That light flowed from her now—the luminescence, the lume she wove into magic. The glow suffused her—flowing from her hands, her eyes, filling her, warming her. The glow of her home. Of lume. Of Eloh. Of her life by the sea and in the desert.
Gently, she placed her hands on the burnt king.
He gasped, lipless mouth opening wide. The light flowed from her into him. The king began to move in his bed, first wriggling, then thrashing.
The serving girls leaped up. Guards stepped forward from the shadows.
"She's killing him!" cried a man, drawing a sword.
"No!" Leven held the guard back. "Watch. She's helping."
"She's burning him further!" shouted another guard, raising his blade.
"Stand back!" Leven said, pulling the man's arm down. "Let her heal him."
The king screamed.
It was a horrible sound, inhuman, the sound of a wounded animal, and Maya nearly lost her magic. She clung to the memories of Zohar. The camels riding over the dunes. The ancient towers of Beth Eloh, rising from the desert. The maidens in their white dresses, dancing over grapes as their brothers played lyres and drums. The waves. Golden coins and ancient jewels and limestone bricks. Light. Everywhere, light. Flowing from the Temple on the Mount of Cedars. Flowing through her. Flowing through the generations, from Adom, the father of the Zoharite nation, to Elshalom, the first king, to her mother, to her, into this king in the bed. She gave him all the light inside her, all the light of her people.
The luminescence flowed across the wounded king, hiding his form, and he calmed. He lay in his bed, and his breathing deepened. Easier breathing now. Deep, no rattle to it.
Maya took her own shuddering breath.
The light tugged at her, nearly consuming her, flowing around her. Too many memories. Too many millions of souls. Ancient feet on ancient stones. Towers rising and falling, endless years, and tribes that danced on the hills. She let it all flow out. She let it all heal him. She fell to her knees, gasping, the light draining from her, leaving her in shadows. Leaving her trembling, gasping for breath.
Leven rushed toward her. He knelt and held her in his arms. "Maya! Maya, are you all right?"
She blinked, shuddering. The world seemed to shrink. Those ancient memories faded. The landscapes of Zohar fled from her mind. Once more she was here, in the chamber of a king in a distant eastern land.
Trembling, leaning on Leven, she rose to her feet. She gazed down at the king in the bed.
Her eyes dampened, and she lowered her head.
"I failed," she whispered.
The king was still scarred, his face still gone, his fingers still missing. Maya wept for him, for her failure. She had thought that she could heal him. She had drained almost all the lume inside her. She had thought that, after healing the dog, after healing Leven's brother, she could heal this man—but she was not a true lumer.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry, my lord. I failed. I—"
"You . . . did not . . . fail," the king whispered.
Maya gasped and narrowed her eyes. The king's voice was clearer now. No longer did pain twist his words. His breathing was deep, no longer rasping. When Maya dried her eyes, she noticed that his hands—though still burnt, still missing the fingers—were no longer swollen and curled. His head was still scarred, still faceless, but it was no longer bloated. The smell of rot was gone. Whatever disease had filled him, whatever pain, whatever internal fire—it had vanished under her light. He was still scarred, still eyeless, and he would never be the man he had been. But . . .
"The pain is gone," the king said, voice still weak but growing stronger with every word. "I can breathe freely. I . . . I can lift my limbs without pain. Help me. Help me rise from this bed. For the first time in years, let me stand up."
The king began to slowly stand. Maya held one of his arms. Leven rushed forward and grabbed the other. The servants and guards stared, eyes wide.
The king placed one foot on the floor. Then the other. Then he stood and took a step.
"The pain is gone," he whispered. He had no eyes left to weep with, but Maya heard the joyous emotion in his voice. "I can walk again. I can leave my bed. You healed me, daughter of Zohar. You healed me."
"I could not heal you fully," Maya said. "I could not bring back your eyes, your fingers, your face, could not clean off your scars."
The burnt king embraced her. "I had lost hope of ever rising from my bed, ever breathing the air without pain. I still cannot see, and perhaps I'm still scarred, but you've given me back my life. I will enter the gardens now, and I will feel the sun, and hear the birds sing, and I will contribute to my kingdom once more." His voice softened. "My spring palace lies across the river, Maya Sela of Zohar, a place of wealth, gardens, beauty. It is now yours."
She blinked. "You know my name? I didn't think that I told anyone."
"You told me your name, and of your past, and of your kingdom of Zohar—a land of peace and wisdom, a land lost to the eagles. Now live here in wealth. The spring palace is yours."
Maya shook her head. "I wish only for transport to the eastern sea. I do not wish to live in a palace, my lord, for the majesty of Luminosity shines brighter. All earth is finite, and all earthly kingdoms fade to sand, but the kingdom of Luminosity is endless and eternal."
Behind her, Leven gave a strangled sound. "But . . . but . . . Maya!"
"Are you sure, child?" asked the King of Sekadia. "You could live a comfortable life here."
Maya nodded. "I'm sure. I desire no lands, no wealth, only maps and supplies and guides to accompany me to the eastern sea. Keep your spring palace, my lord. I must reject your generous gift."
With a clatter, Leven crashed to the floor.
"Guides you shall have!" said the king. "And a hundred guards too, and a wagon and many supplies. The royal convoy will take you east. What do you seek by the sea?"
"I'm not entirely sure," Maya confessed. "A center of Luminosity, of light, of wisdom. I have a map with a symbol. It shows a four-branched candelabrum by the sea—sigil of Luminosity. But . . . I never learned the name of the place."
"You seek the eastern city of Suna," said the king. "Indeed, several Zoharites live there, protected under my reign, where they study the light of Eloh. The journey will take you a month, but my escorts will see you there safely."
Suna. The place I seek. An oasis of light.
Maya knelt before the king. "Thank you, my lord!" Her breath trembled, and her eyes dampened, this time with joy. "Your gift is worth to me more than an empire. Suna. The place I seek is Suna."
Leven managed to rise to his feet. "My king," the thief said, "if your palace is still up for grabs . . . I did help Maya here. Surely that deserves some credit. Maybe . . . a small palace? A villa? A very nice house? Ouch!" He winced as Maya elbowed him hard in the belly.
That evening, for the first time in months, Maya lay in a bed—a real bed, the frame carved of cedar, the mattress stuffed with down. The king had given her this chamber high in the ziggurat. Candles burned in serpent sconces, illuminating frescoes depicting dragons flying over mountain and sea. The window revealed the sun setting over the city, gilding the limestone idols, the towers lining the boulevards, the columned temples, the domed homes, and the desert beyond the walls.
Leven sat beside her on his own bed, stripped down to a pair of baggy pants. In the candlelight, she could see the scars across his back—his punishment for burglarizing so many in Beth Eloh. He had trimmed his beard down to stubble, and his curled hair was just long enough to cover the tips of his ears. His skin was deep bronze, the skin of a man who had spent his life in the cruel sunlight of the desert.
Maya lay in her bed, unable to sleep, watching him.
"You should sleep," she said. "Tomorrow you'll be journeying back to Zohar. It's a long way."
Leven bit his lip. He rose from his bed, walked across the chamber, and stared out the window.
"I know you're absolutely heartbroken that I'll
be leaving." He nodded. "I did warn you that I'll steal your heart."
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, heartstolen, that's me. Look how I'm weeping."
He turned back toward her. "You know, we could have lived here together. A wealthy life in Sekadia could have been ours."
"Could have been mine." She sat up in bed. "And I don't deserve a life of wealth. I didn't fully heal him. I have much to learn of Luminosity. I will learn across the desert, far from Aelar. In a safe place by the sea."
"Well . . ." Leven tapped his foot. "Maybe I want to get away from Aelar too. Have you ever stopped to consider that?" He pointed at her. "You're not the only one who hates the Aelarians, you know. Maybe I want to go east too. Maybe I will go east."
She raised an eyebrow. "Your mother told you to accompany me to this city. She never said you had to walk me all the way to the sea. The king will lend me his guards."
Leven snorted. "Useless, his guards are. Couldn't stop him from being burned, could they? And I did save you already from the bone-raiders."
Now her second eyebrow rose. "If I recall correctly, I saved you from them."
"Technicalities." He waved dismissively. "Look, Maya." He knelt before her. "I know you'd be sad if I left you. And I know you'd miss me. And I know that, well . . . that after getting to know each other for so long, after all we've been through, that being apart would feel so . . . empty." He reached out, hesitated, then caressed her hair. "And I don't want you to feel such emptiness. So, because you insist, and because your heart is so broken, I'll keep traveling with you. To the east. All the way to the sea."
She smiled thinly. "Is it so hard, Leven? To admit you have feelings inside that shriveled-up organ you call a heart?"
"Feelings!" He scoffed. "I don't have any feelings. I'm not a girl."
She kissed his cheek. "I'm almost a lumer. I have the Sight—one of the Four Pillars of Luminosity. I can see your feelings, Leven."
She embraced him, and he climbed into the bed with her. She slept curled up in his arms, and she dreamed of home.
In the morning, they headed out—a caravan of wagons, camels, guards, and guides. They left the city of Sekur behind, heading east into the sprawling desert toward water, wisdom, and light.
OFEER
She stood in the dark library, her mind a storm. The hour was late, but Ofeer couldn't imagine sleeping. Seneca had gone off to see Worm the lumer, leaving Ofeer alone in his chambers, this network of rooms occupying the western wing of the palace.
She brought her fingers to the iron collar around her neck, marking her a slave. With her fingertip, she felt the letters engraved there.
I have escaped! If you find me, return me to the Acropolis, to Prince Seneca Octavius, for a thousand denarius reward.
"How did this happen?" Ofeer whispered, head hung low. "I've been a fool. A fool."
She fell to her knees between the shelves of scrolls. She would have given the world to be home now—back in her true home, in Zohar. To hug them all. Her parents. Her siblings.
"I want to go back," she whispered, eyes stinging. "Please, Eloh. Let me wake up from this nightmare. Let me go back home. I promise to hug my mother so tightly. I promise to never fight with Epher and Koren and Atalia and Maya. I love them so much, and I'm so scared. I'm so scared that Epher is dead, that Koren is a slave in some mine or field, that Atalia is drowned, that Maya is lost in the desert. Please, Eloh. I'm so sorry." Her tears fell onto her thighs. "I'm so sorry for everything I've done. For yelling at my parents, for hurting them, making them cry. For running all those times to the port of Gefen. For standing among the Aelarians as they destroyed Gefen. For coming here." She sobbed. "I'm so sorry."
Rustling cloth sounded behind her, startling Ofeer. She spun around and her heart thrashed.
Valentina Octavius stood at the doorway, watching her. The youngest among Emperor Marcus's children, she was a slender girl roughly Ofeer's age. Her white hair framed a flushing face, and she nervously clutched her lavender stola—the garment Ofeer had heard rustling.
"I . . . I'm sorry," Valentina said. With no pigment to her skin, her blushing cheeks turned bright red. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I saw a light, and . . ."
Ofeer knelt on the mosaic floor. "My princess."
My sister, she added silently.
Valentina hesitated a moment, as if torn between walking by or staying. Finally she entered the library and gestured for Ofeer to rise. She straightened and gazed at her sister. They were of a height, but the resemblance ended there. Ofeer looked like her mother, dark and slender and sharp featured. Valentina had a softer face, rounder, gentler.
We're sisters, but we don't look alike, Ofeer thought. Nor does she look like Seneca or Ofeer, and it's not just her colorings. Her eyes lack the ruthlessness. Porcia and Seneca have the eyes of hunters; she has the eyes of prey.
"Are you . . . Ofeer Sela?" Valentina asked.
Ofeer nodded. "Your brother told you."
"No." Valentina lowered her eyes. "I had a lumer once. She was from Gefen. Her name was Iris Bat Inet. Did you . . . did you maybe know her?"
Ofeer shook her head. "No, I'm sorry, my princess. Gefen is a large city. Well, tiny compared to Aelar."
Valentina tugged nervously at her stola. Ofeer was surprised at how meek the girl seemed. An observer would be forgiven for thinking that Ofeer was the princess, Valentina the slave.
"She knew you," Valentina said. "She spoke to me often of the Sela family. I . . . I couldn't help but hear you pray. I'm so sorry! I've always been fascinated with Zohar. My lumer would tell me all the stories—about the kings and queens, the lords and ladies, the beauty of Gefen, the wonders of Beth Eloh and the desert . . ." Valentina sighed wistfully. "We were to visit there together."
Ofeer smiled wryly. "When you visit, will you take me with you?"
While I lived in Zohar, I comforted myself with dreams of Aelar, she thought. Meanwhile, this one has been dreaming of Zohar.
Valentina returned the smile. "It's strange how things change. My lumer is dead now. And Zohar has fallen. And you're here, a . . ." She glanced at Ofeer's collar.
"A slave," Ofeer said.
Valentina glanced around, then back toward Ofeer. She hesitated a moment, then embraced her. "You are a great lady of Zohar, Ofeer Sela, descended of eastern nobility. I will protect you here in this palace. You have a friend here. You're not alone. I can't take you home to Zohar, but I can, maybe, help you find a new home here."
A little ray of hope filled Ofeer. She could still find some support here. Maybe not all members of the Octavius family were cruel.
Perhaps my father will be like Valentina. Perhaps he will accept me, even love me. Perhaps my dream can still come true.
"You're trembling," Valentina said. "If you can't sleep, would you like to return to my chamber? My bed is large enough for two, and we can tell each other stories of Zohar until we sleep."
"I'm not sure that Prince Seneca would like me to leave his quarters," Ofeer said. "I'm his slave now." She pointed at her collar.
Valentina snorted—a high-pitched, silly sound. "He wouldn't mind. We share everything."
"I would like that, then," Ofeer said.
They left the library and walked through the palace together, passing by columns and statues and frescoes. Finally they reached Valentina's bedchamber, which afforded a view of the gardens outside. It was a beautiful room, adorned with statues and murals, and songbirds sang in a golden cage. Candles burned in platinum sconces, and pillows topped a huge bed, larger than any Ofeer had ever seen.
They climbed onto the bed together, and Ofeer was grateful to be here, not in Seneca's chamber. When Seneca returned, he would be lustful for flesh, and he would have reached for Ofeer.
Let Taeer warm his bed tonight, Ofeer thought. Let him never touch me again.
"I can speak a little Zoharite," Valentina said, and now she spoke in the language of the desert, not in Aelarian.
Ofeer's eyes widened. "Did your
lumer teach you?" she said, speaking Zoharite too. For many years, Ofeer had thought Zoharite an ugly, guttural language, not beautiful like flowing Aelarian. Yet now she was thankful to speak it, strangely proud of her mother tongue.
"I know a few songs of the desert too," said Valentina, and she sang them, almost perfectly.
For a long time, they lay side by side in the soft bed, and Ofeer told the princess many stories of Zohar. How she used to collect snail shells, fit little ones into big ones, then spill them all out, creating a game of snail dice. And how so many sheep would wander Pine Hill; Ofeer even made sheep sounds, and Valentina laughed. She told stories of the sunlight on the sea, and how soft the sand was, and how the seashells gleamed. She told the funny story about how Atalia had once entered the water, and how a jellyfish had stung her right on the bottom, and how Epher and Koren had laughed and laughed, and Atalia got mad and insisted it had stung her on the thigh.
"But it was right on the bottom—I saw it!" Ofeer said.
Valentina laughed. "Right on the . . ." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Ass." She gasped, as if shocked at herself, and covered her mouth with her palms.
Soon the two were giggling.
She's my age, Ofeer thought. Yet she's still like a child. With her, I feel like a child again too. Safe.
It was funny, Ofeer thought. For so many years, she had seen ugliness: the seedy taverns of Gefen's dregs, the beds of sweaty men, a ship of conquerors, a battle at sea, a market for slaves. She had lost so much—her country, her family. What would her life have been like now, had she been raised in this palace, the emperor's little daughter? Would she too be a blushing, giggling princess, her heart unscarred, all her memories joyous?
I could have been like her, Ofeer thought. Like Valentina, with no pain in my heart, no nightmares to haunt my nights.
"Valentina," Ofeer finally said, voice soft now. "I need your help. A favor."
Valentina's eyes softened. She took Ofeer's hands in hers. "Of course."
Ofeer took a deep breath. She was afraid to ask this—afraid the princess would be angry, cast her out from her bed. But Ofeer had to ask. She could not trust Seneca with this task. She needed Valentina's help.
Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2) Page 24
