“How noble of you,” said Sarra, “to come to the aid of our holy city. But I think I can take charge of the matter from this moment onward. It is my task to ensure that the emperor’s will is enacted.” She gave him a moment to comprehend her challenge. It was a hollow one, she realized. This man controlled an army that looked to be at least the size of the Protector’s, and he had the city guard in hand. She commanded no one.
There truly had been an absence of leadership and he’d filled it. While she’d fought Amen in the throne room, this man had taken charge of the city. He was in command and there was little Sarra could do about it. The highborn were granted special privileges to operate within the city. There were limits to their power, but she didn’t know them. The city guard served under the Protector, but she didn’t have a Protector and she did not know if the private armies were sworn to the emperor or simply to their masters. Sarra was unaware of the hierarchy. There were too many machinations, many of which she did not even understand. The speed of events, Arko’s passing and Saad’s, too, had become an unexpected disadvantage—to her at least. Mered appeared to savor it.
“No,” he answered the question that had long since passed, “do not concern yourself with this quarrel. You are Ray. You must let your light shine upon the Denna Hills. And we must all feast in the Cenotaph. We shall bedeck every street with golden banners. There are preparations that must be made, feasts to plan, and ceremonies to attend. There is much glory for you to enjoy. I look forward to seeing my name carved into your tree. You are Ray and you must do as every Ray has done. Even the Harkan sat through the great feast. I was there.”
Sarra bit her lip, betraying her displeasure.
The bastard has me, or at least he thinks he does.
He was leading her into the same trap Arko had fallen into, drowning her in customs, stuffing her full of banquets.
“I am sponsoring the Opening of the Mundus,” he said, “a two-day feast. I must admit that when I agreed to underwrite the festival, I did it for Amen’s sake. It was to be his feast, but the preparations are made. I see no reason why the holiday should not celebrate you. I intended to honor the new Ray. A different one, perhaps, but one nonetheless. I will contain the Harkans. You have no duty here. Go. Return to the domain. Prepare for your glorious ascent. I will see you at one of the many feasts.”
He’s trying to banish me, to send me away like some dutiful child, she thought.
Sarra would not have it.
“I am the first Ray to hail from the Wyrre. I’ve already broken with one tradition, so I see no reason why I shouldn’t break with a few more. There’ll be no light on the mountain and no feasting in the halls. I’ve escaped the Empyreal Domain, seen the light of the immortal god, and lived. The people need no other sign. My presence here, at the mouth of the domain, standing beneath the Shadow Gate, alive and untarnished by the light of Mithra, ought to be enough for them. I am Ray.” Sarra spoke so quickly her words blurred into one long, unsteady sentence.
She heaved a tired breath when she was done with it, waiting for Mered’s reaction, but all she got was a shrug. A long, painful silence. Then he muttered something to his soldiers. For a moment, she was uncertain just what he was doing, then she realized he was leaving, going off to tend to the fight. His soldiers withdrew, but Mered lingered at the gate, stepping toward Sarra unexpectedly and whispering in her ear before he departed.
“You survived nothing,” he said. “There are no gods in the Empyreal Domain.”
5
The flames danced about the edge of the statuary garden, coming closer to the kingsguard with each passing heartbeat. Already, Ren’s skin felt as if it were on fire and the blaze was still a good way off.
“It’s just flame and more flame,” said Kollen. “All I can see are the damned flames.”
It was true enough; the fires climbed the wrinkled vines of the statuary garden, they scaled the arbors, and they wound about the ancient pergolas. They eclipsed the sky, blotting out everything, churning out great clouds of black smoke that came tumbling toward them.
“Down,” said Gneuss. “Put your head to the stones if you plan on taking another breath.”
Ren had already planted his head on the ground. He’d been holding his breath to keep out the smoldering air, but he could only do that for so long. He quickly inhaled, choking on the first breath, but he took a second one anyway. While he drew it in, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. A gap had opened in the flames. In it, Ren spied the black gates of the Hollows. The path to the underground was clear.
Ducking beneath flaming arrows and pots that threatened to explode upon contact, he crawled to where Gneuss kneeled. A dozen or so men gathered around their captain, discussing some plan.
“What now?” Gneuss asked Ren. “Do you want to hold hands while we roast in the fire?”
“No. I was thinking about getting out of here.”
“Out of here?” asked Gneuss. “And into what? The path of three armies, or is it four? I lost track of the colors. Maybe I saw five.” The black smoke swirled, momentarily concealing the man’s face from Ren’s view. “What’ll it be?” Gneuss asked when it cleared. “Roasted or skewered?”
Ren ignored the jibe. Instead, he pointed to the open gates of the Hollows, which had once more come into view as the smoke briefly thinned and the fires moved out of the way. “It’s not far,” said Ren.
Gneuss scoffed, but he did not dismiss the idea—not outright, at least.
“It suicide,” he said. “If you haven’t forgotten, there’s a wall of fire out there and we’re going to have to pass through it to reach those gates. Butting heads with a churning heap of flame isn’t like striking a line of shields. Those fires are hot enough to roast the lot of us. I’ll need volunteers,” he said quietly, as if he were already weighing the consequences of their escape, the men who would die.
“It’s the only sensible way out,” said Ren.
“Sense?” asked Gneuss. “There’s no sense in war.” The captain glanced at his troops, and for a moment Ren saw his resolve start to waver, so he pressed his case.
“These armies own the streets,” Ren said. “That much is plain. But down there, in the dark and narrow tunnels, their numbers won’t matter and there are paths, smugglers’ routes—”
“Yes, I’ve heard the stories. They say Solus has three gates and a thousand doors. A smuggler’s route might be the way out, or it might not.”
“It’s my call,” said Ren, humble but firm. If he were going to assert himself, now was the time. Though he had not stepped into the King’s Hall and he wore no crown, he was as good as king, the son of Arko and the heir to the throne. These men were his kingsguard, but there hadn’t been time for oaths. Still, Ren gave the command and offered no indication that it was anything but a command.
Gneuss weighed it. “King without a crown—is that what you are, boy? I hold five hundred souls in my care. Five hundred men with five hundred wives and thousands of fucking children. You ready to lead them—to take that responsibility? You’re Arko’s heir, but you don’t have a crown. We’ve sworn oaths to the king of Harkana, but are you the king? Remember, Arko named your sister regent. When he threw down his crown, she picked it up. Are you ready to claim it? Right here, right now?”
It was a challenge. Ren was not yet crowned, but his father had named him heir. When they reached Harwen, he’d take the throne and the kingsguard would be sworn to his service. They would be subject to his absolute authority. Gneuss weighed this, Ren knew. He contemplated his prospects and the consequences he might suffer if he disobeyed a future king.
“It’s your decision,” Gneuss said after a considerable silence. His smile was flat, eye fixed on Ren. “I won’t stand in your way, but if you do this, if you take charge of my men, their lives will rest in your hands. That’s the burden. Can you carry it?”
Ren gave no reply, not at first. He did, however, catch hold of the gravity of the moment. This was his coronat
ion. He’d thought he would take his crown on a bright and sunny day in Harwen, in a hall festooned with banners, every warlord standing at his side. Instead, it was happening here, in the thick of the fight.
Take charge or cower behind some soldier’s shield.
That was his choice.
With this order, he left behind his old identity: a boy, a ransom, a child who thought of nothing more than the safety of his friends. He allowed himself the luxury of a single breath. Then he narrowed his eyes at Gneuss and spoke.
“The Hollows are the way out,” he said.
Ren had made his decision.
It had been an impulsive one. He’d chosen what seemed like madness. He was thirteen years old and a onetime ransom who had never even set foot in the King’s Hall of Harkana, but with those words he claimed his crown.
“Your command, your choice,” said Gneuss, “and it’ll be our asses if you’re wrong.”
“I’m not,” said Ren, feigning certainty, trying more than anything to exhibit a king’s confidence. “And even if I’m wrong, we’re out of time.”
Indeed, the flames were drawing closer, the heat coming at them in waves, searing Ren’s hands, his face. Soon the smoke would overcome the men, and Ren knew it. Gneuss knew it too. The captain was tugging at his beard, his eye fixed on the gates. He tore off his helmet and the sweat poured down from his already-sodden hair.
He called out names, “Edric, Butcher!” Then he murmured, “My captains and yours.” He pointed at a gap in the flames. “We’re going through that gate—see it?” asked Gneuss as the captains gathered around him. “Tight as a foxhole and only Mithra knows where it will take us.”
“There are passages that lead to the surface, secret pathways in and out of the city, smugglers’ routes,” said Ren, seeking to assert himself, to explain his intentions.
“And you can find these tunnels?” asked the man called Butcher. He was a strong but portly fellow who carried a war hammer in place of a sword.
“I can,” Ren said. He’d heard countless tales about the smugglers’ routes, but he had no notion of how to locate one or where to start looking.
“You’ll find them,” said Gneuss, “or we’re dead men. We’re nearly out of food, out of amber, too, and it’s a day’s march to Harwen. These armies will pursue us wherever we go, and this is their city. They are no doubt aware of these same smugglers’ routes and for all we know they’ve posted guards at each of them and at every gate in the underground.”
Ren nodded his understanding, but the time for talk had come and gone. For better or worse they needed to move. Gneuss was already handing out orders, calling for volunteers, arranging some strategy that would allow them to pass through the flames.
Though he had not spoken, Kollen stood at Ren’s side. “Sure you don’t want to ditch these soldiers and make a run for it?” he asked.
“And leave Adin?” Ren had once risked his life to save his friend from Feren slavers and Adin had returned the favor when he took that blow to the shoulder. Ren could not imagine abandoning Adin, leaving him with soldiers they hardly knew.
“Are you utterly unaware of what’s just transpired,” Ren asked, “what’s happening at this very moment? We’ve made our decision. We’re heading back down into the Hollows. I’m not going to slip away like some coward. Even if I wanted to sneak off, I don’t think we’d have much luck slipping out of here as we carried Adin along on a litter. No doubt that would draw much attention.” Ren shot Kollen a sideways glance. “We’ll need two men to lift the thing and the physician just to keep him alive. The time to steal our way out of this city has come and gone. As for you, Kollen, you were always an ass, but when you joined us, when you helped us free the others, I thought I’d found some shred of decency in you. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps you’re just a coward, some bully who’s lost his gang and his nerve along with it. That’s not my path. I’m not abandoning the guard or anyone else,” Ren said. The ransoms had all gathered around him to listen. Ren looked to each of them for reassurance, for agreement. He was not their master. Each of them was the son of some other lord or king. They need not follow his dictates, but Carr nodded his assent and so did Tye. They all looked to Adin, but the boy was too weak to speak. His condition was clearly deteriorating, but somehow, amid all that pain, he managed a nod. Curst went to his side, “I’ll go wherever Adin goes,” he said meekly, as if not wanting to assert himself.
“Then it’s all of us,” said Ren.
“All of us?” asked Kollen. “King of Harkana and now you’re the emperor as well? Maybe you’ll be Mithra, too, by the time the day’s done.”
“Kollen, if we live through this day, I’ll name you the god’s damned emperor. Until then, shut your mouth and follow along with the rest of us—is that fair enough for you?”
Kollen spat. “You better be right. There better be more doors than rats in that sewer…” he said, his words swallowed by the shouts of men. Not far from where they stood, the kingsguard had begun their charge. They were clearing a path through the flames. With shields, they wiped away the tar, but the fire had a mind of its own—one that would not be easily tamed. Tongues of flame lapped at the men’s armor, turning their oilskins into ash. The air stunk of burnt leather. It was an almost impossible task, but somebody had to beat back the blaze and these men had offered to do it. Their heroism shocked Ren. I did this, he thought. I asked for this charge and these men offered their lives to make it happen.
The kingsguard rushed into the breach and the ransoms followed, but they had no armor of any kind. With bare arms and unshod feet, they could not pass through the flames with the kingsguard, so men with tall shields marched on either side of them, making a second wall to shield them from the heat. Still, as he passed through the wall of fire Ren felt nothing but searing heat and saw a light so white and hot it made the naked sun seem like yesterday’s campfire. He shut his eyes lest they be burned like the skin on his arms. He nearly stumbled too. However, there were three or four litters coming fast behind him, shoving him forward, so Ren pushed past the conflagration.
Outside, the soldiers in red and blue appeared to have been caught off guard by the Harkans’ sudden advance. Perhaps they thought the kingsguard dead. By the time their foes drew blades and formed up ranks the black shields had already fashioned a corridor made of shields, a path that led straight into the Hollows, and they were hurrying through it by the dozens.
The soldiers pelted the black shields with stones; arrows shattered against the Harkan wall. Those among the kingsguard who held shields raised them above their heads and Ren tried to steal a bit of cover. Everyone did, but there simply wasn’t enough of it. One man fell, then another, and soon Ren was leaping over bodies and he still hadn’t reached the gates. The ransoms moved in a pack. Even Kollen joined them. But the closeness of the men slowed their progress. Ren slammed into a soldier, stumbled, and struck another. An arrow whizzed past his nose. He looked for Tye and caught hold of her hand, tugging her along. He grabbed Kollen by the belt. Adin followed on the litter, accompanied by Curst, who’d been tossed hastily beside the injured boy. That was how they came upon the gates of the Hollows. The yawning chasm looked more sinister than it had when he first entered it. Ren sought shelter from the armies in red and blue and yellow, but he wasn’t sure if he’d find it down there. Passing through the gates, he felt as if he were being swallowed whole, as if some beast had engulfed the kingsguard and the ransoms too. An ill feeling overcame him, and he lingered at the gates. The last of the kingsguard rushed past him, fleeing down the long flight of stairs.
Gneuss and a few of his men brought up the rear, fighting their way back toward the place where Ren stood. The captain gave some muffled cry and the men formed a semicircle around the gates. They split off, one by one, moving with the precision of highly trained soldiers, of men who had drilled for such things, for guarding exits and making hasty departures. The last of the black shields pulled the gates closed, wedging a sword between
the bars and bending it to hold them closed. Ren stood beside Gneuss. They were the last ones at the gates, the only two who had not yet fled down into the Hollows.
“Look,” said Gneuss, his lips curled downward into a terrible grimace, the tip of his blade indicating the distant armies.
Ren had won the day. He’d escaped the ambush these armies had set for the kingsguard, but he could not help but feel that the fight was not yet over—that perhaps he’d wriggled out of one trap only to find himself ensnarled in another, more elaborate, one.
The soldiers made no effort to pursue the kingsguard. Not one of the men, be he a red or a blue or any other color, chased after them. Their foes ought to be nipping at their heels, but they simply stood there, waiting.
6
The clash of swords had ceased, as had the constant patter of arrows striking the cobblestones. The battle was over, but the city was not quiet. Rather, it had returned to its usual clamor, the daily bustle of the empire’s capital. Soldiers abounded. Men donning house colors hurried in every direction. The yellow cloaks of the city guard dotted the crowd. The red soldiers appeared here and there among the masses, but there were fewer of them. In fact, most of the fighting men were gone, and the sounds of the city had replaced those of the battle. The familiar tapping of sandals reverberated throughout the streets. Hawkers cried in the distance. Heralds announced the day’s tidings. The conflict was ended. The Harkans had fled into the Hollows, or so it was said. The talk was everywhere. Some cheered when they heard it, while others simply went about their business as if nothing had happened at all. Soothsayers plied their trade while the spice traders cried out lots, screaming to be heard over the perfume makers and silk traders. Moneylenders stood on corners, shoving the chickpea vendors aside, fighting for space to do business. Men sold bushels of dates, tossing them into the air to tantalize the eye while all around them the buskers sang from lonely alcoves, already inventing tales about the battle that had only just passed.
Silence of the Soleri Page 4