Conqueror's Blood (Gunmetal Gods Book 2)

by Zamil Akhtar

  I awoke in a room that smelled of mold and seaweed. It rocked, as if built on pudding, making me want to retch. I almost did, but only managed to spit on the floor. Throbbing candles sitting on a desk — a rather high one — lit the room.

  I turned to see a man dressed in the soft, maroon robe of a eunuch, staring out a porthole. I was on a ship, obviously. The man turned to me, his hair a mess over his eyes, which seemed so devoid.

  “Father? Where am I?”

  “You’ve been discovered, Zedra.” He turned away and looked back out the porthole. “Hadrith found out and told Khizr Khaz, but the old man is keeping it to himself, for now.”

  “Where is our son?” I asked, trembling. “Without him, what is it all for?”

  He snickered. “I heard your prayers. Remember what I told you? You might as well pray to stones, for all I can do for you.”

  “Our son!” I threw off my blanket and sat up. “Where is he?”

  “The time is at hand. You cannot lose this battle. You were right, by the way — the Crucian imperator’s daughter does have angel’s blood.” He raised a hand to his mustache, casting a shadow over his smile. “Did you read my notes from Volume Two? There’s a wonderful bloodrune you can write with angel’s blood, but you’ll need much of it. The Crucian girl likely has just enough.”

  Was I going to sacrifice Celene the way I’d sacrificed Cyra? Was that what was required to save mankind?

  The thought sickened me. Those runes I’d learned from his notes…they ought not to be called runes. They were more like paintings, and they required buckets of blood.

  “And the Sirmian shah’s daughter, would you like to know what blood she has? Just enough of it, too, for precisely the same rune. Which of the two you use is up to you.”

  “Are you really going to patronize me like this? Just tell me what her flavor is.”

  His chuckle came from a dark place. “The girl was rebirthed from a star, you see. She has star’s blood, and she’s the only one walking the earth with it.”

  I shuddered. Star’s blood…along with angel’s blood, it could also be used to make that painting.

  I shook the thoughts off. “No, they’re good girls. They don’t deserve to be—”

  “THEY ARE NOT YOUR DAUGHTERS!” Father banged against the porthole, cracking the glass as I huddled against the bedframe. “Just like Cyra wasn’t your friend.” He climbed onto the bed, pinning me between himself and the wooden wall. “And now she’s a starwriter, in the service of the Dreamer, come to destroy our best-laid plans. If you aren’t as ruthless as her, then we’ll lose. The Children will truly end, and the Great Terror will remake us all in fire. Do you want that on your head, dear daughter?”

  “And you are not my father,” I said, tasting the tears pouring down my cheeks. “My real father…I was precious to him. He would never ask me to—”

  Chisti jabbed my shoulder, sending a painful pang through me. “Do you think I wasn’t watching? The end of my bloodline? If I could’ve saved one of my sons, I would have! But I only managed to save you! A foolish old woman, kept alive by magic!”

  I rubbed the bruise he made and sobbed. “Why me? Why is it all on me?”

  “You think I didn’t ask the same thing, a thousand years ago, when I was forced to save mankind?” He climbed off the bed and moved to the door. “One more thing. Beware. Magus Kevah is no longer alone. Marada, sultana of the Marid, has submitted to him. He will come for you.”

  I shuddered as the image of that cloud-sized monster flashed in my mind: a floating black mass of snakes, glowing red from the sun’s outline, with three heads and six blazing eyes. “How can I fight that nightmare?”

  “Like I’ve been telling you this whole time, use the bloodrune I gave you. Cyra and Kevah are no match for what it’ll conjure. Now…clean yourself up, my dear. You have a visitor.”

  Father opened the door, then bowed to the man standing at the threshold. “My Shah, she is awake.”

  Father Chisti left the room, and Kyars entered, holding baby Seluq in his arms. I dashed off the bed and grabbed my cooing son, crying while I kissed his forehead. So warm to have your own blood in your hands. Meanwhile, Kyars put his arms around us, and I finally felt soothed after what seemed like a lifetime of agony.

  I cradled my son between my shoulder and neck, then looked up at Kyars. Was this really real? Or was I dreaming?

  He kissed my cheek. “Oh thank Lat you’re here.”

  “Where is here?”

  “You’re with me. What else matters?”

  I stayed in his embrace as my heart calmed. His heavy breathing and muffled sobs made plain how much he missed me. I, too, in an unexpected way, missed him.

  After taking in much warmth, I asked again, “But really, my love, where are we?”

  “Come…I’ll show you.”

  He took me by hand down a wooden hall and up creaky stairs to the deck. A flag fluttered above, the image of a jellyfish with a thousand lightning tentacles on its face. The emblem of Sargosa. What were we doing on their ship?

  “I must apologize for the method of bringing you here,” Kyars said.

  “So those were your men, wearing Order cloaks and stuffing seeds in our mouths?”

  Kyars nodded. “I wasn’t sure if your companions could be trusted, and couldn’t take the chance that you’d refuse to come.”

  That made sense, I supposed. Though I would’ve followed anyone anywhere to find my son, Kyars didn’t necessarily know that.

  “Mansur is here, too, then?” I asked.

  “He is. Won’t open his mouth, though. Not that he’ll have one for long.”

  Good to hear that. Mansur wouldn’t know who soulshifted him, but better for me he not tell Kyars anything about his out-of-body experience.

  We floated in Qandbajar’s harbor, surrounded by more Sargosan ships and yet more ships bearing other flags: Redbeard’s scimitar beneath the sun, the winged elephant of Koa, and the Kashanese falcon.

  “All ships I captured,” Kyars said. “We hoisted the flags as a deception.”

  I nodded, impressed.

  The air here stunk of oily, dried fish. On the adjacent land sat rows and columns of empty wooden cages: the Stable, where slaves were herded and sold. The Sand Palace stood on its hill, some distance away, glowing in the almost noon.

  Kyars, his black hair blowing in the breeze, looked more muscular than when he’d left. He’d filled into that gholam armor, the bronze and gold seeming like the shell of some animal. Even his sailboat-shaped nose looked broader.

  “You missed the fireworks,” he said. “The Jotrids are just about to attack the shrine.”

  Oh yes, I’d watched what was likely an advanced group gallop through the street. “And…what’s going to happen? What will you do?”

  “That depends on you, Zedra. You were in that shrine.”

  “Meaning?”

  Kyars beamed as I kissed Seluq’s barely budding hair. “When I was a boy, I once asked Khizr Khaz ‘if Lat is real, why isn’t she here? Why doesn’t she show herself?’” An obvious question. “And he said that Lat was always watching, but that she was testing us, testing our faith and deeds.” He folded his arms. “And so I’ve been watching. And more importantly, you’ve been watching.” He pressed his lips onto mine, and then his tongue onto mine, kissing me with more passion than my husband ever had. When he backed away, he said, “So tell me, my beloved — are those in the shrine worth saving?”

  “Worth saving? They’re your allies, my love. What do you mean?”

  “Are they? Khizr Khaz convinced my father to summon Mansur and the Jotrids to deal with the Sylgiz, bringing this whole calamity upon us. Is he worth saving?”

  No…Ozar had confirmed that Khizr Khaz was duplicitous. I shook my head.

  “And Hadrith?” Kyars said. “Is he truly my friend?”

  I shook my head again. “No, my love. Hadrith and Ozar are playing both sides.” Only one man had stayed true to Kyars, stayed tru
e to me. “Kato is loyal. He helped me, so many times. He is your staunch ally, my love. I know it to be true.”

  “Kato is but one dove in a den of vipers. Should I risk my position to save one true man?”

  No, not just one man. “The Archers, my love. The Archers of the Eye are loyal — they fight for you.”

  “Ethosians. Am I to risk believers to save heathens?”

  I nuzzled my nose on Seluq’s scalp to ease his cooing. “What, then? Will you let the Jotrids overrun the entire city?”

  “Precisely that. Let them think they’ve won, and then I’ll strike. The Jotrids are aching to plunder this city of gold. That’s why they came. They’ll be drunk, looting and raping — completely out of order — and then I’ll cut them down.”

  Though Kyars’ plan was clever, forsaking Kato and the Archers seemed wasteful. Perhaps I could soulshift and find a way to save them. But…why? Saving Kato wouldn’t further my mission. Getting rid of him was part of it. So why was I bursting with worry for him?

  I said, “Kato still commands many gholam, and the Archers are numerous, too. You can never have too many loyal men fighting for you, isn’t that right?”

  Kyars nodded. “My father always praised Kato. ‘Kichak and Kato are more loyal than my own sons,’ he’d say. He was right. I’ll send a man to bring Kato into our fold.”

  I kissed my son’s cheek. “It’s the best course, my love.”

  “As for the Archers, I’ll send word to Abu asking them to withdraw to their training ground. Let the Order alone perish. I’m sick of their hold on this city, in any case.”

  That seemed right. And yet, manipulative for Kyars, letting his enemy destroy a group he didn’t like. It sounded more like something I would do.

  “My Shah,” I said. “Are you aware of the starwriter?”

  Kyars shook his head. If he wasn’t aware of the starwriter, then he wasn’t aware that Hadrith and Khizr Khaz had discovered my secret. All the better, then, that they perish in the shrine.

  “My love,” I said, “Cyra killed your father. And afterward, she didn’t die or go away like we thought. She’s back…with the same power that Aschere wielded in Sirm.”

  His face grew cold and sad. “They say it was Aschere who summoned the Archangel, who brought a dead imperator to life, who summoned a fireball that melted men alive, who led Micah the Metal through Labyrinthos. And you’re telling me…that Cyra now wields that power?”

  I nodded as forcefully as I could. “She’s a sorceress. She fooled everyone. She fooled me.”

  “I’d heard whispers of a sorceress. Now you’ve confirmed it. If only…if only we had a magus in our service.” He shook his head. “Cyra, though? When I’d heard she killed my father, I couldn’t believe it. And yet…” He huffed as if blowing smoke from a hookah.

  He had better than a magus: a soulshifter. “I share that shock, my love. She seemed my honest friend…and yet, are not friendship and love the brightest blinders?”

  “If Cyra is as powerful as Aschere, then we need Kevah. He would help us…if only we knew where he was.”

  Kevah, the magus Father had warned me about. I hoped not to see him; I didn’t need yet another adversary.

  Kyars hugged me. One good thing I could say about him: he always smelled fresh. “Now…” He looked down at me with wide eyes. “There’s the matter of your two companions. Do you realize who they are, Zedra?”

  Kyars, the hero of the Battle at Syr Darya, certainly knew them both. But he didn’t know that I knew them. Perhaps some honesty wouldn’t hurt.

  “Sadie and Celene — are they here?”

  Kyars’ nose ruffled as his eyebrows zagged in disbelief. “In what…utterly impossible-to-believe story are you found wandering the streets with the captive daughter of the Imperator of Crucis and the dead daughter of the Shah of Sirm?”

  “This one, apparently.”

  He grasped my shoulders. “I was there the day they buried that girl. My greatest shame was arriving minutes too late to save her from an imperator who had also come back from death. And Celene…do you realize that when the Shah of Sirm asked what I wanted as a reward, I chose her?” No, I didn’t know, and — I could scarcely believe it — I felt a jealous ache. “He refused. But it turns out I always get what I want, in the end.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “Of course.” Kyars nodded. “My love…I will consider everything you’ve told me before making my next move. Your suffering won’t be in vain, I swear upon Lat.”

  Kyars led me down the stairs and into their room, then left to put baby Seluq in his crib.

  Sadie was sitting on a raised bed, a glass bottle in her hands. Celene was on a wooden chair near the porthole, gazing at the blurry river.

  “Thank Lat you’re both all right,” I said.

  Celene stood. “Kyars said he opened the way.”

  “Opened the way?”

  “He defeated the Ethosian pirates, and the way to Crucis is now open. I can go home. Please…ask him to send me home.”

  He really was a man of unexpected ability. How had he rooted them out so fast? Was that why he was in one of their ships?

  “Of course, dear. He will.”

  Sadie gulped whatever was in her bottle: something red, but it was too dark to be rose water.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  She chuckled. “Everyone’s seen me now. Soon, word will get to Sirm, and my mother and father will hear rumors of their dead daughter’s return. How cruel would I be, then, to deny them? How cruel have I been, all this time?”

  I didn’t understand her reasonings, her past, her life, any of it. But I couldn’t say I didn’t feel guilty for bringing this pain upon her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s my fault all this happened.”

  “What are you fighting for, Zedra?” Sadie asked. “Because if you’re fighting for something good, then maybe it was worth it. But if you’re just like the others…”

  If only I could tell them. Tell them how I was fighting to restore the Children, who could then be a shield against the Great Terror. But in truth, neither of them were believers.

  But was any of this…good? Was Father…good? Were the Children…good? For the first time, I didn’t know.

  I sat next to Sadie. “What’s that?” I gestured at the bottle.

  She shook her head. “No idea…some Sargosan something, I suppose.”

  “Ginja,” Celene said. “It’s made from sour cherries…and alcohol.”

  Sadie gulped another mouthful.

  “Dear,” I put my hand on her shoulder, “is it wise to drink so much, so fast?”

  She wiped her chin. “What are you, my mother?”

  I wished I was. All I wanted was to be a mother, but Seluq had destroyed that when he drowned my children. I was a mother again, to baby Seluq, but my mission called me to be something greater. The mother of a new tribe of the Children, the mother of a unified east, under my son, the Padishah. I had to cling to that, otherwise, what had it all been for?

  Sadie said, “You know, history will write Kyars as the hero who saved Sirm, but they’re wrong.”

  Celene came over and sat next to us. “Can I try it? My grandfather loved ginja.”

  Sadie winced. “Ugh, you just ruined it for me.” She handed Celene the bottle. “The real hero…” Her face reddened as she smiled somberly. “The real hero was Kevah. He sacrificed everything…even what he loved…”

  Father had called him “the magus who will wear all masks.” The first time he mentioned Kevah, he also called him his “replacement.” What did it mean? Replacement…as Lat’s chosen? Why was Father severed from Lat in the first place? Weren’t Lat and the Children one and the same blood?

  Suddenly, I couldn’t make sense of anything. It was as if an earthquake had brought down all my neat, stacked-up beliefs. Nothing made sense, and yet…I could only swallow the bitterness, the rage at what the saint worshippers had done to my tribe, to my family, to my chi
ldren. It was too late to turn back…but what did I have to look forward to?

  Sadie continued her drunk talking. “Kevah loved me. And I still love him…that’s why I stayed here, close by…that’s why I didn’t go home.”

  What? Her and the magus were lovers?

  Celene sipped the ginja, then swallowed bitterly. She settled the bottle on the floor. “I remember Kevah…he treated me well. Far better than Micah did.” Her sigh was laden and impatient. “I just want to go home.”

  “Me too.” Sadie stretched and yawned — poor girl had been guarding that bridge all night and day.

  I picked up the ginja bottle and took more than a sip. A sour and bitter sea seeped down my throat, stinging everything it passed. But it wasn’t bad.

  “Me too,” I said.

  23

  Cyra

  And like that, it began. Without telling me or Ozar or anyone aside from those involved, Pashang had ordered Tekish to attack the Shrine of Saint Jamshid, prompting them to launch a desperate, red firework — a cry for help, which it seemed none heeded.

  And like that, it ended. By morning, Tekish and his riders returned, ululating and cheering their victory. The shrine defenders had either died, surrendered, or scattered.

  Tekish marched the notable prisoners into the great hall. At the head was Khizr Khaz, wearing a blood-stained cloak.

  “Where is Mansur?” he asked. “I’d like to see my old friend.”

  Pashang, who was sitting on the dais below the golden divan, snickered. “Wherever he is, I’m certain he’s in bed, recovering from the stab wound you left in his back.”

  Khizr Khaz glanced around the room, which was filled with Jotrids, Mansur’s household guard, and the smattering of viziers who’d chosen Mansur’s side — though their number was far less than yesterday. I wore my orange turban and eyepatch, yet still kept behind Eshe, careful not to let Khizr Khaz notice me.

  “When I strike, it’s never in the back,” the white-haired sheikh said. “How about it, Pashang? Just you and me and a pair of swords. You’ll learn why they call me khaz.”