The Doors at Dusk and Dawn: A Shattered Sands Novella

by Bradley Beaulieu

  At this Şelal stiffened. “What secret?”

  “I told you, she wouldn’t tell me, but clearly she wishes to confess it before she’s taken to Sharakhai.”

  Şelal paused, considering. “I will come. She can tell me.”

  She stepped out, and Devorah began formulating a response, anything to deny her, but just then a scratchy voice came from inside the tent, “Şelal, I will go.”

  A short while later, Armesh stepped out, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Even in the dim light of the crescent moons, Devorah could see Şelal’s discomfort, the way she fidgeted. It seemed clear that she’d recently learned of Armesh’s closeness to Devorah and Leorah’s mother, Yael.

  “I will go,” Armesh said before Şelal could object. “She deserves that much.”

  Şelal’s back stiffened, she looked to them both, a dark cloud over her, then swept into the tent without another word.

  “Come,” Armesh said, and began walking with Devorah toward her tent, where Leorah lay sleeping.

  Devorah walked with him only far enough that Şelal would sense nothing amiss, should she be watching, then she tugged on his arm and pointed toward open sand. He seemed unsurprised, and without a word allowed himself to be led away from the cluster of tents.

  When they were far enough away, Devorah pulled from the purse at her belt the two amethyst rings. They glittered in the moonlight. “I must know how it works, Armesh.”

  Armesh reached out unerringly and took the ring that was whole. She thought he would deny her, that he would look upon her sadly, as so many seemed to do, and tell her to return to her tent. To her great surprise, he did not. To her great surprise, he told her all.

  “We took it into the desert near sunset,” he began, “far away from the tribe, far away from watching eyes. Only then did your mother reveal its secrets to me.”

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Her mind afire, her movements frenzied, Devorah returned to her tent as the sun began to burn behind the peaks of the eastern mountains. She stoked the coals of the oven, boiled water. After pouring the double dose of the powder into a mug and dousing it with hot water, she roused Leorah and told her she’d gone to Bagra to get a special tea, one that would calm her nerves for the coming day.

  “It tastes foul,” Leorah said, setting the cup down.

  “Drink it,” Devorah said. “It will help, I promise.”

  Leorah seemed doubtful, but she accepted the mug and with a vacant expression sipped at it while Devorah busied herself, preparing the beautiful desert dress Leorah had been working on for weeks, choosing earrings and a necklace and a host of silver bangles Leorah favored when she was feeling fancy. She laid out Leorah’s best sandals as well, the strappy ones that came from the endless hills of Kundhun.

  “You don’t have to dress me,” Leorah said dreamily. “I’m not a child.”

  “Today I will dress you,” Devorah replied, adopting the same air their mother always used when she needed them to listen.

  Leorah smiled, nodded once, then finished the last of her tea. “I’m tired,” she said.

  Devorah was starting to feel desperate, knowing what she said now might be the last words she ever spoke to Leorah. She stifled the hopeless thoughts lest Leorah catch on. “There’s time yet. I’ll make a bit of flatbread and honey, just like you like it, dusted with crushed pistachios, yes?” Even as Leorah’s eyes closed, her smile widened. “Go on,” Devorah said. “Lie down. I’ll wake you.”

  Leorah did, scrunching her down pillow until she found a comfortable position. It reminded Devorah of when they were young, a memory that knifed through Devorah’s heart. “I’m sorry I’m so difficult.”

  Devorah leaned over and kissed the crown of Leorah’s head. “You aren’t difficult.”

  “I am so,” she whispered, “and I ruined everything.”

  “You fight for what you believe in. You fight for yourself, but also for me.” When she heard Leorah’s breaths deepen, she leaned in and kissed her one last time. “Today, however, I will fight for you.”

  Moving with haste, Devorah pulled on Leorah’s favorite dress, put on the earrings and necklace, strapped on the sandals. Then she took up the two rings: the dead amethyst and the other, the one that felt alive. The dead one she put on the middle finger of her right hand. Then she retrieved a belly chain, a thing she’d found sexy but had never once worn since buying it at a caravanserai when she was fifteen. She strung the living ring through the chain and then, after hiking up her dress, clasped it around her waist. After maneuvering the ring until it rested at the small of her back, she smoothed the dress back into place. It felt so conspicuous.

  Breath of the desert, how will anyone fail to see it?

  The only thing that calmed her nerves was the fact that she need fool only one man: a King. If he noticed, this would all be over, but that somehow comforted her, gave her focus. It was a thing for her to strive for instead of worrying about Leorah and Şelal and Armesh and all the rest.

  Outside the tent, the camp was coming to life. Devorah’s hands were shaking. Gripping them tightly, she gave Leorah one last look. Her tears felt hot along her cheeks. She let them flow. It would only add to the effect of a woman distressed.

  “See you when you wake,” she said, a thing they used to whisper to one another before falling asleep as children.

  She left the tent, tying the flaps in terrible knots to dissuade anyone from entering, and made her way with the guards toward the edge of the camp, toward Sukru’s galleon. Some few were already up. A few waved. Most merely watched. She ignored them all, trudging stolidly toward the dark galleon, which looked in the morning light like some monstrosity, an ancient desert wyrm, coiled and waiting.

  The guards backed away as she neared the ship’s long skimwood runners. “I would speak with King Sukru!”

  A Blade Maiden arrived at the gunwales. She stared down, her face hidden behind the veil of her turban. “The Kings of Sharakhai are not called upon. The King calls upon you.”

  Devorah ignored her. “I would speak with King Sukru!”

  “Shout like that again, Biting Shield, and I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “I am to be his wife!” she railed. “Can I not speak with my future husband if I wish it?”

  In answer, the Blade Maiden seemed to tip over the side of the ship. Head over heels she spun to land just next to Devorah on the sand. Her hand shot out and struck Devorah across one cheek. Devorah reeled, tried to escape, but the Maiden had already grabbed a fistful of hair at the back of Devorah’s head. She pulled Devorah close, rasped in her ear. “You are not the King’s wife yet. Shout and wake my King, and I’ll be tempted to see if he’ll forgive me for taking a finger.”

  “I’ve come with his ring!” She held up her right hand. The ring glittered in the early morning light. “He wanted it last night!”

  “And coward that you were, you sent your shaikh to deny him.” Quick as an asp, she snatched Devorah’s hand and pulled her curving kenshar from its sheath. Devorah tried to deny her, but the Maiden was too fast, too strong. Soon enough she had Devorah’s pinky gripped tight, the kenshar’s edge held between it and the next finger, ready to slice it away. “Perhaps I’ll keep going until I come to the one with the ring, yes?”

  “I only wish to make amends!”

  The Maiden seemed not to hear. Her eyes were focused on Devorah’s hand, as if she could think of nothing but following through on her threat.

  “Enough!” an aged voice called from above. They both looked up to find Sukru standing at the gunwales where the Maiden had been only moments ago. “Bring her to me.” Then he was gone, though his voice trailed after. “With all her fingers, if you please.”

  The Maiden was not pleased. She shoved Devorah forward, and kept shoving until they reached the gangplank on the far side of the ship. Up Devorah went until she was standing before Sukru near the gunwales. The camp had heard. More and more strode forward, gathering along the sand, watching thi
s strange spectacle unfold.

  “I’ve come to deliver your ring,” Devorah said to Sukru.

  “So you said.” Sukru, a half-head smaller than Devorah, stared into her eyes with a pitiless expression. “And yet I do not have it.”

  Devorah made no move to take off the ring. Not yet. “I will give it to you. I ask only that you allow me to remain here with the people I love.”

  “Now why would I do that?” He seemed perfectly perplexed, a galling act that made Devorah wish she had a knife to hand.

  Instead, she held up her right hand so that the amethyst glittered before his eyes. “Because what you really want is this. My sister told me. So take it. Take it and the rest of the prizes and enjoy them in Sharakhai.”

  Sukru looked her up and down, and for a moment she thought she’d made a terrible misstep. The mention of sister seemed to have made him assess her anew. Had he recognized her? Did he know who she really was?

  A moment later, he said, “Your sister spoke the truth,” and her nerves calmed. “I came here for the ring, but it’s been a long while since I’ve taken a bride. You’ve proven yourself to be a fine woman, if rough along the edges. Burrs can be filed away, though, can they not? Burnished until they shine, the memories of those once-rough edges vanishing like footprints in the desert.”

  “I wouldn’t know, my Lord King.”

  Sukru chuckled. “I wouldn’t know… Well, you will soon enough.”

  “No,” Devorah said.

  She’d never had much hope that he would allow her to leave. He was a man who coveted much, and once he’d set his sights on something would never let it go. What she was more worried about was that he would sense the nature of the ring on her right hand, or worse, the one hidden at the small of her back.

  On the sand below, more from all three tribes had gathered, including Şelal, who watched with anger, and Armesh, who watched with mouth agape, and Kirhan, who walked on crutches, staring intently at Devorah and Sukru as he struggled to understand the strange situation unfolding before him.

  Devorah pulled the ring from her finger and held it out for Sukru to take. “Please. Take it and leave me. I’ll never love you.”

  Sukru’s face screwed up in a look of pure contempt. “What care have I for love?”

  Devorah tossed the ring at Sukru’s slippered feet. It made a pathetic sound against the deck. “I will not marry you.”

  Sukru bent over and picked up the ring. He seemed entranced by it. “In the eyes of the gods, you are already my bride.”

  He snapped his fingers. The Maiden immediately made for Devorah, but before she could come close, Devorah lunged for the handle of Sukru’s wide-bladed knife at his belt. She drew it from its sheath, a blade so curved it looked like an ox’s horn.

  “Never!” she screamed.

  Only when she was sure the Maiden was on her way to stop her did she slice for the King.

  The Blade Maiden barreled across Devorah’s path, one hand gripping the wrist that held the knife. In one powerful move, Devorah was slammed to the deck and the knife was twisted from her grasp. The Maiden held it to Devorah’s throat. A line burned across her skin, but not deeply. She wouldn’t kill Devorah yet, not without leave from her King.

  “Lift her,” Sukru said.

  The Maiden complied with cruel efficiency, until Devorah was standing awkwardly, eye-to-eye with the King.

  Sukru flicked his fingers. “The knife.”

  The Maiden handed it over.

  Sukru handled it easily, a collector of rare artifacts examining some new treasure. “Never, you say?”

  “One day you’ll not be able to keep that knife from my hands, or another just like it.”

  “You would die before coming to Sharakhai—a land of riches, a place of infinite sounds and smells and tastes, a place of wonders—all because you fear you cannot love me?” He no longer seemed angry, only curious.

  Devorah’s response was to spit into his face.

  The crowd on the sand gasped.

  The Maiden wrenched Devorah’s arm so hard Devorah screamed.

  Sukru wiped the spittle from his face, but then motioned the Maiden for calm. He took a step closer. Gripped the knife. “So be it.”

  And drove it deep into her gut.

  The voice of the crowd lifted in shock, some shouting, “No!”

  Pain blossomed, and Devorah wondered, knowing they thought her to be Leorah, Would they react so for me? And immediately after, What does it matter, you foolish girl?

  She felt herself being lifted. Felt the sky open up before her as the world became weightless, floating. She fell hard against the sand. Saw it lift in a cloud around her, a pall of spindrift with a sound like falling rain.

  “No one will touch her!”

  Sukru’s voice, yet Kirhan still came. He dropped to her side, pain momentarily masking the worry in his eyes.

  Have you been hurt? she tried to say to him, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Her mind drifted from Kirhan to Armesh, to their conversation last night. “Your mother and I used the amethyst once.” He had stared into its facets, enchanted, perhaps remembering that day. “We were in love, then. Or as in love as children can be. Near dusk we trekked far into the desert, to a small oasis with a cave beside it. We built a fire, and that night, as the sun was setting, she put the ring on. She asked that I close my eyes, that I feel for its pull. I didn’t know what she meant. I kept staring until she leaned forward and kissed me, then brushed one hand over my eyes. Keep them closed, she told me. Feel for it.

  “I did, and soon understood what she meant. The stone was a well. A place of infinite depth. Good, she said, then asked that I step into it.” Armesh had paused then, blinking as he stared at the ring. Tears welled in his eyes. “I was scared, but I did as she asked. It was simple once I found it. I stepped into that new place, and so did she. While the sun set, we shared with one another—me in her form, her in mine. We walked around the oasis, admired the beauty of the desert while holding hands, caught in the spell of the amethyst.”

  He’d wiped his tears and held out the ring for Devorah to take. “Feel for that well, Devorah, and you’ll find it. Let me tell Leorah the rest.”

  Devorah had taken the ring. “If you loved my mother so, why did you never fight for her?”

  Armesh smiled. “I would never have admitted it then, but she was too bright a star for one such as me. I never stopped loving her, and I think she loved me in her own way, but in the end, the fates found her the right man.” Devorah was crying, too. He wiped her tears away. “I still have that one night to treasure. I will always have it. But now, far beyond the imaginings of my youth, here you are, Leorah as well, a pair of perfect jewels made from her, much like these very stones.”

  “Leorah is hardly perfect”—Devorah had laughed—“and the gods know very well that I’m not.”

  Armesh had smiled wryly. “Nearly perfect, then.”

  Laying there on the sand, staring up into Kirhan’s face, Devorah did as Armesh had instructed. She closed her eyes to the morning sky. She reached for the amethyst.

  She’d hardly begun when she felt it. Just as Armesh had said, a great pool of violet now stood before her. How had she never noticed it before? It seemed impossible, but there it was. Waiting for her. Beckoning.

  And so she went. She stepped inside.

  And the world around her faded.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Near nightfall, Leorah stood before a freshly made grave—a deep pit in the sand, now open to the sky. Devorah lay within, wearing her favorite dress, the one made from a supple cloth dyed persimmon and lemon with finely embroidered cuffs and collar. Her hair had been braided. Her skin had been cleaned of the blood.

  So much blood.

  She looked neither peaceful nor in pain. Rather, she looked as though she’d forgotten the world and had no further use for it.

  Devorah’s rites were spoken to the assembled, a massive crowd made up of all three tribes. Sever
al had spoken in her memory. Şelal had asked to join them, and Leorah had granted it. The shaikh of Tribe Rafik had shared eloquent words. Touching. She’d known more about Devorah than Leorah had ever guessed. Armesh spoke as well, more touching words, though Leorah hardly heard them.

  Soon it was done. Many near the edges, never having known Devorah, left. Those nearer picked up fistfuls of sand. When they came near, they allowed the sand to drop in a stream into the grave while whispering to the gods, hopes and prayers for Devorah’s life in the farther fields. When they were done, many stood at the ready, waiting for Leorah to do the same.

  Leorah shook her head, her hands clasped tightly before her. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be right. They stared at her, confused, until Şelal motioned them to continue, at which point they filled in the hole. When the grave looked indistinguishable from the rest of the landscape, Şelal ushered the crowd away.

  Only two remained. Armesh and Kirhan.

  Armesh looked awkwardly between Kirhan and Leorah, looking as though he wanted to say more but couldn’t, or wouldn’t, with Kirhan near. “You’ll let me know if you need me.”

  Leorah nodded numbly. “Of course.”

  She couldn’t decide if she was angry with him or not. He’d been involved. He’d held Devorah’s hand as she’d walked toward her fate. But who owned more of the blame than Leorah herself? How could Armesh be faulted when Leorah had blinded herself to the dangers?

  Armesh embraced her, then followed the rest, leaving Leorah alone with Kirhan, who’d defied his King to remain here in the desert. Leorah was confused about his presence. She wasn’t yet sure if she was happy to have him here or not.

  “Why didn’t you go?” she asked him.

  “I would never have forgiven myself if I’d left.”

  “But Sukru threatened you. He threatened your family, in front of everyone. They told me.”

  He seemed embarrassed by the words. “One cannot live under the yoke of fear forever. And I would not leave before…”