The Winds of Khalakovo

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Ashan stared at Nikandr, his eyes wild with shock and pain. Nikandr stepped in and drove a punch up and into his gut. Ashan doubled over.

  Nikandr allowed him to fall to the ground.“My men died for you! Udra, a woman who has caused you no harm, is dead because of you!”

  “We cannot make our way to the horizon without passing through the field of heather.”

  It was a common saying among the Landless—a message of focusing on the present, not the future; on the here, not the far—but it grated, and Nikandr nearly kicked him as he lay there, defenseless. “We are not heather!”

  “I know this, son of Iaros,” Ashan said as he came to his feet. “I only mean to say that I feel your pain, and I wish that I might have been able to prevent it.”

  “It was because of you that our ship crashed!”

  “Neh.” He wiped the back of his hand across his lips, which were bleeding. He spit a wash of red to clear his mouth. And again. “It is the island you must look to, and the arqesh who still battle for its supremacy.”

  “My Lord Prince?” It was Pietr’s voice.

  Ashan looked over Nikandr’s shoulder, and his eyes went wide. When Nikandr turned, he found Nasim standing at the very edge of the cliff. His arms were spread wide as the wind from far below rushed up the cliff, playing with his hair and snapping the fabric of his sleeves.

  “Nasim, come,” Ashan said softly. “It is not yet time.”

  “How can you be sure?” he asked without turning around.

  “Because we haven’t reached the tower.”

  Nasim turned and faced Ashan with a curious look on his face. “True.” He walked forward as if he were taking a stroll and then took Nikandr’s hand. “Then we had better find it.”

  As Nikandr allowed himself to be pulled along, his anger drained away. It was replaced by deep shame at attacking a man who would probably never raise a hand to defend himself. Making it worse was the realization that Ashan was also someone who had done things to protect him and his men on the journey here, a journey Nikandr himself had elected to embark on.

  Ashan fell into step. Pietr followed up the rear. Part of Nikandr still wanted to be angry with Ashan, but too much of their predicament felt like Nikandr’s fault, not Ashan’s.

  “I saw a tower,” Nikandr said, “in my dreams.”

  Ashan nodded. “Nasim has spoken of it over the months I’ve known him. In fits and starts, he’s laid out the story of his life here on Ghayavand. The tower is where he and Sariya lived, until their defenses were finally breached by Muqallad.”

  “I thought all three of them were warring for control of Ghayavand.”

  “They were, but Sariya and Nasim—or Khamal, as he was known then—were driven by need, a common cause against the other, Muqallad, who was far stronger than they.”

  “Even together they could not overpower him?”

  “He was more ruthless than they. They would not, as he would, ravage the land nor their followers who still lived a half-life existence, caught as they were between Erahm and Adhiya.”

  “If this is so, then how could Sariya still live? How could there still be a struggle for this island?”

  Ashan turned his gaze on Nasim, who walked ahead of them. “That is something we may find out before too long. I hoped that by bringing Nasim here he will understand the bond that lies between you, that he will be able, once and for all, to find his way fully into this world.”

  “Erahm.”

  Ashan nodded. “It is through you, his touchstone, that he has been able to make such progress. Believe me when I say he would not have been able to speak so lucidly were it not for the day you met him on the eyrie.”

  “That tells me little of why you came here.”

  “Then see for yourself.” Ashan pointed up to the sky. They had reached the ridge. The wind was stronger here. It played along the prairie in the narrow plateau on which they found themselves. Nasim was sitting among the grass, half-hidden, staring up at the sky. Nikandr looked to where Ashan had pointed and saw a swirl of cloudstuff pull away from the larger body above it. Something in his chest began to ache as the havahezhan darted to and fro like a hummingbird, but then—as if it had just spied the humans below—it shot downward. Its form, swirling tightly as it plummeted, could only be seen because it still held the mist from the clouds.

  The blood drained from Nikandr’s face and he took a step forward, but he stopped when Ashan gripped his arm.

  “He will not be harmed.”

  The havahezhan continued to plummet.

  The feeling within him, bordering on pain, began to feel more and more familiar. “Tell me,” he said, the thoughts still forming in his mind, “the hezhan that attacked me on Uyadensk, the one summoned by the Maharraht, could it be here, now, right before us?”

  Ashan stared up at the havahezhan as it swirled and twisted, breaking away from its course toward Nasim. “Impossible.”

  “I can feel it”—he pressed the tips of his fingers to his soulstone— “here.”

  Ashan was silent as he studied the hezhan. “Do you feel as you did on the mountainside?”

  He meant when Nikandr had summoned the wind to save them from the snow. “I do.”

  The havahezhan dropped again. A swirl of dirt was drawn upward around Nasim. Nasim dashed forward, trying to touch the wall of air, but it moved fluidly, staying just ahead. And then Nikandr realized that he had been feeling something ever since he’d seen the spirit—even before he’d seen it. His soulstone... He looked down and found that there was the barest iridescent quality held deep within it. His chest still hurt, and it felt nothing like what it did when he was searching for his mother, or when he touched stones with someone for the first time. Those felt like a simple warmth that suffused his chest like the remembrance of a long, warm bath while lying in bed. This felt like an absence, a loneliness, as if something he had held precious within his heart had suddenly been taken away.

  “How can it be, Ashan?”

  “Perhaps it became attuned to you. Perhaps your proximity to Ghayavand has drawn its attention. Who can know such things?”

  Nikandr watched as the havahezhan rose into the sky and vanished. In only moments, the feeling in his chest faded and was gone.

  “How could it have found me?”

  “Perhaps from the qualities of this place, its similarity to Uyadensk.”

  Nikandr turned to regard Ashan who was staring at him calmly, with that small smile on his lips he always seemed to possess.

  Ashan guessed his next question. “The rift over Uyadensk is not so different than here on Ghayavand. What began here centuries ago is now spreading.”

  Nikandr shook his head, confused. “The blight?”

  “Can there be any doubt? I don’t know how the rift that formed here remained in check for so many years. I don’t know what caused it to change. But I know that it has. A chain of events has begun, and we must learn the way to reverse it, before it is too late.”

  Despite the warmth of this place, Nikandr shivered. “And if we do not?”

  “Then I fear the entire world will become like this island. Inhospitable. Wild. The only reason Ghayavand hasn’t devolved into utter madness is because of the will of Muqallad, and to a certain degree Sariya.”

  “What will happen when one of them dies?”

  Ashan was silent as they reached the edge of the plateau they walked upon. Nikandr stopped and looked. And his mouth fell open.

  The land descended quickly and reached out into the dark sea with two long and verdant arms. Nestled in the deep valley where the two arms met was a city—a city every bit as large as Volgorod. Rounded towers vaulted into the sky, and dozens—hundreds—of smaller buildings hugged the form of the mountain, creating a crescent of pale brown stone against the bright green landscape.

  The size of the city was a shock, but it was the state of it that was more alarming. The towers, the buildings, even from this distance, looked like broken and empty husks, as
if each had been systematically dismantled from within. It was not unlike a wasp nest would look after carrion beetles had finished devouring the interior, wasps and all.

  “What happened?”

  “Hubris, son of Iaros. Hubris.”

  CHAPTER 46

  When Rehada and Atiana reached the Valley of Iramanshah, the crack of a cannon cast itself over the valley walls, echoing faintly after that first startling report. In the sky above, two ships were gliding toward an Aramahn skiff. The skiff surely could have outmaneuvered the ships, could have outraced them as well, but they would not risk the guns of the Landed ships—neither the ones on the ships chasing them nor the ones that would harry Iramanshah were they to escape.

  The soldiers aboard the schooner lashed the skiff to the larger ship as they turned northward to return to the long line of ships further out to sea.

  “Why do they take them?” Rehada asked Atiana, who rode nearby on a dun pony.

  “As a warning to Khalakovo: no one will be allowed to land, nor to leave.”

  “As if a handful of Aramahn could change the balance.”

  “They could be spies or messengers, bringing word to Khalakovo’s allies.”

  “Your mother would bring word to them, would she not?”

  “It might be too dangerous. The other Matri could interfere with or listen to their communication. Or worse, they might attack. I have a feeling all of the Matri are taking great care while treading the dark.”

  “Even the Duchess Khalakovo? She is the strongest, is she not?”

  “She is, but that doesn’t mean she could fend off a concerted attack from the others. She runs herself ragged in peacetime.” Atiana glanced up at the ships, which were small against the background of the high gray clouds. “It will be worse now.”

  They continued to the village in silence, and they were met by two unarmed men at the gates. As she had been instructed, Rehada asked to speak with Muwas, at which point one went to fetch him. They were led to the courtyard outside the tall doors. They waited for some time, but at last Muwas stepped through the doors and guided Rehada away from Atiana to speak quietly by the fountain. Atiana watched them warily, with no little amount of anxiety in her eyes.

  “What has happened?” Rehada asked as she motioned to the water within the fountain, which—normally a sign of life and vibrancy—lay still.

  Muwas’s expression was dour. “There have been deaths. One mahtar and two children were taken by the wasting. All three died early this morning.”

  Rehada shook her head. “You are sure?”

  “There is no room for doubt.”

  This was unexpected. Muwas’s mood was perfectly understandable now, for Rehada was feeling the same thing. She had viewed the rift and the wasting as the vengeful will of Adhiya coming to right the wrongs perpetrated against the Aramahn for these many years, but if they were taking even the chosen ones and innocent children, then what were they to think? This could no longer be viewed as a sword, ready to be taken up by the Maharraht.

  Muwas stared at Atiana coldly. “As for the princess, I will take her to the lake.”

  “I was to take her.”

  “Soroush no longer considers that wise, and I agree. You have not been welcome inside these walls for some time, Rehada, something you should have corrected long before now.”

  “Speak not of what you do not know.”

  Muwas’s expression hardened. “We all lose in this. We have known since the day we joined. Why should your anger over your daughter’s death be different?”

  A fury welled up inside Rehada so quickly that she nearly struck him, if only to wipe that self-righteous look off his face, but if she did she would lose her chance to accompany Atiana inside. She needed to see this through, if only because she had spared Atiana that day on the beach. She would know more. She would know all there is to know before giving Atiana up so that Soroush could have his fourth stone.

  “I have come prepared,” she said to him finally.

  “Fahroz will see through you.”

  “She will not.”

  Muwas shook his head. “This is not what Soroush—”

  “Soroush is not here. I am. And the princess will come with me.”

  Muwas was a stubborn man, but he knew their position here was a tenuous one. He could not raise objections—not if they wanted any hope of succeeding.

  “Then you will answer to Soroush.”

  Rehada bowed her head and turned away. She found Fahroz walking across the courtyard toward her. An ornate, golden circlet wrapped her brow and at its center were three azurite gems. She wore an outer robe of white, an inner of yellow. Her dire expression warred with her bright clothes. “Excuse me, Muwas, I would speak with Rehada alone.”

  Muwas nodded and left, retreating through the tall doors to the interior of the village. Fahroz turned to Rehada, her arms crossed over her breast. “I have just come from speaking with Hilal, and there are questions you must answer, daughter of Shineshka.” Before Rehada could speak, Fahroz continued. “Was Soroush one of the men you saw in Izhny?”

  “Yeh,” Rehadasaid without hesitation. There was no choice. Fahroz knew the answer already.

  “Why did you not tell us this?”

  “One Maharraht or another. It matters little to me.”

  “Come, Rehada. This is no Maharraht. You had a child with this man.”

  “And that child is dead.”

  The wrinkled skin along Fahroz’s cheeks worked as she ground her jaw. “Play me not for a fool. This is more serious than you can imagine. Would you like to know Hilal’s advice?” Again she continued without allowing Rehada to speak. “It was to burn you with no chance to defend yourself. Maharraht cannot be trusted with the truth, he said.”

  Rehada stared, refusing to answer the unspoken question.

  “Are you Maharraht?”

  “Neh,” Rehada said.

  Fahroz shook her head. “I would like to believe you, Rehada.”

  Rehada steadied herself, but she displayed what she felt was the proper amount of alarm. “I would never join them, Fahroz. You must believe me. My daughter’s death was tragic. I am scarred, but I would not turn to violence to avenge something that can never be changed.” Visions of the suurahezhan came to Rehada, shaming her even as she stared into Fahroz’s eyes.

  Fahroz weighed Rehada’s words carefully as her jaw worked. “I defended you to Hilal. I told him that you would not do such a thing. Am I a fool, Rehada?”

  “You are not.”

  “Then you will do me the favor of providing a small token of your earnestness.”

  Relief swept over Rehada. “Anything.”

  “You will confess your daughter’s death, and you will do it today. Now.”

  She had known that this was the price to pay, but a well of fear still opened up inside Rehada. “I can’t do that.”

  “Do this, Rehada. Do it for Ahya.”

  “Do not speak her name.” She said the words because they must be spoken. She was completing a ruse, but she found the same reluctance seething inside her. She did not wish for her child’s name to be spoken. Ahya was hers, no one else’s.

  “There is no harm in a name.”

  You lie, Rehada said to herself. If that were true, she wouldn’t be feeling the burning weight at the center of her chest. She had come fully prepared to take this step, but now she wanted to leave, to flee, to return to her home and forget all about this.

  But she could not. She could not afford to alienate herself from Iramanshah.

  Neh. These were rationalizations. The truth was that the link to Adhiya through her stone was the only time she felt any sort of comfort, any sort of release from the pain of losing her child and her never-ending anger against the Landed. She could not bear to have it ripped from her and to go on without it as Soroush did. It would be too painful.

  And so she held Fahroz’s gaze and nodded.

  “Say it, child.”

  “I will confess my da
ughter’s death.”

  There was a tentative satisfaction in Fahroz’s heavy, wrinkled eyes, but it was not a mocking glance. Then her gaze drifted to Atiana. “The fates can be cruel at times, daughter of Shineshka, but I think in this they are right.”

  Rehada turned, confused, and looked at Atiana, who was studying the massive celestia atop the nearby hill. Atiana turned then, perhaps sensing that she was being watched, and the moment their eyes met, Rehada understood exactly what Fahroz meant for her to do.

  “Neh, Fahroz,” Rehada said quietly but firmly. “Anything but that. I will confess to you, to Hilal, to the entire village. Anything. But do not make me confess to her.”

  Fahroz had already started shaking her head. “Those are my terms.”

  The pain in her hands made Rehada realize just how tightly she had been gripping them. She stared at her palms, each of which now contained four crescent-shaped marks of blood. Rather than storm away, rather than hide, Rehada laughed. Fahroz was right. The Fates had finally caught up to her, as she knew it eventually would.

  She breathed deeply and released it slowly. Finally she nodded, and Fahroz returned the gesture. And then the two of them hugged.

  CHAPTER 47

  Rehada held her arms at her side, conscious of her posture and bearing even though Atiana—standing nearly face-to-face with her—and Fahroz—watching from a comfortable distance—were the only ones witness to it. She grew conscious of the shaking in her hands and balled them into fists to cover it, but that might be interpreted by Fahroz as disobedience or lack of acceptance and so she relaxed them and simply hoped that Atiana wouldn’t notice.

  She did, though. Atiana glanced down, and her face softened as if she were trying to comfort a cowardly child afraid of storm clouds and thunder. It made Rehada want to gouge her eyes from her face.

  Fahroz had chosen for the confession one of the largest rooms in Iramanshah, a hall normally used for the immense meals during the solstice festivals, but this day it was entirely empty, the trestles and chairs stored away, leaving the three of them small and insignificant at its center. It was not something that would normally give Rehada pause, but this day it made her feel small, smaller than she had felt in a long, long time.