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.

For now Maya was safe. The legions were focusing on slaying Zohar's defenders, Epher among them, and taking the Mount. But should the Mount fall, and should the legions slay Epher, Maya feared that their wrath would turn upon every family in Beth Eloh. She lowered her head, remembering the demon that had risen. Her shadow in the light. The blood on her hands.

"Where do we go, Maya?" Abishag asked.

"To seek redemption," said Maya. "To seek forgiveness."

The drizzle ended and the sun emerged. They walked down a cobbled alleyway. The walls of homes and libraries flanked them, the bricks pale and craggy. Archways rose above, connecting the buildings, forming a walkway like a tunnel. A date palm grew in a patch of sunlight, and flowers bloomed on windowsills and balconies. It seemed so strange to Maya that even here, in this city of death and war, she could find a place of such peace, such beauty.

They emerged from the alleyway into a small round piazza. A well rose in its center, and several donkeys and camels stood tethered here. Women were drawing water from the well. A few robed, bearded men—some too old to fight, one missing a leg—stood nearby, nervously glancing around, clutching their staffs. As Maya stepped into the piazza, all eyes turned toward her.

"It's her," whispered a man.

"The healer."

"The daughter of kings."

"The cursed one."

They were all staring, all whispering. Maya approached the well. She patted a camel. The animal licked her palm, and some of her fear eased.

She turned toward the crowd. More joined from alleyways and emerged from homes.

"In the beginning," Maya said, "there was light."

As she spoke to them, reciting the Luminous Writ, more people filled the square. Some stood on balconies or roofs, watching her. So many eyes frightened Maya, but she imagined that she was back in the house of Luminosity by the sea, using her light to peer into the scrolls, to transcribe the ancient runes onto parchment.

"Every light casts a shadow," she said, quoting from the holy book of her sisterhood. "Every wave erodes the sand. Every song ends in silence." She took a deep breath, and now she no longer quoted scripture. Now she spoke words of her own. "My people, sons and daughters of Beth Eloh, I came here to beg forgiveness."

They stared at her, confused, mumbling.

"I healed you," Maya said. "I sought to heal this city. I raised my brother from the dead. I sought to resurrect a great king—a man I love. Every light casts a shadow. The light I raised here, even the blessed light of Luminosity, brought healing but also pain. It raised a king yet toppled our gates. The man with the furrowed gray skin—he is not a demon. He is not risen from Ashael. He is me. My shadow. The dark, twisted part of my soul, cast out with every light I shine."

The people muttered more loudly.

"What do you mean?" one man cried out.

"She broke the city gates!" said another. "She summoned the demon!"

Abishag stepped closer to Maya, nervously glancing around. Maya smiled at her softly, trying to comfort her, and looked back at the crowd.

"I traveled far across the desert," Maya said. "To the eastern sea and back to Beth Eloh. I saw palaces of splendor that hid slums of squalor. I saw deserts of wonder that hid buried ruins. I saw a glorious temple carved into a mountainside that led to nothing but a rough cell. In all the world there is balance. Gold and rust. Iron and sand. Splendor and shadow. Light and darkness. In the beginning there was light, teaches the Luminous Writ. Yet how can we comprehend light without darkness for it to banish? Without light there is no shadow. Without pain there is no joy. And without sin there is no redemption."

"You were supposed to save us!" shouted a man, limping forward, his one leg missing. "You came into Beth Eloh as a savior! Yet now the gates are smashed, and the legions fill the holy city. You failed! Since you came here, you've brought disease and death. The Empire grinds us under its heel. And now you ask for redemption?"

"I cannot defeat the armies of Aelar," said Maya. "But I can tell you this: All in life is balanced. We cannot fight evil with evil, only with goodness. We cannot cast back hatred with more hatred, only with kindness. We are Zoharites. Ever have we lived by the sword. Ever our enemies have risen to smite us. But we also sang songs. We built. We loved. We brought light into this world. So let us be the light to their shadow. Let us love while they hate. Let us heal this world that others seek to shatter. Answer the sword with healing. Answer hatred with love. Answer despair with hope. Let that be our light unto the nations."

"We cannot defeat Aelar with love." A man scoffed. "Give us blades, not words!"

"Give us great warriors, not healers!" cried another man.

Yet others in the crowd nodded.

"Maya speaks wisdom," said a woman, eyes shining. "We will not become hateful, not spill blood like our enemies."

"Then we will die!" said a man.

Maya shook her head. "We will live eternally. The cruel, the tyrants, those who live by the sword—they always fade like kingdoms of sand under the waves. The Phedians who ravaged our land a thousand years ago. The Kalintians who desecrated our Temple and put our sons to the sword. The Cadomites who butchered us on our coast and raised idols in our cities. All those ancient empires have faded, yet we remain. In the Luminosity, I have seen Aelar rise strong and mighty, spreading its tentacles across the world, yet it too fades into the sands of time. Goodness remains. Love remains. So long as we're a nation of light, we too will remain. Do not, even as enemies strike you, become the beast who strikes back from a cage, beaten and wrathful and driven to madness. Our strength will not be in our iron but our souls, our justice, our mercy, our love. I love you, children of Zohar. Unconditionally. In this time of darkness and hatred, love is the greatest light."

A voice rose from the back of the crowd. "Maya Sela."

Maya looked up, and she saw them there. Ten legionaries, armed with spears and swords, and between them—in armor, her helmet crested—Claudia Valerius.

The daughter of Aelar's new emperor, commander of this force, pointed at Maya. "There stands the sister of the rebel! There stands one who preaches against us! We will make her scream for her brother."

Abishag cried out in fear, grabbed Maya's hand, and tried to pull her away. "We must run!"

But more legionaries emerged from the alleyways, closing in around them. Maya smiled softly, kissed Abishag's forehead, then turned and walked toward them.