The massacre of the Soleri. This was all that was left of them, this ghostly ring of figures—Mithra-Sol’s last light reflecting off his dead children. She saw the outlines of their grand costumes, medallions and collars burned into their flesh, their desiccated faces screwed in odd contortions, their once-golden masks and headdresses mottled and dripping.
Ott broke the silence. “The pendant around that neck, it bears the sign of Sekhem Den, last of his line, the last to pre-date the line of Tolemy in the time of the old war, the War of the Four, the moment, two centuries ago, when the Soleri walled themselves off from the kingdoms.”
The emperor did not hide within the Empyreal Domain. He was hounded. He was hunted down and killed, along with all of his family. Twelve figures, the emperor, his wife and their five daughters and five sons. Ten children. Always ten for the Soleri. One of each, as the Soleri married each other. This was the last remnant of the ancient divine race.
“They did not wall themselves off after the war, they were driven here, away from the Empyreal Domain. They must have used their sacred road, the Amaran Road, to flee the capital. We thought we were following the grain, but we weren’t. Without knowing, we were following them, following their road to the place where they perished. It was here that they made their final stand.”
You cannot kill a god.
To look into the face of the emperor is to face one’s death.
Before time was the Soleri, and after time the Soleri will be.
Lies.
For two hundred years the Soleri have knelt here, frozen in death’s contortions while in the capital, in the empire, things went on as if they were still living, as if they were still in power.
For two hundred years while they were frozen here.
A thought occurred to Sarra. Two centuries ago the amaranth seed lost its fertility.
The gift of the Soleri was rescinded.
When they died, so did their flower, the amaranth. When the Soleri perished so did their land. The life-givers were gone. Sarra understood why the seeds of the amaranth no longer grew, why only the ancient seeds blossomed. The amaranth was born of their power—it said so in the sacred texts. When that power died, the amaranth died. For two centuries the empire had coasted on the remains of the once-great kingdom of the Soleri, but that time was at an end. The ancient amaranth was gone and the flower that gave life to the desert would not bloom again.
The Ray of the Sun, the emperor and his domain—all of it was nothing more than a clever ruse—a façade.
There was no emperor and there had not been one for two hundred years. The Ray of the Sun was the true ruler of the kingdoms and his power was nothing more than a farce.
How could she judge? The priesthood had concealed the amaranth’s infertility just as the Rays had concealed the emperor’s absence. It was all lies; they had deceived one another. This is the secret of the empire, the secret of the Soleri, the secret from which they had drawn their power and position. With a start, she realized they were not alone.
Dasche and Taig waited for orders.
Noll kneeled alongside the statues, carefully studying them.
Sarra looked at Ott.
He uncapped a wine sack and offered the soldiers a drink, then Noll. They drank and Sarra waited. In a moment the poisoned wine would take their lives. She had enough to poison the soldiers who waited at the base of the cliff as well.
Secrets were power.
Sarra Amunet did not have to be the First Ray of the Sun to know this.
THE DAWN CHORUS
40
Dirty and thirsty and longing for her own bed, for a long and detailed game of Coin with an inscrutable Ott on the other side of the table, Sarra returned to the city of light, the secret of the Soleri’s demise burning within her. She cantered through the eastern gate, the Rising Gate, and recalled her hasty exit from the capital just a few weeks past, the day she stood in the Protector’s Tower and watched the eclipse fail and the crowds riot. The sky had been black with smoke, the walls splattered with graffiti, the air loud with the cries of pilgrims and priests alike.
And I nearly lost my life.
Now the white-walled towers were newly plastered, flags waved above the circus, and a plume of white smoke billowed from the temple of Mithra. Deeper into the city, past the outer districts, she saw banners swinging in the wind—gold and white bunting stretched between hastily set poles. The statues in the garden of Amen Hen were newly polished. And at the steps of the Waset, flowers littered the streets, cassia and milkweed, their petals mashed to the ground by the footsteps of a celebratory crowd. The rioting was over; the city was changed. Renewed.
But why? Sarra slowed her horse so she could take in the scene. The white smoke. The gold-trimmed bunting and yellow flowers. Sarra tugged the reins, stopping the horse. Solus had more festivals than the calendar had days, but this was no common holiday. It could only mean one thing: Suten had left his post. The light had shone from the mountain, and a new Ray had been appointed. The white and gold were his symbols. Up ahead, men and women in saffron colored mantles gathered at the Shroud Wall, at the veiled window of the Antechamber.
A shadow loomed behind the screen, a tall, broad-shouldered man. The figure was too large to be Saad. But who? Sarra tapped the helm of a nearby soldier. “Who is it, boy? Who is the new Ray?”
“The enemy. Mithra sent a traitor into our midst,” the boy said.
“His name?” she asked, her voice filling with impatience.
“The Harkan.” His words were like spit. “Arko Hark—”
Wadi. Arko Hark-Wadi.
She wanted to ask the boy if he was certain, but she caught herself. There was no mistake. In the Shambles, the Harkan soldiers told Sarra that Tolemy had summoned her husband to Solus. She had thought Arko a dead man then. With a start, she realized her mistake. There is no Tolemy, no emperor.
“I assure you this wasn’t Mithra’s doing,” she said as she rode off. This is Suten’s work. Sarra understood why the Ray had refused to meet with her during the Devouring. He had already chosen his successor, and it was Arko.
Arko Hark-Wadi is the new Ray of the Sun. He held the seat she desired. Arko Hark-Wadi, her former husband. No, he was her husband still, for they had never said the words that unbound one from the other. She had simply left. Arko had never remarried; he had been loyal to her in name, but never in practice. Especially not during the marriage.
So that had been Suten’s final move, to name a successor before Saad or Sarra could move against him. The old man was too nimble by half. Where was he now? Suten had a vineyard in the Denna hills. She could imagine him underneath the vines, sipping the latest vintage.
Arko Hark-Wadi. Did it have to be you? The news made her bitter. To think that she now answered to her husband, that he held sway over the priesthood and all of the empire. It was galling. She had come here to confront Suten, but he was gone and now her husband sat in his chair. Solus is changed, but not for the better. This news colored everything. It made the buildings frown at her, and every archway looked like a grimace.
Sarra guided her horse down the long ramps that led deep into the Waset—down the wide streets, past temples fitted among spindly obelisks, alabaster coffers, and crumbling statues—till she caught sight of her temple.
A priest greeted Sarra at the steps, his eyes darting.
Sarra dismounted, handed the animal to a groom, and strode up the stairs. Picking her way between the lotus-topped pillars of the columned hall Sarra saw what had unnerved the young man—what she had expected to see since she rode into the city. Soldiers. A group of armed men brandished spears in the hall. Saad had told her not to return until the last day of the year, when her duty bade her to do so. But she was back in Solus and not even a month had passed since their quarrel. Saad was letting her know that he was watching, that her return was noted. Sarra had expected as much.
“Out,” she said, “out of my temple. Go!”
“Will do,
Mother,” said the man. “We were just keeping an eye on all your pretty statues.”
“I’m sure you were, now leave,” she said, walking toward him, heading straight into his path without pause. The man stepped back and the other soldiers parted, clearing a path like contrite children caught playing dice. Then—behind her back, laughter. She kept going, ignoring their taunts.
She passed through bronze doors into the sanctuary, catching the first notes of Ott’s voice. He had ridden ahead of her, on the Harkan’s fastest horse, to prepare the Ata’Sol. Now her clever friend was pacing at the birthing pool, mumbling, the golden statues of the Soleri towering above him, his weak arm hidden beneath his robe, a soldier shadowing him, aping his awkward movements. Behind half-open doors her priests were standing back, whispering to one another, not daring to interfere. The soldiers were trespassing on sacred ground and her priests were unsure of how to react. Custom dictated that when the toe of Re, first of the Soleri, touched the desert floor, a spring bubbled forth from the sand, and the first amaranth plant sprung from the pool.
That pool was located at the temple’s center, in the heart of the sanctuary, where currently one of Saad’s soldiers stood with legs spread, relieving himself in the water.
“I saw your pool looking empty,” the solider said, “so I thought I would help fill it up, Mother.”
Sarra paid him no notice. She inserted herself between Ott and the soldier who was mocking him, the sound of piss hitting water reverberating throughout the sanctuary. “Out,” she ordered. “Out of my temple!” she said. “Both of you! Now! Your weapons and your boorish humor can find the door. Leave us—stuff your cock in you breeches and go!”
Or what? she thought. What can I do against these men? It was Saad’s duty to guard the priesthood and the temple. He was the Sword of Mithra, but now he’d turned that very blade against the people he was sworn to protect.
“Saad sends his regards, Mother,” said the soldier standing in front of her.
“Give him mine.” She drew herself up to her full height, her eyes flashing.
“We will, Mother,” said the soldier at the pool. “And we’ll leave you in peace. I only needed a bit of relief and now I’ve had it,” he said, shaking himself dry. The two of them laughed as they went out of the inner sanctum, the air behind them smelling like piss.
Sarra went to Ott but refrained from putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right. They’re gone.”
His fingers twitched, but he nodded that he understood.
“Are you okay?”
He shook his head, no.
“When did they arrive?” she asked. She knew this would happen when she returned to Solus, but she had not expected Saad to act so quickly. Slow, she was too slow. She had to move—faster. Especially with her newly acquired knowledge.
“Not long before you, they forced the doors, snapped the bolt, and let themselves in.…”
Sarra came up alongside him and stood by his shoulder. This was the way Ott liked to speak with her: standing side by side, so he would not have to look in her eyes. She saw Ott relax when her shoulder came alongside his, and Sarra felt a new wave of affection for him.
“Mother, I have news. The new Ray of the Sun is—”
“Harkan.” She nodded. “Yes, I know,” Sarra said, brushing perspiration from her brow. Exhausted from the long ride, she needed cool amber, a rest, and a bath, but those things would have to wait.
“His presence will make matters difficult. I had expected to deal with Suten and not my former husband.” She paced. “The new Ray has much to hide.”
Ott tapped. “He hides nothing from us, Mother. We know his secret. We know that Tolemy is a fabrication, that the Ray is the mouthpiece of a man who does not exist. With this knowledge, we can control him—we can own him,” he said, his voice still shaking a bit.
She turned. “I don’t want to own him, I want to ruin him.” She smiled, as she knew how she would do it. Yes, she would demand an audience with Arko. But not yet. Not until I have prepared. She wrapped her robe a little tighter around her shoulders.
“You will reveal him then? Expose the lie of the Soleri and expose him to all of Solus as a fraud?” asked Ott.
Sarra shook her head. “If we revealed the Ray’s secret, Saad would declare Arko a traitor and a liar and the matter would be quickly resolved in Saad’s favor. Saad would take Arko’s life and the Amber Throne. Fear of the emperor is the only thing that keeps Saad in line right now. No, I have something more subtle in mind.”
“Before you settle on a plan, you should know that we lost two priests this morning. Taken by the Protector, most likely, incarcerated for some minor crime they did not commit.”
“Who?”
“A boy and a girl, from Rachis. I knew them. We played Coin every now and then. They were simple lectors—they knew none of our secrets. Still, the act itself is telling. Should I send an offering of grain and ask for their release?”
“No. Do nothing.” She brushed a hand through her hair. “Friends of yours?”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry.” It was her fault. She had been unable to tame the boy, unable to protect her people, unable to make Saad cower. Sarra gritted her teeth. “It’s a fresh game of Coin.” She paced, glancing at the pool, the statues, wrinkling her nose. “Why is he trying to pick a fight so openly? On the last day of the year, why did he murder a priest on these same temple steps?”
“Maybe he wants us to retaliate. Think on it, Mother. Picture the conflict and how it might unfold: a pair of priests disappear, then a general is poisoned; three acolytes fall from a wall, then four officers die in a brothel. If we retaliate, if it looks like the priesthood is at war with the army, Saad will have his justification to act against us—if only to restore the peace. But if he attacks without provocation he risks the ire of the highborn families, or the emperor and his Ray.” Ott tapped at his palm feverishly.
“We’ll tread lightly then. I won’t give Saad cause to attack us.”
“He already has cause. He bid you not to return to Solus,” said Ott.
“I know—I was there when he did it. We must hope my performance in the Protector’s Tower will give him pause.”
“Doubtful,” he said.
“Doubt is all I have of late.”
“Do you still doubt the Soleri?” he asked, changing the subject. Behind the pool, golden statues of the twelve Soleri stood upon a plinth of black granite. Ott walked toward it. “It was a vision—seeing them in that circle and knowing that they are real, that they exist.”
“They did exist,” Sarra added. “Until someone snuffed out their light.”
“Was it the Anu family?” Ott offered. “Suten’s family benefited more than any other from the absence of the Soleri. They took control of the empire and held it until now.”
“No.” Sarra flattened her lips. “Suten’s family did not assault the Soleri. They concealed the emperor’s absence, sealed the Shroud Wall, and seized the empire for their family—I see that now, but they did not murder the twelve. In the Shambles, we saw stone turned to ash, the bodies of the twelve reduced to obsidian. Could the Anu family produce such fire, such heat—could anyone? No. The one who did this, whoever it was, wielded a strength as great as the Soleri—who else could kill a god?”
“I don’t know, but I’m eager for answers—aren’t you? Who murdered the twelve and why do they remain hidden?”
She had no answer for him and so she turned her back on the twelve and walked to the edge of the pool, the place where the Soleri first touched the desert floor. The water was now yellow. The spring was nearly empty. It had been years since anything much had bubbled forth from it. On most days, her priests had to add bucketful after bucketful of water to the pool, just to keep it from going dry.
“I had hoped that one day the amaranth would again blossom, but I fear it will not. The gods are gone and soon the last of their precious gift will be gone too. Someday soon after that, all
of this”—she gestured to the sanctuary, to the city beyond—“will be gone. Saad senses this. He feels the end. That is why he is nervous—desperate to hold on to power, why he haunts our temple and steals our priests, why he seeks the Ray’s seat. He feels the desert closing in on Sola. Everywhere in the empire, it is felt. The drought, the wars. The scarcity of the amaranth. The failed eclipse. The outlanders swarm in the west. Barca marches in the south. For three thousand years the Soleri held back the sand and the wind and the sun, but that time is ending. The gods that held this empire together are dead,” she said, stepping away from the pool. “We must prepare for what comes next.”
41
Unseen and unheard, unable to leave his post, Arko Hark-Wadi paced in the shadows, prowling like a dog in a cage, one impatient for its supper. More ceremony, more tedium, he thought, swigging wine and watching the procession of highborn citizens through a screened window, one that hid all but his shadow from view. He did not see why he actually needed to be present for the ceremony when no one could really see him, but Wat had insisted that the ritual was vital to his new position—that he must regain what respect was lost during the ceremony in the Cenotaph. “If you do not attend,” Wat had said, “the priests and viziers will know. If they do not see your shadow through the veil, they will take offense. If you want to rule the empire, sir, you must demonstrate your understanding of the empire’s customs.”
Arko smirked. “Are you sure you’re not having me on, Wat? Making me sit through all this nonsense just to watch me squirm?”
Wat had almost smiled. “No, sir. It is simply an advantage of my position.”
So Arko prowled the dim chamber alone, only statuary for company—one female figure in each corner, arms raised, hands open, each balancing a disk upon her head that bore the weight of the ceiling above. Their faces were cloaked, hidden from view as they stood facing the emperor’s empty throne. Arko picked at the stone-carved shroud, tracing the folds that looked like cloth but were made of stone. Even the sculptures were not permitted to gaze upon the emperor’s face, the emperor who did not exist.
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