With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  After sailing beyond the walls, the gate groaned behind them, booming home as their ship moved out into the desert proper. Sand stretched in endless amber waves beneath a sky of lapis blue. The scent changed almost immediately from one of mules and men and sunbaked wood to one more redolent of the early days of the world. Portside, like an arrow flying from Thaash’s great yew bow, Sharakhai’s aqueduct raced over the desert toward the mountains in the distance.

  “Come now, my little doves,” Kameyl called while striding up to the forecastle deck, “come stand at the bow.”

  Sümeya and Melis shared a look, as if both were worried how their two youngest Maidens would handle the coming ritual, but neither said a word as they took the ladder belowdecks. Yndris immediately headed for the raised foredeck, but Çeda could see the stiffness in her gait and, before she’d turned away, had glimpsed the worry on Yndris’s face, echoing everything Çeda was feeling inside.

  Below the gaff-rigged sails that heaved with the morning wind, Kameyl motioned to the bulwark. “Yndris, stand there. Watch and listen, but do not speak. Çeda, face the way ahead.” As Yndris gave a quick bow and complied, Çeda took her place so that she was looking directly out and over the bowsprit. Pointing to a small scar at the center of her palm, Kameyl asked, “Do you know why it’s our hands we poison?”

  Çeda shook her head. Yndris snorted, but Kameyl went on as if she hadn’t. “It’s because the asirim are the holy defenders of our city. They are the swords of the Kings themselves in the desert. And it is we, the Maidens, who wield them.” She took Çeda’s hand and touched her scar at the center of the blue tattoos. “Through this you can feel the adichara, and through that you will feel the asirim.”

  “I already feel them,” Çeda said.

  They were there, below the adichara in their sandy graves, waiting to be called on. Some were torpid, oblivious to her. Others ignored her. Others still were hungry and animalistic in their rage, though whether it was directed at her or the Kings or their miserable lot she wasn’t sure.

  “Mesut has granted each of you one of the asirim. Find the one that feels brightest, Çeda, and draw it near. With the King’s blessing, you’ll find it easy enough.”

  Indeed, Çeda sensed two that were fully awake and not so far from the ship. One was nearer, brighter in her mind. Surely that was the one Mesut had chosen for her.

  Come, she called to it, feeling sick to her stomach for doing this. Come, for I have need of you. Like a wolf that had caught a strange scent on the wind, the nearer one turned its attention on her. When the asir’s presence strengthened, however, Çeda’s breath caught in her throat.

  She recognized it, the doomed woman she’d seen transformed in the courtyard of Eventide. You . . .

  Why by Rhia’s grace would Mesut have chosen this one? Did he know something? Was he testing her? But when she thought about it a moment, it made some sense. If the Kings planned to use that same ritual to create more asir, would they not want to test the asirim’s obedience? And who better to test them than an untrained Maiden like Çeda? If she could do it, then what trouble would other, more experienced Maidens have?

  The asir was confused for a moment. It didn’t know how to react at first. Çeda immediately worried that it would warn Mesut, as it had when it lifted its finger and pointed to the tower where Çeda was hidden, the string of her bow drawn, a poisoned arrow ready to loose against the Kings. The asir made no move to warn Mesut, however, not that Çeda could sense. Instead, it reached out to her, a simple gesture of bonding. Was it bound to do so? Did it have any will whatsoever?

  As if in response to her unspoken questions, her thumb began to ache. She felt the asir’s anger grow. Felt its hunger. It approached, but there was another asir that followed. Not the one meant for Yndris, but one that pined for the soul bounding over the dunes toward Çeda. Çeda could feel the love between them. It was a distant thing, almost buried by the weight of the compulsions the gods had lain across their shoulders, but it was there. They might have been lovers once. Or brother and sister. Çeda couldn’t tell.

  Come if you wish, Çeda said to the second.

  She felt relief from that tortured soul, but also hatred that it was forced to beg for permission. Together, the two crept closer to the ship, their wails falling across the dunes like a dark host hungry for war.

  “Two,” Kameyl said. “That’s more than most could do their first time.”

  That’s nothing, Çeda thought. I could have summoned a score of them down on this ship had I wished. They were straining against their bonds even now. They were ready to heed her call. But then Çeda felt another presence, this one at the center of all the others. She turned, looking back the way they’d come.

  It was coming from Sharakhai.

  Long moments later, Çeda realized someone was shaking her. She turned to find Kameyl staring, an expression of awe on her face. “You sensed him?” Kameyl said, her voice low, almost a whisper, perhaps so that Yndris wouldn’t hear.

  “Sensed who?”

  “Mesut, the Jackal King, Lord of the Asirim.”

  Çeda shrugged, confused as to why Kameyl was shocked. “I sensed something.”

  “It is the King who grants us the asirim.”

  “I know. I was only summoning them, as you told me to do.”

  “Yes, but it is by his leave that you’re able to do so. Without his consent, you would be able to do nothing.”

  No. I could take them from him if I wished.

  No sooner had the thought occurred to her than a whisper played within her mind, something so distant, so soft, she barely heard it.

  Provoke him not.

  Sehid-Alaz . . . King of the Thirteenth Tribe. She knew it was him. She also knew it would be beyond foolish to reach out to him, or to reply in any way.

  Slowly, she relaxed her mind and withdrew lest Mesut learn too much. Soon her world diminished, and she could sense only the two asirim once more. Come, she called to them. Come, for I have need.

  She heard their answering wail far ahead across the desert, the sound of it little different from what she heard each night of Beht Zha’ir. This time, though, it felt as though she had caused it, as if she had fed them to the adichara to twist into those pitiful, shriveled forms.

  She wanted to tell them she would free them if she could, but she couldn’t risk Mesut hearing her, so she remained silent. Whether they felt it within her she couldn’t say, but their cries became that much more desperate, and she found tears coming to her eyes.

  “Why do you cry?” Kameyl asked, wiping away Çeda’s tears. It was an unexpectedly intimate gesture from Kameyl, who was always gruff and grating, but it only served to show how deeply Kameyl cared for her sister Maidens beneath her hard exterior.

  “Because they are brave,” Çeda replied, hoping Kameyl pressed no further.

  “They are. Now keep them close. Don’t let them go until I tell you. Understand?”

  Çeda nodded.

  “Good. Now come”—Kameyl made an impatient, beckoning motion to Yndris—“and see if you can do as well as your sister.”

  As Çeda stepped over to the bulwarks, Yndris took Çeda’s place. She was trying to hide it, but Çeda could see her look of jealousy. How very hard she drove herself. Was it for her father, King Cahil, or to impress Sümeya? Whatever the case, it was a dangerous combination: an immature girl with the power of an ebon blade and all that entailed.

  On the fifth day of their journey, Çeda sat with the others in their shared cabin, feeling the rise and fall of the dunes as they headed east over the desert. Yndris was reading a worn, leatherbound copy of the Kannan, the Laws written by the Kings and based on the much older laws of the desert tribes. Kameyl was carving minute sigils into the shaft of an arrow, one of many she had laid out on a blanket. Sümeya and Melis were sitting on Sümeya’s bunk, a game board between them. They were
locked in a tight battle with one another, but after a quick flourish of moves, Sümeya had won.

  Melis, her wild hair pulled back into a loose tail, set up the pieces of the aban board again, each coming down with an angry clack. As they started with their opening moves, Çeda rubbed her right hand. The pain was worse each day, and she knew very well why. She might not be able to see them, but she could sense them, the asirim. Like flaming brands felt but not seen, they bounded over the desert, pacing the ship, tireless, wailing their pain, their hunger, their sorrow. She could also feel, though to a much lesser degree, Yndris’s asir. She’d tried to summon two, as Çeda had, and it had caused her to lose concentration, preventing her for a time from summoning even one. But eventually she’d mastered her emotions and managed to draw the asir Mesut had chosen for her near.

  The hatred from that one emanated like stink from rotting flesh, which made Çeda wonder: Did all the Maidens sense the same from them? Surely the asirim fought the yokes placed on them as strongly as they did with Çeda and Yndris. Mesut understood very well why the asirim wished to throw their yokes free, but what about the Blade Maidens? Were they unable to feel the anger? Perhaps so. Perhaps the asirim simply didn’t share with them as they shared with Çeda—one of their own, blood of their blood. Or perhaps the Maidens could feel it, but told themselves it was hatred from a different source. They’d been taught since birth that the asirim were holy defenders of the Kings’ god-given right to rule Sharakhai and the desert. So if they felt their hatred at all, perhaps they thought it the burning anger of the asirim toward the enemies of the Kings. Çeda refused to believe the Maidens would continue to use the asirim if they knew the truth.

  No, she amended while staring at Yndris, some would. But certainly not all.

  Nearby, Melis stood from the bed, staring down at the aban board in disgust. She glared at Sümeya for a moment, then hopped up to her own bunk above Sümeya’s and picked up the intricate leather bracelet she’d been weaving over the past several days.

  “Come,” Sümeya said to Çeda, motioning to the place on her bed where Melis had just been sitting.

  “I wouldn’t make a very good opponent,” Çeda said. “I’ve never been properly taught.”

  Sümeya’s wry smile was chiding. “And when has that ever stopped you?”

  Çeda could’t help but return the smile. She shrugged, gripping her right hand, and sat down.

  “How bad is it?” Sümeya asked, nodding at her hand.

  It had been sore all morning and was getting worse as the day wore on, but she didn’t want Sümeya or the others to know the full extent of it. “It’s sore, nothing more than that.”

  Sümeya arranged the carved pieces on the board, a mixture of ebony and ivory of several different shapes and sizes. She held up the largest of them. “These are aban, the first, the gods of old. There are three of each, and they’re trying to reach the opposite side of the board where the farther fields lie. But they cannot do so alone.” She held up the second type, the midsized ones. “These are urdi, the second, the young gods. There are seven. The aban must make them, forge them from the stuff of creation that falls from the heavens. The cost is dear, but the urdi are powerful indeed. They will help the elder gods, but they cannot follow to the fields beyond.”

  “Why not?”

  Sümeya smiled a knowing smile. “Who knows the ways of the gods?” She held up one of the smallest pieces, of which there were many. “And these are kulthar, the third, men and women, villages and cities. The playthings of the gods. They help the old gods and the young, and they can go to the farther fields as well. The more that reach the heavens, the more glorious your victory might be, but it leaves those behind weaker.”

  Sümeya showed her how each of the pieces could move, how the old gods would visit special places on the board to create the young gods, how, after having enough of the young gods, they could create kulthar. It was confusing at first, but she soon started to sense the ebb and flow of the game, how it took time to build one’s base of younger gods, how moving to the farther fields might give you an early edge, but leave you weakened.

  Sümeya won the first game handily. She quickly set up another and motioned to the board. “Now, make the first move.” She leaned against the angled hull, her legs folded underneath her. It was as intimate a posture as Çeda had ever seen from her. It felt strange, and stranger still that Çeda was somehow comfortable with it.

  Çeda chose her opening move with care. “Do you know where Yusam’s scryings are pointing us?” A question she’d been meaning to ask for weeks.

  For a moment, movement in the cabin stopped. Melis glanced back toward Çeda, as did Kameyl. Sümeya looked at the others, then regarded Çeda levelly. “Not as yet.”

  “He must know something by now,” Çeda replied, looking over the board, trying to appear nonchalant.

  “When we’re meant to know, we’ll know.”

  “Of course. I only meant that I’m confused by what he’s looking for, and what he hopes for us to find on this journey.”

  “None can know but the King himself.” Sümeya made a bold opening move, daring Çeda to move her pieces to stop it. “And do not place so much upon his shoulders. King Yusam is gifted, but he cannot see everything. Far from it, which is why we act as his eyes and ears. We must be vigilant, for anything we gather for him might be the key he needs to unlock another of the mere’s mysteries.”

  “Wouldn’t we be better able to help if we knew more?”

  When Çeda said this, Yndris looked up from her reading and stared at Sümeya. Although trying to appear uninterested, Yndris seemed as curious about the answer as Çeda did. Kameyl and Melis, on the other hand, only seemed annoyed.

  “You know,” Çeda realized. “You all know, except me and Yndris.”

  Sümeya sat up straighter. “You barely know how to summon the asirim. You have yet to replicate all of our hand signals or whistles on command. And you complain that we don’t yet trust you with the world.” She made another move, the piece clacking loudly on the board, another bold move. “Concentrate on your studies. Learn and progress. Above all, however, remember that trust is forged of verity and tenacity—an alloy rendered brittle by demands and shattered by falsehoods.”

  Çeda was fully aware that she’d overstepped her bounds, but just then her poisoned thumb was burning so badly it was affecting her mood. It made her testy when she knew she shouldn’t be. She replied to Sümeya’s moves—clumsily, she saw, after Sümeya moved an aban, summoning two urdi in a move Çeda hadn’t known one could make.

  “Guard the points near the locus,” Sümeya said, pointing to the empty spaces Çeda had left free.

  Çeda made a sequence of moves that raised Sümeya’s eyebrows. “Good,” she said, “but you used up your urdi too quickly.” In the next five moves, Sümeya took three of the five urdi she’d raised, leaving her all but defenseless.

  Çeda had no idea why, but there came unbidden a fury deep within her, a rage hidden but close enough to call upon. The poisoned mark on the meat of her thumb flared so quickly she snatched her hand back from the move she was about to make and shook it in hope of alleviating the pain. That only seemed to make it worse. When she looked at it, she could see the wound itself was red and puffy.

  Sümeya sat up. “You’ll not be able to fight if that flares up at the wrong time.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Sümeya made the game’s final move, taking the last of Çeda’s aban. “Will you?”

  Hardly realizing she was doing it, Çeda stood, one leg on deck, the opposite knee resting on the bunk, and stared down at Sümeya. The ache in her hand was no normal ache. Not any longer. How she longed to wrap her fingers around the hilt of a weapon. To stick it into Sümeya’s throat. She could do it. She could kill Sümeya and Melis and perhaps even Kameyl before Yndris even knew what was happening.

  Sü
meya seemed to understand that something had changed. One leg dropped to the floor. “Sit down, Çeda.” She was still seated, but Çeda could tell she was ready now.

  When Çeda made no move to comply with the order, Sümeya glanced toward the opposite bunk and nodded. Before Çeda could even turn, Kameyl was powering her across Sümeya’s bunk until her head crashed into the hull. As pain blossomed along the right side of her head, Kameyl held her in place with a hand to her neck. In her free hand she held the knife she’d been using to cut the symbols into the arrows. She pressed the tip to Çeda’s cheek. “You’re too arrogant, little wren.” Grabbing a fistful of hair, she pulled Çeda’s head away and slammed her into the hull again. Çeda felt blood tickling its way into her ear. “Keep your questions to yourself. When you’ve earned the right to question the warden of your hand, you’ll know it.”

  Sümeya watched the exchange calmly, silently. Melis was the same, though she seemed to regret what was happening. Yndris, however, watched with eyes alight and barely contained glee. Çeda cared little for her, however. Her mind was drawn to the asirim. She felt them more strongly than she had at any point over the past days since leaving Sharakhai. The hunger was still strong within them, but so was disappointment, as if they’d come close to fulfilling their desires but had been denied in the end. It was bad enough—the realization that she could lose herself to them so easily—but it was their calm assurance that shook Çeda the most. They were angry, but they were patient as well. With Çeda, they felt assured they’d yet have their chance.

  As Çeda nodded and Kameyl released her, Çeda nearly said as much to Sümeya. But she held her tongue. The chance of her giving away secrets unknowingly was simply too great.

  “I’m going up to deck,” Çeda said, grabbing her turban and opening the cabin door.