Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  From somewhere above, there was a sharp word, and the sobbing ceased.

  Good, I’m tired of listening to it, she thought.

  Outside, a horn blasted. The raucous cheers of the crowd filled the stairs: the sound of the people awaiting the eclipse, the end of the year. Awaiting Mithra’s blessing on all of them—man, woman, child, on the crops and the rain, on the emperor himself, to whom the sun would bow. If I were them, I wouldn’t hold my breath.

  At the top of the stairs Sarra stepped through the gates without announcing herself, but her arrival had been anticipated: Amen Saad sat facing the door, a hand on a knee, his face screwed into a challenging glare. There was a partridge on a bronze plate before him, while behind him, in a separate chamber, a prisoner hung from manacles. The captive man wore no clothing and his chest was colorful with whip marks and bruises. A man dressed in the black robes of a torturer drew long cuts across the prisoner’s chest. Sarra hardened her gaze; she would show no discomfort. The room was full of the prisoner’s muffled cries, and Saad merely continued to eat his midday meal, ripping the wing from the bird with delight. The Protector waved his hand and the torturer ceased his interrogation.

  At last, some quiet, thought Sarra as she laid eyes on the new Protector for the first time. Grease covered his fingers and he chewed with his mouth half-open, a sliver of onion wedged between his teeth. This boy thinks himself worthy of the Ray’s seat? Sarra chafed at the notion.

  “Welcome to the citadel,” said Saad, gesturing with his knife. He was stout, roughly bearded, and shiny with perspiration. Not yet twenty, Saad retained the temperament of a boy, wrathful and impatient. He wore the pristine armor of his father, the former Protector. Not yet tailored to fit him, the plackart hung crooked on his chest, and it ground against the rest of his armor whenever he moved.

  It was said that no man would dare strike the Protector, but Saad did not look like a boy who had never felt the sting of a blade. A bold scar split his face in half, stretching from forehead to cheek. The cut, carved into the young man’s face when he was only a boy, was rumored to be nothing less than the work of his father. Pain makes the man, thought Sarra. No wonder Saad killed him.

  Sarra removed her gray cloak to reveal the white robe of the Mother Priestess. “I was hoping to surprise you, but your soldiers spied me on the temple steps—did they not?” She guessed his men had watched her at the temple, followed her through the city, then rushed ahead to warn him of her arrival. The soldiers who murdered her priest had followed her here.

  “My men are everywhere.” Saad did little to conceal his grin. “You, on the other hand … isn’t there somewhere you should be? On the wall, awaiting the Devouring?” Saad asked, eating as he spoke. “To partake in the blessings of our precious god? It is through your hand that the blessing of the sun is passed on to the emperor, is it not? Or do you not wish to bless the empire this year?” he asked, amused. Sarra wondered if he would ask her about the dead priest.

  “Mithra blesses the empire,” said Sarra, deciding that it would only make her look weak if she mentioned the dead man at the outset. “I am merely the conduit.”

  Saad chortled between breaths. “So Mithra-Sol has commanded you to make a mockery of the Devouring?” he laughed again, a rattle somewhere deep in his belly. He was a skeptic, she guessed. The pilgrims had faith, but the educated—the viziers and generals, the scholars and scribes—no longer believed in Mithra’s light. They observed the rituals, but put no faith in their meaning. I must make a believer out of Saad, even if I myself have ceased to believe. Her victory would depend on it. The knowledge she had attained would only serve her if the Protector held some shred of faith.

  “Do not worry, Saad. The Mother Priestess stands upon the wall,” she said, motioning for him to join her at the parapet. In truth, she did not know if her surrogate had yet reached the wall, but she would find out the truth soon enough. She covered her red locks with her cowl. Together they walked to the balcony and stared across the city, to the Shroud Wall. The noise from the cheering crowd was nearly intolerable. Her head throbbed, but she was relieved to see that Garia had reached her spot, a small balcony about halfway up the wall. Her priestess was dressed in full regalia, her arms raised to the sky.

  Saad nodded at the sight of the white-robed priest. “What caused you to breach custom by letting a common priest do your work? Why are you here?”

  “Be patient.”

  “I am patient when I know what I am waiting for—care to enlighten me?” The scar on Saad’s face swelled when he spoke, and his cheeks reddened. How old was Saad when his father drew the blade across his skin—ten years? Was it even possible to intimidate a man raised by the cruel fist of Raden Saad? She would find out soon enough. When the sun reached its height, she would reveal what she knew.

  Down below, among the people, drums beat loudly, their rhythm accelerating as the time of the eclipse approached. The noise jarred her nerves, making the room seem too bright, too hot. The boy, Khai, was shaking, uncertain of what to do. Ott was rocking back and forth.

  “What’s wrong with him?” A soldier snapped, drawing his sword and moving toward Ott.

  Sarra faced Saad and spoke again in the voice she used with the common people, the one dripping with belief, with power. “Tell your man to lower his blade.” The guard at Ott’s side hesitated. “Mithra Himself spoke to me,” she continued. “I’m here to share His wisdom, to reveal to you what He revealed to me.” She needed to prepare Saad for what would come next. She needed to make him believe.

  “I’m not interested in your fairy stories, sheepherder, save your lies for your flock.”

  Her voice softened once more into her real one. “It’s not a story, Saad. Mithra’s power is as real as the iron in your soldier’s grip.” She met his eyes, probing their depths. She’d had little time to prepare for this encounter. For the most part, she was making things up as she went, but she checked his face now and then, trying to ascertain whether he believed her. “I heard a voice. A whisper in the night. Mithra-Sol called to me in the darkness. I heard your name, Saad. Mithra-Sol spoke the name of the Protector. Go to Saad, He said. Go to Saad so that he may understand.” Her knees were trembling beneath her robe, but he could not see that. “Now watch and know that I am the wife of Mithra-Sol. His earthly ambassador. I am not your enemy, Saad. We are two rays cast from one sun. Come.”

  She could see the hesitation in his eyes, the uncertainty. A part of him—a small, superstitious part—was wondering if maybe she were telling the truth, or so she hoped. Less than an hour ago, outside her temple, he had sent his soldiers to kill her priest. A warning. He wanted her to step down, to get out of his way. He wanted the Ray’s seat, but she wasn’t going to let him have it. The position was hers, as far as she was concerned, and she would fight him for it. She would fight him with the only weapons she had: knowledge and faith.

  Saad stood and went with her to the parapet and gazed down upon the crowds of Solus once again. The drums stopped. The crowds pressed around the statues in the clearing. Her acolyte on the wall below held up The Book of the Last Day of the Year. The sun was at its high point, throwing the full weight of its heat upon the people of the empire.

  The city held its breath.

  “Watch. Mithra Himself warned me what would happen next,” said Sarra, knowing full well what was about to happen.

  “What are you rattling on about?” Saad asked with a sniff.

  Sarra pointed to the sky. “Something is about to happen that has not occurred in a very long time. When I spoke to Mithra, He promised me a sign. He wants you to understand His will. There is too much strife in the empire, too much death, too much suffering. The people will believe He has abandoned them, but you will know otherwise. Mithra-Sol demands peace between priest and protector, that whoever harms the Mother Priestess and her flock will himself come to harm. Watch and you will know that what I say is true.”

  He cast her a doubting look, but she shook her
head.

  Watch.

  9

  So this is the First Ray of the Sun.

  A man in a golden mask approached Ren. The disguise was carved with the likeness of Tolemy, but the face beneath was not the emperor’s. It was Suten Anu, the First Ray of the Sun, the one who was permitted to pass through the Shroud Wall and enter the sacred domain of the Soleri. Ren trembled a bit, but not from fear. His legs were still weak from the time he had spent in the lightwell. After Oren had called down to Ren, the priors had pulled him from the well, had bathed and fed him. They had tended to his burnt skin with ointments and fatty creams, scrubbing him from ass to ears. With dull scissors, the men had cut his hair and tried to make him look presentable, but there were black guts crammed beneath his fingernails and at every turn he feared he might collapse.

  If they make me take another step I swear I’ll fall to my knees. He’d spent five days in a lightwell. It was the longest any ransom had stood and faced the Sun’s Justice. Surely the sun found me innocent? He had survived, after all. Though no one here seemed to care the least bit about what he had endured. I stood in that piss-soaked well for five days. The least they can do is to tell me I’m guiltless. For his part, Ren wanted desperately to forget about his time beneath the sun, but the burns on his shoulders and neck would remind him of his pain for weeks to come. The sun outside was already making his sunburnt skin itch.

  The Ray was nearly upon him, his mask glowing like the sun itself. Oren stood at Ren’s side.

  It was nearly noontime. The time of the Devouring had come. Suten had duties to perform. So why has he taken time out of his day to meet me? Ren wondered. Why aren’t I standing in the lightwell or rotting at the bottom of it?

  “Bring the boy forward,” Suten said, his golden mask shifting as he spoke. “We must hurry.”

  With a push, Oren sent Ren stumbling into the street.

  “Come closer,” Suten said. “Do not be shy, my boy.”

  “I’m not shy,” Ren said. “I only want to know why I’m here.”

  “You are here to observe the Devouring. Come,” said the man in the mask. “Let us bear witness.”

  The Ray urged him forward with a nudge from his staff. Ren refused. Why must I witness the Devouring? He’d never heard of the Ray inviting a ransom to do such a thing. A ransom only met the First Ray of the Sun when he was released from the Priory. If Suten was about to set him free, why not bid him farewell and send him on his way?

  “Do as he commands.” Oren shoved Ren forward, interrupting his thoughts, threatening him with an ugly grimace and a shake of his scabbard.

  “I’m going as fast as my feet can march,” said Ren. Not wanting to anger the man, he held up both hands, signaling his compliance. He was too weak to resist, to weak to even walk, but he forced himself to do it anyway.

  So this is Solus, he thought. The city of light. He had lived most of his life in Solus without ever having seen the city. Now he was outside of the Priory, so he turned slowly in a circle, taking in the sights for the first time: The temples stacked upon temples. The ruins stacked upon ruins—every surface etched in gold and worn by the ages.

  Suten turned his golden mask to Ren and beckoned. “Do you know why the Soleri wore masks?” Suten asked. The light reflecting off his disguise was almost blinding.

  “To gaze upon the Soleri is to gaze upon the sun itself, and no man can survive that light,” Ren said, repeating what the priors had taught him.

  “Yes, centuries ago, before they sealed themselves behind the Shroud Wall, the Soleri walked the streets of Solus in their masks of gold. These golden visages shielded the people from the light of the Soleri, from their fire. I wear this mask to remind us of our past each year as we celebrate the Devouring,” Suten said. “Do you understand the solemn rite, boy?”

  Ren shrugged. He understood it, but had never actually witnessed the eclipse.

  “You’ll learn all you need to know today,” Suten said as he led them through the crowded streets, guards at his side. “These are the great temples of Horu and Sen,” Suten said as they walked. “And this is the house of Re, first of the emperors,” he pointed to a structure so ancient it lay half-buried in the stones and sand. Its rooftop was packed with men in golden caftans, its edges guarded by soldiers.

  “In the distance, you might catch sight of the Protector’s Tower, the high Citadel of Solus,” said Suten.

  Ren looked, but he didn’t see the tower, and the Prior Master nudged him forward before he could steal another glance.

  Everywhere they went, the streets were overflowing, the houses and temples empty. Everyone was gathering in the streets for the culmination of the Devouring, for the eclipse.

  “This is the Golden Hall,” Suten announced as they approached a grand structure with four massive domes. The curved stone walls of the domes—the height of fifteen or twenty grown men—towered above their heads, and the great circle of the sun, carved into the gleaming golden doors, reflected the light of the real sun into their eyes. It’s like looking into the eyes of Mithra Himself.

  “I suppose the view must be impressive,” Suten said. “But it has been many years since I’ve felt impressed by much of anything.”

  Ren didn’t know whether he should be impressed. Everything in Solus was new to him—everything except the sun. He’d seen enough of that. The strong sun reminded Ren of his time in the lightwell, and its heat made his red and peeling skin throb. He stumbled and Oren struck him with his elbow, sending him faltering. Ren growled at the man and reached instinctively for the knife he did not have.

  “Come this way,” said Suten, shaking his masked head at Oren as he led them to a door and unlocked it with a small click, revealing a dark passage.

  “Where are we going?” Ren asked.

  “To the lip of the fourth dome. Come,” Suten said.

  The walls inside were patterned with gold and electrum, the doors edged with silver and carved with curling runes. They climbed a long flight of stairs, ducking their heads, circling the very rim of one of the four great domes of the Golden Hall. Suten led them out onto a balcony and back into the light. On the wall behind them, there was a great circle of bronze with white and gold marks spaced evenly around its perimeter.

  Drums mixed with the roar of the crowd below, hundreds of thousands gathered in the plaza, more people than Ren had seen in his lifetime.

  Below, in a city square festooned with yellow banners, a ring of gold knitted in the center of each one, the people cheered the appearance of the Ray. Dressed in the colors of every kingdom—the somber black of Harkana, the silvery green of Feren, the vivid indigo of Rachis, the azure of the Wyrre, the buttery yellow of Solus—they sang songs to Mithra-Sol and the emperor, awaiting the moment when the sun would dim and their god would rain His blessings down upon them once more. As He had since time immemorial.

  “Each year,” Suten said, “I stand here to witness the Devouring. Since before you were born. Since your father was your age.”

  The sun had nearly reached its highest point in the midday sky. “Do not look directly at it,” Suten warned. “It will blind you, but you don’t need me to tell you that.” The reflection of the light off the colossal city wall was nearly blinding. Everyone shaded their eyes, and Ren did the same. He’d spent his childhood yearning for sunlight, but the Sun’s Justice had cured him of that desire.

  A hush fell over the crowd below, the people looking through the cracks between their fingers. Some used clever viewing devices. The songs died down; the crowd held its breath.

  The moment had arrived.

  “Look now,” Suten said. The Ray turned his back to the crowd, meeting the gaze of a white-robed woman who stood on the wall. They both glanced to the Protector’s ebony tower, where two figures stood at the rail, then upward to the spot where the emperor observed the Devouring from behind a veil—unseen, secret.

  The crowd fell silent.

  Time ticked past. The sun shone brightly. A crow ca
wed, the shadows drifted, but the light in the square was as strong as before. A murmur started in the crowd, an undercurrent, hushed at first, disbelieving, then more urgent, a rising voice, a hum of concern, then mounting fear, cresting, a wave that built and built until the people below were pushing at one another, shouting, fear turning to terror in their voices as the noise rose to the balcony where the First Ray of the Sun waited, standing still, his face masked in gold, expressionless.

  The sun did not bow to the emperor, did not dim.

  No Devouring. No eclipse.

  The masses roared their fear and disapproval.

  Suten turned away from the crowd, his golden mask still shining like the sun above.

  “How did you know?” Ren asked, awed. It was clear that Suten had known what would happen. The Ray was the only one who wasn’t cowed by the sun’s failure to darken. Even the soldiers were staring up at the sun, waiting for it to dim.

  “How did you know?” Ren asked again.

  “Patience,” said Suten. “There is a way to predict the yearly eclipse, an instrument that simulates the motions of the earth and the moon. I knew the sun would fail to bow this year, and so I prepared for it. Follow me.”

  The noise from the now rioting crowd faded behind them as the Ray led Ren along a tight corridor, Oren and the soldiers still close behind. Through a priest’s chamber and down a narrow stairway they went, passing a row of soldiers spiky with weapons, before walking through a pair of heavy iron gates. This second journey was much longer than the first, and soon Suten dismissed the guards, all except Oren Thrako and one of his priors.

  They stopped in a circular room with a heavy door on the far wall.