced her face, and finally took her in his ship to Aelar. They said that Queen Anaya Koteeka had been crucified in the Amphitheatrum, the great amphitheater in Aelar, that her body had been dismembered, hung in pieces upon every gate of the city.

My fate will be the same, Imani thought. Unless I can appease them. Unless I can somehow feed those eagles enough of our flesh. But bite by bite, they are devouring us. Bite by bite, we fade away, like a carcass in the savanna when the jackals and vultures arrive.

Finally, after climbing a thousand steps, Imani reached an archway in the pyramid's facade. A platform of stone thrust out here, a place where once Nurian soldiers had stood, their breastplates and helmets gilded and jeweled. Today Aelarians stood guard here; not palace guards so much as prison guards, not here to protect Imani but to monitor her. She stepped between them, chin raised.

Her throne room spread ahead, a vast chamber. A mosaic covered the floor, depicting lions, giraffes, zebras, elephants, and other animals of the savanna. Rushes rose from gilded vases, and incense burned in bronze braziers, filling the hall with their sweet scent. Nur's throne rose ahead atop a dais, carved of obsidian, the seat of her family going back thousands of years.

The chamber was empty. For generations, the dignitaries of many lands would come here to speak to Imani's grandmother and mother—the monarchs of Zohar, Leer, Gael, even senators from the fallen Aelarian Republic. Now Imani rarely sat on this throne, and the chamber collected dust. She was still queen by name, yes, but this chamber felt too much like a stage, and whenever she sat on the throne, Imani felt too much like a puppet, felt the strings tugging.

She walked hurriedly, crossing the hall, and entered a back door. She walked along a corridor until she reached the door to her bedchamber—her only place of refuge in this pyramid, in this city, in this province, in this empire that ruled the world. The only place where she could pray, where she could cry. Out there, let her be a strong ruler, let her people see her courage and kindness. In her bedchamber, she could be a fragile thing, and she could look at the golden statue of her mother—the one she had promised to melt—and she could be a child again.

Imani opened the door, stepped into her bedchamber, and froze.

Nausea churned her belly.

Painted amphorae rose between silver columns, holding rushes and flowers. Hieroglyphs sprawled across the walls, coiling around frescoes of hunters, wild animals, and reed boats navigating the Majina River. The curtains were drawn back from the arched windows, affording a view of the true river, the obelisks and sphinxes that rose from the lush city, and the savanna beyond. The golden statue rose in a candlelit alcove, life-sized, depicting Imani's mother—a noble queen, clad in splendor, a spear in her hand.

Under the statue's gaze, right on Imani's giltwood bed, a naked Cicero Octavius was thrusting into a Nurian woman. The pasty governor turned his head as she entered, nodded at Imani, and smiled.

"Ah, welcome home, my darling! Care to join us? Two whores are better than one."

Imani stared at him, feeling the blood drain from her face, knowing that this sight—his pale, bony, naked body in her bed—would forever haunt her.

"Get out," she whispered. "Now."

"From this whore? Very well." He pulled out, grabbed his toga, and wrapped it around his body. The woman lay on the bed, still naked, her dusky skin gleaming with sweat. A woman from one of the local brothels, no doubt, paid for with Aelarian coin.

"Get out!" Imani screamed.

The young whore grabbed her cloak and fled the chamber. Cicero, however, remained. He grabbed one of the vases, tossed the flowers out the window, and then pissed into the container, sighing as he filled it.

"You must learn, Imani," he said, shaking off the last droplets. "You're nothing but another whore to me, queen or no queen. You defied me today—out there in the savanna. I brought you along as a courtesy, and you dared humiliate me before the lords and ladies."

He placed down the vase, letting drops splash onto the floor.

"Emperor Marcus himself recognizes my title," Imani whispered, unable to speak any louder. "He—"

"—is my brother," Cicero said. "And you are queen of nothing, Imani. The days when Nurian apes ruled the savanna are over. You're here to serve me, nothing more. Now kneel. Kneel before me."

"I will not—"

"You will kneel!" he shouted, voice suddenly so loud Imani couldn't help but start. "You will kneel, or I will have every one of your pets butchered in the garden, then butcher a thousand men and women across this city, and you will hear their screams. Kneel!"

Imani trembled. She had seen this punishment before. Nine years ago, when she had refused to wash his feet, Cicero had captured hundreds of children from across the city, had crucified them, had made her watch.

Fists clenched, eyes burning, Imani knelt on the soiled floor. Droplets of his piss dampened her knees.

"Good. Good!" Cicero reached down and stroked her hair, passing his fingers through the mane of black curls. "See? You can be tamed. You are beautiful, Imani. Your full lips. Your high cheekbones. Your lush breasts. Your eyes that are full of such hatred, such fear. You are my beautiful savanna queen, my little obedient pet."

This pet will one day kill you, she swore, fingernails digging into her palms. The rebellion brews across this city, Cicero Octavius, forging daggers and arrowheads. And when the rebellion rises, it will be my blade that sinks into your heart.

"Now," Cicero said, "there's the matter of the statue. The statue you agreed to let me have."

Imani rose to her feet. She turned toward the statue of her mother. When the Aelarians had outlawed all Nurian statues, allowing only marble sculptures of their own gods, Imani had hidden the golden queen here. Her last memory of her mother.

"Let me keep it," she said softly. "Or take it by force. I cannot give it willingly."

Cicero raised an eyebrow. "Oh, sweetness, I could have taken this statue by force long ago. That's not what I want. I want you to melt it. I want you to toss it into the forge, to watch your mother's likeness melt. I have plenty of gold, but to watch your spirit crushed? That's priceless, my dear." He whistled, and legionaries entered the chamber. "Men! Lift this golden statue. Let us visit the city forges, and our dusky darling will melt some gold."

That evening, Queen Imani Koteeka stood in the smelters, closed her eyes, and felt tears flow as she said farewell, as she shoved the statue. Cicero grabbed her eyelids, tugged them open, made her watch. And Imani watched. She saw the statue melt in the cauldron, saw her mother's face become a puddle of gold, gone forever from this world but never from her memory. Imani swore this.

I have your face, Mother, she thought, tears salty as she smiled. Whenever I look into the mirror, I will remember you. I will remember your kindness and your strength. And when I finally slay Cicero, when I cast off the yoke of Aelar, I will think of you, and I will know that you're proud.

MAYA

Barefoot, sunburned, and clad in rags, Maya emerged from the desert and beheld the town by the sea.

"Suna," she whispered, and her eyes dampened. "A place of lume. Of hope."

She raised her hand and drew just a hint of lume, refining it into luminescence. The light wove around her fingers, barely visible in the sunlight, filling her with vigor, with memories of home. The lume was different here, softer, finer, lighter. If the lume back in Zohar was a rich tapestry, ancient and embroidered with silver-and-golden thread, the lume here in the east, across the desert, was like gossamer, translucent and airy. And yet lume this was, the invisible, tasteless, odorless material that lumers could weave into luminescence. The grace that fueled the eternal light of Luminosity as oil fueled candles in a temple.

And again Maya could see it. Zohar. The priests blowing ram horns outside the Temple, the sound rolling down the Mount of Cedars. The gold-and-bronze domes of Beth Eloh, shining in the dawn. The ancient gates of stone that led to brick alleyways, to markets of spice and splendor, to a city of grace and antiquity. The forests of Erez, the pines flowing across the hills. The waves washing over the golden coast, gleaming with beads of light like countless crystals. And one house on a hill, and a dining room with a painting of elephants, and a family. A home.

She was far from that home now, but with the lume replenishing her, that home was as real as ever, so real she could smell the wax of her candles, hear her siblings' laughter, and feel the waves wash over her feet.

Maya blinked the tears from her eyes. "You were right, Avinasi," she whispered. "There is lume here. There is magic."

All her life, Maya had been told that lume was found only in Zohar, flowing from the mountains of Beth Eloh. All her life, the magic had been forbidden to her—magic that meant slavery in Aelar, forced to serve the Empire with her light. Here, so far beyond the Empire's reach, she found magic again.

Here I will learn to become a lumer.

She looked at the town ahead. Suna was a small town, smaller than Gefen. No walls surrounded it. It nestled along the sea, a cluster of pale stone buildings, a handful of domes, and several minarets that gazed upon the water. Palm trees grew from courtyards, and camels sat by a crumbling archway that led to a cobbled street. Gulls flew overhead, their caws the only sound Maya could hear. A few vineyards and farms grew from a stretch of arable land between water and sand. A pocket of life. An oasis between desert and sea.

She took a step toward the town. Her legs shook. She took another step, breathed deeply. She could not see her face, but if it was anything like her arms, it was burnt and raw, punished by sun and sand. She was thinner than she'd ever been, and her fine tunic, the one the King of Sekur had given her, hung in tatters. But she was alive. She had survived a journey of countless parsa'ot and endless danger, crossing the desert from the Encircled Sea in the west to this second sea in the east.

But he did not survive.

Maya lowered her head when thinking of Leven the thief. She had buried him under the sand. She had prayed for him. In Aelar, priests taught that the dead rose to drink wine with the gods, but the Book of Eloh taught that there was no afterlife, that the dead remained as mere bones. There, buried in the sand, Leven would remain until the day he arrived—the old man on the white donkey, the savior who dallied, who would one day deliver Zohar from her enemies and raise the dead into a land of light and grace. Maya did not know if that prophecy was real, but until such a day might come, she would remember Leven.

And . . . she had left him in the desert.

The light left her fingers. The warmth fled her heart. Remembering him, Maya shuddered. The man who had stood on the hill, staring, silent, just before the dragon bones had risen. The man who had tried to stop her from reaching this place. Who had stared from the distance, mocking, hating, as she had buried Leven. The man of shadows. The man with furrowed gray skin. The presence that had always haunted Maya, that had stood in the shadows of her childhood room, that had moved through the crowd of Beth Eloh as that city had fallen, that had taken Leven from her.

She knew who he was. But she would not even think his name. Naming him gave him power. She would face him again before the end; he had promised her that in the desert, promised with his black stare. For now Maya banished him from her mind. That battle was still to come, but not yet. Not in this place of light. Only in her greatest darkness would he reemerge. By then she would be—must be—strong.

As she approached the town, the camels lounging outside the archway snorted and flicked their tails. Cud hung from their mouths. A boy sat by them, leaning against one camel's flank. He stared at her with large black eyes. His skin was a darker brown than hers, his hair was thick and black, and he wore a white tunic worked with red embroidery. A curved dagger hung from his belt, the blade made from a horn. It reminded Maya of her own dagger, the one she still wore upon her hip, a gift from Atalia. The archway rose ahead, formed from ancient bricks, weeds growing between them. Beyond, Maya saw a cobbled road leading toward the sea.

She knelt before the boy. "Hello," she said. "I'm looking for . . ." She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should conceal her true quest, but in a town so small, there would be no secrets. "A house of Luminosity."

The boy shook his head. "No Luminosity." He reached into a saddlebag and pulled out a handful of roasted fava beans. "Only beans. Buy them. One copper per handful."

Maya had lost most of her treasures in the desert storm, but she still had her pack and pockets. She pulled out a copper shekel, a coin of Zohar. She swapped it with the boy for a handful of beans. She popped one into her mouth. It was salty and rich.

She gave the boy a second coin. "Are you sure you know nothing of Luminosity?"

He pocketed his prize. "There is no Luminosity. Only the blessing of Dagon." He gestured with his chin. "Only Dagon."

Maya followed his gaze. It stood beyond the archway, an idol of stone, rising twice her height, shaped as a man with a dog's head, holding a scythe in one hand, a sheaf of wheat in the other. She had heard of this god. In ancient times, his idols had risen in Zohar, smashed long ago, his adherents driven into the desert. Maya was a follower of Eloh, a god without a form, fleshless, existing only in the lume. She did not believe in idols, and yet the eyes of this craggy statue seemed to stare into her own.

She nodded to the boy and left him with his camels. She stepped under the archway, past the idol, and into the town. The cobbled road stretched before her, the main artery of Suna, leading toward a sea as blue and bright as sapphires. Houses rose at her side, two stories tall, built from tan bricks. Women stood on balconies, beating the dust out of crimson and blue rugs. They paused to stare at Maya as she walked by, and one made a sign against evil. A few women stood by a well, turning toward her. They wore richly woven veils, and their cattle stood with them. They said nothing, following Maya with their eyes. She kept walking. The town seemed too silent, too still.

A temple rose ahead, built of sandstone and topped with a white dome. When she glanced into the shadowy interior, she beheld a great statue of Dagon, and men in robes knelt before it. A few other men sat on the stairs outside the temple, wrapped in white robes, sickles hanging from their belts. Their beards were long, oiled, and tightly curled, and henna lined their eyes. One of the men pointed at her and muttered to his companions. Instinctively, Maya grasped the lion amulet that hung on a chain around her neck. Did they recognize her as one who followed a different faith? Would they slay her for it?

Her heartbeat quickened, and she felt the lume begin to rise inside, to glow around her fingertips. She swallowed hard, forcing the magic down. No. She would not let these men see her magic, not until she knew her kind was safe here.

In the Empire, my magic would land me in chains, Maya thought. Would it do the same here?

The men's eyes followed her as she walked. Even after she passed them by, she felt their glares. She breathed a sigh of relief once she turned a corner, heading down a different road, away from the temple, from those men with sickles, from the statue of the dog-faced man within. Yet she hadn't taken three more steps before her heart burst into a gallop again.

Maya paused, stared, and looked away, but the image was seared inside her.

A gibbet hung from a post, creaking and swaying in the wind. Inside the rusty cage was a burnt corpse, just scraps of blackened flesh over bones. A sign hung beneath the gibbet, a single word scrawled across it in ash.

Lumer.

Maya's heart hammered against her ribs. Cold sweat trickled down her back. She spun around, and she saw the boy behind her—the boy who had sold her the beans. He stared from behind a home, then retreated, vanishing from view.

Maya's breath quickened. Avinasi had lied. The old royal lumer of Zohar had sent her here—here to death, here to a place that burned lumers, here to—

Calm yourself, rose a voice inside her. Maya forced herself to take a deep breath, to feel the lume around her. She could not deny that grace filled this town by the sea, that a holy light shone here. Perhaps that was the nature of light. Light always cast shadows. Here too, across the desert, there was darkness. Eagles had flown over Beth Eloh, and here perhaps a rabid dog growled, but Maya was still a daughter of light, and she would not turn away from her path, not even if that path led through shadows.

She kept walking through Suna, this town by the sea, leaving the burnt corpse behind. She crossed a courtyard where palm trees shaded lounging cats. A portico of columns rose along the sand, and the sea whispered beyond. A building rose ahead, built of craggy white bricks and topped with a stone dome. Olive trees grew in a yard beside it, and among the trees rose a bronze candelabrum, as tall as Maya, with four stalks.

Maya's pulse quickened again, and her fingers trembled as she unrolled the map Zehav had given her in the oasis. On the parchment, drawn with ink, appeared a four-branched candelabrum by the sea. Symbol of Luminosity.

"Four lights of Luminosity," Maya whispered, raising her eyes to stare at the bronze candelabrum in the yard. "Sight. Foresight. Healing. Muse."

Finally, after fleeing the legions and their wrath, after so many days of travel, after nearly dying of thirst among the dunes, after captivity to the bone raiders, after facing the dragons of sand, after so much fear and doubt—finally Maya was here. At a center of Luminosity. A place to learn the art of light and wisdom.

Her breath kept shaking as she walked forward, approaching the humble domed building. She walked between the olive trees in the yard. Nets had been laid across the ground to catch the olives falling from the branches. Maya had finished her meal of beans, and hunger still filled her, but she resisted temptation; these fruits were not hers to eat. Belly growling, she approached the door to the domed house. It was carved of old wood, cracked, moldy, and banded with iron strips shaped as a candelabrum. A knocker hung here, shaped as a serpent eating its own tail.

Maya reached toward the brass snake, hesitated, then knocked three times.

She waited.

No reply came from within, and the door remained closed.

Maya knocked again, harder this time. Still nobody answered. Maya wandered the yard between the olive trees, waiting for somebody to arrive, and worry began to grow in her that all the lumers of Suna had been murdered, that she had seen the last one in the gibbet. She licked her chapped lips with an equally dry tongue. More than she wanted food, she now wanted water, and she contemplated walking back to the town well but dared not. She had not liked the eyes of the women who gathered there.

She wondered if Avinasi had told her sisters here that Maya was coming. Maya knew that powerful lumers—like Avinasi, the royal lumer of Zohar, or the infamous Taeer, bonded to Prince Seneca—could communicate over vast distances, speaking through the luminescence. Maya wondered if Avinasi could see her right now, using her powerful Sight. Maya herself had used the Sight only once, back in Beth Eloh under Avinasi's tutelage. She had gazed only a few parsa'ot away to see Porcia's hosts advance, and the magic had nearly consumed Maya, nearly burned her as surely as the fire had burned the lumer in the gibbet.

But they can teach me to control Luminosity here, Maya thought. At least, if there's anyone here to teach me.

She thought back to the desert, to the shadowy figure, to the bones of ancient dragons that had risen to assault her caravan. Maya had wrapped herself in a shield of Luminosity, had cast the bones back, not knowing what she was doing, allowing the luminescence to control her. What pillar had she used? Surely not Sight or Foresight, and certainly not Healing. She had done something in the desert with Muse, the most mysterious—some claimed the most powerful—of the four lights. She had bent the light to her will. She had formed a shield, had battled an enemy, had cast that enemy back. And it had nearly killed her.

I must learn more, she thought. About what I did. About how I can learn wisdom, learn control, learn the fate of my family.

She hung her head low, and worry gnawed on her innards. When she had left Zohar, Koren and Atalia had been taken captive, Ofeer had joined the enemy, and Epher was missing. More than anything, Maya wanted to learn Sight to gaze upon her siblings—even to speak to them, to tell them she was all right. She would even talk to Ofeer. She even missed Ofeer . . . a little.

The sun began to set, and still Maya waited among the olive trees in the yard. From her time in Zohar, she was used to the sun setting into the sea. But she was far from the Encircled Sea now, and here the sea lay to her east, and the sun vanished beyond the buildings and dunes to her west. The stars emerged, and Maya resigned herself to a night of thirst and hunger among the trees . . . then noticed the lights coming on in the house's windows.

She frowned. She walked between the shadowy trees toward the house's brick wall, hid behind a trunk, and peered through a round window.

Candles burned within, their glow falling upon shelves and tables stacked with scrolls. A figure sat at one table, hunched over, its back to Maya. Scraggly silver hair hung down the figure's back, nearly hiding a coarse tunic.

Maya walked back toward the building's front door and knocked again—as loudly as she could.

"Hello!" she said, voice hesitant at first, then growing stronger. "Hello! Avinasi sent me. Can you hear me? Avinasi of Beth Eloh, lumer to King Shefael Elior himself, sent me here. I—"

The door yanked open so quickly Maya took a step back.

An old woman stood there, hunched over, her white eyebrows shadowing wrathful eyes. Her hair was long and silvery, and she wore a tunic of rough homespun. Maya recognized the figure from the window.

"What do you want?" the old woman spat at her.

Maya gulped. "I . . ." She fumbled in her pack for her prayer shawl, a relic of Zohar, and showed it to the woman. "I came here all the way from Zohar. I came to study Luminosity. Is there anyone here who can teach me?"

The woman stared at her in disgust, as if a rat had crawled up to her door.

"No." The old woman slammed the door shut.

Maya blinked, standing alone outside in the shadows. She could not comprehend this. She refused to accept this. She had traveled for so long, survived so many dangers, only to be turned away here at this doorway? It seemed impossible. Her mind would not register it.

Dazed, she wandered away from the house, made her way through the dark city, and found the well again. Blessedly, the townsfolk were gone, and she quickly drew some water, drank, and fled through the shadows. As she passed by the temple again, she saw candles burning inside, and the idol of Dagon—a man with a dog head—seemed to stare at her from within.

She walked until she reached the beach and stepped onto the sand. The eastern sea spread before her, whispering in the night. The moonlight shone on the waves' foam. She was hungry. She was so hungry. Tomorrow she would have to steal some olives or dare to find a market. She lay on the sand, curled up, and stared at the waves, seeking some comfort there. Yet in the dark shapes, she saw the idol, and she saw the men with sickles, and she saw the burnt corpse in the cage. And mostly she saw the shadowy man on the hill, felt his eyes upon her, within her, and when she slept, she dreamed that she lay in his embrace, that he stroked her hair, and that she could never escape his arms.

OFEER

She stood in a city of a million souls, a slave's collar around her neck, the bastard child of her own half brother growing in her belly. Ofeer—the daughter of an emperor, the daughter of Zoharite nobility—stood alone.

"So this is how I come home," she whispered. "This is how I find my life in the land of my father. Not with splendor. Not with glory. Not the paramour of a prince nor the daughter of royalty." She touched the iron around her neck, the slave collar Seneca had placed there, and then touched her belly, where he had placed his child. "An escaped, pregnant slave."

She stood with her back to a mausoleum, a round tower like a silo full of ancient dead, the place where she had spent last night. The city rolled before her. Aelar. Center of the Empire, the heart of the civilized world.

Cobbled roads spread out, lined with brick apartment buildings, seven stories tall, topped with tiled roofs. A bronze statue of Marcus Octavius astride a horse reared on a marble dais, gazing down at a courtyard. Thousands of people walked to and fro: tradesmen and merchants in fine togas and dyed sashes, women sporting linen stolas and jewels, slaves in tunics bearing their masters on palanquins, muddy urchins racing into shadows like startled insects, and drunkards stumbling through the dawn after a night of forgetting. A portly woman opened a window on the sixth floor of a building and upended a chamber pot. The human waste showered down, landing in a gutter and splashing the passersby. A Nurian traveler, his skin dark as mahogany, raised his fist and shouted at the woman, finally storming off, kicking a stray dog as he went. The bustling streets spread like cobwebs, flowing up a hillside, lined with apartment buildings, public kitchens that belched out the smells of ten thousand meals, granaries bustling with doves who squabbled over fallen seeds, brothels to give patrons pleasure for a night and warts to last a lifetime, and columned temples to a pantheon of heartless marble gods.

A city of majesty, might, and wealth, Ofeer thought. A city of disease, shit, and ten-denarii whores.

She raised her head and stared north. There in the distance, above the squalor, the Acropolis crowned the hill. Walls surrounded this inner city, topped with battlements and legionaries. From where Ofeer stood, a mil away, she couldn't see much beyond those imperial walls, just the tips of its tallest structures. The upper tier of the Amphitheatrum, the greatest amphitheater in the Empire. The golden crest of the palace. Shining in the dawn, the gilded head of a colossal statue. A statue of Porcia Octavius. The new empress of Aelar.

Ofeer shuddered. The news had spread across the city, flowing through the alleys and boulevards like waste flowed through gutters. Marcus Octavius—dead. The Senate—toppled to the ground. Porcia—the new empress. Seneca, her master, her half brother, the father of her child—fled into exile, his ship gone from the port.

The Acropolis is closed to me now, Ofeer thought, gazing at those distant walls. The grand halls of the emperor would forever be forbidden to her . . . until she was caught.

Ofeer touched the collar around her neck, caressing the tag that hung there, engraved with letters.

I have escaped! If you catch me, return me to the Acropolis, to Seneca Octavius, for a thousand denarius reward.

Seneca was gone now. The man who had fallen in love with her, who had butchered her stepfather, who had destroyed her hometown, who had enslaved her and fucked her until a child grew in her belly—gone from her. Ofeer was glad.

"May you never return," she whispered, eyes burning. "May you die in exile, alone, afraid as I am. All the pain that I feel, that you gave me—I wish it upon you tenfold, Seneca Octavius."

A tear fled her eye, trailing down to her lips. She thought back to Gefen, her hometown, a little city by the sea. She thought of the villa on Pine Hill, and the dining room with the painting of the elephants. She thought of her family. Of noble Jerael and wise Shiloh. Of proud Epher and silly Koren. Of strong Atalia and sweet Maya and of little Mica who slept beneath the pomegranate tree. And as she thought of home, Ofeer wept, and she couldn't stop her damn tears, and she couldn't stop missing Zohar.

I want to go home. She trembled. Please, Eloh, please. I want to go home.

No. Ofeer sneered.

"Stupid." She punched herself. "Stupid, stupid girl!" She balled her hands into fists and ground her teeth. "All your life, you suffered in Gefen. All your life, you hated it there. All your life, you dreamed of coming here to Aelar, of finding a life in the land of your father. And now you'll give up, abandon all hope just because of a few difficulties?" She shook her head wildly. "You're stronger than that, Ofeer Octavius, daughter of Aelar."

A beggar who limped down the street, missing both arms, gave her a sympathetic look. A flea crawled across his face, and he spat a yellow glob before shuffling on, sending a group of young maidens in stolas fleeing in fright.

Ofeer took a deep breath, steeling herself. True—she looked like her mother, like a Zoharite. Her skin was light brown. Her hair was black as midnight. Her eyes were dark brown and shaded by thick black lashes. But though she looked like a daughter of the desert, the blood of Aelar flowed through her—the blood of her father, the fallen Emperor Marcus Octavius. And in her belly, she carried the child of an empire. She was not merely half-Aelarian. She was the daughter of an emperor, and here—here in this city of splendor and filth, here among a million souls, here in Aelar—this was her home.

So no, Aelar was not the wondrous land she had imagined in her youth by the sea. Aelar was not just marble halls and gold, but also a city of fleas and gutters and disease. So no, she did not live here as a princess, clad in silk and jewels. But this was still Aelar—the place from her dreams. And she was still alive. And so long as she lived, Ofeer vowed: I will find a home here. I will find a life. I will not succumb to pain. I am a daughter of lions and eagles, and I can survive anything.

She sucked in breath and squared her shoulders. If I forget you, Beth Eloh, may I forget my right arm, went the old prayer. But Ofeer vowed that she would forget that old, holy city in the desert. That life was over. Her new life, alone in a foreign land, began.

No, not alone. She placed her hand on her belly. Never more alone.

The first thing she needed to do, Ofeer knew, was to cover her collar and tag. Myriads of slaves filled Aelar, many of them collared. They bustled across the city, running errands for their masters. Just another collared slave would not draw much attention, Ofeer figured, but the metal tag—like one a dog wore—was a different story. If anyone read those words, knew that she had belonged to Seneca, they would drag her back to the Acropolis and dump her at Porcia's feet. Ofeer didn't want to even imagine what the mad empress would do to her. If the stories were to be believed, Porcia delighted in carving the hearts out from her enemies and feasting upon them. Ofeer was the slave and former lover of Seneca Octavius, Porcia's main challenger to the throne. If Ofeer came before the empress, it would be her heart upon a platter.

She stepped back into the mausoleum where she had spent last night. It was shaped like a silo, tapering up to a point. The walls were like honeycombs, lined with tombs, each sealed with a marble stopper. Upon each seal appeared the name of the deceased whose ashes lay within. Back in Zohar, people buried their dead, for the Book of Eloh taught that man had come from the soil, and to the soil he should return. Here in Aelar, it was not soil that took dead flesh, but fire. Around her, rising higher and higher, lay the ashes of a thousand dead, and Ofeer felt as if their ghosts haunted this shadowy tomb. She tried to resist, but again her eyes strayed toward the marble seal in the beam of sunlight, the one under which she had slept. Again she read the epitaph, letters engraved eighty-two years ago.

Felix Paulus, beloved son. 436-437. May the goddess Plutonia welcome you to your eternal rest.

Ofeer placed her hands on her belly. Every time she gazed at those words, she was afraid. Afraid that somehow the ghost of that fallen babe would want to claim her own child. That somehow, by looking at the tomb of a dead baby, Ofeer was cursing her own son or daughter. That somehow she could make it happen again, that—

No.

Ofeer clenched her jaw, shut her eyes, and looked away.

"No," she whispered. "I will not. I will not remember. I—"

Yet that memory rose, and she was there again, fifteen in the sea, the water up to her waist, and the moon bloodred above, and—

"No." She sucked in air, trembling, fists clenched. That night had not happened. She had vowed to forget it. That had not been her. That had been a different woman, a different life.

"You will have a good life," she whispered, her hand on her belly. "I promise you."

And now she let other memories rise. She thought back to her own mother, to Shiloh. Ofeer did not look like her siblings. She wasn't tall and strong like Atalia, wasn't sweet and soft like Maya. She had always looked like her mother—slender, dark, sharp-featured and fair. Yet the two had always clashed, more than anyone in the family. To be sure, Atalia often wrestled with her brothers, and Shiloh would scold even Maya when the girl used her Luminosity. But the true bad blood in the family had always been between Shiloh and Ofeer. So many nights Shiloh had wept, shouted, tried to keep Ofeer away from the port of Gefen—the place where Ofeer went to drink, to gamble, to lay with sailors, to dream of faraway Aelar.

"I was never a good daughter," Ofeer said to the child sleeping within her. "And Shiloh was never a good mother to me. But you and I, sweet boy . . . it will always be only the two of us. Together against the world."

Somehow at that moment, she knew he was a boy. Felt it. Perhaps she too, like Maya, had a touch of the magic, a hint of the Sight.

She looked down at her clothes. When she had first landed in Aelar, Seneca had clad her in fineries—a silken stola dyed mustard and azure, embroidered with gold. Today she wore the garb of the slave she had become, a rough cotton tunic that hung down to her knees, tied with a simple belt. She tore into the fabric halfway down her thighs. She had always been proud of her long fingernails, even if Atalia had scorned them, but Ofeer had always imagined them to be the talons of eagles. Now she worked at her tunic, ripping, tugging, tearing a wide strip of cloth, leaving her tunic with a shorter, tattered hem. She lifted the circle of cloth, as wide as her palm, and wrapped it around her neck, forming a crude scarf. It was a poor excuse for a scarf, to be sure, and perhaps looked suspicious, but it hid her collar, hid the tag Seneca had engraved. Until she found a proper shawl or a way to break the iron collar, it would serve.

She left the crypt, her tunic shorter, her neck concealed. The city bustled around her, countless citizens, legionaries, and slaves walking back and forth. Horses neighed. Chariots trundled along the cobblestones. Children ran underfoot. Ofeer thought back to the streets of Gefen and Beth Eloh, narrow roads clogged with donkeys and camels. She saw no donkeys and camels here; Aelarians used horses and chariots, both rare in Zohar, owned only by the nobility. But the overflowing gutters, the crowded passageways, the throngs of people, all those were familiar to her—and even noisier here, more congested. Ofeer had always thought Beth Eloh massive, a city where a hundred thousand people lived together, a number so large Ofeer could barely imagine it. But Aelar was ten times the size, its buildings taller, its song deafening—a chorus of wagon wheels, clattering chariots, vendors hawking their wares, and endless hooves and footsteps on rough stones. A sea of humanity surrounded her, yet Ofeer had never felt more alone.

She patted her belly. The first order of business would be finding food. She had not eaten since . . . By the gods, not since Emperor Marcus had still reigned.

She walked through the city, not knowing where she went. She traveled down alleyways under hanging linens, and stray cats hissed. She ambled along boulevards, shying away from legionaries that marched. Along one road, three carts trundled by, bustling with crows and flies. Dead legionaries rotted within, victims of the brief but devastating war between Porcia and the Senate. The bells of the city still clanged in mourning for the dead emperor, and keens rose from temples. Ofeer ignored it. Let Porcia and the Senate fight. The doings in the Acropolis were no longer Ofeer's concern. She no longer cared for her Aelarian family. Marcus had made it clear that she was a bastard, unwanted. So let him rot in a cart. Ofeer's son was her only family now, and he needed food.

Finally Ofeer found her way to a marketplace, a bustling boulevard lined with stone archways. Each archway led to a nook, roughly the size of her old bedchamber back in Gefen, where sat a merchant selling wares. Thousands of people clogged the main avenue, stepping in and out of the archways like bees in a honeycomb. The smells of spices, roasting meat, baking bread, and fresh fruit wafted. Ofeer's mouth watered. Right now it was food that mattered more than gold, silk, or a throne.

All people, Ofeer thought, even the daughter of an emperor—we are reduced to nothing but rabid, mindless beasts when hunger strikes. Perhaps that was all that humans were—ravenous beasts in a forest, and all their vestments and jewels were but disguises, hiding the lurking animals within.

She walked along the boulevard, moving through the throng. She had no money, not even a copper coin, and nothing to barter. Seneca had taken everything from her—her jewels, her coins, her former life. She walked past stall by stall, her mouth watering. Inside one stall, a merchant hawked fresh fish, oysters, and squid, the smell overwhelming, a smell Ofeer would normally find repulsive but which today she found delicious. In another stall, a stout woman was hacking the heads off live chickens, selling the birds to affluent shoppers in fine togas. Poorer folk lined up at stalls selling beans and dried fruit. Ofeer kept walking. She could not afford a meal, but she kept scanning the ground, hoping to find a fallen apple or runaway crab. The crowd jostled around her, wealthy patrons and filthy poor alike, and the stench of sweat filled her nostrils.

"Five hundred denarii!" rose a booming voice. "Five hundred denarii for a girl!"

Ofeer raised her head. Several score of men and women, free citizens in togas and stolas, crowded by one of the stalls. Ofeer could not see much over their shoulders, just the keystone of an archway, and beyond a sunlit nook.

"Five hundred and fifty!" bellowed a voice, and a hand rose from the crowd.

"Let me see her teeth," boomed another voice, and a corpulent man trundled through the crowd. "I'll pay six hundred, but she's got to have her teeth."

Ofeer hurried forward, occupying the spot where the large man had stood. She stared ahead at the stall, and the blood drained from her face. Her hands curled into fists, and her pulse quickened.

This stall sold no meat nor produce but human flesh. It was not a large slave market, not like the one where Seneca had purchased her, but a slave market nonetheless. Twenty slaves huddled at the back of the alcove, naked and chained. Some had their feet whitened with chalk. Ofeer knew what that meant—new arrivals from the provinces. On a stage stood a young girl, barely even a youth, her feet white with powder. Her eyes were downcast, and she trembled.

She's Zoharite, Ofeer knew. There was no mistaking the olive skin, the long black hair, the shape of her features. The girl looked so much like Maya that for an instant Ofeer was sure that it was her little sister on the stage.

"Gods damn it, help me climb!" boomed the corpulent man, struggling to rise onto the stage. The slave merchant, a garish man with painted eyelids and many golden chains, helped the burly shopper onto the stage. The man huffed, cheeks red, and thrust his fingers into the girl's mouth. He leaned down, squinted, and snorted in approval.

"Six hundred!" he boomed, and a gavel fell, and the deal was struck.

Ofeer tried to make eye contact with the girl. She wanted to tell her that everything would be all right, but that would have been a lie. As the men dragged the child away, Ofeer walked onward, head lowered, teeth clenched.

Look after her, Eloh, she prayed silently. Give her strength.

Yet as Ofeer walked onward, she scoffed. Eloh? An invisible, intangible god who supposedly had chosen the Zoharites from among all the nations of the world? Foolishness. How could such a god exist? The Book of Eloh taught that God was omnibenevolent, omniscient, omnipowerful. If that were true, why did Eloh allow this? How could a kind god allow his chosen people to be slaughtered, for the survivors—mere children—to be sold into slavery? Ofeer knew what would happen to that child. She knew enough of slavery, about the nature of men. No benevolent god would allow such horror. Ofeer's fists trembled, and her breath rattled in her lungs. No. God did not exist, and if he did, then he was cruel. Then she hated him. Then she spat on him.

I was punished, Ofeer thought. But I am wicked, and I lay with men, and I drank, and I gambled, and I sinned. But that child is innocent. I will not believe in a god who allows the suffering of children.

She dried her eyes with her fists and walked onward through the marketplace, leaving the slave stall behind. She passed by several more vendors: a young man hawking apples, grapes, and plums, juggling the fruit as he announced their prices; a wrinkled old woman who sold a hundred kinds of seasonings from a hundred tin trays; a father and son who cried out to the crowd, selling green peas, chickpeas, beans, and legumes of every kind. One merchant even sold live animals—serpents that slithered in baskets, leashed monkeys who wore sequined vests and turbans, and parrots that could curse and sing old tunes. When one shopper banged his fist against a wooden counter, scattering several dried beans, Ofeer knelt and quickly pocketed the morsels, wondering how she'd find a way to cook them.

"Free grain, free grain!" rose a cry ahead, echoing down the boulevard of stalls. "Free sacks of emmer, a gift from the glorious Empress Porcia Octavius!"

Eyes widened in the crowd. Many shoppers abandoned the stalls—drawing grumbles from the merchants—and began flowing down the boulevard toward the voice.

"Free grain! Free sacks of emmer! May the gods bless Porcia Octavius!"

Ofeer was caught in the flow. Her stomach growled. Free grain!

"With some grain and three fallen beans, we'll have a feast," Ofeer said to her child. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she knew that she had once feasted upon the finest fare in Zohar, the daughter of nobility. But that seemed so long ago, a lifetime ago, something that had happened to a different woman. Her life had begun anew. She would find her own feasts, build her own life, not built upon noble blood but her own resourcefulness.

"Free grain! Gift from Porcia Octavius, new empress of Aelar!"

She made her way forward with the crowd. A man elbowed her. A woman knocked into her. Ofeer gritted her teeth and plowed onward, refusing to fall, refusing to leave the throng. People crowded around a stall ahead, and while Ofeer couldn't see beyond the people before her, she could hear grain spilling, see the doves staring from the rafters, as desperate for a meal as she was. One by one, the people before her left the stall, each carrying a sack. The grain rustled within the burlap, a sound sweeter than gold in a purse. The line was long, so crowded that people pressed up against Ofeer, and she remembered her time in the slave market, crammed into a hall with countless other slaves.

Finally she reached the stall. Under a stone archway and behind a wooden counter stood a man, his nose beaked and his head bald. Sacks of grain were piled up behind him, filling a chamber the size of a house, enough to feed an army. Two soldiers stood here too, their helmets sprouting red crests, their shields emblazoned with laureled eagles—men of the Magisterian Guard, defenders of the city.

Ofeer reached across the counter. "Free grain, please."

"Citizens only," said the bald man and looked over her shoulder. "Free grain, free sack of emmer! Gift of Porcia Octavius!"

A woman approached, her stola woven of plain linen, and reached across the counter. The bald man handed her a sack of emmer, the common grain of the Empire.

"Blessed be Porcia," said the woman and left, sack of grain in hand.

Ofeer reached across the counter again. Her stomach rumbled. "I want some grain." She softened her voice. "Please."

The bald man handed a sack to another man, then glanced at Ofeer and grunted. "Free grain is only for citizens. What are you?" He narrowed his eyes. "Phedian? Zoharite? Some refugee scum."

"I'm Aelarian," Ofeer said. The sister of your empress, she almost added, knowing that would earn nothing but laughter.

The bald man frowned. He leaned across the counter and reached toward her. "What's that around your neck? A scarf?" He made to grab it, and his voice rose louder. "What are you hiding there? Is that a slave collar?"

At his sides, the Magisterians gripped their swords. Ofeer took a step back, hitting somebody behind her, narrowly dodging the grain merchant's fingers.

"Don't touch me! I . . . I'll get my free grain elsewhere." She glared at the bald man. "And I'm going to report you."

The man turned toward his guards. "See what's under her scarf. There's been talk of slaves who escaped the palace in the chaos."

The soldiers nodded and stepped toward Ofeer. She tightened her scarf around her neck and turned to flee. Armor clanked behind her.

"Girl!" shouted one of the soldiers.

Ofeer moved faster, worming her way through the crowd, and glanced over her shoulder. The guards were shoving their way through the throng, and when one drew his gladius, the people crowding the marketplace parted. A chill washed over Ofeer. If they saw the tag around her neck, if they brought her to Porcia . . . She ran faster, but the crowd shoved against her. One man grabbed her arm, sneering, his teeth yellow and his face veined.

"Where you running, rat?" the man said.

Ofeer tried to wrench herself free, and the soldiers advanced, and she hissed, ready to scratch, to bite, to fight for her child. She was a lioness. She was a lioness of the desert, and she would not let them take her, she would not be a slave again, she—

Horns blared.

The yellow-toothed man hissed and released her.

The horns sounded again, filling the marketplace, rolling down the boulevard. Hooves thumped. Bells clanged. Many suits of armor chinked, and a priest chanted prayers. The guards who had chased Porcia stepped aside at once, pressed their backs to a stall, and stood at attention. Across the market, the crowd parted, clearing the boulevard. They knelt in a great wave, from wealthy men with bulging bellies to urchins in rags.

Ofeer stepped back and knelt too, vanishing into the crowd again, crouching between a man with a sweat-stained toga and a girl with short blond hair, a slave collar around her own neck. The din continued: keening horns, thumping hooves, clanging bells. Ofeer turned her head toward the sounds, and her heart seemed to shatter.

A procession was making its way down the boulevard, a great serpent of sound, color, and light. At first Ofeer thought this was another triumphal march, like the one she had suffered when coming here from Zohar, chained among the trophies of the east. But no—this was not march of glory but of grief.

Twenty women headed the procession, their clothes torn, their faces bleeding. They wailed in grief, their bare feet slogging through the filth, and tears drew lines through the blood on their cheeks. As Ofeer watched from the crowd, aghast, the women tore at their faces, at their arms, at their chests, drawing more blood, ripping their clothes, their skin, crying out in mourning. They tugged at their hair, pulling out strands, and their scalps bled.

"He is fallen!" a woman cried.

"Marcus is fallen! Our father is fallen!" cried another.

Ofeer winced, the coppery smell of blood hot in her nostrils. She had heard of such women—the sorores luctia—professional mourners who earned gold for sharing their grief with the crowd. At their homes tonight, they would bandage their wounds, store their coin, and prepare for their next funeral.

Behind the hired mourners walked musicians, clad in togas, playing horns and harps, songs of grief. A hundred musicians or more marched here, and burly drummers brought up the rear, their drums moving on wheels, large enough that grown men could have fit inside. Behind them rode generals in splendor, their breastplates filigreed, their helmets sprouting red crests, and jeweled fibulae clasped their cloaks. Their horses too donned rich fabrics of crimson and gold, and behind them marched men of the Magisterian Guard in ceremonial armor, masterworks of iron, precious metals, and gems. They held ten Aquila standards—golden eagles atop wooden staffs, holy idols to the Aelarians, worshiped by soldiers and emperors alike.

And behind the horses, there he lay.

My father.

Ofeer's breath trembled, and she stared with burning eyes. Emperor Marcus Octavius lay upon a bier borne by soldiers. He wore his full armor—a gilded breastplate, filigreed greaves and vambraces, and a crested helmet. Ofeer had heard the stories that Marcus had slipped by the poolside, shattering his head. Others claimed that he'd been murdered, that Septimus Cassius, also known as Mingo the fool, had shattered the emperor's skull. Upon the bier, however, Marcus looked as mighty as ever—his face hard, the nose hooked, the lips thin, frowning even in death. His hands still clutched his gladius, a sword that had slain so many.

As Ofeer stared at her father's corpse being carried by, she felt just one emotion: hatred.

You raped my mother, she thought. You doomed me to a life of pain in Zohar. When I returned to you, you cast me aside. She gritted her teeth. May you burn in Ashael.

All her life, Ofeer had dreamed of meeting her true father, had imagined a noble prince, perhaps a wealthy merchant, a man who would take her into his home, show her the wonders of the Empire. Instead, Ofeer now knelt in the dust, gazing at a man she hated more than she had ever hated Jerael Sela.

She lowered her head, remembering Jerael, her stepfather. How the tall, bearded man would laugh with her, carry her through the gardens, read her stories, later teach her to read by herself. And she remembered Jerael bloody, whipped, dying, remembered Seneca swinging the hammer, nailing Jerael to the cross. Remembered how Jerael had spent three days dying. Remembered how a drunk Seneca had shoved Ofeer onto the bed—Jerael's own bed—had fucked her for those three days, over and over again, as Jerael had moaned outside the window.

Ofeer placed her hand on her belly, imagining the child Seneca had placed there, and sudden terror filled her that the boy inside her would become like Seneca, like Marcus, a killer, a heartless monster.

No, Ofeer swore silently. I will not allow it. I will raise you to be kind, son. I will raise you to be like Jerael and Shiloh. Never like your true father. Her eyes dampened. Because you are like me, born to a cruel father, but you will not be like him.

The bier passed by her, and the dead emperor disappeared from view. Yet behind him, closing the procession, walked several splendid horses, their manes braided, and upon them . . .

Ofeer's heart seemed to shatter in her chest. Ice flowed through her, and her breath died.

Upon two mares, guards around them, rode Empress Porcia and Princess Valentina.

The new empress wore black armor, and a tight smile stretched across her face. Fiery mirth filled her eyes, the eyes of a wolf before it devoured its prey. Her younger sister, the princess Valentina, wore a plain white stola, the color of mourning. With her pale skin, snowy hair, and colorless eyes, she seemed like a marble statue. As she rode by, Valentina looked at the crowd . . . and met Ofeer's gaze.

Ofeer cursed inwardly and looked away at once. Her heart burst into a gallop.

Please don't recognize me. She tightened her jaw. Please. Please. And if you do, please be silent, Valentina. Please.

Ofeer glanced back only once. Valentina was still staring at her, eyes narrowed. Then the princess's eyes widened. Ofeer froze with fear, staring into her half sister's eyes.

Please, Ofeer thought.

Valentina looked at her, kindness now replacing the shock in her eyes. The albino princess looked away, pointed toward a fabric stall at the opposite side of the avenue, and whispered something to Porcia. The new empress stared at the stall, nodded, and mumbled something in return.

Ofeer exhaled shakily.

Thank you.

As the crowd still knelt, and as the procession still rode by, Ofeer slunk backward through the cloud, vanishing among them. As she passed by a cart selling apples, she reached up and grabbed a fruit; the merchant was still kneeling before the procession, head lowered. Ofeer moved onward, elbowing her way through, drawing glares and grumbles. By the time the procession had left the market, she was deep in the crowd, far from the guards who had chased her. With a few more steps, she left the marketplace, emerging back into the residential warrens of the city.

I'm still too conspicuous, she thought. Her makeshift scarf—just a scrap torn off her tunic—was too obvious an attempt to hide a slave collar. Until she could find a cloak and hood, it was too dangerous to walk in the open. If word spread through the Guard that she was a wanted woman, it would not be long until they caught her.

I have to flee the city, she thought. I have to . . .

To what? What life remained for her outside Aelar? Starvation in the countryside? Zohar lay countless parsa'ot away, far too distant to reach, not without the gold to pay for passage on a ship. And even if she could go back to Zohar, she would only return a failure, her tail between her legs, her childhood home destroyed. No. Ofeer had come to Aelar to find a new life in the land of her father. That father was dead now, and this land was not what she had imagined, but she would not give up. She would find a life here in Aelar. She would survive.

She padded through the labyrinth, trying to find her way back to the mausoleum where she had spent the night. She could hide there in the shadows, eat her apple, maybe find a stone and scrape off the letters engraved onto her tag. Once the sun set again, she could emerge, steal more food, maybe even steal a cloak and a proper scarf.

Yet as she walked, Ofeer soon found herself lost. She could navigate the streets of Gefen blindfolded, but here was a sprawling maze that seemed to never end. The structures soared at her sides—apartment blocks, temples on hills, silos fluttering with doves, aqueducts and bridges, and fortified castra rife with soldiers. Aelar only had several main arteries; the bulk of its roads were alleyways so narrow Ofeer had to leap aside every time a chariot or wagon rolled by, pressing herself against brick walls. Nightsoil flowed through gutters, splashing her legs with every chamber pot dumped from windows high above, and the smoke from public kitchens stained her skin and filled her hair. She kept trying to spot the structures of the Acropolis, but she could no longer see them, and she was too afraid to approach anyone to ask.

As Ofeer walked down alleyway after alleyway, she remembered her dream from the palace, where she had wandered endlessly through the halls, seeking a place to relieve herself. She had not eaten or drunk all day, and yet her bladder was aching in protest. Perhaps her babe pressed against it. She kept walking, seeking a public bathhouse, but could find none, and after an hour, her bladder ached so much that her teeth hurt. Finally she had no choice. She knelt above a gutter and relieved herself on the roadside, wincing as a passerby saw, scolded her, and hurled a stone her way. The rock hit her arm, but the shame was worse. She wandered on.

This isn't who I am, she thought. I'm the daughter of an emperor. I'm the granddaughter of a desert king. This isn't me.

Her eyes dampened, but Ofeer sniffed, refusing to let tears fall. She was covered in mud, smoke, and human waste. She wore only rags, and a collar encircled her neck, and the Guard would slay her if they caught her. And as Ofeer walked through Aelar, lost in the labyrinth, she did not know who she was: Ofeer Octavius, a proud Aelarian; Ofeer Sela, a noblewoman of the desert; or perhaps just Ofeer the urchin, pregnant with the child of incest, a grieving woman with no family but for the life that grew inside her.

When the sun began to set, Ofeer found a street lined with private villas—smaller than the one on Pine Hill, only one or two rooms each, but a finer street than most in Aelar. Gardens—actual gardens with flowerbeds and cypress trees—grew here, a bit of greenery in a sprawling world of bricks. When the first stars emerged, Ofeer climbed over a stone wall—it was only a few feet tall—and landed in a house's garden. She skinned her knee, winced, and crawled into the shadows under a cypress.

She tightened her lips, refusing to cry. She would be strong. This was just for one night. Just until she could find a way to remove her collar, find work, earn some money, and rent a room somewhere. Trembling, she pulled the apple from her pocket. Her tears splashed the fruit. She brought it to her lips.

"You need food, child," she whispered to her son. "You—"

The door to the house burst open. A man emerged, holding a lantern in one hand, a meat cleaver in the other. The lamplight fell on Ofeer, and she dropped her apple in fright.

"Thief!" shouted the man. "Intruder!"

Another man emerged from the house. Doors banged open in houses along the street, and people emerged with lanterns and knives.

Ofeer ran.

She leaped over the garden wall, banging both her knees, and slammed down hard onto the street. Her hip blazed with pain. She rose and ran onward, and the men chased. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw their knives gleaming in the lamplight. She kept running, leaving the fine street, plunging back into the labyrinth of alleyways where apartment buildings soared toward the stars. Drunkards stood along the walls, leering, laughing. A whore hissed. Cats fled. Finally Ofeer lost the pursuit in the shadows, and she paused, placed her hands on her thighs, and breathed deeply.

This wasn't supposed to happen. She trembled. This isn't what my life in Aelar should be.

She could move no farther. She was too weak with hunger, and her knees bled. She walked toward a corner. In the darkness, she stepped into a shadowed gutter, and she felt the filth sluice around her feet, a mixture of mud and human waste. She winced, walked onward, and finally curled up in a dry, brick corner. A man was fucking a whore five amot away, his toga pulled up around his waist. He gave Ofeer only a glance and a grunt, then returned to his task.

Ofeer lay on her side, pulled her knees to her chest, and tried to ignore the sounds of sex. The man kept groaning, and the whore kept crying out, the sound of a cat in heat, faked pleasure for a handful of denarii. Ofeer covered her ears, clenched her jaw, and tried to imagine that she lay back in her old bed in Zohar. The pines and lantanas would be rustling outside the window, and the moonlight would shine on the Encircled Sea below the hills. Across the villa, her family would be sleeping. Her parents. Her siblings. The people Ofeer had hated, the people she now loved more than anything in the world. Maya would be in her room right across the hallway; Ofeer could just look through the doorway and see the girl. Once she had scorned Maya, had loathed her. This night Ofeer would have given anything to see her sister again, to hold her, to say she was sorry.

"I'm sorry, Maya," Ofeer whispered, tasting her tears. "I'm so sorry for what I did. For betraying you. For letting Seneca do all this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

She wiped her eyes with her fists. No. There was no use for this. There was no use in pretending to be back in Zohar. She could never return, and even if she could ever afford passage on a ship back east, she would find nothing but ruin. The legions had conquered the desert, and Zohar lay in waste. There was only Aelar now, only Ofeer with no last name, a woman torn down, destroyed, reduced to nothing but hunger and thirst and a need to survive, a woman with a child inside her.

"From nothingness I will rise," Ofeer whispered. "From ruins I will rebuild. Zohar was destroyed, and so was I." She trembled. "But I will not die. I will not be this wretch. I will still find a life here in Aelar. I swear this, my child. I swear this. This will not be your life. You will always be loved, and you will have a better life than I did. I swear. I swear."

The whore screamed. Ofeer's belly rumbled. The shadows wrapped around her, and she shivered until dawn.

PORCIA

"Send them out!" she cried, her voice filling the amphitheater. "Send out the lions!"

Porcia sat on her ivory throne beneath the golden canopy, drinking wine from a jeweled goblet. A slave knelt before her, a living footstool. Another slave refilled her mug, and Porcia gulped more wine. She stared down at the arena, and she laughed.

"The lions! Let them feed."

Eighty thousand people filled the amphitheater around her, covering the stone seats that circled the sandy arena below. Wealthy tradesmen and nobles. Generals of the legions. Commoners and even the poor. They had all come here to watch the games, to savor the blood, to worship her—Porcia Octavius, their empress, their goddess.

The criminals stood below on the sand, clad in patches of armor, armed with daggers. They already bled. Porcia had beaten them herself, ripping their skin with her whip, laughing as the blood sprayed her. Traitors. Scum. Men who had refused to bow before her, who had dared demand the Senate rise again. Now the Senate was a pile of stones for dogs to piss on. Now all those who had defied her would pass through the entrails of lions.

"Release them!" Porcia shouted, laughing as she drank.

Below in the arena, trapdoors opened on the floor, and the lions emerged. Porcia had been starving the beasts for days now, banging on the bars of their cages to drive them mad, eating in front of them, tempting them with juicy, bloody steaks she would let them smell but never taste. The beasts were half-mad now with hunger, yanking at their chains, nearly mauling their trainers.

"Feed now, friends!" Porcia waved her wine mug, spilling droplets. She had prime seats, right above the first few rows, so close she could count the lions' teeth. "Mother lets you eat now."

The trainers released the leashes, and the lions pounced.

The outlaws in the arena screamed. One man fell to his knees and covered his head. Another man tried to flee, only to find walls and locked doors. A few tried to fight, lashing their daggers, only for the lions to knock the blades aside. And the lions fed. Their fangs ripped into throats. Their claws mauled the men, removing what skin Porcia had left. As the crowd cheered, the lions feasted, tugging out ribs, tearing off limbs, their hunger finally sated.

Across the amphitheater, the crowd roared with joy. Children clapped. Young women pointed and laughed. Porcia's father had sometimes slain enemies here—the generals or kings or queens of vanquished nations. Rare shows, the blood spilling only monthly at best. Seneca probably would have outlawed the games altogether; he had always feared bloodshed. But she, Porcia, knew how to entertain the mob. She knew what the people craved. It was what she herself craved. What she dreamed of. What she would wash this empire with.

"Blood," she whispered and licked the wine off her lips.

When the lions had completed their meal, their trainers led them back underground. Now new beasts emerged, imported from beyond the easternmost reaches of the Empire, from the forests of distant lands where the rain never stopped. Here were the fabled tigers, felines even larger than lions, striped and ferocious. The crowd gasped to see them. Marcus had never shown them such wondrous beasts.

"Bring out more prisoners!" Porcia cried from her seat.

Yet the soldiers in the arena—men of the Magisterian Guard—merely glanced at one another. One of them stood at Porcia's side, a hulking man named Domitius, his neck raw and stubbly even after a shave. He was an ugly son of a whore, but loyal as a dog who licked the foot that kicked him. The brute bowed his head.

"There are no more criminals, my empress." He was tall and powerful, the slayer of many men, yet now he gulped nervously. "Our dungeons are empty."

Porcia whipped her head toward him. She frowned. "But I imprisoned thousands. Thousands of traitors!"

Domitius nodded. "Yes, domina. Yet the thousands of scum are dead. Fed to lions. Crucified. Burned. Drawn and quartered. Cooked in bronze bulls. Sawed in half. Flayed and left to rot. All gone. These traitors fed to the lions were the last."

Porcia groaned. No. No! She tossed her mug with rage, hitting a slave. She kicked her living footstool aside and stood up, staring down at the arena, panting. She had spent a fortune bringing these tigers here. They were the final act of the day's games! The first time Aelar would see the beasts feed! And now they ran out of food?

She sneered.

"Use the front row." She pointed at the nobles—soft men and women in dyed togas and stolas—who sat below her on pillows. "Feed those plump worms to the tigers. They paid handsomely for the finest seats." She barked a laugh. "Let them get an even closer look."

Her guards nodded, saluted, and marched down to the front row. The nobles bristled as the guards grabbed them. They tried to pull back.

"What is the meaning of this?" rumbled a barrel-chested, gray-haired man.

"Release me!" demanded a noblewoman. "On what charge do you seize us?"

Porcia leaned down from her canopy.

"A charge of treason!" she shrieked, laughing. "Treason that you should withhold meat from my pets. Traitors, traitors! Drag them into the arena. Let the tigers feed!"

The nobles cried out in fear. The guards did their duty, dragging the soft, pale lords and ladies into the arena. Plump men and their plump wives and their plump children. Their meat soft. Their costly clothes easy to tear through.

Porcia laughed as the tigers fed.

When the games ended, Porcia rode her horse through the Acropolis, surveying her empire. Cages still hung from posts, and her enemies still rotted within—the dead senators, their flesh all but gone, now only bones bristly with skin and rot. The great statue of Seneca, once a hundred feet tall, now lay smashed on the hill. Porcia had left it there, the face hammered away, smeared with pig excrement and buzzing with flies. Her own statue still soared, gilded and brilliant in the sunlight—the statue of a goddess, victorious. Smaller statues of her—still thrice her height—rose outside every temple in the Acropolis, for the people of Aelar would now worship her alongside their old deities.

She passed by the ruins of the Senate. Once a mighty building had risen here, among the largest and fairest in the world. She had enclosed the ruins with a wooden fence, and pigs wandered among the smashed marble, clad in shit-stained togas. The animals rutted in the dirt, squealing contentedly. Her new senators. Each pig wore a collar engraved with the name of the senator it replaced. Porcia laughed whenever she rode by them. The pigs were better senators than men had ever been.

Porcia dismounted her horse outside her palace, climbed the marble stairs, and entered her throne room.

Emperor Marcus, raised a commoner, had never spent much time in this grand hall of opulence. Only when entertaining dignitaries had the man sat here on the throne. But Porcia had taken to spending most of her days and nights here. She had redesigned the hall, making it fit for a goddess. Ewers lay tilted over, spilling out golden coins and gemstones across the floor, so that when Porcia walked she scattered them and heard them chink. New frescoes covered the walls, depicting her in armor, slaying twisted and swarthy Zoharites. Rugs and pillows rose around the throne, and her concubines lounged upon them, a hundred young men and women, clad in translucent silks and endless jewels.

"I'm home!" Porcia said, laughing. "Fetch me my pearls."

A slave rushed forth, holding out a goblet. Porcia took it. Inside floated pearls dissolved in vinegar, soft as pickled onions. She drank them and licked her lips. The true elixir of a goddess.

"Dance for me!" she said. "Love me. Worship me."

As the sun set outside, light and laughter filled her hall. Her concubines danced and sang around her, laughing, drinking wine. Slaves brought forth platinum baths full of more wine, and Porcia bathed in them, splashed the wine, laughed, drank, fell, rose, danced. She lay with her concubines on the pillows. She let two men take her at once, and she cried out so loudly she thought the palace would crumble. She took two women next, took them violently, then passed out into puddles of wine, only for slaves to pour more wine into her mouth, reviving her, and she rose, took another man. All around her, the concubines made drunken love, a great orgy of a hundred souls, fucking over gemstones and gold and imperial glory.

Porcia knew the rumors, knew what Seneca had said about her. Knew of that journal that supposedly existed in the city. A forgery. Lies! Lies she had made into truths. If the people already spoke of her sins, why not commit such sins? Why not love the world? She was an empress of love. Of wine. Of wealth. Of games. Of decadence. She ruled the world. She ruled the heavens. She was the sun, the moon, the stars. She was the sword of Aelar and her sweet milk and splendor. She was drenched in light.

"It's mine," she whispered, lying on a pile of men and women, staring at the jeweled ceiling. "The world is mine. I am the empress. I am the goddess. I am everything."

Yet when she closed her eyes, Porcia still saw him. His pathetic, pouty face. His scheming eyes.

Seneca.

Her younger brother was out there, on the sea, heading to Nur. He would commandeer her legions there. He was planning her death. Porcia knew this. Knew he would return with an army, would try to steal all this from her, would try to deprive the Empire of her glory.

"We'll stop him," she whispered to the drunken, sleeping people around her. "We'll muster our forces. We'll summon the fleet. I swear this on the stars above and the demons of the underworld: We will be victorious. Seneca will die."

Her eyes rolled back, and Porcia slept, and she dreamed of stabbing her brother over and over, ripping out his heart, and laughing as he died at her feet.

ATALIA

She walked through the forest, dripping sweat, a makeshift spear in hand. She was a creature of wild hair, tattered rags, coated in mud and dry leaves, a primordial beast risen from the sea to roam the wilderness.

Yet I'm the daughter of a great lord, Atalia thought. And I'm still a commander in Zohar's army.

"Hurry up, soldier!" she barked. "With me. Onward. Northward."

Her soldier trudged behind her. Daor was only a youth, but after fighting a war in Gefen, spending a fortnight as a galley slave, surviving two days on a raft, and finally trudging through the wilderness for countless parsa'ot, he looked decades older. His beard had thickened, and mud and sweat coated him. He wore nothing but tattered trousers, the same ones he had worn in the belly of the sunken ship. A chain still dragged from his ankle, same as the one dragging behind Atalia. He too held a makeshift spear, a mere pointed stick.

"Yes, Commander!" He trudged to keep up. "Onward. Northward." He sounded the same way he looked—exhausted.

God's balls, Atalia thought, looking at the wretch of a man. Only months ago, he had been nothing but a soft potter's boy. Just a young soldier in her phalanx, one among a hundred she had commanded, one among thousands who had served in Gefen.

Yet those thousands are dead now—dead or slaves in Aelar, Atalia thought. Perhaps we two are the last free soldiers of Zohar. If so, we'll keep fighting. Zohar still stands so long as we do.

"We're getting closer," Atalia said. "Close to Gael. I can smell it."

Daor sniffed. "Just smells like every other day."

"You're just smelling your own stink." Atalia looked around her. "The forest is thickening. The trees are different. The air is colder. We're almost there—almost in Gael. Almost in the great land that fights the enemy."

She had lost count of how many days she and Daor had been traveling here. Their time at sea seemed like a dream by now, just a haze, another lifetime. She could remember clinging to the chunk of a ship's deck, washing ashore, crawling over the sand into the forest. But those seemed like somebody else's memories, far too ancient to be her own.

The forest now rustled around them. Trees Atalia didn't recognize soared around her, taller and thicker than the trees of Zohar. They didn't have needles like pines or cypresses, and their leaves weren't broad like those of fig trees. She recognized a few as great oaks—there were some oaks in Zohar but smaller than these—while other trees were even mightier, their leaves shaped like gladius swords. Some of the shorter trees had white bark like parchment, and their leaves were round and shimmered like jangling coins when the wind caught them. Strange animals roamed here too: wolves with black-and-white fur, twice the size of their tawny desert brethren; animals like the deer of Zohar but larger, their antlers coiling structures like candelabra; and twice Atalia had seen shaggy beasts, large as horses, with fangs and claws like daggers. No forests in Zohar were so lush, and the air here was cold, even in summer, and it had been raining off and on, turning the forest floor to mud.

No wonder Aelar has been unable to conquer these lands, Atalia thought. She herself could barely walk here. Every step was a struggle, dodging roots, boulders, thorny thickets, and ivy that threatened to trip her. She couldn't imagine armies of legionaries marching through this land, not without getting bogged down in the brush and mud.

"Atalia—" Daor began.

"Commander," she corrected him. "You're still my soldier."

He sighed. "Commander, we already saw the Gaelians fight. They lost. Their ships sank. Their warriors died."

She stopped walking. She turned toward Daor and gripped his shoulders, digging her fingernails into him.

"That's because they're not sea warriors." She sneered, eyes narrowed. "Everyone knows that. Yes, Aelar conquered the Encircled Sea. Yes, nobody can challenge them in the water. But here in the forest, on land? The Gaelians are mighty. The Aelarians are water birds. If we can't defeat them in sea and port, we'll defeat them in the wilderness. We will find the Gaelian army, and we will join it, and we will shove our spears up Emperor Marcus's ass. I won't rest until the walls of Aelar fall and I'm there to piss on the rubble."

Daor lowered his head. "Commander, all I want to do is go home." He turned to look east. "Back to Zohar. To my family. To—"

She grabbed his head and yanked it back toward her. "There isn't a Zohar anymore. At least not a free Zohar. Only a conquered land. Only more of those Aelarian scum crawling over our shores and cities." Her eyes stung, and she blinked furiously. "You heard what Porcia said on the ship. Beth Eloh has fallen. Yohanan's army was wiped out, and Shefael's army was disarmed and disbanded. We are all that's left of Zohar's hosts, just you and me. But there's another army that still fights." She turned to look north. "Gael's army."

She inhaled deeply, remembering seeing Gael's warriors fighting at sea. Tall, beefy barbarians, larger than Aelarians and Zoharites, their skin white, their hair golden, their eyes blue. True, they had lost that naval battle, but she had seen fierceness to them. Surely here in the forests, she would find a mighty horde.

Here is the only land Aelar failed to conquer. Here we'll find hope.

They kept traveling through the forest. With the noon sun overhead, Atalia couldn't tell from the sky what direction she was going. The moss, however, grew thicker on the northern side of the trees. And north was where she headed—north to the distant lands. North to Gael. North to hope.

She thought back to what she knew of Gael, which was little. The Gaelians did not sail the Encircled Sea often anymore, not with Aelar taxing their ports along the Eldar River and harrying their ships at sea. But sometimes the dragon galleys did visit Gefen, and Gael's children explored the land of lume. Their men were like giants, towering over Zoharites, many braids in their blond beards. Their women were ethereal beings, beautiful and fair, yet as fierce as their men. Whenever they sailed into Gefen's port, Atalia would run to see them, to marvel at their white skin and hair like molten sunlight, their eyes like sapphires, their dragon ships lined with oars, and the beautiful silverwork and blades they traded, works of art that no Zoharite could reproduce.

Ofeer used to say that Gaelians were the most beautiful people in the world, and that she hated her brown skin and dark hair. Once, when she was thirteen, Ofeer had spent hours scrubbing herself with coarse brushes, trying to wash off the darkness, to leave her skin pale. Mother had scolded her, and Atalia had laughed. Atalia too was dark, but what did that matter? She wasn't here to become a fairy princess but to fight. And she could fight just as well with brown skin and black hair, so long as she could wield strong iron. She had no sword now, yet even with her makeshift spear Atalia knew she could slay Seneca and his soldiers.

"I'm going to find you one day, Seneca," she vowed as she walked, as she vowed every day. "And I'm going to kill you. Like you killed my father. I swear this by God. I swear on my father. I'm going to kill you."

The forest kept thickening as they walked. The roots coiled like serpents, wide as Atalia's legs, rising and twisting and forming cathedrals of wood. Eyes peered from burrows in this network, and mushrooms sprouted on fallen logs and tree trunks. Cobwebs glimmered with dew, and spiders lurked upon them, patient and silent, waiting for prey.

In the evening, they saw fawn on a hill, and Atalia speared the animal. It took her half an afternoon to light a fire—half a goddamn afternoon!—finally lighting a spark by spinning a stick through a crack in a log. In the sunset, she and Daor sat by a campfire, feasting on the meat, washing it down with water from a stream. The fire crackled, and the scents of the meat filled their nostrils.

"Here," Atalia said, passing Daor some berries she had picked earlier. "Eat. You need fruit too to stay strong."

He stared at the berries. "How do you know they're not poison?"

"Only one way to find out." She tossed a few into her mouth and chewed. "Mmm! Tastes good. Tastes like . . . like . . ." She grimaced. "Oh fuck." She clutched at her throat. "Burning! Poison!"

She gasped, coughed, and fell over sideways, hitting the dirt.

"Atalia!" Daor leaped off the log he sat on, raced around the campfire, and knelt above her. "Oh God, Atalia!" He reached into her mouth. "Spit them out! Spit—"

She bit his finger.

"It's Commander." She sat up and shoved him.

"Ow." He shook his wounded finger. "God. That hurt." He frowned at her. "You nearly made me faint."

She snorted. "Then I've trained you poorly." She shoved the remaining berries at him. "I saw birds eating them. They're fine."

He took the berries and ate a few, sitting beside her. The campfire kept crackling. The rest of the meat kept cooking.

The berries gone, Daor sighed. "You were made for this, Commander."

"For cooking deer?" She reached for another slab of meat.

"For surviving. Even back in Gefen, you were always a survivor. You fought bravely when the Aelarians attacked. You managed to pull me out from the sea when I was drowning. And even here, hundreds of parsa'ot from home, you know how to hunt, how to find berries, how to build a fire . . ." He looked at her. "I know how to make pottery. How can you be so fearless all the time?"

"Fearless?" Her voice was soft. She stared into the flames, remembering the inferno at Gefen, the towers crumbling, the men dying, the flesh burning, her father on the cross. "No, soldier. I was terrified." Her eyes stung. It must have been the smoke from the campfire. "I was fucking terrified."

He looked at her, brow furrowed. "You seemed so brave."

The fire reflected in his eyes. The campfire. The fire in Zohar. "I thought I was brave," Atalia said. "In training. When playing with wooden swords. But when I saw my soldiers die, when I saw the legionaries swarming . . . I couldn't see. I couldn't breathe. My head spun and my hands kept shaking." She lowered her head. "I failed you. I led ninety-nine soldiers, and you're the only one who lived. I let all the others die."

"Commander!" He shifted closer to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You led us courageously. I saw you slay many enemies with your blade and sling. When I was scared, I looked at you fighting, and you gave me courage. I thought: There is a fierce lioness of Zohar. There is a warrior I'm proud to follow into battle. You gave me the strength to survive when so many fell. You made me, a potter's boy, feel like a true soldier."

Atalia stared at him, this boy from her hometown, and tears filled her eyes. Perhaps her kingdom had fallen. Perhaps her family was ruined. But she had saved a life, saved a lion. She had saved a world entire.

She hugged him, her foolish, wonderful soldier. "Thank you, soldier."

He wrapped his arms around her. "Commander."

"Call me Atalia tonight," she whispered, and she kissed him.

She made love to him that night, to her loyal soldier. As the fire crackled, they lay side by side on the bank of the stream. They kissed between water and fire, and he tasted like berries. His body was thin, hard, wiry, and she guided him inside her. She closed her eyes, lying on her back, her arms wrapped around him, kissing and biting his ear, moaning into his neck. On their journey here, she had led his way, commanding him, making all decisions, but now as they made love, she let him take charge. She needed to surrender for a night, to lie here with him atop her, not to be his commander but his woman. To let the fear leave her, to let his lovemaking wash away the blood and memories and tears.

"My soldier," she whispered and kissed his neck.

Daor kissed her forehead. "My Atalia."

She slept in his arms that night, and she dreamed that she was back in Gefen, fighting with him. The legionaries swarmed the walls, and all around them their comrades died, and men roasted over campfires, and the waves from the sea grabbed her, pulled her underwater, and cast her out onto a cold shore.

Dawn rose and they walked onward, holding their makeshift spears, chewing a breakfast of leftover deer. Mosquitoes bustled around them, and Atalia kept slapping the insects until she bled. Still she saw no civilization, and she wondered if she would ever see another human, whether humans even existed this far north, whether she would just walk and walk until she reached the edge of the world, a great cliff that gazed down into blackness. It began to rain, washing the filth off her, and her hair clung to her face. Her wooden spear soaked up water, and her chain slogged through mud. Daor shivered in the rain, his hair sticking to his brow, the raindrops streaming down his body and soaking his tattered trousers.

It was noon when Atalia heard the sound of battle ahead.

She froze, and cold sweat washed her. Drums beat in the distance. Swords clanged. Men screamed and horns blared.

Memories. Just memories! She was hearing Gefen again. She could smell the fire and blood again. The battle raged, its din muffled, echoing from beyond the distance, and she shivered.

Daor froze and frowned beside her. "Commander, a battle! A battle ahead."

She sucked in air. So it was real.

"They're here." She ground her teeth, the fear screaming inside her. "The Aelarians. Those goddamn pieces of eagle shit are here. They reached this far north." She raised her pointed stick. "Those wall-pissers are here, and I'm going to fight them. Come, soldier! The lions of Zohar still roar."

Teeth bared, Atalia ran through the forest. Daor ran at her side. They whipped between the trees, following the sound of battle, and raced uphill.

In a gully below, Atalia saw them, and she lost her breath. For a moment she could only stand, panting, and stare. The rain pattered, dripping from her hair.

"By God," Daor whispered. "Hear, O Zohar! Ours is the light."

Atalia's trembles seized her. She had never seen such a sight. Even the battle at Gefen, where three legions had assaulted her city, now seemed like but a skirmish.

Before her, the enemy spread across the misty gully, flowing like a river of iron and flesh. Thousands of legionaries—maybe tens of thousands—marched along a trail that coiled between the forested hillsides. Hundreds of horses galloped, bearing armored riders. Countless catapults and ballistae fired boulders, flaming barrels, and iron bolts the size of men. The sound was deafening—screams, firing weapons, whistling arrows, dying men.

Trapping the legionaries, charging into the gully from both sides, came the Gaelians.

Atalia had never seen so many people in one place. She couldn't even guess how many Gaelians were here—so many that they spread across the forest. They howled, a roar that shook the hills. They did not march in precision. They did not all wear the same armor, bear the same swords and javelins. Here was no organized army like the legions. Here was a horde of wrath, a barbarous mob. Men and women fought together, as they did in Zohar, but these warriors were larger, fiercer. Most wore no breastplate or chain mail, only fur pelts, but they wielded ugly hammers, axes, broadswords, and spiked clubs. Their helmets sprouted horns and antlers, and the men sported braided beards. Their wild hair was the color of sunrise, strewn with beads and bones, and green war paint covered their cheeks. Their shields were large and round, emblazoned with bears, boars, elks, and wyverns.

"Forward, Gael!" they cried. "Onward, Gael! For dragonfire!"

The waves of Gaelians flowed into the gully, trapping the legionaries, squeezing, bleeding them. The dead fell.

The Aelarians aren't in battle formation, Atalia realized, staring at them. The forest was thick, strewn with many logs, boulders, and thickets, too dense for an army to form rank, and the rain had turned the forest floor to mud. The gully was bare of trees, and a dirt road wound through it. The legionaries had chosen the only path available to them, and it forced them to walk only two men abreast, abandoning their usual formations. To make things worse, their bowstrings were slack with rainwater, their shields waterlogged and dripping. They cried out in fear, pointing at the barbarians who charged down the hillsides.

Ambushed, Atalia thought. Ambushed to be slain. And I will slay them too.

"For Zohar!" Atalia shouted and ran downhill, her chain dragging behind her.

"For Zohar!" Daor echoed the cry, running with her.

They wore no armor. They bore no weapons but their wooden sticks. Their chains dragged behind their legs, relics of their slavery. But Atalia and Daor, last two lions of Zohar, still roared for their kingdom.

Others emerged from the trees and ran with them. Men and women, tall and broad, their golden hair braided, their helmets sprouting horns. Their axes, hammers, and swords rose high, they bellowed with fury, and their painted faces twisted into snarls. Some rode horses. Others led dogs of war. They tossed javelins, raining the weapons down upon the legions.

Below in the gully, the Aelarians cried out in terror. Javelins tore through lorica segmentata, slaying men. The legionaries tried to fire their bows, but their sinew bowstrings were soaked with rainwater, gone slack. Their arrows wobbled and fell, helpless to stop the assault. They drew their swords, raised their shields, and began to rise from the gully, to escape the gauntlet.

"For Zohar!" Atalia cried. "Ours is the light!"

"Ours is the light!" Daor shouted with her.

Howling, they crashed into the enemy.

A legionary turned toward Atalia. She leaped onto a fallen log, soared into the air, and plunged down, thrusting her spear. The sharpened wood drove into the legionary's neck, crashed through the flesh, emerged behind him, and snapped. Blood splashed Atalia. Sneering, she landed on the corpse. Across the hillsides and gully, the battle flared. Countless tribal warriors crashed into the legionaries, swinging their axes and hammers. Daor fought nearby, thrusting his own pointed stick.

Atalia reached for the dead legionary's gladius, then saw a fallen Gaelian at her side. The bearded, blond man still held an axe in his lifeless hand, its dual blades shaped as dragon wings. Leaving the gladius, Atalia grabbed the axe and yanked it free. She lifted the Gaelian's shield too. It was round, wooden, and painted with a red dragon.

I'm a lioness, but today I'll fight like a dragon.

A second legionary ran toward her, sword swinging. Atalia raised her shield, and the blade slammed into the wet wood, cracking it. She swung her axe with all her strength. One dragon-wing blade slammed into the legionary's helmet, cracking the iron, digging into his cheek. Teeth scattered. As the legionary fell, Atalia realized that he was just a boy, not even twenty. His lifeless eyes stared at her, and all around Atalia, the others fought, screamed, died. Tens of thousands. Boys. Girls. Falling like the rain. Blood mingling in the mud. At her side, javelins flew into two men, pinning them against trees. A hammer cleaved a man's skull. A woman screamed, voice drowning under the battle, as a gladius tugged her open from collarbone to navel.

Atalia stood on the hillside, panting, axe and shield in her hands. Staring. Shaking.

I can't. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

Her head spun. Blackness spread around her. It felt like staring down a tunnel, the darkness growing, the light tapering, contracting toward unconsciousness. Sweat soaked her with the rain. Her heart wouldn't stop thumping. So loud! Her heart was so loud it roared in her ears.

I'm going to faint.

Daor roared at her side, but she couldn't hear him, could hear only the blood in her ears. He swung a sword that he'd grabbed, and a legionary raced toward him, thrusting a spear. Men and women fought all around her in the forest, and the rain kept falling. Sandals thumped on corpses.

"Commander!" Daor shouted. "Commander, can you hear me? To the gully!" He pointed. "After them!"

Atalia blinked and gulped down air. The darkness lifted.

Be brave. Be strong. You are a lioness of Zohar.

She looked down into the gully, where the legions had been ambushed. The heart of the battle raged there—and the Gaelians were winning. Javelins slammed into the legionaries. With their soaked bows, the strings flaccid, the Aelarians could not fire back. Some legionaries still tried to climb the hillsides, only to be slain and knocked back down. Most were racing along the gully road, trying to make their way east, to escape the inferno raining down from the hillsides. Their commanders raced ahead on their horses, abandoning the infantry in the gauntlet.

"They're dying," Atalia said. "The legionaries are dying. They can be defeated. They can be killed. I told you, Daor." She raised her voice to a howl. "To battle! For Zohar! For the wrath of lions!"

They ran down toward the gully, where the rainwater was gathering into a stream. Atalia swung her axe, and Daor lashed his sword. They cut legionaries down. The Gaelians ran with them, killed with them, died around them. Horses fell, legs snapping. Javelins kept flying. Screams filled the forest. Catapults fired flaming barrels, and trees burned, and rain extinguished the fire with clouds of smoke. Men begged for mercy, called out for their mothers, only for axes and hammers to swing, to end their lives in the mud. A burning man fell into the stream, only for a javelin to impale him.

"Eastward, eastward!" cried an Aelarian centurion on his horse, pointing along the riverbank. "Charge east, full speed!"

The legionaries were in a full rout. They fled down the gully, not even fighting, just trying to escape the gauntlet. And still the Gaelians raced down the hills, emerged from the misty forest, and delivered death with iron and fire. Two men wrestled, stabbing with knives. A towering Gaelian—seven feet of muscles—was pounding a legionary's head against a boulder, shattering the skull, scattering the teeth, smearing the brains across the rock.

Atalia ran, swung her axe, and knocked down a legionary. Her chain flailed behind her, scattering dry leaves, slamming into the legs of soldiers. Two Aelarians rushed toward her, shields raised, swords stabbing. Atalia lashed her dragon axe. The enemy's shields were waterlogged, heavy and bloated after hours of rain. Her axe tore through the layers of leather and wood. She dodged a sword's thrust and swung again, axing a man's chest, denting the lorica segmentata. Another blow shattered the man's ribs. Daor fought at her side, using all the skills she had taught him, and his sword cut through the other legionary.

They kept fighting, chasing the legionaries along the stream. The water rose halfway up their shins. Wherever the enemy fled, the Gaelians emerged, more and more of them, an unending flow. Aelarian corpses filled the gully, sinking into the mud and water, crushed under fleeing feet.

"Eastward, eastward to the vale!" their commanders cried from horseback. "Rally in the open vale!"

Atalia sucked in air. Aelarians were devastating at sea, unstoppable at siege. In open fields, they would reform their lines, create walls of shields, become invincible again. Here in the dense forest, they fell, but once in this eastern vale, when they could reform their ranks, would the tides turn? She ran after them. She cut another man down.

"The vale is near!" shouted a centurion. "Eastward, eastward!"

Atalia ran with the crowd of barbarians, pursuing the legionaries. Ahead, the forest plunged down, and when Atalia raced up a hill, she could see it ahead—open grasslands, free of trees, spreading for parsa'ot. Natural habitat for the legions. Atalia raced downhill again, back toward the ravine, swinging her axe at enemies.

The legionaries kept racing forward—whoever was left of them, at least. Thousands of dead littered the stream behind them. Their officers charged on their horses, and their infantrymen followed, and Atalia began to fear that they would reach open ground.

There, at the mouth of the vale, rose a great cry, and blood washed the forest.

"The way is blocked!"

"A wall! Smash the wall!"

"Break it down!"

Atalia ran. Daor ran at her side, a pilfered helmet on his head. She axed a man's leg out from under him. Gaelians ran with her, furs fluttering in the wind, hair streaming. Ahead, past corpses and burning trees, Atalia saw it.

"By God," she whispered.

A wall of earth and boulders rose ahead, high as a fortress, connecting two hillsides, blocking passage to the vale beyond. It was a makeshift wall, constructed in haste, not a fine wall like one around a city. Yet crude battlements still rose atop it. Gaelians stood there, roaring and chanting, demonic in their horned helms. Legionaries tried to climb the wall, only for the guardians above to pelt them with stones and arrows. Other legionaries tried to smash the barricade, but death rained onto them. They fell. Their comrades ran toward them, trapped between the wall and the pursuing barbarians who still emerged from the forest.

The perfect ambush, Atalia thought. The Gaelians herded the legionaries along the gully, and now they smash them against the stones. She growled. I will smash them too.

Among the barbarians, she ran toward the trapped legionaries, and Atalia killed.

Like they had slain her comrades in Gefen, she slew them. Like they had butchered ten thousand of Yohanan's men, Atalia butchered them. Like they had smashed her kingdom, she smashed them here against the wall. Their corpses piled up, sank in the mud, littered the hillsides.

As she fought, flashes of white and gold caught her eyes, and Atalia gasped. She paused, staring at the strangest warrior she had ever seen. He fought near the wall, a massive Gaelian astride a white stag. Not a horse, not a camel—an actual deer, white as snow, larger than any stallion Atalia had ever seen.

The rider's hair streamed like molten gold, spilling from beneath a silver helmet with scrimshawed horns. His face was scarred, his blond beard thick, his arms like battering rams. He swung a great hammer, its head shaped as a snarling ram—a weapon that Atalia doubted she could have lifted. His shield was the size of a tabletop. Gaelians rallied around this golden giant, pounding at the enemies.

"For Chieftain Berengar!" the tribesmen cried. "For Chieftain Berengar, smash the enemy!"

The warrior on the elk—presumably the chieftain—swung his hammer into legionary after legionary, cleaving helmets, shattering chests. He looked like a barbarian, war paint and tattoos covering his beefy arms and cheeks. And yet there was something different to his fighting style. It was not as wild as the fighting of the tribesmen who followed him. He seemed to fight with a calculated ruthlessness, methodical as he killed.

This one had formal battle training, Atalia thought. In a castle, not just in a forest.

Atalia slew a legionary, stood over his corpse, and stared down the ravine. Now flashes of gold and red caught her eye, drawing her gaze away from the chieftain on the elk. A group of legionaries was trying to flee along the riverbank into a thicket of trees. They carried a standard with them. The rod held a banner showing the name and number of their legion, and above perched a golden eagle, wings spread. Atalia's eyes widened.

"An Aquila," she whispered.

Aquilae—the golden eagles of Aelar—were more than just standards of war, more than just sculptures. They were idols, as holy to Aelarians as their marble gods. The legionaries worshiped them, carrying them not only as symbols of Aelar but as deities. The loss of a single eagle, the stories told, could devastate an emperor and send all of Aelar into mourning.

This eagle will be mine.

"Daor, with me!" she cried.

She ran and he followed, chasing the legionaries. The Aquila rose ahead above the heads of the men, the golden eagle like a living animal. Atalia knelt by a corpse, grabbed a javelin, and tossed it. The weapon streamed through the air and plunged into a legionary. The man fell. His comrades turned toward Atalia, raised their swords, and charged to meet her. Atalia wore no armor, only tattered rags. She was a woman, not even an ethereal Gaelian, just a dark Zoharite covered in mud. Perhaps the legionaries in their armor, holding their golden idol, thought her an easy target. Atalia grinned as she swung her axe. Daor fought at her side, sword clanging against the enemy's shields.

Atalia fought as she had never fought. For her fallen kingdom. For her fallen father. For slavery at sea, for the loss of her family, for the light of Zohar. She kicked, swinging her chain, knocking men down. Her axe painted the forest red. Daor fought with her, always at his commander's side. Before the army of Zohar, the legionaries fell.

Atalia dealt her last blow, cutting down a legionary, and grabbed the standard from his dead hands. She raised it overhead. The clouds parted above, and light fell through the rain. The eagle gleamed atop the shaft.

"The eagle is mine!" Atalia cried. "Aelar falls in the forest. The eagle is mine! Do you hear me, Porcia and Seneca? I grabbed your eagle, and I killed your men, and I'm coming for you! I'm coming to kill you next!"

Around her, the last legionaries fell. There was no escape for them. Trapped between gorge, wall, and hillsides swarming with Gaelians, they fell by the thousands. Atalia had read the histories of Aelar in a hundred scrolls. Here, she knew, was the Empire's greatest defeat. The Aelarian civilization was centuries old, and never had they suffered such loss.

"Here the end of Aelar begins!" she shouted. "The eagle is mine! Next their city will fall."

Across the battlefield, she saw the tall chieftain on his elk. He turned toward her, hammer bloody, and nodded. Even from this distance, Atalia could see the smile in his eyes.

"Come on, soldier," she said, turning to look for Daor. "Let's go meet that chieftain of theirs. We'll align our forces. We'll—" She frowned. "Soldier, where the hell are you?"

She looked around her, seeing only bodies, only blood and severed limbs across fallen logs. Trees burned in the distance.

And then she heard him.

"Commander."

Atalia looked down, and she saw him there, lying at her feet. Her soldier. Her countryman. Her lover. Her Daor.

"Daor," she whispered and knelt before him.

He held a shield above his torso. When Atalia pulled it back, she felt the blood drain from her face. A gladius had pierced him, embedded down to the hilt. She grabbed that hilt, and she was about to pull it, but he held her wrist, stopping her.

"It's too late." His voice was barely a whisper, and his face was ashen, the blood flowing from him. "Just . . . be with me, Commander."

"It's Atalia," she whispered, tears falling, splashing onto him, onto her boy, the warrior who had followed her through fire and rain.

"Atalia." He clasped her hand, but his grip soon weakened. "Atalia Sela of Zohar. Our homeland. Our home . . ."

"We'll be there again someday." Atalia caressed his cheek. "I promise you. We'll be back in Zohar, and we'll watch the sun set into the sea. Did you know that Gefen is the only port in the Encircled Sea where the sun sets into the water? We'll sit there on the beach, watching it, and be at home. Just at home. In peace. On our sand, by our water, with our kingdom of light rising behind us."

He smiled softly, as if he could see it already. His grip weakened. His blood would not stop flowing. "Take my bones there, Atalia. If you make it out . . . if you win this war . . . take my bones home. Bury me by the sea."

"You're going to live." She growled. "You're a fighter. You're a soldier of Zohar. You're my soldier. My soldier! You are a lion of light." She was weeping now. "You can't leave me. Don't leave me alone here."

But he was already silent. He had already gone where she could not follow, was already waiting on some distant shore beyond veils of mist and morning. She lowered her head and closed her eyes, still holding his hand.

"Farewell, son of Zohar," she whispered, tears falling. "Hear, O Zohar! Ours is the light."

The sun set, but many lanterns and torches lit the forest. Around her, the warriors of Gael cheered for victory, and songs filled the night, and the legionaries lay dead in their greatest defeat. But Atalia could not rise to rejoice. She could not sing with the others, could not dream of conquest or freedom. Her last soldier had died. The man she loved was gone. All memories of her home faded, leaving her alone, lost in a northern forest, a lioness in shadows.

ADAI

He rode his elephant through Shenutep, pulling the wagon across the city's cobbled roads. Inside lay the iron to crush and cut his people . . . or perhaps to liberate them.

If I fail today, I die. Adai stared at the crucified men along the roadside. If I fail today, my nation perishes. Please, forbidden gods. Grant me strength.

A century of legionaries marched around the elephant and wagon, armored and armed, bearing iron forged here in Nur. All across the city, Nurians moved aside from the convoy. Children peered from rooftops, clad in loincloths. Men and women stared from windows, eyes dark, the wealthy in embroidered linen, the poor in homespun.

Adai himself looked like any other commoner of Nur. His skin was deep brown, his hair closely cropped, and a week-old beard covered his cheeks. A cotton cloak wrapped around his shoulders, and a hood hid his face. Stubble and a hood wasn't much of a disguise, but Adai smiled wryly.

To the Aelarians, we Nurians all look the same.

Back in the pyramids in the heart of Shenutep, he was Adai Koteeka, Prince of Nur, younger brother of Queen Imani. Back there, he wore lush, embroidered garments and jewels, a crown rose atop his head, and his cheeks were clean-shaven. Here on this elephant, pulling this wagon, he was a shadow. He was a man in danger. He was the hope of his nation.

"Move, damn it!" shouted a legionary on the road ahead, swinging a whip. The lash slammed into a beggar, a child with one leg. The child fell, bloodying the cobblestones.

Adai sucked in breath, struggling to curb his rage. He wanted to charge forward on his elephant, to trample the legionary, to kill them all. He forced himself to breathe, to remain silent.

Soon, he told himself. If I rise against them today, we all die. If I wait, if I succeed today, there is hope.

The one-legged child pulled himself onto the roadside, and the procession continued. All along the road, they groaned, screamed, died, rotted—Nurian children nailed to crosses. It was Governor Cicero who had ordered them crucified, who had swung the hammer himself, delighting in the screams.

Adai clenched his fists as he rode. Cicero Octavius would be waiting for him today, and Adai didn't know if he could control his temper. He had seen the looks the old man often gave his sister.

He desires her, Adai knew. He wants to bed Imani like he beds the Nurian girls he buys from our streets. He would too, if he didn't fear her claws. A savage grin tugged at Adai's lips. Soon he'll see how sharp all our claws are.

He looked over his shoulder at the wagon. It rolled along the road, so large it barely fit. The iron jangled within. Swords. Javelins. Shields. The tools Aelar used to conquer the world. The weapons that had been bleeding Nur for a generation.

The weapons that will bring us hope.

He rode onward, leading his elephant past temples—once temples to the Nurian spirits, today temples worshiping the marble idols of Aelar. They crossed a bridge over a river. They passed through the city dregs, moving between sweatshops and brothels and beggars, the legionaries shoving and whipping their way through.

Finally Adai saw it ahead: Castrum Nuria. The center of Aelar's power in the southern continent. The great fist of the Empire in Nur.

The fortress was massive, a city within a city. Soaring curtain walls of limestone surrounded the complex. Towers rose along them, topped with battlements, archers, and mounted trebuchets. A barbican thrust into the city, containing gates of wood banded with iron. Beyond the walls, Adai could see the tops of more towers, their roofs tiled red.

Castrum Nuria. Home to an entire legion. The slave collar around the neck of Nur.

Several legionaries stood outside the gates, red crests sprouting from their helmets. At the sight of Adai and his elephant, they pulled the gates open, revealing a tunnel that plunged through the barbican.

It was a tight squeeze. Adai had to flatten himself upon his elephant, and the tunnel walls scraped against the beast's sides and grazed the wagon's wooden flanks. Arrowslits pierced the tunnel walls, and archers peered from behind them. Should any enemy break the gates, they would face a long, devastating gauntlet before emerging into the fortress grounds.

Finally the tunnel ended, opening into a courtyard.

Entering this place, it felt as if Adai had left Nur, as if he had ridden through a portal and emerged into Aelar itself. A cluster of buildings and courtyards filled the innards of Castrum Nuria. Armories. Mess halls. Training yards where legionaries drilled with swords and spears. Temples and cloisters and silos. Columns lined great houses where soldiers lived. Towers soared, topped with battlements. A villa rose ahead, its colonnade capped with gold, and statues of Aelarian gods stood on its roof.

Adai rode his elephant, pulling the wagon toward the armory. It was there, past a life-sized statue of Emperor Marcus, that he saw the crosses.

His elephant started, stamped the earth, and tossed back his trunk. Adai sucked in air and clenched his fists.

Two crosses rose ahead, red with blood. A man hung from one, a woman from the other. Both were Nurians, naked, their skin hanging in tatters. Both were still alive.

Adai stared at them, struggling to curb the tears in his eyes.

He knew them.

Fellow rebels. Smugglers of weapons. Heroes of Nur.

"Ah!" rose a voice. "The new shipment has arrived. Splendid, splendid."

Adai turned around, and rage flared along with his terror like fire burning through water. Governor Cicero had emerged from his manor and came walking toward the wagon. The Lord of Nur wore a fine toga, a golden sash, and sandals. While his elder brother, Emperor Marcus, was a muscular man—at least judging by the statue here in the castrum—Cicero was gaunt, almost skeletal. The skin of his face clung to his skull, and he had no lips to speak of; his mouth was but a gash, his tongue white and slithering like a snake.

"Ah, good man!" Cicero said to Adai. "Our last batch of weapons, as you know, was ambushed on the road. Such a terrible waste." Cicero clucked that white tongue of his and shook his head. "To crucify five hundred children across the city, one for every sword gone missing . . . such messy work. But never mind. Here, you have delivered the work of Nur's finest smiths, no doubt! Open the wagon. Let us inspect the craftsmanship of our swarthy friends."

Adai dismounted the elephant and walked across the cobblestones toward the wagon. He kept his hood low. In the evening shadows, hooded and stubbly, he prayed that Cicero did not recognize him. He wouldn't send others on this task, not after the last wagon, not after the five hundred children crucified, not after the last smugglers flayed and crucified.

As he walked, Adai passed by those who had come before him. Those who had driven the last wagon. They moaned upon their crosses. Brother and sister. Most of their skin was gone already, and their blood still dripped.

If I fail today, it will be Imani and me on tomorrow's crosses.

Forcing his legs to stop shaking, Adai reached the back of the wagon and tugged open the doors. He pulled out the haul: boxes of swords, spears, and shields, forged in the smithies of Nur. He placed the weapons on the cobblestones.

Cicero knelt and lifted a sword. He swung the blade through the air. It whistled.

"Well balanced. Very nice!" Cicero nodded. "You understand, of course, that I need to test the blade."

Sword raised, the governor walked toward one of the crosses, the one where hung the young, whipped man. He swung the sword with a grunt. The blade crashed through the crucified man's legs, slicing through bones. If they hadn't been nailed up, the legs would have fallen to the courtyard.

The man screamed.

Adai's fists trembled. Terror, pure and all consuming, flowed through him.

He wanted to grab one of the swords. To slay Cicero now. But a hundred legionaries stood in the courtyard. Thousands more filled the compound. He only dug his fingernails into his palms, struggling to breathe, to calm his heart.

"Ah, excellent, very sharp! Very sharp indeed." Cicero lifted another sword from the pile and squinted at the blade. "Is the proper writing here? The name of our legion? It's a bit hard to see in the darkness. The sun sets so quickly in Nur. Hold on. Let me ignite the lanterns."

Cicero nodded toward one of his legionaries. The man stepped forward with a pot of oil. Cicero took the clay vessel and began splashing the crucified prisoners.

"Dominus—" Adai began, unable to curb his tongue. His voice shook.

Cicero did not glance back as he worked. "One moment, please, my friend! Almost done."

Once the oil coated the prisoners, Cicero took a torch from a legionary and moved from cross to cross.

The prisoners screamed, burning, thrashing on the crosses, and soon the wood ignited too and blazed. Heat and light filled the courtyard, and sparks showered, and the smell of cooking meat wafted.

Be strong, Adai told himself, struggling for air, struggling to just stay standing. Be brave. Like Imani. Like our mother. Be strong for Nur.

"Ah, much better!" said Cicero, the fire painting his face a demonic red. "Now we can see." He placed a hand on Adai's shoulder. "You see, my friend, to burn lanterns or candles all night is so wasteful. Oil and wax are expensive commodities, and we are, after all, at war. Just a little splash of oil, and flesh will burn much more readily. Now to take a closer look at these weapons . . ."

Adai lowered his head. The smoke stung his eyes and nostrils, and the screams soon died, but the corpses still burned.

Be at peace, friends, he thought. Rest now among the spirits of our forefathers. Rest in the great fields beyond our world, where there is no pain.

Cicero lifted sword by sword, javelin by javelin, passing them to his legionaries. Each blade was hefted, swung, examined in the firelight.

After examining the weapons for a while, Cicero froze and stared. He lifted one sword and frowned.

"Look here." The governor marched toward Adai and waved the blade at him. "Look at this! What is the meaning of this?"

Adai did not have to look to know, but he looked nonetheless. On most sword blades was engraved the name of this castrum's legion: Legio XI Nuria. On this sword appeared the wrong numeral: Legio XII.

"Does this look like the twelfth legion?" Cicero shouted. "Does it look like we're stationed in Berenia across the sea?"

Adai bowed his head. "Forgive me, dominus. We have a new blacksmith working for us. He must have been confused. It's just this one box of blades. I'll return them at once to scrape off the extra numeral."

"Scrape it off?" Cicero repeated, aghast. "Do you think you're forging plows for farmers? You will melt these blades and start over. You will bring back the full supply tomorrow, or you will burn with your friends. Now go. Leave! Take the spoiled swords and leave!"

Adai nodded, his breath shuddering. "Yes, dominus."

As ash blew from the corpses, Adai climbed back onto his elephant. He rode away from the courtyard, back through the tunnel, and out into the city. The sun had fallen behind the horizon now, and the air still stank of death.

He rode through the darkness, passing by the corpses along the roadsides, through a city of tears and blood, the pride of Nur crushed under the heel of Aelar.

Finally he returned to the smithy, the place where Nur had once forged its farm tools, its cutlery, and its own weapons. He unloaded the faulty swords from the wagon and dragged the boxes into the smithy.

Two legionaries stood here, holding javelins, while a dozen blacksmiths worked at anvils, cauldrons, and fires.

"Faulty blades, damn it!" Adai shouted. "Cicero nearly had my head. You useless lot engraved the wrong legion number onto them." He shook his head sadly. "I'm taking these to the back and tossing them with the scrap iron. We'll start over."

Under the watchful eye of the legionary guards, Adai tossed the faulty swords into a wheelbarrow and rolled them past cauldrons and anvils and blazing fires. As sparks flew, he thought of the corpses burning on the crosses, of how close he had come to burning with them.

He entered the back of the smithy, a chamber full of pig iron and scraps, a mountain of metal to be turned into blades.

She waited for him there, hidden in the shadows. His sister.

"Imani," he whispered, approaching her.

"Shush!" She glared at him. "I'm only Kayeesh, humble daughter of the alleys."

His sister, Queen of Nur, normally sported a fine kalasiri of muslin, a jeweled tiara to hold back her black curls, and glittering cosmetics. Today she wore only a rough cloak and hood, and dirt smeared her face.

Adai embraced her, quickly, furtively.

"It worked," he whispered. "Cicero was incensed, but in his rage, he did not suspect." He pointed at the wheelbarrow. "Twenty-two faulty blades. Twenty-two weapons for the rebellion."

Imani stood on tiptoe, glanced over his shoulder, and bit her lip. "Keep your voice low. The guards listen." She tugged and kicked some of the scrap iron, raising a clamor. "I'll take these now into the city, into our secret nests."

She tossed a blanket over the wheelbarrow of swords, then pushed it toward a hidden back door behind the mountain of scrap iron. Before she could step out into the night, Adai placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Be careful, sister," he whispered.

She smiled, though her eyes were sad. "Always. Long live Nur, and may freedom come swiftly to the children of the savanna."

Queen Imani stepped out into the shadows, taking a few blades, a few dreams, weapons for a few warriors . . . against the might of an empire.

Adai remained in the shadowy chamber for a long time, head lowered. The visions danced before his eyes: Cicero severing the legs of the crucified man, setting both prisoners aflame, the children crucified along the roadsides, punishment for a smuggled wagon of swords.

One day, Cicero, he vowed silently, I will take one of these blades you force us to forge, and I will plunge it into your heart.

MAYA

She woke at dawn thirsty, hungrier than she'd ever been, with sand sticking to her face and a crab crawling toward her foot. She blinked, sat up, and stared at the water. The eastern sea lapped at the shore, darker and foamier than the Encircled Sea back at home, a living beast.

I'm at the edge of the world, Maya thought. She had studied many maps in Master Malaci's library in Gefen, but none ever showed lands beyond this eastern border. She stared across the water, trying to imagine if other lands sprawled there in the distance across countless parsa'ot, lands with no pain, lands where lumers were not hunted, lands where no cruel empires crushed ancient nations under their heel. Or perhaps this was it, and beyond there was nothing but water, eternal, as infinite as the kingdom of Luminosity.

I wonder if the great lumers, like Avinasi and Taeer, can see beyond this sea, Maya thought. I wonder if someday I will have this Sight.

Sight. Foresight. Muse. Healing. The Four Pillars of Luminosity, the four arms in the candelabrum. More than anything, Maya wanted to learn Healing. She lowered her head, and the wind tousled her black curls. So much pain filled Beth Eloh. Even from here, Maya imagined that she could hear her people cry out. Hear her family scream. More than she cared for seeing the present, predicting the future, or creating great art, she wanted to heal. To heal her family, her nation, her own grieving heart.

She walked into the water, letting it flow across her legs, then over her tunic, finally rising to her neck. It was colder than the sea back home, not as salty, its currents strong. She let the water wash away the sand, sting her wounds, cleanse her from the grime of her journey, from her pain, from the mourning.

When she returned to the olive grove and the domed house, the sun was already searing, drying the water and leaving a thin coating of salt across her bronzed skin. Her stomach grumbled, and she considered returning to the boy for roasted beans but decided against it. Instead, she glanced around, saw nobody, and stole a few fallen olives. Their flesh was rich, oily, filling her with vigor. She spat out the pits, kicked dirt over them, and knocked again on the house's door.

No reply came from within.

Maya walked around the house toward the round window at the back. When she peered inside, she saw the old woman there, once more hunched over a table, reading from a scroll.

"I won't go away," Maya said. "I've come to learn Luminosity. Avinasi herself sent me, lumer to kings and queens. Are you a lumer? Will you teach me?"

For long moments the woman inside the house was silent, busy reading from her scroll. Finally she rose from her seat, both the wooden chair and her joints creaking. She hobbled toward the window and stared at Maya, disgust in her eyes.

"Why do you want to learn Luminosity?" the old woman asked.

Maya thought for a moment. "To heal."

The woman snorted and tugged a curtain across the window. "Go away. Never come back."

Maya sighed. Had that been the wrong answer? Should she have chosen another one of the pillars—Sight, Foresight, maybe Muse? Or should she have named all four? Her belly knotted, and worry filled her that she had made a dreadful mistake, that she had already failed some test. If only she could have studied from Avinasi! If not for the legions, Maya could have studied the magic in Beth Eloh itself, the great fountain of lume where the greatest lumers in history had lived and taught. Now most of those lumers served Aelar across the Encircled Sea. Now Maya was abandoned here, so far from home, and this old woman—if she was a lumer at all—would not even let her inside, let alone teach her the magic.

Once more her mind returned to the burnt corpse in the gibbet. To the sign that hung beneath it: Lumer.

Her stomach growled yet again. She knelt, lifted a few more olives, and ate, but they could not alleviate her hunger. She needed more—fresh bread, cheese, meat if she could find it. She decided to risk exploring the town, her hunger perhaps overpowering her wisdom. She would be better able to think, to choose a future path, on a full stomach. Jangling the last few coins in her pocket, she left the Luminosity house and walked down a cobbled path between palm trees. She reached a network of roads that sprawled between houses. Chickens clucked in yards, and a goat stood tethered to a pine. A few cats hissed from stone roofs. People were here too, wrapped in robes and shawls, their skin brown, their eyes suspicious. The town was small, and soon Maya found its market, a round courtyard surrounded with archways. Under each arch sat a merchant, selling his or her wares from tin vessels and straw baskets. It was a smaller market than the one in Gefen, but with her last few coins, she could buy food here.

Maya approached an old, mustached man who was grilling slices of meat—goat, she thought—over a brazier. He placed slices of the meat on flat bread, topped them with yogurt, a drizzle of olive oil, and a sprinkling of thyme, then handed the meal to Maya. The meat was rich, fatty, dripping down her chin, and Maya thought it the best meal she had eaten in years. Taking deep bites, she walked through the bazaar and paused to contemplate a stall of fabrics.

A voice rose behind her, booming and cruel.

"The crone still casts her dark magic! How long will we worshipers of Dagon allow sorcery in our home?"

The meal went tasteless in her mouth. Maya turned to see a tall man—among the tallest she'd seen—walk into the marketplace. He wore black robes, and a curly black beard hung down his chest. A fibula gleamed on his shoulder, displaying a sheaf of wheat within a sickle. The man held a true sickle, a dark blade that looked more like a weapon than a farming tool. Back in Zohar, people worshiped an intangible spirit of grace and light, but here in the east, trapped between sand and desert, it seemed people worshiped grain—a bringer of life in a cruel, dry land. Several other men walked behind this priest, their robes dusty, their sickles raised. Their eyes turned to stare at Maya.

"Who will join us?" cried the tall leader of the group. "Who will march with us upon the house of sin? We will burn the crone in a cage like we burned her pupil."

Maya stepped forward and spoke before she could stop herself, silently cursing herself as the words spilled from her mouth. "Fire cannot burn a mistress of Luminosity, and all your blades cannot cut her." She looked around her, then back at the priest. "But you already know this, which is why you haven't yet struck, why you seek to swell your numbers, why there is still fear in your eyes."

The men walked toward her, sickles raised, a madness in their eyes. It was the madness of hunger.

"The witch is powerful," said the priest, "and her curses cause the grains to wilt." He looked at the meal in her hand. "You feast upon the gifts of Dagon, and yet you defend the crone who seeks to tarnish his blessings. Are you too a witch's pupil?"

Maya shook her head. "No. I'm a healer. A traveler from distant lands." Those words were true, in a sense. "And as a healer, I will not watch death. I will not watch strong men with blades seek to slay a frail old woman." She raised her chin. "I healed King Zamur himself—your king. He knows my name, and his blessings follow me. You will put aside your blades, and you will not spill blood in this town, or by the gods, I will call upon the wrath of Sekur to descend upon this town and cast you into the desert."

Her insides swirled, and cold sweat trickled down her back, but she forced herself to speak with authority. She could no longer be the meek, frightened girl she had been. She had seen enough cruelty. She had watched Seneca slay the dog, and she had fled from him, leaving him to slay her father. She would no longer flee evil. Wherever there was light there were shadows. One could no more flee evil than flee a shadow in the sunlight. The only place without shadows was the dark.

Yet the men were not cowed. They looked at one another, and one guffawed. They circled her, closing in, sickles raised.

"The gibbet needs more meat," said one man.

Another laughed, showing crooked yellow teeth. "The fire is hungry." He turned toward the tall priest. "Saentek, can we burn her?"

"We will sacrifice her to Dagon!" said Saentek, the tall priest, leader of the group. "We will scatter her ashes across the fields, and they will bear us sweet grain."

Maya spun from side to side, seeking a way to escape, finding none. She cursed herself for her stupidity. She should have stayed in the garden and filled herself on olives. She tossed aside her half-eaten meal and drew her dagger, the one Atalia had given her. Today Maya would be as brave and strong as Atalia.

A man reached out to grab her. She pulled back, and he tore her tunic. Another man grabbed her arm, and Maya lashed her dagger, slicing a line across his wrist. The man hissed. Hands grabbed her waist, pulling her back, and a man slapped her, rattling the teeth in her jaw. Her dagger clattered to the ground. She thrashed, crying out, waiting for the old woman to barge into the marketplace, to save her, but no savior emerged. The priests began to drag her from the courtyard.

"Burn her in the cage!" shouted the priest. "Sacrifice her to Dagon!"

Maya stared ahead. There she saw it—the gibbet hanging from the post. A man climbed, opened the cage door, and pulled out the charred bones. The skeleton clattered to the ground and fell apart. A single amulet remained in the ash, half-melted, vaguely shaped as a four-branched candelabrum.

As the men dragged her toward the cage, Maya drew from her reserves of lume, and her hands shone and light filled her eyes.

"Unhand me!" she called, and her voice boomed, deep as thunder. "Unhand me now, or it will be your bones upon the ground."

She could not burn them, of course. Luminosity was a force for healing. If she cast her light upon them, she would only give them vigor, not pain. But Luminosity was also the art of creation, suggestion, of music and song. Maya was not a lumer, and she had never used the Muse, but right now she tried to find that creative light, to give her voice the power of a great orator or prophet.

"Stand back now!" She turned her glowing eyes from man to man. "Release me or I will wilt your fields, and even your god Dagon will weep to see the desolation."

There. Now the men stepped away from her. But their sickles were still raised, and Maya didn't think she could cow them for long. Soon enough they would see through the ruse, realize she was nothing but a sixteen-year-old girl, unarmed. Holding her glowing hands before her, Maya stepped backward. Her bare feet pressed into the ashes and bones of the dead, and she grimaced but kept retreating.

"The girl is a blasphemer!" shouted Saentek, pointing at her. "Slay her! Slay her, cowards!"

Her light scared the men, but so did the gangly priest. They advanced toward Maya, swords swinging. Maya turned and ran.

She should run into the desert, she knew. She should escape this town, try to find a way back home. But she found herself running toward the sea. The men chased, and a sickle swung. Maya screamed as the blade grazed her back, tearing her tunic, cutting the skin. She kept running, not knowing how badly she was wounded. Ahead she saw it: the house of Luminosity behind the olive trees. She ran down the road, through the garden, and pounded on the door.

"I know you don't want to teach me!" Maya shouted. "Give me shelter then, if not wisdom!"

The men howled behind her. Maya spun around, her back to the door, and grimaced. So much fear filled her that the luminescence fled her like wine from a cracked jug. She stood before them, a mere girl again, panting, her back blazing where the sickle had cut her, the door locked behind her.

"Stand back!" she warned, but without the Muse, her voice came out weak. Afraid. They advanced toward her, faces lurid masks, blades raised. Maya winced. She had come here all this way—just to die, just to fall so close to wisdom.

She spoke again, but this time she spoke to another.

"So this is the Luminosity you teach?" she said as a priest grabbed her arm. "To forsake a sister of the light?" Another man grabbed her, pulling her away from the house. "No wonder your former pupil burned! You abandoned her!"

The men dragged Maya between the olive trees, smirking, speaking of what they would do to her before the burning. One man shoved her down. Another kicked her in the ribs. Maya grabbed a stone, prepared to go down fighting, when the door swung open behind her.

Light flared, and a voice rolled across the garden.

"Be gone, snakes! Slither back to your holes, or I will stomp on your heads." Maya turned to see the old woman walk forward, leaning on a gnarled staff. "Leave now, dogs of Dagon, lest you wish me to turn you into curs." The old woman raised her staff, and luminescence shone around her fist. "Leave now, or soon you will bark as dogs and piss on walls."

The men cursed. They turned to flee—grown men, bearded, armed with blades, fleeing from a frail old woman with nothing but a staff.

Maya winced and reached across her back. Her hand came back bloody, and finally the pain hit her—searing, a line of fire running down from her shoulder blade. She struggled to her feet and walked toward the old woman. Bleeding, covered in dust, still salty from the sea, she faced the old lumer.

"Will you teach me?" Maya said.

Maya was a short woman, shortest in her family, even smaller than Ofeer, but this elder stood even shorter. Her dark eyes peered at Maya from nests of wrinkles.

"I have nothing to teach you. Luminosity brings nothing but pain, nothing but danger. Did you not see the bones in the gibbet?" She spat and turned away. "Leave."

The old woman hobbled into her house and slammed the door behind her.

Maya could not believe this. Why had Avinasi ever sent her here? For what—to be hunted by a group of madmen as cruel as the Empire, with this crone unwilling to even let her indoors? Anger filled Maya. She marched down the path and banged on the door with her fist.

"I won't leave!" she said. "Do you hear me? I will not. Do you think I fear a pack of rabid dogs? I faced the legions of Aelar and did not fear them! Do you think I fear death? Death is nothing to the eternal life of Luminosity. I will study this art even if I burn, even if my only legacy is bones on the street."

Maya lowered her head, leaning against the door, panting. She wanted to heal her wound, but she felt too weak, unable to draw more lume. This place was not like Zohar, overflowing with lume like a pomegranate overflowing with seeds. Here in the east, the lume was too thin, too fine, fleeing from her grasp, watered down. She should never have come here. She should never have left her family, her mother.

I'm sorry, Mother, she thought, tears stinging her eyes. I miss you and I love you so much.

The lock clanked, the door opened, and the old woman stood there. No more anger filled her eyes, only sadness. Yes, there was sadness in those dark eyes, so powerful that Maya felt it flow into her, an iciness, a despair that seemed worse than any cut of a blade.

The old woman spoke softly. "The Sisterhood of Luminosity demands that I turn aside each pupil three times. Three times I refused you, and three times you returned to me. Yet now I plead with you, child. Do not come to me a fourth time. Do not step through this door. The path of Luminosity is a path of light, but many shadows loom along its sides, and many tears wet its soil. If you step through this door, I can show you light, but every light casts shadows." Her eyes dampened, and she stroked Maya's hair. "You're an innocent child, and so I ask you. I plead with you. Leave this place. Leave and forget the light."

Maya stared at the old woman, wondering if she had used Foresight, if she had foreseen tears and shadows along Maya's own path through Luminosity. She thought, too, of the shadow she had seen in the desert. The man in black robes. The man with the furrowed gray skin. The man who had raised the dragons to stop her from coming here. Did he wait along this path? If she walked down it, would she encounter him upon this road?

Then I will meet you again, Maya thought. Then I will face you, fight you if I must.

"Then I will suffer the shadows," Maya whispered, tasting her tears. "I will shed tears. For a life without Luminosity is a life without color, without taste, a life blind. I will suffer the shadows for the sake of the light."

The woman nodded, a sad smile on her face, a bittersweet understanding in her eyes—perhaps already seeing the path ahead, perhaps willing to walk it with Maya. The lumer took Maya's hand and guided her into the house, into a new life of wisdom, of learning, and of fear.

SHILOH

My son is alive.

As Shiloh watched the six hundred nailed to the crosses, as she heard them scream, as she smelled their blood, she hated that thought, hated that relief, that joy that filled her.

My son is alive.

Across the hills of Beth Eloh, the crosses rose one by one, forming a dripping forest. Legionaries laughed as they swung their hammers, nailing hands and feet, as men, women, and children screamed. Two legionaries guffawed as a baby died on a cross between her parents. Thousands of people cried out in the streets, trying to reach their beloveds, only to encounter a wall of shields, the sting of swords. One man in the crowd roared and tossed a stone, trying to barrel his way through, only for a spear to pierce his chest. Shiloh watched from the palace courtyard, and she loathed the happiness inside her.

Epher lives. My firstborn lives.

The screams rolled across the city, and the blood spilled, and Shiloh wondered if her own heart, her compassion, had died within her.

"Do you see what happens, Shiloh?" Remus stood beside her, gazing down upon the city. "Do you see how the rats that bite die?"

Shiloh saw. She saw the cruelty of Aelar. She saw the death of her people, six hundred innocents slain. She saw a city, a kingdom, a world crying out under the yoke of the Empire.

My son wanted to give his life for them, Shiloh thought. He was willing to die for his people, and his people said no. They freed him. He lives, yet I'll never see him again.

She gazed beyond the hills of death toward the warren of Beth Eloh, countless streets snaking between limestone homes, and beyond them the walls of the city, golden in the sunset. Somewhere here, among a hundred thousand souls, her son hid. Shiloh did not know if he'd ever emerge from darkness, if she would ever hold him again, ever see any of her children again.

Epher is in hiding. Koren and Atalia were taken captive. Ofeer has joined the eagles, and Maya fled into the desert. My husband is dead. Shiloh lowered her head, and suddenly that joy, that horrible joy, left her, replaced with grief.

"They are innocents," she said, voice barely more than a whisper. "They did not sin, Prefect Remus. You will not crush Zohar's Blade by slaying six hundred randomly culled from the city." She dared turn toward the prefect, to meet his eyes. "You will only drive more men into their ranks. You will only inspire them to strike again, to strike harder."

He smiled down at her, a towering man; his shoulders rose above her head. "Good. Very good. Let these rats of Zohar's Blade emerge from their holes. Let them strike me with their rage. I will be there to crush their skulls."

Shiloh glanced down at the prefect's arm. A bandage wrapped around it, hiding the wound the bladesmen had given him—perhaps a wound Epher himself had dealt. Remus was tall, powerful, clad in armor, the might of an empire at his back, but he was not invincible.

You bleed like all men, Shiloh thought. That's all you are—a man, like the thousands of men who die every day in this empire. You can bleed. You can die. You know this, and you are afraid.

"Come, Shiloh," he said. "I'd like to show you something. A little surprise for you this fine evening."

He turned and began to walk across the courtyard, leaving the view of the hills. Legionaries fell in behind him. Shiloh followed. She had no choice. If she resisted, they would drag her. She turned away from the crosses, from the dying, from those she had vowed to protect, and their screams echoed in her ears.

The palace rose to their right, limestone walls soaring, sprouting several towers, the centermost capped with a ring of columns and a dome. It was here that Queen Sifora, Shiloh's sister, had reigned, and their father, King Rahamyah, before her. It was here that Shefael Elior, Sifora's son, now sat on the throne, serving his Aelarian masters, a puppet king, as obedient as a lap dog. Once Shiloh had thought this palace a great symbol of Zohar's light. Once this had been her childhood home, the place where she had been born, had been raised before marrying Jerael. Now it was a symbol of slavery, a collar of limestone and gold.

Remus led the way, and they left the palace behind. They walked across the Mount of Cedars, the center of Beth Eloh. Fortified walls snaked around the hill, forming an inner city, a great acropolis, thousands of years old, far more ancient than the fabled Aelarian Acropolis across the sea. Here on this hill, within these walls, rose Zohar's symbols of power and antiquity. The palace. The tombs of the prophets. And ahead of Shiloh, the holiest of Zohar's monuments, the pulsing heart of her nation—the Temple of Eloh.

There was only one true temple in Zohar, only one heart of their ancient religion, all other places of worship merely offshoots. It soared ahead on the hilltop, dwarfing even the palace. One ring of walls surrounded the city; another layer of walls surrounded the Mount of Cedars. Here rose a third circular wall, carved of ancient limestone, the bricks over a thousand years old. Battlements topped these walls, and golden gates led to a courtyard beyond.

Remus led the way up the ancient Path of Light, a cobbled road, and through the gilded archway. The Temple's courtyard spread before them, paved with white tiles, surrounded by walls. A complex of buildings rose here: granaries, columned galleries, and living quarters for the priests. A stone altar rose in the center of the courtyard, stained with the ashes of countless bullocks and lambs sacrificed and burned here since the days of Shemesh, the ancient priest who had built the Temple and anointed King Elshalom.

Beyond the altar rose a massive building, hundreds of feet high, the largest building in Zohar and among the largest in the world. Gilded columns framed pale white walls, rising toward a golden crest like a crown, so high Shiloh had to tilt her head all the way back to see it. A golden archway shone in this building, leading into the Holy of Holies. Beyond those gates ahead, Shiloh knew, dwelled the spirit of God himself—or so said the tales. Shiloh had never been in that building; none but the loftiest priests were allowed into the Holy of Holies, into that innermost sanctum of light. Lumers claimed that from this building flowed all the lume of the world, the great spring of magic.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Remus stopped walking and gazed up at the temple of gold and limestone. "A marvelous piece of art, one to rival even the great monuments of Aelar. It's truly a wonder, Shiloh, that Zoharite rats could construct a building of such grace." He scoffed. "Your priests live in wealth while your commoners squat in filth."

Shiloh doubted that Remus cared much for the commoners of Zohar, aside from how many he could nail to crosses, but she bit down on her words. She had been to Aelar in her youth. She had seen palaces to dwarf this temple, and she had seen Aelar's own share of commoners and filth.

"Did you come here to show me the Temple of Eloh?" she said instead. "I've seen it many times."

He turned toward her and raised an eyebrow. "The Temple of Eloh? No, my darling. Only docile rats may worship an invisible god. The Zoharites rebelled against me. They slew several of my men." He turned back toward the Temple and sneered. "And so they will kneel before true might." He raised his voice to a shout. "Bring them out!"

Shiloh gasped and covered her mouth.

Legionaries emerged from the Holy of Holies—that place forbidden even to the kings and queens of Zohar. They dragged with them the Temple's high priests—old men with long white beards, their robes dyed ultramarine and gold. Ceremonial breastplates hung from their necks, jeweled with many precious stones, symbols of their divinity. The priests struggled, cried out, only for the legionaries to beat them, to drag them out into the courtyard, their blood dripping. One priest's turban fell and rolled, the wind carrying it away.

Four legionaries carried a wooden crate coated with peeling gilt. It was the size of a coffin. Shiloh had never seen it before, but she knew of this ark. Three thousand years old, they said it was, dating back to the age when the Zoharites had been nomads, lost in the desert without a kingdom of their own, and within it dwelled the spirit of Eloh.

"Dominus," Shiloh said, turning toward Remus. "You cannot—"

"I cannot?" He gripped her arm, digging his fingers into her. "I cannot? You do not tell me, Queen of Rats, what I can or cannot do. I serve Empress Porcia Octavius, a living goddess of eagles. All will serve her. All will kneel before her." He returned his gaze toward his soldiers. "Burn them on the altar! Burn them all for their insolence."

The legionaries nodded and dragged the priests toward the great stone altar in the courtyard. The bearded men cried out, struggled, prayed, but they were old men, frail.

"Hear us, Eloh!" one priest cried, raising his hands to the heavens. His fingers shone with rings.

"Save your children, Lord of Light!" prayed another man, blood soaking his beard and dripping down his jeweled breastplate.

Remus watched them and snorted. "Too long have these priests lived here as gods, adorning themselves with gemstones and gold while the commoners squabbled for crumbs. You will see, Zohar. You will see the justice of Aelar. The justice that burns out corruption, that will civilize the barbarians of the desert. Legionaries! Strip off their jewels and fineries. We will send them as gifts to Empress Porcia, and we will burn these heathens naked, so that the gods may see their wretchedness before claiming their souls."

The legionaries tore off the priests' jewels—rings from fingers, golden bracelets embedded with precious stones, and their decorative breastplates, the platinum inlaid with gems. Rough hands tore the priests' turbans from their heads, ripped off embroidered sashes, and finally tore off the dyed robes of fine linen. Shiloh looked away. She would not gaze upon these priests, the holy fathers of Zohar, stripped of their vestments, their flesh naked in the light of the Temple, exposed as mere old men.

"Dominus," she said to Remus. "Please, dominus. If you desecrate the Temple, the people will rebel. The children of Zohar are deeply pious. They—"

"—are savages," Remus finished for her. "They will learn to kneel before true might. Legionaries! Sacrifice them to Camulus, the god of war!"

Shiloh looked away. But she could still hear the priests' screams. She could still smell them burn. As the sun fell, the fire lit the darkness.

Six hundred fell, Shiloh thought, eyes stinging in the smoke, clutched in Remus's grip. And now our Temple is desecrated.

"Toss the box into the flames!" Remus cried, laughing, the firelight painting his face red. "Watch, Shiloh. Watch Eloh, your mighty god, burn in the fire." He gripped her head, spinning it around painfully, tugging her eyelids open with his thumbs. "Watch!"

She watched, gripped in this general's arms, as the legionaries lifted the ancient ark. The flames burned on the altar, eating away at the corpses of the priests, still hungry for sustenance. Nearby, the ark's gilt shone in the firelight, peeling, melting, exposing cracked wood—an ancient artifact that had survived for thousands of years, never rotting, never crumbling.

The house of God, Shiloh thought. Forgive us, Lord of Light.

The legionaries tossed the ark into the fire.

For a moment nothing happened. It seemed as if the ark wouldn't burn. Shiloh gasped, eyes dampening. She was not a religious woman. She had never bothered praying beyond what ceremony dictated—a few songs at the dinner table, more for the joy of her family than for true faith, more for tradition than piousness. Yet now, beholding the ark in the fire, she dared to hope. Dared to pray. Dared to imagine that holy light would emerge from that box, glowing luminescence, that it should take form, should melt the flesh of the legionaries who dared desecrate the holiness.

Then the box gave a great crack and collapsed. The flames greedily lapped at the wood. The gold melted, dripping onto the bones of the priests, down the stone altar, onto the courtyard.

Just a box, Shiloh thought. Just a box after all.

"Behold the great Eloh," Remus said. He leaned his chin on the top of Shiloh's head. "A mighty god indeed. A god who lets us burn his home. Perhaps a god that died and rotted in that coffin a thousand years ago."

"A thousand years ago," Shiloh said, "Zohar was already a great nation, worshiping Eloh in this very temple, and Aelar was but a tribe of filthy ruffians in caves."

Remus laughed. "And this is why I let you live, Shiloh Sela. Yours is a spirit of fire. So meek, so gentle . . . yet so strong. Truly a lioness among rats."

The flames burned, and across the city, Shiloh heard the lamentations. People ran toward the Temple, gazed from the gates, cried out in fear. A keen rose across the city. Cries of "Eloh! Eloh!" filled the night. Some men tried to rush forth, to enter the Temple complex, only for the legionary spears to shove them back.

For thousands of years the children of Zohar had worshiped their god, casting out the idols of invaders and conquerors. Now, Shiloh knew, rebellion would truly rise. Now the whole city, the whole province would burn.

"Raise them a new god!" Remus said, laughing. "Show them true might."

The cries outside rose louder, dismayed, scornful. Legionaries shouted and men screamed. Sandals clattered, and in through the gates they came—a hundred legionaries or more, rolling forth a great, dark slab of metal upon many wooden wheels. At first Shiloh thought this a battering ram, greater than any she'd ever seen—a massive ram of iron to topple this Temple, to send its ancient walls and columns crumbling down. Then the firelight fell upon the dark form on the wheels, and Shiloh understood.

A statue.

"She arrived this morning," Remus told her. "Shipped over in pieces all the way from Aelar, welded together here in this city. A gift from our glorious new empress. Now you and I will watch her rise together."

The legionaries pulled ropes on pulleys, cranked levers, and the statue began to rise in the courtyard. The men chanted as they heaved, tugging, digging their heels into the tiles. The statue rose slowly, shadows and light flickering across it, until it thumped into place and stood, as tall as a tower, gazing across the Temple and the city beyond. It was forged of bronze, forming an armored woman, a sword in her hand, her eyes cruel.

"Behold Empress Porcia Octavius!" Remus said. "Behold the new goddess of Zohar!"

The legionaries at the gates stepped aside, and the people of the city swarmed into the courtyard, enraged. They spat, cursed, shouted at the idol. One man tossed a stone.

"Blasphemy!" said an old man.

Remus turned toward them, grinning thinly. "Kneel."

The crowd roared, not hearing.

"Kneel!" Remus shouted, and his legionaries stepped forth.

Spears lashed. Swords swung. Shields slammed into men and women, forcing them down. With blood, with twisting arms and snapping bones, the legionaries forced the people down onto their knees, slaying all those who defied until the survivors knelt before the idol.

"You too, Shiloh," Remus said. "Kneel and worship her."

When Shiloh knelt, she lowered her head and closed her eyes, refusing to look at this abomination, this monster of bronze. She knelt, but she thought of her home on Pine Hill, of her garden, of the sea, and of her family.

KOREN

"Go bathe." Claudia walked with him across the gardens to the bathhouse. "You stink. I've never smelled anything fouler."

They walked through lush gardens in the Aelarian countryside. At their side rose a villa, several times the size of the villa Koren had grown up in back in Zohar. It stood three stories tall, marble columns forming its rounded portico. Cypresses and pines grew in the gardens, shading flowerbeds, marble statues of the gods, and pebbly paths lined with stone benches. Guards were here too, fifty or more. They stood around the villa, along the path, and atop the rounded wall that surrounded the complex.

There would be no escaping the home of Praetor Tirus Valerius, Koren knew. He was among Aelar's greatest lords—owner of the marble quarries, once an ambassador to Zohar, and a distinguished general who had won many battles.

And there would be no escaping his daughter—the young Claudia.

My brother's past paramour, Koren remembered.

Koren turned to look at her as they walked. He had met Claudia many times back in Zohar. Epher had sought to keep the relationship secret, for both families would have frowned upon such a love—the son of a Zoharite lord marrying the daughter of an Aelarian noble. And yet Claudia and her father had often visited the villa on Pine Hill, and Koren had even been to the ambassador's home in Gefen before—a lavish dwelling, yet humble compared to this villa in Aelar's countryside. At those times, Koren had met a prim, genteel young woman, a proper lady who only nibbled at her food, tittered at the right jokes, and could speak Zoharite without the faintest trace of an accent.

The Claudia who walked with him here, in her homeland, was a very different sort of woman. She spoke to Koren in Aelarian here, her voice stern, and a frown ever creased her brow. She wore her hair in the style of Aelarian noblewomen, holding it up in a bun and carefully arranging small, equally distanced curls across her forehead. She wore a headdress of pearls, and more pearls hung from her ears. Her stola was woven of silk, white and hemmed with azure.

"Go. Quickly." She pointed. "Strip and enter the water."

They had reached the bathhouse. It was ringed with columns, and an aqueduct delivered water into its tiled pool. Marble statues stood around the water, nude and godly. Koren needed this bath—badly. They had scrubbed him at the slave market, but during his long days laboring in the quarry, he had not bathed. The filth and sweat and dust still clung to him. His journey here to the villa, dragging behind Claudia's horse, had not helped. He had skinned his elbows and knees, and dry blood, mud, and horse shit clung to him.

For a moment Koren hesitated. Back in Zohar, men and women never bathed together, only saw each other naked if they were wed. But Koren soon shrugged. When in Aelar, do as the Aelarians do, went the old saying. He stripped off what remained of his clothes—just a few tattered bits of cloth—leaving only his iron slave collar. He climbed into the pool.

The water was cold and soon he was shivering. His eyes widened to see Claudia, standing on the pool's ledge, remove her stola. For an instant Koren gazed at her nakedness. Her body was pale, her hips rounded, and there was no shame to her. Of course not; she was a daughter of Aelar, used to public bathhouses and lavatories. She entered the water with him.

"Scrub your skin until it's clean." She tossed him a sponge.

Koren scrubbed, peeling off dry blood, scabs, dirt, sweat.

"I don't suppose you have any good pedicurists here," he said.

Claudia smiled wanly, sponging her own skin. "I have a slave who tends to my nails. I'll see what he can do for you."

"A he?" Koren tapped his chin. "I've always felt a bit awkward about letting another man pumice my feet." He sighed and switched to speaking in Zoharite. "Claudia, what are we doing here?"

"I live here," she said, squeezing water out of her hair. She still spoke in Aelarian.

"And I used to live in Gefen, and your friends pummeled it to the ground. So why am I here? Why not leave me to crush stones in your father's quarry? And don't give me that speech about how I'm some bargaining chip in the war. I'm the second son of a dead lord. I'm worthless to you."

"Come with me, Koren." She took his hand. They stepped out of the pool and walked, naked, into a marble chamber in the bathhouse. A single bed stood here, topped with white linen. Brushes, vials of scented oil, and towels stood on the shelves.

"Is this where the pedicures happen?" Koren asked. "On second thought, I know a marvelous pedicurist back in Zohar. If you ship me back there, I'm sure I can arrange you a discount, and—"

"Shush." She placed a finger against his lips, then sighed. "Look at you, Koren Sela. Look what happened to you." She passed her fingers down his naked body, trailing over the bruises, the scars, the cuts. "Look what they did to you."

"They turned me into a monster!" Koren said. "I'm hideous now. Best banish me to the eastern desert."

Claudia laughed. "Same old Koren." She caressed his cheek, leaned closer, and whispered into his ear. "I've always loved you Sela boys." She reached down and curled her fingers around his manhood. "You're going to fuck me now. Hush! Don't defy me. That was not a request. I've wanted this since I first met you, Koren."

Koren cringed, cursing himself for the blood that flowed to just the wrong place, cursing the smile that grew on Claudia's lips as he hardened in her hand.

"But . . . you and Epher . . ."

She frowned. "I belong to nobody, Koren. But you belong to me, and you will do as I say." She released him and lay on the bed. "Lie beside me."

Koren cursed himself for obeying, hated himself for obeying. He didn't want this. He'd rather be beaten, rather return to the quarry, rather die than lie with Claudia. And yet he found himself kissing her lips, kissing her body as she directed him downward, down to her breasts, down between her legs, and still he kissed her as she moaned. Finally she pulled him up, kissing him greedily as he slipped inside her. They moved together on the bed, her legs wrapped around him so tightly it almost hurt.

"Let your lion roar inside me," she whispered into his ear, and no sooner had she commanded than Koren's lion obeyed.

They lay together on the bed, panting.

"Now wasn't that better than the quarries?" Claudia asked.

Koren wasn't so sure. This was wrong. He shouldn't be here, treated to baths, making love to Claudia. Not while Epher was fighting in Zohar, while Atalia might be drowned at sea, while Ofeer was a slave, while Maya was lost in the desert. Koren didn't want this. He wanted to be with his family again. He would have traded all the baths and sex in the world for another moment with his family.

"You are mine now," Claudia said. "My own Zoharite lover. You will make love to me when I want it. You will pour wine for me and my father, and you will scour our pots and wash our clothes, and when the time is right, Koren . . . when the time is right, we'll return to Zohar." She smiled crookedly. "I promise this to you. You will see your brother again."

Something in her voice, in her smile, in her eyes made him shudder. There was cruelty there, a cruelty worse than the lash or the beating sun. Suddenly this naked woman, lying with him in bed, terrified Koren more than armies of legionaries and a mad empress.

IMANI

The chariot rolled across the savanna, leading a cavalcade of splendor, of wonder, of glory and might . . . all to drown under a storm.

The ivory chariot led the parade, drawn by four snowy horses with braided manes. Imani stood here, wearing her finest kalasiri, its white muslin inlaid with diamonds and hemmed with golden embroidery. She sported serpent armlets, and a tiara held back her mane of black curls. She was dressed in fineries, a proud queen in all her glory, but she felt like a prisoner, trapped, so distressed she wanted to scream. Only the thought of what awaited ahead, this sliver of hope, allowed her to keep her composure, to ride here with him, to tolerate his presence.

Just another few hours, she told herself. It ends today.

He stood at her side in the chariot, waving to the people along the roadsides—the eagle of the north, one Imani thought a carrion crow. Cicero Octavius, Governor of Nur, was dressed in his finest. A gilded breastplate covered his torso, forged to mimic a younger man's muscles. A crimson cloak hung from his pauldrons, and his helmet sported filigreed eagles.

"See how they adore us, Imani!" His thin mouth—he had no lips to speak of—curved in a tight smile. "See how the barbarians welcome our glory with open arms."

Across the savanna, the people indeed welcomed the parade with open arms—arms nailed into crosses. The victims—men, women, children—still lived, bleeding, burning in the sunlight, jackals snapping at their feet, vultures circling above.

He calls them rebels, Imani thought, staring with damp eyes, refusing to shed tears. He calls them criminals, barbarians, subhuman. Yet here are my people.

The ivory chariot rode down the road, passing between the palisades of crosses, moving toward the city of Shenutep. Behind them followed the glory of Aelarian Nur. Elephants marched, tusks painted, legionaries on their backs. Zebras followed, chained together, and leashed giraffes walked behind them. Lions walked next, a hundred or more in chains. Nurians were displayed with the animals, stripped down to loincloths and adorned with crowns of feathers, both men and women, forced to dance and sing, their backs torn where the whips had landed. Aelarian soldiers marched behind them, all in iron, displaying the symbol of their legion upon their shields: an eagle clutching elephant tusks.

"You're not waving, Imani," Cicero said, eyes alight. "Wave to your people! Let them see their queen. Let them see that she rides with the might of Aelar."

They passed by a cross nailed with a young girl, no older than ten. What had this child done, Imani wondered, to be deemed a rebel, an enemy to brutalize? The child was still alive, too weak to cry out, buzzing with flies.

"Wave, Imani." Cicero grabbed her wrist and yanked it up. "Wave to your people."

All the joy was now gone from his voice; only menace remained.

Imani waved.

Today. It ends today.

The cavalcade continued, celebrating the Day of Victory, as the Aelarians called it—the day Nur had fallen. The day Imani's mother had been captured. The day Cicero had dug his claws into Imani, turning her into his puppet, tugging her strings since then. Once a year, Cicero celebrated it with his legions. A day of parades, of glory, of mass executions.

In secret, in shadows, the Nurians called it the Fall.

Today, the day we fell, let it be the day we rise.

Along the road, Imani soon saw other victims of the Aelarians. Not only her people died under the heel of Aelar. Elephant carcasses lay on the savanna, their tusks extracted, sent by the thousands to Aelar across the sea. Skinned giraffes and zebras buzzed with flies. The corpses of lions rotted, beheaded, the heads taken to stuff and mount on the walls of northern palaces. A few rhinos still lived, their horns sawed off, the wounds infected; they would die soon too. Countless ivory statues, leopard pelts, zebra rugs, and other treasures filled the villas of Aelar. Nur was left with corpses.

They turned Nur into a mausoleum, a torture chamber, Imani thought. They are pale demons.

Finally the parade reached the city's southern gate, the Gate of Eagles. Once this had been a small passageway into Shenutep, allowing the poor from across Nur to come receive donations of grain and fruit and cloth. The Aelarians had torn down that old gateway, had erected a massive barbican and gatehouse. Two statues rose here, framing an archway, tall as towers—one shaped as Emperor Marcus Octavius, the other as Governor Cicero. Both statues were carved of limestone, hands raised in salute.

As Imani gazed at the statues, she thought of the news that had arrived that morning from across the northern sea. Marcus Octavius was dead, and his daughter—the sadistic Porcia—now reigned as empress. One vulture had replaced another. How long before statues of this new despot rose here?

The cavalcade passed between the statues, entering the city. A dirt road led between stone buildings with arched windows, lush gardens growing on their roofs. Legionaries lined the streets, and behind them stood the Nurians. Thin. Haggard. Hopelessness in their eyes. A crushed people.

"Behold the might of Aelar!" cried Cicero, waving to the crowd. "Behold the wealth the Empire has brought you!"

Once this land had been wealthy, Imani knew. Once this had been the most prosperous city south of the Encircled Sea. Now its gold, its diamonds, its sapphires, its grain—all its treasures—had gone to the Aelarians. Now Nur rotted while Aelar grew fat on the carcass.

They're not eagles, Imani thought as the parade of soldiers, slaves, and animals moved through the city. They are vultures.

The parade moved through a courtyard where baobabs grew around a fountain, across a bridge that spanned the Majina River, and between limestone statues of elephants with iron tusks. The living elephants wailed as they walked, their Aelarian masters whipping them with every step, and spiked chains dug into their feet. They passed by great temples, built in the Nurian style—they looked like structures of wet sand dribbled by giants, cones atop cones, hundreds of windows like caves. Once gold had covered these temples. That gold had been stripped off, sent to fund great constructions in Aelar. Once Nurian priests had worshiped the animal spirits in these temples. Today marble statues of the Aelarian gods stood within.

They were traveling down Copper Road, a narrow street, when Imani took a deep breath and raised her chin. Workshops rose alongside, three stories tall, formed of many archways. Here toiled blacksmiths, tanners, carpenters, gem cutters, fletchers. It was along Copper Road, perhaps more than anywhere else, that Nurians served their masters. Here they forged swords, fletched arrows, fixed sandals, built shields, minted coins for the legions. Here on this street, only days ago, the Aelarians had crucified and burned ten men, punishment for a ruined batch of arrows. The charred corpses still rose on crosses, ash dispersing in the wind.

Here we will rise.

Gardens topped the roofs of Shenutep, even over the workshops, places to grow herbs, squashes, beans, yams, even fruit trees. Fronds and shrubs grew from the rooftops, rustling in the wind. The cavalcade passed between these walls of stone and leaf. The ivory chariot rattled over the cobblestones. The street seemed unnaturally quiet, the only sounds the thumping feet, the wheels, the wind in the leaves. No crowds. Not even the birds sang.

Cicero frowned and lowered his hand, nobody in this gauntlet to wave to.

But Imani waved.

Her hand rose, and she waved mightily, and she cried out, "Nur! Nur! Nur!"

And from the roofs and workshops, hundreds of voices rose in reply.

"Nur! Nur!"

Imani leaped off the chariot an instant before arrows flew from the rooftops, and dozens of Nurians burst out from the workshops, swinging swords and thrusting spears.

Cicero cried out and whipped his horses. The chariot lurched forward, and the horses wailed as they charged over iron caltrops, the metal shards digging into them. One horse fell, slammed into another, and knocked it down. The other two horses charged onward, and the chariot slammed into their fallen comrades, overturning, spilling Cicero onto the road.

"For Nur!" Imani cried, grabbing a spear from one of her comrades.

"Nur!" cried her warriors, men and women wielding the swords they had forged for Aelar, the swords that would now redeem them. Her brother, Adai, leaped from a roof, swung a gladius, and cut through a legionary. Other Nurians charged down the street, clad in patches of armor, spearing the enemy. The elephants trumpeted and reared, the lions roared, and some animals tore free and fled. Blood washed the road, this gauntlet between brick walls.

The legionaries did not fall quickly though. The warriors of Aelar reformed their lines, raising their shields, thrusting their swords.

"Kill them!" Cicero screamed, rising to his feet. Blood dripped from a gash on his forehead. "Kill all the savages!"

A legionary advanced toward Imani, gladius raised. She hissed at him, body tense, spear raised. She wore the raiment of a queen—white muslin embroidered with gold and inlaid with jewels, a crown on her head, earrings and bracelets gleaming—but she was a warrior queen, and she would shed blood for her home or die defending it.

With a roar, she leaped forward, spear lashing.

The legionary swung his blade.

The weapons slammed together. Her spear screeched along the gladius, raising sparks, then drove forward, and Imani cried out, shoving her weapon, driving the spearhead into the legionary's face. It crashed through his cheek, scraped upward, entered the eye socket, and clanged against the back of his helmet.

Two more legionaries raced toward her. Imani tugged her spear back and ducked, dodging one blow from a sword. She screamed, thrust her spear again, and impaled a man's thigh. Her heart thudded. Her breath sawed at her throat, and sweat drenched her, and blood splashed her. She snarled, a lioness of the savanna, a queen in a corner, a warrior of Nur. The second legionary swung his gladius, and Imani leaped back. The sword scraped along her arm, tearing skin, cracking one of her serpent bracelets. She thrust her spear with both hands, pushing with her legs. The blade was Nurian iron, forged here on this street, and it crashed through the legionary's armor like an axe through wood, plowed between the man's ribs, and entered his heart.

Imani tugged the weapon back with a shower of blood and screamed—a great battle cry, the cry that had been rising in her for years, the cry of a youth who had lost her mother, a youth thrust onto a throne, a puppet, a woman who had seen the fall of her proud kingdom, a woman who would see that kingdom rise again. She cried for blood, for pain, for freedom.

"Nur rises!" she cried.

Adai stood at her side, raising a red sword, blood on his arms, the corpses of legionaries around him. "Nur rises!"

All across the street, they fought. The arrows flew from the rooftops. Warriors from both sides died on the street. More kept emerging onto the road—rebels and legionaries alike. An elephant reared and fell, pierced with spears, crushing men. A lion leaped onto a legionary, clawing at the armor, tearing out the man's throat.

Imani knew she had only moments before the legions poured into the gauntlet with their full might. She hefted her spear, eyes narrowed, teeth bared. She spun around and saw him there, slick with blood, thrusting his own spear.

"Cicero," she hissed.

He spun toward her, smiling thinly, and kicked aside a Nurian corpse. He held his spear in one hand, a gladius in the other.

"And so, the Slave Queen shows her fangs." Cicero stepped over another corpse, crushing its head beneath his foot. "Do you know what I did to your mother?"

Two Nurian rebels howled and charged toward the governor, but Cicero thrust his spear, cutting one down. With a swing of his gladius, he slew the other. All across the street, rebels and legionaries battled, falling fast, filling the road with corpses.

"You murdered her," Imani said, leaping toward him. She drove her spear forward.

He swung his own spear, knocking her blow aside, and lashed his gladius. The sword grazed her hip, showering blood, and Imani screamed.

"Oh no, I didn't murder her," Cicero said, smiling, her blood staining his armor. "I brought her back to Aelar with me though."

He swung his blade. Imani cried out and arched her spear, barely parrying the blow. The steel sliced her hair, scattering black locks, narrowly missing her scalp.

"You murdered her there!" she cried, spear thrusting. The blade banged against his breastplate, scraped across the metal, slicing off golden filigree but barely denting the iron beneath.

"No, sweet child," Cicero said, spear flashing. The blade cut her leg, and Imani shouted and nearly fell. "I kept your mother alive. I paraded her across Aelar. I displayed her in a menagerie for the crowd to gawk at, as they gawk at monkeys and elephants. She lived for quite a while before my brother, glorious Emperor Marcus, slew her in the Amphitheatrum for the delight of eighty thousand onlookers." He advanced toward her, sword flashing down. "And your fate will be the same."

Imani cried out and raised her spear, desperate to parry the blow. His gladius slammed into the shaft, shattering it. Shards of wood flew, slamming into Cicero's armor, cutting into her flesh. The iron spearhead clanged to the ground. Imani reached out to grab it, and Cicero's foot slammed down onto her hand, crushing her fingers. She yowled.

"Sister!" Adai cried. Her brother stood down the street, three legionaries surrounding him. The Prince of Nur fought in a fury, sword in hand, trying to parry. A blow hit his side and he fell. "Imani!"

She tried to rise. She tried to keep fighting. She pushed herself onto her elbows, and Cicero drove down his fist. His knuckles slammed into her face, splitting her lip. She tasted blood. A thousand stars floated before her.

"Nur, Nur!" rose the cries around her, muffled now.

"The barbarians die squealing!" a legionary cried and laughed.

Cicero leaned down, grabbed her hair, and tugged her up. Strands tore. Imani was nearly blinded with pain. Her hand swelled and throbbed. Her hip and leg bled. She lashed her nails, scraping his face, caught the corner of his mouth and tore it open. He snarled—a horrible, dripping, bleeding snarl—and grabbed her throat. He yanked her madly, bending her arm behind her back. Imani cried out as her arm dislocated. The pain was greater than anything she had ever felt. The governor pulled her off the ground, and shadows filled her eyes.

"Queen Imani!" someone cried in the distance.

"Sister!"

She flailed, popped her arm back in, screamed. But she couldn't free herself. Though old and gaunt, Cicero was too strong. A horse reared and whinnied, and before she knew it, Cicero had dragged her into his righted chariot.

"Ride!" he said, whipping the beast.

The chariot's other three horses lay dead, their reins severed. The last mare burst into a gallop, trampling over corpses and living men, dragging the chariot behind. Cicero swung his sword, cutting down one Nurian, and his spear tore through another. The chariot's scythed wheels plowed through flesh. They raced out of the gauntlet and onto a wide dirt road. Hundreds of legionaries came running forth.

"To Copper Road, kill them all!" Cicero shrieked to his men.

Imani struggled, trying to leap off the chariot, but Cicero held her fast. A blow from his elbow shattered her nose. Blood flowed into her mouth, and his arm wrapped around her neck, constricting her, pinning her to him. He tugged her hair, ripping it.

"You miserable little maggot," he hissed. "I made you a queen. I sat your pretty backside on a throne. You spat on me. Now you will pay."

They rode down the dirt road, legionaries running all around. Nurians cried out from across the city.

"Imani, Imani!"

"Free Nur!" shouted another man, hurling a rock. The missile slammed into the chariot, chipping off jewels. Cicero kept riding.

They rode toward Castrum Nuria, the bastion of Aelar's might in the south. The legionaries at the gatehouse barely had time to pull the doors open before the chariot charged in. Corpses filled the courtyard, hanging off crosses, burned down to bones. The stench of death hung heavy here, mingling with the smell of Imani's own blood.

"You won't burn, savage." Cicero tightened his arm around her, twisting her head, constricting her. She thought he would snap her neck. She gasped for air, finding none. "Not yet. You're still mine to torment."

He rode his chariot toward a limestone fortress and dragged her off the chariot. Legionaries stepped forth, snickering and joking among themselves. One man slapped manacles around Imani's wrists, binding her arms behind her back, and the other bound her ankles. Imani screamed, leaped toward Cicero, trying to bite him. He backhanded her, and the soldiers laughed as she hit the ground.

The governor grabbed her by her bound wrists and tugged her into the fort. She dragged behind him, her arm nearly dislocating again, her heels sliding across the floor.

"You cannot win," Imani managed to rasp, blood in her mouth, blood leaving a trail behind her. "Something has begun here. Nur is risen."

"Nur is a cockroach I will crush under my foot," Cicero said.

He dragged her down a flight of stairs, through a doorway, and into a dark chamber. He shoved her. With her wrists bound behind her back, she couldn't block her fall. Her knees banged against the floor, and her head spun. At first Imani thought this a dungeon, a prison cell underground. But when Cicero lit a few lanterns, and light filled the chamber, Imani realized that it was far worse.

The chamber was palatial. Gold and gemstones coated the walls, reflecting the lamplight. Thousands of gems shone here—sapphires, amethysts, emeralds, tiger eyes, and many others mined across Nur. Giltwood tables displayed trophies plundered from the savanna: ivory figurines, decorative blades, rhinoceros horns, even a complete elephant tusk as long as a man. Stools made from elephant feet stood along the walls, and the heads of giraffes and lions were mounted above them. Zebra pelts covered a mahogany bed.

Worst of all were the living trophies.

Several Nurians were caged here, both men and women, naked but for suits of feathers. Their eyes were downcast, their bodies bruised.

"Do you like my pretty birds?" Cicero said. "I collect them. You'll be one of them, Imani. I will make you into one of my precious pets."

Imani stared at the prisoners, her eyes damp. How long had they lingered here, serving him? How many more would Cicero claim? How much longer would this land suffer in the talons of eagles?

She glanced toward the treasures across the giltwood tables, then back at Cicero.

"You've won, dominus." She lowered her head. "You defeated me. I showed you my claws, and you struck me down, and you showed me who rules in Nur. I am yours. Claim me. Claim my body. I will serve you." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I will pleasure you, dominus."

His eyes widened, full of lust. He shoved her onto the bed. Imani lay there on the zebra pelts, chained and bleeding, as he began unstrapping his armor. Her wrists were bound behind her back, the manacles digging into her spine.

"Yes, you understand now, Imani." Cicero tossed his breastplate onto the floor with a clang. "You people are no better than animals. You were put in this world to serve us, the Aelarians, the master race." He removed his vambraces and tossed them aside. "I gave you a chance to serve me as a queen. You threw that chance away. And so you will end up here, a slave, a pretty bird to pleasure me."

He took a step toward the bed.

"When I was a child," Imani told him, "I used to sneak away from the royal hall, to join the acrobats and contortionists who performed for the nobles. I trained with them, becoming flexible, able to bend my limbs in ways that none other can. I was known for being able to bend my legs behind my head."

Cicero's cheeks flushed slightly. He licked his lipless mouth. "I'll enjoy seeing your talents."

He stepped closer to her, pulling off his tunic, exposing his nakedness.

Imani stared into his eyes. Lying on the bed, she pulled her knees up toward her face. She saw the lust grow in him. He lowered himself toward her—just as she slid her chained wrists under her backside, then around her legs and over her knees.

"What—" he began when Imani drove her feet forward, slamming them into his face.

He stumbled back, blood gushing from his crushed nose. Imani leaped up, her chained wrists now in front of her body. She swung her fists, slamming them into his head. He swayed, hit a cage, and knocked it over. The slave inside cried out.

"You miserable little whore!" Cicero screamed, lunging toward her.

She grabbed the elephant tusk from the table. "I am a queen."

As he charged toward her, she held out the tusk. Cicero was moving too quickly. He couldn't stop. He impaled himself on the tusk—through his naked gut and out his back—and paused with his face an inch from hers. His mouth twitched, full of blood. His eyes stared into hers, full of terror.

"You lost," Imani whispered. "Know this before you die. You lost."

She shoved him back. He stumbled, the tusk—no doubt one he had hacked off himself—still impaling him. He stumbled toward the door, trying to call out, to flee . . . then collapsed and hit the floor. He rose no more.

Imani turned away from the corpse. She would waste no more time contemplating him. A ring of keys hung from the wall. She took it and opened the cages, helping the slaves out.

"Come, children of Nur." She armed them with the decorative blades on the tables. "We are free now. We are warriors. Nur rises."

They were trapped underground, an entire fortress of legionaries above them. They were a single rebellion in an empire of eagles. They were alone.

But we're free, Imani thought. And if we must die today, we die fighting.

She grabbed a dagger and left the chamber, leading the freed slaves, leading her kingdom in rebellion.

MAYA

She awoke on the hard floor, dawn spilling through the windows, ready for her first day of learning Luminosity.

She stood up and stretched, joints aching. She had never slept on a floor before. Even the desert had offered a bed of sand for weary bones. The chamber was bare, more like a prison cell than a school. The floor, the wall, the ceiling—all were built from the same clay. A round window peered out to the olive grove. Maya had to stand on tiptoe to see outside. The room's only furnishings were a wooden chair and a table, the latter topped with many candles, a quill, and an empty scroll. There was a toilet at the back, built of limestone, its opening revealing an underground brass pipe flowing with water, like the Aelarians used in their empire. One advantage of mastering Muse, Maya supposed, was building good plumbing.

Her mind strayed back to yesterday. Namtar, the old mistress of the school, had led her through the house of Luminosity, but Maya had glimpsed little. A small library full of scrolls and clay tablets. A classroom where young women glanced at her, then quickly back at scrolls, heads lowered. A pantry and a staircase leading to a second story. And finally here—to this small chamber, this cell with nothing but the table, the chair, the empty scroll, and all the thoughts in the world.

"Stay in this chamber," Namtar had instructed her. "You will begin your studies tomorrow."

Maya had barely slept. How could she? Excitement had kept her awake more than the hard floor. Finally after so many years—years of absorbing the lume, that material nobody else in her family could sense, years of refining it into the soft, feathery light they called luminescence, years of dreaming of learning about the Four Pillars, of becoming a true lumer—finally Maya was here. In a school for Luminosity.

Standing in the dawn, she didn't care that her body hurt, that her stomach growled, that she was weary, or that outside the hounds of Dagon awaited her.

Right now, this dawn, she had found her dream.

The beam of light from the window had crawled across the floor to the tabletop when the door opened, and Mistress Namtar stepped into the chamber.

The old woman wore a simple tunic of homespun that hung down to her ankles, and a rope formed her belt. Her gnarled staff tapped as she walked on bare feet, and her white hair hung down to her waist. She placed a bowl of gruel on the table.

"Eat," she said.

The gruel tasted like sawdust, but Maya was famished. She inhaled the meal, then pushed the empty bowl aside.

"Teach me, Mistress Namtar," she said. "I'm ready to learn."

The old woman nodded, eyes hard, and gestured at the table. "Sit."

Maya sat on the small wooden chair. The scroll lay on the table before her. It was a massive scroll, wrapped around two wooden rollers, each the size of her arm. The parchment seemed long enough that, if unrolled, it could make its way across the desert to Zohar. Maya was sure she could not lift this scroll. It must have taken two strong men, one at each roller, to carry it in here.

The parchment—at least the section opened before her between the two rollers—was blank.

"This," Namtar said, "will be the Luminous Writ. The ancient Book of Luminosity. A book that is four books. A book of Sight, of Foresight, of Healing, and of Muse. It is the central scripture of our order, the holy text that every lumer knows by heart, every chapter, every one of its words . . . and it contains many words." She gestured at the quill that stood on the table. "And you will write it."

Maya's eyes widened, and she was so excited she hopped in her chair. For years Maya had begged Master Malaci to show her the Luminous Writ; the old man stored a copy in his library in Gefen. But Malaci had always refused.

"Your mother forbids it," Malaci had said, eyes sad.

Maya would plead, cry, even yell, attempting in vain to sway her mother. But Shiloh had insisted.

"You must not learn the art," Shiloh would say, over and over. "Lumers are slapped in chains. Lumers are sent to Aelar to serve the Empire. Forget about Luminosity."

Yet Maya had never forgotten. Whenever she had walked by the library of Gefen, she would gaze at the house longingly, imagining the massive scroll and the secrets within. And now—now she would write the Luminous Writ herself! Word by word, under Namtar's tutelage—no doubt discussing, contemplating, truly fathoming every word, her knowledge growing with every stroke of her quill.

"I expect the first chapter written when I return tonight." Namtar nodded. "Goodbye."

With that, the lumer hobbled out of the chamber, closed the door behind her, and the lock clanked.

Maya sat and blinked at the door. Frowning, she rose from the chair, walked toward the door, and turned the knob. Locked. Her frown deepened, and she returned to the table. The parchment was wrapped around the left roller; only the edge of the scroll was attached to the right bar. Maya stood up and tried to spin the rollers, grunting with the effort. Etzba by etzba, she managed to turn the scroll, exposing more parchment. Before long, she had rolled an entire zeret, several pages' worth. As far as she could tell, the entire scroll—the whole massive thing—was empty.

"How . . ." She tilted her head. "What am I supposed to write?"

She paced the room, thinking. She knew almost nothing of Luminosity, only what she had figured out on her own. How could she transcribe the Luminous Writ, a book she had never even read?

She knocked on the door. "Mistress Namtar? Mistress Namtar!"

No answer came. Maya walked toward the window, wondering if she could climb outside, but bars blocked her passage.

I'm a prisoner, she realized. I'm in a prison cell.

She groaned and sat back down. She stared at the scroll. Did Namtar really expect her to fill this entire book somehow?

Maya paced the room, her thoughts soon straying back to Zohar. To her family. She desperately wanted to know about them. Was Mother still in Beth Eloh, helping Shefael? Was Epher still alive? Were Atalia and Koren slaves in Aelar now, and were they mistreated? Was Ofeer still loyal to Seneca? As always, Maya thought back to that time in Beth Eloh, standing atop the tower above the palace, when Avinasi had taught her to use the Sight. Maya had gazed into the distance that day, had beheld Porcia and her hosts, but the luminescence had nearly consumed her, burned her away. Only Avinasi's aid had helped Maya control the magic. Without a powerful lumer to guide her, Maya dared not use the Sight, dared not summon such powerful magic again.

But I summoned powerful magic on my own before, she thought, remembering. I faced him. The man in the shadows. I wove luminescence around me, and I cast back the dragons of sand he had raised.

She still did not understand what power she had used then, which of the Four Pillars . . . or perhaps a fifth pillar, unwritten of in the books, forbidden to lumers. That power had frightened her, had nearly washed her away, leaving her mind barren of memories, a broken shell, healed only by the light of Suna by the sea. And still the dark figure haunted her nightmares.

Finally evening fell, keys rattled in the lock, and the door opened again. Namtar stepped into the chamber, staff tapping.

"Well, now," said the old lumer. "Have you written the first chapter as instructed?"

Maya narrowed her eyes. "Of course not. How could I write a chapter I don't—"

She shouted as Namtar's staff flew, slamming into her arm. Pain flared across Maya.

"What—" she began.

The old woman swung her staff again. It slammed into Maya's ribs, and she yowled.

"You will not become a lumer idling your time away." Namtar glared. "Only once you complete this book can you become a lumer." The staff swung a third time, and Maya raised her arm to block the blow, then screamed as the staff slammed against her wrist. "Tomorrow you will write the first chapter, or you will taste more of this staff."

The old woman turned to leave.

Maya ran toward the door. "You can't do this!" she shouted . . . but the door slammed in her face, and the lock clanked shut.

Maya groaned and fell to her knees. The blows from the staff blazed across her. Already bruises were spreading, and every breath hurt.

"Unbelievable." Maya shook her head.

Her belly rumbled. She hadn't eaten since the bowl of gruel that morning, and it seemed unlikely that Namtar would soon arrive to take her dinner order. She sighed and lay down on the floor.

She spent another night on the hard clay floor, and in the morning, Namtar arrived, again holding her staff in one hand, a bowl of gruel in the other.

"Today," Namtar said, "you will write the first chapter in the Luminous Writ. You will not be a lumer before you complete writing the entire book."

"How can I write a book I've never even read?" Maya said. "Won't you teach me? I—Ow!"

The staff swung again, cracking Maya on the cheek this time, a blow so sudden and painful she froze with shock. The wizened lumer turned to leave, taking the bowl of gruel with her.

"Wait!" Maya cried. She rushed forward and grabbed the door, then pulled her hand back as if stung. The door was searing hot, and welts appeared on Maya's hand. The door closed, leaving Maya sealed in the chamber—with no food and no hope.

"You are nothing like Avinasi!" Maya shouted at the door, then slumped down and sat against the wall.

The first time Maya had seen Avinasi, the royal lumer of Zohar had frightened her—an ancient, withered thing, glittering with gemstones and precious metals, painted with henna, wrapped in the finest silks, a jangling, shimmering creature, half flesh and half splendor. Yet now Maya missed her. Avinasi had perhaps been frightening, but she had helped Maya, taught Maya. But this lumer, this beast called Namtar . . . She was no teacher. She was just a brute. Just a mean old crone, and Maya realized: I'm her prisoner, not her pupil.

She returned to the scroll. She squinted at it, trying to see if she missed anything. She rolled the parchment all the way around one roller, then the other—a task that took hours and left her drenched in sweat. She peered under the table. She checked the walls for hidden compartments. She even tried to pry the bars loose from the window, hoping to find a clue in the garden outside.

"It's impossible." She lowered her head. "She only seeks an excuse to beat me."

No, spoke a voice inside her. She wants you to use the light.

"I can't," Maya whispered. "It nearly burned me last time."

How will you become a lumer if you fear the splendor of Luminosity?

She blinked tears out of her eyes and looked toward the ceiling. She didn't know who was speaking inside her. Was it her own voice? Was it Avinasi, speaking to her from across the distance? Or perhaps it was the voice of Luminosity itself?

In the Temple in Beth Eloh, the priests taught that lume was the grace of God, his spirit flowing into the world. The clerics were all male, able to pray to Eloh, to divine his wishes in ancient scrolls, but not to use his light. Only a few women every generation could reach into the grace, could weave it as one wove strands of cotton into fabric, luminating, refining, pulling together strands of splendor into blessed form.

I can use the lume, she thought. I can See. I can find a Luminous Writ outside my cell, and I can gaze into it.

Maya did not know if Eloh created the lume, or if the lume was Eloh, same as she could not explain the wind nor the sea, the rustle of leaves nor the softness of sand. All were one. In the light, all were grace taken form. Waves whispering. Olive trees, ancient, twisting, and weeds growing from between old limestone bricks, pomegranates giving forth fruit, the seasons coming and going, the turtle doves singing and the rains of winter bringing life to a dry land. The song of harps filled her mind as the maidens danced, as wise elders walked through labyrinths of stone upon a holy mountain, as a people gathered, haunted, freed from slavery to sing and worship the light. From the smallest ants that scurried underfoot to all the works of men, from humble caves where fire had first glowed to vast empires of glory, all were one in the light. Eternal. Timeless. A serpent eating its tail, no beginning nor end, and not four lights but endless light—infinite.

That light flowed across Maya.

She was afraid. It thrummed across her. Her hair rose as if flowing underwater. She gazed upon it—upon the kingdom beyond.

Control it! Weave it!

Maya sucked in air, trying to grab the tendrils. To use the Sight as Avinasi had taught her.

Focus! Focus or it will burn you.

She trembled. She wept. She had to remember who she was, where she sat, to See. She looked at the scroll. She looked at a hundred scrolls. The Luminous Writ—she saw it! She saw it beyond the walls. In other chambers in this very house, full of letters, scrawling letters, other pupils writing, transcribing, delving into the wisdom. Deserts. She was gazing too far. Streaming deserts and cities rising and falling, endless parsa'ot, and there—a great scroll, larger than the others, hidden under the palace of Beth Eloh, thousands of years old, generations of lumers guarding it, tending to it. The city walls rose, and the city wept, and dark wings darkened the sky. The eagles swooped. The people wept. Blood washed the labyrinth, and a great cry rose from Beth Eloh, and the people gathered around the Temple, crying out for aid as the walls fell, as the corpses filled the streets. He sat on the throne. Her brother, Epheriah Sela, his beard thick, a crown upon his head, a sword on his lap, a great king of ruin as the city fell. His chest was open, a dark cavity where his heart had once pumped. The people wept. And there—light. Soft light. Weaving together, forming an archway that opened in the wall, and through the arch . . .

Maya wept.

"Through the Gate of Tears she will enter," she whispered, tasting her tears. "All in white. All in light. She will bring healing. She . . ."

The figure in white raised its head, and Maya saw his face, gray, furrowed, staring with yellow eyes.

She screamed.

She fell, tumbling from the Luminosity, ripped from the light, tossed down into the cruel world like Adom, the first man of God, fallen from Eloh's grace. She hit the floor, coughing, spasming, weeping.

For a long time she lay, daring not move, until the visions faded from her and the sun set.

In the evening, the door opened again, and Mistress Namtar entered the room. Maya was sitting in her chair, facing the empty scroll, and raised damp eyes toward the old lumer.

"I tried," Maya whispered. "I tried to use the Sight, to read the copy of the Luminous Writ outside this room, to transcribe the words into my scroll. But . . . it was too much. Too much light. It overwhelmed me, and I saw visions. I used the Foresight, I think, and . . ." She lowered her head. "I failed. You may beat me now with your staff. I did not write a word."

Namtar stepped closer, and Maya winced, expecting a blow. But instead, the lumer placed a wrinkled hand on her shoulder, her touch gentle.

"Your power is strong." Once more, sadness filled her voice, the same sadness Maya had seen in the old eyes on the first day. "Stronger than in any student I've taught. Pain is often the curse of greatness. The brightest lights cast the darkest shadows."

Maya stared at the lumer through her tears. "But how can too much light be bad? How can too much grace hurt me so much?"

The old woman stroked her hair. "I cannot promise you a life of peace, of joy. A lumer often walks first through shadow, shining a light so that others may not fear. It is often a life of pain. Too much wealth corrupts the soul, and too much power corrupts the heart, but too much luminescence, Maya . . . it's like a blazing sun that will burn those who cannot harness it." Her eyes hardened, and she pulled back her hand and formed it into a fist. "You must harness it. There are shadows around you, Maya, and your path is brighter than any I've seen, leading to . . ." She looked away. "I dare not look deeper. The Foresight is murky, and it's a skill you've not yet learned."

"I saw something," Maya whispered. "I saw . . . a gate. A gate that had not been opened in centuries. And a figure of light, only it had a face of shadow. Did I use the Foresight?"

Namtar would not meet her gaze, and red rimmed her eyes. She rose quickly and turned away.

"Girl!" she called. "Girl, here!"

A girl shuffled into the room, dark and demure, two black braids falling across her shoulders. She held a tray with a meal, which she placed on the table by the scroll. A bread roll steamed beside a block of cheese, dry figs, a bowl of chickpeas, and a mug of ale. The girl bowed her head at Maya, daring not meet her gaze, and retreated from the room.

Namtar rose to follow.

"Wait," Maya said. "Please. Teach me. What am I to do?"

Namtar stared at her, eyes now dry. "Focus. You are to focus. If you cannot . . . the light will burn you."

With that, the old woman left the chamber, locking the door behind her.

The next morning, Namtar did not visit her. Only the meek girl with the black braids visited the chamber. Again the servant didn't raise her eyes, merely placed a bowl of oatmeal on the table, then retreated. Maya could have bounded for the door, overpowered the girl, and leaped outside to freedom. But she remained in her seat, letting the servant lock her in the chamber.

I will not leave this place, Maya thought. Not even if the door were open. I must stay here. She took a shuddering breath. I must do this.

She stared at the blank scroll. She closed her eyes. And she ignited the lume.

At once, the light flowed across her, tugging her toward the future, across the desert, branching, breaking apart, like the antlers of a deer, like a candelabrum with a thousand branches, like roots twisting in the forests of Ma'oz, like rivers flowing in the northern hinterlands, lives, countless lives and ancient stones, kingdoms rising from sand and falling, and—

Stop.

She sucked in air.

Control it. Tame it.

She breathed deeply, breath by breath, focusing on the air as it entered and left her lungs. She wove the light around this central pillar.

"Only a little," she whispered. "I need just a small light."

In the great sky of starlight, she wove a little candle. In the great grace of Eloh, she sought a single blessing. As a child, on the festival of Lel Urim, Maya and her siblings would light candles and march through the dark villa, up and down staircases, through shadowy halls, singing songs to banish the shadows. Maya had always feared that festival, feared the shadowy house when Father would douse all the lanterns, turning it into a haunted castle, but she had always drawn comfort from her siblings, from her song, from the candles they lit. Today she would be as that girl, carrying the smallest of torches, seeking illumination in a labyrinth that threatened to engulf her.

With a deep breath, chin raised, she wove a strand of luminescence around her palm. Around her, empires rose and fell, the future twisted in infinite coiling paths, and countless voices sang, but Maya kept breathing, kept focusing. She rose to her feet, the light in her palm, feeling the clay beneath her feet, the animals that burrowed underground, the sea outside, the desert rolling, and—

Focus.

Tame it.

She returned her mind to the single strand in her palm. Like the child she had been, moving through the dark house with her candle, she sent out this little light. And she saw.

She saw the house around her, chamber after chamber, pupil after pupil, seven girls locked in seven rooms. She saw the servant grinding pine nuts with a bowl and trestle, saw a bird flit through the pantry, saw . . . scrolls. A library of scrolls! Here in this house, by the eastern wall, the windows overlooking the sea. Standing in her chamber, Maya sent her light into the library, toward the scrolls on the shelf, into the parchment . . . and she read the words.

The Luminous Writ.

In the beginning there was light from darkness.

Her eyes darted back and forth as the letters shone across her vision.

She sat by the table and she lifted her quill.

At first Maya hesitated. The calligraphy she read was a masterpiece, each word a work of art. If she made but a single mistake—a spilled drop of ink, a bad curl on a letter, or God forbid a misspelling—she would ruin her entire parchment, a scroll that was probably worth more than this entire house. Scribes in Zohar trained for years before being allowed to write a single letter on costly parchment. Maya had studied some calligraphy from Master Malaci, but she had mostly scratched her letters into clay or sometimes wax tablets imported from Aelar. To write even a single letter on such expensive parchment, let alone hundreds of thousands of words . . .

She took a deep breath. She had never used Muse much, the great power of Luminosity coveted most, perhaps, among the Four Pillars. It was Muse that had raised temples and palaces in Aelar, that had built Beth Eloh, that wove wonders around the Encircled Sea. Maya had used it only rarely, and not since dancing for the bone raiders in the desert.

Yet now she summoned that fourth pillar, the grace of art, of creation. With her quill, she wrote onto the parchment.

In the beginning there was light from darkness.

Word by word, she used the Sight, gazing through the house to the library at the back. Word by word, she used the Muse, transcribing the words into the parchment.

When evening fell, she had written the first chapter of the book. A chapter on light and shadow, on the grace that flowed through all matter, on the spirit that dwelled in the depths and heights.

"The secrets of Luminosity," she whispered, and for the first time in her life, a little of that secret world was revealed to her, and her candle had illuminated a little bit of that sprawling dark house.

Not long after she had laid down her quill for the day, the door opened and the serving girl stepped into the chamber again. As always, her eyes were downcast, and her tray trembled as she placed it down on the table. A meal steamed there: a bowl of chickpea soup thickened with fish, a roll of bread, and fresh dates still on the branch.

"What's your name?" Maya asked the girl, but the servant fled, fearful as a hare. The door closed.

Maya sighed and reclined in her seat. After a long day of work, she was exhausted. She chewed her food absentmindedly, mind blank, too tired for thought. The meal tasted funny—the serving girl was a poor cook—but Maya was so famished that she gulped it down, and—

A spasm hit her.

Maya groaned and clutched her stomach.

Pain flared across her, terrifying pain, daggers in her belly.

She tried to rise but crashed to the floor. She lay, moaning, the food spilled at her side.

"Poison," she whispered, and then arched her back and screamed.

ATALIA

She dragged behind the barbarians, cursing and shouting and kicking up leaves.

"Untie me, you wall-pissers!" Atalia spat and howled and tugged at her bonds, only chafing her wrists. "Untie me now, or I'm going to take those fucking eagles from you, shove them up your asses, and watch them fly out of your mouths!"

The Gaelians only laughed. Myriads of them filled the forest, walking and riding around her. Atalia's arms were bound in front of her, stretched out. A rope ran from her wrist to the back of a white stag the size of a horse.

He rode that stag. The brute Atalia had seen in the battle, the ruler of this horde. She stared at him, the hatred simmering inside her. He was a beast of a man. He couldn't have been fully human, had to be related to the giant anakim from the ancient stories. His hair was long, platinum, and strewn with braids and beads. Horns rose from his helmet, though they paled in comparison to his stag's branching antlers. The man wore a silvery breastplate, finer armor than Atalia expected to find in the north. A sword hung from his belt, wide as Atalia's arm, and a filigreed horn hung from his opposite side.

And he carried the Aquilae. Three of them.

The standards were strapped to his side, twice the length of a man. The wooden staffs were topped with cloth banners, displaying the names of Aelarian legions, and golden eagles with wide wings. These were not merely standards for the Aelarians to rally around; they were holy artifacts, idols of the legions.

And one of them is mine, Atalia thought. I killed the legionaries bearing it. This deer-riding brute stole it from me.

Not only hers. Daor's too.

Atalia lowered her head. Her eyes stung.

She had left Daor behind, buried in a forest far from home, no tombstone marking his grave. Atalia's chest ached to think of it.

You deserved better than that, Daor.

She could barely believe he was gone. The only other surviving soldier of Zohar. Her soldier. Her lover. The boy she had trained for battle in her phalanx. The soldier she had commanded in battle in the siege of Gefen. The slave she had rowed with in the belly of an enemy ship, the survivor she had swept ashore with. The man she had made love to in the forest. The man she had begun to love from the depths of her heart. Gone. Dead and buried. Leaving her alone here, captive of the horde, a last lion.

Farewell, Daor, lion of Zohar.

She tripped over a stone and nearly fell, managed to regain her balance, and kept trudging after the stag that tugged on her rope. That rope stretched between the stag and her wrists like a bowstring. Her chain still dragged from her ankle—the same chain that had bound her in the galley, that had dangled behind her in the sea and forest all the way here.

She looked back up at the chieftain on the stag, and her fury flared through her.

After the battle, she had marched up to this chieftain with her Aquila, showing off her victory, expecting honor, at least acknowledgment. Instead the chieftain and his brutes had struck her, stolen her prize, and tied her to the stag. Since then, they had been dragging her through the forest like a dog.

"Hey, you!" Atalia shouted as she stumbled through the forest. She could not speak Gaelian, and so she shouted in Aelarian, a language known around the world. "Yeah, you, you horn-headed piece of pig puke. You ride that stag like you're fucking it! Come face me in battle, or are you too cowardly to fight a woman?"

The man turned in the saddle toward her; he had actually fitted the stag with a saddle. For an instant, Atalia's breath died. The man's face was as beastly as the rest of him. The head was huge, the jaw wide, the nose crooked, the cheek scarred. His beard was the color of dawn, strewn with bones. He wore a torc around his neck—a thick ring, like a slave collar but forged of coiling wires of gold, and gilded finger bones hung from it. But more than the beastly face or the lurid jewelry, the eyes were what gave Atalia pause. Those eyes were the blue-gray of a stormy sea and just as cruel. Eyes that, she thought, could stare through her rags, her skin, her bones, peer into her very soul.

Atalia gulped.

"You understand me, don't you?" she said, dragging behind him.

The chieftain turned away. He kneed his stag, and the animal quickened its step. Atalia fell, dragged through the leaves, banged her elbows against a root, and finally shoved herself up. She spat out mud. Her arms and knees bled.

From captivity on a galley ship to dragging behind a goddamn deer, she thought. Fuck me.

"Yeah, that's right!" she shouted. "Look away, you coward. I know you understand me. You hear me? You're a goddamn son of a dog! Your mother is a bitch who pisses on walls!"

The warriors around her laughed and spoke in their language. Atalia doubted they could understand more than a few words. She purposefully spoke in Aelarian, the lingua franca of the civilized world, but Atalia reminded herself that she wasn't in the civilized world anymore. At first, when they had been slaughtering legionaries, Atalia had thought these warriors noble and beautiful. Now she saw that Gaelians were nothing but brutes. Both men and women walked around her, their golden hair strewn with braids; the former also sported flowing beards. They did not wear much armor: horned helmets, vambraces, greaves, the iron worked with curving lines etched in silver. A few warriors wore chain mail, but most simply covered their torsos with fur tunics, and they wore cloaks patched with green and yellow squares.

They were a large people, far larger than Zoharites. Back in the east, Atalia had towered over Ofeer, Maya, and the other women of the desert. But here most women stood as tall as her, many even taller, hearty and strong and pink of cheek, and Atalia felt downright tiny by the Gaelian men. Their arms were as wide as her torso, and their chests were like barrels of ale. Back in Zohar, Jerael Sela had been renowned for his great height and strength. Here nobody would have given his size a second glance.

Atalia noticed that these were not just one people. There were several tribes here. Some wore necklaces of bones and animal skulls for helmets. Some wove their beards into a single braid, others into many smaller braids they dyed crimson with blood. Some tribes shaved one side of their heads, even the women. Some tribes carried axes, others hammers, and some only fought with spiked clubs. They displayed their sigils on their wooden shields: dragons, bears, wolves, wyverns, and other beasts. And at the head of them all, he rode on his elk, leading the horde—the giant who had bound her, who dragged her, who had stolen her Aquila.

Atalia thought back to the earliest days of Zohar. For thousands of years, the Zoharites too had been divided into tribes—some in the northern forests, others along the coast, others in the desert. It had been King Elshalom, her ancestor, who had united the Zoharites, forging a single kingdom with its capital in Beth Eloh. The blood of Elshalom still flowed through Atalia's veins—the blood of her mother, of her grandparents, of many generations of kings and queens.

My people are a thousand years ahead of these barbarians, she thought, grinding her teeth as she stared at the white stag and its rider. They are savages. They were living in caves when Zohar was already a great kingdom. For all I know, they still live in caves.

As she dragged behind the stag, the Gaelians marched afoot or walked on horses, jeering at her, pointing, laughing. One woman tossed an apple core at her. Another woman approached, tugged at Atalia's hair, and pulled her hand back before Atalia could bite off her fingers. A man thrust his crotch her way, roaring with laughter.

"Bring that tiny cock of yours closer," Atalia said, "and I'll tear it off you and shove it down your throat."

The men roared with laughter again, pointing at her, pelting her with mud and stones.

"Schaten!" they called toward her. "Schaten dezin!"

Atalia thought back to what little Gaelian she knew, whatever she had heard from merchants in Gefen and whatever Master Malaci had taught her. She thought she understood those words.

"The black demon," she whispered.

Trudging behind the stag through the forest, dripping filth, Atalia thought back to earlier, brighter days. It was a few years ago that Ofeer, upon seeing the fair and pale Gaelian women in the port of Gefen, had spent hours scrubbing her skin, trying to wash off the darker hue, to become pale like these fae foreigners. Atalia too was dark, her skin olive-toned, her hair black, her eyes deep brown. She was lighter than a Nurian, but to these golden-haired, white-skinned warriors of Gael, she must have appeared like a demon of the night. Atalia had been raised in Gefen, a major port of the Encircled Sea, and she had encountered many foreigners in her life. But she doubted that these northern barbarians, born and bred in this forest, had ever seen anyone other than an Aelarian—and even Aelarians, paler than Atalia, were beasts to be slaughtered.

They must think me no nobler than an animal, Atalia realized, heart sinking. She had come here to find allies. Instead she just found more slavery.

Yet she refused to be ashamed of her appearance like Ofeer had been. She raised her chin, and she met the gaze of all those who mocked her, staring back, challenging them, shouting at them, hurling curses their way. She refused to abandon her dignity, even tied and dragged as she was. Whenever she tripped over a root and stone, she rose again, following the stag through the wilderness, even as her knees bled and mud covered her.

"Fight me!" she shouted again toward the chieftain on the stag. "Fight me for those eagles. Coward!"

Yet the march continued. Atalia's body screamed in agony. She had fought a war in Zohar. She had toiled as a galley slave in a ship, whipped and beaten as she oared. She had nearly drowned in the sea, had clung to a raft for two days and nights before washing ashore. She had traveled through the wilderness, hungry, weary, wounded, only to fight another battle. And now again she found herself hurting, brutalized, still nothing but a slave. She was near the end of her strength, covered in bruises and scabs, thinner than she'd ever been. But she forced herself to keep walking.

I will not die here, she swore. I might be the last warrior in Zohar. I will keep fighting. I will not die.

When the sun began to set, the white stag finally halted, and the horde of tribes set camp in a forested valley. For parsa'ot around, the barbarians unburdened their horses and their weary feet. The stars emerged and campfires lit the shadows. The Gaelians raised no tents, built no palisades, but they kindled many campfires, and they roasted deer, boar, fowl, and other animals they hunted in the forest. An old man played a flute, and many in the camp sang, and many others drank from filigreed horns.

Atalia stood, still bound to the stag. Sweat drenched her, even in the cold, and she panted. She had never felt wearier.

I'm nothing more than raw bone and pain, Atalia thought. There's no more soul to me, no more life. Just a slab of battered, bloodied meat.

The chieftain dismounted his stag. He stood still for a moment, the firelight limning his form, and he appeared to Atalia as a great, hulking shadow, a beast of Ashael ringed in flame. She stood in the forest, barefoot, bleeding, panting, wearier than she'd ever been but ready to fight him.

"Hey, big boy." Sweat dripped into her eyes, and she spat. "Yeah, you. Why don't you untie me, give me a sword, and face me in battle? I'm going to rip out your guts and feed them to your deer."

Ignoring her, the chieftain untied the rope from his stag's saddle, the one that ran to Atalia's wrists. She gave a mighty yank, hoping to pull herself free—and maybe even chafe his hands bloody—but he clung onto the rope. He tugged her toward a tree. She struggled, dug her heels into the soil, tried to resist him, but could not. He tied the rope around the oak's trunk, pulling her against the bark.

Atalia glared at him. "You're a fucking coward."

Slowly the chieftain turned to look her in the eyes. That blue gaze pierced her like daggers. The light of the camp's fires painted his large, scarred face a demonic red, and his beard was flowing fire.

"I know you can understand my words," Atalia said, tied to the tree, her shoulder blades digging into the trunk. "I can tell you speak Aelarian. Your mother is a whore with a flea-bitten crotch. You understand that? Good. So fight me. Prove to me your balls are larger than your raisin-sized brain."

He grunted and turned away from her.

"Coward!" she shouted. "You goddamn piece of dog shit!"

Ignoring her, the chieftain walked toward one of the campfires. Six Gaelians stood there, tending to a roasting deer. They were all tall, muscular, and bearded, but not the same. One man had braided his gold-and-silver beard, while another wore his beard wild. One man's helmet sprouted spikes, and the other thrust out wings. One man carried an axe, the other a hammer. Each displayed a different sigil on his shield—dragons, stags, bears, and one sigil was even shaped as a phallus.

The chieftains of different tribes, Atalia surmised.

When her captor—that cowardly dog with the horned helmet—approached the campfire, the other chiefs knelt.

"Berengar," they said, one by one.

Yes, that's his name, Atalia thought. Berengar. He rules a united force of tribes, much like King Elshalom united the tribes of Zohar a thousand years ago.

"Berengar is no lord!" she cried from her tree. "He's a dog turd whose mother sucks the cocks of lepers."

The chieftains all turned to stare at her. One of the men laughed. Others talked among themselves in Gaelian. One humped the air and pointed at Atalia, but Berengar shook his head. Tallest and mightiest of the seven, he drew a curved blade and sliced a slab off the roasting deer. He grabbed a wineskin, then left the campfire and walked toward Atalia.

"Eat." The chieftain spoke in Aelarian, voice deep, accent thick. He shoved the meat and wineskin against her chest. "Drink."

"I knew you could speak Aelarian." She spat on him. "Fight me. Fight me like a man. I don't need your meat and wine. I'm not a dog whose loyalty you can buy with treats. I . . . I . . ."

But the smell tickled her nostrils, intoxicating. Atalia had not eaten or drunk all day. She needed this meal, especially if she were to battle him. Berengar loosened her rope—just enough to let her raise her hands to her mouth.

Oh, fuck it all.

She ate.

The meat was delicious. It was fucking delicious. It was greasy, rare, juicy, soft, melting. It was better than the feast of a queen, and it vanished far too soon into her belly. Atalia would have kicked a kitten and kissed a buzzard's balls for just another bite.

Next she uncorked the wineskin and drank, only to discover it wasn't wine at all. The drink was stronger than wine, so strong it burned down her throat, sweet as honey. She realized that it was honey—fermented honey. She had heard that Gaelians drank mead, a beverage she had never tried, but which Epher had once shared with a merchant and spoken highly of. Atalia drank until her head spun. It invigorated her, washing away the weariness and pain of her wounds.

She gave the rope another few tugs, hoping that her new strength would tear it. But the rope remained intact, only chafing her wrists. She couldn't break free from this tree, not even to sit or lie down.

She took another swig of mead and looked around her with fresh eyes. Just campfires and barbarians as far as the eye could see. They were still eating their meals, drinking mead from scrimshawed horns, and speaking in their tongues. Berengar sat with his fellow chiefs, those who bent the knee to him. The rulers of the horde feasted and drank together.

Atalia looked away. She didn't want to see that brute. She was used to honorable men like her father and brothers. Like Daor. Not to cowards like him—a man as large as a bear yet as cowardly as a hare, a craven who dared not face her in battle. She had come here seeking true warriors, men and women who'd join her in her war against Aelar. If this chieftain was too weak to even face her—a weary, beaten, hungry woman—how would he face the might of an empire?

Staring in the opposite direction, Atalia saw a figure walking toward her, and her breath died.

By Eloh.

Atalia blinked, at first sure that the mead was playing tricks on her, that she was seeing a fairy or elf, a spirit of mythology.

It was a woman approaching, but one too beautiful to be mortal. Her skin was cream in autumn sunlight. Her eyes were the summer sea, and her hair flowed to her hips, molten morning, strewn with thin braids. The woman wore a dress of green cotton trimmed with golden knots, and a curved dagger hung from her belt of silver leaves. She carried a gilded harp, a masterwork engraved with coiling dragons.

When the harpist walked by and gazed at her, Atalia suddenly felt plain, as ugly as a wart on a toad's ass. The mystical being glanced toward her, and their eyes met, and Atalia wanted to die now, die here, die gazing into those blue eyes, because she knew that she would never see anything fairer, that all the world would seem ugly henceforth.

The woman tore her gaze away, and Atalia felt as if her soul had been wrenched free. As the harpist approached the campfire, the chieftains rose to their feet, bowed their heads, and knelt before her—even Chieftain Berengar, lord of this host.

"Feina," the chieftains called her, speaking her name with awe.

The harpist joined the chieftains by the fire. They seemed even more brutish and ugly beside her; she was a rose growing from an ancient battlefield, a moonbeam in a storm. She began to play her harp, and the sound was as ethereal as her beauty. She sang softly, her voice pure and high, a voice to make the gruffest warrior weep. Atalia's eyes dampened, and she was not alone. The chieftains too shed tears, even Berengar. The men joined Feina's song, voices deep.

Atalia couldn't understand the words. She didn't need to. Here was a song of rain on leaves, of mist in the forest, of dawn and dusk and the courage of warriors. Here was a song of home. It was the song of Gael, Atalia realized. The song of an ancient, proud people.

Atalia was no lumer. She did not know the ways of lume. But if there was magic outside of Zohar, if there was beauty and mysticism beyond the desert, it was here. In Feina's song.

Perhaps the Gaelians were not as brutish as Atalia had thought. Perhaps there was nobility to them, a beauty as deep and old as that of the desert.

Finally the song ended and the chieftains lay down to sleep. Across the rest of the forest, the thousands of warriors lay down too. All but Atalia. She was still tied to the tree, standing up, unable to even sit.

She yanked the rope again, to no avail. What did this chieftain want from her? Why had he kidnapped her? Was she just some trophy for him—an exotic Zoharite to display as a pet?

She closed her eyes, wondering how she would sleep like this. In the darkness, she kept seeing the visions again and again. Daor dying in her arms. The fall of Gefen. The ships sinking around her. Her father nailed to the cross, Seneca smirking as he swung the hammer. And weary as she was, Atalia could not, dared not sleep. Sleep brought dreams. Sleep brought the terror surging through her.

"I'm so sorry, Daor," she whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. My last soldier."

The grief seemed too great to bear. She had once commanded a hundred soldiers. All had died. She had once lived in a villa, daughter of a great family. That villa was gone now, her family broken and scattered. Had Koren made it to Aelar, or had he drowned in the naval battle? Was Ofeer still a traitor, serving Seneca? Was Epher still fighting, and were Mother and Maya still alive? Atalia didn't know, and she feared that she would never see her family again, never see the coast and desert of Zohar.

She stared up at the stars, and she saw the Silver Chariot—among the brightest constellations, one she would gaze at from Zohar. She wondered if anyone else from her family—Koren and Ofeer in Aelar, perhaps the others back in Zohar—were looking at these stars now, and if they were thinking of her.

Atalia had slain enemies in battle, facing them through her terror. Yet now, in darkness, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she wept softly.

I miss you, my family. Even you, Ofeer. I miss you, Father. I miss you all so much. I'm so scared and I want to go home.

She tried to think of home, to imagine that she lay in her bed back in the villa on Pine Hill. She had shared a room there with Ofeer and Maya, and she had often railed against their company, demanding that Father build her a separate room. Yet now Atalia would have given the world to be with Ofeer and Maya again, back in that old room on the hill, with the vines crawling through the window shutters, with the candles on the shelves, with the blankets Mother had knitted for her daughters. Ofeer would be brushing her hair at this hour, speaking of the day she would meet a handsome Aelarian prince, sail overseas, and become a princess. Maya would be reading from scrolls, then excitedly speaking of ancient lumers and golems and rephaim and angels from the heavens. Atalia would, no doubt, be sharpening her sword or daggers, perhaps polishing her armor, dreaming of the day she would finally see true war.

Well, Ofeer found her Aelarian prince, and perhaps Maya found her lumers, Atalia thought. As for me, I found my war. But it's not what I imagined. It's not glorious or noble. It's cruel and dark, and I just want to go back home, to the way things were.

A moan disrupted her thoughts. Then another moan. Then many more.

Atalia opened her eyes.

She gasped.

"God above," she muttered.

Before her, only a few amot away—so close she could almost touch him—Chieftain Berengar was naked. He had mounted Feina, the beautiful harpist, and was thrusting into her, moaning. Her long, pale legs wrapped around him, and her eyes were closed. Atalia looked away hurriedly, only to find another naked couple making love nearby, then another. Hundreds of them were moaning in the darkness. Atalia blinked, scarcely able to believe it, for in Zohar lovemaking was a private thing.

They're all fucking right around me, Atalia thought, and suddenly she laughed. They moaned, shouted, rolled around her, and Atalia couldn't stop laughing, even as the tears fell. Barbarians indeed.

"Hey, Feina!" Atalia shouted from the tree. "Yeah, you. Harpist girl. Tell your lover boy that if he's brave enough to fuck a woman, he should be brave enough to fight one."

Pinned under the naked beast of a man, Feina opened her eyes. She stared over Berengar's scarred shoulder, right into Atalia's eyes.

Atalia stared back, chin raised.

Slowly Feina released her grip on Berengar, wriggled out from under him, and rose to her feet. She walked toward Atalia, still naked, the campfires painting her body bronze and gold. She reached the tree and paused. Never did she tear her eyes away. Feina was tall—as tall as Atalia—and though fair and pale, her body was well muscled, and several scars marred her. This one was not only a harpist. She was a warrior.

"Berengar is bravest in Gael." Feina spoke Aelarian with a thick accent. "My husband fears none."

Atalia scoffed. "Husband? You married him? Then you married a coward. He fears me. He dragged me through the forest on a rope, refusing my challenges to fight. Bravest in Gael? Then Gael is a land of cowards."

Feina narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, scrutinizing Atalia. Then she looked back at Berengar and spoke harshly in Gaelian. The chieftain growled and spoke back. Feina approached him, speaking rapidly, gesturing at Atalia.

Perhaps now I see who truly rules Gael, Atalia thought.

The argument continued for a moment, and finally Berengar grunted. He pulled on his tunic and cloak, grabbed his shield and sword, and stomped away from Feina toward Atalia.

"Hello, big boy," she told him, still tied to the tree.

He stared down at her, so tall she didn't even reach his shoulders.

"I do not fight women," he rumbled. His accent in Aelarian was lighter than Feina's. "Let alone desert demons."

"Desert demons?" Atalia raised an eyebrow. "I am Atalia Sela, daughter of Lord Jerael Sela, granddaughter of King Rahamyah Elior, descended of King Elshalom himself. I'm no demon. I'm a goddamn fucking desert rose."

Berengar's face reddened, and he raised his sword. For an instant Atalia thought he would cut her open, and she cringed. His blade flashed, and she hissed, waiting for her blood to spurt.

But his sword only sliced through the rope binding her. With another flash of his blade, her arms were free.

Atalia looked down at her wrists. They were a bloody mess, the skin scraped away. When she shook them, blood rushed back into her hands, and her fingers tingled.

She was still wincing in pain when Berengar shoved his sword into her hands.

"Yours." He grabbed and hefted his axe. "Mine."

Atalia stared at the axe. It had a far longer reach, and its blade was heavier.

She spat, tossed her sword onto the forest floor, and lifted her fists. "No sword. No axe. Put aside your weapon, and we fight like civilized people—punching each other bloody."

She stared into his eyes, daring him to accept. She couldn't hope to beat him with blades, she knew. And besides, if her plan was to work, she needed the damn brute alive.

Hopefully my years of boxing my brothers pays off, she thought.

Feina nodded. The harpist had donned her dress again, and her golden hair streamed in the night. "No blades, my husband."

Berengar grunted, face flushed red. "Curse women and their cowardice. Men fight with iron." He glared at Atalia. "But I will crush you with fists too."

He tossed his axe aside.

Atalia widened her stance and bounced on her heels. She was wearier than she'd ever been. She was half-starved, exhausted after the battle and march, after months of war and want. But that didn't matter. A lioness did not always choose her hour of battle.

Be a desert lioness. Be quick and deadly.

Berengar tossed the first punch.

Atalia pulled back, dodging the blow.

Around the camp, men rose off their women and stared at the battle. Some began to howl and chant.

Berengar tossed another punch. Atalia ducked, and his fist went over her head.

"Berengar! Berengar!" the Gaelians chanted.

"Berengar!" cried Feina, her own fist raised, suddenly no longer the ethereal harpist but a shieldmaiden thirsty for blood.

Atalia leaped back, dodging yet another blow.

"You are the coward!" Berengar said. "Fight me."

His fists kept flying. Atalia ducked, leaped back, dodging them until—

His left fist slammed into her cheek.

Atalia swayed on her feet, nearly falling. His second fist swung. She raised her arms, catching the blow. She cried out. Her forearms seemed ready to snap.

The crowd cheered.

Atalia stepped back until she hit a tree. His fists kept flying. She blocked another blow on her arm. She tried to land a blow of her own, only to miss. His fist caught her again, this time on her chin.

He was the most powerful man Atalia had ever fought, far larger and stronger than her brothers. Stars exploded across her vision. She tasted blood. She fought for consciousness.

His fists flew again. She doubted she could withstand another blow. Atalia shoved herself off the tree, ducked, dodged another blow, and emerged behind him. He spun back toward her. She stepped back again.

"Fight me!" he roared.

The crowd raised their fists. More and more people were watching now, gathering around them—hundreds, soon thousands in the night. This was what Atalia had wanted, what she had been demanding all day. Yet now she was afraid. Her heart pounded. Her blood dripped. Her jaw blazed with agony.

Another blow hit her, glancing off the side of her face. Her eye saw red. Her face swelled. She could barely see.

"His left!" Feina shouted. "Catch his left side!"

Atalia stepped back, dodging more punches. Was Feina . . . supporting her?

She stepped back and back, swiveled around him, ducked, dodged more swings. He was twice her size, twice as strong.

But I'm quick. I'm a lioness.

She kept dancing. He kept swinging. She kept dodging.

And Berengar was slowing down.

With every swing of his fists, he was using energy. With every step, he was growing wearier. She dodged another blow, then swung with all her might.

Her fist slammed into his cheek.

The crowd roared.

Atalia smiled crookedly with bleeding lips.

"This desert rose has thorns," she said.

He lunged toward her. Atalia sidestepped, then swung her fist with all her strength, driving it under his left ribs.

He stumbled.

Atalia leaped up and drove her fist forward, spinning the blow on impact.

Her fist caught his cheek under the eye, twisting his skin, cutting him open. Before Atalia could even land, her left fist slammed into his nose.

And Berengar fell.

His fall seemed to crack the world. The trees shook. The crowd roared with new fervor.

Berengar bellowed and leaped back to his feet. His fists swung. His left fist hit Atalia's jaw. His right fist hit under her ribs. She nearly fell. Desperately clinging to consciousness, she swung blindly. Her knuckles cracked against something hard. She thrust her fist forward again, hitting the center of his chest, driving the air out from him.

Like a lioness.

Atalia knelt, leaped up, and drove her fist into his chin.

Berengar's head snapped back with a sickening sound, and again he crashed down.

This time he did not rise.

Atalia stood above him, panting, drenched in sweat and blood. She raised her fists, and the blood dripped down her arms. She let out a primal howl, the roar of a desert lioness, a deafening cry.

"I defeated your chieftain!" Her voice rang across the camp. "I demand my freedom. I defeated him! I go free."

Thousands of Gaelians stared at her . . . and knelt. All across the forest, they knelt before her, calling out to her.

"Schaten dezin! Schaten dezin!"

She stared around, blinking, and rubbed her eyes. One eyes was so swollen she could barely see through it.

Berengar shoved himself to his knees, then slowly stood, bloodied and grunting. He swayed. Atalia turned toward him, eyes flashing.

"What are they doing?" she said. "Why are they kneeling?" She frowned and sucked in air. "Does this mean . . . that I'm the new chieftain?"

Berengar stared at her with hard eyes. "No."

Atalia looked back at the kneelers. She noticed that among the barbarians, only Feina still stood straight.

"Tell me what's happening," Atalia demanded.

The golden-haired harpist stepped toward Atalia and held her hands. Atalia's hands were rough, cut, bleeding. Feina's were soft and pale.

"You are not the new chieftain," Feina said. "A woman cannot become chieftain by defeating the great Lord Chief who united seven tribes."

"So why do they kneel?" Atalia said.

Feina's eyes shone. "They say that a woman's beauty is mightier than any axe. They say that my beauty slew Berengar's heart, and thus he wed me." She squeezed Atalia's hands. "You defeated him in battle. By the laws of our land, you are now betrothed to join me, to be his second wife."

SENECA

He stood at the prow of the Aquila Aureum, once the flagship of his fleet, now a refugee vessel sailing alone through dark waters.

For three weeks now he had taken his meals here at the prow, sometimes even sleeping here above deck. The night spread before him, endless, starless. The black pit of the soul. Seneca had been standing here motionless for hours, gazing into the abyss, gazing into himself.

The hordes of Zoharites swarmed around him, howling, swinging their swords.

A man lay on the cobblestones, clutching his entrails, unable to stop them from spilling.

A man ran on stumps. A woman ran in flames. The catapults kept firing, and Seneca laughed, laughed as he swung the hammer, as he drove the nails into Jerael's hands, as he raised the cross, as he fucked the man's daughter only feet away, moaning in bed even as Jerael moaned on the cross.

Seneca lowered his head. The wind ruffled his hair but found no tears to dry. Perhaps Seneca had shed so many tears since the war in Zohar he could shed no more.

I killed him, he thought. I murdered him. I fucked Ofeer in Jerael's own bed, not knowing she's my sister.

His eyes narrowed, too dry. His hands curled into fists, the fingernails cutting into the palms. He could not shed tears, but he could shed blood, and that blood dripped onto the deck of his ship.

He had returned to Aelar as a hero—a conqueror bringing trophies and slaves.

"But I found war there too," he whispered.

In Aelar itself, heart of the Empire, the greatest city in the world—there too the nightmares had lurked, pouncing from shadows. His father—dead. The Magisterian Guard—slaughtered. His sister, sadistic Porcia—empress.

And so here he sailed. Traveling south. Fleeing again. Seeking strength in darkness.

A voice rose behind him, sultry and low.

"You will find what you seek across the water. In Nur, land of ivory and diamonds, your power awaits."

Seneca turned from the prow. The ship's deck spread before him, lit by a handful of lanterns. A few sailors moved in the darkness; the others slept below deck. All around, the darkness enveloped them, starless sky and smooth sea, as if the ship floated through nothingness.

In the shadows, Taeer stood like a lighthouse, rubies shining around her neck and on her rings, her golden earrings halos of light. She wore crimson silks, cut low to reveal the tops of her breasts, and her black hair rustled in the wind. She smiled at him—her crooked smile, her lips painted, full of secrets, her eyes shining with luminescence.

"Are you using your Foresight?" Seneca asked his lumer. "Or simply pulling prophecies out of your posterior?"

She raised an eyebrow and placed a hand against his cheek. "An emperor and a poet."

Seneca snorted and looked away. "Porcia is empress. Have you forgotten why we flee?"

Taeer pulled his face back toward her. "Flee? No, my emperor. You are a conqueror. Conquerors do not flee. You travel south to find power in Nur. To raise armies. You sail here with a single ship, with a skeleton crew. But you will sail home with an armada."

Seneca looked into her eyes. In their glow he could see it—a great fleet, himself at the lead, sailing back into Aelaria Maritima. Armies swarming the city. His own sword cutting into Porcia. Himself on the throne, Taeer ever at his side—as she had been at his side all his life. The Empire on his leash. Porcia's skull in his hand. Ofeer groveling before him, begging forgiveness, only for him to cast her out into the cold.

He clenched his fists. "Yes, Taeer. Yes. I can see it! I will rule this empire someday, I promise you." He cupped her breast in his hand and squeezed. "Soon you'll be an emperor's lumer."

She pulled his hand away, and for just an instant, Seneca saw something he had never seen in Taeer's eyes before—just a flicker of shame, just a flicker of fear.

"Not here, dominus," she whispered, then smiled. "Come with me. Down below deck."

Seneca narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her. When he had been only a baby, Taeer had been shipped over from Zohar—a girl of twelve, a young lumer to serve the prince of Aelar. She had known him all his life, had tended to him, taught him . . . then when he was old enough, she had become his lover. All his life, even as a warrior, Taeer had mocked him, smiled crookedly, winked at him, saw him as a boy. When he had stared into her eyes only moments ago, he had seen himself an emperor. Had she seen something in his eyes—something that made her flinch for just that instant, fear him for just a heartbeat?

He laughed as he swung the hammer.

He moaned above Ofeer, thrusting into her as Jerael died outside the window.

The blood drenched him.

Murderer. Murderer!

A monster. Monster!

Seneca tightened his jaw.

Is this what you saw, Taeer? Is this why you fear me?

She took his hand in hers, and she guided him down below deck. Once hundreds of galley slaves had rowed here, Koren Sela among them. Now they were gone, slaves in Aelar. Now the oars lay still, only the wind guiding the ship onward. A single lamp hung from the wall, and Taeer guided him through shadows toward a doorway. They entered his cabin.

Here was a room fit for an emperor. Gold and jewels shone on the walls, and candles burned inside glass holders. Taeer doffed her silks, remaining naked before him. Seneca admired her body in the candlelight. Ofeer was lithe, almost boyish, but Taeer was all curves. He worked at his own clothes, pulling them off, and—

The hammer swung.

He laughed. He laughed as the cross rose and—

He stood naked before Taeer, and they lay down together on his bed. He lay on his back, and she nestled beside him, reaching down to stroke his manhood, slowly, her fingers only fluttering, yet his lust would not awaken.

"Dominus?" she whispered, a line appearing on her brow. "Does the eagle of Aelar sleep?"

He glanced down at himself, then back at her.

The man ran on stumps. The woman burned, and the screams filled his mind, and he couldn't forget, why did she want him to forget? How could she not see, how could any of them understand? Even Valentina had not understood. Nobody understood.

Taeer still stroked him, yet he remained flaccid.

"Taeer, can you use Luminosity?" he whispered. "Like you did that time when kissing me . . . when we were in the port at Gefen."

She raised an eyebrow. "When I used my Luminosity then, I cut you, my emperor. Don't you remember?" She stroked his arm where he still bore the small white scars of her fingernails.

"Do it," he said. "Use your magic. Even if you cut me."

I want you to cut me, he thought. I want it to hurt. I want to forget everything, to forget the memories.

Taeer's fingers soon glowed, and as she stroked him, tingling warmth filled Seneca. Her grin grew.

"That's better," she whispered, eyes like lanterns. "Now the eagle takes flight."

She tried to climb atop him, to ride him as she often did, but Seneca rolled her onto her back, and he mounted her, entering her with a single thrust. She moaned and wrapped her limbs around him, and the light flowed over them, blinding, and he moved atop her, consumed with luminescence.

"My emperor." She grabbed his shoulders, digging her fingernails into him. "My conqueror."

He moved faster. Clutching her desperately. The bed shook as if the ship were caught in a storm. And as he made love to Taeer, he was there again—back in the villa in Zohar. And it was Ofeer beneath him. Ofeer, lying still as if dead, head slumped sideways, not even moving or moaning as he bedded her, as if he were bedding a corpse, and outside the window Jerael was dying, and she was his sister—she was his sister! She was Emperor Marcus's bastard! And he didn't know. And he hated her. And he loved her. And he missed her. And he wanted her again, his Ofeer, he wanted to go back. To go back to the beginning, to never sail to Zohar. To never see the man running on stumps, and the woman burning, and the disemboweled soldier, and now he was weeping. Now his tears flowed, even as he climaxed into Taeer, even as light exploded around them. He wept.

He rolled off Taeer and lay on his back again, feeling drained, too weak to move. He stared at the ceiling.

Taeer propped herself onto her elbows and stared at him.

"Stop it," she said.

"What?" he whispered.

She gripped his head, yanking it toward her. "Your tears. Stop it. You are an emperor."

"I'm not an emperor!" he shouted, spittle flying. "My sister took the throne! Did you miss that, you stupid bitch, you—"

Taeer slapped him, knocking his head back.

He gasped and stared at her, eyes narrowed, chest rising and falling. "Hit me again and—"

She hit him again, harder this time. His lip split and he tasted blood.

"What—" he began. "Taeer, what—"

"Are you going to cry again?" She glared at him. "Are you going to curl up and sob like you did as a baby? Are you going to pity yourself because your sister won your last battle? Are you going to pine for Ofeer? When you were a baby, I would comfort you when you cried. But no more. If you think I will tolerate a grown man—an emperor!—crying in bed with me, you are wrong. You will strengthen yourself, Seneca. Or you will jump off this ship and let the sea claim you."

He took deep breaths. He had never known Taeer to speak like this.

"You're my lumer," he said. "You vowed to serve me. To obey me."

She scoffed. "Your father brought me to Aelar. He's dead now. Right now our empire is this. This ship! That's all. If you're to reclaim the great empire that surrounds the Encircled Sea, you'll need all your strength. No more tears, Seneca. No more childhood. You're a man now. You will muster the armies in Nur, and you will return to Aelar, and you will seize the throne."

"We'll do it together."

Taeer shook her head. "No. I'm a Zoharite. I'm a lumer. I'm little more than your slave, as you so graciously reminded me. Too long have you leaned on Ofeer, on me, on your own self-pity. Stand strong now. Stand before us, not among us. Lead us."

Seneca nodded.

He left the bed, and he dressed in his armor—the armor of a great ruler. The breastplate was forged of iron, filigreed with golden eagles. The leather pteruge straps hung across his thighs, studded with iron bolts. A red crest rose from his helmet, and when he grabbed his spear and shield, he felt as if the armor not only shielded him from enemy's blows. It also shielded him from the pain inside, armor from memories, from loss.

He returned to the deck, stared south, and saw it there. Lights on the horizon.

"The land of Nur," he said.

Taeer came to stand beside him, and she placed her hand on his shoulder. "Here your conquest begins."

As Seneca watched the distant lights, he imagined the lights of Aelar, the great city in the center of the Aelarian Empire. He would return there someday, he vowed—return strong, proud, no pain inside him . . . and no pity for his enemies.

No more tears. No more memories. He inhaled deeply, already smelling the distant spices of Nur in the wind. Only iron and gold.

Dawn rose, spilling over the ship like flowing luminescence, as they sailed toward the southern city.

EPHER

He stood on the balcony, wrapped in cloak and hood, gazing upon the city of God.

Beth Eloh sprawled around him in the dawn. Most of his life, whenever Epher visited Beth Eloh, he had stayed in the inner city upon the Mount of Cedars. There, behind high walls, Epher would spend time in the palace with his aunt, Queen Sifora, and pray at the Temple, the greatest building in Zohar, perhaps in the world. The inner city was a place of gold, of polished limestone, of gemstones and frankincense, of queens and kings and high priests—the heart of a kingdom.

Standing here, the Mount of Cedars was distant, a mere glint across the city. Epher dwelled now in the warren of Beth Eloh, far from the elites, among a hundred thousand commoners. The streets were so narrow Epher could barely see them. Countless houses crowded together here, connected by bridges and walkways and archways, roofs nearly touching, forming a massive complex, as if the entire city were a single building formed of thousands of corridors and chambers cobbled together.

The same limestone bricks, large and craggy and pale white, formed every wall, tower, bridge, and cobblestone across the city. Some domes were bare stone, splotched with bird droppings; others were coated with copper, bronze, and even silver. Other buildings supported tiled roofs, and some sprouted minarets on pale towers. No two buildings were alike; they all grew at random angles, some tilted, some squat, some tall and narrow, some sporting decorative archways and balconies, others mere cubes of stone. A few cypress and palm trees grew between the homes, several camels flicked their tails in an alleyway, and stray cats hissed on rooftops, but mostly this was a place of stone and metal, of light and of hope.

And of rage, Epher thought. Of cruelty.

Everywhere he looked, he saw them. The legionaries. They patrolled the streets, armor bright in the sunlight, cloaks and crests crimson. They stood on rooftops, spears in hands. On the distant Mount of Cedars, their banners draped from the palace walls. Two entire legions still filled this city like poison in blood, ten thousand killers from across the Encircled Sea.

"You need come inside." Olive stepped onto the balcony with him, wrapped in a white cloak and veil. "Outside dangerous. Legionaries see you."

Epher turned toward her. Olive stared at the city with him, her pale hands on the balcony's stone balustrade. The tips of her red hair peeked from her white hood, and her veil hid her mouth. Only her freckled nose and green eyes were bared.

"And you as well," he said, placing his palm on her hand. "You're undercover too, you know."

"Under . . . cover?" She tugged at the hood covering her head.

He nodded. "A hood is a sort of cover, yes."

"Underhood." Olive nodded. "I'm underhood."

Armor clanked as two legionaries emerged around a corner and walked across the alleyway below. Cats hissed and fled from them. Epher held Olive's arm and guided her off the balcony, back into their hideout.

Epher had lost count of how many houses they had moved these past couple of weeks. Every day or two, they plunged down into the tunnels beneath the city, scurrying in darkness, emerging into a new home, sometimes a full mil away from the old one. The hideaways all blurred together. This one seemed like any other. Candles stood in alcoves on the walls, and straw mattresses topped narrow beds. Decorative pomegranates hung from the walls, some formed of clay, others of tin and one even of silver—ancient symbols of Zohar. Curtains hid the windows, allowing only dusty beams of light to penetrate the chamber.

A handful of bladesmen stood here—rebels of Zohar's Blade. Their beards were long and dark, their eyes darker. They stood wrapped in prayer shawls, holding scrolls, rocking as they prayed to Eloh. Epher saw the hilts of daggers strapped across their bodies. Each bladesman held a full twenty daggers under his robes—across the belt, chest, and legs. Blades to slay eagles.

A hatch in the floor opened, and out emerged a man, taller than his comrades. He looked much like his father, Benshalom. He was gaunt, his hair and beard wild, his eyes feverish. But while age had tempered Benshalom, graying his hair and granting him wisdom, Kahan Sela still seemed like a clay vessel full of fire, ready to overspill.

I have two cousins left in this world, Epher thought. On my mother's side—Shefael Elior, puppet king, cowardly and servile, bending the knee to Aelar. On my father's side—Kahan Sela, a man who would burn the world if he could burn a single legionary with it. A cowering hare and a rabid dog.

"Cousin!" Kahan lowered his scroll, tightened his shawl around his neck, and approached Epher with open arms. His teeth were blindingly white against his dark beard. "You look strong and mighty this day. All your wounds are washed away, and you're ready to keep fighting the enemy with us."

Epher pulled down his cousin's arms, refusing the embrace. "Six hundred died, Kahan. Six hundred still rot in the Valley of Ashes. Punishment for what you did in the alleyway."

Kahan's smile vanished, and he frowned. "For saving your life, Epher. For saving you from crucifixion."

"A crucifixion I chose!" Epher's rage rose inside him. "I surrendered myself to Remus to save the six hundred innocents. He'd have taken my life and spared theirs. You saved me, yes, and now they're dead, now—"

"Epheriah Sela!" Kahan's voice was almost a shout, far too loud for men in hiding, and he grabbed Epher's arms. "Listen to yourself. Do you blame us, children of Zohar, for the cruelty of the heathens? We do not play their games of bartering. We do not surrender one life to save others. We are not their toys to torment." Light filled Kahan's eyes. "We are warriors of Eloh, and we will make the Aelarians pay. We will paint the city with their blood, and we will cleanse our Temple from the abomination they have profaned it with."

Across the room, the bladesmen drew their daggers.

"By God's grace, the heathens will die," said one man.

"We will drive them all back into the sea," said another man.

The others all nodded, eyes alight, cursing the enemy. Epher thought back to his mother's words, to her journey around the Encircled Sea as a youth, the ruins she had seen.

"For every legionary we kill," Epher said, "they will crucify hundreds of our people." He shook his head. "How can we fight the enemy when we have so much to lose? Sometimes I wonder if my mother is right. If it's better to kneel and live than roar and die."

One of the bladesmen scoffed. "The boy listens to his mother for advice in war?"

Epher turned his gaze toward the man. "I fought this war in the hills of Ma'oz and in the fields outside Beth Eloh. I slew more legionaries than I can count. Where were you when the battle raged, when King Yohanan led ten thousand against the enemy? Cowering here in shadows? Yes, I listen to my mother, a wise woman descended of Elshalom. She taught me that poking a sleeping giant is folly."

The man's face darkened, and he raised his blade. Kahan stepped forward, pulling the man back. "It's all right, Terael. He's not our enemy." Kahan turned back toward Epher. "That giant is no longer sleeping, Epher. You saw the crosses on the hill. You saw the dead—the ten thousand slain outside Beth Eloh. You know of the destruction in Gefen. And you saw us fight them. You saw us cut them down in the alleyway. The giant is wide awake, and he is already poked." Kahan let a smile stretch his lips. "By God, I say we poke him harder. Are you with us, Epher?"

Epher lowered his head, jaw tight.

The Aelarians killed my father. They took my siblings captive. They murdered myriads across my land. He sucked in air. He could barely breathe. Yet if we fight them, more blood will drench this land.

He wished he could speak to his mother, or to Atalia, or even to Koren. He wanted to hold Olive close, to whisper to her, to hear her counsel. Did he dare join these men, dare fight an empire?

They killed my father.

His breath shuddered.

If we fight, they will kill more.

He clenched his fists.

They took Atalia and Koren captive.

He raised his head and turned back toward the balcony. There, outside, it lay—the land he loved. A land of milk and honey, of gold and light, of ancient songs and grace. A land where men could no longer worship Eloh, forced instead to kneel before an idol of Porcia. A land where children were now made to study Aelarian lore, not the teachings of Zohar. A land where Zoharites were fed to lions for the conquerors' delight. A land that was dying, consumed, absorbed into the Empire's belly.

If I can still save Zohar, then I must fight.

He turned back toward Kahan and gripped his arm. "We cannot defeat this empire," Epher said. "Even should every man in Zohar rise up in rebellion, we're too few. But if we bleed them, if we ravage their ranks, we can sue for peace. We can return the worship of Eloh to our Temple. We can end the murder of our innocents in the arenas. Perhaps we cannot overthrow the chains of Aelar, but we can save the nation that we were."

A few of the bladesmen grumbled at this.

"We fight for nothing less than complete independence," said one man.

"We fight to destroy the Empire, to send Aelar crumbling into the dust," said another.

"He is cowardly like his cousin Shefael!" cried another bladesman.

Kahan spun toward his comrades, face twisted with rage. "Shefael does not stand here among us. Epher is his own man." He turned his eyes from one man to another, then back to Epher. "Perhaps we disagree about our means and our ends, but we will fight together." He clasped Epher's shoulders and leaned forward so that they stood forehead to forehead. "We fight together for Eloh. We will slay legionaries together."

They sat together on the floor, eating a simple meal of chickpeas, bread, and olive oil. Kahan unrolled a map of the city, showing both the streets above and the tunnels beneath.

"Today is the Robigalia," Kahan said. "An Aelarian festival when the heathens burn dogs in great fires, sacrifices meant to protect their fields from disease. For days now we've seen legionaries collect stray dogs from across the city, preparing to burn them. I say that today we show the world who the true dogs are. We will burn the Aelarians, for they are dogs that are sons of dogs."

"Wall-pissers," said another bladesman.

"Ungodly heathens," said another.

Epher looked at Olive. When he had first met her, he had seen a fierce animal, a wild thing. Yet now there was fear in Olive's eyes. Not caring if he appeared weak, ignoring the snickers, Epher clasped her hand. She leaned against him and kissed his neck.

"Are you ready, Epher?" Kahan said, voice soft now.

Epher inhaled deeply.

Ready to kill again? Ready for more bloodshed? Ready for war? No. He would never be ready for blades cutting flesh, for the screams, for the stench of death. In the old stories—the ones from the Book of Eloh—warriors were noble heroes, death a thing of glory. But Epher had seen organs spill from sliced bellies, had seen men with burnt faces, had seen thousands of mutilated corpses, had smelled death—smelled the blood and offal and shit and rot, had heard the cawing of crows, the screams, the prayers, the men calling out for their mothers as they died. No. He was not ready.

But I will fight nonetheless.

He nodded and drew his dagger. "It's time to hunt eagles."

Olive rose to her feet and drew her own dagger. "I fight with you. I kill wall-pissers." She spat on the floor. "I fuck those cunts with iron."

Epher had never taught her those words, and he didn't know if he was proud or horrified. The other rebels rose too, their daggers strapped across their torsos and legs, the light of fury and God and vengeance in their eyes.

They entered the trapdoor one by one, disappearing underground.

They traveled through the shadows, hooded and cloaked, silent. The tunnel was so low Epher had to walk hunched over. Olive walked at his side, dagger held before her. Only their clay lanterns lit their way, the wicks flickering in the oil. The tunnel kept twisting, falling, rising, snaking under the city.

"Scarves on," said Kahan, and the bladesmen hid their faces behind cloth, leaving only the eyes bare.

The tunnel rose steeply, and soon Epher heard the sounds of the city above. Thumping feet. Clattering armor. The yips of dogs and the chants of legionaries.

"The procession of the Robigalia," Epher whispered. "They're right above us."

Sudden fury flooded Epher. All his earlier caution drowned. There above him marched the men who had slaughtered his father, who had butchered thousands of his people, who had outlawed his religion. There above marched men he would slay.

The tunnel split in two. Epher headed left, along with Olive and five men. Kahan turned right, leading several rebels of his own. Epher reached a shaft, found grooves in the wall, and climbed. Olive and the others climbed behind him. He pushed aside a rug and emerged into a dusty chamber. An old man waited here and held out three fingers—symbol of Zohar's Blades, symbolizing liberty, God, and Luminosity.

Epher crept across the floor and approached the doorway. Olive and the others followed. Through the window, Epher saw them heading down the street—the legionaries. Dozens marched there, tugging dogs on chains. They sang as they marched, songs of Aelar, songs praising their gods.

"Praise Camulus!" said an Aelarian rider, leading the procession.

"Fuck Eloh!" cried the legionaries who followed, yanking the chains. The dogs yipped in pain. "We butcher the dogs in the temple of rats."

Epher clutched his daggers, one in each hand. Around him, his fellow rebels drew their own blades. Olive bared her teeth, eyes narrowing.

Across the street, the cry rose.

"For liberty! For light! For Zohar!"

With roars, the bladesmen charged out from the houses.

The legionaries halted in the street, spinning toward them. The dogs wailed. Epher did not hesitate. He leaped forward, daggers flashing, and drove the blades down.

"Zohar still fights!" Epher cried, terror and rage pounding through him. One of his daggers scraped across a legionary's armor, doing him no harm, but the other plunged into the man's neck. Blood gushed.

"Fuck you with iron!" Olive screamed, her right blade lashing a man's face, cutting off his nose and cheek, her left blade sinking into a man's thigh.

The legionaries shouted and drew their swords.

A blade swung toward Epher. He stepped back and raised his twin daggers, blocking the blow. He kicked, and his foot slammed into the legionary's armor, knocking the man back. The blade swung down, and Epher sidestepped. He tossed his dagger, and the blade hit the man's shoulder, denting his armor. The legionary charged toward him. Epher ran to meet him, heart thudding, and lashed another dagger. Iron hit iron. Sparks flew. The legionary raised his gladius overhead, prepared to swing down the sword. Epher drew another dagger and thrust up the blade, driving it under the legionary's pteruges, into his crotch, and deeper still, digging into the abdomen.

The legionary screamed and Epher thrust his second dagger, burying it into the man's throat.

Epher stepped back, blades dripping, letting the legionary slump to the ground. Around him, the battle raged. More bladesmen emerged from homes, tossing daggers. More legionaries fell. One bladesman screamed as a gladius cleaved his torso, cutting from shoulder halfway down the chest, slicing ribs, scattering blood and organs. Olive shrieked as she fought, tossing dagger after dagger. A dog lay dead and trampled. Other animals fled.

"Zohar rises!" cried Kahan, grabbing a sword and thrusting it at a legionary. "Zohar's light shines!"

Armor clanked and cries rose as more legionaries raced onto the road. Hooves thundered. On a nearby hill, ten or more legionaries charged on horses.

"Back!" Epher cried. "Fall back! Into the shadows."

He grabbed Olive, tugging her away from a corpse she was stabbing. Two legionaries rushed toward them. A gladius swung at Olive. She parried with a dagger. Another blade cut Epher's shoulder, slicing through skin, hitting the bone. He screamed and slashed the man's face, destroying an eye. Twenty legionaries or more now lay dead, but hundreds were racing toward them. Epher kept retreating, pulling Olive with him.

He leaped into the house, tossed aside the rug, and plunged into the tunnel.

They ran through the darkness. Epher's shoulder blazed, but he ignored the pain. He kept running. The sound of pursuit rose behind him—legionaries cursing, clanking forward in their armor. Olive panted at his side. More bladesmen ran with them through the twisting darkness.

"Here!" Epher said, reaching for a ladder that climbed a shaft. He herded Olive upward, and other rebels followed, climbing toward another hideout. The legionaries followed behind in the tunnel.

"Time to burn the rats!" rose a legionary's cry.

"Come here, Zoharites!" shouted another. "The eagles are hungry."

Epher spun back toward the tunnel. He saw them there in the shadows, racing forward in the darkness. Epher drew another dagger from his belt, tossed the weapon, and heard a man curse.

"Come here, friends!" Epher said, eyes burning, blood dripping. "You murdered my father. You enslaved my siblings. Come here and fight me! I am Epheriah Sela, son of Zohar. Come to me! Come face the lions."

The legionaries ran toward him.

Epher grabbed the ladder and climbed.

As he raced up the shaft, he grabbed a rope that dangled from the wall. He yanked it.

Stones creaked. The shaft shook. Dust rained. As the legionaries pursued below, the tunnel collapsed.

Bricks rained. Boulders tumbled. Legionaries shouted below, crushed by the avalanche. The world shook, dust filled his eyes, and Epher kept climbing. Rocks buffeted him. Dust blinded him. He fell, reached out, grabbed a rung, and kept climbing. A stone slammed into his wounded shoulder, shooting white pain across him.

"Epher!" Olive cried above. She reached down, and her hand clasped his. "Epher, come!"

She tugged him. He kept climbing as the shaft collapsed, coughing, finally scrambling into a room above. He was in another humble house, one among thousands in the city.

He fell to his knees, breathing raggedly. Dust flew from below, and when Epher gazed down into the shaft, he saw a pile of stones settling. The screams from below died.

Olive knelt beside him and hugged him.

"You hurt," she whispered.

In the chamber stood other rebels, some wounded, but pride lit their eyes.

"We struck them hard today," Kahan said, panting and clutching a wound. "We slew many. What we did today will rally the people of Zohar. More will join us. And soon we will strike the enemy again." Kahan stared out a window. Upon the distant Mount of Cedars rose the Temple, brilliant in the sunlight, capped in gold. "Soon we will reclaim our Temple and smash the idol the heathens placed there."

Across the city, the legionaries shouted and ran, and trumpets blared. A man screamed. Epher's heart clenched, and his fists shook.

"They will strike back," he said. "Kahan, they will strike back with all their might."

His cousin's eyes shone with bloodlust. "Then every Zoharite they slay will inspire ten more to rise up. As you were inspired." Kahan's mouth twisted into something halfway between sneer and smile. "Soon war will engulf this land, and this will be a war Zohar will win."

Epher stared at his cousin, and something cold and hard filled his belly.

He's a madman, Epher thought. He doesn't want Zohar to thrive. He craves blood and fire. He would sooner see this land burn than live chained.

The horror was too great, the realization that Epher had been wrong, that his mother had been right. He turned away from his cousin. He walked toward the doorway.

"Stay with us, son of Zohar!" Kahan said. "We will pray and rejoice over this victory. The streets swarm with the carrion vultures of Aelar."

Epher ignored his cousin, ignored the wound on his shoulder. He stepped outside onto the street, and Olive raced after him. They found themselves in a winding alleyway between brick walls. Ahead, legionaries ran down a main road, and dust still filled the air. Part of the road ahead had collapsed, falling into the tunnel below, burying legionaries.

Epher had to get away from this place, from the rebels of Zohar's Blade. He and Olive walked, holding hands, wrapped in cloaks and hoods. They emerged onto the wider road. The legionaries had run by, and many people clogged the streets—elders in turbans, young women in pale dresses, a peddler on a donkey, a boy on a camel, women returning from the market, peering children. Epher walked through the crowd, silent, holding Olive's hand, until he found a small cemetery between pines and cypress trees.

Cemeteries in Beth Eloh were as crowded as the rest of the city. There was no grass here, no bare earth, just tombstones pressed together so closely Epher could barely squeeze between them. Finally he reached a cobbled courtyard, a place the size of his old bedroom on Pine Hill, and here Epher fell to his knees and lowered his head. A single palm tree grew between the cobblestones, shading him, and the shouting still rose from across the city.

Olive knelt at his side and embraced him. "You hurt." She kissed him. "Let me help wound."

She poured water onto the cut on his shoulder. He winced. She bandaged the wound with her scarf, then caressed his cheek and kissed his lips.

"You hurt," she whispered and placed her palm over his heart.

He looked around him. Thousands of tombstones crowded here together, and beyond rose the countless homes of the city, and they too seemed to Epher like tombstones, a great city of the dead.

"What have we done?" he whispered.

"We fight," said Olive. "We lions."

Epher looked at her. A young face. Eager. Green eyes alight, red hair—a color so rare here in Zohar—falling across her freckled brow.

"Master Malaci, a wise man in Gefen, once told me that years ago, many lions roamed the deserts of Zohar," Epher said. "They would snatch babes from cradles and slay even mighty warriors. But men hunted them. I've only seen a lion once in my life—a dead cub borne by an eagle. Now no more lions live in Zohar, and we know these animals only from our amulets and shields. Olive, we children of Zohar are mighty as lions, and we roar with pride. But will we too vanish into the sand?"

Olive leaned against the palm tree. "Lions still live. I see lion once."

Epher leaned against the tree with her. "Where?"

She pointed. "There. In . . . away." Suddenly her eyes dampened. "Away."

"In the wilderness?" Epher asked.

She tilted her head. "Wilderness?"

"That's what we call the places outside the cities."

Olive leaned against him and closed her eyes. A tear trailed down her cheek. "Wilderness my home once. I was like lion. Lost. Lost away. In wilderness. I hunt. I saw real lion once. Like cats in Beth Eloh but big, big almost like horse. It was night. Stars high. I see stars for long time, and lion come, stand beside me, look at stars too. We look together. Two lions in wilderness."

Epher placed one hand on her thigh, and his other hand lifted a tear off her cheek. "Where are you from, Olive? How did you end up alone in the wild for so long?"

"I not know." She bit her lip. "I have mother and father once, I think. I remember . . . place with houses. City but . . . small."

"A village?" Epher asked.

Olive nodded. "Bad men come. Bring fire and swords. Cut and burn. My parents . . . they die." She lowered her head. "I small. Like this." She held out her hands. "Like baby. I run. Run from fire. Go into wilderness. Eat fruit and fish. Humans scare me. I live with animals."

Epher looked over the cemetery and city beyond. "Animals are better to live with than humans."

Olive kissed him. "You human. You good."

Across the city, the din still rose. Legionaries shouting. Zoharites crying out in fear, in pain, or in pride.

"The lions rise!" cried a distant man. "Rise, lions, against the eagles!"

Epher closed his eyes and held Olive close. The wrath of Aelar would be swift, he knew, its punishment brutal. Blood would soak this city, and Epher did not know if peace would ever dwell here again.

OFEER

"Eighteen denarii," she said. "Eighteen denarii and you saw it off. And no questions."

The burly, shirtless man stared at her across the table. A single ray of light fell through the window, thick with dust, illuminating a room full of rusty tools, crooked wooden shelves, and mice droppings. The man stared at Ofeer, eyes narrowed. He sucked his teeth and spat into a tin plate.

"Get the fuck out of here." He drank from a cup of ale, sloshed it in his mouth, spat again. "I don't take a shit for eighteen denarii."

Ofeer sat before him, clad in rags, her hair bedraggled, a wretched animal, but she stared at him steadily. She slammed the coins onto the tabletop, rattling the man's mug, his saw, and a host of metal tools.

"I begged on the street for a week for these coins. You will take them. And you will do what you did to a thousand other slaves. You will saw off my collar."

The hairy man snorted and scratched his stubble. "I don't care if you sucked lepers' cocks for a week. Cost is a hundred denarii, or I turn you in." He reached across the table, surprisingly fast, and grabbed her wrist. With his other hand, he grabbed the tag that hung from her collar, and his eyes widened. "Well, fuck me. A palace slave! A thousand denarii reward."

The man's eyes widened, and saliva dripped from his grin. Ofeer wrenched herself free.

"Go ahead then," she said. "Bring me right to the Acropolis from which I escaped. Hand me over to Porcia Octavius. I'm sure she'd be delighted when I tell her about the little business you've been running here." She glanced pointedly at a pile of sawed-off collars in a barrel at the back.

The man released her tag, grunted, and sat back. He scrutinized her, nodding slowly.

"All right." He nodded. "All right, I'll tell you what. You pay me eighteen denarii, and I'll saw off your collar . . . and then your goddamn fucking head, you whore."

He rose to his feet, reaching for his saw.

Ofeer sneered and swung her arm. She hit the mug of ale, tossing it onto his chest, spilling its booze. The man sputtered and stumbled. Ofeer reached out, grabbed the saw from the table, and ran. As the man roared behind her, Ofeer burst out the door, carrying the saw—a small tool, no larger than a dagger. She ran down the sun-drenched street, and the burly man lolloped in pursuit.

Go ahead, Ofeer thought. Call for help. Let's see if a slave smuggler dares request aid from the Magisterian Guard.

As she ran down the street, whipping through a crowd of hundreds, she glanced behind her to see the brute following, shoving people aside . . . but remaining silent.

"No robber speaks of robbery," Ofeer muttered in Zoharite, an ancient saying from the Book of Eloh.

She vanished into the crowd, stepped into a spice shop, exited through the back door, and ran down the alleyway until she emerged onto another street. A procession of oxen walked here, leading carts heavy with amphorae full of olive oil. Ofeer ran around the beasts and continued up a narrow road, her pursuer now too far to ever find her. Aelar, this single city, had as many people as all of Zohar, from its northern forests to its southern desert. Ofeer could easily vanish here.

Ahead rose a triumphal arch, built a century ago to celebrate the defeat of Kalintia, the once-great civilization that was now a mere province of the Aelarian Empire. Past the towering archway, the city streets sloped down toward the distant Aelaria Maritima, the Empire's largest port, where thousands of ships sailed. Ofeer walked under the archway, stepped aside into an alleyway, and made her way down a narrow road where soothsayers gutted hens and sought the future in the entrails. Here Ofeer found a little hollow between the arches of an aqueduct and a rustling oak tree. She knelt between wood and stone, hefted her pilfered saw, and got to work.

It was slow work. Slower than she had thought. It was two hours, maybe three before she had finally sawed through the iron collar and pulled the wretched thing off.

She stared at it. The collar Seneca had placed around her neck, buying her from the slave market for twenty thousand denarii, the price of a good horse. Again she read the letters engraved onto the tag.

I have escaped! If you find me, return me to the Acropolis, to Seneca Octavius, for a thousand denarius reward.

Ofeer scoffed. She was free now, and it was Seneca—wretched, pathetic Seneca—who had escaped, fleeing his sister's wrath across the sea.

"You will never more enslave me," Ofeer whispered, voice shaking. "And you will never know your child."

She buried the collar by the oak tree, rose to her feet, and walked.

She wandered the streets of Aelar, her sandals full of holes, her tunic torn, her neck raw where the collar had chafed her. The city bustled around her. A cart trundled down the road, so wide it scraped the walls of buildings at its sides. A wool merchant drove the cart, shouting at the crowd to move aside, forcing several elders into a gutter. Naked children splashed in a public fountain, cavorting around a statue of Aelia, goddess of music and namesake of the Empire. A philosopher stood at a street corner, a Kalinitian with a long white beard, speaking in flawless Aelarian of the movements of stars. A priest led a procession of the ill, moving toward a temple on a hill. Behind him shuffled the hopeless, covered in sores, one man armless. A group of young women in stolas recoiled from the ill, then continued down the road, carrying baskets full of colored fabrics and gleaming trifles. Thousands of others moved here, priests and paupers, legionaries and lepers, wealthy lords in palanquins and scrawny poor in loincloths. All of humanity, people from nations around the Encircled Sea—they all crowded in this hive, a million lives, a million stories within these walls.

And among them—a woman seeking a home, a filthy urchin, the daughter of an emperor with a child of sin inside her.

As she wandered the streets, she saw them everywhere—visions of a future she feared, visions of who she could so easily become. The beggars sprawled across the city streets, tattered, ill, dying. Some danced and sang for coins. Others sat against walls, legless, armless, victims of the Empire's endless wars, tin dishes laid out before them. As Ofeer walked by them, these wretched beings that were only half alive, the fear seemed almost too much to bear.

Will I end up like them? Ofeer thought, gazing at two children beating a drum for coins, fleeing when a soldier drew his sword and advanced toward them. Will I end up singing, dancing, begging for coins, only to give birth in the gutter to a child doomed to the same fate?

Ofeer's eyes stung. How had she come to this? She had been among the wealthiest women in Zohar, the blood of Elshalom himself in her veins. Her father was Emperor Marcus Octavius, the most powerful man in the world. A cart rolled by, laden with straw, and sprayed her with mud. Dripping filth, Ofeer thought of Seneca . . . and she almost missed him. Almost missed who she had thought he was, a noble prince who would love her, who would show her the glory of the Empire.

She walked down the street, circled a statue of an old emperor astride a horse, and stared north. There, past countless streets, the Acropolis rose on the hill. The inner city. The realm of Porcia Octavius. A place of marble palaces, full of gold, jewels, and emperors who spat on their daughters. A place of marvelous bathhouses full of statues, mosaics, and slaves who shattered the heads of men on poolsides. A place of amphitheaters and circuses, marvels of architecture, their archways soaring toward the sky, surrounding arenas where men slew one another for sport. There above—the heart of the world, a place of endless splendor and slaughter. Ofeer's birthright, forever forbidden to her.

She walked onward.

"I will not succumb to pity," she whispered to herself. "I will not. That is not who I am. I am Ofeer Sela. I am Ofeer Octavius. A lioness and an eagle." She looked at a group of beggars who sat under an aqueduct, staring her way. One man reached to his crotch and pleasured himself while leering at her. "I will not become a creature like that, a wretched beast under a bridge. I am worth more than that. I will be more than that."

Ofeer walked onward, chin raised, shoulders squared. She knew that she was vain. She knew that she was cruel. She knew that she was not sweet like Maya, not pleasant like Koren, not noble like Epher. But if nothing else, Ofeer knew that she was strong. She had always been strong, stronger than Atalia in many ways, her mind as sharp as the swords her sister would wield.

I am the daughter of nobility, and I will live a noble life.

She would find work, she decided. She was not too proud to work. For years Ofeer had tended to her mother's vineyard, picking grapes until her fingers were raw and her skin was brown. Work did not scare her.

I'm young, she thought. I'm still pretty, perhaps. I can sing and I can dance. I will not squat in filth. I will survive by my own talents, not because of a gift from Seneca or any other man.

She walked through the city with new determination, passing by public kitchens where cooks prepared meals for citizens who brought in their own grains, meats, and spices. She passed a winehouse where rose a statue of Vin, a drunken god with goat legs, and rosy-cheeked soldiers drank and sang. Ofeer gave the place a wide berth.

Finally, alongside a boulevard that led toward the Acropolis, she found an establishment that catered to a wealthier clientele. The building stood on a street corner, three stories tall, its windows filled with actual glass—a costly material. The sound of laughter rose from within, and several oversized phalli were engraved into the building's marble bricks, pointing toward a fine doorway, its bronze handle phallus-shaped as well and worn by many hands. Letters were engraved into the marble above the doorway, filled with blue and golden tiles: The Lunapar.

A brothel, Ofeer knew. Such establishments were frowned upon back in Zohar, but they dotted every neighborhood here in Aelar, as plentiful as taverns and temples.

"Taverns, temples, togas, and trollops," Offer muttered. "The four pillars of Aelar."

She had no interest in joining the fourth pillar, but establishments as fine as the Lunapar—it was the nicest brothel she'd seen so far—would also need cooks, cupbearers, perhaps singers or dancers, and a pretty face couldn't hurt her chances of finding employment here. She had spent enough time in the filthy taverns of Gefen that a place such as the Lunapar would seem like a palace. She grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, and stepped inside.

A glittering chamber awaited her, as fine as a palace and far more lively. Pastel murals covered the walls, lewd paintings of naked men and women, showing every possible way to make love—some that Ofeer had tried, many of which she had never imagined. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, candles burning atop their branches even in the daytime. Elaborate Sekadian rugs covered the floor, and zebra and lion pelts from Nur lay slung across divans. The smell of frankincense, wine, and sex filled the air, a heady aroma.

Several men filled the main hall, even so early in the day, and women moved among them, clad in togas—garments for male citizens and female whores. There were Aelarian women here, beauties with brown hair and large eyes, but also women from Nur, their skin as dark as dusk, and women from the northern lands of Gael, Denebar, and Elania, their hair the color of sunrise. And not just women moved among the patrons but boys too, clad in pale tunics, collars around their necks, young slaves to pleasure those who favored them. Wine filled chalices, and a statue of Vin rose in the center of the hall, his manhood several times the usual size, thrusting out like a spear and slung with laurels.

A pretty woman with tresses of brown hair noticed Ofeer. She hurried toward Ofeer, toga rustling. A forced smile found her lips.

"Now, now, child." The woman tried to hurry Ofeer toward the door. "Come on, let me show you back outside, and I'll soon bring you a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of ale."

Ofeer would have kicked a kitten for some oatmeal and ale right now, but she brushed off the woman. "I'm not here to beg." She looked down at her rags and filthy skin, then back up at the woman, chin raised, refusing to feel shame. "I'm looking for work."

The woman's eyes narrowed. She grabbed Ofeer's arm and hurried her out from the main hall into a corridor.

"I'm not a beggar," Ofeer repeated. "I know I look like one. But I can sing. I can dance. I—"

The woman in the toga reached to Ofeer's neck, then traced her fingers across the ring of chafed skin. She looked up at Ofeer and raised an eyebrow.

Ofeer squared her shoulders. "Close shave," she said.

The woman in the toga tried to frown, then burst out laughing. She sighed. "You've got spunk, I'll give you that. And you're too well spoken to have been an urchin for long." She tilted her head. "You look like a Zoharite, yet you speak High Aelarian with the accent of a noblewoman. What's your name?"

Ofeer considered for a moment. "Odelia," she finally said, choosing a common name of the desert.

The woman in the toga snorted. "Do you always spend a few seconds trying to remember your name?" She laughed. "I'm Mariana. You'd do well here, I think, once we wash the stink off you and slap some cosmetics on that pretty face. Our patrons enjoy women from across the world, yet they've never tasted a Zoharite. Most of your kind are too proud to don a toga and touch an uncircumcised cock."

"I'm not here to do . . . that." Ofeer grimaced to remember lying in the cave with Seneca, giving him her body for a chance for riches and wonder. "I'll serve wine. I'll cook. I can sing and dance for the crowd if you like. I'll even wash and change the linens. You need girls to do that sort of work too, don't you?"

Mariana sighed. "As I said . . . too proud, you desert lionesses. Prince Seneca himself used to request a Zoharite here. He had one in his palace, he claimed. A Zoharite concubine all his own, his pride and the jealousy of every other man. I bet he used to think of her when he fucked me."

Ofeer groaned inwardly. So this had been a favorite haunt for Seneca. Somehow she was not surprised.

"In that case, I'm glad the prince buggered off into exile," she said.

Mariana laughed. "As am I, though the boy did tip grandly, I'll give him that. He funded us well for a couple of years." She took Ofeer's hand. "Come with me."

She pulled Ofeer up a staircase and down a hallway lined with chambers. The smell of soot, booze, and sex filled the hallway, thick as soup. Signs hung on the doors, most displaying the word "Occupied," some with the words "Please Clean." Moans, laughter, and the odd howl rose from the occupied chambers. One door was open, revealing two nude, golden-haired women pleasuring a portly man, his cheeks rosy with wine. Boys ran up and down the corridor, entering and leaving rooms with bowls of water, soap, and rags. A door banged open, and a legionary emerged from within, wearing the armor of a general, insignia upon his pauldrons. He marched down the hallway, chest puffed out, proud as if returning from battle. Two girls quickly rushed into the chamber he had exited, approached a nude prostitute within, and busied themselves fixing the woman's hair and powdering her bruises. Ofeer had scarcely walked by before another patron was shown into the room.

Finally Mariana and Ofeer reached a large chamber at the back. No sign hung from this door, and Mariana grabbed a brass knocker—it was shaped as a man's privates—and knocked three times.

For a long moment there was silence. Finally a raspy voice called from behind the door. "Come in."

Mariana opened the door, and they stepped inside. The room was opulent, the floor covered with rugs, the walls bedecked with silks. Beams of light shone through tainted glass windows and many glass vessels that stood on shelves and tables. The scent of hintan, a spice of the desert, hung in the air, and green smoke wafted. Ofeer coughed and waved the smoke aside, revealing a woman who sat at the back of the room. She was the largest woman Ofeer had ever seen, her corpulence a wondrous thing, the rolls of flesh draped with pastel silks. The woman was easily four times Ofeer's size. She reclined on a low couch, smoking from a hookah. Purple liquid bubbled within the vessel.

"Lena Florine." Mariana bowed her head. "I beg your pardon."

Ofeer had read that term before in forbidden scrolls. Lena—a mistress of courtesans.

The lena gazed at Ofeer through the veil of smoke. Her face was heavily painted, the eyelids shimmering blue, the lips bright red. Rings shone on every one of her fingers, costly things too, adorned with sapphires and rubies and emeralds, not the semiprecious stones many ladies of Aelar sported.

"She's got good bones." Lena Florine gestured for Ofeer to step closer. "Come here, child. Yes, like that, stand there. No, closer. Yes, good bones on her. Good hips too for one so thin. I have no use for narrow hips. Turn around. No? Shy?" The mistress laughed, then coughed, sputtering out green smoke. "Never mind. The shyness will leave you soon enough." She turned toward Mariana. "Bathe her. She stinks of the gutters. Dress her in silk—white silk, it'll contrast nicely with her dark skin. Give her some jewels, the cheap ones for now, until we can trust her. Brass or copper, not silver. Silver only looks good on Gaelians. Red gemstones, not blue or green; this one is fire. Then put her to work. Charge five hundred denarii a night. She'll fetch it."

Mariana glanced at Ofeer, then back at her lena. "Forgive me, lena, but . . . she does not wish to serve as a lupa. It's forbidden in the culture of Zohar. She asks to serve wine, to cook, to clean, to sing and dance for the crowd, but not to lie with men."

"Oh?" Lena Florine's mouth formed a circle, and she raised her eyebrows and turned to regard Ofeer again. "What's your name, girl?"

"Odelia," Ofeer said.

Florine laughed again, sputtering more smoke. "You're lying. I see it in your eyes. But very well. I was not always Florine, and our mutual friend here was not always Mariana. So tell me, Odelia of the desert, is the profession of lupa beneath you? Is your eastern blood too noble to serve among us mere sinners?"

Ofeer shook her head. "Your profession is nobler than that of any legionary or emperor. They spill the blood of men; you merely heat it. But . . ." Ofeer lowered her head. "I'm pregnant, Lena Florine. I will not lie with men while a child grows within me." She placed a hand on her belly and looked into the lena's eyes. "I'm a singer and dancer, and I can play the lyre and timbrel and read sheet music with ease, but I'm also not afraid to mop floors, change sheets, or work in the kitchen. I'm a hard worker."

All the harshness left Florine's eyes, and she gestured for Ofeer to step even closer, bracelets jangling. Still reclining, she patted an empty spot on the divan beside her. Ofeer sat down, hands on her lap.

"And the father is gone, I suppose?" Florine said, softness in her voice.

Ofeer nodded. "He sailed overseas and left me."

"So what do we do with you?" Florine stared with shrewd eyes. "A Zoharite with a fake name, not yet scrawny enough to have been on the streets for too long, who speaks Aelarian with a noblewoman's accent, with the mark of a slave collar still around her neck, and the father of her child gone overseas. Much like Prince Seneca is gone overseas. I don't suppose, Odelia, that you've ever met Seneca's fabled concubine of the desert, the Zoharite princess Ofeer Sela, who was paraded before the city in the prince's triumphal march? The girl said to have fled the Acropolis?"

Ofeer's heart thrashed, but she stared steadily into the matron's eyes. "I've never met her. I heard she died in the fire."

The matron nodded, a hint of mirth in her eyes. "Indeed, perhaps she did." A sigh rippled across her silks. "It might not surprise you, Odelia, that we've dealt with such problems here at the Lunapar before. All my girls receive training as midwives as well as lupae. Mariana here has delivered two babes already." With a pudgy hand gleaming with rings, Florine patted Ofeer's knee. "You've been on the streets for a while, but this is a safe place for you. You'll clean the kitchen, and you'll cook meals for the guests—and for the girls!—and you'll wash linens, and you'll empty my chamber pot, and you'll rub my feet when they ache, and you'll do all sorts of tasks that you probably feel are beneath you, judging by your highborn accent. But you'll be safe, well fed, and your son or daughter will have a safe delivery and shelter. And as for Ofeer, well . . ." Her eyes turned shrewd. "We will mourn her death."

Ofeer tightened her lips and lowered her eyes, struggling not to shed tears. "Thank you, Lena Florine," she whispered.

I began my life in seaside taverns, she thought. I end up in a brothel across the sea. But you will have a good life, my child. I swear this. I swear.

SENECA

At sunrise, he sailed into a port of light and mist and southern glory, gateway to a land of ancient death and dawning hope.

"Nur," Seneca said softly. "Land of ivory, of diamonds, of gold." He inhaled the rich, salty scent of the realm before him. "The land Uncle Cicero rules, the land where I'll find my army."

The Aquila Aureum sailed onward, entering the harbor of Tereen, the northernmost city in Nur. Breakwaters spread around them, half a league long, built of great boulders stacked together. At the edge of each breakwater rose a massive statue, large as a palace, shaped as a winged lion with the face of a woman. The music of the port rose around Seneca: the songs of sailors, the creak of wood and rope, the cries of gulls, the shrieks of ospreys diving down to catch fish. Countless ships filled the harbor, some massive cogs carved of dark wood, others the simple reed boats of fishermen. Many were Aelarian vessels, for Nur had fallen years ago. It now formed the largest province in the Empire, fifty times the size of Zohar.

Ahead, across the water, Seneca beheld Nur for the first time in his life. Unlike the ports of Aelar and Zohar, built along natural harbors that dipped into dry land, Nur's port rose across a great delta. The Majina River—the greatest river in the world—split here into many smaller streams, each flowing into the harbor. A forest of palm trees and mangroves rose along the coast, lush with fluttering birds. Among the trees rose the city of Tereen—towers as thin as blades, obelisks tipped with gold, colossal statues of humans with the heads of beasts, temples lined with many columns, and soaring above them all—three limestone pyramids capped with precious metals.

"They shouldn't be displaying statues of their savage idols," Seneca said, staring at the city. "They should have statues of proper gods, human gods. Not hybrid beasts." He sighed. "I suppose it's preferable to that damn invisible God you worship in Zohar."

Taeer stood at his side, smiling softly. The wind billowed her red silks and dark hair. Her earrings chinked. "Eloh is invisible only to those blind to his grace, dominus."

"Eloh can kiss my ass," said Seneca. "Fuck Eloh, fuck the Nurian hybrids, and fuck my sister especially." He realized how his words could be interpreted and cringed. "I mean Porcia."

Taeer had the grace to nod. "Of course, my emperor."

Seneca shoved aside the thought of those nights with Ofeer. He wanted to forget her, yet every night she still invaded his dreams, naked and lustful, and in his dreams he was with her again in her mother's bed, loving her as Jerael died outside the window.

He took a deep breath. He must forget Ofeer. He would focus only on his quest now. Only on the task ahead.

"We'll find power here, Taeer." He gripped the ship's balustrade. "My uncle Cicero commands the entire province of Nur. This isn't some fucking backwater like your Zohar. This is a massive kingdom, fifty times the size of your old rats' nest. Cicero has armies here. A whole fleet. Enough to conquer Aelar." He laughed. "When I'm done with Porcia, I'll build a hybrid god out of her. I'll behead her and sew an animal head onto her body, maybe a pig. That'll suit her."

His voice was shaking, he noticed. He sucked in breath, struggling to calm himself, and clenched and unclenched his fists. He must not show weakness here. The Nurians were savages. If he showed any weakness, if he cried again, they would rip out his heart.

Taeer pointed. "Look, dominus. A little bit of home."

Ahead he saw it. A building rose on the coast, built in Aelarian style. Its portico's columns were carved into Aelar's gods and goddesses, wrapped in marble robes, and eagles were engraved onto the pediment. Farther back rose towers bearing eagle banners. In the water, twenty Aelarian galleys—smaller vessels than Seneca's—were docked along the piers.

The Aquila Aureum was too large to dock at these piers. Seneca ordered the anchor dropped, then climbed into a landing craft. He had taken no guards or legionaries from Aelar, only a handful of sailors. During Porcia's bloody coup, there hadn't been time to find men still loyal to him. He and Taeer entered the boat alone, and Seneca rowed like a common galley slave.

He reached a boardwalk lined with legionaries. On their shields, they displayed eagles slaying ibises, birds of Aelar slaying birds of Nur—sigil of Legio X Ibisa, a great southern legion under Uncle Cicero's command. Seneca himself had donned armor today. When the southern sun hit his vambraces, they shone like molten gold. He placed his helmet on his head before docking his boat.

He climbed onto the pier, nearly slipped, and cursed as he wobbled. After steadying himself, he reached down and helped Taeer join him. She too was dressed in splendor. Crimson silk embroidered with lions flowed around her body, golden serpents coiled around her arms, and an eagle pendant shone against her chest. Cosmetics colored her lips, eyelids, and cheeks.

An emperor and his lumer, Seneca thought, climbing out of a landing craft like common fishermen.

He walked along the pier and onto the boardwalk, Taeer walking a step behind. When they reached the legionaries, Taeer stepped closer and raised her chin.

"Emperor Seneca Octavius, son of Marcus, Lord of Aelar, conqueror of Zohar, stands before you!" The wind jangled Taeer's earrings and belt of coins. "Sons of Aelar, kneel before his holiness, the mighty eagle, blessed by Camulus himself, the god of war."

The legionaries glanced at one another, for a moment uncertain, then toward Seneca. He stared at them, annoyed, and pulled off his helmet to let them get a better look. Didn't this place have any damn statues of him?

Finally the soldiers, still hesitant, knelt. If they did not recognize his face, they at least recognized the shine of gold on his armor.

He pointed at two of them. "You will accompany me. We desire no rest. We will ride south to the city of Shenutep, where my uncle, Cicero Octavius, is stationed. There I'll pay each of you a golden coin. Now come, we fetch horses! We depart at once."

A deep voice spoke from ahead. "Cicero Octavius is dead, dominus. You've come here too late, I fear."

Seneca sucked in air. He turned toward the voice. A man emerged between the manor's engraved columns, walked downstairs, and headed across the boardwalk toward them. He wore a vanilla toga hemmed in purple, and an ultramarine sash embroidered with golden eagles hung across his ample frame. He was balding, with thick lips and heavy lids that framed shrewd eyes. When he reached Seneca, he knelt before him.

"My prince," he said.

"Your emperor," Taeer corrected the man. "Emperor Marcus is dead, and Porcia is an illegitimate usurper. You kneel before the true master of the Aelarian Empire."

Seneca waved her back. "It's all right, Taeer." He turned toward the kneeling man. "Rise, Fabricus."

Seneca knew the man. He had seen him before many times at the Amphitheater of Aelar, cheering on the gladiators he purchased and trained for the fights. Fabricus was more politician than general, born into the wealthy Haratius family of senators.

The senators Porcia slew, Seneca thought. Taeer had kept him updated with the goings in Aelar, communicating with her sisters across the sea. Fabricus Haratius will not be loyal to the woman who murdered his friends.

"My emperor!" said Fabricus. "Forgive me. Come, come! I forget my courtesies. Step into my hall, and you will feast upon the finest fare in Nur, and we will discuss this whole sordid affair."

They entered the manor along the boardwalk. Past the portico awaited a vestibule, its mosaic displaying the animals of Nur: elephants, zebras, giraffes, gazelles, and many others. Across the ceiling appeared a fresco of Aelar's eagles, wings wide. The symbolism was clear. Nur's beasts crawled on the floor while Aelar's soared overhead.

Fabricus led the way, toga rustling. Seneca and Taeer followed him into a rotunda, a great round hall. At first, when seeing the building from outside, Seneca had felt at home. Among the strange architecture of Nur—the buildings tall, harsh, built of sandstone and limestone—here stood an Aelarian building, carved of graceful marble, columned and engraved with images of the gods. Yet here, inside the rotunda, there could be no doubt—Seneca was far from home.

The treasures of this southern land filled the hall. The heads of Nurian beasts hung on the halls, stuffed and staring with glass eyes. Lions, leopards, and cheetahs snarled silently. A bison's head dwarfed them, its horns longer than men were tall. A great table stood ahead, carved of ivory—tusk after tusk worked together. Around the table spread low couches upholstered with zebra hides.

Not only animals were displayed here but the works of humans. Among the stuffed heads hung treasures of Nur: wooden masks, painted gold and red and inlaid with rubies; spears tipped with cruel steel blades, the shafts feathered; and obsidian statues of fertility, the males thrusting forth oversized phalli, the women blessed with massive hips and breasts, ready for childbirth.

And among the plundered treasures and slain animals—a life.

A gilded cage stood on the ivory table like a centerpiece, its bars shaped as serpents with sapphire eyes. Within crouched a woman. She seemed somewhat older than Seneca's twenty years, probably closer to thirty. Her skin was rich mahogany, and a fountain of black curls framed her face. She wore a kalasiri—the narrow, form-fitting dress Nurian women favored. The fabric was fine muslin and embroidered with golden thread, but it was tattered and bloodstained. The woman was beautiful—her eyes were large and liquid brown, her lips full, her body slender—but a bruise spread around her left eye, and lacerations crisscrossed her limbs. She stared from her cage. A rope gagged her mouth, and rage filled her eyes.

"Come, lounge at my table." Fabricus clapped his hands. "Slaves! Fetch us wine! Fetch us a meal!" He turned back toward Seneca. "You will eat and drink with me, I trust? After our meal, I'd be glad to show you to the bathhouse. I've built a bathhouse here to rival those in Aelar, and I've trained the local Nurians to scrub my skin with sponges they pluck from the depths of the sea."

Seneca had spent most of the past few months at sea—traveling to Zohar, back to Aelar, then finally here. The last thing he desired was more water.

"Just a meal for now," he said. Whatever Fabricus served here, it would be most welcome. Seneca had spent the journey here feeding on Aquila Aureum's dwindling supplies. Over the past week, he'd been eating little more than dry crackers, moldy cheese, and briny onions.

They lounged on the zebra-hide couches by the low ivory table—Seneca in his armor, Taeer in her red silks and jewels, and Fabricus in his toga. Slaves stepped forth, collared Nurians in livery, serving a meal. They poured wine. It was crimson and thick and very sweet. On silver platters, they served butter melting over grainy bread, roast ducks on beds of leeks, fresh grapes and melons and carobs, and cakes sweetened with figs and honey. While some slaves served the table, others entertained the diners. Men played harps and flutes, and women danced, their silks fluttering around their hips.

As they dined, Taeer spoke of the events in Aelar, describing the death of Marcus Octavius and Porcia's coup and violence. Fabricus nodded as he listened, shucking oyster after oyster, his appetite seeming to grow as the tale continued.

Seneca spared the entertainers, the food, and conversation little attention. As he reclined on the couch, propped up on his left elbow, he kept gazing toward the woman in the cage, a living centerpiece on the tabletop. She stared back, growling through her gag.

"Ah, I see your eye has caught my sweet little blackbird," said Fabricus, finally turning away from Taeer and his platter of oysters. He placed a sweaty palm on Seneca's shoulder. "She's a fine specimen indeed. I do wish I could keep her, but she's destined to be shipped north to Aelar tomorrow at dawn."

The captive woman stared at Seneca. Her eyes narrowed, flaming with hatred. Her teeth gnashed at her gag. Her muscles tensed. This one was a wild animal, fierce, untamed. Yet she was not pure ferocity like Atalia, the crazy woman who had nearly killed Seneca in Zohar. No. There was a nobility to this caged Nurian, a grace that the dirt and rage and bars could not hide.

Seneca remembered the songs that praised the savanna queen. The tales of the warrior who led the southern province, daughter of the queen slain in the Amphitheatrum. Seneca had seen this one before—in paintings, in plundered statues, in his own dreams.

"She's Imani Koteeka," Seneca said in wonder. "Queen of Nur." He turned back toward Fabricus. "The Empire normally seats its puppet monarchs on thrones, not on tabletops."

Fabricus barked a laugh. "Most astute, Prince Seneca, most astute! That is—Emperor Seneca." He bowed his balding head, and Seneca knew the man was merely humoring him. "As blood spilled in Aelar, so did it spill here in Nur. The savages rebelled. They murdered hundreds of legionaries, and still the rebels fight. It's our friend here—Queen Imani—who slew your dear uncle. She gored Cicero with an elephant's tusk, they say." Fabricus shook his head sadly. "Such a savage way to kill a man."

"Are there any noble ways?" Seneca asked, remembering how he himself had killed a man—how he had swung the hammer, nailing Jerael Sela into the cross.

"Indeed not, my emperor." Fabricus slurped another oyster and licked his thick lips. "Now, to kill this one . . ." He returned his eyes to Imani. "Killing her should not be a thing of nobility, nor of savagery, but a spectacle. Do you know how we killed her mother?"

Seneca grimaced. He remembered that day a decade ago. He had been only ten, already old enough to attend the games in the arena. For hours, the gladiators had battled wild animals shipped over from Nur for the occasion—lions, rhinos, even a mad elephant in musk. How the crowd had cheered! Porcia had laughed and laughed as the elephant trampled a man, crushing his head. Seneca had cried, had sought shelter behind his father. Yet Marcus had forced his son to watch, had twisted Seneca's head toward the arena.

"Watch them die, son," Marcus Octavius had said. "Harden your heart to killing, because someday it will be your task to kill."

"I don't want to kill anyone," young Seneca had said, tears on his cheeks.

Porcia—already blooming into womanhood—had snickered at this, but Marcus had fixed his son with a stare.

"Does a hunter delight in shooting a deer?" said Marcus. "Does a soldier delight in slaying an enemy? Does a butcher delight in slicing the throat of a hog? No, son. But they do what they must. So must rulers kill. Conquer. Crush. Entertain the masses. Whether you want to kill or not is irrelevant. You will kill because you must."

And that day, Emperor Marcus killed Anaya Koteeka. His soldiers dragged the Queen of Nur into the arena, and it was Marcus himself who stepped down onto the sand, who crucified Anaya, who disemboweled her alive as the crowds cheered, who severed her limbs and head, then sent them to be hung upon the city gates.

" . . .perhaps a simple crucifixion, though that seems so pedestrian," Fabricus was saying, propped up on his elbow, his couch's zebra upholstery stained with oyster juice. "We could try a flaying, though that so disturbs the women in the audience; their hearts are softer than ours. They say that in Sekadia, the savages have hollow bronze bulls, which they place over embers, then cook their victims within. They say that the screams rise through a network of pipes and emerge from the bulls' mouths as melodious songs. Perhaps we could build such a bull for Imani." Fabricus sighed. "I so hoped to send our dear friend to your father. He would have delighted in killing her like he killed her mother. Yet now that our beloved Marcus Octavius drinks wine with the gods in their heavenly realm, to whom should I allow the pleasure of slaying this delicate blackbird?" Fabricus cocked an eyebrow. "Should I send her to Porcia, who sits upon the throne of Aelar, or should I gift her to Seneca, who lounges in my home here in Nur?"

Seneca stared back at the sweaty man.

He wants something, Seneca knew. He has not yet chosen sides. He wants money or a guarantee of power. He wants to know which card to play.

Seneca looked back at Imani. The Queen of Nur snarled in her cage, trying to speak, her voice only a muffled groan beneath her gag. She stared into his eyes. There was hatred in those eyes. There was strength. There was murder.

"She killed Uncle Cicero, you say?" Seneca spoke to Fabricus, but he did not remove his eyes from the caged queen. "Gored him with an elephant tusk?"

Fabricus dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. "And she slew many others before we caught her. The blood of a hundred legionaries is on her hands. Even now, as we dine here, her rebels fight in the streets of Shenutep, the great city that lies farther south along the river. Nur is a land of wild beasts, and she is the wildest of them all."

As if to confirm the lord's words, Imani leaped forward in her cage, banging against the gilded bars. The cage nearly overturned. The queen reached between the bars, grabbed a plate, and shattered it against the tabletop. Eyes blazing, she tossed the shards.

Fabricus yelped and dived to the floor, knocking over his plate of oysters, and even Taeer started and leaned back. Seneca remained on his couch, even as shard sliced across his cheek. He brought his fingers to the wound; they came away bloody. He looked up at Imani. She stared into his eyes, chest heaving.

"Foul beast!" Fabricus grabbed a whip. "I apologize, my emperor. She will pay for this. Would you care to beat her yourself, to hurt her before either you or Porcia kill her?"

Seneca brushed his thumb and forefinger together, examining the blood.

"My father once taught me that a ruler should never delight in killing." Seneca wiped his fingers on his napkin and drew his gladius. "He taught me that a ruler kills only when he must."

Fabricus nodded, cheeks flushed. "Aye, my prince. He was a wise man. Imani must indeed be ki—"

Seneca thrust his sword, burying the blade in Fabricus's belly.

The portly lord gasped. Saliva dribbled from his mouth. His thick hands grabbed the blade as if he would pull it free, but he only cut his palms. Seneca tugged the blade back slowly, twisting it, letting the man's innards spill. Fabricus crashed to the floor, his blood flowing across the mosaic. The servants screamed and fled the hall.

Seneca looked up at Taeer. The lumer gazed back, eyes solemn, and gave a small nod.

"He called me prince," Seneca said. "He dared to speak of Porcia. He should have chosen sides at once."

"He was a fool," Taeer said. "It is you, Seneca Octavius, who is true emperor of Aelar."

Seneca stepped over the corpse and climbed onto the ivory table. He knelt on the tabletop before the golden cage. Imani stared at him, crouched behind the bars, muscles tense, fists clenched. The most dangerous creature in Nur.

"I'm going to remove your gag," Seneca said. "Are you going to bite my fingers?"

Imani's eyes narrowed. Her lips peeled back. She raised her hands, and for a moment Seneca feared she'd reach between the bars and claw out his eyes.

But slowly Imani shook her head.

Seneca took a knife from the table—the same one Fabricus had used to shuck his oysters—and reached between the cage bars. Gently he sawed at Imani's gag, finally cutting it off.

"Do you speak Aelarian?" he asked her.

Blood stained the corners of her mouth where the gag had chafed her. Bits of cloth clung to her teeth where she had tried to bite through the gag.

"Are you going to kill me now too?" Imani said, speaking Aelarian with barely the hint of an accent.

They always teach us in Aelar that the Nurians are savages, barely wiser than animals, Seneca thought. Yet this one is noble and wise.

"No," Seneca said softly. "I'm not going to kill you." He swung his sword, shattering the cage's lock, and pulled the barred door open. "I'm going to marry you."

PORCIA

The Empire was burning, and so was Porcia's wrath.

The words echoed through her head, the tidings from across the Encircled Sea.

Prince Seneca has landed in Nur, my empress! He plans to marry Queen Imani and raise Nur against you.

Porcia had murdered that messenger, but still his words filled her like bad eels.

The Zoharites are revolting, Empress Porcia! They're slaying legionaries in the streets, and the desert runs red with blood.

Another messenger killed, crucified on the hill. Let their bodies rot.

Your lumer is nowhere to be found, my goddess! We searched every alleyway in the city for Worm, yet the girl has vanished.

The words of a Magisterian guard, a sniveling soldier. Another body for the crosses.

Porcia sat on her throne, clutching the armrests. Her drunken paramours lay around her, snoring and naked, passed out on beds of coins and gemstones. A hundred Magisterian guards stood between the columns of the hall, fresh men gleaned from the legions, the deadliest killers in the Empire. Porcia had slain the old palace guards—treacherous men who had served the senators. Here stood new soldiers displaying the Guard's sigil, men who had fought with her in Zohar, men who would die before letting her come to harm.

Because there are those who would harm me, Porcia thought, digging her fingernails into the throne, chipping the gold. Seneca raises an army to slay me. The Zoharites would see me burned. She looked around her at the throne room, at the slumbering men and women, at the soldiers around them. Even here, in my hall, traitors everywhere.

One of these people hid a dagger. Or poison. Or a garrote. Porcia knew it. Knew it! They would poison her like they poisoned Father, or they would drown her in the bathhouse, or they would stab her in her sleep. It could be anyone. One of the men and women she had taken as concubines. A cook. A slave. A guard. It could be Worm—Worm who had fled her in the war, hiding in the shadows, plotting her revenge. It could be Valentina. Even sweet Valentina, her dearest sister, could be plotting.

I need to kill them, Porcia thought. I need to kill them all. Every last one! They're all enemies. Her eyes darted. Valentina is out there somewhere, plotting against me. She thinks she can be empress. Porcia sucked in a shaky breath. There are more senators hiding in the city, planning to rebuild the Senate, planning to burn me. Seneca plans to raise all of Nur against me.

A woman moaned on the floor, opened her eyes, and reached for a goblet of wine. The concubine knocked it over, then closed her eyes and snored again. Porcia stared down at her. She forgot this one's name. She forced herself to take deep breaths, to calm the flames inside her.

She was safe here. The drunkards on the floor couldn't harm her. They couldn't even lift a cup of wine. As for the guards? Porcia stared at them too. Stiff, somber men, crests on their helmets, spears in their hands. All of them had fought with her in Zohar, slaying the forces of King Yohanan. If they wanted to kill her, they could have done it then, in the heat of battle. And as for Valentina? Her sister was as sweet and harmless as a kitten.

Porcia inhaled deeply.

"I'm safe," she whispered. "I'm safe. I'm safe."

She reached for her own mug of wine and drank, just enough to steel her resolve. Wine was a heroine's drink. It gave her the strength she needed. As lumers sucked on lume, she fortified herself on wine. Ale for courage, wine for strength, blood for lust, as the old saying went.

Before she could empty her cup, the doors to her halls opened, and a ragged, bleeding legionary stumbled inside. His shield displayed a Capricorn—a goat with a fish tail—denoting him a man of Legio III Gaelia, a legion that fought in the north along the Gaelian border.

"Empress Porcia!" the soldier cried, voice echoing through the hall, rousing even the drunkards.

Porcia leaped from her throne. Her blood pounded in her ears. The man limped across the mosaic floor toward her, scattering the coins and gemstones. A bandage wrapped around his torso, red with blood. He clutched the wound with one hand, still holding his shield with the other. His sword hung from his belt, also bloody.

"Empress Porcia," he repeated, swaying before her. "I come from Gael. I rode all the way here. For a fortnight I rode. I bring you evil tidings."

Porcia gritted her teeth. Her fists clenched. Horror leaped through her. Sweat beaded on her brow and dripped down her spine.

"What?" she said. "Tell me."

"Ambushed!" the soldier said. "Our legion marched with Legio VI and Legio VII. We received word of trouble across the Eldar River, a group of Gaelians assaulting our outpost. Our three legions took a low trail between the hills, heading to the Vale of Hesvur, to crush the uprising. We marched with two auxiliary legions too. On the way, when rain soaked our bowstrings and our feet slogged through mud, they attacked. A hundred thousand Gaelians or more, many tribes united, rushing down the hills, driving us east. When we reached the mouth of the vale, a wall of boulders and mortar awaited us, blocking our passage, with many enemy archers atop it." He lowered his head. "Our shields were waterlogged. They had the higher group. We fought the barbarians well, but . . ."

"How many dead?" Porcia said. "How many legionaries fell?"

He looked up at her, silent for a moment. Finally: "All of them. I'm the one survivor."

She stared at him. For another moment Porcia couldn't speak.

All of them.

In its seven hundred years of civilization and warfare, Aelar had not won every battle. There had been campaigns lost. There had been legions crushed. But never—not in seven hundred years—had an entire legion, five thousand men in all, been completely wiped out. And here—with herself an empress for only a month!—three whole legions and their auxiliaries. Gone. Completely gone aside from the man who stood before her.

I will go down in history as our most wretched ruler, Porcia realized, eyes stinging, breath shaking.

"And the Aquilae?" she whispered.

The golden eagle standards were not merely banners to inspire men in war. They were holy artifacts. They were gods, divine, blessing the legions. If the Zoharites worshiped their box in their Temple, and if the Nurians worshiped their spirit animals, the Aelarians—soldiers born and bred—worshiped their Aquilae, their deities of war.

"Gone," said the soldier. "All three Aquilae—gone to the Gaelians, their prizes of war."

Porcia screamed. She screamed so loudly the concubines in her hall woke and fled, screamed so loudly this palace, this city, this entire empire seemed to shake. The loss of a single Aquila was devastating. To lose all three . . .

"My empress," said the soldier, "there was a Zoharite fighting among the enemies. A tall, beastly woman with dark skin and darker hair, fire in her eyes. She fought with an axe, cleaving men. A living demon risen from the underworld. A companion was with her, chanting her name as she fought. She is Atalia Sela, cousin to King Shefael in Zohar, sister to Epheriah the rebel. She took one of the Aquilae, and . . ." The soldier bowed his head. "In the battle, she cried out your name. She said . . . she said she's coming here, Empress Porcia. Coming here to kill you."

The wounded soldier fell to his knees, and at first Porcia thought he was kneeling before her. Then he tilted over, and his head hit the floor, and he rose no more.

Porcia screamed again. She drew her sword with a hiss. She raced toward a concubine who cowered behind a column, dragged the girl forward, and plunged her sword into her belly. As the concubine fell, Porcia tugged her blade back with a shower of blood. She panted, blood on her face. Not enough. Not enough! She needed to kill more. She needed to kill thousands, millions. She needed to butcher the Gaelians, to slaughter the Zoharites, to massacre the Nurians. Atalia—fighting in the north, coming here to kill her. Epher—rebelling with the Zoharites, plotting to drive her legions into the sea. Seneca, her own brother—marrying that Nurian whore, mustering his forces for an invasion.

Three legions wiped out.

Three eagles gone.

Porcia sucked in breath after breath, trembling. So be it. So be it! She had wanted to be an empress of wealth, of plenty, of gold, gemstones, sex, wine—a goddess of splendor. But she could be a goddess of blood too. A goddess of fire, of wrath, of retribution.

She would show them what death means.

"I will be an empress of war," she whispered.

She marched across the hall, scattering the coins. She burst out the doors onto the portico. She stormed past the columns, stood above the marble steps, and gazed upon her empire. The Amphitheatrum rose to her right, the temples to her left. The walls of the Acropolis snaked below, and beyond them spread the city of Aelar, home to a million souls. On the horizon, Porcia could see the Encircled Sea, gray under the clouds. Around that sea the fire burned, a noose tightening around her.

And around that sea, her troops awaited her orders.

She had lost three legions, yes. But seventy other legions still served her across the Empire, a force to dwarf all other militaries. She would pull them back from the ruins of Berenia and Phedia. The Gaelians had slain three of her legions, so she would send nine to crush them. The Zoharites rebelled, so she would send her most ruthless killers to smash them. Her brother was fucking a barbarian whore and mustering the heathens for assault, so Porcia would summon her armada, and she would sail into his port and burn him down.

"This world will shatter and bleed," Porcia said into the wind. "You all thought to test me. You all thought me weak, a pampered princess." She slashed her gladius across her palm, tightened her fist, and let the blood drip. "I vow by my blood, I will show you my strength. I will watch every city, every building, every living soul in this world fall before I watch my palace crumble. My father forged the Empire. I will temper it with my hammer and my fire."

ATALIA

After days of travel through the misty forest, the Gaelian tribes reached the mountain.

It soared ahead, draped with pines. A city sprawled atop the mountain, and Atalia's eyes widened to see it. She had not imagined that the Gaelians had cities; she had thought they simply lived in the forests as wild beasts. The sight of buildings—made of wood, not stone, but buildings nonetheless—both shocked and comforted her. It had been so long since she'd seen civilization.

She kneed the horse her betrothed had given her—a wild stallion, black as sin. The beast galloped across the valley, and wind blew back Atalia's hair. Mist flurried around her. She held her Aquila, the standard she had captured in the battle, and the golden eagle seemed to fly, bright in the sunlight.

Berengar rode his white stag beside her, and the other riders of the camp followed. Feina galloped upon a snowy mare, golden hair streaming, her eyes bright.

My future husband and wife, Atalia thought, staring at the pair.

It had been days since she had learned that, by knocking Berengar down, she had unknowingly betrothed him. Since then, Atalia had been riding at his side rather than dragging on a rope behind him. She still hated him. Of course she still hated him. Yet whenever she looked at him, she found that a strange tingle filled her.

I'm going to marry him. Here in this city, the heart of Gael. I'm going to share his bed. I'm going to bear his children.

Atalia shuddered at the thought, and yet . . . and yet she wanted this. Craved it.

Berengar rules armies. He united seven tribes, and he can unite more. As his wife, I'll rule a nation . . . a nation that can crush Aelar.

Atalia had never forgotten her task, why she had come here. It was to find allies. To find an army. She had been this army's prisoner. Soon she would command it as the chieftain's wife.

They rode onward, and the mountain grew closer. Here was a small city, smaller than the bustling Gefen by the sea, but the largest settlement Atalia had seen here in the north. Its dwellings were built of wood and straw, not limestone like the buildings of Zohar. Even the walls around the city were constructed of sharpened logs, not bricks. Soon the procession passed through a gate in these walls, and Atalia found herself riding down a dirt road.

"Welcome to Eldstad," said Berengar. "The great dwelling of warriors."

The Gaelians perhaps had learned the secrets of metallurgy, and they built swift ships and formed many fine jewels, but their homes were humble affairs, topped with thatch roofs. Children ran alongside the unpaved road, cheering as the warriors returned home. Young women rushed forth, bearing gifts of flowers, fruit, and wine for the victors. Robed druids prayed, and the wounded were led into huts of healing. Feina played a song on her harp, and soon many warriors were singing.

Many of the townsfolk gaped at Atalia, unashamed to stare. A few children ran toward her, gasped, then fled and hid. They all chattered in their language. Atalia could imagine why. She looked as odd here as a lioness among bears. Her skin was darker—not as dark as a Nurian's, perhaps, but downright swarthy in this land of pale giants. Her hair was black and unbraided, her eyes brown. Atalia had grown up in a bustling port city, and she had seen foreigners before, but these people had obviously never seen anyone but other Gaelians.

A little girl ran toward Atalia, touched her leg, then ran off to whisper excitedly with her friends.

"They think me a monster," Atalia said to Berengar.

Riding at her side on his stag, the chieftain smiled thinly. "The children say that you are Nachtfrau—the Princess of the Night, a mythical spirit from the tales we tell them."

Over the past few days, Berengar had begun to slowly open up to her. The first day, after she had beaten him, he had said nothing to her, only grunted and groaned whenever she approached. But slowly, day by day, the brute had begun to answer her questions, to treat her almost as an equal to Feina.

I gained his respect with my fists, Atalia thought. And I will gain his respect with my wits and my heart.

"Nachtfrau?" Atalia asked. "An evil spirit?"

Berengar's smile widened. "In our tales, it was the sun spirit who grew evil, casting a cruel summer across the land, one that wilted the crops and burned the forests. It was Nachtfrau, a spirit of darkness, who fought the sun, who beat back the flames, who returned balance to the seasons."

"Battling back the fire." Atalia nodded. "I could live with that. When I was a child, I used to pretend to be Safir, an ancient Zoharite queen who fought the fire demons of the desert. Nachtfrau sounds like the same kind of woman."

Yet despite Berengar's comforting words, Atalia noticed that not all in this town gazed upon her with wonder. One woman hissed at her, and another made a sign against evil. A scraggly, one-eyed man even spat her way. These ones muttered other words. Atalia could not understand them, but she knew they were curses.

I'm dark, and I'm strange, and some here will see me as magical, others as cursed. But I'm still Atalia Sela, lioness of Zohar. I will never forget the light of Beth Eloh. I swear this. I will never forget the desert from where I came.

They kept riding higher through the city. On the mountaintop rose a great hall, large as a palace, its walls formed from thick trunks, engraved with leaping elks, falcons, and dragons, the animals shining with peeling old gilt. Its triangular roof slanted nearly to the ground, thatched with straw. Back in Zohar, where men knew how to raise palaces of limestone and marble, this would seem no more than a fine stable, yet perched atop this mountain, overlooking the forested slopes and valleys beyond, this dwelling exuded a rustic majesty. There could be no doubt: here was the home of a king.

Guardians stood at the doors, bedecked in checkered cloaks of green and yellow, and gilt shone upon their horned helmets. Their beards were long, braided, and fair, and they knelt before Berengar and his wife. The doors were carved of oak, banded with iron, and engraved with leaping stags. When the guards pulled them open, they revealed a wide hall.

"We stand before the Mettensal," Berengar said. "The heart of the Galdurin tribe. My home."

"And soon to be your home, Atalia of the desert," said Feina. "Once you're wed into our union, you will command this hall with us."

They stepped through the doorway into the mead hall. The floor was formed of rings of wood, slices of tree trunks, placed close together, clay filling the spaces between them. Oaken beams rose as columns, engraved with coiling lines. The stuffed heads of stags and bears hung from the walls between draping rugs of crimson and golden wool. Iron wheels hung from the towering ceiling, topped with candles.

Trestle tables stood here, and servants were already entering the hall, bringing forth a feast. Berengar sat at the head of the table, and Feina sat at his right-hand side. The chieftain invited Atalia to sit at his left side, a place she took hesitantly. Hundreds of Gaelian warriors filled the hall, taking their seats and slamming flagons against the tabletops.

Servants in woolen tunics and copper bracelets laid the feast upon the tables. After months of privation, Atalia's nostrils flared and her head swam at the delicious scents. There were breads fresh from the oven, golden butter, and bowls of grapes, nuts, and apples. Silver platters held steaming slabs of venison and roast pheasants, served on beds of wild mushrooms and walnuts. Atalia ignored her manners, leaning across the table to reach the food. She piled her clay plate high, constructing elaborate piles of meat, bread, and mushrooms, pouring gravy above it all. For the first time in days, Atalia placed aside her Aquila. She feasted with a knife in one hand, a hunk of bread in the other, and she washed her bites down with mead poured from a horn.

Atalia had once spent a meal at the house of Claudia Valerius and her father, Aelar's ambassadors to Zohar. The Aelarians had reclined on low couches and eaten—all while lying down!—from a low table. They had only nibbled on their food, wiping their fingers and faces after each bite, as if a splatter of sauce or a belch would offend the gods.

If the Aelarian gods entered this hall, Atalia thought, they'd flee in horror.

The Gaelians ate with as much gusto as she did, raising a chorus of chomping, belching, gulping, and roars of laughter with every joke told. Beer foam covered mustaches. Men tossed bones to dogs who scampered and yipped under the tables. Two men wrestled over a steak on the floor, while another man lay on his back, drinking gravy from a dish shaped like a dragon galley.

Ofeer would hate it, Atalia thought. But this is my kind of hall.

Yet perhaps not. Perhaps she wasn't as welcomed here as she thought. Once her hunger had abated, Atalia felt the eyes of many Gaelians upon her. Not all gazed at her with love, and some muttered under their breath.

Again, Atalia remembered how Ofeer had been ashamed of her darkness. Here in this hall of golden, noble warriors, Atalia could easily feel ashamed of her olive-toned skin, her black hair, her dark eyes, her sharp features, a desert woman in the grand hall of elfin warriors of sunlight. But Atalia refused to surrender to that shame. She was perhaps dark. She was perhaps not as beautiful as Feina and the other women of this hall. But she was a lioness. In her veins flowed the blood of ancient desert queens and kings. She raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and clutched her eagle standard, her trophy of war. Anyone in this hall who gazed upon her with an evil eye, Atalia met their gaze, staring back proudly until they looked away.

"Some are not pleased that a foreigner sits at the head of their hall," Atalia said to Berengar. "That a dark demon is betrothed to the chieftain."

Berengar nodded. "Some here are ignorant, and they've never traveled beyond Gael. To them, all foreigners are the same as Aelarians—cruel people to fear and hate."

"But you've traveled." Atalia looked at him. "You speak flawless Aelarian."

Berengar gazed across the hall of feasting warriors. "My father fought the Aelarians as I do. The legionaries slew him when I was just a boy. I was taken captive to Aelar, collared, shackled, a slave."

Atalia placed down her gravy-soaked slice of bread. She thought of Koren and Ofeer, still slaves in Aelar. "I'm sorry, Berengar."

He raised his eyebrows. "Sorry? I was not. I served for several years as a slave, scrubbing latrines, sweeping chimneys, doing whatever tasks my master commanded. On his deathbed, my master freed me, and I became a citizen of Aelar. And so I joined the legions."

Atalia's eyes widened. "You fought in the legions? The force that killed your father?"

"I trained with them. I marched with them. I fought with them in the cold, northern Elania and the hot, southern Phedia. I learned how they work." Berengar smiled thinly. "When I defected, when I returned here to Gael, I knew how to defeat them." He rose to his feet, lifted his horn of mead, and cried out to the crowd. "We are victorious!"

He repeated the words in Gaelian, and the warriors roared in approval. They too rose to their feet, raising their horns.

"Victorious!" they chanted. "Victorious!"

Atalia did not rise. As the warriors cheered, she clutched her eagle standard so tightly her knuckles whitened.

No, she thought. No.

She too rose to her feet. She raised her eagle standard high.

"Hear me!" she cried. "Hear me, warriors of Gael!"

She couldn't speak their language. She cried out in Aelarian, a language all noble children of Zohar studied. The warriors turned toward her, muttering again, pointing, cursing, spitting.

Atalia looked at Feina, wife of the chieftain. "Will you translate for me?"

Feina's cheeks were flushed pink with mead, but she nodded and came to stand by Atalia, repeating her words in the rich, guttural language of Gael.

"You cheer for victory!" Atalia said. "Yet you've smashed only three legions among many. You roar for triumph! And yet even as you feast here, Aelar musters for vengeance. Don't you realize that Empress Porcia will send her wrath against us, to burn these halls, to reclaim her eagles?"

As Feina translated, the tribesmen glanced at one another. Mutterings of disapproval rose in the hall. A man spat toward her. Another tossed a flagon her way. A burly, red-cheeked warrior shouted at her in Gaelian, spraying spittle.

"He asks," said Feina, "what a foreigner would know of our wars."

Atalia doubted that the man had said "foreigner." Judging by how he clutched his crotch, she could imagine the true name he had given her.

Atalia stared at the brute, speaking loudly, refusing to look away. "I know what I saw in Zohar. I saw an Aelar that will not relent until it crushes its enemies. I know what I saw at sea. An Aelar that smashed the fleet of Gael, drowning many of your brothers and sisters."

The men roared with fury.

"This is not the sea!" one man shouted. "This is not Zohar. This is the heartland of Gael, a mighty city upon a mighty mountain."

Atalia scoffed. "A city with walls of wood. A city full of huts with thatch roofs. A noble city, yes. A city of brave, fair people. A beautiful city. But a city of wood and straw nonetheless. Don't you think that Aelar, a nation that built a city of marble and limestone, of steel and iron, a city where a million souls live together—that this nation could not storm across this mountain, could not burn down this hall? We crushed three legions, yes. Yet Aelar commands seventy legions! We cannot withstand them."

The warriors bellowed. They tossed bones and flagons her way.

"We will slay them if they come!" a man cried.

"Burn the damn whore!" shouted another man; this time Feina translated the words truly.

Atalia growled and leaped onto the tabletop. "Whore? I am your chieftain's betrothed, and I proved myself in battle. I claimed an eagle." She raised her Aquila standard overhead. "And I intend to claim more. The time for hiding in the forests is over. I will march to Aelar! I will attack the stone walls of their city. I will invade the palace of the empress, and I will shove this standard up her ass. Who is with me?"

Now the crowd roared with approval.

"To Aelar!" they cried.

Atalia raised her standard overhead. "Fuck the empress!"

"Fuck the empress!" they shouted.

She was so consumed with her rage Atalia barely noticed that Berengar had placed a hand on her shoulder. She turned toward him, chest rising and falling as she panted. His eyes were stern.

"Atalia, you fought bravely," the chieftain said. "You defeated Aelarians in battle, and you defeated me. You might be brave, and you might be my betrothed, but you do not rule the warriors of Gael."

She raised her chin. "But I rule you, my betrothed." She grabbed his shoulders, digging her fingernails into him. "Let us fight Aelar in their city. They invaded your land. Let us invade theirs. Let us fight Porcia together, Berengar. You and I will send their walls crumbling down."

His eyes were dark. "I've seen the city of Aelar. You have not. I've seen its might."

She bared her teeth. "You told me that Zohar and Nur rise in rebellion. That Porcia sees enemies in every corner. That the Senate has burned, that Aelarian fights against Aelarian. The Empire is cracked. It's time to swing our hammers, to send Aelar crumbling."

Inwardly she winced at her choice of words. She remembered Seneca swinging his own hammer, nailing Jerael to the cross.

They say you fled to Nur, Atalia thought. But I promise you, Seneca. I will hunt you down. Wherever you are, I will hunt you, and I will kill you.

"It would take every tribe in Gael, across all our forests and valleys and mountains, to defeat the Empire," Berengar said. "I've united seven among many."

Atalia allowed herself a savage smile. "Then we'll unite the others. They'll rally around us, joining to fight a common enemy. The tide is turning on Aelar. The Empire will fall. And we'll be there to watch it burn."

VALENTINA

She's going to kill me. Valentina rode through the shadows, wrapped in a cloak. She's going to find me, and she's going to kill me.

The dark city spread around her, a labyrinth of twisting alleyways, hulking buildings, and statues that loomed like demons. Some poets called Aelar a city of light, but they lied. Here, in the dead of night, Valentina rode through a city of darkness, of fear, of knives in every shadow.

She's going to kill me. She has men everywhere. She wants me dead.

Valentina shuddered as she rode, wishing the roads were wider, wishing her horse could gallop rather than walk so slowly along the cobblestones. So many dead. Over the past month, Valentina had seen more people slain than most soldiers ever did. The senators. Her uncles and aunts. Her cousins. Butchered, one by one.

"They want my throne!" Porcia would say to her, shaking her, her eyes mad. "All of them. They want to be emperor. They have to die. They have to die, Valentina! They want what is mine. Anyone who wants my throne must perish."

Every day, Porcia saw new enemies. One day she had claimed that the head of her household guard was after her throne. She had the man stabbed and tossed into the river. Another day, Valentina had claimed that her second cousin, a sniveling boy, could contend for the throne. Hired knives invaded the boy's home that night, slaughtered him, slaughtered his family, and set the home ablaze.

"I will kill them all," Porcia had said. "All those who want what is mine."

And so Valentina rode here in the night, leaving the Acropolis behind. Perhaps she would never see her palace, her city again.

If she slew even her most distant relatives, thinking them contenders to the throne, how long can I, her sister, survive?

Valentina made her way along the eastern streets, keeping off the main boulevards. Apartment blocks rose at her sides, and clouds hid the stars. Only a few scattered lanterns lit the darkness, and no Magisterian guards patrolled these streets. A few drunkards leaned against the wall, calling out to her. Valentina kneed her horse, rushing by them, sending the men falling back. Water splashed from puddles, and she rode onward, passing through a courtyard and around a well. An archway led to a road between workshops and smelters, and the air smelled tangy and oily.

Of course, I'm not her true sister, Valentina thought. She had been stolen as a babe from her true family. She had been raised in the palace, the adopted daughter of Emperor Marcus.

You don't know, Porcia, Valentina thought. You don't know that Septimus Cassius—the senator you murdered—was my true father. You think I'm your sister . . . which means that soon, as you butcher all your other enemies, you will see me as a contender to the throne too. You will think that I, a family member, plot to supplant you. And then your knives will find me too.

It seemed hours before Valentina reached the city's outer wall. She rode through the gates and across the dark countryside. The stars guided her way.

Once, I thought I would escape Aelar with you, Iris, she thought, remembering her lumer, her companion, her lover. Once, I thought we'd flee together by sea, sail to Zohar, live along that beach that was your home. I never thought I'd be escaping like this—escaping a city that's no longer a home, escaping a tyrant, my family gone . . . you gone.

She rode over the hills, along the road that Emperor Marcus had taken so often, returning from some distant campaign with slaves and spoils of war, leading thousands. Valentina rode alone. Her lumer was dead. Her fathers—the true father and the man who had stolen and raised her—both gone. Her mother had died when soldiers cut Valentina out from her womb. Her stepbrother, her dear Seneca, had fled already, fled without her. And so Valentina rode here with only her horse as a companion, carrying only a few supplies in a pack. A few clothes. A purse of coins. Maps, water, food enough for a few days. That was all.

She rode for hours across the countryside, seeing assassins in every shadow, until she felt as paranoid as Porcia.

Finally dawn rose over the hills, and the horizon seemed to blaze with fire, deep orange beneath the clouds. A row of cypresses rose ahead, and Valentina rode toward it. Past the trees, she rode through a vineyard, across a stone bridge that spanned a stream, and toward limestone walls. Beyond rose the villa of House Valerius.

Perhaps my only allies, Valentina thought.

Claudia, her old friend, emerged from the columned villa and met her in the yard. Five years older than Valentina, Claudia was everything the princess was not. While Valentina was pale and meek, an albino with white hair and colorless eyes, Claudia was brass, outspoken, her hair dark, her hazel eyes fiercely intelligent, eyes that never shied away from anything, even as Valentina's eyes were often darting and staring down at her feet. Claudia would know what to do. Claudia always knew.

"Valentina!" Claudia reached out and helped her dismount. "You're trembling! Come, come inside."

Claudia placed an arm around her and guided her toward the villa. They passed between the portico's columns and into a vestibule. Statues of the gods rose here on pedestals, and a fresco of suns and stars covered the ceiling. Claudia led her to a rotunda, its ceiling a mosaic depicting generations of Valerius lords and ladies. Claudia's face too appeared in the mosaic, the last to be added. A second mosaic sprawled across the floor, depicting maidens and amorous gods dancing in a vineyard.

They reclined here on pillows before a low table, and a slave served breakfast. There were apples and figs, tangy cheese, bread drizzled with olive oil, tilapia fried with lemon and garlic, and soft-boiled quail eggs. Valentina was surprised by her appetite. She ate heartily, and she spoke between bites, confiding in her friend, speaking of the blood washing Aelar.

"I'm afraid," Valentina whispered. "So many dead in the city. I had to come here. To the countryside. To you. What do I do, Claudia?"

The slave—a young man with dark hair, sharp features, and tanned skin—refilled Claudia's cup of tea. He glanced forward once and met Valentina's eyes, then quickly looked away. There was something familiar about him, but before Valentina could consider it, Claudia spoke.

"Stay here then!" Claudia said. She sipped her tea, wrinkled her nose, and returned the cup to her slave. "Brew a fresh batch. More mint, less honey." She looked back at Valentina. "Stay with us. My parents would love to have you here. Take a break from the capital. We'll play in the gardens like we used to as children, and we'll ride together again through the countryside. Guards are always with us here, loyal to my father. No harm will come to you."

Valentina played with three almonds on her plate. She wanted to believe that. Yet how many guards could Claudia's family have here? Twenty? Fifty at most? Porcia commanded armies. And surely the empress would hear of Valentina hiding here, in the house of a lord so prominent in Aelar. Porcia would believe that Valentina had come here to scheme, and her forces would ravage this house and burn down the gardens and vineyards.

"I can't stay," she whispered. "I need a secret place where Porcia can't reach me. At least until her anger fades, until the Empire is stable once more." Valentina shuddered, and she lowered her voice further. "There's talk of rebellion, Claudia. And I don't mean only in the provinces. In Aelar herself. Porcia slew many in the Magisterian Guard, replacing them with men from the legions, men she thinks she can trust, but many of the old guards remain. And even the new recruits fear Porcia now. My father always said that it's not the emperor who rules Aelar, not truly, but the Magisterian Guard. And if it's not their knives that slay Porcia, others will be eager to wield them. The people themselves—a million of them live in the city, and they will not watch this dance of death much longer, and—"

Valentina bit down on her words. Now she was speaking as a conspirator. Those very words would doom her to death if Porcia caught wind of them.

Claudia was looking at her strangely, head tilted, a line on her brow. Valentina's heart thudded, and suddenly she worried that Claudia would report this to the empress, perhaps would summon the guards right now. When a man stepped into the chamber, Valentina started, sure it was an assassin—yet it was only the slave from before.

He poured more tea, more minty this time. Claudia sipped and nodded with approval.

"We'll talk more after my slave clears the table," Claudia said. "He's a nosy one. A Zoharite, did you know? Captured in the war." Claudia propped herself up on her elbows, leaned across the table, and spoke in a low voice. "He's the son of Lord Jerael himself. I intend to bring him back to Zohar, to use him when . . . negotiating with the rebels there. Come with us, Valentina. Come with us to the desert province. Perhaps I'll get to exchange this one for his brother."

Valentina frowned. Of course! She looked back at the slave. That was why he looked familiar! He had a similar face to Ofeer—the slave in the palace Valentina had befriended.

He's her brother. The slave I told Ofeer I would save.

"Your name is Koren," Valentina said to him. "Koren Sela. Brother to Ofeer."

The slave dropped the pot he held, spilling tea across the mosaic floor.

"You know Ofeer?" he asked.

"Clumsy oaf!" Claudia leaped to her feet and struck him. "You spilled tea over a priceless work of art. I'll have you beaten for this. I—"

"Claudia, stop!" Valentina rose from the pillows. She was shorter, meeker, younger than Claudia—yet she still outranked her. "It was my fault. Let him speak to me."

Claudia spun toward her, face red, perhaps surprised to see Valentina speak with such force; Valentina herself was shocked at her words. Claudia opened her mouth as if to speak, closed it, and bowed her head.

Valentina walked toward the slave. "You're Koren," she said. "Her brother."

He nodded. His fingers were shaking. "Can you tell me where Ofeer is, domina?"

"I don't know," Valentina replied. "She's no longer a slave in the palace. Maybe Prince Seneca took her with him to exile. If so, she will be safe with him."

But she saw that this news did not please Koren. His face reddened, and he took sharp breaths. "With Seneca."

"I don't know for certain," Valentina said. "It could be that Ofeer escaped the Acropolis in the chaos. Many slaves escaped the day Marcus died. Even Porcia's lumer fled, another Zoharite. Does that give you some hope?"

Claudia dared to interject. "Valentina, they're only Zoharite rats. This one is just meat for us to whip, to torture a little to bring his brother out of his hole. Just bait, that's all."

Valentina glared at the young woman. Who was this speaking to her? Was this truly her old friend? How could Claudia be so callous?

"They're still humans!" Valentina said. "My lumer, Iris Bat Inet, was a Zoharite, and I loved her dearly. Zoharites have the same needs we do. To be with their families. To keep themselves safe. To tend to those they love."

And I loved you, Iris. I loved you and Marcus murdered you.

Valentina's dream had always been to visit Zohar. But not like this. To travel there with an army? With Koren enslaved, beaten, bait to lure his rebellious brother into the open? Valentina looked at Koren and saw that the scars of whips peeked from under his tunic, and that a bruise stained his cheek.

"I'll buy him from you," Valentina said.

Claudia's eyes widened. "Valentina, he's not for sale, he—"

"You will address me as domina," Valentina said, voice icy, chin raised. "I'm still the sister of the empress, still second in line to the throne of Aelar. You will not defy me."

Inside, Valentina's innards shook, and her heart lashed against her ribs like a bird trying to flee a cage. She had never spoken so forcefully to anyone. She was only nineteen, five years younger than Claudia, shorter, weaker, meeker, a little albino princess with so much terror in her heart. And she was lying, of course. She was not truly Porcia's sister, just the daughter of a slain senator, desperate to flee Porcia's wrath.

But I will save you, Koren, Valentina thought. She had become friends with Ofeer, if only for a night. She had vowed to help Ofeer's family. She would keep that vow.

Claudia stared at her, eyes narrowed, and just the hint of pink flushed her cheeks. There was rage here. Pure rage that simmered, kept at bay but threatening to overflow.

"Domina," Claudia hissed, and there was no deference in her voice.

Valentina reached into her purse of golden coins that she had smuggled from the palace. A strong, young slave like Koren could fetch three gold coins in a heated auction. Valentina placed six on the table.

"Sell him to me," Valentina said. "That is not a request."

Claudia tilted her head. "You've changed, domina." She let just the hint of impudence touch that word. "You're stronger than you were. Given that you're leaving me no choice . . . take him." She pushed the coins back across the table. "And keep your money. I'm wealthier than you are." She grabbed Koren, twisted his arm, and shoved him toward Valentina. "Go to her, slave. Serve her as you served me."

Valentina returned the coins into her purse, thankful for them; she would need this money wherever the road took her. She placed a hand on Koren's shoulder.

"Thank you, Claudia," she said, voice softer now.

Claudia snorted and rolled her eyes. "Don't thank me. Thank the gods for every day that you still live. You know that if Porcia comes here, I'll have to speak the truth, to tell her that you came, tell her what you said."

Valentina nodded. "But you won't tell her where I'm going."

"Not even if I knew." The anger left Claudia's voice. She stepped over the spilled wine, embraced Valentina, and kissed her cheek. Once more affection filled her voice. "Be careful out there, my friend. Ride fast. If you should ride to the northern road, and make your way to the coast of Denegar, and from there perhaps take a ship to Elania . . . I would not think that foolish." She frowned. "What did I just tell you? I forget already."

Valentina took a deep breath. Elania. The most distant province in the Empire. An island in the cold northern ocean, far from the warm, salty waters of the Encircled Sea. The port that led to Elania lay far across forests, mountains, grasslands, many leagues of wilderness. Even should Valentina reach that port, the waters that led to Elania were treacherous, full of barbarian raiders and pirates. They said that it was every legionary's nightmare to be sent to Elania, a land on the northern fringe of the world, cold and wet and swarming with enemies.

Porcia will never find us there, Valentina realized.

She kissed Claudia's forehead, still embracing her friend. "Farewell, Claudia Valerius, daughter of Aelar. I thank you."

Valentina rode out that very day, and Koren rode on a separate horse, another gift from Claudia. They rode north along a dirt path, staying off the main road. They traveled away from Aelar, away from the wrath and madness of Empress Porcia, away from this warm land along the coast of the Encircled Sea. To the north. To wilderness. To danger. To a hope of fleeing death, a hope of still finding life in the mists of the north.

As Valentina crested a hill, she gazed south, and she could see the city of Aelar along the coast—a hive of towers and walls and madness.

"I vow to you, Aelar, I will not forget you," she whispered into the wind. "I flee you now, but I will return, and I will see you cleansed from evil. Until my last breath, I will fight for you, here or in distant lands. I will see the Republic restored."

Valentina turned and rode on northward, and Koren rode with her, until they vanished into a forest of mist and shadows.

SHILOH

She walked through the holy city, wrapped in cloak and hood, tarnished.

It was night in Beth Eloh. The stars shone above, corridors of light above the alleyways. The air was muggy, so stifling Shiloh could barely breathe behind her veil, and walking through the heat felt like wading through syrup. The cobbled roads twisted, snaking between homes, shops selling candles and scrolls and holy artifacts, granaries, smithies, and ancient tombs. A hundred thousand souls crowded in this hive upon the mountain, this warren of craggy limestone, domes, palm trees, towers, and chains. This city of hope and despair, of splendor and shadows. The ancient capital of Zohar. Dying.

It was strange, Shiloh thought. Only a year ago, when the kingdom had been free, she would never have dared walk these streets alone at night. The darkness of Beth Eloh had always hidden thieves, rapists, killers. Now legionaries stood with lanterns on the street corners. Now the prisons were crammed with criminals. Now, under the heel of the Empire, the city was ironically safe.

That is why they conquer, Shiloh thought. Because they see us—the world—as barbaric. As children who cannot govern themselves. They will civilize us. They will teach us their language, force us to watch their gladiators die, force us to kneel before their gods, to become Aelarians as they are. They will bring us law and order and civilization. And they will destroy all that we are.

Yet surely that was better than death, was it not? Shiloh walked across a courtyard under the fronds of a palm tree. Three stray cats hissed and fled. Surely it was better to live as Aelarians, to lose their culture, their religion, their language, their history . . . but to live.

"Life itself is holier than old stones and songs," Shiloh whispered to herself. She had to believe that. Had to, or she would falter this night, and she would not sway him.

She knew the way. Her son moved every night, but his men whispered to her in the shadows, far from the ears of eagles. Shiloh walked up an alley so steep the ancient builders had placed steps upon it, turning it into a snaking stairway that climbed between walls and under archways. Balconies touched overhead, and wooden windows were open against the heat of the night. These bricks were thousands of years old. Shiloh imagined how King Elshalom might have walked here, how the ancient Zoharites might have fled down this road from the onslaught of the Sekadian invaders, and how in many years, should her people survive, perhaps another traveler would think of the souls who walked here during the reign of Aelar.

Finally Shiloh reached the wooden doorway. A stone arch enclosed it, the keystone engraved with two pomegranates. Shiloh grabbed the knocker—it was shaped like a lion—and knocked three times.

A hooded man opened the door, a scarf hiding his face, but she recognized his eyes. Here stood Ramael, grandson of the slain Master Malaci—the man Malaci had saved from the cross, giving his own life in exchange.

"Shiloh!" Ramael whispered and bowed before her. He was a tall young man, handsome despite a crooked nose, his beard closely cropped.

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Ramael."

He straightened, glanced up and down the alleyway, then guided her inside and closed the door. Shiloh stepped past curtains into a chamber full of men, daggers drawn in their hands. She recognized a few. There was Hanan, once a bodyguard to her husband. There was Kahan Sela, her nephew, a wild man of the hills, now leader of this band of rebels. She recognized Eriz Ben Akadia, a mere boy; Maya had once kissed him outside a bakery. The other faces she did not recognize, but she saw the same foolish pride in all their eyes.

Boys, Shiloh thought. Mere boys who think they're an army. Who think they can, with a few hideouts and daggers, defeat the empire that rules the world.

Shiloh had seen enough boys die in her life. She had seen thousands of them die only nineteen years ago, when Zohar had first clashed with Aelar at the island of Cadom. She had seen thousands more perish after her sister, the queen, had died, when her nephews had raised armies and clashed for the throne. And she had seen far too many boys killed in Gefen and here in Beth Eloh, trying to hold back the onslaught of the Empire.

These boys too will die, Shiloh knew. These boys whom I love more than all the songs, stones, and splendor in this kingdom.

"May Eloh bless you, Mother of Zohar," said Kahan, kneeling before her.

"Blessings upon you, Mother of Lions," the others whispered.

They blessed her? Shiloh wanted to rail against them, to strike them, to call them fools. Their rebellions had already cost the lives of countless innocents, slaughtered in punishment for their violence. That blood was upon their hands too. Yet she forced her rage down. These boys were men now; she had to accept that. Men who would honor her for her family name, for her blood of Zohar, but men who would ignore all her pleadings. Men who would see even her die—at their hands or the hands of Aelar—before they abandoned their war.

"Where is he?" Shiloh said softly. "Where is my son?"

They gestured to an archway. Shiloh walked between curtains of beads, stepping onto a balcony that overlooked a sloping cemetery. He stood there, looking at the tombstones in the night, hooded and cloaked. Her eldest child. Her Epher.

He looks so much like his father, Shiloh thought, watching him. Epher was almost as tall as Jerael had been, his shoulders almost as wide. His beard had thickened since this war had begun. His eyes were dark as he stared at the night.

"Epher," she said softly.

He did not turn toward her, kept watching the graves below. "These graves are ancient." His voice was low, and he seemed to speak to himself more than to her. "They say that here are the victims of our war with Sekadia, that these tombstones are six hundred years old. That the bodies still wait for our messiah to arrive on a white donkey, to ride through the hidden Gate of Tears, for the heavens to open, for the dead's flesh to return to their bones, to rise again into a kingdom of light." He finally turned to look at her. "But those are only old stories. There is no savior, and there is no rising for those who fall. All those who died here, Mother . . . their deaths are eternal."

She knew that he was no longer speaking of the ancient graves below. She placed her arms around him.

"Leave," she whispered to him. "Leave this city as Maya left. Travel east into the desert, and find her, and find peace. Abandon this rebellion."

"And abandon Zohar?" His body stiffened. "Abandon our people who suffer? I cannot."

She touched his cheek. "Epher, this war is lost. This rebellion will not succeed. It will only bring more and more death until this land is utterly destroyed. I will not see it. I will not see you die. I already watched your father . . ." She lowered her head, overcome. "I beg you. Flee this war."

His eyes flashed. "Mother! I will not flee as a coward."

"Then flee as a son! As my son. If you will not flee Zohar, at least travel south to the fortress of Tarath El in the desert. Hide there behind tall stone walls. Don't you see the folly of uprising against the Empire? Don't you see the bloodlust in the eyes of Kahan, the madness of Zohar's Blade?"

He sighed. He looked back at the dark cemetery and the city beyond.

"I see it," he said.

"Then leave! Leave them. Leave this rebellion, this city. If you cannot sway these men and cannot stop their uprising, you can leave. You don't have to fight."

"Did Father have to fight?" He looked back at her, his eyes hard. "He could have fled. He could have joined Seneca and served the Empire. He fought."

"He died!" Shiloh said, too loudly. Her voice rolled through the night. A dog barked in the distance. Shiloh's eyes dampened. How could he not see? How could he not understand?

But he does understand, she realized when she looked into his eyes again. He knows. He knows that he will die, that they will all die. He's already made his choice. He is stubborn, headstrong, honorable to a fault. He is a Zoharite. He is why our people have always suffered, have always clung to this tiny stretch of land between sea and desert, why we suffered slavery in Nur, captivity in Sekadia, the cruelty of Kalintia, the horrors of Aelar. Because we're stubborn fools who cannot abandon our god, our stories, our willingness to endure torture and death rather than bend the knee. It's both our downfall and immortality.

Shiloh embraced him and kissed his cheek.

"I love you, Epher," she whispered.

He held her, her baby boy, now twice her size. "I love you, Mother. Always."

She left them in that home—their hideout for a single night before moving at dawn. She made her way back through the darkness, past the stray cats, the beggars sleeping in doorways, the prostitutes, the lepers. She made her way past legionaries, back up to the Mount of Cedars, past the walls and toward the palace. The place where her sister had once reigned as queen, where King Shefael now served his masters.

Before she reentered the palace, Shiloh paused. She walked across the courtyard, leaned over the balustrade, and stared east. Dawn was rising over the desert, kindling the dunes. Somewhere there, in the land of Sekadia, her daughter was seeking light and wisdom.

There are no legionaries in the east, Shiloh thought, and she wanted to leave—to leave her nephew on his throne, to leave the rebellion, to leave this city of tears, yes, even to leave her son. She could travel to find her daughter in foreign lands. She could travel south to Tarath El, a great fortress in the sky, and hide there from the world.

Yet Shiloh turned away from the dawn. Perhaps she too was stubborn, foolish, too foolhardy to leave this land. Because Zohar needed her. It needed her to soothe the wrath of Remus Marcellus with her pleadings and soft words. It needed her to impart her wisdom to Shefael. It needed her to look over the people in this land, a million Zoharites in city, coast, forest, and desert. She was a mother to Epher, and she was a mother to them all.

"The dawn over the desert is beautiful, isn't it?"

The voice rose behind her, and Shiloh turned to see him there. A towering man, taller than anyone she had ever seen, yet gaunt, almost haggard. Remus Marcellus, governor of Zohar, wore his full armor of the legions, breastplate and pteruges and crested helm, and his crimson cloak draped across his pauldrons. Despite his words, his eyes did not gaze upon the desert or the dawn. They stared at her, boring into her, eyes like the tools of a torturer, digging through her flesh.

"It's beautiful, dominus," she replied.

He stepped closer to her. "I've considered your request, Shiloh. To allow the people of this land to circumcise their sons." He grimaced. "A barbaric practice for a barbaric people. It does not belong in this empire. And yet I will allow it, for you pleaded so eloquently, and I am a merciful lord."

She bowed her head. "Thank you, Lord Remus."

He was bargaining with her, she knew. That was all. He would grant Zohar one gift in return for subservience. The people still listened to her. Even the rebels showed her some respect, and Shefael still sought her wisdom.

He tosses us a spare morsel like a master to a hungry dog, she thought. But he takes from us so much.

Remus wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, pressing her cheek against his armor. His hands—hands that had murdered so many—stroked her.

"You must cease your midnight wanderings, my sweet desert rose," Remus said. "The streets are not safe at night. You will remain here, upon the Mount of Cedars, and you will never more leave this place. You are mine now, Shiloh. Mine to protect from the darkness in the world."

His arms engulfed her. The stench of old blood clung to him. He towered above her; she did not even reach his shoulders. In his embrace, she couldn't see the dawn, the desert, or the city. There was only him—all powerful, all consuming, eternal as a god.

Our old god was banished, Shiloh thought. There is only him now, only the empire he serves, only his grip, only his shadows.

She stood with him, trapped, and she did not know if she'd ever see light again.

OFEER

She fluttered through the common room of the Lunapar, carrying a tray of wineglasses, her cream stola rustling with every step and pressing against the growing swell of her belly. Light and laughter filled the chamber. The sun had set, but the candles shone in the chandeliers, and flames crackled in glass lanterns on tabletops. The smell of wine, spiced chickpeas, roast lamb on beds of wild mushrooms, and tangy hintan wafted, a heady air. A boy stood on a stage, playing a lute, while his sister sang in a high, clear voice. Many of Aelar's most powerful citizens lounged here on low couches—wealthy merchants, powerful landowners, even generals from the legions. Like butterflies, the lupae moved about the hall, giggling at jokes, stroking men's hair, drinking wine. An elderly prefect, his white hair all but fallen, lay by a boy, listening to the lad sing. A centurion lay on his back between two lupae, one who served him grapes, the other wine.

"Odelia!" called a wealthy wool monger, a bald man with rosy cheeks and two chins. "Odelia, my darling. Some wine to soothe an old man's soul."

Ofeer approached him. "You're not old, my friend, but still young and full of vigor."

He laughed, jowls jiggling, as he reclined on his couch. "Thankfully, you're a better server than a liar. Hand me a glass."

"Would you care for Polonian vintage, dominus? Or perhaps a deep red from Kalintia, a new arrival in our cellar?"

"I have no stomach for Kalintian wine, my dear, no more than drinking vinegar. Hand me a Polonian."

Ofeer served him the drink, then kept moving through the chamber, deftly making her way between drunken patrons and giggling lupae. When her tray of drinks was empty, and the lute player and sister had gone upstairs with patrons, Mariana approached her.

The brown-eyed lupa took hold of Ofeer's arm and gestured at the vacant stage.

"Lena Florine says you are to sing." Mariana began to tug Ofeer toward the stage. "You're worth more than just serving wine."

Ofeer bit her lip and nodded. Yes, she had promised to sing for the crowd, and yet now meekness filled her. She had sung many times in the taverns of Gefen, bawdy songs, her mug raised, her voice drowning under the song of sailors. And she had sung in her family home, ancient songs of Zohar, voice rising with the voices of her family. But she had never stood on a stage before, sung for a crowd. Yet Mariana all but shoved her, and Ofeer soon found herself standing on the small stage—barely larger than a pedestal—a lyre in hand. Around her spread the lewd frescoes, portraying various acts of love and their prices. Ofeer stood silently, facing the crowd.

"Sing us a song!" cried Mariana, standing in the crowd.

"A song, a song!" said Calina, another lupa, a Nurian woman with braided hair and large dark eyes.

As the eyes of the patrons turned toward her, Ofeer suddenly felt shy. She wore a beautiful new stola woven of fine linen, a gift from Lena Florine, but she felt naked. Her mind returned to that day in the slave market outside the Acropolis, how the slave mongers had stripped her and Koren naked, brushed their skin, and sent them onto the stage for the crowd to bid on. She lowered her eyes.

"A song!" cried a man from the crowd.

Ofeer swallowed, not wanting to be here. This wasn't like the taverns of Gefen, when she had been just a lost girl, seeking escape in the bottom of her cups and the beds of sailors. Here she felt exposed. And besides, she knew no songs of Aelar, this great empire, aside from a few children's tunes Master Malaci had taught her during her Aelarian lessons. All the songs she knew were songs from back home, from Zohar.

In the crowd, Mariana nodded at her, a frown on her face.

Sing, the lupa mouthed. You must.

Ofeer nodded and closed her eyes. She played her lyre, and she sang.

She sang in Zoharite. She did not sing a lewd song of sailors. She did not sing the loud, coarse songs of her youth. She sang old songs of the desert, songs her mother used to sing her. Sad songs. Songs of sand, of sea, of ancient stones. A song of sunset over fields of wheat, of maidens dancing upon grapes, of young men who came to choose brides among them. Songs of an old nation that had known nothing but war, nothing but slavery, destruction, bloodshed, yet it was a song of turtledoves and hinds, of sweet spices, of vineyards and figs, of young lovers.

Who is that, rising from the desert?

She is my beloved, my sweet daughter of Beth Eloh.

Whose fingers are soft as myrrh,

Whose hair is scented of frankincense.

Let us rejoice in our love, beloved!

Our love is sweeter than wine.

Our kisses are sweeter than harvest's fruit.

My love, fairest among men!

Thine eyes are as the eyes of the hart

Who walketh among the lilies.

Thy hair is as sheaves of wheat

That hang golden in the sun.

My beloved, fairest among women!

Thy breasts are as hills of spices,

Like clusters of grapes in the vineyard.

Thy lips are as an open pomegranate,

Ripe and full of secrets.

It is springtime, my love, the rain has gone.

The lilies have opened upon the earth.

The almond sends forth her blossoms,

And the desert roses bloom.

Let us rejoice in our love, beloved!

Let us be lovesick, my love!

As she sang, the chamber fell silent around her, and Ofeer no longer stood in the Lunapar, no longer in this empire so far from home. She was back in Zohar, wandering the hills with Maya, her cotton dress swaying as she danced between the pines. She was in Beth Eloh, the holy city, walking over ancient cobblestones and under crumbling archways. She was Ofeer of the east, from a land of lume, a land of beauty. Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, a wind from the desert.

Come, daughter of Zohar,

Tether thy flock.

Let us go into the desert,

Walk upon the hot stones.

A string of rubies I shall give thee

To place upon thy sun-browned throat.

Scarves of silk I shall make thee

To replace thy cotton robes.

Links of gold I shall shape thee

To place around thy sandy ankles.

A gift of love I shall grant thee

To light thy starless nights.

Come, daughter of Zohar,

Tether thy flock.

Let us go into the desert,

Walk upon the hot stones.

Her voice died, and Ofeer lowered her head. Across the hall, they gazed at her, many with tears in their eyes. Ofeer did not like this, and now she felt more naked than ever before.

This isn't who I am, she thought. I'm Aelarian. I'm the daughter of an emperor. I . . . I wear a stola, and I used to wear an eagle pendant, and . . . those songs are not who I am.

And yet that was a part of her, a part Ofeer had always denied, always hated . . . yet had always known was there. Through her veins flowed the blood of an emperor, but also the blood of desert tribes, and though she was now far across the sea, perhaps the desert would never leave her.

Slowly the crowd returned to drinking, laughing, and conversing. As Ofeer began to step off the stage, a new patron near the doorway caught her eye . . . and she froze.

Her heart burst into a gallop. Her head spun.

He must have entered while she had sung with closed eyes. And now he stared at her—stared from across the hall, eyes intense, and Ofeer almost fainted, wanted to run, to fight, to scream.

No. Oh God, no, please, no.

She looked away hurriedly, then glanced back, just to make sure it was him. It was. It had to be.

He was a burly lord in his fifties, tall and wide. His head was large, squat, and bald, the nose bulbous, the forehead wide, the jaw strong. He wore a fine toga, plain white but hemmed with costly ultramarine. Ofeer had seen him several times in the villa on Pine Hill, had seen him riding through the streets of Gefen even more often.

Praetor Tirus Valerius, the ambassador to Zohar. Claudia's father.

Ofeer had never much stomached the Valerius patriarch. Whenever Tirus had come to the villa to dine with Jerael, Ofeer had headed to the taverns at the port, places a fine lord such as Tirus would never set foot in—though it seemed he was not above visiting brothels. As for Claudia Valerius, his daughter . . . that was a different story. Ofeer had spent many hours with Claudia, walking with her along the beach, speaking with her of Aelar, even visiting her home in the city. On many of those visits, Tirus had been there, grunting over some scroll from across the sea and complaining to his wife about the whims of Emperor Marcus. The bald praetor had never paid Ofeer much mind back in Zohar, aside from the occasional glance at her breasts, an act he had never tried particularly hard to hide. Would Tirus remember Ofeer now? Did he recognize her?

She walked toward the kitchen, refusing to look back, but she felt his eyes bore into her back. She stepped around the lounging patrons and laughing lupae, and she had almost made it to the kitchen door when a hand clutched her shoulder. A heavy hand. The fingers wide as sausages, the nails bitten down to stubs.

Ofeer gulped and turned around, though she kept her gaze lowered.

"Dominus?" she whispered, daring not meet his eyes.

Please, she prayed silently. Please don't recognize me. Please.

"I quite enjoyed your song," Tirus said, speaking flawless Zoharite with just the faintest trace of an accent. "How long have you been in Aelar, child?"

Ofeer still dared not raise her eyes, still dared not look at that squat face. "Many years, my lord." She answered in Zoharite, voice barely a whisper. "I don't remember much from home, only old songs. My name is Odelia. They call me the Desert Rose."

He placed a finger under her chin and raised her head, forcing her to gaze at him. His nose was deeply veined, his lumpy head completely hairless, and his eyes scrutinized her. "You're a daughter of Gefen. You don't speak with the accent of Beth Eloh. I lived in Zohar for many years, and I'm an expert on accents." His eyes narrowed. "Who's your father?"

He doesn't know, Ofeer realized, relief flowing through her. He doesn't recognize me. He spent too many years staring at my tits instead of my eyes.

"I never knew him," she said, speaking truth, in a sense. "He was a shepherd from Erez, my mother a milkmaid in Gefen, but they died when I was young. I caught ship to Aelar with a merchant. My songs are all I remember."

He stroked her hair, tucking strands behind her ear. "You're a pretty thing. I keep a room upstairs. No other patron may use it. Come with me, and sing me your songs, and we'll reminisce of the east."

Ofeer turned away. "Pardon me, dominus. I'm only the wine girl." She looked around her for air. "Calina here will be glad to service you, and—"

"I don't want Calina." He cupped her cheek and turned her face back toward him. "And I don't need anyone to service me. I desire pleasant company is all. A song. A little reminder of the desert. Come with me to my chamber."

He took her hand in his—gently but firmly. Ofeer looked toward Mariana for aid. The brown-eyed lupa sat on the lap of another patron. She gave Ofeer a helpless look.

"You should speak to Lena Florine, dominus," Ofeer said, staring down at her feet. "She will be happy to send you one of her girls, maybe two, and—"

Now he gripped her wrist—painfully. "Florine will do as I tell her." His voice was taut, threatening to rise to a shout. "Do you know who I am, girl?"

Ofeer raised her head, squared her shoulders, and met his gaze straight on. "Praetor Tirus Valerius, lord of the marble quarries, once ambassador to Zohar, and close personal friend to the Octavius family."

He smiled thinly, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "Clever girl. And you would know then that I take what I want, be it the lives of Zoharite men or their women in my bed." He tugged her arm. "Come with me."

Ofeer tried to tug back, knocked over a glass lantern on a table, and it shattered on the floor. A woman shrieked. A few men laughed, and a boy ran forward to douse the flame under a blanket. Mariana rushed forward, smiling prettily, but there was anxiousness in her eyes. She doffed her toga, exposing her nakedness.

"Dominus!" she said to Tirus. "I would be glad to pleasure you, and—"

The praetor struck her, a blow with his massive fist. Mariana fell to the ground, crying out, blood on her lip. A few of the lupae screamed. Others stared at their toes and twisted their fingers. One legionary even rose to his feet, only for his comrades to pull him back down; the boy must have been a fool, or too drunk, to recognize one of the mightiest men in the Empire.

Tirus tugged Ofeer upstairs. At the top of the staircase, Lena Florine herself met them. The corpulent mistress of the Lunapar leaned on a cane, and two of her girls stood at her sides, steadying her. In all her time here in the Lunapar, Ofeer had never seen the lena rise from her divan. Her silks billowed across her ample frame, and her cheeks were flushed.

"Praetor Tirus!" she said, huffing for breath. "I've heard a ruckus. What seems to be the problem, dominus?"

The beefy, bald man smiled thinly. "No problem, my dear. I merely desired a forbidden fruit. I'm told that dear Odelia here only serves wine and sings. Perhaps she can . . . sing for me privately in my chamber?" He stroked Ofeer's cheek, his finger rough. "I will pay a fine price. As you know, I have access to the coffers of Empress Porcia herself."

Lena Florine paled. She glanced at Ofeer, then back at Valerius. "The girl is pregnant," the mistress said.

A strange light filled Tirus's eyes. A wolf's grin split his face. "Good."

Horror filled Florine's eyes, then—when she turned toward Ofeer—pity. Finally resignation. The mistress of the Lunapar lowered her head.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to Ofeer as Tirus dragged her down the corridor.

Ofeer struggled, but she might as well have fought a bear. Tirus was among the largest men she'd ever seen—shorter than Jerael had been but wider, all bulky muscles over heavy bones, his head like a boulder, his fists like vises. He yanked a door open and led her into a bedchamber. A typical brothel room awaited them. A bed. A ewer of water. Clay bowls full of aromatic oils. The curtains were drawn back, revealing a view of the Acropolis in the distance, the Amphitheatrum cresting the hill like a crown.

"Shall I sing for you, my lord?" Ofeer said. "I can dance too, and I play both the lyre and flute, and . . ."

Her voice died as he pulled open his toga. His manhood hardened, large and thick like the rest of him. He pressed down on her shoulders, forcing her to kneel before him.

"You will do as a hundred other girls of Gefen have done." He grabbed her hair. "You are no singer or dancer, Ofeer Sela. Yes, I recognize you. I know your name. I've wanted this for a long time. You're far from your home now. You're just a whore here in Aelar, and you will do your job."

Ofeer's heart pounded against her ribs. She grimaced, looked away, and reached into her stola.

"What—" Tirus began when Ofeer whipped out her saw.

She had used this saw to cut off her collar. Now she cut something else.

Tirus screamed.

As his blood gushed, as he stumbled back, Ofeer released the saw and leaped away. She ran across the room, knocking over a chair. He howled behind her. In the mirror she saw him tug the saw free.

So much for Aelarians not being circumcised, she thought, crazed laughter bursting from her. She leaped onto the bed, climbed onto the windowsill, and jumped down into the night.

She fell from the second story, landing on sacks of dirty laundry in a back alley. She bounded up and raced into the night. Behind her still rose the screams.

"Catch her!" rose a howl behind. "Legionaries, find the Zoharite! I want her dead! I want the whore dead!"

Ofeer ran through the night, leaving behind her weapon, her money, her brief respite from pain. She vanished into the shadows, knowing she could never return, knowing that once more, as perhaps she had always been, she was lost.

KOREN

They galloped through the night, the cloaked riders thundering in pursuit.

"God damn it," Koren muttered as he rode his horse. "I was finally living in a mansion, making love to a beautiful woman for a living, and you just had to buy me, didn't you, Valentina?"

The princess of Aelar rode her own mare at his side. "Shush and ride!"

They galloped onward across the dark countryside. The grass rose tall here, and a line of cypress trees rose in the distance, bordering forested hills. The moon was full and too bright. Their horses could probably be seen for parsa'ot—or leagues, as the Aelarians measured things.

Koren looked over his shoulder and saw them there. Ten riders or more. The moonlight shone on their armor and helmets.

The Magisterian Guard, Koren knew, belly curdling. Porcia's goons.

He looked at Valentina, who galloped at his side. The wind had blown back her hood, and her white hair streamed in the wind. The moonlight shone on her face. She was pale as moonlight herself, no color to her eyes or even eyebrows and lashes, only a hint of pink to her lips. Those lips were tightened, her eyes narrowed, and her hands clutched the reins. She looked as innocent and sweet as Maya, yet the wrath of the Empire hunted her.

And now it hunts me too, Koren thought, cursing.

This was not his conflict. If Empress Porcia wanted to kill members of House Octavius, seeing them as rivals to the throne—so be it! More power to her. Koren had been happy enough at Claudia's villa. He had bathed every evening, eaten fine fare, drank wine, and twice a day—oh God above—serviced Claudia in her bed. Sure, she had threatened to drag him to Zohar and torture him in an attempt to draw Epher out from hiding. But even that would have meant a nice journey home, a reunion with his brother, and surely no more pain than what he had suffered in the quarry.

And now this. Being a refugee. Galloping through the dark wilderness, fleeing Porcia's assassins. All because of an Aelarian civil war unrelated to him.

I was happier being Claudia's slave than Valentina's. Koren sighed and kept galloping.

But the soldiers kept gaining on them. Their voices rang across the night.

"Halt, Valentina Octavius!"

"In the name of the empress, surrender yourself and you will live!"

Koren debated halting his own horse. Maybe if he asked nicely enough, they would bring him back to Claudia. No more nights sleeping on the hard, rocky ground. No more fleeing death in the wilderness north of Aelar. He would be back to the wine, the shade, and Claudia's naked body against him, and—

"Halt, in the name of Empress Porcia!" the soldiers cried, and arrows flew across the night.

Koren cringed and leaned down in the saddle. An arrow whizzed over his head. No, there would be no use surrendering to these men. Not now. Not after fleeing them here. They would drag him back to Porcia, and that insane she-devil from Ashael would skin him alive.

The horses rode onward. More arrows flew. One slammed into Valentina's mare, and the beast whinnied but kept galloping. The fields rose and fell. The cover of the forest seemed impossibly far.

An arrow grazed Koren's arm, slicing through skin. He hissed. He dug his heels into the horse.

Please, Eloh, he thought. I'm normally not a religious man. But if you save me, I swear that I'll never more wiggle worms in front of Ofeer—if I ever find the girl again, that is—and I'll go to temple every morning—assuming I ever find a temple again—and always bless my wine—assuming I ever drink wine again—and . . . Let's just say, save me and I'll owe you one.

Perhaps his prayers worked. Another arrow scraped his arm—the damn legionaries shot the exact same spot—and they reached the trees. The horses galloped through the forest. The canopy hid the moon, and the shadows were so dark Koren kept expecting the horses to slam into the boles, but the animals kept navigating deftly between them.

So did the pursuers' horses. The soldiers' torches blazed between the trees, and their voices rang out. It was too dark here, too cold. Bad place to die. Koren had always imagined himself dying in bed, an old man, a lovely naked lass in his arms, his belly full of wine, and piles of gold around him for his great-grandchildren to squabble over. Ideally Epher would be there too, weeping for all those times he had scolded Koren and called him a ne'er-do-well. No, dying here in the Aelarian forest simply wouldn't do.

Koren looked at Valentina.

"Trust me!" he said.

She tilted her head, galloping beside him. "What—?"

"Trust me!" He reached out and grabbed her hand. "Fall and roll!"

They were galloping around a hill thick with oaks when Koren leaped from his saddle, yanked on Valentina's hand, and pulled her down with him.

She yelped.

They both slammed onto the grassy hillside and rolled.

The horses kept galloping.

"What—?" she began.

"Hush!"

He scurried behind a bush, pulling Valentina with him. The shadows enveloped them. Bruises screamed in agony across Koren's side.

An instant later, the soldiers thundered by on their stallions, firing arrows and crying out for their quarry. They continued pursuing the two fleeing horses, leaving Koren and Valentina behind.

They crouched among the leaves, silent, bleeding and battered, until the sounds of thundering hooves vanished in the distance.

Finally Valentina rose to her feet. He could barely see her—only a hint of moonlight filtered through the canopy—but he could tell she was glaring at him.

"We needed those horses," she said. "They carried supplies. Weapons. Food. Water. And . . . they were my friends."

Koren thought she blushed at those last words, but he remembered how he had felt about Moosh and Teresh, his two horses back in Gefen. He still missed those dear old beasts.

"I'm sorry, Valentina," he said. "It was the only way to shake off pursuit."

She sighed and looked around her at the dark forest. A distant wolf howled.

"Do you have any idea how long it'll take us to reach the northern ocean without horses or money?"

Koren counted on his fingers, frowning. "Ten . . . maybe twenty centuries?"

She jabbed her finger against his chest. "If we're lucky! And even once we reach the ocean, gods know how we'll afford passage on a ship north to the Elanian Isles. My money was in the saddlebags."

Koren touched his wound and winced. His fingers came away bloody, but he didn't think the cut was deep. He had nothing to bandage it with, and it was too dark to see anyway.

"Elania," he muttered. "Why Elania? Why the most distant, secluded, most desolate province in the Empire?"

Valentina placed her hands on her hips. "Because it's the most distant, secluded, and desolate province in the Empire. Because Porcia can't reach us there. And because it's home to three entire legions."

Koren groaned. "Valentina! If there are three legions in Elania, how will we be safe there? Three legions! That's . . ." He counted on his fingers again. "A lot of soldiers! On an island. An island! Why would we go there? Why would I go there?" He grabbed his head and sat down. "I was having a lovely time back at Claudia's place. I lived in a villa. My job was to pour wine in the shade and make love to a beautiful woman. Not be stuck on an island with three legions of killers."

Valentina sighed and sat down beside him. She spoke softly. "How's your arm?"

"Hurts," he said.

"Does it? A little scratch from an arrow?" She jabbed him right in the wound, making him yowl. "How about that?"

"Ow! Stop it." Koren wriggled away from her.

"Oh, did that hurt too?" Valentina said. "Well, that's nothing compared to what Praetor Tirus Valerius's men would have done to you, once they had brought you to Zohar. They'd have tortured you, Koren. Tortured you right in Beth Eloh, to lure your brother out from hiding. They'd have flayed bits of your skin and rubbed the raw flesh with salt. Maybe ripped off a few fingers. Maybe ripped off that lovely little bit of yours that Claudia seemed to enjoy so much."

Koren felt the blood drain from his face. "But I love that little bit of mine!"

"And I saved it," Valentina said. "I saved you because of the promise I made Ofeer. I promised her that if I found you, I'd keep you safe. And that's what I intend to do."

Koren rubbed his head. "So why Elania and its three legions?"

Valentina smiled in the moonlight. "Because I know the man who commands those three legions. Governor Atticus Magnus." Her smile vanished, and her face became wistful. "He was my father's friend."

Koren tilted his head. "He was friends with Emperor Marcus? How does that help us? I thought we were escaping your family."

She lowered her head. For a long time she did not speak.

And then she told him.

She told him of her true father—Senator Septimus Cassius. She told him of the conspiracy to kill Marcus, and how it had backfired when Porcia had claimed the throne and slain the senators. And she told him of her dream—a dream to see the Empire dismantled, to restore the Republic, to bring new senators into power.

"In Elania, I can rekindle that dream." Valentina finished her tale. "With Governor Atticus's help. If he's still loyal to my family—my true family, the House of Cassius—he will help us fight Porcia."

Koren's head spun. Valentina wasn't an Octavius? That certainly explained a lot, but . . .

"Val, this makes no sense. Why would Marcus let his old enemy's friend—a man sympathetic to the Republic—continue to govern a province? Granted, Elania is the most distant, godforsaken, cold and desolate province of them all, but still. A province! Wouldn't Marcus have wiped out his enemies?"

Valentina smiled thinly. "Only those enemies he knew of. There are still those loyal to the Republic across the Empire, but they've been hiding their loyalties. They've been paying lip service to their emperor. But now Marcus is dead, and now the Senate has crumbled, and now the Empire is in chaos. Now it's time for all those people—me, Atticus, countless others—to reveal our loyalties. To rise up. To topple the Empire and rebuild the Republic of old. Oh, and don't call me Val."

Koren thought about this for a moment, then sighed. "Empire, Republic . . . same thing to me. This isn't my war. My war is in Zohar."

"The war covers the entire world," Valentina said. "When we fight Porcia in her own city, we're fighting for Zohar, for Nur, for Gael, for all lands struggling against the Empire, for all lands that fell to its cruelty. Fight with me, Koren. Help me reach Elania and raise an army to dethrone Porcia and dismantle the Empire once and for all."

Koren yawned. "Seems like a lot of work. I think I'll get a good night's sleep before we do all that. It's always easier to topple empires in the morning."

He lay down on a bed of leaves and grass. For a moment Valentina sat upright, staring into the darkness, but then she lay down beside him. The distant wolf no longer howled, and crickets chirped. The horses and legionaries had long gone silent. He lay for a few moments, unable to sleep.

"Valentina," he finally whispered.

After a moment: "Yes?"

"Thank you," Koren said. "For saving my life."

She wiggled closer until their bodies touched. She hesitated for a moment, then kissed his cheek. "Same back at you."

He closed his eyes again, and soon he slept, Valentina curled up against him. He dreamed of the desert, of milk and honey, and of a home that seemed farther than ever.

SHILOH

On the Day of Atonement, she awoke in her small chamber in the palace of Zohar, a rough cell where once servants had lived, where today she was humbled.

She rose from her bed, walked onto her balcony, and stared upon Beth Eloh on its holiest day. The Day of Atonement. The holiest day of the Zoharite year. No horns blew from the Temple this day; its priests had burned. No offerings of grain, gold, and plenty flowed from the countryside into the city; all those gifts now went to the Empire. On this most solemn of days, the day when all God's children prayed for forgiveness, a stillness lay upon Beth Eloh.

The ancient city sprawled before Shiloh, a field of domes, minarets, and pale rooftops, the houses so close together she could barely see the labyrinth of streets. Palm trees swayed in courtyards, and the tombstones in cemeteries crowded together as closely as cobblestones. A cold wind blew, the kinder, gentler air of fall, blowing away the searing heat of the long desert summer. A time for fasting. A time for prayer.

The markets were closed. The shops had locked their doors. No smoke rose from cooking fires, and no children played in the streets. The people prayed. Their Temple had been stolen, and a statue of Empress Porcia now rose there, gazing upon her province. But the children of Zohar gathered in the streets, in the courtyards, upon balconies and rooftops, and their song flowed toward Shiloh. Songs of sadness. Songs of grief. The men stood wrapped in prayer shawls, and the women wore white dresses, and they prayed not for the Empire's fall, not for freedom—but for absolution.

"Forgive us, Eloh," chanted a distant priest in a courtyard, swaying as he faced the lost Temple. "Forgive your children for our greed, our arrogance, for straying from your path. Forgive us, merciful Lord of Light."

The crowds below chanted the words, and Shiloh turned away from the view. Her husband had always loved the fall, a relief from the heat, but for Shiloh the season had always seemed too melancholy. A season when oaks lost their leaves, when the sun set too early, when even the bounties of harvest could not ease her fear of winter.

Hearing those chants from the city, facing her barren chamber in the palace her family had once ruled, sudden rage filled Shiloh.

"Why should we beg forgiveness?" she hissed. "Why should we pray and speak of our sins, when the sins of the world fall upon us?"

On a day for quiet introspection, it was fury that filled her—fury that her children were missing, that her husband was gone, that this land wept under the yoke of an empire. Perhaps this was the fury Epher felt, the fury that had driven him underground, to raise blades against the legions.

And now tears flowed. Tears of mourning, tears of fear. The shadows gathered around Shiloh, and she could find no light to banish them. Back in the villa on Pine Hill, she would tend to her cyclamens when the gloom of fall constricted her—gentle flowers that grew by stones, that grew over the grave of her son. She had found some solace in the delicate petals, the boulders and statues in her garden protecting them from the wind. Her husband had protected her. Her family had protected her. She had always been like a cyclamen. Now she felt exposed. Now the grief of a nation, rising in song from the city, seemed all her own.

Mother of Zohar, they called her. The daughter of a king. A mere flower, alone in the wind, no stone to shelter her.

She walked through the palace, the place she had once ruled, the place now full of legionaries, of the statues of Aelar's pantheon. Beautiful gods of marble. Gods of grace, gods of cruelty. Gods that were just cold stone. Gods that were perhaps more real than the invisible spirit that today, on this holiest of days, could not hear her prayers, that had forsaken his chosen nation.

She passed through these halls of memory. Where two legionaries stood, Shiloh remembered the guards of her father—men now sent to the north, to be tortured, broken into submission, and rebuilt as soldiers of the Aelarian auxiliaries. Past a row of columns where marble idols stood, Shiloh remembered walking with her sister, tossing silver coins down toward the city below, making wishes as the people collected the wealth. The memories of a girl born into privilege, who had known a better life than most in this world—who had seen this world burn. Who had seen all her memories stripped bare, mocked, reformed around her until they lost all meaning.

I tried to give you a good life too, my children, she thought as she walked these halls. I could not give you a life in a palace, but may the memories of our home—a home of light, of joy, of family—give you some strength in the darkness ahead.

Thinking of her children was almost too much to bear, and the tears stung her eyes. Epher—hiding in the city, fighting his war of shadows. Koren and Atalia—slaves in chains, serving their masters in Aelar. Ofeer—sweet, sad Ofeer, the saddest of her children—perhaps a slave too. Maya—fled into the desert, perhaps never to return. Mica—her sweet boy, forever a baby, forever sleeping, his grave now desecrated, crushed under the sandals of the legions.

"We tried to give them a good life, Jerael," she whispered, and now her tears flowed to her lips. "We failed."

She paused from walking by a portico of columns, and between them she could see the western city, and beyond the walls the killing field where Yohanan and thousands of others had died. She fell to her knees here, facing her kingdom, and lowered her head, and her body shook with sobs.

"Forgive me, Eloh," she whispered. "Forgive me for my sins. Forgive me for failing to be a good mother. For failing to keep my children safe." She trembled. "I committed the most horrible sin a mother could commit. I did not keep my children safe."

A day of atonement. A day of tears. Why was it, Shiloh wondered, that the holiest day in the Zoharite year was a day of solemnity? In Aelar, the greatest festivals were days of parades, fanfare, of glory and blood, days when gladiators fought and chariots raced, when a city celebrated. In Nur they danced, bedecked in splendor, praising life. In eastern Sekadia holy days were affairs of song, of thousands dancing together, of military marches and feasts to last for days.

Here in Zohar, we fast, Shiloh thought. We pray. We weep. We beg forgiveness. Perhaps ours has always been a kingdom of tears, surrounded by kingdoms of splendor.

Leaving the view of the city, she made her way to the palace's holy pool. In Aelar, Shiloh knew, the people bathed in great bathhouses, palaces unto themselves, social affairs where emperors and plebeians alike were as equals, merely naked flesh exposed to all eyes. Here in Zohar, a private chamber hid the pool, a reservoir of water just large enough for a single person to enter. Shiloh entered this small chamber, no larger than her bedchamber higher in the palace, and gazed down at the water. It was in this water that brides purified themselves before marriage, that soldiers cleansed themselves after shedding blood in war, that kings and queens sought absolution from sin. A private place where only God could gaze upon her.

She removed her cloak and tunic, remaining naked before the pool. She remembered how once, a quarter century ago, she had felt a mixture of shyness and pride when first revealing her naked body to Jerael. Time and six childbirths had done their work, leaving her belly marked and stretched, leaving her breasts lower than in her youth. Here was the sacrifice mothers had always made for their children, the vow to give of their own lives—their bodies, their milk, their soul—to their offspring. A vow that, today more than any other day, Shiloh felt that she had betrayed.

She stepped into the pool, descending the underwater stairs until the water rose to her chin. It was cold. Cold as the winter that approached. Cold as the grief and fear that had filled her all year. Her body bore the marks of childhood, and yet she was alone here, come for ablution. Seeking water, prayer, the grace of god to cleanse her from this grief and fear. From her sin.

"Forgive me, Eloh," she prayed. "Keep my children safe."

She left the pool, donned her clothes, and walked again through the palace. She would return to her chamber, where for the first time in years, she would fast this Day of Atonement. She had quit fasting on the holy days many years ago, losing her faith after Mica's death, but today, this year with all her children threatened, perhaps she was rediscovering her faith. Perhaps she needed that faith to hold herself together.

She moved hurriedly through the palace, ignoring the legionaries who watched her, who snickered, who called out lewdly after her. She stepped back into her chamber . . . and she found a man there.

He stood robed and hooded in coarse fabric, his back to her, and Shiloh hissed, wishing she had a weapon, ready to call for the guards. But her fear soon fled. It was him. Of course it was him. She would recognize him anywhere.

"How did you get here?" she whispered, closing the door behind her.

He turned toward her, eyes haunted. Her Epher.

"Mother," he whispered.

And he needed her. He was taller than her, so much stronger, a warrior in a rebellion, but he needed her. He knelt before her, and she embraced him, her sweet son, and she thought of all those days, so many years ago, when she would hold the precious babe—her firstborn son. Discovering laughter with him. Discovering love.

"What happened, Epher?" She stroked his hair. "What is it?"

He looked up at her. Her curious babe, new in the world. Her wise son, learning to speak, to walk, to write. Her broken, haunted soldier, bearded and ragged, bruises and cuts covering his face.

"I had a dream." Still kneeling before her, held in her arms, he turned his head to look out the window, and his voice was soft. "I dreamed a great wave flowed over this city, that a great cry rose in Zohar. I dreamed of a gate opening that had not been opened in generations. I dreamed of a savior entering the city, but a shadow too." He looked back at her, eyes damp. "I dreamed that you died, Mother."

She seemed to shatter. All she could do was stare at him, frozen like one of the idols in this palace. Then she knelt too, pulling him into a tight embrace. She rocked him.

"It was only a dream, my son. I'm here. Mother is right here with you. I . . ."

She could say no more. For the first time in years, perhaps the first time since Mica had died, Shiloh truly wept.

"I love you, Mother," he said, weeping too. "I wanted to see you on this holy day."

She wiped the tears off his cheeks. "You will see me on many more days. I will always be with you. I promise. I love you, Epher."

And thus do I sin again, she thought. Thus do I lie. I cannot protect him. I cannot keep my son safe.

They held each other on this holiest of days, and the song of Zohar rose outside—a song of grief, of prayer, pleading for forgiveness, pleading for mercy.

ATALIA

On a cold day under lavender skies, Atalia married the man she had sought through sea and forest, the man who would send the walls of her enemies tumbling down, the man who had taken her captive and now was taking her as his wife.

They stood atop the mountain, the gilded mead hall behind them, the forested valley below. The crowd covered the mountainside, gathering to watch their chieftain wed his new bride. Many tribes of Gael had united under his rule. They still dressed for battle, for they were people of iron, and they carried their axes, hammers, swords, and maces, and their checkered cloaks billowed in the wind. The sunset gleamed upon their torcs, the thick rings of gold that encircled their necks.

Atalia wore a gown that Feina had sewn for her. It was deep gray like the sea under a storm, hemmed with blue, split at the thighs to let her ride. The harpist had woven Atalia's black, chin-length hair with thin braids in the style of Gael, adding golden beads and silver bells. Blessedly, the cursed chain around Atalia's ankle was gone. She wore new iron now—a freshly forged sword, long and wide as her forearm, shaped like a leaf. It hung from a belt of gold and silver links shaped as coiling dragons.

Stupid garments, Atalia thought. She felt a little like Ofeer, all dolled up. But she also felt beautiful for the first time in her life.

I'm only marrying him for his armies, she told herself. And because he tied me up and dragged me and forced me to marry him. I hate him. He's a brute and a barbarian, and once I'm done using his armies, I'm likely to chop off his balls with the sword he gave me.

And yet when Atalia looked at Berengar, it was hard to hate him. She saw no cruelty in his blue eyes. Indeed she thought she saw something caring, something soft beneath the rough facade. He wore his silvery breastplate, engraved with stags, and a checkered gold-and-blue cloak, and he bore a sword and shield. Around his neck, he wore his torc, and the gilded finger bones of his enemies dangled from the collar.

With them stood Feina, and she was clad in a flowing blue gown, and her golden hair cascaded down to her waist, strewn with wildflowers. She too wore her golden torc around her neck, and a garland of bluebells wreathed her brow. She held her harp, and a curved sword hung from her belt, the blade worked with silver elks.

Atalia felt sudden jealousy that this shieldmaiden, more beautiful by far, should stand here with Atalia on her wedding day. But then Atalia scoffed at herself. What did it matter who was fairer or who stood here today? These were not her people, and she could not judge their customs. Feina was Berengar's first wife, and Atalia was joining this family. In some ways she was marrying Feina just as much as she was marrying the bearded chieftain.

An old druid stepped forth, clad in flowing purple robes. His beard was long and white, his eyebrows bushy, his face deeply lined. A great bird's skull topped his head, the beak thrusting out like a visor, and he held a staff bedecked with black feathers. He spoke words in Gaelian, which Atalia could not understand. Berengar and Feina spoke too, repeating the druid's words—ancient prayers to the gods of Gael, Atalia guessed.

"Would you like to speak some words in your tongue?" Berengar asked her, speaking Aelarian.

Atalia thought back to weddings in Zohar. She had been to several on the beach. She nodded, closed her eyes, and tried to imagine that she stood back there. That her feet were in the wet sand. That before her rolled the waves of the Encircled Sea, that behind her rose the piney hills where she had lived with her family. She spoke softly in Zoharite, knowing they could not understand, but these were precious words to her. They were words of home.

"If I forget you, Beth Eloh, may I forget my right arm," she whispered the ancient prayer. "If I forget you, city of gold and copper and light, may I forget all love and home. Hear, O Zohar! Ours is the light." She opened her eyes and glared at Berengar. "And if you treat me bad, I'm going to plant my foot so far up your ass I'll kick out your teeth."

The chieftain groaned and rolled his eyes. He held out a torc like the one all here wore. The collar was woven of golden strands, almost a complete circle, its ends tipped with decorative dragon heads. With his powerful hands, Berengar bent the torc, widening the gap between the dragons.

"With this gift, we are bound," he said.

"With this gift, we are bound," Feina repeated.

Together, the Gaelian man and woman placed the torc around Atalia's neck, then bent it so that the dragon heads nearly touched upon her collarbone. It was heavy and thick, and Atalia didn't know if she was strong enough to bend it back open, or if she would forever wear this gold.

"With this gift, we are bound," she whispered.

A feast began. Feina played her harp, and many Gaelians played trumpets and sang. Boars and deer roasted on spits, and mead and wine flowed from horns and goblets. The people danced, children played with wooden swords, and grown warriors dueled for sport. There were jugglers and men who danced with wooden masks, and there were games of dice and leather balls and hoops. The food kept coming: pies stuffed with pheasant and cheese, platters of bright red apples, sizzling sausages, tender hares and crunchy fish. Men competed at feats of strength, lifting logs and boulders, not to be outdone by the shieldmaidens who arm wrestled and boxed and fired arrows at wooden targets.

So many tribes had gathered for the wedding that they flowed down the mountainsides and covered the valley, spreading as far as Atalia could see. A nation gathered here for joy. A nation gathered to feast before fire. For a celebration before war.

Throughout the festivities, Atalia sat on the giltwood chair they had given her, and she thought of home.

I used to always tell my parents that I'd never wear a dress, never marry, that I live only for the sword, she thought. But my phalanx fell. And my home fell. And now I bear a sword from a strange land. She placed her hand on the pommel. And now I live for vengeance. Now I live to smash to walls of Aelar, to find Porcia and Seneca, and to slay them.

Night fell, and the people lit candles until thousands of tiny lights glowed on the mountain, and the stars shone above. Feina played her harp, singing a song of moonlight, of starlight, of the wind through the trees and of old and new love. Atalia didn't need to understand her language to understand this song; she heard its meaning in the pure notes and the pure voice. Her silvery gown flowing, Feina walked through the crowd, passing like a spirit from an ancient tale through the celestial field, a lady of light and song.

Berengar took Atalia's hand in his. His grip was warm and enveloping.

"Let us follow Feina," he said, his voice a comforting rumble like thunder in a retreating storm. "Let us walk the path of stars."

Atalia walked with him among the candles, following the silvery spirit and the harp's song. Indeed it seemed to Atalia that she walked upon a field of stars, floating through an endless sky of shadows and light. And Atalia realized that though Zohar was fair, a spring of lume to the world, there was beauty here too in Gael, ancient magic, and wonders to rival those of the desert.

Feina led them into the golden hall on the mountaintop, past the wide chamber where many warriors had feasted, and into a smaller, private chamber, its walls wooden. A bearskin rug lay by a fireplace, and fur pelts covered a wide bed, its legs carved into rearing stags. A lantern hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow.

"So . . ." Atalia said. "Now that we're married, when do we invade Aelar?"

Feina smiled, placed down her harp, and tugged the lacings of her gown. The silver cotton fell to the floor, revealing her nakedness. The lamplight gilded her body. She was slender but strong, her breasts pale and small, and her navel shone with a jewel. She stepped closer, still smiling softly, and stroked Atalia's black hair.

"You are fair, daughter of the desert," Feina whispered. "I am proud to be joined to you."

Her lips were full, soft, her kiss warm, her tongue seeking, and her hands moved down to free Atalia of her dress. Feina guided her to the bed, laid her down on the fur blanket, and kissed her naked body. Atalia closed her eyes, arched her back, and she surrendered to the pleasure of it. She had made love twice before—to a butcher's boy in Zohar and to Daor in the forest—but never to a woman. This was something different, sweeter, softer, lovemaking like mead, intoxicating.

Larger hands stroked her, and she saw that Berengar stood naked before her. His chest was wide and scarred, and for a moment Atalia was afraid, because he was a large man, brutish, a conqueror and warrior. But he was gentle with her. He entered her slowly, filling her, and again she closed her eyes, and she wrapped her arms around his back. His hair draped around her, and Feina kissed her ear as Atalia moaned into Berengar's neck.

She slept that night between them, her head on Berengar's chest, and she did not dream of war, nor of vengeance, nor of those she had lost. She dreamed of fields of stars, the song of harps, and the taste of wine and Feina's lips.

The dawn rose to the sounds of horns, drums, and whetstones on iron.

Across the mountain town and the valleys below, the revelers were donning armor, strapping on belts laden with daggers and quivers, and sharpening axes and swords. Men and women hefted their shields, placed on their helmets, and drank mead from horns. Riders mounted horses, and druids chanted prayers. A group of warriors, a hundred or more, were dancing in the dust, beating drums, and chanting for victory.

Atalia stood outside the mead hall, wrapped in a blanket, watching them gather. Thousands upon thousands of warriors mustered across the mountainsides and valleys. Thousands more kept emerging from the forests. Trumpets blared across the land, sending birds fleeing. And still they emerged. Thousands more. The largest army Atalia had ever seen.

There must be a hundred thousand warriors here, she thought, staring in disbelief. She was no stranger to war, but she had never seen so many muster together.

The wedding had ended. War began.

"They're coming here from across Gael," Berengar said, emerging from the mead hall and coming to stand beside her. He wore his armor, his beard flowed across his wide chest, and he held his mighty axe, its blade shaped as dragon wings. "Never before have so many gathered from our land, and more will join us. All of Gael will march. You were right, Atalia. We're not safe here, dwelling in nothing but wooden homes, no brick walls around us. We won a battle against the eagles of Aelar. It's time to win the war." He took her hand in his. "Come with me. I have a gift for you."

He took her back into the mead hall, and Atalia's eyes widened, and a smile tickled her lips. The gift lay on the table, freshly forged.

"Armor," she whispered.

The breastplate fit her snugly, the iron worked with silvery lions. Her vambraces and greaves shone, and her helmet sprouted fangs. Her shield was round, wooden, and stretched with leather, and upon it roared a lion. When Atalia donned the armor and hefted the shield, she felt like a true soldier of Zohar again. Her double-bladed sword hung from her belt, and she strapped an axe to her back.

These were not the armor and weapons she was used to. She had always fought in chain mail, and she had always wielded a sickle sword and sling in battle. But with her breastplate, leaf-shaped sword, and axe, she felt just as mighty, a desert lioness roaring in a northern forest. She was ready for this. She was ready to face Porcia and Seneca again, to face the entire Empire in war.

"Porcia and Seneca tried to drag me into Aelar in chains," Atalia said to her husband. "I'll arrive in Aelar, but I'll arrive wielding iron, an army at my back, a mighty husband at my side."

They left the hall, and they walked down the mountainside. Berengar mounted his snowy stag, and Atalia rode on a midnight horse he had given her. Feina joined them atop her mare. She was clad in silvery armor, bearing shield and sword. Two golden braids emerged from under her horned helmet, falling down to her waist. She still carried her harp across her back.

Others joined them too. Thousands of riders. Thousands of men and women afoot. Wagons rolled between them, laden with supplies of war. They headed down the mountainside, and they moved across the misty valley. All across the forest, they beat drums and blew horns and banged swords on shields. The forces of Gael, countless, spreading into the horizon. An army large enough to crush an empire.

"To Aelar!" Berengar howled from his horse, raising his axe overhead. "To Aelar!"

"To Aelar!" the horde answered his cry. "To war! To war!"

As Atalia rode at the head of the army between her husband and wife, she stared south, and she did not think of the towering walls of Aelar, nor the palaces she would storm, not even the empress she would kill.

She thought of a city by the sea. Of a villa on a piney hill. Of candles and songs and a painting of elephants. Of a family.

"For you, Zohar," she whispered in this cold, northern land. "For you, the beat of my heart. For you, the golden desert. For you, Beth Eloh, the holy city. For my home."

She clutched her sword, and she rode onward, a desert lioness in the cold, ready to roar.

EPHER

It seemed that the screams would never end.

The legions marched through the streets of Beth Eloh, swords thrusting. The blood spilled. The screams echoed. Screams of rage, of terror, of death.

The city bled.

They fell by the thousands.

Epher ran along a rooftop. He whirred his sling, and he hurled his stone down into an alleyway, slamming it into a legionary's helmet. The man fell, but ten more legionaries ran into the alley, and their swords thrust. Two women of the city fell, chests pierced.

"Epher, come!" His companions grabbed him, pulling him from the roof's ledge. They ran onward. All across the roads below, the Aelarians marched and killed. The people fell before them. A legionary's spear drove into a child, skewering the boy. Two soldiers shoved down an old woman and hacked at her with blades.

Epher leaped into an alleyway. His dagger cut a man. His fellow bladesmen lashed their own daggers. Another legionary fell. They leaped into a tunnel, ran, emerged into another home. More corpses awaited them here. More legionaries marched outside.

The bladesmen ran through the city, emerging into alleyways, leaping from rooftops, killing every legionary they could, dying, dying with the thousands.

"Bring me six thousand corpses!" rose the cry across the city—the voice of Prefect Remus Marcellus. "Six thousand corpses will burn!"

And through the city, the slaughter raged—the legions grabbing children, elders, hacking them, loading the corpses into wagons.

"Behold your punishment!" cried Remus, riding his horse through the city. "You fought against us. I killed six hundred. You fought against us again! Now six thousand perish. Smell the death and kneel before us, rats."

A day of death, of mourning. A day of war.

When darkness fell upon Beth Eloh, Epher fell to his knees in an alleyway. Blood flowed around him. He had killed legionaries this day, but he could not stop the slaughter. Across the city, the people had fallen. Six thousand gone.

He lowered his head.

"We should never have resisted," Epher whispered. Blood and tears stained his face. "We should never have fought. I should have died on the cross that first day." He raised his eyes, blinked his tears away, and looked at Olive. "They killed six hundred when I fled the cross. When I fought them still, they slew six thousand. This blood is on my hands."

He looked at his hands—bloody, lacerated, hands he could never clean.

Olive knelt before him, wrapped her arms around him, and held him close. "Only blood of legionaries." She stroked his hair. "Not blood of innocents."

"They died because of me," Epher whispered, holding her. "Because I lived." He looked around him at the death in the alley. "Because I resisted."

Footfalls sounded, and a hand touched his shoulder. "Better to die free than live kneeling, cousin."

Epher turned to see Kahan standing there. The Selas had always been the wild side of the family, warriors, headstrong and foolhardy. Jerael Sela had been tempered by his position, lord of the coast, and by marrying Shiloh Elior, daughter of a king. Yet Jerael's brother, Benshalom Sela, had grown even wilder in his exile, roaming the hills, hunting and fighting and begetting many sons. Benshalom was dead now—slain outside the city walls—but his son Kahan was the warrior reborn. Standing in this alley, covered in blood, Kahan smiled, and a madness filled his eyes—a bloodlust.

"I did not ask for this." Epher rose to his feet. "I did not ask you to save me from crucifixion."

Kahan's smile grew. "And yet you fought with us, and you did not surrender yourself back to those who beat you, who would kill you like they killed so many others. God's will brought you to us, Epher. God made you a warrior in Zohar's Blade, this brotherhood. And God will see us win this war."

"If God exists, he forgot us in this land," Epher said. "The days of miracles ended a thousand years ago."

Kahan raised an eyebrow. "I would say, cousin, that God is here more than ever. In our hearts. In our blades. This is the hour when we are most divine, when we worship Eloh more than ever before. This hour, we show our love of God with iron. Eloh will help us cast back our enemies—but only if we become his true warriors, free of fear, full of nothing but devotion."

Epher looked at a severed arm on the ground. A child's arm. "God could earn my devotion by smiting our enemies with lightning, rather than hurling our frail, broken bodies at them."

"Yet we are more than crude tools," said Kahan. "God made us in his image—to make our own choices, to suffer when we sin, to rise to glory when we're pure. And glory will rise. We will push back the enemies from our land, and we will smite them even in Aelar, until God's grace flows across the world."

Horns blasted, filling the alleyway.

"Head to the Temple of Porcia!" rose a voice, speaking in Aelarian. A bell clanged. "At the Temple of Porcia, the corpses will burn, a great sacrifice to the goddess. Come forth, rats, to behold the fire! Come worship Porcia in all her glory, wreathed in the ashes of your dead! Worship her well, and she will show you mercy."

Epher climbed onto a rooftop and stared. A legionary rode a horse, surrounded by several other riders, ringing his bell, crying out the news. "To the Temple of Porcia! To the Temple!"

Epher looked up across the domes, alleyways, and minarets of Beth Eloh. There in the distance, behind thick walls, rose the Mount of Cedars. The Temple shone atop it, the sunlight bright against its gold and marble. There, they said, Eloh had once lived, had burned in the fire. There now rose a great statue of Porcia, visible across the city. There the old priests had burned, and now the people of Zohar were forced to bend the knee to their empress.

The other bladesmen climbed the roof with him. Sandy wind gusted, ruffling their robes and hoods, exposing the daggers strapped across their bodies. Olive's hood blew back from her head, and her red hair streamed.

"Remus himself will be there," said Kahan. "He would want to light the fire."

Already Epher could see, even across the distance, the legionaries piling up corpses around Porcia's statue, a great offering to the empress.

"To the Temple!" cried the rider below, growing more distant. "At sunset, the corpses burn, and the goddess will show mercy to those who worship her."

Olive sneered and raised her dagger. "We go there. With blades. We kill him."

Kahan and his warriors nodded. "We will face Remus Marcellus in the open, in the light of our Temple. There we will slay him. Tonight we rededicate the Temple to its true god."

"And how many more will die?" Epher said. "If we kill Remus, what do you think will happen? Porcia will send another governor. And that governor will slay sixty thousand among us. And if we defy him, they will slay six hundred thousand. And it will continue until no Zoharites are left alive."

Kahan's eyes shone. "No, Epher. Look around you. Look at the walls of Beth Eloh. They never fell to Aelar. It was Shefael the craven who opened the gates, who let the enemy in. By God, I say we drive them out, and if more come to our walls, we'll slay them from the battlements. Our Temple will be cleansed, and its light will grant us victory. We go there—tonight. If you don't wish to join us, Epher, then stay and hide. But true men of valor will face our enemy in battle, and we will be victorious."

Epher looked across the city. Legionaries were still lifting the corpses of Zoharites, placing them into wagons, and taking them to the Temple. There the mountain of the dead was rising higher.

Is it too late for peace? Epher thought. Is it too late to stop this bloodshed? Do we kneel now, beg for mercy, live under their yoke? Or do we see this rebellion through, do we strike the snake's head?

Remus spent most of his time in the palace, protected behind thick walls and many guards. If the Temple was open to all, and Remus would be there . . .

Epher tried to imagine it. Plunging his dagger into the prefect, the man who had brutalized both Gefen and Beth Eloh, who had slain thousands of Zoharites.

"You fight with us?" Olive asked, looking at him with her green eyes, and those eyes were not full of bloodlust like Kahan's. They were soft, loving, brave eyes.

Epher closed his own eyes. He was afraid. He had never been so afraid. He didn't know what to do. His mother would have, perhaps, urged calm, but Shiloh was in the palace now, a captive, a puppet like Shefael. Kahan and even Olive urged him to fight.

What do I do?

Epher thought back to his father. To Lord Jerael Sela. His father had been the wisest man Epher had ever known. His father had faced such a choice—to fight Seneca and his legions on the coast or to bend the knee. Jerael had chosen to fight, yet had he been right? Jerael was dead now, Gefen fallen. If he were here, perhaps Jerael would choose to fight too. Did that mean Epher should also raise arms?

I've already raised arms, he thought. He opened his eyes and looked at his bloody daggers, his bloody hands. I chose to fight in this war. I could have stepped away from the rebellion. I could have fled to Tarath El as Mother wanted, sought safety in that fortress in the sky. But I remained. I killed. For Zohar. For my brothers-in-arms. He looked back at the Temple. I must finish what I began, though it sickens me. I must go to one last battle. A battle for Beth Eloh. A battle to save my kingdom . . . and maybe, in the ashes that follow, find new light.

"There can be no peace with Prefect Remus," Epher said softly. "He's too cruel, and he will continue to brutalize us. And so yes, brothers. I'll fight with you. And we will kill the vulture. But when Remus is gone, we will speak to Empress Porcia—from a position of strength. And we will forge peace with the Empire."

Some of the men grumbled at this, others spat. One muttered that there could be no peace with Aelar, only complete victory. Yet Kahan nodded.

"After Remus is dead, when the Temple is rededicated, when Zohar is free . . . we will forge peace," Kahan promised, holding Epher's shoulder.

"Then for now, let there be war," Epher said.

They gathered in the shadows. In tunnels. In cellars. In humble homes. Their boys ran from house to house, delivering the orders. Young, pious women walked the streets, tapped on windows, whispered quick words before walking onward. As the sun began to set, the bladesmen emerged from their lairs. Some moving alone. Others in pairs. Hooded and cloaked, they made their way toward the inner city.

The bells still clanged across Beth Eloh, and thousands crowded the streets, come to see the burning—to pray to Porcia lest her wrath strike again.

The walls around the Mount of Cedars were as mighty as the walls around the outer city, topped with battlements, built thousands of years ago from ancient limestone. The gates were open within a crumbly archway, leading into the complex. Epher and Olive walked with the crowd, hidden in their cloaks. The sun was setting, torches burned on the roadsides, and the city people walked with them. Legionaries stood everywhere, holding their javelins and shields, shepherding the people up the Mount of Cedars.

On the hilltop, another layer of walls surrounded the Temple. More legionaries stood here, guarding the gateway, herding people through. Epher was struck by a sudden fear that the guards would search him and Olive, discover their daggers, and slay them on the spot. Yet the legionaries seemed more concerned with shepherding the people into the Temple complex as fast as possible.

Finally hundreds, maybe thousands of people stood in the Temple courtyard. It was a vast, square expanse paved with smooth flagstones. Walls rose around them, lined with columns, topped with ornamental parapets that shone with gilt. The Temple proper soared ahead, the tallest building in Zohar, among the greatest in the world, crowned with gold.

And in the center of the courtyard, the colossal statue of Empress Porcia rose from a mountain of corpses like a stake from a pyre.

The bodies had been stripped naked, limbs slung together, a sickly construction. Women. Men. Children. Babies. All butchered at random, six thousand in all—the price of Epher's defiance. Legionaries were climbing the grisly hill, splashing it with oil, stuffing kindling between the corpses. Above the dead loomed the empress's statue, bronze eyes stern, lips raised in the slightest of smiles.

Epher glanced around at the crowd. Among them, he saw faces he recognized. Men and women, young and old. Some had been soldiers in Shefael's army, disarmed and disbanded. Others were simple city folk and farmers, joined to the cause. They stood dispersed among thousands of onlookers. Rebels. Warriors of Zohar's Blade.

Warriors of Zohar, Epher thought. The only army we now have.

The legionaries blasted horns, and the crowd stirred. Standing among the people, Epher craned his neck and saw a tall legionary approach. He was easy to pick out; the man stood a foot or two taller than everyone around him. Remus Marcellus had donned his finest armor, iron and gold, and wore his crested helm. He held a crackling torch. The firelight painted his craggy face and shone in his eyes.

The governor of Zohar was not a consul like the governors of other provinces, not a great lord. His title was merely prefect, relatively low ranking in Aelar. It was another insult of the Empire, Epher knew. The province of Zohar was not worthy of a mighty consul or praetor or magistrate to rule it, just a mere soldier.

And yet this prefect still had enough clout to command two legions garrisoned in Zohar, enough might to slaughter thousands at his whim. Now Remus stood before the mountain of corpses he had built, before the statue of his empress. He raised his torch.

"Hear me, people of Zohar!" Remus said. "Aelar is your friend. Serve and kneel, and Empress Porcia will show you mercy. Worship her, and she will bless you. Defy her, and you will burn. Cast out the rebels among you! Banish them from your homes. Give them no shelter, no food, no medicine. The rebels of Zohar's Blade bring death upon you. They have slain the six thousand. The blood of these dead are on their hands. Watch now, Zohar, as we sacrifice their souls to Porcia. Kneel and worship her might, and no more death will befall you."

With that, Remus tossed his torch onto the pile, and the bodies burst into flame. The fire raced across the mountain, consuming the oil, the flesh, roaring, reaching up around the statue, casting light and shadows. The statue of Porcia seemed to come alive, swaying, laughing, a true goddess of metal and fire.

And with that, Zohar drew its blades.

"For Zohar!" Epher cried, raising twin daggers, racing forward.

"For the light of Eloh!" cried Kahan, leaping forward from the crowd, tossing his daggers.

"Fuck you, fucking cunt bastards!" Olive screamed, racing forward with drawn iron.

Across the crowd, hundreds of other bladesmen roared and charged toward Remus and his legionaries.

The Aelarians drew their blades, lowered their shields, and formed a wall of wood and leather. Howling battle cries, the rebels slammed against them, shouting and stabbing and kicking. In the light of the burning corpses, the battle for the Temple began.

"Hello, rebel rats!" Remus cried, laughing behind his soldiers. "I knew you would come. Welcome, welcome! Now you'll burn with the dead."

Epher tossed one dagger, hitting a shield. A legionary swung a sword at him, and Epher stepped back, dodging the steel, and tossed another dagger. His blade slammed into the man's face, cutting the cheek and eye, then clattered down.

Across the courtyard, the battle raged. Thousands of men and women were trying to flee, trampling one another, clogging in the gateway. Legionaries rushed forth to battle, arranging themselves in formations. The rebels fought back-to-back.

They knew we'd come here, Epher realized. A trap.

"Back into the city!" he shouted. "Rebels, back into the city!"

They should never have come here. They were no army. They were assassins, killers who slunk in shadows. What chance did they have here in an open courtyard, the legions advancing toward them? Remus laughed, and the sound echoed, and it seemed that the statue of Porcia was laughing too, mocking him. The corpses still blazed.

Another legionary swung at him. Epher ducked, dodging the blade, and lashed a dagger. He startled the man long enough to thrust a second dagger, cutting the Aelarian's thigh. A third thrust finished the job. When the man fell, Epher grabbed his shield and sword.

"Rebels, back into the city!" he shouted, but nobody paid him any heed. Kahan was fighting in a fury, a dagger in each hand. His companions fought with him; some had grabbed swords and shields of their own. Corpses of both rebels and legionaries were piling up.

"Fight for your god, for your kingdom!" Kahan cried. "People of Zohar—fight with us! With fists, with teeth, with stones! Fight for Zohar!"

A few in the crowd cried out, grabbed weapons from fallen men, and joined the battle. Stones and helmets flew against shields. Soon it wasn't only rebels fighting but the people of the city, common tradesmen, the hungry, the poor.

"For my murdered daughter!" shouted a man, fighting with a plundered gladius.

"For my husband!" cried a woman, swinging a shield she had grabbed. "You dogs killed him!"

Epher stared around him, and suddenly he found that alongside the pain and fear, pride swelled in him. Pride in his people—brave and strong, fighting against armed soldiers with whatever weapons they had.

And I will fight with them.

Epher roared and launched himself back into battle. Olive fought at his side. They slew two more legionaries, then a third, moving forward, trying to reach Remus—to crush the head of the snake. All around them fought their fellow rebels, and the legionaries began to fall back. Epher suffered a wound to his side, but he kept fighting, cutting men down, and hope rose in him.

We can win.

"Remus!" Epher shouted. "Remus Marcellus! Come face me!"

He could see the prefect in the distance, towering above the other legionaries. Remus smiled at him—a wolf's smile.

"Epheriah!" he called, voice hoarse.

Epher cut down a legionary before him, shoved aside another man with his shield, and stepped closer toward the prefect. Remus stood in the light of the burning corpses, Porcia's statue rising behind him. Beyond soared the Temple, the firelight painting its marble and gold.

"Epheriah Sela!" Remus said, laughing now. "Son of Lord Jerael! Son of Shiloh Elior! Come to me, Epher. I have a gift for you."

Epher cut his way through the crowd of legionaries, using the gladius he had grabbed. His bladesmen fought around him, died around him. Hundreds of corpses piled up in the courtyard, joining the fallen who still burned.

This ends now, Epher thought, swinging his sword at the legionaries. A last battle. To rededicate our Temple. To slay Remus. To declare ourselves free.

Olive tossed a dagger, slaying a legionary. Epher cut down another man, leaving only open courtyard between him, Remus, and the fire.

"Welcome, Epher!" Remus said. "Welcome to the fire I raised for you. Now you will watch her burn."

As the fire roared, a flaming mountain, two legionaries stepped toward Remus, dragging a shackled prisoner in a tattered dress.

Epher roared and ran forward, sword raised.

No. God, no.

"Remus!" he howled. "Remus!"

With a thin smile, Remus pulled Shiloh against him, then placed his sword against her neck.

"Uh-uh, Epher." Remus tsked his tongue and shook his head. "Best slow down and lower your blade."

Epher froze, sword clutched in hand.

Mother. Oh God, Mother.

Remus pulled Shiloh closer against him. A gag filled her mouth, and bruises spread across her face and arms. She stared at Epher, eyes dry, pleading with him. Remus tightened his grip, pressed his blade closer, and allowed a drop of blood to flee Shiloh's neck.

What do I do?

Epher's breath rattled in his lungs. He stood frozen, and Olive stood at his side. Across the battle, rebels and legionaries watched. Epher stared into his mother's eyes. She was speaking to him with those dark eyes, but he couldn't understand.

"Put your blade down, son," Remus said. "And tell your friends to disarm. You were willing to let me butcher six thousand strangers as you hid. Will you let me kill your mother too?"

A few rebels began to race forward. Epher raised his hand.

"Wait!" he said, holding them back.

The rebels paused, hissing, daggers and swords in hand. Hundreds of warriors still stood, both legionaries and rebels. Thousands of other people had fled the courtyard, and the corpses still burned.

"Well, Epher," Remus said, "you've played perfectly into my hands. You've come to where I wanted you. You've brought me your rebel friends to be slaughtered. The rats emerge from their burrows at the scent of cheese." Remus placed his nose near Shiloh's hair and inhaled deeply, then sighed as if savoring the smell. "You will surrender yourself now, or I will fuck this whore's corpse in the sight of Goddess Porcia, then give her to my troops. Her body will be in tatters before I burn it." He gripped Shiloh tighter, digging his fingernails into her skin. "Or . . . you will surrender to me, and you will become my prisoner. And I will release Shiloh, and no more will die."

Epher stared at his mother, and he saw that her eyes dampened. She was trying to speak through her gag. Remus pressed the blade closer, and another drop of blood trickled down Shiloh's neck.

Epher's sword trembled.

He could kill Remus now. He could swarm with his rebels, kill the legionaries, rededicate the Temple. They could cast out the Aelarians, regain their freedom, win this war. They had already sacrificed thousands. How could Epher let a single life stop him now, after thousands had perished—still burned—for his cause?

If he did not slay the enemy, Zohar would crumble under the rule of the Empire, Epher knew. Aelar's temples would rise here. Their schools would teach Zoharite children to speak, read, and become Aelarian. Zohar's religion, language, ancient culture . . . all would perish. A nation of a million souls, consumed by the Empire.

And I can stop this.

Epher stared across the last few flagstones, stared at Remus, the man who had destroyed Gefen, who had killed so many. The man Epher could slay now—with Olive, with his fellow warriors.

"Drop your sword!" Remus shouted, his smile gone now. "Now. Now or she dies, Epher."

Everyone was watching him, Epher knew. Aelarians and Zoharites alike. Olive stood at his side, hissing at Remus, holding two daggers but daring not toss them. Epher looked into his mother's eyes again. She stared at him, eyes dry, soft. And now Epher understood what those eyes were telling him.

I love you. I love you, son. Whatever choice you make, I love you.

Shiloh—the woman who had nursed him as a babe, raised him, loved him. The woman who had built a home on Pine Hill, raised a family, seen that house and family destroyed, seen her youngest son die, seen her other children taken into slavery or flee into the desert. The woman who had cooked Epher's meals, had clothed him, had rocked him when he'd been sick, had sung to him on stormy nights. A woman who had always been his anchor, his warmth in the cold. His mother.

Epher lowered his head.

He dropped his sword. It clanged against the cobblestones. He unstrapped his daggers and let them fall too.

"Good." Remus nodded. "Now step forward. Hold out your arms." At Remus's sides, legionaries held out chains. "You are mine again now, Epher. Soon you'll be back home. Back in my dungeon."

"Epher, no," Olive whispered, tears in her eyes.

Epher's eyes dampened too. He turned toward Olive. She still held her daggers, and her cheeks were wet. The sight of her made his tears flow. Epher pulled her into his arms.

"I'm sorry, Olive. I'm sorry. I love you."

"Don't go," she whispered. "Don't go to him. I love you. I love you."

Their tears mingled. He kissed her, then turned away from her, knowing that he would never see Olive again, and the pain was too great, a pain that shook his chest, that shook his legs. He took a step toward Remus, another step. Toward his death. Toward his mother.

"Let her go," Epher said, hoarse. "Let my mother go. I'm surrendering to you. I—"

"For Zohar, attack!" rose a shout.

Epher spun around to see Kahan charging forth, sword in hand.

"Slay the heathens!" Kahan shouted. "Cut them down! For Eloh!"

Around Kahan, several of his men and women roared too, brandished their weapons, and charged.

"No!" Epher howled. "No! Kahan, no!"

He tried to run forward, to stop them. As Epher raced, he spun toward Remus and his mother.

The prefect stared into his eyes. There was amusement there. There was mockery. A smile on his lips, Remus swiped his sword across Shiloh's neck.

Blood gushed out from the wound.

Shiloh crumbled and fell.

Epher kept running. His world shattered. Fire and ice filled him.

"Mother!"

The battle exploded, rebels and legionaries cutting one another down, but Epher saw nobody but his mother on the ground, his mother rocking him, reading to him, soothing him on dark nights when he was afraid. Mother laughing with him in the gardens under the pomegranate tree. Mother crying when Mica had died. Mother standing in the sunset, gazing upon her family, smiling.

Epher reached her. He knelt above her. He pulled her into his arms.

"Mother," he whispered.

Her neck gaped open, and her lifeblood still fled. Her eyes were open, gazing up at the sky, dark eyes, finally at peace. Her braid hung down to the flagstones.

You're at peace now, Mother, Epher thought, eyes stinging, holding her like she had held him so often. Rest. Go now to Eloh's great halls of light, and dwell in his grace. I love you.

"Pity." Remus stared down at the body and shook his head. "Such a fair woman. And still young too, only forty." He sighed. "We'll have her corpse preserved and shipped back to Aelar, of course, and presented to Porcia. I believe that Shiloh's pretty head would look quite nice on the gateway to the empress's palace."

Epher raised his head and saw Remus standing above him, amusement in his eyes.

"Epher!" rose a voice from behind—Olive's voice. Epher turned his head toward her.

Olive shoved a dagger across the flagstones. It clattered toward him over the stones.

Remus hissed and raised his sword.

Epher grabbed the dagger, swerved, and thrust upward with a roar.

The prefect's sword slashed downward, slicing Epher's skin. Epher's dagger flashed upward, drove through Remus's armpit, and dug up to the shoulder.

Still kneeling, Epher twisted the dagger and pushed himself to his feet. Remus gasped. He tried to swing his sword again but could not. Epher shoved his dagger deeper, and Remus's sword fell and clanged against the cobblestones.

Remus towered over him, still standing, still alive. The prefect swung his good arm, driving his fist into Epher's jaw. White pain blazed. A tooth rattled. Epher nearly fell, forced himself to stay standing, and pulled his dagger free from Remus's flesh. The general swung his fist again, slammed it into Epher, hitting the same spot.

Epher could no longer see. He tasted blood. He felt a tooth swim in his mouth. He was blind. In darkness, he roared and shoved his dagger forward.

For my mother. For Zohar.

The pomegranate tree swayed.

His family laughed in their dining hall, surrounded by candles and warmth.

Blood sprayed as Epher drove his dagger forward, and with a ragged breath, the shadows lifted and Epher saw his blade sinking into Remus's neck. He shoved it down to the hilt, twisted the blade, and released it.

Epher stumbled backward as Remus crashed to the ground, blood gushing, and lay still by Shiloh's body.

Blood and tears covered Epher's face. His jaw throbbed, shoved to the side, broken. He felt unconsciousness grabbing him, but he forced himself to remain standing. The battle raged again all around him. Olive fought, screaming, lashing a sword in each hand. Kahan and the other rebels were charging against the enemy.

With the loss of their leader, the legionaries were losing heart. Some turned to flee, only for the rebels to cut them down. Men of Beth Eloh stood on the walls surrounding the complex, hurling stones. More Zoharites came racing into the complex, armed with clubs and stones. Epher watched a beefy blacksmith throw a boulder, crushing a legionary's head. Two more men beat down a legionary with clubs, denting his armor, shattering his bones. The corpses still burned, and the statue still gazed down upon the slaughter, and the legionaries still fell. Swords thrust. Clubs swung. Men and women died every moment.

"Cut them all down!" Kahan cried. "Slay them all, send the dogs to Ashael!"

They rallied around him, hundreds of rebels, soon thousands, fighting with whatever weapons they could find, still flowing in from the city. The nation of Zohar flowed across the Temple, overwhelming the Aelarians, cutting them down until none remained. Hammers swung. Chains wrapped around the statue of Porcia. Dozens of men tugged, and the people raced aside as the statue tilted.

With a sound louder than any Epher had ever heard, the statue slammed down onto the courtyard and shattered. His ears rang. The people cheered around him. The corpses still burned, the bodies reduced to bones, a mountain of flame.

"The Temple is rededicated!" cried Kahan, blood on his arms. He stepped onto the statue's cracked head. "In the name of Eloh, Zohar will be free! To the palace! Follow, to the palace! We cleanse this land of the heathens."

The crowd roared, spinning around Epher. Only they no longer seemed like a proud nation but like a mob, enraged, bloodlust in their eyes. Kahan leaped off the statue and marched across the courtyard, heading toward the gateway, and the people followed.

"To the palace, to the palace! We cleanse this land!"

They left the Temple courtyard, heading across the Mount of Cedars. In the darkness, across the hill, it rose—the palace of Zohar. The place where Shefael still ruled as a puppet king. The place where Shiloh had grown up.

Epher knelt by his mother's body. She still lay on the flagstones, eyes open, gazing upon a sky full of smoke and raining fire.

Even the sky is burning, Epher thought. Perhaps we can never extinguish these flames.

Olive raced toward him and embraced him. "You're hurt!"

Epher's head swam, and he wanted to lie down, to sleep, to let the pain drag him into shadows. But he forced himself to walk, to leave his mother behind.

"Come with me, Olive," he managed to say, voice a wet, bubbling sound. White pain flared across his jaw, and he tasted blood. "We have to stop him. To stop Kahan."

She slung her arms around him, and they walked across the courtyard, over bodies, leaning against each other, moving through shadow and fire, through death and hope for light.

OFEER

She sat on the street corner, wrapped in cloak and hood and scarf, her hand held out.

"Please," Ofeer whispered as the people walked back and forth. "Please. A denarius. For my unborn child."

Nobody seemed to notice her. Thousands of Aelar's residents kept walking by: rough workers in simple woolen tunics, heading toward construction sites and workshops; wealthy men in woolen togas, clerks and shop owners and peddlers; women in stolas, some of the fabrics simple, others richly dyed, heading toward the markets or theaters; slaves, some only in cotton subligaculi over their loins, iron collars around their necks, running errands for their masters. Cats hissed and scurried in alleyways, and mice sneaked underfoot, dodging the hunters. Here in the dregs of Aelar along the northern walls sprawled a tapestry of life—from wealthy merchants sporting jewels to base slaves with whipped backs, captives of Aelar's endless wars.

And me, Ofeer thought, sitting on the cobblestones, her back to a wall. The bastard daughter of an emperor, now just a beggar.

"Please, dominus!" she said as an ample-bellied man lumbered by, dressed in a toga sporting dyed hems. The dye was blue, a costly color. "A denarius for my unborn child?"

The man's jowls jiggled as he looked at her, and a mix of pity and disgust filled his eyes. He tossed her a coin, missing her by several feet, and hurried onward, dragging with him a young girl. The child looked at Ofeer, then back toward the man.

"Is she a Zoharite, Father?" the girl asked, but the man only hushed her and pulled her into the crowd. They vanished from Ofeer's sight.

Ofeer rose to her feet. Her head swayed, and her knees felt too weak to support her weight. She had not eaten all day. She approached the coin the man had tossed her, but she was too slow. A disheveled child ran up, snatched the coin, flashed Ofeer a grin, and vanished into the crowd.

Ofeer considered chasing him, but when she took a step, her head spun. She was too hungry, too weak. With a sigh, she returned to her corner, kicked away a cat, and sat back down.

How long had she been sitting here? Ofeer no longer knew. It felt like days, maybe months. Only a few denarii jangled in her pocket, barely enough for a meal. Barely enough to feed the child in her womb.

Once you and I dwelled in a palace, Seneca, Ofeer thought. Look at us now.

Seneca no longer lived in the Acropolis, the great inner city that rose in the center of Aelar. In the bars and alleyways, everyone from wealthy tradesmen to whores spoke of how Seneca had fled Aelar, his tail between his legs, slipping between his sister's fingers. They said he was in Nur now, that he planned to marry Queen Imani, to raise the southern province against the Empire. They said that Porcia had sent a thousand ships after the prince, vowing to mount his head on a spike.

Seneca is like me now, Ofeer thought, reaching out her palm for more coins. Just an outcast. Just a beggar.

A woman tossed her a coin, and Ofeer pocketed it, then placed her hand on her belly.

Seneca—outcast prince. Ofeer's half brother. And the father of her unborn child.

Ofeer's eyes stung. She had been a fool. A fool! She had slept with Seneca within an hour of meeting him, a sweaty encounter in a cave outside her home on Pine Hill. Just the stupid mistake of a girl, one who hadn't known who Seneca was—hadn't known he was a monster, a murderer, her own half brother. She had been a child, just eighteen, bitter, rebellious. A fool. And now . . .

Tears filled Ofeer's eyes.

How had this happened? She had once lived in a villa, the daughter of Shiloh Sela, related to the royal family of Zohar. She had once sailed upon an Aelarian flagship, ridden in a chariot of gold. She had come here to Aelar seeking a city of wonder and magic and civilization. She found a cesspool of poverty, of hunger and thirst, and now a child of incest grew in her belly.

Ofeer hung her head low, trembling. She had heard the stories of incest's children—born deformed, beastly.

"If you're deformed, I'll love you still," she whispered, voice shaking, unable to curb her tears.

A passing man halted before her, shadowing the sun, and gazed at her in pity. He knelt and placed three whole denarii in her palm, then walked on.

Ofeer stood up again, leaning against the wall with exhaustion. The sun was setting, and she had not eaten or drunk all day. Her babe needed her to be strong. She had ten denarii in her pocket now—enough for a meal, a glass of milk, and a jug of water at a nearby tavern. It would not buy her a room for the night. She would spend this night like the ones before it, curled up in an alleyway. But she would sleep tonight with a full belly—in more ways than one.

She approached the tavern, a humble brick building topped with a dome. A mosaic above the doorway formed the words: The Hungry Hog. Ofeer doubted the wisdom of comparing one's customers to pigs, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and Ofeer was definitely a beggar these days. She stepped into the establishment, finding herself in a crowded room. Stone pillars supported a vaulted ceiling, and patrons reclined by low tables. At the back stretched a stone bar, large holes cut into it. Within each hole rested an iron dish, some of them warmed over braziers that crackled beneath the counter. A mosaic above the bar displayed the food items for sale and their prices.

Ofeer was ragged, clad in only a tattered cloak and hood, and she hadn't bathed in weeks. The cooks behind the counter narrowed their eyes, and Ofeer worried they would turn her away, but when she flashed her coins, they nodded. There were cheaper taverns in the city—places that sold gruel for a copper—but Ofeer needed fine foods. To keep herself strong. To keep her baby healthy. If that meant buying good food at the expense of shelter, so be it. She took a plate and walked between the iron dishes. She chose a sunfish fried with lemons and garlic, a few stalks of asparagus drizzled with olive oil, a couple oysters simmering in a rich red sauce, three dates, and an apple. To drink she chose a cup of water, eschewing the costlier wines. The meal drained her finances; tomorrow she would begin the day penniless, begging again.

She chose a table at the back, cloaked in shadows. Back home in Zohar, she had always sat on chairs by high tables, but in Aelar do as the Aelarians do, as the old saying went. Ofeer reclined on cushions by a low table, propped up on her left elbow. Outside the sun vanished, and only the oil lanterns now lit the tavern. Ofeer ate alone, wrapped in cloak and hood. The food was hearty but seemed tasteless. There was no more joy to food; she might as well have eaten ash. All she could think of was her home. Dinner at the scarred oak table in the villa. Mother would serve fresh braided bread, crunchy fried tilapia, figs and pears stewed in wine, and honey cakes for dessert. Koren would toss food at his siblings, and Atalia would roar and try to leap over the table toward him. Maya would cower, and Epher, normally so stern, would laugh. Father would embrace them all. Not her blood father, the cruel emperor, but the father who had raised her. The noble, wise Jerael Sela—a man with impossibly black and thick eyebrows that shadowed the kindest eyes Ofeer had ever seen, a man like a bear with a heart of light.

"I miss you, my family," Ofeer whispered. She didn't know if she'd ever see them again. Koren was a slave somewhere here in Aelar, but in a city of a million people, how could she find him? And how could she be sure Koren was still in Aelar at all, that he hadn't been carted off to a mine or farm elsewhere in the Empire? She hadn't seen Atalia since the Gaelian attack at sea. As far as Ofeer knew, her older sister had drowned. Epher, Maya, and Mother were back in Zohar, but how could Ofeer reach them? No military ship would carry her home, and if merchant ships were still traveling to Zohar, Ofeer could never afford the gold such a journey would cost, not if she begged for the rest of her life.

I'm all alone here, Ofeer realized and placed a hand on her belly. My child and I.

She stayed at her table until closing time, the last patron in a shadowy tavern, then stepped outside into the night. Most respectable citizens of Aelar retired to their homes after nightfall. The apartment buildings rose along the street, seven stories tall, the lamplight going dark in their windows.

A second population now emerged, hidden during the day, rising in shadows. Drunkards swayed down the streets, clad in rags, some of them naked, holding bottles of booze. A madman stood at a corner, brandishing a knife, screaming over and over, threatening to stab the world. Three women leaned against a wall, clad in togas—garments for male citizens or female prostitutes. Many of these people weren't Aelarians, not ethnically. Here were refugees and outcasts from a dozen provinces—Nurians, Berenians, Phedians, Kalintians, others Ofeer didn't recognize. Some had come here as slaves, only to find themselves freed and penniless. Others had immigrated here hoping to find work, ending up on the streets. Here was the glorious center of the world—a hive of splendor and misery, of ivory and dust.

Ofeer made her way between these night people, dodging the leering drunkards. A bearded, brutish man reached toward her, toothless, his fingernails cracked. Ofeer lurched aside and kept walking, hurrying her step. A part of her wanted to find shelter in the wealthier neighborhoods, places where people lived in private homes, not apartment buildings. She could perhaps find a garden there to sleep in. But the risk was too great. She could be spotted in the finer areas of Aelar, recognized as an escaped slave, and delivered right back to the Acropolis—into Porcia's grip. The new empress of Aelar scared Ofeer far more than any drunkard.

Walking quickly, Ofeer made her way to the alley where she had slept the night before, only to find a sweaty man—perhaps a mason or blacksmith, judging by his powerful frame—patronizing a moaning prostitute in the shadows, right on the rug Ofeer had been sleeping on. Ofeer grimaced and walked on. The next alley held two growling dogs on chains, massive beasts that must have weighed more than Ofeer, perhaps used for the dogfights staged for the poor, those who couldn't afford to see humans butcher one another in the Amphitheatrum. Ofeer hurried onward, making her way down a narrow road between tall buildings.

Her heart began to beat faster as she walked. She was alone here. The walls soared at her sides, seven or eight stories tall, their windows dark, and she felt as if walking through a canyon. The sky was a mere strip above. She almost tripped over a sleeping beggar, and she kept walking. This place scared her. She did not want to sleep here. Perhaps she would head uptown after all, find a hidden garden, and sleep among the bushes. It would be safer there, far from the drunkards and whores, and—

Ofeer had almost exited the alley when three figures appeared ahead, laughing and staggering toward her.

They were drunk. She could smell it on them. Mean drunks too. She saw it in their swagger, and clubs hung from their belts. Not citizens, she didn't think; foreigners who'd come to Aelar to find work, though she couldn't tell their land of origin.

"Hey! You!" one of the drunkards called.

Ofeer turned and ran.

The men hooted and chased.

She raced down the alley, heart thumping. She had seen enough corpses picked up on the roadsides at dawn to know what these men planned. She had no weapons, nothing but her teeth and nails, and she panted as she ran.

"Come back here!" cried a man.

"We only want to talk!" said another and laughed.

"How much for a fuck?" shouted another and hooted with laughter.

Ofeer kept running, sweat on her brow, and didn't even see him in the shadows. Her feet hit the sleeping beggar in the alley, and she went sprawling. She banged against the ground, scraping her arms, and cried out.

The drunkards laughed as they grabbed her, yanking her to her feet. Ofeer came up swinging. She screamed as she lashed her hand, clawing one man's face, tearing his skin. The brute roared and backhanded her, but Ofeer didn't fall. More men raced around her, surrounding her, blocking her exit.

Ofeer snarled. She was not a warrior like Atalia or Epher, but she could still fight. She was a daughter of Zohar, of lions, and she was a mother protecting the child inside her. She roared and lunged toward one of the assailants, punching and kicking and biting, and her teeth sank into a man's shoulder, and she tasted blood.

They pulled her back. They shoved her against the wall. One man's fist slammed into her cheek. Another fist drove into her belly, and Ofeer screamed, and terror flooded her, and she doubled over.

"You! Damn it, you there! What you doing?" The voice rose from outside the alleyway, but it sounded leagues away. "Leave her alone."

Ofeer could barely hear it. All sound faded. Tears and blood mingled on her lips. She fell. She fell for leagues, for eternities, falling and falling as in a dream, never hitting the bottom.

EPHER

They ran toward the palace—rebels drenched in blood, warriors of God, men and women seeking freedom in fire.

"Zohar, Zohar!" the rebels chanted as they ran, weapons held high. "Zohar will be free!"

Behind them, the fire still rose from the Temple, lighting the night. They ran across the Mount of Cedars, hundreds of Zohar's rebels, a new army of Eloh. The city spread below them, and the palace rose ahead. Across the hill, more legionaries were racing up from the streets, tossing javelins. Some rebels fell. The others kept running, trampling over their comrades, heading toward the palace. On the walls surrounding the mount, blood spilled, rebels and legionaries fighting on the battlements.

"Zohar will be free!"

Epher ran with the others, but none of their fervor filled him. His jaw kept throbbing, shooting agony through him. His arm bled. Worst of all was his grief.

My mother is gone.

He had only just lost his father to the war. Now Shiloh too was gone—murdered by Remus.

I killed you, Remus, but killing you a thousand times would not bring her back.

Epher's eyes stung in the smoke that filled the night. His parents were dead. His siblings were gone—Atalia and Koren, taken captive; Ofeer, joined with the enemy; Maya, fled into the desert.

What is left for me in this land?

Epher looked at his side. Olive ran with him, her hair like flame, billowing in the wind. Her green eyes were narrowed, feline, the eyes of a true desert lioness. She held a dagger in each hand, and more blades hung across her chest and from her waist.

I still have Olive.

Perhaps all his family were dead. Perhaps all of Zohar would crumble to sand. But right now, through fire and blood, he still had Olive. He still had a reason to fight.

Legionaries were emerging from the palace, forming walls of shields. But they were too few. The rebels slammed into them, hurling rocks, hacking with swords and clubs. Epher couldn't roar any battle cry; his jaw hurt too much. But he fought with his comrades. He cut through shields, through armor, through flesh and bones. Olive fought at his side, tossing dagger after dagger, grabbing a sword and swinging at the enemy.

At the head of the rebellion fought Kahan Sela. Blood stained his beard and drenched his arms. He bellowed as he slew the enemy, a demon in human form.

"Die in the name of Eloh, infidels!" Kahan cried, hacking at the legionaries. "Zohar's lions roar!"

The rebels rallied around Kahan, but as Epher stared at his cousin, nothing but hatred filled him.

My mother is dead because of you, Epher thought, his fist shaking around the hilt of his sword. I could have saved her. You ran to attack Remus, and so he killed her. Her blood is on your hands, Kahan.

A legionary ran toward Epher. A javelin thrust his way. Epher dodged the blow, grunted, and swung down his sword, severing the legionary's arm. Another swipe of the blade crashed through the Aelarian's helmet and shattered his head. The other rebels cut down the last legionaries, reached the gates of the palace, and hacked them open.

Epher stormed into the hall with the others. A handful of legionaries stood among the gilded columns, eyes wide, faces pale. They lay down their swords and knelt.

"We yield!" said a legionary an instant before Kahan buried a sword in his chest. The other rebels advanced, slaying the remaining legionaries, moving deeper into the palace.

At the back of the hall, he rose from his throne—Shefael Elior.

The King of Zohar wore splendid silken robes, dyed ultramarine and lavender—costly dyes obtained from ground lapis lazuli and rare mollusks from the sea floor. Rings shone on his fingers, and golden chains hung around his neck. While most in his city were gaunt after years of war, Shefael was wide of belly, well fed on the finest fare, and even now his cheeks and nose were flushed with wine. He had grown even wealthier under Aelarian patronage, wearing gemstones from foreign lands. His concubines too were foreign. They fled behind his throne, peering at the rebels with teary eyes—dark beauties from Sekadia and Nur, a golden-haired harpist from distant Elania, and others from many lands. They, like the jewels, were gifts from Empress Porcia, like treats given to a dog to earn his loyalty.

With the last legionaries in the hall slain, the battle died down. The rebels stood on the mosaic floor, blood dripping, swords still raised. Epher stood over the corpse of a legionary, a man slain by his own sword. He panted, every breath like an axe to his swelling jaw.

King Shefael stared at the rebels, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. He took a step back, hit his throne, and fell down hard into the seat. He rose again and swallowed.

"Thank God you're here!" said the king. "The legionaries . . . they trapped me. They were going to kill me. Thank you, my friends, my people—"

"Stick your slithering tongue back into your mouth lest I sever it." Kahan advanced toward the king, stepping over corpses, blade pointed forward. "You dared betray your people, dared lie with foreign women, dared serve the Empire for gemstones and a mock throne—and now you dare feign loyalty to our cause?"

Shefael let out a squeak and hurried backward, hiding behind his concubines. "I served only Zohar!" His voice cracked. "I did whatever I could to hold back the malice of Aelar, to save lives." Shefael finally noticed Epher. His eyes widened and he turned toward him. "Tell them, Epher! Tell them, my beloved cousin. Tell them that I only served Zohar."

Epher stepped between the king and the rebels.

He is a fool, Epher thought. He is the scum of the earth. But enough have died.

"Spare him, Kahan," Epher said, turning toward the bloodied rebel. "Shefael did what he thought was right, what he thought could save lives. He sought peace."

"Peace?" Kahan repeated, voice echoing through the hall. "You call this peace?" He lashed out, grabbed a concubine, and yanked her toward him. "You call filling our palace with foreign whores peace?" He stepped toward the squealing Shefael, grabbed one of the king's necklaces, and snapped the golden chains. "You call this—the golden gifts of conquerors—peace? You call thousands of people burned in the Temple peace? You call a statue of an idol, rising over where our God dwells, peace? You call the destruction of Gefen, the murder of your parents, the desecration of this holy land—peace?" Kahan spat. "The dog Shefael did not seek peace, no. He sought to kneel and kiss the feet of the Empire in return for trifles, living in wealth while his people suffered under the yoke—just as he did during his war with King Yohanan the Righteous. And it is time for Shefael Elior for pay for his sins."

As Kahan raised his sword, Shefael scurried backward, knocked into his throne, and fell onto the floor. His concubines fled with shrieks. Shefael lay, raising his hands above his head.

"Mercy!" the king said. "Epher, tell him! Tell him! I only wanted to save lives." Shefael pointed at Kahan. "They died because of you! Aelar killed them because you rose up, because you rebelled. You are fanatics!" The king sputtered, hands trembling. "Leave my palace. Leave now!"

Kahan placed a foot on Shefael's chest, pinning him down, and pointed his sword at the king's throat.

"By the law of Eloh," said Kahan, "I sentence you, Shefael Elior, to death."

"No." Epher could barely speak with his shattered jaw, but he forced the words out. "No. Enough." He stepped forward and grabbed Kahan's hand, staying his sword. "Let him live. Enough have died. For God's sake, Kahan, look at him."

They looked at Shefael. The king had pissed himself. The liquid was spreading down the fine, embroidered silks and trickling along the mosaic floor.

"Look at him," Epher repeated, softer now. He could feel everyone in the hall—Olive, the other rebels, the concubines—staring at him. "He's cowardly, cruel, and corrupt. But he's still a son of Zohar. We must not slay one another."

Yet there was madness in Kahan's eyes. A lust not only for blood but for power.

"The throne is mine," Kahan said, voice a strained whisper. "I earned it. I bled for it. God himself told me that it's mine. And all who stand between me and what is mine shall perish."

With a howl, Kahan drove down his sword.

Epher shoved him, knocking him aside.

Kahan's blade scraped against the king's arm, tearing the flesh. The rebel wheeled toward Epher, still holding his sword, hissing, panting, teeth bared, eyes wide.

Epher raised his own sword. "Stand back from him."

Kahan shouted and charged toward Epher, sword swinging. "You're one of the heathens!"

Epher could barely parry. His jaw blasted pain with every movement of his arm. The swords clanged together.

"You have fallen to madness," Epher said. "You do not fight for Zohar but for your own vainglory."

The swords sang again, showering sparks. Olive tried to run forward, only for the rebels to hold her back. Epher and Kahan fought alone.

"Your family are all traitors!" Kahan screamed. "Your pure blood of Sela is stained with the filth of Elior. The Eliors were and are heathens. Your mother. Your wretched king here on the floor. I will purify this kingdom."

Again the swords slammed together. Again the sparks showered. Kahan thrust and swung madly, and it was all Epher could do to parry the blows. With every movement, Epher felt as if fists pounded his jaw again.

"You would see this kingdom bathed in blood!" Epher said, speaking through the pain, voice slurred. "You would slay all in your path until you rule over a mountain of corpses. You lead Zohar to doom!"

"I lead her to freedom!" Kahan shouted. "While you lead her to slavery. I will not kneel before any foreign emperor. I will live free, or I will die free."

Kahan's sword sliced at Epher's arm. Epher hissed, blood dripping. Another blow nicked his hand, and the next thrust hit his chest, cutting down to a rib.

Epher could barely keep his sword raised. He saw his death before him.

Kahan's sword rose again, prepared for the killing blow, a blow Epher knew he was too weak to stop.

"By Zohar, by Eloh, I command you—stop!" It was Shefael who had spoken—voice trembling but deep, afraid but strong. The king rose to his feet, stained with piss and blood and wine. "A Zoharite shall not kill a Zoharite!"

With a roar, the heavyset king charged forth, and for just a moment King Shefael Elior seemed as noble as a great warrior of old. Weaponless, wearing no armor, Shefael slammed himself against Kahan, driving the bearded rebel back against a column. They slammed into the stone.

The tip of Kahan's blade burst out from Shefael's back.

With a long sucking sound, Kahan shoved the king off the blade. Shefael fell to the floor and lay still.

Epher ran toward the bloodstained leader of Zohar's Blade.

Kahan lashed his sword.

Epher swung his blade to the left, parrying the blow, then swung hard to the right, sinking his sword into Kahan's throat.

The rebel stared, gurgling, blood fleeing his neck and dripping from his mouth.

Kahan's hand opened, and his sword clanged to the floor.

As he slumped down along the column, the words echoed in Epher's mind.

A Zoharite shall not kill a Zoharite!

Kahan gave a gasping, wet breath. He tried to rise, tried to reach for his sword, then fell and did not rise again.

Epher lowered his head and dropped his own blade. And now I'm truly cursed. I spilled the blood of my family. I murdered a lion of Zohar.

With a cry, Olive wrenched herself free of the rebels holding her, ran forward, and embraced Epher. The other rebels gathered around, staring at the dead legionaries, the dead king, their dead leader, then looking up at Epher.

It was Ramael—a tall young man from Gefen, grandson to the slain Master Malaci—who spoke first.

"My king." Ramael knelt before Epher. "Blessed be Epheriah Sela, King of Zohar."

Epher understood. They all understood. All those before him in the line of succession—his mother, his cousins—had fallen. The dynasty of Elior had ruled Zohar for a thousand years, since King Elshalom had united the tribes and built this palace. All those bearing the surname Elior had fallen in this war. Queen Sifora. Prince Yohanan. King Shefael. Epher bore the surname Sela, but the blood of his mother's royal family still flowed through his veins.

"My king." It was Hanan who knelt next—another man from Gefen, once a bodyguard to Lord Jerael.

"My king."

"Praise King Epheriah!"

"Praise the Lion of Zohar!"

One by one, the rebels knelt before him. Only Olive remained standing at his side. The wild woman knelt before no man, and Epher would prefer to have her standing at his side rather than kneeling any day.

He looked at the rebels. He looked at the corpses that filled his palace. He heard the sounds of battle that still rose from outside.

I did not want this, Epher thought. I did not want to become a rebel. I did not want to become a king.

Yet how could he walk away from this? Would he leave the throne barren, only for Zoharite to fight Zoharite for a chance to sit upon it? Or worse—leave the throne for an Aelarian, a new governor that Porcia should name?

No. For a thousand years, Zohar had withstood enemy after enemy under the stewardship of the line of Elshalom. This was the kingdom that Epher loved. A small kingdom. A mere speck on world maps, barely visible, dwarfed by its neighbors, a rose by mighty oaks. Yet a holy kingdom. The kingdom of light, of Luminosity. The kingdom of rolling dunes, verdant forests, golden shores, and blue waters. The kingdom where he had grown up with his family, a kingdom of iron and sand, of gold and rust, of splendor and shadows. A kingdom Epher would not abandon.

He walked toward the throne, blood still dripping. He sat upon it, the corpses lying around his feet. A throne won in blood and light. A throne that rose above death and life.

Epher raised his eyes over the kneeling men, gazing toward the doors of the palace that still stood open. Outside sprawled the city of Beth Eloh, a hive of domes, towers, walls, alleyways, and a battle that still raged.

And beyond the city, beyond the hills, spread the Encircled Sea and the might of Aelar. It would not be long, Epher knew, before Porcia heard of what had happened here. Before she sent her full wrath against those who had risen against her.

"Praise King Epheriah!" the rebels cried. "Praise the Desert Lion! Zohar is free! We've won!"

No, Epher knew. Zohar's war is only beginning.

Olive stood at his side and looked at him with damp eyes. He took her hand in his and squeezed it, and as the rebels prayed, the screams from the city still rose.

OFEER

She could hear it, hear the blood leaving her, a horrible trickle, a patter. She could smell it—coppery, sickly sweet. Her eyes opened only briefly, and there it was, bright red, pouring from between her legs, staining her thighs, and the shadows were carrying her, crying out for onlookers to make way, and her eyes closed again.

My child.

The memories flashed through Ofeer. The mob in the alleyway. Their fists hitting her belly. Crumpling to the ground.

"My child," she whispered to the shadows. "There's a child inside me."

Her eyes dampened and filled with tears. Those tears flowed with her blood.

This had happened to her before.

No. God, no. Don't let that memory rise. Please, God.

But once more she was there, fifteen years old, a scrawny youth on the coast of Zohar. Afraid. So afraid and angry, so scared that her belly would bulge, that her mother would disown her, and she didn't even know whose child she carried—the child of some sailor or soldier or ne'er-do-well, of one of the men she had fucked on the port to escape her pain. And then the blood, and the horrible agony and relief of it, the knowledge that her babe had left her, had washed away into the sea, and grief, tears, guilt. Prayer.

Her eyes opened again, and she was older now, nineteen but still so scared. And still she bled. Her thighs were slick with it, so red, and her belly ached where the brutes had punched her.

"I'm with child," she whispered to the shadows. "Please. Please save him. Please."

Her body shook. The shadows were carrying her through the darkness. No, not shadows—people. People in dark cloaks and hoods.

This time was different. This time she knew the father. She bore—had borne?—Seneca's child inside her. The child of her half brother. A boy. Somehow she knew it was a boy. It was impossible for her to know, but she knew, she felt it, felt him still inside her, crying out to her, afraid as she was.

"You're all right, sweetness," one of the shadows said, voice coming from parsa'ot away, speaking Zoharite. How could it speak Zoharite? She was here in Aelar, lost in this distant empire, a vagabond of the streets. Yet Zoharite it was, the language of the east. Some called it a harsh language, guttural and rough. Ofeer had once scorned that language, preferring to speak melodious Aelarian, even back in Zohar. Yet now the language of the desert brought fresh tears to her eyes, tears of comfort.

"Save him," Ofeer whispered. "I'm scared."

There were four figures carrying her, she thought. She could not see their faces. They wore hoods and cloaks, and veils hid their faces. The walls of the city rose around them, dark, craggy, lined with windows. They rushed through the alleyways. And the blood kept flowing.

Ofeer closed her eyes. One of the figures clutched her hand, and she held it, squeezed it, and she prayed.

Please, Eloh. Please. Please. Please.

The walls grew closer, and they were rushing through a doorway, climbing a staircase, and soon she lay in a bed. The blood soaked through the sheets. They stood above her, four of them, removing their veils at last, and she saw that their skin was light brown like hers, their hair black, their eyes dark. Desert people.

"We have to stop the bleeding," one said, an aging man with a long beard.

"She's fading. Her pulse is weakening." A woman held Ofeer's wrist, touched her forehead. "Where in Ashael is Noa?"

"I sent Elinathan to fetch her," said the man. "She's tending to Halachi's boys. She'll be here."

Ofeer was fading into darkness. She managed to place a hand on her belly. She felt him. She felt him there, afraid, crying out to her. Mother. Mother.

"Mother," Ofeer whispered.

She too suddenly felt like a babe, so afraid. She missed Shiloh. She wanted her mother so badly. She wanted to be home.

"I'm so scared," Ofeer whispered. "I'm so scared. Please help him. Help him. Help me."

She had not wanted to bear Seneca's son, a son born in incest, but now Ofeer wanted that babe to live—to live, to live, wanted him to live more than anything, more than she had ever wanted anything. She prayed through her tears.

"Please, Eloh, please." Ofeer shuddered, and her voice faded to a whisper, then only to thoughts.

Please. I've never prayed to you before, but now I plead. Please forgive me. Please. She reached upward as if she could clutch God's hand. Please, Eloh, forgive me for all I've done. For sleeping with men at the port. For betraying my family. For joining the Aelarians as they killed my people, as they killed my father. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Please.

"She's fading!" cried the woman. "I can barely feel her pulse."

"Periel, go to the boys' house, tell them we need Noa now. Now!"

Footsteps shuffled. Ofeer could barely see.

I'm so sorry, Eloh, and I beg you. I promise you. If you heal me, if you save my babe, I will change. I won't be the same Ofeer. I will be better. I will be good to you. I will follow your light. I will be a child of Zohar. Please. Please. Save him. Don't punish my child for my sins. Please. I love you, Eloh. Please, please . . .

She could no longer think. All there was—only blood and shadows. Only fading light, and God's grace far from her, beyond her reach.

Her hand fell onto the bed.

In the darkness, a light emerged.

A figure stepped into the room, holding a lantern, the light illuminating a narrow, dark, young face. The face of a Zoharite, her eyes aglow.

A lumer, Ofeer knew, the thought emerging from the depths of blackness.

"What happened?" the lumer said, rushing toward Ofeer.

"Thank God you're here, Noa," said the bearded man. "Men attacked her in an alleyway. She's with child. She's been bleeding for an hour now."

The lumer—Noa—placed down her lantern, inhaled deeply, and at once her hands glowed. The light shone from her eyes, two moons. When she placed those glowing hands on Ofeer's belly, there was terrible heat and cold and pain, and Ofeer screamed.

"Hold her down," Noa said.

The others clutched Ofeer's hands, squeezing, pinning her arms down. She screamed again. The light invaded her, pulsing through her, exploring her innards, seeking, twisting, serpents of luminescence. Ofeer had never been in God's graces, never been pious like Maya, and Eloh's light seared her.

"Is he . . ." Ofeer managed to whisper, sweat in her eyes.

"Your child still lives," said Noa, her eyes alight, her hands wreathed in luminescence. The light flowed through her, into Ofeer, crawling inside her. "His heart is weak. I can barely feel it beating. But he lives. He is strong. He is a lion of Zohar."

"Save him," Ofeer whispered. "Please."

"Only the grace of Luminosity can save him," Noa replied, and suddenly Ofeer knew who this was, recognized her, had seen her before in the distance—this was Worm! Worm was Noa Bat Seean, the lumer who had fled Porcia's service, the lumer now sought across the Empire, a great reward on her head.

Noa reached down, and she placed her hands between Ofeer's legs, and the pain was horrible, and Ofeer thrashed and cried out. The light flowed, filling her womb, caressing her child . . . soothing.

Her pain eased.

Her bleeding ebbed.

And Ofeer saw it—the desert.

The dunes rolled into the shimmering horizon. A caravan of camels walked toward the tan mountains. There on the mountains it rose—the city of light, of copper and gold. Domes and columns and palm trees, ancient stones, three thousand years of prophets and kings and desert songs. Beth Eloh.

A dove flew above the city, an olive sprig in its beak, flying toward the sea.

Child.

The voice spoke inside her. It was not Noa speaking, not the people in this room. It did not speak in Zoharite, nor in Aelarian, nor in any other language Ofeer could recognize. And yet she understood.

Child, be strong. I will protect you.

Sad. The voice was so sad.

"He's good," she whispered, weeping. "He wants to help us. He didn't create evil. He wants to help us."

I am with you, Ofeer Sela. Always.

"Sela," she said. "I am a Sela. Thank you. Thank you, Eloh. Thank you."

She could speak no more. The light flowed across her, and Ofeer slept.

It seemed that she slept for years, and she did not dream.

Light fell on her face, and her eyes opened.

Ofeer blinked. She still lay in the bed. It was not luminescence that fell upon her now, but sunlight—just plain, good, beautiful sunlight, streaming through the curtained windows. Ofeer looked down, horrified that she might find herself in a pool of blood, but somebody had changed her clothes, changed the sheets. She wore an eggshell-colored tunic, soft on her skin.

She looked up to see a woman sitting at her side.

The woman looked to be about forty years old, her hair braided, her eyes brown and kind. A lion pendant hung around her neck.

"How do you feel?" the woman asked softly, speaking in Zoharite. Ofeer recognized the voice—one of the people who had lifted her from the alleyway, who had carried her here.

"Weak." Ofeer placed her hands on her belly, then looked up at the woman, and her heart quickened with fear.

The woman stroked Ofeer's hair. "Noa said that your babe is strong. He still lives."

Ofeer closed her eyes, and a tear streamed down her cheeks. "Where is Noa? I would thank her."

"Noa Bat Seean has many to tend to in this city, but she will return before sundown. Rest now, Ofeer."

But Ofeer could not rest. She had too many questions. She looked around her at the room, finally taking in more details. Clay pomegranates hung from the walls, ancient symbols of Zohar. A bowl of dates and figs stood on a small table. A cracked scroll rested beside it, half-open, revealing Zoharite text. Ofeer recognized the Song of Sand, a holy poem from her homeland. For an instant Ofeer was sure she was back in Zohar, but the light was wrong. The sunlight was too soft here, not the searing light of the eastern sun.

"Where am I? Who are you?"

"I'm Sheerel," said the woman. "You're in a safe place. You should rest now, you—Ofeer! You must lie down!"

But Ofeer was already rising to her feet. She left the bed, made for the doorway, and stepped into a hallway. A staircase led downward, and she began to take those steps, leaning against the wall.

"Ofeer, please, rest," said Sheerel.

But Ofeer didn't want to rest. She needed to know where she was. The stairs took her to a stone chamber filled with wooden pews. A pulpit stood by one wall, bristly with scrolls. A silver pomegranate the size of a dinner plate hung behind it. A massive scroll rested on a pulpit, wrapped around two rollers, each of the wooden beams topped with a golden pomegranate. The scroll looked so heavy that two men would struggle to lift it. Ofeer had seen such scrolls before; here was the Book of Eloh, the holy scripture of the desert. A bronze plate was worked into the pulpit, engraved with words in Zoharite: Ohel Adom.

The tent of Adom, Ofeer thought, the first man.

"A temple," she whispered. "A temple to Eloh."

Several people were here, rising from their seats as she approached. They wore prayer shawls and lion pendants. Zoharites. They rushed toward her.

"She needs to rest," said the bearded man, the one who had helped her last night.

"This one is wild as a true lioness," said Sheerel. "I couldn't stop her."

Suddenly Ofeer was woozy. She swayed. The people caught her, helped her toward a pew. She sat, breathing heavily, gazing up at the silver pomegranate.

"It's a temple," Ofeer repeated. "A temple to Eloh." She glanced out the window, half expecting to see the desert, but she saw the narrow alleyways of Aelar, not the rolling dunes. "You're Zoharites. Like me. I didn't know there were others here aside from slaves."

The bearded man smiled. "There are others here in Aelar. Not many. But we help one another when we can." He knelt before her and patted her hand. "You're in a safe place, Ofeer Sela of Zohar. You're with family."

Ofeer looked again at the silver pomegranate that hung above the pulpit, and she remembered the voice she had heard last night, the soothing words in her mind. Had that been Eloh speaking to her, the god of her people? Or simply a delusion brought about by blood loss?

Ofeer didn't know. But she would not forget that warmth, that love she had felt. The desperate need of a good, godly presence to deliver her from evil.

And she would not forget what the voice had called her.

Ofeer Sela.

Not Ofeer Octavius, the daughter of an Aelarian general—but Sela. Sela. A daughter of Zohar, of the Lord of the Coast. Yes, Ofeer's true father had been an Aelarian, but sitting here, in this temple, healed, among the people of the desert, Ofeer knew that she could choose her own path, that she was not bound by blood. Her bad blood had spilled from her.

Let it be the blood of Aelar that left me, she thought. Let only the light of Luminosity fill me now. I am Ofeer Sela, a lioness of Zohar, a child of Eloh. My home lies across the sea, in the deserts and forests of a land of light.

She embraced the bearded man, and her tears fell anew. Her child lived, and for the first time in her life, Ofeer knew who she was.

The story continues in Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4).

Click here to read the next book in the series:

DanielArenson.com/TemplesOfDust

AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading Thrones of Ash. I hope you enjoyed the novel. Want to know when I release the next Kingdoms of Sand novel?

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And if you haven't done so already, please review Kings of Ruin, the first Kingdoms of Sand novel. Help other fantasy readers and tell them why you enjoyed reading. Please leave your review here.

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

Facebook.com/DanielArenson

Twitter.com/DanielArenson