Ramahd feels the shaft sticking out of his chest.
He touches it with one hand, and through it feels Meryam’s will, feels the focus of her attention, which is on a skiff easing into motion along the Haddah. He feels those to whom she is bonded. Hamzakiir is the strongest of them, but from Meryam’s state of deep concentration he feels two Maidens as well, the wardens of their respective hands.
Meryam feels what they feel, hears what they hear. She passes orders to them and they obey. She is near the point of exhaustion, but is intent on finally capturing Ramahd, so much so that she can focus on little but that one place in Sharakhai, that one mission. In doing so she’s let her guard down. Ramahd feels the ship’s cabin in which she lay, staring at the beams running across the ceiling as she orchestrates things from some distant part of the Shangazi.
Ramahd feels for the threads. Mighty Alu, there are so many, and each is a silhouette in the night, making it nearly impossible to tell them apart. The more time he wastes, the more likely the Maidens and Hamzakiir will have them, but he can’t afford be clumsy either. If Meryam gets even a hint of what he’s doing, she’ll know everything.
He grips the arrow shaft tighter, pulls it deeper into his chest. The pain becomes bright as a newborn star and nearly throws him from the dream, but he remains and more importantly is given what he needs. The pain is like a flash of lightning in the night. In that bright, momentary image, the bonded souls of Meryam’s grand web are revealed, and Ramahd pinpoints the one he’s searching for: Mateo Abrantes, his countryman, a vice admiral in the fleet whom he must free from Meryam’s influence in order for the next part of his plan to work.
It isn’t enough to expose Meryam to the Kings of Sharakhai. Do that and she will likely retain Qaimir’s throne despite her crimes. No, he needs allies in Qaimir too, and the way to them is through Mateo and Duke Hektor.
For Ramahd, dispelling magic is simple enough. It is akin to the slice of a knife. The swing of a sword. But the altering of a spell is something altogether different. With Mateo, he’s dealing with a spell Meryam already forged between them. It allowed her to know his whereabouts, to communicate with him, to dominate his mind and body if need be. For Mateo to regain free will without Meryam’s suspecting, he cannot mindlessly cut the spell in two. He needs to unweave it, leaving the threads of the spell intact, then make it anew.
As he begins the delicate process, Mateo’s silhouette dims, and Ramahd is forced to pull on the shaft of the black arrow once more. The pain makes him careless. For several, heart-pounding moments, he’s drawn to the Haddah. He sees the skiff through his own eyes and is certain he’s ruined it all.
But then his gaze shifts. He sees the skiff flying along the Haddah through Hamzakiir’s eyes. Sees the asirim giving chase. One nears and leaps high into the air, ready to fall upon Davud, but before it can it strikes a magical shield that flares to life in a burst of azure light. As Hamzakiir urges his horse into a gallop and casts his own spell to shatter the magical shield, Ramahd regains himself and the scene fades.
As quickly as he dares, Ramahd continues, tugging at the threads of the spell until they’re free. Then, just as Fezek’s mother did with the ribbons and reeds of her baskets, he begins the process of remaking the design.
When the vision fades, Ramahd pulls the arrow deeper into his chest, this time with both hands. Searing pain runs through him, and with it the bright flash of lightning. He sees the Maidens on their horses as they near the skiff. Sees Cicio, one hand on the tiller, firing more bolts from his crossbow at the galloping asirim.
As the brightness fades, Ramahd sees Mateo. This is the last time he’ll be able to do it; Meryam’s curiosity is rising and she’ll surely investigate if he tries it again.
So on he weaves, reworking the threads of Meryam’s bond, pulling them just so until the weave is tight. The design is still intact, but it’s different now, the spell rendered almost useless. From a distance it will be indistinguishable from the previous spell, or so Ramahd hopes. Assuming that’s true, Mateo will awaken from the compulsion Meryam has over him. And when he does, he’ll return to Alu’s temple in Sharakhai, and Meryam will be none the wiser.
Done at last, Ramahd rips the arrow from his chest.
Cicio guided the skiff around a bend in the river. They were well into the Shallows and taking a bend, one of several that cut snakelike through the city’s poor western quarter. The skiff, powered by a gale Davud had summoned, was moving faster than a prized akhala. It bucked and twisted and shifted in the wind, and it was all Cicio could do to keep it on course.
He had no idea how they’d made it this far. Davud had summoned a great wind to propel the craft at breakneck speeds, and two of the asir had still caught up to them, but over and over they’d been rebuffed by the wild, bright spells cast by the two magi.
The Blade Maidens had quickly joined the asir on their black horses. Each bore a bow, which they used with frightening speed to send a steady rain of arrows against the skiff. The shield had been proof against the first volleys, but then one of the Maidens had given a sharp whistle. An order, though what it might mean he had no idea—not until a split-second later, when the next arrow came speeding in. A great shattering pattern appeared as if the domed shield were made not of arcane energy, but cerulean glass.
Esmeray let out a yelp, not from being struck by the arrow, Cicio realized, but from the shield breaking. The only thing that had saved her from the arrow was that in piercing the shield its path had been altered, forcing it to bite harmlessly into the wooden hull.
More arrows followed. Each produced another bright flash and a rent in the shield. Each made Esmeray grunt as she gritted her teeth and concentrated harder to keep the spell alive. They were hypnotic, those blue, spitfire flashes, and nearly made Cicio lose control of the skiff when the starboard ski thudded over a massive rock he hadn’t been able to see. When one of the arrows struck the gunwales, he pulled it out and saw that it was tipped with black. Ebon steel, he realized, able to pierce Esmeray’s magic where mundane steel could not.
Arrow after arrow came homing in on Esmeray as the Maidens’ deadly aim adjusted to the effects of the magical shield. But Esmeray was smart. She adjusted the shield, altering the angle. Eventually, however, there were simply too many. One sunk into the meat of her thigh; another grazed her shoulder.
Just then Davud adjusted the wind. They were already outdistancing the horses, so he could afford time to force the wind toward their enemies. It scoured the riverbed, and struck with such force that the asirim were picked up and blown toward the bank and several of the horses toppled. The other horses were spooked. They slowed and shook their heads or reared as the wind tore at exposed skin and eyes and nostrils.
A mountain of dust had already been lifted, but Davud shifted the wind again, drawing it toward them to cover their passage. Cicio continued to guide the skiff, but peered beyond the cloud for the greatest danger: Hamzakiir on his silver akhala. Unlike the Blade Maidens, he hadn’t taken the path down to the riverbed. He’d ridden along the riverside instead.
Cicio saw no sign of Hamzakiir, however, and the sounds of pursuit faded. They’d been fortunate thus far, all things considered, but Cicio knew it couldn’t last. Davud was tired. Esmeray was bleeding. And Ramahd had yet to wake. They were nearing the point where they had to pull off their final trick or lose themselves to the Blade Maidens. Cicio lifted his loose, straw-filled effigy into place beside him. Davud did the same with his, tying it in place with the twine they’d prepared earlier so that it looked like someone was slumped over the side of the gunwales. He leaned Esmeray’s into the crook at the ship’s prow before helping her with the arrow in her thigh.
The fourth simulacrum they left lying beside Ramahd. But Ramahd himself . . . Mighty Alu, he said it wouldn’t take long. Every moment since Ramahd had spasmed had given Cicio hope he was waking. But Ramahd had only continued to moan, to cur
l his shoulders as if he’d been struck in the chest—his hands even moved there as if grasping an arrow shaft—but he still wasn’t awake.
Davud pulled the arrow out of Esmeray’s thigh and cauterized the wound with one glowing finger. Esmeray sucked air through her teeth each time he touched her skin, but to her credit didn’t cry out from the pain. The skiff neared the final bend before heading east toward the city’s ancient inner walls. Their plan depended on their abandoning the skiff.
“No time left,” Davud said, echoing Cicio’s thoughts.
Cicio looked back to the great cloud of dust. He could just hear the sound of galloping horses over the wind. An asir howled, making Cicio’s skin crawl. After one last look at Ramahd, he nodded. “Very well,” he said, and tied the tiller into position.
With Davud’s help, Cicio lifted Ramahd and held him tight along the port gunwales. Other than a few light twitches, Ramahd was a dead weight. Cicio levered his legs over and did his best to take the drop gently and to cushion Ramahd’s fall, but the craft was still moving at great speed and they fell hard. Despite the two thick shirts he wore, the skin along his back and shoulders felt like a grater was being taken to them. The pain flared a moment later. The thick cloth of his trousers was torn and his hip took a nasty cut along the stones. But it could have been worse, and Ramahd hadn’t sustained much more than deep scrapes along his cheek and forehead.
Davud followed and was similarly awkward in his landing. Esmeray, meanwhile, had remained in the skiff. She moved about the craft, touching each of the effigies. Something inside their chests glowed red, flaring like a windblown ember before fading to nothing. As she touched the one at the rear, Cicio felt his heart trip, felt a sympathetic heartbeat pick up inside the crude form at the tiller.
The last one complete, Esmeray leapt from the skiff. She crouched as she landed, arms spread wide to balance herself, and somehow managed to keep her feet as she came to a skidding halt.
Then the four of them were off, Cicio and Esmeray carrying Ramahd between them while Davud used the wind to shift the angle of the skiff so that it continued along the riverbed toward the dark, looming line of the old city walls. He caught up to them just as they were maneuvering Ramahd up the bank and behind an old, overturned apple cart. Moments later, the Blade Maidens and their horses burst from the cloud of dust like death’s servants.
Onward they galloped, hunting the skiff, the asirim bounding and baying in their wake. All knew the Blade Maidens could follow one’s heart, likely the asirim could as well, which was precisely why Esmeray had cast her spell over the effigies, one that mimicked their heartbeats while masking their true hearts.
As the dark silhouettes of the Maidens and asirim dwindled, Ramahd finally stirred. He groaned and his head lolled. He opened his eyes and took in his surroundings, clearly confused. He stared down at his chest, at the spot his hands had been clutching, then took in Cicio with a weak smile.
“It’s done,” he croaked.
“Remain quiet, my lord,” Cicio replied in Qaimiran. “We’re nearly safe.”
Indeed, as they headed into the cramped streets of the Shallows, Cicio was amazed that they’d somehow succeeded. But that was when he heard it, a soft patter against the ground behind them.
He turned just in time to see one of the asir, the smallest of them, barreling into his chest. He was thrown backward onto the dry ground and took a bite to one shoulder, a rake of claws to his chest and neck. The ravenous face of an emaciated child was inches from his own, its lips pulled back to reveal yellowed teeth glistening in the darkness, slick with his own blood.
Its strength was incredible. He couldn’t fight it.
But then, Alu be praised, it was being lifted off him. Not by Davud, nor Esmeray, but by Fezek the ghul. The asirim hissed and cut at him, tore his bluish skin, but Fezek seemed not to care. With his own inhuman strength he slammed the asir down onto the dusty street then stomped on its head with a crunch. It twitched once, then went still.
They were just turning up a street when they heard hooves, saw a tall silver akhala enter the street ahead. Hamzakiir, in his guise as King Kiral, sat high in the saddle, the silver sword, Sunshearer, held easily in one hand.
“Perhaps I should have remained at home,” Fezek said in his reedy voice. Then he picked up a massive wooden beam from the pile of a partially collapsed structure and loped toward the King.
Bright orange flame whipped from Hamzakiir’s hand and struck Fezek in the leg. His leg shattered and he fell.
“Oh, great!” Fezek shouted, not in pain or surprise, but heartfelt annoyance.
A black serpent of potent magic flew from Esmeray’s hands toward Hamzakiir. He cut it in two with Sunshearer. He did the same with next, and the next. By then Esmeray had fallen to one knee, her magic spent. Cicio stared, unsure what to do. Ramahd, recovered at last, broke away from Cicio, but halted when he saw what was happening.
Hamzakiir was staring intently at Davud. And Davud, in turn, was staring back. Either could have cast a spell and launched it at the other, but neither did. Some unspoken agreement seemed to pass between them. What it might be, and what might have caused it, Cicio had no idea.
Davud, never taking his eyes from Hamzakiir, waved for them to continue down the street without him. “Go.”
Cicio wasn’t about to question it. He went to pick up Fezek, and Ramahd helped. Together with Esmeray, they did as Davud had instructed. They moved slowly, warily down the street, gazes alternating between Hamzakiir on his tall horse and Davud, who looked like a hero from ages past, Bahri Al’sir orchestrating another of his famous escapes.
Hamzakiir glanced at them only once. He looked confused, a man lost. When they turned the next corner and Davud rejoined them, the clopping of the silver akhala’s hooves resumed, fading until they were swallowed by the night.
Chapter 43
IHSAN SAT IN A SIMPLE WOODEN chair in a cell beneath Eventide. Nearby, in his usual position in the corner, was Zeheb, their fallen King of Whispers. Blankets covered the walls, three layers of carpets were lain across the floor—protections meant to save Zeheb from himself when he slipped into one of his fits.
King Beşir, leaning against the wall near the door, sniffed loudly. Arms crossed over his chest, an air of impatience on his drawn face, he looked like a particularly well dressed shisha den tough. “Can’t we hurry this along?”
Ihsan glanced up, allowing a bit of his annoyance to show through. “I don’t know if you recall, but sifting through the whispers took him plenty of time even when he was sane.” Still, they had been at it a while. He snapped his fingers before Zeheb’s eyes. “Are you searching for him, Zeheb? Have you found King Emir?”
Zeheb, wearing only night clothes, sat with his legs pulled up to his chest, rocking back and forth like a child who’d become lost and had given up on ever being found. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes lifeless. With fully half his former bulk gone, his skin hung in drapes, which made Ihsan wonder whether Zeheb’s dispassion for food and drink would eventually do Ihsan’s work for him.
Over the past several weeks, another King, usually Beşir but sometimes Cahil or Sukru, had joined Ihsan to oversee his interrogations. It was tacit admission of Kiral’s distrust of Ihsan. The most surprising thing about it wasn’t that Kiral had taken this measure, but that he’d started doing it only after Meryam had become his wife.
“Come, Zeheb.” Ihsan allowed a trickle of power to leak into his words. “We need to find where King Emir is before the attack begins.”
It was a tricky balance, these interrogations. He could easily have used more power, but he couldn’t have this burbling brook of a man speaking too openly. To be sure, he needed Zeheb to say something—he didn’t want the other Kings to suspect he wasn’t trying, after all—but there was real danger in it. Zeheb knew too many of Ihsan’s secrets, which was of course the reason Ihsan had pushed him over th
e edge into madness in the first place. The more power Ihsan used, the more lucid Zeheb became, and the more lucid he became, the more likely he was to say something Ihsan would come to regret. So he kept his power to a minimum, if he used it at all, when others were here to witness it.
“Zeheb, tell me where King Emir can be found.”
Zeheb mumbled, his head rocking against the thick padding affixed to the wall, his eyes distant, his lips quavering. Something about stone and sand and darkness. And noise. “Hissing. Kissing. A thousand hearts missing.”
Beşir frowned. “Why, after decades of threats from his father, would Emir choose to attack now?” Despite the man’s skill at dealing death, Beşir was not often given to violence, but just then he looked like he was ready to push himself off the wall and beat the answers from Zeheb.
King Emir was the son of Surrahdi, the Mad King of Malasan. Surrahdi had died, apparently of natural causes, just a few months ago. For years the Mad King had professed a desire to snatch the Amber Jewel from the Kings of Sharakhai—never to Ihsan’s face, of course, never to any of the Kings, but the rumors in Samaril, their capital, were rife. There had been several times over the past decades when Ihsan had been sure an attack was imminent. Their spies and informants had confirmed as much. But the invasions had never materialized.
None would admit it, but the Kings of Sharakhai had all breathed a sigh of relief upon learning of Surrahdi’s death. After the news had arrived, they’d thought their eastern border safe, at least for a time. King Emir wasn’t shy about wielding the power of the throne, but he’d inherited only a portion of his dead father’s truculence. Which made Beşir’s question a good one. Why now, only after the Mad King’s death, had they found the nerve to invade?
“It may be as simple as Mirea choosing to invade as well,” Ihsan reasoned. “They didn’t want to see the city taken by another power. Or we might look no further than blood. Emir might have believed invasion was the only way to uphold his father’s legacy.”
Beneath the Twisted Trees Page 41
