Beneath the Twisted Trees

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  King Emir considered Emre and Hamid, suddenly much more serious. “Your message said you wish to conclude our negotiations.”

  Emre nodded. “Yes. I have other business to attend to.”

  “As do I. I have a city to take, the blooming fields to worry about, and the extermination of your precious asirim to deal with.” King Emir paused, waiting for a reaction. When Emre didn’t give him the satisfaction, he said, “I wonder, did you realize when you convinced Haddad to beg for my mercy that you were only delaying the inevitable? Did you suppose I would let the asirim be once the city was mine?”

  “I’m not here to speak of them,” Emre said.

  “And yet you sent Haddad to speak of them for you.”

  “The asirim have suffered enough.”

  “Then you shouldn’t mind quick deaths for them all.”

  Emre calmed himself before speaking. The king was trying to goad him, and he refused to take the bait. “Your Most Grand Excellence, I have not come here to discuss the miserable souls who live beneath the adichara, but to lay an offer at your feet.”

  “Oh? And what would that be?”

  “Ships, spears, swords, and shields. Plus the men and women to wield them.”

  King Emir glanced over Emre’s shoulder to the pavilion’s entrance and the golden city beyond. “You think we have need of a handful of ships from the thirteenth tribe?”

  “My offer no longer comes from the thirteenth tribe alone, but from the people of the desert, the united tribes.”

  “United tribes, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  Emre had debated with Hamid and Old Nur long into the night how to present this offer. It was a bargaining chip Macide had given him leave to use if he felt it would help secure the tribe. Emre hadn’t wanted to use it, but it was clear that King Emir wasn’t taking their offer to discuss trade in good faith. Old Nur had been against it. Hamid, surprisingly, had sided with Emre. Emre had been convinced Hamid would hate the idea of fighting alongside the Malasani, but his desire to harm the Sharakhani Kings had won out.

  “The Malasani presence in the desert will be short-lived,” Hamid assured them over the fire. “Let us wound the Kings, draw their blood while we can.”

  He’d insisted they offer to fight alongside the Malasani fleet, independently, not as a part of it. Emre had agreed, both with Hamid’s reasoning and his demands, but Emre had a greater purpose as well. King Emir needed to know that the tribes were not to be trifled with. Even if he declined, the offer itself was a declaration of a desert united. At the least it would force the Malasani king to think twice before threatening the tribes, even the least among them, or risk uniting them all against him. And at best—should Malasan come out ahead in this war—it might lead to peace with the people of the desert, a peace found through strength, not capitulation.

  “Yes, well,” King Emir said, “we will see what comes of your alliance. Meanwhile, you would offer us a handful of ships?”

  “Not a handful. Fifty. And two thousand spears to add to your cause.”

  Near King Emir, Surrahdi stood and began to dance about the dais. “Fifty!” He performed a jig behind the throne. “Ships, ten and forty, sail the desert grand! Ships ten and forty, across the amber sand!”

  King Emir tried to use his father’s outburst to cover his surprise, but Emre had seen how his brows rose. “Two thousand spears, you say, when I have thirty thousand at my beck and call.”

  “Thirty thousand, and the upper hand here in Sharakhai, but a storm gathers on the horizon. The Kings have stopped you at the inner walls, and Qaimir is on their way to relieve them. I would bet that Kundhun also sails for Sharakhai, and we both know it won’t be to aid you, King Emir, but to rid the city of its invaders. And then there is Mirea. Two fleets meet in the northern desert. Whether the Kings win or the Queen of Mirea does, it means trouble for Malasan. You have no allies here to call upon. But you could have, my king.”

  King Emir considered a long while. The wind blew strongly for a moment, sending the pavilion’s tent poles to creaking. “Fifty ships and two thousand spears.”

  “Just so.”

  “And what would you ask in return?”

  “But two small requests, neither of which will cause the King of Malasan any great suffering.”

  At this, Hamid glanced toward Emre. Last night they’d agreed to a single demand, not two. He said nothing, however, and soon King Emir was waving a hand for Emre to continue. “Go on.”

  “First,” Emre said, “we would like King Ihsan to be delivered to us.”

  All around the pavilion, Emir’s courtiers began talking in low tones, until Emir himself stomped the heel of his boot onto the dais and silenced all. “You want the King of Lies?”

  “He has done more harm to us than you can ever know. He must pay for his crimes.”

  To this King Emir replied easily, “Rest assured he shall! The Honey-tongued King has much to answer for in Malasan as well.”

  Emre bowed his head. “Whatever insults and injuries Malasan has suffered, those levied against the thirteenth tribe have been infinitely worse.”

  Surrahdi became animated once more. His gaze flitted between King Emir and Emre. “So juicy and sticky sweet! The honeyed tongue of the Honey-tongued King!”

  King Emir, meanwhile, considered the demand. He’d put on a doubtful expression, but Emre had never felt more sure of a thing. King Emir might not know it yet, but he would give Emre this. King Ihsan wasn’t nearly as important to him as winning the desert. So it came as no surprise when he nodded and said, “Your second request?”

  “That Haddad return with us to act as your emissary to the desert people.” He kept his tone neutral, and had chosen his words carefully, so as not to give King Emir the impression that he knew more than he was letting on.

  Two nights ago, a figure had stolen into Emre’s cabin, a feminine form wearing a black dress. A Blade Maiden wearing a necklace made from the thorns of an ehrekh. Emre could hardly believe his eyes. Çeda had crossed paths with just such a woman in the blooming fields. They’d traded blows, but Çeda had managed to escape, and the encounter had led her and a good many people, Emre included, down long and winding paths to places they could never have dreamed of a few short years ago.

  Emre had nearly sounded the alarm, but the Maiden had put her finger to her lips. She’d been unarmed, and had made no threatening moves, so Emre had waited. After closing the door, she’d stepped closer and spoke in a low voice.

  How strange her story seemed at first. Golems and gods and mad kings. Indeed, the longer she spoke, the more incredulous it sounded, especially when she revealed that much of it had come from the Honey-tongued King.

  “How could you possibly know all this?” he asked her. “King Ihsan is in a prison ship.”

  “As was I, until I felt it time to leave.”

  Emre had stared at her, doubting, but he knew the capabilities of the Blade Maidens better than most, and he eventually nodded, a sign for her to continue.

  A plan had followed. A desperate plan, to be sure, but it might just work, Emre thought.

  The pavilion’s canvas snapped, and a smile lit King Emir’s face. “Surely, you’re joking.”

  Emre replied easily, “I assure you I am not.”

  Hamid leaned toward Emre and turned his head away from the dais. “Don’t do this,” he muttered.

  Emre ignored him. “She’s the perfect choice for ambassador,” he said to King Emir. “She knows us well already. She’s met Macide and Aríz and several other shaikhs. She knows, as well as any Malasani, how we live in the desert.”

  Animated and smug a moment ago, the king was now serious as a black laugher. “Knows you well . . .” Gods, his face was turning red.

  Emre pretended not to notice. “Just so,” he said. “She’s a tough negotiator, but in my dealings with h
er she’s always used a firm, even hand. And her tongue, well . . . I’ll admit it can be harsh at times, but also quite soft when the need arises.”

  King Emir stood in a rush. “That’s enough.”

  Emre played dumb. “Your Excellence?”

  “Bring her,” he said to a nearby guard.

  The guard nodded and left the pavilion.

  What followed were several minutes in which the only person who seemed willing to move, or even make a sound was Mad King Surrahdi. He pranced around the dais, hands high in the air, twirling as if he were on a mountaintop trying to summon one of the rare efrit. He seemed, instead of insanely joyous as he was most often, genuinely concerned, to the point that he might do something rash.

  Emre tried to ignore him, but found it impossible when he stood before his own son and asked in a calm, collected voice, “Will you kill her?”

  “Sit down.”

  “I always liked her, you know.”

  “I said sit down.”

  Emir’s were the words of a scolding father, and came as no surprise given Surrahdi’s antics. More curious was the fact that King Emir didn’t use it more often. After speaking with the Blade Maiden, however, it all made sense.

  “They let Surrahdi act the fool,” she’d said, “because they cannot bear to face the truth that lies beneath. They’ve stood by, allowed his grand plan to unfold, and now no one can acknowledge the shame lest it shame them all.”

  The Blade Maiden had been unsure how best to force King Emir’s hand, but Emre knew his type well enough. He was a man who saw confrontations as having only one winner: himself. “I’ll ask for her,” Emre had told the Maiden. “King Emir will do the rest.”

  No sooner had Surrahdi returned to his chair than Haddad was dragged into the pavilion and thrown at King Emir’s feet. What followed was not unexpected. The brutality, however, was. King Emir backhanded Haddad, and when she tried to recover, did so again.

  “Stop!” Emre cried, and stepped forward.

  The king’s guard intercepted him. When he tried to bull past them, two held his arms while a third drove a mailed fist into his gut. He curled around the blow, and his breath whooshed from his lungs, but he was up and fighting a moment later, struggling to break from their grasp.

  King Emir glanced over at him, eminently pleased, then continued to pound Haddad with his fist. Emre thought he might kill her then and there to show him who had the upper hand. But he stopped a moment later, and allowed her to collapse against the dais and curl into a ball. “Haddad is mine to do with as I please. You understand?”

  “If she offends you so much,” Emre said, “let her live out her days in the desert.”

  Haddad’s sobs filled the pavilion. King Emir stepped over her cowering shape and stood at the edge of the dais so he was staring down at Emre. Then he hauled one arm back, gripped his gauntleted hand into a fist, and punched Emre in the face. Emre staggered back and fell. Blood coursed down from his nose and along his lips. It dripped from his chin in a stream as King Emir glowered.

  “What’s mine is mine.” He stepped down from the dais and punched Emre again. “Haddad. Sharakhai. Your precious blooming fields and the vermin below. The entire bloody desert.” When Emre retreated, stunned, Emir rushed forward and backhanded him. Emre’s world tipped sideways. His vision filled with stars.

  On the dais, Surrahdi was jumping up and down like a spider monkey. “Kill him! Gut him! See what’s inside!”

  Four guards dragged Hamid from the tent. Two more hauled Emre to his feet while another gripped his hair and forced him to hold King Emir’s gaze.

  “Two thousand spears . . .” Emir spat into Emre’s face. “Take your worthless crew and your tumbledown ship and return to your master like the flea-ridden cur you are. Tell Macide that when we’re finished with Sharakhai, we’re coming for his tribe. Tell him we’re coming for the others as well, however many join your precious alliance. The only promise the shaikhs will get from me is that I will feed their bones to the Great Mother.”

  Ten of the King’s guard and dozens of Malasani soldiers accompanied them to the Amaranth. When they were aboard, they waited on the sand, and when they felt they were moving too slowly began shooting arrows into the hull and masts and rigging, making a sound like barking dogs as they did so.

  As the sails were set and the Amaranth picked up speed, Darius brought Emre a wet rag. Emre accepted it and began wiping the blood from his face. It was only as the Malasani camp was falling below the horizon that Hamid came to Emre, fuming. “You mind telling me what that was all about?”

  Emre shrugged. “I’ll tell you all of it. I promise.” He looked at the setting sun. “For now, we need to make preparations to circle back.”

  Hamid’s sleepy eyes were neither amused nor surprised. “No, Emre.”

  “Yes. We’re going back,” he said to the gathered crew, “and we’re going to steal King Ihsan out from under their fucking noses.”

  Chapter 51

  ÇEDA STRODE DOWN THE GANGPLANK of the Red Bride and took to the open sand, heading for the sunshade Sümeya had set up that morning. Behind her came Sümeya, Melis, and Kameyl, all wearing their Maiden’s black. Jenise and the other Shieldwives came next, all in tan fighting dresses and turbans that made them look like sandstone statues. None bore swords, including Çeda. What was to come was a ritual of openness and understanding. It would be a rebirth of sorts, a ritual in which swords had no place.

  Walking, loping, crawling on an intercept course were the asirim—eight dark, hunched shapes that clustered around a ninth, their King, Sehid-Alaz. They’d pulled the arrow from his chest, allowing the wound to close and his body to start to heal, but his mind was every bit as fragile as Çeda had feared. He walked with a strange gait and shied at sudden movement. Even clouds occluding the sun brought on momentary seizures of fear and confusion. As had been true in Eventide, Çeda could feel the chaos within him. His mind was a roil of emotions that was difficult to be near. The only reason she could be close to him now was the calming influence of the other asirim.

  Alone he was like a wolf separated from its pack and beaten mercilessly. He hardly knew himself anymore and was aggressive, lashing out at any perceived threat. Twice on their flight from Sharakhai—after their strange, almost dreamlike escape with King Ihsan—he’d tried to attack Sümeya, perhaps because he smelled on her the scent of her father, King Husamettín. Çeda had intervened both times, slowly talking Sehid-Alaz down until he’d returned to his usual position: a tight ball in the bottom of their skiff.

  On their reunion with the Red Bride, however, Mavra and her children had been able to shelter him from the storm. The beaten wolf was reunited with his pack, allowing him to find some semblance of peace, though only while cradled by their love. He’d lost his courage in Eventide’s dungeon, his will to fight. He’d lost his identity. And all knew that the moment he was left alone, the madness would return. The curse Husamettín had laid upon him was a wound that might never heal. Which was precisely why they’d all gathered together, to begin the process of lifting that curse.

  When they reached the sunshade, Çeda sat cross-legged on the sand. Melis handed her a bamboo needle and tap and a clay pot that contained a special ink. The ink, the same as she’d made for Jenise and Amile and all the rest, had been prepared in a ritual using the burnt branches and flowers of the adichara.

  “I would have you stay,” Çeda said to Melis as she began to back away. She took in Sümeya and Kameyl as well. “All of you.”

  “We’ve discussed this,” Sümeya said.

  “Yes, but I’ve reconsidered. It’s true that you aren’t bonded to these asirim, but Sehid-Alaz should feel your presence as well, for in you he cannot help but feel hope.”

  The sun shone harshly against the acid-damaged side of Kameyl’s face, evidence of their fight against Hamzakiir’s shamblers in the ancient temple
beneath Ishmantep. “Hope?” she scoffed.

  “Yes. Hope that there are those in Sharakhai who can see beyond the rule of the Kings.” She motioned to the sand around her and addressed all of them. “Sit.”

  After a look shared among them, they complied, forming a triangle around Çeda. Her Shieldwives followed, two between each of the Blade Maidens, forming a loose circle. They made themselves comfortable. It would be a long day.

  Mavra, her footsteps heavy on the sand, led Sehid-Alaz to stand before Çeda. A sickly-sweet smell accompanied them, a scent Çeda had come to associate with all the asirim. Mavra bade him sit with gentle tugs on his arm. It was only when the asirim had closed around the sunshade in a wide circle, however, that Sehid-Alaz complied. He was shaking. Nervous, angry, confused.

  Mavra left him there and stood before Çeda. “I’m glad I didn’t tell my story with the ink,” she rasped, “for his is the larger tale. Mine is but part of his.”

  Çeda could only smile. They both knew it might not work. And they both knew the alternative if it didn’t.

  As Mavra stepped away, Çeda lifted the needle and tap and stared into Sehid-Alaz’s jaundiced eyes. There was so much confusion, so much innocence there that Çeda nearly wept, but she held back her tears. He needed to see her strength, to take heart and do what needed to be done. “I would have you take these, Sehid-Alaz,” she said to the ancient King. “I would have you tell your tale.”

  Mavra settled herself in the outer circle. As one, she and her children closed their eyes and tipped their heads toward the sky. As if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Sehid-Alaz’s back straightened. His breath lengthened.

  Çeda held out the needle and tap. “Tell your tale and be freed.”

  Sehid-Alaz took one long breath, then nodded. “My child,” he whispered, then accepted the offered implements with quivering hands. Çeda slipped her arms out of her fighting dress and gathered the fabric down around her hips. She leaned forward, offering her back as a canvas. Sehid-Alaz knelt behind her. He was still conflicted—the curse still weighed on him—but with those gathered around him he was as unburdened as he was ever going to be. As the sun rose, he slowly began to tap the ink into Çeda’s skin.