How will I find you here, Father? Valentina wondered. She would have an easier time finding a piece of hay in a pile of needles.
She walked along the boardwalk, cloak wrapped around her. A feral cat hissed from a shadowy alleyway, eyes shining. A few more steps, and she passed a brothel where prostitutes stood in the windows, clad in togas—outfits for distinguished men and the lowest of women—and drunkards stumbled in and out the door. Valentina recognized Senator Quintus, one of the city's most esteemed citizens, slip into the shadowy house, and she hurried by, terrified that he would recognize her. She kept walking, passing along piers where countless boats docked.
"Where are you, Father?" she whispered. Even at this late hour, thousands of people crowded the port. She would never find him here. Never—
"Spare a denarius, domina?" A cloaked beggar reached out from the shadows. "A denarius for a poor old veteran of the wars?"
Pity filled Valentina's heart to see the beggar. He was a scrawny man, limping on a wooden leg. His hood shadowed a bushy brown beard and a leathery face. He stank of old booze. No doubt the man had been wounded in one of her father's wars against the kingdoms around the Encircled Sea.
No, not my father, Valentina thought. Emperor Marcus is the man who kidnapped me. The man who lied to me. The man who murdered the one I love.
She reached into her pocket for a coin. "Here, friend." She placed it in the beggar's palm. "Spend it on a hot meal or a tavern bed or . . ."
As the beggar stared at her, Valentina's voice trailed off. She gasped.
Septimus winked at her. "Thank you, domina." His voice dropped to a whisper. "My daughter."
Valentina stared in wonder. Truly Septimus was a fine actor. The fool Mingo, to him, was just a disguise; here was another performance.
"Father!" she whispered.
He glanced around, then cackled. "Thank you, domina! Thank you for your kindness." He slunk back into an alley. "I would be glad to sell you one of my homemade flutes for your coin. Come, come."
Glancing around too, dreading to see somebody else she recognized, Valentina stepped into the dark alleyway. The old beggar—her father—hobbled there, coins rattling in his tin mug.
"Your leg," she whispered, pointing at the wooden peg.
"Aye, domina, my poor old leg, lost in the wars . . ." He winked at her. "Things are not what they seem in the docks, are they? Nor in the palace. Both are places of lies and shadows."
"So what is the truth?" Valentina asked.
He limped closer, and he whispered into her ear, his voice different now—not the high-pitched voice of Mingo the fool, nor the rasp of the beggar, but a deep, soft, kind voice. "That I love you. That I've always loved you, always watched over you, always been proud of you—proud that you remained kind, pure, and good, even in the nest of vultures. You are truly my daughter."
She wiped tears from her eyes. "You were always there, all my life. And I ignored you. Feared you. Forced myself to laugh when everyone else laughed—when Porcia would trip you, or Seneca toss bones at you and make you eat off the floor. I just watched, and . . . I didn't know. I'm so sorry." She embraced him. "I want to say that I love you too, but I feel like I don't know the real you."
He nodded and stroked her hair. "Aye, child. That was not me in that palace, eating off the floor like a dog. That is who Marcus thinks I am, whom he thinks he turned me into. It was his task, his revenge, to turn Septimus Cassius into Mingo the fool. So I put on a show for him, pretending to lose my mind, my dignity, but always I was playing a character, that is all. A puppet who danced for him, like the puppet kings he installs in those lands he conquers." He sighed. "I didn't mind my own humiliation. Let them laugh at poor Mingo! But every day and night, I regretted that I could not be a father to you."
Valentina lowered her head. "Marcus Octavius was never much of a father to me. Seneca has always been the only one in the family who seemed to love me. Oh, Father." She looked back up at him. "How I wish we could make up for those lost years! How old was I when . . . when . . ."
"A newborn," Septimus said, eyes damp. "Marcus's men murdered my wife—your mother—when she was still pregnant with you. They . . . they took you from her. They cut you out." His voice shook. "You emerged into the world already motherless, so frightened, so precious. Marcus's own wife had died in the war only days earlier, pregnant herself, her babe lost. And so Marcus stole you, replacing his slain child with my living one. At least I got to watch you grow up, never far. At least I got to see you safe and happy."
Happy? Had she ever been happy? She had never known a mother. Marcus had always been cold and stern, Porcia cruel. Seneca had been kind to her—he had always loved her—but as Valentina had grown older, she had begun to fear the prince, that darkness she sometimes saw in his eyes, seeds of Porcia's madness she worried would grow into twisted forests.
"I've only ever been happy with my scrolls, with my birds, with my lumer," she said. "Never with the Octavius family. But I want to be happy with you, Father. These meetings between us feel so short, so fleeting, so dangerous."
Septimus's voice dropped lower. He glanced around the alleyway, then back to her. "Lies are always comforting. Truth is always a thing of danger. And here is another truth, child. Marcus Octavius's reign will not last forever."
Valentina took a step back. Her breath shook in her lungs. "What do you mean, Father?" She thought back to the night Marcus had been poisoned, how Iris had blamed the memento mori for the crime. In Iris's letter, she had confessed her own guilt, but now Valentina wondered. Even if Iris had slipped the poison into the meal, had she acted alone? Or was she part of a web Valentina had never seen, no more than she had seen the truth of her parentage?
"First I must know, Valentina," Septimus said, somber now. "First I must know your loyalty. Know if we have your trust."
We.
Valentina trembled. A web. A web of lies, a web of spiders, all crawling nearer and nearer, invisible, weaving their gossamer, waiting to strike.
"I trust you," she whispered, remembering Iris's corpse. "And you can trust me. You have my loyalty, Father."
He stepped closer toward her. He held her arm, leaned forward, and whispered into her ear. Valentina listened and felt as if the world collapsed around her.
MAYA
The desert sprawled out before them, endless under the sun, the dunes rolling to all horizons.
"Sekadia," Maya whispered from her camel, gazing at this ancient, eastern kingdom. "Ancient land of bones, of light, of gold, of beauty and of cruelty."
Leven rode his own camel beside her. He squinted at the distance. "Really? I see only sand."
"There's more here than sand," Maya said softly.
The young thief scratched his stubble and pushed his black hair back from his brow. His dark eyes narrowed further. "I still see only sand."
Yet Maya saw more. There were rocks and boulders, hills and valleys, metal and crystal. There was the sky above, the beating sun. There was the rocky path their three camels walked down—a camel for her, a camel for Leven, and a camel that carried their supplies in jangling saddlebags. And there were memories here, an ancient history Maya felt all around her.
There wasn't much lume here. They had left Zohar behind, and the spring of light had faded. Yet Maya still carried lume within her, and she didn't even need to luminate it to see this place—to truly see it. In her mind, thousands of camels traversed this desert, carrying spice merchants back and forth. Armies thundered by on horses, soldiers in white cloaks and shawls, swinging sabers. She saw monuments rise—statues, obelisks, great cities—only to fall back into the sand and vanish.
Sekadia. A vast land, a hundred times the size of Zohar. The land that six hundred years ago had enslaved the Zoharites, forcing them to build great monuments that had long since crumbled. The land that first invented writing, irrigation, astrology, war. The vast land, nearly as large as the Aelarian Empire, that Maya had to cross before she could reach her destinatio
n: a second spring of lume, and a Luminosity center by the sea.
She unrolled her map, the one Leven's mother had given her. Zohar seemed so small on the parchment, a mere stretch of coast and a few hills, a kingdom she could hide under her fingertip. To the east spread most of the parchment—Sekadia going on and on, finally reaching the distant sea. And there, on the eastern coast, a small symbol. A candelabrum with four candles. Symbol of Luminosity.
The place I seek, she thought. Light by the eastern sea.
"The sea seems so far," she said. "We've barely covered any distance."
"So far for you." Leven—that damn camel thief—uncorked his waterskin. "I'm only taking you as far as Sekur. Then it's back to my oasis." He drank deeply and passed her the skin.
Maya took it gratefully. She drank. It was hot here, so hot it felt like traveling through soup. The sun blasted them, blinding, beating like whips. If not for her cloak and shawl—the prayer shawl Father had given her, sewn years ago for Mica—the lashing sunrays would have burnt her skin. She and Leven were desert children, their skin brown, their hair black and thick, bred to survive the heat, but this desert seemed cruel enough to melt iron. Even their camels grumbled with every step.
"Let's rest and pitch the tent," Maya said. "It's almost noon and getting too hot. We'll keep traveling in the evening."
Leven snorted. "You coastal girls. Can't handle the heat?"
She glared at him. "Is that why you spent your life hiding in an oasis, O great desert warrior?"
He bristled. "I spent years traveling this desert, fighting off brigands, sometimes going for days without water. Meanwhile you grew up in a villa by the sea, pampered and spoiled, a proper princess."
"That villa is gone now," Maya said softly. "And that sea is swarming with eagles. Life on the coast is no easier than the desert, and we are both Zoharites, and both stubborn, and both need to rest." She halted her camel in a valley between two dunes. "Here."
They raised their tent, driving the poles into the sand, and rested in the shade. More than anything, Maya longed to wash her feet—to feel that healing water flow over them, soothing her, cooling her. Yet they only had a few waterskins left, barely enough to drink until they reached Sekur, capital of Sekadia. She rolled out a rug, and Leven took dry figs, dates, and nuts from his pack. They shared the meal. It was so hot, even in the tent, that Maya could barely stomach eating. She forced herself, knowing she needed the energy.
She lay down on the rug and closed her eyes, trying to sleep, only to be roused by music.
She peeked to see that Leven had pulled a flute from his pack. She recognized the tune he played. It was "The Shepherd of Zohar," an old hymn.
"I'm trying to sleep," she told him.
"I'm trying to play music."
She tried to snatch the flute from him, but he pulled it back. "Any requests?"
She nodded. "I request that you put that flute away."
"No respect for an artist." Leven sighed and placed down the flute.
"I lost respect for you when you stole my camel." Maya rolled over, facing the tent wall.
She heard Leven lie down beside her. The tent was too small. She could smell him, a smell of some strange spice she didn't recognize, and sand, and dry fruit, and a lingering scent of the oasis.
She rolled back toward him. "Stop that."
"Stop what?" He lay beside her, frowning.
"Stop stinking."
He blinked at her, then laughed. "I don't stink. I put on a special blend of myrrh and musk and olive oil, precisely to prevent stinking."
She nodded. "So that's what stinks. Your perfume."
"It's not perfume!" He stiffened. "I don't wear perfume. I'm not a lady."
She leaned closer and sniffed his neck. She nodded. "Perfume. There was a fine lady in Gefen, a real beauty in pink silks, who wore the same scent."
"Well, you smell like a camel's ass."
She raised her eyebrow. "How do you know? Do you often sniff camel asses?"
Now it was his turn to roll away from her. "I thought you were going to sleep."
Maya closed her eyes again, but sleep eluded her. It was too damn hot. The air was too thick, flowing around her, caressing her skin. Somewhere outside something was clicking or chirping—some insect or snake. She tried to ignore it. When still she couldn't sleep, she poked Leven in the back.
"Leven," she whispered. "Leven, are you asleep?"
He groaned.
"Leven!" she said again, louder now.
He flopped onto his back. "What?"
Maya stared at him. "Why did you steal my camel?"
"Still on about the camel!" He raised his hands in indignation. "I'm a thief, that's why. I steal things. That's what I do. The way you're a princess, and you can't help being one, I can't help being a thief."
"I'm not a princess," she said. "I'm King Shefael's cousin."
"That makes you a princess."
She shook her head, her black curls swaying. "No it doesn't. That's not how the lines of succession work. I'd have to be Shefael's sister or daughter to be a princess. You'd know this if you were more than an uneducated thief." She frowned. "Did you get to steal much at the oasis? What, did you snatch drops of water from the pool, maybe leaves from the palm trees? What kind of thief lives in an oasis?"
He sighed. "An exiled one."
"Exiled from where, a perfume shop?"
He nodded. "I was."
She frowned. "Hush, you."
"It's true."
She groaned and looked away. "You're not funny."
"I'm serious. It's where they finally caught me." Leven stared up at the ceiling, seeming lost in memory. "I was born in Beth Eloh. At least, I think I was. I can't remember anything before I was two or three. But I was always a thief. My mother was a beggar, soft in the head, the sort of woman who yells at pigeons, thinking them demons." His voice softened. "I was mostly on my own as a child, scampering through the streets with other urchins. I stole from everyone. Everyone, Maya! I nicked rings off the fingers of priests. I snatched gold from the purses of merchants. I grabbed coins from the fingers of lechers paying their whores. It was perfume that finally got me."
"The smell gave you away while you were sneaking up on some fine lady with a purse of gold?"
He shook his head. "I tried to rob a perfumery. You know Palmari's Paradise?"
Maya nodded. It was a perfume shop in Beth Eloh, a place where the wealthy shopped for their fragrances. Queen Sifora herself would buy perfumes there. Ofeer even had a bottle from Palmari's Paradise back in the villa on Pine Hill.
"I tried to snatch a vial from the shop," Leven said. "It was called Angels' Meadow. A scent of flowers and resin, spicy and sweet. I was so nervous to hold it, so careful, that I slipped. I let the vial drop from under my cloak. It smashed right on the perfumery floor. Next thing I know, the city guards had me in chains, and I was about to be stoned to death. Me, stoned to death! With my beautiful face and all."
Maya cringed, turning back toward him. "Stoned to death for stealing a single vial of perfume?"
"Well . . . the perfume and a whole collection of rings, bracelets, necklaces, and holy artifacts they found in my pockets. It was your aunt who spared my life. Queen Sifora herself. She was a kind woman, Maya. A good queen. I was spared the stones, instead given a good whipping and cast out from the city, sent to travel east into the desert."
He pulled off his tunic, exposing his bare torso, and turned to show her his back. Maya could still see the scars. She passed her finger along one scar; it was thin, pale, and slightly elevated.
"But . . ." She frowned. "I thought Zehav is your mother. That Keremyah is your grandfather. That all those boys scampering around the oasis are your brothers."
"They are!" Leven said. "Well, in a way. They adopted me. I arrived at their oasis two years ago, thin, thirsty, almost dying, beaten, and cast out from the city. They took me in, nursed me back to health. Zehav now calls me her son. Grandpa Keremyah vowed
to return me to the path of righteousness, and he's been teaching me prayers, trying to instill Eloh's values in me. But I don't think it's been working. Once a thief, always a thief."
"So that's why you stole my camel?" Maya asked. "Because one exile wasn't enough?"
He stared at the tent wall for a long moment, then back at her. "Do you know the story of the scorpion and the frog?"
She shook her head. "Tell me."
"A scorpion once wanted to cross the lake, so he asked a frog for a ride. The frog refused, saying, 'You will sting me.' The scorpion denied that, explaining that if he stung the frog while they were crossing the lake, they would both drown. The frog saw the sense in that, so he let the scorpion climb onto his back, then began to swim across the lake. Halfway toward the opposite shore, the scorpion stung the frog. As they were drowning, the frog asked, 'Why did you sting me?' The scorpion replied, just before they both vanished underwater, 'Because it's my nature.'"
"So you're a scorpion and I'm a frog," Maya said.
He poked her with his finger. "Sting."
"Ouch." She pouted and poked him back, right in the chest. "Sting you back."
He poked her nose. "Sting," he whispered . . . and suddenly he was stroking her hair, gently passing his fingers through her mane of black curls. Maya had always hated her hair—it wasn't nice and smooth like Atalia's or Ofeer's—but this damn thief seemed to like it well enough, judging by how determined he seemed to keep stroking it. She let him. That stupid thief.
Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2) Page 10
