“I have terms,” Merit said, and afterward she was silent, undisturbed. She acted as if her case were immune to his own and perhaps, in her estimation, it was.
Ren resisted the urge to unsheathe his blade.
I have terms. The words echoed in his thoughts. She wanted to treat with him, to begin whatever negotiation she’d planned. Ott had already explained her intentions; Ren knew her offer. He hardly needed to hear it, and he wouldn’t—not until she’d addressed his concerns. By hearing her terms, he would acknowledge that she was a regent, or something like one, that she held power in Harkana. That she is my equal. He wanted none of that. In truth, he wanted to throw her back into the street.
There was no family here, no reunion, no love. His only family was Tye and Kollen, Ott. They were loyal.
“Terms,” he said the word with as much scorn as he could muster. “Not even a moment to speak, to embrace, to welcome the half-brother who was stolen from your home? I don’t recall your face, but you were ten and six when they took me. You must have known mine. Are you not happy to see it? Did you not want to hold the boy that was once your little brother?” Ren asked, angry now, irritated that she had not even bothered to acknowledge him.
“The blade,” she said, calmly indicating the dagger. “It may have prevented me from embracing you.” Her voice was quiet, impassive.
“True enough, but would you have acted differently if I hadn’t drawn it?” He unsheathed his father’s dagger, toying with it. Ren answered her cool countenance with naked aggression. He saw no need to veil his emotions. Briefly he wondered if he should have used the knife.
Too late for regrets.
“We cannot second guess the past,” said Merit. “When you returned to Harwen, I did want to see you, and I told Father as much. I said he’d robbed the family of our reunion when he sent you away on the hunt without even setting foot in the Hornring. I wanted to meet you, but in a way I was glad I did not. Call me a coward, but I thought it better that I did not see your face.”
“No doubt,” said Ren.
Merit shook the dirt from her robe. He supposed she was trying to improve her appearance, and she almost pulled it off, but the filth of her garb undid whatever queenly aspirations she held.
“I was ten and six when you left. I said goodbye to my three-year-old brother. Do you think that was easy?” She drew closer than he preferred. “It’s been a long time. In my thoughts, I see you as a child, stumbling in the dirt and plowing into urns. There is nothing afterward. No one visits the priory. It’s forbidden—at least for the family. Whatever happened to you in Solus is a mystery. A stolen life. Your whole identity was taken from you, but not by my hand. Blame the men who took you from your home, the ones I’ve come to overthrow. Join me.”
“I—” Ren broke off. He heard nothing but honesty in her words, but he hesitated. He was no fool. She’d once sought to claim his life, and now she had the audacity to argue that they were allies. He resisted the urge to speak. He kicked the little door, and a dozen or so men from the kingsguard shuffled out. Asher was there, and he embraced Merit as he said he would, confirming that she was indeed the first daughter of Arko and not some imposter sent by Mered. Ott came, too, and greeted Merit.
Eyeing the crowd, Ren made his decision. He would not bargain with his sister, not one-on-one. He would allow her to talk. He’d let his companions hear her case.
“You are here to speak, Merit of Harkana. Get on with it,” said Ren. He withdrew into the ranks of the kingsguard. He stood among his men, beside Ott, next to Tye.
“I make no argument,” said Merit. “I offer only facts. Haren Barca is not the man you think. I share a secret with you and trust that it will not leave this chamber. He is not from Sola. He is Barden Hark-Wadi, brother of Arko, nurtured in the High Desert and in Solus. He was raised in hiding, where he spent his life preparing to strike at the people who forced him into exile. He is our kin and is in need of our help. As we speak, he rides toward Solus with his rebels, with a horde of outlanders, with freed servants, and with sell swords. Barden travels with the storms, coming with the dust and sand to meet up with the Harkan Army. He force-marches his men through secret passages beneath the Dromus. He will reach the city by daybreak. This is a fact. Barden will strike at Solus while it is weakly defended. Mered’s eye is on Feren. The empire must eat, so he’s sent half his men to the north. His army is stretched thin. Barden knows this and plans to take advantage of this weakness. Within a day, he will besiege Solus. When he does that, he will trap you within the city. You have only one option. One way out. Join us. Use your men and take hold of the Rising Gate. Capture the pylons and the winch room. Secure them so Barden can ride unmolested into the city. I have drawings and instructions. The scrolls explain how the structures are accessed and how they can be breached.” Merit produced the parchments she’d carried from Harwen. “With this advantage, Barden will take the city. He will strike swiftly and put an end to the empire.” She turned in a circle, looking at all of them. Many she knew well, Ren saw it in their eyes and in the way they nodded as she spoke. “The Rising Gate is the doorway to your freedom.” Merit raised her voice. There was power in her words, strength that came from constant exercise, from a lifetime of ruling. Ren had none of that, no practice and no polish. His elocution could be outmatched by a goatherd. I’m no politician, he thought. Hence, he gave no rebuttal.
Ren needed a way out of Solus, and she offered one.
49
“What did the great warlords of Feren think of their new queen?” Kepi asked, her voice betraying a mix of mockery and annoyance. She stood outside the makeshift council chamber at Caerwynt, leaning against a narrow stone parapet that overlooked the rift. She’d spent the better part of that morning making her case to the warlords of Feren, explaining her intentions for the coming war. She described the army that stood on the far side of the valley and the need to confront rather than placate Mered.
“They were all very thrilled to see the kite,” said Ferris. “Only one of the twelve is old enough to recall Barrin’s kite, and he was just a boy at the time. No one doubts that you are the Kitelord.”
“But?” Kepi saw reluctance in his eye. There was something Ferris did not want to say. “Was the kite not enough, were my words unconvincing? Mered’s army masses at our border, and he’s already shown he has the means to cross the rift. What further motivation do they require?”
“A man.”
“You joke.”
“If only. The laws of patrimony determine who is and is not heir to the kingdom. The laws say that Adin is heir.”
“That makes no sense. They bowed to Dagrun. He had no kite, nor did he have any of that royal blood they’ve put so much value upon.”
“Dagrun’s reign was unique and it didn’t—”
“We both know how it ended. Honestly, though, let that boy try to earn the kite’s loyalty.”
“You might wish you hadn’t said that.”
“Are they seriously going to escort this tool of the empire to the stone forest so he can prove his worth?”
“Some think that is the best of course of action. Let the kite choose the king. It is our way.”
“It is your way, and the matter’s settled. There is only one kite; the choice is made. If that boy sets foot on Feren soil, I’ll have the kite tear him limb from limb. That ought to quiet the lords.”
Ferris laughed. “Between my garrison and yours we don’t need their men, but we do need their coin and their provisions. If the battle is protracted, if we are besieged or if we take the fight to Solus, we’ll need these lords to provide a proper supply train. Soldiers do not win wars, not by themselves. We need resources.”
“I know as much, so cut to it. How many voted in my favor?”
“You had my vote.”
“Only you?”
“Old Arni raised a hand, which was good.”
“Why?”
“He’s wealthy.”
“What about
Deccan? He was in the Chathair. He doubts me?”
“No, he voted in your favor.”
“Anyone else?”
Ferris shook his head.
“Three of the twelve voted in my favor and the rest want to give Barrin’s son a go at it?”
“That is the consensus. Those men were not in the Chathair, except Deccan. They didn’t fight at your side or see the arrival of the kite. I did. You have every soldier in the Feren Army at your back; many of them were there as well. It’s not a weak position.”
“Nor is it a strong war footing.”
“No. In fact, I half suspect they are using this heir as an excuse to avoid fulfilling their oaths. They’d rather keep their men at home, farming their fields and making crops. They’re a bunch of cowards. The bastards want us to do the fighting and they don’t want to pay a single crescent for it.”
“This is Mered’s doing,” she said. “He’s bribed them, hasn’t he? This man from Solus has found a way to divide us. He’s driving us apart before the conflict even begins.” Kepi drew her blade and looked around for something to slash.
Ferris smirked. “You’re going to have to learn to fight with words as well as iron. Mered knows that you are young and inexperienced. He is no doubt aware of the uniqueness of your position. You are the first woman to be chosen as Kitelord, but that’s not the only issue.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Our army, Feren’s army, it’s not … how do I say this…?”
“Up to the task?”
“Dagrun spent a considerable amount of coin to enlarge the standing army at Caer Rifka, but it’s not an imperial force.”
“We’re not fighting the empire, not yet.”
“I know, but there are rumors from Solus. Word has reached my ear that Mered has declared himself Father Protector. We could have bested his house army, but if he sends the army of the Protector north … well.”
“I understand,” said Kepi.
“We cannot fight the empire and Mered knows it, but our news from the south is not entirely bad. Barca is on the march. My men say he is a day’s ride from Solus, maybe less. If he attacks the city, he may draw off Mered’s armies, but they will return. The issue will not go away.”
“What do we do?”
“The warlords believe we should comply with the imperial demands, that a little suffering at the dinner table is preferable to spilling blood on the battlefield.”
“These men call themselves warlords?”
“Goatherds and lumbermen would be more suitable titles,” said Ferris.
Kepi leaned against the parapet, craning her neck to get a look at the rift and what lay beyond it. A distant rustle caught her ear. “Who is aware of this little conference of ours?”
“Just the warlords. No one knows about the meeting. It was kept secret, the scrolls sealed. We are at war and we hardly want our foe to know that we are all gathered in one place.”
“Yes, a good strategy, were we not betrayed.”
“What do you mean—” Ferris drew his blade as he caught sight of the approaching soldiers. “The red army gathers on our doorstep,” he muttered. “How convenient.”
“No,” said Kepi. “It’s worse. Look there!” She pointed to a legion of bronze-armored soldiers who had assembled on the far side of the rift. “That’s the army of the Protector, isn’t it? Only they wear the bronze.”
“I see it, and they’ve brought more than just bridges. Look there.” Ferris indicated a distant stand of trees and beyond that a line of catapults, followed by what seemed like endless rows of armored chariots. “Those are the old machines of war, the ones the Soleri built to conquer the lower kingdoms. I’ve never seen anything like them…” Ferris came up short, out of breath or perhaps out of words.
Kepi stood beside him. “This is impossible … we need time. We’re not ready, we’re not even united … not yet.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ferris.
“Well, if this attack isn’t reason enough for the warlords to gather at my back, I’ll give them another. They want me to prove myself, don’t they? They wish to give the boy a shot at my throne? Well, then I suppose I’ll have to comply. We need to stall for time, and this ought to buy us at least another day. Adin offered me a duel once. I think it’s time to hold the heir of Feren to his promise.”
50
The sky was still dark, the air quiet, when the kingsguard of Harkana threw open the tower door and marched into the empty streets of Solus. The alleys and avenues were dimly lit, the air filled with sand. The black shields moved three abreast, sandals tapping on the cobblestones. They traversed a narrow street, trampling a city guardsman, a beggar, and who knows what else.
Ren led, Asher pressed to his shoulder, Tye following beside them. Ott was there, too, strapped to Butcher’s back, carried like a child and protesting as if he might actually be one. Ren had seen the humiliation on his brother’s face as they fastened him to the larger man, but it could not be helped. Ott could not march alongside the Harkans. He could barely walk, but he refused to be left behind, and he had given them reason enough to carry him with them. Ott knew the roads and was perhaps the only one in their company who could lead them to the Rising Gate. The rest of them—Ren, the kingsguard—were strangers in the city of the gods. Even with a map, they might quickly find themselves lost or confused.
Merit remained in the tower, alone save for a single guard. Ren said he’d send soldiers to fetch her when the battle was over, but she’d waved away his offer. Barden will come for me. Have no worry, she said. So he let her go without even saying farewell or attempting some form of embrace. He had wanted a reconciliation of some kind, but she remained distant. She was a monarch, a woman whose every act spoke of calculation, not emotion. She’s afraid, he thought, scared to let down her guard. She’d spent her whole life at court. He knew that, and he understood that he could not match her poise or the tone of voice she used to capture the ear of every servant and soldier. Ren guessed that was why she never let her queenly demeanor slip. She was too afraid to lose whatever respect she held with the men. Too afraid to be my sister.
He was motherless, and he’d lost his father the day they met. He’d finally met one of his sisters, but she hadn’t acted like one. She was a queen who’d come to negotiate with a reluctant ally. Nothing more.
The whole thing stunk.
Hence, Ren turned his attention to Barden’s plans, to the streets, to Tye, and to making certain she never left his sight. Even in the dark, he watched the girl. He observed the fearless determination in her eye, and the way her fingers wrapped the pommel of her sword. The weapon was meant for a man twice her size, and the scabbard dragged on the cobbles. She’d strapped on a bit of leather armor. Along with the sword, it must have weighed as much as Tye, but she marched alongside the rest of the guard. She was one of them, and she wanted this victory as much as any man. He followed her until she caught his eye and slapped him once on the cheek. “Get your head together, Ren. Focus on the streets or you’ll end up tripping over them.”
She was right, of course. There was work to be done. Their task was to find a postern marked with a black cross. Inside, a man loyal to Barden would grant them access to the pylons that flanked the Rising Gate, as well as the winch room. From what Ren could gather, the walls of Solus were vast in size, complex in scope, ancient, and well fortified. Three bulwarks protected the city: a low scarp wall, followed by the city’s first great rampart, a mud-brick construction erected during the Old Kingdom, then a second one built of stone during the New Kingdom, when the emperors’ relentless provocations brought about the need for better defenses. All this stood in Barden’s path, but he did not intend to breach these walls. Barden wanted to ride his army right through them. The Rising Gate was in truth not a gate but a long tunnel that ran from the scarp wall all the way past the third and final fortification.
Barden wants us to hold that passage for him, Ren thought. It was no small favor.
“This,” said Asher as he knocked against Ren, “is either the start of your reign or the end of it—your last march or your first.”
“Fuck’s sake, man. You have a penchant for drama,” said Ren.
“And you’re leading the kingsguard against an empire. There’s a reason why no army has breached these walls in two centuries.”
“Damn the reasons. No army’s been trapped in here either.”
“Quiet,” said Ott. “The sun’ll be up soon.”
“Can we find the gates before the first light?” Ren asked, hopeful, but Ott only shook his head. None of them knew how long it would take to reach the gate or what trouble they might find on their way.
They rounded a corner and Ren glimpsed a distant shimmer, a bit of light hidden behind a cluster of temples. It was nothing more than sand glowing yellow in the predawn sky, but he knew what lay below it. Even at this distance he felt the presence of the twelve. And again, he heard that buzzing at the back of his head. It was louder this time, and it almost resolved into something he could understand. He wished Noll were at his side to explain the noise in his head, but he was gone. Ren guessed he’d slipped out in the confusion, that he had come to deliver his message and then gone off to do whatever bidding his gods demanded, leaving Ren with more questions than answers. He recalled the ceremony in the temple of Re and the way Noll had held up the eld horn. The kings of Harkana carved the antler into a sword, a weapon, but he guessed it wasn’t meant for fighting. In all likelihood, it wasn’t anything more than a ceremonial sword. Its true purpose had been forgotten or concealed. After witnessing that ceremony, Ren guessed it was a wand of some kind, the holy standard of an ancient ruler, or just some half-forgotten tool of the Soleri. He’d seen Noll lift up the horn as if it were some great and twisted staff, as if he were some shaman poised in the middle of his conjuring—and maybe that wasn’t too far from the truth. Ren knew what Noll had tried to invoke.
Silence of the Soleri Page 33
