Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  “Don’t fret,” Ren interrupted, his father’s dagger in his hand, the provisions slung over his shoulder, the small hunting dog by his side. I’ve stood beneath the sun, felt the sting of a cane, the bite of a whip. No hideous deer will get the best of me.

  Ren would return with his horns. It was the least he could do for the father he never knew.

  24

  First they’ll bludgeon me. Kepi saw the outlines of their clubs, whirling in the darkness. Then they’ll kill me and feast on what remains.

  Gray ribbons of stone jutted above the sandy earth. The rocks were as high as her knees, her shoulders, a few steps more and the stones stood above her head. As Kepi fled deeper into the stone forest, away from the San warriors pursuing her with nips and howls from Dagrun’s carriage and the scene of battle, she tried not to think of Seth, how she had been forced to leave him alone and outnumbered. She’d fled across the bridge and into the Cragwood, a place many times the size of Harwen, a forest of rippling stones. She had a chance here—a chance to hide, a chance to strike at her attackers if she was careful. But what chance did Seth have, ten against one in the open?

  Kepi darted from one stone to another, keeping to the shadows, keeping hidden. The stones towered above, their shadows overlapping in the distance. Breathe. She pressed her back into a rocky concavity, felt the stone cup her shoulders. She had been here before, long ago, with her father. She was young enough at the time to share a saddle with Arko, who held her close and told her about this place. “The Cragwood is Feren’s sacred ground,” her father said, “home to the Waking Rite, the place where Feren kings have earned their crown for untold centuries. The rite tests a king’s strength, and his heart too.”

  Thinking of Arko made her feel melancholy. I want to see him one last time.

  An angry bark shook Kepi from her thoughts. The sun had begun its descent and the stones were growing dark. She should head due north, deep into the slanting gray rocks, to the stone circle where Seth had bade her to promise to meet him. It would be safer to flee the forest, but she had left Seth behind once already and would not do so again. So Kepi kept running, the voices of the ash-covered warriors coming closer, their grunts and barks sounding at times as if they were right behind her. She was on foot, alone, and still wearing the brightly hued gown that Dagrun’s soldiers had insisted upon, along with the light slippers of a lady. The San were fast-moving, a pack of wolves driven by hunger and blood. Glimpses of ashy-white skin flashed between the rocks; her foes visible for fleeting moments. The men carried crudely forged blades, their edges dull and ragged. They cudgeled their foes rather than cut them—it was a brutal death. Kepi had seen the remains of their victims with her father, the skull smashed in, the rib cage crushed.

  She ducked as an ash-covered arm passed to her right. Then another. A flash of iron, a blade glinted in the darkness.

  Hide. She was not going to outrun them much longer.

  Kepi came upon a clump of stone shards three times her height, gray with flecks of pink that gleamed in the fading sunlight. Inside was a hollow crevice, accessible only by a crack barely large enough for her to squeeze through. She pushed herself into the ragged fissure, crouched on her knees, and waited.

  Voices echoed between the rocks. The men from the High Desert spoke a crude tongue that bore little resemblance to the emperor’s speech. Their words sounded like curses, strings of consonants, hard on the ear. Her father knew their tongue and had taught her, and so she understood the gist of their conversation.

  “Where’s the bitch?” one grunted, and another answered, “I can taste her stink. She’s not far.”

  She pressed her shoulders against the stone, knowing what was in store if they found her, her memory of the night with Roghan vivid in her mind. They’ll take me. Or one will take me while the other cudgels me with his club. She saw a soot-smeared leg between the stones.

  With a shout, Kepi drove her blade low between two stones and cut the man’s ankle, severing the tendon that connected the foot to the leg in a gush of blood and sinew. He collapsed, screaming for his companions, and she squeezed out of her hiding place, running as fast as she could while his cry reverberated through the stones.

  She went twenty steps and found another small shelter, wedging herself inside and listening the way her father had taught her, counting footsteps: one, two, three, four. She waited. The outlanders twice passed her without catching her sight or scent, and she remembered what her father had taught her: When you’re outnumbered, draw your opponents apart. When you’re outmatched, tire your opponent before you attack. Don’t forget, Kepi.

  I won’t forget.

  Kepi slipped from between the stones, following far enough behind them not to be seen. She cursed her brightly colored dress, how visible it was against the gray, but she managed to stay behind the men, hiding whenever they stopped, throwing a stone the other way to divert their attention, trying her best to tire the men by making them chase her. She went ten paces and hid, then twenty more and hid again. They heard her running, heard her breathing, but could not catch her.

  At a large clump of stones she was able to split them up, taking the north fork while throwing a fallen branch into the south fork and hoping the sound of the wood striking the stones would make them think she had gone that way. She hid behind a wall of stone. One followed, his skin sparkling with ash as he emerged from the shadows, a cloak of bones jingling on his back. The second, a taller man with scars wrapping his arms and face, went the other way. Kepi’s chest heaved with exhaustion. If she kept this up much longer, she would be too tired herself. Strike now. You can face them one at a time.

  “Do you see the bitch—” The rest was unintelligible. She could no longer translate; her mind was a gray cloud of fear. She heard the fatigue in their voices, the frustration.

  It was time.

  The bone cloak rattled in the darkness. The ash-skinned warrior tore through the rocks, his breath coming in bursts, coming closer. Kepi cupped her hands around her mouth, turned in the opposite direction, and gave a cry that sounded like a raven. The call echoed off the stones, confusing her attacker.

  When the San turned to look, Kepi struck.

  The echoing birdcall cloaked her footsteps as she raced forward and swung the mighty Feren blade. The sword was made for a man twice her size, and it cleaved the man’s arm in two.

  He screamed. The air was full of ash as he fell to the stones, struggling for a moment before his limbs went soft and his eyes closed.

  Kepi spun, tried to flee, but the scarred man was upon her now. She started to lift the blade over her head once more, but it was too heavy, and she was too slow. Weaponless, the outlander clobbered her forearm with his fist. She had trained for this moment; she knew what to do. Kepi thrust her heavy sword at his chest. The blade nipped his skin, and his eyes went wild. His scarred face furrowed as he grabbed for the sword and with bare hands tried to wrest it from her grip. Blood poured between his fingers. He grunted and cursed, his teeth glowing blue in the moonlight, his eyes yellow, his breath stinking like spoiled amber. He thrust the sword’s tip between two stones and wedged it tight. Kepi pulled, but the sword stayed fixed. Gods! Her body was electric, her heart a hammer in her chest. She was defenseless, unarmed. What now?

  He hit her twice, once in the head, opening a gash over her eye, then again in the chest, a hard blow that took her breath away. She let go of the hilt of the sword as the force of his blow sent her tumbling onto her back. The outlander cried out, his hands dripping with blood, the scars on his body animated by his every movement.

  Not like this. Not here. I’m not meant to die here.

  He fell toward her and Kepi planted a firm foot on his chest and kicked with all her strength, but he remained where he was, a sickening smile on his ash-dabbled face.

  Kepi winced, preparing to die.

  Wings rustled in the distance, a gray flutter passed overhead.

  A shadow blackened the sky as a large bird with
a wingspan greater than the height of a man crashed into her attacker. Its sharp, curved beak dug into his eye, ripping through the lid as it bit the flesh.

  She thought of her father one last time: Never hesitate, he’d told her. Opportunities in battle last shorter than breaths.

  Kepi lunged for her sword. She turned it roughly, snapping the blade free of the rocks, breaking it about halfway down. Still sharp, still usable. Before her enemy could recover, she used the sharp edge of the blade to slice across his gut, spilling entrails and gore onto the rocky earth, his blood red and viscous. His intestines slithered out like a nest of snakes, which the great bird snatched at and ate with relish.

  Coils of viscera hanging from its beak, the kite fixed its gaze upon her and Kepi found herself momentarily transfixed. She gaped at the creature, the kite beating its wings, rising into the air, its dark silhouette vanishing into the night sky.

  Awestruck, Kepi threw down the sword and fled deeper into the stones.

  She ran, following the rocky terrain upward to a high point, where she cocked her ear to the sky and listened for more shuffling footfalls, for grunts and curses. She listened, but heard only the wind whistling between the crags. She was alone in the forest of stone, but her heart would not stop pounding and her limbs would not stop shaking. She wandered the tall rocks exhausted and thirsty, nursing her bruised forearm. After a few paces, she collapsed, but forced herself to stand, to keep walking. The grade changed, the earth sloped upward. She moved from stone to stone, resting when she could, exhausted, out of breath, but determined not to stop.

  The moon circled the sky, the air cooled, and she lost track of time.

  Heartsore, stumbling, and feeling closer to death than when she had been attacked, she fell down among the tall rocks. Darkness. Pain. Silence. She could not give in to it. Her head jerked back and her eyes flew open.

  The darkness resolved into gray columns. A circle of stones stood not more than ten paces from her spot. The King’s Throne. The meeting point. Seth. She scrambled up the slope, the grassed-over ruins of an ancient castle, to higher ground where the stones had been arranged in a wide ring.

  A sculpted gray monolith stood in the center of the circle, a throne carved into the stone. The sun was going down, and the last rays lit the middle of the throne like an ancient fire. But there was no Seth, not that she had truly expected him, she had only hoped.

  Still, it was a good high place from which to keep watch, so she settled into it and waited all the rest of that evening and into the night, which was cold and dark and full of the rustle of the wind down the stone canyons. Kepi was too frightened for sleep, and so she sat there on the stone, shivering under the stars, waiting for Seth.

  She was still alone when the first rays of the sun illuminated the forest, when she heard a long, piercing cry coming from somewhere overhead—the same cry she had heard in the forest.

  A large bird disappeared behind the tall rocks, a familiar shadow fluttering across the stones. She turned and caught sight of it approaching from behind.

  It was beautiful but unnaturally large, gray, and fiercely clawed.

  It circled—over and over until it wound a broad arc around the throne—its small eyes tilting toward Kepi.

  25

  The hunting grounds were dense with rocky hills and sharp, broken outcroppings that provided little shade in the noonday sun. It was his third day in the reserve, but he had not yet seen the eld. Ren searched for the wispy grass with the white flowers Dakar had described, but found little in the blighted landscape that was alive. As he climbed, he thought of Tye, and the Priory. And Adin … he would find out what happened to his friend, if he was dead or alive. He wanted his friends to find their freedom. For his part, it felt strange to acquire his independence and at the same moment lose the only life he had ever known and the friends who had surrounded him. It was as though he were moving between two lives, but neither one had yet taken hold. The Priory was behind him, but he was not yet a Hark-Wadi, he had not met his sisters, nor had he stepped foot inside the Hornring. Why must I pass one more test? Was the Priory not enough?

  He spent the day hiking up a steep and narrow mountain trail, chasing after his black-haired hound, following the spine of an ancient path that led to a row of narrow, rotting wooden stairs. A rope handle fastened to the rock with iron rings allowed him a little balance, and he felt the air become cooler as the slope went higher, up toward the clouds. Pausing now and then to look down into the valley, he saw nothing of the eld. I’m alone here. He’d once seen a herd of deer, but they were gone, and he’d seen nothing since.

  Ren reached a narrow ledge. He made his way along the flat rocks, sliding with one foot in front of the other. A tree blocked the path, so he grabbed a branch and swung himself around the trunk with the dog leaping behind him. Ren’s foot landed on a loose plank and he teetered before he caught his balance. The dog whimpered, his big brown eyes looking to Ren for reassurance. “I know, I know,” Ren said, to calm the dog as much as himself. “I’m nervous too, boy.” On the far side, there was a gap in the planks, a void that stretched to a bottom that he couldn’t see. He leapt across the gap, falling clumsily down to the other side. The dog jumped as well, tongue wagging in exhaustion. “Good boy,” he said. “Stay close now.”

  Beyond the gap, the planks angled upward, the wood wet in spots—remnants from the morning. He placed both hands on the guide rope, holding tightly, skirting the mountain and looking for some end to his climb. The guide rope was so old and worn that he dared not use it in some spots, and the planks were not in any better shape. Dust thick enough to grow moss covered the wooden surface, and in the middle was a sandal print. Someone had walked this path before him. I’m not alone after all. The mark certainly didn’t belong to Dakar; he was too old to make the climb. So who made it? He recalled the horse he had seen tethered to a tree. Were the gray-cloaks still following him?

  Ren couldn’t guess, so he moved on, the plank walk continuing around the sharply curving cliff face. He followed the path, resting in spots, catching glimpses of the view, the distant mountains and the barren landscape. He had never imagined that the world could hold such vastness, such expanse. The sky stretched to infinity, the desert disappeared into boundless dunes. If I die on this hunt, at least I saw this. He stood with his back to the cliff, eyeing the gently changing clouds till the wind started to blow, and he feared it might topple him. It would be a terrible shame if I survived the Sun’s Justice but let the wind blow me from a ledge.

  Ren gripped the rocky face of the precipice, taking one or two more steps before coming to the end of the path, which opened onto a wide plateau. He made camp in the embrace of an ancient cypress, hoisting the dog and himself up into the branches for safety. A light rain fell, but the wide canopy of the tree kept them dry. Still, Ren was not able to sleep, and he again stared back down toward the desert flatlands he had left, the long, low darkness of the horizon ending where the stars began. On the other side sat a high plateau filled with hills and canyons, green and cold. The mongrel whimpered and moaned for a time, as the lowing of a deer hunting in the darkness kept them both awake.

  Clouds concealed the moon, the temperature dropped, and the light rain that had been falling turned into soft, white flakes. Ren had never seen snow before but had heard of it, how it would fall and cover everything like a white blanket. He held out his hands to catch it, though as soon as it touched his skin it melted away. It felt like his freedom—a delicate, destructible thing that vanished the longer you tried to hold it.

  Even when the snow faded and the dog’s whimpering quieted, thoughts of his family kept him awake. He’d always understood that his father would be dead the day he was sent back from the Priory, and it had been a welcome and unexpected surprise to realize he would be afforded a meeting with the man who’d sired him. Arko was taller and stronger than he had imagined, yet also absentminded—as if the old king were only half there when he spoke. But then, Ren supposed
that was to be expected, as he too had just been pulled from his life, summoned to Solus to face the emperor, and gods only knew what else. He knew his mother no longer lived in Harwen, and he had not expected to see her. Ten years in the Priory and the Mother Priestess of Mithra-Sol had not once visited. She was a mystery to him, nothing more. He wished he had been able to meet his sisters, at least, before being sent away to this hunt. He wanted to see their faces, but there had been no time for a reunion. Merit and Kepi were an empty spot in his memories. He knew only his father’s face, but the king must be dead by now, or he would be soon enough.

  Unable to sleep, Ren washed in the stream, drinking long and deep, before walking off to piss. He ate Dakar’s bread and finished the amber. He found what he thought was the smoke grass, but he saw no flowers. He waded through the thin gray stalks. The grass grew to knee-height, pale and wispy, like a cloud frozen among the rocks. He stood among the wispy stalks, inspecting the foliage. Was it even the smoke grass? He wasn’t sure. This is folly. Damn the hunt, damn Arko Hark-Wadi and the crown of Harkana.

  It was nearly morning and if he couldn’t sleep, he might as well make his way back down the mountain. He walked backward along the trail and then he saw them—white blooms where there had been none. In places, where the moonlight struck the grass, it had blossomed into patches of bright flowers. The smoke-grass flower was night blossoming, its white petals glowing blue in the moonlight. The warden had skipped this fact, or left it out on purpose, or did not know about its nocturnal nature.

  The dog barked sharply.

  Ren stopped. Turning, he heard a rustling in the brush, saw a shadow moving toward him in the moonlight, looming large and breathing heavily.

  26

  “Kepi, wake up.” Seth’s voice.

  She blinked and opened her eyes. The gray bird was gone and it was noontime. She stood from her perch in the circle of stones, threw down the broken sword, and embraced him. “I thought you were dead.”