Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  Kepi’s fingers fell away from her shoulder. “I asked it. The kite circled. I saw it approaching, navigating the narrow rift, preparing to take hold of me.”

  “You whisper to some damned bird?”

  “To the forest god,” said Kepi. “If you believe in such things,” she said, almost silently, before she went back to massaging her shoulder.

  “Well, I’m glad the two of you had a chance to talk before you took that leap. I was a bit concerned when you stepped off the cliff’s edge. Most folk do not recover from that sort of trick. I was quite angry over the whole thing, and I may have killed one or two of Mered’s men. Well, all of them, actually, or at least the ones who didn’t run.” Ferris took a long draft of amber. “The boys in red retreated, but I doubt they went past the tree line. They are readying themselves for war.”

  Kepi shrugged. The world felt distant, almost unreal. The thrill of flying held her in its clutches. Her heart thrummed, and she did not care about petty politicians. She had flown through the air.

  Ferris must have seen the way she ignored him, how she shrugged at his concerns.

  “Well, I suppose you’re quite pleased with yourself. That was impressive. The boys are calling you the queen who flies. That was no small feat. I thought we’d lost you, all the way up until the moment when you flew out of the haze and landed at my foot.”

  “Well, from my point of view, you were at my foot. I am queen.”

  “No doubt.”

  She ached all over, but it had all been worth it, in her estimation. She had found an unexpected pleasure not simply in the act of leaping blindly from the cliff and plummeting through the air, but in the coming of the kite as well, in the way it dove to meet her command, soaring to her aid and rescuing her from the fall. She’d discovered something in that moment, a thing she’d suspected since that first night in Cragwood but had not been sure of until the moment the creature latched onto her shoulders. The kite was not simply some protector; it was a part of her, an appendage she hadn’t known she possessed. They shared the same blood, or something similar.

  “And as I recall,” said Kepi, “you were the only one laughing when I appeared. The rest of your lot had faces as white as ghosts.”

  “They thought you were dead.”

  “And you thought the whole thing was funny?”

  Ferris shrugged and took another drink. “Few things frighten me. Pain makes the man.”

  “That’s the priors’ mantra, isn’t it? It’s what they said in the old priory house, the one that burned on the day my father died.”

  “I drank for two days straight when that hole in the earth crumbled and fell,” said Ferris, his smile abruptly turning flat. He placed his empty cup on a table.

  “I didn’t know you were a ransom.”

  “Ransom,” he muttered. “I haven’t heard that name in years.” He tried to look as if the word hadn’t bothered him, but the man’s whole demeanor had changed. He was abruptly sullen, resentful even. “It was a short stay. We can thank the spindly little bones of the fennec for my early release. Seems my father ate one every night—had a whole herd of them, but they got the better of him. He choked on a leg.”

  “I was wondering why someone of your … age, ruled Caerwynt. The other warlords are—”

  “Older? That they are,” said Ferris. “I’m the exception.”

  “Not unlike this new king of Feren,” said Kepi.

  “Mered’s little boy?”

  “He looked to be about your age,” Kepi said. She raised an eyebrow.

  “Maybe, but the boy is a weakling, a coward, and an injured one at that. You heard the way our men jeered, how they hooted and hollered as the heir limped away into the forest. He’s already proven himself a liar, and he’ll find no family in Feren. Dagrun was not a forgiving man. The line of Barrin is utterly gone, wiped out at Catal.”

  Kepi found it odd to hear Dagrun’s name mentioned so casually, as if Ferris knew him. Maybe he did. She’d barely had the chance.

  “Well, whatever that boy had hoped to achieve, it’s failed,” said Kepi, her face impassive, her thoughts still clinging to Dagrun.

  “Has it?” Ferris asked. “This was just some opening ploy. They thought they could take the kingdom without the effort of a full-scale war. Mered has an army in Harwen and another in Solus. He’s stretched thin. That’s why he wanted you dead. He’s scared of fighting an all-out war in Feren while he’s occupied in the south.”

  “They set a trap?”

  “And it failed, but don’t get cocky,” said Ferris. “Mered’s armies are split, but they are large. I don’t think he’ll shy away from a fight, and if he can bring the Protector’s Army to his side, we won’t stand a chance.”

  “I know as much, but I must confess something. Ferris, I itch for a fight. Solus took my father. They burned him like livestock and threw a feast on the next day, something about the dead, some holiday. It’s a sick place, Solus. Feren will never again send their children to that city.”

  “Then it’s war. Fortunately, we have a queen who flies.” Ferris tapped her on the back, careful to avoid the place where the kite had gripped her shoulder. “I think Tolemy himself might have moved his bowels if he saw you rise from the mist. There’s been a shortage of miracles in this world.” He patted her again, but the second touch was not as hard as the first. That one possessed all the roughness of a soldier’s clap on the back, while the second felt more personal—a little too soft, by her estimation. Kepi shied from his touch. She’d had enough romance for one lifetime. I have two dead husbands, she lamented. She’d watched one choke and die and her onetime lover had murdered the other in cold blood before her eyes. Seth. Things had moved so quickly, she’d hardly had time to consider her first love. Where are you? Locked away with all the other traitors? She didn’t even know what had become of him. He’d simply been hauled off with the rest of the mob, probably lost in some cell. She’d only had time to bury her husband and carry out his final wish. Then this war had started, and she’d forgotten all about Rifka, Seth, and the life she’d once led in Harwen. There was an army on the far side of the rift and a boy who claimed her throne, enough problems to occupy any mind.

  She slapped Ferris on the jaw, but only lightly. “Do not touch your queen,” she said.

  The young warlord reeled, pretending as if she’d knocked him over, long hair flailing, feet stumbling. The man was incorrigible. “Hit me again if it makes you feel good,” he said. “Pain makes the man. It made me.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. We have a war to fight—or had you forgotten about that?”

  “No, but I can think of two things at once. Three on a good day. Right now, I’m wondering what other tricks you can perform with that bird, trying to figure out how to get more scouts across the rift, calculating how long it will take Deccan to return, and wondering in general if I’ve got enough men to hold off Mered. What’s on your mind?”

  “You’re bragging,” said Kepi.

  “And you underestimate me because I’m young. I doubt you’re any older than I am.”

  “You’ll never know,” said Kepi. “Focus on the war. You are a warlord—isn’t that what they call you? So fight the war.”

  “Well, I’m not the one who can lead the warlords into battle—that’s the king’s task, or in this case the queen’s. You’ve got my loyalty and Deccan’s too. We were there when the people revolted. We saw the kite settle on your arm. You don’t have to convince us that you’re Kitelord, but Feren has twelve warlords.”

  “They were at my wedding.”

  “And they rambled on with their bloody speeches. Personally, I had my eyes on the new queen. It seems her dress was a tad low in the front, if my memory serves me well.”

  “Are you looking to be knocked on the jaw again? I am your queen.”

  “And I have more soldiers than you—at least until the rest of the army arrives. Feren is a kingdom of warlords. You have the allegiance of two, but you’re g
oing to have to convince the others to fight at your side if you want to take on Mered’s army. It’s time for you to speak to them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Deccan summoned the lords. Only Caer Rifka and Caerwynt have standing armies, but the others can still muster a great number of men. They spend the wet season farming, and the dry in military training. They’ll throw down their plows if their lords command them to do it. You need to convince their masters to stand at your side.”

  “Convince? Isn’t the kite enough?”

  “It might be, but there’s more to Feren than some oversized bird. Come,” he said. “There’s something I need to show you. The sun is nearly set and I want to catch the light.”

  He offered her his hand, but Kepi kindly refused. She was injured. Her shoulders ached, but she could stand without the help of any man. She rose uneasily from her seat, realizing belatedly that she had erred. No one cared if she could stand with an aching back. She was a queen. They cared if she could lead, if she could command men. Ferris had offered his hand as a sign of supplication, but she’d blindly turned him away. Kepi grumbled inwardly. She had the kite, but what skills did she possess as a ruler? A little politeness might have helped. She ought to have allowed him to help her rise in a queenly fashion, but it was too late for that.

  A frown crossed the warlord’s otherwise unflinching grin.

  I’ll make it up to him, Kepi thought. She needed friends. She’d lost Dagrun and Seth too. Kepi was alone. She wanted a companion but was uncertain of how to approach Ferris. Where do I look for friends when everyone I know is my subject?

  Like Caer Rifka, Caerwynt held a small forest at the center of the stronghold. Ferris led her out into the yard and up a winding stair that followed the trunk of a great blackthorn, up and up and up until they pierced the canopy. There, above the treetops, she was in another realm. The blackthorn canopy was so dense, so thick with leaves and branches, that it formed a kind of ground, an earth made of leaves covered in centuries of dust and dirt. Grass grew upon this second earth, this ground above the ground. Misty air settled atop it, and stray trunks poked from the canopy. The wood was carved in strange patterns, depictions of a many-limbed creature, something like the squid that Wyrren fishermen pulled from the Cressel.

  Ferris waited for her at the top of the stair, leaning against one of the totems.

  “What’s that you’re propped up against?” she asked.

  “Llyr.”

  “The forest god?”

  “Yes, these statues are old. The oldest in the kingdom.”

  “They’re strange.”

  “Are they? A tree has no face, only a trunk and branches, roots too. Like the trees, Llyr is nothing but limbs, hundreds of them.”

  “It’s frightening.”

  “Aren’t all gods frightening? Llyr’s a forest god, some say. Others call her mud god, kitemathair to some, kitefaethir to others. After the first Feren kings abandoned Catal, they came here and made their home at Caerwynt before moving onward to the high city. This is our second oldest fortress, but this temple is the first of its kind.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “That’s why I brought you here. Do you see the kite?”

  She hadn’t, so she shook her head.

  “The kite was not always a part of our religion, and not every king has ruled with one at his side. Your former husband was our most recent example.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asked, unnerved by the mention of Dagrun. “The people revolted because no Kitelord stood upon the throne.”

  “They did, and many believe that a man cannot rule Feren without the kite, but others do not. Some don’t think the kite is even a creature of Feren,” he said.

  “Is this really about the kite, or is it about Adin Fahran?” she said.

  “He has a legitimate claim to the throne.”

  “No, he doesn’t, and we don’t even know if he is the true son of Barrin. Does anyone in Feren know his face?”

  “I do.”

  “What?”

  “I served in the priory—or had you forgotten? I was taken at eleven and set free at fourteen. I knew Adin Fahran. He was your brother’s friend. I thought you ought to know that.”

  “My brother, Ren? The bastard?” News had come to them as they rode toward the rift. A great confusion surrounded the Horned Throne. No one knew who was king and who was not, and now someone had come to Feren, sowing more dissent. “This is Mered’s work,” she said. “He was the one who supplied Adin with the soldiers. They say Mered is the one who chases Ren through the Hollows. This is all one scheme. This title he’s taken, the First Among Equals—he’s the father of all these false rulers.”

  “I doubt he’ll strike at the Wyrre,” said Ferris. “They say Barca left only bones and rock, but the rest is true enough. This may be some ploy by the man in Solus, but that’s not the issue. If the boy has a claim to the throne, he is free to chase it.”

  “As long as he lives.”

  “Yes, well, it is difficult to pursue one’s claim when you no longer draw breath.”

  “I could have ended him.”

  “You should have. It would have made your life a lot simpler.”

  “You spent three years in the priory—as his subject?”

  “I’m no—”

  “But you thought you might one day be his subject?”

  “There was the possibility.”

  Kepi sighed at that. She’d thought she might find a friend in Ferris, or maybe a confidant, but he made her doubt his intentions. He supported or at least acknowledged Adin’s claim.

  She sighed a bit and he took notice.

  “You are the queen of the Ferens, Kitelord, through and through. Have no fear and don’t doubt my loyalty. I’m simply telling you what you need to hear. When the warlords arrive, you’ll have to convince them to follow you into war. You’ve persuaded me and every other man that stood with you at Caer Rifka. It’s a good enough start, but that’s all it is. You have my word and Deccan’s, but you’ll need ten others if you want to take on the empire. And there’s another issue…”

  “What?”

  “You know what I speak of…”

  “Oh, no—not that.”

  “We cannot ignore the obvious. These other men are a bunch of bloody pigs and not one of them has ever bowed to a woman.”

  “Things change.”

  “Have no doubt. I bent the knee, as did Deccan and Gallach before I took his head.”

  “For better or for worse, the moment is burned into my skull,” she said, her words sounding harsher than she’d intended. There was too much mention of Dagrun and the revolt. She wanted to put all of that behind her, but the whole thing stuck to her like a shadow in the bright sun.

  “You need the twelve, it’s a tradition. The warlords must vote for the kingdom to go to war. If Dagrun were here, he’d have bribed them all—if it’s any consolation.”

  “It isn’t, and stop mentioning the man. I lack the coin, and I have no notion where he kept it.” She groaned a bit, her thoughts lingering once more on the uprising in Rifka. The beauty of this heavenly place, of the setting sun, was lost on Kepi. Her thoughts turned dark as she imagined the kite tearing out each of the warlords’ throats. Perhaps by the third they would all follow her—too bad that was a poor way to rule a kingdom.

  The day’s last light limned the treetops with streaks of purple and red. Past the tree line, horses and carriages moved in great numbers, their dark silhouettes appearing no larger than dust on the horizon.

  “It’s Mered,” she said, gesturing to the south, past the rift. “His army approaches, and I must beg Feren’s to fight it.”

  41

  Under the cover of darkness, Barden rode into the city of Harwen. He came alone, posing as a messenger, his soldiers waiting in the hills beyond. He brought his horse to a halt as he entered the Hornring and left his mount with a boy while a Harkan soldier led Barden to the Hornrin
g’s inner court, where the bodies of the dead were laid out in rows. Thousands lay lifeless upon the stones, the corpses gutted, washed, and stuffed with natron. Soon they would be smothered in salt and left to sit for forty days. It’s what a proper interment demanded, and when it was done and the corpses were oiled and wrapped, the bodies would be removed. Harkans remembered their dead. Merit’s father taught her that lesson the first time they stood before the Battered Wall, when he told her how the fortification was left unrepaired after the first revolt so each generation could witness the harm the empire had inflicted upon their kingdom.

  She wanted Barden to set eyes upon the dead, to witness this new but temporary memorial. He was her father’s brother, but he was not raised in Harwen. She was not certain he knew their ways, not truly. He acted Harkan, but it seemed more like a performance and less like a part of the man. Merit had been six when her father took her to the wall and told her about the men who died there, how their ancestor had torn out his own stomach after he’d been forced to eat the still-burning coals of the charred fortification. Barden might be twice her age, but a man was never too old to learn.

  He did not even bother to glance at the bodies. If he was stirred in any way by the dead, he did not show it. He moved at a measured pace, his gray desert robes fluttering about in the evening breeze. All day the storm had blown across the city. Of late, even the desert was restless. It seethed with bitter winds, blowing sand into the air, into Merit’s eyes. She found it beneath her fingernails, and in the hinges of doors that would not quite shut. The desert heaved a great breath, the sky darkening to a muddy shade of gray.

  Barden climbed the steps and for a moment Merit swore she was looking at her father. The people of Solus wished one another the sun’s fate. They said each man would rise again, and now it seemed that her father had risen, if only in a way. Here he was, returned, and ready for the reckoning her true father had wanted but not achieved.

  “Leave us,” Barden told her man, though she did not think it was his place to do so.

  “We left a thousand bodies at the Coronel. That’s how this whole thing started,” said Barden. “I’m no stranger to the dead, and I know how you took the city. My scouts observed your advance. The battle was hard-won, but it is done. You have your kingdom. You are the ruler of Harkana. There’s still an heir or two who might challenge your seat, but I doubt Mered will trouble you.”