by K A Doore
“I thought you knew what happened,” said Illi.
“Of course I do,” said Heru promptly. Then he cleared his throat and added, “But some of the details you provided are new. Much of what I understand about the night I’ve gleaned from casual conversation. No one has been so willing to discuss what occurred during the Siege.”
Not with you, I’d suspect, thought Illi, but she kept the sentiment to herself. Instead, she allowed herself a small amount of surprise that in the seven years since the Siege, no one had simply told Heru what had happened. Thana would have known. Or would she? After all, Illi and her cousins who had survived the Siege never spoke about it beyond vague mentions here and there.
Perhaps she wasn’t the only one still reliving that night.
“It’s your turn now,” she said to the captain. “Why did you leave Ghadid? Why do you fight guul?”
“I came to Hathage ready to fight monsters,” said the captain carefully. “I’d spent some time in the Crescent cities as a watchman, but after the Siege there was nowhere left for me to go but north.”
“You were here during the Siege?” asked Illi, surprised.
“I was in Sofide. Not many people from that city survived. But I helped fight for as long as I could, and then I fled north with other refugees. The general was very interested in what had happened, and offered some of us the opportunity to train under her, so we would be ready if something similar happened again. She wasn’t too far off. The guul started attacking her caravans only a few years later.”
“We have a lot in common,” said Illi.
Captain Yufit considered her for a long moment, his gray eyes unreadable. “Yes. I suppose we do.”
They lapsed back into silence, the only sound the shh-shh-shh of their feet through the sand, but this time the silence felt easy, reciprocal. The weight that had sat on Illi’s chest had eased, if only by a little. But it was enough.
Ghadid grew as they approached, from a smudge on the horizon to a fully formed city still an easy hour away. Illi looked and looked again through the seeing glass, although every time she chanced a glance her throat closed up with worry. She expected to see smoke, to see fire, to see some evidence of destruction, but instead all she saw was a city, gently drifting upon an endless expanse of sand. Sooner than she’d expected, she could pick out the individual pylons and the platforms that capped them. Sooner than she’d hoped, she was able to count each pylon and map the city as she remembered it, the city as it always would be.
Atop the platforms, buildings blurred together in the glare of light. Atop the buildings, glass sparked and glinted and occasionally revealed flashes of green: the glasshouses. Illi could almost see the movement within the glasshouses as their attendants chased the short growing season. Her mother would have been one of them, once. She could hear the clatter in the streets as the city moved and breathed and made the most of the cool weather.
She had started to bring the seeing glass down when she caught a flutter of real movement on the sands below. She frowned, refocused. Squinted. Found the platforms again, followed the cables down to the sand where the carriages sat. People swarmed around the carriages, between them. As she watched, another carriage hit the sand and figures began unloading the jars and barrels that had been lashed down, uncovering a thick stone slab.
Several people carried the slab to the center of the bustle, where they added it to a long, rectangular shape. They’d already built one side of the pyre and now they were building the other. When the pyre was done, it would run the length of a platform, built off the sands for optimal airflow. Illi had seen the plans, had listened as Menna explained the construction to Thana and Mo, but it was so very different seeing it built.
“What are they doing?” asked Canthem, lowering their own seeing glass.
“They’re building the funeral pyre,” said Illi. “They keep the pieces in the crypts and bring them all down for the rite. Otherwise they’d get lost in the sands.”
“But there’s … so many.”
Illi nodded. “This is the rite for those who died during the Siege. So it will be much bigger than usual.”
“Oh.” Canthem was silent a moment, then they added. “I’m so sorry.”
Sorry. The word was the spoken equivalent of an awkward pat. But Illi wasn’t sorry. She could never be sorry. She could only be. After all, those days of chaos, that night when her whole world had gone up in flames, had defined her as surely as her training as a cousin.
Who would she be if the Siege had never happened? Who would she be with her family intact? Who would she be if she hadn’t seen the people she’d entrusted with her safety and life without answers, if she hadn’t watched her strongest cousins broken and killed by the dead?
Maybe she’d be happier. Maybe she’d be able to look at Canthem without feeling such a mixture of pain and need and fear. Maybe she could laugh with her cousins. Maybe she’d never have gotten tangled up with Heru and the sajaami, with Merrabel and Hathage. Maybe she could have clung to innocence a little longer.
But what good did innocence do anyone? Someday, those who were supposed to be strongest would fail. Someday, those who were supposed to protect her, wouldn’t. At least this way she was ready. She could be strong, she could protect. And she wouldn’t fail.
Illi pulled herself onto her camel before Canthem could say anything else. She didn’t want to meander through what-ifs. This was the only what-if she got. And she was going to meet it head-on.
She kicked her camel into a loping run, then a full gallop. She leaned forward, gripping hard with her knees as she rode the camel’s rolling gait, glad for the tagel that kept the wind’s chill from her face. Behind, she heard the thudding of feet as the others followed. Ahead, the movement shifted, changed. A cry went out. A group separated from the crowd and came to meet them.
When she was still over a dozen feet away, Illi slowed her camel to a walk, then slid from its back and dropped its lead in the sand. She took a deep breath and held her hands out, empty and unthreatening, as she approached. She knew how her group must look, coming across the sands all by themselves with no caravan for support: only bandits and madmen traveled in small packs. Which were they?
Drum Chief Amastan walked at the head of the small group, the long chain and its collection of rings the only sign of his station today; he’d traded his embroidered wrap for a simpler, dusty gray one. Behind him, Dihya loomed, a hand on the grip of her machete. Zarrat kept pace with her, his wide eyes betraying his nerves. Then Dihya squeezed his upper arm and he seemed to straighten, if only by a hair’s breadth.
Amastan stopped a dozen feet away and raised his own hands, empty and palms out. “Peace.”
Illi swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. “Peace.”
“Are you sane?”
“I am, praise be to G-d.”
Dihya sucked in a breath, recognizing her voice. “Illi!”
Illi bit the inside of her cheek, letting the pain center her even as other emotions tried to smother her. She undid the knot of her tagel and pulled down the cloth.
Before the cloth had even settled, Dihya was there, arms wrapped tight around her. “You’re back,” she said into Illi’s braids, her breath as warm as sunshine, as familiar as stone. “You’re back.”
And then she released Illi and crossed her arms. “Where in the seven hells did you go?”
“Illi can answer that question soon,” said Amastan calmly, his voice cutting through their reunion. “But first we have a more pressing one: why is Heru Sametket with her?”
Dihya turned, brows furrowed. Heru stood slightly away from the group, hands open and empty at his sides, as if he were trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. Some of that effort was undone by the camel beside him, its glazed, staring eyes fixed on Amastan and its patchy sides unmoving. Dihya’s hand went to her machete again.
Illi stepped in front of Heru, her arms out. “He won’t go into Ghadid. He’ll stay down on the sands, with
me. We’re not going to be here long.”
“What happened to the sajaami?” pressed Amastan.
“We have a plan,” said Illi. “But our path brought us near, so I thought—so I hoped—” Illi took a breath and tried again. “Please. Let us stay for the rite.”
Drum Chief Amastan considered her, his dark brown eyes as unreadable as the captain’s. Then he sighed. “He was exiled from Ghadid, not the sands. I see no reason why he can’t observe the rite with us.” Then his eyes crinkled in a fraction of a smile and he added, “As luck would have it, he’s already appropriately dressed.”
“Thank you, sa,” said Illi.
Amastan’s gaze caught on her and narrowed at the sa, then he looked past her, at Canthem and the captain. She was only a foot from the drum chief, so she heard his sudden intake of breath.
“And who are your companions?” This time, Amastan’s voice was strained.
Illi watched Amastan closely as she said, “Guard Canthem and Captain Yufit.”
There: despite the bright light, Amastan’s pupils widened at the captain’s name, while the rest of him stayed as still as stone. The captain stared back across the dozen or so feet between them and for a heartbeat, two, they saw nothing else. Then Drum Chief Amastan let out a breath, breaking the tension.
“Are you sane?”
“I am,” said the captain immediately, Canthem echoing him only a moment behind. Then, more softly, “G-d preserve you, Asaf.”
Dihya hissed through her teeth, her machete free from its harness and in her hands. But before she could take a step, Amastan was in front of her, hands raised.
“No,” he said. “He’s come in peace.” He glanced back at Yufit. “Haven’t you?”
“I have,” said the captain, louder now. “I’m even helping your young cousin with her task. Turns out there are more monsters in this world than one man alone can handle. I’m only here to help.”
Dihya’s grip tightened on her machete. “How can you believe anything he says, Amastan, he—”
“—is a man of his word,” said Amastan. “He’s never lied to me. Trust me, Dihya.”
Dihya growled deep in her throat, then she shoved her machete back into its harness and crossed her arms, her glare intent on the captain. For his part, Captain Yufit ignored her.
“Come, rest,” said Amastan. “Our beds are your beds, our food your food, our water your water. May you find peace here.”
“Come now, Asaf,” said the captain, approaching with one hand held out. “Those are words for a stranger.”
“It’s been sixteen and a half years, Yufit.”
“Yes, and somehow in only that time they made you into a drum chief?” The captain reached Amastan, his hand still waiting. “You have to tell me everything.”
Drum Chief Amastan hesitated for only a moment before taking Captain Yufit’s hand, his gaze never leaving the captain’s. Amastan led him away from the group without another word, as if the rest of them had ceased to exist entirely. Illi met Canthem’s glance and shrugged. Then Dihya was beside her, linking her arm through Illi’s and pulling her toward the bustle. She heard more than saw Canthem and Zarrat following behind, exchanging awkward conversation as they let Dihya have Illi.
“You can stay, you know,” said Dihya. “The Circle didn’t exile you, only the en-marabi.”
Illi glanced longingly up at the platforms, so close and yet somehow still so far. “He’s my responsibility.”
“Where are you even going after this?” Dihya gestured broadly at the sands all around. “Only one other Crescent city has been reclaimed.”
“The Wastes.”
Dihya looked at her as if she’d been possessed. “Why in all the sands would you go there?”
Illi’s cheeks warmed, and as she shifted, her bracelets rubbed against her raw skin, sending a flicker of pain up her arms. But Dihya didn’t know, couldn’t know, about the sajaami.
Dihya sighed. “You and your secrets.” Then she patted Illi’s shoulder. “I’m glad you made it. This rite is something we have to face together. Seven years, but it feels like only a week ago. There are parts of that night that are still fresh to me, as vivid as if I were living them again and again.”
Illi started, stared. “You’ve never said anything about that before.”
“I’d hoped that if I didn’t talk about it, those memories would fade,” said Dihya. Her eyes flicked back and forth as she watched the pyre being assembled. “And yet the memories I tried to hold on to, those are the ones that faded. Like trying to grapple sand. I can still feel the crunch of his neck beneath my ax, but I can’t remember Azulay’s laugh. I can’t remember his hands, his favorite food, what he sounded like when he was annoyed.” Dihya’s voice cracked and she blinked rapidly, as if she’d gotten something in her eye.
Illi reached out, grabbed Dihya’s hand. “I don’t remember my father’s voice. I can barely remember his face; every time I try, I keep seeing what I found of him instead.”
Dihya nodded along to Illi’s words. “I bet we all have similar stories.” Then she laughed, a broken, cracked sound. “Az’ would’ve put money down on it.”
Illi leaned into Dihya, feeling her strength and her warmth, and wondering how she’d never noticed Dihya’s pain.
“It’s going to be a long night,” said Illi softly. “But we’ll do this together.”
25
Building the pyre took the rest of the day. As the sun hit the eastern edge of the world, shattering cold light into warmer reds and oranges and purples, Illi helped slide the last stone block into place. Her muscles ached, but the pain was welcome. She’d re-knotted her tagel so that she could sink into the crowd, unnoticed and unobtrusive. She’d asked Dihya not to mention to the others that she’d returned, not yet. She wasn’t worried about Amastan telling; he hadn’t left the captain’s side.
But now as the carriages began to descend in earnest and the first mourners came from the city, bearing their carefully wrapped dead, Illi removed her tagel and tied it to her belt. It was time to stop hiding and fully be a part of this rite.
The bodies were borne one by one to the pyre, sometimes carried between two people, sometimes accompanied by an entire group of ten, more. There weren’t many whole bodies; most had been burned during the Siege and immediately after. The few intact corpses belonged to those who’d died after Heru had figured out how to reverse the curse that jerked the dead back to life.
They were laid out across the pyre, their once-white shrouds now gray with ink and dust and time. Next came smaller bundles, wrapped in white cloth: the remains of those who had already been through fire once. Their broken pieces contained no jaan, but there was still hope—however frail, however vague—that these pieces were enough to build a connection. Somewhere in the Wastes, their jaan ran wild. If the marab had figured things out, tonight those jaan would know peace.
The cold brightened and sharpened as soon as the sun sank out of sight. One by one, small fires were lit around the area, casting warmth and flickering light across the sands. As each group deposited their burden on the pyre, they joined the growing crowd. Aside from a few soft murmurs here and there, the crowd was respectfully silent. The rustle of flames and the whistle of wind were louder.
The faint, musical clink of glass on glass drifted on the breeze. All around the perimeter, marab had pounded metal poles into the sand and hung chains of charms. Usually, charms were used to keep jaan away, but these had been specially made for the rite: their jangle was a call, saying here—come, and know peace.
Illi had heard the sound of those charms once already; she’d attended a seven-year rite only the year before the Siege. The jangle of glass had been reassuring then, a reminder that the jaan knew and obeyed certain rules, that they could be controlled. That they were safe. But now a soothing calm wrapped around Illi and she felt as if the charms were tugging at her. It wasn’t until her bracelets grew warm that she realized they were. They were tugging at the sajaam
i.
That last rite had been much smaller, the pyre barely wider than her spread arms. Only the close family of the deceased typically attended, and even then not everyone was willing to brave the sands. But that time, the deceased had included two cousins, murdered under unfortunate circumstances. All of the family had turned out, family by blood and family through blood and others besides, some knowing what had actually happened and some believing the official story. That had felt like a lot then.
Now it seemed as if the whole city had come down to the sands. After all, what was there to be afraid of when they’d been forced down once before? When their streets had teemed with the dead? After the Siege, the sands had become familiar, if not welcoming.
The last burden was placed on the pyre, little more than a sack of dust and bones. The last murmurs quieted as the marab stepped forward, taking the space between the crowd and the pyre. Illi felt a presence at her side; she didn’t need to turn to know Canthem was there. They stood within reach, but they left the choice of bridging that gap to Illi. She nodded at them, appreciating that choice. She had to do this alone.
The marab called a prayer that was imperfectly echoed back and swallowed by the night. Each marabi took their turn explaining the rite, the process of passing over. Then they called for individual prayers.
As they spoke, a novice marabi had drifted through the crowd, handing out pieces of vellum to anyone who hadn’t brought their own. A young girl with long braids like Illi’s, hardly twelve seasons old, trailed behind the marabi carrying a basket.
Illi took a piece of vellum and twisted it in her hands as she waited for the ink. Such a small space for all the dead she could name, all the family she had loved, all the words she could say, all the prayers she could offer. If she’d stayed in Ghadid, she would have spent a week writing her own prayers, as Thana had been doing when Illi left. But now when the ink came to her, all she could do was write their names.