Legend had it that the Shadow Gate cast the last shadow a man would ever see. Past the gate, within the Empyreal Domain, all things were touched by Mithra-Sol and made of light. A smirk crossed his face. He doubted the legend’s veracity, but it was a good story nonetheless. Arko guessed he would see a few more shadows before the day ended.
The crowd surged closer as his escort approached the gate, but Arko focused only on the path ahead, one slow footstep at a time. These few moments, looking at the red sun rising over the edge of the horizon, would be his last, yet his heart was curious instead of fearful. Soon he would be privy to the hidden mysteries at the center of the empire, and he would stand face-to-face with Tolemy himself, the god who sat at the heart of the circle of power that governed Arko’s life and the life of everyone in the empire. He was looking forward to showing the emperor that Arko Hark-Wadi was no weakling, no fool, before he died. No one who entered the Empyreal Domain ever came out. All those who looked into the eyes of the god-emperor burned from within and perished within moments of gazing upon the emperor’s face. It was more than his own father had done, or his father’s father—to look into the eyes of a living god. Arko was looking forward to experiencing the divine before his death.
They passed beneath the Shadow Gate, moved beyond the archway, down a corridor that terminated in a single door carved with an array of radiating lines. The ceremonial captain ordered the main body of the force to remain, and then taking only five Alehkar, he opened the door and stepped inside.
Arko followed them down a passage, deep into the maze of corridors, and quickly lost track of direction, of a sense of place. Only the light of a single oil lamp illuminated those dusty corridors, and he kept his eye on it like he had the sun in the world above. The only sound was the shuffle of footsteps across stone, the only view the back of the ceremonial captain’s dark, sweaty head. There is no world other than this one, Arko thought. There is no place beyond this place. When I pass through the Shroud Wall, I leave this world. Arko would submit to his fate here, today, and be satisfied that he had done his duty and submitted his tribute, the way his father did before him, and his son after him. At last I am no better, nor worse, than they. No longer the Bartered King, but fulfilled in my allegiance.
The passage opened up into a larger space, a surprisingly airy chamber where the stone walls and ceilings were carved in monumental relief. Arko had heard of this place. The Hall of Histories. He read the titles, but the events were often unfamiliar to him, at least until he saw an image of the second revolt, the Children’s War, etched in figures twice the height of a man. Rougher than the rest, more hastily done and plain, without the richness of gold and riot of color that adorned the older pieces, this carving illustrated the moment his father, Koren, had surrendered to Raden Saad, the former Protector and father of Amen Saad. This was the moment when Koren had agreed to end the war, if, in exchange, Raden would not collect his son. He would spare Arko from the Priory. This was the moment his father had bought him his freedom. A reprieve that had lasted until today, until the emperor had at last called Arko and summoned him to Solus.
At the end of the passage the heavy wooden doors swung open, and the captain gestured for Arko to proceed alone. As Arko stared into the dark abyss beyond the door, it occurred to him that the captain might be the last man from the world above to whom he would ever speak. “What happens to me after I enter this room? Are the stories true?”
“I don’t know,” the captain said as he withdrew.
Arko Hark-Wadi stepped through the darkened doorway, and they sealed the doors behind him.
He had heard there was only light beyond the Shadow Gate, but all he saw was darkness. He stood alone, in the black, for a moment or two before he saw a dim light approaching: oil lamps. The light grew and multiplied, splitting into two, three, four separate flames. Women filled the room, imperial handmaidens who served the royal family from birth, or so the stories went. The women lit the lamps, greeting Arko with a nod of their shaved heads—pale, silent, captive creatures, like blind mice living far underground. Female eunuchs, Arko had heard, as children they had been sacrificed by their families into imperial service. He grimaced at the sight of their mutilated fingers, the fingertips had been removed so they could not hold a weapon or a writing utensil, their tongues cut out at nine, ten years old, their breasts and feet bound tight. They walked with the shuffling movements of newborn dogs, their feet rendered useless so they couldn’t run away. He had heard their breasts were cut off as well and their genitals partially sewed shut so they could not be a temptation to any man, nor bear any children. Their sexlessness made him recoil, their gentle movements and silence masking the horror of what had been taken from them, what they had become.
The women surrounded him and began to help him undress. He was still wearing the bloodstained tunic from the hunt, during his last morning in the Shambles, before Ren had returned. They removed everything but the white stone that hung from his neck. Arko would not allow them to touch the necklace. They took him by the shoulders and led him to a basin, where they bathed him completely, from his dark, shaggy hair to his hands and feet, and dressed him in a long white robe, similar to theirs. A sacrificial robe. So this is what I will die in.