Solineus

by L. James Rice

  He eased to the door and opened it a crack. Morik stood the watch still, but from the looks of his hair and garb, he too had seen a tub of water.

  “You smell better.”

  Solineus laughed. “Who the hells could smell a thing in that cold?”

  “True enough. Come, the eating waits on us.”

  They walked the hall surrounded by warriors of the Helmveline, passing through the halls in rigid order; their shields were on their backs, and their hands didn’t stray to their weapons, but the march bore the hallmark of nerves with eyes checking every hall and balcony.

  “I’d like to get a message to Kinesee soon as possible.”

  “This must wait until we reach Molikîn. Every pigeon has been sent with word of the coin.”

  Solineus squinted, uncertain if he appreciated the whole of the Eight Kingdoms marking him as a hero and target so soon. “How safe are we?”

  “A boy came to us with a whisper of trouble, claiming he overheard men wanting to take the coin, but wanting and trying are two different things. Still, we’ll leave for Molikîn come morning. No coincidence the Ironwing sent with you men who can fight.”

  They stepped into the mountain air to the sound of cheers, but the sun blinded him; when his eyes recovered an uncomfortable smile spread. Hundreds of people, common folks judging by their gear, raised their hands and sang to him.

  “Shits. How long was I in that bath?”

  “Word travels fast, and there are villages and mines not so far from here.”

  Solineus waved to the crowd, but Morik knocked his hand down. “Don’t make yourself a clearer target than you already are. This range, a crossbowman might put a bolt in your eye.”

  “Poor way to get the coin.”

  “Good way to protest a foreigner’s intrusion.”

  The train of warriors passed through a broad door into the temple without the twang of a tensioned string, and within a hundred paces they entered a wide hall teeming with priests and servants and carts filled with food and drink. A dozen circular tables, hollowed in the middle for servants, with a dozen chairs each, were spaced between pillars thirty feet high. A priest in green robes trotted to them, bowed, then led them to the Seblêsu’s table. Solineus removed the Twins and hung them from the back of his chair before taking a seat by her side. Morik and men of Helmveline filled out the table while others stood watch nearby.

  The commotion of the hall settled from a roar to a buzz and everyone sat. The Seblêsu stood, taking a goblet of liquor in her hand and raising it high. Everyone stood, and Solineus tried to follow suit, but Morik held his shoulder down, and shot him a quick nod.

  “Tonight, we honor Solineus Mikjehemlut of the Clan Emudar, favored of Hîmr the Hammerfall, the fallen hand of the Storm-Eye. Solineus! He who has retrieved the coin of Hîmr, returning it to its people in service to the Kingdom of Helmveline. A great debt we owe this man! Not solely for bringing us the coin, but for saving so many who would otherwise have died in its pursuit. To Solineus, the Survivor of Hîmr’s Breath!”

  She snatched the knife from the table and tapped the goblet’s rim, and a piercing chime echoed through the room. A hundred rings joined the din, and Solineus struggled to smile through the racket. When she stopped the echo faded, and only when silent did she sit. The flicker she settled into her seat, the table was beset by servants doling out food and drink. Goat meat, jellies, four varieties of berry, and a handful of different breads, but the delicacies clamored for were trout eggs in a spiced honey and pheasant in elderberry sauce. Solineus tried everything with a smile but ate bread the most. A spice he didn’t have a name for permeated every course and gave his tongue a curl; when he learned the name later, he’d be sure to avoid it.

  The spice was bad enough, getting evil looks from Morik whenever he reached for wine or beer turned him peevish, but it was clear that not a single man of Helmveline took part in the drinking. Morik had understated the threat, or the man was more cautious than imagined.

  The evening moved on, and as cakes covered in a sweet, purple sauce were served, the drone of the Mountain Song came from outside the temple. Sundown. Hundreds of voices. He cocked his head, listening to the unusual beauty of so many voices singing different things.

  He put his fork to the cake and stuffed a bite into his mouth. He had no idea what he ate but regretted all the bread from earlier. “This is spectacular.”

  Seblêsu smiled. “Elderberry-rhubarb, generously sweetened. A treat from the Kingdom of Ôshô.” She stared at him as he ate, awkward seeing as she’d ignored him since her speech. “Might I make a rub of the coin?”

  Solineus stopped in mid-chew, swallowed. “What’s a rub?”

  “I place thin vellum over the coin’s faces and rub it with charcoal, creating a drawing of it, so to speak. You’ll be wanting rubs anyhow, to deliver to all the kingdoms for study.”

  Solineus tapped his fork on what was sadly his first and only glass of wine and glanced to Morik.

  The Kingdomer shrugged. “Proper enough. So long as it doesn’t leave this table.”

  Solineus nodded to the priestess. “I’d appreciate one of these rubs… seeing as I won’t get to keep the thing.”

  “Of course.” She smiled, snapping her fingers, and a young man trotted to her side. “Ten sheets of vellum and charcoal.”

  The young priest twined his fingers in front of him and bowed with his knees pressed tight.

  Solineus took another bite, but the priestess seemed determined to make sure he didn’t enjoy his dessert. “The summit… what did you find?”

  He paused, swallowed, then stuffed the remainder of the cake in his mouth before relaying the tale. She nodded as he covered as many details as he could recall. All the while, she enjoyed her own dessert with annoying leisure, and when he finished his story, she pried further.

  “So, pilgrims could visit the summit in safety? View it, so long as they don’t try to breathe the air?”

  “Yes. Some would die on the journey, but many would not.”

  “This is wonderful news! Priests from across the Foundations will be overjoyed to know this truth, to be able to come and offer prayers. A pity you left a mitten behind.”

  The brow over his left eye cocked. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  She grimaced. “Pilgrims will die trying to reach the artifact.”

  Solineus groaned. “Bow fishing, an arrow with a string. Get the damned thing back before some idiot dies.”

  A smile and nod. “You might be right. I will consider this. There you are!”

  Solineus looked up with a start; the priest stood beside her with an armful of vellum and square sticks of charcoal in his hand. The priestess stood as he lay them on the table.

  “May I see the coin?”

  “May I have more cake?”

  She chortled. “Of course.” With a snap of her fingers the priest darted toward a dessert cart, and when the plate of cake rested in front of him, he reached into his robes and brought forth the coin.

  The room hushed, and she held it with reverential care, a soft touch as if it was fine crystal rather than a disc of metal that’d survived hundreds of years atop a mountain. She held it high, the fires of the room illuminating the purple flower in its golden sheen, before laying it on the table. She stared, a tear in her eye, as if seeing a lover long thought lost.

  Solineus was just happy to have his cake.

  She traced a finger along its edge, a deep breath sliding from her chest. “I said I was always an optimist, but I wonder… Seeing it now, I realize I never expected to witness this day, let alone be honored to touch this holy relic.” She covered the coin and rubbed, creating a perfect but duller copy. She picked it up, examined its edges. “It is good there’s no writing here, that’d make this more difficult.” And she flipped the coin to its back and rubbed so that the sheet held copies of each side.

  Ten times he watched this ritual, long enough to finish three slices of cake, and each ti
me he resisted the urge to lick the plate. She rolled each vellum and tied them with a thin strand of silvery metal and handed him a copy.

  “This one is yours. These others you should bear with you to the Ironwing.”

  Morik stood and bowed. “My gratitude, Seblêsu.” He collected the scrolls and piled them in front of him.

  “I should wonder, Solineus… Morik… if you would deign allow people to pass the table and look upon Hîmr’s Coin? It is a singular chance in people’s lifetimes.”

  Morik nodded, so Solineus said, “It’d give me time to build hunger for a final piece of cake.”

  She smiled and bowed. “Thank you. I should deliver this copy to our library, but I will return with swift feet.”

  Solineus stood and bowed. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  The priestess departed with a handful of priests in her wake, and word whispered rumor-quick through the room; a long line ensued. Solineus scooted from the table to stand, slinging the Twins over his shoulders as he stood to get out of the way of folks. But this was impossible, as he was almost the equal attraction of the coin: the foreigner with Ikoruv hilted Latcu blades, Solineus, the Survivor of Hîmr’s Breath.

  An odd title, and he decided to ask her about it when she returned.

  The Helmveline allowed curious eyes to creep close but swatted away every finger that floated too close to the violet bloom of the golden coin. The line went on and on, people filing in from outside, until his legs grew tired of standing. He leaned on a table, covered a yawn as he nodded to passersby.

  The first scream turned the room to statues. Solineus stood straight, craning his neck to look over every man in the room. Men in golden masks, axes and hammers in hand, and no way to grasp their numbers.

  The statues turned to a herd of frightened goats before he could say a word, and he was jostled and carried with the flow of fleeing bodies. The Twins flashed from their sheaths with a flurry of whispers and he shoved his way toward the coin. Helmveline warriors drew weapons, but the swarm in flight banged and knocked them around; still, they formed a horseshoe facing the oncoming men in gold.

  Solineus edged between bodies to reach the oncoming fray, but stopped; a straight attack made no sense when they had ample chance to… He turned and locked eyes with a man approaching the coin’s table. The bastard looked away, but only to slam a dagger up and under a Helmveliner’s ribs.

  Solineus roared and shoved two people in his path, and as the man’s hand reached for the coin the Brother hissed and slashed; the man’s arm rested sanguine on the table a foot from its goal, but Solineus was still a branch awash in a stream of people carrying him from the treasure.

  He shoved from a man and lunged, tripped by another’s foot, and he careened into the table’s edge. The table squawked across the floor with his impact and he hit the floor hard enough to ring his ears; in flickers the table toppled and flipped in the chaos, the coin striking the floor fingers from his reach, rolling a foot before kicked.

  “Shittin’ me?”

  He turned the edges of the Twins to the stone floor, to keep from taking off innocent ankles, and scrambled after the traveling disc. Kicked once, twice, and a third time, he figured the good news was most folks didn’t have a clue where the thing’d gone.

  Feet and shins ricocheted from his hips, ribs, and head, and he tripped at least three people in his pursuit. The coin spun on its edge as if a mystical force refused to let it fall, and he strove to his feet, stumble-running while trying not to kill anyone with the swords in his hands. A woman fell in front of him, and tried to jump, but someone shoved him from behind, and his toe clipped the woman’s shoulder. The Twins clattered as he splayed to hands and knees, but the coin was only feet away. He dove, and a knee caught him in the head.

  Sister’s pommel struck the coin and sent it lurching away, fallen and sliding near the far wall. A young girl picked up the coin, a child no more than seven. He rose to his feet, sheathing the Sister, and making his way to the child with deep brown eyes and a look of awe on her face. In all the room, he figured he and this girl were the only two who knew where the coin had gotten to.

  He kneeled when reaching her and fought for a sincere smile. He stared. She stared. He didn’t have the slightest idea what to say. She could run, scream, hit him…

  Instead she held out the coin. “Here you go.”

  He took the coin and laughed, taken aback by this child’s innocence, returning a thing so many would kill for. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

  He turned to the rattle of combat behind him. Much of the hall stood cleared, but in its middle men fought and died. He reached to stuff the coin in the pocket of his robes and was halfway to drawing Sister… The coin was light. He backed to the wall, pressing the child to his side, and brought forth the coin. As he remembered: the illusory depth of the violet flower, the war-hammer and lightning symbol… But when he turned it over the back-side was gone. He sank against the wall as if someone’d dropped an anchor down his gullet. “Son of a shit…” He glanced at the child, embarrassed by his language, but realized she wouldn’t understand Silone anyhow. He held it up for the girl. “It was like this?”

  She nodded and he scanned the floor. Nothing. He’d seen the damned thing hit the floor, roll, kicked and kicked again, and he’d never seen it come apart. He leaned in and stared. Where the piece was missing was reamed to twist in and out, so precise he’d never noticed where the two pieces joined. Who would know… Seblêsu? The woman flipped and rubbed the coin numerous times— “Morik!” The Kingdomer stood behind his men, commanding them to victory, but his ax too was bloodied. Solineus slipped the coin in his robes and ran to his side, yanked his shoulder. “Morik! Seblêsu has half of Hîmr’s coin.”

  The man’s fighting gaze turned on him. “What the Five Earls you talking about?”

  He held the coin in front of his face. “She has half the godsdamned coin.”

  Morik stared, turned his gaze back to the fighting. The Helmveliners were reinforced by priests and pushing the gold-masks back. “What’d she want with half the blessed coin?”

  “Hells if I know nor hells if I care, she has it. Where the hells would she go?”

  The fighting pushed away, and Morik led him the way the priestess exited. The hall past the door went two directions. “The Eight Ways.”

  “What the hells is that?”

  “Damned near every temple, fortress, city, or village with an underground has an Eight Ways… A place with eight tunnels, several of which lead far away and outside.”

  “Escape routes.”

  A young priest trotted down the hall and Morik stepped in his path, hand clutching his collar. “The Eight Ways, take us there.”

  “Excuse me?” The man swiped at Morik’s grip, but the gesture was futile and earned him a good shake.

  “Take me to the Eight Ways now or I’ll happily assume you’re in cahoots with the one who stole Himr’s Coin.”

  The priest blanched. “This way.” He turned and jogged the way he’d come, Morik right on his heels.

  “Faster, priest!”

  And they ran, turning through a dozen twists and turns until they exited the hewn halls for natural caves. The priest snagged a torch from a sconce and it lit with a prayer. From here they moved slower, but the journey was short.

  They halted in a cavern no more than fifty strides across, but a multitude of holes in the mountain led from the chamber.

  Morik said, “I count seven, where’s eight?”

  The priest pointed up; the tunnel was difficult to see in poor light.

  Solineus pointed to this raised cave. “Does it lead outside?”

  “Yes. Five of them do, the other three will circle you for horizons before a dead-end.”

  Five choices, and even if they chose the right one, the odds of catching her were slim. “Way I see it… She’d either take that their high tunnel hoping we miss it, or it’d be the last one she’d take because it’s the obvious choice fo
r just that reason.”

  Morik took the torch from the lad. “Sounds like fifty-fifty to me, which is better than one-in-five. Let’s climb.”

  They scaled chiseled steps and Solineus hunched to see if he could spot prints in dust. Nothing. No dust at all. “Damn it, no sign.”

  “They aren’t fools; they keep all the tunnels swept and clean. Come, we’re burning time.”

  The natural cavern twisted and turned, but after a thousand strides turned to hewn stone again. The cut was rough, squared and braced with heavy timbers, and cut a straight line with a mild descent; they fought the urge to run, not knowing how far the tunnel stretched, but jogged for sections. Time was a mystery, but he reckoned they’d been in the cave a candle when a cold wind hit their faces, and within wicks they stepped into a snowy night, flakes melting in the torch’s flame as they fell from the sky.

  They kneeled, the torch’s dancing light illuminating prints half-filled by the fresh dusting of snow. Several sets of prints, but most important, hooves created the trail leading west. Morik snorted. “Her lead isn’t huge, if she camps for the night…”

  Solineus stood, glancing at his silk robes, and oh so soft boots that’d leave his toes black in the frozen mountains. Boots, no doubt, which the priestess had provided for his comfort. “She’s gone. By the time we threw our gear together… we’d be leaving in the morning. Catching her would be a prayer, and we still have most of the coin.”

  “We do at that. But I don’t like losing.”

  “Neither do I. But it was a battle, not the war. We take the coin to the Ironwing, figure out where’s she’s gone to… then, we go take our godsdamned coin back.”