“The outlanders left you,” said Ren.
“I know. That was our agreement. The free companies will be gone by sunset, the others as well. They were here to burn and loot—nothing more.”
“The Harkans came to fight, not to plunder and rape.”
“Rape.” Barden swallowed as he spoke the word. “You judge me harshly—I see it,” he said, “but I did what I thought necessary. I didn’t know I’d have a man on the inside, someone who could open the door. I had to assume there would be a siege and I would need a great host to combat the Protector.”
Ren looked at the man with pity. “You were cut down by your own plot, by the confusion you sowed within the city.”
Barden gave no reply. The truth of Ren’s words lay all around him, in fallen bodies and cloven shields.
“The battle is not yet over, Ren. You haven’t said your name, but I know who you are. I see my eyes in that face of yours. I did this for you, for our family. We will never again suffer beneath the empire. I know what they’ll say about me. They’ll call me the Butcher of Solus, the man who plundered the city of the gods. I don’t care. I’m dead anyway, but your hands are clean. Find Mered and finish what I started. The city is crippled. I made a terrible bargain to get it done, but those choices are in the past. Join the Harkans and take on the army of the Protector. It’s an honorable fight, and it’s good to see it fall to an honorable man. I never had the luxury of honor. I grew up without name or rank. I was no one, but I raised a great army and did what no one else could accomplish.”
“I know,” said Ren. He wanted to judge the man, to tell him of the atrocities he’d seen, but he bit his lip. The life was already fading from Barden’s eyes.
“Go,” Barden said. His grip loosened on Ren’s hand and the life fled from him, his skin turning gray, his face drooping, the muscles relaxing as death took hold of him.
Ren’s fingers remained enmeshed with the dead man’s. This is my uncle, my blood. He saw the good and the bad. Then he stood, his hand parting from Barden’s lifeless grip. There was not even time to say a word in his name. The battle called.
61
Sarra stood on the high wall, watching as the Kiltet completed their work. The doors of the Empyreal Domain had closed with an awful crack, rending spears and whatever else was thrust into the breach. In those last few moments, as the doors snapped shut, there’d been a terrible flood of men and metal, soldiers and civilians, people carrying everything they had, jostling one another to slip through that ever-narrowing gap. A bit of wood burst in two when the doors at last met. Splinters showered the lawn and a bronze sword bent sideways. A dozen stout men stood beside each door, sweat on their backs, their hands gripping the massive, wheel-like mechanisms that slowly ratcheted the doors closed. The gears made a click-clicking sound that rang out with each rotation. Click. Turn. Click. Turn. They gave it one last crank, one more deafening click, then shook out their weary hands. The work was finished. The people were saved, or at least most of them were. A small crowd gathered outside the wall, but the better part of Solus was protected by the wall and the army of the Protector. Sarra had seen them in those last moments, rushing to cut off the outlanders’ advance, and they’d done it.
The doors of the Empyreal Domain were at rest.
The air was quiet, hushed.
The people stood in awe. This was not Solus, not the Waset, nor was it even the White-Wall district. This was the true city of the gods.
The Empyreal Domain.
No god had trod upon these stones in two centuries, but little had changed since the Soleri walked these paths, or at least it looked as if that were the case. The stone paths were raked thrice daily, every pebble put in order, every stray blossom swept away before it could disturb the order of the place. This was the sacred precinct Sarra had come to know: a place where the walls were so white they did not reflect light, they became it. Every surface was plastered in a lime so fresh, so smoothly polished that it showed no blemish, nor did it give evidence of the worker’s hand. Every wall was a mirror to the sun, a reflection of Mithra cast out onto the world, and that reflection brought awe to the masses. They had lived in Solus and known opulence. Some might have witnessed Mered’s palace, as Sarra had, and there was beauty there, but the Cloud Garden held none of the domain’s splendor. This was the gods’ sanctuary.
The people turned in circles, stumbling, trying not to crush the delicate flowers, sidestepping the many-blossomed plants as they attempted to fan out, to give one another some space, room enough to take it all in.
Sarra realized the usefulness of the moment. She stepped out into the crowd, her robe of gold gleaming like the walls of the domain. It glowed like a ray of Mithra’s light. They must know I saved them, she thought. I opened the doors and rescued them from the outlanders. She motioned for the people to approach their Ray, and a crowd gathered around Sarra.
“I am Kantafre of House Ini,” said one man.
“I am Sandir of House Teron.”
“Tramor of House Illyd.”
“Gilia of House Ajor.”
They came to Sarra and she comforted them. “We are safe here,” she said to the dozen or so who surrounded her, to whomever was in earshot. “No army has ever pierced the Shroud Wall. There is food in the fields. We can shelter here until order is restored.” She made no mention of the First Among Equals, or whatever it was Mered had named himself. This was her moment. Though the Protector had come to the people’s aid, he’d waited too long. Too many were slaughtered while Mered stood idle.
Sarra had acted. She had opened the doors and given shelter to the people.
There was an irony in it all.
Mered had locked her in the domain, but in doing so he had put her in the one place where she was safe. In fact, it was also the one place where she could provide aid to the people of Solus. The sacred precinct protected Sarra, just as it protected the citizenry. She had at last earned the goodwill of Solus, of the thousands who had hurried through the gates.
She did her best to accept their thanks, to show her generosity, her kindness. She offered them food and protection, and everyone was glad to accept it, more than glad—they were ecstatic. Some kissed the ground, praising the gods they had so recently scorned. They walked in amazement, gaping at the golden monuments, at the dancing fountains and strange grottos, still shocked by the opening of the doors and the realization that they were alive and well and safe from the marauders. Every last one of them, she guessed, had given themselves up for dead, but they lived. It was almost as if they had entered a second life, for surely the first was lost, and this new life was filled with beauty, with glistening white walls and statues polished to a mirror’s radiance. This must feel like the afterlife to some of them, she thought, or something close to it.
In the distance a small group of men had at last made it to the great doors of the palace, the ones that led down under the ground and into what had once been the true home of the Soleri, the throne room and the grand solar. They stood at the doors but none dared touch them.
Sarra eyed the tower of the Ray.
She raised the hem of her golden robe and took one small step toward it, her eyes cast in the opposite direction, looking as if something in the distance had caught their attention. She did not walk directly to the tower, nor did she allow the slightest bit of concern to show on her face. She patted backs and kissed children. She followed the winding paths of the garden, ever watchful.
I allowed myself to be caught up in the moment, she thought, but there is still a secret here and I had no time to conceal it. The doors to the palace were not barred in any way. No sentry stood before them. Beyond the threshold, the people would discover the true domain of the gods. If the stories were true, the light of Tolemy would reduce them to ash, but she very much doubted that would happen. Still, no sane man would cross that threshold, but this had been a day without sanity. The people had lost their fear. Sensing the mood of the crowd, Sarra walked a little
more swiftly, patting fewer backs, skipping over a handful of greetings as she made her way to the tower.
One of the doors of the great house swiveled just slightly on its hinges.
Perhaps a breeze had caught it. The movement was nearly imperceptible. Still, Sarra walked a little faster, knowing all too well what someone would find inside and how they would react. She had once felt the shock of seeing the burnt chamber, the Amber Throne smashed. She doubted the commoners would view it with the same sense of calm detachment she’d summoned the day she walked into that room.
A man slipped through the open door of the great house. He quickly retreated, but a boy took his place. Others followed, slowly, cautiously. A girl crossed the threshold then withdrew, body shaking. A woman nearly collapsed with fear when she saw what must have been her husband cross beneath the lintel. Right after that, a young boy passed through the doorway, only to retreat like the others, but he was the last to be cowed. One after another they disappeared into the dark halls of the great house.
For her part, Sarra maintained her composure. She showed no fear, though she felt it, in her bones and in her quivering fingers. If only I’d had the time or the foresight to block off the palace, she thought, but quickly banished the notion. If the doors had been barred, the people would have ripped down the barriers. They were an unruly mob. Many had seen members of their family put to the sword—husbands, wives, and children. Their houses were, in all likelihood, looted or burned to the ground, maybe both. They’d been chased by outlanders or robbed by one of the free companies. They were at their wits’ end. The people wanted protection; they wanted to see the faces of the gods and know why they’d hidden behind this wall. They won’t like the answer, thought Sarra.
She made her way as best as she could, eyeing the tower, motioning to the Kiltet, signaling with hand gestures for them to gather at the entry.
A shout rang out from the depths of the palace. She guessed they’d come upon the throne room. A moment later, men hurried through the open doors of the great house. They carried the Amber Throne. A dozen or more held up its burnt remains. Confusion washed over the crowd. The people looked at the wonders around them, at the winding gardens and glistening statues. None of them knew how to make sense of it. Then the bodies of Suten Anu and Amen Saad emerged through the palace doors, carried high above for all to witness.
The people saw the truth.
It lay in the dead body of Sarra’s predecessor and in the burnt remains of what had been the gods’ throne.
Sarra scissored through the crowd. The people’s eyes were still on the chair and they flocked toward it, to the center of the domain, not the periphery where her tower lay. She pushed roughly past the crowd she had formerly embraced, knowing full well what would come next.
The Kiltet were in position. The tower was a kind of spiral, a cone of sorts, larger at the base and smaller at the top. A stone stair wound its way up the interior, doors at every level. There was safety in the spire, but she needed to reach it before the crowd blocked her path. Someone called out to her, to the First Ray of the Sun, the woman who was once the Mother. They cried out for some explanation, for surely Sarra, if anyone, ought to have it.
The crowd wanted answers she could not provide. How could she even attempt to unravel the mystery of the burned throne room? She did not even understand it herself.
The people cried out to Sarra, but she did not run. Only the guilty flee.
When they shouted, she acted as if she could not hear them. When they cried for answers, she gave them no recognition. The tower was close, after all.
Men ran toward her, coming at her with the bodies, the throne, and a thousand different relics they’d unearthed from the great house. The truth of the empire was exposed. Sarra had saved her people, but not herself—not yet, at least.
The Kiltet waited. They opened the tower door for Sarra and she was only a step or two away from it, but the mob had gotten there first.
62
Merit Hark-Wadi wanted to live. She’d stumbled through the gates of the Empyreal Domain, but that was as far as she’d made it. Somewhere just inside those grand doors she’d collapsed on the stony path. Merit was almost certain her right foot was broken, crushed by the mob, and there was something wrong with her knee. She had a stabbing pain in her ribs and in her jaw. Merit had to punch her own chin just to throw it back into place. She thanked the gods that only one of her hands was broken. Her jaw felt better, but every other piece of her ached. The crowd had done more damage to her body than she’d realized.
“I’m going to live through this day,” she said aloud, but no one paid her the slightest bit of attention. The people were shouting and running this way and that. It hadn’t been like that a moment ago. They had been celebrating. Through the pain, she remembered how the people had rejoiced upon entering this holy place, but for some reason they’d traded those cheers for snarls.
“What’s happening?” she asked the man who stood nearest to where she knelt.
He was pulling at his well-groomed beard, at the rings that were threaded into the black hair. He gave no reply.
“What are they doing?” she asked.
He gave her a pitiful look, which told Merit she was in worse shape than she had guessed.
“They’ve found…” The man started, but he didn’t seem to know how to finish.
“Found what?” Merit asked.
“The throne of Tolemy,” he said, his words coming out slowly, reluctantly.
“Where?”
He pointed with one of his ringed fingers, but Merit had already caught sight of the thing.
The throne room is smashed, destroyed centuries ago. She recalled her father’s words. The truth behind the empire had at last seen the light of day, and the people of Solus were not pleased with their discovery. Merit needed to move, lest she be trampled once more. She marshaled her strength and tried to stand, but her foot would not comply. She was forced to crawl instead of walk until she reached the Shroud Wall, where Merit braced one arm against it for balance and righted herself. With only one foot, she would have to follow along the wall if she wanted to move around, and she definitely needed to do that. Merit wanted desperately to find her mother.
“Keep your eyes open.” She was talking out loud again. “You’re not going to die today.”
A man heard her speak, another highborn fellow with a well-groomed beard and silken robe. He looked twice in her direction then moved away. The people were all gathering around some tower, clambering to get inside, but the door was closed.
“Is she inside?” Merit asked, leaning against the wall, pulling at the silken robes of some stranger. “Is she in there? Is the Ray inside that tower?” she asked another.
“No,” said a woman, a commoner in a common-looking tunic. The man beside her, a soldier in bronze mail, disagreed. He said the Ray of the Sun had gone into the tower. “I seen her robe, the gold one, go right through that door before they shut it.”
“And her hair?” Merit asked.
“Red as the bloodiest of sunsets,” said the soldier.
The other was still shaking her head. “She escaped. She’s among us somewhere. Find the Ray!” she cried, and others did the same, but most were gathering around the tower, besieging its doors as they had once besieged the doors of the Empyreal Domain.
Is there no end to this? she wondered.
Merit wanted to sleep. She wanted to shut her eyes and never wake.
“No,” she muttered. “Not today.” Then she felt a sudden dizziness. She was moving. Hands wrapped her mouth, covering it so she could not scream. She was lifted from the ground; her feet dangled in the air. She struggled but she lacked the strength to set herself free. In truth, she had almost no strength at all, and the man must have been twice her size, twice her weight as well. Any fight would be futile; she would only harm herself. Merit relented, and the man drew her through the crowd. Merit’s vision wavered. There was darkness, a door, then light. A
voice. Someone was speaking to Merit.
“Be gentle,” said the woman.
Merit knew she ought to recognize who was speaking, but she didn’t. “I know you.”
“Open your eyes.”
Sarra Amunet stood before Merit.
She was dressed in the Ray’s livery, a robe woven from threads of gold, a garment so marvelous it did not even look as if it were a piece of clothing. It had the character of a gem-encrusted crown, an ornament, something so precious that it ought to be stored away in some great vault. Instead, it was caked in dust and sand. Sarra stood there, sweat beading on her forehead, hair sodden, dirt on her hands. A dozen men surrounded the Ray, the servants of the Kiltet, or so Merit presumed.
Sarra made some gesture indicating that two men should stand guard at the door while she took the rest of the Kiltet and hurried up the stair. They climbed and a door was shut behind them, a bolt slid into place. Safe.
Sarra went to the window.
“I saved them,” she said. “I saw what the outlanders intended and I could not allow it. They were my flock, the followers of Mithra. How could I let them die? I was their Mother…”
“And mine,” said Merit.
“I know. It’s why I opened the doors, I couldn’t…”
“It’s all right,” said Merit through the pain. “I know … what you did. You gave away the most precious thing in the world.”
“The secret of the Soleri?” asked Sarra. “It was my pleasure to reveal it.” She rubbed her hands across the golden robe, crinkling the metallic threads. She breathed. “We have some time, not much … but a little.” They climbed another stair, passed another door, and entered a small and sparsely furnished chamber.
The strong man laid Merit on a low pallet, carefully resting her against the wood. Then he left the chamber and the two were alone—mother and daughter.
Silence of the Soleri Page 39
