She swallows and grimaces before turning her head toward her hand. That hand still holds the Atalayina, and it hasn’t moved since the world slowed around them.
“Should I take it?”
She nods.
Nasim is loath to leave the Tashavir defenseless, but he sees no choice. He steps forward until he’s face-to-face with her. He reaches up to touch the stone, but halts mere inches from it. He flexes his hands, inexplicably hesitant.
He should not be apprehensive. This is something that must be done.
“Now,” Kaleh says through gritted teeth.
He stares at the stone, at the glittering lines of gold running along its surface. He looks at the fingers of Kaleh’s hand, at the tendons, so tight they’re ready to snap.
Something is wrong. Too often Sariya has fooled him, and this feels like another trap. Why it is she wants him to touch the stone, he doesn’t know, but this time he won’t do it.
“Now, Nasim!” she screams.
His only response is to step away.
Sariya—for he is sure it is her now, if it ever was Kaleh—changes. Her eyes transform from pained to desperate to enraged. She straightens, and her hand relaxes on the stone.
“Begone, then,” she says.
And this time, her words echo along the tunnel.
In that one small moment, the mountain expands and the heavens recede.
And the flame flickered once more.
A blast of wind pushed Nasim and the Tashavir down the tunnel until the two of them crashed against the wall. The ancient man cried out and tried to roll over—perhaps hoping to reach his knees—but he was too weak.
Nasim managed to stand, but he stumbled when he realized his hezhan were gone. They were lost to him, all five, and he now lay defenseless before Sariya, who was inexplicably walking away from him, back the way she’d come.
The cracking sounds came moments later. They were piercing and shrill. But then they became louder and longer. Bits of stone above him fractured away, falling and pelting his scalp and shoulders and arms as he ducked away from the falling debris.
Larger pieces of stone calved away. He could hear nothing but the cacophony of stone shearing and falling. He moved to where the Tashavir lay and threw himself over the old man, hoping at the very least to spare him pain, but as he did, he felt a change. He felt at one with the stone around him. His skin turned rigid, and his mouth nearly burst with mineral taste.
Stones struck him, but he barely felt them. He knew little more than he was being protected, but even despite this the pressure above him increased. He became weighted down. His breath was pressed from his lungs. He wanted to warn the Tashavir, or maybe he simply wanted to speak to someone in these last moments, but if that were so he didn’t know what to say. Still, he was glad he would be with someone, and it was strangely comforting that it would be with one who had lived during the sundering. He was born only eighteen years ago, but he felt a kinship with that distant age three hundred years before.
Stone and earth continued to press. It drove him down, and he became light-headed. And then it became too much. And the earth closed in around him.
He woke in utter darkness. He had no idea how much time had passed. He still felt the pressure of the mountain around him, but he also felt her—the one who’d protected both him and the Tashavir.
Kaleh.
He could feel her through her vanahezhan. It felt as though she were embracing him.
And then the world shifted.
It felt the same as it had on Ghayavand when she’d transported him to Rafsuhan. And this time he felt how she was doing it. It was like turning a skiff to align with the wind so that instead of being pushed by it, the ship could sidle along the currents of aether to go where it wished. Except instead of using wind, she was using stone.
The ground around him rumbled. A narrow line of star-filled darkness opened up before him. The crack widened like the maw of some ancient and forgotten beast, revealing the moon and the mantle of the heavens above. At last he was able to stand and help the Tashavir out of the hole. They stood on a hill beneath one of the peaks. He could see in the distance more peaks standing out against the starry sky. They were still in Shadam Khoreh, which could either mean that Kaleh hadn’t had enough strength to take them farther, or she’d wanted him to continue to the next tomb so he could save another of the Tashavir.
He looked the ancient Tashavir over, but was unable to tell much in the darkness. “Are you well?”
No response came.
“Are you well?” he asked again in Kalhani.
“I am well.” The words were spoken in a slurred approximation of Mahndi. He was crooked and seemed barely able to stand on his own, and yet, even though the words were slurred and slow in coming, there was no denying that there was verve in his voice. There was confidence as well.
Nasim bowed his head. “I am Nasim. Nasim an Ashan.”
Before the Tashavir could respond, the gap in the earth behind them rumbled and groaned. It closed like a healing wound until all Nasim could see of it was a dark line in the otherwise-unremarkable terrain.
The Tashavir blinked for long moments—he even closed his eyes for a moment, as if sleep were about to take him—but then his eyes snapped open and focused on Nasim. “Tohrab,” he said while patting his chest several times. “I am Tohrab Hamir al Nahin.”
In the east, the sky was just beginning to brighten. In an hour, the sun would rise, but by then, Nasim would be asleep. He had been going for too long. Much too long. And the weariness he’d felt only in his bones had now caught up to him.
Northward, toward the nearest peak, was the low-lying edge of a forest that ran up the side of the mountain. It was there that they would rest. He was no longer worried about Sariya. Whatever Kaleh had done, Sariya would be hours coming from the tomb, and then she too—even with the Atalayina—would need to rest.
Nasim took the old man by the arm and guided him forward. “Come, Tohrab. We must reach the foot of that mountain, and then there is much you and I must speak of.”
Tohrab nodded and shuffled along as Nasim led him toward the mountain.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Nikandr lay awake in bed, the night stars visible through the open window above him. The wind was dry and cold, and it smelled of the desert, but there was something distinct about its scent. It was different, somehow, than the rest of the Gaji. He knew it was foolish, but this place smelled ancient and forgotten in a way the rest of the desert did not.
He stood and began pacing, as he’d done many times that night, stopping at the door and peering into the night, hoping he’d find Atiana returning to him.
“Go out or go to sleep,” Ushai said. She slept in the second of the two beds with Soroush.
Without saying a word, Nikandr left. He couldn’t fall asleep. Not with Atiana still gone.
They’d told him the ritual would take several hours. That they’d most likely be done by morning, but they also said that some fell so deeply into the trance brought on by the tūtūn that they remained until the following afternoon, or even into the third day. Nikandr had no idea if what they were saying was true, but even if it was, it seemed as though Atiana—with all hear years as a Matra—would be able to lift herself from the trance quicker than most.
He stared westward, wishing Atiana would appear beyond the mudbrick homes and walk toward him. They’d been distant, he knew, but he wanted nothing more now than to tell her how foolish he’d been, that he’d leave his thoughts of the wind behind him and focus on her, and Nasim, and the Grand Duchy. The two of them would be married after this was over. That much he knew. No one would stand in their way. Not her brother, Borund, not her mother, and certainly not Grand Duke Leonid. They would be married, and he would tell her so.
He waited longer, pacing in front of the home they’d been given, until he could take no more of it. He strode toward the center of the village, but he’d not gone ten paces when three men in robes ste
pped from the shadows of the homes ahead and barred his way.
“Go back,” one of them said in Mahndi.
“I need to speak to Atiana.”
“She’ll be done by morning, or if not then, by midday.”
“I will speak with her.” He began walking past them, but the one who spoke, the one in the center, stepped forward and put his hand on Nikandr’s chest. His other hand rested on the pommel of his shamshir. The other two were doing the same, and they’d dropped into defensive stances. He had a mind to press them, thinking they’d allow him to go if he showed them he wouldn’t be swayed, but the memories of the day they’d risen from the desert and fired their arrows into the janissaries came to him. They’d been cold and calmly cruel, and Nikandr had no doubt that they’d be the same with him, the prince of a foreign realm or not.
He took a half step back so that the Kohori was no longer touching his chest. “If you won’t allow me to see her, then take me to Ashan. Surely you can do that much.”
The eyes of the Kohori softened. He took his hand off his shamshir and stood straighter, and Nikandr was suddenly reminded of the way he and Soroush used to view one another—as enemies and little more—and yet here was this man, stepping back from the edge of violence. “The son of Ahrumea will no doubt come to you when he is able.”
“Are you to keep me from Ashan as well?”
For a moment, the only sound was that of a strange clicking coming from deep within the desert. An insect perhaps, or one of the long, black lizards he’d seen since arriving here in Kohor. It was followed moments later by another, more distant.
“I’ll take you to him, if it will calm your heart.”
They moved through the village, not westward as he’d hoped but southward. Beyond the mudbrick homes and thatched roofs, Nikandr could see the dark outline of the mountains and the shimmering gauze of night suspended above it. Eventually the village was behind them and they were into the desert itself. He was off to speak with a trusted friend, and that calmed him further.
Ahead, the desert floor twinkled as if stars had fallen and were reaching up, begging to rejoin their sisters. As they came closer, the effect became more pronounced and gained a sense of depth. The ground opened up here, and depressions as large as houses, as large as palotzas, pocked the ground. Nikandr thought they might be the entrances to mines, but as they took a path down into one of them, he got the distinct impression that these formations were simply a part of this place, no different than the dry earth or the mountains that ringed the valley.
“This is the Vale of Stars?” Nikandr asked.
“Yeh. One of the rarest jewels of the Gaji.”
Nikandr had never seen anything like it. It was beautiful, like the heavens brought low so that mortals could walk among them.
They came to a tunnel of sorts. As they walked, oddly shaped holes provided a view to the interior. Crystals were embedded in the natural earthen walls, uncovered by some unknown working of earth and weather and time. Some tunnels branched off of this main one now and again, heading deeper into the earth, but this wasn’t where the Kohori led him. They came to a large cavernous room with lightly glowing crystals all around. The roof—if such a thing could be called a roof—was a porous opening that gave view to the sky above. It was difficult to tell where the cavernous twinkling ended and the heavens began.
Ashan stood within this place with his arms to his sides, staring up. It was too dark for Nikandr to see, but he was sure Ashan’s eyes were closed. Sukharam was there as well, facing Ashan and mirroring the arqesh’s posture. They did not move as Nikandr came to their side, nor when the Kohori men bowed and took their leave. Only when the sound of their footsteps had faded did Ashan lower his arms and turn toward Nikandr.
“What is it you wish, son of Iaros?”
“I simply wish to talk.”
Ashan waved to Sukharam. “We have much to do.”
“You’re merely taking breath.” Nikandr immediately regretted his words. He could not make out Ashan’s expression, but the slump of his shoulders told him all he needed to know.
“Would you wish him to be unprepared should we find the stone again?”
“Do you doubt that we will?”
“Answer my question, Nikandr.”
Nikandr released his breath in a huff. “I’m sorry, Ashan. I’ve come because of Atiana. She hasn’t yet returned.”
Ashan began walking toward the tunnel, and Nikandr fell into step beside him.
“How long?” Ashan asked.
“Since sunset.”
They continued on their circular path, treading upward, closer to ground level. Nikandr could still make out Sukharam’s dark form below.
Ashan clasped his hands before him as he walked. “Do you know why you can’t find the hezhan?”
Nikandr shook upon hearing these words. “What?”
“You cannot find it because you refuse to submit.”
“I bonded with the hezhan for years, Ashan.”
“What you did was not bonding. The havahezhan, through some trick of the fates, was bound to you. That isn’t the same thing at all.”
“I did not command it.”
“You did. I watched you. I felt you. A true bonding is nothing like what you did. What you did was slavery, nothing more.”
Nikandr swallowed. “It wouldn’t have stayed had I done that. Every qiram I’ve talked to said the same.”
Ashan laughed, a biting sound for all its simplicity. “They didn’t know the nature of your bond, Nikandr.”
“Jahalan said the same thing.”
“As wise as Jahalan was, he was always blinded when it came to you. He cared for you, but in you he saw what he wanted to see.”
“Neh. He was truthful with me.”
“I didn’t say he lied. His own mind led him to believe that you were doing as one of the Aramahn might have done, bonding through your soulstone as we do with alabaster. But believe me when I say it wasn’t the same.”
They left the confines of the tunnel, where the starry sky opened up before them. To the east, the first light of dawn touched the sky.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Nikandr asked.
“Would you have listened?”
“I might have.” The words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
Ashan stopped and faced Nikandr. “In truth, I hoped you would stop. I hoped you would leave aside our ways and return to your own. I’m ashamed of it, Nikandr, but that is the truth of it, and you deserve to hear it.”
Nikandr wanted to send back a biting reply, but how could he, especially with Ashan, a man who had so much caring in his heart? Nikandr could still feel the hole in his chest where the havahezhan had been. It was more physical than emotional, but it produced feelings of yearning, and the longer he focused on it, the worse it became. He felt the cold desert wind on his cheeks. It ruffled his hair. He wanted to call out to the wind, hoping a havahezhan would heed his call, but Ashan’s words had shaken him more than he thought. Had he controlled? Had he taken and given nothing? “I’ll never find another, will I?”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps you should let go of those desires.” He reached up and gripped Nikandr’s shoulder. “Do the same for Atiana. Do not seek to control the Kohori. They will see the truth, and once they see our hearts are pure, they will allow us to go. They may even help us.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then they don’t. We will find Nasim if he is to be found. We will find Kaleh and, fates willing, the Atalayina as well. These people know more than anyone of the stone. They’ll help us to uncover its secrets.”
“Why does any of that mean I should give up the one I love to be questioned like a thief?”
“Do you remember the mahtar who were hung in the garden of Radiskoye?”
He could still see them, swinging in the wind after Borund had ordered the hangman to throw the lever. “Why would you dredge that memory up?”
“Do you imagine—af
ter hearing of such a thing—the people of the island would be easily trusted?”
“I know what you’re getting at, Ashan, but—”
“Do not brush this aside, Nikandr. It was your people who did that deed. And here you are, hands clasped, begging the people of Kohor to help you when they know nothing of you. They guard their secrets closely, and you would have them forget centuries of such behavior and grant you your wish upon your arrival?”
“This is important.”
“To them as well, more than you know, which is why they must take care.”
“What, then? What are they hiding, Ashan? You must know something by now.”
“They are hiding their history, which to them is more than simply the past. It is who they are. It is why they live.” Before Nikandr could protest, Ashan put his hand on Nikandr’s shoulder. “Be at ease, Nikandr Iaroslov.”
Nikandr took a moment. He tried to listen to Ashan. He released his worries over the Kohori, released his worries over Atiana, and for a moment, with Ashan’s hand holding him steady, he was able to breathe easily, to shed some of the tension that had been wound so tightly within him since long before arriving in this valley.
Ashan took his hand away and reached into a bag at his belt, the one that held the stones he used to bond with the hezhan. He held up a pale colored stone—alabaster, the kind used with spirits of the wind. “Do you know why we use alabaster for havahezhan?”
“It is the stone to which they’re attracted.”
Ashan shook his head. “It’s because alabaster lightens the mind. It allows you to truly feel that which lies around you.” He took Nikandr’s hand, placed the stone into the center of his palm, and then closed Nikandr’s fingers around it. “If you’re open to it.”
Nikandr felt the stone, felt the smoothness and its small imperfections. “Why help me now?”
“Perhaps I was wrong.” Ashan shrugged, an apology. “Perhaps the fates wish you to reach Adhiya. Perhaps after all these years it is time to share with those who would accept such knowledge. Who am I to deny them?”
Nikandr didn’t know what to feel. He considered Ashan a great friend. A true friend. And yet he’d withheld something he knew was terribly important to Nikandr.
The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) Page 27
