A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Esmeray held out her wrist to Davud. “Hurry.”

  Nodding, Davud pierced her wrist with his blooding ring and sucked from the wound. The coppery taste of her blood filled his mouth. Power suffused him, enough that he was able to close off the wound with a sizzling swipe of his thumb.

  He knelt beside the tree and drew a sigil in the sand, one that combined summon with soul. The casting allowed him to feel Talib, the asir who lay buried among the adichara’s roots. The spell normally allowed Davud to call up the asir hidden beneath the sand that he might speak with them.

  He could feel Talib trying, but his reserves were almost spent.

  Esmeray hugged herself around her waist. “He doesn’t have the strength, does he?”

  Davud shook his head.

  Hoping to preserve whatever remained of Talib’s energy, Davud banished the spell and wiped away the sigil in the sand. Even so, the adichara’s roots began to writhe. A mound formed at Davud’s feet, the asir lifting up. Davud felt Talib’s desperation, his desire to stand beneath the desert sun one last time.

  Davud knelt and bent close to the earth. “Don’t,” he said, hoping his words could be heard below the roots. “Please, just rest.”

  When the earth stilled a moment later, Davud thought it was because the asir had heard. But that wasn’t it at all. The glow of the asir’s soul was fading until it finally winked out altogether.

  Davud looked up at Esmeray and shook his head.

  Esmeray stared at the mound, the dying tree, then took in the dead grove around them with a forlorn expression. “How long can the others last?”

  Davud shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

  It felt as if the sands of the desert were opening up, ready to swallow not only him and Esmeray, but the grove, the entire blooming fields. Soon Sharakhai and everything he’d ever known would be swallowed as well, never to be seen again.

  Esmeray crouched and took up a fistful of sand. “May you find what you’re looking for in the land beyond,” she said as it sifted through her fingers.

  Davud repeated the gesture. “May you find peace.”

  The ritual complete, he took a small journal from a pouch at his belt and turned to the page for this particular tree, this particular asir. At the top of the page was written Talib Zandali’ala, followed by the tree’s precise location. Below were various dates and notes from the times either he or Esmeray had come to feed blood to the adichara and speak with Talib. The notes chronicled a slow accumulation of fatigue and exhaustion.

  He felt insensitive for chronicling Talib’s final moments, but Talib had believed in their mission as much as any of the asirim, so Davud swallowed his discomfort and described the circumstances of Talib’s death in as much detail as he could.

  Then they were back in their saddles and riding to their last stop of the day, the tree where Sehid-Alaz, the legendary King of the thirteenth tribe, lay hidden. Like the previous grove, Sehid-Alaz’s adichara was the lone green island in a sea of bleached bones.

  After taking time to pour blood at the foot of his tree, Davud thought twice about summoning the ancient King. Lifting from their sandy graves was a draining experience, but he needed the King’s thoughts on what had just happened. So he took Esmeray’s blood and cast the spell. The earth mounded at his feet. Roots pressed upward and delivered Sehid-Alaz to the surface. Their work done, the roots spilled from his frame and splayed out over the dry earth, an alabaster blossom on a sea of amber stone.

  Sehid-Alaz stood crookedly. His hair hung in long, lank strands. His skin was blackened and shriveled. The crown he’d worn for so long no longer adorned his head. “I am a King no longer,” he’d said to Davud on one of his first visits.

  Like all the asirim, he’d been given new clothes when he’d been freed from his curse, but they were of an older style and sand-ridden, making him look ancient as the desert itself.

  “I know what you wish to ask, Davud Mahzun’ava,” he said in his hoary voice, “but I cannot answer. I do not know how long we will last, only that we grow weaker by the day.”

  “Is the blood no longer helping?”

  Sehid-Alaz seemed saddened by the question. “We fight a disease that rots from within. In the end, no amount of sustenance will cure it.”

  “But there must be something we can do.”

  “There is.” The glint in Sehid-Alaz’s eyes intensified. “Close the gate.”

  That had been the goal all along, of course. The trouble was, none of Davud’s and Esmeray’s endless hours of research had led to a solution. They were no closer to sealing the gateway than they’d been the day of the terrible battle in the cavern beneath the Sun Palace, when Brama and Anila had stepped through to the land beyond.

  “Move quickly, Davud Mahzun-ava.” The roots lifted around Sehid-Alaz’s feet, his ankles. Soon they were wrapped around his legs and waist. “Talib may have been the first, but more will follow, and soon.”

  “How much time do we have?” Davud asked.

  “I cannot say for certain.” He descended slowly into the earth. “Ask the queen about it when you speak to her.”

  “The queen?”

  Before the ancient King could reply, he was lost, drawn back below the tree.

  “Davud . . .” Esmeray’s voice was tinged with worry.

  A moment later, Davud heard the jingle of tack and the rhythmic thump of horses’ hooves coming through the trees. From the sound of it, there was a whole bloody regiment headed toward them.

  They wound their way back to open sand and found twenty Mirean soldiers approaching on horseback. The one in the lead, their commander, wore a bright steel helm with a nose guard and a white horsetail sticking out from the top. Riding beside him was a man in light blue clothes cut in the square style favored in Mirea. He had bone-white skin. His ivory hair was pulled into a tail that flowed down along his back. On his head was a conical reed farmer’s hat. After slipping easily from his saddle and down to the sand, he removed the hat and bowed respectfully. “Good day to you,” he said with a barely noticeable Mirean accent. “My name is Juvaan Xin-Lei, and I come with fair tidings. Her Royal Highness, Queen Alansal, has requested your presence in Eventide.”

  Davud bowed his head politely. “Thank you, but . . . How did you find us?”

  “Our queen is well aware of your efforts here,” Juvaan replied easily. The implication, of course, was that Davud and Esmeray’s movements were being watched, and had been for some time.

  Davud waved to the mounted men. “Is it common for her to send a full company of soldiers to make an invitation?” He was well aware their numbers were to do with his nature as a blood mage, but he wanted to gauge the Mirean ambassador he’d heard so much about.

  “My queen thought it prudent,” Juvaan waved to the dunes around them. “One never knows what dangers one might find in the desert.”

  Hiding a smile, Davud tipped his head to Juvaan. “I suppose one can’t be too careful.”

  “I’m glad you understand.”

  Beside Davud, Esmeray sat taller in her saddle. “Is this a request or a command?”

  “I would rather we consider it the former,” Juvaan said with an easy smile.

  Esmeray stabbed a finger at the mounted soldiers. “Then you shouldn’t have brought—” she began, but fell silent when Davud raised a hand.

  “We’ll come,” he said.

  Juvaan’s smile broadened incrementally. “Forgive me, Master Davud, but the queen requires your presence alone.”

  An uncomfortable silence passed between Davud and Esmeray. He was tempted to insist she be allowed to accompany him, but this was an opportunity he couldn’t let pass him by. Esmeray, every bit as aware of it as he was, shrugged noncommittally, effectively granting her permission.

  “I accept,” Davud said to Juvaan, “but I have to ask, is the queen aware that I’ve bee
n requesting an audience for weeks now?”

  “She is.”

  “Then why the sudden interest in a humble bread-baker’s son?”

  The expression on Juvaan’s pale, handsome face gave nothing away. “We both know you are vastly more than that. As to your question, let us say there’s a dance Queen Alansal wishes you to see.”

  “A dance?”

  “A very intricate one, yes, which I’m sure you’ll find most interesting.”

  Chapter 6

  By the time Çeda had made her way down the sand dune and reached the Red Bride, it was easy to spot the four ketches headed their way.

  Kameyl stared at the ships while leaning against the transom and cutting slices from a shriveled pear. “Tulogal from the look of them,” she said around a mouthful.

  Çeda set down her helm and gladiator armor, then took up the spyglass and saw Kameyl was right. The pennants flapping from the top of the mainmasts showed a shooting star against a field of sable, the sign of Tribe Tulogal.

  “Do we outrun them?” Kameyl asked.

  “No,” Çeda said, “but let’s get underway. We’ll speak to them under sail.”

  As Kameyl relayed the orders to Storm’s Eye, Çeda, Emre, and Frail Lemi began making the ship ready.

  “It’s a dangerous decision,” Sümeya said. “We could still outrun them.”

  Çeda headed toward the mainmast. “Tribe Tulogal are sailing east for a reason. I want to know what it is. Besides”—from a small wooden chest at the mast’s base, she took out a white pennant, clipped it to a rope, and ran it to the top of the mainmast: a request for parley—“all the moves left to us are dangerous.”

  Sümeya frowned. “At least prepare the ships for a fight.”

  Çeda considered, then nodded. “And keep us close to the dunes,” she said to Emre at the ship’s wheel. “Be ready to sail into them at a moment’s notice.”

  “Aye,” Emre called.

  As the Red Bride and Storm’s Eye pulled anchors and gained speed, the Tulogal ships closed the distance aggressively, adding to the tenseness of the moment. Soon, the ketches were a mere stone’s throw away and it was impossible not to notice their catapults and ballistae were loaded and pointed toward the Red Bride. None of the crew were currently manning them, but it would take only seconds for them to do so.

  She was just about to call out a warning when Kameyl leapt onto the gunwales. “Disarm those weapons!” she bellowed across the distance.

  A pregnant pause followed. When a stately old man in a green thawb and striped turban waved his hand, the crew unloaded the ballistae and catapults, then disengaged the tension on their arms and strings.

  “That’s Shaikh Zaghran,” Sümeya said. “He’s belligerent, but he pales in comparison to the woman standing next to him, his wife, Tanzi.”

  Çeda cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted across the distance, “Do you come in friendship or with hands upon your blades?”

  The gap closed even more, enough that she could see Shaikh Zaghran more clearly. He had a round face with a graying beard that traveled halfway down his chest. “Who are you that sails these sands?”

  “You’re far from Tulogal lands,” Çeda replied, “and have no right to ask who sails the stretch now claimed by the thirteenth tribe.”

  Tanzi wore a flowing jalabiya dyed the same green color as her husband’s thawb. Covering much of her face was a red burqa with a cascade of bright silver coins that arced from the bridge of her nose, past her jawline and ears, to a strap that wrapped around the back of her neck. The way the burqa laid across her nose, combined with the disdain in her eyes, gave her the look of a carrion feeder. She leaned in and said something to her husband.

  “We go to a council of the thirteen tribes,” Zaghran called when she’d finished. “We were invited by their shaikh, Hamid, and are welcome in his lands.” He paused, letting the words settle. “Are you similarly welcome, Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala?”

  Çeda was only mildly surprised Zaghran knew who she was—the Red Bride had a unique shape, and seeing two women dressed in their Maiden’s black was a not-so-subtle clue as to her identity. What concerned her more was that Shaikh Zaghran had been invited by Hamid for a council in which all thirteen tribes would be in attendance. “Hamid has no right to invite anyone to anything. He is a usurper. A murderer.”

  “A murderer, is it?”

  “A murderer,” Çeda repeated, louder this time. “Dozens died at his hands in Mazandir when he betrayed Shaikh Macide, our rightful ruler.”

  Zaghran’s wife leaned in again, and then Zaghran shouted across the distance, “Macide was not all-powerful. No man, even a shaikh, can give solace to his enemies and expect no consequences.”

  Word had spread quickly. For the good of Sharakhai, Çeda had swallowed her hatred and allied herself with four of the remaining Kings—Ihsan, Zeheb, Cahil, and Husamettín. That alliance and the thirteenth tribe’s hatred of the Kings had proved to be all the leverage Hamid needed to gain enough support, including from Sehid-Alaz, the King of the asirim, to overthrow Macide. Now Hamid was using it to gain support from the tribes harmed most by the Kings.

  Çeda’s own actions were going to make it all the more difficult to convince the thirteenth tribe that Hamid was a cancer, but there was nothing for it. She’d done what she’d done for the good of the desert. Even if she could go back in time and change it, she wouldn’t.

  No, Çeda thought, I’d change one thing.

  Her decision to keep her alliance with the Kings hidden from Macide had been a terrible mistake. She should have confessed it to him. She should have given him the chance to agree with her plan. Failing to do so had set him up for a fall at Hamid’s hands and led to his eventual death. She’d just been so desperate to get the reborn Nalamae to the valley, to have her visit the acacia so she might remember who she was and help them defeat the gods’ plans.

  “As you say,” Çeda said to Zaghran, “shaikhs are not all-powerful, nor are they all-seeing. Hamid has blinded himself to the dangers in Sharakhai.”

  “Sharakhai will fall,” Zaghran replied, “as has been foreseen for centuries. The old war is about to resume.”

  The words struck like a hammer. The implications were vast. Hamid couldn’t hope to stand against Sharakhai—or Malasan or Mirea, for that matter—on his own, nor could he do so with a handful of tribes banding with him. It could only happen if all of the desert tribes banded together.

  “He’s calling on the Alliance,” Çeda said.

  She’d said it to Zaghran, but it was Tanzi who answered. “Just so,” she said in a loud, shrill voice, “and it’s long past due. It’s time Sharakhai pays for its countless crimes, its generations of slaughter, its centuries of raping the people of the desert.”

  “The Kings should pay for those crimes,” Çeda called, “not the people of Sharakhai.”

  It looked like Zaghran wanted to say something, but Tanzi went on. “Who do you think supported the Kings all these years? Sharakhai’s people ignored their cruelties, so long as they kept getting rich. They enabled and upheld the Kings’ cruel decisions at every step!”

  “Some did,” Çeda allowed. “Those in the House of Kings. Those in Goldenhill. But not the people in the streets.”

  Tanzi stabbed a crooked finger at Çeda. “They benefited from the rule of the Kings as much as those who walked the golden halls of Tauriyat. They must pay as well.”

  Breath of the desert, this is the cost of letting someone like Hamid spout his poison. How many tribes are now of a like mind? How many are ready to take up their banners once more and sail on Sharakhai? “We must look past that for now,” Çeda said, “There is something terrible unfolding, which could mean the destruction of not only Sharakhai, but the desert itself.”

  Tanzi laughed. “Don’t think to sway me with tales of fancy. We’ve heard of the vault, t
he strange light over Tauriyat and the House of Kings. We’ve heard how it draws the living toward death and how the dead come back to life. We in the desert can see, even if you can’t, that it is the will of the gods. Let the House of Kings be eaten by this malignancy. Let Goldenhill and Hanging Gardens and Blackfire Gate be devoured. Let the entire city be consumed if that is the will of the gods! Whatever’s left, be they Sharakhani, Mirean, or Malasani, will fall to our blades. The city will burn, and the desert will return to the old ways, as it was always meant to be.”

  What a fool I’ve been. Çeda thought she’d be able to expose Hamid’s lies and treachery and win back the hearts and minds of the thirteenth tribe. She thought she’d find many who wished to forge peace in the desert. Now she saw the truth. She had a war on her hands. How many shaikhs agreed with him? Not all, certainly, but of those who sought peace, how bold would they be? Too often the sensible voice was timid, easily drowned by those spewing hatred and nonsense.

  “Çeda.”

  The worry in Emre’s voice made her take in the scene anew. Several Tulogal crew members were inching toward the catapults and ballistae. Zaghran himself seemed tense, and Tanzi looked like a condor ready to descend upon her prey.

  Çeda made a show of taking the weapons in. “You may have convinced yourself that you want this battle,” she said over the sounds of the rushing skis, “but believe me, you don’t.”

  “This doesn’t need to end in bloodshed,” Zaghran said. “Surrender to us. Submit to the judgment of your shaikh. That’s all we’re asking.”

  “That would be a death sentence for us all.” Çeda tightened her right hand into a fist and felt the old, familiar pain in her thumb. She pumped her hand, felt the pain heighten as she drew the desert near. “I cannot allow it.”

  Through her gathered power, Çeda sensed the heartbeats of those who stood behind her. She heard them readying their weapons. A glance back showed Emre with his bow. Kameyl and Sümeya had their ebon blades and shields in hand. Shal’alara, Jenise, and the others aboard Storm’s Eye had readied themselves as well.