The Flames of Shadam Khoreh

by Bradley Beaulieu

  He followed, and soon, far ahead, he saw golden light coming through the trees. When they came closer, he could see a bearskin in the middle of a small clearing with a brass lamp sitting in its center. Elean strode onto the bearskin. Only then, by the light of the lamp, did he realize she was wearing no shoes. He shook his head at the Haelish. Were his shoes taken from him, he would huddle and shiver, as any proper man would, but Elean did none of these things. She seemed completely at ease with the burgeoning winter.

  She motioned for him to step onto the skin. He did so and faced her. He knew she was tall, but it didn’t quite strike him until he stood eye-to-eye with this cruel yet graceful queen. Her eyes, as he’d seen when they’d first met in Kürad’s yurt, were sunken and dark. Her cheeks were drawn. Her appetite would be low by this point. She would keep down perhaps half of every meal she ate.

  “You know of the withering,” Elean said. Not a question, but a simple statement.

  “There isn’t a man from Anuskaya who would not.”

  “You know the signs? You would be able to tell if someone has it with certainty?”

  He hesitated, confused. “Of course.”

  Elean looked to his ruined eye, then stared into his good one. “Would you look at me? Tell me what you see?”

  He nearly laughed. “Can there be any doubt?”

  She did not laugh in turn, nor did she smile. Instead, her face was stoic, even sad.

  “I will look if you wish.”

  With that she nodded and began removing her clothes. She allowed her clothes to pool at her feet, then she stepped to one side and kicked them away. The queen was well formed. Her arms and legs showed the muscle of long days of shared labor. Her breasts were small, like apples, but they matched her waist and hips well.

  Styophan hadn’t been around a naked woman other than his own wife in years, and even then it hadn’t been like this, a cold offer for him to look upon a woman’s body. Seeing his discomfort, she motioned to the lamp. He picked it up, held it close to her face. There was a crust at the base of her eyelashes, which was common. The skin around her eyes, as he’d already noted, was discolored, though now that he was close it had a strange yellow hue to it, and the whites of her eyes were a color that was atypical of the wasting—hers were yellow with a tinge of orange.

  He looked to her russet-colored hair, which seemed healthy, lustrous even. He lifted his free hand near her long auburn locks. “May I?” When she nodded, he took her hair and let it slip between his fingers. It felt supple, not dry as he would have expected, and when he tugged gently, only a few strands pulled away. Typically the hair—be it man, woman, or child—would fall out easily at this stage.

  “If it please you, would you raise your arm?”

  She did, and he looked closely at her armpit. There was no lump. He even felt for it, and found nothing. He could do the same where thigh met torso, but he could already see that the same was true there. The lumps didn’t often show early, but they did as the wasting progressed. It was more than passing strange that Elean showed none of them.

  He took her hand next, bringing the lamplight close to her fingernails. These, too, showed no darkening, no purpling.

  He stared, taking her in anew, utterly at a loss to explain his conclusion. “It isn’t the wasting,” he said.

  She met his gaze with something akin to relief. “You’re sure?”

  “Evet. Too many things are different.” He paused before speaking again, even debated whether or not to go on. But he had to. He had to know more. “You knew this already.”

  She reached down and picked up her clothes. “I suspected.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the other queens have been similarly afflicted. We met eight weeks ago, and we were all healthy”—Elean pulled her long dress around her waist—“but soon after every last one of us had been taken by the withering. The kings thought it a sign of ill fortune, but I was never so sure as they. Think of it. All of the queens struck after meeting to raise one last glass of summer wine—”

  Elean stopped, for just then the sound of a breaking branch came from somewhere deep in the forest. Immediately she took the lamp from Styophan. As she lifted the glass and blew out the flame, darkness enveloped them.

  “Go,” she said harshly, pointing back the way they’d come. “If anyone stops you, tell them you went to relieve yourself. They won’t raise an alarm.”

  “But why?” he asked. “Why did you bring me here?”

  She used an arm to shove him easily off of the bearskin. “Go.” She folded the skin and began walking toward another part of the camp. “I’ll find you again when I’m able.”

  “But we’ll reach Skolohalla in only a few days!” He said it as loud as he dared.

  She did not respond, and soon he was left alone in the darkness, the only sound the barely discernible thump her footsteps were making in the snow.

  Seeing no other choice, he left and returned to the yurt. There he lay himself down among the sleeping warriors. Surely they’d heard him return. Surely they’d felt the cold as the yurt flap opened and closed. Yet no one moved. No one said a word.

  And as he lay down and tried to fall asleep, the yurt remained quiet as a boneyard.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  On the ninth day since his capture, as they were heading down an age-worn path through the wilderness, another band of Haelish joined them. They fell into line as if they’d planned all along to meet Kürad’s tribe at that very place and at that very time. There was hardly any conversation. There were smiles. Men and women embraced. But beyond this, they seemed oddly content.

  Somewhere near the head of the line another king had come. Surely he was already riding beside Kürad, the two of them discussing what would become of Anahid and the soldiers of the Grand Duchy.

  Styophan watched for Elean throughout the day. Anytime a woman with auburn hair walked behind the line, or rode past on a horse, he would take note, but none of them were Elean.

  Another tribe joined them two days later. Three more came the day following, until it seemed as though an army to match any the Grand Duchy could field was walking through the hills of the Haelish Kings.

  On the twelfth day, they reached Skolohalla.

  It was set in a vast field between tall, snow-covered hills. The sun was out as the vast line of Haelish entered. Hundreds of yurts were already set up in a great circle around a tall black stone. More were being set up as they approached. Surely by the time Skolohalla was complete, thousands upon thousands of yurts would have been stood.

  And the people! Styophan was used to estimating numbers of men—as any man who’d been in the staaya for any length of time would—and he judged that over twenty thousand had gathered already. Thirty thousand or more would be here by the time all was said and done. They wore buckskin mostly, but many wore shirts or dresses made from rough, woven cloth. Feathers and beads were woven into the women’s hair. Tails of raccoons hung from the braided belts of the men. Most had simple knives made from dull-looking metal. There were muskets as well, and they appeared to be well kept, but they were few and far between.

  The people of Hael stopped as they passed. The women and children outnumbered the men ten to one, and many of the men were old or crippled. Perhaps one in forty was a man Styophan would choose to fight alongside him. Still, they looked upon him with pride on their faces and anger in their eyes. It spoke of their love of this place and their resentment that he’d been brought to such a sacred meeting.

  A number of the women, and even some children, had sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. They coughed as they watched him pass, their backs bending under some unseen weight. It was the wasting, Styophan knew, and it was because of the ever-expanding rifts. They’d spread so far in the years since the events on Galahesh. It seemed as though they were becoming more and more voracious, not just among the islands, but throughout the Empire and now here. How long before it swallowed the world?

  As they continued, many of
Kürad’s people left the line, but Datha stayed alongside Styophan, as did several other warriors who led horses with litters. Styophan assumed these were his men and Anahid.

  A child—a boy of twelve or thirteen—began to walk alongside the line of horses. His long black hair was braided, much of it in one long tail behind his head. Other small braids hung behind his ear and to one side of his forehead. He was rail thin, and unlike Kürad’s warriors he was dressed warmly in multiple layers of supple doeskin.

  Another boy, even younger, joined the first. And another, this one a waif of a girl. In little time, there were dozens pacing the horses, the nearest of them staring at Styophan fiercely. The first, the boy with the jet-black hair, whipped his arm forward. A stone flew from his hand and struck Styophan on the forehead. Another boy threw a stone, and another, until Styophan was being pelted from all sides.

  “Kanta!” Datha yelled at them, waving his arms in a shooing motion.

  One close to Datha tried to throw another stone, but Datha caught his wrist and slapped him across the face, sending him sprawling to the snow-covered ground.

  Datha pointed back the way the children had come. “Sihjan!”

  One by one, they left. Styophan felt a warm trickle of blood creep down his forehead, move along his eyebrows and down his right cheek. Datha stared at Styophan, but said nothing of the children, nor did he wear a look of apology on his face. He seemed indifferent, as if this was simply the way of things, like a hare that had narrowly escaped the teeth of a fox.

  “Why do you not take the cities of the Empire?” Styophan asked. It was something he’d heard long ago of the Haelish, that they were difficult to pin down. They lived in few permanent settlements, preferring a nomadic lifestyle, but they were fiercely protective of their land. They would fight tooth and claw when the forces of Yrstanla came and took their cities for their own, or took their land for new settlements, and yet they would never venture beyond a certain border, the line they considered to be the true boundary of the Empire. This decision seemed strange, and for some reason the actions of the boys, and Datha’s cold stare, reminded him of it.

  “We do not take them because they are not ours.”

  “But they could be.”

  “Hayir, they cannot. If we took them, we would be no better than the Usurpers.”

  “It would protect your border.”

  “The border will be protected regardless. We will not allow it to be otherwise.”

  “You’re foolish to believe that. The Kamarisi will push into Hael until there are none of you left or you run so far that you fall into legend.”

  “We will not run. We will continue to bleed them until they die of a thousand wounds.”

  Styophan opened his mouth to speak, but Datha raised his hand and pointed ahead. “Enough. We come to the Place of Kings.”

  The horses stopped, and Styophan was untied and allowed to stand. He’d done this for twelve days, but there was no getting used to the pain that came from having himself free of his bonds once more. His shoulders and elbows were the worst, but his wrists and hips and knees ached as he was forced to limp toward the other horses, where Anahid and Rodion were still being untied.

  Anahid did not look ill treated, but she looked haggard. Her long black hair was matted and tangled. Her eyes were sunken and wary. She was worried about what was to come, perhaps more for Styophan’s sake than her own. Rodion was of a height with Styophan, but he looked even more bent and broken. His face was bruised along his right cheek. There was a nasty gash near his temple that ran into his chestnut-brown hair. It looked to be healing poorly. His blue-grey eyes had lost much of the luster that had been there when they were sailing the skies over the Great Northern Sea, but when Styophan gave him a look, asking him if he could continue, Rodion nodded.

  “Where are the others?” Styophan asked Datha.

  “You’ll be brought to them soon enough.”

  Styophan and Anahid and Rodion were led to the edge of a large field free of Haelish yurts. The field looked to be a natural depression in the hills, and yet it was so perfectly formed—more like a bowl than a turn in the land—it looked touched by the hand of man. Had the ancient Haels made this place for their Kings? Had they made other places like this as well? Styophan had heard of such things, even as far away as Anuskaya, but it had always seemed like a tale for children. Now he wasn’t so sure. If the tales were true, there were dozens, perhaps hundreds, of such places.

  The land of Hael was large indeed.

  At the center of the bowl-shaped depression was a menhir, a granite column fifty feet tall if it was one. Somehow it looked natural, as if the will of the world had made it this way, but he could see facets of it that made him think of men chipping away at it with hammers and chisels for who knew how long until it seemed perfect to their eyes. Near the menhir were a dozen men and several women. Kürad was striding across the open grass toward them. Elean was by his side. Styophan felt a sense of loss as she walked away from him, as if the chance to speak to her, to learn of the mystery she’d revealed to him in the woods, had been lost forever now that they’d reached Skolohalla.

  Some of the men and women near the stone hailed Kürad and Elean, but most did not. They were speaking with a man in a red turban, a man with a tall black plume and bright clothing. A man from Yrstanla.

  Styophan knew without being able to see his face—knew from the man’s bearing alone—that it was Bahett. Why he would have come this far, he had no idea. It couldn’t have been for the ships sent by Ranos. That made no sense. For that, he could have sent his trusted men. He didn’t have to come himself.

  “You’ll wait here,” Datha said to Anahid and Rodion.

  Rodion looked to Styophan much like Styophan had toward him only moments ago. Styophan nodded. Anahid’s eyes were placid—almost too much so—but there was fright hidden in the set of her jaw and in the flaring of her nostrils and the way her thumbs picked at the skin of her forefingers.

  Styophan nodded to her slowly, waiting for her to meet his eyes. “I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”

  “Make no promises you cannot keep,” Datha said as he led Styophan by the arm down to level land.

  They came after a time to the center, and there Datha waited. The menhir looked more impressive from this vantage. The size of this place was skewing his perceptions; that and his nerves and the lack of proper sleep.

  Bahett was speaking with several men—Haelish Kings by the look of them. There were nine, and they wore cloth of wool around their shoulders. The cloth was wrapped in such a manner—and clasped with ornate golden broaches—that it left one arm free, their right. The wool wrapped around their left shoulder and arm like a half-cloak, but most of this arm was exposed to the wind as well.

  Styophan counted himself tall among the islands, and yet these men towered over him. A few he could almost look in the eye, but most were a half-head taller, and one was a giant even among these men. He stood at least seven feet tall. It was to this man that Bahett was speaking. Upon the heads of the Kings were crowns of thorns or vines with dark, dried berries, but the tall man’s crown was more ornate, more impressive than the rest, for clutched between the vines were dark red rubies, glinting in the sun.

  Standing behind Bahett were three soldiers of Yrstanla. They wore uniforms similar to the janissaries of the Empire—black boots and baggy pants and thick woolen shirts—but their armor was hardened leather. These were the Kiliç Şaik, the Singers of the Blade. The Kiliç were the Kamarisi’s personal guard, but they would guard Bahett, as long as he stood regent, every bit as fiercely as they would the Kamarisi.

  To Styophan’s surprise, Bahett was speaking in Haelish. Styophan was no judge, but it sounded fluent. Odd for a man that had called Galahesh his home for the first three decades of his life, but Bahett was an intelligent man and had never been above manipulation. He was here, ostensibly, to finalize a treaty that would pit the Haelish against the islands, or at the very least ensure t
hat they would stand aside as Yrstanla brought its army to bear on the eastern coast where the war with Anuskaya was growing more and more intense.

  No wonder he was speaking in Haelish.

  The tall Haelish king could be no other than King Brechan, son of Gaelynd, the one for whom—for the time being at least—the other Haelish kings took knee. King Brechan did not take notice of Styophan, nor Datha, but King Kürad did. He was standing three men to Brechan’s left, and he listened to Bahett’s words, but he also looked sidelong toward Styophan. Styophan and Anahid were jewels he wished to display, and Brechan, for whatever reason, wasn’t allowing him to do so.

  Queen Elean stood to Kürad’s side and one step behind. She did not look at Styophan. Not even once. Her attention was fixed on the conversation between Bahett and King Brechan. Her eyes seemed even more dark than they’d been that night in the woods. He could see the orange tinge in them more clearly now, though if he hadn’t been directed to examine her, he might not have noted the distinction from the wasting’s typical yellow hue. After seeing what he’d seen the other night, Styophan was somehow not surprised to see the other three queens—each to one side and a step behind their king—with similar symptoms. Two seemed no worse than Elean, but the regal woman who stood behind Brechan was much worse. Her cheekbones stood out like rocky promontories. The hollows of her eyes were dark as night. She quivered as she stood, though she did not seem to be aware of it. She coughed lightly every so often, and each time she did, she paused, pulling her shoulders inward and leaning forward, perhaps fighting the pain she felt within.

  Small wonder that the Kings had agreed to Bahett’s demands if they believed the withering had been caused by some failing of theirs. If the royal born themselves were being struck down like this, what else were they to do? But in Styophan’s mind this was strange, indeed. The irregularity of symptoms was one thing. The precision with which it had struck the queens was quite another.