“Your order is not privy to the information I am about to share with you. Only the highest circle of the priesthood knows this.” Sarra lowered her voice. “The gods have rescinded the gift of the amaranth, or at least my predecessor, Pouri Amunet, thought so. There is a drought, but the lack of rain is not the source of our seed shortage. The amaranth is in short supply because the amaranth seeds are infertile and have been for two hundred years. The seeds of the newly planted amaranth do not bud or grow. We sow seeds from the empire’s old storehouses, reserves that are nearly emptied. The field that you saw outside was the last of the supply.”
“Impossible,” Noll whispered. “How?” he shook his head. “There would be records, ways to trace such things. You’ve kept this hidden?”
Sarra tilted her head to one side. “Is it really that hard to believe? That the priesthood could keep secret the truth behind its sacred crop—the one only we can tender, whose very nature has been protected by the priesthood for three millennia?”
Noll did not argue with her. The scribe was quiet, then he asked, “There will be no more amaranth?”
Sarra pressed her lips together. “When the seeds are gone, the amaranth will be gone. Our stores of seeds were once vast, but they are nearly depleted. The gift of Mithra, the amaranth, cultivated by the priesthood and sold to the people of Solus, will be no more, and the desert will be uninhabitable. Right now the forests of Feren sustain much of the empire, but there is not enough food in the Gray Wood to feed all of us.”
“The priesthood has been keeping this a secret? Why?” Noll asked.
“My predecessors felt it best to conceal the amaranth’s infertility. A drought is an easy thing to understand. The empire will not blame the priesthood for a drought. But tell the people that our sacred crop, a plant tended only by the priesthood, is infertile? We will surely be blamed.”
“I understand, but why are you telling me this?” asked Noll. “I study symbols. There is nothing I can do.”
“I hope you’re wrong.” She led Noll through a corridor, down a ramp, and into a room no wider than Sarra’s outstretched arms. The lamplight revealed faint indentations on the walls and ceiling. “Can you read the marks?” Sarra asked.
“A few—most of them, actually.”
“Good. My priests decoded one or two, the rest were indecipherable. I brought you here and I told you our secret because they say you are fluent in the script,” she said. “That you can read the ancient language of the Soleri, the forbidden tongue in which these marks are written.”
Noll looked as if his answer might anger Sarra. “No one can read all of the old symbols, Mother Priestess. Even during their time, the keys to the ancient language were kept hidden. The gods did not share their tongue with their subjects, but I’ve pieced together a skeleton of sorts, an inventory of the old characters.”
“Good. This is an antechamber, nothing more. But through that passage”—Sarra gestured—“there is a larger chamber, one carved entirely in these same symbols. We’ve seen hundreds of storehouses, but only this one carried the markings. I need to know why this site is different.” Sarra coughed, pushing dust from her lungs. “I want to read the symbols.”
Sarra led Noll through the gradually narrowing passage, cool air rushing through cracks in the stone. The passage widened into a brazier-lit room. Miniature symbols covered the chamber walls.
At first glance, the marks resembled the scratches of a caged animal, but they were characters in a forgotten script. “Do you recognize it?” Sarra asked, gesturing to the marks.
“It’s hieratic.” Noll squinted at the wall through the flickering light. “Derived from the old pictographic language of the Soleri.”
“I know what the word means, it’s the symbols I am interested in,” Sarra said. “Others tried to decode the inscriptions, but the language was beyond their ability. I’ve summoned priests from all over the kingdoms, but none of them could read the marks. We asked the Harkans to send us scrolls from the repository in Harwen, but the parchments were of no use. I’m hoping you will have better luck.”
His eyes darted from symbol to symbol. “The walls contain prayers, wards of protection, curses against those that trespass.”
“Wards you say?”
Noll nodded without turning from the inscriptions. “Yes, wards. This is a forbidden place, a chamber meant only for the Soleri,” he said, walking deeper into the room, up a step. Noll kneeled before a column and traced a circular carving, an ornate ring incised at the base of a pillar. Upon closer inspection, faint indentations, markings that resembled scales, dotted the ring and what seemed to be a chip at the circle’s top was actually a snake’s head carved in the act of consuming its own tail.
“What is it?” Sarra asked.
“The snake is the symbol of Pyras.”
“The firstborn of Mithra-Sol?” Sarra asked.
“Yes. The snake’s head circle is an ancient ward, placed here to frighten looters. The mark warns that the eye is watching.”
“Whose eye, the eye of Pyras?” Sarra asked, looking askance at having to say his name. She knew the myth well.
The story of the first of the Soleri cannot be told without Pyras; the two were entwined from their beginning. Pyras was the progeny of shadow, Re the child of the sun. The children of Mithra were birthed in a place beyond the heavens, in Atum, the domain of Mithra-Sol, the land beyond the sky, the home before time.
Atum. A world fashioned for Mithra-Sol’s children. A world that after a time seemed too small for the sons of Mithra. So Pyras, firstborn of Mithra-Sol, searched for a land that he alone could rule. He found none that were worthy, so he devoured what he discovered and fashioned a new world from the remains of the old.
But Re, seeing this new world and wanting it for himself, pricked a hole in the sphere of Atum, so its light could shine upon this new land. That pinprick became Sol; the land became Sola. Through the fissure, Re plummeted to the earth.
Mithra’s child touched the desert sand, and his essence poured into the land, the amaranth bloomed, and life blossomed across the desert. Mithra granted Re a wife, Rena, and together they gave birth to ten children. These were the first of the Soleri, but they were beings of Atum, made of pure light. To more fully experience their new world, they took on new forms, bodies born from the creatures of the land, shells made from the stones of the desert and the light of the stars.
The Soleri made a new home, a new perfection, and claimed it as their own. But the stars and the stones and the desert sand did not belong to the Soleri—they belonged to the Pyras and his progeny. Pyras made this world. He was the first.
A great conflict erupted between the two families.
Seeing his children quarrel, Mithra-Sol devised a solution to their conflict. He gave his children both darkness and light in equal amounts. To accomplish this feat, he set the sun and stars into motion. He made the world spin. Day and night were born, and the children of Mithra-Sol were once more at peace.
But the Soleri did not want peace. They wanted the world for themselves and so they tricked the firstborn of Mithra. In secret, the Soleri gave birth to Luni, the moon, and placed her in the sky so even at night Mithra’s light would shine upon the land.
The light defeated the endless night and the domain of shadow. The strength of Pyras and his children waned and the firstborn children of Mithra were turned into slaves—witches and dogs whose only purpose was to serve the Soleri.
“Yes.” Noll’s bright eyes pulled Sarra from her thoughts. “The eye of the snake is the eye of Pyras. The slaves of Re and their powers were likely a myth, but the fear they inspired was real.” His finger hung on a carving. “You spoke of other storehouses, was this symbol found at any other site?”
“No—the other storehouses are utilitarian, they bear no marks or decorations. As I said, this chamber is unique.”
“If the eye exists here and nowhere else, we can assume this storehouse contained something absent from the oth
er sites. Something of importance.”
“I see. Why place wards unless you have something to guard?”
“Yes.” Noll cocked his head. “But what were Pyras and his symbol protecting? What is here that we have not yet found?” Noll traced more carvings: a circle in a square, a column filled with rows and rows of grain-sized markings.
As Noll worked, the morning turned to noontime, the brazier dimmed. Priests brought cool amber and salted meat. Sarra chewed the hard strips. Her acolytes fetched Noll’s inventory of symbols, a roll he kept safe in an oilskin sack.
Sarra stoked the brazier’s flames as the boy hunched over the scroll, poring over the carefully noted markings, holding the roll to the ceiling, to the light, making notes in the margins as he scratched his brow.
Sarra finished the amber. Tired of watching the boy work, she found a spot where she could observe a crack of sunlight as it moved across the chamber’s entry. She used the changing light to gauge the hour. When that orange glow failed, when the flames guttered out and evenfall approached, she gathered her things and made for the way out, but Noll halted her retreat.
“Wait,” he said, an outstretched arm pointing to the ceiling.
“What is it?” Sarra asked.
“The light changed.”
“Why would that matter?”
“Normally the light would not affect the reading of the symbols, but in this case it has. I ignored the ceiling at first, because the symbols were illegible, there were too many marks in each arrangement. I assumed the ceiling was written in a script I did not understand or that it was somehow coded so as to make it unreadable. Apparently it was the latter. The raking shadows of the late-afternoon sun are concealing what I now realize are extraneous marks. In this light, with those marks removed, I can finally understand the words,” said Noll. “Do you see it?”
“Where? I see the hieratic characters, but they are not ordered in columns as is customary.”
“If it were a story or a tale of some kind it would make no sense, but this ceiling is neither. It’s a map. Look to the walls, then study the ceiling.”
The markings above were indeed different from those on the walls and floor—those marks were arranged in neat columns. But the markings on the ceiling were ordered in clumps. Sarra had noted the discrepancy upon entering but had not understood its meaning. “It’s a map carved in words.”
“Yes,” Noll said, indicating a mark. “Rather than a picture of a mountain, it uses the Soleri character that depicts a mountain: two lines slanting left.” He leaned his head from side to side and cracked his neck. “The markings could not be seen in the lamplight, only the dark brought them out.”
Sarra was at once fascinated. She took a step back so she could gaze at the whole of the ceiling. It was a map, and a hidden one at that, but what did it describe and where did the road lead? “If they wanted to conceal the map’s contents, why did they carve it into stone?” she asked. “Why not parchments or tablets—they are easier to conceal.”
Noll shrugged. “Such is the arrogance of gods,” he mused. “Sometimes they leave their secrets in the open.”
23
Ren breathed deeply, tasting his freedom, his horse galloping across the wilds of Harkana. The wide blue expanse of the sky above filled him with awe. He had lived underground for too long, he could not stop staring at the vastness of the heavens. That the two soldiers with him barely seemed to register its presence was all the more remarkable. How could they stand it, all that openness, all that space? At any time, he felt the earth might let him go, let him float away into the blue, up and up, as if he were not flesh and blood but a spirit ready to disappear, unseen, unknown.
He flung back his head, craning his neck and closing one eye as he turned toward the clouds, toward the sun that burned on the desert plants, the rocks, and the shoulders of his gray tunic. The sun warmed everything it touched. He would never be cold here, he would never be trapped. He breathed in once, deeply, and felt how fresh the air was, how sweet. At the edge of a small oasis, the rich smell of loamy earth and growing things reinvigorated him, and when they came to a creek, little more than a thin trickle of water running through stones, the water was so clear and bright that Ren stopped his horse, slid himself down, and plunged his face into the cool stream, opening his mouth and drinking until he could not breathe.
When he sat up again and looked around, the water dripping from his hair onto the shoulders of his tunic, he felt changed, charged with something electric. He was a prisoner no longer. He was a free man, a king’s son, and he would prove to his father and to his kingdom that he was worthy of the throne he was born to inherit. The king had asked him to take the hunt, had said that it would enable Ren to prove his worth to the kingdom. I’ve already proven my worth. I survived the Priory and the Sun’s Justice. But the hunt was important to his father, so he would do his best to see it done.
Ren and his Harkan escort climbed their way up the rocky trail that followed the bank of the creek, skirting the rocky lowlands for the hills, when one of his companions spied a horse tied to a tree—a saddled destrier, as if its rider intended to come back at any time. They approached the horse, Ren following his escorts until they stopped. “Look,” the younger soldier said, pointing at the richly ornamented saddle.
“Harkan?” Ren asked.
“I cannot say. Perhaps it belongs to the warden.” The soldier shook his head and motioned for Ren to follow him. They swung wide to avoid the horse and nearly trampled a still-smoking campfire.
Ren placed his hand on the hilt of his father’s dagger. “We’re not alone,” he said, and guided his horse down the path. The Shambles was a place reserved for the king’s family and their escorts, their servants and messengers. No one else was permitted to enter the sacred grounds. He worried that he was being followed, that the gray-cloaks had found him once again.
As the sun failed in the west, Ren and the Harkan soldiers reached a stone gate marked by an eld-horn totem—the threshold of the hunting reserve—where an old man, his bronze skin deeply wrinkled by time and sun, stood awaiting them, a dog at his side. “Dakar Wadi,” he announced, tipping his head ever so slightly toward Ren. “Warden of the reserve. You the king’s son?” He chewed a blade of grass as he appraised him. “A messenger arrived, said you might be coming.” He rubbed his forehead.
Ren offered the man his hand to shake, but Dakar shook his head: as a man of low status he couldn’t shake hands with kings. Ren was embarrassed, as he was not king yet. Not until the hunt was complete. He still felt like nothing more than just a ransom—despised, injured, afraid. It might take him a long time, he realized, to get used to better treatment.
“You know what you are here to do?” Dakar asked.
Ren nodded.
“A man can’t rule Harkana without claiming the eld’s horns. He makes his sword with the horn, and that sword becomes a symbol of the king’s power for the rest of his reign.”
“My father explained the custom to me. Like killing a deer, I suppose.”
“The eld is no deer. It is unlike any creature that lives outside the reserve. It is an ancient breed, a fierce creature of immense proportions, and rare as well, living only in the high canyons, among the narrow streams that fall from the high cliffs. Along the rivers grows a withered-looking plant called smoke grass. Look for the marble-white flower; then you’ll know you’ve found the plant. The eld is always close by there.”
“Gray grass, white flower. Easy enough.”
“Not easy at all, I’m afraid. The eld is clever. The eld chooses the king, and only a king can tame one, but in my experience, only a king should try.” He fixed Ren with a penetrating look. “You’ll need to keep your mind on what you’re doing, son. The Shambles is no place for daydreaming.”
Ren inspected the old man more closely. The truth was, he had been daydreaming. But a creature of hideous size was something entirely out of legend—old stories meant to frighten children, like those they t
old at the Priory. “I understand,” he said, even if he didn’t. “How do I go about it, then?”
Dakar smiled, as if he had been waiting for just this question and was pleased Ren had asked. He regaled the company with a long story detailing the creature’s habits, how it fed and nested, how it lived and died. “It’s a solitary animal.” Dakar gnawed at the straw that hung from his lip. “The eld follows its stomach and you should do the same—look for the smoke grass, it worked for your father.”
“What was he like?” Ren asked.
The old man paused and handed him a hard cake of bread. “I remember the king’s arrival for the hunt. He was a tall boy, far thinner than his current bulk would suggest. He could command a pack of dogs with the tone of his voice and could wield a bow better than any man I’ve met. He killed an eight-point buck on his way back from the hunt. We cleaned and roasted the deer and got drunk on amber as we picked through the meat.” Dakar’s voice went quiet.
Ren realized the old man thought Arko was dead, as there was no other reason for Ren’s presence in the reserve.
Arko was as good as dead, and I am not ready to be king.
Dakar handed Ren a sack of provisions containing flat bread, honey, two jars of amber, and some salted venison. “Take the dog,” the old man said. “He knows this land better than I do, but you must leave your escort behind,” he said, turning to the king’s men. “You cannot accompany the heir.”
Ren nodded and dismissed the men. He knelt, letting the black-haired mutt wet his face with slobber. He had never had a pet before and welcomed the company. While the little dog licked his cheek, Ren gazed up at the mountain; the tip was white and the cliffs were near vertical.
“That food’ll last a week,” Dakar said, pointing to the parcels. “No king has needed more time, but if you do, I’m here.” His eyes narrowed. “Be careful, boy.” He bowed his head respectfully, but his words were edged with warning. “The cliffs are a dangerous place, and the eld can be ferocious; it can come from nowhere to attack and you could be dead before you spot it—”
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