“I will take the queen, if that is your wish,” she said to Queen Alansal, a request bordering on a demand.
“Very well. Find her and kill her. Do this, and our bargain is complete.”
Rümayesh’s quirk of a smile revealed a hint of leonine teeth. “Very well.”
Brama felt how eager she was to taste of death. More sickening, he felt his own eagerness. People hadn’t even started dying yet, but he wanted it. He wanted it badly. The discord between that need and his simultaneous disgust was what made Brama realize that Rümayesh’s walls had slipped. Weeks ago she would have wanted nothing more than revenge on Queen Meryam for having stolen the sapphire away and then using her as she might some menial servant. That urge was still there, but it felt almost like a dying wish.
“No,” Rümayesh said to him. And just like that, his sense of her feelings was cut off. “You don’t know me so well as that.”
“I know you as well as anyone has ever known you.”
She gazed into his eyes with an inscrutable expression. There was a sadness about her, though why that might be he had no idea. Before he could press her about it, she exploded into a cloud of beetles and lifted from the deck. Up she flew, swarming, undulating in the blue sky like a flock of blazing blues, moments before the fire pots began to soar.
All across the ships in the vanguard ahead, the Damned mounted their qirin with short spears and shields to hand. As Mae approached, Angfua was unchained by its handlers and guided to the foredeck. Fire pots crashed over the decks of the vanguard and the return fire from the Mirean ships struck the Sharakhani galleons as well.
Closer and closer the two lines came. A sudden gout of sand flew up at one of the dunebreakers, fouling the sails, and a dozen dark shapes could be seen flying up and onto the deck. These were the asirim, howling, storming the deck as ranks of Mirean soldiers moved to respond. But the asirim were terrors, scything through the Mirean soldiers’ defenses. One of them, a rangy thing missing one arm, reached the pilot’s wheel by bulling forward, heedless of the wounds it sustained. It took down the pilot with a single sweep of its claws, and began to pull sharply at the wheel. The ship heeled hard to the starboard side and crashed into another of the vanguard’s ships, causing havoc all along the left side of the line. Another ship far to the right drifted harmlessly away as a smaller group of asirim howled aboard.
Cat’s claws struck all along the vanguard, wrapping around struts and fouling ships’ skis, causing the impressive line of Mirean ships to falter. Fire pots crashed. But the Mirean ships were not crippled as much as the Sharakhani fleet might have hoped. Their decks and sails had been treated, and the fires ignited by the shattering clay pots often burned themselves out before causing much damage. Those that did take were quickly snuffed out by the crews. And the ships were so bloody large, their yards of canvas so vast, it often took three or four cat’s claws to slow them down at all.
Both lines of ships allowed passing lanes as they neared. The dunebreakers at the center of the Mirean line, the hospital ships, were different. They had no fear of ramming the Kings’ galleons; some even had iron caps along their prow. All seven ships crashed hard into the Sharakhani line. So great was the dunebreakers’ weight that many of the Kings’ galleons’ hulls were crushed and driven backward across the sand. As the interlocked ships came to a sliding halt, the scourge victims on the hospital ships roared in unison, a terrible, fearsome sound, and stormed over the decks of the galleons.
“Hoyup!” called Mae.
Brama turned just in time to see her charge over the deck on her qirin; smoke trailed from its nostrils and flame burst from its mouth as it leaped over the gunwales toward a passing galleon. All across the second line of Mirean ships, the Damned charged and leapt like antelope over the gunwales of their ships to land on the decks of the Sharakhani galleons. Cerulean fire swept across the Kings’ ships as the qirin used their fiery breath and clawed at the Silver Spears who met them. The Damned, meanwhile, stabbed mercilessly with their short spears or fired arrows expertly at Sharakhani officers.
A dark shape blurred through the air to Brama’s left. An asir, its bellow forcing all who heard it to cower in fear, moved with inhuman quickness, tearing through the Mirean soldiers as it made for Queen Alansal. Another leapt onto the gunwales only a few paces from Brama. It stretched its head forward, mouth open, a ravenous expression on its shriveled, blackened face. Brama thought it was going to howl like the others, but instead it barked at him, a deafening sound. A moment later, an invisible wall struck him full on, and he was thrown backward.
He fell onto the deck, stars in his vision while a ringing sound replaced the asirim’s earth-shattering bay. The ship bucked. He saw masts above, blue sky beyond, a vision replaced suddenly by the asir’s blackened face. One clawed hand pierced his chest, its fingers gripping his ribs to keep him in place while its other arm lifted, ready to deliver the killing blow.
A blur of white passed overhead. A flow of black blood arced, streaking the sapphire sky, flecking the ivory sails.
Suddenly the asir was rolling away and the queen was standing above him, her steel pins gripped in her hands. They glinted in the sunlight as she raked them across the asir’s body. They tore through bone and flesh alike. The asir scrabbled away, staring at the terrible wounds in its chest with a crazed expression. It looked human in that moment, afraid and alone. It managed to come to a stand, clearly hoping to flee, but Alansal was already flying forward, her ivory dress billowing in her wake. She delivered another blurring swipe of both pins, and then the asir was gone, lost over the gunwales, its arms flailing at open air.
Queen Alansal took Brama’s wrist and pulled him up while, in the distance, Rümayesh’s black cloud of beetles streaked toward a galleon, one of three that had remained deep behind the battle lines. Roiling balls of flame streaked upward from the galleon, released from the hands of a woman standing alone on the foredeck. Queen Meryam.
Whether the flame did any damage or not, Brama couldn’t say, but the cloud wasn’t slowed. It twisted and twined ever closer to the deck. When it dropped below the height of the foremast, a cascade of fire burst into the air between it and Meryam. A sheet of flame enveloped the beetles. Some curled into smoke and lifted with the flames. Most, however, seemed trapped by the rapidly closing net.
But then a tall, dark shape dropped from the inferno. Rümayesh landed on the foredeck. One of her three tails struck Meryam, sending her spinning backward. With a long stride forward, a second tail slipped around Meryam’s neck and lifted her. Queen Meryam managed one last burst of bright, emerald-green flame. Rümayesh reeled from it, arms protecting her face. But then Meryam was trapped, her forearms gripped within one of Rümayesh’s massive hands.
The battle around Brama was madness. Soldiers screamed. Ships crashed. The asirim howled, interspersed by the rattle of incoming arrows and the whoosh of fire pots crashing and coughing out their flames. Among it all, Brama heard a new sound, a drone of slowly increasing intensity. With it came an indescribable and rapidly growing fear. He looked over his shoulder to find a gray cloud approaching. It flew low over the ships. Brama saw soldiers, Sharakhani and Mirean alike, cringe as it swarmed across the decks.
Locusts, Brama realized. Behlosh has come.
The drone became so loud it prickled Brama’s skin. His fear rising to new heights, he put his arms over his head and cowered. Soon, however, the cloud was past Alansal’s ship and speeding toward the galleon where Queen Meryam, still trapped, struggled against Rümayesh’s grip. Rümayesh was saying something to the queen, but turned as the locusts neared.
In that moment, Meryam was able to free herself. The sleeves of her dress smoked and burned to cinders as she lifted her hands, revealing the skin along her wrists and forearms, which glowed like a forge while her hands lit like the sun. Rümayesh released her, but Meryam refused to let it go so easily and snatched Rümayesh’s wrist w
ith both hands.
Where she touched, Rümayesh’s skin burned, gray smoke rising. Rümayesh released a terrible roar as Meryam gripped tighter and Rümayesh’s hand, burned clean through at the wrist, dropped to the deck. Rümayesh stumbled and fell against the nearby shroud, then swung her other arm at Meryam. Shards of black flew across the deck in an arc, many catching Meryam before she’d had a chance to defend herself.
As Meryam fell and was lost behind the gunwales, Rümayesh pushed herself off the shroud and stalked forward. She’d not taken two steps, however, before the swarm of locusts swept her up and carried her away from the galleon. A moment later, Rümayesh’s body shattered into a million buzzing beetles, but it hardly seemed to matter.
Again and again her darker shape could be seen trying to slip free of the net, but the locusts would simply bulge outward and sweep them up once more. In moments they were lost behind the line of ships.
Chapter 53
HAMZAKIIR KNEW THAT when Queen Meryam left for the warfront, she’d taken with her several ewers of wine laced with his blood. Meryam had been forced to leave to prove her willingness to defend Sharakhai, but she could hardly allow Hamzakiir to go untended. Do that, and she might as well give up her plans in Sharakhai. All depended on her ability to control the King of Kings, to appear, at least in the early days of her rule, every bit his equal.
Meryam had left and days had passed, each one like the last. Hamzakiir’s evenings had often been spent with the queen. He would sit in a chair that overlooked the city and wait. She would come to him after having drunk the wine, the blood within it forging a link between them. They would discuss the day’s events, and Meryam would prepare him for what was to come.
During the day he would tend to the duties of state, and the running of his household, ensuring that Meryam’s will was done. Time passed dreamlike, even the meetings he held with King Alaşan and several of the other lesser Kings. What he hadn’t previously appreciated was the extent to which they had Meryam’s ear. What the lesser Kings might gain from the relationship was clear: more gold, more status, more recognition. He knew they were dissatisfied with what they were being given and were petitioning for more. They wanted more say in the both the inner and outer workings of Sharakhai. What Meryam might gain was not so clear, and try as he might, Hamzakiir could never piece it together. He felt confused almost all the time. A side-effect of Meryam’s spell, perhaps.
But then the fates delivered him a name. Word came in the form of a scroll that burned itself upon reading. He told Meryam of it that night, unable to stop himself. “The Enclave has sent word,” he found himself saying. “They’ve taken the young blood mage, Davud Mahzun’ava, along with several others, and await your instructions.”
Meryam asked questions, but Hamzakiir hardly listened. The mere mention of Davud’s name had sparked Hamzakiir’s sense of identity in the past. What was it about the young blood mage that had caused it? It was Davud’s quickening, he realized. Hamzakiir’s own spells had set Davud on the path to becoming a blood mage. Such things created a bond between the two magi, and might explain why Davud had acted as a touchstone.
Meryam’s words brought him back. “Send word that they’re to kill him,” she was saying.
“But Sukru . . .”
Sukru had demanded both Davud and the woman, Anila, when they were found.
“Make it clear,” Meryam said, “that there is to be no evidence of his capture. Sukru will never know.”
“Very well.”
“And have them deliver Ramahd’s man, Cicio, to you. Give him over to Mateo once it’s done.”
He could sense her displeasure that Ramahd hadn’t been captured as well. “What should I tell Mateo to do with him?”
“You needn’t worry about that.”
She has Mateo too, then . . . She must.
“As you say,” he replied.
Meryam left, and his mind became muddied once more. That night, he dreamed of a voyage on the ship with the collegia graduates. He dreamed of Davud being hauled up to the deck. He dreamed of speaking to him about his awakening.
He woke in a sweat with a desperate plan, and wondered if it was already too late.
No. The scroll on which he was to write his reply to the Enclave was still on his desk. He sat down and stared at it. He lifted the quill from the nearby inkwell. The cold sweat he’d had on awakening turned hot. Sweat trickled along his forehead as he held the quill over the paper. A spot of ink fell, splattering.
The queen wishes for Cicio to be delivered to me. The young mage, Davud . . .
He swallowed. Licked his lips and wrote on.
The young mage, Davud, should . . .
A terrible headache consumed him. Should be killed, is what Meryam had instructed him to write. But he couldn’t. The thin parchment felt like a lifeline in a storm. That’s because it is, he told himself. Davud is your lifeline. Fail to save him now, and you will never resurface. Not until she’s done with you, and what do you think will become of you then? He’d be given the same treatment as Kiral. Buried in the desert. Lost and forgotten. And why not? Everyone thought he was dead already.
His entire body shook as he continued to write.
The young mage, Davud, should accompany him. Bring them both to the catacombs at midnight.
There were tears in his eyes by the time he was done. He stared at the paper, hesitant to take the next step. But take it he did, lighting it aflame. Blue flames rushed across its surface, sweeping the words away. The blues were now muted and ghostlike, especially along the edges. For a long while it floated just above the veined marble desktop. Then words written in a bold script appeared in bright cerulean lettering.
It will be as you say.
The paper, which had seemed caught in time, burned brightly once more, reducing itself to dust.
Slowly his heartrate returned to normal. He’d done it. He’d done it! The trick now was to keep the information from Meryam.
As it turned out, it wasn’t difficult. That night, Meryam told him that the Mirean fleet was less than a day’s sail from their current position. The scourge they’d unleashed on their fleet had inflicted heavy damage, but word had come: Queen Alansal had found a way to heal it, likely with the aid of Rümayesh or Behlosh. The Kings’ Kestrels were being positioned to assassinate Queen Alansal and battle was about to be joined. Meryam kept him only a few minutes, and asked if all had been done as she’d commanded.
“Yes,” he replied.
It was partly true, which was the only reason he could get the word past his teeth. Still, the act made his skin crawl, and he nearly confessed his sins at once. Meryam had seemed content, however, and had cut off their communication a moment later.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Then felt something blossom inside him, a thing he hadn’t felt in a long, long while—a thirst for revenge. Since his capture in Viaroza, his time with the Moonless Host, his days as Meryam’s slave, he’d felt little except confusion and fear.
But now at last the way was clear.
He’d be free of Meryam. And then he’d see her head on a platter.
Chapter 54
WHEN THE CELL DOOR CLINKED OPEN, it was as if Davud had awoken from a dream. He was lying on a bare wooden plank that made him ache just to move on it. Light filtered in through a small, barred window high above him. His hands, effectively encased in steel, were trapped in a locking device. An iron bar affixed to the locking mechanism at his wrists prevented them from coming near one another—a precaution that, whatever its origin, made an effective deterrent for a blood mage.
Bakhi’s swift hammer, how his head hurt. He’d been drunk only twice in his life. Both times had made him feel like leather left too long in the sun. He’d developed wicked headaches, and his mouth felt and tasted like moist jackal fur. Those experiences, as bad as they’d been, paled in comparison to how he felt n
ow. His entire body ached. His head throbbed so badly that when he sat up he could feel it pulsing along his temples.
For long moments he leaned over the edge of the bed, trying to piece together all that had happened, but before he could do anything more than recall his surprise at being taken by Prayna and the other high magi of the Enclave, the door to his cell was opened and in walked King Kiral.
No, Davud told himself. This is Hamzakiir, not the King of Kings.
Hamzakiir held the key ring in his hand. It jangled as it spun and snapped into his waiting palm. He repeated the motion several times. It was then that Davud realized something was wrong.
“My Lord King?” Davud said, feeling it important, for now, to maintain the ruse.
“Do you know where you are?” Hamzakiir asked in Kiral’s baritone voice.
“I assume I’m in Eventide.”
“And do you know why you’re here?”
“The Enclave gave me to you,” Davud answered. “You requested it.”
“You’ve had an interesting journey since your days as a collegia student. Your focus was on languages, was it not?”
Davud was more than a little confused. Hamzakiir knew quite well he’d made a focus of studying the languages of the desert and beyond. That momentary confusion, however, paled in comparison to the bewilderment he felt when Hamzakiir, his eyes never wavering from Davud’s, took hold of his manacles and slipped a key into the lock. Just as Davud was casting his gaze down, Hamzakiir reached a hand to Davud’s chin and forced him to look up, to hold his gaze, or rather, to not look at what was happening to his wrists.
Was Hamzakiir letting him go? If so, why not just do it? Why this strange conversation? Davud had no idea, but what was there to do but wait and see?
He maintained eye contact, and Hamzakiir finished unlocking the manacles. He set them down with such care they hardly made a sound. As he shifted the conversation to Davud’s time in Ishmantep—which Hamzakiir would know much about and Kiral little—he took Davud’s hand and used one finger to trace a pattern on his palm.
Beneath the Twisted Trees Page 51