SENECA

He rode his chariot through Shenutep, capital of Nur, snarling and whipping his horses.

"The empress is dead!" the crowds of Nurians chanted at his sides, dancing and singing. "Porcia is dead!"

The roar of the chariot's wheels and the horses' hooves thundered in Seneca's ears. The cobblestones were rough here, not smoothed and polished like those that lined the streets of Aelar, and the chariot bounced and rattled madly. Seneca whipped the horses again.

Faster. Faster!

The city streets streamed past him—ancient sandstone buildings with arched windows, idols of human-animal hybrids, columned temples draped with vines, and markets of every spice and fabric known to man. The Nurians stepped back from his charge—powerful people, proud and ancient, rejoicing in the death of his sister. Elephants reared and raised their trunks. Stray cats scattered. Seneca rode onward, and behind him charged ten more chariots. Imani rode in one, soldiers in the others. With every block they crossed, Seneca's fear grew.

"Faster, damn it!" he shouted.

He could see the smoke now. It plumed ahead, spreading across the sky. The smell of fire filled his nostrils, and heat flowed across him. Sweat dripped under his armor. Now he heard a different cry, a chant of anger, of hatred.

"Zohar rises!" cried a distant cry. "Down with Aelar!"

He raced down a sloping boulevard, wheeled around a sandstone sphinx the size of a temple, and saw it in the distance. The port along the river.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of Zoharites lived in Shenutep, this city far south along the Majina River. Some had immigrated to Nur a century ago, fleeing the Kalintian invasion—the same civilization Seneca's great-grandparents had vanquished. Other Zoharites had only recently arrived, fleeing the devastation in their homeland. Today it seemed that the entire community of Zoharites in Nur had emerged from their homes and congregated before him. Their faces twisted with rage. They held knives, clubs, stones.

"Fuck Aelar!" one man shouted.

"Burn the eagles!" shouted a Zoharite woman, pointing at the chariots.

The boulevard stretched toward the port, filled with the desert scum. Their houses lined the side streets, pomegranates of tin and iron hanging from the doors. A temple to their invisible god rose nearby, topped with a rearing lion forged of iron and coated in silver. At the end of the boulevard, Seneca could see his fleet—the cargo ships, galleys, barges, this flotilla he had spent months building, preparing for invasion—all ablaze.

They ruined me, Seneca thought, throat tightening. The Zoharites fucking ruined me.

He howled, whipped his horses, drew his sword, and charged toward them.

"Kill the rats!" Seneca shouted. "Legions, arise! With me! Kill every last fucking Zoharite in this city!"

Blade raised, roaring, he thundered into the crowd.

Screams rose. His four horses slammed into Zoharites, plowing over them, shattering their bodies. Scythes thrust out from his chariot's wheels. The spinning blades tore into the crowd, ripping off legs, slicing open bellies. Blood splattered Seneca, only fueling his rage. His horses kept charging, and behind him, his soldiers followed in their own chariots.

"Kill the prince!" shouted a Zoharite on a rooftop, a swarthy, bearded brute. The man hurled a stone. It slammed into Seneca's helmet, and his head rang.

"It's Seneca the Serpent!" shouted a woman on a balcony. "Kill the bastard!" She hurled a chamber pot. It hit Seneca, and the clay shattered, spilling its wretched contents across him.

More Zoharites crowded around him, thrusting blades and clubs. Seneca lashed his whip with one hand, hitting a Zoharite's face, slicing the skin and taking an eye. With his other hand, he lashed his gladius, cutting a woman.

Another rock flew and hit his breastplate. A club swung into his thigh. Even his pteruges, leather straps that hung from his waist down to his knees, could not stop pain from blazing. More and more Zoharites kept emerging from their burrows, hurling bricks. One man tossed a torch, and Seneca yowled and kicked it aside, burning his foot. Somebody on a roof raised a bow. An arrow whistled and slammed into a horse, and the beast reared.

"Where the fuck are you?" Seneca shouted over his shoulder at his men. "Kill them! Kill the fucking rats!"

But the other chariots were running into trouble too. The Zoharites mobbed them, knifing the horses, tossing torches and bricks. One legionary fell, and the crowd dragged him off, slamming bricks against his face.

"Zohar rises!" they chanted. "Aelar falls!"

Seneca's wounded horse fell. The chariot slammed into the animal and halted. The mob closed in.

Terror, icy and all-consuming, flooded over Seneca.

Blades rose and fell, and his other horses screamed, fell, died. The crowd slammed against the chariot. Another stone flew. Ahead in the port, only a couple hundred cubits away, the ships blazed, sails great curtains of fire, Seneca's dreams of conquest, of imperial glory—all rose in flame and smoke and steam.

He raised his sword.

I conquered Gefen. I cast back Porcia's fleet. He roared wordlessly and swung his blade. I can deal with a fucking mob of barbarians.

A stone flew and slammed against his armor. Another rock hit his helmet. A sling stone shrieked and hit his back, knocking him forward. A torch thrust his way and blazed across his arm. Seneca swung his blade, ignoring the pain. Faces sneered around him. Between the attackers, he glimpsed Zoharites knocking down a legionary, then hacking at his leg. The wind shifted and the smoke flew over them. Seneca's gladius found flesh, cutting open a man's arm. A stone hit the side of his helmet, cracking the metal and bloodying his cheek.

"Kill Seneca! Kill the pig!"

I'm going to die here, he thought, swinging his blade, trying to hold them back. More stones hit him. I'm not going to die fighting for Aelar. I'm not going to die an emperor. I'm going to die in a fucking alleyway in the ass of the world, stoned to death by rats.

He looked around him, desperate to find his soldiers, to find Imani. She carried his child. Damn it, she carried his child, and now she was in danger. He couldn't see her. All he could see was the mob. Hundreds of Zoharites surrounded him. He thrust his gladius, cutting a woman. She fell back, only for a man to replace her. The barbarian swung a club, hitting Seneca's wrist, and pain flared and he nearly dropped his sword. Hands grabbed his shoulders from behind. He swung around, blade thrusting, cutting a man's arm down to the bone. More stones pelted him. His legs and arms bled. More blood kept dripping down his chin. A rock rang his helmet like a bell. He saw flashes of light, and his head spun.

He stumbled forward, swinging the blade, trying to hold them off, and there—there on the roadside, standing in a doorway, clad in red and gold, he saw her.

Taeer.

Relief flooded Seneca and brought tears to his eyes.

"Taeer!" he cried.

Tears of relief mingled with the blood. Suddenly Seneca felt like a boy again—the boy who had sought comfort in Taeer's arms, later in her bed. She had been with him for nearly two decades—since he'd been only a toddler, since she'd been only a frightened youth newly arrived from Zohar. All his life, in the moments of greatest darkness—in the devastation of Gefen, in the terror as Porcia had ascended in Aelar, in his exile here in Nur—Taeer had been at his side. His guiding light. His candle in the long dark night. Now he moved toward that light—the light that glowed in her eyes, the light of Luminosity, the light that had always lit Seneca's path.

The sight of her gave him the strength to continue, to resist the stones, to survive the pain. He fought his way through the mob, cutting people down, and made his way to her doorstep, covered in blood.

"Taeer!" he cried. "Taeer, help me!"

She stood tall in the doorway, fingers and eyes luminous. Her red gown billowed, and her belt of coins chinked. Serpent armlets circled her arms, staring with ruby eyes. Her wavy black hair rose and crackled with the magic. He limped toward her, and she stepped aside, smiling mysteriously, shepherding him into the house. He stumbled inside, gasping for air.

"Stand back, children of Zohar!" Taeer called, still facing the street. "Let me handle Seneca the Serpent. Tend to your wounded and dead."

Seneca tried to look out at the street, to see if Imani still rode there, still lived. But he could see nothing but the sea of Zoharites and a few Nurian soldiers trying to maintain order.

"Imani," he said hoarsely, reaching toward the doorway, but Taeer shut the door and locked it.

He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. After he had married Imani, Taeer had asked to move here, to the Zoharite Quarter by the river, to spend her nights among her people and her days serving him in the pyramid. A year ago, Seneca would have refused her wish. He had come to depend on Taeer in his bed—her kisses, embraces, whispers, and the wild nights of lovemaking. Since marrying Imani, however, he had shared his bed with her, the Queen of Nur. And so he had given Taeer this gift of freedom, allowing her a home of her own, a semblance of Zohar here in the south. And she had transformed her home into a desert oasis. Red and golden fabrics hung from the walls, embroidered with golden lions and pomegranates. Curtains of beads chinked and tinkled in the sunlight that streamed through the window. Scrolls and ram horns topped shelves, and a great map of Beth Eloh, wider than Seneca was tall, hung above a bed topped with many tasseled pillows.

"Imani," Seneca rasped again, still out of breath. "She's still out there, Taeer. She's in danger." He moved back toward the door. "Help me find her. Help—"

Taeer placed her hand on the door, keeping it shut. "Your wife is fine, my emperor." She stroked his hair. "My people hold no animosity to the beloved Queen Imani. The Nurian Rose, they call her." She gave her lips the slightest pout. "You are wounded, my prince. Let me tend to you. Let me pour you wine to soothe the pain."

She gently guided him away from the door. She poured him wine and brought the cup to his lips.

"Aelarian wine, dominus," she said. "From the vineyards of Polonia."

As he drank, Taeer removed his helmet, wiped the blood off his cheek, and bought her glowing fingers to the wound, healing him. She kissed his ear while stroking his hair.

"I've missed you, dominus," she whispered, lips touching his ear. "For too many nights, my bed felt cold without you." With deft fingers, the lumer unstrapped his armor, and his breastplate clanged to the floor. She pulled his face toward hers, and her voice dropped. "Did you miss me too, dominus?"

"Taeer." He pulled her hand off his chest. "What are you doing? I'm married now."

She gripped his head with both hands, staring into his eyes. "A marriage of convenience. An alliance. But I've always been the woman you love. Not Ofeer. Not Imani. But me, your lumer, your Taeer."

She kissed him. And gods of blood and wine, it felt good. He had missed her lips. He had found Ofeer alluring, maddening, a treasure from an exotic land to conquer. He found Imani beautiful, elegant, enchanting, a woman of beauty and power. But Taeer . . . Taeer had always been a comfort to him. Whenever he felt afraid, felt weak, he sought safety in her arms, in her love.

She guided him toward her bed. He was too weak to resist, too weary, too scared.

"They burned them," he said, the smoke still in his lungs, still in his eyes. "My ships. The Zoharites burned them all. I need to return to Aelar, to claim my throne, but they burned them, and—"

She placed a finger against his lips. "Hush now, Seneca. Let me tend to you." She pushed him onto his back, straddled him, and caressed his chest.

"No." He shook his head. "No, Taeer. I can't. I can't let you kiss me anymore, lie with me anymore. I'm married now. Those days are over. I—"

"I said hush." She kissed him again, pressed his wrist against the bedpost, and began to bind him with a silken scarf.

"Taeer, what—"

"Hush, I said." She gave him a crooked smile. She leaned down and whispered, her lips skimming his, "I will fuck you like I've never fucked you before. Let me take control. Let me drive you mad with pleasure."

He closed his eyes. He was so scared. He needed this, needed her—to control him, to tell him what to do, to fix things, to tell him things would be all right. Like she had always done. Perhaps she had always taken control. He let her bind his wrists to the bedposts with her silken scarves, then his ankles. As she worked, he felt himself harden against her, and she laughed.

"My sweet prince." Taeer leaned down and kissed his lips.

"Prince? I'm your emperor now." He opened his eyes. "Do you forget that?"

She licked her lips. "I forget nothing, Seneca. I do not forget how I first came to you, thirteen years old, so afraid, a young lumer carted in chains to a new land. I do not forget how I tended to you, a mere toddler, serving you with my light—then, as you grew into a man, with my love. I do not forget how you sailed back into Zohar, my homeland. How you proved yourself a great conqueror. How you shattered the walls of Gefen, how you butchered thousands, how you brutalized Ofeer, how you—"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Seneca said, frowning. "I loved Ofeer. I—"

Taeer slapped him. Hard. He grimaced and the wound on his cheek opened, dripping onto the bed. "You crucified her father, then fucked her under the corpse. You made her your slave. You placed a child within her. You—"

"A what?" Seneca's head reeled, and he struggled against his bounds, unable to free himself. "A child? By the abyss, Taeer! I didn't fucking impregnate Ofeer."

Still straddling him, she laughed, head tossed back, light in her eyes, light crackling on her fingertips and along her hair. "You are so blind. You are so foolish."

"Enough of this." He tugged at the bedposts, but the scarves only tightened around his wrists. "Taeer, release me. I need to find Imani. I need to—"

"Oh, you tire of me already and seek Imani?" Taeer pouted. "Once you couldn't get enough of me. Every night and every morning you fucked me, your appetite knowing no bounds. Yes, I was a lumer to you, but also a slave, also a whore. And now you discard me so quickly? I'm not that ready to be discarded." She reached down to his crotch, caressing him, and Seneca hated that he hardened in her grip. "There . . . You still like me. I can feel it."

"Taeer, enough!" he shouted. "My fleet burns outside the window, Imani might be in danger, and—"

"Shh . . ." She leaned closer, still caressing his manhood, and kissed him again. "Be silent, my Seneca. Be still. There, there. Taeer will make everything all right. There . . ."

Seneca screamed.

Pain blazed in his groin, right at the top of his thigh.

"Taeer, what the fuck?" he shouted.

She pulled up a bloody knife. The red droplets splashed onto Seneca's chest.

"Oh, did I cut you?" Taeer said. "Don't worry, sweet prince. I left your manhood unharmed. I wouldn't dare slice off such a precious gift to womankind. No, Seneca. That part of you is safe. I cut something far more interesting—the artery in your thigh."

Seneca screamed and lashed at his bonds. Taeer still leaned over him, straddling him, her weight pressing down on his pelvis.

"The blood flow slows a bit under my weight," Taeer said. "But still the lifeblood trickles. As soon as I rise from you, the flow will intensify. Arteries are such tricky things. So easy to snip! And yet so fast to kill."

"Taeer," he whispered, still struggling against his bonds, feeling weaker now. The blood seeped into the mattress. "Taeer, stop this. Please. Stop."

She raised an eyebrow. "Does the great conqueror, the man who destroyed Gefen, who took slaves—does he beg?"

"I'm not that man anymore," Seneca said, unable to shout anymore, eyes clouding. "Taeer, I've changed. Imani changed me. I'm not who I was. Please. Taeer, stop this. Release me and we'll talk."

Pouting, she leaned forward. As her weight lifted, the blood flowed with more vigor. She kissed him—a soft, tender kiss, like the ones she had given him countless times. "It's too late for all that, my sweet boy. Maybe you are no longer who you were. But neither am I." She brushed hair back from his forehead. "The imperial lumer has summoned us. We rise, sweet Seneca. We rise up against you everywhere. Here in Nur. In Zohar. All around the Encircled Sea, my sisters—the lumers, those whom you enslaved—we all rise. And I do my part. Sleep well, sweet prince." Her smile grew. "May you scream for eternity in Ashael."

She rose from him and stood at the foot of the bed. Without her weight against his wound, the blood pumped out faster, soaking the mattress, trickling to the floor.

"Taeer!" he screamed, tugging madly at the bedposts, his limbs still bound. "Taeer, damn it! Let me go! Stop this! Taeer!"

She raised the blade to her lips—just a small knife, no larger than her finger—and licked his blood. "I could, perhaps, plunge this into your heart, but no. That would be too fast." She licked the blood off her teeth. "I'm going to savor this, Seneca. I'm going to make this last. I want you to feel your life drain away—just as Jerael's life drained away, just as—"

Blood blasted from her chest.

The spear burst out between Taeer's ribs.

The lumer's eyes widened, and her knife dropped to the floor.

Behind the lumer, Imani tugged the spear free.

Taeer gasped for air like a fish out of water. She ignited her lume, but the glow sputtered around her fingertips. She brought a shaky hand to her chest . . . and then her fingers went dark. She crashed down to the ground and did not rise.

Imani stood above the corpse. Her kalasiri was tattered, and blood dripped down her thigh and splashed her hair. The Queen of Nur looked down at the corpse of Taeer, then at Seneca, who still lay bound on the bed.

"Are those things true?" Imani whispered, looking at him. "That you crucified a man, then took his daughter under the corpse, impregnating her? That you slaughtered thousands? That you took slaves? I stole a woman's life to save yours." A tear rolled down Imani's cheek, and her voice trembled. "So tell me, Seneca. Are those things true, and did I just become a monster too?"

"Imani," he whispered, still bleeding, weaker now. He could barely see her. He could barely speak. "Please, Imani. The bleeding. She cut my artery. She—"

"Is it true?" Imani repeated.

Seneca nodded, tears in his eyes, as outside the window all his hopes burned. So let him burn with them. Perhaps he no longer deserved life, let alone power.

"It's true," he whispered. He could speak no louder. "I sent men to slaughter thousands in Gefen. I crucified Jerael Sela myself—with my own hands—and I fucked his daughter in Jerael's own bed as he was dying outside the window, then took his daughter to be my slave in Aelar. I am not a good man, Imani. But you knew that. You always knew that. If you want to let me die now, you would serve justice. I don't deserve life, and I stole the lives of many, and nothing awaits me in the afterlife but damnation. But you told me something, Imani, back in the pyramid, in your home. You told me that you believed I could change. That I could still do good in this world. That I could find redemption. So now this is your choice. Turn around and leave me, and let the monster bleed to death, and perhaps the world will be rid of evil, and perhaps our child will be spared the fate I had—the burden of a cruel father. Or let me slay that monster myself, and let me undo his destruction."

Imani stared at him for a long time, a battle raging behind her eyes.

Finally she dropped her spear, stepped toward him, and pressed a pillow against his wound.

"Maybe we're both monsters now," Imani said, sitting beside him, holding in what remained of his blood. "So let us find redemption together."

He exhaled in shaky relief. He felt so weak. He closed his eyes and he dreamed—dreamed of being a boy again, back in the palace, a boy raised by killers, lost in darkness, no light to guide him. And in his dreams, Imani walked by his side, lost with him, seeking a way out from a palace of endless corridors.