Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  She watched, gripped in this general's arms, as the legionaries lifted the ancient ark. The flames burned on the altar, eating away at the corpses of the priests, still hungry for sustenance. Nearby, the ark's gilt shone in the firelight, peeling, melting, exposing cracked wood—an ancient artifact that had survived for thousands of years, never rotting, never crumbling.

  The house of God, Shiloh thought. Forgive us, Lord of Light.

  The legionaries tossed the ark into the fire.

  For a moment nothing happened. It seemed as if the ark wouldn't burn. Shiloh gasped, eyes dampening. She was not a religious woman. She had never bothered praying beyond what ceremony dictated—a few songs at the dinner table, more for the joy of her family than for true faith, more for tradition than piousness. Yet now, beholding the ark in the fire, she dared to hope. Dared to pray. Dared to imagine that holy light would emerge from that box, glowing luminescence, that it should take form, should melt the flesh of the legionaries who dared desecrate the holiness.

  Then the box gave a great crack and collapsed. The flames greedily lapped at the wood. The gold melted, dripping onto the bones of the priests, down the stone altar, onto the courtyard.

  Just a box, Shiloh thought. Just a box after all.

  "Behold the great Eloh," Remus said. He leaned his chin on the top of Shiloh's head. "A mighty god indeed. A god who lets us burn his home. Perhaps a god that died and rotted in that coffin a thousand years ago."

  "A thousand years ago," Shiloh said, "Zohar was already a great nation, worshiping Eloh in this very temple, and Aelar was but a tribe of filthy ruffians in caves."

  Remus laughed. "And this is why I let you live, Shiloh Sela. Yours is a spirit of fire. So meek, so gentle . . . yet so strong. Truly a lioness among rats."

  The flames burned, and across the city, Shiloh heard the lamentations. People ran toward the Temple, gazed from the gates, cried out in fear. A keen rose across the city. Cries of "Eloh! Eloh!" filled the night. Some men tried to rush forth, to enter the Temple complex, only for the legionary spears to shove them back.

  For thousands of years the children of Zohar had worshiped their god, casting out the idols of invaders and conquerors. Now, Shiloh knew, rebellion would truly rise. Now the whole city, the whole province would burn.

  "Raise them a new god!" Remus said, laughing. "Show them true might."

  The cries outside rose louder, dismayed, scornful. Legionaries shouted and men screamed. Sandals clattered, and in through the gates they came—a hundred legionaries or more, rolling forth a great, dark slab of metal upon many wooden wheels. At first Shiloh thought this a battering ram, greater than any she'd ever seen—a massive ram of iron to topple this Temple, to send its ancient walls and columns crumbling down. Then the firelight fell upon the dark form on the wheels, and Shiloh understood.

  A statue.

  "She arrived this morning," Remus told her. "Shipped over in pieces all the way from Aelar, welded together here in this city. A gift from our glorious new empress. Now you and I will watch her rise together."

  The legionaries pulled ropes on pulleys, cranked levers, and the statue began to rise in the courtyard. The men chanted as they heaved, tugging, digging their heels into the tiles. The statue rose slowly, shadows and light flickering across it, until it thumped into place and stood, as tall as a tower, gazing across the Temple and the city beyond. It was forged of bronze, forming an armored woman, a sword in her hand, her eyes cruel.

  "Behold Empress Porcia Octavius!" Remus said. "Behold the new goddess of Zohar!"

  The legionaries at the gates stepped aside, and the people of the city swarmed into the courtyard, enraged. They spat, cursed, shouted at the idol. One man tossed a stone.

  "Blasphemy!" said an old man.

  Remus turned toward them, grinning thinly. "Kneel."

  The crowd roared, not hearing.

  "Kneel!" Remus shouted, and his legionaries stepped forth.

  Spears lashed. Swords swung. Shields slammed into men and women, forcing them down. With blood, with twisting arms and snapping bones, the legionaries forced the people down onto their knees, slaying all those who defied until the survivors knelt before the idol.

  "You too, Shiloh," Remus said. "Kneel and worship her."

  When Shiloh knelt, she lowered her head and closed her eyes, refusing to look at this abomination, this monster of bronze. She knelt, but she thought of her home on Pine Hill, of her garden, of the sea, and of her family.

  KOREN

  "Go bathe." Claudia walked with him across the gardens to the bathhouse. "You stink. I've never smelled anything fouler."

  They walked through lush gardens in the Aelarian countryside. At their side rose a villa, several times the size of the villa Koren had grown up in back in Zohar. It stood three stories tall, marble columns forming its rounded portico. Cypresses and pines grew in the gardens, shading flowerbeds, marble statues of the gods, and pebbly paths lined with stone benches. Guards were here too, fifty or more. They stood around the villa, along the path, and atop the rounded wall that surrounded the complex.

  There would be no escaping the home of Praetor Tirus Valerius, Koren knew. He was among Aelar's greatest lords—owner of the marble quarries, once an ambassador to Zohar, and a distinguished general who had won many battles.

  And there would be no escaping his daughter—the young Claudia.

  My brother's past paramour, Koren remembered.

  Koren turned to look at her as they walked. He had met Claudia many times back in Zohar. Epher had sought to keep the relationship secret, for both families would have frowned upon such a love—the son of a Zoharite lord marrying the daughter of an Aelarian noble. And yet Claudia and her father had often visited the villa on Pine Hill, and Koren had even been to the ambassador's home in Gefen before—a lavish dwelling, yet humble compared to this villa in Aelar's countryside. At those times, Koren had met a prim, genteel young woman, a proper lady who only nibbled at her food, tittered at the right jokes, and could speak Zoharite without the faintest trace of an accent.

  The Claudia who walked with him here, in her homeland, was a very different sort of woman. She spoke to Koren in Aelarian here, her voice stern, and a frown ever creased her brow. She wore her hair in the style of Aelarian noblewomen, holding it up in a bun and carefully arranging small, equally distanced curls across her forehead. She wore a headdress of pearls, and more pearls hung from her ears. Her stola was woven of silk, white and hemmed with azure.

  "Go. Quickly." She pointed. "Strip and enter the water."

  They had reached the bathhouse. It was ringed with columns, and an aqueduct delivered water into its tiled pool. Marble statues stood around the water, nude and godly. Koren needed this bath—badly. They had scrubbed him at the slave market, but during his long days laboring in the quarry, he had not bathed. The filth and sweat and dust still clung to him. His journey here to the villa, dragging behind Claudia's horse, had not helped. He had skinned his elbows and knees, and dry blood, mud, and horse shit clung to him.

  For a moment Koren hesitated. Back in Zohar, men and women never bathed together, only saw each other naked if they were wed. But Koren soon shrugged. When in Aelar, do as the Aelarians do, went the old saying. He stripped off what remained of his clothes—just a few tattered bits of cloth—leaving only his iron slave collar. He climbed into the pool.

  The water was cold and soon he was shivering. His eyes widened to see Claudia, standing on the pool's ledge, remove her stola. For an instant Koren gazed at her nakedness. Her body was pale, her hips rounded, and there was no shame to her. Of course not; she was a daughter of Aelar, used to public bathhouses and lavatories. She entered the water with him.

  "Scrub your skin until it's clean." She tossed him a sponge.

  Koren scrubbed, peeling off dry blood, scabs, dirt, sweat.

  "I don't suppose you have any good pedicurists here," he said.

  Claudia smiled wanly, sponging her own skin. "I have a slave who t
ends to my nails. I'll see what he can do for you."

  "A he?" Koren tapped his chin. "I've always felt a bit awkward about letting another man pumice my feet." He sighed and switched to speaking in Zoharite. "Claudia, what are we doing here?"

  "I live here," she said, squeezing water out of her hair. She still spoke in Aelarian.

  "And I used to live in Gefen, and your friends pummeled it to the ground. So why am I here? Why not leave me to crush stones in your father's quarry? And don't give me that speech about how I'm some bargaining chip in the war. I'm the second son of a dead lord. I'm worthless to you."

  "Come with me, Koren." She took his hand. They stepped out of the pool and walked, naked, into a marble chamber in the bathhouse. A single bed stood here, topped with white linen. Brushes, vials of scented oil, and towels stood on the shelves.

  "Is this where the pedicures happen?" Koren asked. "On second thought, I know a marvelous pedicurist back in Zohar. If you ship me back there, I'm sure I can arrange you a discount, and—"

  "Shush." She placed a finger against his lips, then sighed. "Look at you, Koren Sela. Look what happened to you." She passed her fingers down his naked body, trailing over the bruises, the scars, the cuts. "Look what they did to you."

  "They turned me into a monster!" Koren said. "I'm hideous now. Best banish me to the eastern desert."

  Claudia laughed. "Same old Koren." She caressed his cheek, leaned closer, and whispered into his ear. "I've always loved you Sela boys." She reached down and curled her fingers around his manhood. "You're going to fuck me now. Hush! Don't defy me. That was not a request. I've wanted this since I first met you, Koren."

  Koren cringed, cursing himself for the blood that flowed to just the wrong place, cursing the smile that grew on Claudia's lips as he hardened in her hand.

  "But . . . you and Epher . . ."

  She frowned. "I belong to nobody, Koren. But you belong to me, and you will do as I say." She released him and lay on the bed. "Lie beside me."

  Koren cursed himself for obeying, hated himself for obeying. He didn't want this. He'd rather be beaten, rather return to the quarry, rather die than lie with Claudia. And yet he found himself kissing her lips, kissing her body as she directed him downward, down to her breasts, down between her legs, and still he kissed her as she moaned. Finally she pulled him up, kissing him greedily as he slipped inside her. They moved together on the bed, her legs wrapped around him so tightly it almost hurt.

  "Let your lion roar inside me," she whispered into his ear, and no sooner had she commanded than Koren's lion obeyed.

  They lay together on the bed, panting.

  "Now wasn't that better than the quarries?" Claudia asked.

  Koren wasn't so sure. This was wrong. He shouldn't be here, treated to baths, making love to Claudia. Not while Epher was fighting in Zohar, while Atalia might be drowned at sea, while Ofeer was a slave, while Maya was lost in the desert. Koren didn't want this. He wanted to be with his family again. He would have traded all the baths and sex in the world for another moment with his family.

  "You are mine now," Claudia said. "My own Zoharite lover. You will make love to me when I want it. You will pour wine for me and my father, and you will scour our pots and wash our clothes, and when the time is right, Koren . . . when the time is right, we'll return to Zohar." She smiled crookedly. "I promise this to you. You will see your brother again."

  Something in her voice, in her smile, in her eyes made him shudder. There was cruelty there, a cruelty worse than the lash or the beating sun. Suddenly this naked woman, lying with him in bed, terrified Koren more than armies of legionaries and a mad empress.

  IMANI

  The chariot rolled across the savanna, leading a cavalcade of splendor, of wonder, of glory and might . . . all to drown under a storm.

  The ivory chariot led the parade, drawn by four snowy horses with braided manes. Imani stood here, wearing her finest kalasiri, its white muslin inlaid with diamonds and hemmed with golden embroidery. She sported serpent armlets, and a tiara held back her mane of black curls. She was dressed in fineries, a proud queen in all her glory, but she felt like a prisoner, trapped, so distressed she wanted to scream. Only the thought of what awaited ahead, this sliver of hope, allowed her to keep her composure, to ride here with him, to tolerate his presence.

  Just another few hours, she told herself. It ends today.

  He stood at her side in the chariot, waving to the people along the roadsides—the eagle of the north, one Imani thought a carrion crow. Cicero Octavius, Governor of Nur, was dressed in his finest. A gilded breastplate covered his torso, forged to mimic a younger man's muscles. A crimson cloak hung from his pauldrons, and his helmet sported filigreed eagles.

  "See how they adore us, Imani!" His thin mouth—he had no lips to speak of—curved in a tight smile. "See how the barbarians welcome our glory with open arms."

  Across the savanna, the people indeed welcomed the parade with open arms—arms nailed into crosses. The victims—men, women, children—still lived, bleeding, burning in the sunlight, jackals snapping at their feet, vultures circling above.

  He calls them rebels, Imani thought, staring with damp eyes, refusing to shed tears. He calls them criminals, barbarians, subhuman. Yet here are my people.

  The ivory chariot rode down the road, passing between the palisades of crosses, moving toward the city of Shenutep. Behind them followed the glory of Aelarian Nur. Elephants marched, tusks painted, legionaries on their backs. Zebras followed, chained together, and leashed giraffes walked behind them. Lions walked next, a hundred or more in chains. Nurians were displayed with the animals, stripped down to loincloths and adorned with crowns of feathers, both men and women, forced to dance and sing, their backs torn where the whips had landed. Aelarian soldiers marched behind them, all in iron, displaying the symbol of their legion upon their shields: an eagle clutching elephant tusks.

  "You're not waving, Imani," Cicero said, eyes alight. "Wave to your people! Let them see their queen. Let them see that she rides with the might of Aelar."

  They passed by a cross nailed with a young girl, no older than ten. What had this child done, Imani wondered, to be deemed a rebel, an enemy to brutalize? The child was still alive, too weak to cry out, buzzing with flies.

  "Wave, Imani." Cicero grabbed her wrist and yanked it up. "Wave to your people."

  All the joy was now gone from his voice; only menace remained.

  Imani waved.

  Today. It ends today.

  The cavalcade continued, celebrating the Day of Victory, as the Aelarians called it—the day Nur had fallen. The day Imani's mother had been captured. The day Cicero had dug his claws into Imani, turning her into his puppet, tugging her strings since then. Once a year, Cicero celebrated it with his legions. A day of parades, of glory, of mass executions.

  In secret, in shadows, the Nurians called it the Fall.

  Today, the day we fell, let it be the day we rise.

  Along the road, Imani soon saw other victims of the Aelarians. Not only her people died under the heel of Aelar. Elephant carcasses lay on the savanna, their tusks extracted, sent by the thousands to Aelar across the sea. Skinned giraffes and zebras buzzed with flies. The corpses of lions rotted, beheaded, the heads taken to stuff and mount on the walls of northern palaces. A few rhinos still lived, their horns sawed off, the wounds infected; they would die soon too. Countless ivory statues, leopard pelts, zebra rugs, and other treasures filled the villas of Aelar. Nur was left with corpses.

  They turned Nur into a mausoleum, a torture chamber, Imani thought. They are pale demons.

  Finally the parade reached the city's southern gate, the Gate of Eagles. Once this had been a small passageway into Shenutep, allowing the poor from across Nur to come receive donations of grain and fruit and cloth. The Aelarians had torn down that old gateway, had erected a massive barbican and gatehouse. Two statues rose here, framing an archway, tall as towers—one shaped as Emperor Marcus Octavius, the
other as Governor Cicero. Both statues were carved of limestone, hands raised in salute.

  As Imani gazed at the statues, she thought of the news that had arrived that morning from across the northern sea. Marcus Octavius was dead, and his daughter—the sadistic Porcia—now reigned as empress. One vulture had replaced another. How long before statues of this new despot rose here?

  The cavalcade passed between the statues, entering the city. A dirt road led between stone buildings with arched windows, lush gardens growing on their roofs. Legionaries lined the streets, and behind them stood the Nurians. Thin. Haggard. Hopelessness in their eyes. A crushed people.

  "Behold the might of Aelar!" cried Cicero, waving to the crowd. "Behold the wealth the Empire has brought you!"

  Once this land had been wealthy, Imani knew. Once this had been the most prosperous city south of the Encircled Sea. Now its gold, its diamonds, its sapphires, its grain—all its treasures—had gone to the Aelarians. Now Nur rotted while Aelar grew fat on the carcass.

  They're not eagles, Imani thought as the parade of soldiers, slaves, and animals moved through the city. They are vultures.

  The parade moved through a courtyard where baobabs grew around a fountain, across a bridge that spanned the Majina River, and between limestone statues of elephants with iron tusks. The living elephants wailed as they walked, their Aelarian masters whipping them with every step, and spiked chains dug into their feet. They passed by great temples, built in the Nurian style—they looked like structures of wet sand dribbled by giants, cones atop cones, hundreds of windows like caves. Once gold had covered these temples. That gold had been stripped off, sent to fund great constructions in Aelar. Once Nurian priests had worshiped the animal spirits in these temples. Today marble statues of the Aelarian gods stood within.

  They were traveling down Copper Road, a narrow street, when Imani took a deep breath and raised her chin. Workshops rose alongside, three stories tall, formed of many archways. Here toiled blacksmiths, tanners, carpenters, gem cutters, fletchers. It was along Copper Road, perhaps more than anywhere else, that Nurians served their masters. Here they forged swords, fletched arrows, fixed sandals, built shields, minted coins for the legions. Here on this street, only days ago, the Aelarians had crucified and burned ten men, punishment for a ruined batch of arrows. The charred corpses still rose on crosses, ash dispersing in the wind.