Beneath the Twisted Trees

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Her upper back was already covered in the tattoos made by Dardzada and Leorah. In this space Sehid-Alaz added to the tale, embellishing it, adding nuances Çeda could never have understood on her own. It was as if Sehid-Alaz were laying down the branches of the story, those events that had happened in recent memory. Near midday, however, he began to ink more into the middle of Çeda’s back. As the sun began to set, he motioned for Çeda to lie on the sand so he could work on her lower back.

  Throughout the day they paused for water. For food. To relieve themselves. They took time to stand and stretch. The asirim, however, never moved. Ever vigilant, they protected their King. And Sehid-Alaz never stepped foot outside the circle. He would often stare at the dunes longingly, or at the sand just outside the circle in fear, as if it might swallow him whole. But he seemed relieved each time they were ready to start again.

  They continued until nightfall, and throughout the entire next day, during which Sehid-Alaz’s spells of fear and confusion came less often. Indeed, the dark storms within his mind, held at bay by Mavra and the others, seemed less intense as well. He sat straighter, and occasionally hummed an ancient tune as he inked his tattoo across Çeda’s back.

  Only once during that time did they feel anything from Husamettín himself, despite his being belowdecks on the Red Bride. He tried to break through their circle to reach Sehid-Alaz, to command him, but their precautions had sheltered Sehid-Alaz from the influence of the Kings, at least so long as they remained vigilant. After Husamettín’s intrusion, Kameyl left the circle and returned to the ship. She’d hardly gone belowdecks when they felt Husamettín’s presence diminish, then vanish altogether.

  Kameyl returned with bloody knuckles and spots of crimson spattered across her right cheek. “He won’t bother us again,” she said. And indeed, they continued unhindered.

  Çeda promised herself she’d not look at the tattoo until it was completed, but her will broke on the third night and she looked in a mirror. A thrill ran through her when she saw it: a tree, a lone adichara. Its thorny branches reached up among the other tattoos, though it never obscured them, as if Sehid-Alaz was well aware that his story was the background to her tale. The tattooed blooms, each with thirteen petals, were open and wide and faced the sky. Some rested along the tops of her shoulders, others along the nape of her neck and across her shoulder blades; still more reached around her ribs. It was beautiful. Sehid-Alaz had the hand of an artist.

  The texture of the bark and thorns, though. There was something strange about it. She twisted in her bed on the ship, feeling the burn from the tattoo as she did so, and drew the mirror close to her ribs so she could examine one of the branches more closely. And gasped. The pain along her skin became a tingling sensation.

  The mottled bark and thorns had names written into them. They were so small they looked like a part of the bark. No, she corrected herself, not part of. The tree was made up solely of names.

  The names of the asirim, she realized. Hundreds upon hundreds of them, with much of the tree’s trunk and roots still to be filled in. And then it struck her. He’s naming all of them, every single one taken on the night of Beht Ihman. Only the blooms were left untouched by names, as if they were set apart, something other than his people, which she supposed was true. There was too much of the twin gods, Tulathan and Rhia, in those bright flowers.

  She wasn’t sure how to feel about it. She was honored, but the sheer weight of those names was a lot to bear.

  “Sometimes it’s good to carve a statue from your dreams,” Sümeya said after Çeda shared her thoughts that night.

  It was an old saying, referring to how focusing one’s efforts can make a thing come true.

  “I just hadn’t realized how many asirim there were. It feels like they’re watching from all across the desert, from the world beyond as well.”

  “Isn’t it what you’ve wanted all along? To have a part in their freedom?”

  “Yes and no. I wanted to see them freed. I wanted to help where I could. But this makes it feel like it’s my burden alone.”

  “It isn’t, though. You are his voice”—she motioned to Çeda’s back—“and those are his words. Let him speak.”

  “I’m honored to be his voice. It’s just that the more I feel the weight, the more it feels like I’m going to fail them.”

  “I feel the same way about Sharakhai.”

  They continued for several more days, Sehid-Alaz taking the time to fill in more and more of the adichara tattoo. Çeda was beginning to worry, though. Sehid-Alaz seemed to have hit a plateau in terms of progress toward his freedom, while she was becoming more and more aware of Husamettín, still captive in the hold of the ship. She felt others as well—the other Kings, in all likelihood. The chains that had always bound the asirim still bound Sehid-Alaz, and Çeda became increasingly worried they were never going to break.

  She considered going back to the valley below Mount Arasal to seek Nalamae’s council, perhaps her power as well, but rejected the notion as risky and short-sighted. Do that and the Kings might be led straight to Nalamae.

  Late that night Çeda returned to the ship to find Sümeya and Melis asleep in their narrow bunks. Jenise was in her lower bunk reading an old beaten copy of the Al’Ambra by lamplight. She looked up from it as Çeda removed her dress and pulled back the covers from the bunk across from Jenise’s. Her green-and-gold eyes were bright, as was the unkempt mop of her sun-bleached hair. “What’s troubling you?” she asked Çeda.

  Çeda lay on her stomach, the only position that allowed her to sleep. The salve Sümeya applied helped, as did the bandages, but the pain still flared. She winced as she punched her pillow into shape and lay her head against it. “You should sleep,” she told Jenise. “We’ve another long day tomorrow.”

  “Far be it for me to tell you what to do, Çeda, but I think you’re the one who needs sleep.”

  “I’m fine,” she replied.

  Jenise closed her book with a frown. “My father used to say that sometimes the path to the peak of a mountain lies not in moving doggedly ahead, but in backtracking, resting, and trying another way.” Her gaze drifted downward to the space beneath Çeda’s bed, where River’s Daughter and Night’s Kiss lay side by side. “Perhaps now is one of those times.”

  Before anchoring here, Jenise had urged Çeda over and over again to kill Husamettín. “Why wait? There’s no question of his crimes. It’s time he was punished for them.”

  “He’ll pay,” Çeda had replied, “but his knowledge is valuable, and there’s too much at stake to rob ourselves of it. He is our sole source of information about Sehid-Alaz’s curse.”

  “We have Sehid-Alaz himself!”

  “Sehid-Alaz is bound by chains he cannot see.”

  “Husamettín put the curse on him. Killing him will undo it.”

  “The gods put this curse on Sehid-Alaz. Husamettín has merely twisted it for his own gain.” Before Jenise could reply, Çeda had cut her off. “We’ll still have that option tomorrow, but if we kill him today, we’ll never learn anything from him.”

  Jenise hadn’t been pleased but let it go. Now, though, she seemed ready to fight. “I don’t believe, as others do, that you’re afraid to kill your father. But your hope that he’ll suddenly repent just because he’s being forced to face his crimes is naive. Husamettín has said nothing, and he never will. So we lose nothing by killing him. Quite the opposite. It may be the answer to our prayers.”

  “We wait until Beht Zha’ir, the night of the asirim,” Çeda said. “By then the tattoo will be complete and we’ll know.” The holy night was three days away.

  “By then it may be too late.” She motioned to Çeda’s back. “With the ritual complete, perhaps Husamettín’s curse will be woven between the names in that tree.”

  Çeda turned her head to the hull and shut her eyes. “Get some rest, Jenise.”

 
; It took a moment, but Jenise blew out her lamp and settled herself in her bunk. Çeda could feel Night’s Kiss calling to her, urging her to do the very thing Jenise recommended.

  Thou hast only to take the blood of thy father for thy King to be freed.

  Just then Çeda heard movement above her. She turned and saw the moon-kissed outline of Sümeya staring down at her from the bunk above. She knew they’d been discussing the execution of her father, knew Çeda was considering it now, but she said nothing, and neither did Çeda.

  Sehid-Alaz continued the tattoo over the next two days, and Çeda’s worries grew. Like a root, it had gained purchase within her mind and was creeping inward, splitting over and over until her skull felt consumed by it. Would Sehid-Alaz be freed when the tattoo was complete? Would the gods be angry if he was? And if he wasn’t, would she kill Husamettín, her own father, perhaps losing her only link to the answers she needed?

  Sehid-Alaz filled in more and more names, shading the tree until it looked deep and perfect and real. Çeda’s bond with him grew, and yet he seemed little changed. He might walk straighter. He might be focused when the other asirim were around him. But after the ritual was complete and the asirim broke to return to the desert, he seemed to shrink in on himself again, a shadow of the brave soul who’d saved Çeda from King Mesut on the Night of Endless Swords.

  Çeda couldn’t bear to be around anyone that night, so after the evening meal, she left for a walk beneath the stars. On her return she sensed that one of the asirim had parted from the others. It was Mavra, and Çeda could tell she wished to speak privately.

  “What is it, grandmother?”

  Mavra knelt along the top of a broad dune, her hands held tightly in her lap. She looked simultaneously young and terribly, terribly old. When she spoke, she closed herself off to the others and used her true voice so that no one but Çeda could hear her.

  “The others were so close to being freed . . .”

  “Who,” Çeda asked, “your children?”

  Mavra nodded. Her sense of shame was strong and growing stronger, and there was only one thing Çeda could think of that might have caused it.

  “When you looked into Husamettín’s mind,” Çeda said carefully, “you said you’d found a way to free our King.”

  Mavra’s eyes were distant, star-filled. “I’d hoped that when we had him away from Sharakhai, surrounded by his loved ones . . .” A gust of wind scoured the dune. Sand fell along its leeward side, hissing like a horned cobra. “I hoped we’d be able to overcome the bonds of the gods.”

  “But that wasn’t what you saw, was it?”

  “No.”

  She’d hidden the truth because it was too painful. “What did you see, Mavra?”

  “I pressed him for a way to free our King, and he fought me, and for a long time held me, held us, at bay—”

  “Mavra, tell me!”

  Tears rolled down her cheeks like constellations shifting in the heavens. “I saw Husamettín himself taking a sword to Sehid-Alaz. I saw Sehid-Alaz fall, gripping the sword in his hands. In that moment, only as he was dying, did I see him freed.”

  A tingling sensation ran from Çeda’s scalp to the nape of her neck. This was the step she’d feared all along, that after everything, after all Sehid-Alaz had done to protect her, she would be forced to kill him. It was why the Kings had saved Sehid-Alaz, why they’d never killed him themselves. They needed him to keep control of the asirim.

  Çeda stared up at the moons, silver Tulathan nearly full, golden Rhia only slightly less so, and came to a decision. Tomorrow was Beht Zha’ir. She would give it the day. If Sehid-Alaz still hadn’t been freed by nightfall, she would use Husamettín’s solution.

  Tears forming in her eyes, Çeda held her hand out to Mavra. “Come. This isn’t a time to be alone.”

  Mavra looked to her, then shifted her bulk and stood with Çeda’s help. Çeda led her back to the asirim, where they all huddled with Sehid-Alaz sheltered at their center. They all knew now, they’d felt it from Mavra, and the asirim wailed long into the night. This time, Çeda wailed with them.

  Chapter 52

  BRAMA STOOD ON THE FOREDECK of Queen Alansal’s dunebreaker, which sailed behind the vanguard of the Mirean fleet. These tall ships were even more impressive from the deck. Were it not for the ceaseless swaying, Brama would feel as though he were standing on a tower not sailing a sandship.

  “Today is the day Sharakhai falls.”

  Brama turned to see Mae climbing the stairs to the foredeck. She had her lacquered armor on, her great helm too, its demon mask hanging to one side, ready to be buckled in place. One gauntleted hand rested on the pommel of her tassled dao. Her opposite arm was fitted with a metal fighting shield. She was silent and grim, ready to take her measure of Sharakhani flesh to avenge her people.

  On the deck behind Mae, her qirin, Angfua, fought its chains. A pair of handlers tried to calm it, to no avail. The beast stretched its neck and clawed at the deck boards as the chains that bound it clinked and shinked and clouds of steam and smoke erupted in streams from its nostrils. It knew that battle was near and, like Mae, was eager for it.

  As Mae stepped beside him, Brama motioned to the Kings’ galleons. “Don’t be reckless. The Kings haven’t ruled for centuries for no reason.”

  Mae was already shaking her head. “No, Brama. Their time has come. The queen’s water dancers foresaw it before we even left. Their fleet will fall, and then we sail to the walls of the city and tear them down too.”

  Brama wasn’t so sure, but what could he say? He knew enough about Mae to know her belief in Queen Alansal was unwavering, as was her devotion. “And when you have the city?” he asked. “What then?”

  Mae shrugged as if it were the most asinine question she’d ever heard. “We reap the glory.”

  “Glory?” Brama caught his balance as the ship plowed over a dune. “Glory from war is a mirage. It will fade, and when it does, you’ll see it was misery all along.”

  The tension on the ships was rising. Throughout the chain of command, soldiers were being thrust into positions of authority before they were ready. But like Mae, they were angry, fueled by a thirst for revenge.

  And Alansal had decided to play a card even the Kings wouldn’t be prepared for. At the center of the Mirean vanguard, directly ahead of Queen Alansal’s ship, were the seven hospital ships. The queen had gone to them and asked if they would fight for her. The answer from those assembled on the decks had been a great, ceaseless roar. They were not in good health—even from this distance, Brama could see the way some of them shook as they walked—but when given the chance, they would unleash their rage. The fight, as they said in the streets of Sharakhai, was about to go from knuckles to knives.

  From the quarterdeck behind him, a heavy drumbeat rolled, a call to all ships in the fleet for a change of heading. It was repeated along the line. As the ships adjusted course, a series of signals using bright red and yellow flags was passed from the vanguard ahead. A grizzled soldier watched with a spyglass and relayed the information to Queen Alansal, who stood amidships near Mae’s qirin. Brama understood little, but he heard a word in Sharakhan. Asirim. It was enough to stoke all of Brama’s childhood fears of the creatures. He knew their history now—that the asirim were members of the thirteenth tribe, cursed on the night of Beht Ihman—but what did it matter if they’d been set against the Mirean ships? They would rend his flesh, or Mae’s or Queen Alansal’s, just as easily.

  He heard a low buzzing sound behind him and turned to find a host of black beetles swarming onto the deck. The swarm pressed tightly then solidified into Rümayesh. She thudded closer, staring out over the amber expanse of desert, the vanguard of Mirean dunebreakers, and the Sharakhani fleet beyond.

  “So we come to it,” she said.

  Her voice was low and loud, but Brama knew her well enough to sense how weakened sh
e was. She’d remained on one of the ships farthest back to heal some fifty more scourge victims the queen had selected personally, most of them key officers and specialists in the fleet.

  The queen joined Brama, Mae, and Rümayesh, wearing a billowing ivory dress with long red ribbons along its sleeves. Her hair was held in place, as always, by her two steel pins. She looked calm and ageless, but hungry as well. “Are there Kings aboard those ships?”

  Rümayesh stared ahead. The lump on her forehead where the bone of Raamajit was buried stood out in the sunlight. Her rust-colored eyes narrowed, then blinked lazily. Gods, she’s halfway to exhaustion.

  “Well?” the queen asked.

  The muscles along Rümayesh’s jaw worked. Her brow furrowed. “I cannot tell,” she said.

  She’s worried, Brama realized. Tired or not, it was an unsettling thing with a creature as powerful as an ehrekh.

  “Why not?” Alansal asked.

  A look of cold understanding dawned on Rümayesh. “The Queen of Qaimir is protecting them.”

  “Queen Meryam has come . . .” For some reason this seemed to please Alansal. “I wonder if the water dancers were right. King Kiral may have left this effort to her and her alone, preferring to remain in Sharakhai himself and prepare for Malasan’s approach.”

  Rümayesh remained silent, but looked more alert. When she’d been trapped in the sapphire, Queen Meryam had conspired with Ramahd Amansir to have the gemstone stolen away so that she could gain its power. She’d used the stone to tug at the strings of power in Sharakhai and eventually joined the Kings in their quest to see the thirteenth tribe destroyed. But then Amansir, Emre, and Brama had stormed Meryam’s ship, and Brama had managed to break the sapphire, thereby freeing her. Brama was still cut off from Rümayesh’s emotions, but he could see how fiercely her fury burned.