A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Çeda realized she’d started to shake. You’re skittish as a lost kitten, Çedamihn. She wasn’t even sure why, until she voiced her next question. “Did he know why Ahya went to Sharakhai?”

  Leorah took a moment to respond. “Say what you mean.”

  “Did he know she intended to have a child from one of the Kings?”

  Leorah laughed a deep rumble of a laugh. “I suspect there’s another question hiding behind that one, but as you wish. I’ll answer them as they come. Yes, he knew, which is perhaps why he resisted for so long. But I am a persistent woman, as was your mother. Eventually, reluctantly, he came to see it as a wish cast into the wind.”

  “A wish that could cost his daughter her life.”

  “Indeed! A wish that was likely to cost her life.”

  “Then why did he agree? Why did she want a child from one of the Kings?”

  “Tulathan’s poems. We found one part, the end, we believe, that spoke of a scion who would play a part in the downfall of the Kings. But Ahya, like many of us who believe that Tulathan recited poems on Beht Ihman, grew frustrated the more she learned. Four centuries had already passed. How long did the people of the lost tribe have to wait? She believed that by going to Sharakhai, by having you, she would force the hand of the fates.”

  Çeda turned on her stool. “I’m no messiah.”

  Leorah returned Çeda’s shoulders to the proper position. “No one said you were. You are one who may help lead us to our freedom, one of dozens, hundreds, who’ve worked toward this end over generations.”

  The way Leorah spoke of both Ahya and Çeda made Çeda feel like a means to an end, nothing more, and it showed, perhaps, why Ishaq would sacrifice his own daughter.

  The talk had lit a fire in Çeda’s heart, one she was careful not to blow upon lest it grow and burn her. “You know who my father is, don’t you?”

  “Now there’s the question that was hiding earlier.”

  Çeda felt the heat rising in her cheeks. She felt like a child all over again. “A woman deserves to know who her father is.”

  “Most do, yes, but in your case it might do more harm than good.”

  “How could it?”

  “You’ve said you have a mission to complete. To kill the Kings of Sharakhai. Would you complete it if you knew who your father was?”

  “Of course I would.”

  “Oh? Even if he had nothing to do with your mother’s death?”

  “The Kings deserve to die. No man should rule the desert for so long.”

  “That may be true, but will it matter when you’re standing before him with blade in hand? How many have been lost to matters of the heart when reason has told them otherwise? They are numerous as the stars, Çeda, and I won’t let you become another.”

  Çeda turned, forcing Leorah to lift her needle and striking stick. “Who is my father?”

  Leorah laughed her rumbling laugh. “Raising your voice won’t help with me, girl. We have much to do, and I won’t have your mind clouded by the knowledge.” Before Çeda could speak again, Leorah raised her hand and began wiping away the excess ink from her back. “There’s something else that’s long overdue, Çeda, if you’ll allow me to get to it.”

  Çeda stilled her tongue before she said something she’d regret. “What?”

  She finished wiping, then applied a salve. “You said Dardzada had given you a key.” When Çeda nodded, she went on. “May I see it?”

  Çeda reached into the small purse at her belt and held it up. Leorah nodded with a melancholy smile and reached her bulk past Çeda to pull open one of the lower desk drawers. She rummaged inside and retrieved a lacquered wooden box with beautiful ivory inlay over the surface of its lid. It was hinged, and had a lock built into its front face.

  As Leorah went to sit on the bed, Çeda’s fingers and toes began to tingle and a high-pitched tone rang in her ears.

  Leorah held the box lovingly for a moment. “Ahya made this when she was about your age.” She held it out to Çeda. “I know withholding your father’s identity hurts, but perhaps this will dull the sting.”

  The key in her hand felt suddenly red-hot. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Ahya gave it to me the last time I saw her. I think she knew what lay ahead and worried over you. She told me to keep it safe until you found me at last. I asked her what I should do if you never came. She told me you would.”

  Çeda accepted the box with trembling hands, at which point Leorah grunted and pushed herself to a stand, then ran one hand down Çeda’s hair, tugging at her ear before taking her cane and sidling along the passageway. Alone in the cabin, with the sounds of revelry coming from outside the yacht, Çeda ran her fingertips over the smooth lacquer. She admired the handiwork, the rich grain of the wood, the perfect seams of the inlay.

  “What are you afraid of?” she asked herself, gripping the key tightly.

  Swallowing hard, her hands trembling, she put the key into the lock and turned it. The hinge creaked as she lifted the lid. Inside were two things. The first was a folded piece of papyrus with a wax seal on it. The seal was a curving, ancient sign that meant wedge or, more accurately, tip of the spear. It was often used in ancient texts to indicate an event that led to many more changes, a catalyst of sorts.

  The second thing was a silver vial with a cap that screwed off. She was nervous about the letter, so she picked up the vial first. It was etched with an intricate design along its cylindrical length and the cap was decorated with tiny ornamental ivy leaves. She shook it and heard something rattle inside. She unscrewed the cap and tipped the vial over her hand. Out rolled a single oblong seed no larger than the nail of her pinky. It was ebony colored, but on the tip was a bit of yellow crust that looked like she could scrape it away.

  After slipping it back in the vial and screwing the cap back on, she took up the letter.

  For Çeda,

  Contained herein is a treasure stolen from the House of Kings, the seed of an acacia.

  Years ago, shortly before I made up my mind to go to Sharakhai, I went to see Saliah. She had me stand before her own acacia, the one in her garden. No doubt by now you know the importance of that tree and the shards of glass that hang from its branches. She asked that I make the tree chime for her, in whatever way I chose. I grabbed a single branch and pulled it down, which somehow made the entire tree shake. I was swept up by the light that played through the branches, that in turn was caught and twisted by the surfaces of the glass. I was granted many visions. Glimpses, I believed, of the future. Or perhaps of the past. It was impossible to tell, and Saliah refused to answer my questions.

  One of the visions I saw was of a seed pod falling to the ground. It fell from an acacia in a vale in the mountains. Which mountains, I cannot say. There were many other trees in that vale, pine and larch and spruce, and there was a small stream, near which the acacia stood tall and vibrant. Footsteps came. A man’s hand reached down. Faded orange tattoos covered his palm. A golden ring with a bright emerald stone graced one finger. The hand picked up the pod and turned it over, inspecting it, I suppose, and then the vision faded.

  It was replaced by another, a view of the same place, at dusk, though clearly it was many years later. The tree was there, but it was barren, the branches withered. A black form with cloven hooves and twin tails walked over the landscape, stopping where the pod had fallen. Black claws scratched at the ground, gouging it. A head with a crown of thorns dipped to that place. Nostrils flared as it breathed in the scent. It huffed, then roared to the dying sun, and stomped one foot on the spot where the dark earth had been revealed.

  As this second vision faded, I wondered if the creature was an ehrekh. I’ve searched long and hard since and believe instead it was their maker, Goezhen himself, though the reason he’d been searching for that fallen pod is lost to me.

  A third vision came, of anoth
er acacia in a garden in the middle of the desert. The very tree where I’d stood before. But the tree was dying, and Saliah’s homestead was a crumbling ruin.

  Time passed, and I heard word of a treasure. An acacia seed hidden in the House of Kings. I knew I must find it before I struck against the Kings. It took me nearly a decade, but I found it, hidden in one of the vaults beneath King Yusam’s palace. How it came to him, I do not know, nor do I know the meaning of the visions or the acacia seed. But I know they are of great import. To me. To you. To our cause.

  I give it to you now because soon I go to the mount. It is a journey that I hope will uncover more treasures, but there is danger there, and whatever I might find, I know the struggle for freedom is a long one. It may be that you will find the seed’s place in the world. Or someone close to you will. I trust the goddess will guide you.

  Take care, Çeda. Listen to Leorah and Devorah, for they both see beyond the horizon.

  Ahyanesh

  For a long while, Çeda stared at the letter, her chin quivering. To come so far, to come so close to speaking with her mother one last time, and have her speak as if Çeda were a servant, a soldier to be commanded. It felt so very familiar—she’d used that tone with Çeda while growing up—and yet, before Çeda had opened the box, she’d still hoped there would be something special from her mother inside, for her and her alone. A token of her love, a remembrance of a moment only they shared, like seeing the vivid little bluebirds, the blazing blues, in the great salt flat. But of course there wasn’t. This was all about Ahya and her grand quest, and about Çeda being swept into it once more.

  All at once, the frustration of moving from place to place in Sharakhai, of never growing roots, never knowing who she was, the distance she’d always felt from her mother, the desire to feel something more from her, all of it came surging up. Before she knew it she stood and threw the wooden box into the corner of the cabin, shattering it.

  That was when she realized she wasn’t alone.

  She turned to find a man standing in the passageway, wearing dusty desert clothes, his turban wrapped loosely around his shoulders like a scarf. Breath of the desert, it was Emre. He stared at her, then the shattered remains of the box, then her again.

  Çeda opened her mouth, but she had no idea what to say. Too many memories were flooding through her. Too many emotions. So she folded him in her arms instead. He immediately grunted, and she saw that he was in pain. She felt the bandages that wrapped his chest beneath his sweat-stained shirt.

  “Ribs,” he said. “It’s nothing.” He took her back in his arms, held her and, bless him, said no more.

  Time was lost to her as the two of them became little more than their breathing bodies, their beating hearts. Çeda cried against his shoulder, while Emre rubbed one hand along her back. Outside, a song played. A yelp of surprise lifted above it, followed by peals of laughter and calls for the man to do it again.

  Eventually she pulled away, and Emre stared into her eyes, a soft smile on his lips. “I made it,” he said.

  She kissed him deeply, passionately, before wiping her tears, and taking a proper look at him. “I noticed.”

  Smiles broke across both their faces. They started laughing, a spontaneous thing, like an amberlark taking flight.

  “I tell you true,” Emre began, “we nearly died a dozen times.” But he stopped when Çeda held up a hand.

  “Wait,” she said, and jutted her chin toward the sounds outside. “There’s a celebration. Let’s enjoy it, like we always said we would. A fire in the desert. With bread and olives and wine. You can tell me your story there.”

  With a grimace, Emre sketched a short bow, looking more like the Emre of old. It did her heart good to be reminded of their days with one another. He held out his arm to her. “My lady?”

  She stuffed the letter and the silver vial into her purse, along with the key, and took his arm. “Why thank you, kind sir.”

  And then the two of them headed down the passageway, up the ladder, and into the crisp desert air.

  Chapter 22

  RAMAHD WOKE TO DARKNESS and chill air seeping into his bones. He was chained to a wall, his shoulders screaming from the abuse. He managed to pull himself to his feet only to find that his legs were chained as well.

  Filtering down a set of stairs to his left was the barest amount of light. It was nearly silent, but he thought he could hear breathing. Someone sleeping, perhaps. “Tiron? Cicio?” Nothing. “Amaryllis?”

  “No.” The voice was deep, resonant in this confined space. “But thank you. It’s good to know their names.”

  Ramahd remembered that voice. He’d heard it once through the magic of Meryam’s spells. “You’re Brama.”

  “And you are in a difficult spot.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Don’t waste your breath on questions. You’re going to need all the strength you can muster.”

  “For what?”

  The sound of creaking wood interrupted the cool stillness. Footfalls came nearer, as did a dim blue glow floating in the darkness. The sapphire, Ramahd realized, hanging around Brama’s neck. The cerulean light grew, casting shadows across the landscape of scars on Brama’s neck and face, making him look like a wight, freshly risen from the grave and driven by thoughts of revenge. “It was you, wasn’t it, who stole into my mind those weeks ago?”

  Ramahd tried to mask his surprise, but Brama merely smiled, a grimacing crevice across his ruin of a face.

  “Was it just you, I wonder?” He held up a ring with a sharp protrusion on one side. A blooding ring. Ramahd’s ring. “Do you walk the red ways alone?” His eyes flamed blue as he stared intently at the ring as if it, not Ramahd, might answer. “Or was there another?”

  He took another step forward until he was only an arm’s-reach away. Ramahd could see the cloth of his simple robe, his curly hair, all bathed in blue. “Would you care to tell me, or would you rather I took it from you?” He slipped the ring onto his thumb so that the claw extended beyond his thumbnail. “It matters little to me.” Gripping Ramahd’s right shoulder he used the ring to press the point into Ramahd’s chest. “But it will save you much pain.”

  He pressed deeper, piercing skin. Ramahd’s breath was forced through gritted teeth as he tried to ignore the pain. “Who are you?” Brama asked.

  “I’m no one,” Ramahd said.

  “No one . . .” Brama pulled the ring away, then made a face that revealed how young he was. “No one is an interesting answer. We are all someone, are we not? Take me. I’m a thief who came to a rather tragic end and was reborn. A simple enough story, though they were days filled with leagues of pain. Now you try.”

  Ramahd had assumed Tiron had been taken, perhaps Amaryllis and Cicio too, but if he was asking such simple questions, the assumption didn’t make sense. “I come from the sea.”

  Brama waggled his head from side to side, as if this were a reasonable response. “And now that you’re here in Sharakhai? Where do you spend your time?”

  “In your mother’s bedchamber.”

  Brama gave a pitiless smile. “Very well.” There was no malice in the way he said it, which made it all the more chilling. Reaching out, he took Ramahd’s head in his hands; the warmth in them was inhuman. He could smell the fennel and garlic on his breath. The point of his own ring was now pressed against his left eye. Ramahd was sure Brama was going to use the ring to put his eye out, but he didn’t. He gripped Ramahd’s head tighter and sent him crashing into the stone wall, once, twice, a third time.

  A sea of lights swam in the darkness before him. He could feel himself blacking out, but he breathed deeply, fighting it.

  “Your name,” Brama tried again.

  “Tiny,” Ramahd replied. “Like your cock.”

  I tire of this, came a voice. It was ephemeral and distant, as if spoken from the depths of a dark forest
. Give him to me.

  A silence followed, and then Brama said, “Very well.”

  The sensations of this place—the grit on the floor, the dampness in the cool air, the sounds of the city floating down from above—were replaced by the presence of another mind. It felt so similar to joining his mind with Meryam’s that for a moment he thought it was Meryam.

  But it wasn’t. This was a more ancient soul. Wilder. More violent. It felt as if the desert itself had come to pick Ramahd apart and examine him, bit by bit.

  Rümayesh . . . It must be Rümayesh.

  But the knowledge gave him no comfort. It was all he could do to fight down his fear.

  He’s Qaimiri, the ehrekh said.

  Even that small piece of information felt like a violation, as if it were a gateway that would lead to the loss of everything else. Ramahd tried to raise a defense, tried to sap the power from this spell as he’d done against Hamzakiir in the desert, but he was weak and he was wounded, and in the end stood no chance against the cruel advance of Rümayesh’s will.

  The ehrekh’s presence enshrouded him, picked at the edges of his mind like a swarm of wood wasps. His terror grew as he tried to think of something, anything, that might save him. He didn’t wish to die like this, in darkness away from those he loved, his mind lost.

  “You might be freed!” Ramahd shouted desperately, and incredibly, Rümayesh’s unrelenting advance slowed, then halted.

  I might be freed? Rümayesh cooed. And who would free me? You?

  “Yes.”

  Brama laughed, though it was Rümayesh who controlled him.

  “Are you so kind?” she asked with his mouth, “to free one such as me?” Brama’s hand trailed down Ramahd’s cheek, to his neck, and along his naked chest. “Is your heart so charitable?”