HALLS OF SHADOW

KINGDOMS OF SAND, BOOK FIVE

by

Daniel Arenson

Table of Contents

- MAP

- CHAPTER ONE: SENECA

- CHAPTER TWO: ATALIA

- CHAPTER THREE: OFEER

- CHAPTER FOUR: CLAUDIA

- CHAPTER FIVE: SENECA

- CHAPTER SIX: EPHER

- CHAPTER SEVEN: KOREN

- CHAPTER EIGHT: MAYA

- CHAPTER NINE: VALENTINA

- CHAPTER TEN: TIRUS

- CHAPTER ELEVEN: ATALIA

- CHAPTER TWELVE: OFEER

- CHAPTER THIRTEEN: CLAUDIA

- CHAPTER FOURTEEN: EPHER

- CHAPTER FIFTEEN: OFEER

- CHAPTER SIXTEEN: MAYA

- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: SENECA

- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: IMANI

- CHAPTER NINETEEN: EPHER

- CHAPTER TWENTY: MAYA

- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: SENECA

- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: EPHER

- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: ATALIA

- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: CLAUDIA

- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: KOREN

- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: MAYA

- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: TIRUS

- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: ATALIA

- CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: EPHER

- CHAPTER THIRTY: MAYA

- CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: ATALIA

- CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: MAYA

- CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: EPHER

- AFTERWORD

- NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

- KEEP IN TOUCH

Full-sized map: DanielArenson.com/Map

SENECA

"The empress is dead! The empress is dead!" The cries of joy rang across Shenutep, capital of Nur. "Porcia Octavius is dead!"

Seneca stood within an archway atop the tallest pyramid in Nur, indeed the tallest building in the known world. He gazed upon the southern kingdom—a land of rolling savanna, of ancient obelisks and temples, of joy and of twisting, digging, burning devastation.

She's dead. Seneca's hands curled into fists, and his lip twitched. The bitch fucking went and died before I could kill her.

The pyramid where Seneca stood soared hundreds of feet tall. The archway was worked into the crest, leading into the royal chambers of Nur. Standing here, Seneca could see the entire city, like a god gazing upon his servants.

Shenutep, southernmost city in the Empire, rejoiced. Elephants marched down cobbled boulevards, bedecked in gems and gold, their riders blowing trumpets. Red and yellow streamers billowed from stone roofs, temple domes, and hundreds of ships. Merchant cogs, military galleys, and fishing barges filled the Majina River, the waterway that halved the city and flowed north through savanna and desert toward the distant Encircled Sea. Nur was an ancient civilization, even older than Zohar, and its monuments of past glory rose from the city: pyramids that could tower over any palace in Aelar, obelisks tipped with silver and platinum, and hybrid gods carved of limestone, their human bodies sprouting animal heads.

These edifices of glory dwarfed the thousands of people who clogged the streets, chanting with joy.

"The empress is dead! The empress is dead!"

Nurian men wore nothing but short white skirts, barely more than loincloths, and sandals. The sunlight shone on their dark brown skin, bronze armlets, and curtains of braided hair. The women wore kalasiris, formfitting dresses of white linen, and they played timbrels and danced in the streets. Not only Nurians, natives of this land, filled the streets. Legionaries, soldiers of Aelar, stood at roadsides, clad in lorica segmentata and crested helmets—once soldiers of Governor Cicero, now warriors of the Southern Empire, loyal to Seneca.

Alongside Nurians and legionaries, many foreigners celebrated here too. Thousands of refugees had flocked to Shenutep over the past few years, fleeing the flames around the Encircled Sea. Gaelians stood on rooftops in their neighborhood, beefy men and women with blond hair and skin too pale for this southern, sun-drenched land. Phedians and Leerians, refugees from the west, had found shelter here after Emperor Marcus had razed their cities to the ground.

Even Zoharites—hundreds, maybe thousands of them—lived here in Shenutep, some refugees of the civil war between Yohanan and Shefael, others who had been living in Nur for generations. The Zoharites—these eastern people with olive skin, black hair, and an invisible god—cheered the loudest, crowding the riverside where they had built their homes and temples, playing timbrels and singing in their tongue.

As Seneca stared at the Zoharite neighborhood, at the desert rats who congregated there, he thought of Ofeer.

Are you still in Aelar? His chest shook, and his fingernails dug into his palms. Do you still cower there, my half sister? Do you rejoice too?

He winced in sudden pain and closed his eyes. The memories pounded through him. Meeting Ofeer on the hills of Zohar, entering the cave with her, marveling at how easily she had given herself to him. The way she had doffed her dress, and her naked body warm beneath his. Her smile, her beautiful smile, her teeth so white against her tanned face. Her kisses. Her wisdom. How he had felt with her—stronger, wiser, in command, a man who could protect her, show her the wonders of the world.

I always felt like a boy around my father and Porcia, Seneca thought. With you, Ofeer, I felt like a man.

"But you betrayed me," Seneca whispered, and his voice trembled with rage. "You let me fuck you—again and again, even as Jerael Sela rotted outside the window, still alive—when you knew. You knew that Marcus was your father. That I'm your brother. That Porcia was our sister."

Porcia.

Seneca's teeth gnashed.

New memories pounded him, powerful as the blows of war hammers. Porcia striking him in his childhood. Porcia returning from Beth Eloh, slapping a grisly gift against his chest. Porcia humiliating him before their father. Porcia—depraved, cruel, a tyrant who lay with animals and gladiators, who consumed human flesh—stealing his empire from him, forcing him into exile, attacking him even here in Nur.

Porcia Octavius. His sister. His tormentor. Dead.

"The empress is dead!" they cheered. "Porcia is dead!"

They danced, sang, celebrated the fall of the empress who had burned Nur's northern port, whose cruelty was infamous across the world. Yet Seneca—Seneca, who hated her more than anyone, who still bore the scars of her violence—could not rejoice.

"I should have killed you." His strained whisper cracked, then exploded in a howl. "I should have been the one to kill you!"

He could no longer stand it, this view of the city, the river that snaked between the walls to the savanna, the northern haze beyond which lay his birthright, his lands to conquer. That glory had been stolen from him. The dream of sailing into Aelaria Maritima, of confronting Porcia in the Acropolis, of defeating her as the Empire watched, of mounting her head on a pike. His greatest dream, his destiny—stolen by a fucking guard who stabbed her in a goddamn fucking bath.

Seneca turned away from the view. He reentered the pyramid, fists trembling. A chamber of opulence awaited him—the ancestral chamber of Nur's monarch high above the kingdom. Hieroglyphs covered the walls and columns, painted with priceless ultramarine and indigo, sprawling between frescoes of Nurian warriors, wild animals, and hybrid gods. Giltwood tables, chairs, and a bed shone with jewels. Statues of jackals, giraffes, elephants, and dancing women stood on the tiled floor, forged of silver, gold, and platinum. Here was the center of the Southern Empire, this realm Seneca had conquered south of the Encircled Sea, seceding from the Aelarian Empire his sister had stolen.

His sister that he would now never slay.

Tears filled his eyes, and Seneca roared. He drew his sword—a broad gladius, forged of the best steel in Aelar—and swung the blade. A table shattered, scattering chalices, a wine jug, and a mancala board. The game's pieces, each inlaid with a gemstone, scattered across the floor. He kicked them aside, stumbled toward a shelf, and swung his blade again. Ancient stone statuettes of cattle and shepherds—a priest had told Seneca they were three thousand years old—flew and shattered against the floor. He moved through the room, smashing vases and statues and antiques, howling with rage.

"Dead! She's dead. She's fucking dead and I'll never kill her."

He crossed the chamber, approaching an obsidian statue of a nude woman with a cobra's head. Howling, shaking with rage, Seneca grabbed the idol—it rose taller than him—and strained, teeth grinding, muscles twisting, until it tilted. The statue fell and shattered, revealing . . .

Seneca panted and stared. A servant cowered behind the fallen statue, knees pulled to her chest. She was a young Nurian, one Seneca had seen skulking through the palace—an orphan Queen Imani had brought here from the wilderness. The girl trembled in the corner, arms raised, tears in her eyes,

Kira, Seneca remembered. Her name is Kira.

"Please, dominus." Her voice shook as she stared at his drawn blade. "I . . . I can get you wine, or . . ."

If before rage had filled him, now it exploded through Seneca, a typhoon.

He had to force the words through clenched teeth. "You were here . . . the whole time . . . watching me?" He grabbed her and yanked her up. "Hiding like a worm?"

"Please, dominus." Tears rolled down Kira's cheeks. "I'm sorry, I—"

He shoved her down. She fell to the floor, banging her hip. Seneca grabbed her hair, yanked her head up, and pointed his sword at her neck.

"You fucking whore!" he shouted. "How dare you hide from me? How dare you spy on me? I'm going to slice your fucking neck and serve you to the pigs! Do you know who I am? I am the emperor!" He placed his blade against her neck as she wept. "You cannot take my empire, Porcia. You cannot take my glory! You—"

"Seneca!"

He spun around, blade raised, still clutching Kira's hair.

She stood there at the doorway. Tall, stately, clad in a white kalasiri trimmed in silver, sporting a golden choker and serpent armlets. A tiara held back her fountain of black curls, and golden links hung around her waist. She stared with dark eyes. Her cheekbones were tall, her skin rich mahogany, her lips tight. Imani. Queen of Nur. His wife.

"What are you doing, Seneca?" she said, voice soft, careful yet commanding. Her hand strayed toward the dagger that hung across her hip, a dagger with a blade forged from a meteorite.

Seneca's arms shook. He released the servant and dropped his sword. The gladius clanged against the floor, chipping a tile.

"Imani," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I . . ." He looked back at the servant, then returned his eyes to his wife. When he took a step toward her, Imani drew her dagger with a hiss.

Seneca froze. "She's dead," he whispered. "My sister is dead. The tyrant we were to kill. The—"

"So you thought you'd kill my handmaiden instead?" Imani said. When he took another step, she raised her dagger, pointing the blade at him.

Seneca fell to his knees before her. He lowered his head. "There is a demon inside me." He clenched his fists. Blood dripped from where his fingernails cut his palms. When he raised his eyes, looking at Imani again, they stung with tears. "A demon that's always been there. A demon that screamed inside me when I destroyed Gefen. A demon that controlled my hand when I crucified Jerael Sela. A demon I don't know how to slay." He trembled and his tears streamed. "I'm sorry."

Imani stepped closer and knelt before him, and Seneca was sure she would stab him, slit his neck right there in her chamber, and he was ready. He was ready to die. He was not worthy of life. He was like Porcia. He was like his father. He was nothing but a monster—an Octavius, a killer. He—

But Imani did not stab him. She pulled him into her arms, holding him gently.

"There is no demon inside you," she whispered, stroking his hair. "My poor husband. My poor boy. There is only you."

He caressed her cheek—so soft, so fair—smearing his blood across it.

"How will I ever be worthy of command?" he said. "Porcia is dead. And now it's our time to sail back to Aelar. To govern not just a province but an empire. But the same blood of Octavius flows through me. The blood of my father, a man who burned cities to the ground, who plowed fields over Phedia and Leer, who lined the roads of Aelar with crucified prisoners. The blood of my sister, of the cannibal Porcia, a woman who ripped the beating hearts from the chests of her victims, then fed upon the flesh. That blood of Octavius, that cruelty, that rage . . . That horrible rage . . . It's inside me, Imani. It's who I am." He wept. "It's what I did to Zohar. To Ofeer. What I almost did to Kira. Porcia is dead, and maybe I should be dead too."

Imani looked over his shoulder. "Kira, go to the gardens. See how the giraffe calves are faring today." When the servant rushed out from the room, Imani returned her eyes to Seneca. Her voice was low, her eyes boring into his. "Yes. Yes, maybe you should be dead too. Maybe I should have slit your throat or waited for you to slice your wrists. Maybe you're just like your family—like Emperor Marcus, the man who killed my mother, like Porcia Octavius, the woman who burned our port, like Consul Cicero, your uncle, the man who raped and broke this land. But you have something they don't."

"What?" Seneca whispered. He was heir to Aelar, a young conqueror, a man who had defeated armies, and yet kneeling before this queen of the south, Seneca felt like nothing but a boy. "What do I have that they don't?"

She clasped his hand. "Guilt."

Seneca rose to his feet. He shuffled back toward the archway. He gazed at the city.

"Fuck guilt." He drew a ragged breath. "Guilt hurts. Guilt fills my sleep with nightmares. I still kill him every night. I still swing that hammer whenever I sleep, driving the nails in, raising Jerael on the cross." He gave a weak laugh. "I thought I was so brave. I had to drink four glasses of wine before even doing it. I thought my father would be proud. It's what he always taught me to do." He closed his eyes, grimacing. "It's what a proud, noble prince of Aelar does. A prince goes out and conquers. So I went out and conquered. A prince kills his enemies. So I killed mine. A prince takes what he wants. So I plundered Gefen, and I took Ofeer to be my slave, and I returned to Aelar a great conqueror leading a parade of triumph—gold, jewels, slaves, blood." He opened his eyes and looked at Imani. "And I returned home broken."

She placed her hand on his shoulder. "And that's why you're different. Because what glorified them broke you."

He looked at his fallen gladius. "I came close to killing your handmaiden. That's still who I am." He looked back at the city outside. "I gaze out at Nur, and I still see it. People to rule. A land to grind under my heel. Where you see people to heal, I see people to rule. Where you see a city to rebuild, I see a city to govern. How can I do this, Imani? How can I return to Aelar, sit on the throne of an empire, when that demon still lurks, when I could become a tyrant as bad as my father and sister?"

Imani stared out at the city, and despite her proud carriage, her raised chin, her emotionless face, there was sadness in her eyes.

"I know the cruelty of House Octavius as much as anyone," she said. "I watched your family brutalize my land, murder my mother, murder countless others. The crosses covered the streets of Nur, screaming, burning—for Octavius. For your family. For your people. This land bled and wept so that your people might conquer." Never looking away from the city, she reached out and clasped his hand, squeezing him almost painfully. "But I chose not to kill you—the proud, foolish boy who washed up on my shore. I chose to marry you. Because I believed something."

"Believed what?" he whispered. Her hand was warm around his.

She turned toward him, and he saw the ghosts in her eyes—the countless crosses, the countless tears of rage and pain. And Seneca knew that war had broken her too, that demons haunted Imani's nights like they haunted his.

"That I can tame a monster," she said. "And I still believe that. Because cruelty was forced upon you. You nursed cruelty from your mother's breast. But there is goodness in you too, Seneca. You must let me foster that goodness, and you must cast the madness out."

From the moment Seneca had met Imani—then just a wild woman in a cage, snarling on a tabletop as her masters feasted—he had found her enchanting, beautiful, more intoxicating than wine. When he had married her, he had found her inspiring, nearly intimidating with her nobility and wisdom. When he had made love to her on a tower top, consummating their marriage after drowning Porcia's fleet in Tereen, he had thought Imani the most precious woman in the world. Yet now, perhaps for the first time, Seneca loved her—loved her fully, deeply, loved her not only for who she was . . . but for who she made him.

"My family taught me nothing but malice," he said, holding her hand. "You teach me to be a better man. With you, I will be a better emperor."

She lowered her eyes, her lashes long and painted with henna, brushing her cheeks. "And a father."

Seneca stared at her, mouth open. He narrowed his eyes. He gasped, stared down at her belly, then back at her eyes.

"You . . ." His head spun. "Are you sure?"

She shook her head. "I'm not sure. But the moon has passed, and the wise women in the temple speak of life inside me. Of your child."

Any last traces of rage fled Seneca. Joy replaced them.

"A father," he whispered. "I'm going to be a father." He knelt before Imani, holding her hands, looking up at her. "I promise you, Imani. I will change. I will no longer be that man that I was. I'll be a kind husband to you, a kind father to our child." He leaped up, reached for a flagon of wine, then hesitated and turned away. There would be time for wine later. For now he needed his senses sharp. "We'll sail back to Aelar at once. At dawn tomorrow. We have two hundred ships here in the Majina River, enough to carry an army—an army that will march into Aelar. Marcus and Porcia are dead. I am now the heir, and I'll return into my city as a hero, a noble emperor." He pulled Imani close. "With my beautiful wife. Our child will rule the world."

"Our child does not have to rule the world," Imani said. "But he or she must live in a world of peace. A world governed by kindness, not by steel and blood."

Seneca nodded. "Then we will build such a world. We head to the port. We prepare the ships. It's a three-week journey to Aelar. Before the new moon, the throne will be ours, and we will mend the shattered pieces of this world."

They stepped through the archway onto a narrow balcony, just wide enough to let them stand together, hundreds of feet above the world. The surface of the pyramid sloped down toward the distant city. The Majina River coiled between the temples and homes, lined with acacia and baobab trees. It flowed north for many leagues. Beyond the horizon, it crossed the savanna before reaching the desert and finally a delta, where it spilled into the Encircled Sea. Across that sea, three weeks northwest with a strong wind and fast rowers, it awaited. Aelar.

Seneca looked down at the port, a network of docks—hundreds of them—that spread from the riverbank into the Majina River. His ships waited there. Military galleys lined with oars and shields. Cargo barges full of supplies. Countless smaller vessels. North in Tereen, at the delta that led into the Encircled Sea, more ships awaited, ready to join the armada.

Aelar is in chaos, he thought. It will be enough.

"Look at our port," Seneca said, "and see our future empire, see—"

He frowned.

A plume of smoke was rising from the docks.

A distant cry rose.

"Zohar rises! Zohar rises! Down with the Empire!"

The smoke thickened. Then, with a great crackle and blast of sparks, several ships and piers burst into flame.

Seneca spun toward Imani. She stared back, eyes wide. They left the balcony together and ran through the pyramid, the smell of smoke and the distant cries ringing through the halls.

"Zohar rises! Down with the Empire!"

ATALIA

"Break down the gates!" Atalia shouted. "Shatter the city! To victory!"

Thousands of Gaelians roared with her. The barbarians stormed toward the walls of Aelar, swallowing the countryside, shaking the earth. Men roared as they ran, faces flushed, blond beards flowing. Shieldmaidens, their wives and daughters, howled with them, their golden braids streaming. Towering warriors of the northern forests, they wielded axes, spears, and war hammers. Plates of armor clanked across their wide frames between pelts of fur. The sigils of their tribes reared upon their round shields: wolves, falcons, wyverns, stags, and other beasts.

Among this horde of golden-haired northerners, she rode on a black horse: Atalia Sela, a soldier of Zohar, of olive skin, of brown eyes, of black hair that hid under a lion's-head helmet, of fury and fire. As she galloped, she raised her sword high.

You murdered my father, she thought as she rode, as the horde charged with her. You murdered the man I loved. You took everything from me, Aelar. Now I'll shatter your walls and piss on the rubble.

And there it was before her. After so many days of war and death and loss, there it rose—the city of Aelar, center of the Empire. The city Atalia vowed she would destroy.

The walls of Aelar towered, a great ring of stone, parsa'ot long, lined with towers and turrets, covered with arrow slits, topped with thousands of legionaries. Even the shortest sections soared taller than a palace, and the towers rose higher still, glinting with archers and battlements—hundreds of towers, a city unto itself rising from the walls. Atalia had spent her life in Gefen, a city of heavy battlements, and her summers in Beth Eloh, a city like a massive fortress. But the fortifications of Zohar seemed like mere sandcastles by the fortifications that rose here, edifices of stone as mighty as gods, enclosing the greatest city in the world.

There are more bricks in these walls than in all of Zohar, Atalia thought. This is a city like a nation. Every Zoharite in the world could fit within these walls.

Aelar had not fallen in five hundred years. Now, charging toward it, Atalia saw why.

Terror rose in her. Her jaw clenched. Her stomach roiled. Her eyes stung. The legionaries on the walls raised their bows, and Atalia hissed, ice flooding her, every instinct screaming to turn around. She nearly gagged. Her hand shook around the hilt of her sword.

And yet she rode onward.

And yet she roared for war.

I am Atalia Sela, a desert lioness. She pointed her sword forward. Hear me roar.

"Shatter the gates!" she cried, charging forth. The gatehouse rose before her, flanked by towers, topped with battlements.

"Into the city!" bellowed Berengar, riding his white stag. The chieftain towered above Atalia, among the largest men in the horde, wearing a breastplate and swinging a massive axe that even Atalia could not lift, its dual blades shaped like dragon wings.

"To victory!" cried Feina, harpist and shieldmaiden, her golden braids streaming in the wind, her lips peeled back, her sword held before her.

And from the city walls, the arrows of Aelar answered their cries.

Hundreds of arrows shrieked from the battlements, the turrets, the arrowslits, the towers. The swarm soared skyward, arched, and plunged down toward the charging hosts.

Atalia raised her shield, galloping onward. The arrows slammed down around her. One tore into a Gaelian at her side, punching through the helmet and into the skull. Another arrow pierced a woman's chest, and the shieldmaiden screamed and fell, only for her comrades to trample her. Arrows tore down horses, and their riders spilled across the field. More arrows hit Atalia's shield, chipping the wood. One arrow drove through, scraped her arm, and halted only a finger away from her face. Another arrow glanced off her helmet.

"Break the gates!" Atalia shouted, riding onward as Gaelians died around her. "Into the city!"

With screams, death, spraying blood, the hosts of Gael—the hosts that had butchered three legions in the forest, that had swarmed across the countryside, that had devastated town after town—reached the walls of Aelar.

As warrior after warrior fell, they swung their battering ram.

As arrows tore through shields and helmets, they raised ladders onto the walls.

As bubbling oil rained, melting metal and flesh, they slammed against the city, and they died.

Atalia screamed, shoving a ladder—a massive construction the length of a street. Hooks drove between bricks, and Gaelians began to climb, and Atalia climbed with them. She screamed as arrows scraped her armor, as one sliced her arm. Oil spilled, and droplets sprayed her, sizzling. Gaelians fell around her. The ladder detached, and she plunged down, landed on corpses, and shielded her head with her arms. A corpse slammed down onto her—a burnt woman, her face gone.

We can't do this, Atalia thought, lying among death, bleeding, burnt, panting. This wasn't like Gefen, a backwater with a few rudimentary battlements. This was Aelar itself, center of the Empire's might.

More arrows rained. Atalia grimaced, shielding herself under the corpse. She forced herself to rise, holding the dead woman above her, making her way through the battle. The walls soared before her, and the arrows kept shrieking down. Gaelians charged forth beside her, a hundred men and women holding another ladder. A boulder tumbled down from above and plowed through the attackers. Gaelians tore apart. Gobbets of flesh flew. The ladder shattered.

"Smash the gates!" Berengar shouted in the distance. Atalia saw him in the crowd, swinging the battering ram with a dozen warriors. Corpses piled up around them, and arrows and oil still rained from the towers that flanked the gates. Every heartbeat, more of the attackers fell, only to be replaced. An arrow drove through Berengar's armor, and the man bellowed but still swung the ram. Fire caught his cloak, and still he slammed the ram into the city doors, not even denting the bronze.

This isn't like the towns we captured, Atalia thought. These are gates we cannot smash. These are walls we cannot breach.

"We have to fall back," she whispered as arrows flew, tearing men down, peppering the corpse she held as a shield.

"Break them down!" cried Berengar, thrusting the ram. A boulder tumbled from the battlements, slammed into the ram, and cracked it. Men fell, limbs snapping, shards of wood driving into them.

"We have to fall back," Atalia said, louder now. Another ladder came crashing down, spilling a hundred climbing Gaelians.

"Shatter the doors!" Berengar roared, climbing over corpses, swinging his hammer. His warriors fell around him, and another arrow pierced his armor.

"Fall back!" Atalia shouted. "Gael, fall back! Back from the walls! Fall back!"

She dropped the corpse she held and ran, seeking her horse, but found the animal dead. More arrows rained. More Gaelians fell. The dead littered the countryside.

"Berengar, fall back!" she shouted.

Her husband still stood at the gates, swinging his hammer at the bronze doors. A third arrow hit him, and he fell. Atalia's heart froze and seemed to shatter.

"Feina!" Atalia shouted, looking around her, seeking the chieftain's second wife. "Feina, are you here? Feina!"

She saw the shieldmaiden ahead, her armor splashed with blood. Feina was running toward the gatehouse, toward her fallen husband, toward the rain of arrows.

Atalia cursed, wanting to flee. Instead she gritted her teeth, grabbed a new shield from a fallen warrior, and ran forward too. The arrows pattered all around her. Some arrows were now tipped with fire, and soon the corpses were burning, and more Gaelians kept falling. One ladder had managed to remain standing, and a handful of Gaelians were climbing onto the battlements, only to fall to the legionaries' swords. The dead rained.

Finally, her shield bristly with arrows, Atalia reached the gatehouse. Feina met her there, bleeding from her thigh.

"Berengar!" the shieldmaiden cried, leaping forward.

Atalia saw him there, lying among corpses, pierced with three arrows but still moaning, still trying to rise. Feina grabbed her husband's arms and tried to drag him to safety, but the chieftain was a massive man, thrice her size. More arrows fell, and one glanced off Feina's helmet. Another hit Atalia's breastplate, dented the iron, and fell to her feet. Fire blazed around them.

Atalia grabbed her husband too, and together the two wives tugged, dragging Berengar off the corpses, away from the slaughter. The dead Gaelians lay everywhere—bearded, tattooed with tribal sigils, burnt, bloodied. Atop the walls, the legionaries jeered and roared for their triumph.

"Fucking barbarians!" shouted a man above.

"Go back to Gael and fuck your mothers!" rose another cry.

The legionaries laughed, and more arrows flew. One sliced across Atalia's thigh, and another slammed into her armor, denting the metal, and she roared with pain but kept trudging forward, dragging her husband.

"Fall back!" she cried, hoarse, bleeding, dragging her husband through fire and death. "Gael, fall back!"

It seemed ages before the horde retreated from the walls, pulling a mil back from the city. Hundreds of their dead littered the land, many of the corpses still burning. Even from this distance, the legionaries on the walls taunted them.

"Atalia . . ." Berengar whispered, reaching up a trembling hand. "Atalia, we must attack, we . . ."

She laid him down on the grass and knelt above him. Three arrows rose from him, and Atalia grimaced as she tugged them out, as Berengar howled. His blood flowed, and his eyes rolled back, and Atalia bandaged his wounds with shaky fingers. Feina knelt at his other side, her eyes haunted.

"What do we do?" the shieldmaiden whispered, staring at Atalia. "We cannot break these gates. We cannot scale these walls." The harpist stared at the distant city, her voice awed. "The size of it. Gods above, I never imagined a city could be so large—the size of a forest, surrounded by cliffs."

Thousands of Gaelians spread around them, nursing their wounds, burying their dead. Many moved through the camp, grumbling, demanding to rush back to battle. A few spat and spoke of going home, spoke of a city of ghosts and demons, a cursed place.

No, not ghosts and demons, Atalia thought, staring at the distant walls. Men, that is all, for we are the only monsters in this world.

"We cannot break these gates," she said, "and we cannot scale these walls. But one thing we can do." She looked back at Feina. "We can wrap around this city like a serpent and constrict it. This will not be a short victory. It will be a siege that lasts for months or years, a war of thirst and starvation and disease. Let the battle end. Let the siege begin."

She winced in sudden pain. For the first time, she realized that an arrow thrust out from her shoulder, buried in the armor and cutting the skin beneath. She grabbed the shaft, tugged, and screamed as blood spurted. She smiled and licked the red droplets off her lips. She was patient. She was strong. She would see this city sacked, or she would burn among the corpses.

OFEER

She knelt in the dungeon, covered in soot, tears on her cheeks. She cradled her newborn son and begged him to live.

"Keep breathing," she whispered, trembling, holding him—so small, so frail. "Just keep breathing. Please."

He lay in her arms, smaller than any baby Ofeer had ever seen, barely larger than a sandal. She had wiped off the blood and amniotic fluid, but still his skin was deep red, veined, and covered with black hair. He gasped softly, struggling for each breath, his tiny ribcage rising and falling in desperate attempts to suck in air. He was so fragile, barely human-looking, born two months early into darkness, into this dungeon beneath the city, into rebellion and war and want.

"Breathe," Ofeer whispered, cradling him, covered with blood. Still more blood dripped between her thighs, trickling across the dungeon floor. "Please keep breathing. Live. Live." She raised her eyes to the sooty ceiling, praying, weeping. "Please, Eloh. Let my son live. Do not punish him for my sins. Let him live!"

Yet Eloh did not answer. No light shone above, only the torch on the dungeon wall. No voice spoke from the heavens, only the mewls of her baby—soft gasps, high-pitched, fading fast. They hid here underground, dying in a tunnel beneath the Aelarian Acropolis. As the city crumbled above, as the Empire burned, here they faded, here in darkness.

Ofeer looked back down at her son. He blinked, gazed at her, tried to cry but could not, too weak for more than a whimper, a gasp.

I love you, she thought, her tears splashing him. Please live.

She raised her eyes and looked at the imperial lumer who lay nearby, slumped against the dungeon wall. It was impossible to determine her age—the lumer could have been twenty or eighty. Years of captivity had dwindled her down to skin and bones. Maggots filled sores on her leg. She gazed at Ofeer with huge eyes, sunken into a gaunt head. She smiled thinly.

"The lumers are raised," the cadaverous woman said. "The rebellion begins. Around the Encircled Sea, my sisters turn against their masters." She raised a skeletal, shaky hand, reaching toward Ofeer. "It's your lume that did it, that gave me the power, that will topple the Empire."

"I don't care about the fucking Empire!" Ofeer shouted, her tears falling. She cradled her baby against her chest, feeling his frail ribs. "Help him! You're a lumer. You know healing. Help my son!"

The imperial lumer gave her a wry smile. "All my lume is spent."

Footfalls rang across the dungeon. Three guards came racing along the tunnel, moving toward Ofeer. Metal clanked and voices rose in fear.

"All guards to the city walls!" echoed a man's cry. "All guards to the walls!"

Ofeer cringed and huddled against the wall, holding her son close, as the guards raced by. One of the men skidded to a halt and stared at Ofeer, forcing his comrades to stop behind him in the tunnel. They panted.

The guard pointed at Ofeer and her baby, eyes wide. "What the fuck is that?" He turned toward the imperial lumer and sucked in air. "Fuck me, isn't that the lumer?"

"Fuck that!" shouted a man behind him, shoving the flummoxed guard forward. "Go!"

"I think they're escaped pris—"

"Move, damn it! Don't you know we're at war?"

The guards kept running, leaving Ofeer, her child, and the wretched lumer behind. For hours now, Ofeer had heard the footfalls, the shouts, had seen guards racing through the tunnels, abandoning the dungeons to join the soldiers aboveground. For months now, Ofeer had been hearing talk of the Gaelian invasion, the barbarian horde sweeping across the northern lands. It seemed those barbarians were now at the city gates.

But that was not Ofeer's concern. She would gladly see this entire city fall, and all its million inhabitants slain, if she could save the life of her child.

She moved closer to the imperial lumer. She grabbed the woman's talon-like hand.

"I may have no more lume in me." Ofeer held out her child, and the baby squirmed in her hands, gasping for air, blinking. "But he does. He is my child, a child of Zohar, descended of the line of Elior, of the desert, of ancient prophets and priests. The blood of Zohar pumps through him. There is lume in him. Find that lume. Luminate it. Heal him."

The child was gasping more violently now. His skin turned deeper red, then purple. His breath faded to but wheezes. His chest stilled.

"Heal him!" Ofeer shouted. She grabbed the lumer with one hand, holding her son in the other. "Heal him now! Please . . ."

The imperial lumer gazed at Ofeer, eyes so sunken, lips so thin. She seemed ready to object, then lowered her head and nodded.

One of those thin, pale hands reached out, and the lumer laid her palm upon the baby's chest. The ribs no longer moved. The child no longer breathed. Ofeer wept. She watched through her tears.

"Please, son," she whispered. "Please, Eloh. Please. Live. Live. Don't let me lose another child."

"There is barely any lume in him," the lumer whispered. "Just a hint. A plume of light rising from the desert, a single star in a black night."

The lumer closed her eyes and raised her chin. Her hand, laid across the baby's chest, began to glow—the faintest of lights, barely visible, a few wisps weaving around her fingers . . . then fading, then nothing but darkness.

"Live, lion of Zohar," Ofeer whispered, reaching out, caressing her baby's cheek. "Breathe. Brea—"

Her son gasped and inhaled, and his chest rose and fell again.

Ofeer's tears streamed with new vigor, but now they were tears of relief and joy. She cradled the child, and now he breathed deeply, looking up at her. She pulled a breast free, and she tried to feed him, but his mouth was too small to take the nipple. Ofeer squeezed that nipple, drawing but a single drop. She placed the drop on her fingertip, then pressed the fingertip onto the baby's mouth, and he fed—only a drop of milk, only a drop of hope, but a drop of hope was worth more than the world here in the darkness.

"I will name you Ariel," she whispered and kissed his forehead. "It means lion of god. And you are a little lion." She looked up at the imperial lumer. "Thank you. You saved his life. You . . ."

The lumer lay slumped against the wall, eyes closed, limbs splayed out. A thin smile touched her lips, but her chest no longer rose and fell with breath. When Ofeer touched her, the skin was cold, and her heart no longer beat in her frail chest.

Ofeer rose to her feet. Holding her baby to her chest, keeping him warm, she walked through the tunnel. She left the lumer behind.

A barbarian horde was attacking the city. Porcia Octavius lay dead. Lumers rose in rebellion around the sea. Claudia's hosts marched toward Beth Eloh, and the adversary—a figure of ancient evil—was rising from the desert. The whole world was burning, but right now Ofeer had but one task—to keep her child alive. The whole world was only him, Ariel Sela. A lion of God.

"You are a Sela," she whispered. "Not an Octavius. You are a child of the desert, a child of light. You will see Zohar. I swear this to you, Ariel. You will see the golden desert and the beauty of Beth Eloh. You are a lion."

She walked through the dungeon, passing by the cells of prisoners. All the guards were gone to war, leaving the prisoners to languish. The wretches stared at Ofeer between the bars of their cells, eyes haunted, faces dark. Some hung from chains or huddled on the floor, too weak and wounded to move. Ofeer paused and looked at the skeleton key that hung from her belt, the key Noa had given her. She looked back at the cells.

One man sneered between the bars, eyes wild.

"I'm going to cook your babe on a fire for dinner after I fuck you." The prisoner spat her way. "Come here, you cunt."

Ofeer stared at the other cells. Dozens, maybe hundreds were imprisoned here. Many were, perhaps, murderers or rapists or thieves.

But every man in the legions is a murderer or rapist or thief, Ofeer thought. And murderers and rapists and thieves rule this empire.

The lumers were rising in rebellion. So were lands around the sea. The barbarians were banging at the gates. It was time to unleash chaos here within the city walls.

Ofeer moved toward a cell—not the one with the leering man—and unlocked the door. A young man spilled out from within, shivering, his back covered with ugly welts. A wound spread across his cheek, hiding an eye.

"Can you walk?" she asked him.

The young man coughed and nodded. His skin was sallow, his eyes sunken. "Your baby looks sick," he said, voice raspy, broken.

Ofeer tightened her lips. She all but shoved the skeleton key into his hand. "Open the other cells. Free your comrades. Free them all. Can I trust you?"

He nodded, moved toward another cell, and unlocked it. A brutish man stumbled out, shivering, babbling in a foreign language.

Her legs slick with blood, her child in her arms, Ofeer climbed a staircase and emerged into a sunlit corridor. Between columns, she saw cypress trees. She shuffled between the columns, still lightheaded. When she looked down, she saw that fresh blood was still dripping between her legs. Her head spun. She stumbled toward a cypress, nearly falling, and sat beneath the tree. The Acropolis spun around her, hazy, tilting: the Magisterian barracks, the palace, the temples, the Amphitheatrum, all dancing around her. In the distance, she could hear it—the roar of war, thousands of voices calling out at once, vowing destruction. Distant catapults boomed and men screamed. From below rose the shouts of hundreds of freed prisoners, bubbling up, a sea of chaos unleashed upon the city.

Ariel woke in her arms. In the sunlight, he looked even worse, Ofeer thought, tears filling her eyes. Skin deep red, wrinkled, and covered in dark fuzz and rashes. Body frail, veined, the bones visible. He looked less like a baby and more like the starved imperial lumer. And yet he was beautiful to her. He was her son. She squeezed her nipple again, wincing, able to draw just a single drop. Again she fed Ariel from her fingertip. And still she bled.

"We must stay alive," she whispered to him. "We must survive this. We must see Zohar again. We will live, Ariel. We will live."

Guards raced across the lawn, heading toward the Acropolis walls. From the distance still rose the chants of the enemy. Ofeer's eyes grew hazy. As she held her baby, it seemed to her that Aelar melted around her, all the palaces and statues fading like castles of sand under waves, until there was only light—the light of the sun, of memory, and of luminescence.

CLAUDIA

She sat astride her horse, a thin smile on her face, watching her legions devastate the walls of Beth Eloh.

The horse whinnied and bucked beneath her, and Claudia tightened her legs around it, inhaling sharply through her nostrils. She had always found something intoxicating, almost sexual about riding horses, about watching horses mate in the field, about taming a beast to serve her. When she had ridden Epher, as he had clutched her breasts, as she had dug her fingers into his chest, she had often imagined herself riding a stallion across the fields of afterlife, golden with glory. Now all the glory of the earth would be hers. Now she would truly tame the beast. Now she would bring Epher to his knees before her.

"I will kill you last, Epher," she whispered. "Not before you watch this city destroyed, before you watch me kill all your people, before you beg me, beg to die as my whips and blades tear into you."

She licked her lips. Yes, she would hurt him. She would fuck him as many times as she liked. She would make him please her, make him beg, make him her lover and her slave—and then a corpse, nothing but a stinking corpse like her mother.

"You Zoharites murdered her," Claudia said, sneering, eyes burning. "Now every last one of you will pay."

Around her, the catapults hurled boulders. The stones rolled across the sky. Some slammed into the city walls, chipping bricks, shattering merlons. A turret tore free and crashed down the wall, spilling its Zoharite archers. Other boulders sailed over the walls, and the screams rose from within the city, and dust plumed in clouds. Across the mountainsides, the legions were rolling forth siege towers, wooden beasts as tall as temples, coated with leather and iron. Battering rams swung at walls and gates, chipping stone and metal. The wrath of five legions surrounded Beth Eloh, pounding the city with the might of an empire.

With my might, Claudia thought. My might that you will tremble before, Epher.

She closed her eyes, remembering him. They had been only fifteen when they had fallen in love, barely more than children. He had been so scrawny, gangly, not yet sure if he was man or boy. He had accompanied his father, Jerael Sela, into Claudia's home, come to speak to Tirus of trade and taxes. Claudia had smiled at him, touched his arm, flirted with him, pulled him away from the house and down to the beach. They had walked there all day, shirking their duties. Epher had been so nervous, just speaking of returning to the home, of needing to help his father, to learn from the men, and he would not shut up until Claudia had kissed him. It had been her second kiss, his first, and after the initial awkwardness they had spent hours kissing on that beach. It was there on that same beach, on another summer, that they had first made love.

Yes, it was making love, Claudia thought. Because I loved you. I still do. You could have ruled this city with me, Epher. Now I will shatter every stone and skull in Beth Eloh.

Thousands of legionaries stood around her, row by row, waiting to enter the city. Beth Eloh was small compared to Aelar, only a tenth of the size. Yet hundreds of thousands of Zoharites crowded within the walls, maybe even a million—the city's original inhabitants and Zoharite refugees from across the land. All of Zohar had gathered within this shell of stone, ready for the slaughter. Claudia snorted. The fools should have dispersed across the wilderness, hiding in deserts and caves. Now she would wipe them all out with a single strike.

She watched a boulder slam into the battlements, tearing down merlons. A siege tower rolled up to a wall, and a gangplank dropped down. Legionaries spilled out from the tower onto the wall, clashing with the Zoharite defenders. The dead rained. Countless arrows filled the sky, falling upon the legionaries. Boulders, bubbling oil, and barrels of fire crashed down from the battlements, slamming into legionaries. The dead piled up and the assault continued. Claudia frowned as the siege tower burned, yet more of the wooden structures kept lumbering toward the walls, and soon blood splashed the battlements. The arrows kept sailing from the guard towers, and the rams kept slamming at the gates.

In the afternoon, hours into the battle, a legionary rode toward her from the fray. General Constantius was a tall, gaunt man, all in iron. They said that an old fire had claimed him. A helmet now hid his scarred face, shaped like an eagle's head, thrusting forth a cruel black beak. One of his hands was gone; instead the arm sprouted an iron prosthetic shaped as an eagle's talon, sharp and stained with old blood. The Iron Eagle, they called him. A general of legendary cruelty. They said that after the barbarian had cut off his hand, Constantius had invaded the man's village, grabbed his family, and flayed them alive—his wife, his children, even a baby—then left the skinless family to die in gibbets. Claudia hoped that story was true. And she hoped that he lost another hand in Zohar.

"Domina." Constantius bowed his head, that eagle beak thrusting downward, dripping blood. "The city is built like a fortress. We're spending good Aelarian lives on this assault. If we set siege to this city, we can starve them out within six months."

Claudia narrowed her eyes, staring at the man. She could see the scars through the holes on his helmet. She was not a soldier. She had never been to war before. But she was the daughter of Tirus Valerius, the man who would soon be emperor. She did not need to listen to common soldiers, even iron eagles.

"I don't want to wait six months, Constantius," she said. "The lives of soldiers are cheap. Time is precious. Rebellions rise around the Encircled Sea, Porcia lies dead, and Aelar is in chaos. We need to break into this city—tonight—and wipe Zohar off the map. This won't be a province of the Empire. Aelaria Orientalis will be a fucking wasteland."

Constantius shifted his weight, armor clanking. A spark of defiance filled his eyes. Claudia stared at him steadily, allowing a small, feral smile to twist her lips. He was twice her age, a hundred times more experienced in warfare, but she could stare him down.

"Domina," he began, "I would counsel you not to—"

Shouts rose behind him, cutting off his words.

Claudia stared back toward the walls. A group of Zoharites were emerging from a small gateway in the walls, howling for war, and charging toward one of the battering rams. Legionary blood spilled, and the battering ram fell with a thud. More Zoharites emerged—a hundred at least—and charged into battle.

A fucking suicide mission, Claudia thought. Several of the men came running toward her across the field, firing arrows. One arrow sailed over Claudia's head, missing her by a finger. Another slammed into her breastplate, denting the iron and chipping a golden eagle. Claudia snarled, kneed her horse, and charged toward them.

"Fucking rats!" she cried, drawing her sword as she galloped.

"Down with Aelar!" shouted a man, firing another arrow. "Down with—"

Claudia's horse plowed into him. Hooves cracked bones. She swung her sword, cutting another man's head. The blade cracked the skull. Another arrow pierced her horse, and the beast whinnied and fell. Claudia hit the ground. She rose with her sword swinging, diverting another arrow. She was no trained warrior, but she had killed before, and she could kill again. Legionaries ran around her, slamming into the Zoharites, cutting down the rebels.

Claudia shoved herself to her feet, covered in blood. An arrow had jammed into her pauldron, and she tore it free. Within moments, the Zoharite attackers were dead, though thousands still manned the city walls, and thousands still lurked within.

"I want these walls knocked down, Constantius!" Claudia shouted. "I want every one of these rats dead!"

She spun around, marched around her dead horse, and moved between the cohorts across the mountainside. Her tent rose ahead, its crimson walls embroidered with eagles. She stepped inside and breathed deeply, suddenly trembling. Her head spun. Her legs felt like wet rags. She had no stomach for this. Perhaps Seneca enjoyed this sort of brutality, but Claudia had always taken the pleasures of flesh in bed, not in battle.

"But I will learn," she whispered, fists clenched. "I killed the boy who murdered my mother. I killed the men who sought to slay me. And I will kill every last Zoharite rat in the world if I must."

She looked across the tent. Here, at least, was a little oasis of civilization. Golden statues of Camulus, god of war, and Peregrinis, god of travel, flanked a giltwood bed. Flagons of wine stood on a table between maps and daggers. A live eagle stared from a cage, a magnificent animal Claudia planned to release over the ruins of Beth Eloh. Her lumer lurked here too, collared and hobbled, kneeling on the floor.

"Stand up, rat," Claudia said. "Pour me wine."

Leean rose to her feet. She was a slight girl, shorter than Claudia, clad in burlap, her dark hair sheared short. A chain jangled between her ankles, long enough to let her walk but not run. She filled a mug and handed it to Claudia. The wine was deep red, thick, strong. Claudia gulped it down like water. She slammed the mug down.

"More."

The lumer refilled the cup, and Claudia drank again. Now her head truly spun. It was hitting her hard, too hard, the wine and fear pounding through her. The tent grew hazy around her. She stared at her second cup of wine, eyes blurred. It tilted in her hand, spilling its contents onto the floor. She felt woozy. She stumbled toward the bed, sat down hard. She blinked up at Leean, trying to bring her into focus.

"How is your wine, domina?" the lumer said.

Fucking cunt.

Claudia tried to rise from the bed. She fell back down. The tent spun madly around her. The poisoned wine spilled across the ground. Claudia blinked. Just keeping her eyes open felt like a war.

"For years, you enslaved us," Leean said, standing before her, chin raised. "For years, you took from us, brutalized us, made us your slaves. But now the lumers rise. Now we clip the wings of eagles."

The young lumer reached to the table, grabbed a jeweled dagger, and drew the blade.

Claudia cried out and managed to roll aside. The dagger slammed into the mattress, ripping the fabric.

Fucking rat! Fuc . . .

Her eyelids fluttered. The world spun.

Claudia turned back toward her assailant—too slowly. She raised her arms. Leean lashed the dagger, and the blade cut Claudia's forearm, grazing the bone.

Pain exploded, giving Claudia a burst of energy. The poisoned wine swirled through her gut. The dagger pulled back, thrust again. Leean was aiming for the neck, but Claudia managed to move back, and the blade scraped across her armor.

"You fucking whore!" Claudia shouted, trying to rise from the bed, to find her sword. "You—"

Standing up took too much energy. Her head whirled. She crashed to the ground.

Leean swooped after her like a bird of prey. The dagger sank into Claudia's thigh. She screamed.

"Die now, domina," Leean hissed, kneeling above her, driving the blade deeper. "Die, you miserable, pathetic—"

Claudia grabbed the fallen cup of wine and swung it. The clay slammed into Leean's temple and shattered. Blood spurted. Claudia could barely see. Her blood spilled. The room wouldn't stop spinning. She knew not up from down, left from right. She saw only smudges. She reached out blindly, grabbed something, swung. A side table hurled through the air, slammed into Leean, and knocked her down. The dagger fell.

Trembling, Claudia rose to her knees, bent over, and retched, vomiting out the wine, the poison, the fear. She stumbled forward, moving through blood and vomit and piss, and reached Leean.

The lumer lay on the ground, head bleeding. The girl tried to rise, to hold Claudia back. Claudia drove her knee into the girl's belly. As Leean gasped, Claudia wrapped her hands around the girl's neck. She squeezed.

Leean pawed at her. The girl kicked. She tried to reach the dagger, could not.

Claudia squeezed tighter.

The lumer's face turned red, then blue. Still she kicked madly, flailing, punching. She grabbed a fistful of Claudia's hair and tugged, ripping it out, and Claudia screamed, barely feeling the pain, the waves of poison dulling her, and still she squeezed, squeezed, squeezed until she heard a crack like snapping twigs, until Leean's face darkened to purple and gray.

"Shh . . ." Claudia whispered as the girl's flailing eased. "Shh, it's all right . . . It's all right . . ."

Slowly, Leean ceased struggling, her legs merely twitching now. Claudia leaned down and kissed the girl's forehead.

"It's all right, sweetling." She kept squeezing. "Go to sleep. Go to sleep now."

Finally Claudia could squeeze no more. Her head spun too much. Blood still flowed from her, and bad wine still roiled in her belly. She crashed down atop Leean's corpse, yet it seemed to Claudia that she kept falling, that she fell through the girl, through the ground, falling and falling into bottomless pits where no pain dwelled.

"I love you, Epher," she whispered into the chasm, imagining that she was holding his corpse, that she would never let him go.

SENECA

He rode his chariot through Shenutep, capital of Nur, snarling and whipping his horses.

"The empress is dead!" the crowds of Nurians chanted at his sides, dancing and singing. "Porcia is dead!"

The roar of the chariot's wheels and the horses' hooves thundered in Seneca's ears. The cobblestones were rough here, not smoothed and polished like those that lined the streets of Aelar, and the chariot bounced and rattled madly. Seneca whipped the horses again.

Faster. Faster!

The city streets streamed past him—ancient sandstone buildings with arched windows, idols of human-animal hybrids, columned temples draped with vines, and markets of every spice and fabric known to man. The Nurians stepped back from his charge—powerful people, proud and ancient, rejoicing in the death of his sister. Elephants reared and raised their trunks. Stray cats scattered. Seneca rode onward, and behind him charged ten more chariots. Imani rode in one, soldiers in the others. With every block they crossed, Seneca's fear grew.

"Faster, damn it!" he shouted.

He could see the smoke now. It plumed ahead, spreading across the sky. The smell of fire filled his nostrils, and heat flowed across him. Sweat dripped under his armor. Now he heard a different cry, a chant of anger, of hatred.

"Zohar rises!" cried a distant cry. "Down with Aelar!"

He raced down a sloping boulevard, wheeled around a sandstone sphinx the size of a temple, and saw it in the distance. The port along the river.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of Zoharites lived in Shenutep, this city far south along the Majina River. Some had immigrated to Nur a century ago, fleeing the Kalintian invasion—the same civilization Seneca's great-grandparents had vanquished. Other Zoharites had only recently arrived, fleeing the devastation in their homeland. Today it seemed that the entire community of Zoharites in Nur had emerged from their homes and congregated before him. Their faces twisted with rage. They held knives, clubs, stones.

"Fuck Aelar!" one man shouted.

"Burn the eagles!" shouted a Zoharite woman, pointing at the chariots.

The boulevard stretched toward the port, filled with the desert scum. Their houses lined the side streets, pomegranates of tin and iron hanging from the doors. A temple to their invisible god rose nearby, topped with a rearing lion forged of iron and coated in silver. At the end of the boulevard, Seneca could see his fleet—the cargo ships, galleys, barges, this flotilla he had spent months building, preparing for invasion—all ablaze.

They ruined me, Seneca thought, throat tightening. The Zoharites fucking ruined me.

He howled, whipped his horses, drew his sword, and charged toward them.

"Kill the rats!" Seneca shouted. "Legions, arise! With me! Kill every last fucking Zoharite in this city!"

Blade raised, roaring, he thundered into the crowd.

Screams rose. His four horses slammed into Zoharites, plowing over them, shattering their bodies. Scythes thrust out from his chariot's wheels. The spinning blades tore into the crowd, ripping off legs, slicing open bellies. Blood splattered Seneca, only fueling his rage. His horses kept charging, and behind him, his soldiers followed in their own chariots.

"Kill the prince!" shouted a Zoharite on a rooftop, a swarthy, bearded brute. The man hurled a stone. It slammed into Seneca's helmet, and his head rang.

"It's Seneca the Serpent!" shouted a woman on a balcony. "Kill the bastard!" She hurled a chamber pot. It hit Seneca, and the clay shattered, spilling its wretched contents across him.

More Zoharites crowded around him, thrusting blades and clubs. Seneca lashed his whip with one hand, hitting a Zoharite's face, slicing the skin and taking an eye. With his other hand, he lashed his gladius, cutting a woman.

Another rock flew and hit his breastplate. A club swung into his thigh. Even his pteruges, leather straps that hung from his waist down to his knees, could not stop pain from blazing. More and more Zoharites kept emerging from their burrows, hurling bricks. One man tossed a torch, and Seneca yowled and kicked it aside, burning his foot. Somebody on a roof raised a bow. An arrow whistled and slammed into a horse, and the beast reared.

"Where the fuck are you?" Seneca shouted over his shoulder at his men. "Kill them! Kill the fucking rats!"

But the other chariots were running into trouble too. The Zoharites mobbed them, knifing the horses, tossing torches and bricks. One legionary fell, and the crowd dragged him off, slamming bricks against his face.

"Zohar rises!" they chanted. "Aelar falls!"

Seneca's wounded horse fell. The chariot slammed into the animal and halted. The mob closed in.

Terror, icy and all-consuming, flooded over Seneca.

Blades rose and fell, and his other horses screamed, fell, died. The crowd slammed against the chariot. Another stone flew. Ahead in the port, only a couple hundred cubits away, the ships blazed, sails great curtains of fire, Seneca's dreams of conquest, of imperial glory—all rose in flame and smoke and steam.

He raised his sword.

I conquered Gefen. I cast back Porcia's fleet. He roared wordlessly and swung his blade. I can deal with a fucking mob of barbarians.

A stone flew and slammed against his armor. Another rock hit his helmet. A sling stone shrieked and hit his back, knocking him forward. A torch thrust his way and blazed across his arm. Seneca swung his blade, ignoring the pain. Faces sneered around him. Between the attackers, he glimpsed Zoharites knocking down a legionary, then hacking at his leg. The wind shifted and the smoke flew over them. Seneca's gladius found flesh, cutting open a man's arm. A stone hit the side of his helmet, cracking the metal and bloodying his cheek.

"Kill Seneca! Kill the pig!"

I'm going to die here, he thought, swinging his blade, trying to hold them back. More stones hit him. I'm not going to die fighting for Aelar. I'm not going to die an emperor. I'm going to die in a fucking alleyway in the ass of the world, stoned to death by rats.

He looked around him, desperate to find his soldiers, to find Imani. She carried his child. Damn it, she carried his child, and now she was in danger. He couldn't see her. All he could see was the mob. Hundreds of Zoharites surrounded him. He thrust his gladius, cutting a woman. She fell back, only for a man to replace her. The barbarian swung a club, hitting Seneca's wrist, and pain flared and he nearly dropped his sword. Hands grabbed his shoulders from behind. He swung around, blade thrusting, cutting a man's arm down to the bone. More stones pelted him. His legs and arms bled. More blood kept dripping down his chin. A rock rang his helmet like a bell. He saw flashes of light, and his head spun.

He stumbled forward, swinging the blade, trying to hold them off, and there—there on the roadside, standing in a doorway, clad in red and gold, he saw her.

Taeer.

Relief flooded Seneca and brought tears to his eyes.

"Taeer!" he cried.

Tears of relief mingled with the blood. Suddenly Seneca felt like a boy again—the boy who had sought comfort in Taeer's arms, later in her bed. She had been with him for nearly two decades—since he'd been only a toddler, since she'd been only a frightened youth newly arrived from Zohar. All his life, in the moments of greatest darkness—in the devastation of Gefen, in the terror as Porcia had ascended in Aelar, in his exile here in Nur—Taeer had been at his side. His guiding light. His candle in the long dark night. Now he moved toward that light—the light that glowed in her eyes, the light of Luminosity, the light that had always lit Seneca's path.

The sight of her gave him the strength to continue, to resist the stones, to survive the pain. He fought his way through the mob, cutting people down, and made his way to her doorstep, covered in blood.

"Taeer!" he cried. "Taeer, help me!"

She stood tall in the doorway, fingers and eyes luminous. Her red gown billowed, and her belt of coins chinked. Serpent armlets circled her arms, staring with ruby eyes. Her wavy black hair rose and crackled with the magic. He limped toward her, and she stepped aside, smiling mysteriously, shepherding him into the house. He stumbled inside, gasping for air.

"Stand back, children of Zohar!" Taeer called, still facing the street. "Let me handle Seneca the Serpent. Tend to your wounded and dead."

Seneca tried to look out at the street, to see if Imani still rode there, still lived. But he could see nothing but the sea of Zoharites and a few Nurian soldiers trying to maintain order.

"Imani," he said hoarsely, reaching toward the doorway, but Taeer shut the door and locked it.

He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. After he had married Imani, Taeer had asked to move here, to the Zoharite Quarter by the river, to spend her nights among her people and her days serving him in the pyramid. A year ago, Seneca would have refused her wish. He had come to depend on Taeer in his bed—her kisses, embraces, whispers, and the wild nights of lovemaking. Since marrying Imani, however, he had shared his bed with her, the Queen of Nur. And so he had given Taeer this gift of freedom, allowing her a home of her own, a semblance of Zohar here in the south. And she had transformed her home into a desert oasis. Red and golden fabrics hung from the walls, embroidered with golden lions and pomegranates. Curtains of beads chinked and tinkled in the sunlight that streamed through the window. Scrolls and ram horns topped shelves, and a great map of Beth Eloh, wider than Seneca was tall, hung above a bed topped with many tasseled pillows.

"Imani," Seneca rasped again, still out of breath. "She's still out there, Taeer. She's in danger." He moved back toward the door. "Help me find her. Help—"

Taeer placed her hand on the door, keeping it shut. "Your wife is fine, my emperor." She stroked his hair. "My people hold no animosity to the beloved Queen Imani. The Nurian Rose, they call her." She gave her lips the slightest pout. "You are wounded, my prince. Let me tend to you. Let me pour you wine to soothe the pain."

She gently guided him away from the door. She poured him wine and brought the cup to his lips.

"Aelarian wine, dominus," she said. "From the vineyards of Polonia."

As he drank, Taeer removed his helmet, wiped the blood off his cheek, and bought her glowing fingers to the wound, healing him. She kissed his ear while stroking his hair.

"I've missed you, dominus," she whispered, lips touching his ear. "For too many nights, my bed felt cold without you." With deft fingers, the lumer unstrapped his armor, and his breastplate clanged to the floor. She pulled his face toward hers, and her voice dropped. "Did you miss me too, dominus?"

"Taeer." He pulled her hand off his chest. "What are you doing? I'm married now."

She gripped his head with both hands, staring into his eyes. "A marriage of convenience. An alliance. But I've always been the woman you love. Not Ofeer. Not Imani. But me, your lumer, your Taeer."

She kissed him. And gods of blood and wine, it felt good. He had missed her lips. He had found Ofeer alluring, maddening, a treasure from an exotic land to conquer. He found Imani beautiful, elegant, enchanting, a woman of beauty and power. But Taeer . . . Taeer had always been a comfort to him. Whenever he felt afraid, felt weak, he sought safety in her arms, in her love.

She guided him toward her bed. He was too weak to resist, too weary, too scared.

"They burned them," he said, the smoke still in his lungs, still in his eyes. "My ships. The Zoharites burned them all. I need to return to Aelar, to claim my throne, but they burned them, and—"

She placed a finger against his lips. "Hush now, Seneca. Let me tend to you." She pushed him onto his back, straddled him, and caressed his chest.

"No." He shook his head. "No, Taeer. I can't. I can't let you kiss me anymore, lie with me anymore. I'm married now. Those days are over. I—"

"I said hush." She kissed him again, pressed his wrist against the bedpost, and began to bind him with a silken scarf.

"Taeer, what—"

"Hush, I said." She gave him a crooked smile. She leaned down and whispered, her lips skimming his, "I will fuck you like I've never fucked you before. Let me take control. Let me drive you mad with pleasure."

He closed his eyes. He was so scared. He needed this, needed her—to control him, to tell him what to do, to fix things, to tell him things would be all right. Like she had always done. Perhaps she had always taken control. He let her bind his wrists to the bedposts with her silken scarves, then his ankles. As she worked, he felt himself harden against her, and she laughed.

"My sweet prince." Taeer leaned down and kissed his lips.

"Prince? I'm your emperor now." He opened his eyes. "Do you forget that?"

She licked her lips. "I forget nothing, Seneca. I do not forget how I first came to you, thirteen years old, so afraid, a young lumer carted in chains to a new land. I do not forget how I tended to you, a mere toddler, serving you with my light—then, as you grew into a man, with my love. I do not forget how you sailed back into Zohar, my homeland. How you proved yourself a great conqueror. How you shattered the walls of Gefen, how you butchered thousands, how you brutalized Ofeer, how you—"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Seneca said, frowning. "I loved Ofeer. I—"

Taeer slapped him. Hard. He grimaced and the wound on his cheek opened, dripping onto the bed. "You crucified her father, then fucked her under the corpse. You made her your slave. You placed a child within her. You—"

"A what?" Seneca's head reeled, and he struggled against his bounds, unable to free himself. "A child? By the abyss, Taeer! I didn't fucking impregnate Ofeer."

Still straddling him, she laughed, head tossed back, light in her eyes, light crackling on her fingertips and along her hair. "You are so blind. You are so foolish."

"Enough of this." He tugged at the bedposts, but the scarves only tightened around his wrists. "Taeer, release me. I need to find Imani. I need to—"

"Oh, you tire of me already and seek Imani?" Taeer pouted. "Once you couldn't get enough of me. Every night and every morning you fucked me, your appetite knowing no bounds. Yes, I was a lumer to you, but also a slave, also a whore. And now you discard me so quickly? I'm not that ready to be discarded." She reached down to his crotch, caressing him, and Seneca hated that he hardened in her grip. "There . . . You still like me. I can feel it."

"Taeer, enough!" he shouted. "My fleet burns outside the window, Imani might be in danger, and—"

"Shh . . ." She leaned closer, still caressing his manhood, and kissed him again. "Be silent, my Seneca. Be still. There, there. Taeer will make everything all right. There . . ."

Seneca screamed.

Pain blazed in his groin, right at the top of his thigh.

"Taeer, what the fuck?" he shouted.

She pulled up a bloody knife. The red droplets splashed onto Seneca's chest.

"Oh, did I cut you?" Taeer said. "Don't worry, sweet prince. I left your manhood unharmed. I wouldn't dare slice off such a precious gift to womankind. No, Seneca. That part of you is safe. I cut something far more interesting—the artery in your thigh."

Seneca screamed and lashed at his bonds. Taeer still leaned over him, straddling him, her weight pressing down on his pelvis.

"The blood flow slows a bit under my weight," Taeer said. "But still the lifeblood trickles. As soon as I rise from you, the flow will intensify. Arteries are such tricky things. So easy to snip! And yet so fast to kill."

"Taeer," he whispered, still struggling against his bonds, feeling weaker now. The blood seeped into the mattress. "Taeer, stop this. Please. Stop."

She raised an eyebrow. "Does the great conqueror, the man who destroyed Gefen, who took slaves—does he beg?"

"I'm not that man anymore," Seneca said, unable to shout anymore, eyes clouding. "Taeer, I've changed. Imani changed me. I'm not who I was. Please. Taeer, stop this. Release me and we'll talk."

Pouting, she leaned forward. As her weight lifted, the blood flowed with more vigor. She kissed him—a soft, tender kiss, like the ones she had given him countless times. "It's too late for all that, my sweet boy. Maybe you are no longer who you were. But neither am I." She brushed hair back from his forehead. "The imperial lumer has summoned us. We rise, sweet Seneca. We rise up against you everywhere. Here in Nur. In Zohar. All around the Encircled Sea, my sisters—the lumers, those whom you enslaved—we all rise. And I do my part. Sleep well, sweet prince." Her smile grew. "May you scream for eternity in Ashael."

She rose from him and stood at the foot of the bed. Without her weight against his wound, the blood pumped out faster, soaking the mattress, trickling to the floor.

"Taeer!" he screamed, tugging madly at the bedposts, his limbs still bound. "Taeer, damn it! Let me go! Stop this! Taeer!"

She raised the blade to her lips—just a small knife, no larger than her finger—and licked his blood. "I could, perhaps, plunge this into your heart, but no. That would be too fast." She licked the blood off her teeth. "I'm going to savor this, Seneca. I'm going to make this last. I want you to feel your life drain away—just as Jerael's life drained away, just as—"

Blood blasted from her chest.

The spear burst out between Taeer's ribs.

The lumer's eyes widened, and her knife dropped to the floor.

Behind the lumer, Imani tugged the spear free.

Taeer gasped for air like a fish out of water. She ignited her lume, but the glow sputtered around her fingertips. She brought a shaky hand to her chest . . . and then her fingers went dark. She crashed down to the ground and did not rise.

Imani stood above the corpse. Her kalasiri was tattered, and blood dripped down her thigh and splashed her hair. The Queen of Nur looked down at the corpse of Taeer, then at Seneca, who still lay bound on the bed.

"Are those things true?" Imani whispered, looking at him. "That you crucified a man, then took his daughter under the corpse, impregnating her? That you slaughtered thousands? That you took slaves? I stole a woman's life to save yours." A tear rolled down Imani's cheek, and her voice trembled. "So tell me, Seneca. Are those things true, and did I just become a monster too?"

"Imani," he whispered, still bleeding, weaker now. He could barely see her. He could barely speak. "Please, Imani. The bleeding. She cut my artery. She—"

"Is it true?" Imani repeated.

Seneca nodded, tears in his eyes, as outside the window all his hopes burned. So let him burn with them. Perhaps he no longer deserved life, let alone power.

"It's true," he whispered. He could speak no louder. "I sent men to slaughter thousands in Gefen. I crucified Jerael Sela myself—with my own hands—and I fucked his daughter in Jerael's own bed as he was dying outside the window, then took his daughter to be my slave in Aelar. I am not a good man, Imani. But you knew that. You always knew that. If you want to let me die now, you would serve justice. I don't deserve life, and I stole the lives of many, and nothing awaits me in the afterlife but damnation. But you told me something, Imani, back in the pyramid, in your home. You told me that you believed I could change. That I could still do good in this world. That I could find redemption. So now this is your choice. Turn around and leave me, and let the monster bleed to death, and perhaps the world will be rid of evil, and perhaps our child will be spared the fate I had—the burden of a cruel father. Or let me slay that monster myself, and let me undo his destruction."

Imani stared at him for a long time, a battle raging behind her eyes.

Finally she dropped her spear, stepped toward him, and pressed a pillow against his wound.

"Maybe we're both monsters now," Imani said, sitting beside him, holding in what remained of his blood. "So let us find redemption together."

He exhaled in shaky relief. He felt so weak. He closed his eyes and he dreamed—dreamed of being a boy again, back in the palace, a boy raised by killers, lost in darkness, no light to guide him. And in his dreams, Imani walked by his side, lost with him, seeking a way out from a palace of endless corridors.

EPHER

War flared across the walls of Beth Eloh, a ring of fire and iron that surrounded this city, this nation, this last flicker of light in a world of shadows.

The legions covered the mountainside, thousands upon thousands—the men who had ravaged the Zoharite countryside, burning villages and fields, slaughtering countless. Their rams slammed at walls and gates. Their siege towers crawled forward like wooden giants. Their catapults roared, the boulders slamming into towers, sailing over the walls, shattering ancient homes and tombs within the city. The drums and horns and enemy chants never ceased.

Epher fired arrow after arrow. A siege tower reached the wall, and a gangplank slammed down, and Epher charged toward the legionaries who spilled onto the battlements. He fought in a fury, swinging sword and shield, knocking them down. Olive fought at his side, shrieking and shouting curses, tossing daggers and thrusting spears. The walls of Beth Eloh spread for parsa'ot around the city, and thousands defended them—every man, woman, and child able to wield a weapon. And yet they hadn't enough weapons in this city—too few swords, too few arrows, too much wall to cover.

Was I a fool? Epher thought, grimacing as a boulder sailed overhead. It crashed into a silo in the city, and grains scattered across the streets. Mother would have told me to surrender to Claudia, to join Aelar. But I chose war. I chose death.

He fired another arrow into the army on the mountainside, knowing that it wasn't enough, that the enemy was too mighty.

"My king!" cried Hanan, running across the wall toward him. "Their rams are cracking the Gate of Pilgrims!"

Epher cursed, nodded, and gestured at the archers who lined the wall with him. They ran. The city neighborhoods sprawled at their side: houses, streets, cemeteries, temples, all crammed full of people, hundreds of thousands of Zoharites from babies to elders. At Epher's other side spread the hosts of Aelar, line after line of legionaries, ready to break through this thin shell of stone, to slaughter all those within.

Finally they reached the Gate of Pilgrims, an ancient, eastern gate that faced the desert, named for the eastern travelers, poor and humble, who used to enter the city here, seeking the light within. Today a battering ram swung here, its iron head shaped like a true ram with curling horns. A handful of defenders stood on towers and battlements, firing arrows, helpless to stop the attack. Epher and his comrades joined them on the gatehouse, firing fresh arrows and slinging stones. Legionaries fell dead below.

"Where's the goddamn oil?" Epher shouted.

"They're using it at the Gate of Mercy!" shouted Ramael, firing arrows at his side. "We're almost out."

Epher fired another arrow, slew another legionary. The ram fell and rolled. The attack on the gate was repelled for now, but not for long, and he knew that Zohar would run out of arrows and oil before the enemy ran out of men.

Did I make a mistake? Should I have surrendered?

The desert spread in the distance, rolling toward the land of Sekadia. Centuries ago, the Zoharites had been slaves in that eastern realm, as they had been slaves in Nur only several generations earlier. But surrender now meant more than slavery for Zohar. It meant erasing everything that Zohar was, losing its religion, its language, its identity.

We must hang on a little longer, he told himself. In her delirium, Avinasi had spoken of Gael sweeping toward Aelar, of Nur rising in rebellion, of Aelarian fighting Aelarian for the throne, and of lumers rising up around the sea. The Empire was in chaos.

If I can just hold these walls, Epher thought. If I can resist, if we can live to see Aelar fall . . .

He fired another arrow. It was time for all around the Encircled Sea to rise up. To resist. To kill them, to drive them off, to hammer more cracks into the Empire until it fell.

So let me be a hammer, he thought. Let me fight bravely, Eloh. Let us cast them back and rise again.

The sun fell, and they fought in darkness. The sun rose and the war raged on. More boulders plowed through the people, scattering corpses across the city. More siege towers reached the walls, and blood splashed the battlements. Fifty legionaries managed to descend into a courtyard, to slay two hundred women and children before the Zoharites cut them down, before the siege tower burned. The sun sank and still the assault showed no sign of relenting.

"My king," said Ramael, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You must sleep. My men and I will defend the wall for the night. There will still be many days of killing legionaries, God willing. Go rest."

How could Epher rest as the world burned? How could he rest as his people fought, perished, prayed?

"Come, Epher," Olive whispered. "We'll rest. For only a few hours."

Panting, the war drums still booming, Epher looked at her—the woman he loved most in the world. Soot, ash, and blood covered Olive's armor and face, hiding her freckles. Her red hair fell across her brow and ears, smeared with grime. Yet her green eyes still shone with courage, and she held his hand. She had not left his side, not throughout this long war, and had fought more bravely than any man in his army.

He nodded. Guilt and weariness battling within him, he climbed off the wall with Olive.

They did not make their way to the palace in the city center. Instead, they walked toward a small fortress, not much larger than the villa on Pine Hill, that rose where two thick walls met. A tower soared here above a barracks, full of archers. Zoharite warriors stood at attention as their king entered the fort. A shadowy hall awaited, full of supplies and weapons and lined with chambers. Epher and Olive made their way to a room at the back, stepped inside, and found a cot, a table, and a ewer of water. A servant rushed forth with food and drink—two bowls of porridge, a fig cake, a slab of cheese, and a flagon of wine, a simple meal for soldiers.

Epher ate quickly, finding no pleasure in the meal. Olive stuffed her cheeks full, chewing lustfully, guzzling down the food.

"Eat more," she said, swallowing. "Enjoy it. This might be our last meal."

Epher shoved his bowl aside, and Olive grabbed it and polished off what remained.

The cot was small, meant for one soldier, but Epher and Olive lay there together, holding each other. Shouts, booming catapults, and the screams of the dying rose outside. The walls shook as a boulder hit them and dust rained. And yet within moments, Olive was asleep in his arms.

Epher kissed the top of her head, feeling her warm breath against his neck.

I love you, Olive, he thought. I love you more than life. If we must die tonight, we die together. We will never part again.

Even with the roar of battle, soon Epher—weary, weak—slept too. In his dreams, however, he still stood on the wall, still fought, still watched men burn, torn apart, skulls still screaming even in death.

And in those dreams, a shadowy figure walked through the battle, hidden in a black robe and hood, and wherever he passed, soldiers wilted and souls tore. Epher stood in a field of corpses. Roses grew all around him from the flesh, red as blood, blooming under a sky of crows. Tarath El rose before him, a fortress atop a massive stone mesa, a place Epher had only seen once in his childhood. Through the field of death and roses the robed figure walked, reaching out gray hands, and whatever corpse it touched grew another rose. When Epher looked closer, he saw that those were not actually roses; they were hearts, peeled open, still connected with arteries to the dead, still pumping.

Epher stood in the field of hearts, clad in armor, a bloody sword in hand, but the sword became a serpent, hissing and coiling, and he tossed it down with fright. When he looked back up, the robed figure stood closer in the field, reaching out gray hands tipped with red. Slowly, the figure raised its head, and light fell into its hood. Its face was gray, deeply furrowed, the eyes white. Its mouth opened in a grin, and a serpent emerged like a tongue.

Epher frowned. That face—that gray, lined face—he knew that face, he had seen it before, he—

Terror gripped him.

He sucked in air.

"My king!" spoke a corpse in the field. "King Epheriah!"

The walls crumbled behind him, and the hearts melted.

"My king!"

Epher opened his eyes. Dawn's light streamed through the window, and Olive still lay in his arms, her eyes crusty with sleep, blinking feebly. A young soldier stood at the doorway, armor cracked and splashed with blood. A bandage wrapped around the boy's head. And a boy he was, probably no older than thirteen—but old enough to fight, old enough to fire a bow, to swing a sword when so many of the nation's men lay underground.

"What is it?" Epher rasped, rising from the bed. "I slept too long." The battle still sounded outside—the twanging trebuchets, the whistles of arrows, the screams of men. His heart clenched. "Are the gates breached?"

"The gates still stand, my lord," said the soldier. "It's the inner city. Outside the Temple. They say that . . ." The boy's eyes flooded with tears. "They say that she entered through the Gate of Tears, clad in white. They say she is healing the wounded. They say she brings hope."

Epher walked toward the boy. Olive rose from the bed and stood beside him, daggers drawn.

"Who?" Epher said. "Who entered the city?"

The boy's voice trembled. "The savior. She who was prophesied. Your sister." Tears shone in his eyes. "Maya Sela."

KOREN

They hung in the cage, bruised and beaten, food for ravens. Already the dark birds stared from the towers and walls that rose around the courtyard, beady eyes never straying from the gibbet. Rain fell and cold wind shrieked, and Koren knew it would not be long now before the creatures swooped, before those beaks tore into his flesh. He wasn't sure which would kill him first—hunger or ravens—but neither seemed a very good way to die.

"Come to Elania, they said," Koren muttered. "Raise legions and restore the Republic, they said." He sighed. "I miss Claudia's villa."

Huddled at his side in the gibbet, Valentina rolled her eyes. "I'm more pleasant company than Claudia, surely."

"Demons of Ashael are more pleasant company than Claudia," Koren said, "but her villa was a little more comfortable than this cage."

He tried to change his position, and the gibbet swung on its chain, hanging ten feet above the courtyard. Valentina's elbow kept jabbing his ribs, and his feet were asleep. They crouched here, bodies pressed together. The cage wasn't much larger than a wine cask.

They had been hanging here for two days now, maybe three. It was hard to remember. The guards had been kind enough—or perhaps cruel enough—to toss them the odd scrap of bread, just enough to keep them alive a little longer. They drank the rain. It hadn't stopped raining all this time. The cage hung in the open courtyard, dangling from a wooden beam. The legionaries were always there—manning the walls around the courtyard, moving through the gates, entering and leaving their barracks and towers. The forum was a large complex, the center of the city of Tilium, indeed the center of Aelar's might on this distant northern island at the end of the world.

"Hey, Karen!" shouted a legionary below. He lifted a clump of horse droppings and tossed it at the cage. "Enjoy this meal on me!"

Koren grimaced and swung the cage, just narrowly dodging the projectile. The legionary and his friends guffawed, then scattered when their centurion marched into the courtyard.

"They spelled my name wrong." Koren glanced down at the wooden sign that hung from the cage. He could just make out the words: Karen Sela, rebel of Zohar, and Valentina Octavius, traitor of Aelar. "It's Koren. Not Karen. Do I look like a Karen?"

Valentina was shivering in the rain. "I'll call you Karen from now on. I like that name."

"So long as I can call you Tina," he said.

She stuck out her tongue. "I hate that name. A suitor once called me that. I rejected his proposal before they served the wine."

Koren slung an arm around her, and she huddled closer to him. He kissed her cheek.

"I almost got married once," he said.

Valentina raised an eyebrow. "What, did you get her drunk?"

"Very funny." He took a deep breath, resurrecting those old memories. "Her name is Naima. A shepherd's daughter. Long black hair, gray eyes tinged with green. Those eyes are rare in Zohar. She laughed at all my jokes too—that's even more rare."

"So why didn't you marry her?"

"I was young, stupid, and thought I could still have adventures in the world. I wanted to sail around the Encircled Sea. To visit Nur and see the legendary Queen Imani, the woman they said was so beautiful even emperors fell to her charms. To see the forests of Gael, full of soaring trees and strange animals. To see the bird markets of Phedia with parrots of every color. To sail on the gushing rivers of Berenia between the statues in the cliffs, carved by the ancients, tall as palaces."

Valentina smiled wanly. "And instead, you're stuck here in Elania, at the ass end of the world. And instead of a beautiful shepherd's daughter with green eyes, you have me, a plain girl who has no color at all."

"You're beautiful too," Koren said. "As beautiful as any woman I've ever seen. And very wise and very gentle. And . . ."

And I love you, he thought, but dared not say it. Her heart was still given to the memory of Iris. Who was he to claim it?

". . . and I'm glad that if I have to die here, in this cold, cursed cage, that it's with you," he finished.

She leaned her head against his chest. "Tell me about Zohar," she whispered. "Iris used to tell me stories. Let's pretend we're there."

As he held her, as the cage swayed, as the rain fell, as they shivered in the cold, he spoke of golden beaches. Of palm trees growing around stony mountains. Of ancient walls of limestone, each brick with its own personality, and domes of precious metal. Of rolling dunes and caravans of camels. Of vineyards and pomegranates and candles in the night. Of songs around the Restday table. Of family. Of home. And his words seemed to soothe her, but they saddened Koren. As he remembered home and family, the gloom of this place seemed almost unbearable. He did not want to die here. Not so far from home, his bones toys for ravens.

He closed his eyes, and he tried to imagine that he lay on the beach of Gefen, that the spray of waves was wetting him, not the rain, and that when night finally fell, when death took him, that a thousand stars would shine and welcome him into a land with no more pain, a quiet, starlit land of introspection where he would walk with Valentina, where he would meet his father again.

"Well, well, the little rats dream of the desert, do they?" The voice rose from nearby. "Gods, the pair of you stink like a whore's crotch."

Koren opened his eyes. A balcony thrust out from the courtyard wall, level with the hanging gibbet. A stocky man had stepped out onto the balcony, wearing a breastplate emblazoned with an eagle. A scar plunged deep into his head, running across the skull and ending inside one eye socket. The man's good eye stared at the gibbet, crinkled in amusement.

"Flavius," Valentina said, voice dripping disgust. "You cannot stop the Republic's return, Flavius! And when she rises again, it'll be you in this cage. Empress Porcia will not survive forever, and when she falls—"

Flavius snorted. "Porcia's already dead. Stabbed by her own harem, and yet the Empire still stands."

Valentina gasped, swallowing the rest of her words. She bit her lip. She shuddered and looked at Koren with eyes that were suddenly damp.

Koren awkwardly patted her shoulder. "I'm . . . sorry? I think."

Valentina lowered her head, and for a moment she was silent. Then her hands balled into fists. "Good," she whispered, though Koren saw that tears streamed down her cheeks.

She grew up thinking Porcia is her sister, Koren thought. She knows that Porcia was a monster, but of course she grieves. As for himself, Koren found these tidings rather uplifting. Porcia dead? Best fucking news I've heard since Marcus bashed his head against the poolside.

Valentina gathered herself, squared her shoulders, and turned back toward the governor on the balcony. The cage swung. "So let Porcia rot. Whoever replaced her will rot too. The Empire itself will die. Only the Republic will—"

"Your wailings grow tedious." Flavius turned his head, peering back toward the chamber he had emerged from. "Batya, here! Bring the bucket. Come!"

A woman emerged onto the balcony and stood by Flavius, carrying a bucket. She wore a burlap tunic, and rain dampened her gray hair. She looked to be about fifty years old, thin and frail, her wrinkles evincing years of labor and worries.

A Zoharite, Koren knew.

"Yes, dominus," the woman said, head bowed. She held out the bucket.

Koren craned his neck, taking a closer look, and grimaced. Gobbets of red, wet meat filled the bucket. By the smell of it, it wasn't fresh. Several ravens perked up across the courtyard's walls and towers, staring yet still daring not approach.

"I've trained them well," said Flavius, looking at the birds. "They've become like pets to me. The Empire has chosen the eagle to be our symbol, but I've always found the raven to be superior. Cleverer. Hungrier. Crueler. Among beasts, there is none who is a better companion than a raven."

Koren winced. "Not even piglets? Have you ever seen a piglet? They're adorable. And delicious! Why don't you let me out of this cage, and I'll go find you one."

Flavius pulled on a thick leather glove studded with iron. He reached into the bucket and plucked out a chunk of meat the size of a thumb. He held the bloody morsel over the balcony's railing.

"Marcus!" he cried. "Three spins!"

One of the ravens shrieked, rose from a wall, and flew three times around the courtyard. Then the bird dived, grabbed the meat from Flavius's fingers, and gulped as it rose again. The new governor of Elania stared at his glove, shaking his head sadly. The leather had torn open, nicking the skin within.

"I've trained them well." Flavius sighed. "Each knows his name, and each knows many commands. And yet their beaks are so sharp, and their hunger so great, they cannot help but cut the flesh."

"Flavius, stop this!" Valentina rose to her feet in the cage, her head hitting the metal ceiling. She looked between the bars at the legionaries who filled the courtyard below; more were streaming in through the archway, come to see the show. "Men of Aelar! Hear me! I am Valentina Septimus, daughter of a senator. The Senate can rise again! Seize this man!" She pointed at Flavius. "He is a traitor to Aelar. Seize him and help me raise the Republic again!"

The soldiers did not budge. More marched into the courtyard and lined up along the colonnades, staring at the hanging cage. Flavius reached into his bucket again, plucked out another gobbet, and held it high.

"Seneca, feed!" he shouted and tossed the meat at the cage.

The slab flew between the bars and landed on Koren's thigh. At once, a raven swooped, drove between the bars, and grabbed the meat. Its beak tore into Koren's leg, and he yelped.

"Which one is named Karen?" he called to Flavius.

"Soldiers of Aelar!" Valentina cried. "Listen to me! I came here from the Senate. We fight to see the Republic rise. We—"

Flavius tossed another chunk of meat into the cage, and this one hit Valentina's chest. A raven shot forward like an arrow. Valentina tried to swat it away, but it bit her fingers, then her chest, then flew off with the meat. She cried out, bleeding from both chest and hand.

"My pets are hungry," said Flavius. "It's time to fill their bellies with meat." He grabbed a fistful of meat and slung the chunks into the cage. "Feed, friends! Feed!"

The ravens swooped. Koren and Valentina screamed. Dozens of the birds flew between the bars, pecking at the chunks of bloody meat. In their frenzy, they could not distinguish between the rotted gobbets and human flesh. They bit into Koren and Valentina, drawing blood, ripping off skin. Koren flailed, kicking, swinging his arms, trying to beat them off, but the birds were massive—nearly as large as eagles—powerful and ruthless and mad with bloodlust. When finally the last chunks of meat had been consumed, Koren fell to his knees. His arms were shredded. Valentina panted at his side, blood on her forehead and chest. The legionaries in the courtyard cried out for blood.

"I think . . ." Koren gulped and wiped blood of his forehead. "I think that little one with the ruffled wing would make a good Karen."

He looked back at the balcony. Flavius still stood there, and his lumer still held the bucket. Plenty of raw meat still filled it.

"We have only begun, dear friends," Flavius said, licking his lips. The ravens circled and shrieked overhead. "There are still many courses in this feast." He reached toward the bucket again, and the ravens shrieked in anticipation.

Valentina clung to Koren, shuddering, panting. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, and looked over her head. He stared at Batya, the lumer on the balcony. The gray-haired woman stared back, holding the bucket. Brown eyes. Eyes that still remembered the desert.

"Ours is the light," Koren said, staring into her eyes, speaking in Zoharite. "We are lions of Zohar. Roar with me."

A glow filled the old woman's eyes—the glow of luminescence, of Eloh's grace.

"For Zohar," Koren whispered.

Flavius spun toward his lumer, frowning. "What the fuck are you do—"

Batya raised her bucket and dumped the contents—a reeking pile of rotten meat and blood—onto the Aelarian governor.

The ravens swooped. Dozens of the birds shrieked, flying onto the balcony, covering the governor. Flavius screamed. He swiped madly at the ravens. He managed to draw his gladius and cut a bird. But the other ravens kept feasting, tugging at the meat, ripping the straps off the armor, digging into the face. Flavius's scream rose louder, a horrible sound, bubbling, inhuman. He flailed, tearing off ravens, only leaving room for more to feed. When Flavius ripped one bird off with a spurt of blood, Koren glimpsed the man's face. The skin was gone, and the muscles dangled like worms. Then a raven plunged back toward the meal and plucked out the man's eye.

Flavius stumbled forward, gave a weak cry, and tilted over the balcony's railing. He plunged down and shattered against the courtyard. The ravens followed and kept pecking at the meat, tearing it free from under the armor, exposing the bones.

On the balcony, Batya met Koren's eyes again. "Ours is the light."

Across the courtyard, the legionaries bustled. One man drew an arrow and loaded it into his bow. An officer was shouting. A few men rushed forth to drag the ruin of their governor away, leaving a stream of blood. The ravens cawed in protest.

"Kill the fucking rats!" shouted a centurion.

"Stand down, men!" cried Valentina, holding on to the cage bars.

Koren grimaced, ready for arrows to finish the work the ravens had begun, when horns—hundreds of horns—blared.

Legionaries spun toward the south, reaching for their swords.

The horns rose louder—astral, deep, keening.

Koren knew that sound. He had heard those horns in a misty valley outside this city.

"The native Elanians," he whispered, pointing.

Hanging from the cage, he could just peer over the walls that surrounded the forum's courtyard. There, in the hills outside the city, he could see an army sweeping across the wilderness, charging toward the city of Tilium.

Koren sighed. "If it's not man-eating ravens, it's a horde of barbarians."

Valentina rubbed her wounded arm. "They eat women too."

"Koren!" cried the lumer from the balcony and tossed him something small and shiny. Koren caught it in his hand. A key. As legionaries raced out from the forum, shouting for war, Koren placed the key into the cage's door. It swung open with a shower of rust and old blood.

"Finally," Koren said as he leaped out. "Somebody got my name right."

MAYA

Death slammed at the walls of the city, and the land wept. Maya stood in the Temple courtyard, wrapped in her prayer shawl, her hands aglow with the grace of Luminosity.

"Come forth, children." She raised both hands. "Come forth and be healed."

The wounded and ill spread before her. Lepers hobbled forth, robed and veiled. Wounded soldiers limped or crawled forth, bandaged, some missing limbs. Mothers carried feverish babes. The consecrated sisters, holy whores who worshipped Eloh with their bodies, approached gingerly, ravaged with disease, their lips and genitals inflamed, their minds gone to madness. The word spread quickly through the city, and soon hundreds were flowing through the streets toward the Mount of Cedars and the Temple on its crest.

"So many hurt," Maya whispered, gazing upon them.

Abishag stood at her side—so young yet with eyes so hurt, so hopeful. "You will heal them." Tears shone on her cheeks. "You will heal this city of tears."

Two soldiers stepped forward, bearded, gaunt. Between them they carried a comrade, an arrow in his chest, blood in his mouth. The wounded man's face was ashen, almost gray, and—

The man with the furrowed gray skin walked through a field of corpses. Every man he touched, a heart bloomed from him like a rose. Above in the clouds, the messengers wept, and a cold dawn broke over—

"Our savior." The wounded man reached out to her, hand shaking. "Heal me, savior."

Maya blinked, the vision gone. The wounded man knelt before her, still bleeding, and she placed her glowing hands upon him. The light flowed through the Temple, through Maya, through the wounded man. Here, this hill, was the world's greatest reservoir of lume. For thousands of years, this grace, this magic, this holiness had drawn pilgrims and conquerors, healers and soldiers, lumers and priests. It was not wispy lume like that in Suna in the east. The lume here in Beth Eloh was rich, almost tangible, flowing from the ancient bricks of the city, from the desert, from the mount, from the history of this place, the countless lives, desert tribes and dancers, travelers rising from the desert, the song of nations, the song of life.

When she pulled back her hands, letting the light fade, she saw that the warrior was healed. The arrow fell to the ground, and the wound closed, and the pallor of death pulled back. The man knelt before her, weeping, and kissed the ground before her.

"Thank you, savior. Thank you, Maya Elior."

Elior? Maya had always gone by her father's name, Sela, the family that guarded the coast. But yes, perhaps here, to these people, she was an Elior—the family of her mother, a family descended from Elshalom, the ancient royal dynasty of Zohar. The family that, perhaps, could bring some hope to this city of despair. For even as Maya stood here, hands glowing with luminescence, that despair tightened like a noose. Even standing here at the Temple, Maya could hear them in the distance: the drums, catapults, screams of war, the enemy that vowed to destroy all that Maya's ancestors had built here, all that she healed.

The people parted, whispering in fear, as a leper limped toward Maya. The leper removed his robes, revealing the frail, naked body of a boy, ravaged with disease. The skin was all but gone, consumed with white sores, the face rotten. She could hardly believe that the boy still lived. He looked like a mummified corpse. Maya thought back to the burnt king in Sekadia, his face and hands gone. She had been unable to heal him fully, easing his pain but failing to restore what the fire had claimed. Fear filled Maya that she could not heal this boy, yet as he knelt before her, she placed her hands upon him. The crowd prayed and sang as Maya's light flowed into the leper, as the disease left the skin, shedding, falling like the snow, until the boy's skin was pure. Kneeling before her, he kissed her feet, and he wept.

"Thank you, Maya Elior, Lady of Light."

One by one, they approached her. Wounded soldiers. Refugees from the ravaged countryside, burnt, maimed. Starving beggars. The ill and the dying. Maya had never used so much light, had never allowed so much luminescence to flow through her. A year ago, the light of this city had nearly seared her. Now, a lumer, she stood here as a conduit of light, passing the healing and beauty of Luminosity into all who came before her.

You taught me this grace, Namtar, she thought, remembering her mistress from the east. And you taught me courage and goodness, my parents. And still you teach me every day, light of Zohar.

As the shadow loomed, she cast her light. As death fell upon the city, she healed the dying.

For hours she stood here, through night and new dawn, shining her light. Finally the people parted with hushed whispers, and a man came walking between them. Standing by the old altar of the Temple, the dawn in her eyes, Maya squinted to see him. A tall man, broad of shoulders, clad in scale armor, a sword at his side. All bowed before him, and though she saw great weariness and fear in him, the man walked straight and tall, his shoulders squared despite his heavy burden. He came to stand before her, and Maya wept.

"Epher," she whispered.

"Maya." His eyes too dampened, and he pulled her into a crushing embrace. "Maya."

For long moments, she could only hold him, weeping, unable to speak. Epher—her oldest brother. Epher—the man she had always admired, second in strength and wisdom only to their father. Epher—now the king of Zohar.

"So you're a lumer now," he finally said.

She blinked away her tears, reaching up to touch his beard. He had aged. By Eloh, he had aged. She had been away for only half a year, but he seemed to have aged a decade. He was only twenty-four, but a few white hairs now grew in his beard, and lines appeared on his brow.

"Where are the others?" she asked him. "Do you have any word of Koren and Atalia and Ofeer? And what of Mother? Where is she? Why did she not come here?"

His face darkened, and he lowered his head, and something seemed to shatter inside Maya, and she did not need the Sight to know. She saw it in Epher's eyes.

"Epher, is Mother . . . did she . . ."

He nodded, still holding her. "Here at this very place. She fell where we stand."

No.

No, it could not be true. He had to be lying. It was impossible. Mother could not be dead, could not! Shiloh was too strong, too wise, too eternal. Shiloh was the beacon Maya had forever followed, her anchor to this world, her comfort, her guiding light. It was impossible that she could have died—so soon. So soon.

"I'm not ready," Maya whispered, tears on her lashes. "I . . . I'm not ready for this. To lose her. She . . . It's too soon, Epher." She trembled. "It's too soon."

She buried her face against his chest, and he held her as she cried.

"Maya," he said, placing a finger under her chin and raising her face toward his. "How did you enter this city? This is a place of death. I don't know how much longer I can hold back the legions. Do you . . ." His voice dropped. "Do you see the future in the luminescence? Will this city stand?"

Maya had never used Foresight outside the house of Luminosity across the desert. More than any other pillar, she feared Foresight, feared the dreams it could show. She did not mean to peer into the Foresight now, not here, not with so many more to heal. And yet so much lume flowed in this place. At the mere suggestion of Foresight, the light streamed through her, and the paths opened up before her—paths of light and shadow, of possibility and fate.

Waves flowed around her. The paths branched out, a great network of seeking roots. Along each path the images coalesced, flowed before her, vanished. She saw . . .

Maya grimaced and nearly fell, was only vaguely aware of Epher holding her up.

Before her, she saw the city fall, saw the walls crumble, the Temple itself collapse, saw the people in this land perish. Refugees roamed the world, homeless, hunted, hated, as their land lay in ruin and sand covered all their ancient works. The waves of possibility flowed, and she saw a Zohar surrendering, taking on the yoke of Aelar, until all her culture faded and was lost from history, and only the Empire remained until it too crumbled, fell, washed away into the sea. The paths grew dimmer, more convoluted, taking her through wars, through darkness, through smoke, through genocide and rebirth, through fire—anguish, eternal torture. Cursed. The curse of darkness.

"We are cursed," she whispered, tears in her eyes, for she could find no path of victory, no path of eternal grace, and every strand led her to ruin, to slavery and death. "All is darkness under the light."

And above it all, the shadow spread. Watching. She felt him, his eyes boring into her, his presence always taunting her. A figure always in the shadows, scuttling. The man who had hidden under her bed and in her closet when she'd been but a child. The man who had raised the dragons in the desert, sending their wrath against her. The man in the shadows. The man with the furrowed gray skin. The adversary. Above all future paths of Zohar, he loomed, a vulture, a veil of dark clouds and white eyes, mocking, taunting, evil itself, a living entity.

The adversary.

"Maya . . ." he whispered, and serpents fled his mouth, and cities burned and souls cried out in anguish. "I have your mother, Maya. She screams for me. She screams in Ashael."

"No," Maya whispered, trying to banish him, to claw him away, to hide from him, but he was everywhere, as mighty as Eloh, the darkness equal to the light.

I have to fight him. I have to stop him. This is my battle. This is the great battle of Zohar, greater even than the war with Aelar. I have to. I have to grow stronger. I have to stop him.

She trembled. Soon she was convulsing. He reached out to her, gray hands tipped with red, tearing out her innards, tearing out strands of smoke, demons of tar, and the creatures fled from her, slithering toward him, making him larger, stronger.

"Your whore of a mother screams for me," the adversary said, face hooded, veiled in shadows. "Your father begs me for mercy. Do you know who I am, Maya? Do you know my face?"

She wept. She screamed. He was ripping out her soul, tearing her apart, strand by strand, and the light fled her. She tried to cast that light against him, to fight him with Luminosity, but she seemed only to feed the beast, and he filled the paths, filled all futures, engulfed every possible fate of her family, of her nation, and she had to fight him, she—

"Maya!" The hands shook her. "Maya, damn it!"

"I have to fight!" she cried. "I have to fight you. I don't know who you are. I don't know. I don't know. I don't . . ."

"Maya!" The hands shook her again. "Look at me. Release your magic. Look at me!"

Epher. It was Epher speaking. She blinked, struggling to release the luminescence, to let it flow away, to let the lume die to embers, then douse the light. Once more she stood in the Temple's courtyard high above Beth Eloh. Once more the thousands crowded around her, and the hosts of Aelar slammed at the distant walls.

Epher stood before her, her brother, her king.

"What did you see?" he asked her.

"Questions." She dared not reveal the paths of doom, dared not rob him of hope. Yes, questions. Questions of a dark figure who lurked on every path, weaving the strands, directing them all to shadow.

"Lumer Maya!" rose a cry from behind. "Lumer Maya, we need you at the Gate of Mercy!"

Maya turned and narrowed her eyes. A soldier was running through the crowd, panting, awash with sweat. Bandages encircled his arms, and his scale armor hung in tatters.

"Lumer Maya!" He could barely breathe, let alone speak. Maya marched toward him through the crowd, and when he reached her, the soldier fell to his knees, breathing heavily.

Maya's eyes widened. She knew him!

"Joren!" She knelt before him and placed her hands on his shoulders. He had been one of their bodyguards back in Gefen, a man who had often stood guard outside the villa on Pine Hill. The last time she had seen him, Jerael had sent him to seek Ofeer after she had fled to join Seneca. "Joren, what is it?"

He took a ragged breath and struggled to his feet. "An illness spreads through the barracks at the gates. As the legions pound at us, disease ravages our men, and they . . ." He swallowed. "They speak of a shadow that walks through the camp, a hooded man, infecting all those he passes."

Maya sucked in breath, the visions flashing across her—gray skin, sharp teeth, a serpent tongue. She began to run.

They ran across the courtyard that spread before the towering Temple and the Holy of Holies. Walls surrounded the Temple complex. They were topped with golden pediments and engraved with lions, but their splendor belied their strength. They were thick and cast a deep shadow as Maya raced under the archway.

The Mount of Cedars sloped down before her, the center of the city and its most ancient quarter. She ran down a cobbled path between cedars and olive trees. The kingdom's palace rose to one side, smaller than the Temple but still a massive building topped with battlements, columns, and gold. To the other side sloped an ancient cemetery, some of its tombs thousands of years old, containing the bones of Zohar's old kings, queens, priests, and prophets.

At the bottom of the Mount, they reached a second set of walls—more ancient than those that surrounded the city. These walls had existed even before Elshalom had named this city his capital. These walls for millennia had defended the inner sanctum, the heart of the kingdom. No soldiers stood at the gates; every person who could wield a weapon now guarded the city's outer walls. Maya ran through another archway, and with her ran Abishag, Epher, and Joren.

The warren of Beth Eloh spread before them, a great painting of limestone, copper, fabric, and humanity. Between domes, silos, brick homes and shops, countless people crowded together. On normal days, a hundred thousand people lived in Beth Eloh—among the largest cities in the world. Now, with the countryside burning, with legionaries sweeping over the land, this number had grown tenfold. From all across Zohar, they had come here—from Gefen in the west, from Ma'oz in the north, from the southern deserts, from farmlands and villages. Every family now welcomed refugees into their homes. Many lived on the streets, huddling under balconies and awnings. Epher and his guards walked at the lead, carving a way through the crowd, but it was slow progress. Often Maya had to move step by slow step, unable to run. They passed through a marketplace, awnings hiding the sky, as people huddled at their sides in nooks, wrapped in robes.

Finally they raced down a boulevard lined with palm and cypress trees. Camels and donkeys fled before them, and there, past a courtyard, rose the Gate of Mercy—one of the city's two western gates, smaller and older than the Gate of Lions, which rose a few streets away. Maya remembered this place well. Half a year ago, she had entered the city through this gate with her mother.

The memory of Shiloh stabbed her with new grief, but Maya raised her chin, sucked in air, and dried her tears. There would be time to mourn later. There would be time for tears in future days. Right now, all of Zohar was threatened. Right now, if she could not stop this evil, all in this city would perish. She would keep her grief a hard stone, buried inside her, and not let it emerge and claim her. Not yet. Not here.

This gateway, normally a quiet, dusty place where camels lazily flicked their tails and boys sold holy artifacts to pilgrims, now bustled with death like a corpse bustling with flies. Hundreds of warriors stood above the doorway at the gatehouse battlements, in archer's nests, and along the walls that stretched north and south. Every man and woman was firing arrows, tossing sling stones, dropping boulders, or spilling cauldrons of bubbling water—the oil had run dry, and the water would soon follow, water this city desperately needed to support so many. The song of the legions rose from behind the doors: chanting voices, stomping feet, booming drums, and a ram that pounded at the gates.

A military camp had sprouted across the courtyard. Hastily constructed barracks rose along the walls. Hundreds of soldiers stood, walked, and lay across the courtyard and side streets. More moved within the nearby houses, their families evicted. Awnings rose along on street, shading the wounded, the dying, and the dead. A priest stood in a corner, praying, and ever that din rose, the chant of the enemy. "We come! We see! We kill!" Over and over, a prayer of death.

And death moved through the camp.

Maya saw the illness everywhere. Soldiers leaning against walls, ashen, gray sores bubbling on their arms. Corpses on litters, consumed with the disease. Evil slammed outside the walls, and a greater evil lurked within.

Screams rose as a boulder slammed into the battlements on the wall. A merlon cracked. Two Zoharites tumbled down and slammed onto a vaulted walkway. Cheers rose from beyond the wall.

"Joren, with me!" said Epher, rushing toward the wall. The men raced into the walkway, emerged onto a staircase, and rose to man the battlements.

Maya turned toward Abishag. The girl stared at her steadily even as war raged around them.

She's barely more than a child, Maya thought. Abishag looked like any farmer or shepherd's daughter from across Zohar—slender, her face round, her skin tanned brown, her black hair long and smooth. And yet Abishag had lived through horrors Maya could barely imagine, had risen from despair to find the mythical Gate of Tears.

"You don't have to be here with me," Maya said softly. "You may return to the Temple, seek shelter there, and pray."

Abishag would not look away. "There is no one to pray to at the Temple. I was in the Holy of Holies, and I saw nothing but an empty room, an empty ark, empty prayers from empty men. But you are holy." She clasped Maya's hand. "You are blessed with Eloh's light. I will follow you into any darkness."

Both were young girls from Zohar, yet they could not have been more different. Maya had been raised in wealth and power, daughter of Zohar's two mightiest families, her parents pillars of the nation. Abishag had been raised in the dregs, an orphan and prostitute, diseased and dying. Yet standing here together, Maya felt a kinship with Abishag, and though the Foresight told her little of her path ahead, she knew that they would walk that path together.

They walked across the courtyard, and Maya inhaled deeply, letting the lume flow through her, rise to her fingertips, and she wove it into luminescence. The soldiers of the city turned toward her light, whispering in awe, praying, weeping. Maya entered the pavilion where lay the dying—torn apart by enemy stones and steel and ravaged by illness. She approached one soldier consumed with disease. Gray boils covered him, hiding his eyes, yet still he wept.

Maya knelt before him, hands glowing. "I'm here, son of Zohar."

He clutched her hands. "A shadow," he whispered. "A robed man in the camp. A demon. I see him. He taunts me. He—"

He sucked in breath as the light flowed across him. Maya gritted her teeth, her chest twisting, for this was illness greater than any she had healed in the Temple. She could barely cast her light through the darkness engulfing this soldier. There was a stench here, a shadow blocking her light, a curse of darkness.

"Can't you heal him?" Abishag asked, her voice muffled, coming from parsa'ot away.

The light thrummed, suffusing Maya. She gripped the diseased soldier. He was slipping away, falling into darkness. The light burned her. She screamed.

"Maya!" cried a voice in the distance—Abishag's voice, distorted, fading.

As Maya gripped the diseased soldier, casting her light into him, the layers of boils, scabs, and rot peeled off, revealing gray skin draped over bones, a furrowed face, sharpened teeth, black pools of eyes. He laughed in her grip, reaching out withered arms like roots, grabbing her.

"He is mine," the rotted creature hissed.

But Maya would not relent. She had faced the legions of Aelar. She had traveled through fire and sand and war and found light. She was a lumer, and she sent all the light inside her into the creature, shattering it, revealing the man within. Finally she let the light flow out and panted, weary, racked with pain. A soldier lay before her, thin, sleeping, healed.

"Maya!" Abishag wrapped her arms around her. "Are you all right? You're trembling." She touched her cheek. "You're ashen."

Maya took a shuddering breath. She looked over Abishag's shoulder at the rest of the pavilion. The soldiers lay on the cobbled ground, covered in rough blankets, each one covered in the gray warts, bleeding, dying. And there, at the back, past guards and priests, he walked. Wrapped in black, hooded. He raised his head, stared at her, face now bloated and white, but there was no mistaking those black eyes—eyes fully black, no white around the irises. He turned his head away. He walked on, disappearing from view.

Maya took a shuddering breath.

"There is much work to do," she said. "There are many to heal. Come with me, Abishag. Pull me back if I go too deep."

Soldiers entered the pavilion, dragging ten more diseased, dying men. Maya had healed only one soldier here, and already she felt so weary she could barely walk. And yet she moved to the next soldier. She kindled the lume, for as the great war between Aelar and Zohar flared, a greater war was fought here, in light and in shadows, a war of Luminosity, of grace and of evil. She fought on.

VALENTINA

They ran through the city of Tilium as the barbarians swarmed down the hills from all sides.

No, Valentina thought. Not barbarians. This is their land. To them, we are barbarous.

Tilium, capital of the island-province of Elania, was the northernmost city in the Empire. Tens of thousands lived here. Most were Aelarian settlers, some who had run into dispute with the Octavius dynasty, others who simply craved the adventure of living in the Empire's most isolated province. Other residents were native Elanians. They had pale skin, red hair, and green eyes, though they dressed in togas and stolas like Aelarians, and they spoke the Aelarian tongue, willing converts to the Empire, earning citizenship with their loyalty.

Valentina ran between the people, and Koren ran with her. Legionaries raced down the streets, organized into cohorts and centuries but lacking central leadership; their governor now filled the bellies of ravens. They passed by houses topped with red roofs, the city theater, several temples to the gods, and under the archways of an aqueduct. Red and golden leaves, fallen from the city's elm and oak trees, scattered across the cobbled roads and squares. All the while, as they ran, the sounds of war rose from the hills outside the city walls—horns, drums, roars of fury.

"Damn!" Koren shouted as they ran, scattering the dry leaves. "Every damn place I go, somebody's trying to spoil the fun. First Seneca, then Porcia, now a horde of Elanians!"

But perhaps the Elanians need not be our enemies, Valentina thought. She kept running until she reached the city's defensive walls. Here she raced up a ramp and emerged onto the battlements. Koren rose to stand at her side. Hundreds of legionaries spread across the walls, facing the wilderness.

And there she saw them: thousands of Elanians across the river. A bridge stretched from the far bank toward a gatehouse in the city walls. The Elanians had taken the far bank, overwhelming the castrum built there—a complex of two towers, an armory, and barracks. Hundreds of Elanians were now marching across the bridge, bearing swords and shields, wearing checkered fabrics. Their faces were painted blue and green, and their cloaks billowed in the wind. Their banners unfurled, displaying white horses rampant upon green fields. At their lead rolled a wheeled battering ram, its bronze head forged like a snarling dragon. From other walls in the city, those facing the countryside, Valentina heard cries of war too. The Elanians surrounded Tilium, a vast army that could easily overwhelm this city.

The legionaries on the walls nocked arrows and loaded catapults that were built into the defenses. The first arrows flew, and the ram reached the gatehouse and slammed into the doors. The legionaries hurled down boulders, bubbling oil, and flaming arrows, slaying Elanians below. Across the city walls, the battle flared.

"Wait!" Valentina shouted. "Legionaries, hold your fire!" She coned her mouth and cried down to the Elanians on the bridge. "Elanians, halt your attack! Aelar surrenders to you!"

The legionaries still fired arrows. The Elanians stared up from below. The ram paused its assault.

"Legions of Aelar, hear me!" Valentina cried from the wall. "I am Valentina Cassius, known to you as Valentina Octavius, stepdaughter of Emperor Marcus Octavius. I command you—do not fight this battle!" She gazed down at the Elanians on the bridge. "Pull back across the river! We will grant you this city. Pull back and we will talk!"

The Elanians on the bridge parted, making way for a towering warrior with a red beard. He wore patches of armor and a checkered cloak, and a silver horn hung from his neck on a chain. Valentina remembered seeing him in the misty valley, leading this army. A crown topped his head, and a white horse, twin to the one he rode, reared on his shield.

"I am Enathor!" the man cried. "Son of Elethor, King of Elania. You stand on stolen ground, Aelarians! Open these gates and surrender this city, or we will tear down these walls and put you all to the sword."

"This city will be yours!" Valentina said. "Pull back from the walls! I will emerge onto the bridge, and we will negotiate our surrender. I—"

A hand grabbed her. A military officer glared at her. His nose was aquiline, and a unibrow shaded his beady eyes. He wore the insignia of a general.

"You do not command us, Valentina Cassius." He grabbed her arm.

Koren stepped forward and yanked the man back. "Don't touch her."

The general drew his sword and pointed the blade at Koren. "Stand back, desert rat!" He glared at his men. "Nock your arrows and fire! Slay those fucking heathens—and slay Valentina and her rat too."

"You will not!" Valentina shouted. She stepped into a turret and climbed onto the battlements. She wavered for a moment, the wind nearly blowing her off. From up here, she could see all the city below—a courtyard full of soldiers, walls spreading in both directions, and the distant forum where she had languished in a cage. She had always feared crowds, and now she faced a crowd of thousands. But she had not survived war and terror to be cowed here.

"Hear me!" Valentina said. "Hear me, legions of Aelar! Atticus Magnus, your governor for many years, was friend to my father. My father was Septimus Cassius, a great senator of the Republic. But I was raised by Marcus Octavius, a cruel emperor who shattered all that we had built for five hundred years. I've come here to rebuild the Republic! To restore Aelar to honor. To make us a force of civilization, not conquest. Let us forge peace with the Elanians! They are not our enemy, and this is their land. I will lead you home to Aelar, legions! Return with me, and we will undo the Empire and make this a Republic again, a civilization ruled by all people—Aelarians, Elanians, Zoharites, and all others in this world. Not a world run by one emperor but a world that belongs to all. These men outside our walls are not your enemy! Your enemy is the Empire which has stolen the Republic from us."

As she spoke, the general fumed and tried to reach her, but Koren held the man back. Finally the general broke free, marched across the wall, and addressed his legions.

"Take her back into her cage!" he shouted. "We'll leave her there to die. We'll—"

"The girl speaks truth!" shouted a centurion on the wall. "She is Valentina Octavius, daughter of Marcus, sister to Porcia and Seneca. See her white hair! I've seen her in Aelar in the company of the emperor."

"She is heiress to Aelar!" cried another man.

Valentina shook her head. "I am heiress to nothing but a promise—a promise to restore the Republic. Porcia is dead. Aelar waits without an emperor. Now is the time to rebuild our democracy! Return home with me, and you will serve in Aelar herself, defending her new Senate."

The general climbed the turret and drew his sword. Koren raced after him, but he was too slow. The blade drove toward Valentina, and she sidestepped, narrowly dodging the blow.

"This is my city now," the general hissed. "This is my army." He lashed his blade again. "This—"

Valentina ducked, and the blade scraped across her temple. She screamed and drove herself forward, knocking into the man's legs. He wobbled on the turret. Koren reached them, grabbed the general, and shoved him between two merlons. The sword tumbled into the river below.

Grunting, Koren shoved the general farther along the crenel. The man tilted over the edge.

"You tried to kill her." Koren gnashed his teeth. "You cut her head. It is I, Koren Sela—a Zoharite—who ends your life now." He shoved the man again . . . but Valentina reached out, grabbed the general, and held him up.

"Koren, no." Valentina shook her head. Blood dripped from her temple. "Let him live."

Koren's face was red with rage. He still held the man between the merlons, ready to send him down to the rocky river. "He tried to murder you."

"He lost his sword," Valentina said softly. "You can end his life, yes. But his life is cheap. Your honor is not." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "You killed legionaries before, and I saw how much pain that brought you, how much their deaths weigh upon your shoulders. Don't add more to that weight. Enough have died already."

Koren still held the man over the edge, jaw tight, as if contemplating the words. Finally he grunted and yanked the general back onto the wall. With a kick, he sent the Aelarian fleeing back down into the courtyard. The general glared and skulked away, his pride slain but his life saved.

Still bleeding from the ravens and the cut on her temple, Valentina left the wall and stepped onto the middle of the bridge, and with her came Koren and several centurions. As rain fell, she talked to Enathor, son of Elethor, King of Elania. She told him that she would withdraw the legions from his island. She welcomed his people into this city. She offered him partnership with Aelar—that they should build civilization here together, equal members in a republic of nations. The temples to Aelar's gods, she vowed, would not expand, and they would rise aside temples to the Elanian spirits.

"I will send no more Aelarians here," she vowed. "Not settlers or soldiers. Those Aelarian civilians who've already built lives here will remain, but they will live here peacefully. They will respect your culture while you respect theirs. The time for war in the world has ended. It is time to forge peace, to build civilization."

That night, Valentina lay down to bed in the Tilium forum, in Atticus's old chamber. At dawn, they would begin preparation for the journey back home. It would take days to prepare the supplies they needed, and Aelar was a long journey away. It had taken her and Koren nearly two months to travel here from Aelar, and an army would move more slowly. It would be spring before she arrived at the walls of Aelar again, bringing with her three legions.

And once I'm there, will war be unavoidable? she thought. Or can my words there too sway men's hearts to peace?

Koren stood by the window, looking out upon the city. The moon shone outside, and embers glowed in a brazier in the chamber. Both silver and red lights illuminated him. He wore only cotton breeches. He had cropped his hair and beard short; they were black as the night. As Valentina lay in bed, gazing at him across the chamber, she suddenly realized how beautiful he was. She had never understood when the other women of Aelar would gossip about men's beauty, speaking of men's bodies, their smiles, their stiff cocks. Valentina had never cared for any of those. Since awakening to womanhood, the love of her lumer had been enough for her. Yet now, lying here so far from home, she saw beauty in Koren—not only the beauty of his youth and form, but the beauty of his soul. There was so much light to that soul, so much joy, though so many worries weighed upon it.

"Will it work?" Koren said softly, still not facing her, gazing out the window. "Once we withdraw the legions, will the Elanians live in peace with the Aelarian settlers? Or will it be butchery?" He turned his back to the window, facing her. "Can men be trusted to live in peace, or as soon as we remove the might of an empire, will this place descend into chaos?"

"It was already descending into chaos," said Valentina. "I stopped that chaos."

Koren lowered his head. "How do you do it, Valentina? How do you believe in the goodness of men?"

She sighed and rose from the bed. She walked toward him and held his hands in the moonlight. She spoke softly. "When my mother was pregnant with me, Marcus butchered her. He took a knife, and he cut her corpse open, and he pulled me—just a fetus—out from her belly. He stole me from my mother's womb just to punish my father."

Even in the moonlight, Koren visibly paled. "God."

Valentina nodded. "And he treated my father even worse. He starved him, beat him, turned him into a chained animal, then forced him to dance and entertain the nobles—a fool, a wretch. When Septimus finally rebelled, Porcia Octavius murdered him—along with hundreds of other senators. I saw those murders. I saw my lover, Iris, strangled and murdered, lying dead at Marcus's feet. How do I believe in the goodness of men? I do not. I believe in their cruelty. In the malice and evil of mankind. And that is why I must believe in goodness, why I must fight for peace. Because only light can banish darkness. Only love can banish hatred. Only peace can banish war."

Koren lowered his head, silent for a long time, then looked into her eyes. "I'm sorry, Valentina. That those things happened to you."

She pulled him into her arms. "We've both walked dark paths. We've both seen too many loved ones lost, too much desolation, too much darkness to believe there can ever be light. But we'll keep shining our light. You and I, together, against the shadows."

They kissed in these shadows, like they had kissed under the blankets on their way to Tilium, but now they shed no tears. Now she did not kiss him for comfort in the cold and misery. Now she kissed him because she loved him—fully, deeply, completely.

She hesitated, then looked up at him and pulled off her stola. The soft linen fell to the floor, revealing her nakedness. Valentina had never been naked in front of anyone before. Even with Iris, she had always hidden under the blankets. Even in the bathhouses, she would hide her pale body underwater. She wished she could be bold and confident like Ofeer, and it took all her courage to meet his eyes.

"I've never made love to a man," she said. "Many suitors courted me in Aelar, generals and senators and great lords and kings of distant lands. I turned them all away. But I want to make love to you, Koren. I think I will enjoy it. Will you show me how?"

He nodded, eyes soft. "I'll show you how." He suddenly grinned—that old, mischievous grin she remembered, the one she hadn't seen nearly enough these past two months. "Some light in the shadows, right?"

She lay on the bed, naked, and closed her eyes. She was nervous, but as he kissed her, held her, she felt calmer, felt loved, felt better than she had since before her father had come into the garden, frightening her with stories of robins and cuckoos. It was awkward sex, their teeth banging twice, and it took several attempts before things seemed to work, and it was not wild love like in the stories the women in the bathhouse would share. But when it was over, and when she lay in his arms, and he stroked her hair and told silly jokes that made her groan, Valentina was happy—truly happy for the first time in many months.

On a winter morning, the legions departed from Tilium, traveling in galleys downriver through the island of Elania, heading toward the distant sea. Many leagues lay between them and Aelar. Valentina did not know what she would find when she got there—the tyranny of a new emperor or a city in ruin, ravaged by war. Many leagues and much darkness and much fear. Yet as they sailed, ship after ship, passing through this land they had conquered, Valentina vowed to keep carrying her light.

TIRUS

Sailing his galley across the Encircled Sea, Consul Tirus Valerius saw the island in the distance. He sucked in air between his clenched teeth, a smile tickling his lips.

"Cadom." He drank from his mug of wine, wiped his lips, and nodded at the shore. "Aelar's greatest symbol of might."

His sister-in-law stood at his side. Julia was a tall, athletic woman, an accomplished javelin thrower in her youth, having won several laurels in Aelar's games. Her hair streamed in the wind, a single streak of white running through the black locks like a silver river through a midnight field. Her dark eyes crinkled in amusement. "I thought that honor went to the Amphitheatrum."

Tirus snorted. "The Amphitheatrum is for show, that's all. Look ahead of you, Julia. Look at this island. Cadom was once Zohar's jewel, its only island and a light of its civilization. This place was once home to thousands of Zoharites, a thriving hub of trade and life and Luminosity. And now . . . ruins. The scars of imperial wrath."

He stared at the approaching island, at the ravaged walls, fallen towers, and smashed columns that littered the hills. Tirus remembered sailing here twenty years ago, serving in the legions under General Marcus Cadigus. Both Marcus and Tirus had been in their thirties then, still young and strong, two officers with eager wives at home and the glory of conquest ahead. Tirus remembered the towns that had risen here in Cadom, the Zoharite ships that had sailed against them. He remembered those ships burning, those towns falling. He remembered Jerael Sela kneeling before his new masters. He remembered dragging Shiloh Sela—gods, she had been beautiful back then—to Marcus, his gift of glory for a night.

"Here we first brought Zohar to its knees," Tirus said, lost in memory. "And here my ascension begins."

Julia kissed him. "This island will ever be a jewel in your empire, my future emperor."

Her mouth was warm and hungry. Tirus had never forgotten kissing her for the first time twenty years ago, kissing her many times in secret since—and now, finally, able to kiss her in the open, the world unrolling before them, the world they would rule together.

As they kissed, as her fingers stroked him, Tirus felt his manhood harden within his toga, and he grimaced with sudden pain. He pulled back from Julia.

"Not just yet, Julia," he said. "Let us save our passion for Aelar. It will be all the sweeter when we are emperor and empress."

The true reason he kept from her. The wound Ofeer had given him, sawing at his cock, was still healing, still red and scabbed and bled if he hardened. Yes, the wench in the Lunapar had been Ofeer Sela, daughter of his old enemy, sister of the rebel King Epheriah. Tirus was certain of that. His fists clenched at his sides. Once he returned to Aelar, he would break down every door until he found Ofeer, and then . . . then she would scream like nobody had ever screamed. He would torture her slowly, pulling out tooth by tooth, fingernail by fingernail, finger by finger, organ by organ.

"I hate waiting." Julia pouted, interrupting his thoughts. "But very well. Aelar is still three weeks away by sea, but I'll let my passion grow until we can make love in the heart of the Empire."

Tirus gazed at her, once his secret paramour, now his betrothed. Julia was everything her older sister, Tirus's slain wife, had not been. Adriana Valerius—and good riddance to her—had been a bitter woman and a bitter wife, and like his irritable bowel, she had made Tirus miserable. Always frowning, always fretting, always scolding, Adriana had seemed to him more ferret than woman. Tirus had married her to forge an alliance with her wealthy family, but he had instantly regretted it. Even back then, his eye had strayed to Adriana's sister, the wild Julia—eight years younger, eight times prettier, a woman with a mocking smile, intelligent eyes, and a fierce heart. Even so many years later, Julia was still fair, still intoxicating, and not yet forty—perhaps still young enough to give Tirus new children, to give him a son.

"You will be a glorious empress." Tirus raised his chin, staring out toward the island. "Here in Cadom we will summon the legions. Here we will raise the might to shatter the Gaelian assault, to defend Aelar, to secure our reign. A month hence, we'll be eating at Marcus's table and sitting on his throne."

Julia licked her lips. "For the first time, you will fuck me in a palace."

Tirus nodded. The past twenty years had been agonizing. Julia and he had often gone months without a kiss, barely a word, forced to love in secret whenever Adriana was away. But now that old hag was gone. It had been a stroke of genius. Tirus had paid the Zoharite brigands a mere silver coin each to assault his company, to murder his wife. Not only had the assault gotten rid of Adriana, it had infuriated Claudia—fury she'd need when besieging the walls of Beth Eloh.

"Life will be better for us now," Tirus said. "Life will be everything we've always dreamed of. Your older sister is dead and buried. Claudia is in the desert. Marcus and his madwoman of a daughter are dead. We are free to rule now. Together, you and I."

But of course, the job was not yet over. There were still enemies to vanquish. The hosts of Gael were storming across Aelar, with too many legions spread around the world to protect the homeland. Seneca had torn Nur off the Empire—its largest and wealthiest province—and ruled there alongside his new barbarian wife. Meanwhile, that pup Caelius was gaining too much power at home; in time, Tirus would have to deal with him too, to bend the boy to his will or dispose of him. Yes, there were still battles ahead and perhaps difficult years. But after two decades of languishing in the provinces, Tirus relished the fight.

Cadom was soon close enough to cover the horizon. Golden beaches led to cypress trees, piney hills, and distant chalky mountains. Zoharite ruins still lay across the hills—smashed columns, the shells of walls, a burnt temple with its roof gone, and hundreds of ravaged homes. Tombstones still rose here, and lingering hints of Zoharite ships—a rotting mast, an anchor, a figurehead—still lay half-buried in the sand. They kept sailing, the galley navigating between mossy boulders that thrust up from the water, some taller than the masts. In the afternoon, past white cliffs topped with pines, they reached a harbor.

Ten quinquereme warships anchored here, bearing the eagle standards of the Empire. Each ship was lined with a hundred oars per side, large enough to hold five hundred troops. Dozens of smaller vessels moored farther back along piers, landing craft and fishing boats and merchant cogs. Beyond the harbor rose the town of Cadomius, built upon the ruins of a Zoharite village. Columned temples, airy villas, and brick castra overlooked the sea. A legion garrisoned here—Legio XIV Luxia, Aelar's fist of the east, able to quickly deploy either to Zohar in the east, Kalintia in the north, or Nur in the south.

Yet today I take you west, Tirus thought. We return home.

They moored by a cobbled boardwalk. A colonnade stretched along the waterline, each column supporting a marble eagle. Tirus huffed his way out of the ship, along a gangplank, and onto the boardwalk. His body was stocky, powerful, slow, built for hammering at foes and emptying flagons of wine, not for gangplanks and mossy stones.

Julia followed him, her slaves trailing behind her. While Tirus wore a simple white toga—he had never cared much for gaudy fabrics and pomp—Julia wore a resplendent purple stola, golden bracelets, and a ruby choker. Many ladies in Aelar dyed their hair or wore elaborate wigs, but Julia, only in her midthirties, proudly sported the white streak that ran through her hair. She raised her chin, walking high and tall, as if she were already an empress landing in Aelaria Maritima. For too long, Julia had withered in the shadows of her older sister. For too long, Adriana had reigned as Tirus's wife—bickering and complaining all the while.

Here is a true empress, Tirus thought, gazing at proud Julia. She will be the true jewel of Aelar.

The handful of soldiers they had taken on their galley, all members of the Magisterian Guard, joined them on the boardwalk. Several soldiers of the local garrison approached from the town, clad in full regalia. Four slaves walked among them, bearing a palanquin on which rode a corpulent, pink-cheeked man in a toga, brown curls ringing his bald, sweaty dome.

"Good afternoon, dear Tirus Valerius!" said the man, climbing off his palanquin with a huff. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. "Blasted heat. Even in winter, it gets so hot here in the east."

Tirus didn't find the weather particularly warm, but he suspected that for a man of such girth even winter days were oppressive. He had never thought much of Laertis Luciarus, governor of Cadom, a gluttonous sycophant who had fled the capital in shame after killing a general's favorite slave—some said, perhaps seriously, by crushing her in bed.

Tirus nodded curtly. "I've come to deplete you of your troops, Laertis. We load up the galleys with men. I'll be taking the legion to Aelar at dawn tomorrow."

The man's eyes widened. "Dominus! The legion here is necessary! The traitor Seneca musters his forces only three days south across the sea, and the Zoharites rebel only several leagues away in the east, and . . ." At a stern look from Tirus—who outranked him—Laertis nodded and gulped. "Forgive me, dominus. My legion is yours."

"Not yours or mine, Laertis," said Tirus. "The legions serve only the glory of the Empire. And that Empire is now without an emperor, as you must have heard. I'm sailing to Aelar to fill that role."

Laertis's eyes widened even more, and he fell to his knees. "My emperor!"

"Stand up." Tirus grunted. He had no use for flatterers or fools. He was not an Octavius. "I'll spend the night in the town. Tell me, do you still have Zoharite slaves here?" He leaned closer as the man straightened. "Do any of the desert whores serve in the town's brothel?"

Every Aelarian town across the Empire had at least one good, expensive brothel and often several cheaper establishments. But Cadom would have something other provinces did not—Zoharite whores.

"Of course, of course." Laertis bobbed his head. "We slew most of the Zoharites when we landed here twenty years ago, but we've kept many, and we've been breeding them. They make marvelous slaves. I've tasted a few of their women myself."

Behind him, Julia heaved a sigh, and Tirus turned to see her roll her eyes. "Really, Tirus?"

He shot her a glare. He respected Julia. She was strong, brave, intelligent, more than could be said for her wretched sister. But one thing he would not allow—a woman to speak out of line.

"Come with me, Julia," he said. "Maybe you'll learn something."

They left the port behind and walked through the town. As they advanced, Tirus's men walked before him, barking orders, preparing the garrison for their upcoming deployment. It was a typical Aelarian town: cobbled roads, apartment buildings topped with red tiles, columned temples housing marble statues of the gods, aqueducts, a public bathhouse, and a theater. But what distinguished this town was the quality of its slaves. Here was no rabble from across the world. The slaves here were Zoharites—Tirus's favorite—captured in the old war, chained, collared. They moved through the town, serving their masters. That's how Tirus enjoyed seeing them. For too long, he had served as ambassador to Zohar, forced to treat the free Zoharites as people. Here they fit their true purpose, mere beasts of burden.

The brothel rose on a hilltop, overlooking the sea, its door painted azure. Several Zoharite women waited here, some young enough to have been born after Aelar's conquest of the island. On an island with a garrison of five thousand legionaries, Tirus guessed that these women worked hard.

"Goodness," said Julia, examining them. A thin smile stretched her lips. "Look at them, Tirus. I never knew brothels had women this beautiful. Perhaps I was wrong to judge you. Which should we choose?" She approached one woman, tall and well curved. "I like this one. She's beautiful, Tirus." She looked over her shoulder at him. "You're truly willing to share this with me?"

"Not that one," he said softly. He moved between the women, scrutinizing, seeking. Finally he nodded, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "There. Her."

The girl stared back at him. Young. Slender. Her skin olive-toned, her hair long and black and smooth. A girl who looked much like her. Like Ofeer.

"She's beautiful," said Julia, a wicked light coming into her eyes.

It was not uncommon for married Aelarian men to take slaves and whores into their beds, even in full view of their wives, though Adriana—the shriveled old hag—had always grumbled whenever Tirus's eye strayed. Julia, it seemed, would not share her deceased sister's reservations. That boded well for the years ahead, but Tirus had something else in mind for this evening. He craved no sex. No. The wound Ofeer had given him still ached, and it would be days or weeks before he dared use his manhood for anything but pissing. Tonight he planned something sweeter.

"Come with me, girl." He grabbed the Zoharite lupa and guided her upstairs. Julia followed, smiling crookedly, lust growing in her eyes.

Tirus remembered a brothel far away, a finer establishment—the Lunapar in the heart of Aelar. He remembered how Ofeer had resisted when he had dragged her upstairs. Her lookalike was meeker, not even peeping as he clutched her arm. He took her into a chamber where awaited a bed, a shelf of towels, a ewer of water, and bottles of aromatic oil.

"Shall I rub your backs before we begin?" said the Zoharite. "Or perhaps you would like me to sing and dance for you, dominus and domina?"

Tirus gave her a hard look. "Undress."

The Zoharite nodded and pulled off her tunic, revealing her nakedness, the breasts small, the belly showing the stretch marks of a past pregnancy. A thousand legionaries must have thrust into this one. The thought of taking her disgusted Tirus. He only lay with virgin lupi, regardless of the cost.

"So fair," whispered Julia, apparently overlooking the flaws. She reached out and stroked the girl's hair. "So smooth."

Tirus approached too. He turned toward Julia and kissed her. "Watch us, my love. We will put on a show for you."

Julia bit her lip, nodded, and stepped back. Her eyes shone.

"I'm yours, dominus," said the Zoharite.

Tirus turned back toward her. He stroked her cheek. "You hurt me, Ofeer," he whispered.

Her brow furrowed. "My name is Leyla, dominus."

"You cut me, Ofeer." He caressed her cheek. "You disobeyed me. For that . . . you will pay."

Faster than she could react, Tirus wrapped his hands around the woman's throat and squeezed.

Her eyes widened. She tried to scream, and Tirus squeezed tighter. She lashed at him, but her fingernails entangled in his toga.

"Tirus!" said Julia, gaping. "What are you doing?"

"Watch us, my love." Tirus sneered as he squeezed tighter, as he felt the tendons and bones creak in the girl's neck. She stamped her feet. She kicked wildly, found his shin, and he grunted. The pain bloomed across his leg. He kept squeezing, panting with the effort. "Isn't it beautiful, Julia? Murder is more beautiful than sex. Murder brings a man and woman together more than sex ever could."

If at first Julia had seemed horrified, now she looked intrigued. She narrowed her eyes, watching, and a new sort of hunger filled her eyes. "Yes. Yes, I can see that. I've never seen a woman killed before. Is it normal for the skin to darken like this, for the legs to convulse?"

"Nothing about murder is normal," said Tirus. "But everything about it is beautiful. It is intimacy. It is love. It is . . ." His manhood gave a sudden throb of pain, a memory of Ofeer's blade. ". . . vengeance."

He released his grip. The Zoharite slumped to the floor, dead.

Fuck you, Ofeer, he thought.

He fished a silver coin from his purse and tossed it onto the corpse. "Your payment."

At dawn, the fleet sailed out from Cadom—warships brimming with oars and legionaries ready for blood. They sailed west through the Encircled Sea. Heading to Aelar. Heading home. Their war drums beat, their oars moved as one, and Tirus stood at the prow, gazing across the water.

Soon we will smash the Gaelian assault, he thought. Soon the Empire will be mine. Soon Julia will be my wife. Soon my daughter will crush the Zoharite rebellion. And soon, Ofeer, you will suffer a death worse than any wretch has ever known.

ATALIA

She sat at his bedside, clutching his hand. His skin was so hot, sweaty, feverish.

"You will heal, my husband," Atalia whispered. She dabbed his brow with a cloth. "You are stronger than the mightiest oak, nobler than the loftiest elm. You will ride with me through the shattered gates of Aelar."

Berengar lay on a bed topped with fur. Bandages covered his wounds, the work of three legionary arrows. His skin was ashen, his chest shaking with every breath. The walls of the tent draped around them, deep green and embroidered with silver stags. He met Atalia's eyes, struggling to focus. He was such a large man, tall and broad, the strongest in this army, and yet his grip on her hand was so weak.

"Bring me mead," he rasped. "Let me taste the nectar of the gods. Let me prepare to meet them."

She bared her teeth. "You will not meet your gods yet. Not before you crush the city."

She looked over her shoulder. The tent's door was open, revealing the field and city beyond. The initial, devastating assault against the walls had ended. The funeral pyres of a thousand Gaelian warriors still smoked across the field.

The siege of Aelar had begun. Myriads of Gaelians camped around the walls. Battering rams had shattered the aqueducts leading into the city; the water now poured across the countryside, flowing in rivulets toward the sea. Great cairns, constructed of boulders the size of barrels, blocked every road to the city. Gaelian riders thundered across the fields between the roads, golden hair streaming in the cold wind, war hammers and axes ready to smite any Aelarian who tried to reach the city through the countryside. Other Gaelians were busy constructing ditches, earthen walls, and wooden palisades around Aelar, cutting it off from the world.

Aelar was the world's largest city. Its walls were parsa'ot long. And yet Gael's host—mighty, wild, fast—surrounded the city like a slave collar.

There are a million people within those walls, Atalia thought. It won't be long before thirst and hunger forces their surrender. She looked back at her husband. Please, whatever gods may listen, let him live to see that day.

She lifted a jeweled chalice from a table and brought it to Berengar's lips. She held up his head, then poured a few drops of mead into his mouth. He drank, struggling with every gulp, then lay back, winded, as if he had just fought a hundred men.

With a rattling and chinking and the scent of spices, the healer shuffled into the tent. Eldra, a daughter of the Galdurin tribe, nearly drowned under her assortment of bracelets, necklaces, rings, and armlets, the charms formed from tin, clay, stone, and copper, each engraved with holy sigils. Leather bags hung from her fur pelts, full of aromatic spices, mushrooms, and powders from across the forests of Gael. Her silver braids hung across her chest, streaked with white and woven with red strands of cloth. Green paint covered her cheeks, and green eyes stared from under stern brows.

"He's growing weaker," Atalia told the shaman. "Can't you do anything?"

Eldra clucked her tongue, knelt by the bed, and began to peel off Berengar's bandages. The chieftain groaned and Atalia winced. The arrow wounds looked worse than before, rimmed with red and full of yellow pus, sending out green tendrils. The stench hit Atalia's nostrils.

"The infection runs deep," said Eldra. Her amulets chinked. "I will do what I can, but his fate now rests in the hands of the spirits."

Atalia sneered, reached across her husband, and grabbed the healer's wrist. "His fate rests in your hands. Heal him! If you cannot, I will cut off those hands." She forced in air, released the shaman, and sat back. "I'm sorry. I spoke with anger. Do your work, Eldra."

The healer squeezed the wounds, drawing out pus, as Berengar thrashed in the bed, roaring. When the wounds were cleaned, Eldra opened her pouches and sprinkled the wounds with white powder, then green powder, then a sticky balm. All the while, she chanted prayers in her language, jangling her blessed amulets. After applying new bandages, she painted green runes onto Berengar's forehead.

"I've done all that I can," Eldra said, looking over the chieftain at Atalia. "This night he will face the greatest battle of his life. The demons of the underworld will rise this night, and they will try to claim him, to drag him into their realm. He will need all his strength and courage this night, and he will need you at his side. If at dawn he still lives, he will heal."

Berengar slept now, and as the healer left the tent, Atalia remained, holding his hand. She stroked his bearded cheek. Once she had hated him. He had taken her captive, had bound her, had dragged her behind his stag. At first she had seen him as a brute, a tyrant. She had hated him like she hated Seneca.

But there is kindness to him, Atalia thought. There is nobility. There is hope.

For long months, she had fought with him by day, slaying enemies, days of blood, of steel, of flame. At nights she had loved him, nights of as much heat and passion as war. This war had shattered Atalia's innocence, haunted her, broke her. His love had held her together.

She stayed with him in this tent as the hours rolled by, pouring him mead, wiping sweat from his brow. Her own wounds were bandaged and throbbing, but she ignored the pain. When she looked outside upon the land, she saw the siege continue—men smashing the last aqueduct, digging ditches around the city, and mounting raids to the city's port. She wanted to be out there with them, building, destroying, fighting, readying the city for its fall, but she dared not leave her husband.

I was dragged away from my dying father, Atalia thought. I will not leave my dying husband.

She tended to him, prayed for him, leaned against him, and held him close.

"I love you, Berengar," she whispered. "Live."

So much fear filled her. That he would die. That their siege would fail. That Zohar would fall and all its people perish. As she lay in the tent by her husband, she imagined bringing Berengar back to Zohar someday after the Empire's fall. They would pray at Father's grave, then enter the villa on Pine Hill, be in warmth, among family. Epher would sit at Father's table under the painting of the elephants, the new patriarch of House Sela. Koren would tell jokes, Ofeer would sing, and Maya would tell stories from her scrolls. They would eat Mother's famous honey cake, drink wine, and be happy—be happier than Atalia had ever been—far from war and want.

Atalia screwed her eyes shut and clenched her fists. Tears burned behind her eyelids. She missed home. She missed her family. She missed them so badly she couldn't bear it.

I want to go home. All I ever wanted is to go home.

She had not realized she had fallen asleep until the voice roused her.

"Atalia! Atalia!"

She blinked, still lying by Berengar. God, she must have slept through the night. When she looked outside the tent, she saw dawn rising in the east. She had to pee like a dog in a grove, and her eyes were crusty, her mouth dry. Horns blared in a cacophony, and a hand grabbed her shoulder.

"Atalia! An Aelarian fleet! Ships sail toward the port."

She rubbed her eyes and blinked, bringing the world into focus. Feina stood above her, a breastplate strapped across her chest, her shield strapped to her arm. Ash and blood stained her hair and face.

Atalia's heart burst into a gallop as the healer's words returned to her. If at dawn he still lives, he will heal.

She spun toward Berengar, who still lay at his side. His eyes were closed. His face was ashen. His chest was still. Terror twisted Atalia's heart, and her eyes stung, and she clutched his hand.

His skin was still warm.

"Husband," she whispered and kissed his lips. She felt his breath. When she pressed her hand against his chest, she felt his beating heart. She shed a tear of relief. "You'll be all right now, husband. You will heal. You will fight with me again."

"Atalia, we have to go." Feina grabbed her shoulder. "Now. Without our husband. Fresh legions arrive from the sea, and the world will tremble."

Atalia clenched her jaw, left the bed, and raced to the tent door. She pulled back the embroidered fabric and stared outside. In the distance, across fields and hills, she could see the Encircled Sea. Masts were rising from the horizon, bearing the colors of Aelar, sailing toward the city port.

"New friends are joining the party," she muttered.

Feina wiped sweat off her brow. "We don't yet know how many ships sail or which legions they bear. They come from the east. They come for our blood." She smiled crookedly. "I say we welcome them."

Atalia winced and looked back at Berengar. His eyes fluttered open, then shut again. How could she leave him now? He was her husband! Shiloh would never have abandoned a wounded Jerael. How could Atalia be any less loyal? True, she had not chosen this marriage, but she had come to love him, and he needed her.

"Atalia." Feina's voice was soft, and she placed a hand on her shoulder. "You are Zoharite. I am Gaelian. In both our nations, wives raise swords with their husbands, fight for their nations as bravely as their men. You were a commander in Zohar. You are a commander in Gael. Berengar understands this. He would not want us to kneel at his side. He would see us ride to war."

"Even as he lies wounded, maybe dying?" Atalia said, eyes stinging.

Feina nodded. "Gaelian warriors do not die of old age. We seek not long life. We seek glory and death in battle."

And that is where Zohar differs, Atalia thought. For we Zoharites love peace, love the wisdom of old age, and we hate war, we hate glory, we hate the death of youth. She lowered her head. I had to march to war with Gael to truly become Zoharite.

And yet she nodded. If the forces of Aelar won this war, the world would fall to darkness. There would be no more Gael, no more Zohar, no more glory or old age. There would be peace, yes—peace over the ruins of the world. She leaned over her husband and kissed his feverish forehead.

"Fight your own battle, my love," she whispered. "Fight and win. Feina and I will honor you in the battlefield."

They left the tent. Atalia quickly relieved her bladder—by God, it felt as good as conquering an empire—and she and Feina mounted their horses. They galloped through the field.

The sea spread in the south, an Aelarian league away. The walls of Aelar soared in the west, bristling with legionaries. The swarm of Gael sprawled across the countryside, toiling at their siege. The warriors were digging ditches, raising wooden palisades, constructing siege towers and ladders, and guarding the roads. The rivulets from the smashed aqueducts spread across the land. The hooves of Atalia and Feina's horses splashed through the water that had once fed the city's cisterns and bathhouses.

They reached the coast. The eastern towers of Aelarian Maritima, the grand port of Aelar, soared ahead. Breakwaters thrust into the sea, long enough to enclose cities, lined with porticoes and towers. This harbor dwarfed the one back in Gefen. Man-made islands rose in it, and upon them rose lighthouses of marble and silver, more beautiful than many palaces. Countless ships anchored in the cove, lined with oars—military galleys, merchant cogs, barges, rowboats, and pleasure pontoons. All were Aelarian vessels; the Gaelian fleet had sunk half a year ago, nearly taking Atalia with it. The breakwaters curved inward like a mother's embrace, forming a corridor to the sea. Upon their edges rose colossal statues of the gods, welcoming travelers from the Encircled Sea into the Empire's heart.

Now a hundred ships sailed toward the harbor, drums booming, oars splashing, sails spread wide. Most were cargo ships, bearing barrels and boxes—enough supplies, it seemed, to feed the city for months of siege. With them sailed twenty quinqueremes, galleys of war, bearing legionaries. Atalia halted her horse, squinting. She could just make out the symbols on their sails. Ten ships displayed an eagle perched atop a column. Atalia had spent many hours in her youth studying the legions of Aelar, and she recognized this sigil—here sailed Legio XV Magnus, the legion that had vanquished Kalintia and normally garrisoned among its ruins. The other ships bore symbols of eagles flying across sunbursts. Atalia recognized this symbol at once. Here sailed Legio XIV Luxia, normally garrisoned in Cadom offshore from Zohar. Here was the very legion Marcus Octavius had commanded nearly twenty years ago, sinking the Zoharite fleet, seizing its island, and slaughtering thousands—including Eriel Sela, Atalia's uncle.

"My people fought this legion before," Atalia said. "They are ruthless killers." She turned toward Feina. "We cannot allow those ships into the city. Fresh troops and supplies would give Aelar the power to crush us."

Feina sat on a white mare, staring at the water. She nodded. "Our siege will fail if all we claim are roads and land. The sea is what gives Aelar its power. Until we sever this artery, Aelar will stand."

Atalia drew and raised her sword. "Then we will take the port." She looked back at the horde, and she raised her voice to a shout. "Gael! Gael! Arise, arise! To the sea!"

Feina kneed her horse into a gallop, riding back and forth across the land. "Sons and daughters of Gael! Arise! We fight! We fight!"

Side by side, Atalia and Feina galloped along the sea toward the port. Behind them, thousands of Gaelians howled and charged with them. Here was no organized army like the legions, split into cohorts and centuries, each with its own commander, moving like a machine with many parts. Here was a mob, many tribes mingling together, a sea of iron and bloodlust. As the Aelarian fleet sailed between the breakwaters into the harbor, the hosts of Gael howled, waved their weapons, and stormed along the coast.

The city walls sloped right into the water, morphing into the breakwaters that engulfed the harbor. There was no access from beach to port. The defenses around Aelar covered both land and sea.

Atalia halted her horse on the beach. The animal reared, and she cursed. No way through! Just the city wall, a guard tower, and a breakwater too high to climb. With the gates locked, the only opening into Aelar was the narrow channel deep in the sea, where the two breakwaters curved inward like a horseshoe, allowing passage for ships.

"Fuck!" Atalia spat. "The way to the port is blocked."

Feina halted at her side, sand stirring around her horse's hooves. She stared at the defenses where the city wall met the breakwater. The Gaelians gathered on the beach behind them.

Legionaries came racing along the wall and crenellated breakwater. Their arrows sailed down.

Atalia raised her shield. Arrows slammed into the wood. More pattered across the Gaelians, picking out warriors. Feina held her own shield overhead, the rain of arrows peppering it. Arrow shafts rose across the beach like porcupine quills.

"What do we do?" Feina shouted. Warriors screamed around them, arrows finding their way through shields and armor.

Atalia gazed down toward the water. The breakwater spread ahead, plunging deep and rising tall, topped with archers. There would be no climbing over this barricade, no more than they could scale the walls.

But deep at sea, so far she could barely see it, the breakwaters ended. There, where these new Aelarian ships were entering the harbor, the assault too could enter.

"We swim," Atalia said.

Feina's eyes widened. "We cannot swim that far!"

"We can," Atalia said, remembering her time lost at sea, how she had swum to land with Daor. "We will. Do you know how to swim, Feina?"

Feina stared at the water, then back at Atalia. "You're mad. It's suicide."

Atalia grinned and began unstrapping her armor. "Then do you know how to die?"

The shieldmaiden gave her a long, hard look, then smiled thinly. She unstrapped her breastplate, tossed it aside, and clasped Atalia's hand. "Together, Nachtfrau. As family."

Shields raised overhead, arrows flying all around them, they ran. They leaped off boulders, dived into the water, and they swam into the cold sea.

Behind them, a hundred Gaelians followed.

They swam.

They swam fast. They dived deep. Arrows pierced the water around them, sending some warriors down to the seabed. The others kept swimming. Currents grabbed them, tugged them violently into the sea, and they rose and fell on the waves. An arrow sank into the water ahead of Atalia, narrowly missing her face.

Keep swimming. She stroked. Like they taught you. With every stroke, she was back in the galley, rowing again. She propelled herself onward, teeth bared, the saltwater stinging her eyes.

You gave me this strength, Aelar. You taught me to survive at sea. Now I will send your towers tumbling down.

Feina and the others swam with her, and every moment, another arrow sent another warrior sinking down.

Oar! Oar!

In her mind, she was in the galley, Daor at her side.

Faster!

She was swimming away from the wreckage of a sinking ship, desperate to find land.

Come on, Daor. Faster! Swim!

And Atalia swam. And the Gaelians swam with her. And finally they reached the edge of the breakwater, and they turned, and they swam into the harbor of Aelar.

The fleet of Aelar sailed before them.

"Suicide, I tell you!" Feina shouted.

Atalia laughed, propelling herself deeper into the harbor. "No, Feina. Victory."

The water here, between the breakwaters, was calmer. Still a good swim away, Atalia saw the city of Aelar—not just the defensive walls but the city itself—for the first time.

For a moment, she lost her breath.

She had never imagined a city so big. Atalia had spent her life in cities—in Gefen by the sea, in Beth Eloh in the desert—but those seemed like mere villages by the might and splendor of Aelar. It seemed impossible that men, mere men, had built such a place. Surely here was the work of gods. Columned buildings rose along the boardwalk, their pediments supporting marble statues. Triumphal arches soared, tall as palaces, and upon them reared golden horses and eagles. Beyond rose brick buildings, seven or eight stories tall, topped with red tiles. The city streets spread for parsa'ot, leading to distant hills. Even from here, Atalia could see the splendor upon those hills in the city center—lofty palaces, soaring temples, and a massive amphitheater that could seat the entire city of Beth Eloh.

But Atalia had no more than a moment to stare. Several rowboats came charging toward them, and Aelarians stood within, firing arrows. Atalia and Feina swam toward one boat, shields held before them, blocking the assault of arrows. With roars, they grabbed the boat. They leaped inside, swords swinging.

The vessel tilted. Legionaries thrust blades. Atalia and Feina fought back-to-back, kicking, driving the men into the water. Around them, Gaelians were leaping into other rowboats, slaying the Aelarians within. Corpses filled the water. Atalia kicked the last legionary out of the rowboat, grabbed the oars, and began to row. She smiled grimly as she worked.

Only a handful of Gaelians had made it this far. They had commandeered only four boats. But if they could reach the city, could open the gates from within . . .

A hundred thousand Gaelians will then swarm through the streets, Atalia knew.

They rowed onward, crossing the harbor, navigating between barges and galleys. Quinquereme ships towered, large as fortresses. Legionaries on the deck were firing arrows. As Atalia rowed, Feina held two shields overhead, protecting them from the onslaught.

Finally they reached it—the boardwalk. The city of Aelar. The rowboat hit a pier. Aelaria Maritima, the thriving port of the Empire, spread before Atalia.

She leaped onto the boardwalk, sword swinging, and a hundred Gaelians gathered around her. The enemy galleys, fresh from the provinces, had already docked at the piers. Ahead, beyond the bustling docks, rose the city buildings. Deep in the city rose the fabled Acropolis—the beating heart of the empire. She was so close, yet the distance seemed as great and insurmountable as the desert.

But I don't need to travel that path alone, she thought. Along the city walls, only a few blocks away, there rose a gateway—a gateway Gael had been unable to shatter from outside the city. Atalia had only to reach that gateway from inside the city, to open the doors, and to let the entire horde stream in.

Legionaries came racing across the boardwalk.

"Fight with me, Feina," Atalia said.

The shieldmaiden was wet with seawater and blood, panting, breathing raggedly. But she nodded and touched her blade to Atalia's.

"Wives," Feina said. "And sisters-in-arms."

Atalia smiled. "Let's wreak havoc."

Screaming, they ran to meet the legions.

They fought, a handful of Gaelians against the wrath of the legions. Limbs, guts, blood, and shattered armor spread across the boardwalk. Merchants and fishermen and dockworkers fled. More legionaries kept emerging from the ships and the city ahead—thousands of them, tens of thousands, covering the rooftops, the boardwalk, the streets. A trickle of Gaelians kept emerging by sea, braving the water, swimming or stealing rowboats—but too few, too slowly.

Suicide. The word echoed in Atalia's mind.

Perhaps Atalia had always been ready to die. Perhaps she had always danced with that demon. Training for years in Gefen, becoming a segen, a commander of soldiers. Seeking Gael through the wilderness when she could have fled to find peace in a distant province. Riding here to war. Charging into the port. Yes, perhaps she had always chased death.

But what life was left to her? Her country had been stolen from her. Her father lay buried. Her husband lay dying. All she was now was this—gore on cobblestones, clashing swords, war, a dance with death. And so she danced. Her life had shattered. Let it end here, fighting for those she loved, for a memory of a family and home.

And so she fought, fought like she had trained to fight for years, like she had fought in Zohar, in Gael, in the Aelarian north. And around her, her comrades died. Gaelian after Gaelian, pierced with swords, arrows, spears. They fell into the sea and sank. And still the legions advanced. They surrounded Atalia, slamming at her shield. A spear swung, sweeping the legs out from under her. Atalia crashed down, sword still waving above her. She pushed herself to her feet, still fighting, until she and Feina fought alone. Back to back. Holding back the thousands.

"Goodbye, Atalia!" said Feina. "We will ride together in the afterlife, sun and moon."

As Atalia prepared to die, to see her father again, a booming voice rose in the crowd of legionaries. "Make way, make way!"

The legions parted across the boardwalk. Atalia stood, panting. Feina fell to her knees, bleeding from a gash on her side. The legions surrounded them, shields forming a cage. A burly man barreled along a gangplank, descending from a ship. He lolloped across the boardwalk through the crowd of legionaries, his head large and bald, his nose bulbous. Rather than armor, he wore a toga and laurel.

Atalia recognized him at once. He had spent many evenings in the villa on Pine Hill.

"Tirus Valerius." She spat. "You've always been a cunt."

He kept walking until he was a few steps away, then paused and stared.

"Fuck me," he said. "Another Sela whelp."

Atalia screamed and ran toward him, sword swinging.

Legionaries whipped forward, slamming their shields against her. Other legionaries grabbed her from behind, holding her back. A man slammed the shaft of a spear against her wrist, and Atalia screamed. Another blow hit her fingers, and her sword clanged against the ground. Feina too struggled against men who grabbed her.

Tirus stood before them, eyes narrowed.

"Who's your friend?" Tirus asked, gesturing at Feina.

Atalia spat at him. "Go fuck yourself, Tirus. Then return my sword and face me like a man."

Tirus sighed. "Bring the blond one to me." Tirus took a gladius from a soldier and pointed the blade at Feina. "Bring her closer."

Feina struggled, screaming and kicking, as several legionaries dragged her toward Tirus. The shieldmaiden bled from several cuts. An ugly wound still leaked at her side, staining her clothes. With a howl, she managed to kick one legionary down, then knock into another, then break free. She ran toward Atalia and grabbed her.

"Be strong, Atalia," she whispered. "Be brave. Seek me in the afterlife." She clutched Atalia's cheeks and kissed her hard on the lips. "I love you. I—"

Tirus grunted, grabbed Feina from behind, and swiped his blade across her throat.

The blood gushed out, staining Atalia.

"Feina!"

Atalia tore herself free from the legionaries, knelt, and grabbed the fallen shieldmaiden. Feina slumped, staring with dead blue eyes. Atalia wept, holding her close, cradling the lifeless body.

I did this. I did this. I brought her here. I did this. Her throat constricted and her body shook.

"Goodbye, Feina." Her voice twisted with grief, and she kissed the harpist's brow. "Goodbye. Someday we will ride again together, and we will drink mead from horns, and you will play me your harp in fields where there is no pain."

A sandaled foot slammed down beside her. Tirus snorted. "You've always been a pathetic little whelp. I remember you as a child playing with wooden swords on the beach of Gefen. So you think you can play with real steel?" He turned toward his men. "Drag her into the city. We'll have her fight wild animals in the arena. She'll entertain the crowd during the celebrations of my ascension."

As the legionaries dragged her under a triumphal archway into the city, Atalia raised her chin high, balled her fists, and clenched her jaw, even as tears wet her cheeks.

Live, my husband, she thought, walking between the towering buildings of Aelar. Live. Get strong. And bring this city crashing down.

OFEER

"You must eat, little one," Ofeer whispered. "Please eat."

Ariel lay in her arms, so small—even smaller than before, she thought. Every day, he seemed to shrivel, to fade away. She could have slipped him into her sock. His skin was red and wrinkly like an old man's. His hands were so small, barely able to wrap around Ofeer's pinky finger. With crusty, yellowish eyes, he gave her a worried look. There was so much worry in his eyes. So much sadness, as if he knew he was dying. Ofeer had wrapped him in bundles of cotton, but still his hand felt so cold when she touched it.

Again, as she did every day, she tried to breastfeed him, but he was too small and weak to suckle. He should have still been inside her, still growing in her belly. Instead he languished in swaddling clothes and his mother's embrace. She squeezed her breast, spilling milk into a small glass vial, then held the vial up to Ariel's mouth. He drank slowly, sputtered, and cried. Every drop felt like a war. Every drop that went down felt like a triumph. As she worked, Ofeer kept thinking back to the tomb of the dead Aelarian baby. She had hidden in that tomb, gazed upon that epitaph, when she had realized that she was pregnant. She could not stop thinking it was a sign, that her babe too was doomed to die. But she kept feeding him, fighting for every drop, every breath, and every hour that passed with him still breathing was like a great war she had won.

"A lumer could save your life," Ofeer whispered, cradling him. "But the imperial lumer is dead. And Noa betrayed us. She sent us into that dungeon to die, Ariel, and then she vanished. I'm not a lumer, but I am a mother. My love is more powerful than any magic. And I love you, Ariel."

She sat in her room in Ohel Adom, the small Zoharite temple in the crowded streets of Aelar. It was to this room, months ago, that the Zoharites had brought her—bleeding, dying, assaulted on the streets of the city. It was in this room that her baby had almost died, in this room that she prayed and fought for his life. If this temple was a holy place to Eloh, it was the best place for Ariel, an oasis of light in shadow.

I heard your voice here, Eloh, Ofeer thought. As I lay dying, when the bleeding would not stop, when Noa healed me, I heard your voice, and I felt your goodness. Be with us now. Bless my son like you blessed me.

From outside, the song of war still soared. Even from here, many streets away from the defensive walls, she could hear the Gaelians roaring and blaring horns outside the city. The chants of the legions never ceased. Always outside the window, they marched, rode chariots and horses, and carried supplies to the walls. Few citizens and slaves traveled the road outside Ofeer's window anymore. As war flared outside the city walls, the people hid in their homes, waiting for the Gaelians to swarm into the city.

Ofeer had seen Gaelians before, merchants who would sometimes sail elaborate dragon galleys into the port of Gefen. She had always marveled at their beauty—their golden hair, pale skin, blue eyes. One summer, Ofeer had spent hours scrubbing her skin in the tub, attempting to rub off the darkness, to leave her skin pale like a Gaelian's. Atalia had laughed at her, but to Ofeer, the people of Gael had always seemed enchanted, as beautiful as spirits from old tales.

Yet those had been travelers and traders. The hosts outside the walls were warriors who had swept across the Aelarian countryside, killing and pillaging and destroying. Ofeer had seen war. She knew what would happen should those Gaelians breach the walls.

They will slaughter everyone in their path, she thought. They will take the rest captive and sell us to slavery. If they find me, they will slaughter my baby and rape me before sending me to the slave markets in Sekadia.

Cradling Ariel with one hand, Ofeer reached under her mattress and pulled out the saw, the tool she had stolen, had sawed off her collar with, had cut Tirus's cock with. It was no larger than a dagger, small enough to hide in her pocket. She had used it on Tirus in the brothel, but screaming, bloodthirsty barbarians was another matter. This saw would not defend her. If the Gaelians invaded this temple, if they sought to grab her, would Ofeer be brave enough . . . brave enough to slice her own veins?

No, she thought, trembling. I'm not brave enough for that. Perhaps before I had a child, I could have done this. But not now. Not with Ariel.

"We must live, Ariel," she whispered. "We must survive this. Both your struggles and the Gaelian assault. We must live. We must see Zohar again. At least Porcia is dead. At least we're safe from her. That's a little ray of hope, isn't it?"

Horns sounded outside the window, and Ofeer started, for an instant sure that Gael had breached the walls. But no—these were Aelarian horns, high and metallic. When she looked out the windows, she saw a great march of many legionaries, horses, and chariots. A golden chariot rode at their lead, drawn by four white horses.

Ofeer's heart sank. Tirus Valerius rode there, wearing a purple-and-gold toga, a laurel on his brow.

"Hail the new emperor!" A crier walked at Tirus's side. "Hail Emperor Tirus Valerius, savior of Aelar!"

"Fuck," Ofeer whispered. Tirus would not have forgotten her cutting him. She heaved a sigh. "Why is it always one of my mortal enemies who's emperor?"

As she looked out the window, watching the parade of legionaries, she saw a small figure skulking behind them, wrapped in ragged robes, head hidden in a hood. The figure hurriedly crossed the road, glancing around, and headed toward Ohel Adom Temple where Ofeer lived. When the figure passed directly below the window, it looked up.

Ofeer's heart froze.

She saw a thin, dark face, strands of black hair, and large brown eyes.

"Noa," Ofeer whispered.

Fury exploded through her. She had not seen Noa since that day the lumer had sent her to the dungeon, lying about a trapdoor in the imperial lumer's cell. Ofeer had been nurturing her rage since.

Heart pounding, Ofeer placed Ariel in a sling across her chest. The baby nestled against her. She walked downstairs. Rows of pews filled the temple's ground floor, facing a pulpit upon which rested the One True Book.

Aside from morning service, this place was normally empty. Today, however, two hundred Zoharites or more crowded here. With Gael slamming at the city walls, and with legionaries filling the streets, Zoharites from across Aelar had come here to the temple, seeking shelter upon holy ground. Several thousand Zoharites lived across the city; some had lived here for many decades, fleeing wars in the homeland. Many would be seeking shelter in their own small places of worship. Shaveet, priest of this small temple, stood at the pulpit. He wore white robes, and a beard—a rarity here in Aelar—adorned his cheeks.

All eyes turned toward Ofeer, then toward the doorway that banged open.

Her robes fluttering, Noa Bat Seean—once known as Worm, lumer to Porcia Octavius—stepped into the temple.

Ofeer marched through the crowd toward her, her fury blazing.

Noa stood at the doorway, silent. Ofeer had not seen the lumer since that horrible day. The day of Ariel's birth. The day Noa had sent Ofeer to seek the imperial lumer, to plunge into the dungeon. The day Noa had lied, had claimed there would be a trapdoor, had knowingly sent Ofeer to die in darkness, sacrificing her on the altar of Luminosity.

"You." Ofeer glared, trembling with rage as she held her son. "You fucking piece of filth." She pointed at Noa. "How dare you enter my room? How dare you return to this temple? Porcia was right to treat you like a dog. That is all you are."

The people stared across the temple, silent. Noa stood still, head lowered. At least the woman had the grace to look ashamed. "I know that you're mad at me, Ofeer."

With a hiss, Ofeer grabbed the small saw from her pocket. She pointed it at Noa. "Take a step closer, and I'll cut you open. You knew there was no trapdoor in the dungeon. You sent me there to die."

Some in the temple leaped from the pews, but Shaveet raised his hands, holding them back. The priest began to chant softly, and some joined him. Ofeer did not turn away from Noa. To her, there was nobody else here in this temple.

Noa raised her eyes and met Ofeer's glare. "And yet you live. And yet the key I gave you helped you both enter and exit the dungeon."

"That was luck!" Ofeer said. "And then you . . . You . . ." Her eyes flooded with tears. "Then you just vanished for two weeks. Even as I needed you. I needed your magic to heal him. For two weeks he's been fighting, desperately clinging to life." She was crying now, holding out her baby, and her voice dropped to a trembling whisper. "Look at him, Noa. He needed you. And you abandoned us. Look at him."

They looked at the child—so frail, so small in his sling, still gasping for every breath. Noa's eyes softened. She stepped closer, and her hands began to glow.

Ofeer took a step back. "I don't trust you. Don't touch him."

Noa looked at her with luminous eyes. "I did what I had to do. For Zohar. For the whole world. Yes, you might have died. I knew that. So I lied to you about a trapdoor in the imperial lumer's cell that would take you to safety. I lied because that would convince you to go, to give the lumer your lume, to let her rally my sisters. But I prayed that you would live, that you would find your own way out, and here you stand before me. You are as strong and brave as I knew you would be. I healed you and your son once before. Let me heal him again. Let me give him strength."

Sniffing, Ofeer removed her son from the sling and held him out. Noa placed her glowing hands on him, sending luminescence into the tiny, frail body. As the light flowed through him, Ofeer could see his skull, his veins, the blood flowing. When Noa pulled her hands back, Ariel seemed calmer, his breathing easier.

"Will he live?" Ofeer asked, eyes damp. She placed him back in his sling, warm against her breast.

"I don't know," Noa said. "I can ease his struggles, but I cannot choose his fate. But he has survived so far. The first few weeks are the most critical for a babe born so early. Now he will grow stronger every day."

"He's been growing weaker and smaller every day," said Ofeer.

Noa nodded. "It is often so. We must walk through the darkest shadows before we can find the light. And he is a child who's blessed by Eloh's light."

And a child of Aelar, Ofeer thought, looking at her son. For you are Seneca's son. You are an Octavius. You are the true heir to this Empire that crumbles around us.

"Ofeer," Noa said softly. "I come to you not only with healing but with tidings. We must leave this temple." She looked up at the others, the hundreds who filled the temple, and raised her voice. "I've come to take you from this place! You must follow me now. Into the city."

Ofeer looked up from her son, eyes widening. "Why? We have shelter here! We have Eloh's light. We . . ." She looked at Ohel Adom, this humble temple, this small community. "This is our home."

"Our home is in Zohar," said Noa. "And Zohar is close to collapse. Claudia's forces assault the walls of Beth Eloh with unrelenting force, and an evil lurks within the walls, a demon crueler than any in the legions." Noa tightened her fist. "Aelar must fall. If there is any hope at all, she must fall. If Aelar shatters, Claudia will withdraw her troops from Zohar, and our homeland will be saved. And so we Zoharites, here in this city, will rise up. We will slay the guards at the city gates, and we will open the doors, and we will allow the Gaelian horde to burn this city down."

Ofeer stared at the lumer, aghast.

"You're mad," she whispered.

Noa smiled thinly. "All soldiers at war are mad."

"You're not a soldier!" Ofeer said. "You're only a lumer, a—"

"A lumer who was treated like a dog!" Noa's cheeks flushed. "You cannot imagine the life I suffered at the hands of Aelar. Porcia—your own sister—beat me, kept me in a cage, reduced me to a wretch. I wouldn't have survived another year in her service. Worm, she called me—and she turned me into a worm." Noa's eyes dampened, and her lip shook, but she forced in a breath, steadying herself. Her fists tightened. "And so I will see this Empire fall. I will see the barbarians reduce it to rubble. For Zohar."

Ariel gave a short, soft sound, then slept. Ofeer took Noa's hand in hers, and she spoke softly, too softly for anyone else to hear. "If Gael enters this city, Noa, it will be our death too. The barbarians will pillage, burn, kill, rape. Those who survive—if any do—would be sold to slavery. That's what they did to the towns and villages in the north."

Noa raised her chin, eyes flashing. "But Zohar will be saved. I will gladly give my life to save her."

"And my life," Ofeer said, nodding. "And the life of my baby. And the lives of everyone in this temple. And of a million souls within these city walls. But I tell you this, Noa. There is a better way."

Noa looked down at the baby sleeping against Ofeer's chest, and she caressed his thin plume of hair. "Do you really think me heartless?" Noa was looking at Ofeer now, but she was speaking loud enough that her words were meant for all here in the temple. "Do you really think I would not mourn the death of this child—a child I myself healed twice, bringing him back from the brink of death? Do you really think I did not mourn when I thought I might be sending you—and him still within you—to your deaths? None in this Empire have suffered more than me. And thus none know more empathy to suffering. And that is why I do these things, Ofeer. That is why I will set the world on fire. That is why I forged Porcia's diary, casting the Empire into chaos. That is why I planned the rebellion of the lumers, and now my sisters rise up around the world, fighting even Seneca, your brother. Because my heart breaks for Zohar. I saw what Porcia's forces did. I stood with her as her legions destroyed a village in Erez, as they butchered Yohanan, as they marched into the city of Beth Eloh, bringing with them death and desolation. And it is Zohar—what little remains of our kingdom—that I must save. Even if the price is a million people in Aelar."

Ofeer wanted to rage, to strike the lumer, to kill her—yes, even kill her, if it meant saving this city . . . this city Ofeer herself hated, this city she would see stand. But instead, she embraced the lumer. She held Noa gently, with Ariel cradled between them. It had always seemed to Ofeer that Noa was so powerful, so wise, a figure like a goddess or queen. Yet holding her, Ofeer realized how young, how frail Noa was—smaller than Ofeer and not much older.

"I'm sorry, Noa," Ofeer whispered. "I'm sorry that you suffered. I'm sorry that I, the daughter of nobility, lived in pampered wealth while you served the Empire. Truly I am—this is a guilt that does not, will not leave me. But if Gael enters this city, and if Aelar falls, that will not save Zohar. Claudia would continue her assault against Beth Eloh, determined to destroy Zohar, to destroy Epher. And the world would plunge into chaos. The Gaelian tribes would pillage this world. The Sekadian Empire would expand west, unfettered by Aelar's influence, swallowing what remains of Zohar. Nur's ambition would grow, and they would send their tentacles across the Encircled Sea, even into the ports of our homeland. The world would shatter, and every broken nation would rise from the ashes, squabbling for what remains. Only a strong Aelar can bring peace to this world—and to Zohar."

"Maybe an Aelarian Republic," said Noa. "But not this Empire. Not this bloodthirsty beast with an appetite for human flesh. Yes, Marcus and Porcia—your family—are dead. But Tirus now reigns, a man you know well, I believe. The man whose cock you sawed when he would see it thrust into you. What hope is there for a world when one tyrant slain means another rises to replace him?"

Ofeer looked at Ariel sleeping on the bed, frail, wrinkled, red, barely alive.

"He is hope," Ofeer whispered. "He is the son of Seneca Octavius. He is legal heir to this empire. And in his veins flows the blood of House Elior, the royal dynasty of Zohar. We must help him live. We must place him on the throne. And he will bring healing to this world, and he will protect his tiny, broken kingdom in the east—a nation barely larger than this city, the homeland of his mother whom he loves. Do not see Aelar fall, Noa. The Aelarian civilization has held the world together for five hundred years. If it falls, the world will plunge into a thousand years of darkness. Keep this city standing, and help me raise Ariel so that he might rule it."

Ofeer looked over the crowd of Zoharites in the temple. Two hundred men and women, still wearing the traditional tunics of their homeland. Desert people so far from home. Their eyes were dark, their lips tight. As their brethren fought in Zohar, here was their war, their choice.

Noa stepped toward the temple doorway, then looked back at the crowd.

"For long months," Noa said to the people, "I healed you. I counseled you. I led you. For all this time, you trusted me—your lumer. Listen to me now. Trust me now. Follow me now. I am purely of the desert, no Aelarian blood in my veins. My loyalty is only to you, my people. Only to our homeland. All those who would go with me to war, join me now. We will march together through the streets of Aelar, armed with our courage, our light. We will cast back any legionary who stands in our way. We will open the gates of the city, and we will welcome Gael. We will see the barbarians smash our enemies, and we will finally see Aelar fall."

Several people began to join Noa, then more. Soon dozens were moving to stand with her, some armed with knives and clubs.

"Yes, Aelar's blood flows through me!" Ofeer said. "Yes, it flows through my son. But I am a daughter of Zohar. I am a servant of Eloh." Tears ran down her cheeks. "When I lived in Zohar, I was confused. Broken. Hurt. I thought myself an Aelarian trapped in a benighted desert. I had to come to Aelar, to see the cruelty and ugliness of this empire, to become a true Zoharite. Here in this temple, where Noa herself healed me and my son, I found Eloh. Here I found the love of my homeland. Do not look upon me that I am Aelarian, that I am a traitor to the light, for I love only two things in this world: my son and my homeland. Do not fight other nations' wars, children of Zohar. Do not allow in the forces of death, even if they seek to crush your enemies. It is with life, with love, that we will heal this world. Join me, and I promise you not war—but healing, a love in shadows and a prayer for light, a dream of peace."

For a long moment, they stared at her in silence. Then one man joined her. Then another. Then a few dozen, somber, silent. Among them stood Shaveet, priest of this temple, the man who had first brought her here.

Ofeer's group was smaller, only half the size of Noa's. Not enough. Not enough to stop Noa, to stop this lumer who had saved her . . . who had then sent her to die . . . and who would see the world burn.

"Don't do this, Noa," Ofeer whispered.

"Goodbye, Ofeer Sela," Noa said, staring at her from across the room. "Do not think too harshly of me when these walls shatter. I love you as I love all Zoharites, and I will grieve for your death."

Then she turned and left the Temple, and her people followed. Ofeer remained with Shaveet and the others. She held her son close, lowered her head, and felt the weight of the world on her shoulders.

I lost the only woman who could have healed you, son, she thought, looking at Ariel as he slept. But I chose love. I chose healing. We will continue to seek both, in this life or the next.

CLAUDIA

For long days, the poison lingered inside her. For long days, as the catapults boomed and the arrows whistled outside, the poison sought its way out, sweating, vomiting, shitting, oozing, laughing, twisting its way from her body like worms burrowing out from a corpse. Finally, thinned, weary, but laughing, Claudia emerged from her tent, her fever gone, and beheld the siege of Beth Eloh.

Tens of thousands of legionaries still surrounded the city. Catapults hurled boulders onto the walls, chipping bricks, shattering merlons, cracking turrets. Rams still hammered at gates. Flaming arrows flew over the battlements. Siege towers rolled toward the walls. Yet still the Zoharites held back the attack. Smoke rose from beyond the walls, and Zoharite corpses lay in the field, yet still the rats fought—firing arrows at every battering ram crew, burning every siege tower, withstanding every stone. Claudia laughed.

"Fucking rats." She gulped down wine and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "You were always stubborn bastards. You could always fuck me for hours, Epher. You never seemed to tire. Same old Epher, same old game."

She drank some more. Good. Wine drowned the pain of the poison. Wine drowned the memory of waking up, finding herself lying on Leean's corpse, which had already begun to stink. Wine made her forget seeing her mother die, stabbing the boy, taking life for the first time. And wine made her forget how Claudia loved him, how they had been two youths on the beach, sneaking out of her father's home. Epher. The first man she had ever loved. The only man she loved.

Claudia donned her armor and mounted her horse. She rode along the dirt path toward the city. Carnage spread across the hill—burning wreckage, corpses, fresh graves. She rode between the cohorts, rows of sweaty, filthy men, armor sandy, swords thirsty for blood. Soon they would drink.

"You don't want to ride any closer, domina," said Legatus Constantius, the Iron Eagle, commander of these forces. "The rats' arrows are nasty business. The scum coat their arrowheads with poison, and they're good shots." He pointed toward a turret where two walls met. "The one there, in that arrow slit. He slew two of my men who wheeled a siege tower too close. Shot one right in the eye even from all the way up there."

Claudia stared at the tall general. His eagle-head helmet stared back, beak thrusting toward her. Through the eyeholes, she could see the scars. The old fire, they said, had claimed his entire face. She had never seen that ravaged face; the general never removed his helm. His iron prosthetic hand, shaped as a talon, shone in the sun. He seemed inhuman to Claudia, more machine than man, a demonic bird of dark iron. Claudia suppressed a shudder, remembering the stories of Constantius flaying the family of the Phedian who had taken his hand.

She turned and squinted at the turret, struggling to see through its arrowslit. She thought she glimpsed a distant figure move.

"I grew up among Zoharites," Claudia said. "They're indeed stubborn bastards, bred for war. I don't think any nation in this world has fought more wars than Zoharites." She smiled. "Makes this all rather fun, doesn't it? I do enjoy a challenge." She drank again from her wine goblet. "I'll ride closer. Let's see if the bastard's luck lasts three times."

She kneed her horse, riding closer to the wall. She had survived a lumer's poison. She had survived her lover spurning her love and choosing war instead. She could survive a wall.

She rode along that wall, just on the edge of the arrows' range. So many men and women topped it. Not soldiers. Most of Zohar's soldiers had died in their long, endless wars. Here were farmers, masons, butchers, tanners—the dregs of humanity given armor and arrows. Perhaps Zohar had always been a nation where everyone was a soldier.

"Are you having fun, Zohar?" Claudia called out. "I see smoke rising from behind your walls! How many of you have died?" She laughed. "You cannot resist us forever, people of Zohar. You cannot resist the might of Aelar! I call to you—open your gates! Reject the war of your king. Spit upon Epheriah Elior, who would lead you to ruin. Allow me into your city, and I will welcome you into the embrace of the Empire, of this family of nations. Join us—or fucking die!"

They stared down at her, and there—there from that arrowslit in that turret the arrow flew. Claudia tugged her horse aside, and the arrow sliced the air a finger's length from her face. She snorted. If this was Zohar's dreaded archer, good riddance to those fools he'd slain.

"Epher!" she called. "Epher, do you hear me?"

She saw him on the wall in the distance. She recognized him even from here. Tall. Gaunt now, thinner than he'd been. She saw that even past his armor. He stared at her, surrounded by his men. At his side stood a woman with fiery red hair—hair like an Elanian's, rare here in the desert.

"Did you already find another woman to fuck?" Claudia shouted up at him. She drank more wine. "I'm coming for you, Epher! Open your gates now, or I'll fucking crucify your whore!" She turned toward the legionaries behind her. "Build more catapults. Build more ladders. I want this fucking city razed to the ground, and I want Epher brought to me alive!"

She rode back to her tent. The corpse of Leean still hung outside on a cross. Flies had laid their eggs in the rotting flesh, and the maggots had claimed the eyes. It stank. By the gods, it fucking stank. But Claudia kept the lumer's corpse here—here by her tent, by her new home, in the heart of her camp. It was a reminder to all, mostly to herself, of what she would do to Epher. Of what she would do to all Zoharites.

You killed my mother. Claudia's fists trembled. You spurned me, Epher. All my life, I lived among you—born in Gefen, raised in Gefen, learning your language, eating your food, fucking your men, hearing the chants of your pathetic religion ringing through my town. And you always saw me as a foreigner, a tyrant's daughter—just Claudia Valerius, an Aelarian for you to drive off, to hunt.

She stared up at the corpse, lips peeled back.

"And so you will suffer," Claudia vowed. "All of you. Every last fucking one of you rats. You will pay for what you did to me. I became Zoharite for you. Now you will become Aelarian, or I will crucify you all and give your flesh to the maggots."

She leaned across her saddle, reached out, and caressed the corpse. She closed her eyes and pretended it was Epher, that she could still touch him, love him.

I loved you so much. I loved you more than wine, more than death, and you betrayed me.

The corpse's belly swelled, gravid with the gases of decomposition. Soon it would burst, spilling its contents across the field. Soon this city would crack open too, spilling its wretchedness. Claudia reentered her tent. She lay down in bed. She hugged her pillow, and she closed her eyes, and she reached down between her legs, feeling the wetness there. As she brought herself to climax, she imagined Epher lying atop her, and she imagined his corpse on a cross, rotting outside her tent, maggots in his eyes.

EPHER

The assault continued on the walls of Beth Eloh—furious, brutal, unrelenting. Beth Eloh was perhaps the most fortified city in the world. Millennia of invasions from every land around them had hardened Beth Eloh, each king fighting a war, each king adding new turrets and battlements and bricks to the walls. And yet in thousands of years, Zohar's capital had never faced an enemy like this—the legions of the greatest empire the world had ever seen, unleashing all their wrath.

Epher fought on the walls. For days and nights he fought. The enemy's catapults hurled boulders onto the battlements, cracked merlons, and scattered bricks and shards of stone. Their flaming arrows flew into the city, and homes burned. Their trebuchets threw rotten animal carcasses, spreading disease through the streets. Their siege towers kept coming, spilling legionaries onto the walls. Twice a handful of legionaries made it into the city, butchering women and children before the Zoharite warriors cut them down.

"We can't hold them back for much longer," Ramael said, firing arrow after arrow. Their supply was running low. Already men were rushing through the city, cutting down trees, collecting wooden furniture, and constructing more arrows. But wood was rare in this city, metal even rarer. Soon they would be reduced to firing mere sharpened sticks, then only sling stones, then simply tossing bricks.

"We'll hold them back for as long as we can," Epher said, firing arrows too.

Between his shifts on the wall, Epher had been visiting Avinasi in the palace, trying to glean knowledge from her Sight. But the old lumer kept fading, ravaged by age, her mind dwindling, her words babbling. She was only rarely lucid, and it had become nearly impossible for Epher to understand what she saw in the light. But he understood that war raged in Aelar, that barbarous tribes were attacking the walls, and that Prince Seneca and Princess Valentina were conducting their own wars of conquest. Already the legions in Cadom and Kalintia, Avinasi had said in a rare moment of lucidity, had been withdrawn to Aelar.

If we only harry them for longer, Epher thought, if we can bleed them, make them pay to take this city, Aelar will see Zohar as a war they cannot afford. Tirus will have to withdraw his men to fight the greater war at home.

The legions still covered the mountainsides, century by century of infantrymen, lines of archers, horses, siege towers, catapults. Here was an army like a nation with one purpose—to shatter Zohar. Epher looked behind him at the city of Beth Eloh. The buildings crowded together, so close they hid the streets that snaked between them, covering this plateau high upon the mountains. The Mount of Cedars rose in the city's center, its highest crest, overlooking the desert. The Temple shone there. Between this wall and that Temple's glory lay misery. Scattered fires, ignited by the enemy's flaming arrows, still burned. Houses, silos, and wells lay shattered, felled by boulders hurled over the walls. Everywhere, workers were digging graves; hundreds had already perished within the city.

But hundreds of thousands will die if these walls fall, Epher knew.

Along with his worry about the legions dwelled a deeper, colder fear.

And there is him. He who walks in the shadows of our city.

Epher stared at the courtyards and alleyways along the inner side of the walls. Pavilions had been raised to treat the ill. Many houses here, pressed up against the wall and once homes to families, had been repurposed as houses of healing. Hundreds across the city had contracted the Gray Death, the illness that raised ashen sores, hiding the skin and twisting the body. In the camps they spoke of him—the Bringer of Disease—a cursed man, wrapped in black robes, his skin gray and furrowed. In some stories, his fingers were tipped with red; in others he sprouted claws. In some stories, his eyes were pure black, no white around the iris; in others he had the yellow eyes of a snake. Epher had never seen the man. Those who claimed to have seen him spoke only of brief images, flickers, a figure hunched over a sleeping soldier or child, then vanishing into shadows. All he visited, they claimed, fell to the illness. Epher had offered a reward of a hundred golden coins to anyone who brought him this man. The prize was still unclaimed.

A repha, some called him. A demon from Ashael, the underground realm of evil that appeared in ancient lore.

Some gave him a different name.

The adversary. Epher shuddered. The antithesis of Eloh. A mythical figure said to be as mighty as Eloh himself, fully evil, fully corrupt, ever the enemy of God. Epher did not know if he believed those stories. In ancient lore, there were only a handful of references to the adversary, vague, brief, a few words in old scrolls. And yet here this man—ghostly, demonic—walked in his city, and the people feared him more than the legions outside.

Epher turned away from the city, shaking his head. Foolishness. The men were scared, and fear led to visions, to superstition. Epher would not concern himself with ghost stories. A very real enemy spread outside, hammering at his city. He would focus on fighting this enemy of flesh, not a ghost of shadows.

A boulder flew from the enemy catapults. Epher scurried aside along the wall, grimacing. The boulder slammed into a tower nearby, cracking bricks and sending shards of stone into the archer's nest. The man screamed and fell, limbs snapping. Another archer rose to replace him. Across the wall, Zoharites fired flaming arrows, trying to hit the catapult. A siege tower diverted their attention, rolling toward the walls. The city defenders ran, hurling clay jugs full of flame, trying to burn the wooden structure.

When night fell, Epher walked among his troops in the city. He spoke with the wounded, the weary, young men and women—some no older than boys—and elders with gray hair. Most were not professional soldiers. Most of Zohar's trained soldiers had perished in the wars between Yohanan and Shefael and the invasions of Seneca and Porcia. Here were shepherds and farmers from across the countryside. Bakers. Builders. Smiths. Scribes. They wore the armor of their fallen parents, siblings, and children. Their blades were chipped, their helmets wobbly, but their eyes were brave. They filled the courtyards and streets, waiting for their shifts on the walls, waiting for the enemy to break in.

"Stay strong, friends," Epher told them. "Your king fights with you."

Eloh fights with you, he wanted to add, but he could not. He could not believe the truth of that, not anymore. Many in the city claimed that God fought with Zohar, and perhaps that had been true centuries ago. It was hard for Epher to believe that God still blessed them, that he existed at all. No kind god would allow this to happen—allow Jerael, a noble man, to be crucified, allow Shiloh, a kind and pious woman, to suffer death in the Temple, allow myriads to perish across the kingdom. If there was any great, invisible force acting in this city, it was a cruel one, not a blessed god but a demon of vengeance.

Again Epher's mind strayed to the prophets he had heard in the Valley of Ashes.

The children of Zohar have sinned!

The daughters of Beth Eloh have prostituted themselves!

God shall punish this city with destruction and vengeance!

The words of madmen, perhaps. Yet words that would not leave Epher's mind.

He walked along the wall and down the alleyways, approaching one of the pavilions raised for the ill. Here, beneath the awnings, those stricken with the Gray Death lay on rugs. Healers moved among them, pouring water into parched mouths, placing damp cloths on oozing brows, praying for healing from a god that would not answer. Epher walked among them. His guards objected, calling for him to stay back from the disease, but Epher would not heed them. He clasped the bloated, scaly hands of the ill, praying with them.

It was here, in these houses of healing, that he found Maya.

His sister knelt above a child. The gray scabs and sores covered the child; Epher could not tell if it was boy or girl. Maya's head was lowered, her curly hair hiding her face. When Epher approached, she looked up at him, eyes sunken and damp.

"I could not save him," she whispered. "I tried to heal him, to cast back the darkness inside him, but . . . it destroyed him."

For an instant Epher was sure that Maya too was stricken with the illness; her skin was ashen, her cheeks gaunt. But no sores covered her. Deep weariness and grief were claiming her. She was only a child, only sixteen years old, barely old enough for marriage. When she had first left Gefen, heading east to find aid, she had looked even younger, a girl with plump cheeks elders loved to pinch, with round eyes full of hope, with a bounce to her step and light to her smile. Now Maya looked years older, too thin, skin peeling where the sun had burned her, the ghosts of the dead dancing in her brown eyes.

He took her hand and helped her stand up. "How long since you slept, Maya?"

She blinked. "I feel like I've been asleep for months. I feel like I'm trapped in a dream."

He held her hand. "You must get some real sleep. This war might last for weeks, even months. Find a chamber in the houses along the road. Rest."

"I'll heal a few more," she said. "Then I'll sleep."

He leaned down and peered into her eyes. "Promise me, Maya. Double promise." These were the words he would speak in their childhood back on Pine Hill, making silly requests—to save him a slice of fig cake or keep secret a planned prank on Ofeer.

Maya smiled wanly. She remembered. She crossed her fingers on both hands. "Double promise."

When Epher turned to leave, Maya tugged his arm, pulling him back toward her.

"Epher," she said, "will we ever see it again? The villa on Pine Hill? Do you think we'll ever live there again, you and me, Koren, Atalia, Ofeer? That we'll ever have Restday meals again under the painting of elephants, plant cyclamens in the garden, and run down to the sea?"

He held her close, stroking her hair. "I don't know, Maya. Let's focus on surviving here now. But I believe that our siblings are still alive. Let that give us hope in a city of so little hope."

She nodded, head lowered. Epher left her there, for he too needed rest. He had not slept all of last night, fighting a siege tower that had made its way to the wall. Walking back between the crowded houses, he saw Olive on the battlements, vacating her arrowslit for another soldier.

"Yeah, I back and kill more you cunts later!" Olive shouted over her shoulder toward the enemy. "I going shoot arrows into your fucking asses! Come on! Come into city and I chop off your balls and feed you them!"

Grumbling, sweat on her brow, Olive trudged down the stairs and off the wall. She had been up there firing arrows for hours. She saw Epher, a grin split her sooty face, and she waved. A gash bled on her arm, perhaps the wound of a shattered brick or a bold legionary's arrow.

"Hello, Epher," she said. "You look like shit. You not kill anyone in a while, that why."

He looked at her arm and winced. "That looks deep. Go see Maya. She'll heal you."

"Fuck that." Olive shook her head and spat. "Only scratch. Maya heal others." A yawn stretched her face. "Quick nap before we kill more eagles?"

He nodded and took her hand in his. They made their way along the street until they found a vacant chamber in the houses the army had taken over. As they unstrapped their armor, Olive kept babbling on and on about those she had killed.

"One siege tower come right up to me," she said. "I burn it. I burn the soldiers inside!" She snarled and whipped her sword around the chamber, forcing Epher to leap back. "I cut man open. He try stab me. I break his armor. I cut him!" She grinned widely, too widely, showing many teeth. "Then I shoot more arrows. Force them back. Another man climb, but I shove him off. Fuck eagles. Fuck them! They cannot beat us. We cut them, we—"

"Olive!" He grabbed her. She was weeping now, even as she grinned. Her tears rolled, and her body shook, but still she talked of her conquests.

"I kill them, Epher. I kill so many. I'm strong. I'm brave. I kill them. I . . ." Her words faded into sobs.

For a long time, he held her against him as she wept, stroking her hair, kissing her forehead.

"It'll be all right," he whispered.

She sniffed and looked up at him. "It won't. Nothing be all right. I scared, Epher. I so scared. I dream at night that . . . that we die. Not in battle, not brave, but in darkness. Cowering. Afraid. And I is so afraid."

"Hope is but a single candle in the night," he told her. "But that candle is still blessed, and its light still guides us onward. So long as there is light, we won't despair." He placed a finger under her chin and kissed her lips. "Will you still walk with me through these shadows?"

"Always!" She held her head high and clasped his hands. "Epher, marry me."

He nodded. "Of course I will."

"That not what I mean. I mean—marry me now. Tonight. Here in house. Marry me because I scared we die tomorrow. And if we die, I want die with my husband."

And so they found a priest, a broad man with somber eyes, a black beard, and dusty hands, a man who had spent all day burying the dead. And so in this home, wounded, afraid, the sounds of battle rising outside, Epher and Olive wed. No musicians played harps and lyres for the wedding of their king. No maidens tossed almond blossoms or wove flowers in their hair. No feasts were cooked, no dancers performed, no crowds spilled forth their adulation. They had no altar, no garden, no glittering hall of light. They had this chamber of shadows. They had these ragged tunics and bandages. They had each other, their love, their hands clasped together.

Countless worries raced through Epher's mind—about the legions outside the walls, about the demon in the city, about Maya's despair, about his other siblings, still lost in the world. But for here, now, just a few brief moments in a war—he focused on Olive alone, and she was all his world.

"If I forget you, Beth Eloh, may I forget my right arm," he uttered the ancient prayer. "If I forget you, city of gold and copper and light, may I forget all love and home. Hear, O Zohar! Ours is the light." He touched her cheek. "That is the prayer all Zoharites speak on their wedding days. I've always thought it strange that, when marrying, we should speak not of our spouse but of our holy city. Today this holy city is besieged, and all her walls threaten to fall. But here, for but a single moment, I forget Beth Eloh, and I love only you, my wife, my Olive."

They kissed in shadows, candles burning around them.

That night, the sounds of battle continued outside; this house stood just by the city wall. As arrows whistled, men shouted, and boulders slammed into battlements, Epher made love to his wife. She lay beneath him, moaning, eyes closed, limbs wrapped around him. It was a fierce, almost harsh lovemaking, not the luxurious love they knew from better days; tonight they fucked with an urgency they had never known, all sweat and blood, her teeth biting his shoulder, his hands nearly crushing hers, until they both climaxed.

He lay on his back on the bed, his bandages damp with sweat. He held her against him, and she cried softly.

"Why do you cry?" he whispered and kissed her cheek.

She held his hand. "Because I happy. Because I love you."

But those were not tears of joy, Epher saw. They were tears of grief—that this would end, that they would lose everything in the fire.

They slept for a few hours, holding each other, the shouts and din from outside waking them every few moments. Before dawn, they rose together, put on their armor, and returned to the war. They fought on. Husband and wife, king and queen, against the might of an empire.

OFEER

She walked through the city of Aelar—a city of fear, a city about to fall—heading toward the Acropolis. Toward the home she had briefly shared with Seneca. Toward Tirus Valerius, the new emperor, the man who had tried to rape her, the man who could now save her life and the life of her child.

The boulevard spread before her, the road Seneca had once led her on, riding in his chariot while she walked behind him, a slave for the markets. She had been pregnant with his child then but hadn't known it. Now she carried their son, little Ariel, against her chest.

"You should not be here," Ofeer whispered to her baby, tears stinging her eyes. "Not here, in the city streets, going to see a man who might kill us. You need to be in a house of healing. You need a lumer's light. You're still so frail."

She caressed his head. His skin was still so wrinkled, so red. He was still so small. She carried him around as if he were a full-grown babe while he should still be in her belly. Yet what else could Ofeer do? Noa the lumer was leading Zoharites to the city gates, prepared to confront the guards. To open the gates. To let the Gaelians in. To see the barbarians sack this city, killing, raping, taking slaves, burning, destroying. Noa would gladly die in the inferno to see Aelar fall. But not Ofeer. Not with this baby she had vowed to protect, that she would always fight for.

"And so I come to see you, Tirus," she whispered. "To tell you of Noa's betrayal. To warn you. To make sure our city gates stay closed. And I pray that your cock has healed, and that you don't rip my child from my breast and slay him in vengeance."

Ariel's eyes remained closed. His breathing was labored. Since his birth, she had not heard him cry, only the odd whimper. He was still too weak to even wail. Still he had not suckled from her breast, and she fed him drop by drop, each drop a struggle. Every dawn of him still living was a miracle.

"You are my miracle, Ariel," she whispered. "And I vow: I will make this a good world for you. I will give you a good life like I had. A good family. A good home."

She walked onward until she saw the Acropolis ahead. A wall surrounded the hill, and beyond she saw the symbols of Aelar's power: the palace, the Amphitheatrum, the temples, and the barracks where Caelius had imprisoned her. She walked toward the gates, prepared to plead with the guards to enter, to see the new emperor.

She was a few steps away when a voice rose behind her.

"Ofeer. Wait."

Ofeer turned around and saw Noa there. The lumer stood alone, a cloak wrapped around her. Her black hair blew in the winter wind.

"What do you want?" Ofeer said. "Why are you here? Why aren't you with your sheep, opening the gates to let in the horde? I thought that's your only purpose: death and destruction."

Noa lowered her head, and it seemed almost as if shame filled her. She walked off the road and sat on a marble bench beneath a pine tree. She looked up at Ofeer, eyes somber, and patted the bench beside her.

Rage still filled Ofeer—rage that Noa had sent her to die, would sentence everyone in this city to die. Ofeer wanted to leave, to keep her son away from the lumer. But this lumer had also healed her son—twice. Holding her tongue, Ofeer sat on the bench.

"You're too young to remember the war twenty years ago," Noa said. "I was only a child myself."

"I was made in that war," Ofeer said, surprised to find so little emotion in her. "When Marcus Octavius captured Cadom from us, he took my brothers captive. He would release them on one condition: If my mother, princess of Zohar, spent a night in his bed. She did. He released my brothers. And he placed me in my mother's womb. I did not see that war, but I've fought it all my life."

"As have I," said Noa. "For in that war, as part of its surrender, Zohar vowed to send seven lumers a year to Aelar in tribute. I was taken to Aelar as a youth, bound in chains. Scared. So scared. I hoped to serve a kind dominus or domina, but they sent me to Porcia. To a madwoman. She hurt me so much." Noa stared at her lap. "Have you heard the tale of Ayala, the lumer of Ma'oz?"

Ofeer nodded. "They say she was among Zohar's greatest lumers, second in power only to Avinasi. My sister Maya often spoke of her."

"Ayala of Ma'oz was wise and powerful," Noa said. "I met her once. I studied from her. After what happened in Cadom . . ." Noa clasped her robes. "The legionaries shipped Ayala across the Encircled Sea, sending her to serve a praetor in Rasinia, an Aelarian city of ten thousand souls. It lies only three days west from here—or used to. Three days after Ayala arrived, people spoke of seeing wisps of lights rising from the city. Ghosts, some thought them. That night, the mountain above Rasinia shattered. Great fire and ash and molten rock spewed forth, burying the city, killing ten thousand Aelarians. Ayala was never seen again. Perhaps she died in the inferno."

Ofeer's eyes widened. "She set off the mountain? With Luminosity? She destroyed an entire city?"

Noa nodded. "So the legends say. When I was younger, when Porcia would beat me and cage me, I used to think that someday I could be as powerful as Ayala. That someday I too could send a mountain tumbling onto a city. That I could kill all my tormentors. But I was never as strong, not as strong as Ayala, not as strong as the imperial lumer, not as strong as Avinasi, not as strong as Maya. I'm not a powerful lumer, Ofeer. I'm average as far as they go; your sister is far more blessed with magic. But I'm cunning, and I'm wrathful, and I'm hurt. And I thought that if I opened the gates, that I could unleash my own river of fire and molten rock. That I too could destroy a city in vengeance—not just a city of ten thousand but of a million Aelarians. That here would be the greatest vengeance of Zohar, the wrath of our nation, destroying the very empire that crushes us."

"But you didn't open the gates," Ofeer whispered. She held her baby close, comforted by his presence.

Noa heaved a sigh. "I made it to the gates. Two hundred Zoharites followed me. With my magic, we could have overwhelmed the guards. But I left the gates closed. I turned back. Do you know why, Ofeer?" She placed a hand on Ofeer's knee. "Because of you. Because of what you told me. Because of the goodness I saw in you. You who were brutalized by Aelar would not see it destroyed, and perhaps you are purer and closer to Eloh than I am." She stroked Ariel's head, and her fingers shone with luminescence. "And because of him. Because of the hope he brings you. Because of the hope he brings me and the world." The light flowed into Ariel, soothing his breath, healing and warming. "Because we must make this a good world for him, a world he can heal. You were right, Ofeer. I was wrong. I was wicked. And you taught me wisdom."

Ofeer leaned against her. They sat together on the bench, watching the people walk by along the boulevard. So many lives here. So many stories. Native Aelarians in togas and stolas—some wealthy, riding in palanquins, surrounded by slaves, others humble masons and smiths and tanners and other workers who kept the city running. Some soldiers. Some people from distant lands—slaves, captured in war, freed by kind masters after years of service, or immigrants come to seek their fortune in the largest city the world had ever known. People with golden, red, or orange hair and pale skin, with eyes that glittered like sapphires, clad in furs and checkered cloaks. People with obsidian skin and braided hair, adorned with jewels, travelers from the distant lands of Nur and its southern neighbors. Hirsute men in loincloths, skin crinkly and brown, travelers from distant lands of endless jungles. People from countless lands, some lands devastated by Aelar, others beyond the Empire's reach. So many lives. So many stories. A million people—each a world, each with their own dreams, sadness, little wars. And all of them afraid now. All of those lights threatening to fall into darkness.

I'm just one more story, Ofeer thought. All we are is stories.

She thought back to tragedies she had lived through. To a girl on the beach, drunk, afraid, fatherless. To the day she had run from her mother's home, parting from her family with tears and wrath. To the day she had seen her family again, seen Seneca nail Jerael onto the cross and drag Koren and Atalia off in chains. To that night in the alleyway, attacked, bleeding, nearly dying, and finding light, finding Noa and her compassion. In Eloh's light, Ofeer had heard a voice. Had felt concern and love for her. Often since that night, Ofeer had wondered at those words. If Eloh had spoken to her then, if he truly loved her, truly sought to save her and her child, why had he allowed the attack in the alleyway? Why had he set her on this path of darkness, only to redeem her at the end?

Sometimes Ofeer thought that Eloh was not all powerful, that a second force—life, the world, humanity, perhaps an adversary to Eloh—plunged souls into darkness, that Eloh could not always fight the evil in the world, could not save all his children. Yet now, gazing at the people walking along the boulevard, Ofeer wondered if all the world was but millions of stories woven together. Perhaps Eloh was like a storyteller, weaving despair, want, fear, and death into his sprawling epic, yet sometimes—just sometimes like on that horrible night—he felt too much love, too much compassion, to let a child fall into the shadows his story demanded.

And perhaps nations too were but a part in this tale. Perhaps the endless wars in Zohar, the destruction of Gefen, the assault on Beth Eloh—all stories hurtling toward an end Ofeer could not foresee.

She did not know. Perhaps she had never heard Eloh at all, had merely hallucinated the voice. And perhaps she would never know the answers, no matter how many times she read the Book of Eloh. All she had now was her son. All she knew was that she would forever fight for him, love him, guide him down a path of light.

Noa was looking at her, eyes kind, and again placed a glowing hand on Ariel, giving him a gift of Luminosity.

And I have Noa, Ofeer thought. I have the light of my homeland. I still have hope.

"Noa," Ofeer finally said, twisting her fingers. "There's something I've wanted to ask you. For a long time."

"I know what you would ask of me," Noa said. "And I refuse."

"Why?" Ofeer grabbed her hand.

The lumer smiled sadly. "Ofeer, there are four pillars to Luminosity. Healing. Muse. Foresight. And Sight. Many claim that this last pillar is the most dangerous, most treacherous."

"But I would still ask you to use it," said Ofeer. "To bring me news of home. Of Zohar. Of my family."

Noa sighed. "Ofeer, Sight is not like looking through a keyhole, peering into a room beyond. Sight is like . . . dreams. Difficult to interpret. Easy to misunderstand. I could gaze into the Sight and see your siblings bloodied on crosses, and I would tell you they are dead, only to later learn the cross simply symbolized burdens they bear."

"Then tell me what visions you see," Ofeer said. "And I will interpret them myself."

The lumer rose to her feet. "No." She squared her shoulders. "A lumer can only gather lume on visits to Zohar, and I haven't visited in nearly a year. I will not squander my last reserves on dreams. Sight is to be used for generals, emperors, the mightiest men who lead nations. Not you." Her voice softened, and she stroked Ofeer's hair. "I'm sorry."

With that, Noa pulled her hood over her head, turned, and left Ofeer on the bench. Ofeer remained there for a long time, holding her son, waiting for the fire.

MAYA

In the beginning, there was light from darkness.

The words filled Maya's mind, the first words from the Luminous Writ, the words she had inscribed in a house across the desert. She had learned to master the light in that house. And here in Beth Eloh, the well of luminous grace, she found her greatest darkness, and she faced her greatest test.

In the beginning, there was light from darkness.

Light—the beginning. The dawn. The rise of compassion, consciousness, senses. In the beginning—light from darkness. Here in shadows, she found dawn after dawn, beginning after beginning. With every dying man, with every hand that clutched hers in desperation, with every eye that gazed in pain, she deconstructed herself. She returned to the beginning. To that purity. To the chaos that had reigned before the world had begun. And into those shadows, she brought light.

For days she toiled here, dancing with the gray-faced man. With every ill soldier, she reached inside and saw him there. With every body of flesh, she fought him in the light and shadow. A man in black robes. A man with furrowed gray skin. Leering at her. Dancing with her. Battling her. Reaching out bloodred claws. The brighter she shone her light the darker he grew, larger, looming before her. Sometimes she cast him back, expelling him from the ill. Other times he shattered her, and Maya fell, gasping for breath over a corpse. Bed by bed, ill by ill, she danced with the gray-faced man, the adversary of Eloh, the shadow under the light.

"Maya," said Abishag, voice soft, hands reaching to her. "You must rest. I promised your brother that I would make you rest."

Maya wanted to refuse, wanted to keep fighting. How could she rest when the fate of a nation rested on her shoulders? But she was weary. She was nothing but weariness. She was raw, dry skin clinging to weariness. She nodded. Abishag took her hand, led her out from the house of healing, and they walked along the streets of Beth Eloh.

"I know a place where we can rest," said Abishag.

A flaming arrow sailed overhead and skidded across the roof of a building. Another arrow hit the road only a few paces away. They kept walking, leaving the wall farther behind, delving into the crowded city streets. Arches rose overhead, connecting the rows of houses and shops, all formed from the same craggy bricks. Awning and balconies hid all but shreds of sky. Even as they headed farther from the battle, the chants of the legions still rose behind them, rolling over the city. We come! We see! We kill! The sounds of prayer rose all around them: the people of Beth Eloh begging for forgiveness from God. Thousands clogged these streets—tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, perhaps a full million. It was a sea of humanity trapped within this stone shell.

"Behold, the wrath of Eloh descends upon you in the form of eagles!" cried a prophet on a balcony, clad in a loincloth, his white beard flowing down his chest. "The consecrated sisters have profaned his name! Even the daughters of the righteous have painted their faces and whored themselves in the city streets. Now our lord cleanses this land of sin, and now even the walls of his Temple will shatter. Prepare yourselves for God's wrath and judgment, sinners of Zohar!"

A few people were listening to this prophet of doom, but most paid him no heed. Mothers sat at street corners, nursing babies. Children huddled together. Elders prayed. From across Zohar they had come here, hoping for safety, finding themselves trapped. Already hunger and thirst filled the camp, twin demons as cruel as disease. Maya saw the dry lips, the distended bellies. Some must not have eaten in days. When a city soldier rolled a cart of grain down the road, hundreds mobbed him, crying out, shoving one another, fighting for a fistful of emmer.

"Stand back, you fucking son of a whore!" shouted a balding man, shoving a boy back.

The child resisted, struggling toward the cart. "I want my grain! My sister is hungry. Grain, grain!"

The balding man grabbed the boy's collar, ready to throttle him, when he saw Maya approach. She stared at the man. He glared back, then down at his feet.

"Take your grain, son of Zohar," Maya said to the man. "And go to the wall. Go fight with your king. All who can must fight this day."

Whispers ran through the crowd. People stared and pointed at Maya. A child gaped, jaw hanging open.

"It's her," whispered a robed woman. "Maya Elior. The savior."

"The Lady of Light," whispered an elder. "She whose return was foretold."

They moved toward her, gathering, some kneeling, others reaching out to her.

"A blessing!" said one, thin, bare-chested, his ribs showing against his skin.

"Bless us, savior!" said a woman.

Abishag stared around, fear in her eyes. She tried to move through the crowd. "Stand back! Maya needs to rest. Stand back and let her through!"

But as the whispers spread, the crowd only thickened, and soon they all surrounded her—on the streets, the balconies, the rooftops, peering from windows. Most knelt or begged for blessings, but some glared and spat.

"A false prophet!" said a young man.

"A rich girl who knows nothing of the poor," said another.

"This city will fall because of her family!" shouted a man. "They bickered and fought while the eagles swooped."

"Make way!" Abishag cried, but nobody seemed to hear.

"It's all right, Abishag," Maya said softly. She raised her hands, and they shone, twin beacons. "Hear me, people of Beth Eloh! You are afraid. An enemy surrounds our city, threatening to topple all that we've built. Evil lurks within our walls, stealing the life of our sons and daughters. Hunger and thirst ravage us, even as the legions threaten to burn and cut our flesh and efface all memory of Zohar from the world. But I tell you: You need not fear, for fear plunges all hearts into darkness, and fear is a greater enemy even than the legions of Aelar."

"But we have no hope!" shouted a man.

"Where there is life there is hope!" said Maya.

"Too many have fallen ill!" called a woman, reaching forth an arm white with leprosy.

Maya laid her hands upon the woman, and the illness receded, the scabs falling to reveal pale skin.

"Where there is illness there can be healing," said Maya. "Where there is death there can be life. Where there is darkness light can still shine. In the beginning, there was light from darkness. That light has not abandoned you, Zohar, and Eloh does not punish you with wrath. You are loved, children of Zohar. You are eternal. Trust in the lume that flows from this place, for we stand upon hallowed ground. Trust in the grace that even now fills these streets. Zohar is blessed. Zohar is eternal. Our light will not die."

"Tell that to Shiloh Elior!" shouted a man in the crowd. "Tell that to King Yohanan! Tell that to my son who died in the wars. You come to us with lies, filth." He lifted a stone and hurled it at Maya. She grimaced when it hit her.

"Do not strike our savior!" shouted Abishag.

"Savior?" A woman laughed. "Since she returned into this city, nothing but darkness has befallen us. Illness. Legions at our gates. I say that Maya Elior brought these evils to us!" She too lifted a stone and tossed it.

The stone hit Maya, cutting her skin. Her arm bled. Some in the crowd accosted the assailants, crying of Maya's divinity. But many others gathered stones. They cast them at Maya, cursing her name.

"Bringer of illness!"

"False prophet!"

"Teller of lies!"

"Whore of Aelar!"

With every insult—a stone. With every stone—more blood that fled her.

"Make way, make way!" shouted Abishag. "Move back!"

The crowd began to fight among itself, worshippers and opponents of Maya shoving, cursing, striking. In the chaos, Maya and Abishag managed to shove their way through, to reach an alleyway like a tunnel. They fled into shadows. Stray cats scattered before them, and several poor lay sleeping between gutters. Abishag led Maya to a rickety doorway and into a stone chamber, the walls bare and rough.

A symbol of the consecrated sisters appeared on the wall—a line within a circle—etched into the stone. A tattered rug covered the floor, and shutters hid the window. Here they stood for long moments in silence, panting.

"I'm sorry," Abishag said, tending to Maya's wounds. "I did not realize they would assault you." She tightened her fists, trembling with rage. "They sicken me. They are animals. Today I'm ashamed of our people."

"Do not be," said Maya. "Love them as I do. They are afraid, and in their fear, they turn to hatred. They seek scapegoats. Do not judge them too harshly. It's the nature of men and women, trapped in a gauntlet, starved and brutalized, to lash out like wounded animals. Even if they lash at me, even if they stone me, they are still my kin, and they are still worthy of our love."

Abishag nodded, head lowered. "I spoke in anger." She dabbed blood off Maya and winced. "Can you heal yourself?"

Maya shook her head. "I'm too weary. I've used too much luminescence. I feel . . . empty, like a brazier whose embers have burned to ash."

They lay down on a rug, a place where once, Maya suspected, the consecrated sisters would pleasure their patrons. Maya lay on her back, and Abishag lay beside her, and tears filled the girl's eyes.

"Why do you weep?" Maya whispered, stroking Abishag's hair.

The girl clasped Maya's hand. "Did you mean what you said? That there can be healing for the ill? What of those . . . those who have a different illness? Those who hurt inside, in our hearts?"

"The heart can be harder to heal than the flesh," Maya said softly.

Abishag nodded. She nestled closer to Maya. "Once there was light. In the beginning. Once there was joy. Three years ago, my family died, and I came here, seeking new light, finding myself worshipping the light—a consecrated sister. A whore. Flesh for priests to thrust into. I thought that I was worshipping Eloh's light, but I dwelled in darkness." She pulled Maya's hand closer, placing it against her heart. "Can you heal this pain inside me? Can you erase these memories?"

Maya shook her head. "I cannot. Memories make us who we are. Our shadows define our light. Our hardships bring new meaning to our joy. If I were to undo your suffering, I would undo all that you are, all that you can still become."

"It hurts," Abishag whispered.

Maya embraced her. "I cannot make that pain go away. But I can tell you that I love you, that I will be with you always. I cannot banish all evil, but I can bring forth goodness. You are loved, Abishag Bat Naeem. Always."

They slept holding each other, the deep sleep of those who feel safe and fear no dreams.

SENECA

She's dead.

Seneca stood by the boardwalk, gazing at the water.

Taeer is dead. And so are my dreams of conquest.

Ruin covered the riverbanks—the burnt relics of his ships, torched by the Zoharites under Taeer's command. Oars, charred hulls, blackened masts, scraps of sails, and burnt bones entangled with the rushes and floated on the water. The shell of a great barge rose in the middle of the river, half-sunken, holes in its hull gazing like the sockets in a skull. Nurians were wading and swimming through the water, pulling back the jetsam, trying to salvage what they could, but not much was left. His warships, the pride of Aelar, the mighty quinquereme galleys that had conquered the Encircled Sea—all lay burnt, useless, cruel reminders of Taeer's betrayal.

"I will smash the rats' homes and drive them all into the water," said Lidia. Her armor creaked as she turned from side to side, gazing at the street that sloped down to the burnt port. "This is Zoharite territory. I will fuck them until they are raw and begging to die, and the ruins of their home will rise here as a mountain."

Seneca gazed along the street—the one that, only days ago, he had tried to ride through, nearly dying. Here was the Zoharite quarter of Shenutep, this savanna city far south in Nur. A thousand Zoharites still lived here, hiding in their homes. The scum who had stoned him. Who had followed Taeer. Who had burned his fleet, shattering his dream to sail home to Aelar.

He looked at Lidia. The daughter of Remus Marcellus, the governor of Zohar slain in the uprising, she looked nothing like her father. Remus—that old bastard who had brutalized the Zoharites—had been a tall, gaunt son of a dog, skin like leather and hair like coiled tar. Lidia took after her mother, much to her fortune. Her hair was curly and blond—a rare color in Aelar. Some said that Remus had impregnated a Gaelian slave, that he had carved up the woman and kept the fair-haired babe. That babe had grown into a woman, shorter and fairer than her father, but just as fierce. As Lidia gazed upon the Zoharite street, speaking of its destruction, her eyes shone with hunger. Her grin revealed sharp teeth, a grin that tapered into points atop the gums, a grin so wide it seemed lurid, splitting too much cheek, nearly reaching the ears.

"No," Seneca said. "Let them keep their houses. Let them live."

Lidia spun toward him, hissing between her clenched teeth. Her eyes blazed, and she gripped her sword. Her pteruges flailed across her thighs, the leather straps jangling with iron studs. An eagle reared across her breastplate, a masterwork of silver, and that bird too seemed mad to Seneca, a deranged vulture of metal.

"The fucking desert cunts burned our fleet." Lidia snarled like a wild animal, drawing her gladius with a hiss of steel on leather. "They murdered my father in Zohar. They cut your cock and left you to die. I will slay them all."

Seneca sighed. "They cut my thigh, Lidia. In the groin, yes, but I assure you that Taeer would not harm my cock. She loved it too much."

Lidia snorted and looked at a circular, cobbled piazza at the intersection of two roads. "And you sure did fuck her good."

A marble statue of Cicero Octavius had once risen here on a pedestal, an idol of Aelar for the Nurians to fear. Seneca had shattered that marble, using chunks to form latrines for his troops. The stone pedestal still stood in the piazza's center, and instead of a statue, a cross now rose there. A new idol now blessed the streets, an idol of flesh and flies. Taeer's corpse hung on the cross, rotting, stinking.

Seneca looked away. He had not wanted this for Taeer. She had tried to kill him, yes. But Seneca had spent too many years loving her to gaze upon her corpse. It was Lidia who had insisted. The daughter of a famous general, she had risen high in the legions. Despite her youth, Lidia now commanded Legio XI Nuria—the only female commander in the legions. It was she who had nailed Taeer onto the cross, a warning to all other Zoharites.

"I envy Claudia," said Lidia. "I envy her that she butchers Zoharites." Her eyes widened with lust, white showing all around her irises, and she gripped Seneca's arm. "I will kill them all for you, dominus. Every last Zoharite here, I will put them to the blade. Do you fear them, or worse—pity them?"

Seneca stared into her gray-green eyes. A fucking Gaelian's eyes. Lidia stared back, head tilted, smile crooked.

She mocks me, he thought. I am her emperor, and she fucking mocks me.

"I fear none, pity fewer," said Seneca. "You may question my orders, Lidia. My father taught me to listen to his generals' concerns. But you will wipe that fucking smirk off your fucking face, or I will fucking cut your fucking smile all the way to your fucking ears. Do you understand?"

She raised her eyebrows, and her smile only grew. "I can see why Taeer took you into her bed. You talk dirty. I like that. Now let me kill them."

Seneca looked at the street. Simple clay houses. A humble domed temple. A thousand people who had stoned him, tried to kill him. But when Seneca gazed at this street, he remembered a different place. He remembered Gefen, a city in the east. A city he had invaded with Lidia's father. A city he had destroyed. A city where a man had lost his legs and run from the inferno on stumps. A city where a blazing woman had shrieked, a living torch. A city where he had nailed Jerael to the cross and fucked his daughter beneath the dying man's flesh. A city he had turned into a nightmare that would forever haunt him. No. Seneca was done with killing.

"The desert rats have suffered enough," he said. "Even as we speak, Claudia is ravaging their homeland. Let these ones live. They'll be good servants of the Empire."

"Servants who tried to stone you!" said Lidia. "Who burned your fleet!"

"Only by Taeer's orders." He forced himself to look at the crucified lumer. Taeer's skin had been flayed across the torso, and maggots had taken her eyes. Her hair still flowed, sticky with blood. "And she paid. Our vengeance is fulfilled. Ready the legion, Lidia. We march north along the river. We head to Tereen, the mouth to the Encircled Sea."

She frowned. "It's a long walk."

Seneca nodded. "But something awaits us in Tereen, dear Lidia. Something my sister left there." Now it was his turn to smile. "She attacked the province of Nur in the city of Tereen. She thought to break that port, to sail down the Majina River, and to finally claim this great city of Shenutep, with all its pyramids, its splendor, and me—lord of the Southern Empire. I smashed her ships in that port, Lidia. And they still await there. Beached, yes. Ravaged, many of them. Burnt, some. But many can be salvaged. In Tereen, we'll build a great fleet—from the remains of Porcia's armada, from merchant cogs, even from fucking fishermen's dinghies if we must. We will sail to Aelar—all ten thousand of our legionaries. We will claim the Empire."

Lidia snorted and spat. "What are ten thousand troops against Aelar? A cloud of flies stinging at a buffalo."

"That buffalo is weak with disease. Gael's assaults have weakened it. The Zoharites rebel around the Encircled Sea. Valentina is raising hell in the provinces. Porcia lies dead and Tirus has only a weak hold on the city. Aelar is ripe for the taking. Yes, we have only two legions . . . two legions who march with Emperor Seneca Octavius, true heir to Aelar. It's time to go home, Lidia." He turned to leave, then looked back. "Oh, and bury that fucking corpse."

You still deserve that, Taeer, he thought as he left Lidia behind. He stepped into his chariot, whipped the horses, and rode through Shenutep toward the towering pyramids in the city center. You still deserve peace in death. You betrayed me. His eyes stung with tears. You tried to murder me. But I loved you once, and perhaps you loved me, and you were my dearest friend. I flayed your hide and left you to rot in the sun, but I will bury you, and I will remember you as you were—a woman I loved.

The sun began to set across Shenutep, kindling the platinum tips of obelisks and temples, caressing the sandstone sphinxes, igniting the Majina River, and gilding the pyramids that rose in the city. Cranes glided, and a distant elephant trumpeted. The smells of cinnamon and nutmeg rose from taverns. Candlelight glowed in windows, and distant singing, an old tune of Nur, rose in the distance. Seneca slowed his horses to a leisurely gait. He stood in the chariot, savoring the evening. Riding here along these streets, the moon overhead, it was hard to tell that only months ago, this city had raged with war, Queen Imani rallying her rebels against Uncle Cicero.

Seneca looked up at the pyramid, which rose before him. One side shone a burnished gold as the sun sank toward the horizon. The other sides flowed toward the acacia and baobab trees, deep indigo, shimmering where they caught the moonlight. The pyramid's crest blazed, coated with platinum, a beacon seen everywhere in this city, welcoming travelers who sailed the Majina River. For three thousand years—since before there had been Aelar, even before Zohar—this pyramid had risen here. Tonight Imani waited within, his queen, his wife.

And what if I stayed here with her? Seneca thought. What if this—this quiet evening, this peaceful city, this wife whom I love—what if this is enough? What if I remain here with Imani, if we raise our child here in the south? What if Taeer had given me a blessing, burning my ambition into ash, allowing me to remain here in this city of spice and sunset, far south from the Encircled Sea?

He reached the pyramid, and for a long time, he climbed the staircase that ran along its facade. As he rose higher, he saw more and more of the land around him. The streets of Shenutep coiled into the shadows, lined with temples, homes, and statues. Acacia trees rustled around a closed marketplace. A few men and women walked the streets, holding lanterns, beads of light that hovered like fireflies. The river flowed through the city, and as the sun set, the water turned from gold into silvery moonlight. As Seneca kept climbing, the view revealed the city walls and beyond them the savanna. The stars shone.

Seneca entered the pyramid through an archway near its crest. He walked between obsidian statues of women with jackal heads, their eyes golden. He headed down a dark hallway, its obsidian tiles reflecting the light from braziers. Frescoes covered the walls, depicting scenes of reed boats along rivers, bringing spices and gemstones from distant lands as ibises and cranes flew above. Nurian guards stood in nooks, wearing simple white skirts and sandals, their chests bare, rings of gold around their arms and spears in their hands.

Past a stone door, Seneca entered the chamber he shared with Imani. Candles burned in sconces on the walls, and the mosaic animals came to life in the flickering light. Through arched windows, Seneca beheld the dark city and savanna beyond.

Imani slept in the mahogany bed. A silken sheet was pulled over her body, embroidered with silver ibises. Her curly hair spilled across the pillow, sweetly scented. Seneca removed his armor and climbed into bed with her, careful not to wake her. She mumbled but remained asleep. He gazed at her: the high cheekbones, the full lips, the long eyelashes. Gently, he placed his hand on her belly. It was still flat, but he knew that his child grew within—a son or daughter who would someday inherit all that Seneca had built, would still build.

You are the fairest of women, Imani, Seneca thought. I can think of no better mother to my child.

Yes, he had loved Taeer. And he had loved Ofeer. Both had betrayed him. But Imani had saved his life. Even knowing all that he had done, all his sins—sins that had horrified the others—Imani had seen goodness in him, had stayed with him, even as everyone else stabbed him in the back.

"I love you, my wife," he whispered, just a breath, too soft to wake her. "More than you know."

He wrapped his arms around her. She mumbled in her sleep, eyes still closed, and gave him a flutter of a kiss. Sleepily, she reached down to caress his manhood until it hardened in her grip. He made love to her gently, slowly, lying at her side. She fell asleep when he pulled out from her, and he held her close, her body warm against his.

I want to stay here forever, Seneca thought. King and Queen of Nur. Here I am happy. Here I'm at peace.

He thought of Aelar. Of the butchery in the Acropolis. Of the slaughter in the streets. Gael's forces would be pounding at the walls. Tirus would be mustering his legions, preparing for Seneca's assault. Aelar—a place of death, rivers of blood, more war, more nightmares to haunt him. A place of bad memories. A place where he had been a different man.

I can stay, he thought. I can stay here with you, Imani. We can fortify our borders. We can hold Tirus back. We can be happy. For the first time, we can be happy.

Seneca turned his head and looked out the window at the stars. And he knew that he was lying.

Because there can be no happiness for me, he thought. Not here. Not even with Imani. Not while my birthright is kept from me. My father is dead. Porcia is dead. Aelar is mine, and her siren song will forever call me.

And so he would leave this place, this oasis of peace, this paradise with the woman he loved. He would travel north and across the sea. He would return to the fire, to the blood, to the endless echoing screams.

IMANI

"Why?" Her brother grabbed her arm. "Why do you follow him? This is madness."

Imani stood in the pyramid armory, facing a rack of blades. She lifted a khopesh, its hilt shaped as an ibis's head, and gave the sword a swing. It sliced the air with a hiss. She balanced it on two fingers, frowned, and placed it back.

"Bit too hilt-heavy." She lifted another sword.

"Sister." Adai held her wrist and gently pulled down the sword. "Look at me. Speak to me."

She turned toward him. It hurt her to look at him. Her younger brother was not the man she remembered. Only a few years ago, he had been a happy youth, always smiling, chasing girls, telling jokes—even with Nur under the Empire's rule, even with the weight of princedom on his shoulders. Adai had enjoyed traveling to the markets, shopping for treasures, keeping some and bringing others to Imani. Somehow, even under Cicero's tyranny, he had found joy in Nur, had found some light, light he shared with his sister.

Mother's death had shattered him. The uprisings, the crucifixions, the bloodshed that had engulfed Nur until finally Imani gored Cicero with a tusk—those had taken all that had remained from Adai. Now no more laughter filled his eyes. She hadn't seen his beautiful smile—it had always been so radiant, so full of joy—in years. He no longer bothered to sport jewels or fineries but stood in a simple white skirt that fell down to his knees, and scars covered his arms and chest. His skin was dark for a prince's, a deep rich brown, for he had never been a prince to remain hidden in his palace. He had always walked under the sun among his people.

"Why do I follow Seneca?" she said. "I don't follow him, Adai. I fight at his side. His wife. His queen. I do not follow any man."

A flicker of rage filled Adai's eyes, eyes that had never known rage until this war. "Then why do you arm yourself for a journey to Aelar—his homeland? Why not stay here, in your kingdom, in your capital, in your pyramid—with your brother, your people?"

She turned toward a shelf and lifted a helmet. She hefted it. It was smooth and silvery, covering the nose and cheeks but leaving the eyes and mouth bared. "This one is good iron."

"Imani." He took the helmet from her. "Speak to me."

She sighed. "We've discussed this, Adai. You know that Tirus Valerius is a butcher, a man whose own daughter is ravaging Zohar. You know that Tirus would not rest until we're under Aelar's dominion again. But Seneca . . . if we can place him on the throne, he would be kind to us. To me." She touched her brother's arm. "He would be a good emperor to us, Adai."

He snorted. "A good emperor to us? Do you hear yourself? I don't want any emperor. I don't want any Aelarian in this land. Let the boy sail off to his war. Let him and Tirus kill each other. You want to join him, to take thousands of Nurian soldiers with you to fight his war? Enough Nurian blood has spilled for Aelar. This is not our war. Our war ended when you gored Cicero with an elephant tusk."

Imani turned away from the weapons and armor. She looked into her brother's dark eyes. "Our war will never end, Adai. One tyrant falls, another rises to replace him. Marcus Octavius murdered our mother and ravaged our land. His daughter sent hundreds of ships into Tereen and burned our port; if not for Seneca's aid, she would have brought us under her dominion. Now Tirus reigns, and he calls himself emperor of the entire Encircled Sea and all lands around it, and he will seek—with steel, fire, with our blood—to bring Nur back into his dominion. But Seneca is different. Seneca is my husband. Seneca is . . ." She considered. "Not kind, no. Not good nor just. But he is perhaps a lesser evil, and for that, Adai, for that I will fight. Because there are no ways of light and darkness, no wars of goodness and evil, only wars of gray."

"We are good and they are evil," said Adai. "That is what I believe."

"Am I good then?" She narrowed her eyes. "I skewered Taeer with a spear. I skewered her because she fought for her homeland, for her people, and I took her life. Is Seneca evil? He did evil things, yes. But I see goodness in him too. I see . . ." She looked away. "I see love."

"Love?" Adai barked a laugh. "He married you because you lead armies. Because he wanted you to give him Nur's warriors, so that they will fight his sister. Because he wanted you to do what you're doing now—to help him claim his empire. And once he has his empire, and once Nur's blood has spilled for him, do you think he would still adore you? You are Nurian, sister. The Aelarians spit on us. They call us animals, savages, and look down upon our dark skin, our southern realm, our very essence. You would be an embarrassment to him in the courts of Aelar. Here you are exotic to him, wise, powerful, a treasure. But in Aelar, surrounded by senators and ingratiating fools and marble columns of their so-called civilization? They would see you as nothing but a beast, a trophy, a pretty bird to gawk at. You would become his pet, and Nur's blood would water the foundations of his empire."

Imani wanted to argue back, to prove him wrong, but there was truth to his words. "Yes," she said softly. "You are right. He married me for my army. He married me because he finds me beautiful, exotic, indeed a pretty bird in a cage. I was caged when he first saw me. He married me not for love." Her eyes stung. "But that is the burden of a queen, that we should marry for alliances rather than the heart. But one thing comforts me. When I gaze into his eyes now, I see love there, not just desire, not just greed, not just calculating gain, but actual love. Love that grew in him, that is real."

Adai stared at her, silent for a moment. "And do you love him?"

She turned away again. She walked toward a window and gazed outside the armory. The Majina River flowed below between acacia and baobab trees, lined with rushes. Other pyramids soared alongside the river, tipped with precious metals. Obelisks, their limestone engraved with hieroglyphs, rose in city squares, even taller than the columned temples to the ancient gods. Thousands of warriors, both Aelarians and Nurians, were mustering in the city's main boulevards. Their ships had burned, but they carried their supplies in wagons and carts and across their backs. In northern Tereen, the gateway of their kingdom, they would find ships to rebuild—a flotilla to take them across the Encircled Sea. To leave home.

"Love?" Imani spoke softly, gazing at the view. "I love Nur. I love the smell of cinnamon in the wind. I love the giraffe calves I raise in the gardens. I love our ancient gods and their tales. More than anything, I love the people of this land—ancient, wise, still proud. Do I love Seneca?" She lowered her head. "Suffice it to say that I no longer hate him. He's a good husband even if he's not a good man. As emperor, he would be good to Nur, and for Nur, I would gladly marry even Xashuta, the demon of the fiery lands beneath the earth. And . . ." She lowered her head and placed a hand on her belly. "He would be a good father to the child I carry."

Adai froze. His eyes widened. He stared at her, his mouth opened, but it was a moment before he could speak. "His child?" he whispered, and she saw the horror in his eyes.

She nodded, and now horror coiled through her too. She was not ready for this. Not ready to bring a babe into a world that was burning. But she had lain with Seneca on the night of his victory against Porcia's fleet, and it had been there—on a tower above the world, the wreckage of ships burning below them—that life had kindled within her, life she would protect. A father she would protect.

"His child grows within me," she said, voice cracking.

The horror faded from Adai's eyes, replaced with compassion. He approached, reached out gingerly, and sought approval in her eyes. When she nodded, he placed a hand on her belly. For a moment he was silent, then looked back into her eyes.

"Does he know?" Adai asked.

Imani nodded.

"And does he know," Adai said, "that while his heart beats for you, you do not return his affection? That you love your kingdom, love your child, but do not love him?"

"He knows," Imani said. "I haven't told him, but he knows. I don't think any woman has ever loved him, Adai. His lumer betrayed him. Both his sisters fought against him. His paramour, Ofeer Sela, loathes him. I don't think he believes he deserves love, and I don't think he expects it. He is as I am. He loves his kingdom more than anything. Aelar will always be his true love, as Nur is mine. It's the burden of leaders. Kings and queens are doomed to love but soil and sand."

"You love me, sister," Adai said, eyes softening. "And will love your child. Our parents died in this war, but we still have each other, and we have the life inside you. Always. So I'll go north with you. I don't trust Seneca. I don't believe in this war. I will weep to see Nur's blood spill for Aelar. But I will go with you on whatever journey you take. For my sister."

Under the searing southern sun, they headed out. Imani rode at the lead of the hosts, sharing a chariot with Seneca. Rather than a kalasiri, she wore armor: a breastplate emblazoned with an ibis formed of sapphires and emeralds, its wings spread; studded leather straps that hung halfway down her thighs, trimmed with silver; and a helmet that sprouted an iron serpent with ruby eyes. Her sword hung from her side, a curved khopesh with an ibis pommel, while sandals held her feet, their straps rising to her knees. At her side, Seneca wore the armor of an Aelarian commander: a breastplate molded to mimic a muscular torso, pteruges that hung across his thighs, caligae sandals, and a crested galea helmet. A gladius hung from his belt, and his shield displayed a black eagle on a crimson field. Behind them spread their hosts: ten thousand legionaries, marching and riding together, bearing two Aquilae, eagle idols forged of gold, brought to every battle. With them too marched the hosts of Nur, scale armor protecting their torsos, spears in hand and swords at hips, headdresses of blue and white stripes flowing down to their shoulders.

They marched through the gates of Shenutep, passing between towering idols shaped as men with hippopotamus heads. They headed across the savanna, leaving their city behind, heading north to delta, to sea, and to distant Aelar.

EPHER

"Siege tower at the Gate of Myrrh!" rose the cry across the city. "Enemies at the Gate of Myrrh!"

When he heard the cry, Epher was fighting on the eastern wall, facing the desert. The legions had set trebuchets on the eastern mountainside. Relentlessly, they flung boulders—carved out from that mountain—chipping the defensive walls, shattering turrets, sometimes sailing overhead to crush homes and people within the city. Epher fired another arrow, struggling to reach the trebuchets, and turned his head toward the northern cry.

"Legions at the Gate of Myrrh!" A cry in Zoharite, pained, afraid. "We need aid!"

Epher panted. There were seven gates in Beth Eloh, eight if you counted the mythical Gate of Tears, a hidden gate through which Maya was said to have entered. The Gate of Myrrh was the northernmost gate, serving a road that stretched between Beth Eloh and Ma'oz in the northern hills. For centuries, merchants had brought myrrh, frankincense, and other spices into the city through this gateway. A small gateway, humbler than the others, its defenses sparse.

Epher ran.

He raced along the eastern wall, moving between archers firing at the enemy below. Olive ran with him, swinging her sling, firing stones off the wall. Where two walls connected with a fortress, Epher and Olive ran down a ramp into a courtyard, calling for warriors to join them. Soon a hundred men and women followed. They raced through the city, leaping over tombstones in a graveyard, passing through a tunnel, then back onto the wall. They ran past turrets and arrowslits, through a tower, then onto the northern wall. The mountains flowed toward distant rocky hills. Epher could just make out the hills of Erez on the horizon, the homeland of Uncle Benshalom. The towers and battlements of the Gate of Myrrh rose here, shading a courtyard full of refugees and their cattle.

"It's a fucking giant," Olive said, pointing. Her cheeks paled.

Beyond the wall, on the northern mountainside, the legions were beating drums and chanting. A massive siege engine came rolling toward the city. It was the largest one Epher had seen, a beast of wood and metal, taller than the city wall. Leather hides hung across its sides, while iron sheets protected its front facade, emblazoned with a massive eagle painted in gold and black. Its wheels were taller than men, and battlements rose atop the tower, holding legionaries. Through narrow slats in its defenses, Epher beheld many layers inside the tower, like the floors in a building, each housing more legionaries ready to spill onto the wall.

Zoharites manned the gatehouse and the wall around it, firing arrows and stones, but the projectiles scattered harmlessly across the siege engine's iron plating. Some men tossed clay jugs full of flame, but the fire found nothing to catch; the tower's wooden structure was hidden behind leather and metal. Legionaries within the tower responded with arrows and bolts, tearing into the city's defenders, sending men and women crashing down.

With a thud and shower of dust, a gangplank swung out from the siege tower and slammed onto the wall. Legionaries spilled out from the tower, shields held before them, spears thrusting.

Olive sneered and raised a sword in each hand. "Let's go kill, my husband." She kissed his cheek, then charged across the wall's battlements.

Epher raised his sword and shield, terror pounding through him, and joined her.

The legionaries kept flowing from the siege tower, spearing defenders, spreading across the wall. The walkways were narrow, only wide enough for a single warrior. Dozens of those warriors, Zoharites and legionaries alike, fell to the courtyard below, shattering against the cobblestones. The city people scattered, wailing. One legionary landed on corpses and survived the fall; city folk leaped onto the man, slamming bricks and clubs against him.

A legionary charged toward Epher on the wall, swung a gladius, and knocked a Zoharite down. That gladius thrust toward Epher next. He raised his shield, taking the blow against the wood, and thrust his own sword. The blade hit the legionary's helmet, doing the man no harm.

Olive was shrieking, leaping from merlon to merlon above the walkway. An arrow slammed into her scale armor and snapped. Her helmet fell, and her red hair flailed like fire. With a battle cry, she leaped from a merlon, landing between two legionaries, and thrust a blade in each direction. Both Aelarians fell.

By God's beard, Epher thought, looking at his wife fight. He felt like a cumbersome beast by comparison. The legionary ahead of him thrust again. The man's eyes were blue, Epher saw. He must have been an auxiliary soldier from some northern land. Whatever his nationality, he now fought for Aelar, and Epher swung his shield mightily, knocking the man off the wall. He crashed onto the mountainside.

Another legionary charged toward him, a brute who towered a head taller than Epher. A spear thrust. Epher raised his shield, catching the blow. He screamed as his shield shattered, as the spear drove through the wreckage to slice along his arm. His blood spurted, hitting his face. The legionary snorted before him, among the largest men Epher had seen. Epher felt like a child before him. The brute chortled. Epher lashed his sword, aiming for the arm, but the legionary raised his shield, then shoved that shield forward. An iron bolt rose in the shield's center, slamming into Epher, shoving him against a merlon. The spear thrust again. Epher lashed wildly with his sword, diverting the blow away from his chest. The spearhead drove instead into his thigh. Pain exploded, an inferno of fire.

"Epher!" Olive cried somewhere in the distance. He could barely see her. His vision blurred.

The giant legionary laughed. "So this is Epher, the Rat King. My domina Claudia wants you alive. But she didn't say I can't cut off your balls first."

The legionary tossed his spear into the courtyard below, piercing a woman, and drew his gladius. He drove the blade toward Epher.

With a roar, Epher pushed off the merlon, hurtling himself toward the giant.

The gladius slammed into Epher's armor, shattering scales. He roared, still shoving himself forward, barreling into the beast. Howling, the Aelarian tried to grab on to the wall. He tilted over the edge. Shouting curses, he fell.

As he tumbled downward, the massive Aelarian reached up and grabbed Epher's leg.

A furious cry rose.

A blade lashed, severing the Aelarian's hand.

The hand still clutched Epher. The arm's stump spurted blood. The giant Aelarian, screaming, fell and slammed into the courtyard below, cracking cobblestones.

Epher panted, pulling back from the edge. Olive grinned, holding a bloody sword. She pried the severed hand off Epher.

"Need a hand?" she asked him.

He blinked. "I cannot believe you just said that." He grimaced, staring at the severed hand. Nausea rose in him. He struggled not to gag.

What happened to the world? he thought, staring around him. The wall was slick with blood. Organs ripped from torsos dripped. Severed limbs and heads covered the walkway. And still legionaries emerged from the tower, chanting for victory, slamming into the defenders.

This is Ashael, Epher thought. This cannot be the world, cannot be the holy city. This is twisted evil risen into the world. This cannot be God's city.

He fought on.

Legionary after legionary. He suffered cuts. He slew men. He roared in pain, fury, fear, a wounded, dying lion. Several legionaries made it to the city, began butchering people before Zohar's warriors cut them down. And still more emerged onto the wall.

"Olive, we must tear down their siege tower!" Epher said.

His wife nodded from across the wall. They fought their way toward the siege engine's gangplank. Other warriors of Zohar fought with them. Every step, more died, crashing off both sides of the wall. If they stood a chance of halting this assault, they had to destroy this tower of wood, iron, and leather.

"Bring torches!" Epher shouted. "Bring fire!"

The exterior of the siege tower was fireproof. Metal even coated the wheels. But across the gangplank, an entrance led into the tower. Inside, it was all wood . . . and human flesh.

Both would burn.

A boy climbed the wall and handed Epher a torch. More torches were brought to other warriors. Epher led the charge. He leaped onto the gangplank, waving sword and torch, driving the legionaries back. Olive fought a step behind him, thrusting a lance over his shoulder, stabbing at enemies. A sword hit a hole in Epher's armor. He cried out, blood dripping down his belly and thigh. He swung the torch, casting back his enemies. His feet sloshed through his own blood. Soon he stood on the center of the gangplank, the city wall behind him, the ground far below, the innards of the siege engine ahead.

This is Zoharite courage, he thought, leaping into the siege tower.

In the shadows, a sea of legionaries awaited him.

Epher blocked a spear's thrust. He took another spear to the side, cried out, nearly fell. He swung his sword, parrying the blow of a gladius. More Zoharites streamed into the tower behind him. They fought in the hot, dusty chamber, and more legionaries kept climbing ladders from below.

Burn, you dogs who piss on walls, Epher thought.

He prepared to toss his torch down to the base of the tower, to see the whole damn structure rise in flame, when the voice cried out.

"Epher!"

He paused. He stared.

A legionary climbed up from below, clad in a costly breastplate rather than simpler lorica segmentata. A woman, Epher realized—rare in the legions. She pulled off her helmet, revealing curly brown hair, hazel eyes, and a pale face.

"Claudia," he whispered.

"They said the king of Zohar himself fought here," Claudia said, meeting his gaze, and her eyes dampened. Across the siege tower, the battle paused, Aelarians and Zoharites panting, watching them.

Epher lowered his sword. All fury and bloodlust fled him.

I loved you. I loved you so much.

"Claudia," he said. "Let us stop this madness. Enough have died. If you want me, I will surrender myself, but let us—"

She raised a crossbow. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"I want you dead," she whispered.

She pulled the trigger. A twang filled the silence.

Pain stabbed Epher's cheek.

He blinked.

He stared at Claudia. She stared back across the wooden chamber, shedding tears. Her face blurred. Everything began to fade. Epher touched his cheek, felt something hard driving into his head. Through the skull. Deep.

Olive's voice cried from parsa'ot away.

"Epher!"

His torch fell and the ground burned. The world burned. Fire grabbed his feet. Smoke enveloped him. Something was inside his head. Something was in his skull.

"Epher! Help him! Help your king!"

The voice faded.

Hands pulled him from the fire into darkness. He fell. He fell into shadows. Somebody was holding his hand, but soon he felt no pain, felt like he was floating, gazing down at blood, at fire, at Olive . . . and then at white fields that sprawled to endless realms of light and mist.

MAYA

"Maya! Maya!" Olive emerged from the crowd, weeping, calling to her. "Maya, quickly!"

Maya was standing within the crumbling archway of an ancient bakery, a place revered in the lore of Zohar. It was said that Elshalom's concubine, the blessed Rayana, had baked bread for the needy here a thousand years ago, and any who ate from the bread had not hungered for seven days and nights. Many people filled the courtyard before the bakery: wounded soldiers, an old woman stricken with consumption, mothers whose milk had run dry and whose babies hungered, and many stricken with the Gray Death that still raged through the city. Abishag stood at her side, helping each person step forth for a blessing, for a touch of luminescence and healing.

Maya had been standing here for a day and night, and she was weary, so weary she could barely keep standing. Yet how could she abandon her people in this time of war and shadow? Every person she healed took away a part of her. Every strand of luminescence that left her body weakened her, strips of her soul peeled back. With every healing, it seemed to Maya that the shadow grew, that the adversary's laughter rang louder in her ears. He haunted her nightmares and peered from shadows in waking hours, always watching, growing stronger as the legions slammed at the walls. She had barely been able to heal the last few ill, so weary she could summon only wisps of light, and Abishag had to help her stand.

Now Olive kept racing through the crowd, crying out to her.

"Maya, hurry!"

The new Queen of Zohar—Maya supposed that Olive was the queen now, having married Epher beneath the walls—panted and fell to her knees before Maya. Cuts and bruises covered her limbs, and soot coated her skin and filled her hair. Her scale armor hung in tatters. She reached out and grabbed Maya's hands.

"You have to come, Maya. Hurry! It's Epher. He's hurt. He's hurt real bad. I think he's . . ." Tears etched white lines through the grime on Olive's face. "I think he's dying. Maybe dead."

Icy spears pierced Maya's chest.

No. God, I lost my parents already. Don't let me lose Epher too.

She took a step, hesitated. She looked over the crowd that had come to see her: wounded, ill, some themselves dying. All people who needed her. How could she abandon them?

"Maya!" Olive cried, pulling her out of the archway and through the crowd. "Come on! Run!"

And Maya ran, dragging behind Olive. The crowd cried out, calling to Maya, reaching out to her. It hurt to leave them, but her brother needed her now. Epher—who had always been there to lift Maya when she fell and scraped her knees in the garden. Epher—who had taught her the names of seashells and how to ride a horse. Epher—who had once stayed up with her all night when she was sick. He had always been her pillar, her comfort. Now, after all those times she had needed him, he needed her.

They moved through the crowded streets and alleyways of Beth Eloh, Olive shoving the way through the throngs. At times, the crowd was so thick that they had to halt, and Olive had to shout and elbow people aside. So many refugees had come here, squeezing into this city, that even the balconies and rooftops brimmed with people. It seemed ages before they reached the northern quarter of the city. They moved between ancient houses, some of them thousands of years old, the neighborhoods of the poorest in Beth Eloh.

Past these homes of crumbling bricks, they reached a courtyard before the Gate of Myrrh, the city's northernmost gate. The doors were closed, guarded by many, and fire and smoke rose beyond the defensive wall. A battle had raged on that wall. Smoldering corpses lay across its battlements.

Many people gathered in the courtyard, forming a ring. A priest was praying—songs for the dying.

"Make room!" Olive shouted, pulling Maya with her. They raced across the courtyard, elbowing people aside, and there Maya saw him.

Epher lay on his back, burnt and bleeding. Fire had claimed his legs, stripping off skin and flesh. She could see bone peering through one shin. His armor was torn, revealing wounds. A crossbow dart pierced his cheek, driving deep into the head.

Maya raced toward him, tears in her eyes, terror in her heart. She clasped his hand, trembling.

"Epher," she whispered. "Epher."

The elderly priest, his beard long and white, paused from his prayer. He placed a hand on Maya's shoulder and spoke softly. He spoke the truth she already knew.

"The king is dead."

Maya's tears flowed. She clasped his hand and caressed her brother's hair.

No. You're too young to die. You're only twenty-four. You're too young for this, to end here, to leave me.

From outside the walls rose the chants of the legionaries, but Maya could barely hear them. She heard the sea. She heard the laughter of family around the Restday table. She heard the wind rustling the pine and pomegranate trees in the garden.

No. Don't leave me. Not yet. Not here.

She shuddered, her hands aglow with luminescence. She could not stop the flow of lume now. With all these memories of home, with love, with grief, the lume filled her, igniting inside her, wreathing her with light. And Maya thought back to the tales she had heard—tales of ancient lumers. To that chapter in the Luminous Writ, that one that had terrified and lured her more than any other. To that question she had asked Namtar in a whisper, receiving no answer, only a warning.

Never, her mistress had told her. Never.

In a thousand years, no lumer had done this. Not even Avinasi. Never. Never. The most forbidden of all magics, the one said to drive lumers mad.

But as Maya wept, she held her brother's body, and she let the light flow into him.

"Live," she whispered, trembling, her tears splashing him. "Live."

With a shaking hand, she grabbed the bolt in his cheek, and she pulled with all her strength.

The crowd cried out. The bolt emerged from the broken skull. Maya could barely hear them, barely see them. The light pulsed, wrapping around her and Epher. She squeezed his hand.

"Live. Live."

Never. Never.

Do not ask this.

Never.

It will burn you.

It will burn the world.

Namtar spoke in the light. The words of the Luminous Writ flowed before her.

Never.

But it had been done. Once before, a thousand years ago, it had been done.

"Live."

Maya squeezed her brother's hand. She touched his cheek. She reached her light into him, into the dead heart, cold, still.

"Live."

She wept. She saw their faces, the faces of the women who had taught her. Her mother. Avinasi. Namtar. Never. Never.

"Live."

For she saw other faces too. She saw Epher's face, laughing, a youth, a brother. She saw Olive's face, stricken with grief. She saw his face, the face of the man in the shadows, furrowed and gray and gloating.

"Live."

And so she held her brother, and she summoned more lume than she ever had—more than she had lit in the desert, casting back the dragons of sand. More than she had lit in the house of Luminosity, delving into the secrets of the Writ. More than she had lit here in Beth Eloh, dancing with the demon in the houses of healing. More luminescence flowed through her than perhaps any lumer had ever kindled since King Elshalom had forged this kingdom.

It was the grace of Eloh.

It was memories of the sea and the desert.

It was love.

It was light.

It was life.

"Live."

The light pounded, flowing out, pulsing, slamming into walls. Bricks creaked and thrummed and hummed. Mortar fell like dust. People fell back, covering their eyes. A pillar coalesced, burst skyward, soared like the pillar of a temple, soared into the sky toward Eloh himself, a great beacon that rose past sunlight and dwarfed the works of men. The city trembled. The city overflowed with light. All the lume here, all the lume that flowed from generations of prophets and pilgrims, from caravans of camels atop golden dunes, from maidens dancing on grapes, from turtledoves singing, from the sea whispering over ancient stones, from her family, from all her life—the great fountain of lume in the center of Beth Eloh, erupting in a geyser, kindling, turning into luminescence, rising from her and Epher into the sky.

Light.

Life.

"Live," she whispered.

The holiest word in her tongue. The holiest word in her kingdom. The holiest word she knew.

"Live."

Her tears fell, seared in the light, as she repeated her most precious prayer.

"Live."

The light began to fade. The beam flowed out, forming a cone, then rained down, a rain of Luminosity, countless sparks of starlight, falling onto ancient cobblestones, onto her, onto her brother, then fading, fading like candles, like roses closing for winter, like snow upon sand.

Maya lowered her head, her hair flowing around her and Epher.

"Live," she whispered one last time.

And with fingers that tightened around hers, with a shuddering breath, he lived.

His eyelids fluttered, then opened, then he looked her.

"Maya?" Epher whispered.

She wept. Her body convulsed with sobs. She pulled her brother into her arms, just crying, just holding him. All around her, the people knelt—a great wave, hundreds kneeling before her, praising her name.

"Blessed be Maya Elior."

"Savior of Zohar!"

"Daughter of Eloh."

Abishag fell to her knees at Maya's feet, whispering, "Our savior, our savior."

A great cry rose, and Olive leaped forward, pulled Epher into her embrace, and wept too, kissing him. She touched his cheek, trembling, a tear hanging from her nose.

"You died," Olive whispered. "She brought you back."

Shakily, Maya rose to her feet, and they stood with her. Epher's legs were healed now, leaving not a scar, healed like she had been unable to heal the king of Sekadia. All around them, the people of Beth Eloh still knelt.

"A miracle," whispered the priest, eyes damp. "A miracle has happened in Beth Eloh."

Others repeated the words across the crowd, awe in their eyes. "A miracle has happened in Beth Eloh."

Even the battle seemed to hush. The soldiers on the wall gazed down, tears in their eyes.

Maya stood before them, and she thought of all those she had lost, all those gone, her parents, countless others. Lives she couldn't save.

And through the crowd he moved, walking toward her.

"Peace be upon you, Maya Elior," he said.

He wore a black robe that fluttered, though there was no wind, and a hood covered his head. His gray skin was deeply grooved, the lines vertical as if etched by blades. His eyes were yellow, his cheeks gaunt, his smile cadaverous. His hands were ashen, veined with black, and tipped with crimson.

Maya screamed and fell back, struggling to summon more luminescence, but her magic crackled like lightning, sputtered, and burned her.

He grew before her, rising taller, soon twice her height and growing still, looming, and his shadow fell upon her. Epher cried out and tried to attack, but dark smoke wafted out, slamming him back. Another smoky strand slammed into Olive, a third into Abishag. They fell.

The adversary kept advancing toward Maya. He stared down at her, and his hand—a massive hand, as large as her body—reached out to caress her cheek.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

She shouted, sent forth light, trying to banish him, but he was too strong. He had never been so strong, perhaps not since his creation so many years ago. The adversary walked around her toward the Gate of Myrrh. He did not merely open the gate but shattered it, ripping the doors from the archway, shoving back the towers of the gatehouse, sending the wall falling. Bricks rained and rolled across the courtyard. Dust rose in a cloud. Crenellations and turrets crashed down. All was flying stones and dust and screams and shrieking smoke and laughter.

Cold. It was so cold.

"Maya!" Abishag screamed, clutching her.

And above it all—him, laughing, mocking her, dancing, then rising, dispersing into smoke and fleeing like countless ravens.

They stood together on holy ground. Maya, a daughter grieving, a daughter of light. Abishag, who had worshipped the light, whose soul perhaps would never heal. Olive, once wild and feral, now queen of her nation. Epher, the burden of that nation upon him, risen from shadow into light. They stood together in their city where they had witnessed a miracle and darkness, and the dust settled before them, and they watched the thousands of legionaries pour over the ruins and into Beth Eloh.

SENECA

The army of the Southern Empire traveled along the riverbank, cutting north through the savanna, heading toward the delta and sea. Seneca stood in his chariot, his four horses pulling him along rough ground, tussocks of grass, and jagged stones. It was a rough ride. There were no roads here, and they had no ships for the river. Each bump along the way rattled his teeth and made his sword clank against his armor. Finally he had enough. Tossing aside his imperial dignity, Seneca climbed out of his jeweled chariot, leaving the horses to pull the empty vessel. Emperor of the south, soon to be lord of all the Encircled Sea, Seneca Octavius walked.

His army followed, and Seneca kept turning around, kept looking at them, counting them over and over. He knew their numbers. Six thousand Aelarian legionaries. Twelve thousand Nurian warriors. Five hundred and five horses. Three hundred and twelve chariots. He was counting them several times a day now, memorizing the names of the cohorts and even the centuries, and each time he counted, he found some comfort, the appeasement of that cruel god of his fear.

Six thousand legionaries, he thought. Twelve thousand Nurians. Five hundred and five horses. Three hundred and twelve chariots. It will be enough. It will take Aelar. I'm safe.

And yet whenever Seneca turned north again, leading the army, and gazed upon the open country, that dread returned. Again and again, he saw them. The dead in Gefen. The battle in the Acropolis, Porcia slaying the senators and Ofeer fleeing him. The mob in Shenutep, stoning him, and the spear bursting out from Taeer's chest.

More blood would spill, Seneca knew. More horrors would haunt his dreams. And yet this was the choice he had made. These were the sacrifices of an emperor.

Leaders paint with blood and suffer the nightmares, Seneca thought, so that others can sleep throughout the night.

Hooves clattered behind him, and a resplendent horse the color of dawn rode up beside him. Imani sat in the saddle. She wore leather trousers and a breastplate, but her hair ruffled freely in the wind.

"The mighty Seneca Octavius, Emperor of Aelar—walking?" She smiled down at him.

"I'm not too proud to walk," he said. "I'm a man of the people."

Imani snorted. "You just get saddle blisters." She dismounted, held her horse's reins, and walked beside him.

For a while they walked in silence. Imani chewed her lip, glanced toward him, then back at her feet. Finally she spoke.

"Seneca, am I a fool?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Why would you be a fool?"

Imani stared ahead into the distance. A herd of wildebeests swept across the plains. When finally she spoke, she seemed to be speaking to herself more than to him. "You've loved women before. You've told me that. You loved Taeer, and you also treated her as a slave, and you drove her to such hatred that she tried to slay you. You loved Ofeer, but you hurt her too, you abused her, enslaved her, tried to kill her when she ran from you." She stared at a hippopotamus that floated in the river. "I told my brother that we can trust you. I told him that you love me, that you honor me. I told him that if we fight with you, that if Nur's warriors storm Aelar and place you on its throne, that you will be kind to us. That I will be your wife and queen, not just your concubine." Finally she met his eyes. "Did I lie to him, Seneca?"

He lowered his head.

Tear down the walls!

His own voice echoed in his mind.

Kill those fucking rats!

Guilty, guilty! Ship them off in chains!

Crucifixion! Crucify the rat!

The voice of a boy, drunk on wine, drunk on power, so afraid, so hurt. A boy raised by a tyrant. A boy beaten, abused, feeling so weak, so desperate to find strength.

"Yes," he said softly. "You lied."

Imani sucked in breath. She frowned. Her eyes dampened. "Did I?"

Seneca nodded. "You cannot trust me, Imani. When you told Adai that you could, you lied. I'm not worthy of trust. I slew many innocents. I treated the women I loved like dogs. I sailed into Nur to place a collar around your neck too."

A tear rolled down Imani's cheek. "Is that really who you are?"

"That is who I was," said Seneca. "But that man died. He died in Gefen. He died in Aelar. He died in the Battle of Tereen, fighting at your side. With every kiss of your lips, with every look into your eyes, with every time you trusted me—that Seneca was buried deeper." He looked at the distant herd, blinking. "I wanted to be like Porcia. Like my father. I lived as they did, I fought as they fought. But here in Nur, with you, I saw another way." He looked back at her. "I don't know if I'm a good man, Imani. I don't know if I was cruel because I was raised in cruelty, or whether that cruelty is ingrained within me, whether it still lurks inside. So no. You cannot trust me. But you can believe this, Imani, which I swear by the gods: You will never be my slave. You will be my guide to wisdom, my compass to morality. Fuck my father. Fuck my sister. They're both dead now." His voice was hoarse. "Right now the only person I want to impress is you. I promise you. We will make this a good world. Together."

Yet even as he spoke those words, Seneca thought back to only a few weeks ago, to confronting Imani's handmaiden in her pyramid. For nothing—no reason at all, just a perceived slight—he had nearly slain her. So many of those demons still screamed inside. Screamed for death. Screamed to capture Ofeer and strangle her for lying to him. Screamed to find the rebel Epheriah and defeat him in glorious battle. Screamed to capture Tirus alive and torture him slowly, cutting off piece by piece as the crowd roared. The blood, death, torture, glory, gold, wine, whores, victory—they stormed through Seneca's mind, demons dancing, calling him to join them, until his hands shook and he wanted to shout.

But he turned to look at Imani.

He looked at her proud mane of dark curls, sweetly scented and ruffling in the wind. At her full lips which he loved to kiss. At her perfect ears he loved to whisper into at night. At her eyes—warm, intelligent, brave eyes. Kind eyes. And slowly, as he looked at Imani, those demons faded from his mind, and only calmness remained. Taeer had never given him such calmness; she had only stoked his flames. Ofeer had raised his blood to a boil, igniting fires of lust and power.

But you, Imani, are a balm to my soul. You are not fire. You are water to douse my flames, cool, healing, and stronger than I ever could be.

Distant trumpeting sounded in the west. Seneca stared and frowned. He pointed. "Elephants? Lots of them."

Imani stared too. A line creased her brow. "There should be no elephants this far north. It's too dry up here. The herds all roam the lush lands south of Shenutep."

"Well, there's a herd about the size of an army heading our way." Seneca returned to his chariot. "And at this pace, they'll plow over all of us."

The herd approached, thundering across the savanna. There had to be hundreds—more elephants than Seneca had ever seen, trumpeting, shaking the earth. But this was no wild herd.

Seneca cursed and drew his sword.

"Battle formations!" he shouted. "Soldiers, form rank! Shields walls up, defensive lines! Cavalry, form the flanks!"

The elephants kept thundering toward them. Howdahs rose on their backs, little forts of wood and leather, and archers stood within. Banners rose from the beasts, displaying eagles flying over shattered fortresses. Seneca knew that sigil.

"It's the fucking Phedian auxiliary," he muttered.

"Who are they?" Imani shouted, leaping back onto her horse.

"Bad news," he answered.

The province of Phedia lay west of Nur, sprawling between a southern desert and the Encircled Sea in the north. Once Phedia had been a mighty city-state, a jewel of the Encircled Sea, and Aelar's greatest enemy. As Aelar had ruled the northern waters, the Phedian fleet, with its hundreds of ships, had ruled the south. Seneca's father had finally vanquished that ancient civilization, crushing Phedia in a great war when Seneca had been just a child. Their city had been razed, their ships captured or burned, and most of their men slain.

But some Phedians had survived . . . and joined the Empire.

Here toward him charged those men who had lived, who had bent the knee to Aelar, who had raised the eagle banners, who had formed a desert auxiliary for the legions. Their commanders were ethnic Aelarians, sent south from Aelar. Their thousands of troops were howling Phedian natives, heads shaved, arms covered in tattoos, armored with scales and wielding bows and javelins. As the elephants charged, more Phedians emerged behind them—infantrymen, horsemen, and chariot riders.

"Tirus, Tirus!" they chanted. "For the glory of Tirus!"

Fuck me, Seneca thought.

He was still days away from the coast, away from a chance to find more ships, and already that fucking Tirus bastard was striking.

"Chariots!" Seneca shouted, whipping his horses. "Chariots, lead the assault! Flank the enemy! Ride!"

He sounded his horn. The horns of his generals answered the call.

"Kill the fucking cunts!" Lidia Marcellus shouted at his side in her chariot, whipping her horses and charging into battle.

With a thunder of hooves and a storm of dust, the chariots charged toward the enemy host. Seneca and Lidia led the Aelarian chariots, a great swarm, their scythed wheels leaping over the rocky earth. Imani lead the Nurian assault, her chariots heavier, her warriors howling and raising their bows. Seneca's teeth clattered, banging together, and his spine rattled, and he nearly fell from the chariot as it leaped over stones and grooves. The elephants thundered ahead, storming toward him, their riders raising bows.

With battle cries, the archers in the howdahs released a volley.

Seneca raised his shield. Arrows slammed into it. Another arrow drove into one of his horses, but the animal kept charging.

"Cut them down!" Seneca cried.

He tried to draw his bowstring. His hands shook too much, and the arrow whizzed madly upward. More arrows rained onto him, and his chariot drove toward an elephant, and the beast reared, trunk raised, feet ready to crush him. Seneca had seen elephants from a distance before, never so close, so enraged.

Fuck. I'm going to die. I'm going to die.

Even as he lost control of his bladder, as the piss ran down his leg, Seneca lifted his bow.

He fired.

An arrow slammed into the elephant's hide, and Seneca yanked the reins. His chariot veered aside an instant before the elephant's foot slammed down, missing him by a finger's length.

He spared the battle only a glance. Hundreds of chariots were racing around him, raising clouds of dust, storming toward the elephants, firing arrows, then pulling back. Thousands of arrows flew from the howdahs, raining onto his forces. A chariot flipped over ahead of Seneca, its horses still dragging it through the dirt. An elephant charged into the Aelarian cavalry, knocking back horses, trumpeting with rage.

This wasn't supposed to happen, Seneca thought. He touched his arm, and his fingers came back bloody; he hadn't even noticed the arrow cutting him. Not here. Not in the south.

He bared his teeth. He tightened his grip on the reins.

"I will crush you here, Tirus," he said. "And I will crush you in Aelar."

He stormed back to battle.

His chariot contained several javelins. He grabbed one and charged toward an elephant. The beast reared, and Seneca tightened his jaw, narrowed his eyes, and tossed the weapon.

The javelin flew and slammed into an archer in the howdah.

More arrows whistled above. Seneca raised his shield, charging past the elephant. He grabbed another javelin. He tossed it. The spear cut an elephant, and the animal lashed its trunk and bellowed. It thundered toward Seneca, knocking horses and chariots aside. Dust rose everywhere, and thousands of men and beasts battled.

Seneca hissed, whipped his horses, and charged head on toward the lumbering beast.

As arrows rained, Seneca kept riding.

No fear.

Arrows slammed into his armor.

No fucking fear!

He grabbed a javelin. The elephant ran his way, trampling over men, seconds away, an instant away . . .

Seneca tossed the javelin, hitting the beast in the forehead, then yanked the reins. His chariot swerved, one wheel rising off the ground, its spinning blades slicing the elephant's leg. The chariot slammed down and kept racing. The animal collapsed behind him.

Thus are the wars of men, Seneca thought, trembling. An arrow had cracked his armor and stuck out from the breastplate. We bring beasts to fight and die for our madness.

As the battle raged around him, Seneca gazed farther back, past the Phedian front line. Upon a hill rose the largest elephant he had ever seen, its skin black, its tusks gilded. A man stood in the howdah, pulling ropes that furled and unfurled different colored flags. With every flag that rose, the Phedians changed formation, in turn crashing against the Aelarian chariots, the Nurian riders, or Seneca's infantrymen.

The snake's head, Seneca thought. The Phedian commander.

Arrows flew. Several hit the chariot, some snapping between the wheels' spokes, others hitting Seneca's shield and armor. One arrow hit one of his four horses, digging deep into the neck. Seneca whipped out his gladius. The horse crashed down. Seneca sliced the horse's reins, cutting it loose from the three other animals, and pulled left. They raced on. The chariot leaped as one wheel plowed over the dead animal, cutting it open. They kept charging through the battle.

Seneca weaved left and right, darting around elephants, and finally charged through a line of Phedian infantrymen. He fired his arrows and plowed through them, cutting men down, ripping them open with his scythes. He raced onward, heading toward the hill, toward the puppet master on the black elephant.

He charged uphill. With only three horses, the chariot kept veering left, and he had to keep tugging right.

"Southern Empire, with me!" Seneca cried. "Uphill! With your emperor!"

Chariots stormed forth behind him, whipping around the elephants and charging through lines of infantry. Legionaries raised spears within them. From across the battle rose cries, and Imani came charging around the enemy, leading a swarm of Nurian chariots. Dread filled Seneca that she fought while carrying his child, but she was too far to stop now.

Lines of enemy soldiers stood before the assault, raising pikes, protecting their lord.

"Charge!" Seneca shouted. "Charge, Southern Empire! Plow through them!"

The pikes formed a palisade ahead. Several charioteers—cowards!—turned and fled. Seneca kept whipping his horses, driving onward. He raised a javelin. He tossed it, hit a pikeman. He kept charging, and a new pike rose, and—

The world shattered.

Blood sprayed as the pike drove into another one of Seneca's horses.

The animal fell, tore free from the reins, and slammed into another chariot, sending it flying with a shower of sparks. Seneca's two remaining horses kept galloping, trampling over the pikeman. Seneca clung to his chariot as it flew into the air. For an instant the chariot arched over bodies, then slammed into the ground with a shower of wooden shards. A wheel exploded. Seneca screamed as his chariot overturned, still tugged forward, scraping across the earth.

His two remaining horses kept galloping. Seneca grimaced, clinging to the overturned chariot. Its second wheel shattered, showering him with chips, digging into his skin. The scythes flew overhead, shaving his helmet's crest. He clung on, on his side, dragging up the hill. Stones tore onto his side. He saw nothing but showering dirt, dust, and sparks. Another scythe tore free and flew toward him, slamming into the fallen chariot by his head, cracking the side of his helmet.

Seneca released his grip, falling from his shattered chariot. His helmet tore free and vanished into the battle. He rolled across the hill, bit his tongue, and struggled to his feet. He leaped back as a chariot screamed by, narrowly missing its scythed wheel.

He looked up. The black elephant stood mere paces away, the enemy general atop it. Seneca drew his gladius and hefted his shield.

Two Phedians raced toward him, brutes with shaved heads, tattoos across their bare chests. One man swung a sword at him, roaring, revealing sharpened teeth. The barbarian towered over Seneca, scarred, stronger, older, but Seneca had learned swordplay from Aelar's best masters, had been born and raised to kill. He parried, thrust, feinted, and cut the man down. He caught the second man's attack on his shield, swung his blade, and cut the barbarian's legs out from under him.

He ran forward.

The black elephant stood ahead. In its wooden howdah stood the enemy's general.

Seneca looked up and felt the blood drain from his face.

He had expected an Aelarian lord to command this legion. This was, after all, an auxiliary force in the service of Aelar, flying the banners of Emperor Tirus. Yet a native Phedian—an actual barbarian—commanded this horde. The brute was the largest man Seneca had ever seen, even larger than Jerael Sela or Remus Marcellus. His muscles bulged, inhuman.

They shaved a goddamn bear, Seneca thought.

The man's face, not just his size, was brutish. Seneca could see that even from below. It was scarred, wrinkled, ravaged, barely a face at all. It took Seneca a moment to realize—it was a mask. A leather mask. He thought back to the scroll Noa had given him, made of human flesh. He grimaced. The Phedian on the black elephant was wearing another man's face.

The general stared down from the elephant's back. Their eyes met, and it seemed to Seneca that the general smiled.

Seneca knelt by a dead Phedian and grabbed the corpse's javelin. He ran three steps and hurled the weapon.

The general fired an arrow. The javelin sank into the black elephant's hide. Seneca raised his shield, and the arrow glanced off the wood and whizzed overhead.

Trumpeting in rage, the elephant charged toward Seneca, gilded tusks lowered.

If I die, I die in battle, Seneca thought. I will stand my ground. The elephant charged, and Seneca raised his gladius, breath shaking, belly roiling. I will stand my fucking ground!

The beast charged toward him, and Seneca stood before it, a single man with a sword, staring, waiting for blood.

"Seneca!" rose a voice, and Imani rode her horse uphill. She tossed a javelin. It flew and the general grunted and ducked, tugging his reins. The elephant veered.

"Imani, get out of here!" Seneca shouted at her, terrified for the child in her belly.

He ran, dropping his shield. He reached the elephant. He grabbed his own javelin, the one still embedded into the beast, and pulled himself up. He grabbed a strap. He tugged himself toward the howdah and crashed into it.

The Phedian general turned toward him, growling, barely human. The withered face-mask, ripped off a victim, revealed only baleful eyes and a mouth full of sharpened teeth. Seneca barely stood taller than the man's shoulders. The brute swung a spiked club.

Seneca raised his arm in defense. The club slammed into his iron vambrace, cracking the armor, and Seneca screamed in pain. The club rose again, and Seneca thrust his gladius.

His sword hit the barbarian's bare chest, nicking the skin but sinking no deeper.

Seneca's eyes widened. He pulled the blade back. He had thrust with all his strength. The blow should have impaled the man. Yet it had left only a scratch between the ribs, as if the shirtless brute wore thick armor.

The elephant kept running below them, charging through the battle. The howdah jostled. The Phedian grinned behind his mask and swung the club.

Seneca raised his arm. The blow was so mighty it slammed his own arm into his head, and Seneca fell onto the howdah's floor.

The general slammed his club down again, hitting Seneca's breastplate. Seneca screamed. His armor cracked. His heart seemed to stop. He couldn't breathe. Seeing stars, he swung his sword, hitting the man's leg. It was a swing that should slice through bone, yet it only nicked the man's skin.

This isn't a man, Seneca thought. He's some kind of fucking sorcerer.

He stared up, eyes narrowed, at the man's chest. A tattoo appeared there of an inverted candelabrum. The symbol of Luminosity, turned upside down, dripping tattooed drops of blood. Seneca had never known men could be lumers, not to mention non-Zoharites, but this was no ordinary lumer. The old tales returned to Seneca, shaking his bones.

A dark lumer, he thought.

As the elephant kept charging, plowing through Seneca's army, the general leered and drooled and laughed. The club rose again, this time aimed at Seneca's head.

Before the club could swing down, a dark figure leaped up and grabbed the man's wrist.

"Seneca, kill him!" Imani shouted, yanking back the club.

Seneca rose to his feet.

There was no use stabbing this man. As the general roared, struggling to tear off Imani, Seneca reached forward and grabbed the man's fleshy mask. He ripped it off.

Fuck me.

Beneath the mask, the man's face was no prettier. It was withered, all raw sores and pale folds, the skull showing through the rotting flesh.

He must have been wearing this mask for years, Seneca thought, holding the grisly face. Never even took it off to wash.

He drove his sword forward. The blade shattered the general's sharpened teeth and sank deep into the head. The sword's tip banged against the back of the skull.

The barbarian shrieked. Black smoke blasted out from his mouth, his eyes, his wounds. Seneca's blade melted, leaving only a hot hilt. It seared his palm, and he dropped it.

"Stand back, Imani!" he shouted and hurled himself forward, barreling into the man.

The general crashed through the edge of the howdah, still shrieking, an inhuman sound like steam fleeing a kettle. He rolled across the elephant's head and hit the ground. The elephant's foot slammed onto the head, then the torso, and then the beast was charging onward, leaving a smoking corpse behind.

"What . . ." Imani panted, falling to her knees in the howdah. "What the abyss was he?"

"A dark lumer," Seneca muttered. "Taeer once spoke of them. Bastards." He spat, then pulled Imani up to her feet and embraced her. "You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't fight with a child in your belly."

She glared at him. "If I didn't fight, that child would be fatherless."

She was right, Seneca knew. Damn her, she had saved his life a second time. He kissed her cheek.

"I love you, Imani," he said. "Gods above, I fucking love you."

He leaned across the front of the howdah and reviewed the battle. The hosts of the Southern Empire—Seneca's two legions and Nur's warriors—were still battling Tirus's forces. Men and beasts lay slain across the field. With their leader dead, the black elephant's flags no longer signaling, the Phedian auxiliary had dissolved into chaos.

Seneca grabbed the elephant's reins. He gave a mighty tug, and the charging beast slowed. Seneca pulled several ropes, lowering the flags that rose from the howdah.

"Warriors of Phedia!" Seneca shouted. "Hear me! Your leader is dead. I am Seneca Octavius, son of Marcus, Emperor of Aelar. Hear me! Serve me!"

They paid him no heed. The battle continued. Several Phedians charged toward him, firing arrows. Seneca and Imani ducked, and the arrows peppered the howdah around them.

Of course these Phedians wouldn't follow him. His father had crushed their kingdom. And yet they had fought for Tirus. They still bore his flags. How had the bastard earned their loyalty?

"The king's mask fell!" shouted a Phedian rider, charging toward the elephant. "The king's face is gone!"

Seneca looked at the grisly human face in his hand, the mask the general had worn. It dripped rot.

The face of their slain king, he thought. The man my father killed.

He straightened. Several horses were now charging toward him, their riders raising javelins. Seneca grimaced.

The things I do for Aelar.

He placed the foul, reeking mask on his face.

"I have taken the king's face!" he cried. "The king of Phedia rises again!"

The horses reared and halted before him. Across the field, the Phedians turned to stare, and the battle paused.

"Hear me!" Seneca said. "See my face! See the king risen! Do not fight one another. Let this battle end. Our enemy lies across the sea! Join me, follow me, and an empire will be yours!"

Imani patted his back. She spoke softly. "Clever boy."

Seneca raised his sword overhead. "Kneel before your king!"

And across the field, the bald, tattooed heathens knelt. Thousands of them. A mighty army.

My empire grows, Seneca thought, then nearly gagged at the stench of the mask. I just hope I don't have to wear this damn thing all the way to Aelar.

They burned their dead. They moved on, a united army, complete with horses, chariots, and a hundred elephants. This time Seneca did not need to worry about a bumpy chariot or aching feet. He rode on the black elephant, heading north, dreaming of riding the beast into the imperial palace.

EPHER

They ran.

As the Aelarians poured into the city through the shattered wall, Epher knew that they could not fight, not resist them, not hold back the onslaught of five legions.

As so Beth Eloh's defenders ran. They ran from death. They ran from evil unleashed.

"Fall back!" Epher shouted, running down the city street. "Warriors of Zohar, fall back to the Mount of Cedars! To the mount!"

The legions poured through the city like tar pouring through a labyrinth. They swarmed everywhere, clogging alleyways and avenues, courtyards and markets, chasing, chanting.

"We come, we see, we kill!"

And in the ancient city of Beth Eloh, they killed.

Some Zoharite warriors dared to face the legions; they fell to the spears and swords. Some city folk tossed stones and bricks and clay jugs; arrows and javelins tore them down. The people screamed, ran, fled into homes, onto roofs, cowered behind tombstones, climbed walls, huddled in gutters and wells. The legions paid them no heed, pausing to slay only those who stood in their way. They stormed forward.

They hunt me, Epher knew. They hunt my wife. They hunt my sister. They hunt the resistance of Zohar, those who had risen against them. They will not rest until we're dead.

"To the Mount of Cedars!" Epher cried. "Warriors of Zohar! Make to the Mount! We fight on the Mount of Cedars!"

The Mount of Cedars—the ancient, sacred heart of Beth Eloh. If Aelar had its Acropolis, Beth Eloh had the Mount—the highest and oldest neighborhood in the city, the center of the nation, surrounded by thick walls. Aside from Tarath El, the great desert fortress in the south, the Mount of Cedars was the most heavily fortified place in Zohar. In that inner city, behind massive walls and battlements, rose Zohar's palace, ancient cemeteries, holy groves of olives and cedars, and on its crest—the Temple. Without conquering the Mount, the legions would not have conquered Zohar, for there was the very crown of the nation. From there, the lumers said, flowed the kingdom's lume. And there, perhaps, Epher could fight another day.

And so they ran.

They ran and they died.

With every block the defenders crossed, more of them fell. At every alleyway, legionaries emerged, firing arrows, tossing javelins, cutting warriors down. Rebels of Zohar's Blade. Soldiers who had once served King Shefael. Warriors of Gefen. Simple farmers and tradesmen who had taken up arms. All now fought under Epher's command, organized into a single army. And they fell. With every step they fell, and every cobblestone drank their blood. They wore only patches of scale armor, bore only chipped blades, and some had never trained for war. Against the legionaries they were as children. They could not have been more than a thousand defenders. Tens of thousands of legionaries now stormed toward them from all sides.

The doves fled the city of Beth Eloh that day. Thousands of doves, come here to seek grains around silos and scraps in gardens—thousands rose in a flutter of white and gray wings, calling out, bustling, darkening the sky. Birds of spring and peace fleeing the winter. Across the city, on rooftops, people tore their eyes away from the battles on the streets and watched the doves. Thousands of wings, thousands of souls. The Book of Eloh mentioned doves over two hundred times, more than any other animal. They were symbols of beauty, of peace, of Zohar's ancient covenant with God.

Now they fled the city, and now Beth Eloh bled.

In ancient brick markets under awnings. In courtyards where children used to play with apricot seeds. In gardens of olive trees and cypresses. Around wells where women often came to laugh and share tales. In bakeries were righteous men served grain to the poor. On holy streets where prophets had once walked. In these sacred places where for thousands of years, the Zoharites had lived and worshipped, they died.

As I died, Epher thought as he ran.

He remembered nothing from his death, only blackness, only emptiness. But he remembered seeing the great light, feeling his sister's hand, seeing her face, feeling her pulling him back. And he remembered seeing the evil that rose, a towering demon like a great shadow cast by a temple. It was impossible. It was beyond what Epher could believe. And yet he had seen him rise—a cloaked man in black, skin gray, growing taller, becoming a creature, tearing down the gatehouse. Epher had seen, lived through, a miracle and the rise of evil. And he could not pause to pray, not pause to try to understand this. Only run. Only run through this death and blood. The path of his life, between ancient stones, heading toward the Temple, toward hope, perhaps the path he had always run, had been running since that day Claudia had sailed away from Gefen.

It seemed hours before they reached the inner city, before they ran—Epher, Olive, Maya, the soldiers who still lived—through an archway in the wall that surrounded the Mount of Cedars. Only a few hundred Zoharite soldiers remained, a thousand at most. The hill sloped upward before them, rising toward the palace and Temple. The hive of the city streets lay behind.

"Epher, we must close the doors!" shouted Ramael, bleeding from a gash on his cheek.

Epher spun around. He saw the legionaries there, storming along the road, flowing through alleyways, heading toward him.

"Close the doors," Epher whispered, staring, eyes damp. He raised his voice to a shout. "Close the doors! Lock the gates!"

Men shoved the bronze doors. They closed with a thud, sealing off the Mount of Cedars from the rest of the city. At Epher's side, Maya started at the sound, shivered, and stared with damp eyes. Olive wept. Invisible doors seemed to close around Epher's heart. He lowered his head, and his eyes burned.

The screams still rose from the city.

Out there, his people were still dying.

I abandoned them, Epher thought. Hundreds of thousands. My people. I shut them out. I left them with the eagles.

And he knew that the thud of those doors slamming shut would forever haunt him.

The city's last defenders, they climbed onto the walls that surrounded the Mount. These walls were older, thicker, gazing out onto the city that spread around them. And through that city, the legions were spreading out, roaring for victory. Five Aquilae gleamed, five golden idols. Quickly the legions opened all seven gates of Beth Eloh—seven portals to Ashael, allowing in the demons. More and more legionaries poured into the city, draining from the mountainside, storming down the streets, closing in around the Mount of Cedars in the city center.

"The Rat King flees!" shouted a legionary.

"Fuck Zohar!" shouted another man.

War drums beat. Horns blared. Horses thundered down the roads. The people of the city vanished from the streets, crowding in homes and shops, squeezed together, boarding their doors and windows. Those who stood in the way of the legions were trampled and slain. It was only the slightest of comforts, the faintest ray of relief, to see that the legions were focusing on the Mount of Cedars, closing in on the walls. For now, they were not slaying the people. For now, they only wanted to slay Epher and his warriors.

But if we fall, Epher thought, once we are slain . . . if their thirst for blood is not quenched, they will slay every man, woman, and child in these streets.

The city's defenders had only a few quivers of arrows left, only a few sling stones. As the legions pounded at the Mount's bronze doors, Epher and his comrades began to fire, to try to hold them back.

Yet for how much longer can we resist? he thought. The myriads of Aelarians surrounded them, only these walls separating the forces.

"The rats cower in their holes!" shouted a legionary below.

"We'll nail them all onto crosses!" cried another.

Aelar's battering rams rolled down the street. Already their ladders rose. Epher drew his sword, not knowing if he'd live to sheathe it again.

ATALIA

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Atalia tossed back her head and howled. "Why does this keep happening?"

She howled until she was hoarse. She pounded the walls. She yanked and clawed at her iron collar. She climbed onto the bars of her cell, dangled like a monkey, and screamed into the corridor. She paced her cell, kicking, screaming.

"Fuck!"

Finally, when her voice broke, she fell to her knees. Again. Again this was happening! First that fucking Seneca piece of shit had imprisoned her in the galley, chaining her to an oar. Then Berengar, that big brute, had tied her to a tree in the Gaelian forest. Now, for a third time, Atalia found herself a prisoner—this time in a dank cell deep underground.

"Tirus, you cocksucking son of a whore!" she screamed, throat raw, tearing. "Come back here! I'll bite your balls off!"

No answer came. Atalia sighed and slumped down to her backside, legs stretched out between the cell's bars. Everything still hurt. She had been here for a while now. She wasn't sure how long. It could have been days, maybe weeks. A healer had arrived the first day, cleaned her wounds, poured ointment into them, and stitched them up. The scars now rose across her, ugly and red, the stitches bristly. Several times, a slave had come with a bowl of gruel. The first few times, Atalia had tossed the bowl at the slave's face, but after a while the hunger had gnawed, and she had eaten.

Mostly, here in the darkness, she remembered.

She remembered her journey here to this dungeon—the legionaries dragging her, chained and beaten, through the streets of the city as the crowd leered and pelted her with refuse.

She remembered Feina dying in her arms, remembered Tirus gloating over the corpse, his gladius red with Feina's blood.

She remembered Berengar, her dear husband, lying wounded in his tent, pierced by three arrows, perhaps dying.

She remembered Daor, the first man she had loved, dying in the forests of Gael, slain by legionary spears.

She remembered her father, whipped, chained, and Seneca nailing him onto the cross.

She remembered herself in battle, sweeping across the Aelarian countryside, slaying all in her path, staining her hands and soul with blood.

So many memories of death. It was hard to remember any light in the shadows, but as she lingered here, Atalia screwed her eyes shut, trying to remember more than desolation.

"We played as children on the beach," she whispered. "My brothers and I. We ran and wrestled and played with swords. We ate pomegranates and pretended the little beads were magical, that they turned us into great warriors who could smite our enemies." She wrapped her arms around herself. "We all sat around the Restday table, and Ofeer sang sad songs, and Maya read from her scrolls, so small, so innocent." Tears now flowed down Atalia's cheeks and onto her lips. "We ate the bread Mother baked, and we lit candles, and Father always read to us from the Book of Eloh, the stories of our old heroes."

With her eyes closed, Atalia could almost imagine that she was back home. She could smell the baking bread, the honey, and the lantana flowers in the windowsills. She could hear the turtledoves cooing in the garden, hear Ofeer's beautiful voice as she sang, hear Father's deep voice as he recited those words he read to them every week, words of old tales, comforting as home. Atalia missed that home. More than anything—more than glory in battle, more than love, more than victory—she just wanted to be there again. To see that scarred oak table and the painting of elephants. To walk in the garden, to rest under the pine tree where mother planted her cyclamens. To embrace Mother. To be with them all again.

"I miss my family," Atalia whispered. "I thought I was a warrior, that I wanted victory, but I just want to be with them again."

Perhaps that was what all true warriors fought for. To embrace their families again. To break bread and drink wine and light candles in a warm home. Only fools fought for glory. The wise fought for the embrace of a loved one, a crackling hearth, and a path through a garden leading into a home.

She was sleeping, curled up on the humble cot they had given her, when a clanking woke her. She opened her eyes to see a guard unlocking her barred door.

Atalia leaped up, sleep leaving her at once, and snarled. She bounded forward, out the door, and onto the guard. She grabbed the man's helmet, yanked it off, leaned in to bite, and—

Pain bloomed on her back. Hands grabbed her, yanking her off, and she spun to see a second guard, this man too in armor. He hefted a club.

"Calm yourself!" the guard said. "We're only taking you to the bath. You stink like your mother's crotch."

Atalia screamed and launched herself toward this guard too, but the first man—the one she had almost bitten—yanked back her arms. Atalia flailed, kicking the air, screaming.

"You fucking cowards! Pull off your armor, put down your clubs, and face me like men! I'm going to cut you open and choke you with your guts!"

She kept screaming and kicking as they dragged her down the corridor. Atalia was a tall, powerful woman, able to beat most men in battle, yet now she was wounded and weak, and these were hulking guards. Each stood as large and wide as her father, covered in iron. They dragged her down the corridor, and Atalia peered into other cells at her sides. She frowned.

Fuck me.

The prisoners in these cells were massive brutes too, as large as the guards, all muscle and grit. None were Aelarians. She saw burly Nurians, Elanians with red beards, a bald Phedian covered in tattoos, and other races she did not recognize. Each one looked powerful enough to defeat lions bare-handed. But Atalia didn't have long to stare. The guards dragged her from the corridor, up a flight of stairs, and into a bathhouse.

Sunlight streamed in through windows high above, too high to reach. For a moment Atalia paused, basking in it; she had not seen sunlight since her capture. The beams illuminated tiled walls and a pool. Slaves stood in nooks along the walls, nude but for iron collars, holding baskets.

"Go on, wash off the stink," said a guard, shoving her forward. Atalia nearly slipped on the wet floor.

"Then leave." She spat at the guards. "Get the fuck out of here. I'm not bathing in front of you."

Yet the guards remained where they stood, guarding the corridor.

"This is not Zohar," said one man. "There's no shame in Aelar, and we bare our naked bodies to the gods. Go on, we've seen our share of tits before."

She grumbled, but yes, there was truth to that. Ofeer had often spoken of how Zoharites were prudish, how in Aelar men and women bathed in public bathhouses, no shame to their naked bodies. As the guards had first dragged her here through the city, Atalia had seen the nude bodies of marble gods, even nude women and men watching from the balconies, taunting her.

With a curse, she pulled off her coarse tunic, remaining naked—aside, that was, from the goddamn iron collar the brutes had snapped around her neck.

The slaves rushed forward from the nooks. They helped Atalia step into the steaming pool, and they rubbed her skin with soapy sponges, and they washed and oiled her hair. Atalia had to admit: the hot water felt good, easing the tension in her muscles. When she stepped out of the pool, the slaves took her to a white chamber, and here they removed whatever hair grew from her body, massaged her muscles, brushed and braided her hair, and rubbed scented oils into her skin. Atalia's wounds from the battle still ached, still stitched and raw, but slowly she began to feel like a human again.

She looked at her naked body in a tall, bronze mirror.

Who am I now? she thought.

She still looked like she always had. Tall, strong, her skin light brown, and her smooth black hair hung down to her chin. A warrior's body, muscular, scarred, hairless and gleaming with aromatic oils. She had grown lanker over the past year, but otherwise she was the same Atalia from Zohar.

But the eyes . . . The eyes were those of a different woman. Still round and deep brown, but windows to a different soul. Only a year ago, she had been a brass, cocky youth of nineteen, a commander of a hundred men in Zohar's army—a commander who knew of battles only from old scrolls. She was twenty now, but she felt decades removed from that youth in Zohar. None of the youthful eagerness remained in her eyes, none of that joy, none of that stupid heroism. There was pain there now. The ghosts of all those she had killed, all those who had died in her arms, now danced in those brown eyes.

Three slaves stepped toward her, demure young girls with downcast eyes. One held out a helmet shaped as a lion's head, complete with fangs. Atalia recognized her old helmet, but somebody had gilded the iron and painted the fangs red. A second slave held out a manica—a sleeve of scales topped with a pauldron, armor to cover a single shoulder and arm. The third slave held out a trident.

"What are these?" Atalia said.

"Gifts from the gods," said a girl. She strapped the armor onto Atalia's right arm, hiding one of her scars.

"You will look resplendent for the crowd," said another slave, placing the helmet on Atalia's head.

They gave her no armor for her body, only thin bands to cover her nakedness, leaving her belly and legs exposed. When Atalia looked into the mirror, she did not see a warrior. The armor covered only her loins, her breasts, one arm, and her head, leaving the rest of her body bare.

"This is not armor for war," Atalia said. "This is just . . . a show."

The slaves nodded. "The gods themselves will watch you perform, lioness of the desert. The games are not about keeping you alive. They are about looking splendorous as you die in battle and rise to the gods."

When Atalia took the trident, she saw that its prongs were shaped as lion claws. Her heart sank. From the distance, she thought she could hear something—a rumble rising like thunder. A crowd of thousands.

Atalia sighed.

"Fuck."

CLAUDIA

She stood in the plaza, so antsy she hopped on her heels. The sun was already low in the sky, sinking toward the sea. Where was he? Across Gefen, boys were climbing ladders to light lanterns that hung from poles. Vendors stood in the plaza and along the boardwalk beyond, hawking sweet apples and honey, fig cakes still steaming from the oven, and fresh dates and apricots. Her mouth already watered. Claudia was a wealthy girl. At sixteen, she was probably the wealthiest person in Gefen. And yet she waited. She wanted him to buy her a treat. To hold her hand, to guide her along the boardwalk, to count the stars with her, to dream with her. To kiss her.

Claudia's excitement grew. It had been days since she had seen the boy—days! And she kept replaying it in her mind, their kiss on the beach last week. His confident lips. The tingle as those lips brushed her ear. His long fingers stroking her. He had such beautiful hands, strong and wide, and already a part of her mind—that naughty part that made Claudia blush—wondered at what lay beneath his tunic.

She tapped her feet, clasping her fingers. They would miss the sunset! Where was he? Claudia had worn her favorite stola for him. It was silk—actual silk, the only silk garment in Zohar, she'd wager. It had cost her family a fortune. House Valerius was old and wealthy, owners of quarries and vineyards in the Aelarian countryside. And even to them, silk—imported from the mythical lands far east of Sekadia—was a luxury. Yet Claudia had donned this garment for him, for this silly boy who set her heart aflutter. The fabric was azure, trimmed with white. She felt like she wore the sky. She had paired the stola with a necklace of sapphires, and she had spent an hour in front of the mirror, carefully arranging curls of her brown hair across her forehead, fastidious as a centurion arranging soldiers, keeping the rest of her hair secured in a diamond-encrusted net.

She stood here in Gefen, this port city in Zohar, a barbarous land far from the light of the Empire. She was a rose of Aelar growing from the desert. The people around her had olive-toned skin, while hers was pale as cream. Their language was guttural, so harsh to her ears, unlike the melodious language she spoke at home. They wore only rough cotton, even the women, and knew nothing of style and fashion and beauty. And yes, her lover was Zoharite too. He was a barbarian, a swarthy desert warlord, but fuck the gods, he wouldn't leave her dreams. In some of those dreams, he grabbed her, slung her across his horse, and rode off with her to the wild deserts, where they battled demons and dragons and made love—real love, like husbands and wives—among the dunes.

Finally—finally he appeared! Epher walked into the plaza by the boardwalk, wearing only a rough tunic, a leather belt, and sandals. His black hair was neatly cropped, and he smiled to see her. He carried a jug under his arm, its clay painted with vines.

"You're late!" she said.

He kissed her cheek, her barbarian boy. "The sun hasn't yet set. You're early."

They walked through the plaza, and she pointed at things she wanted—an apricot, a cake drizzled with honey, and a bracelet of seashells. Trifles. Cheap gifts for the commoners. But they were from him, and they were precious. They walked from the plaza down a cobbled road to the boardwalk, where he bought her a handful of fresh oysters, which they shucked with a small knife. She loved oysters, loved the feel of them wriggling down her throat. Epher tried one and nearly gagged, then let her eat the rest.

"Look, Epher, the sun's about to sink into the water." She pointed, tossed the empty shells aside, and tugged him up. "Come on!"

They ran off the boardwalk and along the sand. A few fishermen were still here—did the brutes not realize they were ruining her night? She dragged Epher farther away from them, until they stood alone on the wet sand, seashells spreading around them. The sun sank into the water, a shimmering jewel all in orange and gold, and they kissed.

"Lucky kiss," she whispered. "If we kissed just as the sun sank into the sea, it means we'll be together forever. That's how it goes."

He nodded. "That's how it goes."

As the stars emerged, they walked along the beach, leaving the boardwalk behind, walking until the lights of Gefen were just a twinkle in the distance. The beach spread out, and the moon shone on the waves. They walked until they found an old shipwreck, perhaps a galley destroyed in the war when they had been very young. In that war, their people had fought each other, but now Claudia loved him, this son of her enemy. They ran through the shipwreck, climbed a mast, kissed again. His hands explored her body, such strong hands. Then they lay on the beach, drinking wine from his jug, and she didn't even care that she got sand on her silk. She made love to him there, lying on the stola as if it were a mere blanket, and it was scary and wonderful and hurt and felt so good, and when it was done, she nestled against him, trailing her fingers down his chest.

"Do you love me, Epher?" she asked.

He nodded. "I love you." And he made love to her again, and Claudia knew—knew for certain, because of the kiss in sunset, because of everything—that he would love her always.

"If you want me," he whispered. "I will surrender myself."

She raised her crossbow.

"I want you dead." Her tears streamed, and she pulled her trigger.

And she wept.

And her bolt tore into his head, and his torch fell, and his flames burned her, flames of their lost love, their hatred, their madness.

The sun set into the sea, kindling the water, and set fire to the world. The flames rose from the sand, wrapped around her, burned her, kissed her.

"Our love will burn the world," he whispered, and she kissed him again and again as he held her in his arms.

"Our hatred will shatter kingdoms," she whispered, tears seared dry, and screamed, screamed as the fire burned.

She screamed as they carried her from the burning siege tower. She screamed as healers rubbed balms into her wounds. She screamed as the city walls crashed down, as a demon of darkness rose before her, wreathed in smoke, mocking her, finally shattering and rising as ten thousand crows. She screamed because she had killed the man she loved, because she hated what she had done, because she knew she would forever bear the scars of his love.

She slept. She sank into deep darkness like the midnight sea with no moon. She floated in the water, so cold, shivering, and woke up feverish to see the walls of a tent, bandages on her arm and leg, healers clucking over her, and she sank again, and she sank beneath those midnight waves. In their darkness floated all those dreams. Dreams of a girl born by the sea, raised a foreigner in the desert. A girl in love. A girl mourning. A girl killing. The dead faces danced around her: the thousands in Gefen, her mother, the boy she had slain on the hill, her lumer strangled, and Epher . . . Epher with her crossbow bolt in his face, Epher kissing her, fading from her, falling where she could not follow.

I want you to die.

And she had wept.

I want you to die.

And she had lied.

I want you to live. I want you to be who you were. I want us to be those youths again, stupid, innocent, in love by the water. What did we know of nations or war? We were a prince and princess of lies. We were always doomed to burn.

Finally those waves cast her ashore, and Claudia rose from the bed in her tent. Wounds still covered her left side, wrapping around her arm, her torso, her leg. She didn't know where this tent stood, didn't know if the battle still raged, didn't know how long had passed, didn't know if Epher still lived. With trembling fingers, she pulled back one of the bandages on her leg. It came free with a wet, sticky sound and blazing pain. Swollen welts rose across her leg, white in the center, puffed like blisters, fading to red and black.

Your torch did this, Epher, she thought.

Grimacing, she rose from bed. Every movement blazed like new torches shoved against her. She pawed through her cabinets, shoved items off her tables, rummaged through her packs, and finally found her handheld mirror. When she looked at her reflection, she laughed. She laughed until she wept again.

"Look what your fire did to me, Epher," she said, tears dripping down the grooves that crawled across her cheek and neck. "Forever your love has scarred me. But that's all right, Epher. That's all right. I don't need to be beautiful for anyone but you."

She stepped out of her tent, finding herself outside Beth Eloh. The rocky mountainside sloped around her, fading into northern hills and eastern dunes. Before her lay the shattered wall and gatehouse of the city. Sunset kindled the fallen bricks, smashed towers, and cracked battlements. Limbs still rose from the ruin, coated with dust. The legionaries had carved a path through the wreckage into the city, and many stood along the way, guarding the entrance.

"Domina!" said an officer, approaching her. "Domina Claudia, blessed be the gods! The healers told us you would sleep for three days, and—"

"Is he alive?" Claudia grabbed the man. "Is the Rat King alive?"

The officer swallowed and nodded. "Yes, domina. The rebel Epheriah lives again. Men say that he died. They speak of a demon of smoke that rose from the ruins, returning his life to him. They say Epheriah is possessed by ancient evil, only half living. He fled to the Mount."

Claudia took a shaky breath, and her fingers tingled, and the burns beneath her bandages blazed.

Good, she thought. Good, Epher. If you live, I can hurt you more.

She would not kill him here, she decided. No. She would take him with her to Aelar. She would take him into the Amphitheatrum and display him before a hundred thousand spectators. She would cut off his cock, which he had so loved to thrust into her. She would slice open his belly and pull out his entrails. She would leave him to die on a cross, emasculated, disemboweled, while the crowd cheered for her, for their love, for her triumph.

"Bring me a horse!" she barked.

She returned to her tent, slapped on her breastplate, grabbed her helmet and sword, then mounted the horse they brought her. She rode through the shattered pathway and into Beth Eloh.

She had been in this city many times. Growing up in Gefen, just a three-day ride away, she had often visited Beth Eloh with her father, the ambassador to Zohar—sometimes several times a year. But she had never seen the streets like this. Beyond the wreckage of the gatehouse, legionaries lined the streets, a man at every corner. Corpses lay strewn across the cobblestones, some missing limbs, others dripping organs. The people of Beth Eloh cowered in their homes, crammed together like pigs in a cart, pressed up against the windows, crowding on the rooftops, praying softly. Claudia could hear the sound of distant battle, and she kneed her horse, riding faster until the homes and workshops and silos all blurred at her sides. The world faded to fog, to pain, to memories. She felt like she rode through the underworld, seeking in the murk Plutonia, the goddess of death.

Finally Claudia reached the wall that surrounded the Mount of Cedars. It was even thicker and taller than the wall around the city, lined with bulky towers and barracks, topped with crenellations. Claudia had passed under this wall before, and she remembered not just a gateway but a veritable tunnel. Here was a massive fortress that surrounded the Mount. The Zoharites had always been paranoid, always been cowards, building prisons for themselves to lurk within, peering in fright at the world beyond. Millennia of wars had driven them to build these massive fortifications.

But across the ages, they had never faced the might of Aelar. They had never faced her might—a woman scorned, burnt, a woman with nothing but wrath in her heart.

One cannot hate purely unless one has loved, Claudia thought. One can only truly hate—hatred unblemished by ignorance or doubt—one whom they've opened their hearts to.

She stared up, and she saw him there on the wall. Her Epher. He stared down at her, a bow in his hand.

The sun is setting, she thought. You're late.

"You cannot kill me, Epher!" she shouted. "Like a phoenix, I rise from the flame! You cannot hide from me. You're coming home with me, Epher. We're going to Aelar. We're going to your death in the arena. Soon we'll be together again."

He fired an arrow. It flew toward Claudia, but she did not move, she would not fear him. His arrow hit her breastplate over her heart and shattered into countless shards.

She turned toward Constantius, the Iron Eagle, the man with the prosthetic talon and beaked helmet. He rode his horse up to her side, clattering in his suit of dark metal.

I am burnt like him now, she thought. A creature. A machine of malice.

"We scale these walls," Claudia told the general. "Build ladders. Bring rams."

Constantius's eyes were dark. "The Mount's walls are thicker than those around the city. Rams will not break them. Ladders are easy to send falling."

She snorted. "We shattered the outer walls, and we'll shatter these."

Constantius looked toward the Mount, then back at her. His voice dropped. "The men speak of a demon, domina. A creature woven of darkness and smoke, a giant who shattered the walls. I myself saw . . . something. Something unholy."

"The only demon here is Epheriah, King of Rats. And we'll root him out of his hole. Legions!" She raised her voice. "Break the walls! Bring Epheriah to me!"

Battering rams and catapults rolled down the street. With tumbling stones, with thudding wood and metal, with screams and with blood, the war continued.

KOREN

The three legions marched down the cobbled road, heading south through snowy forests toward the city on the warm coast. Toward Aelar. Toward death in flame or a hope for peace.

Yet as Koren rode with the army, he could not think about restoring the Republic, about battling Emperor Tirus, even about saving Zohar. All he could think about was how damn cold it was.

"Snow," he muttered. "Fucking snow. I hate it."

He shivered as he rode at the vanguard, Valentina at his side. He had never seen snow before. Every decade, they said, it snowed in Beth Eloh, but the white powder there only lasted a day at most, and Koren had only visited Beth Eloh during the harvest holidays. Here in the hinterlands of Berenia, still many parsa'ot north of Aelar, the snow was deep, unending, a white demon.

"It's not that bad," Valentina said. She rode at his side on a white horse, wrapped in a white, fur-trimmed robe.

Koren shuddered and wrapped his own cloak, made from a bear pelt, around himself. "I'm from the desert. I'm not meant for snow. I'm like a camel. Give me a nice oasis, some palm trees, maybe a few scantily clad dancers with jewels in their navels, and I'm a happy man." He glanced at the sky, where the clouds were still spilling their foul contents. "Is there anywhere where the clouds spew man-eating ravens? Because the ravens were more pleasant."

Valentina rolled her eyes. "I'm surprised your moaning hasn't melted the snow yet."

Koren looked at her. While his moaning perhaps wasn't warming him, looking at Valentina did. Riding through the snow, she seemed like a princess from a mythical story. She was a painting all in glittering white: her flowing cloak, her slender mare, her fur scarf, her flowing hair and skin. Again, Koren thought back to that night in Elania, the best night of his life. Again he remembered making love to Valentina in darkness, kissing her lips, becoming one with her, holding her all night. A night of warmth, hope, love, and more joy than Koren had thought possible to feel. He remembered lying awake, holding her as she slept against him, and praying silently.

Thank you, he had prayed. Thank you, Eloh. This moment is perfect. This moment is all I ever want.

And also, he remembered the emptiness that had followed.

He remembered the long days slugging south through wet Elania. Two long weeks at the coast, shipping over three legions ship by ship to the continent. Then this—a march south through the snow, day after day of cold weather and a cold emptiness inside him. In all this time, he had not held Valentina again, not kissed her lips, barely spoken to her in private. It seemed that she always found a general to speak to, a map to study, or scrolls to read. At night, when they entered the tent they shared, Valentina often crashed into her bed, asleep before he could approach.

As he looked at her now, Koren knew the truth.

She doesn't feel the same toward me. He looked away, his eyes suddenly stinging. It must have been the damn snowy wind. She still loves Iris, the lumer she lost. I was comfort for a night, a distraction when we were cold and afraid. Koren, you are a bloody fool.

He thought farther back—back to Zohar. He thought of Naima, the shepherdess he had almost married, a smile always splitting her face. He thought back to other women he had courted, some he had shared quick kisses with, moments of pleasure in a never-ending summer. None had ever made him feel like Valentina, and none had hurt him so.

He turned away from her. He looked over his shoulder at the legions that followed. Fifteen thousand men, the full force of the Elanian garrison, rode and marched along the snowy road. Pines and elms rose at their sides, draped with ice. Three Aquilae standards rose, specks of gold in the white landscape. Seventy legions served the Empire; here were only three. Koren didn't know if it would be enough to shatter Aelar, but Valentina was convinced. She had spent the journey speaking Gael's assault on the capital, Seneca's rebellion in the south, and the Zoharite uprising. The Empire was cracking, she claimed. Now was the time to shatter it.

And maybe then, Koren thought, I can finally go home. Whatever is left of home, at least. He looked at Valentina again, and again the damn snow stung his eyes. And find some life without you.

He was rummaging through his pack for an apple—he could have sworn he had one left—when the demon rose on the road before him.

The horses whinnied and reared. Koren inhaled sharply and reached for his sword. The legionaries behind him raised their javelins and spears.

At first Koren thought it a trick of his eyes. Just a flurry of snow. But then the apparition solidified. Chunks of ice flew in a whirlpool, coalescing, taking form. Limbs spread out, chinking, creaking, formed of icicles. A ribcage coiled together like icy serpents, enveloping a dripping red heart—a red glow that pulsed like a skinned animal trapped under ice. Snow swirled around the figure, forming flesh as white and splotchy as leprosy. A crystal jaw opened, sprouting frozen fangs, and the creature emitted a shriek like shattering mountains of ice.

The sound was so loud Koren grimaced and covered his ears. With a blast of ice and swirling snow, the creature bounded across the road, moving faster than a swooping falcon toward him.

Koren cried out and pulled his horse aside, swinging his sword. The icy apparition flowed between him and Valentina, storming around his blade. Frost covered the iron and the blade shattered, scattering shards. The legionaries on the road screamed. The creature of ice flowed across them, charging through the lines. Frost coated armor and blades, cracking the metal. Ice flowed over the men. They screamed, freezing where they stood. One man tried to take a step, only for his leg to snap off, showering blood. Another legionary swung his blade, only for his arm to shatter. Blood soaked the snow.

What in the name of Ashael is that thing? Koren thought, shivering. He had heard tales of demons, but he had dismissed them as mere stories. Now a creature from one of Maya's old scrolls rose before him.

"Cut it down!" Valentina cried, turning to ride toward the demon.

Koren tried to gallop after her, but his horse wouldn't budge. When Koren looked down, he saw that its front legs were frozen to the ground. He leaped from the saddle and tried to run, slipped on frost, and fell down hard, biting his cheek. He struggled up, tasting blood. He ran again. The icy demon rose in the middle of the road, lashing out its icy limbs. Behind its ribs the heart beat, no larger than the heart of a man, pumping blood through the icicles. Koren knelt by a wounded legionary. The man's legs had snapped off, and the frost ran up to his chest. The man was weeping. Koren pulled free the man's shield and javelin, then ran toward the icy demon.

The creature rose twice Koren's height, staring with blazing white eyes like crystal shards. Its jaw opened, spewing a storm of ice. The blizzard hurled toward Valentina, and she raised her shield. The blast knocked her off her horse and froze the mare. When the horse tried to run, its legs shattered, and it fell, writhing on the road, screaming as its blood fell in frozen clumps.

Well, here I go again, being an idiot, Koren thought.

He ran. He leaped onto the dying horse and vaulted through the air. He plunged down toward the demon, shield held before him, thrusting his spear.

The creature spun toward him, eyes searing, frost spraying from its mouth. Koren caught the blast on his shield and drove his spear between the creature's ribs. As he fell, he tugged the spear down, shattering three ribs of ice.

The frozen demon screeched, a sound that shattered the trees along the roadside. Legionaries raced toward it, stabbing with spears, breaking more ribs.

The creature howled, a sound of storms, of cracking bones, of avalanches. As its ribs snapped, it rose into the air, hailing shards of ice. The heart in its center lurched, wilting, dripping.

We hurt it, Koren thought.

Yet as the creature rose higher, it stretched out its limbs. Its icicle fingers uncurled, creaking. Snow and ice tore off the branches on the roadside and flew toward the creature, forming new ribs, encasing them with new frosty flesh.

"Shoot it down!" Valentina cried, rising from the roadside. She grabbed a crossbow and fired. Across the road, the legionaries fired bolts, chipping the ice. But the demon—stronger, larger than before—plowed through legionaries, breathing out frost, freezing men before tearing them apart.

A blast of snow hit Valentina, knocking her down. Koren ran and pulled her to her feet. Both leaped away from a jet of ice.

"We need torches!" Koren said. "Legionaries, light your lanterns, light your torches, we need fire!"

He ran toward his dead horse, grabbed his torch and tinderbox from his pack, and knelt. As he worked, striking flint against metal, he glanced back toward the battle. The demon of ice lifted a legionary overhead and tore him apart. The innards rained, freezing before they hit the ground.

"Come on," Koren muttered, finally managing a spark. The torch's head, soaked with bitumen, burst into flame. Koren ran, the torch crackling, sparks singeing him. The demon knelt on the roadside, gnawing on a man, ignoring the arrows slamming into it. Koren hurled his torch. It hit the demon, extinguishing at once.

But it had hurt the demon. The creature screeched. It turned toward Koren, jaws opening wide, and expelled a jet of frost.

Koren knelt and raised his shield. The frost flowed around it, grabbing his cloak, creaking his armor, and he grimaced. His shield cracked. Icicles slammed through the wood and hit him, chipping his armor, cutting his arms, slicing across his cheek. Koren bellowed as the jet kept flowing, tearing another crack through the shield, and—

The demon cried out again, a pained, furious cry. Koren tossed aside his shattered shield and saw Valentina waving a torch at the beast. The demon unfurled before her, spreading out wings of dripping snow tipped with icy claws. Legionaries ran forward with their own torches. Some fired flaming arrows. The ice was dripping, cracking, melting onto the road.

"Stab the heart!" Koren shouted. "The heart!"

He ran and grabbed another fallen javelin. Frost coated his fingers, but he forced himself to cling to the weapon. The demon's ribs kept dripping, thinning to mere icy strands like frosty cobwebs, exposing the pulsing heart within.

Koren tossed his javelin.

The spear flew through the air, heading toward the heart . . . when cobblestones tore free from the road, rose into the air, and snapped into place around the icy demon like armor. The javelin hit a cobblestone and fell.

More cobblestones kept ripping out from the road. Men fell as the stones pulled out from under them. The cobblestones rose, attaching themselves to the demon, soon coating its entire body, a skin of stone. The creature bellowed, then breathed out frost, slaying more soldiers.

It's impossible, Koren thought. It has to be a nightmare. This can't be real. This is like something from Maya's stories of ancient, powerful lumers summoning demons.

He frowned.

A lumer.

He sucked in frosted air. He ran off the road, staring around. In all the old tales, demons didn't rise on their own. They were created.

He searched the landscape. If a lumer had raised this beast, she would be lurking on the tallest vantage point, a hilltop or tree or . . .

A flash of gold caught his eye. Koren ran toward it. A hill rose above the road, and an oak grew atop it, the tallest tree in sight. There, hidden among the branches—strands of golden hair. As Koren got closer, he saw a woman in the trees, wrapped in a snowy cloak and hood.

"You!" Koren shouted, racing uphill toward the oak. "Who are you?"

The woman turned toward him, revealing a young face. She stared at Koren, then leaped off the branch into the snow. She began to flee. Koren followed. As he raced after her, the shrieks of the demon died behind him, followed by a clatter of stones—cobblestones falling back down, Koren assumed.

"The creature is slain!" rose a voice.

"We vanquished the demon!"

No, Koren thought. You did not.

He kept running, pursuing the fleeing woman, leaving the road behind. They headed deep into the snowy forest. The snow rose halfway up Koren's shins, and the trees gleamed around him, branches coated in ice. He had spent his youth leaping from roof to roof in Gefen and running along the beach. With long strides, he finally caught up with the fleeing woman. He reached out, grabbed her cloak, and yanked her back toward him.

She spun around, lashing a dagger. Koren tried to stop the assault, could not. The dagger slammed into his chest, tearing his cloak but stopping against the armor underneath. He thanked God that he was nervous enough to always wear his armor on the road. The woman raised the dagger again, this time aiming for Koren's face. He caught her wrist, holding back the blade. She screamed and spat at him, kicking, struggling to free herself. He held on to her wrist.

"Who are you?" Koren said. "Why do you try to harm us? Did you summon that creature?"

The woman spat on his face. "Let me go, you piece of—" She paused. Suddenly all the fight left her, and she stood in the snow, panting. She tilted her head, and her blue eyes narrowed. "Are you a Zoharite?"

"What gave it away?" Koren said. "The accent? The dark hair? Maybe the lion pendant around my neck, symbol of Zohar? You must truly be a mighty lumer to uncover such a secret."

The woman sighed and looked away. Koren relaxed his grip, and she tugged her wrist free.

"I'm a Zoharite too," she said, and now she spoke in the language of Zohar, no longer in Aelarian. "My name is Avia."

Koren frowned. Zoharite? This young woman looked nothing like one. Her skin was pale, her hair blond, her eyes blue. She looked like a typical northerner, perhaps from here in Berenia, perhaps from Denegar farther north or Gael in the east.

"You—"

"Don't look like a Zoharite, I know." Avia nodded. "I'm only half-Zoharite. I look like my father, a man of Berenia." She smiled wryly and pulled an amulet from under her cloak. "I got the magic from my mother, a lumer."

Koren examined the amulet. It was shaped like a candelabrum with four arms, but it was flipped upside down, the candlesticks facing downward. Tiny rubies dangled from each branch. At first Koren thought they represented fire, but no. As he looked closer, it looked more as if the candelabrum was bleeding.

He took a step back. "What symbol is that?"

Avia placed the talisman back under her cloak. "An inverted candelabrum." She bowed. "You stand before a dark lumer."

A dark lumer. Koren furrowed his brow, remembering old tales Maya would read by the hearth. True lumers used light for their magic. Dark lumers . . .

"You use the shadows cast by luminescence," Koren said. His hands curled into fists. "Evil magic."

She raised her chin. "I use shadows to fight evil. To fight Aelar. And you should be ashamed of yourself, traveling with the legions. Haven't you heard? Zohar rises in rebellion. Everywhere, not just in the homeland but across the Empire! Our nation fights around the world. The imperial lumer herself has summoned us, her sisters."

Koren let out a long sigh. "You better come back with me."

"To the legions?" She spat. "Fuck that. And fuck you, you traitor." She raised her hands, and light shone around her fingers, but as Koren stared more closely, he could see shadows writhing beneath the light like demons. "I should kill you now."

Koren winced. "Well, before you do, let me beg for my life a little bit. I promise it won't be too shameful."

"Koren?" rose a voice from among the trees, and Valentina stepped toward them. "What—"

Avia hurled her magic. Shadows coiled through the air like serpents, flying toward Valentina. They slammed into her, wrapped around her body, and began to constrict her.

The dark lumer snarled, curling her fingers, tightening the dark strands. Valentina screamed, crushed within them.

"Stop it!" Koren shouted. He grabbed Avia and shook her. "Enough! Listen to me. We fight against the Empire. Release her!"

Avia whipped her head from side to side. The light still shone around her hands, and the smoky serpents still engulfed Valentina.

"Avia," Koren said, more softly this time. "Trust me. I'm from home."

The dark lumer panted, trembling, staring between him and Valentina. Finally she huffed and lowered her hands. The light extinguished, and the shadowy serpents released Valentina and vanished.

Valentina fell to her knees in the snow, and Koren rushed toward her and helped her rise. She gasped for air. The dark magic had seared her armor, but she seemed otherwise unharmed.

God's balls, Koren thought, looking back at Avia. He had met proper lumers before. They seemed like puppies by their dark sisters.

For long moments, he spoke, telling Avia of their quest to topple the Empire, to restore the Republic, and to bring peace to whatever still remained of Zohar. Avia listened silently, face betraying nothing. When finally Koren finished his tale, Avia began to walk toward the road, leaving him and Valentina behind.

Koren stood in the snow, frowning. He glanced at Valentina, then back at Avia. The dark lumer was still trudging away. She looked over her shoulder.

"Well?" she said. "Are you two oafs coming with me? Or do I have to lead your army to Aelar myself?" Avia stamped her feet. "Come on! I'm not going to topple the walls of Aelar on my own."

Koren gave Valentina a wry smile. "Seems like we have two armies now. Fifteen thousand men of Aelar and a one-woman army of Zohar."

Yet when they returned to the road, any hope and joy Koren had felt at meeting another Zoharite faded. Corpses lay across the road, frozen, some shattered, and the soil was too hard to bury them. Nausea rose in Koren's throat as the army continued traveling south, leaving their dead in a ditch. At Aelar, more war waited. More death. More nightmares to haunt him.

As he walked at the vanguard, wrapped in his cloak and shivering in the cold, a splash of red between the trees caught his eye. Koren frowned, stepped off the road, and stared into the forest. A corpse lay frozen between the trees, chest cracked open, the heart surgically removed.

When he looked back toward the road, he saw that Avia stood there, watching him. She gave him a small smile and a barely perceptible wink, then turned and walked on with the legions. Koren shivered, suddenly even colder.

MAYA

She stood on the wall that surrounded the Mount of Cedars, watching the legions pound at the defenses and spread through the city, yet Maya could only think of him. The adversary. The man in the shadows. The man who had risen from her miracle, who had sent the enemy into Beth Eloh. His words still rang in her ears.

Do you know me, Maya?

She turned away from the battlements. A stone ramp ran along the inner side of the wall, and Maya walked down to the courtyard below. Abishag hurried to follow. All the warriors of the uprising still stood on the wall, desperate to halt the assault on the Mount; some had no more arrows and were reduced to throwing stones. Before Maya rose the mountaintop, the highest and holiest place in Zohar. There on its crest rose two buildings, the two pillars of Zohar, its right hand and left hand: the palace and the Temple.

Maya began to climb the hill.

"Where do we go?" Abishag asked, hurrying to follow.

"To seek answers," said Maya. "From the wisest woman in this city."

They climbed the pathway up the slope, passing through a cemetery with many ancient tombstones, some of them a thousand years old. Here were buried the kings, queens, priests, and prophets of Zohar through the ages. It was a crowded cemetery, no room for trees or grass. The tombstones were as cluttered as the city houses, no two alike, many of them worn down by eras of rain and snow and wind, their epitaphs long gone. Higher up, the cemetery gave way to groves of olive, cedar, pine, cypress, and carob trees. Dry pine needles and fallen carobs covered the ground. Cyclamens grew here by stones, their leaves veined, their petals pale lavender and pink. Maya thought back to the cyclamens that grew in her mother's garden. Shiloh had loved those flowers, and Maya had always marveled at how they grew only in the shade of stones, as if seeking shelter. Perhaps cyclamens were like her, like her people—fragile, seeking shelter from sand and storm.

The Temple rose ahead, among the largest buildings in the world, said to rival even the great monuments of Aelar. But it was not toward that ancient marvel of marble and porphyry that Maya now walked. She headed toward the smaller—yet still grand—building that rose at its side: the palace of Zohar.

For a thousand years now, Maya's family had reigned in this palace. Her ancestor, Elshalom Elior, had built the palace when naming Beth Eloh his capital, uniting the tribes of Zohar into a kingdom. Maya's grandfather, Rahamyah, had reigned here before Maya had been born, and then her aunt, Queen Sifora, then Shefael, then Epheriah—generation after generation of the dynasty of Elior. And through the ages, every king and queen had kept a lumer as an adviser. The same lumer had advised Epher, Shefael, Sifora, Rahamyah, and even the king before them. The same lumer now languished in the palace, stricken with too many years, near death. The same lumer now could, perhaps, offer wisdom one last time.

Maya entered the palace freely. Nobody was guarding the throne room today; every able man had gone to fight. Maya crossed the grand hall, stepping over the mosaic of many animals. Abishag walked at her side. Their sandals clanked, too loud in this vaulted, empty chamber. A sunbeam fell through a window, illuminating the throne. It was hard to believe that this chamber had ever held life, laughter, love. It was as barren now as ruins, as a memory of a long-fallen kingdom.

In a thousand years, will anyone reign here? Maya wondered. Or will future travelers to this mountain find only shattered gates, barren walls, and halls of shadow?

They walked upstairs, navigating through the palace, getting lost several times. Her siblings knew this place better than Maya did. Her family used to visit Beth Eloh every year, sometimes twice a year, but Maya had been forbidden to join them after a disastrous trip that had suffused her with luminescence. Maya would always stay behind in the villa on Pine Hill, Ofeer remaining to watch over her. Of course, Ofeer had always spent her time at the port, leaving Maya alone with her scrolls and thoughts.

Finally Maya and Abishag found their way to a hallway high in a palace. A handmaiden greeted them, demure and clad in white.

"We've come to see Avinasi," said Maya.

The handmaiden lowered her head, and when she looked up again, fear filled her eyes. "They say the legions will break in by sundown," she whispered. "They say we are all doomed."

Maya touched the woman's shoulder. "Fear not, for light is eternal and no shadows can forever hide its splendor. How is Avinasi?"

The handmaiden looked toward a doorway in the hall, then back at Maya. "Not well. She lingers near death. She too might not survive till the morrow."

"Then I will speak to her at once," said Maya. She turned toward Abishag. "Wait for me here. This I must do alone."

Leaving the handmaiden and Abishag behind, Maya opened the door and stepped into a humble bedchamber. The brick walls were bare but for a silver pomegranate, life-sized, that hung from a peg. Prayer scrolls rested on a table, and the window afforded a view of the cemetery. In a bed by the window lay Avinasi, royal lumer of Zohar.

Maya paused, for a moment too overcome to speak or step closer. She had always known Avinasi to be old, of seemingly infinite age and wisdom, the lumer who had served her grandfather and his father before him. Yet there had always been vigor to Avinasi, thriving life in her shrewd eyes. The wizened figure, roaming the palace, all chinking with jewels and scented with spices, had seemed as eternal as the city itself. Yet now this city was dying, and so was its lumer.

It hadn't even been a year since Maya had last seen Avinasi, but she seemed to have aged decades. Avinasi wasn't just gaunt. She was skeletal, so small, so frail, shrunken to the size of a child. Her wrinkled skin clung to her skull. It was hard to believe that she still lived, that this wasn't an emaciated corpse. Yet the chest still rose and fell, and breath rattled through the lungs. Maya found her feet again, stepped forward, knelt at the bedside, and clasped Avinasi's hand. It felt like holding a talon.

"Avinasi," Maya whispered. "It's me. It's Maya."

The ancient lumer took a raspy breath, opened her eyes, and smiled wanly, gums toothless. "Mother," she whispered. "Mother, it . . ." She cringed. "It hurts, Mother. It hurts me. They hurt me."

Maya stroked the old woman's brittle cheek, like stroking papyrus. "It's all right. You're safe. Soon the pain will end." Maya lit a flicker of lume and let the light flow into the old woman. Avinasi's breathing calmed.

"Do the doves still fly in the garden?" Avinasi asked, raising glazed eyes toward the window. "I saw them fly. I saw them fly from winter. Do they still live in our tree?"

Maya squeezed Avinasi's hand. "Avinasi, it's Maya. Can you hear me?"

The lumer blinked, her eyes finally focusing on Maya's. She gave a small gasp. "Maya. Maya Sela." She struggled to rise, could not. "I sent you east. I sent you into the desert to find a house of Luminosity . . ."

Maya nodded. "I found the house. And I learned from Namtar. And I completed the Luminous Writ. I've come back."

Avinasi's fingers tightened around Maya's hand with surprising strength. Tears dampened the old lumer's eyes. "You've returned through the Gate of Tears, the hidden eighth gate of the city, all in white, all in light, bringing healing to the hurt, bringing hope to those who despair, as lumers foresaw in days of old."

"But . . ." Maya lowered her head. "I brought evil with me. A shadow followed me into the city. A shadow that I feared in my childhood, a shadow that hid under my bed or in my closet, yet which I never saw. A man in a black robe, with furrowed gray skin, with fingers tipped with red. He faced me in the desert. He brought illness to the soldiers of Zohar. He shattered the gates of the city, letting in the legions. Avinasi, who is he? What is his name?"

Sadness filled Avinasi's eyes. She turned her head away, looking at the wall.

"Avinasi, won't you tell me?" Maya stepped around the bed, facing her again.

The old lumer looked up at the ceiling. "Are the doves flying again, Mother? Are—"

"Please," Maya said. "I'm not afraid."

Avinasi grew still and silent. She took a deep breath, then turned her eyes back toward Maya. "Some truths are best left unknown. Some shadows are best not pierced by light."

"And yet I must know him," said Maya, "for he has ever been my greatest enemy, and he will set all this city to ruin unless I can fight him, cast him back. Who is he?"

Wincing, Avinasi struggled to reach for a cup of water. She gulped weakly, just a few drops, and placed the cup down. From outside rose the sounds of war—clashing iron, dying men, stones and steel.

"When the adversary tore down the gates of Beth Eloh," said Avinasi, "did he rise after great light?"

Maya frowned. "I had . . ." She swallowed, suddenly afraid to reveal this truth, this forbidden magic, but she would hold no secrets today. "I did what the Luminous Writ forbids. I resurrected a dead man."

"This had not been done in a thousand years," Avinasi said. "The blood of Elior flows through you. Your power is greater than any lumer who now lives. To resurrect the dead casts more light than any have shone here since the days of Elshalom. And every light, Maya, must cast a shadow."

"But Luminosity is not like a candle or torch," Maya said. "It's light that flows from Eloh's grace."

"It is different than other lights, yet the same. There cannot be light without darkness, Maya. Even the light of Luminosity casts shadows. Every time we sisters of Luminosity invoke the light, we cast shadows. Small and flitting, usually. We might heal the broken bone of a friend, only for another friend to later trip, to fall, to suffer a similar injury. We might gaze into the future, seeking whispers in the light, only to pollute that future with obstacles and hardships. Before illness fell in this city, before the Gray Death spread—did you use the light?"

Maya shuddered, icy fingers trailing through her. She nodded. "I healed many that day. Soldiers wounded in the war. It was only after I healed them that the Gray Death spread, that he emerged, that—"

Maya gasped. She stepped back so suddenly that she slammed into the side table, scattering scrolls. The cup of water fell and shattered against the floor.

Avinasi nodded. "When you resurrected the dead, your light—a brilliant pillar that rose to the sky—cast a great shadow from which he rose. Who is the adversary, Maya? He is you. He is your shadow, as Luminosity casts it. He bears the form you gave him, the form of a monster you feared as a child, a monster you imagined hid under your bed. He is the shadow of Maya Sela, and he will forever trail behind you whenever you cast your light."

Maya felt the blood drain from her face.

"No," she whispered. "No. It cannot be. You lie."

Avinasi's eyes closed.

Maya trembled. She thought back to all those times she had seen him, sensed him. Lurking in her closet. Flitting in and out of her memory like a dream. Rising before her in the desert. Moving through the crowd of Beth Eloh. Rising stronger, more powerful than ever in Beth Eloh. As her strength had grown—as she had traveled near the House of Luminosity, cast magic at the wall, resurrected her brother—his shadow had darkened.

My shadow, Maya thought. He is me.

"Avinasi," she whispered.

The lumer lay still.

Maya stepped closer. "Avinasi . . ."

She leaped back. He stared from the shadows, lurking over the corpse of the ancient lumer, claws clutching the flesh. He stared up from his hood, furrowed skin clinging to his skull. A phallic gray head, eyes yellow and serpentine.

Maya spun around and fled the chamber.

Abishag was waiting for her in the corridor.

"Maya!" the girl cried.

Maya paused for an instant, staring at the girl—her kind eyes, her gentle heart.

I put her in danger, Maya thought. I put everyone in danger. All those around me. All those who died here. Because of the shadows I cast.

She turned. She ran from Abishag, leaving the girl behind. She ran through the palace, lost, trapped in the labyrinth. The shadows danced around her.

Her mind reeled. She had healed a dog on a hill; not moments later, the shadow of Aelar had fallen across the land. She had traveled toward a great source of lume in the east; on the cusp of its light, the adversary had raised the desert against her. She had written the Luminous Writ, weaving her magic into the scroll; the Dagonites had appeared and shattered the House of Luminosity.

But how could this be? Why had Namtar never told her? Why had the Luminous Writ not described the danger? Why—

Maya paused. She leaned against the corridor wall, feeling sick.

Namtar never knew, Maya realized. Perhaps no other lumer in the world knows this truth.

She thought back to the words she had transcribed in the last chapter of the Luminous Writ.

"Every light must cast a shadow," she whispered.

She had not understood those words then, had thought them mere poetry, a single line among thousands of lines.

She turned toward a window. The last defenders of Zohar stood on the wall around the Mount, desperate to hold back the onslaught. Tens of thousands of Aelarians filled the streets of Beth Eloh, and farther in the distance, Maya could just make out the shattered gatehouse that led to the wilderness.

My fault. Tears streamed down her cheeks. My shadow. He is me. He was always me.

Maya fell to her knees. She trembled. All the world seemed to close in around her, wrapping her in light and in shadows.

TIRUS

He stood on the city wall, watching the battle from above. He nodded.

"Good. Excellent." He bit into a peach. The juice dripped down his chin. "See there by the hill? The cavalry charges from two sides, flanking the barbarians. Our numbers our smaller, but with speed, with javelins, with scythed wheels, we strike terror into their hearts and iron into their flesh."

Tirus had sent out only three hundred riders, a small sally; thousands of horses still waited within the walls of Aelar. The Gaelian horde was large, true enough, but Aelar was a massive city, the greatest city the world had ever and would ever know. The barbarians had spread out thinly to surround it, each tribe defending another road toward another sealed gate. Tirus now stood facing the northern countryside, watching his cavalry ride in rings around one tribe of brutes. The Gaelians were tall, powerful people, all fur and hair and odor, and slow as lumbering bears. The legions' horses galloped, and arrows and spears rained onto the Gaelians, who were helpless to stop the onslaught. Whenever the brutes charged, the chariots changed course, then drove in from another angle. Their scythed wheels mowed men down.

"It's all rather exciting," said Julia. Her eyes shone as she watched the battle. She stood beside Tirus on the city wall, wearing a splendid stola of crimson silk, tiny gold eagles flying across the fabric. A tiara held back her flowing black locks and their single white streak. "My sister never did enjoy watching the wars, did she?"

Tirus snorted. "My wife was fond of nothing. She had no passions other than complaining. She could make a statue wither by staring at it." He looked at Julia. "But you are alive, my dear. You brim with life, with passion, with lust."

He reached out. With his wide fingers, he grabbed Julia's breast and squeezed. Her smile grew.

"Oh, look there!" Julia pointed. "A rain of arrows!"

Indeed, the chariots were now firing a volley from all sides, tearing into the Gaelians.

"The siege might yet last a while," Tirus said. "There are thousands of those fucking barbarians outside our city. But sally after sally, we'll decimate them."

He puffed out his chest as he remembered his victory at the port, sailing into Aelar with two fresh legions. True, the Gaelians had smashed the aqueducts leading into the city, and the bathhouses had run dry. True, the barbarians controlled the roads. But Aelaria Maritima, the grand port of Aelar, was still under Tirus's control. Through that port, he could summon more troops, food, and wine as necessary. Atalia Sela had been unable to seize that port from him. The rat was now his to torment.

If only I had any fucking lumers left, Tirus thought. Lumers could instantly contact governors around the Encircled Sea, summoning more aid for Aelar. But Tirus had left his own family lumer with Claudia in Zohar. Meanwhile, the imperial lumer was dead—they had found her shriveled corpse in the dungeon beneath the Acropolis. And every other lumer in Aelar, it seemed, had gone mad, rebelling against her masters. By now, the witches were all either butchered or in hiding. He'd have to rely on the old methods to call for aid: ships and scrolls. It was slow work, but then again, Tirus had waited for decades to become emperor. He could wait out a few months of siege.

He wrapped his arm around Julia, his beloved. He had waited years for her too. "The barbarians will understand, my dear Julia, why Aelar has not fallen in five hundred years. Why we will never fall. We'll bleed them, slowly, day by day, until they are ravaged and we sing the songs of our triumph."

He kissed her hard on the lips. Tirus was no longer a young man. Comfortably in his fifties, he had grown stocky, layers of fat now coating his muscles and big bones, and he could no longer, perhaps, fuck a woman with the vigor of youth. Yet Julia made him feel young again. Julia was perhaps not as young a woman as Tirus normally favored—she was well into her thirties, already showing the signs of age—but there was fire to her, there was passion, and she stirred his blood.

"Come, Julia," he said. "We head to the Amphitheatrum, where we celebrate my ascension. Once the Gaelian fleet is destroyed, we will be wed in triumph, and all the Empire will celebrate."

In the field, the Aelarian sortie was returning home. The chariots thundered across the field, heading toward Octavius Gate. Tirus himself had ordered that gate opened, securing it with wooden palisades and legionary patrols, allowing the sallies to exit and reenter the city under heavy guard. Tirus turned away from the battle. Holding Julia's hand, he guided her off the wall and into their chariot.

As Tirus rode through the city, he nodded in satisfaction. When he had first sailed into Aelar, he had found a population hiding in their homes or praying for mercy in temples, the city shut down with fear. Today the extra legions he had brought here lined the streets, and the supplies on his ships filled taverns, granaries, and homes. More people now roamed the streets, shopped at markets, even laughed at the local buskers. As Tirus rode by, surrounded by riders and marching legionaries, the people bowed before him, blessing his name.

"Emperor Tirus smites the Gaelians!" cried a man on a balcony.

"Hail Emperor Tirus!"

Finally they reached the Acropolis, rode up the hill, and headed toward the Amphitheatrum. Many theaters rose around the Encircled Sea, entertaining millions with dances, plays, athletic competitions, and gladiator fights. But none rose as large as the Amphitheatrum, the amphitheater of emperors, paid for with plundered gold from across the world. Rings of arches rose here, soaring taller than the imperial palace, and within each arch stood a marble god. Tirus rode his chariot through a gateway, entering the arena. A hundred thousand spectators already filled the seats, cheering for their new emperor. Tirus rode a ring around the arena, Julia on his arm, the crowd adoring him.

For this I waited all my life, he thought. To leave that fucking desert province. To reign in Aelar. To ride with Julia, not her withered older sister.

It was the glory Tirus had always craved. And soon—soon he would crush all his enemies. The Zoharites in the desert. The Gaelians outside his walls. That sniveling pup Seneca who still lurked in Nur, fucking his swarthy barbarian queen. They would all perish, and he would reign over their ruin.

He rode his chariot out of the arena and dismounted. Guards marched around them as Tirus and Julia climbed the stairs toward their seats. The commoners sat on hard stone, crowded together, some so high up they could barely see the arena below. But the emperor of Aelar could watch the games in splendor. The imperial box, worked into the first tier of the amphitheater, was palatial. Elaborate Sekadian rugs covered the floor. Behind Tirus, a tunnel led into a chamber of opulence where slaves, feasts, and courtesans awaited, should he seek distraction from the games. An ivory throne rose here, facing the arena, and two red columns flanked it, topped with golden eagles. As Tirus took his seat, slave girls knelt before him, bare-breasted and beautiful, and washed his feet. Another slave, perfumed and jeweled and adorned with henna, poured him wine into a goblet. Tonight, Tirus would take these slaves into his palace, would have them warm his bed, even as he took Julia there. The emperor of Aelar enjoyed not just one woman but a harem, and all the comforts of an emperor would be his.

I earned this. For twenty years, I languished in the desert, doing Marcus's bidding. Now the old goat and his bitch daughter are dead. Now let me savor my reward.

Guards blew silver trumpets, and dancers emerged into the arena, some pirouetting on the backs of elephants, dazzling the crowd. Tirus had no patience for dancers. As the performance went on, he looked over the crowd. A hundred thousand Aelarians, all eager for the games to begin. He looked across the stone seats nearby, a single tier higher up, just to the right. A young man in a humble cotton tunic sat there, brown hair falling limply across his brow. Just another face in the crowd, perhaps a peddler or mason who had scrambled together enough coins for a decent seat. But Tirus knew his name. The young man—he seemed barely more than a boy—gave Tirus a glance, then looked away. There sat Caelius, lord of the Magisterian Guard.

He watches me more than he watches the show, Tirus thought. An itch tugged at his shoulder. Sitting here in this golden box, he felt like a marionette in a puppet show—and above him, the puppeteer.

Yes, it was Caelius who had assassinated Porcia, Caelius who had summoned him here, Caelius who had placed the imperial laurel on his brow. And they were Caelius's men, soldiers of the Magisterian Guard, who had not left Tirus's side since his return into Aelar. Even now, they flanked his throne, armor burnished, faces blank.

As Tirus stared at the young man in the crowd, he imagined wrapping his hands around that throat, squeezing until he heard a crack. Tirus did not fear the gods, but he feared that boy. Until Caelius died, Tirus would not be true lord of Aelar.

But not yet. Not yet. Caelius still had a role to play, was still an ally, for he was a puppeteer of more than one marionette. His strings spread across the Empire, tugging at governors and generals far across the Encircled Sea. For now, Tirus would keep Caelius on collar and chain—though often he wondered who wore the collar and who held the leash.

The dancers gave a last flourish, bowed, and left the arena. Trumpets blared again, and Tirus leaned forward in his seat. He greedily gulped more wine, in his excitement dribbling onto his toga. He had been waiting for this moment all day.

"Now you'll see a real show, Julia," Tirus said.

She stood at his side, leaning against his shoulder. "Better than chariots racing around barbarians?"

Tirus guzzled more wine and tossed aside the empty goblet. "Far better. I have a little surprise for you." He raised his arm, giving the signal. "Bring her out!"

To the round of horns, goaded by spears, the captive emerged into the arena.

Julia squinted, leaning forward. "Is that . . .?"

Tirus nodded and leaned back in his seat, smiling. "Atalia Sela."

ATALIA

"Stop! Fucking—God! Stop!" Atalia reached over her shoulder, trying to nudge the spear aside. The goddamn guard kept poking her, goading her deeper into the sandy courtyard. She tried to grab it. "I'm going to shove that thing up your ass!"

Yet he kept goading her, and Atalia stumbled into the center of the arena, blinking in the sunlight. She didn't know how long she had languished in darkness. It felt like she had spent eras in her in her dank cell underground. She squinted, struggling to adjust to the sunlight.

Her breath died.

"Fuck me," she whispered.

She stood in a circular, sandy arena. Tiers of seats rose in a ring around her, soaring taller than any temple. Countless people were watching her, howling, chanting, shouting curses. Atalia had never seen so many people in one place before. All of Beth Eloh could fit in here, she thought. A ring of arches rose above the top tier, marble idols between every two columns, and awnings thrust out above them, shading the crowd. When Atalia lowered her gaze, she saw that several gateways led into the arena from the city. The gateways were palatial, their engraved archways topped with golden eagles and rearing horses. A glitter caught her eye, and Atalia squinted to see that, among the simple stone tiers, rose two red columns and between them an oasis of wealth. Rugs woven with golden thread, marble statues, and jeweled slaves shone with splendor, and between them sat Tirus Valerius on an ivory throne.

Atalia snarled and raced toward him, waving her weapon. A wall blocked her passage. She stood below, glaring up at him.

"Come down here, pig!" she shouted. "I'm going to stick this trident into your fat gut!"

She panted with rage. She thought back to all those times Tirus, once ambassador to Zohar, had sat in her family's home on Pine Hill. She thought of how Epher had courted Claudia, the man's daughter. Tirus was a goddamn family friend, and now the bastard sat on a throne, emperor of Aelar, staring at her like this. Atalia wore only a couple of thin straps over her nakedness, her only armor a manica sleeve and a helmet, her only weapon a trident.

Tirus stared down at her. He rose from his throne, and he addressed the crowd.

"Behold!" the emperor cried. "Before you stands Atalia Sela, sister of the Rat King Epheriah who defies our might in Zohar!"

The crowd jeered and howled at Atalia. Some tossed refuse into the arena.

"Sand whore!" a man shouted.

"Heathen!" shouted a woman.

Tirus held out his arms, shouting louder to be heard over the crowd. "Here stands Atalia Sela, wife to the barbarian Chief Berengar who still besieges our walls!"

The crowd booed even louder. Now they were tossing stones. Several hit Atalia, and she yowled.

"What shall we do," cried Tirus, "with the sister of one rebel, wife of another? She who assaulted our port? She who even now taunts us?"

"Make her fight!" chanted the crowd. "Make her bleed!"

Atalia spun from side to side. Everywhere were leering faces, a hundred thousand of them. Everywhere was hatred, rage, scorn. The theater spun around her. Her ears rang. Her head whirled. All the faces danced around her. Hating. Mocking.

She inhaled sharply.

Whore!

Desert rat!

Heathen!

She tightened her grip on her trident. The old fury rose inside her. Fury for the death of her father, of Daor, of Feina, of millions across this world. She let out a roar. She spun toward the imperial box. She ran three steps and tossed her trident toward Tirus Valerius.

People in the crowd screamed.

Tirus cursed and leaped from his throne. His guards stepped forth. The trident slammed into the throne, narrowly missing the emperor.

Atalia stood panting, horror blazing through her.

Tirus glared down from the imperial box, face red.

"Release the lions!" he shouted. "Let them feed!"

The crowd roared. A low grumble rose behind Atalia.

Slowly, heart hammering, she spun around.

A trapdoor opened in the arena floor, and eyes gleamed.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

With a growl, a lion loped out into the arena.

Atalia shouted and leaped back, hitting the arena wall.

The lion advanced, growling. The crowd went into a frenzy, leaping up and down, chanting, pounding their fists. Atalia was a desert lioness, and the lion was the symbol of her nation, yet she had never seen one before, only the dead cub on the day of Seneca's invasion. This full-grown lion was larger than she had imagined, its head massive, its fangs like daggers. Two more of the great cats emerged from underground. And she had lost her trident.

She winced. "Nice kitties. Nice kitties . . ."

A lion pounced.

Atalia winced and leaped sideways, just barely dodging the beast. Its claws dug into the sand. The crowd roared in delight.

The lions roared and circled her, rumbles rising from their throats. Atalia glanced back toward Tirus, hoping the bastard would toss back her trident, but the emperor clung to the spear, watching with a thin smile. Atalia cursed and looked around wildly, seeking anything that could be used as a weapon.

A lion pounced again. Atalia jumped aside, and the animal's claws sparked against her manica, denting the iron scales that protected her arm.

Atalia ran. She headed toward the exit. The crowd booed, pelting her with more refuse. Atalia ignored them, arms pumping, racing toward one of the archways that led out of the arena.

"Coward!" rose voices in the crowd. "Coward!"

As she headed toward the exit, two guards moved closer together and crossed their spears, blocking her passage. The lions roared behind her.

Atalia leaped into the air.

The guards cursed.

She kicked one man's helmet, denting the nose guard, and blood spurted. Atalia grabbed the man's spear, kicked his shin, and yanked the weapon free.

She spun around to see a lion leaping toward her. She raised the weapon. The lion bellowed as it impaled itself on the spear.

The crowd fell silent.

Atalia scampered back, pulling the spear free from the lion, and her back hit a column.

The lion was still alive. He gazed into her eyes, bleeding from his neck. There was sadness in those eyes. There was pain. The animal knelt before her and lowered his head, bleeding into the sand.

I'm sorry, Atalia thought, eyes suddenly damp. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

The two other lions raced around their wounded brother. They crouched, ready to pounce.

Atalia screamed. She ran. She jumped over the fallen lion. She soared into the air and drove her spear down, impaling another lion.

"Atalia!" cried someone in the crowd. "Atalia! Atalia!"

The last lion pounced. Atalia tried to tug her spear free, but it was embedded too deeply into the wounded lion. With a curse, she released the spear and fell back.

The leaping lion slammed into her, knocking her into the sand. Its jaws closed around her shoulder and bit.

She howled.

Her blood flowed.

"Kill, kill!" chanted the crowd.

The lion bit deeper. Atalia screamed, pummeled the lion's face, but could not free herself. Her head rolled back, and her helmet fell from her head.

The lioness of Zohar—killed by a lion. She grimaced. How fucking appropriate.

As the lion shook his head, yanking her across the sand, Atalia thought back to the sea, to rising and falling on her makeshift raft with Daor, chained, dying.

Never give up, she had told her soldier. Keep rowing. Always keep rowing.

The crowd spun around her. The lion raised her, knocked her back down, never releasing its bite. Her eyes rolled back, and there in the sand she saw it. Her fallen helmet, shaped like a lion, complete with iron fangs.

I am a desert lioness. I am the last soldier of Zohar. I will not die so far from home.

As the lion bit deeper, Atalia reached out and grabbed her fallen helmet. She drove the iron down with all her strength, sinking the metal teeth into the living lion's head.

The jaws released her. Atalia struggled to her feet, dizzy, blood dripping down her shoulder and arm. She raised the helmet again, then drove it forward, sinking the iron fangs into the lion again and again, and she wept. As she slew the animal, her tears flowed with her blood, for she was killing her brother.

When the last lion fell, Atalia raised her eyes. She stared across the arena at Tirus. The emperor was on his feet, leaning forward, face red, fists clenched.

You could not kill me, Atalia thought. But you could make me a killer. And someday I will kill you, Tirus.

As the crowd stared, as the lions lay bleeding, Tirus raised his arms and addressed the crowd.

"The gods have let the desert rat live for another day!" the emperor cried. "She will fight and bleed for your pleasure during the next games!"

Most in the crowd rumbled and booed; they had come here to see her death, not the loss of lions. But some were still chanting her name.

"Atalia! Atalia! Desert lioness!"

The guards stepped forward and grabbed her arms. As they pulled her out of the arena, Atalia looked back one more time. Across the distance, she met Tirus's gaze. She gave him a small smile.

You're next, Tirus.

The guards pulled her out of the arena, down the tunnel, and back into her cell.

EPHER

He lost track of days and nights on the wall, trying to hold back the legions from the Mount of Cedars. Sometimes, in darkness, he slept in one of the chambers built into the fortresses that lined the walls. Sometimes, for brief moments, he walked among his men, comforting the dying. Mostly he fought. The defenders had no more arrows; they shot sharpened sticks carved from the olive and cedar trees. They had no more round, polished sling stones; they fired whatever rocks they found. They were like children, helpless, as the legions pounded at the walls day and night. Shattering bricks. Ramming into gates. And Epher knew that it would not be long. Another hour. Maybe another day. And Claudia would enter the Mount, leading tens of thousands, and they would meet again.

It was dark and the stars shone. Panting and aching, Epher climbed off the wall for a brief rest, letting another man take his place. Only a thousand warriors remained—a thousand against the might of an empire. He walked down a path and into Tarath El, a fortress built into the Mount's protective wall. He had wanted Olive to come with him, but his wife had insisted on staying on the wall, fighting for a few more hours.

"This siege might not last much longer," she had said with a weary grin. "Let me kill a few more."

Epher walked alone down the fortress corridor, climbed stairs, and entered his chamber—a humble stone cell with a simple bed.

Maya was waiting there, sitting on the bed.

Epher's heart twisted. Maya looked worse than ever, even worse than her time in the houses of healing. Her skin was sallow, her face—once round and soft—gaunt and aged. Her eyes were sunken but still large, still full of kindness, but there were new shadows there too, a new weight upon her shoulders.

"I have to leave for a while," she whispered.

Epher narrowed his eyes. He stepped closer and knelt before his sister. "What do you mean?"

Tears streamed down Maya's cheeks. She touched his cheek. "Epher, do you remember the villa on Pine Hill?"

He frowned. "Maya, what is this about?"

She smiled tremulously, tears on her lips. "I remember Lel Urim. It was always my favorite holiday. I remember how it was so dark in the house, all our lanterns turned off. How we walked through the rooms and hallways with candles, marching in a row from oldest to youngest. You walked in the front, then Koren, then Atalia, then Ofeer, then me. I used to always light a sixth candle, do you remember? For Mica. And we'd walk through the house, climb the stairs, go into the cellar and garden, and cast back the shadows with our light and song. Do you remember?"

Epher nodded, still kneeling before her. "Of course."

Fresh tears flowed. "That's what I tried to do, Epher. To cast back a little shadow with a candle. If you see the house again, if you return to Pine Hill, remember to light a candle for me too."

He grabbed her. He pulled her up, staring into her eyes. "I don't like this. What are you talking about?"

"About home. About our family." Maya leaned her head against his chest. "I love you, Epher. I love you and everyone. But I have to leave for a little while, because every light casts a shadow, and my light burns too brightly." She looked back up at him, and her fingers tightened around his arms. "There are seven gates in the walls of Beth Eloh, and there is an eighth gate within the city center. In the Holy of Holies, inside the Temple, a place forbidden to all but the High Priest, there stands the Gate of Tears. It's through there that I entered the city, through there that I must leave. If the walls of the Mount fall, seek hope there. Seek light in those shadows."

"Maya." He tightened his grip on her. "Enough with this madness. You're staying here. With me. With us."

She shook her head. "I cannot stay. I pray that someday you'll understand, Epher. That I do not abandon you, but that I love you. That I will always love you. That Zohar will always be my home." She held him close. "Goodbye, my older brother, my guiding light."

She kissed his cheek, and she turned to leave the chamber. Epher followed her into the fortress hall, to the archway that led into the city. She passed out from the shadowy fortress onto the Mount. He wanted to follow her, to grab her, to shout, to demand she stay. But he could only stand at the doorway, watching her walk uphill between the cypresses, and it seemed to him that Maya floated, a figure of light, and he wondered whether he gazed upon his living sister or a ghost. He stood watching her until she vanished into the night.

MAYA

She entered the Holy of Holies, the forbidden chamber, the heart of the Temple.

Not a moment later, Abishag ran up from behind.

"Wait! Maya." Panting, the girl raced onto this holy ground, the chamber where they said God's spirit dwelled. "Don't leave without me."

From the outside, the Temple was splendorous, all marble and gold and soaring towers that overlooked the city and mountains. But here, on the inside, waited a humble room. Simple brick walls. A smashed ark. Old bloodstains from Abishag's struggle with the priest. The Gate of Tears rose in the shadows.

Maya paused halfway toward that ancient, mythical gate. She turned toward Abishag. The girl fell to her knees, panting, her long black hair hanging in disarray.

"I will not ask you to follow me now," Maya said. "I walk into darkness. Into danger."

Abishag nodded. "I fear no darkness. I fear no danger. You are my light, my savior, my shepherdess."

Maya looked away. Tears stung her eyes.

"A savior?" she whispered. "A shepherdess?" She shook her head, her breath trembling. "I'm no older than you. No wiser. No more important. I'm just a daughter of Zohar, just an orphan of this war. I cannot save you. I cannot deliver you from evil."

Abishag rose to her feet, eyes brimming with tears. She took Maya's hand and held it between her palms. "You already have," Abishag whispered. "I was a consecrated sister. I was in darkness. I was dead. You raised me into new life as surely as you raised your brother. You performed miracles, Maya Elior. I don't know what path lies before you. I don't know into what darkness you tread. But I know this: I will not leave you."

"Even if my path leads to blood, to death, to desolation?"

Abishag nodded. "All paths lead to death and darkness. Only some pass through light on the way there."

Maya hesitated, then nodded. Holding hands, the two stepped through the Gate of Tears and into the shadows.

For a long time they walked, hunched over, worming their way through the tunnel, until finally—after what seemed like hours—they emerged outside the city into the mountainside cave. The rocky slopes flowed down to the desert. A drizzle fell, and haze cloaked the land. In the east, the rain was thicker, falling in sheets, and distant thunder rolled. In the west rose the walls of Beth Eloh.

Maya and Abishag walked through the wilderness, over hills and along dirt paths, until they reached the ruins where once the Gate of Myrrh had stood, the gate the adversary had smashed.

No. The gate I smashed. My shadow. Maya's eyes stung. The terror my light let into the city.

Only two legionaries guarded the shattered gatehouse, looking bored and miserable in the rain. Maya and Abishag were just two girls, wearing humble tunics, no weapons in their hands. The guards did not acknowledge them, no more than they'd acknowledge a pair of mice. The two reentered the city.

In the distance, Maya could see the Mount of Cedars, and upon its crest rose the Temple where she had entered the tunnel. The battle still raged at that mount, the legions pounding at the defensive walls, the defenders manning the battlements. Maya could not see much from here, just the glint of distant metal, but she could hear the rams, the catapults, the hum of clashing metal and screams. Where Maya stood, near the northern wall, the city was eerily quiet. A few legionaries lined the streets on patrol. Most of the city's people hid in their homes and peered through windows. Only a handful dared wander the streets, keeping a wide berth from the Aelarian soldiers.

For now Maya was safe. The legions were focusing on slaying Zohar's defenders, Epher among them, and taking the Mount. But should the Mount fall, and should the legions slay Epher, Maya feared that their wrath would turn upon every family in Beth Eloh. She lowered her head, remembering the demon that had risen. Her shadow in the light. The blood on her hands.

"Where do we go, Maya?" Abishag asked.

"To seek redemption," said Maya. "To seek forgiveness."

The drizzle ended and the sun emerged. They walked down a cobbled alleyway. The walls of homes and libraries flanked them, the bricks pale and craggy. Archways rose above, connecting the buildings, forming a walkway like a tunnel. A date palm grew in a patch of sunlight, and flowers bloomed on windowsills and balconies. It seemed so strange to Maya that even here, in this city of death and war, she could find a place of such peace, such beauty.

They emerged from the alleyway into a small round piazza. A well rose in its center, and several donkeys and camels stood tethered here. Women were drawing water from the well. A few robed, bearded men—some too old to fight, one missing a leg—stood nearby, nervously glancing around, clutching their staffs. As Maya stepped into the piazza, all eyes turned toward her.

"It's her," whispered a man.

"The healer."

"The daughter of kings."

"The cursed one."

They were all staring, all whispering. Maya approached the well. She patted a camel. The animal licked her palm, and some of her fear eased.

She turned toward the crowd. More joined from alleyways and emerged from homes.

"In the beginning," Maya said, "there was light."

As she spoke to them, reciting the Luminous Writ, more people filled the square. Some stood on balconies or roofs, watching her. So many eyes frightened Maya, but she imagined that she was back in the house of Luminosity by the sea, using her light to peer into the scrolls, to transcribe the ancient runes onto parchment.

"Every light casts a shadow," she said, quoting from the holy book of her sisterhood. "Every wave erodes the sand. Every song ends in silence." She took a deep breath, and now she no longer quoted scripture. Now she spoke words of her own. "My people, sons and daughters of Beth Eloh, I came here to beg forgiveness."

They stared at her, confused, mumbling.

"I healed you," Maya said. "I sought to heal this city. I raised my brother from the dead. I sought to resurrect a great king—a man I love. Every light casts a shadow. The light I raised here, even the blessed light of Luminosity, brought healing but also pain. It raised a king yet toppled our gates. The man with the furrowed gray skin—he is not a demon. He is not risen from Ashael. He is me. My shadow. The dark, twisted part of my soul, cast out with every light I shine."

The people muttered more loudly.

"What do you mean?" one man cried out.

"She broke the city gates!" said another. "She summoned the demon!"

Abishag stepped closer to Maya, nervously glancing around. Maya smiled at her softly, trying to comfort her, and looked back at the crowd.

"I traveled far across the desert," Maya said. "To the eastern sea and back to Beth Eloh. I saw palaces of splendor that hid slums of squalor. I saw deserts of wonder that hid buried ruins. I saw a glorious temple carved into a mountainside that led to nothing but a rough cell. In all the world there is balance. Gold and rust. Iron and sand. Splendor and shadow. Light and darkness. In the beginning there was light, teaches the Luminous Writ. Yet how can we comprehend light without darkness for it to banish? Without light there is no shadow. Without pain there is no joy. And without sin there is no redemption."

"You were supposed to save us!" shouted a man, limping forward, his one leg missing. "You came into Beth Eloh as a savior! Yet now the gates are smashed, and the legions fill the holy city. You failed! Since you came here, you've brought disease and death. The Empire grinds us under its heel. And now you ask for redemption?"

"I cannot defeat the armies of Aelar," said Maya. "But I can tell you this: All in life is balanced. We cannot fight evil with evil, only with goodness. We cannot cast back hatred with more hatred, only with kindness. We are Zoharites. Ever have we lived by the sword. Ever our enemies have risen to smite us. But we also sang songs. We built. We loved. We brought light into this world. So let us be the light to their shadow. Let us love while they hate. Let us heal this world that others seek to shatter. Answer the sword with healing. Answer hatred with love. Answer despair with hope. Let that be our light unto the nations."

"We cannot defeat Aelar with love." A man scoffed. "Give us blades, not words!"

"Give us great warriors, not healers!" cried another man.

Yet others in the crowd nodded.

"Maya speaks wisdom," said a woman, eyes shining. "We will not become hateful, not spill blood like our enemies."

"Then we will die!" said a man.

Maya shook her head. "We will live eternally. The cruel, the tyrants, those who live by the sword—they always fade like kingdoms of sand under the waves. The Phedians who ravaged our land a thousand years ago. The Kalintians who desecrated our Temple and put our sons to the sword. The Cadomites who butchered us on our coast and raised idols in our cities. All those ancient empires have faded, yet we remain. In the Luminosity, I have seen Aelar rise strong and mighty, spreading its tentacles across the world, yet it too fades into the sands of time. Goodness remains. Love remains. So long as we're a nation of light, we too will remain. Do not, even as enemies strike you, become the beast who strikes back from a cage, beaten and wrathful and driven to madness. Our strength will not be in our iron but our souls, our justice, our mercy, our love. I love you, children of Zohar. Unconditionally. In this time of darkness and hatred, love is the greatest light."

A voice rose from the back of the crowd. "Maya Sela."

Maya looked up, and she saw them there. Ten legionaries, armed with spears and swords, and between them—in armor, her helmet crested—Claudia Valerius.

The daughter of Aelar's new emperor, commander of this force, pointed at Maya. "There stands the sister of the rebel! There stands one who preaches against us! We will make her scream for her brother."

Abishag cried out in fear, grabbed Maya's hand, and tried to pull her away. "We must run!"

But more legionaries emerged from the alleyways, closing in around them. Maya smiled softly, kissed Abishag's forehead, then turned and walked toward them.

ATALIA

She sat on her bed, elbows on her thighs, head lowered.

I killed them. I killed three lions. Symbols of my homeland. She closed her eyes. They made me a monster.

Atalia had not left her cell since. The healer had come to her again. The old man had stitched her new wounds, those of the lion's bite, and given her a frothy drink against the pain. But what was physical pain by the torment in her heart?

Is this my life now? Atalia balled her hands into fists. To fight in the arena for Tirus's pleasure until one of his beasts slays me?

She opened her eyes and caressed the burlap tunic they had given her. She could weave this tunic into a strand. She could wrap it around her neck. She could die here instead of the arena. At least that would rob Tirus of some pleasure.

She took a shuddering breath. But no. She did not have that courage. Her death would be in battle. That had always been the death planned for her, perhaps. Not death as an old woman among family. The death of a fighter—young, foolish, screaming. Thus did warriors die.

The barred door to her cell clanked, and a woman swung it open.

"Atalia Sela," the woman said, nodding. "The lion killer."

Atalia stared. The woman in the doorway was long-limbed, muscular, and perhaps thirty years old. Her skin was coppery, her eyes almond-shaped and black, her hair short and dark. She wore bronze armor. The armor was decorative, made for show, not the battlefield. The breastplate was curved to highlight the breasts, leaving the belly bare, more lurid than functional. The studded pteruges showed too much thigh. A whip hung from the woman's belt, the handle shaped as a serpent's head. A second serpent was tattooed onto the woman's cheek, coiling and sticking out its forked tongue.

"Who the fuck are you?" Atalia said.

The woman moved so quickly Atalia couldn't even react. A blow slammed against her nose. A second blow hit her temple, knocking Atalia off the bed. She tried to rise when the woman's sandaled foot pressed down on her throat, crushing her windpipe. Atalia grabbed the foot, trying to tug it off, but could not. The woman was leaning down hard. She raised her whip.

"You will speak to me with respect," said the woman. "I am Leyla, domina of the Ludus Magnus. I will teach you respect or I will teach you pain."

Finally the foot pulled off Atalia's neck. She sucked in air, spat, and cursed. She rose to her feet and glared at Leyla.

"What the fuck could you possibly teach me about anything?" Atalia said.

She was expecting the next blow. She blocked it on her forearm. But Leyla's knee to the belly caught her unprepared. Atalia doubled over, only for Leyla to grab her arms, twist her around, and wrap the whip around Atalia's throat. Atalia struggled, kicking, trying to pull the thong off, but Leyla yanked back, constricting her.

"Should I keep going?" Leyla hissed into her ear. "Should I tug and tug until your neck rips? Oh, would that I could! But I still have use for you."

With a grunt, Leyla tossed Atalia free. She stumbled in the cell and spun back toward Leyla, breathing hoarsely, and spat.

"Are you ready to learn respect?" Leyla asked, whip in hand.

"Teach me to fight like that," Atalia said, "and I'll respect the shit in your chamber pot."

Leyla grunted. "I teach all my gladiators and gladiatrixes to fight like that. Most never live long enough to learn much. Come with me."

As they left the cell, Atalia frowned. The woman had called herself a domina. That was a title given to great lords and emperors in Aelar. Leyla wore an iron collar—a slave's collar like the one Atalia herself now wore.

They walked past the bathhouse where the slaves had prepared Atalia for her first battle—or more accurately, Atalia thought, her failed execution. An archway took them to a sunlit courtyard. Walls surrounded a dirt square, and above them rose columned walkways and a balcony. Beyond a wall, a short walk away, loomed the Amphitheatrum. But while that amphitheater was a place of splendor—its marble archways shadowing statues, its columns supporting golden eagles, and its gateways engraved with scenes of battle—this courtyard in its shadow was a humble place, all rough bricks and sand and sweat.

Several gladiators stood in the courtyard. Most were men, dressed only in subligaculi to cover their privates, holding blunt swords. A handful were women, as fierce as the men, shouting as they dueled. Atalia saw no Aelarians here. These were fighters from across the Empire, from every race and nation. Many had shaved the sides of their heads and covered their arms with tattoos. Some were missing teeth, and some looked like their noses had shattered a hundred times. All were scarred. All were strong, their muscles rippling as they drilled, lust for battle in their eyes.

But these are not true warriors, Atalia thought, watching them. Not one among them.

They fought for show. Those who wore armor only protected arms, breasts, and loins, not the abdomen or face. When they drilled with swords, they did not aim for the kill. They swung their blunt blades in a flourish, aiming to look fierce more than deliver a quick death.

True soldiers are not like this, Atalia thought. True soldiers are like Daor. Like my brothers. Just people—the sort you wouldn't look twice at on the street—who want to protect their homes.

As she stepped into the square, all eyes turned toward her. The gladiators paused from their drills. A few smirked. One woman, her red hair braided a hundred times, wagged her tongue at Atalia and grabbed her crotch. A bald, burly man with a scarred face spat and muttered something to his friend, who laughed.

"Fresh meat," a man muttered.

A golden-haired woman, perhaps Gaelian, pointed at Atalia. "She's lion fodder. I know that one. She's no gladiatrix."

"Fucking botched execution shit." The bald, scarred man spat again. "Is this the scum they bring the Magnus Lud—"

Leyla lashed her whip. The thong, which just moments ago had wrapped around Atalia's neck, hit the scarred man's face. Blood spurted, and the gladiator grabbed his cheek.

"Silence, all of you!" Leyla shouted. She cracked her whip again, spraying droplets of blood. "This woman slaughtered three lions—after losing her weapon. She was a botched execution, yes. And we will make her a gladiatrix." She pointed at the bleeding man. "Duel with her."

The bleeding man grunted. He hefted his sword—a chipped hunk of iron. Leyla placed a second sword in Atalia's hand. The blade was blunt, the weapon heavy and poorly balanced.

Atalia spat and tossed the sword down. "Fuck this. I'm a soldier. I'm not a trained monkey."

"You'll be a dead monkey," said the scarred man, leaping toward her with his sword.

Grimacing, Atalia sidestepped, dodging his blade. She scurried back and glared at the beefy gladiator. "I won't fight you. I fight real battles. Not for show."

The gladiator glanced toward Leyla. The domina flicked her whip. "Beat her senseless, Uro," she said. "Show her how real our battles can be."

Uro's face still bled from the lash. When he licked the blood off his lips, he revealed sharpened teeth. He charged toward Atalia again.

His sword swung. Atalia sidestepped, and the dulled blade glanced off her arm. A second blow slammed into her side, hitting her ribs. Pain exploded. When the sword swung toward her face, she ducked.

Oh, fuck this, she thought.

She ran across the courtyard to the sound of jeers. All the other gladiators gathered around, calling for Uro to smash her bones. Atalia grabbed her fallen sword an instant before Uro swung his blade again. She raised her sword, parrying. She growled, leaping forward, attacking furiously. She had not wanted this, but now she would win this. She hit Uro's arm, then his thigh, cutting the skin.

The blows only seemed to enrage him. Uro attacked again and again. His blunt blade hit her arm, her shoulder, her wrist. She cried out. She pressed her attack, raining blows on him, and smashed his fingers. He cried out and dropped his sword, and Atalia grinned, but his fist slammed into her cheek an instant later. She fell.

He was atop her at once, raining blows. Atalia raised her arms, trying to protect herself. He grabbed her sword and wrenched it free, drooling above her, a mad beast, dripping blood between his sharpened teeth. He raised his fist.

"Now I knock every fucking tooth from your mouth," he said.

A whip lashed out, wrapped around his wrist, and held his hand back.

"Enough!" Leyla barked. "Leave her face pretty. The crowds love a pretty face. Fight's over."

Atalia struggled to her feet, grunting. Her injuries hurt, but worse was the shame. Every other gladiator looked at her, smirking. A few spat her way. The woman with the red braids reached out to pat Atalia's cheek; Atalia shoved her hand away.

"Some soldier," a man muttered.

Atalia lifted her fallen sword. She wiped blood off her forehead.

"Next!" she shouted. "Somebody else, fight me!"

As a gladiatrix approached—the woman with red braids—Atalia launched back into battle.

For hours she fought, gladiator after gladiator, suffering bruises and cuts, defeating some, losing to others. She panted and spat out blood, but still she battled, because someday soon she would be in the arena again.

And I will survive that day, Atalia vowed, swinging her training sword against an opponent. I will survive until I get another chance, Tirus. Until I meet you again, Seneca. And then I will kill you.

As Atalia swung her blade, she was not fighting the gladiators, was not standing in a courtyard. She was fighting Tirus. She was fighting Seneca. She was fighting Claudia. She was fighting every Aelarian in the legions. She no longer wore scale armor, no longer fought in Gefen—but she was still a soldier of Zohar, and she still fought for the lions.

MAYA

She hung from the chains, only her toes grazing the floor. Beams of dusty light fell through the window, illuminating a stone floor, empty alcoves in the walls, and a dead cat in the corner. Somebody's home, perhaps. Or maybe the workshop of a scribe. Whoever had once lived or worked here had been cast out, and now chains hung from the ceiling, tugging at Maya's arms, nearly pulling bones from sockets. Her joints creaked as she hung.

I walked across the desert.

The wounds the legionaries had given her blazed on her back. Welts rose there, bleeding. Her skin hung in tatters. She could heal herself, she knew. She could end this pain. Yet she dared not summon the light.

I found a house of Luminosity.

The sun set, and darkness filled the chamber, and screams rose in the distance, and still Maya hung here, toes on the floor, arms twisted.

In the beginning there was light. And in the end there is darkness.

The sun rose, and the dust danced in the sunbeams, and Maya hung here, her dried blood on the floor, until the door opened and she entered the chamber.

Claudia Valerius wore the armor of a commander in the legions. A breastplate engraved with a golden eagle. Pteruges that hung down to her knees and a crimson cloak. Vambraces on her forearms and greaves over the straps of her sandals. A gladius hung at her side, and she held a spear. Maya knew Claudia well, had grown up with her, remembered a young woman in silks and gold, her hair perfectly coiffed, her lips always smiling. Before her stood a killer of the Empire, her hands stained with blood.

Claudia stepped closer, tilted her head, and her eyes softened.

"Maya Sela." She caressed Maya's cheek. "Look what they've done to you."

Maya said nothing.

"They say you're a lumer now," said Claudia. "They say you can heal the wounded, even resurrect the dead. And yet the whip has stripped the skin off your back, and you are powerless to heal it." She snickered. "Funny how the rats lie."

"We welcomed you," Maya whispered, finally looking into Claudia's eyes. "Into our home. Into our nation. You were born in Gefen. We played together as children. You broke bread at our table. We loved you. We—"

Claudia backhanded her, sneering, eyes wild. Blood splattered.

"Liar! I was never one of you." She grabbed Maya's cheeks. "You never let me forget that. When Seneca sailed into your port, when you should have kissed his feet in gratitude for letting you join our civilization, you spat on him. On us. On me. I was never one of you rats. I've always been an eagle."

"Then we failed," Maya whispered. "We failed to show you kindness. To show you light. I'm sorry."

Claudia laughed. "You'll be sorrier once I cut out your entrails. Did you not think, when coming into this city, that I wouldn't recognize you? You—the pampered little girl Shiloh expelled from her cunt, the girl who always scorned me, who read her little scrolls and scribbled her little words while her brother fucked me? Oh yes, Maya. I remember it all. I remember you all very well. We're going to see your brother now, Maya. You and I. And you're going to use your little magic tricks, and you're going to topple the walls around the Mount of Cedars. And maybe, just maybe, I will let you live out the rest of your miserable life."

Maya shook her head. "I will no longer use my Luminosity. I . . ." She lowered her head, and tears flowed into the cut on her cheek. "I once sought to be a lumer, but I became too strong. I used too much. The light burned me, cast too many shadows. I will not do what you ask. I will not betray my brother."

Claudia screamed. She hit Maya again. Again. She rattled the teeth in her jaw and splattered her blood against the floor.

"Use your light!" she shouted. "Heal yourself! Summon that fucking demon of yours to tear open the Mount's walls!"

Yet Maya would not, not even as her blood dripped, as she gasped for ragged breaths. She had summoned a life back from death. She had opened her portal to grace. Should she summon more lume, she did not think she could control it, tame it. Too many shadows. Too many dead.

"I cannot," Maya whispered.

Claudia sneered and grabbed her hair. "Then we will find other ways to open the gates to the Mount. Ways that you will find far less pleasant." She unchained Maya. "Come with me."

Maya fell to her knees, bloodying them on the floor. Her arms screamed in protest, and her hands blazed as blood flowed back into them. But Claudia would give her no rest. She dragged Maya through the door, out into a courtyard between brick walls. Several legionaries awaited there in the shade of a palm tree. A cross leaned against the wall, carved of cedar.

"This is your burden to bear," Claudia said. She stroked Maya's hair. "Bear it well."

I sought light by the sea.

Maya walked down the street, cross on her whipped back, legs twisting, bleeding, as Claudia laughed and rode her horse.

I entered a gate of myth and tears.

Maya fell, and the whip lashed her, and they pulled her to her feet. She walked on, and all the while the legionaries jeered, laughed, mocked her, pelted her with stones.

"Princess of Rats!"

"Rebel to Aelar!"

"Demon fucker!"

I brought healing to the hurt.

Maya fell on a pebbly path. She shivered as Claudia wiped off the blood, poured water into her mouth, soothed her, kissed her bloody brow, and pulled her to her feet again.

I loved. I was wrapped in warmth.

Bearing her cross, rasping for air, she walked toward the Valley of Ashes in the shadow of the Mount. But in her mind, Maya was walking again on the hills outside her home. The sea whispered in the distance, and the carob and almond trees bloomed around her, and the turtledoves sang. Her family was with her. Smiling. Loving her.

"I love you," she whispered. "I love you always."

The legions took her to the center of the valley. A thousand years ago, in this place, idolaters would sacrifice their children in a bronze bull. Many people of the city gathered around the valley, watching her, silent, scared. Above rose the fortified wall of the Mount of Cedars, and in the distance shone the Temple.

Gold and rust, Maya thought. Marble and sand. Soon the pain will end.

Claudia sat on her horse, drew her sword, and pointed the blade skyward.

"We've captured a rebel to the Empire!" she cried. "We've captured Maya, Princess of Rats! She who fucks demons! She whose own brother defies us!" She turned toward the Mount. "Do you hear me, Epher? Look! Look upon us from your tower! See what your pride has done!"

Maya thought that she saw him—there on the distant wall. Thought that she heard him cry out to her.

"Maya! Maya!"

But the gates to the Mount did not open.

"Will you hide as a coward, Epher?" Claudia shouted. "Will you hide as I nail your sister onto the cross?"

The Mount's defenders lined its battlements. Silent. From this distance, it seemed to Maya that they looked away, and she could no longer see her brother.

"Keep them safe, Epher," Maya whispered, blood in her shattered mouth. "Remember what I told you."

Claudia spun her horse back toward her. She dismounted and approached Maya, lips peeled back, eyes wild.

"I never got to see your father crucified," Claudia said. "I'm going to savor every moment of this."

The legionaries pulled down the cross, and they laid Maya upon it.

She looked up into the sky, and she smiled tremulously, because they had not all fled. A single dove flew above her, a single remnant of hope, of peace. She watched the bird as the legionaries grabbed her arms, twisted, and dislocated her shoulders. She watched the bird as the nails drove into her hands, then into her feet. She heard its distant warble as the cross rose, as she hung upon it in the valley.

She thought she could hear a distant cry. Somebody calling her name. All around they watched her, the thousands, the millions, the people of Beth Eloh of past and present, ancient prophets and pilgrims and kings, and her mother smiled, and Maya ran along the beach by her home, and she laughed with her siblings, and she ran into her father's arms.

I could have run, she knew, hanging from the cross, her blood flowing down to the soil. I could have crossed the desert. I could have sought hope in the wilderness.

All around her, the raw lume became visible to her eyes for the first time, rising, falling like sheets of rain, a painting woven of grace.

But I remained. She watched the beauty before her. Because I'm a daughter of Luminosity. And I'm a daughter of Zohar. And I'm like a cyclamen that grows only by stones. In the open, far from my home, I would wither, and I would be a shell of myself, until the hunger and want for the lume would carve me up, leave me hollow. But here I am with Eloh. Here I am at home. Here I am who I was meant to be. Here the shadows I cast will fade, and I will be only light.

"Maya!" A figure ran across the valley, her dress fluttering, her hair long and dark. "Maya!"

Abishag ran up to her. The girl fell to her knees by the cross, weeping.

"Look away, Abishag," Maya whispered, able to speak no louder. "Don't remember me like this. But remember this, Abishag: Whatever dark paths you tread, I'll be with you. I love you."

The curtains of light fell all around, and the world faded into a haze. The stars emerged, and the sun rose, and the sun set, and all the land breathed, and all in the world was as it should be. All kingdoms, all empires, all dynasties—all were like flowers rising from the desert, blooming for a day, then washing away in the rain. And the world carried on. And the world was good.

And on the third day, hanging from her cross, Maya heard a voice in the light, and she felt love envelope her, a sad love, a love that wept for the pain upon the earth.

"Are you him?" Maya whispered. "Are you Eloh?"

But that was a word men had given the light. That word had no meaning to this grace.

You may rest now, Maya, rose the voice. Your pain has ended. Your path has led you to me.

"I cannot rest," she said. "I cannot join you. Not before you answer my prayer."

I know what you would ask, said the light. That path is one of many hardships, of much pain.

Maya nodded. "All paths are laden with hardship. And yet we walk them. When I gazed into the light, I saw many paths, many kingdoms rise and fall and fade to sand. Do not let that be Zohar's fate. Let Zohar stand eternal. Let this kingdom remain forever a light unto the world."

Every light must cast a shadow. The voice sounded sad. And Zohar is a nation of light, risen around the Mount where the lume flows. Every child of Zohar carries a piece of light within them. Every light must cast a shadow. Should Zohar live, forever would her path be paved with darkness. Wherever the children of Zohar go, this demon will follow. Every light must cast a shadow. Would it not be better to let Zohar fade into the sand?

"No," said Maya. "Because a life of light and shadows is better than the darkness of death. Shadows are not darkness; they can only exist because we shine a light. Let Zohar keep walking this path, and let her keep casting her light. Her pain, her grief, the demons that haunt her—they will forever plague the people whom I love. But Zohar's light will forever bless this world. Let us suffer so that other nations bask in light."

It seemed to Maya that Eloh wept. There was no form to gaze upon. No body to hold, no eyes to cry. And yet there was grief. There was eternal sadness, but thus there was also joy, for both were sides of one coin. And Maya knew that this prayer would be answered, that in her death—her death here in the heart of luminescence, not of old age in some distant land—she had saved her nation. She had doomed them to endless toils, to long and coiling paths, but given them life. She had given them love.

The light fell all around Maya like rain, fading to a haze, then a glow like a distant dawn after a storm. And then there was nothing. And the world carried on. And the world was good.

EPHER

His world shattered.

All hope, all light faded.

Maya.

"Maya!" Epher cried.

He tried to run to the wall. He tried to open the gate. To reach her. To see if she still lived.

They grabbed him. Olive held his arm, pulling him back. His soldiers tugged him away from the gate. And still the legions pounded at the walls. And still Epher saw it before his eyes: Maya on the cross, Claudia laughing.

He was mad with grief. He pounded his fists against the wall. He ripped his tunic. He tore out his hair. He tossed dirt onto himself until he was like an animal, wild, mindless. Finally he returned to the chamber in Tarath El, the fortress that defended the Mount of Cedars. The chamber where he had parted from her.

He stood in silence, alone.

"You could have run, Maya," he whispered, gazing at the bed where she had sat. "You could have fled across the desert or sea. Why did you return to us?"

For a long time, Epher had raged. Raged at Claudia, the woman he had loved. The woman who had murdered his sister. But now no more fury remained. Only mourning. Only tears.

He was sitting on the bed, silent, listening to the sounds of battle, when Olive stepped into the room. She still wore her armor. Since retreating into the Mount of Cedars several days ago, the defenders had taken shifts between fighting and sleeping. His wife was beautiful. She was so beautiful that it hurt him. When she pulled off her helmet, her red hair was damp with sweat, stained with ash. Grime and specks of blood covered her face, hiding the pale skin and freckles. Weariness filled her green eyes, but courage too. Love for him. A deep joy that even this war could not crush. So long as Olive lived in this world, there was goodness in it. There was goodness in his life.

Olive sat beside him, and Epher embraced her, and though she brought him joy, he knew that this grief—the loss of his parents, his sister, his city—would never leave him.

"I can't believe she's gone," he said.

Olive caressed his cheek. "I'm sorry, Epher." Her eyes hardened. "We will avenge her."

But Epher didn't want revenge, didn't want to feel more rage, more despair, didn't want to become a beast again.

He wanted to go home.

He wanted to see his family again.

He wanted to wake up back in the villa on Pine Hill, to see the ivy crawling between the window shutters, to realize this had all been a dream.

How could this be real? How could things have come to this?

He kissed Olive, and he pulled off her armor and stained tunic, and she lay on her back. He mounted her, thrust in too quickly, but she moaned with pleasure, her legs wrapping around him. Their sweat mingled together. A cut on his chest opened, dripping blood, but he didn't stop. He wrapped his hands around hers, squeezing, pinning her down, taking her wildly, madly, fully. Her eyes were closed, and she moaned, head tossed back, but Epher was back in the battle. Killing them. In the forests of Erez, fighting with Koren. In the army of Yohanan. In the alleyways of the city and on the walls as they fell.

"Epher," she whispered.

But he couldn't stop. And he wept as he fucked her, as he climaxed inside her, as he lay on his side. She lay beside him, kissing away his tears, caressing him.

"I'm with you, my husband," she whispered. "Always."

"Always," he whispered.

Yet what did "always" mean in this land where lives extinguished like candles in the rain?

They slept holding each other. In the dawn they rose, put on their armor, and returned to the wall. They stood with the last defenders and looked across Beth Eloh.

Tens of thousands of legionaries filled the streets around the Mount. In the Valley of Ashes, the cross still rose. Maya still hung upon it, finally still, finally at peace. A drumbeat began, a lone drum at first, then a hundred, then thousands of thumping spears against stones. Horns blared.

Epher swallowed and clasped Olive's hand. She moved closer to him on the wall.

Down the narrow streets they rolled: dozens of trebuchets, barrels in their slings. These were new machines of wood and steel, taller and thinner than the lumbering catapults. Claudia rode by one. She met Epher's gaze from the street below. She raised a horn to her lips, and the song rang across the city.

A hundred trebuchets fired at once. The barrels flew high, arching under the sun. They cleared the wall, then fell onto the Mount of Cedars. As each barrel burst, it scattered fire across the hillsides. The ancient cedars, olive trees, and cypresses burst into flame. The horn blared again, and more barrels slammed into the Mount. More fire raged.

"Shoot them down!" Epher shouted, unleashing an arrow.

But they were down to mere sticks topped with flint. Their sling stones were just rough rocks gathered from gardens. The projectiles cascaded harmlessly off the legionaries' armor. The fire spread behind them. Smoke rose like demons as the Mount of Cedars burned.

"I'm coming for you, Epher!" rose Claudia's voice from the battle. She laughed. "We'll be together again!"

Down the streets rolled a massive battering ram, larger than any Epher had ever seen. It moved on wheels, shaped as an eagle with an iron beak, its wings pressed to its sides as if swooping. Armored mules tugged it forth. As the ram reached the gate in the Mount's wall, the defenders pelted it with stones and sharpened sticks. Several mules cried out and fell, but the legionaries kept at their work. They tugged back the ram with winches the size of wagon wheels, then let the iron eagle fly.

It took only one blow.

One swoop of the ram, and the gate into the Mount of Cedars shattered.

The walls shook.

The legions cried out for victory.

Epher and Olive stood on the wall, clasping hands, as the wrath of Aelar flowed into the last stronghold in Zohar.

The story concludes in Echoes of Light (Kingdoms of Sand Book 6).

Click here to read the next book in the series:

DanielArenson.com/EchoesOfLight

AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading Halls of Shadow. I hope you enjoyed the novel. Want to know when I release the next Kingdoms of Sand novel?

Join my mailing list (and receive three free ebooks) at: DanielArenson.com/MailingList

I've written many novels in other series too. Find a list of them all by flipping the page.

Thank you again, dear reader, and I hope we meet again between the pages of another book.

Daniel

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

KINGDOMS OF SAND

- Kings of Ruin

- Crowns of Rust

- Thrones of Ash

- Temples of Dust

- Halls of Shadows

- Echoes of Light

THE MOTH SAGA

- Moth

- Empires of Moth

- Secrets of Moth

- Daughter of Moth

- Shadows of Moth

- Legacy of Moth

REQUIEM

- Dawn of Dragons

- Requiem's Song

- Requiem's Hope

- Requiem's Prayer

- The Complete Trilogy

- Song of Dragons

- Blood of Requiem

- Tears of Requiem

- Light of Requiem

- The Complete Trilogy

- Dragonlore

- A Dawn of Dragonfire

- A Day of Dragon Blood

- A Night of Dragon Wings

- The Complete Trilogy

- The Dragon War

- A Legacy of Light

- A Birthright of Blood

- A Memory of Fire

- The Complete Trilogy

- Requiem for Dragons

- Dragons Lost

- Dragons Reborn

- Dragons Rising

- The Complete Trilogy

- Flame for Requiem

- Forged in Dragonfire

- Crown of Dragonfire

- Pillars of Dragonfire

- The Complete Trilogy

ALIEN HUNTERS

- Alien Hunters

- Alien Sky

- Alien Shadows

OTHER WORLDS

- Eye of the Wizard

- Wand of the Witch

- Firefly Island

- The Gods of Dream

- Flaming Dove

KEEP IN TOUCH

www.DanielArenson.com

Daniel@DanielArenson.com

Facebook.com/DanielArenson

Twitter.com/DanielArenson

Table of Contents

MAP

SENECA

ATALIA

OFEER

CLAUDIA

SENECA

EPHER

KOREN

MAYA

VALENTINA

TIRUS

ATALIA

OFEER

CLAUDIA

EPHER

OFEER

MAYA

SENECA

IMANI

EPHER

MAYA

SENECA

EPHER

ATALIA

CLAUDIA

KOREN

MAYA

TIRUS

ATALIA

EPHER

MAYA

ATALIA

MAYA

EPHER

AFTERWORD

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

KEEP IN TOUCH