A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Husamettín seemed to take this news in his stride, but Ihsan looked dumbstruck. “Zhenyang?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Davud replied. “It’s a powder that binds the water dancers to one another and reveals truths to them.”

  “And what, may I ask, is zhenyang made from?”

  Like Davud, Queen Alansal seemed intrigued by Ihsan’s strange reaction. Çeda suspected the queen understood how important the answer was, not only to Ihsan but to them all, or she never would have answered. With a wave toward the massive beasts whose legs were still churning to help keep the harbor door closed, she said, “We grind it from the tusks of the mighty gui shan.”

  Ihsan, focused on Alansal, was more intense than Çeda had ever seen him. “Do you have more of it?”

  “Yes,” Alansal said stiffly. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I believe we can use it to awaken Ashael.”

  Alansal’s eyes narrowed. “Awaken him?”

  Ihsan nodded. “At the Hollow, I spoke to the goddess, Rhia. I offered to take Meryam’s place, in a gambit to learn more about this very day. She declined my offer, but I came to understand that the young gods fear Ashael’s awakening.”

  “With good reason.” Alansal waved toward the harbor doors. “Who can predict what Ashael might do if awakened? The way to end this is not to awaken a sleeping giant, but to kill Meryam, then lead the god back to his resting place.”

  “But how?” King Hektor asked. “And who’s to say Ashael won’t awaken when we do kill her?”

  “Precisely,” Ihsan said while peering intently into Alansal’s expressive eyes. “How do you suppose an elder god will react when awoken in such a violent way? If we wake him, though, he may see us as his liberators. We could reason with him. He might return to the Hollow so that he may find his rest once more.”

  “Or he may finish what he’s begun,” Alansal countered, “and complete the work of the young gods for them.”

  “Perhaps,” Ihsan conceded, “but if so, then we’ll be no worse off than we are now.”

  There was a long silence. Husamettín was the first to agree. “I can prepare an assault against the horde in case this fails.”

  Nayyan nodded. For Çeda’s part, she’d already agreed to this approach after the battle in the desert, so she gave her assent for the desert tribes. King Hektor followed for Qaimir.

  Finally, Queen Alansal bowed her head. “I’ll have the powder brought here.”

  “This is all well and good,” Çeda said, “but it doesn’t solve the larger problem.” She motioned to the glittering column of light on the slopes of Tauriyat above them. “Whatever happens with Ashael, the gateway is still open.”

  “Sadly, that’s true,” Davud said. “I’ve been trying to find a way to close it since you left the city.” He told them of his recent experiments, and how the asirim had given their lives in hopes of finding the secret. “I even saw a vision of your mother,” he said to Çeda.

  Çeda went suddenly stiff. “My mother?”

  He nodded. “You probably don’t remember, but Ahya came to me once in the bazaar. She sent me to find you.”

  “I remember, but”—Çeda felt so confused; first the acacia granted visions of her mother and now this—“why would you have seen a vision of her?”

  “I thought one of the asirim triggered it at first, someone who’d known her in life, but now I think it was just my subconscious dredging up memories.”

  “Did you have any other visions of other people?”

  Davud, looking helpless, shook his head. “No.”

  “Then why—?”

  Before Çeda could finish the thought, Frail Lemi bulled his way into the circle. He towered over everyone present, even Husamettín. “It’s Nalamae,” he said breathlessly. “She’s awake.” He pointed toward the wounded on their skiffs and sleighs. “She just opened her eyes, looked about, and started walking toward the gates.”

  Emre looked completely flustered. “Did she say anything?”

  “She said she’s buying us time”—Frail Lemi turned awkwardly toward Queen Nayyan—“and that she’ll be ready for you when it’s time.”

  The blood drained from Ihsan’s face. “She said what?”

  Before Lemi could respond, a thunderous boom came from the harbor doors. Nalamae stood before them, holding her adamantine spear. She pointed the spear toward the doors, and its head grew bright as a newborn star. The soldiers nearest her cringed and averted their gaze. Some retreated. As the space began to clear, Nalamae pressed a hand to the shell of the gui shans, and the beasts trumpeted, then lumbered away.

  Another boom came, and this one cracked the foundations of the towers to either side of the gates. The third sundered the doors themselves. They broke apart and flew inward in lethal splinters, revealing the horde beyond, although none rushed forward. The demons had cleared a path for Ashael, who floated into the gap where the doors had once stood.

  He stared down with bandaged eyes and the strange black spike sticking out of his chest. Nalamae stood defiant, her spear raised. As she’d been in the desert, Nalamae was lifted into the air, but this time she seemed ready. She held her spear across her body with both hands. The light from the spear’s head grew brighter, then brighter still, like a comet ready to strike.

  For the first time, Ashael spoke. His words were resonant, spoken in an elder tongue now lost to the desert. A deep, mystical feeling came with it. Çeda’s eyes fluttered from it. She became aware of her musculature, her bones, her blood as it coursed though her veins. It made her right hand ache so much she groaned from it.

  Whatever Ashael was saying, it was clear from the tenseness in Nalamae’s frame she was fighting him, but how long could she possibly last?

  Realizing the others were caught in the same spell of wonder, Çeda spoke in a loud, clear voice, “Nalamae said she’s giving us time.” As their eyes regained clarity, she motioned to Queen Alansal and Davud. “Best we make use of it.”

  Chapter 49

  Ihsan returned to himself with Çeda’s words. Like others, he’d been lulled to inaction by the timbre of Ashael’s sonorous voice. Indeed, the thousands of soldiers around him stood spellbound. But as more awoke and roused their neighbors, their ragtag fighting force was returning to action.

  The message Frail Lemi had relayed from the goddess still echoed in Ihsan’s mind. Why would Nalamae be waiting for Nayyan? His first thought, the one that frightened him the most, was that it was to do with the black mould, the fact that she was dying. He was about to ask Nayyan about it when he noticed Davud drawing a sigil in the air. A few paces ahead of him, a triangular portal opened. Through it, Ihsan saw a large, empty hall, once King Kiral’s audience chamber in Eventide. In the hall’s center, a delicate woman lay unmoving on a bed. A grid of bamboo pipes hung from the ceiling.

  Davud stepped through the slowly rotating portal, picked up a wooden box from the floor and returned the way he came. The portal shrunk behind him. “The zhenyang,” he said, holding the box out to Ihsan. He jutted his chin toward the struggle playing out between Nalamae and Ashael. “Whatever you plan to do, you’d better do it now.”

  The group of leaders had dispersed, each to prepare as they could and to relay orders. But Nayyan had remained close by and so had Çeda. The two were speaking—what about, Ihsan couldn’t say.

  He accepted the box from Davud. “What will you do?”

  The wind gusted, momentarily plastering Davud’s curly hair to his head. Behind him, the spinning portal reopened. The view through it now showed the gateway itself, bright and shimmering like a waterfall. “I’ll keep the gateway from opening for as long as I can.” Davud stepped through the portal. “I’ll leave this open so that you or any of the others can follow.”

  As Davud was lost from sight and the portal continued its slow rotation, Ihsan looked at the peacock design on the wo
oden box’s lid. His heart beat madly as he levered it open. A high-pitched tone began to ring in his ears, temporarily occluding Ashael’s percussive speech. He took a healthy pinch of the white powder and lifted it to his nose. It smelled of cedar and myrrh and musty root vegetables.

  He inhaled it, and the world around him changed.

  All about, the soldiers, the horde, the gods struggling against one another, the dunebreakers, the sweep of buildings beyond the piers and quays became sharper. Shapes were limned in rainbow hues, bright, almost painful to look upon. The cold air prickled against his skin. Ashael’s words felt so much deeper, so much more meaningful. He felt as if he were on the very verge of understanding them.

  “Ihsan?”

  He shivered and turned. Nayyan stood several paces away. In one hand she held a crossbow, its string already cocked. In her other she held a headless crossbow bolt and a piece of cloth, used to create a bolt known as a powderhead. The cloth’s seams were sewn with thin thread so that its contents, when affixed to an arrow or crossbow bolt, would burst on impact. Blade Maidens used them to deliver various powders: some burst into clouds to hide their movements, others burned their victims’ eyes and throats.

  “We should prepare,” Nayyan said.

  After setting the loaded crossbow onto the sand and pinching the bolt beneath one arm, she cupped the cloth in both hands. “Pour some in here,” she said, jutting her chin toward the box.

  Ihsan was about to comply, but paused. The clarity the zhenyang had granted him had put several things in stark relief. Nayyan’s movements were clipped, as if she were anxious. Her lips were pressed together, as she sometimes did when she hadn’t yet worked up the courage to tell him something. Coupled with the way Çeda was flexing her right hand, and the way Nayyan was favoring her left side—undoubtedly pained by the malignant growth inside her—their purpose became suddenly and abundantly clear.

  Ihsan had planned to use the powder against Ashael himself. He could see now Nayyan wanted to be the one to do it. And Çeda, having summoned the power of the desert, was there to ensure he didn’t stop her.

  Ihsan closed the inlaid box. “You’re not going,” he said to Nayyan. “I am.” Çeda stepped forward, and Ihsan stepped back, keeping her at a distance. He spoke again. “Do you hear me, Nayyan? You’re not going. I am.”

  Nayyan smiled sadly. “I’m sorry, Ihsan, but this once, you’re not getting your way.”

  On some unseen signal, the two of them darted toward him.

  The pain in Ihsan’s mouth had eased to a dull ache, but it flared back to life as he summoned his power. “Stop,” he commanded them. “Stop!”

  It worked to a degree. Nayyan slowed, but Çeda was able to resist and kept coming. Ihsan tried to avoid her, but Çeda was too strong, too fast. She grabbed his wrist and though he attempted to wriggle free, he was no match for her. She was just wrenching one arm behind his back when Nayyan recovered and snatched the box from his opposite hand.

  In a blink, Çeda had him in an arm lock. She wrenched it painfully to keep him in place. “I’m sorry, Ihsan.”

  Her words sounded dull and meaningless. He focused on Nayyan. Only on Nayyan. “Please don’t do this,” he said to her. He didn’t bother using his power. A command would only delay what was happening.

  Eerily calm, Nayyan laid the cloth on the sand, poured a helping of powder onto it, and wrapped it carefully. Only after she’d tied the payload to the end of the crossbow bolt and set the bolt into the crossbow’s channel did she lift her gaze to meet his. There was no regret in her eyes, only sadness and tears.

  Her gaze flitted up to the gateway’s bright, shining column. “See this done, Ihsan”—she caressed his cheek—“then take care of our daughter.”

  Ihsan searched for the right words. He would say anything to go in her place. He nearly confessed his secret—the words were right there, begging to be spoken: I have the black mould, too, and one day it will consume me as it nearly has you. He could prove it. He could show her the inside of his mouth, and she might relent.

  And yet the confession died on his lips. He didn’t need the clarity of zhenyang to recognize two inescapable truths: first, that Nayyan was dying, and second, that this was her dying wish. She was sacrificing herself that others, including Ihsan, including their daughter, might live.

  With that knowledge, he reached a calm acceptance. “You’re the most obstinate person I’ve ever met,” he said with a smile. “You know that, don’t you?”

  The quip was one he’d leveled against her often over the years. “And you’re the most devious,” she said with a smile that matched his own. Then their smiles faded, and she was stepping forward and kissing him. “I’ll be waiting for you,” she whispered, “you and Ransaneh, both.” She kissed him again, then stepped back.

  “Go well,” Ihsan said.

  With that she turned and jogged toward the fray. Only when she was out of earshot did Çeda release him.

  Nalamae still hung in the air before Ashael. Her spear suddenly glowed brighter. Ashael’s deep, unknowable words paused, and he seemed transfixed, oblivious to Nayyan’s approach. But then his bandaged head swiveled until his gaze was fixed on her, as she set her stance and sighted along the crossbow.

  “No!” Nalamae screamed as Ashael raised one hand high.

  A flash of light came from her spear, so bright it burned. Ihsan was forced to throw a hand up against it, and Ashael reeled.

  Nayyan’s crossbow twanged. The bolt sped through the air and Ashael lashed out. A wave of darkness spread from his hand, striking Nalamae, Nayyan, and many beyond.

  Nalamae dropped to the sand. Nayyan crumpled and lay unmoving.

  But the crossbow bolt continued its flight and struck Ashael in the chest, just above the black spike and blood-encrusted wound. A cloud of white powder burst into the air. Ashael staggered backward. He threw his head from side to side, his horns sweeping the air and his arms waving wildly, as if he were fending off an unseen foe.

  A heartbeat passed. Then two. Ashael’s movements stilled. He rose upright, still floating above the ground, still bowed over the terrible wound in his chest. Reaching up, he touched the bandages covering his eyes, as if he’d only just realized they were there.

  Then, with slow, deliberate care, he began to unwind them.

  Chapter 50

  Meryam floated in the midst of the horde, borne through the air by the spell Ashael had cast after she’d lost her fleet to Ramahd’s pathetic gambit. The necklace had made her question herself, but she’d found clarity in the moments that followed. The experience reminded her of who she was and what she wanted most. The memento of her past meant to destroy her now gave her hope. She wore the necklace as a badge of honor, a remembrance of her past, her dreams, and no one else’s.

  She heard sounds of echoing laughter, but ignored it.

  Ahead, Ashael lifted Nalamae into the air, spoke to her in an ancient tongue. It was a dangerous turn of events. Very, very dangerous. Meryam didn’t understand the tongue they spoke, but she bid Ashael to view Nalamae’s answers as defiant, aggressive, even bellicose. Ashael reacted with ill temper at first, but more and more his mood was turning to one of curiosity, reflection, and, worst of all, suspicion. He was starting to unravel the dream Meryam had built around him.

  Fearing that leaving him to his own devices would see all her plans unraveled, Meryam toyed with Ashael’s emotions. She made him think the goddess was biding her time, gathering her power, and that she would soon strike. Kill her, she willed him. Kill her and be done with it.

  It was a terrible mistake.

  In the dream, Meryam had cast herself as Ashael’s high priestess, a woman eager to witness the sacking of the golden city. It had worked thus far, but the moment she urged Ashael to kill Nalamae, he stopped speaking, swung his head toward Meryam, and stared down with his sightless gaze. The demons around Mer
yam turned as well.

  She had no choice but to play the part of the submissive priestess. Ashael would tire of Nalamae. Or Nalamae would attack him. Only a little while longer and he would destroy the goddess and Sharakhai would be Meryam’s. So she remained quiet, she remained still.

  Ashael eventually returned his attention to Nalamae but his discontent grew the longer they spoke. There was a tinge of fear as well, which sparked memories of deep pain and anguish. Just what had caused that pain, Ashael wasn’t certain, but he was scratching at it, picking at the scab to uncover the wound.

  It won’t be long now, Yasmine said.

  Be quiet, Yasmine.

  Soon you’ll join me.

  I said be quiet.

  Then we’ll go and see father together. Won’t it be grand?

  “Be quiet, Yasmine!” she shouted.

  The demon near her, an eyeless monstrosity that smelled like a charnel, turned her way.

  Meryam ignored it. Her offensive had come to a complete standstill. The horde had retreated, cringing from the bright light of Nalamae’s spear. And Ashael was close to piercing the veil of his dream.

  She had to find a way to make him angry once more. She needed him to lay waste to Sharakhai’s defenders, including Nalamae, and she saw the perfect excuse mere moments later. Queen Nayyan, wearing a violet battle dress, was sprinting toward Ashael with a crossbow. She stopped, lifted the crossbow to her shoulder, and sighted along it.

  Worry flared in Ashael’s mind. He cast his hand before him, and a dark wave rushed outward, striking Nalamae and slaying Queen Nayyan. It killed many beyond her as well, felling them like the sweep of a mighty scythe. But it didn’t touch the bolt streaking toward him. Nalamae had used her power to protect it.

  The bolt struck Ashael high in the chest and a white powder burst from the point of impact in an uneven cloud. The elder god reeled from it. He shook his head as if he were being assaulted, but what Meryam felt within him was worse. The veil of his dream was being torn to shreds. Ashael was confused at first—struggling to discern reality from dream—but he was starting to piece it together. Memories ordered themselves within his mind: his struggle with the other elders, his abandonment, his long sleep followed by an awakening and a journey to the edges of a city that had been born half an age after the other gods had left the world.