Anila wanted to spit in his face, but she didn’t have it in her. She was so very, very tired.
She woke at a slap from Sukru. “Stay with me, girl. This shan’t take too much longer.”
She hadn’t even realized she’d fallen asleep.
Sukru nodded to the Silver Spears, who unstrapped Anila and forced her to stand. Sukru stepped down. His clothes ruffled along the floor as he swept toward another sarcophagus. There, four more Silver Spears stood to attention, one at each corner of the sarcophagus. When Sukru snapped his fingers, they lifted the lid and carried it away, exposing the interior.
Sukru moved to the far side. It was then, as Sukru stared down with something like reverence, that Anila understood what he meant her to do, and more importantly who he meant her to do it to. It came as no surprise, then, when the Spears had half led, half dragged her to the sarcophagus, that she was met with the pale body of a man who looked very much like the ancient King standing opposite her.
It was the Sparrow, King Sukru’s twin brother, a blood mage who’d been hidden from the public eye in the centuries since Beht Ihman. His sarcophagus was filled nearly to the top with ice. Anila felt its deeper chill. The Sparrow’s body was cradled in what looked to be oiled canvas, surely to protect the skin from exposure. The skin of his face and neck was pale, tinged blue in places. He’d been cleaned carefully but there were still signs of his final struggle: a circular, purple-black contusion along the crown of his head and a deep neck wound that had been stitched back together with silk thread, clearly by an expert hand. Zahndr had delivered the head wound, but the other, the one that had killed him in the end, had been delivered by the animated corpse of young Bela, courtesy of a long splinter of wood she’d driven into his neck with all the dispassion of a headsman.
“You want me to raise him,” Anila said. She could feel the gossamer thread that connected his body to the farther fields.
“No,” Sukru countered. “I want you to bring him back to life.”
She lifted her eyes and tried in vain to blink away her sleep. Her eyelids felt heavy as hundredweights. But there was fire in her voice when she said, “I would never do that.”
The look he gave her was both disdainful and self-assured, the sort a priest might give to a child who’s refused to perform his prayers. “We’ll see about that.”
He stared into the darkness and snapped his fingers. Soon after, the sound of footsteps came. They were accompanied by a soft hiss, as of something being slid across the floor. A woman was being dragged by a pair of Silver Spears, her head low and lolling.
“No,” Anila whispered.
The woman hadn’t lifted her head, but Anila recognized her figure, the cut of her hair. She recognized the sound of her voice even though she was only burbling softly like a drunk. So it was that when the guardsmen came to a stop and one of them gripped the woman’s hair and lifted her head, Anila saw the face of Meral, her mother, staring back at her.
“In the time since you’ve left, I’ve gone to great lengths to learn more about those who practice dark magic. Necromancers. Black magi, some call them. Those who tread the paths of the dead are consumed with a desire for revenge. Was it not so for you? Did your burning hatred for Hamzakiir not fuel your will to live?”
Anila couldn’t take her eyes from her mother, who stared back with pleading eyes. “Please let her go.” Anila said. “I’ll do as you wish.”
Sukru’s lip curled as he looked her up and down. “Well I’m afraid I’ll need more assurances than that. A moment ago you said never.” He returned his attention to Anila’s mother. “Beyond the matter of will, however, is the way. I’m guessing you raised that ghul shortly after you escaped my brother’s tower. I’d also guess that right now you couldn’t raise another, even if you wanted to. Such things take power, and for you, standing on the threshold of the farther fields as you are, the power it would take would likely kill you before you managed it. The few records I’ve found have repeated the pattern over and over again: the anger that sustains necromancers keeps them alive only so long as their revenge is gained or their will runs out. But history records one who lived beyond the days normally granted to people such as you.”
At a snap of Sukru’s fingers, the Silver Spears who’d led Anila to the sarcophagus swept back in, took her arms, and forced her toward her mother. They stopped several paces away. Sukru, meanwhile, moved to Meral’s side and held out one hand. The Silver Spear nearest him reached behind his back and retrieved a long sliver of wood. Anila paled as she realized it was the very one Bela had driven into the Sparrow’s neck to kill him.
“Dear gods, no,” Anila said, as it dawned on her what Sukru meant to do. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I beg to differ. Given what I want from you, I’d say I have no choice in the matter.”
Anila tried to rip her arms free, but the Spears were ready. They held her tight as Sukru took a fistful of Meral’s hair and held her steady.
“Please, Anila,” her mother said, “He has your father and your sister too. Just give him what he wants.”
“Oh, have no fear of that.” Sukru lifted the wood and held its point to Meral’s neck. “She will.”
“Let her be!” Anila pleaded. “I’ll bring the Sparrow back to life! I will!”
Sukru turned back to her with a greasy smile. “Indeed, you will,” he said, and with a jerk of his body drove the wood into Meral’s neck.
“No!” Anila screamed. She fought with all her might, but she was too weak, the guards too strong.
With all the calm of a man going for his morning constitutional, Sukru stepped away and nodded to the Spears who held her. The Spears let Meral go, and she fell to the floor with a sickening slap. Blood pooled beneath her, mirrorlike. As she clawed at the rough stone, Sukru stared on, sometimes at Meral, sometimes at Anila, but always with a look as if he were enjoying every dram of pain.
“Memma, I’m sorry,” Anila cried.
But her mother appeared not to hear. Her movements slowed, and then she went still.
Sukru was patient. He waited until Anila lifted her gaze from her mother to stare at him. “It will take time,” he said, “before your disbelief turns to anger. But it will, and I trust it will be enough to give you fresh vitality, especially as you remember your mother’s words. Do as I wish, and I’ll release your father and sister before I send you to the farther fields. Do not, and they’ll die before your eyes as your mother did.”
Anila’s ears were ringing so badly she hardly heard his words. Tears streamed down her face as the sight of her mother lying dead on the floor and Sukru standing so calmly beside her was etched into her mind. She prayed her mother would wake. Prayed she would move again.
But of course she knew it couldn’t be so. She’d felt her mother’s soul leave her body. She called to it now. She hadn’t the use of her hands, so the effort was imperfect, like calling for a friend in the midst of a sandstorm, but her mother heard. Anila was sure she’d heard.
Sukru stepped forward and slapped her hard across the face. “No, no, no, Anila. You’ll save it all for my brother.” He waved to the stretcher. “Take her back to her room. She needs time to steep in her hatred.”
“Yes, your Excellence.”
The guards carried her back to the stretcher and strapped her in. Anila tried calling to her mother again, tried calling into that same strong wind, but her mind was drowning in sorrow, and her words were met only by the sounds of the storm.
Chapter 34
ALONG THE SLOPES OF AN ESTATE known as Stormhaven, Kameyl strolled between two chest-high rows of grapevines. In her left hand she held her ebon blade, Brushing Wing, still in its wooden scabbard. Grapes hung from the vines like clutches of pearls half hidden by lazy, fluttering leaves. In a rare concession to the demands of fashion, Kameyl wore a fetching dress of bronze and blue. She quite liked how it matched
her skin tone. And besides, it wasn’t every day her favorite cousin crossed the threshold into manhood.
Hearing footsteps approach, she glanced back to see Rezzan sprinting to catch up after having a last word with his weeping mother. A tall boy, he’d inherited the family frame. His sea green silk kaftan was embroidered with thread of crimson and burnt umber along the cuffs and neck. His trousers were stuffed into tall, elkskin boots with matching threading. The golden circlet on his brow kept his long hair back from his face. The style of his raiment was common enough among the houses of Goldenhill, but the royal bearing in him would be plain even if he’d worn sirwal trousers and a vest. His father had fostered it in him since before Rezzan was old enough to sprint along the vineyard’s endless rows of vines.
Rezzan finally caught up and fell into step alongside her. As the hubbub of the massive gathering behind them dwindled, so did the tightness in his frame. He wasn’t normally the nervous sort, but it was an important day.
Kameyl was nervous too. She wanted him to do well. War stood on the horizon, and Sharakhai had need of all the good auspices it could get. There would be many brave deeds done in the days to come, many heroes made; who could tell besides Thaash himself whether Rezzan would be one of them?
“Don’t concentrate on the cut,” Kameyl told him as they trudged along a sharper incline.
“I know,” Rezzan replied. “I’m to concentrate on the fig falling.”
She glanced sidelong at him as they walked. “Have you decided who you’ll give them to?”
Rezzan shrugged. “Almost. I’ll know once they’re cut.”
It was a decision Rezzan had been putting off for days, but Kameyl let it be. Cloud his mind now and he’d likely bungle the whole affair. Soon they’d reached the top of the low hill where an ancient fig tree stood. After considering the branches carefully, Kameyl drew Brushing Wing and sliced one free, a branch with three plump figs on it. She caught it neatly in one hand.
As she slipped her shamshir back into its scabbard, Rezzan waited expectantly, but Kameyl held on to the branch. “There’s something we need to discuss.” She jutted her chin toward the desert, and Rezzan followed her gaze. Beyond the cluster of Stormhaven’s amber stone buildings, beyond the patchwork of Goldenhill’s rich estates, beyond a swath of rocky land and a sweep of amber sea, a dark line dominated the horizon. The line was made up of warships. Hundreds of them. The Malasani were on Sharakhai’s doorstep. With the royal navy sent to slow down the Mireans—the more deadly of the two invaders—there were no warships left to blunt the arrival of the Malasani fleet.
It felt strange to be holding this ceremony today when the war might begin that very night, but Rezzan’s father, Kameyl’s brother, was an important man in Sharakhai. And the old ways must be honored, even in times of war. Perhaps especially in times of war.
“Do you think they’ll go home soon?” Rezzan asked.
There were those in Sharakhai, Rezzan’s father among them, who believed Malasan had not come to attack, but rather to use the situation to exact as many concessions as they could—fewer tariffs on their caravans, freer trade agreements, favored status at the auction blocks—and that once accomplished their fleet would return home beyond the mountains.
“No,” she replied, “I don’t think they’ll go home soon.”
“You think they’ll attack.” His voice was doubtful, almost dismissive.
“They will attack. And soon.”
Rezzan looked doubtful. “I don’t know, Kameyl. Everyone’s been saying—”
“There’s something I want you to do, Rezzan, when they come.”
“Father says it will only be a matter of weeks before—”
“Listen to me!” Kameyl said sharply. “When the battle begins, it will be quick. The walls may hold for a time”—she pointed to the horizon—“but have no doubt the Malasani are hiding surprises in those ships. If they break through, they will make for Goldenhill, perhaps even before they make for Tauriyat. They know the sorts of riches that can be found here. They know that those most likely to be ransomed for handsome prizes will be found here as well. So expect it.”
“We know, Kameyl, but—”
“Rezzan, sometimes you’re altogether too much like your father. Close that fool mouth of yours and open your ears. The Malasani are not here to barter. They have not come to win trading rights for their caravans. And they have not come this far to fall short of their prize: the Amber Jewel itself, Sharakhai, a thing they’ve coveted for centuries. They will come with a thirst for blood. So when you get word that the walls have fallen, you will take your mother and as many others as you can convince and go to the tunnels. Take them to the caves and flee in the yachts.”
Generations ago, secret tunnels had been built below the estates of Goldenhill. They led to a series of natural caves along the southeastern edges of Sharakhai. Most of the highborn knew about the tunnels—others would as well, including some of the Malasani—but few knew the caves had been prepared with dozens of small racing yachts that could be used to flee the city. The Malasani would spot them sailing away, of course, but by then their commanders would be focused on the invasion, not on a handful of yachts. And even if the Malasani gave chase, they’d not catch them; those yachts were some of the fleetest in the desert.
“Kameyl, truly—”
“Promise me, Rezzan.”
He looked as if he were about to deny her, or make light of it and say she needn’t worry, as if he knew the first bloody thing about the situation; but he must have seen something in her face. He’d always been that way with her, knowing when she was deadly serious and when she wasn’t. “Very well,” he said at last.
“Say the words, Rezzan.”
Rezzan sucked on the inside of his cheek. “I promise, I’ll see them to safety.”
“Good.” She offered him a rare smile. “Now come, you’ve figs to cut. A warning to you, nephew. If the ritual ends and your mother isn’t holding one of those figs”—with a hard shove she sent him stumbling forward—“I’ll be using that sword to cut the tiny sausage you call a cock from between your legs.” She caught up to him and put him in a headlock. “Are we understood?”
Rezzan pulled away, annoyed. “I was always going to give her one.”
“There’s a good boy.” Kameyl laid an arm across his shoulders and hugged him close.
“Stop treating me like a child,” he mumbled.
“When you cut these figs cleanly, you’ll have earned a bit of my respect and the manners that come with it. Until then”—tightening her arm around his neck until his head was just next to hers, she kissed his cheek loudly, a thing she knew he hated—“I’ll treat you how I please.”
He pulled himself away with a scowl and a glance toward the celebration. “They’re watching,” he said, wiping his cheek.
But Kameyl only laughed and held Brushing Wing out for him to take. Rezzan, his red-faced indignation evaporating like rain, accepted the sword with a smile and, Kameyl was pleased to see, no small amount of reverence.
Together, they returned to the celebration. At the center of Stormhaven’s grounds a pavilion stood between the stables, the servant’s houses, and the long, low building where the grapes were pressed. When the hundreds gathered there saw the two of them coming, a great roar lifted up. Soon the ceremony had begun and Rezzan was swinging Kameyl’s shamshir to cut the figs. The first cut was brilliant. He nearly dropped the fig as it fell, the crowd gasping around him, but then he was smiling and handing it to his mother. It had all been an act, Kameyl realized. Soon the second was cut, and the third as well, to roaring applause, high ululations, and a beaming Rezzan.
Soon the feast was upon them and the crowd began to filter into the pavilion. As Kameyl was making to follow the others in, Rezzan caught up to her at a jog. Holding Brushing Wing for her to take, he sent a nervous look back the way he’d come. �
��Yndris is here from the House of Maidens.”
Accepting the sword, Kameyl looked and spotted a shadowed figure standing in an archway that led inside the estate proper. A Blade Maiden stood in the shadows, her veil across her face, but it was clearly Yndris. Kameyl would recognize her impudent stance anywhere. Not far from where she stood, two tall akhalas, one copper, one bronze, were tied to a paddock gate. One for Yndris, Kameyl thought, the other for me?
“She has news,” Rezzan said, then leaned closer. “She said it was about King Husamettín.”
“He’s been found?”
Rezzan nodded. “Apparently.”
Kameyl hadn’t realized how tense she was, but at this news her body relaxed. Few knew it outside the House of Kings, but four Kings had traveled to the desert in search of Çeda, and only three had returned. Husamettín had been thought killed or captured when he’d attacked one of Çeda’s yachts.
“Where is he?”
Rezzan shrugged. “She didn’t say.”
The sound in the pavilion lifted up as someone shouted and half the tent laughed. “I’m sorry, Rezzan.” She gripped his arm. “I’ve been looking forward to this day for a long time, but duty calls.”
“Of course,” he said, though he was clearly disappointed. “Will you be back?”
“I don’t know. Save me some cake, won’t you?”
He nodded and headed inside, a smile lighting his face as a group of his friends called in unison, “Rezzan!”
Kameyl jogged toward Yndris, and the sounds of revelry faded behind her. Yndris, always impatient, turned and stepped through the nearby archway, surely so they could speak where they wouldn’t be overheard. Annoyed, Kameyl followed. Who Yndris thought might eavesdrop on their conversation Kameyl wasn’t sure. And if she was so worried about it, why not speak on horseback on their way back to the House of Kings?
When she reached the archway and entered the short tunnel beyond, Yndris was just entering a courtyard that contained a well-tended flower garden.
Beneath the Twisted Trees Page 34