She was frustrated at how wrong she’d been. She’d chosen the night of Beht Zha’ir for this raid primarily because the asirim were more awake, and she thought it might give them more ability to oppose the Kings’ will. But she’d also chosen it because Rhia would be full. Beşir’s bloody verse had been one of those hidden in moon letters in her mother’s book of poems.
Sharp of eye,
And quick of wit,
The King of Amberlark;
With wave of hand,
On cooling sand,
Slips he into the dark.
King will shift,
’Twixt light and dark,
The gift of onyx sky;
Shadows play,
In dark of day,
Yet not ’neath Rhia’s eye.
Not ’neath Rhia’s eye. It seemed to indicate he would be weakened by Rhia’s golden glow, or that his power would be stripped of him while Rhia stared down from the heavens. Of all the Kings, she’d thought them safe from Beşir.
Please, Çeda whispered to Nalamae, let him be taken by his wounds. Or if not his wounds then the adichara poison—she’d seen a scattering of small punctures all over his face from the thorns.
Sedef, picking up on her thoughts, glanced her way. You gaze upon a mirage. The Kings’ blood is proof against the adichara’s poison.
He was right, of course. And there was little hope of Beşir dying from the sheer trauma of his wounds. Assuming he’d reached safety—and surely he had—the King would merely consume one of the healing draughts. The Kings had few after the Night of Endless Swords, a night that had seen their three main caches of elixirs destroyed or taken, but surely all the Kings still had some squirreled away. At least she’d forced him to consume one, maybe several, thereby shrinking what must be an already-meager supply.
Her makeshift litter sighed as she ran down along a dune to the trough. As she reached the far crest, she spotted it at last: Leorah’s ship, a small, two-masted yacht known as Wadi’s Gait, barely visible under the dim light of the stars.
She pushed herself hard and reached it as a small lantern was lit on the deck, casting a golden glow against the rigging, the sails, and the ancient woman standing on deck, waiting. To all who saw her, she looked like Çeda’s great-grandmother, Leorah, but in truth she was Leorah’s sister, Devorah. The amethyst on her right hand, a purple stone that glittered like a shooting star in the lamplight, was one of Iri’s four sacred stones—the Tears of Tulathan—which could, and did, store the soul of a woman or man. Leorah and her sister Devorah had been using it for decades to share Leorah’s body. When the sun set, Leorah diminished and Devorah’s soul woke. She would live out her hours, enjoying the moon and the stars and the cool desert air. When the sun rose, Devorah relinquished her hold, and Leorah’s will became dominant once more.
A half-dozen women wearing battle dresses similar to Çeda’s stood beside Devorah. They were but some of the warriors who’d agreed, with Macide’s blessing, to join Çeda in her quest to free the asirim. “Shieldwives,” they’d dubbed themselves. We protect the tribe, Jenise, the boldest among them, had said to Çeda, and we protect you. We are a shield for our people.
The six women dropped down to the sand and met Çeda and Sedef. The first three lifted Sümeya from the litter and carried her up the gangplank and into the ship’s hold. The other three, despite Çeda’s attempts to prepare them, stopped well short of Sedef’s towering shape with looks of naked fear on their faces. They refused to go near him. Sedef, after the battle with Beşir, was on edge as well, so Çeda took Melis from his arms and bid him return to the others until they set sail.
Where will we go? he asked. There was a defensive tone to his words, bordering on fear.
To the desert, Çeda replied.
He stared at her, his face unyielding as granite. You said we would free Sehid-Alaz.
She knew then that he’d guessed her intentions. She’d thought he might the moment they saw the women warriors standing on the deck. Çeda had been working tirelessly to mask her thoughts, but she’d clearly failed.
There was nothing to do about it now, though. We go to the desert, she said to him, so that you and the others can bond with these women.
Distaste flooded his mind even as revulsion and fear grew on the faces of the women at the mere sight of him.
Bond . . .
Yes, Çeda replied, bond . . . I’m not strong enough to hold all of you forever. I need others, my tribe—our tribe—to help me.
Sedef stared at each of the Shieldwives in turn with a look not unlike the one he’d given Çeda before charging her in the blooming fields. Çeda tried to read his thoughts, but felt only raw emotion. Hatred. Anger. And no small amount of confusion. She was about to say something, to try to convince him that this was the right path to take, when he turned and trudged away. As he headed toward the other asirim he left a coldness in his wake that, while not unexpected, was certainly disheartening.
Change and grief are bitter siblings, Çeda’s mother used to say, one chained to the other. We fight for the world we want, Çeda, but know that the world will fight back. Be ready for the tears. Shed them even as you return to battle.
Çeda brought Melis to the deck and gave her over to Jenise, a woman with striking green-and-gold eyes who Çeda had already come to trust. Like the other Shieldwives, she was not wholly comfortable in the presence of the Blade Maidens, but for Çeda’s sake she accepted them.
“What?” Çeda said.
Jenise forced a smile. “Nothing.”
With the help of the others, Jenise carried Melis belowdecks. Çeda wished they had more time to rest, but dawn would soon be on them, and they had to be well away from the blooming fields by then, so they set sail soon after. As the yacht gained speed, the asirim fell in behind. Their dark forms clustering in the yacht’s wake, they looked like a pack of hungry jackals.
Çeda left the care of Melis and Sümeya to the others, choosing instead to sit with Devorah amidships in chairs that were fastened to the deck.
“Well?” Devorah asked.
Çeda told her everything, from the asirim’s reaction to Beşir’s attack.
“It’s curious about Beşir’s bloody verse,” Devorah said, “but we knew the Kings would respond in some way.” The lamp swinging from a hook on the boom made the crags in her face seem to sway. “More worrisome are the asirim, how they’ll take to the others.”
Far behind the ship, one of the asirim yipped. Others picked up the call, howling or barking as they ran.
Çeda felt a deep sorrow for all they’d been through. “They’ll need time to adjust.”
Devorah waved a hand, indicating not the ship, but the women crewing it. “We have little enough to grant them. We must begin the bonding soon.”
“I know.” Çeda flexed her right hand. The pain was bad but manageable. Their growing distance from the blooming fields helped, but Çeda knew it was going to grow worse in the days ahead. Left unchecked, it would eventually overwhelm her. The only question was whether they could forge the bonds between the asirim and the Shieldwives before that happened. “We’ll start as soon as we join up with the other two ships.”
“I tell you again,” a voice came from the hatchway, “you cannot risk more than a week.”
Çeda and Devorah turned to see Sümeya making her way unsteadily toward them. In place of her turban, a bandage now wrapped her head. She reached a chair and lowered herself gingerly into it, wincing as she went.
“How do you feel?” Çeda asked.
One eye pinched more than the other as a wave of pain swept over Sümeya’s face. “Like a pair of desert titans are taking turns hammering my skull.” She rolled her tongue inside her cheek, repositioning the pinch of black lotus she’d been given to stave off the worst of her pain.
“Why only seven days?” Devo
rah asked.
“The Kings may decide to retreat,” Sümeya said, “to further fortify the city. If that happens, Malasan and Mirea will make for Sharakhai like falcons. And we don’t know what Qaimir has planned. If the rumors of marriage between Kiral and Meryam are true, that means reinforcements from Qaimir are on their way.” The ship rolled over a dune, shifting them all in their seats. “If we’re to rescue your King, Sehid-Alaz, it must be soon.”
They’d had this argument several times. And Çeda didn’t disagree, but to leave for Sharakhai when these women were unprepared would doom their mission from the start. “We’ll move as fast as we can.”
Sümeya held her eye. “One week, Çeda.”
“We’ll move as fast as we can.”
They sailed through the following day and near nightfall reached a small oasis where two more yachts, Red Bride and The Piteous Wagtail, were moored. On them were eleven more Shieldwives.
With night approaching, Çeda thought it unwise to try bonding now. She wanted to make their attempt in the light of the day, free of the moons’ influence. And she wanted to give everyone—the Shieldwives and the asirim—more time to acclimate to one another.
As they ate a simple meal of flatbread and hummus and pickled onions, however, Çeda started having second thoughts. She worried that waiting would do them no good. Her right arm ached terribly. Worse, she felt echoes of emotion from the asirim, who huddled closely in the desert. Many were worried they’d made the wrong decision. They yearned for sleep beneath the adichara, not the miserable vistas of the open desert. Some nearly broke away, to try to go off on their own. Each time it happened, the urge was quickly put down, but not without the occasional scuffle during the night. Çeda heard them—as did the rest of the camp—growling and scrapping, then yowling in pain as Mavra or Sedef returned their family to order.
A meal that had begun by sharing tales over a fire fell into to an uncomfortable silence. Çeda tried to lighten the mood by telling them a tale of her days running the streets. Emre had come up with the scheme of selling skunkweed as a rare aphrodisiac to anyone who looked remotely new to the spice market. The story ended with Yahya, the man who sold red lotus powder, the most expensive aphrodisiac to be found in Sharakhai, giving chase and Emre trying to leap over a manure cart only to trip and fall headfirst into the steaming pile. Yahya had ended up laughing so hard he’d forgiven Emre, and even given him a vial of red lotus.
“You’re going to need it,” Yahya told him. “When word gets out that you use skunkweed, no woman is going to want to sleep with you.”
“It doesn’t have to get out,” Emre had pleaded.
“Oh, yes it does,” Yahya had replied with a smile. “I’ll make sure of it.”
It was a story that never failed to raise a laugh, but with Çeda’s arm increasingly hot and painful, and everyone so conscious of the asirim, it went over like a marriage proposal at a funeral.
That night Çeda lay awake while Sümeya lay in the bunk across from her. They stared at one another, both worried. For a long while, Sümeya looked as if she was about to say something, but she turned to face the hull instead. Çeda knew what she was going to say: Çeda had overextended herself by taking Mavra’s entire family. The bond she’d formed with them was already weakening, and the desire to break it was like an infection that was only going to spread.
In the morning, Çeda called the Shieldwives together. They gathered on the sand away from the ships. Leorah was having trouble with the heat and remained on Wadi’s Gait. Melis said she’d remain as well, claiming Leorah needed looking after. Even when Leorah told her to go, she remained, saying her presence was the last thing the ritual needed.
“The Shieldwives may not accept you yet,” Çeda had said to her in a low voice, “but they need to. And they will, if only you’ll reach out to them.”
Melis frowned. “I’m not here to make friends, Çeda.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I’ve been asking myself that very same thing.”
Çeda paused, wondering how to broach the subject. Attack it head on, she thought to herself. At least then we’ll both know where the other stands. “The other night, at the blooming fields, you drew your weapon after explicit instructions not to.”
“What of it?”
“I don’t claim to have as much experience as you or Sümeya. Far from it. Except when it comes to the asirim.”
“As you say.”
“If you’re going to remain . . .” Çeda fumbled for the right words. She’d always looked up to Melis. She was a rock, and here Çeda was, trying to order her around. “You have to accept my orders, Melis. Do you understand? It can’t be any other way.”
It looked as if Melis were trying out a thousand responses before replying in a simple, calm voice, “Very well.”
Çeda waited for more, but Melis seemed unwilling to take it any further. “Very well,” she said in reply.
Çeda left Melis there and joined the Shieldwives on the sand. Sümeya stood by her side. The rest formed a line, all of them wearing the same sand-colored battle dresses and turbans as Çeda. Their shamshirs hung easily at their sides as they faced the asirim, who huddled in the distance like a herd of frightened oryx.
Çeda motioned to Ramela, a woman twice Çeda’s age and calm as a pillar of stone. She was a broad woman with a wide face who had a penchant for biting the insides of her cheeks, especially when she was nervous. She did so now while staring at the asirim in the distance.
“As we said,” Çeda prompted. “Raise your hand. Feel for them.”
Ramela stepped forward and swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the asirim as if, were she to look anywhere else, she would lose heart.
Sümeya snorted and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “Every single Blade Maiden goes through this ritual. Are the Shieldwives lesser women than they?”
It was transparent manipulation, but it worked. Ramela’s look hardened as she took Sümeya in from head to toe. When she turned her gaze back to the asirim, it was with a stiff back and a wooden stare.
“Good,” Çeda said. “Now raise your hand.”
Ramela complied, lifting her right hand so that her palm faced outward. In the center of her hand was a puckered wound, the reminder of the ritual she and all the rest had performed two weeks ago with Çeda guiding them. Like Çeda’s wound, it was the kiss of an adichara thorn. The Shieldwives had been twenty-five in number at the time, but eight of them had succumbed to the poison. The rest had been tattooed by Leorah, who had worked tirelessly to copy Zaïde’s techniques and hem the poison in. It gave each woman a connection to the adichara that would serve as a conduit to the asirim. It was this that Ramela needed to draw upon now, only she’d never done it before and was clearly having trouble.
Her wide brow furrowed. Her nostrils flared.
“One of them will stand out to you,” Çeda said to her. “Call that one near.”
Ramela’s eyes flicked to Sümeya. The two women were of an age, but in that moment, Ramela looked like a girl not yet passed into womanhood. With a show of will, she focused her attention on the asirim. Soon one of them was breaking from the others, crawling on all fours, then standing and walking with a strange gait—sideways, as if he couldn’t bear to look upon the gathered women directly. He had the bearing of a man bent with age, but his resolve was undeniably powerful.
Your name, Çeda called to him.
An echo of the name he’d once used came to her. Amile.
His fury at all that had happened was bright as molten steel. Everything in his heartbreaking past fueled it: Beht Ihman, the endless torture he’d endured, the murders he’d been forced to commit in the name of the Kings, the very presence of two Blade Maidens, whom all the asirim despised. Most of all, he hated that he and his family had just been freed only to be enslaved once more. He knew that those before him were
his kin. He just didn’t care.
“Choose another,” Çeda said, trying to keep her growing concern from leeching into her voice, “not Amile.”
“You said to choose the one that stands out,” Ramela replied. “Amile’s anger is a reflection of my own.” Ramela had lost five brothers and two sisters to the Kings, four of them in an ambush near Sharakhai’s western harbor after trading raw gemstones in the city.
“You cannot fathom the anger of the asirim,” Çeda said. “You cannot know how deeply it runs.”
“He is the one I choose.”
Ramela was a proud woman and spoke with conviction. Çeda looked to Sümeya, who shrugged and nodded. Çeda wasn’t wholly comfortable with it, but in the end agreed with her. If anyone could bond with Amile, Ramela could.
Çeda watched as Amile approached using that crooked gait of his. He wore only a tattered loincloth. He was bald. His beard was filthy with dirt and sand. As he neared the line of women, he crouched low and moved like a crab, his thin arms akimbo. His eyes flicked between Ramela and Çeda and the rest with a restrained rage, a small glimpse into the well of fury confined within him. When he came within a few paces of Ramela he crouched low, folded his knees, and placed his hands wide upon the sand. He would only look sidelong at Ramela, never in the eyes.
A thing from a nightmare, Çeda thought.
Amile glanced at her, smiled a wicked smile, then returned his attention to Ramela. A muffled sort of conversation was happening between them. Just what it was, Çeda couldn’t say, but the longer it happened, the more concerned she became.
“Draw him near,” Çeda said. She couldn’t tell if Ramela had heard. “Draw him near, Ramela. Join hands, and I’ll release my hold on him.”
Ramela was beginning to tremble. Her hand with the puckered scar and the intricate tattoos was lowering. An image flashed through Çeda’s mind of Amile leaping aboard a ship. Ramela had a strong and immediate reaction to it: a memory of her own, of the fears she’d had for her family when she’d learned how a lone asirim had torn through the crew of her family’s ship, killing all before a single Blade Maiden or Silver Spear could step foot on deck. Amile’s memory was not of the same attack on Ramela’s family, but it was similar, one of many mass murders he’d been forced to commit.
Beneath the Twisted Trees Page 10
