Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Kameyl slid into position across from Çeda so that they were three paces apart. Kameyl wore a shemagh that veiled her face, but not a fighting dress. Her dress was more like Çeda’s, black cloth with bright, festive designs that had once been fashionable in the early days of the Amber City.

  Çeda had no veil. She was not yet a Maiden, so she would come to this dance as an outsider, asking for entry to their House, to their inner circle. Kameyl played the role of warden, ensuring that Çeda was ready. To do this they would cross blades.

  Using her left arm, the sword held halfway along the scabbard’s length, Çeda presented River’s Daughter, hilt upward, a request to pass. Kameyl held her sword by the scabbard as well, but held it crosswise, barring Çeda’s way. Motes of dust danced in the beam of light equidistant from them both. Çeda took one step forward and pulled her blade so that an inch of dark steel was bared, an indication that she held no fear in her heart.

  In an elegant flash of movement, Kameyl raised the scabbard above her head and pulled the blade free. She took precise steps forward while holding her scabbard at the ready, as a shield, in effect. Her sword was not in the en garde position but mirrored the scabbard, as if she had nothing to fear from Çeda.

  Çeda retreated, drawing her sword as well.

  This dance, the song of blades, the tahl selheshal, had been old well before the Kings had come to Sharakhai, well before the city itself had risen from the sands of the Shangazi. The women, the protectors of the tribe, had created it to hone their craft and to teach their children the art of the sword. When war came, it was often the men who went to fight, but that didn’t mean the tribe was safe. It was left to the warrior women to protect the tribe if an enemy war party found them.

  Children used sticks to dance the tahl selheshal until they reached a certain age, a certain level of ability. Then they used real swords, as Çeda and Kameyl were doing now.

  The opening moves were scripted. Kameyl took one long stride forward, holding the pose until Çeda did the same. In that moment the two of them were opposites, two halves of an image split perfectly by a flawless mirror. Then Kameyl rose, bringing sword and scabbard high, and spun, slashing toward Çeda’s left side.

  Çeda blocked with her scabbard, which created a sharp clack, and then she rose up, locking her sword and scabbard together before performing the same spin and cutting at Kameyl’s ribs.

  Kameyl blocked and dropped low, spinning and sweeping her leg. Çeda leapt into the air, spinning as well, slashing her sword above Kameyl’s head.

  The foreigners among the crowd gasped, for the moves had been performed with both speed and power. The Sharakhani were silent, but their eyes were bright. They knew they were in for something not seen in generations. Even the Kings seemed to be sitting higher in their chairs, some even leaning forward.

  The dance continued, moving through the thirty and nine scripted positions required from both challenger and challenged. When it was sword or scabbard against only scabbard, the hardened wood created a chatter as a flurry of blows landed. When it was sword against sword, the sound of ringing steel filled the massive space and echoed in the relative silence. Shouts of surprise came as they moved through the middle act, with its series of spins and silent swings coming near but not quite touching the opponent. They wove in and out of the reflected sunset, the light flashing dully against their ebon blades and dark clothes.

  Kameyl was very good. But so was Çeda. It was a rare thing to find two so able to trust one another that they could unchain themselves, but they were, and they did, their bodies spinning, blades flashing. Çeda could feel her right hand, her poisoned wound. It was becoming painful once more, perhaps from the sudden exertion. But what she noticed more than pain was that, despite it, her hand and arm were more steady than she could ever remember. It was almost as if she could feel the swing from Kameyl before the blow struck—indeed, before she could even see it, if she or Kameyl were turned away.

  At last the final blows of the prelude came to an end. Their swords crossed and remained in place as the two circled one another. Now they would show what they were truly made of. Often it was the younger who waged an offensive against the elder, but Kameyl gave Çeda no rest. She lunged for Çeda’s chest.

  Çeda blocked and stepped back, and again Kameyl advanced, using her scabbard to block and swing low at Çeda’s legs. Çeda narrowly beat the strike away before Kameyl’s scabbard flashed in and struck the side of her head.

  The faces in the crowd were either utterly entranced or horrified. There were no expressions between these two extremes. The blows were coming so quickly, Çeda could barely keep up. Again and again she was struck by Kameyl’s scabbard. She tried to find openings to return the blows, but Kameyl was too good. Too fast.

  One strike came in so hard it sent Çeda staggering backward, but the crowd caught her and threw her back into the mêlée. Çeda prepared to defend herself, but Kameyl had retreated. She was standing tall, her sword hanging low at her side.

  The crowd murmured. The Kings, especially Husamettín, seemed concerned.

  This was a point in the battle in which she should have saluted Çeda for her bravery, for her skill. But she did not. Hanging her sword low was an insult. Leaving her defenses down showed she had no respect for Çeda’s skills.

  Çeda held her sword up, the hilt at chest level, the tip pointed skyward, a sign of honor for her opponent. She did it because she truly did respect Kameyl’s skill, but also to provoke her. Kameyl was toying with her, and she was determined not to do anything Kameyl expected.

  The light from the setting sun had almost completely faded, but there was still a burnt orange glow on the floor. The Sharakhani in the crowd knew the end was near. They began to whoop, to release a collective ululation.

  Kameyl began to spin. She moved swiftly toward Çeda, sword flashing, dress flaring, until she’d reached the halfway point between them.

  Çeda did the same, twisting about as fast as she was able. The frenzy of the crowd rose to new heights as she came to a stop, whipping her sword in the air mere inches from Kameyl’s chest. She raised her sword and held it above her head while Kameyl spun and did the same, slashing at the air.

  In this final act, the two women, now sure that neither would relent, that neither had an edge over the other, would cut one another in a prescribed move with precise swings of their swords. They did this so neither would lose face, but also in remembrance of the brilliant battle they had just waged. Most often this was symbolic. Çeda had expected to hold out her arm to take a precise, shallow cut from Kameyl on the palm or the inside of her forearm, but Kameyl continued as did the women warriors of old, when each would slash through the air, closer and closer to the other woman, until blood had been drawn.

  It was an unspoken challenge, and she expected Çeda to back down.

  But Çeda wouldn’t. She would take a cut if it meant acceptance into the Maidens. She spun and swung at Kameyl’s thighs, the tip of the blade coming within a finger’s breadth.

  Kameyl twisted and slashed her blade at Çeda’s throat. Çeda could feel the rush of air in its wake as it licked her skin.

  Çeda spun again, this time cutting a razor-thin line through the cloth of Kameyl’s dress and into her skin. It was perfect. Exactly what she should have done, something memorable, but not deep, a mark of her skill with the sword.

  Kameyl did not move. She did not react at all. Her eyes were calm itself. She had positioned herself so that Husamettín could no longer see Çeda, at least not clearly. As Kameyl stared into Çeda’s eyes, she inched her stance forward. She spun, bringing the sword up and into the ready position. And then she swung it across her body, toward Çeda’s neck.

  Too close, Çeda realized. It was going to be too close. She was going to cut deep enough to sever the artery that pulsed beneath her skin. Her lifeblood would spill across the cool floor of the Sun Palace fo
r all to see.

  Çeda might have stepped away, but she was so enraged she lifted her sword and blocked Kameyl’s ebon blade with her own. As she did she felt white hot pain coming from the poisoned wound in her right hand. So quick and fierce was the blow that it shattered Kameyl’s blade. The tip of it flew to Çeda’s right, spinning end over end and slicing into the forearm of an observer, a frightened, dark-skinned woman in a blue gown.

  Kameyl stood in the center of this grand space staring not at Çeda, but at her own broken blade, then at the bleeding woman, as if she couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. Kameyl hadn’t meant to have her blade shattered. She’d meant to kill Çeda. She’d meant to slice her neck open and watch her bleed, and then claim that Çeda had moved at the last moment, or that it had been a mistake. It would have been a stain upon Kameyl’s honor, but it would have been worth it to remove a deeper, darker stain from the House of Maidens. This was how strongly the Maidens would fight to rid themselves of her. They would not be above deviousness, which Çeda should already have known.

  The woman in the blue gown howled with pain, staring in horror at the deep gash along her arm while blood gushed down her arm, over her dress, and onto the floor. The piece of blade that cut her had caught in her dress, but as many rushed to help her, it clattered to the floor, its sound rising above the woman’s cries. One man used a cloth belt to wrap the wound tightly, but the rest of the vast crowd were simply staring at Çeda, aghast, especially the Sharakhani, who knew how grave Çeda’s actions were.

  The entire purpose of this dance was to prepare for the symbolic cut she would receive at the end. Small children would thump one another clumsily with sticks, hoping to make the other flinch, but as they grew older they would practice coming close with the blunt end, barely grazing their opponent. And when children were preparing to take the blade at last, they were slowly prepared by their mentors until they were ready for the cuts they would be given. For Çeda to block Kameyl’s swing proved she was unprepared for the Maidens, that either she would not or could not trust her warrior sister, that she wasn’t brave enough. For young women on the cusp of adulthood, such a thing would be frowned upon, but for Çeda, a woman grown, it was a deeply shameful moment.

  She could see the disappointment in Husamettín’s eyes. He’d come to his feet, as had the rest of the Kings. Husamettín strode toward. “Clear the room,” he barked to the servants. As the crowd was ushered from the hall, the woman’s wails of pain going with them, Husamettín stared at Kameyl with a deep frown. “Tell me what happened.”

  “You saw yourself, my King. She is a coward. She did what cowards do.” Except that the King hadn’t seen. Kameyl had blocked his view before her final stroke.

  “No,” Çeda said before the King had finished with Kameyl, “I swear by the gods, had I not blocked her swing, a red smile would have blossomed across my neck.” The other Kings had been in a position to see, but who among them might have recognized the move as one that was meant to kill? Çeda looked to them, hoping they would say something, but they all remained silent, judging.

  “A lie to hide the truth,” Kameyl replied easily. “You can see it on her face.”

  Despite what Çeda thought—that Husamettín would defend Kameyl’s version of events without question—he appeared uncertain. “Is that true?” he said to Çeda.

  “Kameyl wished me dead. She never thought I would be able to block her blade, or that I wouldn’t recognize her killing stroke.”

  Husamettín waved one hand to Kameyl’s broken blade. “You have proof of this?”

  “Only what I saw in the heat of the dance. Her blade swung not to scratch, but to kill.”

  Husamettín held his hand out toward Çeda’s ebon blade. Çeda sheathed it and held it out to him. Taking it, the King said, “Is there any reason to give you this blade?”

  “I’m a poor judge of that, my Lord. I asked for no place among the Maidens, and yet one was found for me.”

  The light from the braziers glinted in Husamettín’s dark eyes. His face was becoming angrier by the second.

  “I can only say that the gods led me,” Çeda went on quickly, “that they led me to you, and that I take such things most gravely, my Lord King. I am humbled by the honor you and the Kings have shown me.”

  “Give her a place in the Maiden’s House.” These words had come from Onur, the King of Sloth. He waddled as he walked toward them, the grimaces on his face making it clear just how much each step pained him. “But grant her no blade. There is no place in the Maidens for one such as she.”

  Husamettín’s hard expression softened, as the other Kings gathered around.

  “The decision does not fall to you, Onur,” the Jade-eyed King said, his piercing green eyes studying his brother King carefully. “I have chosen her, and in my employ shall she remain.”

  “Then take her as a servant,” Onur said with a gallows grin as he came to a stop a few paces from Çeda. He stared up and down at her, lips pursing, breath coming coney-quick, as if he could hardly breathe. “Clearly she isn’t fit for such things.”

  “The choice is not yours,” Yusam said again.

  Husamettín pulled himself higher. “Nor is it yours where it comes to the Maidens.”

  “Her sword has already been given.” This was from Ihsan, who stepped carefully, as if he didn’t wish to upset the delicate balance of the conversation. “Only death may take it back.”

  Husamettín was surely annoyed by this intrusion into something he deemed his territory. His entire body was rigid, and yet he considered the blade in his hand soberly, as if what Ihsan had said was an inviolate truth. He pulled the blade out and regarded its length, as if examining each and every minute nick Çeda and Kameyl had just etched would somehow give him his answer.

  “We will see if she’s ready.” He pointed to an open space on the floor, away from the others. “Stand there,” he said.

  Çeda did. She moved into position, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, for she knew what the King of Swords was about to do.

  Husamettín held the scabbard loosely in one hand, the sword in the other. He took a few tentative swings, and then turned with an elegant sweep of the blade, bringing it high above his head. The tip pointed unerringly toward the center of the dome high above. The King stared deeply into Çeda’s eyes, and in that moment, she saw pain within him, something as deep and old as the dried bones of the desert. She could see in his eyes that he wished he could speak of it but would not. Or could not. Then the look was gone and the sword was spinning in a series of arcs and twists and turns that brought it ever closer to Çeda. He spun his entire body, once, twice, thrice, the sword arcing high. Ever closer he came, the sword’s tip inching closer and closer to Çeda’s neck, just as Kameyl’s final swing had done.

  Husamettín was preparing her, letting her know that he would do the same. But in allowing her to see it, he was letting the fear build. If she had any doubts, any worries that he would not wield his sword as a master could, those fears would fester and grow, so that by the time he came for the final swing, she would flinch. He would see. They would all see. And if she did, they would never trust her again. There was fear in Çeda’s heart. Fear that Husamettín might believe he had made a mistake. But she suppressed it. Made herself breathe easily. She trusted Husamettín’s skill.

  When the sword blurred across her field of vision and nicked her neck, she didn’t flinch. Not in the slightest. Husamettín followed the motion through and returned to the position from which he’d begun, with his sword aimed high. But his eyes now bored into Çeda, assessing her. Without ever taking his eyes from Çeda, he slipped the blade into its scabbard. He strode toward her, put his hand against the side of her neck. Using his thumb, he swiped across the shallow cut, which was only now beginning to burn. He showed her his thumb, with the streak of carmine marking his sun-aged skin. Then turned to Kameyl, al
lowing her to see it as well, and finally he showed the rest of the gathered Kings.

  “She will remain in the Maidens. Kameyl, you will teach her. And that is the last we will speak of it.”

  Kameyl still wore her veil, but Çeda could see the hint of color upon her cheeks. She did not reply. She merely bowed and left the room.

  Husamettín gripped the sword by the scabbard, laying it across his free arm, hilt first, for Çeda to take. “Go with her,” he said. “She’ll not attempt such a thing again. This I promise.”

  She took the sword and nodded, then strode after her sister Maiden, recognizing how wrong he was. This had only been the first attempt. Kameyl might decide to obey and leave Çeda alone. She might even teach Çeda a thing or two, as might some of the others, but many among the Maidens would not. They would continue in their attempts to see Çeda dead until they succeeded, the word of their King or not. But Çeda would no longer consider leaving. Her mother had left her much, among them clues to the downfall of these Kings. So she would remain, and she would find the King of Glittering Stone.

  And she would drain him of his blood.

  FIVE YEARS EARLIER . . .

  ÇEDA SAT WITHIN A LARGE and richly appointed room. Upon stone pedestals stood marble pitchers limned in white gold. Beautiful brass plates hung on the wall. It smelled of sandalwood and lavender, while she smelled of sweat and blood, fresh as she was from defeating Saadet in the pits, a mere minute’s walk from where she sat.

  She still wore her armor, but not her helm. That had been taken by Osman’s men after she was led to this room. Strangely, the bout had drawn to a close as if nothing unusual had happened, with one exception. Pelam announced her the winner, and the crowd had cheered her victory, but the Master of the Games had gone no further than that. He would normally have announced where and when she would fight next, so those who wished to see her next match could do so, but in her case, he’d merely ushered her from the pit, accompanied by the two toughs who had wrestled her off Saadet’s dying form. They’d brought her here, to the room she could only assume was in Osman’s own apartments. It was the highest room in the pits, four stories up, and gave a good view of four of the seven pits below.