Beneath the Twisted Trees

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  She stared at him as if he were a fool. “I don’t trust anyone, Cicio.”

  Cicio couldn’t help it. He laughed a bitter laugh that filled the cramped subterranean space. “Have you ever said a truer thing in all your life?”

  In a rare show of the Meryam of old, she smiled a genuine smile. “Probably not.” The smile faded, and her pacing resumed. “Despite everything that’s happened, despite all that you and Ramahd have tried to do to me, I could use him by my side. Help me to convince Ramahd, and I’ll send you home. It’s what you want most, isn’t it?”

  “You’d put him under a spell like Hamzakiir. You’d dominate his mind. Mine too.”

  He wondered why she wouldn’t just dominate his mind now, but of course Ramahd was the one man she couldn’t fool by such means. He would sense and dismantle her spell the moment Cicio neared. She needed him to accept willingly.

  “It isn’t all bad, Cicio. You’d still have some freedoms.” She glanced back at the boy. “Many in this city have it worse.” Then she shrugged. “But take it as you please. Basilio is seeing to the final arrangements for the gibbet.”

  Cicio would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered this: a return to a simpler time when he hadn’t been worried about the betrayal of his King by his own daughter. He wished this had all been a dream, for Meryam to have worked in service to King Aldouan. But she hadn’t—she’d murdered him, and Cicio could never trust her not to do the same to him or to Ramahd if she grew worried over their loyalty.

  “I’ll go to the next world with my head held high, thank you.”

  She stared at him for a while, perfectly calm. “So be it,” she said, as if she’d expected no less but had thought it worth the effort all the same.

  She left without giving him another glance. Not long after, there came the sound of wagons departing the compound. And then there came a new sound, a roar: the sound of approaching battle. It was loud and growing louder. Soon his gaoler and a guard, both of them looking nervous, came and took Cicio in chains to the yard outside. The embassy house had been built against the larger stone wall of the House of Kings. On the top of that wall stood thousands upon thousands of soldiers. Many wore the white surcoats and conical helms of the Silver Spears, others more mundane leather armor; some wore no armor at all, but were outfitted with spears or swords and shields to help stem the oncoming tide.

  Near the stables stood a gibbet with a pair of nooses and stools beneath. The entire manor staff had come out to watch, surely on Meryam’s orders. She would want everyone to see what happened to traitors. The guard followed behind Cicio. Basilio stood with his sword at the ready, though with Cicio chained, Basilio looked like a pompous ass. Cicio doubted the man had ever drawn a sword with the intention of using it.

  As Cicio was made to stand atop a stool and the noose fitted around his neck, the battle suddenly roared louder. He could feel it, the sound percussive. Arrows flew through the air above the wall, and those who’d come to witness the hanging stared up with nervous eyes.

  “Hurry up,” Basilio said, waving his sword.

  It was a strange scene. War raged behind the wall less than a dozen paces away. Wagons stood at the ready. The embassy’s front gates, leading to the wider landscape of Tauriyat and the House of Kings, had been left open, as if Meryam had made provision for those in the compound to flee, but only after they’d witnessed the hanging of a traitor. As the slack in the rope was taken up, there came the sound of pounding hooves. The Qaimiri guardsmen standing at the open gate stared through it, bows to hand. None so much as lifted their weapons, however.

  “My lord!” one of them called to Basilio, his eyes widening. “My lord!” And they all backed away.

  Through the gates rode a small host of knights in gleaming plate and bright helms. At their head were two men. The first was a barrel-chested man in a plumed helm holding high the banner of Qaimir—he was supposed to be dead but, fucking hells, it was Count Mateo. And the second . . . Cicio wasn’t a righteous man, but just then he wanted to drop to his knees and praise Mighty Alu. Ramahd had come. Ramahd had come to save him.

  He wondered what might have happened for Mateo to still be alive and for Ramahd to be with him, but he had no time to consider it, for just then Basilio groaned, “Bloody gods,” stepped forward, and kicked Cicio’s stool out from underneath him.

  The manacles on Cicio’s wrists clanked as his hands shot to his throat. He tried to slip his fingers beneath the noose, but it had cinched like a vise. He kicked his legs, trying to lift himself enough to create a gap, but it wasn’t enough. The world turned before him as his body swung. He found himself staring uselessly at the onlookers, his countrymen, who stared uselessly back. A keen ringing sound smothered all else, his eyes felt like they were ready to pop out, and there was so much pressure in his head his teeth ached. And his breath . . . Despite sucking in a lungful, it had all rushed from his lungs already. He couldn’t draw another. Gods, how the fear in him spiked with the realization that he’d taken his last.

  Suddenly Ramahd was galloping by on his horse. His sword flashed. The pressure on Cicio’s neck released, and he collapsed to the ground. For long moments all he could do was clutch at the noose and try to breathe. He lost track of the battle, but not his fear that at any moment one of Meryam’s guards would chop off his head.

  Indeed, when he managed to roll over, he saw one of them stalking toward him.

  “Drop your weapons!” Mateo roared, an order the wide-eyed guard immediately complied with.

  The others did as well, and soon it became clear that, given the status and might of Mateo’s host, all were ceding authority to him, at least until they saw how it played out with Basilio.

  And that was decided soon enough. Basilio was severely outmatched by Ramahd. And what would he do if he won, in any case? He’d still have Mateo to deal with. Seeing this, he threw his sword to the ground and held his hands high.

  Ramahd dropped from his horse, took up Basilio’s sword, then backed away and gripped Cicio’s arm, helping him to his feet.

  “Cutting it a bit close, don’t you think?” Cicio said in a raspy voice.

  Ramahd winked. “You know how much I like drama.”

  Nearby, Mateo reined his horse to a jingling stop. In his hands, he held the reins of a spare horse in barding.

  “I was—” Cicio coughed and cleared his throat several times. “I was led to believe you and Hektor were dead.”

  Mateo shared a look with Ramahd. “Well, you’re half right. Hektor is dead, ambushed by a squadron of Blade Maidens.”

  Cicio coughed again while waving to the mounted soldiers. “And this?”

  “Is a story for another day,” Ramahd replied.

  The roar of battle had grown louder. Some of the Silver Spears atop the wall were looking down at them, clearly wondering what was going on, but then a half-dozen ladders appeared on the opposite side of the wall. Mateo regarded it with something like worry, then leveled a grim stare at Ramahd. “Best we get to it.” He gestured with the tip of his sword to the wall. “Diversions like these don’t present themselves every day.”

  “No.” Ramahd looked to Cicio, who was breathing easier now. “We’ve a task ahead of us.”

  At first Cicio thought they might be fleeing the House of Kings, but then he noticed the sack—that bloody, fucking sack—hanging from the back of Ramahd’s saddle. “We’re going after Meryam, aren’t we?”

  “We are,” Ramahd said with a sharp nod. “Assuming you’re ready, that is.”

  Cicio hadn’t seen this much energy from Ramahd in months. Hiding a smile, he snatched the reins of the spare horse from Mateo, swung up into the saddle, and stared down with a sneer. “When am I ever not ready?”

  Ramahd swung up to his own horse and looked at Mateo. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  Mateo smiled at Cicio. “Good man.”

 
As Mateo spurred his horse into motion and began organizing his knights, Ramahd urged his horse forward. He stopped near Basilio, who had watched Ramahd’s approach with no small amount of fear in his eyes. Ramahd was still holding Basilio’s sword, but now gave it a flip and held it out, hilt first, for Basilio to take.

  Basilio accepted it warily. “What’s this?”

  “Get everyone to high ground before this boils over. Hide them on the far side of Tauriyat, and if the city’s taken, make for the northern harbor and gather the ships you need, by force if necessary.”

  Basilio slipped the sword into its sheath, a sluggish movement that made it clear how unsure of all this he was. “This isn’t over, Amansir.”

  Ramahd reined his horse over, then spurred it into motion. “Just see our people safe.”

  Then Cicio, Ramahd, Mateo, and his knights were out past the gates of the embassy house and riding hard toward the Sun Palace.

  Chapter 61

  ON THE AMARANTH, Emre led Haddad into the captain’s cabin. As he closed the door behind her, Haddad went to the liquor drawer and poured two glasses of dark Malasani rum. She downed one, poured herself another, then lifted both glasses, handing one to Emre.

  He accepted it, but didn’t bring it to his lips.

  “Drink,” she said, and swallowed half of hers.

  “Haddad . . .”

  “I need a skiff, Emre,” she said in a rush, “and a day’s worth of water and food.”

  Emre’s fingers began to tingle. “Why?”

  “Because I’m going back to the Malasani camp.” She finished her drink and set it down with a clack. “I need to speak with Mad King Surrahdi about his faith.”

  The words were bizarre and upsetting to hear, made worse by the part Emre had played. He’d spoken Haddad’s name when asking for an emissary, knowing full well it would enrage the King of Malasan. Precisely as King Ihsan had predicted, King Emir had beaten Haddad right there in the pavilion in front of Emre and Hamid and all his generals and courtiers.

  Ihsan had been locked away with Haddad in the prison ship for days. From the start he’d manipulated her, fanning the flames of her guilt over all Surrahdi had done in the name of their faith, at all King Emir had done as well. He’d sensed the love Haddad still had in her heart for King Emir, though, and that was something that couldn’t stand.

  “Love blinds,” the Blade Maiden had said the night she’d come to Emre in this very cabin. “The ties between her and King Emir must be severed completely. Only then will her part in this be assured.”

  Emre had done the rest, goading King Emir into his perverse display of power. It had felt necessary—Sharakhai would fall without it—yet shame still filled him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to her.

  The expression on her bruised and bloodied face was one of disbelief. “Why ever would you be sorry, Emre? I’m going to save your city.”

  The way she’d said it made it clear she knew the part Emre had played. The realization struck him like cold water, and suddenly he saw this entire enterprise for what it was: a play filled with actors—Emre, the Blade Maiden, King Emir, and Haddad, each of them playing the role Ihsan had written for them.

  “And still you’ll go?” he asked.

  “This isn’t about you, or Sharakhai.” A bit of her old fire had returned. Emre found he’d actually missed it. “It’s about our standing in the eyes of our gods, our place in the farther fields, which is threatened by Surrahdi’s actions.”

  For a long moment the two of them stared at one another, neither wanting to take the next step.

  “You’ll give me the skiff?”

  It was a strange thing to note at a time like this, but he was suddenly aware of how far her Sharakhani had come. Her accent was still strong, but she had a command of the language she hadn’t had months ago. It made him feel connected to her, and that in turn made him want to reach out and take her into his arms. But to do so now would be an insult.

  “You’ll have the skiff.”

  She nodded once and stepped toward the cabin door, but paused by his side. She stared into his eyes, and for one brief moment looked vulnerable, as if she wanted to be saved from what she was about to do. Then the yawning silence between them become unbearable, and she opened the door and left.

  In the center of his tent, Surrahdi the Mad King sat in lotus position. Dawn had broken over the desert. It would be a grand day. A grand day indeed. He would have what he’d wanted for so long. The desert’s Amber Jewel.

  At last it would be his, his, his . . .

  The very thought sent a cascade of joy throughout his many splinters of existence: the thousand pieces of his soul that lay scattered like broken glass across the landscape of Sharakhai. A beatific light glinted over their countless surfaces—not the light of the sun, but of the triform gods themselves. Shonokh smiled through them. Ranrika stared with piercing eyes. And Tamtamiin danced in a thousand different ways, each of them as beautiful as the next.

  He saw in that light the pieces of himself he’d cut away in honor of the triumvirate. They stood now as testaments to his will, expressions of his faith. He would stop at nothing to see their love and their truth embraced by others. The Sharakhani first. Then Qaimir, who had much to atone for. Mirea and Kundhun would take more time, but they would come to heel. They would see the shining light of the Malasani gods.

  When the sun had risen fully, his son came to him. Emir. He whispered words of conquest. The final push. The palaces would be laid bare at last. Then they would be taken, their flames snuffed, wiped from the pages of history. From their ashes a new flame would rise. A single flame, not a dozen or nine or however the Kings might number themselves these days. This had always been his promise, his gift to his son and all of Malasan. His gift to the gods themselves.

  Through the fractured eyes of a fractured beast, Surrahdi saw the ancient, innermost walls of the city. Saw his engines of war pitted against them. Saw his spears and shields arrayed.

  He began to laugh and clap, and his memories were kindled in the minds of his myriad children. He saw the days of his youth, felt the joy of dancing on feasting days. He tasted perfect morsels of perfect food, heard matchless verses that filled grand halls, felt his first touch of a woman, his first touch of a man.

  His son, knowing his father was filled with Shonokh’s ambition, and with Ranrika’s careful thought, and with Tamtamiin’s compassion, left the tent.

  “You need not fear,” Surrahdi said to him, though his son was already gone, “all is well in hand.”

  He smiled, and those many fragments of himself smiled in reply. Their enemy stood no chance. Not against the army he’d created in the name of the triform gods.

  Soon the walls were breached. Soon they’d pushed beyond. It wouldn’t be long now.

  The tent flap opened once more. A soldier with wide eyes and a bloody, beaten face stepped inside and knelt before him. He recognized her. The woman who’d once had a cat named Calamity. Haddad the beauty. Haddad of the fiery heart.

  But why had she come? His son, the king, was angry with her. He’d beaten her. Surrahdi thought perhaps he should be angry with her too, but he wasn’t. She had always been his favorite.

  She knelt by his side and took his hand in hers. “I’ve come to speak to you, my king,” she said while stroking his skin softly.

  “What about, child? What about?”

  “Do you remember our time in the palace? When you walked with me in the royal gardens?”

  Visions flooded his mind. Young Haddad, eager and inquisitive. He the voice of his faith, teaching her, among many other things, of how the gods had come to shine on Malasan. “I remember, child.” His smile broadened, while in the distance, his many children paused. “I remember.”

  “That’s why I’ve come. The things you taught me.” The bruises around her face faded. As di
d the cuts. In his eyes, he saw the Haddad of old. The Haddad who was brightest, both inside and out. “You once spoke to me of balance.”

  Not once, he remembered, but many times.

  She was crying now. “I would honor them, Surrahdi. I would honor them. And I think deep inside, you would too. I think you still want it.” She blinked, and more tears flowed. “Will you listen?”

  For a moment he could only stare at her tears. The light reflected in them was the light of the Malasani gods. Something was swelling deep inside him, a thing he’d buried so deeply, he hardly knew what it was any longer. He remembered how well Haddad had learned his teachings. How she would echo them back to him, sometimes even chastise him when he strayed from their path. If Haddad had something important to say, he would hear it, no matter how painful.

  He stilled his shaking hands and patted hers. “I’ll listen, child.”

  Haddad smiled. Her relief warmed the many pieces of his broken heart. She leaned close and whispered words into his ear, much as his son Emir had done only a short while ago, but Haddad spoke not of conquest, nor of greater glory. She spoke of the seasons of our lives, and of the land beyond. She spoke of true purpose and balance and obeisance to the teachings of the gods. And then she spoke of subversion, of the twisting of their ways. As she did, some few of his many splinters turned and regarded him from afar. The light that had glinted from them moments ago brightened, often the first sign of their curiosity.

  He thought he should tell them to look away, to force them if need be, but he was captivated by the words of this woman, and so were his children.

  Curiosity became wonder became shock became shame. It was a thing that happened from time to time with one or two of his children. When it did, he quickly convinced them that he was right, lest the infectious thoughts spread. The only path to salvation, he told them, was to spread the word of the gods, the Malasani gods. The only gods who mattered. He would tell them these things, and they would calm and their light would dim to quieter hues.