A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  For the first time, Davud showed emotion. He swallowed once, hard, but then he closed his eyes and gripped Çeda’s wrist firmly. Immediately she felt a small but rapidly growing presence: Davud, with Cahil but a dim torch in the distance.

  “What is it you wish to know, my Kings?” Davud asked.

  Çeda thought Cahil might say something, but his face had gone pale, and he was breathing hard, as if it was all he could do to keep hold of Davud’s hand.

  “Her allies in the House of Maidens,” Husamettín said. “Name them and the help they provided.”

  Davud turned to Çeda. Gods, his eyes. Cold as winter steel. How could he have changed so much?

  Davud’s presence brightened in her mind, but strangely, although his eyes remained fixed on her, she felt him pressing on Cahil. Cahil’s brow and upper lip started to sweat. His breath came so fast he sounded like a saw cutting green wood. And then, with no preamble whatsoever, his eyes closed and he slumped onto the table.

  He slid slowly off and would have fallen to the floor had Sümeya not rushed to catch him. A servant pulled his chair out and laid him on the floor while another rushed to summon a physic. Sukru hovered around them as the physic arrived and tended to Cahil. “Is a delay in order?”

  “He seems only to have fainted.” Kiral waved a hand toward Davud. “Continue. This is too important to wait.”

  Davud seemed to be concentrating, his breath coming rapidly as Cahil’s had, and yet she felt no assault against her mind. He isn’t trying, Çeda realized. A moment later, she understood why.

  “She had no help from within the House of Maidens,” Davud said, regret and conviction coloring the tones of his voice.

  It was all she could do to keep the relief from showing on her face. Davud was lying for her. She had no idea why, but she played her part. She jerked her head from side to side, struggled against her restraints, tightened the muscles along her neck, and bore down hard to make her face redden, feigning being trapped in Davud’s spell.

  “She had allies,” Husamettín insisted. “Find them.”

  Davud nodded. He licked his lips and his eyes flicked to the far end of the table where Kings Azad, Zeheb, and Ihsan were sitting, but then he pulled his gaze back to the King of Swords as if he were afraid to look anywhere else. “I have, my King.”

  “Then out with it!” Sukru snapped.

  “I’m afraid . . .” Davud shifted uncomfortably. “I’m afraid she had the help of a King.”

  For a moment no one moved. The Kings looked surprised, angry, even contemptuous. Zeheb set his goblet down on the table with a loud thump. The wine splashed over the edge and soaked into the fine needlepoint runner.

  Sukru stood. “Clear the room! Now! You as well, Zahndr. Leave no one in the hall.”

  The man named Zahndr bowed and left. The servants followed, including those tending to Cahil, which left the Confessor King awake but slumped in his chair, groggy and holding his head tightly in his hands. The Maidens went last, Sümeya sparing one last glance for Çeda that was nearly impossible to interpret. Pity? Anger?

  When they’d gone, Çeda watched Ihsan surreptitiously. Did Davud know of the Honey-tonged King’s involvement? Was he going to expose Ihsan?

  “Now speak,” Husamettín said to Davud. “Tell us what you saw.”

  “I saw messages exchanged between Çedamihn and a King. Clandestine talks explaining how to defeat Külaşan, and then Mesut. And more. Had she not been unveiled, she would have gone for Onur next, for the King shared his bloody verse, as he called it.”

  “Prove it,” Cahil spat. His skin was pale as snow, but the hunger to see someone burn had returned. “Speak the verse.”

  Doubt and worry were clear on Davud’s face. To speak such a thing—indeed, merely knowing that the bloody verses existed—was enough to get him killed. It likely would, unless the Kings found him indispensable, and what were the chances of that?

  “His reign began,

  As taken man,

  A King with loosened tongue;

  With but a sigh,

  Near Bakhi’s scythe,

  His form is drawn and wrung.

  When Gods of sky,

  Do close their eyes;

  Dread hunger burns, enflamed;

  Though horror grows,

  Like budding rose,

  That craved, remade his bane.”

  The Kings shared stoney looks but no one said a word against Davud or claimed the verse was false.

  Çeda’s gaze was drawn to Ihsan. The verse was a reminder of the bargain they’d made on Tauriyat, that if Çeda took Onur’s life, he would disclose her father’s name. But when Ihsan finally caught her eye, he had the look of a man who was cutting his losses—understandable given how closely the Kings were watching each other. But it made Çeda’s heart go cold.

  He’d done this, she realized. All of it. Arranging for Çeda to be moved. Gathering the Kings together. Feeding the information to Davud to reveal here. So she knew that when Davud gave a name, it would be anyone but Ihsan.

  “Who helped her?” Husamettín asked.

  Davud swung his gaze to Zeheb’s stocky form. “The King of Whispers.”

  All eyes swung to Zeheb. Çeda had been so fixated on the other Kings, she’d hardly noticed him. He was staring at the tabletop with a look of confusion, blinking as if he’d just stepped into the sun after days spent hiding in his palace. She doubted he’d even heard Husamettín’s question, nor Davud’s reply.

  “Zeheb?” Husamettín snapped.

  Zeheb swung his gaze to his left, the rolls of his neck shifting over his collar as he did so. “What?”

  “Did you speak with her?”

  Zeheb looked to him, confused. “With whom?”

  Husamettín stood, his chair scraping back noisily. “Did you give Çeda Külaşan’s bloody verse? And Mesut’s and Onur’s?”

  Zeheb shook his head. “No,” he said gently, as if Husamettín had just offered him more wine. What in the wide great desert was wrong with the man?

  Husamettín swung his gaze to Çeda. “Was it King Zeheb? Did he aid you in your mission?”

  And here it was. Ihsan had somehow set up the pieces to implicate Zeheb. The question now was, should she?

  But what choice was there? If it worked, it would topple another King from the heights of Sharakhai. And she would still have her deal with Ihsan.

  With a look of defiance, she said, “What of it?”

  The room exploded with voices. Some cast doubt on Çeda’s admission. Others, Ihsan among them, pleaded with Zeheb to tell them what he knew, ostensible allies searching for some reasonable explanation. Azad and Husamettín, however, demanded Zeheb defend himself.

  All the while, Zeheb stared as if he hardly recognized them, confusion in his eyes. Doubt. Worry.

  “Let him speak!” Kiral shouted, and finally the voices quelled, all eyes on Zeheb.

  “Did you plot against your brother Kings?” Kiral asked, his voice calm as winter’s dawn.

  Zeheb fumbled for words. “I . . . I don’t believe so. I wouldn’t . . .”

  The room was deadly quiet as understanding seemed to finally dawn on Zeheb. His eyes shed their lethargy, becoming wild as the madmen along the Trough. “I would never!”

  “Take them away,” Kiral said to Sukru, waving darkly toward Davud and Çeda.

  Sümeya and Kameyl were summoned to lead Çeda and Davud from the room, as Zeheb cried, “Kiral, tell me what’s happening!”

  Sounds of a struggle erupted behind them. Çeda thought they were killing him, but a moment later, Kiral’s voice boomed, “Tie him to the chair.” The sounds from the room died away as they strode down the palace halls, until all that was left were the muffled sounds of Zeheb’s rantings. Davud kept glancing back, though, the worry clear on his face.

 
Çeda looked back as well and saw that Zahndr, Sukru’s guardsman, had peeled away from the wall and was following them.

  “Are you well?” Çeda asked Davud under her breath.

  “Yes,” he replied. He was rubbing his forehead with the look of a man working up to something.

  Yndris clouted Davud’s ear. “No talking!”

  Davud shook his head, looking confused. “If I could just speak to Çeda for a moment.”

  “You may not!” Yndris said, and shoved him hard against the wall. She held him there, one forearm pressed against his throat.

  Davud clamped his hand with the bloody sigil over Yndris’s forehead.

  Her eyes bulged and her mouth opened in a silent scream. Davud had hardly touched her, yet she reeled backward as if she’d been kicked by a mule.

  Melis and Kameyl pulled Çeda back.

  Sümeya charged Davud, who pressed his palms together, then spread his hands out as if warning Sümeya not to come near.

  Zahndr was chanting something behind Çeda. He was staring intently at Davud, his hands moving before him in strange ways, as if he were shaping clay. Çeda was still in chains, but Zahndr was close enough that she could duck her shoulder and drive it hard into his chest.

  Zahndr was thrown backward. He twisted awkwardly as he fell, trying to keep his feet but managing only to increase his pace as he tumbled to the immaculate marble floor.

  A terrible wind howled through the halls, almost knocking Çeda off her feet, but then it quelled as it swirled around her like a dust devil. The Maidens and Zahndr, however, were blown back like leaves in a gale. The five of them, including Yndris’s unconscious form, were sent sliding, spinning, crashing into pedestals and potted plants, coming to a rest twenty paces down the hall.

  “Davud, what in the gods’ names are you doing?” Çeda asked.

  He was staring at her with a look of deep regret. “I’m sorry, Çeda.”

  He pressed his hands toward one another, and a flame formed between them. It was not so different from what Hamzakiir had done, sending balls of flame after Husamettín when they’d fought along the top of the aqueduct. As Davud turned his hands toward her, the flame was released like an arrow from a bow. She tried to dodge it but she was too near, the flame moving too fast.

  Suddenly it split in two, the twin ropes of fire spilling against the floor to her right and the wall on her left. As the flames licked upward, Davud turned to see Zahndr sprinting along the hallway.

  Davud tried to create another ball of flame, but Zahndr moved his hands in arcane rhythms, somehow working against the spell. A candle flame was born between Davud’s hands, but it grew no larger. Again he tried to release it at Çeda. It became thin and tenuous as it moved toward her, twisting like a sidewinder, then fell across Çeda’s thighs and lit her clothes afire.

  Zahndr was there immediately, putting it out, then pulling her away from the fire, which was coughing smoke and burning like spilled lamp oil on the marble floor.

  In that moment, Çeda saw Davud staring at her with a look like he had no idea what was happening to him. He turned and flung something to the floor, something that glinted like gold—an amulet, perhaps, or a large earring. The thing grew, spinning just above the floor. And inside it . . . Breath of the desert, she saw not the marble flooring of Sukru’s palace, but somewhere else entirely. A dark room. A hearth fire.

  Something flew from Zahndr’s hand and struck Davud across the back of his head, sending him reeling. He tipped forward . . . and fell through the hole.

  “No!” Zahndr shouted, diving for Davud’s ankle.

  But Davud was already through and the strange device was shrinking, ever smaller. When it was the size of small melon a brightly colored bird flew through the opening, and then, when it was once again the size of an earring, it fell and chimed against the floor. As they watched, the bird picked it up in its beak and flew away, leaving a stunned silence in the halls of Sukru’s palace.

  Chapter 43

  DAVUD FELL HARD onto a matted woven rug. He was in the center of a stiflingly hot room, a space filled with a myriad of cages and the sounds of chirping birds.

  Gods, my head.

  Beside him he found the knife Zahndr had thrown at him. How could something that small make him feel like someone had taken a hammer to the back of his skull? His fingers probed. Pain flared around the site of the wound. The hair all around it was matted with blood. The cut didn’t feel terribly large, but the pain was adding to the splitting headache that had been building since he’d awoken early that morning. He hadn’t been able to shake it since he’d spoken with—

  “Well, hello,” the Sparrow’s voice called from the darkened hallway.

  For a moment, the chirping sounds abated, but they picked up a moment later as Davud stood, confused. It felt as if a bag had been placed over his head. For the life of him he couldn’t remember what he’d just been thinking about. A brightly colored hallway? A twisting ribbon of flame? He put his palms to his eyes and tried to press away the pain, but it felt as if the blasted birds had escaped their cages and were determined to peck their way inside his head.

  Then it all came back in a rush. The sigil the firefinch had given him. Practicing it for hours along with the others he knew he’d need. Conducting Çeda’s questioning and uncovering Zeheb’s treachery.

  Çeda . . . He should have brought her here, but he hadn’t, had he? He’d been knocked through the spinning triangle.

  Nalamae’s sweet tears, I attacked her.

  He remembered how hungry he’d been for her death. But what had made him do it? For the life of him he couldn’t remember.

  “You seem to be missing some few of your promised friends.”

  The footsteps shuffled closer. The door swung wide, and the Sparrow was revealed at last.

  Davud felt the blood drain from his face. By the gods, it was Sukru.

  * * *

  After Anila had left Davud’s room, she headed back toward hers but stopped in her tracks when she saw Zahndr ahead, leaning against the wall. He’d known she would come here, which made her wonder if he’d overheard anything.

  “You don’t have to follow me everywhere I go,” she said as she brushed past him.

  He fell into step beside her. “Were Sukru to give you an express order, would you consider disobeying it?”

  She thought he had some further point to make, but when he remained silent she realized he expected an answer, which made her wary.

  “No,” she said carefully, “unless there was new information Sukru wasn’t aware of.”

  Zahndr tipped his head cordially. “A reasonable reply were we not speaking of the Kings of Sharakhai. And you should know that Sukru is the least forgiving of them. When he gives an order, I follow it. And so will you.”

  “I wasn’t told not to speak to Davud.”

  “You were told to leave him alone.”

  “I didn’t realize that meant avoid him entirely. We are friends, after all.”

  “You’re a smart girl, Anila.” Zahndr grabbed her by the elbow and began leading her back toward her room. “You should’ve bloody well figured it out.”

  “Unhand me!”

  “Why, certainly, my lady.”

  He kept his hand where it was, though, forcing her to keep up or be dragged. His grip was not rough, yet on her altered skin it felt like a snake bite. It also gave her some surprising insights into Zahndr. Before Ishmantep, she was like anyone else. She saw life when she gazed upon people or animals or desert flora. She often marveled at how any of them could master the Great Shangazi and thrive.

  Now she saw death, decay, and disease, however subtle their shading. Zahndr’s skin, which to anyone else would appear a light shade of copper but to her looked dark, seemed almost rotted in places, especially where blood flowed the strongest. Some sort of affliction was eating
its way out of him. She could smell it on his breath, the scent of rot, which she could smell on many, including, strangely enough, King Sukru. In Zahndr, however, it was more pronounced, the difference between smelling a midden from the back alleys of Sharakhai and rolling around in one. She was unsure of the nature of the affliction—she’d hardly studied such things at the collegia—but she was sure it was nearing the point where he would succumb to it.

  When they reached her room, Zahndr shoved her inside. “Stay here, lest Bela’s fate befall you.”

  Anila felt as if he’d physically struck her. “What?” When he tried closing the door, she put her hand to it and held it open. “What did you say about Bela?”

  Zahndr sneered. “Perhaps you’re not half as smart as you thought.” With that, he shoved her away and slammed the door. A moment later she heard the metallic clink of the lock engaging.

  She tried to force it open, but it wouldn’t budge. “Tell me what you meant about Bela!”

  His reply was the sound of dwindling footsteps.

  Bela, he’d said. Bela’s fate . . . Everyone had said it was an accident when Zahndr found her at the bottom of the stairs.

  As she stood before the stout door, a dark fury grew inside her, threatening to boil over. A year ago she might have let it, but if Ishmantep had taught her anything, it was that her worst emotions must be bottled, not to be ignored but to be employed with care and precision.

  She who allows her emotions to run wild becomes a tool of the fates. Control them, however, and your fate becomes your own.

  Kneeling before the door, she placed her hand over the lock. Just as she could feel decay in living things, she could feel it in materials as well. From the lock itself, the metal, she felt nothing. It was like the void of a moonless night to her new senses. The door was different. The wood was stout and lustrous, well maintained, and she felt some echo of the life it once had. But she also felt its slow decay. She concentrated on it, accentuating its hunger. Like an apple going to rot, once it began, it spread quickly, until the wood was dark and soft all around the lock. All it took was a quick tug and it sprung free. Bits of black, moldy wood crumbled from around the handle and lock and fell to the floor as she swung it wide.