The light reflected from the cave was the light of Mithra-Sol.
A new Ray of the Sun glowing in the darkness.
Blessed by the gods of the Soleri.
It was impossible to measure distance in that strange pulsating space, Arko tried to count his steps but lost track after two. There was no way he could concentrate. He felt his hands shaking and gripped the staff as tightly as he could. The room seemed to grow colder and colder as he approached the far end, and he seemed to grow older and weaker with each step. Without realizing it, he began to lean on the staff. Never mind how holy it was—without its support, he would collapse. The weight of the light was too heavy for any man to bear.
When Arko was sure he could no longer endure the exhaustion, Khalden Wat entered the chamber. He met Arko’s gaze and nodded—the task was complete. The empire knew of the new Ray’s ascension.
Arko dropped his staff and it rolled to the floor.
I am the First Ray of the Sun.
I have to send word to my family that I am alive.
THE NIGHT WEDDING
30
The blackthorn tree shivered in its death throes.
Deep in the Gray Wood, slaves wearing little more than breechcloths scurried up the winding scaffold that ringed the tree, making the ancient wood shake with motion. Merit followed the busy workers as they surrounded the trunk, scraping at its tough bark with sharpened flints till the gnarled black hide gave way to pale sapwood. She counted a hundred men involved in the felling, maybe more. The sun was nearly set and, although the work had begun before dawn, the workers were only now reaching the tree’s lower sections. The first rite of the Feren king’s wedding, the felling of a blackthorn, was nearly half complete. Merit had hoped to avoid the long ceremony, but Dagrun had insisted she join him.
On the roads between the kingdoms, she heard rumors about the fate of the Mother Priestess during the Devouring that never came. Some said the pilgrims dragged the Mother from the wall and tore her limb from limb. But others swore her followers had shepherded her through the city unharmed. Merit didn’t know which was the truth and which was the lie, perhaps neither was true. The riots in Solus made communication with her emissaries in the capital nearly impossible. She would have to wait to know the truth, which left her feeling cold and uncertain. She never knew what to think of Sarra Amunet. You are the Mother of the faithful, the mother of thousands, but you never took the time to be my mother, to be a mother to your own family. Merit did not even know why her mother had left them. It was Sarra’s choice, Arko told her again and again, but he offered no further explanation. Merit had her suspicions, she guessed Ren was the cause—that Sarra could not stand to lose her son to the Priory. But the loss of one child was hardly reason to give up on the rest of the family. Why not stay with your daughters?
The sound of wood breaking caught Merit’s attention. Presently, she stood atop a hastily assembled platform, the king at her side, along with a host of other dignitaries, all of them gathered to watch the Feren rite. A branch fell from the upper half of the trunk, its thorny pods showering the platform. She snatched one of the pods and held it up to the light. The shell was as hard as iron; a needle pricked her thumb. The blackthorn was named for its spiky seed, but she could not help but think the empire’s name for it was more appropriate. In Solus, they called it ironwood; there the wood had been used to make mighty barques, trestle bridges, and breaching towers of exceptional strength and longevity since the earliest days of the empire. The blackthorn trees stretched two, sometimes three times the height of a desert palm. And while the Feren commoners fashioned their homes from the smallest trees, the king reserved the cutting of the largest blackthorns for royal events: funerals and coronations. For his wedding, the king ordered the felling of several of the oldest blackthorns as well as his birth tree, the one that was planted on the day he left his mother’s womb. The Ferens called it Cutting Day. An honor Merit guessed her absent sister would neither care for nor appreciate.
The bride had not yet reached Rifka, but preparations for the wedding continued apace. Nobody seemed much concerned, least of all Dagrun. “We found her in the Cragwood,” he said as the slaves swarmed the fallen trunk with their axes and picks. “We caught her servant escaping into the stones, and he led my soldiers to her,” he said with a confident shrug before returning his attention to the felling. “She’ll be safe in Rifka in a few days’ time.”
“A relief,” said Merit. And it was indeed a relief. She had sought only to marry her sister off, not to see her set loose among the outlanders. Immediately, it felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. When she’d first heard of Kepi’s escape, of the battle at the Rift valley, Merit had briefly doubted the path she had chosen. She feared she had gone too far. But now that Kepi was safe once more, Merit’s confidence had returned.
“Your husband,” Dagrun said, without looking at her, “have you heard from the man?”
“No. Shenn will join us when he is finished.” She hoped he was finished, she hoped her husband had done what her men had failed to do in the Hollows and again in the bordertowns. It is mercy, she told herself. It is better if the boy never reaches Harwen—better if I never see his face. She’d spent years telling herself the kingdom was better off without a ransom for a king. But in truth, she had gotten used to the throne and had no intention of giving it up, least of all for her father’s true heir.