Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  He reached for a cup of wine on the table. His hand shook as he drained it. "Taeer, can you look into the light? Use your Luminosity. Tell me what you see."

  A smile played across her lips. "I thought you didn't believe in Luminosity. Women's magic, you've called it."

  He regarded her. Sometimes there was something Seneca did not like in Taeer's eyes. Sometimes there was mockery there. Sometimes even when she kissed him, lay with him, he wondered who served who. Sometimes when he fell asleep in her arms, he wondered if he'd wake up with a knife in his back. And yet he always came back to her. He always sought her comfort, her wisdom, her kisses.

  Only with you can I be afraid. And only you can calm the fear.

  "You are my lumer," he said, looking into her dark eyes. "You are sworn to serve me. Do not forget that, Taeer. If I tell you to do something, you must do it."

  Her smile widened, and she nodded. "Spoken like a true prince." She inhaled deeply, raised her chin, and closed her eyes. Hints of light gathered around her fingers. Soon the glow intensified, flowing around her arms, down her body. When she opened her eyes, they blazed like two lanterns, so bright that Seneca winced. He had seen Taeer refine the lume before, turning it into luminescence, the magic of lumers—but never this bright.

  We're in Zohar now, he reminded himself. The world's spring of lume. Here her magic burns brightest. And a soft voice whispered in his mind, unbidden: Here she is most dangerous.

  "I gaze into the light," Taeer whispered, voice astral. "The Foresight unfurls before me. I see you . . . attacking the walls of Gefen."

  Seneca hissed. "So it will be war. What do you see? Who will win? Will Atalia die?"

  She inhaled deeply, the light spinning around her. Her hair rose as if floating in water, crackling with light. "I see you—Seneca Octavius—victorious, standing over the corpses of your enemies. I see all the Empire kneeling before you."

  Seneca sucked in breath between his teeth. He leaned forward. "What of Porcia?"

  "She kneels too." Taeer grabbed his arms, wrapping her fingers around him. "She kneels before her emperor!"

  Elation leaped in Seneca. He would win! He would conquer this land, and his father would name him heir! He would make Porcia kneel. He would make Atalia kneel too. They would all kneel before him, and he would never more be afraid, and—

  He cringed. Taeer's grip was tightening around his arms. It hurt. The light engulfed her, her eyes blinded him, and her fingernails pierced his skin. His blood dripped. She shone like a seraph of retribution, a demon of shadows and light.

  "Enough!" he said, trying to pry her off. "Douse your light."

  But her fingernails dug deeper, and his blood dripped onto the bed. He could not pry her loose.

  "A field of corpses spreads before you!" she whispered. "All the land bleeds. All fear and flee you, mighty Seneca Octavius."

  She leaned toward him and kissed him again—but now it was a burning kiss, her light flowing through him, searing, filling him with visions of corpses, of burning bones, of—

  He shouted and ripped her off him, like ripping off a leech. As she fell back, her teeth tore through his lip, and he tasted blood. The light faded. Once more Taeer appeared human, a Zoharite woman in red silks, her last few flickers of luminescence rising like mist. Shadows filled the cabin. Seneca grimaced.

  "What the abyss was that?" he said, wanting to shout, but his voice was weak, shaky. "You cut me. You bloody cut me."

  Taeer licked his blood off her lips. "Forgive me, my prince. We're in Zohar now. My homeland is rife with lume. It flows through the air, pulses through the sea beneath us. In my passion, I could not control it."

  He grimaced. "Well, be more careful next time." He touched his bottom lip. His fingers came away bloody, and he grimaced. "By the goddess's teats."

  "The only teats you may think of are mine, my prince." Taeer walked toward the table, poured wine into a goblet, and drank, staining her lips. It was the color of his blood. "Not a goddess's. Not Ofeer's."

  He narrowed his eyes. "How—"

  Taeer placed a finger against his lips. His blood still painted her fingernail. "I told you, my prince. This realm is rife with lume. My powers are at their greatest here in Zohar. I saw Ofeer, a youth of dark eyes, a youth who tempted you in a cave."

  Seneca turned away from her. The pain still flared. He forced in a shaky breath. "We must be cautious. We cannot rely on the fortunes of some ancient magic. It's a fickle thing. We must fight this war with all our courage, our strength, and our wisdom. The future often flickers and changes like shadows cast by candlelight."

  He had never trusted Luminosity. He rarely asked Taeer to use the ancient magic. It was a barbaric tradition, and Seneca thought his father far too obsessed with controlling the lume that rose in Zohar and fueled the magic. Yet Seneca could not deny the glow that had suffused Taeer's hands, that had flowed from her into him. He could not deny the excitement that now bubbled through him.

  I will be emperor. He tried to imagine it—himself on the throne, ruling the Encircled Sea, Taeer at his one side, Ofeer at the other, and Porcia kneeling before them like a dog begging for mercy. The thought was intoxicating, more than a thousand nights with Taeer. Sex, war, wealth—it all came down to power, and ultimate power resided in Aelar's throne room.

  Ale for courage, wine for strength, blood for lust, went the old saying. Power trumped them all.

  The lumer wiped a last bead of blood off his chin, then sucked her finger.

  "Remember my words, my prince," Taeer whispered. "She's here."

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Seneca collected himself, and Taeer returned to the bed and lay on her side, her goblet of wine in hand.

  "What is it?" he demanded.

  The door to his cabin opened. A young legionary stood there, clad in armor, and slammed his fist against his chest in salute. He had red hair, rare for an Aelarian. He probably heralded from the northern forests near the Gaelian border. His name was Justus or Justinus or something of the sort, Seneca thought.

  "My prince!" the legionary said. "We caught one. A Zoharite. We found her rowing a dinghy toward the ship. She claims she knows you, claims she's the daughter of Sela, and—"

  "Ofeer," Seneca whispered.

  "Yes, my prince, that's the name she gave us. We slapped her in irons, and we're holding her in the brig."

  Rage flared in Seneca. They had chained Ofeer? Locked her up? He ground his teeth, shoved past the guard, and marched through the ship. Behind him, he could hear Taeer laughing.

  JERAEL

  He stood in the courtyard, facing three thousand soldiers—men, women, and youths, many of whom would not see another night.

  How do I do this? Jerael thought. How do I see thousands die again—when the screams from the last war still haunt my nightmares?

  As they stared at him in the darkness, again the doubt filled Jerael. He should have taken Seneca's offer. He should have joined Aelar, marched with the legions to Beth Eloh, disposed of the princes, and resumed the tributes of lumers. His kingdom would perhaps lose its freedom, and he would serve as a puppet to a cruel emperor—but they would live! The people of this kingdom, of his city, his own family—they would live!

  They stared at him. Warriors. Some barely old enough to shave.

  How many of them will I bury when the sun rises?

  "All right, you pathetic little maggots!" Atalia shouted, marching across the cobblestones, sword drawn. "Do you really want to live forever? Well, I've got good news. You're all going to bugger Aelarians at dawn, or you're going straight up to heaven to fuck angels and kiss God's hairy ass." She spat onto the cobblestones. "But I'm not letting any one of you useless scum die without taking at least ten Aelarians with you. Is that clear, you ruthless bastards?"

  A few disheartened cheers rose. There was too much fear here. Too many shadows for bravado. A few of the youngest soldiers, mother's milk still on their lips, were shivering.

  "I said
," Atalia shouted, "are you ready to fuck Aelarians up the ass with Zoharite iron?"

  "I am ready to fuck!" cried one old man, beard long and white, and raised his sword with a wavering arm. He smiled toothlessly.

  Jerael sighed and guided his daughter back. "It's all right, Atalia. Let me speak to them."

  He faced the three thousand. They all wore scale armor. Curved iron swords were strapped to their thighs, slings dangled from their belts, and across their backs hung bows and quivers. They were well armed but inexperienced. Only a few of the oldest had seen battle, back in the war against Aelar on the island of Cadom.

  "Dawn is an hour away," Jerael said to them. "A dawn of fear. A dawn of blood. But also a dawn of courage. For many years, we watched Aelar take from us. They took our island and took our fleet. They took thousands of our soldiers. They take seven of our daughters every year, forcing them to use their magic to build temples to foreign gods. Now the eagles come again, and they want to take more. They want to take our freedom. But when dawn rises, we will tell them: You cannot take more!"

  The soldiers nodded, lips tight. Old men. Young men. Women, some with children at home. Some soldiers barely older than children themselves. They raised their weapons.

  "I cannot promise you victory," said Jerael. "I cannot promise that you'll all live. But I promise you this: You will be brave. You will fight to protect your families, your kingdom, your heritage. You are sons and daughters of Zohar! You are guardians of light. Your people have lived in this land for three thousand years, long before Aelar's first eagles flew. For our kingdom, for our god, for our families, for our home—at dawn we fight!"

  "At dawn we die!" cried a young soldier, raising his spear high, and he meant it not as a cry of fear but of pride, of courage.

  "At dawn we die!" the warriors cried, spears and swords rising together.

  "At dawn we die!" Atalia howled, voice hoarse, tendons rising on her neck and her sword raised high.

  Jerael left the courtyard, and they marched behind him. They walked down the cobbled streets of Gefen, heading toward the sea. The people of the city emerged from their stone homes, lined the streets, and lit clay lanterns. The wicks flickered in the oil, weak at first, growing brighter. A path of light led the soldiers' way to the sea. A path of light had forever guided Jerael's journey—the light of his god, the light in his wife's eyes, the light of his children. The light of Luminosity that blessed his land. Now the lights of all his people guided him forward.

  "Hear, O Zohar!" a woman cried from her doorway. "Ours is the light."

  The ancient prayer of their people. The prayer uttered at births and deaths. The prayer whispered over the dying. The prayer their ancestors had sung in the desert three thousand years ago, seeking a path to the sea.

  "Ours is the light," Jerael said, and the soldiers repeated the words behind him, voices awed. "Ours is the light."

  They reached the city's wall. They climbed the staircase that rose toward the battlements. They stood at the ramparts, spreading across the western flank of the city, looking at the sea.

  Down in the cove, the fleet of Aelar waited. Fifty massive galleys, hundreds of soldiers on each deck. Dozens of smaller vessels armed with ballistae and catapults. The enemy's lanterns burned bright, shining off armor, spears, swords, and arrows. Wall and water. Light and fire. The two forces stared at each other, waiting for the dawn.

  OFEER

  The chains bound her wrists and ankles, and her cheek blazed where they had struck her. Ofeer leaped toward the door and banged her shoulder against it.

  "Let me out!" she shouted. "I'm Aelarian! Gods damn it, let me out of here!"

  The door did not budge. The manacles chafed her skin, and now her shoulder ached too. Ofeer could barely see a thing; the only light came from under the door. The brig was small, too small to lie down in.

  "You're going to pay for this!" Ofeer cried, voice hoarse. "Seneca is going to free me, and he's going to flay you all!"

  No answer came, and she fell to her knees, cursing. This was not how she had imagined things. All the way here, running down Pine Hill, around the city walls, along the beach, and onto the boardwalk, Ofeer had imagined the wonders that awaited her. In the darkness, she had seen it: Seneca clad in a flowing purple toga, welcoming her to his fleet of light and gold and jewels, placing a tiara upon her head. And then the two of them, sailing west, sailing off to Aelar, to a world of marble columns, palaces, menageries with a thousand animals, and endless wealth.

  Yet when Ofeer had arrived on the boardwalk, when she had grabbed the dinghy and rowed to the flagship, the soldiers had seized her. Had struck her cheek. Had chained her and placed her here, as if she were a common Zoharite, not a woman with an Aelarian father. Had they not seen her eagle pendant?

  Tears burned in Ofeer's eyes. It was humiliating. Utterly humiliating. She could imagine her family getting word of this, how Maya would pity her, how Atalia would scoff, how Mother would weep. How they'd all feel sorry for poor, miserable Ofeer. They hated her. They all hated her! And Ofeer hated them. She hated this whole damn world and everyone in it, other than Seneca.

  "Seneca will save me," Ofeer whispered. "He's my prince. He's going to save me, and we're going to sail away to a wonderful world."

  The lock clicked.

  The door swung open.

  And there he stood. Her prince.

  "Seneca!" Ofeer cried, leaping to her feet.

  He had doffed his armor, but he wore a resplendent toga of purple wool. Only the wealthiest could afford purple fabrics; the dye was obtained from rare sea mollusks, each drop worth a golden coin. An eagle pendant shone across his chest, inlaid with rubies and garnets. A laurel of golden leaves rested on his head of chestnut hair. He was beautiful, she thought—an angel come from a distant paradise to save her.

  Ofeer stepped out of the brig, and they stood inside the ship's hold, lanterns glowing around them. Farther back, lines of slaves sat at the oars, chained as she was. Many of the slaves had the mahogany skin and curled hair of Nurians—captives from the southern land of rebels. Other slaves had the olive skin and brown eyes of Zoharites—captives from the war nineteen years ago. Ofeer cringed to see them. She looked away. Let the slaves remain by their oars. Here, in this nook by the stairs, it was only her prince and her.

  Seneca caressed her bruised cheek, and her heart fluttered.

  "What did they do to you?" he whispered, and rage kindled in his eyes.

  "I tried to tell them." Ofeer's voice trembled, and she could not stop shaking at his touch. "I told them that my father is Aelarian, that I know you. But the soldier—the one with red hair—he wouldn't believe me."

  Seneca knelt and unlocked the shackles around her ankles, then those around her wrists. All the while he said nothing, and that rage burned in his eyes.

  "Is he the one who struck you?" he finally said, speaking through a tight jaw. "Justus? The one with red hair?"

  Ofeer raised her hand to hide her bruised cheek. "It doesn't hurt much. It was my fault. I struck him first."

  "You're a girl who can't weigh more than a hundred-and-seventy librae. He's a man of the legions. It wasn't your fault." He tucked an errant strand of her hair behind her ear. "You were right to come to me, Ofeer. I promise you: No one will hurt you again. Not the legionaries. Not the brutes you grew up with. Your father was Aelarian. You're safe here."

  Suddenly Mother's words returned to Ofeer.

  Your father, Ofeer, is Marcus Octavius, Emperor of Aelar.

  Ofeer stared at Seneca Octavius, seeking the resemblance to her own face. There was none. Of course there was none. Mother had lied—as she had been lying all her life. Ofeer could not be the daughter of an emperor. She could not be Seneca's half sister. He was too beautiful, and she still desired him too much.

  Just more lies, Ofeer thought. More lies to keep me trapped. But I escaped, and I found my prince.

  "I'm safe here," she repeated, whispering the words, love and relief flowing
through her. After so many years, she was safe.

  "Come with me."

  He took her hand, and her heart beat faster. He led her through the ship, past chained slaves at the oars, and up wooden stairs. They emerged onto the deck. The moon hung above, full and shining for her and Seneca. A hundred soldiers or more stood here, clad in polished armor and red cloaks. As Ofeer walked with Seneca, she imagined that they were walking toward a wedding arch, that all the guards honored them, that the Empire celebrated their love.

  She looked east toward the coast. The walls of Gefen rose there in the darkness, and rage and shame mingled in Ofeer. The sight sickened her. For so long, she had sought her comforts within those walls, drinking in taverns, fucking bearded men for quick nights of pleasure, trying to escape herself, her life. Those walls had trapped her within that hive. Jerael Sela saw them as defensive walls, but for Ofeer they had been prison walls. Every time she had let a sweating man thrust into her, Ofeer had closed her eyes, imagining that it was an Aelarian prince, imagining that she lay on a fine canopy bed in distant Aelar, the land of her father.

  She stared at those craggy walls across the harbor, fists clenched so tightly her fingernails dug into her palms.

  I did it, she thought, teeth grinding. I did it, Jerael. I did it, Mother. I escaped you.

  "Is this him?" Seneca's voice was strained. He pointed at a legionary who stood on the deck. "Is this the man who struck you?"

  Ofeer blinked, turned away from the walls, and looked at the legionary. He wore a helmet now, but she recognized the green eyes, the reddish eyebrows. He stood at attention among his fellow soldiers, chin raised. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.

  "Please, my prince," Ofeer said. "He was only performing his task, guarding you. He couldn't have known I wasn't a rabid Zoharite come to slit your throat in the night."