No one answered, for just then something new happened. Something utterly unexpected. Something the desert hadn’t seen in who knew how long?
The white haze hanging over the city had grown thicker, darker, and from it, tiny flakes of snow were falling. They floated gently, sometimes circling playfully in vortexes before breaking suddenly. Where they fell upon the ground, they melted, leaving a small dark spot like rain that evaporated almost instantly.
Çeda blinked and stared up at it, disbelieving.
Davud stared in wonder as the snow fell upon his outstretched hand. Then, a child all over again, he tipped his head back, opened his mouth, and let some fall upon his tongue. Others stared in wonder as the snow thickened. A dusting accumulated on the ground and soon Tauriyat and its curtain wall and other distant buildings were swallowed by a storm of swirling white.
“Where do we go now?” Emre asked.
“To the desert,” Çeda said, seeing the snowfall for the boon it was. “We can’t be caught inside the city.”
Emre nodded, snapped the reins, and they rode north through the city, toward the harbor and open sand.
Chapter 64
AS DAWN BROKE OVER THE DESERT, four gods stood on the outer edge of the blooming fields. There was lithe Tulathan, winsome Rhia, clever Bakhi, and mighty Thaash. Between them lay the sand-ridden corpses of Goezhen’s pets, Tashaak and Rühn, the massive bone crushers he’d crafted in the desert’s early days. Nalamae had hidden their remains so well it had taken them three days to find them.
Rhia, pacing along the edge of an adichara grove, stopped suddenly and stared intently into the trees. “There,” she said in desert’s eldest tongue, “a piece of Goezhen’s heart.”
The four of them approached the indicated patch of sand and found it buried there, just as Rhia had said. A small, dried piece of their brother’s heart. Working together, they found the others: seven more pieces, hidden all about the grand circle of the blooming fields like points on a compass rose. They realized Nalamae had killed him, taken his heart and cut it into eight pieces, then used them to form a spell that prevented them from stepping within the blooming fields.
It had been a long time since Bakhi had been frightened. Truly frightened. Not since the elder gods had fled this world, abandoning them, had he felt what he’d felt the night they’d been unable to step inside the grand circle of trees. After all we’ve done, he’d thought as Thaash threw himself impotently at the barrier, we’ll be stopped by our youngest sister.
Nalamae had truly returned to herself. She was the Nalamae of old now—young but proud, and powerful too. She’d not only killed their brother, but used his remains for her own ends. First Yerinde, Bakhi mused, now Goezhen. A fair turn of events, he supposed, given how many times they’d killed her. But where did it leave them?
The four of them had stood in abject horror the night the crystal broke. They couldn’t see it, but all of them felt it—an awakening, a doorway—but in a strange twist of fate, the effect had been blunted. The doorway to the farther fields wasn’t as large as it should have been. It had been stopped, by what, none of them knew. But Bakhi was certain it wasn’t enough for them to step from this world into the next. For mortals, certainly—for days he’d been feeling the flutter of their passage like beats of a butterfly’s wings—but not for gods.
Through a gap in the trees, the four of them stared at the grand, glittering dome in the distance. When it had appeared over the city, none of them had been sure if it would linger or if it would eventually shrink and be gone, taking their last chance to reach the land beyond with it. In a strange twist of fate, it had grown large enough to encompass all of Tauriyat and then simply stopped, reaching some obscure equilibrium.
It was Nalamae’s doing, certainly. She’d somehow managed to halt the crystal’s destruction, but all was not lost. There was time yet to undo their sister’s work.
The question was how? What were the four of them going to do about it?
“We could begin by tearing down her spell,” Tulathan said, but she spoke in a way that made it clear there could be consequences.
“It might leave us vulnerable,” Rhia said, finishing the thought.
None of them knew what might happen if they tried. Nalamae might have found a way to bind them more tightly to this world if they dismantled her spell, and breaking down the barrier she’d made by use of Goezhen’s heart wasn’t the most important thing in any case.
“We must force things back into motion,” Thaash said, his bronze skin shimmering in the sunlight.
“Of course,” Bakhi said, “but how?”
He stared at Tulathan as he said this. After Yerinde’s death, she’d done the most to ensure their grand machine was well oiled and moving. She paused, perhaps balancing the risks, as they all did with every action they took, every move they made. Make one move too many and they would be trapped while the others left for the land beyond. But make no moves at all and they would all surely lose.
“You know how,” Tulathan replied.
“Yes, but were I to step in, there would be questions. Doubts might take root. The path to the buried elder is a precarious one.”
Tulathan knew he was right, but still she hesitated. He thought she would deny him, that she would demand the others help.
“A subtle wind is all you need,” Bakhi said. “With but a shift in the breeze, she’ll do as you wish.”
Tulathan took them all in, one by one, then nodded. “Very well. Leave it to me.”
Chapter 65
NIGHT REIGNED AS WILLEM sat atop the collegia’s library. The moons were rising and the stars were bright, but they had a new adversary for dominance over the nighttime sky. Draping over Tauriyat like some grand veil woven by the gods was a great, glittering dome—the vault, as it had come to be known—a thing that had simply appeared the night of the Mirean invasion. The light the vault gave off was chilling, and Willem didn’t like looking upon it, so he focused instead on the students returning in dribs and drabs from their excursions to the Trough.
On the wings of a terrible sandstorm, the forces of Mirea had swept into the city and taken control. The following days had been tense. Martial law had been imposed. Pockets of resistance had broken out spontaneously. The sounds of screaming and killing were terrible, enough to make Willem weep, but thankfully with each day the clashes had grown fewer in frequency and less intense. While the Malasani continued to fight the remains of the Sharakhani fleet, it was the Mireans who occupied the city, hoping to shore up its defenses before the city’s former rulers, the Kings and Queens of Sharakhai, could mount an insurrection and take it back.
While things were tense in every quarter of the city, including at the collegia, the Mirean queen seemed to hold respect for the halls of learning. As a result the collegia was a relative calm in the storm. An edict had been handed down, however. Should protests be waged by anyone in the collegia, be they student, scholar, or faculty, the entire collegia would suffer. So far the order had held, but more and more students were gathering and talking about ways to resist the occupation.
Willem wished he could join them. He hated the occupation too.
Come now, Willem. Be truthful. That isn’t the reason why.
No, he admitted to himself. He had felt empty since Nebahat’s death. It was a strange reality to be faced with. He should be dancing with joy from sunup to sundown at being freed, but he’d been enslaved for as long as he could remember—to Nebahat, and to someone else before him. (Just who the other might have been Willem was unsure. Unlike the countless stories he’d read, any one of which he could rattle off by heart, the days of his youth were strangely muddled.)
By the gods, he was free, so why hadn’t the great weight on his shoulders been lifted? You know why, said that voice as he walked along the roof’s peak to its opposite edge. He crouched and watched as a dozen students talked in low tone
s on the library steps. Given that one was waxing on about the percentage of alcohol required for a mixture to burn, clearly trying to impress the prettiest of the girls, he guessed they were the fresh recruits to the alchemycal studies program. They were young, but oh how they shone. Their lights were bright, and flitted like starlings among the group, one thought leading to another leading to another.
Suddenly their conversation ceased and their gazes swung toward the forum. A patrol of eight Mirean soldiers wearing bright, jade-colored half cloaks were marching in two by two. Unlike the students, the light the soldiers gave off was dull as ebon steel. It made Willem wonder what they would look like in their homeland, far from the war, far from the desert. Most in Sharakhai considered the Mireans their enemies, but Willem wanted to visit them, to see them shine as they were meant to shine.
Without a word being spoken, the students broke apart and went their separate ways. Queen Alansal had decreed that groups larger than three were unlawful and would be punished with public floggings. Many had already taken place. By the time the patrol had passed, only two still lingered on the steps, a pair of young men whose attraction for one another was plain, though neither seemed ready to admit it. The way the light played between them was like an explosion of autumn butterflies. It made Willem so happy he put one hand over his mouth to stifle his giggling.
When they left and the square at the foot of the library was empty once more, Willem sat cross-legged and wondered where he should go, what he should do. When he was beholden to Nebahat there’d always been things to research, histories to read, solutions to find. And if there wasn’t reading to be done, there were forays to gather medicinals or various alchemycal agents for Nebahat and the other magi in the Enclave. But Nebahat was gone and so was the Enclave, or enough of it that Willem had no hope that one of them would come looking for him to do the things he’d done for Nebahat.
In reading the private letters sent to the new chancellor, Willem had learned that some great confrontation had taken place below the Sun Palace. Many of the Enclave’s highest ranking members had died, including Prayna and Esrin. Dilara, Undosu, and Nebahat had been killed a few days before that. Who did that leave? Meiying? Davud? Please let Davud be alive. Even if both of them were, even if the Enclave was formed again, there was no telling whether they’d have a use for him. He was a forgotten soul, a bit of detritus fallen from the Enclave’s decomposing form.
Find something else, said the voice inside of Willem. Find another purpose.
But how could he? He knew nothing beyond the collegia and its books. He hadn’t a voice, and even if he did, what would he say? Hello, you don’t know me, but I can read forty-seven different languages and I know you didn’t ask me but may I please work in the library sorting your books? No, they had students for that. And the moment they found out he’d been in the collegia for so long, rooting about, they’d give him over to the green cloaks, as they’d started calling the Mirean patrols. If he ever revealed his existence, he’d be lucky to keep his head.
He was just about to leave when he saw a glimmering across the way. The person making it was hidden behind the corner of the basilica, but the patterns of light they cast . . . Willem dared not hope. He nearly turned and ran, unsure what he would do if it was him.
And then, there he was, Davud, striding in that way of his, confident yet unassuming, between two tall pillars in the forum. He had a small sack slung over one shoulder, and he made his way toward the tall bronze statue at the center of the square.
Willem’s heart tripped as Davud turned a full circle and scanned the area as if looking for someone. Davud had come to the collegia many times after Nebahat’s death, but he’d stopped the night before the invasion, and Willem had thought surely he was dead. Willem had pleaded with Bakhi for his mercy. He’d told himself a thousand times that if Davud came again, he would gather his courage and go to him, even if it was only to bask in his light.
Yet here he was, his prayers answered, and Willem merely stared, shaking his head gently, his throat constricting over and over while his skin prickled with goosebumps. He’s going to leave. He’s going to leave at any moment. Go to him. See why he’s come. But he didn’t, and each moment that passed made him more certain he would never go, which made him feel like going to his small bed in Nebahat’s lair and staying there forever.
But then Davud did something new. From his cloth sack he took out a blanket, the sort students used on the mall when they shared meals with one another in the sun, and proceeded to lay it out on the ground near the foot of the statue. After seating himself on one side of the blanket, he reached into the sack again and retrieved two glasses and a blue bottle of what looked to be water. He poured a helping in each glass, then pulled a cloth bundle from the sack and unfurled it to reveal two sandwiches, two apples, and two wedges of cheese. He set one of each—water, sandwich, apple, and cheese—on a small kerchief near the far side of the blanket. The others he set before him, then proceeded to take a bite of his apple. “You’re welcome to join me,” he said between crunches.
Willem shivered and ducked low. Had Davud spotted him? What does it matter, you imbecile? He already knows you live here. For a long while, Willem rested on the very edge of a decision.
What did it in the end was the cheese. It was a rarity for Willem, but every time he’d had it, it had made him dream of the animal that had given up its milk to make it, where it had come from, and how different it must be from Sharakhai. In many respects, the taste of food was very much like the light he saw in people. It was varied and deep and beautiful.
He climbed down and approached while Davud, realizing he was no longer alone, smiled and waved to the space across from him. “Please,” he said.
Willem smoothed down his rumpled clothes, feeling a perfect fool for doing so, then sat across from Davud.
“Go on,” Davud said. “Eat. I’ve a story to tell you when we’re done.”
They ate together in silence. It was hardly a sophisticated meal but it was as grand as anything Willem could ever remember. The apple was more tart than sweet, a perfect counter to the cured ham. The bread was crusty with a pillowy crumb. And the cheese . . . The rind had just the right amount of bite while the flesh was soft and tasted of rich cream, honey, lemon rind, and almonds.
When they were done, Davud poured them each some more water. “You’ll recall the one named Rümayesh, the ehrekh who came to you in the form of Brama.”
Willem nodded as he sipped at the water, which was deliciously cool—a spell, Willem saw from the way the bottle glittered.
“The two of them, Brama and Rümayesh, are working together even now to prevent that”—he waved vaguely toward Tauriyat and the glimmering dome above it—“from getting worse. Before he left for the farther fields, however, Brama and I had a chance to talk. He told me some truths about you, truths that were revealed when Rümayesh spoke to you.”
Willem’s hand had begun shaking so badly he set the glass back down.
“He told me about the bindings that had been placed on you. And he told me what Rümayesh did to them so that she could pry your secrets from you.” Davud paused, staring deeply into Willem’s eyes. “Do you realize they’re gone? That in that moment Rümayesh took them away?”
Willem wanted to get up. He wanted to run away and hide. He was certain his world was about to change forever, and he was petrified of it. Fearing he would do just that, he pulled his knees to his chest and hugged his legs, then shook his head slowly.
“They are gone,” Davud said. “Stripped away. You’re no longer prevented from doing things that might have displeased Nebahat, and you’re no longer prevented from speaking.” He paused, a look of encouragement on his face. “You have a voice. You have only to use it.”
He could hardly look at Davud for how he shone. His light made Willem’s eyes water. It was no longer pretty and mesmerizing, but confusing and worrying.
He remembered a time when he was young, before being taken to the collegia, when he spoke words, but it was all a haze. He’d hardly realized he wanted it back, but in that moment, with Davud staring at him so kindly, he did. He wanted it very much. But where to begin?
Davud, perhaps sensing his uncertainty, said, “Can you tell me your name?”
“Wi—” Willem coughed and cleared his throat. He took a sip of water. “Willem.” It came out in a terrible croak. He might have been embarrassed over it had the moment not been composed of such pure and unfiltered joy. He laughed. “My name is Willem!”
In the distance, a woman, a collegia master in simple robes carrying an armload of books, glanced toward him, then hurried on her way. It made Willem laugh all the harder.
“Willem,” Davud said when his laughter had died down at last, “you’re no longer bound to the collegia, either. You can go where you will. Would you like to? Would you walk with me around the city?” When Willem didn’t answer, he went on. “I promise you it will be safe. I’ll ensure it.”
Willem shook his head. “Too much, too soon.”
Davud smiled. “That’s fine, Willem. You’ll let me know.”
“We’ll—” He almost daren’t ask. “We’ll see one another again?”
“I hope so. It’s why I came.” He motioned to the library. “The collegia is filled with knowledge. There’s more stockpiled around the city, collected by the Enclave. I have several hidden stores that need to be read and sorted.” Davud gathered himself. “I need help, Willem. I need it badly, and I think you can provide it.”
Willem blinked. Part of him swelled with joy at the thought of helping Davud, but another part feared it would be just like Nebahat. Too much like Nebahat.
“Help for what?” he finally asked.
“Four days ago, Sharakhai changed hands. There are those who hope to take it back, and I would lay money that they’ll succeed. Even if they do, though, this city must face facts: a vacuum has been left by the passing of the Sharakhani Kings. As sad as it is to say, the desert doesn’t know what to do without them, and I do not wish to leave nature to its course. I want to choose what fills that vacuum. That’s what I want your help with. I want to be ready when the question is asked: ‘What do we do now?’ Will you help me answer it?”
When Jackals Storm the Walls Page 54
