Thrones of Ash (Kingdoms of Sand Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  And among them—a woman seeking a home, a filthy urchin, the daughter of an emperor with a child of sin inside her.

  As she wandered the streets, she saw them everywhere—visions of a future she feared, visions of who she could so easily become. The beggars sprawled across the city streets, tattered, ill, dying. Some danced and sang for coins. Others sat against walls, legless, armless, victims of the Empire's endless wars, tin dishes laid out before them. As Ofeer walked by them, these wretched beings that were only half alive, the fear seemed almost too much to bear.

  Will I end up like them? Ofeer thought, gazing at two children beating a drum for coins, fleeing when a soldier drew his sword and advanced toward them. Will I end up singing, dancing, begging for coins, only to give birth in the gutter to a child doomed to the same fate?

  Ofeer's eyes stung. How had she come to this? She had been among the wealthiest women in Zohar, the blood of Elshalom himself in her veins. Her father was Emperor Marcus Octavius, the most powerful man in the world. A cart rolled by, laden with straw, and sprayed her with mud. Dripping filth, Ofeer thought of Seneca . . . and she almost missed him. Almost missed who she had thought he was, a noble prince who would love her, who would show her the glory of the Empire.

  She walked down the street, circled a statue of an old emperor astride a horse, and stared north. There, past countless streets, the Acropolis rose on the hill. The inner city. The realm of Porcia Octavius. A place of marble palaces, full of gold, jewels, and emperors who spat on their daughters. A place of marvelous bathhouses full of statues, mosaics, and slaves who shattered the heads of men on poolsides. A place of amphitheaters and circuses, marvels of architecture, their archways soaring toward the sky, surrounding arenas where men slew one another for sport. There above—the heart of the world, a place of endless splendor and slaughter. Ofeer's birthright, forever forbidden to her.

  She walked onward.

  "I will not succumb to pity," she whispered to herself. "I will not. That is not who I am. I am Ofeer Sela. I am Ofeer Octavius. A lioness and an eagle." She looked at a group of beggars who sat under an aqueduct, staring her way. One man reached to his crotch and pleasured himself while leering at her. "I will not become a creature like that, a wretched beast under a bridge. I am worth more than that. I will be more than that."

  Ofeer walked onward, chin raised, shoulders squared. She knew that she was vain. She knew that she was cruel. She knew that she was not sweet like Maya, not pleasant like Koren, not noble like Epher. But if nothing else, Ofeer knew that she was strong. She had always been strong, stronger than Atalia in many ways, her mind as sharp as the swords her sister would wield.

  I am the daughter of nobility, and I will live a noble life.

  She would find work, she decided. She was not too proud to work. For years Ofeer had tended to her mother's vineyard, picking grapes until her fingers were raw and her skin was brown. Work did not scare her.

  I'm young, she thought. I'm still pretty, perhaps. I can sing and I can dance. I will not squat in filth. I will survive by my own talents, not because of a gift from Seneca or any other man.

  She walked through the city with new determination, passing by public kitchens where cooks prepared meals for citizens who brought in their own grains, meats, and spices. She passed a winehouse where rose a statue of Vin, a drunken god with goat legs, and rosy-cheeked soldiers drank and sang. Ofeer gave the place a wide berth.

  Finally, alongside a boulevard that led toward the Acropolis, she found an establishment that catered to a wealthier clientele. The building stood on a street corner, three stories tall, its windows filled with actual glass—a costly material. The sound of laughter rose from within, and several oversized phalli were engraved into the building's marble bricks, pointing toward a fine doorway, its bronze handle phallus-shaped as well and worn by many hands. Letters were engraved into the marble above the doorway, filled with blue and golden tiles: The Lunapar.

  A brothel, Ofeer knew. Such establishments were frowned upon back in Zohar, but they dotted every neighborhood here in Aelar, as plentiful as taverns and temples.

  "Taverns, temples, togas, and trollops," Offer muttered. "The four pillars of Aelar."

  She had no interest in joining the fourth pillar, but establishments as fine as the Lunapar—it was the nicest brothel she'd seen so far—would also need cooks, cupbearers, perhaps singers or dancers, and a pretty face couldn't hurt her chances of finding employment here. She had spent enough time in the filthy taverns of Gefen that a place such as the Lunapar would seem like a palace. She grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, and stepped inside.

  A glittering chamber awaited her, as fine as a palace and far more lively. Pastel murals covered the walls, lewd paintings of naked men and women, showing every possible way to make love—some that Ofeer had tried, many of which she had never imagined. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, candles burning atop their branches even in the daytime. Elaborate Sekadian rugs covered the floor, and zebra and lion pelts from Nur lay slung across divans. The smell of frankincense, wine, and sex filled the air, a heady aroma.

  Several men filled the main hall, even so early in the day, and women moved among them, clad in togas—garments for male citizens and female whores. There were Aelarian women here, beauties with brown hair and large eyes, but also women from Nur, their skin as dark as dusk, and women from the northern lands of Gael, Denebar, and Elania, their hair the color of sunrise. And not just women moved among the patrons but boys too, clad in pale tunics, collars around their necks, young slaves to pleasure those who favored them. Wine filled chalices, and a statue of Vin rose in the center of the hall, his manhood several times the usual size, thrusting out like a spear and slung with laurels.

  A pretty woman with tresses of brown hair noticed Ofeer. She hurried toward Ofeer, toga rustling. A forced smile found her lips.

  "Now, now, child." The woman tried to hurry Ofeer toward the door. "Come on, let me show you back outside, and I'll soon bring you a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of ale."

  Ofeer would have kicked a kitten for some oatmeal and ale right now, but she brushed off the woman. "I'm not here to beg." She looked down at her rags and filthy skin, then back up at the woman, chin raised, refusing to feel shame. "I'm looking for work."

  The woman's eyes narrowed. She grabbed Ofeer's arm and hurried her out from the main hall into a corridor.

  "I'm not a beggar," Ofeer repeated. "I know I look like one. But I can sing. I can dance. I—"

  The woman in the toga reached to Ofeer's neck, then traced her fingers across the ring of chafed skin. She looked up at Ofeer and raised an eyebrow.

  Ofeer squared her shoulders. "Close shave," she said.

  The woman in the toga tried to frown, then burst out laughing. She sighed. "You've got spunk, I'll give you that. And you're too well spoken to have been an urchin for long." She tilted her head. "You look like a Zoharite, yet you speak High Aelarian with the accent of a noblewoman. What's your name?"

  Ofeer considered for a moment. "Odelia," she finally said, choosing a common name of the desert.

  The woman in the toga snorted. "Do you always spend a few seconds trying to remember your name?" She laughed. "I'm Mariana. You'd do well here, I think, once we wash the stink off you and slap some cosmetics on that pretty face. Our patrons enjoy women from across the world, yet they've never tasted a Zoharite. Most of your kind are too proud to don a toga and touch an uncircumcised cock."

  "I'm not here to do . . . that." Ofeer grimaced to remember lying in the cave with Seneca, giving him her body for a chance for riches and wonder. "I'll serve wine. I'll cook. I can sing and dance for the crowd if you like. I'll even wash and change the linens. You need girls to do that sort of work too, don't you?"

  Mariana sighed. "As I said . . . too proud, you desert lionesses. Prince Seneca himself used to request a Zoharite here. He had one in his palace, he claimed. A Zoharite concubine all his own, his pride and the jealousy of every other man. I bet
he used to think of her when he fucked me."

  Ofeer groaned inwardly. So this had been a favorite haunt for Seneca. Somehow she was not surprised.

  "In that case, I'm glad the prince buggered off into exile," she said.

  Mariana laughed. "As am I, though the boy did tip grandly, I'll give him that. He funded us well for a couple of years." She took Ofeer's hand. "Come with me."

  She pulled Ofeer up a staircase and down a hallway lined with chambers. The smell of soot, booze, and sex filled the hallway, thick as soup. Signs hung on the doors, most displaying the word "Occupied," some with the words "Please Clean." Moans, laughter, and the odd howl rose from the occupied chambers. One door was open, revealing two nude, golden-haired women pleasuring a portly man, his cheeks rosy with wine. Boys ran up and down the corridor, entering and leaving rooms with bowls of water, soap, and rags. A door banged open, and a legionary emerged from within, wearing the armor of a general, insignia upon his pauldrons. He marched down the hallway, chest puffed out, proud as if returning from battle. Two girls quickly rushed into the chamber he had exited, approached a nude prostitute within, and busied themselves fixing the woman's hair and powdering her bruises. Ofeer had scarcely walked by before another patron was shown into the room.

  Finally Mariana and Ofeer reached a large chamber at the back. No sign hung from this door, and Mariana grabbed a brass knocker—it was shaped as a man's privates—and knocked three times.

  For a long moment there was silence. Finally a raspy voice called from behind the door. "Come in."

  Mariana opened the door, and they stepped inside. The room was opulent, the floor covered with rugs, the walls bedecked with silks. Beams of light shone through tainted glass windows and many glass vessels that stood on shelves and tables. The scent of hintan, a spice of the desert, hung in the air, and green smoke wafted. Ofeer coughed and waved the smoke aside, revealing a woman who sat at the back of the room. She was the largest woman Ofeer had ever seen, her corpulence a wondrous thing, the rolls of flesh draped with pastel silks. The woman was easily four times Ofeer's size. She reclined on a low couch, smoking from a hookah. Purple liquid bubbled within the vessel.

  "Lena Florine." Mariana bowed her head. "I beg your pardon."

  Ofeer had read that term before in forbidden scrolls. Lena—a mistress of courtesans.

  The lena gazed at Ofeer through the veil of smoke. Her face was heavily painted, the eyelids shimmering blue, the lips bright red. Rings shone on every one of her fingers, costly things too, adorned with sapphires and rubies and emeralds, not the semiprecious stones many ladies of Aelar sported.

  "She's got good bones." Lena Florine gestured for Ofeer to step closer. "Come here, child. Yes, like that, stand there. No, closer. Yes, good bones on her. Good hips too for one so thin. I have no use for narrow hips. Turn around. No? Shy?" The mistress laughed, then coughed, sputtering out green smoke. "Never mind. The shyness will leave you soon enough." She turned toward Mariana. "Bathe her. She stinks of the gutters. Dress her in silk—white silk, it'll contrast nicely with her dark skin. Give her some jewels, the cheap ones for now, until we can trust her. Brass or copper, not silver. Silver only looks good on Gaelians. Red gemstones, not blue or green; this one is fire. Then put her to work. Charge five hundred denarii a night. She'll fetch it."

  Mariana glanced at Ofeer, then back at her lena. "Forgive me, lena, but . . . she does not wish to serve as a lupa. It's forbidden in the culture of Zohar. She asks to serve wine, to cook, to clean, to sing and dance for the crowd, but not to lie with men."

  "Oh?" Lena Florine's mouth formed a circle, and she raised her eyebrows and turned to regard Ofeer again. "What's your name, girl?"

  "Odelia," Ofeer said.

  Florine laughed again, sputtering more smoke. "You're lying. I see it in your eyes. But very well. I was not always Florine, and our mutual friend here was not always Mariana. So tell me, Odelia of the desert, is the profession of lupa beneath you? Is your eastern blood too noble to serve among us mere sinners?"

  Ofeer shook her head. "Your profession is nobler than that of any legionary or emperor. They spill the blood of men; you merely heat it. But . . ." Ofeer lowered her head. "I'm pregnant, Lena Florine. I will not lie with men while a child grows within me." She placed a hand on her belly and looked into the lena's eyes. "I'm a singer and dancer, and I can play the lyre and timbrel and read sheet music with ease, but I'm also not afraid to mop floors, change sheets, or work in the kitchen. I'm a hard worker."

  All the harshness left Florine's eyes, and she gestured for Ofeer to step even closer, bracelets jangling. Still reclining, she patted an empty spot on the divan beside her. Ofeer sat down, hands on her lap.

  "And the father is gone, I suppose?" Florine said, softness in her voice.

  Ofeer nodded. "He sailed overseas and left me."

  "So what do we do with you?" Florine stared with shrewd eyes. "A Zoharite with a fake name, not yet scrawny enough to have been on the streets for too long, who speaks Aelarian with a noblewoman's accent, with the mark of a slave collar still around her neck, and the father of her child gone overseas. Much like Prince Seneca is gone overseas. I don't suppose, Odelia, that you've ever met Seneca's fabled concubine of the desert, the Zoharite princess Ofeer Sela, who was paraded before the city in the prince's triumphal march? The girl said to have fled the Acropolis?"

  Ofeer's heart thrashed, but she stared steadily into the matron's eyes. "I've never met her. I heard she died in the fire."

  The matron nodded, a hint of mirth in her eyes. "Indeed, perhaps she did." A sigh rippled across her silks. "It might not surprise you, Odelia, that we've dealt with such problems here at the Lunapar before. All my girls receive training as midwives as well as lupae. Mariana here has delivered two babes already." With a pudgy hand gleaming with rings, Florine patted Ofeer's knee. "You've been on the streets for a while, but this is a safe place for you. You'll clean the kitchen, and you'll cook meals for the guests—and for the girls!—and you'll wash linens, and you'll empty my chamber pot, and you'll rub my feet when they ache, and you'll do all sorts of tasks that you probably feel are beneath you, judging by your highborn accent. But you'll be safe, well fed, and your son or daughter will have a safe delivery and shelter. And as for Ofeer, well . . ." Her eyes turned shrewd. "We will mourn her death."

  Ofeer tightened her lips and lowered her eyes, struggling not to shed tears. "Thank you, Lena Florine," she whispered.

  I began my life in seaside taverns, she thought. I end up in a brothel across the sea. But you will have a good life, my child. I swear this. I swear.

  SENECA

  At sunrise, he sailed into a port of light and mist and southern glory, gateway to a land of ancient death and dawning hope.

  "Nur," Seneca said softly. "Land of ivory, of diamonds, of gold." He inhaled the rich, salty scent of the realm before him. "The land Uncle Cicero rules, the land where I'll find my army."

  The Aquila Aureum sailed onward, entering the harbor of Tereen, the northernmost city in Nur. Breakwaters spread around them, half a league long, built of great boulders stacked together. At the edge of each breakwater rose a massive statue, large as a palace, shaped as a winged lion with the face of a woman. The music of the port rose around Seneca: the songs of sailors, the creak of wood and rope, the cries of gulls, the shrieks of ospreys diving down to catch fish. Countless ships filled the harbor, some massive cogs carved of dark wood, others the simple reed boats of fishermen. Many were Aelarian vessels, for Nur had fallen years ago. It now formed the largest province in the Empire, fifty times the size of Zohar.

  Ahead, across the water, Seneca beheld Nur for the first time in his life. Unlike the ports of Aelar and Zohar, built along natural harbors that dipped into dry land, Nur's port rose across a great delta. The Majina River—the greatest river in the world—split here into many smaller streams, each flowing into the harbor. A forest of palm trees and mangroves rose along the coast, lush with fluttering birds. Among the tree
s rose the city of Tereen—towers as thin as blades, obelisks tipped with gold, colossal statues of humans with the heads of beasts, temples lined with many columns, and soaring above them all—three limestone pyramids capped with precious metals.

  "They shouldn't be displaying statues of their savage idols," Seneca said, staring at the city. "They should have statues of proper gods, human gods. Not hybrid beasts." He sighed. "I suppose it's preferable to that damn invisible God you worship in Zohar."

  Taeer stood at his side, smiling softly. The wind billowed her red silks and dark hair. Her earrings chinked. "Eloh is invisible only to those blind to his grace, dominus."

  "Eloh can kiss my ass," said Seneca. "Fuck Eloh, fuck the Nurian hybrids, and fuck my sister especially." He realized how his words could be interpreted and cringed. "I mean Porcia."

  Taeer had the grace to nod. "Of course, my emperor."

  Seneca shoved aside the thought of those nights with Ofeer. He wanted to forget her, yet every night she still invaded his dreams, naked and lustful, and in his dreams he was with her again in her mother's bed, loving her as Jerael died outside the window.

  He took a deep breath. He must forget Ofeer. He would focus only on his quest now. Only on the task ahead.