With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “And you escaped?”

  Çeda nodded, watching Emre dip the rag into the jar and then smooth the oil over the deck. She hadn’t been the one Emre had saved. It had been Hamid, but she couldn’t very well tell Yndris that. The rest was true, though. Hamid had escaped and Emre had taken a beating fit for a demon.

  “Well,” Yndris said, standing and staring at Emre. “He deserved every thump from that woman’s cane and probably more.” She might have had a sparkle in her eyes for him earlier, but now her look was one of revulsion, the sort one gave to hair in soup.

  Çeda let her leave without comment and watched Emre as he oiled the deck. Others might see a man who was bored, helping because he didn’t have much else to do, but Çeda knew this was simply Emre. Always willing to help. Always willing to share a story.

  Çeda’s eyes were drawn to a pair of black forms loping like wolfhounds over the dunes: asirim, both bound to Kameyl. Çeda could feel them both, but especially the one that had just bayed. He was the second she’d bonded with on her last voyage, and she could feel his grieving, the hatred he nourished over the death of Havva, his sister asir, who Cahil had murdered in King’s Harbor. She could feel the creature’s resentment toward her as well.

  I’m sorry, she said, more to herself than the asir. I couldn’t stop him. She didn’t know if he heard her words or not, but he stopped on the dune and howled once more.

  Unlike their last voyage, neither Çeda nor Yndris had been allowed to bond with the asir. In Çeda’s case, it was for obvious reasons: King Mesut didn’t trust her. Which was all for the best, Çeda supposed. As strong as her fury had been after the events in the harbor, she might have done something rash, or the asirim might have done something rash through her. She wasn’t too proud to admit that the combination of her own seething anger and the poison in her hand might have allowed them to do whatever they wished.

  Yndris was another matter. Çeda was surprised Cahil hadn’t demanded that Yndris be bonded, if only to set his daughter above Çeda. But if Çeda had learned anything in her time in the House of Maidens, it was that the Maidens were not the simple appendages of the Kings she once thought them to be. They served the Kings, true, but there was protocol—unwritten protocol in most cases, but protocol all the same. Without more evidence, Cahil had likely taken his vendetta against Çeda as far as he could without suffering retribution from Yusam or Husamettín. Which meant that for the time being Sümeya and her hand were the Jade-eyed King’s to command.

  As the days wore on, one blended into the next, their ship heading steadily southeast over the desert toward Ishmantep. Sümeya had ordered the captain to take them over the southeastern route from Sharakhai, over the lesser-used trails. It was shorter as the hawk flew, but much more treacherous than the well-traveled path straight south from Sharakhai and then east, and thus took more time. It was necessary, though. Sümeya didn’t want to risk having a ship spy them and race ahead to warn the caravanserai they were coming.

  In the mornings, after a light breakfast of dried fruit or spiced flatbread, they would practice swordplay against the rising of the sun. Sümeya, for her part, would only occasionally oversee Çeda’s sparring. She spent most of her time practicing her forms—which Çeda had to admit were utter perfection—or reading on deck, or writing in her small journal. She spoke to the other Maidens, but to Çeda she would only speak in clipped phrases, passing along orders for the day, a command to correct Çeda’s fighting poses, barking at her to listen to the asirim as Kameyl reined them closer or farther away from the ship.

  The threat she’d uttered in the House of Maidens echoed in Çeda’s mind—If I find that Emre’s been lying to us, I’m going to run my blade across his pretty little throat—especially when she seemed in poor spirits. Surely it was only from the challenges they faced, the mystery of what was waiting for them in Ishmantep, but it never felt that way. It felt as if Sümeya were on the edge of making good on her promise, and Çeda would find Emre hanging from the end of a rope before they reached the serai.

  For several hours each night in the Maidens’ cabin at the front of the ship, Melis continued to teach Çeda and Yndris the hand signs they used to communicate with one another silently. The first few were simple—a closed fist for move in tighter, the little finger pointed down for danger is near, the thumb between her first and second fingers meant prepare to retreat—but they quickly became more precise and difficult to differentiate. More complex signs were founded on the basics. A closed fist bent backward told them to move into a formation that would allow them free movement of their swords, a sign not only that danger was near, but that conflict was imminent. The little finger pointed down but crooked slightly said call upon the asirim, draw them near, not merely a warning, but a command. Slight variations on retreat would tell her where to retreat, and commands would change based on the terrain around them. If high ground was near, or a barricade, or a trench, it was understood that an ordered retreat would be made there; if none such was near, they would move to where there were no enemies, or where they were fewest.

  As Çeda and Yndris learned, Melis also began teaching them whistles that corresponded to each hand sign. The Maidens often found themselves out at night, or in situations where it wasn’t practical for one’s sisters to see a hand signal, such as when they were locked in battle. They used whistles in these situations. Çeda had a horrible time with some of them. She could whistle, but not in the trilling way she needed to indicate north, south, east, and west. Nor could she add the strange warble that was required for wounded, need help.

  Yndris did well with them, but seemed strangely understanding about Çeda’s inability to reproduce them. She even helped from time to time, which drove Çeda mad. What are you doing? she wanted to scream at her. Fight me and be done with it. She knew the two of them needed to speak, really speak, and soon, but it never seemed to be the right time.

  Emre was rarely allowed on deck during their sparring sessions, but once they’d had their midday meal he was allowed to come up from the stifling interior of the ship. It was nearing winter in the Shangazi, but they’d hit a miserable hot spell, which made her feel for him, especially when the wind picked up and cooled her skin.

  “You look like a drowned rat,” Çeda said to him one day.

  They were leaning against the gunwale at the rear of the ship, feeling the subtle rise and dip of the Javelin as it traversed the shallow dunes. Emre’s long black hair was drenched in sweat. The wind played with it as he closed his eyes, arms out to catch the wind. “Rats wouldn’t be dumb enough to get caught belowdecks in a ship as hot as this.”

  “That bad?”

  He shrugged. “No, not so bad.” He took in the way ahead, a rough section of desert they were crossing with care. “How much longer?”

  “A week, Sümeya said.”

  “Then Ishmantep.” He said it with a note of worry, but before she could say anything he took a deep breath and said, “Remember when we used to dream about sailing the desert?”

  “Yes, though I distinctly remember it being only the two of us in that dream.”

  “What’s a few Maidens here or there?”

  “There’s a bloody plague of them from where I’m standing.”

  Emre laughed. One of his old laughs, the sort that showed his teeth and dimples, both. She remembered that kiss he’d given her after talking along the Trough. She wanted to return it now, but she couldn’t. Not in front of everyone.

  Sümeya was speaking amidships with the ship’s captain and the commander of the Silver Spears who had joined them on the journey. Melis and Kameyl were sitting cross-legged on the foredeck, braiding ropes, while Yndris stood on the bowsprit, her black Maiden’s dress flapping as the foresail above her bowed in the wind.

  “Tell me true, Çeda.” Emre leaned in closer, looking toward them. “Do you think she’d marry one such as me?”

  “Which
?”

  “The tall one.”

  Çeda couldn’t help but laugh. “Surely, my lord, they, like all the women of Sharakhai, can discern the sort of treasure you are with but a glance.”

  “She can have more than a glance if she wishes.”

  “Kameyl?”

  “She’s ruggedly handsome.”

  “She’s a gods-damned viper, Emre.”

  “Maybe you simply don’t know her well enough.”

  “Oh, I think I know her more than well enough.” Çeda nodded to the foredeck. “Why not Melis?”

  Emre waggled his head. “Why not indeed? I am but a rat on a ship. Who am I to quibble?”

  She slapped his shoulder. “You’re foul.”

  “Make up your mind, Çedamihn, rat or fowl.”

  “The face of a rat and the legs of a hen.”

  He pushed himself away from the gunwale and headed across the deck. “Well, let’s just see if dear Melis agrees, shall we?”

  “Emre don’t,” she hissed. “She’ll gut you.”

  He strode onward, skipping down the steps to the main deck and then gliding up to the foredeck, where he sat easily and began chatting with Melis and Kameyl, occasionally glancing toward Çeda with a grin, the sort a baby might give upon discovering how pleasantly squishy its own shit was.

  “Mind the stink,” Çeda said under her breath, though whether she meant it for Emre or Melis, she wasn’t quite sure.

  Chapter 45

  ON THE EIGHTH DAY OUT FROM SHARAKHAI, the ship anchored early, and the crew, the Silver Spears, the Maidens, and Emre all built a fire and shared food and drink, each raising a wooden glass of araq to the rising of Rhia in the east. They did so again when Tulathan followed. It was Beht Firahl, the day Rhia had saved Tulathan from Yerinde’s tower and both had risen to the sky. Rhia was a golden coin, filled with righteous anger, while Tulathan was a silver sickle, still weak from her imprisonment.

  They ate beneath the stars, shared tales of times they’d gotten themselves or others into trouble, and how they in turn were saved by a father or brother or sister. Most seemed to be enjoying the night’s celebration, especially Emre, who she often saw smiling from ear-to-ear. But not Sümeya. She’d given her assent for the night’s festivities, but spoke little and ate less. Her eyes often drifted to the horizon, even when the crew started to dance around the fire. In fact, she began to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze when they started to talk and laugh. While everyone else drank araq, she drank lustily from a bulging skin of wine.

  A drum and flute and rebab were brought out. Some began to sing. Emre joined them with gusto. He’d always had a lust for song, especially those that embarrassed Çeda. But this time he sang a song of a bumbling jongleur who’d come to rob the desert tribes of their famed wealth but ended up loving the Shangazi so much he’d remained with the very first tribe he’d come across till the end of his days. As the araq warmed her fingers and toes, Çeda’s mood brightened. It let her forget, at least for a short while, how drastically their lives had changed since they’d last sung songs together. When he finished, everyone shouted and whooped, raising their glasses and downing a healthy swallow.

  “Now you,” Emre said to Çeda from across the fire, his eyes alight with mischief.

  Çeda stared at him and as whoops and whistles and ululations rose up around her, she said, “And so I shall.” The whistles and shouts grew louder—Emre the worst of them—until she held her hand up. When silence fell she took up the song of Bakhi when he’d become drunk on his own wine and began to dance around the desert, until he came to Thaash, who stood on a mount like a statue, arms crossed. Bakhi decided to play a trick on the dour god. He sang a foolish song and made the fickle god smile, then laugh. Bakhi stole his laughter and fled to the western edges of the Shangazi. There he planted Bakhi’s laughter. What grew soon after were the fire palms that region of the desert was famed for. What Bakhi hadn’t realized was that a bit of Thaash’s ever-burning anger had been caught as well. The fire dates the tree gave off were a wondrous fruit, and rare, at least in Sharakhai. They warmed the limbs and made the very heart sing, but were hot as Kundhuni peppers.

  Everyone clapped. Someone spilled ale into the fire, making it sizzle as a young crewman took up a new song. Then, without warning, Kameyl stood and took one of the Silver Spears by the hand, a beast of a man, and led him off into the desert. Whistles chased their passage into the darkness. To Çeda’s horror, Melis stood next, and held her hand out to Emre. Emre looked to Çeda, as if asking her permission.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked, though they were the last words she wanted to say.

  From across the fire he blinked at her, the alchemy of Melis’s action and Çeda’s words mixing to create a look of half shock, half hurt. But then his face hardened, and he took Melis’s hand. More whistles followed them as Çeda sat, staring sullenly into the fire, wondering if everyone could see the flush in her cheeks.

  Sümeya stood as well, but instead of going to choose a man, she came to a stop before Çeda. Wineskin in one hand, her scabbarded sword in the other, she said, “Come. And bring your blade.” Without another word, she trudged over the sand in the opposite direction the others had taken. Swallowing, Çeda buckled her sword belt and followed. No whistles followed their departure. Instead, a tense silence was left in their wake, at least until the two of them passed beyond the borders of the firelight and a new song began.

  Sümeya hoisted the wineskin and drank as she walked, then turned and tossed the skin back to Çeda. “Drink!” she called, stumbling for a moment, sand sliding down one face of the dune like a growing landslide, the sound of it strange, like a creaking door. Çeda took up the skin but only slung it over one shoulder. Sümeya glanced back. “I said drink, Maiden.” Words spoken in her warden’s voice.

  Not wanting a fight for no reason, Çeda complied, taking a healthy swallow of the crisp pear wine, but she worried about Sümeya. She’d never seen her drunk, or anything close to it. Sümeya was always cool and composed.

  When the sound of the revelry had become but a murmur in the distance, Sümeya spun unsteadily—a top ready to topple—and held her hand out for the wineskin. When Çeda didn’t immediately hand it over she snapped her fingers as if Çeda were her servant.

  Çeda gave it to her, and Sümeya drank deeply. Then she stood there, staring at the trough between the dunes to her left. A drop of wine fell from her lips, a glint of gold falling to the desert, swallowed whole by the sand. She looked more haunted than Çeda had ever seen her. She turned to Çeda and seemed startled that Çeda was there. “You’re doing well in your swordcraft.” She spoke slowly, the pace of a woman who’d just realized how drunk she was.

  “Thank you,” Çeda said simply, unsure where any of this was going.

  “Kameyl and Melis have both told me so. Zaïde has said the same of your open-hand training. And your mastery over your heart’s rhythm as well. It makes me wonder if you’ve done it before.”

  “I never—”

  Sümeya held up one hand. “I know. I’ve come to believe you are who you say you are.” She took one more pull from the wineskin, then tossed it away.

  “Sümeya, why are we here?”

  In a move so fluid it surprised Çeda, Sümeya drew her ebon blade. The curved length of steel was so dark it seemed ready to devour the night sky. “Let’s see if my Maidens are correct in their assessment, shall we?”

  “First Warden, I don’t think we should—”

  Sümeya charged, sword raised above her head, but it was child’s play for Çeda to avoid her downward swing. It took her down the dune, though. Sümeya followed, brandishing her shamshir.

  “Draw your sword, Maiden!”

  She came on fast. When she swung her blade across her body, Çeda retreated, but dove in immediately after, hoping to grab Sümeya’s wrist and disarm her, but Sümeya su
rprised her. She ducked beneath Çeda’s reach and punched her in the side so hard Çeda lost her breath for a moment.

  Sümeya’s sword moved so fast it flickered darkly in the moonlight. Çeda fell back. The sleeve of her dress was neatly cut near her shoulder, but she felt nothing along her skin.

  “It’s the last time I’ll ask you, young dove.”

  “I’ll not draw my sword against you.”

  Sümeya whipped her sword across her body, forcing Çeda back. “Will you not?”

  Çeda took a deep breath and fell into the training she and Zaïde had gone over again and again. “I will not.” She felt Sümeya’s heart beat. She could also tell Sümeya was trying to mask it. Had she not been drunk, she might have been able to but not like this. It was all too easy for Çeda to sense her.

  “The gods are watching, Çedamihn. Bakhi will not think twice of coming for one who offers herself so easily.”

  Sümeya came again and again. Each time, Çeda felt more in tune with her movements. Then a swing came that overreached. As the blade swept wide, a dark arc against the gold-dusted landscape, Çeda darted in, grabbed Sümeya’s wrist, and used the momentum of Sümeya’s own swing to fling her down the slope of the dune. Sümeya’s blade flew away, twisting awkwardly before splashing against the sand. Sümeya herself rolled down the dune, coming to a sliding stop near the trough.

  Çeda waited for her to rise, but she didn’t. She lay there, facing away, looking like a lost child dying in the desert. Çeda knelt by her side. She wasn’t sure what to say to a woman who opened up so rarely, and who had never, ever showed this sort of weakness.

  And then Çeda realized she was crying, so softly it could barely be heard above the sounds of revelry in the distance.

  Çeda placed her hand on Sümeya’s shoulder, an awkward thing, a gesture between strangers. “What’s happened?”

  Sümeya lay there, silently sobbing.

  Çeda squeezed her shoulder, trying to lend her strength. “Sümeya, tell me what’s happened.”