When Kiral managed to utter a single word, “How?” it came out in a drunkard’s slur.
“Why, with your own blood, my Lord King.” Meryam poured more of the liquid onto the figure. As the clay soaked it up, Kiral felt the severing of his body from his will. “Taken in the yard of Thaash’s temple.”
Gods, Kiral realized, the woman. Amaryllis.
She’d been at the temple. She’d pressed the skirt of her dress to the wounds he’d sustained when the ehrekh had attacked. She’d taken it and delivered it to her queen.
He swung his gaze up to Amaryllis, who looked on with a dispassion that made him go cold. His breath now came in terrible, wheezing gasps. When Meryam began stroking the chest of the figure, however, his breathing slowed. For all the calm on the exterior, his terror was soaring to levels he hadn’t experienced since the moment he’d first seen the might of the gathered tribes four hundred years before. In that moment, he’d felt his own death. He felt the same now, a certainty that the brightness of the desert would dim from his eyes. This time the gods would not save him. They’d come to him those many years ago, only him, days before Beht Ihman, dangling immortality before his eyes. He’d taken it, vowing to himself, if not the gods, that he would compel the others to go along with him. What was one in thirteen when all of them might otherwise perish?
They’d agreed. They’d given up the haughty Sehid-Alaz and his people and gained life for so many. But nothing so momentous as that went unnoticed in the desert. He’d always known that one day the fates would come to collect their due.
Here, in the ship, or perhaps when the sun rose, the lord of all things would come for him. The only question remaining was the manner of his death. That question was answered a moment later, part of it in any case, when the cabin door behind him opened and a man stepped into view. A man with a long beard, a long face, and expressive eyes.
“It’s done?” Hamzakiir asked.
“It’s done.” Meryam said as she motioned to Kiral. “Best we move quickly.”
“Very well.” Hamzakiir turned Kiral’s chair so that it faced him and not the table. “If you please . . .”
Meryam took the head of the clay figure and tipped it back. Kiral’s body immediately followed suit and his mouth opened of its own accord. He knew what was about to happen, and still he was startled when something sharp pierced his right wrist; and then dumbfounded when Hamzakiir held his own wounded wrist over Kiral’s open mouth. Blood trickled against his lips and tongue. The bitter copper taste spread down his throat as Hamzakiir’s beard tickled his wrist. He could see nothing save the wooden beams above him, the decking boards, but he felt Hamzakiir’s lips as they were pressed to his own wounded wrist. The two of them were exchanging blood.
A warmth filled his gut, but his fingers had gone cold. The two feelings warred, the warmth within spreading outward as rivers of cold traveled backward from his fingers, along his wrists, up his arms, and across his shoulders. The two sensations were in such direct opposition, he felt as if he were being torn in two.
How long this went on he couldn’t say. The moments were strung together by threads of growing horror.
“It’s enough, I think,” Meryam said.
“We must be sure,” Hamzakiir replied, ignoring her implied command.
“It’s enough,” Meryam repeated.
“I’ll not risk my life because—”
“Enough,” Meryam said.
Hamzakiir blinked rapidly, as if he were trying to wake himself, then ran a finger over the dripping wound on his wrist. A sizzling sound filled the air. A bit of smoke lifted from his wrist. And the bleeding had stopped. He did the same to Kiral. Other than a small discoloration on his wrist, there was no evidence of the puncture. Not even a trace of blood remained.
“A few more drops won’t make a difference one way or another, and we have more to do tonight.”
His head lowered. Where Hamzakiir had been sitting earlier, he saw a different man. One with closely shorn hair. Stubble along a strong jaw. Pockmarked skin, one small remnant of a childhood disease that had wracked his body for months and nearly killed him.
Any who looked at him would say here stands Kiral Ranan’ala, the Sun King, the King of Kings, a white tree of Tribe Halarijan. It was so complete, even down to the way he squinted when collecting his thoughts, Kiral had to admire it.
And he, in turn, must look like Hamzakiir.
What now? he tried to ask, but whatever free will he’d managed to summon earlier was gone. He was a spectator in this play. Nothing more.
What followed felt dreamlike. Amaryllis helped Hamzakiir to exchange clothes with Kiral. They spoke softly as they worked, but their words somehow slipped past him, strangely muted, as if he had wax in his ears. When it was done, he was commanded to stand and move to the cabin window. As his body complied, he wondered how they’d orchestrated it all, and what they planned to do next. Hamzakiir would take Kiral’s place in Eventide, that much was certain. From there, they could ensure that Qaimir became favored in Sharakhai. The other Kings would remain oblivious to the truth.
How long before they stood alone on Tauriyat? A month? A year?
Kiral moved to the window. Slipped through it and down to the sand. He walked east as the stars shone above. It came as no surprise that neither moon had risen; Kiral was certain the gods had abandoned him.
As he made for the ships in the distance, not a single person from their camp called out to him. Not a single soul barred his way.
The sand beneath his boots felt soft, welcoming. It felt right, this walk, proper in the grand scheme of things. He’d not thought to return to the desert as anything but a conquerer, but to go like this, alone, felt as if he were going to speak to a dear friend, long forgotten.
In that moment, as he studied the stars above the horizon, he understood the second part of their plan, their plan for him. They must snuff out the legend of Hamzakiir for their grand ruse to succeed. And here he was, dressed in Hamzakiir’s clothing and wearing his likeness.
And to think, it was by my hand that so many moves were made in order to see Hamzakiir dead.
For the first time in a long while, he wished Ihsan was here. The man was a jongleur in King’s clothing, a fool in royal livery, and Kiral hated him for it, but he would have appreciated the beauty of this grand joke.
Had he the ability to laugh, he most certainly would have, but he didn’t, so he trudged on, his possessed steps carrying him ever closer to Onur’s camp.
Chapter 58
THROUGH THE BLANKET that was draped over him, Brama studied the comings and goings from the galleon anchored a hundred paces distant. He’d left Amansir and his men hours ago, wending his way closer and closer to the Kings’ ships. Only a short while ago, he’d seen Queen Meryam standing on the foredeck beside the King of Kings himself. They’d gone belowdecks after a brief talk—to do what, exactly, Brama wasn’t sure, but he planned to find out.
For the hundredth time on his journey from Amansir’s yacht, he clutched the bag at his belt and felt the round shape of the obsidian stone within it—the stone he’d procured before hiding in the old watchtower near the Qaimiri embassy house. It would be needed to name Rümayesh if he somehow managed to smash the sapphire.
He’d debated for days on the wisdom of his plan, but he saw no alternative. He’d already given in to the urge of trying to free Rümayesh, and there were really only two alternatives for doing so: somehow steal the gem away or break the sapphire. The former seemed the simplest route, and perhaps slightly less dangerous, but it would leave the sapphire intact. He’d be beholden to Rümayesh as he was before, and he’d do everything in his power to see that he didn’t fall back into his old life.
No, the only way he might see himself freed was to smash the sapphire and release Rümayesh. If Queen Meryam wasn’t dead by then, Rümayesh would surely take her revenge
against her. But even if Meryam was dead, Brama hoped that Rümayesh would be grateful, and see to it that he be given back what remained of his life to live as he pleased.
Listen to yourself, you bloody coward. A real man would kill himself and leave Rümayesh to whatever fate awaited her.
The thoughts were his own, but they felt like Rümayesh taunting him in that tower those many years ago. He could even hear his own pitiful reply. I never claimed to be brave.
Beyond the galleon, several fires had been lit. Dozens of Silver Spears and Blade Maidens wandered the area, some on sentry duty, others setting their ships to rights, others still tending to the meal. Brama’s mouth watered at the smell of roast lamb as the heat of late afternoon finally gave way to night. And thank the bloody gods. With the air so strangely deadened, his path over the burning sand had made him feel like a piece of bacon, fried and tossed aside as inedible.
The cover of night allowed him faster movement. Over the course of the next hour, he inched closer and closer to the galleon, but froze, blood draining from his cheeks, when a Blade Maiden wearing a turban and a red battle dress dropped down from the ship and began jogging over the sand.
He’d never seen one wearing a blood-red dress before. Just looking at her made his throat go tight. He was sure she was different from the other Maidens, special, but exactly how, he wasn’t certain. Nor do I wish to find out.
The blanket hid him well. He’d treated it with horse glue, then caked it in sand so that it was almost impossible to pick it out in the desert, especially from a distance. Still, this woman was a Maiden. One had but to enter the desert to be regaled with stories of how they could sense enemies, even fight them, in pitch darkness. He was certain she’d sensed him when she cast her gaze across the horizon.
But then someone called to her—another Maiden, though this one wore black. The two of them continued on toward the next ship over, another stout galleon.
The blood slowly returned to Brama’s cheeks. I promise you, Bakhi, coins in your alms basket for a month. For a year. Then he began moving with speed toward the galleon.
As he neared the ship, something made him pause. Until now, he’d felt Rümayesh’s gem as he’d always felt it—a hollow space inside his chest. It had been an unerring guide since leaving Sharakhai with Lord Amansir. But now he felt more. It was like the disorientation of falling in a dream only to wake and find oneself lying safe in bed. Rümayesh was being made to perform magic, he knew. He had no idea what the queen might be doing, but he knew that it was strong, and that it had something to do with Kiral, the King of Kings, who had gone belowdecks with Meryam moments ago.
With the fires casting deep shadows on this side of the ship, Brama slipped out from under the blanket and moved low and fast to the starboard ski. He climbed up along the ship’s hull, fingers finding purchase between the planks, and came at last to a cabin window. He watched through blinds as King Kiral pulled a fine kaftan over his well-muscled frame. In a chair, sitting across from Meryam, was a man with a long, pepper-gray beard. His eyes were dull, his movements mechanical as he put his arms through the sleeves of a dark thawb. He seemed stricken with shock, numb to all but his thoughts. Who he was, and why these two men were getting dressed, Brama had no idea.
What magic had Meryam just performed? And on which of them? Most importantly, why had she done it?
Brama felt another twist inside his chest—Meryam drawing on the gemstone again. The man in the chair stood. Like heat lifting from the desert floor his form began to waver, to shimmer, and then, breath of the desert, he turned transparent as glass. Brama could see him only by his barest outline.
Oh gods, he’s heading for the window.
Brama dropped to the sand and waited, breathless. He heard the sound of scrabbling, of scraping, and then something landed on the sand next to him. It was the man Meryam had cloaked with her magic. Brama could see the horizon smudging like coal on paper as he walked eastward.
As the sound of his trudging footsteps faded, the windows above were shut with a creak of poorly oiled hinges and the clatter of blinds.
Kiral’s deep voice resonated from inside the cabin. “Shall we begin?”
“Yes, but not here,” came Meryam’s voice. “Let’s retire to the desert.”
Whatever they were going to do, Brama was certain it was important. The sounds within the cabin soon softened, and then he heard them coming to deck and walking along the gangplank set on the port side of the ship. King Kiral and Queen Meryam came down to the sand, where a Blade Maiden met them, a warden with four other Maidens standing behind her ready to join the King.
“We will go alone,” King Kiral said.
The warden bowed her head immediately. “As you wish, my Lord King.” But Brama noticed the shared look of confusion between the Maidens standing behind her.
Off they went, Meryam and Kiral walking side by side, until they were lost to the darkness of the dunes. Brama waited for a time, ensuring no one was still watching the path they’d followed, then crouched and followed along their path. As he padded softly over the sand, the hollow feeling inside his chest expanded.
Brama?
That old familiar voice. The one he’d grown to despise. The one he couldn’t ignore. He knew it was lunacy to speak to her with Meryam so wary of danger, but after a moment he found himself replying.
Yes, he intoned, feeling like a fish on a hook.
As I’d dreamed, you’ve come for me! The voice was as faint as the wind on a cool desert night, likely due as much to Meryam’s lead-lined amulet as any precautions on Rümayesh’s part.
I’ve not come for you.
Have you not? That knowing tone of hers. Then why?
For me, he wanted to say, but it sounded weak and foolish.
Just then, Meryam stopped. The sapphire at her neck began to glow softly, casting the sand all around them a snowy blue. She motioned Kiral to stand across from her.
Kiral did, his eyes glinting as he watched Meryam pull a stopper from an ampule of dark liquid. “Be careful,” he said, “leave none of your own scent upon this summoning or the ehrekh may come for you.”
Meryam, her face ghastly in the pale light, nodded and tipped the ampule over. As the liquid pattered onto the sand near her feet, Brama felt her drawing on Rümayesh’s power. “I summon thee, Guhldrathen, with the blood of the one you seek.”
In the silence that followed, Brama heard Rümayesh’s desperate voice. Come, Brama. Do it now!
Brama found himself rising to a half-crouch, one hand gripping the obsidian stone in the pouch at his belt. With Meryam occupied and Kiral transfixed by the ritual unfolding before him, the urge to rise and sprint toward them was strong and growing stronger.
Meryam tipped the ampule over a second time. “I draw you near, Guhldrathen, with the blood of the one you covet.”
Do you wish me to beg, Brama? Come. You will have no better chance than this!
It was true. Meryam and Kiral stood transfixed as they stared at the sand. Yet Brama remained where he was as Meryam emptied the ampule. He could smell it on the wind, a bitter copper scent.
Kneeling, Meryam placed her hand on the black spot on the sand. With her other, she gripped the sapphire at her neck.
By the dark god’s smile, now! Now! Drive your knife into her back before she returns to her senses!
The urge to charge, knife drawn, was so strong he realized he’d taken a step forward only when he’d heard his footfall. He could kill them both and free himself from the constant desire, the need, to liberate the creature that had tortured him for months. With a force of will, he held himself still. He wasn’t even sure why, not until he heard that old voice, his own, whispering to him: She nearly has you. If you give yourself over to her now, there will be no going back.
Ahead, Meryam’s voice gained in volume and pitch until it felt as if she were scream
ing. “Come, Guhldrathen, that you may devour Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala! Come, that you may consume the heart of the White Wolf! And know that when you do, you will find Hamzakiir, the one who tricked you, the one who has for so long eluded you. Thus will you satisfy your undying hunger, Guhldrathen. Thus is my debt paid. Come hither with haste, and find not one, but both.”
That name . . . Çedamihn . . .
Amansir said she was in danger—a sacrifice to Guhldrathen so that Meryam might have her way in all this—but Brama hadn’t really believed it until now. It had seemed too unlikely that the thread of Çeda’s life would once more intertwine with his. Çeda, after all, had been the one to draw him into Rümayesh’s web. She’d been the one to save him from her as well, when Rümayesh would have kept him as a pet, to torture him until she’d found someone else and tossed him aside. It was the remembrance of all Rümayesh had done to him, the pain she’d inflicted upon him—gods, how distant it seems now—that allowed him to drive his kenshar into its sheath, to lie down on the sand and wait.
For a long while all was silence save for the sounds coming from the line of ships. “Is it done?” Kiral asked.
Limbs trembling, Meryam lifted herself up off the sand, but she was so weak she couldn’t seem to make it onto her legs. “Don’t just stand there.” The words were biting, but also faint, as if she had trouble voicing them.
Kiral came to her side and helped her to stand. “Is it done?”
“Yes. It’s on the move. I can feel it.”
“It won’t arrive too soon, I hope.”
“No,” Meryam said as she dusted her hands free of the bloody sand caked on them. As the amulet began to lose its glow, she met Kiral’s gaze. “It will be after noon, I suspect. The question now is whether his quarry will still be alive or not.”
“He will,” Kiral said flatly. “Onur has agreed to stand with the Kings, at least until the thirteenth tribe has been destroyed once and for all. I’m more worried the ehrekh will suspect our treachery.”
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