I forge a connection between Brama and Nehir, a bond that begins as a thread but strengthens, braiding and multiplying until the two men are intertwined. Their minds are still unique, but their forms intermingle. Their hearts. Their bodies. These are what I care about now. Slowly, the effects of the reek are drawn from Nehir and into Brama. His body carries that terrible burden, leaving Nehir breathing easier, his eyes less restless. Nehir’s shaking quells and he slips into a deeper sleep, and the touch of the black lotus takes Brama. He stumbles backward, falls against the nearby wall. He slips down until his head is resting against the corner of the room.
He hears the sounds of the tenement, which are wondrous and terrifying in equal amounts. The cry of a babe brightens until it becomes the touch of Tulathan herself. The sound of a man’s feet treading barefoot is the tread of an assassin. Jax squats before him. She speaks, but Brama cannot hear her words. She shakes him, gently at first, then violently. But Brama doesn’t care. Jax is nothing to him, merely one small part in the grand canvas of sounds and scents that grow and shrink like the aeons of life and death in a forest, all experienced in the blink of an eye.
Down, down Brama drifts, into the forest, the landscape ever changing. Brama wanders through the trees, through the hills, wondering where his place in this new world might be.
#
When Brama wakes, his head feels as though it’s being pounded like a cubit stone in the quarry. He lies on the floor of the same small tenement room, drool slipping from his mouth, pooling against the red-tiled floor beneath him. As he lifts himself up and props himself against the wall, the pounding becomes so terrible, stars form in his eyes. Only after long minutes of breathing and allowing the storm to pass does Brama realize he is alone. He stares at the empty hammock, takes in the rest of the room, which holds considerably less clutter than it had before he’d freed Nehir.
Hardly surprising, Brama thinks.
Still, the betrayal stings, and for a time all he can manage to do is hold his head in his hands and try to press away the pain.
I’m distanced from his bodily feelings, but not completely so—I helped him to lift the effects of the black lotus, after all. The way his body grieves reminds me of the mortals with whom I’ve bonded in the past. This is vastly different, though. Every time before now, I’d been the one in control. I felt what I wanted to feel, did what I wanted to do with the form I’d taken, and it was often wondrous. Now, the crystal makes me beholden to the one who holds it, and I feel so much less. Brama is duller than he might have been. Less interesting to me. If only I might find a way to free myself from this prison once and for all.
Brama stares at the shisha. The rank smell disgusts him, but there is a part of him that wants to walk among the trees of the forest once more. It’s a small part, to be sure, but distinct. It was surely due to how addicted to the reek Nehir had been. Brama is strong enough in body and spirit to withstand it and not become shackled to the drug, but were he to continue to do this, he could easily succumb to the desire.
Brama’s gaze drifts to the empty hammock. “I should have let him die.”
“Perhaps you should have,” comes a heavy voice.
Brama turns his head, wincing from the pain it brings, to find a bald man standing in the doorway, pushing the carpet aside. It was Maru, Kymbril’s man. He steps inside the room, and the carpet flaps closed behind him. Brama reaches for his knife, but finds it gone. Maru gives the room a cursory inspection, then kneels before Brama, a curved and nicked kenshar held easily in one hand.
He cranes his neck and runs the knife blade over his stubbly neck, scratching an itch. “Kymbril’s going to be awfully disappointed in you.”
“Why’s that?” Brama asks.
Maru points the tip of the knife at Brama’s chest. “Told him you didn’t know Nehir. Said you worked for no one.”
Brama thinks back, frowns. “You were there, weren’t you, outside the door?”
Maru shrugs his broad shoulders. “He may not act like it, but Kymbril’s a careful man.” Brama opens his mouth to speak, but Maru talks over him. “Now let’s get a few things straight, you and me. First, before I leave this room, you’re going to tell me where I can find Nehir and that little bitch sister of his. Second, at no point in this conversation will you tell me that you don’t know. Third, and this is the most important point, Brama, so bend your ear. Third, Kymbril may be a careful man, but I’m not.” He holds the kenshar up for Brama to see. He stares over it, just above its well-honed edge, into Brama’s eyes. “I’m a messy man. A persistent man. I’m a jackal who’s gone too hungry to care about leopards or lions or whatever the fuck else might be standing in front of me.”
Since Brama escaped my attentions, he’s had a streak in him that seeks out conflict, that desires pain. Something broke in him while he was in my care, and I can feel it inside him now, rising to stand before Maru like a defiant child before a charging destrier. Worse is the fact that I see a darkness forming around Maru, the sort that comes when something threatens me.
Beware, Brama! Take my hand!
To my amazement, Brama does reach for me, but in that moment his hand also grasps absently for the sapphire beneath his shirt. Maru’s hand darts forward and snatches the leather cord around Brama’s neck. He yanks it, snapping the cord, taking the sapphire that holds me with it. My sight, my hearing, so dependent on Brama, both dim, but I can still hear Maru as he says, “None of that,” holding the gemstone up.
He slips it into his pocket, his eyes still on Brama. Brama chooses that moment to kick Maru in the knee. Maru, however, for all his bulk, is a sinuous man. His leg snaps back, dulling the blow. Then, quick as a cobra, he grabs Brama by the neck, slams him against the rough stone wall, and drops him to the floor.
“Now.” Maru is close, his dark eyes intense, his kahve-laden breath strong and rank. He holds the knife between Brama’s legs, pressing the blade up against his crotch. Brama grips Maru’s wrist, keeping the knife at bay, but only just. “Choose carefully, Brama. I’m only going to ask you one more time. Where’s that Malasani cunt?”
“Crawled up one of the Kings’ arses,” Brama shoots back. “Which is good news for you, Maru. You only have to shove your head up a dozen of them to find her.”
“Bad choice, boy.”
Maru draws the knife upward. Brama, jaw clenched tight, teeth bared, tries to stop him, but as weak as he is from the effects of the lotus, it’s a losing battle from the start.
The scene slowly fades—the sights, the sounds, the smells. It represents, perhaps, an uncorrectable shift in my fate, a poorly chosen path. Suddenly the scene brightens. Maru’s breathing is a wet rasp in Brama’s ears. The knife’s edge burns bright between Brama’s legs, searing his skin.
There’s a hollow thump, and Maru goes slack. His weight falls across Brama, and Brama shoves him away. Jax is there, standing over the two of them holding a heavy, blood-stained ewer above her head, ready to strike again. She’s shivering, panting, staring at the bloody gouge on the back of Maru’s head.
Brama levers himself out from under Maru and comes to a stand. Jax drops the ewer, which thuds against the floor. After taking takes Maru’s knife and slipping it under his belt, Brama reaches into Maru’s shirt pocket, takes back the necklace, and ties it around his neck.
“Nehir wouldn’t let me stay,” Jax says, an apology of sorts.
Brama only shrugs. “I mightn’t have, either, were I him.”
“I’m sorry. I know you saved us, but he’s scared. He has his wits about him now, though. He has you to thank, does he not?”
Brama nods.
“It was the gem?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
The girl takes a deep breath. Someone further down the hall begins shouting at their child. Jax turns and stares wide-eyed at the carpet over her doorway, but as their argument quells, she turns back to Brama. “I haven’t a right to ask, but I need help. We need help, even if Nehir won’t admit it.”
Brama looks down Maru. The big man is beginning to stir. “Best we talk elsewhere.” She nods, but doesn’t move. When Brama touches her shoulder, she nods a second time, and the two of them leave together.
#
In the southwestern quarter of Sharakhai, not so far from the banks of the Haddah, lies the Temple of Nalamae. Save for a few special nights of the year, the broken temple lies empty. Disused. Forgotten and mostly shunned by the citizens of Sharakhai. And yet no one would dare tear it down, not even the Kings. One might ignore the gods of the desert without fear of retribution, but attempting to erase their memory entirely would be like waving a ribbon before a black laugher and daring it to charge.
The temple is where Brama decides to take Jax. It’s also the very place I was taken, captured, and caught within the falcon’s egg sapphire Brama now wears around his neck. Perhaps Brama wishes to taunt me by coming here. If that’s the case, he has succeeded, for this is also the place where my most loyal servant, Kadir, died, and I feel a growing sadness and anger. The lives of mortals may be fleeting, but Kadir’s blazed higher and brighter than the dim candles of most souls in Sharakhai.
Brama motions Jax to walk ahead of him into the temple. He slows, watching the way behind, wary of Kymbril’s gang, wary of the assassin. No one is following, however, and the two of them head into the nave, where the temple’s grand, broken dome arcs high above them. Rubble and stone and dust lay all about. The mosaics here depict life in the earliest days of Sharakhai: the river, the mount where the Kings’ palaces were built, the small settlement that grew into the sprawling metropolis that eventually swallowed the open land around this temple.
The colors around Jax are bright, especially as she walks in shadow. They’re more vivid than they’ve ever been. Surely she will be the one to release me from my prison. Or deliver me to the one who will. She’s restless. I can feel it inside her: the worry over her pursuers, the desire to return to her homeland, the sad and growing realization that she no longer can.
She reaches the center of the open space and stares up at the jagged gap where the dome had been sundered, a remnant of Goezhen’s presence here nearly two centuries ago. “My mother and father were murdered nearly one year ago in a temple not so different from this one.” Her voice is weak, subdued. “It honored the gods of the mountains, among them Nehiran and Urajaxan, after whom Nehir and I were named. It did little to save my parents, but Nehir still thought it a fortuitous sign that the two of us were able to escape. I believed him then—that our patron gods were watching over us—but I can see now it was only my fear speaking to me, words of hope whispered to a petrified girl.” She laughs a bitter laugh and stoops to pick up a stone. She turns it absently in her hand, continues to walk, taking in the grandness of this ruined place. “How foolish we were. The gods care nothing for our struggles. We soon found out from those still loyal to our family that all had been arranged beforehand. After my parents were murdered, our land was delivered to my father’s rival in exchange for a ruby mine our own lord had had his eye on for decades. We hoped to rally support to restore the power of our house, but when our few allies were also killed, we knew the time was upon us to flee.” She spins, flinging her arms wide like a mummer performing a play; the lights surrounding her dance along with her. “We came here to Sharakhai, but even this city wasn’t far enough. The lords who conspired to kill my parents will never allow Nehir and me to live. We are the final two who have a rightful claim to our barony. They cannot take the chance that we’ll reach our king and present our case. That’s why the assassins follow us, even here. That’s why they won’t stop until we’re dead.”
Brama sits on a large piece of rubble. He speaks, keeping an eye on the temple’s entrances. “Your troubles… Is that why Nehir took to smoking lotus?”
Without pulling her gaze from the mosaics, she nods. “That’s when he started selling as well. My father knew several smugglers of the black, and allowed them to pass through our lands—with a tax, of course. Nehir was being groomed to take on more responsibility from my father, and had learned their names. He made contact with them immediately after reaching Sharakhai, thinking he’d rebuild our wealth—some small amount of it, in any case, enough to return to Malasan to hire swords and spears to aid his cause. One hundred good soldiers, he told me. One hundred is all we need. If we get that many, a thousand more will rally to our side.”
“And would they?”
Jax laughs. “No. Our people did not hate our father, but neither did they love him. And with both dukes standing united, our cause is lost. Had we ten thousand, we would still fall beneath their combined might.”
“So what will you do? Kymbril won’t let this stand. He wants Nehir’s head, too.” He leaves unsaid that the drug lord likely wants Jax dead as well; he can see in her eyes she already knows.
“I’ll book passage on a caravan ship.”
“To where?”
She shrugs. “Kundhun. From there we’ll continue on, far enough that they’ll stop chasing us.”
“That may work,” Brama says into the cool breeze, “but I think it likely you’ll need to leave your brother behind.”
“I know.” She scrapes the dirt from under her fingernails. “He won’t want to go, but I have to convince him. He doesn’t know this city, and he has yet to accept the fact that we’ll never return home to Malasan.”
Disappointment emanates from Brama like heat from a hearth. He’s only just met Jax, but there’s something about her that entrances him. His old self might already have started to woo her, to get her by his side, to cajole her into bed—his old self would have tried harder precisely because she would soon be leaving the city—but this Brama, the changed Brama, simply wants a friend. I can feel the desire in him mixing imperfectly with the acceptance that her departure is necessary.
“Finding passage on a caravan won’t be difficult,” he says, “nor would it be expensive if you’re willing to work the ship. But buying their silence. That will be expensive. Now that we’ve beaten Maru senseless, Kymbril isn’t going to let this go, and I doubt your Dukes will either.”
She fixes her gaze on Brama at last. “That’s why I need you. I don’t know which caravan masters to trust.”
“Do you have money?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
Brama shakes his head. “I have to know what I’m dealing with. The more you can spend, the safer a caravan master I can find for you. Skimping here might cost you your life.”
I would laugh if I had form. She’s staring into Brama’s eyes, trying to weigh just how far she can trust him, but she’s in too deep to be questioning such things. Still, Brama remains silent, waiting patiently as she takes in the scars on his face, on his hands. “Who did this to you?”
“A vile creature.”
“Did you kill it?”
“No, but there are days when I wish I had.”
The power within her has been muted until this moment. Now it ignites, and I can see some of the upbringing of a Malasani noble. “There are days when I tell myself I should return to Malasan and avenge the death of my parents. But then I remember how narrowly we escaped, how close we’ve come to death since then.” She reaches down and pulls up one trouser leg. She rolls down her woolen sock all the way to the ankle, exposing three bracelets. Immediately Brama’s old instincts for assessing the value of goods return to him. Two of the bracelets are gold. They’re beautifully made though simple in design. Each would fetch a handsome price, but nothing like what she’d need to buy discrete, long-distance passage for two aboard a caravan ship. The third, however, is made of white gold, and is strung with small rubies and diamonds. “This is the last of what I smuggled away from Malasan, and the last of what I’ve managed to keep hidden from Nehir.” Of the three, she unclasps the one with the rubies and diamonds and hands it to Brama. “Will it be enough?”
“More than enough. It will ensure you get help
to go wherever you wish and help when you arrive as well. But first we need to convince Nehir.”
The sounds of the city are distant and muted, but now Brama hears the sound of scraping, the subtle shift of leather on sand-dusted stone. Brama knows immediately it comes from somewhere in the temple. He turns toward it, waits, holding up a hand up to Jax for silence. He listens for the span of two breaths, then rushes silently toward her. Together they move toward the rear of the temple.
Brama whispers to her, “Where is your brother now?”
She hesitates, her eyes fearful as she glances over her shoulder for their pursuer. “In a room above the Dancing Mule.”
Brama nods. “I’ll find you there.” Then he points her toward the opposite side of the stone-walled courtyard. Beyond lay the Haddah, and a dozen paths of escape for Jax if she’s fast enough. Brama waits for her to leave and slips behind a tall marble statue of a woman cradling a lamb. From behind it he watches the shadowed doorways of the temple. I wish to reach out, to find the man who’s following him wherever he may hide, but Brama denies me.
Across the courtyard, a stone balustrade divides a patio from the sandy yard beyond. At the yard’s far end stands a grove of decorative trees, all nearly barren of leaves. It is there that Brama sees shadows shifting. A split second too late, he jerks back behind the statue. A dark line slices the air. A crack breaks the stillness as the leg of the statue is chipped by the streaking arrow. Brama feels a sharp pain along the outside of his knee. Sucking air through gritted teeth, he examines the wound.
But then, before I know what’s happening, he’s pulled Maru’s knife and is sprinting toward the trees. I plead with him to take the protection I can offer, but he refuses; his decision to help Nehir is an embarrassing moment of weakness for him. He can see the assassin clearly now—his bow is drawn, the string to his ear—but Brama doesn’t flinch.
He’s going to die, I realize. He’s moving with intent and pure abandon and little else. He’s touching that place where he hid while I tortured him. It is a place of fear and rage and dwindling hope. I never thought to find a place of commonality with a mortal, but I too was tortured. I too found a place like this. It makes me feel no sympathy for Brama—what is he but a tool I will use to win back my freedom?—but there, in that hidden place so tightly tied to us both, I realize I can feel him more strongly than at any time except when he used me to lift Nehir’s addiction.
The Tattered Prince and the Demon Veiled Page 4