Crowns of Rust (Kingdoms of Sand Book 2) Read online

  CROWNS OF RUST

  KINGDOMS OF SAND BOOK 2

  by

  Daniel Arenson

  Table of Contents

  MAP

  CHAPTER ONE: OFEER

  CHAPTER TWO: SHILOH

  CHAPTER THREE: EPHER

  CHAPTER FOUR: SENECA

  CHAPTER FIVE: OFEER

  CHAPTER SIX: ATALIA

  CHAPTER SEVEN: MAYA

  CHAPTER EIGHT: EPHER

  CHAPTER NINE: OFEER

  CHAPTER TEN: KOREN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: MAYA

  CHAPTER TWELVE: SHILOH

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: ATALIA

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: VALENTINA

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: MAYA

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: ATALIA

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: EPHER

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: ATALIA

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: OFEER

  CHAPTER TWENTY: SENECA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: VALENTINA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: MAYA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: OFEER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: EPHER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: OFEER

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: SENECA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: NOA

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: KOREN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NIGHT: MAYA

  CHAPTER THIRTY: OFEER

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: SENECA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: VALENTINA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: SEPTIMUS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: OFEER

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: SEPTIMUS

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: PORCIA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: VALENTINA

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: EPHER

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: SENECA

  CHAPTER FORTY: MAYA

  AFTERWORD

  NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

  KEEP IN TOUCH

  Full-sized map: DanielArenson.com/Map

  OFEER

  On a warm spring morning, the birds singing and the flowers blooming, Ofeer stepped into the gardens to pull her father's corpse off the cross.

  Jerael Sela, Lord of the Coast, hung there outside his villa, overlooking the hills and distant sea. The legionaries had dislocated his arms, twisting them like wet rags before nailing the palms into the wood. Three days in the sun had done the rest. Blood dripped down the ravaged body, and the crows were still working at the flesh, tugging off strips, burrowing down to bones. The eyes were already gone.

  For three days and nights, Ofeer had heard it. For three days and nights, she had remained in the villa, lying in Jerael's own bed, letting Seneca—the man who had crucified him—fuck her over and over as Jerael moaned outside, as Seneca moaned above her, as the crows cawed, as the legionaries jeered. For three days, Ofeer had felt crucified herself, pinned to that bed, pinned under Prince Seneca, her half brother, pinned under all her guilt, her misery, her drunken stupor. And on this fourth dawn, his moans had died, and Ofeer had emerged from a state like death, come here into the garden to bury the only father she had ever known.

  She stared at the corpse. It reminded Ofeer of the dog she had seen roaming these hills. By Eloh, it hadn't even been a month ago; it felt like a lifetime. The cur too had withered, rotted, dying for days before Seneca had put an arrow in its head. That had been the day this had all started, the day the Aelarians had come into their lives, the day the Sela family had shattered like their nation, like this body on the cross.

  Ofeer's eyes dampened. She padded closer, hesitantly, the dewy grass squelching under her bare feet. Suddenly a great fear filled her that Jerael was still alive, that when she approached, he would moan, turn those empty eye sockets toward her, speak in a raspy voice, accusing her.

  Your fault. Your fault. Traitor. Traitor.

  Yet he simply hung there, and the only movement came from a crow that still stood on his shoulder, pecking at skin.

  "Shoo!" Ofeer blurted out, and tears fled her eyes. "Shoo!"

  She lifted a stone and tossed it, missing the bird, but it was enough to send it fleeing. As the crow flew, it glared down at her, cawing.

  Caw, caw! was the sound, but Ofeer heard other words. Traitor. Traitor.

  She trembled as she stood before the dead man on the cross, then fell to her knees.

  "Father," she whispered. "Father, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

  Of course, Jerael was not her true father, not her father in blood. It had been Marcus Octavius, Emperor of Aelar, who had raped her mother in the war, who had planted Ofeer into her belly. For all her eighteen years, it seemed, Ofeer had railed against Jerael—against this man who had raised her, had loved her, had seen her as a true daughter.

  "I betrayed you," she whispered, her tears salty on her lips. "I joined the invaders of Aelar. I watched them kill, destroy. And only now can I call you 'Father.'"

  It was slow work, pulling Jerael free from the cross. A few men of the Magisterian Guard, who had been standing around the garden, approached to aid Ofeer. Perhaps some pity did fill their hearts, hidden deep within layers of iron armor and the iron will drilled into the soldiers of Aelar. Yet the grave Ofeer dug on her own. This was work she would allow no Aelarian to perform. Jerael had raised her, had called her "daughter," and she owed him this. A last honor. A last plea for redemption.

  "I'm not a Sela by blood," she whispered, digging the grave. "But I am by name. A name you let me bear. No foreign invaders will profane your final rest. It's your daughter who lays you down."

  Ofeer did not know how long it took to dig, perhaps just an hour, perhaps most of the day. She worked in silence, sweat dampening her cotton dress. She buried him under the pomegranate tree that he had loved, in view of the coast below that he had ruled. She rolled a boulder toward the grave, a makeshift tombstone, and she carved his name upon it, and gently she uprooted and replanted cyclamens upon his grave.

  Beside the grave of Jerael Sela rose a smaller tombstone, an older grave. Here, in view of the sea, rested Mica Sela, Ofeer's younger brother. She still remembered the day he had died—the same day he had been born. Twelve years had passed, and now father and son lay side by side.

  Ofeer looked away from the graves and gazed west. Past fields and vineyards lay the city of Gefen, and beyond it the sea. Even from here on Pine Hill, she could make out the foam on the waves, white lines upon the green water. The distant scent of salt filled her nostrils, and Ofeer remembered those days long ago, before the rage and pain of youth had filled her. Days when she and her family would ride their horses down to the sea, run along the sand, collect seashells, bathe, laugh. The boys and Atalia always went diving underwater, seeking sunken coins, and Ofeer would be so afraid that they would drown, so afraid to lose them.

  And now our family is broken, she thought. Now two among us are dead, and the others are lost.

  Mother and Maya—caught in the war in the east, perhaps trapped in Beth Eloh, the capital city on the mountain where Porcia Octavius fought. Koren and Atalia—slaves in chains, trapped in the bowels of those Aelarian ships that still anchored in the harbor. Epher—missing in the north, perhaps dead. Jerael and Mica—buried here at her feet.

  And me, Ofeer thought, the wind blowing her long black hair. A lost woman.

  For so many years, through the bitter days and wild nights of her youth, Ofeer had wandered along the port. Drinking. Gambling. Crying. Fucking. Dreaming. Gazing across the sea, praying to someday reach the land of Aelar. To join her true father there. To leave Zohar—this land she had thought so backward, so stifling—far behind, lost in distance and memory.

  "Who am I now?" she whispered, gazing toward that sea again. "Where is my home and who do I serve?"

&n
bsp; Hers was the blood of both eagles and lions, and she did not know.

  "So the bugger finally died." The voice rose behind her. "About time. The son of a whore's groans were keeping me up at night."

  Ofeer turned around. Her childhood home rose before her, shaded by pines and cypresses. The villa was built of pale sandstone, the doorframe painted azure, the windowsills blooming with flowers. The house where she had grown up. The house from which the Sela family had ruled over the port for generations. The house that now belonged to the conquerors from Aelar.

  Prince Seneca stood in the doorway, dressed in a deep purple toga lined with gold. The fabric was wrinkled and stained, hanging loose to reveal half of Seneca's chest. His face was unshaven, his eyes still blurry, and he held a goblet of wine. Since conquering Gefen four days ago, the young prince—he was only nineteen, a year older than her—had been celebrating his victory in an orgy of booze, music, crucifixions, and sex. He had invaded this land clad in iron and gold, every one of his brown hairs perfectly combed. War had left him looking like a different man, a decade aged.

  There was more than drunkenness in his eyes, Ofeer saw, gazing into them. There was haunting fear. He had seen things in battle he could not forget. And Ofeer knew then that the wine, the sex, the torture and death of Jerael—those had not been to celebrate his victory but to forget it.

  She nodded. "Lord Jerael Sela is now at peace."

  "Lord Jerael?" Seneca scoffed and stumbled across the garden, pausing to gulp more wine. "No, Ofeer, my sweet beauty of the east. He was no more a lord than a pig is king of a sty. He hurt you. All these years he hurt you." He reached out to stroke her hair, his fingers rough, his eyes red. "He can no longer hurt you. Nobody will hurt you again."

  Sudden rage flared in Ofeer. For too long, she had allowed this. Allowed him to stroke her, to fuck her, to toy with her, to lie to her. She shoved his hand away.

  "I begged you for his life," she hissed. "I did not ask for this. Do not dare pin this on me."

  Yet even as she spoke those words, Jerael's blood stained her hands. She had run from Jerael when he had needed her most. She had joined those besieging his city. She had entered the bed of Seneca, the man who had murdered him. Did she truly think that burying Jerael, that lashing out against Seneca, could cleanse her soul? No. Ofeer gazed down at her hands, at the dirt and dried flecks of blood, and she knew that she could never clean them.

  She expected Seneca to rage at this, perhaps even to strike her. But instead his eyes softened, and he took her hands in his.

  "Your heart is gentle," he said. "And death is such a terrible thing when you first behold it. I'm a great warrior, and I've slain many men, and my heart is hardened. I often forget how traumatic death can be to those young and soft." He winced. "The way the guts hang from sliced bellies. The way the crows peck at the eyes. The stench of it. Gods, the stench of blood and shit and rotting flesh. You never hear about those in the great epics. You never see those from the high seats in an amphitheater. But here . . ."

  Again his eyes took on that haunted look, staring beyond her, staring parsa'ot away, and Ofeer knew that he wasn't talking about her.

  "You poor, proud, stupid boy," she whispered. "You have no idea, do you?"

  He had no idea what war meant. He had no idea that they shared a father. He had no idea that all those times in his tent, in her mother's bed, he had lain with his half sister. He had no idea that she scorned him, that she was afraid—perhaps not even that he himself was afraid.

  And I'm just as foolish as he is.

  Seneca drained his goblet and tossed it aside. "You grow bold, Ofeer. And I like that. I have no use for meek women. The meek die in this world. The meek are worms for us rulers to stomp on. I conquered the coast of Zohar for the glory of Aelar, but my conquest is not complete." He turned to stare toward the eastern hills. They spread for parsa'ot, leafy with pines and wild grass. "There are mountains east of here. Jagged dry mountains that guard the desert. And on them rises a city called Beth Eloh, the capital of this kingdom. The spring whence lume flows. We head there now, Ofeer. All three legions. My sister will already be there, bloodying her forces while ours prepare for glory. Once I conquer the capital, my father will name me his heir." He grabbed Ofeer's arm and bared his teeth, and a wild light burned in his eyes. "And you will be my concubine, my pet of the east, a dark beauty for all the lords and ladies of Aelar to see and desire. They will envy me for my prize."

  She let him hold her arm. She let him brag, let him sneer. She stared into his eyes, lips tight.

  I am your sister. I too am a child of Marcus Octavius. I will not be a war trophy for you, Seneca. I will talk to the emperor. I will demand his surname. And I will be a princess of an empire.

  Movement caught her eye. She stared over Seneca's shoulder, back toward the eastern hills, and squinted.

  Horses. A hundred horses or more came galloping toward them, their riders raising the eagle standards of Aelar.

  Seneca turned to stare too, and his face paled.

  "Porcia," he whispered.

  SHILOH

  The rider came at dawn, coated with dust and sweat and blood, to tell her of her family's ruin.

  The day was sweltering, even this early. The sun lashed Beth Eloh with a fury, like a second invader, determined to burn the city down. Across the cobbled streets that snaked between brick homes, the people scurried from shadow to shadow, finding some relief beneath the awnings of shops or palm tree fronds. Hundreds crowded around the city wells, and many children wandered the streets, leading donkeys laden with gourds full of water, selling sips for copper coins. Even the legionaries who stood across the city, guarding gates and courtyards, slumped in the heat, their armor searing and reflecting the sun.

  It's too early for this heat, Shiloh thought, standing outside the palace and gazing at the city. Too early for this ruin. Too early for me to lose my daughter.

  With trembling hands, she unfolded the papyrus, read the letter again. She had read this letter over and over all day, weeping at first, but since then her eyes had gone dry. A letter from Maya. From her sweetest child.

  Zohar can no longer be a home to me.

  Shiloh had read those words so many times they lost meaning.

  I must walk the paths that Luminosity lays out before me, paths of light through shadow. Where they take me, I don't know. I only know that tonight is farewell. That tonight I must part from the woman I love most in the world. From my mother.

  Words that cut Shiloh like a blade in darkness, carving out all that she was, that she had been, that she could hope to be. Words cruel like a dagger of dull iron.

  You are my light in the darkness. You are the beacon of my soul. You are always the prayer on my lips, my guiding star. I love you always, with all my heart, no matter where I go.

  Shiloh folded the papyrus. She walked across the courtyard of smooth flagstones. The palace of Zohar rose at her side, soaring into the blinding white sky, its columns surrounding its dome. When she reached the eastern balustrade, she stared into the desert, and the sandy wind stung her face.

  "Are you out there, Maya?" she whispered. "Please come back. I won't scold you. I won't be angry. I just want you back here. Please."

  Footfalls sounded behind her, and Shiloh turned to see Prince Shefael walking toward her. She supposed he was King Shefael now—King of Zohar, puppet of Aelar. He still wore his royal raiment—an ultramarine tunic, fine leather sandals, and a lavender cloak pinned with a pomegranate fibula. A crown of gold rested upon his head, and many rings gleamed on his fingers. The scrawny boy Shiloh had known had grown into a heavyset, bearded man, fattened on feasts and wine during a siege that had seen his people dwindle to skin and bones.

  And yet, despite his kingly appearance, his old soldiers—men of Zohar, clad in scales, sickle swords upon their thighs—guarded him no more. Legionaries now marched alongside Shefael, men of Aelar. They wore lorica segmentata across their torsos, while strips of bolted leather hu
ng down to their knees. Red crests flared from their helms. To these guards, Shefael was more prisoner than king.

  "Aunt Shiloh." When Shefael finally reached her, his face was red, his breath heavy, and he held her with moist hands. "I've sent out four hundred riders. They scour the land in all the directions of the wind. We'll find Maya. I promise you."

  Shiloh stared at her nephew. The boy who had once picked a hundred figs from the tree in her garden, gorging himself until he had thrown up. The prince who, they said, had forged a letter from his mother—Shiloh's own sister—naming himself heir to Zohar. The man who had let the Aelarians butcher his brother, who had let the enemy into this very city.

  A fool, Shiloh thought. A traitor. And perhaps the only man who can find my daughter.

  "I should be out there," she whispered. "Searching with them."

  Shefael shook his head. "No. We've discussed this. I need you here, with me. I need your wisdom." He looked downhill at the city streets, where thousands of legionaries stood. He leaned closer to Shiloh, dropping his voice so that his guards could not hear. "I don't know when this army will leave, Aunt. Sometimes I think they'll stay forever."

  Yes, she thought. A fool. But a fool who shares my blood. Who now rules Zohar. Who now serves Emperor Marcus Octavius, the man who raped me, the man who will rape this kingdom if I cannot pull my nephew's strings as well.

  Shiloh had sailed around the Encircled Sea with her husband years ago, when no pale hairs had silvered her braid, when no crow's feet had tugged at her eyes. She had sailed by kingdoms like Nur, provinces that survived as they paid tribute to their masters, as they accepted the chains of Aelar. And she had sailed by coasts where cities lay in ruin, where bones baked in the sun, where millions had perished, where the eagles of Aelar had not been appeased with enough meat to guzzle.

  If the price of our life—life for Maya when she's found, life for my family, life for all in Zohar—is a foolish client king, then we must pay this price. For all other roads lead to bones and fallen halls.