A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  As the day before when her mother, Ahya, touched the old wound on her right thumb, Çeda’s tattoos came alive like burning flames. Brightest of all was the one on her right hand, given to her by Matron Zaïde to help hem in the adichara’s poison. It encircled the skin around the puckered scar and wrapped around the back of her hand. Within its elegant designs were two prophetic phrases: Bane of the unrighteous and The lost are now found.

  Soon, the other tattoos burned just as brightly. The one her left arm had been designed and inked by Sümeya: a peacock, its head bowed low. Above it, written in the old tongue, were words: Savior of Sharakhai.

  The one between her shoulder blades had been inked against her will by Dardzada. She’d thought the sign had meant bastard, but she’d learned later, from Husamettín himself, that it had meant one of many and many in one.

  Around that once-shameful tattoo was one from Leorah that recounted Çeda’s role in the Night of Endless Swords, the great battle in King’s Harbor. Mount Tauriyat, as viewed from the harbor, hovered over Dardzada’s sigil. Around it was a retelling of the battle and its consequences, including Mesut’s death at Çeda’s hands. It looked like a spread-winged falcon, the tips of the wings wrapping around Çeda’s shoulders and the rounded muscles of her upper arms.

  Her final tattoo had been given to her by Sehid-Alaz: the acacia tree which spread across her back. Its very design was made up of the names of every member of the thirteenth tribe that had been betrayed by Husamettín and the other Kings.

  What had begun as a tale of revenge had blossomed into a fight for the survival of the thirteenth tribe. But it had grown since then. Now Çeda fought for all the people of the desert—those who called Sharakhai home and those who came from the desert.

  In the past, she’d often gripped her right hand to summon the power of the desert. As she fought one of the Sharakhani Kings, there was no need for it—whatever her mother had done the day before had changed her in some fundamental way. She no longer felt as if she were commanding the desert; it felt as if the desert were commanding her.

  The hot wind gusted. The sun warmed her skin. She felt the heat of the sand and the shape of the dunes around her. She sensed Husamettín’s every blow long before it came. In that moment, she was the desert, and Husamettín, once a King of Sharakhai, was inconsequential.

  She blocked blow after thunderous blow, moving with the grace of swirling spindrift. Struck with the force of a sudden summer storm. She was the Great Mother itself, and Husamettín had no hope of standing against her.

  Husamettín retreated. He blocked River’s Daughter with Night’s Kiss, but the sword no longer seemed triumphant, it seemed cowed. Then Çeda released a series of blows that came like a landslide, unending, unrelenting.

  Husamettín fell—bloodied, wounded, and weakened from a dozen cuts. Holding Night’s Kiss across his guard, he stared up at Çeda with a mix of fear and defiance.

  Standing over him, Çeda swung River’s Daughter with such fury that Night’s Kiss was thrown from his hand.

  For one long moment, the two of them stared at one another, father and daughter, both sweating in the dry desert heat, their breathing like two jackals after a long, interminable chase. Then Husamettín’s look hardened. The sweaty hair plastered to his forehead only partially obscured the mark of the traitor. “Don’t tell me you’ve found compassion now, Çedamihn.”

  Çeda took in all those around her. The Blade Maidens. The Silver Spears. The desert tribespeople. The ships. Tauriyat and the House of Kings. Even Sharakhai itself.

  Then she looked at Husamettín.

  Gone was the enmity. Gone the hatred. Gone the regret over what she might have done, what he might have done, to reach a different outcome. All that was left in her was acceptance, and the realization that if she were a symbol of the new, he was a symbol of the old. With it came a cold certainty that sometimes, for one thing to thrive, another must die.

  That knowledge in mind, she raised River’s Daughter high and brought it down across Husamettín’s neck.

  Epilogue

  Çeda stood in Eventide’s great hall beside Emre and three hundred others. All were silent, awaiting the arrival of Sharakhai’s new Sultan.

  Çeda and Emre had been in the city for two weeks in anticipation of the coronation. She’d spent time wandering Roseridge, the bazaar, the spice market, noting the changes that had come over the city in the months since she and Emre had been gone. The bazaar and the spice market were rowdy again. Roseridge was quiet. The traffic along the Trough and the Spear and around the Wheel, the great circle at the center of the city, were as busy as ever. The city had become, dare she say it, normal, which was as deeply satisfying a feeling as she ever remembered having.

  In the great hall, Çeda wore an elegant jalabiya of auburn silk. Her thin golden belt matched the beaten coins she’d woven into her plaited hair. Emre’s tan thawb and brown khalat complemented her dress, as did the supple leather slippers and his old bracers. He’d let his hair grow back in the six months since the gateway’s closing, and it hung past his shoulders. It was unruly enough that Çeda had insisted on a golden circlet.

  Emre had objected at first, but when he’d looked in a mirror, he’d smiled. “I swear to you, Çeda, my mother must have made a deal with the gods to secure so much beauty.”

  Çeda had rolled her eyes.

  At the head of the hall, Shaikh Zaghran of Tribe Tulogal, the desert’s eldest statesman, entered from a small side door and stepped onto the dais bearing Yerinde’s bright spear and a red pillow, upon which lay a laurel wreath wrought from gold. Both spear and laurel wreath represented many things. Most associated the wreath with the collegia, its students, scholars, and masters, but a laurel wreath had originally symbolized peace through knowledge.

  The spear had been wielded by Yerinde and was a reminder of the grief and strife that the city and desert had endured because of the gods’ scheme. Had it been held by Yerinde only, it would represent only aggression and deceit, but it had also been wielded by Nalamae against her fellow gods, and as such had come to be seen as a righteous instrument of justice.

  The twin badges of office were opposite ends of a spectrum: war and peace, the perfect symbols for the office of the Sultan of Sharakhai.

  The first two rows of the assemblage had been left empty. In the third row were several officers of state: the High Magistrate, the Lord Commander of the Silver Spears, and the Blade Maiden’s High Warden, who was none other than Sümeya. She’d been reinstated only the day before, and seemed to have slipped back into her former role with ease.

  Çeda caught her eye and nodded. Sümeya took note of Emre, then gave her a brief, winsome smile.

  Notably missing from the hall was King Ihsan. In the weeks after the gate’s closing, he’d helped to solidify support for Davud’s bold plans, but had later gone into hiding with Ransaneh after a failed assassination attempt. Some said the remains of the Moonless Host wanted him dead. Others said it was his own house, his descendants who thought him a traitor to the old guard. Whatever the truth, he hadn’t been seen since.

  The doors opened at the back of the hall and Çeda turned to look with the rest of the audience as the procession filed in. The Protectorate Council, thirteen members of the newly elected senate, came first. Then those who’d won seats in the elections that had been held three days earlier. Last to come was their newly elected Sultan, Davud Mahzun’ava, who’d been chosen by the senators themselves.

  Davud had grown so much in the past few years, but in his smile Çeda caught a glimpse of the boy who had so impressed a collegia master that he’d sponsored Davud’s attendance at the collegia. He beamed at Çeda as he walked along the aisle toward the dais. Soon enough he was past her row and taking the steps up to the dais. Shaikh Zaghran welcomed him to his new role as guardian of the city and desert both. Others gave short speeches, and all too soon Davud was knee
ling before Zaghran, who laid the golden wreath across his brow. Davud rose, Zaghran gave him the spear, and the crowd whistled and cheered, some calling out high ululations in the style of the desert tribes.

  A celebration followed. Finger food was served: huge, pitted olives stuffed with spicy peppers; lemon crackers topped with sharp cheese and dusted with saffron and dill; roasted skewers of onions, tomatoes, and cubes of lamb that had been marinated in orange, lime, and rosemary, then roasted to perfection. Drinks of all sorts were on offer, including a dozen varieties of fine araq. Near the serving table, Shaikh Zaghran seemed to be having fun with several local senators, who were pitting the araq made in Sharakhai against the famed Tulogal blend. In one corner of the room, a group of men and women were sampling the latest fashion imported from Kundhun: fermented and dried tabbaq leaves, bundled tight and smoked like a pipe.

  The room was alive with conversation, and it was joyous. It was hopeful. Çeda spoke with many who were there to celebrate Davud’s coronation. Djaga was one who’d come representing Kundhun, as she had during the peace talks. Çeda spoke with her for a long while, trading old stories of their fights in the pits and sharing memories of Osman when he was in his prime. Juvaan Xin-Lei had come to offer the congratulations of Queen Alansal and to sign the first official trade agreement, which would apparently be ratified by the senate in the coming days as one of its first official acts. King Emir of Malasan had also sent a dignitary. Qaimir, the last of the four kingdoms surrounding the Great Shangazi, was represented by Ramahd Amansir.

  Çeda was standing with Emre, Shaikh Aríz, and Frail Lemi, who was regaling three stunningly beautiful women with how he’d traded blows with Thaash, the god of war himself, when she spotted Ramahd heading toward their group bearing two glasses of rosé.

  Çeda squeezed Emre’s arm and broke away. “I thought you’d tired of the desert,” she said to Ramahd as they met halfway.

  “I did. I still am.” He cast his gaze across the room and breathed deeply. “But there’s something about it that never leaves you.”

  Çeda smiled. “I know what you mean.”

  He held a glass out to Çeda. “From Qaimir. From the winery I bought on my return.”

  Çeda accepted the glass, noting, as she had several times over the past few weeks, how miraculously free of pain her right hand was. In the days following the gateway’s closure, the ever-present ache had lessened more and more until it had simply disappeared. She sipped the wine, enjoying the pear and persimmon that finished with a sweet, cut-grass aftertaste. “So, a winery . . . ?”

  Ramahd smiled. “A winery.”

  “You had no desire to reside in Santrión?” Santrión was the palace in Qaimir’s capital, Almadan, the seat of King Hektor’s power.

  Ramahd laughed. “I may have been wrong about never wanting to visit the Great Shangazi again, but I can honestly say that pulling on the levers of power holds no allure for me.”

  “Did it ever?”

  He sipped his wine and shrugged. “In truth, yes, some. But those days are behind me. I’m content by the sea. I’m content to visit my vineyard and walk along the rows of grapes.”

  “Content with your new wife?”

  When news of Meryam’s death reached Qaimir, the royal houses had entered a period of escalating tensions that threatened to boil over into an internecine war. King Hektor had quelled the unrest capably, sometimes ruthlessly, and as part of the negotiations for a lasting peace had arranged for Ramahd’s marriage. Ramahd, surprisingly, had willingly agreed to it.

  “Lila is a fine woman,” he said to Çeda. “We’ve come to respect one another.”

  “Not love?”

  “Love may come in time.” He motioned with his glass to Emre, who was laughing as Frail Lemi gesticulated wildly. “And you? Are you content?”

  Çeda and Emre had both taken on the role of shaikh. As had been done in the desert from time to time, they ruled the thirteenth tribe together. It wasn’t always easy; they were still trying to find the right balance, but it was coming. And in the meantime, they’d sailed to several fellow tribes, partially to discuss the future of the desert but also to enjoy her wonders. They’d gone to see the famed golden lake in the northern reaches of the Great Shangazi. Then the sprawling field where round geodes could be found and broken open to reveal a galaxy of fine blue crystals. Çeda had taken Emre to the salt flats where Ahya had taken her when she was young. They’d picked up the tiny shrimp and fed the blazing blues together.

  “I am content,” Çeda finally said.

  Before Ramahd could say more, Davud himself arrived. “Thank you for coming, Lord Amansir,” he said. “Might I steal Çeda away?”

  Ramahd bowed. “Of course.”

  Davud, still wearing his golden wreath, held out his arm. When Çeda took it, he led her up to the empty dais. For a time, the two of them were silent as the sound of lively conversation enveloped them. It wasn’t for lack of anything to say—Çeda knew there was something important Davud wished to speak to her about. But he, like Çeda, was letting the moment sink in.

  “I have a proposal,” he finally said.

  “I hope you’re not going to ask me to be a senator.” Though some of the shaikhs had agreed to do so, Çeda had decided the role wasn’t right for her. She’d feel beholden. She’d start to resent the position. She and Emre had nominated the Shieldwife, Jenise, for the position instead.

  “No, not a senator. Difficulties have arisen in negotiations with the hardline shaikhs.”

  Çeda frowned. “I’m a shaikh now, Davud.”

  “I know, but you’re also from Sharakhai. I need someone who can help craft policies that benefit the desert and the city. Anything we draft would still need revisions, of course, it’s just . . .” He paused. “You’re from both worlds, Çeda. I trust you. And so do the shaikhs. I see it in them, even the ones who were once aligned with Hamid. I need someone who can champion a union, not just within her own tribe, but all the tribes.”

  Çeda considered it. “I’ll need to talk to Emre.”

  “Of course.”

  She was sure Emre would agree. He cared about Sharakhai as much as she did. In fact, this felt like the perfect place for them both. “Then I accept, pending my discussion with my better half.”

  Davud’s smile was as broad as it was infectious. “You’ll become a diplomat yet, Çeda.”

  “You take that back, Davud Mahzun’ava.”

  He laughed, and they clinked glasses and drank.

  “Speaking of diplomats,” Çeda said, “has there been any word of Ihsan?”

  Davud’s stunningly beautiful wife, Esmeray, came to the foot of the dais with a look of impatience. She had a long, straight scar on her left cheek, evidence of the cut she’d received from Thaash’s blade during the battle for the gateway. Davud nodded to her and waved, a plea for patience. “No one has seen him in months. For all I know he’s dead.”

  “And his daughter?”

  “Gone as well. We’re still searching. I’ll let you know if we find him, but with his affliction . . .”

  His words trailed away, the implication clear. Like Nayyan, Ihsan had been stricken with the black mould after drinking so many of the elixirs they’d made together. The affliction had advanced quickly in Nayyan, and even Dardzada thought Ihsan would have succumbed to it by now.

  “Oh, and I have something for you.” Davud retrieved a package wrapped in sage-green linen and tied with a blue ribbon from a small table nearby and handed it to Çeda. “It’s a present.”

  It was heavy and rather book-shaped. “From whom?”

  “From Willem. He’s finished Fezek’s work. I must admit, it almost does the whole affair justice.” He tapped the package. “The two of them made real magic together.”

  Çeda unwrapped it to find a leatherbound book. The script was gorgeous. “Willem penned it himself?”<
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  “He did.”

  “Is he here? I would like to meet him properly.”

  “He doesn’t do well in situations like this”—Davud raised his forefinger to Esmeray, who was staring knives at Davud—“but he sends his fondest wishes.”

  “Send him mine in return,” Çeda said.

  “I will,” Davud promised, and with that he left.

  After the grand affair following Davud’s coronation was over, Çeda and Emre stayed overnight in the palace. Çeda spoke to him about Davud’s offer, and Emre quickly agreed. In the morning, Davud met with them and begged them to meet with Tribe Rafik, whose shaikh was still frustrated by the territorial lines that had been drawn up as part of Alliance.

  They left Eventide late that morning in a carriage and were dropped off at King’s Harbor, where they walked along the quays toward the Red Bride. Royal galleons dominated the harbor, obscuring the Bride until they came near. Their yacht looked like a skiff in comparison to the great ships of war. The harbor’s doors, recently rebuilt, stood open, a sign of peaceful times.

  As Çeda stared up at Eventide, wondering over all that had happened, Emre gripped her hand tightly. “Did you leave the hatch open?” He sounded worried.

  She looked and saw that the hatch leading into the ship was open. “No, I locked it when we left.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Neither of them wore swords, but both bore knives. They drew them as they neared the ship. Çeda slipped down the ladder carefully, wary of thieves or assassins, and when she reached the forward cabin, she discerned a figure in the shadows. As her vision adjusted to the relative darkness, she saw a handsome man of forty or so summers with tightly cut hair sitting in one of the cabin’s two simple wooden chairs. He wore a thawb, its hood currently bunched around his shoulders, and was bouncing a child on one knee, a child who’d grown quite a bit in the months since Çeda had last seen her.