When the cut was wide enough, the boy reached into the girl’s chest and with one more series of sawing motions, pulled out her heart. Then he stood, arms akimbo and blackened with blood, while scanning the empty windows of the nearby homes.
He paused and turned toward Nasim.
Nasim froze, ducking further into the corner of the opening. The akhoz watched, head swiveling. Nasim thought surely he would run toward them, would attack, would use the knife to cut his heart from his chest and claim it as some bauble he would hide away with dozens of others he’d collected.
But then the misshapen boy turned and after the release of one last heavy grunt began jogging northward toward the center of the city. The other followed a moment later, leaving them alone and shaken.
When Nasim could feel them no more, he left the home and treaded toward the body of the girl. Her chest was still wide, revealing its blackened interior. She was smaller than he had guessed, but this close she was grotesque, not just her form, but the putrid smell and the sickening way the sun shone from her dull, gray skin.
Behind him, Rabiah approached. Sukharam was behind her, but he stopped when he came within ten paces. He looked about the city, to the blue waters of the bay, anywhere but at the akhoz that lay at Nasim’s feet.
“What happened?” Rabiah asked.
Nasim shrugged, unable to do anything but stare downward at this miserable thing. Perhaps it was better for her now that she was dead. But then he looked to her chest. “Why her heart?” he asked, more to himself than to Rabiah.
“Perhaps with Sariya and Muqallad gone, they’ve devolved into savagery.”
“That was not savage,” Nasim said. “That was filled with intent.”
CHAPTER TEN
N ikandr stood at the bow of the Chaika, watching the black shape on the horizon for any signs of movement.
The Chaika had two masts above deck, in the starward direction, and two below, in the seaward. One more ran windward and another landward, bringing her total to six. She carried only one gun to the fore. The keel-comprised of the obsidian cores that ran through the center of the mainmasts and guided her along the ley lines-was too delicate for more cannons to be mounted, but she was light and spry, perfect for what Nikandr had planned.
For now, though, while they waited for news from the other ship, her sails were tucked in.
Nearly an hour later, well beyond the time they had agreed upon, a black rook winged across the bow of the ship and landed with a beating of wings on the perch that stood near the ship’s helm. It was Vikra, Atiana’s favorite.
“The Strovya is ready,” Vikra said in a ragged voice.
The Strovya was their second ship, a stout, six-masted cutter. It had been sent ahead in preparation for their pending mission.
“Set sail,” Nikandr said to Jonis, the ship’s boatswain.
The sun had recently set, but the western sky still lit the masts above. Three large sails were unfurled along each of the two starward masts, while more crewmen did the same with the seaward masts below the ship. The headsail, which curved gracefully down from the mainmast to the bowsprit, was unfurled next, and finally the sails along the lone masts to landward and windward were set, and soon the ship was picking up good speed, making headway against the ley lines caught by the keel, which slowed the ship in a way not dissimilar from the sea against the hull of a waterborne ship.
Jonis returned to the helm when this was complete, snapping his heels together and bowing his head to Nikandr.
Nikandr nodded to him. “Light the lanterns and ring the bell.”
As a dozen lanterns were lit and hung from hooks about the fore of the ship, Nikandr watched Vikra flap her wings from the corner of his eye. He had thought of asking Atiana to send another of the Matri to stand in her place-perhaps Nikandr’s own mother, Saphia, or Atiana’s sister, Mileva-but in the end he’d decided against it. Atiana knew his purpose already, and he didn’t wish to explain any more than was needed. To anyone. They would finish this together, and Atiana could go where she wished.
Part of him hoped she would speak-the same part that desperately wanted to apologize to her for what he’d said on Ivosladna-but another part of him thought it just as well that the two of them were silent. Somehow it felt proper, for really there was nothing else to say. They’d both made up their minds. She was doing what she thought was right for the Grand Duchy, as was he. They were simply going about it in completely different ways.
One of his windsmen began ringing the Chaika’s brass bell over and over, alerting the Aramahn to their presence.
The dark shape ahead was the floating village of Mirashadal. He could only see its silhouette from this distance, but it looked like an overturned wine decanter, circular at the top with a long tower hanging down from its center. When they came within a league of it, two skiffs floated up and away from the dark shape and approached the Chaika. It took little time for them to reach the ship. When they did, one stayed well back while the other approached. An Aramahn woman stood at the bow holding a siraj stone that gave off a rose-tinted glow. The stone of alabaster upon her brow glowed dully. She stared at Nikandr with a look of disdain.
Not so different from the stares of the Maharraht, Nikandr thought.
“State your name and your business in Mirashadal.”
“I am Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo, and I have come to speak with Fahroz Bashar al Lilliah.”
“You have come to a place where you’re not welcome, son of Iaros. She will not see you.”
“I thought all were welcome among the villages.”
“That may once have been true, but we find ourselves in difficult times.”
“Tell her I’ve come. She’ll wish to speak with me.”
She studied Nikandr for a time, and Nikandr thought he’d misjudged her, that she would simply refuse his request, but then she nodded to her dhoshaqiram, a man who sat at the base of the skiff’s mast. “Come no closer,” she said, and then they were off.
The second skiff remained, watching from a good distance as Nikandr ordered the sails pulled in. Then they waited, the Chaika, the skiff, and the dark shape in the distance all drifting on the wind like clouds.
Nearly an hour later, the skiff returned. It was the same woman, and her expression was even more dour. “Come.”
They followed, heading toward the village as it loomed larger and larger. Nikandr had heard stories-stories that told of how large Mirashadal was-but none of them had done it justice. The closer they came, the more it struck him how massive the village was. It was the largest windborne structure Nikandr had ever seen. Elegant, rounded shapes, each as large as a windship, were connected by walkways. It seemed frail in some ways, but that certainly wasn’t the case-nothing this size could withstand the gales of the open sea without a supremely rigid structure.
No sooner had the thought arrived than a ripple ran through the village like the endless swell of the sea. The structure gave, but it was strong as well, not unlike the canopies of the windwood forests of Uyadensk. The bulk of the village was patterned like the delicate tendrils of a windborne seed. Indeed, below the massive structure was an inverted tower that hung down toward the sea-ballast, in effect, but to call it so was to make it crude, and this was anything but crude. It was beautiful.
Fanning outward from the edge of the village were dozens of windship berths. Some were quite small-made for skiffs and the like-but others were large, for ships like the Chaika. Standing at the end of the berth they were being led toward were a handful of Aramahn-many of the stones in their circlets glowing softly in the bare light-and at their head stood Fahroz.
As the ship’s mooring ropes brought the Chaika snug against the berth, Nikandr leapt down from the gunwales to land on the deck. It didn’t sound like cut and cured wood. Rather it felt as if the wood itself were living, as if the entire structure of the village had been grown instead of built.
Fahroz, lit by soft siraj lanterns held by the other Aramahn, stepped fo
rward. She wore no stone, but instead a golden chain with a delicate medallion. It glinted in the pale light of the stones, and Nikandr wondered, as he had before, how she had come by it and who had crafted it.
“Welcome, son of Iaros,” Fahroz said, bowing her head.
“And you, daughter of Lilliah, though I wonder how heartfelt your words of welcome are.”
She motioned Nikandr to follow her, and they fell into step beside one another, their footsteps sounding dully against the living wood of the perch. None of the Aramahn who had stood with Fahroz accompanied them, and soon they were alone, like two old friends catching up on one another’s lives.
“I will admit to a certain amount of alarm.”
“Only a few of us know of the village. Trust in me that it will be kept secret.”
“Trust in you…”
“Is there another option?”
She motioned him down a winding set of stairs. They descended into the village, and soon they were among so many boughs and branches that he felt as if he were walking on solid ground, not floating in the dark northern skies.
They came to a structure that looked more like the trunk of a massive cypress than it did something man-made. Inside was a cozy home, a bed with a wash basin to one side of the rounded interior, a bureau and mirror made from deeply grained wood on another. Three low chairs surrounded a stone-rimmed pit filled with several of the glowing siraj stones.
Fahroz motioned Nikandr to sit in one of the chairs. When he had seated himself she moved to a stout mantle cluttered with books and bric-a-brac and a few bottles of liquor. She took down a small shisha with two breathing tubes. After filling the bowl with a healthy pinch of tabbaq, she lit it and set it between her chair and Nikandr’s. As Nikandr took a healthy pull from the mouthpiece, Fahroz sat and did the same. For a moment, the only sound was the soft bubbling of the water in the clear glass base of the shisha.
“Please,” she said, blowing the smoke up toward the ceiling. “You must have been preparing your words for some time.”
He smiled. “In truth, I still don’t know where to begin.”
“You’ve come for Nasim.”
He nodded, taking one more breath from the sweet-tasting tabbaq before releasing it slowly. “In part, but there’s much more for us to discuss.”
She looked at him seriously then, as if the first of her guards had been lowered, however tentatively.
“I knew after the incident on Duzol that I would leave Khalakovo,” Nikandr continued. “Two years after I last saw you, I took to the winds with my mother and brother’s blessing.”
Her eyes smoldered under the ruddy light of the stones. “The Duke of Khalakovo did not object?”
Nikandr was surprised to see how much the words stung. Borund still sat on the throne in Radiskoye, exactly as Mother had predicted. Vostroma had delayed, they had made excuses, had made demands, anything to keep Khalakovo beneath their heel, but the strangest part of it had been the knowledge that Father had accepted it. He had gone to Vostroma, in effect a thrall of Zhabyn, the Grand Duke. But Zhabyn, despite his initial reluctance to trust Father, had eventually come to value his advice, especially as the blight had continued to put pressure on Vostroma and the other southern duchies. And father had taken to his role, in effect supplanting Leonid Dhalingrad as Zhabyn’s most trusted advisor. And every time Ranos or Nikandr had brought up the need to pressure Zhabyn to return the throne to the Khalakovos, Father had demurred, saying only that the time was not right.
“I go where I will,” Nikandr said. “The son of Vostroma has no sway over me.”
“And where have the winds taken you?”
“It isn’t where I’ve gone, but what I’ve found while there. The rifts have continued to surface, though none with such strength as the one on Uyadensk and Duzol. I’ve studied them. I can feel them. I know when they wax and when they wane. I can even find the places where they might be closed, if only I had the means.”
He left the words there, hanging between them.
“Nasim has been lost to you. To all of you. You have no right to him anymore.”
“He is part of me, Fahroz, and I am part of him. There is no separating us.”
She swallowed. Nikandr hoped it was a sign that her resolve was flagging, but her eyes were as hard as they had been in the courtyard of Oshtoyets when she’d taken Nasim away. “It is a bond I wish I could break, but believe me when I say it is one you will no longer be able to leverage. We have burned you from him as well as we can, and fates willing, you will never see him again.”
Nikandr allowed some of his annoyance to show. “We don’t work at cross-purposes, you and I.”
“It isn’t your purpose I question, but the means you’ll use to achieve it.”
“I only wish to heal.”
“And in your blindness you’ll burn in order to do it.”
Nikandr sat forward in his chair, setting shisha tube into its holder. “It is not I who am blind. Nasim must be taught.”
Fahroz stared into the siraj stones, pausing, as if she were asking herself why she was doing this, and then she set her tube aside as if it had offended her. “Nasim has been taught, and now that he has, his teachings will guide him.” There was pride both in her words and in her eyes. “He will be great, an arqesh among arqesh.”
“The arqesh are not infallible.”
Fahroz stood, quickly but calmly, her hands clasped together. It was an insult, what he’d just said, a reference to the three arqesh-the Al-Aqim-that had ripped the world asunder on the island of Ghayavand: Muqallad, Sariya, and Khamal, the man that passed his memories on to Nasim. “I am sorry you have come so far to receive so little, but there is nothing I can do.”
Nikandr remained seated. “In truth, I knew there was little chance you would speak to me of Nasim’s whereabouts.”
“And yet you still came.”
“Because there is more,” Nikandr continued. “I mentioned the rifts, how they have until now been of no great strength, but there is another forming. On Rafsuhan.”
Nikandr watched her closely. She masked her response well, but it was there: surprise, followed immediately by the realization of his true goal here. But she held her tongue. She didn’t want Nikandr to know that Soroush was here within this very village, only a short distance below in one of the lowest rooms of the ballast tower.
Nikandr fought to hide secrets of his own, however. The Chaika was lashed to the village and would be receiving all the attention of Mirashadal, but by now the Strovya would have reached the tower, and Anahid, his best dhoshaqiram, would have begun warping the living wood that kept Soroush imprisoned. Atiana was to signal him when they were done, but so far he’d heard nothing. He needed to give them more time.
“I know he’s here, Fahroz. Give him to me. If I am to study the rift, I will need him.”
Fahroz looked at him as if he’d gone daft. “He will kill you the moment he lays eyes on you.”
“It isn’t just his land that’s at stake now. It’s his people.”
“They care nothing for the land. They will take to the winds, as they always have.”
“I don’t think so. They’re rooted to Rafsuhan and Muhraban like never before, and Soroush knows it. He will not wish to see his people die. You do not wish it, either. You can make a difference for them, Fahroz. Don’t let Erahm swallow them whole.”
“The fates will do as they will!” She practically shouted the words, but in the ensuing silence she stared into Nikandr’s eyes, chest heaving with breath, perhaps considering his words.
And then a bell began to ring, over and over. It was not from the Chaika.
Someone had discovered them.
Fahroz ran to the door. “Stay where you are,” she said to Nikandr as he stood. She put herself in the doorway as he approached.
“I must leave, Fahroz.”
Her eyes were filled with a rage that had been pent up for years, but there was something else: the realization that she ha
d been betrayed. He had always liked Fahroz, even respected her despite her rigidness-or perhaps because of it-and it pained him that it had come to this, but he knew she would never have given up Nasim or Soroush.
“You would steal from this village? I thought you different from your fathers, Nikandr, or I never would have allowed you to step foot onto Mirashadal.”
“Soroush is not yours to keep. He is Erahm’s.” Nikandr took a step closer. “Now let me pass.”
“I will not.”
He tried to push past her. She resisted, but she was not a strong woman. Nikandr was soon past her and onto the walkway, but it made him feel small, smaller than he had felt in years.
There was nothing to do about it now. He rushed through the village and up toward the perch where the Chaika waited for him. More bells rang throughout the village.
He moved as quickly as he could, especially when the wind began to gust. Despite the cold, the air was becoming oppressively humid.
He flew up the winding stairs to the Chaika’s perch. The winds at the top of the stairs blew so fiercely that he was nearly swept off his feet.
The perch he’d left a short time ago stood before him. Frost rimed the end of it, where two qiram stood, both of them facing out toward the sea. Two other Aramahn men stood to the side of the perch where the ship had been moored, each holding a curved knife.
And the Chaika…
The Chaika was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nikandr’s heart pounded as he searched the skies for his ship.
The two Aramahn with the knives approached him, but as they did they slid the knives into sheaths at their belts. They would not harm Nikandr-the beliefs they held most dear prevented it-but they could easily prevent him from leaving, and they would hold him if they thought it important to do so.
They had cut the mooring lines so the havaqiram could summon the winds to push the Chaika away from the village, far enough that Nikandr couldn’t reach it. The jalaqiram standing next to him had probably drenched the ship in water, particularly the cannons and muskets-the lanterns, as well, Nikandr realized, so that he stood no chance of seeing the ship-and with the wind roaring through the village, and the bells ringing, there was no way he could hear the ship, either.
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