Melis raised her shield like a talisman against the night, but it was ineffectual. She could no longer fend off Beşir’s attacks. Çeda tried to block the next arrow with her shield, but Melis stumbled into her and she missed. The arrow sunk into Melis’s belly with a sickening thump.
“He’s coming, Çeda,” Melis said as Çeda lowered her down to the ground. The black bodice of her dress glistened with blood. “Quickly now. Something’s happening in the fortress.”
Çeda stood, her sword and shield at the ready. Beşir strode toward her, sword in hand, his quiver empty, and spoke with an ease that enraged her. “You may have freed the asirim for a short time, but with your goddess gone, they’ll be returned to us, and all this will have been for naught.”
But Çeda hardly heard his words. She was pure red rage.
A war cry erupted from her throat as she ran to meet him. Beşir met her every swing, and returned them with the same liquid ease with which he wielded his bow. He was strong, as all the Kings were, but so was Çeda. They fought beneath the boughs of the trees, and Beşir tried several times more to disappear, to catch her off her guard, but she’d become so attuned to him that she met every blow with sword or shield.
On the next shift she managed to cut his leg. She followed with a slice to his shoulder that would have taken his arm clean off had he not disappeared again.
Beşir was breathing heavily now, his confidence faded. He abandoned the use of his power, retreating, finding it more and more difficult to fend off Çeda’s blows.
Then the landscape around them suddenly brightened. The clouds were breaking. A look of unadulterated fear overcame Beşir. She had no idea why, but she wasn’t about to examine a gifted sword for nicked edges. After another ringing blow that he barely managed to block, she felt his intent once more, and this time it was directed up the slope. He meant to return to the fortress.
Determined he would not escape her again, she dropped her shield and lunged, managing to grasp his arm.
The shift came, and the world dissolved around her.
Chapter 63
ANILA’S MOTHER’S HEALTH IMPROVED. The terrible wound to her neck scarred over and soon looked as if it were years old, little more than a painful memory. Her eyes, so haunted at first, brightened. Her skin regained its hue. And she began to go about her day in Sukru’s palace with something approaching normalcy.
The nights were the worst. Anila was there to shush her, to hold her close, but she had terrible dreams, and would wake from them in a cold sweat. She’d ask her mother what she saw, but Meral could never answer.
Although the look on her face defied her words, she would say, “I can’t recall,” and eventually fall back into a fitful sleep.
King Sukru came often to inspect Meral, and to question her. He asked her to work at her embroidery, a favorite pastime, and would assess her progress each time he came. Despite Anila’s fears that her mother would turn out to be incomplete and broken, she was creating a beautiful piece, an amberlark on a twisting branch. Every few days, Sukru’s physic came to weigh the balance of her humors. All signs pointed to a woman who’d been through a harrowing experience but was nevertheless recovering.
“When will we be allowed to go home?” Meral asked Anila one day.
“Soon, I hope.”
“Has he said why he wants us here?”
She remembered being brought to the palace, but not being forced down to the crypts, nor did she recall her own death. She assumed Sukru had brought her to keep Anila company, which would in turn help Anila as she served Sukru. Anila chose not to disabuse her of the notion.
“I’m sure it’s for our own protection,” Anila told her. “With the war on and all.”
“Yes,” Meral said. Her eyes drifted beyond Anila, beyond the walls of her room. She had a pensive look, her eyes moving wildly as if she were on the cusp of remembering it all. But then the look faded and she went back to her needlepoint.
A moment later, she pricked her finger with the needle. “Now see what I’ve done!” She stared at it while pinching the skin around the tiny wound. A small drop of blood grew and she began to cry, softly at first, but it quickly devolved into wracking sobs.
Anila embraced her as her mother had done for her as a child. “There, there.” She rocked her back and forth, held her mother’s head against her breast. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know,” Meral said.
The depth of sadness in those words tore a hole in Anila’s heart. She wanted to tell her. She should tell her. You were dead. Sukru killed you. But she didn’t have the heart.
“I feel as though something terrible is about to happen,” her mother said into Anila’s shoulder. She broke away and looked at Anila with freshly troubled eyes. “I feel as though it’s about to happen to you.”
“No, memma, everything’s fine.” It was a monstrous lie, and Anila felt like a monster for telling it. “The war will come to a close, the Kings will push the Malasani horde back, and then we’ll return home.”
Meral brightened at this. She wiped away her tears, took Anila’s hand and stroked her black, scintillant skin. “You’ll come home then? You’ll live with us?”
“Yes.”
Another lie, which for some reason felt worse than all the rest. Anila knew very well she could never live a normal life again. She would see this done, one way another. She would see her family safe. And then she would take her vengeance upon Sukru.
The next day Meral and Anila were summoned to Sukru. Anila thought the Silver Spears might be taking them to his throne room, but the King met them on the way and led them to the palace’s entrance, where many were gathering. The entire place was abuzz and Anila had no idea why until a burly keg of a man Anila had never seen before came and spoke low to Sukru. “All is ready at the ship, your Excellence.”
“Very good,” Sukru groused and waved the man toward what was proving to be an ever-growing line of people.
They were scared, Anila realized. There were a number of Silver Spears in their train, but also workmen, two maids, even a cook. Why in the wide great desert they would be joining Sukru was beyond Anila. Until they reached the courtyard.
Even this high up the mountain the sound of battle drifted over the ramparts. When Anila made way for her mother to enter the covered araba, one of seven ready and waiting, Sukru called, “No. She’ll come with me.”
Anila was ready to utter the first of several prepared objections when a tall akhala galloped into the courtyard and came to an abrupt halt near the coaches. The rider was a royal messenger wearing King Cahil’s orange-and-gold livery. “My Lord King, your presence is requested at the Sun Palace. A council has been called.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. I’ll be there as soon as I’m able.”
The messenger, a young, clean-shaven man with expressive eyebrows, looked supremely uncomfortable. “I was told to accompany you there, your Excellence.”
“By whom?”
His horse pranced. “By my Lord King Cahil himself. He desires your counsel and the weight your throne will lend to the proceedings.”
“He fears being overrun by the other Kings, more like.”
“I wouldn’t know, your Excellence. The fear is that the Malasani will breach the walls today.”
“Do tell,” Sukru said, as if only a fool would fail to see it. “Tell Cahil I’ll be along shortly.”
“I’m afraid I’m not allowed to leave without you.”
Sukru reached to his belt and unfurled his whip. With a snap of his arm, the whip went cracking toward the messenger. The rider snatched his hand to his chest while the horse threw its head back and reared. Something went flying end over end, landing on the gravel shortly after the horse’s hooves crunched down.
A finger. The man had lost his finger, and he seemed every bit as surprised as everyone else gathered aroun
d the coaches.
“Another word will cost you your head. Now go and give your King my answer.”
The messenger, pale-faced, nodded. He covered his injury with his right hand and tried to guide his akhala away even as blood coursed down his left trouser leg and onto the gravel below.
He galloped away, and those in attendance entered their coaches, silent as gravestones. It was then, as Anila’s mother was entering the King’s coach ahead of Sukru, that she noticed the two others waiting inside: her father and sister. There were looks of relief as they embraced one another, but also looks of deep concern as they stared through the window at Anila.
It tore at Anila to have them remain with Sukru, but there was nothing for it. If she argued now, Sukru might kill one of them as a warning and keep the others for added insurance.
Down the slopes of Tauriyat they went, seven coaches, dozens of people either within, riding on the benches, or hanging off the back on the footman’s platform. They hurtled along, wheels skidding as they took the sharp turns along King’s Road, while far below, Anila saw something she never thought she’d see: enemy forces within the House of Kings. The western and southern walls, both of which were visible during their journey, were thick with soldiers bearing spears and swords. Ladders were set. Ropes were thrown over the walls. Siege towers rolled forward in a dozen places, disgorging men when they came near enough, most but not all of which were immediately riddled with arrows. And when the Malasani soldiers gained a foothold on the walls, more followed.
It was madness.
And then there came a breach along the southern expanse, not so far from Anila’s familial estate. An entire section of wall came tumbling down in a cloud of dust. It was not large, but it didn’t need to be. Malasani soldiers came marching through, first in a phalanx, shields interlocked, then as a mounting stream of soldiers that were already overcoming the unprepared resistance of the Silver Spears. A storm of Blade Maidens in their black dresses fell upon the enemy and it looked as though they were going to stem the tide.
The skirmish was lost from view as the coach took another turn, finally reached ground level, and flew toward the Sun Palace. Anila looked back, trying to see inside Sukru’s araba for her family. They were too far back, however, and she was forced to watch the way ahead instead, where her worst fears were unfolding before her very eyes. To the left of the road, a wall of Silver Spears began to break. The Malasani forces burst through, many trying to surround the main line of Silver Spears. There were so many that some started to rush the wagons.
Anila knew enough Malasani to hear the words being shouted, “A royal wagon!” they shouted. “A royal wagon!”
Anila spotted the commander a moment later, a burly man with bright steel armor and a helm topped with a headdress of white plumes. He was pointing toward the train and men rallied to him, moving to intercept the arabas. The first wagon made it through their line. The second tried to skirt the road and hit a deep rut. It overturned a moment later, dust and dirt billowing as the four men on the bench were thrown free.
The third araba, just ahead of Anila’s, was forced to slow as the Malasani set their spears against the wagon’s four charging horses. Anila’s wagon slowed as a wall of Malasani soldiers surged toward them, roaring.
Gods, we’re all going to die, Anila thought, every last one of us.
She saw soldiers falling. Dozens of Silver Spears. As many or more Malasani soldiers. A group of Blade Maidens were surrounded, and though they cut down man after man, they couldn’t stop them all. One by one, they began to fall. Nearby, a soldier who seemed made of red clay was taking blow after blow from the Silver Spears surrounding him. Farther along King’s Road, a roaring wave of mounted Blade Maidens and ranks of Silver Spear infantry were rushing to protect the wagons, but Anila could already tell they would be too late.
She felt death on the air. She tasted it on her tongue, bitter as week-old limes. As the araba came to a halt and the soldiers atop it moved to defend against the Malasani horde, Anila opened the door on the opposite side and began drawing sigils on the surface of the dry, dusty road. She felt the chill of it, saw ice crystals forming beneath her touch. She felt the dead, lying in a swath ahead of her.
She was fearful—for herself, for her family—but it was her hatred of Sukru that drove her. He’d brought her here, endangered her family. He’d killed her mother, only to have her reborn and now face death once more, all because of him.
The veil parted for her. She felt soul after soul heeding her call. Only a dozen paces beyond the wagon, a Silver Spear, whose blood coated his neck and his breastplate, opened his eyes. He pushed himself off the ground and took up his sword. A Malasani soldier cut him across his exposed shield arm, severing it, but the Silver Spear hardly seemed to notice. He slashed across his enemy’s neck, then moved quickly on to the next, cutting him down from behind.
More of the fallen stood. Then more still. It was easy, freshly dead as they were, and Anila didn’t need them anything close to whole. They were nothing like her mother, or even Fezek, whose resurrection she’d poured hours into to give him some semblance of his former self. No, for this she needed only their most animal instincts.
The Malasani began to notice. They turned to fight the growing number of dead. But the dead would not be stopped with a single cut, nor by two or three. They might lose a leg but still slash in passing at their enemy. They might take a spear through their gut but still hack and claw and bite. The spell was indiscriminate. Blade Maidens and Malasani soldiers alike stood and moved to protect the wagons.
The effect of Anila’s spell spread like wildfire. She was shaking, nearing the limits of her power. Knowing she couldn’t raise many more, she focused on the rest of the fallen Blade Maidens, forcing one after another to return to their bodies. Even so soon after their death, they yearned for the farther fields, but Anila had no mercy. The moment they were returned to their bodies, their minds filled with a zealot’s lust to deal death against their enemy.
Something snapped around Anila’s throat. She flinched, grabbed for it, and found a leather cord wrapped there. She was yanked back sharply and fell stumbling to the ground. “That’s enough!” Sukru spat, standing over her. “Now get back in that bloody wagon!”
He released her with a flick of his whip. She thought of setting the dead on him. She could do it. Send dozens storming down on him. But he was ready with that whip of his. He’d cut her down before she had the chance, and then he’d kill her family for the spite of it.
She climbed back into the wagon. With the dead sowing so much chaos, the Malasani had pulled back and the Sharakhani reinforcements had arrived. The mounted Maidens were pushing deep into the Malasani ranks, breaking their lines, while the Silver Spears began hemming them in and pushing them back toward the gap in the wall. There were scores upon scores of bedraggled men and women who looked as though they’d just escaped from a dungeon. They were the prisoners, Anila realized, from the prison camps built to house the Moonless Host and their sympathizers. In a grand irony, they’d now been released in Sharakhai’s defense.
The wagons rolled on and reached the grounds of the Sun Palace at last, where the gates were opened and then immediately closed behind them. They filed into the palace and down to the tunnels below. Many peeled away at a certain point, going, Anila assumed, to the ship that had been mentioned. Sukru was going to flee, she understood now. He was going to raise his brother and then flee with some few loyal followers into the desert, most likely to wait until the war was decided one way or another.
Meanwhile, Sukru, Anila and her family, and a small cadre of Silver Spears, four of whom carried the Sparrow’s coffin, pushed hard to reach the cavern with the crystal. Upon arriving, Anila’s family was taken to one side of the cavern. Anila’s sister, Banu, eyed both Sukru and Anila with naked fear. Her father, holding Banu and Meral to him protectively, looked more helpless than Anila had
ever seen him. Meral, however, was transfixed by the crystal. Her eyes were wide, her mouth parted in a look of pure wonder. She looked as if she were about to say something to Anila, but just then Sukru snapped his fingers and called Anila near.
He was standing over the ice-filled coffin. The Sparrow was exposed, the heavy, oiled canvas pulled back to reveal his chest and face. Lying there, unmoving, he looked like a simulacrum of Sukru himself, made from the whitest of clays.
“Begin,” Sukru said with no preamble.
Everything was happening so quickly that Anila had no time to read Sukru properly. She had no idea whether he was ready to kill her and her family when this was all done or if he’d be content to have his brother alive once more and would leave them to whatever fate the war—and what seemed ever more likely to be a Malasani occupation—had in store for them. God, her mother’s eyes. She was staring, haunted, into the violet light of the crystal.
“Quickly, girl!” Sukru’s eyes were wide with rage.
She nodded and faced the crystal. What was there to do but hope? She couldn’t risk her family’s lives by attacking Sukru now.
She opened herself to that gateway, felt for the Sparrow’s soul and found it with little difficulty. As she had done with her mother, she called the Sparrow near, gathered his soul, and cradled him to the world he’d left behind. It felt like hours were passing, but it was certainly far less. Sukru would not have remained silent for so long.
In the end she completed the ritual, though the Sparrow’s soul was not without some small amount of tearing and damage as it crossed over. The man had been dead for weeks, after all.
Sukru waved to one of the nearby Spears, the captain of this small detail, and Anila was led away while Sukru bent over his brother, his back to everyone. Administering one of the elixirs made from the adichara, Anila knew. It was then that she realized. If Sukru had his way, none of them were getting out of this cavern alive. This may have been a rushed meeting, and Sukru’s thoughts might be a bit disordered, but he would not fail to recognize that he was revealing one of the Kings’ greatest secrets: knowledge that the elixirs like the one he was feeding to the Sparrow existed.
Beneath the Twisted Trees Page 60