The Flames of Shadam Khoreh

by Bradley Beaulieu

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Atiana walks along a gully. By her side, a stream gurgles on its way toward a forest of impossibly tall trees. As she jogs into the trees, a fecund scent fills the air. There is no wind. The trees, their leaves and branches, move not at all. She goes further into the forest and finds a place where there are walkways and homes within the trees above. This is the village of Siafyan on the Maharraht island of Rafsuhan. Atiana has never been to Siafyan, but she flew through it in rook form when Nikandr rescued Soroush from the floating village of Mirashadal and brought him there.

  How long ago that seems now.

  Atiana has been trapped in Kaleh’s dream for what seems like days. She knows Kaleh has been driven into hiding. She just has to find where. She decides she’s been looking in the wrong places and starts to push herself to touch Kaleh’s mind, to find her greatest fears, her greatest source of pain. Those are the places she will find Kaleh.

  And she must find Kaleh if she’s ever to leave this place, for Kaleh, much like Nasim, is bound up in this tale of the sundering, and unless Atiana is sadly mistaken, Kaleh will have more to say about it before all is done.

  She wanders aimlessly though the village, calling Kaleh’s name, and then continues to the forest beyond. She realizes she’s walking toward the clearing. She had never seen this place of misery, but Nikandr had told her about it—the clearing where the children, the akhoz, had been sacrificed by Muqallad. The akhoz were chained to posts and burned while Bersuq held the two pieces of the broken Atalayina. Their sacrifice, the heat from their dying souls, had fused the two pieces together, and Muqallad had moved on, leaving them like the forgotten embers of a still-warm fire.

  Atiana has often wondered how Kaleh viewed that time and that place. Did she justify the pain and anguish of the children as a necessary inconvenience? Or did she see herself in the eyeless faces of those children?

  How confusing it must have been for her to have aged so strangely. She was clearly a gifted child. Yet still, a child—no matter how smart and how perceptive—cannot absorb years upon years of experience.

  She arrives at the clearing.

  Ashes layer the ground. The blackened stumps of the posts, as high as Atiana’s knees, stand from the bed of ashes like the clawing fingers of the dead. As Atiana approaches a wind picks up. White ashes are drawn up toward the sky, higher and higher until they’re lost among the low clouds. It looks as the roiling column of fire did, except this is grey, completely devoid of color, like a distant memory half remembered.

  Atiana waits for Kaleh, thinking surely the ashes must be a sign, but Kaleh doesn’t come, so she continues on into the woods. She allows her mind to wander, but she knows there is a place she is being taken—by her own mind, by Kaleh’s, she doesn’t know. She cares only that for the first time since being trapped here, she has some sense of direction.

  She wanders through the damp wood and comes to a mound of earth overgrown with moss and littered with red and yellow leaves. Nearby she hears the slow ticking of the bark beetles. She becomes aware of the beating of her own heart. Moments ago, she felt it not at all, and now she can think of little else.

  This is the place, she realizes.

  She puts her hand against her chest. For long moments she can feel only the pumping of her own blood, but then she feels another pumping in time with hers. It’s beneath the hillock. There is a heart beating somewhere beneath the earth.

  She approaches. Kneels next to it. Places her hands against the soft earth. She lowers herself until her cheek and ear are pressed against it.

  And she listens.

  She hears it—THOOM-thoom, THOOM-thoom—and if she remains perfectly still, she can feel minute vibrations against her cheek. This happened to Nikandr as well, but that was in the real world. This is different. This is a place of Kaleh’s own making.

  “Kaleh,” she whispers. “Can you hear me?”

  The beating does not change.

  “Kaleh, hear me,” she says louder. “Sariya is gone. She’s on her way to Sihyaan.”

  Still the beating remains the same.

  “She goes to tear the rift open. All you’ve done. All you’ve worked toward in trying to stop her. It will mean nothing if she reaches the mountain before we do. Come, Kaleh. Join me, and together we will stop her.”

  She waits. The sound of the beating heart slows. And then the earth beneath her cracks. As Atiana steps back, the crack widens like overbaked custard, revealing dirt so black it looks like the night itself lies below this thin crust of earth. In the center of the gap lies a girl in a simple white dress. The dress is wet and smeared with mud, as is her white skin. The sound of the beating heart—muted moments ago—is now loud, like the rhythmic fall of a wood axe.

  Kaleh looks up—not the woman, but the girl Atiana had seen when she first entered this place. “She cannot be stopped.”

  “She can, and you will do it, for there are no others.”

  She is silent for a time, as if considering Atiana’s words. She looks down at her hands, which are cupped tightly around something. Atiana is sure it is the heart, yet when Kaleh opens her hands, there is nothing there. Kaleh herself seems confused by this. She stares up at Atiana as the sound of the heart slowly fades.

  “There is Nasim.”

  “Yeh,” Atiana says, smiling. “There is Nasim.”

  “And Sukharam.”

  Atiana reaches down, offering Kaleh her hand. “And Sukharam.”

  She pulls Kaleh up and together the two of them leave that place. At first she isn’t sure where to go, but she’s learned much from Sariya, even if Sariya never meant to teach her. She knows the lay of this land as well as she knows the islands of Anuskaya, but more than simply knowing this place, she understands how to manipulate it, at least to a degree.

  Ahead lays a dark patch of forest. She leads Kaleh there, heading toward the darkest huddle of trees. Branches bar her way, but she parts them and finds beyond a field of grass that ends in a sharp cliff. The smell of the sea is strong and the winds are up. Beyond the cliff’s edge are the dark waters of the Sea of Tabriz. This is Ildova, her favorite of the islands in the Vostroman archipelago. To her right, sitting at the very edge of the cliff like a lone seabird is a squat tower of mottled grey fieldstone. She begins walking there, but realizes that Kaleh has remained in the darkness of the trees, watching the way ahead with mistrustful eyes.

  “Come,” Atiana says, taking her hand.

  And Kaleh does. They head for the tower, which appears deserted. When Atiana opens the weatherworn door, the hinges groan. Once they’re inside, Atiana closes the door with a boom. The sound of the sea fades. The wind has left their cheeks red, but the air is already beginning to warm.

  Atiana sets her hand on the wrought-iron door handle. “Are you ready?”

  Kaleh looks at the door, swallowing, her nostrils flaring. Her eyes dart between Atiana’s hand and the grey wood of the door itself, but then she seems to gather herself, and she nods.

  After one last squeeze of Kaleh’s hand, Atiana opens the door.

  When Atiana woke, she was lying on a bed of pine needles. She could feel them pricking the skin of her palms. At first she thought she was home on Vostroma, but it was too warm for that. Then she thought she was in the great Gaji desert, breathing in the heavy smoke of tūtūn.

  Nyet. Not tūtūn. Blood. Smoke from her own burning blood.

  She turned her head—a simple enough thing that still took every ounce of her will—and there she saw the pine trees, the hillock, and Kaleh lying next to her. Two men were talking at the top of the hill, near the half-hidden obelisk. One was Habram, dressed in his red robes. The other, his back to her, was Bahett. A warm wind—so warm it felt as though the world was beginning to melt—blew over the island, causing Habram’s robes and the tall feather attached to the front of Bahett’s turban to flutter.

  Atiana blinked, for the two men seemed to be limned in silver. The edges of their clothing, the contour
s of their faces, the subtle shift of shade along their ruddy skin. It was as if she were looking at them through crystal dipped in moonlight. She knew immediately it was the aether. She’d woken, but she hadn’t yet left it.

  The feelings of dizziness grew. The feeling was akin to what had happened at the Spar on Galahesh. She’d shifted between worlds, but this was different. She was seeing both worlds at the same time.

  Suddenly Bahett turned. His gaze dropped to Kaleh, who lay just to Atiana’s side. Atiana looked at her as well. Her breath came slowly, but she seemed as peaceful as Atiana ever remembered her being.

  The Atalayina and the wooden box that held it were gone. Not surprising, since…

  Sariya… Where would Sariya have gone? She had been freed, of this Atiana was sure. But who might she have taken?

  It wasn’t difficult to answer this question. She recalled Ushai’s look when she’d come down that hill. She’d seemed so fatalistic—concerned but determined—and Ushai was one of the very few besides the Matri that had learned to navigate the aether. Of course it had been Ushai.

  Atiana searched for her, but she was nowhere to be found. She started at movement in the trees, however. Aelwen, the Haelish wodjan, stood there watching Atiana from behind a large tree. She knew something. Atiana could see it in her eyes. She tried speaking to her as she would the Matri. Aelwen, she called. Aelwen, hear me.

  “You’ve been gone a long time.”

  Atiana turned, nearly throwing up from the movement, and found Bahett walking down the hill toward her. Habram walked by his side, watching Atiana carefully.

  “Have I?” Atiana said. Her words were slurred horribly. With great care she was able to turn on her side and eventually sit up. When she looked back to the woods, Aelwen was gone.

  Bahett smiled, his movements bleeding silver. “Two full days.”

  Atiana shook her head, finding even that simple motion nauseating. And then Bahett’s words sunk in. Two days… How long had it been since Sariya had taken Ushai’s mind and left?

  “What do you think now, Atiana of Vostroma?” Habram said to her.

  He was talking about their conversation on the ship of stone. They’d spoken of Sariya and her purpose. Habram had said that Sariya had returned to mend what she had broken. Atiana had thought him a fool, and yet he’d given her the chance to find Sariya within Kaleh’s mind. He’d given her the chance to stop Sariya, trusting to the fates that the last of the Al-Aqim would not only be saved, but healed.

  Atiana took a deep breath and stood. “I think that you’re utter fools to trust her.”

  Habram’s expression of smugness faded, but it was Bahett who stepped forward and struck her across the face. “That will be enough,” he said coolly.

  Pain blossomed across her cheek and jaw, and with it came an anger that rose up from somewhere deep inside her. That this man of Galahesh, of Yrstanla, a man responsible in part for the deaths of hundreds of Vostromans, thousands of Anuskayans, would strike her dredged up something she hadn’t known was there.

  When she spoke again, she spoke in Anuskayan. “That is the last time you will touch the blood of Vostroma.”

  The world around her went dark—the midnight blue of the aether—while Bahett was lit in ghostly white. She reached out with her mind as easily as she did in the aether and descended upon him. She felt his fear even as she saw it in his eyes. She pressed down upon his mind, smothering him as he tried to escape. It was an easy thing. Easier even than assuming the rooks of the Grand Duchy. They at least were used to such things. They sensed the Matra’s approach and fought for their own minds. Bahett had no such defenses, and he succumbed all too easily. But instead of merely being content to take control of his form, she continued to press, continued to rend. She could feel his desperation, could feel his will to live.

  Some of the world’s color returned. The sound of the wind through the trees reached her ears. Bahett lay there, twitching, white foam emanating from his mouth as his eyes fluttered, unable to focus.

  Habram stared down, his throat constricting reflexively over and over again. He looked up at Atiana, and when their eyes met, there was fear there, and that turned to desperation. Before she could stop him, Habram wrapped his hands around her neck. “Release him!” he shouted.

  Atiana looked down, and the world gained all its color. The sound of blood rushing through her ears nearly overwhelmed her.

  Habram tightened his grip on her throat. “Release him!”

  “I have!” she choked out.

  For just one moment, Habram relaxed his grip and stared down at Bahett as the reality of what had just happened dawned on him.

  Atiana could hardly keep her eyes from Bahett’s twitching form.

  But truly, he was Bahett no longer.

  Now he was no one. He was nothing.

  As the light within him faded, Atiana felt pain pierce her skull and drive down through her jaw. She didn’t know what it was at first. But then she realized. Bahett was dying. Even now, he was dying, and she was somehow still connected to him.

  Habram, his eyes crazed, reached around the back of her neck and grabbed a fistful of her hair. And then he pulled the curved khanjar from his belt. Atiana knew he was going to kill her, but just then she could do nothing to prevent it. Her pain was too great.

  A blur rushed in from her right. Someone collided with both her and Habram, and she was thrown to the ground. All around her was a mass of limbs. A line of bright steel slid across Habram’s arm.

  Atiana rolled away and found Habram locked in battle with Aelwen, who still held the form of the Kohori man. It was clear, however, that Aelwen was severely outmatched. She was no swordsman. Already Habram was testing her weak defenses with precise strikes.

  The pain in Atiana’s head was crippling. She could hardly move, but perhaps that was for the best. Bahett lay just next to her. She reached over, trying to pull the ornate knife from his belt, but all she could manage to do was place her hand on his chest. By the ancients, his heart. Even through the pain she could feel it beating. It felt like the heartbeat she’d heard in Kaleh’s dream. It was slow and getting slower. His body still worked even while his mind had become a gutted shell.

  Die, she thought. Please die.

  Finally she was able to grasp the hilt of the knife and pull it free of its sheath.

  Aelwen shouted, a man’s voice for all who heard it, but Atiana could hear the Haelish woman calling from somewhere deep inside. Aelwen fell, a bloody wound to her thigh. She gripped it tightly as Habram approached.

  Habram towered over her, but then stopped. “Nasrad?”

  Nasrad… That must have been the man’s name, the man Aelwen had killed to take his form.

  Nasrad’s face changed. It softened, became more rounded. His black hair lengthened and took on a brownish tinge. His arms lost definition. His hips widened. His chest rounded as breasts took form. And soon it was not Nasrad at all who stared up at Habram, but Aelwen.

  Atiana managed to get to her feet. Her shaking hands warded before her, helping to maintain her balance, and she managed to remain standing. She stepped forward, sure that she would fall before she reached Aelwen, sure Habram would turn and drive his sword straight through her.

  But Habram paid no attention to her. He’d become enraged. He was hammering down blow after blow against Aelwen, as if by killing her he would somehow have Nasrad back.

  That was when Atiana stepped in and drove the knife into Habram’s back.

  He screamed and reached behind him as Atiana stepped away. He managed to grip the hilt of the knife, but his fingers slipped from it. He tried again, and managed to pull the knife free. Blood poured from the wound.

  He turned on Atiana, his eyes wide in surprise and pain and rage.

  Atiana retreated, but Habram was still fast.

  Before he could chase her more than three steps, Aelwen was behind him swinging the sword across the backs of his legs.

  He fell and twisted around to mee
t this threat, but by then Aelwen had the sword high. She screamed and brought it down. It fell through Habram’s chest with a sickening crunch.

  For long moments Atiana and Aelwen stood there, watching as Habram’s arms reached for the blade. His fingers touched it, then ran down its blood-slicked length to where steel met skin. He touched where his lifeblood spurted like a newfound spring. He stared up at the sky, face ashen, and then finally went still.

  Atiana and Aelwen stared into one another’s eyes. The two of them had killed this man. His blood was on both their hands, and that felt like a strange and unwelcome bond indeed.

  Before Atiana could think what to say to her, Kaleh, lying mere paces away, bolted upright and drew in one long, gasping breath. Her eyes were wild with fear.

  “It’s all right,” Atiana said to her, taking her hands. “I’m here.”

  Kaleh looked up at her, looked at Aelwen, and slowly her fear began to fade.

  “We must go,” Aelwen said in Yrstanlan.

  “Evet,” Atiana replied, “but where?”

  “To Alayazhar,” Aelwen said. “I heard Sariya speak it through Ushai’s lips. She goes to Alayazhar.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Nikandr pulled his mare—a proper pony of the islands—to a stop along the eastern edge of the camp. He watched as strelet after strelet marched east along the road to Trevitze. The day was grey, and many of the men—nearly all of them wearing the colors of Dhalingrad or Lhudansk or Khazabyirsk—glanced at Nikandr with mistrust in their eyes, some even with open hatred. The sotni, marching at the head of their men, would salute with a raise of their hand, but only because he was a Prince of the Realm and it was required of them.

  It had been three days since the meeting with the Grand Duke. No one had spoken to Nikandr since, and every time he’d tried to gain an audience, he’d been rebuffed. Even Borund told Nikandr to wait, that no decisions had yet been made.