A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  It couldn’t last, though. The ehrekh was simply too powerful.

  When Kiral retreated beneath the shrine, Guhldrathen drove one fist into a pillar, collapsing one side of the structure. As Kiral rolled away, it picked up a massive round pillar stone and launched it at Kiral. It struck only a glancing blow, but the stone was so weighty it was still enough to send Kiral tumbling to the ground.

  He came up favoring his left side, his right shoulder hanging low, the arm perhaps useless. He managed one deep cut into Guhldrathen’s leg as the ehrekh charged, but took a backhanded blow while doing so.

  Kiral was down, as useless as Ramahd had been only moments ago. But something strange had happened. Whether it was from the damage Guhldrathen had sustained or something else, movement was returning to the gathered crowd. Most moved as if trapped in honey, but one man was now sprinting away, as if he’d not been affected by Guhldrathen’s spell at all—the Sharakhani man who’d frowned when Ramahd had bumped into him.

  Nonetheless, Guhldrathen’s focus seemed to be only on King Kiral, but then the beast slowed, turned, and fixed its jaundiced eyes on the running man. One moment, it seemed confused, but then its eyes lit in recognition. It bellowed as it dropped to all fours and began pounding over the earth.

  Many of the ritual-goers were crushed as Guhldrathen closed the distance. A woman who’d fallen screamed as a cloven hoof crunched down onto her leg. The fleeing man, perhaps knowing the end was near, stopped and faced Guhldrathen. That was when Ramahd saw his form change. A round, well-shaven face elongated into Hamzakiir’s drawn features and pepper-gray beard. As Meryam had suspected, he’d been here all along.

  As Guhldrathen came nearer, a bright ball of flame formed between Hamzakiir’s outstretched hands. It grew quickly in size. Ramahd could feel it, an awareness of magic being coaxed threadlike from the aether.

  Ramahd was hardly aware of what he did next—it was more akin to a reflexive parry than anything else. He reached outward, drew upon the threads of magic Hamzakiir relied upon for his spell, and severed them.

  The flame flew from Hamzakiir’s hands, breaking apart like the shards of a shattered urn. The shards flew in crazy patterns, bright but ineffective against Guhldrathen’s fearsome charge.

  When Hamzakiir tried again, Ramahd stopped his spell entirely, cutting him off from his power before he could even gather it. Hamzakiir’s eyes then met Ramahd’s. There was a split second of recognition in which the two of them shared a look of mutual hatred—and then the ehrekh was on him. Hamzakiir was forced to the ground, where Guhldrathen clamped its massive jaws over his chest. Half of it was ripped free in one explosive wrench of its great, horned head.

  But in that moment, as Hamzakiir’s screams mixed with the howling of the wind, Ramahd felt a spell trigger. In a blink, much faster than Ramahd could react, Hamzakiir’s soul was whisked away. Like a stream of sand slipping through an hourglass, he was transported, leaving behind something poorer and dimmer, perhaps the soul of the man whose body he had stolen to attend the ceremony.

  Ramahd had little more than a vague sense of direction.

  South, he realized. Hamzakiir has gone south.

  Guhldrathen sensed it too. It paused its bloody rending of Hamzakiir’s former body and stared in the same direction as Ramahd.

  With a bellow that sounded like a blast from the fabled horn that presaged the end of days, Guhldrathen hurtled toward the southern wall. The stone began to crack even before it came near, and when Guhldrathen lowered its head and crashed into it, it crumbled beneath the onslaught. Soon the ehrekh’s form was obscured, then lost altogether, swallowed by the cloud of dust kicked up by its passage.

  “Away!” called one of the Blade Maidens.

  Ramahd turned to find Amaryllis kneeling beside King Kiral. She had the skirt of her dress pressed against the worst of Kiral’s wounds, the one along his thigh. The Blade Maidens had imposed themselves between Guhldrathen and their King, and had only now realized that Amaryllis was there.

  The nearest of the Blade Maidens, their warden, was the one who had shouted at Amaryllis. “I said away!” She grabbed the back of Amaryllis’s ivory dress and yanked her back.

  “Forgive me,” Amaryllis said. “I only saw him in pain and thought to help.”

  Kiral’s wounds were serious. The puncture to his thigh. A terrible gash along his ribs. The white cloth of his khalat glistened red all along his left side. Amaryllis’s ivory dress, likewise, now shone with the King’s blood.

  The warden dropped to her knees to help the King herself, while the other four Maidens from her hand, their ebon blades at the ready, pushed Amaryllis and everyone else back.

  Some rushed to help the rest of the wounded. Others stood dumbstruck, their expressions a mixture of relief and shock and concern. Most of all, though, they looked wary, as if worried Guhldrathen might return at any moment.

  And well they might. Ramahd could still sense Guhldrathen moving away, but who was to say he wouldn’t return if Hamzakiir escaped?

  Soon all had been moved into the temple, the King included. Shortly after, the King was whisked away in a carriage. Everyone else was questioned, first by the Maidens and later by a host of interrogators from the Silver Spears. The ehrekh had come for him, they said, and he’d been seen fighting Hamzakiir. When they called Ramahd for questioning, they pressed him hard, asking him what he knew of Guhldrathen’s attack, of Hamzakiir’s presence in the crowd. Ramahd, however, told them he knew nothing, that he was only trying to protect himself, and later, when he’d spotted Hamzakiir, to bring the villain to justice.

  They seemed unconvinced, and intimated that they would soon take him and Amaryllis, perhaps even Queen Meryam, to the garrison for further questioning—a process they would not enjoy, Ramahd was assured. But miraculously, word came from Eventide. They were to be allowed to leave immediately, and Kiral himself would speak to them when he had recovered sufficiently. Upon receiving the news, the captain of the Spears stared at Ramahd, his discontent plain to see, but he grudgingly accepted the order and allowed both Ramahd and Amaryllis to go.

  As the sun was setting, they were back in their araba, heading for the embassy house and to Meryam. Amaryllis was quiet. Ramahd too. He couldn’t stop staring at the dark stain on her dress, blood from the King of Kings.

  Chapter 49

  SAILING AT NIGHT was dangerous business, but it was necessary if Çeda and the others were to have any hope of escaping Husamettín and the Blade Maidens. No doubt they’d mounted a search and as fast as some of the navy ships were, they’d have to be careful in the days ahead to keep their skiff on the move.

  Sümeya’s neck wound was bad. Despite the danger of being seen, they lit a small lantern so that Dardzada could tend to her while Melis took the tiller. The wound was deep and caused pain when she tried to speak, forcing Sümeya to whisper if she spoke at all. After cleaning the wound thoroughly, adding a dozen stitches, and applying a salve to fight off infection, Dardzada had declared it sufficient. “Don’t strain it, or you’ll sound like a talking lizard for the rest of your life.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Sümeya said in a rasp.

  Dardzada’s only response was to put his finger to his lips and let out a long “Shhhhhh . . .”

  He’d given the order to Sümeya, but everyone, including Çeda, obeyed it. They sailed in silence, and the sun eventually rose. The events of the previous night washed over them in different ways. They spoke only rarely—to pass food or water, to change the dressing on Sümeya’s wound, to discuss their heading or to pass the bucket they used to piss and shit in, rather than halt the skiff.

  Dardzada plotted their course over the desert. They all knew they were heading to join the thirteenth tribe, and no one balked. At least not outwardly, not until sundown.

  “We’ve given up every dram of power we once had,” Sümeya whispered, wincing as she spoke.


  “You would return for it?” Melis asked, though it hardly seemed she cared. Her voice was devoid of emotion. She was staring at the setting sun, her broad face unreadable. She’d unwrapped her turban so that it hung like a cowl around her shoulders, leaving the wind to tug at her curls of hair. It was a strangely intimate thing, as if, with that simple alteration to her uniform, she’d given up her status as a Blade Maiden, allowing all to see her as she was: a woman with a kind face full of freckles that spoke of younger years in the sun. She was quick to smile, though she rarely made jokes of her own. She was also quick to bite if she felt you’d been unjust. She was as fair a woman as Çeda had ever found in the House of Maidens, and now the very thing she’d believed in since she was old enough to talk had been proven a lie.

  “If I could but speak to Kameyl—” Sümeya said.

  Melis barked a laugh. “Kameyl? She would as soon kiss a cobra as speak to any of us!”

  “No, she would listen.” Sümeya’s words were sharp, as if the one she was trying to convince was herself. “If I could get her away from the others, she would listen.”

  “And there’s the rub,” Zaïde said. “The Kings will be watching her as closely as they will Yndris. As closely as they will Sayabim. They’ll do the same to everyone we knew. They’re likely to give some over to Cahil for questioning after last night.”

  Sümeya blinked, her brown eyes bright in the light of the lowering sun. She looked lost. Utterly lost. As if the ramifications were only beginning to hit her. “They’ll question my mother. My sister and her husband. Their children will be watched.”

  “At least they’re alive to be watched,” Dardzada said, echoing Çeda’s own thoughts.

  Sümeya stared at him, her eyes going straight through him.

  Çeda thought about telling them stories from her childhood, stories of the Kings’ cruelties, stories they would now see in a different light. But tell them while they were in a state of shock, and it would be for her own benefit, not theirs, a way for Çeda to exorcise the hatred that had been building since her mother’s death. Sümeya and Melis needed time to work through everything and to see the centuries of pain caused by the Kings.

  It had taken a lot of courage for them to trust her, especially Sümeya, First Warden of the Blade Maidens. Çeda would never have guessed she would listen to the story of the thirteenth tribe, but she had. She’d wanted to know the truth, and she would have questions. Many questions. Until then, Çeda would let her be.

  “Ship!” Dardzada called.

  They all turned south and saw a ship in the distance.

  It didn’t look like a navy ship, but they’d all agreed that no ships, even caravan ships, would be allowed to see them if it could be avoided. The chance of word getting back to the Kings was simply too great. Çeda lifted the tiller, braking their skiff into a trough between the dunes. Melis and Zaïde pulled down the sail, then lifted the mast and laid it across the prow.

  They watched and waited as another ship came into view. Then another. And another. Fourteen in all flowed across the sand. It took nearly two hours until they’d all passed by and slipped from sight. Çeda fretted the whole time, staring back the way they’d come, toward Sharakhai, wondering how many of the Kings’ ships were looking for them.

  Sümeya turned to Melis just as they were setting sail once more. “They’ll claim we’re part of the Host.” Her voice was rough as quarry stone. “That we’ve always been part of the Host.”

  Melis stared at her woodenly, as if she were ready to accept whatever punishment the gods saw fit to deliver. “What matter the label they give us?”

  “My father will agree with them.” She stared at her hands, gripping them over and over again. “He’ll bow his head in shame and admit that his daughter was lured by the Moonless Host.”

  “What matter is that?” Melis repeated, angry now.

  “Because this may all be for nothing. They’ll still hide the truth. They’ll mark us as traitors. Kill us if they can. But if not, they’ll claim we’re nothing more than mouthpieces for the Al’afwa Khadar. My father will retain his hold on the asirim. And if any question him, if they investigate the asirim, he’ll simply mask the true story, as he did with us.”

  Melis stood in a rush of movement. “Well, of course he will, you bloody stupid mule! What did you think was going to happen?” She looked completely impotent, shivering there like that. Çeda could tell she wanted to storm away, but they were on a gods-damned skiff. Still, she went as far as she could. She stepped over the front thwart, knocking Zaïde aside as she did so, and sat at the prow, her legs dangling over the front of the skiff. “Now be quiet, as the apothecary bade you.”

  But it wasn’t more than a few breaths before Sümeya spoke again. “We have to go back.” She turned to Dardzada, who sat at the tiller, and shouted, “We have to go back!”

  Çeda, resting along the bottom of the skiff, her back to the hull, said, “We can’t.”

  Sümeya went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “If we return now, we’ll be able to spread word before my father can poison the House of Maidens against us.”

  “We can’t,” Çeda said.

  “We will!” She stood and pointed at Dardzada, one hand on the hilt of her sword. “Turn this skiff around.”

  Dardzada stared at her with indifferent eyes, then returned to watching the way ahead.

  “Turn this skiff around!” Sümeya’s words came out in a long rattle.

  She tried to pull out her sword, but Çeda snatched Sümeya’s wrist. “We are returning to the thirteenth tribe,” Çeda said, “where we will help with the effort against Onur.”

  Sümeya looked incensed. She tried to pull her shamshir again, more forcefully this time, but it was merely a feint. She pushed Çeda back, enough that she could lift her foot and snap a kick into Çeda’s chest.

  Çeda flew over the edge of the skiff, struck the sand hard, and rolled to a painful stop. As she was coming to her feet, she saw Sümeya leap over the side, drawing her blade as she went. Çeda drew River’s Daughter, and the two of them met, crossing blades, as the skiff sailed on.

  Sümeya spoke between wild and mighty swings of her blade, her voice little better than a wolf’s growl. “The Kings must answer for what they’ve done! They must explain it to those they’ve wronged! They must free the asirim!”

  “These things they will never do,” Çeda said, retreating quickly, lithely, always remaining clear of Sümeya’s sword.

  Sümeya fought like a child new to swordplay. Her swings were born of rage and shame and the sudden shift from a position of power to one of staggering impotence. Eventually she stopped, breathing hard, and bent over. Then she arched her back and howled at the sky. For a long time she raged, and then dropped to her knees and drove the edge of her blade down into the sand over and over again. The sand splashed around her, flew in arcs above her, until finally Sümeya’s energy was spent.

  She lifted her eyes and regarded Çeda with a look of pure revulsion. “I rue the day you darkened our door.”

  “There are many wrongs to right in the desert, Sümeya”—Çeda pointed eastward—“and one lies that way. Onur is alone. Isolated from the other Kings. He is not weak, but neither does he command a force that can stop my people if we strike quickly.” She stepped closer. “Surely you have no love for the King of Sloth. Let us go, you and I. Let us cut him from the roots of his power and free the tribes beneath his yoke. Then we can decide what to do about Sharakhai.”

  Sümeya still seemed lost, but at Çeda’s words, one of her defining features returned—her authority, her command. She stood and looked out over the eastern reaches of the desert. “Very well,” she whispered, and trudged toward the skiff, which had come to a stop some distance away.

  * * *

  They sailed well beyond sunset but were forced to anchor when twilight faded. They ate a cold meal of hardtack an
d smoked meat that was as tough and tasty as saddle leather. The desert was fiercely cold that night, and the wind was strong, but they reckoned it was still too dangerous to light a fire, so they laid out blankets in the lee of the skiff and suffered through the night.

  When the sun rose, and they were ready to sail, Çeda forestalled them. “I must speak to Zaïde about Amalos before we go.”

  Sümeya and Melis shared a look. Dardzada frowned. Zaïde had been shaking her blanket free of sand but stopped as if she’d known this moment would come. “What good will it do to dredge up the past?”

  Çeda’s mouth fell open. “You would dare say that when our own history was nearly lost to the desert?”

  “Who is Amalos?” Melis asked.

  “A collegia master,” Çeda said before Zaïde could speak a word. “A learned man who knew much of the city’s history. He agreed to help us uncover the truth but was discovered when Yusam saw him in one of his visions.”

  Zaïde snapped her blanket once then rolled it tightly. “What happened to Amalos was unfortunate.”

  “Unfortunate?” Çeda could hardly believe her ears. Master Amalos had helped both Çeda and Zaïde research the Kings and their history. He’d discovered invaluable insights in the collegia’s archives, and shared his wisdom with Çeda on many a long night as they’d pored over various texts, looking for clues as to how Çeda could use King Mesut’s bloody verse to gain an advantage over him.

  In the end, Amalos had found the very revelation, written on a beaten sheet of copper, that Çeda had used to gain mastery over the wights summoned from Mesut’s onyx bracelet. His brave actions had led directly to Mesut’s death, but King Yusam had seen it in his mere. A squad of Silver Spears were sent to apprehend Amalos. Amalos managed to escape by fleeing into the tunnels beneath the city, but his lifeless body was found a short while later, a knife wound to his gut. Çeda was nearly certain Zaïde had played a part in it.