Çeda was half tempted to find a path down and finish her off. But time was precious. The Kings were preparing for battle. Any hope of remaining a Blade Maiden and finishing what she’d started now lay in finding Cahil and killing him in the chaos of battle. Gods, if only she had understood the copper leaf Amalos had been reading, the one that had seemed so important to Yusam. She’d been working at the problem since reading it, the woman, the drake, saving her family, but she still didn’t understand how it related to the Kings and her quest to kill them. But there was nothing for it now. If the gods had seen fit to keep the knowledge from her, she would have to be content with Cahil. If she were lucky and Beşir also braved the sands, she could try to kill him as well. But that meant leaving Yndris now.
Scraping together the sand and dust along the flagstones, Çeda gathered it up in her hand and lifted it to her lips. I don’t pray to you often, Bakhi, but I do this day. Please, take Yndris’s hand. Deliver this foul girl to the farther fields.
That done, she turned her back on the scene below. She had to get out of Cahil’s palace, no easy task. She didn’t know the layout. And while there might be only a few who knew of her presence, any of them might raise the alarm if she tried to leave through the palace proper.
Then she looked up. Of course.
Returning quickly to Cahil’s pristine torture chamber, she picked up River’s Daughter and cast Yndris’s sword to the floor. She took what time she could afford to dress the worst of her wounds with strips cut from the white shift she wore beneath her dress. She couldn’t risk passing out on the way back to the House of Maidens, and she couldn’t very well return bleeding like a stuck pig.
That done, she went back to the balcony and, with no small amount of difficulty, gained the roof and made her way south over the angular landscape of the Confessor King’s palace.
When she reached the House of Maidens near nightfall, a fierce, cold wind was starting to blow, laying a golden haze over the city. The Maidens stationed at the inner gates questioned her, but she gave them a tale of receiving a special mission before the night began and they let her through with little trouble. She was walking across the main courtyard, doing her best to hide her limp, when Sümeya spotted her. “Where have you been?” she said as she broke away from a dozen other Maidens in battle dress, all of them with the mark of wardens over their left breast.
“I was called away by King Cahil.”
“Why? And why are you limping?”
“Forgive me, First Warden, but it’s to do with the Moonless Host. He asked that I not reveal my purpose until he’s had a chance to speak with the other Kings.”
“Remove your veil.”
She complied. There was no sense in hiding it. Sümeya grabbed Çeda’s chin, turned her head from side to side, inspecting the place Yndris had driven her head down against the stones of the barracks, where Cahil’s hammer had struck, where Yndris’s foot had connected with her cheek. Çeda had stopped at a finger-thin stream on her way down from Tauriyat to wipe away as much of the blood as she could, but was certain she still looked terrible.
“Was Yndris with you?”
“No,” Çeda said flatly.
She gripped Çeda’s chin harder. “Was she with you?”
“No, First Warden. I swear it on my mother’s life.”
Sümeya continued to stare, clearly at war over how far to push this with the whole of the Blade Maidens ready to ride out to the desert. “You’re a bloody mess,” she said finally, releasing Çeda, “but we have need of you. Can you ride?”
Çeda nodded.
She glanced to the wardens, who were waiting for her. “Take an extra petal,” she said while marching toward them. “Do it now so you’re ready when the time comes.”
“As you say,” Çeda said, but Sümeya was already calling orders to another pair of wardens who had entered the courtyard.
Beyond Sümeya lay the gates to the city. As she had a dozen times on her way here, she thought of leaving, of fulfilling her promise to join Ramahd and destroy the caches. But she couldn’t. She had to try to take Cahil before the other Kings learned of his suspicions.
Take an extra petal, Sümeya had said. She already had taken an extra. Two on the way here from Cahil’s palace. Taking another might be dangerous, but the pain was still so great, so she opened her mother’s locket, placed a third petal beneath her tongue, and limped toward the stables.
Chapter 60
AS NIGHT FELL OVER THE DESERT, the cold north wind intensified. Sand drove against the line of Maidens riding out from the gates of King’s Harbor. To their left, the aqueduct loomed. It vaulted ahead, arch after arch after arch, three levels tall, a dark ribbon occluding the stars like a roadway to the heavens themselves. At the head of the issuing host, King Husamettín led the way on Blackmane, a vicious akhala—one of the desert’s gilded giants, as they were called by the Mireans—with a shimmering golden coat that darkened to a jet black mane and tail. The King wore an exquisite set of armor: etched helm, gauntlets and greaves, vambraces, and a breastplate over a shirt of fine chain, all made from a blue-black metal that was eerily silent. Blackmane’s barding had been forged of the same material, making the two of them seem like demons sent by Goezhen to protect the city.
Sümeya, the First Warden, rode by the King’s side on Whiteknife, the son of Blackmane, a horse every bit as bellicose as his father. Kameyl and Melis rode side by side behind them, and Çeda brought up the rear on her tall mare, Brightlock. More Maidens followed, fifteen hands in all, seventy-five warrior women, veiled and dressed in battle gear with ebon blades at their sides, bows on their backs, and shields at the ready.
Behind them came two hundred Silver Spears on tall horses of their own. Their spears pointing skyward, they looked like an ivory serpent cutting its way over the soughing dunes. Hundreds more of the city guard had left earlier in the day, riding to their appointed spaces leagues out from Sharakhai. Among their number were scouts who would patrol and blow great horns carried on small, fast ships if they spotted the enemy. It allowed the Kings to cover dozens of leagues along the aqueduct.
Husamettín had chosen to station the bulk of their forces at four primary locations: the first and largest near Sharakhai, the other three at sections of the aqueduct that had fallen when a great earthquake had brought it down seventy years past. Each had been rebuilt, but none so grandly as before, resulting in three areas that might be damaged or destroyed more easily than the rest. Those, the Kings reasoned, were the places most likely to be attacked, and so were given the most protection. And if the Moonless Host attacked elsewhere, the shamblers might weaken the structure, but not before the scouts alerted everyone to the danger.
Each Blade Maiden had been given a special salve to rub over her entire body, even her hair. It smelled of goat fat and copper and eggs—foul, to be sure, but Husamettín’s alchemysts said it would protect them from the caustic innards of the shamblers should they be caught as Kameyl had. There had been some left for the city guard, but only for a handful of their numbers, their elite. The asirim the Kings left unprotected. “There isn’t enough,” Sümeya had said when Melis had asked about it, “and who among us is willing to treat the asirim with the salve in any case? You, Melis? You, Hasenn?”
“Even if I were willing to touch their flesh,” Hasenn, a broad woman with a wide face, had replied, “they wouldn’t allow it.”
“Just so, so keep your wits about you. We don’t want to lose any if we can help it. Listen for the shamblers’ screams. That will tell you when they’re ready to burst. The asirim will no doubt be looking to avenge their sister who was lost in Ishmantep, so be ready. Force them away the moment you hear their screams. Or send them in quickly if others might be protected by doing so.”
As they came to a rise, the wind threw biting sand against their skin. Tulathan had just risen over the eastern horizon as Rhia followed, rising from the depths of he
r distant grave. The two goddesses were reborn, returned to their power once more. This would be a rare holy night with the moons reaching their zenith simultaneously. It would be a night alive with blood and pain and passage to the farther fields. The very air brimmed with potential, as if the gods themselves watched, waiting to see which of the many paths that lay before the great city of Sharakhai would remain when all was said and done.
When Husamettín raised his right hand and stood in his saddle, their column halted. Each of the blade maidens took one of the adichara petals she’d been given earlier and placed it beneath her tongue. Çeda, however, disobeyed. Her wounds still pained her—especially where Cahil’s hammer had struck her shin—but she’d already taken three. She would burst like one of Hamzakiir’s shamblers if she dared take another.
Over the dunes ahead, forms loped toward them. The asirim, summoned by Mesut. They slowed as they neared the line of warhorses. It was now up to each Maiden to choose two, quickly and quietly and in concert with her fellow Maidens. Kerim stood out among them, his familiarity a flaming brand among candles. Join me, she said to him, I beg you. He had already been called by another Maiden, but Çeda exerted her will and Kerim bonded with Çeda instead. She chose another near him. Your name? Çeda asked, expecting a proud, defiant response, but she felt only bitter hatred, and it grew worse as she pressed for an answer.
Leave her! Kerim said. She has been treated worse than most.
Çeda relented. She cared only that the asir would obey, and this one was more than ready for blood. Çeda could feel it inside her, a thing that had been burning for the last four hundred years. For now, the simplicity of the asir’s single-minded will would serve Çeda well.
Soon enough, all the asirim had taken their places, one to each side of their bonded Maiden’s horse. Çeda had been in battle, but never at war. She felt the same sort of tension she felt before crossing blades, but the feeling that suffused the air now was much deeper, much broader. The tension threaded through her, spreading to all the other Maidens, all the other soldiers, even the King of Swords. As a group, they were grim, they were proud, they were confident, but they were nervous as well. They’d heard the stories from Ishmantep.
As the twin moons approached their zenith, silver Rhia catching up to golden Tulathan, the asirim began snuffing over the dunes like wolves hunting for a scent. The Maidens stood at the ready, spread in formation, each hand keeping their horses grouped in the shape of a five-pointed star. If the Maidens were restless—and Çeda could see it in the way they sat their horses, the way their eyes roamed over the landscape—Husamettín was alive with energy. The King drew Night’s Kiss and rode Blackmane along the summit of a broad dune ahead, raising the arcing sword high in challenge. The blade shone black against the crystalline fabric of the heavens. His every move begged the Moonless Host to come. He was as eager to deal death as the asirim, perhaps more so. Or perhaps it was Night’s Kiss. If legends were true, each night of the twin moons the great sword drove him to an animalistic rage. Some called it a curse of the gods, others a boon to Sharakhai. Only Husamettín and the gods themselves knew the truth of it, but Çeda found herself glad she wouldn’t be facing him. Of all the Kings, he was the one she feared most.
Suddenly, Husamettín stopped and reined Blackmane over until he was facing east. He stared, standing tall in his saddle. Over the rushing wind, Çeda heard it, an almighty groan of pain and anguish, a cry that surely reached all the way to the empty halls of the old ones. Another came shortly after. And another. The sounds of pain rose sharply in pitch, as if it had all become too much, and then the first of the booming explosions fell across the desert. A second came a moment later, then a third. The shamblers, erupting. Even so far from it, Çeda could feel it beat against her chest and shoulders.
More cries filled the night, followed by a sudden upwelling of courage as the soldiers of Sharakhai moved to engage. The clash of steel came, then more explosions. This time the thunder was met immediately with howls of pain. Çeda couldn’t help but picture the Silver Spears as the acid fell across them, melting their skin.
Husamettín rode back and forth, back and forth, adjusting his sword grip occasionally but doing nothing else in response to the misery befalling his soldiers to the east.
Sümeya spurred her horse nearer, even as renewed cries of pain rose higher in the night. “Shall we go to them, my King?”
Husamettín ignored her. He pulled Blackmane’s reins and came to a halt, horse and rider both facing the sounds of battle. Çeda reckoned it raged only a league away, no more than two. They could be there in little time if they rode quickly, and yet Husamettín merely sat his horse, stone-still, studying the land below the aqueduct’s grand arches.
“Eminence, we should—”
Husamettín’s held up his left hand, the one holding Blackmane’s reins, and cocked his head to one side. He pointed with the tip of his black blade to an area just short of the aqueduct. “There.”
He’d no more than spurred Blackmane into action, the horse rearing for a moment before galloping down the dune, than the sand near the aqueduct shifted, sinking here, bulging there. A head appeared, sloughing golden dust from its bald pate as it lifted from beneath the surface of the sand. Fleshy arms with sausage fingers clawed ineffectually for a moment, but then the shambler’s bulk was freed from the sucking sand. Others followed, each wading forward before gaining the sand’s surface. Then they waddled toward the nearest of the aqueduct’s stone supports.
It was difficult to tell but, by the light of the moons, the shamblers seemed to have a reddish tinge to them. And they were huge. Nearly half again the size of those unfortunate souls in Ishmantep. How they could even walk Çeda had no idea, but onward they went, plodding over the sand toward the aqueduct. These were the graduates, of course, transformed by a foul combination of alchemy and Hamzakiir’s twisted imagination.
King Husamettín was already closing the distance with the shamblers. The Maidens were close behind, each calling out, trying to distract the lumbering forms, to stall them before they reached their goal. Çeda held her asirim back, though both Kerim and the nameless second strained at their bonds, clawing at the sand, twisting their heads about, snarling inhumanly as they tried to break free.
Not yet. I will have need of you both later.
Four asirim were allowed to join the Maidens’ charge. They moved with incredible speed, easily keeping pace with the horses. It all seemed so very odd, though. The shamblers were too few. Only a dozen had risen from the sand. Where were the rest? Why would Hamzakiir have bothered to hide so few close to the harbor’s gates unless this was another distraction?
As Brightlock galloped forward, Çeda scanned the way ahead. The sand. The stone arches of the aqueduct. The rolling dunes beyond. The moons were directly overhead now, Rhia’s golden face encompassed by Tulathan’s, as if the silver goddess were protecting her smaller sister.
It was then, as Çeda thought of the moonlight shining down, that she realized. The aqueduct. The channel that carried the water. She scanned the water channel itself, especially where it entered the harbor’s tall wall. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw movement there: dark shapes rising from the water.
The channel was easily wide enough for a man to hide in, wide enough for even the shamblers. It entered the harbor’s great wall about three quarters of the way up, perhaps forty feet above the surface of the sand. Where channel met wall, iron grates prevented anyone from sneaking in, but if all the attention were drawn to the base of the aqueduct, it might be possible to move along the channel undetected and reach the very walls of the harbor.
As Çeda rode, she saw grapnel hooks being thrown from the channel to the top of the harbor walls. Men climbed, hand over hand, swift as snakes.
“An attack on the walls!” Çeda called, pointing with her ebon blade. Several of her sister Maidens had already seen, so it did the Moonl
ess Host little harm if she called out a warning. The Silver Spears stationed on the wall cried out, but they were quickly overwhelmed by the attack.
Behind Çeda, two sharp whistles came from another Maiden. Danger. Southwest. Çeda turned that direction. She saw nothing amiss, but they’d just ridden down from the crest of the dune, so much was now hidden from them.
“Ships!” called Hasenn, warden of the hand behind Sümeya’s. “Ships on the horizon!”
Husamettín slowed his pace and roared back, “Send the asirim to meet them!”
“There are many!”
“They’ll not get past the harbor walls. Until they arrive, we concentrate on the danger before us.”
Above, Çeda could see ropes being swung around the channel. Two scarabs had slipped down along the supporting column to wrap more ropes around the column beneath. Near the wall, meanwhile, the massive shamblers, each swathed in black cloth, were being hauled up to the top of the gates.
“There!” Husamettín called. “Fire arrows!”
The Maidens immediately sheathed their swords and drew short bows from their backs, including Çeda. Volley after volley were launched at the shamblers. They struck, over and over, the arrows driving deep. Dark liquid sprayed from the wounds; Çeda was not at all sure it was blood. As two of the monstrosities gained the wall, one of them fell, releasing a cry as it did so. For the first time, Çeda heard a word in their cries—“Nooooo!”—perhaps one lucid thought from a collegia student in the moments before he died. The body had no sooner thumped against the sand below than it burst in a massive explosion, sending a spray of stone and glistening ichor high into the air.
Despite the arrows flying, three more of the lumbering beasts gained the gates, then two more. One was caught in the channel, an arrow through its neck. As it cried out, trying to pull the arrow free, the men of the Host tried to push it over, for they knew what was about to happen. They’d just managed to lever it to the top of the channel when it exploded, sending men and a gout of water flying upward and outward. Parts of men and the exploded stones of the channel thumped to the ground in a broad circle, the sound of it rhythmic like the patter of a wide skin drum. The stout bottom of the channel held, but the sides had not. Water poured down in a thick stream, molten glass in the moonlight, before it dissolved and fell in a torrential rain to the sand below.
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