A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  For a moment, all was silence. Eyes shifted between Mihir and Onur. Mihir swallowed, the muscles along his neck taut, the shade from the sun casting them in stark relief.

  And then he was flying over the sand toward Onur.

  Chapter 36

  ÇEDA CROUCHED LOW within the blooming fields, three leagues north of Sharakhai. Concealed by the thorny branches of the adichara trees, she was little more than a darker patch of black beneath the shade of the twisted trees. The dunes rolled southward before her under the heat of a relentless sun. Over those dunes, a horse and rider approached. For a long while, the wavering heat concealed all details, but as the rider came steadily nearer, she resolved into a Blade Maiden riding a tall akhala with a brass coat and fetlocks the color of wrought iron. Çeda recognized Melis.

  Seven days had passed since Beht Ihman and Çeda’s escape from the House of Kings. Dardzada thought this meeting a fool’s errand, but Çeda would not be swayed. He didn’t know Melis as Çeda did. She was loyal to the Kings, but her heart tired of the conflict. She wanted a way out of the endless war. She’d said as much to Çeda. If Melis wouldn’t accept the truth, no one would.

  Focusing on the trees around her, Çeda flexed her right hand. Pain came with the movement, and with it a rapidly expanding awareness of the adichara and the creatures that slept among their roots. Come, brothers and sisters. Many of the asirim were too deep in slumber to heed her call. Others were awake but savage as wounded animals. She felt pity for them, but had no use for them here; she needed a soul who could share her story. So she flexed her hand again and reached farther, searching carefully for one that was aware, that understood the asirim’s plight.

  The wind picked up, making the thorny branches rattle. To her right, a black snake with bright yellow stripes slid away and was lost to the deeper shadows. Come, she called, calming her mind. Today could change all our lives.

  Still there were none, and Melis was riding closer.

  She considered taking an adichara petal, but quickly rejected the idea. Patience was needed here, not force or desperation. At last she felt a child. A huddled, angry soul. Children were rare among the asirim, and Çeda had never spoken with one, so she took care as she reached for the girl. Will you tell me your tale?

  She seemed fearful, perhaps of Çeda. Perhaps of Melis. But something like grudging assent came from her.

  Then gather your courage and listen as I speak with this woman.

  No woman, the child corrected. A Blade Maiden.

  A woman, like me.

  When Melis was several hundred yards from where Çeda hid, she pulled on her reins and slipped down to the sand. She walked lazily, shading her eyes, peering into the adichara as she went. Çeda waited, watching the horizon closely for signs of other Maidens or Silver Spears.

  Coming to a stop some distance from Çeda, Melis whistled the Maiden’s call for attend me. Ignoring her for the moment, Çeda crept along a path in the blooming fields to its outer edge, where she scanned the horizon for signs of anyone hoping to catch her unawares. This was a tricky gamble. The very nature of the blooming fields, which were set in a great ring around the city, meant she couldn’t watch every angle of approach. But she’d chosen a time near enough to nightfall that if she sensed anything amiss, she could hide in the groves until the sun had set and then make her escape in her skiff, which was hidden a half-league deeper into the desert.

  Dardzada had wanted to join her here. In fact, after a terrible quarrel, he’d insisted on it, which was precisely why she’d left a note and slipped away in the dark of the night. She’d made a vow to Melis that she would come alone. Everything depended on her believing she could trust Çeda.

  Seeing nothing amiss beyond the grove, she returned to the inner ring, stepped out from the shelter of the twisted trees, and headed over the stony ground toward Melis.

  Melis turned and walked toward her, her horse plodding behind.

  “That’s far enough,” Çeda said when she was ten paces away.

  Melis came to a halt and dropped the reins. Countless nicks could be seen in the leather of her Maiden’s dress. She wore her turban, but the veil hung down along her front, revealing her broad, freckled face. She betrayed no emotion as she scanned the adichara behind Çeda.

  “I’m alone,” Çeda said.

  Melis ignored her, continuing to peer through the trees until she was satisfied. Then she looked Çeda up and down. “They’re turning the city upside down trying to find you.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ve done me no favors. I’ll be killed if the Kings learn of this meeting.”

  “I know.”

  “Then know this as well, Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala. I’ve come not for you. I’ve come because you claimed you know a way for us to move beyond the constant bloodshed.”

  “Melis, I—” Çeda began. She’d practiced this speech a hundred times, yet no matter how she arranged the words, they always sounded leaden and unconvincing. There was nothing for it now, though. “The asirim are not holy warriors, as the Kings would have you believe. They are the remains of the thirteenth tribe, sacrificed for the Kings. Beht Ihman was a tragedy, an event that took my people”—she waved toward the adichara—“and turned them into slaves.”

  “You admit it, then? That you are part of the Moonless Host?”

  “No. I’m a member of the thirteenth tribe.”

  “There is no such thing as the thirteenth tribe. Only a band of fanatics hoping to overthrow the Kings.”

  “No. The tribe is real. Many would proudly declare themselves scarabs, but many others only want peace and to have their birthright restored.”

  Melis seemed to compose herself. “Çeda, I know the west end tells such stories to their children. The thirteenth tribe is at best a fanciful tale to justify bloodthirsty acts. At worst, it’s a cynical lie they use to fill their ranks.”

  “No. It’s the Kings who have been lying. They’ve hidden what they’ve done from the beginning.”

  Melis’s face had turned to one of sufferance, as if she were saddened by Çeda’s naiveté. “If what you’re saying is true, why has it only now come to light? Why wouldn’t the truth have been handed down for generations?”

  “Because the Kings suppressed it! They won the war, Melis. They had the power of the gods behind them.”

  “Because their cause was just.”

  “Because the gods are cruel and bloodthirsty!”

  “If you’re only here to repeat the Moonless Host’s propaganda—”

  “It isn’t propaganda, Melis. It’s true. The lost tribe lives.”

  “Çeda—”

  “No”—Çeda clasped her hands before her and shook them—“please listen to me. I can prove it. I’ve felt the truth from the asirim themselves. I’ve felt their stories through our bond.”

  Melis frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “They still yearn for the lives they once led. They still dream. They want freedom for their descendants, me and the rest of the thirteenth tribe.”

  “I’ve been bonding with them for well over a decade, and I’ve felt no dreams. I’ve felt nothing save anger for the enemies of the Kings.”

  “Of course there’s anger, but it’s anger over their imprisonment. Anger over what’s happened to them.” Before Melis could say more, Çeda went on. “That’s why I’ve asked you here. Let me show you, Melis. Let me share their dreams with you.”

  “I told you, I’ve felt nothing from them.”

  “Of course not. They’re forbidden from sharing them with you, but not with me.” She walked forward until the two of them were near, then held her right hand out for Melis to take. When she didn’t, Çeda took another step.

  Melis stood like stone, almost fearful of taking Çeda’s hand. “This is blasphemy.”

  “Don’t you want to know the truth?”


  “I know the truth.”

  But they both heard the uncertainty in her voice. Melis’s gaze swept over the adichara, though it seemed to Çeda as if she were staring inwardly, searching for guidance. In the end, she steeled herself and gripped Çeda’s hand.

  The moment she did, Çeda reached out to the asir she’d touched earlier and felt the same reticence as earlier. All is well, Çeda said. Share your tale, and through me, show the Maidens what became of the thirteenth tribe.

  Çeda felt the desert dissolve away until she was standing beside a girl with long curly hair. She stood upon a wall with thousands of others, soldiers, craftsmen, children, many wounded and bloodied, their eyes filled with worry. As one, they looked out over the desert, where hundreds of ships had gathered, where the might of the desert tribes was amassed for war. They stood innumerable, the soldiers of the desert tribes, a veil of spears before the might of the city and its Kings.

  The girl’s terror was unbearable. She cried as she looked out over the gathered host, wondering if today was the day they would take the city. Only last night they’d broken through the walls in two places. The valor of the city’s guard had pushed them back, but all knew it wouldn’t last much longer. They couldn’t hope to stand against so many.

  The fear within the girl ebbed as Kiral, King of Kings, strode from the city’s gates over the paved road beyond. He wore a shining helm, bright scale armor, and a white, knee-length surcoat beneath. Five from his personal guard accompanied him. When they came to a stop, the front line of the host parted and a man marched forward. Suad. The Scourge of Sharakhai. The shaikh who had somehow united all twelve tribes.

  Unlike Kiral, Suad came alone, a bold statement: Not one of us fears you.

  Suad’s host was utterly silent. The people of the city standing along the wall watched breathlessly as Kiral and Suad spoke. The sun shifted in the sky by the time Kiral broke away in anger and marched toward the city gates. Suad remained, watching Kiral and his guardsmen retreat, hands clasped behind his back as if eminently pleased. Only when the gates had boomed shut did the shaikh turn and stride back to the gathered host.

  Suad said something as the soldiers made way for him. A great roar picked up around him, then spread, moving farther and farther along the line, the desert warriors thrust their spears skyward and ululated until the sound of it shook the foundations of the city. It continued for hours, ebbing at times, then returning in a rush. Only when the sun set did silence return, but that made it worse, as if the lord of all things was preparing to break down the city gates himself, the gathered host ready to sweep in behind him.

  The scene faded. The girl now stood on a plateau high above the city. Sharakhai lay below. Fires were sprinkled throughout the city. The roar of battle still echoed through the streets, sounding distant and dreamlike from the mount of Tauriyat.

  She stood now with many others, from all twelve tribes. Only a short distance away, the Kings were arrayed before six numinous figures. The gods themselves had come at the behest of the Kings. Tulathan, her silver skin resplendent in the moonlit night. Rhia, surveying all who had gathered. Mischievous Bakhi and dour Thaash and winsome Yerinde. And Goezhen, his twin tails lashing as he stalked over the earth behind the other gods. Their very presence meant they believed in Sharakhai. They would save it.

  Pride swelled inside the girl. To have been born here, to have lived in the city the gods themselves claimed as their own. It drove away the fear that had been building since the tribes had arrived; it made her wish there was a way she might help.

  The sounds of battle diminished, and then vanished altogether. The Kings spoke with the gods for a long while. They granted the Kings their wondrous gifts. Kiral an immaculate sword, Sukru a black whip, Mesut a golden band with a beautiful stone of jet. Each came with a kiss from Tulathan herself. And then they called for volunteers.

  The girl’s father went first. Her brother next. She was not far behind. She followed in their footsteps, knowing she would be helping to save the city, knowing she and the rest would drive the gathered soldiers away from Sharakhai and back into the desert where they would be hounded for their offenses. She went gladly, her heart singing, and when Goezhen himself kissed her on the lips, and she felt the change coming over her, she rejoiced.

  She was changed. She became one with the desert, a holy warrior, a blade the Kings themselves would wield until the final days of the world. She went from the mount, bounding down the slope with glee in her heart. Dozens, hundreds, of others ran by her side, howling the pride that could not be kept within them. To the walls they went, then through the city gates like birds from a cage.

  Ahead, the desert soldiers stood, spears arrayed. She could already taste their fear. She could feel their growing knowledge that the tide had turned against them. They were many, but that would not save them.

  She bayed like a jackal as she leapt among the enemy. Then all around her was madness.

  Çeda lay against the sand. She started, confused by the wall of soldiers marching toward her. A moment later she realized it was only the adichara trees, their branches slowly churning as they did on Beht Zha’ir. It was so strange she hardly knew what to think. Not once had she seen them move in sunlight.

  She turned, the emptiness of the desert striking her. She had returned from the asir’s vision. Except . . .

  “It’s wrong,” she said.

  Melis, who was on her hands and knees a few paces away, lifted her head and regarded Çeda with an angry look. “Not wrong. It was the truth, seen with your own eyes.”

  “No,” Çeda said, coming to a stand. “There’s something wrong. That wasn’t how it happened.”

  Melis stood as well. “It was, Çeda. It was exactly this way.” She drew her sword. “The only question is whether you knew it.”

  Melis’s eyes looked over Çeda’s shoulder. Çeda turned and saw warriors in black dresses walking through the gaps in the adichara. Sümeya first, followed by Kameyl. Yndris came last, walking with a noticeable limp. Çeda was struggling to understand what had happened. Melis had betrayed her. That much was clear.

  But the asir . . . How could she have remembered the story in that way? It wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right.

  A man followed the women through the gap in the trees, and a knot formed in Çeda’s throat. King Husamettín, tall and imposing, wore a striped blue keffiyeh and a golden agal across his brow. A black aba, a sleeveless cloak, covered a white tunic and wide cloth belt. In his right hand he held his two-handed shamshir, Night’s Kiss. Like the Maidens’ shamshirs, the length of the blade was made from ebon steel, but it drew light in, making it look like a piece of the night sky hungry to devour the day.

  Çeda heard Dardzada’s words. Folly. Folly. This was all folly.

  They fanned out before her. Yndris had several ragged scars across her lips and chin that marred her otherwise pretty face. Kameyl’s face showed pockmarks from the acid the shamblers had sprayed over her in Ishmantep. As the Maidens moved to circle behind Çeda, cutting off any hope of escape, Husamettín came to a stop a few paces from her. His eyes were dark and forbidding, his posture ready for anything.

  “Give me your sword,” he said.

  In reply, Çeda drew River’s Daughter. The Maidens all drew their ebon blades in response. Yndris, standing to Çeda’s right, was the only one who advanced.

  “No!” Husamettín’s voice boomed.

  Yndris kept her eyes on Çeda, but she lowered her sword and took a half step back.

  Çeda thought of charging Husamettín now, hoping to take him down before the others could react, but she sensed he was hoping for it, so she remained, rooted where she was.

  Husamettín feinted with his sword, testing her reactions. It buzzed in the dry desert air. “The gods as my witness I thought you would cower in the desert, protected by your newfound allies. I said as much to the other Kings,
but Cahil had the right of it. He said that ere spring returned to the Shangazi you would return to the city to spread your lies. However much a traitor you might be, I said you were wiser than that.” His sword swayed, thrumming low. “But here you are to prove me wrong.”

  “I came to show everyone the shame you brought upon yourself and the city when you agreed to sacrifice us.”

  “Shut your foul mouth,” Yndris said, advancing.

  But again Husamettín forestalled her and focused on Çeda. “Your claims are sad echoes of the lies aped endlessly by the Moonless Host. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, but I would have thought you, one who’s seen the truth with her own eyes, would have changed your mind by now.”

  Çeda could sense the asirim all around her. She’d never felt them like this: muted, muffled somehow, including the girl who had given Çeda and Melis such a powerful vision of the past.

  “You did it,” Çeda realized. “You were the author of that girl’s tale.” She turned to Melis. “Don’t you see? He forced that story on the asir so you would believe their lies.”

  “What she saw,” Husamettín said before Melis could respond, “was the cold, simple truth, a truth that all in the Moonless Host have willfully ignored for generations in their quest for power.”

  “I tell you,” Çeda said to them all, “I’ve seen their stories. I’ve felt them. The asir Yndris beheaded. And Havva, the one who so enraged me that I attacked Yndris in revenge.” Yndris’s face turned red, but she remained silent. “Kerim, who came with us to Ishmantep. Sehid-Alaz, their King!”

  Çeda turned to them all, even Yndris, praying they would hear her words. But to a woman they stared back with faces of stone, while Husamettín looked on with a chilling mix of satisfaction and joy, pleasure at yet another avenue of truth having crumbled. “One day the desert will see your shame,” Çeda said.