“Amalos came to you for help—” Çeda said, reliving her anger.
“He knew the risks,” Zaïde replied easily.
“He came to you for help and you murdered him for it. Don’t deny it! King Yusam told me what he saw. A woman in a white cowl. The flash of a knife in the darkness. A dress stained red.”
Zaïde looked awkwardly to Sümeya and Melis. She didn’t appear shamed, exactly, but nervous to be speaking of such things before two women who would, only a few days ago, have strung her high for uttering them. “I had to kill him.”
Çeda’s heart beat madly. “What?”
Zaïde’s eyes had gone distant. She looked afraid and small. “The Silver Spears had found Amalos in his study below the archive tower. When he escaped and came to me, I brought it to Ihsan.”
“Ihsan,” Melis broke in. “By the gods who breathe, why?”
“Ihsan has been pulling her strings for years,” Çeda said. “He’s been working to topple the other Kings so that he can stand upon Tauriyat alone, without answering to other men.”
Zaïde held the blanket under one arm and picked at the frayed edges. She at least had the decency to look miserable while doing it. “Amalos became a scarab the moment he agreed to help you.”
“To help us,” Çeda corrected.
For the first time, Zaïde seemed flustered. “Of course, us.”
“Did Ihsan command you to do it?”
“Of course he did,” Zaïde said. “If Amalos was discovered as a scarab, it would—”
“No. Did he command you to do it?”
She was referring to Ihsan’s ability to command others. Ihsan used it sparingly, but Çeda hoped he had used it here. She hadn’t wanted to believe that Zaïde would do such a callous thing of her own accord, but after hearing her speak, Çeda was nearly certain Ihsan hadn’t commanded her, but simply appealed to fear.
“If Amalos had been taken by the Kings,” Zaïde said, “it would have ruined everything. I would have been taken and tortured. So would you. And Ihsan . . . Can you not see? We would have lost our greatest tool.”
Çeda laughed. “You call Ihsan a tool when you’re the one he’s been playing like a harp?”
“I gave him only enough to help him destroy the other Kings.”
“And yet he managed to get you to kill an ally with but a word. Had Yusam not shown me Amalos’s body, I would never have learned enough to kill Mesut.”
At this, Melis stood and stared at them all—Dardzada, Çeda, Zaïde, and finally Sümeya. She shook her head as if she were about to speak, then walked away.
“Çeda,” Dardzada said, “keeping Ihsan as our ally was an opportunity we couldn’t allow to pass us by.”
“That isn’t what I’m talking about. Do you think I care that we’re using Ihsan to destroy the other Kings? I’ll use any of them if it will see them wiped from the face of the desert. But you,” she said to Zaïde, “took your knife to a man who came to you for help, a man who trusted you, who might have helped us further. You could have seen him to a safe house. He could have joined the tribe in the desert.”
“Ihsan would have known.” Tears crept down her cheeks, sometimes sideslipping along the wrinkles in her aged skin. They looked like shards of citrine in the morning sun.
Çeda spit into the sand between them. “I name you coward, Zaïde Onur’ava. You should have seen Amalos free or died trying.”
Çeda had never seen her like this. Zaïde seemed lost, a woman adrift. She blinked away more tears and nodded. With a stricken look, she turned, walked to the skiff, and began lifting the mast into place. Sümeya stepped inside the hull to help her. Çeda watched them, furious that Zaïde chose not to fight her, nor to offer some sort of explanation for her actions. But what could Zaïde say? There was no defending what she’d done.
Strangely, Çeda felt no better after her tirade.
“Come with me,” Dardzada said.
“I’m not going to listen as you try to soften what she did,” she shot back. “You’re not my bloody father.”
“Always so fucking stubborn.”
“And who taught me that?”
“Your mother did. But I thought some of it might have been drummed out of you in the House of Maidens. I see now I was foolish to think you’d learned to shut that mule mouth of yours and listen to those who are trying to help you.”
“And who is that? You, a man who hides things from me as often as the sun shines in the desert?” She stabbed her finger toward Zaïde. “Or that one, a woman who would sacrifice anyone so long as she isn’t found out?”
Dardzada motioned to her right hand. “That woman saved you when no one else could. She gave you those tattoos and fought to keep you in the House of Maidens when she could easily have denied my request. And then she fought to keep you there, to ensure you were given an ebon blade, to train you herself so that you would be ready for all that lay ahead. She might have handled Amalos differently. From what little I knew of him, he was a good man, and I wish he was still with us. But if it came down to a choice of either you or Amalos, I’d choose you every time.”
“But it didn’t have to be that way.”
“You have no idea how it had to be. Zaïde has been maneuvering around the Kings for longer than you’ve been alive. If she thought it necessary, then I believe her.”
“I won’t work with her anymore, Dardzada.”
“She can tell us much about Onur.”
“Her own father.”
“You think you know so much?”
“I know the ties of blood are strong.”
“Oh? Are you’re saying you’d stay your sword if you knew who your father was?”
“I . . . No.”
“Did she ever share with you the tale of her mother?”
“No,” Çeda admitted, her voice softer.
Dardzada maneuvered his bulk toward the skiff. “Perhaps you should ask her about it before you start strutting across the sand claiming she’s wasting lives.”
Chapter 50
ÇEDA AND THE OTHERS set sail shortly after, and headed east over the next several days. Fearing the Kings navy, they pushed past the first few oases and stretched their water to the limit, making for a small oasis not regularly visited. As they were nearing it, they reached a swath of desert littered with patches of stone. It was treacherous for any ship larger than a yacht but perfectly navigable for a skiff.
When they reached the oasis—little more than a gully surrounded by a burst of green vegetation—they began to breathe easier. Ten days had passed since their escape from the blooming fields. They huddled in the lee of a tall, misshapen boulder, warming themselves by a fire, the first they’d dared on their voyage. Çeda sat cross-legged on the sand, basking in the fire’s warmth while oiling River’s Daughter. It was strangely comforting to have the blade back, even after so short a separation.
I thought I’d lost you for good, Çeda mused as she ran the oily rag up and down the blade.
“You’re giving it enough oil to drown it,” Sümeya said from across the fire. She’d been resting her voice, but it still sounded terrible.
“I know,” Çeda replied. “But I owe it this much.”
“Well, you’re not a whore from the southern docks,” Melis snapped, “and that isn’t a cock. Wipe it dry and be done with it.”
Çeda’s only reply was to rub it as if she were holding a cock, slow at first, then faster and faster, the hilt resting along her crotch.
Melis scowled, but Sümeya laughed. A moment later, when Çeda threw her head back and screamed in false pleasure, Melis’s scowl softened, and then she was laughing louder than Sümeya. Dardzada rolled his eyes, while Zaïde ignored everyone.
“I never thanked you,” Çeda said to Sümeya.
With the hint of a smile she said, “You still haven’t.”
At this, Sümeya’s smile turned genuine. Then her eyes narrowed, and she seemed to come to a decision. She stood, moved over to the skiff, and grabbed the bag Çeda had retrieved from Whiteknife’s back. “In that case, you’re about to owe me your next life as well.”
From within the bag she took out a small, leatherbound book. Its features were lost in shadow, but when Sümeya held it out for her and the firelight struck its worn surface, Çeda saw it for what it was. Her mother’s book. It was surreal accepting it from Sümeya, feeling its familiar heft, opening the pages and reading the first of the many poems within.
Tears came unbidden to her eyes. “But it was lost in the desert.”
“It was found during the search for you and brought to me.”
Çeda thumbed through the pages, lingering on several with marks in the gutters. Those were the pages that hid a piece of a bloody verse in plain sight. She tipped the book down so she could see better, and saw them: the places where her mother had re-inked the words with brown ink, an indicator that it was one of the words in Külaşan’s poem, the one that had led to his downfall.
A tear slipped from her cheek and fell against the page. She quickly wiped it from the paper’s rough surface, then dried her tears with a sleeve. “My life in your debt,” she said again, this time with perfect sincerity.
While Dardzada and Zaïde began preparing food, Çeda read through the book, savoring every word. She remembered those rare, lazy days, she and her mother sitting and reading together, sipping rosewater lemonade from the roof of the latest west-end tenement to be called home. Dardzada’s words from the other day returned to her, his urging her to learn more of Zaïde’s past before she passed judgment. “You know of my mother,” she said to Zaïde, “but I’ve never heard of yours.”
Zaïde, sitting across the fire from her, glared at Dardzada.
He shrugged. “She deserves to know.” And went back to sprinkling salt over a pair of large, skinned lizards.
Whatever small amount of annoyance Zaïde had been harboring lately faded, and her eyes drifted back to the flickering fire. “What does it matter?”
Çeda closed the book and put it into the pouch at her belt. Its weight felt right and pure. “Above all, the desert is a tale of blood, and I would hear yours.”
Still Zaïde balked.
“If what they’ve said is true,” Sümeya rasped, “we may meet your father in battle. I think it’s time we all heard.”
Zaïde’s look of indignation spoke of a different time, when she had been the one in charge. But the look soon faded, and she began to speak. “Onur is and always has been a cruel, detestable man, especially to my mother. He refused to let her leave his palace. She knew she couldn’t disobey him, so she began calling others to come to her, her distant family from the desert among them. I was young then, perhaps ten. It was when I first met Dardzada.” She looked at him, and he nodded, allowing that she should tell the full story.
“I met many from the thirteenth tribe in those days, though I had yet to learn what it meant. I might even have met your grandfather, Ishaq,” she said to Çeda, “though if so, I can no longer recall. One of my family was a seer, Imarine, my aunt, and she saw some potential in me, which she began to hone over the months and years that followed. I began to read the palms of my friends, and I generally saw in them paths that would take them to fruitful places. They were mostly the children of Goldenhill, after all. I did it, occasionally, for those who came from the desert.
“When I became more confident, I desperately wanted to read my mother’s palm. Most days she was miserable, and I hoped to find happier days for her and tell her about them. She refused with a fierceness that made me realize it was fear that drove her decision, fear that ran deeper than the roots of Tauriyat. For many years I didn’t dare ask again, afraid of what I might see, but then one day I heard our maids speaking in low tones. One of them was crying, the other trying to console her. I snuck into the dining hall, and the girl who was crying said that Thian, her brother, a most beautiful man who worked in the stables, had displeased the King. Onur had come to ride with a Malasani prince. Thian had ridden out to the desert with them and a dozen courtiers from Malasan and Sharakhai. They rode quickly, too fast for the horses on such a hot day and for such a long ride. Onur was so large his horse grew tired more rapidly than the others, but Onur refused to slow their pace. Soon his horse, a fine akhala, was staggering, and Thian offered Onur his own horse.
“‘Why?’ Onur asked. ‘Mine is doing well enough.’ And then Thian lied, in hopes of allowing the King to save face in front of his guests. ‘A thousand apologies, my Lord King. In my haste to make the horses ready, I forgot to give him a proper ration of water before we left.’ ‘Nonsense,’ replied Onur, his voice full of disdain. Then he looked to those gathered and spurred his horse into action. ‘This akhala could deliver me to Ishmantep and back, I assure you.’
“The horse collapsed not a half-league later. Onur was thrown from his saddle, and was cut along his forehead, a mark that can still be seen today. In his anger, he drew his sword, ready to kill the beast that had failed him. But Thian shouted, ‘No!’ and put himself between akhala and King. ‘My Lord King, this is all my fault. Please, take my horse. I’ll remain here until yours recovers from this interminable heat.’ It was a grave mistake, and Thian knew it from the start, but what was he to do? Onur smiled. You’ve met him now. You know the sort of smile I mean. Hungry. Covetous. ‘Very well,’ my father said to Thian. ‘Bring the horse to my palace on your return. I would speak to you of how you’re keeping them.’
“Thian had done as Onur asked and hadn’t yet returned. And now the maids were worried. ‘Surely he’ll be home soon,’ I said to them, coming out of my hiding place. But they shushed me and sent me away with barely concealed horror on their faces. I found out why that night. My mother had been gone the entire day, summoned to attend Onur. When she returned, I found her sitting in a chair, staring out the window. She wasn’t crying, but she was haunted. I’ve never seen the like, as if her very soul had been taken from her.”
Zaïde slowed and then stopped. She turned to face Çeda. Throughout the story, she’d spoken in a distant way, as if it were an ancient tale told a thousand times, over a thousand fires; but now, as she paused, gathering herself, her eyes flitted to and fro as if she were reliving those fearful moments. “I asked my mother what had happened, and she held out her hand to me. Her palm.”
A chill settled inside Çeda, a feeling as cold as the winter sky. “What did you do?”
Zaïde’s distant gaze focused on Çeda once more. “I shook my head and pleaded with her, but she was adamant. ‘You will know the sort of man your father is.’ In the end, I was weak. I took her hand and read her palm. It was the strongest vision I have ever had, then or since. I saw her secreting a slim blade in her shoe. I saw her going to Onur in his palace. I saw her stab him, but she managed only one strike, and then Onur had her. For all his weight, he is a powerful man, stronger even than Husamettín, and he broke her. I saw nothing after that. I begged my mother not to leave. When she refused, I tried to run from the room, but she held my wrists, gripping them so tightly her nails tore my skin. She made me stare into her eyes, eyes filled with hate and regret and so much sorrow. More than anything, though, I saw her resignation. ‘You know it will be so,’ she hissed at me, ‘so do not fight it.’
“In the days after, I learned that she and Thian had been lovers. I knew she cared for him, but callow as I was I had no concept of a wife being unfaithful. My mother was a careful woman, more careful than I had ever given her credit for. What she shared with me next shook me to my very core. You may have heard rumors of Onur the Feasting King. That he eats his will, and that his will is great. That he feasts on
the bloody flesh of horses and goats and all manner of beasts. He has other, more abhorrent tastes as well.” Zaïde’s lips became a thin line. “Onur had learned of my mother’s misdeeds and contrived to bring Thian to him, and then summoned my mother to sup.”
Çeda’s hand shot to her mouth. But Zaïde seemed utterly composed, which only magnified Çeda’s horror.
“Onur forced her to sit by his side, two Blade Maidens standing behind her chair, while he ate and spoke of the weather, how very hot it had been on their ride, how kind Thian had been to give up his own horse, even if he’d erred in not preparing Onur’s horse properly. Never once did he mention that he knew she and Thian had been lovers. Nor did he ask her to his bed, thank the gods, or I might never have seen her again. My mother refused to eat. You can guess why. And she feared he would force her, but he merely waved his fork to the meat on her plate, asking her why she wasn’t hungry.
“He left her in that room after a kiss to the back of her hand.” Zaïde’s chin quavered. “My mother left that night, hours after I’d read her palm. She went to Onur’s palace and never returned. She was never even given a funeral. To this day I don’t know where her bones are buried, if they even are.”
The way she said it was so pitiful, it made Çeda’s arms and shoulders curl inward. Zaïde noticed. She looked to the others, who looked stricken as well—even Dardzada, who knew the story already. She forged on, as if the simple act of acknowledging their sadness would be to give in to her own.
“I had no idea that I was one of the thirteenth tribe. I’d only heard whispers of its existence. But after learning of my mother’s death, my Aunt Imarine told me all of it. Our story in the days leading up to Beht Ihman; of the massacre, of our blood being sheltered among the remaining twelve tribes, of the origins of the Moonless Host, which was born from hatred of the Kings but also of a thirst for revenge.”
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