The Seared Lands

by Deborah A. Wolf

  And I hope I do not have to kill you again.

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  “No,” he agreed. “So you will just have to trust me for now. Ah!” They had come to another clearing, wider and more wholesome than the last. Birds sang there—real birds, not nightmares pretending to be birds—and the trees nearby were laden with sweet-smelling fruit. “Here—we should rest here.”

  “Is it safe?” Sulema asked.

  Daru shook his head. “You know better,” he chided as gently as he could. “Nowhen is safe for you, Sulema, or for those who love you. You bring trouble wherever you go.”

  “It is only trouble if you get caught,” she insisted, and stuck out her tongue.

  You have no idea, he thought wryly.

  Then Hannei laughed, a terrible tortured sound, and Daru surprised himself by laughing with them. Just like that, though they were in a place and time that had never existed, could never exist, and though he had already come this way a handful of times, leading them all to a horrible end, Daru felt as if he had finally come home.

  FORTY - ONE

  The best thing about being a queen, even a queen without a throne, was that no one expected her to take a turn on guard duty. The worst thing about being a queen with a sense of honor was that she expected it of herself.

  Long into the hours that felt most like night—for there was no true night in the Dreaming Lands—Sulema sat with her back against a tree with strange, soft bark and gazed over the huddled forms of sleeping people. Occasionally someone would cough, or sigh, or a baby would cry. At one point a man farted so loudly that the people about him muttered in disgust and moved away, leaving him laughing in a small space of his own. Sulema sniggered. Even in times of fear and war, she realized, farts were funny.

  This vigil was no different from any she had maintained back home in the Zeera. Were it not for the strange trees, the alien birdcalls, the occasional howl of a hound at the hunt, it might have been… boring. Sulema leaned back, closed her eyes, and imagined herself back home. Warriors would be playing stones and bones, and the sands would be singing…

  I thought you would never fall asleep.

  Sulema sat upright with a start. She reached for her sword but found only her staff.

  You have forsaken the way of the warrior, the laughing voice reminded her. Though you might have chosen a less warlike time in which to do so. You humans are a curious lot.

  Sulema looked down and saw a tiny, pale fox with enormous ears sitting primly near her knee, one paw on an ugly obsidian knife that looked suspiciously like the one her mother had borne. Sulema inched away from it, and from the fox. She was a spirit beast and a trickster. She was also the embodiment of Sulema’s soul, and her tie to Jehannim.

  “Jinchua.” Sulema took a deep breath and tried to slow the racing of her heart. “You startled me! What are you doing here?”

  What am I doing here? The fox looked around them with exaggerated puzzlement. I am of this place, Dreamshifter. What are you doing here? In the flesh, and with what appears to be the entire populace of Quarabala? The Huntress will not be pleased. At the best of times, she does not like visitors, and these are not the best of times.

  “I am… Daru is leading us all to safety outside the Seared Lands. I went there to get one small girl, and she turned out to be their queen. And I had to agree to rescue all the people of Quarabala… what?” She frowned at the fennec’s response. “Stop laughing at me, it is not funny.” She felt her own mouth quirk, though, as she thought back on the ridiculous nature of her quest and the way she had been duped. “It is an odd tale, I suppose. And I have not decided whether or not to kill Yaela for lying to me. Retrieve her niece, indeed.”

  Remind me never to send you to fetch a lizard, the fox teased. Likely you would return with a dragon. Ah, Sulema! I have missed you, and I will miss you even more when you have been killed.

  “When I have… what?”

  Pythos knows where you are, now. Since you spied upon him with that mask—you may as well have tweaked his nose and told him. And he is working with the Nightmare Man—how do you think he was able to regain his throne? Your throne, my apologies, your Radiance. Jinchua bowed, foxlike. This enemy is beyond your abilities to fight, little warrior. Mask or no mask, it is likely this is the last time you and I will meet.

  Unless…

  “Unless?”

  Do you know how your mother gained her powers, young queen? The fennec curled her bush-tail about her tiny feet and tipped her head to one side, enormous ears twitching. She was more than a simple dreamshifter, you know.

  “She was a dream eater.”

  Do you know what that means?

  Sulema considered the question. “No,” she admitted at last. “Though I know it is something… wicked.”

  “Wicked” is not quite the word, Jinchua said. “Unfortunate” is more like it. A dream eater is a dreamshifter who has sacrificed everything in pursuit of great power, usually out of a desperate need. Occasionally there will be one who desires power as an end, and not as a means to an end—that is wicked.

  “I do not see the difference,” Sulema protested.

  No. The fox smiled. You do not. Therefore I hold hope for you.

  “You are speaking in riddles again.”

  I am a fox. It is my nature to speak in riddles. Jinchua laughed again, showing bright white teeth. A dream eater is a dreamshifter who has killed her own soul, eaten her own dreams.

  “But… I do not understand. I thought my mother killed her enemies?”

  Oh, child. Oh, sweet child. Your mother killed your enemies—and in order to do that, in order to become the monster she needed to be to keep you safe, she first had to kill herself. In a manner of speaking.

  Dreamshifting is in nature a gentler, weaker magic than that used to wield atulfah. Had she not become Annu, she would never have possessed the strength to snatch the two of you out of the dragon’s maw and into the safety of the Zeera. She killed Basta—her kima’a—and ate her heart. In so doing she became the Dream Eater Annubasta.

  Sulema’s heart went cold. My mother did this… for me. Annoying as she found the fox, she could not imagine life without her soul-self, now that they had found each other. She looked at the staff. Then at the wicked obsidian blade— there was no doubt that it was the daemon-possessed instrument her mother had wielded. She looked last at Jinchua, who sat gazing up at her.

  “You are saying I could—”

  Kill me, the fox agreed calmly. Eat my heart. Become one of the Annu—Annujinchua, a being of two worlds with power you cannot imagine. With the magic of a dream eater, and the Mask of Sajani through which you might wield atulfah, you would become the most powerful being your world has ever known.

  “None could stand before me,” Sulema said wonderingly. Such power was unthinkable. For her to wield it—

  None could, Jinchua agreed. Not the usurper Pythos, the Nightmare Man—not even the armies of the Daeshen emperor could withstand a dream eater with the song of atulfah upon her tongue. With such power, you could move mountains…

  What are you doing? Jinchua demanded. This is serious. Pay attention!

  Sulema could not take it anymore.

  She burst into laughter.

  “Me, a dream eater! With the power to move mountains!” She clutched her ribs and rolled to one side, bent double in her mirth. “Sulema Firehair the Freckled, first of her name! Who smites her enemies with brimstone and churra shit! Oh! Who—who—” by now she was laughing so hard she could hardly speak. “Who incites men to such lust that their kilts melt! Their touar ignite with passion!” She howled as the fennec looked on. “All shall love me and… and… disrobe!”

  This is hardly a laughing matter, kima’a.

  “Oh, but it is. Oh, my gut hurts.” Sulema’s hilarity subsided and she was able to push herself upright, though every now and again she would erupt in a fit of giggles and snorts. “Me, queen of the world, with the armies of mankind
kneeling at my sandaled toes. You are funny, kima’a. Blind, but funny.”

  Blind? How?

  “My heart desires none of these things.” As Sulema said the words, she could feel the truth in them, and relaxed. I have passed the test. She continued aloud. “Not power, not armies, not a golden crown on my head or a golden throne under my arse.”

  What, then, does your heart desire, O Humble One?

  “A fine horse. A good blade. My sword-sisters beside me, sunlight upon my face—and a good man to warm those parts of me the sun cannot reach. These are the treasures I covet, this is wealth without measure.” She smiled—at last she knew her own true self, though she had hidden from this knowledge her whole life. Now that she had stopped running from her truth and turned to face it, she knew what she must do. “I wish to be Sulema, nothing more. And certainly nothing less.”

  The world does not need another warrior, Jinchua argued. The world needs another Zula Din. You know what you must do. You must save the world from the Nightmare Man. You must convince the dragon not to wake. No simple warrior can hope to do these things.

  You know this.

  “Yes,” Sulema agreed. She did know. “There is only one way to save the world.” She reached out and took up the blade—Belzaleel, her mother had called it, and warned her never to touch the foul thing. Jinchua closed her eyes and turned her head away, baring her pale throat.

  Do what you must, kima’a. It has been an honor to love you.

  Sulema could feel the demon stirring deep within the blade. Use me, it called to her from some unfathomable world. Wake me. Feed me. She held the blade in front of her with both hands, as if it had the weight of the world. She brought it up high over her head.

  “Forgive me, Jinchua,” she said. “I have to do this.”

  Yes, Jinchua agreed, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

  Belzaleel screamed in victory.

  The blade screeched again, this time in fury and pain, as she brought the obsidian knife down hard upon a rock.

  “I abhor you,” she told the daemon, smashing it down a second time, grinding the words out between her gritted teeth. “I repudiate you.” Belzaleel’s shriek of fury rose to an ear-splitting, world-splitting screech as she raised it one final time and brought it down with all her might. “I refuse you,” she finished. “Begone! Fuck off, daemon! You stole my mother’s soul away, but you will not have mine!”

  The blade shattered in a thunderclap. Sharp fragments buzzed like hornets in all directions, stinging Sulema’s face and arms. She held up both hands before her eyes to protect them, but as the wicked chips of rock cut her skin, drawing blood, a curious thing happened. They also cut away the last of her bonds, chains and cords and strangling vines she had not known existed. Bonds of magic, bonds of love and of enmity, of friendship and honor and duty, all fell away like a warrior’s vest, baring her soul to the world.

  Belzaleel’s scream rose to a wail, thin and impotent. It was caught up in a playful breeze and carried away.

  Jinchua opened one eye. It is done, then. Sulema could not decide whether she sounded relieved or sorrowful. Perhaps a bit of both.

  “It is done.” Sulema stood and rolled her shoulders. She felt lighter, freer than she could ever remember feeling.

  You will never become Annujinchua, Jinchua said. Never wield the power that is your birthright.

  “I will be Sulema,” she replied, running her fingers through her short wizard locks. She took up her fox-head staff and smiled as the dream faded from her vision. “And it will be enough.”

  FORTY - TWO

  Min Yaarif was a city with two souls, neither pure. Legend held that the First People had stopped here and, finding the waters of the Dibris sweet to drink, had built homes in which to abide. Houses of red salt for themselves, houses of mud for their slaves.

  So it was still; those few upon whom fortune had smiled lived in splendor beyond belief, while the greater masses of people lived in squalor, trying to scrape the life-giving red salt from the mean dirt. Min Yaarif was a magnificent city of salt and steel, but it was also an ugly place of mud and blood and death.

  As a boy Ismai had never been to any place more populous than the Zeerani city of Aish Kalumm. The bustle and otherness of Min Yaarif threatened to overwhelm his senses, and the Lich King stared through his eyes with surprise and amusement.

  How small your world has been, Kal ne Mur thought.

  No smaller than yours, the youngling replied, centered as it has been on yourself. Who loves you? Whom do you love in return? Sudduth and the others follow you because they are bound by magic, not by love. Your own daughter uses you for her own ends, and she is mad with the lust for vengeance. You could count your true friends on one hand and have fingers left over.

  I have friends, Kal ne Mur responded, surprisingly stung. Then the absurdity of the situation hit him—he was standing on a rough-cobbled road at the edge of a backwater nothing of a town, arguing with the ghost of a boy who had needed to die before he could live.

  “I am the Dragon King,” he said aloud, shoving the boy and his troublesome thoughts aside. “A dragon has no need for the love of sheep.”

  “Are you arguing with yourself again, Father?” Naara asked. “I had thought that you and the boy would be at peace with each other by now. Certainly you need to be of a single mind if we—if you—are to retake Atualon.”

  You see… Ismai began.

  “I am hungry for mutton,” Sudduth grumbled. “When will you feed us real food, your Arrogance? I tire of the Zeerani pemmican. We should not eat food that tastes like shit just because we are dead.”

  “Enough, all of you!” Ismai snapped. “Do I have to destroy the entire world to get a moment of peace?”

  I come, Kithren, Ruh’ayya sang. I have swum the river for you.

  “Atu take you all,” Ismai growled under his breath. He kicked a rock, which ricocheted off a nearby cart and struck him painfully on the shin. Sudduth chuckled, but when he turned on her she made her face carefully blank.

  Sometimes, he thought, being a king is a pain in the ass.

  * * *

  It was not as difficult as he might have imagined to find lodging, or food for the ungrateful undead, all of whom seemed to have developed a desire for sheep’s meat. The largest inn in Min Yaarif was wholly abandoned at his approach.

  The people of the town must have discovered that the horde would remain outside the city proper as long as they were fed, for it fairly rained mutton and mead on the banks of the Dibris.

  Ismai claimed a suite of lavishly appointed rooms, partly because they smelled of cinnamon and honey and sandalwood, but mostly because an entire wall of one room was laden with shelf upon shelf of books. He and his young host shared a love of reading, and the thought of a warm bath followed by a long read by firelight was more tempting to both of them than all the crowns of all the kingdoms.

  He bathed, and supped—on leg of lamb, though he would not admit it to Sudduth—and was well into a book of stories about dragons, spiders, princesses, and the unexpected luck of widows’ sons—when a knock came at the door.

  “Enter,” he snapped. Yosh take them all, could he not even read a book in peace?

  The door opened. Sudduth, who had been guarding it, stuck her head into the room. She had a strange expression on her face, a mixture of consternation and hunger.

  “Someone to see you, your Arrogance. He claims to be…” She seemed at a loss for words. “He has many claims,” she finished lamely. “Each more outlandish than the last.”

  “And each of them more truthful than the next,” a man added as the door widened and he stepped into the room. He was tall, and broad-shouldered, and wore an elaborate half-mask like a serpent’s face. “My name is Mattu ap Serpentus ne Atu, brother of the Dragon King—my apologies, the current Dragon King—teller of lies, wearer of masks, beloved of… well, my sister still loves me.”

  Ismai frowned, marking his page carefully and setting the boo
k aside.

  “Do I know you?” Ismai frowned, searching both his minds but coming up blank. “And do you know whom you are addressing?” Few people, his memories told him, would dare approach the Lich King in so flippant a manner if they knew his true nature.

  “I have no idea whether you know me, or know of me,” the newcomer admitted. “I am rather a small player in a vast game, to be honest. I remember seeing you, during my short stay in the Zeera. Only your face was not… well, you know…” he gestured to his own masked face, “and my brother Pythos was still believed to be dead. I was the flippant ward of the Dragon King, you were a young man named Ismai, and the world—flawed as it was—still made sense. Does anyone know anyone anymore? It seems to me that someone has shuffled our cards in the middle of the game and mucked up the lot of us.”

  “Mattu… Halfmask,” Ismai said, as he dragged up a vague memory. “Of course. The dreamshifter Hafsa Azeina knows you.”

  “Knew me,” Mattu corrected gently. “We have much to discuss, I fear, you and I.”

  “You have admitted to being a liar and the brother of my enemy. Why should I discuss anything with you?” Ismai felt Kal ne Mur quaking with rage, but he was curious. Why had the man come?

  “Because,” Mattu answered, taking a seat much too close for Ismai’s liking, and leaning close as if they were friends, “we love the same woman, and she needs our help.”

  * * *

  Sulema.

  The name, as whispered by Ismai, was warm as the golden sands, rich and sweet as mead poured from a pitcher of gold. No woman had ever been as beautiful, the Lich King thought, could ever possibly be as beautiful as the girl he beheld with memory’s promise. She was as firmly rooted in Ismai’s heart as the Lich King’s soul was rooted in the boy’s body, and there was no escape.