A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

“Reasonably. But even if we’ve erred, Guhldrathen will drink Çedamihn’s blood and you’ll have rid yourself of a different problem.”

  “She’s hardly the threat Hamzakiir is.”

  “No. Not yet, but we both know she’ll become more powerful as time passes. She is Ishaq’s granddaughter, Macide’s niece, and her own legend is growing. There are many who revere her name, telling tales of how she killed two of the Sharakhani Kings, and you know how tales grow in the telling. She’s smart. She’s charismatic. She’ll learn to use both to gather more to her cause. Before long, she may draw more to the Moonless Host’s cause than Ishaq.”

  “That may all be true,” Kiral said as he rose, “but it’s a problem for another day.” He pulled two glass ampules from inside his khalat, one filled with a bright red liquid, the other with a liquid so dark it looked black in the firelight. “Çeda’s blood,” he said, handing her the red ampule, “taken while she was unconscious in Sukru’s palace. And the ehrekh’s”—he handed her the second—“collected from Sunshearer, both by the hand of my master alchemyst.”

  Ramahd’s chest went cold as Meryam held the red ampule up to the firelight and swirled it around. It felt as if his heart were plunging into a deep, dark hole, threatening to take him with it. He’d known from the moment he’d agreed to Guhldrathen’s request that he’d stepped into a raging river, but he’d never have thought Meryam would be the one to shove him below the surface.

  “And the elixirs?” Meryam went on. “They were found in the temple’s lower level, were they not?”

  Kiral frowned. “They were.”

  “And where are they now?”

  “In safekeeping. Expect no share of them until Hamzakiir and Guhldrathen are both dead.”

  “The beast was not part of our bargain.”

  “I was forced to attack it to save your man. I may not know much about the ehrekh, but I know they neither forgive nor forget. This is a complication you must deal with before I part with any of the elixirs.”

  “Very well, then fifty more must be added to the tally,” Meryam said in a tone that did not allow for negotiation.

  They were speaking of the life-giving elixirs Ramahd had helped to destroy in Kiral’s palace. Kiral’s and Ihsan’s primary caches had been destroyed. But the Moonless Hosts’s plans for the third and final cache, the one in Zeheb’s palace, had been compromised. Hamzakiir and his men had beaten them there. What they couldn’t take they’d destroyed, leaving precious few in each of the Kings’ personal stores. From what Ramahd had been able to piece together, Kiral had been dangling a throne before Hamzakiir—that of Külaşan the Wandering King, Hamzakiir’s father—in order to get some of the elixirs back. In turn, Hamzakiir had done much to destroy the power of the Moonless Host’s old guard, both in Sharakhai and in the desert.

  But Kiral would not have let it go at that. He wanted immortality, or as much of it as he could get his hands around. Now, it seemed, he had secured some in the form of the elixirs. Likely he’d not told the other Kings about it, which would explain his presence here.

  “Fifty,” Kiral said, practically spitting the words. He motioned to the ampules. “We’ve received word that Onur has killed Mihir Halim’ava and taken many from Tribe Kadri prisoner. The rest are scattered to the winds. If we are to do as you’ve said, we must leave soon.”

  Meryam considered a moment. “I can leave tomorrow if you wish.”

  “Prepare for the morning after. A coach will be sent at daybreak.”

  “Very well.”

  Kiral glanced toward the door through which Ramahd was peering. Ramahd jerked out of view and went perfectly still, listening carefully for the sounds of approach. A moment later, Kiral’s heavy footsteps thudded over the carpeted floor, diminishing as they went. “My lady queen.”

  “My Lord King.”

  As the door clicked shut, the words echoed through Ramahd’s mind. I can leave tomorrow if you wish. It made him deadly curious what Meryam had written in her note. He cracked the seal and read it by the dim light from Meryam’s room.

  Written below a request for a number of rare components was a simple closing note. I’ll be leaving the city soon but will require them upon my return.

  She had known Kiral would be leaving for the desert.

  He heard the doors at the front of the estate being opened. Footsteps crunched over gravel. Soon after came the clomp of horses’ hooves and the rattle of wheels. He ducked low as the carriage swept through the gate and turned right, making for the Kings’ palaces.

  When the sounds had dwindled and the wagon was swallowed by the night, Ramahd stood and dropped the papyrus scroll on the roof. The wind rolled it away as he opened the patio door and stepped inside.

  Meryam, standing near the fire, turned, her eyes wide, her hand on the amulet at her neck. As recognition came, her look of surprise faded, replaced by a low-burning anger. The sort Ramahd hadn’t seen in a long while. Rather than make him nervous, it calmed him. It seemed only right, after all. It matched his own, and this reckoning had been a long time coming.

  “You would use Çeda as your pawn?”

  “You would rather I use you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s no longer a choice that’s up to you. Your sentimentality will get you killed one day, Ramahd.”

  “I deserved to know, Meryam.”

  “You will refer to me as my queen or I’ll have you whipped until you remember to treat me with respect before you open that insolent mouth of yours!”

  “I deserved to know.”

  “I cannot explain all to you. You are but part of—”

  “I’m not talking about my role as a servant to the throne.”

  Her hollow eyes took him in anew. “What? You think because you’ve bedded me that I owe you more?”

  “For that. For what we’ve meant to one another before then. For Yasmine and Rehann.”

  “Don’t bring my sister into this! They are gone and buried. I loved them, but they do not rule Qaimir. I do, and I will do what I think best. I will do what’s necessary to see us safely through the night.”

  “Safely through the night?” Ramahd wanted to laugh. “Were that true you’d have left Sharakhai for the halls of Santrión long ago. Instead I see you hurtling through the darkness as if you’re being chased, heedless of what lies ahead and with little thought for what’s best for Qaimir. Admit it, Meryam, this has all been for you.” He waved toward the doors he’d just walked through. “This is because you look to Tauriyat and you see jewels lying upon a hill, baubles to be collected.”

  “Whosoever rules Sharakhai is a threat to our homeland”—hunger now mixed with Meryam’s anger—“unless we take it for ourselves, Ramahd.”

  “The risk is too great.”

  “The gods favor the bold.”

  “And punish the foolish!”

  Strangely, Ramahd’s heart beat serenely. It was Meryam who was breathing fast, nostrils flaring, her eyes filling with ever more anger.

  Just then Basilio opened the door. “My queen—” He paused, shocked to find Ramahd standing there. He immediately began bulling toward him but stopped when Ramahd drew his shamshir.

  “You dare!” Basilio said.

  Ramahd ignored him. “Take me, Meryam. Leave Çeda alone.”

  Meryam raised her hand, forestalling Basilio without taking her eyes from Ramahd. “What do you care if some bitch from the back streets of Sharakhai is lost to a creature like Guhldrathen?”

  “Take me . . .”

  Meryam’s eyes, so emotional only moments ago, went flat, dangerous, no different than a mongoose before it struck. “Or what?”

  The moment Meryam moved her hand toward her necklace, Ramahd was ready. He snatched it and yanked, snapping the chain. She cringed as the chain bit into her neck. The droplets of blood welling over her pale ski
n stood out like an accusation.

  But Ramahd hardly noticed. He was trying to stifle the feelings of lightheadedness emanating from the amulet. He could feel it calling to someone. Not him. Not Meryam, either. Someone else. Someone nearby? Without looking at it, he closed the amulet’s lead-lined doors, felt them click into place. Immediately the feeling ceased.

  “You think I need the amulet?” Meryam ran one finger over the blood on her neck, then ran it over her tongue, painting it red. “You think you can stop me from doing as I wish?”

  Ramahd felt it coming. He tried to stop her. He thought he was prepared. But this was nothing like when he’d stopped Hamzakiir from unleashing arcane fire on Guhldrathen. That had been deliberate and careful and practiced. What came from Meryam was wild, like the great waves that sometimes struck the coast of the Austral Sea without warning and with unstoppable force.

  “Meryam—”

  He wanted to plead with her, but the pain came on so strong, so quickly, he was driven down by it. He collapsed to the floor. The last thing he saw was Meryam standing over him, Basilio by her side.

  “Take him to the desert,” Meryam said as the world began to close in around him.

  “And then, my queen?”

  “Bury him.”

  Chapter 53

  BRAMA CROUCHED behind a vine-choked pergola as Lord Ramahd Amansir, the very man who’d stolen Rümayesh’s sapphire and run his blade across Brama’s throat for good measure, knelt on the stones of the patio only a dozen paces away. And that wasn’t the strangest thing. The strangest thing was that the man appeared to be spying on his own queen. The queen was taking council with none other than the King of Kings. From what little Brama could hear, the two were discussing a slaughter in the temple district. Kiral himself had been present. As had Hamzakiir, the infamous blood mage. Most surprising, however, was a name new to Brama: Guhldrathen.

  An ehrekh, Brama realized as they shared more details. Another ehrekh, here in Sharakhai.

  It can’t have been a coincidence that the battle they were discussing had taken place mere days after Rümayesh had been stolen from Brama. What the connection might be, he had no idea, but Kiral sounded displeased. There’d been a great deal of destruction, and Kiral himself had been wounded.

  It must have just happened, then. Today, perhaps yesterday.

  It would explain why he’d heard nothing of it. He’d been hiding in the old abandoned watchtower the past four days, watching the Qaimiri compound, noting the number of guards and other household staff, watching their comings and goings, estimating their readiness as he planned his entry. After seeing how many had been sent into the city earlier that day, Brama had decided tonight would be the night. And then, lo and behold, Ramahd Amansir himself had ridden up to the very watchtower where Brama hid and began surveilling his own bloody compound. After the King arrived, Amansir had abandoned the tower and stolen into the compound by means of a secret door, making Brama’s entry simpler than he could ever have hoped.

  Brama, I suffer! Trapped in the cage she’s made for me. Why won’t you come? Why won’t you save me?

  They were Rümayesh’s faint pleas. She’d called to him whenever Queen Meryam was most distracted. She’d pleaded for him to storm the room and save her, but he could hardly barge in and try to seize the sapphire now, not with Kiral and his bloody great shamshir there, not with two Blade Maidens wandering somewhere inside the estate.

  And yet every moment that passed brought him closer to throwing caution to the wind. Rümayesh’s need was great, and it burned inside Brama too. Twice he’d found himself rising, ready to slit Amansir’s throat and break into the room, logic and reason be damned. The very notion of helping Rümayesh, a creature who’d done him so much harm, nearly made him weep. His continued horror over being here, doing that very thing, was all that had allowed him to remain where he was and wait for the right moment.

  The perfect moment will never come, Rümayesh cooed. Take the amulet, Brama, and then I will be free. Take the amulet, and none of them can stop us.

  Brama grit his teeth, fighting the urge to obey.

  The conversation finally ended and the King left with his Maidens in the wagon. When the sound of their departure faded, Amansir stood and walked into the room like a man made of wood. The need inside Brama finally eased as he sidled along the patio’s edge. One of the doors was ajar, allowing Brama to see Amansir and his queen. The two of them were shouting.

  Come, Brama. She is powerful, but she cannot suffer the kiss of a blade. Save me, and we can be together once more.

  He found himself stepping forward, heedless of the scraping sound his boots made over the stone tiles. He drew his kenshar from his belt. Powerful, Rümayesh had said of Queen Meryam. Perhaps she was, but by Bakhi’s bright hammer, the woman was gaunt. Her entire body quavered, the same sort of shaking he’d seen on malnourished children in the Shallows. He could see the sapphire, resting in an amulet around the queen’s narrow neck.

  It would be so simple to take it. Two flicks of his knife, one across her throat, another across Amansir’s, and then he’d slip the chain over the queen’s head and around his.

  Where it belonged.

  Yes. Yes! He could feel the eagerness in Rümayesh, a perfect mirror of his own. They’ve not sensed you. Rush in! Do it now! We can flee this place and everything will be as it was.

  He was standing just outside the door now. If either of them turned their heads, they’d see him plain as day. He was just reaching for the handle of the door, ready to do as Rümayesh had commanded, when Amansir reached out and snatched the necklace from his queen’s neck.

  He gripped the amulet, closed its doors, and Rümayesh’s presence vanished. Her sudden absence tugged on Brama’s soul. He put his hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the sudden cough that overtook him, but the queen was raging against Amansir.

  “You think I need the amulet? You think you can stop me from doing as I wish?”

  Amansir, his face turning red, fell to his knees, then dropped to the floor, unconscious. A portly Qaimiri lord in ostentatious clothes had arrived—just when, Brama wasn’t sure.

  “Take him to the desert,” she told the man.

  “And then, my queen?”

  “Bury him.” The queen retrieved the amulet from Amansir’s lax grip. “Do it now before Cicio and Vrago return. And take him in the back of a wagon. I’ll have no one else knowing of it.”

  When the man bowed his head and left, the queen pulled the necklace back over her head but did not open the doors that would reveal the sapphire. Brama couldn’t decide whether he was glad for it or not. He wished to bask in Rümayesh’s glow, even if she was trapped, but another part of him was sickened by the very thought. He was suddenly afraid of stepping into the room. He felt as though, without Rümayesh’s power, he’d be defenseless, and the queen would do to him exactly what she’d done to her own man. And the more he focused on it, the worse it became. It felt very much like the day he’d first stood before Rümayesh. Gods, the feeling of dread that had stolen over him . . .

  His thoughts were broken as the portly lord returned with two men. One of the men wore mud-stained trousers and a dark shirt; the other wore a stained cook’s apron. With their queen watching on with a strangely casual air, the three of them picked Amansir up and carried him from the room.

  Brama nearly charged in then, but his fear got the better of him as Queen Meryam noticed the door. She moved forward and shut it with a soft clatter as Brama backed away. A moment later, a wagon pulled out from the stables and drove toward the rear of the estate.

  Amansir, Brama decided. He’ll know more about the queen than anyone. And he has reason to want to be rid of the sapphire.

  Brama moved to the edge of the patio as a door opened and the fop, the cook, and the man Brama assumed was the groundsman all shuffled out. The driver was an old, crooked man we
aring a floppy hat. He opened the door to the carriage while the others carried Amansir’s unconscious form toward it. They grunted and manhandled him onto the floor of the cabin, shoved his legs unceremoniously inside, then kicked the door shut, trapping him within.

  “Kill him now,” the portly lord said.

  “Here, my lord?” the cook was saying.

  “He’ll bleed all over the carriage,” the driver complained in a low, gruff voice.

  The portly lord stared between all three of them, and finally rasped, “Mighty Alu, take him away, then. Do it in the desert as your queen bade you.”

  Brama’s mind was beginning to race. If he let them leave, there’d be no catching up. He stared at the carriage as the men continued to talk. The gate had been opened for the King and had yet to be closed.

  Gods, what am I doing?

  Before he could change his mind, he slipped over the railing. If he could reach the roof below, he could drop down onto the carriage.

  “It will be done,” one of the men said gruffly, “though I don’t see why we have to do it. I’m not a fecking headsman.”

  As the driver climbed up to the bench and made way for the groundskeeper to join him, Brama moved quick as a goat along a mountainside, the sides of his soft boots tiptoeing along the narrow stone lip. He hurtled as far as he dared, then launched himself at the team of horses.

  He landed on the wagon shaft between them, startling both. They bolted into a run. The driver’s eyes went wide as teacups. He shouted and jerked backward in fright, losing the reins in the process. He tried to grab for them a moment later, but Brama gave them a tug and he missed. “Now, now!” Brama said. “I need those.”

  “Thief!” the fat lord shouted. “Thief!”

  The groundskeeper had made it halfway up to the driver’s bench. “Don’t know who you are,” he said, “but you’ve made yourself a terrible mistake.” He finished the climb and reached for his machete in its sheath along his thigh. Brama, meanwhile, climbed onto the rear of the galloping horse, leapt for the bench, and drove his knife straight into the man’s throat.