The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (25 page)

The kings would not admit it, but they knew the elite of the Kamarisi’s guard could do just that. Over the years, rumors of murders had come even to Anuskaya—the loss of a handful of kings was spoken of openly, and if that were so, it was likely the secretive Haelish had lost even more than this.

Bahett, licking his lips, his eyes darting among the kings, stepped forward. “Surely you don’t believe that all could have been poisoned so.”

“They meet on the same night as the kings, as I’m sure you know. You’ve been played for fools,” Styophan said to the kings. “He knew that we’d come with an offer of friendship. He knew that you would consider it carefully. He had no choice but to take steps to prevent it, not if he had any hope of winning his war to the east, a war that threatens to run all the way to the steps of Alekeşir.”

“This is madness!” Bahett turned his back on Styophan, facing only Brechan. This was a tactical error. He was a full head shorter than the towering King of Kings. “How can you give credence to a man who was about to die at the hands of your wodjan? They were to put him beneath their knives. He was to give me answers, which are as much a part of the bargain as are the gems I’ve granted you, as is the land I’ve ceded to you, King Brechan.”

Brechan turned to Dahlia and spoke in Haelish. His words were quick and forceful.

Dahlia nodded.

Styophan understood nothing of the Haelish language, but Bahett clearly did, for he interrupted them, shouting, “
How
could they know?”

Brechan turned slowly back to Bahett. “Still your tongue.”

Everyone who heard those three simple words knew just how grave Brechan was. Bahett seemed cowed at first. He seemed as though he would do exactly as Brechan wished, but then something strange happened. Earlier that day, when Styophan had first seen him, Bahett had seemed calm beyond measure. He’d seemed much the same even during this savage ritual. But now, as the implications of Brechan’s words settled over him, the skin of his cheeks and forehead turned red. His pulse pounded at the base of his neck. The veins on his forehead stood out and were shadowed by the light of the fire. He seemed to notice the eyes that were upon him, but was trying not to show it.

Then his face hardened.

Before Styophan knew what was happening Bahett had pulled a knife, an ornate bichaq, from his belt and stalked forward.

Bahett’s arm rose. It thrust forward.

Before Styophan could move something bright flashed before his eyes. Kürad’s arm swung down mightily, sword in hand.

Bahett screamed and gripped his wrist.

Styophan stared downward onto the snow-trampled ground. There, swathed in red, was a severed hand, still holding the ornate knife with the finger-slim blade.

Kürad stared on, eyes afire, as if he expected Bahett to retaliate in some way, but Bahett’s face had gone white as snow. It was clear that he could do nothing but grip his wrist tightly.

Behind him, however, were his Kiliç Şaik. They drew their swords and advanced until they stood between Bahett and the kings. Kürad moved forward to meet them, but the first of Bahett’s men flung his arm outward and a spray of white dust filled the air. Some of it caught Styophan across his face, and he found his eyes stinging. He breathed some of it in, and in mere moments his throat and lungs were burning from it.

He stepped back out of the cloud as the wind carried it over the gathered kings and queens and their retinue. As he fought to clear his lungs and blink away the tears, another of the Kiliç Şaik pointed his arm toward the sky. He was holding a short wooden tube. He pulled a cord and a moment later a hissing sound accompanied a bright point of light that snaked up into the sky. It illuminated all around them, making the menhir look as if it were pointing toward the twinkling point of light in alarm.

The furthest pair of Kiliç Şaik led Bahett away, one of them slipping a length of cord around his wrist and tightening it to staunch the bleeding. Where they thought they could flee with so many Haelish men standing guard Styophan didn’t know, but flee they did as the Haelish at the far side of the basin moved in to meet them.

The third of Bahett’s guardsmen—the one who’d thrown the powder—was slowed as three of the wodjan intercepted him. He cut one down and kicked another square in the chest, sending her flying backward, but the final one leapt upon him. With a lithe twist of his body, the guardsman spun and brought her to the ground. In a flash, he swung his sword down and across her throat, but the delay had allowed Kürad the time he needed to close in. The guardsman could have run, but instead he turned and met the Haelish king with bright eyes and a flashing blade, as if he dearly hoped to take one of these kings down before he left.

Styophan stared down at the severed hand, at the knife. He liberated the knife from the fingers. If he couldn’t have a pistol, he wanted cold steel in his hand. After cutting himself free of his bonds, he stalked forward to help Kürad.

The Kiliç Şaik had broken through Kürad’s defenses several times already, but Kürad’s skin of stone absorbed these swings with only the smallest of nicks to show for it.

As he approached, the Kiliç Şaik glanced back over his shoulder. He blocked a swing from Kürad and snapped a kick backward. Styophan was ready, however. He leaned away from the kick and then darted in. Kürad swung from on high, hoping to catch the swordsman off guard, but the Kiliç Şaik was too fast, and he spun away. Kürad swung again, and this time, the Kiliç Şaik slipped under the swing and behind Kürad before Styophan could close in again.

In a blink, he had slipped an arm around Kürad’s neck. He’d caught Kürad off balance and for a moment had the upper hand, but he couldn’t hope to stand against Kürad—the king was too strong and too well protected with the glittering paint laid upon his skin.

How little Styophan knew.

Styophan prepared to stalk around, or wait for Kürad himself to turn so he could bring his knife to bear, but before Kürad could do anything the Kiliç Şaik had pulled an impossibly thin dagger—more spike than knife—from some hidden location and raised it high above his head. He brought it down in one smooth but powerful motion. With a sickening crunch it drove down through Kürad’s head until the knife’s guard stopped against his skull.

Kürad’s eyes rolled up. His eyelids fluttered. The guardsman released him, pulling the knife sharply free. Kürad’s head lolled spasmodically before he finally collapsed to the ground.

The Kiliç Şaik stalked forward, sword in one hand, bloody knife in the other. Styophan waited, backing up, acting as if he was ready to turn and run. When the guardsman came too close, he leapt forward, dropping to the ground and kicking the man’s legs out from under him. As the Kiliç Şaik came down, his sword swung at an odd angle. It missed Styophan entirely and bit into the cold earth. He tried to bring his knife to bear, but Styophan blocked it with his left arm and drove Bahett’s knife deep into the Kiliç Şaik’s throat.

As Styophan rolled the Kiliç Şaik off his chest, he heard the sound of gunfire. A few at first, and then a dozen in tight sequence. He stood and saw that the two Kiliç Şaik had sped Bahett to the edge of the basin. Many of the Haelish warriors had moved to engage, but they seemed slowed, perhaps from their ritualistic daze. A dozen horses galloped out from between the yurts and broke through the haphazard line of the Haelish. The warriors, bearing only knives, were unprepared for this organized retreat.

In moments, the Kiliç Şaik had taken Bahett up and onto one of the horses and begun riding with him back through the skirmish. More musket flashes came from the shadows of the yurts. Several of the horses were felled and the guardsmen taken down. Haelish knives rose and fell as they dispatched the men from Yrstanla, but Bahett was carried swiftly away. Moments later, the rest of the horses retreated as well, leaving only cries of alarm and the calls of the wounded.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

As Kaleh climbs ahead on the lonely mountain path, Nasim sees the girl again. She is to his left, crouching behind a stone the size of a sleeping ox. The sun is high but the shadows near the base of the large boulder are dark. He does not look directly at her, for that has never once served him. The only way he can find any additional detail is to look slantwise. He’s grown better at this over the past few days. He is able to keep his gaze steady and unfocused so that he can see more and more of her in his periphery.

And then he looks too closely, and she is gone.

His footfalls crunch lightly against soil that is no longer red, but the orange-yellow of dried wood sorrel blossoms. The air is dry, metallic, and there are few sounds, only the occasional sigh of the wind through the sparse bushes, or the skitter of a lizard.

Kaleh trudges ahead. She is silent, as she’s been for much of the past three days, ever since leaving the last tomb. They are heading for the mountain’s peak, which unnerves him. He cannot recall each of the tombs they’d entered in this lost valley, but all of those he
can
remember were situated near the base of the mountain, not the peak. Why the change he doesn’t know, but he is sure that they are coming to the end of their circuit of this valley shaped like a crown. They approach the final few, saved for last for reasons he can only guess at.

As he passes by another stone to his right, there is a subtle shift of shadow: a shape that looks like a head poking out to regard his passage. He can see few details—a thin arm, a swath of rich brown hair—enough for him to know that it is the same girl each time.

Ahead, Kaleh’s gait stutters. It is no more than a momentary pause, but the moment she does this, the shape at the base of the stone retreats and is gone.

Kaleh is powerful. More powerful than he would have guessed. But then again, she is born of the Al-Aqim. Why wouldn’t she be?

She is also filled with purpose. He can remember times when they were among the red-robed people of another place not far from here—keepers of knowledge, protectors of this very place. He and Kaleh had spent weeks there, and all the while, Kaleh had wheedled information from them. Bit by bit she had found the secrets she’d been searching for, and when they’d left, she had gone to each one and passed the palm of her hand before their eyes. They’d looked at her blankly, and then they’d walked away as if Kaleh and Nasim didn’t exist, and he was sure that was the state of things. None of them would remember their passing. None. Leaving Kaleh with the will and the knowledge to come to this valley to commit her murders.

He recalls with vivid clarity the tomb they’d entered last, the ancient and desiccated man rising from the sarcophagus only to be burned by Kaleh’s hand. He’s long since given up on the question of how many have died. More important is the question of how many are left. He has trouble keeping this question in his mind. It is Kaleh working against him, he knows. One moment he’d be working out where they’d started, and sometimes he thought he almost had it, but then the memories would slip through his fingers like sand. But slowly, as the girl appeared more and more frequently, he began to stitch his days in this valley together.

These ancient tombs held the still-living bodies of arqesh, or their equivalent from centuries ago. The fact that the entombed men and women wore circlets with five stones was telling. The arqesh of today are very different from those of centuries before. Today, men like Ashan
need
stones to commune with their spirits. Not so during the time before the sundering. Then the stones had known affinities with the various hezhan, but they were only used in certain ceremonies, most often at equinox and solstice. The sheaf of wheat is also a clue as to their origin, or at least the time during which these tombs had been built. Wheat was considered good luck for a plentiful bounty, an offering made to the fates, especially during times of drought or famine. They were placed on the graves of the ancient tribes before they’d learned the ways of the hezhan, but they hadn’t been used in such a way anywhere since well before the sundering.

Except in Kohor.

Where Khamal spent much of his youth. Where Sariya came from. Where Muqallad traveled and eventually found the Atalayina.

That a sheaf was placed on each of the tombs is an indicator of where this valley stood. It is near Kohor, of that much he is sure. And if he is correct, these tombs were built around the time of the sundering.

He can’t help but think of Inan, the mother of Yadhan, the first of the akhoz. She was a loyal follower of Khamal, but over time she became disillusioned. She rallied others to rise against Khamal and the other Al-Aqim for what they perceived as unforgivable acts. It wasn’t so much the failure of the Al-Aqim during the sundering as it was the steps they’d taken afterward to halt the spread of the rifts. Changing the children into the akhoz had worked, but in doing so—in the eyes of Inan, at least—the Al-Aqim had taken too much from the world, including the soul of her own daughter, and she refused to allow more to be taken in the same way. And so her fellow qiram created a barrier that prevented the Al-Aqim from leaving. It also suppressed the power of the broken Atalayina, which kept the Al-Aqim from using it to escape or to cause further damage to the world.

To Nasim’s right is the valley they’ve been circling for weeks. As he stares at the remote peaks, he remembers its name. Shadam Khoreh. A hidden place, not merely for its remoteness but for the secrets that it holds. To Nasim’s knowledge, no one knows what became of the followers of Inan. No one knows how they had erected their barrier, but he is sure that these men and women of this valley, these many qiram hidden away in tombs, were related.

A chill runs down his frame as the answer comes to him.

These men and women… They are the qiram from Ghayavand, the very ones who witnessed the sundering. They’re still alive, in a manner of speaking.

But why?

The answer, of course, is obvious. They must maintain the barrier around Ghayavand by giving of themselves, allowing the magics of it to draw from them to sustain those walls. Why, then, would Kaleh burn them like tinder?