Beneath Ceaseless Skies #71

by Beaulieu, Bradley P.

  “To the fore!” I scream at the Queen and Riisi.

  They follow, and as I help them through the broken doorway, I spare one last glance. The ehrekh’s breathing is labored. It mewls as it grabs the sword and yanks it free. Ochre blood spurts forth, but it holds the wound tight to staunch the flow.

  We run from the gash in the hull and set out north across the desert. We reach a rise and collapse as the golden moon achieves its zenith—a boon, according to the Queen. She wraps Riisi’s neck with her veil as best she can—by the gods, he seems to be faring better already.

  “Unwrap the box,” the Queen tells me.

  I stare at her, confused. “There’s only me, my Queen.”

  “It will work,” the Queen says and smiles. “I will join you. We will give ourselves, that Riisi might live.”

  Despite the Queen’s protests, Riisi stands and shakes his head furiously. He cannot speak, but he yanks on his mother’s sleeve and points northward.

  “We cannot, dear one. This is our only chance.”

  “The beast will not harm you,” I tell him. “You understand? Take one of the skiffs from the ship and load it with food and water. Find the caravan trail to the east and sail north. If you are careful, you should be able to find shelter or a caravan in two or three days.”

  The sounds of the ehrekh approach.

  “Make your way to Harrahd,” the Queen says.

  “No! He’ll never make it so far on his own. Go to Sanandira, boy. Find a man named Uhammad. You’ll recognize him. He was the stout helmsman on the ship you took from Ilinnon. Tell him your story, and he’ll make sure you get to Harrahd.”

  Riisi stares at his mother, tears streaming down his face.

  “He understands,” the Queen says, and then she kisses Riisi tenderly on the forehead. “My brave boy understands.”

  The Queen and I both kneel, facing the limping ehrekh that has just begun to climb the dune. The Queen opens the ornate case and pours a small pile of golden spice onto her palm. “This much,” the Queen says, holding out the fyndrenna in her palm.

  I take it and inhale the powder deeply.

  The spice sears my lungs. The night explodes with bright yellow pinpricks. An earthy smell consumes my senses, makes my eyes see golden light, makes my ears hear the pour of molten gold, makes my tongue taste sugar and cinnamon and saffron and rosemary.

  And blood.

  I could die like this, so sweet are the sensations that fill my every pore.

  I turn my head away from the ehrekh and stare instead at Riisi. He cries. I had hoped he would run, that he would be spared this sight, but he stands defiantly and faces the approaching beast with a burning hatred.

  I hope my child will be as strong as this young Prince. I hope Alenha has the strength to make it so.

  Good night, sweet love. May the sun set on your life, and on our child’s, more kindly than it has mine.

  * * *

  Uhammad woke to the baritone call of the ehrekh. He could feel the sound in his chest. He thought he heard Jalaad calling his name, twice or thrice or more—it was too difficult to tell.

  Or had it been a dream?

  Uhammad slipped back into darkness.

  But woke again to an all encompassing roar. The ship’s hull vibrated and groaned. He coughed as sand and dust sifted down through the planking.

  Uhammad was alone in the hold. Jalaad screamed above, a sound filled with pain and fright.

  Uhammad fought his way to his feet and clambered up the nearby ladder. When he reached the deck, he saw the black, muscled form of the ehrekh looming over the ship’s exposed sterncastle. Jalaad stood behind the mizzenmast, his left arm bleeding heavily from four deep claw marks, his right clinging to his curved scimitar.

  The ehrekh had only one hand. Its left arm ended in a gnarled stump just below the elbow. With its good arm it reached around the mast for Jalaad. He scored a shallow gash along the beast’s forearm and retreated behind the helm, but with only the sterncastle railing behind him now, to do so again would be suicide.

  Riisi cowered in a ball near the door to the captain’s cabin.

  “Riisi, get up! Get up! It’s not here to kill us!”

  Uhammad’s words were drowned by the ehrekh’s roar as it smashed the helm with a bone-shattering blow. Jalaad flew backward from the force of it and slammed into the railing.

  Uhammad ran forward. “Riisi, stand up! Let it see you!”

  Riisi raised his head and stared at Uhammad, his face a fractured mosaic of terror and confusion.

  “Damn you, boy, stand up! Show it no fear!”

  Riisi cowered as the ehrekh roared and charged. Jalaad screamed and tried to drive his sword into the beast’s ebony chest, but it was too fast, Jalaad too weak. It slapped the sword aside and Jalaad fell to the deck.

  Uhammad scanned frantically for something to throw, but it was too late. The ehrekh brought its crippled arm down hard, and though Jalaad tried to twist away, its stump caught him deep in the stomach. Blood sprayed from Jalaad’s mouth like a fountain, as the sound of his life was released in a sickening wheeze to the dry desert air.

  Riisi, eyes wide, scrabbled away from the sterncastle. Uhammad reached him just as the ehrekh dropped to the main deck and stalked forward.

  “Damn you, Riisi! Summon your courage!”

  The ehrekh stalked forward, its footsteps echoing through the half-buried ship.

  Riisi tightened his hands into fists and came up to his knees.

  The ehrekh stopped only a few paces away, chest heaving, staring at Riisi, then Uhammad, then Riisi again. It spoke in some infernal tongue and pointed a clawed finger at Uhammad.

  Riisi stood, eyes shut tight. His breath came in ragged, stuttering gasps.

  With a hot exhale of fetid breath, the ehrekh stepped forward and grabbed Uhammad’s shoulder. Uhammad used every bit of willpower within himself to remain still. To do otherwise would mean death.

  Then Riisi faced the beast and touched its arm.

  The ehrekh released a pent-up breath like a winded bull and turned intelligent eyes to young Riisi. Long moments passed as the two stared at one another, but never did Uhammad think the beast was preparing to do harm to Riisi. Slowly, ever so slowly, the creature’s posture softened and it released its hold on Uhammad’s shoulder.

  And then it stepped back and kneeled.

  * * *

  With Uhammad at the rudder and Riisi standing nearby, their cutter neared the final rise before Sanandira. The ship had been horribly silent since they’d buried Jalaad at the top of Irhüd’s Finger. Uhammad had become so used to his friend’s ramblings that his life seemed empty without them. But at least Jalaad had gone to a better place. He may have lived a life that had little worth singing about, but in his death he had launched a story that would touch a thousand others.

  Finally Sanandira’s convoluted skyline came into view. Uhammad practically breathed in the crescent of docks in the harbor, the round dhobas and tall temples, and in the center of it all, the bazaar, where everything had started.

  “Once we reach the city, my Prince, there will be no turning back.”

  Riisi turned to Uhammad and smiled. I couldn’t if I wanted to.

  He was probably right. They’d sent the ehrekh after Sulamin’s warship. Uhammad had questioned the wisdom of such a move, but Riisi felt it was too dangerous for news of their escape to reach Harrahd so soon. Better for the King to wonder what had happened to his men and send more resources to scour the desert while Riisi cemented his position in Sanandira.

  Uhammad had thought it too tall a task for the ehrekh, but Riisi proved wise beyond his years. He had communicated with the ehrekh without speaking and told it to disable the ship, to let the men sit and use their food and water, to strike only if they tried to make their way in skiffs or on foot.

  Their plan would become no easier once they landed in Sanandira. They needed to contact sympathizers to Riisi’s dead father and mother. And here the King’s deali
ngs with Sanandira would bite him like a wounded viper. His stance toward the desert city had been overbearing for too long. With the ehrekh and the fyndrenna, men would flock to their cause.

  The uprising would not occur tomorrow, nor the next day. But some day not far from now, it would.

  And the King would fall.

  Copyright © 2011 Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Read Comments on this Story and enter to win a signed copy of The Winds of Khalakovo in the BCS Forums

  Bradley P. Beaulieu is the author of The Winds of Khalakovo, the first of three planned books in The Lays of Anuskaya series. In addition to being an L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Award winner, Brad’s stories have appeared in Realms of Fantasy, Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, Writers of the Future XX, and several anthologies from DAW Books. His story “In the Eyes of the Empress’s Cat” was voted a Notable Story of 2006 in the Million Writers Award. Brad lives in Racine, Wisconsin with his wife and two children. For more, visit www.quillings.com.

  Read more Beneath Ceaseless Skies

  THE GODSLAYER’S WIFE

  by Therese Arkenberg

  His sobs echo through the corridors of Datheiren Keep. The old stone absorbs its husky tone, the barely-voiced beginnings of words, apologies, curses; they reflect in only a sourceless, pitiable sound of misery. When there are guests, or the servants hear, I claim the cries are my own. I protect the pride of my husband, Valien Godslayer.

  After all, though I have reason to weep, so does he, and he came by it all for my sake. He rescued me from the pale and tender hands of Rhiel Ghoulsmother, Goddess of Dust. He murdered Her for me.

  And as the months, the years, go by, I begin to wonder if we will ever be able to live with it.

  * * *

  Sometimes I think I loved Rhiel, with the sort of love squires hold for their masters: part devotion and part envy. She was beautiful, in the alien way of newly dead things, as my mother’s face was after her death in childbirth—fragile, composed, without a mark on her. And of course, being a Goddess, Rhiel was powerful.

  I was neither. I still am not.

  But for a time, I imagined I might stay down there forever; learn Her arts and become part of Her court, the unmarred and beautiful unliving. I could become a demigoddess. I could become a monster. There, in the gray dust in the white arms of the Ghoulsmother, I feared no possibility.

  And then he came, Valien, to slay the Ghoulsmother and rescue those of Her captives who could be saved—only Faya, a dark girl from far lands who was stranger in some ways even than Rhiel; and myself, the merchant’s daughter who became his wife. He asked me, and I could not refuse him.

  He is not an unhandsome man, with flaxen hair, deep blue eyes—are we not supposed to find these handsome?—and sun-gilded skin, taut over muscle on a somewhat slighter frame than could be expected of a great hero. But that was not my reason.

  It was a long journey, from the rotting jungle where we emerged from Rhiel’s realm to the roads and towns of civilized folk. We slept two nights outside. From the first, Valien’s nightmares came. He screamed, in agony, in horror—I had seen Her whisper to him, when his blade cut Her breast; did Her secret last words haunt him still?—screamed in grief and guilt. Perhaps this was justice, since he had killed a Goddess, even if a Goddess of Corpse-Dust and Death. But how terrible, those screams. Faya left us the next day, taking her own path through the forest, to a place only the living Gods must know; perhaps Valien’s screams drove her away.

  But they pulled me close, helpless. I knew I was all he had in the world, the only one who might understand his burden, his torture, the punishment for his sin against the divine. So I kept near him on the second night, held him when he screamed; and when, upon returning, he asked me to be his wife, I accepted.

  I loved him with gratitude and pity, and in time, as I saw the hero he was, I came to love him with reverence and envy, too. And all the time I hoped I might also do a great deed—that I might cure a hero of his scars.

  But my love, and what understanding I can offer, do nothing. Still he writhes, crying out in the night. And sometimes in the day he curls in a corridor, where he believes no one will find him, and sobs.

  * * *

  We make love sometimes. At first I hoped it might be a way to exorcise our demon, to put Rhiel’s ghost to rest. But if anything, our awkward, overly generous passions only awaken Her. I close my eyes, and instead of Valien’s warm, strong embrace I feel Rhiel’s arms around me like a necklace of bones. I smell musk and dust, sweet and dank perfume. I hear voices: Faya’s, my own, the rustling leaflike babble of the unliving court chanting with shriveled tongues behind broken teeth, and Her voice, more beautiful and terrible and strange. I see the caverns sculpted with designs I could not look upon, and even now dare not remember, and sepulcher halls walled with ancient bones.

  I taste—but I will not share that. Sometimes, with a mother’s smile, She would offer me metal-tasting water to wash down my meals. And She would sing to me—like a mother singing nursery rhymes, with a sort of lesson in the tune... Faya and I began to learn. I wonder how Faya lives with that. I wonder how I am able to. I still dream of Her. I know Valien does, too.

  * * *

  One night when the dreams come I take him in my arms, stroking back his sweat-damp hair, rocking our bodies on the luxurious down mattress, chanting nonsense as I did to soothe my little brother’s nightmares. It has some effect; he wakes.

  “Idaela?” He always says my name as if he is just learning it.

  “I’m here.”

  He doesn’t laugh at my statement of the obvious; he seems to have no sense of humor. I wonder if he ever did. He presses his face to my shoulder and breathes deeply.

  “You’re safe here,” I say, falling easily into this role of protecting him.

  “I know. She’s dead. I know She’s dead—” Words chanted like the incantation on a talisman. “Nothing can reach us here. It’s over, far past... And you are safe as well.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “You suffer because you rescued me.” He doesn’t reply. “I wish I could....”

  Still no reply. It angers me, more than it ought. “Perhaps it was a mistake to marry each other. Now we’re always reminded of....”

  In reply, deep, even breathing. I feel ashamed of my bitterness, even as I wonder at the way he so quickly fell asleep. Perhaps he has used this skill before to evade the troubling words of a troubled woman. They say it is a soldier’s skill, to sleep at will. Datheiren Keep is a gift from King Arlin for a great service rendered, not the inheritance of a lord’s son; I know little of Valien’s past before he came to free eastern Ekandria of the Ghoulsmother.

  Before I became his wife.

  And he knows little of mine. But we share the nightmares. Is there anything more we need to know?

  * * *

  What can cure a Godslayer?

  Amaasin priests have told us Valien requires no healing, committed no sin, has no need for forgiveness.

  A new cult, that of the Abyss and Great Trees, says there is no such thing as forgiveness, that only actions and not grace determine the health and fate of our souls. But they also see Valien’s action as good, a sprout from the Trees, not something to atone for. I can find no help there.

  Rhiel Ghoulsmother has no worshippers left.

  Last night I saw Valien standing at the top of the northwest tower, at the very edge, and I realized I was waiting for him to jump.

  I pray to the Divinity of Amaas, the Great Trees, the Earth and Sky, the ancient land-soul of Ekandria, to Rhiel’s primordial rivals—anyone who might be glad or grateful for the Ghoulsmother’s death. Send me a miracle. Save him, heal him—or if You will not, at least show me how.

  Am I humble, moderating my request? Or do I still seek glory by performing the deed of a hero?

  * * *

  A miracle comes. Perhaps not the one I asked for. One morning, as I ride through the town that has grown before the gates of Dath
eiren Keep, I see Faya. She is unmistakable, with skin dark as mahogany against a sunset-red dress, black hair caught up in a silver net—she has done well for herself.

  Just as I am about to call out to her, she turns, sees me, greets me, and soon we are sitting in the gardens of Datheiren Keep. I am telling her the story of the last four years, perhaps at her prompting. Yes, she does ask if Valien still has nightmares.

  Faya takes my hand. “Then perhaps I can help,” she says, sounding almost surprised, but pleasantly so, as if a plan had been fulfilled when she hadn’t expected it to. “That’s why I came back, Idaela.”

  “To help us?”

  “I have... a certain secret. A gift perhaps. I think that was why Rhiel wanted me.”

  Yes, Faya had always been strange, even before the time spent in Rhiel’s halls began to take its toll. Not just because she is foreign.

  “There is a place very near my home village, far in the east. Once the home of a God—perhaps it still is. But not one like the Ghoulsmother,” she adds quickly as I pull my hand from hers. “No, perhaps the opposite. This place is a Garden, filled with unusually beautiful trees.”

  I think of the cult of the Great Trees and the Abyss and wonder if this is its origin.

  “There is a certain red fruit,” Faya says, again sounding introspective, “that will give eternal life to whoever eats it, or will kill an immortal. But only innocents can enter the Garden. I only know of one who ever did....

  “My mother sent me in, when I was barely walking. She told me to find the red fruit, and bring it back.” She smiles the way one does at bitter things long past. “But I was young, and hungry, and it was so beautiful... and sweet.” The hand that reaches for mine has a long, jagged white scar along its back, running up the flesh of her arm. The mark of a thorn switch, wielded like a whip. “She was angry when I returned empty-handed.”

  “Then... you must....”