The Flames of Shadam Khoreh

by Bradley Beaulieu

  Bahett spoke with the kings, carefully composing his face as respectful yet commanding. Perhaps they were negotiating final terms in their treaty, or perhaps it was something else entirely, but when he finally looked Styophan’s way, he looked twice.

  He turned then to Styophan, taking him in from head to foot. He took in Datha as well with an appraising stare.

  Kürad cleared his throat and stepped ahead of Brechan. “I present to you Styophan Andrashayev, Kapitan of the Vayetka and Komodor of the Anuskayan ships sent against us.”

  Strangely, Brechan watched this exchange not with acceptance exactly—he was outwardly perturbed by Kürad’s presumption—but with a forbearance that made Styophan pause. He’d heard of the strange rule of law among the kings, but he had to admit he didn’t understand them at all. They would vie for honor—sometimes in battle, sometimes in forethought—and when they managed it, the others, vying for the very same sort of recognition, would bow their head to the one who had proven himself and step back, allowing that king to rule until another took his place. It made for a fluid, somewhat inefficient command, but it allowed them to recover easily when one of their number was slain.

  Or taken by the wasting, Styophan thought.

  Styophan had never seen Bahett before. He’d heard about him, about his confidence, his sharp mind, the ease with which he played among the Empire’s courts. Too often reputations like Bahett’s were simply overblown rumors, but in Bahett’s eyes he saw a sharpness, a calculation behind his courtly face, that made him think that in this case these were no simple rumors.

  “You were Nikandr Khalakovo’s man,” Bahett said in Anuskayan.

  Styophan nodded, seeing no need to hide it.

  Bahett stared around them, to the yurts, to the menhir and the vast field surrounding it. “Strange, is it not, to find ourselves here?”

  He spoke as if they were cousins, and in a way, they were. They were both from the islands—each knew the other more than he ever would the Haelish—and yet Styophan didn’t like the association, nor the fact that this man, the man that had caused the death of dozens of his comrades, was trying to ingratiate himself.

  “Thousands of leagues away from our homes,” Bahett continued, “and here we are, you a komodor where once you were a soldier, me a single step from the Kamarisi’s side.”

  “Hardly one step if you’ve been sent to the very edge of Yrstanla.”

  The kings watched this exchange with mild confusion, and perhaps annoyance that it was being conducted in a language they didn’t understand. But they said nothing; they allowed the two interlopers to speak, suffering their presence in hopes that they’d soon be gone.

  And here Bahett switched to Yrstanlan. “Listen to my words, Styophan of Khalakovo. There are some things, no matter how high you become, that you must see to yourself.”

  More likely the Haelish had demanded his presence here, Styophan thought.

  Bahett turned to the kings and bowed his head, though as he did, there was a wry hint of a smile that gave proof to his lie. Most of the kings bowed their heads in turn, not nearly so deeply as Bahett. Brechan, however, stood stiffly, like the nearby menhir. There was a rigidity in him that spoke of the sour taste in his mouth. He seemed tight, like the string of a crossbow, or a strained halyard, ready to snap in the gusting wind.

  Bahett turned back to Styophan and spoke in Anuskayan once more. “Who sent you?” he asked. “Was it your Grand Duke or the young Ranos?”

  Styophan remained silent.

  “You don’t wish to talk?”

  “I have little enough to say, Bahett ül Kirdhash.”

  Bahett’s gaze shifted over his shoulder, a subtle indicator to the guardsmen that stood behind him.

  “We shall see, Styophan Andrashayev.”

  With that he waved one hand—

  “We shall see.”

  —and Styophan was led away.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It is morning when Nasim and Kaleh reach the end of the dark mountain tunnel. Kaleh leads the way, taking them deeper into the forest, where the land slopes gently downward. The morning is gentle, pleasant, so different from the memories that play within Nasim’s mind. Memories of a dark room, a stone lid sliding back, an ancient woman who had no right being alive burning before his eyes.

  He remembers these things, and he wonders whether this is some mistake on Kaleh’s part. Has she allowed him to retain these memories or has she simply forgotten? It might be the latter. She seems upset enough to have done so. Then again, maybe she doesn’t care. Perhaps in an hour or a day or a week she’ll simply banish his memories like crows before a storm, and then they’ll continue on to murder another soul buried deep in an ancient mountain chamber.

  He knows they are going to kill more. What he doesn’t know is how many she’s already killed. And how many are left.

  The horror over what they’re doing—at what they’ve already done—grows by the hour, and yet the thought of defying her is inconceivable. He can no more stop his eyes from seeing than ignore her commands. He need only think of such a thing and the notion twists and turns until it seems like a distant thought, preposterous even to consider. And yet there’s a certain awareness of this that he can only wonder about. Does she allow this as well? Or is the mind too complex to subvert in such a way? Perhaps it is another of the hidden gifts handed down to him from Khamal. After all, he was Al-Aqim in his past life—much of this life is a reflection of that—and it may be that Kaleh is unable to overcome it.

  Still, even with all these possibilities, the one that seems most likely is simple complacency. Kaleh must surely find this distasteful. She must. He would never have guessed she had the capacity for murder, especially a systematic slaughter of people that had gone to great lengths to keep themselves secret.

  They continue their trek throughout the day, moving beyond the forest by high noon and to the base of the mountain by nightfall. They stop near a stream with the barest amount of water trickling down the center of its nearly dry bed. Nasim collects wood for a fire without thinking about it, knowing at the same time that it was an unspoken demand from Kaleh. The land here is dry, the scrub trees sparse, so it takes him some time, and when he returns, he finds Kaleh kneeling next to a large, rust-colored stone. The Atalayina sits atop it, and Kaleh stares into its depths, as if she’s lost. Nasim sets the firewood down and chooses a spot for the fire, but as he does, he cannot help but steal glances at the stone, for Kaleh does not often take it from her pack. The sun sets golden on the horizon, and the light reflects brilliantly off the surface of the blue stone. The specks of silver and gold glimmer from within, making it appear deep and mysterious. It’s as if by looking into it you can see another world entirely.

  “Where do you think it came from?” Kaleh asks as Nasim finishes leaning the wood into a rough cone shape.

  He’s surprised by the question. Not that she would ask it, but that she asked him anything at all. So often their days and nights are filled with silence; it is a strangely welcome thing to be able to talk, even if it is with his captor.

  “You would know better than I,” he replies. “Muqallad was the one who bore it from this place.”

  She turns and with a glance sets the wood afire. He felt no summoning of a hezhan. There was no flame from the palms of her hands. She simply looked, and the wood was aflame. Such was the power of the Atalayina.

  “Muqallad would never tell me of his time here, but I heard him once when he was speaking with my mother. He said he’d gone through much to find it.” She looks over the Atalayina to the horizon. “Neh… He said he’d sacrificed much.”

  “Aren’t they the same thing?”

  Her eyes twinkle under the burgeoning light of the fire. “You know Muqallad nearly as well as I. Would you say those two things were the same, knowing it was Muqallad who spoke them?”

  She’s right. Muqallad was a proud man. When he experienced travail, he suffered it with no comment, thinking little of i
t. But when he sacrificed, it implied that he valued that which had been lost, and this was not something Muqallad would do lightly, even in those early days before the sundering.

  “Neh,” Nasim says after a time. “He would not.”

  From his own pack, Nasim takes out a bundle of cloth. He unrolls it carefully and takes out a piece of the dried snake meat within. He offers it to Kaleh, but she shakes her head, as she often did, and returns to her inspection of the stone.

  “Where do you think it came from?” she asks again.

  He takes a bite from the salty meat. “What does it matter?”

  “I want to know.”

  “You want to know the truth?”

  She turns sharply, perhaps sensing something in his voice. “Yeh, I want to know the truth.”

  “I don’t care where it came from. I don’t care how Muqallad found it. I don’t care that you have it now. What I care about is that it was the cause of the sundering. I care that you’re using it to hide me from those I love, people that might help me to unlock its secrets. I care that you’re using it to kill.”

  If she feels surprised or chastised by his words, she doesn’t show it. She stares into the stone for a while longer, but then, when the sun has gone down completely, she wraps it in its lambskin and puts it back in the bottom of her pack.

  She moves to the fire and then does accept a strip of meat from him. She tears off a hunk of it and begins chewing, staring absently into the fire while crouching as the desert folk do.

  “Why are you growing older?”

  She doesn’t look up as she replies, “Aren’t you growing older?”

  “Not nearly as fast as you are.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  He lies down on his bedroll, but for some reason sleep doesn’t come. He keeps thinking about the woman burning in that deep, dark place. Had it really been only one night ago?

  “Are you worried you’ll die before you can work out how to unlock the Atalayina’s secrets?”

  Kaleh lies down on her own bedroll and stares up at the starry sky. “Go to sleep.”

  She says the words the same way she did before—the same tone, the same inflection—and yet, this time, Nasim closes his eyes and drifts toward sleep. But one thing is crystal clear in those final moments: if he is to have any hope of freeing himself, he needs to spend time with the Atalayina. He knows he’s had these thoughts before, but he’s becoming adept at putting them into a place that Kaleh either cannot reach or doesn’t wish to go.

  This gives him hope, and yet his dreams are both wicked and wretched.

  The following morning, they continue their trek down from the mountain and across the desert plain. The ochre sand discolors Kaleh’s golden dress, dark near the hem and lighter as it flows upward, as if the desert were swallowing her bit by bit.

  By midday, Nasim realizes they’re heading for another mountain peak, and it occurs to him that this place, this desert pan, is situated between many mountains. Their dark peaks are spaced unevenly around it, but it still reminds him of a crown. It makes him feel as though they’re walking along the pate of a slumbering titan, some ancient and long-forgotten king, or perhaps a consort to the fates, killed when they had no more use for him. Perhaps, he thinks, the Atalayina is not a tear shed from the fates, but their consort.

  As is often the case, Nasim walks behind Kaleh. She adjusts her pack, and he remembers that he wants something from within it. It takes him nearly an hour of walking to recall that it is, in fact, the Atalayina.

  The ties Kaleh placed on his mind… He cannot sense them, but he knows they are there. And the stone, the Atalayina, will release him.

  Ahead, the mountain looms. They’ll reach the base of it by sunset, but will not go beyond that, not unless Kaleh pushes them through the night. He would have to get the stone then. He cannot allow another of these ancient souls to die.

  Kaleh seems weary. Nasim counts himself lucky for that. It’s clear the tomb they left the day before weakened her. Just how much he isn’t sure, but it makes him wonder just how many they’ve killed in this way—he opening the tomb, Kaleh murdering them with fire.

  At this, from the corner of his eye, Nasim senses movement.

  He turns and looks over the desert wastes, but sees nothing. Nothing but the wiry desert bushes and ochre sand.

  He shakes his head and continues on.

  They reach a massive outcropping of rock as night falls. A passage takes them through the towering red stone. Beyond is a narrow gorge where the path slopes gently downward. Soon the high walls on either side of them open, revealing a hidden vale. Nasim has never seen the likes of it, a lush green bowl surrounded on all sides by steep stone walls hundreds of feet high. The stone is not craggy like many of the cliffs of the island eyries are, or even the straits that run through the island of Galahesh. These are smooth, as if the fates themselves had formed this place with painstaking care, making sure that each gentle curve fit every other. It feels ancient, and vital, as if it hides the very heart of the world.

  The tall spruce stand proudly, staring down at the two of them as if they are interlopers. And we are, Nasim thinks. We’re interlopers set to kill.

  Unless he can figure out some way to stop it.

  Kaleh seems to know this place, for they continue through the spruce forest until they reach a pool of water. The moon has risen, but it’s still hidden beyond the valley walls. Its light comes in at an angle, limning the upper reaches of this valley with subtle silver light. It shines brightly enough that Nasim can see the contours of the pool. The water is placid, so much so that the stone wall ahead is reflected perfectly on its surface.

  To the left of the pool is a patch of darkness that Nasim recognizes immediately. A tunnel. Kaleh plans on heading to the tomb immediately. What drives her to such states of exhaustion he doesn’t know, but he cannot allow it. He must stop her so that he can steal a look at the Atalayina.

  He’s about to shout at her to halt, not knowing what else to do, when he again catches movement from the corner of his eye—something in the trees, beyond the pool.

  On the desert plain he thought it merely a figment of his imagination, a symptom of his weariness, but now he wonders if Kaleh hadn’t noticed it. He wonders if she’d hidden the fact that she had, for this time she stops in her tracks. She turns her head.

  For long moments she faces away from Nasim, her back to him, motionless. “We’ll make camp,” she says.

  That simple command is not something he can disobey, but he finds himself more resistant to it than he would have been only days before. He sees this as a good sign, and when he gathers firewood and they light a fire, he can see just how tired she is. Her eyes have dark bags. She can barely keep them open.

  He lies down next to the fire and closes his own eyes, hoping she’ll be too tired to order him asleep. Across the fire, Kaleh’s face is lit in a ruddy glow. He doesn’t know why he’s never noticed it, but it strikes him just how beautiful she’s become. She feels more like a sister to him than anything, and there is a strange sense of pride within him, a pride that she is a woman now, grown from the girl she once was. How he can have such feelings when she’s been forcing him to help her commit murder, he doesn’t know, but it is there like a candle in the mist, bright yet indistinct.

  Kaleh’s eyes are on him, and for a moment there is pain within them. “Do you remember the time before the sundering?” she asks.

  “I am not Khamal,” he replies.

  She closes her eyes, annoyed. “I know. His memories. Do you remember the time before the stone was broken?”

  He shrugs as the fire snaps between them. “Some.”

  The look of pain has moved to her face, the set of her jaw. Her eyes close of their own volition. “What do you remember?”

  He shrugs again, even though she no longer watches. “It was a beautiful time. A time full of hope.”

  “Would that we could return to it,” she says softly.

  Nasim thi
nks on this for a moment. Would he return, if he could? It was a time of high learning. A time of sharing, at least among the Aramahn. The Maharraht had not yet been born. Many thought indaraqiram was close.

  And yet it was all an illusion. They weren’t close, and the fates were about to play the biggest trick they’d ever played.

  “I would not wish—“

  He stops, for Kaleh’s breathing has become heavier, slower. He remains quiet, refusing to move in hopes that she will remain asleep. He refuses to look upon her, as if his mere stare has the power to wake her. He stares instead into the fire, counting the moments as they pass.

  So that when she stirs and says, “Go to sleep, Nasim,” his stomach drops. Another night gone. Another opportunity missed.

  When they wake once more, they will go to kill.

  It sickens him, but there is nothing he can do but lay his head down and close his eyes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Nasim wakes facing the fire, which has burned down to embers, but still gives a bare amount of light by which he can see the trunks of the nearest trees. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he feels someone watching him from those trees.

  He sits up with a jolt, all traces of sleep fading as his heart beats madly. He isn’t scared exactly, but he is anxious, and in a moment he understands why. The visions he had, the visions from the corner of his eye… The one who caused them is ahead in those trees.

  He peers into the darkness. There, behind one of the massive spruce trees, is the silhouette of a head, a shoulder.

  As he sets his blanket aside and inches to his feet, he watches Kaleh carefully. She is sleeping, her eyes moving beneath her lids, her brow creasing as from a dream.

  He takes one careful step forward, then another.

  And then the form darts into the forest.

  Sparing only a quick glance back at Kaleh, he gives chase. The moon is half full, and gives enough light to move by, but the way is treacherous. He trips and falls onto the dry pine needles, but he’s up again in a moment, running among the tall trunks, his arms warding before him.