Of Sand and Malice Made (7 page)

Çeda opened her eyes, finding a dark-skinned boy with bright blue eyes staring at her.

“The sun shining bright, girl,” Makuo said. “Time you return to it. Let it see your face before it forget.”

“What?” Çeda sat up slowly, her mind still lost in the land of dreams. She remembered who she was now—her name, her purpose here—but it seemed like an age and a day since she'd fallen to the weight of the minds around her.

Across the floor of the cellar, bodies lay everywhere like leaves tossed by the wind. Layer upon layer of dead moths covered their forms. Hidi stood by a sarcophagus, staring into its depths. It was what Çeda had been lying upon, she realized. The lid had been removed and now lay cracked and broken to one side.

Çeda stood and took one step toward the sarcophagus, but Makuo stopped her. “This isn't for you,” the boy said.

Within the sarcophagus, she saw the crown of a head, wiry black hair, two twisted horns sweeping back from the forehead.

She thought of pressing Makuo. The two of them had won, she knew. They'd beaten Rümayesh with Çeda's help, and until now they'd considered her their ally, but that could change at any moment.

Steer you well wide of the will of the gods,
old Ibrahim had always said after finishing one of his tragic stories. She'd heard dozens of those stories, and none of them
ended happily. She'd always thought it a trick of Ibrahim's storytelling, to end them so, but now she wasn't so sure.

“What of Ashwandi?” Çeda asked.

Hidi looked up from whatever it was that had him transfixed, his scar puckering as he bared his teeth. “She free now. Her sister's wish was always for Ashwandi to leave the ehrekh
'
s side, to return to the grasslands.”

An ehrekh, then . . .

Rümayesh was an ehrekh, a twisted yet powerful experiment of the god Goezhen. Few ehrekh remained in the desert, but those that did were powerful indeed.

“Is she alive?”

“Oh, yes,” the boys said in unison, their eyes full of glee, “she lives.”

“What will you do with her?” Çeda asked, tilting her head toward the sarcophagus.

At this they frowned. Hidi returned his gaze to Rümayesh's sleeping form, while Makuo took Çeda by the shoulders and led her away. “The sun shining bright,” he said. “Time you return to it.”

Çeda let herself be led from the cellar, but her tread was heavy. Rümayesh may have tricked Çeda, may have wanted to steal her memories, but something didn't feel right about leaving her to these godling boys.

Makuo led her up a set of winding stairs and at last to
a metal door. Çeda paused, her hand resting above the handle.

Steer you well wide of the will of the gods.

There was wisdom in those words, she thought as she gripped the door's warm handle. Surely there was wisdom. Then she opened the door and stepped into the sunlight.

A
T THE EDGE OF SHARAKHAI'S GRAND BAZAAR,
a crowd had gathered beneath the old fig tree. Çeda could
hear
the man she'd come to see, old Ibrahim the storyteller, but she couldn't yet see him. The sheer density of the gathering wouldn't allow it from her current vantage, so she skirted the crowd, standing tiptoes every so often and looking for an opening.

As she walked, the desert wind toyed with the fig tree's branches. The movement gave life to the sunlight, stippling the assemblage with pinpricks of light. Men, women, and children, burnooses and kaftans and abayas, brightened then darkened, making them seem to sway, first this way, then that. It was a riot of color and movement that became so dreamlike Çeda had to blink and look away until she'd recovered.

Ibrahim was one of the city's most popular storytellers, but even so this crowd was unusually large. Çeda had no idea why at first, but then she vaguely recalled Seyhan the spice merchant mentioning the caravans when she'd
stopped by his stall the day before. More than a dozen of them—two hundred ships all told—were setting sail over the desert tomorrow. For many who'd come to Sharakhai, the siren call of the city was strong. They wanted one last chance to wander the stalls of the bazaar, to pick up a bag or two from the spice market, to hear a tale from the exotic city they'd so longed to visit. And so, even though it was the time of day when Ibrahim would normally have returned home to grab a bite to eat and have a short nap while the desert's warmest hours sailed past, the storyteller had remained. Ibrahim, like most in Sharakhai, would suffer much for money.

When she made it past the row of fruit sellers, a space opened up and she saw Ibrahim clearly at last. He was spreading his arms theatrically as he wove his tale, his baritone rasp waxing gaily about the goddess Nalamae and her travels across the Great Shangazi. His old, dusty blanket was spread on the ground, coins glinting on its surface like bright cities on a map of the Five Kingdoms. Again the play of light, this time on the coins, made her feel as though the ground beneath her was unsteady. She breathed deeply, pinching the inner corners of her eyes, though it did little to clear the burning itch of lost sleep.

When she opened her eyes again, she tried to focus only on Ibrahim. He was just telling the crowd how Nalamae, after giving life to the River Haddah, had
wandered the desert, creating oases that the twelve tribes could use in their ceaseless wanderings. He had his wide-brimmed hat off and was using it to fan himself, though when he came to a particularly dramatic moment he'd slip it back on his head and spread his arms in broad sweeps. Every so often, someone in the audience would toss a copper or a few six-pieces at the storyteller's feet; one even dropped two sylval before walking away, those nearby shifting like soldiers to fill the gap.

Ibrahim's voice, the rapt audience, the bright sun, a tableau that likened itself to a dream. The occasional clink of coins would momentarily pull her from the trance, but then the dream would resume and whisper in her ear to lie at the foot of the tree and curl up in sleep.

“Are you very well?” a low voice rumbled.

Çeda nearly jumped from her skin. She turned and saw a man with dark skin, wearing a rich ivory tunic and toga, staring at her with a look of mild concern. The more she stared at him, saying nothing, the more his concern deepened.

“You need something to drink, girl?”

It was more statement than question, and perhaps she did, but before she could reply, a cup was being pressed into her hand. Rosewater lemonade, laced with peppercorn and nutmeg. She drank deeply from it, then reached into the purse at her belt for a copper khet to give the
man, but he took her hand in both of his, keeping the coin where it lay in the palm of her hand.

“Keep it and be well.”

“Thank you.”

The man was soon lost among the ceaselessly shifting traffic of the bazaar. Somehow by the time she'd finished the lemonade and returned her attention toward Ibrahim, the crowd was breaking up. Ibrahim himself had already collected his coins from the blanket and was walking away. She sprinted to catch up, blinking the sleep away, and fell into step alongside him.

“There you are,” Ibrahim said as he took off his hat, ran a sleeve over his sweating brow, and replaced it. The brim bounced as they walked toward the Spear, one of the busiest thoroughfares in Sharakhai. “What's happened to you?”

“Nothing.” She drew in a sharp breath. “What do you mean?”

“Are you having trouble with Emre? Is he treating you well?”

“What? Of course he is!”

“Well there's
something
the matter. You look like my mule's been treading on you for days, girl.”

Çeda tried to keep herself from blinking, but she became so conscious of it she was forced to pinch the bridge
of her nose and clamp her eyes shut for a bit of relief. “I haven't been sleeping well.”

“Do tell . . . The question is, why not?”

“Are we trading, Ibrahim?”

He considered her for a moment. “If there's something you wish from me, then yes, I'll trade for this.”

She had meant it as a joke, but she could see that Ibrahim was serious. “I don't know if I'm willing to trade it,” she said.

She was used to Ibrahim's affable nature, his easy laugh, so when he stopped just short of the Spear and turned to face her with the most serious look she'd ever seen on him, she was caught off-guard. His kindly old eyes looked her up and down as the sounds of traffic passed along the Spear behind him. “I've never seen you like this, Çeda. You're normally the bright star, but the girl I see before me is nothing more than a guttering candle.”

A blade glowing red from the heat of a fire, the edge moving ever closer.
Çeda blinked away the image. “As I said, I haven't been sleeping well.”

“Then tell me why. Ibrahim might be able to help.”

“In all our dealings, Ibrahim, you have made me tell my stories first. This time, you'll tell me what
I
wish to know, and
then
I'll tell you something in return.”

Ever the businessman was Ibrahim, so much so that she thought he might deny her request, but he didn't. “Very well.” He resumed walking, guiding Çeda to the right when they reached the Spear and merged into the jostling traffic. “Ask me your questions.”

“I wish to know of the ehrekh,” Çeda said softly so those around them would have difficulty overhearing.

“What of them?”

“Can they be imprisoned?”

Ibrahim shrugged. “There are many stories of magi imprisoning ehrekh, though most close with a dramatic and unfortunate end for the ones who had the impressively bad idea to do so.”

“How? How can they be imprisoned?”

“Most tales tell of the magi learning their true names.”

“But then what?” Çeda asked. “They are bound to your word if you but speak their name?”

As they stepped around a dray plodding its way forward against the flow, Ibrahim couldn't hide the momentary knitting of his brow. “No, Çeda, I don't believe knowledge of a name is sufficient. There are dark rituals that surround the summoning of an ehrekh, and they all deal in blood. Liberally.”

“Can the ehrekh die?” Çeda asked as the crowd shouted at the driver of the dray to move to the far side of the street, where the flow was heading west.

“There are stories of their deaths, yes, though most of these have been at the hands of the gods when the ehrekh stood in their way.”

“How? How can they be killed?”

“Now
there's
a question. Why do you wish to know, Çeda?”

“I'm not ready to tell my story yet.”

Ibrahim considered her, then waved them on, into the path of five young men carrying patterned yellow carpets over their shoulders. “They can fall to the blade. They can fall to fire. They can fall to the will of the gods. But they do none of these things easily. They are cruel, wicked beasts that love to toy with us, with the tribes and others who stumble across their homes in the corners of the Great Shangazi.”

“And do they have souls?”

“As you and I have souls?”

Çeda shrugged. “I guess so.”

Ibrahim paused. “Shall I tell you a tale, Çeda?”

“Will it cost me?”

He laughed. “No more than you had already planned to give.”

“Very well,” Çeda said cautiously.

“You know that Goezhen the Wicked created the ehrekh.”

She nodded.

“Well, it is said that he did so while Tulathan was imprisoned by Yerinde. You know the tale?”

She nodded again. Ages ago, Yerinde, a winsome goddess taken by fits of passion, had stolen the moon goddess away.
For love,
she had professed when Tulathan had eventually been freed by her sister, Rhia.
It was always for love.

“Goezhen stole into Yerinde's mountain fastness,” Ibrahim went on, “and there he found Tulathan hidden deep underground in a lightless oubliette. Tulathan begged him to free her, but Goezhen refused, and stole her tears when she wept for her lost freedom. He went to Rhia then, and told her the tale of her lost sister. Rhia raged, and Goezhen stole her screams. The gods didn't know why Goezhen had done these things, but they found out much later that when he left Yerinde's tower and returned to the desert, he made the first of the ehrekh. He gave them Tulathan's tears that they might have blood. He gave them Rhia's cries that they might have voice. They are rage-filled things, Çeda, and not to be trifled with. And that is all I will say on the subject. Now tell me why you've come to me with haunted eyes, asking of the twisted creations of the god of chaos.”

Çeda considered as the roar of the Wheel at the city's center rose up around them. Thousands were leading wagons and horses and mules and children around it,
moving from this part of the city to that. Çeda and Ibrahim flowed with traffic and headed south along the Trough. Çeda might have spoken in the anonymity of that roar, but she waited until the tumult had settled before speaking once more. “There are ehrekh hidden within the walls of the city, did you know?”

“I've heard whispers,” Ibrahim said.

“One has been known to whisk unfortunate souls away to some hidden place and sift through their memories like so much sand. It holds these memories up for others to witness, to relive as if they were their own.”

Ibrahim's sweaty brow furrowed, and his eyes grew instantly worried. “Rümayesh,” he breathed.

Çeda nodded. “But the ehrekh are not so powerful that they can't become victims themselves. There are those who might take them, hide
them
away.”

“Çeda—”

“And if that were to happen, the ehrekh might reach out, speak to one through her dreams.”

“Çeda,
who
? Who has done this?”

Çeda stopped and looked up to Ibrahim, traffic parting and passing around them like storm-blown sand. Gods, how she wanted to tell him. He might well be able to help her if she let him. But it was so much bigger than the two of them, and dangerous besides. It had nearly killed her once already, and a man like Ibrahim, a man
who'd always been kind to her, didn't deserve to get drawn into it. “It's only a story I've heard.”

She turned and walked the other away, back along the Trough, but called over her shoulder, “Fair payment for what you've given me.”

It was sunset by the time Çeda reached her home in Roseridge. A fragrant braiding of floral scents drifted down as she took the stairs up from ground level. She knew the scents well: ashwagandha and passionflower and schisandra. She ought to. They'd been her constant companions this past month, when she'd finally given in and begun steeping an elixir she'd hoped would quell the dreams that plagued her.

When she opened the door, she found Emre kneeling on the carpet before the small oven in the center of the room. A pot sat atop it. Emre stirred the contents methodically, all but ignoring Çeda.

Bless you, Emre.
The scent was so strong she nearly closed her eyes and fell asleep standing. “You didn't need to do this,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

Emre, his dark eyes looking up to her with concern, tapped the wooden spoon against the lip of the pot, then laid it across the top. “It's almost ready.” He stood and
wiped his hands self-consciously, eyeing Çeda. “And yes, I did. You've looked like death himself this past month.”

“You've looked like a horse's ass your whole life, but you don't see me making any elixirs for
that
.” Weeks ago he might have laughed, but today he stared at her with an uncomfortable expression.
Gods, he's truly worried.
“It's going to be all right,” she said. “It's only a few nightmares.”

“At first, maybe. Then it was just a shout in the night. Then it was blood-curdling cries. But last night, Çeda, you screamed and screamed, even
after
I woke you.” His eyes narrowed. “You don't even remember, do you?”