Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  For a time, Melis scrubbed the stone with broad, circular strokes, assiduously avoiding Çeda’s gaze. But then her motions slowed, and she took a deep breath. “Nayyan was the fifth in Sümeya’s hand. There were Jalize and Kameyl and me. And there were Sümeya and Nayyan. We were close, all of us, but the love between Sümeya and Nayyan was strong. They came into the sisterhood in the same year, but Nayyan was always one step ahead. In her bladecraft, in the way she took to the blooms, even in the way she carried herself. Sümeya looked up to her, and well she should have. Nayyan rose through the ranks and took the post of first warden the day she tried to save our former first warden from an ehrekh attack, deep in the southern passes of the desert. She killed the ebon beast and took the thorns from his bristled head for a necklace.”

  Çeda thought immediately of the Maiden in the desert. She’d worn a necklace of thorns. They could have been the thorns of an ehrekh. Could that have been Nayyan? Doubtful, for if it had been, everyone would know she still lived. Unless Nayyan was hiding from the others for some reason. She had come to the blooming fields alone.

  Melis said, “We voted her to first warden upon our return to Sharakhai, a position she kept for years until she went out one night eleven years ago. It was the night after Beht Zha’ir. She was to visit her family. She left King Azad’s palace in the early hours, but the next morning the captain of the ship she was to have taken said she never boarded.”

  Çeda knew in her bones that this had something to do with her mother. A thousand questions were ready to tumble from her lips, but she managed to still her tongue long enough to gather her thoughts. “And what did the King say? Did he have no news of Nayyan?”

  “Beyond saying she left the palace in good health and good spirits,” Melis replied, “nothing.”

  “And the search produced no clues?”

  “None.” Melis bent down and rinsed her brush out before attacking the wall once more. “King Ihsan undertook the investigation himself. It was as if the gods had plucked her from the earth and sent her on to her next life.”

  “Did you ever wonder if Ihsan was telling you the truth?”

  Melis’s circular motions against the stones slowed. “If Ihsan wishes to hide what happened that night, if the other Kings have chosen not to reveal anything to us, then what are we to do?”

  “Press him.”

  Melis turned, angry. “It isn’t our place to press the Kings.” She thumped the end of the soot-stained brush hard against Çeda’s chest. “Nor is it yours. You haven’t learned our ways, so I’ll let your words lie as the foolish thoughts of a child who knows nothing. But I won’t do so again. They are our Kings, and you will treat them as such. Never let me hear you question them again. Do you understand?”

  Çeda nodded numbly. She’d had no idea how angry Melis would become, but still, it was good to have a reminder that these women—every last one of them—were her enemy.

  Melis threw the brush into the bucket, splashing water everywhere. “Bring the buckets. It’s time to get you ready for tonight.”

  ÇEDA WAITED in a beautiful, mosaic-covered hall. She stood beneath a scalloped arch with a thick set of carmine curtains before her, through which came a tumult of conversation punctuated by laughter and the sound of milling footsteps.

  Zaïde and several of the palace’s servant boys had led her here, positioned her beneath the arch and told her to wait until the curtains parted. She had the urge to reach out and part them herself, to see what lay beyond, but she knew she must wait. Today was no day for missteps.

  Hours ago, Melis had brought Çeda to Zaïde. All warmth had vanished from Melis, replaced with a sufferance that made Çeda wonder when these women would see through her guise. Surely they would; it was only a question of time. For the next several hours, Zaïde had helped Çeda to wash and brush her long hair, to carefully braid it and pin it at the back of her head. Zaïde had presented her with a bistre silk dress with beautiful panels running down the front and the back. The skirt was slitted up to her knees.

  “It’s to allow you to dance with the sword.”

  “I have no sword.”

  Zaïde had merely smiled. “When the sun sets, you’re to be granted your ebon blade”—she smoothed the cloth along Çeda’s shoulder—“by the King of Swords himself.”

  Çeda had known it would happen, but she was still caught off guard. To be granted an ebon blade, a symbol of the oppression of the Kings . . . She had spat upon the ground so many times, picturing Maidens holding those blades. They were used to make the men and women of Sharakhai cower. And now she would be given one of her own.

  The gods lead us down strange paths.

  The red curtains shifted. Outside, the flow of conversation waxed and waned, some coming near the curtains, but never too near.

  “A handful of Kings may come,” Zaïde had said while working at the ties to Çeda’s dress, untying, retying, making them fit Çeda’s frame just so. And Çeda had realized in that instant just how worried Zaïde was about Çeda’s presentation. Like a mother for her own child, Zaïde was fretting over a young woman she hardly knew. “But trouble yourself not if there are only one or two. The Kings rarely attend in mass these days.”

  One or two . . . Çeda had worried before her presentation to Yusam. Husamettín’s arrival in the courtyard had been unexpected, but he was a man who struck fear into one’s heart as well. How would she handle it if four or five came?

  “What will they ask of me?” Çeda had asked.

  “The Kings? Little. They may not even speak to you at all. The rest will speak to you of where you came from, your loves, your mother and your father. What else do people speak of?”

  Of betrayal. Of murder. Of war and hangings.

  “Stop worrying,” Zaïde said. “Today is a formality. No more. Your time in the Maidens begins in earnest two weeks hence, in the desert with the sisters of your hand.”

  Çeda had nodded silently. This was all moving so swiftly. Part of her wanted to slow it down, but what was there to do but wait and allow the current to take her?

  When Zaïde was satisfied, Çeda had been taken to a grand palace near the base of the mountain at the rough center of the other twelve palaces.

  “No one King owns the Sun Palace,” Zaïde had said, pointing up to its many minarets and the domed building in the center. “It is the thirteenth upon Tauriyat, the one used by all the Kings when they wish to take council. It houses diplomats from other states. It is used to entertain the powerful in Sharakhai. Or, as in this case, to welcome another Maiden.”

  “How many will come besides the Kings?”

  Zaïde shrugged. “That is dictated by the power of the Maiden’s family, and the sway of the King who fathered her. In your case, I have no way of knowing, but I suspect you will already have attracted much attention in the halls of Tauriyat.”

  Çeda had doubted it then, but by the sounds of the crowd in the next hall, it seemed Zaïde had been right. And she was still totally unprepared for the scene that unfolded before her.

  The curtains were parted by two young boys, revealing a room as grand as it was massive. Above was a vast dome with dozens of open windows that allowed the afternoon light to filter down over the filigreed walls, painted columns, and brilliant emerald floor. A crowd of hundreds upon hundreds were gathered, most occupying the center of the room, talking and milling about, but many more wandering the hall, drinking from small cups or sitting on pillows gathered around shishas with clutches of smoking tubes snaking outward from each.

  Çeda stood at the top of a short set of stairs. As she took the first step down, the conversation hushed. The gathered men and women turned toward her. The men wore fine kaftans and abas and burnooses. Some of the lighter-skinned—those from Qaimir—wore trousers and shirts with ruffled necks, sleeves, and half-cloaks. The Mireans wore muted, tight-fitting clothes with half-collars. A
nd the women . . . Their numbers were surprising. They comprised well over half the audience, and they were dressed in styles as distinctive as the men’s, and much more diverse. Sleek silk gowns and patterned kaftans with towering headscarves, and bright jalabiyas with a dizzying array of patterned stitchwork.

  In rapt silence, all turned their curious eyes to Çeda as she took the steps down, and the moment her foot touched the cool tiles of the palace floor, they bowed as one. So quiet were they, Çeda could have heard the shift of a foot, the rustle of cloth. But then they rose, and the gathered Sharakhani women released melodic cries of “Lai, lai, lai,” while the men whistled and the foreigners clapped and whooped and bowed with a smile and a flourish of the hand.

  She recognized so very few among them, but there were two who attracted her notice. One, a tall man with moon-pale skin and bone-white hair pulled into a tail: Juvaan Xin-Lei of Mirea. And, not so distant from him, Ramahd, looking completely different. He was clean shaven. His shoulder-length hair was washed and styled and parted around his face in elegant waves. His clothes were cut from impeccable green and black cloth. Gone was the man she had fought in the pits, whom she had spoken to only last night, replaced by this lord from Qaimir, a lord who knew altogether too much of what was happening in this city. A lord who wanted her to spy for him.

  With her next step, the crowd parted like water before the prow of one of the rare river ships that came to Sharakhai in spring. They spread until she could see the far side of the room, where several men stood. They wore fine raiment and golden crowns.

  The Kings, Çeda realized. These were Kings of Sharakhai, and they were waiting for her, standing like a tribunal ready to hang her for her crimes, as they had her mother.

  Had Ahya seen so many? Had she met all of these Kings before they’d found her out?

  Surely not. Surely she’d seen only a few. They would not have gathered in numbers for a common criminal like Ahya. They would not come to cut her skin with some wicked knife. They could not be so cruel, could they?

  And then it struck her. Their number. She counted as she walked, doing her best to keep her hands from quivering, her legs from shaking.

  There were twelve of them. All twelve Kings had been drawn here to see her.

  Yerinde’s dark gaze, why? Why would she attract so much attention? Surely there had been other Maidens who had come when they were older. But no, there couldn’t have been. Perhaps one or two during the years of their reign, but no more than that. This was a rare event, much rarer than Çeda had initially guessed. Or perhaps it had been Yusam’s strange vision, the one that made him scream. Perhaps he’d shared what he’d seen with them, and they’d wanted to see this young woman for themselves.

  She’d read so much about them, and now here they were, these Kings with their fine robes and golden crowns and humorless stares. Carefully, Çeda. Step very carefully indeed.

  Soon she stood alone before the Kings, who waited on a low stone dais shaped like a crescent moon. Husamettín, the King of Swords, stood near their center. He did not carry Kiss of Night, but instead a curved sword with a wooden scabbard lacquered to a dull but beautiful sheen. Jade-eyed Yusam stood next to him, looking pleased. She recognized Sukru as well, the Reaping King—a wizened man, all bone and angles like a spider. And was she wrong, or did Sukru recognize her as well? He looked pained, somehow. They’d met once, a random encounter in the west end of Sharakhai. She wasn’t sure if he remembered her or if the look was from some other inscrutable cause.

  Azad, the King of Thorns, was said to be the smallest of the Kings. He stood farthest to Çeda’s right, staring at her from within a darkened cowl. To the left of Azad stood a King whom she recognized, the one who’d nearly been caught in the attack at the old fort in the spice market, the one who’d been saved by the two Maidens. She’d wondered if he’d been burned during that attack. If he had been, it wasn’t obvious. He looked to be a man a few decades Çeda’s senior, hearty and hale, his face and hands unmarred by the touch of flame.

  She knew from reading the dozens of accounts in Amalos’s forgotten office below the scriptorium that this man was Külasan, the Wandering King. His crown had been mentioned a dozen times, made of rare red gold, with falcon wings worked into the design, just above the temples. What the texts had failed to mention was the symbol at the center of the crown. It was an ancient symbol, and one that Çeda had seen before, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember where.

  Kiral, the King of Kings, stood next to Husamettín, marking the two of them as equals in a way. But Kiral was a vision, a man with burning eyes and pock-marked skin who had gravitas in the set of his shoulders and in the dark expressiveness of his face, as if the blood of the gods themselves ran through his veins.

  Not so different from Saliah, Çeda thought.

  She knew the names of the others too. Ihsan, the Honey-tongued King. Zeheb, King of Whispers. The one who appeared to be the youngest among them was Cahil, the Kings’ Confessor, the King of Truth. How strange to have a face that looked no older than Çeda’s, and yet had seen the passage of centuries. Strange, too, how innocent he seemed when hundreds had died by his cruel hand as he slowly and meticulously tortured them for their secrets.

  Did you touch my mother, you cruel dog? Were you the one to mark her skin?

  Tall Besir was the King of Shadows, but most knew him as the Golden King, the King of Coin, for he controlled the city’s treasury.

  Onur, once known as the King of Spears, was more often referred to as the Feasting King in the west end, or the King of Sloth. If Zeheb was burly, Onur was a mountain of a man who wore black robes, a wicked frown, and enormous jeweled rings upon his fat fingers.

  And the last King she recognized was the only other King, besides Külasan and Sukru, who she’d seen up close before entering the House of Maidens. She hadn’t known his name when she’d seen him years ago, but through the many scrolls and books she’d read, she knew it now. King Mesut, the Jackal King, Lord of the Asirim. He had the same intense gaze she remembered, and on his wrist he wore the same band of gold inlaid with jet. If he recognized her he didn’t show it, but she remembered him well. He had been visiting young Mala’s mother, Sirina, in a small patch of Sharakhai known as the Knot. Sirina and Mesut had been lovers, at least for a time. Mere days after Çeda had stumbled across him, Sukru marked Sirina’s home for the asirim. Çeda had never learned whether it had happened by Mesut’s leave or not, but it had been a strong reminder of how the Kings toyed with citizens they had sworn to protect, as if Sharakhai were little more than an aban board, its people the pieces.

  Çeda bowed to the gathered Kings, turning her body as she did to take them all in, but she did not speak, not wishing to offend. For a long while the Kings merely watched, as if she were some oddity not worth speaking to.

  And then came a voice. “We are quite the assemblage, are we not?” She turned to the leftmost King, the one who stood closest to the gathered crowd. The gods had granted them much, these Kings, and to Ihsan they had given smooth skin and white teeth and a melodic voice. “I am Ihsan, and forgive us, for there are times when even we are shocked and surprised.”

  “Surprised, Your Eminence?” Çeda asked, praying her fears would not be revealed by a tremulous voice.

  “Your beauty. Your grace. Your composure before this poor tribunal.”

  Several of the other Kings bristled at these words, especially young Cahil and fat Onur, who stared with hate-filled eyes and frowned with a mouth that seemed all too familiar with the tearing of flesh.

  “Zaïde told us what she saw in you,” Ihsan continued. “And Yusam shared the visions within his mere, but it has been many years since one such as you has come to us, one born beyond the walls of Tauriyat, one brought to us in a time of need.” Again several of the Kings bristled, one even snorting, as if the mere thought were blasphemous. It was not this that Çeda noticed most, howeve
r. It was the utter silence that followed. Every single ear in the room was listening to this conversation. They were rapt, wondering what the Kings would do with this little lost wren. Ihsan stepped down from the dais and strode toward Çeda. As he came, his calm and charming eyes stared down at her right hand, which was unbandaged for the first time since she entered the House of Maidens. “You even came to us with petals upon your tongue and an adichara’s kiss upon your skin.” Then he locked eyes with her, and a sly mongoose smile came over him. “Is it not so?”

  “It is,” she admitted.

  “As if the gods themselves had prepared you for this day.”

  “The gods had no part in it, Your Eminence. My mother prepared me for this day.”

  Ihsan smiled, intrigued. “Pray tell, child.”

  “She was a brave woman, who taught me to fight for what I needed in this world, for if I didn’t, no one else would.”

  “We may fight, but there is always an arm stronger than ours, a blade sharper.”

  “It is so,” Çeda allowed, “but one must know when to fight as well.”

  “And your mother. Where is she today?”

  “She died when I was ten.” The lie was necessary. The Kings had never discovered her mother’s true name—Çeda would have been found and killed long ago if they had—but she mustn’t link herself to her mother’s death. If she did, one of them—whichever one had killed Ahya—would eventually piece the puzzle together.

  “Most unfortunate.” Ihsan’s face took on a look of gentle regret—an act, surely, but it somehow seemed genuine on his fair features. “How did she die?”

  “A spear from a desert tribesman.” Çeda made a show of glancing back toward the crowd, as if they made her uncomfortable. “They raided the city in winter, while we were washing our clothes in the Haddah.” The raid had really happened, and Çeda had long since used the story whenever her mother’s cause of death came up.

  “A spear? They rode in and found your mother and drove a spear into her gut?”