“Here?” Dagrun laughed.
“Yes, here. Everywhere in Harkana. You know we cannot be seen together. Not yet.”
His hand cupped her cheek, his eyes bore into hers, and he smiled when he saw the green malachite on her eyelids, just as she knew he would. She had worn the green powder when they first met, and she had worn it again each time after.
He had proposed to her more than once, asking her to throw off the marriage the emperor had arranged.
Merit was impressed by his bravery, even if she understood it to be a foolish, impulsive move. Dagrun was a commoner who now wore a king’s crown on his head and sought validation in the only way possible, through blood and name, and only the Soleri rivaled the Hark-Wadi dynasty in history and prestige. She understood his desire, but if she succumbed to his wishes war would rage through the empire. Tolemy was merciless, no doubt the army of the Protector would march into Harkana for her head. She always turned him down. But his endless proposals inspired her to devise a way for both of them to get what they desired.
The king of the Ferens rubbed his bearded stubble against her forehead. She worked her fingers through his clean, wet hair and buried her face in his neck. He still smelled faintly of horse and dust, a gorgeous, living smell. Like victory. His victory.
“You did well today, rescuing her,” she said. “It would not have been much of a celebration if the king’s daughter were hacked to bits.”
Dagrun shrugged, “It was you who did the rescuing. I was the one holding the blade to her neck, if you recall.”
“You knew I’d spare her. But I doubt she would do the same for you. If Kepi had had her way, she would have taken your head.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “She’s good with a blade, marvelous actually.”
Merit waved away the comment. “I knew you’d win the day, and you did.”
“Not quite yet,” he said, stealing a long kiss. His hand wrapped her back, unfastening the dress. Merit stepped back. She could not let him have her this way—not yet. It thrilled her, the way he desired her. She could sense his desire, almost like despair—he was hers, she could do with him as she wished.
Dagrun pulled her to him. His breathing was slow and even. “How much longer must I wait?”
“Not long,” she said, running her finger across the skin of his stomach. “Everyone’s waiting in the King’s Hall. When we gather for the Devouring you can make your proposal at last.”
“And then I’ll have you?” he asked. “A queen for a king? Two kingdoms joined—a way out of this mess?”
Merit raised her eyes to him. “We’ll both have what we desire.” She had at last found a way to achieve the power and influence she desired.
He frowned. Pensive, which was unlike him.
“Come, they are waiting for us in the King’s Hall,” she said, tipping her head to the side, letting her blue-green eyes go wide as a girl’s, though Merit was no child. “You know we must do this now, while my father is absent.”
“Are you certain we should go through with this?”
“Yes, darling. With all my heart,” she said with a sweet smile. “I want you to marry my sister.”
6
“It’s nearly noontime—I am ready,” said Sarra Amunet, the Mother Priestess, as her servants fitted the last of the golden stalls onto her fingers. She wore a collar of carnelian on her neck, gold on her fingers and toes, and a flowing robe of white linen. Nearing her fourth decade, tall and slender, her hair a rare shade of red, her skin so pale she seemed suffused with an unearthly light, Sarra bore the blood of the southern islands. It was said the men of the south came from a place beyond the Cressel Sea, where the air was cool and the land was rich and green, full of flowery meadows and gentle wooded vales. Women in the capital whispered that the sun had never touched her skin, it was so fair and strange, though Sarra knew for a fact that was not true. There had been a time when she had been very much at the mercy of the sun.
“Mother, shall we away?” said Ott, her scribe. He was barely older than a boy, and had an underdeveloped arm, which he concealed beneath his robe. The absent limb gave Ott a strange, asymmetrical appearance.
She nodded. “I said I was ready. Open the doors.”
The Devouring approached. Soon she would stand on the Shroud Wall of the Soleri and receive Mithra’s blessing. As the great doors of the Temple of Mithra opened, the light washed over her face, the roar of the pilgrims swept the temple, and Sarra strode out into the temple’s columned hall.
She walked directly into the blood-soaked body of a priest.
“What’s this?” she gasped. As if I didn’t have enough to worry over today.
“Mother what’s wrong?” asked Ott, right behind her.
Sarra struggled to keep her composure as she studied the lifeless body. She knelt and put a hand on his chest. The skin was warm, but the heart was still. Blood caked the priest’s white robe. This just happened. She searched the columned hall, but saw no one. She was alone. The crowds, held back from the high steps of the temple by her priests, could not yet see the body. Only I was meant to see this, she thought. Someone had set the body here, at her door, hidden among the columns for her to find.
Saad.
“So this is how Amen Saad welcomes me to Solus,” Sarra said as she stood. This was her first visit to the city of the Soleri since Amen Saad had taken the Protector’s sword and control of the empire’s armies. She came here, to the Ata’Sol, the priesthood’s home in the vast capital of Solus, once a year to observe the Devouring. Her true home was in Desouk, the city of scholars and priests.
“Are you certain?” Ott asked, his shaved head glowing in the light.
She glanced once more at the columned hall, at the steps beyond and the crowds that waited in the distance. “Back into the temple.”
“And the body?”
“Pull it inside before the damned pilgrims see it,” she said as she retreated into the temple. Ott followed, dragging the corpse, mumbling to himself. As the doors sealed behind them, she checked the sun’s angle. Noontime approached; the moon would soon devour the sun. I should be on the wall, but there is a dead man in my temple.
“What now?” Ott asked. There was blood on his hands and her priests were staring at him, gathering around Sarra. Their anxious whispers made it difficult to think.
“I need a moment,” Sarra said, gesturing for her priests to retreat into the sanctuary. I need more than a moment, but I fear that’s all I have. She must respond to this aggression, but at the same time she could not ignore her sacred duty. The Mother Priestess must stand on the wall. I need to be in two places at once.
Ott tapped a finger on his chest, “The sun will not wait, Mother. Corpse or no corpse, we should away.”