“Go.” Thrako pushed Ren forward as the soldiers hacked at the gate behind them, trying to break it down.
They followed the narrow stairway through thick rock, passing a gate manned by the city guard, their familiar yellow uniforms a relief after the strangeness of the Hollows. Thrako spoke briefly to their captain, low words Ren could not hear, but the older man indicated the path behind him, alerting the guards to the men pursuing them.
Past the gate, beyond the gooseneck and stair, Thrako led Ren toward a buttery-yellow light.
The sun. I’m nearly free.
Outside, the streets were alive with people, men and women rushing away from the city center, people frantically gathering their children inside to keep them away from the Protector’s Army. Thrako opened the gate and motioned for Ren to pass. Staggering into the street, Ren heard the click of a latch, the spinning of gears. He turned to face the gate through which he had passed. Thrako did not follow.
Ren realized it was his last chance to strike at the Prior Master. He lunged and his arm shot between the black iron bars and caught hold of the Prior Master’s belt, pulling so that Thrako stumbled forward and slammed against the iron gates, his face wrenched into a fearful scowl. The cut on the Prior Master’s neck opened, a drop of blood inching down his chest. Stripped of his guards, Oren Thrako appeared diminished, afraid, but no less sinister. He snapped the gate closed with almost unnatural speed, and tore his cloak away from Ren’s grip.
Ren cried out, rattling the heavy bars, but it was over.
With a bang, cold iron stood between him and the Prior Master, who was already backing away from the closed gate. “Goodbye, heir of Harkana,” Thrako said, but his voice was faint, half drowned out by the howls of the rioting pilgrims. “Suten’s men will take you home. See that you live long enough to get there.” With those words, Oren Thrako faded back into the darkness of the Hollows.
Ren stumbled backward from the gate, nearly colliding with his imperial escort, the men who would take him to Harwen. They were looking him up and down when a throng of rioters poured out of a nearby alley, swarming the courtyard outside the gate. Suten’s men drew swords and hurried to push back the crowd. In the chaos that followed, they lost track of Ren.
Now, while they aren’t looking. I should fly. Better not to trust anyone, he thought as he staggered backward, fleeing from the soldiers and losing himself in the unruly mob.
12
Merit bustled through the stony corridors of the Hornring, pushing past waiting women and soldiers alike, slipping around the girls who gathered at the archways, eyes fixed on the bright-blue sky, waiting for the sun to darken. Some stood agape; others were squinting, shading their eyes at odd angles as they searched for the shadow that in any other year would slowly devour the sun. But there was no shadow. The time of the eclipse had come and gone and the sun had not bowed to Tolemy. For the first time that she knew of, the sun had stayed its hand. Mithra-Sol had chosen to rebel. Perhaps the sun is Harkan, she thought with grim merriment.
“A curse,” a servant girl whispered as Merit passed. The girl was standing at an archway that faced the Ruined Wall, and the soldier at her side was shaking his head. “No, it’s just the bloody sun, it don’t curse people, and it don’t bless them either. It just burns things. If you keep staring at it, it’ll burn you too.” He chortled, trying to catch the girl’s eye, but she would not turn away from the sky.
The gossip was everywhere.
“It’s an ill omen,” said a waiting woman.
“This is about Barca,” said another, referring to the Soleri traitor.
“No,” said a page, “this is about the grain, the amaranth. The sun is angry—that’s why I’ve got nothing to eat but spoiled amber and old bread.”
Merit passed them all, trying not to listen to their chatter. She did not care about the sun. She cared only about Dagrun, but he had left the Hornring, returning to his camp just outside Harwen’s walls. She had sent messengers, asking for him to remain in Harkana, but there had not yet been sufficient time for him to reply. She needed to set things right with Dagrun, but she didn’t know how to do that, not yet. Maybe the sun has cursed me, she thought, but quickly put the notion aside. Curses were for children and servant folk. No, the sun didn’t care if Merit lived or died, or if she whiled away her days in solitude.
Merit hadn’t truly known how much she desired the king of the Ferens until he walked out of her father’s hall. She hadn’t expected the quiet pang of grief that struck her when he left. I didn’t know how much I needed him. How could she have known? It was all so complicated. Dagrun desired her as she did him, but he wanted more than just her soft skin and her eyes drawn with malachite. He needed her name and the prestige that came with royal blood, but she could never give him that, not as long as Tolemy sat on the throne.
She’d crafted a plan to fulfill all their wishes—an unconventional way, perhaps, but one that was within the emperor’s laws. Kepi was owed to the Ferens, and if she married Dagrun, his children would carry the royal blood he needed, and their marriage would guarantee a powerful alliance between their kingdoms. And this way, it would be Kepi’s sons with Dagrun who would be sent to the Priory, not Merit’s.
Because in secret, Merit would have a man who loved her, a man she had chosen for herself and not one who had been assigned to her by the emperor. One day, their two kingdoms would stand together and defy the empire. Only then could they live openly together as husband and wife.
But since Kepi had refused Dagrun, there was no alliance with the Ferens. There was no Dagrun in her bed. There was only Shenn, her husband, who had not even bothered to stand at her side for the gathering. Now I’m forced to seek you out, Shenn, so I don’t look like a bloody idiot at the feast.
Pushing past the servant boys who were still gawking at the sky, past the soldiers who guarded the king’s family, she pressed deeper into the Hornring until she came upon her husband’s chambers. She threw open the door, and there was Shenn, sitting on a low stool, a young man kneeling between his legs, pleasuring Shenn’s manhood.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were busy,” she said as the door shut behind her.
At the sight of Merit, the young man jerked bolt upright. He was naked and his flaccid cock bobbed up and down like a fish on a line as he searched for his robe.
“It’s in the corner.” She nodded toward a sand-gray robe, draped haphazardly over a half-played game of Coin. The young man nodded his thanks as he took the robe and slipped it over his head. Shenn fussed with the laces on his breeches, but the young man just stood there, uncertain of what to do next, confused, a bit embarrassed.