She must go to her husband, but not until tomorrow—just prior to Saad’s arrival. Then she would tell him the secret she had been holding for a decade.
A boy appeared in the doorway, his feet covered in dust, a trace of perspiration on his brow. “I have a letter, but I don’t want you to deliver it until the morning.” There was no sense in giving Arko time to prepare for their audience. “When you wake, I want you to go the Antechamber and arrange a congress between me and the First Ray of the Sun. Speak to Khalden Wat and return with his reply.”
51
“At last,” Ren said, putting his foot on the parapet and looking out at the city of Solus, “a breeze.”
“If you say so,” Adin said as he lay on his bedroll. “I didn’t feel one.”
“You would if you’d bother to sit up a bit.”
“You try to sleep sitting up.”
“I can’t sleep,” Ren said. “It’s useless.”
“The Priory?”
“Yes. It’s so close.”
“You think too much. Tye always said that was your biggest problem.”
Ren agreed, but said nothing. He had tried resting, attempted sleeping, but dreams of the Priory invaded his every imagining. Through sleep’s eye he saw a prison made of sand. Every wall and every floor was hewn from sifting granules and when Ren moved, the walls collapsed, pulling him down into gray depths, suffocating him.
They had entered the city two days before, moving among the soldiers and refugees, blending in among the people asking for work, for food, for a few empty rooms. They looked like what they were: a couple of half-grown boys, refugees trudging the road from the Dromus, nothing more. War had come to the empire. They heard the traitor, Barca, was raiding all of the lands to the south and east of the Dromus. Everywhere they went, there were refugees, people journeying from the countryside to the capital, hoping to find safety behind the walls of Sola. There was much talk among the people, rumors that the new Ray had caused unrest by posting a proclamation. The people were clearly upset about it, but Ren and Adin dare not ask any questions for fear of revealing themselves.
In the dark of night, they had slipped from the crowd of refugees, past the long rows of tents the Protector had set out to house the crowds, and wandered into the city, reversing the route Ren had taken weeks earlier when he was freed from the Priory. The city was unfamiliar, but Ren remembered the gate at the entrance to the underground city, the place where he had first tasted his freedom. Who could forget such a thing? There they curled up against the wall and pretended to be blind, a couple of beggar boys whining for hard bread, largely ignored by the throngs of other desperate and frightened people streaming into the city.
In the morning they had looked for a room. They could not afford one, but they did find a man who would rent them his rooftop—nothing luxurious, just a place to stay where the city guard would not harass them. For the roof Ren gave his last tin crescent. It bought them a few loaves of bread and a place to stay, but they had no food for tomorrow and no coin to pay for another night, so they would have to make the most of this one or find another source of income in the morning.
From the rooftop, Ren saw the pillars of what he guessed was the temple of Mithra at Solus. Lamplight flickered between the stout columns. At the gates of Solus, he’d heard that the Mother Priestess had gone to Desouk after the riots on the last day of the year, that she was assaulted on the wall but had somehow survived. Guided by Mithra’s hand, one woman had whispered. He guessed she would not return to Solus for some time. Nevertheless, he wondered what she would say to him if he confronted her, how she would explain why she never came to him in the Priory or used her stature as the Mother to lessen his suffering. Perhaps she was allied with Merit, maybe that was how his sister had learned of his release.
“Daydreaming again?” Adin asked.
“No, just thinking about Sarra Amunet. I saw her temple.”
“Dreadful topic.” Adin knew what Ren thought of the Mother. His friend broke another chunk of bread from the hard yellow cake and stuffed it in his mouth, his eyes on the horizon. The boys were not the only ones standing under the stars: Everywhere they looked, whole families lay on the mud-baked roofs, squirming in the heat, hoping for a breeze to pass as they pushed sweat from their brow. They shifted and settled as children leapt and played, waking sleepers, eliciting howls. Some roofs were so crowded the women were sleeping in shifts, some knitting while the others slept. There was no night here; the city was always in motion, always restless. He had heard only echoes from the Priory, distant barking, traces of laughter. He had not seen who or what made those sounds. Now he saw it all. The people of Solus were nearly as visible in the darkness as they were under the light of the sun: Torches hung from every roof, and oil lamps lit the streets. The city was bright, but the sky was dark. It was the new moon, the Thieves’ Moon.
“Ren, can I ask you something?” Adin said, still chewing on the bread.
“Go to sleep.”
“I can’t—it’s too hot.”
“You’d be cooler if you stopped eating so much. You’re going to get sick.”
“Stop changing the topic. I want to know why you didn’t go back to Harwen when you had the chance. Why come looking for me?”
“I—” Ren could not finish. Where could he start? With Merit, or Shenn? He still hadn’t told Adin the truth about his family. “It’s … nothing,” he said. “I just thought I would help my friends first. You’d have done the same if you weren’t locked in some Feren slammer,” he said, not wanting to think about it.
“But the eld, the horns—why not go home with them?” Adin asked, not letting Ren avoid the subject. The horn slung over Ren’s shoulder felt suddenly heavy.
“I wasn’t ready,” he said, a stab of guilt hitting as soon as he finished. He didn’t like concealing things from his friends; he’d never done it in the past, so why was he doing it now?
“It’s Merit.”
“Your sister—what about her?”
He told Adin what happened in the Shambles. “I don’t want to go to Harwen, not without allies,” he said, and Adin seemed to understand. If he went there alone, he’d find his grave sooner than he’d find his throne. Adin had gone home and had nearly lost his life.
His friend listened without nodding or giving any look of pity. Adin’s own story was just as painful. He had lost his family, lost his father without ever meeting the man, and from what Ren had learned about the old king, Adin was better off for it. The Ferens had spat when Ren spoke the name of Barrin and he guessed it was not without reason.
“We’ll go to Harwen together,” Adin said.
“But first we finish here,” Ren said, watching the gate. “I can’t leave this place without Tye.”
“I know,” Adin murmured, joining Ren at the ledge. Below, the gate banged closed and the torch above the archway flickered and died. Ren glared at the dark bars and the stairway that led down into the Hollows. He pictured Tye, lost in the darkness. In his mind’s eye he saw the curve of her lip, the freckles dashed on her cheeks. Come on, Tye. Come out. If you’re not coming out, I’ll have to come in. And what will happen then, I don’t know.
A soldier slid a key into the lock and the latch clicked closed for the night.
Ren gathered up the rags he meant to use as a pillow and tried again to go to sleep in the cold, yellow light of the city, but he lay there with his eyes open, staring into the darkness. He did not say what he was thinking, but Ren was all too aware that the gate below was closed for the night. The Thieves’ Moon had come and gone, but the gate was locked and Tye was not coming.
52
Shouts pierced the walls of the Antechamber, disturbing the pleasant quiet. The city had read Tolemy’s proclamation, and few were happy about it. They were used to their slaves and to grinding the noble families of the lesser kingdoms underneath their sandaled feet, but those days had ended. Let them holler and break things. Let them cry out that their lord has a
bandoned them. Arko Hark-Wadi had anticipated their angry reaction. Soon, the viziers would call for a congress with the Ray, but Arko would refuse them. The highborn families would cry at his door and the soldiers would curse him, but Arko would ignore them all. While Solus shouted out in rage, he would tear down the Priory, brick by brick, until only a great hole was left in the earth, a void like the Ruined Wall in Harkana—a monument to remind the empire of its past mistakes.
Arko stood alone in the Antechamber, in a room that sat astride the Shroud Wall, half in and half out of the domain, watching his servant, Wat, shuffle across the corridor, taking his time, pretending he did not hear the protests, though they reverberated all around him. When Wat came a bit closer, the light on his face revealed red eyes and a grin. He looked tired but hopeful, as if he were carrying good news.
“You have something to say?” Arko asked.
“Your soldiers are coming.”
“When?”
“Midday. Your man Asher got through, or was at least able to pass your message to a soldier, who delivered it to Harwen. Asher went off to find your eldest daughter, Merit, but we don’t know if he ever reached her.”
“He’ll find her. He’s as loyal as he is resourceful. I have no doubts about the man. What else?”
“Your youngest daughter … Kepi, I believe?”
“What about her?”
“She is betrothed to the king of the Ferens.”
“Dagrun, eh?” Arko frowned. “He’s a good enough man. She accepted his proposal?” he asked, memories of her first wedding turning his stomach. He had left his youngest daughter to fend for herself without bidding even a last farewell.
“I don’t know. There are no details, just a dispatch from Rifka.”
“Send emissaries, immediately. Make my daughters aware of my position,” said Arko. He needed to make contact with his family. Change was coming to the empire, and he wanted to prepare them. If Asher got through he would eventually find Merit and deliver his message. Ren would soon return from the hunt. And with Kepi in Feren, hopefully it meant Dagrun would likely join Arko’s cause, brute or not. Patience was all he needed.
“What else?” Arko said.
“As you feared, Saad will not go after Barca,” he said. “Most of his supplies are still in the storehouses, and only a small group of men are properly armed. Saad sits in his tower, though his soldiers began gathering in the courtyard outside this room an hour ago.”
Then he’s coming after me. The little shit. Arko took a long drink and wiped foam from his mouth. “Get my men in here. I need them now—see to it yourself, Wat.” Arko took another drink. This imperial stuff was growing on him. “When is the Protector due?”
“Midmorning,” Wat said. “He will come to present his final strategy for the campaign against Barca, just as you asked.”
“Good. My men should be in place by then.”
Arko reached for his wineskin, lifted it to his lips, and then set it aside. He needed all of his wits for what would come next. He sat in the chair that once belonged to Suten. It creaked a bit, as if the wood were made for a man of lesser weight—and it had been. Arko had never felt such pressure. All of Solus was weighing down upon him. He felt the city’s anger but would not let it intimidate him. He knew what he needed to do.
Wat sat down across from him, making Arko consider the man. He was a good servant—as good as any he’d had in Harwen. The man’s honesty made Arko feel hopeful.
“You know the story of my father, Koren Hark-Wadi,” Arko asked. “The Children’s War and Koren’s handshake with Saad’s father? Do you know what he promised my father?”
Wat bowed his head. “Suten was there. I know what happened that day. Raden Saad and your father were honorable men. Harsh in their ways, but honest.”
“I had hoped that Saad might be more like his father. I had hoped he would do as he was told, that he might listen to me and stand against Barca.”
“You dwell too much in the past, sir. Saad is not his father.”
“That’s for damn sure. What a miserable little pup he is. I would just as soon smash his head in as let him have the army.”
Wat’s mouth was set in a narrow line. “Raden was a relic. From the moment he shook your father’s hand he was marked for death. If it were not for the power of Suten’s family, the favor they showed the old Protector, his generals would have cut him down long ago. His honor never helped him—it got him killed.”
“I thought as much.” Arko rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. “Saad could not take his father’s life without help. He isn’t smart enough.”
“Most of the generals wanted the old Protector dead for decades. He had a few loyal men, a few who have since resisted the son’s control, but most of the military families were tired of Raden. They wanted a man who would make them rich, not safe. Saad is that man. He knows how to fatten their wallets and flatter their tempers, and they will support him to the very end. He won’t help you.”
“I know. I hold no illusions regarding Saad, or Sarra.”
Wat swallowed when Arko said the Mother Priestess’s name.
“What is it?” Arko asked.
“I have one last bit of news. Early this morning, the Mother Priestess sent a messenger. She requests an audience prior to your midday congress with Saad.”
Arko thought for a moment. “The timing is no coincidence.”
“If you say so. Perhaps our lord Tolemy should be made aware—”
“No,” Arko interrupted. “There is no sense in disturbing the emperor.”
“That’s what Suten always said.” Wat smiled kindly, knowingly.
“Return her message, tell her I will meet with her today, prior to my congress with Saad, as requested.”
“Trying to accommodate the Mother Priestess?”
“No, but if Sarra or Saad want a fight, we might as well have one. Once my men are here, I am confident we can turn back any force. Have you found the hired soldiers I requested—the mercenaries?”
“Yes. I can bring them to you when you are ready.”
“Do that. Do it now, Wat. Is there anything else?”
“There is this.” Unwrapping a long bundle he revealed a two-handed sword, well forged but ancient. “It once belonged to Saad’s grandfather. It has seen a battle or two, but you asked for a sword and this is the finest I could locate.”
“Thank you, Wat.” Arko took the blade. “It looks like a good sword.” He weighed the blade and sighted down the edge, which had once been perfectly straight, now somewhat warped by age. In the distance, the people shouted their protests and something fragile shattered against a wall.
“I’ll be going,” said Wat. He seemed uneasy, perhaps he disliked the changes Arko had made just as much as the people outside. If he did, the old man didn’t show it. He bowed politely and bid his farewell, “May you share the sun’s fate, sir.”
Arko rumpled his lip at the Soleri farewell. “No, if it’s all the same to you and your god, Wat. One life is plenty for me.”
53
Pale green tunics shifted in the tall rock. Ferens. Dagrun paid the ransom. There could be no other explanation. The king of the Ferens, not Barca or one of Merit’s generals, had paid her ransom. Her messenger must have slipped past the ash-skinned warriors and walked to the Feren border. Soldiers bearing the blackthorn crest broke through the underbrush and rocks, confirming her assumption. One bowed to Merit, another cut her bonds. Three footmen lifted Samia from the rocks and gently untied her ropes. They freed Merit’s foot soldiers, Asher, and her captain. The Ferens brought horses for her men, a carriage for Merit, food and fresh clothes. There was a physician in their company and enough water for her to bathe if she so desired. She thanked the men, but refused their offering of clean linen and salted meat—she even refused the physician and the bath. She wanted to ride out immediately. She would not stop to eat or re-dress, or to tend to her bruises. She was too eager to be free of this place, out of the desert and safe.
The Ferens shook their heads but acquiesced. The Harkans sipped amber and chewed bread, laughing and shouting as they hoisted themselves atop the horses. With a bit more restraint, Merit and her waiting woman stepped into the blackthorn carriage. A whip cracked and they were off.
The Feren captain, a man who introduced himself as Keegan Stalls, rode alongside Merit’s carriage, speaking to her through an open shutter. “We spent three days negotiating with the outlanders,” he said, and then went on to explain the terms of her liberation and the process leading up to it. “We sent patrols, tried to locate the outlanders’ camp, to free you, but the Hykso kept moving—they knew the ground and they knew how to hide. We found a dead soldier, his back slashed, but we could not find the outlanders. We had no way to locate you, so the king paid the ransom.”
The story explained why the outlanders had forced her to march in circles, to hide during the day and move at night. It explained the tracks she had seen in the sand. Those marks clearly belonged to the soldiers who had pursued her—the men had been close by all along, but the Feren soldiers were unused to the desert. They were out of their element and had been unable to track her captors. Thinking back to her time in the desert, Merit recalled the tall grass she’d seen when she fell and wondered how close to Feren they were. “How long until we reach Rifka?” she asked, careful not to sound too eager.
“Three days’ ride,” the captain said.
Longer than she thought, but Merit only nodded, hiding her disappointment. She wanted to return to Feren as quickly as possible. She was eager to share her newfound secret with the king. Soon she would have everything she desired.
The small company rode a day before a large contingent of cavalry arrived, expanding their numbers, ensuring that Merit would travel unmolested to Rifka. The horses made a thunderous sound as they stomped the earth. They moved quickly, skirting the basin of Amen, crossing the Rift valley, riding through the pass and over the gray mountains that shielded Feren from the desert. They spent a night camped alongside the Cragwood, sleeping soundly, before rising again and at last entering the Gray Wood, the forest growing dense on all sides of her carriage as she passed beneath the first mighty blackthorns, the air cooler, moister.
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