Beneath the Twisted Trees

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Soon they were off, sailing east to meet the rest of Tribe Kadri. As they exited the defile to the east, Emre looked back at the column of smoke lifting in the distance. Then he took in Haddad and King Ihsan, who stood near one another amidships. King Ihsan seemed haggard—like many of the crew, he’d sustained burns from the fire—but there was a look of satisfaction on his face, as if the complex dish he’d just cooked had, despite many troubles along the way, turned out splendidly.

  Haddad, however, had an intense look about her, as if she were on the verge of some momentous decision. And well she should, Emre thought. This had all been for her.

  Chapter 58

  WHEN ÇEDA SPIED DOZENS of sails raking the horizon, she and everyone else aboard the Red Bride feared the Kings’ ships, but it soon became clear they were ships of the desert tribes, not the royal navy. Midday approached, and the makeup of the small fleet began to come clear. The Drifting Sun, Macide’s fleet cutter, sailed alongside three other Khiyanat ships, their mainmasts flying the blue pennant of the tribe with its white mountain peak. The pennants of the ships sailing behind them revealed more: the Black Veils of Tribe Salmük, the Red Wind of Masal, the Standing Stones of Tribe Ebros and the Amber Blades of Ulmahir; there was even one from the Raining Stars of Tribe Tulogal.

  When they came within hailing distance, word came that Macide wanted to speak to Çeda. “You’ve done well,” Çeda said after she’d swung over to his ship.

  Macide had that look of his, the one that spoke of the task being a heavier burden than he would ever let on. “Not nearly as well as you, it seems.” He motioned to Sehid-Alaz and the other asirim huddled on the deck of the Red Bride. Their numbers had swelled to more than a score, some few asirim who’d been near having intercepted the ship on its journey toward Mount Arasal.

  Çeda shared her story, and Macide pressed her on King Ihsan, wondering what he might have been doing before being taken by the Malasani golems.

  “I’ve no idea,” she said, “but he seemed intent on saving us.”

  “From everything you said, I’d guess he was intent on saving you.”

  Çeda thought back on it. “He might have been.” It felt so peculiar, though. Why would Ihsan have risked so much for her?

  “Well,” Macide said, “I suppose it’s fortunate that the Malasani took care of him for us.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that.”

  Macide’s dark eyebrows rose. “He has a golden tongue. You think the gods gave him the ability to breathe beneath sand too?”

  “I saw the golem pull him up and drag him away. The gods are nothing if not cruel, and the crueler path is for him to cross our path again in the future.”

  When she finished, she said, “It can’t be a coincidence that we met you on the way here.”

  “You’re right.”

  He told her how he’d sailed to a gathering of six tribes. Masal and Salmük were already part of the alliance with Khiyanat, the thirteenth tribe. Over the next several days, Macide and the other two shaikhs had presented an offer to the rest: join us in mutual protection against the Kings; join us that we might protect the sands from the interlopers who seek to take it for their own. Once those threats had been met, we can decide what to do with Sharakhai together. By the end of their deliberations, Ebros and Ulmahir had agreed, and Tulogal, while stopping short of joining the growing alliance, had agreed to consider it further, to provide aid and, perhaps most important of all, to deliver the same offer to their allied tribes to the west.

  “We were considering going with Tulogal to hold another council when a lyrewing arrived. ‘Nalamae commands you, return to the valley,’ it said. ‘The King of Shadows is coming.’ We set sail that very day, and here we are.”

  “And Emre?” asked Çeda. He had been sent on a similar mission to the southern tribes.

  Macide shook his head. “It’s too soon, Çeda. We won’t know for some time yet.”

  She tried to hide her disappointment, though she knew full well she wasn’t doing a very good job of it. How she missed Emre. His face. His bright smile. His stupid jokes.

  Macide looked like he was about to say something when a low humming sound filled the air. His gaze drifted toward the Red Bride, which sailed along their starboard side. Near the bowsprit, Sehid-Alaz was spinning Night’s Kiss through the air in a blade form Çeda had never seen before. Something ancient, perhaps, or a thing of his own making. The sword had changed since Beht Zha’ir. It was still hungry, but now bowed to Sehid-Alaz’s will, as if the act of making him anew had joined the two of them. Or perhaps its hunger had been sated. Who could tell? Whatever the case, Çeda was glad to be rid of the blade.

  “It’s too bad about Husamettín,” Macide said.

  “At least Kameyl gave him a kiss to remember us by.”

  “A scar on his forehead is hardly the punishment he deserves. His bones should be feeding the Great Mother.”

  Macide looked so much like his father, Ishaq, in that moment, all righteous indignation, that Çeda laughed.

  “You think it a joke?”

  “I think I have more of a right to be angry than you do. Husamettín’s time will come.”

  He seemed no more pleased, but he nodded. “I suppose what’s done is done. And the asirim”—he jutted his chin toward the Bride—“they’re free now?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  He seemed skeptical.

  “It’s true, Macide. They’re free. Free of the Kings. Free of the gods’ curse. And Sehid-Alaz has summoned them to the valley.”

  Something unreadable passed over Macide’s face, some combination of relief and gratitude, perhaps, but it was there and gone in a moment. “I hope so,” he finally said. “The question now is whether they’ll arrive in time.”

  Çeda shrugged. “They’re spread across the desert but many, we hope, will be near enough to help.”

  Macide stared toward the mountains. “I fear they’ll be too late. We arrive tomorrow. We’ll face another half-day’s march toward the valley and the old fortress where the tribe is taking shelter. It might be days, weeks, before the bulk of the asirim arrive, and until then we’ll have thousands of Silver Spears to contend with. Blade Maidens. King Beşir.”

  “Beşir . . .” Çeda repeated. “He should be dead already.” She explained his attack in the desert, how Rhia had been full and yet he’d suffered no ill effects.

  “Yes,” Macide said, “about the bloody verses.” He nodded to one of the crew. “I’ve a present for you.”

  “A present?”

  Macide smiled and stroked his beard, showing off the viper tattoo on his forearm. The burly crewman returned a short while later with a man named Ulman, a fellow so thin, so ancient, Çeda thought he might crumble away into a pile of sand. He looked nervously at Çeda, then Macide, then seemed to find something terribly interesting on the deck boards between them.

  “Go on, grandfather,” Macide said.

  The man’s freckled brow furrowed, and then he recited a poem:

  From golden dunes,

  And ancient runes,

  The King of glittering stone;

  By inverted thorn,

  His skin was torn,

  And yet his strength did grow.

  While far afield,

  His love unsealed,

  ’Til Tulathan does loom;

  Then petals’ dust,

  Like lovers’ lust,

  Will draw him toward his tomb.

  Bakhi’s bright hammer, it was Külaşan’s bloody verse, the very one she’d used to catch Külaşan at his weakest. She’d shared it with Macide and many others from the thirteenth tribe, but how did this man, who looked like he’d spent his entire life in the desert, know it? Given that Macide had described this as a present, she
was certain Ulman had more to share with her.

  “Do you have more of the bloody verses, grandfather?”

  Ulman nodded.

  “But how did you find them?” she asked.

  He looked distressed, as if he were trying hard to remember, but couldn’t.

  “His great-grandfather was a librarian at the collegia,” Macide answered, “and then the personal archivist for King Onur, where he found rather more than he’d bargained for. Stumbling upon the verses, he feared for his life, for his family’s life. He never shared what he’d learned outside his family, but he did share it with them, and so these three bloody verses were passed down to Ulman.”

  “Three verses,” Çeda breathed, praying to the fates they weren’t the ones she already knew. But how could they be? Macide wouldn’t be acting like the cat who’d swallowed the canary if they were.

  “Yes, and given our conversation a moment ago, I suspect the second is one you’ll be pleased to hear.” Macide nodded to Ulman, who recited it with a good deal more confidence than he had the first.

  From deepened vale,

  A King most hale,

  Sincere entreaties lost;

  Fought he alone,

  On plain of stone,

  Yet there his fate embossed.

  Thaash did see,

  In King of three,

  A foe made long ago;

  Said Thaash to King,

  Your words shall ring,

  Yet true name brings you low.

  “Your words shall ring,” Çeda breathed. Her fingers and toes had started to tingle like they did when she was young, when her mother would return from one of her night-long excursions to the blooming fields. “It’s Ihsan’s.”

  Of all the bloody verses, she wanted King Ihsan’s the most. Memories of her mission to the top of Mount Tauriyat swam before her. Ihsan had been there, waiting, and she’d been undone by a word. The very notion of having something to counteract his power made her shiver with excitement, yet in the same breath she was crestfallen. True name brings you low, the verse said.

  “I don’t suppose your grandfather gave you Ihsan’s true name?”

  Ulman shook his head, deflated, and resumed his careful inspection of the deck.

  “Gods,” Çeda said, “to come so close.”

  “I was disappointed as well,” Macide said. “There are a few things I’d like to discuss with the Honey-tongued King. But it’s more than we had yesterday.”

  There was no denying it. And Çeda had to admit it was sobering. The random finding of Ulman was yet another reminder that the survival of their tribe had been accomplished through the effort and sacrifice of hundreds, thousands of brave souls over the centuries since Beht Ihman. Çeda had often thought of her mother as a lone actor, but she wasn’t. She’d been a part of a grand web, one thread of knowledge supporting the next supporting the next. Those who came before had given Ahya a head start and allowed her to take things further, which in turn had helped Çeda. And here was another tale, different from hers but still part of the same web: Ulman’s great-grandfather finding one small bit of information, one weapon in the struggle, and handing it down through the generations.

  “Now for the most interesting part,” Macide waved to Ulman a third time.

  Ulman spoke a third verse, and this time his voice was commanding, a renowned actor casting retirement aside for one final performance.

  Sharp of eye,

  And quick of wit,

  The King of Amberlark;

  With wave of hand,

  On cooling sand,

  Slips he into the dark.

  King will shift,

  ’Twixt light and dark,

  Through doors where borders lie;

  Yet he who plays,

  In bright of day,

  Is drawn ’neath pewter sky.

  “The lines are different,” Çeda said.

  Macide nodded and repeated the second stanza as Çeda had recited it to him:

  King will shift,

  ’Twixt light and dark,

  The gift of onyx sky;

  Shadows play,

  In dark of day,

  Yet not ’neath Rhia’s eye.

  “I’m not surprised there are two,” he said. “The Kings worked hard to hide the bloody verses, but they couldn’t hide everything. Naturally they tried to muddy the waters by putting out false verses.”

  “Which leads us to an interesting problem. How do we know Ulman’s verse is the true one? Where there are two there might be three.”

  Macide folded his arms and shrugged. “We don’t know. We can’t.”

  Ulman looked embarrassed, as if he’d done something wrong. “Under a pewter sky, there are no shadows.”

  Çeda blinked. Of course he was right. And it made a sort of sense. Many of the curses the gods had lain upon the Kings bound their powers and weaknesses together. “If we were to catch Beşir beneath a cloudy sky . . .”

  She looked to Macide, who nodded. “It makes as much sense as anything else.”

  “More than that.” Çeda turned to look at Mount Arasal in the distance, which was stark under a bright sun. They were deep into summer, where cloudless blue skies dominated. “But it would take a miracle to find ourselves beneath gray skies for our battle.”

  Macide jutted his chin toward the mountain. “There is a goddess holed up in that fortress.”

  Çeda turned to look and realized a bird was flying toward them. The lyrewing had returned. It approached, spread its copper wings, and alighted on the bowsprit. In high, ringing tones it began to speak. “The King of Shadows arrives. The attack on the fortress begins!” It repeated this three times and then stilled.

  Çeda approached it with care, worried it might fly away. “Very well,” she said. “Can you take a message back to the goddess for us?”

  The bird waited, calm, its black eyes blinking.

  Çeda told it her plan, then repeated it, and a third time. The lyrewing listened. It fanned its wings and craned its neck toward the sky. When she’d finished it repeated, “Drawn ’neath pewter sky!” and launched itself into the air.

  It flew toward the mountains until lost from sight along the shoulders of Mount Arasal.

  Chapter 59

  AS THE DAYS IN EVENTIDE’S dungeon stretched on, Davud felt certain he was right about Hamzakiir. Had he been able to, he surely would have sent some word, or arranged for Davud to escape. But he hadn’t, which made Davud wonder just how much Meryam suspected. Hamzakiir had implied they were still in contact with one another even though she’d left the city. Did she suspect treachery? Had she learned about Davud and Esmeray? No, Davud reasoned. If she had, their necks would already have met the executioner’s blade.

  Davud tried again and again to reason with Esmeray, but she’d fallen silent, refusing to speak to him at all. He tried to open the lock as well. It wasn’t easy. With the manacles still on and the bar between them forcing his hands apart, he’d resorted to biting his lip and using his tongue to spread the blood directly onto the metal plate covering the lock. Using one’s own blood produced weak results. Factor in the sloppy way he’d drawn the sigil and how difficult it was to affect the metal and it added up to an effort destined to fail. He managed to rattle the lock’s internal mechanisms, no more.

  Then one day Davud heard words that sent a chill running through him. “Things were never cheery before Queen Meryam arrived,” the gaoler groused to the Silver Spear who always accompanied him on his rounds, “but at least one could live without fear.”

  The Spear, who was young, and seemed new to Eventide, said, “The queen changed him.”

  “Bloody right she changed him, for the worse! Does everything have to be so dark and dreary? It’s part to do with the war, but mostly it’s h
er.” There came the distant clank and creak of the dungeon door opening, and the gaoler’s voice dropped. “You didn’t hear me say this, but I’ll be glad if the war keeps her away. Glad if it keeps her away for good.”

  “I hate to throw sand in your tea,” the Spear said, “but it’s not going to happen.” The gaoler gave a noncommittal grunt, his favorite response, and the Spear went on. “A ship arrived late last night with word that the queen is returning ahead of the fleet, perhaps even today.”

  The rest was lost as the door clanged shut.

  Davud stared through the window of his cell door. “You heard them,” he called toward Esmeray’s cell. “We’ve no time to waste. We have to leave.”

  A hollow silence followed.

  “Is this how you plan to repay the loss of your brother’s life? When you’re reunited with Deniz in the farther fields, will you explain you couldn’t be bothered to avenge his death?”

  “Be quiet, Davud.”

  But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. “The Kings took him, Esmeray. They tortured him. Experimented on his body, likely before and after his death. You would lie there in your cell and accept it?”

  “I told you to be quiet.”

  “Does Deniz love you so much that he’ll overlook your cowardice? Or will he look you in the eye and tell you the truth, that you utterly failed him?”

  She came to the window, staring at him with those bone-white eyes of hers. “Keep my brother’s name from your lips.”

  “Then make him proud! Help me!”

  “I can’t! I can’t help anyone anymore!”

  “Yes, you can! You can start by teaching me how to open this lock.”

  She shook her head. “It would take days, weeks, to teach you. I can see from the way you’ve been fumbling with it.”

  The words Davud was about to say died on his lips. “You can see it?”