Frail Lemi stood there, breathing hard, the hot sun shining off the sheen of sweat on his shaved head. He looked like he meant to leap down and strike Aríz where he lay, but then Aríz grinned and said, “Not bad, Lem.”
Frail Lemi looked confused for a moment, then broke out into a toothy grin. “Not bad . . . Not bad like your sister’s not bad.”
“That’s enough!” called Ali-Budrek.
But Aríz only grinned more. “Not bad like your mother’s not bad.” When he held out one hand, Frail Lemi clasped it and hauled Aríz to his feet. The two of them laughed, Frail Lemi quite a deal louder and longer than Aríz, all while thunderclouds passed over Ali-Budrek’s face.
The bitter bark Dardzada had given to Emre seemed to dull his headaches, so Dardzada gave him more and told him to shove one in his mouth the moment he felt a headache coming on. Emre had done so three times since, and it had worked. It didn’t happen quickly, and it didn’t suppress the pain entirely, but it was a far sight better than it had been.
Çeda sailed aboard the Red Bride by day, but at night she would sing songs by the fire near Emre’s side. More than once Emre caught Sümeya watching them, and he wondered what had gone on between her and Çeda. He wondered what they still felt for one another, too, but he cut those thoughts off before they’d had a chance to take root. Hadn’t he asked the fates to bring Çeda back into his life? Well, now they had. What sort of fool would he be if he started questioning the manner in which they’d done it?
Çeda slept in Emre’s cabin at night. The first night after his recovery, they kissed for a long while. Emre wanted to take it further, but Çeda was too worried about his headache to do anything more. “Dardzada said to take things easy.”
“We will,” Emre replied. “I’ll just lie here. You can do all the work.”
Which earned him a slap on the belly.
The second night, though, kissing had led to more. She straddled his hips and removed her dress slowly, taking her time, letting the lift of the fabric act like a veil being removed, showing her thighs, her tight stomach. When he tried to run his hands over her breasts, she threw the dress aside and set his hands easily but firmly onto the mattress.
She moved against him, her body tilting like a ship riding the edge of an easy dune. He’d already been stiff, now he felt like he had a bloody belaying pin squeezed between his legs.
When he tried to lay her down against the bunk’s mattress, she made soft clucking noises. “No, no,” she said, her lips pursed just next to his. “You were given orders.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “So I was,” he said, and tried to kiss her.
She backed away before he could, then sat up and raked her fingernails along his chest. She played with the hair below his belly button, the path to the enchanted garden, she called it. Emre couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud. Çeda, meanwhile, moved lower, toying with him, circling his ridge, stroking him, then she lifted herself and slid down on him in an easy motion that was so filled with pleasure it made his head arch back and his eyes flutter closed.
He tried to take her by the hips, but she wouldn’t even let him do that. She pinned his wrists to the bed and rode him, softly at first, slowly, then with more and more verve, her breath coming faster, her gaze locked with his and her breasts swaying with her movement.
Only when he was close did she let his wrists go with an impish grin. “I suppose a bit of movement is good for the heart.”
Her calm assurance that he was close was enough to send him over the edge. She smiled as she watched him, never slowing, a spectator to the throes of his pleasure, which only served to deepen them.
As it began to subside, a dark, smoldering look overcame her. Her nostrils flared and she rode him faster. He might have gone soft, but the way she was staring down, watching him enter her over and over, got him so excited he felt like he might tip over the edge again.
Suddenly a small squeal escaped her, and she shivered and dropped against him, the skin of their sweat-glistened bellies making a soft smack. She bit his ear hard as short, high-pitched moans of pleasure escaped her and her body writhed against his.
Emre couldn’t get enough of her; his hands roamed from her shoulders to her back, over the perfectly round curves of her backside and along her well-muscled thighs. They glided down from the heights together. Emre kissed her skin where shoulder met arm, enjoying the taste of her sweat, enjoying the feel of her slick skin beneath his fingertips.
They lay there for a long while after, then talked in low voices about life in Sharakhai, about their childhood. It felt like one of those rare days in the city when you woke half asleep, cradled in dreams, and all you wanted to do was to continue to lay there and let the world come to you.
Eventually they fell asleep and this time it was Emre who cradled Çeda. He didn’t sleep for long, though. Since waking in his desert grave, he’d been unable to sleep for more than a few hours at a time, the pain often returning as he slept. That night was no different, and soon he crept out the door wearing only a light shirt and a thin pair of knee-length trousers.
Within their circle of ships, the coals of the campfire were banked. He kicked them back to life and watched them burn, warming his hands against the chill of the desert night. For a time he wandered beyond the ships. Tulathan was low in the west, a tilted scythe, but Rhia was high, a near-perfect golden coin on a veil of onyx silk. The dunes around them were choppy and short, the kind that made for fast sailing but made the ships vibrate so much that by the end of the day one felt like an egg, beaten and frothy, ready to be thrown into a hot pan.
He was just headed back to the Amaranth when he heard voices. The wind played tricks in the desert sometimes, so he waited, trying to judge where it had come from. He heard it again and walked closer, wondering who else had had trouble sleeping, and saw two shapes, one tall, one stocky.
A rasping voice broke the silence. It was Sehid-Alaz, King of the Asirim. Who would he be speaking to at this hour?
As Emre crept closer, a muffle of low words came from the other, then Sehid-Alaz spoke once more, loud enough for Emre to hear. “My first duty is to the asirim.”
“In doing this, you will be serving them.”
That voice . . . The mere sound of it made the pain at the back of Emre’s head flare back to life. It was Hamid. Somehow, he’d stumbled across their fleet.
No, Emre realized, not stumbled. Rasime was to blame. If Hamid had shown his face, he would have had to stand trial for his crimes, so she’d smuggled him into the caravan on her ship instead.
His mind could take the implications no further, for the pain in his head was building like a shooting star.
“Macide is blood of my blood,” Sehid-Alaz rasped.
“I am blood of your blood,” Hamid replied. “And once Macide is gone, there will still be hundreds for you to protect.”
The gods as his witness, Emre tried to listen as they spoke, but the words had started to meld with one another. He couldn’t make out one word from the next. Each felt like the stab of a needle to the backs of his eyes. He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed at his temples while stifling a groan. The fates curse him, he hadn’t brought any of Dardzada’s foul bark with him.
He tried to make it back to the ships. He had to warn someone. To tell them Hamid was planning to overthrow Macide.
He moved as quietly as he could over the sand—alerting Hamid would likely mean his death—but he was starting to panic, which drove him to move faster, which only served to intensify the pain. He felt himself fall, heard himself moan, but he could hardly pay attention to either of those things.
The tribesmen sometimes spoke of the meteor strikes in the Taloran Mountains that came late in autumn. The meteors would strike the slopes and the land would be lit, brightening the sky while mountain peaks loomed, black against the brilliant canvas of the meteor’s dyi
ng fury. A great boom would follow, loud as the world’s ending.
That was how the back of Emre’s skull felt. A meteor strike. A brilliant thing, bright and blinding. And when the rush of sound came, it consumed him, and the world plummeted into darkness.
Hamid had waited until everyone in the camp was asleep. As there had been on the other nights, a pair of guards were posted on the Amaranth, but the guards never bothered with those who roused to make their night soil, nor those like Emre who didn’t sleep well and took walks. Their concern was for threats from the outside, so it was child’s play for Hamid to slip down from Rasime’s ketch, wave to the guard, and wander the sand outside the circle of ships.
Hamid had been tempted to slip onto the Amaranth when the guard made his rounds and kill Emre where he slept, but Çeda had started sleeping in his cabin. That bloody bitch had been trained in the House of Maidens. She knew their sorcerous ways. So, tempting as it was to try and get rid of them both, it was safer to wait for Emre in the sand beyond the ships and kill him there. Çeda would eventually get hers.
Rasime had argued against doing even that. “You have a mission to complete,” she’d insisted. “You must speak to Sehid-Alaz. Everything else can wait.”
For days Hamid had stewed in silence, knowing she was right. But Sehid-Alaz had yet to venture from the Amaranth’s hold. He was well known for taking long walks in the valley, but so far on this journey he’d been content with staying on the ship, all day, all night. He didn’t even go to the campfires at night.
Hamid was just thinking he’d have to steal onto the Amaranth when the ancient King of the asirim climbed up from the bowels of the ship, strode down the gangplank, and wandered beyond their circle of ships. Hamid followed from a distance, quiet as could be, but eventually realized he’d been discovered. Sehid-Alaz was waiting for him, staring with the twin pits of his eyes while the moons cast their glow against his blackened skin. “I have felt your heart and your mind laying heavily upon me these past many days. I’m weary of it. Tell me what you so desire.”
“My name is Hamid Malahin’ava—”
“The one who attacked his fellow tribesman. And now you’ve come to me, searching for solace.”
“Of a sort.”
Sehid-Alaz drew his sword, Night’s Kiss, the two-handed shamshir that had once belonged to Husamettín. It buzzed angrily, like hornets circling their prey, then settled into a low thrum. “Tell me what sort or begone.”
Hamid held his hands high in a plea for patience. “I must first tell you of other things. Of the bargain to be made in Mazandir. Of the men they mean to make it with.”
“No men, but the Queen of Qaimir.”
“In the name of the Sharakhani Kings.”
“Yes, but who now are named Kings but the whelps of their fathers?” He sounded weary, as if he prayed for the last storm to come and take him once and for all. He seemed almost sad that he couldn’t wreak vengeance upon those who’d bound him and his people in chains.
“What if I told you the bargain he goes to make is not merely with Queen Meryam, but with the greater Kings as well?”
Sehid-Alaz paused. Night’s Kiss thrummed. “You lie.”
“I saw it with my own eyes.”
“You lie.”
“There were four,” Hamid continued. “Husamettín, King of Swords, bearing a shamshir of ebon steel. I saw him working forms very similar to the ones you favor. Ihsan was there, and he was talking, the stories about him losing his tongue either lies or the elixirs have healed him once more. Cahil strutted about with his golden hammer. And lastly there was Zeheb, though he was only half the man I remember. They called him the Burbling King in Sharakhai, but he didn’t seem that mad to me.”
Sehid-Alaz’s jaw jutted out like a black laugher’s. His brow darkened, as if he didn’t want to believe Hamid.
Hamid held out a length of yellow cloth that looked dark gray in the moonlight. “I took this from their ship, sliced from Cahil’s turban while he bathed in a mountain stream.”
Sehid-Alaz took it, held it to his nose, and breathed in its scent. The ancient King fell silent, brooding.
“Four Kings,” Hamid said, knowing from Sehid-Alaz’s silence that he believed his story, “sitting on a ship that Çeda herself sailed alongside. You know as well as I that she is Macide’s favorite. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d brought him the King’s terms to consider before he meets with Meryam. You said your role was to serve. The more important question is whom do you serve?”
“The shaikh of the thirteenth tribe,” he said only half-heartedly.
“And if that title fell to another?”
“Only a fool would think I’d raise my hand against Macide, blood of my blood.”
“You don’t have to lift a finger,” Hamid said. “I will. I only need your support once the new order is put into place.”
“My first duty is to the asirim.”
“In doing this, you will be serving them.”
“Macide is blood of my blood,” he rasped.
“I am blood of your blood. And once Macide is gone, there will still be hundreds for you to protect.”
For long moments, Sehid-Alaz’s raspy breath was the only sound he could hear. The chill night air seeped deep beneath Hamid’s skin, and he wondered if he’d just made a terrible mistake.
But then the asirim King said, “Who would take his place?” And Hamid knew he had him. Whether forty years old or four hundred, the hearts of men were all the same—show them that their honor is threatened and they will fight to protect it.
“I would,” Hamid declared. “I am ready to give the Kings all that they deserve, along with any who would take their thrones in Sharakhai.”
Just then Hamid heard a groan from somewhere to his right. He saw a silhouette, someone staggering away, holding his head. The guard, maybe? When the man toppled over, though, he knew it was Emre—he’d done the same thing when they fought.
He drew his knife and approached, planning to slit his throat and be done with it, but Sehid-Alaz gripped his hand and pulled him back with surprising strength.
“You would no longer grant him his trial?”
“He had his trial, and he lost.”
He waved to Emre’s unmoving form. “It doesn’t look like he lost.”
“Only because a bull walking on its hind legs interfered.”
“Hey!” someone called. And this time it was the guard. He was jogging over the sand with a torch. “Who goes there?”
The buzzing in Hamid’s mind had been under control for days, but as the guard approached he felt it come rushing back. The gods curse Emre and everything he’s ever touched! He couldn’t very well murder Emre in front of the guard, nor could he stay.
“Think on what I’ve said,” he said while backing into the darkness.
Sehid-Alaz gave no reply. A short while later, Hamid saw him gather Emre up in his arms and carry him back toward the ships while the guard held the torch high, lighting their way.
Chapter 42
ÇEDA WOKE TO THE SOUND of someone calling for Dardzada. She reached out for Emre, only then realizing he was gone. She knew immediately he’d had trouble sleeping and had gone off on one of his walks. Her first, terrified thought was that he’d succumbed to his injury and died, but if that was the case why would they be calling for Dardzada?
Relief flooded through her when she reached the deck and saw Emre lying there, still breathing. Dardzada waddled up from the berth deck moments later. Young Clara followed in his wake, bright-eyed as ever. Dardzada knelt beside Emre, then pressed his ear to Emre’s chest and had Clara do the same. He felt Emre’s pulse and had Clara mimic him. When he pried Emre’s eyes open and showed Clara how wide his pupils were, Çeda felt a scream building inside her, ready to burst out.
“Can’t you just hurry up?” Çeda shouted at him.
>
Dardzada stared up calmly. “As you can see, Emre is breathing perfectly well. His heartbeat is weak, but is not poor enough to cause me concern yet. His skin is clammy, which is within the range of symptoms for these sorts of fainting spells. And, unconscious like this, he is in no pain. What we need now, Çeda, is a cold examination of the facts, past and present, so that we might find the root of his problem and heal him if the gods allow.”
“Fuck the gods,” Çeda said. “Give him some of the bark.”
“The bark has done little so far. I want to be certain I’m not missing something.”
“He may be dying!”
“And you yammering at me isn’t helping. Now either shut that fool mouth of yours or, if you can’t, throw yourself off the side of the ship so I can concentrate.”
Çeda wanted to shake him. She wanted to find the bark and give it to Emre herself. Instead, she forced herself to turn and pace away so Dardzada could examine Emre in peace.
The minutes stretched as he did just that, Clara attentive by his side. Finally he did give Emre some of the bark, but with the risk that Emre might swallow it, Dardzada ground it into a powder first and slathered it over Emre’s gums. It wasn’t a common medicinal, and she wondered how much of it he had with him. She was certain she wouldn’t like the answer.
When Jackals Storm the Walls Page 38
