Arko drew a slip of parchment from his pocket and read it over. Ostensibly, the parchment was a transcript, a record of a conversation with Tolemy. It was, of course, a fabrication. There was no Tolemy, and he’d had no conversation. He read the words one last time. When the people of Sola heard that Tolemy had named Arko as his Ray, they must have feared that change was coming and now they would have it. Flowers blanketed the streets, banners hung at every intersection. Solus was quiet, it had accepted its new leader, but the calm would not last. When the proclamation was posted, their anger would begin anew. The people would comply, he hoped, but he doubted they would do it gladly.
In the meantime, he had other concerns. Arko had sent for his soldiers, his men from Harkana, but they had not yet arrived. He had sent word to his children that he was alive too, but he had heard no reply. The traitor, Barca, was ravaging the areas to the south of the wall, and his cohorts were running amok in the north, killing messengers and scouts, making communication difficult. Arko had called for an audience with Saad, but the Protector was busy preparing to engage Barca and kept putting it off. Even if the Protector had made himself available to Arko, it seemed impossible to conduct business in the capital. Nearly every other day was a holiday. In the last week Arko had suffered through the Coll of Bes and the Tubidam. And there were more festivals in the planning. In the weeks to come, the city would celebrate the Opening of the Mundus and three or four other festivals. He’d forgotten all of the names. On the day Arko took the Ray’s chair, the city had witnessed the Lermur Al’Dab. He was not able to observe, but the festival—a holiday for the dead—seemed an appropriate choice for his first day in the Antechamber. Maybe I am dead and this business of being Ray is just my punishment in the afterlife.
Below the high window, in a broad court lined with buttery yellow stone, the wellborn and wealthy of Solus processed down a long avenue lined with yellow banners, and white and gold flags hung on posts. The streets were strewn with palm leaves and milkweed. Chins raised, the highborn of Solus—the overseers, nomarchs, and viziers—strode as if they owned every rock beneath their feet, every statue and gold obelisk they passed. As they entered the courtyard, Khalden Wat announced them: Amen Neko, Bek Serekh, Sekhe Rah, Nikan Anun-Han, Meren Ini. As Wat called the names, the highborn men and women came forward. Wat presented each with a collar knitted of gold, a gift from the new liege. They would kneel, and Wat would bestow their title. All titles came from the First Ray of the Sun and would have to be restored with the establishment of a new reign. A scribe recorded the title on a wax tablet. With the coming of each Ray, the names and positions were shuffled according to the will of the new Ray. Wat had seen to the appointments, assuring Arko of the necessity of each.
Arko had laughed when Wat told him about the ceremony. “Isn’t the word of Tolemy—the god-emperor—enough to make me Ray? Why all the fuss?”
Wat had shaken his head. “These men think they are Tolemy, or at least they act that way. The emperor’s influence has waned over the years. Some viziers support their own private armies, tend their own livestock, and trade with the priesthood. They can make life difficult for you if they think they are going unappreciated. And you have already offended many of them.”
Arko made no attempt to disagree. He remembered all too well the banquet in the Cenotaph. If only the Mother Priestess and the Father Protector were required to beg for their titles as well, his troubles would be far fewer.
He shook his head, took a long drink of wine and then a second. He tried for a third, but the wineskin was empty. Through the screened window he caught sight of a single rider, a white-cloaked priestess with incandescent red hair. Was it her? He checked again. Red hair, white robe. Sarra Amunet, the name wound through his stomach like a coiling snake. It had been ten years since he had seen his wife. Ten years since she had turned her back on their family. So you came back, Sarra. Here you are, in Solus, where the pilgrims tore you from the wall.
There was a knock on the door.
Arko groped for a weapon, but he wore none. Unprotected. The First Ray of the Sun was protected by the Soleri and hence was the only man in all of the empire who did not carry a sword. He hoped he wouldn’t need one in the future. No one but Khalden Wat was supposed to know where he was. “Who’s there?” he asked, sounding more anxious than he liked.
“It’s Asher. I have news, sir.”
His friend and captain of the kingsguard, Asher Hacal. Wat’s boys found Asher camping outside the walls of Solus, exactly as Arko had described.
Arko tucked the parchment into his pocket and opened the door to find the man looking grim. Asher was a large man, bearded, and solid; like most Harkans he was deeply tanned, sharp-nosed, and longhaired. He surveyed the chamber, asked if the room was secure, if he could speak candidly, and when Arko nodded he shut the door.
“What have you found?”
“Nothing good, I’m sorry to report.” Curious why he had not received letters from his children, Arko had given Asher a mission. That morning he had sent an imperial messenger to Harkana. Asher trailed the messenger. “The man made it as far as Darene—only an hour’s ride—when he stopped. I watched him find an inn and ask for a bed, though it was only midday. He said he would be there for a few days.”
Enough time to pretend to have gone to Harwen and back, Arko knew.
“I saw him throw a piece of parchment into the fire.”
“My message,” Arko said, his words a long sigh.
“It appears so.”
He sat on a wood chair across from the throne and sighed, rubbing at his forehead. Think. He closed his eyes, picturing the Shambles, the herds of deer. He saw again the eld he had trapped in the vale as a young man, an enormous creature with dripping tusks. He would give anything to be back there right now, his mind clear of anything but the hunt, the smell of an animal being pursued, the beauty of the bow as it flew from the quiver. Not this—dusty rooms, whole kingdoms of bruised feelings and ambitions to appease.
“Asher,” he said, his eyes closed still, the Shambles still a shadow across his mind. “Do you ever wish you’d had children, a family? Would that have meant something to you, do you think?”
The captain shifted in his chair. “It might have. It’s difficult to imagine a different path for myself.”
“Sometimes I’m certain my life would have been better if I’d had no children at all and no wife. I would have been happier, I think,” said Arko. I’ve made a mess of things, my marriage and my kingdom. Arko thought about the woman he had loved, the one he wanted to marry. He stroked the white stone at his neck.
“My king?”
“Never mind, Asher. I’m just rambling. I’m tired, that’s all.”
He crossed the stone floor to the place where his friend and captain stood. “I need you to deliver a message to my daughter.”
“Alone?”
“If possible. You must travel in secret. Make sure only my eldest daughter receives this missive.”
Arko wrote on the scroll in code. A child’s code he had taught Merit once, a secret only she could decipher. “When you’ve delivered this message to my daughter, go to Harkana and call for my guard. I fear my first message was waylaid.” Arko handed Asher a second scroll, detailing his needs.