The chef’s attention, however, had been taken by something else. With the hubbub of the kitchen playing out around him—everyone assiduously avoiding his gaze—he stared hard at the pile of onion leavings, then at the burlap curtains hiding the contents of the lower shelf. He made a move to grab the cloth, but Sümeya snatched his wrist and stopped him, at which point the chef, in a surprisingly energetic move, rolled his arm around hers and ripped his hand free. “Unhand me!”
Sümeya held her hands up in a placating gesture. “There’s no need to become hysterical, my lord.”
“Hysterical?” He grabbed the cart and yanked on it, but he may as well have been trying to take Bakhi’s hammer from his bronze statue in the great hall. Kameyl was too strong for him, and kept the cart in place. “This is the most important night of my life and you’re telling me not to become hysterical?”
They were all standing there, no one sure what to say next, when the burlap cloth bulged and two blackened, shriveled hands, bound at the wrist, fell out and slapped against the tiled floor. Several emaciated fingers twitched while the chef stared open-mouthed.
His cry of alarm was cut short when Sümeya shot a hand into his throat. As he ducked forward and began to emit wet choking sounds, Sümeya put her one arm around him. “My lord!” she cried, and began leading him away. “My lord, are you all right?”
While all eyes followed the chef, Çeda crouched and slipped Sehid-Alaz’s bound hands back beneath the curtain. To this point, she’d felt nothing from him—a byproduct of the soporific Kameyl had given him to quell his madness—but now she felt a glimpse of emotion, a chaotic flash of light in the darkness.
By the gods, he was waking. Please, my Lord King. Stay calm.
But it was not to be. As Kameyl pushed the cart toward the kitchen’s entrance, a long, low moan came from the bottom of the cart. A childish whine followed, a sound no one in Sharakhai would confuse with anything other than what it was: the call of an asir.
“Bakhi preserve us.” The large woman in the apron was staring at the cart, backing slowly away. All around, looks of confusion were turning to fear.
The chef, meanwhile, had managed to stop coughing long enough to point at Çeda and Kameyl and rasp, “Take them!”
Çeda thought he was talking to the cadre of cooks and servants, but when they all rushed toward the edges of the room, it left a clear path along the kitchen’s central aisle, revealing a woman clothed in black, her face veiled, her eyes wide and angry.
It was Yndris.
To me! she whistled sharply, summoning her fellow Blade Maidens.
“Go!” Çeda said, and shoved Kameyl back toward Sümeya.
As two more Maidens appeared in the doorway behind Yndris, Çeda ran to the massive stock pot, grabbed a meathook from a hanging rack, and used it to pull on the pot’s lip. With a great heave, she hauled the pot off its iron grate.
All turned to madness as it tipped onto the floor with a bang, disgorging its contents across the room. The cooks and assistants all scrambled away, hoping to avoid being scalded by the boiling soup. They crowded Yndris and the other Blade Maidens, preventing them from advancing.
Kameyl, meanwhile, turned the cart around and rushed it through the archway tunnel. Sümeya and Çeda followed, but Sümeya came to a halt as soon as they were out of sight. She drew her shamshir, then ripped her dress along the side and pulled out her buckler as well. “Go on,” she said. “The hallway cuts around and exits close to the feasting hall. Make your way from there to the wagons.”
It took every ounce of will Çeda had to obey the order, but she did. She caught up to Kameyl, and the two of them rushed the cart along the hallway. No sooner had they turned the corner than the sound of steel rang loudly behind them.
By the time they reached the central hall, the palace had devolved into a hornet’s nest. Servants fled the sound of battle. Silver Spears rushed toward the kitchens in the wake of the Blade Maidens. Beside Çeda, Kameyl put on a good show, glancing over her shoulder in dismay. Çeda didn’t have to act to look worried. She was deathly afraid Sümeya would be overwhelmed, but they’d all agreed that getting Sehid-Alaz out was the most important thing.
Passing through the palace’s grand entrance, they reached the courtyard. Their path to Melis and the wagon she guarded was blessedly clear. Çeda and Kameyl were dragging the cart as quickly as they could across the gravel when another long moan came from beneath the cart.
“Please, my Lord King,” Çeda whispered to him, “cry no more.”
But it did no good. He wailed louder, and it was no longer pitiable, but filled with bile and anger and spite.
“We’re taking you to safety,” she added. “We’re taking you to our people.”
But her pleas had no effect. His mind was a swirling maelstrom of fear and anger and an overriding desire to obey the will of the Kings. He struggled even more, straining against his bonds. His wail grew until it made Çeda want to curl up like a sick child. She tried to strengthen their bond that she might calm him, but it had precisely the opposite effect. The onslaught of his raw hunger made her nostrils flare, made her lips pull back in a terrible grimace. He wasn’t fully awake yet, she realized. He was still dreaming, and the only thing Çeda could think of to help was to draw him back down toward darkness.
Ahead, Melis had climbed onto the back of a wagon. Clothed similarly in a blue servant’s dress, she made it look as though she were backing away from the moaning asir in a bid for safety. The driver, buying it completely, leapt onto the bed, drawing his knife as if to protect her, which was precisely when Melis leaned into him and gave him a mighty shove off the wagon.
“Hey!” he cried as he tumbled to the ground.
Melis took up the reins while Çeda lifted Sehid-Alaz and bore his awkward, loose-limbed weight onto the wagon bed. Çeda crawled beside her King and whispered “Shhhh,” into his ear. A long groan escaped him. She could feel his madness fighting her, but when she imagined sand blowing through an adichara grove, and summoned up the rattle-leaf sound of the wind through the branches, he quieted and went still.
Kameyl had drawn her shamshir and buckler from inside her dress. And just in time. She lifted her buckler, blocking an arrow with a sharp ting as it came streaking toward Çeda. She sidestepped another and ducked a third as a squad of Silver Spears came rushing across the courtyard toward the wagon. The Kestrel, running with a spear hoisted up over one shoulder, ran alongside them, a blood-drenched raven among a flock of doves.
Just as the wagon was pulling away, the Kestrel threw her spear, which flew through the rear wheel’s spokes, splashed the gravel, and struck deep into the ground. With the spear’s haft caught between the spokes and the rear axle, it stalled the wagon’s movement. Kameyl wasted no time. She lifted her sword with both hands and with an almighty roar brought it down against the haft, shearing it in two.
The wagon lurched into motion and began building speed. As the clopping of the horses’ hooves filled the courtyard, Sümeya, still clad in her blue servant’s dress, burst from a tower and sprinted along the wall walk. Giving chase were three Blade Maidens and a squad of Silver Spears. Çeda watched in awe as Sümeya, in a fearless move, leapt between the battlements and launched herself beyond the wall.
Melis whipped the horses harder and sent them careening around the curve that would lead them to the barbican. Arrows came streaking in from the Silver Spears stationed atop the wall. One clanged loudly off Kameyl’s shield. Others whipped over Çeda’s head. Then she saw an archer aiming for Sehid-Alaz. Çeda tried to block it, but the arrow was too swift and punched deep into Sehid-Alaz’s chest.
Sehid-Alaz’s jaundiced eyes went wide. His mouth became a perfect circle, revealing his red mouth, his boneyard of teeth. A wail of surprise and pain escaped him. It grew in intensity, so loud it rattled her bones. Fear and madness coursed through her—a small window into Sehid-Alaz�
�s mind, though the knowledge did her little good. She curled onto the bed, her hands clamped over her ears as she devolved into primal, childlike terror.
The horses, thank the gods, galloped on, but as they passed beneath the barbican, the echoed sound became so intense Çeda found herself screaming along with Sehid-Alaz. The barbican shook. Cracks formed through the stones. Entire sections crumbled and fell. Pieces crashed onto the wagon bed. One as large as a mastiff came thundering down against the rear corner. The wood gave. Shards exploded outward, several piercing Çeda’s left cheek and neck. A long sliver sunk into Kameyl’s right forearm as she twisted away from the impact.
The entire wagon bucked and bounced, but luckily the wheels and axles held. On they flew, crossing the drawbridge and following the gentle curve that would lead them to the first of the switchbacks along King’s Road.
Behind them, although the barbican continued to crumble, the rumbling was lessening now that Sehid-Alaz’s long moan was finally coming to an end. A great cloud of dust billowed up and around it, obscuring the courtyard. Unfortunately, the way hadn’t been completely blocked. As Melis was slowing down for the switchback, a dozen Silver Spears on horses emerged from the cloud of ivory dust.
Çeda’s ears rang, a high-pitched remnant of Sehid-Alaz’s scream, but above it she heard a bell tolling in Eventide, a warning to the other palaces and to the House of Maidens that enemies had been spotted. They weren’t getting out, Çeda realized, not the way they’d planned. They’d hoped to pose as servants being sent to fetch more food for the feast, but that was impossible now, and the prospects of bulling their way through or climbing the walls had just become infinitely more difficult.
“Yah!” Melis called, whipping the horses as they pulled onto the long section of road ahead.
Behind them, the Silver Spears had just reached the switchback, but instead of following, they turned off the road and began riding down at a steep, dangerous angle, surely so they could cut off the wagon’s escape from the road below. Soon they were among the scrub brush, and then lost from view entirely as the wagon followed a curve in the road.
Kameyl swung her sword up and pointed along the slope of the mountain to their left. “There she is!”
Dust rose along the slope in two places. One was from Sümeya as she careened down the mountain. Behind her, the Kestrel and three Blade Maidens gave chase, and it was clear they were catching up to her.
As they approached the switchback, Melis pulled hard on the reins. The horse’s hooves skidded along the gravel. Sümeya burst through the brush along their left, her arms windmilling. Sümeya was bleeding heavily along her right side, and the Kestrel was right behind her. As the wagon careened past, Sümeya continued to run full tilt, then launched herself in a mighty leap up to the bed. Çeda caught her in a crash of bodies, halting her movement.
The Kestrel followed with long, powerful strides, then launched herself as Sümeya had. Kameyl moved to meet her, blocking the Kestrel’s initial swing, but the Kestrel had planted one foot on the rear wagon wheel. Its spin and the Kestrel’s speed launched her high into the air.
“Melis!” Çeda called, already on the move toward the front of the wagon.
But the Kestrel’s target wasn’t Melis. She soared beyond the driver’s bench to land on the yoke between the rumps of the galloping horses. She pulled hard on the reins. Çeda whistled danger, disengage as both horses veered sharply right, enough that the wagon wheels were turned at an awkward angle.
Steel rims scraped against the road and the wagon skidded sideways, its momentum dragging the horses with it. The Kestrel jumped free moments before the front left wheel collapsed and the wagon tilted sharply.
Çeda tried to jump, but too late. She flew through the air while the horses screamed. Wood crashed thunderously against stone and gravel. The wagon tumbled along King’s Road.
Çeda came down hard near the left side of the road, the rear of the twisting wagon narrowly missing her. She saw bodies flying, saw the horses being dragged by the wagon’s momentum. She rolled and struck her head hard with a sound like breaking stone, then came to a skidding stop near the steep drop-off along the side of the road.
She sat up shakily, saw the Kestrel limping toward her over the dirt. The Kestrel’s armor had been torn badly along one leg and she walked with a pronounced limp, but otherwise seemed none the worse for the wear.
The earth is shaking, Çeda realized. It’s the horses. The cohort of Silver Spears.
The Kestrel glanced their way: a wall of proud akhalas and soldiers in white. Çeda thought the Kestrel might wait for the Spears to arrive, to take Çeda and the others back up to Eventide for questioning, but instead she fixed her gaze on Çeda, her murderous intent plain.
Çeda reached for River’s Daughter but found that it had been flung away during her fall. She reached for her knife instead, but was so dazed she didn’t realize she was still wearing the blue servant’s dress until her hand found only a simple belt of white silk at her waist.
“The Kings will suffer your traitorous presence no longer,” the Kestrel said.
Just then an arrow struck her in the chest. She stared in confusion at the approaching Silver Spears as another arrow flew in, catching her through the left calf. Then the Kestrel was on the run, fleeing down the mountainside as more arrows chased her, and was soon lost in the wiry foliage.
Çeda turned, utterly confused as to why the Spears would have attacked their own. She had her answer a moment later. The front ranks of the Silver Spears spread wide, revealing a familiar-looking man dressed in the helm, armor, and livery of a Silver Spear. Çeda couldn’t quite pin why, but he looked like he didn’t belong in a uniform like that. He looked bloody awkward wearing it. It was only as he spurred his horse toward her that Çeda recognized him. Breath of the desert, it was King Ihsan, the Honey-tongued King.
Chapter 45
“HALT!” IHSAN CALLED, allowing power to leach into his voice.
Everyone around him—the Silver Spears on their horses, the three Maidens near the wagon, Çeda and her traitorous allies—froze. Even Sehid-Alaz, who had been twitching on the ground along the roadside, stilled. But not the Kestrel. She kept sprinting down the hillside as if she hadn’t heard.
Because she hadn’t, Ihsan knew. She was the same Kestrel who’d attacked him in the carpeted hall of Zeheb’s palace. The one Zeheb had ordered deafened. Knowing the zealotry of those women, the Kestrel had probably done it to herself.
She kept running, hardly hampered by her wounds, and was quickly lost to the scrub brush. Hopefully she’d die on the mountainside, but Ihsan could spare her no more mind. The billowing dust from the destroyed barbican had hidden this exchange from nearly everyone in Eventide, but there was still much to do to see Çeda to safety and arrange a believable excuse for his absence.
He waved to the women who’d been thrown to the ground as the wagon tumbled. He saw who they were now. Sümeya, Melis, and Kameyl. “Lift Sehid-Alaz,” he said, and pointed to the rear of a nearby horse. “He’ll ride with the captain. Mount the horses.”
He had them wrap Sehid-Alaz with a blanket salvaged from the wagon and debated leaving Yndris and the other two Blade Maidens behind. He considered killing them as well. But it might be he could use them, so he decided they would all accompany him down the mountain.
Soon enough they were mounted and ready to ride. Ihsan was about to order their advance when he noticed Çeda staring south with a confused look on her face. Several of the Silver Spears were as well. He turned and saw something he couldn’t quite understand at first. From this vantage, Sharakhai’s southern harbor was laid bare. Many ships had already fled the city. Some remained, looking like forgotten husks in an ancient ruin. In the center of the harbor, near the tower and the complex of inner docks surrounding it, a cloud of dirty amber dust was rising.
A strange welling of fear bubbled up inside him
. He wasn’t even sure of the nature of it until he saw figures emerging from the cloud. Dark shapes, stark against the sun-bright sand. They flowed in a stream toward the outer docks and the city’s streets. The wind shifted, revealing dozens, hundreds, emerging from what appeared to be a giant hole in the sand. A tunnel. They’d somehow dug a tunnel all the way to the center of the bloody harbor.
Zeheb’s words returned to him. Sand and stone and darkness. Hissing. Kissing. A thousand hearts missing.
He’d been talking about the golems. From this distance, the harbor looked like a disturbed anthill, but these were no insects rushing to protect their home. This was an advance force meant to attack the city’s inner defenses before they were ready.
Çeda, mounted with Sümeya behind her, stared intently at the conflict. “Golems,” she said.
Ihsan knew it was true, but he knew how rare they were. They were considered sacred, a part of the one who’d granted them life through their hidden rituals. They had always been considered protectors, not aggressors, a belief Ihsan had once thought would never be forgotten or misused. Yet here were hundreds of them, attacking a foreign city. Already they were pressing along the quays, heading toward the Trough and the gates of the outer walls.
“Come,” Ihsan said.
They pushed hard to reach the bottom of the mountain, thankfully seeing no sign of the Kestrel as they reached level ground and rode hard for the House of Maidens, which was busy but had few enough Maidens left inside its walls. They were met by a pair of Blade Maidens at the inner gates, but Yndris rode at their head and gave the story Ihsan had given her: that they’d been ordered down the mountain by King Kiral, that the Silver Spears were being sent to the battlefront, and the four servants accompanying them had been caught in an unfortunate accident and were being sent back to their lord in Goldenhill.
The two Maidens looked over the squad of Silver Spears. Their eyes passed over Ihsan without recognizing him, but they recognized Sümeya and Kameyl and Melis and Çeda. As their eyes widened, Ihsan said simply, “You will let us pass.”
Beneath the Twisted Trees Page 43