The door opened, creaking lightly. In the doorway stood a tall man—not nearly as tall as Brechan, but tall just the same. He wore simple brown robes and held a clay candle holder with two stubby candles burning within it. He looked to Brechan, then to Styophan, and finally he nodded and stepped aside.
Brechan led the way, walking into a hallway that flickered and waved under the light of the candle. Without a word, the robed man closed the door behind them and handed the candle holder to Brechan. After one final nod, he shuffled away as if longer strides would pain him.
“Come,” Brechan said, and he led Styophan down a wide hall on their right that led to a set of tight, curving stairs. The stairs led up and up and up, and at the end of it they reached the minaret’s belfry. Both of them ducked around the eight brass bells that occupied much of the tight space. Ropes slipped down from the yokes and through holes in the wooden floorboards. Styophan had heard these bells. They rang thrice per day at least, once at sunrise, once at midday, and once at sunset, each with its own distinctive ring.
From the open window Styophan could see the landscape of the city for leagues around. It was a study of shades in bistre and buttercream.
And Kasir Irabahce was laid bare.
“Do you see the tower of wives?”
Styophan looked across the expanse of the kasir. There were a dozen tall towers and minarets, but there was one near the center of the complicated cluster of buildings that was elegant. Even from this distance and in the dimness of the night, he could see the glint of gold paint as it shone off the balconies ringing each level.
“What of it?”
“There is a tunnel that leads there. If you want your prince, and your young Nasim, that is the way to reach them.”
“It cannot be so easy as that.”
“Hayir, not so easy as that. But there are women within the tower. Women with ties to Hael. They are not women the young Kamarisi trusts as yet, but they live within the tower, and if I ask for it, you will find your way in. From there, it will be a simple matter to forge a path to the smaller tower beyond it. The path is not straight. There will be blood. But I am sure you will find them there.”
Fast-moving clouds swept across the moon, darkening the landscape, but Styophan could see the tower Brechan was referring to: a squat tower perhaps four stories high. “You’re sure?”
“The Kamarisi has always kept prisoners of import there.”
“You’ve never been to Alekeşir,” Styophan said.
Brechan had merely to look up to the roof of the bell tower, as if to show Styophan the reach of the Haelish kings, and the implications played themselves out. Styophan looked over the city, and suddenly Alekeşir took on a completely different complexion. How many who lived here had the blood of Hael running through their veins? How many silently refused to bend knee to the Kamarisi? Whether the reason was blood or money didn’t matter. The point was that Brechan had power, even in the heart of the Empire. “Why, then, would you risk the attack during the Kamarisi’s address as we’d planned?”
“Because attacking him there is something all will see. I would not have the Kamarisi’s death hidden. I would not have them pretend that it was illness, or betrayal from within. I would have the entire Empire know that Hael has come. That our blades will be brought to bear against any who dare tread upon our lands.”
“And you would give that up for my prince?”
Brechan paused, and when he spoke again, his words were grim. “Hayir, I would not.”
The clouds had moved on, and Styophan could see the mischievous glint in Brechan’s eyes. He was smiling a wicked smile, a smile that said he had plans, a smile that could easily turn to a snap and a growl.
“You’re still going to the dome,” Styophan said. “You’re still going to kill the Kamarisi.”
“Evet, son of Anuskaya.” He slapped Styophan on the shoulder. Hard. “I am.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
In the moments before dawn, Nikandr stared out through the thick iron bars of his cell and breathed in the chill morning air. The eastern sky was a burnished gold, the kasir and the towers of the city beyond dark as coal. He was sweating despite the chill.
In his right hand he held the alabaster stone given to him by Ashan. He’d been holding it so tightly for so long his hand hurt, but he didn’t relax his grip. He refused to, because for the first time in over eighteen months, he could feel something.
He felt the wind, not merely on his face, or on the skin of his neck or the back of his hands; he felt it in his heart, in his gut. He felt it running through him, not merely around him. He felt the swells of air as low clouds blew across the city. As he knew his own mind, he felt the currents guide the flurry of snow over the orchards below. He felt the gust near the top of the wall beyond as a knot in his stomach. Strongest of all, though, was a kink of wind within a courtyard to his left. It played near the base of a tall tower. Snow was lifted like leaves on an autumn gust; it toyed for long moments along the circular black lines decorating the pavement.
It was a hezhan, Nikandr knew, and it was near to crossing over from Adhiya into Erahm. Its movements were rhythmic, though not in a way Nikandr was accustomed to. It twisted and rose, turned and disappeared, only to lift the snow near the sculpted trees that graced the yard. At one point it picked up five leaves. The snow described the rough shape of a man as the leaves circled the air like a crown. Nikandr could see the shape of a chest, shoulders, legs. Every so often he could even see the hint of an arm and a hand before a twist in the wind obscured it once more.
It strode across the courtyard, a king striding forth to meet his subjects.
Come, Nikandr called to it. Take me.
But the havahezhan did not.
Nikandr knew he was trying too hard, but he knew no other way to do it. This was a thing like breathing, like eating.
Nyet, he thought. Not like breathing. It is like love or desire. How can I give those up?
In a gust the hezhan was gone. Nikandr waited as the sun continued to rise, hoping it would return, but soon it was clear it had returned back across the veil to Adhiya. He loosened his grip on the alabaster stone, and the cramping in his hand eased. He could still feel the other hezhan, but they were distant now, and he was sure that if he’d had no success with one that had been so near, so tantalizingly close, he’d have no success with the others.
He held the stone between his thumb and forefinger, held it out through the bars of the window and thought about what Ashan had told him when he’d given him the stone. It lightens the mind, he’d said. It opens one up to the world.
Could it truly do so?
Nyet, he told himself. That isn’t the right question. Can it do so for me? That is the question.
As he held it out at arm’s length, he eased his grip until the stone barely remained in his grasp. It might easily slip from his fingers and fall to the ground below, lost to him forever. As he stared at it, accepting this, he lengthened his breath until inhalation and exhalation were the same. He breathed out as if it were his last dying breath, inhaled as if he’d been granted new life, each one longer than the last. The world at the edges of his vision began to fade, to darken, until everything had been distilled down to three things: his hand, the stone, and the sky beyond.
Something yawned open inside him. It felt as though the earth were splitting, ready to gobble him whole. He did not shy away from this feeling, for in the wind, not two dozen paces from his window, the snow was swirling. It gained shape as he watched, twisting and turning, losing form momentarily before gaining it once more.
It approached. Nikandr did not offer himself to the hezhan as he’d tried so often before. Instead he merely waited, accepting the widening of the divide within him. He could feel the heightened wind as it soughed through his fingers. He felt chill, but more than this, he felt as though he were reaching across the divide, reaching across the aether.
And it felt for the first time since the battle at the S
par as if a hezhan were reaching back. He could see—described only by a hint of eddying snow—an arm lift. He could feel it as well, a soul standing close to his. It was not the same hezhan as years ago. It was different, and for this he was glad. He felt as though he had imprisoned that one, where this one came willingly. They would trade of themselves, an accord that might last for a day, or a week, or a mere moment—he didn’t care which, as long as he could feel the touch of a hezhan once more.
The hezhan was close now. It buffeted his hand, tickled the skin between his fingers. He could even smell it, a scent like burning mace.
Distracting him from this, however, was a sound that was faint but growing stronger—footsteps scraping upon stone. He ignored it, focusing on the stone and opening himself to the hezhan.
The hezhan, however, was now holding its position outside his cell window. The form before him bent and dissolved before coalescing once more into the hezhan-who-would-be-king. Nikandr thought surely it would dissipate as it had before.
But it didn’t.
It reached out.
And Nikandr was certain it was ready to bond with him.
But then came the jingle of keys, the clank of metal, the clicking as a key was turned inside a lock. And before him, the twisting form burst like a crystal goblet upon a floor of white marble.
Behind him, the cell door creaked open, and the yawning inside him vanished.
The hezhan was gone.
Nikandr drew his hand inside, and bent over, coughing from the sudden shift. Pain in his hand from a cold that was well past numbness blossomed. He gripped the alabaster stone tightly as the pain made him shiver.
“Stand up,” said a voice in Yrstanlan.
He couldn’t. Not yet. He cupped his hand gently with his other, trying to bring warmth to fingers that had turned blue.
“Stand up!” the guard said as he cuffed Nikandr’s head.
The pain of it was nothing compared to the throbbing agony in his hand. He managed to stand and face the guard, but he couldn’t help but cradle his right hand tenderly. The guard, a janissary with a red silk turban and fine white clothes, glanced down. He looked out through the bars of the window and frowned. With his broad mustache the look made him seem less like an enemy and more like an annoyed uncle. He strode to the window and swung the thick wooden pane shut.
“Did your hand wish to escape like a bird?”
“Hayir. I merely wished to look upon the city that has coveted our islands for so long.”
The smile vanished, replaced by a disappointed frown and a jutting jaw. “Go,” he said, pointing to the open cell door. “The Kamarisi will speak with you.”
Nikandr was led to a grand hall filled with white marble columns and gold filagree and inlaid floors of mother-of-pearl and onyx and lapis lazuli. The hall was massive, one hundred paces if it was an inch. Above was a dome filled with bright paintings of gold and red. It showed the janissaries of old with conical helms and tall spears riding forth from a high gate—no doubt the gate that had stood as entrance to Kasir Irabahce for centuries.
Strangely, trailing down from the center of the dome, all the way down to the floor, was an iron chain with a spiked weight at the end of it. Standing next to this chain was a boy. He could be no other than Selim ül Hakan, the Kamarisi of Yrstanla. He wore robes of green silk with golden leaves worked into the cloth. The mantle he wore over his robes was a rich brown wool lined with white ermine. His almond-shaped turban was understated for the Kamarisi—or so it seemed to Nikandr. So many of the Kaymakam had large, olive-shaped turbans with tall plumes and ostentatious brooches. The Kamarisi’s was simple silk, and the stone at the center was a large and beautiful emerald, but he wore no plume. Perhaps he dresses more boldly when the Kaymakam come to call.
To either side of the Kamarisi, standing near the pillars, were six bald men in simple kaftans. Nikandr thought the Kiliç Şaik would be present, but they were not. There were only the Kamarisi and these six men—slaves, surely, and most likely eunuchs.
Nikandr was led forward by the janissary, but he stopped when he reached the edge of a large circle exactly wide as the dome high above. The guardsman motioned Nikandr forward and then bowed to the Kamarisi and took his leave. The doors boomed shut behind Nikandr, leaving him alone with this young man, this ruler of a vast Empire, and his most trusted servants.
The Kamarisi waved to the space before him, the space opposite him on the circular design in the floor. “Come.”
Selim was nine years old, Nikandr knew, but his voice made him seem older. He was also tall for his age.
Nikandr strode forward, the echo from his footsteps the only thing to fill this massive space. When he reached the circle, the Kamarisi motioned to the chain and the large weight at the end of it. One of the eunuchs slid across the floor and took up the chain. He brought it back to the edge of the larger circle and swung the chain fiercely, sending it swinging around the circle. The other five servants moved in, each taking some appointed place around the circle and pushing the weight as it swung by. Like this the chain moved around Selim and Nikandr, describing an endless arc.
“If you think to protect yourself from the Matri, there are none near enough to see you.”
Selim had been watching the chain, but now he turned and faced Nikandr squarely. “Is the third sister of Vostroma not on our shores?”
He meant Atiana. It felt strange for the Kamarisi of Yrstanla to speak of her, even more so in avoiding the use of her name. Nikandr shrugged and nodded. “She is, but she’s brought with her no drowning basin.”
“And the first sister? What of her?”
Ishkyna. She could, of course, come this far, and had in the past, but she was most likely to the east, helping the Grand Duke, Leonid Dhalingrad, as he pushed the warfront westward.
“I doubt she is near, Kamarisi.”
Selim, who came only to Nikandr’s chest, took a step forward until the two of them were only an arm’s length away from one another. “It isn’t for the Matri that I do this in any case.” Nikandr didn’t understand at first, but then Selim spoke further. “They tell me you saw Kaleh in the Gaji.”
“I did.”
“Is it true? Is she one with Sariya?”
“That is what Nasim thinks.”
Selim’s eyes watched as the chain passed behind Nikandr. “And do you believe him?”
Nikandr shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems far-fetched—I saw Sariya’s dead body on Galahesh—but I would never doubt Nasim. And what she’s done… It does seem beyond one so young as Kaleh.”
“Your Soroush said you shot her, in Shadam Khoreh.”
So he’d spoken to Soroush. Perhaps the others as well. “Evet. She dropped from the wound, but we couldn’t find her body after the storm over the valley had passed.”
Selim changed at these words. Up until this point he had seemed like a younger version of his father—not simply confident, but entitled—but now a bit of his youth began to show. He blinked his eyes and swallowed. His face looked hopeful, like a boy hoping to find some nod of appreciation from his father.
“Do you—” He swallowed and started again. “Do you believe her dead?”
“In truth, I don’t know. If Sariya had assumed Kaleh, and we all believe she had, there’s no telling what might happen were Kaleh to die. Perhaps she would move to another. Perhaps she would live in the aether as Ishkyna Vostroma does. Or perhaps she would fade and die, as do the Matri who become irretrievably lost in the aether.”
Selim licked his lips while staring intently into Nikandr’s eyes. “But what do you think happened?”
“Forgive me, Your Eminence, but you seem to be hoping for a certain answer. May I ask why you wish for it so dearly?”
“I…” He stopped and took a deep breath and released it in a huff. “When my father died, I was told of what had happened when Sariya came to Alekeşir in guise. She beguiled my father, as she did Bahett ül Kirdhash, as she did many others, including your pri
ncess, Atiana Vostroma.”
Again Nikandr was surprised that he knew so much of Atiana—and himself—but of course the Kamarisi, even one as young as Selim, would have been briefed with much information from the islands, surely some even before his father had died.
“We had thought her dead, but we now know she returned here as Kaleh.”
Nikandr shook his head. “She went to the Gaji, with Nasim.”
“She did, but she came here first.” Selim watched the iron chain pass beyond Nikandr’s shoulders, and the way he was looking at it made it clear he dearly hoped it would help to protect him. “She found me. She took my mind, as she did my father. But that all changed two months ago. I’ve been thinking clearly for the first time in nearly two years, but I have no doubt that if Kaleh lives, that if Sariya returns, she will have me once more. I remember little of the days after Kaleh came to the kasir. I don’t even remember her arriving. But I remember this, Nikandr of Khalakovo, she wanted Sukharam found. She wanted the rest of you as well, if that could be arranged, but in Sukharam she was clear. And she already had Nasim.”
“Sukharam is gifted, as Nasim is. As Kaleh herself is.”
“There’s more. She wished for the war to the east to continue. She insisted that we not send so many resources that Leonid and his army and windships would be pushed back over the shores of Oramka and onto Galahesh. She wanted the war to remain on our lands.” He waited for these words to settle. “Why?” He was desperate for this knowledge. The way he leaned forward, the way his hands grasped, the way his eyes pleaded, all of this spoke to his hunger for insight, perhaps so that he could have his Empire back, but more importantly, so that he could have himself back.
Of course the answer to his question was obvious. Sariya had gone to Shadam Khoreh to find the Tashavir, to destroy them one by one, thus lifting the wards they’d placed over the island long ago. She wanted the island for herself. She wanted to return with the Atalayina. And now she had it. She had everything she needed.
The Flames of Shadam Khoreh Page 37
