Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  “Hail, First Ray of the Sun, Wife of Mithra-Sol,” said Mered. “Hail and witness your new Father. I, Mered, in this time of crisis, as first citizen, First Among Equals, claim the name of Father Protector, a title the great families of Solus have humbly bestowed upon me. These men stand at my back, eager to put the empire in order, to silence the rebel and the boy who runs amok in the Hollows.”

  He went on, but Sarra had heard enough—seen enough too.

  He’d ruled the day; there was no sense in denying it.

  Mered had won yet another skirmish. She knew as much. Sarra was well accustomed to failure and smart enough to know that the victor in this war had yet to be decided.

  43

  Merit Hark-Wadi arrived at the tall and formidable gates of Solus with considerable pomp. Her war carriage was appropriately adorned for a person of her standing. Hewn from graythorn, stained black, and edged with silver, it caught the eye of all who passed it. She was the queen of the Harkans and her authority was without question, or it soon would be when the empire acknowledged her position. That was the pretense, anyway, so she made certain to look the part. The army of Harkana rode at her back. Five thousand horse-mounted soldiers gathered at the city gates. She looked more like a general riding at the head of an invader’s army than a woman who had come to pledge her loyalty to the empire, but she supposed that couldn’t be helped. She was there under false pretense, after all. She needed no Ray to bless her reign. She had earned her throne. The whole of Harwen had earned it, but she guessed Sarra, and perhaps Mered, would believe that she wanted the empire’s approval, that she was afraid of the young upstart, Ren. It was a logical assumption, or so she hoped.

  A soldier bearing the bronze armor of the Alehkar rode out atop a rather pompous-looking steed. The horse was barded in gold and bronze, and an ostrich feather dangled from the creature’s headpiece. The man dismounted and raised his hands to show that he bore no weapons. He had only a scroll and his marvelous armor, emblazoned with a thousand different prayers. A Harkan soldier took the parchment and rode it to Merit.

  The letter was brief. The Ray of the Sun had granted Merit access and audience and assured her safety. The Alehkar would escort Merit to their meeting place in the Hall of Ministers. The Harkans, her army and their swords, must remain outside the city gates. There was nothing further in the message, which was fine with Merit. She had exactly what she wanted.

  44

  Sarra walked with a cadre of loyal city guardsmen. Even in the House of Ministers she no longer moved without sentries. For all she knew, Mered’s men were storming the hall at that very moment. Every sound, every creak in every door startled her. Nothing and no one could be trusted. Mered had taken the army. It was only a matter of time before he found a way to take her office. Sarra needed allies, and Merit had just arrived. She’d come with an army and Sarra needed one of those. Hence, she went to the place where she’d arranged to meet her daughter, but the room was empty.

  “Wondering where you’ll find the queen?” The voice came from behind Sarra.

  “No, not really, Mered. I assume you’ve waylaid Merit?”

  “Something like that,” said Mered, who had only just entered the chamber. “You’re surprisingly quick-witted for someone who is so terribly slow in all other regards. You admitted the queen of the Harkans to our city and watched her arrive at the House of Ministers, but you did not make certain she reached this chamber, the one you requested. She went to mine, and she’s there right now. See, you haven’t enough men, not enough loyal ones. I have the yellow cloaks at my back and the Protector’s seat. I own the armies of the great houses. I’ve given out titles. Inni will be the overseer of the House of Crescents, and when these conflicts are settled, my son, Evin, will be Father Protector. I’ve assigned nomarchs and called the viziers to a congress.”

  “I see you’ve thought of everything.”

  “Indeed, I’ve even thought of a place for you. Though I do not serve Mithra and my body does not belong to his cult, I honor his traditions, his mouth. I’m offering you a new title, just as I’ve done for the rest of Solus. You will be Tolemy’s emissary to the First Among Equals. What do you think? A bit long? We could just shorten it to messenger.”

  Sarra forced her lips into a hard line. He means to put a leash on me, to tie me with a rope woven from meaningless titles.

  “I think Ray is a fine title, but I can always add another. Titles have a way of accumulating in number, but not meaning. Go ahead. Add two more, call me messenger or call me scribe. It changes nothing.”

  “In that regard, you are wrong. We need a messenger. A real messenger. The people demand the presence of the Soleri. Bring forth the gods, or I will find someone else to do it. You are a courier, so take this message to Tolemy and his folk: The people will not tolerate the silence of their gods. They cry out and you ignore them. They gather at the burnt ruins and your god does nothing to address their needs. They say the fire burns with the light of Mithra-Sol. That is why the pilgrims cling to it. The city cries for its gods.” He brushed his hands together as if he were washing himself clean of the matter. “We will not speak again. You have your task.” There was finality in his words. He’d have her life if she did not comply, if Sarra did not produce the impossible.

  The ruse was at its end.

  The Soleri had been silent for too long; too much had happened. Too much faith was lost. With Barca and his hordes approaching the city, with famine in the air, with the drought and the sandstorms, with the threat of war all around them, the people demanded their gods.

  This was no time for illusions or blind faith. It was a rough time, a time of testing, when all things would be questioned and those found false would be put to the sword. Sarra saw this, saw herself standing atop the greatest lie in the history of histories.

  Mered motioned to go, his red robes fluttering about him, delicate bells dangling from his sleeves. He was leaving. She guessed she would never see him again, so she did the one thing she had wanted to do since meeting the veiled man. She took hold of Mered’s robe and swung him around. She flung back his cowl and tore free his veil.

  “Let me at least know the man who will bring me my death,” she said, but Sarra did not see a man.

  The eyes were still kohl-black, but they’d lost all their masculinity. Freed from the disguise, a woman stood before Sarra.

  “You are dead anyway. You might as well know my secret,” said Mered. “It’s not much of one; most of my loyal household knows it.”

  “But why?” asked Sarra.

  “Why?” the woman who called herself Mered asked. “Why? Because Raden Saad, Protector of the Empire, would not admit to siring a girl, not as his firstborn. He could only give life to men, to soldiers. His seed carried the blood of a hundred generations of warriors. It bred only hounds, so when his firstborn turned out to be a bitch you can imagine his indignation, his disbelief. He named me a boy and I was one thereafter. The deed was done. I have no memory of ever being a woman. My father thought he could bend the world to his will, and in some ways he did. He made me into what I am and I have accomplished more than he ever dreamed possible.”

  “But your wives, your children?”

  “Bastards, and the women, my wives? I let my generals fuck them for sport. I have no need for such things.”

  “Apparently,” Sarra muttered. As the young queen of the Harkans, Sarra once had those needs. She had wanted a family, but those desires had led only to pain, to hurt and more hurt. She envied Mered’s indifference. Sarra had no such luxury. A part of her still yearned to see her daughter, and the rest of her thoughts lingered on Ott. Her son had vanished and she no longer had the city guard at her beck and call; she had only her priests to hunt him down.

  The woman in red retreated.

  Their congress was at an end. She slipped the veil once more across her mouth and nose. She wrapped her hair back into a red turban. A cord drew down her cowl and she became Mered Saad, the First Among Eq
uals, the Father Protector who was not even a man.

  45

  “This is the place,” said the man who led Merit through the Hall of Ministers.

  “The place for what?” she asked.

  “Waiting.”

  I’ve done enough of that, thought Merit, but she kept her mouth shut. The stern look on the soldier’s face told her that complaints would get her nowhere. He departed, leaving her alone in an antechamber. It had two doors. She’d entered through one. She knew where it led, but the other was closed. Should I open it? She could knock or give the ring a tug, but the soldier had told her to wait. For once, she chose to heed the words of an underling. She settled herself on the golden bench, and the door at the far side of the chamber—that second door, the one she had almost knocked on—opened, but just a bit. Red flashed in the narrow gap between the door and its jamb.

  Mered.

  Merit went cold and the bench felt hard against her back, the chamber too small, too much gold in too little a space. A hundred different thoughts flooded her mind. Had she been led astray? Merit stood, seated herself again, then eyed that sliver of light, wondering if someone had wanted her to know what lay beyond or if the door’s opening had simply been an accident. Perhaps a small draft had caused it to pivot just slightly on its hinges.

  She wondered if her dispatch had even reached the First Ray or if it was waylaid by one of Mered’s soldiers. Worse yet, had the Ray of the Sun received the message and handed it over to Mered? That last one seemed improbable. On the last day of the feast, Sarra had saved her from the haruspex. Why would she turn on her now?

  A slight creak issued from somewhere in the room. A portion of the golden paneling spun, revealing a concealed doorway. In the gap, a boy appeared wearing a simple red robe, holding a cup in his hand. She had seen such robes in the house of Saad, so she guessed he was one of Mered’s servants.

  “I have no need for drink.” Merit looked away. She did not want anything offered by the house of Saad. There were no guest rights in Soleri culture.

  “My queen,” the boy spoke, his voice loud, which she thought rude. “Turn around and look me in the eye.”

  “In Solus, are all servants as rude as you?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t know,” said the boy quietly, a soft stutter in his words.

  “Well?” she asked. “Apologize or leave. I hardly have time for you.” Indeed, her attention was fixed on that chamber.

  The boy gave no reply, which made her at last turn and face him. Have you no manners? she thought to ask, but Merit came up short. He had a false arm. She could see it now—a sleeve stuffed full of feathers and straw, a gloved hand that did not move. Could it be?

  “You’re him?” she whispered.

  “And you are in danger.” Ott returned her quiet reply with an even quieter one. “This is Mered’s doing. He’ll meet with you, but he won’t place a crown on your head. Enter that room and you’ll never leave it.”

  “My brother, Ott,” she said, almost involuntarily. He had her father’s nose and eyes, but there was a bit of Sarra in the outlines of his cheek and brow. His hair was lighter, not dark like hers, but pale like his Wyrren mother.

  “Quit gaping,” he whispered.

  “What now?” Merit asked.

  “You have only one option. Mered is Father Protector. He owns the army and the city guard and he’s imprisoned the Ray of the Sun, or so it’s said. No one really knows what’s happening in Solus, but I do know that you will not find the First Ray of the Sun on the far side of that door. You were led to a chamber of Mered’s choosing, and I followed you by another route.”

  “Is there a way out of here? That door? Does it lead somewhere safe?” She indicated the narrow panel through which he had entered.

  “Perhaps, but we must go,” said Ott. “In a moment, those doors will open.”

  He retreated a bit. He was trying to keep his back straight, but he was clearly in pain and limping slightly with one leg. He was leaving, and she needed to decide whether she was going to follow him.

  Merit’s gaze swung toward the door at the far side of the chamber. Flickers of red appeared in the gap. Mered had declared himself First Among Equals and Father Protector. He was making a play for power, dueling with the Ray, and Merit was somewhere in the middle of that conflict. It was possible that Mered, in his desire to enlarge his reign, would acknowledge her power and send her back to Harkana. After all, she had presented herself as an ally of the empire. She had come to feign loyalty to the Ray. She could just as easily feign loyalty to Mered.

  “Perhaps I should go through that door. What if they name me queen?” she asked, whispering still and feeling foolish. Ott was leaving.

  “Decide,” he murmured, and somehow she knew it was the last thing he’d say. He was hell bent on departing before those doors opened and the men inside had a chance to steal a look at him.

  Her gut told her to go, to leave, to flee from Mered, but a part of her wanted to enter that room. It was the part of Merit that had ordered the lavish carriage. She wanted her power to be acknowledged by the empire, by everyone—Mered too. She wanted him to name her queen, but he’d never do it.

  “Ott,” she asked, “do you know why I’m here?”

  “You’re here to see my brother, the bastard,” said Ott as he disappeared down the lightless corridor.

  The boy was clever.

  The great doors at the far side of the chamber at last opened. Merit heard them grinding on their hinges, but she never saw what was inside. She had already shut the hidden panel and was hurrying after Ott.

  46

  “This is the tower,” said Ren. Though, in truth, he only guessed it was the one indicated on Ott’s map. It might just have been the threshold to yet another corridor, a temple, or a stair that led to nowhere. He’d encountered an endless parade of dead-end passageways and circular paths. He’d escaped the yellow cloaks, but it had not been an easy task, and not all of them had made it out of the Well of Horu. Edric had fought his way to the top of the ramp, and he’d held the passage while the kingsguard fled. He was the last to leave and the first to go running off in an altogether different direction, leading the yellow cloaks astray.

  Ren and Tye and most of the others had escaped the city guard, but there were casualties. Noll was lost, Edric too, and Kollen was missing. Ren hadn’t seen his friend since they left the pipe. Maybe he’d gone back into the tube and made it to the surface, or perhaps he’d found the sharp end of a sword.

  Ren shook his tired head as he stumbled into a tall space, and Tye was close behind him. He guessed that it was in fact the tower Ott described. Slotted windows covered one wall and a large ironwood door with three drawbars stood at the far side of the chamber. He half expected to find Ott, but his brother was absent, replaced by an older man—a Harkan, perhaps. He had the burnt skin of the desert folk, the deep wrinkles. He’d spent a lifetime beneath the sun, and much of it must have been in battle. His hands bore a web of disfigurements, deep cuts that welled up into bulging scars.

  “I’m Asher Hacal,” he said. “And thank you for bringing my soldiers to me.”

  “Your soldiers? Asher?” asked Ren, Tye at his side, voice weary from the long dash through the Hollows. Exhaustion hindered his thinking, but he knew that name—Gneuss had mentioned it. Asher was the true captain of the kingsguard.

  “How?” croaked Ren, his throat dry.

  “We have spies,” Asher said.

  “We?” Tye asked.

  “Harkana. The army has emissaries inside the city. We walk among our foes just as they no doubt circle the Horning. I escaped the false king in Harkana. My man in the city found your brother. We traded messages. Ott produced a map and I followed it here. Didn’t expect to see the kingsguard come chasing up the stairs. And you, you’re the boy my king named heir.”

  “My father’s gone.” Ren was still exhausted from the fight, barely able to form words.

  “I know as much,” said Asher, �
��but it changes little. In fact, your father’s death is the reason I came back here, to retrieve the kingsguard and lead you home.”

  “Fair enough,” said Ren, still out of breath. “I don’t suppose you have a plan to get us out of here. That would be awfully useful right about now.”

  Asher shook his head. “One man can easily enter the city. I killed a soldier at the Dromus and stole his armor, but it won’t work in the reverse, not with a whole army. Who commands the black shields?”

  “I do,” said Ren. He ran a hand through his sodden hair. “Gneuss named me captain … when he passed.” Ren winced ever so slightly. “Edric’s gone as well.”

  “I suppose it was to be expected.” Asher’s face paled, but only slightly, his mouth drooping at the corners. “How many others?”

  “We don’t count,” said Ren. His words sounded more ominous than he’d intended.

  “If Gneuss made you captain, the order stands.”

  “Good enough. Any idea where we are?” Ren asked. There were slotlike windows in the tower walls, so he pressed his face to one, wanting to get a sense of where they stood. Ren caught sight of the Shroud Wall and the flames at its base. He’d hoped they were closer to the outer walls of the city, but they were still trapped in the Waset.

  “That’s the Antechamber, if I’m not mistaken,” said Asher. “I lived in one of its lower chambers while I served your father.”

  “The flames still burn,” said Ren.