A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “Meet Shohreh, our new Crone,” Husamettín said.

  With that name, the reason behind the Kestrel’s stare became abundantly clear. Shohreh was the very Kestrel who’d subdued him in Zeheb’s palace those many months ago, the one who’d chased Çeda and her allies through Eventide and down the mountainside, the one Ihsan had ordered slain by the Silver Spears with the power of his voice.

  Ihsan raised his cup in a pale imitation of the salutes and nods the others were giving her. “Pray tell, what happened to your predecessor, Ulaan?”

  Shohreh’s eyes were locked on his mouth as he spoke. She was deaf, her ears put out so she would be immune to Ihsan’s commands. “She was found dead in the Shallows several weeks ago.”

  Now this is news, Ihsan thought. “A random stabbing?”

  Shohreh gave away nothing beyond a clear lack of concern about Ulaan’s death. “Apparently.”

  There was more to the story, Ihsan was sure. He would once have vowed to look into it, to make plans to neutralize the threat Shohreh represented. But there was too much else to worry about. He had more than enough threats to deal with. Shohreh would simply have to wait her turn.

  “Tell them,” Husamettín said, making sure to face Shohreh as he did so.

  “Last night, I infiltrated Eventide’s kitchen and poisoned the water dancers’ wine. All are dead save one, Alansal’s own granddaughter. She stands on the very doorway to the farther fields and likely won’t recover, and even if she does, there are no other dancers to perform the ritual with. We have effectively cut Alansal off from her prophecies.”

  “She’ll just summon more from Mirea,” Queen Sunay said with a frown.

  “Water dancers,” Ihsan jumped in, “are a rarer breed than you might imagine. There are some few in Mirea, but none as gifted as those who journeyed to Sharakhai. And without the others to train them, they may never become as gifted.”

  “It presents us with an opportunity.” Husamettín waved Shohreh to stand down. As she bowed and stepped away from the fire, Husamettín took them all in anew. “With Alansal blinded, we must press the attack on the Malasani fleet. Once they’ve been neutered, we can begin the siege on the city.”

  “Besieging our own city,” King Alaşan scoffed. “Who would have thought to see the day?”

  “We’ll begin with a series of riots,” Husamettín said, “to see how prepared they are to handle civil unrest. If they react as I think they will, a second wave will be even larger and bloodier. It will allow us to—”

  He was interrupted by a strange trumpeting sound from the edge of the camp. Another followed, louder and closer than the first. A bluish-green light reflected off the hulls of several distant ships. It came again moments later from another location. There were shouts of alarm, crisp orders were given.

  Husamettín stood and drew Night’s Kiss, his two-handed shamshir. “Everyone, to arms!”

  The dark shamshir buzzed as it moved, the sound like a swarm of rattlewings. The blade seemed to devour the firelight. It looked like a piece of the firmament itself, fallen and forged for the King of Swords himself to wield.

  As Nayyan drew her own sword, a burst of aquamarine flame washed against the hull of a nearby ship. The crackle and whoosh of the fire were followed by screams of pain, shouts from soldiers for their squads to retreat.

  A rhythmic, thumping sound grew. Something was galloping toward them.

  “Protect the Kings!” someone bellowed.

  A moment later, a mounted soldier in lacquered armor and a grinning demon mask rounded the prow of a galleon. He had bow and arrow at the ready, his fingers already laid across the string, and he rode a qirin, a tall, four-legged creature with two coiled horns jutting back from its forehead. Its head, chest, and clawed forelegs were those of a dragon with red, iridescent scales, while its back end was that of an ivory-colored horse. Its eyes were alight and turquoise flames issued from its nostrils. Burning blue oil dripped between its sharp teeth, painting a bright, dotted line as it pounded over the sand.

  Ihsan didn’t understand everything that was happening, but he knew this much: Queen Alansal’s forces had arrived to avenge the loss of their queen’s greatest treasure. “Halt!” he shouted, putting power into that one word.

  The qirin’s charge continued, and the rider, heedless of Ihsan’s command, drew his bow and released. The arrow streaked in toward Ihsan’s chest, only to be blocked by the Kestrel, Shohreh, with a swift raise of her buckler.

  “Halt!” Ihsan yelled again.

  But the warrior kept coming. He loosed three more arrows in quick succession.

  Shohreh managed to block the first, which had been flying toward Nayyan. Husamettín, sprinting toward the mounted warrior, ducked the second arrow. The third struck King Alaşan dead in the chest.

  Alaşan stumbled backward, one hand gripping the arrow shaft. His breath whooshed from his lungs as he struck the sand, and he lay there, motionless, his breath shallow, eyes staring disbelieving into the star-filled sky.

  Husamettín continued his charge.

  “Hup hup!” called the qirin warrior, and the qirin released a blast of blue fire toward Husamettín.

  But Husamettín was ready. He dodged, then ducked the stream of flames as the qirin adjusted its aim. Then he rolled forward as the warrior with the grinning mask released another arrow.

  Husamettín grunted as it clipped his right shoulder.

  The warrior reined his qirin over, perhaps hoping to guide it away and regain proper distance. He realized his mistake a moment later. Husamettín was already close, and was swift as a hungry jackal. For a moment Ihsan saw the eyes behind the mask, and they were wide with fear.

  In a blinding move, the warrior dropped his bow and drew his straight, double edged dao. But Husamettín was already bringing Night’s Kiss down in a powerful blow. Shadows trailing behind it, the sword buzzed mightily and severed the qirin’s neck clean from its body.

  Oil gushed from the severed ends and lit with a whoosh as it touched the nearby flames. As the qirin collapsed and a cobalt fire lit along its thrashing remains, the warrior leapt free.

  The man was clearly well trained. He traded blows with Husamettín for many long seconds. But in the end, he stood no chance. After a wild parry that made a ringing sound the entire camp could hear, he bit on a feint from Husamettín. Night’s Kiss fairly growled as it cut deep into the warrior’s side.

  As he collapsed in a heap, the sounds of the greater battle began to fade, and a Blade Maiden rushed into the clearing. “They’re retreating,” the Maiden reported. “It began shortly after we engaged.”

  “It was a diversion,” Husamettín said as he regarded the dying qirin warrior. “Chase them. We need one of them alive.”

  “Yes, Your Excellence.”

  Husamettín strode to where King Alaşan lay on the sand. Queen Sunay was already there. Nayyan and Ihsan joined them. Alaşan, still breathing, stared up at Husamettín, then Ihsan, with a confused expression. He looked like he wanted to speak but did no more than choke on red froth.

  Husamettín, Ihsan, and Nayyan shared looks. The fabled draughts created by the late King Azad, Nayyan’s father, were gone. The three of them had some of the new elixirs created by Nayyan, but Ihsan wasn’t about to bring that up. Until they could regain control of the city and gather the ingredients and equipment needed to make more, their supply was limited. Husamettín, apparently of a similar mind, remained silent.

  Nayyan, meanwhile, stared down at Alaşan with an unreadable expression. There was pity in her eyes, but something more as well, a thing Ihsan could only describe as deep-seated worry.

  Alaşan went still and his eyes turned glassy.

  Queen Sunay, now glaring at Ihsan, flung a hand toward the dead qirin warrior. “Why didn’t your bloody command work?”

  Ihsan couldn’t admit how unstable his power had
become, so he shrugged. “It’s going to be difficult to find out now, but if I had to guess I would say that Queen Alansal was well aware I might be here. She likely had the warrior’s ears put out”—he waved toward Shohreh—“as our good Kestrel did on Zeheb’s orders.”

  Sunay seemed none too pleased with that answer but spoke no more of it. She spat on the qirin warrior, then turned and stalked toward her ship.

  Shohreh, meanwhile, was staring at Alaşan’s unmoving form with a haunted, almost angry expression. “His aim was true,” she said while turning toward Ihsan. “It’s fortunate I was there to save you.” With that, she spun on her heels and strode away into the darkness.

  As Alaşan was placed on a sleigh and Husamettín went to see about the fleeing qirin warriors, Ihsan and Nayyan retired to the Miscreant.

  “Would your power have worked if he could hear?” Nayyan asked Ihsan when the two of them were alone with Ransaneh.

  His first instinct was to lie, to assuage her fears by telling her his power was still intact, but one glance at Ransaneh made Ihsan rethink it. It felt like a betrayal to lie in front of his daughter.

  “I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

  Nayyan cradled Ransaneh in her arms, stared into their baby’s mismatched eyes. “The dream of us ruling the city together was once so bright.” She lay in their bunk and curled around their child. “Now I wonder if we’ll live to see our daughter become a woman.”

  Ihsan disrobed and lay across from her while Ransaneh squirmed between them. He reached out and stroked Nayyan’s hair. “Why so grim?”

  A tear slipped along one cheek. She quickly wiped it away. “The falcon is saved by the ruby-throated raptor,” she said, “after which the falcon flies west over the city, making for a great gathering of nests among the rocks, where it searches high and low for a heron.”

  She was quoting the journal entry Ihsan had been reading before their arrival. In the excitement, he’d forgotten all about it, but of course it was true: it had all just happened, all but the final part. He was the falcon who’d been saved by the kestrel. The vision foretold him going west to search for the heron.

  “It’s the western harbor,” he said in a stunned voice. “That’s where we’ll find Meryam’s trail.”

  Nayyan nodded and closed her eyes.

  Nayyan’s bleak state of mind was concerning, but he let her be and closed his eyes as well. They needed rest, that was all. Tomorrow was a new day. If they could make progress on their quest to find and stop Meryam, Nayyan would see that all was not lost.

  Chapter 18

  Çeda, Emre, and Shal’alara of the Three Blades stood side by side as Aríz, the handsome young shaikh of Tribe Kadri, stepped down the gangplank of his caravel, Autumn Rose. His thawb and turban were dyed the color of autumn leaves. Behind Aríz came Ali-Budrek, his prickly, barrel-chested vizir.

  Aríz stopped a few paces short of Çeda and raised his hands, displaying the orange tattoos on his palms, a sign of peace and welcoming. “Well met.”

  Çeda displayed her palms as well. “Well met.”

  Aríz turned to Shal’alara. Earnest grins spread across their faces as the two clasped forearms. When Aríz turned to face Emre, his smile broadened. Emre, smiling as well, embraced him. As the two of them thumped one another’s backs, Çeda suddenly found herself on the outside looking in. Aríz, Emre, and Shal’alara had been through much together over the past few years. Shal’alara had been a legend in the desert for longer than Çeda had been alive, and Emre might only have been sailing the desert a short while, but he’d blossomed in that time, becoming the man he’d only pretended to be in Sharakhai. And while Çeda had met Aríz only a handful of times, she could see how his confidence had grown since he’d become shaikh. He was filling out his thawb, as they said in the desert.

  Suddenly Frail Lemi was barreling toward them. “Fancy little shaikh with his fancy little clothes!” He proceeded to pick Aríz up, throw him over one shoulder, and spin him around.

  Ali-Budrek waved his hands and shouted for Frail Lemi to put Aríz down, but Aríz only laughed. “How long are you going to keep doing that?”

  Frail Lemi dropped him unceremoniously to the sand and steadied him. “Until I grow too old”—he patted Aríz’s belly—“or you grow too fat, like your vizir.”

  Ali-Budrek glowered. “Exaltedness, need I remind you how unbecoming it is for a shaikh to be hoisted like a sack of grain?”

  Aríz raised a hand, silencing him, then clapped Frail Lemi’s bulging arms. “Been lifting ships again, I see.”

  Frail Lemi squeezed Aríz’s biceps daintily, as if he were afraid of breaking them. “I see you haven’t. We’ll fix that, though, young falcon. We’ll fix it sure.”

  The two embraced properly, then Aríz turned to Çeda and Emre. “You’ve caused quite a stir in the desert.”

  “Well, that’s hardly our fault,” Çeda said.

  Aríz feigned surprise. “Are you saying you didn’t attack Shaikh Zaghran on his way to the valley?”

  “He attacked us,” Çeda replied evenly.

  “He knows,” Emre said. “I told him.”

  “That may be true,” Aríz said, “but Zaghran, or more accurately his wife, Tanzi, has been telling their version of the story to any who’ll listen. By now been it’s been passed around every campfire.”

  Çeda had known it would be so the moment they left Zaghran’s ships behind, but there’d been no helping it. They’d needed to delay so Emre could gather the support they needed and get a lay of the land. Go any sooner and they risked failure—Hamid had had weeks to prepare for their arrival, after all.

  “Please tell me you’ve come with our seventh vote,” Çeda said.

  Aríz nodded. “It took three frigates and a pair of our finest akhalas to convince Shaikh Valtim of Tribe Ebros, but yes, you have it.”

  Çeda didn’t know what to say at first. That Aríz would do this for her made her heart swell. “Thank you,” she said, holding her arm out.

  Aríz accepted it and the two shook much as he and Shal’alara had done a short while ago. Then Çeda pulled him in for a tight hug.

  “Thank you,” she repeated softly in his ear.

  Aríz came away with cheeks blushing. “It was nothing.”

  They set sail immediately after and arrived at the massive bay below Mount Arasal near midday. As the Amaranth, Red Bride, and Storm’s Eye sailed in and dropped anchor, thousands stopped what they were doing and watched. Çeda felt the weight of their stares as she, Aríz, Emre, Shal’alara, and Sümeya headed along the winding path leading up the mountains. Behind them came Jenise and twenty of her Shieldwives, each wearing wheat-colored turbans and battle dresses.

  By the time they reached the valley with its old stone fort, the sun was lowering in the west. The scorching heat of the desert was replaced with a pleasantly warm breeze. The surrounding peaks were tall and imposing, the slopes green, a welcome sight after weeks of sailing the endless amber sea.

  As in the bay, many in the valley stopped what they were doing and stared. Ignoring them, Aríz led Çeda and the rest to a striped pavilion, where the council of tribes was taking place. As Aríz headed inside to announce their arrival, Çeda tried to calm her nerves. Little helped save the sight of the tall acacia beyond the pavilion. The colored glass hanging from the acacia’s branches by thread of gold shimmered in the late afternoon light, dreamlike. It was a soothing reminder of Nalamae.

  “More beautiful than ever, is it not?” came a hoary voice.

  Çeda turned to see her great-grandmother, Leorah, tottering toward the pavilion with a staff in hand for support. Çeda felt a pang of sympathy on seeing how painful walking seemed to be for her. Then she noticed the staff itself. It was tall and charred, as if someone had tried to burn it. Bits of darkened crystal were worked into the head.

  “That’s Nalamae’s sta
ff,” Çeda said.

  “Was her staff.” Leorah’s proud smile revealed several missing teeth. “She gave it up. Now it’s mine.”

  Çeda waved to the fort on the slope above them. “But I saw it. It was burning in the courtyard.”

  “A goddess bore this staff for many long years.” Leorah patted the staff’s gnarled head. The massive amethyst on her right hand glimmered as she did so. “It doesn’t burn so easily.”

  Çeda smiled. She was glad it had been saved. Its burning had seemed a tragedy at the time.

  Before she could say more, the pavilion’s flaps parted and Aríz stepped outside. “Shall we?”

  After a deep breath, Çeda entered with him. Emre gave his arm to Leorah and followed. Shal’alara and Sümeya brought up the rear.

  “The sun shines on our meeting,” said Shaikh Dayan of Tribe Halarijan, a bejeweled man in a stunning green khalat. He had a curling mustache, a trimmed, pointed beard, and a pleasant smile. “Please,” he said, motioning to the gap in the large circle of men and women.

  Çeda sat on the pillows. Emre took the space beside her, while Shal’alara, Leorah, and Sümeya sat behind them.

  Two dozen others sat on similar pillows. Hamid was directly across from them. Rasime—a lithe woman, especially compared to Hamid’s husky frame—sat by his side. Shaikh Zaghran and Tanzi, both with scowls on their faces, sat to Hamid’s left. Çeda recognized the others only through descriptions Emre had given her. The style of dress, the colors, the patterns in the cloth, all varied widely. Some had jewelry around their necks and wrists. Others wore pins and brooches on their khalats, dresses, or turbans. Others had no jewelry at all, having chosen more staid garb. Most had tattoos on their faces, and the sheer variety was impressive. Some had simple designs to either side of their eyes or over the bridge of their noses; others had covered nearly every part of their face in blue or orange ink.

  Shaikh Dayan spread his arms wide. “We understand you’ve come to ask for a tribunal to be convened.”

  “I have.”

  “To adjudicate a grievance against one of our own.”