Beneath the Twisted Trees

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  He chose not to think about it. He didn’t care about her motivations so long as she finished what she’d started.

  As Rümayesh pressed down on the soldier’s chest, Queen Alansal stared rapt. She swallowed hard, a childlike fear on her timeless face, as a white mist lifted from the soldier’s mouth and nostrils. It was thin and diaphanous, and dissipated like morning fog. As had happened with Brama’s attempt at lifting the scourge, the soldier’s body went rigid as stone, but he seemed in no danger of losing the battle against the scourge. In fact, unlike Mae’s healing at the hands of Behlosh, much of the black, diseased tissue seemed to be healing as well. Only light halos of gray now marked the edges of his mouth and nose.

  Soon Rümayesh lifted her hand, stood as high as the tent’s ceiling allowed, and regarded the man. He’d fallen asleep, Brama realized. His light snores now filled the tent.

  “The scourge was deep within him,” Rümayesh said. “He’ll likely sleep for a day or more.”

  Queen Alansal looked between Rümayesh and Brama, then flicked her hand to the waiting servants. The soldier was taken away and another took his place, a stocky woman with an angry purple birthmark on her right cheek who was in just as poor a state as the soldier had been. Alansal watched as the second victim was healed, and a third and a fourth, each time the strange fog rising from their open mouths. Rümayesh was not tired yet, but Brama could see how taxing each healing was for her, even with the power of the bone.

  As the fifth victim was brought into the tent, Brama beckoned Juvaan closer. When he came near, Brama whispered to him. “I must speak with your queen.”

  Juvaan shook his head. “Let this play out.”

  “The longer we wait, the worse it will be. Better for her to understand and make her decision now.”

  Juvaan stared at the thin rail of a man now lying on the cot. “Very well.”

  Juvaan spoke to Alansal, who at first shook her head. When Juvaan pressed, however, Alansal looked at Brama and a heated if hushed conversation began. When Rümayesh had finished healing the sixth man, Alansal nodded crisply to Juvaan and left the tent with her escort.

  “Be politic,” Juvaan said as he reached Brama’s side.

  They retired to the main pavilion, where Queen Alansal was already seated on her dais. She said to Brama, “I have had no chance to thank you for all you’ve done.” She tipped her head to him, her steel hairpins and the tower of her elaborately styled hair tilting with her. “We are all in your debt.”

  Brama shook his head. “I did little.”

  “You’re being modest. Rümayesh would not have returned without your efforts.”

  Perhaps, Brama thought, but Rümayesh is the one taking the risk. Over the course of the entire morning, he’d worried that Behlosh or Goezhen himself would come storming over the dunes to take their revenge against Rümayesh for her disobedience. “I didn’t wish to see so many die. Not like this. But your Excellence, there’s something we must discuss.”

  “Go on.”

  “There should be no illusions about how quickly Rümayesh can heal the afflicted. It takes time. And the worse they are, the harder it will be.”

  “Come to your point.”

  “I advise you to have her treat those least affected by the disease, not those who are deepest in its throes.”

  Alansal took in his words with a nod. “And in doing so leave those on the hospital ships to die.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “There’s no way around it.”

  “No,” Alansal said flatly. “We cannot abandon them.”

  “We won’t if we can get ahead of the spread. Rümayesh has promised to work as quickly as she can, but even so, she must focus on those newly affected first so the spread of the disease stops here in the camp. Only then can we aid those in the hospital ships.”

  For the first time in Brama’s presence, Alansal seemed truly disheartened. “There are over three thousand aboard those ships.”

  “And more are being sent to them every day. The head must be cut from this snake.”

  There was still a danger that Rümayesh couldn’t keep up with the spread of the disease, but Brama was confident they would be able to turn the tide. The Mirean fleet was nothing if not disciplined. With everyone on the lookout for symptoms, the afflicted were quickly being separated from the healthy. The rate of infection had already been slowing. With more specific instructions being sent throughout the fleet, that would continue and allow Rümayesh to treat those who’d only just been infected.

  Queen Alansal sat straight as a ship’s mast. “It will be as you say. We’ll delay our advance against the Kings until enough are ready. Another week, perhaps, and then our assault will begin in earnest.” She paused then, a polite but strained smile on her lips. It was about as emotive as she ever got, which made it clear how important her next words were. “Rümayesh is already doing enough to earn Raamajit’s bone. But I would still ask her to fight for us. Our strength has been sorely wounded. Nearly one in ten have already died, with more to follow.”

  Brama wiped the sweat from his brow. “You could always return to Mirea.”

  The queen’s smile became drawn and thin. “You can say such a thing, knowing what they’ve done to us? The Kings must pay.”

  Brama tipped his head to her. “As you say, but you seem to think I have a greater influence over Rümayesh than I actually do.”

  The wind was storming, causing the pavilion’s roof to roll and snap. “There is no one with any greater,” Alansal said.

  In truth this entire experience had soured Brama to the prospect of war. He’d seen it as inevitable, something he could do nothing about, and had hoped that somehow he might use it to free himself from Rümayesh, but the scourge had changed him. Rümayesh had changed him. The very idea of witnessing two fleets clashing and standing by as Rümayesh reveled in their pain and sorrow, made his stomach turn. Worse, he knew that he would revel in their pain as well, even as he was revulsed by it. He’d rather he and Rümayesh go into the desert and do as she’d promised: live like gods for a time, see the wonders of the desert. If they did that, it would leave Queen Alansal with few choices. With her fleet in jeopardy, perhaps it would convince Alansal to return home. The Kings were cruel masters and deserved to be deposed, but war could lead to the sacking of Sharakhai and a conflict that would last years, perhaps decades.

  He was about to deny Queen Alansal her request when he heard a shout. More voices closer to the pavilion cried out. And then footsteps neared. They shushed across the sand, coming closer to the pavilion wall along Brama’s left.

  A shadow appeared on the canvas. And then the fabric was split, rent by the slice of a sword. Through the hole flew a woman wearing a red dress and turban that were caked in sand. Brama had never seen one before, but he knew what she was at once. One of the Unseen, the Bloody Nine, one of Husamettín’s Kestrels. Behind her came a second woman, also in red.

  Several of the Damned were already on the move, ebon blades drawn. One was felled almost immediately as the two Kestrels worked in concert, one blocking as the other sliced across his midsection. The second went down in a similar manner with a slice across the backs of his legs. Another pair of the Damned approached with a good deal more caution. They waited as others, who’d drawn their bows, loosed arrows at the Kestrels.

  The Kestrels, however, wasted no time. The first snatched an incoming arrow in mid-air and used it to stab one of the queen’s warriors in the neck. The other, farther back, dodged three arrows neatly, each of which punched through the tent wall behind her. The fourth she sliced in a blurring cut, then engaged the Damned standing before her. A torrent of ringing steel followed. The Kestrels took blows to their armored dresses, but none were enough to stop them, and soon one was breaking away, flying headlong toward Queen Alansal.

  Arrows streaked the air. Shouts filled the pavilion, most calling for the q
ueen to retreat, but the queen would not shrink away. She drew the steel pins from her hair and faced the oncoming Kestrel while her hair flowed down around her shoulders. The Kestrel leapt up to the dais, smooth as a bounding lioness, sword raised high in a two-handed grip.

  As the Kestrel’s blade swung down, the queen’s arm blurred in an upward arc, cutting across the shamshir’s path.

  A metallic shearing sound sound rose above the shouts and sounds of battle. A high-pitched ringing followed as pieces of black, glinting metal flew everywhere, some of it striking Brama. The Kestrel hardly paused. She wielded the remaining hunk of blade as she would a long fighting knife, but the queen was ready. As the Kestrel sliced once, twice, the queen retreated, maintaining proper balance, proper distance. On the Kestrel’s third swing, the queen held her ground, blocked a swift kick with her shin, and drove both hairpins into the Kestrel’s chest.

  The Kestrel’s eyes went wide. She tried to bring what was left of her sword across the queen’s neck, but her swing was slow and desperate. Alansal ducked beneath it and used that momentary opening to drive a pin through the Kestrel’s defenseless neck.

  “My queen!” Juvaan called in Mirean.

  The other Kestrel, the shorter of the two, had a bowstring drawn to her ear, the arrow aimed for the queen. As she released the string, Queen Alansal, in a sinuous movement that made the fabric of her skirt flap, snaked around the other Kestrel so that, instead of taking the queen, the arrow took the Kestrel’s sister in the chest.

  No sooner had the arrow struck than Queen Alansal’s right arm whipped forward. Her hairpin spun, flashing in the muted sunlight as it flew through the air before burying itself deep the second Kestrel’s forehead. Her whole body quivered for a moment, her bow slipped from her hand, and she fell face-first onto the carpets.

  For a moment, all was silence in the pavilion. Then drums were pounding, the sound coming from one of the ships, an urgent rhythm that was picked up by more drums on other ships.

  “Make ready!” someone bellowed in Mirean. “To arms!” More orders were called, nearly all of which were lost on Brama. Over and over, those two phrases repeated: Make ready, To arms. The only other words Brama could pick out were the Mirean words for south and fleet.

  The queen went to the fallen Kestrel and wrenched the steel pin from her forehead. After wiping away the blood on the Kestrel’s dress, she twisted her hair, replaced both pins, and headed through the tear in the wall. Juvaan followed her, as did many others, including Brama.

  They all stared toward the southern horizon, where a cloud of dust was rising. Ships could be seen at the forefront, like the vanguard of a storm.

  The Kings’ fleet, at long last, had arrived.

  Chapter 42

  RAMAHD STANDS ALONE beneath a bright desert sun. Off the strange, glasslike surface of the plain that surrounds him, an oppressive heat lifts. He’s been waiting a long while, wary for the telltale signs—the pounding of the earth, the smell of burnt myrrh, a wavering shape in the distance—but so far there’s been nothing.

  Where are you, Meryam?

  He resists the urge to call to her. Do that, and she’ll suspect. So instead he waits, hoping he hasn’t wasted another night.

  A shift in the very fabric of the world alerts him. When he turns he sees her: Meryam, walking across the plain in a black dress with full sleeves. She bears a long, curving bow. A quiver filled with arrows hangs from her belt.

  Knowing he cannot give himself away, Ramahd retreats while Meryam, quick as a striking snake, draws an arrow and lets fly. With a wave of his arm, Ramahd shatters the arrow, but there’s already another on the way. He breaks this as well, amazed she has such reserves of strength.

  “How long do you think you can keep this up?” he asks her.

  “As long as I need to.”

  Another arrow loosed. Another shattered.

  “And meanwhile,” Ramahd says, “Qaimir is brought closer to the edge of ruin.”

  “Closer to the edge of glory.”

  “No, Meryam. If you’d take the time to look, you’d see that holding the desert is a dream.”

  “Dreams can come true, Ramahd.” Meryam stops ten paces away, a wide grin on her face. “You might have realized it yourself if you didn’t always dream so small.”

  A flurry of arrows fly from her bow, and Ramahd shatters each one. He’d come with the purpose of luring her, but he hadn’t expected her to be so revitalized. Even worse, he feels the sudden presence of another. He glances behind and sees Hamzakiir walking toward him. He bears a bow as well.

  Mighty Alu protect me.

  That Meryam hasn’t called upon Hamzakiir before is a sign of her stubbornness and pride. By the same token, his presence here now is a sign of her desperation, and Meryam is always at her most dangerous when she’s desperate.

  Ramahd retreats across the broken plain, trying to keep both of them in view. Their attack is relentless, however. One arrow punctures the linen of his trousers. Another grazes his shoulder.

  Before coming here, he debated whether he should allow Meryam’s spells to strike him—it might give him the precious moments he needed to locate his prize—but now the choice has all but been taken from him. He can’t fight both of them forever, and he refuses to wake himself and let this opportunity pass him by. Only the fates knew when the chance might come again. So he fights them off for as long as he can.

  And then an arrow strikes him dead in the chest.

  Near Bent Man Bridge, in the center of the Haddah’s dry riverbed, Cicio waited in a skiff. The sail was up and gathering wind but the anchor was down and hooked into the earth by Cicio himself so that they wouldn’t risk moving before they were ready.

  Ramahd lay in the bottom of the skiff beside an effigy made of hay wrapped in rough burlap. Esmeray sat at the prow, Davud on the skiff’s centermost thwart, while Cicio manned the tiller. The three of them each had effigies of their own, resting beside them like oversized rag dolls. The ghul, Fezek, had been left behind in the workshop. He was always yammering at the wrong time, wavering between how impossible life was for the poet in modern Sharakhai and how great he might have been had a large and rather stubborn peach pit not become lodged in his throat.

  In the days leading up to this night, Cicio had warned Ramahd that the two young blood magi would foul things up—the two of them were clearly, almost disgustingly, in love—but Ramahd had insisted, and Cicio was pleased to find he’d been wrong to doubt their abilities. When the time had come, they’d got right down to business, working together to cast spells, one to camouflage the skiff, another to alert them should anyone come blundering by.

  They’d been quiet since, but Davud was becoming restless. “I feel like a fish trapped after springflow,” he said.

  “How long do we give him?” Esmeray asked.

  Cicio pressed his fingers to Ramahd’s neck. His pulse was steady, and his body had shown no signs of the spasms that came when Meryam was near. “As long as he need.”

  Along Bent Man Bridge, a squad of Silver Spears walked south along the Trough, talking jovially, loudly, about the drinks they’d earned after some scare with a squad of Malasani soldiers. Just then a tremor ran through Ramahd, and a moan like the opening of an old door escaped him. Cicio expected the Spears to turn, for one of them to call out, but they didn’t. They kept walking, and their conversation faded, melding into the hum of night life along the Trough.

  Ramahd’s body went stiff. Tremors ran through him and then he lurched violently. Cicio was tempted to wake him, but Ramahd had made it clear he must be left to wake on his own.

  “Be ready,” Cicio whispered as he watched the banks of the Haddah for any sign that Queen Meryam’s agents had found them.

  Cicio scratched at the center of his chest where his skin was tickling, the spot where he felt certain a Blade Maiden’s arrow was aimed. He wasn’t af
raid of much, but there was something about those bloody women.

  Davud pointed to the northern bank, where several dark shapes were coming into view. Soldiers on horses. Cicio snapped his fingers twice and pointed to the opposite bank, where there were more riders exiting an alley. From the second group came a gut-wrenching howl, the call of an asir. It was followed by a second and a third.

  “Fucking shit.” Cicio cut the rope to the anchor and the ship glided into motion. “Fucking shit!”

  They’d known Queen Meryam would send Maidens, but the asirim? Everyone had thought them gone from Sharakhai; not a single one had howled on Beht Zha’ir. Clearly they managed to keep a few, Cicio thought. As the skiff gained speed, he raised his crossbow and sighted along it, waiting for the asirim to come. Hurry, my lord. An asir howled again, this one so high, so shrill, it sent a shiver of fear running through him. It went on for so long he grit his teeth against it lest he start wailing too.

  “Gods of the desert, no,” Davud breathed.

  “What?” Cicio hissed.

  A man on a bright silver akhala rode out along the Trough. The rider, tall and impressive, had drawn a two-handed shamshir that fairly glowed in the night.

  “It’s Hamzakiir,” Davud said. “Hamzakiir is coming.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Esmeray spat, and began weaving a spell. “Curl up like a little boy?”

  The three asirim charged toward them over the rocky ground. Cicio lifted the double crossbow to his shoulder, aimed at the closest of them, and let a bolt fly. The crossbow thrummed. He heard a sharp whine, saw the asir stumble, but it was up again a moment later. The crossbow kicked as he squeezed the second trigger. The asir whined again, its speed flagging, while the other two galloped past it.

  Along the bottom of the skiff, Ramahd’s body was beginning to thrash. Mighty Alu, Cicio thought as he drew his shamshir, hurry, Ramahd, or we won’t live to see the sunrise.