A Desert Torn Asunder

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  As Thaash rounded on Davud, Çeda rushed forward. Her tattoos, still aflame, granted her a power she’d felt only hints of in the past. She felt alive like never before, a goddess in her own right. She deflected Thaash’s initial blow. Then did so again while sliding left, blocking the god’s path to Davud.

  She’d managed to surprise the god of war, but he was recovering. His swings became mightier and the two of them fought viciously over the frost-covered ground. Çeda held her own for a time, but each of Thaash’s ringing blows put her farther back on her heels.

  Then a swing came that was too powerful to block. Çeda was lucky to escape with only a ringing strike to her helm. Her vision swam. Her heel caught on the body of the slain blood mage and she tumbled to the ground. As Thaash stalked toward her, ready to end her life, a dark shadow rushed in. Something buzzed angrily: Night’s Kiss. Husamettín was suddenly there, trading blows with the god of war.

  As Çeda regained her feet and tried to shake off the wound, Husamettín and Thaash fought. The King of Swords fell when he took a powerful kick to the chest, but by then he’d maneuvered the god of war around so his back was to the bulk of those gathered around the gateway. It left an opening for Frail Lemi, who rushed in with his greatspear, Umber. Thaash spun and blocked him, and the two fought, both releasing thunderous battle cries.

  Arrows tipped in ebon steel came blurring in from Emre. One clipped Thaash’s ribs. Another bit deep into his thigh.

  Çeda and Husamettín were both preparing to attack Thaash from opposite sides when the god roared and lifted his left arm high. Gripping his hand into a fist, he pulled his arm down, and suddenly Çeda’s limbs felt heavy. She felt as if ten stone, then twenty, had been added to her weight.

  She was driven to the ground. As was Husamettín and the others nearby.

  The last one standing was Frail Lemi, who cried out, muscles bulging, his neck straining, his skin bright red as he fought the spell.

  In the end it proved too much. Frail Lemi collapsed. Everyone—the blood magi, the asirim, the kings and queens, those fighting Thaash—were laid flat on the cold ground, unable to lift so much as a finger. As Çeda fought for breath, she struggled to maintain her link to her mother. It already felt tenuous, near to breaking, and was growing thinner by the moment.

  When Thaash returned his attention to Davud, Çeda felt it all slipping away. She was certain that everything she’d fought for, that they’d all fought for, would be lost when Thaash slew him—Davud, after all, was the lynchpin to the spell that kept the gateway from being torn open, thereby preventing Sharakhai’s destruction.

  Thaash apparently knew it. His spell complete, his warlike gaze shifted to Davud. He was just stalking toward him when Çeda’s tattoos flared, brighter than before. Çeda sensed it was coming from the gateway—she could feel something powerful approaching—but she could spare no time for it. The sudden vitality flowing through her tattoos allowed her to throw off Thaash’s spell. With a ragged cry, she stood, lunged forward, and with a mighty upward blow blocked Thaash’s swing, preventing him from slaying Davud where he lay.

  Çeda thought Thaash would turn on her, or swing for Davud again, but he didn’t. He stayed his sword, swung his gaze to the gateway and, with one hand raised against the brightness, peered into the light. The other young gods, though still in thrall to Ashael, stared at the gateway as well. Ashael seemed entranced too, but also wary, as if the focus of all his desires since waking was suddenly worthy of mistrust.

  To the left of the gateway, a glowing sigil appeared. Another appeared above it, then three more—five in all, fanning in an arc around the gateway’s brightness. The light grew less raucous, became bearable, even pleasant, to look upon. Within, a shadow could be discerned. A moment later, Ahya emerged. And this time, she wasn’t alone.

  Shapes resolved from the light behind her. They were tall and imposing, as Ashael was. One was black as night with eyes like stars. Another had scintillant skin and a crown of crystalline antlers. A third had eight arms which moved in dreamlike ways. Names came to Çeda: Iri, Treü, Raamajit, Annam, and Bellu. Five elders, five sigils.

  As the elder gods stepped onto the snow-covered plateau, the mortal men and women around it, suddenly freed from Thaash’s spell, stood and backed away. Ahya and the asirim likewise retreated, as did the young gods.

  Only Ashael remained in that inner circle with the other elders. He regarded his fellow gods with a mixture of defiance and fear, and the way he bowed over the wound in his chest, the misshapen spike of ebon steel, seemed more profound than before.

  The elders spoke in the same drowsy language Ashael had used earlier. How long it went on, Çeda couldn’t say, nor could she understand a single word. It became clear, though, that this was a reckoning of some sort. Or a negotiation. Perhaps it was both.

  Çeda feared that they’d come all this way and the young gods would still get what they wanted. Would the elder gods consider the world they’d left behind beneath their notice—might they allow the young gods to walk through the gateway, and in doing so lay waste to Sharakhai and the desert beyond?

  When the elders stopped speaking, the silence felt interminable. Iri, the god with skin as black as night, stepped forward and placed a hand on Ashael’s shoulder. His opposite hand wrapped around the crooked spike of ebon steel. The others gathered around Ashael and supported him.

  As Iri drew the spike outward, Ashael tilted his head to the sky and released a great lament of pain. His knees buckled, but the other gods held him steady.

  The spike was freed a moment later. Black blood flowed, but when Iri dropped the spike to the snow-covered earth and touched a finger to the open wound, the flow stemmed, then stopped altogether. Over the passage of several breaths, the wound was healed, becoming little more than a pucker, not unlike the small one on Çeda’s right thumb.

  Ashael stood taller and breathed deeply. Iri kissed him on the brow. Annam did the same, followed by the others. Their strange reunion complete, the gods turned and, with Ashael, walked beneath the arc of sigils, into the light. All but Iri, who stood and faced the young gods.

  Tulathan wept. Rhia stood stock still, her glittering eyes distant. Thaash, still holding his golden sword, stared angrily at the departing gods. Bakhi, meanwhile, spoke to Iri with hands clasped, the tenor of his voice pleading. When Iri spoke, Bakhi immediately fell silent. They listened, then nodded when Iri was done. Finally, without a single glance toward the gathered mortals, Iri turned and followed his fellow elders into the gateway.

  Leaving only Ahya, who stood before Çeda once more. “Sweet child,” she said, and waved to the brightness behind her. “You did all of this, and with no help from me.”

  “You did help—”

  “No,” Ahya said immediately. “I wronged you in life. I used you.” There were tears forming in her eyes. “In the end, though, you did it.”

  Çeda embraced her and whispered, “We did it. You. Me. All of us.”

  When Ahya released her at last, she began to retreat toward the light. “Farewell, Çedamihn.”

  “Farewell, memma.”

  Ahya’s form brightened until it was all but indistinguishable from the other shifting sheets of light. The asirim followed, stepping through the gateway one after another, to be met by those on the other side. Hand in hand, they traveled to the land beyond.

  Sehid-Alaz, crooked in form, so exhausted he could hardly keep his feet, watched them go.

  Çeda went to him, pulled him up, and kissed the crown of his head as the elder gods had done with Ashael, as Sehid-Alaz himself had done with Çeda when they’d first met. “Go,” she said to him, and led him toward the light. “Take your final rest.”

  As he limped by her side, Sehid-Alaz regarded her with jaundiced eyes, squeezed her hand and, when Çeda could follow him no more, smiled. “I’m proud of you, child.” He stepped into the light and was met
by his wife. As they walked together, their forms shifting to white, Sehid-Alaz seemed to unbend until the two of them walked proudly, unburdened at last, their heads held high.

  Then they were gone, and there was peace on the plateau. The light began to dim. The pillar spearing into the sunset sky dwindled, attenuating until it was but a glimmer. Then it winked out altogether. Only then did the sigils begin to soften.

  The ghul, Fezek, studied them intently with his cloudy gaze. When they faded from existence, he collapsed, his soul returned to the land beyond. In that same moment, Çeda stumbled backward, as did everyone else on the plateau. The tether drawing her toward the world beyond had been severed. The gate had closed. The world had begun to heal.

  No one knew what to say, especially not to the young gods, who stood staring at the lost gateway. With it gone, their dreams had vanished. They would never follow the elders to the world beyond. Çeda thought they would be furious, and perhaps they were, but their conversation with Iri seemed to have sobered them.

  To the east the moons had risen, two crescents over the vast expanse of the darkening desert. With hardly a look toward the mortals gathered on the mountain, Tulathan and Rhia held hands, stepped toward the moons, and disappeared in a flicker of moonlight. Bakhi described a line with one hand, and a wavering thread of light appeared. He stepped through it, and the thread winked out of existence with a sound like a rattlewing rousing. Thaash, the lone god remaining, did stare at those gathered on the plateau. His baleful gaze rested on Çeda for a long while, then on Ihsan and Husamettín. He looked as though he wanted to use the golden sword in his hand to slay them all, but he didn’t. He sent his sword into its sheath with a clack. Then he turned to stone, crumbled to dust, and was gone.

  As the warmth of the desert took the place of the unrelenting cold, Çeda stared down at the harbor, where the last demons were fleeing into the night. The sounds of battle faded, and an uneasy calm fell over the city.

  Chapter 54

  Near high sun the following day, Çeda and Emre were in the Red Bride’s main cabin. They’d managed a few hours sleep, but Çeda was wide awake. The city had been saved, but its future now hinged on the meeting about to take place.

  They’d eaten a simple breakfast of flatbread and olives. They’d scrubbed themselves clean with sifted sand, clearing away the blood, sweat, and grime from the previous day’s battle. Emre wore his scale armor breastplate, a wide leather belt, and thick bracers along his forearms. He carried his bow and a quiver of arrows. Çeda wore the armor of the White Wolf. She’d thought of wearing something less militant, but peace had not yet arrived—until it did, she wanted everyone to know that she was prepared to fight for her city’s freedom.

  “Ready?” Emre asked.

  Çeda strapped River’s Daughter to her side and nodded. “Ready.”

  They found Sümeya and Kameyl on deck sitting on low chairs and talking over cups of steaming kahve. They wore their Maiden’s black. Both were wounded. Kameyl had scrapes and cuts over the backs of her hands and a brilliant purple bruise that covered the right side of her face. Sümeya had a bandage over one shoulder, visible through a tear in her fighting dress that had yet to be repaired. On seeing Çeda and Emre, Sümeya set down her cup and rose; Kameyl did not.

  “You’re not coming?” Çeda asked Kameyl.

  The tall Blade Maiden stretched in her chair like a cat. “I’m done with politics.”

  Sümeya laughed. “As if you were ever in politics.”

  Kameyl ignored the gibe and waved to the harbor’s entrance, where a pavilion now stood. “Just tell me how bad it is when it’s all over.”

  The three of them, Çeda, Emre, and Sümeya, headed down the gangplank together.

  Their shattered fleet was still arrayed in its defensive arc. Some few ships were sandworthy, but most were not, their struts having been ruined to create the defensive line against the demonic horde. Shortly after the last of the demons had been routed, Husamettín had ordered over a dozen galleons to be towed further into the desert and readied.

  “In case Queen Alansal attacks,” he’d said.

  The rest of the ships remained precisely where they’d been the day before. Long into the night, they had been used chiefly as field hospitals, to tend to the wounded. Only when dawn’s golden light had broken over the eastern horizon had the attention shifted to the dead. It had been agreed that each nation would deal with their own as they saw fit, and it had taken hours to separate the mounds of dead—which were intermingled with the bodies of demons—and move them to their assigned locations.

  Çeda had proposed that the people of the desert, be they Sharakhani or desert tribespeople, be taken to the blooming fields later that day and buried beneath the dead adichara in honor of the asirim who had helped Davud and his fellow blood magi to prevent the gateway from opening. The other shaikhs had agreed, as had King Ihsan. King Husamettín hadn’t so much approved as not objected. So it was that, as they headed toward the harbor, they saw dozens of horse-drawn sleighs stacked with the dead headed for the blooming fields.

  It had been late into the night before Queen Alansal had finally agreed to discuss terms. The combined might of the royal navy, the Alliance, and Qaimir had been decimated. But so had Queen Alansal’s navy. There was no telling which side would win if hostilities resumed, particularly with the Mirean fleet’s main defense, the harbor gates, destroyed. The losses would be devastating on both sides, which was surely why Queen Alansal had grudgingly agreed to come and listen. Interestingly, although it was Ihsan who’d tendered the offer to her, it was Davud who’d convinced her. Alansal had apparently been reticent, but after speaking with Davud for nearly two hours, she’d accepted.

  Çeda wondered how earnest Alansal was about working toward reconciliation, though. Now that the sun had risen, and it was clear the city was no longer threatened by the horde or the young gods, would she see things differently? Would she still try to hold onto Sharakhai?

  Çeda, Emre, and Sümeya were just heading toward the pavilion when they spied King Ihsan standing near the prow of a royal galleon. His gaze was fixed on the pavilion. Or perhaps it was the dunebreakers and Alansal’s navy beyond the pavilion that had captured his attention. In his arms was his baby daughter, Ransaneh. He held her lovingly against his chest while swaying her back and forth. Nearby, Ransaneh’s stout wet nurse and two Blade Maidens stood in attendance.

  Çeda, Emre, and Sümeya hiked over the sand toward him. “Have you slept?” Çeda asked when they came near.

  “No,” Ihsan said, jutting his chin toward the harbor, “and neither have they.” Within the harbor, the Mirean navy could be seen making repairs, readying their ships to sail. Or to fight.

  “Do you know something we don’t?” Emre asked.

  “No, but old habits die hard, and it’s difficult to trust a woman who less than a day ago was ready to feed us to the horde if it meant she could keep the city.” He gave Ransaneh to the waiting wet nurse, smoothed his khalat down, and waved to the pavilion. “Shall we?”

  The four of them headed toward the pavilion and met Shaikh Aríz and Frail Lemi at the entrance. Emre and Aríz shook forearms, then hugged one another tightly.

  “You’re one lucky bastard,” Emre said to Aríz, “you know that?”

  Aríz had been one of those who’d led the valiant charge into the harbor, making way for more to enter as the horde approached.

  “Not luck”—Aríz’s puffed his chest out the way Frail Lemi often did while bragging—“but skill!”

  Frail Lemi laughed and shoved Aríz hard. “A bit of skill.” The big man stared at Aríz through a tiny gap between his thumb and forefinger. “A bit.”

  Emre pointed to a ruby brooch on Aríz’s chest. “Wasn’t that Shal’alara’s?”

  The saying went that Shal’alara had more lives than a cat, which Shal’alara herself attributed to the very brooch
Aríz now wore. She’d displayed it often on the colorful head scarves and turbans she liked to wear.

  Aríz, suddenly serious, touched the brooch fondly. “It was, yes. She gave it to me before the battle. She said it would protect me.”

  Shal’alara had died in a valiant charge to keep the demons from gaining the harbor. Aríz’s own charge to gain the harbor had been every bit as brave and foolhardy, and yet he’d survived. Çeda didn’t want to attribute either outcome to something so small as a brooch, but at the same time she found herself hoping Shal’alara’s final gift granted Aríz a long and fruitful life.

  After a moment of silence to honor the dead, all six of them headed into the pavilion, where the floor was covered in a myriad of carpets and two vast rings of pillows had been set out. The inner ring of pillows was meant for the meeting’s primary participants, the outer for advisors, vizirs, and honored guests. King Hektor and Ramahd were already sitting in their places in the inner ring, across from the entrance.

  Çeda bowed her head to King Hektor, then shared a small smile with Ramahd. “Lord Amansir,” she said.

  “Çedamihn,” Ramahd said back. His smile deepened, becoming familiar. Perhaps too familiar.

  It earned him a glare from Emre, but Ramahd made nothing of it and soon he, Çeda, and Aríz had taken their places in the inner circle of pillows, while Sümeya and Frail Lemi sat behind them. King Ihsan folded himself onto a nearby pillow, somehow managing to look regal while doing so.

  As the pavilion filled with shaikhs, vizirs, and military commanders, Çeda’s eye was caught by the curious young man in the far corner. His name was Willem. Davud had apparently discovered him hiding in the collegia. There was a bright-eyed innocence to him that warred with the general feeling of tension that pervaded the pavilion. He sat at a low table with a book, inkwell, and quill laid out before him, apparently ready to chronicle the council that was about to commence.

  With Davud’s blessing, Willem had taken up Fezek’s journal, where he’d kept notes and formulated the epic poem that catalogued the grand tale of the gateway’s making and eventual closing. Çeda wondered whether Willem was up to the task—she wasn’t entirely comfortable with how she might be portrayed—but she liked the idea that the entire saga would be recorded. It was a tale that deserved retelling.