Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  Sarra caught sight of bronze helms glinting in the distance. Soldiers hidden in the shadows kept watch on her temple. No doubt these were the men who left the body at her door. Murderers, she thought.

  The Protector is nothing more than a common thug. Amen Saad had ascended to the position of Protector and commander of the armies after his father, Raden, was found dead of poison only two weeks prior. Sarra was almost certain the son had murdered his father to attain the position. Raden had murdered his predecessor and half the army’s generals when he had taken the Protector’s sword. It seemed only appropriate that his son would do the same.

  But Saad is not content with the Protector’s sword. He wants my mantle as well.

  Seeing the soldiers, she pinched her cloak beneath her chin, cinching the fabric and hiding her red locks.

  “Khai, hurry,” Sarra said to the hesitant boy, hoping their exit from the temple was unobserved by Saad’s men. “The streets will only grow more crowded as the Devouring approaches.” Ott offered the boy his good hand.

  “Mother,” Khai asked, “where are we going?”

  “I … I … was wondering the same thing,” Ott stuttered as he waded through the ever-thickening crowds. The boy was acting coy.

  “Ott, you know where we’re going,” she said.

  Indeed, Ott looked to the great circus and beyond, his eyes fixing upon the tip of a black and spindly tower. “There,” he said, shaking loose Khai’s grip so he could point.

  “That’s the Protector’s Tower,” said Khai.

  Sarra gritted her teeth. “I think I know a way to end this conflict before it truly begins.”

  “Are you talking about our little revelation?” Ott asked. He was referring to the discovery they’d made earlier that morning. She would need to stand with Saad for the Devouring if she wanted to use what they had learned against him.

  “We have no choice. Saad put a corpse in our temple.”

  “He is under great stress, and not all of it is of his own making,” said Ott. He was referring to the recent insurrection. A captain in the army had led a revolt against his general. Two weeks prior, the rebel, Haren Barca, had murdered half of the soldiers in the Outer Guard before stealing away to the southern islands. The Gate of Coronel, the southern gate of the Dromus, stood open to the sea, and raiders from the Wyrre were pouring through the doors. It was Saad’s duty to pursue the rebel and retake the gates, but he had not yet gone after Barca.

  “This is about Saad’s ambitions,” she said. “That is why he has not left Solus, why he is here in the capital playing politics instead of defending the empire. He means to take as much power as he can, moving quickly, before too many complaints can be raised.”

  “You think he’s bullying you, trying to get you to step down?” Ott asked.

  “He wants me out of the way.”

  “So he can attain the Ray’s seat?”

  “What else?” she asked. The First Ray of the Sun was the most powerful man in the empire—as the emperor was not a man, after all, but a god. The First Ray was the eyes and ears of the emperor, the only one permitted to pass through the Shroud Wall and stand in the presence of the Soleri. The First Ray of the Sun, Suten Anu, was ailing, and rumors of his impending death or long-standing illness were everywhere. If he named no successor, she was next in line for his seat. Sarra herself had long coveted the post and had campaigned to Suten to make certain he named her as his heir, but he had refused her recent requests for an audience. Suten would not speak to her regarding succession. So she was left to wonder at what would happen next. Sarra and Saad, the Mother and Father, sought the same seat of power, and neither knew who would get it. The title of First Ray was the highest post any mortal could attain. She coveted it above all other things, but the high seat remained always outside of her reach.

  The street angled sharply upward, leading them to a wide set of steps. The old city, the Waset, sat thirty steps below the street level of the outer rings. The city of Solus had literally risen around its most ancient temples, growing in height and circumference over the millennia. Pilgrims camped among these ruins, pitching tents beside the Mundus of Ceres, sleeping between the tall statues of the garden of Amen Hen. Hawkers sold trinkets: carved viewing devices for the eclipse, tiny sundials, and weathered charms. A blind man, cursing ominously, predicted doom. Pilgrims chanted while a white-robed priest guided their prayers. He held aloft a copy of The Book of the Last Day of the Year, the tome the Mother Priestess read as the sky turned black. Sarra hoped Garia was well on her way to the Shroud Wall. She pulled her cloak tightly to keep her red hair hidden as she passed the priests.

  Step after step carried her up and out of the Waset, Khai close at her side, Ott a few steps behind, the old statues and crumbling temples disappearing behind her as she crested the great stair. Beyond the last step, the calcium-white towers of the White-Wall district rose on all sides. Sarra stepped into the shadow-spotted street. She checked the sun’s angle and hurried onward, past the bronze gates of the city’s highborn families. House gods decorated each entry. Gifts of fresh persimmon wilted in the morning sun.

  Up ahead, a call shot through the crowd as a soldier clad in the yellow mantle of the city guard caught a woman’s tunic with the tip of his spear, carving a gash in her shoulder. She screamed and the soldier panicked, and as he spun away the butt of his spear struck a mop-haired boy on the head. The pilgrims pressed in, their arms raised, complaining angrily as they gathered around the yellow cloak.

  Sarra felt their anger. If she trusted her discovery, the entire city would soon be filled with rage, but that time had not yet come, Mithra had not yet given the pilgrims cause to rebel. The sun had not yet reached its zenith, but the shadows were shortening, the midday drawing closer.

  “Mother,” Ott said.

  “I know,” she said. Sarra needed to arrive at the Protector’s Tower in advance of the Devouring.

  Farther ahead, the crowd parted as white-robed priests walked by carrying a mighty bier supporting a statue of Mithra-Sol. All eyes were fixed on the golden statue. Mithra’s likeness carried good fortune—all who saw it were blessed by the sun god’s grace.

  Khai craned his neck, watching the statue wade through the crowd. Perhaps he is a true believer. It had been years since Sarra had any faith of her own.

  A priest stumbled and the bier tipped, as did the statue. Horror darkened the faces of all who witnessed it. The golden statue tilted, but was soon righted before it fell from the platform. Pilgrims gasped, some sunk to their knees. Mithra was saved, a miracle. True believers all. Sarra shook her head. I wonder what will happen to their faith when the Devouring comes.

  Everyone was moving in the same direction now, toward the Shroud Wall, pressing shoulder to shoulder, pushing against Sarra and her priests who were the only ones headed away from the wall. Buff-colored stones gave way to black, sand-covered earth. Ash-colored monoliths rose from the sand. A winding track loomed in the distance, a great cylinder wrapped in pillars. Flags whipped in the air and the smell of horse wafted in the breeze. A slender turret poked above the circus.

  “The Protector’s Tower,” Khai whispered, looking fearful.

  As they made their way around the circus, the tower’s ebony façade was revealed floor by floor, until they reached the field where the turret stood. The carbon-black edifice, the citadel of the Father Protector, was older and stranger than any structure in sight, with a jagged, spindly appearance—like a tooth bent out of place. An arch framed the entry. The names of the vanquished, the conquered tribes and kingdoms of the empire, were carved into its stone. The names were so numerous they covered the entire surface, the words so small they could hardly be read.

  Perhaps the name of my fallen priest should be added to the arch. Maybe they’ll add mine after today, thought Sarra.

  Almost noontime.

  The moon approached the sun.

  The crowds raised their heads to the heavens in supplication as Sarra and her prie
sts passed under the black arch, their eyes raised to the sky, their hearts drumming beneath their robes.

  7

  In the King’s Hall, the vaunted throne room of Harwen—a torchlit space made of dark, rough-cut stones that echoed with the voices of the old kings of Harkana, and the cries of a thousand generations of Harkan warriors who had come before—the king of the Ferens, Dagrun Finner, made his proposal to Kepi, second daughter of Arko, king of Harkana and son of Koren. Dagrun had filled the hall with dozens of broad-shouldered slaves, the strongest and best of his lot. He himself was dressed in a fine gray-green tunic, a bright jewel around his neck, his cheeks freshly shaven—the portrait of respect as he took Kepi’s hand in his tenderly and pressed it to his heart. The courtiers of Harwen were hushed, watching this ceremony play out during the last day of the Harkan games, as the sun neared its zenith and the Devouring approached. “A lady of virtue and wisdom,” he intoned, “a lady of beauty and grace and fire, birthed in the Year of the Kite.”

  Kepi withdrew her hand with a frown. The bruise on her cheek was still throbbing; the cut on her neck was still fresh. The man nearly took my life, now he’s showering me with compliments?

  “A woman who nearly bested me in today’s games,” he continued, “one I consider my match and my equal. A lady of cunning and strength, a lady I will be blessed to call my queen.”

  Queen? You should have cut my throat. She wished again that he’d killed her in the arena, or better yet that she had taken his head. Standing before him like this was worse than defeat, worse than any surrender she could imagine.

  “Kepi of Harkana,” he continued, “widow of a Feren lord, a man of knowledge and humility—Roghan Frith, the Lord of Redmud, long may he be remembered. My lady, you clearly learned your strength as his bride.”

  Clearly. Kepi could hardly believe that the wretched fool who had beaten her repeatedly on their wedding night was the same man Dagrun was trying to describe. Her fists turned white and her eyes narrowed.

  Where’s my blade? Kepi hated when she did not have a sword at her side.

  “And though Roghan was taken from you too soon, you remain a credit to him and to the people of Harkana as an honorable widow.”

  Kepi scoffed. How long must I endure this?

  She had expected Dagrun to bring her a husband, a minor warlord to replace Roghan, and she was momentarily shocked to realize the great king was proposing marriage himself. Just when she though herself free, the Ferens had come to her with yet another proposal. Why was he doing this? Was he baiting her? Was he actively trying to start a war with Harkana over her? The possibility had occurred to her more than once. Or perhaps the rumors were true and Dagrun was looking for a way to gain control over Harkana by courting both of Arko’s daughters, Kepi in public and Merit in private. One of them, at least, he would find unwilling. He spared me in the ring, but it will take more than an act of mock gallantry to earn my hand. She wanted her freedom, not another husband.

  Kepi touched the bruise on her cheek, which had turned a ruddy purple in the time since she had left the ring. She liked the way it stung.

  Not far from Kepi, Merit sat in their father’s place on the Horned Throne, beneath her father’s banner, her face cool. Blank. One would have thought Merit was watching a game of Coin rather than a marriage proposal. Kepi stared at her older sister and Merit met her gaze for a long moment. Shenn, Merit’s husband, was conspicuously absent, and Merit’s eyes darted to the empty chair where he would have been seated. Then she lifted her chin, surveying the room with eyes narrowed, her lips opened slightly to reveal her teeth. Was that triumph in the set of her sister’s jaw, in the flush on her cheek? If you think I’ll bend to your will, Kepi thought, think again.

  Merit had never been much of a sister. She was the one who had to be responsible for all of them when her mother left. I had no childhood, Merit had said to Arko once, in Kepi’s hearing. You were only too glad to rely on me when you needed me. Yet because you refuse to name me regent in your place, you keep me from having any real authority. The people think I am your favorite, the beauty, the one who rules in your stead. But in truth I am neither monarch nor regent. I am nothing in Harkana.

  Yet it was precisely Arko’s love for her that kept her from what she wanted. Merit misunderstood their father’s actions. For Arko, power was an unyielding sun—if you lingered beneath its glow, it was certain to burn you. He wanted to keep his eldest daughter safe from its burden. Merit believed she was denied, slighted by her father’s indifference. She had never understood Arko. Nor did she understand Kepi either, that her little sister wanted naught from Merit but kindness. She doesn’t know me.

  Kepi wished again that she had finished this in the arena.

  Another Feren wedding felt like a fate worse than any death by arms, worse than growing old and wretched.

  “This is for you,” Dagrun said as he took a cloth-wrapped object from his slaves and faced Kepi. He drew back the smooth wool to reveal a stout blackthorn timber. He set the iron-gray mass on the floor, where it landed with a dull thump. “This was cut from my birth tree.” Every Feren had a birth tree. The commoners carved brush handles and wood combs from theirs. The king used his to supply furnishings for his queen’s chamber. She knew the Feren traditions—Roghan’s envoy had promised them that his lord would build Kepi a set of chambers fit for a lady when they were negotiating her marriage dowry in Harkana. Roghan had made many promises, but kept none of them. She expected no better from Dagrun. Standing before him, Kepi felt lower than the lowest servant, more helpless than a Feren slave. But I am no servant.

  The sudden quiet in the throne room made her realize Dagrun had finally stopped talking. The king of the Ferens unsheathed his sword and drew it across his palm.

  “Kepina Hark-Wadi, I, Dagrun Finner, king of the Ferens and lord of the Gray Wood, beg for your hand in marriage.” He held up his bloody palm. The blood oath was a Feren custom, she knew, and it meant that he had pledged himself to her and that his honor was bound to this pledge. If she refused, it would mean war. He gives me no choice, I must accept.

  All eyes were on Kepi, her hands folded, her gown draped over her slim frame. Risk war or damn herself to a second Feren wedding—she had to make a decision. Everywhere Kepi saw apprehension on the faces of the crowd. The Harkans gripped their spears; the Ferens clustered around Dagrun. Everyone waited for her to speak. The room was utterly quiet. No one dared cough or whisper for fear of missing what Kepi would say.

  She gathered her nerve. “I thank you for the honor of your proposal.” Her voice began to falter, but she steadied it. She would not give him the satisfaction. Kepi took a step toward Dagrun. Her soldiers edged closer to Kepi, and Dagrun’s men gathered about him. She took her open palm and pressed it to his bloody one.

  “I accept.”

  There was clapping in the chamber, a sigh of relief, the crowd exhaling. Merit relaxed on the throne and the Harkan soldiers slackened their hold on their spears as Dagrun’s men shook off their scowls. Everyone seemed relieved, except for Kepi who had not yet finished.

  “I accept your proposal,” she repeated. “Yet I regret that I am still in mourning for my dear dead husband. Every day I see his face before me and weep for his loss. No other man will ever supplant his place in my heart, at least not for a time. It would not be fair to you, my brother-king, to accept your love when my heart still belongs to another,” she lied.

  Dagrun’s eyes flicked in Merit’s direction, but Merit’s face revealed nothing, no surprise, no dismay, though Kepi knew she was burning within.

  “Though I do accept your offer of marriage, as per tradition, I must wait until more time has passed. I must mourn for seven years, as is Feren custom,” she said, her eyes downcast. The old laws of Feren allowed a widow to mourn for seven years before she wedded a new husband. Kepi had accepted his proposal, yet denied it.

  Dagrun’s eyes grew dark. Dangerous, the way Roghan’s had as he watched her on their wedding n
ight. Such a tiny thing. Like a little girl, still. That was what he had said to her before he pushed her facedown onto the table. Kepi resisted the urge to step back. Hold your ground.

  Dagrun took a step forward. The sword was still in his hand. He raised the blade, wiped the blood from the edge, and sheathed it. The hilt gave a loud ring when he jabbed it against the scabbard. “I will leave you to your grief.”

  “I grieve for Roghan every day,” Kepi said, smiling faintly. Roghan had been a miserable husband, but his name sounded sweet on her tongue when she spoke it just then. She may not have bested Dagrun in the arena, but she had no doubt taken the upper hand in the throne room.

  Go, Kepi thought, watching Dagrun leave. Go and don’t come back. But when she gazed up at her sister on the Horned Throne, Merit’s eyes flashed angrily at her and Kepi knew she had only delayed the inevitable.

  8

  A low moan drifted down the spiral stairwell of the Protector’s Tower as Sarra Amunet, the Mother Priestess, cocked her head at the sound. “Come, follow me. Those cries are meant to intimidate lesser men,” she said as she climbed up the steps, Ott and Khai following close behind her. In truth, Sarra had felt a stab of intimidation when she heard the first cry, but she didn’t want her priests to know she was afraid.

  The spiral treads of the tower were deep, rounded at the edge and steeply angled, designed so that a chariot could drive from the base of the tower to its summit without stopping. Or perhaps the long, twisting steps were designed to delay a guest’s arrival? Even a horse-drawn chariot would be forced to move slowly over the uneven ramps. Amen Saad, the Father Protector, must have been aware of this, as he had left the doors open at the top of the tower. Sobs rang from the doorway, followed by the crack of a whip. The cries increased in frequency as they neared the top. Khai covered his ears while Sarra fixed her gaze on the tower’s slitlike windows. She was watching the crowds, looking for the sun, making certain she would not arrive too late. She was weary from the long walk through the city, and the climb only made her more tired. There must be thousands of steps in this tower. It’s a wonder anyone visits the Protector. If her life did not depend upon what happened next, she swore she might have turned around and given up.