Chapter Four: The Palace of the Sun
"And the Sun saw our indolence. It witnessed the ways in which we desecrated our vaulted traditions with wanton depravity. It felt the defilement of our purity when we opened our gates to foreigners. It felt our strength shrivel as we begged our women to bleat nonsense into our ears, their fatuous intellect guiding us towards destruction.
"The Sun mourned our decay. It suffered the loss of our devotion. And then a righteous fury swelled within it. It swore to punish us for our moral failings, and by doing so, it would save us from ourselves."
The sun priest's voice rose, thunderous in its conviction. He paced the courtyard, his holy regalia swirling around him. The precious metals decorating his headdress glittered and chimed with every emphatic wave of his hand, adding to his esteemed piety. He was his sermon, and thus he was divine.
The young soldier buttoned his lips and smothered the yawn pressing in his chest.
He stood at attention at the rear of the noble congregation, his hands clasped behind his back. The guest of honor who wasn't allowed to sit. Not that he cared to lounge on silk pillows or indulge in flowing linen raiment in the noonday heat. He just wished it hadn't been so utterly boring.
"…And the Sun imbued the peaceful machines with its wrath, compelling them to act against their nature and slaughter us with impunity…"
He frowned. Now that he thought about it, flowing linen raiment did sound appealing. Really anything other than the stiff military uniform and ceremonial armor that was slowly roasting him alive. Sweat dappled his hairline, and he felt one droplet break into a trickle which creeped down his cheek. He breathed in the first pungent wisps of his growing body odor and wrinkled his nose with disgust. Its lingering miasma made him wonder how their delicate perfumes and incense would fare before the might of his armpits. Not well, he supposed.
"…The Sun shone down on the virtuous Jiran, our glorious sun-king, and illuminated the path to our redemption in the shadow of the Spire. A path purified with blood…"
Another yawn brewed in his chest, and his eyes watered as he tried to press it back down unnoticed.
"…is his name, but you may know him as the hero whose arrows struck with the valor of the Sun at Cinnabar Sands. Please welcome him."
Expectant silence fell over the congregation, and they inclined their attention towards him, their faces painted with aloof curiosity.
He stood there, eyeing them in return, and a blush that wasn't from the heat warmed his cheeks.
"The priest just announced your audience with the sun-king," Fashav whispered behind him, irritation rising in his voice. "Get up there. Now."
The young soldier snapped forward, his idle thoughts evaporating. In their stead, he felt an unexpected knot of anxiety tighten in his gut, something he hadn't felt in a long time. When the orders arrived in Chainscrape demanding that he and Fashav return to Meridian for an award ceremony, he was proud. His personal mantra on being the Sundom's arrow gave him purpose, but to have it manifest as recognition by the sun-king and his courtiers was like watching the sun rise in the west. It was an honor. The earned fruition of his commitment and proof that he could be… seen.
And yet, the Utaru girl seeped into his thoughts, her accusations tarnishing the moment's luster.
He marched past the luxuriating nobility filling the shady courtyard, their bodies reveling in lavish comfort, and his mind flashed to the mangled Carja soldiers blown apart on a desert field. Here were the archers and they were the arrows. A world between them.
He approached the terraced balcony at the head of the courtyard. Geometric solar motifs wound their way through its metalwork railings, and beyond them, he spied a verdant view of Carja's lowland jungles. Men reclined on the plush chaises and chairs lining the balcony, their finely crafted headdresses revealing more about their exalted stations than any title. They watched him with polite indifference, his moment of transcendence a mere obligation to them. An appointment to be kept. A duty fulfilled.
Except for one.
He was an imposing man, broad with muscle and sinew, and he glared at the young soldier, his cruel eyes so pale that they glowed in the sunlight. The young soldier could feel the calculus being weighed. As if this man were an archer filling his quiver. Or a raptor sighting its prey.
He looked away, his nerves prickling.
His boots were crisp as he climbed the stone steps to the balcony, and they softened to a whisper as he crossed hand-knotted silk rugs. When he reached the ornate throne trimmed with gold, he knelt onto one knee and waited.
And Sun-King Jiran stood up.
His solar crown fanned out around his head, its layered rays glinting. Silken regalia draped his shoulders and hung from the sash at his waist. Rare machine pieces fashioned into wings framed his linen pants and his gold-plated boots shined with more wealth than any noble Carjan could dream of.
He was the king. The Sun-King.
The knot of anxiety in the young soldier's gut tightened, but there was a new twinge now. Something that went beyond nobles spilling blood from the comfort of Meridian. It crept up his spine and bore deep into his hindbrain. His fists clenched and his pulse thundered in his ears.
"Welcome, my hero of Cinnabar Sands," Jiran said, his elbows akimbo and his hands elegantly poised in front of him. "It is my honor to have a warrior of such valor and daring in my court today. A beacon who stood against the ignorant savages to the west and turned a massacre into a triumph."
Polite applause rippled through the courtyard. It grated in the young soldier's ears, like broken shards of glass rasping together. And he felt his perspective shift from being seen in recognition to being exposed. He felt trapped and laid bare before the enemy, and he stared at the ground, his breathing shallow and tight.
Jiran continued. "That even though the insidious enemy attempted to harness the machine derangement to their advantage, it was no match before the might of the Sun and my arrow that day. This victory is proof that my will to cleanse the Sundom is the Sun's will, and so I will continue to purify my lands with blood until we are restored to moral supremacy once more."
A councilor approached the sun-king, a feathered headdress offered in his hands.
"But to fulfill my righteous destiny," Jiran said, gesturing to the young soldier, "I need bold men to be my weapons. So, it is a great honor that I now claim you as my own—"
He touched him on the shoulder.
The young soldier blinked, and he was in the sunlit room. Except now he was sitting in the chair with a folded gown on his lap. Slowly, he looked up to discover the sun-king, but his eyes were now silver instead of brown.
Suddenly, he was on his feet, scrambling back, his eyes wide with terror. His chest shuddered as he gasped for air, his stifling uniform and the hot weather intensifying his panic. His hands clambered for a sword hilt or a bow on his back, but he found nothing except regret and worthless armor. He searched the balcony desperate for a weapon and snatched up a silver platter, sending olives and dates scattering across the ground.
Some men seated on the balcony sprang up, edging towards Jiran, putting their bodies between him and the young soldier. Others simply gawked. The cruel-eyed man glared from his seat, his lips pursed with dissatisfaction.
The staccato clap of boots echoed in the courtyard as a squad of royal guards sprinted for the balcony, their swords drawn.
"Wait!" Fashav shouted, running out ahead of them. He put himself between their swords and the young soldier, his arms wide and palms out. "Everyone calm down. No one is going to hurt anyone, especially not the sun-king. So, put your swords away."
The guardsmen pressed forward, their blades menacing.
"Your grace!" Fashav said, a plea in his voice, "My sincerest apologies for this disruption, but let me guide the hero who saved my life and many others back to our quarters."
Jiran stared at them, his expression stony and unreadable.
"If his valor is worth as much as you decreed," Fashav added, licking his lips, "Then he deserves this chance to recover. And after that, he can redeem himself. Just as our great Sundom has redeemed itself before the Sun through sacrifice."
Jiran remained, unmoved.
"Please, your grace. He's just a boy."
At that, Jiran sighed, and he waved a hand dismissively. "Very well. Take him away."
The guardsmen hesitated, but a glance from the cruel-eyed man lowered their swords, though they refused to sheathe them.
Fashav blew out a shaky breath. Then he turned his back to them, his attention falling to the young soldier. His hands hovered in front of him as if he wanted to clasp him by the shoulders. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay. This isn't the battlefield. There's no one to fight."
The young soldier panted. He yanked at the collar of his suffocating uniform, snapping the ties, and cool air flowed in. It brushed against his sweat-drenched throat and chest, chilling his skin, and his lungs began to fill. His breathing eased, and he swallowed down on the panic until it was just a knot of anxiety again.
"You're okay," Fashav repeated.
The young soldier nodded, but he still gripped the platter close, his knuckles white.
"And you can keep that," Fashav said, gesturing to it, "We've been out here for hours, and you're probably starving. We'll get some food, okay?"
The young soldier nodded again.
"Come on," Fashav said, and he headed down the steps. The young soldier followed, and the guards parted like fish before sharks.
OOOOOOOOOO
The silver platter sat on the table, its selection of fruits and olives untouched.
The young soldier leaned against the wall of his palace quarters, a dagger balanced tip-down on an outstretched finger. Late afternoon light filtered in through the windows and gauzy curtains rippled in the breeze. The room, with its crisp bed and furniture, looked near perfect. Nothing disturbed except for the wash bin and towel he'd found in the cupboard.
The breeze ruffled his damp hair and tugged at his linen undershirt. But the refreshing sensations seemed to swirl around him, unable to defuse the tension coiling inside. Anger and humiliation warred within his mind, and his jaw ached from clenching.
He had found his calling when he joined the army. It had given him purpose to be their weapon. An arrow for them to aim at their enemies. And he had struck with such overwhelming violence, that the sun-king himself wanted claim him for his personal guard.
But when Jiran touched him on the shoulder, the young soldier knew what that meant.
Possession.
He would belong to him.
Muffled voices filled the hallway outside, and his attention snapped to the door. He flipped the dagger in the air and snatched it by the handle. Then he approached the door, his bare feet silent on the tile floor.
"I know it was your doing, Helis," Fashav said, his scathing tone clear despite the thick plaster walls. "You set this whole ceremony up."
Helis scoffed. "The sun-king wanted to reward the hero who crushed the western heathens in battle at Cinnabar Sands. You're delusional if you believe I had any hand in this debacle beyond watching it unfold."
"You had every hand in it," Fashav snapped. "I told you before the ceremony, he's a boy. Years younger than the legal standard for the army. And from the way he killed two of our men when we tried to rescue him from the field proves that the gruesome reality of war is only the beginning of what he's been through."
"You make it sound like he's made of glass," Helis said. "He just needs structure. If he were to become one of my kestrels—"
Fashav laughed mirthlessly. "He's going north. If you try to subvert my transfer orders and induct him into your nest of sociopaths, you might find that he'll run you through as easily as he would an enemy."
"Now you truly do speak foolishness…"
"Do you think I'm exaggerating?" Fashav asked. "What did you think was about to happen at your little ceremony? I've seen him fight. I've seen the ruthlessness. The only thing those guards would have done was provide him with more weapons to slaughter everyone there. Even the sun-king's invincible champion. Then Jiran himself."
"Ludicrous," Helis said, but there was a pensiveness to his voice. Something akin to doubt.
"Leave him alone for now," Fashav said. "With time and some distance from the most volatile war fronts, he may mature into a warrior befitting of the sun-king's prestigious guard. Perhaps he'll be a fellow champion-in-arms. But until then, let him ripen on his own first."
Footfalls thumped down the hallway, their sound diminishing with distance.
The young soldier backed up as the door swung open.
Fashav gasped as he stepped inside. "Holy fuck, kid!"
The young soldier watched him silently.
"Are you going to stab me with that?" Fashav asked, pointing to the dagger. "Because I have a few final prayers I'd like to say before I turn towards the sun."
"I thought you said you weren't afraid of me?" he asked.
"First off, you were vomiting in bed when I said that. Secondly, being afraid and acting on that fear are separate matters. It's okay to be afraid and not act like an idiot about it. So… does that dagger have a sheath or are you just going to keep waving it around?"
The young soldier smirked, then sheathed the blade into the scabbard at his belt.
"Thank you," Fashav said, strolling past him into the room.
"I'm being transferred? Going north?"
Fashav turned back, spying at him from over his shoulder. "You heard us?"
The young soldier nodded.
Fashav shrugged. "After Cinnabar Sands, and more so about what happened earlier today, I think you might benefit from a less active war front. The Banuk are excellent fighters, but the west and the east are famous for a reason."
"Are you transferring there as well?" He hadn't intended to sound hopeful, and it was surprising to hear the sentiment in his own voice.
Fashav's expression softened. "No, I'll be heading back out west for a special mission at the sun-king's request. The situation has deteriorated even more since we left. Barren Light may fall. If I can somehow smooth relations with the Tenakth and Utaru tribes, then perhaps there will be something to salvage."
The young soldier looked to the window, and the growing radiance of the setting sun.
"But before I go," Fashav said warmly, "I have something for you."
He turned back to him, his brow furrowing. Then he saw it. The splendid headdress the councilman had brought to the ceremony. Perfectly carved machine pieces fashioned into a crest capped with brilliant, red feathers. Fashav had hidden it with his body when he entered, and the young soldier wondered if the captain's talk about fear was meant to distract him so that the gift would remain a surprise.
"Well?" Fashav asked, holding the headdress out for him to take.
"I thought," he began, his voice quavering just the slightest, "After what happened…"
"That's why I'm giving it to you. I meant everything I said to the sun-king today. When I spoke about your valor and how you saved our lives. It's what he should have said to you, Hero of Cinnabar Sands. The Sundom's Arrow. So, take it. You've earned nothing less."
And the young soldier reached out and accepted his gift. The first he had ever received.