“We have no choice. Saad put a corpse in our temple.”
“He is under great stress, and not all of it is of his own making,” said Ott. He was referring to the recent insurrection. A captain in the army had led a revolt against his general. Two weeks prior, the rebel, Haren Barca, had murdered half of the soldiers in the Outer Guard before stealing away to the southern islands. The Gate of Coronel, the southern gate of the Dromus, stood open to the sea, and raiders from the Wyrre were pouring through the doors. It was Saad’s duty to pursue the rebel and retake the gates, but he had not yet gone after Barca.
“This is about Saad’s ambitions,” she said. “That is why he has not left Solus, why he is here in the capital playing politics instead of defending the empire. He means to take as much power as he can, moving quickly, before too many complaints can be raised.”
“You think he’s bullying you, trying to get you to step down?” Ott asked.
“He wants me out of the way.”
“So he can attain the Ray’s seat?”
“What else?” she asked. The First Ray of the Sun was the most powerful man in the empire—as the emperor was not a man, after all, but a god. The First Ray was the eyes and ears of the emperor, the only one permitted to pass through the Shroud Wall and stand in the presence of the Soleri. The First Ray of the Sun, Suten Anu, was ailing, and rumors of his impending death or long-standing illness were everywhere. If he named no successor, she was next in line for his seat. Sarra herself had long coveted the post and had campaigned to Suten to make certain he named her as his heir, but he had refused her recent requests for an audience. Suten would not speak to her regarding succession. So she was left to wonder at what would happen next. Sarra and Saad, the Mother and Father, sought the same seat of power, and neither knew who would get it. The title of First Ray was the highest post any mortal could attain. She coveted it above all other things, but the high seat remained always outside of her reach.
The street angled sharply upward, leading them to a wide set of steps. The old city, the Waset, sat thirty steps below the street level of the outer rings. The city of Solus had literally risen around its most ancient temples, growing in height and circumference over the millennia. Pilgrims camped among these ruins, pitching tents beside the Mundus of Ceres, sleeping between the tall statues of the garden of Amen Hen. Hawkers sold trinkets: carved viewing devices for the eclipse, tiny sundials, and weathered charms. A blind man, cursing ominously, predicted doom. Pilgrims chanted while a white-robed priest guided their prayers. He held aloft a copy of The Book of the Last Day of the Year, the tome the Mother Priestess read as the sky turned black. Sarra hoped Garia was well on her way to the Shroud Wall. She pulled her cloak tightly to keep her red hair hidden as she passed the priests.
Step after step carried her up and out of the Waset, Khai close at her side, Ott a few steps behind, the old statues and crumbling temples disappearing behind her as she crested the great stair. Beyond the last step, the calcium-white towers of the White-Wall district rose on all sides. Sarra stepped into the shadow-spotted street. She checked the sun’s angle and hurried onward, past the bronze gates of the city’s highborn families. House gods decorated each entry. Gifts of fresh persimmon wilted in the morning sun.
Up ahead, a call shot through the crowd as a soldier clad in the yellow mantle of the city guard caught a woman’s tunic with the tip of his spear, carving a gash in her shoulder. She screamed and the soldier panicked, and as he spun away the butt of his spear struck a mop-haired boy on the head. The pilgrims pressed in, their arms raised, complaining angrily as they gathered around the yellow cloak.
Sarra felt their anger. If she trusted her discovery, the entire city would soon be filled with rage, but that time had not yet come, Mithra had not yet given the pilgrims cause to rebel. The sun had not yet reached its zenith, but the shadows were shortening, the midday drawing closer.
“Mother,” Ott said.
“I know,” she said. Sarra needed to arrive at the Protector’s Tower in advance of the Devouring.
Farther ahead, the crowd parted as white-robed priests walked by carrying a mighty bier supporting a statue of Mithra-Sol. All eyes were fixed on the golden statue. Mithra’s likeness carried good fortune—all who saw it were blessed by the sun god’s grace.
Khai craned his neck, watching the statue wade through the crowd. Perhaps he is a true believer. It had been years since Sarra had any faith of her own.
A priest stumbled and the bier tipped, as did the statue. Horror darkened the faces of all who witnessed it. The golden statue tilted, but was soon righted before it fell from the platform. Pilgrims gasped, some sunk to their knees. Mithra was saved, a miracle. True believers all. Sarra shook her head. I wonder what will happen to their faith when the Devouring comes.
Everyone was moving in the same direction now, toward the Shroud Wall, pressing shoulder to shoulder, pushing against Sarra and her priests who were the only ones headed away from the wall. Buff-colored stones gave way to black, sand-covered earth. Ash-colored monoliths rose from the sand. A winding track loomed in the distance, a great cylinder wrapped in pillars. Flags whipped in the air and the smell of horse wafted in the breeze. A slender turret poked above the circus.
“The Protector’s Tower,” Khai whispered, looking fearful.
As they made their way around the circus, the tower’s ebony fa?ade was revealed floor by floor, until they reached the field where the turret stood. The carbon-black edifice, the citadel of the Father Protector, was older and stranger than any structure in sight, with a jagged, spindly appearance—like a tooth bent out of place. An arch framed the entry. The names of the vanquished, the conquered tribes and kingdoms of the empire, were carved into its stone. The names were so numerous they covered the entire surface, the words so small they could hardly be read.
Perhaps the name of my fallen priest should be added to the arch. Maybe they’ll add mine after today, thought Sarra.
Almost noontime.
The moon approached the sun.
The crowds raised their heads to the heavens in supplication as Sarra and her priests passed under the black arch, their eyes raised to the sky, their hearts drumming beneath their robes.