A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Ramahd took in the scene around them with an expression of awe. “Even knowing Meryam, I didn’t think it was possible. Part of me thought she’d die here.”

  “It helps when the desert gods are looking over your shoulder,” Ihsan said. “It helps when you have the body of a god as an offering as well.”

  Ramahd didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the news. “You’re well informed.”

  “As are you.”

  Ramahd told them about the long and winding path that had led him from the crystal’s breaking to the Hollow. That King Hektor was still preparing to leave the desert was a far from happy development. They could have used his help.

  As Ihsan launched into his own tale, Fezek wandered back from the edge of the pit and listened, rapt. He might be grisly to look upon, but there was a certain wonder in his clouded eyes that reminded Ihsan of children in the bazaar as they listened to storytellers spinning their tales. Ihsan finished relating their harrowing journey to the Hollow, their fight against the demons and their miraculous rescue by Ibrahim and his silver coins.

  “We just need more coins, then, ah?” Cicio smiled his cocky smile. “Throw them down the hole, let the demons follow.”

  Nayyan, ignoring the jape, ambled to the edge of the pit. “I still don’t understand how she could have managed it. A woman, her magic burned from her, managed to raise an elder god?”

  As Ihsan joined her, the warm wind played with his hair, made the cloth of his thawb snap. “Let’s not forget that the young gods knew their elders intimately. It doesn’t surprise me that Meryam managed to wake Ashael. It’s managing him now he’s awake that’s the real trick.”

  They spent hours there, searching for clues to answer either of the riddles. Ihsan debated sending a team into the pit to look for Goezhen’s body, but in the end decided against it. As curious as he was, it was simply too dangerous.

  Past midday, Yndris crouched near the edge of the pit. “There’s something here, my Lord King.”

  Ihsan came near, and Yndris motioned to a hollow in the rock near her booted feet. A black substance was pooled there. A powder. Ihsan pinched a bit of it between his thumb and forefinger. The smell was odd, like burnt pine and myrrh.

  Ramahd took a pinch of it as well. After smelling it, he sniffed it like some did with black lotus powder.

  Ihsan followed suit. And felt himself being carried away . . .

  * * *

  Ashael floated over a green landscape dotted with hills and copses of white-barked trees. Mortals would no doubt admire the artful way the wind swept over the grass. They might remark on how perfectly blue the sky was. Ashael wanted to tear it all down, see it laid to waste, which confused the god for a time. His roiling hatred felt sourceless, directionless, but he soon realized it was focused on the village in the distance.

  Yurts made of animal skin littered the landscape. Pools of water lay nearby, each with a lush verge that felt achingly familiar. On seeing his approach, the villagers ran in fear, for they knew the fate that awaited them.

  With a wave of his hand, a host of black, eyeless demons flew forth. They fell upon the village and harried the mortals, who fled in every direction. In the end, they stood no chance. One by one, the demons wrapped their wings around the head of a man, woman, or child, and attached lamprey mouths to the backs of their necks.

  Like ghuls, the mortals lumbered to the village square, where a stone altar lay. Ashael forced them to kneel before him. He savored their building terror for a time, but his hunger was unquenchable and he soon wanted more. From the arms of a mother he took a naked babe, a writhing form with downy hair the color of wheat. He lifted the babe as the mother shook her head and screamed to the heavens, smiled as the father ripped the demon from around his head and charged forward with a spear. Ashael killed him with a wave of his hand, then set the babe on the altar.

  The infant went rigid as his mother stared into Ashael’s deep-set eyes. Her heartbeat trilled, its beat rapid as the wings of a startled amberlark. Reveling in the wild quality of her fear, he placed a thumb against the babe’s chest and slowly pressed. The cries grew louder, more frantic.

  * * *

  “Ihsan!”

  Ihsan shivered. He blinked hard as the grasslands and yurts dimmed and the sound of the babe’s crying faded. The desert came back into focus around him. A hot wind blew, whistling through the standing stones. Nayyan stood before him, gripping his arms, forcing him to face her while the others watched with concern, all save Ramahd, who was staring about as if he were recovering from the same dream.

  “You saw it too?” Ihsan asked him.

  Ramahd nodded.

  Ihsan told the others what they’d seen. Breath of the desert, the sheer power Ashael had commanded. His first thought was that the black powder was a psychedelic of some sort. But no. That couldn’t be it. Or at least, it wasn’t the whole story.

  “It was Ashael’s dream,” Ramahd said, echoing Ihsan’s thoughts, “but it wasn’t his alone.”

  “It was Meryam, wasn’t it?” Ihsan guessed.

  Ramahd nodded. “I could sense her, guiding him.”

  Ihsan stared at his fingertips, smudged and blackened by the strange powder. “It’s the powder. That’s how she’s controlling him.”

  “Yes,” Ramahd said. “She hasn’t awoken him at all. He’s still asleep, lost in dreams, dreams that Meryam controls.”

  It was true, Ihsan realized. And if Meryam had become the master of his dreams, she could control Ashael. Craft his reality, and she could manipulate him like a puppet.

  He stared numbly at those standing near the pit, then swung his gaze to the Miscreant, anchored in the distance. His daughter was on that ship. Suddenly everything around him felt fragile, a landscape made of glass, ready to be shattered or altered as Meryam saw fit.

  “Meryam must know she has a tiger by the tail,” Nayyan said. “She may have found a way to control Ashael temporarily, but she must see it cannot last.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t have to,” Ramahd said.

  Nayyan frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Ramahd pointed to the mouth of the nearby pit. “The other elders drove Ashael down into that pit. Meryam might be planning to use him, then lay him down to sleep once more.”

  The idea sent chills down Ihsan’s spine. “Collect the powder,” he said to Yndris. “All of it.”

  “Yes, my Lord King.”

  As Yndris set to work, Ramahd suddenly turned south. He looked like he’d seen his own death.

  “What is it?” Ihsan asked.

  “The village from the dream. What did it remind you of?”

  Ihsan thought back. The configuration of the pools of water he’d seen in the dream. It had seemed so familiar. “Mazandir,” he said. “It reminds me of Mazandir.”

  “Yes,” Ramahd breathed. “She’s not going to Sharakhai. She’s going to Mazandir.”

  “But why?” asked Fezek in his hoary voice.

  Ramahd’s face had gone slack, his skin pale. “She wants her fleet back.” He looked like he’d been punched in the gut. “I have to go,” he said, then turned to Cicio and Fezek. “We have to warn them.”

  Ihsan was not unsympathetic to Ramahd’s cause, but he and Nayyan had their own mission to complete. After calling for a second leather purse, he poured half of the measly quantity of black powder Yndris had gathered into it. “We sail to meet the royal navy. Take this.” He held the bag out to Ramahd. “There isn’t much, but it may help.”

  Ramahd accepted it. “My thanks.”

  “You know the hills southeast of Sharakhai?”

  “I do.”

  “Join us there with any ships you manage to rescue.”

  “My thanks again.”

  Ihsan nodded gravely, then held out his hand. He felt a little hope as he stared into the Qaimiri lord’s eyes. “Ma
y the sun shine on our next meeting.”

  Ramahd clasped forearms with him. “As it has on this one.”

  It was the time-honored reply, but Ramahd seemed to mean it. Ihsan had as well. The days ahead looked bleak. Having another ally could only help Sharakhai’s chances.

  Ramahd returned to Alu’s Crown with Cicio and Fezek and set sail immediately.

  Chapter 31

  Within Eventide, Davud stood in the hall where Chow-Shian and the others had once danced beneath the falling water. The bamboo pipes still hung from the vaulted ceiling. The sound of the trickling water reminded Davud of a hidden mountain stream. Queen Alansal sat on her throne. Her dress was silver silk accented in black pearls, but the braziers spaced about lent everything a ruddy hue, making her look like a piece of steel fresh from the forge. Alansal herself, her hair fixed high, her war pins stuck through it at sharp angles, looked like a storm ready to be unleashed.

  “You requested an audience,” she said in clipped tones.

  Davud stood at the foot of the dais. “I’ve come to thank you for the news about the gateway. The information could prove valuable.” Word had come to him that morning that the guards, as instructed by Queen Alansal, had been keeping a watch on the slopes of Tauriyat. Not only had they seen evidence of the gateway, they’d seen it brightening over the days since. It was not good news. If the light was growing brighter, it meant the gateway itself was continuing to widen.

  “And my granddaughter?” Alansal said tersely. “What news of her?”

  Davud had spent the last several hours with Chow-Shian trying to heal her, to no avail. “I’m no physic,” Davud admitted. “The poison is beyond my ability to cure—beyond anyone’s, I suspect. I fear Chow-Shian has little time, which is why I’m asking permission to use her to reach the farther fields, to learn more about the gateway.”

  Alansal’s face grew piqued. “My granddaughter is not a tool for you to use as you please.”

  “I understand, but time grows short, Your Highness. The gateway widens by the day. The longer we wait, the more we risk catastrophe.”

  Alansal sneered. “Catastrophe.”

  Davud stared at her, incredulous. “Your granddaughter herself recognized the danger. She asked me to do this.”

  “You know what I think, Davud Mahzun’ava?” The queen leaned forward, her eyes piercing. “I think you use Chow-Shian’s name all too freely. I think your loyalties extend well beyond her welfare, well beyond Mirea’s.”

  “I’ve admitted as much from the beginning. I am a child of the Amber Jewel, but I can still care about Chow-Shian.”

  “My granddaughter is sick.”

  “And will not recover. Let her death have meaning.”

  “Her life has meaning!” Alansal flung a dismissive hand at Davud. “Find another way.”

  “There is no other way.”

  She jutted her chin toward the heavy tapestries that hid the windows. “Return to your bloody trees.” She leaned back in her chair with an imperious look. “You say your powers do not extend to my granddaughter’s health? Fine. But I will not allow her to become some instrument that furthers your own agenda. She will be given the time she needs to wake, or she will pass in peace.”

  Juvaan was suddenly there, taking Davud by the arm and leading him from the great hall.

  Davud didn’t resist, but called over his shoulder, “Your excellence, I beg you—”

  “Out!”

  The doors boomed shut behind them as Davud stopped and tried to appeal to Juvaan. “Please, you have to convince her to change her mind.”

  Juvaan’s smile was infuriatingly calm. “I would urge you to follow her advice for now. It will take her time to see reason.”

  “We don’t have time.”

  “Push her and you will have no chance at all.”

  “And if she never changes her mind?”

  Juvaan had taken a step back, ready to return to the audience hall, but paused at Davud’s words. “Then you’re back where you began.”

  With that he turned and strode away, his crisp footsteps echoing along the high halls. Davud stood there for long moments, shivering with impotent rage. How could Queen Alansal be so blind to the dangers that faced them?

  But as the queen’s sentries watched him, he realized how prescient Juvaan’s words were. With Alansal’s refusal, he was back to where he started—with the asirim and their passage to the farther fields.

  “Gods, why didn’t I think of it before?”

  The words had hardly escaped him before he was running toward the stables.

  * * *

  Leagues beyond Sharakhai, Davud rode an akhala with a coat of brindled iron. Ahead lay a grove of adichara, part of the blooming fields that ringed the city. Their branches clacked in the breeze as he slipped down from the saddle, headed toward an opening in the grove, and took the now-familiar path to Sehid-Alaz’s clearing. Thorns and twigs lay everywhere, evidence that the trees, brittle in death, were slowly grinding themselves to dust.

  Soon he’d reached Sehid-Alaz’s tree. Unlike its colorless brethren all around, the ancient King’s tree was still alive. There were fewer of the tiny, gray-green leaves, though, and the branches were bent, giving it a defeated look.

  When Davud called to him, Sehid-Alaz rose from his sandy grave. Like the adichara that sheltered him, he was bent, hunched over, but he listened as Davud explained his plan. Then he spoke in his hoary voice, “You wish to follow the asirim in death.”

  “I do,” Davud replied. “Your people are strong and brave. They’ve been protecting the trees and the city for weeks, but their strength is fading. We cannot save them, so let me accompany them into the land beyond, to shed light on the gateway’s nature.”

  From the pits of his dark eyes, Sehid-Alaz stared at Davud angrily, hungrily, and for the first time in a long while Davud was reminded of the asirim’s darker nature, how they used to roam the city streets and take tribute on the night of Beht Zha’ir. “Their strength may be fading,” the ancient King said, “but I will not allow them to be used.”

  Davud wasn’t particularly surprised, but he was disappointed. He had a half-dozen arguments at the ready, but before he could voice even one, a second voice echoed within his mind.

  It isn’t your choice, my King.

  Sehid-Alaz’s head turned sharply, and Davud heard the sounds of sand sifting, the branches of an adichara rattling, both muffled by the sea of dead trees. From the meticulous surveys he’d conducted, Davud was certain he knew the asir who’d spoken. His name was Jorrdan. He’d been a soothsayer for Sehid-Alaz centuries ago, and had held much sway in his court.

  “The choice is mine,” Sehid-Alaz said.

  Not in this, Jorrdan replied. In this, the choice is ours. Each of us must make our own, for there is no time left.

  Sehid-Alaz pulled himself taller. “I still rule, son of Jerran, not you.”

  Behind Davud came the sound of footsteps. Their pace was uneven, as if the one approaching was limping. A moment later, Jorrdan’s reed-thin voice filtered through the trees. “My time is near, my King. Let my death have meaning.”

  When Jorrdan entered the clearing, his back was bowed, and his head hung low, but the set of his jaw told Davud how deeply he believed in his words.

  Perhaps Sehid-Alaz saw it too. He looked suddenly afraid, as if all his efforts to shelter his people over the centuries was about to amount to nothing. “But so few of us remain. Your passage will only make it harder for the rest to aid the twisted trees.”

  “A delay will mean nothing if we cannot find a way to close the gateway.” His jaundiced eyes shifted momentarily to Davud. “We need to help, not hinder him.”

  For long moments, Sehid-Alaz stood there, resolute. Then a wave of emotion shook him and he bowed his head. Tears fell from his cheeks and pattered against the sand at his feet. Jorrdan,
tears welling in his own eyes, went to his King and embraced him.

  Davud, suddenly an unwitting interloper, averted his gaze until Sehid-Alaz recovered, broke from Jorrdan’s embrace, and took a deep breath. His eyes shifted to Davud, then back to Jorrdan. “It will be as you wish,” he said, his tone defeated, “but know that I’ll be with you.”

  Jorrdan smiled, and for a moment, the guise of a monster was stripped away, replaced by a mortal man who stood at death’s door, fearful but ready to face his fate. “I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.”

  Sehid-Alaz kissed his forehead, then stepped toward Davud. “Since you take one of my own”—he held one wrist out—“my blood will be used to fuel the ritual.”

  For a moment Davud could only stare. He felt a fool for not having considered it earlier. “Thank you, grandfather.”

  Sehid-Alaz smiled sadly, his lips a ragged line, as Davud pierced his skin with his blooding ring and sucked up the black blood that oozed from the wound. The taste was coppery but also acerbic, like a lemon gone bad, and there was something more: a note of burnt cinnamon or star anise.

  On seeing his reaction, Sehid-Alaz laughed bitterly. “What you taste is the curse of the gods.”

  No sooner had Davud sealed the wound than a deep power began to fill him. It felt familiar, but also foreign, like visiting a bazaar in some distant land that reminded one of home.

  Without another word, Sehid-Alaz stepped back and allowed the roots of his adichara to draw him back down into the earth.

  * * *

  Jorrdan accompanied Davud to Sharakhai, where they were joined by Esmeray. By the time night fell, the three of them were standing on a plateau along the mountain’s highest shoulder. Tulathan was freshly risen in the east. Above them, the vault’s grand curtain glimmered, a curtain that brightened and dimmed, sometimes occluding the light of the firmament beyond.

  Davud stared at the gateway, a column of light spearing upward from the rocky soil, and wondered if this was the very same place where the gods and the Kings had stood on the night of Beht Ihman. Shaking off his musings, he and Esmeray worked together to craft a meshwork of spells. Some focused on Esmeray. Grounding her to the real world as they did, they would allow her to draw Davud back if necessary. The other spells were focused on Davud, and would allow him to follow Jorrdan’s weakened soul to the land beyond.