A Veil of Spears

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  A celebration was held that night. Araq was passed around the many fires, and people danced. A thousand songs were sung. Çeda was tired from her long sleep, and she still ached, but she refused to sit for long. She wandered among the many carpets, sitting here for a time, listening to the music played, even joining in, and then she’d move to the next.

  She heard many tales of woe, but also of bravery, of selflessness. There was anger between the tribes yet, for all that had happened while they had lived beneath Onur’s rule, but those wounds were beginning to heal. The threat of the Kings had finally bound them together.

  She came finally to a fire where Melis and Sümeya were talking with Emre and Macide. Çeda sat and listened for a while. She danced with Frail Lemi and Macide and even Sümeya. And then she grew tired and took Emre’s hand. Pretty Haddad of Malasan was nearby, and she took note of it, but Çeda paid her no mind. She took Emre to her tent, and together, amid all the sounds playing out beyond the tent’s walls, they held one another. They told their own tales of the battle, sat by a small fire, dined on olives and bread and wine, just like they’d said they’d do.

  “You’re smiling too much,” Emre said to her as the celebrations outside were beginning to dwindle.

  “How can one smile too much?” she asked.

  He shook his head, as if he knew he’d made a mistake by saying so. “It’s just that there’s still so much danger. And . . .”

  “What?”

  “Macide has asked me to go with Aríz. To be our eyes among Tribe Kadri.”

  Çeda tilted her head. “I think you’ll be good for him.”

  Emre poked at the fire. “I thought you’d be more upset.”

  She leaned forward, ignoring the pain along her belly, and kissed him. “I am. But I’ve reconciled myself to us being apart. There’s too much to do, Emre. But one day, when all this is done, we’ll do as we said, yes? Sail the Great Shangazi together?”

  He tried to smile. “I hope we can.”

  “We will,” she said, and with that she stood and held her hand out to him. “For now, though, we leave all that behind.”

  He stared at her hand, suddenly unsure of himself, so she reached down, took the stick he’d been using to poke at the fire, and threw it into the flames. She took his hand and pulled him up until the two of them were standing chest to chest. She could feel the warmth coming off him. How good it felt, despite the heat of the tent.

  She kissed him. The whiskers of his mustache and beard tickled as he placed more kisses along her cheek, her neck. Their hands roamed, and soon they moved to her blankets, where the two of them did leave everything behind. The sounds of the celebration played around them, mixing with the heady effects of the araq she’d drunk. Emre removed her clothes, taking great care for her wounds. She removed his, taking much less care. And then she reveled in his shape, noting just how many more scars he had than when they were young.

  They made love. Simply. Sweetly. The music and voices felt otherworldly, the perfect counterpoint to how real Emre felt in her arms, and when they were done, they lay side by side, Emre’s head cradled along her shoulder as she ran her fingernails up and down his back. Like that, they fell asleep.

  Çeda woke some time later with a dread inside her. Feeling watched. All had gone dark outside the tent. The fire within was little more than embers. She looked around the tent and shook when she realized a silent figure was sitting beside the fire.

  As she sat up, pulling the blanket up to cover her nakedness, the figure reached down and stoked the fire back to life with a triple-bladed knife. A bloody light was shed across the tent’s interior, especially on King Ihsan himself. He blew upon the blades of the knife, clearing them of ash, and set it across his knees.

  Çeda realized both her sword belt and Emre’s, which had been lying near the bed earlier, had been moved to the far side of the tent. When she nudged Emre, he didn’t stir, and his breathing retained the even rhythm of a man in the depths of slumber.

  “I think it would be best if it’s only the two of us,” Ihsan said, “wouldn’t you agree?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Ihsan feigned surprise. “Why, I’ve come to see the fruits of your labor!” A smile lit his fine features as he gave a wave that encompassed the entire camp outside the tent’s walls. “It’s quite a tale. Four tribes to call to your banner, with more likely on their way, especially if I whisper in their ears. And meanwhile, the Kings’ vaunted navy returns to Sharakhai, thwarted.”

  “If you’re not careful, my Lord King, you’ll have nothing left to rule.”

  “That’s truer than you know,” he said with a wink.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Forgive me, but were you under the impression the Kings left because they feared you?”

  “Then why did they leave?”

  “It may not surprise you to learn that the young King of Malasan and the Queen of Mirea both covet the Amber Jewel of the Desert. In a new development, fleets flying their colors now sail the desert. They’re making for Sharakhai as we speak.” He paused. “We’ve entered a new phase in the struggle, Çedamihn. The Four Kingdoms were always going to play a part in this war, and now it has begun. Mirea, Qaimir, and Malasan have all shown their hands. The Thousand Territories have yet to make a stand, but I’m certain they’ll play their part.”

  “War comes to Sharakhai,” Çeda said breathlessly, feeling as though her world were no longer expanding, but shrinking.

  “To its very doorstep. We have to tread carefully now, Kings and tribes both, lest we lose it all.”

  Çeda’s eyes snapped back to Ihsan’s. “We?”

  “Do we not still have common ground?”

  “You tried to have me killed in Sukru’s palace!”

  “I can assure you that was not me.” Ihsan frowned. “I can only think Davud was promised some reward should he manage to kill you. He’s gone missing. Did you know?”

  She shook her head.

  “He’s not been seen since he left through that strange device. We’re all most curious where he’s gone. Whoever is hiding him . . . They have the answers to your riddle.”

  “You call it a riddle?”

  “I name it so because it is one. Why in the great wide desert would I wish you dead? You’re the answer to my prayers.”

  “Until I prove an obstacle to your plans.”

  “Granted, but I think we can agree that you are not that yet.” He paused, one hand waving to where she and Emre lay. “Come, if I’d wished you dead I would have done it by now.”

  There was no denying that. She softened her tone. “I’m weary, Ihsan.”

  “Then I shan’t occupy you much longer. There are but two points of business that remain. The first: Have you seen the goddess Nalamae since the Night of Endless Swords?”

  Now that was an unexpected question. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I fear she is in danger.”

  A sudden spike of fear ran through her. “Yerinde . . .”

  Ihsan peered more closely at her, his face lit a ghastly crimson from the fire. “You said you haven’t seen her.”

  “I haven’t.” She told him what Leorah had done with the wyrm, how Nalamae had come to even the scales, as she’d put it. “Onur found the gem among the treasures of Tribe Masal, but it was Yerinde who granted him the power over the wyrm.”

  “Well, well, well . . .” Ihsan’s eyes searched the embers of the fire. “The sands hide many secrets, do they not? Let me ask you, would you find it strange to learn that Yerinde herself asked the Kings for Nalamae’s head?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I did. I also find it strange that the gods have seen fit to watch this conflict from afar. They granted gifts that secured the Kings’ our power over Sharakhai and the desert. Now it crumbles before our very eyes, and the gods have not lifted a finger to
shore up that which they helped build. Moreover, they seem ready to employ us as servants to destroy the goddess they’ve hounded and killed many times before. Why?”

  Indeed. It was a puzzle Çeda had been trying to unlock since learning the truth about Beht Ihman. “They know something we don’t.”

  “If you’re right, and I’ve no doubt you are, it would be in our best interests to discover what it is. And so I ask you again, Çedamihn, have you seen Nalamae?”

  “Even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you. She is the thirteenth tribe’s greatest ally against you and the other Kings. And now, apparently, the other gods of the desert as well. So what was your second point?”

  Ihsan picked up his knife. “You may level many charges against me, but I do not wish the goddess dead. Your assessment of the other gods, however, may prove all too accurate.” He examined the edges of his knife. “Promise me you’ll think on it.”

  Çeda merely stared.

  “I’ll take that as agreement.” He stood and with an easy move sheathed the knife. “Very well. The second: we made a bargain on the mount of Sharakhai.”

  Çeda’s heart tripped, then began racing. She hadn’t forgotten the bargain, but she hadn’t dreamed that Ihsan would follow through on it.

  Return to me, he’d told her on Tauriyat, and I’ll grant you something I know you want.

  What could you grant me? she’d asked.

  Why, the name of your father . . .

  She sat there unwilling to move, almost unwilling to speak, lest Ihsan change his mind. “Who is he?” she finally asked.

  He made his way to the tent flap, pulled it aside, and stepped halfway through. “Your sire,” he said, looking back, “caught your mother after she took her knife to Azad’s throat. He was the very one who sought to stop you in the blooming fields. The one who granted you your blade.” He stepped out, and the tent flap closed behind him. “Your father, Husamettín, the King of Swords.”

  His footsteps shushed against the sand, slowly fading. And Çeda’s heart began to beat again.

  Chapter 66

  FROM THE DECK OF THE BLUE HERON, Ramahd pointed to a spot of clear sand just short of the eight ponderous wrecks ahead. “Anchor there.”

  “Aye,” Vrago replied, and guided the ship in while Tiron and Cicio began pulling in the sails.

  As the ship slid to a halt, Ramahd dropped the heavy anchor over the prow. It fell against the sand with a resounding thud. Shovels in hand, the four of them leapt over the gunwales. The nearest of the wrecks was a caravel that had already been denuded of everything useful. Sails. Rope. Weapons. Equipment. The ship itself had a rotted hull, half-eaten decks, and a collection of blackened masts—the work of the great wyrm’s acid. It had rightly been left behind as useless. As deeply as the acid had eaten into the beams below, it would have been dangerous to sail. Two other sandships had been abandoned for similar reasons. Another four had been burned by fire pots. All seven had been stripped of anything of value.

  Ramahd vaguely wondered where the wyrm was now. It had appeared mortally wounded after the attack by the Forsaken. It had fled, its wings no longer able to bear it aloft, slithering over the ground like a desert asp. No one had wanted to chase it.

  Ahead lay the eighth ship, a schooner that had been treated in an entirely different manner from the other ships. The deck and starboard hull amidships was little more than a shambles of shattered bulwarks, torn-up planks, and broken beams, exposing much of the ship’s interior. It might still have been repaired, but the tribes had been too fearful to go near it, for this was not the work of the dragon but of Guhldrathen, the fearsome ehrekh.

  “That thing puts a chill in my bones,” Cicio said.

  Ramahd agreed. It looked like a ghost ship. The canvas and rigging were intact. The full complement of ballistae and bolts and catapults and fire pots were all still there. A good bit of sand had built up over its deck and skis, but otherwise looked little different than it had a week ago, after the battle had ended.

  Between the abandoned ships was the spot where Çeda had fought both Onur and Guhldrathen, where the Forsaken had swarmed to protect her. It was where Ishaq Kirhan’ava of the Moonless Host and the thirteenth tribe had died. It was also the place where Hamzakiir had been run down and slain by Guhldrathen.

  “Here,” Ramahd said, pointing to an unremarkable patch of sand. And the four of them set to, shovels biting in a rhythmic pattern.

  Nearly three hundred had died in the fierce battle. Ishaq, the foremost among them, had been given back to the desert, wrapped in white linen with the weapons of his enemies, placed in a skiff, and set adrift, for the desert winds to take him where they would. Other skiffs held several warriors to each skiff, some up to a dozen. Too many had died, however, to perform the ritual for all of them. Most bodies had simply been burned in a great pyre, their remains buried in the sand.

  There had been two notable exceptions: Onur, the Feasting King, and the blood mage, Hamzakiir.

  The tribes would not risk angering Bakhi by leaving them to rot beneath the sun, but neither had been given shrouds, nor had a single word been uttered over their graves. They had simply been dumped into a hole and covered, to be forgotten by man and god alike.

  Ramahd was not normally in the business of disturbing graves, but there was a mystery that needed solving. Before the battle, Brama had told Ramahd what he’d seen in the cabin of Kiral’s ship. Kiral had been there, as had Meryam and Amaryllis. But so had Hamzakiir. Something odd had occurred just before Brama had arrived.

  “They’d been pulling on their clothes,” Brama had said.

  “Why?” Ramahd had asked.

  Brama hadn’t been sure, but Ramahd had an inkling. He’d kept his thoughts to himself, however. It was the sort of information that, if true, an outsider like Brama should never have.

  They dug for a long while, missing the mark several times before Cicio called, “Here.”

  They dug around the bodies and slowly but surely uncovered the tall figure of Hamzakiir and half of the ox-like frame of Onur.

  Ramahd knelt by Hamzakiir’s side. He could detect no difference between his memories of the man and the dusty, sunken corpse he found lying before him, but that meant little. Meryam’s magic had always been impressive.

  Taking a deep breath, Ramahd placed his hands on Hamzakiir’s face. He’d never tried to unwork a spell once it had been wrought, but he tried now. He ran his hands over Hamzakiir’s features—cheeks, nose, mouth, even his hair—and tried to guide the magic away, as he’d done with Hamzakiir in the temple, and again with Meryam as she stood on the deck of the galleon.

  After long moments nothing changed, nor could Ramahd sense the fabric of woven magic. Over and over again he tried, to no avail. Hamzakiir looked the same as he ever had. Pulling out his knife, he cut Hamzakiir’s robes down the front to expose his chest. The corpse’s skin was pasty white with various blemishes and a pattern of hair across chest and stomach that reminded Ramahd of a sword hilt. He tried there as well, wondering if working closer to his heart would have more effect. But here, too, he failed to find any trace of magic.

  “Is it Hamzakiir, then?” Tiron asked after a time.

  Ramahd realized how long he’d been staring. The men were nervous. They wanted to leave. “I don’t know,” he said. “Give me more time.”

  Could I have been wrong about Meryam? About all of this?

  He refused to believe it. Like stones across a stream, he could trace a series of events all the way from the abduction of Hamzakiir near Külaşan’s desert palace to Meryam’s order to have Ramahd killed.

  The most important of them was the battle for Hamzakiir’s mind in Viaroza. But then came Aldouan’s death in the desert at the hands of the ehrekh, Guhldrathen. And later, after they’d reached Sharakhai, Meryam’s refusal to return home to Qaimir, even when her duties as queen became ever more urge
nt. The trail ended with her insistence on dealing directly with Kiral to rid the desert of Hamzakiir, the price of which was nothing less than Malasan itself, and a chance to rule those lands once their armies had been crushed in the looming war.

  Over the months Meryam had become more harried. She’d become ever more eager to distance herself from Ramahd. But then came the event that had opened Ramahd’s eyes for good. The sapphire. After stealing it from Brama, they’d performed the ritual to bind it anew. They’d cut away the leather cords and cleaned it. Meryam had applied a mixture of goat fat and smoke from her own burning blood so that Rümayesh would be chained to her will.

  At the closing of that ritual, the ehrekh had nearly caught Ramahd in her spell. Meryam had clipped her locket closed to prevent it, but in that moment, Rümayesh had summoned up a memory: Meryam sobbing in the desert oasis after they’d escaped Guhldrathen.

  I’ve done a terrible thing, Ramahd.

  Meryam’s father had just died. She’d been despondent, nearly inconsolable. Rümayesh had clearly done it in hopes of causing discord between them, enough that she might free herself or ensorcel one of them to do it for her, but Ramahd hadn’t understood. How would that particular memory help Rümayesh?

  During the battle, after Brama had shattered the sapphire and freed Rümayesh, Ramahd had been petrified, even more than while standing before Guhldrathen. Even so, he’d had every intention of asking the ehrekh about Meryam. He needed proof.

  His chance never came, however. The last he’d seen of Rümayesh and Guhldrathen was when they’d flown from the battle in an undulating cloud of smoke and black beetles. Brama had followed them numbly. Neither he nor Rümayesh had been seen since.

  Ramahd had tried to convince himself that the memory was nothing more than a desperate attempt by Rümayesh to save herself—a lie, in essence. But there was the rub. For the implications of that memory to create any sort of rift between Ramahd and Meryam, it had to be true.