Saad tugged the robe over his head, the blood from his chest seeping through the fabric. Without looking at her, he stepped into the Hall of Emperors. Ott at his back, Saad perused the imperial statues, whispering the name and title of each as he passed: Kantafre, beloved of Mithra, heir of Atum, chosen by Bes and Horu, he who united the inner and outer rings, enduring of life and strong of heart. Osokohn, beloved of Mithra, son of earth and sky, chosen by Sen and Makht, he who laid the stones of the Dromus, enduring of years and firm of mind.
She could feel his ego growing with every word and every footstep, the power entering his every gesture. The man stank of victory. No—this is my hall, my throne. Soon you’ll be dead and forgotten. Mithra spared me from the rioters so that I could serve the line of Tolemy. That’s what the people will think. She would replace the old lies with new ones. She would tell Solus that Saad set the blaze without Tolemy’s consent, that he murdered the Ray of the Sun then perished when he stood beneath Tolemy’s light, that the emperor had endorsed Sarra as his First Ray. All that stands in my way is you, Saad.
“This is it?” he asked, and she realized he had reached the end of the corridor. Statues of the Soleri flanked the door. A circle crowned their heads, a plaque adorned the pedestal. It read MAY YOU SHARE THE SUN’S FATE. Sarra smirked at that, doubting Saad would rise again after today.
“This is it.” Sarra put her hand on the amber panel. “Beyond this door is the great veil of the emperor. He will speak to you through the screen, but you will not see his face. To see the emperor is to see the sun, and no one can survive that light.”
“Open it,” said Saad impatiently, a drop of sweat dribbling down his cheek. He drew Ott to his side, holding the boy by the neck, keeping him close, as if the boy could somehow protect him. Saad was nervous, trembling, but she could not tell if it was the unknown he feared or the emperor himself. Either way, the boy was at the edge of his wits. He looked as if he might snap Ott’s neck just to ease his nerves.
“Do it. Stop stalling, Mother. Stop playing games. This one is done.”
You are more right than you guess, thought Sarra, but she held her tongue as she opened the door a crack, watching him peer inside. He wanted so much to know the secrets of the empire. Go on, she thought. Have a look. She waited until he was almost at the crack. Now is the time.
She faced him, unafraid at last, “Did you know that word has already spread through the capital that the Protector assassinated the Ray of the Sun, mouth of our Lord Emperor and God, and set fire to half the Waset in the process?”
“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.