Epilogue

Çeda stood in Eventide’s great hall beside Emre and three hundred others. All were silent, awaiting the arrival of Sharakhai’s new Sultan.

Çeda and Emre had been in the city for two weeks in anticipation of the coronation. She’d spent time wandering Roseridge, the bazaar, the spice market, noting the changes that had come over the city in the months since she and Emre had been gone. The bazaar and the spice market were rowdy again. Roseridge was quiet. The traffic along the Trough and the Spear and around the Wheel, the great circle at the center of the city, were as busy as ever. The city had become, dare she say it, normal, which was as deeply satisfying a feeling as she ever remembered having.

In the great hall, Çeda wore an elegant jalabiya of auburn silk. Her thin golden belt matched the beaten coins she’d woven into her plaited hair. Emre’s tan thawb and brown khalat complemented her dress, as did the supple leather slippers and his old bracers. He’d let his hair grow back in the six months since the gateway’s closing, and it hung past his shoulders. It was unruly enough that Çeda had insisted on a golden circlet.

Emre had objected at first, but when he’d looked in a mirror, he’d smiled. “I swear to you, Çeda, my mother must have made a deal with the gods to secure so much beauty.”

Çeda had rolled her eyes.

At the head of the hall, Shaikh Zaghran of Tribe Tulogal, the desert’s eldest statesman, entered from a small side door and stepped onto the dais bearing Yerinde’s bright spear and a red pillow, upon which lay a laurel wreath wrought from gold. Both spear and laurel wreath represented many things. Most associated the wreath with the collegia, its students, scholars, and masters, but a laurel wreath had originally symbolized peace through knowledge.

The spear had been wielded by Yerinde and was a reminder of the grief and strife that the city and desert had endured because of the gods’ scheme. Had it been held by Yerinde only, it would represent only aggression and deceit, but it had also been wielded by Nalamae against her fellow gods, and as such had come to be seen as a righteous instrument of justice.

The twin badges of office were opposite ends of a spectrum: war and peace, the perfect symbols for the office of the Sultan of Sharakhai.

The first two rows of the assemblage had been left empty. In the third row were several officers of state: the High Magistrate, the Lord Commander of the Silver Spears, and the Blade Maiden’s High Warden, who was none other than Sümeya. She’d been reinstated only the day before, and seemed to have slipped back into her former role with ease.

Çeda caught her eye and nodded. Sümeya took note of Emre, then gave her a brief, winsome smile.

Notably missing from the hall was King Ihsan. In the weeks after the gate’s closing, he’d helped to solidify support for Davud’s bold plans, but had later gone into hiding with Ransaneh after a failed assassination attempt. Some said the remains of the Moonless Host wanted him dead. Others said it was his own house, his descendants who thought him a traitor to the old guard. Whatever the truth, he hadn’t been seen since.

The doors opened at the back of the hall and Çeda turned to look with the rest of the audience as the procession filed in. The Protectorate Council, thirteen members of the newly elected senate, came first. Then those who’d won seats in the elections that had been held three days earlier. Last to come was their newly elected Sultan, Davud Mahzun’ava, who’d been chosen by the senators themselves.

Davud had grown so much in the past few years, but in his smile Çeda caught a glimpse of the boy who had so impressed a collegia master that he’d sponsored Davud’s attendance at the collegia. He beamed at Çeda as he walked along the aisle toward the dais. Soon enough he was past her row and taking the steps up to the dais. Shaikh Zaghran welcomed him to his new role as guardian of the city and desert both. Others gave short speeches, and all too soon Davud was kneeling before Zaghran, who laid the golden wreath across his brow. Davud rose, Zaghran gave him the spear, and the crowd whistled and cheered, some calling out high ululations in the style of the desert tribes.

A celebration followed. Finger food was served: huge, pitted olives stuffed with spicy peppers; lemon crackers topped with sharp cheese and dusted with saffron and dill; roasted skewers of onions, tomatoes, and cubes of lamb that had been marinated in orange, lime, and rosemary, then roasted to perfection. Drinks of all sorts were on offer, including a dozen varieties of fine araq. Near the serving table, Shaikh Zaghran seemed to be having fun with several local senators, who were pitting the araq made in Sharakhai against the famed Tulogal blend. In one corner of the room, a group of men and women were sampling the latest fashion imported from Kundhun: fermented and dried tabbaq leaves, bundled tight and smoked like a pipe.

The room was alive with conversation, and it was joyous. It was hopeful. Çeda spoke with many who were there to celebrate Davud’s coronation. Djaga was one who’d come representing Kundhun, as she had during the peace talks. Çeda spoke with her for a long while, trading old stories of their fights in the pits and sharing memories of Osman when he was in his prime. Juvaan Xin-Lei had come to offer the congratulations of Queen Alansal and to sign the first official trade agreement, which would apparently be ratified by the senate in the coming days as one of its first official acts. King Emir of Malasan had also sent a dignitary. Qaimir, the last of the four kingdoms surrounding the Great Shangazi, was represented by Ramahd Amansir.

Çeda was standing with Emre, Shaikh Aríz, and Frail Lemi, who was regaling three stunningly beautiful women with how he’d traded blows with Thaash, the god of war himself, when she spotted Ramahd heading toward their group bearing two glasses of rosé.

Çeda squeezed Emre’s arm and broke away. “I thought you’d tired of the desert,” she said to Ramahd as they met halfway.

“I did. I still am.” He cast his gaze across the room and breathed deeply. “But there’s something about it that never leaves you.”

Çeda smiled. “I know what you mean.”

He held a glass out to Çeda. “From Qaimir. From the winery I bought on my return.”

Çeda accepted the glass, noting, as she had several times over the past few weeks, how miraculously free of pain her right hand was. In the days following the gateway’s closure, the ever-present ache had lessened more and more until it had simply disappeared. She sipped the wine, enjoying the pear and persimmon that finished with a sweet, cut-grass aftertaste. “So, a winery . . . ?”

Ramahd smiled. “A winery.”

“You had no desire to reside in Santrión?” Santrión was the palace in Qaimir’s capital, Almadan, the seat of King Hektor’s power.

Ramahd laughed. “I may have been wrong about never wanting to visit the Great Shangazi again, but I can honestly say that pulling on the levers of power holds no allure for me.”

“Did it ever?”

He sipped his wine and shrugged. “In truth, yes, some. But those days are behind me. I’m content by the sea. I’m content to visit my vineyard and walk along the rows of grapes.”

“Content with your new wife?”

When news of Meryam’s death reached Qaimir, the royal houses had entered a period of escalating tensions that threatened to boil over into an internecine war. King Hektor had quelled the unrest capably, sometimes ruthlessly, and as part of the negotiations for a lasting peace had arranged for Ramahd’s marriage. Ramahd, surprisingly, had willingly agreed to it.

“Lila is a fine woman,” he said to Çeda. “We’ve come to respect one another.”

“Not love?”

“Love may come in time.” He motioned with his glass to Emre, who was laughing as Frail Lemi gesticulated wildly. “And you? Are you content?”

Çeda and Emre had both taken on the role of shaikh. As had been done in the desert from time to time, they ruled the thirteenth tribe together. It wasn’t always easy; they were still trying to find the right balance, but it was coming. And in the meantime, they’d sailed to several fellow tribes, partially to discuss the future of the desert but also to enjoy her wonders. They’d gone to see the famed golden lake in the northern reaches of the Great Shangazi. Then the sprawling field where round geodes could be found and broken open to reveal a galaxy of fine blue crystals. Çeda had taken Emre to the salt flats where Ahya had taken her when she was young. They’d picked up the tiny shrimp and fed the blazing blues together.

“I am content,” Çeda finally said.

Before Ramahd could say more, Davud himself arrived. “Thank you for coming, Lord Amansir,” he said. “Might I steal Çeda away?”

Ramahd bowed. “Of course.”

Davud, still wearing his golden wreath, held out his arm. When Çeda took it, he led her up to the empty dais. For a time, the two of them were silent as the sound of lively conversation enveloped them. It wasn’t for lack of anything to say—Çeda knew there was something important Davud wished to speak to her about. But he, like Çeda, was letting the moment sink in.

“I have a proposal,” he finally said.

“I hope you’re not going to ask me to be a senator.” Though some of the shaikhs had agreed to do so, Çeda had decided the role wasn’t right for her. She’d feel beholden. She’d start to resent the position. She and Emre had nominated the Shieldwife, Jenise, for the position instead.

“No, not a senator. Difficulties have arisen in negotiations with the hardline shaikhs.”

Çeda frowned. “I’m a shaikh now, Davud.”

“I know, but you’re also from Sharakhai. I need someone who can help craft policies that benefit the desert and the city. Anything we draft would still need revisions, of course, it’s just . . .” He paused. “You’re from both worlds, Çeda. I trust you. And so do the shaikhs. I see it in them, even the ones who were once aligned with Hamid. I need someone who can champion a union, not just within her own tribe, but all the tribes.”

Çeda considered it. “I’ll need to talk to Emre.”

“Of course.”

She was sure Emre would agree. He cared about Sharakhai as much as she did. In fact, this felt like the perfect place for them both. “Then I accept, pending my discussion with my better half.”

Davud’s smile was as broad as it was infectious. “You’ll become a diplomat yet, Çeda.”

“You take that back, Davud Mahzun’ava.”

He laughed, and they clinked glasses and drank.

“Speaking of diplomats,” Çeda said, “has there been any word of Ihsan?”

Davud’s stunningly beautiful wife, Esmeray, came to the foot of the dais with a look of impatience. She had a long, straight scar on her left cheek, evidence of the cut she’d received from Thaash’s blade during the battle for the gateway. Davud nodded to her and waved, a plea for patience. “No one has seen him in months. For all I know he’s dead.”

“And his daughter?”

“Gone as well. We’re still searching. I’ll let you know if we find him, but with his affliction . . .”

His words trailed away, the implication clear. Like Nayyan, Ihsan had been stricken with the black mould after drinking so many of the elixirs they’d made together. The affliction had advanced quickly in Nayyan, and even Dardzada thought Ihsan would have succumbed to it by now.

“Oh, and I have something for you.” Davud retrieved a package wrapped in sage-green linen and tied with a blue ribbon from a small table nearby and handed it to Çeda. “It’s a present.”

It was heavy and rather book-shaped. “From whom?”

“From Willem. He’s finished Fezek’s work. I must admit, it almost does the whole affair justice.” He tapped the package. “The two of them made real magic together.”

Çeda unwrapped it to find a leatherbound book. The script was gorgeous. “Willem penned it himself?”

“He did.”

“Is he here? I would like to meet him properly.”

“He doesn’t do well in situations like this”—Davud raised his forefinger to Esmeray, who was staring knives at Davud—“but he sends his fondest wishes.”

“Send him mine in return,” Çeda said.

“I will,” Davud promised, and with that he left.

After the grand affair following Davud’s coronation was over, Çeda and Emre stayed overnight in the palace. Çeda spoke to him about Davud’s offer, and Emre quickly agreed. In the morning, Davud met with them and begged them to meet with Tribe Rafik, whose shaikh was still frustrated by the territorial lines that had been drawn up as part of Alliance.

They left Eventide late that morning in a carriage and were dropped off at King’s Harbor, where they walked along the quays toward the Red Bride. Royal galleons dominated the harbor, obscuring the Bride until they came near. Their yacht looked like a skiff in comparison to the great ships of war. The harbor’s doors, recently rebuilt, stood open, a sign of peaceful times.

As Çeda stared up at Eventide, wondering over all that had happened, Emre gripped her hand tightly. “Did you leave the hatch open?” He sounded worried.

She looked and saw that the hatch leading into the ship was open. “No, I locked it when we left.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

Neither of them wore swords, but both bore knives. They drew them as they neared the ship. Çeda slipped down the ladder carefully, wary of thieves or assassins, and when she reached the forward cabin, she discerned a figure in the shadows. As her vision adjusted to the relative darkness, she saw a handsome man of forty or so summers with tightly cut hair sitting in one of the cabin’s two simple wooden chairs. He wore a thawb, its hood currently bunched around his shoulders, and was bouncing a child on one knee, a child who’d grown quite a bit in the months since Çeda had last seen her.

It was Ihsan, the last Sharakhani King, holding his daughter, Ransaneh.

“Hello, Çeda.” He leaned to one side and stared into the passageway beyond her. “Emre . . . How was the coronation?”

“What are you doing here?” Çeda asked.

“Please.” Without taking his eyes from Ransaneh, he waved them into the cabin. “Come and sit.”

“How very gracious of you to offer us a seat in our own ship,” Emre said.

“I only meant to say that there’s nothing to fear. I mean you no harm.”

“Everyone thinks you’re dead.” Çeda sat on their bunk and set Willem’s book aside. Emre leaned against the doorway, his forearms folded across his chest while he glared at Ihsan.

“I nearly was.” Ihsan’s eyes roamed the cabin’s ceiling. “Seven times, by last count.”

“Assassins?”

“Indeed. Most were sent by my own great-grandson, who’s convinced I betrayed him and the entire house by negotiating with Queen Alansal.”

“He preferred King Husamettín’s way, I take it.”

“Not only preferred. Demanded it. He wants my head to prove that the old guard is truly gone and a new one can rise to take its place.”

“There are ways of dealing with such things,” Emre said.

Ihsan laughed. “Kill him first?”

“Well, certainly that’s one way, but I meant the Silver Spears. They’ve cracked down hard on those opposing the senate’s formation.”

“True, but my great-grandson’s attempts on my life will naturally be difficult to prove. And my defense would necessarily require my involvement, which would open me up to more attempts on my life, from him or other sources.”

“Other sources.”

He made a show of nearly letting Ransaneh slip off his knee. Her body went tight, then she laughed. “No less than five shaikhs now have a bounty on my head.”

“Tell me which,” Çeda said. “We can put pressure on them to—”

“It won’t matter, Çeda.” He regarded her seriously for the first time. “The story of the Kings is nearing its end. My story is nearing its end. I cannot escape what we did on Beht Ihman. Not forever. And even if I could—”

He bared his teeth, showing his gums, which had turned dark brown, then stuck out his tongue, which had almost no pink flesh remaining—like his gums, it was mottled brown, and had small lumps on it besides.

“Then why are you here?” Çeda asked.

His eyes returned to his daughter, then he lifted her and set her back down so that her back was to his chest and Ransaneh was facing Çeda and Emre. “While my story is ending, hers is just beginning.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Ransaneh blinked her mismatched eyes: one brown, one hazel.

“I cannot keep her,” Ihsan went on. “If I do, she will die. She’ll be killed when I am, and even if she somehow escapes, she’ll be a target for the rest of her life. But if you took her, she might live. You’re respected in the city. You’re revered in the desert. Wherever you choose to go, Ransaneh would be safe.”

“People would know she’s your daughter.”

“Only if you tell them,” Ihsan said. “She could be a war orphan. There are plenty of them, and that would create sympathy in all who meet her. While your adoption of her would show your generosity, further cementing Ransaneh’s safety.”

Çeda stared at the child, lost for words. “Have you no family you could leave her with?”

“None that I trust. And even if I did, she would be found. She is an heir to my throne. She’d be dead within months.” Ihsan kissed her head, which was thick with dark brown hair. “I don’t ask this lightly. I know she will be a burden to you, but I hope she’ll bring you joy as well. Ransaneh has been the light of my life.”

“Then join us,” Çeda said. “Sail with us. We’ll find a place for you.”

Ihsan shook his head sadly. “The moment she’s linked to me, she will become a target. No one can know.” Ihsan had seemed aloof and uncaring when they’d entered. Now he seemed desperate. “I’m not asking you to do this for me. I’ve earned every bit of your scorn. Do it for Nayyan. She sacrificed her life that we might all live. Without it, we would never had stopped Ashael, and you would never have had a chance to speak with your mother.”

The gambit was a transparent one. By invoking Çeda’s time with her mother, Ihsan was playing on her emotions, forcing her to recognize that those few precious moments with Ahya—a gift Çeda could never have hoped for—had only been made possible with Nayyan’s final, brave act.

Emre looked to Çeda. When she said nothing, he turned to Ihsan. “You did much to atone for your betrayal of our people, but to take a child—”

Emre stopped when Çeda put a hand on his arm. “We’ll take her.”

“Çeda—” Emre started.

But he stopped when Çeda squeezed his arm. “She’ll die without us, Emre.”

Ihsan’s ploy might have been transparent, but it had worked. Everything he’d said was true. Çeda had always felt as if she were not only unwanted by her mother, but a necessary evil, a tool to be used in Ahya’s far-reaching plans. Seeing Ahya, speaking to her for that last time, had opened a small window into her mother’s true feelings. It had allowed Çeda to make peace with her mother’s death and given her a sense of contentment—with herself, with her origins, with her place in the world—that she’d never felt before. And it had been made possible, in part, by Nayyan’s sacrifice.

And, she admitted, she owed Ihsan. She would not honor him. He’d played no small part in Beht Ihman. He’d betrayed hundreds, thousands, in his centuries as a Sharakhani King. But he’d also scoured the Blue Journals for the truth. He’d worked to uncover and then foil the desert gods’ plot. He’d done as much as anyone to save Sharakhai.

Emre looked like he wanted to argue—there was still a part of him that wanted to reject anything related to the old Kings of the city—but he softened the longer he stared at Ransaneh.

Ransaneh burbled and wriggled in Ihsan’s grasp. She made a sound, baby-speak, while staring at Emre, who licked his lips and swallowed hard as he met Çeda’s gaze. Then he nodded to Ihsan.

The tightness in Ihsan’s shoulders eased. “Thank you.”

“Something still bothers me,” Çeda said, knowing this was probably the last time she’d ever speak to Ihsan. “Ashael. His departure.”

Ihsan nodded. “Let me guess. You’re wondering why the other elder gods accepted him after going to such great lengths to bind him to this world.”

It was clearly something Ihsan had given quite a bit of thought to. “Precisely,” she said.

“I can’t say for certain, but I have a few thoughts. At the time, Ashael and I were both caught in the spell of the zhenyang. I couldn’t understand their words, but as those moments passed, I felt a release from Ashael, a feeling that his punishment had been sufficient, that he’d atoned for his crimes, or would in the next world. More interesting to me, though, was the impression I got from the other elders.”

“And that was?” Emre asked.

“They they’d expected his return.”

It took a moment for the implications to sink in. “Are you saying the other elders struck Ashael down knowing he would one day reach the farther fields?”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying.”

Çeda stared at him, confused. “But why?”

Ihsan shrugged. “Perhaps they couldn’t kill him. Perhaps they couldn’t find it in themselves to destroy one of their own. Perhaps it was some twisted form of penance. The point is I think they laid the groundwork for his return to them from the moment they drove that ebon spike through Ashael’s heart and forced him into the earth.”

Çeda felt suddenly cold.

It was Emre, echoing Çeda’s own thoughts, who spoke, “You’re saying they planned it all.”

Ihsan’s look was the sort a mentor gets on discovering their student has finally mastered a difficult concept. “Is it so hard to believe the elders foresaw the young gods’ plan? That Ashael would be swept up into it? Remember the final, crucial verse of their poem.” He recited it in a singsong voice: “When at last the fields do wither, When the stricken fade; The gods shall pass beyond the veil, And land shall be remade.” After a pause to allow the words to sink in, he went on, “I thought, we all thought, those words referred to the young gods, but in the end it was the elder gods who passed beyond the veil.” He waved, as if taking in the harbor, Tauriyat, and the city beyond it. “And can anyone doubt that the land has been remade?”

The very thought was dizzying, and in truth, Çeda didn’t want to think about it. She’d felt like a pawn so many times over the course of her long and winding journey to start worrying about the machinations of elder gods. “Perhaps you’re right, Ihsan.”

Ihsan smiled his wry smile. “It’s just as likely my mind is performing contortions to make sense of it all. But it’s a theory.” He turned his daughter around, kissed the top of her head, and hugged her chubby frame as if he were protecting her from a sandstorm. Tears welling in his eyes, he lifted her until her tiny, slippered feet were on his thighs and she was eye to eye with him. “You’ll listen to them.” His tears fell, trails of diamonds along his cheeks. “You’ll be good.”

After kissing the crown of her head once more, he stood and handed Ransaneh to Çeda, who shifted Ransaneh onto her right hip.

“So where will you go now?” Çeda asked.

Ihsan shrugged. “There are rumors of a cure for the black mould. It’s likely a fool’s errand, but I’ll chase it all the same.”

With her free arm, Çeda hugged him. “Then go well, Ihsan.”

“Go well, Çedamihn.” He turned to Emre and held out his hand. “And you, Emre.”

Emre gripped forearms with him. “May the fates show you kindness.”

Ihsan laughed and pulled the hood of his thawb over his head. “The fates will do as they’ve always done and shower me with cruelties.” He tipped his head toward Ransaneh. “But hopefully they’ll spare her.”

With that he climbed the stairs and left the ship. Çeda and Emre returned to the deck to watch him go. He walked along the quay, weaving through the crowd, and was lost beyond the prow of a nearby galleon.

Soon a team of Silver Spears were pushing the Red Bride away from the dock. They were towed beyond the harbor doors by mules, where Çeda and Emre could catch the wind and set sail. When they were underway and heading east, a strong wind came, kicking up dust and sand. Çeda went down to the cabin and picked up a blanket to protect Ransaneh, but stopped when she saw the book Willem had given her.

She opened it to the first page and smiled when she saw the title: The Song of the Shattered Sands. It fit, she thought. It was tempting to turn to the first page, to begin reading. But after a moment she closed the cover and set the book on a nearby shelf.

Another day, she thought, and went up to deck with the blanket. There, she wrapped Ransaneh and held her close while Emre steered, the skis hissed, and the Red Bride heeled over an easy dune.