“That is precisely their thinking, yes.”
“Yours as well?”
Basilio looked embarrassed. “Sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
Meryam scoffed. “As if the gods need an excuse to visit misery upon mortals.” She had yet to tell Basilio, or anyone else, for that matter, about Tulathan’s sudden appearance in the cold vault beneath the palace with the golem on its slab. She saw no reason to change that now.
She headed down the stairs, forcing Basilio to light the lantern and rush to catch up. “Inform the other Kings that I’ve come to see things their way,” she told him, “and that we’ll leave the cavern alone for now.”
“Of course, my queen.” He looked at her strangely. “But . . . despite that message, we’ll be continuing?”
“How very astute of you, Basilio.” At his chagrined look, she went on. “This palace is mine, now. What I do within its walls is no one else’s business.”
“Yes, Your Excellence.”
They reached a hallway that transitioned to more natural stone. Soon after, roots appeared, a few at first, covering wall, ceiling, or floor, forcing them to step more carefully. More and more funneled in from various cracks, tunnels, and chutes, to the point that the natural stone was completely obscured. The floor was so thick with them it felt as if she were walking on layers of coarse blankets.
Ahead, a violet light lit the tunnel. It became so bright Basilio extinguished the lantern. Soon, they arrived at a massive cavern whose every surface was covered by a mesh of interlaced roots. At the center of the cavern stood the now-legendary crystal. It was immense, easily three times Meryam’s height, and it glowed brightly, violet at its outer edges, white at the center. Beside it was a wooden scaffold with stairs leading up to a viewing platform. The air was laced with a mineral scent, but it was overpowered by the smell of fresh wood as Meryam climbed the stairs.
By the time she reached the viewing platform, her breath was on her. From her new vantage, the roots looked like scar tissue, the crystal itself the head of a spear piercing the brindled flesh. Above the crystal, a lone strand, the terminus of a root, hung down from the cavern’s roof, which was lost to the gloom.
As Basilio joined her at the rail, Meryam waved to the cavern around them. “Imagine it, Basilio. Four hundred years ago, this was all bare. The adichara had yet to grow. No tributes had yet been given to them, no blood had been drunk. Their roots had yet to filter the distilled essence of the tributes”—she pointed to the crystal’s top—“onto that very spot.”
“Ghastly,” Basilio said.
He’d said it with a note of disgust, but Meryam was filled with wonder. She leaned over the rail and stared into the crystal’s light, marveling at all that had gone into its making. “It is a thing of vast power, a thing crafted by the gods themselves.”
“Perhaps another reason it should be left alone.”
“All the more reason it should be used,” Meryam countered. “This is a gift, granted to the people of the desert.”
“Gifts can sometimes be poorly chosen.”
Not this one, Meryam thought.
She flicked her hand at Basilio’s wrist, at which point he held it out. She pierced his skin with her blooding ring, sucked the blood that welled from it, then closed the wound with a sizzling swipe of her thumb. She drew a sigil in the air, a sigil of knowing, of searching, then held her hand over the crystal’s smooth surface. Within, she felt a deep well of power.
“There’s more power here,” she said absently, “than I have ever felt in one place before.” Even more than Tulathan, though she chose not to share that with Basilio. “It’s like the oil in that lantern. It has potential, Basilio. The question is: how do we use it?”
She could feel the objections forming on Basilio’s lips, but he remained silent. He was right to be nervous. Part of Meryam was nervous too. She knew she had to tread carefully, but Tulathan herself had pointed Meryam here. What had she meant if not to use the power in this crystal to get what she wanted?
She’d learned from King Sukru’s writings that since the days of Beht Ihman the tributes from Sharakhai had been taken by the asirim and fed to the adichara, and that their essence was eventually delivered to the lone tendril suspended above the crystal. The crystal is fed by the drip of the root, Sukru had written. That essence has accreted over time into the crystal, the purpose of which is still unknown to me.
However reliably the root had fed the crystal in the past, it was now dry, as was the surface of the crystal beneath it. The reason was obvious, of course. No tributes had been taken for months, not since the asirim, freed by Çedamihn and Sehid-Alaz, had entered the service of the thirteenth tribe. The water that fed this well had run dry, but if the blood could flow once more, the crystal could grow and Meryam could unlock its potential. As blood could be used to control the one who’d given it, so could the adichara trees’ purified essence be used to control the crystal.
That was what Tulathan had meant. That was how Meryam could use the crystal to get what she wanted most. I must feed the trees and collect the essence. But it isn’t a matter of tossing random people into the twisted trees. They must be chosen with great care.
“Does the House of Kings keep records on lineage?” she asked.
“Extensive records are kept for the royal houses.”
“And for the rest of the city?”
He shook his head. “There are none that I’m aware of.”
Meryam considered. “In Almadan, we conduct a census. Does Sharakhai do the same?”
Basilio’s face pinched in thought. “Yes, I believe the collegia conduct a census every five years.”
“And the prisoners in the internment camps, the ones that held the scarabs from the Moonless Host, were there records kept of their names, their lineage?”
After the Night of Endless Swords, the terrible battle in King’s Harbor that had seen the deaths of two Kings, Mesut and Yusam, the Kings had waged a months-long campaign to capture as many scarabs and sympathizers to the Moonless Host as they could. They’d been placed in camps to await trial and punishment, but when the Malasani had broken through the walls, they’d been freed with the understanding that if they fought for Sharakhai they would be absolved of their crimes. They had, and the Kings had followed through on their promise. Those who’d fought had been let go after the battle, many being allowed to fill the depleted ranks of the Silver Spears.
Meryam had been incensed by their release, but all hope was not lost. If there was one thing the House of Kings was good at, it was in documenting such things. They’d likely recorded each of the prisoner’s names, relations, and places of birth as they were taken into custody. It could help Meryam find the subjects she needed for the next stage of her experiment.
“I don’t know,” Basilio said, “but I can find out.”
The plan that had already begun to form expanded in Meryam’s mind. “Does Nebahat of the Enclave still reside below the collegia?”
“As far as I’m aware, yes.”
“Have him brought to me. I wish to speak to him about the collegia’s chancellor and their hall of records.”
“Yes, my queen.”
“Now return to the palace.” She turned to the crystal once more. “I’ll find my own way back.”
“Of course, Your Excellence.”
She hardly heard his footsteps on the scaffolding stairs, and was only vaguely aware of his diminishing form as he left the cavern. She was too fixated on the light emanating from the crystal and the thoughts swirling in her mind. One move followed another followed another until her plan, while not complete, felt mature enough to start acting on.
“Enjoy your days, Macide Ishaq’ava.” She placed her hand on the crystal and felt its latent power that much more keenly. “Enjoy them, for they are numbered.”
Chapter 4
WHEN QUEEN NAYYAN first told Çeda that her disguise would consist of little more than a flowing turquoise abaya and a bit of cosmetics, Çeda thought she’d gone mad. But by the time Nayyan had shown her the dress and applied the makeup, she was having second thoughts. Her hair, unbound and lightly curled, fell about her shoulders. Her eyebrows had been plucked mercilessly. Kohl lined her eyes and shaded her lids, making her look decidedly sultry. The most distracting thing—well, other than the fact that Çeda’s nipples could be discerned clearly through the sheer fabric—was the balm Nayyan applied to her lips. Made from beeswax and crushed mother of pearl, it had a faint blue tint and made her lips glitter.
“This will attract too much attention,” Çeda said.
“It isn’t the amount of attention you’ll attract, but the sort. Believe me, the more time men spend looking at your chest and lips, the less they’ll spend on you.” Nayyan pinched Çeda’s chin, turned her this way and that, appraising her like a jeweler might her biggest buy of the year. There was something in her eyes that told Çeda she was pleased with her efforts, and yet the longer she looked, the more annoyed she seemed to become.
Having had quite enough of her scrutiny, Çeda slapped Nayyan’s hand away, a thing that, infuriatingly, seemed to have no effect on Nayyan whatsoever, as if Çeda’s feelings meant nothing to her.
“She’ll do,” Nayyan said to Sümeya, “so long as she doesn’t go opening that fool mouth of hers any more than is absolutely necessary.”
They left for Yusam’s palace immediately after, where they were met by King Umay, Yusam’s son, one of the lesser Kings. Umay stared intently at Çeda when they were introduced. Nayyan had been right. He kept admiring her shape, or staring at her lips, and when he seemed to linger over her for too long, Nayyan would distract him with stories of Ransaneh or question him about his many children—the latter seemed to annoy Umay, and he would answer in only clipped replies.
As they neared their destination, Umay gathered himself and interrupted Nayyan’s prattling. “Tell me again why you wish to use the mere?”
“I’ve had strange dreams since childbirth. I believe they’re visions of my future, or rather, Ransaneh’s future.”
“And?” he asked.
Nayyan smiled pleasantly. “Surely you’re aware that in addition to the visions in the mere, your father had prophetic dreams.” He’d had no such dreams to Çeda’s knowledge, but Yusam, while alive, was famously distanced from his children. Nayyan was certain Umay would have no idea if the claim was true or not and would be too embarrassed to admit it. “He would go to the mere to clarify them,” Nayyan continued. “The gods willing, so it will be for me.”
Umay’s gaze slid to Çeda. “And your servant? Perhaps I could entertain her while you sit beside the mere.”
“Normally I would agree, of course, but I need her. She’s gifted at interpreting my dreams.”
Umay seemed displeased, but said no more about it.
They passed through a scalloped bronze archway and entered a lush garden with sculpted trees and manicured bushes. Overhead, the sky was bright blue. The sun shone against the uppermost leaves and the bare brown rock face on the garden’s opposite side, while the grass and the trickling stream beneath the trees lay in shadow.
After giving Çeda a light shove, Nayyan turned and faced Umay, preventing him from following the two of them into the garden. In the awkward silence that followed, Umay glanced over Nayyan’s shoulder at Çeda, and his sad face turned even sadder. Here was a man unaccustomed to being told no, but Queen Nayyan refused to budge.
“You’ll share what you find with me?” Umay finally said.
It was a command, not a request, but Nayyan shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. The visions are of a rather personal nature.”
“I see.” He looked over his shoulder, as if he’d heard someone calling to him. “I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?”
Nayyan merely waited.
“Yes, well,” Umay said. “Good day to you, then.”
As the sounds of his boot heels striking the tiled floor faded, Nayyan joined Çeda in the shade beneath a pair of strange trees with spiraling boughs. “Are all the young Kings like that?” Çeda asked
Nayyan shrugged. “Let’s just say they’re unaccustomed to holding the reins of power and handle it in different ways.” She waved to the mere, which was little more than a stream-fed well with emerald green coping around its edges. “You may begin,” she said, “and you will share with me everything you see.”
Çeda nodded, wondering just what it was Nayyan hoped to find. Çeda suspected it was half the reason Nayyan had agreed to this caper at all.
As Çeda settled herself onto the manicured grass, she noticed movement behind Nayyan. An animal’s tail hung down from the trees, swaying this way and that. Peering into the branches, she spotted one of the mountain leopards Yusam had kept as pets. The leopard stared back, blinking languidly, tail flicking.
Nayyan glanced over her shoulder at it, then motioned for Çeda to continue. “It’s well fed,” she said, as if that were enough to allay Çeda’s fears.
Çeda had never been comfortable with the big cats, but she ignored it as best she could and stared into the depths of the pool. Beneath the water’s surface, the stone was coated in a sea-green moss that faded to black at the center. It looked like a round, lidless eye that was beckoning her toward it, so much so that she was forced to kneel lest she plunge in, a thing that seemed a very bad idea indeed.
Nayyan stood across from her, looking as though she were about to say something snide. “Yusam used to say he could find the thread of someone’s future by recalling his last memory of them. Resonance, he called it. He wasn’t able to do it reliably, but when it worked, it worked well enough to follow it to other events, both future and past.”
With that she strode further along the stream, sat on a bench, and proceeded to ignore Çeda entirely.
Çeda wasn’t sure what to think of Yusam’s resonance, but without anything better to try, she gripped the coping, stared into the clear depths of the bottomless mere, and summoned her last memories of Nalamae: the goddess lying in the hold of Leorah’s yacht in a bunk too small for her, her chest wrapped in bloody bandages; Nalamae holding the acacia seed Çeda’s mother, Ahya, had left for Çeda in an engraved box; Nalamae lying on a broken courtyard with thousands of black moths storming through the air while Yerinde stood over her, holding the adamantine spear that had pierced Nalamae’s chest and killed her.
Suddenly Çeda felt herself being drawn forward. Felt herself tipping forward. Her entire body tensed, the tendons along her forearms tightening to the point of pain. Just when she thought she was going to fall into the water, she blinked and saw before her a navy ship, a galleon. The decks were pristine, the sails a perfect ivory. The ship rested on the sand of King’s Harbor. The great doors creaked and groaned as they were swung wide. The ship was towed outside the harbor. Its sails were set by the crew. A woman stood on the deck. She had a pinched face and small, hard eyes. Her graying hair was pulled back into a tail, but wisps fluttered in the stiff wind. In one hand, she had a board with a piece of paper attached to it. She was walking about the ship, taking notes as she went: the set of the sails, the tightness of the standing rigging, the sway of the mainmast as the wind changed and as the ship heeled over the dunes.
She was the shipwright, Çeda realized, and the ship was on its maiden voyage. It must be one of the ships being built, or that would be built, after the terrible clash with the Mirean fleet and the smaller battles since.
The shipwright went belowdecks and had just started to inspect the infirmary when a sound like thunder rocked the ship. She looked up as footsteps boomed across the deck above. The sound of cracking timber was followed by the ceiling above her being ripped away—crossbeams, joists, deck boards and all. Sunlight and sawdust flooded the space. Through
the hole just made, a creature with skin as black as night could be seen. Great ram horns swept over its head. A crown of thorns wrapped around them, covering the top of its skull. A pair of tails lashed and snapped as it bent low and stared at the woman.
It was Goezhen, Çeda knew. She’d seen him before.
The god smiled, revealing a rending of teeth. With a wave of his clawed hand, more deck boards broke and flew like wounded birds into the vivid blue sky.
Just as Goezhen’s great, clawed hand was reaching down for the stunned woman, the world shifted. Time passed. The desert moved beneath Çeda’s feet. She saw a man being hung from a gibbet, much as Çeda’s mother had been hung: feet first. Çeda gasped when she realized who it was. Macide, with a sigil drawn on his chest. His face was a bloody mess.
Below his swinging form, a crowd conversed easily. They milled about, talking, drinking from goblets, as if they were attending some grand social affair. Some wore crowns—the lesser Kings and Queens of Sharakhai, perhaps? Many ignored Macide entirely while others spoke in hushed tones and stared up with eager eyes, as if participating in a macabre art auction, Macide the next sculpture up for bid.
The crowd turned at a scream. Some backed away, though what might have frightened them Çeda had no idea. Before she could wonder over it, she was whisked away again, and now she stood before Emre. He was ignoring her, staring into a blindingly bright light. Not far away, walking toward him, obscuring the light as he approached, was his brother, Rafa.
The scene felt wrong. Rafa was dead, but Emre was pacing toward him as if he didn’t realize, or didn’t care. Çeda’s worry felt like a weight upon her chest. It grew so bad she could barely breathe.
“Don’t, Emre!” she managed to shout. “Leave him be!”
But Emre just kept walking.
“Emre, stop!” She tried to run toward him, to tear him away, but the vision faded, and Çeda was once more staring into the depths of the mere.
“No!” she screamed at it.
When Jackals Storm the Walls Page 6