“Good to hear it,” Arko said, though in reality he did not have the slightest confidence in this pup to defend the empire from a seasoned leader like Barca. Saad had spent his time in office bartering with generals and waylaying messengers. The boy had his eyes on Solus; he cared nothing for the lower kingdoms, the cities beyond the capital. Arko wondered if Saad would attempt to bait him, if he would ask about the messages that went missing. Arko decided to avoid such topics; they would serve only to highlight his weakness.
“What plans have you put in place?” Arko asked.
Saad went on to deliver a record of the army’s status and positions, bringing maps to show greater detail—how the still-loyal men of the Protector’s Army had moved to the Dromus to take up the positions Barca used to occupy, how Saad had positioned provisions and armaments for the coming conflict. It was all done with great pomp and ceremony, the colorful maps and figures laid on the table, the armies of the Protector represented in yellow, the army of Barca in red, the outlanders in white. Saad knocked them about with the tip of his sword, showing the movements of threat and counterthreat across the empire like some kind of elaborate game of Coin. Arko grumbled—he was a king, he wanted to remind Saad, one who for decades had commanded his own army. Arko knew and understood Barca’s strategy, its shortcomings and its strengths. But for a change he held his tongue. However silly it was, moving toys around a board, the message was the same: Barca was moving closer, using the outlander tribes to pillage while he moved around behind their lines, masking his movements and his strength.
“Thank you for that report, Protector,” he said. Then he waved a hand to dismiss the Protector’s men. “Leave us,” he said. “We have matters to discuss.”
The soldiers looked at Saad, whose face was darkened by the shame of having his own men dismissed by the Ray, but he wisely nodded his assent and the men left the Antechamber. Then Arko told Khalden Wat to close the doors, leaving the three men alone. The Antechamber sat astride the Shroud Wall, half inside and half outside the Empyreal Domain. Wat opened a pair of shutters, revealing amber windows. The windows faced the Empyreal Domain, but the amber slabs prevented a visitor from seeing directly into the emperor’s precinct; only shadows passed through the honey-colored resin. Men from the Kiltet stood on the far side of the amber windows, their hazy silhouettes falling across the amber panes. To report back to the emperor, Arko wanted to say, but Saad did not ask. The shapes of the men were enough to let him know: the emperor was listening.
“Tolemy commands you to send a legion of men to the Dromus,” he said, explaining that the Protector’s Army was to reverse Barca’s progress through the Wyrre and Harkana, capture the rogue captain, and rebuild the Outer Guard. Barca’s trained soldiers would be reintegrated into the new Outer Guard, and the farmers and fishermen whom the traitor had drafted into his service would be sent back to their homes. In truth, Arko didn’t care about Barca attacking the empire, but he was worried about his kingdom. The rebel had already moved against Harkana and was even now advancing on the Hornring. Arko needed to block that advance, but also wanted to get Saad out of Solus, and war was the best way to make the Protector leave. The campaign against Barca might take years to complete and Saad’s absence would give Arko time to cement his power and make changes to the empire. I need to get rid of you, Saad. And this is the best way to do it. Arko faced the amber windows. A shadow fell through the resin, giving an eerie sense of movement beyond.
“What of Barca?” Saad asked.
“What of him?” Arko asked. “You’ll take his head or he’ll take yours. Let’s hope it’s the former,” Arko said, smirking. “You will need to leave Solus in one week’s time.” Arko held out a scroll with the emperor’s seal—gold, shining with the rays of the sun. Saad accepted the document silently, his anger already visible in his face. His temper may yet get the best of him. That is, if Barca doesn’t kill him first.
Saad had five hundred men at his back; he could easily strike now and take the Eye of the Sun from Arko’s brow, but he did nothing. The boy straightened his back. Khalden Wat led Saad to the corridor, where the sounds of soldiers beating their feet echoed once again in the stony vaults. Their chants grew louder when they saw their leader approach. The soldiers raised their spears as Saad passed into their lines.
Arko circled the empty chamber, listening to the chants fade as the last soldier left the yard. He spoke when the yard was empty. “He’s not leaving Solus. I saw it in his face, Wat.”
“You might be right.”
“If he doesn’t leave Solus, I’ll need options—ways to defend myself.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“Find some men.”
Wat narrowed his eyes.
“Men that are good at killing,” Arko continued. “I assume there is no shortage in the capital. I’m sure Suten employed more than one during his reign.”
“I’ll find what I can,” Wat said, looking uneasy. He seemed accustomed to the intrigues of politics, but not the ways of war. Arko, on the other hand, was well accustomed to such things. He had more than once fought the outlander tribes and was each time victorious. If a fight were inevitable, he would not shrink from it. He found politics vexing, but a war he could manage.
“Do you still want me to post the proclamation?” Wat inquired. “The boy waits with the parchment.”
“Yes, do it now,” Arko said, but there was no need.
Below him, in the empty yard, a door opened and a boy appeared with a large sheet of parchment in his hand. The page held Tolemy’s decree—a brief but eloquent proclamation detailing the amendment of the imperial system of tributes that was initiated two centuries prior by Tolemy I. Wat had asked him to soften the language and to post each amendment separately with a long interval between each, to lessen the shock, he said. But Arko would not hear it. If his directives caused unrest, he would embrace it. He would not shrink from his responsibilities. Suten had not offered him power so he could squander it.
The boy held up the sheet and hammered it into the wall.
46
“Stay close,” Sarra said as she led her priests into the Hollows of Solus. She was searching for a particular passage—one that the priests of old, in the time before the sealing of the Shroud Wall, traveled to enter the Empyreal Domain, a passage known as Mithra’s Door. She needed to confirm what she had found in the Shambles, to make certain the throne room was empty and the Soleri were all gone—a daunting task, but not one she could ignore. I need to know if the gods are truly dead. Mithra’s Door was said to lead from the Ata’Sol, through the Shroud Wall, and into to the throne room of the emperor. Sarra had read about the passage but never searched for it. Prior to her encounter in the Shambles, it had never occurred to her to seek out the door. Opening it would expose her to the emperor, to certain death, to the immortal and intolerable light of the god. But there was no Tolemy. The gods were dead. They were stars and stones. Ash and obsidian. The Empyreal Domain was empty—or so she hoped.
Sarra traveled the corridors with three priests. One read from a scroll, following an ancient set of instructions, while the second held an oil lamp, the third tools—a pick, a hammer, a few chisels, and an adze.
She slowed her pace, allowing the men to move a little ahead of her. Over morning meal a scroll had arrived from Rifka. Her daughter had wedded Dagrun Finner, the king of the Ferens, which meant that she had left Harwen. Kepi was in Rifka now and Sarra tried to picture what she might look like, the woman she had become, but too much time had passed since she last laid eyes on her daughter. In truth, Sarra knew about as much about Kepi as she knew about Dagrun. They were both a mystery. She only hoped the rumors about Dagrun—that he was a violent man, a brutish smuggler and thief—were untrue.
Sarra nearly collided with the wall. The light was gone, her priests having left her behind. She rounded a corner and caught sight of the lamp.
“A bit slower,” she said. “We don’t know what’s down he
re.”
Indeed, the dust here was finger-deep and the cobwebs were everywhere. No one had come this way in a very long time.
They edged around corners, making certain they were alone and the way was safe. Even if the Soleri were gone, their shadow lingered over the Empyreal Domain, following her every step, making her startle as they lit each new passage. Up ahead, the lamplight illuminated ornately patterned walls. Star and palmate motifs embellished the ceiling and walls. Rendered in bright lapis and dotted with shades of umber, the many small stones reflected circles of light in all directions. She guessed, by the character and quality of the designs, the tunnel dated to the Middle Kingdom. Only the emperors of the Amber Age, the great builders, would dedicate such opulence to a subterranean corridor, a pathway traveled only by priests.
“The door is up ahead,” the man holding the scroll announced, his voice wavering a bit, with expectation, perhaps, or dread. “Open it,” Sarra said, not hesitating, not wanting to pause for fear that she might lose her nerve. Her priests laid down their wares. They put their palms to the door and pushed. The great bronze door, its face crusted with verdigris, squealed on its hinges. The men shook their wrists, adjusted their footing, and pushed again. The door creaked open by degrees, slowly revealing a dark space beyond.
“Lamps,” Sarra said.
Her priests raised oil lamps, but the light revealed nothing more than a wall of roughly set stones erected only a few paces back from the bronze door. At the edges of the barrier she saw magnificent decorations. Chips of agate sparkled on the ceiling and the walls were clad in bronze, the surfaces adorned in the curling symbols of the hieratic script. Sarra had crossed into the Empyreal Domain—she knew it. All that stood in her path was the stone wall.
“Remove a stone,” she said, quickly gesturing to one of her priests, who lifted a slender pick and began digging at the top of the wall. “Quietly,” she said, though she guessed the task could not be accomplished without making a bit of noise.
Her priests grunted as they removed a round boulder about the size of a man’s head. The opening revealed a second wall, sitting directly behind the first. There was a snake carved in the shape of a ring incised in the stone. Someone was awfully thorough, she thought, though the precautions did make some sense. The builders didn’t want anyone to wander into the throne room of the dead Soleri, after all.
“Keep going,” she said, encouraging the men, but with all their labors it still took an hour to pierce the first wall. Her priests had to carefully and painstakingly remove each stone, chipping at the grout between them, prying at the rounded rocks with picks. In the meantime, every sound, every crack of stone or iron rattled her nerves. If they were discovered, this breach would cost them their lives. But no one came to arrest them, no guard approached. No one had come this way, she guessed, for many years.
The digging revealed that the second wall was newer than the first; its stones more carefully laid, the coursing more regular, and the blocks were larger too and they took more time to dislodge. They had to push the first stone into the corridor beyond to dislodge it. It landed there with a mighty thump, cracking the tiles inside and making an awful racket.
She cringed again, listening to see if anyone was there, if a bell rang or a shout echoed. She waited, but no sound rattled the corridor. They were alone, so Sarra lifted one of the lamps and peered through the opening, past the wall and into the corridor beyond. Dust choked the passage, but the way was clear and the corridor was empty. The only signs of life were the tracks left long ago by mice, shallow indentations that were themselves covered in a layer of dust. Nothing, she thought. There’s no one here. The throne room’s as empty as this passage, as barren as the solar I found in the Shambles.
“Clear the way,” she said. “I will send provisions and more lamps. Open the corridor, but do not venture into the domain.” She was already retreating toward the Ata’Sol. When sufficient time had passed for the men to clear the passage, she would send a single priest, one loyal to her alone. He would carry cool amber and bread, both laced with strychnine, or mandrake root. She cringed at the thought, but saw no other option.
Sarra left the workers, carefully considering her next move, how she would use her newly acquired knowledge against Saad. Deep in thought, she retraced the path she traveled with the three priests, moving more quickly now. She was no longer afraid of the Soleri, their guards, or their ghosts. She had not yet seen the throne room, but she would soon, and she guessed it was as empty as the passages she had just explored.
She made her way out of the Hollows, eager to find Ott. But when she closed the door to the underground passage she did not find him waiting outside for her as she had expected. A girl Sarra did not quite recognize greeted her at the door.
“Who are you?” Sarra asked. “I’ve seen you before.”
“I’m Ott’s scribe, Kara,” the girl said, her voice trembling, her eyes red and swollen.
“What is it—where is Ott? I was expecting him.”
The girl peered nervously at the Mother Priestess, as if she were afraid to speak.
“Go on,” said Sarra. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Still the girl would not speak, something had clearly rattled her.
“Get on with it,” Sarra said.
“Ott’s gone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Earlier this morning on the temple steps, while you were in the Hollows, soldiers in bronze mail confronted Ott. They led him away.”
“Where?”
“To the tower, he is with the Protector’s men.”
She did not trust herself to react to this news. She pressed her back to the door, running a hand through her red tresses, thinking. Saad was testing her again, but this time he had taken someone of value. A jolt of fear struck her, but it quickly faded. Ott knew the secret of the dead Soleri, but that did not mean her secret was lost. The Protector would not ask if there was a Tolemy, just as he would not ask if there was a sun in the sky. Saad would likely concern himself with the secrets of the priesthood. He would ask about Sarra’s intentions in Solus, her plans to confront Saad, and her weaknesses. In these matters, Sarra felt secure. She had shared her plans with no one—not even Ott. She had revealed bits and pieces, but only as needed.
The girl interrupted, “Mother Priestess, what should we do?”
“About what?”
“Ott,” the girl said. Perhaps she was close to Ott; Sarra didn’t know. She didn’t care. Ott was more important to the Mother Priestess than to anyone else, yet Sarra could not waver from the course she had chosen. If she wanted to see the boy again, she needed to stick to her plan. She would use her knowledge of the Soleri against Arko and Saad, manipulating the two like marionettes on a string.
“Nothing,” she said. “At the moment, there’s nothing we can do for him. We must be patient. For now, I need you to find a messenger. Tell him to arrange a congress between the Mother and the Father. Go now—leave me.”
When she was gone, Sarra faced the door that led into the Hollows. Her eyes were stinging and she didn’t want anyone to see her. Over the years she had lost much: a husband, her daughters. Ott saved my life on the last day of the year, but can I save his? She could not bear to lose anyone else. I need to end this conflict and I need to do it now.
Saad was forcing her to act and Sarra would do so. She was ready; she had found the door to the throne room. She could access the empty chamber without using the formal entry and the Hall of Histories. Now she just needed to lead Saad into that room. He would go if she gave him the right reason, the right incentive.
He would come alone, without his swords and his soldiers. After all, no man may enter the Empyreal Domain with a weapon—unless they found a back door.
47
There is no emperor.
Her father’s message burning within her, Merit lifted the hem of her dress and climbed the sandy cliff till her eyes crept above the canyon’s shadow. It was late
in the day, but the sun was still bright and hot; she winced and made a visor of her hand, scanning the sun-drenched canyons, searching the horizon for the Dromus. She caught sight of its curving line, traced the distant barrier until the canyon’s edge eclipsed her view. In Sola, the sun did not set upon the horizon; it dipped each night below the Dromus and rose from its far edge the next day. The wall was Sola’s horizon. Walls within walls—who would have thought that their center was empty, that the throne was unoccupied? Her father’s message was simple: The throne room sits in ruins, the Amber Throne smashed.
This changes everything. If there was no emperor, her children were no longer subject to the Priory, and she was no longer bound by the marriage Tolemy had arranged. There was no Tolemy. Merit was free. This news had the power to unmake the empire, and she alone held it. Arko had sent his messenger to her instead of Kepi or Ren. The emptiness at the heart of the empire was too important, too dangerous, to share with anyone but the ruler of Harkana, and for now, at least, the ruler of Harkana was still Merit. Her father was alive and he trusted her. The man who for so many years had shielded her from the burdens of power had now placed the empire’s greatest secret in her hands. She held a truth that could cripple Solus, words that could remake her kingdom. He had denied her power for so long that Merit feared she would never have it, but now it was here and it was hers. He loved her. It sounded silly, but Merit had often felt cheated of her father’s affections. She had thought the king of Harkana had no love for anyone but Kepi and his absent son. He certainly had no love for his wife, the one who left him, the woman Merit had so often imitated when she was young. Now all of that was in the past. Merit was his daughter, loved, and more important, trusted.
The sound of sand grinding against stone drifted into her ear. Where did that come from? She caught a terrible stench, the smell of ash-soaked sweat.
“Sevin!” Too late, she called out to her soldiers as she caught sight of the spear. The outlander crept between the stones, clutching the blackwood, feet lifting silently, his eyes narrow and focused.
Soleri Page 32
