He did not take orders from the Mother Priestess. She could no longer tell him what to do, just as he could no longer tell her what to do. When she had first ridden into the Antechamber yard, on the day she returned to Solus, when he had seen her from behind the veiled window, he wondered how this encounter would play out. Was there some way to repair the damage done to their marriage? He knew there wasn’t, but hope was a hard thing to bury.
She yanked her robe free of his grip. The archers were still poised, his hand still raised, ready to give the signal. He could take her life, just as he would soon take Saad’s, but he didn’t. Arko didn’t have the heart. He would protect Ren from her; he was the Ray of the Sun now, infinite power in his grasp. And Sarra was still his wife—in name only, perhaps—but they had shared a bed, and children. She had left him to save her child, his child as well. If she had only told him the truth about the boy, if she had shared her worries with him and revealed the true nature of their son, perhaps they could have avoided all of this, but that was not what happened.
So he let her go. “Leave,” he told her.
He needed all his wits to deal with the Protector, who was even now making his way through the ranks, approaching from the far side of the corridor. Arko’s hand dropped to his side and Sarra fled, not looking back, scampered away like a child.
The last he saw of her was a shock of red hair vanishing behind the amber mail of the Alehkar, a red sun ground into a sea of yellow. He watched her leave, remembering that bit of red with more attention than it deserved. He had never wanted to marry her, had never had any need for the marriage or the responsibilities their union demanded. When he was young, no older than Ren, he had found the one he loved. Serena. He’d wanted to spend a lifetime with her, but Suten had other plans for him. And now those plans had led him here, to the Antechamber.
Arko searched for Sarra, but she was gone.
He looked past the lines of the soldiers to the city beyond and wondered if Sarra’s son was in the capital, if she kept him close. Her family. Renott. Who was the deformed boy? Some priest, he guessed. He did not care that the child was deformed. He was Arko’s blood, his son and heir to the kingdom. He would never have given the child to the desert. She didn’t know him. She never knew him. That was why she had finally left him. It wasn’t because of Serena after all, the one he loved—no, Sarra had suffered his mistress, she had stayed for all those years and tried to look the other way, tried to be a queen. She had left him to save her son. She must have hidden the boy on the day of his birth. Perhaps she had wanted to have a family of her own, a boy who was hers alone. He didn’t know. He might never know.
At least his boy, Ren, was safe. He would find a way to the throne. Arko was certain of it. It warmed his heart to know that the boy survived, that some piece of the woman he loved persisted in the world. Arko took the white stone from his neck and rubbed the smooth surface. He traced the six letters with his thumb. Serena.
With a wave he motioned for the archers concealed in the ceiling and walls to stand ready. He hadn’t had much time to position his assassins—the men Wat had brought to him—but he had done his best with the hours he had. The Antechamber, he found, was equipped with a number of hidden chambers designed for defense. Wat said the Ray required no protection, he was the mouth of the god and no one would dare assault him. Arko chortled at the notion. Clearly his predecessors had found the need to fortify their chambers and had done so to Arko’s benefit.
A host of assassins hid at the far end of the corridor, and there were more stowed away in the closets of the Antechamber. Arko would not go easily. He had prepared for this moment, had guessed it was coming. He had done his best to arm himself, but he lacked Saad’s resources. Arko needed his men, the five hundred well-trained Harkans. He took a long drink and waited in the doorway of the Antechamber, his eyes blazing as the Alehkar assembled in the corridor.
A boy entered from a side door, one of Wat’s messengers.
“Where are my men?” he demanded before the boy could speak.
“Approaching the city gates.”
“Get them in here!” he said, searching for the sword Wat had given him. He found it on the desk.
The messenger left and Arko stood alone in the Antechamber, the room unexpectedly filling up with quiet. The soldiers in the corridor had stopped their stomping. In the distance, Saad pushed past his men.
Arko picked up the sword and felt its balance, which was evenly distributed between hilt and blade but a bit lighter than he was used to. He would have preferred his own sword, which was heavier, sturdier, and had seen him through many fights, but he had left that one at the Ruined Wall in Harwen the day the Protector’s men had come for him—he had given it up, thinking he would not need it any longer. How wrong he had been.
He raised the sword up and slashed the air. This blade would have to do.
Arko stepped through the Antechamber’s open doors. Facing Saad’s soldiers, he shaded his eyes and searched the horizon for the soldiers from Harkana. Where are my men? The gates were too far, though, the city too dense. Hurry. He looked in the direction of the unseen outer gate, past the Temple of Mithra where the tall columns shaded the dark interior, the secret goings-on of the priesthood.
She knows the emperor is a lie. Sarra’s questions had made clear her knowledge of the matter. How she had found out, he wasn’t certain. Sarra was clever though and it did not surprise him that she had uncovered the truth behind the empire. Had she known all along and simply chosen this moment to make her move? Or had she come to him to test some theory she held? Either way, she was using this knowledge against her husband, and using it well. Before his congress with Sarra, Wat had told him that she had requested an audience with Saad; the two were clearly working in tandem.
Dammit, where are my men? He searched, but could not see them.
Arko rubbed the gem on his forehead and longed for a drink. He wished he were not the Ray of the Sun. He wished he were back in the Shambles with a full wineskin and an entire afternoon to do nothing but hunt and burn the back of his neck in the heat of the noonday sun.
Footsteps down the hall, the clank of iron. At last, Saad had arrived fully armed, his bronze breastplate gleaming, his hair full of pomade, a pair of swords at his belt and his mouth set in a line of wry, amused arrogance. He was followed by five generals.
Arko looked past Saad to the long view of the city, the great walls, the vast labyrinth of the Solus, wondering if the Harkans were already too late.