A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Alone in the darkness, Çeda gave up and fell into a fitful sleep.

  Chapter 38

  WHEN IHSAN RETURNED TO HIS PALACE, the bright fury he’d felt in Zeheb’s throne room had diminished to a burning crimson flame, one of many that lit him with purpose, that fueled him when it felt like the road he traveled was too dangerous or too long or too ambitious. If he had been the only one threatened by Zeheb, he might have overlooked it. He was a patient man and could afford to be more patient because of the elixir Nayyan had perfected to carry him through the decades that lay ahead.

  But Zeheb hadn’t been satisfied with threatening only Ihsan. He’d threatened Nayyan. And worse, Ihsan’s unborn child. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect her.

  You have grossly underestimated me, my good King.

  “Something’s happened,” Nayyan said to him a few nights later. “What is it?”

  He’d told her nothing about Zeheb, nor would he for now. “Kiral. I can’t wipe his smug face from my mind.”

  He’d ordered his scribes to copy every single one of Yusam’s journals before delivering the originals to Kiral. He’d tried reading the duplicates in the days since, but he’d got nowhere. He couldn’t concentrate on the complexities of Yusam’s visions.

  He hadn’t lied to Nayyan. He was annoyed by Kiral. But he was consumed by how helpless he’d felt in the darkness of Zeheb’s throne room, how inconsequential in the face of Zeheb’s bloody henchman, the Kestrel, who held him down like some base criminal. An afterthought. A piece of dross. And Zeheb! Cloaking himself in righteous indignation as if Ihsan was in the wrong.

  You’ve made a terrible error, my good King. You’ve no idea what I could do to you.

  Nayyan, naked in bed next to him, shoved him. “You’re brooding again.”

  “I know,” he said, “I’ll stop.”

  “Good.”

  “But perhaps only after I walk into Kiral’s palace and command his men to deliver the journals here. Perhaps I’ll have Kiral hand me his crown while I’m at it.”

  Nayyan shrugged. “Be prepared to meet Sunshearer if you do.”

  “I might tell him to run it through his own gut, like Husamettín does with that bloody black sword of his.”

  Ihsan smiled, picturing it, but Nayyan became suddenly serious and propped herself up on one elbow. “Do you think he would?”

  He pulled her back down, ran his fingers through her hair. “It was only a jest.”

  “I know,” she replied, taking his hand and kissing it several times. She shifted closer, lifted one leg and lay it across his. “But if it came to that”—she moved closer, ran her fingertips through the hair on his chest—“would he?”

  As her fingers moved steadily lower along his stomach, he stared at the grand ceiling above. He felt the warmth of her sex as she began grinding slowly against his hip. “In truth, I’d give even chances between him complying and my head being lopped off in the moments he was able to resist.”

  She scratched the hair between his legs, her hand brushing unsubtly against his rapidly hardening cock. Using one finger, she touched his helm, as she called it, and ran soft circles around it. Pleasure swelled as she gripped his shaft and slid the skin down until it could go no further. She held it for two beats of his heart, kissing him warmly on the neck, then began to stroke him in long, slow movements. “May it never come to that.”

  He ran his hand down her back, admiring her by touch alone. She pulled the sheet and blanket back, exposing him to the knees, then moved herself steadily downward, using the drape of her hair to tickle his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, all while continuing to stroke him. He twisted in the bed and moved his head between her thighs, kissing, licking, taking her in his mouth as she did the same with him. For a time, the two of them lost themselves in one another, moving like the hot currents of air that eddied around Tauriyat in the height of summer, twining, moving through one another, until they crested, each shuddering rhythmically, Nayyan first, then Ihsan. They descended like the waning sun and lay side by side, languid as the end of day.

  Her head cradled against his chest, one of her legs draped over his, she spoke softly. “I tell you true, if Tulathan came this very night and said if I would lose a hand, I could walk in the open with you, I would do it.” She looked up at him. “Wouldn’t you?”

  He made a show of considering it. “Would it have to be my hand?”

  Insult and injury somehow accentuated the sultry look in her eyes as she formed the perfect smile. “You’d rather I give one of mine?”

  Squeezing her right breast with one hand, a smooth cheek of her buttocks with the other, he said, “I need both of mine.”

  “And I don’t?”

  He took her hand and placed it on his softening cock. “One will do.”

  She gripped him and squeezed hard. When he ground his hips into the motion and released a ridiculously exaggerated moan of pleasure, she bit his nipple until he shouted for her to stop.

  Laughing, they fell into silence and stillness once more.

  His mind lingered, though. He would walk with her in the light of day. They couldn’t hide her pregnancy forever. And he didn’t know that he wanted to. Because no one knew the effect the transformation might be having on the child as it grew within her, they’d taken to using the necklace less and less. Nayyan declined the vast majority of official functions. And those where King Azad did make an appearance, it was kept as short as possible. The other Kings had noticed, and had questioned it in their last council meeting before Beht Zha’ir. In her disguise as Azad, Nayyan had given them prepared excuses, most related to the threat of the Moonless Host in Sharakhai.

  With the danger of the Host all but extinguished, however, Ihsan would need to find another excuse.

  “Is it time for Nayyan to step forward as Queen?” he wondered aloud.

  She looked up at him, considering, perhaps weighing his earnestness. “Not yet.”

  She was right, of course. But how he wished for it. “Soon,” he said, the same useless, grating refrain he’d been spouting for years.

  From beyond the scalloped archway leading to his sitting room, a bell rang. As he slipped from the bed and pulled on a silk robe, it rang again.

  “My Lord King?” came a hoary voice.

  It was Tolovan, but he sounded excited, a quality no one would typically associate with that placid man.

  Ihsan moved quickly to the small greeting room, where heavy green curtains were draped across the entry to his apartments. “Come,” he said.

  Tolovan’s tall form pushed through the curtains. His face was flushed with worry. “Excellence,” he said in an undertone, “word has come. Çeda has been captured.”

  Ihsan felt a tingling sensation run along his spine and went to his dressing room. Tolovan followed. “Where is she being kept?” Ihsan called over his shoulder.

  “Husamettín’s palace.”

  Husamettín, Ihsan thought. He’s nearly as bad as Cahil and Kiral. He was so bloody inflexible. “Tell me what you know.”

  “She was apparently taken near the blooming fields by Husamettín himself and the Blade Maidens in Çeda’s old hand.”

  “Has she been questioned?”

  “I wasn’t told, my Lord King.”

  “Send a messenger now. Inform them I’ll be arriving shortly, and request that they wait for my arrival before doing anything further.”

  When Tolovan had left, Nayyan said, “I’ll join you,” already half dressed in King Azad’s raiment.

  “We can’t both appear interested. Return to your palace. I’ll send word once it’s done.”

  Nayyan was clearly eager to join him. “I told you she was dangerous.”

  “I’ve never disagreed.”

  “But you’ve still not cut her loose. You should have, months ago.”

  �
�Not now, Nayyan.”

  She looked like she wanted to say more, but she held her tongue and left.

  When Ihsan reached Husamettín’s palace, he heard shouting well before he reached the throne room. Husamettín’s vizira, a woman who could easily be mistaken for the King’s twin, showed him inside, where he found Husamettín with three other Kings—Kiral, Sukru, and Cahil.

  They looked as if they were in the streets outside an oud parlor, a brawl about to begin. Kiral and Sukru stood to one side, watching Cahil practically scream at Husamettín. And Husamettín, their King of Swords, Lord of the Blade Maidens, was standing at the foot of the daïs before his throne, arms crossed, his face serene as a block of bloody granite. His sword, Night’s Kiss, hung by his side, as much a part of the stoic King as his broad shoulders, his closely shorn hair or his dark, trim beard. It was, Ihsan decided, as delicious a scene as he could remember in the halls of Tauriyat.

  “She attacked me,” Cahil railed. “She killed two of your brother Kings. She nearly killed Yndris, my daughter, who is still in pain every waking moment from her injuries!”

  “Be that as it may,” Husamettín said, his dark eyes unimpressed by Cahil’s argument. “I found her in the desert. If she is a prize then she is mine to do with as I please.”

  “A prize?” Spittle flew from Cahil’s mouth. “She is a traitor!”

  “And will be treated as such,” Husamettín said evenly.

  “I have the right to question her. I demand it!”

  When Husamettín remained unswayed, Cahil turned to Kiral, for all the world an angry boy appealing to his baba.

  Kiral stared at him a moment, the pockmarks on his face standing out in the light thrown by the braziers along the walls. “Our Confessor King has a point,” he said, lifting his eyes to Husamettín.

  “I have not asked you here,” Husamettín said, “to discuss how Çedamihn will be treated, nor where, nor by whom. I informed you out of courtesy, and to seek your council. I used one of my hounds on her, to unlock her secrets, but Sehid-Alaz came to her aid. I might try again, but I fear he may break his bonds, and then—”

  “Enough!” Cahil broke in. “I am not requesting permission. I have come for the traitor, and I will have her—”

  “My good Kings,” Ihsan said before Husamettín could respond.

  But Cahil went on. “I have the right to question her. If Husamettín has doubts about how far I’ll go to protect that right”—both hands moved to his weapons, his right to a gleaming war hammer, his left to a long, curved fighting knife—“he may say so now.”

  Ihsan came to a stop several paces away, but turned as the throne room doors were opened behind him. Zeheb had joined them. He stared, clearly confused. Sukru eyed Husamettín as if he were ready to uncoil his whip and stand beside Cahil. Kiral was raising his hands, ready to play the role of diplomat, but Husamettín spoke before he could.

  “I do not wish for this to come to blows, Cahil Thariis’ala. But know that if it does, it will not end until one of us lies dead.” He’d not moved an inch toward the pommel of his sword, but Ihsan could see how ready he was.

  Cahil was incensed. His callow face reddened, enraged, he drew his knife and pointed it at Husamettín’s head. “I will have that girl.”

  “You will not,” came Husamettín’s easy reply.

  “Enough!” Kiral shouted, raising his hands in a sign of peace.

  But Husamettín was already on the move. He drew Night’s Kiss, a razor-sharp length of glimmering ebon steel. Before it had even cleared its scabbard, Cahil charged, drawing and swinging his bright war hammer in a downward blow. Husamettín sidestepped and used the draw of his sword to slash for Cahil’s exposed side.

  Cahil blocked with his fighting knife while swinging the hammer’s sharp point for Husamettín’s sword arm. He actually caught him, the point tearing the sleeve of Husamettín’s khalat and drawing blood, but then Night’s Kiss was blurring through the air. Cahil was immediately driven back. The ring of their weapons filled the audience hall. Sukru looked on with wild eyes, Kiral with horror.

  Ihsan actually considered letting them fight. He would shed no tears for Cahil. And if Husamettín were killed, well, he might have lost a potential ally, but the man was a rigid obstacle Ihsan would have to contend with one day anyway; what better way than for their King of Truth, Cahil, to have done it for him? Ihsan might even press for Cahil to lose a hand for what he’d done; he was an imbecile who, much like his pretty, boyish face, never seemed to mature. His fall from grace could only serve to help Ihsan.

  Kiral ordered them both to stop, and they ignored him.

  Night’s Kiss blurred. It hummed like a rattlewing, darkness billowing in its wake. Cahil tried to mount an offensive, but Husamettín was quick as his blade. He foiled every attempt Cahil made to strike, taking not so much as another scratch, while Night’s Kiss delivered a cut along Cahil’s thigh, another to his shoulder, a third that cost Cahil his fighting knife as Husamettín’s sword cut viciously across his guard.

  Ihsan waited, knowing that to act too soon would turn too much attention on him, but when Sukru, a staunch ally of Cahil’s, uncoiled his whip, and Kiral warded him away with a wave of his long arm, he knew it was time. As Husamettín’s sword described a blinding, buzzing flurry of blows, Ihsan put up his hands and roared, “Stop!”

  Tulathan’s power flowed as his voice stormed through the room. The walls could hardly contain it. He felt it reach out and seize Husamettín and Cahil.

  In truth Ihsan didn’t know what the effect would be. He’d used it so rarely on the Kings, and never on these two. They were both so headstrong, he thought perhaps they would shrug it off—Husamettín at least, if not Cahil—but neither did. Both halted, lowered their weapons, and turned toward Ihsan as if awaiting orders.

  “Please,” Ihsan said, drawing less of Tulathan’s power. “We cannot fight over one prisoner, traitor or not.” He took a step toward them, his hands to his sides in an open, placating gesture. “Your battle does the work of our enemies for them. There must be some arrangement we can make. Husamettín mentioned Sehid-Alaz. We cannot risk him commanding more of the asirim against us, nor can we risk his death.” Ihsan motioned carefully toward Sukru. “Why not give Çedamihn to a neutral party? Sukru has a young mage in his house who might work to unlock her secrets.”

  “The mage knows her,” Husamettín said slowly, as if he was just risen from a very long slumber. “They were childhood friends in Roseridge.” His eyes were angry, and a touch confused. No doubt part of him wished to separate Cahil’s head from his shoulders. Much like Zeheb after he’d recovered from the effects of Ihsan’s power, Husamettín would be angry about what Ihsan had done. But Ihsan had appealed to the part of him that searched for tranquility. Husamettín was a man more accustomed to the grip of a sword than anyone else in the Great Shangazi, yet he also valued accord and the gains that could be made in times of peace.

  “What of it?” Ihsan said. “Sukru can oversee the proceedings. We can all be there to watch. Once we have what we want, we can decide who will take charge of our errant Maiden.”

  For long moments no one spoke. Sukru looked pleased, though it was difficult to tell on his perpetually sour face. Zeheb watched Ihsan warily. Husamettín and Cahil stared at one another, the air between them charged. Cahil, wisely, slipped his hammer back into its steel ring on his belt. “Very well,” he said, keeping his eyes on Husamettín.

  “Very well,” Ihsan echoed, turning to Husamettín. “Might it not be best to separate Çeda from Sehid-Alaz in any case?”

  Husamettín was still eyeing Cahil intently. He glanced at Ihsan, but then nodded once to Kiral, sheathing Night’s Kiss.

  “We are agreed,” Ihsan said. “Let Sukru take Çeda to his palace, where we’ll meet on the morrow’s afternoon. And then we shall see what we shall see.”

  Ihsan used none of his
power now. He couldn’t risk any more than he already had, and he was already certain they would agree to his request.

  Kiral, ever the statesman, nodded first, then the others, at which point Ihsan nodded back to them all with a calculated smile. “Very good. I’m sure you’ll have arrangements to make.”

  And with that he gave a quick bow of his head while backing away. When he turned to head for the exit, he ignored Zeheb completely. As he closed the door behind him, he heard Husamettín say something, but he could spare no more thought for them. He had a very short window of time if the other part of this harried plan was to work.

  It took all the patience he had to keep his pace steady as he walked to his heavy coach and waited as its four horses pulled out from the courtyard and began winding down the mountain toward his palace. When the path met King’s Road, he called for the driver to stop.

  “Unbuckle the lead horse,” he said, stepping out of the coach.

  “Yes, Excellence.”

  When he’d done that, Ihsan leapt up to the back of the horse, gripping the akhala’s silvery mane. “Wait for me below my palace, on the hidden bend. Speak of this to no one.”

  Gripped in Ihsan’s power, the driver nodded numbly, climbed up to the bench, and gave the reins a sharp snap. Then Ihsan was off, riding hard for Sukru’s palace.

  The gates were open, and Ihsan rode through. Several Silver Spears watched from the walls and from the gatehouse. A footman approached, with more servants standing at the entrance to the palace. Ihsan had used his power sparingly over the years, for many reasons. But this was no time for half measures.

  “Attend me!” he shouted, opening the floodgates.

  His power flowed through the courtyard. Drove its way through doors and windows. All those who heard came and stood before him. It felt good to let the full effect of Tulathan’s gift course through him. It was a heady thing, vibrant, nearly as strong as the moment the goddess had spoken his bloody verse, thereby granting him his second voice.