Shortly after, Yasmine was married to Lord Ramahd Amansir. They had a child, beautiful Rehann. As cynical as Meryam had become, she adored Rehann. She had visions of teaching her as she grew up, while Meryam helped guide her mother’s hand in ruling the kingdom. But then the news came. Yasmine had been slain in the desert along with dozens of others. More had died of hunger and thirst in the days that followed, including Yasmine’s daughter, Rehann. It was a massacre already being referred to as the Bloody Passage.
I’ll not let anyone harm you ever again, Meryam had told Yasmine. “But I did,” she whispered to the wind. “I let the desert take you.”
She’d petitioned to lead the hunt for Yasmine’s killer. Her father had balked, and as Ramahd was Yasmine’s husband, he’d been given the right to lead the hunt, but Meryam had joined him, and gained more and more influence over Ramahd once she did. A half-dozen times she was sure they had Macide, but he proved to be as wily as his legendary father, Ishaq Kirhan’ava. Time and time again he slipped the noose.
Then came her father’s unforgivable act. He ordered Ramahd and Meryam to stand down when they had Macide cornered. And when they returned to Santrión with the blood mage, Hamzakiir, she’d told her father of her plans.
“The Moonless Host want him,” she said to her father. “I’ll break him and we’ll insert him into their midst. We’ll use him to tear the Host apart from within.”
“Meryam,” he replied in that way of his, when he was trying to appear oh so reasonable, “we have a kingdom to run. I need you here.”
“I’ll be back as soon as Macide Ishaq’ava is dead and the Host lies in ruins.”
“We can’t chase ghosts forever.”
“Ghosts?” she said, incredulous. “You think I’m chasing ghosts?”
“Yasmine is dead and buried. So is Rehann. Let them rest.”
How Meryam’s blood had boiled. “How can they rest when their killer runs free?”
“You’ve killed dozens of scarabs and more besides, triple the number that were slain in the Bloody Passage.”
“I don’t care. Macide must die.”
“You’ve had a dozen chances to kill him. That’s enough, Meryam. You and Ramahd are home, and it’s going to remain that way.”
She’d left it there, vowing to try him again after he’d cooled. He didn’t, though, and two weeks later she discovered why. The Host had made an offer through a wealthy Qaimiri caravan owner: gold from the Moonless Host, so long as King Aldouan called off the hunt for Macide. Infinitely worse, her father, the King, had already accepted.
Something broke in her that day. She’d already known her father to be a sniveling coward. Now she saw he was a dog, to be used or put down as she saw fit.
That very night, she went to him in his study. She carried a bottle of wine in one hand, already half drunk. He’d turned toward her, a stack of writs near to hand, a snifter of brandy even nearer. “Meryam,” he said cheerily, then pulled a writ close and gave it a cursory read before signing it. “What keeps you up?”
Meryam took a long pull from the bottle. The wine was old, its taste so sour it was difficult to force down her throat, but the satisfaction that the wine’s distinct note of copper brought on made it worth it.
She leaned close and spoke in her father’s ear. “I know.”
He signed another writ. “Know what, dearest?”
She smiled her widest smile. “I know about the chest of gold that is even now on its way to Santrión.”
He stared up at her, his cheery expression vanishing in a way that wasn’t half as satisfying as Meryam had thought it would be. “A chest?”
She nodded. “From Ishaq Kirhan’ava himself.”
He blinked several times. His mouth worked like a fish. “Meryam . . .” Then his eyes fell on the bottle in her hand, and his face went white.
When she traveled to the desert, she always went with a bottle of wine laced with her father’s blood—the very same bottle she now held in her hand. It was meant to allow her to communicate with him from hundreds of leagues away, but it could just as easily be used to control him, to dominate him.
“I won’t let you to do it. Not again. You’ll not sully Yasmine’s memory, nor Rehann’s, nor mine, by treating with the enemy.”
The following morning, she’d left Santrión and the capital of Almadan and traveled to Ramahd’s estate, Viaroza, with Ramahd and Hamzakiir. Each day that passed had seen Hamzakiir resist her attempts to break him. Her fury had risen with each failure. She wasn’t angry with Hamzakiir, or even her father, but her own inability to seize the reins of the kingdom. No one—not her father, nor his brother, Duke Hektor, nor any other pretender to the throne—could steer the kingdom properly. Only she could.
So it was that she’d returned to Santrión with a broken Hamzakiir and done what needed to be done. She’d made it seem as though her father wanted to leave Santrión, but had done so in such a rush that they would all believe Hamzakiir had forced him. Then she’d fed her father to Guhldrathen and sent Hamzakiir to poison the Moonless Host. It had all worked beautifully, but it hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough.
Off the port bow, she saw a skiff in the distance, just as Rümayesh had said. She ordered the ship brought to a halt, and met with the one named Hamid. It was all she could do not to slit his throat as he sat with her in the captain’s cabin. He’d been there. He’d watched Yasmine die. He might even have been the one who’d shot her before Macide cut her throat.
She let her anger simmer. She let him think he was doing her some favor by bargaining away Macide, the man he’d once called his leader. She finished their negotiations, and soon the skiff was sailing ahead toward Mazandir and their galleons were underway again.
Meryam returned to the bow as Mazandir approached. She touched her neck, feeling for Yasmine’s necklace, only then remembering she’d given it to Rümayesh. Feeling foolish, she lowered her hand and retrieved a glass vial from the pouch at her belt.
“This is the very last one, Yasmine.” She popped the cork and downed the lot, then tossed the empty vial over the side of the ship. “Macide is ours today, and the best thing about it is they’re going to hand him to me themselves.”
Chapter 44
HAMID SAT IN THE CAPTAIN’S CABIN of the Burning Sand. Across from him was Rasime, who leaned back in the chair with one sandaled foot on the desk, fixing him with the piercing stare she was famed for. “Well?” she asked.
Hamid had just returned from his clandestine meeting with Queen Meryam, a meeting that, despite his fears of betrayal by the queen, had gone surprisingly well.
“She’s agreed,” he told her.
Rasime stared at him doubtfully. “Just like that?”
“No, not just like that! She asked a thousand questions, but in the end she saw that I was speaking the truth. She’ll get what she wants, and we’ll get what we want. Now tell me about Emre.”
Rasime seemed suddenly fascinated with her fingers. “I went to see him this morning”—she shifted positions in her chair—“told them I was coming to pay my respects.” She paused, then lifted her gaze until she was staring directly into his eyes. “He’s looking better.”
In an instant, all the hope that had been building inside Hamid over the past many days vanished, replaced by fear and dismay. He’d prayed to Bakhi each night to lead Emre to the farther fields, but apparently his prayers had gone unanswered.
“Dardzada drilled a hole in the back of his head,” Rasime went on. “You’d think his brains would leak out, but they didn’t. He stabilized after the surgery. Dardzada said he’s not out of the desert yet, but he’s on the mend.”
Hamid dropped his head into his hands. It was becoming clear that, just like everything else in his life, he was going to have to force the hands of the fates. It was easier said than done, though. There were people hovering around the Amaranth a
t all hours, particularly the captain’s cabin where Emre lay bedridden.
“He’s still in a coma,” Rasime said hopefully. “Perhaps he’ll stay there.”
It was the lone saving grace of the entire situation. Had Emre awoken, even for a few minutes, he would surely have told everyone Hamid was hidden somewhere in the camp. And if that happened, the best Hamid could hope for was a fair hearing. In all likelihood, though, he and Darius would be dragged onto the sand, their heads lopped off for their treachery.
“Emre needs passage to the farther fields, and quick.”
“No doubt,” Rasime said.
Hamid paused. “You could do him.”
Rasime’s eyes shot wide open. “I’m not doing him!”
“Why not?”
“You started this fight. You can finish it.”
“You sheltered me, conspired with me against Macide. You’ll be in trouble if he wakes, too. We all will be.”
“I’m not giving him back to the desert, Hamid, so you can get that out of your thick skull right now.”
Her words were like a hive of buzzing bees. It made him want to do terrible things. To Emre. To Rasime. To himself. “What about the elders?” Rasime had agreed to talk to the tribal elders they thought most likely to join their cause.
“Better news there. Seven have agreed to join us, swords in hand if need be, but only if Sehid-Alaz gives his blessing.”
“We’ll have it.”
“When?”
The way she’d asked it, as if she were the one in command, pushed him to the very edge of violence. “We’ll have it,” he growled.
Rasime might press him another time for an answer, but she knew what was good for her. She let the subject drop.
Soon after, Hamid left the ship under cover of darkness and headed in the direction where he’d heard the asirim yipping and barking at one another earlier.
He was nearing them when he saw a dark shape rise up, silent as death. As had always been true, his skin crawled just to be near one of the cursed asirim. He wished he didn’t have to rely on them—he trusted them about as much as he trusted a hungry bone crusher—but they were his best hope for dealing with this mess.
“You’ve returned,” said a stony voice. It was Sehid-Alaz, thank the gods.
“I’ve spoken with Queen Meryam, as I said I would, and she’s agreed to my demands.”
“She’ll take Macide.”
“Yes. And then you can deal with the elder Kings however you see fit.”
Sehid-Alaz considered for a time, then turned and began walking back toward the huddled asirim. Just when Hamid thought he was going to say he needed time to consider, he called over his shoulder. “Very well. You have my blessing.”
The buzzing in Hamid’s skull immediately ebbed. He was so elated he nearly asked Sehid-Alaz if he would consider killing Emre for him, but it would likely only annoy the ancient King, so he kept his mouth shut.
This is a sign, Hamid told himself. My fortunes are turning at last. There was only one loose thread that could stop him—he had to take care of it lest everything unravel.
Filled with the certainty that the gods were looking over his shoulder, he returned to the fleet. So many things were falling into place. With the moons yet to rise and the camp quieter than it had been in days, it was child’s play for him to reach the Amaranth, to climb the rudder, to scrabble over the ship’s transom. Lo and behold, the rear shutters had even been left unlocked. He peered between them, ensuring Emre was alone. Another bit of good fortune: both Dardzada and the waif of a girl, Clara, were gone.
“Thank you, Bakhi, for your kindness,” he whispered, and pulled one shutter open.
He was just inching the round of his gut over the sill when he heard footsteps approaching the cabin door. In a rush, he slipped back down, closed the shutter, and perched on the transom’s lower lip.
The door flew open a moment later, and Clara, Dardzada’s assistant, danced into the cabin and sat on the edge of Emre’s bed. After checking the pulse at his wrist, she pried his eyelids open and peered into them while holding a lamp to aid in her inspection.
Hamid clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. He’d just missed the best, cleanest opportunity he could have asked for. He could have pinched Emre’s nose and clamped his mouth shut and been done in a few minutes. Now there was the girl to deal with too. He’d strangle her, suffocate Emre as planned, then carry the girl’s body into the desert. It would raise questions, and would likely delay the caravan by a few days, but there was nothing for it. He couldn’t chance Emre waking before they reached Mazandir.
He put a hand on the shutter and was just ready to pull it aside when the door flew open again and who should walk in but Frail fucking Lemi. He went to the captain’s desk and sat, his back to Hamid. He took down a bag and a square aban board from a nearby shelf and proceeded to set up a game.
Hamid rolled his eyes, cursing his misfortune. Lemi, meanwhile, said to Clara, “Ready?”
“Almost!” Clara replied in the sort of cheery tone that made Hamid want to do foul things to her.
Soon she was done and the two of them had started their game. “You’re not very good, you know,” Clara said to him.
“I know,” Frail Lemi replied. “I just like to try.”
“No, you just like being near Emre.”
“That too.”
Fucking gods. They might be at it for hours, and only the fates knew who else might come in during that time. Dardzada. Çeda. Anyone. Hamid thought of sneaking in anyway, but the chances of Frail Lemi being alerted were too great. If that happened, even sticking that big, stupid ox with a knife would likely only anger him.
What the fates giveth in one breath, the saying went, they taketh away in the next. Would it kill you to break your own rules once in a while? Hamid thought angrily, then dropped to the sand and headed back to the Burning Sand.
The bed was comfortable at first, but Emre soon ached from inactivity, especially along his left side. Every once in a while, as he slipped in and out of sleep, he rolled to the other side.
No, he realized. He was being rolled. Others were shifting him in the bed to prevent bed sores. He felt this news should bother him, but it didn’t, mostly because, for the first time in months, the pain that built at the back of his head at the smallest provocation was gone. It had vanished. All that was left was a dull ache. Well, that and the occasional prick of pain when his bandages were changed.
He didn’t really understand it at first, and some visitors clearly didn’t either: How had he survived? Over time, he pieced the story together well enough. Dardzada had cut him open and drained his skull of the bad blood that had built up.
It was a miracle, many said, though it didn’t feel that way to Emre.
Time passed. Sometimes it was light when he woke. Sometimes it was dark. Sometimes people were there, speaking in low tones. Other times the room was still.
Dardzada and Clara were the voices he heard the most, but Çeda was often there too. He liked it best when they were alone and she told him stories like she used to in Sharakhai. And when she got bored with those, she would tell him news of the camp, such as it was—anything to keep him occupied, was his impression.
He couldn’t really mark the passage of days, but he knew time was passing because every so often Çeda would mention how close they were to Mazandir. Every time she did, something about it bothered him. Maybe it was their task there, or those they were going to meet, neither of which he could recall. It felt as if the answer were floating in the air before him, just out of reach.
Often he tried to speak, especially when Çeda was in the room. He tried to squeeze her hands when she held his and gently stroked his fingers. But in all the days since he’d fallen under this spell he’d managed no more than a twitch or two.
“I felt him,” Çeda said
after one of those times.
“That’s good,” Dardzada said.
A pause. “That means he’s getting better, right?”
Dardzada’s reply had been measured at best. “It happens from time to time,” he said. “It isn’t a bad sign. But don’t get your hopes up too high.”
When Dardzada had left, he’d heard Çeda say under her breath, “Would it kill you to hope once in a while?” Then she’d leaned over him on the bed and whispered, “I swear to you, Emre, he could be dying of thirst in the desert, and he’d shake his fist at a rain shower, grousing that it got his clothes wet.”
Emre wanted to laugh, but he could do no more than smile inside, and soon he fell back asleep.
Then one day things felt different. Çeda came to see him. “It’s a big day,” she said. “We’re going to speak to Queen Meryam in the arena. We’re taking no chances, though. We’re leaving early to get the lay of the caravanserai and make sure the arena is truly empty. I’m nervous, Emre, but in a way I’m glad you’re here. One of Ihsan’s visions said I’d have to choose between you and Macide. I thought surely he’d meant here. Now.”
He almost felt like he could talk to her. Almost. He stood on the very precipice of speech, but the words refused to come. After a kiss to his lips and a squeeze of his hand, Çeda was gone.
He drifted back down into darkness for a time, but when he came back he simply . . . opened his eyes. As if he could have done it the whole time but simply hadn’t. He was worried his eyes might close of their own accord and not open again for days. But they didn’t. He was awake and breathing and he felt as if he’d just been granted a new life.
He blinked several times, trying to clear away the crust. He stared for a long while at the ceiling boards above him, then turned his head and saw Clara reading a book. Sensing his movement, her head swiveled toward him and her eyes became two perfect circles.
When Jackals Storm the Walls Page 40