Beneath the Twisted Trees

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “Anila . . .”

  “Goodbye, Davud.” She kissed him once more and walked away, following in Fezek’s footsteps.

  “Anila! Where are you going?”

  He went after her, but stopped short when he came to a gap in the rocks. There, a hundred paces distant, was a ship. A bloody great ship, with a crew dressed in the ragged uniforms of the Silver Spears. They were going about the business of readying the ship to sail with the sort of movements Davud had become accustomed to during his time with Fezek. They were slow and fitful at times. But those pulling at the winches did so with powerful movements, tasks that normally demanded two or three crewman working together.

  They were ghuls. All of them ghuls.

  Davud remembered how he knew this place. Several years ago there’d been a massacre in the Bay of Elders. The Moonless Host had taken a Kings’ ship and slaughtered everyone aboard. The ship had eventually been found but then abandoned, lost to slipsand. Somehow Anila had raised it from the depths, raised the crew as well.

  “Anila, please!”

  But she didn’t listen. She boarded the ship, and moments later it set sail, a ship of the dead with Anila their captain. Davud watched it sail away until it was lost to the night. With the night sky and the desert below seeming more empty than it had in a long while, he took Meryam’s book from the cloth pouch at his belt. The one that contained the sigils she’d collected. He placed Hamzakiir’s page between two others, then closed it and placed it carefully back into its pouch.

  After one last look toward the desert, Davud turned and headed toward the camp, toward the fire sheltered within it.

  Toward Esmeray.

  Chapter 68

  THE PEOPLE OF THE THIRTEENTH TRIBE gathered around a grave, one of many that had been dug that morning. Many more needed to be dug, but they would take their time and pay their respects to the dead. Sümeya spoke words in honor of Melis. They were touching, and true, but Çeda listened with only half an ear. The battle had ended only yesterday, and the vision of Melis being struck through with arrows was still fresh.

  When it was done, there were those who came to whisper a few words. Some grabbed a fistful of dirt and whispered prayers though they’d hardly known Melis. Many put a hand on Çeda’s shoulder, or gave her a quick kiss on the cheek or the forehead. They offered melancholy smiles. Melis and many others had been lost, but their sacrifice had not been in vain. The tribe had been saved. Beşir had been killed and his forces had been routed from the valley and fled into the desert.

  Had the story ended there, Çeda might have been glad as well, proud of the brave sacrifices her people had made, but there were the goddesses to consider. Nalamae was dead. So was Yerinde, who had meddled in the affairs of the desert for the first time since Beht Ihman.

  Why? Çeda wondered. Why had Yerinde demanded Nalamae’s head? What had she feared?

  As it had so many times before, Çeda’s thoughts returned to the only answer that seemed reasonable: Nalamae’s foresight. Yerinde feared that Nalamae knew something or that she soon would. But what? And how did it threaten Yerinde? When Çeda had first learned of Yerinde’s involvement, she thought the gods were meddling simply to maintain the status quo they’d established four hundred years earlier. But Nalamae had told Yerinde, your quest ends here. What quest? And if it was a quest, where were Goezhen and Thaash and Bakhi and the twin goddesses, Tulathan and Rhia? Why hadn’t they stood by their sister’s side?

  Soon only Sümeya, Kameyl, and Çeda were left. All three took up their own handfuls of dirt and whispered prayers. “Go well,” Çeda said, “and I pray that the worst is forgotten. Let the pain and fear of this world go. Live your new life with those who’ve come to welcome you, and be prepared to welcome those who follow. This I hope, for one day I wish to embrace you once more.”

  Sümeya took a while longer. Kameyl the longest of all.

  When they were done, Çeda took Sümeya into an embrace. Then Kameyl. She could find no words that could speak to this moment. She had fought beside these women. They’d formed a sisterhood that transcended the Kings, their upbringing, their families, and their tribes. And one of their number had just passed.

  Sümeya and Kameyl were looking at one another strangely.

  “What?” Çeda asked.

  “Do you want to tell her?” Sümeya asked.

  Kameyl was already shaking her head. “Not a chance.”

  “What?” Çeda repeated.

  Sümeya waved toward the grave. “When we found Melis, she was still drawing breath. She gave me a message for you.”

  “Stop being so dramatic. What is it?”

  Sümeya looked at her soberly. “She said that in the end, the last of King Yusam’s visions had come true.”

  Çeda stared dumbly. She knew what those words meant. When the two of them had first met in the House of Maidens, she’d told Çeda about the visions she’d received from King Yusam, and that all of them had come true save one: that one day Melis would stand beside a queen, and that she would protect her above all things.

  Kameyl sneered. “I told you not to tell her. Her head is big enough as it is.”

  Sümeya, keeping her eyes on Çeda, ignored Kameyl’s gibe. A moment later, however, a small smile crept over her and she tipped her head toward Kameyl’s towering form. “She isn’t entirely wrong, but that wasn’t what Melis meant by it.” She glanced toward the lake, where Macide was speaking with Leorah. “Your tribe has been reborn, and for that I’m glad. But Macide now gathers power, a power the likes of which we haven’t seen in the desert for four hundred years. I don’t doubt that all the tribes will side with him. With you. The question is, what comes next?”

  “We expose the Kings,” Çeda said. “We ensure that we remain.”

  “You must look further, Çeda, and I know you have thought on it. Will you allow Macide to continue the work of the Moonless Host?”

  “He doesn’t wish to destroy Sharakhai.”

  “No? He’s told you this?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “You stand in a unique position, Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala. You are of the city, and you are of the desert. Melis wanted you to hold both in your heart. That is what a true, benevolent queen would do.”

  “I’m not a queen.”

  Sümeya gave Kameyl a look, and she took the hint—Sümeya wanted to speak alone—but she remained a moment anyway, staring at Çeda with a humorless gaze. “Queen of the Desert . . .” She shoved Çeda hard and laughed as she walked toward a cluster of men and women who were digging several fresh graves.

  Sümeya’s expression became stern. She had that look of hers, the one she used when one of her Maidens was being too mud-brained for her own good. “Stop taking it all so literally,” she said in a low voice. “You cannot let Macide go unchecked. You must have a say in how the coming alliance is forged and what will happen when it is.” She leaned in and kissed Çeda on the lips, then left her there alone to help with the other graves.

  Çeda watched her go, the feel of that kiss lingering, then headed toward Macide and Leorah by the lakeshore. Sümeya wasn’t wrong but, breath of the desert, Macide had so much history with the tribe. Everyone looked up to him, including, in a way, Çeda. He was undeniably charismatic. How could she, an outsider half his age, ever hope to lead the thirteenth tribe much less a desert united?

  Leorah and Macide both greeted her when she arrived. Leorah held Nalamae’s staff in one hand. In the other she held a small silver vial, which she passed to Çeda with a half-hearted smile. “A difficult day”—she motioned to the vial—“but a hopeful one as well.”

  Çeda unscrewed the cap and tipped the contents, a small brown seed, onto her waiting palm. Leorah stared at the ground for a moment, then brought Nalamae’s staff down against it with a thump. With Macide and Çeda both lending their weight, and the ground, soft here by the
lake, giving way, a shallow hole was formed. Çeda placed the acacia seed, then the three of them pressed the dark earth back over it.

  Çeda had debated long and hard over where to plant the seed. Nalamae would be reborn, of this much she was certain. And when she was, the tree would help her, as it had in her prior lives, to regain her memories. In the past, many, perhaps all, had been planted in the desert. But this valley was a place of shelter. It was a place they had won back from the Kings. It was a place of nurturing, a thing Nalamae would surely have need of once they found her.

  Which was precisely why she worried over Sümeya’s counsel. She couldn’t remain here. She couldn’t help rebuild. She couldn’t even return to Sharakhai. Not yet. The growing acacia might one day call to Nalamae. Likely it would. But they couldn’t wait for that; their need was too great. So Çeda’s first order of business would be to find Nalamae, wherever she might be, and bring her back to the valley so that she could remember. Remember herself. Remember her power. Remember her history and that of the desert. They had to solve the riddle the gods had placed before them. She felt it in her bones. And she wouldn’t rest until it was done.

  So she would go. She would comb the desert, and find the goddess.

  “You’re certain you wish to leave so soon?” Macide asked.

  In the distance, the asirim wailed. There were fifty of them now, with more arriving by the hour. They were free, but they didn’t like the mountains. They wanted the heat of the desert, the grit of the sand. None of them had said so, nor would they, but Çeda knew they missed their homes beneath the adichara.

  Çeda planned to go that very day. She would miss everyone here. She’d miss the asirim as well. It would be a beautiful day when all of them reached the valley. But there was no time to waste.

  “With the asirim gathering,” she said, “the tribe is safe.” She hid her worries about Macide’s plans behind a smile and a squeeze of his arm. “And you have the rest well in hand.”

  Macide smiled back, handsome with his hair long hair unbound. “You said it yourself, though. The goddess may be drawn here.”

  “Then she’ll have many to guide her.”

  “We’ll begin making the chimes as soon as we’re able,” Leorah said. They would hang from the branches by thread-of-gold.

  “We just planted the seed,” Çeda said lightheartedly. “I rather think you have a bit of time.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Leorah stared down.

  For a moment, Çeda’s breath escaped her. There, in the ground, a leaf was poking through. A thin thread of brown was lifting up.

  A tree was growing in the valley, and soon would spread its branches wide.

  Chapter 69

  WHEN IHSAN HEARD the sound of plodding hoofbeats, he stood from his hiding place in the blooming fields and peered through the branches. In the distance a rider approached with two akhalas—one a bright copper with iron fetlocks, the other pure gold. The rider, a woman wearing a fine riding dress of cream and rust, rode unerringly toward him and dropped down to the sand when she came near. On the back of the spare horse, to Ihsan’s great relief, were two large leather bags.

  As the sun scoured the desert, they sat beneath the shade of the adicharas and ate some of the food Nayyan had brought. She fed him one of the elixirs, one of the few remaining created by Azad before his death at the hands of Çeda’s mother, Ahya. It warmed his limbs, chased away his aches, but did not, as Ihsan had dearly hoped, do anything to heal his severed tongue. He tried the same with one of Nayyan’s elixirs. She’d brought a number of both to aid him on his coming journey. The elixir felt more raw to him, more potent somehow, but in the end the results were the same. I suppose, he mused while staring at the two empty vials, it had been too much to hope for.

  They shared a good amount of araq from one of four bottles of Tulogal Nayyan had packed. While they ate and drank, she told him of the war. The forces of Sharakhai had been on the brink of complete collapse when the golems had been driven mad. It had given the Blade Maidens and Silver Spears several hours to regroup. Even without the golems, though, the Malasani army was great and had reformed by the evening. They’d just begun a new offensive when five battalions of Silver Spears, joined by two regiments of Qaimiri heavy cavalry, nearly ten thousand soldiers in all, had driven into the rear of the Malasani forces. The vanguard of the royal navy had returned just in time, and while no one was under the illusion that the threat from Mirea had been stopped, the aid was a welcome relief.

  Much of the Sun Palace had been lost to a terrible fire, the inner walls had been breached in several locations, the future of Sharakhai was still very much in doubt, but it could have gone much, much worse.

  Ihsan in turn shared his story, writing words on the sand to give her the last of the events since they’d spoken on the Malasani prison ship.

  He finished with the strange memory of the asir crawling up from the depths of the blooming fields. There weren’t many left. Most had been drawn away for the war against Mirea. Those who remained were the oldest, the youngest, the weakest from wounds or disease or those still drunk on the blood of the tributes they’d taken during the last holy night.

  It had been many long years since Ihsan had had call to bond with the asirim, to speak with them in any way, but his ability to feel the chains that bound them to all the Kings had never waned. Not so now. The asir had walked away from the blooming fields freed of the curse of the desert gods. It was Çeda, he knew. She’d somehow, improbably, freed Sehid-Alaz, and he in turn had freed the rest. Or perhaps the goddess Nalamae had done it. Might that have been what Yerinde feared? Might that be why she’d ordered Nalamae’s death?

  After the food was consumed and half a bottle of Tulogal drank, he and Nayyan made love on a soft blanket beneath the shade of the trees. He could feel the bump on her stomach. Their baby was growing. It wouldn’t be long now before it was born.

  Where will the desert be then? he wrote in the sand to Nayyan. It was only a few months away, but it seemed an eternity in these fickle times.

  The two of them lay naked on the blanket, her back to his chest, allowing her to see his words in the sand.

  “Still in our grasp,” she replied. “The old Kings are all dead or mad or missing.”

  Missing, Ihsan mused, is an interesting choice of words.

  Beşir was away fighting the thirteenth tribe. Husamettín was captured. Cahil, after being shot through with crossbow bolts, his neck likely broken, had disappeared, and no one knew whether his body had been spirited away or if he’d miraculously survived.

  Zeheb was still mad.

  And Sukru . . . Sukru had been found deep beneath the Sun Palace in the unnerving cavern with the glowing crystal. He’d been in a strange, catatonic state, with the body of his dead brother by his side. Days had passed and Sukru had held on to life, but every moment seemed a terrible misery for him. He moaned and cried, occasionally begging for release, but no one had dared give it to him. In the end, the Reaping King had suffered the same fate as those he’d committed to the farther fields. He’d passed only last night, his body laid to rest in the crypt beneath his palace.

  His daughter, Selina, now Queen, had immediately joined the compact of the lesser Kings in their nearly complete usurpation of Sharakhai. Like a pride of lions, the young had pushed aside the old. It was their turn in the sun. Or so they thought. The battle was not yet won. There was still Beşir. There was Husamettín. And there was Ihsan himself. Not to mention Nayyan who, while she might have gone along with Meryam’s plans once she’d managed to uncover them, was still Ihsan’s.

  Ihsan wrote in the sand, Did I not tell you that nothing good will come of Kiral’s union to Meryam?

  “It isn’t all bad, Ihsan.”

  You should have told me about it.

  Nayyan knew what he meant: her decision to ally herself with Meryam. She sniffed. “You w
ere busy with your own plans. Always busy, and rarely a word for me about them.”

  I wasn’t too busy for that, and you know it.

  She sat up and faced him. “It was time,” she said flatly.

  Ihsan sat up too, and after a moment’s reflection conceded the point. Wasn’t this what he’d wanted anyway? Nearly all of the old Kings were gone. And the lesser Kings were indeed the lesser foes. He could deal with them in time, he was sure. The subject of Meryam, however, was a completely different matter. She had risen to power so quickly he’d developed a crick in his neck trying to watch her.

  All in due time, he mused silently. Mirea and Malasan will keep Meryam busy for the time being. And there are other things for me to worry about first.

  Ihsan wiped his words away and wrote: I know you were the one who told Davud to kill Çeda.

  Nayyan had always been good at masking her emotions, but for once he’d caught her off her guard. Her nostrils flared and color rushed to her cheeks. After he’d had time to think about it, there really was no one else it could be. She was the only one alive besides himself who knew how susceptible people were after receiving commands from him. And there was the baby, who seemed to be granting her some small amount of Ihsan’s power. And lo how the desert will quake when that child becomes a woman grown.

  Nayyan had used that knowledge and her power to give Davud a command: to kill Çeda after he’d implicated Zeheb for betraying the Kings.

  I know as well you set the kestrel on Çeda’s scent. He paused, waiting for the information to sink home. You read it in my copies of the Blue Journals. It’s why you stole them. You saw that she’d be coming to Eventide. And likely no one would ever have been the wiser had I not remembered a passage in those same journals.

  He waited for her to confess, but he may as well have waited for one of the asir to climb up from the roots of the adichara and dance a jig.