A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Soon, the only people missing from the pavilion were King Husamettín and Queen Alansal. An uncomfortable feeling started to settle in Çeda’s gut when someone new entered—perhaps the last person she would have expected. It was Djaga, her old mentor from the pits. Çeda hadn’t seen her in years. She looked older, and her black, kinky hair had a lot more gray in it, but she was still fit, her frame a match for any of the muscular statues on display in Thaash’s temple.

  “What are you doing here?” Çeda said as she stood and embraced her.

  “I was asked not to tell,” she said in her thick Kundhuni accent. She held Çeda’s at arm’s length and looked her up and down with clear maternal pride. “You’ve done me proud, girl. It nearly makes me forget all the skis you ruined on my skiffs.”

  Çeda laughed, remembering what a poor sandswoman she’d been at the time. “I can come wax them if you’d like.”

  “A woman of honor would do just that!”

  “Then I will.”

  Djaga winked. “I’ll brew the tea while you work off your debt.”

  Çeda wanted to speak further but was interrupted by the arrival of a Malasani man wearing a chiton of orange and blue, who bore a striking resemblance to King Emir of Malasan. Djaga waved to him, and the two sat together.

  Next to enter were Juvaan Xin-Lei, Queen Alansal’s chief diplomat, and Davud. Juvaan cut a lithe figure. His bone-white skin and straight white hair were a stark contrast to Davud’s darker skin and curly brown mop. Juvaan was regal, commanding, and yet Davud, who’d come wearing the robes of a collegia scholar, was every bit his equal. Davud seemed wise beyond his years, and confident as a king.

  “We’re missing one,” Davud said on taking stock of those in attendance.

  King Husamettín had yet to arrive.

  Moments later, Çeda saw him through the pavilion’s flaps. He wore his black armor and turban. Night’s Kiss hung at his side. He was speaking with several Blade Maidens, including the First Warden. After sharing a few words in parting, he entered the pavilion. He looked much as he had when Çeda first met him: like an intense, strong-willed man of precision. The only thing that had changed about him was the mark of the traitor, the scar that had been carved by Kameyl upon his forehead. His turban was wrapped lower than it had once been, but the mark was still visible between and above his eyebrows.

  As he surveyed those in attendance, his grave look turned flinty. “Where is your queen?” he asked Juvaan.

  Davud answered. “I’ll explain in a moment,” he said while waving to the last remaining pillow in the inner circle.

  Husamettín remained where he was near the entrance. “You will explain now.”

  Davud, perfectly composed, bowed his head. “Queen Alansal has been presented with an offer, an offer she seems inclined to accept, if all parties are in agreement.” He tipped his head politely to Juvaan. “Which is why Juvaan is here in her place.”

  “She sends an ambassador to speak at a council of Kings?”

  “She sent her ambassador,” Juvaan said in flawless Sharakhan, “to carry your decision back to her. I am here as an observer, King Husamettín, to hear your reply to an offer of mutually beneficial arrangement which she has already nominally accepted. Not only is her presence not required, she felt it might detract from your deliberations. So please”—he motioned to the full gathering—“discuss. Deliberate. When you’re ready, I’ll take your answer to my queen.”

  Though it was unconventional, the approach seemed reasonable given the circumstances, though apparently Husamettín didn’t agree. As his attention swung to Davud, his look darkened even further and the scar on his forehead turned red. “An arrangement she has already nominally accepted . . .”

  “Yes,” Davud replied.

  “An offer crafted by whom?”

  “By me.”

  It was difficult to read Davud’s intentions. He must know that any sign that he, a collegia scholar and a blood mage, might be challenging or manipulating the others in the tent might provoke Husamettín. For one of the original Kings of Sharakhai, it was a given that someone like Davud would be deferential. But the way Davud was standing, tall and proud, and the way he stared unflinchingly into Husamettín’s eyes spoke of a man ready to challenge, so much so that Çeda was intrigued by what he might have offered Queen Alansal, and what it would mean for Sharakhai and the desert.

  “You were not granted authority to negotiate on our behalf.”

  “And you were not granted the right to sacrifice an entire people for your benefit, and yet that’s precisely what you and your fellow Kings did. The scales were tipped too far on that night, centuries ago. It’s time they were righted.”

  Husamettín gave Davud a good, long look. “And how does a scholar from the collegia propose they be righted?”

  “By giving voice to all people of the desert. As a show of good faith, the armies of Mirea, Malasan, Kundhun, and Qaimir will leave the desert in peace. They will respect the borders that were in place before the war began.”

  “And assuming they do?” asked King Ihsan, his tone making it clear he was prompting Davud.

  “They will receive better trade rights than they enjoyed in the past,” Davud replied. “They will be allowed to trade with one another more freely at certain caravanserais, avoiding the need for travel to Sharakhai. This will create a boom in trade, which will spur industry, which will create even greater trade, thus offsetting the loss in increased taxes that we’re proposing.”

  Davud became more and more animated as he spoke. His eyes lit up as he described his plan in greater detail. It was clear that he not only understood every aspect of what he was saying, he believed in it.

  “That trade will be further enhanced in the years to come by a pact between our universities: we will openly share knowledge on engineering, alchemy, and the red ways, so that all may prosper. We’ll set up a program to exchange students, scholars, and masters. We’ll share in certain sciences, including architecture, city planning, and ship building, so that we can all capitalize on advances. Within a handful of years of its implementation, this plan will offer vast benefits to each of our five nations.”

  He waved to King Hektor, Djaga, and the Malasani nobleman, who was surely there to represent King Emir’s interests. Djaga, Çeda now understood, had come as an ambassador for Kundhun. She had no doubt already been communicating with the Kundhuni warlords in the city.

  “And you propose that we, the Kings, simply let you conduct such a program?” Husamettín asked.

  “No,” Davud said. “I’m proposing that a new government sanction and provide initial funding for it.”

  “A government?”

  “Yes, a parliamentary system in which everyone, the people of the city and the desert tribes have representation. Power will be derived from an overarching covenant, which will be drafted and ratified by an interim parliament made up of—”

  “You think to take power from the Kings,” Husamettín declared flatly.

  “Power has already been taken from the Kings,” Davud said evenly. “Taken from all of us. At the moment, all we have is by leave of Queen Alansal, who has agreed that the city will not be ceded to her unless we agree to move forward with this plan.”

  “Your plan.”

  “Mine and others.” Davud waved to Willem, who was furiously taking notes. “Willem played a major part in the early drafting. As did others: collegia masters who’ve specialized in governance, others who’ve studied economics, caravan masters and experts from the tribes, including the daughter of Shaikh Zaghran, who spends as much time in Sharakhai as she does in the desert. We’ve spoken to magistrates, to leaders of industry, to the peace-minded political leaders in the Shallows.”

  “You would do away with the royal houses.”

  “No. They and the tribal shaikhs would all be given seats in a body known as the Hou
se of Stone. Those titles will be passed down by blood, and others may be given by appointment if they so choose. Another body, the House of Sand, will have its appointees elected by various constituencies.”

  “Constituencies chosen by whom?”

  “The dividing lines in Sharakhai would be chosen by the interim government. The desert is already divided into thirteen tribes. And so the people of Sharakhai, the desert, the thirteen shaikhs, and the traditional royal houses would all be represented in the new—”

  “And the House of Kings would cease to be.”

  Davud tilted his head in an expression of denial that avoided outright confrontation. “I wouldn’t put it that way. The current head of each house would still—”

  “And who would rule?” Husamettín’s flinty eyes scanned those sitting on around the circle. “You? Çeda?” His gaze paused as he came to Aríz. “A shaikh?”

  Davud collected himself. He and everyone in the pavilion knew this was where Husamettín had been headed all along. “No one person would rule,” Davud said carefully, “not completely—”

  “You would have a head of state?”

  Davud nodded. “A Sultan, yes.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “The Sultan will be chosen by the senators from the House of Sand and the House of Stone.” From the table where Willem was sitting, Davud picked up a stack of papers. He walked toward Husamettín and held it out to him. “It’s all here, described in detail. It’s subject to change. I’d like your opinion.”

  Husamettín took the stack of papers. A cheerless smile had formed on his lips. “Subject to change.”

  Davud nodded. “We can make adjustments to make this fair for everyone.”

  In all her time with Husamettín, Çeda had never seen him laugh. But he did then. His whole body shook from it.

  Ihsan stood. “Husamettín, I’ve read it. You should too.”

  But Husamettín cut him off. “You think that I would stand by and allow this to happen when it was me—me!—who found a way to win back the city?”

  Ihsan waved to Çeda, Aríz, and the other shaikhs. “I seem to recall the tribal alliance playing a rather large part in it.”

  “You think I would stand by and let another take my throne?”

  “Our time is ended, Husamettín. Surely—”

  Ihsan never finished. He reeled back, arms raised, as Husamettín threw the papers at him. They scattered over the carpets, over those gathered in a circle to talk of peace.

  “Never,” he snapped, and marched out.

  Those in the pavilion stared at one another. No one was shocked by Husamettín’s reaction. Not really. All had known he would be the least accepting of change.

  Çeda went after him. “You can’t do this,” she called as she ducked beneath the pavilion’s flaps.

  He glanced over his shoulder, but kept on marching, stopping only when Çeda ran ahead to put herself between him and the galleons, his destination.

  “Won’t you at least read it?”

  “No, I won’t.” He put two fingers to his lips and whistled loudly. Çeda turned to see his galleons, ships of the royal navy, obeying his order and making preparations to sail. Husamettín had clearly sensed something like this was in the offing.

  “You knew this day would come,” Çeda said. “You knew, even on Beht Ihman, that one day the House of Kings would fall. The only question was whether it would be from within or without.” Çeda waved toward the harbor, to the dunebreakers and the palaces on Tauriyat. “As it turns out, it was both. It crumbled from within for centuries, and your enemies took advantage of that. But all is not lost. Sharakhai is wounded, but it can heal. Her greatness can be restored.”

  “On that count, at least, you’re right. It can and it will.”

  “Not like that.” Çeda waved to the royal galleons beyond the arc of wounded ships. “Not with you as the lone King.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen,” Husamettín said coolly. Behind Çeda, the sound of winches could be heard, the clatter and clank of rigging being drawn through pulleys, the ruffle of sails catching the wind. “I’m going to board my ship. My fleet is going to sail, and then we’re going to take back the city, no matter the cost. Fear not, it won’t take long. Alansal was already weakening, and she won’t hold a city she knows she cannot keep. Once the city is won, the House of Kings shall rule, as it has for centuries, and we will make those who’ve betrayed us pay for it in blood. That is Sharakhai’s future.”

  He tried to bull past her, but Çeda placed herself in his path again.

  “I can’t let you do that,” she said.

  He tried again, and this time grabbed the front of Çeda’s armor. He tried to throw her over his hip, but Çeda had been expecting it. She gripped his armor tight and brought him down with her.

  He rolled away and came up with Night’s Kiss in his hand. The sword thrummed strangely, as if it were laughing.

  Çeda held her hands up, still keeping herself between Husamettín and the fleet. Behind her, several Blade Maidens had approached. They stopped when Husamettín raised one hand. Behind Husamettín were Sümeya, Emre, Davud, and the others. All had worried looks on their faces. Willem looked horror-stricken. Kameyl came from the Red Bride, looking ready to draw her shamshir and fight alongside Çeda, but she dropped her hand from the pommel of her sword when Çeda motioned for her to stand down.

  “It doesn’t have to go this way,” Çeda said.

  “Oh, I think it does.”

  He took a step forward. When Çeda didn’t retreat, he lunged with such blinding speed that his sword cut into her leather breastplate, the ebon steel ringing against the bright steel studs.

  He swung again, but in a flash, Çeda drew River’s Daughter and blocked it.

  “In a way, you’re helping me.” Husamettín pointed to the assembly behind him. “You, more than any of them, represent the resurgence of the desert tribes. You, more than anyone, represent the fall of the Kings. And when you die by my sword, they’ll see it for the fatuous dream it always was.”

  He charged and they traded blows, the sort of quick strikes one gives an enemy while feeling them out.

  As they regained their distance, Çeda became aware of how keenly everyone was watching, not just those on the sand nearby, but the soldiers on the royal galleons, the warriors on the tribal ships, the Mirean soldiers standing on the harbor walls.

  He was right, Çeda realized. As much as she hated to admit it, she was a symbol. And killing her would send a terrible signal to those in the desert and the city, both.

  “You want symbols?” Çeda asked. “Why don’t we start with the truth about you?”

  She charged, feinting low then striking high. When he blocked and riposted, she was ready. River’s Daughter met Night’s Kiss halfway along its length. Catching his blade against her crossguard, she powered toward him until she was close enough to reach up and grab his turban. She yanked it free as she danced away, leaving his long, peppery hair to fall about his shoulders.

  Revealed was the mark of the traitor on his forehead, which Kameyl had carved into his skin after realizing that everything Çeda had been telling her about the Kings was true: that they’d made a bargain with the desert gods on Beht Ihman, that they’d sacrificed the thirteenth tribe to secure it, that they’d kept them enslaved for centuries while claiming they were the city’s holy warriors, sent by the gods to protect it.

  Husamettín’s face turned red. Many knew about the mark, but such was his force of will, his gravitas, that as long as it had been covered, most ignored it. To those who believed in him, he was a force of nature: unbreakable as granite, vengeful as an ehrekh, permanent as Tauriyat itself.

  Exposing the scar that a former Blade Maiden had given him was something else. There was no more shameful a mark in the desert. And it showed in the way Husa
mettín’s eyes scanned the gathering ranks of Blade Maidens and Silver Spears.

  “I told you that you would pay for what you’ve done,” Çeda said to him. “To my mother. To the asirim. To the people of the thirteenth tribe and those from the west end. Your crimes are too numerous to count, but I was willing to set it all aside if you would let the city heal. I still am.”

  It was her final appeal, her thin hope that Husamettín might still see reason.

  His answer was a lift of his long, two-handed shamshir, a charge, a swing that was accompanied by a full-throated battle cry.

  Çeda dodged the powerful blow. She blocked the next, then parried over and over, giving ground, hoping Husamettín would wear himself out. But he was no normal man. The power he’d been granted by the desert gods was with him still and he pushed her harder and harder. Night’s Kiss blurred. Their blades rang against one another, over and over, until Çeda’s ears were deafened by it.

  She blocked one blow poorly, and her arm went numb.

  Husamettín took advantage with a swift upward slash to set up a vicious strike that made him look as if he were trying to fell an acacia with a single blow of an axe.

  Çeda managed to block it but lost her grip on River’s Daughter in the process.

  As it went flying through the air, she backed away. A whistle came from her left, the Maiden’s signal for shield and be wary.

  She turned while retreating to see a buckler flying through the air, thrown by Sümeya. Çeda caught it, blocked two swift strikes from Husamettín, then dove away, rolling over one shoulder to retrieve River’s Daughter.

  She barely parried his next swift cut.

  They flew over the sand, trading blow after blow. And all the while Çeda saw the mark of the traitor staring back at her. It made her think of her mother, who’d been caught and hung for her crimes, having been tortured by King Cahil. Like Husamettín, Ahya had had marks cut into her skin. Whore, on her hands. False witness, on her feet. And on her forehead, a complex design that looked like a fount of water beneath a field of stars, the ancient design of the thirteenth tribe.