Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Çeda pressed him to move, and Emre had finally relented, though she had the feeling he resented her for it. His resentment eventually passed, but she wondered how much Emre kept inside him. Was it slowly building up, all his anger and resentment and loathing? He could only mask it for so long, she thought, and one day, it would all come pouring out.

  One day, while shading a note in a small ivory box, Çeda cut through the Shallows, and three boys began following her. A fourth soon joined them, and Çeda ran as the boys gave chase. She had no idea if they knew about the box or not—in all likelihood they didn’t—but she wasn’t about to take chances. She hurtled through back alleys and byways and leapt over fences.

  What the boys wanted from her she never found out, for after several more turns, they skidded to a stop and ran the other way. Çeda saw why a moment later. Ahead of her were two women standing outside a door. She was in a neighborhood known as the Knot. The homes in this cramped and winding set of streets created a veritable maze of mudbrick. Many of the homes spanned the street itself, creating improvised tunnels; others leaned this way and that as if they’d drunk too much araq and needed the support of their brothers. Often the windows of the homes in the Knot were open, the residents chatting with one another or watching those below pass by. But not today. Today the windows were shuttered, the doors closed. And Çeda knew why.

  These women were as out of place as a kettle of golden rahl sitting in the middle of the street. It was not merely their assured stances, nor their steely gazes, but their swords that gave them away. The sheaths were made of lacquered wood with a beautiful black grain. Ebon swords. These were Blade Maidens.

  What under the bright desert sun were they doing in the Knot?

  The two of them stared at Çeda, sizing her up. Without a word, the one closest to Çeda paced toward her. The Maiden had not gone two steps, however, before the door behind her opened, and a man stepped out. He was a tall man with clothes of the finest quality—a khalat of rich green silk, patterned with the branches of a springtime tree with tiny pearls for buds; boots of supple leather, barely dusty from the streets of the city; his turban, the beautiful amber of the desert with bright red piping along the edges. And a golden band on his wrist, set with a dark stone, a stone that seemed somehow darker than a stone should be, and deeper, if stones could be deep.

  This was a King of Sharakhai or Çeda was a beetle scuttling along the sand. He saw her staring at the golden band and the impossibly black stone. He might have covered it with the sleeve of his khalat, but he didn’t. He considered Çeda instead, as if he were coming to some decision.

  Çeda immediately averted her gaze. She bowed and moved to the edge of the street, kneeling, as was required in the presence of either Maiden or King. And here were both!

  Believing each shuddering breath would be her last, Çeda waited in the relative silence. Even the sounds of the city seemed to fade around them, as if Sharakhai itself were waiting to see what would become of Çedamihn, daughter of Ahyanesh. Please, Nalamae, grant me your favor.

  The footsteps of the Blade Maiden approached. She could hear the sand and dust grind beneath her well-worn boots. They stopped just short of Çeda, and then there was a pregnant pause. Utter silence.

  I’m not ready yet. I’m not ready to face them.

  Somewhere, a child began to cry. On and on it went, a primal wail, as the Maiden stood before Çeda, perhaps drawing her blade, perhaps preparing to bring it down across Çeda’s neck and be done with her.

  Closer to the door, the King’s footsteps picked up, the other two sets followed, and Çeda was soon alone in the street, sweat across her brow, ready to collapse with relief.

  AFTER THE RITUAL AT THE SUN PALACE, Çeda was taken to the barracks in the House of Maidens. It was a massive building built four stories high with a large central courtyard where the Maidens trained at swordplay. Each hand of five Maidens was given an apartment with five bedrooms and a common room between them. Not so different from the home Çeda had shared with Emre.

  Zaïde led her there, knocked softly on the door, and ushered Çeda into the central room where Sümeya, Melis, and Jalize were sitting, drinking watered wine from earthenware mugs.

  If Sümeya was displeased that Çeda had returned, she didn’t show it. Jalize, an intensely beautiful woman with delicate features and curling brown hair, merely stared as if it meant little to her, but Melis smiled. It was a small thing, but it lifted Çeda’s spirits.

  “Where is Kameyl?” Çeda asked.

  It was Zaïde who answered. “She’s gone to Husamettín’s palace so that another sword can be chosen for her.”

  The other three Maidens all stiffened at this.

  “It was shattered,” Zaïde told them, “by Çeda’s own blade.” Sümeya opened her mouth to speak, but Zaïde spoke over her. “A story for another day. Welcome your sister, then let her sleep.”

  Sümeya stared at Çeda, then Zaïde, and then stood and strode to her bedroom, the beads across her door clacking in her wake. Jalize, however, crossed the room to stand before Çeda. “Welcome,” she said, and took Çeda in a full embrace. She kissed Çeda’s cheeks and then stepped aside. Melis did the same, but it was a stiffer gesture than Jalize’s.

  “Sit,” Zaïde said in the doorway, “take wine, and we’ll speak again in the morning. Tell me then who you wish to visit on the night before Beht Zha’ir.”

  Çeda could only stare. “Visit?” She had read much about the customs of the Maidens, but she hadn’t read this.

  Zaïde smiled like a cat with a particularly fat mouse, and suddenly she seemed much younger than the gray-haired Matron Çeda was growing used to. “You’ll be given a night to yourself, to visit with whomever you wish. You have only to tell me their name and a message will be sent.”

  Emre. I want to see Emre. But she couldn’t. He was too wrapped up with the Moonless Host. And besides, she had no idea how to reach him. But there was one person, a certain lord from Qaimir, that she might not mind seeing once more, especially if her night in the blooming fields was to be her last.

  “I can tell you now,” Çeda said.

  “As you wish.”

  “Lord Amansir of Qaimir.”

  Jalize and Melis exchanged a look, while Zaïde smiled a knowing smile. “You could do worse, my dear.” And then she left.

  “A lord,” Jalize said, leading Çeda to one of the low couches and setting her on a lush pillow. “Tell us.”

  Çeda merely waved her hand. “I met him tonight. He’s a handsome man.”

  Jalize’s eyes flashed. “A good enough start, and the Qaimiri are deft when the clothes come off.” She glanced at Melis. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  Melis rolled her eyes as if she’d heard this a thousand times before. “Do as they say,” she said to Çeda, “spend time with your lord. But then strike it from your mind. Your night in the killing fields will not be an easy one, and you should be pure of heart, pure of mind. Think of your Kings. Think of Sharakhai and those you will protect. Don’t dream of Qaimiri noblemen, and all will be well.”

  Think of your Kings. As if Çeda could do otherwise.

  She wondered what the asirim would sense, what they would learn of her, whether they would tear her limb from limb when they saw her true heart. Sehid-Alaz, their King, may have kissed her, but would anyone other than the King himself know what that meant? If the asirim squabbled, as men did, it might mean nothing. Or if their King had enemies among their number, they might be all too glad to kill some lonely girl who had been marked by their lord.

  If it was so, Çeda decided, then it was so. She was exhausted, so she took up the bottle of wine, poured until her mug was nearly overflowing, and drank deeply.

  She and the others talked long into the night. She learned of their childhoods, their parents, their lives of luxury in Goldenhill before coming into the service of the Maidens. When
Çeda retired to her room at last, it was with a self-loathing she hadn’t felt in a long, long while. By the gods, she liked Melis. She liked Jalize, too, though she had a foul mouth and a wicked mind.

  She set her ebon sword carefully in one corner. As she undressed and lay down, staring at it, she wondered at all that had happened to her.

  Prepare, she thought. Prepare, and the gods will see to the rest.

  She fell asleep and dreamed of shifting sands and foul creatures and twisted trees. She dreamed of someone standing by her side. A man, though she wasn’t sure if it was Emre or Ramahd or someone else.

  Çeda woke well before dawn. She dressed quickly and quietly, in one of the black Maiden’s dresses she’d been given, then took up River’s Daughter and strapped the ebon sword to her belt. She went to Kameyl’s room. She’d heard her come in late. Kameyl was sleeping lightly, but the moment Çeda tapped her on the shoulder, she woke and fixed her gaze on Çeda. Her eyes drifted immediately to Çeda’s sword. Çeda motioned for her to get dressed and to follow, which Kameyl did with a confused frown. Soon the two of them were standing opposite one another in the barracks courtyard.

  Kameyl put her left hand on the hilt of her sword—her new sword, granted to her by Husamettín. “Is it forms you wish?” She looked down at Çeda’s sword, which Çeda had made no move to touch. “No?” she asked. “It was just a bit of swordplay, little wren. If it upsets your tender heart, then get you back to the west end.”

  Çeda still refused to touch her sword. She stared hard at Kameyl and walked forward until the two of them were a hand’s breadth apart. Kameyl was a half-head taller than Çeda. She was imposing, not merely in physical form and in her swordplay, but because of the crazed glint in her eyes, the one that said she would do anything, suffer any pain, to protect her sisters and the Kings from harm.

  Çeda didn’t care. She couldn’t live with the fear that Kameyl might be waiting around every corner, hoping to do her in. “Where I was raised, what you did in the Sun Palace would demand a duel to the death.”

  Kameyl had been amused up to this point, but now she faced Çeda squarely, grim-faced and ready. “Is that what you wish? A duel?”

  “I don’t,” Çeda admitted, “but if you ever do something like that again, so it will be, and this time, there’ll be no King at your side to save you.”

  Kameyl stared into Çeda’s eyes, searching her face for the truth of it, the depth of her sincerity. Çeda had never been more serious about anything in her life; she might die, but she wouldn’t lay down for Kameyl or any of the Maidens. And then Kameyl barked a laugh. She laughed long and hard, more surprised by Çeda’s bravado than anything else. Still smiling, she drew her sword, almost as fast as the eye could follow. But she didn’t attack. She merely held it by the hilt, blade pointed upward, showing Çeda the mark that had been etched into it. “Her name is Brushing Wing. Husamettín chose it himself.”

  It was an amberlark. A sign of peace.

  Çeda couldn’t help it. All her nervous tension came out in a laugh that filled every corner of the Maidens’ courtyard.

  “The first sword I was given, the one you broke, had a viper on its blade.” Kameyl lifted the sword higher. “Although this may be a sign of peace, the viper remains, you understand?”

  “I understand,” Çeda said. As much as she might dislike her, there was something about Kameyl’s loyalty she couldn’t help but respect.

  With a nod, Kameyl sheathed her sword and slapped Çeda’s shoulder with enough force to knock her off balance. “Where I come from they’d call our exchange a bargain well struck.” She held out her hand to Çeda. “A dark bargain, to be sure, but a bargain just the same.”

  Çeda couldn’t tell whether she was serious or not, but there was a level of sincerity in Kameyl that was difficult to doubt, so Çeda gripped her forearm and shook it. Then, without another word, the two of them stepped into position and began moving through forms, warming up to the point that they could cross blades.

  And cross them they did, moving through the same scripted set of moves as in the Sun Palace the night before, though with little of the grave mood. When they reached the point where they could improvise, they let loose, though there were several times that Çeda could tell Kameyl held back rather than inflict a wound. And once or twice, Çeda did the same.

  The Maidens came out when they heard the ring of swordplay. A few at first, then dozens. Some were Çeda’s age, but many were years older. They watched the two of them trade blows with speed, some even whistling shrilly after a sharp exchange.

  Kameyl and Çeda finished, after which the watching Maidens snapped their fingers, some calling, “Don’t go easy on our young dove, Kameyl. It will do her no good in the end.”

  Kameyl ignored them. She stared at Çeda, then Çeda’s blade, which was held easily in one hand. “It’s a start, little wren.”

  “Kameyl!” Above them, Sümeya was standing at the railing, staring down with flinty eyes. “Come.”

  Kameyl nodded to Sümeya, then turned to Çeda. “Careful steps, Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala, and we shall see what we shall see.” She walked past Çeda and took the stairs up, and then she and Sümeya were gone. Jalize followed immediately, but Melis gave Çeda an encouraging nod before she left.

  The following weeks went quickly. Çeda received several sets of black dresses. She took part in morning prayers, kneeling with the Maidens, intoning thanks to each of the gods who had stood atop Tauriyat and saved the Kings on Beht Ihman. Husamettín led them in song afterward. He had a rich baritone that could be heard above the gathered Maidens, though they outnumbered him a hundredfold.

  Their numbers changed constantly. She would count one hundred and eight Maidens one morning, eighty-three the next. Some Maidens would be on patrols in ships, or stationed in caravanserai, or out on special assignment in the streets of Sharakhai. Or wounded, Çeda thought, thinking of the Maiden in the infirmary, her leg missing from the knee down.

  After prayers, Çeda went through forms with the assembled Maidens in the courtyard. She saw with her own eyes how graceful they were, how disciplined. Several dozen children—mostly girls, but some boys—joined in with wooden shinai. Many of the Matrons took part as well, including Zaïde and an old crone named Sayabim, who at eighty-three was still every bit as fluid as the other women. She and Zaïde wore white dresses and hijabs, a stark contrast to the black dresses and turbans of the Maidens.

  When they were finished, Sayabim worked for an hour with Çeda, using a shinai, a slatted bamboo practice sword, to tap Çeda’s wrists and knees and ankles when they were out of alignment. “I’ve no idea how I’m going to unlearn you your ridiculous habits.”

  Çeda had worked with many gifted instructors, her mother and Djaga foremost among them, but Sayabim was a wonder. She might not have the speed she surely had when she was young, but her grace and precision, qualities she demanded from Çeda as well, were refreshing.

  After the morning meal, Çeda was shown the various buildings in the House of Maidens: barracks, refectory, stables, and the archives, where many Matrons lived and had offices to administer to the needs of the Maidens and the Kings. Çeda was set to dusting and then mopping the infirmary floor. She saw the woman there, the Maiden who’d been ambushed by the Moonless Host and had lost her right leg below the knee. She looked haggard, but she was sitting up in bed, reading a book with weathered wooden covers. She was holding it up with one hand while her other hand dug and scratched at the bulky white bandages around her knee.

  When she realized she wasn’t alone, she immediately stopped scratching and closed the book. “What do you want?”

  “I’m here to wash the floors,” Çeda said.

  “Then get to it.”

  Çeda did, moving as fast as she was able. Every time she looked up, the woman was watching her.

  The days that followed fell into a routine. Prayers
in the morning, then forms, then Çeda was sent to clean the stables. One day, however, Zaïde came to her and said it was time.

  “Time for what?”

  “For your visit with your Qaimiri nobleman.”

  Çeda had known it would come, of course, but the days had been passing so quickly it surprised her.

  Zaïde led the way to her own apartments in the archives. Once there, she opened a wardrobe by an open window to reveal dozens of dresses hung within, each of the highest quality. “I thought you might not have one of your own.”

  Çeda could only stare as Zaïde considered them, lifting one, then another, holding some up against Çeda’s frame. “We’re close enough in size that I think these might fit.” She pulled out an ivory dress with carmine accents, a pale violet dress that tightened nicely at the waist, and a brown, ankle-length dress with tiny golden beads that looked like it might have been sewn by Tulathan herself. “Anything of interest?”

  Çeda reached for the brown dress. “May I?”

  Zaïde smiled and held it out to her.

  Çeda laid it across her shoulders and stared down its length. It was beautiful and elegant and rich, like nothing she’d ever worn.

  “Come,” Zaïde said. “Let’s get you bathed, and then we’ll worry about that bird’s nest you call your hair.”

  Çeda ignored the insult. She was too busy thinking what it would be like to be with Ramahd, wearing that dress.

  After a steaming hot bath in the bath house, Zaïde and Sayabim worked on her hair, braiding it carefully and threading rare red pearls through it. They gave her a mirror when they were done, and Çeda could only stare. She hardly recognized herself. She wondered at how this had all come to be. It frightened her how quickly it was happening, but for now she would welcome it, because tomorrow she went to the blooming fields to face the asirim.