“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 them, 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.
60