A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “We have enough,” Macide said, “and our numbers continue to grow as more heed our call.”

  “You have enough to stand against Sharakhai? Enough to stop the Silver Spears? Their Maidens? The asirim?”

  “My good shaikh, there is but one King who stands before us.”

  Mihir set his glass down on the low table between them with a clack. “Fine, then. You think you can stop Onur?”

  “Not on our own. But if we stand together, yes.”

  Haddad laughed, the coins on her headdress clinking. “Did I not tell you? I said they would come begging favors while foolish tales spill from their mouths.”

  Mihir raised a hand. “Onur wishes to pit himself against Sharakhai. We’d be fools not to allow it. If we fight him now we only weaken ourselves. Join us, Macide. Join us, that we might tear down the walls of Sharakhai!”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking. For four hundred years have we been hunted. For four hundred years have we hidden in the cracks of the desert—”

  “Like cowards,” Haddad interjected.

  At this Macide stopped. He swiveled his head to Haddad. “Mihir, Shaikh of Tribe Kadri, you have allowed this woman to sit beside us. You said her counsel has value. And I’ll not deny you any of that, but if she speaks ill of my tribe again, I’ll cut her tongue from her mouth and throw it at your feet.”

  The hulk of a swordsman behind Haddad lumbered forward, his trunk of an arm reaching for his sword. The rings along the top of his scimitar sounded like rattling chains as he made to draw it, but when Haddad raised her hand he stopped in his tracks.

  The rest of Tribe Kadri bristled, until Mihir raised both hands high, showing his tattoos once more. “Peace,” he said. “Peace.” And slowly, those assembled went silent. “I have a duty to my tribe,” he went on, focusing intently on Macide, “to protect them, to see them safe through the storm.”

  “Then fight! We’ll gather more to our cause before the Kings come.” He waved to Haddad. “And before Malasan can cross our borders like hungry wolves. Join us, and we will cut from the desert the cancer that is Onur before it grows.”

  When Mihir spoke again, his voice held some measure of regret. “I’m afraid it’s too late. The emissary I sent to Onur returned last night. The King has agreed to my terms.”

  “An agreement with the King of Sloth means nothing,” Macide shot back. “Have you not heard of his atrocities—his appetites are obscene. He feasts upon the flesh of man!”

  “These,” Haddad said, leaning toward Mihir, “are but stories, nothing more, shaikh.”

  Mihir nodded. “They do seem far-fetched.”

  “Nothing is too cruel for the Kings of Sharakhai.”

  “You speak of cruelty. Of course they are cruel, but I would use that cruelty against them.” Mihir paused, as if debating how much to share. “I have made overtures to the other shaikhs. For years! But everywhere I was denied. If all came together, some said, then perhaps.”

  “This is precisely my point,” Macide said. “Join us and together we will convince them!”

  When Mihir threw his head back and laughed, Emre saw Macide’s calm exterior crack for the first time. His face reddened slightly, and his jaw worked for a moment before he calmed himself.

  “You have only just begun to gather,” Mihir said. “When the Kings learn of it—and surely they already have—they will order the shaikhs to put a stop to it. You’ll lose the support you need, there will be nowhere in the desert for you to hide. And then the Kings will come for you while the blood mage Hamzakiir picks at your bones.” He stared at Macide sadly. “Come, you know this to be true.”

  “The thirteenth tribe will stand against any who would deny us our right to live.”

  Mihir pressed his hands together and touched them to his lips in prayer. “I beg you. Open your eyes and see the truth. Onur is drawing the Kings’ attention away from you, but it will not last forever.” He poured a fresh glass of araq for both himself and Macide and then downed his in one throw. “Join us,” he said, baring his teeth from the alcohol burn. “Let us use Onur. Let us drive him like a wedge between the other Kings. When the other shaikhs see what we have done, they’ll rally to our cause. Soon the whole of the desert will come together under our banners, and then we can do as we please with the Feasting King.”

  Macide nodded, as if he were considering Mihir’s words, and then said, “Four hundred years ago, Onur stood on the mount in Sharakhai and gave his assent to the sacrifice of my people. He watched as they were enslaved by the power of the gods. He used them to hunt those of us who survived, to murder for the crime of allowing our name to pass their lips. He tried to wipe us from the face of the desert. And you would sit here and ask me to fight for him?”

  Like a candle in rain, the hope in Mihir’s eyes faded. “I had hoped we could do great things together.”

  Macide nodded grimly. “As had I.”

  “Well”—with a sudden inhalation, Mihir took in the camp and ships around him—“there are preparations to make before we sail.”

  “I have one last request. We have no right to ask, but there are some few of our tribe hidden in Onur’s camp. We’ve not heard from them in some time. My father would consider himself in your debt if you would allow two of our number to join you to learn of their fate.”

  Mihir looked ready to deny the request, but then he paused and looked at Emre, then Shal’alara, then the Drifting Sun behind them. His look turned to one of grudging sympathy. “Give us one of the skiffs from your ship. Two may come, as long as they promise to abide by my wishes, and leave as soon as the fate of your brothers and sisters is learned.”

  Macide refilled Mihir’s glass, then took up his own. The two of them raised their glasses, then downed the lot. They stood and hugged, a gesture marked by much less enthusiasm than their earlier embrace, and the camp began breaking down around them.

  Macide led them back toward their ships. As the crew were lowering one of the skiffs, he pulled Emre aside. He reached into his thawb and pulled out an ornate kenshar. “I have another task for you,” he said, and held the kenshar for Emre to take.

  Emre accepted it. “What’s this?”

  “The knife of Mihir’s brother, Anish.”

  “Oh?” Emre tipped his head back toward the Kadri ships. “I assume there’s a reason you didn’t give it to him just now?”

  “There is,” Macide said. “Here’s what I need you to do . . .”

  Chapter 27

  DAVUD HAD NO CONTACT with Sukru in the days following his vision in the blooming fields. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the strange cavern was a secret the Kings wouldn’t have chosen to share. But what could he do?

  He filled his days with reading, but never in his apartments, so as to avoid Anila. He’d asked for and been granted another room to read in. It was high in one of the palace’s towers, with a stunning view through the lone window that overlooked the green estates of Sharakhai’s rich east end. The texts Sukru supplied him with were mostly useless with respect to Davud’s current needs. Nearly all had been written by historians of a sort, or masters from the collegia who’d collected stories about blood magi over the ages. The most useful book was the very first one Sukru had given him. He realized when he came back to it a few days later, however, that a page was missing.

  He couldn’t recall what it contained, but he remembered how intensely Anila had been studying the book, so he returned to their shared room to speak to her. When he arrived, however, Anila’s things were gone.

  The spindly young chambermaid, the one who’d been at the wading pool with Bela, was sweeping the floor around Anila’s bed. She was crying, Davud realized. “Whatever is the matter?” he asked, wondering if something had happened to Anila.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. It’s little Bela.” She waved toward the door, her other hand to her mouth while tear
s streamed from her eyes.

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was sliding down the banisters from the great hall when she slipped and struck her head on the floor.” The maid shrugged, as if to say, it is the will of the fates. “Zahndr found her this morning. Already gone.”

  “Gods . . . My tears for your loss.” She looked so forlorn that he embraced her. “Truly. She was a bright child.”

  She cried, and Davud let her until she pulled away, sniffing loudly and wiping her tears with the backs of her fingers.

  “Forgive my ill manners,” Davud said, “but I need to speak with Anila. Do you know where she’s gone?”

  “She was given another room in the palace, my lord.”

  “Where?”

  “Just this morning.”

  “I said where.”

  She shook her head, as if clearing it of cobwebs. “Forgive me, my lord, I’m no good today. I can take you there, if you please.”

  Davud nodded, waving her toward the door. He felt hard-hearted for doing so, but talking to Anila couldn’t wait. She led him to another wing of the palace, where they came to a door with an iron knocker. As she bowed and walked away, Davud knocked. From within the room he heard a fluttering sound, like the pages of a book being flipped through quickly. When there was no answer he tried again, and heard shuffling footsteps soon after.

  Anila opened the door wearing a flowing purple dress. She’d tied a red scarf around her head to cover her baldness. There were still bandages around her hands and wrists, and one on her right foot, but those around her face and neck had been removed. Her black skin shone, the patterns within it vivid in some places, muted in others.

  Anila made no move to invite him in. “What do you want?”

  “I . . . I didn’t know you were leaving.”

  “Well, you certainly knew I would leave one day.”

  “Yes, but I came back, and you were just gone.”

  “It was time, Davud.” She was stiff as a deck board, her face emotionless. Davud had rarely felt so awkward.

  “Have you heard the news? About Bela?”

  For the first time her hard expression softened, but not as much as Davud would have guessed, especially given how close she and Bela had been. “Yes, I heard.”

  “Might I come in?” he asked.

  “Perhaps another time.”

  Davud waved down the hall, toward their old room. “It’s only, there’s a page missing from the book Sukru gave me.”

  He paused, waiting for her to admit that she’d taken it, but Anila only shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “It was in the book you were looking at.”

  She gave him a shrug, the sort children gave their parents when they were tired of being asked questions. “Ask the maids.”

  Beyond Anila was a large table, and on its surface, beside a number of open books, a bird cage. “What’s that?”

  “Davud, I’m really quite busy.”

  The sound Davud had heard earlier—it had been wings flapping, he realized, not the pages of a book. He pushed his way past her and entered the room. As he came closer to the table, he saw the firefinch lying lifeless on the cage’s floor. “What happened?”

  Anila closed the door and approached with a distinct limp. “It died.”

  “That’s the bird that came to my patio.” The one that brought the golden triangle, and with it the mage known as the Sparrow, but he couldn’t tell Anila that. “The one you were staring at so intently.”

  “And?”

  He rounded on her. “Why is it here?”

  She shrugged. “I liked it. They’re not so difficult to catch.”

  “But it’s dead now.” Gods, the heat from the nearby fireplace was stifling.

  Anila smiled. Then she reached across the table, picked up the cage, and set it before Davud. “No it isn’t.”

  To his surprise the finch was now standing on the floor among the shit and wood shavings, blinking, its wings shivering as if it were clearing sand from its back. It took wing and alighted on a branch in the upper reaches of the cage. Unlike the times he’d seen it on the patio, it now looked and acted quite like a normal bird. It blinked, taking in its surroundings with quick swivels of its head, and as Davud moved his hand closer, it chirped excitedly, flitting about the cage.

  “But it was just lying there,” he said, lowering his hand. “Not moving.”

  “Perhaps the heat was too much for it,” Anila said easily. “Now if you please, I have work to do.”

  “What work?” He motioned to the books. “Did King Sukru give you these?”

  “Well, who else would have?”

  “But why? Are you conducting experiments on that finch?”

  Her expression turned grim. “What if I am?”

  He reached for the handle of the cage. She tried to stop him, but her movements were dulled and pain-filled and he snatched it away. “Experiments of what sort?” he asked, holding the cage up before him to examine the finch.

  “I seem to remember you making it perfectly clear I was not to interfere in your work. I couldn’t ask a question without you lording your power over me. You’ve no right to pry into my business. Now if you please”—she motioned to the cage—“set that down and leave.”

  He couldn’t. The finch tied him to the Sparrow. He wasn’t sure if Anila knew about the link, but he couldn’t leave it to chance. He made for the door, cage in hand.

  “Davud!”

  He kept walking, closing the door with a clatter behind him. Back in his room, he rushed to the patio and opened the cage. The bird fluttered up to the fig tree. Davud chased after it, waving his arms like a fool.

  “Don’t return,” he whispered to it. “Not when she’s near, do you hear me?”

  A moment later, the finch was gone, and a terrible chill went down Davud’s spine. He’d just remembered the missing page from the book.

  It had contained the sigil for death.

  * * *

  Two days later, Davud was summoned to join King Sukru in a short journey down the mountain to the Sun Palace. He went to the grand entrance, where two covered arabas waited in the carriage circle. He was just climbing the stairs into the cabin of the first carriage when he realized it wasn’t empty. Anila was sitting on one of the benches, a blue scarf around her head matching her long, patterned dress and strapped leather sandals.

  She looked defiant, not toward him, but the world. A part of him was pleased to see her again, but given where they were about to go . . .

  “Did Sukru ask you to come?” Davud asked.

  “And a good day to you as well.”

  Davud shook his head, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It’s only, I was surprised to see you.” When she said nothing, he went on. “Did he, Anila? Summon you?”

  She released a pent-up breath. “Breath of the desert, you’re exasperating, Davud . . .”

  She looked as if she was about to say more when her attention was caught by something outside the window. Davud turned and saw four Kings walking down the palace steps toward the second wagon: Sukru, bent and aged; Cahil, who looked nearly as young as Davud; Husamettín, the King of Swords; and the imposing form of Kiral, King of Kings.

  Gods, Davud thought, four of them. Clearly the vision he’d stumbled upon of the strange cavern was much more important than he’d guessed.

  “Has it ever occurred to you,” Anila went on, “that Sukru values my opinion? You’ve a brilliant mind, and you would be a valuable asset, a keen advisor in any King’s court. It’s a pity you don’t think the same of me.”

  The carriage lurched into motion, the Kings having entered behind them. Around the carriage circle they went. When they’d passed beyond the palace walls, the amber sand met a sky of hazy blue. With a steep drop-off on their left, they followed King
’s Road, the whole of Sharakhai sprawled below them.

  “I do think the same of you,” Davud said. “You know that.”

  Jaw jutting, Anila stared out her window. “How I tire of men who speak with words and never deeds.”

  She had bandages around her wrists and ankles. Her elbows were ashen gray and flaking, as were the spots along her neck below her ears, but otherwise she looked as whole as she would ever be. Davud could see how much it still pained her, though. Even small movements on the bench made her grimace. Anila had never been one to admit or show weakness, and the tendency had intensified since Ishmantep—the indefatigable courage in her eyes was sharper, on display more often. He wanted to tell her all this, but she’d nearly died because of him. He had no doubt she would prove to be a valuable advisor to any of the Kings, but he couldn’t willingly aide her desire to follow in his path.

  “I don’t need your ruddy permission,” she spat at him, guessing his mind, “nor your approval. I’ll find my way to power with or without you.” When he made no reply, she made a disgusted sound and leaned heavily into her seat, refusing to look at him.

  The ride passed in cold silence. The araba went lower along the mountain, coming nearer and nearer to their destination, the Sun Palace.

  “Anila . . .” Davud pinched the bridge of his nose. Why was this so difficult? With Amalos gone, hadn’t he said how much he wanted someone he could confide in? “When the gods saw fit to put us together on that ship, when Hamzakiir finally granted me my plea, and we ended up together, I . . . I thought it meant something.”

  Davud could see Anila chewing the inside of her lip, something she did when she was nervous. “What did you think it meant?”

  “That we were supposed to be together. It’s why I was so hurt when you paid more attention to Tayyar than me.”

  “I told you, that was because—”

  “I know, to gain his trust.” Tayyar was the man tasked with ensuring their return to Sharakhai. She had gained his trust and later used it to lure him into the desert and drive a ruddy great stone against his skull. “I don’t blame you for it. And when we escaped and reached Ishmantep, I was sure the gods were ready to reward us. But they stole it all away. Stole your life from you. Your future. Stole our future together.”