“You knew Khadija was Maharraht?” Soroush asked Ashan, ignoring his question.
“I did.”
“And still you came, knowing Nasim was ours.”
Ashan smiled again, but the mirth had left his eyes. “That boy is yours no more than this cavern is, son of Gatha, or the island that cradles it.”
Soroush kept one hand on Nasim’s head; the other moved to the steel butt of his khanjar. “He is mine as this knife is mine. As my musket is mine.” He nodded his head toward Khadija, the deadened stone of jasper glinting in his red turban as he did so. “As the men and women who have pledged their lives to our cause are mine.”
“Except Nasim has made no such pledge.”
“And yet he has fallen into our care. The fates shined on us that day, and I won’t allow you to change his course, or ours.”
“That isn’t why I’ve come. The fates will guide as they see fit.”
“Then get to it, Ashan, for I tire of this. Why have you come?”
“To reach this boy. To teach him. To learn from him if I can. What else is there in life?”
“There is much,” Soroush said, his voice rising. “Are you Maharraht?” The words echoed harshly in the large chamber.
If Ashan felt insulted by the question, he didn’t show it. “I am not,” he said simply.
“Then why would you think I would allow you to stay?”
As much as Soroush’s voice was rising, Ashan’s was becoming calmer. “I wish to learn more about Nasim. So do you. And if that is so, then what harm is there in allowing me to stay?”
Soroush’s hand was still resting on his knife, but now he was looking at Ashan as if he was ready to draw it, to run it across Ashan’s throat and be done with this charade. He viewed Ashan as a threat, and not only that—Ashan was a reminder to Soroush or any other Maharraht who looked upon him of the life they’d left behind, the life of peace. They had all come to terms with that in their own ways, but to be reminded of it each day seemed as though it would prove too much for Soroush to bear. But then he relaxed. He stared down at Nasim, and his eyes softened, as if he’d seen—even if it was only for one brief moment—how great Nasim might become.
“I’ll not change my mind,” he said softly.
In reply, Ashan merely smiled his gap-toothed smile.
“I’ll have your stones.”
At this, Ashan paused. “That will make things difficult.” His gemstones allowed him to reach beyond the veil and into Adhiya to bond with hezhan.
Soroush didn’t seem to care. He turned and began walking toward one of the many tunnels leading out from this room. “And you’ll be bound with bands of iron.”
The days flowed quickly for Khadija. Days soon turned to weeks, and weeks to months. She was assigned as Nasim’s escort. She was to study him as closely as Ashan did, to learn what he was doing and to carry on if ever Ashan’s actions were deemed suspicious. But she never felt that was the case. Ashan spoke to Nasim endlessly, told him stories of the creation of the world, how the fates had cradled the world in the palms of their hands, how they’d wept and created the stars, how they’d smiled and created the sun, how they’d breathed and granted life to the world. Ashan told him the stories parents told children, but also deep and ancient tales Khadija had never heard. Tales of the travels of ancient men and women through the islands or the mainland of Yrstanla far to the west.
One story—a tale of an ancient man who wandered the Gaji desert searching for the stone of creation—was so vivid that Khadija had to wonder… “That story you told Nasim,” she said one night over a small fire in a vale of stunted trees, “was it from another life?”
Ashan was staring into the fire, bracelets of heavy iron around his wrists and ankles, chin resting on his knees, looking for all the world as young as Nasim, who was sitting cross-legged nearby. “I dreamed it when I was young”—he motioned to Nasim with a tilt of his head—“when I was no older than him. As vivid as this fire before me. As vivid as the stars above.”
“It was, wasn’t it? Your prior self…”
But Ashan merely shrugged. “Who can tell?”
“It must be.”
“There are days when I think that’s true, and others where I think I’m merely fooling myself, wishing it were so. I hold on to it, hoping it comes clearer in the next life, or the one after that.”
“I dream…”
Both Khadija and Ashan looked to Nasim. Neither one spoke; they didn’t wish to break the spell, for Nasim had spoken not at all since the waterfall.
Nasim picked up a brand from the fire. He held it near his lips and blew softly upon it, embers lifting into the night sky to mingle among the stars. “I dream of an island far from here.”
“What island?” Ashan asked softly.
“There were many there once. Men and women like you.” He looked to Ashan. “And you.” He turned to Khadija. “They were learned, but they took much for granted.”
“What, Nasim? What did they take for granted?”
He turned the brand over, staring into the deep orange glow between the plates of bitter coal. “Life, both ours and the next. They broke much. They sacrificed much.”
“Who? Your parents?”
Nasim set the brand back into the fire and ran his hands over the flames. He reached within it and touched something there.
And suddenly Khadija could feel it.
A suurahezhan, a fire spirit, ready to cross over if Nasim willed it.
A hand formed in the flames, and Khadija scrabbled to her feet, ready to pull Nasim away if needed, but the moment she moved, the diaphanous hand lifted with the flames, twisting and turning until it was gone.
He could have done it, she realized. He could have pulled the hezhan across the veil and into the material world. With no stones. Just a brush of his hand.
Ashan watched Nasim carefully for some time, but Nasim merely returned to his silent scrutiny over the fire and wouldn’t respond to their questions.
“Can you look upon him and not see what we might become?” Ashan was staring directly into Khadija’s eyes now, the fire casting shadows across his face and beard and curly hair. In all his time on the island so far, Ashan had not once touched on the subject of her betrayal, her abandonment of the Aramahn for the Maharraht.
“Why would you ask a question you already know the answer to?”
“Because I cannot understand why you would take up this life. How can you hope to reach your better self with blood upon your hands? All you see is red, Khadija, daughter of Gheddesh and Fassed. Red, when you might see the golden light of dawn. Darkness, when you might see the silver moon.”
“How can you protect the Landed? They hold our travels hostage, refusing us gems, refusing us access to the land that is not theirs, but everyone’s. You speak of blood. What of the blood on their hands?”
“Do you claim no responsibility for your actions then? Are you nothing more than a puppet?”
“Don’t pretend they’re blameless,” Khadija spat. “They’re cruel. Cruel even to themselves. They don’t deserve a place on the islands.”
“We were speaking of you and why you’ve turned your back on your own future.”
“This is where you’ve always been blind, Ashan. You speak of my future? My future is nothing if the Landed take and take and take! There will be nothing left for me! Or you! Or any of us! You cannot separate one from the other.”
“You cannot take responsibility for anyone but yourself.”
“Forgive me, kuadim, for you are gifted in so many ways, but in this you are a fool. I must take responsibility for everyone but myself, for you will never do it.”
“The fates see farther than the horizon. They will guide us.”
She waved to Nasim emphatically. “They already have! They guided me to Soroush’s side. They guided Nasim to me. And they will guide my hand as I slip a knife into the heart of the Landed.”
If Ashan was shocked by her words, he didn’t have
time to show it, for just then several things happened at once.
Soroush stepped into the firelight, but there he stopped, staring, mouth agape.
Near the fire, Nasim was now standing, touching his fingers to the flames. Khadija made to grab for him—thinking he was merely curious—but before she could, Nasim used his fingers to coax the flame, as one might pull a tuft from a ball of wool, and it seemed to Khadija in that moment that Nasim was holding his hand out to a dear friend, offering it that they might step safely across a treacherous threshold.
The flame grew and grew, and Khadija felt something blossom within her. The world broke and gaped wider. It felt as if she’d been drawn to the other side, swallowed by the very stuff of creation. Khadija doubled over, holding her waist, and while she did a form burgeoned from the flames. An arm, a head, the vague shape of a body, roughly as tall as Nasim himself.
A suurahezhan. A spirit of fire standing before her. Ashan looked on with shock, but Soroush had recovered. He was staring at Nasim with wonder, but also with an expression she could only describe as deep satisfaction. There was a yearning that made Khadija go cold. Soroush had expected this. It was why he’d brought Nasim here. To this place in particular. And she’d felt it. The yawning sensation was still present, and it was all she could do not to fall to her knees in awe.
Acrid smoke filled the air. Nasim’s clothes…
They were burning.
“Stop it, Nasim!” For a moment Khadija didn’t know if it had been Soroush or Ashan who had said it, but then she saw Ashan move quickly and surely to wrap his hands around Nasim.
The form aflame stepped back.
Wavered and was gone.
Ashan cried out, releasing Nasim, falling back to press his arms against the cold earth. Khadija rushed to his side, checking his skin as he shivered with pain. He’d been burned badly. Nasim had been hot as glowing coals, but Ashan had smothered the flames anyway in order to send the suurahezhan back to its proper place, across the aether to Adhiya.
She realized to her shame what he’d done. He’d saved them all, for if the spirit had crossed, it would surely have killed each and every one of them.
Khadija walked through a dark tunnel holding a siraj to light her way. She came to a room where several simple beds lay, only one of which was occupied, by Ashan. A Maharraht woman in a plain blue dress sat on a stool next to him spreading a salve over his stomach and chest. His arms were bound in white bandages. When she was done applying the salve, she wrapped more bandages around Ashan’s torso. He grimaced, and yet, even with pain clearly on his face, there was also mirth. Here was a man always prepared to smile, whereas Khadija felt her mouth was set in a perpetual frown.
How Khadija wished she could be like him, but her anger was so tightly wound she’d never managed to unravel it. Not that I’ve ever tried. And she doubted she ever would. Her anger was a source of power, a source of drive. It was what kept her by Soroush’s side, working for the good of the Maharraht.
If she were ever to look too closely in her heart…
When the woman nodded to Ashan and left, Khadija sat down on the stool. “You asked me to come?”
Ashan chuckled. “Direct and to the point.”
“Just get on with it, Ashan.”
“Fair enough. Why did Soroush bring you here? Why have you come to Rhavanki?”
“I told you. He felt this place would open paths we could use to speak with Nasim.”
“And so it has.” He paused, looking more deeply into her eyes. “But there were more reasons for Soroush to bring Nasim here, weren’t there?” Although Khadija stiffened at these words, she forced herself to relax lest Ashan notice. But he’d always been an insufferably observant man. There was a cold satisfaction in his eyes when he spoke again. “You felt the hezhan. I’m sure you felt the others as well. There were dozens of them, Khadija, perhaps more. Why would that be? And why here?”
“I merely do as I’m bid.”
“As your sister did?”
Khadija’s head jerked back. “I told you not to speak of my sister.”
“You do not owe her this, Khadija. The Maharraht may fight, but you don’t need to follow them. Mirilah’s voice will still be silenced, and you’ll be the poorer for it. The world will be the poorer.”
“Mirilah may have been the reason I came to the Maharraht, but she’s not the reason I stay. I am my own woman, Ashan.”
“And yet you merely—how did you put it?—do as you are bid…”
“Soroush is wise. He sees many paths ahead that I cannot.”
“You’ve chosen not to. You’re not speaking to some fool you’ve never met, Khadija. I was your kuadim. Do you expect me to believe you’ve stopped questioning the world around you? Perhaps you’ve managed to shackle your own mind so, but believe me, Soroush has not. You saw his face as well as I did. What happened with Nasim was something he’d been waiting for since the moment Nasim arrived. He’s using the boy. I’ve known that since I came to this island. What I can’t fathom is the reason behind it.”
The truth was she hadn’t asked. She hadn’t cared what Soroush would be doing, only that she would be given a chance to deal pain to the Landed while here. She had thought that Soroush had chosen her for her connection to Nasim. Later she’d decided that, while it may have something to do with the fact that she’d found Nasim and brought him to Soroush, it was because she’d been faithful to him these past seven years. In that time she’d never once questioned his orders. And that, she realized now, was precisely why he’d chosen her to watch over Nasim. Because she bore a burning hatred for the Landed and because she knew that Soroush did as well.
But this was something different. Ashan was right. The islands of Rhavanki were home to this strange phenomenon. And Soroush had somehow deduced that. She felt foolish for not asking more questions of him. Her thirst for revenge had blinded her. But for some reason she couldn’t admit this to Ashan. How small she had become. How petty and self-serving. And yet she couldn’t muster the courage to do anything more than withdraw from Ashan’s bedside and make for the exit.
Before she turned to leave, Ashan reached up and grabbed her wrist, which from the grimace on his face caused him no small amount of pain. “Tell me, Khadija.”
She snatched her wrist away, a spike of shame running through her at the further pain it caused him. “You are wise. Find your own answers.”
Ashan’s words trailed after her as she strode away. “If you would abandon that boy like this, then you are truly Maharraht.”
“I owe him nothing,” she said as she entered the tunnel, “nor you.”
Ashan did not respond, which for some reason was far worse than any biting reply he might have offered.
She followed the tunnel through a myriad of twists and turns before eventually hearing the call of the sea. The waves had always calmed her. She wanted nothing more than to be alone with her thoughts, but when at last she reached the shore and the white foamy waves she found someone standing on the rocks.
Nasim. He was crouched down, staring from the edge of one of the black rocks into frothing surf. How much the child he looked. How innocent and pure.
He reached down to the water and touched his forefinger to it. As he drew it back, a tendril of water followed. Like a serpent it snaked upward, following where his finger trailed, and soon there was a spiral of water around him, glinting in the afternoon sun. As easy for him as plucking a stalk of grass. He wore no stone, and yet the hezhan flocked to him at his bidding.
“Did you speak with your kuadim?”
Khadija started. She turned and found Soroush squatting on a stone ledge above the mouth of the tunnel. He held his musket across the back of his shoulders, his arms resting lazily along the length of the weapon as his long black beard swung idly in the wind.
“I did,” she said, realizing in that moment what Ashan had done. He’d asked for his message to be passed to Khadija, knowing full well the request would be passed to Sorous
h as well. For whatever reason, Ashan wanted Soroush to be suspicious of Khadija.
“I did,” she replied. “He asked me to stand with him, and against you.”
“Did he?” Soroush stood and leapt down from his perch. “And what was your answer?” He set the butt of the musket onto the dark stone they stood upon and held it near the muzzle with both hands. He did so absently, in a way that made it clear how intimate he was with the weapon.
“It wasn’t a serious appeal,” she said. “He did it only in hopes of catching me off-guard, in hopes of finding answers.”
“Answers to what?”
“Your purpose here.”
“Does he not know my purpose?”
“I’m sure he now suspects.”
Soroush looked to Nasim, eyes piercing, his jaw set grimly. “Because of what Nasim did?”
“Of course.”
Soroush went silent. On the rock in the surf, Nasim was using his fingers to spread the water into wide sheets that reflected the sun brightly.
When Soroush spoke again, it was to ask the question Khadija had been dreading for months. “Do we have need of Ashan still?”
With that question, her skin went cold.
The Aramahn—those still dedicated to the path of learning, in any case—were treated with reverence by the Maharraht. Much of what the Maharraht did—the violence against the Landed, the protracted war to push them from the islands—was done so that the Aramahn didn’t have to. All Maharraht knew this. They kept it at the forefront of their minds in everything they did, even Khadija, who had many reasons to hate the Aramahn. But in this Soroush would not turn a blind eye. He would not allow Ashan to leave now that he knew as much as he did.
Soroush, like all Maharraht, had come to grips with the lives they led. They would kill when the need arose, and if counted among the dead were Aramahn, the loss was grieved but considered necessary in their plans to retake the islands. But to consider killing one of the Aramahn in cold blood—murder, plain and simple—was something different. It was something she would never have considered, and before Soroush had asked his question, she would never have thought he would consider it either.
To the Towers of Tulandan Page 3