The women pointed the way, down a dim space that Arko had not seen. What else could their eyes see that his could not? One of them took him by the hand and led him through the dark, like a dead man being taken into the underworld. The space was not narrow but great, cool and open and echoing with the sound of their footsteps, a far more disorienting feeling than being in a tight space. Without the eunuch to guide him, he would not know which way to turn.
In the distance a dim light grew—brighter, and then brighter, the hall now flickered with oil lamps high above, illuminating a hall of statues, each as tall as a desert palm, with toes as big as Arko’s head. He saw the statue of Re, the first emperor of the Old Kingdom, his effigy a smoothly abstracted figure, the features rounded and bulbous, like a figure billowing out of smoke. His children and their descendants ruled for three centuries. The Soleri were a family, five boys and five girls, always interbred. After Re came the rule of Nejeb, fourteen emperors in all, their round features—puffy cheeks, round eyes—fading into the black sandstone. Djet and Horan followed, fifteen in one line, twenty in the next. The statue of Khaba was the first to be carved in the buttery stone of Solus, its form still glistening, its features more realistic, more familiar than the older carvings. Polished stones sat within eye sockets, the pearls followed Arko as he passed. The emperors of the Middle and the New Kingdoms followed the emperors of the old. Sekhem Den was the last. There were no statues after his line. Nothing to mark the reign of the Tolemys—the hidden emperors, the gods that lived and died behind the wall. Looking back at the long hall of finely chiseled figures, Arko could not help but feel a stab of envy. Ulfer’s statue back home is made of carved olive wood. The statue of Harkana’s first king was old and cracked, the face chipped in spots and stained with water. One day, the termites will chew through Ulfer’s face, but all of this will still be here.
Beyond the statue of Den stood a final pair of doors located at the apse end of the gallery, and behind the doors, just underneath the sill and at the cracks, was a gleam of pure yellow light. Even this far belowground he recognized it not as the dim flicker of torches or oil lamps but the steady white light of the sun. The light of the god-emperor. The emperor himself lay beyond those doors. This was where Arko would face his fate at last, to serve his tribute, to face the divine.
Arko was alone. No soldiers accompanied him now, no women.
To meet the emperor is to forfeit one’s life. No man, save the Ray, may see the face of the god-emperor and live.
He forced the great doors open and entered.
20
Kepi didn’t have to look out the window to know where her carriage was headed. Since the moment they set out from Harkana she had felt the Feren border creeping toward her like some kind of sickness. She only slid the shutter open when the convoy stopped. Outside, green forest grew tall against gray mountains, and the smell of blackthorn drifted like smoke through the window. It smells like Roghan. Kepi thought it stunk like the cage she had slept in for a year.
Sandals sloshed in the mud, the sound drawing closer. The clank of the lock coming undone rang through the carriage wall. Someone had unlocked the door.
“Who’s there?” she asked, but there was no reply. She pressed her face to the window to try to see what was happening, but the door flung open instead.
“Expecting someone else?” said Dagrun, sitting so close she could feel the warmth from his body. Kepi pressed herself to the wall, her breath quickening. She had never been alone with the king of the Ferens and did not trust him, especially since she had made the first portion of her trip from Harwen to Rifka in almost complete isolation. For days, as they rode toward the Rift valley, she ate with the soldiers and slept on the hard bench of her carriage like nothing so much as a prisoner.
But now her soon-to-be-husband had come to sit with her. His very presence in such close quarters made her fingers shake, her eyes itch. But she noticed that he seemed nervous as well, as he looked her up and down, possibly uncertain himself. His teeth were white, whiter than any Harkan’s, perhaps the rumors of his wealth were true. His eyes were big and dark and never blinked. They radiated a strength she found at once intimidating and disquietingly appealing.
“We are nearly there.” He broke the quiet.
Kepi pressed her lips shut. She knew as much.
“Can I get you anything? You must be hungry after so much time on the road. Some amber, or bread?”
“A fast horse.” She put her hand on the window. “I can ride, there is no need to lock me in this carriage.”
He shook his head as if she did not grasp her situation. “You’ll soon be the queen of the Ferens and the roads between our kingdoms are unsafe. I’ve lost three riders to stray arrows so far. The outlanders are following your caravan. They’re everywhere in the border region between our kingdoms. Mount a horse and you might also catch an arrow. Their bolts are as thick as your thumb and one arrow can fell a man twice your size.”
“I can fight.”
“Yes,” he said, glancing at the cut his sword left on her neck, the bruise on her shoulder. “You have skill, but there is no pointing in testing it against the outlanders.”
Kepi put a hand on her shoulder. “It was a lucky blow.”
He grunted. “In a fight, it doesn’t matter if you win with luck or with skill. Dead is dead. I’m not going to risk your life.” He took her wrist in his hand. “I am protecting you—nothing more.” His touch made her recoil. Seeing her displeasure, he withdrew his hand. “I am not the man you think, Kepi. To the empire, Feren is a mystery, a puzzle, and I exploit those fictions. I play the rebel, or the blackthorn thief, when it suits me. But you will find I am not the man those stories tell.”
“Maybe so,” she said, flattening her shoulders against the carriage wall. “I want my waiting women.”
“They are here.”
“And my clothes.” When she’d asked for a fresh set of clothes, Dagrun’s soldiers had offered her a brightly colored gown of the king’s choosing. She’d put it on, but the dress made her feel awkward and ladylike.
“My soldiers have your wardrobe. Anything else?”
“My freedom,” she said, and from beneath her she slid out the knife she had concealed all the way from Harwen, one of the curved blades she kept stashed beneath her saddle. It was nearly as long as her forearm, double-edged and sharp.
“Right now,” she said as she pressed the knife to the soft spot under Dagrun’s jaw.
But quicker than she anticipated, he took her wrist, crushing the skin against the bone. “You mistake my intentions. Kill me”—he pushed the blade deeper into to his skin, daring her to do it—“and my men will cut you down. I am trying to protect you, but you’re acting like a child. I don’t expect gratitude, but I could do without your threats.”
A loud knock on the carriage made them both start, and Kepi’s hand jumped, and the blade slid farther into his skin. Dagrun put his hand to the wound and came away with a smear of bright blood.
Outside there was the sound of shouts and running, and the thunk, thunk of projectiles striking the carriage. “Arrows?” she asked.