“Çeda!”
Her body felt leaden, but she managed to draw her eyes to his. “You can’t stop this, Emre,” she said as she took a step forward.
“Listen to me.” He placed himself between her and the tree. “Listen, Çeda. This is Meryam’s doing.”
“Meryam is but a cog in the machine. This day was long in the making. The gods have been working toward this for centuries. You think you can stop them from seeing it done?”
“Yes! And you would too, were you not wrapped in Meryam’s spell. She’s using Macide. She’s using his blood, your kinship to him. It’s drawn you here.” Emre waved beyond the nearby trees where, somewhere in the distance, the wailing of an asir lifted impossibly high. “It’s drawn all of you here.”
Çeda felt the asir who cried, a woman once, a mother of three. She’d just stepped into an adichara’s embrace.
Much nearer, another cry rose up. This was no asir, but a man of sixty summers, a distant cousin of Macide’s, a distant cousin of Çeda’s, answering the same call. She felt more such calls all along the great ring of the blooming fields. Souls succumbing to the desire, the need, to give themselves to the trees and find peace at last.
They all felt what Çeda felt: the ache inside the trees, which echoed in the asirim. So much misery had run through these groves that even the trees yearned to see the end of it.
Before she knew it, she’d taken a step forward.
Emre was there, his hands on her shoulders, forestalling her. “Çeda, you must fight it.” He looked down at Sehid-Alaz, who was on his knees. “Both of you must!”
But he didn’t understand how strong the call was. All around the blooming fields, more and more trees were dying, and the more that did, the more their deaths weighed on the living. It was a process that fed on itself, slowly accelerating.
“Don’t give in to her!” Emre shouted, though he might as well have been shouting at the trees. “Don’t let Meryam win!”
“I’m sorry, Emre,” Çeda said to him, “you’re too late.”
“Çeda, listen to me.” He gripped her shoulders, keeping her in place. He shook her until she was staring into his eyes. “Do you remember when your mother used to leave for the blooming fields? Do you remember staring at the stars?”
Çeda’s eyes were drawn to the blooms, to the way they glowed. They reminded her of the night Emre was referring to. He had come to her home near nightfall, only minutes after Çeda’s mother, Ahya, had left. She was sure Emre had been watching, waiting for Ahya to leave.
Emre had been nine years old at the time, Çeda eight. It was mere months from Ahya’s death at the hands of the Kings. They’d lain together in the bed Çeda shared with her mother, holding each other, terrified at first because the asirim had for whatever reason flocked to the squalid neighborhood where her mother had moved them only weeks before. But the asirim came and left early, taking their tributes back to the blooming fields well before the moons had set. When silence reigned and their fears abated, Çeda led Emre to the roof of her tenement. There she’d thrown down a blanket, and the two of them lay side by side, shoulders touching, staring at the twin moons and the myriad stars.
“Do you think Sukru ever marks people from the desert?” Emre had asked.
“Why would he?” Çeda replied.
She felt Emre shrug beside her. “It doesn’t seem right that the only ones who die come from Sharakhai.”
“I suppose,” she’d replied, “but the tributes are payment, aren’t they? Many more would have died if Suad and his gathered tribes had attacked Sharakhai.”
In the blooming fields, Çeda shrugged off the memory, returning to herself. “That was years ago, Emre.”
“Çeda, it was yesterday. Do you hear me? Yesterday.”
In many ways it was. How she’d loved the feel of his shoulder touching hers. How thrilled she’d been when he’d pointed out the stars and told her about the constellations.
“Do you remember what you said to me,” Emre asked, “when I told you about the stars?”
Çeda felt tears slipping down along her cheeks. They’d been the stories Emre’s mother had told him before she’d died. They weren’t the same ones Çeda’s mother had told her, nor the ones she’d read about in her mother’s books, but she loved hearing them all the same. “I said it made me feel powerful.”
“Yes, but why? What did you tell me?”
“I said it felt like we could write history. We could write it as we saw fit. We could bring justice upon those who deserved it. We could free those who were oppressed.”
“Yes!” Emre squeezed her hands. “We still can, Çeda. We can write our own future still.” He motioned to Sehid-Alaz, who was doubled over, his forehead pressed against the sand as the nails of his hands gouged the sandstone near the base of the tree. “All of us can.”
But Emre didn’t understand. He didn’t understand the call of the adichara. He didn’t understand the sheer weight of the centuries of pain. Çeda did. So did Sehid-Alaz. They recognized the simple truth: that giving themselves to the trees would erase the past, as if it never was.
“Çeda.” When she didn’t reply, when she couldn’t take her eyes from the tree, Emre placed her hands against his chest, just over his heart. “Çeda!”
The call of the tree was so strong, and yet, how warm Emre’s skin felt. He’d always been that way, even when they were young. How she’d yearned for his touch these past few years. How she’d yearned to rekindle the flame between them.
Behind Emre, Sehid-Alaz stood. Took one step toward the tree.
“Don’t!” Emre called. “Sehid-Alaz, don’t!”
She saw the terrible conflict in Emre’s eyes. He wanted to go to Sehid-Alaz, wanted to protect him, prevent him from reaching the tree, but he refused to let go of her.
As Sehid-Alaz stood before the tree and the branches began to curl around him, Emre stared deeply into Çeda’s eyes. “On that rooftop, we thought Beht Zha’ir was about repaying the gods for their favor. We didn’t like it, but we’d accepted the lie. We didn’t know any better then, but we do now! We know the lie. We see the shame of that day, of the Kings sacrificing their brothers and sisters for their own gain.”
The adichara embraced Sehid-Alaz. The branches squeezed, ever tighter. Çeda wanted to help him, but she couldn’t. This is how it must feel, Çeda realized. This is how the asirim have felt for generations beyond count. They know the truth, they’ve always known, and yet they’re still beholden to another’s will.
There were tears in Emre’s eyes. He looked so kind, so caring. She wanted to rub the stubble along his head. She wanted to hold him in her arms and tell him it would be all right after she was gone.
“You may not know it,” he said, “but I heard you on the ship. You said I can’t leave now, that our story’s only just begun.” Emre rubbed the backs of her knuckles with his thumbs. “It’s time to write the end of that story. Let’s do it, Çeda. Let’s do it together.”
Çeda shivered from head to toe. She’d had no idea. She’d imagined he could hear her, she’d hoped he could, but she’d never truly thought it possible. Her tears flowed freely now. Gods, she wanted to do just as he’d said—she wanted to write their story together—but sand and stone . . . “It’s so very strong, Emre, the call of the trees.”
“I know.” He pulled her close. “But stay with me. Stay here.”
She felt his heartbeat pumping madly. She remembered the training she’d received from Zaïde. Feel for the heart of your enemy, she’d said many times, that you may use it against them.
What about those you love? Çeda had wondered. What good is such power if we don’t use it on those we love?
As she held Emre, her sense of his heartbeat grew stronger. It expanded, moving beyond the two of them. She felt Sehid-Alaz’s, beating more strongly in fear. She felt other asirim, some succ
umbing to the dreadful embrace of the trees, others barely resisting the call. She felt other tributes, those of the thirteenth tribe, called upon by the blood they shared with Macide.
Together, they made a grand ring around the city, an echo of the blooming fields themselves, which made Çeda realize just how attuned to the trees she was. She felt it in her right hand first, where the thorn had pierced her skin. She felt it in her left hand next. Then her arms, her chest and shoulders, all along her back.
It was the tattoos, she realized, the first one inked by Dardzada, the others by Zaïde, Sümeya, and Sehid-Alaz himself. They told her story, but they also told the story of the asirim, the adichara, Beht Ihman, and the lies the Kings of Sharakhai had been telling from the very beginning.
On her back was the tattoo of the acacia tree Sehid-Alaz had inked. In it, the names of the asirim had been subsumed. It was not the names themselves but Sehid-Alaz’s connection to each that sobered her to everything that was happening.
As Sehid-Alaz’s cries became unbearable, she squeezed Emre’s hands and pulled him aside. He sensed something had changed or he never would have allowed it. Çeda approached the tree. Touched its branches. The tree shivered. It didn’t want to give Sehid-Alaz up, but when Çeda started to pull the branches aside, heedless of the thorns piercing her skin, it relented.
Slowly it spread its arms wide, and Sehid-Alaz collapsed at its base.
“Help me, my King,” Çeda said.
Sehid-Alaz knew precisely what she meant. The two of them were weakened, but together they reached out to the other asirim, lending them their strength. Slowly, they began to resist too, and as their bond strengthened, so too did their sense of the mortal souls being drawn toward the trees.
At the center of it all was Macide, at the heart of Meryam’s foul spell.
“Hold them off,” Çeda said. “Support the rest.”
“I will,” Sehid-Alaz said, his voice weary. “But hurry. We cannot last forever.”
Çeda turned to Emre, who’d already unslung his bow from around his shoulders. With tears streaming down his dusty face, he nodded. Then they were off, sprinting together toward the Haddah.
Chapter 58
THE EHREKH, GUHLDRATHEN, pounded over the cavern floor like a rampaging bull. Everyone scattered, shouting, the noise only adding to the mayhem. Many backed away, including the Silver Spears. The Blade Maidens, however, several dozen of them all told, picked up their swords and prepared a defense of their Kings and Queens, including Husamettín, Cahil, and Ihsan. Some few who had crossbows let their bolts fly, including Ramahd’s own soldiers. Ramahd stood ready, sword in hand, preparing to dart behind the crystal and use it as cover. Davud fought beside Meiying, the two of them sending bright spells against a thickset man, one of the Enclave.
A great ball of flame streaked over Ramahd’s shoulder. He felt the heat of its passage as it sped toward Guhldrathen. The ehrekh would not be taken so easily, however. It slowed, crouched, and backhanded the flame as it came near, sending a burst of orange fire in a wide fan that fell across the soldiers and the crowd of royal guests.
Screams of pain mixed with the bellow of commands and the sharp whistles of the Blade Maidens as they prepared their defense. From several tunnels came more Silver Spears, more Blade Maidens. They looked about wildly, their confusion plain.
As Guhldrathen paused, bashing another ball of flame from the air, Ramahd sensed Hamzakiir forming a second spell, one that imbued life into the roots. They grew wildly around Guhldrathen’s hooves, around the coarse fur of his fetlocks. Before Guhldrathen could charge again, the roots snaked up along his legs, wrapping them tightly. Guhldrathen tried to free himself, but the roots were strong as rigging and difficult to break, and he would no more than snap one than two more took its place.
As factions began to fight one another behind Ramahd, Guhldrathen moved his massive hands in arcane ways. Ramahd tried to sap the power he was gathering, to break the spell before it took effect, but this was magic of a different sort and his efforts had little effect. The roots around Guhldrathen turned brittle, making it child’s play to snap free of them and stalk forward once more.
“Ramahd,” came a weak voice.
Ramahd looked down. Macide was there, his wrists and ankles still bound. He had his hands clasped, lifted before him, in the manner of prayer in the desert. His face was anguished. Ramahd felt certain he was about to ask for forgiveness, but then he spoke two breathless words.
“Kill me.”
Ramahd blinked. “What?”
As the battle raged around them, Macide motioned to the roots, which were still dying. “Meryam’s spell is part of me now. I’m being used to kill hundreds. Take my life, Ramahd, and save many innocents.” He looked up to the crystal, his eyes red, watering. “Take my life and stop the gods. Take my life and save this city.”
Ramahd blinked, disbelieving. They’d arrived at the end of a tale which began when he visited Sharakhai with his family, and his caravan was stopped by the Moonless Host. Ramahd had killed many in his pursuit of Macide since then. Here and now was his wish granted at last. Why, then, did he hesitate?
“Kill me.” Macide’s eyes were red, his chin quivered. “For your wife. Your child.”
Ramahd hesitated to kill in cold blood, but to hear Macide speak his daughter’s name nearly wiped those reservations clean. His vow to kill Macide spurred him to grip his sword tight and approach, but he’d regained his love for life since coming to Sharakhai in his search for vengeance. Meryam had shown him what giving oneself wholly over to one’s vengeance looked like. It was an ugly, voracious thing, a thing he wanted nothing to do with anymore.
For a moment, the battle was forgotten as Ramahd and Macide stared at one another, Macide accepting responsibility for what he’d done, Ramahd not forgiving, but moving beyond it.
“Now, damn you!” Macide cried, his agony rising to new heights.
Ramahd knelt beside him. He put one hand over Macide’s eyes, swallowed hard, and drew his sword across Macide’s neck. Blood flowed, seeping into the roots. Macide quivered, quieted, and finally went still.
Mere moments later, the desiccation of the roots slowed, then stopped altogether. But the crystal . . . As Ramahd stood and looked down at Macide’s dead form, another crack appeared. The sound it made was much louder than before. He would swear he’d seen fine bits of glowing crystal spray outward as it formed.
He stared at it with renewed horror, and the sound of the battle returned in a rush. Something struck him from behind. He fell, not knowing which way was up. The sound of clashing steel came just above him. He rolled over to find Cicio, red-faced, raging, trading wild blows with a Silver Spear. Basilio, Count Mateo, and young Duke Hektor were there as well. The rest of their men had joined forces with the elder Kings of Sharakhai in a scene that had devolved into a wild, vicious brawl.
Meiying stood beside him. She had a crimson cut along the porcelain skin of one cheek. She moved lithely, ducking beneath the swing of a sword in a display of such perfect timing that she was lunging toward the man before he’d even finished his overly aggressive swing. She touched the soldier and he went down. Then she turned and pulled Ramahd to his feet.
“You’re hurt,” she said, words Ramahd could barely hear over the ringing in his ears, the shouting, and the clash of steel all around.
“I’ll be all right,” Ramahd said, glancing down at Macide’s lifeless form.
Then he spun and scanned frantically for Meryam. She was nowhere near where she’d fallen earlier, nor could she be seen along the edges of the battle.
“Dear gods,” he said as the battle raged, “she’s gone.” As Guhldrathen bellowed and renewed his charge toward Hamzakiir, who disappeared in a cloud of black smoke, Ramahd pulled Cicio close. “Carry on the fight. We’re going to find Meryam.”
When Cicio nodded, Ramahd signaled Duke Hektor to
join him. Soon Ramahd, Hektor, and Meiying were running along the tunnel that would lead them to the Sun Palace. The sounds of battle faded behind them and Ramahd stretched his senses wide, wary of Meryam and any spells she might have cast to cover her trail. He found none, and pushed hard to catch her before she could reach the palace proper.
In this he failed. They’d seen no signs of her thus far, only a few of the royal guests fleeing as they reached the palace’s lowermost stairs. It was eerily silent. The sounds of battle had long since ended. They stood in a tall corridor at the foot of a wide set of stairs. Ramahd thought to continue up to search Meryam’s apartments when he heard a voice coming from the corridor to his right. He waved to Hektor and Meiying, and together they walked along the passage.
For a time there was silence, then the voice came again. “Hear me, oh goddess!” It was Meryam, and she sounded desperate. “Have I not done as you asked? Have I not fed the tributes to your trees? I was promised the power to defeat Macide and the Moonless Host! I was promised his head!”
At the end of the hall, Ramahd could see a chamber with a brazier lit in one corner. As he came closer, he could see a marble slab. On it were the dried remains of a Malasani golem, its chest cut open, revealing a place at the center where something was missing, as if the golem had once had a heart.
Meryam stood on the opposite side, draped over the golem’s chest. She had her hands clasped, praying much as Macide had done only a short while ago. She wasn’t praying to Alu, though. She was pleading with a desert god—which one, Ramahd wasn’t certain.
What does it matter? Ramahd thought. They’re all scheming together.
Meryam’s head lifted and she shivered in fright. “Ramahd,” she said. She noted Meiying as well, but when her gaze landed on Hektor, her eyes narrowed with confusion. “Duke Hektor.”
Ramahd strode into the room. “Who were you talking to, Meryam? Who promised you Macide?”
When Jackals Storm the Walls Page 50