The Doors at Dusk and Dawn: A Shattered Sands Novella Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Also by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Praise for Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

  The Doors at Dusk and Dawn

  About the Author

  Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

  With Blood Upon the Sand

  A Veil of Spears

  Of Sand and Malice Made

  The Lays of Anuskaya

  Lest Our Passage Be Forgotten

  In the Stars I'll Find You

  The Burning Light

  Strata

  Copyright © 2017 by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Cover art by René Aigner © 2017

  Cover design by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Author photo courtesy of Al Bogdan

  All rights reserved.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  First Edition: August 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-93964-926-3 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-93964-924-9 (epub)

  ISBN: 978-1-93964-925-6 (Kindle)

  Please visit me on the web at

  http://www.quillings.com

  Also by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The Lays of Anuskaya

  The Winds of Khalakovo

  The Straits of Galahesh

  The Flames of Shadam Khoreh

  Short Story Collections

  Lest Our Passage Be Forgotten & Other Stories

  In the Stars I’ll Find You

  Novellas

  Strata (with Stephen Gaskell)

  The Burning Light (with Rob Zeigler)

  The Song of the Shattered Sands

  Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

  With Blood Upon the Sand

  A Veil of Spears

  Of Sand and Malice Made

  Praise for Twelve Kings in Sharakhai

  “Beaulieu has proved himself able to orchestrate massive storylines in his previous series, the Lays of Anuskaya trilogy. But Twelve Kings lays down even more potential. Fantasy and horror, catacombs and sarcophagi, resurrections and revelations: The book has them all, and Beaulieu wraps it up in a package that’s as graceful and contemplative as it is action-packed and pulse-pounding.”

  —NPR Books

  “Twelve Kings in Sharakhai is the gateway to what promises to be an intricate and exotic tale. The characters are well defined and have lives and histories that extend past the boundaries of the plot. The culture is well fleshed out and traditional gender roles are exploded. Çeda and Emre share a relationship seldom explored in fantasy, one that will be tried to the utmost as similar ideals provoke them to explore different paths. I expect that this universe will continue to expand in Beaulieu’s skillful prose. Wise readers will hop on this train now, as the journey promises to be breathtaking.”

  —Robin Hobb, author of The Assassin’s Apprentice

  “The protagonist, pit-fighter Çeda, is driven but not cold, and strong but not shallow. And the initial few scenes of violence and sex, while very engaging, soon give way to a much richer plot. Beaulieu is excellent at keeping a tight rein on the moment-to-moment action and building up the tension and layers of mysteries.”

  —SciFiNow (9 / 10 Rating)

  “I am impressed… An exceedingly inventive story in a lushly realized dark setting that is not your uncle’s Medieval Europe. I’ll be looking forward to the next installment.”

  —Glen Cook, author of The Black Company

  “This is an impressive performance.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Racine novelist delivers a compelling desert fantasy in ‘Twelve Kings’.”

  —The Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  “Beaulieu’s intricate world-building and complex characters are quickly becoming the hallmarks of his writing, and if this opening volume is any indication, The Song of the Shattered Sands promises to be one of the next great fantasy epics.”

  —Jim Kellen, Science Fiction and Fantasy Book Buyer for Barnes & Noble

  “Bradley P. Beaulieu’s new fantasy epic is filled with memorable characters, enticing mysteries, and a world so rich in sensory detail that you can feel the desert breeze in your hair as you read. Çeda is hands-down one of the best heroines in the genre—strong, resourceful, and fiercely loyal to friends and family. Fantasy doesn’t get better than this!”

  —C. S. Friedman, author of The Coldfire Trilogy

  The Doors at Dusk and Dawn

  The desert was bright and the wind was gusting when the ships of Tribe Rafik took in their sails. Ships of various builds and sizes came to rest in an orderly arc, nearly three dozen in all, their dark hulls sitting in stark contrast to the swaths of open desert beyond. On the decks and around the ships, hundreds of Rafik women, children, and men began to unload tents, supplies, food, firewood, even horses, along the gangplanks, all in anticipation of the coming competition and the days of celebration that both preceded and followed.

  All too soon, Devorah, a young woman of eighteen summers, was holding an iron tent stake in place while her twin sister, Leorah, used a heavy wooden mallet to drive it into the sand. Over and over the mallet struck home, Leorah’s well muscled arms driving it much faster, much harder, than Devorah ever could. She seemed almost angered by it, as if, after being trapped in a ship for so long, she wished to work out all her pent-up energy on the very first stake.

  “Careful,” Devorah said. “You’ll knock yourself out like Old Khyrn did the other day.”

  With one final grunt and a full-bodied swing, Leorah brought the mallet down. Then she arched her back and wiped her brow, breathing heavy as a wisp of her long, dark bangs slipped loose from the autumn-colored scarf tied around her head. Her copper skin shone with sweat, making the blue crescent moon tattoos over her temples stand out. “Old Khyrn knocked himself out whittling one time,” she said between breaths. “I’ll be fine.”

  While Devorah set the next spike, Leorah stuffed the lock of hair back beneath her scarf and hoisted the mallet back up to her shoulder. Then she set to—thump, thump, thump—while all around, dozens of others from Tribe Rafik busied themselves pitching tents of their own.

  “Who’s this now?” Devorah asked, catching movement along the horizon.

  It was a sandship, and it was heading straight for their encampment. A great tail of dust billowed behind the ship like an amber ostrich plume caught in a breeze. Beyond it, the Great Shangazi’s western mountains curved in a grand arc.

  A ship of Kundhun? Devorah mused. Or perhaps Qaimir?

  Few of the desert tribes sailed galleons. They were often too big. Too slow. Indeed, its silhouette was bulky and ponderous; it tilted awkwardly to port or starboard as it navigated the lazy dunes. Still, its stout skimwood skis, its three tall masts, and its set of billowing sails seemed to be carrying it over the sands well enough.

  Leorah shaded her eyes and stared out across the sand. Her face soured the longer she looked. “That’s a royal galleon.”

  Devorah peered more carefully at the ship, then saw it: the highest pennant bore the sign of the Sharakhani Kings, a shield with twelve shamshirs fanned around it. “A royal galleon…” Devorah spit onto the sand. “Why would they have come?”

  “They’ve come to partake in the traverse,” c
ame a voice behind them.

  Devorah and Leorah turned to find Armesh walking toward them. He wore not a turban, as most in the tribe did, but a simple agal and ghutrah. He was a man of forty summers with a long, wiry beard and kindly eyes that matched his soft manners. He was the husband to Şelal Ymine’ala al Rafik, the tribe’s charismatic shaikh, but Devorah and Leorah knew him as the man who’d done the most to shelter them after their parents and younger brother had been killed four years earlier. Armesh had known their mother and father. Known them quite well, in fact. They’d been raised together in the northern reaches of the desert in Tribe Tulogal, decades before Armesh had found himself married off to Şelal.

  The traverse Armesh had referred to was a legendary horse race more formally known as Annam’s Traverse. It was held once every three years in this very place, a competition attended by three tribes, who each put forth champions in hopes of taking the top prize.

  As Armesh neared, Leorah set the mallet down and pulled herself up. The two of them were of a height, but Leorah’s more muscled frame made her seem taller. “Why would the Kings wish to take part in a traverse?”

  Armesh shrugged, an innocent gesture from a man who surely knew more than he was letting on. “Perhaps they merely wish to test their mettle, as the rest of the tribes do.”

  “More likely they’ve come hoping to steal our glory before rubbing our noses in it.” Leorah had said it under her breath but still loudly enough for Armesh to hear. “It’s what they’re best at, no?”

  Armesh’s reply was even more muted. “You would do well to keep such thoughts to yourself, Leorah. Speak no ill of the Kings.” He spread his arms wide, a gesture that encompassed the entirety of the burgeoning camp around them. “It would reflect poorly not only on you, but the whole of the tribe.”

  “Of course,” Devorah said, stepping in before Leorah could say something foolish. “We’re grateful for our place here. You know this.”

  “I do”—Armesh’s pleasant smile returned—“but many of the others still do not, so you’ll watch your tongue, won’t you?” He stared fixedly at Leorah as he strode away, making for the center of the camp. He joined his wife, Şelal, who was speaking with the tribe’s elders, several of whom eyed the approaching galleon with guarded expressions.

  With Leorah still staring at Armesh’s back, working her jaw back and forth, Devorah picked up another stake. “No time for dawdling,” she said, snapping her fingers. “We have work to do.”

  Leorah stared at the mallet, still held loosely in her right hand. “Careful who you’re snapping those fingers at.” She lifted the mallet high. “You’re speaking to a woman who holds your fate in her hands.”

  Down the mallet came, but it was uncharacteristically off target, and the head skipped off, narrowly missing Leorah’s hands.

  “Ho!” Devorah shouted. “My turn!” And took the mallet away.

  Smiling, Leorah knelt and held the stake. “So easy to manipulate…”

  “How little you know. I wanted the mallet all along.” She swung, and the mallet came down with a pathetic smack.

  Staring at it for a moment, both of them burst into laughter.

  Over the next few hours, the camp filled in around them. Men and women moved along the lengthening aisles like boats on a river. Tents and pavilions dominated once open spaces. Large piles of firewood were laid out near the cooking pits and in the large space to the north of camp, a circle of celebration where all three attending tribes would gather and sing songs, trade tales and drink spirits. It was one of the largest gatherings the desert knew. Tribes Rafik, Okan, and Narazid would all come in hopes of putting forth a champion who could win the traverse. But even if they didn’t, it was a time to renew ties with their sister tribes.

  When they finished with their own tent and helped erect several others near them, Devorah and Leorah helped with the food. The air was laced with lemon and rosemary and the smell of roasting goat. Children ran shouting and playing while their elders bellowed for them to behave. Who could blame the children, though? They’d been cooped up in the ships for the past two weeks as they’d journeyed toward the site of the traverse.

  Over the course of the day, other ships sailed in. A dozen flying the black-wing banners of Okan came near midday. A bare handful from Narazid arrived shortly before nightfall. The royal galleon anchored some half-league distant, but no one came forth to greet Şelal or anyone else. Şelal was forced to send Armesh to greet them and welcome them to the western reaches of the Great Shangazi.

  “Bloody cowards,” Leorah said as they approached Bagra, the tribe’s physic, ready to help carry her things into her tent.

  “Stop it,” Devorah said while shooting a glance toward Bagra. A notorious night owl, she was nodding off in her folding chair by the entrance. Every so often she’d snort, shake herself awake and look around wildly, then rest her hands over her soft belly once more. “There’s nothing to be gained by poking the Kings of Sharakhai with a sharp stick.”

  Inside the tent, Leorah threw down the carpet she had slung over her shoulder. “Don’t you start, too.”

  Devorah kicked the carpet so that it rolled out, then set Bagra’s musty bedding atop it. She gripped Leorah’s shoulders and spoke softly but forcefully. “The wounds are still fresh for me too. I still wake thinking they’re sleeping across the tent from us. I wish there was something we could do, but we can’t. They’re dead. We nearly were too. But by the grace of the gods, we’ve found ourselves in a new tribe with people willing to shelter us.”

  Leorah sneered. “By the grace of the gods…”

  Devorah held up her forefinger, an echo of their father when he was mad. “I mean it. Enough. Set the past aside. The traverse is about to begin. Just think how grand it will be seeing the Kings lose to us!”

  At last, a hint of a smile showed on Leorah’s full lips. “It will be grand, won’t it?”

  That night, food was shared between the Biting Shields of Tribe Rafik, the Black Wings of Tribe Okan, and the few Bloody Manes of Tribe Narazid who’d arrived. No one from the Kings’ galleon came, though many had exited the ship. They’d set up a small camp beyond it, but not a single one had approached to share in the tribes’ fires. Some wondered why they would travel so far and not at least break bread with the desert folk, but none shed a tear; the Kings were tolerated in the desert, little more.

  The following day, dozens more ships arrived. Horses were carried on many of them, tall beasts with glittering coats of iron and copper and brass and gold. These were the akhalas, the giants of the desert, horses that pastured in the mountains while the tribes sailed the sands of the Great Shangazi on their fleets of sandships. During the warmer months the tribes returned and used them for hunting and sport and the simple joy of ranging the world on such magnificent beasts. The akhalas of Tribe Narazid sported bright red manes, dusted as they were in sanguine chalk. It made them look feral and crazed as they sprinted over the sand or over the hard earth near the mountains. Those of Tribe Rafik and Okan were just as grand, bedecked with glittering bridles, rich leather saddles, and bright blankets with cloth tassels.

  Near the Kings’ ship, a lone man rode tirelessly over the desert. He split his time between three different horses, perhaps those he’d trained simultaneously in case one turned up lame. Now and again he came near the edge of the Tribes’ camp, but he never entered it, nor spoke to anyone, as if he’d been ordered not to or thought himself above it. Leorah was incensed by him, but Devorah, though she’d never admit it to Leorah, was intrigued. He was tall and, from what little she could tell over such a distance, quite handsome. His long black hair flowed freely behind him, not so differently from his favored horse, an akhala with a lustrous onyx tail. By the gods, he looked as if he’d been born on the silver beast.

  “Bloody gods,” Leorah said, “why don’t you just spread your legs on the sand before him and have done?” She was stitching an amberlark along the hem of a dress she’d been embellishing over the pas
t week. She’d noticed Devorah’s wandering eyes, perhaps more often than Devorah had realized.

  Devorah returned to her painting of a clay water ewer. She had been watching the rider, and for decidedly longer than was proper. Still, without even really willing it, she kept looking whenever Leorah’s back was turned.

  That night, the first official feast of the traverse was held. All three tribes were present. And this time, the Kings’ contingent did come. There were a dozen in attendance—the bent form of King Sukru foremost among them. He was a wizened man with small eyes and a hard stare. He seemed to take everything in around him with a covetous look, as if he considered the desert his own possession and wondered at the gall of the tribes who’d dared step foot in it. Devorah noted the whip coiled at his side—a weapon, it was said, given to him by the god of war, Thaash himself.

  When Sukru was offered food and wine, he seemed to relax. He ate, as did the others, men and women from Sharakhai, the desert’s Amber Jewel, who were of no tribe and all tribes at the same time. To Devorah’s great interest, the lone rider came as well. His name was Kirhan, and he was as handsome as he’d seemed from a distance. Once or twice, to her horror, he caught her staring at him. And to her great annoyance, she also caught his eye wandering toward Leorah. Leorah was the loudest. She joked the most. She flirted. She was the one who got the looks—from men, from women, it didn’t matter. Devorah wasn’t like her. Never had been. She was the quiet one, the moon to Leorah’s sun.