Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  “Is this your first time in the Chathair?” The words belonged to Dagrun. He emerged from behind a spindly white column. “I first saw the tree when I was a boy. There was no kite upon it, the Kiteperch was empty then as it is now,” he said, moving closer to the tree and touching it. “See that opening?” He pointed upward, to a place where the thatched roof parted to reveal a blue patch of sky. “It’s called the Wind’s Eye, it’s where the kite enters. In past days, the birds of the forest would descend through the Eye, swarming the chamber, alighting on the great perch, cawing wildly. It was a gruesome sight, or so I am told. I rather like it without the creatures.”

  Merit nodded. While she shared some interest in the superstitions of the kingdom, she was more interested in why Dagrun had summoned her to the throne room and not his bedchamber.

  “I haven’t heard from Shenn if that’s why you summoned me,” she said, thinking that perhaps he too shared her worries. He had asked about Shenn once before, at the Felling.

  “This isn’t about your husband. I’m certain he will be successful in his endeavor—no, this is about Barca.”

  “The rebel?”

  “He has changed course. He is not yet ready to strike at Solus, but he is strong enough to strike at a less formidable opponent.”

  “Harkana?”

  Dagrun nodded. “Are your men prepared?”

  “Of course we’re prepared. From the moment he breached the Coronel, we guessed he might advance on the Hornring.” It was true, they had anticipated Barca’s actions, but she had not guessed that he would move with such swiftness.

  She understood now why Dagrun had not summoned her to his chamber. This was a matter of state, about the safety of her kingdom. He had summoned her as a fellow monarch to discuss their common enemy. “Why haven’t my messengers reported this news?” she asked.

  “Barca is using an army of outlanders to attack from the north while his troops approach from the south. The outlanders may have captured your messengers.”

  “Are the roads blocked?” she asked, her voice raised just a little.

  “No, the ways are clear, but they are dangerous,” he said quietly.

  “I must go then,” she said, knowing she had no other choice. Harkana was without its ruler. “I must leave immediately, and arrive in Harwen before Barca. I cannot be trapped on the wrong side of his lines.”

  “Of course.”

  Her thoughts were spinning. “Harkana will take the rebel with ease. He will find our troops are not as soft as the Protector’s guard. Even now I’ll wager that our troops are testing him.”

  “I have no doubt,” he said. “But must you go so soon?” he asked, his voice lower, and he moved closer to her, whispering in her ear. “Can it not wait until tomorrow? Perhaps, after tonight.”

  After tonight and the promises they had made each other would bear fruit.

  She had waited for this, had wanted this ever since they had met a year ago. Why had he not come to her earlier? It was two whole days after the wedding. Why had he not sought her out before now? He had wasted time and now she was out of it.

  Merit shook her head. She had duties and responsibilities to her kingdom. War was afoot. The rebel was upon her land. She could not linger here, not with him, not in his bed. Her desires must wait, as must his.

  “I want nothing more,” she said. “The roads are clear now, but they may be blocked soon enough. Each moment I delay leaves my kingdom in danger.”

  Dagrun drew her close to him. “Do what you must, then return to me.” His tone and the strength of his voice told Merit that she had nothing to fear, that their union, though unconsummated, was strong. They had waited for so long to be together, surely they could wait a little longer.

  She sighed in his arms. Yes, of course. She would return to Rifka. He would find no comfort in her sister’s thin arms, she was sure. Dagrun’s desire for Merit would only flourish in her absence. “I am yours,” she whispered. “I owe you a wedding night. Wait for me.”

  “I have done nothing but, Merit,” said Dagrun, resigned.

  She nodded, satisfied.

  He released her from his embrace. He cleared his throat and spoke to her as a king and not a lover. “See that your guards speak to my man-at-arms and the stable master. You should take fast horses and arm your guards well. I have a contingent of soldiers who will escort you safely to Harwen.”

  “There is no need. My guards will suffice. Sevin and his men are as fierce as they are loyal,” she said, too proud of her Harkan men to accept any of his. “Barca would not dare strike at my caravan. A Harkan regent travels under Harkan guard—I need no chaperone.”

  38

  “The bright fire that blazed on the mountain now shines upon the city of light.” Khalden Wat forced open the doors of the Cenotaph, proclaiming the glories of the new Ray. The Mouth of Tolemy had lit a star upon the cliffs and told all of Solus that there was a new Ray of the Sun. The assembled grandees of Solus shuffled inside in their glorious finery, in their diaphanous cloaks of fine muslin, in their jewels and gold, to find the Harkan king, Arko Hark-Wadi, half-drunk and leaning on his elbows at a table that filled nearly the circumference of the Cenotaph. Let them scoff, he thought. Let them whisper and hiss. He expected no less.

  Arko studied each as they entered, eyeing them closely, judging them as they no doubt judged him. He could see the generals and viziers, the priests and merchants, attempt to conceal their surprise when they realized who the man was in front of them, who it was that the emperor had chosen.

  The young Protector, Amen Saad, made no effort to contain his disrespect, refusing to bow and clearly finding displeasure at having to celebrate the ascension of another man to the Ray’s position. A man whom the empire had believed was called to his death. Saad carried a cheated expression, looking as if Arko had stolen the Eye of the Sun from him. Maybe I did steal it, thought Arko.

  He gave the young Protector a second glance, looking him up and down. So this was the ambitious young man who desired to rule the empire, thought Arko as he took the measure of Saad, and watched the way he shouted and slapped his generals and advisers on their backs. Untested warriors, men like Saad, were often overconfident—their ignorance made them proud. Seeing the way Saad stood, the way he smiled, Arko already knew how he would dispatch the Father Protector.

  They settled into their chairs one by one, and in their pointed glances at one another and shocked whispers Arko could already see his future. He would never please them. He would never manage to give them what they wanted, which was a Ray who was one of them—not this outsider, this Harkan, and one who had never even seen the inside of the Priory either.

  This was his second week in Solus, though it seemed as if he had been here for ages. He had spent his days conferring with Khalden Wat, discussing Arko’s role within the empire. He had toured the House of Ministers and seen the great hall where a thousand scribes hunched over trestle tables, scribbling out decrees and other mandates, copying and translating scrolls from every part of the empire. The mechanics of it all were mind-boggling at first sight, but Wat had told him to be patient, that it would take time for him to learn the ways of Solus. For now, he needed to attend to his formal duties. This banquet was his first task.

  Wat took his place at Arko’s side, standing atop a wooden stool, introducing the gathered dignitaries to Arko Hark-Wadi by name and title: Cheneres Haas, Vizier of the Southern Nomes; Geta Entefe, High Priestess of Horu; Bern Serekh, Keeper of Days; Mered Saad, Keeper of Seals, Overseer of the House of Crescents … the list went on. The new Ray poured himself another drink and raised his glass, but he saw little use in flattering them—he had never been good at it anyway. He had always left such duties to Merit, who had reveled in them. He felt another pang of homesickness and wondered how his daughter was faring. She was wrong to say that he only loved Kepi. While his youngest shared his interests, he relied on his eldest to run the kingdom. Though he had shielded his first daughter from the burde
ns of power, he trusted Merit, and perhaps the next time he saw her he would tell her that. He thought about Ren too; he was eager to know the boy’s progress. He had ordered messengers sent, but had not yet received replies.

  While Wat droned, Arko took another drink. He started to feel warm and tipped his head back to look at the broad sphere of the Cenotaph, lit from outside at the moment by the midday sun. The dome above was dotted with tiny perforations, holes that let in the daylight. Against the black inner face of the dome, these points of daylight resembled stars in the night sky—one star for each of the Soleri who once lived in this city and ruled over the empire. The Soleri had no other graves, no burial monuments of any kind. They had only this chamber, dotted with these points of light. Gazing at those lights, Arko realized what the Cenotaph really was: a tomb with no body. He guessed the building was just another ruse, an elaborate deception, designed to conceal the absence of the Soleri. It made him wonder if the Soleri had ever existed, but he quickly took back the thought. Surely the gods were not a myth. A distant forebear, many generations removed, Sarren Hark-Wadi, had seen one of the twelve, roaming the markets of Harwen, wearing his mask of gold, in the time before the War of the Four. His grandfather had passed the story down through the family, and his father had often told it to him as a child.

  In a far-off niche, a girl sang a hymn. “The Song of Days,” Wat called it. It accompanied the meal and was sung from sunrise to sunset. Beautiful but pointless, Arko thought, his mind starting to turn hazy from the alcohol. Like everything else in Solus.

  As the girl crooned and the dome faded from darkness to light, the Feast of the Ray would be served in twelve courses, spanning from sunrise to sunset, so that all who attended could observe this cycle of the sun and stars. “Like some damned torture session,” Arko had moaned, but Wat had turned up his nose and said he hoped not. At the cycle’s end, Arko would perform his first public duty as Ray: a simple address thanking the gods, the emperor, and the highborn citizens in attendance. Arko was looking forward to his address. He wanted to show the gathered priests and viziers, dressed in their colorful silks and muslin wraps, how a man from the lower kingdoms spoke, how a king from a rebel land commanded his subjects.

  A bell announced the start of the feast.

  Wat stepped down from his seat and raised his hands. The doors opened at the far end of the hall, admitting priestesses in white robes, their arms filled high with greenery. They came first with bundles of palm leaves, then rushes wrapped in date twine and poppies. They laid out strings of vine woven with golden safflower, wreaths of acacia, and heaping olive-leaf bouquets that overfilled the table. In a tribute to the kingdom of Harkana, they had woven garlands of willow leaves over gnarled ram’s horns and hung the bony festoons among the wreaths.

  A priest brought out a horned glass and filled it with date wine.

  Arko downed it in one long gulp, then signaled for another. It wasn’t the good, strong amber of Harkana or even the sweet wine of the southern islands, but he could get used to it.

  While the priestesses adorned the walls with garlands of cornflower and softy polished beads of carnelian, Arko again emptied his cup and asked for another. The women lit dim fires. The stars above burned brightly in their mock nighttime display, adding glimmer to the beads and dressings. The priestesses carried deep-blue faience bowls and poured water to the vessels’ rims. The white-robed women placed a bowl at each setting and gestured for the dignitary to rinse.

  Arko gulped another cup of wine.

  A tall priestess with fiery eyes caught Arko’s gaze as she laid a floral collar over his head. The smell was overpowering, but Arko saw only the woman in front of him. Something in her eyes reminded him of his wife. He hadn’t seen Sarra in a decade, but he knew she came often to Solus. He realized he had been expecting to meet her at nearly every moment since he had been named Ray. He murmured to Wat, “Where is the Mother Priestess, Sarra Amunet? Is she in the city?”

  Wat shook his head. She had gone to Desouk, he said, after the Devouring, and no one knew when she might return. He told Arko what transpired on the last day of the year, how some said the crowds had torn the Mother from the wall, while others said the pilgrims had shielded the Mother from the rioting. Sarra herself had sent news to Solus telling her followers that she had emerged unscathed from the riots.

  “A hoax then, that was not Sarra Amunet on the wall,” said Arko, dismissing the story with a wave of his hand. A shocked look crossed Wat’s face, but the man gave no reply. Perhaps he felt Arko’s accusation was sacrilege, but Arko didn’t care. He knew the woman well and understood how her mind worked. “Tell me when you hear that she’s returned to Solus. She is … unpredictable, remember that.” Arko touched the white stone at his neck. He thought of his childhood, the time before he was king, before he truly understood the concessions his kingdom had made to keep him out of the Priory, before he felt the weight of his position, of his father’s decisions. He remembered his tutor, Magnus, and the girl his tutor brought with him from the Wyrre. Arko stroked the white stone and breathed a little deeper.

  Wat rumpled his lip, a sign of disapproval, but Arko paid him no attention. His thoughts were on Sarra. A confrontation with his wife was inevitable. If he knew her like he once did, he guessed she would seek him out when she returned to Solus, and he wanted to make certain he was ready. Arko emptied his cup in a single draught and pushed aside his plate.

  “Did Suten Anu go through all this misery,” Arko asked Wat, “when he was made Ray?”

  “He did and he saw to the details himself,” Wat replied with a faint smile.

  More dishes arrived—candied citrons and cherries, cakes of dried dates and figs. In the gap between plates, Arko insisted Wat speak to him. His mind was on his family. “Have my letters,” he said in Wat’s ear, “reached Harkana yet?”

  Wat replied that it was too soon, that in another day or two, word would come.

  “I hope so,” he said. “It’s not like my daughter not to answer.” Merit would know what to do, he knew. He hoped she would visit Sola as he had requested. “One more thing. My good friend and captain, Asher Hacal, accompanied me to Harwen. The soldiers sent him home, but he stayed outside the city walls, said he’d camp there till I was gone. Can you search for the man, see if his tent still sits outside the wall?”

  Wat agreed, motioned for a page, murmured in the boy’s ear, then sent him away.

  When they cleared the plates, the last pinhole of light faded from the dome and a eunuch lit the mighty brazier at the center of the Cenotaph. The room came alive with dancing flame. The girl who sang “The Song of Days” emerged from her niche to wander the dark chamber, humming her tune, hearing the words echo across the dome.

  To an appreciative roar of the crowd more men carried immense beasts—the horned oryx and addax, roasted whole on a spit—into the chamber to be sliced and served. They brought slabs of wild oxen and cakes of black pudding, reminiscent of a Harkan favorite Arko had loved as a child. The black and bloody dish brought back memories of his father, of the war he had fought with this very empire, with the Ray of the Sun.

  Such power in my hands now, Arko thought. I shall reshape the empire. I will ease the tributes and end the practice of sending ransoms to the Priory. Arko swore that there would be no more marriages blessed by Tolemy, and no more slaves across the empire, that all citizens would be free men and women as in Harkana.

  Arko had asked for a gathering of the highborn families, a congress with the viziers, as well as a meeting with the Protector, but Wat had told him to wait. The city was on holiday due to his ascension as Ray. There would be no meetings, and when the holiday was over a series of rites and initiations must be observed before he could hold office. Arko had grumbled loudly. The position was all ceremony—he yearned for action.

  “It’s nearly time for you to speak.” Wat interrupted his thoughts. He cautioned him, indicating the cup of wine with a slight wave of his finger, begging Arko to
cease his drinking, but Arko ignored the old man.

  The servants came to take the plates while the viziers and generals stood, soaked their hands, dried them, and waited for the next plate. Arko, head spinning wildly, turned to Wat, who shook his head and laughed. Was his unease that obvious? “Thank Mithra for the dimming fires,” Wat told him. “Otherwise all of Solus will know that you despise them as much as they’ve guessed.”

  Arko laughed at that. Indeed, the room was nearly dark and Arko had had more than his fill of wine.

  “Is something funny, Harkan?” a voice growled. “Do you find our ceremonies amusing?”

  Arko leaned forward, but he could not see who had spoken—all the guests had the same unpleasant looks on their faces. Only Amen Saad set down his cup, wiping the dregs from his beard. He raised his eyes to Arko’s. “Not at all,” said the new Ray, pushing the plate aside. “I choose not to indulge myself while there is war in the kingdoms. A regent suffers the same hardships as his soldiers. That’s what a Harkan king would do and what a Ray ought to.”

  “The customs of Harkana won’t hold here.”

  “True,” Arko said, unexpectedly. “Those customs don’t hold here—they haven’t for some time—a deficiency our emperor has chosen to correct.” He said no more, but his implication was clear. Change had come to Solus, the Anu family was gone and a Harkan wore the Eye of the Sun. Surely more changes would follow.

  The Father Protector opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. His uncle, Mered Saad, put a cautioning hand on his nephew’s shoulder. Saad bit his lip and turned to one of his generals and laughed at some joke he had probably not heard. The young commander was brash, crude, but still uncertain. He did not yet know what to make of this new Ray.