"Please," Ofeer whispered, tasting her tears. "Please, Seneca, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything I told you. I was upset. I didn't mean it. Please, my prince, release them."
Seneca's eyes hardened. He released her hands and took a step back, trampling the cyclamens Mother had loved so much. He stared into Ofeer's eyes.
"I thought you would be glad to receive my gifts."
"I am, my prince! You are most noble, most brave, and most merciful. Show me your princely mercy by releasing your prisoners."
Seneca raised his hand to strike her, and Ofeer cowered, but the blow never fell. Forcing deep breaths, Seneca lowered his hand.
"You want mercy for them?" His voice was iron. "You want to see them freed? I will grant them a trial. A fair trial! And we will see if they're deserving of my princely mercy." He spun toward his soldiers. "Stand them up!" His voice rose louder, maniacal. "Let them face trial for their crimes."
Legionaries grabbed the three prisoners and tugged them to their feet. Still they stared at her. Atalia's gag fell from her mouth, and she managed to scream.
"You filthy, wall-pissing dog!" she cried at Ofeer. "Damn you, you traitor, I'm going to—"
Legionaries slammed the gag back into her mouth and tied it again, tighter this time, digging it into Atalia's cheeks. Still she screamed, voice muffled again, thrashing in her bonds. Koren and Jerael stood at her side, no longer struggling. The lashes of whips covered their torsos.
"Now," said Seneca, pacing before them. He tossed aside his spear, drew his sword, and tapped the flat of the blade against his palm. "First, you, the brute." He pointed his sword at Jerael. "Your crimes! Let us all hear them. You rose up in rebellion against Aelar. You dared to slay legionaries along our coast. You dared to assault a prince." With every offense announced, Seneca's face grew redder, his eyes madder. "You dared to hurt my Ofeer, my sweet lady of the east. What do you have to say for yourself?" He stepped forward, cackling, and ripped off Jerael's gag. "Well? Speak."
Jerael raised his great shaggy head, beard matted, one eye swollen. Ignoring Seneca, he looked at Koren and Atalia.
"I love you, my children," Jerael said, voice deep and soft like distant rolling thunder. "More than you can imagine. I will always love you, in this life and the next. Be brave, my children. Be brave and know that I'm always with you." He turned his head, and now he looked into Ofeer's eyes. "Ofeer. I'm not your father in blood. But I've always loved you as a father, and I love you still, my sweet Ofeer, and I forgive you. I forgive you. You will always be loved."
The tears kept flowing down Ofeer's cheeks.
Seneca cackled. "Hear the fool! He doesn't even deny his crimes." He swung his sword wildly. "He speaks of love and forgiveness, yet who can forgive his crimes, all those he slew?" He spun toward Jerael, eyes blazing. "I offered you a kingdom, rat. I would have put you on a throne. But you turned against me. I deem you: guilty! Guilty!" The prince's voice rang across the hill, twisted with joy and madness. "And the only punishment is crucifixion! Men, prepare the cross!"
Ofeer ran forward and grabbed Seneca. "My prince, please! Mercy! Mercy!"
Seneca only laughed. "Mercy? What mercy did he show us? Show you? Stand back." He shoved Ofeer aside. "There, those beams! Raise the cross."
Ofeer fell to her knees, chest shaking, her hair falling across her face. Legionaries grabbed wooden beams from the yard, set there to build siege engines, and began constructing a cross.
"Father!" Ofeer cried, trying to run to Jerael, but General Remus grabbed her, holding her back. She struggled and kicked, but his grip was iron.
It was only moments before the cross was ready, lying on the ground. Legionaries shoved Jerael down. Once her father had been so strong, Ofeer thought. Once he could have killed them all with his bare hands. But Jerael was wounded now, ashen from blood loss, cut too many times, weak as a child. The legionaries placed Jerael upon the cross. The soldiers stretched out his arms and twisted them. The joints dislocated with a sickening crack, and Ofeer sobbed. The legionaries shoved those twisted arms onto the wooden cross and bound them with rope. One man raised a nail and hammer.
"No, wait," Seneca said, and Ofeer wept in relief, thinking that mercy would finally be granted. But Seneca only marched forward and grabbed the hammer and nail from the legionary. "Let me do it."
Seneca placed the nail against Jerael's palm and raised the hammer.
Ofeer screwed her eyes shut, but she could still hear it. Still hear the metal pushing into the flesh and wood. Still hear Jerael bellow, cry out prayers. Ofeer opened her eyes to slits, saw the hammer pounding a nail into the second hand, then the feet, and then she could see nothing but her tears. Koren and Atalia were struggling in their chains, screaming into their gags.
"Behold!" Seneca said, laughing. He walked toward Ofeer, grabbed her head, and twisted it toward the cross. "Look, Ofeer! Watch it." He grabbed her eyelids and tugged them open. "Savor it."
The legionaries raised the cross, dropping it into a hole they had dug. Jerael hung upon it, arms dislocated and twisted like damp cloth, palms and feet nailed into the wood. His body bled from many cuts. But still he lived, struggling for breath as his ribs pushed against his organs.
Finally Ofeer managed to tug herself free from the legionaries holding her. She ran toward the cross, knelt before it, and hugged her father's feet.
"I love you, Father," she whispered, weeping. "I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please die. Please die quickly. Please. Please." The sobs racked her body.
Seneca scoffed, walked past her, and approached Koren and Atalia. The two were shaking, tears in their eyes, unable to free themselves from the chains and the legionaries who held them.
"And now . . . these two." Seneca stared at them. "The lion cubs. You two dared to rise against Aelar. When you should have knelt, you raised swords against me. Koren and Atalia Sela, rats of Zohar, I deem you: guilty! Guilty!" He laughed, head tossed back, voice echoing across the hill. "Guilty!"
Slowly, Ofeer released her father's legs. She stood up. The wind blew from the sea, rustling the grass beneath her bare feet, streaming her black hair. She walked toward Seneca, her tears dry now, and knelt before him, and she kissed his feet.
"Please, my prince." She gazed up at him. "For the love that I bear you. For any affection you might feel toward me. Spare their lives. I beg you."
Seneca was still laughing, but as she knelt, his laughter died, and the madness fled from his eyes. He looked down at her kneeling before him, and he stroked her hair.
"Your heart is truly gentle, my keeper of vineyards," he said.
Ofeer nodded, holding his legs as she had held the legs of her father on the cross. "And yours is a noble, strong heart, my prince. Mine is weak. For the sake of my heart—a heart that loves you—let Koren and Atalia live. I would be yours forever, serving you in your camps of war and your halls of victory, should you, great prince, grant them mercy."
Seneca gently pulled her to her feet, and he stroked her cheek. "Of course, Ofeer, keeper of her mother's vineyard. I am most merciful." As Ofeer trembled with relief, Seneca turned toward his men. "Legionaries! Take these two rats back to the port. Toss them into our ships, along with the other slaves we captured. Put them in separate ships; they've spent their last day together."
"Dominus—" Ofeer began, more fear filling her.
Seneca ignored her. "Send Koren and Atalia Sela as gifts to my father! Send with them as many slaves as the ships can hold. Leave me my Aquila Aureum here in the port. When I'm done conquering this kingdom, I'll return with the throne of Zohar . . . and with Jerael Sela's bones."
Jerael moaned, still alive on the cross, his blood running down to the grass. Ofeer fell back to her knees, shouting, reaching toward her siblings. The legionaries began manhandling Koren and Atalia back downhill, back toward the sea where the ships awaited.
"Let them go," Ofeer whispered. "Please. Please."
"I gave them the mercy you asked for." Seneca g
rabbed her arm. "I spared their lives. They'll live in Aelar. Perhaps someday, when you and I return home, they'll serve us as our personal slaves. Come, Ofeer. Stand. Walk with me."
She was too weak to resist him. She let him pull her to her feet, let him lead her away from the garden, into the villa. They walked through the dining room, under the painting of the elephants. They entered her parents' bedroom, and Seneca laid her on the bed. He poured wine, and his hands trembled, and feverish sweat beaded on his brow, and Ofeer realized that he was afraid. Terrified. He drank, cup after cup, until his face was red and his eyes glazed.
He lay atop her then, pulling up her dress, and Ofeer closed her eyes as he thrust into her, not even caring anymore, not caring that he was her brother, not caring that she lived, wanting to die, just wanting it all to end, for the terror to stop. He grunted above her, falling asleep before he could climax, and Ofeer clenched her fists, crushed beneath his weight, and she could not stop seeing it: Jerael on the cross, her siblings hauled off in chains, and the ruin of her home and kingdom.
MAYA
The dog still came to her in her dreams. He limped across dusky hills, his back leg twisted. His skin draped across his jutting bones, and his fur had all but fallen. Mange covered his skin with raw, red sores, and his tongue hung loose. Crows bustled above the animal, diving to peck at the infected flesh, to tear off chunks, as crows did to men outside this realm of slumber. And still the dog lived in her dreams, even as the crows and vultures tore the meat off the bones, and still he gazed at her, pleading for mercy, until the beaks took his eyes.
And in those dreams, Maya could never heal him. Her magic never came to her, and try as she may, she could not luminate the lume, not turn it into that glow that could heal the dog, that could heal soldiers, that could heal kingdoms that crumbled in the wind. And in some dreams, it was not the dog who came to her, dying, food for crows. In those dreams it was her father, wise and strong Jerael on a cross, birds upon him, dying slowly through sunrise and sunset and sunrise again.
It was that last dream that woke Maya in the dead of night in the city of Beth Eloh. She lay still in bed, unable to move, barely able to breathe, for the dream had felt so real, almost like the Sight she had used under Avinasi's tutelage. Finally Maya managed to move her head, to gaze around her.
She lay in a chamber in the palace, one Shefael had given her and her mother. Moonlight streamed through the stone window. A lyre hung on the wall, and a rich rug covered the floor. It was hot in the chamber, stifling, and every breath felt like inhaling soup.
At Maya's side, she saw the second bed where her mother slept. Shiloh lay on her side, face twisted with worry and pain, even in sleep. The woman's long braid coiled like a serpent, silver in the moonlight. Maya remembered a woman who would laugh, sing, dance. A woman with boundless energy, who'd run around a house full of children, scolding, hugging, healing, teasing, loving them all. It seemed to Maya like that woman was gone, replaced with somebody hurt, weary, consumed with fear.
And who am I now? Maya thought. Surely not the same girl she had been only months ago, innocent, knowing no fear. Now she was always afraid.
Maya did not know if these dreams would always haunt her, if the memories would ever fade. Seneca shooting the dog. Her cousin Yohanan's head on a spear. Thousands of dead beyond the wall, crows and vultures pecking at them. The legions of Aelar marching down the street, spearing and trampling any who dared defy them. Even here, in the darkness of her chamber, those visions kept dancing before her, and Maya thought that no sunlight could ever banish them.
While her mother slept, she approached the table by the window, where the servants had lain a ewer of water, a plate of dried fruit, and some papyrus and ink. Maya sat on the wicker chair, took a sheet of papyrus, and began to write.
Dearest Mother,
When I was very young, we lost a light in our family. We buried a precious child, a boy named Mica, a boy we love so much. You held me that day, when his light darkened, and we wept. You told me that I'm your sweetest child, your precious gift, that I must never leave you.
I'm no longer very young, and I feel that I've aged many years this spring. As we stood in the city of God before the palace of our kingdom, you held me again, and you told me that I'm precious, and you told me that I must never leave.
Yet even now, as I write these words, my hand glows, a light I cannot darken, a light I must follow as sailors follow the northern star. I cannot hide the gift the Lord of Light has given me, even though it places me in danger, even though they would chain me, hurt me, steal me from you.
And so now I must do what I promised I would not. Now I must leave.
You will be safe, Mother, for the war has ended, and we lost, but you will still find a home in Zohar. A home beneath a sky of eagles, but a home nonetheless. You will return to our villa on the hill, and you will be with our family. And you will find a life of peace. A home under different banners.
But Zohar can no longer be a home to me.
I must walk the paths that Luminosity lays before me, paths of light through shadow. Where they take me, I don't know. I only know that tonight is farewell. That tonight I must part from the woman I love most in the world. From my mother.
You are my light in the darkness. You are the beacon of my soul. You are always the prayer on my lips, my guiding star. I love you always, with all my heart, no matter where I go.
Maya
She left the note on the table, and while her mother slept, she stepped out of the room.
She made her way through the dark city, wrapped in her cloak, her pack slung across her shoulder. At the gates, she paid the boys who lounged with their camels, selling pipes and lanterns and beads of clay. Her coins were forged of gold, coins from a wealthy family now shattered like this city, like her life.
When dawn rose, Maya rode out the city gates on the camel she had bought. The heat swam around her, and already sweat dripped down her back. She pulled her shawl over her head, the one her father had given her, to protect her from the sunlight. From her belt hung Atalia's dagger, and in her pack she carried the ram's horn, a gift from Epher, and in her heart she carried the gifts of her mother—gifts of wisdom, of courage.
Before her, in the east, spread the desert. Rolling into the horizon, the edge of her kingdom, a sea of sand. Her camel snorted, and sitting in the saddle, Maya reached down to stroke its rough hide.
"Ride east," she whispered. "Take me across this sea."
As the sun climbed the sky, she rode, leaving Beth Eloh behind. The desert wind gusted, scented of sand, and ram horns blew in the city behind her, a prayer of dawn and mourning. Maya did not look back. She rode east across the dunes, seeking a teacher of Luminosity, a life free from fear, and a path of light.
The story continues in Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2).
Click here to read the next book in the series:
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Here is a free sample chapter from Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2):
OFEER
On a warm spring morning, the birds singing and the flowers blooming, Ofeer stepped into the gardens to pull her father's corpse off the cross.
Jerael Sela, Lord of the Coast, hung there outside his villa, overlooking the hills and distant sea. The legionaries had dislocated his arms, twisting them like wet rags before nailing the palms into the wood. Three days in the sun had done the rest. Blood dripped down the ravaged body, and the crows were still working at the flesh, tugging off strips, burrowing down to bones. The eyes were already gone.
For three days and nights, Ofeer had heard it. For three days and nights, she had remained in the villa, lying in Jerael's own bed, letting Seneca—the man who had crucified him—fuck her over and over as Jerael moaned outside, as Seneca moaned above her, as the crows cawed, as the legionaries jeered. For three days, Ofeer had felt crucified herself, pinned to that bed, pi
nned under Prince Seneca, her half-brother, pinned under all her guilt, her misery, her drunken stupor. And on this fourth dawn, his moans had died, and Ofeer had emerged from a state like death, come here into the garden to bury the only father she had ever known.
She stared at the corpse. It reminded Ofeer of the dog she had seen roaming these hills. By Eloh, it hadn't even been a month ago; it felt like a lifetime. The cur too had withered, rotted, dying for days before Seneca had put an arrow in its head. That had been the day this had all started, the day the Aelarians had come into their lives, the day the Sela family had shattered like their nation, like this body on the cross.
Ofeer's eyes dampened. She padded closer, hesitantly, the dewy grass squelching under her bare feet. Suddenly a great fear filled her that Jerael was still alive, that when she approached, he would moan, turn those empty eye sockets toward her, speak in a raspy voice, accusing her.
Your fault. Your fault. Traitor. Traitor.
Yet he simply hung there, and the only movement came from a crow that still stood on his shoulder, pecking at skin.
"Shoo!" Ofeer blurted out, and tears fled her eyes. "Shoo!"
She lifted a stone and tossed it, missing the bird, but it was enough to send it fleeing. As the crow flew, it glared down at her, cawing.
Caw, caw! was the sound, but Ofeer heard other words. Traitor. Traitor.
She trembled as she stood before the dead man on the cross, then fell to her knees.
"Father," she whispered. "Father, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Of course, Jerael was not her true father, not her father in blood. It had been Marcus Octavius, Emperor of Aelar, who had raped her mother in the war, who had planted Ofeer into her belly. For all her eighteen years, it seemed, Ofeer had railed against Jerael—against this man who had raised her, had loved her, had seen her as a true daughter.
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