EPHER

He stood on the wall, barely able to breathe, his fingers digging into the battlements. His head spun. The fear paralyzed him. Epher forced himself to take deep, slow breaths, to think, to breathe.

Below in the eastern desert, they toiled. Thousands of slaves. For many days now, they had been laboring. Under the whips of their Aelarian masters, the slaves of Beth Eloh had built a circumvallation wall around the mesa, blocking off all aid or escape. The wall was crude, formed of rough stones and mortar, but tall and lined with guard outposts. A dry moat ran along the wall, filled with jagged spikes, and always the legions patrolled the perimeter. Within this great circle, the legionaries had raised a camp—rings within rings of tents, home to fifteen thousand troops. Across the camp, horns kept blaring, drums kept beating, and legionaries kept chanting.

"Crucify them!" shouted a man.

"Burn the rebels!"

"Snap their bones!"

"Peel their skin!"

The chants continued. They never stopped. For weeks now, the legionaries had been laughing, singing, shouting—an eternal, demonic song. Claudia's voice rose loudest among them. Even now, gazing down, Epher saw her riding through the camp on her horse, shouting until she grew hoarse.

"We come, we see, we kill!" she chanted. "The crosses will rise from Zohar to Aelar!"

We cannot escape, Epher thought. Even if we tried to flee the mesa, we're trapped. We're a tor rising from a sea of fire.

And day by day, as the legions manned the wall and prepared for war, the slaves kept toiling. Zoharite slaves. Cart by cart, they were raising the great earthworks of wood, stone, mortar, and soil. Cart by cart, the fortress grew taller and closer to Tarath El, this fortress in the sky.

The ramp.

Day by day, growing.

The death of Tarath El.

The final fall of Zohar.

"This is ridiculous," Ramael said, standing at Epher's side. "We have to shoot them. We have to fucking shoot them." He clutched his bow and pointed at the slaves laboring on the ramp. "We have arrows! We have archers! We can stop this."

Epher shook his head. "I will not have us shoot the slaves. They're our own people. Wives. Sisters. Children. No."

Epher stared back at the rising ramp. It now rose halfway up the mesa. Hundreds of Zoharite slaves moved up and down the structure, adding cart after cart of earth and rock. All Zoharites. All people Epher could reach with his arrows. All people he could not, dared not slay.

"Epher," Ramael said, softer now. "Once that ramp rises as tall as the cliffs, and once it reaches us . . . we will die. We will all die. We're nine hundred and sixty people—many of us not even warriors. They're fifteen thousand, the most efficient killers in the world. If they break into Tarath El, we cannot defeat them."

Epher stared down at the ramp. He recognized one of those slaves. Even from here.

Abishag, he thought. Maya's friend.

He nodded. "If they break in, we cannot defeat them."

Ramael groaned and paced along the wall. "Then we have to shoot the slaves."

Epher lowered his head. Perhaps Ramael spoke truth. If they slew the slaves, perhaps Tarath El could still survive. Yet how could Epher do this?

"We abandoned Beth Eloh," he said slowly. "We left a million people to die while we sought safety here, and that is a sin no god could forgive. Let us not stain our souls further. If we slay our own people, we are monsters. I would rather die with whatever righteousness, whatever honor still remains for us, whatever forgiveness we can still claim. I would prefer this death to a life of evil."

"An evil they force upon us!" Ramael said. "You led us here to protect us. You abandoned Beth Eloh so that a thousand could live. Do not see that work undone now."

"So a thousand could live!" Epher said. "Yes. Yes, so a thousand could live. Not even a thousand; a few hundred only. Yet more than a thousand of our own people toil before us! Would I slay them to save us?"

"What kind of lives do they have?" Ramael's eyes were red, and he gestured toward the growing ramp. "A life of whips, chains, misery."

"Lives of misery," Epher said softly. "Yet not lives that are ours to take. I will not kill my own people. My father would not ask me to."

"And your father died," Ramael said, then turned and walked away.

For a long time, Epher remained on the wall, staring down at the desert, at the ramp that grew every day, and at the siege tower already being constructed in the distance.

That night, he entered the palace built onto the precipice of Tarath El, and he climbed the stairs to his chamber. Olive was still awake, standing by the window, gazing out at the night. The moonlight limned her form—slender, graceful, her belly bulging. From the distance rose the sounds of the legions. Cracking whips. Screaming slaves. Rolling stones and creaking wood. Horns and drums still rose in a din.

"They never stop," Olive whispered, still looking outside, not turning to face Epher. "The damn horns. They never stop."

Epher approached, stood behind her, and wrapped his arms around her. "Turn away from them. For tonight."

She turned to face him, her back to the window, ghosts in her eyes. Over her shoulder, Epher could see the legions below, their campfires spreading from the foot of the mesa to the circumvallation wall. He pulled the curtains shut.

"We can no win," Olive whispered, holding him. Her eyes dampened. "What we do?" She pulled his hand down to her belly, and he felt the baby move. "How we save our child?"

Epher wanted to speak comforting words, inspiring words. But he could only say, "I don't know."

Olive lowered her head, her red hair brushing his chin. "Then we surrender."

Epher looked aside. He stared at their bed, at the crib that rose beside it, still empty. "I would have surrendered many days ago, if I thought that was an option." He shook his head. "There is no surrendering to the legions. Not after Beth Eloh. Our fate would not be slavery. It would be crucifixion for our warriors along the road from Polonia to Aelar and my death in the arena."

"Then what we do?" Olive said. She ran her fingers through his short beard, eyes damp. "Tell me. Tell me how to stop this."

A lump grew in his throat. Epher wanted his father here for guidance. Wanted his mother. Wanted Avinasi. Someone wiser, older, stronger. Why should he lead them? Why should he be king of Zohar's last survivors? This was not a burden he had ever wanted, not a burden he'd been born for.

I should be back in Gefen now, he thought. I should be at the table under the painting of elephants, as mother lights candles and father sings in a low voice like rolling thunder. I should be banging wooden swords with Koren and Atalia, or listening to Ofeer speak of distant wonders, or reading with Maya from scrolls. I should be on the beach, making love to Claudia, not waiting for her to break into this hall and murder my people, my family. None of this. None of this should be.

"There are many cellars, cisterns, and tunnels within the mesa," Epher said. "If the legionaries breach the walls, we go underground. We find shelter there."

"For how long?" Olive said. "How long can we stop so many legionaries, how—"

"Then what would you have me do?" Epher said, suddenly shouting. He tore himself away from her. He placed his fists against the wall and lowered his head. "What do you fucking want, Olive? For me to become a lumer and blast them all with magical fire? For me to summon Eloh himself to fight our battles? Maybe for me to leap into the legionaries' camp and slay them all with my sword?" He turned his head and looked at her through the veil of grief and rage. "They all come to me. You. Ramael. The others. A constant fucking barrage, as if I'm a god to be prayed to. For the first time in my life, when you all need me the most, I am helpless. So what would you have me do? What, Olive?"

She was weeping now. She stepped toward him. "Just hold me. Right now just hold me."

He held her. For a long time, he held her in the night, as outside the horns kept blowing.