“I accept.”
There was clapping in the chamber, a sigh of relief, the crowd exhaling. Merit relaxed on the throne and the Harkan soldiers slackened their hold on their spears as Dagrun’s men shook off their scowls. Everyone seemed relieved, except for Kepi who had not yet finished.
“I accept your proposal,” she repeated. “Yet I regret that I am still in mourning for my dear dead husband. Every day I see his face before me and weep for his loss. No other man will ever supplant his place in my heart, at least not for a time. It would not be fair to you, my brother-king, to accept your love when my heart still belongs to another,” she lied.
Dagrun’s eyes flicked in Merit’s direction, but Merit’s face revealed nothing, no surprise, no dismay, though Kepi knew she was burning within.
“Though I do accept your offer of marriage, as per tradition, I must wait until more time has passed. I must mourn for seven years, as is Feren custom,” she said, her eyes downcast. The old laws of Feren allowed a widow to mourn for seven years before she wedded a new husband. Kepi had accepted his proposal, yet denied it.
Dagrun’s eyes grew dark. Dangerous, the way Roghan’s had as he watched her on their wedding night. Such a tiny thing. Like a little girl, still. That was what he had said to her before he pushed her facedown onto the table. Kepi resisted the urge to step back. Hold your ground.
Dagrun took a step forward. The sword was still in his hand. He raised the blade, wiped the blood from the edge, and sheathed it. The hilt gave a loud ring when he jabbed it against the scabbard. “I will leave you to your grief.”
“I grieve for Roghan every day,” Kepi said, smiling faintly. Roghan had been a miserable husband, but his name sounded sweet on her tongue when she spoke it just then. She may not have bested Dagrun in the arena, but she had no doubt taken the upper hand in the throne room.
Go, Kepi thought, watching Dagrun leave. Go and don’t come back. But when she gazed up at her sister on the Horned Throne, Merit’s eyes flashed angrily at her and Kepi knew she had only delayed the inevitable.
8
A low moan drifted down the spiral stairwell of the Protector’s Tower as Sarra Amunet, the Mother Priestess, cocked her head at the sound. “Come, follow me. Those cries are meant to intimidate lesser men,” she said as she climbed up the steps, Ott and Khai following close behind her. In truth, Sarra had felt a stab of intimidation when she heard the first cry, but she didn’t want her priests to know she was afraid.
The spiral treads of the tower were deep, rounded at the edge and steeply angled, designed so that a chariot could drive from the base of the tower to its summit without stopping. Or perhaps the long, twisting steps were designed to delay a guest’s arrival? Even a horse-drawn chariot would be forced to move slowly over the uneven ramps. Amen Saad, the Father Protector, must have been aware of this, as he had left the doors open at the top of the tower. Sobs rang from the doorway, followed by the crack of a whip. The cries increased in frequency as they neared the top. Khai covered his ears while Sarra fixed her gaze on the tower’s slitlike windows. She was watching the crowds, looking for the sun, making certain she would not arrive too late. She was weary from the long walk through the city, and the climb only made her more tired. There must be thousands of steps in this tower. It’s a wonder anyone visits the Protector. If her life did not depend upon what happened next, she swore she might have turned around and given up.
From somewhere above, there was a sharp word, and the sobbing ceased.
Good, I’m tired of listening to it, she thought.
Outside, a horn blasted. The raucous cheers of the crowd filled the stairs: the sound of the people awaiting the eclipse, the end of the year. Awaiting Mithra’s blessing on all of them—man, woman, child, on the crops and the rain, on the emperor himself, to whom the sun would bow. If I were them, I wouldn’t hold my breath.
At the top of the stairs Sarra stepped through the gates without announcing herself, but her arrival had been anticipated: Amen Saad sat facing the door, a hand on a knee, his face screwed into a challenging glare. There was a partridge on a bronze plate before him, while behind him, in a separate chamber, a prisoner hung from manacles. The captive man wore no clothing and his chest was colorful with whip marks and bruises. A man dressed in the black robes of a torturer drew long cuts across the prisoner’s chest. Sarra hardened her gaze; she would show no discomfort. The room was full of the prisoner’s muffled cries, and Saad merely continued to eat his midday meal, ripping the wing from the bird with delight. The Protector waved his hand and the torturer ceased his interrogation.
At last, some quiet, thought Sarra as she laid eyes on the new Protector for the first time. Grease covered his fingers and he chewed with his mouth half-open, a sliver of onion wedged between his teeth. This boy thinks himself worthy of the Ray’s seat? Sarra chafed at the notion.
“Welcome to the citadel,” said Saad, gesturing with his knife. He was stout, roughly bearded, and shiny with perspiration. Not yet twenty, Saad retained the temperament of a boy, wrathful and impatient. He wore the pristine armor of his father, the former Protector. Not yet tailored to fit him, the plackart hung crooked on his chest, and it ground against the rest of his armor whenever he moved.
It was said that no man would dare strike the Protector, but Saad did not look like a boy who had never felt the sting of a blade. A bold scar split his face in half, stretching from forehead to cheek. The cut, carved into the young man’s face when he was only a boy, was rumored to be nothing less than the work of his father. Pain makes the man, thought Sarra. No wonder Saad killed him.
Sarra removed her gray cloak to reveal the white robe of the Mother Priestess. “I was hoping to surprise you, but your soldiers spied me on the temple steps—did they not?” She guessed his men had watched her at the temple, followed her through the city, then rushed ahead to warn him of her arrival. The soldiers who murdered her priest had followed her here.
“My men are everywhere.” Saad did little to conceal his grin. “You, on the other hand … isn’t there somewhere you should be? On the wall, awaiting the Devouring?” Saad asked, eating as he spoke. “To partake in the blessings of our precious god? It is through your hand that the blessing of the sun is passed on to the emperor, is it not? Or do you not wish to bless the empire this year?” he asked, amused. Sarra wondered if he would ask her about the dead priest.