With Blood Upon the Sand

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Then Davud looked to the wave upon wave of silver sands ahead. “We’ll not make it three days,” he said, “not without water and food.”

  “It’s a hunting skiff, Davud. It’s provisioned with water and hardtack and dried fruit, enough to last weeks if we’re careful.”

  They hopped in and pulled up the sails. Anila sat aft, her hand already on the tiller. Neither of them were good sailors, but a year or so ago they’d been given tutelage on one of the Kings’ royal clippers, and they’d both seen the handling of the Burning Sand over the past several weeks. They’d do well enough as long as they didn’t do anything stupid.

  Davud turned suddenly, watching the way behind, seeing the ships dwindle in the distance. And then a knife of fear stabbed through him. “My book!”

  “It’s in the bag, there.” She pointed to a sack lying beneath the thwart he sat on. “I brought it, your kenshar, and your sextant.”

  A sigh of relief escaped him, which was more than passing strange. A week ago he would have scoffed at blood magi, considered them foul, or at least distasteful, and now he was dependent on their ways, sucking off a red teat. He shook his head from that bitter thought, from the celebration, from Rasime and Tayyar and Hamzakiir, from everything that had happened since the battle in the forum. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Anila scoffed. “Because you wouldn’t have played your part well enough.”

  “I might have helped.”

  “You would have doomed us both.” She adjusted course, the hull creaking, the sand shushing beneath the skis. “You are many things, Davud, but you’re no actor.”

  He grew bitter at those words, but didn’t have the heart for it. He knew she was right. He might not have played it well enough, and Tayyar might have caught on, and then where would they have been?

  The skis and the rudder left a trio of wakes behind them, but there was wind enough that by the time the sun rose, all signs of their passage should be erased. He took a deep breath of the cool night air. It smelled of danger, to be sure, but also of hope. “You did well. Together we should be able to navigate our way to Sharakhai well before our supplies run low.”

  As the skiff crested a dune and tipped to the other side, Anila spat words in disgust, “We’re not going to Sharakhai.” He was about to ask here where they were going, but just then he understood, his horror confirmed a moment later when Anila laughed bitterly. “Oh no, Davud. We’re returning to Ishmantep!”

  Chapter 43

  THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER . . .

  IN A RARE FIT OF GENEROSITY, Ahya allowed Çeda to guide their skiff over the amber sand. Çeda took the job most seriously, riding the shallow dunes as her mother had taught her, being careful at the crests and troughs especially, trying to catch the stiffer sand in order to keep her speed up while watching for any rocks that might scrape the runners, or worse, run them aground.

  In the distance, the only feature to be seen was a crooked tower of stone. After they’d passed it and it had dwindled to a mere finger on the horizon, Çeda asked, “How much longer?”

  “How many more times are you going to ask me that?”

  “How much?”

  “A while yet. We’ll get there when we get there, Çeda. Now be quiet a moment. We’re going to see a woman who does not often see outsiders. She may refuse to see us. Or she may hide her home from us entirely.”

  “She’s a witch?”

  “She isn’t a witch. And she won’t take kindly to ill-mannered children invading her home.” She raised a finger between them. “This is important, now. You will be on your best manners.”

  “Like with Leorah.”

  “Different than Leorah. Saliah knows the world as Leorah does not. And she will know your nature at but a word from you.”

  Çeda stared around the desert, suddenly feeling as though the sand had eyes, but the only thing she spotted was a family of oryx in the distance walking in a line. Shortly after, the skiff’s runners scraped over a rough patch of amber stone she hadn’t seen. She cringed, adjusting the tiller, while her mother pursed her lips.

  “Why did you need Leorah’s permission for me to see Saliah?” Çeda quickly asked, hoping to draw her mother’s thoughts to safer ground.

  After a moment, Ahya replied, “It wasn’t permission I was seeking. I will do with my child as I will. But she is wise and I sought her counsel, nothing more.”

  “She frightens me.”

  Ahya turned. “Leorah? She’s no one to be frightened of. Not by you and me, in any case. Her enemies, however, have every right to fear her.”

  “The man you were speaking to at Demal’s crossing. The one with the snake tattoos. Do you love him?”

  Ahya blinked. “What?”

  “The way you smiled at him. The way you nudged his shoulder with yours. You don’t do that with anyone else.”

  She looked uncomfortable, as though she’d been caught in a trap, but then she shrugged. “Yes, I love him.”

  “Then why doesn’t he come to Sharakhai and live with us?”

  At this, Ahya gave a silent laugh, the sort that made it clear she thought this was something Çeda could never understand.

  “Or another,” Çeda went on. “I want a father.”

  Ahya’s face immediately hardened. “What need have we of men, you and I?”

  Çeda shrugged. “Tariq has a father.”

  “Tariq has a drunkard for a father. A man who gives his children bloody lips when they talk back. Is that the sort of father you want?”

  What could she say? “I only—”

  “Stop it, Çeda. Your father will never have you. A thousand times I’ve told you, and if you ask me a thousand more, the answer will always be the same.”

  “But why? I want to know him.”

  “Enough, Çeda. I’ll not argue with you again.”

  “Were you disloyal? Is that why he hates me?”

  “Yes,” Ahya said simply, her expression dark.

  “Well, it isn’t fair.”

  “You’re right.” Ahya turned her attention to the fore of the ship and the way ahead. “But we do what we must, Çeda.”

  They sailed in silence for a long while. Ahead, an expanse of flat rock appeared, and on it, a homestead. After anchoring the skiff, Ahya picked up a handful of sand. “As I showed you, now. Pray to Nalamae for good fortune.”

  Çeda gripped a fistful of sand as well and allowed it to sift down in a stream as she slowly opened her fingers. “Please, Nalamae,” she whispered, “shine on us this day, whatever we’re doing. I’m sorry I don’t know more, but when it comes to secrets, my mother’s lips are tighter than a frog’s arse.”

  She’d whispered the words too loudly, she realized. Her mother was smiling but trying to hide it. It was something Tariq had said and she’d laughed at, but now she felt foolish. If Nalamae had heard her, she might be smiling too, but just how likely was the goddess to grant favors to a stupid, prattling child?

  “Hail!” Ahya called when they neared the mudbrick home. “Saliah Riverborn?”

  From the far side of the walled garden came the sound of goat bells clanking. Ahya was headed for the entrance to the garden when they spotted a woman kneeling on the ground behind the dwelling. As they moved toward her, Ahya took Çeda’s hand. “Perfect manners now, Çeda.”

  “Yes, memma.”

  The woman, Saliah, had her back to them. She was kneeling on stone, but she was just next to a patch of sand. She cupped the sand in both hands and lifted it sharply into the air. The sand sprayed in the air above her. For a moment she looked like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Most of the sand fell, but left behind was a cloud, a glittering remnant that flowed through the air like seeds on the wind. The air was blowing west-east, however, and the glimmer in the air was spreading in all directions. As it fell over Çeda and Ahya, Çeda felt a prickling o
ver her skin—not the sort one feels when the air was cold, but those kindled when hearing the stories of gods who meddle in the lives of men, dooming them or those they love.

  Thrice more did Saliah throw sand into the air. Only when the glimmer had faded did she take up the staff by her side and use it to reach her feet. “Who comes?” she asked as she turned to face them.

  “It is Ahyanesh, and my daughter, Çedamihn. I believe Leorah came here and told you our tale.”

  “She did.” Saliah turned her head toward Çeda but did not look her in the eyes. She looked beyond Çeda, as if she were blind as the beggars along the Trough praising those who’d tossed a few khet into their brass pot while staring right past them. Saliah stabbed the butt of the staff into the ground halfway between herself and Çeda. “This is she, then?”

  “Yes,” Ahya said, but with a look like she was confused, unsure of herself.

  Saliah held out her hand. “Come, child.”

  Çeda did, and when Saliah leaned the staff against her body and held out her large, callused hands, Çeda placed her own hands in hers. Saliah ran her thumbs over Çeda’s palms, touching in turn the creases that marked her like a map. She did this over and over, moving along one crease, then the next, slowing down each time until it felt as though Saliah were robbing her of something she should be perfectly unwilling to give up. The feeling became so acute Çeda snatched her hands back, balling them into fists and holding them beneath her chin lest Saliah try to take them back.

  Ahya opened her mouth to speak, perhaps to order Çeda to be still and let Saliah do what must be done, but Saliah talked over her. “Let us speak alone, Ahyanesh.”

  At this Ahya’s face changed. She looked to Çeda as if she feared for her. Why, Çeda had no idea, and she had no chance to ask. Ahya nodded and told Çeda to remain here so that she and Saliah could speak in peace. She vowed to ask her mother about it, but she was glad to be alone for a time. She didn’t wish to be near Saliah any longer.

  When Ahya and Saliah were lost to the shadows of the mudbrick house, Çeda wandered the rocky landscape. She picked up a handful of rocks and threw them at the occasional yellow lizard that crept from its hole. She didn’t go far, however; there was something she wanted a closer look at. When she returned, she squatted down by the sand Saliah had been tossing into the air. After glancing back and finding the doorway empty, she ran her hands through it. It was fine, almost like dust, but it didn’t otherwise strike her as anything strange. She lifted some of it and let it fall between her fingers. Then she cupped some between her hands and threw it into the air as Saliah had done. When nothing happened, she threw it higher—too high, for the wind blew it right back in her face. She turned away, feeling like a beetle-brained fool as she blinked the stinging sand from her eyes and spat it from her mouth. When she was finally able to see again, she glanced back, worried her mother had witnessed it, but thankfully the door was still empty. Again and again she tried to summon that same feeling inside her as when Saliah had done it, but for her the sand was merely sand.

  “She is so a witch,” Çeda said under her breath.

  “Çeda?”

  Her face flushing, Çeda stood and faced her mother, who stepped out from the shadows of Saliah’s home. She came to Çeda and took her hands, rubbing them much as Saliah had just done, but with an infinitely more tender touch. “There’s something I’m going to ask you to do,” she finally said. “It won’t be fair, but life isn’t fair. None of this is fair.”

  The hairs along Çeda’s arms stood up. “What is it?”

  “There is someone who needs our help. Who needs your help. Macide came to Sharakhai to tell me of it. I spoke with Leorah on the matter because I would be too blinded, but she agreed with me.”

  “But why must I do it?”

  “Because you are unique, Çeda.”

  “How?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Then who am I to help?”

  “A man who has lost his way. A man who stands on the brink of madness.”

  “What man?”

  “In many ways, he is the father of our tribe.”

  “Memma, what tribe?” She didn’t understand any of this.

  “That isn’t what matters. We need him, and we cannot allow him to go as others have gone. This is what I went to speak to Leorah about. It’s what Saliah and I have been discussing. And they both think you can help. So do I, Çeda. I know this makes little sense, but I must ask you to be brave. Can you do that for me?”

  A directionless fear was growing inside Çeda, but she nodded anyway.

  “Good,” Ahya said.

  Çeda wanted her to say that all would be well. But she didn’t. She merely stood and led Çeda into the cool interior of Saliah’s home, where they ate dense black bread and drank watered wine. For hours they spoke of inconsequential things. Çeda had never felt so awkward. The thought of whatever she would have to do kept gnawing at her. Why wouldn’t they speak of it?

  They left well before sundown in their skiff, sailing northeast toward Sharakhai. Çeda had tried to remain brave, but that all changed when they neared the Amber City. Ahead, lit by the bright moons above, were dark patches. Trees, Çeda realized. Groves of trees.

  Breath of the desert, they weren’t going to Sharakhai at all. They were going to the blooming fields.

  Chapter 44

  ON THE FOREDECK OF THE ROYAL CUTTER Javelin, Çeda and Yndris circled one another, shinai at the ready. Kameyl was watching the two of them silently, almost brooding in her intensity. When Çeda blocked a flurry of downward blows from Yndris, who often resorted to pure brawn, Kameyl threw one hand in the air and bellowed, “Enough! You’ll be the death of me, the both of you.”

  She moved to stand before them as the ship crested a shallow dune and rolled down the opposite side. She glared at Yndris. “You might as well pen her a letter as ill-disguised as your swings are. And you!” She turned on Çeda. “She’s given you a dozen openings, and you took none of them!”

  Çeda had seen them. “I’m feeling a bit off today.”

  Kameyl stabbed a finger at Çeda. “Don’t bloody lie to me. She has an excuse. She’s hurt. But you! You might never hold a candle to Melis or Sümeya, but you’re in fine enough condition, and when you and I spar, you might be an ox with a sword, but at least you’re an ox with decent reflexes.” In a burst of movement, Kameyl grabbed Yndris’s shinai and attacked Çeda. Çeda hurriedly blocked her three opening swings, but then counterattacked, going for Kameyl’s leading wrist, then her thigh, both of which Kameyl turned aside with ease.

  “You see? Defense balanced with attack.” She threw the sword back at Yndris, then stared at them both like a mother whose children had driven her to wit’s end. “I can’t stand to watch you for another minute. Go. Both of you. Tell each other your precious little stories as your mother bade you.”

  She stormed from the foredeck, leaving Yndris and Çeda to stare at one another. Çeda shrugged and sat against the bulwarks, resigned to her fate. Yndris, however, remained standing, perhaps thinking she might disobey, but she knew as well as Çeda how inflexible Sümeya had been on this particular condition since their voyage began five days ago, so after a moment’s pause, she sat cross-legged by Çeda’s side.

  For a time they simply fidgeted. Their stories were ridiculous at first, Yndris telling Çeda of a wooden doll she’d once owned, a thing she’d broken and her father had replaced immediately. She’d broken it many times after that, on purpose, and her father’s vizir had replaced it each time until Yndris had finally grown bored of the game. Çeda told Yndris tales of the spice market. Of sampling spices or breads or oils, often without leave, but sometimes saving up and having a feast of bread and cheese and marinated olives, a pauper’s banquet Yndris probably found pathetic. Without fail, no matter which of them was telling it, their stories were without substance, meani
ngless to them both.

  Today, however, Yndris jutted her chin toward Emre, who was holding a bolt of stained cloth and a jar of what looked to be deck oil. He was having a lively conversation with the quartermaster, who’d taken a liking to him, not leastwise because Emre was so helpful about the ship. “Tell me about him,” Yndris said.

  Çeda shrugged. “What is there to say?”

  “Well I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

  Çeda shrugged again, wholly uncomfortable with telling Yndris anything about Emre. “He’s nice.”

  Yndris laughed. A more grating sound Çeda had never heard. She wanted to punch Yndris in her throat if only to stop her laughs from invading the crisp desert air. “Your commander ordered you to tell a story. I hardly think he’s nice qualifies, do you?”

  Gods how Çeda wished she could just leap off this ship. Better to snap her own neck on the fall than suffer through another day with Yndris. “One day,” Çeda began, just to get it over with, “Emre and I were running the streets near the western end of Hazghad, by Nalamae’s old temple. You know the area?”

  “No, but go on.”

  “We had our sights set on a fruit cart that came by the same time every week. We were hungry, and it didn’t take much to nab a melon or two off the back.” Yndris rolled her eyes, but Çeda continued as if she hadn’t. “The fruitmonger was a lady with a limp and a cane. Years later we all secretly decided the limp was fake, that she was just doing it to catch would-be thieves off guard. We didn’t think so at the time, but we’d heard the stories. She was fearsome if she ever caught any of the gutter wrens who plagued her. That day, I was clumsy. I tripped off the back of the cart when I was grabbing for one of the largest melons I’d ever seen. I ran, but the monger came storming after me, faster than I’d ever guessed she could move, but before she could reach me, Emre came running out of the nearby alley and launched himself at her. Just threw himself on her, body and soul, so that I could get away.”