Serena Dahl.
Serena had been sent to Harkana with her father, Arko’s tutor. He had known the girl since childhood.
When she married him, Arko had promised Sarra that it was nothing but a childhood crush, a young man’s folly, that it had ended long ago. He had pledged his trust to her, promised his love, but he had lied. He had loved Serena all along, loved her before and after Sarra.
“If you were as smart as you thought you were,” Arko thundered, striking the arm of the chair now, the white stone falling out from his robe, “you wouldn’t have asked me about her in the first place. Other wives learn to look the other way, Sarra. My own mother did it. Why couldn’t you? Why did you always have to push, and push, and make yourself miserable, and make the children miserable, not to mention me?”
“Because I had a little respect for myself,” she murmured. Her vision narrowed down to a single cold, dark tunnel, with Arko at the end of it. “Because looking the other way is for cowards and fools, and I am neither. I always knew the truth when it came to you. I wanted you to know that I knew. And that I was glad, I was glad when she died.”
The whore had died in childbirth.
Arko had as good as killed her.
He approached as if to strike her, but stopped short.
Sarra gathered her white robe, but did not move. She would not shrink from his attack. She was no longer the silly girl from the southern islands, not his to correct or challenge, but a person who came to him now with her own power, her own worth. “You might learn to be a better liar in your new position,” she said. “I wouldn’t want the emperor to find out how badly you’re keeping his secrets.”
“Unlike you, is that what you mean?” he asked. “You trade in secrets. Tell me, has that worked out well for you, Sarra? You’ve lost your children, your family. They hate you—Merit, Kepi, Ren.”
Sarra’s eyes blazed. In the courtyard outside, she heard the Alehkar give a shout and stomp their feet; Saad was here. Arko’s death was approaching and she was glad. These would be their last moments together. She readied herself. Let him have the truth now, the whole truth. Let him choke on it. “The boy who lives in the Priory was never our son! You think I’d let my only son rot in that prison? Maybe you could live with it, but I couldn’t.”
“My gods, Sarra, what have you done?” Arko gasped. “Who is he, then?”
“Who do you think he is?” she sneered.
Serena, dead on the floor. The bloody bier. The other child. A boy, born the same week as her own. A handsome little boy, perfect in every way, with Serena’s big eyes, and his father’s handsome profile, so unlike her own broken son, her own, beautiful but eccentric boy. She told Arko about him now. “I knew you could never accept him, the way he was.” Arko Hark-Wadi could never love the boy with the withered arm. He would have let the desert take him; that was their way. If you could not survive, you were given back to the gods. That was what Harkans did to boys like Ott. Renott Hark-Wadi. The true heir of Harkana. Who grew up in love and seclusion, in safety in her priesthood, while Serena’s son starved in the Priory.
Her most exquisite revenge on the two who had wronged her most.
Bronze-heeled sandals echoed in the corridor outside the Ray’s chamber.
Saad was coming.
“Serena’s boy…” Arko said, falling to his knees, ignoring the men in the corridor. “They told me he was dead. That he was born dead. That he died with her.”
“They lied to you.” Sarra smiled, the soldiers approaching. “It was always so easy to lie to you, Arko.”
“My son…”
“Your bastard!” She hissed, the shouts of the soldiers in the corridor growing louder. “Let him rot in the Priory. Let them break him, let him starve … let him burn beneath the sun. For all you know, he is already dead.” The soldiers formed ranks outside the Antechamber.
To her surprise, Arko began to laugh. He walked toward her, his shoulders shaking, his face red, but his eyes bright with triumph. “You never knew me, Sarra. I would never have given our son to the desert. I have no interest in those brutal traditions. I would have loved our broken boy. You were wrong. You should have trusted me, but it matters not. Serena’s son lives,” he whispered. “Suten freed him from the Priory. He came home to me and I named him my heir. Ren, my Ren, lives and has taken the Elden Hunt. You have lost, my love. Serena’s son will be king of Harkana.”
56
The Alehkar ground their spears into the stones, crowding into jumbled ranks outside the Antechamber of the Ray. The assembled soldiers were so densely grouped that Arko could not see the far side of the corridor or the stair beyond. He saw only their bronze chest plates, embossed with the fiery circle of the sun, etched with prayers and gleaming in the midday light.
Sarra took a careful step backward, as if his words had struck her down. She stumbled toward the soldiers, the white of her robes absorbing the amber glow of their armor. Arko savored his victory. Ren was the son of Serena; his boy lived. Serena’s son. Our son.
I’ll make certain Ren becomes king. No one must know he is a bastard. Arko followed Sarra out of the Antechamber, picking up the pace. She was trying to leave, but he would not let her. His fingers held the sleeve of her robe.
“Let go of me!” she snarled, pushing into the ranks of the Alehkar.
Arko tightened his grip around her robe. “You’re not leaving—not until I command it.” He raised a hand. Above him, wind whistled through gaps in the stones. Behind those holes, his men waited, bowstrings taut, ready to loose their arrows. Sarra must have seen the gesture and known what was coming next. “Do it if you must,” she threatened, daring him to end her life.
Arko tightened his hold on her robe, ripping the fabric. Could he do this? Could he end the life of the woman who bore his children and who was once queen of his kingdom? He should. She knew that Ren was a bastard.
“Well?” she asked, daring him once more. “End this or release me.” Her words were cold, her voice flat.
Arko kept his hold on her.