A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “I have to piss,” Çeda said as the silence continued to lengthen. “I’d rather do it in the bushes than in the back of a wagon.”

  The window at the front of the wagon snapped open, and Sümeya’s face appeared there. “If ever there was a time for silence, Çedamihn, it is now.” She slid the door shut with a loud clack.

  Çeda was tempted to goad her again, but there was something in the way she’d spoken, as if she were on the cusp of changing her mind about something.

  Through the window at the rear, Çeda saw sunlight fade. Stars began to glint through an apricot sky, and the heat in the wagon, thank the gods, began to abate.

  “She should be here by now,” Çeda heard Melis whisper.

  “There’s time yet.”

  “I’m still not sure this is wise,” Melis said, her voice soft but urgent.

  Sümeya’s reply was calm reassurance. “We no longer have a choice.”

  A choice in what, Çeda thought, killing me? But if that were so, why wait? Why not slit her throat and be done with it?

  “There she is,” Sümeya said a short while later.

  Soon Çeda heard a lone horse coming toward them.

  The wagon rocked; a sharp crunch of stones followed, Sümeya leaping down from the driver’s bench. Soon there came the clank of the bar at the back of the wagon being lifted. The hinges groaned as the door swung wide. Sümeya was there, Melis behind her, and beyond them, a Matron rode toward them. Her identity was obscured by the darkness, but Çeda quickly recognized her.

  By the gods. Zaïde.

  As Zaïde pulled up, Sümeya met her and held the reins of her horse. Çeda realized she’d been wrong about their location on Tauriyat. They weren’t along the road to Husamettín’s palace, but in a small vale lower down the mountain. It was used as a festival grounds to honor the rites of spring and autumn. More importantly, it was largely hidden from view.

  “Is all prepared?” Sümeya asked.

  “Yes,” Zaïde replied, who untied a sack from her saddle. Zaïde may have seen the better part of seventy summers, but she carried herself like a woman decades younger. “Have you told her?”

  “No,” Sümeya said, turning back to Çeda. Zaïde, holding the small sack, approached. Melis flanked her. All three stared soberly at Çeda.

  “What’s happening?” Çeda asked.

  Sümeya took a deep breath before speaking again. “When we found you in the desert, you shared the tale of an asir with Melis.”

  “No, what I shared was a story concocted by Husamettín. There was no truth in it.”

  Sümeya tilted her head noncommittally. “That has yet to be determined.”

  Çeda waved to the wagon, to the vale around them. “Then why all this?”

  “Because I will have my own answers, not those of my father, nor those of his brother Kings.”

  Çeda thought back to her dungeon cell. The sounds of footsteps coming from the darkened hall. “That was you in Husamettín’s dungeon.”

  Sümeya’s silence was answer enough.

  “You know Sehid-Alaz is there, then. You know the truth.”

  “Sehid-Alaz is there,” Sümeya replied, “but I learned nothing from him. The chains my father placed on him have robbed him of his ability to bond or even speak.”

  “Then we must go to him. I’ll show you what he’s said is true.”

  Sümeya shook her head. “The paths to his cell are guarded too closely.”

  “Then what do you propose?”

  Zaïde pulled a black Maiden’s dress from the bag. “We go to the blooming fields, and you will prove your story, free of any influence from the Kings.”

  Çeda stared at the three of them. Zaïde already knew the truth, of course. It was Sümeya and Melis who had to be convinced. “If you were fooled once,” she said to them both, “what difference will it make now? I could manufacture a story as your father did.”

  “What Husamettín did felt true at the time,” Melis said, “but in the days that followed it felt hollow. A play performed for our benefit.”

  “Now that we know the signs of the asirim being manipulated,” Sümeya echoed, “we’ll sense if you’re lying or if another is affecting them unduly.”

  “And if we go,” Çeda said, “if I show you the truth, what then? You risk your lives. At best you’ll be expelled from the House of Maidens. At worst you’ll be tortured and hung as traitors.”

  Sümeya’s look of regret made it clear she was not at all sure she’d made the right decision. “You’d rather I return you to your cell?”

  “I have no way of knowing what you’ll do when you learn the truth. For all I know, this is a way for the Kings to learn more about the asirim or the thirteenth tribe.”

  For the first time, Sümeya’s veneer cracked. The First Warden of the Blade Maidens was just a woman with the weight of the desert on her shoulders. “I was born to the House of Kings. I was raised to become a Blade Maiden. It is a role I have relished from the moment I took my ebon blade from my father’s hands. I revere all that we have fought for, for it is our strength that protects Sharakhai from her enemies. No matter what we find in the memories of the asirim, what the Maidens have done is not nothing. Sharakhai would have fallen long ago had we not been there to protect her. Yet still I would not have the House of Maidens built on a foundation of lies. The truth may shatter all I’ve known, but I would still learn it, for only in truth can justice be served.”

  In Sümeya’s bright brown eyes there was a bit of the forlornness she’d shown on their journey to Ishmantep and back. It was a look that spoke of love. It made Çeda uncomfortable, not because she didn’t share some of those same feelings, but because she was aware of the influence it might have had in delivering Sümeya here. But there was so much more to this than love, and Çeda took measure of it. She weighed Sümeya’s words, her sincerity, her resolve, and found that she believed her. Sümeya would do as she’d promised and grant Çeda a chance to prove herself. And that, Çeda decided, was all she could ask.

  As she reached for the Maiden’s dress in Zaïde’s arms, Sümeya seized Çeda’s wrist.

  “And if I was wrong to trust you.” Sümeya’s look had hardened; she was First Warden once more. “If I find you’re lying, then I’ll confess my sins and deliver my sword to my father, but only after I’ve used it to take your head from your shoulders. Zaïde’s as well. Your blood will feed the twisted trees and the sand will swallow your bones.”

  Çeda nodded, and Sümeya released her.

  As Çeda accepted the dress from Zaïde, the two of them shared a look. Zaïde had much to answer for, foremost among them the death of Amalos, the master at the collegium who had mentored Davud. But now was not the time. Zaïde had done much in bringing Melis and Sümeya to this moment.

  After giving Çeda a chance to don her dress, they were off, riding down King’s Road—three Maidens and a Matron, all of them veiled. They came to level ground and headed west toward the House of Maidens. As they rode through, they went unchallenged, both as they entered the inner gates and as they rode out and into the city. Those on guard, Çeda was sure, had been handpicked by Sümeya.

  When they came to the Wheel, they turned north and rode hard to the northern harbor, then headed down one of the ramps that led to the sand. Four Silver Spears forced them to a halt at the chains across the mouth of the harbor. When Sümeya ordered them to lower the barricade, they quickly complied, and the four of them were off again.

  As the lights of the city began to dim, Çeda kept glancing over her shoulder, listening for the sounds of alarm from the harbor or from the palaces on their dark hill. She could see them on Tauriyat, huddling like a murder of magpies, a thousand eyes aflame. But no alarm was raised, no one gave chase, and soon they were into the desert proper. They reached the blooming fields just as Rhia was rising in the east. They dropped fr
om their horses and walked into one of the groves. The trees were silent around them, their blooms closed. Under Rhia’s light they looked as if they’d been dipped in gold, preserved until the end of days.

  “Here,” Çeda said.

  They knelt in a circle on sandswept stone, Çeda across from Zaïde, Sümeya across from Melis. They clasped hands and their breathing fell into sync with one another. When Çeda had calmed herself, she reached out for the asir. They were deep in their slumber. Deeper, in fact, than at any time Çeda could remember. There had always been some like this in the blooming fields—the weak; the wounded; those who’d recently feasted on the blood of the living—but their number had always been few. This night, all of them were so.

  Husamettín’s doing, Çeda knew.

  It was a fear that had been building since leaving Sharakhai. Husamettín would likely sense her presence when she tried to waken them. He may even work to hide the truth as he had before, but she couldn’t allow it. Not this time. She would need to be ready to work against him.

  Wake, my brothers and sisters. Wake, for I would listen to your tales.

  Some few stirred at her call, yet they remained hidden, their minds cloaked. She tried harder, and yet they remained as they were, minds dulled, their bodies inert.

  “Calm yourself,” Sümeya said.

  Çeda realized she’d lost her balance. She took a deep breath, felt the circle of their clasped hands, and tried again.

  Merely bonding with the asirim was a crude act, akin to chaining an unruly hound. The ability to commune with them, as she was attempting now, was something else entirely. She was sure it was tied to her heritage as a child of the thirteenth tribe. That in turn made her wonder about Husamettín. Did he have blood of the thirteenth tribe running through his veins? Had his mother or father, or a more distant ancestor, been born in the tents of Sehid-Alaz’s people? Perhaps. Perhaps it had been true of Mesut as well. Was that why these two Kings were stronger with the asirim? She refused to believe it was merely the gods granting them power; if so all the Kings would be equally strong.

  She felt Melis stir by her side. She felt Zaïde’s waning hope, Sümeya’s rising disappointment. She might have been rattled once, but there was something about being here with these three women—women she did not fully trust, nor who fully trusted her, but who had given her a chance.

  She spread her awareness farther. Became attuned to those beneath the sands. She felt the wound on the meat of her thumb flare and for once did nothing to either quell the pain or intensify it. She merely felt the familiar ache, felt it spread along her hand, her fingers, her wrist and up her tattooed arm. It made her aware of the adichara as much as the asirim, which felt truer, somehow. More complete.

  Come, now, she called to the asirim, it’s time that your voices were heard.

  Her voice seemed to stir the asirim. She felt their dreams turn toward her. One, only a short distance away, began clawing at the sand. It squirmed and rose up from the roots of the adichara like a rattlewing from its chrysalis. A fleshy frame was limned in golden moonlight. Lanky hair. Sagging breasts. A woman once. Wounds were visible—a gash along her ribs, more on her shoulders and arms, all half-healed, suppurating, revealing rotted flesh.

  The adichara made a path for her. The limbs of the twisted trees cracked like the joints of the aged, as if they could not suffer the asir’s touch. Once free, the asir stood at odd angles, an ungainly doll propped up by children’s hands. She stared at Çeda, intense, her eyes bits of broken diamonds.

  “What is your name?” Çeda asked.

  The asir’s breath rattled in her throat. She flexed her fingers, worked her lower jaw, which seemed askew, as if broken.

  More dark forms rose up behind her: two then five then ten then twenty. Çeda understood with sudden and fierce clarity that they followed the first, their unlikely matriarch. Çeda knew that they retained some sense of who they’d been before Beht Ihman, that they still deferred to their King, Sehid-Alaz. She even knew they hoped that he might one day save them. She’d had no idea that they still retained any sense of tribe beyond that, yet here were dozens who deferred to another, a dark queen while their King was missing.

  Their sickly smell grew as they surrounded the grove. Several moved along the pathways toward the clearing, effectively hemming Çeda and the others in. They had the look of the worst of Sharakhai’s malnourished. Knobby joints, sticklike limbs, the space between their ribs and hips a terrible, sunken valley.

  “Çeda,” Sümeya called nervously.

  She had every right to be nervous, for the asirim were hungry beyond reckoning, but Çeda could spare no time to assuage Sümeya’s fears. She focused her attention on the matriarch.

  Tell me your name, she repeated.

  Silence greeted her words, but Çeda could feel the asir’s intent growing.

  Rend. Wreck. Devour.

  It was a compulsion. A directive that smothered all else. Her heart. Her soul. Even her memories. This was the taint Çeda must lift, or surely she and the others would die.

  As the asir lumbered forward, ever faster, Çeda called, “Get back!” and sprinted forward, placing herself in the matriarch’s path. She raised her hands, spread them wide in a gesture of peace. Grandmother, was all she said.

  The asir slowed, then pulled up. Surprise and confusion warred on her corpulent features. The two of them were now close enough for the asir to grip Çeda’s neck, for her chipped nails to pierce Çeda’s flesh.

  The other asirim had slowed their pace but continued to trudge closer, their own murderous desires feeding their queen’s. The adichara branches rattled and shook as if the very trees fed off the hatred pouring from these gathered souls.

  Çeda turned and saw Sümeya and Melis gripping the hilts of their shamshirs. “No!” she cried. “Leave your swords sheathed, or we will feed the adichara.”

  Her words seemed to anger the matriarch. One meaty arm flew out, but Çeda was ready. She snatched the asir’s wrist with her left hand, twisted it before the asir’s greater strength could be brought to bear. She held her right hand up, palm open, revealing her tattoos and the wound she’d received from the adichara.

  “Can you sense it?” Çeda asked. “Can you sense the poison that burns within me?”

  The asir’s anger burned brightly, threatening to consume her, but Çeda’s words had made her pause. For the time being, her curiosity was stronger than her desire to kill.

  “Blood of my blood,” Çeda said.

  The asir shook her head, her mouth working, tears forming in her jaundiced eyes. Çeda released the asir’s wrist, then used her own thumbnail to gouge her right palm, sawing, the pain rising, until she’d broken skin and blood began to flow.

  She showed the wound to the asir. “Blood of my blood.” She held it out, an offering, plain and simple.

  For the first time since rising from the earth the asir seemed unsure of herself. Her eyes flitted between Çeda’s unyielding stare and the bloody palm held before her. She reached for Çeda’s hand, then took it in both of hers. Çeda had never seen a creature seem so fragile.

  “The memories you feel are not your own,” Çeda said softly. She could feel Husamettín’s influence, distant yet strong. “They come from another, the King of Swords.”

  Around them, the asirim began to wail. It was soft at first, but it grew until it felt as though the desert itself was shaking from it. They were working themselves up to something. No, they’re trying to convince their matriarch to return to them.

  “Blood of my blood,” Çeda said a third time, and spread her fingers wide, willing the asir to hear her words, to recognize the truth.

  At last the asir’s will seemed to crumble. Holding Çeda’s hand tightly, she kissed Çeda’s palm. Tears slipped along her blackened cheeks, two glistening rivers that met beneath the asir’s chin and fell, pattering against the
back of Çeda’s hand.

  The asir blinked, then took in the clearing anew, as if she were confused to find herself there. The others howled. They beat the ground with their fists. Their bodies twisted, as if they were being tortured by the Confessor King.

  But they did not attack.

  “Tell me your tale,” Çeda said to the matriarch.

  With this the asir straightened and the confusion faded, to be replaced with a steely resolve. She released Çeda’s hand, then pressed her own nail into her right hand, as Çeda had done. Black blood welled, and she held it up before Çeda.

  Çeda didn’t hesitate. Blood of my blood. She took the asir’s hand and kissed her blackened skin. She licked the blood from her own lips. It had a bitter, acetous, coppery taste, and with it came a rush of awareness. The asir became known to her. As did her sisters and brothers, as did the adichara that sheltered them. The knowledge expanded so quickly Çeda’s head was thrown back.

  As the brilliance of the night’s grand canvas filled Çeda’s eyes with tears, and the veil separating her from the asir was torn, she was drawn down, down, down, into a great, consuming darkness.

  Chapter 47

  A YOUNG WOMAN, MAVRA, hardly more than a girl, hid behind a tall bush at the edge of an oasis, spying a woman swimming naked in one of the oasis’s many pools. How she wished she could slip into the water, take the woman in her arms, but the way her heart was pumping she was sure she would die.

  The scene shifted and the hand of the woman Mavra loved was being wrapped in a veil, then tied to a man, the two of them now married. They kissed, and with that one act Mavra’s heart was broken.

  Two months later, Mavra was herself given to a man, a tent and sail maker from their sister tribe to the south. By then she’d already given up hope of ever being with her one true love. She’d finally worked up the courage to speak with her, to confess everything, but the woman had shunned her, had laughed and sent her away, forbidding her return lest the gods take notice and curse them both. Mavra’s heart still bled at the very thought, so she buried her love and took her husband’s hand.