Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  The false king’s men turned to their master, who himself seemed to look around for some answer or exit.

  “Lower your shields,” she said with patience, with the confidence of a victor, her voice eliciting a quiet calm to contrast the frantic demeanor of the boy. “Drop them or I’ll take them myself,” said Merit, who was within striking distance of the king. Tomen eyed her nervously. His men swarmed at her heels, but she pushed them back.

  The king made a sad little gesture with his good hand. “Drop your arms,” he told his men. “Let them fall. There’s no use in any of this.”

  “Indeed,” said Merit.

  The king’s men parted for the queen regent, and she passed through their lines while behind her Tomen’s men sent his soldiers stumbling to their knees with a swift kick here or a punch there. They were not gentle.

  Only the false king stood, alone upon the Horned Throne, the great horns of Ulfer curled up behind the boy, that shiny black banner still hanging from the wall.

  Merit joined him upon the dais, much as she had a few weeks prior. Again, she held a sword in her hand. He, too, was armed, a blade at his side, but he dared not unsheathe it. A dozen Harkans stood within striking distance, swords raised, the men trembling with eagerness, their blades wetted with blood.

  “You’re too late,” said the false king. She did not even know his name.

  “Late?” she asked. Then it came to Merit. His threat, the letter, she thought. He’s slain Shenn. In the heat of the moment, in the glorious charge, she’d almost forgotten about her husband. Almost.

  “Yes, late. Too late to save your man. Terrible, isn’t it? While you dallied in the hills, the commoners fought the real fight.”

  “Quiet yourself, imp, and show me my husband.”

  At that, the false king complied. Shenn was there, among the rebels, his body piled upon a dozen others, caked in blood, spear wounds in his chest and leg, his right arm mangled beyond recognition.

  She ran to him and knelt. His blood, still warm, wetted the fabric of her dress.

  She stroked his black hair and the blood-soaked strands made knots around her fingers. The eyes were open and she searched for life within them. They still glittered, teasing her, making her think he was somehow alive, but it was only a trick of the light. The breath had long since faded from his chest. Her hand touched his heart. It did not beat. He was warm, but growing cold. She slid his eyelids shut and laid him gently, reverently, upon the floor.

  His blood, still pouring from his body, limned the corpse in red.

  Her stomach churned and she nearly disgorged its contents upon the floor. Her skin went cold and sweaty and her heart beat with such thunderous strength that her ears rang. A shock ran through Merit, her breath coming in gasps. Her eyes stung. She did not care who witnessed her grief. For once, she allowed herself a moment of uninhibited sorrow.

  Then she turned to the false king, the nameless boy, the one who dared call himself brother. She stood, but she did not advance on him. A voice had caught her attention.

  “It was Shenn who led us.” A woman stepped forward and Merit knew her face.

  “Akti—isn’t that your name?” Merit asked. “What did you say?”

  “Your Grace, I was just saying that it was your husband, Shenn, who led us. One of the helpers at the prison cells was Harkan, you see, and Shenn convinced him to set us free. The king had us locked in the cells beneath the Hornring”—she pointed to the boy who stood upon the throne—“he chained us like dogs, but Shenn led us out of there. He told us to go to the gates, to open the Blackwood Bridge and clear the wall walk. He did all that, my lady, called every man and woman in the city, and they all came running. They knew his face; they knew what had to be done. Shenn was at the head of it all. He led us here, all the way to our king’s throne room, and we almost took that bastard’s head.” Again she pointed at the false king, her finger trembling with anger, tears running down her cheeks. There was blood on her dress and cuts on her arms, a bruise turning the left half of her face purple.

  Shenn led the revolt, thought Merit. This was all his doing.

  It was a bold act, a heroic undertaking for a man who had seldom been heroic in life.

  He’d done the hard work and taken the hardest of hits.

  He’d given his life for the kingdom, she supposed, and for her—so she could have her throne. They’d never been lovers, but perhaps there were other kinds of love, and maybe that was what they shared.

  “That’s how it went?” Merit asked the nameless boy, the one who claimed to be her brother. “You marched into Harwen, proclaiming yourself the son of Sarra, the heir that was rumored to have been born in Harwen but raised in Desouk. The true son of my mother and father?”

  “Something like that.” He stood alone upon the throne. “Does it matter?”

  No, thought Merit.

  She went to him, her heart overflowing with rage. She ripped the finely woven robes from his chest, revealing the place where his arm was sawn off and sewn shut to make him look as if he were Ott.

  “It must have hurt terribly when they cut it off,” said Merit, her eyes lingering on the stump.

  “It did,” he said, twitching uncomfortably, “but Mered promised me a kingdom, and even if Harkana is nothing but an awful patch of dirt, I thought it might be worth a lost limb.” His eyes flashed with anger. “It’s a notion I’ve since dispelled.”

  “Enough,” said Merit.

  She was already wiping his blood from her sword when the boy collapsed, his neck striking the throne, red spraying on the chair and the shiny banner her soldiers tore from the wall.

  The Horned Throne was empty.

  She did not loiter.

  Caked in the blood of her husband, Merit took the throne. This was her moment of triumph but her face was blank, expressionless, drained of all hate, love too, and hope.

  THE LONE AND LEVEL SANDS

  39

  Ren gripped the familiar grille at the top of the pipe that wound itself around the Well of Horu. It dangled a hair’s width above its seat, but he did not move it to the side as he often did. Something made him pause. He had decided to go out ranging with Tye and Kollen. They’d made it all the way to the top of the pipe, but some change in the plaza above made him reconsider his plans. The platform appeared to be missing and the streets above were silent. Where was the chatter? The cries of the hawkers, or the buskers crooning for one last crescent before the day’s end?

  “Did they all go on holiday?” Tye put her head next to Ren’s, trying to catch a glimpse of the streets.

  “Most definitely,” said Kollen. “I think they’ve gone and left the city for us to plunder.”

  “No doubt.” Ren set the grille aside and stole a glance at the street.

  “Well?” Kollen asked.

  “Empty. Not a soul. No soldiers, no one, and it might as well be midday up there. They’ve hung lamps from every ledge and door.” He set the grille back into place.

  “It had to happen sooner or later,” said Tye.

  In truth, Ren had hoped for a little more time.

  “They must have guessed at our location,” said Kollen. “The temples and houses we visited are close to the Mundus.”

  “Yes, they’ve guessed at the general area, but they don’t know exactly where we are,” said Tye, hopeful.

  Ren shared none of her enthusiasm. “I have a terrible feeling. We should go.”

  Sandals tapped on the stones above, the ring of bronze heels beating on the ground.

  “Soldiers,” Tye whispered.

  Ren held his breath. Kollen was already backing down the pipe, Tye hot on his heels.

  “They could be coming for us in the Hollows and above,” said Ren.

  “Or this might just be caution,” said Tye. “Perhaps the whole city’s locked down, a curfew or something like that, an attempt to stop us from prowling in the night. The temple might be safe.”

  “Or there might be a thousand red soldiers
storming it as we speak,” said Kollen.

  “Listen,” said Ren, “none of us know what’s happening.”

  “Which means we ought to get our asses moving,” said Kollen, and that was the last thing any of them said.

  Kollen led, followed by Ren, then Tye, all of them shimmying their way down the long and winding passage. It was slow going and every creak, every sound, made them stop and listen. Was that a soldier? Had they just heard the distant clamor of battle? They listened, eager to learn what waited for them in the temple. Silently, one in front of the other, feet forward, sliding on their asses, they went, the air filled with dust.

  “This is killing me,” said Tye, “not knowing what’s down there.”

  “How far have we gone?” asked Kollen. “I forgot to keep track of the turns.” The tunnel wound around the shaft eighty times. They’d counted it once, but never again.

  “Don’t know,” said Ren. “Maybe halfway.”

  “Should we call out? Maybe they’ll hear us and send up a man with some news,” said Tye.

  “Or perhaps Mered will send up the whole fucking army,” Kollen ventured.

  Ren agreed. “We ought to stay quiet until we know what’s down there.”

  Uncertain and afraid, they descended the tube.

  Kollen said nothing—not a word or a jape. The boy was deep in thought, or trapped in some web of fear.

  As they neared the base of the pipe, a notion occurred to Ren. “Tye, maybe you should stay a good way behind us. Me first, then Kollen. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?” Tye asked. “In case our asses are in danger? I don’t need savin’. I’ve wanted to sink a blade into one of those bastards for days. If this is the end, I want to be the first out.”

  “First to get a sword in your belly; good luck with that,” Ren muttered. He’d gone all the way back to the Priory of Tolemy to save Tye, and nearly lost his life along the way. He still cared. He still saw that bright-eyed girl he’d met in the priory, the one who grew her hair long to hide her girlish face and strapped cloth to her chest to maintain a boyish appearance. Even among the kingsguard, he still reached for his blade whenever some soldier looked at her for too long or lingered in her presence. They all knew she was a girl, the only girl in the company of five hundred men, but Ren had made it abundantly clear to the captains that any man who came near Tye would find a sword in his back. He was still protecting her, just as he’d done in the priory, just as he’d always do. It didn’t matter if she cared for him or knew what pains he took to make certain she was safe.

  A rattle echoed in the tunnel, an odd sound. Ren looked for Tye and spied her just up ahead.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “Who knows,” said Kollen. “There’re more rats than rocks down here. It’s hard to know what you’re stepping on.”

  “Quiet.” Tye pushed past Kollen, moving to the head of their group, just as she’d promised. “There’s something going on down there.”

  “If it’s a battle, it’ll be over by the time we reach it,” said Ren.

  “Yes, and there’ll be a hundred men in red waiting for us,” said Kollen.

  “They don’t know we’re in the shaft,” said Ren.

  “Good,” said Tye. “Let’s go. Out the top and away from whatever’s down there.”

  “I thought you were up for a fight? Change your mind at the smell of blood?” Kollen asked. “Those empty streets are more dangerous than some rattle in the tube. I say we have a peek at what’s down there before we make any decisions. Weren’t there a few openings near the base of the shaft, places for all this muck to overflow?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Tye. “I’m not an expert on shit.”

  “I agree with Kollen,” Ren said. “We need to know what’s down there.”

  Tye did not argue the point further. They did their best to ease their way down the remainder of the shaft, but every moment was torture. A crash made them stop.

  “That wasn’t a rat,” said Kollen.

  “I know,” said Ren, his words hushed, resigned. The sounds of battle grew louder. The rattle turned to banging, the squeaks to shouts.

  “Let’s run, up the shaft,” said Tye. There was fear in her voice, trembling in every word. “What’s the point in going any further? We all know what’s down there.”

  “I need to see it,” Ren protested, “and we’re here anyway.”

  A dim glow emanated from the bottom of the tube. Shouts penetrated the opening, a choir of battle cries rising about them. Then it was all muffled and the light was gone. A rustling sound echoed in the tube. Someone was climbing, coming at them fast.

  Ren gripped his dagger.

  There was no light, nothing. There was only the sound, and even it had stopped.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.” Edric’s voice. Ren recognized it, though he could not see the young captain’s face.

  “The city guard came out of nowhere. They knew where we were hiding. Someone betrayed our location, or they finally just followed one of our squads. We don’t know how they found us, but we were ready for their attack. We blocked the top of the spiral. They could only come at us one or two at time. We’re holding them back, but it won’t last,” said Edric. He placed a bit of parchment in Ren’s hand, pulled out a tinderbox, and lit a rushlight. “Read this. It’s from your brother. It arrived just prior to the first soldier.”

  “How was it delivered?”

  “Attached to a rock and dropped over the edge of the Mundus,” said Edric. “It nearly killed one of our men.” Ren took the scroll but noticed the wax was already broken.

  “You read it?” Ren asked.

  “I had no choice—I needed to know what it said.”

  Ren glanced at the writing. Ott had sent Ren a warning, saying the city guard had discovered their location. It laid out rough directions for a retreat. Ott claimed to have found a second place where the black shields could shelter.

  “Do you know this tower?” Edric asked.

  “No, we’ll just have to follow the map, and that won’t be easy—especially with the yellow cloaks on our heels. It’ll be a miracle if we find this place.”

  “Well, this is the city of miracles … perhaps you’ll find one. We need you alive, Ren. Lead the men, and I’ll stay here and try to hold back the—”

  A great explosion interrupted Edric. They eased down the shaft a bit, to a place where there was an opening in the pipe that allowed them a view of the temple. The yellow cloaks had used some sort of ram to demolish a portion of the wall. At the temple’s midpoint, they had opened a second avenue of attack. A shout rang out as chunks of stone went flying in every direction. Men in yellow cloaks threw down their ram. They tossed earthen jars into the air. The clay shattered against the stones, exploding in red and yellow flames. It lit the black temple, allowing the city guard to take stock of their foe.

  “Arrest that charge,” said Ren as he hurried down the last few turns of the pipe and leapt out onto the ramp. “Clear a path and I’ll lead the men out of here.”

  Edric didn’t bother to answer; he was already shouting orders.

  The yellow cloaks were everywhere, hopping over walls, leaping down onto the lower levels of the ramp, and striking at the Harkans from every direction. There was no charge to arrest, just a seemingly endless parade of soldiers. And Ren did not see Tye or Kollen. Soldiers hurried in every direction, some trying to hold back the city guard, others looking to Ren for direction. He turned and ran straight into Tye.

  “Where’s Kollen?” Ren asked.

  “Don’t know. Thought he was with you.”

  “Gone,” said Ren, who was already running, shouting for the men to follow him. Ott’s directions called for the black shields to exit through the top of the spiral. Having read the letter, he guessed Edric had cleared the way.

  “Go,” he said to Tye. “Through the passage. Start running and I’ll catch up. Lead the others.” Ren was not ready to leave, not without Kol
len. He searched the sloping ramp, glancing up and down it, but the temple was a mess of men and armor, swords clashing, torches hurtling through the air.

  The city guard had the numbers, but the temple was essentially one giant ramp, so the guard could not gather in one place or form a sizeable group. This made it easy for the Harkans, who were superior at combat, to break through the slender lines of the city guard. Ren guessed that a good number of his men would make it to the top of the ramp.

  “Kollen!” Ren cried out, but there was no reply. He doubted anyone had even heard him. The clash of steel was near deafening and the hard, smooth walls of the temple made every sound reverberate a dozen times over. Ren pushed his way through the fleeing Harkans, down the ramp to Edric. He grasped the captain by the shoulder. “Have you seen Kollen?”

  “The Rachin? That ass?”

  “The only one.”

  “Thought he was with you.”

  “He was,” said Ren, a lump forming in his throat. Kollen was gone and Ren held the directions required for their escape.

  Edric eyed the parchment.

  “You need to go,” he said. “Our men are fleeing, and if you’re not at the head of the column they won’t know which way to go.”

  Ren turned to leave him, but just then a dozen yellow cloaks came hurrying down the ramp, swords drawn.

  “You should have gone when you had the chance,” said Edric, his words tinged with regret. He thrust a blade into Ren’s fist.

  A moment later the yellow cloaks were on top of them.

  40

  Kepi sat with her back propped up against the stony wall of her chamber in Caerwynt. She stared out at the forest beyond, the rift carving a narrow wedge in the distance. Eyes fixed on the great valley, she massaged the aching muscles in her shoulder, kneading the place where the kite’s talons had caught and held her arms.

  “Fool,” said Ferris as he threw open the door. He had ridden ahead to prepare the fortress and had only now come to visit Kepi. “Queen and Kitelord, ruler of the Gray Wood and all that, but a bloody fool. How did you know the bird would catch you?”