Near Bersuq stands a brazier. From it stems a tuft of fire, the fire of Adhiya. In moments it has grown to the size of a man.
This is a crossing, happening as she watches, and in a blink it begins to burn her as if she’s been thrown into a blacksmith’s forge. She screams from the pain, and it intensifies until she no longer knows who she is.
And then, suddenly, it stops.
In the silence it is jarring to hear Nasim’s breathing. It comes softly at first-little more than a telltale sigh like a breeze blowing through the springtime grasses-but it intensifies, and there comes from him a tendril of gossamer light. It flows outward and reaches for Adhiya.
In the aether it is easy to forget that there are not only the dimensions of the physical world; there is another: a length of measure toward Adhiya that is so subliminal that it is often missed by even the most gifted Matra. She learned of such things from her mother, and she had long thought the information useless. But now she finds it invaluable. Essential.
She can sense where the tendril is headed: to a shadow on the other side that is shaped just like the bright imprint of Nasim on the mortal plane. As Soroush places the alabaster stone in Nasim’s mouth, the link grows stronger, and it is clear what they are attempting to do. Anecho of Nasim lives beyond the aether. He is of Erahm and Adhiya, both, and they are attempting to draw the two together. She does not know what will happen should they succeed; she only knows that it must be stopped.
Something familiar draws her attention. A soulstone. She pulls her attention away from the ritual and turns northward. A skiff comes, and within it sits Nikandr, but his mind is free of his body. He floats as the Matri do, and he is drawn toward the boy, Nasim.
There is something holding him back, however. The Maharraht within the courtyard-Soroush and Bersuq and the others-they are chanting; they are drawing about them energy that will keep Nikandr from reaching Nasim, and she knows that this cannot be allowed. She must break their hold on the keep. After that, it will be up to Nikandr and the ancients.
Then the suurahezhan shifts. It lifts its head and turns toward the skiff, its attention focused on Rehada in particular.
And there is nothing Atiana can do to stop it.
When Nikandr and his companions returned to their own skiffs, they found that one of its sails had been slashed, just as Grigory’s had. The other skiff, however, was still intact, and they discovered why a moment later.
The loud crack of a pistol rose above the distant sounds of the windship battle still raging to the south. The ball zipped past Nikandr and with a meaty thud bit deep into the chest of the strelet marching double-time behind him. A strelet in a gray cherkesska leapt into the boat, shashka in hand. He attempted to slash its sail, but Nikandr fired his pistol and the man crumpled, his sword slipping from his hand.
They took to the skiff, loading sixteen men. It was unwise, Nikandr knew, but he felt the risk was necessary. He needed to reach Duzol before Soroush could complete his plans, and he would need the men to help stop him once they arrived.
Ashan took the sail and raced them southwest. The storm was beginning to abate, but there was snow falling still. They came closer to the eyrie than Nikandr was comfortable with, but the risk of being spotted and fired upon was one they would have to live with.
As they passed the eyrie, two large ships passed above them. They were firing upon one another, but Nikandr could not tell which ships were aligned with which sides. They were a goodly distance away and the snow was thick enough to obscure details.
Soon they were over open water and rushing toward Duzol. Long minutes passed, without either island in sight, but then from the canvas of white ahead came the darkening mass of Duzol, and soon they could make out the cliffs, upon which sat Oshtoyets, the small keep where Rehada had said the Maharraht and Nasim would be found.
“Straight in, men!” Nikandr ordered, knowing this was no time for subtlety and hoping that at the very least surprise would be with them.
The keep came into view, its gray walls dappled in white. The spire in the courtyard, however, was quite different. Not a flake of white marred its smooth black surface. Wisps of steam rose along its sides.
“Turn away,” Rehada said.
“ Nyet, stay on course.”
“Turn away!” Rehada yelled.
Ashan, manning the skiff ’s sails, responded, drawing the wind from the north and shifting his stance to accommodate the way it pulled at the sails. But it was too late. From within the courtyard, Nikandr could see what Rehada had been worried about. The bright and burning form of a suurahezhan resolved there, and it was larger than the one that had killed Stasa Bolgravya. Its head was as high as the wall itself. Its form was ephemeral-shifting and sliding hypnotically-but it was still quite clear when it turned and focused its attention on their skiff.
On the walls stood many men-the remains of the Maharraht. They had muskets held at the ready, but they did not raise them to their shoulders. In fact they made no move to fire.
Within the courtyard stood Soroush.
And Nasim.
Nikandr could feel him. He was scared and lonely and in pain, but most of all he was worried; he was being used-he knew this-and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
Soroush leaned over and placed something in Nasim’s mouth. Nasim accepted it. It tasted metallic. Of the earth. It was smooth and cool to the touch.
“Stop, Nischka,” Rehada shouted.
He felt it slip down his throat and fall heavily into the pit of his stomach.
Rehada slapped him across the cheek.
He felt the pain, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of ecstasy as another spirit, a havahezhan, was drawn from Adhiya into the mortal realm. She slapped him again and again, and finally his men had to hold her back. As he saw Rehada screaming in pain from their attempts to prevent her from striking him again, he was drawn back from the edge.
At that moment, Ashan released his hold on the ropes. The sail flew upward and flapped in the wind as he opened his arms wide and stared up to the sky. A heavy mist formed between them and the suurahezhan, which now stood less than a hundred paces away. Nikandr heard the beast moan as a fireball flew from the palm of the beast’s raised hand. As it sped toward them, the mist continued to coalesce. It formed into sleet and snow and ice, and the wind held it in place, pulling it together tightly.
“Hold on!” Nikandr shouted. He could still feel Nasim, could feel the havahezhan forming within the courtyard, but he was, for now, in control of his feelings and thoughts.
When the ball of flame struck the forming cloud a hiss was released as loud as lava pouring into the sea. The ball of fire was weakened, but not extinguished. It was off course, but then it curved sharply, guided by the suurahezhan, and struck the underside of the skiff.
The skiff rotated around the keel, nearly to the point of overturning. Nikandr lost his grip and slipped free from the confines of the skiff. He was saved when he grabbed onto the gunwale, but five others slipped from the sides and fell screaming to the waves below.
But then the skiff righted itself, and the hull struck him in the chest. He lost his grip. Two streltsi grabbed his wrists, but the palms of their hands were slick, and they could not hold on.
Nikandr fell, the skiff above him falling away.
As he plummeted, he could feel the havahezhan, not the elder that had been summoned moments ago, but the one that had been with him since before the attack on the Gorovna.
Help me, he called to it.
Please help.
It did not, and the wind whipped by him faster.
The words of Sariya came to him then. Give yourself to him.
She’d meant the words for Nasim, but he knew that it applied to the qiram as they gave themselves to the spirits.
He did so now.
He turned as he fell so he was facing the frothing water below. He spread his arms wide and closed his eyes as he had seen Jahalan do so many times before. He f
elt the wind whip past him, felt the pressure of it on his chest. He opened himself to the spirit, to do what it would with him.
Atiana knows she is dying. She can feel her body failing as it lies upon the snow on the coast of Duzol. Oddly, she is much more in tune with it now that it is broken and nearly useless than she had ever been able to do when she was healthy and whole. Her lifeblood spills, but it has so far done little to stifle her ability to walk among the winds of the aether.
She studies the tendril that flows from Nasim to the ghost of his self in Adhiya. Nasim in the material world is solid and stable, a white brand against the darkness of the keep. Nasim in the spirit world is impossible to define. His form shifts abruptly, as do the colors that he contains.
As the third stone is placed upon his tongue, the tendril thickens. She can feel him, his pain, his desire to stop what is happening but also his utter inability to do so. She tries to strengthen him, to support him so that he might make it through this trial alive and fight those that are trying to use him, but it is no use. Though she can feel him and his emotions, she is powerless to affect him.
Nikandr is still near, but he is not so focused on Nasim as he once was. She must change this, and Bersuq is the key. Soroush is too intent on what he is doing, whereas Bersuq is allowing his mind to float as he chants. He is ripe for the picking, and if she can assume him, then it would loosen the hold they had upon the keep.
She moves closer to the men. Fear grows within her, for she has never assumed another. She can feel upon Bersuq his gem. He is bonded to a spirit, and it glows in the aether like a bright, piercing star. She steps toward him, careful to avoid the spirit.
And then she enters Bersuq.
Immediately he rails against her. She maintains the tenuous hold she has upon him, but by the barest of margins. She can sense his fear-fear that the Matri have found him-and she presses her advantage.
Dozens of ships are on their way, she tells him. In moments, a horde the likes of which you’ve never seen will descend upon Oshtoyets.
But he is emboldened. He knows that even with a thousand men the Grand Duchy will have difficulty holding against such beasts. And they are not like the first elder that had been summoned those weeks ago. These would not willingly dissipate and return from whence they’d come. These would batter the Landed until their masters gave them leave to stop.
Only if you can keep the boy alive, she says.
It is their only weakness, and it gives Bersuq pause.
It is enough. She storms through him, forcing him into the deepest corners of his mind to the point that he can no longer comprehend the possibility of regaining himself.
The world comes alive through Bersuq’s senses: the smell of a peat fire; the heat from the suurahezhan against his skin; the touch of Bersuq’s tongue as she forces him to continue to chant, mimicking his low, rhythmic sounds.
The other Maharraht do not appear to have noticed, so lost in their actions are they. She watches closely as Soroush takes another gem: jasper. He reaches out to Nasim, and she nearly stops him, nearly throws herself against him so that Nasim will not be forced to summon another elder to the mortal plane. As she watches Nasim’s mouth open, watches Soroush place the milky stone upon his tongue, she realizes that there is a sense of satisfaction within Bersuq. He is still buried in the corners of his mind, but it is unmistakable. He is pleased.
Nasim swallows the stone, his head bobbing as he does so, and she believes at first that Bersuq’s satisfaction comes from what Nasim is doing. Four stones have been swallowed. The earth begins to crack as the vanahezhan takes shape in the courtyard. It is a mass of cracked brick and dark, packed earth. It stands and pounds the earth with its four massive arms.
And then Soroush’s chanting stops.“Did you think,”he says while turning his head to look at her, “that we would be taken so easily?”
Bersuq’s fingers go cold and tingly.
She cannot respond, for she suddenly realizes why Bersuq is satisfied-not because of Nasim, but because of her. He is pleased that she has assumed him, that her soul now rests within the constraints of his physical shell. And she knows that she must escape.
She attempts to but finds herself trapped. She claws toward the aether, scrabbles away, hoping that by throwing everything into this one last gasp that he will lose hold. But it’s no good. She is bound. Very faintly, but perfectly clear, she hears Bersuq laughing.
Soroush is smiling as well. “Settle yourself, Matra.” He picks up the final stone-an opal, the stone of life. “You’re going nowhere.”
CHAPTER 64
Rehada watched numbly as the streltsi leapt over the gunwales. As they moved in formation up the hill toward the keep, Rehada remained in the skiff. She had watched and had been able to do nothing as Nikandr fell from the ship, lost to the winds and the sea. She swallowed, fighting back tears, fighting back the rage that was boiling within her.
Ashan stood just outside the skiff, holding his hand out to her. “Come,” he said. “There is work to do yet.”
She wanted to tell him to go on without her, that she would be useless, a danger to the soldiers who were there to protect her. But far up the hill, the havahezhan was already cresting the wall and flying toward them. It drew snow up from the ground, which whirled around it, making plain something that was normally difficult to see.
She knew she couldn’t abandon them. There was still Nasim to think of. A part of her wished that her heart was filled with revenge, but it was not. Too much of those emotions had been burned from her. But there was still a desire to set things right. With or without Nikandr, she would do what she set out to do.
The streltsi gained, trekking up the steep ground that led to the keep, but they halted when they realized the hezhan was heading straight for them.
The air had already begun to thin. At first Rehada could only feel it as a drawing of her breath, but as the wind began to howl, it became more marked, and soon it was nearly impossible to breathe. Ashan had prepared them for this. Many of the streltsi did as he had commanded and held their breath. Two, however, did not; they quickly fell to their knees, gasping for air.
The streltsi held their muskets up in a warding gesture, using the iron to ward against the hezhan. They knew it would do little more than give it pause, but they knew it was necessary for Ashan and Rehada to fight as they could.
Ashan was already using his stone of alabaster to dampen the wind, but in comparison to the elder his spirit was weak and was having little effect.
Rehada closed her eyes and opened herself to her suurahezhan. She willed flame into being, deep within the body of the havahezhan.
One of the streltsi tilted forward and fell into the muddy snow, unconscious. Another joined him moments later, his nose breaking and spouting blood over the trampled earth.
Rehada redoubled her efforts, imploring her bonded spirit to help. She felt it feeding from her, pulling from the stuff of life to sustain itself in this world. She pushed harder than she ever had, and the flame burned brightly within the havahezhan.
Ashan was communing with his vanahezhan as well, sending mounds of earth against the wind spirit. It would not be harmed by such things directly, but the presence of earth sapped its strength, and soon Rehada could feel the wind returning to her lungs. She took a deep breath, preparing for the next attack, but as she did the earth lifted beneath her and threw her a dozen feet through the air.
She landed on her back with a woof. She heard ringing in her ears as all other sound fell away. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She stared up at the blanket of gray clouds in the sky, wondering how she had come to be here.
The ringing peaked and then began to ebb. She heard an almighty crash, followed by a pounding that she could feel in the earth beneath her.
She raised her head and stared toward the keep. The vanahezhan-as tall as the keep itself-had burst through the wooden gates and was stalking toward them. Within the walls, the frothing form of a jalahezhan was pu
lling itself to full height. It looked like a water funnel, but then it too slipped over the wall and began to slide and glide over the snow toward them.
The presence of the jalahezhan could be felt, even at a distance. Coupled with the havahezhan, the elements opposed to fire, it was too much to fight, and Rehada could feel her control slipping away.
She stood and drew upon her suurahezhan, hoping it wasn’t too late. “Now, Ashan!”
Together they burned the spirit of air. She could feel the intensity, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough. Her energy was already flagging. Mere moments later, she collapsed. Her head hung low as pain rippled through her. The havahezhan had done something that had never happened before. It had torn her bonded spirit, leaving her soul bare. The only thing that had come close was those rare cases when her circlet had been taken from her unwillingly, but this felt infinitely worse. It felt as if a part of her had been ripped away, leaving her bloody and raw inside.
Ashan stood nearby, holding his own against the elder, but the tide had already begun to turn. He shook, his gentle face locked in a grimace.
And then he fell. The grass smoked as it was touched by his skin. He lay there, his chest unmoving, while the havahezhan descended upon the soldiers. Some screamed, but the sounds of their pain was swallowed by the thundering gale that now enveloped them.
One by one the streltsi dropped. One lay a few paces away from Rehada, his eyes already vacant. Small rocks and ice cut into his lifeless face, leaving small trails of red against his snow-white skin.
Rehada turned to see the elder suurahezhan slipping over the walls of Oshtoyets. She could no longer feel her bonded hezhan, but she could feel the elder, and it occurred to her how akin it felt to her. It was hundreds of yards away, but there was a purity about it that she could not help but admire. She wondered who it might have been in another life, how great it might be in the next.
Perhaps it had been her mother. Perhaps Ahya.
She stood, knowing what she was about to do was not wise, but knowing also that she would do it even if the hezhan claimed her. “To me!” she cried, rallying the few remaining soldiers. “To me, men of Khalakovo!”
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