Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Wait here.” Before she could tell him she did not want to listen to whatever it was he had planned, that she no longer thought of him as highly as she once did, he disappeared back down the stairwell, into the darkness.

  Kepi looked around nervously. What if someone had seen them? Whispering in her ear like that—it was too familiar, too intimate.

  “Kepi.” A voice startled her. She turned, seeing Dagrun come out of a room at the end of the hallway, looking bathed and shaven. Fresh.

  She glanced down into the dark well of the staircase where Seth had disappeared, hoping he would stay down there. When he did not return, she squared her shoulders to face her husband and walked toward his outstretched hand. He reached to put his arm around her shoulders, but she shied from his touch. He only smiled and led her through the doorway to the courtyard, where the noise of sawing and hammering was even louder than it had been in her chamber.

  “Morning,” he said. “I hope the noise did not trouble you last night.”

  She tried on a bit of a smile, but it felt crooked on her face, awkward. “A little. I thought it was a storm. I thought I was dreaming.” She felt warm inside.

  “Did you dream morning meal?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not hungry,” she said quickly, then added, “thank you, though.”

  She followed him down a single narrow staircase to the courtyard outside, where the workmen were erecting the Queen’s Chamber, which would be her home in Caer Rifka. Workmen sawed and chiseled the tough gray wood. From the width of the cornices, they were crafting a chamber larger than the Harkan King’s Hall, and more finely made. Woodcarvers used hand tools to chisel elaborate forms into the stony wood, blackthorn nuts and needles, and—she noticed it now—the Tree of Feren, entwined with the Harkan ram’s horns. She felt a quick stab of homesickness and tamped it down again. Is this all for me? she wondered, even though she knew the answer.

  Surrounding the Queen’s Chamber on all sides sat temporary workshops where workmen crafted furniture and fittings: bedposts, chests, cunning little stools like the one in her bedchamber but more beautiful and intricate. Enough for an army, she thought, not just a girl from Harkana with scabby knees.

  Dagrun pointed to a set of large wooden panels and told her these would be the doors to her chamber. He indicated a set of chairs, and a stack of wooden plates. He took a delicately carved stool and placed it before her. He said all of these things were cut from his birth tree, and would be the most precious items of the house. Kepi sat on the stool, her hands woven into the folds of her dress.

  Dagrun knelt, taking one of the sculptor’s tools and tracing the outlines of the new chamber: here were the outer and inner halls, a bedroom, a cellar, a shrine to Llyr. “What do you think?” he asked, with such earnestness that Kepi threw him a suspicious look.

  “I oversaw the work, approved the composition of the rooms and their elements. But it’s not too late to make alterations.”

  She composed herself once more. “It’s fine. I mean … it’s beautiful really.”

  “Is there something you want to change?”

  Nothing, it’s perfect, she thought, but held her tongue as he led her onward. She was shy around him now, ever since their wedding night. He was the first to hear her story, all of it, and the intimacy she felt from that encounter made her feel exposed. Since that night, he had not come to visit her in her chambers, and she had felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment at that fact.

  I will not take what is not given freely, he had said.

  Recently she had been imagining what that might be like, if she did welcome him into her bed. If she gave herself to him out of her own free will. If she wanted him.

  Her breath caught in her throat at his nearness, but she tried to ignore it. Where was the girl who valued nothing more than swordplay, she wondered, the one who wore her bruises as if they were badges of honor? All of that seemed childish now.

  In the shadow of the Queen’s Chamber a silvery-gray tent had been erected, where slaves ducked in carrying bundles of shavings and small twigs. Dagrun went and stood in front of the flap and held it open for her. “Here,” he said. “I have something more for you.”

  Inside, when her vision adjusted to the dim light, she saw priests sitting at long tables, white robes gathered around them in the chill and the damp. Not slaves, but scribes from Desouk, copying passages from scrolls onto parchment. “What’s this?” she asked.

  “A chamber for books.”

  In spite of her best efforts to keep ahold of herself, Kepi turned and gave him a broad smile. “You’re joking.”

  “Not at all. Where better? We have enough raw materials in Feren to re-create the entire Desouk Repository twice over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look.” He held up a mottled gray sheet.

  Not parchment, then, but something different. Dagrun explained that while the empire and even his kingdom had long used the ironwoods for military purposes, he had found another use for the strong wood: he indicated a jar of ironwood pulp, softening in water, and sitting next to a copper screen. The wood fiber was mixed with water, then spread over the screen, pressed, and then dried. The process resulted in a flat, grayish sheet with a deckled edge.

  “Does it work?” she asked. “I mean, it doesn’t fall apart when they write on it?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Alongside the sheets sat copper vessels containing pads of minerals: black kohl, red ochre. The scribes were dipping their brushes in water, swirling them on the cake, then painting words on the blank pages. The paper, despite her concerns, seemed no more likely to dissolve than parchment. It was a novel use for the wood, she had to admit.

  She went close to one volume and read the title: The Birth of Solus. “Quite an undertaking,” she said, unable to keep the admiration from her voice. “Didn’t know you were interested in such things.”

  “I want to give the people something other than the army, the caer. I said as much on our wedding night.” He took the bound pages from her hand and ran his fingers over the gorgeously rendered title. “When I told your sister, she laughed. She believes Feren is nothing more than slaves and soldiers, she believes the stories, but if we are ever going to stand up to the emperor, we must have knowledge too.” He set down the fragile book, picked up her hand, and brightened immediately. “Now, about morning meal. They should be ready for us in the dining hall. My baker makes the best brown bread in the lower kingdoms.”

  “Really?” she asked, tipping up her face to look at him. “That good? I will have to see for myself. Though we did have an excellent baker in Harwen, if I may be allowed to boast.”

  “If you don’t swear you love it, I’ll send my baker away and hire yours,” he said.

  “Done,” she said without thinking.

  Dagrun reached out his hand to seal the bargain, but she withdrew, her expression shifting from eager to reluctant. She wasn’t certain why, but she could not take his hand quite yet. Was she so afraid to touch him? Or could it be that she feared she might like it too much?

  Embarrassed, she retreated from the king. “I … I’m sorry but I didn’t ask for this.” She gestured at the books, the tent, and the Queen’s Chamber. “It is too much.” Her smile faded, her posture stiffened. “I cannot accept.”

  43

  “There’s still a ways to go,” Adin said. “I don’t know if I can make it.”

  They had climbed without pause since daybreak, crossing the highlands southwest of the Rift valley, moving toward Catal, always looking over their shoulder for soldiers. They had seen two patrols the day before, but none since. Perhaps they were clear of Dagrun’s soldiers by now, but Ren could not be certain.

  “You’ll make it. I’m not hauling your ass to Catal,” Ren said. “Besides, isn’t this what the Priory prepared us for—pain? Have you forgotten their mantra—pain makes the man?”

  “I’ll never forget it, but if
the priors were telling the truth, I think I’d rather stay a boy. I’ll skip manhood.”

  “Well,” Ren said. “It did teach us humility. That must be worth something.”

  “If you say so. In fact, if I fall, just leave me behind,” Adin said. “Come back for me with my father’s men.” Adin was weak, his arms and legs rubbery, his eyes glazing over and then focusing once more. His weeks in captivity had caught up with him, but when the mountain’s edge resolved into a drum-shaped bulge, revealing the distant outlines of Catal, his friend must have found some hidden reservoir of strength. Adin broke into a run. “It’s too far!” shouted Ren, but his friend would not listen: Adin was already stirring a cloud of sand as he hastened toward the fortress. Ren followed behind him, glad to be in sight of civilization. There were tracks in the sand, many sandal prints, pointed in opposing directions, as if a large army had come and gone using this very road. We are not the first to come this way.

  The sun was nearly gone when he caught up to Adin. The great drum of the tulou sat just outside the southern edge of Feren, along the border with Sola, where the Dromus sprang from the mountains to touch the edge of the Rift valley, forming one enormous barrier—high wall here, deep gorge there. The drum-shaped fortress sat in the knuckle. “This was the home of Feren’s first king,” Adin told Ren, waving his hand at the tulou like it was the grandest of imperial palaces. “Its walls are stronger than the cliffs and thicker too. They made them round like the sides of a drum to keep out intruders.” Adin’s eyes followed the long curve. “No army has ever breached these walls.”

  “Who would bother, way out here?” Ren asked.

  Adin shaded his eyes and waved. Ren searched the horizon. There was no watch visible on the walk, no guards standing at the gate, the only way in or out. But the sun was in his eyes, hot and orange. “Maybe they are at evening meal,” Ren said.

  Adin kept moving. “I’m sure that’s it.”

  When they came closer, holding up their hands to show they were no threat, still no one called out to them and no one came to meet them. There was no gate at the tulou’s base. They saw the spot where the hinges once stood, but the metal was torn from the stone. Ren knew what had happened here. The torn hinges and broken gate told the story plainly enough, but he kept his mouth shut.

  They passed through the gate, down a dark passageway, and out into the center of the drum. “Hello!” Adin called out, but heard only an echo. “I think I see something,” he said. There seemed to be people moving inside the fortress, shadows that flickered and shifted. Adin dashed along the ringed wall. “Is anyone here?”

  As a cloud drifted out of the sun’s path, Ren realized that the movement Adin had mistaken for inhabitants was merely bits of cloth blowing in the wind or tattered flags stuck to spears. The tulou’s walls were crumbled at the top, the bricks shattered in places. The cooking fires were cold, the animals killed or carried off. Here and there dead limbs poked out of the soft dust, human and animal. In places, the flesh was still raw, the damage recent. Everything was as Ren had feared, but Adin would not relent. He rushed to the inner gates, to the burnt wood doors hanging half-open on failed hinges. He was desperate, eager for any sign of lost relatives. There was none. The ringed interior was destroyed—everything was burnt. Adin fell to his knees. No family, no soldiers, no glory was here.

  Ren pulled his friend from the wreckage. “I’m sorry.” He had tried to warn Adin.

  “Where are they? I don’t understand—where did they go?”

  All dead, Ren thought. He had seen the tracks left by Dagrun’s army. So much hope lost.

  They scoured the inner chambers, looking for parchments, hoping they might find a message from his family, a name, a scroll. They found nothing. The inner chambers were burned, their contents turned to ash. What was not consumed by flame—the shields and swords and copper vessels—was broken or mangled. The Feren Army had not simply murdered his family, they had destroyed every trace of their occupation, every weapon and provision, every person and animal. Adin’s family might as well have not existed.

  When they were too tired to search further, and the sun had faded from the old stones, they found a chamber that was free of soot and ash. They slept on the stones, not a word passing between them. The other boy’s sadness and frustration was nearly a palpable thing, a ghost moving from room to room asking where everyone had gone.

  Ren woke when the sun rose, his belly grumbling again. He caught sight of Adin sitting atop the outer wall, smoke rising from a fire.

  “What’re you doing?” he called out, but Adin gave no notice. He’ll make me climb. So up he went, climbing the steep wooden steps, then scaling the crumbling face of the wall. He reached the wall walk, where he saw Adin balancing a pot above the flames of a small fire.

  “What’s this?” Ren asked.

  “Morning meal,” said Adin as he took the old pot from the fire. “I found a little amber, some meat, and a pot. It’s been a while since either of us had a decent meal, so I thought I’d make us one.” He placed a burnt piece of meat on a clay dish and offered it to Ren.

  Ren’s stomach groaned at the sight of it. He ate greedily as the sun rose across the desert. They nibbled at the food, sipped their drinks, and laughed, Ren cherishing the moment, Adin’s eyes growing somber as he talked about his family and all that he had lost.

  He told Ren how he had dreamed of the great Chathair in Caer Rifka, of a bride, and of a kingdom to rule. “I wanted to stand beneath the Kiteperch, to spend my night in the Cragwood, to roam the ancient Chathair and study the monuments that pack the throne room. I remember so little of my home. Do I have a birth tree? How would I even find it?”

  Ren did not interrupt; he let him ramble. Adin needed to talk and it was good to have his friend back. Ren had suffered plenty, but his spirits were high. If only Tye were here.

  As the sun rose higher in the sky and the boys finished their meal, Adin poured the last of the amber. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, his voice low, his gaze distant. “I don’t even know where to go for help. Perhaps it’s time we went to Harkana. We’ll be safe there.”

  Ren choked at Adin’s words. He had not yet told Adin about his sister, the queen regent. He doubted they would be safer in Harkana. He wondered if they would be safe anywhere. The two boys stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the distant horizon where what looked like a crowd had gathered at the Dromus gate.

  “I don’t want to go home, Adin—not yet.”

  “Then where?”

  “Tolemy’s house.”

  Adin watched the horizon turn from soft purple to amber. “Why? Who else is left?”

  “Tye. I heard stories in the Gray Wood. The lords of the Wyrre are dead. If it’s true, she’ll be set free on the Thieves’ Moon.”

  “How long?” Adin asked.

  “Four or five days—maybe less. If we leave now, there is enough time for us to reach Solus before the arrival of the Thieves’ Moon.”

  Adin’s face flattened into a frown. “Fuck, Ren—the Priory? It’s the one place I don’t want to go, the one place I never want to see again.”

  “We’re not going back—at least not all the way back. We can wait at the gate—”

  “And if she does not appear?”

  “She will.” Ren nodded. “I’m no more eager than you to return to the Priory, but—”

  “I know.” Though they had never spoken of it, he guessed his friend knew how Ren felt about Tye, the affection he harbored for the girl.

  “But I still don’t want to go there.” Adin massaged his forehead, looking as if the very thought of the Priory made his head hurt and his thoughts spin.

  “It’s not a matter of wanting. I have to go back there for her,” Ren continued; he would not be dissuaded from his task. “When I left the Priory, I thought I was returning to my family, to a crown and kingdom. You thought you would find your father’s soldiers. We were both wrong. Nothing is as we imagined it would be, but I’m not ready
to give up, not yet. If we don’t have families or kingdoms, at least we have each other.

  “Do you remember the way Tye made us all laugh? Even the priors would crack a smile when she told a good one. She almost made it all right that we were locked up in that hole in the earth.”

  “Ren, do you really think we’ll find her? After what happened here, I just don’t want you to be—”

  “Disappointed? Fuck. I’m past all that, Adin. I just need to know that I tried.”

  “And if that gets us killed?”

  Ren bit his lip. “I don’t think it will come to that. Besides, I wouldn’t have made it in the Priory without Tye.”

  “It’s a risk,” Adin said.

  “I found you. Saved your ass.”

  “I was in bloody chains, shackled to a bunch of slaves.”

  “And about to be executed.”

  “Well, that’s true. You always did have a good sense of timing.”

  “So trust me. Come with me to Solus. Adin, this is about more than just our freedom. There is a reason why we ransoms are so often feared. We are strangers to our kingdoms, but comrades to each other. We are three regents with an alliance that runs deeper than blood. Two kings and a king’s daughter. Between us, we hold the claims to the thrones of Harkana, and Feren. Can’t you see it? A pact between the lower kingdoms? A chance to take back what is ours. Isn’t that worth risking our lives?” he asked Adin, kicking sand to extinguish the flame, making his way toward the ladder that led down to the base of the wall.

  Adin glanced at his family’s broken fortress, wiped his tears, and hurried toward the ladder to join his friend.

  44

  Merit crossed the Rift valley in her calash, the wheels rattling, the tarp whipping in the wind, a bright wedge of forest framed between granite cliffs. Her caravan wound down the mountain trail and out over the first low hills of the desert plain. She sat with her back facing the horses, her eyes fixed on the Feren wood as it disappeared behind a stand of gray-leafed willow. Merit watched the forest for as long as she could. I should have waited a night, I should have stayed with Dagrun. One night for the two of them. It was all he asked and she had refused him once again.