The Doors at Dusk and Dawn: A Shattered Sands Novella

by Bradley Beaulieu

  “Did you hear me?” Kirhan asked, his face angry.

  “Yes,” she replied, “I know the signs.”

  “Name them.”

  She ticked them off on her fingers. “Sides heaving. Flared nostrils. Head down more often than not. Sweating. Frothing along the neck, belly, chest and flank. And if it gets bad, cotton mouth, lack of sweat, a loss of desire to drink or eat. They can wander, dizzily. Or they might lay down and refuse to get up.”

  He looked surprised, as though he’d been expecting a different response. “Yes. Many horses will slow or refuse to go on when they’re exhausted, but know that I’ve trained Alir to push if need be. He still fights at the reins, though. He’s done so with you?”

  She nodded, embarrassed to admit it.

  He nodded back, then ambled toward the distant row of tents, those meant for the riders. “Keep him safe,” he said, and ducked inside the nearest.

  Before going to her own tent, Leorah walked along the edge of the nearby pool and dug up several sweet desert yams she’d noted on the ride in. She washed them and then fed them to Wadi, one by one. She sang a song and brushed his shoulders as he ate. “Don’t worry,” she said when he’d finished. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  Wadi snorted and clawed one hoof against the sandy earth. After one last pat, she went to her own tent and slept.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  When Leorah woke the next morning, Kirhan was already gone. Several other riders had come in while she slept. She moved quietly, so as not to rouse them. After refilling the three water skins each rider was allowed, then urging Wadi to drink his fill one last time—an offer he refused—she was off.

  As the oasis dwindled behind her, she leaned forward and rubbed Wadi’s neck. “Alir is a stupid name. While I ride you, your name will be Wadi. What say you? Do you like it?” Wadi made no sort of reply, but for her that was as good as assent. She patted his shoulder. “That’s a good boy.”

  She followed the hoof prints Kirhan’s silver akhala had left, but as she continued, the trail faded, which meant he’d set a hard pace toward the second waypoint—harder than she was setting, in any case. She didn’t care. The day was already miserably hot, and Wadi was listless. She wanted to give him a chance to recover. And besides, they had time to spare; she only needed to be in the first ten in order to reach the second contest.

  Before high sun, another rider, the tough-as-leather Derya of Tribe Rafik, rode past her. Only a few hours after that, as Leorah was staking a sun shade into the sand so she and Wadi could rest during the day’s hottest hours, the tower of a man they called Urdman, and his son, Ornük, came riding past.

  “Share my shade?” Leorah asked.

  “We have our own,” Urdman replied, and they pitched theirs a quarter league ahead, as if they needed the comfort of moving beyond her before they would stop and give themselves respite from the heat.

  “Stubborn,” Leorah said to their wavering image. “We don’t need them anyway, do we, Wadi?”

  He thumped one hoof against the sand.

  Wadi’s spiritless pace continued throughout the following days. He wasn’t the same horse he’d been on the ride to the oasis. His belly began to rumble every so often, at times sounding like stones were tumbling inside him. She worried she’d done something terrible, something he wouldn’t recover from.

  “Please don’t die on me, boy. I’ve only just met you.”

  The akhala were efficient beasts, prized across the whole of the desert. They could go several weeks without proper food. A bit of ironweed or a nibble on firebrush was enough to sustain them, as long as they started with a good bit of fat, which they collected around their chest and shoulders and rump. As for water, as long as you didn’t force them into a gallop too often, they could go for many days with very little. Even so, Leorah went out of her way to steer their path toward patches of bushes so Wadi could graze.

  One day while doing so, she saw two more riders trot past in the distance. She reached the second waypoint near sunset on her sixth day out from the oasis. After checking in with the observers, she immediately pushed on. The sense of urgency was returning now that the end of the race was nearing. But Wadi’s listlessness continued. As did the angry sounds in his belly.

  Three more riders, their horses all displaying the bright red manes of Tribe Narazid, passed her the following day. A fourth rider, Alize from Tribe Okan, followed hours later. She guided her copper akhala close, and stared at both Wadi and Leorah. She looked grim with the patch covering her left eye, but Leorah realized shortly after she’d misjudged the woman. It was only concern for a fellow rider.

  “Is your horse ill?” Alize asked when she came near.

  “A bit,” Leorah admitted, patting Wadi’s neck. “He only needs rest, I think.”

  “Do you wish to ride with me?” she asked, motioning to her own saddle.

  Accepting the offer would mean giving up on the traverse, and Leorah wasn’t ready to do that just yet. “My heart sings at your generosity, but no.”

  It wasn’t so simple as merely continuing the race, however. In eleventh place, she was currently out of the running, and in the distance behind her, she saw the wavering forms of several more riders.

  She jogged by Wadi’s side that whole day, sipping sparingly on her water, and giving a healthy portion to Wadi though he likely didn’t need it so soon after the oasis. The pace she set for herself was grueling, but being riderless seemed to help Wadi’s disposition. As the sun was lowering in the west, however, he simply stopped. He would go no further despite her tugging at his reins. Two more riders rode past without a word as she stood before Wadi, running her hands slowly along his muzzle. Wadi eyed the other horses. He shook his mane and nickered, perhaps ashamed that by delaying, they were effectively giving up the race.

  “It’s not your fault,” Leorah said. “It’s mine. The gods are punishing me for my arrogance.”

  Was it the grasses she’d fed him before the oasis? Or the yams? Or perhaps Wadi had picked up a case of threadworm at the oasis. The worms usually only infected foals, but adults were occasionally stricken as well.

  She wondered why the gods wished to prevent her from winning back her mother’s ring. Did the ring mean something to them? Or were they merely protecting the interests of King Sukru, a man they’d already bestowed many blessings upon? Or perhaps it was as simple as scripture. Thou shalt not covet the material over the spiritual. Isn’t that what the Al’ambra said?

  “We’ll get you back to Kirhan, yes?” She stroked Wadi’s neck. “He’ll know what to do.”

  Exactly when she’d fallen asleep, she couldn’t recall, but in the morning, she was awoken by Wadi’s pained whinnying. He was walking in a circle, but his pace was strange and uneven. His eyes were rolling back in their sockets and he was tossing his head up and down. He looked possessed, his tack jingling, the reins slapping against his shoulders.

  She’d already removed his saddle, but now she took off his bridle as well. She prayed another rider would come. She’d been foolish to deny Alize. She’d gladly take up the offer now. But no one came, and she started to wonder if she’d gone off course the prior evening.

  Wadi started to buck and kick.

  “I’m so sorry, boy!” She tried to approach, to console him, but each time she tried Wadi skittered away. “I don’t know what to do!”

  Then Wadi went still. He began to make soil, and she realized she’d seen him do so only once since leaving the oasis. It kept coming in large, wet clumps, thumping against the sand. He pissed while doing so. On and on it went. Breath of the desert, she’d never seen so much come out of a horse at once. Wadi stepped forward, shivered as if he were plagued by stinging flies, then passed even more.

  When he was done, he plodded forward and stood still as a statue. His breath was coming in great huffs. Leorah walked toward him slowly, arms spread wide, worried she might scare him. But Wadi didn’t shy away. He leaned into her touch. And then of a sudden he reared onto
his back hooves. He dropped and galloped forward, then reared and charged again, neighing this time.

  He circled her once, twice, throwing his head back, as if he had no idea what to do with this fount of energy. He came near her, nudging her with his shoulder.

  “You want water?” She offered some to him from a treated leather bag meant for the purpose. He lapped some of it up, but then threw his head back and skipped away. He circled her again, then used his muzzle to push his reins along the sand.

  Leorah laughed. “You want to race?”

  Wadi stood proud, waiting.

  “Very well,” she said, and saddled him with a wary sort of hope, the sort you don’t look square in the eye lest you scare it off.

  Then they were riding. Wadi was tentative at first. Several times, he passed a large amount of gas. Each time Leorah wondered if what she was doing was wise. But then the discomfort seemed to vanish, and Wadi was running with a power she hadn’t seen since the first days of the traverse.

  No, she realized. It’s well more than those early days.

  Wadi was like an unbroken colt, powering over the sand as if eager to reassert his dominance over the Great Mother. Ahead, flitting in and out of view as the heat wavered, were three riders. Wadi closed the distance over several hours of steadfast cantering. When they came near, he leaned into a full gallop. They tried to keep pace, but Wadi would not be denied. He pushed past them as if they were standing still.

  Leorah laughed. She unwound her turban and stood in the saddle and waved it over her head. In those moments, she was those rolling dunes. She was a powerful horse, a limitless sky, and joy unfiltered. Even so, she knew her ability to reach the second contest was in jeopardy. She recognized none of the riders from the days since the oasis, which meant she still had ground to make up. How much, she wasn’t sure, but she knew the end of the race was near.

  The mountains lay ahead, an ochre smear along the horizon. All riders would be pushing hard. Likely Kirhan and the other leaders had already crossed the finish line near camp, securing their place in the second contest. She decided to rest only a short while that night. But she’d hardly fallen asleep when she heard riders trotting over the sand. She got up and walked Wadi, refusing to push him too hard, refusing as well to risk injury by riding during the moonless hours of the night.

  At the first sign of light, she returned to the saddle. Black mountains now loomed.

  “Let’s run, shall we?” she said to Wadi. “Let’s run like the autumn wind!”

  Wadi huffed. He shook his mane. Then they were riding hard over the soft sand. Ahead, she saw a cluster of riders. She was slowly catching up to them, but she could also see a great ring of ships and the camp that lay between them. The finish was only the turn of a clock away.

  Wadi seemed to realize it too. He struck a pace none of the other horses in the traverse—including, she was certain, Kirhan’s silver gelding—could match.

  She caught up to the rearmost rider, slid past him as the sound of the crowd ahead rose above the pounding of hooves. Of the ten yellow pennants that would have been hung to indicate how many places were available for the traverse’s second contest, only three remained. They hung from a wooden post that had been staked into the sand. As a horse galloped past, its rider, Alize, raised her arms triumphantly, and another pennant was taken down.

  Gods, only two remain, and there are six riders still ahead!

  Leorah was crouched in her stirrups, holding the reins in both hands, her body moving in perfect sync with Wadi’s flow. She let Wadi choose his own path through the strange dunes. Most riders rode up and down, straight toward the finish, but Wadi flew along the troughs. It took them a bit wide, but the even ground allowed him a greater pace.

  They passed two more riders, while in the distance, another Bloody Mane was crossing the finish line, leaving only one yellow pennant to swing from the post.

  Three riders were still ahead of Leorah. Wadi galloped on, an undeniable force. She passed one rider. The next tried to steer into Wadi’s path to slow him down, but Wadi cut to the opposite side in a perfect display of instincts and training and raw, unbridled power.

  Past the rider they swept, and drove up the final slope.

  Leorah’s heart fell when she saw how much distance she still needed to close on the last rider. She was sure she’d lost, but then realized how badly the rider’s horse was flagging. He’d pushed too hard, too soon, and now his horse couldn’t keep the pace.

  On Wadi went, hurtling toward the finish.

  Moments before crossing, they burst ahead of the final rider. The crowd roared. Horns sounded and drums played. And the final pennant was taken down.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Later that day, with the revels of the first contest in full swing, Devorah strode toward King Sukru’s camp, which was arrayed behind his galleon. The central pavilion and the surrounding tents were situated in such a way that the ship’s bulk shielded them from the view of the three gathered camps, as if Sukru couldn’t bear to look upon the sullied masses of the desert tribes.

  Leorah would be incensed. No doubt she still would be when the revels were over. Devorah ought to be incensed, but each step she took toward the pavilion only gnawed at the hollow feeling inside her. It felt as if the pavilion’s entrance were a great, slavering maw, and here she was, trudging toward it like the dolorous amberlark from the children’s tales, the one that had been tricked into stepping into the hyena’s mouth.

  The hyena had laughed with its brothers after. And such a pretty meal it was.

  Two Blade Maidens stood at attention at the pavilion’s entrance. They wore black battle dresses and turbans and ebon blades at their sides. The veils of their turbans concealed their faces, their emotions. Such was the dispassion in their kohl-rimmed eyes, however, that Devorah suspected they’d give nothing away even if their veils had been hanging loose.

  She came to a stop before them, waiting awkwardly. When neither gave greeting, she said, “I was summoned by King Sukru.”

  The leftmost Maiden sketched a mocking bow. “Well, why didn’t you say so, Biting Shield?”

  Devorah wasn’t sure how to respond. Staring at Devorah, she laughed derisively, flicked her hand toward the entrance, then pretended Devorah didn’t exist.

  Squeezing past them, Devorah stepped inside the pavilion to find a half-dozen braziers burning brightly, lighting the underside of the roof’s fine canvas like the center of a pearl must look from within.

  A handful of servants moved about. One was using mortar and pestle with a galloping rhythm to grind kahve beans. Another was making elaborate, golden drinks made of araq, spices, and finely chopped dragonfruit. King Sukru’s vizira, a comely woman with a broad, knowing smile, was bowed low near the King himself, who sat on a mound of pillows on the far side of a low table. When the vizira noticed Devorah, she stood and tipped her head pleasantly. The servants, all young men who looked eerily similar to the vizira—her sons?—did as well.

  “Please,” the vizira said, motioning to the pillows opposite Sukru.

  The hollow feeling in Devorah’s chest deepened as she complied. She wanted to leave. She wanted to run away with Leorah, find a new place in the desert to hide. But what could she do? “A thousand gratitudes for inviting me to dine, my Lord King.”

  Sukru flicked one hand, much as the Blade Maiden had done a only a moment ago. “Even the Kings of Sharakhai must eat. Is it not so?”

  “Of course, my Lord King.”

  “You like mint-and-lemon lamb?”

  The air was thick with the scent of it. Normally, Devorah’s mouth would be watering, but there in the pavilion, sitting as she was before the Reaping King, her mouth was dry as desert sage. She replied with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “I do, Excellence. Very much so.”

  Sukru seemed to sneer while weighing those words, but then he looked up to his vizira and nodded. The woman made a circling motion with one finger. Immediately, and with accustomed ease, the
servants worked in flawless concert to deliver several small courses. They ate of savory crackers with caramelized onions and fresh, herbed cheese whose aftertaste delivered a pleasant tang that was strangely similar to the horse milk cheese Tribe Rafik often made. They had greens with wine-laced sausage, pomegranate seeds that burst with flavor, and a carrot-and-sweet-turnip dressing that, despite Devorah’s nervousness, made her mouth water with every bite. The promised lamb came next, savory meat that melted off the bone and whose juices mixed with the fluffy, perfectly cooked rice.

  Devorah had never eaten a better meal, yet she enjoyed none of it. She was constantly looking to Sukru, wondering when he’d get to his purpose in summoning her here.

  To finish, they had freshly brewed kahve and rosemary-cream biscuits that were so delicate they felt impossible here in the harshness of the desert.

  “You like it?” Sukru asked.

  “Of course, my Lord King.”

  Sukru gave her a knowing nod. “You wouldn’t know it from the way you keep glaring at me. I’m not preparing to chop your head off, girl.”

  In truth, she hadn’t been thinking that, but she certainly was now. Such a pretty meal it was… “Of course not, Excellence.”

  Sukru stared more intently, perhaps waiting for her attitude to change, but how could it? This was all so strange. She felt as if she’d been caught in slipsand, and that every moment that passed was pulling her deeper and deeper. Soon enough she’d be lost to the world, and no one would be the wiser.

  While Leorah—the gods damn her—is off dancing with handsome Kirhan.

  Finally, Sukru had had enough. He huffed a breath and waved everyone out. They left in a rush, closing the front and rear tent flaps behind them, leaving Sukru and Devorah alone in the pavilion. From the table he picked up a blue bottle that had yet to be touched. Into fresh glasses he poured two healthy servings of araq. He took his up and sipped, waving for Devorah to do the same.