Beneath the Twisted Trees

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “She agreed to help,” Brama said, “and she will.”

  “I wish I shared your confidence.” Her chair creaked as she adjusted her position. “Tell me something that will restore a bit of mine.”

  What could he say? “Why don’t you ask Behlosh where she is?”

  “Behlosh is not your concern. Not unless you’ve become his mouthpiece as well.” She looked him up and down with a piqued expression. “Have you become his mouthpiece?”

  “No, Excellence, I have not.”

  “Then kindly tell me something about your mistress’s whereabouts. Tell me what she knew about the asirim before the attack. Tell me what she knows about this disease.”

  The queen was normally so composed. The anger in her words and in the pinched expression on her face made it clear just how hard the past days had been on her. He hadn’t noticed how tense the guards were, how ready for action, but he did now. Queen Alansal was ready to press him to the point of violence if need be.

  He tilted his head toward the nearest of the Damned, a tall fellow with a bright red circle painted onto the center of his armor. “This isn’t the wisest course of action, your Excellence.”

  “My people are dying!”

  “And killing me will do nothing to bring them back.”

  “Do you wish to know what I think?”

  “Please,” Brama said, his voice no longer pleasant.

  “I think the asirim were sent by the Kings, but that Rümayesh put the taint upon their claws so this disease could work its foul magic on my people. And I think she fled and left you behind so that she might have eyes and ears within our camp.” Alansal lifted a finger. Bows creaked as a dozen arrows were lifted and aimed at Brama’s chest. “So I ask you one final time. Where is Rümayesh?”

  Brama felt his chest expand and collapse with each breath. His skin prickled. He could feel each of the arrowheads pointed at him. “You’ve convinced yourself of lies.”

  Alansal’s head tilted, her brows pinched, and her look of barely controlled anger deepened. “Then convince me of the truth.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” a deep, feminine voice spoke.

  All eyes turned toward the pavilion’s entrance, where a towering black form ducked low. In one long, sinuous movement Rümayesh entered the pavilion, and she didn’t come alone. Behind her, she had an old man by the ankle. She dragged him across the sand and onto the pavilion’s carpeted floor. The archers, who’d been training their arrows on Brama, shifted to Rümayesh. Rümayesh ignored them all, focusing on the queen. Rümayesh did spare one glance for Brama, and in that moment, he felt a flash of annoyance, a thing clearly echoed in her flinty gaze.

  Along her forehead, between the sweep of her horns that sprouted there, was a deep wound, only half healed. There were more signs of struggle along her body. A nick along one of her three lashing tails. A cut along the back of her head, where the long black thorns, her hair, had been severed in a crescent-shaped arc. There were two puncture wounds along her abdomen, and dark, almost black bruising to her already-dark skin.

  She tossed the man to the foot of the dais.

  “What is this?” Queen Alansal spoke the words as if Rümayesh had just presented her with a box of confectioneries. How she managed to stay so calm Brama had no idea. He knew Rümayesh, and had little to fear from her, but she was a mercurial being, and this was strange indeed.

  “This,” Rümayesh said, “is the alchemyst who created the scourge currently running rampant through your fleet.”

  The man was balding and had a graying beard that traveled halfway down the chest of his blue khalat. He was filthy and bloodied. Sand fell from his wiry hair as he came to a stand. He took in his surroundings with the look of a man standing in the shadow of his own gibbet.

  “Your name?” said Queen Alansal.

  “My name is—” He cleared his throat and bowed his head. “My name is Alu-Waled.”

  Alansal lifted the folds of her skirt and arranged them in a more pleasing pattern. “Is this true, Alu-Waled? Did you infect the asirim? Are you the man who delivered the scourge upon us?”

  Alu-Waled seemed to have something caught in his throat. He swallowed and kept swallowing, his eyes darting between the queen, the Damned, and the towering ehrekh standing behind him. He was shivering badly.

  “You set it upon the asirim and sent them here,” Alansal pressed. “Which of the Kings ordered you to do this?”

  He shook his head, and a sifting of sand fell to the carpets. “Not a King.”

  Alansal feigned surprise. “Was it not?”

  “No, your Excellence. It was a queen. Queen Meryam.”

  Queen Alansal seemed confused for a moment, then her face went blank, as if not only did she accept Alu-Waled’s claim, but thought herself foolish for not having thought of it sooner. “However much Sharakhai’s new queen might be taking the reins, she didn’t do this without permission.”

  The shivering along Alu-Waled’s body grew worse. It made Brama nervous just to look at him. “No, Excellence. King Kiral gave his assent.”

  A hummingbird smile flitted across Alansal’s lips. “We’ll return to that. For now, tell me about the scourge. We need the cure.”

  “As I’ve—” His face pinched, as if he were reliving some painful memory. “As I’ve already told the ehrekh, it cannot be undone.”

  “Surely you jest.”

  This time, the shaking of Alu-Waled’s head dropped enough sand to fill a teacup. He cringed as he spoke. “I’m afraid not. It was what I was told to do!”

  “And if you’d been been ordered by Queen Meryam to create a cure?”

  He peered into the pavilion’s corners as if he might find a miracle hidden there. “If I had my full complement of assistants, the proper equipment and components, then perhaps.”

  “You may have any assistants you require. Any equipment. Any agents and reagents you might name.”

  It was a sign of Alansal’s desperation that she would even entertain the notion. Recognizing her words as the lifeline they were, the old alchemyst nodded. “I can try.”

  At this, one of Rümayesh’s tails lashed out and struck him across the back. “The truth,” came Rümayesh’s liquid voice.

  With a terrified glance backward, Alu-Waled nodded and said, “It would likely take years, your Excellence. And even then . . .”

  “You see no other way?” The anger in Alansal’s voice was clear, but so was her worry for her people.

  Alu-Waled shrugged, a gesture of perfect impotence. “It is easier to harm than to heal.”

  “So it is.” Alansal motioned to the guards. “But I wonder if one might lead to the other. Take him to my chambers, and we’ll find the truth of it.”

  Alu-Waled hardly struggled as two of the Damned led him away. “I was only doing as I was told.” As they approached the entrance, he looked over his shoulder at the queen. “They would have killed me! I have seven children!”

  A pall settled over the pavilion. Alansal turned her attention to Rümayesh, who waited patiently, her three tails swishing to and fro. It looked as if Alansal were debating whether to berate Rümayesh for abandoning them without a word, or praise her for delivering the one man who might find them a cure.

  “For finding answers to some of the riddles that plague us, I thank you.” Holding one sleeve, Alansal motioned to the place where Alu-Waled had just been standing. “A pity you weren’t able to find the cure as well.”

  “A pity. I learned the truth shortly after taking him from the Kings’ ships, but thought it best if you heard it yourself.”

  “And what now?” Alansal asked. “You know what’s happening. Is there naught you can do?”

  Rümayesh tilted her head. “What would you have me do?”

  “I would have you heal them.”

  “Alu-Waled spoke the trut
h. There is no cure. And I’m no healer.” She waved one arm toward Brama. “Just ask my herald.”

  “And yet your herald went untouched by the scourge.”

  “You misunderstand. What Brama has is no gift from me, but from Goezhen himself. I was granted such power, and when Brama and I joined hands he was granted some of the same.”

  For the first time in Brama’s presence, Alansal’s stony facade cracked. She was out of her element, impotent, fearful for her people, and willing to do anything to save them. “Surely there must be some way for you to help.”

  “My skills are limited.”

  “If you could but try.”

  Rümayesh considered, then tipped her head in agreement. “Very well. Bring one to me.”

  Queen Alansal did as Rümayesh asked. A cot was laid on the sand near the hospital’s gangplank and one of the afflicted was carried out—none other than Mae. It only made sense to choose one of the Damned—they were highly trained warriors, and the lives of their qirin were also in the balance—but Brama still found himself breathing a sigh of relief to know that Mae might be saved.

  Rümayesh crouched before her while the queen, her court, and many of her generals watched from a safe distance. The physics, several surgeons, and their assistants, who all wore white masks over their faces, stood closer. Their eyes darted constantly to Rümayesh, as though fearful she might attack them at any moment.

  Rümayesh squatted and held one hand over Mae’s face. Her fingers bent crookedly, swaying like grasses in the Haddah’s clear, springtime flow. She tilted her head this way and that, her movements trancelike. Rümayesh’s presence spread throughout Mae’s body, and her curiosity rose. She wanted to know more about the disease. But then something revolting happened. Like a magpie, Rümayesh collected experiences, even painful ones. So she’d done with Brama. So she’d done with countless others. She was doing so again now, reveling in feelings she’d never felt before, her pleasure increasing the more that Mae’s unique blend of pain, fear, and worry became known to her.

  Long minutes passed, and Rümayesh became lost in the sensation. With the sun beating down, waves of self-indulgent bliss rolled from her, a euphoric sense of joy distilled not just from Mae’s fear, but the intense, almost painful anticipation of those who watched, waiting, hoping Rümayesh would soon lift her head and tell them she’d found a way to cure their young soldier. It sickened Brama. So much so that he was ready to step forward and put a stop to it.

  You knew my nature long before you led me to this place, Rümayesh said to him.

  And I like it no better than I did then.

  You have but to leave if it so offends you.

  She knew he couldn’t, though. He might walk away, but he would still feel her efforts. And even if he tried to shut her out, he couldn’t do so for long. She knew this was too important to him.

  Stop, Brama said, or I’ll tell the queen what you’re doing.

  Rümayesh’s hand paused over Mae’s face. You know, I believe you would. At last she stood and faced the queen. “The nature of the disease is insidious. I might be able to slow its spread in one or two for a time, but no more.”

  As the desert wind tugged at the fabric of her ornate silk dress, Queen Alansal cloaked herself in silence and took her time to consider Rümayesh’s words. She bowed her head. “You have my thanks for trying.”

  Rümayesh bowed her great, horned head in the same manner, though not without a soft smile that mocked, as if, despite her words, she considered all of this—the war, the queen, her entire army—beneath her notice. She stalked off beyond the circle of dunebreakers and into the desert, and the queen and the others dispersed.

  Brama trailed after Rümayesh and found her near the edge of the caravanserai. She stood at the edge of a rocky overhang, looking out over pools of water with thick strips of grasses and bushes surrounding them. Beyond them were the dozen buildings of the caravanserai, which were dwarfed by the Mirean fleet in the middle distance.

  “Why not just refuse her?” Brama asked. “Why go through that charade?” She hadn’t tried to heal Mae. Not truly. She’d merely worn the guise of a healer while steeping herself in Mae’s pain.

  “You know me well enough by now to answer that question.”

  “She promised you a reliquary, a bone of Raamajit the Exalted. Ask her for it in exchange for lifting the scourge. She’d agree. I’m certain of it.”

  “Your care for these foreigners astounds me.” Her head swiveled, and her yellow eyes shot straight through him. “They’re here to wage war on your city.”

  “War was coming no matter what I did, but it’s bigger than that now. Queen Alansal is considering ordering her fleet home. If she does, the scourge might reach her homeland. It could decimate their entire population.”

  She turned her attention back to the verdant pools of water. “What of it?”

  Brama stared at her, his mouth open. “You would wallow like a sow in that as well? You would find joy as tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, perished?”

  She remained silent for a time. It was then that Brama realized. She was brooding. “What are human lives to me?”

  “They meant something to you once.”

  “You can look upon your own flesh and speak those words?”

  “Is this because of Behlosh?”

  “Begone, Brama.”

  “Is it because of Goezhen?”

  Brama had felt rage from Rümayesh before. He’d felt hunger and need, even jealousy, but he’d never felt so much as a twinge of sorrow. He did now, and it made him wonder: Sorrow over what? Sorrow over whom? “I made a vow to keep you safe, Brama Junayd’ava. But I warn you, I will forsake it if you speak of Goezhen again.”

  He had to wonder why she was so sensitive about it, but he felt the truth in her words. This wasn’t the time to press. “Don’t leave them to suffer like this.” He waved toward the circle of tall dunebreakers. “Don’t let the scourge escape the bounds of this encampment.”

  “It is beyond me,” she repeated.

  Brama waited for her to say something more. When she didn’t, he said, “I’ve thought many things of you, but I never thought you a coward.”

  He thought he’d made a terrible mistake. Such was the anger within her. But then she burst into a cloud of beetles and flew away, into the desert. As the cloud dwindled beyond sight, Brama turned and walked back to camp, to help with the sick as he could.

  Chapter 23

  IT WAS THE MOONLESS PART of the night as Çeda stood in the forward cabin of Wadi’s Gait. Before her, lit by a lantern hanging from the ceiling beams, the goddess Nalamae lay in the cabin’s lone bunk. A blanket covered her, but only from the waist down. Her chest was wrapped tightly in bandages. Her hair was no longer braided but hung about her arms and shoulders like a golden mantle. As tall as she was, her legs dangled beyond the foot of the bed.

  Sümeya was slumped in a chair in the corner, snoring softly. With night fallen, Devorah now occupied Leorah’s body; she sat crook-backed on a padded stool beside the bunk, unwinding a bloody bandage from around Nalamae’s wrist, one of the many smaller injuries the goddess had sustained. It still felt so strange. Gods weren’t supposed to lie in sickbeds. They weren’t supposed to need help from mortals. Yet here was Nalamae, pallid, shivering, being tended to by an aged woman who seemed every bit as frail.

  Nalamae hadn’t awoken since the battle, either because of the arrow she’d taken from Beşir’s bow or from the power she’d expended to save them. Likely it was both. At least she seemed to have stabilized, thanks to Leorah, Devorah, and Sümeya’s tireless work.

  Çeda put her hand on Devorah’s shoulder. “I’m going to get some fresh air.”

  Devorah reached up and patted her hand. “Say a prayer to the old gods.”

  The old gods aren’t listening, Çeda thought. Why do you think we�
��re in this mess? But Çeda couldn’t say that. She was convinced the old gods wouldn’t have left their children to do such things without being punished for it.

  Çeda lifted Night’s Kiss, Husamettín’s great, two-handed shamshir, from a shelf and took it up to the deck. The ship swayed as they sailed beneath a scattering of stars. The dunes were shallow in this part of the desert, the sand powdery, making their passage sound like an approaching rainstorm.

  The Red Bride, commanded by Melis, sailed along their port side. Husamettín was on that ship, bound with ropes in the hold. In addition to Çeda, Leorah, Sümeya, and Melis, ten Shieldwives had survived the terrible battle, along with twelve asirim. The Shieldwives, many of whom were lying on the decks of the two ships, seemed content to wrap themselves in silence. The asirim were of like minds, galloping in silence behind the ships. Mavra was inconsolable with grief, Sedef righteous with anger.

  The rest of their beleaguered company, six Shieldwives and twice as many asirim, had been killed outright or lost in the battle. They’d had no chance to do more than sweep by The Piteous Wagtail and transfer the survivors to Leorah’s yacht. Three Shieldwives had been injured terribly. Before the sun rose, Sirendra would likely die from a chest wound that refused to stop bleeding. The two asirim bonded to her—the twins, Huuri and Imwe—lagged behind the pack, not from injuries of their own, but because they feared the lord of all things would soon come for Sirendra.

  While heading to the stern, where Jenise stood at the wheel, Çeda scanned the horizon for the telltale rake of sails or the glimmer of lantern light. “No sign of them?”

  “None,” Jenise replied stiffly. She’d insisted on piloting them through the night. I won’t be able to sleep, she’d told Çeda. Not tonight.

  “Jenise, we’ve hardly had a chance to speak. Everything happened so quickly. Husamettín was there, and . . .” Çeda swallowed to clear her throat. “Auvrey was gone before I knew it.”