Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  In spite of his hunger, Ren walked in the opposite direction. Something had caught his attention. A low chant echoed off the marble walls of the temple. He went looking for the source and found a portion of the temple that was recessed into the floor. He glimpsed white-robed priests.

  “Not going to eat?” Kollen asked, his voice sounding distant. Ren glanced back at the boy in time to see him stuff handfuls of plums and other fruits into the sleeves of his robe, which he used as a kind of sack. Inventive, thought Ren. The threat of starvation does do wonders for the mind.

  “Just a moment,” Ren replied softly, not wanting to be heard by the priests. He edged closer to the center of the temple, coming up behind one of the great braziers as he stole a glimpse of what lay on the temple floor. In the sacred heart of the temple, there was a great stele. The carved relief was as tall as a desert palm and the scene was familiar. It depicted Re, first of the Soleri, as he descended from Atum, the home before time.

  Beneath the stele, the priests were engaged in some sort of ceremony. A man chanted in a low voice, singing in a language Ren could not understand, while the rest of his companions kneeled. The chant ceased and one group of priests stood while the other did not. Those who chose not to stand remained completely immobile. They did not move the slightest bit as the ceremony resumed and the singer took up the song. Once more, Ren was struck by the strangeness of the tune. The rhythm was out of kilter and there was no harmony to the thing. It was pure dissonance—like the humming he’d heard since he struck that statue. What is this place? he wondered. And why is that chant so odd and yet so familiar? He guessed this ceremony had something to do with those statues in the garden and his strange vision. He wanted to know more. In fact, he wanted to march right down there and ask those priests just what the hell they were doing, but he guessed they’d simply turn him over to the yellow cloaks, so he hunched behind a brazier and watched.

  Below, on the sanctuary floor, a young priest drew forth a staff and held it aloft. It was gnarled in places and it glimmered oddly.

  It can’t be, Ren thought, but he knew what he saw. The staff was an eld horn. Perhaps it was an old king’s sword, stolen from the Harkan Repository. There were dozens of them, some in Desouk, too, he knew. These were the swords of dead kings left for future generations to admire. But what was it doing here? And what in Mithra’s name were they trying to accomplish with it?

  The priest held up the eld horn, dangling it over the twelve who kneeled. He said some words then bent his gaze upon those below. It seemed as if he were expecting them to react, but they did not. The moment stretched. The staff wavered in the young priest’s grasp. He appeared to be waiting for some moment of importance, but it seemed to not materialize. And after a while, the young man lowered the eld horn.

  “Ren!” Kollen shouted, his voice shattering the still air. “They’ve found us!”

  A man with an unkempt beard and a lazy eye bounded toward them with a wooden mace, swinging it this way and that while a second man, a tall fellow with a missing tooth, held something similar, a barbed club of some kind. Kollen held a great stack of persimmons and was carrying heaps of fruit within the tied-off sleeves of his robe. Tye balanced a mound of fresh pomegranates against her chest and, like Kollen, she’d stuffed her sleeves full of fruit. Neither could fight, and they certainly could not run, not in that condition. Unburdened, Ren dashed toward the exit, throwing out his hand to catch the door, a soft whine buzzing in his ear, the moan of an ancient hinge rotating about the pin. He reached the handle, but he was too late. The gap had shut. His hand slapped against the closed door, and the terrible sound of a bolt sliding home rang throughout the temple.

  30

  The Harkan scouts descended upon Merit and her guards. The men were as swift as thieves. One had already nocked an arrow, and the second held a spear to her chest.

  “You might want to point that in a different direction.” Merit took the offending spear by its point and pushed it calmly to the side. “It would be a tragedy if one of you were to slay his own queen,” she said, speaking in her most regal voice, the one that was as unrelenting as their charge, as hard and steely as their blades.

  “Queen? No one knows where the queen regent went and you”—the spearman eyed her bruised skin—“you look like a dog who’s been set upon by his own pack. Like—”

  “Enough,” said Merit. “I’m aware of my god-awful appearance, but it does not diminish the truth of my position. I am the queen regent, and your generals, Tomen and Enger, will know my face. I know theirs and the names of their wives.”

  “Names can be learned. They’re not secrets.” The bowman looked her up and down. He was young, his hair long and wild, skin as yet unblemished by war.

  “And neither is my reputation. I’m not known as the forgiving type. If my words prove true, your crudeness might cost you the hand you’ve got wrapped so tightly around your bow. Lower your weapons and ride us to your camp. I’m in no shape to fight and the camp’s location is no secret. Surely the Harkan Army isn’t afraid of an unarmed woman and a pair of soldiers.”

  “No one said anything about fear,” said the spearman, “but you might be spies. We’ll ride you through the gates and maybe, if you’re lucky and one of our great generals has the time, he’ll take a peek at you from inside his tent. If he knows you and what you say is true, then all is well. Elsewise, we’ll ride you around back and let the men use you for sword practice. Sorry, my lady, but with all those bruises, I do not think you’re fit to be a camp follower. There are all sorts of tastes and desires that a soldier might develop, but—”

  “Deal accepted,” Merit said. She chose not to comment on the latter part of the man’s offer. Maybe she feared it was true, or maybe she was just too used to her good looks and the way they made men bow to her desires. Maybe it hurt too much to have that taken from her, for a time at least. She ignored the slight and they rode to the gates of the encampment, where the captain of the watch, a young soldier she did not recognize, greeted Merit and her entourage.

  “Leave your men with your horses,” said the captain.

  “No,” Merit replied, “I’ll take my men, they are unarmed and hardly a threat to the army.”

  The captain uttered a low sigh, which she assumed to be some sort of grudging acceptance of her terms. He nodded to the spearman, issuing orders for him to guide Merit to the general’s tent.

  “You must be new,” she told her escort as he led them through the camp.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you don’t know me. I’ve made a habit of knowing not just my generals but their men as well.”

  “Well, you’ve guessed that bit right; they’ve been recruiting up and down the countryside, parting men from their wives and their goats—just to bolster this army. I was a free man two weeks ago, a sword for hire.”

  “You have no idea how much that explains,” said Merit. “I think I’ll spare your head after all. You’ve never set foot in Harwen or seen the first family?”

  “Not once.”

  “Then shut up and show me Tomen’s tent,” she said. There was no point in wasting her breath on this man. He was just some free rider. She knew the general’s tent better than him, so she cast her eyes over the camp, looking this way and that. “That one, there, take me to it,” she said, and a trace of fear flashed across the spearman’s face. It was obvious she’d spoken the truth. He bowed his head and quietly led her to the general. As they went, she pointed out three or four other tents and named each of the captains that slept within them just to make clear her knowledge of the army.

  “Tomen, I hope you’re not banging some whore,” Merit cried out when they reached the general’s tent. “Your queen regent has arrived.” She used her loudest voice, startling the spearman.

  A moment passed before the flap parted. “If this is some jape I’ll have the head—” He caught sight of Merit, and his expression changed from outright anger to one of surprise, and perhaps e
ven pity.

  Gods, thought Merit, I must look like death itself.

  Tomen welcomed her inside.

  “My guards as well,” she said, and Tomen allowed it.

  “Where have you been?” the general asked, almost without hesitation. He’d always been an abrupt man and it was good to see that he had lost none of his vigor.

  “I’ve been everywhere,” she muttered. “Where would you like me to start? At the Battered Wall?”

  “That’s when I last saw you.”

  “Yes, I seem to remember leaving the kingdom in your hands.”

  Tomen wriggled his nose at that.

  Merit squared her shoulders and swallowed.

  There was a matter they needed to address, and Tomen’s response would mean everything to her cause. She needed to know if he had accepted the false king, but she stumbled over her words.

  “What is it? What do you mean to ask?” said Tomen.

  “The king in Harkana.”

  “That imposter?”

  “Thank the gods,” said Merit. “How did you come to know the truth?”

  “The truth? It was plain as day. I’ve sent emissaries to the court. He’s a fraud, a mummer, and a cheap one at that.”

  “That’s why the army is camped in the desert?”

  Tomen let forth a great sigh. “We’re stuck between two foes, Barca on one side and the false king on the other. There’s nowhere for us to go, nothing for us to do but wait until the heir returns from Solus.”

  “That boy died in the Hollows or is as good as dead,” said Merit. “And even if he did return, he’s a bastard.”

  “My king named him heir—”

  “He’s lost beneath the city, but I am here and I was named queen regent in my father’s stead, a title that still holds. Ren has not returned, and you’ve already spoken your thoughts on the false king, which leaves only one person to lead the people.” Merit grinned slightly.

  “I don’t contest it,” said Tomen, ever loyal.

  “You’ll follow me?”

  The general cocked his head, his mouth fixed in a snarl. “Follow you where? There is nowhere to go, not with Barca on our heels. If I ride to Harwen I’ll leave my back exposed.”

  “That won’t be a problem.” The voice came from behind Merit. One of her soldiers threw off his hood, revealing the face of the rebel and onetime captain of the Outer Guard.

  “Barca?” Tomen’s sword was in his hand before the word left his mouth. The general was well past his sixth decade, but he moved with the speed of a man half his age, bending his knees, sword outstretched, ready for the kill. His men were no less impressive. Three held blades to her guard and the others had already surrounded the man they thought to be Barca.

  “There’s no need to draw blood,” said the man Tomen thought was Haren Barca. “Clear the tent, Tomen. Just the three of us.”

  “I’d sooner—” Tomen started, but Merit shot him a glance that told him to comply, that he was safe or safe enough. He raised a hand and the men lowered their blades. Merit ushered them out of the tent.

  When they were alone, the swords went back into their scabbards and Tomen took a step back, taking a long sip of amber and savoring every drop. “It’s been a while since I’ve drawn a blade at such close quarters. I was looking forward to using it.”

  “No doubt,” said Barden. “But you would have made a grave mistake. I am here as a friend—no, a countryman, a brother, if you will. My name is Barden Hark-Wadi.”

  Tomen shot Merit a sideward glance, but she nodded. The empire was filled with bastards and false kings, but she’d accepted this man’s story. She hoped Tomen would do the same.

  “Barden?” Tomen asked. He was tugging at his beard, looking the man up and down. “You’re the dead boy, the one we buried?”

  “They buried the stillborn son of the butcher, or so I was told. I lived in Harwen for a time, with Taren. Did you know him? He was one of my father’s trusted men.”

  “I knew him well enough, but he never spoke of you. He left for the high desert—”

  “He took me to the high desert.” Barden told the rest of his story, from his time in the high plains to his rise through the army of the Protector. Tomen took it all in, nodding, still suspicious.

  “Truly, I’ve got no way to know if you’re Arko’s brother, but I can see a bit of him in your face, and maybe that’s enough.” Tomen was shaking his head. Merit guessed he shared her skepticism, her doubts.

  “I know about your soldiers, the ones in the caldera, not the starvelings you’ve been parading around for the past few weeks,” Tomen said.

  “You found my true army?” asked Barden.

  “Your secret’s safe with us. I camped out in that crater when I was ten and eight. There’s a cave that leads up to the rim. Your scouts missed it, but we’ve been running ours up and down it for the past week.”

  “Unfortunate,” said Barden. “I went to great lengths to conceal my numbers.”

  “And what are those numbers?” Tomen asked. “I’ve made guesses, but you might as well show your hand.”

  “Six thousand outlanders. A thousand freebooters, maybe more. Five hundred of my own men. Double that number in conscripts.”

  “It’s not enough,” said Tomen. “Those conscripts won’t be worth much if they’re forced to stand against imperial men, and the outlanders are as likely to fight as they are to flee. Same goes for the freebooters. You don’t have the numbers.”

  “I will if you join me,” said Barden. “My army cares only for Solus. We never meant to cross swords with your men. My goal is to sack and burn the city of the gods. The promise of plunder is the only thing that keeps these men together. Greed. Avarice. Call it what you will. It is the force that drives this army. I’ve lived in Sola, and the wealth there is beyond imagining. Statues of silver grace forgotten corners, and every temple is piled high with rich offerings. While the empire starves, they toss away their meals half-eaten. I’ve offered the fortunes of Solus to these men. It’s a hard deal, I know, but it’s the one I made—the only one that could forge an army large enough for the task. We’ll plunder the city, then burn what cannot be carted away. Join me and you buy your freedom from the empire. There is a civil war afoot. A man who calls himself the First Among Equals threatens to take the empire as his own. He wields power in the city of the Soleri, yet the old gods are silent. Some say they’ve fled, that they care not for their city. The rise of Mered Saad is proof enough for me. Solus is ripe for the taking. Your queen joined me, so will you lend me your hand?”

  Tomen didn’t say yes. He just stood there as if he were contemplating the weight of the thing, picturing every battle, every maneuver it would take to reach Solus, to prepare his army, to provision his men and protect those who would supply his soldiers.

  Tomen caught Merit’s eye, “Is this your will?”

  “It is,” said Merit.

  “Then I need not speak on the matter. I’m just a general. I do as I’m told,” said Tomen.

  “Well,” said Barden, “I believe your queen has some unattended business she wishes to discuss.”

  “What business is that?” Tomen asked, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice.

  “My throne and that sniveling brat who sits on it,” said Merit.

  Tomen grinned just a bit.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a smile on your face,” said Merit.

  “No, you haven’t, and I doubt you’ll see it again. The whole thing shouldn’t be much trouble. We’ve been scouting the Hornring for weeks. He’s poorly defended. We saw only a single regiment. Mered thinks Harkana has accepted his puppet.”

  “How do you know this is Mered’s doing?” she asked.

  “We’ve intercepted messengers, tracked a few of them.”

  “You were always my father’s best.”

  “Still am.”

  “We’ll see,” said Barden. “Can you take the city by yourself, as you’ve said? I prefer not to r
eveal my numbers, not until the march on Solus.”

  “I can,” said Tomen. “Mered’s army is split between Solus and Feren, or so my scouts report. He thinks our armies are in a stalemate, so he’s left the Hornring relatively undefended. We’ve got more than enough men to take the city.”

  “Good, then go,” said Barden. “And I’ll return to my camp. Send messengers when you’ve taken the Hornring.”

  Tomen bid him farewell, nodding his goodbye.

  Barden left, drawing down his cowl and rejoining his soldier, the tent flap closing behind him with an almost silent whoosh.

  Tomen was quiet.

  “What is it?” Merit asked.

  “That man, there’s something about him, a coldness.”

  “I know, I’ve seen it. They sent that boy into the desert and told him to avenge his family. As we rode, he went on about his first years, how the outlanders singled him out, how they hunted him as if he were a jackal, and mocked him for his dusky skin, told him he was cursed. They tortured the boy, but no hunter ever caught him and no blade cut him deeply enough to deter his rise to power. The outlanders follow him as if he were their king, and these traitors do the same. He’s made an army out of men who are bent on conquest, angry, and out for revenge, for looting and for pillaging.”

  “Aye.”

  “I cannot agree with his methods, but I do share his sentiment,” said Merit. “Look at what Tolemy did to me. My father is dead; my sister and I do not speak. I’ve been beaten and tortured, stripped bare and offered to their god. I saw my mother for the first time in a decade, and it was only days ago. We’ve suffered much and more, but when Mother sent me to Barden and I discovered his true name it made me think there might be some hope for the family, the possibility of some sort of reconciliation.”

  “I’m not much for hope.”

  “I know. It’s a fool’s hope. Like Barden, we’re all ruined folk.”