Echoes of light, p.20
Echoes of Light, page 20
From behind the doors, Epher could hear them now. Thumping feet. Shouts. Fists against the doors. Claudia calling out to him, trying to break in, and behind her an empire.
Epher drew his sword.
Across the chambers, nine hundred other Zoharites drew their own blades.
"The Book of Eloh prohibits suicide," Epher said softly. "We will be brave."
Tears shone in their eyes. One man began to sing "The Shepherd of Zohar," an old song.
Epher nodded, eyes stinging, barely able to see.
He turned toward a woman beside him—a young soldier, barely more than a girl, trembling yet staring into Epher's eyes. Brave.
"Ours is the light," the girl whispered before Epher plunged his sword into her heart.
Across the chamber, they were brave. They did not look away. They did not fight. They did not run. Sword after sword rose. Sword after sword drove into the hearts of lions.
Nine hundred. The last of a million. One by one, as the doors shook and the legions roared outside, they fell.
Finally only Epher and Olive remained.
They stood in the middle of the chamber, the dead around them. They stood together, staring into each other's eyes. Tears flowed down Olive's cheeks, and she trembled, but she did not look away, and still she stood tall.
Epher held her hand.
"I met you a year ago by the sea," he said. "You are the greatest light in my life, brighter than the light of Zohar. I love you. Always."
"I love you," Olive whispered, tears flowing.
He caressed her hair with trembling fingers. He kissed her lips, and her eyelids fluttered, tears spiking her lashes, and she smiled. He kept holding her hand, even as she fell, his sword in her heart. He knelt beside her, and he cradled her in his arms, and he wept over her, waiting until the life inside her fell still.
The doors shattered, but Epher did not look up. He kept staring at Olive's face as he placed his sword's hilt on the floor, as he lowered himself slowly beside her, as the blade went through his heart. He held his wife in his arms.
"Epher, Epher!" Maya ran through the halls of the villa on Pine Hill. "Epher, we're ready!
Darkness filled the house, but his family carried lanterns. Maya handed him one, a clay lamp no larger than his palm, a wick floating in its oil, casting golden light. Maya led the way, walking through the house, holding two lights—one for herself and one for Mica. Ofeer followed her younger sister, for one night her bitterness and pain forgotten, and she sang with her siblings, songs to banish the shadows. Atalia walked third, chest thrust out, shoulders squared, singing loudly, eyes flashing, imagining that she was fighting demons of the underworld. Koren walked next, dancing a little jig every few steps, holding his lamp near his chin and making silly faces. Epher followed, and his parents walked behind him, smiling and singing with low voices. On Lel Urim, this festival of lights, they banished the darkness, filling their house with light, with life.
Epher lay down in the garden that night. He lay by the pomegranate tree and the pine, by the cyclamens that always grew near stones. In the distance, he could hear the sea, whispering, calling to him. He closed his eyes and slept.
CLAUDIA
The doors shattered.
She stepped into the chamber.
She stood still. For a long time, she stared.
A soldier scoffed behind her, probably meaning to whisper to a friend, but his voice echoed in the underground. "Cowards."
Claudia looked over her shoulder. The legionaries stood there in the tunnel. "No," she said. "They were brave."
She looked back down at him. At her Epher. He lay between his people, holding his wife, like he had so often held Claudia. She lowered her head.
"Take the king and queen," Claudia said. "We will take their bodies with us."
Legatus Constantius nodded. "We'll display their corpses in Aelar."
Claudia shook her head. "We'll bury them. There is a hill by the port of Gefen, a hill with a villa and vineyard and garden, and there are two graves already there. Two more graves will join them."
"Gefen, domina?" Constantius said. "Do you mean Valeria Maritima?"
"What?" She blinked, then nodded, distracted. "Yes. Yes, of course."
They left the ruins of Tarath El that day, three legions and their slaves. For three days, they traveled north across the desert until they reached a mountain topped with ruins. Beth Eloh was no more, its Temple fallen, its ancient olive trees burnt, its walls gone, all its whispers silenced. Nothing but ruins. Nothing but memory. From here, they traveled westward along the road to the sea, taking many wagons of trophies—precious metals, gemstones, and perfumes taken from the city. Within another three days, they reached the coast.
On Pine Hill, Claudia buried the man she loved, and beside him, she buried the woman whom he had loved. By the graves of Jerael and Mica Sela, they would rest. Epher and his wife. King and Queen of Zohar.
Zohar.
Zohar—the name of the kingdom where Claudia had been born, where she had grown up, where she had fallen in love, where she had suffered loss, where she had killed, where she had triumphed.
Zohar—her childhood by the beach, eating apricots and persimmons and laughing in the sand. Her womanhood in secret gardens and forests, loving him. Her adulthood of blood. Of shame. Of madness. Of burning fire.
Zohar—a kingdom gone, forgotten. Already none spoke its name. She stood in Aelaria Orientalis, the eastern province of the Empire.
The language I grew up speaking, Claudia thought. The songs I heard as a child. The foods I bought at the market and ate at his home. The lore and music and light. Gone. Sand castles, fading under the waves.
They set sail in the spring, leaving behind Aelaria Orientalis, an eastern wasteland. A fleet of many ships upon a warm sea. In their holds, they carried their loot, the treasures of a nation. Three thousand Zoharite slaves to be sold in the markets. Chests of gold stripped off the columns and towers of the Temple. Many jewels and gemstones. The throne of precious metal, taken from the palace. It was a great treasure, as great as any in Aelar's history of conquest. All for a thousand years would praise her name, Claudia knew. The history books would speak of her triumphs.
But none would know about the kingdom where she had lived. None would know about a girl in a garden by the beach. A girl in love. A girl burnt. A girl broken. A girl forever haunted.
For three weeks, they sailed. For three weeks, Claudia stood at the prow of her ship, thinking of home. The only home that had ever been hers. Thinking of him. Thinking of herself, what she had done, who she had been, and who she was.
When she finally saw the towers of Aelar in the distance, her soldiers sang, but Claudia found no joy. And she knew that none in this city—this city the size of the kingdom she had destroyed, had lost—would ever understand.
The ships sailed on, but Claudia did not sail with them.
When she leaped into the water, her soldiers cried out. A few leaped after her. Tried to reach her. To save her. But the sea was wide, and the currents soon claimed her, pulling her away from her fleet, away from a city not hers. Never hers.
She sank. Beads of light danced above her, growing smaller, fading, until all was indigo and starlight. Then darkness.
I'm sorry.
Claudia closed her eyes, and she felt no pain as the sea flowed into her lungs. She felt no fear of the underwater, for she had always been a child of the sea. Only fear of herself.
The fire no longer burned her.
She felt nothing, and all was darkness and water and beads of floating light.
IMANI
Imani Koteeka, Queen of Nur, stood in the Amphitheatrum at dawn, a lone figure in a great hollow shell. She stood on a stone tier of seats, one of many that circled the sandy arena below. The amphitheater was empty now, but when the wind blew, she heard echoes of a roaring crowd, of a woman screaming. The wind fluttered Imani's kalasiri, ruffled her hair, and raised ghosts of sand in the arena.
This is the place, Imani thought. Where my mother died eleven years ago.
She lowered her head. She had been only seventeen, barely a woman, when the Aelarians had captured her mother, taken her across the sea to Aelar, and butchered her in this place. They said that a hundred thousand spectators had filled the arena that day, that Marcus Octavius himself had whipped and crucified Queen Anaya Koteeka, that his own blade had carved off her limbs and head, trophies to hang upon the city gates.
"I was too young," Imani whispered, tears in her eyes. "Too young to assume the yoke of a puppet queen. Too young to lose you. I miss you every day, Mother." She took a shuddering breath. "I fought for you. Across desert, sea, and this city of stone, I fought for you, and I cast back the cruel emperors who crushed us." She placed a hand on her swelling belly. "And I married one, Mother. I married the son of the man who murdered you. I carry his child inside me. I did what I had to do. Because Seneca is different. I have to believe that he's different, that I can raise our child in our ways. That both father and child can be good."
Movement caught her eye. She rubbed the tears away and saw a figure step into the amphitheater. He climbed the stone tiers, then came to stand beside her. Emperor Seneca Octavius wore the full regalia of his new position: a deep purple toga, an ultramarine sash, and a golden laurel. Yet he too wore a yoke. At the gateway below stood guards in white togas, daggers at their sides—men of the Magisterian Guard, there to defend their emperor . . . and keep him in line.
Seneca stood beside Imani, looking down at the sandy arena.
"I remember that day," he said. "I was only a boy. But I remember." He looked at her. "I'm sorry, Imani. This city must hold so much pain for you."
She could not stop her tears this day. "I want to believe that you'll be different, Seneca. I want to believe that I did not do all this—did not sail here, did not slay men, did not stain my hands with so much blood—to see another tyrant on the throne. To see Nur crushed under the heel of another Octavian emperor. I want to believe. But I'm scared. For my country. For the memory of my mother. For our child."
His eyes softened, and he placed a hand on her belly. "For our child," he repeated. He looked around him. "When I was a child, I hated this place. I feared it. Porcia delighted in seeing the gladiators fight and the prisoners executed. Father did too. But I always loathed coming here. My family called me weak, called me a coward. But I don't think it was cowardice. I think it was disgust." For a moment he stared at the arena in silence, as if lost in memory. "I'm not a good man, Imani. And I don't know whether I'll be a good emperor, or a good husband, or a good father. But by the gods, I will try, and I will fight to become the best man I can be. This will be my greatest war, and one I will fight with all my might. One that I will win."
Imani stroked his cheek and gazed into his eyes, and she saw honesty there.
"When you first freed me from captivity," Imani said, "I hated you. I wanted to kill you. When I married you, I did it only for Nur, only to bend Aelar to my will, and your touch sickened me. I would lie in bed beside you, and I would feel so disgusted—with myself, with what I had done, whoring myself out to the son of my mother's killer. But you're not like your father, Seneca. You try. Maybe you're not a good man. Maybe I'm not a good woman. But you try." She kissed his cheek. "For that I love you."
She saw the flicker of pain in his eyes. She hadn't confessed true, romantic love—not the sort of love he felt for her, that she saw in his eyes. Her words wounded him. They had been meant in kindness, but yes, they wounded him.
Thus it has always been, Imani thought. Honesty always cuts men more than blades.
He took her hand in his. "Come with me, Imani. I have something to show you."
She exited the amphitheater with him. Surrounded by guards, they walked across the Acropolis, the heart of the Empire. Here were the halls of Aelar's splendor and might: its temples, palaces, and colossal statues. These halls were five hundred years old—ancient for Aelarians yet mere infants by the antiquity of Nur. The pyramid where Imani had lived had been ancient when these halls had been only drawings on wax tablets.
A beast awoke upon the world, she thought, looking around her at the marble temples and statues. A monster risen from the earth, its hunger knowing no bounds, and its name is Aelar. I miss my home.
He took her through the halls of the palace, places of splendor where columns soared, capped with gold, and pastel frescoes of gods swept across vaulted ceilings. He took her through gardens where flowers bloomed, where marble statues rose, displaying the beauty of the human body. Finally he took her deep into shadowy vaults. Chests of gold and gemstones and trophies of war shone in dark chambers.
Here, at the end of a corridor, Seneca took her into a glittering hall piled high with artifacts. Weapons from across the world hung on the walls: khopeshes of the south, scimitars of the east, dragon axes and hammers from the north. Skulls stood on stone pedestals, silvered and jeweled. Three ancient royal chariots, their gilt peeling, stood in the center of the hall. A dozen thrones lined one wall, and behind them hung tapestries from foreign lands, each displaying a different kingdom's tale.
"What is this place?" Imani whispered.
"My family's little collection," Seneca said, and there was weary grief to his voice. "My father kept trophies here from the lands he conquered, the enemies he killed. Every weapon on these walls belonged to a chieftain, warlord, or king slain in battle. Their chariots and thrones stand here too."
He walked toward the back of the room. Several statues stood here: a dragon the size of a horse, forged of precious metals, its eyes jeweled; a man with a dog's head, carved of obsidian; and several beasts that looked like tigers with long, coiling necks. Among them, on the floor, lay a chest. It was the simplest object in the room, constructed of unadorned wood and iron.
Imani stood, staring at the chest, and sudden tightness gripped her throat.
"What is it?" She was afraid to touch it, afraid to look inside.
Seneca placed a gentle hand on the small of her back. "Your mother did not deserve what happened to her, Imani. And her bones do not deserve burial here in this hall of shame. When your brother sails back to Nur, let him take these bones. Let him bury them in Nur. That is where your mother should rest."
She leaned against him. Her damn tears. "Thank you, Seneca," she whispered.
That evening, Imani stood at Aelaria Maritima in the south of the city. The port bustled. Fishermen were returning with their catches, loading crates of fish and squid onto the docks. Sailors emerged from their vessels, their day's payment jangling in their hands, and headed toward the gambling halls, alehouses, and brothels that lined the boardwalk. Children scurried underfoot, begging for coins, while buskers performed with flues, lyres, and drums. Undeterred by the setting sun, gulls flew overhead, perched on masts, and walked along the cobblestones, seeking crumbs. One of the birds, more brazen than its siblings, dived and grabbed a roast squid right from the hand of a feasting merchant. Lanterns swung on poles, their light gleaming on the water and wet boardwalk, and hundreds of ships swayed in the harbor, their own lights shining.
Nur's warriors, whom Imani had led here in battle, were busy loading their ships—with their supplies and with their dead. She had sailed here with thousands of her people, rebels who had first taken up arms against Governor Cicero Octavius, who had sailed to Aelar to see the Valerius family deposed.
And a thousand return home in coffins, she thought, gazing at the solemn line of warriors carrying their fallen comrades onto their ships. She looked down at the chest at her feet. And you return home with them, Mother.
Adai stood at her side, clad in white, the color of mourning. He wore no gold today, no sign of his royalty, and red rimmed his eyes. He knelt and lifted one side of the chest. Imani lifted the other side. They carried their mother's bones along the gangplank and onto the Avem Nox. It was the flagship that had led their fleet here to war; it was the ship that would take them and their fallen home. They placed the chest in the hold, then rose back to the deck. Imani stood at the balustrade, looking at the twenty other ships that would be carrying her army home.
Heroes of war, she thought. Mere boys and girls. Some no older than I was when my mother died. Too young to lose their friends.
"We won," Adai said, voice low. "Yet it feels so hollow."
"Victory in war is always hollow. It comes at too great a cost." She watched a gull peck at a crust of bread on the boardwalk. "But those days of war are over, Adai. Our days of pain, of grief, of rebellion—they are over." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "It's time to rebuild Nur."
He nodded, and finally the hint of a smile touched his lips. "We will laugh and run through the Night Gardens again. We will travel the savanna and climb the great cliffs of Anakten. We will dine and sing freely in the pyramids, and play mancala like we used to, and we will worship the old spirits. We will be as we were, Imani. Like when we were children."
She closed her eyes, imagining it. That world of her childhood, of cinnamon cakes, of dancers and drums, of trips to the waterfall outside Shenutep, of a land blooming with flowers, with life.
She opened her eyes, finding herself back in Aelar, and stared across the city. There in the distant city center, so far she could barely see it, rose the Acropolis. There Seneca awaited. The father of her child.
She looked at her brother—at his kind eyes, honest face—and she did not know her path, did not know if she still had a home.
