Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  As a heavy rain began to fall, Merit reached Rifka. The rain pelted her carriage as it rolled into the High City. The roof leaked; it let sheets of rain run through its cracked, knotty face. Merit was drenched, but cheerful. In the desert, a hard rain meant good luck—good fortune had come to her. Long, thunderous showers rarely struck Harwen, but when the rains did come to the desert kingdom, the downpours always preceded a good day, a lucky day. So as Merit’s carriage crossed the bridge leading into Caer Rifka, as she passed the wall and the Chime Gate, she felt invigorated, she had suffered for a reason. She had learned the truth of the empire and had returned to Feren to undo the mess she had left behind.

  Gray clouds pushed at the sun, obscuring its edges as Merit stepped from her carriage. The hour felt like twilight, though she knew it to be closer to noontime as she thanked her soldiers, then Sevin and Asher. She thanked Keegan and his company of Feren soldiers. The king of the Ferens was nowhere to be seen. He had not come to greet her, nor had he sent a messenger. She tried not to let it bother her; she told herself he was busy elsewhere, that it meant nothing.

  His soldiers led her entourage to a set of interconnecting chambers within the caer. When they arrived at the suite of rooms, Merit made certain Samia was well cared for, was given clothing and blankets and food. She made certain that her servant and all of her soldiers were content before she allowed Dagrun’s men to guide her to her chamber. The soldiers led Merit to the last door at the end of the hall. The room was sparse, but adequate. It was not a queen’s chamber, but she guessed her presence here was only temporary. Soon Merit would sleep at Dagrun’s side. She lingered in the room long enough to change her wet clothes, but no longer. Her feet felt too light to stand in one place, so she went looking for Dagrun. He was no doubt busy with preparations of some kind. There was war in the kingdoms and it was his task to defend Feren.

  Merit strode from her room, down a corridor, and out onto the great lawn. She scurried beneath a dripping trellis, past pale-faced slaves and worried soldiers, some faces familiar, others new. A pair of guards trailed behind Merit. She asked one of the men where she might find the king. “Past the Queen’s Chamber,” he said, “in the Chathair.”

  He pointed, but she told him to lead. Her attention lay elsewhere. Everywhere she looked the city was alive. The rain made Rifka glow, the water washed clean the thatched roofs and soot-soaked chimneys, it washed the mud from the gravel paths and the stink from the sewers. Rifka was a green place. The city was full of life and energy. Even in the rain there was hammering and sawing, and the sound of workers talking as they went about their tasks. The Ferens hardly paused when the sky poured. Twice one hundred men labored in the misty square to finish the Queen’s Chamber. The structure was larger than she recalled; it towered above nearly all others. Its blackthorn frame—arched beams topped by spindly purlins—rose through the fog like a skeleton, marvelous and gruesome.

  They led her though open doors, deep into another part of the caer. In the corridor she heard shouts, iron breaking on wood, cheering. Then Dagrun called out something unintelligible, and the crowd roared.

  Through the door to the Blackthorn Chathair she went, smelling earth and fresh lotus. A shifting crowd of slaves filled the entryway, jostling one another to get inside the inner chamber. She had not yet grown accustomed to the lack of clothing that was so common among the Feren slaves and recoiled from arms and elbows moist with perspiration pushing against her, trying to get a better view. What were they so eager to witness, she still could not say; too many heads stood between her and the spectacle in the hall, too many spears, too much noise in too cramped a space. On all sides the slaves wore necklaces of blue lotus, the fragrance mixing with their unwashed bodies, overpowering her senses. She pushed her way through, the clash of iron resonating from an opening somewhere up ahead.

  A slave stepped back, crushing her toes, pressing his dirt-smeared body against her gown. The slaves and soldiers who filled the hall were moving backward, clearing a wider ring around their king and, Merit now saw, their new queen. Kepi and Dagrun stood facing each other across the ring. Then they bowed, tipping their swords to each other in respect. So that was the racket. Were they trying to kill each other? Had Dagrun decided he’d had enough of Kepi’s scorn and decided to teach her a lesson?

  No—he was smiling, and even Kepi showed a grin. Dagrun gave a thrust that put Kepi back on her heels, barely deflecting the blow, but his body language was loose-limbed, full of enjoyment. “Had enough yet?” he said.

  Merit could not hear Kepi’s response.

  “Very well then,” Dagrun said, and raised his sword again.

  Kepi attacked, but it was without her usual ferocity—the last time, at the Harkan games, she had been all hands and blade, power and hatred—and Dagrun fought her off without difficulty. What was this? Some kind of public spectacle, a Feren tradition perhaps, meant to display the change in the couple’s relationship since the wedding ceremony?

  Row by row Merit pushed until her sister and Dagrun came into full view. They stood upon a simple platform, Kepi in tailored sparring clothes, the tree of Feren emblazoned on her chest. It was a regal set of leathers, expensive and certainly a gift from her new husband, as they carried his crest. Dagrun wore a woolen tunic and rough leather breeches, his skin even and smooth where the tunic fell open at the neck. How many times she had wanted to press her mouth to that place at the base of his throat. How many times she had stopped herself.

  It had been fear, nothing more. She was regretting it now. Regretting that she had not made her mark on him before she left, that she had not given him what he had asked her for, many times over and over again. Merit had taken his interest for granted, it seemed.

  But perhaps there was time yet.

  She advanced until a soldier barred her path, blocking the way with his spear. She must have lost her escort at the door. In her haste she had forgotten about the men and now she was alone. Still, Merit was close enough to see Kepi’s face, Dagrun’s too—she could read the looks he was giving his wife. Kepi stood with her hands in Dagrun’s open palms. Kepi laughed, her shoulders shaking, her face turning slightly red. When Kepi smiled she was beautiful.

  It made Merit’s stomach churn.

  What was happening here?

  Kepi was meant to be a proxy, a placeholder, but now she was queen.

  A true queen.

  A beautiful Harkan queen, who carried the same royal blood in her veins as Merit did. The same lineage that Dagrun had sought when he first came to her, asking for her hand and to dismiss her husband who could not love her.

  Dagrun had his Harkan queen, and it was not Merit.

  A young boy came in to carry away the swords, another bringing cloths wrapped in silvery leaves. Dagrun picked up one and used it to blot Kepi’s face. The soldier at Merit’s side, the man whose spear blocked her path, saw Merit’s look and mistook it for confusion. “The king and queen had a duel. It’s a celebration, I guess—something the king invented. Seems he met our new queen during a match in Harkana, or was it Rachis?”

  “Harkana,” Merit murmured, her mouth suddenly dry.

  “If you say so.”

  Now Dagrun was asking his soldiers to take up swords as well. “Should we have another match?” he asked, and the crowd roared its approval.

  “I seem to remember,” Merit said, raising her voice to its public volume, “a bit more blood at your last meeting in the ring.” And a different encounter afterward, for all that. How quickly he had come to her room after the contest, eager for Merit’s embrace. She approached, but came up short. Dagrun’s cool gaze told her to stay back, for now, to wait at the edge of the platform. Merit obeyed, standing at the corner of the dais, a few paces from the king and queen.

  Kepi eyed her warily, confused at first. “My sister,” she said. “I am glad to see that you are safe.” Kepi returned the damp cloth to the boy, her face uncertain.

  Merit did not reply. She cared only for Dagru
n. The man who had begged her to marry him. But she had refused him. She had made him marry another. Merit told herself that it was the only choice she had. The emperor would not allow her to marry him. An alliance was her only option. Overthrow Tolemy and she could marry as she pleased.

  But there was no Tolemy now.

  Dagrun warmly cupped Kepi’s shoulder, whispering something in her ear. He waved his arm in a gesture that told his servants that the games were ended. Kepi withdrew, the crowds flocking around her, slaves and servants alike.

  Dagrun stepped off the edge of the platform.

  Merit drew a quick smile as he approached, expecting him to return the gesture, but he did not. She tamped her expectations as he urged her to join him in the shade of the Kiteperch. She drew up close to the king. So much had changed since their last meeting, she was uncertain where to start. “Good to see you, good to be back,” Merit said. It was all she could think to say, her excitement making it difficult to think.

  “Your smile would not be so broad if you knew your price. The outlanders understand a queen’s worth. Lucky for you, the rebel is short on coin and I have … no such difficulties.”

  “Am I not worth every crescent?” she asked lightly.

  Dagrun appraised her, as one would study an item one had purchased from a merchant and not as a lover welcoming her return. “I would not have left you with the outlanders. I’ve bribed them for years with gold and grain, blackthorn and amber. The Hykso were eager to bargain.” He inched closer to Merit, but did not embrace her. He looked to the crowds and the soldiers, to the generals who waited, their eyes darting toward them, just out of earshot. Fear and uncertainty were everywhere. There was war in the southern lands, and the king of the Ferens was distracted.

  She had expected kinder words from Dagrun, a bit of affection. She had grown accustomed to his vigorous pursuit, the way he grabbed at her regardless of who was watching or where they were. Now he was cautious and she noticed that he made certain to stand at arm’s length.

  “I have news, Merit. You are not the only Harkan I’ve aided since your departure. We have your messenger and your husband too.”

  “What?” She had not heard from Shenn since he left for the hunting reserve.

  “Shenn ran afoul of the Hykso when he left the Shambles,” Dagrun continued. “He sought refuge in a Feren outpost on the north side of the reserve. Realizing his worth, my soldiers escorted him to Rifka.”

  “He’s here?”

  “Yes. When he arrived I sent a messenger to Harwen. As we speak, a legion of Harkan riders approaches Rifka and will be here by morning. They were sent to fetch your husband, but they can escort you as well.” He offered a reassuring nod. “You’ll be safe. I will send men to bolster their numbers. The outlander tribes cannot match a sizeable, organized force. You have only to fear Barca, and his army lies to the south of Harwen, outside of your path.”

  “My path? Where am I going? I have just arrived.”

  “Listen to me,” he said, his voice raised. “Barca is still marshaling his troops, readying for another advance.” Dagrun clenched his fist. “You must return to your kingdom posthaste.”

  She nodded. “Yes, of course.” It was her duty to Harkana that had sent her from Feren before. But she lingered now and put a hand on his arm, stroking his skin. “But surely there is some time…”

  He shook his head. “No. You have no time. We are burning the bridges, closing the Rift valley tomorrow. Leave Feren or you’ll be trapped here.”

  He is dismissing me. Merit would not have it.

  “No,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I am not leaving. The kingdom can wait.”

  “If you delay, you may not have a kingdom. Your husband told me about your brother. Ren lives. Shenn bungled the job, nearly got himself killed in the process—he’s a mess.”

  At that Merit stopped. Ren was alive. So that was why she had not heard from her husband.

  Dagrun continued, “The boy has his horns and will return to Harwen. Ren will claim his throne.”

  “It is not his to claim.” Her words were ice.

  “He is Arko’s heir and I will not fight a war for you.”

  “Dammit, why not?” she cried, losing her temper, which was unlike her.

  Dagrun took a step back, his eyes narrowing. She thought for a moment that he would leave, that he would turn and go, but he stood there silently, pretending she had not cried out at him.

  Dagrun. She watched him in the shade of the Kiteperch, the shadows of the great tree draping his face. The king of the Ferens. The man who had once promised to take on the entire empire for her love. The man who stole a kingdom. The king who had freed her from the Hykso. Now he offered nothing more than an escort, a few soldiers to ride along with her own. She reached out, tried to touch his cheek, but he moved deftly out of her path, circling the Kiteperch. She followed him, winding around the mighty tree, dodging branches, moving slowly, ever aware that they were not alone. She reached out again, tapping his tunic. This time he did not evade her touch. Hidden by the great trunk of the Kiteperch, unseen by the dwindling crowds, he clutched her hand, arresting it in midair.

  She gasped.

  The swiftness of the gesture caught her off guard.

  She was queen regent and the king’s daughter; she was not accustomed to such rough handling.

  Merit angrily withdrew her hand. “You’ve changed. You’ve fallen for that little girl, haven’t you?” she accused, once more in control of her voice, but not her emotions.

  Dagrun would not reply. He would never reply. She saw that now.

  Merit scowled. So be it. Dagrun was done with her; his desire lay elsewhere. He offered her no more attention than the serving girls.

  Merit pressed her damp fingers to her dress.

  She had wanted him once, she had wanted him for longer than she could recall, but that desire would not be fulfilled.

  The king of the Ferens was no longer hers to command. She had pushed him into her sister’s bed, believing Kepi was no match for her. But her sister had proven the more nimble warrior. The most fleet-footed warrior in the Harkan army indeed.

  Merit took a step back from Dagrun. She would not be rejected. She was the prize, and always had been, not Dagrun, not his army. He was an upstart and a no-name. A brute with common blood.

  And now the secret she held—there was no emperor, no more Soleri—was worth more than any army or weapon, god or throne. With this secret she could reverse Harwen’s fortunes and marry whomever she desired. She could even make a place for herself in Solus. Her father would need her at his side.

  Dagrun and his kingdom of slaves could do as they pleased.

  She no longer needed him. She no longer wanted him. A lie, maybe, but it would be true soon enough. Soon enough.

  She was the queen of Harkana and no half-starved ransom from the Priory would take that away from her.

  She brightened and faced her former paramour.

  “I will go to my husband. I will tend to his wounds and we will ride out ahead of the bridge burning. Harkana needs me.” She took one step back, then another. “I am done here.” I am done with you.

  54

  Kepi strode from the Chathair, fleeing the crowds of slaves, the servants and the soldiers, wishing her husband had left Merit in the desert with the Hykso. No, she thought, I don’t want that. She simply didn’t want her here, in Feren. Her sister didn’t belong—this wasn’t her place and it never had been. This is my home.

  The rain was clearing—though she still felt it on her brow as she dashed across the grass in the sparring clothes her husband had given her for a present. She crossed the clearing with small steps so as not to muddy the leather, then looked for cover. Finding none, she nestled against a wall and closed her eyes, feeling the last of the rain on her face, dripping from the eves, forming puddles, running through her hair, down her skin. The rain made a sound like river rocks rolling underfoot, steady and constant.
It dulled her longing for Harwen, for home—so much water, more than Harkana had seen in her entire lifetime, maybe. No wonder Feren was such a green place, so much growing. And I am queen here. She opened her mouth to let the water run into it, cold and sweet.

  Eyes closed, she listened to the water falling, to the sound of her own breathing, to the voices of the soldiers leaving the Chathair. She tried to forget the scowl on her sister’s face, the way she glared at Kepi in the throne room. Dagrun had saved Merit from the outlanders, had paid her ransom, and now Kepi wanted her gone—back to Harkana, where she belonged. Dagrun said he would dispatch her, that her sister and Shenn would be gone before the bridge burning. She trusted him. At last she believed her new husband, but she was still eager to see Merit gone. She listened to the rain and tried to forget, but she could not push the image from her thoughts: Dagrun talking to Merit, the two of them together. It left an odd feeling in her stomach and she realized it was jealousy. Dagrun was her king and her husband. Merit didn’t belong here.

  A bird cried in the distance. She caught its shadow on the wall but missed the creature itself. Looking around, she saw only damp soldiers, a little sunshine, the blackthorn swaying in the wind. A group of slaves, ones she had seen in the Chathair, scurried through the courtyard. Up ahead, there was a hole in the clouds, a bit of sun, so she stepped out onto the wet grass. The warm rays were a welcome relief. Beams of light washed the field, not burning like the sun in Harkana but softer, the light green with leaves and damp with rain.

  She felt a pang of longing for the steadier heat and light at home in Harkana and remembered the last time she and Seth had met in Blackrock, how sad and angry she had felt then. So much had changed since that night. Mithra promised His followers that everything taken from them would be restored, in this life or the next, and it was true—she had lost her father and Seth, yet gained a kingdom and perhaps a husband, as if in answer to a prayer.