Thabash stopped his pacing. “Do you think yourself above us because you’ve come, as you say, to heal?”
“I merely wish to save those that can be saved.”
“And if they don’t wish to be saved? Were you to heal any one of these children, they would spit upon you for the curse you’ve laid at their feet. They would tell you that they went willingly, and that to bring them back would be an indelible stain upon their soul.”
Nikandr could only think of Wahad, how proud he was of Muqallad’s faith in him. “They were lied to.”
Nikandr could tell that these words made Thabash bristle, but he could not simply attack. There was a battle being waged here in Ashdi en Ghat for the minds of everyone involved. Few knew the truth, but many suspected Thabash and even Muqallad were leading them astray.
“They were not lied to. They were freed. Freed to make their own choice. Freed to bring this world to a higher place and a higher plane.”
“They were given no choice. What could they choose but to please Muqallad? He is no savior, Thabash. He spells our doom, not just the Landed, but all of us.”
Thabash waited for those words to settle over those nearby, waited for the echoes to die. “Not our doom, son of Iaros. Our salvation.” He motioned to the men behind him, at which point they strode forward and took Nikandr and Jahalan by the arms. “And you will have a chance to see it firsthand. At the equinox, these children will allow Muqallad to take another step forward, and Muqallad has asked that you be there to see it so that when you die, you will know the fate of this earth. You will know the fate of the world beyond.”
“He doesn’t care for the Landed.”
“Neh, he does not, but of you he cares. You, the chosen of Khamal.”
“Khamal did not choose me.”
Thabash’s eyes opened wide. “You’re blinded if you believe it was luck.”
“Blind or not, Khamal is nothing to me.”
“Nothing?” Thabash asked. “The two of you are bound so tightly in this life that there can be little doubt you were bound in another.” He waved his hand, and the men hauled Nikandr by the arms.
Looking back, Nikandr saw Thabash standing over Wahad. Wahad could not see him anymore—most likely he would never open his eyes again—but somehow he knew Thabash was there, for he was shaking his head back and forth. When he began to pound his hands against the stone, Nikandr could watch no more, and soon he had lost sight of the cavern altogether.
Before he was placed in a cell, Nikandr’s soulstone was taken from him. When the soldiers left, they took the light and locked the heavy wooden door behind them. The light from their siraj bobbed as they left, growing dimmer and dimmer, until all was darkness.
He lay on the pallet he’d been given, wondering where they’d taken Jahalan. It was likely they’d brought him to another cell somewhere else in the village, but it was just as likely that they’d simply asked him to leave, or allowed him to stay as long as he agreed to interfere no longer.
It was a symptom of their grief that they dealt with the Landed ruthlessly, and yet treated the Aramahn with respect, even reverence. The Maharraht claimed they were doing this for their brothers and sisters who could not find it in themselves to take the same path they did. They didn’t hold it against the Aramahn for not taking up arms—the Aramahn, after all, were the ones they were trying to protect. It was not in the Maharraht to harm them as long as they didn’t stand in their way.
Whether Jahalan remained or not, it didn’t change the fact that something momentous was about to happen. It was clear that Muqallad had been working for months, perhaps years, toward this very thing. The girl, Kaleh. The beating hearts in the wilderness. The fire in the clearing. And now the children who were slowly but surely being consumed.
He couldn’t help but think that if he could have healed one of the akhoz—just one—he could have swayed opinions, enough to overpower the men from the south, who, though smaller in number, seemed to be exerting undue influence over their brethren from the north.
And yet Wahad had been so adamant in his beliefs. He had believed everything Kaleh and Muqallad had fed him, and this was a thing that would build upon itself. When a select few children believed that Muqallad was their savior, more would believe, and that in turn would make more follow, until all that remained were silent skeptics.
If only he could show Wahad what he had seen.
But he could not. He was too late to save them, and now he was powerless to stop Muqallad.
When morning came, the men who came for Nikandr—seven of them—all wore the black robes of the Hratha. They put manacles around his wrists and hobbled his legs with rope. They did not allow him his cherkesska, but instead forced him to wear only his pants and shirt and boots. They pushed him from the village and walked him southward. There were others far ahead on the road that did not wear the dark robes of the south. Surely this was something momentous. The plans Muqallad had been making were coming to fruition.
Nikandr watched for someone, anyone, he might be able to speak to. He watched the road behind, hoping a parent of one of the children would catch up with them—until the Hratha nearest him thought ill of it and struck him on the back of the head with the hilt of his dagger.
Nikandr cringed, expecting another blow, but the man only held the gleaming blade close to Nikandr’s face and said, “Look again, and I use the other end.”
Nikandr was careful to make sure the man was busy with something else before stealing a glance behind, but he never saw anyone. He assumed they would be the last to reach Siafyan.
They came to a rest only once. With his stone taken, he was unable to ignore the cold so easily. He shivered as three of the men broke away and began speaking in low tones. They had been in Ashdi en Ghat since Nikandr had arrived. Surely they were either loyal to Rahid, or at the very least not favored by Thabash. That they were speaking alone gave him no comfort at all.
They did not rest long, and soon they were into the defile and heading through the woods toward the tall trees of Siafyan. When they neared the village, Nikandr could feel a distinct demarcation. It was a subtle thing—no more than a slight pressing within his chest, a souring of the tongue—but he knew immediately what it was. It was the ring of hearts around the clearing. They felt stronger and fouler than before.
As they continued, the feeling grew, until Nikandr became nauseous from it. He stole glances at the men around him. They did not seem to show it on their faces, and he wondered whether it was only he that could feel it.
As they moved through the village, Nikandr felt watched. He looked up to the walkways, to the windows worked into the trees, but he found nothing and no one. Still, his skin crawled, until finally they moved beyond and into the trees once more.
When they came to the clearing, however, his heart stopped.
Sitting within the ashes and bones of the fire were dozens of tall wooden posts spaced in three concentric rings. Chained to these were the children. Many towns of the Grand Duchy did such thing to murderers and rapists. The convicted men were strung high for all to see, to spit upon as they froze to death, but what had these children done to deserve such punishment? Nothing more than being of a certain age and having the misfortune of being born Maharraht.
Strangely, the children were all facing inward, toward the center. Their faces had transformed in the past day. Their eyes were now completely closed over. Many of them still had their hair, but from the patches of skin Nikandr could see along their scalps it was clearly falling out in tufts.
They were no longer moaning, either. They hung, their arms at painfully awkward angles, without uttering a sound. The silence was eerie. It made his skin crawl. Worse than the silence, though, was the distinct impression that the children knew the end was near.
And that they welcomed it with open arms.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Atiana waits in the dark, willing Ishkyna to hurry. Her awareness is drawn outward until it encompass the S
hattering, where her body—along with Ishkyna and Ushai—lies in an ancient and abandoned stone pool. Other than the streltsi who guard the building, there are very few Baressans brave enough to live in the Shattering, but even they stay along the edges, afraid to step too far into the cursed lands.
Atiana’s awareness expands even further, until she’s pulled toward the straits. It is difficult to remain near the Shattering, but it is important that she do so to guide Ishkyna and prevent her from losing herself, and so it is with a growing sense of unease over the strength of the swirling aether around the straits that she strengthens her footing until she can remain close. About Ushai she is not as worried; while she is young in her craft, she has managed the dark here in Baressa before.
At last Ishkyna’s presence comes to her, tentative and scared. It is so unlike her sister that Atiana nearly loses control. That one moment of weakness is all it takes. The weight of the city presses in, and it is all she can do to control it. As she restores her tentative balance, her senses become more attuned, and she realizes there is one place in particular that presses her the most.
The tower.
Sariya’s tower.
The fear within her grows, and her balance is once again thrown off. Like a hulled ship taking on water, she begins to list, leaving her vulnerable to the growing strength of the waves.
Soon the tower is the one thing she can focus on. The only thing. She is being drawn toward it. This is Sariya’s doing—a trap set for the unwise, the unskilled in the dark—and yet knowing this does her no good. She is powerless to prevent it.
But then she feels Ishkyna’s touch, feels her guiding hand. She feels Ushai’s as well. Even though she cannot pull her attention away from the pure white of the tower against the blackened landscape of the aether, her awareness begins to expand.
Like a drowning woman, she clings to the lessons of her mother. She strengthens her bonds with the other two. Together—especially as close as they are to one another in the physical world—they are able to do so quickly. She can already tell that Ushai is unskilled in this, but not so unskilled as Atiana might have guessed. She has come far.
This is ... difficult, she hears Ishkyna say.
Atiana expected a biting response from her, an admonishment over her lack of control, but instead here is Ishkyna, humbled.
You become used to it, but the influence of the straits is stronger today, so take care.
I can feel the tower even now, Ishkyna says.
Da. She is there, waiting for us.
The fear within Ishkyna and Ushai grows. Atiana can feel it like a glowing brand moving closer to her skin.
Do not worry, Atiana says. We are prepared.
Before they begin, Atiana reaches out to the south, toward Vostroma. She feels the other Matri there, waiting. She does little more than this. It is understood that they will approach Galahesh en masse at this signal.
Atiana waits, holding tight to Ishkyna and Ushai for the time being, until she feels the attention of the tower shift. The pressure on her fades, and she knows that Sariya has taken the bait.
We go, Atiana says.
They move as one toward the tower.
It is a beacon that stands upon the Mount, staring down over the city below. The emotions of so many people—more than Atiana has ever experienced at once—come to her. They assail her, and again it is Ishkyna more than Ushai that provides shelter against this unexpected storm.
What’s wrong? Ishkyna asks.
I don’t know, Atiana replies.
Ushai and Ishkyna have ceded control to her. There is no other choice—they aren’t strong enough to lead—but her inability to master the aether, even knowing how turbulent the straits are, scares her. This day of all days she cannot allow her mind to betray her.
Beyond the tower, the ceremony at the bridge is about to begin. There are wooden cranes and scaffolding at the gap, which is now only several yards wide. Four keystones swing beneath the armature of the cranes, awaiting the masons who stand stoically nearby to lower them into place. A pavilion stands on the southern side of the gap, its canvas walls blowing in the gusting wind. A gathering of thirty nobles stand within it, waiting as Bahett delivers to them a speech.
Atiana feels Ishkyna tug upon her. Come, sister. It is time.
The tower is difficult to approach. Rather than shy away from it, however, Atiana opens herself to it. If it wishes to shed light, she will let it. She allows it to fall upon her, allows it to fall upon the others as well, and when she does, she finds it bearable.
She approaches the tower wall, and though there is part of her that pleads for caution, she ignores it. She is done listening to her fears.
The structure of the tower is echoed here in the aether, but she realizes that it is also echoed beyond the veil, in the world of Adhiya. Never has she seen such a thing, and she wonders how Sariya could have created it.
She is born of a different age, Ishkyna says.
And wise beyond our reckoning, Ushai echoes.
This is something she must remember if she is to continue.
As she passes through the wall, she knows she is doing something that cannot be undone; she has taken a step into a world of Sariya’s making. Sariya herself is here. She sleeps in a bed at the top of the tower. She is alone—unguarded—which gives Atiana pause.
Atiana moves to the bedside. Looking upon Sariya is unsettling. She has looked upon Matri as they tread the dark, but this is strangely different. The Matri are her sisters. Even Ushai—though Aramahn—follows the ways of the Matri that have been passed down from generation to generation. Sariya is something else entirely. She is a woman who has lived to see centuries pass. She was trapped on Ghayavand for most of those years and knows little of the world as it is today. She knows more of the old world, the world she left behind—that and the never-ending nightmare of her time while trapped on Ghayavand.
The strikingly beautiful woman lying on the bed seems foreign. Not at all like Mother, or Mileva, or Saphia. She is more like a wasp—venomous and filled with ill intent.
It is then that Atiana realizes Ishkyna and Ushai are no longer with her. She immediately expands her awareness, searching for them, the terror of the early moments of the aether returning to her.
She cannot allow this. This is but the first of the traps Sariya has laid for her. The worst thing she can do is to give in to her own fears. And yet already she can sense nothing outside the tower. She can feel neither the Matri nor the straits. She cannot feel the city, the bridge. She cannot feel Father.
She can feel Sariya, however. Her mind is focused to the northeast, toward Ghayavand. Within that room in the tower, Atiana moves to the window facing north. It looks out over a wide sea.
Atiana touches the glass.
And it is bitterly cold.
She turns.
And the world around her has taken shape. The walls of stone are gray. The sky outside is blue. The blanket upon the bed is a rich brown.
She knows she’s been taken by Sariya—taken by her tower—and she has no idea how to return. This creates a sudden need to leave this place. She feels it in her throat, a tightening that takes hold and threatens to cut off her air. She swallows and runs down the spiraling stairs. She picks up her pace, faster and faster until she’s flying down them to the lowest floor where a thick, ironbound door bars her passage to the outside.
She pulls the handle, but the door refuses to yield. She tries again and again, jerking at the handle, and all the while, welling up inside her is a fear that she will fall to the cold stone floor and never wake up.
She tries once more, not yanking, but pulling with all her might, and at last the door groans open and she is out into the cold, fresh air.
She sprints away from the tower, her feet thumping through the thick cover of snow. She does not stop, but continues into the nearby woods until at last the tower is lost from view. Only then does she pull up, gasping for breath, steadying herself against the rough b
ark of an ancient larch.
The forest—now that she’s able to consider it—stands serene. The wind blows, cold and biting, and yet she herself is not cold. The trunks of the trees sway, they creak. The sound is sharp and confusing, as if there is some infernal purpose behind it.
She heads northeast. She knows not why.
The way is slow, even beneath the trees, for the snow is thick. She tires as she trudges her way down a gentle slope, but then she hears voices, and she slows.
She recognizes one—Arvaneh, Sariya, who knows how many other names she might possess? And the other? A man’s voice, rich and light with the cadence of the Aramahn. There is something familiar about his voice, but she cannot place it.
She approaches carefully.
The forest opens up into a clearing, and within it stands a white monolith. The top of it stands tall over the tops of the ancient trees.
Sariya, her golden hair flowing softly in the breeze, stands near its base. As does a young man.
Atiana jerks as she recognizes him at last.
Nasim.
But what can he be doing here?
As Sariya and Nasim stare up at the monolith, Atiana feels the power emanating from within it. She feels it in her heart, in her gut. She feels it at the back of her throat. But it is not the power of Sariya. Nyet, this is something different, something foreign to this place. It is strong and ancient as the bones of the earth.
“There are those on Ghayavand who need me,” Nasim is saying.
“Ashan,” Sariya replies.
“Among others.”
“You may think him a bright star, Khamal, but had he been alive when we were at our height, he would have shined no brighter than a wisp.”
Nasim’s face turns angry. “I am not Khamal, and you may all have been bright—you may be bright still—but look where things have come from such brightness.”
“We can return to our greatness, Khamal. But if you feel that the path lies through Ghayavand”—she motions up to the monolith—“then so be it.”
The Straits of Galahesh Page 36
