And then, in a sudden lift of wind and ash and gusting fire, the column burns itself out, until at last the sky breathes a sigh of relief.
The hill is utterly silent. Ash rains down on everyone like snow as the sun lowers in the west. Without a word being spoken, the Hratha close in around the site of the ritual.
Muqallad and Sariya and Kaleh stride up toward the hilltop. Atiana is close behind. The ash becomes ankle deep. Atiana wades through it-the ashes are warm, but little more, as if the Atalayina had stolen as much from the akhoz as it could-and she wonders briefly who these children might have been, who their mothers and fathers were, but then they reach the center of the ash, and there they find a mound filled with larger blackened chunks that somehow remained intact.
Muqallad sifts through the remains with his foot, until a glint of blue shines through. Atiana’s heart sings at seeing it. But she doesn’t yet know if the stone has been made whole.
As she holds her breath, Muqallad reaches down and picks it up. He blows upon it softly. The dust and ash fall away, revealing a stone as bright as any Atiana has ever seen. It does not glow, but it has a way of catching the light from the setting sun. It twists it and reflects it back in unexpected ways. It is powerful and beautiful, both.
Muqallad turns and holds it above his head.
And the Hratha burst into a cheer that is long and stirring and numinous.
Atiana, however-as caught up in these emotions she might be-remains silent.
As she stares at the Atalayina, now whole, she can shed only tears of joy.
For it is the most beautiful thing she has ever beheld.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
W ith the crow leading the way, the streltsi brought Nasim to a building near the center of the bazaar-the Kirzan, the massive central building and one of the oldest in this section of the city.
“Let me down,” Nasim said to the strelet, “or I won’t be responsible for what they do.”
The soldier, who had often sent nervous looks to the akhoz that galloped in a pack behind them, nodded and pulled his pony to a stop, at which point Nasim slipped to the ground and raised his hands to the akhoz. They stopped, their skin twitching, their lungs pumping like bellows, their necks straining as if collared.
“Rest,” Nasim said to them, meaning their minds as much as their bodies. Blood lust was upon them, and it would not do to have them remain so among allies. “Rest,” he said again, and motioned them to the empty stalls of the bazaar.
They complied, and slowly, their jerky movements began to quell. They settled down into crouches. Some laid upon the ground in groups. Others merely stood, their gaze never veering from Nasim as their lips drew back into sickening grins.
Nasim, as satisfied as he could be, turned and left them.
Near the building stood a gathering of several older men with long gray cherkesskas adorned with dozens of brightly colored medals. One of them had a beard that hung partway down his chest, and in his gray hair was a nasty gash that looked only halfway healed. There was a resemblance-not striking, but unmistakable-to Nikandr. This could be none other than his father, Iaros.
There were many streltsi surrounding these men, and they moved forward with muskets and shashkas at the ready.
“Let him through,” Iaros called.
The streltsi parted, watching Nasim pass with mistrustful eyes, while the hoary old men waited with grave looks on their faces. These were hardened and seasoned men; they were not cowed by the presence of the akhoz, but they couldn’t help but glance every so often to the stalls where the akhoz waited. None of them knew what he might do with them, or even if he had complete control, but to their credit neither they nor their guard seem overly phased.
As Nasim came near, most of the military men-no doubt polkovniks in the Grand Duchy’s staaya-stepped back, allowing Iaros to approach Nasim. Iaros did not hold out his hand, as so many of the Landed seemed to do. Nor did he seem dismissive of Nasim. He merely stared as if Nasim were a curiosity he had long ago given up any hope of finding.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“You are the Duke of Khalakovo,” Nasim said, “Iaros, son of Aleksi, son of Vasham.”
Iaros raised his eyebrows-not so much, Nasim thought, because he was impressed that Nasim knew of him and his family, but that Nasim knew anything at all. He must have thought Nasim would be little better than the lost child he had heard so many stories about. “I thought we might never meet, you and I.”
Nasim didn’t know what to say to this-nor did he know why the Matra had brought him here-so he remained silent.
Iaros turned to the men behind him and waved his hand. They all bowed their heads. One of them, however, an old, decrepit man with distrustful eyes and a long white beard, watched longer and more intensely than the others before turning and leaving.
With them gone, Iaros waved his hand toward the immense stone building. “Join me.”
Nasim, seeing no reason not to go, fell into step beside the duke.
As they took the steps up, Iaros spoke. “The Matra tells me you’ve just returned, though we both wonder from where.”
“I came from Ghayavand.”
They stepped into the building, their footsteps echoing in the harshness of the interior. “And how did you return?”
His final memories of Rabiah were still too close, still too dear, for him to share. “That must remain with me.”
Iaros turned his head with a frown-perhaps wondering if he’d erred in his measure of Nasim’s character-but then the look was gone, and he motioned to a dark set of stairs leading below ground. “Fair enough,” he said as they took the stairs down.
The way was lit by guttering whale oil lanterns. The stairwell continued on and on, deeper than Nasim would have guessed. It felt as though they were drilling into the earth, never to return.
“Where are we going?” Nasim asked.
“I want you to see what we’re doing, and I want you to see who’s doing it.”
“And why do you care if I see it?”
“Because we find ourselves at another crossroads, do we not? As we were on Khalakovo?” They took one last turn, and were greeted by a set of heavy iron doors at the base of a long set of stairs. “Except this time Anuskaya is not aligned against you. It’s important for you to know this.”
“Do you think I would throw in my lot with Muqallad? Or the Kamarisi?”
“I don’t know what you would do, but the ancients have seen fit to bring you here, and so I think it’s important that you know before you leave.”
Nasim laughed. “You seem to know where I’m going. I wish you’d share it with me.”
“Are you not here to stop Muqallad?”
“I suppose I am, though I know not where he is.”
“He is on the far side of the straits, in Vihrosh, and unless I’m sorely mistaken he will soon move to the Spar.”
“How can you be so sure?”
They reached the landing at last. Once there, Iaros stopped before the doors and turned to Nasim. “Because the spire of Kiravashya has fallen. Fallen by our own hands.”
“What?” Nasim shook his head. “ You felled it?”
“ Da.”
“Forgive me, son of Aleksi, but why? You need the spires.”
There was a glint in Iaros’s eye that made it clear just how fiercely he loved the Grand Duchy. “Their ships were many. Too many. We knew we could not stand against them, so we lured them to the spire, and we brought it down. All of their ships were destroyed in the maelstrom that followed, and in the meanwhile, we had already set sail on seaborne ships toward Galahesh.”
Nasim shook his head, lamenting the deaths that had been lost in the trap the men of the Grand Duchy had laid, but there was a part of him that was relieved at this turn of events.
He thought back to the feeling of intent upon the wind. The inhalation. What would happen when the world exhaled, he didn’t know, but he knew it would be terrible, and he kne
w it would be soon.
“The only ones that remain are the two here on Galahesh,” Iaros continued. “They stand on opposite ends of this island. On opposite sides of the straits… We came to the island in the hopes of stopping Hakan before the spire could be destroyed, and now it may be too late. But make no mistake”-he reached over and opened both doors, swinging them wide so that Nasim could see the room beyond-“we will try.”
Inside the room were dozens of people, nearly all of them women. Most were huddled around a set of eight basins at the center of the room. They were positioned like the points of a compass rose. Many of the women were old-around the age of the Duke of Khalakovo-and Nasim realized that these women were not merely Matri, they were by and large the Duchesses, the women with the most experience in the aether. There were some who were younger, however. One he thought he recognized as Atiana, but he soon realized his mistake. It was one of her sisters, Mileva or Ishkyna.
“So many of them here,” Nasim said breathlessly, beginning to understand just how cunning Iaros had been. “They couldn’t have crossed the seas after the spire had fallen. The seas would have been too dangerous.”
“ Da. The time for hiding in the palotzas of the islands was over. We knew the place to fight was here, where our enemies are.”
“But if they’re taken… The islands will be defenseless.”
Nasim was interrupted by a flutter of wings. A rook flew from the stairs behind them and landed on the floor near Iaros’s feet. “We do not shrink from duty. If we are taken, our daughters will take up our cause.”
From the far side of the room, a servant came toward them, wheeling Saphia Khalakovo before him. Nasim realized with a start-the rook… It was Saphia, and yet here she was, outside of the bitterly cold water in one of the drowning basins.
The bird flapped up to land on Saphia’s shoulder. Saphia herself was glass-eyed. She did not look to Nasim, nor notice as Iaros took her from the servant and rubbed his hand along her shoulder affectionately.
“We have come to it,” the rook said. “We need you, Nasim.”
“I–I had not thought to find help.”
“And yet here it is. Muqallad has come. The Kamarisi holds the Spar, at least for now. And unless I’m mistaken, he has all the pieces of the Atalayina.” The rook turned its head toward the basins and clucked twice. “We move against Sariya, but we need you to stop Muqallad.”
“I am only one.”
A voice came from behind Nasim. “You will have help. Have no fear of that.”
Nasim turned and found no other than Ashan stepping into the room. There was an Aramahn man by his side. It was Majeed Bassam al Haffeh, an aide to Fahroz on Mirashadal, the one who oversaw her burial pyre and the ceremony that followed. His outer robes were violet, his inner robes a deep shade of yellow, not unlike the sun when it set behind thin clouds. Unlike Ashan, there was no hint of humor in his eyes. The cut of his short hair, the set of his jaw, the steel in his eyes, and though he was younger than Ashan by a decade at least, there seemed to lie within him a solemn burden that made him seem much older. It marked him as a serious man, a perfect replacement for Fahroz, no doubt hand chosen by the mahtar herself.
Ashan watched Nasim with a hint of a smile and a look of relief. Nasim had seen him on Mirashadal only a little more than a week ago, but as Nasim stood there, looking at this man who had tried to find a way to reach him when he was lost, something within him broke. He stepped forward and embraced Ashan like never before.
Ashan held him tenderly, stroking his hair. “What is this?” he whispered.
“You’ve done much for me. And what have I done but spurn you in return?”
“You could not have accepted me then. You had to grow, on your own.”
“But I caused you so much pain. I’ve caused pain in so many. They died because of me, Ashan. They died because I refused to learn from you, and then from Fahroz.”
Ashan pulled away and looked at him, the familiar smile bringing Nasim back from the edge of despair. “Had you not done what you’ve done, we might never have come this far. Muqallad may have already gained what he wanted most. You cannot decipher what the fates have in store for you, Nasim.”
“The road is bleak.”
“Bleak, but not lost.” His smiled widened and he shook Nasim gently. “We will find our way.”
Majeed had stood several steps behind Ashan, watching this exchange stoically, as if he feared coming too near to Nasim.
“And what of Mirashadal?” Nasim asked. “Will they not help?”
Majeed looked to Iaros. Clearly they had discussed this already. “We will not.”
For a moment Nasim felt weightless. “In the name of the fates, why?”
“Forgive me for saying it, Nasim, but a grave mistake was made on Duzol.”
Nasim felt the blood drain from his face. “I was saved on Duzol.”
Majeed nodded. He stood taller, as if these were words for an errant child who had yet to understand the way of things. “The fates should not be trifled with. Things should have been allowed to take their own course, without our interference.”
“Many others were saved as well…”
“And how many might die now?” Majeed glanced to Iaros and the rook again. “If the rifts had been allowed to widen then, there might have been many deaths upon Khalakovo, but we might have avoided that which lies before us. Sariya and Muqallad’s plans might have been dashed before they’d truly begun.”
“It might have happened sooner had the rifts been torn over Khalakovo.”
“And it might never have happened. This is my point, Nasim. The fates should be allowed to choose the course of the world. Not me. And not you.”
“What would Fahroz have done?”
Majeed’s eyes became harder. “You know better than anyone that Fahroz is no longer with us.”
Fueled by his anger, Nasim stepped forward and stared eye-to-eye with Majeed. “You would rather I lie down and allow Muqallad to do as he will?”
“I would rather Muqallad lie down of his own accord, but if he does not, then that is the path the fates have chosen for us.”
“Erahm may burn.” Nasim was practically shouting.
“Then perhaps Erahm was in need of cleansing.”
“Enough,” Iaros said. “I’ve allowed you to stay, Majeed, to observe, but that is all.”
“Come,” Ashan said to Nasim, guiding him back toward the stairs. “There is much to discuss before night falls and the assault begins.”
Nasim was not at all sure the duke would allow him to leave, but Iaros simply nodded.
As Nasim took to the stairs, this time with Ashan, his heart was working furiously. He had known there were many like Majeed among the Aramahn, but to have them stand aside for something so vital… It didn’t seem right.
Slowly, his anger cooled, and he realized how strange it felt to walk next to Ashan as an equal. For so long, in those rare moments of lucidity, he had felt as if Ashan were his savior- neh, his creator — and it had taken years for him to disabuse himself of the notion. It wasn’t because Ashan wasn’t deserving of honor and praise for stealing him away from the Maharraht; it was that Nasim couldn’t allow himself to place Ashan on such a pedestal. He was a man, like any other, and just as susceptible to weakness.
Perhaps Majeed had the right of it, Nasim thought. Perhaps he should step aside and allow the fates to play out these next series of moves.
Only… It felt so wrong… It felt as though laying his will aside was not what the fates wanted. Were they not given the ability to reason, the ability to choose, for a purpose? Had not the fates given up some of their power over man when they did this?
And that was the trouble, he thought. No one knew, certainly not him. The fates were inscrutable, leaving him as powerless as a chunk of ice in the floes of spring.
They reached the top of the stairs and stepped outside the squat building and onto the grounds of the bazaar. Ashan looked to the akhoz, who
still huddled only a hundred paces away.
Ashan regarded them. Without turning to Nasim, he said, “Much has happened.”
“It has,” Nasim said, “and one day-”
Nasim didn’t finish, for just then a light lit the northern sky. A column of bright, roiling fire shot upward like an arrow to the layer of clouds high above Galahesh. He knew what it was immediately. He’d seen the same thing on the shores of Rafsuhan.
Muqallad was fusing the Atalayina. The stone was now being made whole, and all that stood between Muqallad and his goals was a short journey to the Spar.
“We must hurry,” Nasim said.
Ashan smiled sadly, revealing his crooked teeth. “This I know, Nasim. This I know.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
W ith the new moon shedding the barest amount of light, Nasim and Ashan and a full sotni of streltsi-a veteran group chosen by Iaros Khalakovo himself-hid in the remains of two buildings ruined by cannon fire.
Only minutes ago, a skirmish with the Kamarisi’s forces had died down. The janissaries had retreated further into the city, and Nasim now watched for any glint of light, any shift of shadow, as did the streltsi, who had their muskets resting on the upturned heads of their axes.
A flapping of wings came down the street from a darkened alley.
Two musket shots rang out, echoing among the buildings, and by the flash emitted by the muskets Nasim could see the crouched soldiers pointing their muskets skyward and the rook flapping above them.
Nasim cringed as a dozen shots rang out around him in rapid sequence. The acrid smell of the gunpowder filled the air, irritating his nose.
“Go,” the sotnik called, and two dozen men stormed over the broken wall and ran down the street, their muskets at the ready.
As the streltsi stalked forward, a cluster of bright white flashes marked their progress. A handful of shots were returned from the opposite side of the street, more of the enemy lying in wait.
The soldiers of Yrstanla had been wily. Twice the streltsi of Anuskaya had nearly been caught between retreating men and an ambush force that lay in wait. But their enemy hadn’t counted on the akhoz, nor the speed at which reinforcements could be called in. The Matri had been deadly efficient up to this point, coordinating the movement of the streltsi and the hussars to the position they were needed, and from a direction that would best exploit the enemy’s weaknesses. And so they had made steady progress, marching forward through the city, compressing the forces of the Kamarisi step by step.
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