Suddenly Willem couldn’t see. He was crying so hard that everything was a wavering mixture of light. Part of him was thrilled he would get to see Davud again, but it went so much deeper than that. He would get to read stories he’d never read before. He’d get to share them with Davud. They would talk of culture and shifting politics and injustices that bred more injustice. They’d strategize. They’d mine the past for tools to build a better world. They could make the desert anew.
“You don’t have to, Willem. You’re free to go your own way. I can help you with whatever you need.”
“No!” he cried. “I mean yes.”
Davud laughed, a beautiful sound that played with the light around him. “Does that mean you’ll join me?”
Willem nodded. “Yes.”
Chapter 66
IN THE LIGHT OF DAY, enveloped in the buzz of the rattlewings, Çeda walked side-by-side through the blooming fields with Emre. Both were armed, Emre with his bow and a long fighting knife, Çeda with River’s Daughter, returned to her by Husamettín on the Night of Northern Winds, as the battle for Sharakhai had come to be known.
A full week had passed since the battle. She and Emre had been searching the groves for Sehid-Alaz ever since, but they hadn’t found him. They hadn’t found any of the asirim, nor had Çeda been able to sense them.
“Maybe they’re dead,” Emre said as they passed a particularly thick grove, “taken by the trees.”
Maybe, but Çeda didn’t think so. They were hiding from her, and the reason was plain enough—they were ashamed. They’d become so enraged that Macide and Çeda had been willing to fight alongside the Kings of Sharakhai, they’d betrayed them both, and many others loyal to them.
“It’s more likely they returned to the valley,” Çeda replied.
“Then we should go. We’ve spent enough time here.”
They agreed that they needed to set the thirteenth tribe aright. Hamid had betrayed them. Worse, he’d led an insurrection that threatened to upend the Alliance Macide and Emre had worked so hard to build. They couldn’t let that go on. The tribes needed to remain united, and to do that, they had to squash Hamid’s militant dogma before it took root.
Men like Hamid would never admit it, but Sharakhai was a melting pot. So was the desert. The tribes were built on trade with other nations. Their culture was not pure, as some would claim, nor had it ever been. Purity had always been a fantasy, a way to exert power over others. There wasn’t a tribe in the desert that didn’t count amongst its people those who hailed from the grasslands of Kundhun or the mountains of Mirea or the temperate lands of Malasan or even the shores of the Austral Sea. But it went far beyond that. Whether it was recipes, customs, sailing ships, or the simple joy of being entertained, the lives of the desert’s people had been enriched by neighboring lands, and those lands in turn had been enriched by the desert.
The time when nations could remain of themselves and only of themselves had long since passed. A new day was dawning in the desert. It was only a matter of how soon it was going to arrive.
Çeda had a secondary purpose in the valley. Nalamae was missing. Neither the Blue Journals nor Yusam’s mere were available to her, but they needed guidance. Perhaps the tree and the visions it could grant could help. It was the only thing she could think of.
“One more day,” Çeda said. “If we don’t find them by nightfall, we’ll set sail tomorrow.”
Among the groves, tree after tree was gray and ashen, either dying or already dead. It was evidence of all that had happened: the trees slowly dying over time, the Enclave’s magi sending tributes to their deaths after the asirim were freed, Queen Meryam’s spell summoning hundreds more on the Night of Northern Winds. The grand web of trees around Sharakhai, a thing crafted through guile and trickery to allow the gods to pass to the land beyond, had once seemed as much a part of Sharakhai as Tauriyat, or the harbors, or its many neighborhoods. Now it was fragile and likely to fail.
“Do you think the trees are helping them in some way?” Emre asked, referring to Anila and Brama.
“I’ve no idea,” Çeda said.
Through a gap between the groves, above the wavering black peak of Tauriyat, she could see the glimmering vault, which now stood between both worlds. They were surely still on the other side, working to save Sharakhai. But time was running short. Even with the power of the bone of Raamajit, they couldn’t last forever, and the gods would not remain idle. They would already be working to undo the spell Anila and Brama had woven together.
They skirted wide of a grove when they heard the drone of a rattlewing nest inside it, then headed for another. After long days of hiking from sunup to sundown, they’d finally returned to the place where they’d left Sehid-Alaz on the night the crystal broke.
The adichara branches were still and unmoving. The blooms were closed. They stopped before the very tree that had wrapped its branches around Sehid-Alaz. Çeda knelt before it and pressed her right hand against the sand. She called on the power of the desert, the power of the trees, which had felt deadened since the night of the battle, and pushed as hard as she could, reaching outward, searching the nearby desert, but felt nothing.
She was reminded of the time she went to the blooming fields to learn once and for all whether she was the daughter of a King. She’d poisoned herself that night, a thing that had nearly killed her, but the Matron Zaïde had inked tattoos onto her hand and wrist, thereby hemming the poison in. She’d always been able to feel the trees to a degree, but the adichara’s poison had made it blossom. She wondered, with the crystal gone, had the trees changed in some fundamental way? Was that why her senses had felt deadened since that night?
Knowing it was a risk, but feeling it was right all the same, Çeda held her left hand out to the tree.
Emre’s eyes went wide and he snatched her wrist away. “Çeda, what are you doing?”
She calmly pried his hand from her wrist. “The poison can’t hurt me anymore.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
And with that she focused on the tree. It was diseased, dying, and the branch beside her hand didn’t move. She pressed the exact center of her palm against a large thorn, and only then felt the sting, felt the burn of the poison.
When she was young, after finding her mother hanging upside down at the foot of Tauriyat, she’d cut her hand, taken up a fistful of sand, and spoken a vow for the desert itself to hear. She did so again, but this time she spoke no vow. She whispered a plea instead.
“Come to me, Sehid-Alaz. Come, for we have need of you.”
The bloody sand sifted through her fingers to fall against the gnarled roots of the tree.
She heard the wind gust through the adichara. Heard the sand as it sprayed against the leaves. She waited a long while, but the desert did not speak to her.
Çeda stood, saddened, and faced Emre. “It’s done.”
Emre put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “You did all you could.”
Just as they’d taken their first steps toward the gap that would lead them from the grove, however, Çeda felt an awakening. She turned to see the sand churning, a head wearing a crown lifting up, Sehid-Alaz climbing from his sandy grave.
Çeda had always felt in awe when she’d been in his presence. No longer. He’d done a grave disservice to the tribe, and it showed in the way he looked at her. As she held his gaze, it was Sehid-Alaz who blinked first. His eyes dropped to River’s Daughter.
“That you made it out alive,” he said in his hoary voice, “brings joy to my heart.”
“I made it,” Çeda said, “but many others did not, including Macide.”
“I know,” was all he said in return, and it made Çeda angry.
“Have you no regrets?”
“I have too many regrets to count.”
“You betrayed him.”
“Because I thought he betrayed us.”
“You were the King of our people in Sharakhai once. You thought to shelter us then, and in your own way, you thought you were doing so when you gave Hamid leave to kill Macide. But you must see, now, it isn’t only the tribe that’s threatened, but the desert. We must work to protect it. You, me, our tribe, and all the asirim.”
For some reason unwilling to voice the words, he spoke within her mind, I will always work to protect our tribe.
“No,” she said, then waved to the trees. “You will speak it to the adichara. You will speak your vow to the desert itself.”
His gaze shifted from her to Emre and back. She knew why the ancient King was conflicted. He’d been forced to uphold the vows of others for four hundred years. He was worried that this would be more of the same—him becoming beholden to powers that would not negotiate, that did not see him as an equal—but she needed this from him, and she was certain he sensed it.
“I will work to protect our tribe,” he said in his hoary voice, “for in doing so, I will be protecting all the people of the desert.”
Çeda, judging him sincere, nodded once. “Emre and I are going to the valley to take our tribe back.”
“The asirim cannot follow.” He reached out and touched the tree that had nearly killed him. He did so lovingly, as if envisioning its final embrace and the peace he would find. “If we leave, the adichara will die.”
Whether it was the poison working its way through her or some act on Sehid-Alaz’s part, she wasn’t sure, but Çeda realized she could sense more of the asirim now. She felt them all around the blooming fields, lying beneath the sand, sharing their strength with the trees.
When Sehid-Alaz turned back to her, there was grim determination in his eyes. “Go to the valley, Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala.” He turned to Emre. “Go, Emre Aykan’ava. Take the tribe for your own, for I’ve come to see it is now yours more than it is mine. But return quickly, for I fear the end is near.”
The sand churned at his feet, and he was drawn down into the sand once more.
Epilogue
IN THE CABIN OF A YACHT, Meryam, once queen of two kingdoms, lay in her bunk as the ship sailed on. Where the ship was exactly, she had no idea. Somewhere south of Sharakhai, to be sure. Ramahd was intent on seeing her returned to Qaimir to host some sham of a trial. They would no doubt find her guilty, and in all likelihood she would be executed for trying to protect her country.
What did it matter, though, really? The world had changed. Once vibrant and full of color, it was now gray and lifeless. As she stared at the wooden beams above her, she recalled a spell she might use to make its surface rough. Modify that spell to a minor degree and it would make the wood brittle. Change it again, deepen it, and the wood would turn to ash in a matter of heartbeats.
She could once have traded guises with one of the crew, forcing them to remain here in her place while she escaped. She could once have cast an illusion and slipped from their notice, leaving them to search fruitlessly for her. She could once have commanded all of them to slit their own throats.
No longer.
Her magic had been burned from her.
You deserve it, a voice inside her whispered. You deserve it for killing our father.
“No, I don’t,” Meryam said. “We were so close to having everything.”
That doesn’t make it worth it.
“It would be worth it for Qaimir.”
A gentle laugh. You didn’t do any of this for the kingdom, Meryam. You did it for you, for you, for you . . .
The echoing voice faded slowly. It was Yasmine’s voice, and she’d been coming to Meryam more often now that she’d lost her magic.
It isn’t Yasmine at all, you fool. It’s you.
She knew that too, but she didn’t care. The ship slowed for the night and Ramahd came to unchain her himself while Cicio brought in a tray of food. Ramahd set it on the small table before her. “Eat, Meryam.”
Her eyes drifted down to the bowl of thin, sugary gruel. To the almond milk in the clay mug. It made her want to vomit just to smell them.
“Is there nothing you’d like?” Ramahd asked. “I could make fekkas for you, sweet or savory, any flavor you’d like.”
Meryam stared into his eyes. “If you mention fekkas one more time, I’ll gouge your eyes out with my bare hands.”
Ramahd’s eyes went hard, then he and Cicio did what they’d done every other time she’d refused to eat. Cicio held her while Ramahd forced a brass funnel into her mouth. They gave her the milk and gruel while she tried to scream.
When they were done, her eyes were red, her throat was raw, and her belly was full. Cicio left while Ramahd chained Meryam back to the bed and followed him out. Meryam lay there for long hours, feeling nothing.
No, that wasn’t true. She did feel something. She felt betrayed—not by Ramahd, he was just doing what he felt was right, nor by young Duke Hektor, now King Hektor, who was as ambitious as his father ever was. No, she felt betrayed by the goddess, Tulathan. She’d promised Meryam much.
“You promised me the Moonless Host.”
Macide lies dead. Many others died with him. When will the ocean of blood be enough?
“I don’t know,” Meryam replied. “My will for it refuses to die.”
Then stop using me as your excuse. Let me rest, Meryam. It’s time you let me rest.
Meryam said no more, and neither did Yasmine.
Days passed, and the ship sailed ever southward. She found that she was putting on a bit of weight. She’d eaten little in Sharakhai over the months of her rule. By the end she was so thin she looked like a beggar—any amount of regular food was bound to put some meat on her frame.
She hated every dram of it. It felt like a betrayal to all she’d wanted, all she’d accomplished.
In the end, though, it didn’t matter. Sooner or later Ramahd’s vigilance would fade. Or she’d reach Almadan and her gaolers’ attention would slip. One way or another she would find a way to kill herself. She refused to allow them to parade her before the court as they fawned over their precious new king, who would hardly know what to do with the throne that had been handed to him.
Then one day the yacht reached a caravanserai, Mazandir, most likely. It was too noisy to be one of the other, smaller caravanserais. Once they were docked, there came the sound of the crew, their boots thudding over the deck, of vendors hawking wares, and fierce haggling besides. Somewhere, a winch squealed endlessly, threatening to drive Meryam mad.
The day waned, and the sunlight slanting in through her small cabin window slid slowly across the far wall. Night arrived, and the hustle and bustle of the docks and the market was replaced with the sound of music and revelry. How odd, Meryam thought, that they could be so calm when Sharakhai is gripped in the throes of war. Soon enough those sounds faded too. Meryam was checked on one last time by Cicio. And then the ship fell into an easy silence.
Sometime later, Meryam woke to the sound of her cabin door clicking softly open. A dark form stole into the room and came to her bedside. A woman with long, curly hair. It was her scent that gave her away.
“Amaryllis,” Meryam whispered.
“Not now, my queen,” Amaryllis whispered back.
“You’re risking much for a dead woman.”
“You don’t look very dead to me.” She worked the locks on Meryam’s manacles and had her freed in moments. “Now come.”
They moved swiftly along the passage and upstairs to the deck, where two crewman lay face down. Alive or dead, Meryam wasn’t sure, and she didn’t have time to check. They made their way through the caravanserai to a small house on its outskirts where an old woman let them in—Qaimiran from the look of her. “My queen” she said, and closed the door quickly behind them.
Meryam and Amaryllis were led to a room on the second floor, where Amaryl
lis shared a most unexpected gift. Yasmine’s necklace.
“I went to the cavern to see it for myself and found this around Brama’s neck.”
Meryam held it for long moments, rubbed the beads, long since worn from the nervous attentions she’d given it. It felt like a missing part of her had been returned. For several, wonderful moments she felt whole, but then the hollow of her lost magic returned and tears of bitterness came to her eyes.
“Thank you,” was all she could manage as she slipped the necklace over her head.
For a week they remained with the old Qaimiri woman, though for Meryam it was much like being in the cabin of the ship. She remained in a lone room on the second floor. She ate, though this time it was of her own free will. Guards dressed in the livery of the caravanserai’s master came twice, surely at Ramahd’s behest, but the owner of the house knew the master well, and the guards confined themselves to the ground floor. Their search bearing no fruit, Ramahd’s ship eventually departed along with two other Qaimiri ships he’d commandeered—to search for her in the desert, she supposed, or in another caravanserai.
“I think we’re free,” Amaryllis said to Meryam the next day.
“Free . . . I’ll never be free again.”
“You can be as free as you wish to be. I’ve gold and jewels enough to last a lifetime, enough to buy a ship. We can go wherever you will, my queen. You can retake your throne.”
And what if I no longer want it? Meryam mused. What then?
The following day a wild tale reached them. Some in the caravanserai had witnessed a battle, a battle waged on the very same day she’d fought the elder Kings and the remnants of the thirteenth tribe. A woman with a shining white spear had fought with an ehrekh and won. The ehrekh had been trapped within a pool, and the pool itself had been transformed to glass.
When Jackals Storm the Walls Page 55