When Jackals Storm the Walls

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Macide was being led toward the scaffold. It was clear he’d suffered in Meryam’s care. His face was bloody. One eye was swollen shut. He could hardly walk. His fetters and manacles clanked in odd rhythms as he shambled over the uneven landscape of roots. At one point he fell, turning an ankle, and could hardly get up again.

  His state turned Çeda’s stomach, but it was no surprise—he’d orchestrated the Bloody Passage, after all, where Meryam’s sister and niece had been killed. Meryam might simply have killed him, but instead she’d set up this elaborate event. The real question was, toward what purpose? To gloat? That was surely one of her goals, but it failed to explain why she’d chosen the cavern or why a gibbet had been hung above the crystal. Nor did it explain why the servants were preparing tables with food and drink, as if this were some perverse celebration.

  From the edges of her vision, Çeda saw people begin to arrive. They mingled and talked. They stared at the crystal in awe. They watched as Macide’s ankles were bound and he was hoisted upside down above the crystal. Gods, Meryam was going to conduct some ritual. She was going to use his blood.

  Çeda searched for a way to free herself, but the moment her eyes drifted too far, the Blade Maiden flicked the tip of her sword against Çeda’s cheek.

  As blood tickled along her jawline from a fresh, stinging wound, the Maiden leaned close. “Next time you lose an ear.”

  As it turned out, Çeda didn’t need to move her eyes. Royal guests chatted, glasses of wine or brandy in one hand, canapés in the other. Çeda was starving and the food smelled delicious but it was so discordant with Macide hanging there it made her want to retch. Many wandered over to Çeda, still nibbling and drinking. The Maidens prevented them from getting too close, but otherwise let them be as they chatted, sizing Çeda up as if she were a statue about to go on auction.

  Some wandered toward the crystal. They circled it, staring upward in awe. They studied Macide. Some even took up River’s Daughter, Çeda’s ebon blade, or her knife, or Macide’s twin shamshirs, all four of which had been laid out on a table for anyone to handle. Çeda fumed as a woman her own age began swinging River’s Daughter, pretending to be a Blade Maiden, to the entertainment of those nearby.

  Çeda managed a muffled “No!” before the Blade Maiden was on her, her hand clamped over Çeda’s mouth, her ebon blade held against Çeda’s neck. She only released her at a wave from the young royal.

  Tossing River’s Daughter back onto the table, the woman approached, a stately woman by her side. The younger, who wore a fine, midnight blue abaya, pursed her lips, assessing Çeda as they came near. “Do you think she’ll scream?”

  The older woman sipped from a glass of sparkling white wine. “After all she’s done, I should hope so! I heard she killed eleven Kings with the ebon blade she stole.”

  “And bewitched the women of her hand with her foul blood magic.”

  “Mmm,” the elder agreed, “and she set the Malasani on us.” She motioned to Macide, sending the wine in her glass swirling. “They’re two of a kind. I hope she’s forced to watch, then I hope the same befalls her.”

  The other looked to the milling crowd. “She’s to become proof, some are saying.”

  “Proof of what?”

  “That Queen Meryam’s spell is working.” She glanced back as two older men wearing skullcaps approached. “Good riddance,” she said, giving Çeda a disgusted look.

  The men arrived and the four of them chatted pleasantly, then left together as Sharakhai’s Kings and Queens began to arrive. Çeda tried to reconcile how they could rejoice when a man was being tortured before their very eyes. Macide was a wanted criminal, but how could they revel in his pain so?

  “Give us space,” Çeda heard someone say.

  It took her a moment to recognize the voice. It was Queen Nayyan. As the Blade Maidens retreated, Nayyan stood in front of Çeda, looked her up and down, then motioned to the cavern around them. “Well, did the mere show you this?” She paused, and the severe, judgmental look on her face faded. “That was base of me.” She glanced over one shoulder at the gathered crowd. “In truth I wish this day hadn’t arrived. I came to promise you this: if Meryam is unmerciful, I’ll end it for you.”

  Just then, Queen Meryam moved to stand in front of the crystal. She tapped on her wine glass with her blooding ring, and all talk in the cavern ceased.

  “Welcome,” she called, over the coughs of a few. “I thank the Kings and Queens of Sharakhai for coming to witness this”—she waved up to Macide, whose body twitched, sending him slowly spinning—“the gift I’ve prepared for you. Come near, for what follows is a demonstration of the rule you can expect from the new Kings and Queens of Sharakhai.”

  Dozens approached, talking in low tones while Meryam set her glass on a nearby table and took to the scaffold stairs. When she reached the top, she stared down over all with the smile Çeda had come to associate with her, one that said all was proceeding as she wished and, whether you liked it or not, you’d not be able to do a thing about it. Except, tonight, the people she spent the most time looking at weren’t her foes, but the Kings and Queens of Sharakhai.

  Using the sharp point of her blooding ring, Meryam ripped open Macide’s shirt, exposing his hairy chest, then pierced his neck near his collar bone.

  Çeda was desperate to free him, to spare him the pain that was about to come. She pulled at the manacles on her wrists. She pumped her right hand, trying to summon the strength of the desert, but though she felt it coursing through her, it wasn’t nearly enough to break the chains. She tried to stand, hoping to do something, anything, to make Meryam stop, but the Blade Maiden had returned and her grip was like iron.

  Meryam, noticing her struggles, seemed to take them as some sort of cue. “You will note that Macide’s niece is here, Çedamihn the White Wolf, the one responsible for many of the elder Kings’ deaths.”

  Dark looks were leveled against Çeda. One by one, however, the eyes in the crowd slid back to the spectacle unfolding before them. The blood Meryam had drawn flowed in a thin stream. It wet Macide’s beard, becoming an inkwell of sorts that Meryam used to draw a sigil on his chest.

  “The spell I weave uses Macide’s own blood, and through his blood his kin will be drawn. The roots you see all around made this crystal. They feed it their essence, as they’ve done since the days of Beht Ihman.” The sigil became progressively more complex, covering his chest and a good amount of his stomach. “How fitting, then, that Macide’s blood will be used to summon the hated Moonless Host to the trees above. How fitting that the trees should feast upon their souls, and their essence will feed the crystal.”

  With the next stroke of her finger, something was born deep inside Çeda. A yearning, a hunger. It was directionless at first, without shape, but as Meryam continued to paint in Macide’s blood, that hunger gained form and her sense of the adichara trees grew. They glowed in the distance like torches in the night, marking a place of shelter against the coming storm. Indeed, as Çeda stood, the blooming fields seemed like the only safe place to be.

  She sensed something amiss, something deeply wrong about the compulsion that had been laid upon her, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. The comfort you seek is a mirage, some inner voice warned her, and it will vanish the moment you come near.

  Not all visions were mirages, though. Some were oases that provided life, that cradled even as the desert sought to kill. Her gag still in place, Çeda’s fetters and manacles were removed. She took her first step. She knew what she was doing was wrong, and yet the promised sense of solace was undeniable.

  Around her, the audience watched, smiling as they realized Meryam’s spell was drawing her toward the blooming fields where she would throw herself to the adichara trees, where the life would be squeezed from her, where the thorns would stick her skin and her blood would feed the trees.

  And it wasn’t only �
�eda. There were others being drawn as she was—those of Çeda’s tribe, the thirteenth. There were hundreds of them all across the city, standing, walking, some sprinting toward the distant fields, where they too would lose their lives. In one fell swoop, Meryam was doing what the Kings had never managed. She’d found a way to kill them all in a single night.

  Her footsteps heavy, Çeda trudged toward the mouth of a dark tunnel. She thought it a random choice, but realized a moment later it was the very one Sehid-Alaz’s wife had once used to lead Çeda from the dry bed of the River Haddah to speak with Sehid-Alaz. At the tunnel’s mouth, two Silver Spears watched Çeda approach, one with dispassion, the other with a surprising amount of dismay. Neither made a move to stop her, and soon she was inside the tunnel, lost to the darkness.

  Chapter 55

  FRESH FROM LEAVING King Ihsan and the others in the collegia’s subterranean chamber, Emre stood in a nearby cavern with Frail Lemi, three dozen warriors of the thirteenth tribe, and twenty more from Tribe Kadri. Jenise and her Shieldwives, their sandy veils pulled across their faces, swords and bucklers at the ready, were focused. Shal’alara bore a wicked scimitar. Shaikh Aríz of Tribe Kadri looked fierce, his bow strung, his quiver at the ready. His vizir, Ali-Budrek, stood nearby with a studded war club in his hands. The cuts and terrible bruising along his neck, evidence of the battle in Mazandir, only enhanced the wild look in his eyes. He looked like a wounded wolverine ready to protect his young.

  “Things haven’t changed much in the city while we’ve been gone,” Emre said, pacing before them. “The thrones may have been passed down, but the sons and daughters rule as their fathers did.”

  A few grim smiles.

  “They think to treat us like chattel. They think we’ll cower when they do. They think everything in the city and in the desert beyond belongs to them. So, no, things haven’t changed much in the city.” Emre came to a halt. “But they have in the desert.”

  “Aye!”

  “The thirteenth tribe stands united. Our allies have formed around us so that together we can oppose the power of Tauriyat.”

  Emre lifted his right hand, his fingers spread wide, as those in Tribe Kadri did on meeting an ally. Aríz raised his hand in salute, showing off the orange tattoos there. Ali-Budrek did the same. The others followed suit until all, be they Kadri or Khiyanat, had their hands lifted, palms facing out.

  Holding his hand steady, Emre met the eyes of every single warrior standing before him. “They’ve taken Macide and Çeda.”

  “Aye,” came the chorus.

  “Should we abandon them? Should we let the Queens and Kings of this city have their way with our blood and kin?”

  “Nay!”

  “Nay, for they haven’t counted on us.”

  Emre turned his hand until the palm faced his heart, then he tightened it into a fist. One by one, those gathered did the same. “Now is the time. Let’s return our shaikh and the White Wolf to their rightful places.”

  Were they in the desert they might have roared, but in the caverns the need for quiet was paramount, so silence reigned, but that didn’t mean they weren’t ready. Every man and woman present stared back at Emre with grim smiles and fire in their eyes.

  With the sort of hush that spoke of looming violence, they set off at a lope through the dark tunnels toward the cavern. Behind them came Ramahd, Duke Hektor, Cicio, and their contingent of Qaimiri knights. Hamzakiir, Meiying, and her blood magi allies had already gone ahead. Where the three Kings and their Blade Maidens were Emre wasn’t sure, nor did he care—in all likelihood they’d let everyone do the fighting for them and step in once things were all but decided.

  Emre was filled with as much purpose as anyone else, but he had to admit, Ihsan’s words still lingered. The trees, he’d said. The twisted trees are where you need to be. Part of him wanted to do just that on the small chance Çeda would actually be there. He might even have gone had anyone but Ihsan said it.

  Frail Lemi, carrying one of their lanterns, kept sending sidelong glances Emre’s way as they ran. “You’re troubled.”

  Emre wanted to laugh. “Lemi, why wouldn’t I be?”

  But Frail Lemi wouldn’t be dissuaded. “You know how I get when I can’t decide if I did the right thing?”

  Emre shrugged. “I suppose so. Why?”

  “Well, that’s how you look now.”

  It was an invitation for Emre to confess his fears, an invitation Emre immediately chose to decline. Lemi wouldn’t understand.

  As they rounded a bend in the tunnel and began taking an easy slope down, however, Frail Lemi surprised him. “What if Ihsan was telling the truth?” he said. “What if that book did show you finding her in the blooming fields?”

  They reached a winding path through natural stone columns, those at the front leading the way with bull’s-eye lanterns. It was in that place that Emre’s steps faltered and he came to a stop. Gods, oh, gods. Have I made a terrible mistake? Should I have gone when Ihsan told me to?

  Frail Lemi, the lantern swinging in his hand, strode back toward Emre with the most compassionate expression Emre had ever seen on his face. “We’re going to the cavern,” he said solemnly. “If Çeda’s there, she’ll get the help she needs. But if she does end up in the blooming fields, who’ll be there to save her?”

  Emre felt dumbstruck, like he’d already condemned Çeda to death. Without realizing he’d already made the decision, he considered the vision Ihsan had described to him. “A crystalline dragon,” he said as the other lanterns dimmed and the sounds of marching faded. “Ihsan said Çeda steps out of a crystalline dragon. I don’t know what that means.”

  Frail Lemi handed Emre the lantern, then began walking toward the others, but backward. Facing Emre, he slapped his broad hand against his chest, replicating the cadence of a heartbeat. “Trust in your heart.” Then he turned and jogged away, but not before calling over his shoulder, “Go get our girl, Emre!”

  Emre watched Lemi’s hulking shape dwindle as he caught up to the others. The sound of their passage soon faded, leaving Emre alone in a cavern that dripped softly, the sounds echoing in the darkness beyond the feeble light of his lantern.

  A crystalline dragon. The mouth of a crystalline dragon.

  Water dripped. Their echoes faded slowly. It reminded Emre of the Haddah, its riverbed dry for most of the year. That in turn reminded him of another time, when he and Macide had gone to find a blood mage in the catacombs of a desert palace, and his heart leapt.

  With his lantern lighting the way, Emre sprinted in the opposite direction.

  A quarter-league beyond the blooming fields, Emre ran along the right-hand side of the Haddah’s dry riverbed. The wind howled. The sand was so thick that even with the lantern he could hardly see three paces ahead. Still, he tried. He kept the lantern’s light along the river’s edge, keeping an eye out for the natural opening that he, Macide, and other scarabs of the Moonless Host had used as they’d headed for King Külaşan’s hidden desert palace.

  A dozen times he thought he’d found it, only to discover that it was just another sandy alcove. “You’ve gone and fucked it up now, Emre.”

  Not only had he abandoned the others as they headed toward battle, he’d likely begun a chase that would end with his wandering the blooming fields forever. Çeda would be lost to some foul spell, his tribe would be slaughtered in the cavern below the Sun Palace, and he would have done nothing to help them.

  But then he saw something along the riverbed, an opening that looked like a fresh sword wound. Crawling closer, he realized he’d found it, the place Macide had led him to years ago. He half expected Çeda to come crawling out of it at that very moment. But she didn’t. And he was left feeling once more that he’d made a terrible mistake in coming here.

  Over the wind he heard a sound, something rhythmic, metallic, accompanied by heavy thuds. Marching. It was the sound of s
oldiers marching.

  He immediately doused the lantern, dropped to his belly, and sidled along the dry ground until he was in the mouth of the tunnel. The crystals protruding from the floor and ceiling tugged at his armor, bow, and quiver full of arrows. He knew how sharp they were, but he was in such a hurry he soon had a dozen small cuts along his hands and wrists.

  He went deeper still as the sound of marching overtook the howl of the wind. He went perfectly still, however, when a lantern shone on the opening. He saw the outline of legs, a trio of soldiers standing just outside the low tunnel entrance. Words were exchanged in Mirean. Emre had no idea what they were saying, but their purpose was plain. They’d spotted his lantern. They were worried they’d been found by the Sharakhani forces and were deciding what to do about it.

  The lantern dipped low and its light shone into the cavern. But the air was thick with dust, and Emre was partially hidden by the uneven landscape of the tunnel.

  More words exchanged, sharp orders being given, and the lantern was lifted away. For minutes longer, Emre heard the steady crunch of infantry marching on the double, then rank after rank of cavalry. Some strange beast lowed, others trumpeted. At one point a sudden burst of blue flame lit the reptilian forelegs of some strange creature. At last the sounds faded, and Emre crawled back out from his hiding place.

  He had no idea what to do. If he waited he might find Çeda, but chances were just as great she’d already come through and headed on toward the blooming fields. He might go to search the blooming fields, but he had no idea where to go—he might search all night and never find her.

  Pressing away the fear that he’d be discovered for doing so, he relit the lantern and shone its light into the tunnel, praying Çeda’s face would suddenly appear. Time slowed to a crawl, though it seemed to be passing quickly at the same time.

  She’s gone, a voice kept saying. She’s already gone.

  When the fear that she’d already passed through the crystalline passage became a certainty, he headed into the storm, trudging steadily toward the blooming fields. He hadn’t been walking for long when he saw lights through the fog of sand. It was indistinct at first, an amber haze, but as he came closer, the light became individual pinpoints of white. The blue-white blooms of the adichara were glowing as he’d never seen them. And, Goezhen’s sweet kiss, how the branches swayed! They shook and clattered. They rattled and clacked. It sounded as if an army of skeletons, the tributes who’d died in the arms of the adichara, had lifted from their graves to dance among the trees.