“He’s already given me something.”
Araq was poured into every cup. At the head of the table, Macide stood and raised his glass. The light from the oil lamps spaced about the room flickered off the viper tattoos snaking around his well muscled forearms. “I will admit I had my doubts that Çeda’s mission would lead us to the goddess. But now Nalamae has been found, and so I ask all of you, what can it mean but that smoother sands lie ahead?” With a graceful swirl of his glass, he invited the room to share in his joy. “To brighter days.”
“To brighter days!” the room replied as one.
All downed their araq, which tasted of oak and juniper and burning pine.
“And Emre’s return,” Macide went on, “has brought the news we’d been hoping for. Neylana and the southern tribes have agreed to join the Alliance.”
The room roared and drank again, many calling out, “A desert united!”
“It clears the way for something the shaikhs and I have been discussing for some time. A path to peace.” Macide paused, waiting for the hubbub to die. “Queen Meryam has sent us an offer.” An immediate rumble of discontent swallowed Macide’s next words, so he repeated them, louder this time. “An offer of peace!”
“Meryam is a foreigner,” said Rasime. “She is but a stand-in for the Sharakhani Kings.”
“The Sharakhani Kings are gone”—Macide stared directly at Çeda— “thanks to the sacrifices of many, some in this very room.”
“Not all the Kings are accounted for,” Rasime replied evenly, “and even if your words were true, who now sits their thrones? Their children, who are every bit as eager as their fathers to turn back the pages of time and make Sharakhai as it once was.”
“That remains to be seen. And don’t forget, the very fact that there are new Kings and Queens shows how far we’ve come. That they’re willing to bargain with us shows they respect our power. They acknowledge our history. They acknowledge our right to exist. Who would have thought to see it only a few short years ago?”
“They’re only doing so because the war is on.”
“Yes, the desert is at war,” Macide said, “but there’s more to consider. The Kings are weakened. The thirteenth tribe has taken a stand. The asirim have joined our cause. And now there’s the Alliance for them to reckon with. There are a dozen reasons besides, but the point is this: it is time for talks of lasting peace.”
“The House of Kings is still intact,” Rasime said, as if that disputed everything.
“The House of Kings is a house of cards,” Macide shot back. “They tremble at the might of the foreign invaders.”
“Let them! Let us back away and see what comes of Sharakhai and the fleets of Mirea and Malasan. When they’re done, we’ll go and knock whoever’s left from their perch.”
“That would cause untold misery in Sharakhai. And offers no guarantee we can face whoever’s left, not if Qaimir or Kundhun retreat, or worse, turn traitor and join hands with the victors. This is the time to speak, while our leverage is greatest.”
“So what do you propose?” This came from Sümeya, which pleased Rasime not at all.
“Meryam has offered to meet us in Mazandir,” he said to the room. “I say we go and hear her out.”
Rasime looked down her side of the table. “And the royal galleon that sailed with Çeda? Will they be joining us as well?”
Çeda realized it must have been Rasime’s ketch Kameyl had spotted as they were sailing toward the mountains. “It wasn’t a galleon,” Çeda said easily. “It was a three-masted schooner, a merchant ship that wished to sail under mutual protection. By now it’s halfway to Ishmantep.”
Rasime stood. “The ship was a royal galleon,” she said matter-of-factly. “The only question is who was on it?”
Çeda stared easily into Rasime’s fiery eyes. “Believe whatever you wish. It makes no difference to me.”
Suddenly Rasime’s kenshar was in her hand. “Take that tone of voice with me again and—”
Rasime paused as the doors burst open. It was Jenise, her striking, emerald-and-amber eyes bright in the lamplight. “Come quickly,” she said. “Something’s happening to Nalamae.”
The mood in the room immediately shifted. Suddenly everyone was rushing from the feasting hall and into the courtyard. The courtyard itself was surrounded on three sides by the fortress’s stone walls. The large bonfire lit in celebration of Nalamae’s return shed light on a dozen Shieldwives and guardsmen in thawbs and turbans. They were gathered around Nalamae, who was staring down at her own grave. She wore a gleaming set of armor—a mail shirt with shining pauldrons, greaves, and bracers. She had high leather boots tooled in the elegant designs of the thirteenth tribe. Charms and beads, surely taken from the tree, had been worked into her eggplant-colored turban. Dozens hung on it, shaking when she moved her head.
Where the armor came from Çeda had no idea, and in any case it was far from the most disturbing thing. For days Nalamae had been exploring the acacia’s visions. She’d been persistent, but also inquisitive and accepting, a woman willing to take what the tree gave her. Now she had an intense look, as if the answers she’d found had done nothing to quiet her heart.
“What’s happened?” Çeda asked as she stepped closer.
Ignoring her entirely, Nalamae knelt over Yerinde’s grave, set her staff aside, and pressed both hands against the flagstones. The stones began to buckle. To lift. Some were thrown aside as the earth below surged upward with a sound like rolling thunder. From the dark, churning earth, the head of a bright, shining spear appeared. It was Yerinde’s, buried with her after Çeda had taken Night’s Kiss and cleaved her from neck to navel. Nalamae gripped it by its haft, lifted it against the night sky, and stared at it.
“What’s happened, Nalamae?” Çeda asked again. “What have you seen?”
Still holding the adamantine spear, Nalamae took her staff up as well. “My eyes have been opened.”
“I don’t understand.”
She turned to Çeda at last, her gaze chilling. “In my prior lives, I was blinded. I now know why. Had I allowed myself to see, it would have been too much, too soon. My brothers and sisters would have found me too easily. It was important that I hide from them, to have the time to learn who I truly was.”
“And now?”
“The acacia granted me many things. Not enough to know all, but I saw the way I was hunted. I saw how my brothers and sisters sought to prevent me from returning, to ensure their grand plan would remain hidden. I remember how it felt. I remember their eyes upon me. I remember them closing in.”
“That’s good, isn’t it? It will help you to avoid them now.”
“You don’t understand. They’re no longer hunting me, not even Goezhen. They’re content to let this play out, which means their grand plan is close to fruition. Very close.” With that she threw her staff into the flames.
“No!” Leorah cried, and ran toward it.
But Nalamae stopped her. “Leave it, grandmother. It is a symbol of a different day, a different age. One I now leave behind.”
“Please,” Leorah cried, “don’t let it burn.”
But Nalamae would not relent. For long moments, the courtyard watched as the fire began to consume the staff. Çeda was terrified. She’d searched for Nalamae and against all odds had found her. And now the goddess was acting in ways she didn’t understand.
Macide had come to stand by Çeda’s side. “What do you propose we do, goddess?”
Nalamae considered him for a time before speaking. She looked like she regretted what she was about to say. “I don’t know the right path for you.” She gripped the spear tightly in both hands. “But I know my path. I’m leaving.”
As a chorus of worried voices rose up, Çeda felt her own fear intensifying. “But why?” she asked the goddess. “Surely we have some time yet.”
“
No, we don’t, but I might gain you some. My brothers and sisters have become comfortable. The very fact that they’ve gone quiet means that they think things are moving along their proper course. I bid you to return to Sharakhai. Treat with Queen Meryam if that is your wish.”
“And you?” Çeda asked.
She began walking away. “It’s time I took the hunt to them.”
Çeda went after her. “Nalamae, please.”
But she wouldn’t listen. She kept walking, bits of her flaking away like so much sand, more and more borne on the wind until all that remained was a tight swirl, a dwindling gyre that lost itself in a threadlike stream that was drawn up and into the night sky. Soon that was gone too, and so was Nalamae.
Chapter 38
IN A HIGH MOUNTAIN VALE, Hamid followed a dry stream bed by starlight. He was tired. His feet ached. He’d eaten little and drank naught but water from mountain streams for days. He wanted to reach Darius. He wanted to tell him the good news and then forget the terrible trouble he’d landed himself in for one night.
Thoughts of telling tales vanished, however, when he neared the copse of pine he and Darius had been using as a shelter and heard voices from within. Pulling his knife, he scanned the starlit landscape for signs of threat, then stalked over the dry ground. A lamp was lit inside the copse, which he and Darius had agreed not to do unless absolutely necessary.
As he came closer, he heard the voices more clearly. One was Darius. The other, he soon realized, was Rasime, a one-time scarab and a woman who detested the fact that the Moonless Host had all but vanished almost as much as Hamid did.
His fears vanishing, Hamid slipped the knife back into its sheath and approached the trees. The smell of pine struck him as he spread the prickling branches wide and sidled into the shelter. Between the denuded tree trunks was a hollowed-out space the size of a small tent. It was there that Darius sat cross-legged with Rasime on a blue, horsehair blanket. Darius shifted, and Hamid plopped himself down, the three of them forming a rough triangle around the tiny oil lamp, which cast a soft golden glow over the needle-strewn ground.
Rasime stared at the bruises and cuts that still marked Hamid’s face. “Frail Lemi really worked you over, didn’t he?”
“Don’t talk to me about Frail Lemi.”
“He’s in the valley. You want me to take a knife to his throat for you?”
“I’ll save that pleasure for myself, thank you.”
Rasime shrugged. “As you wish.” With the space so tight, she lay to one side, legs folded while propping herself up on one elbow. “Macide is planning to treat with Queen Meryam.”
“I know,” Hamid said.
“He’s got the tribe ready to pick up and go to Mazandir to meet her.”
“I know.”
Rasime’s hawklike gaze became more intense. “How could you? It only happened today. And why do you look so fucking smug?”
There was no denying it. Hamid was smug. He felt like the fates were finally shining on him. Five days ago he’d been sitting in this very copse while Darius was out gathering berries when the branches parted and an intruder drove into the shelter. It had been Brama the thief, looking much as he had before the Battle of Blackspear save for the strange lump on his forehead.
“You’re in a difficult situation, Hamid,” Brama said to him.
Hamid stared, wary. “What would you know about it?”
“I know you’re on the run. I know that when Emre reaches the tribe in five days’ time, you’ll be hunted down to account for your crimes. I know you’re aware that Macide will believe him over you.”
Hamid had no idea how Brama could be certain about everything he’d said, but Hamid knew things too. Like that the Brama of his youth couldn’t know such things on his own. And that Brama had been caught up with the ehrekh, Rümayesh. He knew from the tales told in Sharakhai that Rümayesh liked to choose souls and inhabit them for a time before casting them aside like old clothes. “You’re not Brama at all, are you?”
“Does it bother you to know that I’m not?”
“I suppose not.” Hamid shrugged. “Unless I’m being used.”
Brama laughed. “We are all being used in one way or another. What do you care, so long as you get what you want?”
“And what do you suppose I want?”
“A tribe free of Macide Ishaq’ava and his closest allies. A tribe whose reins you can take up to do with as you please.”
Hamid tried to hide his surprise. That was precisely what he wanted. “And you can give that to me?”
“I can give you the tools to achieve it.”
“Tools.”
“Just so, Hamid.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the location of four Kings of Sharakhai. Such as their recent dealings with one of your own, Çedamihn Ahyanesh’ala. Such as the offer that is even now on its way to the hands of Macide Ishaq’ava, sent by Queen Meryam herself.”
Pulling himself back to the present, Hamid spied the bottle of araq Rasime had brought. Without bothering to ask for permission, he pulled the cork, but made sure to offer Rasime the first drink. When she declined, he took a long pull off it, then handed it to Darius, who took no more than a taste.
“The tale Rümayesh went on to tell me was wild,” Hamid said, and told them what Rümayesh had told him: that Çeda had allied herself with Queen Nayyan to find Nalamae, that she’d allied herself with Ihsan and the other Kings to help fight off an attack by Goezhen, that they’d sailed together from Sharakhai so their Alliance could be blessed by Macide. He finished by telling them of his trek to the bay Rümayesh had told him about, where he’d found a royal galleon, and more. “Husamettín was there. As were Cahil, Ihsan, and a tall, skinny man who I swear to the gods was Zeheb.”
“Sand and stone,” Rasime said, “I knew Çeda was lying. I knew it was a royal galleon. Gods, you should have seen how she pranced about the valley, like she’s our fucking savior. She’ll die for this, Hamid. I swear to you she’ll die.”
“Calm down. This will take a bit of time. We can’t go killing anyone until we’ve convinced others of what we’ve seen. Then and only then can we make a move on Macide.”
Rasime’s eyes narrowed. “He’s well protected.”
Hamid shrugged. “I can name a dozen who are grinding their teeth at the thought of treating with the Kings, even if it is through their mouthpiece, Meryam.”
“So can I,” Rasime said, “but there’s still Sehid-Alaz. He won’t stand for it. It would darken his honor, which is about all he ever talks about. That and being sent to the farther fields to take his final rest.”
Hamid smiled. “Let me worry about Sehid-Alaz. You start talking to the others.”
Three days after Nalamae left the fortress below Mount Arasal, Macide and the thirteenth tribe departed for Mazandir to speak with Queen Meryam. There were representatives from every tribe except Neylana’s and the southern tribes, but a swift patrol ship had been sent ahead to warn them and have them send envoys of their own to attend.
Ten ships in all sailed the sand. Emre would captain the Amaranth with Macide, Frail Lemi, and Sehid-Alaz. The Shieldwives, several hundred of the tribe’s warriors, and dozens of asirim would follow on other ships. In a bit of good fortune, young Shaikh Aríz of Tribe Kadri had arrived the day before they were to leave and asked to join them.
“My tribe is to be represented in these talks,” Aríz had told Macide. “How can I report to them faithfully unless I’m there to witness it?”
Frail Lemi had nodded knowingly, proudly. Aríz had nodded back in the same manner, then the two of them had laughed.
Aríz’s vizir, Ali-Budrek, however, objected strenuously. “Send me, my shaikh. I’ll return as soon as it’s over and tell you everything.”
“And let you have all the fun?”
Ali-Budrek puffed up like a
scared sand drake, but before he could say anything further, Frail Lemi chuckled and said, “Might be more fun than you can handle, Little Shaikh.”
Aríz sneered. “If it turns out to be anything like the battle at the gorge, I’ll need to be there to save your sorry tail. Again.”
Frail Lemi burst into laughter and the two of them clasped forearms, to the clear disappointment of Ali-Budrek. Ali-Budrek had always hated that Aríz and Frail Lemi had become like brothers, but Aríz didn’t seem to care what Ali-Budrek thought, and Frail Lemi was often oblivious to the displeasure of others.
The Amaranth sailed at the head of their small fleet. The Red Bride, with Çeda, her Shieldwives, and the two ex-Blade Maidens, Sümeya and Kameyl, came next. Then came Aríz’s caravel, the Autumn Rose, and five more. The irascible Rasime, who had fought for and been granted the right to join the fleet, brought up the rear on her ketch, the Burning Sand.
“I don’t know why you let her come,” Emre said to Macide as the ship heeled over a large dune. The two of them were sitting with Frail Lemi on the foredeck of the Amaranth. “Rasime spreads poison wherever she goes.”
Macide was sitting cross-legged on the deck, one of his two shamshirs held in his hands as he ran the edge carefully over a sharpening stone. His other shamshir waited its turn on the sun-worn planks beside him. “What sort of leader would I be,” he said without looking up, “if I allowed no one who spoke against me to bear witness to our talks? Let Rasime come. Let her see what we can gain, and then she’ll tell the rest.”
“If you think she’s going to tell them the truth, I’ve got an oasis to sell you.”
Frail Lemi, leaning against the bulwark, laughed like a hyena, then eased arms thick as most men’s legs along the gunwales. “An oasis to sell you.”
“Some people will never acknowledge the good you’ve done,” Emre went on, “not if it conflicts with the lies they’ve told themselves. Rasime is lost in hatred, convinced the desert must be purified.”
Frail Lemi rubbed his bald head with a lazy swipe of his hand. “Hamid once told me she thinks she’s Suad reborn, the new Scourge of Sharakhai.”
When Jackals Storm the Walls Page 35
