Luken’s screams began to lose energy. Something thundered into the stone door, pushing it back once more. Dust sifted down through the air from the impact, gray against the golden light of the lanterns. The door inched inward, even with ten men pushing against it. A red hand reached in once more, Tiron tried to hack at it, but the thing grabbed his sword in one well-timed and inhumanly fast motion. Tiron’s sword was ripped from his grasp and drawn through the gap just like Luken’s leg.
I have to destroy the draughts. That’s why we’ve come. He tried to rise, but Amaryllis held his wrist. “Ramahd, bring his heart to me.”
He could only stare. “What?”
“Can you not see me?”
Such simple words, and yet they cast a spell on him. Amaryllis transformed before his very eyes. She became another. Whether a spell she’d put on them all before leaving the embassy house or an artifact of the way she’d changed her own features, it was no longer Amaryllis he saw lying before him, but Meryam.
He shook her shoulders. “You risk too much! How could you have come here?”
“I am responsible. It could not be left to others.” He tried to speak, but she gripped his hand. “Make haste, Ramahd. Bring me his heart.”
Ramahd looked to the man who lay so near, to the door that was pushing back further, the creatures’ horns ramming into it again and again. When the creature reached in and took the head of one of Hamid’s men, clawing away half his face in one quick swipe, Ramahd drew his knife and slid across the floor to kneel by Luken’s side, not the lockpick’s. If Meryam were going to devour a heart, he would not give her one that had been drugged. “Forgive me,” he whispered to Luken, who had fallen silent at last. He drove it deep into his chest, then sawed at the man’s sternum, wrenching it with all his might to cut through one rib, then two.
From the desperate huddle at the door, Tiron stared down at him, his face aghast. “What are you doing? My lord, let him be!”
But Ramahd kept sawing. Another rib was cut, and then he was slicing through skin and muscle, using his hands to rip away his ribs. Dear gods, dear gods, his heart still beat. He could see it, pumping slowly within his chest. “Forgive me, Luken.”
“Leave him!” Tiron had abandoned his effort at the door and taken a step toward Ramahd when Emre charged into him, sending him sprawling to the floor.
Ramahd worked quickly, slicing Luken’s heart free, and then holding it to Meryam’s mouth. She took a bite from the warm, ruby-red flesh. She chewed, her half-lidded eyes fluttering. She took another bite as someone fell on Ramahd.
He was rolled roughly over. Tiron’s face loomed large, half awash in golden light, the other half dark. “You dare despoil my brother’s flesh?”
Something crashed harder than ever against the door. It swung inward. The head of one of the beasts poked in. Before a single sword could be brought against it the beast shouldered its way into the room.
Tiron rolled away from Ramahd. Both men gained their feet as the beast scratched its way across the blood-slicked floor toward them. It took a deep sword cut across its shoulder from an almighty swing from Cicio, but then the beast had him, a clawed hand grabbing his throat, too quick to follow. In a blink it had ripped the flesh of his throat free and was launching itself, horns lowered, toward Gautiste. Gautiste managed only a glancing blow off its horns before he was gored, one horn piercing his armor and hooking him. In one violent motion the creature twisted neck and body, flinging him away like a wolf with a hare.
The other demon was making its way into the golden-lit vault now. Some few of his own men, as well as Hamid, were still pushing at the door in a vain attempt at keeping it from the room, but it was a battle already lost.
The nearer creature clubbed Cicio, who had somehow managed to regain his feet and throw himself at the creature. As Cicio twisted into one corner and lay still, the beast, as if sensing a greater power in the room, swung its head toward Meryam. Its nostrils flared. It spread its arms wider, moved lower to the ground, as if it knew the threat she represented. Meryam had managed to lift herself off the floor. She was still chewing Luken’s heart, blood coating her chin and neck. The hand that held the remains of the heart wore a glove of red. Her disguise was melting away, returning her to her own form as the blood ran through her, ceding Luken’s power.
The fell beast ducked low. Then charged.
Ramahd tried to run into its path, but it was too swift. “No!” he cried.
And then it was on her. Meryam was standing, one hand held before her, ready to meet the creature’s charge. As they met, Meryam’s hand slipped beneath the demon’s chin. The creature reared up. Its momentum stopped. It lifted off the floor as if it had struck a mighty wall of air. Ramahd thought she’d grabbed its neck, but it wasn’t so. Meryam’s right arm was shivering, fingers splayed, a whisper’s breath from the red, glistening chest of the beast before her.
The demon’s arms spread wide. It threw its head back, shivering, as if it had entered a state of rapture. Meryam took a step forward. She lifted the beast higher through a bond Ramahd could not see but could certainly feel, deep inside his chest. It was a hollow feeling, as if Meryam were drawing not only from Luken’s blood, but from Ramahd’s as well. Indeed, from every living man inside the room.
She lifted her arm high. The creature twisted in midair, chest tilting up, as if it were being laid upon a table. Then she brought her arm down and the demon with it. So ferocious was the motion that a web of cracks appeared along the stone slab. The room shook. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. The beast’s chest was a ruin of skin and bone and blood. Its red, skinless arms clawed against the broken stone, leaving furrows, and then at last it fell still.
Meryam left it there. She turned to meet the second creature. The stone door was wide open now. Men with drawn swords were storming into the room. Ramahd met the nearest with his own blade, felling him quickly with a block and a slice across thigh, then throat. The second he downed as well, but there were more than they’d seen in the dark hallway earlier.
He fought off one, then another, backing away with Tiron on one side, Hamid and Emre on the other. But soon there were too many and his men became separated. Ramahd retreated deeper into the darkness, using little more than their silhouettes to fight them off.
Someone bulled into him. He managed a strike against their leg, but then he was down, grappling. The man had a kenshar, and used it to stab into Ramahd’s side. His armor held, but he felt the knife’s tip bite into his side. He raged, desperate as he fought the man for his weapon. But the enemy was on top of him now, knife gripped tightly in both hands. Its tip inched closer and closer to Ramahd’s chest.
Ramahd released a primal scream, pushing with all his might, but it wasn’t enough. The tip pressed into his clothes, pierced the light armor he wore beneath, sunk into the skin along the left side of his chest, over his heart.
Something dark blurred above Ramahd. The man straddling him spasmed, the knife driving momentarily deeper, but then he fell slack. Ramahd rolled him away to find Macide standing over him. He shifted his two swords to his right hand, then held out his left for Ramahd to take. Ramahd did, grabbing his fallen sword, and Macide pulled him up.
He immediately returned to the battle. Frail Lemi was there, his battle axe gone. He was using a two-handed war cudgel, a decorated weapon made for a King. Even so, its utility was undeniable. He brought it down mercilessly against Hamzakiir’s men, his face perfect with rage. Ramahd and Macide rejoined them. Tiron and Hamid and Emre were still there, pushing what few enemy remained into a corner.
Meryam was in the opposite corner, the lamplight just behind her, throwing strange shadows over the skinless beast. One hand was over its face, her thumb piercing the flesh beneath its chin. The other reached up and with strangely casual speed ripped his neck free. It fell to the floor, spasming.
Hamzakiir’s men fought until their las
t, but soon they had all fallen beneath the onslaught that Macide and Ramahd and the rest were now able to bring to bear. Soon the only sound they could hear was the rasp of their own breathing, blood and bodies lying all around them. The survivors stood, chests heaving, grimacing from exertion or pain or both. All but Meryam. She stood before the beast, her own self now, the Queen of Qaimir, not a spy in her service. She breathed silently, nostrils flaring, unwilling or unable to take her eyes from the creature.
Macide looked to her, then to Ramahd. “We must move quickly.”
Ramahd nodded. “Go.” He turned to Tiron and Riccio, all that remained of his men, and pointed to Macide. “Go on.”
Riccio bowed his head and followed Macide. Emre, who’d picked up one of the lanterns, walked by his side, deeper into the vault. Tiron stared at Ramahd a moment, his face unreadable, but then he glanced to Meryam, nodded, and followed the others.
Ramahd approached Meryam slowly. “Are you well, my queen?”
She didn’t move a muscle, but Ramahd could feel the wonder in her. “The power in them, Ramahd.”
“Hamzakiir.”
“Yes.” By the gods who breathe, she was smiling.
“Meryam, we must make haste.”
It seemed to take forever for her to turn her head. “Yes, of course,” and then she turned and walked deeper into the vault toward the light of the lantern as if nothing at all had happened.
When they caught up to the others, they were staring up at shelf after shelf of glass vials, each shedding a pale blue light. There were hundreds, thousands of them, a complex constellation glowing with the luster of moonlit adichara petals. This was what Hamzakiir had been after. This was what he’d hoped to steal from the Kings to fashion a King of himself, a new ruler of Sharakhai.
Everyone present was taken by the wonder of it. These very vials had, in part, secured the Kings’ power for four hundred years. They had been granted to them through the power of King Azad. And now Azad was dead, and these were all that were left. These and the other caches that lay within the other two palaces—Zeheb’s and Ihsan’s. If the gods were kind, Macide’s men had been as successful there as they were here.
Macide looked to Meryam, as if he weren’t sure, after all that had happened, that she would allow it. He was right to worry, for Meryam was staring at the shelves as intently as she had the fell beast. But after a heartbeat, perhaps two, she nodded, turned, and walked away.
Macide nodded as well, and then they all set to, ruining shelf after shelf, vial after vial, until every single one had been destroyed.
Chapter 64
FROM A BALCONY HIGH UP IN HIS PALACE, King Ihsan listened to the dying battle in King’s Harbor. From his vantage he could not see the harbor itself, but the sound carried surprisingly well. It had been going on for hours now.
The others would surely still be there. Kiral. Husamettín. Beşir and Mesut. That cretin, Sukru, and cruel Cahil. They would forgive Ihsan his absence. He had never been a fighter. Yusam would not have gone either. Azad, as agreed, had gone for appearance’s sake, though Ihsan still wished he’d managed to find a way for him to bow out of the night’s festivities while not losing so much face that it would harm their cause in the days ahead. They would be crucial days—the most difficult he had yet faced—so giving Azad over to danger for one night was a small enough price to pay for having suspicious eyes turn elsewhere. He knew already the Host’s attack had succeeded in his own palace. And he was sure the same would be true of Zeheb’s. They’d both had few enough Maidens at hand, and he’d made sure that their Spears were spread out in the wrong places to defend the caches.
Kiral’s palace, however, would be a different tale. He looked up to Eventide, the bulk of the palace framed by a diaphanous veil of stars. He had no idea who had wound up victorious: Kiral’s guard, Hamzakiir’s men, or what remained of those loyal to Ishaq and Macide. Even if Kiral ended up with all his elixirs intact, though, the pressure of having so few remain would be enough to allow Ihsan to drive wedges between the King of Kings and those who kissed his feet.
His thoughts were interrupted by a carriage pulling up to the front of his palace. A footman ran out from the palace doors, but before he could reach it the wagon’s door swung wide and King Yusam came forth. Behind him, squeezing his considerable bulk out from the cabin, came Onur.
“Well, well,” Ihsan said softly. “How very interesting that Yusam thought he needed the Feasting King by his side.”
As if he’d heard the words, Yusam swung his gaze up. His eyes met Ihsan’s. The two of them stared at one another for a time, then Yusam headed purposefully toward the palace entrance.
Ihsan strode from his apartments. Halfway down the wide, carpeted stairs to the floor below, Tolovan met him, a concerned look on his face. “I know,” Ihsan said.
“Why have they come?” Tolovan asked softly.
Ihsan walked past him. “We shall know soon enough.”
Two great braziers lit the entrance hall. As Ihsan took the stairs down to meet the Kings, Yusam stared up, hands held calmly behind his back, his posture strangely formal. Onur, massive behind Yusam, watched with something approaching mild curiosity—this was a tale Yusam had told him, perhaps, that Onur wasn’t ready to believe.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” Ihsan said as he rushed down the stairs. “I’ve called for reinforcements, but with the battle—”
“Yusam says your cache was discovered,” Onur broke in, “that everything in it was destroyed. Does he have the right of it?”
Ihsan bowed his head to Yusam, careful to keep a note of hysteria in his expression and in his voice. “If only the gods had granted the vision sooner. Yes, a force came and overwhelmed those here, they—”
“Take us to it,” Onur said.
Yusam was strangely silent. In fact, he was now avoiding Ihsan’s gaze, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak, to be caught in the spell of Ihsan’s voice.
“Very well,” Ihsan said.
They went to the rear of the palace, then took the stairs to the lower levels. Down they went to the vault where Ihsan stored the elixir. The door stood open. A score of dead soldiers had been laid out for inspection. Ihsan had made excuses for them to remain—they required detailed inspection, he’d told his staff—before being taken away for proper handling. He’d needed them here to prove the bloodshed, to prevent any of the Kings from thinking Ihsan had allowed it.
Onur, waddling toward the vault’s entrance, gave the fallen men little more than a passing glance. Yusam, however, stopped and inspected every single soldier, the two Blade Maidens, and each scarab of the Moonless Host who’d fallen. He spent the most time on a man with a grizzled face and a gaping wound along his lower back, the very place Ihsan had stabbed him.
“You killed him,” Yusam said.
“I did,” Ihsan replied, caught by Yusam’s curiously emotionless words.
It had been absolutely necessary that Ihsan be near the bloodshed. He couldn’t very well have allowed this night to pass without actually trying to defend the cache. Kiral might forgive a failed defense. He would never forgive cowardice.
Yusam stood from the body. “May I see the knife?”
“Of course.” Ihsan pulled the curving, triple-bladed dagger from its sheath at his side, his gift from Tulathan on the night of Beht Ihman. He handed it to Yusam, who stared at it, his face a mask.
He turned and strode into the vault, dagger still in hand. He and Onur made their way to the broken glass, the remains of the elixirs still washing the floor in pale blue light.
“You killed him?” Yusam asked.
“I did.” It had been a long while since Ihsan had killed anyone. It was not something he’d been proud of, but it had been necessary.
“And then you returned to your apartments.” A statement. No question this time.
“By the time I had co
me, the damage was already done. Most escaped, but I took that man and returned to my apartments to send word to you and our fellow Kings.”
“And who did you send, to deliver word?”
He knew, Ihsan realized. He hadn’t yet sent anyone. He’d wanted more time to pass to ensure all was ready. Ihsan spread his hands wide, a disarming gesture. “Despite my best intentions, there has been too much to attend to. I was just about to call for them when you arrived.”
Onur stared at Yusam. He was waiting. For what, though? Yusam’s account of the events? And here with Yusam still holding Ihsan’s knife, a convenient thing to have if they thought to take him with little trouble.
It was time—probably well past time—that Ihsan put his true talent to better use. “My lords,” he said, drawing upon Tulathan’s other gift.
But before he could say another word, Yusam nodded, and Onur charged forward.
“Halt!” Ihsan ordered.
But he’d always known his powers would be dulled against the other Kings, one of the many reasons he used them sparingly.
Onur plodded on, his massive fist powering into Ihsan’s face and propelling him backward. He tried to catch himself, but his arms simply weren’t working like they were supposed to. He stumbled, his legs like a plainsman’s the first time dealing with the unpredictable swells of a sandship at speed. He came to a stop when his head crashed into the stone wall of the vault behind him and he slid down to the floor. His ears rang. Onur’s trunk-like legs bore the King of Sloth ever closer.
“My Lord Kings—” Ihsan tried to say, but all that came out was a long slur.
Onur lifted him up, pressed him against the wall. Ihsan coughed. He closed his eyes, trying to blink away the stars. He swallowed in a vain attempt to clear the keen ringing sound. He tried to speak but Onur brought him back and powered him into the wall again, silencing him.
“Your counsel these many long years,” Yusam said as he strode forward, still staring at Ihsan’s knife. “Step by step, moment by moment, you played my fears against me.” He came to a stop before Ihsan, his jade-green eyes piercing Ihsan’s—an indictment, a declaration of truth that Ihsan knew he could never explain away, not when so much had been revealed to the King of Fate.
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