Beneath the Twisted Trees

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Çeda knelt by Nalamae’s side. Both of her hands still gripped the spear, but she released one now and used it to take Çeda’s hand in hers. Tears fell from Çeda’s eyes, mirroring Nalamae’s. In that moment, standing on the edge of death, it looked as though the goddess had some sudden realization. She gained a peaceful look, a look of brief contentment, then her eyes too went dim.

  For long moments, all Çeda could do was hold her hand. Then, realizing the spear was still embedded in her chest, she wrenched it free and threw it aside.

  Unable to hold it back any longer, Çeda fell across Nalamae’s chest, and wept.

  Chapter 66

  EMRE TREKKED BACK from the city to the desert. The Malasani had pushed deep into Sharakhai. They’d broken through the walls. It seemed as though the mighty Kings of Sharakhai were ready to fall at last. But when all seemed lost, the golems had gone insane. Just as Ihsan had predicted.

  When he reached the blooming fields he took his rest beneath the trees. Somewhere in the distance came the buzz of a rattlewing, then another, as if in answer to the first. The groves were unmoving, calm. There was a serenity about them, not the calming sort one might find beside a flowing river, but rather the sort one might find in the ruins of an ancient temple. Tread carefully, spoke the silence. Honor the dead.

  After eating, he continued past the groves. When the adichara had dwindled in the distance he saw the skiff he’d sailed in on that morning. Sitting with his back against it, one ankle chained to an eye hook along the skiff’s gunwales, was King Ihsan, who was using a wooden staff to draw designs into the sand. His black beard was longer. He wore a striped blue thawb and a white turban—simple enough garb but in them Ihsan still looked regal. It was infuriating beyond measure.

  “It was as you said,” Emre told him when he neared.

  After unchaining Ihsan’s ankle, Emre made preparations to sail. Ihsan held his staff and watched, making no move to help. Emre didn’t care. He didn’t want the help of a King.

  He offered Ihsan a skin of water and a loaf of lemon-and-peppercorn bread he’d bought from a bakery that had somehow, improbably, been open near the northern harbor. Ihsan accepted both in silence. It was hard to believe the man’s tongue had been cut out, his greatest power taken from him.

  Then again, Emre thought, perhaps it isn’t his greatest power after all. He’d managed to stop the entire Malasani army without uttering a word. He’d used guile instead, playing on the needs and desires of those around him to get what he wanted, and had done so while trapped inside a Malasani prison ship.

  “Where will you go?” Emre asked him.

  Ihsan drew into the sand. I’ll find my way.

  Which was no answer at all, but Emre didn’t care. He’d promised Ihsan that if he saved Sharakhai, he would give him his freedom. And so he did.

  Without another word, Emre set the skiff’s sail, ran alongside it to give it a good shove, and leapt inside. Like the adichara, Ihsan was soon lost behind him.

  A day’s sail returned Emre to the swath of black rocks, a low range that had dozens of hiding places for ships, three of which were large enough for Tribe Kadri’s entire fleet. Emre went to the nearest. Knowing they might have been forced to move, he was unsurprised to find it empty. The second was as well. Near nightfall at the end of his second day of sailing, he saw a man waving at the top of a hill. When he came closer, he saw it was Hamid, waving Emre toward a small, steep-walled basin. The sky was dark and overcast, which robbed the stone and sand of much of their color.

  By the time the skiff had slid to a stop, Hamid had climbed down from on high along a set of ancient stairs cut into the rock.

  “Where is everyone?” Emre asked as he climbed out.

  Hamid jutted his chin toward the stairs. “Not far by foot but a long sail by sand. A dozen Malasani dhows were spotted along the horizon this morning. Aríz thought it best we not chance your skiff being seen.”

  Together they pulled the skiff away from the entrance so it wouldn’t be seen from the desert, nor from the tops of the hills above—such was the steepness of the walls. As Emre dropped the anchor stone and began gathering his things from the skiff, Hamid asked, “You’re done releasing our prize then?”

  “Done completing the bargain I made.”

  “A fool’s bargain.”

  “You’d rather the Malasani walked the halls of Tauriyat? You’d rather thousands of our own died as they imposed their rule over Sharakhai?”

  Hamid spat on the sand. “I’d rather the Malasani were destroyed while the King of Lies roasts on a spit.”

  “That wasn’t the bargain.”

  “Fuck your bargain.”

  Emre shrugged. “Better the demon you know, as my aunt used to say.”

  “Your auntie was a drunk.”

  Hamid was fixing for another fight. They’d had a terrible row in front of everyone just before Emre had left; it had nearly come to blows. Emre used to be afraid of Hamid’s fits of anger, but men like Hamid fed on fear. He was like a black laugher, snorting and grunting to see just how cowardly his enemies were. If they looked like they would run, it only emboldened him, but face him squarely, prepared for a fight, and he would eventually slink away.

  After strapping on his sword belt, Emre slung his sack of food and water over his shoulder and headed for the stairs. “Ihsan has no tongue. He’s lost his power. What do you suppose the other Kings will do to him when they learn of it? They’ll not let him sit his throne, and even if they do he’s no danger to us.”

  “No danger?” Hamid said. “He’s spilt our blood for hundreds of years.”

  “And he’ll pay for it,” Emre said as he took the stairs and began climbing toward higher ground. “Just not today.”

  Hamid went silent as they climbed.

  “Thousands were likely saved because the Malasani threat has been blunted. The Kings will be weakened, while we build an accord in the desert to topple any who remain.”

  “Yes, and you’ll just love that, won’t you? Macide’s rising star . . .”

  These little jealousies had been spilling out more often of late. Emre was just about to shoot back a reply when he realized someone else was ahead. It was Darius. He wore a black thawb and had a turban loose about his shoulders. He stood near the top of the stairs, looking at Emre with a sad expression.

  “You shouldn’t have let him go, Emre.”

  It was then that Emre realized Darius was carrying a shovel.

  His heart already pounding, Emre turned, dropped the sack, and drew his sword just in time to meet Hamid’s first blow. They traded several more before Emre felt the world around him shatter.

  Then he was falling.

  Weightless he plummeted and struck the sand hard. Darius, he realized belatedly. Darius had struck him with the shovel. That’s the other thing about black laughers, Emre mused. Alone they’re easily cowed, but give them a pack and their leader becomes doubly dangerous.

  Emre woke to the sharp, rhythmic sound of a shovel piercing sand. His hands were bound. His ankles, too. After each crunch of sand came a soft hiss. It went on for a while before he was rolled into the hole that had just been dug for him. His grave.

  He opened his eyes. Sand and grit made him close them, but he tried again a moment later and found Hamid working at the piled sand with the shovel.

  “Don’t,” he managed.

  Hamid paused a moment. “I should’ve done this a long time ago, Emre.” Then he was back at it.

  Darius looked worried, the wind swirling his unwrapped turban and his light brown hair.

  “Please,” Emre said.

  “You shouldn’t have let him go.”

  More and more sand piled on top of him. Emre tried to move, tried to keep on top of the growing weight, but he was bound and his limbs were leaden. There was nothing he could do. Soon it covered his chest. Hi
s shoulders. He felt the coolness of the sand against his neck. Felt it press against his cheeks. And then a layer of it was thrown over his face, stealing away the grayness of the sky, the sorrow on Darius’s face. Emre managed to turn his head so he wasn’t breathing it in, but more and more was piling on, the weight of it pressing ever harder. It was becoming difficult to breathe.

  “Hamid!” called a voice.

  Gods, it was Frail Lemi. Emre tried to shout back but the only thing that came was a muffled sound.

  “Quickly,” Emre heard Hamid say, “we can’t let that oaf see.”

  There was a loud thump against the sand, then the muffled sound of footsteps, which faded and was gone.

  “Where’ve you been?” Emre heard Frail Lemi say, a bit louder now. “I’ve been calling.”

  “Doing as we were bid,” Hamid snapped. “Watching for Emre, as you were supposed to, over there.”

  “I was,” Frail Lemi said, his voice more distant, “but I didn’t see him. And then I didn’t see you.”

  “If you can’t even follow simple orders,” Hamid replied, “you should have stayed at camp.”

  “I can follow orders,” Frail Lemi replied.

  What followed was a detailed list of all the times Frail Lemi had properly followed orders, with occasional interjections from Hamid, often proving that Frail Lemi hadn’t, in fact, followed the orders he’d been given at all. They faded, grew softer and more distant, and all the while Emre struggled and prayed that Frail Lemi would turn back, that he’d look down into the basin and see Emre’s skiff and wonder where he was. He’d see the freshly dug sand. He’d come back.

  But he didn’t, and the voices continued to fade until they were lost and all Emre could hear was the rattle of sand and the rush of blood in his ears. He tried to move, tried to lift his arm, but the weight of the sand only seemed to press harder.

  Emre’s breath was robbed from him. Stars filled his vision. And then his world went dark.

  Chapter 67

  DAVUD SAT ON A CARPET IN THE DESERT, close enough to a cook fire to feel its warmth. The fire cracked and snapped, casting an uneven glow over the Qaimiri soldiers gathered around it—the men and women who’d thrown in their lot with Ramahd in hope of seeing Meryam brought to justice. The sun had just set. The desert was calm. In the distance came the attenuated whine of a cicada.

  Their three ships were anchored in a rough circle in a place known as the Bay of Elders. Anila had urged Ramahd to sail for it, had fought hard for it, in fact, insisting it would be safe. It was as safe a place as any, Davud supposed—leaning pillars of stone surrounded them, offering some small protection from the distant spyglasses that would surely be searching for them—though why Anila had campaigned for it, he wasn’t sure.

  Next to Davud, Esmeray lay on her side, staring into the fire with her ivory eyes. “You’re doing it again,” she said to him.

  “Is a man not allowed to care for someone he loves? Besides, I could say the same of you.”

  Her brows pinched in annoyance. “Is a woman not allowed to mourn the loss of her closest friend?”

  She wasn’t referring to a person, but her magic. She’d been burned by the Enclave, robbed of her ability to use the crimson paths, but not of her ability to see them. A more cruel curse you’ll never find, she’d said to him on their first day out of Sharakhai, to see what you can never touch. That she could still cast magic with Davud’s help was apparently no balm.

  “Perhaps it will return in time,” Davud said.

  “It won’t. It never does.”

  He hesitated, wondering whether he should say any more. Sometimes Esmeray responded best to silence. But he couldn’t stand to see her like this. He wanted to help. “At least there’s us,” he finally ventured.

  To his surprise, she didn’t laugh in his face, but stared deeper into the fire. “Us,” she said softly. Her gaze met his, sobering in its sudden vulnerability. “And what happens when there’s no longer an us?”

  He liked Esmeray, but he wasn’t so foolish as to think they were destined for one another. That was the stuff of tales told in the bazaars and oud parlors. “If not me, then perhaps another.”

  “Sometimes I forget how little you know.” Her pale eyes returned to the fire. “There are some who could do what you’ve done with me, but I could count them on one hand, and there are none I trust enough to work with them so.”

  Davud looked to the dunes, where Anila had gone. As soon as they’d landed, she’d left in a fury, insisting on being alone, refusing to speak with him. He knew why she was angry, of course—he’d helped free Hamzakiir, the very last man in the desert he should have been helping, and hadn’t even received his reward for it. He’d tried to explain it to her, but time and time again she’d refused to listen.

  “Go,” Esmeray said, “find her if you wish to speak.”

  “After she cools down,” Davud said.

  To which Esmeray laughed, a biting sound that turned Davud’s ears red. “All that knowledge like grains of rice crammed into your skull and you can’t figure it out.”

  Davud pinched his nose, avoiding the amused looks from around the fire. After a moment, the other conversations resumed and Davud spoke softly, “Esmeray, I’m tired. Can we skip the needling and go straight to the part where you tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

  She pushed herself up, pulled him close, and kissed his cheek. “Davud, sometimes people want to be chased.”

  She was right. As Esmeray lay back down, Davud left the campfire and headed toward the gap in the rocks Anila had passed through earlier. The light of the campfire was dim behind him, the camp lost behind a great monolith of stone, when he noticed someone sitting on the rocks. He thought it was one of Ramahd’s men, but then he saw the long thawb, the turban on the man’s head, his long beard. Davud stopped in his tracks, uncertain whether he should be alarmed or joyous.

  “I will admit,” said Hamzakiir, “I worried you’d decided to abandon me to my fate.”

  “Yes, well”—Davud glanced along the rocks, wary of being seen—“don’t think I didn’t consider it.”

  Hamzakiir stood to his full height, nearly half a head taller than Davud. “Perhaps you did, but if so, it was little more than a fleeting thought.”

  “You just said you were worried I’d abandoned you.”

  A low laugh in the darkness. “Those were my emotions speaking, Davud. When I remembered that you’re a man of honor, my fears vanished like fog over the dunes.”

  “I’m so pleased,” Davud said, “though whether I’m a man of my word is no longer the question, is it?”

  “No, the question is whether I am.”

  “Precisely.”

  Hamzakiir stepped closer over the sand. He reached into his thawb and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “There are five, and they’re complex, Davud. Perform them in sequence. Take your time. Use only her blood, no one else’s.”

  Davud accepted it. He swallowed hard as he stared into Hamzakiir’s starlit eyes. The urge to thank him was there, but he choked back the words. This piece of paper had cost him much, and was likely to cost him more before all was said and done.

  “I hope you find it,” Hamzakiir said to him.

  “What?”

  “Whatever it is you’re looking for, young scholar.”

  With that he walked away and was lost behind the nearby stones.

  Davud stared at those stones for a long while, then, feeling eyes upon him, turned and shivered. Ten paces away stood the ghul, Fezek, still as a statue.

  “I don’t know that Anila will be pleased about this.”

  Davud was glad the darkness hid his burning cheeks. “Well perhaps you could let me tell her.”

  Fezek’s gaze slid to Davud’s left. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

  Davud followed his gaze and saw Anila
standing there.

  “Anila . . .” Davud stammered. “I—I was just coming to see you.”

  “I was just coming to say goodbye.”

  They stood in silence while Fezek watched. “Go to the ship, Fezek.”

  Fezek nodded, and walked in the completely wrong direction, his peg leg making his awkward gait even more awkward. For once, Davud didn’t care about his strange ways. He held the paper up for Anila to see.

  “Anila, I’ve got it,” he said.

  “Got what?”

  “I told you: the reason I helped Hamzakiir. It was for this, a way to heal you.”

  Anila was silent for a moment. “You really think I want to be healed?”

  “Well . . . Yes.” He held the paper higher and shook it, as if that would explain everything. “This will make you whole. Things can go back to how they were.”

  Around them, the wind blew. Sand rattled and the squeak of pulleys being winched echoed. It sounded like it had come from the direction Fezek had walked, but that made no sense. The ships were all behind Davud. A trick of the wind, he told himself.

  Anila stepped toward him. She was close enough to take the paper, but made no move to do so. “When I was with Sukru, he killed my mother before my eyes. He promised me a way to bring her back, if only I’d help him. I did, Davud. Together, we brought his brother back from the land of the dead. We brought my mother back, too. But things can never go back to how they were. Never. So it was with them.” She gestured to the paper. “So it is with me.”

  “What happened to you is a curse, Anila. Let me lift it from you.”

  “Davud, I don’t want it lifted. I would lose my power, and I won’t give that up. Hamzakiir will pay for what he’s done.”

  “A life steeped in rage isn’t worth living.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Stepping close, she put her hand on his neck, then drew him in and gave him a long kiss with brittle lips. She whispered to him, “Killing Sukru was like a pull off the elixir of creation. It was the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, and there’s one swig left.”