Soleri
Page 29
Arko drew a slip of parchment from his pocket and read it over. Ostensibly, the parchment was a transcript, a record of a conversation with Tolemy. It was, of course, a fabrication. There was no Tolemy, and he’d had no conversation. He read the words one last time. When the people of Sola heard that Tolemy had named Arko as his Ray, they must have feared that change was coming and now they would have it. Flowers blanketed the streets, banners hung at every intersection. Solus was quiet, it had accepted its new leader, but the calm would not last. When the proclamation was posted, their anger would begin anew. The people would comply, he hoped, but he doubted they would do it gladly.
In the meantime, he had other concerns. Arko had sent for his soldiers, his men from Harkana, but they had not yet arrived. He had sent word to his children that he was alive too, but he had heard no reply. The traitor, Barca, was ravaging the areas to the south of the wall, and his cohorts were running amok in the north, killing messengers and scouts, making communication difficult. Arko had called for an audience with Saad, but the Protector was busy preparing to engage Barca and kept putting it off. Even if the Protector had made himself available to Arko, it seemed impossible to conduct business in the capital. Nearly every other day was a holiday. In the last week Arko had suffered through the Coll of Bes and the Tubidam. And there were more festivals in the planning. In the weeks to come, the city would celebrate the Opening of the Mundus and three or four other festivals. He’d forgotten all of the names. On the day Arko took the Ray’s chair, the city had witnessed the Lermur Al’Dab. He was not able to observe, but the festival—a holiday for the dead—seemed an appropriate choice for his first day in the Antechamber. Maybe I am dead and this business of being Ray is just my punishment in the afterlife.
Below the high window, in a broad court lined with buttery yellow stone, the wellborn and wealthy of Solus processed down a long avenue lined with yellow banners, and white and gold flags hung on posts. The streets were strewn with palm leaves and milkweed. Chins raised, the highborn of Solus—the overseers, nomarchs, and viziers—strode as if they owned every rock beneath their feet, every statue and gold obelisk they passed. As they entered the courtyard, Khalden Wat announced them: Amen Neko, Bek Serekh, Sekhe Rah, Nikan Anun-Han, Meren Ini. As Wat called the names, the highborn men and women came forward. Wat presented each with a collar knitted of gold, a gift from the new liege. They would kneel, and Wat would bestow their title. All titles came from the First Ray of the Sun and would have to be restored with the establishment of a new reign. A scribe recorded the title on a wax tablet. With the coming of each Ray, the names and positions were shuffled according to the will of the new Ray. Wat had seen to the appointments, assuring Arko of the necessity of each.
Arko had laughed when Wat told him about the ceremony. “Isn’t the word of Tolemy—the god-emperor—enough to make me Ray? Why all the fuss?”
Wat had shaken his head. “These men think they are Tolemy, or at least they act that way. The emperor’s influence has waned over the years. Some viziers support their own private armies, tend their own livestock, and trade with the priesthood. They can make life difficult for you if they think they are going unappreciated. And you have already offended many of them.”
Arko made no attempt to disagree. He remembered all too well the banquet in the Cenotaph. If only the Mother Priestess and the Father Protector were required to beg for their titles as well, his troubles would be far fewer.
He shook his head, took a long drink of wine and then a second. He tried for a third, but the wineskin was empty. Through the screened window he caught sight of a single rider, a white-cloaked priestess with incandescent red hair. Was it her? He checked again. Red hair, white robe. Sarra Amunet, the name wound through his stomach like a coiling snake. It had been ten years since he had seen his wife. Ten years since she had turned her back on their family. So you came back, Sarra. Here you are, in Solus, where the pilgrims tore you from the wall.
There was a knock on the door.
Arko groped for a weapon, but he wore none. Unprotected. The First Ray of the Sun was protected by the Soleri and hence was the only man in all of the empire who did not carry a sword. He hoped he wouldn’t need one in the future. No one but Khalden Wat was supposed to know where he was. “Who’s there?” he asked, sounding more anxious than he liked.
“It’s Asher. I have news, sir.”
His friend and captain of the kingsguard, Asher Hacal. Wat’s boys found Asher camping outside the walls of Solus, exactly as Arko had described.
Arko tucked the parchment into his pocket and opened the door to find the man looking grim. Asher was a large man, bearded, and solid; like most Harkans he was deeply tanned, sharp-nosed, and longhaired. He surveyed the chamber, asked if the room was secure, if he could speak candidly, and when Arko nodded he shut the door.
“What have you found?”
“Nothing good, I’m sorry to report.” Curious why he had not received letters from his children, Arko had given Asher a mission. That morning he had sent an imperial messenger to Harkana. Asher trailed the messenger. “The man made it as far as Darene—only an hour’s ride—when he stopped. I watched him find an inn and ask for a bed, though it was only midday. He said he would be there for a few days.”
Enough time to pretend to have gone to Harwen and back, Arko knew.
“I saw him throw a piece of parchment into the fire.”
“My message,” Arko said, his words a long sigh.
“It appears so.”
He sat on a wood chair across from the throne and sighed, rubbing at his forehead. Think. He closed his eyes, picturing the Shambles, the herds of deer. He saw again the eld he had trapped in the vale as a young man, an enormous creature with dripping tusks. He would give anything to be back there right now, his mind clear of anything but the hunt, the smell of an animal being pursued, the beauty of the bow as it flew from the quiver. Not this—dusty rooms, whole kingdoms of bruised feelings and ambitions to appease.
“Asher,” he said, his eyes closed still, the Shambles still a shadow across his mind. “Do you ever wish you’d had children, a family? Would that have meant something to you, do you think?”
The captain shifted in his chair. “It might have. It’s difficult to imagine a different path for myself.”
“Sometimes I’m certain my life would have been better if I’d had no children at all and no wife. I would have been happier, I think,” said Arko. I’ve made a mess of things, my marriage and my kingdom. Arko thought about the woman he had loved, the one he wanted to marry. He stroked the white stone at his neck.
“My king?”
“Never mind, Asher. I’m just rambling. I’m tired, that’s all.”
He crossed the stone floor to the place where his friend and captain stood. “I need you to deliver a message to my daughter.”
“Alone?”
“If possible. You must travel in secret. Make sure only my eldest daughter receives this missive.”
Arko wrote on the scroll in code. A child’s code he had taught Merit once, a secret only she could decipher. “When you’ve delivered this message to my daughter, go to Harkana and call for my guard. I fear my first message was waylaid.” Arko handed Asher a second scroll, detailing his needs.
Asher left, leaving the door open behind him. The corridor was dark for a moment, then Wat appeared, eyes grim. “There’s an issue that needs your attention,” he said.
Arko shook his head and fingered the slip of parchment in his pocket, but did not yet draw it forth. “Right now we have more urgent concerns.” He told Wat about Asher’s story of the messenger burning his messages. “This is untenable,” Arko said, “a grave disrespect to my position.” He ground his teeth. “I look to you for advice on how the empire deals with such matters.”
Suten’s old adviser bowed his head. “Forgive me, but I am at a loss for the moment. Suten Anu never had this problem. His line ruled for two centuries. No one would have dared.”
Wat grimaced. “That’s what I’ve come to tell you. A few of the richest and oldest families who have been loyal to the empire and the Ray for centuries have refused their titles.”
Arko tightened his hold on the parchment.
“This act is unprecedented,” Wat continued. “The highborn of Solus are refusing to accept title and position under your reign. My ears in the White-Wall district say the viziers and nomarchs are still chafing from the … lack of respect you showed in the Cenotaph.”
“Then let them lie with the rabble.”
“That’s not how it works,” Wat said.
“Mithra Himself lit my way, I carry the stone that sat on Suten’s head. Do they dispute this? They dare to refuse the emperor’s wishes?”
“Not quite. It is the Ray who grants their titles. Suten’s great-grandfather was the first to arrange the naming ceremony. He did it to bolster the Ray’s position, and it was a good move for his family—they were the most powerful in Solus at the time—but times have changed, and so have their fortunes. Suten’s line has ended, his family’s gold squandered. They owe no allegiance to Suten anymore, and these families are formidable in their own right. Mered Saad, the brother of the former Protector, is the wealthiest among them and he has declined his title. Others have done the same.”
“So they refuse title and will not bow to my position because I failed to honor them at a banquet?”
The old adviser nodded. “It is one reason. Still, I doubt these nomarchs and viziers are the cause of your troubles. They lack faith, but I don’t believe they are bold enough to attack you outright.”
“It’s the Protector then.”
“I’m guessing this business was orchestrated by Amen Saad.”
Arko rubbed his forehead, rubbed at the yellow jewel that sat uncomfortably just above his eyebrows. This damn thing. Everyone in the empire had a reason to oppose him, for power, for position. For revenge. It was like walking into a snake pit, this business of being the Ray.
Arko needed to take control.
“Tolemy has spoken,” Arko said as he drew forth the proclamation and handed it to Wat.
The old man pored over the transcript. “‘From this day onward,’” he read aloud, “‘Tolemy V, lord of Sola and Emperor of the Five Kingdoms, halts the collection and sequestering of the noble sons of the lower kingdoms. He declares the tributes of grain and meat to be cut by one-half, allowing all of the kingdoms to share in the burden of the drought…’” Wat lowered the parchment. “This is unprecedented,” he said, pausing, seemingly unable to speak.
The empire will no longer collect ransoms. Arko had wanted to release all of the ransoms, but he had not yet thought of a way to do so. Each of the noble-born children in the Priory was there because Tolemy commanded him to be there and the emperor never reversed one of his commands. Arko knew enough about imperial politics to understand this. Gods did not err. An emperor might alter an existing policy, he might stop the collection of tributes, but he would never release the boys he had already imprisoned, not without a compelling reason. Arko was confident that he would soon have such a reason, but he could do nothing more until he found it.
For the time being, it was enough that he had halted the taking of ransoms. This practice, which had so tormented the noble families of the lower kingdoms, was ended. With this simple proclamation he put an end to the fear Tolemy had instilled in the heart of every regent, king, and lord. He put an end to the dread that haunted him still, the terror of not being able to protect his family, his son and his daughters, the horror of not being able to protect himself. As a king, even as Ray, that fear haunted him still. He sometimes felt it at night when he awoke, alone in his chamber in the impenetrable dark, thinking, I’m dead. The emperor’s killed me. I’ve died, and everything else is a dream. But then the truth always closed around him once more, like a suit of armor that fit too tightly. There was no emperor. It was all a lie, all madness. Madness seems to be our only occupation in Sola, Suten had told him before he died. Sanity, on the other hand, is a tremendous weight. Arko looked once more at the proclamation, pondering Suten’s words.
“Take these directives and have them formally transcribed. I will tell you when to post them,” Arko said. “And as for these other matters, Tolemy has no interest in the politics of Solus and neither do I. Let Saad play at his petty games. Let the nobles refuse their titles. We have more pressing matters to address.” He glanced at the slip of parchment and knew that it would change the empire forever.
Wat gave him a slight nod, his face uneasy, his fingers jittering. “I’ll do as you say.”
He took a step backward toward the door. “Is there anything else?”
“Wat.” Arko affected his most kingly voice. “I don’t care if the city is on holiday. Send for a messenger. Tell Saad that Tolemy calls and the Protector must answer. It is time that boy learned some respect.” Arko faced the courtyard. “And one last thing. Damn your traditions. Find me a sword. Something heavy and long. It rattles my nerves not having a blade at my side.”
42
Kepi dreamed of a storm, frightful cracks shattering around her all through the night, but when she woke to blue above the trees and heard the tearing of wood, she realized it was only workmen splitting blackthorn timbers outside her window, the rap-rap-rap of the spike going into the wood, the long ripping sound of the ancient timber peeling apart. Then the rap-rap-rap would come again, and the whole process would start over. A busy place, Rifka. My home, she thought briefly, and then just as quickly banished the word from her mind. The Ferens were not her people, and Rifka would never be her home.
She sat up slowly and looked around. She was alone, as she had been for the past week. Dagrun had left no guards outside or in her room. She could march right out the door, out of the caer, and into the Gray Wood without anyone trying to stop her.
She stood, crossed the room, and as she did each day, she put her hand on the ring pull and gave it a tug. It opened with a soft whine. Unlocked. She could open the door and leave.
Take her sword, take a horse, and go.
Yes. And then?
Where would she go, and to whom? Back to Harkana, to Seth and his family, to poverty and desperation and disgrace? To Blackrock, to be a laundress or a scullion, a shepherdess? To the Hornring, to sit and wait for another husband? No. Each day she considered her situation and made the same decision.
Kepi shut the door.
She returned to her bed, thinking again of how small she had felt beside Dagrun on their wedding night, how she had told him her secret. He had left her alone then. I will not take what is not given freely. She was the queen of the Ferens, wedded to Dagrun. His wife, but not yet his woman. Just like Merit, if she believed him. He had never bedded her sister, he’d sworn. And now Kepi didn’t know whether she wanted him to be telling the truth or not.
She had believed him to be a liar. The girls who dressed her had said that he was a violent man, but he had been gentle that night. Not the man she had expected him to be. So much of what she had thought of him was based on rumor and presumption. A week had passed since that night and she had hardly seen him.
Why was she still in Feren if the door was unlocked? What was keeping her there?
It seemed impossible, all of it.
A knock startled her. It was Dalla, her servant, bustling into her room wearing a brown cloth draped around her waist. “Good morning, mistress,” she said, looking at the floor, as a good servant should, to protect her mistress’s modesty. “Did you sleep well?”
Kepi shrugged. “Lift your eyes from the floor, Dalla, and tell me why you’re here.”
The girl composed herself. “Yes, yes, of course. Forgive me.” Over one arm Dalla had a new dress, a woolen gown for Kepi. “The king sent this for you. Pretty—isn’t it? He asked that you dress and meet him outside of his chamber.”
&
nbsp; Kepi took the gown and ran her fingers over the wool, fine and soft but plain, as all Feren clothes were.
“The king had it made for you. Picked out the cloth himself.”
Kepi doubted that, but she let Dalla dress her anyway. With the girl’s help, she combed her short hair and dressed quickly, tugging the fabric into place. At least this one covered her breasts. She did not like gowns, even for daily use; they flowed around her ankles, threatening to trip her, making her feel foolish and clumsy and frail. In Harwen, she had usually worn an old set of sparring clothes left behind by one of her father’s footmen, or a simple tunic and breeches. But a queen of Feren, even a reluctant one, would have to make an effort to look presentable or risk more trouble than she wanted. Kepi groaned—another bit of herself she had to give up if she were going to stay here.
She was tripping down the passageway, trying to free her feet from a bit of wool, when she caught sight of Seth coming up the stairs from below. She tried to hurry past him, but he blocked her path. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Are they treating you well?”
“I am their queen,” she said simply. Her heart ached at the sight of him, as she realized whatever love she had once felt for him had fled when he betrayed her. “Excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”
“Wait,” he said, catching her arm. She looked down at his fingers wrapped around her wrist as if not quite believing what she was seeing. He blushed and took his hand away.
“Is there something you need, Seth?”
He leaned close to her, putting his mouth on her ear. “I’ve got somethin’ planned for us,” he said. “There was a battle in the south, at Catal. People here are angry about what happened. They want to help us. The master physician, Gallach, is one of them. He offered me work and he gave me access to his herbs.”
“That’s nice,” she said, cutting him short, not wanting to hear any more, but Seth persisted.