A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  She gave birth to twins. Sweet Trinn and incontinent Amile. How quickly they grew. The two of them were dancing on the sands of the Great Mother when they had their third, Evrim, who lit Mavra’s world with every laugh. Her husband was soon lost to war, a skirmish with the Sharakhani Kings. But she was still young and took another—a dour man, but kind enough, and favored by the shaikh.

  With him she bore three more children—Lela and Gevind and Kamila, all of whom were babied by Trinn. Trinn’s affection was a thing Mavra appreciated at first but eventually came to regret. Shortly after Kamila was born, her husband died from an infection, a simple cut from an old knife. On his deathbed, he said through his tears, such a foolish thing to die over. And then he was gone, given back to the desert.

  Her third husband was a beautiful man, and attentive in his own way, but he drank too much. He gave her one boy and one girl, Mehmet and Natise, but took Evrim with him to an oasis to learn the ways of Tribe Masal, who were meeting to celebrate the summer solstice. Both died in a drunken brawl. Forever more the solstice brought Mavra sorrow, not joy.

  Her fourth husband wished to take her to Sharakhai.

  “And what has Sharakhai ever given us but tears?” she asked. But he was adamant. Opportunity lay in the city, he insisted. It was a place to live, to secure the lives of their children.

  And so they went.

  Five more children came before her fourth husband died in an honor killing. A man from their tribe had come from the desert and slit his throat as he was being handed a loaf of bread at the edge of the bustling spice market. For months after, she was deathly afraid of the same thing happening to her or her children.

  She took no more husbands after that. She had many children already, and no great will to have more. Her family, however, grew. Like a rose unfolding before her very eyes, her children had children. Those who had not so long ago seemed so very young were now teaching children of their own what she had shared with them, what her own mother had shared with her. Her pride swelled beyond all reason.

  But, pride or not, life in the city was hard. She thought many times of returning to the desert but, as many in her tribe had warned her, roots will grow beneath the feet of the unmoving. Something always changed her mind, so she remained in Sharakhai, finding work as a jeweler’s prentice. Her children and grandchildren helped provide for their growing household in the city’s west end, and if some of them stole a bit along the Trough, well, if it meant more milk, rice, and bread for the babies, she was willing to overlook it.

  And then the desert shook.

  War arrived on Sharakhai’s doorstep. The tribes had gathered and were threatening to raze the city to the ground. All within the city feared for their lives, for the tribes’ gathered might was terrible to behold. Word came that the Kings had called all thirteen tribes to attend them on Tauriyat. Little was known, but the whispers spoke of a plan to save the city from the invaders. Not all could go—the site of the gathering was not so great as that—but the jeweler bestowed a great honor upon Mavra: he asked her to join him. Might my family come? she asked. It was a bold request. The master was sure to deny her, but she would not go unless she could take some of her loved ones along. To her great surprise, the jeweler said they could all come.

  They stood upon the slopes of Tauriyat that very night, gathering with hundreds of others. Thousands. And a wondrous thing happened. The Kings called upon the desert gods, and they came. Tulathan, whose hair was molten silver. Rhia, whose skin shone golden. Mighty Thaash and dark Goezhen. Bakhi came next, his bright smile lit by Tulathan and Rhia’s light. Last was Yerinde, whose dark eyes reminded Mavra of her first love, who lived in the desert still.

  Mavra quaked merely to look upon them. Many of her grandchildren cried, but they were quickly shushed. They waited, all of them wondering if the gods would listen to the pleas of their Kings.

  King Kiral strode forward, the twelve Kings arrayed behind him. He was not a god himself, but Mavra would swear he looked like one of the gods’ children, a man who might inherit the desert.

  Mavra looked often to Sehid-Alaz, the King standing closest to her and her family. He was no shaikh, but the King of Tribe Malakhed here in Sharakhai. She had never considered him her true King—she’d spent too long in the desert to think that—but this night, she prayed for him to see them through.

  Save my children, she prayed to her King. Save them, and I will fill your coffers with all I can spare. This I promise.

  No sooner had she made her wish than the King of Kings slowed in his speech. He spread his arms wide, as if he might wrap them around the whole of Sharakhai. “Save our city,” he begged the desert gods, “and what we have is yours.”

  Tulathan spoke, but Mavra could hardly hear the goddess’s words, for Goezhen had swung his head toward her, toward her whole family. With teeth made perfect for rending, he smiled. His tails lashed. His crown of thorns glinted beneath the twin moons, full and bright in the sky above.

  She forced herself to look away, to concentrate on Tulathan’s words. “You shall have your city and your desert, too,” she said in ringing tones, “but we require payment, a tribute of our own.”

  “You have but to speak it,” said Kiral.

  “Our price is dear,” the goddess intoned.

  “Nothing is too dear.”

  “Blood,” said Tulathan.

  “Blood,” said golden Rhia.

  “We require blood,” said dark Goezhen, finally drawing his gaze from Mavra.

  The King of Kings paused. He took a deep breath, as if gathering up his courage, and then he waved one hand toward Sehid-Alaz and Mavra and all the rest—all those who hailed from Tribe Malakhed. “And you will have it.”

  A gasp came from those gathered. Some ran. Some rushed toward Sehid-Alaz, begging for protection. Mavra, however, stood rooted to the spot. As Kiral had spoken his words of sacrifice, Goezhen had swung his gaze to her once more. He watched hungrily as the change overcame her, as madness started to dawn. She ignored him as the feeling grew, looked instead to those around her. Her family was turning to ashes before her very eyes.

  Her body began to wither. Her pain began to mount. She turned back to Goezhen as the seeds of a never-ending hunger were planted within her mind, urging her to obey, to never question, to give the Kings anything they wanted.

  “Go,” Kiral commanded. “Fly beyond the walls of Sharakhai. Destroy those who thought to destroy us.”

  Mavra was compelled. It pained her to hold Goezhen’s gaze, to fight the growing compulsion within her, yet fight she did. How could the Kings have done this? How could the gods have demanded it? Her most desperate hope, however, the thing she clung to like a rock in the midst of a terrible storm, was that she might still find a way to save her family. Might she plead to the Kings? Or to the gods? Might she fight them if only to save one or two?

  The god of chaos stalked closer, tails lashing, the earth shaking with every step. She held her ground as he towered over her.

  Goezhen’s eyes glistened as he took her in. “Defiance shall not save thee.”

  Her body quivered as the pain built inside her, but she would not give up.

  The dark god’s amusement deepened. “Nor shall thy pride.”

  She tried—breath of the desert, how she tried—but in the end, the pain, the hunger inside her, proved too strong. Her children called to her. They howled for her to join them as they bounded down the mountain.

  Forgive me, she called to them. You are my perfect treasures, and I have failed you all.

  They only howled louder.

  Unable to resist any longer, she followed them to deal death beyond the walls.

  * * *

  Çeda woke coughing from the vision. It took her long moments to shake the feeling of hunger within her. It was but an echo of Mavra’s, the one that had driven her to hunt the desert tribes on Beht Ihma
n—a hunger that drove her still. It would never leave her, Çeda knew, nor her brood.

  Her brood . . .

  They were the other asirim. The ones who’d risen alongside her. Her children. Her grandchildren. Breath of the desert, there had been three great-grandchildren as well. Çeda saw them, crouched beneath one of the adichara, huddled together like hungry orphans. Except what they hunger for is neither bread nor water, but the blood of the living.

  The very thought sent a deep pang of regret through her—another echo from Mavra. Mavra had felt, still felt, responsible. She should have protected them.

  Yet none of the other asirim felt this way. Through it all, their centuries of pain, the terrible yokes the gods had lain across their shoulders, the will of the Kings and the burden of pain they’d inflicted on the children of Sharakhai, they still looked to Mavra for guidance. And Mavra, for her part, though she wished she could have done more, had somehow managed this much: to keep them all together. Were the Kings even aware that such love still existed beneath the blooming fields?

  Sümeya came forward until she stood by Çeda’s side. Çeda had been so swept up in Mavra’s story she hadn’t spared the other Maidens a thought, but the stunned look on Sümeya’s face made it clear she had seen it all. She was staring at Mavra, this wrinkled, blackened thing, with naked reverence.

  Çeda could see the confusion, her thoughts warring within her. Melis was much the same.

  “My tears—” For a time Sümeya was lost to her own wracking cries. When she recovered, she wiped her eyes and sniffled. “My tears for your loss. No excuse can be given for this. No defense.” She dropped to one knee. “My heart is sundered.”

  Mavra stared down at her, the confusion in her jaundiced eyes echoing the warring emotions within her. But then Çeda felt something new. A small shift in mood. Nothing more. A seed of dark emotion growing, its roots working deeper and deeper into her mind. Çeda wasn’t even sure Mavra herself knew what was happening, but it was a feeling that now echoed among her children, who were growing ever more restless at this Blade Maiden, a daughter of the Kings, standing before their monarch.

  “Sümeya, get back.”

  No sooner had Çeda spoken than Mavra’s hand lashed out. Sümeya jerked back, but Mavra’s long nails still caught her across the throat. Blood flew and Sümeya’s hand went to her throat as she rolled backward.

  Mavra followed her with a feral grin. She was so fixated on Sümeya she hardly reacted as Çeda stepped in and snapped a kick into her chest. Mavra was heavy, solid, but Çeda had kicked her hard. She fell back, arms flailing, into the thorny branches of the adichara. The asirim around them howled, louder than before. Yet they didn’t attack.

  Çeda was looking around for an escape route when she spied movement. A line of horses were charging hard toward their location—a dozen Blade Maidens with Husamettín at their lead, his great sword already drawn.

  Zaïde rushed to help Sümeya up. Her eyes were wide. Blood flowed from beneath her fingers, making the cloth of her Maiden’s dress glint in the moonlight. As Mavra’s brood began to close in, Çeda drew Sümeya’s ebon blade.

  The passage leading to their horses was blocked. The one on the clearing’s opposite side, however, the one leading away from Husamettín and the approaching horses, had only a few asirim guarding it.

  She whistled a pair of signals that together meant retreat north, then led the way herself. Sümeya and Zaïde fell in line behind her. Melis came last, slashing her sword to ward the asirim away. The four fought their way along the passage between the trees, moving like a seasoned company of mercenaries.

  The asirim seemed strangely slow. In the madness of the sudden battle it took Çeda a moment to understand why. Husamettín had given them a commandment—to stop or kill the traitors in their midst—but they were not yet wholly his. They had attained free thought through Çeda’s blood and the sheer power of Mavra’s will.

  It was likely the only reason Çeda made it to open sand. But make it she did, with the others close behind. They moved away from the adichara as quickly as they could. But gods, the speed of the asirim! Already they were bounding past to cut off their escape. They ran in small, ragged groups, hounds hungry for the desert hare.

  Melis whistled hard, a call to their horses. A short while later Çeda saw them coming. Gods, if they could just make it to their mounts, they might yet escape. Melis whistled again, a reinforcement of the previous command and a call for the horses to break through any resistance they found.

  The lead horse, Sümeya’s, was a terrible beast named Whiteknife. It crashed into the nearest asirim, knocking several aside in a tumble of limbs and sand. Another was trampled as it tried to outrun the horse. When another asir, the tallest of them, faced the horse with arms wide, Whiteknife reared and swiped its forehooves wildly through the air. A loud crunch came as the asir’s skull was caved in. The asir tipped over, arms quivering, its body rigid. Then Whiteknife plowed forward once more while Mavra wailed in anguish as she watched her offspring crushed beneath a horse’s hooves.

  The two horses following Whiteknife made it through, but the trailing horse, Melis’s, was caught across its foreleg with a rake of long claws, then again along one shoulder. Blood flew, dark against the gauzy night sky, and the horse screamed, falling to the sand. A half-dozen asirim descended, tearing it to pieces.

  As the three horses neared, Melis and Çeda swung their swords broadly to ward away the nearest of the asirim. In that moment, Husamettín, riding his stallion, Blackmane, burst from the tree line. He and his horse fairly flew over the desert, sand kicking in tails behind Blackmane’s hooves. Husamettín rode low and tight to the saddle, reins in one hand, Night’s Kiss held in the other, high above his head. A dozen more Maidens on horses galloped in his wake, each calling in high, melodic tones that sent a chill down Çeda’s skin. For a moment, all her childhood fears of the Blade Maidens returned.

  Shaking them off, she helped Sümeya into the saddle, then swung up behind her and held her steady as Zaïde and Melis mounted the other two horses.

  The asirim, meanwhile, had backed away, an unspoken command from Husamettín, perhaps.

  She understood the truth a moment later. Mavra, still standing near the adichara, had lowered her bulk toward the ground. Crouching, she placed one palm against the sand. A rumbling shook the desert floor. Sand shifted. Stones skittered. Çeda could feel a buzzing in her teeth and in her bones.

  No sooner had their horses leaned into a gallop than they began to slow inexplicably. They nickered. Their eyes rolled. Their ears flicked this way and that, as if they were being harassed by a cloud of gnats. Looking down, Çeda saw their legs sinking deep into the sand. The horses stamped their hooves, trying to stay above it, but the harder they struggled, the lower they seemed to sink.

  Gods, it was slipsand summoned by Mavra, whose hunger, anger, and confusion Çeda could still feel. She wanted simultaneously to feast on Çeda’s bones and deny the King of Swords that which he sought. The two desires warred within her, which gave Çeda hope.

  Allowing her own desperation to drive her, she wedged her will between Mavra and Husamettín. She’d done the same in Ishmantep with Kerim and Kameyl, but she took no care to spare either of them this time. She wielded her will like a knife, and Mavra, already so conflicted, couldn’t take it.

  Her ungainly form crumpled to the sand like a sack of stones. Immediately, the buzzing ceased. The horses, however . . . Breath of the desert, the legs of all four of them were in so deep they could hardly move.

  As Mavra’s brood wailed and flocked toward her, terrified their matriarch had just been killed, Melis gave a quick series of whistles.

  East. Ship approaching. Danger?

  Over the shallow dunes, Çeda spotted it, a skiff approaching fast. It was the one she and Dardzada had sailed here. She could just make him out sitting at the back, steering the craft. H
e stood and waved, beckoning her toward him. “Quickly!” he bellowed as he crested a dune and curved the ship around. “Quickly now!”

  “Come,” Çeda called to Zaïde and Melis. She slipped off the saddle and helped Sümeya to do the same.

  Zaïde hesitated only a moment. After one last glance at Husamettín and the Blade Maidens pounding after them, she headed for the skiff. Melis came to help with Sümeya, who was still holding the bunched veil of her turban hard against the wound across her neck.

  Çeda made to go, but Sümeya pressed her hand to Çeda’s chest and pointed to the saddlebag. “The sword and the bag,” she said, then she left with Melis, the two of them loping toward the skiff.

  Çeda hadn’t even realized it, but there was an ebon blade along Whiteknife’s back, mostly hidden by the saddlebag and bedroll. Using Sümeya’s sword to cut the ties, she grabbed both, then followed the others. She knew, as she knew the tattoos on her own two hands, that this was River’s Daughter. Sümeya had brought it for her. She’d been ready to believe Çeda. Perhaps she’d even wanted to believe.

  As Çeda ran, her feet sank into the sand like mud, but by moving quickly she was able to reach a normal swath of sand. Hooves pounded behind her, charging ever closer. They were nearing the strip of slipsand, but Husamettín gave it a wide berth, affording them a few more precious seconds to reach the skiff.

  Ahead, Dardzada had pulled the skiff to a stop. He was now bent over and striking something over and over. Sparks lit in time with the frantic movements of his arm, illuminating his pillowy face and long beard. As Zaïde, Melis, and Sümeya came near, he lifted a small bow. On it was an arrow with a cloth tip that burned with a sinister green flame. What in the great wide desert he was going to do with it Çeda had no idea, but gods, she hoped it was something good.

  As Zaïde fairly rolled Sümeya into the front of the skiff, Dardzada stomped down onto something affixed to the central thwart. A loud thudding sound accompanied a round pot flying into the night sky. A dark cloud trailed behind it. Powder, Çeda realized as it fell across her path.