“So? I’ve done Tolemy’s bidding, nothing more,” he said, his fingers probing Ott’s eyes, looking as if he might pluck them out.
You do my bidding and no one else’s, thought Sarra as she pushed the door open a little. Saad hurried toward the breach as if anticipating the golden glow of imperial rooms, the voice of a living god, but instead the widening gap held only darkness, a puff of ash. “Stand back,” he told her. “This is my moment, god-child, not yours.”
He released Ott.
She let her hand fall from the door. A shuffling sound penetrated the gap, sandals sweeping through the soot and dust.
She rushed to her son.
Saad’s brow furrowed as priests flitted from the darkness, a cloud of black powder rising at their feet. She had used Mithra’s Door to smuggle a cadre of priests into the throne room. They had each agreed to give their lives to end Saad’s.
The Protector pushed past them, still not realizing what was happening. When both doors opened, he gaped at the burnt chamber, the crushed throne and broken beams. There was no veil, no Tolemy. “What’s this?”
The first hit tore at Saad’s robe, rending the fabric, destroying the costume. As members of the priesthood, Sarra had forbidden the priests to use proper weapons. She had told them to assault Saad with scraps from the burnt throne room. Let him be bludgeoned by the thing he desired, she told them.
Sarra took hold of Ott, her white robe fluttering in the darkness. She took him by the arms, dragging him away from the doors. Too late. Saad spun, coming at her now, dashing through the open doors, his bloody hands raised. He was disoriented, frantic. “This isn’t the throne room—where have you taken me, god-lover? What lie is this?” he asked, clearly confused, angry. He reached for his sword, but the scabbard was empty. He’d been forced to surrender it.
“I don’t need a weapon to wring the truth from you,” he said, crushing her son’s foot with his heel. “Come here, boy.” Saad gripped Ott by the leg and tore him from her hands. He moved to attack, but her priests were on top of him.
“Fools, get your hands off me, I am your lord.” Saad thrust one against a column, leaving a bloody spot where the priest’s head hit the stone. He tore the wood from another and struck him with it. “You should have sent soldiers,” Saad said. He was fighting back, and it seemed for a time that he might triumph, but between each blow he glanced at the chamber, still confused and still gasping at what he saw.
“Gods,” he muttered as her priests came at him with their clubs. “You’re all so bloody eager to die.” He clubbed one priest, then another. Searching for better ground, he retreated to the throne, climbing the steps, tripping over helmets and broken spears, kicking dust and ash into the air. “What is all of this?” he muttered. “What happened here?” he asked as he struck one priest, sending him crashing into another. Cries echoed through the empty chamber, more dust and more ash. Saad stumbled. Blood flowed from the cut on his chest, the place where she hoped her husband had struck him. His amber skin was white, his eyes sunken. The blow dealt by her husband had sucked the life from Saad, but he was not yet ready to fall.
“Finish it,” she commanded. This was taking too long. Sarra worried she had brought too few men.
Her priests came at Saad, clubs swinging. Saad took one man by the neck and tossed him from the platform. Her priest hit the floor with a thud, his neck bent in an unnatural position. “When I’m done clobbering your priests, Mother, I’m coming for you, and I won’t be merciful.” Saad spun, trying to deflect the next blow, but he was too late. The priest hit him once, twice—knocking him against the throne. Saad did not cry out or react, he only stared at the broken chair, his face, at last, a mask of shock.
“What’s this?” he asked. “How is this—”
Sarra understood his confusion. Saad had thought this was all a ruse, a clever deception, but no more. He was gawking at the body of Suten Anu, which lay beside the empty throne. He made no effort to move or to defend himself. The shock was complete. The fight fled from his limbs, chased away by the truth of the empire. He only stared at Suten’s body, pondering the empty throne room, at last realizing where he was and what had happened here.
Her priests did not hesitate.
Hit after hit bent the Protector’s body into an awkward semblance of his former self, an image not unlike a child’s drawing, the lines broken, the features out of order. He crumpled when the next blow bit his skin, and then Amen Saad, Father Protector of the Dromus, finally took a ragged, wet-sounding breath as his body tumbled down the steps, landing not far from where Sarra stood.
She leaned over and met Saad’s eyes, the shock there slowly fading toward death. “There is no emperor,” he said. At last he understood everything.
She stared at him with calm eyes. “No, there is an emperor, Saad. You are looking at her right now,” she said, but Saad gave no reply. He did not breathe. He was gone. Arko was gone. The throne room was quiet.
She had won.
Alone, Sarra looked for her son. “Ott?” she called, but the boy didn’t answer.
59
Ren stepped over bodies, tripped through fallen beams and burnt planks, stumbling down the corridor that led to the Prior Master’s chambers. He had come here alone, leaving the other ransoms behind. I can’t risk their lives, but I can risk my own. I have to find Tye.
Up three flights of steps he climbed, the smoke now thinner, and came upon a bronze door, which he forced open, slipping inside and letting it shut behind him. Inside a roof hatch was open—someone had vented the smoke, leaving the air inside clear. Bright light poured through a window, and he pressed his mouth to it and sucked in fresh air, let it fill his lungs again and again. He stood back to gauge the size of the fire, which stretched from the Shroud Wall out to the Priory, and farther still. Everywhere he looked, there was smoke and flame. The sight left an ill feeling in his stomach. There was something unnatural about the fire, something unwholesome, but he could not place it.
Three doors lined the corridor, the first two open, the rooms empty, littered with old tunics and books, the beds larger and more comfortable than the ones the boys had been used to. This had to be the prior’s quarters, the place where Oren and the others had slept. It had to be.
The third door was just slightly ajar, and through the crack he spied a man rifling through an old trunk, as if looking desperately for something. Ren pushed the door open with his toe, both hands gripping his blade.
The trunk was still open, but the man was gone—until the next moment, when Oren put one gauntleted hand to Ren’s throat and the other on his blade, his black iron-encased fingers closing around Ren’s neck. Oren squeezed the dagger, twisting it from Ren’s grip, the blade clattering to the floor.
For years he had imagined this moment; he had dreamed of taking his revenge on the Prior Master. But now, when the moment had come, when he had approached Oren as a free man, everything had gone wrong. Ren was helpless. No friends at his back. No weapon. Fear wiped his mind clean. He was all adrenaline, kicking at Oren with one foot, driving his knee into the man’s groin, punching with bare fists.
Oren squeezed his neck and knocked his skull against the stone. “Calm down, Hark-Wadi. Stop your fussing, or I’ll crush your bones before your next breath.”
Ren would not yield—better to die now, choked against a wall, than let Oren have time to devise something else. He knocked the Prior Master on the jaw. Another fist to his temple, a knee to his chest. Oren was strong, but still older and slower than Ren, and he had none of his fierceness, his desperation. Ren would claw Oren’s eyes out if the man came close enough.
Oren released his grip, and Ren hit the floor. He slid toward his father’s dagger, twisting his body to grasp the blade. He gripped the knife and leapt to his feet.
“Stop!” cried a new voice—not Oren’s, higher and sweeter, but still familiar. It was Tye. She was bound with manacles, lips swollen, shirt torn, eyes pleading. Oren had a knife at her temple,
a line of blood dribbling down her forehead. Oren held the blade by the pommel, as if he were about to drive it into Tye’s skull as a logger drives a stake into a tree.
“Ren!” Tye cried.
“Your knife,” Oren growled. “Put it down. Or I’ll kill the bitch.”
Ren let the dagger fall and Oren pushed it aside with a kick.
In one swift motion the Prior Master grasped Ren by the tunic, slammed him into the wall, and forced his hand into a manacle. Oren shackled the other hand, then raised the black-iron gauntlet and pressed it to Ren’s stomach, the serrated edges piercing his skin. Pain—sharp and hot. Ren kicked, trying to curl himself up to avoid Oren’s touch.
“Don’t move, boy. Stay still and you’ll save yourself some pain.” Oren eyed the fallen dagger. He appeared to think on it for a moment. “You’re not yet king. Are you? No king’s escort, no Harkan soldiers. You’ve come alone, haven’t you?” Oren kicked the door closed. “Why? Why have you returned? Not just for Tye. She’s a pretty little packet, but hardly worth the effort,” he said, a wicked look in his eye.
“Are you okay?” he asked Tye. “Did he hurt you?” Ren felt his blood boil at the thought.
Tye shook her head. “Is that really you, Ren?” she asked, peering through the hair that hung almost to her nose. “I thought I would never see you again.”
Oren slapped Ren. “Answer the question, boy! Was it your father who called you?”
Ren gave no response; the question made no sense.
Oren asked again, “Was it your father who called you, boy? Did he call you before he met with the Protector?” Ren stared blank-faced at the man. What does my dead father have to do with any of this?
“You don’t know, do you?” Oren asked. “You don’t know your father’s dead.”
“You ass.” Ren kicked wildly, but his old master twisted the gauntlet and Ren froze in a web of pain. He cried out, head slumping. “Of course my father’s dead. He died when he met Tolemy.”
Oren shook his head. “You stupid boy, he died today. Didn’t you know that your father was made Ray of the Sun?”
“No,” Ren said. “You lie.” He spoke the words, but already he knew Oren was telling the truth. Ren remembered the talk among the refugees at the gates of Solus, something about the new Ray and the unrest he was causing. If Oren was telling the truth …
“It’s no lie,” said Oren, confirming what Ren knew. “I wish it was one. Arko’s term was short, but real nonetheless. The fire you see”—he gestured to the windows, to the blaze that raged from the Antechamber to the Priory and beyond—“was lit by the Protector in judgment of the Ray.”
If only I’d made some small inquiry, I might have learned that my father had been made Ray.
Ren understood now why the sight of the smoke had sickened him. He was looking at his father’s death. Angry, he swung at the Prior Master, but the older man’s reach far exceeded his own and Ren’s fist met only the air. He kicked with both feet, but Oren’s grip held, the black gauntlet tearing Ren’s skin. Ribbons of flesh pulled from his chest, and he quit struggling. Not now. Not like this. I won’t die at Oren’s hand.
Oren grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head back. “I want to tell you something before you die.”
“There’s nothing you can tell me.” Ren spat in his face.
“Didn’t you wonder why I singled you out? Why I sent you to the sun? Why I let you take Tye’s place? No boy was ever sent there for a minor infraction—except you.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes. you do. Again and again it was you who suffered, but it wasn’t your fault. It was your mother’s.”
“What?”
“Sarra Amunet, your mother. She was the one who came to me.”
“Fuck you,” Ren spat. “I have no interest in the Mother Priestess.”
“You’re lying,” Oren said, a smirk on his face. “I see it in your eyes. You want to know the truth and so I’ll tell it to you: Your mother came to me year after year and paid me to make certain that you never slept, never found peace, that you were broken and would never take the throne of Harkana. I accepted her coin, but I would have done it without the crescents.”
Even as he spoke, Ren tried to ignore Oren. He’s a liar, thought Ren, but somewhere deep down in his gut he knew the words rang true.
The Prior Master released his grip and Ren’s head fell, his eyes closing, the pain seething in his chest.
His mother had wanted him dead, had wanted him tortured, had wanted him abused, had set Thrako upon him.
My own mother. No, he corrected himself, she’s not my mother, and Merit’s not my sister. Neither had proven themselves worthy of those titles.
Darkness. Dull thumping. Was it his heartbeat, was it fading?
Then—voices, a banging sound, like a door opening, or else it was his own brain pounding inside his skull.
There were more voices, young voices, crying out. Stop, stop!
He opened his eyes to see Oren pinned against the big wooden desk, held down by Adin and Kollen as one after another the survivors of the Priory flooded into the little chamber, carrying burning sticks and sacks of smoking embers, practice swords, and wooden maces. One by one they took turns flailing at their old master: first Adin, then Carr, then Kollen, and the rest. They smashed Oren’s head, beat his belly, broke his arm, and set his clothes on fire.
Someone lifted Ren. The manacles came undone. Hands steadied him, weak arms made strong by their desire to save a friend. Adin was standing with Tye, struggling with her chains. It was Ren who freed her, catching her right hand as it came free of the first manacle, her left as it fell from the second. Tye collapsed on him, her frail shoulders falling on his broad ones, her heart beating against his. Ren could not recall embracing her, or even feeling her touch. A warm shiver coursed through his chest. He held her for a heartbeat, maybe two, as the others fled the fire and the chamber.
It was time to go, to be free of the Priory, of everything it was or could be.
He waited while the ransoms fled, watching each one go. When the last one was gone, he paused at the doorway, Adin at his side, Tye still gripping his shoulder. He glanced at the desk, the manacles, his eyes drawn at last toward the body of Oren Thrako.
It was still moving.
They watched in disbelief as Oren lifted his trembling body from the floor, slowly righting himself, straightening his back and lifting his head, flames dancing on his chest, blood caked on his face. Stumbling toward them, his broken arm hanging limp, he grasped Ren’s tunic, pulling him from Tye’s arms. She fell to her knees, too weak to move. Adin was dumbfounded. Only Ren reacted, he struck Oren on the jaw, striking bones that were already broken, flesh that was already seared and blistering. The Prior Master cried out in pain, but he would not yield. He struck Ren on the mouth. The blow rattled his teeth and Ren stumbled backward.
Where is my knife? Ren cast about for his blade, saw it amid the embers. It was too far to reach, so he pointed and Adin went for the knife. In that same moment, Oren slammed into Ren with all of his weight, throwing him against the wall.
“There’re three of you and you still can’t kill me, Hark-Wadi. You’re no king.”
“What do you know?” Ren asked, ignoring Oren, searching for Adin. Where’s the knife? He stretched out his fingers, waiting for Adin to place the dagger in his hand.
“The Harkans sing about their triumphs, but what have they done?” Oren continued. “Where is their greatness? Arko was a drunk. Koren was a drunk. What will you be? Another drunk? If the Harkans are so strong, why don’t they fight?” he sputtered, the flames spreading between them, blood dribbling from Oren’s lips, a broken tooth wiggling in his gums.
Ren felt the slap of the dagger hitting his palm; he gripped the haft.
“I don’t care about any of those bastards,” he said. “I never knew them; they never knew me.” Ren drove the blade at Oren’s chest, but the older man caught it. The knife twisted between th
em, cutting Ren, but not deeply. Adin wrapped his fingers around Oren’s. The knife trembled, the three of them gripping the iron, their fingers slick with perspiration as each struggled for dominance. A push, a shove, and the blade clattered to the floor. Oren kicked the dagger into the flames.
What now? Ren thought. Then he remembered that he had another weapon, one he had never used. It wasn’t a blade, but it would do the job just the same. In a flash, he reached over his shoulder and unslung the eld horn. He jabbed the pointed end at Oren. The Prior Master resisted, his fingers gripped the antler and arrested its progress. The eld horn trembled, suspended a hair’s width from Oren’s chest, the tip advancing by slow degrees. Adin’s fingers wrapped Ren’s and the two of them thrust the gnarled tip of the horn at the older man. Oren flailed, but he could not distract them or weaken their hold. Their grip was iron; neither would relent. Oren kicked, he threw his bald head at them, but the boys wouldn’t budge and the horn bit into the Prior Master’s skin, piercing his robe and plunging into his chest. Oren’s mouth opened in shock. He convulsed, his eyes closing, a hushed cry escaping his lips as he fell to the floor, motionless. The kingsword had had its first taste of blood.
“He’s gone,” said Ren as he slung the horn over his shoulder and retrieved his father’s knife.
“Dead at last,” said Adin.
Another dead man in a city of dead men.
“Ren, help me,” said a voice. It was Tye. He helped her stand.
“We’re free,” she said. “All of us, free at last.” It was true.
Backing away from the fallen body, Adin at his side, Ren heaved a joyous breath, holding Tye for a heartbeat, meeting her eyes, a realization spreading between them: It was over. Oren was gone and the Priory was burnt, destroyed. The city itself was aflame. He was done with Solus, done at last with the Priory. It was time for Ren to return to Harkana. Time for the ransoms to come into their inheritance.
Ren gripped the door and swung it closed, hurried through the passage, out into the Hollows, through the darkness below the city, and into the light and safety above.
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