Satisfied, Dardzada ordered Emre brought back to the captain’s cabin and announced that he and Clara would monitor him through the night. “Go back to your ship,” he told Çeda. “Try to get some sleep.”
She did, but got no sleep whatsoever.
Emre didn’t wake the following morning, nor the following day, nor the day after that. Frail Lemi came to see him often, but he fretted over Emre so much it made Çeda’s guts twist to see it, because it made her worry all the more. She felt bad about it, but she always sent him away after a few minutes.
“What’s wrong with him?” Çeda asked Dardzada one night.
Clara dripped water into Emre’s mouth with a wet cloth and ran her fingers over his throat to force it to convulse. Dardzada looked uncharacteristically serious, which made Çeda feel as if the world were about to be pulled out from underneath her. “I believe he suffered internal swelling from the injury he took. Over time it’s been getting worse.”
“And?”
Dardzada had an abashed look on his round, bearded face. “I’m surprised he’s lasted this long. Injuries of this sort can cause dizziness, weakness, terrible headaches, sometimes memory loss and more. There are generally only two ways it can go: either the swelling recedes on its own and the body restores its natural function.” He waved to Emre. “Or they slip into a coma. Most of those who do never wake up.”
“Dardzada, I swear to you, if you don’t start giving me some good news I’m going to go mad.”
“You need to know the realities, Çeda.”
“I need to know how to save him.”
“There may be no saving him.”
Çeda stomped her foot onto the floorboards. “Just stop it, you stupid great goat! Stop it!” Seeing Dardzada’s infuriatingly calm expression, she took a deep breath, filled her lungs to bursting, then let it out slowly. “I know there are risks, Zada. Now tell me how we’re going to keep him from dying.”
Clara’s bright eyes were shooting from Çeda to Dardzada and back like a hungry hummingbird.
Dardzada flexed his left hand, which didn’t work well anymore after an injury he’d taken helping Çeda escape from the blooming fields. It bothered him when he got stressed. It prickled, pins and needles, he said, so he shook it and regarded her soberly. “There was a cooper in Sharakhai. His son had taken a beating from a few gutter wrens. He’d taken a barrel stave to the back of the head, fallen unconscious, and never woke up again. He was still breathing. I did much the same for him as I’ve done for Emre. But things grew worse. I thought he’d simply slip away one night.”
Dardzada scraped the captain’s chair from around the other side of the desk and dropped his bulk heavily onto it. “But then something miraculous happened. With all the sense the gods gave him, which was not much at all, let me tell you, the father got it into his head that what his son needed was the coolness of their root cellar. He placed a cot there and tried to carry his son, on his own, down the ladder that led to it. It was a small, awkward space, the ladder in need of repair. The bottom rung came off and the father stumbled, his son fell, and his son’s head managed to hit the broken rung. The nail had been pointing straight up and the weight of his fall was enough to send it through his skull.
“By the time I arrived the nail was still there, the father petrified of removing it. There was no greater harm to be done, I thought, so I did, and liquid was released, brown as wet dirt at first, but it ran progressively clearer as time went on. I bled it more over the following days until it ran completely clear . . . and that boy fully recovered. Since then I’ve told the story to dozens of other physics and found similar stories having been reported over the centuries. In Mirea, they even developed a procedure for it.”
“Dardzada, are you planning to drive a nail through Emre’s head?”
“A drill. We’re going to drill into his skull, just far enough to relieve the pressure.”
Çeda was starting to feel lightheaded. “You’re going to drill into his skull . . . .”
“Yes.”
“It won’t pass on its own?”
“He’s had months for that to happen and things have only gotten worse.”
Çeda swallowed hard. Dardzada was right. She knew he was right. But . . . “It could kill him, couldn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She went to Emre’s side, then knelt on the floorboards and ran her fingers through his hair as she’d done the other night. He’d woken that time. He didn’t now.
She thought back to all the tales they’d told one another about one day defeating the Kings. How they’d live in the halls of Tauriyat, or wander among the desert tribes, their only currency the stories they could tell.
She leaned close to Emre’s ear and whispered, “You can’t leave now. Our story’s only just begun.”
“If we’re going to do it”—she heard the chair creak as Dardzada pushed himself to a stand—“we should get started.”
Tears streamed down Çeda’s face, but she didn’t stop stroking Emre’s scalp. “You hear that?” She leaned in close and kissed one cheek, then wiped away the tear that had fallen. “It’ll all be over soon.”
She offered to stay, but Dardzada said he needed both space and peace.
“But you’ll need an assistant,” Çeda said.
“I already have one,” Dardzada replied, waving to Clara.
“But—”
“She’s good, Çeda,” Dardzada said seriously, “better than you ever were.”
The comment stung, but really, what could she expect? She’d been an ungrateful ward to Dardzada. He wasn’t free of blame, but there was no doubt she’d always been looking for ways to avoid doing work. Clara, meanwhile, had been constantly attentive, and when Dardzada threw questions at her, she’d been able to rattle off answers that needed only minor corrections.
Çeda nodded. “I’m staying, Zada. But I won’t get in your way. I promise.”
She could see the argument brewing within him, but then he deflated all at once. “Suit yourself.”
It was more difficult to watch than Çeda had imagined.
Unable to sit, she stood and watched as Dardzada lay Emre on his side and positioned his head so that he was facing the hull. Under Dardzada’s direction, Clara used scissors to cut his long hair, then a razor to shave the back of his head. Dardzada, meanwhile, gathered his instruments, laid them on the desktop, and cleaned each one carefully with alcohol and a clean cloth. The scalpels, needle, thread and compresses were expected. The basin, clearly meant to collect whatever came out of Emre’s head, wasn’t. And even though she knew Dardzada mean to drill into his skull, the carpenter’s auger he’d found in the ship’s stores made her guts feel as though a host of eels had been let loose among her innards.
Çeda had seen a lot of blood in her life. She’d treated a thousand wounds. She’d seen men and women die, many by her own hands. She’d seen enough misery to last her ten lifetimes. It had never been pleasant, but neither had she been squeamish about it. But there was something about watching Emre lying there, helpless, and having Dardzada press the tip of a gleaming scalpel to the shaved skin at the back of his head that made her want to vomit.
You have to be here for him, she told herself over and over again. So she pressed her hand to her stomach, set her ill ease aside, and forced herself to watch. You’ll be okay, Emre. You’ll be okay.
She paced as Dardzada lifted the auger, grimaced as he set the tip of the drill against the exposed bone. She could steal only the smallest of glances as he turned the crank and a sudden, incongruous squeaking filled the room. In all his preparation he hadn’t thought to oil the drill. It shouldn’t have mattered, but the sound kept going, on and on, and it was driving her mad.
When the drill suddenly pressed inward, and a thick, dark brown liquid began to pour from the wound, it was too much. Çeda ran from the room, rush
ed to the nearest gunwale, and loosed the contents of her stomach onto the sand below.
Throwing up didn’t help. Her stomach felt just as queasy afterward. The look of it—the drill slipping into his head. Oh, gods, Dardzada, what are you doing to him?
She left the Amaranth after that and paced around their circle of ships several times. It still felt too close and so, just as the sun was beginning to rise, she headed directly away from camp and kept going until her stomach started to feel better. By the time it did their ring of ships looked like a collection of well-made toys.
She sat on the sand facing away from the ships and pulled her knees to her chest. The camp was waking. It wouldn’t be long before they set sail, though it all felt distant and dreamlike now—sailing to Mazandir to speak to Queen Meryam. All her worries over it felt like she’d been worrying over nothing. The only thing that felt real, the only thing that mattered, was Emre.
When she heard the rhythmic crunch of footsteps approaching, she turned to see Macide. He sat cross-legged beside her, but unlike her faced the ships. “I’m sorry about Emre.” Deeper in the desert, the asirim wailed. “Old injuries can haunt a man. Sometimes they can chase him to his grave.”
“I trust Dardzada.”
“As do I, though I never thought to hear it from you.”
“Because of my childhood?” Her relationship with Dardzada had never been an easy one, and she still resented that he’d forced her first tattoo on her against her will. But time had healed some of those wounds. “I haven’t forgotten,” she finally said, “but I’ve forgiven.”
“Well, he’s in good hands, but I haven’t come to speak of Emre.” He picked at some dirt beneath his fingernails. “You mentioned trust. There are some who demand it, thinking it should be given whether it’s earned or not.” He looked at her, his expressive eyes searching hers. “And then there are those who’ve earned it. I think I’ve earned yours, Çeda. I’ve given you leave to do much because it was important to the tribe. Your journey to find the goddess took you to many places, led you to many people. Some of them may not have our best interests at heart. If that’s true, if there are things that threaten the tribe, I need to know about them.”
He knew, Çeda realized. He knew about the Kings. And yet she still couldn’t bring herself to admit it. She was ashamed she’d agreed to endure their presence, to listen to Ihsan, to take his counsel even if it was in hopes of saving Sharakhai. Part of her wished she’d never agreed, but she believed in her heart that the best way forward was for them to work together. She needed Ihsan’s insights from the Blue Journals, and he needed to know what they’d learned from the acacia and from Nalamae’s reawakening.
“Were I to send a skiff eastward,” Macide said, “would I find a galleon mirroring our path toward Mazandir?”
Çeda felt her ears go red. “You would.”
“And who would I find on that ship?”
“Four Kings.”
Macide’s head jerked back. He’d likely thought them agents of the Kings, not Kings themselves. “Which?”
“Husamettín, Ihsan, Cahil, and Zeheb.”
“Zeheb is mad.”
“Not anymore.”
Macide’s eyes went distant. “He’s been listening to our whispers. That’s how they can follow us so easily.”
“Yes.”
“In truth, I thought Rasime was being paranoid. I thought her jealousy toward you was overriding her senses. I thought you would be the last person to do such a thing.” He sat there awhile, the dawn’s burgeoning light playing off the movements of his eyes, highlighting the specks of green among the brown. Suddenly he turned to her. “How could you have done this, Çeda? Help me to understand.”
She told him all of it, how the Kings had found them in Osman’s barn. How Cahil had killed Osman. How she and the others had followed the Kings to the harbor, the battle with Goezhen, Nalamae’s awakening—all of it, especially the prophecies Ihsan had shared with her.
As Macide digested the story, his hardened expression turned to one of deep conflict. “This is bad, Çeda.”
“I know, but I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t feel like it was necessary. Sharakhai needs this. The desert needs it.”
“How can you be certain Ihsan won’t betray us?”
“He likely will in the end, but before that happens, I believe we can trust what he says: that he’s working to stop the desert gods from achieving their aims.”
“He wants to rule alone. You know this as well as I do.”
“Yes, but he can’t do that if Sharakhai is gone, can he? I truly believe he’s made it his mission to save the city from the gods.”
“I’ll need assurances that they won’t harm the tribe.”
Çeda shook her head. “I can’t give you any other than to say that the moment I feel we are threatened, I’ll act. Up to and including killing the Kings.”
“And if Ihsan compels you?”
“He may try”—she lifted her right hand, showing him the puckered scar where she’d been pricked by the adichara thorn—“but I’ve gained some resistance to the power of his commands. It’s the twisted trees, the desert itself, working against him.”
Macide nodded and stood, then offered her a hand up. “Speak of this to no one, least of all Rasime.”
Çeda accepted his hand with a snort. “I’d sooner kiss a cobra.”
As they headed back toward the calls of crewmen and the din of ships preparing to sail, Macide glanced at her with a wry expression. “Who could have seen this moment, Çeda, the two of us allying ourselves with the Kings?”
“The fates alone. I might have a word with them about it after I die.”
“And what will you tell them?”
“That the world has never seen a more cruel collection of old hags.”
A league from where Çeda and Macide walked, the man who was once a King knelt with one hand pressed against the sand. He heard the words spoken between an uncle and his niece, and became saddened by them. He wept when he heard the names of the Kings being spoken.
Husamettín, Ihsan, Cahil, and Zeheb.
I loved you as a daughter, once, he thought. But now she’d made a bargain with those who’d enslaved him, enslaved his people. Around him, his brother and sister asirim cried their anguish. How hated were the Kings. How reviled. The very notion that he and his would be forced to stand side by side with them, even if in name only, set a flame beneath his heart, made it burn with regret.
He’d thought Macide might see them through to the end. He thought Çeda a bright star among his people. That they could agree to betray him in this way proved how wrong he’d been. In truth, he was as disappointed with himself as he was with them. He should have seen it coming. He should have taken more of a hand in the running of the tribe.
But he was so very, very tired. He couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything for long. He yearned for the days of his youth. He yearned for death. How dearly he wished to be reunited with those who’d died since the days of Beht Ihman. How dearly he wished to go hand in hand with those who still lived.
“That is not your lot,” he whispered to the morning’s wind. “Not yet.”
Bones creaking, he came to a stand. So be it, he thought. If the fates’ will is that I have tasks ahead on this earth, then I will do them, but no longer will I stand aside and watch the thirteenth tribe slip into depravity. It grieved him, what he was about to do, but the blame didn’t fall on him. It fell on Çedamihn and Macide.
As the ships set sail, the asirim howled, and Sehid-Alaz howled with them.
Chapter 43
MERYAM STOOD ON THE DECK of a royal galleon, sailing far south of Sharakhai. Ahead lay her vanguard of three ships, and beyond them, Mazandir, little more than a wavering smudge of ochre in the distance. She’d dealt with the threat of Duke Hektor, smothering him through the blood h
e’d foolishly left on Amaryllis’s dress, leaving Ramahd without a horse to bet on. It had made all the days since, including this one, feel filled with promise, not unlike the days when she’d first set sail on the Blue Heron with Ramahd, the two of them ready to scour the desert until they’d found her sister’s murderer.
“Even after all you’ve done, Ramahd, I wish you were here to see Macide brought to justice.”
As the galleon creaked over a dune, Meryam stared at her hands as they gripped the gunwales. Mighty Alu, how thin you’ve become. It reminded her of her awakening as a blood mage, which had begun only a few weeks after Yasmine’s abductors had returned her. It was frowned upon for anyone of royal blood to become a mage. Her father, King Aldouan, forbade it, saying it would destabilize the tentative relationships he’d forged with the kingdom’s dukes and duchesses.
“You’ll be allowed to complete your transition,” he told her one night, “and be taught enough to control it, but no more.”
But when Meryam enlisted her mother, her father had relented.
“Well,” he’d said in a bluster, “it cannot be open knowledge.”
“Of course not, my love,” her mother said, and promptly contacted five of the best magi in the kingdom.
Meryam took to her training horribly at first. She was obstinate and strong-willed, preferring to chart her own course. She frustrated her teachers. She thought to bend them to her will, but after two years of failed instruction, it was Meryam who finally gave in. She hated the idea that her fate was once again in the hands of others, but she knew that if she truly wanted to gain control over her life and protect the people she loved, she would need to listen.
Besides, she told herself. Is this not a form of control, manipulating these stodgy men and women to get what I want?
Reapplying herself, her knowledge and skill grew. It took years, but she became one of the most powerful magi the kingdom had ever seen, grooming herself to serve Yasmine when she took the throne, which in Meryam’s eyes couldn’t come soon enough. She never forgave her father for what he’d done, for the weakness he’d shown. When it was Yasmine on the throne, with Meryam standing at her side as high chancellor, nothing would stop them.
When Jackals Storm the Walls Page 39