“Why did you follow me?” she asked aloud, but the bird paid her no attention.
Now a gang of slaves scrubbing the post wall with knotted brushes of blackthorn twine paused when the great gray bird alighted on the wall. They dipped their heads in reverence, falling to one knee and laying down their brushes. What are they doing? She heard a low chant—a prayer, perhaps? She knew the bird was worshipped here, but she had not witnessed the practice. The chants were low and sonorous, spoken in a language she could not understand.
A Feren soldier approached the worshippers, knocking his spear on the wall, but the kneeling slaves did not move. When the guard lifted his eyes and saw the kite, he lowered his weapon and allowed the slaves to continue their silent worship. Then he too seemed to whisper, his mouth moving as if in prayer. Dalla had told her that in Feren legend the kite cried a great song, the Dawn Chorus, to announce the reign of a new king. It’s a song like your wedding hymn, the girl had said, but deeper, and louder. They say the song is the voice of Llyr, of the forest.
Kepi retreated down the steps and across the wet grass, followed by the kite, who flew off the post wall and circled. Kepi was clearly not its prey, nor was it truly following her. She sensed the creature was watching, waiting—but for what?
She held out her hand once more.
The kite studied her. In its black eyes she saw an almost human intelligence, something older and wiser than anything she knew. She wanted to understand why it followed her, but the creature let forth a piercing cry and flew off, beating its wings until it disappeared above the trees.
When she went back inside and opened the door to her room, Dagrun was there, sitting across from the entry, his eyes fixed on the door, his expression hollow. “Where were you?” he asked. “I had my boys looking all over the caer for you. I was worried.”
“I was outside,” she said. “In the yard. Just getting a little air.” She came closer. “Is she gone?” Kepi asked, referring to her sister.
“She’ll depart in the morning.” He took a step toward Kepi. “She … has no further business in our kingdom.” His words were awkward, but she understood his meaning: Dagrun was done with Merit; their alliance was finished.
Kepi advanced, her head shaking. “Thank you … for paying her ransom.”
He nodded.
“And thank you for sending her away,” she said boldly.
“I will have no further contact with Merit … and all of Harkana for that matter. Feren is retreating from the lower kingdoms. We will shelter behind the Rift valley and wait out the conflict. It is what we have always done, and will do again. If you want to leave, this is your chance. You can ride out with your sister, her husband, and their entourage.”
Kepi considered his offer but even before he had finished speaking she knew her answer. She moved closer to him, expecting him to touch her somehow, embrace her, to draw her close as he had done that first night, but Dagrun waited, his eyes hungry but patient. “You are my husband,” she said, her voice knowing. “I’m not going anywhere.” She wrapped a hand around his back. Her fear was gone, her anger too. She was done waiting and worrying, tired of keeping those she loved at arm’s length. The warmth of his body pressed against hers and she knew in that instant that Roghan, her first husband, had kept her from loving a man, kept her from trusting a man, a good man. Seth was a boy, a foolish, childish infatuation. A pebble in the ocean of her feeling for Dagrun. Her husband. The king of the Ferens.
Dagrun was so close now. She could feel his breathing, heavy and thick. He grabbed handfuls of her hair, and he pulled her head back, pressing his mouth to hers, the door slamming shut as he laid her on the bed.
55
It was not quite midday when Sarra Amunet rode into the stony courtyard below the Ray’s Antechamber, the bronze veil glinting as it had on the day she returned to Solus. Arko’s shadow was absent this time, but she knew he waited within the chamber, or nearby. Her husband had accepted her request for an audience with an almost desperate haste. He’s all alone in Solus. She guessed he had no allies in the city of the Soleri.
A soldier strode past Sarra, then another, their bronze armor clanking as they marched. Saad’s soldiers were packing the courtyard, stamping their feet where the priests and viziers had once congregated for the naming ceremony. Two times twenty men assembled in the court and more stood in the distance, waiting out of sight.
Saad was moving quickly. Good.
She rode past the soldiers, past the lines of shining armor. She left her horse with the groom and climbed the Antechamber stair. Say the words and go. She interwove her fingers, forcing them not to fidget. Tell him the truth and be done with it.
Up ahead, the bronze doors stood open. Suten’s desk waited in the vacant Antechamber, looking emptier than it had when she’d last met the man. She recalled his decaying corpse in the throne room and how she had left it there. Sarra crossed the threshold, the amber windows catching her attention.
“Trying to catch a glimpse of Tolemy?” A door opened, a puff of air hitting her face. Sarra prickled. Her husband stood so close she could feel the heat coming off him in waves.
“No.” She retreated, taking a moment to observe the man who had once been her husband.
Ten years ago, on the day she left, when she found him asleep in their bedchamber with his mistress draped over him, he’d had the same rough, handsome features, his neck thick as a bull’s, his shoulders broad enough to hold up the moon. Maybe he was grayer now, more grizzled, his face more lined, but otherwise he was the same, and she felt the same drop in her stomach when she stood now in front of him, the same hope. Don’t do this to yourself, she thought. Remember why you’re here.
Arko strode past her, not looking twice. His servant, Wat, followed. She noticed that Arko had forgone the golden robe that signified his power, his position—a mistake, she thought. He looked more like a common soldier, dirtier perhaps.
“So you survived the riots? You were torn from the wall, but escaped without harm?” The question caught her off guard. She was accustomed to formalities—the recitation of titles, ceremonial nods and genuflections. Sarra had forgotten the frankness of the men of the lower kingdoms.
“Were you even in Solus on the last day of the year?” He gave a sideways glance, but she resisted the urge to return it.
She smiled thinly. “The Mother stood on the wall,” she said, glancing at Wat.
Arko gestured to Wat, and Suten’s old adviser stepped from the chamber. She waited until the door closed before she spoke. “How have you fared in Solus?” she asked.