Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  Sarra’s heart froze at the sound of her daughter’s name, but the part about the king of the Harkans was a bit of a surprise. He said the true king was in Harkana, which meant that he’d accepted a false king and was perhaps the one who was backing the imposter. He’d already conceded that Ren was in the Hollows. The king in Harkana would have had to be Ott, which was of course impossible. You made a terrible blunder, Mered. Ott was Sarra’s son, and he was in Solus. She could easily declare the boy in Harkana to be a farce, a false king with no parentage. Mered must have known this, but he’d acted anyway. His boldness had overtaken his reason. And I will no doubt benefit from this lapse in judgment.

  She pressed closer to the benefactions. Sarra moved directly into Merit’s path. This was her blood, her daughter, and she had not seen her in a decade. Their eyes met. Merit set her jaw in a careful line, then her lips parted. It was no grin, but it was something close to one, as close as anyone in such circumstances might dare. Her lips quivered. Then she turned and walked away, continuing the procession.

  Merit was gone, but she’d stuffed something into Sarra’s hand.

  It felt soft, like fabric. Sarra stumbled backward, pretending a bit of drunkenness, drifting into the crowds as she peeled open the cloth. It held a single sentence, and there were only five words in it, but they told Sarra everything she needed to know.

  19

  Merit Hark-Wadi was no longer a ransom; she was a benefaction, a sacrifice to the gods, forced to parade before the wealthy and well-bred of Solus. And just to make the whole thing as absolutely unbearable as was possible, she was stripped naked and painted red. A drop of spittle hung from her right breast, and as if that weren’t bad enough the horned crown she wore had cut right through her skin, sending slender lines of red dribbling down her forehead. She suppressed the urge to scream—once, twice—but it kept returning. In fact, it doubled when she caught sight of the many knives that cluttered the haruspex’s table. She wondered if she ought to grab one and take her chances with the guards, but she did not reach for the blade. She’d chosen to place her hope in the hands of her mother, Sarra Amunet, the First Ray of the Sun.

  More specifically, she’d placed that hope in the slip of linen she’d forced into her mother’s hand. If it weren’t for that scrap of cloth, she would have in all likelihood collapsed, her mind overcome by the sheer hopelessness of her situation. However, she had passed the note, and Sarra had disappeared into the crowd the moment the cloth touched her hand. It was the one act of resistance Merit could muster, and it had taken considerable effort to produce it.

  An hour earlier, she had been an entirely different person, living and breathing under entirely different circumstances. She wore the gown of a queen regent. A bronze cup filled high with amber rested in her hand. She had her dignity, but more important, she had something Mered believed she was willing to trade: a secret. He still clung to the notion that he could somehow force her to reveal it, so he’d plied her with words, and when that hadn’t worked he’d threatened her with his torturer. When she still maintained her silence, he offered Merit the haruspex’s knife and told her that every highborn man and woman in the city would sit and sup while she suffered beneath it. That was her fate. Mered was quite clear about it. Divulge what she knew or suffer the knife. Merit had accepted the latter.

  Afterward, Mered’s servant led her down the shaded steps of the Cloud Garden and walked her to a lightless chamber, where she was left alone and made to wait and wonder if the torturer would return with his knife. He did not. Instead, a servant arrived. He guided Merit up and out of the slender space, escorting her through a series of waiting rooms that led to what she guessed was the central hall of the great house, the servant’s hand lifted up toward some enormous contraption. “The rotunda of House Saad is the greatest marvel in Solus,” he said. “It is surely more elegant than the Cenotaph, and loftier than the Shroud Wall.” The servant’s name was Bicheres, and he made little more than small talk as he walked Merit through the great hall. “Note the water engine,” he said as he pointed out the channels in the face of the dome. “Even our best builders are unable to discern the inner workings of it.”

  That’s no surprise, thought Merit. Imagination was in short supply in the empire. Men of promise dedicated themselves to politics and the pursuit of coin. The people of Solus had stopped dreaming. All of us have, she thought, standing beneath the dome, pondering its motion.

  “You are no doubt familiar with our history, the stories incised in the dome,” said Bicheres.

  “The tale of the Soleri?” she asked. “Heard it a few hundred times.” She assumed the comment would silence the man, but he went on as if she had not even spoken, raising his voice as he indicated the various scenes, each illustrated in low relief.

  “Some worlds begin with a word, some with an action. In some faiths, the totality of the universe is sung into being. But this land was born in darkness. It was the sole province of the Pyraethi—”

  “Yes, until the Soleri stole it,” said Merit.

  “Well, that’s one way to put it,” said Bicheres. “They brought light to our world…”

  “No doubt, and they also murdered every living thing in it. They built their empire atop the ruins of another. The victors get all the monuments, but the losers always seem to get skipped over when it comes time to build the big statues and the great halls. There are no monuments to the atrocities we commit. Funny how that works—isn’t it?”

  Bicheres said nothing, not immediately. Perhaps he was unused to intellectual debate. “I suppose I should leave such matters to more educated men … and women,” he said at last, his tone hardening as he spoke, his demeanor shifting from the calm composure of guide to something dark and stern. He straightened his back and cleared a god-awful clump of snot from his throat. He swallowed once and spoke, “I am more concerned with mortal matters.” He indicated a small chamber. She hadn’t noticed it. It was subterranean; a small set of steps led to a door. The chamber beyond had the look of an oubliette or something like one.

  “I was only making small talk,” said Bicheres, “passing the time while I walked you to the Chamber of Benefactions. We’ve arrived, so we can forget about the dome and the effort I wasted on our little talk. Once you step over the threshold and walk down those steps you will cease to be the former queen regent. In fact, you will cease to be anything but a sacrifice, a benefaction. Do you understand? Tonight, in a matter of hours, you will be paraded before the great families of our city, our Ray, and our highborn citizens. Then you will be offered up to our god. Nice and simple. A few dozen cuts of the knife and it’s finished, give or take a moment or so of slow and painful bleeding. Mered asked that I offer you one last chance to avoid this fate. If there’s something you want to say, I’ll take you to him.” Bicheres inclined his head ever so slightly toward the steps that led back up to the terraces.

  Merit said nothing. She would never say anything to Mered. The house of Saad had murdered her father; Amen Saad had set the fire himself. The patriarch of House Saad had led the Protector’s Army against her grandfather in the Children’s War. This house had tormented her family for generations and they were still at it. The rumors all said it was Mered who pursued her half-brother, Ren, in the Hollows, and that same man jockeyed for power in Solus with her mother. Merit bit down on her lip and Bicheres huffed.

  “I don’t know what sort of secret you’re keeping, but it’s not worth a trip to the haruspex’s table.” He folded his hands and bent his lips into a terrible grimace. “Think on it. Once you enter this room, you cannot go back. Spill your story. Mered promises you a good life, a wealthy life…”

  Bicheres awaited her answer. He was patient, but Merit said nothing. She would give him nothing. She’d take the knife if it came to that, and she’d grin while it parted her flesh. Merit had made her decision, so she turned her back on him and made her way down the steps and into the little room that Bicheres indicated. She sat on a slender sto
ol, the room’s only furnishing, and her stomach dropped when the door sealed shut and the darkness gathered about her, pushing down on her like some terrible weight. She breathed deeply, but it did little to calm her nerves. She sat alone in the tiny cell, but there were other rooms and she guessed there must be others in the cells. She wondered how each of the prisoners had come to be there.

  “Who are all of you?” she called out.

  They shuffled about their cells when she spoke; she clearly was not alone. A boy in the next cell over screamed something unintelligible while at the same time an even younger boy, who occupied the cell on her other side, began to cry. She feared she might join him. It was terrible to hear a child sob, but the door banged open and her attention was drawn elsewhere. A pair of servants entered the little cell. One was an elderly woman and she guessed the second was her daughter. They carried a large wooden tub, linen cloths, and an assortment of redware jars.

  They stripped Merit from head to toe and washed her until her skin was raw. They painted her with tar and madder, which made the whole bath seem a bit unnecessary, if not illogical. She thought of raising the issue, but the servants had no tongues, so there was hardly any point in arguing with them. Merit stood as they painted her with stripes of red and black. The younger girl departed the chamber but soon returned with a horned crown. She placed it in Merit’s hands and indicated, without speaking, that she ought to put it on her head. The horns tore a slip of linen from the girl’s dress. Merit placed the strange crown atop her head, but only briefly, just to indicate that she’d understood the girl. The gesture seemed to please the pair because they left Merit with the crown, sealing shut the door again.

  They’d made a hasty exit and in the process they’d left their lamp in the corner. The flame still burned. Merit sat upon the lonely stool, snatched the scrap of torn linen, took the crown, dipped one of the barbs in the red pigment, and wrote a simple sentence on the fabric. In his arrogance, Bicheres had let one crucial piece of information slip. He’d said the Ray would be in attendance that night. Her mother would be in this very hall, and Merit guessed she could pass a message to Sarra. She curled the linen into a slender little roll and fit it between her index and middle finger, the cloth disappearing into the tar that covered her hand.

  A cup of wine splashed Merit’s face and her thoughts came quickly and frightfully back to the present. She glimpsed her mother’s golden robe, half-hidden among the crowd.

  Sarra had the note.

  Merit prayed she’d know how to use it.

  20

  Mered doesn’t know the secret.

  Sarra had read the note twice. Afterward, she’d folded the linen into a ball and stuffed it into her robe. The benefactions circled the black table of the haruspex, and the executioner was chanting, something low and in a language she did not understand. It was a primitive, guttural tongue—an inhuman voice for an inhuman act, fitting but nevertheless unnerving. He cried out one last syllable, and the benefactions halted their procession, frightened perhaps, or maybe they had been told to stop at that particular utterance. The boy from Rachis, Carr, stood before the table. The red soldiers took him by the arms and strapped him to the black altar. There was no delay, no ceremony to the thing. The haruspex simply pressed his knife to the skin and made the first cut, the boy whimpering as the blade parted his flesh.

  Sarra didn’t watch, but she did hear the soft mewling of the benefaction. There was a dripping sound, followed by a second chorus of whimpers. The haruspex had made another cut. A third would follow, and soon he’d be ready for another sacrifice. Time was in short supply, so she gathered her thoughts. Merit’s letter said that Mered did not know the secret, and since there was only one secret, Sarra was certain that Mered did not know the Soleri were ashen relics. He had said they were absent from the domain, so she guessed that was the extent of his knowledge. Merit also knew the secret. Arko must have told it to her, which did make some sense. She was queen regent at the time. If he were going to trust the secret with someone, surely it would be his daughter, the regent of the kingdom he loved and cherished.

  Three people shared the secret of the Soleri. As far as the rest of the empire was concerned, as far as each and every person in this room knew, the Soleri lived and breathed and wielded the power of gods. Maybe they existed outside of the Empyreal Domain. There were some who doubted the faith, but they did not discount it entirely. The appearance of the Antechamber fire had rekindled the beliefs of many, highborn and low. Even Sarra had come to accept such things, if only grudgingly. The gods might be dead, but somehow, almost impossibly, their power endured and Mered had seen it too.

  He was careful to honor Sarra, as if he were hedging his bets, just in case he’d gotten the whole thing wrong. The power he took was not the power of the Ray, and he claimed no blessings from Mithra. He’d arrived with his own cult and his own soldiers, building his own empire right on top of the one Tolemy ruled.

  It’s time to test that empire, she thought. We will see if his god of death can match my dead gods. Were the situation any less grim she might have chuckled as she made her way across the room. Everyone else was having a good time. All around her the people pushed this way and that, trying to get a better look at the altar. The feast had reached a crescendo. Everywhere, there were more servants, carrying more plates piled high with more delights. Gold-rimmed platters overflowed with dates, fresh persimmons, and nut-brown sapodillas. The men drank from gilded drinking horns while the women sipped from ornate bowls of colorful glass. Incense wafted from every table, filling the air with twisted columns of smoke, burning Sarra’s eyes, filling her nose with lurid aromas. The air was heavy with laughter, with smoldering ash, and the stink of scented oils. Everything was in abundance; everyone had had their fill, and more. The people feasted while the haruspex did his bloody work. To them, this was all a great spectacle, a kind of entertainment. Too bad I’m about to ruin it.

  “My master will speak with you.” Bicheres came upon her unexpectedly. His chin was raised, voice high. In his estimation, it was a great honor to speak to the father of House Saad. Sarra saw things a bit differently, but she had no time to argue with the man.

  “Take me to him,” Sarra said as she glanced sidelong at the black altar, trying to catch a glimpse of Merit.

  Bicheres offered his arm, but she did not take it. The golden robe would not allow them to lock arms. It was simply too stiff, which was a bit of a relief. She had no interest in touching Mered’s servant boy, this abettor or whatever he called himself. And he had no right to touch the mouth of the god. Sarra walked with Bicheres at her back. She made her way slowly, with grace, though time was short.

  Mered occupied a high chair and his many wives, the chatelaines of House Saad, sat with their children. There were dozens of them, a whole tribe clustered about one another, enraptured by the show. The youngest of the family could not have been older than four or five. Human sacrifice was hardly a decent night’s entertainment for a child, but that notion had apparently not occurred to Mered, or to his wives. They were all grinning. It was as if they were watching a puppeteer’s show and not some butcher with a body laid out atop his block.

  At least one of them had the sense to look away from the altar. Mered stood when he caught sight of Sarra. He made a small gesture with his hand and the wives corralled their children, moving them out of Sarra’s path. As she walked, cries echoed in the distance, but she dared not glance at the altar. She heard a whimper and prayed it was not Merit’s.

  When she reached the father of the great house, he bowed and a hundred different beads jingled as studs of carnelian and blue faience knocked against one another. It was an awful racket and a silly display of wealth.

  “Stand straight,” she said coldly, firmly, “there’s much we need to discuss.”

  “Is there?” he asked, his voice sounding higher than she remembered.

  “I thought you’d come here to witness my triumph,” he said. “To tell good T
olemy of the wondrous accomplishments I’ve made, of our great feast or our most unprecedented offering to the gods. Sit. There is nothing else for you to do.” His words hardened into what sounded like a command.

  Sarra was unmoved. “I think I’ll stand, and you should do the same. The kingsguard are free.” Wat’s spies in the city watch had told her the story. “The Harkans have completely escaped, so you might want to stop promising their demise.”

  “They cannot hide forever,” he said calmly. He was not bothered.

  “Really? Seems to me that you’ve lost them completely. You’ll look like a fool when word of this reaches the wellborn. You captured only children and tortured them for sport.”

  “Do not—”

  “What? Threaten you? I don’t have time for that. I am Tolemy’s ambassador. He sent me to save you from all this foolishness.”

  Mered did not reply.

  Silence.

  Then he seemed to reconsider his quiet. “I require no such help,” he said. “I have a ceremony to observe.” He gestured toward the haruspex, and Sarra stole a glance at the altar. Merit stood beside it. Their gaze met and Merit’s eyes took hold of Sarra. It was a dreadful embrace, and a plea she could not ignore.

  “As I was saying,” Mered spoke, breaking Sarra’s concentration, returning her attention to the task at hand. “Join me and observe the next offering. I believe it’s what you came here to witness—is it not?”

  “Is it not?” She mocked his words. “No,” said Sarra. “And there’s nothing left to observe.” She drew close to him. “You’ve made a blunder in the Hollows, and soon everyone will know it. But there is still a way to maintain your dignity, First Among Equals.”

  “And what way is that?”

  Sarra was silent. Up until that very moment, she’d bided her time. She’d refused to move against Mered because she knew too little about his plans, but all that had changed. Sarra had learned what he knew of the Soleri and guessed at his larger aims.