Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  The emperor demands his tribute. His father was the sacrifice, and Ren was the messenger sent to collect him. He had the urge to crumple the scrolls Suten Anu had given to him, but he knew it would be pointless. Message or no message, the Protector would send his soldiers to retrieve the king. There was no stopping this; Ren would have his kingdom and the Soleri would have their sacrifice.

  Ren followed the Prior Master through the Waset’s tightly spaced temples and around overturned carriages and dying bodies. His limbs were still weak, his skin burnt from the days he had spent on the Priory roof, but he hurried as best he could. Sounds echoed like thunder around the square as up on the walls, members of the Protector’s Army lobbed clay jars filled with black powder at the people down below, or shot arrows tipped with burning tar at thieves looting from the marketplace. A group of laughing soldiers had backed a few girls into a corner, their intentions clear. Ren started to falter, turning toward the screaming children. To do—what? To save one or two and run away?

  “Quit staring.” Thrako pushed him forward. “You’ll have plenty to gawk at where we’re going.”

  “Where’s that?” Ren asked.

  Oren pointed to an iron gate directly ahead. He pushed Ren toward it and they descended four flights in the dark before coming to a great metal door.

  “These are the Hollows.” Oren thrust open the gate and they emerged in an even darker space. The sound of the door clanging behind them, shutting out the sounds of death and bloodshed from the streets above, was like the shutting of a tomb. It echoed in the darkness, giving a sense of great emptiness and space, and as his eyes adjusted Ren began to see the shapes of staircases and landings.

  Solus had been built over the site of a great system of caves, natural passages carved by ancient waterways. The Hollows was an underground city of the same immensity and complexity as the world aboveground, a mirror image of the city of light.

  So much darkness here. Ren almost felt at home. The spaces were low and wide and the floor was uneven. It was impossible to grasp where they were, what function the cavern held.

  “What’s this?” said Ren as they came to a sort of bazaar, with towers of crates, and tent walls.

  “The Night Market,” said the young prior, but he gave no further explanation. None was needed. The market was packed with goods Ren guessed were illicit: slaves and strange urns, vessels made from the hollowed out bodies of animals, stitched together with sinew and packed with exotic herbs and bubbling liquids. As they made their way through the stalls, Ren noticed a man in a drab linen cloak dashing behind a stack of crates at the sight of them while a second man ducked through a warren of tents. Ren lost track of them in the lamplight. Who are they? He stopped, glancing quickly around, the hair on the back of his neck prickling in anticipation.

  Before he could warn the others, a shield glinted in the torchlight. A dagger flashed in the dark. Oren whirled, his cloak enveloping the long knife. The Prior Master twisted the blade from his attacker’s grip; his foe stumbled backward, disappearing into the darkness.

  “A thief,” said the young prior who had come with them.

  “No,” Oren replied. “He fought like a soldier.” He sneered at Ren. “Looks like someone wants the heir of Harkana dead.”

  “Who?” he asked. Someone wants me dead? Who in the world even cares that I’m alive?

  The Prior Master pulled at the neckline of Ren’s tunic until Ren was choking.

  Ren hoped Oren would trip, lose his sword. More than anything, he wanted Thrako’s blade. If he had a sword he could defend himself and take vengeance on the man who had sent him to meet the Sun’s Justice. But the Prior Master’s hold was unwavering, and Ren had no weapon.

  Thrako’s words haunted him as well. Someone wanted Ren dead.

  “This way,” Thrako said. “Into the gooseneck.” He pushed Ren toward another narrow passage, their movements made more urgent by the unexpected attack. The corridor was long, narrow, and winding. It really does feel like a goose’s neck, Ren thought as they ran, beating their soles through the corridor, Ren ahead and Thrako behind, followed by the young prior, each one glancing over his shoulder, searching for the gray cloaks of the men who had attacked them earlier. Ren’s head brushed the ceiling; his shoulder scraped the rough wall. The passage split and he dove right, but found the way was too tight to walk, and he was trapped. Thrako grasped his hand and led him backward, dragging him out of the crevice and pushing him the other way.

  “Go, boy!” He urged Ren forward with the tip of his blade while footsteps echoed in the distance. “If they come upon us in the tunnel,” Thrako told the prior, “you will block their path to allow for our escape.” The young man grunted a hesitant reply.

  “Faster,” said Oren. “Move.” The light ahead grew brighter until they came to the end of the narrow passage, to a gate of black iron bars. Outside the gate the cavern opened up into a wide chamber filled with men, their faces black as kohl, only the whites of their eyes visible in the dark.

  “Who are these people?” Ren asked. The stink was rich and made them gag. Ren saw a legless man dragging rags from the pile; a blind man tripping through the dust.

  “They are the untouchables,” the young prior said.

  “The thralls who keep the shit flowing. Out of our way!” said Thrako as he shoved the sightless man aside. He raised his sword, motioning toward the distant gate. He no longer needed to push Ren forward. If someone wanted him dead, that was all the motivation Ren needed to quicken his pace. I’ve waited my whole life to find my freedom. It hardly seemed fair that someone was trying to take it from him before he’d even had a chance to taste it.

  Ren in front, they pushed through kohl-stained shoulders toward a second gooseneck, even smaller than the first, lit by oil lamp and covered in greasy soot. This corridor led to another cavern, where men huddled in crowds, jostling them. One man tried to steal a dagger from Thrako; another tugged at Ren’s cloak, looking for a purse he did not have. He held the scrolls tightly as hands clawed at the rolled parchment.

  “Where are we?” Ren murmured. He felt lost. The hot stink of sweat filled his nose and the light was so dim he could not tell a gray cloak from a black one, a beggar from a murderer. They stumbled over trash and bones. This must be some kind of sewer. They passed through the tunnel and out into a tall chamber, fetid water cascading around them as they dashed toward the next gate. He looked for a moment to turn on Thrako, to seize his weapon, but the Prior Master kept his blade on Ren’s back, his hand gripped tightly on his tunic.

  “Try me and I’ll gut you like a pig,” Oren said. The man must have seen the anger in Ren’s eye, the desperation.

  “There’s the next passage,” said the young prior, pointing to a passageway that was so narrow they had to turn sideways to make the journey, and Ren felt his chest tighten, fear climbing up his throat. If they were attacked here, combat would be nearly impossible. The tight space made his heartbeat audible, his breath loud. A gray-cloaked form huddled against the passage wall. Thrako struck without hesitation, forcing his sword into the spindly silhouette. He pushed the body forward until they came into the light, where Ren saw that it was no soldier. The body belonged to a bone-thin beggar, a man too weak to move or cry out. Thrako pulled back his blade and the man sunk to the ground. A life ended for no reason.

  On the other end of the gooseneck passage, beyond the lamp that sat high above the archway, the cave was completely black. They stumbled into walls, stepping on things in the dark, living things that moved.

  “There are people here,” said Ren. “I can feel them, but I can’t see them.” Knobby elbows and lumpy ribs pushed against Ren as he made his way forward. The young prior held up his torch, but the cramped space, even when lit, was too cluttered by bodies, posts, and other obstructions to allow them to see much. “Move aside! Move!” Oren called, and the mob parted, but only slightly.

  Ren spied a handful of tall, gray-cloaked men at the edge of the crowd. “The
re!” he cried as he tugged at the young prior’s robes, pointing toward the men, but they were gone when the prior turned, and the next gate was upon them.

  A cool draft wafted through from the other side, but it was dark there, the lamps burned out. The hair on his arms danced painfully.

  “Can you see anything?” Thrako asked.

  The prior wiggled his torch and it came back alive, he thrust it at Ren. “Here,” he said. “You look.”

  Ren would not move.

  Thrako scoffed. “Put your eyes on that gate, boy,” he said, pointing with the tip of his sword. “Or I’ll cut them out and do it myself.”

  Ren knew it was a false threat, that the Prior Master wouldn’t hurt him, he feared Suten too much, but nevertheless he leaned forward, pressing his face against the bars. Dimly he saw a guard dead on the ground, an arrow through his gut.

  “We should go back. It’s not safe here.”

  “I didn’t ask you if it was safe. I asked what you could see,” Thrako said.

  Frustrated, Ren threw the torch through the gate so it fell on the ground, illuminating the narrow passage, the body, and a pool of blood spreading across the stone floor. “There,” he said. “Now we can all take a good long look.”

  Thrako grabbed him by his tunic and smashed him against the bars so hard the room went white. “Do that again,” he said, “and the kingdom of Harkana will be short one heir.”

  Footsteps beat in the distance; Ren looked beyond Thrako and his man to see gray-cloaks trembling in the dark. The men who pursued him were not part of the city guard nor were they imperial soldiers—they wore long cloaks and heavy robes, gray and brown homespun like crofters or shepherds. No armor, though their weapons were heavy, well made, and well honed like soldiers’ weapons. Their skin was dark, tanned almost, as if they were not from the underground city but someplace above. Not slaves, then, but likely soldiers as Thrako had guessed. But whose soldiers? Who wanted him dead? Thrako let Ren go and opened the gate with his key, pushing him through the gooseneck and following close behind.

  “Who are they?” Ren asked, picking up the torch he had thrown into the passage.

  Thrako did not reply, he was too busy cursing. “Hold them off!” he ordered the young prior. He moved to lock the gate behind them, but the men were already pushing at the bars, shoving them open. Armed men were approaching from the front as well, from the dim passageway, like wraiths in the darkness. Behind him Ren heard blades collide. A cry, and the young prior fell in the entrance to the passage. The torch slipped from Ren’s grip, the fire died, and the corridor went black. Ren had no weapon, no torch, and nowhere to run.

  A cloaked man approached, his form like a shadow, a black outline accented by the swift movements of a curving dagger. His attackers had chosen their weapons carefully, the short blade would be easier to wield than a long sword in the tight space of the gooseneck. Ren scrambled for the extinguished torch, lifted it from the ground, swung it at his attacker, but missed—dust filled the air. The gray-cloak struck the torch, missing the flesh of Ren’s arm by a narrow width. The man swung again, his blade slashing at Ren’s cheek, drawing a slender stream of blood.

  Angry and desperate, Ren swung again, sweat pouring down his forehead, stinging his eyes. Thrako defended their rear. His back pressed Ren’s, inadvertently pushing Ren toward his attacker’s blade. Trapped between what felt like two foes, Ren roared as he swung again, hitting only the corridor wall. His attacker’s blade slashed Ren once across the shoulder, the cut stinging wildly. It was too dark to see his attacker’s movements, to parry or dodge; he sensed only the whistling of a blade, the rippling of a cloak. Thrako knocked into him once more and Ren stumbled, tilting his torch like a cripple extending his cane. The torch’s iron shaft made contact, its smoldering tip swallowed into the darkness of his attacker’s cloak. Thrako forced Ren toward his attacker, they fell, iron pierced flesh, and Ren’s attacker cried out. The corridor brightened, a distant light appearing behind the man.

  Ren stood, his chest heavy, his breath like fire. In the slim passage, there was not space enough to run past the fallen man, so Ren trampled him and Thrako followed, the air loud with the cries of the dying man.

  Blood pounded in his ears. I’m alive. Still alive. Ren had likely killed a man, though not by choice. It was an accident. If Thrako hadn’t pushed me, if I hadn’t fallen into the gray-cloak, he’d have killed me instead. Ren crashed into the gate at the far side of the passage.

  The Prior Master shoved him aside, knocking him hard against the stone as he opened the lock, flinging up the large wood bolt and tossing it at him. When the door was open he pushed Ren through, grabbed the bolt from him, and barred the gate once more from the outside. Their attackers beat their shields against the gate, but the barrier held. Through the bars, Ren caught glimpses of their faces: stern jaws, long black hair, and skin the color of old leather. Who are they? Who’s trying to kill me?

  Gasping for breath, shaking with adrenaline and fear, Ren found himself standing at the base of a winding staircase. Faintly, dusty light came down from above.

  “Go.” Thrako pushed Ren forward as the soldiers hacked at the gate behind them, trying to break it down.

  They followed the narrow stairway through thick rock, passing a gate manned by the city guard, their familiar yellow uniforms a relief after the strangeness of the Hollows. Thrako spoke briefly to their captain, low words Ren could not hear, but the older man indicated the path behind him, alerting the guards to the men pursuing them.

  Past the gate, beyond the gooseneck and stair, Thrako led Ren toward a buttery-yellow light.

  The sun. I’m nearly free.

  Outside, the streets were alive with people, men and women rushing away from the city center, people frantically gathering their children inside to keep them away from the Protector’s Army. Thrako opened the gate and motioned for Ren to pass. Staggering into the street, Ren heard the click of a latch, the spinning of gears. He turned to face the gate through which he had passed. Thrako did not follow.

  Ren realized it was his last chance to strike at the Prior Master. He lunged and his arm shot between the black iron bars and caught hold of the Prior Master’s belt, pulling so that Thrako stumbled forward and slammed against the iron gates, his face wrenched into a fearful scowl. The cut on the Prior Master’s neck opened, a drop of blood inching down his chest. Stripped of his guards, Oren Thrako appeared diminished, afraid, but no less sinister. He snapped the gate closed with almost unnatural speed, and tore his cloak away from Ren’s grip.

  Ren cried out, rattling the heavy bars, but it was over.

  With a bang, cold iron stood between him and the Prior Master, who was already backing away from the closed gate. “Goodbye, heir of Harkana,” Thrako said, but his voice was faint, half drowned out by the howls of the rioting pilgrims. “Suten’s men will take you home. See that you live long enough to get there.” With those words, Oren Thrako faded back into the darkness of the Hollows.

  Ren stumbled backward from the gate, nearly colliding with his imperial escort, the men who would take him to Harwen. They were looking him up and down when a throng of rioters poured out of a nearby alley, swarming the courtyard outside the gate. Suten’s men drew swords and hurried to push back the crowd. In the chaos that followed, they lost track of Ren.

  Now, while they aren’t looking. I should fly. Better not to trust anyone, he thought as he staggered backward, fleeing from the soldiers and losing himself in the unruly mob.

  12

  Merit bustled through the stony corridors of the Hornring, pushing past waiting women and soldiers alike, slipping around the girls who gathered at the archways, eyes fixed on the bright-blue sky, waiting for the sun to darken. Some stood agape; others were squinting, shading their eyes at odd angles as they searched for the shadow that in any other year would slowly devour the sun. But there was no shadow. The time of the eclipse had come and gone and the sun had not bowed to Tolemy. For the first time tha
t she knew of, the sun had stayed its hand. Mithra-Sol had chosen to rebel. Perhaps the sun is Harkan, she thought with grim merriment.

  “A curse,” a servant girl whispered as Merit passed. The girl was standing at an archway that faced the Ruined Wall, and the soldier at her side was shaking his head. “No, it’s just the bloody sun, it don’t curse people, and it don’t bless them either. It just burns things. If you keep staring at it, it’ll burn you too.” He chortled, trying to catch the girl’s eye, but she would not turn away from the sky.

  The gossip was everywhere.

  “It’s an ill omen,” said a waiting woman.

  “This is about Barca,” said another, referring to the Soleri traitor.

  “No,” said a page, “this is about the grain, the amaranth. The sun is angry—that’s why I’ve got nothing to eat but spoiled amber and old bread.”

  Merit passed them all, trying not to listen to their chatter. She did not care about the sun. She cared only about Dagrun, but he had left the Hornring, returning to his camp just outside Harwen’s walls. She had sent messengers, asking for him to remain in Harkana, but there had not yet been sufficient time for him to reply. She needed to set things right with Dagrun, but she didn’t know how to do that, not yet. Maybe the sun has cursed me, she thought, but quickly put the notion aside. Curses were for children and servant folk. No, the sun didn’t care if Merit lived or died, or if she whiled away her days in solitude.

  Merit hadn’t truly known how much she desired the king of the Ferens until he walked out of her father’s hall. She hadn’t expected the quiet pang of grief that struck her when he left. I didn’t know how much I needed him. How could she have known? It was all so complicated. Dagrun desired her as she did him, but he wanted more than just her soft skin and her eyes drawn with malachite. He needed her name and the prestige that came with royal blood, but she could never give him that, not as long as Tolemy sat on the throne.