A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  She peered into the night, scanning for any signs of wrens hiding behind the rocks. “Çeda, you stupid, stupid girl.”

  Her words were a bare whisper, and yet, only a moment later, a howling rose up not ten paces away. It was pained and heartfelt, a dirge for those who could not die.

  Ahead, Ahya saw a form hunkered low, its arms spread wide. It stared at the city as if the last thing it wanted to do was enter. But it knew its fate. As the asirim had been forced to do for four hundred years, it would kill and drag whoever fell to its rending claws to the blooming fields, where it would throw them to the twisted trees.

  Ahya ducked low behind a rock as the asir’s head swiveled toward her. Its eyes glinted, diamonds on kohl, searching for whoever was foolish enough to be out on the holy night. The mark of Sukru’s whip might be urging it to continue into the city, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t kill another before fulfilling its obligation to the Kings and the desert gods.

  The asir’s chest swelled and contracted. Its head shifted back and forth like a black laugher searching out its next kill. Ahya, meanwhile, stilled herself. Made her breath go shallow as she hoped, prayed, the asir would move on.

  Please, Nalamae, I have so much more yet to do.

  A moment later, the asir gave a sharp huff and turned back to the city. With a howl that made Ahya’s skin crawl, it dropped to all fours and sprinted across the harbor floor, sand kicking up behind it in plumes.

  When the sounds of its passage had faded, Ahya moved on, deeper into the rocks, as the asirim wailed.

  Chapter 23

  Under a hot sun and with a favorable wind, Ramahd and his crew sailed the swift, three-masted clipper Hektor had given him, a ship named Alu’s Crown. A week had passed since he’d left Mazandir. He and his crew had reached the area where the dead cooper said the Hollow would be found, but the desert was a big place. They’d stumbled across three sandy reefs already, and none held a circle of stones.

  “Are you sure the cooper knew where it was?” Ramahd asked Fezek, who was sitting on the foredeck across from him.

  Fezek shrugged, which was particularly infuriating after everything Ramahd had risked. “Who can say?”

  “You can. You’re the one who spoke to him.”

  “Yes, but I hardly knew the man. And let’s recall, he had been dead for more than a century. Memories do tend to fade.”

  Ramahd closed his eyes, fighting the urge to rail against Fezek. It was his own fault, really. He should have pressed Fezek harder when he said he knew where to find the Hollow. “Was there anything else, some clue we might use to find it?”

  Fezek’s cloudy eyes went distant. “He said the stones were quite tall.” Fezek had an unreasonably optimistic look as he touched his nose. “He mentioned a noxious smell. The Hollow’s very scent may lead us there!”

  “If the wind is right.”

  Fezek’s famous optimism held for a moment, deflated slightly, then collapsed altogether. “Well, that’s true, isn’t it?” A moment later, he added in a quieter voice, “At least it’s something to go on.”

  The following two days saw them taking random paths in hopes of stumbling across the Hollow. Ramahd himself spent nearly the whole third day in the vulture’s nest, scanning the horizon. He’d been so optimistic when they’d started their journey, but was starting to think it was a lost cause.

  As the sun was lowering in the west, Cicio called up to him. “There’s a plate of food for you.”

  Ramahd stared down, but made no move to descend, effectively ignoring Cicio’s implied request to trade places.

  “It’s my turn,” Cicio went on, “and when you’re tired, you start to miss things. Come down. Eat. Rest a while. It’ll be dark soon.”

  Ramahd finally relented. He climbed down and ate the prepared dish of salt pork, dates, and stale biscuits. He downed it as if he were starving, not because he was particularly hungry, but because it tasted so bad he wanted to get it over with. Mighty Alu how I miss sea bream drenched in butter, capers, and lemon.

  Within minutes of finishing, he was restless. A few minutes more and he found himself standing at the bow, gazing at the way ahead.

  “Rest!” Cicio shouted from above.

  Cicio was right, he knew. To keep himself from going mad, he returned to the tradition he’d started early in their journey: he sat on the foredeck and read a few pages of Fezek’s journal.

  The journal, written in Fezek’s uniquely shaky script, was an interesting piece of ordered chaos. On its lefthand pages were stanzas from the epic poem he was writing. Many stanzas had been crossed out and rewritten—Fezek’s attempts at narrowing in not only on the story’s substance but also its best expression. On the righthand side were dates, times, and various notes on the fantastic set of events he’d born witness to since being raised by Anila. Much of the earliest pages were dedicated to Anila herself, how she’d been abducted by Hamzakiir, one of the desert’s most infamous blood magi; the frostbite she’d suffered when Davud used a spell to douse the flaming ships in Ishmantep; and her eventual death in the cavern below the Sun Palace, a sacrifice she’d made to save Sharakhai.

  The poetry wasn’t half bad, Ramahd decided. Fezek had come a long way since his early and rather horrible attempts. More than that, Fezek’s love and admiration for the people he’d met along the way was clear. Anila and Davud were quite obviously the foremost in his heart, but there were plenty of others, people like Çeda and Emre, Ramahd and Cicio, Frail Lemi and Esmeray. Even King Ihsan and Queen Nayyan were mentioned in a positive light.

  As the deck tilted over a shallow dune, Fezek thumped his way over the foredeck and sat across from Ramahd. For a time he stared at the sunset, but occasionally his eyes slipped to Ramahd and the journal.

  “Come to watch the sun set?” Ramahd asked.

  “Yes, and why not? I don’t know how many more I’m likely to get.” He smiled his earnest smile, which Ramahd had once thought grisly but now found touching. “And you, Lord Amansir?” He tipped his head toward the journal. “Have you found anything of interest?”

  “Some, yes.”

  “Some . . . ?”

  “I’m speaking of the content, Fezek, not your prose.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Me as well.”

  He hadn’t been referring to the content. He was always fishing for Ramahd’s thoughts on his style. Ramahd didn’t blame him for it—words a writer didn’t fret over were words they weren’t proud of, after all—but really, Fezek needn’t worry in that regard.

  “It’s good.” He touched his fingers to the lefthand page. “Truly.”

  He gave Ramahd a theatrical tilt of his head. “Well, thank you for saying so.”

  Ramahd continued reading and soon stumbled across a page that mentioned one night in Sharakhai when Fezek had been out watching the stars. In it, Ramahd had just woken from a dream in which Meryam was hunting him mercilessly. Fezek, in helping Ramahd to digest it, had told a story of his mother and how she used to unweave the ribbons in baskets and reweave them to suit some new inspiration. It had led to a watershed moment in Ramahd’s quest to stop Meryam.

  That wasn’t what attracted him to the page, though. At the bottom, Fezek had written, How I wish I could have met him in true life. And with that insight, he recalled all the passages in the journal where Fezek had made note of Ramahd’s clothing, his hair, even how closely his beard was trimmed. He’d been infatuated, maybe in love.

  Looking up, Ramahd realized that was the reason Fezek had been watching him so closely. For his thoughts on his prose, yes, but also for Ramahd’s reaction when he eventually, inevitably, came across this particular passage.

  Fezek, clearly nervous, met Ramahd’s eyes. Somehow, his ashen cheeks darkened.

  “You know,” Ramahd told him, “I wish I could have seen one of your performances. I would have been proud to sit in the audience,
perhaps speak to you and the troupe afterward.”

  Fezek’s gruesome smile returned. “It would have been a grand night, indeed. And who knows? Perhaps there’s still time for me to make my long-awaited return!”

  Ramahd smiled. “May the fates permit it.”

  Fezek put on a look of mock horror. “Oh, no, no, no!” he said in his hoary voice. “Wishing a thespian good luck is the worst thing you can do! We promptly forget a line or trip from the stage.”

  “In that case, may you catch cold and cough through all your lines.”

  Fezek tipped his head. “Now your horse is headed in the right direction. Again, but this time with more gusto.”

  “May the stage cave in and the theater catch fire!”

  Fezek’s enthusiastic smile was a horror show. “Now you’ve got it, my lord!”

  They both laughed. Above them, Cicio rolled his eyes and went back to scanning the horizon.

  That night, Ramahd dreamt of Meryam. She stood in a cave on the shores of the Austral Sea near Viaroza, Ramahd’s ancestral home. The cave was one they’d visited several times together, first when Ramahd had been married to her sister, Yasmine, and later when she’d been trying to dominate Hamzakiir, who’d proved more difficult to break than Meryam had imagined.

  The final trip, mere days before Meryam had broken through Hamzakiir’s defenses, had been a pleasant experience. It was near sunset. The cave’s walls and roof had been lit in glittering, geometric patterns as the sunlight reflected off the incoming waves, the sound of which was like the world sighing. It had done much to ease Meryam’s troubled mind.

  In the dream it was different. The skies outside were slate blue, a squall threatening. The waves rushing into the cave were chaotic, the water foamy and churning, a deep green beneath. The tide was rising. Each fresh set of waves brought the water higher along the walls.

  Meryam stood at the back of the cave along a narrow stone shelf. Her ankles were chained to iron rings driven into the stone and there was so much blood covering her arms that it looked as though she were wearing tattered crimson gloves. Concentrating on the water, she drew sigils in the air. Her breath came heavily. She was scared. The water was going to drown her, and she didn’t know if she could slow it. She didn’t know if she could save herself.

  The water continued to rise, the sound becoming an ever-present roar as it rose above the cave’s entrance. When the entrance was lost to the rising water entirely, the waves quelled and the cave plunged into darkness. In the faint light coming in through the water, Ramahd saw Meryam’s desperation. The water was lapping at her knees and still rising.

  As it reached her hips, she cried out, rejecting her fear. Ramahd had seen her do it before. The energy released seemed to give her a renewed sense of purpose: the fear in her eyes was replaced by a look of pure determination.

  As the water continued to rise, reaching her neck, she drew a new combination of sigils. The water began to slow . . . then it stopped altogether. Finally, it began to recede.

  When it dropped low enough that the sea beyond the cave’s entrance was revealed once more, the clouds had begun to break in the distance, sending shafts of light down against the dark water. Eventually the water dropped below the stone shelf, and the sea became calm. When it did, Meryam lowered her hands, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply, as if she knew how close she’d come to drowning.

  Her energy spent, she lay on the stone shelf and fell asleep.

  When Ramahd woke, it was morning and they were already under sail. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked Cicio when he reached the clipper’s main deck.

  “I tried,” Cicio said, and sipped on a cup of steaming kahve. “You were dead to the world.”

  The air was still cool from the night but the heat was already starting to build. In the distance, the desert shimmered with it. It reminded him of the water, the dream of the cave on the Austral Sea. “I was dreaming,” he finally said to Cicio.

  Cicio took an especially noisy sip. “Do tell.”

  “I saw Meryam.”

  At this, Cicio frowned. “Like when she was hounding you in Sharakhai?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  Nearby, Fezek had his journal to hand. He suddenly started flipping through the pages, then handed the journal to Ramahd, pointing to a particular section. In the notes along the righthand side, Fezek had written, Ramahd is despondent, feeling he’ll never be rid of Meryam. He said, ‘It feels like she’s created a link between us that will never be broken.’

  “There’s no link between us, Fezek.”

  Fezek motioned to the journal. “You said there was. You believed it then.”

  “Yes, but that was then. This is now.”

  But Fezek seemed adamant. “What would have changed?”

  “Meryam’s magic was burned from her.”

  “But the link between you, if it existed, was made when she had magic.”

  Ramahd had a sharp reply ready and waiting—that Fezek didn’t understand the nature of his bond with Meryam—but the words died on his lips. Back then, when Meryam had been hounding him, Ramahd hadn’t been sure if it was something Meryam had consciously created or that had been born out of the many times Meryam had used him as a conduit for her magic. That link had existed. He’d been certain of it. And if it had, it was certainly possible it still existed.

  As he’d done countless times during their harrowing game of cat and mouse, Ramahd felt for that link. There, on the very edge of his perceptions, he sensed her. “Fezek,” he said softly, hoping not to disturb the tenuous feeling, “you’re bloody brilliant, you know that?”

  Fezek beamed, and this time there was nothing gruesome about it. It was pure, unadulterated joy.

  Ramahd pointed off the starboard beam. “Meryam’s that way.”

  Chapter 24

  After the bloody riot, it proved difficult for Ihsan, Nayyan, and their small host of Blade Maidens to leave the city—a strange twist of fate given how easy it had been to sneak in. That same evening, hours before the violence had truly quelled, Queen Alansal ordered a cordon placed around all four harbors, including King’s Harbor, which meant that no ship, large or small, could leave the city without being searched. By morning, the mouths of the harbors were tight as drums. Even sleighs were being stopped, and riders on horses were eyed more suspiciously than ships. Who, after all, would choose to leave the city on horseback but those who intended to conspire with the Sharakhani Kings and Queens?

  Ihsan managed to get a note to Queen Sunay, hidden in the neighborhood known as the Well. Sunay had planned to ignite more violence all across the city, but on Ihsan’s urgings focused her efforts instead on the northern harbor, the one most precious to Alansal, the one that housed many of her supply ships.

  As the Mirean regulars shifted their focus to meet the threat on the northern harbor, Ihsan, Nayyan, Tolovan, their Blade Maidens, and Ibrahim waited along the skirts of the southern harbor. When the forces seemed thin, they galloped away from the city. A warning horn was sounded, but not a single soldier gave chase.

  They reached Ihsan’s galleon, the Miscreant, among a scattering of rocks several hours later. After ordering the crew to remain onboard, Ihsan built a fire in a small clearing among the rocks and set fringed carpets around it. Soon he, Ibrahim, and Nayyan were sitting around the fire while Ransaneh, swaddled in a pretty blue blanket, slept in the hollow of Nayyan’s crossed legs. As Nayyan absently stroked her baby’s hair and munched on olives, Ihsan poured three goblets of araq from a tall, hourglass-shaped bottle. He handed the first to Nayyan, wincing at his cracked ribs as he did so. The second he offered to Ibrahim, who immediately held his hands up, declining.

  “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, truly, but the danger must be past by now. If you but give me a few skins of water and a bit of food, I’ll make my way back to the city and leave the great game to
you.”

  “It’s funny you should mention the great game”—Ihsan, his ribs grousing from the movement, gave the goblet a swirl—“those who play it well study their opponents carefully before making their next move.”

  Ibrahim, clearly uncomfortable, offered up a miserable smile and accepted the goblet.

  “Word has reached us,” Ihsan went on, “that you were spying on Queen Meryam.”

  Now Ibrahim winced. “I wouldn’t say spying, Your Excellence.”

  “Then pray tell what were you doing?”

  A moment ago Ibrahim looked like he wasn’t planning to have any araq. After Ihsan’s question, he downed the lot. He bared his teeth from the alcohol burn, then set the goblet down on the carpet, noticeably farther away than he needed to. “My wife died some months ago,” he finally said.

  Ransaneh stirred at a loud snap from the fire. Nayyan rocked her gently, and Ransaneh burbled, squirmed a bit, then fell back to sleep.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Nayyan said.

  “Thank you”—Ibrahim shared a sad smile with her—“but I didn’t mention it for sympathy. Drink nearly cost me my marriage, but Eva stuck with me. It was through her strength that I avoided it for many long decades. After she passed . . . well . . . I tried to remain strong for her sake but did a rather poor job of it. One night, I decided to sit in my favorite oud parlor and have one drink. Maybe two. Things went a bit further than that, however. I became not merely tipsy, but good and proper, tripping-down-the-dunes drunk. Somehow I got into my head that a walk beyond the rocks of the western harbor would be good for me. To clear my mind, I told myself, before returning to the bed I once shared with Eva.”

  “Is that where you saw Meryam?” Ihsan asked.

  Ihsan had been careful about speaking too much since the riots. The pain was mostly gone, but just then, for whatever reason, it came back in a rush. Spit gathered in his mouth. He swallowed and relaxed his jaw, willing it to pass.