A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  On reaching the pit’s mouth, he knelt at the edge and opened the small leather purse that held a little of the black powder. He’d deduced that it was made from the filings of Goezhen’s horn. Horn was used in many rituals in the desert, some of them to honor Rhia herself. And the powder had already proven it was related to dreams. In fact, it was so perfect an offering it felt as if Rhia were summoning him, not the other way around.

  He pinched what powder he could between his thumb and forefinger, then lifted it to his nose. Worried he’d be drawn into Ashael’s dream, he kept his eyes fixed on the moon’s mottled surface above him and sniffed, first one nostril, then the other.

  The world shifted. He soon found himself standing not in the desert, but on a plateau on the shoulders of Mount Tauriyat. He and his fellow Kings, including Sehid-Alaz of the thirteenth tribe, stood in a line. Kiral King of Kings was pleading with the gods for help to save Sharakhai from the tribal invaders. Bakhi and Tulathan listened with calm expressions on their graceful faces. Thaash stood behind them, silent and grave, his well muscled arms crossed over his chest. Goezhen stood apart, his twin tails beating strange rhythms against the mountain’s dry, rocky ground. Yerinde, casting her gaze over the gathered Sharakhani men and women, looked hungry, as though she wanted to devour the entire assemblage—devour them, or bed them.

  Rhia, the one Ihsan cared about most, peered down the line of Kings with a quizzical expression, looking from King to King until she landed on Ihsan. The look in her moonlit eyes, so dreamy a moment ago, became piercing.

  She took a half step toward him and spoke within his mind. Where dost thou stand?

  That fateful night, four centuries earlier, was still clear in Ihsan’s mind. He didn’t remember Rhia speaking to him in this way. Even so, it dawned on Ihsan that this was no dream, but a visitation. “I stand in a different place,” he said, “a different time.”

  Her eyes relaxed and understanding dawned. Of course.

  Ihsan motioned to Kiral, who continued to speak. “I’ve come to ask you about the end. About Ashael.”

  Rhia blinked. Her lips parted, opening in the shape of a circle as if she’d forgotten what she was about to say. He hast risen.

  “He has.”

  Her face softened. The end draws nigh, then.

  Nearby, King Kiral fell silent, and the Kings waited for the gods’ answer to his plea. Tulathan spoke, but the words were soft and distant. None seemed to notice the conversation taking place between Ihsan and Rhia.

  “The end is very near,” Ihsan said, “but you have yet to reach the gate. You have yet to reach the farther fields. There is still much that remains in doubt.”

  Rhia’s eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared. What is it that remains in doubt?

  “A woman of royal blood, Meryam, controls Ashael. What will she do with him? Will the elder wake from his dream? What will he do if he does?”

  Why hast thou come, oh King of Deepened Vale?

  “Because the desert stands on the very brink. Its fate could tip either way. I know the danger you run by meddling in the affairs of mortals. I understand you don’t wish to be bound to this earth. Even now, you’re uncertain whether what you’ve done will prevent you from crossing.”

  Goezhen’s jaundiced eyes passed over Ihsan. A low growl emanated from his throat. Thaash’s jaw worked while his sword hand flexed.

  Rhia glanced at them, then returned her dreamy gaze to Ihsan. Tell me what you wish.

  “I want to be the one to open the gateway.” Ihsan’s heart had never beat so rapidly as it did then. “I want to pave your way to the farther fields.”

  All eyes turned toward Ihsan and his conversation with Rhia. The silence stretched on and on.

  If what thou sayest is true, Rhia said, if the desert indeed stands on the very brink, what need do we have for another?

  “The woman you chose is unstable,” Ihsan said easily. “Ramahd, her dead sister’s husband, is on his way to stop her now, and he has with him some of Goezhen’s horn, the very thing Meryam is using to control Ashael. Ramahd may very well succeed. But if I went, with your blessing, I could stop him with but a word and take Meryam’s place. You could be assured that I would work to see you pass to the land beyond.”

  Why wouldst we do so, oh King?

  Ihsan steeled himself. They’d arrived at the most dangerous part of his plan. “Because you made a bargain: you gave the desert to me and my brother Kings. I’m asking you to fulfill that bargain. I would go forth willingly, to protect your long investment with no need for you to interfere. It would guarantee you reached the land beyond, to be reunited with the elders.”

  Rhia’s gaze drifted from his eyes to his lips. And thou wouldst survive the mould that threatens to devour thee, as wouldst thy queen and thy child.

  “Yes,” Ihsan said, suddenly more aware of the ache inside his mouth. “Ashael can heal us of our affliction. We can live for as long as we wish.”

  Yet thou must know the fate of Sharakhai. Rhia’s gaze deepened. Thou must know what happens to the desert at the moment of our parting.

  Ihsan stood taller. “We would have Ashael to protect us.”

  Sharakhai would still perish. Not even Ashael can save all. Wouldst thou live without thy home?

  “We can remake Sharakhai, this time in our image. People would flock to it.”

  Why dost thou think anything from the gods is owed thee?

  Ihsan laughed. “Was I not instrumental in your plans? Did I not help you in your manipulations of Ahyanesh and her daughter, Çedamihn? Did I not aid in the Moonless Host’s rise to prominence? Did my actions not lead to the thirteenth tribe’s rebirth and the conflicts that followed? I ensured the crystal would shatter, thereby forging the pathway to the land beyond. I ensured the desert was led to a point where you and your fellow gods stand on the very doorstep of your dreams, your entry to the farther fields.”

  For long moments Rhia was silent. As the cold desert wind toyed with her golden hair, three of the other gods moved to stand behind her—Tulathan, Bakhi, and Thaash; those who, outside of the dream, yet lived. Goezhen and Yerinde, meanwhile, stepped back, deeper into the darkness.

  “The gate has been opened. Your dreams might yet be fulfilled.” Ihsan paused, composing himself. Everything rode on his next words. “Or they could crumble before your eyes. It all depends on what I choose to do next, and whether or not you agree to help me.”

  Rhia’s face turned cross. Nay, King of Three. The events we’ve set into motion can no longer be denied.

  “You chose to awaken Ashael because he has power. You chose him because you think he will widen the gateway. I can stop him, should I choose. My voice still carries power. One word from me and Meryam will lose her place as Ashael’s puppet master. One word from me and your dreams will turn to dust.”

  Rhia blinked, then drew breath so sharply it sounded like a sword being stabbed into the sand. She cast her gaze about, over the Kings, her fellow gods, the gathered mortals, as if she were reevaluating everything that had happened since Beht Ihman.

  Her eyes finally drifted to the leather purse in his hands. Dost thou think thyself ready to wield the key to dreaming?

  “I’ve already proven I can.”

  Rhia laughed and waved to the plateau around them. Dost thou think this akin to the subtleties required manipulate an elder? That the stuff of dreams is akin to the truths found in the waking world?

  “Meryam mastered it.”

  For years hath she walked the ways of the slumbering mind, whereas thou . . . Despite thine own dreams, thine ambitions, thou hast always been rooted in reality.

  The scene around Ihsan began to dissolve.

  “Stop!” he said desperately. “I can learn!”

  No, she said, and the dream faded altogether.

  “Wait!” Ihsan cried, stepping toward her.


  But it was too late. She was gone, and Ihsan was teetering on the edge of a bottomless pit. He swung his arms and managed to catch himself. Knees shaking, he dropped to the ground and rolled away. For long moments all he could do was stare at the night sky while his breath came in short, rapid bursts.

  Only when his pounding heart began to quell did he realize that Rhia’s moon was gone from the sky, replaced by Tulathan’s bright silver coin. Ihsan lay on the stony ground a long while, recounting the conversation and what it meant. He kept returning to the question she’d posed: Dost thou think thyself ready to wield the key to dreaming?

  He was certain he’d heard it before, but he couldn’t put his finger on where. He focused on what he’d learned instead. He’d gone into the conversation hoping to find something, anything, that might help him stop the gods from achieving their goals. He’d hoped to threaten them, provoke, knowing he was taking his life into his own hands by doing so, but feeling it was necessary to determine where the gods stood.

  The effort had been far from fruitless.

  The fact that Rhia wouldn’t consider replacing Meryam with him, a willing participant in their plans, was an indication that they felt their plans secure. More revealing was Rhia’s reaction to his threat to stop Meryam if they didn’t agree. Had Rhia had any room to maneuver, had she been able to prevent him without endangering their goal of reaching the farther fields, she would have done so.

  The gods had reached a point where they were no longer willing to perform even the smallest of acts that might bind them to this world. It wasn’t much of an edge, but it was something.

  The powder now gone, Ihsan tossed the leather bag into the pit and made for the ship. It was time to return to the royal navy. Meryam might have gone to Mazandir to retake her fleet, but she would soon set her sights on Sharakhai. At most, Ihsan had a handful of days to find a way to stop her and Ashael. Fail in that and the streets of the city would be bathed in blood.

  Chapter 35

  The buzzing that so often plagued Hamid’s thoughts had all but vanished during his escape. It returned with a vengeance near midday, when a line of warriors appeared along the slopes of Mount Arasal.

  He watched through a gap between two massive boulders as hundreds upon hundreds of men and women, all geared for war, walked the path down toward the desert’s grand basin. Tribe Khiyanat came first with Çeda, Emre, Frail Lemi, and the she-devil, Shal’alara, at their lead. Tribe Kadri came next, then Kenan, Narazid, and Okan. On and on they marched, tribe after tribe.

  All bloody thirteen of them. The buzzing in Hamid’s head intensified. The alliance has held, and on the word of two craven fools.

  The tribes were preparing to sail for Sharakhai, where they would no doubt throw their might against the city’s occupiers, Mirea and Malasan. And for what? To help the city’s highborn, people who’d stood by for centuries while the Kings pressed their knees to the necks of the desert tribes?

  Hamid spat onto the dry earth next to him. “Let them burn,” he said in a low voice. “We’ll drive out what remains and put the city to the torch.”

  But the tribes marched on, oblivious to his wishes.

  He ducked as a woman with a spyglass scanned the slope where he was hiding. He waited for several breaths, then peered carefully between the rocks and saw her spyglass swing elsewhere.

  Likely she was searching for him. He needed to take care over the next few days. He’d barely escaped the valley earlier. He’d seen the visions Çeda had summoned up from the acacia. He’d felt the surprise and anger of those watching, then seen it on their faces when the visions faded. Moments later, he’d been drawn into the strange vision of Meryam and the tall being, clearly a god, and the demonic host that had issued from the black pit’s open maw.

  There was no denying that vision’s power—for a time, he’d been as entranced as everyone else—but his anger over having his past laid bare for all to see had thrown him from it. For long moments, he’d stood there while those around him remained stock still, eyes wide, mouths hanging open. He considered slitting Çeda’s throat, Emre’s too, but feared the moment he did the visions would end, and he would be caught red-handed, literally, so he’d sprinted away instead. He’d only just made it to the tree line when the shaikhs and all those around them had awoken bleary-eyed.

  They searched for him, but he knew the valley well and escaped along little-known paths. He made his way toward the desert, planning to hide on Rasime’s ship until she returned. He’d even made it halfway there when the first of the warriors took to the path leading down from the valley. Caught on the slopes, he’d had no choice but to wait until they passed. It took nearly three hours.

  Then came a new surprise: a line of twenty men and women, chained together, being led down to the sand. All of them were ardent defenders of Hamid’s plan to burn Sharakhai down, so it came as no surprise when Hamid spotted Darius and Rasime among them. Darius looked defeated, Rasime defiant. The others looked as though their anger was burning so brightly they hoped to storm their captors and die fighting.

  Hamid lost sight of them as they were led into the fleet of ships. They were the core of his support, the ones who’d helped him overthrow Macide and the elders who bowed to him. It was unclear why the shaikhs would have decided to take them on this journey. Perhaps a combination of wanting to give them a proper trial and not wanting to leave them in the valley with those who remained. Whatever the reason, it was a stroke of good luck—if he could free them, all might not be lost.

  By midday the tribes had boarded their ships. An hour later, they sailed away. Hamid was bitter, but gods, the sheer scale of it. A single fleet comprised of warriors from every corner of the desert. It was an awesome display of power.

  “And it should have been mine.” The buzzing rose so high it made Hamid cringe. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing it to pass. “It should all have been mine.”

  By the time the fleet had diminished in the west, dusk had arrived. When it was fully dark, Hamid hiked to a bay where he’d secreted a skiff stocked with enough water and rations for two weeks’ sail. As Rhia rose, a slanted sickle in the east, he lifted the skiff’s mast into position and set sail.

  The buzzing finally started to fade, and as the winds bore him over the desert he began to calculate. There was a good chance it would be several days before anything happened to Darius, Rasime, or the others. The shaikhs would be consumed with planning their arrival in Sharakhai. Then they’d hold some sham trial, which might also take a day or two. In that time Hamid could free Darius and possibly Rasime.

  Together, they might reach out to Shaikh Valtim and secure his allegiance. Three, maybe four other shaikhs would follow. What happened in the valley wasn’t the end. It was a delay, a temporary reprieve for Emre, Çeda, and that brainless stack of muscles, Frail Lemi.

  He made steady progress over the next two nights. Each morning saw him closer to the fleet than the previous. On the third day, worried the trials would happen soon if they hadn’t already, he braved the sands early. It was a risk—he might be seen by scout ships—but he needed to catch up and still have enough time during the night to find Darius.

  He kept near the taller dunes when he could. Twice he saw scout ships cutting a line across the desert. Both times he steered behind the nearest dune and laid the skiff’s mast down. Neither ship, thank the gods, appeared to have seen him, and when night fell, he sailed quickly on.

  The gods smiled on him again as he neared the fleet. A thin layer of clouds blanketed the heavens, reducing Tulathan to little more than a glowing wisp in the fog. He anchored a quarter league away from the fleet and proceeded on foot. The camp had not yet settled: he could hear music, tambours and ouds and mournful doudouks. Fires stitched a haphazard line across the fleet’s nebulous shape.

  He made his way toward the head of the fleet, where the Khiyanat ships would likely be a
nchored, and spotted the Red Bride near the Amaranth. The buzzing, so faint these past few days, returned with a vengeance.

  Between the two ships, sitting around a fire, were Emre, Çeda, Frail Lemi, the two bloody Blade Maidens, and several shaikhs, Neylana, Dayan, and Aríz among them. Dardzada waddled near and plopped his bulk down by Neylana. The two held hands briefly, then Dardzada launched into some tale while the others looked on with amused expressions. They laughed when Dardzada threw his good arm into the air and made a sound like a fire pot exploding. A few clapped their knees. Several women trilled a high ululation. Then one of the Maidens—the big one, Kameyl—began a tale of her own.

  How he wished he could sneak up behind them and take his kenshar to their throats. He wanted to feel the resistance as the keen edge slid through their flesh, feel it ease as each stroke neared its completion. He wanted them to watch their own lifeblood pour onto the sand.

  The buzzing rose so high he felt rattled by it and pressed his fists against his temples. He beat his skull, willing it to go away. His breath was coming so rapidly he was forced to retreat lest he be heard. He left them to their stories, their camaraderie, and hid alone in the darkness until the revelry wound down.

  Eventually the music faded. Sand was kicked over flames. Fires winked out, one by one, until only a few remained. Hamid waited for the heavy silence of a fleet at rest before heading toward the Burning Sand, the ketch that had once been Rasime’s. The ship had been altered. The shutters along the forward cabins had been replaced with iron bars. Goezhen’s sweet kiss, they’d turned it into a prison ship.

  As sure as the desert was dry, that was where Darius and the others were being kept. He watched it for a while, wary of guards, but saw none. Likely they were onboard, perhaps in the captain’s cabin. He’d go there first. Slit their necks before—