Solineus

by L. James Rice

  Solineus called it magic; Morik called it a talent and claimed Kingdomers knew which direction they faced no matter how deep in a cave and how many turns they’d taken. Unless they stumbled on raw Waystone, which when standing close fouled their sense of direction. This all felt peculiar to Solineus, as he needed the sun and stars to guide his direction.

  They met the woman four days’ ride from Molikîn, outside what could be described as a house of sticks, but it wasn’t a house proper. More a lean-to with a haphazard door to keep wind, rain, and snow outside. She greeted them with a sneer, an ugly expression which stuck until they showed her Hîmr’s Coin and its missing side.

  “And just why did the Ironwing entrust two idiots, who allowed the thing stolen, to retrieve it? Eh? You will need more than them fancy swords to bring it back.”

  “Because I defeated the mountain.”

  She stared. “I scaled to Hîmr’s shrine once but chose not to leave my fool bones amongst the others. It wasn’t the mountain which needed beaten. Braving the summit may prove you an idiot instead of your worth.”

  “You were there?”

  “An obsidian pedestal on the Plateau of Stolen Breaths, so I named it. Yes, I was there, it stole the air from my lungs on my first step, but not so far in I couldn’t escape. In my wisdom, I uttered my reverence in prayer and departed.”

  “Maybe this too is why the Ironwing sent me to you. And for your wisdom in finding our way to Seblêsu’s destination before she gets there.”

  “Reasonable. Reasonable. To where does she head?”

  Solineus coughed. “We don’t know.”

  She cackled and plopped into a pile of leaves, all but her face damned near disappearing, she was so camouflaged. “So, you say you want me to lead you to some place, but you do not know where. The Foundations are an expanse I’ve spent decades traveling, I need a destination to lead you anywhere.”

  Morik said, “We need to get to Hedridôk, quick as able.”

  “You seek that old bear, Tulstenar?”

  “If he understands the symbols on the coin, it might point to where she is going.”

  She snorted and spat. “Mayhaps it would, mayhaps it would not. What is it you wish him to decipher?”

  “Freedom carves.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh! I see. Let me see the coin.”

  Morik handed her rolled vellum instead. She eyeballed the thing as she turned it in her hand. “I always imagined a coin being metal, wood at least, not made from a goat’s hide.”

  Solineus said, “It’s a rub, so you can see the symbols on the missing half.”

  She unfurled the scroll, scrunched her face, raised a brow, then nodded. “Mhhm, yes. Mmmm. Eh? Oh, sure sure.” She rolled the scroll, tied it, and tossed it back to Morik. “Worthless. Let me see the coin.”

  It was Morik’s turn to snort. “Worthless? We’ll be the judge, what’d it say, woman?”

  She held her hand out for the coin. “Come now, the coin.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “Gibberish for all I care. The coin.” She threw her arms up, let them slap back to her lap. “Fine, it speaks of Hîmr, of course. Nothing else bears a point even if I understood a lick it said. Tell me why she wanted a piece of the coin.”

  “A map. A message. We don’t know.” Solineus dug the coin from his cloak but didn’t hand it to her. “Do you?” A notion kicked around in his head, brought on by what she called the mountain’s peak: Breath Stealer. When her only answer was a shrug, he followed his thoughts aloud. “You erred on naming the summit. The shrine doesn’t just steal breath.”

  Her head bobbed back, eyes in a squint. “Erred? What do you mean?”

  “When first I put my head over the plateau, it filled my lungs til I might pop as a tick. Then it stole that breath. Morik told me some people believed Hîmr lives—”

  “Cult of the Dark Waters… Yes.”

  “The air atop the mountain moves in and out, as if the mountain is breathing. Hîmr is breathing.”

  “The god alive.” She sucked her breath and leaned forward, fingers twined, elbows on her knees. “You’re saying the myth is true?”

  “I don’t know one Earl from another…” He glanced to Morik, and the Kingdomer nodded. “Seblêsu told us she’d been as far as the Yôgul’s Fall, what if she lied? What if she went to the plateau and felt the winds? It doesn’t matter what they are, elemental or god, what matters is what she believes. If she believes Hîmr lives… she called me the Survivor of Hîmr’s Breath.”

  Tanzarêu nodded, her expression grave. “If what you say is true our game is wasting time… the coin, please.”

  Solineus surrendered to the look of worry creasing her face and placed it in her outstretched palms; she brought it to her bosom, breathing deep as her eyes slipped closed. “What the hell’s she doing?”

  Morik said, “Maybe she has a third eye in the damnedest place.”

  The woman cackled and her eyes opened wide. “Not so far off as you might think, Mountain Lord! This coin, this disc, is a Nêerubôlm, a Tracking Stone in the old tongue, which means the missing piece is a Waystone, a special one. Waystones must be placed by the one tuned to its energy, but this? Anybody could carry it and a Wayfinder with this stone could track it.”

  Morik stammered. “Tracking… no one’s seen… you’re certain?”

  “I am. With this piece, we can track the other half no matter where in the world it goes, unless it’s destroyed.” A cackle peeled from her lips a second time. “She stole a thing impossible to hide, once I’m on the trail.”

  Solineus smiled, but he hesitated in feeling joy. “She’s smart enough to know what she stole, then she knows we can track the Waystone. What’s her gamble?”

  The Huntress’ laughter faded, and she stared at Morik. “She’s of the Dark Water, I think we can be certain. How much have you told him?”

  “The story of Hîmr, little more.”

  Her gaze lit on Solineus, firm and unyielding. “The Dark Waters believe Hîmr alive… and now, maybe, I believe so too did Pîlôstar the Skywind who left the coin to be found. No matter what was, it is the what is that concerns us. They believe him alive and trapped deep in the world. They devote their lives to finding him.”

  “But the Waystone is a thing to be found? Not to find anything.”

  “This is so. Puzzle these pieces for me, Survivor of Hîmr’s Breath. In the Foundations there are great rivers, rivers of black water pouring south deep beneath the jungles and plains above. They believe one of these rivers leads to Hîmr’s prison, they believe if they read the clues right, someday they will find this river. The cult takes its name from its deadly undertaking… Every year, pilgrims take boats to these rivers and disappear in their unknown distances. Nobody knows how many live, nor die, nor even how many take this voyage.”

  Solineus exhaled. “Nothing good comes of seeking the gods, far as I’ve seen. But this Waystone…” Gears in his head clicked. “If they find Hîmr they could place the Waystone… With the Tracking Stone, would you know when it’s placed?”

  “Indeed, I would. The connection would grow stronger.”

  “So, once it’s placed, they’d know where to find it, find Hîmr.”

  “The Exodus of the Dark Waters would ensue. The members of the cult would journey, and with prayer and pick axes, they’d free the god.”

  “If the legend is true.”

  “It is not true, Hîmr is dead, but if they believed… Thousands would gather to follow the rivers and die in blackness. Lost to the Kingdoms.”

  Solineus appreciated the woman’s confidence in her own beliefs, but certitude never once dictated reality. His meetings with the Touched convinced him little was impossible. “On the chance Hîmr’s alive… From what I’ve seen, finding and waking a god isn’t something I want to be around for.” He stood and paced, and her eyes followed his steps.

  Morik rubbed his forehead. “We’ve twenty-two warriors with us, we track this thief and w
e reclaim the Waystone, and the Ironwing will see to it never being used. Simple. Odds were she never expected us to discover this truth, she can’t know we’re coming.” But his weak smile suggested the shallow depths of his confidence.

  Solineus stopped in his tracks. “Can her stone tell where this one is?”

  Tanzarêu shook her head. “No.”

  “Then she can’t know we know, but she hopes we do.”

  “What’re you jabbering about?”

  “Why didn’t she wait to steal the whole coin? She didn’t need it. If we discovered the secret, she knew we’d use it to track her… we’re taking the coin straight to her. If we don’t, it sits safe and sound in Molikîn to steal when they need it.”

  Morik’s lips flapped as he exhaled. “Five Earls.”

  Solineus clapped his hands and smiled. “The solution is simple: We get to her before she’s ready for us.”

  Tanzareu’s cackle pierced his ears, and she snorted at the close of her laugh. “This foreigner is smart enough to recognize a trap and dumb enough to still walk into it!”

  Solineus smiled. “I’ve a gift.”

  Morik tugged his beard and stood straight. “I’m here by order of the Ironwing to return Hîmr’s Coin whole. Trap or no trap.”

  “Mayhap we live, mayhap we die. Together we will find this Waystone and our destinies, and maybe one day the sagas will sing of Tanzarêu and the sticks in her hair.”

  8

  Road to Wisdom

  The brain, the frame, the lingering refrain

  of a past fading and the faded passing.

  Was I yesterday the man I am today?

  Sometimes, not always,

  if so it’d be life sideways, something missed,

  with no need to forget. No, and no.

  Reaching into the Fire today, because

  maybe yes, maybe no, maybe maybe,

  it’ll matter tomorrow is an old game that young fools,

  choosing to never reach old with two hands,

  play.

  — Tomes of the Touched

  Solineus’ eyes struck open in a stare to find Tanzarêu kicking his heels. The first rays of morning sun shadowed the crow’s feet marking her eyes and the craters of her dimples. But it was her smile that raised the question. “What’d you find?”

  “I think I know where she’s a headed.”

  Morik and several warriors sat up and took note. She knelt and spread one of her maps on the ground, pinning the corners with a couple rocks.

  “I’m listening.”

  “We know she started at the Twelfth Foundation here.” Her finger drug west. “Easy to guess she headed west, southwest, but sensing her path… Her path turns often, and it’s difficult to tell where she’s at, she made a hook that damned near turned her a full circle before moving on west. Judging by that shape, her time of travel, I think she’s on the Jakôbin Road.” And her finger landed next to a symbol Solineus couldn’t read.

  Morik said, “You think she’s heading for the Wisdom Cliffs?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “I look like the All-Knowing?”

  Solineus snorted at the two. “Seems to me she’d be seeking wisdom, given the name.”

  Tanzarêu cackled and wiped her mouth of spittle. “Your foreigner pain in the ass has a straight way to a point.”

  Morik grinned. “But what wisdom? The cliffs are histories, but not so far back.”

  “Mayhaps, mayhaps. I’ve been through the region a score of times, it’s a prime pass through the Foundations, between Mount Gerfôld and Mount Hermin. There are many directions from which to leave its path.”

  Solineus stood. “All this is blather. How fast can we get there?”

  “Her way is winding and in places steep, assuming she keeps to the wagon roads. We can make better speed, but… best route I know would bring us to the top of the cliffs, and we aren’t eagles to swoop down and take her. And if she turns? Then we could lose days.”

  “No way down those cliffs?”

  “Not by hoof. The horses would need backtrack four days to reach the Jakôbin Road.”

  “Our best horse-friendly route?”

  She spat, stared at the map and its myriad of squiggles and marks. “Puts us maybe three days behind them by the time we reach the Wisdom Cliffs.”

  Solineus glanced to Morik and back to Tanzarêu. “You’re saying we risk losing a single day to maybe catch her? Sounds worth it.”

  Morik grunted. “A day isn’t a short time in these mountains. Taken us two weeks to get as close as we are.”

  Solineus said, “Two weeks, and worst case we’re within four to five days behind.”

  Tanzarêu cackled. “Worst case, we die and never make it. But I think the gamble is good.”

  Morik groaned to his feet, lifted his saddle to his shoulder. “That be the case, we’re wasting sun.”

  They broke camp in under a half candle and pushed their horses hard as they could into the mountains, swinging south from the road they’d been following to navigate a climbing ridge that twisted and wound until they headed more or less east by evening. Bushes grabbed at the legs of the horses, and branches swatted at Solineus’ face in a routine of attacks, so that by the end of the day his muscles were sore from leaning to and fro in the saddle.

  The next day was the same, and he blocked more and dodged less, until he surrendered and eased his helm onto his head, letting its cheek and nasal guards keep most of the branches from his skin. Five more days in the saddle trailed into one another, the scenery changing but the same, with snow-capped mountains visible through gaps in the trees surrounding them. Up and down and up again, the monotony broken by scaring up flights of birds, snakes with rattles on their tails, or noting a mountain lion staring at them as they passed. Beautiful animals with huge eyes, so serene while sitting above mouths full of teeth.

  But no one fretted the big cats, too smart to attack a train of armored horsemen, and they killed the snakes dumb enough not to slither away and claimed their tails as children’s toys; what the Kingdomers watched for was scat left by Ôgrihîn, giant mannish beasts who threw rocks and trees if you passed too close to their cave-homes. Morik claimed the things could take a horse in its arms and squeeze the life from it. Which meant they were bigger than Colok. Which meant Solineus didn’t care to meet one.

  They reached the top of the Wisdom Cliffs the seventh evening after beginning the journey. Tanzarêu dismounted and Solineus followed, ginger steps to an edge that fell straight to a rock and bramble floor untold strides below. A great valley stretched from the base of the fall, the land across the road thick with brambles and evergreens. He kicked a rock and watched it plummet over the edge until it clattered on rocks below ten flickers later.

  “You weren’t joking about the height.” The mountain itself wasn’t as high as the Twelfth Foundation, but these cliffs were a match for anything he’d seen on those heights.

  “There’re worse in the Foundations, but once so high… dead is dead at the bottom.”

  “A practical outlook. Did we beat the priestess here?”

  She held her palm out, and he handed her the coin. She pressed it to her chest, then turned a circle with the disc held out. “The Waystone is close, but are we certain she carries it? The other question is will we beat its arrival to the bottom?”

  Four Helmveliners took the string of horses back the way they’d come to catch a trail that’d take a friendlier route to the bottom. When Tanzarêu stopped to point out the rubble-scattered goat trail she intended them to descend, he wondered if he shouldn’t have stayed with the horses. “That’s ummm—”

  “Not so bad as it looks, I promise. Take her slow and hug her tight. We’ll rope us together, not we need to, and we’ll all make it alive. Might leave some skin behind, but alive. I’ve climbed this a dozen times, plenty of cracks for holds.”

  Every man cinched rope around their waist and within wicks they started their descent. Wh
at started as terror turned to gut-clenched monotony, easing step by step down the path. Centuries before, when fresh-carved into this face, he assumed the trail would’ve been safer, why else make it? But then, he realized they scaled past runes carved into the mountain, the language of the Kingdomers. He glanced to Morik; a bad idea, the man was below him, so a flicker later his eyes pinned back to the rock face.

  “These are the Wisdom Cliffs then?”

  “Aye. Some date to the Age of God Wars. It is how we know of some of the battles.”

  “We’re climbing down history, then.”

  Morik chuckled. “Indeed. It is because of these cliffs that we know there were three Forgettings.”

  “The Edan believe there were at least five.”

  “Five Earls, Five Forgettings… Sure, why not? But during the age that Pozorak the Carver marked the victory of King Estwân over a Hundred Nations army on walls just south of here, dating it as the one hundred and twenty-ninth year of remembered time. Then another Forgetting struck, and the carving was found again! And they knew that what they experienced happened before, and every year after they’ve carved a calendar of years between Forgettings with messages and histories so not everything is forgotten again.”

  “A wise people.” Solineus stopped to scratch his nose, leaning to hug the wall tight. “So, who are these Five Earls? I gather they were hard to tell apart?”

  Morik and others laughed. “They are of a tale from these ages.”

  “Please, distract me from the heights.”

  “You’re serious? Here, now? Seems a thing to wait for reaching the bottom.”

  “If I fall, I’d hate to die not knowing.”

  Tanzarêu yelled up at them, “If you fall, you’ll dangle; no one dies today, not from a fall no how.”

  Men laughed and Morik drew a deep breath before beginning. “The Earls are a legend from the Age Between Ages, after Bodomyûl’s Wrath and the beginning of our counted time. In the Kingdom of Kâmar the Mountain Lords were then titled Earls, and they were second only to the King in power. On a distant mountain a young warrior called Devêr was rising, nobody knew from where he came, but this wasn’t so unusual in these times. What was unusual was how he defeated his enemies with genius plans, outwitting warlords and kings at every turn, until Lobrôd the Fourth, King of Kâmar proclaimed him the Earl of the Seventh Foundation.