When he pulled his head up at last, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed. His sadness had left in its wake a cold, hard anger that he hadn’t felt in years, not since the days when his emotions were as out of control as the autumn winds. It was time, he thought, time to find Muqallad. He had to save Ashan and Sukharam, but he wouldn’t leave Rabiah. Not here.
He looked up to the celestia on its hill above the city.
Yeh, he thought. He would bring her there, and he would build a pyre and set her to the winds.
He picked her up in his arms-by the fates, she was light-and walked up the long sloping hill toward the celestia. On his right, the ground fell away, leaving only a steep slope and a short, rocky beach before the waves of the sea stretched out toward the horizon. He remembered that beach. He had dreamed of it many times. He would go there, he decided. After he’d laid Rabiah to rest, he would go there, and the beach would whispers secrets to him.
By the time he reached the top of the hill sweat rolled down his forehead and his arms burned. He brought Rabiah to the center of the celestia’s floor, where he could still see the outline of Ghayavand. As he laid her gently down, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Standing at the edge of the stairs leading up to the celestia floor was a man wearing the ragged robes of a Maharraht. He was tall with dark hair and piercing, gray-green eyes.
It was difficult to remember the people and events from before Oshtoyets, but this man he recognized. This was Soroush, the man who had sought to use him to tear open the rift that ran through Khalakovo. In his black turban was a stone of jasper. His beard was long and black, and the earrings along his ruined left ear glinted beneath the cold winter sun. It was as it had always been, and somehow this enraged Nasim.
Before he knew what he was doing, he had stood and charged forward. He beat Soroush with his fists. Soroush gave ground, but did not otherwise defend himself. This only enraged Nasim further. He swung, over and over, pummeling Soroush’s shoulders, his arms, his torso, his head, and Soroush took it all, his face calm and accepting, as if he knew this was just punishment.
In the end, Nasim couldn’t keep it up. The anger in him ran deep, but it was not in him to harm others, not when they refused to raise a hand to defend themselves. He realized then, even though he’d not been with Ashan all that long, how much he’d been affected by the kindly old arqesh, and how little he’d been affected by Soroush.
Thank the fates for small favors.
Nasim’s breath came in ragged gasps. “What are you doing here?” It was all he could think to say, though his emotions were still so close to boiling that his hands shook.
Soroush stared into Nasim’s eyes. Nasim was not as tall as Soroush, and it made him feel insignificant. It made him feel as if he was eleven all over again. It made him feel as though the days of dreaming between the worlds had returned. It felt-staring at Soroush with sudden clarity-as if he were experiencing one of those rare moments of lucidity in his younger years, and that at any moment he would revert to being confused, to walking Adhiya and Erahm simultaneously, his mind and senses in a constant state of war.
“I asked what you were doing here,” Nasim said, more forcefully.
Soroush motioned to Rabiah. “I don’t know who she was-”
“Speak not of her.” Nasim’s fists were bunched so tightly it hurt.
“I speak not of her, but of your loss. I am sorry for it.”
“Tell me how you came to be here, son of Gatha, or begone.”
Soroush’s jaw went rigid as he considered Nasim, perhaps wondering whether he should push Nasim or not. “I’ve come from Rafsuhan. It is where Muqallad has gone. Did you know this?”
“What of it?”
“He’s preparing to perform a ritual to fuse two pieces of the Atalayina.”
Nasim had known this, but his fingers still tingled to hear that it would happen so soon.
Soroush continued, “He’s taken many children, including my son, and created more of the akhoz.” Soroush’s voice… It was strange. His voice was filled not with regret, but wonder, and pride. Pride, as if the loss of his son was somehow something he would cherish for the rest of his life.
“Do you not love your son?” Nasim asked.
Soroush’s head jerked backward. “Of course I do.”
“In one so vengeful as you I would have thought to find anger.”
“Do not mistake my actions for vengeance, Nasim. I am an agent of change. Just as the Landed were centuries ago. It is our time now.”
“Then why not let Muqallad have his way with the world?”
“Because he would undo all we see around us. He would have me believe that the world is ready for indaraqiram when it is not. To force it upon the world would be to send us back to the beginning. We would lose whatever progress we have made-however slight it might be, however grand, he would ruin it.”
“As you would ruin your own life.”
“I darken my soul that others’ might brighten.”
“You speak of the Aramahn, but what of the Maharraht? What of their lives? Their future selves? They are people as surely as those who live today, are they not?”
“I don’t expect you to understand my sacrifice, Nasim. It’s merely something I must do.”
Light glinted from Soroush’s stone of jasper. Nasim took note, not of the stone, but of his own growing awareness of Soroush’s connection to Adhiya. He had been so lost in his grief of Rabiah, and then his surprise at Soroush’s presence, but over the years he had become adept at telling who might be able to commune with hezhan. Soroush, he knew, had been burned. He’d had his abilities taken from him by the Aramahn for his conversion to the Maharraht’s cause. His burning was a great source of shame for Soroush, and yet here he was with a stone of jasper and a clear ability to commune with the spirits of the earth.
Not only this, Nasim realized; other spirits as well, and the deeper he looked into Soroush’s soul, the more he realized how wrong all of this was.
This wasn’t Soroush at all, he realized.
This was Muqallad, and just like in the village by the lake, he had come to trick Nasim. He had come to fool him into believing he was something he was not.
“Can you not face me as yourself?” Nasim asked. “Did Khamal strike such fear into your heart that you would hide from me, a mere echo?”
Soroush’s eyes narrowed. He paused, and then his face began to change. It broadened. And his ear was healed. His beard became longer and darker and squared at the end. And soon, Muqallad stood before him once more.
“Have you come for the stone?” Nasim asked. “For if you have, it is too late. It is gone from this isle, slipped from the reach of Ghayavand, slipped even from the reach of Sariya.”
“Regrettable,” Muqallad said, “but it will come, and there is more to discuss.”
“There is nothing for us to discuss save the freeing of those you’ve taken.”
Muqallad smiled. He seemed somehow larger than he’d been only moments ago. He seemed darker, as if his eyes could peel Nasim’s skin. Muqallad took a step forward, into the circle of the celestia. This was as clear a challenge as Nasim was likely to get.
“Do you remember when you came here with Ashan and the men from the islands? I was still in the throes of the spell you’d cast upon me and Sariya.” He took another step forward. “You managed to slow the world around us. You managed to banish me from this plane, send me back to the place you’d prepared for us until your return. I hardly think you even knew what you were doing then, but I wonder if you do now.”
Nasim knew exactly what Muqallad was talking about-he’d thought on it often-and the truth was there had been little he’d done consciously while on this island. He’d felt as though he were walking in someone else’s dream. Surely Khamal had hoped that a man in control of himself and his mind would make his way back to Ghayavand. He couldn’t have been prepared for a boy who barely understood the world around him.
Muqallad approa
ched, and Nasim could do nothing but step back. Muqallad raised his hand and Nasim froze in place. His muscles would no longer respond. Muqallad stopped when he was face-to-face with Nasim.
“You’ve grown in many ways, Khamal, but you are still as a babe in the ones that matter most.”
Muqallad reached out and grasped Nasim’s head. As soon as Muqallad’s warm skin touched Nasim’s ears and cheeks, pain coursed through him like a red-hot iron.
CHAPTER FORTY
N asim’s mind was lit afire. Memories played through him, things he hadn’t thought of in years, things he couldn’t recall ever happening to him. What Muqallad didn’t realize-or disregarded-was that Nasim could read his thoughts as well. It was difficult to understand, but Nasim knew this: Muqallad was searching for something. He was desperate for it.
Through the haze Nasim recalled the sense of clawing from Muqallad in the depths of the village. He remembered as well his yearning to be free from the trap Khamal had laid for him when he’d last been on the island.
And then it struck him.
Muqallad was not yet free.
Khamal’s trap was still in effect, and Muqallad needed to unlock its secrets to free himself from this island once and for all.
This was something Nasim could not allow. At all costs, he had to prevent Muqallad from attaining this information. But Muqallad was already getting closer. He was sifting through Nasim’s dreams, his memories of Khamal. There were glimpses of Khamal’s life that Nasim couldn’t remember dreaming.
Time passed. Just how much Nasim had no idea, but he began to understand what Muqallad was doing, and how he was doing it. He could sense the hezhan Muqallad was bonded to, five of them at once.
It was these that Nasim called upon now.
He drew upon Muqallad’s havahezhan to raise the wind. It blew through the celestia, pulling dust and dirt and fallen leaves into the interior of the dome. It swirled around Muqallad, confused him.
Then Nasim caused the stone beneath Muqallad’s feet to soften, to become little more than mud, and the moment Muqallad sank to his ankles, he firmed the stone up once more.
He drew upon the jalahezhan to slick the surface of the celestia’s floor and he used the dhoshahezhan to draw himself away from Muqallad.
But then it all stopped.
Muqallad cut him off. He knew of Nasim’s limitations, and had devised his defenses accordingly.
Muqallad ripped his feet free, and the stone-solid once more-cracked and clattered and skittered over the floor. As the wind died, the leaves settled onto the wet floor like pattering rain.
“Come,” Muqallad said as he neared, “I would have thought you’d want me to uncover these things. Is it not what you’ve been searching for for years?”
Nasim worked desperately to force himself to move. He railed against Muqallad’s will, trying to gain access to the hezhan once more, but it was impossible. Muqallad was too aware of what he was trying to do, and he stopped him at every turn.
But then, as Muqallad tore through Nasim’s mind once more, Nasim felt something-someone-at the edge of his awareness. She-for Nasim was certain the presence was a girl-reminded him of Rabiah at first. But of course that was impossible. Rabiah lay dead at the center of the celestia floor. And then he thought it was Sukharam, for who else could it be?
In a flash a vision came to him-the memory of the girl walking across the bridge toward the village’s entrance. She had been leading the akhoz-he was sure of this-and yet here she was, watching as Muqallad came closer and closer to finding what he needed, and it seemed as though she was asking Nasim to use her abilities, asking him to stop Muqallad.
It seemed strange.
It felt like a trap.
But in his desperation he couldn’t deny himself this chance for escape. He drew upon her, as he had with Rabiah and Sukharam, as he had Muqallad, but this time was so much easier. It was like picking up a pen to write. Like strumming the strings of a lute to make sound.
The wind came again, and this time there was nothing Muqallad could do to stop it. He was pushed away. The debris from around the celestia struck him. He fell to his knees, arms up, warding against the attack.
Nasim freed himself. It was not like he had broken bonds, but rather as if he’d stepped to one side and the bonds had fallen away.
Muqallad was already recovering. He drew upon his own hezhan, perhaps more than he had in decades. He was angry now. Nasim could feel it, could see it in his face. He stood and summoned water to envelope Nasim. In a flash, Nasim was pulled up from the floor until he floated within the muddy water.
He had been weakened from the pain Muqallad had inflicted, but this would not stop him. Not now.
He drew upon a vanahezhan, called it to action.
And it obeyed.
The floor shook. The columns began to crack. The sound of it resonated beneath the high dome.
Nasim demanded more.
Muqallad knew what was happening, knew that he had to leave, but Nasim drew upon a dhoshahezhan to force him to remain in place. He had not expected something that he had used so effectively against another to be used against him. He stood frozen, and the water around Nasim fell in a loud rush.
Nasim stumbled back, the ground beneath him rising and bucking, shifting and sliding. And then a crack resounded above him. It was followed by another and another. The high dome focused the sound, making what was already loud deafening.
He ran, but a chunk of stone struck his shoulder and sent him sprawling. Smaller pieces of rock and scree bit into the skin of his scalp and forehead and hands. Rock dust billowed around him, making it nearly impossible to breathe.
Gathering himself, he called upon the wind to blow the dust away. He sprinted forward as a crash moved the ground. He slipped on the slick marble floor, half crawling and half running from the crumbling structure.
As he reached the edge of the circular floor, the fluted columns nearby groaned and bowed and finally gave way. He ran as quickly as he was able, but he was still thrown forward onto the ground. It sounded as if the island itself was being swallowed by the world.
As the sound began to fade, Nasim got to his feet. Though he could sense the girl standing not fifty paces away, he found his path to Adhiya cut off.
Nasim approached her while the ruins of the celestia grumbled and groaned. The dust parted and flowed around her like a weathered stone in a long-forgotten stream.
“Who are you?” Nasim asked.
She looked over Nasim’s shoulder to the destruction beyond. “He will not remain for long.” She held out her hand to him and turned, waiting.
“Where do we go?”
“Do you not wish to find your friends?”
“Who are you?”
“Kaleh. Now come,” she said, shaking her hand for him and glancing again toward the ruined celestia.
He took it, and together they ran. Fear drove them, and it took little time to reach the streets of Alayazhar and to pass beyond Sariya’s broken tower, but they had gone only halfway through the city when they heard a resounding boom from the hill behind them. Nasim turned and saw on the celestia’s hill, above the shattered remains of the buildings, a pillar of dust flying high into the air.
They pushed themselves harder after this. Nasim was too worried to speak, to ask Kaleh questions. He felt as though breaking the silence would also break this spell of good fortune and reveal it to be yet another trap.
Kaleh was just as silent, though whether this was simply her nature or a symptom of her own fear he didn’t know.
They raced through the city and reached the outskirts. The road through the hills led them up toward the peaks and the bridge that led to the village. The bridge itself, tall and white and ill kept, was empty. It looked fragile, as if adding their weight to it would force its collapse. As they crossed, holding hands, Nasim looked down toward the river, to the place he and Rabiah had run from the akhoz. It felt strange to be looking down upon it, walking on the bridge
with the same girl he’d seen from that lower vantage. It felt as if he’d allied himself with Muqallad, as if Rabiah’s death had been a plan in which he’d played an integral part, and each step he took cemented these feelings until it felt like little more than betrayal.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“What?” Kaleh asked.
“Nothing.”
They entered the village and wended their way down through the tunnels. Nasim did not see any of the akhoz, but he could feel them lurking in the darkness. They did not bar their way, however. It made this strange situation feel even more surreal, and soon Nasim couldn’t take the silence any longer.
“Why are you helping me?” he asked.
“Because Muqallad is using me. He would use you as well, and that, at least for now, I will not allow.”
“ How is he using you?”
“You of all people should know. You were what gave him the clues he needed.”
“Clues to what?”
“Finding the way Adhiya and Erahm are linked.”
“They are linked through the aether.”
“That doesn’t answer the question of how they’re linked.”
“Then tell me.”
She pulled him down a tunnel where several siraj stones lit the way from sconces set into the walls. “That I cannot say.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t yet know whether I will allow Muqallad to use me further.”
“You have a choice?”
“Do you?” she asked, her eyes flat and judgmental.
“I don’t know.”
“And neither do I.” They came to the doors. “Get them, quickly. Muqallad is coming.”
Before Nasim could move, he heard the braying of one of the akhoz, far in the distance. It was picked up moments later by others, dozens of them. They were closing in already.
Nasim took a siraj from a sconce and went to the nearest door, which opened at his touch. Inside, sleeping, was Sukharam. He stood from his bed of matted hay, blinking at the light.
“Come,” Nasim said. “We have little time.”
Sukharam’s eyes were wild with fear, darting to the hall behind Nasim, and yet he stood his ground. “What of Rabiah?”
The Straits of Galahesh loa-2 Page 33
