“Surely, he must be stripped of his afhemate,” added Babrak, purposely holding his side like he was still in excruciating pain. “Hasn’t there been enough blood spilled because of him?”
“Only you remain before I’m done,” Muskigo bristled.
“Will you two tear apart this sacred chamber as well?” Afhem Usef asked.
More arguing broke out. Muskigo couldn’t stay out of it. He shouted, Babrak shouted, and all the afhems with them. He wasn’t even sure who he was angry at or what the sides were. Just the sight of Babrak back in his element, manipulating and twisting words—it had him seeing red again.
And then Mahraveh stood. A hush fell like a thick blanket over the gathering. She sauntered slowly down from her throne, across the room, and around the Sea Door. Muskigo’s muscles tightened as she did, and the whole room held their collective breath. Only days had passed since they’d watched Caleef Sidar Rakun leap to his death.
After a lap around the hole, Mahraveh turned and walked straight toward Muskigo. Not since the day Sidar Rakun surrendered to King Liam had Muskigo respected the Caleef as the true voice of their God. He’d never seen Sidar Rakun fall, then emerge from the sea upon the sands of a Siren, after all. A part of him had started to believe it was all games played by the palace servants.
Then his daughter fell. She died because of him, and yet, here she was, skin like polished obsidian.
“Daughter,” he said softly. There were murmurs, of course. “You have to talk to me. I had no idea Yuri would do that.”
No answer.
“You have to talk to me,” he insisted.
She stopped before him, seeming taller than ever. Her brows lifted, offering him a pitiable look that broke his heart. Then, she lay her hand upon his shoulder. Her skin was warm as freshly spilled blood.
“And we wonder why the Glass cut right through us,” she said, then she turned her neck to regard the entire room. “Always bickering. Darkings saw it all. This is what he meant by the shore that day. This is why he pushed me.”
“Darkings tried to murder you,” Muskigo said. He grasped her hand and pulled it to his cheek. The entire room gasped as if he’d stabbed her. “You’ve been alone in here too long. Whatever happened, we need to talk about it.”
Mahraveh clutched him by both sides of the face. Her forehead touched his like they used to do when she was little, and he was proud or she was frightened. It was so different then. Now, he barely felt like the elder between them.
“He set me free,” she said. She turned and addressed the rest of the afhems before he could respond. “For centuries, the faithful have trekked up our steps and thrown themselves through. A few were chosen as Caleef, and unshakeable as they were in their faith, they were not strong men. Not like all of you, sitting around this room.”
“My Caleef, surely you do not mean to spare Muskigo of all consequence?” Babrak said, then forced a pitiful groan.
“I agree,” Usef said. “It should not matter who he was before.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Mahraveh went on. “I’ve sat in here, wondering why it’s come to this. My father—despite what any of you think of him—is right, we should not bow and beg for scraps from the Glass Crown.” Mumblings of disapproval greeted her, but her glare silenced them.
“Nor should we be forced to fight them over what is rightfully ours,” Mahraveh went on. “Over these Black Sands. They want us to follow them into Iam’s light, but his gate is not for us. Has anyone in this room hoped to die and see the Gate of Light? No. Of course not. So why the games? The sand and the sea… that is where we belong. That is our fate unless we allow darkness to swallow it.”
“And we should fight for it!” Muskigo proclaimed.
“With what army?” Babrak replied. “You’ve already lost so many.”
“Stop,” Mahi demanded. She squeezed her eyelids shut as if warding off a horrible headache. “Our God… so much strength in this room, but none of us knows him. Are you even aware that He has a name?”
She looked directly at Babrak, who didn't respond. Then she turned to the rest of them. "A name that has been lost for so long, just as we have been. He speaks in riddles. I’m… trying to understand them all. What I do know, is that a power greater than the Glass Kingdom is coming.”
“Another conqueror?” Afhem Usef asked.
“Worse. Something that will drown us all and stop the Current if we don’t stop it. Everyone, Shesaitju, the Glass—everything that breathes.”
Afhem Usef stood proud. “Then we should hand Muskigo over to them as they demanded, and fortify our own cities!”
“You mean their cities?” Muskigo said, a harsh edge to his tone. “We’ll be their vassals again. Pink missionaries will trample our streets like so many mice, desperate to convert us in greater numbers than ever. Their taxes and tariffs will bury us. Again.”
“At least there will be enough of us alive for any of it to matter,” Babrak said.
“So, fear should keep crippling us?” Muskigo asked.
“We’ll all die,” Mahi said. Again, silence came. “Us against the Glass. Us against each other. We’re all going to die because we can’t stop fighting.”
Babrak struggled to stand, and the guard beside him helped. “We’ve had our differences in your past life, my Caleef. But command us, give us guidance, and we will follow.”
“Thank you for your permission,” Mahi said.
Babrak deflated noticeably. “I—I’m sorry—”
“Try as you might to follow my command, you’ll fail,” she went on. “As you always have. And not just you. I can see it, every moment where we went wrong. Caleefs displaced over disagreements. Ignored by warlords. Your ancestors wanted so intensely to be faithful, but you’re all only men in the end.”
“My Caleef, Babrak is right,” Afhem Usef said. “You need only tell us your desire, and so the Current flows.”
Mahraveh glanced at Muskigo. The fear in her returned, and he wished to go to her, hold her tight, to tell her that she no longer needed his or anyone else’s approval.
But the moment was fleeting.
“The cycle of this war amongst ourselves must end if we hope to fight what’s coming,” Mahraveh said.
“And what is coming, my Caleef?” Babrak asked.
Muskigo could tell how hard it was for him to stifle a smug grin, knowing he’d get everything he wanted.
“The end,” she muttered. “I’ve never felt such terror.”
The way she said it, with such certainty, there wasn’t much that could send a shiver up Muskigo’s spine, but that did. And he wasn’t alone. All around the room, warrior afhems regarded each other with panicked expressions. Even Babrak sat right back down.
“And we’ll never be able to face it like this,” Mahraveh said. “Fractured. No matter what any of you promises. No matter what any of you believes. There’s too much bad blood and too much history. I fought to earn the same marks as all of you, and still, nothing changed. We must march as one—as Shesaitju and nothing else. Yet to do so, there can be no more afhemates.”
Silence like a winter storm fell upon them. They stared, not even blinking until finally, Muskigo summoned the nerve to break it. “How can there be no more afhemates?”
“Each of you wears the mark of an ancient clan,” Mahraveh answered. “That mark gives you power, but as the power of one clan rises, our combined strength wanes. It is time we unite. Truly unite as one people.”
“The afhemates are our strength, my Caleef,” Babrak insisted. “The strong rise to guide our ways, the weak fade into the sands.”
“And yet, to survive—to make the Black Sands our own again—we must all be strong.” Mahraveh stared through the Sea Door, gazing at it, longingly. The more she spoke, the less Muskigo recognized her.
“Mahraveh, what are you thinking?” Muskigo asked. There'd been a time when he wouldn't have had to ask that question, when he could tell—a father’s intuition. The descent in
to the sea had changed her. She appeared exhausted, like a world-weary old warrior ready to lay down his sword and die in his sleep.
She slowly returned to her throne and sank into the seat. Then, she looked up at the Serpent Guards standing by the closed doors into the room and nodded. And that was all she needed to do.
The doors opened and in flowed dozens of Serpent Guards. More than Muskigo had ever seen in one place. Maybe all of them. They were men with sad origins, made purposeful. Unwanted children left at brothels or abandoned on the streets, found and trained by black fist masters into fearless, mindless warriors. Extensions of the Caleef’s will.
They seized Afhem Usef first, and without weapons, neither he nor the others could fight back. One held him down, while another dragged the curved blade across the man's tattoo which marked him as an afhem.
Then they took another afhem, then another, until all of them bled from their necks and heads. Some fought it, but it was no use. All his life, Muskigo had never known the purpose of the Serpent Guards when any Shesaitju warrior would die to protect the Caleef. Now, he knew that he’d simply never known a Caleef fierce enough to use them to their fullest potential.
They came for Muskigo and he knew, of any of the afhems, that maybe he could resist. He knew their art of war, was trained in the same manner, but he let them push down his head and scrape away the mark he’d fought so hard to earn. Babrak squealed like a stuck boar across the room as the same happened to him.
It would have given Muskigo at least an ounce of satisfaction as he tried to ignore the horrible pain of being skinned, if not for Mahraveh. She didn’t look away. She watched as all the warlords, the most powerful men in the Black Sands, were robbed of their power; their authority.
On the other side of the Boiling Keep's threshold, Bit’rudam watched as well, seeing the work of the young woman he admired so. And in that moment, Muskigo had never been prouder of her. Mahraveh saw what he never had—that one afhem couldn’t unite them all, and she didn’t allow herself to worry what anybody she cared about might think. Only the Caleef could rise and become a proper king or queen of the Black Sands. In mere minutes, the afhemate markings on hundreds of thousands of Shesaitju would become meaningless, leaving them to follow her without question.
If they followed her. Kings of Glass had been turned on and murdered for doing far less.
She knelt by Muskigo’s side as he sat, hunched over. Blood trickled from his head onto the polished stone, but he turned to face her and smiled. Now he recognized her fully. She was resolute, but even through the strange darkness coating her skin, he could see the regret.
He reached out and ran his hand over her ear, finally able to touch her.
“Don’t,” he said. “I understand.”
She nodded slowly.
“Get off me!” Babrak barked, suddenly. He shoved a sage away who tried to pour water over his fresh wound. He rose and stomped toward the exit, then stopped long enough to glare at Mahraveh and Muskigo. His eyes twitched with rage… Then he left.
“He won’t be alone,” Muskigo said.
“No, he won’t,” she replied.
Her gaze was aimed at Muskigo, but it wavered. She wasn’t focused on anything. So he dropped his hand down to her jaw and forced her to look at him. To actually look.
“I haven’t always made it easy, daughter,” he said. “I’ve made so many mistakes that I don’t deserve my markings anymore anyway. But worse than any, was ever underestimating you.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said. “I am me, only because of you.”
“And so much more.”
She lifted away and looked around the room. More afhems struggled or received care, the Serpent Guards keeping most in line. Bit’rudam joined the sages in fetching water, his eyes flitting toward Mahi more than a few times.
“This is only the beginning,” she said to Muskigo.
“Better than the end,” Muskigo replied.
She bit her lip, swallowed hard. “I have to ask something of you. Something I know you will hate. Something I hate.”
“Anything, my little sand mouse.” He said it so quickly he didn’t have a chance to consider the gravity of her words. And yet, he was unafraid. This calculated bit of ruthlessness was precisely what the leader of armies and men needed to be capable of. It was what made Liam the Conqueror great. Muskigo thought he had it within him, but he was wrong.
“These men, I’ve taken so much from them,” she said. “I must lose as well.”
XXX
The Knight
Once again, Torsten found himself sitting outside the bars of Rand’s cell. This time, he was shoveling a bit of stew down his gullet. He was starved, and sister Nauriyal was a wonderful cook. Even Brouben couldn’t get enough, and dwarves among many things were known for their savory cuisine. Torsten was glad she’d learned something growing up in her father’s lavish mansion.
“You should try some,” Torsten said, mouth full as he gestured to the bowl in front of Rand. The fallen Shieldsman was as haggard as ever. It’d been weeks since Torsten found him and locked him up to protect him from himself. He’d barely had food or water except when his body grew so desperate his rather impressive willpower caved.
He’d barely spoken either.
Nauriyal tended to his wounds, and sister or not, she was a pretty girl around his age.
Nothing.
Lucas would try to get the man to play gems.
Nothing.
Dellbar even attempted to offer him some of that sweet, honeyed wine after Torsten reminded him how Rand had turned to the bottle after his short spell as Wearer of White. He shoved it away.
“This is good,” Torsten said, taking another long slurp on his stew. “Really good."
“Don’t you have a battle to prepare for?” Rand asked.
“Not sure,” Torsten said, bolting upright, shocked that his friend had spoken. “The Shesaitju sent word back that Caleef Sidar Rakun was found dead in Trader’s Bay, and that a new one has already been chosen. She has an emissary marching here as we speak to discuss terms for ending this rebellion.”
“A woman?”
Torsten shrugged and lifted the bowl to his lips to down the rest of his meal. “I’ve seen stranger things.”
“I suppose,” Rand agreed, then moved a bit closer.
Torsten offered Rand the stew. He acted disinterested, but Torsten could practically see the saliva forming in the Shieldsman's mouth.
Stubborn.
Considering that Lucas hadn’t had luck finding Sidar Rakun’s body, and Sir Marcos hadn’t yet returned from Latiapur with word about the situation there, it was either true, or the Shesaitju had decided to move on and prove they were as hypocritical as the Glass lords they so despised. From what Torsten knew, it could take months for a new Caleef to be ‘chosen by the sea,’ not days. This seemed more like a selection of someone popular with their people.
Torsten wiped his mouth. “She’s some hero from their arena, who then led a fleet to break our blockade and free Nahanab. A few of the soldiers who were there say they saw her, like a warrior-goddess from above.”
Rand leaned back against the wall and tilted his head to stare at the stone. “Then we’re all doomed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Gods, goddesses… we’re just toys to them.” He ran his finger in a circle around a bit of broken stone. “Pieces on a game board.”
“The last Caleef saw reason,” Torsten said. “Maybe this one will, too. Or maybe the army she leads will be our greatest test. Either way, we’ll be ready.”
Rand grunted something indiscernible in response, then let his head fall back and closed his eyes.
Torsten’s heart broke at the sight of him. He had no idea what to do for him besides pray. Even watching him destroy his body with alcohol was preferable to this forlorn state. He considered telling Rand about Sigrid, that she was still out there somewhere, but false hope was worse than none at all. He’d
waste a lifetime thinking he could find and save her when she was beyond salvation. Beyond life even. Worst of all, from everything she’d said to Torsten, she blamed Rand for her condition. By leaving her in Yarrington, she believed he'd damned her to the fate she'd received.
To Rand, she’d just be another person he’d failed.
If Torsten had learned anything since the day Redstar came to Yarrington, it was that sometimes the full truth brought nothing but pain. Rand’s own story was a lie to inspire the Kingdom. If Torsten could just help Rand wait out the storm of pain, he knew that the young warrior could find a way to become worthy of his title: The Redeemer.
Picking up his bowl, Torsten stood to leave.
“Why do you keep coming down here?” Rand asked softly. “Why can’t you just let me go?”
Torsten stopped. He leaned on the wall just beside the bars, letting the stone cool his face. “No man in the Glass has sacrificed more than you. For it never to be known…”
“‘A Shieldsman must be selfless.’ I’ve heard it enough times.”
“Yet, no man truly is," Torsten said. “I don’t have a family, Rand. Not even some distant cousin in Glinthaven. I thought, perhaps, the Crown was for a while, but… it took you to show me that this Order is my only family. You were a part of it once. You were my brother, and I didn’t do enough to help you, but I won’t stop trying.”
“Then let me go.”
Words caught in Torsten’s throat. Silence pervaded, and he watched the way the firelight of the nearby torch played across the imperfections in the stone.
“Just rest,” he said finally, as he slapped the wall. Then, without even glancing back, he made his way to the surface of the bridge where his horse and Lucas awaited him.
“Sir,” Lucas saluted.
Torsten acknowledged him, then mounted his horse. White Bridge itself remained in shambles, but the whole region was bustling with activity. The injured civilians had been transferred to Fettingborough so they’d be out of the way. The ruptured structures along the bridge were now being used to support the army.
The Nesilia's War Trilogy: (Buried Goddess Saga Box Set: Books 4-6) Page 97