The Doors at Dusk and Dawn: A Shattered Sands Novella

by Bradley Beaulieu

  Until she neared the tent flaps.

  From the ring on her right hand she sensed something deeper than the cool night air, something deeper than the desert. Like the creeping feeling when someone approaches from behind, it was a thing unseen yet clearly present, subtle as the scent of jasmine at spring’s failing. The more she concentrated on it, though, the more distinct it became. Khyrn, she realized, as remote as the moons only a moment ago, now felt nearer to her. Not in any physical sense. No, he felt like a memory, insubstantial and yet no less real for it, growing brighter the more she thought on it. She almost felt as if she could speak to him.

  She had half a mind to try when she felt another presence nearing. A moment later she heard footsteps. The fear that she might be discovered spiked as a voice huffed in irritation. “Why do we allow you to do anything?”

  Armesh’s voice, a soft rebuke for how easily Khyrn found his slumber these days.

  Devorah rushed toward the chest to replace the ring, but too late. The ties of the tent flap were pulled aside and Armesh stepped in. Devorah spun, hiding her hands behind her back, but Armesh had already seen. Even if he hadn’t, it wouldn’t take a collegia master to guess why she’d stolen into the tent.

  Armesh stepped outside. A soft cry of surprise from Khyrn followed. “I’ve returned,” Armesh said softly. “You may go.”

  Khyrn’s chair creaked. She heard him brushing down his clothes, clearing his throat a moment later. “As you wish.”

  As his footsteps faded, Armesh stepped back inside, lit a lamp, then regarded Devorah steadily. “The ring,” he said, holding one palm out to her.

  She removed the dead one behind her back and placed it in his palm. He frowned, then held it back out for her to take. “Not the dead one.”

  Devorah stared, shocked, confused, her mind fighting to craft some combination of words that would allow her to keep the other ring.

  But Armesh was already growing impatient. He flicked the fingers of his other hand. “The ring, Devorah. The prize promised to the winner of the traverse.”

  Feeling small as a child before a scolding grandparent, Devorah pulled it off her hand and held it out, accepting the other ring back from him.

  “You know your mother and I were close.” He held the ring up and stared into the facets of the amethyst, which glittered in the lantern’s light like the flames of a distant bonfire. “You may not realize how close, however. I taught her how to ride her first horse. She taught me my letters when my mother refused to. I stole her first kiss just days after she’d been chosen for your father. Did she ever tell you?” Lowering the ring, he regarded her with a wistful look. “No, I suppose she wouldn’t have.”

  “What do you know about that ring, Armesh? Why does Sukru want it?”

  “Why would a King of Sharakhai want anything of power? To keep it from the tribes, I suppose. To steal away yet more of our heritage and hide it in the bowels of their palaces.”

  “There must be more. He’s obsessed with it.” She told him of her meal with King Sukru, especially how hungry he’d become when speaking of the ring. “I could hear it in the way he asked his questions. I saw it in his eyes. He knows what it can do. He just doesn’t know how.” She paused, waiting for him to answer her unspoken question. When he didn’t, she said, “Do you, Armesh? Do you know how it’s used?”

  He waggled his head, his curly grey hair waving along his shoulders. “What does it matter? It will soon be Sukru’s.”

  Devorah frowned. “Leorah might yet win.” It was an unreasonable hope, and they both knew it.

  “The traverse was always going to come down to Kirhan and one other contestant. It just happens to be your sister. The final outcome has never been, and still is not, in doubt.”

  “How does the gemstone work?” Devorah pressed.

  “Listen to me now. It doesn’t matter. This one is lost, and the other is broken. You’ll have no chance to use it.”

  “How do you know one is broken?”

  He looked at her incredulously. “Do you think you’re the only one who can sneak into a tent and open a chest? I made a point of knowing, Devorah.”

  She held the flawed ring aloft. “If you ever loved my mother, you’ll tell me. You’ll let me replace that ring with this one and you’ll tell me what it does.”

  “I promised your mother I’d keep you safe. What you suggest is the perfect opposite of that.”

  “Armesh, tell me!”

  At this, he only stared at her sadly, as if she were a waif he’d found stumbling in the desert. “I care for you, Devorah. You and Leorah, both. Which is why I will do no such thing.” He moved to the tent flap and pulled it back. “Now go. And by the gods, show that ring to no one, least of all Leorah.”

  She wanted to rage, wanted to beat him with her fists like Leorah would certainly do, but he would not relent—she could see it in his sandstone expression—so she left without another word.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  As the festivities began to wind down, Leorah gave one last look to Kirhan, who was sitting with a throng of revelers, regaling them with tales of Sharakhai, then she made for the tent set aside for the two champions.

  In truth she didn’t want this night to end—with the morning came the all-too-real possibility that her quest to win back her mother’s ring would come to a crashing halt—but she needed sleep if she were to have any chance of winning.

  Ducking inside the tent, she stumbled, only then realizing how wobbly she was. She shouldn’t have drunk so much. Kirhan had hardly touched his araq. He’d swallowed enough to avoid giving offense, but she’d seen him time and time again nursing his drink.

  Always the thick-headed mule, Leorah.

  Her own revelry could have waited one more day. It was just that she’d been so relieved Derya hadn’t died. And even after her survival seemed assured, Leorah had thought surely others would win the final two pennants. When she’d taken the second, a great joy had bubbled up inside her, a feeling so strong she hadn’t wanted it to end.

  After guzzling water from the ewer that had been left for her, she lay down and listened to the hum of conversation, the crackling of the fire. She woke some time later to the sounds of someone entering the tent. Limned in moonlight, Kirhan’s broad form stepped inside and closed the flap behind him. He moved to his blankets and sat down, cross-legged. She couldn’t tell what he was doing for a moment. His silhouette was distorting strangely. And then she realized.

  “By the gods, you’re stretching?”

  He paused. “Drink tightens the muscles.”

  Leorah sat up and faced him. “You’re limber enough.”

  “You may think so.”

  She wished she had some biting reply, but as calm as he made her feel she probably wouldn’t have voiced it anyway. “Thank you for coming back for us.”

  She saw him shake his head, the barest of movements in the darkness. “I deserve no thanks. The gods will judge me harshly for having left you.”

  “You came back. That’s what’s important.”

  “Don’t pour honey on my shame, Leorah Mikel’ava. I was a coward.”

  She paused. She hadn’t realized he knew her full name. “Wanting to win the traverse is hardly cowardice.”

  It took him a long time to respond. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then help me to.”

  Outside, a woman giggled, then screamed in mirth as someone chased her about the dying fire. “It’s Sukru,” Kirhan finally said. “He wants the amethyst.”

  “It was a difficult puzzle to solve, but I’d somehow worked that part out.”

  She’d hoped he would laugh, but he didn’t. In a voice as serious as she’d ever heard him use, he said, “You don’t know the half of it. He’s been searching for that gem for many years. You understand me? Many years.”

  A chill began to creep along Leorah’s arms, making the hair stand up. “What are you saying?”

  “I’ve heard the tales of the attack on Tribe Tu
logal, the one that saw your parents and brother dead. It wasn’t a simple clash over the new shipping tariffs the Kings imposed, as most now claim. It was an excuse for Sukru to attack your tribe so that he might find the amethyst.”

  The chill along her arms crept inside her chest. “Sukru sent them?”

  In the darkness, Kirhan nodded. “An informant was paid handsomely for the information. He knew the amethyst was there. He was nearly certain your family had it hidden away somewhere. He’d hoped to take it quickly, by force, and hide the knowledge that it had ever existed. Your parents were killed. Your brother as well. But you and your sister were spirited away. Sukru never learned how, but he’s been searching for you ever since.”

  Leorah folded her arms around her waist, a vain attempt at suppressing the trembling that had broken out all over her body. “That’s why he’s come?”

  “Yes. He learned of the amethyst and asked Şelal to deliver it to him. She’s a prideful woman, though. She felt honor bound not to deliver it to him outright, lest she appear craven to her own tribe, or worse, the neighboring tribes. She arranged for the ring to be one of the prizes of the traverse, a way for Sukru to obtain it without Şelal being blamed of any wrongdoing.”

  “And then Sukru came to you.” Kirhan was a man selected from hundreds, surely, perhaps thousands. He was a champion, a man who wouldn’t be denied this prize.

  “Yes,” he said, “and I will not step aside. My family is in Sharakhai. All of them—my grandmother, my uncles and aunts, my cousins—are beholden to Sukru.”

  “Your mother and father?”

  “My mother died in childbirth along with my baby sister. My father some years later. A fall from the vulture’s nest of a caravan ship.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  A pause. “It happened a long time ago.”

  One last whoop came from the woman being chased outside, and then there was silence, the sounds of low whispers.

  “I didn’t ask you to step aside,” Leorah said.

  “I know. You’re a prideful woman. You’d never ask for it, nor even wish for it. But I wish to be clear with you. In the morning, I will take the prize. It would be better for you and your sister, I think, if you just let me.”

  “If you think I will step aside, you’re mad.”

  Kirhan lay down. Faced away from her. “Think on it, Leorah. You’ve much to live for. Let this bauble go.”

  Leorah lay down as well. She curled into a ball, wishing her family was still with her, wishing the amethyst had never entered their lives. Most of all, a flame was melting the cold that had gathered inside her, burning it away like the sun in the depths of desert’s winter.

  She had a mind to go to Sukru’s ship and kill him, regardless of what happened to her. If she did, though, if she even tried, Devorah would suffer for it, perhaps only after being taken back to Sharakhai and tortured. Others in the tribe would also be punished. Şelal would likely be put to death. Perhaps Armesh as well, as a warning for all who would harbor assassins against the Kings.

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t put Devorah and others in that sort of peril. The ring, however, was another matter entirely.

  That she could take. That she could win away, even as Sukru’s grasping, claw-like fingers reached for it. She would do it, she decided. She felt for Kirhan and for his family in Sharakhai—he was a victim here as well—but she refused to let that cloud her thoughts. The ring was hers, hers and Devorah’s, and she would win it back, Sukru and his champion be damned.

  She lay awake a long while, unable to sleep. In the end, it was imagining the look on Sukru’s face that allowed her to find her way into the land of sleep.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  As the sun glared over the eastern mountains, Leorah sat in Wadi’s saddle wearing leather-and-chain armor. Her conical helm had a filigreed nose guard, a tall spike atop, and a curtain of chainmail that lapped at her shoulders. Her left arm, the same one that gripped Wadi’s reins, was fitted through the straps of a shield. A coiled whip was held in the other.

  A hundred paces distant was Kirhan, sitting atop his silver akhala. He was similarly armored. The wind toyed with the egret plumes sweeping back from his helm. His shield glinted brightly in the sun. He looked like a hero of old, a man preparing to lead an army to war. His spear had a straight blade and hook on one end, a blunt club on the other. It was short—a spear made for close combat, a good choice to knock an opponent from her saddle.

  All around them, in a grand circle, were the people of the three gathered tribes, as well as those who had accompanied Sukru to the desert: the crew of his galleon, some few advisors, and servants. To one side, along Leorah’s left, a pavilion had been erected. Its roof flapped in the stiff morning wind. Şelal sat within, as did the stout Shaikh Duyal of Okan and the long-limbed Jherrok of Narazid. Sukru was there as well, crook-backed in his chair, watching with pinched eyes, hands clasped before him, a ravenous man moments before the feast. His two Blade Maidens stood behind him, stoic, watching.

  The urge in Leorah was strong to charge Sukru and cut him with her whip, to strike for his neck and see him bleed. The Maidens may protect him, the gods may protect him, but that didn’t mean they could protect him from all things. She wished to see fear in his eyes. She wished to see him run from her before she rode him down with Wadi’s sharp hooves.

  The spell was broken when Şelal made her way into the sun. All was silence. All were rapt as she lifted one hand.

  “Two remain in the traverse. To the winner goes the spoils, and yet these are small compared to the glory the victor will take with them to the farther fields.” She lifted her hand higher. “Go well, champions. May the light of the gods shine upon you!”

  When Şelal dropped her hand, the voices of the crowd lifted higher than they’d ever been, even at the finish line of the second contest. Kirhan kicked his horse into a gallop. Leorah did the same. As she leaned into the rhythm of Wadi’s accelerating pace, she allowed her whip to uncoil. It trailed behind, a writhing snake skipping over the sand.

  As Kirhan came nearer, he lowered his spear, pointed it over Wadi’s head, directly at Leorah’s chest. Leorah tightened her legs on Wadi’s barrel chest. She hunkered low and raised her shield. Kirhan looked so menacing in his armor she nearly abandoned her plan and struck with the whip early. But she stayed her hand and waited. She was only going to have one chance at this.

  Her body fell in tune with Wadi’s gait. She watched the tip of Kirhan’s spear warily, waiting for any small shift. At the last possible moment, he lifted it up and in a blinding arc swung the blunt end into her path. He was hoping to bash her from her saddle. Leorah was ready, however. She leaned even lower, guessing, correctly, that he would wish no harm to come to Wadi.

  The spear’s blunt weight crashed against her shield. It struck like a battering ram despite her trying to angle the weight up and away. She was nearly flipped from her saddle. But she held.

  And now it’s my turn.

  With a grunt and a sharp twist of her upper body, she sent her whip flying. Kirhan was nearly out of reach already, so fast were their horses galloping over the sand, but the spear’s lance still trailed behind him. The whip caught it just below the hooked head. Gripping Wadi’s chest and the whip as hard as she could, she yanked on it.

  She felt a tug, then nothing.

  The crowd gasped as the spear twisted up and away from Kirhan’s grip. It flipped into the air, the whip coming free of the haft as it spun. The way the sun caught the blade’s gleaming edge made it look like a weapon forged by Thaash himself.

  Even before it landed, Kirhan was pulling on the reins of his horse. He needed that weapon.

  But Leorah was ready. She pulled on Wadi’s reins as well. Wadi halted and spun, eager and excited now that the battle had begun. She charged forward as Kirhan leaned precariously in his saddle. He was gripping the saddle horn with one hand, his left leg hooked over his horse’s rear, just behind the saddle. She hadn’t really apprec
iated it until now, but his wingspan was incredible. Hanging low, his right hand hovered just above the sand. In only a few moments, his horse’s long strides would deliver to him his spear.

  Leorah sent her whip cracking, once, twice, three times, as Kirhan approached the fallen spear. The first two were warnings. The third, when she realized he wasn’t going to back off, aimed for his reaching hand.

  It caught him across the wrist, to stunning effect. Bits of flesh flew from the point of impact while blood coursed from the wound, coating his hand.

  Miraculously, he still almost managed to take up the spear, but it slipped between his fingers as he was trying to lift himself back up to the saddle. The crowd gasped as his foot suddenly dropped from the stirrup and both feet dragged across the ground, but his left hand still gripped the saddle horn.

  Leorah tried to take advantage. She sent the whip at his legs, hoping to grab an ankle and yank him free of his horse. The whip’s end spun around his shin, but he immediately squirmed his leg free. Guessing she might try again, he let out a series of short, sharp whistles, and his horse spun, effectively fouling her aim.

  She couldn’t let the opportunity go, though. She couldn’t let him recover. She urged Wadi into a charge, shot her whip forward as Kirhan’s head lifted up from the opposite side of his saddle. He still had his shield, and used it to block a pair of stinging strikes. By then the two horses were too close for her to try again.

  He was hiding his right hand, she realized. Concealing something. Still, she didn’t expect him to swing a bloody great iron hook toward her.

  The weapon was about the length of a riding crop. It could certainly do damage if he managed to land a blow, but the real danger was him hooking her armor and pulling her from her saddle.