Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  “I—” The words caught in his throat. His hair covered his eyes and there was dirt on his chin and on his arms, scrapes on his hands and on his cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry I lost you at the bridge,” he said, his voice strained.

  “We’re together now. That’s all that matters.” She beamed at him, feeling relief wash over her. She was free—free of the San, free of Dagrun. Seth had saved her at the Rift valley, and what was more miraculous, he had found her in the Cragwood, found her amid a forest of stone.

  The sunlight on the stone circle was like the first day there ever was.

  “We should go. We’ll need food, water. Horses if we can get them. If we can find our way to your family, everything will be all right,” Kepi said.

  “My family?”

  “Yes, of course. Dagrun’s caravan was attacked; I’m missing, most likely killed by the San. Don’t you get it, Seth? I’m free. You can go home, to Barsip, and I can go home with you.” As your wife, she thought, but was too shy to say, remembering the wedding cake they had shared.

  “Right.” Seth nodded, but he was looking at the stones, over his shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, finally noticing how nervous he was. It was natural, they had both just survived the outlanders’ attack.

  He smiled and shook his head. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, I’m fine. It’s good to see you, you’re alive and that’s all that matters.”

  “Let’s go,” she said, linking her arm in his.

  For the first time in years she breathed deeply, comfortably. She had no sword in her hand, and she had no need for one. She felt safe. When we reach Barsip I’ll never need to wield another weapon.

  They left the throne and fled deeper into the Cragwood. The only direct route out of Feren was the way they had come, but there would be no way to cross one of the bridges over the Rift valley if Dagrun’s men were holding them. They decided to head east, to take the long route along the valley toward the lowland passes, west of the Harkan Cliff, where the rift grew shallow and easier to cross. “Come on,” Kepi said, practically pulling him by his tunic. After the trials of the day before, she felt nearly intoxicated, not quite believing in her good luck, almost singing as she dashed between the stones and scrambled over fallen logs.

  “Slow down,” Seth called. “Slow down, will you!” He sounded almost angry.

  Ignoring his request, she leapt over a rock, tripped, and fell hard on the earth, nearly landing on her face. The gash over her eye, a present from the San warrior who had tried to kill her, tore open once more, blood leaking down the side of her face. The wound on her neck ached.

  Seth caught up, helped her to sit up and calm down. He took the hem of his tunic and wiped the blood at her temple. He shook his head. “I told you to slow down,” he said with an unhappy tone to his voice. “You, with all of your bruises, you’re are always getting hurt.”

  She shook her head, still feeling exuberant, liberated. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m dead and I’ve never been happier.”

  He frowned. “We’re not free yet.”

  “But we will be soon. Thanks to the San, I’ve finally found a way out of my marriage. If the Ferens think I am dead, they will finally leave me alone.” Kepi would have the freedom she desired.

  She took the piece of bread he offered her and devoured it. How clever of him to pack food. How resourceful he was, this boy she loved, so unlike Dagrun, who was used to having his way as he wanted, when he wanted.

  Seth was the son of a crofter, and had once apprenticed with a physician. He understood herbs and tonics, and he was used to making do with little, used to caring for others. Even now, tending to her wound, he’d torn his tunic to bind the gash. It felt like the first day they had met. “When we get to the farm,” she said, “do you think your mother would teach me to be a seamstress? I’d like that, I think. Learning to sew. To do something useful.”

  “My mother isn’t much of a seamstress herself,” Seth said, tying the ends into a firm knot. “But I suppose she might show you what she knows.”

  “My mother wasn’t around to teach me to sew.” Kepi picked at the torn place on Seth’s shirt. “Maybe I’ll fix this for you, when we get there.”

  “Hmm,” Seth said, and then he was quiet.

  Kepi was rubbing the torn fabric between her fingers, thinking of Seth’s mother—would she teach Kepi to cook, to care for goats?—when underneath his tunic she saw a fresh cut arching across the smooth skin of Seth’s belly. The gash was newly sutured, the stitches as small and neat as a physician’s.

  “What’s this?” she asked. She had seen the outlanders draw a blade across his chest, but how had he managed to bandage the wound? Alone in the forest with no needles, no thread?

  “Oh that,” Seth said, tucking his shirt into his breeches now. “It’s old. Yesterday, before the San attacked, I had a skirmish with a Feren soldier in the camp. He thought to best me in the ring, but I got a piece of him too.”

  He glanced to the side. The buzzing in the back of her head grew louder. Kepi had tried not to pay attention but there was something wrong here. Seth was edgy, unhappy, and unable to meet her eyes. He glanced behind them, at the way they had come. She realized he was waiting. But for what?

  The bread. The stitches. At last she understood. “We’re not escaping, are we?” she asked, all the joy gone from her voice.

  Seth closed his eyes and took her hands in his. His face was long with anguish, his hands cold. “They’re coming,” he whispered. “The Ferens. They’re following me here.”

  Kepi pulled her hands from his, disbelief etched all over her face.

  “I had no choice,” he told her. “They captured me as I entered the forest to find you. Dagrun said he would kill both of us if I didn’t help them. I had to. I’m so sorry. I had to,” he confessed, tears in his voice. “I’m so sorry, Kepi, I’m so sorry.”

  “No, no,” she muttered.

  She could have made her way out; she hadn’t had to wait for him, she did so only because of love, but now her love would bind her to her enemy. Seth had sold them out for a threat. If it had been her who had been caught, she would have fought—she would have died fighting—so Seth would be able to live.

  Instead Seth had chosen his life over hers.

  The buzzing in her head exploded, burning and white with anger, anger that congealed like sour milk in her stomach along with the pain of sadness and disappointment. He was gentle and he was also weak. This boy she loved.

  “We’ll find another way to escape. We will, Kepi, I swear it,” he cried, trying to reach for her hands again.

  Kepi turned away from him; her vision had narrowed to a thin, dark tunnel, and at the end of it she saw not the boy she loved but a servant, a servant who had betrayed his mistress to save himself.

  “I did what I could to keep us both alive. They said if I took their soldiers to you, all will be forgiven. Dagrun would stop hunting you, he wouldn’t hurt you for running. And he’ll allow me to stay on as your master-of-arms in Feren. He doesn’t know about us.”

  “Seth—Dagrun wants me alive, I am no use to him dead. You did not buy my life, only my imprisonment,” she said softly, as if explaining to a child. Kepi shook her head. Was it possible he was so simple? That he had not thought it through at all? “I should have died last night in the forest, let the San take me rather than live to see this day.”

  Seth shook his head desperately, but it was too late, they heard the Ferens approach—a clank of gauntlets, of swords.

  Four men dressed in silvery armor, their chest plates bearing the Tree of Feren, appeared out of the mist and surrounded the couple. “Good work, boy,” one of them said with a laugh.

  Seth took a step back, his face red from weeping.

  Kepi lowered her head as the soldiers bound her hands, and though she told herself she would not cry—not for Seth, not for herself—she cursed and swore at the Ferens, and in the struggle to hold back her tears her visi
on blurred as they led her back to the carriage.

  27

  The shadow and the rustling in the brush revealed an ordinary man and not the eld. The stranger was alone, dressed in gray robes, and he held a curved dagger in front of him, but loosely, as if he was not certain if he planned to use it.

  He did not move. No wave. No greeting.

  As Ren approached he saw he was a man of middle years—handsome, with dark hair and eyes, muscular, nearly as broad as Arko himself, with his chin raised as if he saw something in Ren he did not like. His thick black hair was silver at the temples, but there was no denying he was still in his prime, or that he seemed reluctant to greet Ren, waiting until the boy was an arm’s length away before giving him the slightest nod.

  “Your sister Merit sent me. I’m her husband, Shenn Wadi. I hope you don’t mind, but it’s long been practice for the heir to bring a man or two along to watch his back. Your father did it. Your grandfather too, from what I hear. It’s just not sung about in the King’s Hall.” The man gave another barely perceptible bow as he stowed his knife and offered Ren his hand. The warden had told Arko’s soldiers to leave the reserve, so how was it that Shenn had been able to enter it? Was it because he was married to Merit, his sister? Shenn was a member of the king’s family.

  Ren took his hand. “I don’t need help, but I might like the company.”

  The man’s grip had been cold and wet. Shenn was nervous, and his tone was overly bright. Ren had observed the same behavior in the priors when they were about to do something unexpected or unwanted. He hoped he was wrong, he hoped his sister was being overprotective, but his gut told him otherwise. “Thank you, brother.”

  Shenn folded his arms. “Don’t thank me yet, I’ve heard the eld are bloody difficult to kill.”

  “If you say so,” Ren replied absently. Who knew if the man was even telling the truth about who he was? Ren was all alone in the Shambles and he knew no one in Harkana. From what he could see, this man was clearly Harkan. He lacked the sophisticated manners and opulent attire Ren was accustomed to in Solus, the way the traveling lecturers in the Priory smelled of fresh cardamom or sweet cassia, their hair glistening with wax. The Harkans had none of that, even Shenn—who was well mannered and well dressed—looked common compared to the men of Solus, and he reeked of old castor oil. Still, Ren wanted to know more about his family and his people. He wanted to embrace the kingdom he would one day rule.

  “Can you tell me about my sisters?” he asked. “I was sent away before I could meet them.”

  “If you wish,” Shenn said reluctantly, as if the topic bored him but he would do it anyway. He spoke at length about his wife and her sister, about the clothes they wore and the place where they lived, how they looked and how they spent their days, how Kepi enjoyed sparring with her trainers while Merit managed the affairs of the kingdom. Each description, each detail—no matter how brief—made Ren eager for more. He wanted to fill the blank spot in his memory, the place where his childhood and his family should have been.

  Impulsively, Ren thought to ask about his mother. Sarra Amunet, who was once Sarra Hark-Wadi, had left Harkana at nearly the same time that Ren had left the kingdom. The timing had always made Ren wonder if he were the reason for her leaving, if his exile in the Priory had somehow been the cause of their parting. He needed to know more. “Sarra Amunet, the Mother Priestess, does she visit Harkana—do you know her?”

  Shenn shook his head. “She has little or no contact with the kingdom, and your sisters don’t speak of her. I know as much as you, maybe less,” he said, his tone telling Ren that he had nothing else to say on the topic. Surely that wasn’t true, but Ren decided not to press him.

  This man was his brother by custom of marriage, but Ren knew nothing about him. His accent and his manner were as strange as his face. He once more felt the urge to distrust Shenn, but he fought it. I must forget the customs of Sola and embrace what is Harkan. But he knew this would not come easily. If a thing seems foreign we assume there’s something wrong with it. Without him knowing it, the Soleri had trained him to mistrust his people, to think of them as nothing but savages, barbarians at the walls. To assuage his uneasiness Ren kept up his inquiries, asking about Harkana, what the people ate, and how they lived. Shenn did his best to comply, but his answers were always too brief for Ren’s taste.

  As he asked his questions, the trail wound higher up the mountainside. The morning had come and the white flowers had disappeared, the buds closed once more in the warmth of the rising sun. Around them waves of steam rose off the rocks, making the air shimmer. Ren recalled his lectures in rhetoric, the way the priors would ask the boys seemingly simple questions, although the answers they were seeking were far more complicated. He wondered if it would work on Shenn, or if the man was too clever, or too experienced, to fall for such a ruse.

  “This grass,” Ren said, turning to Shenn with wide-eyed innocence. “What’s it called?”

  Shenn gave a slight smile. “Smoke grass. Didn’t the warden tell you?”

  “Not really. Maybe he did. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention. Does the eld eat it, the grass, I mean?”

  “No, it feeds on the rodents that eat the grass. The eld has a taste for their sweet blood.” Shenn picked up a dead branch and thrashed the smoke grass, flushing out a medium-sized rat, a fat, furred creature that scampered away with a squeak. “There’s more at the higher altitudes,” he said. “The eld hunts them. It’ll scoop up ten or twenty in a day, given the chance.”

  “So many?” Ren asked. He had starved in the Priory but would eat his fingers before he ate one of the skittering creatures that filled the wispy grass.

  Shenn shrugged. “We should be grateful the eld has a taste for rats rather than men.”

  “Maybe I will be, if I ever get off this mountain.”

  They spent the afternoon following the smoke-grass trail, resting, sharing provisions. Later, the trail ended at a stream and a slim waterfall. “We’ll need to climb,” Shenn said, shading his eyes and looking up. Ren did not like being alone with the man, especially on the more treacherous cliffs, but he had no way to get rid of Shenn, so he tried to put some distance between himself and his brother.

  They traveled up the path that ran alongside the crashing water, the dog close at Ren’s heels. The path led away from the stream, up the sheer side of the precipice. To double back around to the smoke grass, they skirted along the cliff, though this time there were no planks or ropes, just a slender ledge and some wedgelike handholds carved into the cliff face. How he would get back carrying the eld horns, even if he were to kill the beast, he couldn’t imagine.

  It was then, with the dog barking and fear in his throat, that Ren saw his so-called brother tear one of the handholds free, cracking the ancient stone. Shenn continued ahead, without warning him. Ren would have to continue moving without the use of the hold. Shenn watched and they locked eyes. Ren stretched his arms, feeling them lengthen as he reached around the splintered rock to the next hold. He balanced, his hand in the air as he grasped for, then gripped, the next handhold. He teetered and nearly fell, but his grip held and he was able to gain his balance. A few more steps and he reached the end of the narrow passage.

  Shenn kept his distance, moving ahead, not looking back.

  Had his brother tried to kill him? Had he fractured the handhold on purpose? It had happened so quickly Ren had not had time to process what he’d witnessed. Again, he wondered why the man was here. What were his true intentions? Ren didn’t know, but he guessed they were not good. At the ridge he caught sight of a stream and more smoke grass, and he used it as an excuse to pick up the pace.

  “Slow down, boy,” Shenn called. “What’s the rush? The eld will come when it chooses. The hunt is about waiting.” He quickened his pace. “Come, let’s find a perch and wait for the animal. An eld is trapped, not hunted.”

  Ren would not listen, nor would he allow Shenn to draw any closer to him.

  His brother by
law smiled too broadly, his voice was too loud but trailed off at the end of each sentence. “Did you know that your grandfather lured the eld into a pit? And that your father trapped his between a pair of rocks?”

  Ren did not answer, struggling to keep the distance between them as his suspicions about Shenn multiplied, but the stones grew denser and he was forced to slow his pace.

  Shenn approached, his breath quickening, and Ren thought he saw his hand reach for his dagger.

  But just then the dog began to bark, running up the trail, and from far away there came a great howl, long and low and angry—the eld. Ren gave Shenn a questioning look, and the two of them turned and pursued the animal, following the dog’s yelps as it went deeper into the woods.

  Along the narrow steephead valley, at the source of the clear spring that had carved the ravine into the rock, they found the dog circling, panting, sniffing the air. The peaks rose in a sheer cliff above their heads, but there was nothing there.

  No eld. The sun was setting, the air once more growing cold, the smoke grass undulating in the wind.

  The dog looked up at the edges of the valley and gave a quick bark.

  “Don’t worry,” Shenn murmured to Ren, coming up and taking the boy by the elbow, his eyes never leaving Ren, the knife in his hand.

  Ren’s suspicions were correct: Shenn was not there for the eld.

  “What will you tell my sister?” Ren asked. “After?”

  “That the job is done,” he said, “that I did what her boys failed to do in the Hollows or in the bordertowns.”

  So that was who wanted him dead. His own kin. His own sister had sent the gray-cloaked men who had trailed Ren since his release from the Priory. His own family was behind it. Ren had been too eager to trust the Harkans, to be their king. He had tried to befriend Shenn, but it had clearly been a waste of time. It was true what they said back at the Priory, that ransoms were seldom welcome back home. He had pushed the thought from his mind, but he could no longer deny it. The truth lay in the dagger Shenn held in his hand.