Suddenly the world tilted. Çeda saw sky then desert then sky again. She fell hard and rolled across the sand, her ears ringing. She felt pummeled where the unseen force had struck. Slowly, she lifted herself up, only to find those who’d been fighting Guhldrathen lying, like her, ten paces distant. They were stunned and slow to rise, even the Forsaken.
Guhldrathen limped toward Çeda, its eyes filled with rage, which made her wonder whether it still wanted to take her away and kill her at its leisure or slay her now for her defiance. Çeda reached across the sand for River’s Daughter. She thought it had fallen next to her. She realized it hadn’t. She couldn’t see it anywhere. She still had her knife, though. She drew it and tried to stand, but fell to the ground as a wave of dizziness struck.
One of the ehrekh’s hooves stepped on her right arm, pinning her hand and the knife. She heard the bones break as white hot pain burned along her forearm. A scream tore from her throat, which seemed to please Guhldrathen.
It reached one clawed hand down and said, “Now—”
But got no farther before a buzzing, rattling sound made it lift its head. Çeda turned in time to see a black cloud sweeping over the desert. It swallowed Guhldrathen and lifted the ehrekh, sending it flying backward. And then the cloud resolved into a tall figure, nearly of a height with Guhldrathen. Its silhouette had feminine notes, but retained all the other hallmarks of the ehrekh—curving horns, a mane of thorn-like hair, serpentine eyes and taurine legs that ended in cloven hooves.
Rümayesh. The last time she’d seen her had been in Nalamae’s temple in Sharakhai, moments before she’d been trapped in the sapphire. Somehow, she’d escaped her prison. Or had been released, Çeda thought, likely by Brama. She couldn’t guess how, but just then she was glad for it.
Cradling her right arm, gritting her teeth against the pain, Çeda took up her knife and watched the battle unfold. The ehrekh struck one another mightily. They fought like animals, sometimes rolling across the sand. For many long moments they seemed equally matched, but it soon became clear Guhldrathen was weakening. It staggered backward, raising its hands to draw more arcane symbols, but Rümayesh saw and charged.
Guhldrathen dissolved like smoke. In response, Rümayesh crumbled, returning to the cloud of black beetles. The swarm swept up the black smoke, the two twisting as one, flying farther and farther away, surging and swelling until they were lost behind the line of ships.
Suddenly the rest of the battle reentered Çeda’s awareness. All around them, tribesman fought tribesman. On the decks of ships, over the sand. Nearby, a fight had broken out between Onur’s personal guard and Ishaq’s best warriors. Çeda sheathed her knife and found River’s Daughter at last, half hidden in the sand several paces away. She picked it up, and then saw Ishaq, lying facedown in the sand, unmoving.
She swallowed—there will be time to grieve when the battle is done—and staggered toward the fight, pulling her veil from her face as she went. “Stop!” she called, pointing to the horizon with her sword. “Stop! We cannot fight one another, not if we wish to live!”
The cries of steel continued to ring.
“Stop!” she cried again. “Onur is dead! But the other Kings have come! And they’re waiting.” She pointed River’s Daughter toward the advancing ships. “Look at them!”
At this, some few paused. With tentative glances, they looked. Beyond the battle, dozens of the Kings’ ships were arrayed like soldiers. Their sails were at the ready, but they were unmoving, which meant they had anchors set, a maneuver used when a ship wished to get on the move quickly.
“Look at them!” she repeated. “They wait like jackals. They wait for us to kill each other that they might take us at our weakest, with little loss to their own numbers. But we need not give them what they want.”
Çeda walked down the line of the fighting. Slowly, they lowered their guard, combatants stepped away from each other. Seeing the lull in the battle, more stayed their swords. Men, women, the old, the young, many of them wounded, all held their weapons still, perhaps hoping for an end to the hostilities.
“The lure of the Kings is strong,” Çeda went on, shouting so that all could hear. “I know this more than most. You were drawn to him, Tribe Salmük. We can all see that. Tribe Masal was as well. Even Tribe Kadri saw in the King of Spears a chance to strike at the heart of Sharakhai. You were lured by Onur’s false promises. Beguiled by the same magic the gods placed upon his shoulders like a mantle. But now his dark presence has been lifted! We need not fight one another.” She lifted River’s Daughter and described an arc that encompassed the whole of the Kings’ line of ships. “Not when our true enemy lies there!”
Reversing her grip on her ebon sword, she sheathed it with her left hand, then walked toward the warriors from Tribe Salmük. She held out her good hand in peace to the nearest of them, a woman with a wary expression in her kohl-rimmed eyes. “We need not fight one another. Not while we can grasp hands and free the desert from the yoke of the Kings of Sharakhai.”
The woman stared at Çeda’s hand. She looked to the others from her tribe. None gave their assent to take Çeda’s hand, but neither did they deny her. Slowly, the woman reached out.
“Çeda!” Sümeya called, just as Melis whistled, Enemy! Behind!
Çeda turned just in time to see Onur charging toward her. He held his spear in both hands. Çeda tried to dodge, but Onur was too quick. He took her in the belly and the spear sank in. Sank through her. It pinned her to the sand. A pain as vast as the desert gripped her as Onur’s greasy face hung above her, smiling through the cuts, the streaking blood, the lank hair. Çeda managed to pull her knife from her belt with her good left hand, but the weight of his chest was against her.
“At least I’ll have you,” he rasped at her, his eyes crazed. He fell across her, nearly exhausted. “At least I’ll have you!”
Screaming, Çeda tugged her arm free, and the knife with it. With all her might, she drove it against the side of his neck. It plunged all the way to the hilt. Immediately she sawed it free, cutting his throat along with it.
Onur blinked. His mouth worked. His blood pulsed against her, a river, hot against her chest and neck. And then all his weight fell against her.
Çeda’s body fell slack. Her toes tingled but she could no longer feel her hands, nor the broken bones of her right arm. Nor, she realized with a strange sort of curiosity, the spear wound that had traveled all the way through her gut.
A weight was lifted from her. Faces staring aghast appeared in a halo around her.
She tried to speak to them. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out. They spoke as well, but she heard nothing more than a warbling, a susurrus, an inscrutable tumult of sound that made her wonder if they were uttering farewells, speaking her rites, guiding her to the world beyond.
Someone knelt by her side. A woman in a black dress wearing a turban. Her veil was off, revealing a beautiful face, bright brown eyes. She nodded to another dressed like her. Something tugged at her belly. She felt the stabbing pain once more, but only for a moment—as though, with that last offering of pain, the cost of her passage had been paid in full.
The woman with brown eyes held something. A metal flask, no larger than a walnut, which she opened with shaking fingers. Some of the soft blue, strangely bright liquid within spilled.
And then the flask was being pressed to her lips.
Something cool touched her tongue. Gods, how sweet it tasted. An elixir distilled from the light of the stars themselves. Down her throat it traveled, creating something like warmth within her.
As the feeling spread, the pain came once more. And the world around her went dark.
Chapter 65
ÇEDA’S EYES FLUTTERED OPEN.
Above her, over the roof of a tent that fluttered in the wind, the brightness of the sun shone through, a golden disk on a field of ivory. She blinked and looked away, taking
in her surroundings. She lay on thick bedding over a beautifully woven carpet. A dozen tin censers were arrayed around her. One still burned, filling the air with the rich scents of copal and myrrh. More carpets covered the rest of the interior. The center was left clear for a small fire pit.
The wind was playful, sending the tent’s walls in and out in a rhythm that made Çeda want to sleep again. She fought the urge, trying to lift herself and grunted at the sudden pain in her gut. Lifting the blanket that covered her, she saw she was wrapped in bandages from her hips all the way to her chest. She let the blanket fall and gripped her right arm, turning it this way and that. Only the smallest twinge of pain accompanied the movements. It had been broken, though. Guhldrathen had stepped on it, shattering her bones.
She lifted the blanket again. There was some blood on the bandages, but it was dried and old.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, she rolled onto her side and pushed herself up. She unwrapped the bandages around her chest and waist to find a faint pink scar running across her stomach. The center was puckered slightly, like a larger version of the wound from the adichara’s kiss on her right thumb.
“You have a big sister,” she said as she ran her right hand over the new wound. She was no stranger to wounds. To scars. This could easily have been mistaken for one that was months old. She had little doubt that over the next day, it would heal further and grow fainter.
The tent flap opened and Dardzada stepped in. Seeing her standing there naked, his eyes went wide and he turned around. “Forgive me,” he said as he stepped back outside.
Çeda smiled. As surly as Dardzada always seemed to be, it was funny to see him chastened. She pulled on the dress that lay folded on the carpet, a blue dress made of fine linen with beautiful embroidered panels stitched along the chest, skirt, and voluminous sleeves. She found a mirror on a small wooden chest, winced as she bent to pick it up, and held it high to examine herself. Her face was clean. There were cuts she remembered receiving during the battle that were now as faint as a star at sunrise. Her hair was unbound, clean, and well combed. There was not a speck of dirt in it, nor was there any trace of blood in her hair or along her scalp. Dardzada’s doing?
Gods, you’ve looked better, Çeda.
Her eyes were haggard. Her hair was disheveled from having slept on it for—who knew, a day or more? But what matter was that? She was alive. They had apparently survived the battle with the Kings. They had lived to fight another day.
After setting the mirror back on the chest, she took one of the chairs. “Come.”
Dardzada returned, rubbing his hands over his belly, as if he were suddenly worried about his appearance. His left arm was still in a sling. Smiling awkwardly, he took her in, his eyes drifting to her belly. “How does it feel?”
“I should be dead,” she replied. “So by any measure that matters, it ought to feel wonderful.”
In a blink, the old Dardzada returned. He gave her a wooden stare. “How does it feel?”
“Like I took a good punch, and little more.”
Dardzada shook his head in amazement, as if he could hardly believe it.
“I have Emre to thank for this, don’t I?”
Dardzada nodded. “Apparently he gave the elixir to Sümeya when you refused him.”
“Where is he now?” She tried to make it sound as if she didn’t truly care, though she felt foolish for doing so. She was a child no longer. And she didn’t have to hide her affection from anyone, Dardzada included—perhaps especially Dardzada.
“Just returning from a patrol. There’s still concern that the Kings will return, but we suspect they’ll be content with the damage they’ve done to the tribes and return to Sharakhai.”
Çeda wondered at it all. By her reckoning, five of the Kings were now dead: Azad by her mother’s hand; Külaşan, Mesut, and Onur by her own; and Yusam, though who might have killed him remained a mystery. And yet the task before her still seemed so daunting. Those who lived—Kiral, Ihsan, Husamettín, Sukru, Cahil, Beşir, and Zeheb—were hardly less powerful than before. They may be fewer in number, Çeda mused, but that only means they’ve consolidated the power the dead had left behind.
“Why would the Kings leave?” she asked. “Even if the four tribes banded together, they could have destroyed us.”
“True, but there was the ehrekh, Rümayesh, to contend with. After you fell, Masal and Salmük did join us. When the Kings saw the end of our battle, they began to close in, but paused when Rümayesh returned.”
“But they’d risked so much,” Çeda said. “They’d come so far. They had numbers, even with Rümayesh on our side.”
“Guhldrathen lay dead a half-league away, and many of the Kings’ ships witnessed that battle. They had lost both King Kiral and Queen Meryam in Emre’s bold gambit.”
Çeda shook her head, confused.
“You’ll hear the stories over the fires these coming nights. Suffice it to say that Emre, Brama, and Lord Amansir pulled off a story for the ages. The three of them made their way to Kiral’s own ship and destroyed the sapphire that trapped Rümayesh. Even I will admit it was daring. It likely saved us all.” Dardzada’s chest rumbled as he laughed. “Don’t tell him I said so.”
“We wouldn’t want Emre thinking you care about him.”
“I wouldn’t want delusions of grandeur making him think he’s better than he is.”
“For the love of the gods, Dardzada, let the man rejoice in doing something good.”
He shrugged and scratched at his beard, which had quite a bit more salt in it than it used to. “He can rejoice all he wants. Just don’t expect me to dance around the fire with him while he does it.”
Çeda rolled her eyes. “Kiral and Meryam are dead, then?”
“That’s doubtful. I hear they leapt from their ship and were ensorcelled away.”
“Of course. The heavens forbid a star might shine upon us.”
“No doubt. But we’ve done well. Four tribes have agreed to band together. Macide has sent ships carrying emissaries from all four tribes—ours, Masal, Salmük, and Kadri—to treat with the others in the desert. Some will resist, no doubt, but some will join us. And the others . . . well, we hope that by showing our strength now, they’ll at least not support the Kings lest they make enemies of us.”
Çeda wondered at the turn of events. “Our future was balanced on a knife’s edge.”
“And will be for some time. But there is hope now. The truth will be revealed. Some will cast doubt on it. Many will refuse to believe that we’re anything more than the Moonless Host trying to find a place for ourselves in the desert after being run out of Sharakhai. Thieves, they’ll call us. Barbarians. They’ll label us the villains. But others will not.” Dardzada’s eyes twinkled as she’d rarely seen them do.
“Could it be, Dardzada?” Çeda asked him. “Are you hopeful?”
He considered the question, lips pursed. “I wouldn’t put it so. The road ahead is long. But the gods have given us a chance. We have but to take it, and take care. And then, with a bit more luck, perhaps we’ll see this through.”
Footsteps approached the tent flap. “They’re ready,” a voice called.
Macide’s voice, Çeda realized.
“A moment,” Dardzada said, then pushed himself up off of his chair and held his hand out to Çeda.
“What’s happening?”
He flicked his fingers at her. “You’ll see soon enough.”
She took his hand and he helped her to rise. She stepped gingerly over the carpets to the flap, where Dardzada held it wide. She saw as she ducked down that there were many gathered outside, but she didn’t realize how many until she stood up again. There were hundreds upon hundreds arrayed in a fan before her tent. They stood facing her. Men in thawbs and kaftans. Women in desert dresses. Babes held in mothers’ arms, children by their sides. They bore the d
esigns of their tribes in the colors they wore, the cut of their clothes, the tattoos on their faces and hands. Tribes Khiyanat, Kadri, Masal, and Salmük. All watched Çeda.
Macide stood nearby. Behind him were Emre, Melis, and Sümeya. Leorah was there with an unabashed smile on her face, though she also looked older than Çeda ever remembered. Shal’alara stood by her side in the role of caretaker. There were dozens of others from the thirteenth tribe. Hamid, Darius, Frail Lemi, and more.
“I don’t understand,” Çeda said.
Macide stepped forward. “Two nights ago, the Kings left the field of battle. Yesterday we tended to our wounded. We built a great pyre for the dead and celebrated all who fought. But you were not there. We had no chance to honor you. We do so now, Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala.”
With that he stepped back and knelt. Emre, Hamid, Leorah, and everyone nearby did the same. Even Melis and Sümeya, after a pause, nodded to her and knelt on the sand. Then the other tribes did the same, those at the front first, then moving progressively farther back, until all of those gathered, the survivors of the deadliest battle the desert had seen since the days of Beht Ihman, were on the ground, their ships curving in an a grand arc behind them.
The sight brought tears to her eyes. But it wasn’t merely their presence here, nor the fact that they’d somehow managed to survive the Kings. This was what her mother had been hoping to achieve. She’d wanted to help carve out an existence for the thirteenth tribe. Çeda had played a part, but it had all started with her mother’s going to Sharakhai, uncovering three of the bloody verses, and killing King Azad. It felt, more than ever, as if Ahya had passed a candle to Çeda. It was a beautiful thing to behold.
Wiping tears away, she said, “Rise,” but it came out so weakly, she was forced to say it again. “Please, rise.”
Those nearest did, then more and more, until all had risen. Then, as one, they began to shout and hold their hands high, many jumping where they stood or releasing melodic ululations that rose above the deafening sound of the gathered crowd.
A Veil of Spears Page 63