Merit Hark-Wadi wanted to live. She’d stumbled through the gates of the Empyreal Domain, but that was as far as she’d made it. Somewhere just inside those grand doors she’d collapsed on the stony path. Merit was almost certain her right foot was broken, crushed by the mob, and there was something wrong with her knee. She had a stabbing pain in her ribs and in her jaw. Merit had to punch her own chin just to throw it back into place. She thanked the gods that only one of her hands was broken. Her jaw felt better, but every other piece of her ached. The crowd had done more damage to her body than she’d realized.
“I’m going to live through this day,” she said aloud, but no one paid her the slightest bit of attention. The people were shouting and running this way and that. It hadn’t been like that a moment ago. They had been celebrating. Through the pain, she remembered how the people had rejoiced upon entering this holy place, but for some reason they’d traded those cheers for snarls.
“What’s happening?” she asked the man who stood nearest to where she knelt.
He was pulling at his well-groomed beard, at the rings that were threaded into the black hair. He gave no reply.
“What are they doing?” she asked.
He gave her a pitiful look, which told Merit she was in worse shape than she had guessed.
“They’ve found…” The man started, but he didn’t seem to know how to finish.
“Found what?” Merit asked.
“The throne of Tolemy,” he said, his words coming out slowly, reluctantly.
“Where?”
He pointed with one of his ringed fingers, but Merit had already caught sight of the thing.
The throne room is smashed, destroyed centuries ago. She recalled her father’s words. The truth behind the empire had at last seen the light of day, and the people of Solus were not pleased with their discovery. Merit needed to move, lest she be trampled once more. She marshaled her strength and tried to stand, but her foot would not comply. She was forced to crawl instead of walk until she reached the Shroud Wall, where Merit braced one arm against it for balance and righted herself. With only one foot, she would have to follow along the wall if she wanted to move around, and she definitely needed to do that. Merit wanted desperately to find her mother.
“Keep your eyes open.” She was talking out loud again. “You’re not going to die today.”
A man heard her speak, another highborn fellow with a well-groomed beard and silken robe. He looked twice in her direction then moved away. The people were all gathering around some tower, clambering to get inside, but the door was closed.
“Is she inside?” Merit asked, leaning against the wall, pulling at the silken robes of some stranger. “Is she in there? Is the Ray inside that tower?” she asked another.
“No,” said a woman, a commoner in a common-looking tunic. The man beside her, a soldier in bronze mail, disagreed. He said the Ray of the Sun had gone into the tower. “I seen her robe, the gold one, go right through that door before they shut it.”
“And her hair?” Merit asked.
“Red as the bloodiest of sunsets,” said the soldier.
The other was still shaking her head. “She escaped. She’s among us somewhere. Find the Ray!” she cried, and others did the same, but most were gathering around the tower, besieging its doors as they had once besieged the doors of the Empyreal Domain.
Is there no end to this? she wondered.
Merit wanted to sleep. She wanted to shut her eyes and never wake.
“No,” she muttered. “Not today.” Then she felt a sudden dizziness. She was moving. Hands wrapped her mouth, covering it so she could not scream. She was lifted from the ground; her feet dangled in the air. She struggled but she lacked the strength to set herself free. In truth, she had almost no strength at all, and the man must have been twice her size, twice her weight as well. Any fight would be futile; she would only harm herself. Merit relented, and the man drew her through the crowd. Merit’s vision wavered. There was darkness, a door, then light. A voice. Someone was speaking to Merit.
“Be gentle,” said the woman.
Merit knew she ought to recognize who was speaking, but she didn’t. “I know you.”
“Open your eyes.”
Sarra Amunet stood before Merit.
She was dressed in the Ray’s livery, a robe woven from threads of gold, a garment so marvelous it did not even look as if it were a piece of clothing. It had the character of a gem-encrusted crown, an ornament, something so precious that it ought to be stored away in some great vault. Instead, it was caked in dust and sand. Sarra stood there, sweat beading on her forehead, hair sodden, dirt on her hands. A dozen men surrounded the Ray, the servants of the Kiltet, or so Merit presumed.
Sarra made some gesture indicating that two men should stand guard at the door while she took the rest of the Kiltet and hurried up the stair. They climbed and a door was shut behind them, a bolt slid into place. Safe.
Sarra went to the window.
“I saved them,” she said. “I saw what the outlanders intended and I could not allow it. They were my flock, the followers of Mithra. How could I let them die? I was their Mother…”
“And mine,” said Merit.
“I know. It’s why I opened the doors, I couldn’t…”
“It’s all right,” said Merit through the pain. “I know … what you did. You gave away the most precious thing in the world.”
“The secret of the Soleri?” asked Sarra. “It was my pleasure to reveal it.” She rubbed her hands across the golden robe, crinkling the metallic threads. She breathed. “We have some time, not much … but a little.” They climbed another stair, passed another door, and entered a small and sparsely furnished chamber.
The strong man laid Merit on a low pallet, carefully resting her against the wood. Then he left the chamber and the two were alone—mother and daughter.
“Do you know why I left Harwen?” Sarra asked without preamble. She simply cut to the heart of the matter. Time was in short supply, after all.
“What?” Merit asked, still shuddering, still fighting to stay conscious.
“Why I left Harwen. Did you ever learn the truth?”
“Truth?” Merit asked.
“Yes, the truth. I left to save your brother,” said Sarra. “I wanted you to know before”—she was briefly at a loss for words—“before this ends. I need you to know that I didn’t give up on my family. I didn’t want things to go the way they did. After I left Harwen, I reached out to you. I assumed your father hid my scrolls, but when you were older?”
“I ignored the letters. I never broke the wax. I’m sorry. I knew only what Arko told me. He said that leaving was your idea, and that you had chosen to go. I guessed there was more to it. There were whispers of another woman, one he truly loved.”
“Don’t,” said Sarra. She raised a hand.
Merit was surprised that the near mention of that other woman, her father’s mistress, could still bring hurt to her mother. She knew so little of Sarra, so naturally she had questions. She’d heard Ott’s explanation of Sarra’s leaving, but she hadn’t fully accepted it.
“Again, tell me why you left Harwen? I’ve heard your son’s version of it, and a bit of yours, but I don’t know if I believe either. Instead of leaving us, why not simply hide your child? Let the butcher’s wife raise the boy. Keep him close at your side but stay at your throne, and with your family. Stay and be queen. Why did you leave us? That’s what I’ve always wondered, and what Ott’s story did little to explain. Why did you leave? Was it all about Ott? What about your daughters, your husband, and your kingdom too?”
The questions gave Sarra pause. “I couldn’t stay,” she said at last. “I wore the crown, but I was not queen, not his queen. I could not stand the insult. I know that other women accept such things, that Arko’s mother had lived with Koren’s mistress. I couldn’t do it. I could not stand the shame. You cannot understand what it’s like to be a girl from a poor and dishonored family, a small house from an even smaller kingdom. We were gnawing on fish bones when the Harkans came to escort me to Harwen, to meet the great king and stand in his mighty hall, to be the arranged wife of the man whose father stood against Tolemy, against a god, if you believe in all that. I wanted his acceptance. I needed it more than anything I had ever desired.”
“Yet you were denied?”
“Always. Remember, the emperor arranged our marriage. Your father saw me as Tolemy’s proxy, a punishment of sorts—nothing more.”
“I guessed at some of this. I was ten and six. Girls of that age are sensitive to such things. I’d heard rumors about the other woman. I just thought…”
“You thought … what? That it did not matter that my husband loved another, had loved her as a child, and loved her still on the day he died? It mattered to me. I wanted to be his equal, his queen, the one he valued above any other, not some peasant girl from a nowhere island in the Wyrre. But he never treated me as anything else. Our marriage was a burden, an awful edict from an unkind emperor. I was no prize. I was a penance. And to make matters worse, to make the insult complete, the girl—that bitch, Serena—was born in the Wyrre. Her father was bred from slave stock in the southern reach, but he was said to be the best scribe in the city. He was called on to tutor the boy who would one day be king, and he brought his daughter to live with him in the Hornring. Serena. The honey-haired girl who wrecked my kingdom. I never had a chance with the king, and he never gave me one. I was just another casualty in his little war, you see. The man was stuffed full of defiance. He didn’t serve in the priory. He did not observe the Devouring. And he certainly would not fuck the woman Tolemy named his wife.”
“You’ve said that twice,” said Merit. “I feel for you. I’m sorry, but some admired his determination. They saw strength in it. He was the one man who never bent the knee, never surrendered. If it will offer you any comfort, it was only the commoners who worshipped him. In his own eyes, in my father’s estimation, he was a failure. He failed to stand against the empire. His father had done that. He failed at his own marriage and he knew it, Sarra. He knew he failed you, that you wanted more. Is that why you sought your own power, your own place beyond Harwen?”
Sarra seemed restless now. She paced, her hands pressed to the golden robe. “Perhaps,” she said, her red hair as luminous as the golden robe. She’s beautiful, thought Merit. How could any man reject her?
Sarra spoke softly when she continued, “There was only one place I could go, one place where even a king could not touch me. Mithra shelters all who see His light—or claim to, at least. I saw little of Mithra, but I took full advantage of His protection.”
“You found what you wanted?” Merit asked.
“I found what I needed, what I still I need. Ott was only the excuse I had long sought. The last shove that sent me toppling over the edge. I did not want to leave my daughters, but I could not take you with me. You belonged to the king. If I’d left with you and your sister, Arko would have chased after me. It was the only way out, I’m…”
“Don’t apologize,” said Merit. “I’ve never done it, so I can hardly expect you to do it either. After all, I am your daughter, and I’ve committed my share of sins. I’m sure you’re aware of them.”
The distant sound of breaking wood reverberated throughout the room. The mob had entered the tower, and their footsteps beat against the stair. Merit eyed the heavy wooden door. “There must be some way out of this place,” she said, voice trembling. “Why else would you bring me here? Why not hide in the limitless depths of the palace?”
Sarra nodded, but her eyes were mournful, her face paler than usual. She did not speak.
The door rattled.
“We should go,” said Sarra, almost absently, as if death did not wait beyond that barrier.
They ascended a set of stairs, feet shuffling over sand-covered winders. They entered a chamber and the men of the Kiltet closed the door, the wood sealing shut with a whisper, the bolt sliding home with a thud, the sound of footsteps chasing Sarra, the crowd howling at her back.