Halls of Shadow, page 16
Maya was standing within the crumbling archway of an ancient bakery, a place revered in the lore of Zohar. It was said that Elshalom's concubine, the blessed Rayana, had baked bread for the needy here a thousand years ago, and any who ate from the bread had not hungered for seven days and nights. Many people filled the courtyard before the bakery: wounded soldiers, an old woman stricken with consumption, mothers whose milk had run dry and whose babies hungered, and many stricken with the Gray Death that still raged through the city. Abishag stood at her side, helping each person step forth for a blessing, for a touch of luminescence and healing.
Maya had been standing here for a day and night, and she was weary, so weary she could barely keep standing. Yet how could she abandon her people in this time of war and shadow? Every person she healed took away a part of her. Every strand of luminescence that left her body weakened her, strips of her soul peeled back. With every healing, it seemed to Maya that the shadow grew, that the adversary's laughter rang louder in her ears. He haunted her nightmares and peered from shadows in waking hours, always watching, growing stronger as the legions slammed at the walls. She had barely been able to heal the last few ill, so weary she could summon only wisps of light, and Abishag had to help her stand.
Now Olive kept racing through the crowd, crying out to her.
"Maya, hurry!"
The new Queen of Zohar—Maya supposed that Olive was the queen now, having married Epher beneath the walls—panted and fell to her knees before Maya. Cuts and bruises covered her limbs, and soot coated her skin and filled her hair. Her scale armor hung in tatters. She reached out and grabbed Maya's hands.
"You have to come, Maya. Hurry! It's Epher. He's hurt. He's hurt real bad. I think he's . . ." Tears etched white lines through the grime on Olive's face. "I think he's dying. Maybe dead."
Icy spears pierced Maya's chest.
No. God, I lost my parents already. Don't let me lose Epher too.
She took a step, hesitated. She looked over the crowd that had come to see her: wounded, ill, some themselves dying. All people who needed her. How could she abandon them?
"Maya!" Olive cried, pulling her out of the archway and through the crowd. "Come on! Run!"
And Maya ran, dragging behind Olive. The crowd cried out, calling to Maya, reaching out to her. It hurt to leave them, but her brother needed her now. Epher—who had always been there to lift Maya when she fell and scraped her knees in the garden. Epher—who had taught her the names of seashells and how to ride a horse. Epher—who had once stayed up with her all night when she was sick. He had always been her pillar, her comfort. Now, after all those times she had needed him, he needed her.
They moved through the crowded streets and alleyways of Beth Eloh, Olive shoving the way through the throngs. At times, the crowd was so thick that they had to halt, and Olive had to shout and elbow people aside. So many refugees had come here, squeezing into this city, that even the balconies and rooftops brimmed with people. It seemed ages before they reached the northern quarter of the city. They moved between ancient houses, some of them thousands of years old, the neighborhoods of the poorest in Beth Eloh.
Past these homes of crumbling bricks, they reached a courtyard before the Gate of Myrrh, the city's northernmost gate. The doors were closed, guarded by many, and fire and smoke rose beyond the defensive wall. A battle had raged on that wall. Smoldering corpses lay across its battlements.
Many people gathered in the courtyard, forming a ring. A priest was praying—songs for the dying.
"Make room!" Olive shouted, pulling Maya with her. They raced across the courtyard, elbowing people aside, and there Maya saw him.
Epher lay on his back, burnt and bleeding. Fire had claimed his legs, stripping off skin and flesh. She could see bone peering through one shin. His armor was torn, revealing wounds. A crossbow dart pierced his cheek, driving deep into the head.
Maya raced toward him, tears in her eyes, terror in her heart. She clasped his hand, trembling.
"Epher," she whispered. "Epher."
The elderly priest, his beard long and white, paused from his prayer. He placed a hand on Maya's shoulder and spoke softly. He spoke the truth she already knew.
"The king is dead."
Maya's tears flowed. She clasped his hand and caressed her brother's hair.
No. You're too young to die. You're only twenty-four. You're too young for this, to end here, to leave me.
From outside the walls rose the chants of the legionaries, but Maya could barely hear them. She heard the sea. She heard the laughter of family around the Restday table. She heard the wind rustling the pine and pomegranate trees in the garden.
No. Don't leave me. Not yet. Not here.
She shuddered, her hands aglow with luminescence. She could not stop the flow of lume now. With all these memories of home, with love, with grief, the lume filled her, igniting inside her, wreathing her with light. And Maya thought back to the tales she had heard—tales of ancient lumers. To that chapter in the Luminous Writ, that one that had terrified and lured her more than any other. To that question she had asked Namtar in a whisper, receiving no answer, only a warning.
Never, her mistress had told her. Never.
In a thousand years, no lumer had done this. Not even Avinasi. Never. Never. The most forbidden of all magics, the one said to drive lumers mad.
But as Maya wept, she held her brother's body, and she let the light flow into him.
"Live," she whispered, trembling, her tears splashing him. "Live."
With a shaking hand, she grabbed the bolt in his cheek, and she pulled with all her strength.
The crowd cried out. The bolt emerged from the broken skull. Maya could barely hear them, barely see them. The light pulsed, wrapping around her and Epher. She squeezed his hand.
"Live. Live."
Never. Never.
Do not ask this.
Never.
It will burn you.
It will burn the world.
Namtar spoke in the light. The words of the Luminous Writ flowed before her.
Never.
But it had been done. Once before, a thousand years ago, it had been done.
"Live."
Maya squeezed her brother's hand. She touched his cheek. She reached her light into him, into the dead heart, cold, still.
"Live."
She wept. She saw their faces, the faces of the women who had taught her. Her mother. Avinasi. Namtar. Never. Never.
"Live."
For she saw other faces too. She saw Epher's face, laughing, a youth, a brother. She saw Olive's face, stricken with grief. She saw his face, the face of the man in the shadows, furrowed and gray and gloating.
"Live."
And so she held her brother, and she summoned more lume than she ever had—more than she had lit in the desert, casting back the dragons of sand. More than she had lit in the house of Luminosity, delving into the secrets of the Writ. More than she had lit here in Beth Eloh, dancing with the demon in the houses of healing. More luminescence flowed through her than perhaps any lumer had ever kindled since King Elshalom had forged this kingdom.
It was the grace of Eloh.
It was memories of the sea and the desert.
It was love.
It was light.
It was life.
"Live."
The light pounded, flowing out, pulsing, slamming into walls. Bricks creaked and thrummed and hummed. Mortar fell like dust. People fell back, covering their eyes. A pillar coalesced, burst skyward, soared like the pillar of a temple, soared into the sky toward Eloh himself, a great beacon that rose past sunlight and dwarfed the works of men. The city trembled. The city overflowed with light. All the lume here, all the lume that flowed from generations of prophets and pilgrims, from caravans of camels atop golden dunes, from maidens dancing on grapes, from turtledoves singing, from the sea whispering over ancient stones, from her family, from all her life—the great fountain of lume in the center of Beth Eloh, erupting in a geyser, kindling, turning into luminescence, rising from her and Epher into the sky.
Light.
Life.
"Live," she whispered.
The holiest word in her tongue. The holiest word in her kingdom. The holiest word she knew.
"Live."
Her tears fell, seared in the light, as she repeated her most precious prayer.
"Live."
The light began to fade. The beam flowed out, forming a cone, then rained down, a rain of Luminosity, countless sparks of starlight, falling onto ancient cobblestones, onto her, onto her brother, then fading, fading like candles, like roses closing for winter, like snow upon sand.
Maya lowered her head, her hair flowing around her and Epher.
"Live," she whispered one last time.
And with fingers that tightened around hers, with a shuddering breath, he lived.
His eyelids fluttered, then opened, then he looked her.
"Maya?" Epher whispered.
She wept. Her body convulsed with sobs. She pulled her brother into her arms, just crying, just holding him. All around her, the people knelt—a great wave, hundreds kneeling before her, praising her name.
"Blessed be Maya Elior."
"Savior of Zohar!"
"Daughter of Eloh."
Abishag fell to her knees at Maya's feet, whispering, "Our savior, our savior."
A great cry rose, and Olive leaped forward, pulled Epher into her embrace, and wept too, kissing him. She touched his cheek, trembling, a tear hanging from her nose.
"You died," Olive whispered. "She brought you back."
Shakily, Maya rose to her feet, and they stood with her. Epher's legs were healed now, leaving not a scar, healed like she had been unable to heal the king of Sekadia. All around them, the people of Beth Eloh still knelt.
"A miracle," whispered the priest, eyes damp. "A miracle has happened in Beth Eloh."
Others repeated the words across the crowd, awe in their eyes. "A miracle has happened in Beth Eloh."
Even the battle seemed to hush. The soldiers on the wall gazed down, tears in their eyes.
Maya stood before them, and she thought of all those she had lost, all those gone, her parents, countless others. Lives she couldn't save.
And through the crowd he moved, walking toward her.
"Peace be upon you, Maya Elior," he said.
He wore a black robe that fluttered, though there was no wind, and a hood covered his head. His gray skin was deeply grooved, the lines vertical as if etched by blades. His eyes were yellow, his cheeks gaunt, his smile cadaverous. His hands were ashen, veined with black, and tipped with crimson.
Maya screamed and fell back, struggling to summon more luminescence, but her magic crackled like lightning, sputtered, and burned her.
He grew before her, rising taller, soon twice her height and growing still, looming, and his shadow fell upon her. Epher cried out and tried to attack, but dark smoke wafted out, slamming him back. Another smoky strand slammed into Olive, a third into Abishag. They fell.
The adversary kept advancing toward Maya. He stared down at her, and his hand—a massive hand, as large as her body—reached out to caress her cheek.
"Do you know who I am?" he asked.
She shouted, sent forth light, trying to banish him, but he was too strong. He had never been so strong, perhaps not since his creation so many years ago. The adversary walked around her toward the Gate of Myrrh. He did not merely open the gate but shattered it, ripping the doors from the archway, shoving back the towers of the gatehouse, sending the wall falling. Bricks rained and rolled across the courtyard. Dust rose in a cloud. Crenellations and turrets crashed down. All was flying stones and dust and screams and shrieking smoke and laughter.
Cold. It was so cold.
"Maya!" Abishag screamed, clutching her.
And above it all—him, laughing, mocking her, dancing, then rising, dispersing into smoke and fleeing like countless ravens.
They stood together on holy ground. Maya, a daughter grieving, a daughter of light. Abishag, who had worshipped the light, whose soul perhaps would never heal. Olive, once wild and feral, now queen of her nation. Epher, the burden of that nation upon him, risen from shadow into light. They stood together in their city where they had witnessed a miracle and darkness, and the dust settled before them, and they watched the thousands of legionaries pour over the ruins and into Beth Eloh.
SENECA
The army of the Southern Empire traveled along the riverbank, cutting north through the savanna, heading toward the delta and sea. Seneca stood in his chariot, his four horses pulling him along rough ground, tussocks of grass, and jagged stones. It was a rough ride. There were no roads here, and they had no ships for the river. Each bump along the way rattled his teeth and made his sword clank against his armor. Finally he had enough. Tossing aside his imperial dignity, Seneca climbed out of his jeweled chariot, leaving the horses to pull the empty vessel. Emperor of the south, soon to be lord of all the Encircled Sea, Seneca Octavius walked.
His army followed, and Seneca kept turning around, kept looking at them, counting them over and over. He knew their numbers. Six thousand Aelarian legionaries. Twelve thousand Nurian warriors. Five hundred and five horses. Three hundred and twelve chariots. He was counting them several times a day now, memorizing the names of the cohorts and even the centuries, and each time he counted, he found some comfort, the appeasement of that cruel god of his fear.
Six thousand legionaries, he thought. Twelve thousand Nurians. Five hundred and five horses. Three hundred and twelve chariots. It will be enough. It will take Aelar. I'm safe.
And yet whenever Seneca turned north again, leading the army, and gazed upon the open country, that dread returned. Again and again, he saw them. The dead in Gefen. The battle in the Acropolis, Porcia slaying the senators and Ofeer fleeing him. The mob in Shenutep, stoning him, and the spear bursting out from Taeer's chest.
More blood would spill, Seneca knew. More horrors would haunt his dreams. And yet this was the choice he had made. These were the sacrifices of an emperor.
Leaders paint with blood and suffer the nightmares, Seneca thought, so that others can sleep throughout the night.
Hooves clattered behind him, and a resplendent horse the color of dawn rode up beside him. Imani sat in the saddle. She wore leather trousers and a breastplate, but her hair ruffled freely in the wind.
"The mighty Seneca Octavius, Emperor of Aelar—walking?" She smiled down at him.
"I'm not too proud to walk," he said. "I'm a man of the people."
Imani snorted. "You just get saddle blisters." She dismounted, held her horse's reins, and walked beside him.
For a while they walked in silence. Imani chewed her lip, glanced toward him, then back at her feet. Finally she spoke.
"Seneca, am I a fool?"
He narrowed his eyes. "Why would you be a fool?"
Imani stared ahead into the distance. A herd of wildebeests swept across the plains. When finally she spoke, she seemed to be speaking to herself more than to him. "You've loved women before. You've told me that. You loved Taeer, and you also treated her as a slave, and you drove her to such hatred that she tried to slay you. You loved Ofeer, but you hurt her too, you abused her, enslaved her, tried to kill her when she ran from you." She stared at a hippopotamus that floated in the river. "I told my brother that we can trust you. I told him that you love me, that you honor me. I told him that if we fight with you, that if Nur's warriors storm Aelar and place you on its throne, that you will be kind to us. That I will be your wife and queen, not just your concubine." Finally she met his eyes. "Did I lie to him, Seneca?"
He lowered his head.
Tear down the walls!
His own voice echoed in his mind.
Kill those fucking rats!
Guilty, guilty! Ship them off in chains!
Crucifixion! Crucify the rat!
The voice of a boy, drunk on wine, drunk on power, so afraid, so hurt. A boy raised by a tyrant. A boy beaten, abused, feeling so weak, so desperate to find strength.
"Yes," he said softly. "You lied."
Imani sucked in breath. She frowned. Her eyes dampened. "Did I?"
Seneca nodded. "You cannot trust me, Imani. When you told Adai that you could, you lied. I'm not worthy of trust. I slew many innocents. I treated the women I loved like dogs. I sailed into Nur to place a collar around your neck too."
A tear rolled down Imani's cheek. "Is that really who you are?"
"That is who I was," said Seneca. "But that man died. He died in Gefen. He died in Aelar. He died in the Battle of Tereen, fighting at your side. With every kiss of your lips, with every look into your eyes, with every time you trusted me—that Seneca was buried deeper." He looked at the distant herd, blinking. "I wanted to be like Porcia. Like my father. I lived as they did, I fought as they fought. But here in Nur, with you, I saw another way." He looked back at her. "I don't know if I'm a good man, Imani. I don't know if I was cruel because I was raised in cruelty, or whether that cruelty is ingrained within me, whether it still lurks inside. So no. You cannot trust me. But you can believe this, Imani, which I swear by the gods: You will never be my slave. You will be my guide to wisdom, my compass to morality. Fuck my father. Fuck my sister. They're both dead now." His voice was hoarse. "Right now the only person I want to impress is you. I promise you. We will make this a good world. Together."
Yet even as he spoke those words, Seneca thought back to only a few weeks ago, to confronting Imani's handmaiden in her pyramid. For nothing—no reason at all, just a perceived slight—he had nearly slain her. So many of those demons still screamed inside. Screamed for death. Screamed to capture Ofeer and strangle her for lying to him. Screamed to find the rebel Epheriah and defeat him in glorious battle. Screamed to capture Tirus alive and torture him slowly, cutting off piece by piece as the crowd roared. The blood, death, torture, glory, gold, wine, whores, victory—they stormed through Seneca's mind, demons dancing, calling him to join them, until his hands shook and he wanted to shout.
But he turned to look at Imani.
