With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  But she either would not or could not respond. Her breathing became labored. She began to gasp.

  Ramahd gripped her by the arms and shook her fiercely. “Meryam, tell me what to do!”

  Her movements slowed. Whatever battle was being fought, Meryam was losing it.

  He looked at her lips, at the trace of blood still there from earlier. In a fit of desperation, he bit his own lip as she had done. He kissed her, spreading his blood around in her mouth with his tongue. He held her close, keeping their mouths pressed, an act as coldly dispassionate as the strike of a headman’s axe.

  At last, Meryam’s muscles unclenched. And then all at once, her body went slack. He laid her down and looked her over carefully. Her heart still beat, her lungs still drew breath, though both felt weak and shallow. It was similar, in fact, to the deep sleeps she took after overusing her talents with blood. Which, considering all that had happened, was about as well as Ramahd could have hoped for.

  He fell onto his own couch, knowing they had narrowly escaped with their lives. “Mighty Alu, what wicked soul lives within that gem?”

  He half expected Meryam to wake and tell him, but this was a mystery that would have to wait for her to regain consciousness. His body begged him to lay his head down and sleep, but instead he levered himself up on unsteady limbs, left the room, and shouted for the house physic.

  Chapter 39

  ÇEDA STEPPED TOWARD EMRE OVER THE DRY, packed earth. Months ago, a random meeting like this had happened in the Qaimiri statehouse. Ramahd had arranged to bring them together, and they’d immediately fallen into one another’s arms. This time Emre stared at her as if he hardly knew her. And perhaps he didn’t. Really, how well did the two of them know one another anymore? They’d both changed so much over the past months, and it had formed a gulf between them.

  Çeda felt suddenly chilled. Something had been lost between them, and it made her wonder whether they could ever get it back. She was reminded of the times they’d sat together atop their home, sipping cheap wine and talking late into the night.

  “One day the Kings will be long forgotten,” Emre had told her once.

  “Perhaps,” she’d replied, “but what if it’s only after everyone else has gone to the farther fields?”

  He hadn’t answered. She’d wondered then and she wondered now what part the two of them played in this vast, unfolding drama.

  “I saw you that day, on the rooftops,” she finally said to him.

  “I know.”

  “That was quite a shot.” She left unsaid that the shot had killed a man. She could see even in the darkness that he was not proud of what he’d done. Somehow, that comforted her.

  “Darius has been drilling me.” He shrugged. “I’ve taken to it.”

  They’d tried bows once when they were young. Çeda had been passable. Tariq as well. Hamid had been deadly with it. He’d been so shy back then, and yet as he stared at the gourd they’d all been trying to hit, something lit in his eyes. A hunger that rarely came out of him, but when it did, it made Çeda’s skin crawl. Arrow after arrow had sunk deep into the center of the gourd, and after, Çeda and Tariq had pestered him, trying to find out who’d taught him to shoot like that, but he’d said nothing, and then grown sullen and angry until finally they’d stopped asking. Emre had remained silent through Hamid’s display. He’d been miserable at it, and Çeda thought he wouldn’t want any more attention drawn to his efforts.

  But Emre had changed. He’d shied away from violence back then, where now he seemed to embrace it. Time is the hammer that shapes us all.

  Çeda took two steps forward so that she could see him better. She saw bruises along his left eye, a cut half-healed on his chin, but made no mention of them. “I worried you’d been killed at Külaşan’s palace.”

  He smiled, a faint echo of the bright smile he’d always shared with her. “I nearly was.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

  “Gods, Çeda, will you listen to yourself? You saved us all. You came when Külaşan was ready to bury that bloody great morning star of his in our skulls.”

  It was Çeda’s turn to shrug. “Still, I thought I’d done it all for naught. I thought you’d been buried alive, or taken by the Spears.”

  He spread his arms wide. “I am more alive than I’ve ever been.” There was a confidence in his eyes and in his stance she’d never seen before. A year ago it would have looked like false bravado, a front to cover the pain of his brother Rafa’s passing. But not now. Scar tissue had formed over that wound at last, leaving him changed. A man Çeda did not wholly recognize.

  “Macide said you had a plan.”

  As he lowered his arms, a sheepish look overcame him. He waved back to the warehouse door. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like me being with them.”

  She couldn’t help but think of Yndris, shooting arrows down at the crowd during the riot, or Kameyl dragging a woman behind her horse, or a thousand other things the Maidens had done that Çeda both hated and had done nothing to stop. “We’ve both chosen our paths, Emre.”

  “Well then.” He strode to her side and held out his hand. “We have a bit of time. Let’s walk.”

  She paused, then smiled and took his hand. Her fingers slipped between his, the calluses on their fingers and palms rubbing against one another, and suddenly all the worries of the past few moments drained like sand through the eye of an hourglass. It felt right, like a fire in the chill of the desert night, warming her soul. She wondered if he felt the same. She hoped he did.

  He led her back the way she’d come, toward South Harbor Road. “It isn’t my plan,” he said softly. “Not really.”

  “Just tell me about it.”

  He bowed his head in exaggerated fashion. “Of course, my lady. But first, I have a question. Your mother’s book had that poem. You said you might find more if only you could make your way into the Maidens. Have you?”

  She had, within that very same book, but her old urges to protect Emre were so ingrained she had already begun forming a denial. She had to accept the fact that he was in the Host. He’s chosen his path, she reminded herself. “I have,” she finally told him.

  He glanced back they way they’d come. “Well, I’ve convinced them to help you.”

  “Macide? What do you mean?”

  “There’s something big coming. The poems might help you to kill one of them, but you’d have to reach him first, right? And you’d want a way to do it without everyone knowing. Well, soon there will be so much chaos in the House of Kings you may just have such an opening, as you did with Külaşan. But there’s a lot to do before that. A seed must be planted, and trust gained.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He squeezed her hand. “All in good time. I’m to deliver a message to the Maidens. I will tell them that there will soon be an attack against the city’s aqueduct. The Host have targeted it, I will say, because of the drought. The reservoir is lower than it’s been in living memory, and if the Host can destroy it, it will put incredible pressure on the city’s water supply.”

  “But the attack is a feint.”

  “No, it will be real. We need to make the Kings stretch their resources, which is why the aqueduct is the perfect choice.”

  “You think they’ll put themselves at risk for it?”

  “They will if they’re wise. And I’ll guide them in the logic if they don’t see it. Without the aqueduct, the reservoir’s reserves will continue to drop over the winter, and when that happens, who do you think the Kings will favor with what remains? They’ll ration it, but give the lion’s share to themselves and those on Goldenhill. The rest of the city will whither like grapes on an untended vine, and if that happens, the ranks of the Host will swell, which is the last thing they need.”

  She couldn’t deny it. The Kings would likely react just as he describe
d. “You said suspect an attack. What’s the real target?”

  “I wasn’t told.”

  She stared at him, waiting for him to say more. “Gods, you’re a terrible liar. You want my help? Tell me the real target.”

  “Do you think for a moment they’d tell me when I’m the one about to speak to the Maidens about the aqueduct?”

  “Wait, you mean to deliver the message in person?”

  He nodded, grinning as if it had been obvious all along.

  “Absolutely not!” Çeda said flatly. “I’m not letting you anywhere near the House of Kings.”

  “You have to, Çeda. It must come from me. A written message would never work, and you couldn’t tell a story like this yourself without suspicion falling on you. There are too many details that come from deep within the Host.”

  “And why by Nalamae’s sweet tears do you think they’d believe you?”

  “I’ve lived in the west end my entire life. If the aqueduct attack succeeds, hundreds, thousands may die. I’ll tell them I’ve had a change of heart, that I’m willing to do what I must to protect those I love.”

  Dear gods. Thousands may die. The words lay between them like an open grave. It was what she hated most about the Host, and Emre knew it, and yet he held her hand as if he hadn’t just admitted that what Macide was planning would kill people they knew. She pulled her hand from his, silent now as they continued to walk.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Çeda, but it’s going to happen.”

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  “Macide’s mind is set, as is his father’s.”

  My uncle, Çeda thought. My grandfather. “Innocents will die.”

  “Don’t you see? That’s why I thought of you. If we can work together, the Kings’ reign will end that much sooner.”

  “They’ll kill you, Emre, but only after the Confessor King has taken his tithe.”

  Emre shrugged. “They’d be foolish to do so. I’ll be too valuable to them.”

  “As what?”

  The noise level rose as they reached the Wheel and began moving along with the evening traffic. The clatter of wheels, the rolling murmur of conversation, the water splash of children playing in the pool at the Wheel’s center.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re as beetle-brained as all that,” Emre said. “I’ll make them believe that I’ll be their agent in the Al’afwa Khadar. I’ll tell them about the attack, how they’re willing to sacrifice so many and how I can’t allow it to happen, that my friends will die, my family, that they’re taking things too far.”

  Çeda’s stomach had turned sour. It felt like he’d taken her thoughts and made them his own, but was using them now as a tool, as a way to manipulate her. “Just like that? You think they’ll simply accept what you say and welcome you with open arms?”

  “Of course not. I’m going to give them clues that they can verify. I’ll tell them to search in Ishmantep for signs of Hamzakiir. And when they go—”

  “If they go . . .”

  “When they go, they’ll see that I was telling the truth. It’s all been worked out, Çeda.”

  “Where along the aqueducts, then? They’re twenty leagues long.”

  “I don’t think Macide has decided yet, but they’re hoping to make the Kings commit as many resources as possible there, which will only help if we’re able to isolate one of the Kings on the night of the attack. The only question is, which one?”

  “Let me think on that awhile, Emre. I haven’t fully decrypted the poems.”

  Emre shrugged. “Fair enough. We’ll have time in the days ahead to talk further. And when we return from Ishmantep—”

  “They’ll never allow you aboard their ships.”

  “In truth I think they’ll insist. I’ll tell them that I don’t know exactly where in Ishmantep Hamzakiir is hidden, but if I go, I’ll be able to find it. We can make plans on the way, and when we return, I’ll feed that information to Hamid.”

  Hamid, whom Emre looked up to now. “He used to be so shy.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. He acts as if he’s Macide’s chosen.”

  “Isn’t he?”

  Emre shrugged. “I suppose he is. Hamid the Cruel, they’ve started calling him.”

  “Strange where we’ve come, isn’t it? Tariq, too.”

  Emre laughed ruefully. “A bunch of gutter wrens preparing to run this city.”

  She nearly told him then, that she and Macide were related, that Ishaq was her grandfather, but she didn’t know how to say it. For so long she’d considered Emre the only family she had. And now there was a whole new world of people she’d promised herself to learn more about. She felt connected to the Al’afwa Khadar in ways she’d never expected. She felt responsible for their cruelty even as she strived to accomplish the same goals.

  “We might have been gutter wrens once, Emre, but not any longer.”

  Emre laughed more loudly, drawing the attention of two women balancing massive bales of cotton on their heads. “What are we, if not hopeless little wrens?”

  “It sounds foolish when I say it aloud, but there are days when I feel like Sharakhai is alive. I feel like we’ve been chosen to protect it. To liberate it.”

  Emre’s eyebrows rose so high he looked like one of the drunks leering along the river on Beht Revahl. “Well, if that’s so, then it follows that you’ve come to see those I work with as necessary.”

  Çeda bit her tongue. The last thing she needed was an argument over the virtues of the Moonless Host, in public no less. “What else, Emre?”

  “That’s as far as your role goes. I’ll do the rest.”

  The tightness inside her was so strong she could stand it no longer. She grabbed his wrist, and spun him around to face her, heedless of the crowd steering wide to get past them. “You don’t know them like I do,” she rasped. “I’m telling you, they will find you out.”

  He shrugged, a fateful expression on his face. “Then they do. It’s worth the risk. And if you refuse to help me, then I’ll be forced to go alone. It’ll be harder, though. I’m not sure they’ll believe me. Wouldn’t you rather be there to explain to them, to make them believe?”

  “You can’t do this to me!”

  All the humor drained from Emre’s face, and he lowered his voice. “We are at war, Çeda. When are you going to accept that? You can’t protect everyone. All you can do is to pitch yourself into the battle and save as many as you can once it’s done.”

  “How very pat, Emre. Did Hamid tell you that?”

  “No, that’s all mine. And I rather like it.”

  “Don’t do this.” Her stomach turned, hoping Emre would agree, but he merely stared, cocksure, eyes half-lidded like Hamid, and she knew she wasn’t going to change his mind. “Bakhi damn you, Emre Aykan’ava.”

  And then, before she knew it, he had swept in. It was so sudden she heard herself gasp. But then his warm lips were on hers. She wanted to kiss him back. She’d dreamt of this very thing in her room in the barracks. But this was wrong. She pushed him away. “Not like this, Emre.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like it’s the last thing we’ll ever do.”

  The Emre of old might have shown his hurt. This Emre merely shrugged, an unreadable expression passing quickly over his face, before taking her hand once more. As they headed east toward the House of Maidens and its towering gates, Emre said, “Bakhi may damn me, Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala, but if he does, at least I can ask him why he’s been so cruel.”

  The whole incident, and his ability to move on from it so quickly, left her feeling cold, but what was there to do about it? She had denied him. “Tell me why they chose Ishmantep,” she said, not wishing to linger on Bakhi. “It’s two weeks by sail.”

  “It’s as good a place as any. Better, really, as far as that goes. It’s far from
the gaze of Tauriyat.”

  As they took a slight curve in the Spear, a massive cart trundled past, its bed overflowing with wooden crates and bolts of leather. The city lay cloaked in the shadows of dusk, but high above the sun still shone on Tauriyat, lighting the upper palaces in a light so golden even Çeda had to wonder if the gods truly did watch over them.

  “What are we doing?” Çeda asked.

  “Stepping into the maw of a demon.” He stared up at Eventide, the highest of the palaces, with a strange sort of hunger. “Just look at them, perched on their hill. It will be a wonder when they fall.”

  “There’s much to do before that happens, Emre.”

  “So there is,” Emre said. “Now, here’s what we’ll say . . .”

  Chapter 40

  AS ÇEDA REACHED THE GATES OF TAURIYAT, worry ate at her. It turned in her gut like a snake as she raised a hand to the Maidens atop the wall. She’d convinced Emre to let her speak to Sümeya first. He would return in the morning, and by then she’d have arranged a meeting with the First Warden to discuss his news. A difficult thing in and of itself, made all the more difficult because of what she’d done to Yndris. Çeda had left her in the streets of Roseridge, beaten bloody, unconscious. She thought she would know how to explain it when the time came, but none of the stories she’d come up with sounded the least bit convincing.

  She might tell the truth: that her hatred of Yndris’s actions had boiled up inside her and she hadn’t been able to contain it. She would be whipped for it. She might lose a finger from her off-hand to let the lesson sink in. But she would likely remain a Maiden. Wasn’t that the most important thing?

  But then Mesut’s words came back to her: After his demonstration in the barracks courtyard, he’d implied she would be put to death if she couldn’t learn to control the asirim. If she admitted to giving herself over to anger, how long would it be before Mesut pieced together the truth? It made her wonder, not for the first time, at how difficult everything had been since entering the House of Kings. She knew who her family was now. Could she not do more outside the city? Could she not search for Nalamae and plead for her help?