Halls of shadow, p.22
Halls of Shadow, page 22
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.
