Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  “I don’t know,” said Nester. “If I’d been taken prisoner—”

  “I understand,” Ren said. The realization had finally come to him. Someone was playing a dangerous game, rescuing the enemy. Such a man would be careful to conceal his identity, especially if things went awry.

  “Can you at least tell us how long this is going to take? I can’t keep up this pace forever,” said Kollen. “We’ve got injured men, you know. Just in case you missed all that grunting and crying.”

  “It’s not that far,” said Nester.

  “Oh, that’s useful,” said Kollen.

  “What’s your plan? I see priests running in all directions,” said Ren.

  “We made preparations.”

  “To conceal our escape?”

  “Yes. Some paths will remain open while others will be collapsed. No one will follow us.”

  “We’re free?” Ren could not help but blurt out the words.

  “You might be, eventually,” said Nester quietly, with more skepticism than Ren anticipated.

  “I’ll take eventually. That sounds good to me.” It was Tye who spoke. She’d just found them. Like Ren, she was dusted from head to toe, the remnants of the pulverized stone covering her in a veil of shattered rock. She wiped dirt from her mouth. “Eventually is definitely a step up from what we had an hour ago.”

  “You mean back there when we were definitely going to die?” asked Kollen.

  “We must hurry,” Nester interrupted. “There is work to be done, walls to collapse.” Up ahead, Ren saw carefully laid stones balanced atop spindly posts.

  “Through here,” Nester said. Ren followed, and not long afterward the sound of falling stones rattled the air.

  “We’re going deeper into the earth,” said Tye. “I’d hoped to see the sun.”

  “As had I,” said Ren. “Where are we?” he asked again, looking to Nester, who made no effort to reply.

  “There’re statues,” said Tye. “Bloody strange ones.”

  Carved-stone figures hedged the corridor, some in granite, others in obsidian.

  “This must be a temple,” said Ren.

  “It was,” said Nester, “a temple to Pyras, built six thousand years ago and nearly reduced to dust at the start of the Old Kingdom. This is the Well of Horu. It was once the place where the first children of Mithra-Sol chose to leave this world. When they were done with this life, they stepped from the base of the ramp, the so-called Ledge of Dust, and returned to the home of their maker. The shelf has a twin in the Cloud Garden, the Ledge of Winds, a place where the Soleri were said to pass into Atum. See the ramp?” In the darkness, he traced the faint outlines of a coil that wrapped about the inner face of the well. “This temple is a kind of helix that grips the walls of the great pit, like a spiral stair that winds around the interior of a tower. The ledge rests at the base of the ramp and the Mundus of Ceres conceals the top of the well.”

  “And what happens when they open Mundus, the holiday?” asked Ren. He knew the calendar. “Won’t they spy us?”

  “No, they’ll see nothing but black. You are deeper beneath the earth than you guess, and that great dome, that opening at the top of the well, will appear no larger than the tip of your finger.”

  “Then we’re buried, stuffed so deep into the earth that no one can find us,” Ren said, quietly, a hint of resignation creeping into his voice. With each move, they went deeper into the Hollows, to a place no one could find but from which none of them could escape, or so he feared.

  “This’s our destination?” Ren asked. “This is it, the end of our little journey?”

  “This is your destination.” The floor became a ramp and they once more descended. Odd symbols blanketed the walls, a language Ren could neither read nor identify. It was drawn in pictures, so he guessed it was one of the old tongues, from the earliest days of the empire.

  Nester put a hand on Ren’s chest, arresting his movement. “My master waits for you at the base of the temple. I must tend to other matters,” he said.

  “He’s leaving us,” said Kollen.

  “Picked up on that one,” Ren replied.

  Up ahead, there was light, a lantern.

  “You’ve come a long way,” said a voice.

  The lamp revealed a young man of roughly Ren’s age and height. He had short hair and a crutch, a priest’s robe. The stranger lifted his lamp. “Welcome,” he said. “I was unsure if you’d make it.” He was silent for a heartbeat, his eyes moving over the ransoms before at last fixing upon Ren. “I am Ott, your brother, and I’ve waited a lifetime to meet you.”

  THE MUNDUS OPENS

  16

  At dawn, the Kiltet clothed Sarra in the livery of the Ray. It was a painstaking affair that involved six attendants and a set of specially designed ladders. The robe was dropped down onto her outstretched arms, then lowered over her chest and legs, the golden threads bending and twisting as they conformed to the curves of her body. She supposed the garment wasn’t made for a woman. As far as she knew, Arko had never worn it, and Suten was a slender man, as thin as a corpse. It hardly fit, but she had no time to mend her raiment and she would not be seen without it. The robe was the great symbol of her office. If she were forced to sit through Mered’s feast, she would at least do it in a vestment that announced her place and position, a vesture that was said to be a hundred years old and made from enough gold to ransom a dozen kings and their lands along with them.

  Dressed as such and taking small steps, she emerged from the Shadow Gate, the sun catching the golden threads of her robe, casting innumerable streaks of light in every direction. Per tradition, the Ray had no ceremonial guard. No man dared strike the mouth of the god. That was doctrine, words written in the Book of the Last Day of the Year. Times, however, had changed. Sarra knew as much, so she met up with a rather large company of priests, as well as a battalion from the city guard. Caution would be the rule of the day; one could never have too much of it.

  Ott was absent. She’d requested his presence, sent a messenger, too, but the boy could not be found. In all likelihood, he was lost in some ancient and dusty archive and would eventually appear. In the meantime, Sarra was not without company. Unexpectedly, Wat arrived with a portion of the city guard and made his way to her side.

  “My Ray,” he said, bowing unnecessarily, almost sycophantically. “They’ve begun the opening.” He gestured toward the Mundus of Ceres, which even at this distance was tall enough to be seen over the crowds. A shout rang out, and a hundred or so workers breathed a mighty groan. They were no doubt tugging at ropes of some sort, pulling aside the dome. She drew closer to the spectacle, watching as the Mundus slid from its moorings. It was slow work, but Sarra moved slowly, her eyes held high so as to avoid the gaze of the crowd. She wanted to be observed, for the golden robe to shine like the sun itself as she wound her way through the masses. The distance was short, but she took her time, making certain to arrive at just the precise moment, when the dome was finally removed and the great well, a pit as wide around as a stadium, was revealed. She stood at the rim, a shock of gold shimmering against the black expanse of the well.

  “It stinks like death,” she said.

  Wat wrinkled his nose. “They say it stretches down and down, all the way to the underworld, into the afterlife itself.”

  “I was the Mother. I’ve read the parchments,” she said. “When the great Mundus of Ceres is drawn aside, the Well of Horu is revealed and those who have passed from this life to the next are free to walk among the living,” she said in a tone that mocked the street-corner prophets who stood around them, warning that the dead were coming, that the seal was lifted and the spirits of the departed were free to roam the city. “The deceased have returned,” she continued, “at least until the damned thing is shut.” She glanced at the dome. “After two days, they’ll drag it back into place and the dead will once more return to their world, or so the story goes. Those are the words written in the Book of the Last Day of the Year.
It’s a feast for the dead, not us. And, given the last few days, all that’s happened, I find it fitting—don’t you?” She offered Wat a wry smile, but he gave no reply. He did not know Sarra, not well. She saw caution on his face, calculation.

  “We certainly have had our share of misfortunes. Let us hope that such things are at an end,” said Wat, after a considerable pause. Then he turned as if something had caught his attention. Nearby, children tossed coins into the well. A great many arced through the air. They fell, but never made a noise. If they struck the bottom, no one heard it.

  “Curious,” said Wat. “The silence. I suppose I should be used to it, but it unnerves me each year.”

  “A trick perhaps, maybe the bottom is layered with soft things, calfskins or straw,” Sarra ventured.

  “I’m sure,” said Wat, his voice carrying a hint of placation. He leaned against the well and gazed into the darkness beyond. Following his cue, Sarra glanced over the rim and, to her surprise, the pit seemed to glare back at her, catching her off guard, pulling her downward, drawing her into the black nothingness of the well.

  A hand gripped her shoulder.

  It was Wat. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You stumbled…”

  “I’m fine. It’s just the robe. Heavy as a suit of armor and tight as a tourniquet,” Sarra said, trying to recover a bit of dignity, still gazing into the pit. There’s nothing unearthly about it. Sarra attempted to reassure herself of the simple and harmless nature of the well, but lately she’d been less certain where such things were concerned. She recalled those unnatural statues in the Shambles and that strange fire at the Antechamber.

  “The entertainments have begun,” Wat said, drawing her attention to the far side of the well. A troupe of robed figures ascended from what at first appeared to be the pit. They came over the edge, rising like the dead and shambling out onto the streets. It was a clever trick, but a second glance revealed a slender platform that girded the rim. Clearly, the performers had climbed some hidden stair and jumped from a trapdoor, but the design of the structure made it seem as if the robed men and women were rising from the abyss.

  The mummers made every effort to play their part in the spectacle. They flew from the platform, then pranced and capered, mingling with the revelers and dancing with them too.

  “The dead walk among the living,” said Wat.

  “And they drink their amber too,” said Sarra. Indeed, one of the cloaked men had stolen a crock of amber and was gulping it down not more than a dozen paces from where they stood.

  “Death takes everyone and everything,” Wat muttered. “That’s the lesson—isn’t it?”

  “Something like that, it’s what the festival’s about, but I doubt we need such reminders,” she said ruefully, as if the very notion of the feast had pained her. And where is Mered? He was the only reason she’d attended.

  “There,” Wat said, as if reading her thoughts, his voice suddenly cold.

  Mered had arrived. He entered the scene on a golden chair, which was borne upon a litter and carried by a dozen strong-backed men. An entourage followed his palanquin. There were fifty or so men in it and each wore a false face made of plaster. These were the death masks of the house of Saad, the cast white semblances of the great generals and Protectors, preserved in plaster and worn to commemorate the passing of the former Protector of the Inner Guard, the nephew, Amen Saad. Mered’s wives and what seemed like twenty or thirty children completed the entourage.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was making up for some insufficiency. Surely no man has the need for so many wives. Look at the children. I doubt he knows half their names,” Sarra said.

  “Or even one of them,” said Wat, “but that’s hardly the point. Mered exhibits abundance in all things. His wives are no exception, and look at the crowds. He feeds them and gives them drink. They’ve come from every corner of the city. For some, it’s the first decent meal they’ve had in weeks. They’ll listen to his speech, and most will remember it.”

  “No doubt,” Sarra murmured. The hazy outlines of Mered’s plan had already taken shape in her thoughts. The father of the house of Saad had leveraged a lifetime of influence and a king’s ransom in gold to place himself in this honored position. He had usurped the roles of both Protector and Ray, and possibly even emperor. She needed to reclaim what he’d taken, but she had not yet named a new Protector; she had only been Ray for a matter of days. She guessed Mered had planned his rise to power for months, for years possibly. There was no sense in forming a hasty response to what was obviously a well-orchestrated consolidation of power and influence.

  Mered’s entourage halted directly in front of the place where she stood. He genuflected. He gave Sarra her due, just as she’d expected. But he did not sit afterward. Instead, he turned to the crowds—to the commoners and the wellborn alike—and raised his hands. Lanterns burst to life, bathing his already-crimson robe in an even redder light, deepening the color to a shimmering vermillion. He bent toward the crowd, his movements slow and exaggerated. He thanked them for their attendance. They cheered.

  Sarra hoped that would be the end of it. It often was, the patron came for his accolades then went off to some private celebration. The wellborn did not mingle with the rabble. The Opening of the Mundus of Ceres was a two-day affair, so she guessed he had much feasting to attend to and that he ought to be leaving. But he did not sit, nor did his palanquin move from its spot. Instead, he lifted his hands and a second set of lanterns burst to life. These burned cobalt blue, bathing his face in a fearsome light.

  Her stomach turned a bit, as it often did when she was anticipating some dreadful thing.

  “The men bearing the palanquin,” Wat said. “Recognize their livery?”

  Sarra blinked, shocked that she had missed this detail. The polemen wore the black wraps of the Horu cult, and their faces were sheathed in muslin. That’s why he wears that mask, she thought, he’s one of them. Horu was one of the minor cults, small and unimportant, but it was said to be one of the oldest.

  “Why Horu?” said Wat. “Is it a show of independence?”

  “No doubt,” said Sarra. “He’s convinced some minor cult to allow him to stand at their head. It gives him a bit of gravitas and perhaps some leverage, but not much more. He’s the Father of Horu and master of its twenty-odd followers.” She knew little of the cult because, until now, there had been little reason to know anything about them. You could almost count their members on two hands.

  A voice rang out, deep and loud, intruding on her thoughts. “It was the house of Saad that raised the Tower of the Protector,” said Mered. “We sponsored the first triumph of Amen Re,” he continued, going on about his family’s history. And exaggerating every bit of it, thought Sarra.

  “I hail from a long line of leaders,” said Mered. “Raden was my brother, but he passed too soon.” Sarra was forced to chuckle at that one. I suppose Raden’s son, Amen, thought it was just the right time, since it was he who did the killing.

  “Raden,” Mered continued, “found a worthy successor in his son, Amen. The young bull ruled with dignity and strength.” And he allowed Barca to mutiny without even once challenging the traitor, thought Sarra. This whole speech is just one lie after another. She wondered if he’d ever get to the substance of the thing.

  “Amen passed into Mithra’s light, but I will continue his tradition of service, albeit in a different fashion. Mithra tires of the old ways, just as all of you tire of them. Think on this: The fire at the Antechamber cannot be extinguished. It burns with His light. The god reveals His displeasure. The old faith is done, as are the ways that accompany it. We must forge a new path, and I am the one who will walk it! With the support of this city’s wellborn families, I declare myself the First Among Equals.

  “What does that title mean?” he continued. “Who is the First Among Equals? I am the one who will unite our great armies. I took charge of the conflict with the Harkans, driving them out of our city and into t
he Hollows. The ransoms have been recaptured. And as we speak, the Harkans are being put to the knife.”

  “I’ve heard other rumors,” said Wat.

  “And?” asked Sarra.

  “They say only a handful of ransoms were captured, the young and the injured. The rest escaped, and the Harkans went with them. They’ve buried themselves somewhere deep beneath the city.”

  “Mered’s lying,” Sarra said. She was thinking aloud. “He thinks he can put them down quietly while they’re lost in the Hollows. He’s taking credit for a task he hasn’t accomplished.”

  “It’s a risk.”

  “It’s more than a simple risk,” said Sarra. “It’s a mistake, and a clumsy one too. I know the kingsguard, and each one of them is worth a hundred of the Alehkar. And Mered’s men are freebooters, mercenaries. Men who fight only for gold are seldom useful.”

  “We’ll see,” said Wat. “Mered is not yet finished.” He inclined his head toward the palanquin, where Mered was still addressing the crowd.

  “I am the one who brought peace to our city,” Mered cried out to the crowds, and the people applauded, but he beat down their cheers with open hands. “That was only a small task. With our people safe, I will secure our food stores. As the amaranth grows scarce, we must turn our eyes elsewhere for sustenance. We must demand that our subjects, the Ferens, give their share and more, enough to feed all of Sola.

  “It is no coincidence that I speak at this feast. Our gods, like the dead we honor, live in silence. They speak, but only through the mouth of another. Of late, the gods have shown ill favor upon these proxies. We have only one Ray of their light, and I say that it is not enough. We have a voice, an ear, but no fist. I will be that fist. As the First Among Equals I will do the things our city and our kingdom require. We must not allow Barca to abuse our forbearance. Think on this for a moment. Consider the traitor and his revolt. This is the greatest of insults, is it not? A man who was once a simple captain has captured the Outer Guard and turned our holy army into a band of thugs. How long will we suffer this affront? No longer. That’s what I say. We will not abide,” he said, and the crowd applauded. “We will drive him into the sea, and his traitors with him.” Again the crowd clapped, but this time it was doubly loud. People banged cups. Some took flagons and smashed them against the stones. “This is what the first citizen of Solus will do,” he cried out to the crowds, and they returned his shout with a great chorus of cheers.