Merit refused to be ignored. She kicked at the horse, tugging at the leather ropes, pulling the caravan out of order. Her mount tangled with Sevin’s; the gray horse bucked and whinnied, and Merit lurched backward. She would have fallen to the rocks if one of the men had not caught her and helped her sit upright.
When she was securely in the saddle, one of the outlanders—making no attempt to speak, grinning madly, fingers shaking—offered her a cup. He wore a necklace of shattered skulls—gray fox, she guessed from the animals’ wedge-shaped heads. He must be some sort of mystic. She took the brown cup and gulped its contents, then heaved when the bitter taste hit her throat—he had given her vinegar, or something worse. Her throat burned. The man beat his legs with laughter, jiggling the skulls like bells. The caravan halted, the rest of the outlanders eager to join in her humiliation. A toothless warrior, cloaked in a dirty robe, plucked off her golden earrings, took her necklaces and bracelets, putting on the pieces and swishing around, his face fixed in a comically haughty imitation of hers.
She would not be cowed. She looked to Sevin, but he shook his head. “Don’t,” he whispered. Anger will only encourage them, his expression seemed to say. She kept her eyes and her voice steady, and in words that they seemed to only half understand, demanded water, demanded her things be returned to her. The mystic paid her no mind, passing her jewelry to the others, pinning her earrings to their skin, laying the necklaces around their necks. A tall warrior with arms and legs dressed in ringlike tattoos swung her mother’s short sword and chipped the blade on a stone.
“No!” she shouted. Sevin again flashed her a look of concern, but Merit saw nothing but red. She tugged at her mount, but the horse panicked, catching its hoof between two rocks and snapping its ankle in two. The horse fell, taking Merit with it. She lay under the beast, her leg pinned, unable to move.
The tattooed warrior stood over her, his golden eyes meeting her own. “Help me!” she cried, but he was unmoved. She spat at him, but he only laughed. His lips were red where the ash had worn away, and she thought for a moment that the man might simply take her right there on the ground while the others watched. Instead, he lifted the beast with his shoulder, then made two of her soldiers pull Merit free while he bludgeoned the screaming horse. She was alive, safe. Barca must be paying a high price for ransoms. Her worth as a ransom had saved her life, but the thought gave her little comfort.
To punish her, the outlanders forced Merit to walk. Closer to the ground, she could not escape the desert’s inhabitants—the scurrying of a pocket mouse or the quick flash of a brush lizard darting between rocks. The desert was more alive than she had guessed, humming with insects invisible to the eye but buzzing in all directions, a frantic drone that followed her across the rocks. She wore only sandals, finely woven but not made for travel. They ripped on the rough terrain, flapping around her ankles and leaving her feet worse than bare. Eventually, Merit’s soldiers had to help her walk. She started to thank them, parting her lips to speak, but her mouth had gone completely dry.
When the sand gave way to hard ground she curled her feet to avoid the hot surface, mincing painfully. One man saw her and stopped to give her his sandals. The leather wraps were too big, they chafed at her ankles and toes, but at least her feet did not burn. “Thank you,” she croaked at the soldier, who barely raised his head and nodded.
The days dragged, one become two, the second stretched into the third. During the night, they marched. When the sun rose, they searched for shade and rested often. She tracked the movement of the sun, trying to determine their course, but they kept walking in circles. Were they lost? It felt as if she had spent weeks in the desert—the thirst, the noise, the pain in her heels. Her bones mashed against the soft balls of her feet, her every movement triggering some small ache. Her arches cramped and pulled as if they were about to snap. She felt the pain of her soldiers too, Asher and her waiting woman, Samia. Her father’s message was her only comfort on the long nights and burning days. There is no emperor. The throne room sits in ruins, the Amber Throne smashed. With this news, she was free of Shenn, free of the marriage that had bound her, the union that had forced her to covertly pursue Dagrun. She could have him now—she need no longer fear the Priory or the emperor’s wrath. Her father was emperor in any true sense. Alliances. Armies. She no longer needed these things. She had won. There was no battle to fight, no enemy; there never had been one. They had toiled beneath a shadow all these years, but no more. Shenn could have his freedom, his life, he could love as he chose and so could she. Merit need only survive and she would have all she desired.
Deep in thought on the sixth day of her captivity Merit fell again, her forehead mashing into the rocky earth, sand and pebbles clinging to her skin, falling into her eyes. Grass brushed her face. Not the bone-dry grass of the desert, but something softer. Odd, she thought, but gave it no further consideration. She pushed herself up on her elbows and paused there for a moment, gathering her strength, staring at the sand. Boot marks. They were fresh—a patrol had come this way not long ago. The soldiers must be Harkan or perhaps Feren. This is good news. Perhaps an offer was made.
The following day, the Hykso reversed their treatment of Merit and her entourage. They offered her strips of poorly cured meat and a pale, cloudy liquid to wash it down. The drink stunk of rotten amber, but it filled her belly. The horde thinned. Three times ten warriors had taken them captive on that first day, but nearly half those men vanished during the night.
The following day a second group departed and Merit, Samia, Asher, Sevin, and the six remaining Harkan soldiers were left with fewer than ten captors. She twice caught Sevin exchanging glances with Asher and his men, plotting some sort of rebellion, she guessed. But all of it was unnecessary. As the day came to its end, the Hykso warriors marched Merit toward a narrow gorge. Tall rocks surrounded her on three sides, making the stone hollow into a cage of sorts, a corral. Two sacks of rough linen stood within the hollow. The outlander with the gray-fox necklace grunted as he lifted them—they were heavy. He strode to where Merit stood and shook the heavy sacks. The tinny clamor of gold coins jingling against one another filled her ears. The ransom. It is paid.
One by one, the Hykso took their leave, following behind the man with his two heavy sacks. Hands tied, Merit stood, waiting in the shade as the Hykso fled into the desert, their ash-covered skins and hoary cloaks melding with the salt-gray sand. Sevin cursed as he struggled against his bonds, trying to break the goat-hide strands. His soldiers tore at their ropes. Samia kneeled, as did Asher.
But Merit stood tall and proud. Someone was coming—soon, she guessed. She scanned the jagged rocks. Whoever had laid out the coins was no doubt watching, waiting for the Hykso to disappear before coming to claim their bounty. Where are you? Who are you? Merit paced. Who paid my ransom?
50
Her ankles caked in dust, head pounding, Sarra returned from the throne room of the emperor. She had gone there alone, by lamplight, stealing through the long corridors that connected the Ata’Sol to the throne of the Soleri. She had seen the shattered chair, the burnt columns and empty pools, the fresh footprints in the dust. Suten’s body lay amid the rubble, bruised and silent, rotting in the darkness. Only the Ray may enter the Empyreal Domain, so she guessed it was Arko who had done the deed and taken the revenge he had long sought. It was strange to see the old Ray dead, his regal attire soaked with blood. She had long coveted Suten’s golden robe, and the sight of it, torn and bloodied, had shaken her more than she would have guessed. It reminded her of Garia Asni, the girl who stood in Sarra’s place on the last day of the year. The whole scene—the burnt chair, the body—was overwhelming, too much to digest. She returned to her chamber, shaken but satisfied. She had seen the shattered throne and lived. Suten was gone and the Soleri were truly dead, their sacred domain abandoned. She slipped into a white robe and poured herself a cup of wine. Saad was already overdue for their congress, and she guessed he would not delay much longer.
The door swung open and she startled, dropping the bronze cup, spilling date wine onto the table and floor. The plum-red liquid dribbled around her toes. She lifted the cup and refilled it while a dark-haired priestess came close and bowed.
“Mother,” she said, “Saad is coming. He passed the columned hall and should be here any moment.”
“Then you should go,” she told the girl, who went out and left the door open behind her. A priest entered bearing two scrolls stamped with golden wax. The sealing wax was still warm, the parchment crisp, ink bleeding through the page.
“Is everything in order?” she asked.
The priest shrugged. “I did everything as you asked.”
“Good. Leave me,” she said, holding the scrolls in her hand, setting them down when she realized her fingers were damp with perspiration.
Priests entered to prepare her chamber, cleaning the floor, moving furniture around, pouring a second cup of date wine for the guest while Sarra watched Saad come through the doors with a scowl on his face, his scar red and pulsing, looking like a schoolboy summoned before the lecturer. It took all her willpower to smile when he entered, lifting a cup of the sweet wine and inviting the boy to sit in the ironwood chair across from her, near the brazier. She settled into her own equally sturdy chair. They were in Sarra’s chambers in the Ata’Sol, her private rooms beneath the temple—ones she was quite sure even old Suten Anu had never managed to penetrate with his spy-holes and listening places.
Saad smirked, and for a moment she pictured herself cutting his throat with the ceremonial sword that hung at his waist. Instead, she traded her hatred for silence, forcing her muscles not to twitch, slowing her breath. She waited, her smile as flat as her gaze, neither of them spoke. Saad had come to the door with doubt on his face, doubt in his eyes, doubt in the way he stood as Sarra’s priests bustled around the room bringing them food and wine, then bustling out again to leave them to speak in private. When Sarra indicated that he should feel free to drink, he frowned, then reached over, plucking the bronze vessel from the table by her side and replacing it with his own. Only when he held her cup did he sit back down, put the cup to his lips, and drink, swallowing it all in one long gulp.
“You don’t really think I brought you here just to poison your wine?”
Saad scowled. “I would not put it past you, god-lover.”
Sarra’s eyes bored into his. Had he come just now from wherever Ott was held? She wanted to look at his fingernails, to see if there was blood beneath them, red stains in the skin of his knuckles, but she resisted. He had taken Ott to unnerve her, to toy with her, but he would not succeed. She had to trust that Ott had kept faith with all that he knew, that Saad was still unaware of Tolemy’s absence.
“Calm yourself,” she said, pouring another cup for Saad and one for herself, to show she had no ill intentions. “There are no weapons, save yours, in the Ata’Sol. No poisons but the ones we feed ourselves.” Sarra drank the wine.
Saad reached for the cup, but this time he did not touch it. “Then why have you called for me? Why are you in Solus? I ordered you to not return until your duty demanded it.”
“You have no power over me. Tolemy himself bade me to return,” she said, pausing, letting the words sink in. She knew of Saad’s preparations for the offensive against the traitor, the orders Arko had given the Protector to silence his former captain and put Barca’s men once more under Soleri command. She also knew that Saad would not be able to carry out those orders, that the boy Protector—whose transition to power was still marked by suspicion that he had killed his own father, by murmurs of treason among his ranks—did not yet have enough authority with his own generals to go up against Barca. That is why he is stuck here in the capital, taking innocents and torturing them in his tower. If Arko could not dispatch the boy, she would do it.
“The emperor has spoken to you directly?” Saad asked. “Is this another ruse?” There was distrust in his eyes, the same distrust she had seen in his tower on the last day of the year. Saad did not believe her. He stood, knocking over the chair, backing toward the door. “I’m done listening to your fabrications. Leave Solus,” he commanded, his hand reaching for the pommel of his sword. “Now.”
Sarra remained calm. This was not the last day of the year. She’d had time to contemplate this meeting and was certain this time that she could convince the Protector to do her bidding. “Stay where you are, Saad. I’m not finished with you.”
Anger rumpled his face, he motioned to leave, but Sarra kept on talking.
“I assume you have read the proclamation posted beneath the Antechamber window?”
Saad scoffed. He paused in the doorway, fingers rapping on his blade. “What about it?”
“That decree was not written by Tolemy.”
Saad’s eyes widened a bit. “Who then? The Harkan?” He took a step toward her, suddenly interested. He wasn’t leaving.
Sarra nodded.
“And how did you come by this information?” His hand fell from his sword.
“Tolemy himself sent word to me. Mithra’s Door is open. He called me to the edge of the Empyreal Domain, where his servants put these scrolls in my hands.” She produced two scrolls and handed him the first—a small one with a gold seal embossed with the many-armed face of the sun.
“The Harkan is ignoring Tolemy’s will. He is acting without the emperor’s consent. The proclamation was not penned by Tolemy, nor was Arko’s command that you should pursue the rebel. The emperor does not want you to pursue Barca, not right now, but to guard the city against any attack Barca might make.”
“Then what was it that the Ray gave me?” he asked, moving farther from the door.
“Lies. Deceit. No doubt his little toad Khalden Wat devised the whole thing. But the emperor is not as foolish as Arko thinks. Tolemy wants our help, Saad, yours and mine. It is up to us to avert a coup that might wreck the empire.”
Sarra followed Saad’s face closely. Would he believe the story? Had he learned anything from his captive? Maybe, but maybe not. It didn’t matter—not this time. She had learned her lesson on the last day of the year. She could not intimidate the Protector, but she could appeal to his ambitions. He did not need to believe her story—she knew he would accept the emperor’s command if it served his interests.
Saad narrowed his eyes at her. “It’s a risk,” he said. “One way or another, I’m sticking my neck out, and I never stick my neck out for no reason, god-lover. What will the emperor offer me if I agree?”
Death. She pulled forth the second scroll and handed it over. Now was the moment when the boy would decide—now, and no other. He broke open the seal and began to read, but Sarra did not wait for him to comprehend what it said. “You’ve been asked to remove the Ray and take his post. Arko Hark-Wadi will receive judgment by Mithra’s Fire.”
“Me, First Ray of the Sun?” Saad smiled, then stuck out his chin. “Why? Is this your plot, Mother? If the Ray dies without naming a successor, the post falls to you. Does it not?”
She did not answer his question; she would not acknowledge his doubt. “Tolemy has decided, for reasons of his own, that you are the better one for the position. When the task is done, I will escort you through the Hall of Histories, past the statues of the emperors, and into the domain itself. There, in the throne room, Tolemy will speak to you through the protection of his holy veil and name you as Arko’s successor. In the time between Arko’s death and the naming of the Ray, I will serve in his post, but only briefly. This title will allow me to escort you into the domain, the holy precinct of our lord Tolemy. As I said in your tower, Mithra wants peace between the Father and the Mother. Our lord and emperor said the same words to me through the veil.”
“Did he now?” Saad raised his hand and stroked his stubbled cheeks, his knuckles littered with small bruises and cuts. The hands of a torturer. He seemed to consider the offer, and then a look of satisfaction replaced the doubt on his face
He’ll
do as I ask and be grateful for the chance. Thinking himself worthy of the title and position, she guessed he did not stop to think too long and hard about the message, or the messenger. His greed, at last, made him trust the Mother Priestess. The boy could not be intimidated, but he could be seduced, and she had done as much with her offer.
Sarra stood, wrapping her cloak around herself. “I bend my will to the emperor’s, and do as he commands. For his sake, Saad, not yours.” She once again gave him her best imitation of a frank look, one she had used often on Arko, on Suten Anu, on Saad’s own father, when needed: to look like she was doubtful, but doing as she was bidden anyway.
“Then it is finished.” Saad approached. “I will go to the Ray. The task will be done by midday tomorrow,” he said, adjusting the fit of his armor. She guessed he had resized the ceremonial armor since he wore it on the last day of the year, but the metal still didn’t fit him. Saad paused, shaking his head. “All I needed was an excuse to get rid of that Harkan, and now I have one.” There was pride on his face, triumph, just as she had intended. He poured himself another cup of wine, downed it, and took up the scrolls, one after the other. When he had secured the rolls, Saad turned and without speaking or acknowledging Sarra, let himself out of her chamber. It was customary to bow and bid farewell to the Mother Priestess, to wish her the sun’s fate, but he did none of these things. The man thinks himself Ray; he does not even acknowledge me. He thinks Tolemy is his only master.
She waited until the Protector was gone.
“Scribe,” Sarra called.
A girl appeared in the doorway.
“Fetch a messenger,” Sarra said, and the girl dashed down the corridor.
At midday tomorrow, Saad would gather his men, he would light Mithra’s Fire, and end the brief reign of Arko Hark-Wadi.
Soleri Page 34
