Beneath the Twisted Trees

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  What a fool you’ve been, Anila.

  In a rush, all of her anger over everything Sukru had done returned. She was just about to draw upon her power and call it down upon Sukru when she caught movement to her left. Her mother had broken away from her father and was walking numbly toward the crystal. One of the Silver Spears assigned to watch over her grabbed her arm. When Meral ripped it away and kept walking, he took a fistful of her hair and yanked her backward.

  That was when her father charged forward, slipped an arm around his neck, and wrenched him away with a violent move that surprised Anila. “Unhand my wife!”

  They wrestled and fell to the spongy cavern floor. The other Spears swept in, tackling her father, but in doing so left Meral alone, perhaps thinking her harmless.

  Her eyes filled with wonder as she walked toward the crystal.

  Anila tried to go to her, but the captain by her side grabbed her and shoved her hard toward one of his gangly soldiers, who caught her and held her tight. “Memma, no!” Anila cried, but her mother kept going.

  “Halt,” the captain said, and drew his sword. “Halt!”

  Gods, he was going to cut her down from behind.

  Desperation driving her, Anila wrenched one arm free and drew a symbol in the air. She heard a soft hissing as she did, a crackling sound, and felt how deep the well of coldness went. It traveled the entire length of her arm and slipped into her chest. She’d never felt so powerful as she did now.

  She’d felt this man’s age. Felt the way his heart would skip beats. Every time it did it would return heavier, like the beat of a kettledrum. She tugged upon it. Made it falter. Made it skip another beat when it tried to recover.

  The captain paused, clutching his chest. He turned toward her, his face a mask of confusion, but understanding dawned as he stared at her right hand, which was even then drawing more symbols in the air. He pointed to her hand and choked out, “Stop her!” a split second before falling to his knees and dropping his sword.

  The Silver Spear holding Anila stared in shock, then bent forward, staring at her hand. Anila used the moment to spin toward him and drive the heel of her palm into his nose. Backwards he flew, shouting in pain, both hands grasping at his face.

  Meral was only two paces away from the crystal now.

  “Memma, stop!” Anila called.

  But she didn’t listen. She didn’t so much as turn toward Anila. Her attention was fixed on the bright crystal before her. She reached toward its surface almost sensually, as if she were taking the hand of a lover.

  “Memma!” Anila was sprinting for her.

  But too late. Meral’s finger touched the stone, and her eyes went wide. A sound escaped her throat as her head was thrown back. It sounded like “Oh!” The sound one might make on seeing a wasp land on your shoulder. Then Anila saw it: her soul shifting, crossing to the other side. Her mother fell soundlessly to the layer of roots, as if everything that had happened since her reawakening at Anila’s hands had been a dream.

  Everyone had frozen. All stared, shocked, even the Silver Spears. The Sparrow was standing too, holding his own throat while staring into the light. He was disoriented, and was likely trying to piece together what had happened since Anila had arrived in his tower and Bela had driven the wood through his neck.

  “Come,” Sukru was saying to him, taking his cold, wet sleeve. “Come, brother.”

  But the Sparrow wouldn’t budge.

  The wounded Silver Spear, blood still pouring from his nose, recovered and took Anila by the arm. She let herself be led away. She couldn’t stand against these men physically. But all the rage she’d felt was now rushing back, eclipsing her sorrow. She desperately wanted to smother the life from Sukru, but she felt the power of the elixirs within him. He’d taken one, perhaps in anticipation of his flight from the city.

  The Sparrow, too, was filled with the verve granted by the elixirs. But Meral’s transfixion with the crystal and her sudden return to the farther fields had made him wonder.

  “Can you not hear it?” Anila shouted to him. “It calls to you!”

  The Sparrow glanced her way, then bent his focus back on the tall, glowing stone before him.

  “Silence her!” Sukru ordered, then placed himself before his brother, blocking his way to the crystal.

  As the bloodied Spear slipped his hand around Anila’s neck, Sukru spoke softly to his brother. But the thought was now in the Sparrow’s mind, and Anila was drawing on her power to strengthen the wisp of a thread that still bound him to the land beyond. He ignored his brother. Plodded forward even as Sukru put both hands on his chest to prevent him.

  “Stop, Jasur!”

  But the Sparrow wouldn’t, and he threw Sukru aside.

  Sukru tumbled to the ground but, refusing to give in, unfurled his whip and cast it about his brother’s neck. He hadn’t been trying to cause harm, merely to forestall his brother’s march, but the tip caught the Sparrow across his mouth and chin.

  The Sparrow turned, enraged, which Anila fanned by adding her rage to his. He seized the corded whip near his neck and a searing sound filled the cavern. Smoke rose from the leather braid. And then it was severed and both Sukru and the Sparrow stumbled in opposite directions.

  The Sparrow turned back to the crystal, and was nearly upon it. His hand was preparing to touch its surface, when Sukru grabbed his arm.

  The Sparrow spun again. His fist clubbed Sukru across the face, a blow strengthened by the Sparrow’s magic, and Sukru fell like an overturned cart of mudbrick. The Sparrow stared down, as if he couldn’t quite understand what had happened, then turned back to the crystal once more. In an act that echoed Meral’s final, enthralled moments, he reached out, touched the crystal’s glowing surface, and fell beside his brother with a sound like ruffling cloth.

  Sukru’s body twitched. Anila could feel his soul departing as well, joining his brother’s. She let it drift as it would, then ripped it in twain, keeping some of it here in the mortal realm for her own purposes.

  The cavern was stunned, unsure what had just happened, which Anila used to her advantage. On unsteady limbs, Sukru pushed himself off the cavern floor. Anila controlled him like a marionette, forcing him to look at his brother, to pick up the broken length of his whip, and regard everyone as they stared on with mouths agape.

  “Go,” Sukru told the Spears. Anila’s order, not his. “Prepare the ship.”

  “My Lord King—”

  “Go!” he shouted, and cracked his whip in the air.

  They did, uncertainly at first, but then with a speed that spoke of relief. Anila padded over the roots toward him.

  “Anila!” her father called, but she calmed him with a glance and a wave of her hand.

  When she came to a halt before Sukru, she allowed him to crumple in a heap, then kicked him over so he was staring up at her. After stepping over him, one leg on either side of his unmoving arms, she sat on his chest and leaned in so close their noses almost touched. There was a look of understanding in his eyes—he knew what was happening but was powerless to stop it.

  “You did well, my Lord King. You stoked my anger and we raised your brother. But now you know the siren call of the other side.”

  Sweat gathered on his greasy brow. His nostrils flared with each ragged breath.

  “I’ve taken everything from you. Your power. Your blessed crown. Your brother. And now I’ve taken your free will, as you took mine. As you took my family’s. As you took countless others’.”

  His eyes darted to the crystal. She felt his yearning, his need to return, however brief his stay had been. He wished to be whole. He wished to be reunited with his brother. The fact that he couldn’t was tearing him up inside.

  A single word issued from his throat. “Please.”

  “No, no, no, my good King,” Anila said softly. “It won’t be that easy.” She smil
ed, showing her teeth, a thing that felt pure as winter’s dawning. “It was never going to be that easy.”

  He didn’t respond, only stared into the light, tears building in his eyes. She took his chin in one hand and squeezed until he turned his eyes to her once more.

  “I only wish I could be here to enjoy your last moments of suffering, but I’m afraid I’ve more important things to attend to, so I leave you in the good hands of the fates.” She stood and stared down at him. “I trust they’ll be every bit as cruel to you as they have been to me. I’ve earned that much, I think.”

  Leaving him there, she moved to her mother and kissed the crown of her head. “Go well, memma. I’ll see you soon, and we’ll walk the fields together.”

  As the symphony of Sukru’s sobs filled the cavernous space, Anila walked to where her sister and father stood staring, then took their hands and guided them up toward the Sun Palace.

  Chapter 64

  DAVUD, now washed and dressed in servant’s clothes, carried a ewer of lemon-laced water across a bright emerald floor. Esmeray, dressed similarly, was already moving along the war council’s table refilling the thick glass mugs of the Kings, their vizirs and viziras, and other members of the council who’d come to discuss the war. Given the sheer number of participants, the council had been moved from its normal chambers higher in the palace to the grand room beneath the large central dome, the one set aside for state receptions, for the welcoming ceremonies for new Blade Maidens, and the like. It was so large, however, that even though a hundred were in attendance for the war council, and the conversation was already high-spirited, the whole of it was swallowed by the cavernous immensity of the room.

  It was strange for another reason as well. The complexion of the royal attendees had shifted sharply. Weeks ago it would have been dominated by the original Kings of Sharakhai. Now only Cahil the Confessor King, Kiral King of Kings, and Azad King of Thorns presided over the proceedings, and Kiral and Azad weren’t even real Kings. They were Hamzakiir and Nayyan in disguise. The rest of the elder Kings, as they’d come to be known, were either dead, in which case the next in line of succession had come, or missing, in which case their vizirs or viziras were in attendance to represent their interests.

  Even in his short time serving food and water to the council, Davud had learned much. Ihsan the Honey-tongued King had been captured by the Malasani. Zeheb the King of Whispers, the man Davud had helped frame as a traitor, had gone mad and was being held in Eventide—for his own safety, one woman said with a dubious look and a glance at Kiral. And word had just arrived, from a herald missing a finger, no less, that Sukru the Reaping King had refused King Cahil’s summons. Perhaps most surprising of all was that Husamettín, the legendary swordsman, had been captured by the thirteenth tribe and that Beşir the King of Coin was still off chasing them with a portion of the Sharakhani fleet.

  Queen Meryam was conspicuously absent and King Kiral seemed preoccupied at best. He was constantly staring through the table before him or beyond the walls, but whenever he was asked, most often by Cahil, if the council should begin, he refused, saying they needed to wait for Meryam.

  “For what?” Cahil barked. “Are we no longer able to hold council without the Queen of Qaimir?”

  “She has news from her fleet,” was all Hamzakiir would say.

  Davud was sure he was delaying at Queen Meryam’s bidding, and was doubly sure that his looks of longing were reflections of what Hamzakiir was experiencing within his prison. The trick now was to reach him, give him the sigil that he and Esmeray had stolen along with Meryam’s book, and see him freed. Davud wished he could do it now, without Hamzakiir’s help, but after examining the sigil, both he and Esmeray had agreed: Hamzakiir would need to do much of the work himself from within the prison that held him.

  The trouble was it was difficult to get near him. Kiral’s vizira was a doddering old woman who shooed Davud away every time he came near. Seeing that she’d just left the hall, however, Davud headed toward him, only to be stopped by King Alaşan, the most influential of the lesser Kings. He was imperious, especially with the falcon-wing crown made of red gold, his father’s most famous symbol, sitting atop his head.

  “If we’re going to be waiting here all day, order the kitchens to bring us food.”

  “Of course,” Davud said, “straight away.”

  He tried to continue on toward Hamzakiir, but was yanked backward by the imposing form of King Melkani, the recently crowned son of King Mesut. “Tell him now,” the young King snarled, and sent Davud flying headlong toward the passageway at the corner of the room that led to the kitchens.

  The others around Alaşan—King Ohannes, Onur’s son, King Umay, Yusam’s son, and Temel, a King-in-waiting as his mad father Zeheb raved in the dungeons below Eventide—all watched him retreat before returning to their hushed conversation.

  When they did, Davud paused. Esmeray, her eyes bright with worry, had seen the exchange but made no move to assist him. They’d agreed that both of them would try to get the sigil in front of Hamzakiir in any way they could. She was just heading toward Hamzakiir’s central position at the table when Davud noticed someone watching him. Nayyan, who sat alone in her guise as King Azad, was watching everything with an intense gaze, as if she expected war to spill into the hall at any moment.

  Davud rushed away, hoping Azad would take his pause as mere confusion. Davud wanted to be done with this. He wanted to free Hamzakiir so he could get the cure for Anila. But he had to be careful. He couldn’t force Hamzakiir’s awakening. They simply had to present the sigil and hope it would be enough. And he was loath to use magic to do it. He didn’t know what sort of safeguards Meryam or the Kings might have in this place.

  When Davud returned from the kitchen, he bore a tray of freshly baked flatbreads with herbed goat cheese, pickled red onions, and marinated olives. As he came out he saw Esmeray leaning over the table near Kiral, arranging the glasses and small plates at Queen Meryam’s place setting. While doing so, she shielded the view of her other hand, which placed a piece of papyrus in front of Hamzakiir.

  That small piece of paper held a copy of the sigil from Meryam’s book, the one she’d marked as a combination of shackle and mind and yield. The paper contained the notes as well. Hamzakiir, still lost in thought, hadn’t noticed it, but when Esmeray tapped the edge of the plate with one finger, he looked down. Esmeray couldn’t linger, however. She moved on lest she be caught, trusting she or Davud would be able to return if necessary. The gods had shone on them in this, though. As strangely as Hamzakiir was acting, no one was trying to speak to him.

  Davud made his way around the large, curving table, serving the food on his tray and doing his best to play the part of an obedient servant. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it, though. He kept looking toward Hamzakiir, who was still staring dumbly at the piece of papyrus.

  There was a ruckus from the entrance on the far side of the room. Gods, it was Queen Meryam, dressed as if she were heading to a royal fete. She filed in with a beautiful woman named Amaryllis and a dozen Qaimiri courtiers, some in armor, others in stylish clothes, all of Qaimiri make and coloring. She gave no apologies or excuses for her tardiness. She simply said, “Let’s begin,” and walked toward the head of the table.

  Even so, there were many in her path, and they all seemed eager to speak to her one-to-one before the council began in earnest. She allowed herself to be detained momentarily, but it was clear she was in no mood for idle chatter. Davud made himself busy closer to Hamzakiir, who was now craning his neck downward and staring at the paper as if it were the most important thing he’d ever read. Yet still he did nothing.

  There was no time left. Meryam was rounding the table and, gods, the paper was still on Hamzakiir’s plate, plain for anyone to see. She would spot it the moment she reached his side.

  Acting as though he were trying to ready everything before the queen’s
arrival, Davud reached over the table and spilled a healthy amount of water. It splashed against the tablecloth, Hamzakiir’s left arm, and, most importantly, his plate. Looking embarrassed wasn’t difficult. Davud bowed low. “My sincerest apologies,” he said to Hamzakiir while taking his plate, and when Meryam reached their side, he bowed to her, set the base of the ewer on the papyrus, and made himself as small as he possibly could.

  “Well get on then,” Meryam snapped at Davud when he didn’t move.

  “Of course, your Excellence.”

  As the Kings, Queen Meryam, and all the rest were seated, the servants were led away. Allowing himself one bit of the arcane, Davud wove a spell to make the ox of a woman carrying the large tray at the head of the line trip to her knees. The tray clattered, spilling plates full of half-eaten food. As the chamberlain rushed forward and others moved to help, both Davud and Esmeray took the stairs to the gallery that overlooked the immense space beneath the dome.

  They crouched in the shadows and watched as the crowd below suddenly turned toward the entrance. The low murmur of conversation rose quickly, a few shouting in alarm and pointing as a host of Qaimiri knights wearing full armor entered the room. Cicio was among them, as was Ramahd, who held in one hand a dirty, stained sack, surely the very one he’d told Davud about in the boatyard by the Haddah. As they filed in from the main entrance and spread in an arc at the foot of the table, the crowd backed away.

  King Cahil rose in alarm and faced Ramahd. “Explain yourself!”

  But it was Queen Meryam who raised a hand and said calmly, “Fear not. All will be explained.”

  Ramahd had a righteous look about him as he stepped up to the edge of the table. He took in everyone about the room, everyone but Meryam. “You’ve been duped, my Kings.” He reached into the sack and retrieved a preserved, desiccated head whose face looked very much like King Kiral’s. With little fanfare, he crashed the head down on a plate. “King Kiral is dead.”