Then something struck the side of her face. She fell over, clutching her cheek, which was covered in crushed tomato pulp. Flicking her fingers, she cast the juicy seeds aside, then faced the crowd. That she’d been heckled did not surprise her; despite her station, the cowardly always found courage when hidden, faceless, in a crowd. But this-this was new. No one had ever before been insane enough to throw something at her.
She spotted the objector in the crowd, a spindly older man wearing a filthy brown robe over his torn clothes. He held a bucket of spoiled fruit in his left hand, and when he opened his mouth to shout a jeer at her, she saw that he was missing half his teeth. The man’s skin was dark and rutted, as if he’d spent his whole life tied to a rock in the desert.
“What does Karak care for me?” he shouted. “I have lost everything-my honor, my land, even my children, to the Conningtons! And the courts do nothing. Karak does nothing! If he cares so much, let him do something about it! Or does his ‘caring’ only get me an arrow in the throat?”
Soleh cringed but tried to hide her frustration. This was the type of man who needed to learn to kneel, just as Karak had told her. She had to wake him up to that fact. Her Palace Guard lingered along the interior of the castle wall, watching, honoring her demand that she be allowed to handle whatever happened in the courtyard herself, in whatever way she decided best.
“Karak did not take your lands or your family away,” she shouted. “That you even had those lands was because of the freedom he granted you. But if you have lost them, if you have nothing, then that is on you. Pick yourself back up and start over. That is the right your god has given you!”
The man spit a wad of reddish-yellow phlegm. “Start over? Start over?! I’m almost seventy years old, woman! Unlike you, my bones actually turn brittle as the years wear on. I didn’t get to create my own mate, and I wasn’t granted a life in splendor. How can I possibly pick myself up when I can barely lift this bucket of fruit?”
With that he dipped his hand into the bucket and withdrew another tomato.
“One of these, though,” he said, “I can lift just fine. You lying, eternal whore!”
The man reared back and hurled the tomato at her. Soleh easily stepped out of the way, but that didn’t stop Pulo and Roddalin from rushing forward and grabbing the old man by the arms. He struggled, his teeth clenched, and called out for help from those around him. No one dared come to his aid-not when Jonn walked among them with his sword drawn. Pulo and Roddalin lugged the man before the pulpit. The kneelers, who were watching the proceedings in horror, quickly made room as the guards threw the man face down in the grass.
Soleh stepped off the platform and approached him. Inwardly she shivered, while outwardly she was a wall of iron. This was a test of her wisdom and her ability to convey the hard truths she knew. Eyes were upon her, and whatever they witnessed would spread throughout the city like wildfire. Soleh stood before the elderly man as he raised his head. His jaw swished from side to side, gathering spittle. Pulo stopped him before he could act on his disgrace, planting a booted foot on the man’s back.
“You may insult me all you wish,” Soleh said, “for I am not perfect. But Karak is divine. Karak is the reason, the Order in a universe of chaos. He is to be praised, not torn down. Will you praise him?”
“Fuck you,” the man muttered. “And fuck Karak.”
“Very well,” said Soleh. She faced the crowd again. Beyond the kneelers she saw that a crowd of nearly a hundred had gathered, watching. Soleh addressed her words to the faithful, but they weren’t the ones she was truly addressing. They weren’t the ones who needed her message most.
“Karak is mighty, but he is also forgiving. If you have turned your back to him in pride, then kneel. Show your appreciation to your creator.”
The distant men and women were watching, and only a small handful stepped forward to join the others in prayer. Soleh sighed, wanting to give up but knowing Karak wouldn’t have given her such a task if he had not thought her equal to it. Hard truths, she told herself. They must all learn the hard truths. She turned back to the man her guards held bound.
“You must know that despite Karak’s forgiveness, he is merciless before disrespect. If no forgiveness is requested, none shall be received. Turning your back on your creator forever will result in the damnation of your eternal soul. You will be punished for an eternity in the fires in the Abyss below Afram.”
The crowd began to murmur, and Soleh knew she had their attention at last.
“However,” she cried, “this kind of damnation is a last resort. It is a sad fate that I would not wish on anyone, even this sad, disrespectful mongrel before me. No, it is up to us, the faithful, to spare the weak from the punishing fire. If you do not sacrifice your pride willingly, you will have another sacrifice taken from you by force!”
She nodded to Jonn, who sheathed his sword and withdrew a wicked-looking dagger. Pulo and Roddalin knelt on the dissenter’s back, staying him, while Jonn circled around and caught his flailing hand in a firm grip. The old man shrieked as he struggled beneath the guard’s weight. Jonn held the dagger’s cutting edge over the man’s wrist and glanced up at Soleh.
“A hand for your soul,” she said, her voice knifing through the stunned crowd. “That is not a lot to ask.”
Jonn gritted his teeth and hacked down with the dagger. As the blade pierced flesh, the guard’s breastplate was spattered with blood. The old man shrieked even louder as Jonn brought the dagger down again, this time splitting through a few bones-still, the hand remained attached. It took a third swing to finally sever the appendage. Blood poured from the stump, the frayed skin glistening, the jagged bone looking sharp and dangerous. Still the man screamed, now crying out in supplication.
“I’m sorry!” he shouted. “I repent! Give my soul to Karak! He can have it, it’s his!”
Soleh gestured for Jonn to switch sides, which he did, grabbing the man’s other hand and holding the dagger to his flesh.
Hard truths, she told herself.
“Are you sure?” she asked, her expression hard as granite. “Or do we need to take another sacrifice?”
“No, dammit!” the man squealed. He was sobbing fully now, shock robbing him of his will to do anything but raise his voice. “Praise be to the Divinity! He who created me deserves my love and respect!”
Soleh let the moment linger, let her silence stretch over the crowd. She passed her eyes over them, let them imagine themselves standing before judgment, a knife raised over their own sinful lives.
“I believe you,” she said.
She beckoned to the palace servants who had been observing the event and told them to help mend the man’s wounds. Then, loudly enough for everyone watching to hear, she spoke: “This man is truly repentant and now stands in Karak’s favor. Make sure he is given the best healers at our disposal, and instruct the minister of agriculture to find him a position. Make certain he has a place to rest his head at night and money to keep him fed. That is all.”
“Thank you, Minister,” the man groveled as the servants led him away, doing their best to staunch the blood still pouring from the stump of his right wrist. “You are merciful, you are great. Praise Karak, praise Karak, praise Karak.…”
This continued until the servants brought the man through the entrance to Tower Servitude. Soleh turned around, filled with pride that she had saved the man’s soul, and that pride doubled when she saw what awaited her. The rest of those gathered in the courtyard-merchants, commoners, and vagrants alike-were all on bended knee.