“I see, but how will we escape?”
“I have a carriage in the stables of the Ata’Sol,” Sarra said, slowing her descent to allow Ott to catch up to them. If we make it to the stables. She hadn’t had much time to prepare their flight from the city.
At the base of the Protector’s Tower, soldiers guarded the gates. A captain of the Alehkar, the Protector’s sworn men, addressed Sarra, “Lord Saad commands us to provide escort, to keep you safe, Mother.”
Sarra did not want an escort; she had donned her gray robe and planned once more to hide among the pilgrims, to blend into the crowd. She feared the soldiers would draw undue attention or, worse, turn their swords against her and her priests, but she had no way to stop the men.
“Go,” she said. “Lead the way if you must.”
The Alehkar, shields strapped to their arms, spears tilted at the mob, plunged into the crowded streets. Around them, smoke hung in the air, pierced by shouts from all directions. Fear colored the faces of everyone—the Alehkar, the city guard, the pilgrims—as they clashed in the alleys and arcades, in the wide plazas and columned halls. I’ve escaped Saad, but now I must survive the people.
“Mother, the way is not safe,” said Khai.
“Would you rather we stayed in the tower?” she asked. “Nowhere is safe in Solus today.”
It was true. Everywhere, pilgrims scuttled through the streets, some looting, others simply trying to escape but not knowing where to go. Sarra shouldered through the crowd, shadowing the soldiers, holding her priests close, keeping her eyes on the ground, trying not to trip.
Up ahead, the great circus was ablaze and the soldiers had to reverse course to avoid the smoke. They stumbled upon the stairs of the Waset. The stones were slick with oil and wine, the air thick with smoke. She held her robe to her mouth as she elbowed down the steps, Ott at her side, the boy tripping behind them.
“Mother, we should go,” said Khai.
“Where?” she asked. There was nowhere else to go.
The steps were abruptly blocked. Sarra crashed into the soldiers’ backs. The Alehkar had come up against a wall of angry protesters and were fighting their way through the crowd. Pilgrim after pilgrim fell to the stones, cut down by the soldiers’ spears, skewered like cattle, their bodies lying in heaps. All around her, angry faces pressed in, pressed closer, shoulders jostling her from all sides. The crowd surged; it swarmed so closely around them that the Alehkar could not wield their spears.
“We should away,” said Sarra as she seized Ott’s robe and drew him close, tumbling backward and nearly falling over Khai. It was time to abandon their escort. She had only to detach herself from the Alehkar, to disappear into crowd before—
The gray homespun cloth fell from Khai’s shoulders, revealing the boy’s priestly attire: a flawless white robe, bright and glistening.
“Help!” he called to the soldiers, to Sarra, as the crowds descended upon the boy, snatching at his hood, grabbing at his hair and his face. “Mother!” His gaze caught hers; his eyes begged Sarra to save him.
“Guards! Attend to the boy,” she shouted, but it was too late. The crowd had Khai—they had her soldiers too. The rioters gathered around Sarra. Hands pawed at her robe, tearing the fabric. In a moment she would be uncovered, but she held her ground, crying out to the captain of the Alehkar, ordering him to protect the boy. Her caftan tore, but it was not the crowd that pulled at her robe, it was Ott. He was dragging her away.
“The temple, it’s not far,” Ott cried out, his words barely audible against the clamor of the crowd. Sarra resisted. She called to the soldiers; she shoved at the rioting pilgrims. She stayed until the last of the Alehkar were swallowed up into the crowd, until she could no longer see Khai. She would not turn away, so Ott dragged her away, mumbling to himself as he led her down the steps, toward the Ata’Sol.
Ott stopped just shy of the temple yard.
“Gods, what now?” Sarra asked.
“The way is blocked,” he shouted above the din of the crowd. Indeed, the space outside the temple of Mithra seethed with soldiers and rioters. It crawled with pilgrims wielding clubs and broken pottery, soldiers hurling spears and arrows.
Sarra motioned toward a narrow back street the rioters had not yet discovered.
“We’ll use the stable entry, around the side.” Sarra led them along a wall, down the narrow street, and into a yard, the cries of the boy still ringing in her ears, the image of Garia’s torn robe and bare skin flashing in her head.
Up ahead, a wide archway sheltered a golden door. It opened as she approached, and the priests inside motioned for her to enter. Sarra glanced once more at the crowd of rioters. She thought she saw Khai or some bit of his robe, but the flash of white was nothing more than the sun glinting off a soldier’s spear. The city was a cyclone of smoke and arrows and fluttering robes. He’s gone. Dead like the priest on my temple steps.
Nervously, a priest ushered Sarra through the entry. Ott followed, the doors sealing behind them, the roar of the crowd fading.
The carriage was not far.
They hurried through passages deep beneath the ground, not pausing, not even lingering to catch their breath. Passing through the great wooden doors, they came upon the stables where a carriage waited, the horses watered and ready. Sarra thanked the groom as she slid into the coach, the door slamming shut as Ott sat across from her.
A moment later, a whip cracked, and then they were bolting, fleeing Solus until the burning city was an effigy in the distance.
11
The sun did not bow. The people will require a sacrifice. Ren recalled Suten Anu’s words as Oren Thrako grabbed his tunic and shoved him forward, dragging him out into the light and chaos of the streets of Solus, where the people were rioting and clashing with men in bronze-studded armor. The shouts of the angry pilgrims assaulted him once more. The sky, once limitless, was obscured by smoke, by the whizzing of arrows, by the desperate shouts for help. Ren waded through the crowd, navigating the bodies and the motion in the marketplace as quickly as possible, time to go now, hurry. Oren was leading him out of the capital. He was nearly free, but he thought only of Suten’s words.