Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  The pace of it wreaked havoc on Merit’s nerves.

  At each ridge, they knelt and waited for the scouts. If the way ahead was clear, they would traverse the hill and send out another round of watchers. It went on like that for what felt like hours, hill after hill, shuffling over ridges and slipping into crevices, always observant of an enemy that had as of yet remained unseen. It wasn’t until they crested a particularly tall and rocky hill that Merit finally set eyes upon their target. The jagged outlines of the badgir—those spiky wind scoops that poked above Harwen’s walls—loomed on the distant horizon.

  “We’re home,” she whispered. Yet this was not her home. A false king held the throne, and who knew what damage he’d done to the kingdom. Had he plundered Harkana’s coffers or sold off the family’s riches to pay Mered’s soldiers? Any number of foul things might have been done in her absence. What had become of the castle attendants and the waiting women Merit left behind? Had they found their deaths or just a cell beneath the Hornring? Were they bedded each night by Mered’s soldiers or sold off to traders? She’d have her answers soon enough, but Merit wasn’t certain she wanted them.

  “Where’s that last scout?” she asked Tomen.

  “No one knows, which means he’s dead or lost. I tend to assume the former,” Tomen replied.

  “Are we discovered?”

  “Possibly.”

  “So much for surprise.”

  “We never had much of that,” Tomen reminded her. “But we still have time to retreat.”

  Merit gazed out over the ridge, toward the badgir. She watched the wind scoops, but they weren’t swaying from side to side. They moved up and down. “Those aren’t badgir,” she said, taking Tomen and pointing at the horizon where the first purple rays of the sun were breaking across the desert, painting bruised shadows on the gray sand. “Those are men. There’s an army assembled before Harwen.”

  33

  Ren said nothing. He simply listened while Noll shared his story. Ott had long ago left their company, claiming he had agreed to meet with the Ray at some important house and could not fail to attend the engagement.

  “It makes some sense,” said Ren when Noll had at last completed his story. “But I don’t accept all of it. How many generations did you say?”

  “Nine,” said Noll. “Nine generations have passed since Aryn Hark-Wadi’s wife, Koriana Hark-Wadi, lay with the last emperor of the Soleri, Sekhem Den. As I said, Aryn was a proud man. He wasn’t willing to admit that his wife carried the child of another man, so he raised the boy as his own. These were different times. The Harkans were proud men.”

  “Oh, don’t lecture me about the Harkans. Little has changed.”

  “Well, then you understand, don’t you? He raised the boy as a Hark-Wadi, and you are his direct descendant. Your blood and the blood of your siblings is the only living relic of the line of Den.”

  The buzzing had returned, but this time it wasn’t at the back of his head, it was everywhere, threatening to overwhelm his thoughts.

  “Are you … feeling all right?” asked Noll.

  “I’m fine. I’m very excited about all of this. Great news. I’m sure it’ll be a big help down here.” Ren stopped to take a deep breath. He was babbling and needed to get a hold of himself. “Tell me how this happened. Was it common practice? Did the Soleri simply rape whomever they wanted?”

  “No, I don’t think it was common practice. In fact, I believe it was forbidden. The family interbred. There were always twelve: a husband, a wife, and ten children. Five boys and five girls. The children were married to one another to keep the bloodline pure, but it’s hard to deny your urges when you are all but a god.”

  “They cheated? That’s what you’re saying. They broke their own rules.”

  “Something like that. It was common practice for the Soleri to murder their bastard sons and daughters, but a beautiful face can sway even a god. Perhaps Sekhem could not bear to murder the son of a woman as lovely as Koriana.”

  “And you’ve got the same story. They took some Wyrren servant and kept it a secret.”

  “Yes, but that was four hundred years ago, give or take a decade. The blood in my veins has only a fraction of the strength in yours. I can hear the voices of the twelve, but that is apparently the extent of my gift.”

  “And you think I can succeed where you failed?”

  “There is hope.”

  “Hope?” asked Ren. “None of this makes any sense. Why didn’t they come straight to me?”

  “Perhaps they did or they will. The Soleri do not see or experience time in the same manner as us. I cannot pretend to understand their minds. You spoke to the statues in the Garden of Den. That is proof enough that you share a connection with the children of Mithra. And you said you saw them, the living gods, looking straight at you—right?”

  “Well, I’d just had my head smashed against a block of granite, so I’m guessing that’s what caused my divine vision. It’s been giving me a headache ever since.”

  “I disagree. When I touched the statues, I heard the living Soleri.”

  “Yes, but I think we’ve got a bit of a problem. There’s one set of statues in the garden and another in the temple. There can’t be two sets of Soleri—am I wrong? There are only twelve.”

  “Yes, twelve Soleri. I found twelve statues in the Shambles and I carted them to Solus. There were others in that chamber, and I saw the place where they stood.”

  “Others?”

  “The other twelve, the ones who pursued the Soleri, their adversary.”

  “And … who are they?”

  “It’s not difficult to figure that one out. Two sets of twelve. Two children of Mithra, two divine families. Pyras, eldest son of Mithra and first of the Pyraethi, founded the first empire; and Re, second son of Mithra and first of the Soleri, founded the second empire on the back of his brother’s.”

  “So the gods fought each other … or something like that. Two hundred years ago, during the great war, when the Harkans took Solus and the Soleri fled their domain, their old foes went looking for them?”

  “True enough,” said Noll. “As far as I know, Ined Anu, the first Ray, found both sets of statues, but he took only one to Solus. He placed them in that garden; it’s recorded in the city’s history. He named it the Statuary Garden of Den, so he must have believed they were the Soleri. And for some perverse reason, he placed them in public view. For two centuries, the secret of our dead gods has stood in plain sight.”

  “How did he know which set of twelve to take?” Ren asked.

  “I’ve wondered about that same thing. He must have believed they were the Soleri, but the statues I found made the same claim.”

  “One of them is lying?”

  “So it seems,” said Noll.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Ren. “We’ve got two sets of dead gods in this city and we can’t tell them apart. As far as I know, the Soleri were a bunch of murderous bastards. I can’t imagine their foes are any better.”

  “They are both your kin,” said Noll.

  “Yes, got that, but what exactly can they do for me?” asked Ren.

  “Help you,” said Noll.

  “You mean to say that the gods themselves, the ones who made this empire and enslaved my people, are going to help me? Why in Mithra’s name would they do that?”

  “Curious phrase. Mithra’s name. You are one of His children. Like me, you hold some piece of His light. Why do you think your father’s grave still burns? What made the fire that cannot be extinguished? Why does the Mundus refuse to close? You, your father, and your return to the city of light has caused a great change. You have strength in your blood. Suten Anu felt it. It’s why he brought your father to Solus. The eld saw that strength in you. That’s why it gave you a piece of its horn. That beast you killed in the cistern, the arrarax, is a creation of the gods, and only they can strike it down.”

  “Wait a moment, how did you—” Ren stopped. How did he know about the c
istern? And the Harkan hunt was supposed to involve the killing of the eld, not the cutting of its horn.

  “How did you know the secret of the Harkan hunt?” asked Ren.

  “We’ve been over all this,” said Noll. “When I touched the statues, I gleaned more knowledge than my brain could hold, things that have already happened, things that have yet to come. I’m still remembering it all, trying to piece together the puzzle—if there is one. They kept certain things from me, or so I suspect.”

  “Like which set of statues is really Den and which is some ancient breed bent on killing the other? If you ask me, we ought to set them both free and let them work it out.”

  “That may be their goal,” said Noll. “They want to find their freedom. Two hundred years ago, the children of Mithra-Sol fought a great battle. It was supposed to have been the last battle in a fight that stretches back to the beginning of time. I traced the lines of that conflict with Ott. We saw chambers reduced to ash. We unearthed the remnants of a war that raged between the gods.”

  “And that’s where it ended … in some secret palace in the Shambles?” Ren asked.

  “Yes, as far as I know, the twelve Pyraethi, the descendants of Pyras, gave the last of their strength to defeat the Soleri. The Pyraethi became something like stone, as did the Soleri. Two sets of gods, diminished, nearly lifeless, dead but not yet dead.”

  “They fucked up their own revenge, and now they’ve both come back. All twenty-four of these gods are in this city and they think I’m the guy who’s going to help them—me? The dead boy who can’t get himself out of Solus.”

  “This is your way out of Solus—don’t you see it? You’ll never make it out on your own. Go to them and they will tell you what to do.”

  “Go to them?” Ren asked. “I’d rather be skewered at the end of Mered’s spear than bring those bastards back into this world.”

  “You may not have a choice,” said Noll.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “When I touched the face of Den, he showed me the fate of Solus. He called it a ‘Devouring.’ It’s happened before. Three thousand years ago, the Soleri conquered and destroyed the empire of the Pyraethi, and these are the ruins of that empire’s capital”—Noll waved his hand at the Hollows, the temple—“the last remains of the empire of the Pyraethi, destroyed in the First Devouring and built upon by the Soleri.”

  “The Soleri literally built one empire on top of the other one?” said Ren. “That’s what all this is down here—these old temples and worn-down walls?”

  “Yes, one city built on another. There is a cycle, as with all things.”

  “A cycle? Like the seasons? The hot and cool? And we are about to witness the end of one? Is that what this is all about? Tell me, what’s coming?”

  “The Last Devouring, if you can believe it,” said Noll. “In their minds, it has already happened. Each brother had his time upon this Earth.”

  “Oh, how sad for them,” said Ren. “Let me tell you this: Not one of us will shed a tear when those bastards cut and run.”

  “I hope that’s the case,” said Noll, his hand trembling slightly. “I hope we’re all around to witness it.”

  “Oh, don’t go all sad and gloomy on me. You said those statues were my way out of this city,” said Ren.

  “They are,” said Noll. “Unfortunately, their return to this world will not be peaceful. I cannot claim to know what is to come, not fully. I’ve seen only glimpses. Nevertheless, if you see enough of the past, the future comes into focus. I saw three thousand years of history flash before my eyes. In a lifetime I could not tell you the things they packed into my head. It’s given me a bit of perspective. I can say with some certainty that before this is over, before you leave this world, those statues will walk.”

  34

  “A smart man would place his army behind the ramparts and let us crash upon them,” said Merit as she stood on the ridge, gazing out at the spears that protected Harwen’s mud-brick fortifications.

  “They know we can breach those walls,” said Tomen. “We laid the bricks and we cut the tunnels that run beneath them. That’s why they put their army in front of the walls. They fear we’ll slip beneath them and come ’round behind their lines.”

  “That was the plan.”

  “Yes, and without it we should retreat,” said Tomen, who was furiously stroking his beard, looking up and down the enemy lines, trying in all likelihood to gauge the size of the false king’s army.

  “No.” Merit was firm. “Again, you’re too cautious. The longer we wait, the better fortified our enemy will become. Give him a week and he’ll have Mered’s whole army at our back. Our siege will turn to a rout and that’ll be the end of us. We’ll be begging Barden for aid, and I’m not certain that’s something my pride can stomach.”

  “I’d rather beg,” said Tomen, “than kneel to the traitor.”

  “We’re in agreement, but let’s hope it won’t come to that. Do we have options? What about the southern flank?”

  “We tested that route, and no scouts returned. If we go that way, we’ll be heading into unknown territory,” said Tomen.

  “I’d rather head toward the unknown than ride toward an impenetrable wall of spears. Ride south,” said Merit.

  The army did as the queen regent commanded, but they immediately found resistance, soldiers tucked away in the belly of a sand dune.

  It was a small enough group, a half battalion. “We ought to just dispose of them,” said Tomen. The old general led the charge, but the younger soldiers hurried past him. The first clash of swords rang out over the sandy dunes. A brief scuffle ensued, but the fight was over before it began, the false king’s soldiers retreating without hesitation.

  “Pursue them,” Merit cried, and the Harkans followed them over the crest of a hill and into a wider valley, not far from the city. Harwen’s walls were within sight. Merit saw the real badgir, swaying gently, the first light of day kissing their sharpened tips.

  Tomen followed her order, but as he rode past the crest of the hill worry colored his face.

  “What is it? What’s getting you?” Merit asked.

  “This valley. Half the walls are too steep to climb. And the way those men retreated, it was almost as if they had given up without a fight.” He swallowed bitterly as he surveyed the landscape. “Back!” he called, but it was already too late. A volley of arrows arrested their charge. Archers appeared at the ridgeline, three rows, arrows nocked for a second volley.

  “The damn thing was a ruse, and we fell for it,” Tomen muttered.

  Tall ridges blocked their path on the one side and archers covered the other. They could only retreat, which was the intended effect. “Move,” Tomen cried, but his captains were already ushering the men backward, over the hilltop and out of the archers’ range. Harkan after Harkan fell as the arrows claimed their retreating targets.

  Merit and her generals rode beneath a wall of shields, the constant patter of arrows drumming in her ear. One bolt pierced the shield above her head, splinters shooting this way and that. She pinched her eyes shut.

  Humiliated, their force rode farther south, but when they caught sight of more soldiers, Tomen called a halt to their ride. “They’ve obviously blocked the southern approach.”

  Retreat again seemed the best option. Merit saw it on Tomen’s lips, but she ushered it away with an angry glare; she’d have no talk of running. No, they needed to press onward. “We retreat a bit then go around that valley. If they can hide in the hills, we can do the same,” she said.

  Tomen relayed the orders. His captains were tired, grim-faced, but not yet finished. Where once they had eagerly accepted her commands, Merit saw reluctance. They questioned the quality of her decisions, but she would not let their lack of faith deter her from this path. “Tell them to hurry it up,” she spoke out over Tomen. “And wipe those bloody scowls off their faces.” She stepped out ahead of her generals and spoke to the men. “You’re Harkan, and this
is your land. Be glad to give your lives for it!”

  Hearts heavy and bodies wrecked with exhaustion, they went back the way they had come, over the hills, sending scouts and waiting for their return, repeating the old patterns. They had long ago lost any chance of surprise. The cloak of night had vanished; the desert was pink with the day’s first light. Tomen stood upright on his horse, his chest moving in and out in slow, controlled motions. She envied his calm. Her brow was damp with sweat and her leathers were wet through with perspiration. But the old man just stood there, eyes distant, watching, listening to the desert. Perhaps he heard things she could not, maybe he felt the shuffling of distant sandals. For all she knew he was dreaming about fucking his wife.

  Merit was too anxious to stand in one place, so she climbed to the crest of a nearby dune, hoping to once more catch sight of Harwen. She shuffled up the gray and sandy slope, her leather armor feeling heavy on her shoulders. Tomen had asked Merit to stay below the ridgeline, but she stood boldly atop it, eyes trained on the horizon.

  Without a moment’s pause, she called for the men. “We march toward Harwen. No more scouts, no more hiding. We ride straight to the Blackwood Bridge.” Merit did not ask; she commanded.

  The sun had risen, illuminating the city.

  Smoke rose in great columns from the Hornring. Men hurried back and forth upon the towers, and the army that had once stood before the walls had now dispersed. The city was in open revolt. There could be no other explanation. Hearing of their queen’s return, the people must have turned against the false king. The army that had once stood at Harwen’s gate had gone off to fight the insurrection. The bridge was lowered and the way was open.

  35

  Sarra stood before the doors of House Chefren.

  Her new Protector had done well. He’d elevated the leaders of his guard to roles in the army of the Protector, but he’d left many of the mid-level commanders, the holdouts from House Saad, in place. He’d struck a balance between the old and the new and had thus stepped into a position of power without rumpling too many feathers. He’d remade the hierarchy of the Protector’s Inner Guard without causing much trouble or resentment among the commanders or the soldiers who served them. She envied his savvy and looked forward to working with the man. It was good to have friends, especially talented ones like Kihl Chefren.