Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  Merit gave no response. She’d hardly had time to digest the news of her father’s death, and now there was this new bit of rumor and it took a painful moment for her to wrap her head around it. “What … when … did this happen?” she asked, her words again coming slowly, voice faltering. “And why have I not heard this news?”

  “It’s all just happened in the last few days. You’re hearing it no later than anyone else. You’ve been on the road—right? Four days in the forest.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, quietly, chastened by her own forgetfulness. She had been on the road, deep within the forests of Feren and before that the desert, held hostage by Hykso traders. “Is there anything else? Any other news?” she begged, and the guard said there was plenty more. He’d heard the Protector had gone into the domain of the Soleri but hadn’t returned. Others said it was the Mother Priestess who had vanished in the holy domain. Carters from Solus said fire had claimed half the Waset, while the soldiers he’d encountered thought it was simply the Antechamber of the Ray that had burned. In fact, there were all sorts of rumors about the Mother Priestess.

  “They say she has a son,” the soldier said. “I suppose he’d be your brother then.”

  That last one stopped Merit dead in her tracks. “A son?” she asked. “By whom? Who is the father? The Mother Priestess takes no husband. She is forbidden any such congress.”

  “I … I know as much, my queen. The boy is older, a man really, and his father is the same as yours—if the rumors are to be believed. They say he’s the trueborn son of the king and the other one—Ren’s the name—is just some bastard boy. We heard this news from the fighting men of Solus, the patrolmen at the Dromus. It might just be soldiers’ talk. They trade in all sorts of gossip,” he said, perhaps trying to console her.

  Her eyes twitched, her fingers trembled. Her father was dead and she had a brother she had not yet met. No. An heir. There were two of them now. One held the horns and the other the parentage.

  “If that’s all, we’ll take our leave,” said Asher, speaking for the queen. Merit thanked him with a nod, backing away from the tower guard, the gravity of the moment still overpowering her thoughts. She needed time. To think. To mourn. To somehow grieve amid all this uncertainty. That last one would no doubt prove the most challenging.

  Merit gave the destrier a good kick, her mind clearing as the horse’s charge brought cool air to her face. With this much confusion at hand, her only safe course of action was to return to Harkana, and to do it as quickly as possible. Her father was dead, so there was no sense in going to Solus. She could not be certain of Ren’s location, and there was no point in chasing after the boy. In fact, this news about Ren raised more questions than it answered. Why had he gone to Solus and not Harwen? Had Arko called his bastard son to the capital? Had he wanted Ren to serve there? Did Ren know the empire’s secret? Merit certainly did. Her father had sent it to her in a letter, but as far as she knew he’d told it to no one else. But there was no knowing what had transpired in Solus. The notion both frustrated and relieved Merit. She had devoted an undue amount of time to keeping that boy away from the Harkan throne, but it had all been for naught. Ren was nothing more than the love child of her father and some whore. The news might have consoled Merit were it not for this talk of a second heir, a trueborn son of Harkana. She shook her head at that. There were too many unknowns here and too few answers. She did not know the state of her kingdom, nor that of the empire.

  She sent out scouts to scale the hill, too see if the way ahead was clear. They reported little. The route to Harkana appeared safe. Barca had not yet encircled her kingdom. There was still time to reach the Harkan throne in advance of a possible siege, so they rode out, moving at a scout’s pace, stopping as little as possible, pushing the horses to their limit.

  The men chafed at the pace of their ride, but Merit turned a deaf ear to their gripes. There was too much at stake. She wanted to be the first to reach the King’s Hall. If she were able to sit herself upon the Horned Throne and claim her place as the queen regent, Merit was certain she could block the bastard’s claim to the throne. If the trueborn heir of Harkana returned, she guessed she could do the same. From her father’s seat, she could maintain the power and authority of the throne, or so she told herself. It was a child’s hope, perhaps, but it was buoyed by this most recent news. If Ren had gone to Solus, he might still be there. He might, in fact, find himself in unwelcome company. If her father was dead and her mother had an heir of her own, Ren would find no friends in the city of the Soleri. Moreover, he might just find himself surrounded by foes. She tried to imagine what he was doing there in the first place, but quickly realized she hadn’t a clue. She hadn’t a care either. She thought only of Harwen. The Horned Throne was hers, after all. If neither heir had returned to Harwen, she was still regent. The seat belonged to her and she would not allow it to be taken by some dirt-faced boy from the priory or a priest who had never set foot in the kingdom. Arko was dead. He could hardly confirm the identity of this new heir, and news of this king-in-waiting had appeared just after her father’s death. The whole thing stunk of lies or some other form of subterfuge.

  “We’ve come upon the first Harkan outpost,” said Sevin, momentarily forcing her thoughts to return to the present. Perhaps the Harkan soldiers would have the answers she desired. Eager for news, Merit rode up to the tower, charging ahead of the others, her heart beating so loud she feared the men might hear it. To her dismay, she saw no guard upon the tower.

  “Where are the sentries?” she asked.

  “Damned if I know,” Sevin said as he slipped off his horse. He prodded the tower door with his spear, moving slowly, carefully, prying open the wood then ducking inside to have a look.

  “The bastards better not be sleeping,” Sevin said, his voice sounding distant as he crept deeper into the tower. Through the partially open door she saw him reach a stair. “I suppose I’ll have to climb,” he grumbled.

  “I suppose you will,” Merit shouted.

  Sevin returned a moment later, face grim, head shaking. “No one’s home,” he said. “And no scrolls, either, no messages of any kind, but a chair was broken and the lock on the door was cracked, the hinges bent.”

  “An attack?” she ventured.

  “Perhaps,” said Sevin. “But these towers are old. Half the locks are broken and I ain’t seen one door that didn’t have a busted hinge or two. Could be the boys got drunk and one smashed the other over the head. Could be bandits too.”

  “No.” Merit sensed something was wrong. “That’s not it. We need to ride.” She gave no voice to her suspicions. She did not want to worry the men, nor did she want to guess at their foe’s identity, not aloud at least. It was one more mystery—one more reason to return to Harwen.

  Her caravan left with as much haste as it had arrived, sprinting over the low desert basin that stretched between the kingdoms. They made good time. The roads were empty, which made it relatively easy to move her caravan across the sometimes-narrow path, but the emptiness of the desert way raised yet another suspicion, at least to Merit’s eye. Where were the carters? Why hadn’t she seen the desert caravans or the waste traders, the multitude of men and women that walked or rode the trails between the kingdoms? It was as if Feren had vanished and taken Harkana along with it.

  An uneasy feeling crept through her bones, making her all the more eager to return home. Consequently, they stopped as little as was possible, watering the horses only as needed, skirting the most desolate stretches of the desert, straddling the low hills of Harkana, drawing ever closer to Harwen. I was gone for too long, she thought, chastising herself again for leaving, wondering about the tower and its absent guard as they caught sight of another of the many outposts that flanked the desert trail.

  Merit had wanted to ride right up to it, but Sevin insisted she remain at the rear of the company. He led the men, Asher at his side, the Harkans close behind, the Feren entourage galloping around to the ba
ck of the tower should they need to outflank some attack. It was a war stance. Asher was a cautious man; it’s why she’d chosen him to lead her guard. Merit allowed the men to do their work. She waited a good distance from the tower, her back straight, hand resting sternly on the pommel of her short sword. If she looked the least bit tired or pained in any way, Sevin would only use her exhaustion as an excuse to halt their march, and she had no intention of allowing that to happen.

  She rode up to him as soon as he emerged from the tower. She was hopeful at first, but when she caught his eye, his head shook twice and she knew the outpost was abandoned. No soldiers and no horses. “We ride out then,” said Merit. She did not even bother to question the man. “To Harwen,” she said, though the men hardly needed any instruction. The sight of a second abandoned outpost unnerved even the footmen. Something was amiss in Harkana and these men had wives and children in the kingdom.

  “Are my suspicions unwarranted?” Merit spoke to her commanders, testing her logic against theirs. “After all,” she went on, “the army is in the south, defending the kingdom against Barca and his army. Perhaps the outposts were poorly manned. If they held only a single guard, he might have gone ill or been robbed. Maybe the posts were abandoned.”

  “Could be,” said Sevin. “Maybe the towers were overrun by robbers or sand-dwellers. The big fight is in the south, but the outlanders have made a mess of the north end of the basin. If I had to guess at our adversary, I’d put my coin on the sand folk.”

  “I’m unconvinced,” said Merit, still uncertain, unnerved.

  Again, they stopped only to water the horses, and twice they ran afoul of a small group of marauders, Hykso mostly, packs of a dozen or so, which were easily and ruthlessly bested by her soldiers. Their presence made her think the sand-dwellers had attacked the outposts, but she could not be certain. She sent out soldiers to man the abandoned outposts. In doing so, she chipped away at her own force, but she guessed she had enough men, and Harwen was near. They meant to arrive before nightfall, so they rode out one last time.

  When they crested the last of the low hills that stood before the city, her heart quickened at the sight of Harwen’s walls, at the badgir swaying in the wind. At last, this was home.

  And unlike its outposts, the Hornring was intact and well defended. Even from a distance she saw men moving here and there along the walls, as tiny as ants, their spears looking no larger than the hairs on her arm.

  “At least Harwen’s safe,” she said to Sevin, and to herself as well. Her time away had cost her a potential husband and a sister’s love. Briefly she’d feared it had cost her Harkana as well. Barca might have stormed the walls before she returned, but there were no signs of battle, just a well-armed fortress. At this point, her only potential foe was that thirteen-year-old boy her father named heir before riding off to Solus, or his brother if that one dare lay claim to her throne.

  Merit rode once more to the head of the column, ignoring Sevin’s objections. This is my kingdom, she thought. I need no protection, no chaperone. Heedless of danger, she galloped across the Blackwood Bridge, right up to the great gate, turning her horse this way and that while she waited for the sally port to swing wide so she could enter. She guessed the men on the wall walk would recognize her upon approach or while she circled. Merit listened for the familiar whine of the ancient hinges, the creak she’d heard each time the port opened at her return, but the door remained steadfastly closed.

  Another mystery, thought Merit as her sandals hit the Blackwood Bridge with a thud. She eyed the familiar door, the eld-horn ornament staring back at her, the hinges unmoving. From this spot, she caught sight of the Battered Wall, that homage to all the humiliations her kingdom had suffered at the hands of the empire. It gave her an unexpected chill. Am I about to suffer one more of those indignities? The door had not opened for a reason.

  “The queen regent returns!” she cried out. That announcement ought to have elicited a quick response. The men should be hurrying about, opening the door, and readying themselves for her arrival, but the soldiers on the wall walk paid her no attention. Merit had made a point of knowing the names and faces of the Hornring’s guards. She did not recognize the man who peered down at her, nor any of the others who joined him. They wore the proper livery, black leather and an iron helm, but the armor fit loosely.

  Asher rode to her side. “Do we have an issue?” he asked the man on the wall, and when the sentry did not reply Asher asked for the man’s name. Her captain swallowed bitterly when the sentry again refused to answer. Sevin eyed the wall, the gates. She knew his thoughts. Did they have enough men to storm the Hornring? Who occupied Harwen? The army was in the south, the kingsguard in Solus. And the rest of the men were with Merit. Harwen had been ill defended in her absence. An easy target.

  “What happened here?” she asked.

  “Nothing good, my queen. We should regroup, and we ought to do it somewhere far from these walls.”

  “No,” said Merit. “I demand entry into my city. I was regent when I left it, and since I do not recall passing the crown to anyone else, this is still my kingdom!” she announced, her tone bright, her words confident, her chin raised. Sand caked her blue dress, but she looked like a queen, a dusty one, but a queen nonetheless.

  Again, the guards gave no reply.

  Behind her, the soldiers in her company tapped their spears and the horses beat their hooves. The air was tense, the frustration palpable. It had been an arduous ride, and this was hardly the welcome her soldiers had expected. Merit guessed her men were eager to return to their wives or to their children or to whatever whore they’d been dreaming about for the last few weeks. The Ferens, who had been readying themselves for the ride home, stopped to watch what was happening. Even the birds seemed to pause and listen, for she could no longer hear their chirping. Only the desert wind was audible, but it gave her no comfort. Sevin had asked her to retreat, but Merit would not move. This is my city, she thought, and I’m not going anywhere.

  Some of the men retreated. A few went off in search of dry grass for their mounts. Asher whispered in Sevin’s ear, and the Feren captain conferred with his men. All were anxious, and the silence on the wall did little to ease their tension.

  Merit was implacable. She would stand at the gate until acknowledged. She knew the game. They were making her wait, humiliating her in front of her company. Her shame would only double if she gave up ground, so she held her place until a soldier poked his head out from between the crenellations. The man was hunched low, his face half concealed behind the stones.

  “Make your camp,” he said. “Go, set your tents outside the city walls.” He eyed her bitterly. “The king’ll send riders when he’s ready to see you.”

  9

  The House of Ministers was the largest administrative complex in Solus, and thus the largest in the empire. It sat dead center along the Rellian Way, the House of Viziers on one side and the Forum of Re on the other. It was an august address, and regal to behold. Three tiers of lotus-topped columns led to a magnificent barrel vault whose buttery-yellow stones curved elegantly upward, disappearing from the eye as they followed the gentle slope of the vault.

  Sarra needed a place of office, and since this was the largest and most prominent workplace in the empire, she guessed she could make do with it. Hence, she had arrived there at first bell. Ott waited for her at the gates. She cocked an eyebrow when she caught sight of him. “You don’t look like yourself,” she said, appraising the false arm he wore to conceal his identity.

  “I thought that was the point,” he said, gesturing to the place where his withered arm had for the better part of his life hung loosely within the sleeve of his robe. It was gone now. An arm fashioned from layers of wool and mastic covered the stumplike appendage. With this false arm in place, Ott carried the appearance of a boy with two strong shoulders and two equally broad forearms. He wore gloves, of course, with one of them stuffed just like his sleeve and the other fit tightly over
his bandaged fingers. The costume made him look common enough, and he was growing out his hair, trading his shaved pate for a bit of scruff.

  Her true son was a one-armed boy who concealed his honey-colored hair, or so the stories claimed. Some alleged he had two heads and an extra finger, while others asserted he was an albino, white-skinned and hairless. Ott had spent the better part of his life in the Repository at Desouk. His pale complexion had no doubt given rise to the albino rumor, but the rest was pure whimsy. In truth, Sarra herself had started half the stories. They helped hide what was now a rather handsome but average-looking boy. Renott Hark-Wadi—Ott, the true heir of Harkana—had spent his entire life hiding in plain sight and now he did so again, albeit in a different fashion.

  “This arm’s as heavy as a log,” Ott grumbled. “And the robe itches. It’s wool and I don’t like it, not in Solus.” There was perspiration on his brow, but a little sweat was a fair price to pay for the safety these new robes granted to him. In truth, the costume had been a compromise. Ott had wanted his freedom, and she had insisted that he disguise his appearance.

  “You wanted to leave the domain, so be a dear and suffer a little—won’t you?” she asked.

  “It’s all I do.” Ott held up the glove that hid his bandaged fingers. The physician had set the broken digits, but the pain no doubt lingered. “I’m not even myself—am I?”

  “No. You’re Geta, my new scribe, fresh from the Wyrre and eager to learn the ways of Solus. That’s why you’re here with me at the House of Ministers. I have no son, and if I ever did have one I certainly wouldn’t keep him in Solus.” Her priests had busily traded stories not simply about Ott’s appearance but about his location as well. Most said he was spirited out of Solus and that he was safe in the city of priests or sheltering in the high towers of Rachis, where his father’s two sisters, Eilina and Atourin, lived with their mountain-lord husbands and the snow fell so deep that no man, not even the Alehkar, dare tread. Each hour there were new rumors; they appeared as often as Sarra could invent them.