Beneath the Twisted Trees

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  As she drew River’s Daughter back, the call of Night’s Kiss became deep, almost irresistible. His pain will last but the draw of a breath!

  Çeda lowered her sword. Her fingers had begun to tingle. A man made anew, the sword had said earlier. She turned to look at Husamettín. Stared down at his belly, where his riddle of scars was almost but not quite concealed. For the first time he seemed discomfited. Worried.

  “Mavra,” Çeda said without taking her eyes from the King, “when you saw the vision of Sehid-Alaz’s death, what sword was Husamettín holding?” Mavra said nothing in reply. When Çeda reached out to her, Mavra closed herself off so quickly, so strongly, that for a moment Çeda felt dizzy. “Mavra, what did you see?”

  Her fear bloomed like wildfire. She took a step back, shaking her head as if the answer was unthinkable.

  Çeda sheathed River’s Daughter. “You saw him using Night’s Kiss, didn’t you?”

  “No!” Mavra shook her head violently. “No, no, no!”

  Çeda wasn’t sure if her denials were in answer to the question or a plea for Çeda to stop. It didn’t matter. Çeda knew she was right. She was as certain about this as she was about Husamettín’s god-given weakness. Night’s Kiss was a two-sided coin, his blessing and his curse.

  “Give me the sword,” she said to Sümeya.

  Mavra’s fear rose to new heights. “Please,” she begged. “Not that.”

  “Don’t you see?” Çeda drew the two-handed shamshir. “You saw the truth. His fears playing out. The sword will make Sehid-Alaz new. It will remove the curse!”

  Her face averted from the sword in a grimace, Mavra placed her considerable bulk between Çeda and Sehid-Alaz. “Souls taken with that sword are lost forever.”

  “Mavra, get out of my way.”

  “No!” Mavra charged forward. “Our King will have his peace!” Breath of the desert, she was fast! She lifted to her full height and bore down on Çeda, grabbing her arms. But Çeda was ready. She drew on the tattoos along her right arm, on the puckered wound, the kiss of the adichara, and a strength filled her. She felt it from all her tattoos now, not just the one Zaïde had inked into her skin. It was as if Sehid-Alaz had completed something that had been only half finished beforehand, bringing all of it into sharp relief.

  She shifted Mavra’s bulk, then hooked her ankle and threw her to the sand. She sprinted for Sehid-Alaz, Night’s Kiss drawn back, buzzing in the night, but suddenly something tall and dark was streaking toward her. Sedef.

  Before she could dodge, she was tackled and borne to the rocky ground. Pain exploded along her jaw as Sedef struck her. She lost Night’s Kiss, managed to roll out from underneath him, but Sedef grabbed her, preventing her from coming any closer to Sehid-Alaz.

  But then Kameyl came flying in, one shoulder lowered as she crashed into Sedef. Melis was there too, sending a spinning kick across his jaw just as he was recovering.

  “Go!” Melis shouted, and shoved Çeda away.

  Melis and Sümeya and Kameyl were all there, intercepting the asirim. Çeda’s Shieldwives joined them. All of them together didn’t stand a chance against Mavra and her children, not without their swords, but they didn’t need to hold them off for long.

  Çeda sprinted toward Sehid-Alaz, grabbing Night’s Kiss on the way. A panicked howl came from one of the asirim. Wind and sand shoved Çeda back, but when she raised her right hand, palm facing outward, and rooted herself to the desert, the wind lost all strength.

  Sehid-Alaz, arms wide as if in welcome, watched as Çeda closed the distance between them. Tears streamed freely down Çeda’s cheeks. She didn’t want to do this—desert’s sweet embrace, she didn’t even know if it would work—but it was their last, best chance. And if it didn’t work, she prayed it would give their King the peace he deserved.

  Releasing a guttural cry, she swung with all her might. Night’s Kiss bit deep. Sehid-Alaz’s jaundiced eyes went wide. His jaw swung open, lips quivering. The storm of biting sand returned with renewed life. It scoured Çeda, made her cower. Sehid-Alaz was reduced to a silhouette. He fell to the sand, clutching his side. He clawed at the stone, a long howl coming from him at last.

  For long, terrible moments, Çeda, the Blade Maidens, and the Shieldwives fought the asirim. Over the sound of the ceaseless wind came shouts of surprise and pain and rage.

  An indomitable weight fell on Çeda. “You dare?” Mavra screamed, and clubbed Çeda hard. “You dare?”

  Over and over again she struck, Çeda doing her best to twist from the blows or fend off her mindless attacks without retaliating.

  Then suddenly the wind began to die. The sand began to settle. “Enough,” said a voice, cutting through the storm like a knife. “Enough.”

  A hand touched Mavra’s shoulder.

  Her body tightened, and she pulled away from Çeda. A figure could be seen through the dust: Sehid-Alaz, numinous in the light of the moons. He was dark-skinned and thin, but stood as tall as Çeda had ever seen him. He moved among the asirim, who stilled on hearing his voice. The Shieldwives and Blade Maidens backed away, wary and waiting, unsure of his intentions.

  Like a shepherd among his flock, Sehid-Alaz strode between them, touching each in turn, lifting their pain and fear and anger. They spread their arms to the moons as if they were elated, blissful, unencumbered by the curse of the gods for the first time in four hundred years. Night’s Kiss had drunk Sehid-Alaz’s blood but had fulfilled its promise. It had made him anew, and in so doing lifted the curse the gods had placed on him. He was free at last and now was freeing others.

  At first Çeda could hardly believe what she was seeing. Then she spread her arms as well and began to laugh. It was an unbridled expression of joy, a thing she could hardly contain. She didn’t want to contain it. The thing she’d been searching for for so long was finally here.

  “Çeda?” Sümeya called in a concerned voice.

  She was peering into the darkness, into the desert. Çeda looked too, and realized Husamettín was gone. She looked everywhere. Near the ships. Toward the pools of the oasis. Across the desert dunes. But he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Please, Great Mother,” Çeda breathed, “don’t do this to me.”

  But the Shangazi was indifferent to her pleas. Husamettín had slipped away during the confusion. They organized a search immediately and asked Sehid-Alaz to help. But it soon became clear Husamettín was masking his presence, and all evidence of his passage had been lost to the scouring winds.

  Near daybreak, Sehid-Alaz turned sharply north, where the peaks of the Taloran Mountains could be seen, a scattering of misshapen coal. It sent a chill down Çeda’s spine, for among those mountains stood Mount Arasal, the tallest, where much of the thirteenth tribe now lay hidden. It was also the place Nalamae and Leorah had gone after parting ways with the Red Bride. Where Sehid-Alaz watched, a bird emerged from the morning’s darkness. Çeda feared a return of the deadly sickletail, but she felt none of Yerinde’s influence on this bird. It was a lyrewing, a songbird with copper wings, a mantle of brass, and a broad fan of a tail. “Sail north! Sail north!” it warbled in high tones. “The tribe is attacked! The goddess bids you come!”

  Sehid-Alaz had gone perfectly calm. He turned to Çeda. “The King of Swords might still be found.” His voice was deep and resonant, filled with emotion. “He’s still near. He must be.”

  Çeda tried to sense Husamettín, but felt nothing. “I weep that he’s slipped through our fingers, but we cannot risk Nalamae. The search for the King of Swords must wait for another day. Come,” she called to the others. “It’s time we went to the valley.”

  Sehid-Alaz regarded the gathered asirim, then the women, the mortals who’d risked everything to save him. Finally, he nodded to Çeda.

  They set sail a short while later. As the sun broke the horizon, Sehid-Alaz stood on the foredeck and released a long whistle, a trilling
note that made the hair on Çeda’s arms stand on end. On and on it went, and Çeda was sure that it wouldn’t stop until it had reached every corner of the desert.

  “What’s he doing?” Jenise asked her.

  “He’s calling the asirim,” Çeda said. “He’s calling his children home.”

  Chapter 56

  BRAMA WATCHED AS THE ROILING cloud of insects was lost behind the line of Kings’ galleons. Few would know it, but the course of the battle had just turned at Goezhen’s behest. Brama still didn’t understand why—who could know the will of the gods, after all?—but it was clear Goezhen was trying to alter the outcome of the battle. Indeed, trying to alter the course of the desert, perhaps to the Kings’ benefit.

  He was tempted to let the gods have their way, but he was beginning to hate being a pawn in the games of others. And there was no denying his deeply seated desire to save Rümayesh, even after all she’d done. He was perfectly aware that he was being manipulated, but the knowledge was bitter comfort; it was times like this, times of high emotion and confusion, that he was least able to withstand the desire to aid Rümayesh.

  Something loomed on his right. He turned to find sails and masts and rigging speeding toward Queen Alansal’s dunebreaker. He backed away and stumbled as the prow of the Kings’ galleon crashed across their starboard bow. The deck tilted beneath him, its nose dipping, and then Brama was flying over the gunwales toward open sand. He went weightless, limbs rag-doll flailing, and struck the sand hard alongside a dozen others, Queen Alansal included.

  Pain blossomed across Brama’s body as he pushed himself to a stand. The sound of plodding hooves approached and mixed with the din of battle, and Brama turned to find Mae riding toward them on her qirin. A godsend, Brama thought. How else could he reach Rümayesh in time?

  He rushed to the queen and helped her to stand. She was badly shaken. Her eyes vacant, she stared at the battle around her as if struggling to understand it. “Let me go with Mae,” he said to her. “Let me save Rümayesh.”

  As the royal guard converged, Mae came to a halt and her qirin released a bellow that sounded like a war horn. Queen Alansal stared at the qirin, brow furrowed, mouth working as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

  “Queen Alansal!” Brama shouted. Finally she turned her attention to him. “Rümayesh will die without our help. If you wish to survive this battle, let me go with Mae to save her.”

  Alansal took in the battle anew, then nodded to Mae. “Take him wherever he wishes to go.”

  Mae’s face was hidden behind her grinning demon mask, but Brama could sense her hesitation. Likely she wanted to remain with the queen, but she didn’t question the order. She spurred Angfua toward Brama, the two of them locked forearms, and Brama swung into the saddle behind her. With Brama holding tight to her waist, Mae snapped the reins. “Hiyah hup!” came her shout, and both of them leaned into the qirin’s powerful surge.

  Brama pointed to a gap between two oncoming galleons. “There. Rümayesh and Behlosh were lost behind those ships.”

  They flew over the battlefield, the wind whipping Brama’s curly hair. The qirin’s speed was breathtaking. Even with two riders, it put an unburdened akhala to shame.

  Far ahead, one of the Mirean ships had come to a halt. Two great doors along the port side groaned open and crashed against the sand. A pair of massive compartments were revealed, pens for the mighty gui shan. They were as big as houses, with shells like turtles and great, steel-capped horns curving up from the center of their broad heads. Each had a wooden platform affixed to their backs, at the front of which stood a rider holding chain reins attached to a bit in the gui shan’s beaklike mouth. Another soldier held a long pole, which he used to tap against the gui shan’s skull.

  The great beasts lumbered forward on legs the size of tree trunks, while their riders pointed them both toward a galleon that had just come to a halt. When the beasts were properly aligned, the men began to strike the back of the gui shan’s skull over and over. One did so with such gusto Brama thought surely his crop would snap.

  The gui shan’s grunts resounded over the battlefield. Then they began rumbling forward, gaining more and more speed. Like a boulder rolling downhill, they pounded over the battlefield, an undeniable force. Two asirim swarmed up the lead gui shan’s back and attacked the rider and the crop man but even when both had been killed, the gui shan continued its charge toward the galleon.

  Brama stared as Mae guided her qirin, ahead of one and behind the next. The amount of pain and death all around him was dizzying. He felt it so acutely. It was perfectly lovely, like a hazy autumn sunset. A lover’s caress. It made his heart soar, this grand tableau of blood and savagery. It was their passage to the farther fields that attracted him so, their deaths the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And he was jealous of them, he realized.

  Breath of the desert, please make it stop. He felt torn, a man in pieces, a slave to the feelings Rümayesh had placed inside him and lit like a bonfire.

  At a thundering bellow, Brama looked over his shoulder to find the gui shan ducking their heads before crashing into the hull of the galleon. Their steel-capped horns pierced the thick wooden hull and for a moment they seemed to be wedged there, stuck, but they used their massive front legs and lifted their heads, and the galleon lifted with them. With a deep, resonant call, their legs churned and the galleon tilted further and further until it reached the point of no return and tipped under its own weight. Its masts and rigging crashed with a thunderous boom across the deck of another Sharakhani galleon.

  On the sand nearby, a qirin was going mad, its dead rider fallen on the sand behind it. The qirin was doomed to die, but it would wreak vengeance before it did. Indeed, an asir was engulfed in flames, then trampled by the qirin’s hooves, even as the asirim slashed at the beast’s underbelly.

  The scene was lost as Mae guided her qirin beyond the last line of ships and thankfully the feelings of euphoria ebbed. “There,” he said, pointing Mae toward the twisting cloud of insects in the distance. As Angfua flew toward it, Rümayesh regained form, plummeted, and struck the sand hard. As amber dust coughed into the air around her, the cloud of locusts floated gently down, as if Behlosh knew he had won.

  The locusts coalesced, and Behlosh alighted onto the sand like a vengeful god. With two of his four arms he lifted Rümayesh’s unconscious shape. Blood trickled in a black stream from the incinerated stump of her right arm, turning the amber sand beneath to bistre.

  The urge to flee was strong and growing stronger. The drone of the locusts had vanished, but not the fear. Brama was certain Behlosh would turn at any moment and unleash his terrible power against them.

  Mae turned in the saddle. “Take this,” she said, handing him her short spear.

  He accepted it, and became immediately entranced by its construction. The fear from moments ago vanished, replaced by a wonder for all that was now opening up to him. He felt some small spark of life in the spear’s haft, the barest echo from the tree that had given it up. He felt the steel cap and the leaf-shaped head working together to hem it in.

  Ahead, Behlosh was using one clawed hand to carve symbols over the lump where the bone of Raamajit had been subsumed beneath Rümayesh’s skin. Brama could feel him doing it. It was numb and distant but felt as if Behlosh were scratching into Brama’s skin.

  Mae, oblivious, had taken up the bow that rested beneath her left leg and grabbed three diamond-head arrows in her right hand. Hardly pausing to look, she strung the bow, drew, and fired in as fluid a display of archery as Brama had ever seen. The arrow blurred in flight, then snapped into sharp relief as it sunk into Behlosh’s thigh. Mae strung the second arrow as Behlosh roared and turned. One hand waved in a broad arc before him.

  “Down!” Mae yelled, and ducked.

  In a heartbeat, a wall of sand and stone swept toward them. He felt its approach. It was the
power of the bone, he realized, the power of Raamajit. Rümayesh was somehow sharing it with him.

  He swung Mae’s spear in an upward arc, and the storm of sand lifted up and over them. The wind was still strong, but it did no more than blow the qirin off its path. After a momentary stumble, Angfua galloped on, and when they neared Behlosh it released a tight gout of fire.

  The stream of fire caught Behlosh along his taurine legs in the same moment Mae’s third arrow flew, but Behlosh was ready, and caught the arrow with a sweep of one arm. The flame of Angfua’s breath was interrupted a moment later as Behlosh’s tail lashed out and connected in a terrible blow across the qirin’s neck.

  Angfua bucked and snapped, Mae dropped her bow and held out her hand. “Give it to me!”

  She meant the spear, but Brama couldn’t release it. The weapon had somehow become the focus he needed to guide the power of Raamajit. Behlosh stared at Brama with a glint in his eye and swung his arms in arcane rhythms, two over his head, the other two over his heart.

  Suddenly Brama felt as if he’d been caught in the swell of a river. It pressed on him. Pressed against Mae and the qirin as well. Backward they went, the invisible river carrying them downstream.

  They were thrown from the saddle as Angfua began to thrash. Mae unbuckled her helm and threw it to one side. Her mouth worked soundlessly, and she grasped at her throat as if she were suffocating. Blood streamed from her eyes and nose and dripped from her ears. The qirin released a pitiful trumpeting sound as it clawed at the sand. A gout of flame sprayed from its mouth. Then blood began pouring from its flaring nostrils and its blue, saurian eyes.

  Brama held the spear before him like a talisman as Behlosh took one long stride forward. Eerie sounds issued from his mouth, an arcane chanting of sorts, but it was distant and dreamlike.

  Brama knew Mae’s spear was possessed of no extraordinary abilities, and yet it felt like something primal, a thing the first gods had forged before the making of the world. He hoisted it over his shoulder and felt its potent weight. With a grunt he slung it toward Behlosh.