Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  He calls his brother a weasel, Shiloh thought, yet to the Aelarians we are all rats—vermin to crush.

  Yohanan looked back at her, eyebrows pushed low over his dark eyes. His voice softened. "Are you all right, Aunt Shiloh? You tremble. You did not come here merely to visit, did you? You come bearing ill news."

  She nodded. "Ill news and hope." She looked around at the many soldiers who walked back and forth. "Where can we talk in solitude?"

  "There's not much solitude in the camp, and I sleep among my soldiers under the open sky. But there's an olive grove nearby, a place where I often pray. Let us speak there." He winked at Maya. "And keep your dagger drawn, cousin. If the weasel emerges from his lair, maybe you'll be lucky enough to be the one who slays him."

  They walked through the camp, passing by thousands of soldiers—soldiers who should be in the west, fighting the Aelarians on the coast. Several men sat on boulders, playing dice. Two women drilled on a dusty patch of land, lashing spears against shields. Engineers were repairing a damaged catapult. Arrows bristled upon its wooden beam, and a rope was severed. One soldier walked by, pushing a wheelbarrow. Within sat a legless soldier who drank wine from a clay mug. Beyond the camp, trees had been cut down, and graves spread in rows, some of them fresh.

  This is what three years of war looks like, Shiloh thought. A weary force, wounded, haggard. Fear grew in her. She wondered how the true war—the war against Aelar—was faring in the west, whether Gefen still stood. Even should those seaside walls stand, could the soldiers here turn the tide, defeat the legionaries—that machine of war?

  Finally they reached the olive grove, and Yohanan led them between the twisting trees.

  "Did you know, Maya," the prince said, "some of these trees are two thousand years old. They were here when King Elshalom united the tribes into a kingdom. They were here when we escaped our captivity from the Sekadians and rebuilt this city. And soon these trees will witness more history—the triumph of King Yohanan over his usurper brother and the restoration of Zohar to her rightful heir."

  Shiloh placed her hand on the prince's shoulder. He loomed above her, so much taller, but she stared steadily into his eyes. There was no more time to dally.

  "Aelar attacks," Shiloh said. "Prince Seneca Octavius himself, son of Emperor Marcus, has invaded our port with an armada. Gefen is besieged! I've come to ask for aid—from you. And from your brother. The armies of Zohar must unite and march west. Today. At once."

  Yohanan stared at her. His mouth dropped open, then closed. His face grew ashen, and he turned away from her. He stared at the old olive trees. He said nothing.

  "Yohanan," Shiloh said, "I know you wish to think, to pray, perhaps to speak to your officers, but we have no time. The enemy invades, and their purpose is one: destroy Zohar. We must face them. United as a family. United as a nation."

  He still faced away from her. Slowly his hands curled into fists. When he turned back toward her, his face was haunted, a mask of grief and fear.

  "My mother died three years ago," he said, voice strained. "And she named my younger brother heir. She named him! Him! Shefael—a year younger, a drunkard, a man who had never wielded a sword. Him she named heir over me—older, stronger, wiser, a soldier. For three years I fought him, Shiloh. For three years I hated him. For three years I watched thousands of soldiers, the salt of the earth, the sons and daughters of our beautiful land, die to remove the tyrant from the throne. And you ask me now to join him! To march away from this city—on the eve of claiming it—to fight a new enemy. You ask me to undo all that I've done in my life, perhaps to forever lose my throne—and to decide within a moment!"

  Shiloh nodded. "These are the decisions kings must make."

  "Kings?" Yohanan said, and a cold madness filled his eyes. "Many in Zohar are and have been called kings. We squabble like crows as our halls crumble, as our forests burn, as we ravage those lands we seek to bless. We speak of glory and legacy as all the works of men are laid to waste. We wear crowns of rust and sit upon thrones of ash. What are we but kings of ruin?"

  "We've not yet fallen to ruin." Shiloh placed a hand on his cheek. "Do not give up hope, son of Zohar. There's still light in the darkness. The light of our god, our kingdom, and our people still shines."

  He dropped to his knees before her, and he took her hands in his. He took a deep breath. "I've decided, Aunt Shiloh. Within a moment, as you asked. The choices of kings—made within heartbeats, reverberating for generations."

  She held her breath, staring at him. "What have you decided?" she whispered.

  Yohanan's hands tightened around hers. "I will fight with you, dearest aunt. I will fight the eagles for the glory of lions. But only if Shefael fights with us. Alone we're too weak. Only united can we cast back this new darkness. Go to the city gates. He will allow you passage; you've always been dear to him. Join his forces to our fight, and we will send the eagles back into the sea."

  Shiloh let out a shaky breath of relief. She pulled her hands free and caressed her nephew's hair. "Thank you, Yohanan."

  "Don't thank me yet." His eyes darkened, and he turned to look at the city walls. "Shefael is prideful and cruel, and he will think himself safe from Aelar behind the walls. Perhaps he would welcome the legions here, letting them crawl across our land to vanquish me. Go into Beth Eloh, Shiloh, and go with my blessings and prayers. But do not raise your hopes, for a darkness has fallen upon Shefael's mind, and all the light of God and Luminosity cannot banish it."

  OFEER

  Her prince returned from battle at dusk, stinking of sweat and horse and wine, a goblet in his hand.

  Ofeer had spent the day in his tent of splendor. The rugs were soft, embroidered with eagles. A giltwood bed supported tasseled cushions, silver dishes held grapes, figs, apples, and sweet almonds, and wine filled clay jugs. Yet Ofeer did not eat or drink, barely spared the fineries a glance. She spent her days listening to the sounds of battle outside. The clash of boulders. The whistles of arrows. The chanting of soldiers and the screams of the dying. Every time a scream rose, she wondered if it was a family member.

  "You scorned me all my life for my blood," Ofeer whispered all day, over and over as she sat in her tent. Her fists trembled. "I was just a bastard to you. You kept me trapped in this miserable hive." She laughed, a cracking, broken sound. "Now you see the might of us Aelarians."

  Yet as Ofeer laughed, tears filled her eyes. Whenever she imagined her mother dying, the joy made her laugh and dance, then double over and weep. When once Ofeer thought she heard Atalia scream outside, she shouted in triumph and punched the air, then curled up and shivered. She hated them. She loved them. She was scared. She was so scared.

  I want to go home, whispered a voice inside her, the voice of a little girl. I want to go back to the house on Pine Hill. To sit at the dining room table between Maya and Atalia, under the painting of the elephants. To paint in the gardens. I want my mother to hug me and—

  Ofeer slapped herself.

  "Stupid girl!" She punched the table, bloodying her fist. "You're not a weak, pathetic little bitch like Maya. You are Ofeer, the daughter of an Aelarian, the—"

  The daughter of an emperor.

  The thought came into her mind, unbidden. Her mother had spoken those words, had tried to make Ofeer believe that Marcus Octavius himself was her father. Ofeer barked a laugh. She paced the tent, blood dripping from her hand.

  "I'm not so easily fooled, Mother. Prince Seneca loves me. And I love him. He's not my half brother. He's my prince, my beautiful prince, and I'm going to marry him someday, and then you'll be sorry. You'll all be so sorry for how you mocked me. I'm going to live in a beautiful palace, and your city will be nothing but dust."

  Ofeer pulled the embroidered tent flap open, exposing the scene outside. The sun was setting, casting red light across the hills and fields. The legionaries stood before her, firing their catapults at Gefen. Great boulders and flaming barrels flew, some slamming into the city's walls, others flyin
g over the battlements to crush houses. Zoharite soldiers stood on the walls, firing arrows, but could not hold back the assault.

  It was then, standing in the open door of her tent, that Ofeer saw her prince return drunk from the field.

  "Ofeer!" he cried to her, raising his mug in salute. Droplets of wine splashed out like blood. "Do you see the glory? The rats cower in their hive, hiding from my light. Soon we will smash those walls down."

  Ofeer wiped the tears from her eyes. "I see your glory, my prince!"

  He is my prince, she told herself. He is my beautiful, victorious prince, and he'll take me to live in a faraway palace in a world of wonder. He's not my brother. My mother is a liar, and she'll be sorry once I'm gone. She'll be so sorry once I marry Seneca and forget all about her and what she did to me.

  Her noble prince stumbled into the tent, reeking of booze and battle, and Ofeer followed him like a dog on her master's heels. He grabbed a flagon and refilled his cup, then filled a second cup for her.

  "Let us drink for the victory of eagles." He raised his chalice.

  "Swift as eagles!" Ofeer said, speaking the old words of Aelar—words she had repeated over and over as a child, hiding in the hills, dreaming of this moment.

  Outside the catapults still fired and men still screamed, but in here there was no death, no blood, only love. They drank. Then they drank some more. They lay on his bed, and she allowed him to feed her grapes, and she kissed him, passing the grapes back into his mouth, and laughed, and laughed some more, and fell onto the rug, and laughed as he caught her and pulled her back up. They drank. And outside still rose the screams.

  She stumbled outside then, on hands and knees, and threw up, losing the wine, the grapes, and she saw the battle ahead of her. She saw a man fall dead from the wall. She saw the fire rage across Gefen, rising from the port where she had spent so much of her youth, gambling and drinking and fucking and dreaming and hiding, hiding in the shadows, hiding from who she was, and she wept again.

  "Come back, my swarthy little princess of darkness!" Seneca laughed behind her. "Come back to me, my lioness!"

  "I'm an eagle," Ofeer said, but he ignored her. He grabbed her and pulled her back into the tent. She drank some more. She had to wash out the taste of vomit from her mouth, and so she emptied two more cups, and then she kissed him. She kissed him hard, her fingers in his hair.

  "Make me forget," she whispered. "Hurt me. Hurt me so much until I forget it all."

  She tugged off her dress, entangling herself, tearing the cotton. She lay on her back on the bed, then remembered how he liked it, and she rolled onto her belly and closed her eyes. He mounted her. He took her hard. He hurt her.

  "Harder," she moaned. "Harder. Hard as you can. Make me forget."

  She cried out as he fucked her, and she laughed, laughed, moaned, screamed into the cushions, screamed like the dying outside. And he made her forget. For just a few moments, with wine and sex and gold, he made her forget.

  He pulled out from her, and he lay at her side on the bed. She rolled onto her back, feeling his seed drip down her thighs, staining the beautifully embroidered eagles on his silken sheets.

  "Hold me," Ofeer whispered into his ear, nestling against him. "Please hold me, Seneca. Hold me and make me feel safe. Tell me everything will be all right."

  He only answered with a snore, drooling in his slumber.

  She tried to roll him over, to sling his arms around her, but he was too heavy. She tried cuddling at his side, but he sprawled out, taking up most of the bed. She felt empty. She wrapped her arms around her nakedness, feeling cold even in the heat of the tent.

  "I love you," she whispered to her prince. He did not wake.

  Ofeer rose from the bed. Her dress was ripped, so she grabbed one of Seneca's togas from his giltwood chest. The wool was dyed ultramarine—the costliest of dyes, obtained from powdered lapis lazuli, gemstones imported from distant Sekadia beyond the reaches of the Empire. The garment was probably worth more than the villa on Pine Hill and everything in it, costlier than a breastplate of gold. Ofeer wasn't sure how to don it, so she wrapped it around herself like a sheet and stepped outside. The sun had fallen, though fires lit the night, and thousands of legionaries still moved around her, loading more stones into catapults.

  She walked among the soldiers, wrapped in the toga. Eyes turned to follow her. One legionary guffawed, elbowed his friend, and whispered of a swarthy whore in the ranks. Another legionary silenced him with a glare, speaking of "the prince's whore." Ofeer ignored them. She was no harlot. Her prince loved her. She knew this. So what if he wouldn't hold her after sex? He was just weary from his victories. Once this land was his, she would live in his palace, and these soldiers would kneel before her.

  She knew the secret paths of these hills and fields; she had run through them so many times in her childhood. She passed the legions, and she walked across sandy hills bristly with tussocks, leaving the battle behind. Farther from the burning city, the night darkened. Ancient ruins rose here from the sand—the shells of homes, a fallen archway, a statue smoothed by centuries of rain—remnants from the wild tribes of Zoharites who had lived here before King Elshalom had forged them a kingdom. Nothing remained of those old villages now—only these bricks—and Ofeer wondered if in hundreds of years, a woman would walk over the ruins of Gefen and wonder about the lives of its dwellers.

  Finally, past towering boulders and a rocky slope, Ofeer made her way down to the beach. The walls of Gefen rose two milim to the north, lit with fire. The sounds of battle sounded faded from here. Ofeer walked until the waves washed her toes, and then she sat on the wet sand, not even caring that she dirtied Seneca's toga. She wrapped the costly fabric more closely around her and gazed at the water.

  "I'm sorry, Mother," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I miss you so much."

  More than anything—more than palaces, more than endless wine—Ofeer suddenly wanted her mother to hug her. She wanted to be near Shiloh again—wise, stern, gentle Shiloh—wanted to feel her mother's arms wrap around her, holding her so close, keeping her safe.

  Yet how could Ofeer return now? Gefen was so close yet beyond her reach, and perhaps Mother wasn't even in Gefen but had fled to another city, maybe Beth Eloh in the east. Ofeer wept as she stared at the waves.

  "It wasn't supposed to be this way," she said, tasting her tears. "He was supposed to love me. The legionaries were supposed to accept me as one of their own, not call me a whore. None of this should have happened, and I'm so scared, Mother. I want you to be with me."

  A soft voice spoke behind her—not in Aelarian but in Zoharite, her mother's tongue. "Your mother loves you, child."

  Ofeer spun around, for an instant daring to hope that Mother had found her, but no. It was not the slender Shiloh who stood there, a braid across her shoulder, but a different woman, clad in crimson, her lips red and full of secrets, her eyes staring from beneath heavy lashes.

  "Taeer," Ofeer said. She had seen the lumer skulking around her prince.

  "Taeer Bat Ami of Beth Eloh, now of Aelar."

  The lumer approached her, and Ofeer made to leap to her feet, but she wobbled and fell back down. Taeer sat beside her on the sand, not minding that she dirtied her fine silks. The lumer's golden jewels shone in the moonlight, and Ofeer noticed that an eagle pendant—similar to the one Ofeer herself wore—hung around Taeer's neck.

  "Don't even speak to me in Zoharite," Ofeer said, switching to Aelarian, the language she had studied from Master Malaci.

  "I thought you would appreciate the language of your home," said Taeer, still speaking Zoharite. "It's a terrible thing to do, to leave your home. Isn't it?"

  "My home is in Aelar." Ofeer stared across the water. "Out there, far in the southwest."

  "Aelar is in the northwest," Taeer said softly.

  Ofeer spun toward the woman, eyes flashing. "What do you know of Aelar? You're just a lumer." She spat. "Even my sister . . ."

  . . . is a lumer, Ofeer wa
nted to say, but she held her tongue. If anyone here knew of Maya's secret magic, and if they found her, they would ship the girl over as a slave. Ofeer imagined little Maya in irons, and pain filled her. She hated Maya. Hated her! Didn't she? The girl was insufferable, always skulking about, sniffling and weeping. It was just that Ofeer did not want Maya anywhere near Aelar, that was all. Suffering the girl in Zohar had been bad enough; Ofeer did not want her in her perfect land across the sea. That was the only reason she hesitated. Wasn't it?

  ". . . knows more about maps," Ofeer finished her sentence, lamely.

  Taeer gazed with her across the water. "I've lived in Aelar for nineteen years, since the island of Cadom was lost, since Seneca was born. I was only twelve when they shipped me over, when they bound me to the prince. I was one of Zohar's first tributes. I return to Zohar every year on a pilgrimage and replenish my lume, and the journey home always feels so short, and I always miss Zohar once I've returned to Aelar."

  "Why?" Ofeer asked, voice softer now. "They say Aelar is wonderful. That her towers kiss the sky. That angelic choirs sing in her temples. That great actors perform in her amphitheaters. That statues line every street."

  "Those things are true." Taeer nodded. "Her towers do kiss the sky, their mortar mingled with the blood of slaves. Choirs do sing in her temples—after sacrificing the living to the gods. Actors do perform in amphitheaters—before the lions feast upon prisoners. Statues do line every street, but so do crucified men and women, rotting in the sun."

  Ofeer thought of the beaten legionary on the ship, how the whips had torn into his back, how he had screamed, how Seneca had shown him no mercy.

  "That's how empires are built," said Ofeer. "With blood. That's the only way to survive in this world." Yet her words tasted stale. That was Seneca speaking.