THAT COLOSSAL WRECK, BOUNDLESS AND BARE
22
Kepi had forgotten how much she liked to break things. The youngest daughter of Arko Hark-Wadi enjoyed splitting the wood in two, watching the various shards shatter and bounce when the funereal icon broke beneath her blade. She even liked the way her fingers stung from the force of the hit. The queen of the Ferens savored the shock that ran through her hands, the stinging in her thumbs, and the almost electric stab of pain that shot right up the tendons in her arm. She relished the pain because it made her forget the last few weeks, it blotted out the memories that haunted her every waking moment.
She saw the face of her dead husband, and she hacked at the wood.
The voice of her deceased father rattled in her ear, and she chopped at the icon again.
The face of the lover who’d betrayed Kepi flashed in her thoughts, and she hacked at the wood. The howls of the servants who rose up to claim her king’s life came unbidden to her ear, so she chopped at the wood until there was nothing left of it.
She lifted her blade and looked for something else to cut, but her concentration broke when the kite’s scream shot through the open archway. She glimpsed the great bird, wheeling through the gray sky, and she recalled the way it had circled the chamber when it first came to her side. In her thoughts, she heard again the song she’d cried, the Dawn Chorus, that wild and wordless tune that marked the start of her rule. She felt again the bite of the talons as the kite settled on her forearm in the Chathair while the whole of the kingdom kneeled at her foot. That was the day they named her Kitelord and queen of the Ferens.
For her part, Kepi hadn’t wanted any of it. She’d spent the better part of her life trying to escape her royal obligations. In her mind, this new title was just one more of them, another responsibility she’d rather not endure. Her whole life was an endless parade of duties, and today was no exception.
She glanced out through the open window. Past the little bailey and the city walls, beyond the crofters’ homes with their pitched roofs and columns of woodsmoke, a low hill hunched in the distance, and a crowd stretched between here and there.
She looked away.
Caer Rifka was quiet today, quieter than usual, and it had been awfully quiet lately.
She spent her days in Dagrun’s chamber, and she slumbered in her king’s bed, her husband’s bed.
No, she told herself. It’s just my bed. She struck the wood again, though there was hardly anything left of it.
She was the queen of a kingdom she did not want to rule—that she had refused to rule. More than a week had passed since the kite came to Rifka, but Kepi had barely left the chamber. Despite dozens of callers, in refutation of an endless parade of well-intentioned petitioners, she had avoided every inquiry, ceremony, and solicitation—and why shouldn’t she? She was Kitelord, ruler supreme, ordained by Llyr. With the kite at her side, no one dared question her authority. Hence, she ignored her petitioners. She preferred the company of cold steel.
She always had.
If only I wanted this throne, she thought. Merit wanted it—she wanted to rule the Gray Wood. I didn’t. She had no interest in governing a kingdom of slaves. Even the ripe tang of the blackthorn sap left an unpleasant taste in her throat—like spoiled wine.
Kepi found one last scrap of wood, aligned her blade with the direction of the grain, and cleaved it in two. The cut exposed the darker sapwood of the tree. It looked ashen, so she stuck the tip of her blade into the wood and tossed it out through the window.
Kepi didn’t want to think about ashes.
She looked out that same window, past the long lines of mourners, to the wooded grove at the hilltop. A bit of smoke gathered there, hanging cloudlike above the blackthorns, or maybe it was just the fog. She never could tell the difference, not here. Everything and everyone was unfamiliar. Kepi was a creature of the desert, born in Harwen where water was scarce, a treasure more precious than any jewel. In Feren, all things were green and even the air was sopped with moisture, the fog gathering each day above the trees, hiding the sky in a perpetual gloom.
She lingered at the window.
It’s begun, she thought.
The funeral planning had been under way for days, but she hadn’t wanted any part of it. The Feren warlords had come to her—first Ferris, then Deccan—and asked her to join in the planning. She’d refused. These were the men who’d stood with her when the commoners raised arms against Dagrun, but she’d sent them away without much more than a wave of her hand or an absent shake of her head. She wanted nothing to do with her husband’s funeral or his kingdom.
She wanted to escape, to leave this place, but that wasn’t going to be easy. She was the Kitelord. She was free of the need to marry, free of any obligations save those of the land. That was the tricky part. Feren was a slave kingdom. For every free citizen, there were easily two or three who were slaves. Not much of a kingdom, thought Kepi. More like a prison camp, and a crowded one at that. In Harkana, there were no slaves. She’d had servants, but they’d been compensated for their labors, given food, a bed, and a bit of coin. Here, the slaves did everything from sweeping the floors to wiping their masters’ asses.
Her eyes chanced upon the window, and she caught sight of that tall cloud of smoke, billowing upward from the distant hilltop. Dagrun’s funeral had begun. Unable to prevent herself, Kepi went to the window, where she once again caught sight of the great bird. It circled the little bailey. In truth, it had not left her side since the revolt, which was less than fortunate for Kepi. The mere presence of the kite brought back memories of the angry mob, potsherds jabbed in her face.
A feeling of bitterness welled within her heart, threatening to burst. Where are my leathers? She needed to hit someone. There must be some soldier here who’ll spar with me.
She went to the trunk, where she stored the sparring clothes her husband made for her, the ones that were so carefully tailored, so beautifully made, and that fit her so well.
She flung open the trunk, but it was empty. Nothing inside. No leathers—not even the tunic was there.
Kepi’s heart skipped a beat and her head swung toward that distant hill.
They couldn’t have.
She flung open the door to her chamber and ran out into the hall, the guards calling after her and inquiring about what direction she was headed in and how they might assist their queen.
“Leave me!” she told the soldiers. “Lest you find your head parted from your shoulders.”
Kepi found the stables. She took the reins from a soldier who was about to mount what appeared to be a well-rested steed. He was probably late for the funeral and would now be even later. Momentarily, he reached for his sword, but when he saw her face he sheathed it and bowed.
There had been a lot of that lately, bowing, and she ought to have acknowledged him in some way, but she had little interest in such things.
The warhorse thundered through the stable’s open doors, beneath the Chime Gate, and out toward the northern fields. She rode past the crofters’ homes and the packs of mourners who had come to pay their respects to the dead king. She broke through a stand of tall blackthorns and emerged into a great clearing where the warlords of Feren gathered with their sworn men and loyal soldiers. They encircled a yawning basin. A fire, half-buried in a pit, blazed uncontrollably.
She leapt down from her horse and all eyes swung from the pyre to Feren’s new queen.
I want my leathers.
She ran to the very edge of the pit, but came up short. Somewhere between the heat and the smoke and her desire to find those sparring clothes, Kepi realized just what she was looking at. This was the funeral of a Feren king. Apparently, such funerals entailed a great amount of burning, more burning than she imagined possible—at least until that moment. Dagrun’s body lay atop a stack of wood and all around that stack were arrayed the items of the king’s house: his chairs and tables, his chest, his sword, his shield, his every item—from his comb
to the polished bronze he’d gazed into each day. Every item of his existence was carefully arranged in the funereal well. His every possession was there, and so, with horror, she realized that his slaves were chained there as well. They kneeled beside their king, the flames licking at their faces.
No. Kepi choked on the smoke, but it wasn’t the flames that made her nearly disgorge the contents of her stomach. This is sick, she thought. How can these people simply watch?
A hundred souls sat in the fire. And that’s what they are, she thought. Souls. Surely that was all that was left of them.
She spied her leathers. Let them burn, thought Kepi. Let this be the price of my silence.
She’d left her kingdom in the hands of others, and this cruelty was the result. Though she had taken no oath as queen, and there had been no coronation, no ceremony, they’d bowed at her feet in the Chathair. She guessed that was enough.
Kepi was queen, and it was time she did something about it.
23
Ott braced himself atop what appeared to be a hastily fashioned crutch. He was as dirty as the filthiest among the kingsguard, his body as broken as that of any of the soldiers. He’ll fit in just fine with our lot, thought Ren. Ott’s leg was heavily bandaged, as were the fingers on one hand, and he had a withered arm hidden beneath the sleeve of his white robe. It hung, ghostlike, haunting the fabric it failed to properly occupy.
“I … I never thought I’d meet you,” said Ott, sweating profusely. “You see, I wasn’t looking for you. I was searching for something else. Then I found this temple and it was so ancient that history itself had nearly forgotten its name, and it occurred to me that such a place might have its uses—especially for someone who needed to hide … someone like you, Ren.”
“Thank you, brother.” It was all Ren could think to say. “We were … well, you know…”
“I understand. You owe me your life.” Ott spoke bluntly, almost to the point of awkwardness. “All of you”—he waved his hand at the kingsguard—“owe me your lives, and you may have cost me mine.” He chuckled oddly at those last words, out of fear, perhaps, or nervousness. The boy possessed an almost indescribable eccentricity, but he held some strength within him and he had Arko’s jawline, his eyes, and his wide forehead.
“You never met him—did you?” Ren asked. “Our father?”
Ott shook his head.
“You have his eyes. You’re his son. Maybe more than I am.”
“I’ll never know.”
“No, none of us will,” said Ren. “He was…” Ren did not know where to start. His one encounter with his father had been so brief, the moment so charged with pain and the urgency of Arko’s surrender that Ren found it difficult to recall. “He was a mystery,” he said at last, wary of the subject. He knew little and less, and all of it was shot through with pain.
“Isn’t everything these days?” said Ott. He leaned heavily on his crutch.
Kollen brushed aside a pair of soldiers, his face speckled with dust. “You’re the trueborn son of Arko Hark-Wadi and that bitch Sarra Amunet, Mother Priestess of us all?”
“The Mother Priestess—”
“I know she’s no bitch to you,” said Kollen, “but—”
“No,” Ott interrupted, “I wasn’t arguing with you. I was correcting you. Mother is the First Ray of the Sun, right hand of Tolemy the Immortal. In public, I am her scribe, Geta.”
“First Ray?” Ren asked. “Your mother, the Mother, is Ray? That woman despises me. My father bedded some other girl. Apparently, it pisses her off to no end, and the fact that Arko named me the heir of Harkana and not you”—Ren pointed to Ott—“probably just made the woman doubly angry.”
“I don’t want it,” Ott said.
“Want what?” Ren asked.
“Your throne. I don’t want Harkana, and even if I did want it there is already a king in Harwen.”
“A king?”
“Yes, but a false one, obviously.”
“In Harkana, a man sits upon the throne?”
“That’s what I said.” Ott’s words were loud and clear. “The imposter claims to be me—the hidden son of Arko. The boy who never went to the priory. He sits upon the Horned Throne.”
“Well, that’s news. I suppose we’ll have to do something about him—won’t we, then?” Ren’s gaze went to Edric and the rest of the black shields. Shouts echoed in the darkness. They were with Ren, but nervous too. None of them knew how they’d get out of this place.
Ren caught Ott staring at the eld horn. The tusk was caked in blood and dirt and a hundred other kinds of filth, but it was still the sacred horn—the symbol of the king, of the hunt, and of Ren having completed it.
“We need not argue over succession,” said Ott. “A king sits in Harkana. And to make matters worse, your sister was named queen regent. The chair has three contenders. I’d rather not add a fourth.”
Being the right-hand man of the Ray of the Sun was, in all likelihood, preferable to being the monarch of a rebel kingdom, or so Ren surmised. Maybe that was Ott’s reason for denying his claim to the throne, or perhaps Ott had just decided to let the three of them fight it out before he joined the fray. It wasn’t a half-bad strategy. Merit was a formidable foe, and Ren knew little of this false king.
“Walk with me,” Ott said, “if the rest of your people don’t mind.”
“Oh, they don’t mind a bit,” said Ren. “You can do whatever you please. Isn’t that right, Kollen?”
The older boy shrugged. “Have what you wish. I’m going to sit my ass down and pass out,” he said. Most of the kingsguard, except perhaps the captains, had done that already. Tye nodded for Ren to go and sat down beside Kollen while Ott led Ren to the base of the spiral. Nearly five hundred men crowded the ramp. But there was a bit of privacy at the bottom, a chance to speak candidly.
“Do you have a plan, some way to get us out of here?” Ren asked.
“A plan?” asked Ott. “I led you out of the cistern. Isn’t that enough? You have no idea how much effort it took to find the right passages and where to collapse them, which ones to close and which to leave open, and how to do it all quickly, properly, to design a path that could not be tracked, that would divert your enemy in a thousand different directions. And I did it in a day. I haven’t even slept.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ren. “Go. Sleep. But let me ask you this one thing: Is there a way out of here?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about food, have you brought us any?”
“I haven’t brought you anything—except time. If I’d purchased a hundred barrels of amber, someone might have thought it odd. I can’t take that sort of risk. You are the enemy of both the Ray and Mered. There are two forces set against each other in this city, and both of them want you dead. Every man in Solus would be after my head if my part in your escape came to light.”
“But your priests? They’re loyal?” asked Ren.
“To the end. Each of them hails from Harkana. They are your kinfolk and they know the risks. I’m taking one right now, disappearing like this—I have duties, and my absence will be noted.”
“Then leave.”
“I will, but I wanted to speak to you. I’ll be plain, because I don’t want you to have any illusions and time is short. You are trapped. Mered’s army patrols the Hollows and there are men at every gate.”
“But the smugglers’ routes—”
“Are all sealed, and even if you found a fresh one, the Protector’s Army guards the Plague Road. There are what, four, five hundred of you? Five thousand men patrol the desert path and it’s the only one that leads to Harkana.”
Ren had once walked that road; he knew it.
“Trapped then,” said Ren. “And we’re almost out of provisions. In truth, we are out. There’s barely anything left. Still, you did well, my friend. We’re alive.”
“I did do a fair job of rescuing you—didn’t I?”
“Brilliant’s the word.”
“Then give me time.”
“We don’t have it.”
“You also don’t have a choice,” said Ott. “Wait here and I’ll find food. For now I must leave.”
“Leave?” asked Ren. “There’s a way out of this place?”
“There is one, but you cannot follow it. I am the servant of the Ray, and you’re the most wanted man in Solus. I passed a hundred sentries before I disappeared and you’d have to pass all of them to follow my route. By decree of Tolemy I am working to unearth the history of the cults of Re and Pyras. I can go wherever I please, but there’s nowhere you can go. At least, not with your head attached to your shoulders. I’ll find food.”
“Good, but don’t wait. Throw it over the lip of the well if you must,” said Ren, glancing at the orange dot above them. “I’m a good catch.”
“If only,” said Ott. He motioned to leave, but Ren barred his path.
“Take me with you,” he said. “Tell them I am your scribe and let me help you find another way out of this place. I made promises—”
“There is no way out.” Ott raised his voice, which seemed uncharacteristic for the boy, though Ren had only just met him. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to.…”
“It’s all right, but I can’t just sit here and wait for you to help us. We’ll starve.”
“You cannot follow me. We’ve been over this, Ren. There are too many sentries, too many eyes watching the Hollows.”
“You’re the son of the First Ray, aren’t you? Well, let me tell you something. When you betrayed Sarra, you made your choice. So why wait? Join us. Those aren’t your people—we are. You’re Harkan. I see it in your eyes.”
Ott did not respond. His face held no emotion, no regret, no remorse. Blank.
Silence of the Soleri Page 18
