Beneath the Twisted Trees Page 2

  The night before the final confrontation, Çeda manages to liberate the wights still trapped inside Mesut’s bracelet. The tribes and the Kings clash. As the battle unfolds, Ramahd, Emre, and the young thief, Brama, stage an ingenious attack on Queen Meryam’s ship. There, they free Rümayesh, adding a powerful ally to their fight.

  Near the end of the battle, it is revealed that Queen Meryam has long been dominating the mind of the blood mage, Hamzakiir. She has designs on more than just Macide or the Moonless Host. She wants the city for herself. In order to secure it, she forces Hamzakiir to take on the guise of Kiral the King of Kings. Kiral himself, meanwhile, is sent into the battle and is killed.

  In the battle’s closing moments, Çeda is nearly killed by the fearsome ehrekh, Guhldrathen. Guhldrathen, however, is swept up by Rümayesh and destroyed. This frees the path for Çeda to kill King Onur, which she does in single combat.

  Chapter 1

  UNDER COVER OF DARKNESS, leagues east of Sharakhai, three women navigated the endless dunes of the Great Shangazi. Çeda led the way on her zilij, a skimwood board that hissed as she rode it. Like the runners of sandships, the board had been painstakingly treated with a special wax which, coupled with the qualities of the wood itself, allowed it to glide slick as a lemon seed over the desert’s surface. Melis and Sümeya, wearing their old uniforms, their Maiden’s black, rode just behind her on zilijs of their own, and while they might not be as deft as Çeda, they were passable and they made good time toward their destination: the blooming fields.

  Golden Rhia and silver Tulathan hung high overhead, pendants in a star-swept sky shedding light on the spindrift that lifted from the dunes like smoke on the wind. Both moons were full. Beht Zha’ir had returned to the desert, which partly explained why, despite the night’s heat, all three women wore battle dresses. Melis and Sümeya’s were well worn and made from black cloth, while Çeda’s was newly sewn and dyed in rich amber hues, colors more typical of the desert tribes. Hanging easily from Çeda’s belt were her mother’s knife and her shamshir, River’s Daughter: the ebon steel blade that had once felt so foreign, a sign of the Kings’ oppression, but was now her truest, most trusted friend.

  The weapons gave comfort against the boneyard chill trying to seep its way into her heart, but did nothing to prevent the whispers of doubt. Turn back, the whispers said. There’s no hope in this. The Kings will sense you. They were echoes from the asirim, those pitiable souls who lived beneath the twisted trees. The words were meant to discourage, but served only to harden Çeda’s resolve. What she was about to do was necessary—for the good of the asirim, for the good of her tribe, for the good of the desert—and it was long past due.

  After following the crest of a dune, Çeda leaned into the downward slope, built speed toward and through the trough, then kicked along the incline with full-body strokes of her leg. Melis and Sümeya followed suit, and when they reached the peak, all three of them stomped the end of their zilijs, flipping them over to prevent them from sliding away.

  “Breath of the desert,” Sümeya said, “it feels like years since we were here.”

  “Like another life,” Çeda replied.

  So much had happened since then: their flight into the desert, their meeting with the thirteenth tribe, the battle against King Onur and his tribe built through conquest, then the larger battle where the other Sharakhani Kings and the royal navy joined in. It had all begun here, when Çeda, hoping to reveal the truth to Sümeya and Melis, had chosen a family of asirim to speak with. They’d told their story, but King Husamettín had dominated them immediately after and forced them to do his will. Only with the help of Dardzada, the old apothecary, had they managed to escape Husamettín and his Blade Maidens, and even then it had been a near thing.

  The sand was soft beneath Çeda’s callused hands as she crouched and studied the blooming fields. Today might be a different day, she thought, but it’s every bit as dangerous. From their distant vantage, the long line of trees looked harmless, a line of ink spilled across a rolling piece of parchment. To the careful observer, however, more was revealed. The branches of the adichara trees swayed, their night blooms open, each a pale, blue-white flame, brighter than the reflected light of the moons could account for. Like a river of souls, Çeda mused, searching for the farther fields.

  She studied the shadows beneath the trees and the gaps between the groves for any telltale signs of soldiers. She spread her awareness outward, wary of spikes of emotion from the asirim that might indicate the presence of one of the Kings.

  She had once needed an adichara petal to do such things. Not so now, especially this close to the blooming fields. It was a miracle of sorts, a power that flowed from the old wound in the meat of her right thumb, a wound she’d given herself to prove once and for all that she was a daughter of a Sharakhani King. Through the poison that still resided there she could feel the trees and the asirim. The tattoo around it, given to her by the Matron Zaïde, had saved her life. It helped to hem the pain in, but it could only do so much. This close to the blooming fields the wound was a fount of anger and vengeance.

  She’d learned that she could draw upon that anger so long as she didn’t let it overwhelm her. She did so now, squeezing her hand until the pain sharpened. Her sense of the blooming fields sharpened with it.

  “Well?” Melis said gruffly.

  Çeda ignored the note of impatience in her voice, completing her inspection with care. “There’s nothing,” she replied when she was done. “We’re safe for now.”

  Melis stood and stomped on her zilij to flip it back over. “Then let’s get bloody moving.” With one hard kick, she slid into motion.

  Çeda and Sümeya shared a look. Melis had been acting like this more often of late, but now was hardly the time to discuss it. They followed and had just reached the peak of the next dune when a lonely wail swept like cold rain over the desert. Çeda shivered from it. The sorrow in that call stemmed from the asir’s pain, its helplessness to stand against the voices of the gods that whispered in their minds: Go to Sharakhai. Take tribute. Kill for us.

  Çeda had once viewed the asirim as ruthless monsters. Now she saw them for what they truly were. Slaves. Slaves to the gods’ decree. Slaves to the will of the Kings. On this holy night, they would go to Sharakhai and kill the ones King Sukru had marked, then return to the blooming fields with their tributes, where the bodies would be tossed into the arms of the adichara to be torn limb from limb, their blood feeding the roots of the twisted trees.

  It was all still so daunting, her mission to destroy the Kings, but she couldn’t forget how far she’d come. Six Kings lay dead or powerless. Azad had been felled by Çeda’s mother, Ahya. Külaşan, Mesut, and Onur were dead by Çeda’s hand. Yusam’s death was still a mystery, though Çeda wouldn’t be surprised to learn that one of his brother Kings, Ihsan being the most likely, had done it. And then there was Zeheb, the Whisper King, driven mad by his own power.

  As she reached the edge of the grove, more and more of the blooming fields were opened to her. More of the asirim were as well. She felt so much pure need in them it was nearly overwhelming, but she suppressed those gnawing feelings as best she could, concentrating solely on the grove that lay before her. As she, Sümeya, and Melis entered it along a tunnel-like path, the adichara branches moved snakelike, rubbing against one another, the sound of it like twigs breaking underfoot. Beneath the light of the blue-white blooms, an arsenal of thorns stood out starkly along the branches.

  They made their way to a clearing where they’d first met the asir named Mavra, a matriarch who had somehow managed to keep her family together over four terrible centuries of enslavement. As had been true the last time she’d come, Çeda felt not only Mavra, but her kin as well: the children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Most were asleep, caught in the spell that kept them in place until called upon by Sukru and his infernal whip, or pressed into service by one of
the other Kings.

  “Rise, Mavra,” Çeda said aloud. “Rise and wake your children.”

  Like moonlight rippling over a pond, Mavra’s will spread amongst the others. They roused, and their anger flared. Emaciated hands broke the sandy surface beneath the trees. Their ceaseless hunger gnawed at them as they crawled like termites from rotted wood. A dozen cadaverous shapes lifted from the ground, their blackened skin shriveled, tight against their bones. More followed, and more still, until they all stood trembling, mouths agape as their eyes swallowed the light of the adichara blooms.

  Only Mavra remained in her grave.

  Come grandmother. Leave the roots behind.

  A few paces from where Çeda stood, an ungainly form broke the surface and pulled herself tall. Mavra was large, with broad shoulders and pendulous breasts. Lank hair hung before her face in dust-ridden strands. Her whole body quivered, making her look fragile, as if she were standing through sheer will alone. Only in her flinty stare could Çeda see some glimmer of her former, awesome strength.

  “Threeee of mine died when last you came,” she said in a reedy whisper.

  “What happened was a tragedy,” Çeda said. “But the Kings caused it. Surely you see this.”

  “Haaaaddd you not coooome”—her voice had grown stronger, her sorrow palpable—“they would still be aliiive.”

  Her brood were becoming more animated. Sedef, the most overprotective of her sons, crept closer on all fours. His limbs were long and lanky, his thoughts dark, echoing the murderous look in his eyes. The others parted as he came.

  “You’re right to be angry,” Çeda said, keeping one eye on Sedef, “but direct that anger against King Husamettín, who has hidden the truth for four hundred years. Direct it against King Sukru, who summons you to Sharakhai. Direct it against King Kiral, who rules them all. Not against me, nor my sisters, who have come to see you freed.”

  Çeda could feel Mavra’s heart skip at the word freed. She might hate Çeda for what had happened, but she recognized the truth in Çeda’s words. Sedef, however, was not so patient. He growled and groaned until the others backed away and cowered from him, even Mavra.

  It was in the following moments, as Sedef charged and Mavra did nothing to stop him, that Çeda understood: Sedef had supplanted Mavra as the leader of their family.

  With long strides he stormed toward the clearing.

  “Control your son, Mavra!” Çeda called.

  Melis, breathing rapidly, drew her shamshir. Çeda immediately whistled, Stand down! Melis knew better—Çeda had told her not to touch a weapon—but her fear of the asirim was overriding it. Still, she complied with Çeda’s order, though by then Sedef was nearly on top of her.

  Now! Çeda whistled.

  As one, Çeda, Melis, and Sümeya tackled Sedef. Çeda felt his long claws rake her dress across the thighs. The armor held, but the next moment he was reaching for her neck.

  Like all the asirim, Sedef was inhumanly strong, but Melis and Sümeya had both taken petals, and Çeda had the power of the adichara running through her as well. Together, they held him at bay. But Sedef was no newcomer to battle. He rolled. He clawed. He bit. Sümeya, Melis, and Çeda all took cuts from his nails, or were struck by his elbows, his knees, his feet.

  “Mavra!”

  Sedef head-butted Çeda. Stars mixed with the brightness of the adichara blooms. Sedef threw her back and sent a kick into Melis’s gut, and then, in a blink, had his arms around Sümeya’s waist. He lifted her high, ready to throw her into the poisonous adichara thorns.

  “No!” Çeda cried, coming shakily to her feet, too far away, too woozy to help.

  With a roar, a dark form tackled Sedef from behind. It was Mavra. She was using her weight to force Sedef to the ground while Sümeya fell against two winding adichara boughs.

  “Sümeya!” Çeda reached her a moment later and helped her to her feet.

  “It’s all right,” Sümeya said. “The thorns didn’t pierce.”

  Çeda’s relief was short-lived. Sedef’s strength was terrible, and Mavra seemed unable to stop him. When Mavra spoke to him, however, everything changed.

  “Throw away your chance for freedom if you will, but don’t do it for us all. Think of Amile and how he’s suffered. Think of all the others, your brothers and sisters, your nieces and nephews and countless cousins.”

  Sedef still fought her, but Mavra was displaying the sort of power she surely possessed when she was young. The mood in the clearing shifted. Mavra’s children had felt lost without her. Her return, though it came at the cost of Sedef’s defeat and shame, gave them hope. They wanted Mavra to win. And so, Çeda suspected, did Sedef. How else to explain his slowed movements or his faint sense of hope as Mavra drove him down and pressed a forearm against his throat? When his body finally went lax, she lifted herself up and pointed to the darkest part of the nearby trees. There, the adichara parted, creating a path. Like a scolded child, Sedef rose and followed it, shoulders bowed, and the trees converged behind him.

  Mavra’s broad frame heaved with every ragged breath she took. She turned to Çeda. “Tell me now,” she said, her words little more than a long wheeze. “Tell me how we can be freed.”

  All eyes shifted to Çeda.

  “I must know something first,” Çeda replied, and waved to the adicharas as their branches clicked and clacked. “Would you leave this grove? Would you leave the only home you’ve known for the past four hundred years?”

  It was not a simple question. Mavra’s old life was like a dream to her, distant and discomfiting even compared to the embrace of the adichara’s roots. No matter that they were a symbol of her enslavement, these twisted trees had long ago become her home.

  Mavra considered, her childlike worry plain on her face. “Yeessss,” she said. “I would leave.”

  “Would you strike against the Kings?”

  “Gleefully.” She spat the word.

  “Lastly, Mavra, would you follow me?”

  All around the grove, the tortured voices of the asirim rose. It made the hair on Çeda’s arms and the back of her neck stand up. Some, heedless of the thorns, grabbed the nearby trunks and shook the trees, making the light from the blooms above flicker wildly. Mavra, however, was a guiding star. The asirim settled themselves, deferent, waiting for Mavra to decide.

  “Will you free all of us?”

  “I will.”

  “Our King as well?”

  She meant Sehid-Alaz, who as far as Çeda knew was still trapped in King Husamettín’s palace.

  “That is my hope,” Çeda said.

  Mavra considered, her jaundiced eyes searching. “I want more,” she finally rasped. “I want more than to simply be free.”

  “What more do you want?”

  Çeda thought she knew the answer, but she wanted Mavra to say it out loud. Mavra leaned aggressively toward Çeda. Her heavy cheeks shook. Her eyes opened wide in a yellow leer that spoke of hunger and rage and little else. As much as she wanted to say the words, she couldn’t. She was forbidden to speak of such things, so Çeda spoke them for her.

  “You want revenge. You want to taste the blood of Kings.”

  Mavra couldn’t so much as nod, but Çeda felt the desire within her, boiling like a witch’s cauldron.

  “Follow me, Mavra, and we will go to Tauriyat. Follow me and together we will free our king from his imprisonment.”

  Mavra’s hope lit like a beacon. “Husamettín’s will is strong, and he knows the asirim best now that Mesut lies dead. He will not let Sehid-Alaz go easily.”

  “No,” Çeda replied, “which is why we’ll kill him first.”

  Chapter 2

  A MAN NAMED BRAMA trekked north along the peak of a knife-edge dune. A hot wind blew, scouring the dune’s windward side, sending spindrift to swirling. It tickled the fingers of his left hand, collected in the furr
ows between his scars. More than the heat, more than the give of the sand beneath his sandals, he felt a thing that couldn’t be seen. It came when the wind picked up, as it had for many days, and in this way was predictable, but it was defined more by its ephemeral nature. Each time it came, Brama would concentrate on the feeling, but he’d no sooner begun to sense its inner workings than it would dissipate.

  He wanted to learn its nature—something deep inside him needed to learn it—but he’d failed so many times by trying to impose his will upon it, so instead he relaxed. He let his senses go. Come to me if you wish, he mused. I’ll chase you no longer.

  Like a meager wind toying with the canvas of a sandship, a new sensation filled his chest and cradled his heart. Not unlike love, Brama thought. He took in the desert anew. All about him lay the golden dunes of the Great Shangazi, breathtaking in their simplistic beauty. He’d seen much in his time since the great battle between the Sharakhani Kings and the thirteenth tribe, and had come to love the desert like nothing else.

  Nothing? he mused.

  Not so long ago, his only love had been for Rümayesh, the ehrekh, the ancient desert creature he’d been bound to for years. But Rümayesh was off exploring the desert. When she would return Brama had no idea. He couldn’t even remember when she’d left. Days ago? Weeks? Since then, he’d been free to see the desert for what it truly was: a treasure.

  The curious feeling spread. It tingled along his arms and he became increasingly aware of a line of low rocks, too far for the eye to see. He felt the oases beyond, and the life that thrived in and around them. He’d never had much fondness for the desert when he was young. The few times he’d left the city for the sand had felt interminable. Now he felt like a blind man who’d been granted the ability to see for the first time. The strange new world that had been opened to him was chaotic, even garish, but no less wondrous for it.