Kings of Ruin (Kingdoms of Sand Book 1) Page 5

  There on the eastern hills Shiloh saw them: her youngest daughters, walking with the Prince of Aelar and his guards, armored legionaries like those who had cut down Shiloh's brothers.

  "We're back from the hunt!" Prince Seneca announced, carrying freshly killed game. "Caught us three goats and two bitches."

  The prince's laughter rolled across the hills, and Shiloh could only hear those old screams.

  JERAEL

  They met in the dining hall of his home—his men-at-arms, his wife, his children, and thirteen men of Aelar clad for war.

  This had always been Jerael's favorite room in the villa, a place of warmth, of fond memories, of family and prayer. The villa was large, and he was wealthy, but here was a humble room, almost rustic. The walls were painted an earthy beige, adorned with clay pomegranates—ancient symbols of Zohar, some said more ancient than the lion—painted blue, red, and gold, the works of his children in their childhoods. A mezzanine rose above, spanning the second floor, the place where his children had performed countless plays for adoring parents below. A painting dominated one wall, as large as the dinner table, depicting elephants traveling through the wilderness.

  This room was always steeped with memory. Festivals of Light, the family lighting candles in seashell holders, worshiping Eloh, the god of light. Harvest fairs, the table overflowing with baskets of grapes, fresh figs, persimmons, and sheaves of wheat. Simple evenings with his family, praying from the Book of Light, eating bread and butter and fried fish from the Encircled Sea. Long nights of grief too, mourning those who had fallen in the old war, praying for the ill, and one night—long ago—crying out in pain at the loss of his child, his youngest son, his sweet Mica, who had lived for but a single day.

  Jerael's life, his joy, his pain, his love—here in this room, at this table.

  And now—the eagles in this room, the enemy who had slain thousands of his men, who had shattered his fleet, shattered his family—here at this table where they had healed.

  Prince Seneca sat at the head of the table, and his soldiers stood behind him. The Aelarian boy—only nineteen, same age as Atalia—raised a clay cup and sipped the crimson wine. His face twisted, and he spat.

  "Pig piss." Seneca tossed the cup down, shattering it against the floor. The wine spread and ran in the grooves between the mosaic tiles. "I haven't sailed for eighteen days to drink pig piss. Haven't you got any proper wine in this wasteland?"

  The prince's soldiers stood stiffly behind him, clutching their spears, faces blank, and not a snicker rose from them. They were tall men, taller than most Zoharites, clean-shaven. Iron strips formed their armor, and their helmets sprouted bristly red crests. At the other side of the chamber, Jerael's own men—guards of the villa—exchanged dark looks. These men wore iron scales, no gold or silver adorned their armor, and beards hid their cheeks. Their hands strayed toward the hilts of their swords, and Jerael could taste the hatred in the air, could smell it, hot and metallic, a cauldron ready to overflow.

  "We have Aelarian vintages in our cellar," Jerael said to the prince. "I thought that, when visiting the east, you would care for a new taste. Though if our Zoharite wine offends you, my servants would be glad to offer you a taste of home."

  "A new taste?" Seneca smirked and glanced at Ofeer, who sat at the table between her sisters. "I've tasted enough of this land." He waved at a servant. "You, fetch us new wine! Good, strong wine from Aelar, thick and deep red. From the vineyards of Polonia, if you've got it."

  The servant, an elder named Eloperetz who had been serving the Selas for decades, bowed his head and spoke in flawless Aelarian. "Yes, dominus. My pleasure." He turned and left the chamber.

  For a few moments, with the goats still cooking in the kitchen and the Aelarians not yet drinking, an uncomfortable silence filled the dining room. No, not silence, Jerael decided; they spoke with a hundred subtle sounds. The scale armor of his men-at-arms chinked as they shifted their weight, well balanced on their feet and ready to leap into battle, even here within the home of their master. A soldier herself, Atalia sat at the table, looking far more uncomfortable in her cotton dress than she ever did in armor, her breath hissing as she kept glancing at the breadknife on the tabletop. Ofeer, graceful and quick while Atalia was strong and fast, kept smirking and glancing toward the prince.

  I've tasted enough of this land.

  The prince's words echoed in Jerael's mind and brought bile to his throat. He did not know if Seneca had touched Ofeer, but the two certainly exchanged enough looks at the table.

  Rage simmered inside Jerael, an old fire that crackled with new kindling. Nineteen years ago, with his fleet burning and thousands of his soldiers dead, Jerael had wanted to refuse to surrender, to reject Marcus's terms, to fall back with his wife to Beth Eloh, to fight on.

  But he had my sons. Jerael's hands closed into fists under the table. He had Epher and Koren, and he would release them . . . in exchange for a night with my wife.

  And now that general was emperor. And now Marcus's son stood here in Jerael's house, a young man with eyes just as cruel, with lips just as sharp, with the same armor, the same blade, the same malice.

  Jerael stared across the table at the boy. Prince Seneca Octavius was only a year older than Ofeer. While Ofeer had been born with blood and tears, the child of war, Seneca had been born in splendor, his birth celebrated across the Empire—a child of victory. The prince wore that splendor upon his person. Golden filigree adorned his iron armor, jewels shone on his sword's hilt, and a diamond-studded eagle held his cloak. The boy's face was pale, soft, almost pouty, the hair light brown, the eyes flecked with gold. Jerael struggled to curb the terrible, wonderful fantasy of driving his sword into that face.

  Finally it was Atalia who could stand the silence no longer. The young woman leaped to her feet, clutching her butter knife like a sword. Sweat gleamed on her dark skin, and her black, chin-length hair clung to her damp cheeks. Her eyes flashed.

  "Why are you here?" Atalia bared her teeth like a rabid dog. "You didn't come to Zohar to hunt goats, drink wine, and stare at my sister's tits. What do you want?"

  Jerael cursed and prepared to grab his sword from the wall, expecting bloodshed. But Prince Seneca only stared at Atalia as one would stare at a growling pup. He was no taller than Atalia and doubtfully stronger, and if the two were fighting in an Aelarian arena, Jerael would have put his coin on Atalia without a moment's hesitation. Yet Seneca laughed.

  "See how the pomegranate shows its thorns!" he said, looking over his shoulder at his guards.

  "Pomegranates have no thorns," Atalia said. "You're thinking of a rose, a dainty flower. I'm no rose, Prince Seneca. Do not let my dress fool you. I'm a desert lioness, defender of my people. You might sit at our table, but you are an invader." She clutched her knife tighter. "State your purpose here, or I'll gut you like a fish."

  "Atalia, enough!" Jerael said. He leaned forward, grabbed his daughter's wrist, and tugged the knife free. "Sit down. Prince Seneca is a guest in our home. Have you forgotten Zoharite hospitality?"

  Atalia hawked and prepared to spit. At a glare from Jerael, she grumbled, swallowed, and sat down. She clutched the edges of her seat, fuming.

  "Better put a muzzle on that one, Sela." Seneca stared at the woman with a mixture of disgust and fascination. "We could use a brute like her in the Aelarian Arena. Ship her overseas, and I'll have her fighting lions and tigers within a month."

  Atalia opened her mouth, about to say more, but another glare from Jerael left her simmering in silence. Across the dining room, all were preparing for battle. Epher kept glancing toward the back door; the corridor beyond led to the armory. Even Koren, almost always grinning and laughing, stared around with narrowed eyes, lips a tight line. Maya, the youngest, seemed close to tears, her lips trembling. Only Ofeer was smiling thinly, sitting straight in her chair, chin raised, apparently loving every moment.

  This is not the right way to begin negotiations. Jerael had to force himself to r
emain calm, to hide the turmoil inside him. Perhaps he had been wrong to allow his children here. He had thought them old enough—even Maya, his youngest, was already fifteen, a grown woman by the laws of Zohar—yet now they all seemed too young to him, inexperienced, unable to handle this rising tide.

  Yet I wasn't much older than Epher when Aelar first attacked us, Jerael thought, gazing at his firstborn son. He'll have to learn to hold back the eagle that rises. They all will.

  Zohar was an ancient kingdom. For three thousand years, the Zoharites had lived between Beth Eloh in the desert and Gefen on the coast. They had survived many wars, had clung to their belief in Eloh, to their tongue, their songs, their ancient glory. Yet now a young empire rose, threatening to swallow the Encircled Sea. Now only Zohar remained free, clinging to the last fragment of the coast.

  We took arms once against Aelar, he thought, and we lost so much. We cannot hold back the eagle with blades and arrows, but perhaps we can appease him with wine, with goats to hunt, with tributes of lumers. Perhaps we can be as the reed, bending under the storm, while so many trees around us crack.

  "Ah, here comes the wine!" Prince Seneca said. "Bring it here, slave."

  White-haired Eloperetz stepped forth, carrying a jug of Aelarian wine. "I am but a humble servant of Sela and God, my prince. There are no more slaves in Zohar."

  Seneca snorted. "No slaves? Then who do you feed to the lions?"

  "We've not seen a lion in Zohar in years," replied the old man.

  "Probably because you have no slaves to feed to them. Now let's taste this wine from home. Pour it here." Seneca held out his cup, then drank. "Ah, now this is proper wine! Good. Earthy. Not the pig piss you Zoharites drink."

  Jerael saw Koren smirk, and he glared at his son. All the Sela children knew the truth: they had no Aelarian wine in their cellars, only the same Zoharite vintage.

  The hunted goats were served next, prepared by Jerael's cook in Zoharite style. Skewers held chunks of the meat, steaming hot, and the scent of garlic, lemon juice, cumin, and coriander tickled the nostrils. The dripping skewers rested on piles of bulgur mixed with pine nuts, mushrooms, and chickpeas. In silver dishes, Eloperetz served olives dripping with oil, fried eggplants, yogurt garnished with honey, and fig cakes. Fresh flatbreads steamed, topped with olive oil, oregano, and thyme. They all ate. Even Seneca, for all his mockery of the wine, feasted with gusto.

  If we cannot hold back the tide, Jerael thought, the Aelarians will consume us all. They will devour all the meat and milk of this land. They will take our women as their slaves. They will live in our homes, and they will ransack our temples, and Zohar will be but an engraving on some triumphal archway in Aelar, celebrating our fall.

  Atalia was young and fierce, and she believed that wars were won with blade and arrow. But Jerael was older and perhaps wiser, and he knew that the mouse defeated the eagle not with its claws but by, perhaps, offering a sweeter meal.

  "Fine fare." Seneca grabbed another skewer of steaming goat. "Of course, it tastes like sawdust compared to the feasts of Aelar, but a fine offering for barbarians."

  Atalia fumed again, hand trembling around her fork.

  Jerael only nodded, refusing to show his anger. "We're proud of our hospitality in Zohar. In our nomadic days, three thousand years ago, when we still lived in desert tribes, we Zoharites would proudly open our tents to any wanderers seeking shade, a meal, and water to wash their feet. We've since spread to the coast, but we still remember our desert hospitality."

  "Ah, the coast!" said Seneca. "Premium location, a scrap of beach along the Encircled Sea, isn't it? Kingdoms battle. Armies clash. Empires rise. All squabbling to claim as much sand as we can—not the dry sand of the desert but the sand of the coast, as wet and precious as the port between a woman's legs." He laughed at his own joke. "Aelar has grown mighty by claiming most of the coastlands around the Encircled Sea, though there are still some who stand in our path to total dominance."

  At that, the prince laughed again, more raucously, as if telling the world's greatest joke rather than uttering a threat.

  "The port of Gefen is always open to the ships of Aelar," Jerael said. "We're proud to welcome merchants, explorers, even soldiers of mighty Aelar, and to show them all our hospitality."

  "Yes, yes." Seneca sipped his wine. "You've been proud to welcome us since my father burned your fleet. But while every cubit of coast is worth a hoard of gold, there is a greater prize, a treasure the Empire values even more than this port."

  Jerael stared at the prince across the tabletop. "Lume."

  Seneca slapped the tabletop, rattling the dishes. "Lume! Lume and those who can weave it into luminescence." He huffed. "If you ask me, lumers are as worthless as fishermen's wives who see the future in bones or the augers who study the flight of birds. The magic of women, it is. We men deal with iron, do we not, Jerael?" The prince leaned across the table, eyes strangely lit. "You've thrust your sword into the hearts of Aelarians before, haven't you?"

  Yes, I deal in iron, Jerael thought. And do not for an instant imagine that this metal—the metal that raised empires and crushed civilizations—is but a shadow under the light of Luminosity. Only women can become lumers, and they are mightier than the greatest priests or kings in our land.

  He looked at his youngest. Maya sat quietly before her plate, eating little. Her mane of black curls framed her face, and her dark eyes met his, staring solemnly. For a long time now, Jerael had known the truth. He had suspected since the child's first year, and that suspicion had only grown. He had seen the light rising from Maya's bedchamber at night, had seen the girl run to the hills to find and heal her wounded animals.

  Maya was one of the few, of the handful born in Zohar every year. A girl able to detect lume, to draw the material like bitumen drawn from the earth, to refine it into the glowing luminescence—the stuff of magic.

  The girl had begged Jerael to travel to Beth Eloh, to learn Luminosity from the mistresses in the city, and Jerael had always refused. Few lumers were born in Zohar these days; last year Zohar had sent only five to Aelar, falling short of its promised tribute of seven. Should Maya's magic be discovered, she would be slapped in chains, shoved into the bowels of a ship, and sent off to Aelar to heal their wounds, raise their temples, and foresee their future in the light.

  Jerael returned his eyes to the Aelarian prince. "We fell short of our tribute last summer, but the lume will continue to flow. Aelar will have its lumers."

  Seneca leaned back in his seat, his plate empty. He licked his knife, eyes shrewd. "Yet you, Lord Jerael Sela, do not train lumers. They're trained in Beth Eloh, a city under siege. Your old queen is dead. She was your sister-in-law, wasn't she? And now her sons squabble for power, and Zohar is kingless, torn by civil war. How does Aelar know that more lumers will arrive? Last year we received only five. Perhaps this year, with your civil war, we'll receive none. The lume must flow, Sela. We've allowed Zohar to remain independent, allowed the rats to rule the trash heap, but do not think our mercy eternal."

  Jerael bowed his head. "I will set to Beth Eloh at once. I will inform both princes of your concerns. Sooner or later, one of them will win this war, and Zohar will have a king again. And—"

  "We will not wait!" Seneca's voice was so loud Maya jumped in her seat. "This rat war has been going on for three years, and still this land remains kingless, lawless, and the lume dries up. No. My father will no longer tolerate this chaos in the desert. Zohar will have a new king." A thin, twitching smile spread across Seneca's face. "And his name will be Jerael Sela."

  SENECA

  His insides roiled. Cold sweat trickled down his back. He wanted to flee this house, to flee back to his ships, to flee back home to Aelar. He was trapped here—trapped! An eagle in a cage, the lions surrounding him, leaning in, ready to feast. That rabid beast Atalia kept reaching for her knife, and her father—that brute, that untamed ape—looked strong enough to shatter Seneca's armor and every bone within using his bare h
ands.

  Calm yourself! a voice rose inside him. You are a prince of Aelar. Show no fear. Show only dominance, only cruelty, or they will carve you up and serve you on these skewers.

  He could not fail here. This was not a drill in the castra of Aelar, fortresses where common soldiers would swing dull blades for a while, then capitulate and let their prince win. No. These eastern barbarians, with their beards and swarthy skin, would not hesitate to rip out his entrails. He mustn't show them an instant of doubt.

  This was about more than a port, more even than lume. Seneca knew this. This was a test—a test for him and for Porcia. His sister would be invading from the north, leading fifteen thousand legionaries, heading toward Beth Eloh. If she took that city first, if she secured the lume . . .

  Then it will be her ass on Aelar's throne when Father dies, Seneca thought. He balled his hands into fists. He would not let Porcia win.

  "A king?" said Jerael Sela, that hairy beast, interrupting Seneca's thoughts. "I'm perhaps wealthy, Prince Seneca, and perhaps lord of a port, but I do not have royal blood."

  Seneca forced himself to stare into the barbarian's eyes. He had expected to find a weak, sniveling little toad; certainly the Zoharite slaves in Aelar, captured in the war nineteen years ago, were subservient. Seneca had not expected this. Jerael stood tall and broad, probably twice Seneca's weight, most of that weight in muscle. Perhaps Lord Jerael's hair was graying, his beard all but gone to white, but those arms were still strong. Those eyes, peering from under bushy black eyebrows, were the eyes of a beast, not a man.

  He wants to kill me, Seneca thought. He's forcing himself to remain calm, to negotiate. But he wants nothing more than to grab me with those meaty paws, tear through my ribs, and rip out my heart.

  Seneca glanced toward Ofeer. The young woman was everything Jerael was not. While Jerael was brutish and burly, Ofeer was slender, graceful. Swarthy too, yes—her skin was light brown, her hair jet black, her eyes mahogany—but a creature of beauty nonetheless.