With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Juvaan’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise. “My lady is well informed.”

  It’s what Emre had told her, the palaces Macide had decided to attack. “And the caches hold all that remains of the elixirs?”

  Juvaan shrugged. “Each King will have some set aside, no doubt, but these are the stockpiles that are closely guarded, closely inventoried. They have dwindled over the years, but the Host wishes to see them all destroyed, to bring about the destruction of the Kings in the decades ahead, even if all their other efforts fail. At least, those were Ishaq’s plans, plans that now lay in tatters. With the support he’s now gathered, Hamzakiir will attack, but he will not destroy the caches.”

  “He’ll keep them for himself,” Çeda said. “He hopes to remove the Kings but keep the elixirs.”

  “Just so, which would, as you can imagine, throw doubt on the age-old arrangements we discussed only moments ago.”

  “And what do you wish me to do?”

  “Ishaq still wishes to destroy the caches. All of them. It is a chance that may never come again. But the forces loyal to him have been weakened terribly.”

  “There must be some in the city who can help.”

  “Some, yes, but not enough. The rest are poorly trained. Or are men and women no longer fit to lift a sword. They need proper soldiers.”

  “Then summon more from the desert.”

  “They would if there was time, but there is a cordon around the city now. The Kings have dispatched the Royal fleet. Dozens of ships patrol the desert, ready to inspect any that approach Sharakhai. If the attack were weeks away, there would be time to plan, to summon more scarabs. But there isn’t. And by then the chance to win this prize will have vanished.”

  “I can’t help that.”

  “No, but perhaps the son of Qaimir can.”

  “The son of . . .” It took her a moment to piece together what he was implying. “Ramahd? He’s here?”

  “He returned some weeks ago. He and his queen have influence in Sharakhai, perhaps enough to turn the tide against Hamzakiir and do what Ishaq wants.”

  “You would have Qaimir do this when you have as much or more influence in the city as they do?”

  Juvaan shrugged. “I consider myself a shrewd businessman. Even you will admit that this venture has a low chance of returning its investment.”

  “Then why come to me now? Why risk brokering an arrangement with Qaimir at all?”

  He laughed as if she were too young to understand the way of the world. “Because they very well may succeed! And if they do, that would be a rather stunning return for the effort put in.”

  “So you and your queen will sit like grinning jackals, waiting for the lions to make their kill? You’ll not lift a finger when so much is at risk?”

  “My dear, there’s little enough at risk for Mirea. My queen is patient. As am I. If the Host fails then we wait.”

  “And if they succeed?”

  “Well then, the landscape changes, does it not? And we’ll be ready for that as well.”

  “You would pretend that you helped the Host?”

  “Will this not help? If you’re able to garner the support of Qaimir, would this conversation not be considered vital to the night’s endeavors? Don’t discount diplomacy, Çedamihn. Don’t discount communication. You do so at your peril.” He began backing away. “There’s little time. Ramahd Amansir is in the embassy house now, and if the whispers I’ve heard are true, he’s sent letters. Asking for an audience with you.”

  Çeda opened her mouth. Closed it again. Why would he ask for me? “I’ve heard nothing of this.”

  Juvaan made a flourish with both hands, a gesture that encompassed the whole of the House of Maidens. “As tense as things have become, I’m not surprised. As for the specifics, who can say? Go. Speak to him and his queen. Help your friends.”

  “Assuming they agree, how are they to find the Host?”

  “There is one named Hamid. You know him, I believe.”

  Shy Hamid. Quiet Hamid. “Yes, I know him.”

  “He will be in Karakir Square when the sun sets.” With an elegant bow, Juvaan turned and took to the stairs, leaving Çeda alone with a tempest of thoughts and emotions.

  “The queen will see you now,” the old servant woman said, and opened the doors to a sitting room in the Qaimiri embassy house.

  As Çeda stepped inside the opulent room, the servant closed the doors behind her. A moment later, the doors to the right of the tall hearth were opened and in stepped Ramahd wearing the fine clothes of a Qaimiri nobleman. He was as handsome as she remembered, if a bit thinner. Little wonder, if his harrowing tale of survival in the desert is true. Behind him came a woman as gaunt as anyone Çeda could remember seeing.

  “Queen Meryam,” Çeda said, taking a knee and bowing her head.

  Meryam moved to a chair near the tall fireplace. “Rise,” she said, her voice rough as weatherworn leather. Çeda complied, at which point Ramahd smiled and waved her toward a couch opposite Meryam.

  “I prefer to stand.”

  He looked as though he were ready to convince her otherwise, but then he quieted himself and took her in. “The Maiden’s black suits you.”

  “Forgive me, my Lord Amansir. I’m in no mood to be mocked.”

  “It was no jest. You’ve changed since last I saw you. You look as though you’re ready to take on the world.”

  “Yes, yes,” Queen Meryam said. “I’m sure we’re all very happy to reminisce, but I’ve a feeling our young Maiden came for a reason.”

  “Of course,” Ramahd said, hardly glancing the queen’s way. “What can we do for you?”

  “I need your help. It’s much to ask, but whatever your answer, I need to know that it will remain between us.”

  Meryam laughed. “You never told me how very sly she was, Ramahd. Rest assured, dear girl, it will go no farther than this room should we decline. Now tell your tale. I’ve much to do before the hounds come baying.”

  She meant the asirim, which made her wonder just how much the queen knew of the coming conflict. “Are you aware, your excellence, of what will happen tonight?”

  Meryam looked her up and down. Her face was grim but her eyes were hungry. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “The Host is set to attack the Kings.”

  “You seem strangely calm about it,” Meryam shot back.

  Çeda couldn’t deny it. The realization that her mother hadn’t died in vain had been a supremely freeing one. It had also put her in a fey mood. Besides, she’d reasoned that this was why Ramahd had wished to speak with her. As much as he and his queen’s agents spied upon the Moonless Host, they must already know—or at least suspect—what was about to happen. “This is a chance I could never have hoped for, and now that it’s here I’ll do everything I can to make it happen.”

  “And you need my help.”

  “I do, though it will benefit any sovereign land that has come to feel that the Kings have amassed too much power.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is.” She proceeded to tell them what she knew. Of King Azad, of the caches, of Hamzakiir’s betrayal and Ishaq’s wish that the elixirs were all destroyed. Ramahd seemed eminently unfazed by it all, so much so that she wondered if he’d played some part in its grand construction. Meryam, meanwhile, seemed more and more pleased by Çeda’s tale. No, not pleased. Eager, like a thief who’d been hoping for entry to the king’s vault for years and had just found it both unlocked and unguarded.

  Çeda quickly came to the most difficult part. “I want you to gather your resources, everyone you can manage, and help me on this mission.”

  She’d implied it was for her benefit, but they all knew what she was asking. Ramahd’s wife had been shot through with an arrow by the Moonless Host. His daughter had died when the survivors of that massacre
had tried to reach safety. It had all been done at Macide’s orders, and now here she stood, asking Ramahd to help his sworn enemy. The emotions she thought would play across his face didn’t. Instead, he stared at her, unmoving, with something approaching wistfulness, or perhaps regret. She thought Meryam might answer for Qaimir, but she waited, deferring to Ramahd from some reason.

  “Will you be joining them?” Ramahd asked.

  “I will.” She’d decided to the moment Juvaan had told her about the caches, the moment she knew why her mother had died to kill Azad. This would be the culmination of that night so long ago. This would see to it that her mother’s death hadn’t been for naught.

  Ramahd considered, but not for long. “Very well,” he said.

  She waited for more, but nothing followed. “Very well? I will admit, my lord, that I rather thought there would be more resistance.”

  “You’d prefer that I decline?”

  “I must know that you are sincere.”

  He nodded. “A fair enough request, and in reply I can only say this: that the needs of my country must come before my own. This is important to the security of Qaimir, and so I will go if my queen allows it.”

  She searched his eyes for something, anything, more. She turned to Meryam. “My queen, may I speak plainly?”

  Meryam nodded.

  “You’ll forgive me, but I wonder if Lord Amansir would say the same were Macide Ishaq’ava to walk through that door. I know of the pain he went through. That you both went through.”

  Meryam swung her gaze to Ramahd. “She speaks truly, Ramahd.”

  In turn, Ramahd took a deep breath. “The desert changes every man. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “Yes,” Çeda began, “but—”

  “You don’t know what happened to us out in the Shangazi. I won’t bore you with the tale, but believe me when I say I’ve begun to regard those who tread this earth more than those who walk the farther fields.”

  There was a look of regret in his eyes. Had Ramahd missed her out there in the desert? Would a simple infatuation make him do this? Likely not. She believed his words, that he would do this if he thought it would further Qaimiran interests. But she thought, perhaps, it might be due to her as well, and for some reason that made her heart swell. It gave her some small hope that this night wouldn’t turn out as foul as she thought it might.

  “Very well, Ramahd.” She held out her hand. “You have my thanks.”

  He looked down at her hand, and then, in the manner of the desert, took her forearm and shook it. His hand was warm against her skin. He smelled of tabbaq. Part of her didn’t wish to let him go, but those were the thoughts of a lonely woman. What need have we of men? she remembered her mother saying. Hiding a smile, she pulled her hand away and bowed to Meryam. “Excellence.”

  Meryam nodded, her cold eyes boring into Çeda’s. “Çedamihn.”

  “When the first moon rises,” Çeda said to Ramahd, “meet me in Karakir Square. If you arrive before I do, ask for a man named Hamid.” He nodded, and she left the embassy house.

  With a cool wind beginning to blow, she wondered if she should have asked him more, made certain that his heart was pure, but there was little to do about it now if Ramahd wasn’t willing to share. She returned to the House of Maidens and went to the apartments she shared with her hand. No one was there, so she left again, ready to head to the grand courtyard where most of the Maidens had been ordered to report an hour before nightfall. She would attend, listen to their plans for the night, and then, as soon as the sun went down, she’d slip out and return to Sharakhai. Explaining her absence would not be easy, but she had to take this chance. She left the barracks feeling more alive than she’d felt in months.

  And heard the soft patter of sprinting footsteps too late.

  She was just beginning to turn when bright pain burst across the back of her head. She staggered forward. Tried to run, to gain distance from her attacker. But the stone path ahead of her tilted. She heard footsteps, saw the black boots of a Maiden beside her. A knee pressed painfully into the small of her back. A hand clutched a fistful of her turban and angled her head awkwardly to one side.

  A voice whispered harshly into her ear, “And what, by Bakhi’s bright hammer, would a Maiden need from the Queen of Qaimir on a night like tonight?”

  Yndris. By the gods, it was Yndris.

  “I was—”

  Before she could say more Yndris crashed her skull against the stone. “Don’t answer that,” Yndris said quietly. “My father will be most curious to hear your tale.”

  Çeda tried to fight, but it was no use. She was too dizzy. Too weak. Yndris lifted Çeda’s head once more. Then came another crash, and her world went dark.

  Chapter 59

  ÇEDA DREAMED OF THE ASIRIM. They rested beneath the ground, cocooned like insects. They waited, praying that this night would be their moment to emerge, to feast, to release the pain and rage that had been building like a suppurating wound. For some few, that call came. Like the toll of a distant bell, the Jackal King called to them. These lucky few squirmed. They clawed at the earth, emerging from their sandy graves beneath the twisted trees. They felt other forsaken entering the twilit night, but they thought no more of their brethren than this; they were fixed in their collective purpose, their minds chained, the shackles placed on them by the gods themselves.

  An asir who had once been a man loped toward Sharakhai, summoned by the Reaping King and the crack of his whip. He bounded over the dunes, hoping that the feast might be over before he arrived, praying that it wouldn’t end before he could slake his thirst. So it had been since Beht Ihman. So it would be until the gods decided he’d breathed enough of the desert’s dry air. The two notions fought, creating a fire of confusion and hatred that drove him to simply act for the sake of doing something, anything, to quell the chaos in his mind.

  His long, bounding strides brought him to the edge of the city. More of his kind joined him. They howled. They bayed. They smelled the fear of those huddling in the darkness of their homes. Sukru’s whip brought them to the very center of the city. They searched each house for Sukru’s sign—a hand, pressed in blood, lit by the twin moons and bright to their jaundiced eyes.

  One by one the others found their marks, until he alone was left without one. He, Kerim Deniz’ava al Khiyanat, cousin to the King of the Thirteenth Tribe, stood paces from the door with the bloody print. He heard a man crying within, a child as well. Fear and sorrow poured from them, for they knew what stood beyond their threshold. Tulathan, grant me this one small kindness. Let me leave the city no poorer for my efforts than when I’d arrived.

  His breath came through gritted teeth, the sound like stone abrading stone. His fingers flexed, summoning memories of how sublime it felt to rend the flesh of the living. And yet he found himself resisting the urge. His feet stayed rooted to the spot. He could do it. This one night, he could win.

  And then he heard the lightning strike of Sukru’s whip.

  Kerim managed to turn, to look upon the Reaping King’s bent form as he strode with the confidence of a god through the streets of the Amber City.

  Please, Tulathan. But this once. I beg you.

  In answer, the King swung his whip and struck the air above Kerim’s head, so close he could feel its impact. It enveloped him, and all thoughts of defiance vanished like the storm clouds of spring giving way to the heat of summer. Kerim turned to the door. Approached it with halting steps. He drove his fist through it as if it were made of eggshells, then threw it aside and stepped within. He saw them, huddling in the corner, a father holding his son, praying to the gods.

  He wondered, as he stalked forward, whether the gods would be kinder to these two souls than they had been to him. He didn’t bother pleading with Tulathan for her kindness. He already knew what her answer would be.

  An acrid smell drew Çeda from
her well of nightmares. When she opened her eyes, she saw Yndris standing before her wearing her Maiden’s black. Her turban was unwound and hanging around her shoulders like a Matron’s cowl. Her dark blond hair brushed the black cloth. She was waving a tuft of wool beneath Çeda’s nose. When Çeda recoiled from the bitter smell, she lowered her arm and stared at Çeda with a look eerily similar to the one Sukru had given Kerim before cracking the whip over his head.

  Yndris stepped out of Çeda’s field of vision. Her footsteps faded. A door opened and closed. Çeda’s eyes grew heavy once more, as she slowly realized she was bound to a wooden frame. She drew a sharp breath and took in her situation anew. Leather straps held her arms, legs, and waist tightly in place. Strangely, the straps were spotless. Pristine. She could smell how fresh the leather was, as if the table had been built that very day. With growing alarm she tried pulling against the straps, but they were so stiff they hardly moved. Above her, a glass enclosure was set into the ceiling, a host of mirrors positioned there to catch the sun. They threw light about the room as the mirrors slowly turned, making Çeda feel dizzy all over again. From the brightness she guessed that two, perhaps three hours had passed since her return to the barracks.

  Across from her, a short hallway led to a door, a different one than Yndris had used. River’s Daughter leaned against the wall. It reminded Çeda what a hive of activity the House of Maidens had been. How could Yndris have brought her here without being seen? She must have had help, but who her allies had been, Çeda wasn’t sure. There was no shortage of women who had reason to hate Çeda and would want to see the stain of her presence wiped from the House of Maidens. Any one of them might have aided her.

  The door behind Çeda opened once more, sending a fresh jolt of fear through her body. Yndris took up a position across from Çeda against the wall, her gaze coming to rest on something over Çeda’s shoulder. Another set of footsteps approached with a pace that spoke of leisure, a relaxed pace that felt distinctly twisted given Çeda’s circumstances. Soon, King Cahil, wearing a simple but pristine kaftan, strode past her. He did not deign to look at her as he moved easily across the white marble floor. Instead, he seemed wholly intent on a table to Çeda’s left. On the table’s surface—and above it on various hooks and shelves—were sets of gleaming instruments, precisely ordered. Çeda was immediately reminded of the dank cellar to which Dardzada had taken her in hope of saving her from the adichara poison. That room, however, had been a grim place filled with grim instruments. This room was immaculate, as if it had been prepared for a surgeon but had never once been used. Nothing could be further from the truth. She could see it in the way Cahil’s eyes gleamed, the casual way in which he picked up a brightly polished pair of pincers.