Amidships, Brama was leaning over the gunwales, retching. He was no sandsman—that much had been clear from the outset—but there was more to it than sand sickness. Rümayesh’s presence in the fleet they were chasing, and her imprisonment at Meryam’s hands, was doing much to worsen his malaise.
After Ramahd and Brama had left the House of Kings, they’d gone to Cicio and Vrago’s favorite haunts. Tiron, with a bit of good fortune, had been there as well. They’d debated for a time what to do. Where to go. But there was really no debate for Ramahd. He needed to find Çeda. He needed to warn her, tell her everything that had happened, as well as what Meryam now planned.
They’d found the Blue Heron guarded, but with no more than the usual pair of guardsmen. It had taken little for Cicio and Vrago to subdue them, after which they’d bound and gagged their countrymen and left them beneath the docks, then sailed by night along the arms of the great southern harbor’s entrance and out to open sand.
They’d sailed east for days before stumbling across a fleet of the Kings’ ships—the one that lay before them still—but they hadn’t quite known the scale of it until now. The ships spread farther and farther apart, more and more of them becoming clear along the horizon. Ramahd counted at least fifty ships, and there were probably more beyond the horizon. It looked like one of the mighty caravans of old.
“Bloody gods,” Brama said, staring at it from the gunwales. “They’re not taking this lightly, are they?”
“The Kings,” Cicio said in Sharakhan. “They no taking no more shit from the tribes.”
“One tribe,” Ramahd corrected. “They want to destroy the thirteenth tribe before the truth spreads.”
“What truth?” Cicio asked.
Ramahd stared at him. Cicio was not the sharpest sword on the battlefield, but Ramahd had told him all of this already. “That thirteenth tribe once sailed the desert along with the other twelve. That they were sacrificed and nearly destroyed on Beht Ihman.”
The sun slanted across Brama’s scarred face as he shaded his eyes. “The gem is there”—he flicked his hand toward the center of the line of ships—“somewhere.” Holding one hand over his gut, he slumped onto the deck and leaned hard against the bulwark.
“It’s getting worse?” Ramahd asked.
“It’s as bad as it has ever been.”
It meant that Meryam had the doors to the amulet open. Brama could feel it when she did. He could feel Rümayesh’s emotions as well—the link between them saw to that, and ensured that Brama would either fight to save her or suffer for his inaction.
“Can you tell what she’s doing?”
“No. She’s too far away.”
Ahead, it was becoming clear the ships were forming a curving line—creating a cordon, perhaps, or trying to hem something in. Meryam had promised King Kiral she would use Çeda’s blood to summon Guhldrathen when they were near enough. When the ehrekh came near, the logic went, it would sense Hamzakiir, whom she and the King both suspected would be on hand to help Onur. Had the time come? Had they found Onur’s fleet?
Brama seemed to have picked up on the same thing. “Now we come to it,” he said. “Have you thought about what I said?”
Ramahd nodded. “We need to warn Çeda.”
“You don’t even know where she is.”
“I don’t, no, but Meryam does.” He waved to the line of ships. “If they’re preparing their trap, it means that Çeda and Hamzakiir are near. Which means that we could warn her.”
Brama made a face. “Well, of course, milord. And I’m sure the Kings themselves will sprinkle rose petals to mark the Heron’s path.”
“I didn’t say we’d sail in.”
Brama stared across the desert. “What of the other option we discussed?”
“We can’t go after Meryam now. She’s too well guarded.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Either way, what good will it do to risk the Kings’ cordon just to inform Çeda she’s about to be murdered by one of Goezhen’s children?”
“She deserves to know.”
“That’s your guilt talking. She can do nothing to stop Guhldrathen. We, on the other hand, can.”
“That’s your hunger for Rümayesh talking.”
A smile tugged at one corner of Brama’s scar-torn lips. “That doesn’t make it less true.”
Ahead, the navy ships seemed to have stopped altogether. Yet their sails were still set.
“Strange,” Brama said.
An eerie chill came over Ramahd as he watched the Kings’ fleet just sitting there. “Stop the ship.”
“Aye,” came Tiron’s reply.
Vrago and Cicio were just beginning to pull in the sails when the wind began to die. One moment, it had been strong, if blustering. Then it was a breeze, hardly strong enough to power a ship. And finally it deadened, and the sound died with it. The desert was utterly silent. The atmosphere itself was strange and primal, as if something momentous were about to happen.
“A sign from the gods,” Cicio said, staring warily at the sky.
Ramahd didn’t disagree. Wind or no wind, perhaps he shouldn’t pass up a chance to stop Meryam. As he had for days, he struggled with what it might mean for Qaimir. What he was about to do was not only treason, it could very well put his country in great danger. But what Meryam is doing is worse.
“Can you guide us to the right ship?” he asked Brama.
Brama shrugged. “As long as she doesn’t close the locket.”
Ramahd turned to Cicio, Vrago, and Tiron. “Tow the ship into a trough. We leave at nightfall.”
Chapter 57
KIRAL WATCHED as the ships of the royal navy slowed and then stopped altogether. The doldrums had fallen over the eastern desert, forcing them to stop earlier than they would have liked, but it was still an impressive sight, and one he hadn’t witnessed in a hundred years: the full power of Sharakhai’s navy deploying across the desert. Like the last time, it was to quell an uprising, but unlike the last time, this was a conflict that had the very real possibility of exploding in the Kings’ faces.
A century ago, Zeheb had heard whispers of an alliance that might stand against Sharakhai, if not militarily then at least economically. Four tribes had united against the Kings, with several more considering. Azad was sent to deliver the kiss of steel to the shaikhs, while Zeheb and Onur had volunteered to lead an assault so that those who succeeded the shaikhs would think twice before making any such allegiance again.
Now Azad was dead, Onur stood on the opposite side of the battle, and the whispers had driven Zeheb mad. Their grand experiment, their alliance of Kings, was beginning to unravel at the edges. It wouldn’t last much longer, he suspected. Cahil and Sukru still stood by his side. Beşir would follow whomever had the strongest hand.
Ihsan was a different story. He was involved in all of this—the traitor Çedamihn, the loss of the caches of elixirs, Onur fleeing to the desert, and Yusam dying on the way to Ihsan’s palace. Kiral had yet to find the evidence, but he would. And it would be the key to securing Husamettín’s allegiance. Move too quickly, and Ihsan might turn Husamettín against him, a thing Kiral could ill afford. Husamettín was formidable on his own, and the Blade Maidens, whether Kiral liked it or not, were loyal to the King of Swords. Kiral couldn’t risk losing him, so he would bide his time. He would uncover enough proof to have Ihsan’s head. He might even give Husamettín the honor of taking it himself.
And then we will set about the business of pushing back the interlopers. Malasan and Mirea first.
“Are you ready?” came a feminine voice behind him.
And then Qaimir.
Kiral turned to find Queen Meryam gliding across the foredeck toward him. When she arrived at his side, he waved to the scene in the distance, the site of a waning battle. Dozens of ships were huddled together. More beyond had fled, most likely Onur’s. “It
seems the Moonless Host have survived the King of Spears’ onslaught. I wonder if they could have done so if, as you say, Hamzakiir is here, helping Onur.”
“Hamzakiir is but one man. And the Moonless Host are far from powerless.”
“You still believe he’s gone to Onur, then?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“I need more than your word. I’ve brought a Kestrel with me. Perhaps I should send her into his camp to find the truth of it.” With Zeheb unable to so much as repeat his own name, Kiral had taken charge of his Bloody Nine. Husamettín had balked, but he’d used the excuse of this very campaign to warrant it. You’ll hardly need them as you defend the city, Kiral had told him. But they may be paramount to our success in the desert.
“Send a Kestrel and you risk Hamzakiir becoming skittish. He may flee as he did in Sharakhai.”
“He may very well do that after today’s loss.”
“Which is precisely why we must summon Guhldrathen now. Don’t leave his fate to chance.”
He’d known this hour was coming. And yet saying the words, giving her permission, felt as if he’d swallowed a hot stone that was now trying to burn its way out of him. “You’re certain it will make for Hamzakiir?”
“It already did once. It cannot help but do so again. The rage it has for him is like no other. No matter that it might be tempted by Çeda. No matter that other forces stand before it. It will find him and consume him.”
“With your help, we could simply overpower him.”
“Granted, but at what cost? With the asirim left to defend Sharakhai, how much damage will your fleet take? What will remain as Malasan and Mirea creep ever closer?”
“We can retreat to Sharakhai if need be.”
“And give up the desert by so doing.”
“No, they’re not so strong as that.”
“My Lord King, we both have our spies. What do they tell you about the strengths of their armies? The size of their fleets? Sharakhai would stand against any enemy for a time, but how long could the city withstand a siege without a proper fleet?”
Kiral said nothing. She was right, he knew. There were already too many risks with this battle. Choose rashly here and he might sustain enough damage to his fleet that he’d have no chance to stop Mirea or Malasan should they advance quickly. And given that their enemies would have news of this battle soon, they just might. Were the asirim fully to heel, he’d push on anyway, but from what Husamettín had told him, it was risky. The girl, Çedamihn, had managed to override the protections Husamettín had placed on the asirim. Worse, she’d taken an asir as her own. If she could do it once, she could do it again.
“I don’t blame you for examining this from all angles,” Meryam went on. “Wise men take care at momentous times. But I tell you, oh King of Kings, your reasoning was sound all along.” She waved an emaciated hand toward the distant battlefield. “Whomever you choose to fight on the sand, be it Onur or the Moonless Host or both, Hamzakiir will escape if we don’t summon Guhldrathen. He will not remain to defend his newly chosen King. He will flee. And he is the greatest single threat to Sharakhai.”
Kiral wasn’t so sure. There were many threats to Sharakhai, not the least of them Çedamihn herself. She was the daughter of Azad’s assassin. She was Ishaq’s own granddaughter, and a direct descendant of Sehid-Alaz. He was furious she’d managed to fool both Yusam and Husamettín and infiltrated the Blade Maidens. How many secrets had she learned? How many souls had she turned to her side? Zaïde had either been turned or been with them in the first place. But then there were the Maiden Melis and the First Warden herself, Sümeya. It was hard to believe Çeda didn’t have a hand in their sudden sympathy toward the thirteenth tribe.
She killed Külaşan. She killed Mesut. She escaped on the Night of Endless Swords and had now joined her grandfather in leading not merely a rebellion, but the rebirth of the tribe Kiral had given to the gods in sacrifice.
This has to end now. In the desert. Word of the thirteenth tribe is already spreading, and while none of the shaikhs will acknowledge them openly, they are likely doing so in private. It will not be long before they seriously consider the overtures Ishaq has surely made to them, to join him in a bid to crush the Kings of Sharakhai once and for all.
“When do we begin?” he asked Meryam.
Meryam’s smile was most pleased. “Why, now, my Lord King”—she motioned toward the ladder leading belowdecks—“though I rather think it would be best in private, don’t you?”
They retired to Meryam’s cabin. In the darkened, almost stifling space was the queen’s servant, Amaryllis. She stood at a set of shelves built into one wall. She was tending to a beaker, which was suspended above an oil lamp whose flame was pure blue and which burned without a trace of smoke. The faint green liquid bubbling in the beaker was surely the source of the acrid smell lacing the hot, stifling air. There was something else besides. Something that smelled of decay.
“You can douse the flame,” Meryam said as she moved to the far side of the table occupying the center of the room. “It needs to cool awhile.”
She remained standing and motioned to the unoccupied chair across from her, but Kiral was suddenly and inexplicably nervous. “I have much to attend to.”
“This won’t take long.”
Amaryllis broke the tension by raising two small bottles from the shelf. “Would you care for some araq, my Lord King? Or brandy? We have some of Qaimir’s best.”
He waved her offer away.
Meryam, meanwhile, waited with a smile he could only interpret as a challenge. He had half a mind to call her out on it, but he would not cast himself as a petrified peasant before her comely servant. He sat, and when Meryam followed suit, Amaryllis brought out a wooden case and set it before her queen, sharing a quick, flirtatious smile with Kiral as she did so.
Meryam lifted the lid to reveal a fist-sized object hidden in gauze and two ampules, both filled with a red liquid. While the liquid looked too thin to be pure blood, it was surely a tincture derived from it. One, surely, was Çeda’s blood, prepared from the very ampule he’d delivered to her, but the other . . .
“Why are there two?” he asked.
Meryam shrugged. “There’s always that chance that one breaks. I prefer to leave as little to chance as possible.”
Amaryllis brought a ceramic plate and the beaker holding the steaming green liquid, set them next to the case and then stepped aside to let her queen work. As Meryam took up the ampule to Kiral’s left and began swirling it absently, Amaryllis watched eagerly.
Too eagerly, thought Kiral. Servants should be noticed only when their presence becomes necessary.
With deliberate care, Meryam tipped the tincture of blood into the beaker of green liquid. Her emaciated hands quivered, but she managed to get all of it in without spilling. Then she swirled the combined mixture around until it was a uniform brown.
“You might be interested to know that I’ve been studying the Malasani of late, their uses for blood.” She took the wrapped object from the case and began unwinding the gauze. “I find their golems intensely interesting and have endeavored to learn more about them. Much remains hidden in mystery, however. They hide their secrets well.”
She continued to unwind the gauze to reveal a red clay simulacrum—of a man, given the crudely formed genitals. Setting the gauze aside, she placed the figure on the ceramic plate, face up, took up the brown mixture, and grasped the amulet that hung along her breast.
“I’ve no idea, for example, how they breathe life into their golems. Even with this”—she gripped the amulet tightly—“I can do no such thing.” She poured a thin stream of the brown liquid onto the figure. She took great care to wet every part of it—legs, chest, arms, then head. The clay glistened. It absorbed the liquid like a sponge, Kiral saw, swelling as Meryam turned the figure over and poured more onto its back. “T
hey’re said to have intelligence of a sort, a will. It’s a wondrous achievement. Still, golems are considered, at best, simplistic, vastly inferior to a soul given life in the womb. And it makes me wonder, have they simply not tried hard enough? Are they not bold enough to grant true life to such creatures? I’ll admit I don’t know the answer.” She set the liquid down and regarded Kiral carefully. “But it’s something I hope to investigate further once I sit the throne of Sharakhai.”
Even before the full meaning of her words washed over him, Kiral felt his heart beat faster, louder. She would sit the throne? It was such an outrageous statement he thought it was said only in jest. But her eyes were all too serious.
You think to take my throne? he tried to ask, but nothing came from his mouth. He tried again, but his tongue, his lips, refused to respond. He felt made of clay, like the figure on the plate.
His breath came faster. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it pulse through his fingertips. He felt his scalp prickle as sweat began to form. He tried to stand, but abandoned the effort a moment later as impossible. He tried to move one arm instead. Do that, he told himself, and it would lead to more.
But his arm was little more than flesh around a dead man’s bones.
Draw your knife, he raged. Draw your knife and you might yet escape this cabin with your life!
Meryam went on as if she were unaware that he was waging a silent battle within. “I have learned some things, however.” She motioned to the wet clay figure. “How one commands flesh, for example. Even the most willful among us.” Her polite smile broadened. “Even those protected by the desert gods themselves.”
A trickle of sweat crept through his closely shorn hair, slipped down his temple, then his cheek. He struggled as never before. Miraculously, his right arm began to move. It slipped from the armrest, crept along his waist, inching toward the hilt of his ornamented kenshar.
Meryam’s eyebrows rose. “I am impressed, my Lord King.” When he managed to slip his hand around the ivory handle, she picked up the clay figure and moved its right arm. Kiral’s arm mirrored the movement, returning to the armrest. “Even after all I’ve done, steps I was assured would subdue you utterly”—she motioned to his arm—“you’ve managed this. Amazing.”
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