A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Now this: the blooding of a god to close the gateway that had been created when the crystal broke. Ihsan watched in silence as Davud and the other blood magi pressed their lips to the wound on Nalamae’s wrist and drank of her blood. Though he didn’t partake of Nalamae’s blood himself, Ihsan felt integrally linked to the ritual. It was the zhenyang, he knew—the sheer potency of it still coursed through his veins. It also made him feel linked to Ashael, who, like Ihsan, had breathed in a good amount of the powder. The zhenyang had created a deep connection between them, just as it had with Queen Alansal’s water dancers.

  So it was that Ihsan felt Ashael’s anger over what the other elders had done, leaving him to rot in this world. So it was that he felt the god’s uncertainty over whether he’d be able to cross over. So it was that he sensed the dark god’s many calculations, and his fear and eagerness to see his fellow elders again.

  Davud drew sigils in the air, and Ihsan recognized the symbology, not because he understood the language of spells, but because Ashael did.

  As Ashael approached, more and more of the elder god’s memories returned. He began cataloging his mistakes, which in turn made Ihsan catalog his. Chief among his regrets, the most bitter tincture of all, was how spectacularly he’d failed to protect Nayyan. Bad enough his own orders had led to Nayyan’s developing the elixir that had given them the black mould; he’d also failed to foresee her sacrificing herself in hopes of awakening the elder god so they could bargain with him.

  And it was all for nothing.

  Ihsan stared down at the inlaid box in his hands. He’d been so certain the zhenyang would see an end to this long nightmare. It had awoken Ashael, as they’d hoped, but done nothing to make him listen to reason, or even acknowledge them.

  Instead, Ashael had immediately become captivated by the shining gateway. It was the worst possible outcome, and he was beginning to understand that Rhia had known it would happen. She’d seen it and set him up for failure from the start.

  Dost thou think thyself ready to wield the key to dreaming? she’d asked Ihsan in their shared dream. Dost thou think this akin to the subtleties required to manipulate an elder? That the stuff of dreams is akin to the truths found in the waking world?

  She’d known Ihsan had hoped to stop Meryam manipulating Ashael. She’d known he would recognize her words as having come from the Al’Ambra. She’d planted a seed, knowing it would grow and lead step by step toward one logical, unavoidable result: Ihsan using the ivory powder to awaken the god.

  Rhia had wanted—indeed, all of the young gods had wanted—precisely that. They knew Ashael wanted to reach the farther fields. They knew he would want his revenge on the other elders or, at the very least, to prove he could not be tossed aside like chattel.

  Ihsan tried to share that knowledge with Ashael, tried to show he was being manipulated again, but Ashael ignored him. To the god, Ihsan was the very definition of inconsequential.

  Soon Ashael reached the plateau. He towered over Davud and the blood magi, over Çeda and the asirim, over Ihsan, Husamettín, Yndris, Alansal, and everyone else who stood near the gateway. Ignoring them all, Ashael studied Davud’s spell with something approaching wonder. It was stronger than he’d thought a mortal’s could be, and moments later he realized why. The goddess, Nalamae, who’d stood against him in the harbor, lay dead, having given her blood to the mortals who stood around the gateway.

  And there was more. The undying creatures around the magi held another sort of power. They were reaching out to others of their kind beyond the gateway. Together, they held the gate closed, foiling his attempts to widen it and step through.

  But what was made could be unmade. It would only take time, and what was a few moments compared to the age he’d spent sleeping below the earth?

  It took great effort for Ihsan to free his mind from Ashael’s. The zhenyang’s power to unite them was strong, nearly undeniable. But Ihsan’s fear and anger over what the young gods had done drew him back to himself. It was dizzying to contemplate, all the levers the young gods had pulled to bring everything to this moment on the plateau, the gateway shining brightly, ready to forge a path to the farther fields. It made him wonder: where are they?

  Everything over the past four centuries had been done to ensure that they would be present at the bell’s final tolling. So why weren’t they here? Why weren’t they preparing to step through to the farther fields?

  They are, you bloody fool. You just can’t see them.

  Suddenly, he was acutely aware of the land surrounding the gateway. The plateau was broad—mostly flat but uneven in places. The young gods could be anywhere along it, watching, waiting.

  Nearby he heard Çeda calling to her mother, “Ahyanesh Kirhan’ava, you will come to me!”

  Davud, his fellow blood magi, and the asirim were trying to close the gateway, but they were failing. They would succumb to Ashael’s will sooner or later, even with Nalamae’s power added to theirs.

  Ihsan knew he had only moments in which to act. He thought of Nayyan, standing in the world beyond, watching, willing him to find a way. I’m sorry, my love, it’s too much. I don’t know what to do.

  But thinking of Nayyan made him think of how she’d died, how Ashael had awoken, how Ashael had taken long moments to understand his connection to Ihsan, Meryam, and the world around him. He’d practically dismissed Ihsan and Meryam, but how would he react if he knew the young gods were involved? How would he react if he knew he’d been a part of their machinations?

  It might not change Ashael’s intent, but he might pause as he considered it. It might give them the time they so desperately needed . . . but only if Ihsan could put him on their scent. How, though?

  The answer came as he stared at the box of zhenyang. The question isn’t where they might be found, but how to force them to reveal themselves.

  Could he do it? Could he force their hand?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  He was acutely aware there was little time, but he took what time he could. He summoned the power of his voice. He drew on his fear over what was about to happen to Sharakhai, to the desert, and its people. He used his frustration at being manipulated for so long. He used his anger at Nayyan for giving herself to this cause and dying in the process. He thought of all the plans they’d made together, all of which had withered to dust. He thought of their daughter, Ransaneh, whose future hinged on his actions.

  The pain it brought on was terrible. It drove him to one knee, and he let it come until he could take it no more. Then, gripping both hands into fists, with all his power, he shouted in the old tongue, “Reveal thyselves!”

  And there, suddenly, were all four gods, standing mere paces away: Thaash in golden armor, arms crossed over a broad, muscular chest; handsome Bakhi watching with a wary gaze; silver-haired Tulathan peering into the light, either unaware or ignoring that she’d been exposed; and golden Rhia who gazed at Ashael with reverence.

  Rhia was the one Ihsan had been worried about the most, but Ashael’s very presence seemed to have undone her. It was Bakhi who saw the danger first. He began backing away as Ihsan lifted the box of powder, but it was too late. Ihsan flung it toward them. The box’s lid flipped back, the powder flew into the air, and scattered into a cloud which enveloped the young gods.

  In the moments that followed, their fears blossomed in Ihsan’s mind. They didn’t know precisely why he’d done it, but they worried over what the powder they’d worked so carefully to see delivered into Ihsan’s hands would do to them.

  Thaash, his legendary wrath flaring, drew his golden sword and stalked over the frost-rimed ground toward Ihsan. But he’d not taken three steps before Ihsan felt Ashael pause in his dismantling of Davud’s spell. Thaash’s footsteps came to a stop as Ashael floated toward him. Ashael’s eyes glinted, starlike, from within the depths of their hollows. It felt hypnotic as the elder god regarde
d Thaash, then Bakhi, then Tulathan and Rhia.

  Worried Ashael might dismiss them, Ihsan planted a lone question in Ashael’s mind: What if the young gods had planned to leave him behind? Might they have concocted this scheme so that they could reach the farther field while Ashael, an affliction on the ancient world, once again remained?

  Ashael’s gaze slid toward Ihsan. His dark eyes blinked once, and Ihsan was laid bare.

  Ashael rummaged through Ihsan’s mind, but found no deception. The worry Ihsan had placed in his mind was entirely possible, and Ashael needed the truth before he unwittingly triggered some snare of the young gods’ making.

  And so he silently questioned the young gods. They were terrified. They resisted, an all too predictable result.

  Ihsan turned to Çeda, who stood beyond the circle of blood magi, mere paces away from the gateway’s blinding light. She met his gaze, looking utterly lost.

  A strange calm had overcome Ihsan. It felt completely unjustified, but it was there all the same. “Go on,” he said to Çeda. “You can do it. I believe in you.”

  Chapter 53

  Never in a thousand years did Çeda think she’d be inspired by King Ihsan. He was called the Honey-tongued King, the King of Lies, for good reason. He was a man she’d vowed to see dead. And yet she was heartened by his words.

  Calmer than she’d been moments ago, she returned her focus to the gateway’s beatific light. She knew the gateway was a tear in the fabric separating her world from the next. She knew that if the young gods had their way, that tear would lead to Sharakhai’s destruction. But for the time being she ignored the weight of those facts and focused on Ahya. Hoping her mother might recognize her daughter, Çeda reached through the gateway. It wasn’t easy—the gateway’s nature was foreign to her—but the asirim helped. She felt them reaching to others on the opposite side, to those who’d already passed. Hundreds of them were helping the asirim who stood around Çeda to gain some small amount of sway over the rift between worlds. And not only those who’d died recently.

  Çeda recognized Havva, the asir who expressed her anger through her bond with Çeda, and had been killed in cold blood by Mesut the Jackal King. There was Kerim, Havva’s husband, with whom Çeda had fled Sharakhai into the desert before stumbling across Onur the Feasting King. There was Mavra with her children, who’d helped Çeda break the asirim’s centuries-old curse. And many more besides.

  It’s all of them, Çeda realized.

  The very notion made her intimately aware of the tattoo across her back. It depicted an acacia but was made up of the names of all the asirim. Sehid-Alaz, their King, had inked it shortly before Çeda had broken their curse once and for all.

  But while she could feel each of the asirim intimately, she couldn’t feel her mother.

  “Memma, please,” she whispered.

  She heard no reply.

  Nearby, Ashael whispered ancient words. It made her think of the myriad paths that had led to this time and place, made her think of the visions her mother had sent, both to Çeda through the acacia and to Davud when he’d traveled to the land beyond with Chow-Shian.

  If those visions had been messages of a sort, then maybe Çeda needed to do the same and summon a memory they shared, an instance where Çeda needed her and they were reunited. She raked her memories, but her mind kept returning to their final parting at Dardzada’s apothecary when she was eight.

  Ahya had already taken hangman’s vine, the drug that had made her forget everything but her mission: to go to the House of Kings and kill King Azad. Çeda hadn’t known it at the time, but it had created a nearly impenetrable wall between them. Ahya was ready to leave Çeda behind with Dardzada but hesitated and stared at her daughter. She was abandoning Çeda to ensure the Kings wouldn’t find and kill her for her mother’s crimes and for the threat Çeda represented.

  “Please don’t go, memma.”

  Ahya was stark in her purple dress, dusty from the day’s sailing in the desert. She hadn’t taken Çeda’s hands in an act of care and concern; she’d gripped her by the arms, an act of control. She blinked, an early sign of the hangman’s vine beginning to work its magic on her. “Be good for him, Çeda.”

  Ahya had said those words before, but this time was different. This time she was leaving Çeda with Dardzada forever.

  Çeda felt the world around her begin to crumble. “Memma, no!” Their life had never been stable. They’d always moved from place to place, barely staying ahead of the dangers Çeda had only the vaguest awareness of. But her mother had always seemed so resilient, an unyielding rock in the windstorm of their lives. Çeda never thought she’d be forced to grow up alone.

  Ahya released Çeda and with effort focused on the front door. She’d already taken two steps toward it when she stopped, shook her head as if clearing it of a dream, then returned to Çeda and knelt on one knee. This time, she took Çeda’s hands. “Be good for him,” she said, and kissed both of Çeda’s hands, “and remember what I said in the desert.” Then she stood and walked away.

  In the desert, earlier that day, Ahya had taken Çeda to see Saliah, the desert witch, who was Nalamae in disguise. On the way there, Ahya had seemed fatalistic. She’d told Çeda to read the books she’d given her, to practice with sword and shield. She’d said not to take her affinity for the blade for granted, to take her bladecraft seriously. She’d said to go to Dardzada if she ever had need.

  When Çeda scoffed, Ahya immediately replied, “He is blood of your blood, Çedamihn.”

  “He isn’t, either!” Çeda said back, adamant.

  “He is,” Ahya replied calmly. “And you’ll understand that one day.”

  Çeda had wanted to be strong for her mother, but just then all she could think about was Ahya leaving. She grabbed her mother’s wrist and begged, “Please don’t go!”

  Her mother resisted, and then lifted her opposite hand and slapped Çeda across the face so hard it sent Çeda reeling. Dardzada took her by the shoulders, thinking Çeda might try to stop Ahya again, but Çeda didn’t. She stood there, stunned, while Ahya left, the bell above the door jingled, and the darkness in the street beyond consumed her.

  Çeda had wanted to find a different memory. But now that this one dominated her thoughts, it felt the perfect one to use.

  The light before her was blinding. The air was so cold it stole her breath. She held herself tight, feeling eight years old all over again. “Please come back,” she whispered, allowing all her feelings of love and loss for her mother to well up inside her. “I need you.”

  She felt the asirim around her like never before. She felt those beyond the gateway as well. She felt as if she were one of them, not some distant descendant. She felt as if all of them, those few in the mortal realm and those in the land beyond, could meet in the light and hold hands with one another.

  And then she felt one more. A newcomer.

  A lump formed in Çeda’s throat.

  In the light ahead was a glimpse of gray. A shadow that grew into the form of a woman. She resolved from the light, Ahya, her mother, wearing a dress that seemed to change by the moment, woven of different cloths, different patterns. Ahya herself seemed an indeterminate age. She was young, then Çeda’s age, then the intense woman who’d been tortured and hung by her feet after going to slay a King. As she came nearer, however, she resolved into a woman in a cream-colored abaya, the very dress Ahya had worn when the two of them had gone deep into the desert to witness the flock of blazing blues.

  “Çeda,” she said.

  Her voice brought tears to Çeda’s eyes. “Memma.”

  Ahya looked around the plateau, stared up at Ashael, then gazed at the four desert gods who stood transfixed, children before their elder. She turned a circle and took in the asirim, especially Sehid-Alaz. She stared at the men and women beyond. For King Ihsan, she had an appraising look. A displeased, even resentful one f
or King Husamettín, which softened to one of regret, making Çeda wonder at all that must have passed between them as she inveigled her way into his life, and as he seeded her with her one and only child: Çeda.

  At last, her gaze returned to Çeda. “I’m so sorry, Çedamihn.”

  Çeda blinked and tears fell, hot rivers along her cheeks. “We need your help.”

  “I know.” And with this she took Çeda’s right hand. “You’ve forged the path, child. Now you just need to hold it.”

  She touched the old, puckered wound on the meat of Çeda’s thumb, where Çeda had poisoned herself on the thorn of an adichara. With that touch, the old wound came alive. It warmed, then burned. The feeling traveled up Çeda’s arm to her other tattoos. It wrapped around her back, rushed along her opposite arm. Soon, everywhere that was touched by ink burned with a bright energy.

  Smiling, Ahya released her hand and began backing away.

  “Wait!” Çeda said. “Where are you going?”

  “Hold the way, Çeda.”

  “Memma, stop! I don’t understand!”

  “Hold the way.” Ahya continued stepping backward until she was swallowed by the light. “Don’t let Ashael or the young gods tear it open.”

  Nearby, Ashael seemed to be considering Ahya’s final warning. Tulathan, Rhia, and Bakhi seemed enthralled, unable to do more than stare into Ashael’s deep-set eyes. Thaash was different. His breath came hard and heavy. His gaze kept slipping to the bright gateway, to the blood magi and the asirim around it.

  With a roar made of rage and frustration, he broke away, raised his sword high, and laid into the outermost circle of asirim. Many asirim, either too weak or too unaware of what was happening to stop him, fell to his blade. But Thaash wasn’t focused on them. He pressed beyond them to reach the innermost circle and cut down one of the blood magi, a spindly man with goggly eyes. The arc of his broad swing caught Esmeray across the face, and she crumpled with a sharp cry.