Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  The whore had died in childbirth.

  Arko had as good as killed her.

  He approached as if to strike her, but stopped short.

  Sarra gathered her white robe, but did not move. She would not shrink from his attack. She was no longer the silly girl from the southern islands, not his to correct or challenge, but a person who came to him now with her own power, her own worth. “You might learn to be a better liar in your new position,” she said. “I wouldn’t want the emperor to find out how badly you’re keeping his secrets.”

  “Unlike you, is that what you mean?” he asked. “You trade in secrets. Tell me, has that worked out well for you, Sarra? You’ve lost your children, your family. They hate you—Merit, Kepi, Ren.”

  Sarra’s eyes blazed. In the courtyard outside, she heard the Alehkar give a shout and stomp their feet; Saad was here. Arko’s death was approaching and she was glad. These would be their last moments together. She readied herself. Let him have the truth now, the whole truth. Let him choke on it. “The boy who lives in the Priory was never our son! You think I’d let my only son rot in that prison? Maybe you could live with it, but I couldn’t.”

  “My gods, Sarra, what have you done?” Arko gasped. “Who is he, then?”

  “Who do you think he is?” she sneered.

  Serena, dead on the floor. The bloody bier. The other child. A boy, born the same week as her own. A handsome little boy, perfect in every way, with Serena’s big eyes, and his father’s handsome profile, so unlike her own broken son, her own, beautiful but eccentric boy. She told Arko about him now. “I knew you could never accept him, the way he was.” Arko Hark-Wadi could never love the boy with the withered arm. He would have let the desert take him; that was their way. If you could not survive, you were given back to the gods. That was what Harkans did to boys like Ott. Renott Hark-Wadi. The true heir of Harkana. Who grew up in love and seclusion, in safety in her priesthood, while Serena’s son starved in the Priory.

  Her most exquisite revenge on the two who had wronged her most.

  Bronze-heeled sandals echoed in the corridor outside the Ray’s chamber.

  Saad was coming.

  “Serena’s boy…” Arko said, falling to his knees, ignoring the men in the corridor. “They told me he was dead. That he was born dead. That he died with her.”

  “They lied to you.” Sarra smiled, the soldiers approaching. “It was always so easy to lie to you, Arko.”

  “My son…”

  “Your bastard!” She hissed, the shouts of the soldiers in the corridor growing louder. “Let him rot in the Priory. Let them break him, let him starve … let him burn beneath the sun. For all you know, he is already dead.” The soldiers formed ranks outside the Antechamber.

  To her surprise, Arko began to laugh. He walked toward her, his shoulders shaking, his face red, but his eyes bright with triumph. “You never knew me, Sarra. I would never have given our son to the desert. I have no interest in those brutal traditions. I would have loved our broken boy. You were wrong. You should have trusted me, but it matters not. Serena’s son lives,” he whispered. “Suten freed him from the Priory. He came home to me and I named him my heir. Ren, my Ren, lives and has taken the Elden Hunt. You have lost, my love. Serena’s son will be king of Harkana.”

  56

  The Alehkar ground their spears into the stones, crowding into jumbled ranks outside the Antechamber of the Ray. The assembled soldiers were so densely grouped that Arko could not see the far side of the corridor or the stair beyond. He saw only their bronze chest plates, embossed with the fiery circle of the sun, etched with prayers and gleaming in the midday light.

  Sarra took a careful step backward, as if his words had struck her down. She stumbled toward the soldiers, the white of her robes absorbing the amber glow of their armor. Arko savored his victory. Ren was the son of Serena; his boy lived. Serena’s son. Our son.

  I’ll make certain Ren becomes king. No one must know he is a bastard. Arko followed Sarra out of the Antechamber, picking up the pace. She was trying to leave, but he would not let her. His fingers held the sleeve of her robe.

  “Let go of me!” she snarled, pushing into the ranks of the Alehkar.

  Arko tightened his grip around her robe. “You’re not leaving—not until I command it.” He raised a hand. Above him, wind whistled through gaps in the stones. Behind those holes, his men waited, bowstrings taut, ready to loose their arrows. Sarra must have seen the gesture and known what was coming next. “Do it if you must,” she threatened, daring him to end her life.

  Arko tightened his hold on her robe, ripping the fabric. Could he do this? Could he end the life of the woman who bore his children and who was once queen of his kingdom? He should. She knew that Ren was a bastard.

  “Well?” she asked, daring him once more. “End this or release me.” Her words were cold, her voice flat.

  Arko kept his hold on her.

  He did not take orders from the Mother Priestess. She could no longer tell him what to do, just as he could no longer tell her what to do. When she had first ridden into the Antechamber yard, on the day she returned to Solus, when he had seen her from behind the veiled window, he wondered how this encounter would play out. Was there some way to repair the damage done to their marriage? He knew there wasn’t, but hope was a hard thing to bury.

  She yanked her robe free of his grip. The archers were still poised, his hand still raised, ready to give the signal. He could take her life, just as he would soon take Saad’s, but he didn’t. Arko didn’t have the heart. He would protect Ren from her; he was the Ray of the Sun now, infinite power in his grasp. And Sarra was still his wife—in name only, perhaps—but they had shared a bed, and children. She had left him to save her child, his child as well. If she had only told him the truth about the boy, if she had shared her worries with him and revealed the true nature of their son, perhaps they could have avoided all of this, but that was not what happened.

  So he let her go. “Leave,” he told her.

  He needed all his wits to deal with the Protector, who was even now making his way through the ranks, approaching from the far side of the corridor. Arko’s hand dropped to his side and Sarra fled, not looking back, scampered away like a child.

  The last he saw of her was a shock of red hair vanishing behind the amber mail of the Alehkar, a red sun ground into a sea of yellow. He watched her leave, remembering that bit of red with more attention than it deserved. He had never wanted to marry her, had never had any need for the marriage or the responsibilities their union demanded. When he was young, no older than Ren, he had found the one he loved. Serena. He’d wanted to spend a lifetime with her, but Suten had other plans for him. And now those plans had led him here, to the Antechamber.

  Arko searched for Sarra, but she was gone.

  He looked past the lines of the soldiers to the city beyond and wondered if Sarra’s son was in the capital, if she kept him close. Her family. Renott. Who was the deformed boy? Some priest, he guessed. He did not care that the child was deformed. He was Arko’s blood, his son and heir to the kingdom. He would never have given the child to the desert. She didn’t know him. She never knew him. That was why she had finally left him. It wasn’t because of Serena after all, the one he loved—no, Sarra had suffered his mistress, she had stayed for all those years and tried to look the other way, tried to be a queen. She had left him to save her son. She must have hidden the boy on the day of his birth. Perhaps she had wanted to have a family of her own, a boy who was hers alone. He didn’t know. He might never know.

  At least his boy, Ren, was safe. He would find a way to the throne. Arko was certain of it. It warmed his heart to know that the boy survived, that some piece of the woman he loved persisted in the world. Arko took the white stone from his neck and rubbed the smooth surface. He traced the six letters with his thumb. Serena.

  With a wave he motioned for the archers concealed in the ceiling and walls to stand ready. He hadn’t had much time
to position his assassins—the men Wat had brought to him—but he had done his best with the hours he had. The Antechamber, he found, was equipped with a number of hidden chambers designed for defense. Wat said the Ray required no protection, he was the mouth of the god and no one would dare assault him. Arko chortled at the notion. Clearly his predecessors had found the need to fortify their chambers and had done so to Arko’s benefit.

  A host of assassins hid at the far end of the corridor, and there were more stowed away in the closets of the Antechamber. Arko would not go easily. He had prepared for this moment, had guessed it was coming. He had done his best to arm himself, but he lacked Saad’s resources. Arko needed his men, the five hundred well-trained Harkans. He took a long drink and waited in the doorway of the Antechamber, his eyes blazing as the Alehkar assembled in the corridor.

  A boy entered from a side door, one of Wat’s messengers.

  “Where are my men?” he demanded before the boy could speak.

  “Approaching the city gates.”

  “Get them in here!” he said, searching for the sword Wat had given him. He found it on the desk.

  The messenger left and Arko stood alone in the Antechamber, the room unexpectedly filling up with quiet. The soldiers in the corridor had stopped their stomping. In the distance, Saad pushed past his men.

  Arko picked up the sword and felt its balance, which was evenly distributed between hilt and blade but a bit lighter than he was used to. He would have preferred his own sword, which was heavier, sturdier, and had seen him through many fights, but he had left that one at the Ruined Wall in Harwen the day the Protector’s men had come for him—he had given it up, thinking he would not need it any longer. How wrong he had been.

  He raised the sword up and slashed the air. This blade would have to do.

  Arko stepped through the Antechamber’s open doors. Facing Saad’s soldiers, he shaded his eyes and searched the horizon for the soldiers from Harkana. Where are my men? The gates were too far, though, the city too dense. Hurry. He looked in the direction of the unseen outer gate, past the Temple of Mithra where the tall columns shaded the dark interior, the secret goings-on of the priesthood.

  She knows the emperor is a lie. Sarra’s questions had made clear her knowledge of the matter. How she had found out, he wasn’t certain. Sarra was clever though and it did not surprise him that she had uncovered the truth behind the empire. Had she known all along and simply chosen this moment to make her move? Or had she come to him to test some theory she held? Either way, she was using this knowledge against her husband, and using it well. Before his congress with Sarra, Wat had told him that she had requested an audience with Saad; the two were clearly working in tandem.

  Dammit, where are my men? He searched, but could not see them.

  Arko rubbed the gem on his forehead and longed for a drink. He wished he were not the Ray of the Sun. He wished he were back in the Shambles with a full wineskin and an entire afternoon to do nothing but hunt and burn the back of his neck in the heat of the noonday sun.

  Footsteps down the hall, the clank of iron. At last, Saad had arrived fully armed, his bronze breastplate gleaming, his hair full of pomade, a pair of swords at his belt and his mouth set in a line of wry, amused arrogance. He was followed by five generals.

  Arko looked past Saad to the long view of the city, the great walls, the vast labyrinth of the Solus, wondering if the Harkans were already too late.

  When Arko looked down Saad was there, eyes raised, hand upon his sword. He nodded politely at Arko but refused to do more. This is the man who will kill me? What had Sarra promised him, if he took Arko’s head? That he would himself be named Ray? What are you up to, Sarra? If you think this empire will be easy to rule, separately or together, you are sorely mistaken. The thought of his own death both irritated Arko—because of all the men he had ever faced, Saad was the least worthy executioner he could imagine—and left him feeling strangely elated, like at last he had found the answer to a long-sought question. Soon Sarra, Serena, Ren, Merit … all his regrets would be over.

  Unless the Harkans arrived.

  “Take a chair,” Arko said. But the boy refused. His generals held maps, but they would not unroll them. Saad’s eyes never left Arko’s face. What do you see there, boy, when you look at me? An old man, easy to defeat? Pick up your blade and find out. I’ll die with a sword in my hand after all.

  “We are here to present our strategy,” Saad said. His voice was oddly flat.

  An underling stepped forward with a map. Arko did not look at it—no one looked at it. Arko’s eyes were on the corridor, waiting for his soldiers.

  Empty.

  Damn the city, damn Saad.

  He let them unfold the map carefully. They were taking their time. Did they know something Arko did not? Perhaps the Harkans were not coming at all, and the Protector knew it.

  I need my men.

  Saad let one of his generals detail the plans for arming the Protector’s soldiers, for securing the supply lines back to the capital. When he finished, an older man with a strong accent described the route they would take to the Dromus, the points of weakness in the wall they would shore up with this company, with that battalion, but all the while Saad was sweating, his fingers fidgeting.

  Arko checked the hall again. Nothing, still. Where are you, where are my men?

  He watched the sweat grow on Saad’s brow, trickling down the side of his face. His eyes rested lightly on Arko’s hands. Wanting to see what I’ll do, Saad?

  As the general folded another map, Arko lifted his sword with one swift gesture, startling Saad, and making the generals take a step back. “It belonged to your grandfather and his son,” said the Ray, holding it up so everyone could see the warped blade, the nicks and whorls in the metal.

  “Looks it,” said the Protector.

  “Your father held it on the Reg, on the day Koren stood against the empire,” Arko said. “Did you know I was there?”

  “Didn’t care to know. That’s all ancient history.” Saad leaned on the table. “My father could have crushed Harkana that day. Imagine how much trouble he could have saved the empire if he had just taken off your father’s head?”

  Saad’s men gave nervous grunts, and the Protector smirked at their appreciation. The man should be an actor, Arko thought, and turning the sword on its side brought the flat edge of the blade down on the table with a loud boom. The sound made the generals wince. “Your father had honor. He respected my father’s abilities on the battlefield and wasn’t afraid to show it, for the sake of his men and ours. Five imperial soldiers died for every Harkan on that first day, did you know that? It’s not written in your histories, or carved in your monuments, but it’s true. I saw the carnage with my own eyes. Your father didn’t put his boot on Koren’s head—he shook his hand and called him an equal!” Arko glanced once more down the hall. Still nothing. “The Harkan Army was ready to fight that second day. Your histories say they fled, but my father’s men were ready to take on the whole Imperial Army. My people stood shoulder to shoulder with their king, outnumbered but ready.”

  Saad shook his head. “Harkans, always thinking your bravery will be enough to save you.” He glanced at Arko, alone in the chamber. “I see that hasn’t changed.”

  “Things will change,” Arko said. “Someday someone will come for your death, Saad.”

  “Not now.” Saad waved his hand, signaling to his soldiers. “Not today.”

  At that, the Protector’s men unsheathed their swords and slung their shields tight to their shoulders.

  Arko took in a slow breath. I’m ready.

  His assassins threw open doors and dashed into the Antechamber bearing wicked little swords, curling doubled-edged blades, one in each hand. Arko’s men, while few in number, cut a path through Saad’s soldiers, corralling them beneath the archers’ sights.

  Arko gave a sign and the archers loosed their arrows; black shafts flitted through the air. One, two, three of the gene
rals fell. The fourth dove to save his master, throwing himself on top of Saad. Three arrows pierced his back; a fourth split his skull. The fifth general, thinking only of himself, flew toward the corridor, but knocked into two of the Alehkar. An arrow pierced his leg, pinning him to the floorboards. A second one stole his life.

  Saad threw the dead general off of him, the body striking the floor with a thump. The Alehkar rallied around the Protector. Shielded by his soldiers, Saad retreated. He quickly passed the arrow loops, and was backing into the corridor. Arko gave another signal. The assassins at the far end of the hall threw open the doors and attacked, surrounding Saad’s men.

  Arko turned his blade into a battering ram, sticking it through one soldier’s breastplate, then another, forcing them to the ground. He cut a swath through the Alehkar, advancing on Saad. He struck with such fury that he split the breastplate of the soldier who stood in front of Saad, rending the metal, sending the man crashing to the floor. Arko fought with two hands, striking a soldier with his fist while knocking another with the pommel of his sword. He moved with such fury that he did not breathe, did not think. He was all instinct, a soldier, moving faster than thought, faster than he had ever moved.

  Bounding over the dead generals, he entered the corridor, arrows crunching beneath his feet. Already he noticed that only a handful of his men still stood, but it didn’t matter, he had reached the Protector. There is no one left to protect you, Saad.

  Arko leveled his weapon and charged. The Alehkar threw their blades at him, Saad slunk backward, taking a nip on the thigh, but he evaded Arko’s blade by slipping behind one of his men. Arko knocked the soldier aside; he was face-to-face with Saad. But the Alehkar were packed so tightly Arko could not turn his sword to strike—only the assassins with their short, curling blades could move freely, could fight, and they did so valiantly, gutting the Alehkar with ease, slicing at the weak points of their armor. Grunts shot through the corridor, the sound of metal on skin.