Even if it was with bloody Ofeer, he thought, a sheep so black she'd make the midnight seem bright.
The sky began to darken, and the road stretched onward through the wilderness. Crickets chirped and the stars emerged. Koren pulled out his oil lantern from his pack—a purchase from the last town—and they walked onward in the darkness. They were about to set camp on the roadside, as they had these past few nights, when the lights of a village shone ahead.
"Thank goodness," Koren said. "Maybe they'll have an inn with an actual bed. Or a barn. Hell, after so many nights sleeping outside in the cold, I'd take an outhouse."
Koren and Valentina approached to find a crossroads. One road stretched from Aelar in the south toward the northern coast. The second road stretched from the western sea toward Gael in the east. Here did these two great highways, built generations ago, intersect. Most civilizations only paved roads within their cities, not the countryside. The Aelarians were proud of their roads, masterworks of cobblestones and mortar that traversed the Empire, and crossroads were holy places. A temple rose here to Peregrinis, the Aelarian god of travel, said to be the son of Aelia, goddess of music, and of Vin, the god of wine. As Koren stared at the statue of Peregrinis—a smiling man in sandals, a pack across his shoulder—he reflected that he much preferred the deity's father. Words were engraved onto the statue's pedestal: Blessed be those who travel to Aelar, and may those who leave her light soon find their way home.
Along with the temple, several shops rose here, closed for the night. Words were engraved onto their marble pediments, describing the wares within: sandals, lanterns, dried fruit, water skins, medicine, and other supplies for travelers on the long road. The Empire was large, and journeys between its provinces could take weeks, even months. But there was help along the way.
Say what you like about the Aelarians, Koren thought, the bastards know how to keep you moving.
It was more than could be said for Zohar and its network of dirt paths, many of them naturally carved by goats and barely discernible to human eyes. At least Zoharites, with their tiny kingdom, didn't have to worry as much about weary feet. With a swift horse or a good walking staff, you could cross all of Zohar within a few days. The Aelarian Empire, meanwhile, could take months to traverse—months of sore muscles and blisters and boredom.
"Look, Koren." Valentina pointed. "The inn's still open."
Koren turned to see the building, the largest one in the village aside from the temple. It rose three stories tall, built of sturdy bricks and topped with a tiled roof. Lights shone in the windows, and smoke plumed from three chimneys.
"Not sure about this, Val," he said. "Inns tend to have travelers. Travelers tend to relish human company, then rush back to Aelar and report to the empress about a couple of suspicious-looking people who might just be the escaped princess and the brother of Zohar's king. You know, just the two most wanted people in the Empire."
"Nonsense." She pointed at her hair. "Dyed black. See?" She pointed at his cheeks. "Shaved cheeks, no beard. Nobody will recognize us, Koren."
He rubbed his cheeks. They were smooth for the first time in years. It wasn't much of a disguise, but Valentina was already walking toward the inn. And by the gods' marble balls, Koren could smell it. His mouth watered. Food. Bread was in there. He sniffed. And lamb! And . . . He drooled. Wine.
His belly rumbled. For days now, they had subsisted on crackers, brackish water, and cold smoked sausages.
"All right!" he said. "But if Porcia's in there, I'm only staying for one cup of wine. Two tops, if it's a good vintage."
Four marble columns formed the inn's portico, and its triangular pediment displayed engravings of common travelers rather than gods or heroes, the men and women enjoying a marble feast. When Koren and Valentina stepped inside, they found a bustling hall, full of light and mirth despite the late hour. Frescoes covered the walls, each depicting a different land. The northern wall showed a scene of misty Elania, the northern island with its white cliffs and rolling hills, the most distant province in the Empire. The western wall showed the sunny beaches of Berenia, the western border of the Empire. The eastern wall portrayed the forests of Gael, beasts and barbarians hiding between the tree trunks. The finest fresco sprawled across the southern wall, displaying the glorious city of Aelar, painted with thousands of towers and rooftops.
Many travelers reclined on divans across the hall, enjoying meals served on low tables. A fireplace crackled, musicians played lyres and citharas, and servers moved back and forth, carrying jugs of wine. Koren hesitated for a moment and felt for the sword hidden under his cloak. He scanned the crowd for legionaries or perhaps a deranged cannibal empress, but the place seemed safe enough. Only a few of the travelers were ethnically Aelarians. Most were local northerners, tall and broad and blond. Perhaps their grandparents had fought the Republic, but here were people born under conquest.
Once he felt secure enough, Koren made a beeline to the back of the hall, where food was steaming. A granite counter stretched here over braziers full of embers. Holes were cut into the counter, and metal pots lay within, kept warm by the embers beneath. Above each dish, a mosaic described its ingredients and price. Koren grabbed a plate and began piling it high with chicken legs, beef stew, and—oh thank Eloh—lamb cooked with mint and pepper. Valentina looked at him over a plate of grapes, a bright red apple, two small oranges, and fresh greens.
"You really should eat more fruit and vegetables," she said. "You'd be less cranky with proper nutrition."
He widened his eyes in protest. "There's mint on my lamb! Mint's a vegetable."
She groaned. "Too much meat."
"What? I skipped the bowl of snails!" He glanced at the shells and cringed.
Valentina rolled her eyes and paid for their plates. His cost five times more.
There was only one free couch in the common room, set before a low table. Koren approached and sat down, but Valentina shook her head.
"Aelarians don't sit down while eating." She nudged him away and lay on her side, propped up on one elbow.
"Good thing I'm not Aelarian." Koren sat by her feet. The couch was so low his knees rose to his shoulders.
For a moment they ate in silence. Valentina was right. Sitting down on these low Aelarian couches was about as comfortable as hanging in a gibbet. When he shifted, joints creaking, Valentina patted a section of the couch behind her. Koren swallowed a bite of lamb and lay on his side behind her. She was slender, her waist narrow, and Koren could easily reach over her for his plate on the table. A server poured them mugs of spiced wine. Koren drank one cup. Another. The warmth of the drink filled him, though not as much as the warmth of Valentina's body. It was hard to concentrate on his meal like this, lying pressed up to her. Every nerve in his body seemed heightened, feeling the softness of her clothes, of her body beneath. Perhaps it was the wine, but Koren's blood heated.
"Your hair smells nice," he said, lamely, cursing the wine that brought such words to his mouth.
She turned toward him, still reclining on the couch. "It must be the dye I used."
God above, when she faced him, it wasn't much better. Their thighs touched, and she just had to lean a little bit closer for their chests to touch. Koren swallowed a lump in his throat. God damn it. This wasn't Zohar, and he wasn't spending time with a port-side girl with a ready grin and coquettish lips. This was the bloody princess of an empire—one who technically owned him.
He reached out and stroked her hair. Damn it—what was in that wine?
"It's very smooth," he said.
She nodded. "Thank you."
She was beautiful. Koren couldn't look away. She wasn't like Claudia—wasn't domineering, cruel, selfish. Valentina was all softness, sweetness, her eyes so kind. Koren leaned forward, just slightly. He remembered how he would lie with Claudia, over and over, in the bathhouse, in her bed. Would that he could make love to Valentina! It would be more pleasurable than a thousand nights with Claudia.
"
Um . . . Val." He swallowed, suddenly nervous. "This is probably the wine talking, but . . . Well, can I kiss you? Just your cheek, if you want!"
Her eyes widened. "What? Kiss me? Why would you want to do that?"
He winced. "Because . . . I like you? And . . . you're pretty? And . . ." He shook his fist at his cup of wine. "This is all your fault!"
Valentina sighed, leaned forward, and kissed his forehead. "How's that?"
It was nice, but not quite what Koren had expected. He looked away from her, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Valentina. I was presumptuous. You're a princess, and I'm just a slave."
Your slave, he thought. And just a few weeks ago—Claudia's slave.
He didn't want to talk to Valentina about that. Claudia was a beautiful woman, powerful too, the desire of many men across the world, yet Koren felt strangely embarrassed by their tryst. It had never been something he had wanted. He had never felt like this about Claudia, not the tingly sensation he felt around Valentina.
"It's not that," Valentina said, still very close to him. "I love another. I gave my heart to Iris, my lumer. She's gone now. Marcus Octavius murdered her." Something hard and cold filled her eyes, but then her gaze softened again. "I don't see myself ever loving, even properly kissing, somebody else. You understand, don't you?"
Koren opened his mouth, then closed it, lost for words. He had known women in Zohar who had loved other women. And his cousin, Yohanan, had loved another man.
"Do you mean . . . you loved her, like . . . like a woman loves a man?"
"I mean, Koren, that we should probably finish our meals, rent a room, and sleep off this wine."
He nodded. "Good. I like sleeping."
He was reaching toward Valentina's plate, hoping to steal a grape, when he saw them enter the tavern. Three legionaries, all in armor, swords on their thighs.
Koren froze, hand halfway toward the plate. His pulse quickened. Valentina stiffened beside him.
They're just travelers looking for some food and wine, Koren told himself, trying to steady his racing heart.
The legionaries stepped into the center of the common room, their sandals muddying the mosaic floor. One of the men, his helmet sporting a red crest of horsehair, spoke in a loud voice that filled the hall.
"Good evening, friends! We seek two travelers! An albino woman, her skin white as milk, and a young Zoharite man. Have you seen such travelers? Any information leading to their apprehension will be rewarded by Empress Porcia!"
Koren's heart, already racing, now tried to leap from his mouth. He remained lying on the couch, but his hand now strayed toward the short sword hidden under his cloak. He saw Valentina's hand stray down to her own hidden blade. Her hand trembled.
"Wait," Koren whispered to her. "Not yet."
The legionaries walked through the tavern. Silence fell. All conversation and laughter had died, and all the eating and drinking had stopped. A few people glanced toward Valentina and Koren, frowning, then back at the legionaries.
"An albino and a Zoharite!" the legionary repeated, marching through the hall. "The albino might have dyed her hair. The Zoharite should be easier to spot." The soldier stared from one table to another, then looked directly at Koren and met his gaze. The legionary's eyes widened the slightest, and he began to march toward Koren and Valentina.
"Just play along," Koren whispered into Valentina's ear . . . then leaped off the couch and gave a theatrical bow.
"Hello, hello, my dear soldier friend!" Koren said, speaking in flawless Aelarian—at least, Master Malaci had always told him his Aelarian was flawless. "An albino and a Zoharite, an albino and a Zoharite . . ." He tapped his chin. "Nope, can't say that I've seen them. Myself, I'm Sekadian. We're often mistaken for our fellow desert dwellers. And my companion, well . . . She's a bit pale, yes, but who isn't in this cloudy northern land? Come to think of it, I do believe I've seen an albino and Zoharite on the road heading east to Gael, and—"
"That's enough." The soldier drew his sword. "You'll have to come with us." His friends, two fellow legionaries, stepped forth too, drawing their own blades.
Oh no, Koren thought. I'm not walking all the way back to Aelar.
As the soldiers advanced toward him, Koren drew his blade.
"Now, now, friends," Koren said. "I'm just a weary traveler and expert swordsman, and I don't want trouble, but if you really want to fight, I—" He cringed as they charged, blades swinging. "Okay, you want to fight!"
He raised his sword, parrying a legionary's blade. The steel clanged. Another legionary's sword swung down, and Valentina shouted and leaped forward with her own sword, diverting the blow.
"I knew it." Koren swung his blade and kicked, knocking a man back. "Finally we could have spent a night in a real bed, not the roadside, and the Empire just had to ruin it."
The legionaries regrouped and circled them. Koren and Valentina stood back-to-back, blades raised. Across the inn, most of the people fled outside or upstairs, though some stood along the walls, cheering for the legions. Koren was the son of nobility, and he had been trained by the best sword masters in Gefen, though these legionaries were just as well trained. Two men attacked Koren at once, one from each side. He parried one blade and kicked, knocking over a table, and the second man stumbled. As the first legionary swung again, Koren vaulted over the overturned table, landed by the fallen legionary, and drove down his sword into the man's back, right between the lacing that held the armor together. Blood spurted and the legionary screamed.
The first soldier leaped over the fallen table too, blade swinging. Koren ducked, lashed his blade, and hit the man's armor. Valentina screamed, walking backward toward the wall, desperately parrying the blows of the third legionary.
As he fought, Koren was back there again. Back in Gefen. Fighting alongside Atalia, surrounded by the enemy, watching his city fall. Watching his people, his friends, his father die.
A blade scraped across Valentina's arm, ripping her cloak, tearing her skin. She screamed and looked at Koren, terror in her eyes.
Koren howled, rage flaring inside him.
No.
He had seen thousands die. He had seen Atalia drown. He had seen Seneca nail his father to the cross.
I will not see them butcher Valentina too.
With a roar, he swung his blade, parrying the legionary's gladius. He retreated, step by step, moving back toward the counter with the sizzling meals. The legionary drove his blade forward. The steel nicked Koren's shoulder, and he grunted.
"You're a good fighter, rat." The legionary grinned. "You'll do well in the arena when my empress makes you fight her lions."
Koren's back hit the counter. He blocked another blow.
"I'm a Zoharite." Swinging his sword with one hand, he reached behind him and grabbed the rim of a heavy iron pot. "We are the lions."
With a howl, Koren yanked the pot out from its socket in the counter, then swung it forward.
The metal clanged against the legionary's helmet. The meal—a bubbling lamb stew—spilled over the man's face.
As the legionary screamed, Koren drove his blade into the man's neck.
He yanked the blade free and ran, not even waiting to see the legionary fall. Only one legionary still lived, cornering Valentina. Her sword had fallen, and her arm bled.
"You're nothing but a dirty lupa," the legionary was saying, grabbing at her, tearing her cloak. "Might be I'll fuck you myself before Porcia tosses you into the brothels where you belon—"
Koren swung his sword, driving the blade through the man's arm, down to the elbow, and the metal banged against bone. As the man screamed, Koren grabbed him, yanked him off Valentina, and shoved him down. The legionary fell, arm spurting blood, nearly severed. Koren placed his foot on the man's chest, raised his sword, and prepared to end the battle.
"I never liked fighting," Koren said, panting, shoulder bleeding. "I always preferred a good drink, a few jokes, a jolly song. But I am a son of Sela, a son of Elior. I am a son of the d
esert. The blood of Elshalom runs through me, and the blood of many legionaries stains my hands." His eyes dampened. "This is not who I wanted to be. But you made me a killer. And so now I will kill."
As the fallen legionary stared up in horror, his sword fallen, Koren raised his gladius higher, prepared to drive down the killing blow.
"Koren, wait!" Valentina cried, clutching her wound.
Koren stood, panting, staring down at the fallen legionary. "Valentina, look away."
"Koren, please." She reached out to him. "He doesn't need to die."
He looked at her, then back at the man below. "He tried to take us to Porcia for slow death, or to kill us himself. He would have ripped off your cloak and . . ." He sneered. "He is the enemy."
Valentina placed a hand on his arm. "And yet he's disarmed. He's wounded. He's no longer a threat to us." She stared at Koren. "The battle is over. You don't have to kill again."
Koren lowered his head and clenched his teeth. Tears burned down his cheeks. "I have to kill. I have to. I killed many in Zohar. I killed two men just now, and I will gladly kill a third. That's what this war made me." His knees were trembling. "And I will feel no guilt."
Valentina stroked his hair, and her voice was soft. "War changes us, hardens us, places demons within us. But I'm with you, Koren. And I know the goodness in your heart. You are a soldier, a fighter, but not a murderer."
He scoffed. "So killing him is murder?" He stared down at the fallen legionary. The man lay pinned under his boot, arm still spurting blood, cut halfway through the bone. "If we let him live, he'll go to Porcia. He'll tell her what he saw. And she'll send the wrath of the legions up this road."
Valentina narrowed her eyes, and now an edge filled her voice. "And can you say with certainty that none in this tavern, merchants and pilgrims and other travelers, won't do the same? Or will you kill them all too to conceal our tracks?"
Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4) Page 2
