Merit shook her head. She had duties and responsibilities to her kingdom. War was afoot. The rebel was upon her land. She could not linger here, not with him, not in his bed. Her desires must wait, as must his.
“I want nothing more,” she said. “The roads are clear now, but they may be blocked soon enough. Each moment I delay leaves my kingdom in danger.”
Dagrun drew her close to him. “Do what you must, then return to me.” His tone and the strength of his voice told Merit that she had nothing to fear, that their union, though unconsummated, was strong. They had waited for so long to be together, surely they could wait a little longer.
She sighed in his arms. Yes, of course. She would return to Rifka. He would find no comfort in her sister’s thin arms, she was sure. Dagrun’s desire for Merit would only flourish in her absence. “I am yours,” she whispered. “I owe you a wedding night. Wait for me.”
“I have done nothing but, Merit,” said Dagrun, resigned.
She nodded, satisfied.
He released her from his embrace. He cleared his throat and spoke to her as a king and not a lover. “See that your guards speak to my man-at-arms and the stable master. You should take fast horses and arm your guards well. I have a contingent of soldiers who will escort you safely to Harwen.”
“There is no need. My guards will suffice. Sevin and his men are as fierce as they are loyal,” she said, too proud of her Harkan men to accept any of his. “Barca would not dare strike at my caravan. A Harkan regent travels under Harkan guard—I need no chaperone.”
38
“The bright fire that blazed on the mountain now shines upon the city of light.” Khalden Wat forced open the doors of the Cenotaph, proclaiming the glories of the new Ray. The Mouth of Tolemy had lit a star upon the cliffs and told all of Solus that there was a new Ray of the Sun. The assembled grandees of Solus shuffled inside in their glorious finery, in their diaphanous cloaks of fine muslin, in their jewels and gold, to find the Harkan king, Arko Hark-Wadi, half-drunk and leaning on his elbows at a table that filled nearly the circumference of the Cenotaph. Let them scoff, he thought. Let them whisper and hiss. He expected no less.
Arko studied each as they entered, eyeing them closely, judging them as they no doubt judged him. He could see the generals and viziers, the priests and merchants, attempt to conceal their surprise when they realized who the man was in front of them, who it was that the emperor had chosen.
The young Protector, Amen Saad, made no effort to contain his disrespect, refusing to bow and clearly finding displeasure at having to celebrate the ascension of another man to the Ray’s position. A man whom the empire had believed was called to his death. Saad carried a cheated expression, looking as if Arko had stolen the Eye of the Sun from him. Maybe I did steal it, thought Arko.
He gave the young Protector a second glance, looking him up and down. So this was the ambitious young man who desired to rule the empire, thought Arko as he took the measure of Saad, and watched the way he shouted and slapped his generals and advisers on their backs. Untested warriors, men like Saad, were often overconfident—their ignorance made them proud. Seeing the way Saad stood, the way he smiled, Arko already knew how he would dispatch the Father Protector.
They settled into their chairs one by one, and in their pointed glances at one another and shocked whispers Arko could already see his future. He would never please them. He would never manage to give them what they wanted, which was a Ray who was one of them—not this outsider, this Harkan, and one who had never even seen the inside of the Priory either.
This was his second week in Solus, though it seemed as if he had been here for ages. He had spent his days conferring with Khalden Wat, discussing Arko’s role within the empire. He had toured the House of Ministers and seen the great hall where a thousand scribes hunched over trestle tables, scribbling out decrees and other mandates, copying and translating scrolls from every part of the empire. The mechanics of it all were mind-boggling at first sight, but Wat had told him to be patient, that it would take time for him to learn the ways of Solus. For now, he needed to attend to his formal duties. This banquet was his first task.
Wat took his place at Arko’s side, standing atop a wooden stool, introducing the gathered dignitaries to Arko Hark-Wadi by name and title: Cheneres Haas, Vizier of the Southern Nomes; Geta Entefe, High Priestess of Horu; Bern Serekh, Keeper of Days; Mered Saad, Keeper of Seals, Overseer of the House of Crescents … the list went on. The new Ray poured himself another drink and raised his glass, but he saw little use in flattering them—he had never been good at it anyway. He had always left such duties to Merit, who had reveled in them. He felt another pang of homesickness and wondered how his daughter was faring. She was wrong to say that he only loved Kepi. While his youngest shared his interests, he relied on his eldest to run the kingdom. Though he had shielded his first daughter from the burdens of power, he trusted Merit, and perhaps the next time he saw her he would tell her that. He thought about Ren too; he was eager to know the boy’s progress. He had ordered messengers sent, but had not yet received replies.
While Wat droned, Arko took another drink. He started to feel warm and tipped his head back to look at the broad sphere of the Cenotaph, lit from outside at the moment by the midday sun. The dome above was dotted with tiny perforations, holes that let in the daylight. Against the black inner face of the dome, these points of daylight resembled stars in the night sky—one star for each of the Soleri who once lived in this city and ruled over the empire. The Soleri had no other graves, no burial monuments of any kind. They had only this chamber, dotted with these points of light. Gazing at those lights, Arko realized what the Cenotaph really was: a tomb with no body. He guessed the building was just another ruse, an elaborate deception, designed to conceal the absence of the Soleri. It made him wonder if the Soleri had ever existed, but he quickly took back the thought. Surely the gods were not a myth. A distant forebear, many generations removed, Sarren Hark-Wadi, had seen one of the twelve, roaming the markets of Harwen, wearing his mask of gold, in the time before the War of the Four. His grandfather had passed the story down through the family, and his father had often told it to him as a child.