Chapter 49

Ihsan returned to himself with Çeda’s words. Like others, he’d been lulled to inaction by the timbre of Ashael’s sonorous voice. Indeed, the thousands of soldiers around him stood spellbound. But as more awoke and roused their neighbors, their ragtag fighting force was returning to action.

The message Frail Lemi had relayed from the goddess still echoed in Ihsan’s mind. Why would Nalamae be waiting for Nayyan? His first thought, the one that frightened him the most, was that it was to do with the black mould, the fact that she was dying. He was about to ask Nayyan about it when he noticed Davud drawing a sigil in the air. A few paces ahead of him, a triangular portal opened. Through it, Ihsan saw a large, empty hall, once King Kiral’s audience chamber in Eventide. In the hall’s center, a delicate woman lay unmoving on a bed. A grid of bamboo pipes hung from the ceiling.

Davud stepped through the slowly rotating portal, picked up a wooden box from the floor and returned the way he came. The portal shrunk behind him. “The zhenyang,” he said, holding the box out to Ihsan. He jutted his chin toward the struggle playing out between Nalamae and Ashael. “Whatever you plan to do, you’d better do it now.”

The group of leaders had dispersed, each to prepare as they could and to relay orders. But Nayyan had remained close by and so had Çeda. The two were speaking—what about, Ihsan couldn’t say.

He accepted the box from Davud. “What will you do?”

The wind gusted, momentarily plastering Davud’s curly hair to his head. Behind him, the spinning portal reopened. The view through it now showed the gateway itself, bright and shimmering like a waterfall. “I’ll keep the gateway from opening for as long as I can.” Davud stepped through the portal. “I’ll leave this open so that you or any of the others can follow.”

As Davud was lost from sight and the portal continued its slow rotation, Ihsan looked at the peacock design on the wooden box’s lid. His heart beat madly as he levered it open. A high-pitched tone began to ring in his ears, temporarily occluding Ashael’s percussive speech. He took a healthy pinch of the white powder and lifted it to his nose. It smelled of cedar and myrrh and musty root vegetables.

He inhaled it, and the world around him changed.

All about, the soldiers, the horde, the gods struggling against one another, the dunebreakers, the sweep of buildings beyond the piers and quays became sharper. Shapes were limned in rainbow hues, bright, almost painful to look upon. The cold air prickled against his skin. Ashael’s words felt so much deeper, so much more meaningful. He felt as if he were on the very verge of understanding them.

“Ihsan?”

He shivered and turned. Nayyan stood several paces away. In one hand she held a crossbow, its string already cocked. In her other she held a headless crossbow bolt and a piece of cloth, used to create a bolt known as a powderhead. The cloth’s seams were sewn with thin thread so that its contents, when affixed to an arrow or crossbow bolt, would burst on impact. Blade Maidens used them to deliver various powders: some burst into clouds to hide their movements, others burned their victims’ eyes and throats.

“We should prepare,” Nayyan said.

After setting the loaded crossbow onto the sand and pinching the bolt beneath one arm, she cupped the cloth in both hands. “Pour some in here,” she said, jutting her chin toward the box.

Ihsan was about to comply, but paused. The clarity the zhenyang had granted him had put several things in stark relief. Nayyan’s movements were clipped, as if she were anxious. Her lips were pressed together, as she sometimes did when she hadn’t yet worked up the courage to tell him something. Coupled with the way Çeda was flexing her right hand, and the way Nayyan was favoring her left side—undoubtedly pained by the malignant growth inside her—their purpose became suddenly and abundantly clear.

Ihsan had planned to use the powder against Ashael himself. He could see now Nayyan wanted to be the one to do it. And Çeda, having summoned the power of the desert, was there to ensure he didn’t stop her.

Ihsan closed the inlaid box. “You’re not going,” he said to Nayyan. “I am.” Çeda stepped forward, and Ihsan stepped back, keeping her at a distance. He spoke again. “Do you hear me, Nayyan? You’re not going. I am.”

Nayyan smiled sadly. “I’m sorry, Ihsan, but this once, you’re not getting your way.”

On some unseen signal, the two of them darted toward him.

The pain in Ihsan’s mouth had eased to a dull ache, but it flared back to life as he summoned his power. “Stop,” he commanded them. “Stop!”

It worked to a degree. Nayyan slowed, but Çeda was able to resist and kept coming. Ihsan tried to avoid her, but Çeda was too strong, too fast. She grabbed his wrist and though he attempted to wriggle free, he was no match for her. She was just wrenching one arm behind his back when Nayyan recovered and snatched the box from his opposite hand.

In a blink, Çeda had him in an arm lock. She wrenched it painfully to keep him in place. “I’m sorry, Ihsan.”

Her words sounded dull and meaningless. He focused on Nayyan. Only on Nayyan. “Please don’t do this,” he said to her. He didn’t bother using his power. A command would only delay what was happening.

Eerily calm, Nayyan laid the cloth on the sand, poured a helping of powder onto it, and wrapped it carefully. Only after she’d tied the payload to the end of the crossbow bolt and set the bolt into the crossbow’s channel did she lift her gaze to meet his. There was no regret in her eyes, only sadness and tears.

Her gaze flitted up to the gateway’s bright, shining column. “See this done, Ihsan”—she caressed his cheek—“then take care of our daughter.”

Ihsan searched for the right words. He would say anything to go in her place. He nearly confessed his secret—the words were right there, begging to be spoken: I have the black mould, too, and one day it will consume me as it nearly has you. He could prove it. He could show her the inside of his mouth, and she might relent.

And yet the confession died on his lips. He didn’t need the clarity of zhenyang to recognize two inescapable truths: first, that Nayyan was dying, and second, that this was her dying wish. She was sacrificing herself that others, including Ihsan, including their daughter, might live.

With that knowledge, he reached a calm acceptance. “You’re the most obstinate person I’ve ever met,” he said with a smile. “You know that, don’t you?”

The quip was one he’d leveled against her often over the years. “And you’re the most devious,” she said with a smile that matched his own. Then their smiles faded, and she was stepping forward and kissing him. “I’ll be waiting for you,” she whispered, “you and Ransaneh, both.” She kissed him again, then stepped back.

“Go well,” Ihsan said.

With that she turned and jogged toward the fray. Only when she was out of earshot did Çeda release him.

Nalamae still hung in the air before Ashael. Her spear suddenly glowed brighter. Ashael’s deep, unknowable words paused, and he seemed transfixed, oblivious to Nayyan’s approach. But then his bandaged head swiveled until his gaze was fixed on her, as she set her stance and sighted along the crossbow.

“No!” Nalamae screamed as Ashael raised one hand high.

A flash of light came from her spear, so bright it burned. Ihsan was forced to throw a hand up against it, and Ashael reeled.

Nayyan’s crossbow twanged. The bolt sped through the air and Ashael lashed out. A wave of darkness spread from his hand, striking Nalamae, Nayyan, and many beyond.

Nalamae dropped to the sand. Nayyan crumpled and lay unmoving.

But the crossbow bolt continued its flight and struck Ashael in the chest, just above the black spike and blood-encrusted wound. A cloud of white powder burst into the air. Ashael staggered backward. He threw his head from side to side, his horns sweeping the air and his arms waving wildly, as if he were fending off an unseen foe.

A heartbeat passed. Then two. Ashael’s movements stilled. He rose upright, still floating above the ground, still bowed over the terrible wound in his chest. Reaching up, he touched the bandages covering his eyes, as if he’d only just realized they were there.

Then, with slow, deliberate care, he began to unwind them.