“That’s for damn sure. What a miserable little pup he is. I would just as soon smash his head in as let him have the army.”
Wat’s mouth was set in a narrow line. “Raden was a relic. From the moment he shook your father’s hand he was marked for death. If it were not for the power of Suten’s family, the favor they showed the old Protector, his generals would have cut him down long ago. His honor never helped him—it got him killed.”
“I thought as much.” Arko rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. “Saad could not take his father’s life without help. He isn’t smart enough.”
“Most of the generals wanted the old Protector dead for decades. He had a few loyal men, a few who have since resisted the son’s control, but most of the military families were tired of Raden. They wanted a man who would make them rich, not safe. Saad is that man. He knows how to fatten their wallets and flatter their tempers, and they will support him to the very end. He won’t help you.”
“I know. I hold no illusions regarding Saad, or Sarra.”
Wat swallowed when Arko said the Mother Priestess’s name.
“What is it?” Arko asked.
“I have one last bit of news. Early this morning, the Mother Priestess sent a messenger. She requests an audience prior to your midday congress with Saad.”
Arko thought for a moment. “The timing is no coincidence.”
“If you say so. Perhaps our lord Tolemy should be made aware—”
“No,” Arko interrupted. “There is no sense in disturbing the emperor.”
“That’s what Suten always said.” Wat smiled kindly, knowingly.
“Return her message, tell her I will meet with her today, prior to my congress with Saad, as requested.”
“Trying to accommodate the Mother Priestess?”
“No, but if Sarra or Saad want a fight, we might as well have one. Once my men are here, I am confident we can turn back any force. Have you found the hired soldiers I requested—the mercenaries?”
“Yes. I can bring them to you when you are ready.”
“Do that. Do it now, Wat. Is there anything else?”
“There is this.” Unwrapping a long bundle he revealed a two-handed sword, well forged but ancient. “It once belonged to Saad’s grandfather. It has seen a battle or two, but you asked for a sword and this is the finest I could locate.”
“Thank you, Wat.” Arko took the blade. “It looks like a good sword.” He weighed the blade and sighted down the edge, which had once been perfectly straight, now somewhat warped by age. In the distance, the people shouted their protests and something fragile shattered against a wall.
“I’ll be going,” said Wat. He seemed uneasy, perhaps he disliked the changes Arko had made just as much as the people outside. If he did, the old man didn’t show it. He bowed politely and bid his farewell, “May you share the sun’s fate, sir.”
Arko rumpled his lip at the Soleri farewell. “No, if it’s all the same to you and your god, Wat. One life is plenty for me.”
53
Pale green tunics shifted in the tall rock. Ferens. Dagrun paid the ransom. There could be no other explanation. The king of the Ferens, not Barca or one of Merit’s generals, had paid her ransom. Her messenger must have slipped past the ash-skinned warriors and walked to the Feren border. Soldiers bearing the blackthorn crest broke through the underbrush and rocks, confirming her assumption. One bowed to Merit, another cut her bonds. Three footmen lifted Samia from the rocks and gently untied her ropes. They freed Merit’s foot soldiers, Asher, and her captain. The Ferens brought horses for her men, a carriage for Merit, food and fresh clothes. There was a physician in their company and enough water for her to bathe if she so desired. She thanked the men, but refused their offering of clean linen and salted meat—she even refused the physician and the bath. She wanted to ride out immediately. She would not stop to eat or re-dress, or to tend to her bruises. She was too eager to be free of this place, out of the desert and safe. The Ferens shook their heads but acquiesced. The Harkans sipped amber and chewed bread, laughing and shouting as they hoisted themselves atop the horses. With a bit more restraint, Merit and her waiting woman stepped into the blackthorn carriage. A whip cracked and they were off.
The Feren captain, a man who introduced himself as Keegan Stalls, rode alongside Merit’s carriage, speaking to her through an open shutter. “We spent three days negotiating with the outlanders,” he said, and then went on to explain the terms of her liberation and the process leading up to it. “We sent patrols, tried to locate the outlanders’ camp, to free you, but the Hykso kept moving—they knew the ground and they knew how to hide. We found a dead soldier, his back slashed, but we could not find the outlanders. We had no way to locate you, so the king paid the ransom.”
The story explained why the outlanders had forced her to march in circles, to hide during the day and move at night. It explained the tracks she had seen in the sand. Those marks clearly belonged to the soldiers who had pursued her—the men had been close by all along, but the Feren soldiers were unused to the desert. They were out of their element and had been unable to track her captors. Thinking back to her time in the desert, Merit recalled the tall grass she’d seen when she fell and wondered how close to Feren they were. “How long until we reach Rifka?” she asked, careful not to sound too eager.
“Three days’ ride,” the captain said.
Longer than she thought, but Merit only nodded, hiding her disappointment. She wanted to return to Feren as quickly as possible. She was eager to share her newfound secret with the king. Soon she would have everything she desired.
The small company rode a day before a large contingent of cavalry arrived, expanding their numbers, ensuring that Merit would travel unmolested to Rifka. The horses made a thunderous sound as they stomped the earth. They moved quickly, skirting the basin of Amen, crossing the Rift valley, riding through the pass and over the gray mountains that shielded Feren from the desert. They spent a night camped alongside the Cragwood, sleeping soundly, before rising again and at last entering the Gray Wood, the forest growing dense on all sides of her carriage as she passed beneath the first mighty blackthorns, the air cooler, moister.