To punish her, the outlanders forced Merit to walk. Closer to the ground, she could not escape the desert’s inhabitants—the scurrying of a pocket mouse or the quick flash of a brush lizard darting between rocks. The desert was more alive than she had guessed, humming with insects invisible to the eye but buzzing in all directions, a frantic drone that followed her across the rocks. She wore only sandals, finely woven but not made for travel. They ripped on the rough terrain, flapping around her ankles and leaving her feet worse than bare. Eventually, Merit’s soldiers had to help her walk. She started to thank them, parting her lips to speak, but her mouth had gone completely dry.
When the sand gave way to hard ground she curled her feet to avoid the hot surface, mincing painfully. One man saw her and stopped to give her his sandals. The leather wraps were too big, they chafed at her ankles and toes, but at least her feet did not burn. “Thank you,” she croaked at the soldier, who barely raised his head and nodded.
The days dragged, one become two, the second stretched into the third. During the night, they marched. When the sun rose, they searched for shade and rested often. She tracked the movement of the sun, trying to determine their course, but they kept walking in circles. Were they lost? It felt as if she had spent weeks in the desert—the thirst, the noise, the pain in her heels. Her bones mashed against the soft balls of her feet, her every movement triggering some small ache. Her arches cramped and pulled as if they were about to snap. She felt the pain of her soldiers too, Asher and her waiting woman, Samia. Her father’s message was her only comfort on the long nights and burning days. There is no emperor. The throne room sits in ruins, the Amber Throne smashed. With this news, she was free of Shenn, free of the marriage that had bound her, the union that had forced her to covertly pursue Dagrun. She could have him now—she need no longer fear the Priory or the emperor’s wrath. Her father was emperor in any true sense. Alliances. Armies. She no longer needed these things. She had won. There was no battle to fight, no enemy; there never had been one. They had toiled beneath a shadow all these years, but no more. Shenn could have his freedom, his life, he could love as he chose and so could she. Merit need only survive and she would have all she desired.
Deep in thought on the sixth day of her captivity Merit fell again, her forehead mashing into the rocky earth, sand and pebbles clinging to her skin, falling into her eyes. Grass brushed her face. Not the bone-dry grass of the desert, but something softer. Odd, she thought, but gave it no further consideration. She pushed herself up on her elbows and paused there for a moment, gathering her strength, staring at the sand. Boot marks. They were fresh—a patrol had come this way not long ago. The soldiers must be Harkan or perhaps Feren. This is good news. Perhaps an offer was made.
The following day, the Hykso reversed their treatment of Merit and her entourage. They offered her strips of poorly cured meat and a pale, cloudy liquid to wash it down. The drink stunk of rotten amber, but it filled her belly. The horde thinned. Three times ten warriors had taken them captive on that first day, but nearly half those men vanished during the night.
The following day a second group departed and Merit, Samia, Asher, Sevin, and the six remaining Harkan soldiers were left with fewer than ten captors. She twice caught Sevin exchanging glances with Asher and his men, plotting some sort of rebellion, she guessed. But all of it was unnecessary. As the day came to its end, the Hykso warriors marched Merit toward a narrow gorge. Tall rocks surrounded her on three sides, making the stone hollow into a cage of sorts, a corral. Two sacks of rough linen stood within the hollow. The outlander with the gray-fox necklace grunted as he lifted them—they were heavy. He strode to where Merit stood and shook the heavy sacks. The tinny clamor of gold coins jingling against one another filled her ears. The ransom. It is paid.
One by one, the Hykso took their leave, following behind the man with his two heavy sacks. Hands tied, Merit stood, waiting in the shade as the Hykso fled into the desert, their ash-covered skins and hoary cloaks melding with the salt-gray sand. Sevin cursed as he struggled against his bonds, trying to break the goat-hide strands. His soldiers tore at their ropes. Samia kneeled, as did Asher.
But Merit stood tall and proud. Someone was coming—soon, she guessed. She scanned the jagged rocks. Whoever had laid out the coins was no doubt watching, waiting for the Hykso to disappear before coming to claim their bounty. Where are you? Who are you? Merit paced. Who paid my ransom?
50
Her ankles caked in dust, head pounding, Sarra returned from the throne room of the emperor. She had gone there alone, by lamplight, stealing through the long corridors that connected the Ata’Sol to the throne of the Soleri. She had seen the shattered chair, the burnt columns and empty pools, the fresh footprints in the dust. Suten’s body lay amid the rubble, bruised and silent, rotting in the darkness. Only the Ray may enter the Empyreal Domain, so she guessed it was Arko who had done the deed and taken the revenge he had long sought. It was strange to see the old Ray dead, his regal attire soaked with blood. She had long coveted Suten’s golden robe, and the sight of it, torn and bloodied, had shaken her more than she would have guessed. It reminded her of Garia Asni, the girl who stood in Sarra’s place on the last day of the year. The whole scene—the burnt chair, the body—was overwhelming, too much to digest. She returned to her chamber, shaken but satisfied. She had seen the shattered throne and lived. Suten was gone and the Soleri were truly dead, their sacred domain abandoned. She slipped into a white robe and poured herself a cup of wine. Saad was already overdue for their congress, and she guessed he would not delay much longer.
The door swung open and she startled, dropping the bronze cup, spilling date wine onto the table and floor. The plum-red liquid dribbled around her toes. She lifted the cup and refilled it while a dark-haired priestess came close and bowed.
“Mother,” she said, “Saad is coming. He passed the columned hall and should be here any moment.”
“Then you should go,” she told the girl, who went out and left the door open behind her. A priest entered bearing two scrolls stamped with golden wax. The sealing wax was still warm, the parchment crisp, ink bleeding through the page.
“Is everything in order?” she asked.
The priest shrugged. “I did everything as you asked.”
“Good. Leave me,” she said, holding the scrolls in her hand, setting them down when she realized her fingers were damp with perspiration.