"I betrayed you," she whispered, her tears salty on her lips. "I joined the invaders of Aelar. I watched them kill, destroy. And only now can I call you 'Father.'"
It was slow work, pulling Jerael free from the cross. A few men of the Magisterian Guard, who had been standing around the garden, approached to aid Ofeer. Perhaps some pity did fill their hearts, hidden deep within layers of iron armor and the iron will drilled into the soldiers of Aelar. Yet the grave Ofeer dug on her own. This was work she would allow no Aelarian to perform. Jerael had raised her, had called her 'daughter,' and she owed him this. A last honor. A last plea for redemption.
"I'm not a Sela by blood," she whispered, digging the grave. "But I am by name. A name you let me bear. No foreign invaders will profane your final rest. It's your daughter who lays you down."
Ofeer did not know how long it took to dig, perhaps just an hour, perhaps most of the day. She worked in silence, sweat dampening her cotton dress. She buried him under the pomegranate tree that he had loved, in view of the coast below which he had ruled. She rolled a boulder toward the grave, a makeshift tombstone, and she carved his name upon it, and gently she uprooted and replanted cyclamens upon his grave.
Beside the grave of Jerael Sela rose a smaller tombstone, an older grave. Here, in view of the sea, rested Mica Sela, Ofeer's younger brother. She still remembered the day he had died—the same day he had been born. Twelve years had passed, and now father and son lay side by side.
Ofeer looked away from the graves and gazed west. Past fields and vineyards lay the city of Gefen, and beyond it the sea. Even from here on Pine Hill, she could make out the foam on the waves, white lines upon the green water. The distant scent of salt filled her nostrils, and Ofeer remembered those days long ago, from before the rage and pain of youth had filled her. Days when she and her family would ride their horses down to the sea, run along the sand, collect seashells, bathe, laugh. The boys and Atalia always went diving underwater, seeking sunken coins, and Ofeer would be so afraid that they would drown, so afraid to lose them.
And now our family is broken, she thought. Now two among us are dead, and the others lost.
Mother and Maya—caught in the war in the east, perhaps trapped in Beth Eloh, the capital city on the mountain where Porcia Octavius fought. Koren and Atalia—slaves in chains, trapped in the bowels of those Aelarian ships that still anchored in the harbor. Epher—missing in the north, perhaps dead. Jerael and Mica—buried here at her feet.
And me, Ofeer thought, the wind blowing her long black hair. A lost woman.
For so many years, through the bitter days and wild nights of her youth, Ofeer had wandered along the port. Drinking. Gambling. Crying. Fucking. Dreaming. Gazing across the sea, praying to someday reach the land of Aelar. To join her true father there. To leave Zohar—this land she had thought so backward, so stifling—far behind, lost in distance and memory.
"Who am I now?" she whispered, gazing toward that sea again. "Where is my home and who do I serve?"
Hers was the blood of both eagles and lions, and she did not know.
"So the bugger finally died." The voice rose behind her. "About time. The son of a whore's groans were keeping me up at night."
Ofeer turned around. Her childhood home rose before her, shaded by pines and cypresses. The villa was built of pale sandstone, the doorframe painted azure, the windowsills blooming with flowers. The house where she had grown up. The house from which the Sela family had ruled over the port for generations. The house that now belonged to the conquerors from Aelar.
Prince Seneca stood in the doorway, dressed in a deep purple toga lined with gold. The fabric was wrinkled and stained, hanging loose to reveal half of Seneca's chest. His face was unshaven, his eyes still blurry, and he held a goblet of wine. Since conquering Gefen four days ago, the young prince—he was only nineteen, a year older than her—had been celebrating his victory in an orgy of booze, music, crucifixions, and sex. He had invaded this land clad in iron and gold, every one of his brown hairs perfectly combed. War had left him looking like a different man, a decade aged.
There was more than drunkenness in his eyes, Ofeer saw, gazing into them. There was haunting fear. He had seen things in battle he could not forget. And Ofeer knew then that the wine, the sex, the torture and death of Jerael—those had not been to celebrate his victory but to forget it.
She nodded. "Lord Jerael Sela is now at peace."
"Lord Jerael?" Seneca scoffed and stumbled across the garden, pausing to gulp more wine. "No, Ofeer, my sweet beauty of the east. He was no more a lord than a pig is king of a sty. He hurt you. All these years he hurt you." He reached out to stroke her hair, his fingers rough, his eyes red. "He can no longer hurt you. Nobody will hurt you again."
Sudden rage flared in Ofeer. For too long, she had allowed this. Allowed him to stroke her, to fuck her, to toy with her, to lie to her. She shoved his hand away.
"I begged you for his life," she hissed. "I did not ask for this. Do not dare pin this on me."
Yet even as she spoke those words, Jerael's blood stained her hands. She had run from Jerael when he had needed her most. She had joined those besieging his city. She had entered the bed of Seneca, the man who had murdered him. Did she truly think that burying Jerael, that lashing out against Seneca, could cleanse her soul? No. Ofeer gazed down at her hands, at the dirt and dried flecks of blood, and she knew that she could never clean them.
She expected Seneca to rage at this, perhaps even to strike her. But instead his eyes softened, and he took her hands in his.
"Your heart is gentle," he said. "And death is such a terrible thing when you first behold it. I'm a great warrior, and I've slain many men, and my heart is hardened. I often forget how traumatic death can be to those young and soft." He winced. "The way the guts hang from sliced bellies. The way the crows peck at the eyes. The stench of it. Gods, the stench of blood and shit and rotting flesh. You never hear about those in the great epics. You never see those from the high seats in an amphitheater. But here . . ."
Again his eyes took on that haunted look, staring beyond her, staring parsa'ot away, and Ofeer knew that he wasn't talking about her.
"You poor, proud, stupid boy," she whispered. "You have no idea, do you?"
He had no idea what war meant. He had no idea that they shared a father. He had no idea that all those times in his tent, in her mother's bed, he had lain with his half-sister. He had no idea that she scorned him, that she was afraid—perhaps not even that he himself was afraid.
And I'm just as foolish as he is.
Seneca drained his goblet and tossed it aside. "You grow bold, Ofeer. And I like that. I have no use for meek women. The meek die in this world. The meek are worms for us rulers to stomp on. I conquered the coast of Zohar for the glory of Aelar, but my conquest is not complete." He turned to stare toward the eastern hills. They spread for parsa'ot, leafy with pines and wild grass. "There are mountains east of here. Jagged dry mountains that guard the desert. And on them rises a city called Beth Eloh, the capital of this kingdom. The spring whence lume flows. We head there now, Ofeer. All three legions. My sister will already be there, bloodying her forces while ours prepare for glory. Once I conquer the capital, my father will name me his heir." He grabbed Ofeer's arm and bared his teeth, and a wild light burned in his eyes. "And you will be my concubine, my pet of the east, a dark beauty for all the lords and ladies of Aelar to see and desire. They will envy me for my prize."
She let him hold her arm. She let him brag, let him sneer. She stared into his eyes, lips tight.
I am your sister. I too am a child of Marcus Octavius. I will not be a war trophy for you, Seneca. I will talk to the emperor. I will demand his surname. And I will be a princess of an empire.
Movement caught her eye. She stared over Seneca's shoulder, back toward the eastern hills, and squinted.
Horses. A hundred horses or more came galloping toward them, their riders raising the eagle standards of Aelar.
&
nbsp; Seneca turned to stare too, and his face paled.
"Porcia," he whispered.
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AFTERWORD
Thank you for reading Kings of Ruin. I hope you enjoyed the novel. Want to know when I release the next Kingdoms of Sand novel?
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Thank you again, dear reader, and I hope we meet again between the pages of another book.
Daniel
NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON
KINGDOMS OF SAND
Kings of Ruin
Crowns of Rust
Thrones of Ash
Temples of Dust
Halls of Shadows
Echoes of Light
EARTHRISE
Earth Alone
Earth Lost
Earth Rising
Earth Fire
Earth Shadows
Earth Valor
Earth Reborn
Earth Honor
Earth Eternal
THE MOTH SAGA
Moth
Empires of Moth
Secrets of Moth
Daughter of Moth
Shadows of Moth
Legacy of Moth
REQUIEM
Dawn of Dragons Requiem's Song
Requiem's Hope
Requiem's Prayer
The Complete Trilogy
Song of Dragons Blood of Requiem
Tears of Requiem
Light of Requiem
The Complete Trilogy
Dragonlore A Dawn of Dragonfire
A Day of Dragon Blood
A Night of Dragon Wings
The Complete Trilogy
The Dragon War A Legacy of Light
A Birthright of Blood
A Memory of Fire
The Complete Trilogy
Requiem for Dragons Dragons Lost
Dragons Reborn
Dragons Rising
The Complete Trilogy
Flame of Requiem Forged in Dragonfire
Crown of Dragonfire
Pillars of Dragonfire
The Complete Trilogy
ALIEN HUNTERS
Alien Hunters
Alien Sky
Alien Shadows
OTHER WORLDS
Eye of the Wizard
Wand of the Witch
Firefly Island
The Gods of Dream
Flaming Dove
KEEP IN TOUCH
www.DanielArenson.com
[email protected]
Facebook.com/DanielArenson
Twitter.com/DanielArenson
Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1) Page 29
