Echoes of light, p.22
Echoes of Light, page 22
Avia looked at him with damp eyes. "Then I will leave too," she said. "To the ruins of Zohar. To desolation. To see if lume still flows. And perhaps like Zohar, I will fade." She kissed his lips. "Goodbye, Koren. If you ever make your way back home, seek me there. May we someday meet again in a rebuilt Beth Eloh." She turned to walk away.
"Avia," Koren said. "Wait. Back in the forest, in the ring of fire, when we . . . when we lay together . . . what did that mean?"
She smiled at him sadly. "I wanted your loyalty, and I wanted your child. To replace my princess. To replace the one I lost." She placed a hand on her belly. "I can feel him inside me, and through his veins flows the blood of kings. He will have the power to destroy the world."
Koren stared at her, shock and horror pounding through him. "My child . . ." His head spun, and then a deeper shock filled him. "You will use him to . . . ?"
She looked at her feet. She shook her head. "I will not cut him. I will not use life that I create to summon death." She stepped closer to Koren, tears in her eyes, and kissed him again. "Goodbye, Koren Sela, son of Zohar."
She turned and vanished between the trees. Koren followed, calling for her, running through the forest, but Avia was gone. It was a long, cold walk back to the camp.
SENECA
He stood on the balcony of the imperial palace, gazing upon Aelar.
It was a warm summer day. The boulevards spread out like spokes, lined with trees. People bustled back and forth, shopping at markets, visiting theaters, cooking their food in public kitchens, bathing in columned baths. Children ran through gardens and public squares and splashed in fountains. Marble statues shone in the sunlight. Countless villas and apartment buildings filled the city, home to so many lives—merchants, tradesmen, soldiers, slaves, each with their own story, their own world. Each a player in this great amphitheater.
Life continued.
Peace reigned upon the Sacred City.
Not far from the Acropolis, workers were bustling across scaffolds, raising a triumphal arch—the largest in the city. It spanned a boulevard, taller even than the palace where Seneca stood. Engravings on its marble, taken from the quarry Tirus had once ruled, depicted the spoils of Beth Eloh—Zoharite slaves, chests of gold, and the kingdom's throne. When completed, artists would paint the marble, gilding the engraved spoils with actual Zoharite gold. Tirus had commissioned the archway before his death, already predicting victory in the east, and when Seneca stared at the archway from his palace, his belly curdled.
They ran through Gefen, screaming.
A man ran on stumps.
A woman burned.
Seneca laughed and swung his hammer.
He looked away from the triumphal arch. He returned into his palace.
He walked down the halls. The Magisterian guards stood everywhere. They lined the corridors, manned every door, patrolled the gardens. The Guard had been created to defend the city and its rulers, but Seneca felt like a prisoner. These men were not here to protect him; they were here to monitor him.
He met with his generals over breakfast, sharing soft-boiled eggs sprinkled with sea salt, bowls of grapes and apples, tangy smoked cheese, and plans to assault Valentina's forces that still camped outside the city. Seneca wanted to scrap those plans, to toss them all into the fire, but at a glance from Caelius—the man was always there, standing in the shadows—Seneca merely nodded. He spent the rest of the morning meeting with his ministers, hearing them bleat about the costs of rebuilding the city, and as he signed each decree, allotting coins to rebuild this tower or that temple, Caelius smiled over his shoulder. At lunch, Seneca reclined on a low couch, forcing himself to sip wine, to entertain the ambassador of Sekadia and redraw the border between the nations—a border now east of Aelaria Orientalis.
East of Zohar, he thought.
He hunted in the hills.
He fired his arrow, slaying a dog.
He made love to Ofeer in a cave.
Jerael moaned outside the window.
Porcia slapped a grisly gift against his chest.
Taeer screamed, a spear in her chest.
A woman burned.
A child burned.
Seneca nodded. "Yes, ambassador. The line will pass east of Beth El—" At a nod from Caelius, Seneca swallowed the forbidden word. "East of Orientia Capitolina. There we will have peace."
For now, he thought. Peace for now. Until the Guard decides it needs more war. More fire. More memories.
In the afternoon, a group of lords wanted to meet Seneca in the bathhouse—to see his bare ass and kiss it, no doubt.
"Tomorrow," Seneca said, not bothering to glance at Caelius, ignoring the man's frown.
If you want to kill me over skipping a fucking bath, Seneca thought, then find an otter to be your emperor.
Leaving the ingratiating bathers for another day, he headed to his bedchamber—the bedchamber his father had once occupied. A guard stood in the corner. Seneca couldn't even piss in his chamber pot without a guard around. Nobody else was here. Imani was spending the day at the port, parting from her brother who was sailing home with the Nurian warriors. Ignoring the guard, Seneca was about to crash onto his bed, to read a scroll on the Aelarian tax system, then sleep for a few stolen moments before the tax collectors came to beg for more hired brutes. He was two steps from the bed when a knock sounded on his door.
Seneca groaned. "I told you, not now! Taxes will wait."
And yet his door opened, and Caelius stood there, smiling thinly. "Ah! Glad to see I caught you decent. You have a visitor, dominus."
I should kill him now, Seneca thought, aching for a sword. While there's only one guard here.
"No tax collectors," Seneca said. "I . . ."
His voice died.
Head lowered, holding a baby in her arms, Ofeer walked into the chamber.
Seneca stood frozen, unable to breathe.
Ofeer glanced up at him, then looked down at her feet.
"Guards," Seneca said, "leave."
Caelius tilted his head, frowned, and opened his mouth to object. Seneca silenced him with a glare.
"Leave," he said again.
The lord of the Magisterian Guard tightened his lips, then nodded and gestured to his inferior. Both men exited the chamber, leaving Seneca and Ofeer alone.
For a moment both were silent, and still Ofeer would not meet his gaze.
"Ofeer," Seneca said softly, stepping closer to her.
She took a step back. The baby in her arms looked at Seneca, curious.
Last time I saw her, I was waving a sword, vowing to kill her, Seneca remembered. He lowered his head, shame flowing over him.
Finally Ofeer spoke. "For a long time, I didn't want to come here. For a long time, I wanted to leave the city. To find a village far in the countryside. To find work. To forget about you, forget what happened between us." She raised her eyes, finally meeting his gaze. "But I had to come here first. I could not leave without seeing you."
Seneca did not know what to say, how to start.
"Ofeer." His voice shook, and suddenly the words were spilling out from him. "Ofeer, I'm sorry. I have so much I want to say. I don't know where to begin. I don't know how to tell you it all—all that happened, all that I became, that I was, that I am. But please know that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything that I did to you, to your family, and I'm ashamed." Tears filled his eyes, and his voice shook. "I know that can't change anything. I know that doesn't buy me redemption. I don't ask for forgiveness. I will never forgive myself, and I know that I can never undo the pain that I caused you. I don't ask for anything other than you knowing this: I'm sorry."
She looked away, crying softly. "It's too late for that, Seneca."
"I know." He nodded. "I think back to who I was. When I met you on the hill. When we fought. When we bled. When we sailed across the sea. And I don't know who that boy was. He was not me. He was the son of Marcus. He was the brother of Porcia. But he was not me, not who I am now. He died somewhere between Gefen and Nur, Ofeer." Suddenly Seneca was weeping. He was fucking weeping like a baby. "I don't know why I did it. I don't know why I killed him. I can't stop seeing it. I can't stop. I can't stop. I'm sorry and I can't fix any of it."
She was sobbing now too. She smiled through her tears. "I didn't come here to forgive you. I cannot forgive even myself for what I did. We have both sinned, Seneca, and perhaps we are both beyond redemption. But I did not come here for that. I came here to show you Ariel." She held out the baby.
The baby looked into Seneca's eyes and smiled.
"He's beautiful," Seneca said. "I didn't know . . . Who . . ."
He fell silent.
Ofeer nodded, smile shaky. "He's yours, Seneca."
It felt as if the sea flowed across him. He could barely stay standing. He reached out and stroked Ariel's hair, and the baby giggled.
Fresh tears filled Seneca's eyes. "He's beautiful. He's so beautiful. Thank the gods he looks like you." He laughed, then felt a sudden stab of fear, remembering who Ofeer was, remembering their shame. "Is he . . . is he normal, or . . ."
"He's perfect," Ofeer said. "He's as healthy as can be."
Seneca breathed out in relief. "I'll take care of you. Both of you. I'll find you rooms in the palace. You'll never want for anything."
Ofeer shook her head. "I'm leaving, Seneca. I'm leaving this city with Ariel. With Atalia too. As soon as Valentina's siege ends, as soon as the gates open—we're leaving. They say that Koren is out there with Valentina's forces. We'll find him, and we'll find another place to live."
"Where will you go?" Seneca asked, unable to bear the thought of parting from her now, from his son. "To Zohar, or . . ."
"Zohar lies in ruin," Ofeer said. "There is too much pain there. Too many memories. Too many legionaries that still patrol the ruins. I don't know where we'll go, what we'll find. We are lost now. We are vagabonds in a cold world. Maybe our lives will forever be on the road. But as we walk those paths, we will dream of the Zohar that was, and we will dream of Beth Eloh rising again."
She turned to leave.
"Wait," Seneca said. "Will I see my son again?"
She looked over her shoulder at him. Ariel met his eyes, curious and confused. Ofeer didn't have to say anything. Seneca knew the answer.
I could keep her here, he thought. I still have some autonomy, even with Caelius breathing down my neck. I can order Ofeer locked in a room—a comfortable room, with all the wealth of a princess—a bird in a gilded cage, like Valentina was.
And he knew, too, that he would not do this thing. He had enslaved Ofeer before, had locked a collar around her neck, had caged his pretty, exotic bird. He was no longer that man.
He stroked Ariel's head and kissed the boy's forehead.
Goodbye, my son. Goodbye.
Ofeer turned and left.
Seneca met with his tax collectors, and with his masons, and with his landowners, and with his shipwrights, with the countless other clerks and dignitaries and officers who ran the empire. But he kept thinking of a little smile, of curious eyes.
That night, Imani came into his chamber. His wife wore the regalia of a Nurian queen. A white kalasiri hugged her form, and golden serpents coiled around her arms and brow. Henna darkened her eyelids, and she held her scepter of royalty. Her belly bulged. The child within was growing quickly now, would soon emerge into the world.
I still have Imani, Seneca thought, comforted by her presence. We will raise a family here. We will find joy.
Yet Imani did not doff her royal raiment. She stood for a long time, staring out the window at the lights of the city and distant port. Finally she turned back toward Seneca.
"Adai and all the others are on the ships," she said. "Ready to take the journey home to Nur. Seneca . . ." She stepped closer to him. "I'm going with them."
His breath caught. His heart twisted. He touched her hand. "Imani! I thought you would stay. That we would rule together. That we would raise our child together."
"This was not a choice I made lightly." She couldn't meet his eyes. "Seneca, we sailed here to depose a tyrant. To heal the world. But I cannot heal Nur from here." Finally she met his gaze. "I need to be there. I need to walk among my people. I need to dwell in the pyramid of my forebears. I will always be your wife, Seneca. I will always be the mother of your child. But my heart lies across the sea."
"Will you stay the night?" he said, voice soft.
She embraced him, and she smelled of sandalwood and cinnamon. She touched his cheek and smiled, tears sparkling, and kissed his lips.
"My sweet Seneca. My king of gold and rust, of marble and blood, of shadows and burning light. We sought to heal the world, but we had to heal ourselves. With every wave of the sea, I will remember."
She turned and left.
Seneca remained in his chamber, alone.
He lay on his bed.
The ship swayed below him, and he stood at the prow, staring at the city of Gefen.
"Pathetic." Seneca scoffed. "Look at them. They barely have a hundred candles between them to cast back the darkness. Aelar shines with a million lanterns, while the barbarians lurk in shadows."
He sat in a villa on a piney hill.
"Pig piss." He tossed down his mug in disgust, shattering it, and the wine spilled across the floor. "I haven't sailed for eighteen days to drink pig piss."
He stood outside the walls of a crumbling eastern city, laughing.
"We come, we see, we kill!" His voice was hoarse. "Kill them all! Kill all the fucking rats!"
He swung the hammer, raised the cross. He dragged the man's daughter into the man's own bed, fucked her for three days, drunk on wine, drunk on triumph, savoring the spoils as his enemy slowly died on the cross.
Seneca woke up in darkness, damp with sweat, unable to breathe. He had seen death. He had seen torture, destruction, fire taking to flesh. Those horrors perhaps would fade. But the blood on his hands would not. The horror of who he had been, who he still could be. In the darkness, alone, everyone gone from him, it was all that remained.
Taeer is gone.
He trembled.
Ofeer is gone.
The blankets stifled him.
Imani is gone.
He rose from bed.
My children are gone.
He stood at the window, seeking relief from the heat.
Valentina betrayed me.
He felt as if fires burned across him. Outside, he saw the Empire. The lights of Aelar spread for leagues in the darkness, leading to the sea. All around that sea, the world was his. After all his struggles, he was emperor. He was trapped in a cage.
Seneca sat at his table, lit a lantern, took parchment and quill, and began to write.
Dawn rose, and still he worked, putting words to parchment. Two scrolls. In one, he granted complete freedom to Nur. No more would Aelarians set foot in that southern land nor approach its waters, and Queen Imani would reign independently, beholden to no emperor, and her child after her.
In his second scroll, Seneca granted freedom to a land of ruins. A land no longer known as Aelaria Orientalis. A land to forever be called Zohar.
Around the Encircled Sea, he wrote, thousands of Zoharite refugees still live, cast out from their kingdom, fleeing the legions, seeking a home. I grant them the right to return to their ravaged homeland. To rebuild. To live as free people. Zohar will rise again, and no more will Aelar seek to douse its light.
Seneca signed both scrolls and rolled them up.
That morning, accompanied by guards, he rode in his chariot toward the Amphitheatrum. The mightiest in Aelar had gathered here today—praetors, consuls, generals, all those who ran the world. Eighty thousand commoners came here too, and in the arena, dancers and musicians performed for the Vinalia, a festival of spring and wine. As Seneca sat in the front row, he remembered coming here as a child, watching prisoners die, cowering as Porcia laughed and Father frowned.
When the last note fell silent, Seneca rose. Crimson columns flanked the imperial seat, topped with golden eagles. Seneca stood between them, two scrolls in hand. He stood for a moment, watching the silent crowd. Lords and ladies. Soldiers. Commoners. And one young man in the crowd, face completely forgettable, watching him, eyes narrowed, lips twisted into a cruel smile.
Seneca unrolled his scrolls, and he read from them, loud enough for all to hear, to gasp, to whisper among themselves.
Freedom for Nur.
Freedom for Zohar.
As Seneca rolled up the scrolls, he glanced back at Caelius. The lord of the Magisterian Guard still sat among the commoners, his mouth a thin line, his eyes dead.
Seneca returned to his palace. He entered the garden, the place Valentina had loved so much. Fig trees shaded a pond, lavenders and roses bloomed, and cupids pointed arrows atop marble pillars. A place of rustling leaves, singing birds, and memories. Two children ran ahead—a young prince and his albino sister, laughing, splashing in the pond, climbing the fig trees and feasting on the fruit.
"Will you make me another doll from a dry apple?" little Valentina asked, squinting in the sunlight, her hair like a drift of snow.
"Only if you invent another song for me," young Seneca said. "One where I'm a great hero."
She stuck out her tongue at him. "That'll cost you two dolls."
He chased her, and they laughed, and the robins sang. A place to escape their family. To escape the cold halls and theaters and temples of a blood-soaked empire.
Emperor Seneca stood below the fig tree and touched one of its fruit.
"Make this place good again, Valentina," he said softly. "Remember me here."
His sword still hung at his side. He had not gone without it since the war. He unstrapped it now, looked at the blade—looked at the falling city, the tearing flesh, the pleading eyes—and tossed it into the pond.
When he turned around, they were there. They stood between the columns lining the garden. They wore togas and they held daggers. Caelius walked at their lead, his face blank, his eyes hard.
Seneca nodded at them. They drew closer, and their daggers rose.
