A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Asleep no more, Ashael unwound the bandages around his head and stared with sunken eyes at the forces arrayed in the harbor. He gazed up at the brilliance of the gateway on Mount Tauriyat.

  “No!” Meryam screamed, and ran forward.

  She took the bag of black powder, the filings of Goezhen’s horn, tugged the drawstring open, and threw it at Ashael’s head. It made it only halfway there before Ashael lifted one hand and the bag halted mid-flight. Black powder coughed from its mouth, but none came near him.

  Ashael turned toward Meryam and crouched. The scent of brimstone and charred myrrh grew stronger. The setting sun shone off the ridges of his broad horns. As he considered her, a swirl of emotions swept through Meryam. She felt exposed, vulnerable, useless. There was fear as well, but it was soon eclipsed by an unbridled fury. She had claimed Sharakhai for her own. The Great Shangazi was hers, no one else’s. She was on the cusp of ruling the world.

  Ashael’s breath rasped, its rhythm slow as the tides. She was certain he was preparing to kill her. He would slay her for manipulating him, then leave her corpse to be swallowed by the sand.

  But he didn’t.

  As the demons around Meryam stirred, Ashael rose from his crouch and turned his back on her. He floated into the harbor, surveyed the ships, the thousands of mortals struggling against his demons, then fixed his gaze once more on the gateway, the glimmering pillar of light on the slopes of Tauriyat.

  The demons around Meryam, which had been watching her with a sort of hunger, turned away as well. Most followed Ashael. Many returned to the fight against the soldiers in the harbor. Some few peeled away from the horde’s main body and fled into the desert. But none touched Meryam.

  She had become an island, a woman alone in the world.

  A high-pitched laugh echoed in Meryam’s mind. It went on and on and on. “In the end, you’re nothing, Meryam! Nothing!”

  Meryam paused. The words had come from her own throat. Never before had Yasmine’s words been spoken aloud.

  Meryam shook her head. “Stop it, Yasmine.”

  “You aren’t even worth the effort to kill—”

  “Stop it!”

  “—not even the lifting of a finger to end your miserable life!”

  Meryam beat her head with balled fists and shouted to the sky, “I said, stop it!”

  But Yasmine only laughed and Meryam screamed until . . .

  “Meryam?”

  Meryam opened her eyes and stared at the nearly empty landscape around her. The demons were gone. She could hear the sounds of fighting but couldn’t be bothered to look for the source of it. Not with Ramahd standing before her, staring at her with a revolting combination of pity and disgust.

  His look, coupled with the sudden and complete absence of Yasmine’s voice—no, of her very presence—made Meryam feel hollow, a delicate ceramic vase ready to crack at the least pressure.

  “Well, Ramahd?”

  He strode toward her, a sword in one hand. “Well, what?”

  “Come to gloat?”

  “No, Meryam. I haven’t.”

  With that he drew the sword back and slashed it across her line of vision. She felt a moment of pain, then the world went tumbling through the air. In the passage of a lone heartbeat, the red beads of Yasmine’s necklace, cut from their string by the swing of a sword, pattered against the sand.

  Chapter 51

  Çeda watched Nalamae fall. She watched Nayyan succumb to the terrible black wave. She watched the crossbow bolt strike.

  Ihsan stood nearby, dumbstruck. He blinked away tears and strode toward Nayyan on unsteady legs. Ashael, meanwhile, probed the cloth over his eyes with his eerily long fingers. He unwound the blindfold, regarded the bloody tableau before him, then spun and crouched before a woman. It was Meryam, revealed moments after the powder had awakened him.

  Ihsan had reached Nayyan’s ruined body. His throat convulsed as he stared down at her. He shook his head violently, a man trying to order his thoughts, then stared up at the god who towered above them. “Hear me, Ashael!”

  But Ashael didn’t. As he rose from his peculiar, levitating crouch, he turned toward Tauriyat with complete disregard for Meryam, Ihsan, Çeda, and everyone else. He was focused on the gateway and the gateway alone. It was strange, though. His expression seemed one of naked wonder, but the way his brow creased and his deep-set eyes kept shifting gave the impression he was troubled.

  Around Ashael, the horde stirred. The demons fought, but their mood had changed. Gone was their hunger, their brutality. Instead, they seemed defensive, confused, as if they too had woken from a dream and were lashing out in response, rather than as a directive from their god.

  “Ashael!” Ihsan shouted. “Ashael!”

  Çeda and Emre ran to Nalamae, as did Frail Lemi, Sümeya, and Kameyl. Frail Lemi lifted the goddess in his arms while the others fought the demons back.

  Soon they’d reached Ihsan, still standing by Nayyan’s unmoving form. In his hands, all but forgotten, was the box of powder Davud had given him.

  “Come,” Çeda said to him, tugging on his sleeve.

  Ihsan yanked his sleeve from her grasp. “It didn’t work,” he said in a flat, dispassionate tone. “He won’t listen to us.”

  “I know”—she pointed to the demons—“but we have to leave.”

  He stared at her as if she’d gone mad. “Where can we go when all is lost?”

  A cry rose up nearby. Shal’alara, striking in her flame orange battle dress, was leading a valiant charge with the Shieldwives. Hundreds more followed them, all fighting viciously to prevent demons from spilling unchecked into the harbor. They were buying precious time for Çeda and the others, but the cost was dear. More warriors and soldiers were falling by the moment.

  Çeda pointed Ihsan’s attention to Ashael, who was floating beyond the line of Mirean dunebreakers. He continued onto the harbor’s curving quay then entered the shipyard. All the while, his gaze fixed on the bright gateway.

  “He’s going to the summit,” Çeda said, guiding Ihsan toward Davud’s spinning portal, “and so are we.”

  Ihsan didn’t follow so much as allow himself to be led. They stepped through the portal into a bitter cold Çeda felt not just on her skin but in her nostrils and at the corners of her eyes. Her entire body tightened from it, which only seemed to deepen the chill.

  “Bloody fucking gods.” Emre, having stepped through behind her, was hugging himself. “I thought the end of days would be hotter.”

  They stood on a broad plateau near the top of the mountain, the very clearing where the twelve Sharakhani Kings had met with the desert gods on Beht Ihman. Clouds had formed above them. Snow was falling, a thing Frail Lemi seemed to distrust. He stared at it, brow furrowed, while laying Nalamae carefully on the rocky ground.

  The gateway’s shining light speared upward only ten paces away. Standing in a circle around it were Davud and seven others from the Enclave. The wild-eyed Esmeray and the pretty Mirean blood mage, Meiying, were among them, and there were three women and two men besides, all of varying ages and nationalities. Their arms were spread wide, and they stared directly into the light. They were working, Çeda understood, to prevent the way to the farther fields from opening, but they looked tired. Some already seemed on the brink of collapse.

  Closer to Çeda, Ihsan paced back and forth. His gaze was restless. His fingers drummed ceaselessly on the lid of the wooden box. Husamettín, meanwhile, had joined Queen Alansal and King Hektor. Others were clustered near them, including Yndris and several hands of Blade Maidens.

  “Coming?” Emre asked, pointing to the gathering of Kings and Queens.

  “Yes, it’s just”—Çeda waved toward Davud—“before Ashael broke the harbor gates, Davud told me about his vision of my mother.”

  Emre shrugged. “He said it was a memory, drummed up from his p
ast.”

  “Yes, but a memory with no meaning at all?”

  “Must every vision have a deeper meaning?”

  “This one does,” Çeda said, recalling her discussing with Dardzada. “I’m convinced it’s related to the visions the acacia gave me. They’re too similar for coincidence.”

  The first of Çeda’s visions in the valley had shown Ahya stealing the acacia seed from King Yusam’s palace. The second had shown the heist’s aftermath, Ahya returning to her home in Roseridge only to find Çeda missing. The third had shown Ahya searching for Çeda along the edges of the western harbor, persuading her to call out so that she could save her.

  “The visions in the valley,” Çeda went on, “ended with my mother coming to find me. Davud’s vision showed the same thing.”

  Emre’s gaze went distant. “That’s true,” he said in a slow, cautious voice, “but they also ended with you calling out to her.”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “Yes, they did. In your last vision, you overcame your fear, called out, and she found you. In Davud’s, he told you to go to Bent Man Bridge at nightfall. I joined you, remember? Ahya didn’t show. You got nervous and started calling out for her. You were shouting by the time she turned the corner of the old tea shop.”

  Gods, he was right. “You remember that?”

  “Like it was yesterday.” He shrugged. “I was nearly as scared as you were.”

  Çeda had been terrified her mother was dead. Her relief had never been greater on seeing her mother turn that corner and yell at her to stop acting like a fool.

  As Çeda stared intently at the gateway, everything became clear. “My mother sent the visions.”

  Emre gave her a doubtful look. “You think Ahya sent them?”

  Çeda nodded. “Davud said someone had spurred his vision. He thought it was an asir, but it wasn’t. It was memma. She wants me to find her. She needs me to.”

  She thought Emre would argue—it sounded ridiculous, even to her—but he didn’t. He nodded to her, the way one does when stumbling on a fond, half-forgotten memory. “I think you’re right, Çeda.”

  For the first time in a long while, Çeda felt hope.

  But Ashael was already halfway up the slope, oblivious to the battle raging in the harbor. He was passing King Cahil’s palace, where some few Mirean soldiers stood on the walls and fired crossbows. All were felled with a wave of Ashael’s hand.

  Nearby, Çeda heard a groan, then the rumple of thick winter clothing.

  “Davud!” cried Esmeray.

  Çeda turned to find Davud collapsed in a heap on the frost-covered ground. The gateway was noticeably brighter than moments ago, and she swore the tugging sensation inside her felt more powerful as well.

  As Esmeray and Meiying rolled Davud onto his back, his eyes fluttered open. He blinked up at Esmeray, then Meiying. When his eyes met Çeda’s, he could hardly hold her gaze. He was embarrassed, Çeda realized.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she said as Esmeray helped him to his feet. “You did what none of us could have.”

  “I was so close. I just didn’t have enough power. I was certain Chow-Shian’s vision—”

  Davud stared up at the sky, at the falling snow, then took in Çeda’s armor.

  “What is it?” Çeda asked.

  “The water dancer, Chow-Shian, had a vision of me leading a snow queen through the gates of truth. I thought it meant that Queen Alansal would help close the gateway, but I was wrong. Chow-Shian saw me leading you.”

  Combined with the realization that her mother had reached out to her, Davud’s words warmed Çeda’s heart, gave her a sense of hope when everything had seemed so bleak moments ago. “Let’s do it, Davud. Lead and I’ll follow.”

  “I would, but . . .” His look of embarrassment deepened. “I don’t know if I can. I don’t have enough left in me.”

  “Davud?” came a deep voice. It was Frail Lemi. He was crouched beside Nalamae, who lay prone on the snow-covered ground.

  Davud and Çeda approached, both with wary looks. Others gathered around. Nalamae was awake but her skin was ashen, her breath dangerously shallow.

  “Take my blood,” she said to him, “and close the gate if you can.”

  Davud looked terrified. “Take your blood?”

  “All that you can, yes.” Nalamae paused as a pained look swept over her. “It’s all I have left to give.”

  “But I failed.”

  “Only because you lacked the power. Take my blood and go with the asirim.” Nalamae motioned to the well-worn path that led down the mountain. “They’ll help you find the way.”

  A line of bent shapes approached along the path. They were the last of the asirim, Çeda realized, mere dozens of them, and they were clearly weakened. They staggered toward the light with bowed backs and pained looks. Many walked two by two: one with some remaining strength helped another who couldn’t walk on their own. The very fact that they had abandoned the trees meant that the end was near, one way or another.

  Sehid-Alaz, ever proud, led them, but he could hardly put one foot in front of the other. Çeda rushed to his side and slipped his arm across her shoulders. The Sehid-Alaz of old might have declined her help. This one, the one nearing the point of collapse, didn’t, and his people formed a rough circle around the gateway, several ranks deep.

  “They will lend you their strength one last time,” Nalamae said, “as you make your final stand.”

  “As we do,” Çeda said hopefully.

  Nalamae no longer looked like a goddess, but like the aging shipwright Çeda had abducted from King’s Harbor. “I’m too weak,” she said. “I’m ready to embrace whatever the fates have in store for me, but I would go knowing I’ve helped.”

  Shouts drifted up from further down the mountain as Ashael passed Eventide. It wouldn’t be long before he reached the plateau.

  “Make haste,” Nalamae said.

  Davud looked spent, but as he took in the wounded goddess and the Kings, Queens, and shaikhs around him, he pulled himself tall. “I’ll need your help,” he said to Meiying, Esmeray, and the other blood magi, who nodded readily.

  Nalamae, her eyes heavy, held out her wrist and Davud tried to use his blooding ring to pierce her skin, but failed, the goddess’s skin proof against mundane weapons.

  “My spear,” she said.

  Hands trembling, Frail Lemi took up her adamantine spear, placed the point against her wrist, and slowly applied pressure. Her skin was pierced, blood flowed, and Frail Lemi snatched the spear away with a look of childlike awe. Nearby, the ghul, Fezek, was on his knees, watching intently while writing furiously in his journal.

  Davud took Nalamae’s arm and drank from the flowing wound. He reeled from it. His eyes rolled back in his head and he looked as if he were going to pass out, but he recovered as Esmeray held him steady. He nodded to her and then stood with her help. Meiying repeated the ritual. She’d seemed calm and confident as she knelt by Nalamae’s side, but her eyes fluttered worse than Davud’s when she took the blood.

  When the other magi had done the same, they wove together through the circle of asirim and retook their positions around the gateway. Nalamae watched them go, her wistful smile hinting at the pride she felt for those she knew would outlive her.

  Çeda knelt beside Nalamae and kissed her hand. “Go well,” Çeda said.

  Nalamae, her eyes growing heavy, patted Çeda’s hand in return. “Hurry, my child.”

  A moment later, the goddess went still.

  Steeling herself, Çeda left her on the cold ground, stepped through the gathered asirim, and returned to the gateway where Davud was finishing a complex sigil. Çeda, one hand held up against the gateway’s brightness, watched as Davud completed the sigil and spread his arms wide, summoning the spell into being. The light suddenly dimmed, bearable to loo
k upon once again.

  Çeda became vaguely aware of Ashael cresting the nearby ridge but ignored the elder god as best she could and stared into the light. She felt the gateway’s power, felt it tugging on her soul. She felt as close to death as she ever had, as if—were she to let all the air from her lungs—her soul would detach from her body and drift to the land beyond.

  The notion was alluring but terrifying in the same breath and spurred her to ground herself in the mortal realm, to reach out to her mother as she had with the asirim in the past.

  Hear me, memma. Hear me, for I have need of you.

  Little changed save her awareness of the world beyond. She sensed the asirim on the opposite side helping the asirim who stood on Tauriyat.

  Memma, please hear me.

  But she felt nothing. And Ashael drifted ever closer. She saw him from the corner of her eye, hovering closer to the plateau where she and the others stood. It felt as if everything were falling to pieces. All her plans, her efforts, and those of everyone around her.

  “Ahyanesh Ishaq’ava,” she shouted. “You will come to me!”

  But she heard no reply.

  And then, Ashael reached them. Ignoring them all, the elder god stared into the light and spread his arms.

  Chapter 52

  Ihsan had stood in awe, truly in awe, only a handful of times in his improbably long life. The day Suad, the Scourge of Sharakhai, had come to destroy the city four hundred years earlier, had been one. That same night, Beht Ihman, when the desert gods had come to strike a bargain with Ihsan and the other Sharakhani Kings, had been another. More recently, there had been the Night of Endless Swords, when the Moonless Host broke through the doors of King’s Harbor and assaulted the House of Kings. Then the shattering of the crystal in the cavern beneath the mountain.