The Doors at Dusk and Dawn: A Shattered Sands Novella

by Bradley Beaulieu

  As she continued to stroke his bronze coat, Wadi stepped forward, shying toward the inclined side. His hooves slid, sending stones skittering down the slope, but then he was moving past.

  “Good boy,” Leorah said, her pride swelling. “None could have done better.”

  They continued, crossing larger and larger gaps. Wadi seemed to gain confidence with each one. Even so, he was not as bold as Kirhan’s gelding or Derya’s mare, and both of them soon used wider sections of the path to pass her by.

  Near midday they finally reached the place where the horses would have to be left behind. Above was a sheer rock face they would need to navigate to reach the top. As in the desert race, three stood waiting at the top. They were at the edge of the cliff, staring down as the riders approached. The very fact that they were so interested gave Leorah hope that she, Kirhan, and Derya were the first to arrive.

  After tying their horses to bushes, Kirhan and Derya began their ascent. Leorah, however, remained a moment. She studied the way up, looking for a path that might allow her to move ahead of the others. The other two, having arrived first, had already taken the obvious routes, the ones with many handholds and gaps in the rock, things they could use for surer traction, steadier progress.

  Leorah found another path, one with easy footholds for a quarter of the distance up, and then a hairline crack that ran the rest of the way. Heart fluttering, she stared at it, envisioning her climb once, twice, while Kirhan and Derya both distanced themselves from her. Leorah was an able climber, but this was dangerous, almost foolhardy. Set aside the loss of the traverse and her mother’s ring with it; a fall here could kill her.

  But what was there to do? She needed to get ahead of one of them, Derya if not Kirhan.

  Taking a deep breath, rubbing chalk over her hands from the bag at her back, she took to the climb. Up she went, quickly at first, then slowing her pace as she took more care to ensure her holds were secure and proper.

  The right sort of leverage along the narrow crack in the rock face was crucial. Her fingers slipped into the cracks, holding as the soft leather soles of her boots found purchase. Her arms worked in concert with her shoulders, her back, her hips, her legs. Like an insect she climbed, steadily gaining on the other two, who had more winding climbs to assail than she did.

  Her feet slipped only once. She’d been rushing, but she vowed renewed concentration, and gained the top just as Kirhan was pulling himself over the lip of the rock ledge to her left.

  The two of them lumbered toward the post and slapped it almost simultaneously as, in the distance, along an easy slope to the east, four riders, the Black Wings of Tribe Okan, were hiking hard toward them. As Derya, breathing like an overworked bellows, reached the same post and slapped it, the Black Wings stared in wonder. They’d just realized they’d all likely lost. Only two could advance to the final contest; unless two or perhaps all three of the climbers that stood before them had some sort of accident on the way down, they’d have no chance of taking the long path back along the mountain’s western face to reach the camp in time.

  “Well done,” said one, smiling, nodding his head to the impressive effort they’d put in so far. “I would already have fallen to my death,” said another, a woman with a heart-shaped face and fearless eyes.

  The Black Wings rested only a short while. As they jogged back along the easy eastern slope, Kirhan headed for the cliff. A short while later, so did Derya and Leorah. The downward climb was easier, but no less treacherous. It was difficult to see footholds. Their muscles were already near the point of failure, which only increased the need for care. Still, they all made good progress down.

  And then disaster struck.

  Kirhan had already reached level ground. Leorah was nearly there as well. But Derya slipped. She fell, scrabbling for an easy handhold a body length below her previous position. She missed this too and plummeted the last twenty feet. A sickening crunch obliterated the sounds of birds and buzzing insects. Derya rolled, releasing and endless scream while seizing one ankle.

  Kirhan was on his gelding. He looked at Derya, then Leorah, who had just reached level ground. Brow furrowing, he pulled at his reins and gazed out across the great distance toward the camp, which could barely be discerned through the desert’s amber haze, the many white tents and darker ships stippling the horizon. Even from this far away, King Sukru’s galleon and pavilion could be seen, set apart from the gathered tribes.

  As Leorah rushed to Derya’s side, Kirhan kicked his silver akhala into a trot. Leorah ignored him, gasping when she saw Derya’s ankle. Bone was sticking through. Derya was gripping her shin, just below her knee, her face white as she stared in horror at the wound.

  As the sound of clopping hooves behind her faded, Leorah said, “All will be well,” though it came out strained and forced. “All will be well,” she said again, more confident this time, then rushed to Wadi’s saddle bag, where each rider had bandages, splints, and various other remedies stored.

  She gave Derya a small black blob of black lotus paste, placing it between her cheek and lower gum. “Don’t swallow it,” she said.

  Derya’s face was so grim Leorah wasn’t sure she’d heard.

  “Derya, don’t swallow it! Do you hear me?”

  Derya nodded, and then Leorah set to the work of straightening the bone. She wrapped bandages loosely around the wound, then placed the splints to either side of the break. Finally, she prepared the straps she would use to immobilize the broken bones.

  “This will hurt,” she said.

  Derya, white-faced and sweating, nodded once, the gathered tears in her eyes shedding as she did so. “Just ruddy do it!”

  Leorah pulled, and Derya screamed, louder than when she’d fallen, but her pain seemed to ease after that. Leorah worked quickly, tightening the straps, tightening the bandages, then wrapping more around the entire affair to help put pressure on the wound. It was imperfect. She was no physic to deal with a serious wound like this. But hopefully it was enough to see Derya down to the camp so she could be tended to properly.

  “Drink,” Leorah said, handing her a water skin. “All of it.”

  When Derya did, Leorah strapped another skin around her shoulders, then began the difficult business of getting Derya into her saddle. Working together, the two of them managed after a time. As Leorah mounted, the reality of the situation began to sink in. Long minutes had already passed. There would be no winning this traverse now. Not with Kirhan so far ahead. Surely at least one and possibly several of the other riders would be approaching the fork where this trail met the others.

  Behind her, Derya groaned. Leorah turned to see her eyes fluttering, slipping forward in her saddle.

  “Oh, gods!” She pulled Wadi’s reins sharply over and managed to catch Derya just as she was slipping sideways off her saddle. She muscled Derya’s limp form across Wadi’s rump, wondering now if she’d make it down the mountain in time to save Derya’s life.

  Guiding Wadi with in one hand, she used her other to both keep Derya firmly in place and grip the reins of her horse. Like this, they made their way down the mountain. But then they reached the first of the gaps in the trail. She could see the hoof marks they’d left on the way up. She could see the marks from Kirhan’s gelding as it had headed down. Wadi, skittish earlier, refused to cross the gap.

  “Come on, boy,” Leorah said as soothingly as she could manage, which to her own ear was not soothing at all. “This is nothing. Simpler than the way up!”

  Wadi, however, would not be convinced. He refused to go any further no matter what she tried. The trail was too thin to try to get Derya back onto her own akhala. She’d likely lose Derya’s horse or Wadi or both to the steep slope. Even a small slide at this point would likely be a death sentence for Derya.

  She splashed water on Derya’s face, hoping to wake her, to have her help. She tried to convince Wadi to go. She even leaned forward and tried to feed him a dried pear, hoping the familiarity might calm his nerves,
but Wadi would only roll his eyes and neigh and jerk his head away each time she tried. He became so frantic he nearly lost his footing. Stones and earth skittered down the mountainside to her right. Wadi managed to recover, but the scare seemed to have scraped his nerves raw.

  He stamped, shying away from the gap, in the process butting into Derya’s mare, which was also becoming nervous. The mare, feeding off Wadi’s nervous energy, jerked her head back, then reared and struck Wadi’s rump with her forehooves when he’d backed into her one too many times.

  Wadi jumped forward several steps, screaming from the pain, then halted at the very edge of the gap. His tail swished wildly. The skin along his shoulders and rump flicked constantly.

  Leorah was starting to lose her hold on Derya. “Please, Wadi! Please calm down!”

  But Wadi wouldn’t listen. He continued to scream, to try to back away, but Derya’s mare refused to give ground. The constant stamping was causing the ground beneath him to crumble. More and more rocks were sliding and skittering down the mountainside.

  Leorah was just preparing to drop down to try to calm Wadi when she heard a high whistle. It rose in pitch, then stopped. It came again a moment later, birdlike—a long note followed by a high-pitched whoop.

  Wadi visibly calmed. His stamping slowed. He was no longer screaming, but instead seemed to be listening, trying to determine where the sound had come from.

  Around a bend far ahead came Kirhan on his silver gelding, the forefinger and thumb of one hand pinched between his teeth. Again the whistle came.

  Now that Wadi could see him, his nerves settled further. Then his nervous motions vanished altogether. His eyes no longer rolled. His breathing was strong but steady.

  As Kirhan rode closer, Leorah realized how chagrined he looked. “I should have told you, he’s worse going down.”

  “So I’ve learned.” Part of her wanted to feel angry at him for abandoning them, but in truth, she felt only relief.

  Kirhan dropped down and crossed the gap. He guided Wadi over it, stroking his muzzle, whispering softly, while Leorah held Derya tightly. Soon they’d made it across, and the three of them were riding down slowly but steadily. Each time they came to another gap, Kirhan dropped from his saddle, guided Wadi over it, then remounted. Wadi eventually regained some courage and began traversing the gaps tentatively on his own.

  It felt like a divine miracle when they finally reached more level ground. Deepening the feeling was the fact that Derya soon woke. “Stop,” she said with an uncharitable look at both Leorah and Kirhan. “Stop it! Stop moving! This bloody fucking hurts!”

  Leorah laughed nervously. So did Kirhan.

  With Leorah’s help, Derya managed to make it to a seated position behind Leorah. Her face was doughy and white, but miraculously, she seemed alert and ready to ride.

  They moved with some speed after that. Down they went, finally nearing the fork in the trail. Ahead, two riders approached from the southeastern pass, riding hard. Leorah had no idea if they were the first to come this way or not, but what did it matter? She couldn’t manage a racing pace. Not with Derya behind her.

  The riders passed them as they reached the fork and headed for camp: long-limbed Urdman and his son, Ornük. They looked to Derya with concern on their faces and pulled up.

  “Can we help?” Urdman asked.

  “No,” Leorah said. “Go on.”

  They nodded, then urged their horses back into a gallop.

  “You go as well,” Derya said.

  Leorah turned in her saddle. “Don’t be foolish.”

  “Go,” she said, taking her mare’s reins from the horn of Leorah’s saddle. “I won’t have either of you losing the race because of me.”

  Leorah was about to deny her, but Derya was already using the reins to draw her mare beside her. She leaned forward and then, with an almighty grunt that accompanied her inelegant movements, she swung herself over to the mare’s saddle. The sounds Derya made were filled with cursing and clear pain, but when she’d settled herself again, she looked as if she could keep her saddle as long as she went slowly.

  “Go.” She motioned to the path behind where in the distance another rider was coming into view. “Others will be along soon if I need help.”

  Kirhan stared at Leorah, a questioning look.

  Leorah shrugged, then nodded.

  And then the two of them were off, racing, the hooves of their horses barely seeming to touch the dry ground as they powered onward.

  They caught up to Urdman and Ornük, passed them by as they were nearing the last fork, the one that led to the mountain’s western face. Only then did they see that there was another rider ahead, the Black Wing who’d congratulated them at the top of the mountain.

  Leorah had no idea if he was the only one ahead, but she refused to give in until she knew the race was lost. Kirhan was the same. The camp ahead came into sharper view. They closed the distance steadily. The Black Wing was a quarter-league ahead, then an eighth-league. Then he was only a stone’s throw away and looking over his shoulder at them with wide, nervous eyes.

  By now the three of them were nearing the edge of camp. As they reached the sand, the crowd was cheering. Amber tails kicked up behind them as they galloped hard for the finish line.

  Leorah saw Şelal. She saw Sukru.

  Most importantly, she saw Devorah, standing alone, hands clasped beneath her chin. I’m so sorry for what I’ve done, Leorah thought as she concentrated on the way ahead. I’ll make you proud. I promise. And then I’ll make it up to you.

  As they neared the finish line, both she and Kirhan edged past the Black Wing. Kirhan crossed first, Leorah second. As the cheers of the crowd shook the desert, the two lone pennants were taken down.

  The entrants to the final contest had now been set.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Devorah watched from afar as the celebration for the traverse’s second contest was winding down. Leorah and Kirhan were drinking together, telling tales by the fire with many of the other riders, including Derya, who lay nearby, her broken leg propped up as she sipped from a flask the physic had given her. It was a restorative, but it seemed to be making her just as drunk as the rest of the gathering.

  Devorah wanted to speak to Leorah—about all that had happened in Sukru’s tent, about the amethyst’s supposed abilities, about the second ring—but she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. There were more questions that needed answering first. So while it might not have been the perfect time to speak with Leorah, it did seem the perfect time to find some of those answers. Everyone was occupied with someone, including Şelal and Armesh, who were busy speaking with the other shaikhs, and would be for some time.

  When a new song was picked up by a rebab, a lay of Bahri Al’sir, a pair of flutes and a dozen drums joined in, and all those around the fires lifted their voices in song. Devorah took the opportunity to lose herself in the darkness. She’d not gone a dozen steps, however, when a hand landed on her shoulder.

  She turned to find Leorah standing there, looking confused, perhaps hurt. “Where are you going?”

  Devorah held herself around the middle, made herself small as she motioned to the gathering behind her. “It’s very loud.”

  “It’s a celebration,” Leorah said, “for my victory.”

  “I know, but the noise. It’s creeping into my bones. I’m starting to itch from it.”

  Leorah looked crestfallen, like she had when they were children. She was so used to getting into trouble she’d always expected extra helpings of praise when she managed to do something to be proud of. “Aren’t you happy for me?”

  Devorah realized how unkind she was being. What Leorah had done was an incredible accomplishment.

  She took Leorah into her arms. “Of course I’m happy for you. What you did today I could never have done, not in a thousand years.”

  Leorah hugged her back, then pulled away. “Then join us! Come sit by the fire and sing!”

  Devorah shook her head. �
�It really is too much for me. But we’ll celebrate another time, yes? We’ll go into the desert and share hummus and olives and flatbread, like we used to.”

  Leorah opened her mouth to object, but then stopped herself. She nodded once, smiling. “I’d like that.” After placing a quick kiss on Devorah’s cheek, she was back at the fire, sitting by Kirhan’s side, nuzzling into him and raising her glass of silver araq as they hit the refrain.

  Devorah left and wandered between the tents. When she was certain she wasn’t being followed, she went to the largest: Şelal’s. A guard was posted, but it was only Old Khyrn, who hated revels just as much as Devorah did. He was sitting in a folding chair, slumped—awake, but close to nodding off.

  Devorah slipped around the back of the tent, undid two of the lower ties, and slipped under the canvas. She crept across the carpets, looking through various boxes. She found what she was looking for a short while later. Sukru’s chest of golden rahl was set beside Şelal’s larger chest of clothes. Behind it was the prize offered by Tribe Okan, the Sword of the Willow. It was leaning against an old, beaten chest. The chest had no lock on it—this race was too sacred, the prizes too recognizable, for thievery to be a concern. Devorah opened the chest to find the golden chalice of Bahri Al’sir, and her mother’s second ring.

  She pulled the ring’s twin from the pouch at her belt and by the light of the moons filtering in through the roof compared them. They were nearly identical—rings no doubt crafted by the same jeweler.

  Staring at them, she was disappointed. She wasn’t sure what she could have expected, though. For their secrets to unfold like night-blooming roses? She slipped the cracked one onto her left hand, the other onto her right. She closed her eyes, as she had with the one her mother had given her in secret. She felt for…she knew not what. The warmth in the air, the night breeze filtering in through the gaps at the base of the tent’s walls. She heard songs being sung, the thrum of conversation. She felt the weight of both rings. But beyond this. Nothing.