Nasim waved him to leave the room. “Not now, Sukharam.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone, Sukharam. Dead. Killed in Sariya’s tower.”
Sukharam lowered his arm, allowing the light to strike him full in the face. His look of anger became one of disgust, a mirror of Nasim’s own feelings.
The wails of the akhoz approached. They sounded hungry, and it made Nasim’s stomach turn. “We must go, Sukharam!”
Sukharam walked past Nasim, the cold air of the tunnels wafting by as he did so. “We’ll speak of this again.”
Nasim rushed into the next room. Ashan was lying on the floor, his face a mass of cuts and bruises and half-healed burns. Soroush was already standing, and looked as though he’d received no ill treatment whatsoever. Seeing him next to Ashan, who looked as though he’d been beaten for weeks, was strange indeed.
Soroush and Sukharam slipped Ashan’s arms around their shoulders and half carried, half dragged him from the room.
“This way,” Kaleh said as she continued down the tunnel. There, however, they came to a dead end.
“What have you done?” Nasim cried.
“Be quiet,” Kaleh said. With a touch of her finger, a small hole opened in the wall and widened.
Behind them, the akhoz rounded the corner. They went mad when they spied the five of them.
The hole widened until it looked like the open maw of an earthen beast. “Step inside,” Kaleh said. “Quickly.”
They did, without hesitation. As soon as the last of them were in, the walls began closing in again. The world darkened, and the stone pressed in around them.
Sukharam shouted in fright.
Nasim’s last thought was that Kaleh had betrayed them.
What followed was darkness and a freezing embrace as the cold stone pressed ever more surely against their frames. Nasim could not draw breath. He could not move.
A panic as deep as the earth had just begun to set when the earth shifted-
— and opened before them.
Light flooded into the space, making Nasim cringe like a newborn.
Ahead was a short, earthen tunnel that led to a forest of white birch. Nasim could see the trunks and the bed of fallen leaves that covered the forest floor.
“By the fates, where are we?” Sukharam asked.
In a croaky, long-neglected voice, Soroush replied, “We are returned to Rafsuhan.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
N ikandr waited in the dark halls of Ashdi en Ghat, listening for the sound of footfalls. He heard them at last near midnight, the hour at which the Maharraht changed watches. One man-one of Bersuq’s most trusted-walked past with a siraj stone hanging from a leather cord. He turned his head toward the hallway where Nikandr lay in wait, but then continued on as if he’d seen nothing, as if he didn’t know that Nikandr was there.
“Is it time already?” the guard further down the hall asked.
“ Neh,” said the other, “but I haven’t been able to sleep in days. Go. Get some rest. The ships will most likely return tomorrow.”
A pause. “What will become of them?”
“To that you already know the answer.”
When the first guard spoke again, his voice was lower. “There are times when I think Thabash’s arrival was an ill omen.”
“Silence,” hissed the one who had carried the stone past Nikandr. “Rahid has ears everywhere.”
“But sending ships to attack our own…”
“They weren’t sent to attack, merely to return the children that were taken away.”
“If you believe that, you’re a fool.”
“I do believe them.”
A short laugh echoed down the hall. “Listen to the words of Bersuq if you must-listen even to Rahid’s-but do not try to tell me that no harm was meant to those who fled.”
“We lead the life we lead.”
“We do, but why is it we must kill even amongst ourselves?”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
“Go. Find rest. You’ll think better under the light of the morning sun.” Footsteps approached Nikandr’s position again. He made himself small as the Maharraht approached. “This will look no better under the sun,” he said. “It may in fact look worse.” He passed the tunnel entrance with no stone in his hand, and soon his footsteps had faded.
All was silent for a time, then sounds came of the remaining soldier pacing further and further away in the opposite direction.
The light, however, remained.
With cautious steps Nikandr made his way forward, finding the siraj sitting on the stone floor of the cool, vacant tunnel. He picked up the siraj and made his way deeper, taking the directions Jahalan had given him earlier that day, and at last he came to a door set into the wall of the tunnel. He turned the handle and swung it soundlessly inward.
Resting on three pallets were his men: Styophan and Avil and Mikhalai. They looked to the doorway not with fear, but something akin to it. No doubt they understood that something was about to happen.
“It is well that you’re here, My Lord Prince,” Styophan said in Anuskayan. “Are we to leave?”
“ Da, the three of you will go, and quickly.” Nikandr hugged Styophan and kissed his cheeks. “You will take the Chaika and return word of these events to Khalakovo.”
Styophan sent a confused glance back at Avil and Mikhalai. “My Lord Prince, we cannot leave you here. There’s talk of the Hratha returning.”
“I know, but I cannot leave.”
“Then we stay as well.”
“ Nyet,” Nikandr said, raising his voice as loud as he dared among these tunnels. “Khalakovo has need of you. The Grand Duchy as well. There will be need of ships, and soon. But first, you will return to Ranos. Tell him what has happened here. Bid him send no men, and tell him I will return to Khalakovo as soon as I’m able.”
“You try to heal them, My Lord, but they don’t deserve it. They-”
“I will not speak of it!” Nikandr’s words echoed off into the distance. “Believe me when I say this is necessary. Ranos must understand what is happening. He must know of Muqallad and the rift. Tell him, and tell him to speak with the Aramahn. We will need their guidance in the weeks ahead.”
Styophan looked into Nikandr’s eyes, anxious, but willing to do as Nikandr bid him. “What will you do?”
“If I’m able, I will heal. If I’m not, I will leave.”
They both held the other’s gaze, knowing that in all likelihood it wasn’t in Nikandr’s power to do this. With Thabash came a singular mind, no matter that some of the Maharraht may doubt his purpose.
Styophan stepped in and hugged Nikandr. “Fare well, My Lord.”
“And you,” Nikandr said.
He hugged and kissed Avil and Mikhalai as well, and then they were off, taking the turns Nikandr gave them to reach the upper exit from the village.
Nikandr returned to the place where he’d found the stone and set it down.
“You should have gone with them.”
Nikandr spun around and found the guard who had walked past him, the man Bersuq had sent to clear the way while Nikandr freed his men. He was one of the older Maharraht. Grizzled. Though most of his face was hidden in shadow, his eyes twinkled as he studied Nikandr.
“You no doubt heard my answer.”
“I did, but why would you consider such a thing for a boy that will most likely turn no matter what you do?”
Nikandr stepped forward and placed the stone into the man’s hand. “Have you so lost your way that you need to ask me the question?”
The Maharraht swallowed, incensed, but he stood taller a moment later. “I know why, I merely question why you would do it.”
“He is only a boy,” Nikandr said.
“Who will grow up to become your enemy.”
Nikandr, after one last pause, turned and walked away. “Perhaps he will.”
Nikandr, kneeling at the shore of the lake, touched Wahad’s sho
ulders.
Nikandr represented wind.
Near Wahad’s feet were Jahalan and Zanhalah, the old woman who had helped him with Wahad before.
Together they represented water and life.
The two others-a man and woman who had fathered three children together-kneeled by Wahad’s arms.
They were fire and earth, and they completed the circle.
Ever since returning from Siafyan and his encounter with the akhoz, Nikandr had considered the approach of bringing only the opposing elements of water and air against the fire that raged inside Wahad. Though he didn’t wish to discount the wisdom of these qiram, he found the strategy lacking. The boy was being taken by a suuraqiram-it seemed that it would take all of the elements, not just those opposing, in order to save him.
The dying children had been moved far away in hopes of giving Nikandr and the others the room they needed to complete their ritual, but their coughs, their moans, could still be heard. This didn’t bother Nikandr. If anything, it was a simple reminder of why he was doing this, one that did not fluster, but in fact calmed him. Thoughts of Atiana and Galahesh and Khalakovo and his mother and his father had hounded him in the hours since his men had escaped, but the moment he’d reached the cavern of the lake, he had calmed. The sounds of pain from these children had allowed him to push all the other thoughts away, until all that remained was a singular focus toward a singular aim.
Save one child.
He stared down at Wahad, brushed the hair back from his forehead. His skin was hot to the touch, but he did not sweat. His eyes were closed, as they had been for days, and there was a crust over them. They had tried once to open his eyes, and Wahad had thrashed and struggled against the men holding him and beat his head against the ground. They’d released him shortly after, and he’d cried and moaned for hours afterward.
Nikandr brushed Wahad’s hair one last time.
Just one, he thought. That was all he wished for.
“Let us begin,” he said.
Together, they closed their eyes.
Nikandr calmed himself, breathed deeper. He felt the touch of his vanahezhan on the far side of the aether, and through this bond he drew himself deeper into its world, drew it deeper into his. Other than this one spirit, he’d rarely felt another hezhan, but now he felt all four of those that were near. He suspected it was because of the rift and how wide it had grown on Rafsuhan, perhaps especially so here in Ashdi en Ghat on the shores of the lake.
He did not ignore these other hezhan, but he focused his mind primarily on Wahad, on the pain he was feeling. After a time, he felt heat, like the touch of the sun on those rare days of summer when the wind was low. The feeling heightened until it was more like the heat from a bonfire burning nearby. Still it built, and he allowed it to take him.
He wanted to scream, so strong was the sensation, but he did not. He simply accepted it, allowed it to become him. He could feel the hezhan that was taking over Wahad’s soul now. It was impossible not to once he knew what to look for. It was not merely sharing the experience of life in Erahm, as most hezhan were content to do. It was devouring him.
But there was more. The boy was devouring the hezhan as well. They were becoming part of one another. They were forging something new from the substance of their souls.
Nikandr let the knowledge wash over him, as well as the fear that followed, and soon he felt as though he were the one being devoured, not Wahad.
The sun is bright among the walkways of Siafyan. Wahad takes them toward the home of Mehjoor, who is to join him on his watch. He stops short, however, when he sees the girl, Kaleh, at the end of the swaying bridge.
She stands in his way, staring at him with a look of challenge, as if she ruled here, not the Maharraht who had been on this land for forty years.
“What?” he asks, though he feels ungracious in being so blunt. In truth he knows her not at all, only that she came with the tall one, Muqallad.
“Come with me,” she replies, and with that she turns and walks away.
He hesitates for only a moment. She has done this before-spoken to children around the village, brought them to see the man that everyone assumes is her father. When they returned, they would not speak of their time with him. They would only say that they were sworn to secrecy, but Mehjoor and Wahad hide nothing from one another. Eventually Mehjoor spoke of his visit with Muqallad, of standing before him, of hearing his words.
“What words?” Wahad asked.
Mehjoor would not reply, but Wahad thought it was not because he chose not to, but because he couldn’t remember. Such is Muqallad’s power, and it makes Wahad fear him, but he cannot refuse this summons. Things are happening to the village; things are happening to the Maharraht. Everyone can feel it. Surely the rise of the Maharraht and the fall of the Landed is nearly upon them.
They climb down the curving stairs built into the side of the great trees to reach the ground. From there, Kaleh heads south. When they enter the village circle, Bersuq is standing there with Thabash and Rahid and several others from the south. Thabash hardly notices him. Rahid watches with something akin to hunger. But Bersuq…
Wahad nearly stops, but he doesn’t want Bersuq to know what he sees in his eyes. And yet at the same time Wahad doesn’t understand, for Bersuq is looking upon him with pity.
Pity.
Why? Why does Bersuq, the man who is hardest on him-especially since his father is still in the arms of the Aramahn-look upon him with pity? He had thought these visits to Muqallad some sort of honor, or perhaps some sort of test. But if that were so, Bersuq would look upon him with pride, or if not that he wouldn’t look upon him at all. He certainly wouldn’t look upon him with pity.
The expression leaves as quickly as it came, and Bersuq speaks in low tones with Thabash and the others. Rahid continues to watch, however. It makes Wahad shiver.
Eventually they move beyond the borders of the village square, and then the village itself. They hike through the forest, through the shorter larch and pine that cover the land here, and soon Wahad’s nerves are starting to tingle.
“Where do we go?”
Kaleh glances back, but does not otherwise respond.
He grabs her arm and spins her around. “Where do we go?”
“To the clearing.”
“Why?”
She stares up at him, her blue eyes bright. “You do not have to come.”
He pauses. “I merely wish to know why. Why is it kept secret?”
“You can ask Muqallad when you see him.”
“I’m asking you.”
Her eyes are hard, but as she studies him they soften. She glances over her shoulder, toward Siafyan, and then licks her lips. “The end is near, Wahad. Very near. Muqallad is choosing those who will be granted the honor of leading the way.” She peers into his eyes. “Are you ready for such a thing?”
Wahad pulls himself straighter. “Of course I am.”
Kaleh smiles sadly. “We all think this. But there are trials ahead, and when they come it is not so easy to remain steadfast. To remain silent.”
“I am ready. I’ve been ready since my naming day.”
“You will become one of the chosen, you and the others who’ve already gone. You will pave the way for what is to come.” Her look becomes sober. “It requires sacrifice.”
Though he tries to control it, Wahad finds his breath coming faster. His fingers tingle, and his chin quivers. A mix of fear and elation runs through him, something he’s never experienced and has no idea how to handle.
“I’m ready,” he says again, glad that his teeth do not chatter as he speaks these words.
“There’s no turning back once you enter the clearing.”
“I understand.”
She seems to measure him, but then nods. “Then come, and no more questions.”
They reach the clearing, the one used most often for mid-winter vigils. Within it stands Muqallad, wearing light robes and boots of soft, white leather. His ro
bes are brightly colored, and he is tall and muscular. He looks young-younger than Wahad’s own father-and yet his gaze is ancient, as old as the earth he treads upon.
Wahad feels small. He feels as though he stands before one of the fates, not a man like his father or his uncle.
“Has she prepared you?” Muqallad asks.
“ Yeh.”
“This is no easy thing I ask of you,” Muqallad says.
Wahad shakes his head. “It is. My lives have been led so that I could arrive at this moment. I am sure of it.”
Muqallad smiles. And shows Wahad a blue stone he holds in the palm of one hand. “This, Wahad Soroush al Qediah, is one piece of the Atalayina. Do you know of it?”
Wahad stares, confused at first, but then elation fills him and threatens to bubble over. He grips his hands to keep himself from looking like a small child before his grandfather. “I do.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“The Atalayina was the first stone, and it will be the last. It was created by the fates, each of them shedding one tear to create the three pieces. It was taken to the shores on Ghayavand and lost during the sundering.”
Wahad seems pleased. “Good,” he says simply. “This is but one, and I will soon have the other two. And you, Wahad, will help unite them.”
He begins walking to the center of the clearing. Wahad follows, more nervous than ever now that the moment draws near. He dearly wishes to ask questions, but does not. Muqallad will tell him what he needs to know. Of this he is sure.
Muqallad stops in the center of the clearing and faces Wahad. “Spread your arms wide.”
Wahad obeys.
“Look to the sky.”
Wahad does.
Blue shines through among tall white clouds. They are majestic, towering. They are vengeful, not out of spite, but justice. It is proper, Wahad decides. This day has always been the right day for this.
Muqallad raises the piece of the Atalayina. Wahad’s breath comes faster and faster, and nothing he does seems to quell it.
“There are difficult days ahead, Wahad.”
The blue stone arcs down toward Wahad’s forehead. Though it has not yet touched his skin, he can feel it-the power within, the power it draws from within him. He can feel as well the walls of the world growing thin. He can feel a hunger from beyond the veil, a hunger deeper than he ever expected.
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