She felt Mesut press on her more subtly and precisely than Zaïde had ever done. Her heart skipped a beat. She coughed and backed away. He pressed harder, and her heart began to flutter. The rhythm felt like the gallop of a horse ready to collapse from thirst and overexertion. It created a momentary lapse in her defenses.
That was all Mesut needed. He timed it perfectly, darting forward, blocking her blade to rake his claws across one thigh. She gritted her teeth, pushing down the pain, slipping back into herself. He wished to draw her away from Zaïde’s teachings, his own teachings, but she would not allow it. She breathed deeply. Released it slowly, more in tune with the Shangazi than she had ever been. She felt the dunes. Felt the moonlight washing over it. She felt Sharakhai. Felt the great ring of the blooming fields. And she felt the roots of the adichara, reaching down, down, toward the heart of Sharakhai.
When Mesut came in again, her heart fluttered, but she let it. She felt him, his form, his movement, knowing how his body would flow, knowing how long it would be before she could take the gods’ gift from him. She blocked twice and saw the slight overreach even as she lifted River’s Daughter in an arc so sweet it comprised, over the course of its transit, her soul, her entire being.
His right hand, the one with the golden band and its black gem, was cut cleanly. It spun free. Mesut retreated, screaming from the pain, stumbling even before his gauntleted hand struck the sand. “Take her!” Gripping the stump of his right arm tightly, he regained his feet and ran. “Take her!”
Çeda felt something burn across her back. Felt another tight line flare across her right shoulder. The wights. They were flying in, reaching for her with ghostly hands. She swiped at them with River’s Daughter and they backed away, avoiding the reach of her ebon steel, but there were so many!
She grabbed Mesut’s golden band, which was slick with blood, and slipped it over her hand. Immediately the minds, the souls, of those around her crystallized. They became known to her and she became known to them. But their intent did not change. They were compelled to come for her at Mesut’s bidding.
She swung River’s Daughter, pleading with them. You’re free now. He no longer has the band. Then aloud, “Slay your captor!”
But they didn’t. Another reached in and ran a cold hand across the back of her neck before she could stop it. The fear was building inside her, but then she remembered.
Amalos’s final act, the copper leaf and the story written upon it. The woman had saved her people by offering herself to the sand drake. It had hardly left her thoughts since she’d read it. Here, standing among these creatures being compelled to kill her, she finally understood. Amalos had found it because it offered the key to Mesut’s bloody verse. Mesut had spoken of control. Always control. It was how he’d commanded the asirim since the night of Beht Ihman. But that wasn’t how the golden band would be turned to her purpose.
Lowering her sword, she opened herself to the asirim. To Sehid-Alaz. To Kerim. To those assembled for war in the harbor and those that lay beneath the adichara. Most importantly, she gave herself to the lost souls gathered around her. She had never done anything more difficult, more personal. It was feeling love for the first time. It was the terror-filled moments of childhood when the ways of the world seemed so strange. It was so akin to the moments when her mother returned from Beht Zha’ir unharmed that tears came to her eyes. She was excited and terrified, more vulnerable than she’d ever been, but she refused to give in to the terror. She remained hopeful, an emotion she shared with the asirim, with the wights, any who would listen.
Soon she felt her own emotions echoing back to her from Kerim. She felt it from more of the asirim, and more still, until she stood as one with them. It was this—a bond to a life not chained by the gods—that sparked within those gathered souls a glimpse of their old lives. It allowed them to remember their freedom from so long ago. It allowed them to throw off the chains Mesut had placed on them.
Soon, the wights had slowed their advance. They lowered their arms. They waited and listened.
Çeda turned to Mesut. As one, the gathered souls did as well. She could feel Mesut trying to exert his will, but they would not be denied. Not any longer.
Lifting River’s Daughter and pointing to Mesut, Çeda said, “Go. Slake your thirst.”
Without hesitation they flew toward him, swooping like falcons. Mesut fought with his one hand, the battle claw raking across the ghostly forms. White lines appeared on their bodies. Attenuated screams filled the cold night air. Some even vanished from the wounds Mesut delivered with his god-given weapon. But there were so many, flying from all directions.
They delivered deep cuts along his legs. They sliced his arms. They tore at his ribs and his face, pulling his armor free, slashing his clothes from his body, until he was left naked on the sand, screaming, his flesh being rent from him as easily as his armor and clothes had been. With one last stroke across his throat, a spray of blood flying into the air, Mesut fell back and lay still. The wights circled him for a time, still slashing, cutting the Jackal King to ribbons.
Finally, as his form went still, so did the ghostly forms around him. Like trees after a storm, they gradually stilled. They dimmed, fading like dying candles until they were swallowed by the shadows of the night. Soon they were gone, and the desert was silent save for the drone of the raging battle in the distance.
Cahil stood ten paces away, blood darkening one shoulder and his right thigh. Sehid-Alaz was near him, one knee to the ground. They’d both been staring at Mesut, at the wights, but now Cahil burst into action. He ran not for Sehid-Alaz, or toward Çeda, but for the horses.
It was pure pain to move, but Çeda sprinted for them as well, hoping to cut him down before he could escape. Seeing that she was catching up, Cahil abandoned the chase and brought his hammer against her in a broad stroke. But she was ready. She dodged one blow, ducked beneath another, then delivered a perfect cut to Cahil’s neck. He rolled away, but it still caught the chain mail that hung like a curtain from his helm, leaving a shallow wound.
He rolled over one shoulder, throwing a handful of sand at Çeda as he came up. Çeda shielded her eyes, ready to defend herself. But Cahil never came. He was running for the horses again. He climbed onto the nearest, grabbed the reins of the other, then spurred them both into a full gallop.
Reinforcements. He’s going for reinforcements.
Çeda tried to summon the souls within Mesut’s golden band. She felt nothing, however, nothing whatsoever, and knew her cause was lost. She either didn’t know how to summon them or they’d been lost to this world, as Sehid-Alaz had feared.
As Cahil rode away, Sehid-Alaz collapsed to the sand. The pain of her wounds returning, she limped closer and lowered herself to the sand by his side. His breath came slowly, one hand on his chest. The hand over his heart moved to take hers. He gripped her hand feebly, his fingers like sticks, his skin like paper. But she could feel the love there, the tenderness.
“Thank you,” she said to him.
Slowly, his eyes met hers. “You must run, Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala.”
She knew he was right. Cahil would tell the others of her treachery. There was no way for her to return to Sharakhai. “You must join me.”
She made to lift him, but he gripped her wrists, stopping her. “I cannot leave the others.” He squeezed her hand once more. The wind began to pick up, began to blow. “But there is one last gift I can give.” Clouds of dust began to lift from the desert, began to blow across the dunes. “It will not last long.”
As the wind tugged at her dress, she leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Thank you.”
His eyes fluttered closed. His lips moved, but his words were lost to the sound of the growing wind. She leaned closer, listened carefully, but he’d gone still. The wind, however. The wind began to wail. It struck the dunes with a fury Çeda had rarely seen.
Hiding her f
ace with her veil, she stood and made for the deeper desert. Like a child once lost, now returning to her mother, the sand embraced her.
Chapter 63
RAMAHD’S MOUTH WENT DRY AS HAMID went to speak with Macide. His ears rang with a high-pitched, disorienting chord. Within it he could hear Rehann’s laugh, clear and bright and filled with sunshine. A time had never passed when it hadn’t lifted his heart. Mighty Alu, I’d nearly forgotten the sound.
Suddenly he was there in the desert again, holding her in his arms as she stared at him, dying of thirst, eyes glazed and heavy-lidded, barely able to focus on him. He’d kissed her, felt her cracked lips against his before she’d breathed her final breath. “Go to memma, my darling. She’ll be there, waiting. Give her a kiss for me.”
She hadn’t replied.
“I’ll find you both soon. I promise you.” She’d already gone, but it wasn’t a promise to her living soul in any case. It was a vow that would follow her to the farther fields. He leaned in and whispered into her ear, “I’ll kill the man who did this and then I will find you.”
Just then Macide broke away from Hamid and headed straight for Ramahd. He came to an abrupt halt, however, when Ramahd drew his blade. From beside a nearby tree, Amaryllis waited with hungry eyes, tense and silent as she studied the two men. Hamid watched her warily, leaving his lord to his business.
“Is this what you wish?” Macide asked, left hand on the pommel of one blade.
Oh, how he wished to cross blades with him. How sweet the sound of steel would be. He could do it. There were too many swords at Ramahd’s command for even Macide Ishaq’ava to escape alive. But Ramahd had agreed to this. Knowing full well what it might mean, he had allowed his shame over Çeda to override his desire to make this man suffer. “I’ve not come for you,” Ramahd said, the words coming short and sharp, “only for Qaimir.”
“I don’t care why you’ve come,” Macide shot back, “only that you finish what you’ve started. Let us go. Let us destroy those elixirs and weaken the Kings. What the gods have in store for us beyond that, who can tell?”
Ramahd couldn’t move. He felt made of stone, trapped in a spell of his own making. From somewhere beyond the palace, rising up over the sounds of distant battle came a bellow that sounded like one of the elder gods readying to reforge this place anew. Macide took his hand from his sword and motioned toward the harbor. “The night wastes away, Lord Amansir, and our chances with it.”
Damn me for the fool I am. He lowered the sword, then sheathed it. Forgive me, Rehann.
Macide nodded once. “Very well.”
Things moved quickly after that. With two ropes at the ready, they were up to the top of the wall in short order. This time they left the ropes where they were, an avenue of escape should they need it. From the wall they took a set of stairs down to an empty courtyard. One side of it was open to a manicured yard with exquisite topiary and gravel paths. Hugging the interior of the wall was a glass-enclosed greenhouse, which they entered. After rushing between the rows of exotic plants, they passed through a walkway and entered the palace proper.
There they stood, wary, weapons drawn. A lofty hallway ran like an arrow for a hundred yards. Great brass lanterns on iron hooks bathed the entire length in golden light. A woman standing near a door holding a silver tray screamed. She dropped it and ran as the big one, Frail Lemi, began loping toward her, but she hadn’t made it five strides before an arrow drove into her back. She fell in a heap against the fine blue carpet, one arm reaching uselessly behind her for the arrow. Ramahd turned and saw Hamid nocking another arrow.
“Quickly,” Macide said as he set off at a run, “before they can organize. And be ready for more than Kiral’s men. Hamzakiir will have sent a detachment as well, and they’ll not take kindly to our purpose here.”
They all followed. Soon they heard footsteps, crisp against the stone flooring, but distant. They came to a set of wide stone stairs, one side leading higher into the palace, the other leading lower. As Macide led them down, they heard a scuffle. “Go, go!” someone whispered harshly. A moment later, the light along the landing below wavered and was doused, plunging the way ahead into darkness.
Macide pointed up the stairs. “Three lanterns,” he said to Frail Lemi, who ran back up and returned bearing three of the large brass affairs. Frail Lemi’s eyes were wide as the moons as he passed them out. “There are Blade Maidens coming,” he said to Emre, completely ignoring Macide.
“How many?” Macide and Emre asked at the same time.
Frail Lemi immediately headed up the stairs, gripping the haft of his battle axe. “Two,” he called over his shoulder.
Macide drew his twin shamshirs and followed, but he pointed Hamid down the stairs. “You know where to go.”
Hamid nodded and motioned everyone else, including Ramahd and his men, to follow him. They swept down two more levels before reaching the bottom, where a darkened hallway ran straight ahead; another cut crosswise against their path. The air here was crisp. It smelled like a mountain spring, which felt distinctly wrong.
From above came the sound of swords clashing. Emre stopped in his tracks, clearly ready to run back up the stairs. “No, Emre!” Hamid hissed. “That isn’t what matters, and you know it.”
“He could die,” Emre said softly.
Hamid grabbed him about the shoulders and shoved him forward, away from the stairs. “As could we all.”
They continued ahead as the sounds of battle dwindled, then vanished altogether. After a short jog they came to a stone door with a round hole at its center. One of Hamid’s men, a thin man with a wide jaw and goggly eyes, immediately knelt and took out a set of tools from a bag at his belt. As he put the picks into the keyhole, Emre held a lantern close, but the man waved him away. “Just back away, boy, so I can listen.”
They gave him room, placing themselves between the door and the stairs. The sounds of battle resumed, but not from the stairwell leading up. It came from the righthand tunnel. Whether the battle had shifted to this lower level or echoed down from somewhere above, Ramahd couldn’t tell.
Louder and louder it came. There were many swords, many men—and some women—shouting, releasing battle cries. Clearly it was no longer just Macide and Frail Lemi who were locked in battle; more had engaged, but whose side were they on?
Ramahd heard a click behind him. “It’s done.”
They could barely see him in the darkness, but he was pushing against the door. It groaned mightily as it swung inward. But then Hamid’s man fell over as if he’d fainted. Ramahd heard something whizz by his ear. He turned and saw Amaryllis clutching her cheek. She plucked from her skin a small, red-feathered dart. Her eyes began to shake, as if she’d just woken and hadn’t yet found her bearings.
“Ramahd,” she said, staring at the dart. “Ramahd.”
Ramahd caught her as she fell, lowering her carefully to the ground.
“Down there!” Ramahd said, pointing into the darkness. “We are not alone.”
Hamid was already on the move, spinning and swinging his lantern and launching it far down the tunnel. It flew into the darkness, lighting the hall like a falling star, then burst beyond the vault door, spreading oil and flames.
What had once been darkness was lit like day. A dozen men were revealed beyond the flames, one of them with a blowpipe to his mouth. He took an arrow from Emre straight through the throat, a dart puffing from the end of his blowpipe and striking harmlessly against the wall as he clutched at the shaft of the arrow and tipped over.
The enemy were dressed in thawbs and turbans as well. Surely these were Hamzakiir’s men, come to liberate the elixirs for their lord, but they were held off momentarily by the flames. Near them were two dark forms, low, hunkering to the ground, dog-like with blood-red skin that glistened in the firelight. They looked as if they’d been flayed until all that remained was muscle and sinew and odd,
angular limbs. Each had a pair of horns that swept like scythes from the center of its forehead back. They had no eyes, but wide nostrils and gaping mouths that grinned with ranks of narrow teeth that might once have been sharp but were now broken and jagged, as if for too long they’d feasted only on bones.
“Into the vault,” Hamid called, running and pushing the vault door open the rest of the way as Emre launched an arrow at one of the fell beasts.
The thing ducked sinuously, avoiding Emre’s aim as if the arrow had been little more than a feather borne on a gentle wind. Mighty Alu protect us. If these are the sorts of creatures Hamzakiir is willing to summon, I’ll be glad to see the elixirs taken from his hands.
Ramahd carried Amaryllis while Luken dragged the unconscious lockpick. They rushed into the vault, nearly a score of them in all. They’d just managed to push the door shut when something crashed into it from the opposite side. Every spare body threw themselves against the door, hoping to push the creature back, yet still it edged open. As Ramahd set Amaryllis down on the cold stone floor, one red arm reached inside. It twitched, insect-like, claws reaching. Poor Luken was at the door’s very edge. The claws latched on to his left leg, dragged him down in a flash, and then the arm drew backward through the gap, taking Luken’s leg with it.
One moment Luken was shouting in surprise and fear, hands scrabbling for purchase, and then next he was rolling away, his screams infinitely more urgent. The door boomed shut. All eyes turned to Luken. Blood gushed from his stump of a leg as if poured from a pitcher.
“Ramahd,” Amaryllis whispered.
Ramahd ignored her. He could only stare at Luken’s writhing. The power of that creature . . . By the gods, we’re all going to die. But what about the elixirs? They could still finish what they’d set out to do, couldn’t they? As he turned, looking for them, Amaryllis touched his arm. “Ramahd.” When he looked down to her, she pointed to the fallen lockpick. “Give me his heart.”
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