Solineus

by L. James Rice

  Solineus spent every day of the last three weeks by Morik’s side, and when this wasn’t possible, he wandered to listen and interact with other folks to pick up as many words as he could. He and Morik both made strides in understanding the other’s language, and it wasn’t long before they could hold simple conversations in either tongue, so when Morik arrived with a message he spoke in Silone. “A Choerkin has offered to meet me at the Roemhien Pass to talk.”

  Solineus stood, adjusting the straps on a steel breastplate just finished for him by Yurhol’s master armorer. It was far from the fanciest he’d seen in town, but Morik promised the steel was of the utmost quality. Mail would’ve felt more natural after months of living in the rings, but the Kingdomers insisted he adjust his fashion sense. “Which Choerkin?”

  “Ivin Choerkin, Warlord of the Seven Clans… and his bride to be, one Kinesee Mikjehemlut. A relative?”

  Solineus blinked. “Bride?”

  “Her father! I can see it in your eye!” And Morik laughed, slapping his knee.

  Solineus turned his eyes to the stone floor and scowled. “She’s too young… But, I’ve no doubt neither of them is pleased with whoever made the arrangement.” No doubt Meliu was irritable as well.

  The Kingdomer wiped a tear from his eye. “I’ve heard you mention this Choerkin before, a good man. What is it he wants?”

  The thing all Silone wanted was peace, a chance to recover their collective breath, but they had that now. “Bringing his intended , I reckon he’s extending his hand in friendship.”

  Morik switched to the language of Helm. “But no doubt he wants something.”

  “Passage over the Roemhien… And knowing his mind, a defensible wall across the pass.”

  “You still believe your people will move south over the Foundations?”

  “It’s the only direction we’ve got, the valley will grow cramped soon enough.”

  “I will send a pigeon to Molikîn, let my king know what you anticipate. We should have an answer before we ride to Roemhien.”

  “You ride without me. I will ride to visit your king.”

  Morik grumbled. “He declined. It is time for you to go home. Don’t you want your daughter to know you live?”

  “She knows.”

  Morik eyeballed him. “She can’t know . She may be as optimistic as any child, but no way she knows.”

  Solineus lowered his gaze, but kept his eyes locked with Morik’s. He smiled. “A wager.”

  “You enjoy losing gold?”

  “I’ll ride with you, but I will stay hidden. You ask her whether I’m alive or dead. If she says anything other than I’m alive, I will return to my people. But, if she knows, you send me to your king.”

  Morik scratched his beard. “Not enough.”

  “She’ll also know that I’ll be back when she needs me.”

  “She will say that?”

  “Aye, that’s the wager.”

  “And if she doesn’t? You leave, go home.” He rubbed his nose. “I feel I’m about to lose a bet I shouldn’t lose, but I accept.”

  Solineus shook Morik’s hand. “When you send that pigeon to your king… you may as well let him know I’m coming to see him.”

  Morik laughed, but with an uneasy tone.

  Five days later Solineus swung into the saddle amid an escort of Kingdomers, including Morik himself, their destination: The Royal Halls of Molikîn.

  2

  Halls of the Ironwing

  March to War and stumble to peace,

  Bent Knee and Broken Back before the never humble priest,

  in Telmener lies the waking and walking tomb,

  the happy and talking doom-

  Stretch the loom, the fibers never lost

  but impossible to follow,

  search the words not knowing you’re lost,

  not knowing they ring cavern hollow.

  Listen.

  To not hear.

  To understand your own echo.

  — Tomes of the Touched

  The pigeons Kingdomers used to carry messages made the flight from Yurhol to Molikîn and back in a single day, but on horseback, the winding route with its rough, winding, climbing, and dipping trails, it took five days for Solineus to set eyes on the royal city. They passed a dozen goat herds along the way, as well as wagons hauling stone, raw ore, kegs, tanned leather, grain, and even bolts of bright linens Morik said traveled all the way from the Gorotan.

  Although Solineus needed to remind himself that the Gorotan wasn’t so far away as it used to be.

  Turned out many of the mountains, if not every one, had a lord such as Morik, and goods from twenty or so of these mountains took this same road to Molikîn. Their little party drew plenty of stares from all these folks. Twenty-two armed Kingdomers with their Mountain Lord traveling with nothing more than a foreign man and a keg of foreign whiskey, no doubt these tradesfolk had reason to gawk.

  Whereas Yurhol stood as a sturdy home and refuge against weather or attack, Molikîn rose from the side of a mountain as a fortress and city, perched above the valley below like some mighty bird. Four concentric arcs of walls met mountain cliffs and ended, each high above the other, with round towers jutting toward the peak above. From a distance it appeared a bit like Herald’s Watch’s big brother, but as they drew closer, he realized it was more comparing a man to a giant.

  Massive blocks of white granite stood in places, tall as a man and twice as broad, but in others the walls rose carved from the mountain itself, so smooth even a squirrel would find challenge in gaining purchase. It wasn’t a sprawling Tek city like Ivin described Bdein, but on entering a starker difference between this and other cities he’d seen and heard of struck him: The streets were wide and uncrowded. The merchant caravan they followed through cavernous gates had disappeared in the angles splitting buildings, and only a few dozen Kingdomers wandered the roads.

  “I was expecting crowds.”

  Morik’s saddle creaked as he turned. “Once there were, in the Age of God Wars, and there will be again once peace reigns longer than a generation.”

  Crowded or no, the buildings and streets were well kept. “War? Disease?”

  The Kingdomer sighed. “Both, with certainty, but the reasons for most of those lost are forgotten. The God Wars are known as a bitter time—”

  “These are not things for foreign barbarians,” said a warrior riding nearby. “He should not think us weak because he sees so few here.”

  Solineus nodded. “Not my thoughts at all.”

  They passed through a stone gate which opened to a wide swath of green grass and trees crisscrossed by straight roads, in its center a bubbling pool of water; a natural spring, perhaps.

  Morik scrunched his face and whistled before speaking again. “Tîern, these people are not our enemies, and they are the ones who are few.”

  “As you say, Mountain Lord.”

  “But I will judge my words before I speak them. We Kingdomers worship the Foundations… there were Twenty-Two gods in the beginning, but during the God Wars our enemies killed several of them, weakening our people, and so—”he tugged his beard and mumbled under his breath—”we were conquered and taken as slaves for a time. They say many were marched from their homes to the mines and forges of our enemies around the world.”

  Solineus leaned in his saddle as they passed through another gate and the road climbed. “A tragedy. My people have never believed in slavery.” He didn’t bother to mention how the Pantheon of Sol dealt with enemies in the Slave Fields.

  “They took our mountains, razed the temples they could find, and populated our cities. Our masters, whoever they were, beat our gods from our souls, but the Foundations would not take defeat so easy. No. The priests and the people prayed in dark, hidden places. They prayed every day to Rînkodûl the Storm-Eye for freedom and revenge. Rînkodûl and the other gods gathered, and though too weak to face their enemy in pitched battle, they beseeched Bodomyûl, the Great Creator to which no morta
l prays, to send the enemy away.

  “But the gods did not know what fearful thing they asked for. Bodomyûl asked them three times if they were certain, and each time they answered yes! And Bodomyûl went to war, breaking the world, destroying our enemy in a Forgotten blink and banishing our enemy’s gods from this world. But the lands changed, mountains tumbled, and the memories of men vanished.”

  It took Solineus several flickers to digest the tale being told. “The Great Forgetting.”

  “So many call it, but we of the Eight Kingdoms call it Bodomyûl’s Wrath.”

  “The whole world paid the price for freeing your people?”

  “The whole world paid the price for enslaving my people. Some question the wisdom of the gods, not because of the losses afflicted on others, but because His Wrath in turn banished our gods from returning to this world. But others say we would’ve been forever slaves, or our fires extinguished unto eternity if the decision hadn’t been made.”

  Tîern said, “Some believe the Dead Gods—”

  “Now who says too much?” Morik laughed, but the tone left no doubt to his hammering the man’s mouth shut.

  They rode in silence for a spell. The notion of some Great Creator breaking the world felt ludicrous, and no doubt neither the Edan nor anyone else prescribed to the same answer to this great mystery, but at the same time it intrigued him. Wherever there was an unknown, it seemed the human imagination filled the gap, whether fact, fancy, or something between. Didn’t his own mind do the same? “I fear I’m not a pious man, don’t know as I ever was. Not sure how I could be after…”

  “From the tale you tell, it would be difficult for a man to forgive his gods. Perhaps you will find new gods in the Foundations.”

  Solineus laughed, but choked the humor and glanced about. “No offense to Rînkodûl nor a man amongst you, but any god and me would need a long chat before I bowed in prayer.”

  Morik’s grin assured him no offense’d been taken. “The name Storm-Eye means Rînkodûl is the tranquility in the maelstrom; The Foundations welcome all who come in peace, no matter what faith they carry in their hearts.”

  “Much appreciated.” He didn’t doubt Morik’s sentiment, but questioned the range and depth of such a welcoming nature. Or perhaps, it was a weakness that their enemies exploited in a past age to take them as slaves. He ground his teeth; cynicism cut deep into his being by now, bleeding trust in a flow difficult to staunch. He needed a change of subject; he pointed to the highest walls in the distance. “Are we headed for the palace?”

  “No. The First Throne of Molikîn will greet the Lords of Helmveline and our greatest allies. You will greet my king at the Third Throne.”

  Solineus chuckled. “So low, am I?”

  Morik cast a sideways glance. “Gaining audience is an honor; it could’ve been the fourth throne, where my king meets with enemies… and pronounces executions upon the traitorous.”

  “I always loved the number three, anyhow.”

  Every street met another at hard angles in Molikîn, without a road winding or curving, which became all the more impressive as the roads climbed higher and steeper into the mountains. After a handful of turns and slopes climbed, they headed west down a broad road lined by shops, and patrons wandered the streets. After a quarter horizon these folks disappeared, replaced by rows of breast-plated warriors standing rigid with halberds in hand, mail draping to their knees, and their faces hidden behind nasal guards.

  A pyramid of stairs rose from the center of a broad courtyard with the gates to the second tier of the city framing its rising steps into an idyllic portrait. A symbolic mountain, he’d wager. Atop the pyramid stood a stone pavilion with a red-tiled roof, its ridges gilt in silver clouds with golden gryphons marching their lengths; three shining beasts at each corner.

  The stone stairs they trod were black granite polished to a sheen and dimpled with images of blooming vines and prancing goats. A handrail of red-gold led their climb, with posts knobbed with a steel-like metal, but its silver shine held a violet tint.

  If this is the Third Throne, the First must be a dandy. He grinned to himself, but Morik squinted with disapproval as if he’d spoken aloud. “What?”

  “The twist to your lip… recall that my king bears little humor for strangers he refused to meet the first time.”

  They strode to the top of what must’ve been a hundred steps, and here two guards in armor a deeper blue than an evening sky slid gold-gilt doors open. A polished white floor greeted them, carved and inlaid with a silvery metal, but a single path of silver-specked gray lead to two thrones sitting atop a white-marble boulder chiseled into a thunderhead. A dozen warriors with halberds flanked the dais on either side.

  A man with an unadorned black beard and black eyes stared straight past him as if Solineus wasn’t there. A cloak fashioned from silk and the thick white fur of some animal draped his shoulder, clasped by a buckle and pin of gold shaped as an eagle’s head. Beside him, and holding his right hand, sat a woman staring straight into Solineus’ eyes, her hair more red than Meliu’s, but her skin darker, and her face full and round. Crowns of gold, streaked with hues of red and violet, sat on their heads, each with eight points tipped by cut diamonds; the facets of the stones above their foreheads shimmered not unlike Kinesee’s pearl when rubbed.

  I reckon this is what a king and queen are supposed to look like… Kinesee would love this.

  Morik led him to within ten paces of the base of the cloud-thrones, and they knelt with knees settling on silk pillows the green of a verdant valley shimmering with morning dew. Only then did Sînhôlar the Ironwing deign set eyes on Solineus.

  The queen leaned into her husband’s ear, then addressed them. “This is the foreigner my husband refused to greet?”

  Morik touched his nose to stone in a bow with his hands at his hip before raising his eyes to the woman. “Queen Nisenî, Lady of the Fourth and Seventh Foundations, it is so. I beseech patience and forgiveness.”

  She raised her hand to cut his words short. “Bringing a foreigner to Molikîn uninvited, it seems to me you do not cherish your mountain home. The terms of your lordship approach renewal.”

  The notion of a lordship expiring brought blinks and an arched brow, but Solineus figured keeping his yap shut was wiser than voicing any questions.

  “I am aware, My Queen.”

  “My husband met this people’s request for passage and will negotiate fair terms for a defensible wall. What more do these barbarians wish?”

  “My Queen, nothing more than to meet the two of you, who are so generous.”

  “There cannot be a proper meeting! Ironwing ears will not hear a barbarian’s tongue spoken in Molikîn, nor speak to one who cannot understand the speech of the Holy Foundations.”

  It wasn’t his turn to speak, Solineus knew it well, but he bowed until his nose touched stone, then raised his eyes. The bold path had served him well thus far. “I’ve a passing bird’s knowledge of your language.”

  The Ironwing’s stare didn’t budge, but the Queen’s breath caught in her throat, and she coughed. She glanced to King Sînhôlar then back to Solineus; her lips either suppressed a grin or a frown, with no way to be sure which. Morik, on the other hand, was not pleased. “My apologies for this barbarian, My Queen—”

  Her hand cut Morik off a second time. “This foreigner is brazen. How have you come to speak so well in such short time?”

  “I’ve a way… I can pronounce words before I know what I’m even saying.”

  “And a way of speaking before you should. What is it you seek, barbarian?”

  “Negotiating terms for a wall.” But the Lady’s desire snuck into his head and slipped from his tongue. “Peace and trade with all Eight Kingdoms.”

  “The wall is between the Ironwing and the Warlord Choerkin to chisel. Peace is the nature of the Eight Kingdoms, but for many, trade with foreigners is rare, and we’ve no influence even if so inclined to speak for you. And we are not.”
r />   Morik said, “You are kind to point out—”

  Solineus cleared his throat. “I ask for no influence other than safe passage.”

  The King didn’t twitch, and Morik’s stare was harder than the Queen’s, but her words were measured and rough as pumice in tone. “Such guarantees are impossible. While the Foundations are at peace, a foreigner’s head is bound to be lost in a thousand horizons of mountain trails.”

  “I’ve traveled further already with enemies determined to spill my blood, with the blessing of the Ironwing I will take this risk.”

  “The Ironwing gives no such blessings!”

  A spirited laugh from the queen, humor and outrage in a tittering blend, but the Ironwing raised his palm. His voice came deep, resonating with authority. “There is a singular path, but it is not for a soft low-lander accustomed to sun and soft beds.”

  Solineus sucked his breath and exhaled; The Lady always seemed to get her way. “I hail from a land of mountains, not so high and grand as the Foundations, but with trails so cold as to freeze a man’s eyes unblinking in his head.”

  “What gods do you carry in faith?”

  Solineus squirmed. “None I care to name.”

  Queen Nisenî scowled. “Because you fear we know their names.”

  “No. Because I fear them. What faith I had is broken.”

  The Queen cocked her head with a judging squint, and the Ironwing spoke, his eyes pinned on Morik. “Is this so?”

  “Impossible for me to judge a man’s heart in truth, but from hearing his tale, I believe that before you kneels a godless man with no faith in his heart, a Pilgrimage of the Foundations may bring the peace of the Storm-Eye to his soul.”

  Solineus didn’t know what the hells this pilgrimage he spoke of was, but it brought the queen to her feet. “Forbidden! Foreign gods may never walk the Foundations, carried by their pagan worshippers.”