Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  “Anyplace is fine with me. I’ll vomit my guts out if I take another step,” said Kollen.

  “I need amber,” Tye croaked, her mouth as dry as her voice.

  “And I need a place for five hundred men to have a rest or a drink of amber, to sit or to loose their bowels,” said Gneuss.

  “Adin could use some help,” Curst said, his voice as small as the boy himself. Gneuss called to the physician, who went and found Adin. He inspected the injury, pulling away the blood-soaked layers of linen, an even grimmer look passing over his already-grim face.

  Ren looked away. “Where are we?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. When they’d entered the Hollows, they hadn’t known which way to go. They’d searched for a route that led away from the gate. Unfortunately, they’d found little more than darkness, accented by the occasional beggar’s fire. Ren had stumbled into more walls than he dared admit, but they had at last found a place to stop and rest. The kingsguard lit torches.

  They were in what looked like a great cistern, Ren guessed, or at least it had once been a great vessel of some sort. It was a wide, round space, large in volume and dotted with circular openings, places where pipes had once fed water into the vessel but had long since been abandoned or removed. There were a dozen openings, though a few were covered over with stones. A string of archways ran along one wall. Trying to get a better look at the chamber, the kingsguard lit torches and lashed oil lamps to spears, holding them up and illuminating what appeared to be a black river of sewage that ran beyond the arches. It smelled as foul as it looked, but the stench did little to deter the starveling dogs that drank from the black water or the rats that scurried at its banks. There were people too, the clay-eaters. That’s what they’d called them in Ren’s lessons. He’d heard of these folk, but never guessed he’d come across one, let alone a whole clan of them. Mud slathered their lips and chins. It dribbled down their arms as they dredged the clay from the riverbank. Ren saw them feeding it to their children or drinking from the ancient sewer.

  “We can hide here,” said Ren. “I doubt the clay-eaters will report us to anyone.”

  “I couldn’t care less about the starvelings. It’s the cistern I like. It’s a defensible position,” said Gneuss. He eyed the many openings. “If the red soldiers come for us, we can hold them back and there’s more than one way to escape if we should need to mount a retreat.”

  “But they haven’t come for us,” said Ren.

  “They will. If I’m not mistaken, the red armor belongs to the house of Saad. It’s a wealthy house. They have resources and time.”

  Kollen shook his head. “This thing feels like a great big bottle. What if they plug all those holes? What’ll we do then? Drown in our own shit?”

  “It won’t come to that,” said Gneuss. “I’ve placed guards at the entrances and we left scouts as we fled, each within earshot of another. This isn’t the first time we’ve mounted a retreat. Or were you too busy spouting off to think of that?” Gneuss made a small motion with his hand, swatting Kollen away like some pesky fly.

  The older boy came up short and, after a moment of what seemed like silent deliberation, he actually did shut his mouth and sit his ass down on the riverbank. Ren joined him, Tye too, settling down at his side while all around them the kingsguard decamped. More than one man needed a long draft of amber, a bit of rest, or a good piss. They stopped to catch their breath, to regroup.

  “How long do you think we’ve been down here?” Ren asked.

  “Got me,” said Tye. “It’s all a blur. I can’t tell up from down or left from right in this place.”

  Ren thought she’d gotten it correct for the most part. They’d hurried through tunnels, darted around corners, ducked through shafts, and trudged through heaps of moldering filth. They truly were lost, but they were not alone in the Hollows.

  “There are people here,” said Ren. “There must be ways of coming and going. There’s got to be some door that doesn’t have a guard standing beside it.”

  Tye opened her mouth to reply, but something caught her attention and she stood. Gneuss had returned after what seemed like only a moment. He hastened toward them, soldiers at his side, but he allowed Ren a moment to stand. Perhaps it was a token of respect, or maybe they were all just trying to catch their breath.

  “My forward scouts, the ones who ran out ahead of us, returned,” Gneuss said. “They spied more tunnels. We’ll scout them. There are markets too. The men’ll procure rations and try to ferret out the smugglers’ routes. They’ll ask for maps or men who can guide us to the surface. We’ll know soon enough if you were right about those passages,” he said, looking at Ren, reminding him again of the promise he’d made.

  Ren had promised they’d find a way out of Solus. Those were hasty words, but he owned them. “There are routes,” said Ren, not wishing to sound weak or uncertain. In truth, he wanted to sound like a king, but he’d never commanded anyone, never stood at the head of a line of soldiers. The only queue he’d ever stood in was the soup line in the priory. In that case, he’d been pushed aside more often than not, but that memory felt distant.

  In a few short weeks, his whole life had been turned on end. He was changed, a different man with different responsibilities, or at least that was what he told himself. He’d made a choice, made himself king, and he would not back down from that decision.

  “What about the red army?” Ren asked. “Have we seen them?”

  “They’re out there,” Gneuss said. “They’ve doffed their armor, traded their leathers for beggars’ rags, but we spotted them. The soldiers are too well fed, their shoulders too broad, faces too clean. Everyone down here looks like they’ve been living off mud and stepping in it too. Let’s hold tight until the next round of scouts return. If anyone’ll have answers it’s them.” Gneuss turned. Something had caught his attention. Sandals tapped in the distance. A man in black leather approached, motioning to Gneuss, whispering something in his ear. Gneuss turned back to Ren, his right arm extended, finger indicating a blotch of red moving in the distance.

  “They’re coming,” said Gneuss.

  A man approached.

  No, there were two of them and their armor was pale red. They approached the cistern. One held his shield flat above his head.

  Ren thought it an odd gesture. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “A sign of truce,” Gneuss replied. “They haven’t come to fight.”

  They want to talk, thought Ren. But what is there to discuss? Our surrender? The thought of it made his guts twist into a terrible knot. His brow went cold and his chest dampened. He looked for Tye and found her standing nearby, among the ransoms. She was probably thinking the same thoughts as him. He saw it in the contortions of her jaw, her fidgeting hands.

  The two men settled on the far side of the river. One of them, the man who’d taken up the rear, fumbled with an oilskin sack while the other spoke. “I’m Admentus and this is my scribe, Demenouk, and we speak for Mered Saad, father of the house of Saad, high priest of Horu, commander of the Army in Red.” Admentus spoke slowly, his words calm. He still held the shield above his head. Gneuss nodded at it, and the men exchanged glances, a silent agreement passing between them.

  For his part, Ren could only watch. He hadn’t known what the gesture meant until Gneuss explained it, and he certainly hadn’t known how to respond to it. Some king, he thought as Demenouk wrestled a slip of parchment from his oilskin, held it up for everyone to see, then handed it to the other man.

  “I’ve got a parchment to read, from Mered Saad, just like I said.” Admentus unrolled the scroll then read it aloud in a voice that every man could hear. “May it be known that the ransoms who escaped the Priory of Tolemy—emperor of the Soleri, the Bright Star of the Desert—shall be pardoned for the crime of fleeing their lawful imprisonment. Any who wish to come forward will be returned, without recompense, to proper captivity, where they will serve out their time as was previously negotiated and agreed upon by
their respective kingdoms.”

  They’ll send them back to the cells, thought Ren, to sit and wait for their fathers to die.

  “As I said, the ransoms need only step forward and they will be returned safely to the care of Tolemy.”

  “And the kingsguard?” asked Ren. “What of the Harkans? Can they leave the city? It’s only fair.”

  That one made Admentus chuckle a bit. “Can they leave?” He repeated Ren’s question as if he had not heard it or believed it either. “Of course, they can all leave right now. Just line the fuckers up and they can walk right out of here. Of course, their heads will have to stay. We’ll hack those off and toss ’em in the river.”

  As if to emphasize his point, he spat into the channel of filth that ran between them. “The Harkans trespass in the holy city of the Soleri. Mered Saad commands that every last one of them pay for this insult with their life. Does that sound fair to you, boy?”

  Ren said nothing.

  “It’ll be a fight then?” said Gneuss.

  “It will be,” said the man in red. “You the one in charge?” he asked, looking to Gneuss, but eyeing Ren.

  Ignoring the question, Gneuss pressed his case. “The kingsguard were called here lawfully by the First Ray of the Sun. We will leave peacefully if you allow it, but I’ve heard no such offer.”

  “Nor will you,” said Admentus. “Ever. The little ones will come with us. They are the sons of kings and other highborn men. They are useful to our patron, but the rest of you, well, you’re just a bunch of dead men who don’t know it yet. We surrounded you and killed your scouts. We took twelve of your men in the markets, another fifteen in the passages beyond. That makes twenty-seven. Did I catch them all?” The man’s face twisted into a terrible grin. “Or did I miss one?”

  Gneuss said nothing; his face was stone.

  “I reckon I’m right then. I got ’em all. We’ll send you their heads, but not just yet. Maybe later, when you’re starving we’ll return them. See, I’ve blocked every passage out of here. There’ll be no provisions for your men and no way out. You’ve got a place to piss, I’ll give you that, but not much else.” He took a step back, indicating that the conversation was nearly at an end.

  “We’ll give the ransoms a moment to make up their minds,” he said, raising his voice again so that even those in the distance could hear him. “They may come forward, and if they want to say their farewells they can do that too. The ransoms will leave with us and the rest of you will go to whatever miserable fate awaits you. Starvation maybe, the spear in all likelihood.”

  With that, Admentus scrunched up the parchment, twisting it into a clumsy little roll. The two men backed away, but they did not leave. Admentus flashed an odd grin, a kind of twisted smile—like the smirk of a torturer who’d just brought out his most vile implement.

  “Mered asked that I relay a last piece of news,” Admentus said. “It’s a little thing, but he thought it might be of interest to the kingsguard. A boy called Ren is rumored to be among your men. He is not the true heir of Harkana. He is the bastard son of Arko, and his mother is just some peasant girl named Serena—some wench the king took into his bed each night while the queen fiddled in her bedchamber. Mered recently came upon this news, so he thought you should know it. Your king-in-waiting is nothing but a bastard, but we’ll take him too if he wants to flee with the rest of the ransoms.” The man looked to Ren. “That you, boy? The bastard of Harkana?”

  Ren made something like a grunt. The shock was too much to fathom, too much to even acknowledge. His heart hammered in his ears and his skin prickled. He worried he was shaking.

  “Stings like a bitch, doesn’t it,” said Admentus. “Sorry to be the one to bring you the news, but it shouldn’t bother you, not too much. I was born a bastard. Half of us hired men are bastards. You’ll get used to being one,” he said, and this time the two men finally did retreat.

  Behind them, spears glinted in the lamplight. The red army was moving, hurrying down stairs, taking up positions, and stealing cover wherever they could find it. Then, when the soldiers had reached their positions, one after another they extinguished their lights. They snuffed out their lamps and ground their torches into the earth, darkening the already gloomy caverns. The shadows gathered and the soldiers of Mered advanced.

  THE BARTERED QUEEN

  8

  Merit Hark-Wadi had been away from the kingdom for too long. She felt it as the wheels of her carriage rumbled over the spindly bridge, crossing the Rift valley and leaving the woodland kingdom. War was afoot. An army massed at Harkana’s doorstep, but the Horned Throne sat empty in the King’s Hall. As queen regent, she’d left it in the care of one of her father’s best generals—Tomen Cannet, a good warrior and decent politician—but he was no king, or queen for that matter. The kingdom was in decent hands, but they were not her hands. She’d spent a good portion of her life pursuing that throne. Yet, when she’d finally attained it, she had not even taken a moment to warm the age-old seat. Instead, she’d gone off to Feren on a fool’s errand, chasing a husband that was not hers.

  All of that was in the past. A mistake, perhaps, but at least it was over and done with, or so she told herself. The hurt still throbbed in her veins, coming and going with each passing moment. She’d loved a good number of men, but not one of them had ever caught and held her eye like Dagrun Finner, the king of the Ferens. Only in hindsight could she see it. She’d loved the man, loved him with such force that she’d been afraid to admit to it. She’d feared it. Merit had dreaded the helplessness that accompanied such unbridled feeling. That dread had forced her to keep him at arm’s length. Merit had forestalled their passions, teasing the man mercilessly. She’d enjoyed that part. She liked when men wanted her. The fact that she wanted him was a more unfamiliar feeling, or perhaps even an unwanted one. She guessed that was why she had kept him out of her bed. We must first join our kingdoms and unite our armies. That’s what she’d told Dagrun. She’d sought perfection in an imperfect world.

  That was an error.

  Her whole plan was riddled with errors and innocence.

  Her desires would never be sated. The king had his queen and it was not Merit. The matter was settled. Over and done.

  If only she could settle the pounding in her chest. That will take time, she told herself. Yes, time would dull the ache. Her duty, perhaps, would do the same. Maybe there, in her work, she could find solace. After all, she had attained that which she most desired. She was queen regent of Harkana, but not all was as she’d imagined. Her throne was contested. In Feren, Dagrun said the boy—Arko’s heir, Ren—had completed the Elden Hunt. He’d slain the eld and taken his trophy. For all she knew, the little ransom was sitting on the throne, awaiting his coronation, so she rode with uncertainty in her heart.

  They left behind the lumbering hills that sheltered the woodland kingdom, striking out into the barren lands beyond, the first traces of the desert sand passing beneath their horses’ hooves.

  A half-day’s ride from the rift, they came upon a spindly tower. It was the last Feren outpost. Framed between the crenellations of the wall walk, a man stood, flag raised, giving some sort of signal that they ought to stop. Catching sight of it, Merit lifted a hand and her caravan halted. The procession was large, a hundred Harkan soldiers, all mounted on destriers barded in black leather. And they rode with another fifty men from Feren, so it took a good amount of time for the caravan to slow to a stop. There were a dozen carts. Most held their supplies, but one carried her husband, Shenn, who was injured and weak, and thus unable to ride. Her captain, Sevin, was at her side and her father’s man, Asher Hacal, First Captain of the Kingsguard, accompanied her on the ride.

  The whole caravan clustered about the lonely tower, and the Feren guard must have felt intimidated by the sheer size of the force because he took his time on the steps. They waited as he made his way down some stairs, the wood groaning beneath his weight, locks clanking softly, then they heard the screech of what m
ust have been an old iron hasp that refused to be loosed. Finally, the door flung open and a young soldier appeared, bright eyes and long hair. He cast about for a moment before catching sight of Merit and her characteristic blue dress. He must have recognized the garb because he went and addressed her directly. “You’re the queen regent—am I right?” he asked. “I was told to expect you. I have news if you’ve time to hear it.”

  “I do,” said Merit, mild irritation in her voice. Her fingers drummed on the saddle of her horse, but the man hesitated to speak, stumbling over his words.

  “Out with it,” said Merit.

  The guard swallowed, still reluctant, but she shot him a terrible glance so he spoke at last. “In Solus, in the city of light,” he said, still stalling a bit, “the Ray of the Sun, your father…”

  “What about my father?”

  “He … was put to the flame, forced to endure a trial by fire.”

  “A trial by fire,” Merit repeated. It was no question, and surely there had been no trial. No man survived Mithra’s Flame or any other kind for that matter. Fire was fire and it burned everything it touched. “So … he’s dead then,” she said, the words coming slowly, painfully to her lips. Her eyes stung. “A moment.” Merit had not seen her father since their last meeting at the Battered Wall.

  How long had it been? Three weeks? Four? She could still see her father on the morning when they last spoke: half-drunk, angry, and sputtering orders while the whole of Harwen gathered around their king. It had been a hard end for a hard man. A bitter and terrible moment. No less awful than his death, of course. She did not want to picture her father and how he might have passed, burned alive in some manner.

  She drew down her cowl and readied to leave, but the young soldier tapped his spear, indicating that he had other news.

  “It’s all just rumor,” the soldier said, a drop of perspiration on his brow. “They say the heir of Harkana—your brother, Ren—is in the city of the gods and the kingsguard is there as well, called by their former king. Arko was his name. The one who was made Ray. The guard never got to him, not before the flames took their king’s life. They say it’s a terrible mess, a foreign army trapped in the holy city. There’s war, and no one knows what happened to the boy. Some say he joined the kingsguard, while others swear he fled to Harkana.”