Beneath the Twisted Trees

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  A sigil, Davud realized. He’s drawing a sigil, and he’s repeating it over and over.

  It was difficult to concentrate on the sigil while continuing their conversation—though Hamzakiir made it quite clear with squeezes to Davud’s wrist when he went silent that he should keep talking. Over time, however, Davud was able to picture the sigil in its entirety. It hovered in his mind’s eye, and he recognized it. Pieces of it, in any case. He saw the base sigil for mind and self, and also one that meant combine or join. There was more to it that was unknown to him, but what did that matter? It was clear that Kiral wanted him to use it now, on him.

  Indeed, a moment later he took Davud’s opposite hand and led it until the tip of his forefinger was touching Hamzakiir’s own palm. A warm pool of blood was there, created while he was tracing the sigil on Davud’s hand. Its meaning was clear: use the blood to draw the sigil onto his own palm.

  Davud did so with confident strokes; he had a mind for sigils and skill in painting them in blood. He was less sure of its meaning, and that presented a problem. It was normally necessary to know what effect he hoped to bring about. When Hamzakiir touched his finger to his tongue, Davud did the same, using his bloody finger. In that moment, Hamzakiir looked away, as if his attention had been caught by some noise from outside the small, stone-lined cell. It was a ruse, Davud knew, so that Hamzakiir wouldn’t see what Davud had done. So that he’d have no memory of it.

  When viewed under the light of Meryam and her domination over Hamzakiir, the strange conversation and his actions began to make sense. It was all a ploy, meant to hide his true intentions from the queen. And so it came as no real surprise when the world melted away and Davud found himself standing before the rather more thin figure of Hamzakiir instead of Kiral. He wore a robe cut in an ancient style, made with a fine material dyed in a patchwork of rusts and rubies and reds. His beard was long and his eyes were sharp, as sharp as they’d been in Ishmantep.

  “You’ve come a long way,” Hamzakiir said. “That’s no simple sigil to draw, much less master, on your first attempt.”

  Davud stared at the world around them. Instead of the walls of a cell, he was surrounded by a canvas of constantly changing images. Kiral walking the halls of Eventide, or sitting with Queen Meryam, the two of them alone at a candlelit table, or moving through forms with his great, two-handed shamshir in a courtyard, the sun gleaming off Sunshearer’s perfect, bright steel. One even showed Kiral whipping himself, his back a curtain of blood. Without exception, the surroundings were indistinct, sharpening only when Hamzakiir turned his attention there.

  Over and over they changed, as if Hamzakiir’s mind was flitting from one to the next to the next in an attempt to distract himself from his underlying purpose in the moment with Davud. This is a construct, Davud realized, a place of Hamzakiir’s making where they could talk freely, safe from the attentions of Queen Meryam.

  “We’ve little time.” The memory behind him changed to Kiral and Davud sitting in the dungeon cell, their words muted and distanced. “So I trust you’ll forgive my bluntness. I need your help, Davud.” He swung his arms to the shifting kaleidoscope around them. “I have to free myself from this prison!”

  “Oh? Well, I trust you’ll forgive me if I’m not in the mood to help you with anything.”

  “Yes, we’ll come to that.” Hamzakiir turned to look at one of the visions, which shifted from nondescript sandstone to a large, leatherbound book. “Meryam keeps a tome of her sigils, many gleaned from ancient Qaimiri texts. She used one of them to bind me to her, and I’ve found no way to break it. Not yet. But if I could see the sigil and read the text that supports it, I could find a way for you to free me.”

  “For me to do it?”

  “Who else? It may pain me to say it, Davud, but you are my last real hope.”

  Davud was drawn to an image of Kiral sitting in a padded chair, staring into a roaring fire. “The Enclave has sent word,” he was saying. “They’ve taken the young blood mage, Davud Mahzun’ava, along with several others, and await your instructions.”

  Meryam’s voice drifted to him, ghostlike. “Send word that they’re to kill him.”

  Davud had been able to hear the other memories, but none so clearly as this. “A threat now, alongside your request for help?”

  “Not a threat. Merely the state of things in Sharakhai. Meryam is aware of you. And when she learns of my betrayal, she will work doubly hard to see you dead.” How strange it felt for the queen to have taken note of him, even more so to have ordered his death. “You’re a threat to her,” Hamzakiir said, answering his unspoken question. “All blood magi are.”

  “Not the Enclave, though.”

  “Make no mistake, Davud. Meryam might consider them a contained threat, but they’re still a threat. The day will come when she’ll turn her attention to them and, believe me, it won’t be to offer her hand in friendship.”

  Davud waved to the fading memory of Kiral before the fire. “You bring me here. You show me this, so I’ll what? Do as you wish without another word? I’m not the same wide-eyed collegia graduate you found crawling from the hold of your ship.”

  “No, you’ve changed greatly.” Hamzakiir’s gaze spoke of contentment, even pride in Davud. “Which is why I’ve not come empty-handed.” He waved to yet another memory, which resolved from the blurry patchwork. It showed King Sukru sitting in a large room with many of the other Kings.

  “I have something more urgent to bring to the council in any case,” King Sukru was saying. “The matter of Davud Mahzun’ava and Anila Khabir’ava.”

  Beside him, Cahil asked, “Who?”

  “The two magi,” Sukru spat, the words loud and jarring.

  Cahil’s smile was patronizing, his features distorted and wild, dreamlike. “Why didn’t you just say the magi who killed my brother and escaped my palace?”

  Sukru, his anger flaring, turned to Kiral and Meryam. “I request permission to speak to the Enclave and demand they be delivered to us.”

  Hamzakiir stood before the memory. “Dousing the fire in Ishmantep was an amazing feat. Your use of Anila’s blood, your mastery of magic even as new to the red ways as you were. Sadly, it resulted in her being placed on death’s doorstep.”

  “Get to your point.”

  “You want to save her. You have since you left Ishmantep.”

  “And?”

  “Come, Davud. I can help you. I know how to heal her.”

  “How?”

  He shook his head. “No. Not until I’ve been freed.”

  “You’re asking me to trust you?”

  “Have you not found me a man of my word in the past?”

  “I’ve found you to be a usurper. A murderer.”

  Hamzakiir’s smile showed teeth. “No better or worse than Meryam, then.”

  “What makes you think I would do anything for you?”

  “Because you, Davud Mahzun’ava, are in terrible, terrible trouble if you don’t.” Memories swirled as Hamzakiir walked behind him. “Find the sigils in Meryam’s book. Free me, and save yourself as you do. When it’s done, I’ll give you everything you need to heal Anila.”

  He was right—Davud was in trouble—but the thought of freeing Hamzakiir, of unleashing him on the city and the desert again, terrified him. No matter that he might be ridding them of Meryam at the same time.

  “Where’s the book?”

  “We have a deal, then?”

  “Where’s the book?”

  Hamzakiir weighed his words, debated offering the information as a show of faith. In that moment, the memories around them all changed to Meryam in varying states of fury. He fears her, Davud realized, and it made Davud fear her too. If a man as powerful as Hamzakiir had been taken by her and treated this way, what hope did Davud have? Meryam was like a wolf in the forest. She’d caught his scent, now he had two options: to
fight or flee.

  Except fleeing was no choice at all. Hamzakiir was right. Meryam would eventually learn of his disobedience, and when she did she’d kill Hamzakiir, then tear the city apart until she’d killed Davud too. So why not fight?

  Hamzakiir thought himself clever in tapping into Davud’s greatest weakness: his compassion. Davud freely admitted it, but it didn’t mean everything had to be on Hamzakiir’s terms. Davud would see this through, but he would do it his way. He waited, calling Hamzakiir’s bluff.

  The scenes shifted to more neutral memories of Kiral, often in a position of power over others. Meryam could be seen in none of them. “Her book of sigils is in the shrine to Alu, safeguarded by spells.”

  “Do you know the ones she used?”

  “Most of them, yes, and ways that you might bypass others.”

  “Very well,” Davud said, “but I have one condition.”

  Hamzakiir feigned calm, but the scenes around them blinked, showing his disquiet. “Name it.”

  “You will arrange for Esmeray to join me.”

  “Who?”

  “The blood mage captured with me.”

  Remembrance dawned on Hamzakiir’s face. “Impossible,” he said flatly.

  “You demanded my release. And the release of Ramahd’s man . . .”

  “Yes, but Esmeray is of the Enclave, one of their own.”

  “I need her, if you want this done.”

  Hamzakiir considered, the images shifting to letters he’d written, to a piece of paper that burst into blue flame. “Very well.”

  Three days after Davud’s strange conversation with Hamzakiir, guards brought someone into the cell across from his. Davud reached the window in time to see the gaoler and a Silver Spear leading a woman to a cell. He recognized Esmeray’s dress, her dark turban and wild braids.

  Without so much as a glance toward Davud, the two men closed the door to Esmeray’s cell and walked away, arguing loudly about how soon each thought the deadly Malasani golems were going to return to Sharakhai.

  “Esmeray?” Davud ventured when they’d gone far enough. Hearing no response, he waited for the door down the hallway to clang shut. “Esmeray,” he tried again, “it’s Davud.”

  Again his words were met with silence.

  “Why won’t you speak to me?”

  “Be quiet, Davud.”

  “You don’t understand. I don’t know what they told you, but I arranged for you to be brought here.”

  “How very kind of you.”

  He didn’t understand her tone. Had the guards treated her unkindly? Had they beat her?

  “We can escape.”

  It took her a long time to respond. “I can’t escape. Not this.”

  “Esmeray, what happened?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “No. We’ve got to leave, and I need your help to do it. I haven’t the sigils to work these locks nor the power to blast them apart.” She went silent again, but Davud refused to let it be. He had no way of contacting Hamzakiir. And even if he did, he had no idea if he could help. “Esmeray, what happened?”

  For a long time, no answer came. He thought she’d gone to sleep. But then he heard the sounds of shuffling footsteps. Her hands gripped the iron bars of her window and her face was lit from the darkness.

  Davud recoiled. “Gods, Esmeray, what happened?”

  Her eyes, once a deep brown, were now a bright ivory color. They made her look ghostlike, a visitor from the lands beyond.

  “I’ve been burned,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  “What’s that?”

  She seemed to be staring through him. “My magic, Davud. It’s been burned from me.”

  He didn’t need to ask why. It was her punishment for siding with Davud and Ramahd against the Enclave’s wishes. “Is there no way to reverse it?”

  She laughed silently, as if he were a child who’d just asked if he would live forever. “No, Davud, there’s no way to reverse it.”

  Gods, this is all my fault. The Enclave were making a point. King Kiral had demanded Esmeray, and they’d given her over, but not before exacting punishment. Showing that they were not at the beck and call of the House of Kings. What in the wide great desert am I to do now?

  Get her out. He had to get Esmeray out.

  “The spell,” Davud said to Esmeray. “The one to work a lock. Show me.”

  She stared at him sightlessly, and made no move to comply.

  “Esmeray, show me the sigil!”

  As she stepped away, her hands dropped from the bars and her face was lost to shadow. “No.”

  Chapter 55

  ON THE MORNING OF BEHT ZHA’IR, when all the others had left the ship, Çeda remained behind and took a bundle from beneath her bed. She set it on the mattress and unwrapped it. Two shamshirs lay side by side: River’s Daughter, the sword Husamettín had given her when she’d become a Blade Maiden, and Night’s Kiss, Husamettín’s own two-handed blade.

  The call of Night’s Kiss was strong. Take the blood of thy father . . .

  Part of her wanted to obey, to use it if Sehid-Alaz, as feared, had still not been freed by the time the sun set. She realized a moment later that Night’s Kiss was in her hand, already half-drawn. She drew it fully from its scabbard. The blade’s undying thirst was now hers. How lovely it would feel to quench it.

  His pain will last but the draw of a breath, the sword cooed to her. Then will come a sweet release, a man made anew.

  “Çeda?” She turned to find Sümeya staring at her from the passageway. Her eyes dropped to Night’s Kiss. “Is all well?”

  Çeda sent the sword back into its sheath with a clack and threw it onto the bed. The thought of using that sword to slay Sehid-Alaz, an object that embodied Husamettín like no other thing, a gift from the gods themselves, made Çeda recoil in disgust. She thought again, as she had many times before, of losing the sword in the desert, but like always, no matter how wise it seemed at first, the urge melted away like wax before a fire. Taking a deep breath to clear her mind, she snatched up River’s Daughter, strapped it to her belt, and left the ship before she could change her mind. She’d worn no blade in the ritual before now, but she wanted her trusted friend with her this day. It might be an implement of war, but it gave her courage. It gave her hope.

  As the day wore on, however, and Sehid-Alaz came closer and closer to finishing his work, her hope vanished. The bond they were forging wasn’t enough. As she lay on the sand, she gripped River’s Daughter like a talisman, willing Sehid-Alaz’s bonds to be broken.

  But they weren’t. And then it was done. The names were all written on Çeda’s back, the ritual complete.

  She’d slipped back into her dress and stood. Sehid-Alaz stood as well. He stared at her with his chin held high. He knew they’d failed. He knew what had to happen.

  “I’m ready, Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala,” he said to her.

  “I’m not,” Çeda replied.

  “But you must be, my child.”

  She felt his readiness to depart these shores. She’d never felt as close to any of the asirim as she felt to Sehid-Alaz in that moment, not even Kerim. And yet the walls around him were still impenetrable. There was so much he wished to say, but couldn’t due to the curse that chained him. For a moment she caught a glimpse of the man he once was: caring, vibrant, earnest, but also proud. Perhaps too proud at times.

  Night fell and the twin moons rose. Çeda ordered Husamettín to be brought from the ship. This burden was hers. She would take Sehid-Alaz’s life, but Husamettín would witness it. And then she’d take his life as well.

  “You’re sure about this?” Sümeya asked.

  “You think Husamettín deserves to live?”

  Sümeya replied with a level stare, “He’s a useful bargaining chip, one you’ll never get back if
you kill him now.”

  For a moment, Çeda considered it, but then shook her head. “Bring him.”

  Sehid-Alaz was led to a rocky patch beside the oasis. They would bury him here that others might one day visit his grave. Husamettín would lie in the desert, his grave unmarked.

  All gathered round. The measured song of the crystalwings drifted from the oasis’s verdant pools. The baked smell of the desert waned, replaced by a faint mineral sweetness. Sehid-Alaz knelt, ready.

  Some distance away Sümeya, holding Night’s Kiss, forced Husamettín to his knees. Kameyl and Melis stood nearby with ebon blades drawn. The King still wore his stained, ripped kaftan. His long pepper-gray hair was unbound, his face like stone, the sigil Kameyl had carved into his forehead plain to see. Deceiver, it proclaimed. Husamettín seemed conscious of it, but he held his head high. Not an ounce of regret marred his features, nor did anger, as if all had been ordained from the moment Tulathan had handed him his sword.

  Just then the wind tugged at the ripped fabric of his kaftan, and the moonlight shone on the battleground of scars that covered his stomach. He glanced down, twisted his torso a bit, and the wind blew the fabric back in place.

  Mavra, meanwhile, was disconsolate. Regret rolled from her in waves.

  “This isn’t your fault,” Çeda said to her. “You merely bore witness.”

  Çeda faced Sehid-Alaz and drew River’s Daughter. The hunger coming from Night’s Kiss was strong. It was jealous. This night of all nights it demanded blood. Soon, Çeda thought, and a hungry silence stole over the obsessed mind buried in that blade.

  “I’m sorry it’s come to this,” Çeda said to Sehid-Alaz.

  “I know.”

  He quavered like a newborn lamb, and she was reminded of the time they’d first met, when he’d kissed her forehead near the banks of the Haddah. As he’d done then, she leaned in and kissed the dry skin of his forehead.

  “Go well,” she whispered, and retreated a step.