A Veil of Spears Page 7

  Tribe Salmük was preparing for battle. The question was: battle with whom?

  The Kings? Çeda mused.

  It seemed unlikely. The tribe, given enough ships, could take down a royal ship, but only if they managed to catch it, and the royal clippers and yachts, unless caught off guard by ill winds, were too fast for all but the swiftest vessels in the tribe’s small fleet.

  They might be turning to piracy, as many tribes did from time to time. It was conceivable a caravan was headed their way, and that Onur’s plan was to sack it, but base piracy felt out of character for Onur. There was a third possibility. That Onur had set his sights on another tribe. That Çeda could believe. He’d established his power in the desert very quickly, and he’d surely not rest at ruling a single tribe. He’d force more—whether through reason, gold, might, or some combination of all three—to join him.

  Which tribe, though? The ships are headed north. And north means Red Wind territory. The land of Tribe Masal.

  Over the course of the night and the following day, Çeda tried to reach out to Kerim. She could feel him, just out of reach, like the light from a bonfire over the horizon. Onur’s will was smothering him, which made her wonder how in the great wide desert Kerim had managed to overcome Mesut’s will and bond with her. She refused to believe Onur was stronger. Mesut’s resolve had not only been strong, it had been precise and righteous, things Onur might match but not exceed.

  Mesut had spent centuries lording it over the asirim, though. Could Kerim have learned his weaknesses and exploited them to break from Mesut and bond with Çeda? Even if he had, Kerim was now as distant from her as the shores of the Austral Sea. Days passed. Her world became marked by simple meals of water and flatbread, shitting and pissing in the pot they’d provided, and the unceasing motion of the ship as it maneuvered the ever-changing dunes.

  Three days into their sail, Beril, the woman who’d first found Çeda in the desert, came for her. She was unchained from the hold and led in shackles to the captain’s cabin. Onur sat within. He waved Beril away, and Çeda was alone with him.

  Or so she’d thought. She’d been so fixated by Onur that the form hanging from the hull to her right hadn’t registered. As the door thudded closed, however, she gasped and stepped back. Kerim hung there, limp, his hands and feet fixed to the hull with massive iron spikes, making him look like a puppet waiting to be taken up for its next show.

  “Breath of the desert . . .”

  She hadn’t meant to speak, especially not in front of Onur, but she couldn’t help it. How frail Kerim looked. The asirim were so often hunched, moving with menace, and a power that spoke of the desert’s elder days. To see Kerim reduced to an object of Onur’s sick amusement shook her.

  “Release him!” she commanded.

  Onur was sitting on the same wooden throne he’d used in the desert tent. He eased his bulk from it and waddled around the desk. “Soon enough.” He stood before Kerim, all but ignoring Çeda. “Curious creatures. Their chests may rise and fall, but they don’t need breath.” He glanced back, his porcine eyes spearing her. “You can take it from them. It sends them into fits of terror if you bury them away from the adichara. You can bleed them as well. Bleed them until there’s nothing left. It comes back after a few weeks if you leave them be, and you can do it all over again.”

  Çeda felt sick. He’d been torturing Kerim, and he wanted her to know it. But why hadn’t she felt it? It was yet more proof of his dominion over the asirim.

  It was then that she noticed the object around Onur’s fat wrist. She’d been so shocked by the sight of Kerim she hadn’t noticed that he wore Mesut’s bracelet.

  Onur noted her surprise, raised his arm, and examined it. “I must admit, I had doubts when I heard Mesut had been killed, and more when the rumors said you were responsible. But now . . .” He lowered his arm and took her in from head to toe. She suppressed a shiver. His lecherous gaze felt not only foul, but fervent, as if he wished to own her as he owned Kerim.

  “They’re calling that great battle in the harbor Beht Savaş. The Night of Endless Swords. I left that very night, and do you know why?” He paused, perhaps wondering how much she knew, but in this she had no idea. She shrugged, if only to keep him talking.

  “I found a traitor amongst our ranks. A coward who’d been playing the Kings against each other in a bid to rule Sharakhai on his own—or at least with fewer other Kings to contend with. King Azad, or should I say King Azad’s daughter, stood by his side. She gave me this.” He pulled up the sleeve of his thawb and showed her a puckered scar. “And this.” Another just below his collarbone. “And a handful more.”

  “A pity Nayyan’s knife didn’t slice higher,” Çeda said.

  With Kerim’s pitiful twitching, her anger was threatening to boil over, but the fact that Onur had chosen to reveal some key information wasn’t lost on her. Çeda had long since guessed that her mother had killed King Azad, and that the Kings had chosen to replace him, through wizardry of some sort, with his daughter Nayyan. It was deeply pleasing to learn she’d been right, but it left one burning question: Why would Onur share this with her?

  Onur shrugged his massive shoulders. “Nayyan was skilled, but she fell like a sack of turnips when I struck her. She did, however, manage to spill Yusam’s blood all over the floors of Ihsan’s pretty palace.” Though Onur’s mouth drooped into a frown, his eyes twinkled. It was a look Çeda was beginning to associate with genuine amusement from this, the most unpleasant of Kings. “Whatever the fates decided that night,” Onur went on, “you’ve touched on an important point. Nayyan was one of the finest wardens the Maidens have ever seen. She is not just a fine warrior, but a leader. Those trained in the arts of war are rare. Those gifted at it even rarer. As young as you are, I see much of her in you.” A pause. “There is a thirst in you, is there not, to kill more of the Kings?”

  Next to her, Kerim squirmed, and Çeda’s insides with him. “Just get on with it.”

  A flash of annoyance marred Onur’s features as he considered her. “You have the same fire as your mother. She wished for the downfall of the Kings, yes? And she was not wholly unsuccessful. She took Azad’s life before she died.” He leaned back, his fingers interlacing over the roundness of his belly. “And now comes her daughter, searching for vengeance.”

  Çeda felt her face drain of blood. Onur of course knew that Ahya had assassinated Azad—all the Kings knew—but until now only Ihsan had pieced together the clues that tied Ahya to Çeda. Did the other Kings know as well? Likely so, but in the end she supposed it mattered little. More important for now was the fact that Onur was dangling the information before her like bait in a snare. Could it be? Had Ahya pretended to love him in order to have Çeda?

  Had Çeda a handful of sand, she would have lifted it to her lips right then and there and sifted it through her fingers. Please, Nalamae, if there was ever a thing you would grant me, grant me this.

  “Do you know who my father is?” she asked, afraid of the answer but refusing to hide from it.

  “I do,” he replied, letting the words sit between them like a golden chest, waiting to be opened.

  “Who is he, then?”

  His rumbling chuckle filled the cabin. “That’s too valuable to give up for so little from you.”

  “Then send me back to the hold. I tire of your stench, and I would sooner die than stand by your side as you lay ruin upon the desert.”

  “I’ve heard rashness is your greatest weakness. Don’t let it be your downfall.” He cast his gaze toward the hull, beyond which lay the bulk of the tribe’s ships. “Train these savages how to swing a sword. Prepare them to march on Sharakhai. Help me knock the Kings from their merry perches atop Tauriyat and watch them fall like coneys struck through with arrows.”

  “I want you to fall as well.”

  His face turned sour. “If you truly wish to avenge your mother’
s death, set that aside. Come with me, and command an army. Come with me, and watch Kings take their last breath. The coward, Cahil. The snake, Ihsan. The mighty King of Swords. Even Kiral, King of Kings.”

  “And if I decide to take a sword to your throat first?”

  “Then it will be a day for the ages, will it not? A day all the gods of the desert will come to observe.” She was shocked to see a grudging respect in his gaze. “There would be no shame in dying that way, for either of us.”

  “But why would the tribes follow you, a King they’ve loathed all their lives?”

  “Because I’m giving them what they want: revenge, the strongest motivator of man. The desert people may loathe me, but only as a vague notion of King. Their hatred for Sharakhai lives in their bones. They’re forced to abide by the city’s rule, and so the Amber Jewel has become a symbol of all they hate. Permanence. The influence of foreign powers. The tainting of the ways of the desert and the raping of its resources. They hate that far more than they hate any one King. And if I can promise them the city will fall then what does it matter that I once ruled it?”

  “Why?” Çeda asked. “Why share all this with me? Why not tell the other Kings how Ihsan and Azad have betrayed them and watch them fight from within?”

  “I never said the other was Ihsan.”

  “No. But it was?”

  As he worked his tongue across his yellow teeth, Onur considered her more carefully. “You discovered much in your time as a Maiden.”

  “Answer me. Why not tell the other Kings?”

  “Because I want them at full strength when I tear them apart. The Kings crushed the desert tribes four centuries ago. Let us see what happens when I set that conflict alight once more.” A knock came at the cabin door, but Onur ignored it. “Say that you will stand by my side. Tear down the walls of Sharakhai with me. Avenge your mother.”

  Gods help her, Çeda actually considered it. Onur was building an army. She might free Kerim and use Onur even as he hoped to use her. She could still do all she hoped to do, but for once from a position of power instead of weakness.

  “You’ll even have your asir back.”

  An echo of what she’d been thinking, and yet the words were like cold water to her face.

  She turned to look at Kerim, whose head was turned to one side, lifting slightly, as if he were trying to look at Çeda but couldn’t summon the strength to do so.

  “You would give me my asir . . .”

  “And more if you wish. Only tell me how many you can safely bond with.”

  More of them . . . As if the asirim were his. His playthings to distribute as he saw fit. As the knock at the door came again, more urgently, Çeda moved to the wall. The chains of her fetters clanking, she took Kerim’s head in her hands, and lifted him up until she was gazing into his eyes. His eyes were clouded but seemed to focus on her.

  “Blood of my blood,” she whispered.

  Kerim’s eyes closed. Fluttered, opened again. Words were on his lips, but nothing came. It didn’t matter, though.

  “Forgive me for what I’m about to do,” she whispered, then turned and spat on the deck between her and Onur. “You are a coward. An enemy of my people. And I would never fight for you.”

  Onur’s face went red. His features screwed up in anger. He stepped forward, grabbed for Çeda’s chains. She backed away, but he kept coming, and there was nowhere for her to go. He backhanded her, then followed her down to the floor, raining blows down with his meaty fists.

  A third time the knock came, someone spoke in a rush. “My Lord King, sails have been spotted on the horizon.”

  Onur’s movements slowed. His breath came heavy as he stared at her, spittle rolling from his mouth. “You’ll see things differently when I have more of his kind in my power.”

  Çeda said nothing as he dragged her to a stand in one great heave and shoved her out onto the deck of the ship. Her ankles still shackled, she spilled across it, falling near Beril’s feet.

  “Put her back in the hold,” Onur spat, then lumbered past her, surveying the way ahead, where the sails from several dozen ships made a sawtooth pattern over an otherwise smooth horizon.

  “Come,” Beril said in a low voice. She pulled Çeda, not so roughly as Çeda might have expected, and led her belowdecks.

  Chapter 7

  ÇEDA WAS CHAINED BELOWDECKS, alone in the hold as Onur’s battle against Tribe Masal neared. Through the deck above she heard orders being called more crisply. The nervousness in their voices was plain. The tribes were no strangers to battle, but this was something altogether different: not a raid to steal horses or ships or cargo, but war, and it had been generations since such a conflict had wracked the desert.

  Onur wanted to subjugate the Red Wind of Tribe Masal. If he was successful—and with a surprise attack and overwhelming numbers, Çeda had no reason to think he wouldn’t be—he would move on quickly to the Burning Hands of Tribe Kadri, the Standing Stones of Tribe Ebros, or the Rushing Waters of Tribe Kenan.

  Just another cruel desert overlord.

  As she had over the past several days, she reached out to Kerim, but she still felt little save his pain which, while bright, was like peering at a burning brand through a shroud of canvas.

  I’m sorry, she said. I wish you hadn’t been found.

  She heard no reply.

  Feet pounded over the deck as a new flurry of orders came from above. The ship tilted sharply as it adjusted course, and heeled so far to the starboard side she thought it would tip over, but a moment later it was thrown the other direction, and Çeda was slammed back against the hull.

  The battle began a short while later. The ballista and catapult crews shouted as they identified targets or reloaded. The sound of breaking pottery was followed by a whoosh of fire. Drops of fiery liquid dripped down from the deck, landing on Çeda’s shoulder. She shifted away and smothered the fire as shouts of pain came from all about. Thankfully blue sand drifted gently down—a dousing agent for the fire.

  The battle continued, the ship heeling this way, then that. The thud of arrows came and more breaking pots, followed by people shouting to douse the flames. Çeda felt like a bean in a rattle. She’d grown accustomed to sailing as a Maiden, but she’d never been through anything like this. The inability to anticipate the ship’s movements was making her sick.

  Suddenly the ship slowed, and she was thrown forward. The chains securing her went tight and she slapped against the hull.

  They’d either dropped the rake—a device sometimes used to slow enemy ships after grapnels had been thrown across their rigging—or the same had been done to this ship. Whatever the case, a battle was soon raging across the deck above. Clomping footsteps resounded and swords rang out, followed by a symphony of pain and anger and desperation. Sometimes it came louder, the combat happening directly above her, at other times it dwindled, but it was clear the ship was in a fight for its life.

  Several times she heard Onur rage, almost growl, as he fought.

  “Onur is here!” she heard above the clash of the battle. “Onur is—”

  The voice was cut off with a gurgle.

  On the far side of the hold, the hatch was thrown back. Two soldiers, both women, dropped down with swords in hand, but it was so dark Çeda couldn’t tell whether they were of Tribe Salmük or Tribe Masal, whom Onur was here to conquer.

  “Who are you?” Çeda asked, hating that fear had bled into her voice.

  “Be quiet,” said the nearer of the two. “If we’re found, all three of us will be killed.”

  It was Beril, Çeda realized. But why would she—

  “Is it true?” Beril went on, almost breathless. “Are you the White Wolf? Did you kill the Kings as Onur said?”

  “What? Why are you asking—?”

  “Is it true?”

  There was no reason to hide it. “Ye
s, it’s true.”

  “Külaşan and Mesut and Cahil?”

  “No, not Cahil. He escaped.”

  “But you fought him?”

  “And wounded him.”

  Beril and the other woman shared a look, after which Beril nodded. When the other woman did too, Beril took up the chain that secured Çeda to the hull. “Help us,” she said. “We need to make it look like you escaped on your own.”

  As Beril gripped the chains, the other woman—the one Çeda had knocked unconscious before cutting a hole in the tent—slipped around Çeda to her left and took the chain in both hands as well. Confused but seeing no reason to deny them, Çeda helped as they began pulling on the chain. It took some doing. The three of them strained mightily, but then the bolt finally gave and all three of them flew backward.

  “Now,” Beril said, taking a key and unlocking the manacles, “head southwest. In two days’ walk, you’ll find a hill with an old abandoned tower and a well beneath it.” From around her waist she unbuckled a sword belt. She was wearing two, Çeda realized. And one held River’s Daughter.

  Çeda buckled it on, realizing how very good it felt to have her sword back. “Why are you doing this?”

  Beril took a skin of water and slipped it over Çeda’s neck. “A skiff will come for you bearing a blue pennant. It will take you to the Moonless Host.”

  Çeda gripped her wrists. “Why are you doing this?”

  Beril’s eyes were filled with sudden passion. “Because you are blood of my blood.”

  The words struck Çeda like a hammer. Blood of my blood. Beril was one of the thirteenth tribe. It explained her actions, but more than this, it made Çeda feel connected to the desert tribes more than she ever had before.