Adai rode his elephant, pulling the wagon toward the armory. It was there, past a life-sized statue of Emperor Marcus, that he saw the crosses.
His elephant started, stamped the earth, and tossed back his trunk. Adai sucked in air and clenched his fists.
Two crosses rose ahead, red with blood. A man hung from one, a woman from the other. Both were Nurians, naked, their skin hanging in tatters. Both were still alive.
Adai stared at them, struggling to curb the tears in his eyes.
He knew them.
Fellow rebels. Smugglers of weapons. Heroes of Nur.
"Ah!" rose a voice. "The new shipment has arrived. Splendid, splendid."
Adai turned around, and rage flared along with his terror like fire burning through water. Governor Cicero had emerged from his manor and came walking toward the wagon. The Lord of Nur wore a fine toga, a golden sash, and sandals. While his elder brother, Emperor Marcus, was a muscular man—at least judging by the statue here in the castrum—Cicero was gaunt, almost skeletal. The skin of his face clung to his skull, and he had no lips to speak of; his mouth was but a gash, his tongue white and slithering like a snake.
"Ah, good man!" Cicero said to Adai. "Our last batch of weapons, as you know, was ambushed on the road. Such a terrible waste." Cicero clucked that white tongue of his and shook his head. "To crucify five hundred children across the city, one for every sword gone missing . . . such messy work. But never mind. Here, you have delivered the work of Nur's finest smiths, no doubt! Open the wagon. Let us inspect the craftsmanship of our swarthy friends."
Adai dismounted the elephant and walked across the cobblestones toward the wagon. He kept his hood low. In the evening shadows, hooded and stubbly, he prayed that Cicero did not recognize him. He wouldn't send others on this task, not after the last wagon, not after the five hundred children crucified, not after the last smugglers flayed and crucified.
As he walked, Adai passed by those who had come before him. Those who had driven the last wagon. They moaned upon their crosses. Brother and sister. Most of their skin was gone already, and their blood still dripped.
If I fail today, it will be Imani and me on tomorrow's crosses.
Forcing his legs to stop shaking, Adai reached the back of the wagon and tugged open the doors. He pulled out the haul: boxes of swords, spears, and shields, forged in the smithies of Nur. He placed the weapons on the cobblestones.
Cicero knelt and lifted a sword. He swung the blade through the air. It whistled.
"Well balanced. Very nice!" Cicero nodded. "You understand, of course, that I need to test the blade."
Sword raised, the governor walked toward one of the crosses, the one where hung the young, whipped man. He swung the sword with a grunt. The blade crashed through the crucified man's legs, slicing through bones. If they hadn't been nailed up, the legs would have fallen to the courtyard.
The man screamed.
Adai's fists trembled. Terror, pure and all consuming, flowed through him.
He wanted to grab one of the swords. To slay Cicero now. But a hundred legionaries stood in the courtyard. Thousands more filled the compound. He only dug his fingernails into his palms, struggling to breathe, to calm his heart.
"Ah, excellent, very sharp! Very sharp indeed." Cicero lifted another sword from the pile and squinted at the blade. "Is the proper writing here? The name of our legion? It's a bit hard to see in the darkness. The sun sets so quickly in Nur. Hold on. Let me ignite the lanterns."
Cicero nodded toward one of his legionaries. The man stepped forward with a pot of oil. Cicero took the clay vessel and began splashing the crucified prisoners.
"Dominus—" Adai began, unable to curb his tongue. His voice shook.
Cicero did not glance back as he worked. "One moment, please, my friend! Almost done."
Once the oil coated the prisoners, Cicero took a torch from a legionary and moved from cross to cross.
The prisoners screamed, burning, thrashing on the crosses, and soon the wood ignited too and blazed. Heat and light filled the courtyard, and sparks showered, and the smell of cooking meat wafted.
Be strong, Adai told himself, struggling for air, struggling to just stay standing. Be brave. Like Imani. Like our mother. Be strong for Nur.
"Ah, much better!" said Cicero, the fire painting his face a demonic red. "Now we can see." He placed a hand on Adai's shoulder. "You see, my friend, to burn lanterns or candles all night is so wasteful. Oil and wax are expensive commodities, and we are, after all, at war. Just a little splash of oil, and flesh will burn much more readily. Now to take a closer look at these weapons . . ."
Adai lowered his head. The smoke stung his eyes and nostrils, and the screams soon died, but the corpses still burned.
Be at peace, friends, he thought. Rest now among the spirits of our forefathers. Rest in the great fields beyond our world, where there is no pain.
Cicero lifted sword by sword, javelin by javelin, passing them to his legionaries. Each blade was hefted, swung, examined in the firelight.
After examining the weapons for a while, Cicero froze and stared. He lifted one sword and frowned.
"Look here." The governor marched toward Adai and waved the blade at him. "Look at this! What is the meaning of this?"
Adai did not have to look to know, but he looked nonetheless. On most sword blades was engraved the name of this castrum's legion: Legio XI Nuria. On this sword appeared the wrong numeral: Legio XII.
"Does this look like the twelfth legion?" Cicero shouted. "Does it look like we're stationed in Berenia across the sea?"
Adai bowed his head. "Forgive me, dominus. We have a new blacksmith working for us. He must have been confused. It's just this one box of blades. I'll return them at once to scrape off the extra numeral."
"Scrape it off?" Cicero repeated, aghast. "Do you think you're forging plows for farmers? You will melt these blades and start over. You will bring back the full supply tomorrow, or you will burn with your friends. Now go. Leave! Take the spoiled swords and leave!"
Adai nodded, his breath shuddering. "Yes, dominus."
As ash blew from the corpses, Adai climbed back onto his elephant. He rode away from the courtyard, back through the tunnel, and out into the city. The sun had fallen behind the horizon now, and the air still stank of death.
He rode through the darkness, passing by the corpses along the roadsides, through a city of tears and blood, the pride of Nur crushed under the heel of Aelar.
Finally he returned to the smithy, the place where Nur had once forged its farm tools, its cutlery, and its own weapons. He unloaded the faulty swords from the wagon and dragged the boxes into the smithy.
Two legionaries stood here, holding javelins, while a dozen blacksmiths worked at anvils, cauldrons, and fires.
"Faulty blades, damn it!" Adai shouted. "Cicero nearly had my head. You useless lot engraved the wrong legion number onto them." He shook his head sadly. "I'm taking these to the back and tossing them with the scrap iron. We'll start over."
Under the watchful eye of the legionary guards, Adai tossed the faulty swords into a wheelbarrow and rolled them past cauldrons and anvils and blazing fires. As sparks flew, he thought of the corpses burning on the crosses, of how close he had come to burning with them.
He entered the back of the smithy, a chamber full of pig iron and scraps, a mountain of metal to be turned into blades.
She waited for him there, hidden in the shadows. His sister.
"Imani," he whispered, approaching her.
"Shush!" She glared at him. "I'm only Kayeesh, humble daughter of the alleys."
His sister, Queen of Nur, normally sported a fine kalasiri of muslin, a jeweled tiara to hold back her black curls, and glittering cosmetics. Today she wore only a rough cloak and hood, and dirt smeared her face.
Adai embraced her, quickly, furtively.
"It worked," he whispered. "Cicero was incensed, but in his rage, he did not suspect." He pointed at the wheelbarrow. "Tw
enty-two faulty blades. Twenty-two weapons for the rebellion."
Imani stood on tiptoe, glanced over his shoulder, and bit her lip. "Keep your voice low. The guards listen." She tugged and kicked some of the scrap iron, raising a clamor. "I'll take these now into the city, into our secret nests."
She tossed a blanket over the wheelbarrow of swords, then pushed it toward a hidden back door behind the mountain of scrap iron. Before she could step out into the night, Adai placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Be careful, sister," he whispered.
She smiled, though her eyes were sad. "Always. Long live Nur, and may freedom come swiftly to the children of the savanna."
Queen Imani stepped out into the shadows, taking a few blades, a few dreams, weapons for a few warriors . . . against the might of an empire.
Adai remained in the shadowy chamber for a long time, head lowered. The visions danced before his eyes: Cicero severing the legs of the crucified man, setting both prisoners aflame, the children crucified along the roadsides, punishment for a smuggled wagon of swords.
One day, Cicero, he vowed silently, I will take one of these blades you force us to forge, and I will plunge it into your heart.
MAYA
She woke at dawn thirsty, hungrier than she'd ever been, with sand sticking to her face and a crab crawling toward her foot. She blinked, sat up, and stared at the water. The eastern sea lapped at the shore, darker and foamier than the Encircled Sea back at home, a living beast.
I'm at the edge of the world, Maya thought. She had studied many maps in Master Malaci's library in Gefen, but none ever showed lands beyond this eastern border. She stared across the water, trying to imagine if other lands sprawled there in the distance across countless parsa'ot, lands with no pain, lands where lumers were not hunted, lands where no cruel empires crushed ancient nations under their heel. Or perhaps this was it, and beyond there was nothing but water, eternal, as infinite as the kingdom of Luminosity.
I wonder if the great lumers, like Avinasi and Taeer, can see beyond this sea, Maya thought. I wonder if someday I will have this Sight.
Sight. Foresight. Muse. Healing. The Four Pillars of Luminosity, the four arms in the candelabrum. More than anything, Maya wanted to learn Healing. She lowered her head, and the wind tousled her black curls. So much pain filled Beth Eloh. Even from here, Maya imagined that she could hear her people cry out. Hear her family scream. More than she cared for seeing the present, predicting the future, or creating great art, she wanted to heal. To heal her family, her nation, her own grieving heart.
She walked into the water, letting it flow across her legs, then over her tunic, finally rising to her neck. It was colder than the sea back home, not as salty, its currents strong. She let the water wash away the sand, sting her wounds, cleanse her from the grime of her journey, from her pain, from the mourning.
When she returned to the olive grove and the domed house, the sun was already searing, drying the water and leaving a thin coating of salt across her bronzed skin. Her stomach grumbled, and she considered returning to the boy for roasted beans but decided against it. Instead, she glanced around, saw nobody, and stole a few fallen olives. Their flesh was rich, oily, filling her with vigor. She spat out the pits, kicked dirt over them, and knocked again on the house's door.
No reply came from within.
Maya walked around the house toward the round window at the back. When she peered inside, she saw the old woman there, once more hunched over a table, reading from a scroll.
"I won't go away," Maya said. "I've come to learn Luminosity. Avinasi herself sent me, lumer to kings and queens. Are you a lumer? Will you teach me?"
For long moments the woman inside the house was silent, busy reading from her scroll. Finally she rose from her seat, both the wooden chair and her joints creaking. She hobbled toward the window and stared at Maya, disgust in her eyes.
"Why do you want to learn Luminosity?" the old woman asked.
Maya thought for a moment. "To heal."
The woman snorted and tugged a curtain across the window. "Go away. Never come back."
Maya sighed. Had that been the wrong answer? Should she have chosen another one of the pillars—Sight, Foresight, maybe Muse? Or should she have named all four? Her belly knotted, and worry filled her that she had made a dreadful mistake, that she had already failed some test. If only she could have studied from Avinasi! If not for the legions, Maya could have studied the magic in Beth Eloh itself, the great fountain of lume where the greatest lumers in history had lived and taught. Now most of those lumers served Aelar across the Encircled Sea. Now Maya was abandoned here, so far from home, and this old woman—if she was a lumer at all—would not even let her inside, let alone teach her the magic.
Once more her mind returned to the burnt corpse in the gibbet. To the sign that hung beneath it: Lumer.
Her stomach growled yet again. She knelt, lifted a few more olives, and ate, but they could not alleviate her hunger. She needed more—fresh bread, cheese, meat if she could find it. She decided to risk exploring the town, her hunger perhaps overpowering her wisdom. She would be better able to think, to choose a future path, on a full stomach. Jangling the last few coins in her pocket, she left the Luminosity house and walked down a cobbled path between palm trees. She reached a network of roads that sprawled between houses. Chickens clucked in yards, and a goat stood tethered to a pine. A few cats hissed from stone roofs. People were here too, wrapped in robes and shawls, their skin brown, their eyes suspicious. The town was small, and soon Maya found its market, a round courtyard surrounded with archways. Under each arch sat a merchant, selling his or her wares from tin vessels and straw baskets. It was a smaller market than the one in Gefen, but with her last few coins, she could buy food here.
Maya approached an old, mustached man who was grilling slices of meat—goat, she thought—over a brazier. He placed slices of the meat on flat bread, topped them with yogurt, a drizzle of olive oil, and a sprinkling of thyme, then handed the meal to Maya. The meat was rich, fatty, dripping down her chin, and Maya thought it the best meal she had eaten in years. Taking deep bites, she walked through the bazaar and paused to contemplate a stall of fabrics.
A voice rose behind her, booming and cruel.
"The crone still casts her dark magic! How long will we worshipers of Dagon allow sorcery in our home?"
The meal went tasteless in her mouth. Maya turned to see a tall man—among the tallest she'd seen—walk into the marketplace. He wore black robes, and a curly black beard hung down his chest. A fibula gleamed on his shoulder, displaying a sheaf of wheat within a sickle. The man held a true sickle, a dark blade that looked more like a weapon than a farming tool. Back in Zohar, people worshiped an intangible spirit of grace and light, but here in the east, trapped between sand and desert, it seemed people worshiped grain—a bringer of life in a cruel, dry land. Several other men walked behind this priest, their robes dusty, their sickles raised. Their eyes turned to stare at Maya.
"Who will join us?" cried the tall leader of the group. "Who will march with us upon the house of sin? We will burn the crone in a cage like we burned her pupil."
Maya stepped forward and spoke before she could stop herself, silently cursing herself as the words spilled from her mouth. "Fire cannot burn a mistress of Luminosity, and all your blades cannot cut her." She looked around her, then back at the priest. "But you already know this, which is why you haven't yet struck, why you seek to swell your numbers, why there is still fear in your eyes."
The men walked toward her, sickles raised, a madness in their eyes. It was the madness of hunger.
"The witch is powerful," said the priest, "and her curses cause the grains to wilt." He looked at the meal in her hand. "You feast upon the gifts of Dagon, and yet you defend the crone who seeks to tarnish his blessings. Are you too a witch's pupil?"
Maya shook her head. "No. I'm a healer. A traveler from distant lands." Those words were true, in a sense. "And as a healer, I
will not watch death. I will not watch strong men with blades seek to slay a frail old woman." She raised her chin. "I healed King Zamur himself—your king. He knows my name, and his blessings follow me. You will put aside your blades, and you will not spill blood in this town, or by the gods, I will call upon the wrath of Sekur to descend upon this town and cast you into the desert."
Her insides swirled, and cold sweat trickled down her back, but she forced herself to speak with authority. She could no longer be the meek, frightened girl she had been. She had seen enough cruelty. She had watched Seneca slay the dog, and she had fled from him, leaving him to slay her father. She would no longer flee evil. Wherever there was light there were shadows. One could no more flee evil than flee a shadow in the sunlight. The only place without shadows was the dark.
Yet the men were not cowed. They looked at one another, and one guffawed. They circled her, closing in, sickles raised.
"The gibbet needs more meat," said one man.
Another laughed, showing crooked yellow teeth. "The fire is hungry." He turned toward the tall priest. "Saentek, can we burn her?"
"We will sacrifice her to Dagon!" said Saentek, the tall priest, leader of the group. "We will scatter her ashes across the fields, and they will bear us sweet grain."
Maya spun from side to side, seeking a way to escape, finding none. She cursed herself for her stupidity. She should have stayed in the garden and filled herself on olives. She tossed aside her half-eaten meal and drew her dagger, the one Atalia had given her. Today Maya would be as brave and strong as Atalia.
A man reached out to grab her. She pulled back, and he tore her tunic. Another man grabbed her arm, and Maya lashed her dagger, slicing a line across his wrist. The man hissed. Hands grabbed her waist, pulling her back, and a man slapped her, rattling the teeth in her jaw. Her dagger clattered to the ground. She thrashed, crying out, waiting for the old woman to barge into the marketplace, to save her, but no savior emerged. The priests began to drag her from the courtyard.
Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3) Page 8
