With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “We spoke in Külaşan’s desert palace, but only briefly.”

  “When Dardzada first told me about it, I wondered at the wisdom in letting her go there.” He glanced to Emre. “I wonder even now whether we should let her remain.”

  As the ricksha lurched into motion, Emre leaned back further in his seat. “It seems to me she’d be in more danger if she left. Would the Kings not do everything in their power to punish such a betrayal?”

  “They would, young falcon.” He took a deep breath and released it, as if he’d been struggling with this himself for some time. “Well, I suppose that, for now, is a sleeping dog. Let’s let it lie for the moment. I have another reason to speak with you. Macide seems to think you a trustworthy man.”

  Emre bowed his head. “I’m honored.”

  “That you would never betray him, or the true leaders of the Al’afwa Khadar.”

  “I would not.”

  “There is a new player afoot, as you’re well aware. The son of a King, now resurrected by your own hand, by your own blood, if what I hear is true.”

  Emre wondered, not for the first time, what sort of power he’d given Hamzakiir when he’d offered the mage his own blood. “It is.”

  “There’s no doubt he’s a charismatic man. And powerful. But he’s fresh from the grave. He knows little about the powers that shift in the desert sand. There are those who might be fooled by his charms, but make no mistake. There is no blood of the lost tribe in him. We cannot allow others to be lured away from our cause.”

  Emre considered. “You fear it’s already happening.”

  Ishaq rubbed his ruby ring as if it were a talisman. “When you came to the catacombs, there was a man we were speaking with.”

  Emre remembered. The man with air of nobility about him. “Lord Aziz of Ishmantep.”

  “Just so. There is reason to wonder whether Aziz has been truthful with us. It may be that he’s been lured by Hamzakiir’s power. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened in the desert. Or it may be that Hamzakiir has done the unforgivable and applied the power of his magic to those in the uppermost ranks of the lost tribe. There are many unanswered questions surrounding Hamzakiir’s recent actions, and we need to know the truth of it.”

  “You have only to command me.”

  “Good.” They turned again, and headed back toward the tenement building where they’d left Frail Lemi. “How do you feel about turning the tables on a captain of the Silver Spears?” Ishaq asked.

  “A Spear. A Maiden. A King. It makes no difference to me.”

  He watched Emre carefully, then nodded and patted Emre on the knee as they rounded a corner. “Very well, Emre Aykan’ava.”

  Ahead, they found Frail Lemi leaning against the wall where they’d left him, using a knife to clean beneath his fingernails. He stood when he spotted the ricksha and slipped the knife in a blink into its sheath on his forearm.

  When the driver pulled the ricksha to a stop, Emre hopped out and Lemi sat in the place where Emre had just been. The ricksha creaked mightily as Lemi found a comfortable position. He dominated the bench, grinning like a Goldenhill prince on his birthday.

  Ishaq knocked the wood twice with his ring. “Hamid will give you your orders,” he said to Emre, and the ricksha pulled away, the driver struggling with Lemi’s added weight.

  Chapter 28

  WELL BEFORE MORNING LIGHT, Çeda roused herself from bed. For each of the past many nights, she’d returned to the House of Maidens bone-tired but then hardly slept a wink. Last night, she and the other Maidens had again worked long into the night, searching for those who were felt to have instigated the riot, but had eventually left the rest to the Silver Spears. She had nightmares of blood and spears and a ceaseless wail of pain and frustration from the faceless thousands who surrounded her. She woke, breathless, her mind swimming with scenes of the terror at the harbor and the door-to-door searches they’d conducted at Husamettín’s orders. She thought of the goddess as well. How dearly she wished she could have spoken to her, asked her some few questions before the other Maidens had arrived. But she thanked the goddess for her kindness. She’d saved the lives of hundreds, and many more from injury.

  Her heart bled for Davud. Did he yet live? If so, where had the Host taken him? Or more importantly, why had they taken him and the others? She worried over Emre as well. Surely he’d been involved. Likely all of the trusted agents of the Al’afwa Khadar had been involved somehow these past few months.

  Hearing nothing from the other rooms, she moved to her desk and lit a candle. After pulling out a sheet of the reed paper, she penned a new note, telling Juvaan what she’d seen over the past few days. The bloodshed. The maniacal fervor with which the Host’s scarabs had fought. The fire at the garrison and the missing graduates. The riot at the harbor.

  Satisfied, she took a deep breath, then put the corner of the paper to the flame. She held her breath, waiting. The reply came quickly.

  Very well. Take great care. Leave the papers untouched for one month. With as much as had happened, I fear that the Kings will pick up the scent of our correspondence. One month. And then we can speak again.

  She waited for more, but the words simply stopped, and then the page burst into cerulean flames, vanishing as though it had never existed.

  Her hands bunched into fists. She shook with rage, and took up a new sheet of paper. Her lips pressed into a thin line, she wrote—

  What of the scarab? What of the plans that surround him?

  —then lit the page and waited. Again the reply came quickly.

  I have nothing as yet. But I hope to when we speak again.

  For a long while after the charred sheet had burned itself up, Çeda remained at the desk. By the gods, one month. Six weeks. Could he give her nothing before then? Like the page itself, the city would be afire with Silver Spears’ enforcers, with the Maidens themselves, with Zeheb’s spies. More bloodshed would come. It would be a sensitive time. But perhaps that was the best time for her and Juvaan to speak. With the chaos that was sure to rule the days to come, how likely was it for the Kings to learn of their communications?

  Unable to sleep, she headed for the roof of the barracks, where she came at times to watch over the city. She didn’t look out over Sharakhai, however. She looked east, beyond the walls that ran around the House of Maidens to the tall buildings beyond. The embassy houses. Malasan’s, Qaimir’s, Kundhun’s. And there she saw it, a deep shadow north of the road leading to King’s Harbor: the Mirean embassy house, built of stone, but in the style of its homeland, a tower of seven progressively smaller levels with red clay shingles on its roofs.

  She wanted to believe that Juvaan was merely being sensible, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt as if he’d been making her dance like a marionette from the start. She watched as the coming sunrise lit the horizon, the embassy houses little more than dark silhouettes against the golden dawn. Only after the sun had risen had intent finally replaced the frustration and anger roiling inside her.

  “Soon, Juvaan,” she said to the building in the distance, “you’ll see what it means to toy with a Sharakhani.”

  As the bells tolled, calling the Maidens to rise, she left the roof and prepared for her day.

  With the city in the throes of a terrible heat wave, Çeda and Zaïde were stripped down to the light cotton shifts the Maidens wore beneath their battle dresses. The two of them wove over the canvas, arms snaking under or over the other’s defenses. They did not kick, but their legs were placed just so, to the inside of their opponent’s stance, or outside of it, whichever gave them the best advantage. No longer was Çeda trying to score with a single swipe against Zaïde’s neck, nor was Zaïde attempting the same with her. They had advanced to something that was deceptively difficult: to strike with enough force to knock their opponent off balance. It made the contest a dizzying mix of dance, tightrope
act, and aban match. Çeda had the edge in strength, but Zaïde’s form was perfection. There were no wasted movements. Well-oiled, Kameyl had said of her once, and Çeda agreed.

  At last, when Çeda spotted an opening, she unleashed a palm strike. Like the snap of a rope, it traveled from heel to hip to shoulder to palm, but Zaïde anticipated the blow so well it merely glanced off her shoulder. Çeda leaned away from Zaïde’s riposte, using her right hand to guide the blow up and well off target, following with a sharp strike that was sure to score her a hit.

  But Zaïde was expecting it. She spun like a dervish, swiping Çeda’s wrist to send her blow off the mark, then struck hard into Çeda’s ribs with her trailing left hand—not as hard as she might have, but more than hard enough to send Çeda stumbling away. It was another loss, but at least Çeda hadn’t fallen to the mat as she might have done weeks ago.

  Çeda stood and bowed, preparing to listen to the litany of things she’d done wrong, but Zaïde actually seemed pleased. “Very good,” she said after returning Çeda’s bow.

  “Good? I lost. Again.”

  “The difference between winning and losing is a very narrow thing.” From a rack of bamboo shinai, Zaïde picked up two sweat-dampened towels. She threw one to Çeda, who caught it and mopped her brow and face.

  It was then that Çeda sensed a change. Like a familiar weight felt only by its absence, something lifted from the room. It wasn’t the air, which was hot and oppressive, but something else. A presence that had been here but was no longer. Çeda knew that the attention of King Zeheb had just turned elsewhere.

  Immediately, Zaïde stood and motioned Çeda to one corner of the savaşam. When Zaïde pressed on a wooden panel between two weapons racks, a dull thud came as the panel moved inward. Zaïde swept the section aside to reveal a corridor of bare stone. Just inside was a shelf with small hand lamps and bottles of oil and a striker.

  “Where are we going?” Çeda asked.

  “You’ll see soon enough. Quickly now.” After striking one of the lanterns, Zaïde headed down the tunnel, setting a grueling pace from the start.

  The walk through the tunnels was chill, especially after their sparring and the heat of the savaşam, but it wasn’t a difficult trek. As their path twisted and turned, Çeda did her best to memorize the way in case she needed to come here again, perhaps without Zaïde. She judged they were headed roughly southwest, and although their path was winding, occasionally even circling back on itself as they climbed or descended, she figured they hadn’t gone very far beyond the walls of the House of Kings, so she was hardly surprised when they reached a length of natural tunnel that looked familiar. Soon they arrived at the very door Davud had shown her those months ago, the one that led from the tunnel at the base of the dry well to the scriptorium, where she’d spent many long nights trying to unlock the riddles of Külaşan’s poem.

  Without pause, Zaïde opened the door and swept through it. Çeda should have guessed who they were going to see. She thought Zaïde had brought her to speak with another Matron in private, or a scholar, some ally within the collegia, but instead, when Zaïde led her to the room Çeda had sat in for so many nights before becoming a Blade Maiden, she found Amalos poring over a clay tablet at the room’s lone desk.

  “What’s he doing here?” Çeda asked Zaïde.

  Amalos shivered and lifted his head, eyes wide with fright. When he saw who it was, he visibly calmed and leaned back into the chair. It creaked as he regarded Çeda and Zaïde in turn. “I am here,” he said in a raspy voice, “to help.”

  “You said you didn’t want to help,” Çeda replied. “That you were afraid.”

  He nodded, a simple gesture that somehow made him seem even more frail. “I was. I am.”

  He was here because of Davud, of course. His prized student had been snatched up by the Moonless Host, and Amalos felt responsible for it, or at the very least he felt angry enough at the Host that he was willing to set aside his fear. “Perhaps if you’d helped sooner, Davud might not have been taken.”

  She expected Amalos to be angry, but he only nodded. “A thing I’ve been struggling with, dear girl, since the day of the attack.”

  Çeda turned to Zaïde. “And if he changes his mind again?”

  “Amalos is willing to help, and I trust him. Are those two things not enough for you?”

  Davud, she told herself. Davud and the others are what’s most important. Releasing a pent-up breath, she said, “Of course, Matron. My apologies.”

  They settled themselves, at which point Amalos licked his lips and frowned, as if wrestling with his thoughts. “You came here with Davud, Çeda, and you learned some things before entering the House of Maidens. You learned much more on the night King Külaşan died. Before we begin, I think it important that Zaïde and I understand what you know.”

  It felt so very strange to speak openly of something she’d so rarely spoken of with anyone, but it was also liberating to finally share, so she poured out her history before them, telling them how it had all begun. She started with her mother, how she’d rushed Çeda from their home and into the desert to see Saliah; about the draught of hangman’s vine Dardzada had prepared for her; about the haunted look on Ahya’s face as she’d left to meet with one of the Kings. “Which King, I never learned, but I know the Blade Maiden Nayyan was lost that same night. Surely the two are related.” Çeda told them of how she’d fought the Blade Maiden the night she’d poisoned herself, how the woman had worn a necklace of thorns, which Nayyan was said to have owned.

  “I suppose there’s a chance the Maiden was Nayyan,” Zaïde replied, “but we never learned what happened to her, nor her necklace. She simply disappeared.”

  Çeda was disappointed. She’d hoped to have her guesses either confirmed or proven false, but Amalos knew nothing about it and Zaïde refused to speculate, so Çeda moved on, telling them what she’d learned of the thirteenth tribe, the men and women and children who had been sacrificed by the Twelve Kings. Their lives had been stolen that night; their very culture, their collective soul, had been struck from the annals of history, amounting to no less than the loss of an entire people. She spoke of Sehid-Alaz and the kiss he’d given her, how it had led her on a strange journey to see Saliah, who was Nalamae in disguise.

  Amalos’s brow was furrowed. He looked worried. “How can you be sure it was the goddess?”

  “She admitted as much. And she turned Goezhen’s gaze aside when he came looking for me.” Çeda told them how, on the night she’d taken Külaşan’s life, Nalamae had come to her while she was speaking with Sehid-Alaz.

  “And she came again on the day of the riot,” she continued, telling them how Nalamae had paced through the crowd like a sacred spirit, none seeing her as she passed unobstructed to the pier that held the two large barquentines. She could still hear the sounds of the birds as she and the others freed them, could still see their beautiful blue wings flapping over their breasts. Even now she found it both difficult to believe and utterly natural that that wondrous event had broken the riot.

  She stopped when she saw how awestruck Zaïde was. Her eyes were filled with wonder. Amalos was little different. “What is it?”

  “She’s decided to step into the sun,” Zaïde said.

  “What do you mean?” Çeda asked.

  “The goddess,” Amalos said, “has been hounded by the other desert gods since the night of Beht Ihman. She was not in their good graces before that, but after, they hunted her, slaying her current incarnation when they could.”

  “But why?” Çeda asked. “What do they have to fear from her?”

  Amalos ran his hand down his white beard, settling it over his chest before speaking again. “That is the very heart of the question, is it not? We know that Nalamae did not go to Tauriyat when the thirteen Kings called upon the desert gods.” It was so strange to hear thirteen, but of course Sehid-Alaz would have be
en among them. He would have been as desperate as the others to save Sharakhai from the might of the gathered tribes. The gods had not yet made their demand for sacrifice, nor had he and his people been chosen to fulfill the demand with their blood. “Nalamae has always been known as the god closest to mortal woman and man. Some say that alone is enough for other gods to be jealous of her. And I don’t doubt it plays a part—they covet that which we have, the blood of the first gods—but I suspect the greater reason is that Nalamae knew the nature of the bargain her brothers and sisters would demand of the Kings and refused to participate. She knew they would not be swayed, and, further, that they would likely come for her once it was done. It may even be that they killed her before they went to Tauriyat.”

  Çeda frowned. “But as you say, the Kings had not yet made their demands.”

  Amalos spread his hands wide, as if to indicate the entirety of the desert. “Are the gods not gifted at manipulating man for their own purposes?”

  Çeda chewed on this a moment. “If that’s so, then might the gods not have fueled the anger of the desert shaikhs, a thing that could lead to the war itself?”

  Amalos smiled his scholar’s smile. “Very good, Çedamihn. I’ve long wondered that as well, though who can say now? So much has been lost.”

  The lantern flickered, making the shadows in the small office dance. “What’s important,” Zaïde said, “is that Nalamae has risen again. We’ve traced Nalamae’s lives over the four centuries since Beht Ihman. She has been hunted and killed by the other gods a dozen times.”

  “More, as it turns out,” Amalos said. “But she’s more difficult to kill than the other gods suspected. She reappears some years later; sometimes only a few years pass, but sometimes as much as a generation goes by before she resurfaces. She often appears as a woman, but she has been known to be reborn as a man. Sometimes she is young, other times old. She has come as a seer and a prophetess, once as a mad sage in the deep of the desert. She either pretends not to know her true nature and her part in the history of Sharakhai or is blinded by her death and rebirth. We cannot say which.”