"Peace?" Berengar's eyes blazed. "What peace can there be now? It's too late for peace, Atalia. It was too late for peace when Aelar invaded our forests. It was too late for peace when they flayed your father and nailed his dying flesh to the cross. It was too late for peace when they butchered tens of thousands in Zohar. And it's too late for peace now, with countless dead across the world, and an end to this war only days away." His voice softened. His grip on her relaxed. "Atalia. My wife. My love. We're almost there. Tomorrow we'll see them—the white walls of the city. Of Aelar. Of an end to war."
Atalia lowered her head. "I know what awaits us in Aelar," she whispered. "A city of a million people, a city as large as all of Zohar. Burning. Crumbling to the ground. A world collapsing into chaos."
"A world in which Zohar will be free," said Berengar. "A world in which Gael, Nur, Elania, and all other lands regain their freedom. These are the choices leaders must make, the choices most people never face. Sometimes we must slay thousands to save millions. Sometimes we must burn cities to save nations."
And burn little girls who played on the beach, Atalia thought. Burn old dreams of heroism. Burn a stupid, naive girl who trained with wooden swords, dreaming of bloodless battles and the glory of triumph.
She nodded, head lowered, tears in her eyes.
"I'm already cursed," she whispered. "If there's any afterlife, and if there's any punishment for sinners, I've earned it tenfold. I'm beyond redemption." She raised her head and stared into her husband's eyes. "So let us end this."
She slept that night between Berengar and Feina, wrapped in their warmth, held in their soft embraces—the comfort of killers, like a child sleeping between serpents.
In the dawn, the hosts of Gael swept onward across the plains of Aelar. All the legions that had come between them lay dead, rotting, trailing back toward the northern forests. The Gaelians marched these last few leagues unopposed, animals and farmers fleeing before them. A red sun rose. A blood sun. Crimson smoke cloaked the sky, and crows swarmed. The birds had learned to follow the horde, learned that meals awaited them. And there, with the noon sun a red stain above, dripping through the veil of smoke, Atalia saw them.
The walls and towers of Aelar—there before her in the south, rising before the Encircled Sea.
"Aelar," she whispered, halting her black horse. "Slaughter and war. Burning fire. The end of the land and the end of the world."
Berengar sat at her side on his white stag. Feina rode up on her mare. Behind them spread the tens of thousands—riders in fur and iron, footmen roaring, a nation waving axes, spears, hammers, shields, the swarm of the barbarians, bearded, stinking, howling for war. Their cries shook the land.
"For victory," said Berengar.
"For the songs of generations," said Feina.
Atalia gazed at her helmet—shaped like a sneering lion—a symbol of home. She placed it on her head, and she drew her sword.
For you, Father, she thought. For you, my family. For Zohar. And for one girl with a wooden sword who died between a forest and white walls.
"Gael, forward!" she bellowed. "To Aelar! To death! To endless glory!"
And with roars that shook the world, with flashing weapons and thundering hooves, with a promise of blood and tumbling walls, they stormed forth—toward Aelar, toward a crumbling world and endless fire.
EPHER
"Listen to me. Listen! You will contact her. You will speak to Maya through the light. You will tell me if she lives. Do you hear me? Avinasi, do you hear?"
Lying in bed, the old woman gave Epher a blank gaze, a weak smile. Over the past few months, the ancient royal lumer had seemed to melt, her flesh dripping like wax, leaving her skeletal, draped with skin, a ghost of who she had been. At times, the lumer seemed almost lucid—lucid enough to draw a little magic, to gaze west to the coast, to warn him of the legions mustering. But most of the time Avinasi spoke as from a dream, gazing at a hidden world.
"Doom," she whispered, reaching out to him, eyes open but blind. "The walls of Beth Eloh—falling. Punishment. Wrath. Ruin." Her hand curled, a claw, the fingers twisting, and Epher grasped it. Her finger bones felt so frail, mere twigs.
"Avinasi," he said softly. "I need you to summon your luminescence. To call Maya. To tell me where she is. Is she alive?"
She gripped his hand, surprisingly strong. Her toothless mouth opened and closed. "All will fall. All will shatter. But she will rise."
Epher sighed. Avinasi had always seemed old. Even in Epher's childhood, she had been ancient beyond measure, wrinkled, wise, all-knowing. But in the past six months, Avinasi had seemed to age an extra six decades, to shrink to half her previous size, this strip of skin and bones, able to just lie in bed, no control over her bowels, no control of her mind. She lay in a fine bed carved of cedar, in a fine room whose walls were coated with mosaics, but the place stank of death, and no fire could warm it.
Epher pried off the lumer's clawlike hand, rose from his chair, and turned toward Olive. "All she can do is speak of doom. And without even using the magic." He sighed again. "It seems that soon I will be a king without a lumer. The first one in . . . well, ever, I suppose."
And perhaps the last king too, if the old woman is to be believed, he added silently.
"You have me," Olive said softly. She wore a white dress, and the light from the windows kindled her hair of fire.
"The walls will shatter!" Avinasi cried. "The daughters of Beth Eloh will weep! The sons of—" Coughing seized her, and soon she was whimpering, consumed by the growth of illness within her, the pale roots that spread inside her body, a disease beyond even her own healing. Her attendants—two women in white—dabbed the old lumer's brow with damp cloth and whispered blessings.
"Every goddamn physician in the city has seen her," Epher said. "Every girl we could find with just a hint of Luminosity—both of them—have tried to work their wonders. They tell me we'll be lucky if she lives to see another dawn." He turned toward the window and stared outside at the city—a city preparing for war. "We'll be lucky if any of us live to see another dawn."
Olive came to stand between him and the window. She placed a hand on his cheek. "You is our king, Epher. We need your strength. We believe in your strength. You no sink in despair. You need give us hope."
Hope? he thought. What hope was there left in this land? The legions advanced toward Beth Eloh, the countryside burned, Gefen lay in ruin, and all that stood between him and Zohar's fall were a few ancient walls.
But Olive took his hands in hers, and she gazed at him softly, and as always around her, his fear faded, and all those voices in his mind softened.
"You heal me like Luminosity." He smiled and cupped her cheek in his hand. "You can always see some light."
He kissed her lips. She was goodness. She was a love that would always warm him. Perhaps they would not last the year, not even the month, maybe not even the day. He vowed to cherish every last moment with Olive, every last light before the darkness.
"Doom," whispered Avinasi from her bed, head tilted back, eyes closed. "Walls falling . . . and she will come . . ."
Leaving the lumer to her attendants, Epher and Olive left the chamber, this beautiful and foul room high in the palace. With only a handful of guards, they walked through the city. In times of peace, a hundred thousand souls lived within the crowded streets of Beth Eloh, crammed together into this box of stone atop the mountain. Today, with the legions swarming across the countryside, that number must have grown fivefold. For months now, they had been streaming into the city: farmers, villagers, loggers, fishermen. Refugees. All told the same stories: cohorts of Aelarians burning villages, stealing crops, stealing women, butchering men. Zohar's Blade had slain the legionaries within the city, but thousands had remained across the kingdom. And if Avinasi's few coherent words were to be believed, thousands more were now advancing from Gefen toward these walls.
Epher and Olive traveled down the Mount of Cedars, the inner city, the acropolis
in the heart of Beth Eloh, the holiest ground of Zohar. The palace rose behind them, built by King Elshalom; even then, a thousand years ago, Zohar had been ancient. The Temple soared to their west, among the largest buildings in the world, dwarfing even the temples in Aelar, though perhaps the grace of God was gone now. The legions had burned the ark within, said to have held Eloh's spirit, and the High Priests had been slain.
Perhaps God is dead, Epher thought. Perhaps they butchered him like they butchered myriads of our people. Or perhaps our Lord of Light abandoned us, his holy children, millennia ago, and destruction after destruction, we are blind to see it, too stubborn to believe it.
Soon they were walking through the necropolis that spread across the southern slope of the mount. Epher did not walk here often, usually preferring to descend the other slopes. But today he walked among these ancient graves, Olive and his guards walking behind him. Here was the oldest cemetery in Zohar; many of these tombs were over a thousand years old, twice as old as even the most ancient ruins in Aelar. Here, on this mountain where they said Eloh dwelled, rested the bones of legendary kings, princes, heroes, prophets, a second city. No grass grew here, no trees, no life—only memories, only stones, the tombstones so crowded Epher could barely make his way between them, their epitaphs so faded he could not read them. Perhaps that was all that would remain of Beth Eloh. Perhaps a future traveler would find nothing but a city of old stones, faded by a thousand years of wind and rain and searing summer, old ghosts and memories that whispered.
They reached the walls that circled the Mount, and they walked through a gateway into the outer city. A group of women stood there, robes open, sores on their lips. Epher had told his guards to disperse the Consecrated Sisterhood. He knew that some High Priests had tolerated them, even worshiped with them. But the priests were dead now, and Epher would not tolerate sacred prostitution in his city.
"Worship Eloh for a coin!" one woman cried, only for the others to pull her back into the shadows, where they knelt, recognizing their king.
Epher frowned and approached them. "Stand up."
The women rose, some of them old, others barely more than youths. Their breasts were bare, their faces made up with garish cosmetics, and cheap jewels hung around their necks—tin, brass, copper. Most were haggard, ribs pressing against their skin, their genitals inflamed. At a nod from Epher, a guard moved among them, pulling their robes shut, hiding their shame.
"You make good money here," Epher said to them. "You should not be living in squalor."
"We return our coins to the Temple, my king," said one woman, her front teeth missing. "All but the last few coppers. We worship the light."
"Worship the light, my king!" said the first woman who had spoken, a dazed look in her eyes, the telltale mark of hintan. "Worship the light for a coin! Worship Eloh outside the holy Temple."
Epher's frown deepened. "This is not worship. This is sin. I will not tolerate prostitution in the city of Elshalom."
A woman stepped closer to him, eyes flashing, cheeks flushing. "We are kadesh! We are consecrated. Do not mistake us for prostitutes. Our bodies worship the light of God."
"Perhaps God no longer dwells in this city," said Epher. "Only your shame and misery. A storm is coming. Leave this place. Do not die here. Not like this."
One of the consecrated approached him, and Epher felt all his anger at these sisters fade, replaced with pity.
She's barely more than a child, he thought.
The girl stood no taller than his shoulder, thin as a twig. Her skin was not yet ravaged with illness, her hair dark and smooth, her eyes large and still full of some hope, some light.
"There is shame and misery in this life," the girl said to him. "But all our suffering brings her closer. The day is near. She will not linger much longer. She will enter this city, and she will bring milk and honey, healing, blessings."
Epher knelt before the child. He took her hand in his. Her fingers were slender, scabbed. "Who, child?" he whispered.
The girl's eyes shone. "We do not know her name. Our savior. A woman in white. A woman in light. Through the Gate of Tears, she will enter this city." Now tears filled her eyes, and she lowered her head. "Though I cannot find the gate. I have traveled across the city, seeking it on every wall, but the guards of the walls strike me, and I fail at my task. But I still believe, my king. I believe that God's light shines, that he wants his child to return home."
"What's your name?" Epher said.
"Abishag, daughter of Naeem."
"One of my guards will take you to my palace, Abishag Bat Naeem. I would have you serve as my cupbearer. These streets are too cruel for one so young."
She bowed her head. "You are kind, King Epheriah, and blessed, but I cannot leave these streets. For here is my task. My search continues. I must find the Gate of Tears so that she may enter Beth Eloh." She hesitated, then reached out and touched his cheek. "Be brave, King Epheriah, and do not abandon hope. Our savior comes."
With that, the girl left him, vanishing into the alleyways.
The king and his guards continued to walk through the city. These streets had always been crowded, but now Epher could barely make his way through. Hundreds of thousands crammed into these walls, every family hosting as many refugees as would fit into their home. Many other refugees simply lived on the streets. Faces peered from every window. People knelt on every roadside, balcony, and rooftop. Thousands had raised camps in the markets, courtyards, graveyards. Epher did not know how many people had made it here from the countryside, how many had died in the villages and farmlands, but here around him—gathered together—was the nation of Zohar, here within these walls. An ancient people. A people who had suffered slavery, captivity, war after war, who sought life, who sought hope—in him, in their king.
As Epher passed among them, he blessed them, nodded to them, spoke to them—to soldiers, tradesmen, beggars, the ill. They had to see that their king stood among them, that he still fought, that there was still hope as the storm approached.
Yet who do I look to for hope? Epher thought.
They rode down Shemesh Road, an ancient path that circled the Valley of Ashes. If there was an unholy place in Beth Eloh, surely it was here. Before King Elshalom had united this city, idolaters would sacrifice their children in this valley, burning them in bronze bulls to appease their false gods. It was here, only months ago, that Remus Marcellus had crucified six hundred souls—nearly crucified Epher himself. Refugees crammed the city, and they had come here too, setting crude camps in the cursed valley, this place where none had ever dared raise homes.
Prophets stood along Shemesh Road, long of beard, thin of limbs. Some wore ragged tunics. Others wore nothing but loincloths, and dust caked their bodies.
"Beth Eloh will fall!" shouted one prophet, beard gray, eyes mad. "God has cursed this city. He has cursed us for the whores who gather at our Temple, for the greed of kings who sit in halls of gold, for the shame of Beth Eloh's daughters who paint and perfume their bodies, who sell their flesh upon hallowed ground. Repent, sinners, lest the scourge of Eloh falls upon you, and his eagle warriors cast down your bones!"
Epher kept walking, moving down the road.
"Zohar burns!" shouted a man, waving a staff topped with a crow's skull. "As it is written: the walls of the holy city will fall! The daughters of Beth Eloh will weep for their sons and husbands, and blood will fill the valley. Behold, the eagles fly! The lions will perish. The bones of children will lie under sand! The sins of Zohar have raised the eagles of wrath."
As Epher kept walking, he passed prophet after prophet, man after man vowing doom and desolation, punishments for pride, arrogance, greed, promiscuity.
"Fucking cunts," Olive muttered, walking by them. She thrust two fingers at one prophet. "My prophecy is you fuck off."
Epher pulled her away. "Olive, you're the companion of a king now."
She snorted. "I can still say fuck. I just say it louder."
"King Epheri
ah!" rose a voice behind. "King Epheriah! Hear me! Eagles fly!"
At first Epher thought it another prophet who had shouted, but he turned around to see a man running toward him, clad in armor, a sword at his side. It was Ramael, Master Malaci's grandson. Last Epher had seen the man, he had stormed out from the throne room in rage, but now fear filled Ramael's eyes.
"King Epheriah!" He reached Epher and leaned over, panting, drenched with sweat. "The southern road. They march! They march up the mountain toward the city. Three legions. Men speak of two more marching up the western road." He grabbed Epher's arms. "It's war. It's here."
Olive gripped his hand and looked at Epher with huge eyes, all her fury gone. Epher sucked in air. He nodded.
"I head to the southern wall," he said. "Ramael, muster the hosts. Every man, woman, and child with a weapon. Let us cover every wall and tower in this city."
He marched down the road, Olive at his side, his guards around him. They made their way through the city, past streets where people cried out in fear, where elders prayed, where babes wept, where whispers and wails rose of doom. Finally Epher reached the southern wall. The Gate of Flowers rose here, ancient and crumbling, speaking of past splendor. Epher had not seen flowers here for years, but in ancient times, it was said that the maidens of Zohar would bring forth carts of flowers through these gates, gifts to the Temple. Today all that remained of that old tradition was a blossom carved onto the craggy keystone.
He climbed onto the wall and stood at the battlements that rose atop the gate. His warriors spread out at his sides, manning the wall, bows and slings in hand. He stared toward the eastern mountainside, and he saw them there in the distance.
The legions marched up the mountain road, unit by unit, the sun on their armor. Chariots. Horsemen. Thousands of infantrymen. Wagons rolled with them, carrying the engines of war. When Epher looked westward, he saw more legions there, crawling up toward the other city gates. The noose of Aelar tightened around Beth Eloh. Their war drums boomed. Their horns blared. Soon he could hear the rumble of their footfalls, a storm fast approaching. He counted five legions—a massive host, large enough to topple nations. Some legions were fresh arrivals from overseas, others had spent the past six months burning Zohar's countryside. All were converging here for their final battle. For the final subjugation of Zohar.
Temples of Dust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 4) Page 20
