The main church of Urec had never been so empty. The soldan-shah had commanded that the sikaras be evicted, and the main doors had been chained shut to keep the public out.
Entering through a guarded side door, Omra and his party walked toward the central worship chamber. The empty building felt as devoid of life as a tomb. After the recent appalling events, he had decided to demonstrate that he was the center of power in Uraba. He had let it be known throughout the city that he and his First Wife would be paying a visit to the main church. The sikaras had forgotten that the soldan-shah was the true descendant of Urec, and that by attempting to kill him or his family—not once, but several times—they had committed an unspeakable atrocity against Ondun Himself.
Not all the priestesses had been involved in the plot, but they had implicitly cooperated in the twisted system. Many sikaras had been imprisoned, and many more were humbled and sent off to serve in smaller houses of worship around Olabar. Meanwhile, the main church remained closed to the public. For now.
Istar followed Omra into the cold, empty worship hall, quiet and respectful. The soldan-shah knew he had been uncustomarily cool to his First Wife since returning home, and he struggled to separate his hatred for her people from his love for her. Istar was the mother of his two daughters, the mother of Saan; she had been his wife for two decades. Though he could not forget that she was of Tierran birth, he forced himself to remember all the good things she had done for him, and how he had allowed her into his heart.
The six guard escorts kept their distance so the soldan-shah and his First Wife could continue their inspection. Omra knew their entrance into the empty church today had resembled a victory procession: the soldan-shah reminding everyone who he was and flaunting a blond-haired foreigner as his wife. Just by bringing Istar, he showed everyone that she had survived the sikaras’ plotting.
Omra maintained his silence as they walked across the polished floor tiles that formed the spiral pattern of the Unfurling Fern. When they were far enough ahead of the guards, he took a deep breath and pushed past his dark mood. He whispered, “It is not your fault, Istar. I am sorry for the way I’ve treated you. When I think of the heinous crimes the Aidenists committed, I just want to kill them all. But I do you a disservice by including you among those animals.”
She regarded him with her sincere blue eyes, well aware that she herself had hated him for a long time after he burned her village and took her away from everything she’d known. But over the years, Istar had accepted her life, and now she looked on him with affection, even love. “I understand your pain, Omra.” Her businesslike tone brushed aside the awkwardness. “The people don’t care about internal politics. They want to go to their church and express their beliefs, but you’ve locked the doors. You know that can’t go on. They’ll need a new ur-sikara soon. Give them one, before the priestesses make their own choice.”
Omra knew she was right. If he didn’t heal the rift between himself and the church, there would be great turmoil, and the people would begin to feel they had to choose between their leader and their religion. And he didn’t dare allow those scheming women to dictate his decisions.
He stepped up to the main altar from which the ur-sikara delivered her homilies. When Istar had been just a palace slave, Ur-Sikara Lukai had betrayed the church, scheming with Villiki to poison Omra. Now Ur-Sikara Erima had been manipulated into a similar betrayal and had taken her own life.
Omra would not trust the sikaras. “It has gone on far too long. If I let the priestesses select their own successor, I’ll be in the same predicament as before. I need an ur-sikara who is not politically insidious—a woman who has no ambitions or schemes beyond the church.”
“Such a priestess might be difficult to find,” Istar said, then added in a soft voice, “However, with your permission, I could suggest a name…someone I believe would be both pragmatic and loyal?”
He raised his eyebrows. “What do you know of sikaras?”
“I know that I was impressed by Kuari, your new emissary to Inner Wahilir. Soldan Huttan’s First Wife.”
“Huttan’s wife? That would be asking for trouble. I am already annoyed with that man for his incursions into Yuarej soldanate. He’s too ambitious.”
“And his wife knows that full well. Kuari will never be her husband’s puppet. I’m surprised he hasn’t found a way to strangle her before now. The fact that she has survived also speaks in her favor.”
Omra had met the woman and was also impressed with her. He had spoken to Kuari in her capacity as emissary, but would never have considered her as a potential ur-sikara. Istar explained that Kuari had been raised in the church and trained as a priestess, but chose to marry Huttan instead because she was frustrated with politics and power plays among the sikaras.
Hearing this, he nodded slowly. “That would indeed send an appropriate message to the church of Urec. The priestesses have to be reminded of their role, and their limitations. I am the secular ruler, while the sikaras guide the spiritual lives of the people. Will Kuari let herself be kept on a tight leash?”
Istar gave him a wry smile. “She’ll view it as keeping the sikaras under control.”
Omra drew a deep breath, wanting to close the gulf between them. “I do value your counsel, Istar. I will speak with Kuari and see if she can abide by my conditions. If so, I’ll anoint her myself, and the church will have its new leader without further ado.”
Without a body, it was difficult to give Tukar a proper funeral; nevertheless, Omra insisted on honoring his brother with a special ceremony.
Imir joined him, looking gray and wasted in his sorrow. The older man had surrendered his rule because he could no longer bear the weight of consequences, yet those consequences continued to dog him. Although the former soldan-shah attended the ceremony, he did not wish to participate in any speeches. Imir didn’t trust his voice to deliver a eulogy for his fallen son.
Clad in formal olbas, sashes, and robes of state, the two stood in the main square outside the Olabar palace. On the worn flagstones, workers had set up a huge pyramid of kindling and logs. A scarlet banner with the Unfurling Fern fluttered like a battle flag from the top. Without a body, the funeral pyre was only symbolic, but the people of Uraba would understand the message.
Omra raised his voice and shouted to the crowd, “My brother has been murdered by the followers of Aiden.” A reverent hush fell over the people. “Tukar’s work at the Gremurr mines provided thousands of swords and shields for our war against the enemy, but the Tierrans killed him. They sent us his head, but refused to give us his body for these purging fires, and so our memories must be enough.”
Omra carried a scimitar from the Gremurr mines—not an ornate one, just a soldier’s blade, but it was appropriate. He placed the sword on the pile of dry wood and stepped back. “Let these flames shine so brightly that Ondun Himself knows our anger. I ask my faithful subjects not to forget Tukar, or the slain priestesses at Fashia’s Fountain, or the thousand heads of innocent prisoners strewn along the Ishalem wall. The Aidenists want to weaken the heart of our beliefs, but we will not let them. We must hold Ishalem and show all the world our true faith.”
He gave a small signal, and two guards cast lit torches onto the pyre. The flames caught in the kindling and the fire grew. Omra let the orange glow fill his vision, but Imir averted his eyes. His father spoke quietly. “Do not be so obsessed with Ishalem that you forget to rule the rest of Uraba. Olabar is your capital, not Ishalem.”
“I have two capitals, Father. I must attend to them both.”
“There is more to Uraba than just those two cities. You have five soldanates. When was the last time you traveled to Missinia to see your mother? Or visited the people of Abilan, or far Kiesh? When did you last go to Lahjar?”
Omra’s nostrils flared as he heard his father’s criticism. “But Ishalem is the heart of it all—our history, our heritage, our beliefs. If we lose Ishalem after so many years of struggle, then we lose everything.” The pyre blazed higher and brighter.
The former soldan-shah simply shook his head. “We had Ishalem before, Omra, and even then we didn’t have everything.”