Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  A place to hide away. To plan. To nurse his anger.

  Epher stepped inside to find Olive lying on the tabletop, blowing on a feather, struggling to keep it afloat just above her mouth. She was naked, her skin golden in the light that shone between the curtains, and her hair was a pyre of flame.

  When she heard him enter, she leaped up, blowing the feather aside. She bounded toward him. "Epher and Olive!" she said proudly. "Epher . . . Epher . . ." She frowning and chewed her lip, then grinned. "Epher back come!"

  "Epher came back," he corrected her.

  "Epher came back, Epher came back!" She ran in circles, hooting. "Epher go away. Now Epher came back."

  He groaned. "Olive, remember what I told you about being naked? Part of belonging to civilization means wearing clothes."

  She paused from running and pointed out the window. "Civization. There." She pointed at the floor. "Here no civization. Here naked."

  He couldn't help but spend a moment admiring her. After many threats and cajoling, he had finally—only this morning—convinced Olive to wash herself. She had put up a fight, squealing when he brought in the basin of water, escaping naked down the street, and finally coming back only when he threatened to toss out her bow and arrow. It had been another battle to brush her hair. She had cursed every foul word she knew, snapped one hairbrush in half, and nearly bit off his arm, but finally he had managed to untangle her wild red mane.

  Right now, cleaned and brushed, Olive was a new person. No longer Hungry, the wild beast he had met on the beach. No longer Red, the crazy rambler the hillsfolk spoke of. Finally—a true woman of Zohar.

  When he had met her, years of filth had covered her. Mud had hidden her skin, and leaves and dust had caked her hair into a matted paste. But now . . . now she appeared as a young, beautiful woman. Her skin was pale as a Gaelian's, almost white, and strewn with countless freckles. Her orange hair hung down to her chin; he had been forced to cut off the rest, unable to remove the worst of the tangles. Her nose was small and upturned, her eyes green. With her pale skin, fiery hair, and emerald eyes, she didn't look much like a typical Zoharite. Epher sometimes wondered whether she had come from a distant land, perhaps the daughter of a foreign merchant, lost here in infancy. Perhaps Olive's origin would forever remain a mystery, but her future they could mold together. A future here, in the land of Eloh.

  "You're not a wild beast," he said softly. "You're a human. A real human. A smart one, aren't you?"

  She nodded. "Olive smart."

  He found the tunic he had given her, lifted it from the floor, and pulled it over her arms. "We might not have civilization indoors, but I won't be able to concentrate on teaching you if you're naked." It was a struggle to not keep looking. "Now, are you ready to learn more words?"

  She nodded, the tunic pulled down to her knees. "Ready."

  Over the past few days, Epher had been teaching her, and she had been learning fast. Every day her vocabulary grew. He was surprised by her intelligence. She wasn't only learning a new language. She was learning her first language, learning the very concept of what language was. Epher looked forward to the day—even if it was months away—when she knew enough words to tell her story, tell him where she had grown up, why she had never learned how to speak.

  Over the past few days, he had taken her through the city, pointing out everything they passed—dogs, cats, donkeys, camels, horses, houses, trees, boys, girls . . . teaching her every word. She had learned much, forgotten much, relearned, and kept practicing, kept prattling.

  But the outside world—this civilization—had become unpleasant to Epher. He had seen how the people looked at her, heard them scoff.

  "Halfwit," a man once said, shaking his head.

  "Wild beast," a legionary had called her.

  When Olive had begun to repeat those words—proudly calling herself a halfwit and beast—Epher had decided to spend a day indoors.

  They walked into the second chamber and sat on the bed, and Epher pointed at her hand.

  "Hand," he said.

  She nodded. "And. Epher and Olive!"

  "No." He shook his head and pointed at her hand again. "Hand. With an H. Hand."

  She lifted her hand and examined it, brow furrowed, then looked up at him quizzically. "Hand?"

  He nodded and pointed at her leg. "Leg."

  She pointed at his leg. "Leg. Epherleg." Back to herself. "Oliveleg."

  He touched her hair. "Hair."

  She pointed at her head. "Air."

  "No. Not your head. Your hair. Here." He stroked her hair. "Hair. With an H again. Hair."

  She leaned closer to him and touched his hair. "Hair."

  He brought his fingers down to her cheek. "Cheek."

  She caressed his beard. "Cheek," she whispered.

  "Lips," he said.

  She moved closer. "Lips," she whispered. Suddenly she blushed and looked away. "Olive scared."

  He found that he couldn't stop stroking her hair. He wanted to stop. This was wrong. He forced his hand back. It felt like ripping off a part of him.

  "Why are you scared?" he asked.

  She looked back at him and lifted his hand. "Hand," she whispered, raised it, and pulled his fingers to her hair. "Hand and hair." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Lips."

  He did not know who initiated it. He did not know if he leaned toward her, she toward him, or both together. But before he could understand how, he was kissing her. Just softly at first, a mere peck on the lips, then a deeper kiss, his hands in her hair, her arms wrapped around him.

  "Lips," she repeated. "Epher and Olive lips."

  "Kiss," he said.

  She frowned. "What is kiss?"

  "This." He kissed her again.

  Staring into his eyes, she pulled her tunic off again and tossed it aside. She sat naked beside him on the bed, their bodies pressed together. "Teach more." She pulled his hands down to her breasts. "Teach Olive."

  That evening, he taught her all the words of their bodies, over and over as they made love, moving naked in the bed as the sun set.

  Epher had made love to women before—to Claudia Valerius, daughter of Aelar's old ambassador, and once to Karin, the daughter of a chandler in Gefen. Olive made him forget those other women. Her lovemaking was a wild thing, like fire, burning across him, an animal act. She cried out loudly, not caring that neighbors might hear. She bit his shoulder, nearly tearing the skin, and wrapped her legs around him, squeezing him, calling out all those words he had taught her.

  It seemed hours that they made love. When they were done, they lay in the darkness together, coated in sweat, panting, the room sweltering. He lay on his back, and she nestled against him, cooing, her fingers exploring his body.

  "Chest," she whispered, stroking him. "Belly." She reached farther down and closed her fingers around him. She frowned and looked at him quizzically. "Stick?"

  He laughed. He had taught her that word yesterday when finding a branch on the street. He nodded. "Stick."

  She laid her cheek on his chest and closed her eyes. "Olive tired. Olive sleep now."

  "I am tired," he corrected her.

  She nodded. "Epher sleep."

  Soon she was sleeping, her breath tickling his chest. He stroked back locks of her damp hair and kissed her forehead.

  I want to stay here forever with you, he thought. I never want to leave this bed.

  Maybe his mother had been right. Maybe it was best to bend the knee, to live under Aelar's rule, to send children to the Empire's schools, to see their marble idols rise in the city, to serve in the legions. To survive. To live. To spend his life with Olive, here in this home. Part of a cruel empire, yes—but still alive. Still with her.

  But in the darkness, Epher still saw it. The death outside the walls. The slaughter of Yohanan and his men. In his mind, he still heard the words: the news of his father dying, of Koren and Atalia shipped off to slavery, of Maya fleeing the legions into the desert. How could he submit now? How could he
forget thousands slaughtered here, their blood crying out from the earth?

  He could not. Even as he held Olive in his arms, Epher knew that he could not abandon this fight. He was still a warrior of Zohar, his father's heir, heir to a land stolen from him. With Jerael dead, it was Epher who now ruled the Sela house—a house fragmented and scattered across the world. He would not forget his duty. He would fight on—whatever way he still could.

  Still lying with Olive against him, Epher reached one hand down, lifted the edge of the mattress, and touched the hilt of the dagger he hid there—a dagger that would mean his body on the cross should the legionaries find it.

  "The road is still dark," he whispered to Olive. She mumbled and stirred in her sleep, and he kissed her. "I'm glad you're with me."

  ATALIA

  The sea rose and fell. Twilight spilled across sky and water, and a million stars shone, and dawn gilded the sea. The lights of the heavens danced, and all the world became as it had been at creation. Chaos and water. Light and darkness. The moon and sun and the stars. And here, adrift—two small lights. Two specks of consciousness lost in the eternity.

  "It is . . ." Daor coughed and licked his dry lips. Another sunset dripped around them, and the stars emerged. "It is rather beautiful out here, at least."

  Clinging to their makeshift raft, Atalia glared at him. "Daor, sweetling?"

  "Yes, Commander?"

  "Fuck you."

  He sighed. "I'm trying to find something positive, Commander."

  "In that case, find us some land." She punched him with whatever strength was still in her. "Now keep paddling. North is that way."

  Both lay across a chunk of deck, bellies against the wood, legs in the water. It was barely larger than a door, and the only piece left from their sunken ship. They paddled, moving onward across the sea. If any gull had flown above them, the bird would be forgiven for mistaking them for mere slabs of old meat. Their backs still stung with lashes. Their skin peeled, burnt by the sun. Daor's beard was filling out, and their hair hung across their faces, salty and ragged. Atalia couldn't remember how long had passed since the battle. One day? Two? A week? She was too weak to count time, too hungry, too thirsty. She could think only of finding fresh water, finding food, finding solid land to lie on. She kept paddling, kicking through the water. A chain still dangled from her ankle, always threatening to drag her down.

  Let go, the chain told her.

  Sink into the water, said the hunger in her belly.

  Drink the sea, said the thirst.

  Atalia wanted to listen to them. She wanted to end this. To sink, to find relief from pain. But whenever she slipped, she ground her teeth, and she brought two faces to mind: Seneca and Porcia.

  I will survive this, she vowed. And I will kill you.

  "How do you know we're moving north?" Daor said, feet splashing in the water.

  Atalia pointed. Her voice was hoarse, and every word cracked her lips. "There, soldier. See those stars, the ones shaped like a claw? That's the Lion's Claw constellation."

  Daor squinted. "It looks more like a hydra."

  "Fine, it's a hydra." She groaned. "See that blue star? The one on top? That's the Lodestar. That always points north. And if I know anything of the routes of ships, they always sail near the northern coast of the Encircled Sea. Something to do with currents. That means we're near land."

  He blinked. "I thought the Lodestar always points east."

  Atalia glared at him. "North! I think." She tilted her head. "Wait. Or was it the Evening Star that points north?"

  Daor groaned. "Commander! If we're going back east, the distance to land . . . by God, it took us two weeks by ship to sail from the eastern port."

  "Calm yourself, soldier. We're going north." She looked back at that blue star. "I'm certain. Almost certain. Reasonably sure." She paused. "There's a good chance."

  They paddled onward. Atalia kept paddling harder than Daor, spinning them off course, and she had to punch the soldier and get him to keep kicking. She could not tell how fast they moved, how long passed, how far they were. All her life had become pain, thirst, hunger, and paddling. Rowing forward. As the night stretched on, she was back in the belly of the ship, chained to the oar again.

  Row, she thought, eyes narrowed. Row. Row, slave!

  The whips cracked. The ship stank.

  Row!

  She rowed onward, kicking in the water, lost in the shadows.

  Row!

  She stood on the wall of Gefen, facing the legions, the soldiers storming up the ramp.

  Swing your sword!

  She swung her blade.

  Stand your ground! Do not fall. Do not die!

  With every kick of her legs, with every stroke of her arms, she still fought those legions. She still fought for Zohar. She still fought for her life. Dawn rose, and they swam onward, clinging to their raft, skin raw, lips bleeding.

  "Commander?" Daor rasped, eyes red. "I'm going to stop paddling soon."

  She turned toward him. "Do not lose hope now, soldier. Never lose hope!" Her voice shook. "I know you're scared. I know you're hopeless. That is when you must fight the hardest. When all hope is lost, you must roar the loudest. Never stop fighting, soldier. So long as you live, never give up. If you can draw another breath, you can fight."

  He nodded. "That's nice, Commander, but I'm still going to stop once we're on that beach."

  She stared at him, frowning, then whipped her head around. She gasped. Her eyes dampened.

  "You bastard," she whispered, then kicked with more vigor. "Come on! Faster! Swim, soldier! Forward!"

  They paddled, driving the raft toward the shore. The waves soon caught them, propelling them onward. They rose and fell, nearly losing their raft. The land spread ahead—a rocky beach and beyond it dark forests. They washed onto the shore like two rags, barely strong enough to crawl across the sand. For a long time, Atalia lay on the beach, her face in the sand, coughing, laughing. Daor lay at her side.

  "Atalia, look," he whispered.

  "It's Commander." She coughed. "We're still at war, soldier."

  "Commander, look."

  She raised her head from the sand, and she saw it. All across the beach, it lay—the wreckage of the naval battle. A chunk of a mast. An oar. A shattered piece of balustrade. Several barrels and pieces of rope. And two weak, shivering soldiers far from their home, swept ashore with the rest of the remains. Shaking, Atalia struggled to her feet. The world spun around her. Her head pounded. Her lips still bled. A chain still connected to her ankle. But she began to walk, moving across the beach, swaying, falling, rising again.

  "Come on, soldier!" she said. "Up! Onward! We need to find some water here, and some food too. Come, we march!"

  He struggled to his feet, swaying, and limped after her. "Where are we marching to, Commander?"

  She turned toward him and gripped his arms. They stood among the wreckage, gulls cawing overhead, the forest rustling across the sand. "We're still going north, soldier. We'll still follow that blue star. We're going through this forest, through whatever stands in our way. We're going to find the land of Gael. We're going to tell the Gaelians what happened to their comrades at sea." A smile tugged at her lips. "And we're going to fight with them."

  Two more steps and she found a barrel in the sand. When she smashed it open, apples spilled out, green and red—Zoharite apples, plundered by the legions. Atalia bit into one and tossed another to Daor. They walked toward the forest, leaving the sea behind, seeking water, seeking hope, seeking war.

  OFEER

  After twenty days at sea, the victorious fleet returned home.

  "Aelar," Ofeer whispered, standing at the prow of the imperial flagship, tears in her eyes.

  For so long, she had dreamed of this. For as long as she could remember, she had spoken to everyone of sailing to Aelar, had whispered of Aelar to her dolls, had drawn and sculpted and sung of Aelar. And here it was. Here, after so long, here was the land of her father. H
ere was the home she had craved all her life.

  Here was the land she feared.

  Ofeer was a daughter of the sea. She had been born and raised in Gefen, the greatest port city of the east, a thriving metropolis of many ships and high walls. Standing here at the prow, approaching Aelar, she realized how tiny Gefen truly was—no more than a village, a backwater. Here, before her, rose a city to dwarf all other cities. Here was the heart of an empire. In her dreams, the city of Aelar—center of the Aelarian Empire—had always been large, but those dreams had not done it justice. Before her rose a monster.

  Breakwaters thrust into the sea like enveloping arms. Gefen's harbor had breakwaters too, constructed of many boulders piled together, forming ridges in the water; Atalia and Koren used to dare each other to walk upon the slippery, mossy stones. But Aelar's breakwaters were marvels of architecture, built of smooth bricks and topped with porticos of columns, and atop each column rose a marble statue, welcoming travelers. Lighthouses rose on artificial islands, and countless ships navigated the waters: merchant barges with red and white sails, military galleys lined with oars, fishermen's boats, and luxury vessels shaded by colorful curtains.

  Here, before her, was the fabled Aelaria Maritima, the port of Aelar, the greatest port in the world, the inspiration for a thousand songs and tales, the beating heart of civilization.

  And beyond the port, on the shore . . . Ofeer had never imagined such a place. She had always thought Beth Eloh massive, but Aelar was ten times the size, and not nearly as old and crumbling. Countless buildings rose there, lined with columns, topped with red tiles. Some were villas that rose above gardens and pools; others were more like palaces. Many apartment buildings stood six or seven stories tall, their windows arched. Towers, amphitheaters, statues as tall as mountains—they all soared here, spreading for leagues.

  "She's beautiful, isn't she?" Seneca came to stand at her side, dressed in his polished armor of iron and gold. "All that I do, I do for her. For Aelar."

  "She's beautiful," Ofeer agreed, unable to speak louder than a whisper. She turned toward Seneca. "Beautiful."