Echoes of light, p.23
Echoes of Light, page 23
Seneca inhaled and closed his eyes.
"Tell me about Aelar," Ofeer said, lying at his side in his tent, propped up on one elbow.
The sunlight fell upon her, and she smiled, teeth brilliantly white, and he stroked her long black hair and soft cheek. Outside, the legions were still pounding the walls of Gefen, but here beyond the battle, here in his tent, there was only him and her.
"It's a city of a thousand temples," Seneca said. "Each a wonder of marble and gold. Into its port sail a thousand ships a day, bearing wonders from across the world. In its theaters, exotic animals, dancers, and musicians from all stretches of the Empire perform for the crowd. The towers of Aelar touch the sky."
"Will you show me all these wonders?" Ofeer said, eyes alight.
He gazed at her, marveling at her beauty, at her smile. He kissed her lips. "All these and more. We'll be happy there, Ofeer. The world will be ours."
She nestled against him, her hair tickling his nose, then looked up at him with damp eyes. "I love you," she whispered, then held him close, mumbling against his chest. "I love you, Seneca. Forever."
He held her as the world burned around them. For a brief moment, here in this tent with her, Seneca was happy.
VALENTINA
The gates to the Empire opened at dawn.
Valentina had been awake most of the night in her tent, penning letters to governors around the sea, requesting their loyalty and their troops. For hours, she had labored, phrasing and rephrasing and calculating travel times to each province. With no more lumers serving the Empire—they had all died or fled during their rebellion—it took so damn long to speak to anyone. Even the fastest messenger could take a month to reach a typical province, then another month for a message to return.
Then again, if there was one thing Valentina had plenty of here outside of Aelar, it was time. For months now, she had camped outside the walls, woefully inadequate at besieging the city without violence. Her generals pestered her to assault Aelar with ram and catapult, but Valentina refused. From within the city, Seneca too kept the peace. The Magisterian Guard was mighty—mightier, perhaps, than Valentina's own legions—yet none emerged on raids to cast her back.
And so she had been waiting here. Blocking the roads while the port remained open. Waiting for messengers to carry scrolls to the sixty-odd other legions so far from home, cut off from the network of Luminosity that had once glued the Empire together.
Finally, bleary-eyed, Valentina emerged from her tent. She strapped on her breastplate and brushed back tangles of her white hair, then placed on her helmet. Leather straps hung across her thighs, sandals enclosed her feet, and iron shielded her shins and forearms. She had almost forgotten what it felt like to wear silk, to dine in a palace, to live as a princess. That innocent girl had died; she had emerged from the fire of war harder, stronger, a warrior of the Republic.
She was stepping toward a campfire, seeking a pot to boil some mint tea—warrior or not, she still craved the drink—when she saw the city gates opening in the distance.
At once her troops leaped up from their campfires and formed rank. Valentina rushed toward her horse, leaped into the saddle, and drew her sword. Other riders gathered around her.
"Riders to the flanks!" Valentina cried. "Pikes—to the front!"
As her legions formed for battle, pikes thrusting toward the gates, Valentina narrowed her eyes, waiting for her brother's troops to storm into the countryside.
That was when she heard the bells clanging in the city.
Mourning bells, she realized, and a chill flooded her.
The sound keened. The same bells that had rung when Emperor Marcus had died.
Only three horses emerged from the city gates. Upon them rode three men in white togas. Valentina recognized the man at their lead, a young, soft-cheeked guard she had often seen in the palace. She rode toward him.
Caelius, commander of the Magisterian Guard, bowed his head to her. "Valentina," he said.
She looked into the city, then back at him. She understood.
"Take me to him," she whispered.
She rode through the city with Caelius and his men. She left the others behind. Across the streets of her beloved city, people cried out in mourning, and the bells clanged from every temple. They rode down the boulevards, across courtyards, and under an engraved triumphal arch—taller than a palace and still under construction—that depicted the fall of Zohar. Finally they entered the Acropolis, and Caelius took Valentina into the temple of Plutonia, the goddess of death and afterlife.
He lay there on a stone altar. Logs and kindling soaked with oil piled up around him. From the center of the domed ceiling, an oculus let in a beam of light that fell upon him.
Her stepbrother. Her Seneca.
Valentina approached slowly. She touched his cold cheek. He wore a simple white toga, and a laurel rested in his hair. He seemed peaceful in death, more peaceful than she had ever known him in life.
She turned back toward Caelius. "What happened?"
The young guard stared at the body. "Being an emperor is a constant battle, one often fought with words and quills. I hear that our beloved Seneca was quite accomplished with the blade." He shook his head sadly. "It was his quill that faltered." He looked at Valentina. "I'm sorry for your loss, domina. I pray to the gods that his successor fares better upon this battlefield."
Valentina inhaled deeply. "He will have no successor, Caelius. He was the last emperor of Aelar. I will see the Republic restored."
Caelius only smiled thinly. He reached out and stroked her cheek. "So pale," he said, and his fingers moved to her hair. "So soft. Like fresh snow when all the world still yearns for warmth. The seasons come and go, child. So do emperors in this city. Yet the Empire remains—stronger, eternal. You will rule this empire for me, Valentina. And your quill and words will be wise. I will be there to guide you." He kissed her forehead. "Or I will be there to cull you from the herd."
Valentina frowned. She pulled away from him. She returned to her brother—at least the man she had grown up thinking was her brother—and she pulled back his toga, revealing his chest. Revealing the clean cuts, as from daggers, deep enough to reach the heart.
Caelius sighed, looking at the body with her. "When I was very young, I served in the legions. When my officer wanted to punish me, he sent me to clean shit in the stables. For days and days, I would shovel, and I would watch the trainers with their horses. The best trainers formed a bond with their beasts—they showed the horses love, but when the animals disobeyed, they were quick and cruel with the whip. As generals rode to battle, they praised the glorious stallions when they should have praised the trainers. For it was the man with the whip, behind the battle, who tamed the stallion. But sometimes, Valentina . . . sometimes there was an untamed horse, a wild animal who still longed for freedom. An animal who kicked, who bit, who ignored both love and the crop. When such a horse would not be tamed, I watched the trainers give the animal a quick death, and another was brought in to replace it." He caressed the dagger at his belt, then placed his arm around her, holding her close. "You will be my animal, Valentina. And you will be glorious."
That evening, the priestesses set fire to the pyre. Valentina stood in the temple, watching the flames spread across the logs and kindling and claim her brother. The fire lit the temple, and the smoke rose through the oculus, and Valentina prayed that Seneca's spirit found its way to the fields of afterlife.
In the temple, professional mourners—hired for the death of every dignitary—wailed, tore clothes, and ripped their hair. Throughout the city, the bells of mourning still clanged, and the city wept. All but Valentina. She stood silently in the temple for a long time, long after the mourners had departed, long after the priests had collected the ashes in an urn.
Finally she walked to the palace, and she entered the starlit gardens, the place where they used to play, where they said Seneca had died. The place where Iris had died. The place where Valentina's true father had first spoken to her.
She lowered her head.
This is where I come for solace and grief, she thought.
Blood still stained the grass, and she remembered coming here over a year ago, seeing Iris—the woman she loved more than life—dead at Marcus's feet. She had sworn then to fight. To fight Marcus, to fight the Empire, to fight for the dream of her true father. To fight for the Republic. How could she become the monster she had vowed to slay? How could she become empress when this empire had murdered all those she loved?
"I promised you, Father," she whispered, looking up at the stars. "When Porcia murdered you, I promised to continue your fight. To rebuild the Republic that you loved. Yet if I fight them, will I find myself here in this garden, lying dead in the grass, joining the others who fell here?"
No voice spoke to her from the afterlife. There was no wisdom here, no guidance save what was already in her heart.
She lifted the folded letter. The letter she had kept through fire and rain. She read the words there, words Iris had penned on the night of her death.
Dearest Valentina,
I'm so sorry.
I love you. And I betrayed you.
Tears filled Valentina's eyes, dampening the parchment.
Live your life, Valentina, a life of joy and light. Grow your flowers, and read your scrolls, and tend to your birds, and remember that I love you.
Someday this will end, Valentina. Someday he will die. Perhaps from poison, perhaps a knife in the back, perhaps in war, perhaps even from old age. That day, when we are safe, if you still love me by then, find a swift ship. Sail to Zohar, and come to a city called Gefen on the coast. You will walk along the beach there, admiring the seashells and smooth stones and palm trees, and you will feel great peace, the peace of lume flowing across you, soothing all your fear, all your pain.
And as you walk there, you will see a girl—perhaps a woman, perhaps even an old woman—walking along the shore, collecting seashells too. Her hair will be long and black, or perhaps streaked with silver, or perhaps fully white. She will run to you, and hold your hands, and kiss you with a thousand kisses, and she will love you. Because every day, Valentina, from this day until that day, that woman will wait for you. And every day, she will walk along that shore, and gaze upon the sea, and watch for a ship sailing in, watch for a soul she misses. A soul she will always love.
Yours always, with my magic, with my soul, with my heart,
Iris
Valentina was weeping now, and she folded the letter and tucked it away.
"I'm sorry, Iris," she whispered. "I wanted this to end. I wanted to sail to Zohar and find you, but you're gone now, and Zohar is gone, and I see no hope in the night. I'm so sorry, Iris. I love you. And now I must betray everyone who fought for me, everyone whom I fought for. Now I must sit on a throne that I loathe, and I must serve cruel masters in the shadows. Because there is still light in the world. There is still Koren. And Atalia. And Ofeer. There is still a dream for Zohar to rise again, and for me to sail there someday, and to walk on that beach, and to think of you. For you, Iris. The woman I love." She smiled through her tears. "Someday, I know that I will walk along a beach. A beach of purest white sand and silver waves, with countless stars above and below. I will feel no more pain, no more fear. And I will see a girl there—perhaps a woman, perhaps even an old woman—walking along the shore. A woman who waited for me. I will run to you then, Iris, and I will hold your hands, and I will kiss you with a thousand kisses, and I will love you. Because every day, from this night until that night, I will remember you. But you will have to wait for me, Iris. You will have to walk along that shore a little longer without me. My war does not yet end."
The next morning, Valentina stood in the temple of Aelia, greatest of the goddesses. Light flowed through stained glass windows, illuminating the columns, mosaics, and the crowd of Aelar's finest. Valentina wore a deep purple stola, and the High Priestess placed a golden laurel upon her white hair.
"May Aelia bless Valentina Octavius!" the priestess said. "May the gods bless our new empress!"
As the people knelt, Valentina felt encased in ice. Octavius—the name of her captors, the name of tyranny, the name she must use now. Not Valentina Cassius, a warrior for democracy and justice. Everyone in the crowd lowered their heads. All but one man. A young guard in a toga, nodding at her, smiling thinly.
The words echoed in her mind.
And you will be glorious.
She looked away.
KOREN
He wandered through the city, lost, disoriented, calling to them.
"Atalia!" he cried out in marketplaces.
"Ofeer!" he shouted on bustling streets.
For days now, Koren had been wandering this vast, confusing world. Valentina had offered to send a thousand guards across the city to scan every house and alleyway, but Koren had refused. His sisters would cower away from any soldier of Aelar. He had to find them himself.
Yet as the days went by, the task seemed insurmountable to Koren. This was a city larger than some nations. How would he find two souls among a million? And what if Atalia and Ofeer had left Aelar, were now traveling the wilderness or sailing on the sea, seeking a way back to Zohar?
"Have you seen two sisters?" Koren asked in every tavern, bathhouse, and theater, describing Atalia and Ofeer.
"The lioness!" they said.
"The prince's paramour!" they said.
"Tirus's killers!" they said.
It seemed that everyone in the city had heard some tale or another about Atalia and Ofeer, yet none had seen them since Valentina's coronation. Koren kept wandering, feeling lost in this city. He had never imagined a place like this, had never imagined that men could build structures so tall, cities so vast. Temples, towers, statues, courtyards, palaces—all crowded together in a mosaic of human life. People from around the world filled these streets, not just native Aelarians but slaves and citizens from every land around the Encircled Sea and the distant provinces beyond. Priests and paupers, soldiers and slaves, buskers and beggars, travelers and tinkers—every color, shape, and form of man and woman, all forming the tapestry of Aelar.
Yet Koren sought only two people. A tall, bluff warrior with flashing eyes, and a broken woman seeking healing.
He sat in a tavern, one of countless in the city. In Aelar, only the wealthy had kitchens in their homes. Most lived in cluttered apartments, stacked tall one atop the other, that contained little more than beds. They ate in public taverns, cooked in public kitchens, bathed in public bathhouses, and used public latrines where rows of toilets rose along the wall, not so much as a curtain to offer privacy. Here was a small tavern, and a mosaic covered one wall, depicting food items and their prices. Koren filled his plate with olives, stewed pears, fava beans, and even some fried shrimps—a food he had never seen in Zohar. He skipped some of the more exotic items, such as roasted dormice and buttered snails, which the locals consumed with fervor.
He sat at a back table, prepared to plan the rest of his search over his meal, when a hooded figure took a chair close to him.
"You might," rose a voice from the hood, speaking in Zoharite, "consider searching for your sisters a little more furtively. We Zoharites aren't the most popular people in this city of late."
Koren's breath caught. The figure pulled back the hood, revealing the face of a woman, the cheeks gaunt, the eyes large, the hair long and black.
He recognized her. He had seen her before—on the slave ship that took him to Aelar.
"You were Porcia's lumer," he said. "Worm, she called you."
"Call me Noa." She pulled the hood back over her face. "And never call me a lumer again. My lume is gone, and the lumers are all dead, haven't you heard?" She rose to her feet. "Now come with me, Koren. Unless you want to finish your shrimps?"
He didn't. They left the tavern together.
Hidden in her cloak and hood, Noa led him through the city. They traveled to the crowded alleyways of the dregs, far from the villas that surrounded the Acropolis. A place where apartment buildings rose eight stories tall, stray cats hissed, and beggars held out trembling palms. A woman dumped a chamber pot from a balcony, splashing the street. An unshaven man sat in a corner, flicking a knife. They stopped by a bakery, the smell of fresh bread wafting through the windows, mingling with the stench of the city.
"You didn't get to eat your shrimps," Noa said. "I think you'll find you have more of a belly for bread."
She nodded at him, pulled her hood lower, and vanished down an alley.
Koren hesitated for a moment, his breath shaky, then steeled himself and entered the bakery.
Two women stood inside, their backs to Koren. Both were kneading dough and forming rolls for the oven. One was tall, her black hair cut to the length of her chin. The other was smaller, her dark hair flowing down her back. Both women were busy talking, not noticing that Koren had entered.
"I told you, Atalia! God. You have to braid the bread. If you ever grew your hair longer, you'd know how to braid."
"Oh be quiet, Ofeer. My bread is fine. Who cares what bread looks like? It could be shaped as a dog's turd, so long as it tastes good."
"You only taste half the food with your tongue, you know. You taste the rest with your eyes. Luckily, I know something about presentation, or this whole bakery would close down."
Koren stepped closer. "Atalia?" he whispered. "Ofeer?"
The sisters fell silent. Slowly they turned around.
For an instant they both just stared, eyes wide.
Do they still recognize me? Koren thought, standing still. They had not seen him for a year, and he had changed. His beard had thickened. His frame had thinned. His eyes, whenever he gazed into a mirror, no longer gazed back with mirth but seemed sunken, too dark, too old.
The moment of stillness ended.
Both sisters ran toward him. With a cloud of flour and a clatter of rolling pins, they leaped onto him, squeezing him, nearly crushing him, pinching his cheeks and mussing his hair and hopping and laughing and dancing. He laughed with them. He grabbed Ofeer and lifted her into the air as she squealed. He tried to do the same to Atalia, only for her to slug his shoulder and shake him and shout at him for being a damn fool for ever leaving her at sea. They all laughed. They all embraced again. They all wept, shaking, speaking of those they lost.
