“Such a stupid thing to do,” Jenise said, “going after the King of Swords on her own.”
“It was brave.”
“It was the most beetle-brained thing I’ve ever seen. She was always so headstrong. And overprotective. A terrible combination, really.” She stared fixedly ahead, as if she were reliving Auvrey’s final moments over and over. She probably had been since the sun went down. As the ship slunk into a wide trough, she glanced Çeda’s way. “But yes, she was brave as well.”
Çeda gripped her shoulder. “She was a bright light among us.”
Jenise patted her hand while staring up at the heavens. “She still is.”
While Jenise navigated the way ahead, Çeda gave the horizon behind them a more careful inspection. After the battle the day before, one of the Kings’ ships had given chase. Over the course of the morning it had closed the distance, but then Çeda had ordered Wadi’s Gait and the Red Bride to sail for a swath of rocky terrain. They’d reached it just in time, using their maneuverability to put distance between them and the clipper once more.
Çeda wondered what would have happened if the clipper had caught up to them. They knew the goddess was with Çeda and the Shieldwives. Would they risk Nalamae’s using her power again? Maybe not. Maybe they were giving chase only to learn where they were headed, information they might use once a larger force had been rallied.
Çeda thought it more likely King Beşir was aboard that ship. Surely he hoped to finish what he’d started. In the closing moments of the battle, Çeda had delivered a devastating blow that would have killed a normal man in moments, but Beşir would have brought healing elixirs with him and a day or two of rest would see him back on his feet. Three days, and he would be well enough to draw his bow again.
Despite their losses, it was hard not to look at the battle’s outcome as anything but miraculous. Without Nalamae’s intervention, they would all have died or been captured by the Kings.
Mavra wailed. That’s cold comfort, daughter of Ahyanesh.
Cold comfort indeed, Çeda thought. The battle had been a terrible blow, the Kings proving once again how the gods favored them, how impossible Çeda’s task was.
Setting those worries aside, Çeda lifted Husamettín’s sword. She’d had no chance to satisfy her curiosity until now, and it was difficult to hide her awe. The entire desert had heard of this blade, even if only in folk tales. Even in the lands beyond the desert, tales were told of the King of Swords and the hunger of his ebon blade. Much like the Blade Maidens themselves, the sword was a symbol of fear, a sign of the Kings’ power. And now she held it in her hands.
The blade had a grim beauty about it. Its grip felt unnatural, nothing like River’s Daughter, and it was weighty, though not so heavy as she would have guessed. If the legends were true, Goezhen himself had forged it. Çeda had few doubts that he had; the most striking part about it, even sheathed as it was, was the power emanating from within. It hummed. And when she pulled the blade free of its sheath, it buzzed with a sound like a beetle in flight. The ebon steel swallowed the stars as she swung it overhead, and in the wake of its passage a black void fluttered, a sheet of night that dissipated, foglike, in the blink of an eye. Swinging the blade across her body, she felt the vibration in her bones, first in her hand, then up her wrist and along her arm.
During Çeda’s training as a Blade Maiden, Sayabim had always harped on about making one’s sword an extension of her body. River’s Daughter had always felt like a willing partner in that dance. Night’s Kiss, however, refused to be led. It resisted her movements, sometimes feeling more weighty than it had moments ago. Then it would change its mind and lean into her movements. Time and time again it set her off balance and ruined her timing. She felt like a child swinging a real sword for the first time. But it became easier when she focused her will upon it, not only because it made her more mindful of the sword’s tendencies, but because the sword seemed somehow pleased.
Most disturbing was the yearning she felt within the darkened steel. She’d been communing with the asirim for years, longer if she included some of her earliest memories of the blooming fields. She’d felt their hunger to kill—an impulse laid upon their shoulders by the gods but no less real for it. This blade had urges that were similar, but it was starkly different in one key way: it fed off her intent. As she responded to the urge to draw blood with memories of her own—the strongest being her deep desire to slay the Kings after her mother’s death—the blade responded in kind, and she had to sheathe it lest it overwhelm her. When she did, the blade’s murderous urges became muted then faded altogether. She felt its satisfaction, however, as if this first foray with its new master had gone well enough.
Hearing movement, Çeda turned to find Sümeya climbing up the hatch stairs. When she spotted Çeda, she stopped halfway and motioned to the ship’s lantern-lit interior. “She’s awake, and she’s asking for you.”
Çeda felt a cold dread as she accompanied Sümeya to the forward cabin. She was convinced the goddess would say that the wound from Beşir would soon take her life. She found Nalamae in her bunk, Devorah by her side, feeding her broth from a steaming bowl.
As Çeda sidled past Devorah to stand near the foot of the bed, Nalamae rolled her head toward Çeda’s position. Her eyes weren’t fixed in the right place, though. They stared beyond the boundaries of the ship. To the heavens? To the Kings’ ship still trailing behind them?
“Leave us,” Nalamae whispered.
Sümeya hesitated, but Devorah was soon up and ushering her out with brisk waves of her hand. With a smile that Çeda supposed was meant to give her heart, Devorah handed over the spoon and bowl of broth, then left. The door closed with a thump behind her.
Çeda felt small in the silence that followed.
Perhaps sensing it, a smile formed on Nalamae’s broad, handsome face. “Here,” she said, patting the stool.
Çeda hesitated. She’d been angry with Nalamae for not aiding them sooner, for hiding in the shadows when she could have helped the thirteenth tribe. But she could see now that she’d been acting like an impetuous child, unable to see the consequences of her desires. Now, they were plain as day. The moment Nalamae had left her place of hiding—to save Çeda and her mission, no less—she’d nearly paid for it with her life.
“Come,” Nalamae said, “sit by my side. The broth is good, and I would finish it before it grows cold.”
The broth’s rich scent brought Çeda back to her senses. She leaned Night’s Kiss in a corner. The blade had quieted to the point that it seemed almost mundane. An effect of being close to Nalamae?
Çeda sat and fed the goddess, and soon the broth had been consumed. Nalamae seemed comforted, but even in that brief time the bandages across her chest, pristine when Çeda had arrived, had developed a spot of red over her breast.
“Will it heal?” Çeda asked.
Nalamae lifted one arm to test the wound, but she hadn’t even touched the skin around it before she paled and her arm fell back. Long moments punctuated by her quick, shallow breathing passed before her color returned. “It will be no simple thing,” the goddess said weakly. “The bow that delivered that arrow was crafted by Yerinde herself. But yes, I think I will recover.”
“Yerinde arranged all of this,” Çeda said. “We think they want you dead. Permanently dead. Is that so?”
“Of course.”
“Would it have worked, had Beşir’s arrow been aimed with a sharper eye?”
Nalamae shrugged, cringing from the slight effort. “I cannot say. I won’t deny the possibility. But I’ve had so little control over my rebirths thus far.”
Çeda shook her head, terribly confused. “But how can that be?”
“You are under the mistaken impression that I do it consciously, and that therefore I must know what I’m doing. I’m afraid I don’t, Çedamihn. So much has been lost to me, including the natu
re of the spells that save me time and time again.” She raised a hand before Çeda could protest. “You must understand. So many of my earliest memories have been lost. When I am reborn, I find myself somewhere in the desert. This time it was as Saliah, witch of the desert. In times past it was as others. Always I am naked and alone. Blind. I know so little.”
On the deck above, Sümeya called orders to adjust the ship’s course. The rudder turned. The ship heeled for a moment, the hull creaking before giving over to the hiss of the skis once more.
“Slowly but surely, however,” Nalamae went on, “I discover tools to remember. When I came to the acacia where we first met, I made the glass chimes you saw. I wove thread from gold and hung them. I saw the countless visions the acacia had gathered into its branches, but never did I see visions about myself. My true nature was hidden from me. Only when some few came to me for help, like Leorah and your mother, or others with blood of the lost tribe, did I begin to see myself in some of the visions.
“It took years, but in time more and more of my past was revealed. I collected those visions like pearls. I stitched them against the fabric of my life to better understand what my brothers and sisters had done to the Kings, what they’d planned from the start. The days leading up to Beht Ihman are still lost to me, but I understand much now, Çedamihn. I know that the day is nearing when they reveal what they’ve so meticulously planned. This is why they fear me. This is why Yerinde sent the Kings to deal with me once and for all. We have but to unlock the final riddle.”
From the purse at her belt, Çeda took out a silver vial. Within was the acacia seed her mother had stolen from the House of Kings. She unscrewed the top and tipped it onto Nalamae’s palm. She told Nalamae the story of her mother’s finding it and later giving it to Leorah so that it would find its way to Çeda.
Nalamae held the seed for a long while, rolling it between her palms. When she spoke again, her voice was reverent. “To hold it . . .” She pinched the seed between two fingers, brought it to her nose, and inhaled deeply. She looked like a woman awaiting news of a lost child, fearful yet still holding out hope.
“What’s happened?” Çeda asked. “Have you seen something?”
Nalamae turned toward Çeda, and her worried look vanished. “One of the visions your mother had was of you visiting Leorah on this very ship.” She patted the hull. “I tried to tell her that visions are not certainties, that they’re merely one possibility among many, but your mother would hear nothing of it. She was convinced that it would happen.”
“Does that mean I was meant to deliver the seed to you? Did she see any of this? Yerinde? The Kings? Your wound?”
“This is the failing of so many mortals. You think the things the fates show you are preordained. They are not. The visions the acacia grants, the visions seen in Yusam’s mere, they are places one might land, but only if the right course is followed.”
“I didn’t know I was following a course.”
Nalamae smiled. “Sometimes that’s best, Çedamihn, for only in that way can you wash ashore in the right place and at the right time.”
Çeda wasn’t sure she believed that, but there was no point in arguing. Instead, she asked the question that had been worrying her since she’d found the seed in the box her mother had left her. “Does it mean you will die?” Warm tears filled her eyes, crept down her cheeks. “Will I use this to plant another tree for you?”
Nalamae reached up and wiped the tears away. Their eyes met, and for once she seemed to be looking directly at Çeda. “That I cannot say.”
“But you must know something. If you die, it may be years before the tree is large enough to call to you. Decades, perhaps, before you return to us.”
“That’s true”—she took the vial from Çeda, slipped the seed inside, and pressed it back into Çeda’s hands—“so perhaps we should ensure that I don’t.”
Çeda screwed the cap back on and hid the treasure inside her pouch. “Can you stop the other gods?” she asked abruptly.
“That is the wrong question. We’ve reached a crossroads. I don’t know what my sisters and brothers have planned, but we know that they’ve seen fit to watch everything from afar. It is as if they set up a pillar of stones on Beht Ihman and that every action taken by the Kings chips away at the foundation. If we do nothing, it will soon come tumbling down. And now Yerinde has entered the fray, which means they’ve become nervous, perhaps of my presence. Or of yours.”
“Mine?” A chill ran down her spine. “No, they want you. Ihsan told me so.”
Just then a bell rang three times. It was the Red Bride. They’d been told to signal Wadi’s Gait when Husamettín awoke. Nalamae seemed disturbed by the sound. When she spoke again, she sounded weary. “There’s no doubt the other gods would like to see me dead, but take note that they threatened you in order to force my hand. They know, as I do, that you will play one of the biggest roles in the coming conflict.”
“What are you saying?”
As Nalamae closed her eyes, orders were called to bring the two ships near to one another, and Çeda’s eyes were drawn to the stain of red on her bandages. Already it was wider than when Devorah had left. The goddess remained silent for so long Çeda thought she’d fallen asleep, but then she stirred and spoke. “When the sun rises, Çedamihn, we must part ways. I will sail with Leorah to Mount Arasal to heal and await your return. You must go to Sharakhai. There is little time, I think, for you to continue as you’ve planned. So go. Find Sehid-Alaz. Free as many of the asirim as you can, then meet us in the valley below the mountain.”
Çeda’s right hand was tingling. The old pain was flaring, not as it had in the past with outright pain, but as if she’d finally mastered it. She squeezed her hand into a fist, enjoying the prickle of pain that spread through her palm, fingers, and wrist. “Yerinde herself may move to stop me.”
“Yes, but I’ll see what I can do to force her hand. I’ve become particularly gifted at hiding my presence from them. But I will allow them to see some signs of where Leorah and I are headed. Not so much that they know where precisely, but enough to draw their attention from you. It will, I trust, convince them that I am weakened, and that it might be best to kill me while they have the chance.”
As the hissing sound of the Red Bride’s skis grew louder, Nalamae took Çeda’s right hand and forced it to unclench. “Go, speak with the King of Swords.”
Çeda lifted Nalamae’s hand and kissed her fingers. After calling Devorah to tend to the goddess, she headed up to deck, ready to transfer to the other ship.
Chapter 24
THERE WAS SO MUCH MORE that Çeda wished to speak to Nalamae about. But the morning had brought with it a howling gale. An amber fog obscured the desert, stinging exposed skin. They could see no more than a quarter-league ahead. It was dangerous weather to sail in, to be sure, but it also presented an opportunity: part ways with Wadi’s Gait now and they could do so without being spotted by the Kings’ ships.
They decided to take it. After saying their farewells, Çeda and Sümeya swung over to the other yacht. From the deck of the Red Bride, Çeda watched as Wadi’s Gait was swallowed by the swirling sand, then asked to speak to Husamettín alone. Sümeya seemed ready to argue, but after a sharp nod she left Çeda to it and set about the business of helping Melis to prepare the ship for their journey to Sharakhai.
Çeda took Night’s Kiss with her belowdecks and arrived at the small hold in the ship’s stern, where Husamettín had been bound with rope and tied to the hull. He looked strangely whole. It wasn’t right that they should be so battered and he so unscathed, but Çeda counted her lucky stars that Leorah had somehow been able to knock him unconscious. His armor had been taken from him. He wore woolen stockings, black trousers, and a simple ivory kaftan stained by time and sweat.
Strangest of all, his turban was gone, leaving his pepper-black hair to flow down across his shoulders and ches
t. She’d never seen him this way: looking mortal, ordinary. It lent their meeting an air of intimacy that served to remind Çeda of her mother’s absence. It put her in a right foul mood.
“It’s interesting, don’t you think, that the gods saw fit to place the fate of my own father into my hands?”
Husamettín held his tongue and seemed warier than he’d been moments ago.
“How did my mother come to you?” Çeda asked. “Who did she pretend to be?”
“What matter is that?”
“What matter is it to withhold it?”
He shifted himself against the hull so that he sat more upright. “She came as a trader in fine antiques.”
“Antiques of what sort?”
“Silverwork, mostly. Gold. Some tin.”
Absently, Çeda sat on a sack of rice, close enough to touch Husamettín’s legs, and thought back to her childhood. There were things her mother had tended to hoard, and they were generally of a certain sort. “Chased pieces,” Çeda said. “Embossed. Usually small. Lockets and cases and the like.” When Husamettín gave a shallow nod, she pulled her teardrop locket from beneath her dress. “Like this?”
As his eyes fell on the locket they filled with wonder, but only momentarily. They hardened quickly, making her wonder what these pieces meant to him. So he’d been lured, at least in part, by Ahya’s bringing him a certain kind of antique. Doing a bit of educated guesswork, she said, “You were collecting pieces of your past, weren’t you?”
She didn’t need the dark look on his face to know it was true. It made perfect sense. It was likely something he’d hidden from many people and when her mother found out, she’d used it as an opening, a way to insert herself into his life. “What do they mean to you?” She thought further on the works her mother had collected, and remembered how similar they were in style. “Were they from your tribe?” And then she remembered how old Husamettín was, how lonely one’s life might be if they lived to see everyone they knew die. “It was someone you knew, wasn’t? A sister, perhaps, or one of your lovers.”
Beneath the Twisted Trees Page 25