“What is this?” Ren glanced from Suten to the Prior Master, realization dawning on his face. “You are setting me free—aren’t you?”
“Well, of course. You are outside the Priory,” Suten said. “A ransom doesn’t leave Tolemy’s house unless it’s time for him to replace his father.”
“My father is dead then.” It was not a question. Ren swallowed twice, his insides knotted with fear.
“Not quite yet,” Suten said. “Oren will guide you through the Hollows, it’s the only way to avoid the rioters. At the gates to the underground you will find an escort assembled by the city guard, who will take you safely to Harwen.” Suten placed a silver ring with an eld skull ornament on Ren’s finger. He told Ren that the ring had belonged to Arko and would prove that Ren was the heir of Harkana. Arko had placed the ring in an imperial soldier’s hand ten years prior. Oren offered a cloak and Suten handed him a pair of scrolls. “Give this to Arko for me.”
“To Arko?” Ren asked. Suten’s words made no sense. “My father isn’t dead?” If Arko was alive, why had Suten set him free? And why had Suten called him to witness the Devouring?
As if in answer to his question, Suten offered a final message: “Tell your king that at long last, the emperor demands his tribute. The sun has failed to bow and the people will require a sacrifice. We return his heir, but Arko Hark-Wadi, the king of Harkana, is owed to the emperor.”
10
When the sun refused to darken, when the light would not bow to the emperor and bring blessings to the populace, Sarra stood in the Protector’s Tower and watched Amen Saad gawk at the sky. He was not a believer, neither priest nor pilgrim, but he was afraid. The Mother Priestess saw it in his eyes. He had not once thought to question the Devouring. The sky turned black once a year just as the tides rose and fell and the harvests came and went—these were the rhythms of the world. But now those rhythms had faltered. For Saad, for the people of Solus, the sun was out of alignment, its axis drifting, unhinged. The world was out of balance and the empire was to blame.
Or so the people think. Sarra knew better of course. She had known the sky would not darken. In the bowels of the Ata’Sol, there stood a curious device that predicted the exact hour of the annual eclipse. That morning, the mechanism had predicted this exact event—that there would be no eclipse. There was a second device in the Empyreal Domain, but the Ray had made no announcement and no one else knew the truth of the day, so she had chosen to act on what she’d learned.
Even now there was worry on the Protector’s face, worry in his tightly clutched fists as he leaned over the low wall, watching as the crowds overturned carts and ripped banners, smashing urns and overturning braziers. Thousands of angry men, women, and children lifted oil lamps and cast them onto carts and rooftops, tearing spears away from soldiers, and stealing oil from shops. Fire rippled through the crowded city. Smoke drifted from rooftop to rooftop, spreading like their rage. “Attend to the rioters,” Saad ordered.
Soldiers bolted from the tower, beating a path through the crowds, calling to the city guard, hurrying toward the distant courtyard where the false Mother stood on the Shroud Wall, where the emperor stood behind his veiled window. The shadow of Tolemy, the god-emperor of the Soleri, retreated from the screen, but the white-robed girl, Sarra’s surrogate, continued her vigil, The Book of the Last Day of the Year held before her in trembling hands by an acolyte. The priestess read the prayer, the solemn vigil, the words that were spoken each year at the Devouring. That was my duty, thought Sarra.
Now the rioters crowded at the base of that Shroud Wall, pushing aside a cadre of well-armed soldiers, men holding shields as wide as their shoulders and spears twice their height. The rioters scaled the narrow stair, climbing to the place where Sarra’s proxy stood, hands raised, reading from the book. The mob engulfed the narrow walk, their bodies sweeping over the balcony like waves tumbling over rocks, washing away the soldiers, drowning the white robes of her priestess.
Sarra gripped the rail.
On the wall, the girl who wore Sarra’s robe ceased her praying. The boy who held The Book of the Last Day of the Year faltered, and the ancient manuscript, the tome from which the words had been read for millennia, fell from his hands. Fumbling for the book, the boy lost his balance and plummeted from the balcony. For a moment, Sarra thought Garia would follow the boy. The white-robed priestess teetered at the balcony’s edge, the rioters surrounding her.
One tugged at her robe. She whirled, trying to free herself, moving desperately to avoid the pilgrim’s hold, to find shelter, an exit—a way to escape the encircling rioters, but there was none. There was no escape. She had sent Garia to stand among the crowds while she was safe in the Protector’s Tower, sheltered from the riots, from everyone except Saad himself.
The rioters took Garia.
The men who had once been pilgrims stripped her bare, naked in front of the city.
Sarra turned to Saad. Her eyes flashed with victory, her calm face a contrast to the churning violence and shouts from the crowd. “The wall was not safe for the Mother Priestess,” she said, nodding slightly, tilting her head toward the crowds and indicating the place where the rioters had finished their work, where the body of the girl who was once Garia Asni lay like an urn dropped upon the stones, broken and scattered. In truth, Sarra had not been certain what would happen to the priestess who stood upon the wall, but she’d guessed it would not be good.
“The second death,” muttered Saad.
Sarra bowed her head. The girl was not simply dead. The crowd had given her the second death, the end from which there was no afterlife. A dismembered corpse, a body torn apart, could never enter the next life.
A terrible fate, one Sarra had deftly avoided.
“Dreadful,” she said, her eyes fixing on the body. She did not want Saad to miss the significance of what had transpired. “There is your sign, Saad. The sun did not bow. Never before, never in three millennia, has the sun failed to dim. Can you not see what is happening on the streets? Mithra gives shelter to those who do His bidding. He did not want the true Mother to stand on the wall. He wanted her safe. He always wants her safe,” said Sarra. It was a lie, but that didn’t matter. She had predicted the impossible. She had known the sun would not darken and she was using that knowledge against him. “Mithra protects the Mother,” she continued, not wanting to stop, not wanting him to doubt her for a moment. “Can you say the same for yourself? Do you think he would spare your life? Did He come to you in the night, Saad?” She shook her head. “Or does He speak only to me? Can you not see the sign—do you not hear Mithra as He roars His disapproval?” The sound of the crowd was indeed defeating, and it was growing louder.
Saad scowled. He ran his teeth across his lip, turning the skin white. “I hear the people,” he said. He was studying the crowd, but his eyes kept darting to the wall, to the bloodstained body of Garia Asni. He was shaken—she had him.
Saad rubbed his scruffy chin. At last he said, “We will hang every last one of them.”
“You cannot hang every pilgrim in Solus—you’d run out of rope before you got started. Don’t you understand, Saad? You cannot fight the faithful,” Sarra said, meaning to make him think that she and her god had caused all of this, that the power of the faithful was greater than any army, more fearsome than any sword. In truth, there was hunger in the empire, a drought, a grain shortage, and a revolt at the Gate of Coronel. Everywhere there was unrest and it had boiled over into a seething riot. The failed eclipse was the spark that set the kindling ablaze, nothing more, but Sarra needed to make it appear as if her god had spoken.
“Feel their anger,” she said, “their rage.” She tightened her fingers and made a fist. Now she would make her final argument, she would hit him with his own aggression. “This is the beast you prod when you kill a priest on my doorstep,” Sarra cried. “From now on there shall be no more animosity between the army and the priesthood. Mithra-Sol commands this. Tell your soldiers to stand d
own.”
“What soldiers?” he asked.
She stood up straight, making herself taller than Saad. She raised her voice. “The soldiers at my temple. The men who followed me here. The ones who are no doubt preparing to assault my priests and take my seat.”
“Your seat?” he asked, trying to deny what he had done. Saad was wavering now; he was stuck somewhere between fear and anger. You’re just a pup, she thought, a rabid one, but a whelp nonetheless. You can be cowed.
She stared him down and refused to look away. Both of them coveted the Ray’s seat, but only one of them could have it.
After a long moment Saad shook his head. “Fear not, Mother. I’ll leave your temple and your priests in peace for now as I need my men to defend the city.” He pulled back from the rail and called to his men, told them to bring maps and to gather the captains of the city guard. He motioned to go, but she took him by the hand so he could not walk away.
“This is about far more than my temple and my priests. This is about respect, Saad. Did you think I would hurry home to Desouk when I saw a bit of blood on my floor?” she asked. Sarra needed him to know that he was wrong about her, that he had underestimated the Mother. “Do you think I am powerless, a woman who would cower at the sight of a sword? Iron is not the only weapon in the empire.” She glanced one last time at the spot where Garia had been standing until the crowd assaulted her. “It’s not hard to find yourself alone with the crowds teeming all around you.”
He pulled away from her grip, drew his ceremonial sword, and held it to her chest. The blade was bronze and the edge was blunted, but he could still skewer her if he struck with enough force. “Are you threatening the Father?” Saad asked.
“I think we are past the point of arguing about threats.”
“I make no threats, Mother. If I want someone dead, the deed is done,” he said, the sword held to her chest. The two were not alone, soldiers watched, as did her priests. Saad held the blade for the space of a breath. Perhaps he was taunting her, maybe he was deciding if he’d let her live.
But in the end, he turned and walked to where his soldiers had gathered around a table. He’s backing down. Saad slammed the sword into the table. He knew he had acted rashly when he struck down her priest, that he had made an error.
She made her way toward the stairs, motioning for her priests to follow. Her work was finished. It was time to go and she was almost out the door when Saad stopped her with a word. “Mother,” he said, his voice growing louder. “I will let you go. I have no more time for you,” said Saad. “But you should know this: My father told me never to trust a priest. I do not know what foreknowledge you posses. I cannot guess at its source, nor do I care to try, but take note of my words. Leave Solus and do not return until your duty demands it. I am no pilgrim. I will leave you in peace, but if you cross me there will be no tower for you to shelter within, no robe to protect you.”
Sarra bristled at the naked threat to her person. She was the Mother Priestess and she commanded the faithful. “There is no need for such discourtesy. I had always planned on leaving for Desouk this afternoon. May you share the sun’s fate,” she said, giving Saad the traditional farewell.
Sarra left the chamber at a measured pace, followed by Ott and Khai. She had done what she had come to do. She had put the boy in his place. He was still a threat, he’d try again to claim her mantle and put himself one step closer to the Ray’s, but at least she had brought herself a reprieve. He’s clumsy, she thought. The boy had revealed his intentions. Clumsy, but dangerous. She would need to be careful with Amen Saad.
When they were clear of Saad’s chamber and well outside of his hearing, Khai whispered to Sarra. “Mother,” he asked, descending the stair, “the crowds saw your body torn from the wall. They think you are dead.”
“Do not fear,” said Sarra. “When we reach Desouk and we are safe in the city of priests, I will announce my escape from the crowds: how Mithra’s hand led me through the angry hordes, how a kind peasant helped me to a cart, and a blind woman hid me from the crowds till the carriage was outside the city walls. The body they saw was not mine.” Sarra would have little trouble claiming she had survived the day. Already she had conjured up the false story her priests would spread throughout the kingdoms.
“I see, but how will we escape?”
“I have a carriage in the stables of the Ata’Sol,” Sarra said, slowing her descent to allow Ott to catch up to them. If we make it to the stables. She hadn’t had much time to prepare their flight from the city.
At the base of the Protector’s Tower, soldiers guarded the gates. A captain of the Alehkar, the Protector’s sworn men, addressed Sarra, “Lord Saad commands us to provide escort, to keep you safe, Mother.”
Sarra did not want an escort; she had donned her gray robe and planned once more to hide among the pilgrims, to blend into the crowd. She feared the soldiers would draw undue attention or, worse, turn their swords against her and her priests, but she had no way to stop the men.
“Go,” she said. “Lead the way if you must.”
The Alehkar, shields strapped to their arms, spears tilted at the mob, plunged into the crowded streets. Around them, smoke hung in the air, pierced by shouts from all directions. Fear colored the faces of everyone—the Alehkar, the city guard, the pilgrims—as they clashed in the alleys and arcades, in the wide plazas and columned halls. I’ve escaped Saad, but now I must survive the people.
“Mother, the way is not safe,” said Khai.
“Would you rather we stayed in the tower?” she asked. “Nowhere is safe in Solus today.”
It was true. Everywhere, pilgrims scuttled through the streets, some looting, others simply trying to escape but not knowing where to go. Sarra shouldered through the crowd, shadowing the soldiers, holding her priests close, keeping her eyes on the ground, trying not to trip.
Up ahead, the great circus was ablaze and the soldiers had to reverse course to avoid the smoke. They stumbled upon the stairs of the Waset. The stones were slick with oil and wine, the air thick with smoke. She held her robe to her mouth as she elbowed down the steps, Ott at her side, the boy tripping behind them.
“Mother, we should go,” said Khai.
“Where?” she asked. There was nowhere else to go.
The steps were abruptly blocked. Sarra crashed into the soldiers’ backs. The Alehkar had come up against a wall of angry protesters and were fighting their way through the crowd. Pilgrim after pilgrim fell to the stones, cut down by the soldiers’ spears, skewered like cattle, their bodies lying in heaps. All around her, angry faces pressed in, pressed closer, shoulders jostling her from all sides. The crowd surged; it swarmed so closely around them that the Alehkar could not wield their spears.
“We should away,” said Sarra as she seized Ott’s robe and drew him close, tumbling backward and nearly falling over Khai. It was time to abandon their escort. She had only to detach herself from the Alehkar, to disappear into crowd before—
The gray homespun cloth fell from Khai’s shoulders, revealing the boy’s priestly attire: a flawless white robe, bright and glistening.
“Help!” he called to the soldiers, to Sarra, as the crowds descended upon the boy, snatching at his hood, grabbing at his hair and his face. “Mother!” His gaze caught hers; his eyes begged Sarra to save him.
“Guards! Attend to the boy,” she shouted, but it was too late. The crowd had Khai—they had her soldiers too. The rioters gathered around Sarra. Hands pawed at her robe, tearing the fabric. In a moment she would be uncovered, but she held her ground, crying out to the captain of the Alehkar, ordering him to protect the boy. Her caftan tore, but it was not the crowd that pulled at her robe, it was Ott. He was dragging her away.
“The temple, it’s not far,” Ott cried out, his words barely audible against the clamor of the crowd. Sarra resisted. She called to the soldiers; she shoved at the rioting pilgrims. She stayed until the last of the Alehkar were swallowed up into the crowd, until she co
uld no longer see Khai. She would not turn away, so Ott dragged her away, mumbling to himself as he led her down the steps, toward the Ata’Sol.
Ott stopped just shy of the temple yard.
“Gods, what now?” Sarra asked.
“The way is blocked,” he shouted above the din of the crowd. Indeed, the space outside the temple of Mithra seethed with soldiers and rioters. It crawled with pilgrims wielding clubs and broken pottery, soldiers hurling spears and arrows.
Sarra motioned toward a narrow back street the rioters had not yet discovered.
“We’ll use the stable entry, around the side.” Sarra led them along a wall, down the narrow street, and into a yard, the cries of the boy still ringing in her ears, the image of Garia’s torn robe and bare skin flashing in her head.
Up ahead, a wide archway sheltered a golden door. It opened as she approached, and the priests inside motioned for her to enter. Sarra glanced once more at the crowd of rioters. She thought she saw Khai or some bit of his robe, but the flash of white was nothing more than the sun glinting off a soldier’s spear. The city was a cyclone of smoke and arrows and fluttering robes. He’s gone. Dead like the priest on my temple steps.
Nervously, a priest ushered Sarra through the entry. Ott followed, the doors sealing behind them, the roar of the crowd fading.
The carriage was not far.
They hurried through passages deep beneath the ground, not pausing, not even lingering to catch their breath. Passing through the great wooden doors, they came upon the stables where a carriage waited, the horses watered and ready. Sarra thanked the groom as she slid into the coach, the door slamming shut as Ott sat across from her.
A moment later, a whip cracked, and then they were bolting, fleeing Solus until the burning city was an effigy in the distance.
11
The sun did not bow. The people will require a sacrifice. Ren recalled Suten Anu’s words as Oren Thrako grabbed his tunic and shoved him forward, dragging him out into the light and chaos of the streets of Solus, where the people were rioting and clashing with men in bronze-studded armor. The shouts of the angry pilgrims assaulted him once more. The sky, once limitless, was obscured by smoke, by the whizzing of arrows, by the desperate shouts for help. Ren waded through the crowd, navigating the bodies and the motion in the marketplace as quickly as possible, time to go now, hurry. Oren was leading him out of the capital. He was nearly free, but he thought only of Suten’s words.
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