Nasim looked up at Ashan. “I know.”
Ashan laughed. “Do you?”
They continued, and the bulk of the village was revealed. They were below it, which gave visibility to the ballast, the long tower-shaped limb that hung from the center of the concentric rings of the village proper. The windwood glowed brightly under the sun, making it look like one of the iconic paintings of the Landed. As they floated upward and came even with the perches built into the outer ring, Nasim saw smoke rising from the far side of the village. Above it, rain was falling, though it resolved from the very air over the village. No doubt jalaqiram-those who could bond with spirits of water-were summoning the rain to douse the fire, but that didn’t explain the fire itself.
He also noticed women, dozens of them, wearing double robes of white and yellow, each with a stone in the circlets upon their brows. They stood on the perches circling Mirashadal. Each had eyes closed and arms spread wide as if they were welcoming the wind, but their stones were opals, not the alabaster of havaqiram, and strangely, they were all facing inward, as if the singular focus of their attention was the tower that stood at the center of the village.
Why would dhoshaqiram, masters of life, be communing in this way around the perimeter of the village? They must be guarding the village, though from what, and why, Nasim had no idea. He looked up to Ashan, but the face of the old arqesh was confused as well, his brow furrowed with thought and worry.
When they came at last to the perches built into the outer ring, Fahroz was already there. She and several others-some of whom Nasim recognized, but many he did not-greeted them as they disembarked.
“The fates work in strange ways,” Fahroz said to Ashan as she stepped in and gave him a hug.
“Indeed,” Ashan replied, “but please, is all well?”
Fahroz turned and glanced back at the steam and smoke rising in the distance. “Well enough, son of Ahrumea, but we’ll have time to discuss that soon.” The implication was that she wished to speak with Ashan alone, away from the ears of children-or from Nasim’s ears in particular.
Fahroz greeted Sukharam, hugging him deeply and welcoming him to Mirashadal. And then she turned to Nasim. She stared at him, maintaining a respectful distance. They were near enough to reach out and hold one another’s hands, and yet the gulf between them seemed impossibly wide. There was hurt in Fahroz’s eyes, and disappointment, but there was also surprise. Perhaps she thought never to see him again. Perhaps she was surprised he’d gone to Ghayavand and found his way back again. Whatever the reason, Nasim couldn’t help but feel like a son to this woman. Even though he had resented her for taking him here to Mirashadal, she had done so with love in her heart-love for him and love for the world.
He stepped forward and took her into a tight embrace. “You were right to give me shelter.” He said the words softly, so that only she could hear.
“And perhaps you were right to leave. In the end, we must all follow our hearts.” She pulled him away, holding his shoulders and staring deeply into his eyes. “Is it not so?”
Nasim smiled weakly. It was all he could manage, because for reasons he could not quite define, he was on the verge of tears.
Fahroz motioned to the perch, and together, with the other Aramahn that had come to greet them, they made their way toward the center of the floating village. “There is someone who’s come,” Fahroz said to Nasim as she walked by his side. “She wishes to speak with you.”
“Who?”
Fahroz studied him. She used to do this often. She was weighing just how much information she should give him, weighing how much he could handle. His instinct was to look away, as Sukharam was so apt to do, but he was a boy no longer. He would not shy away from such things.
“Tell me who’s come,” Nasim said.
“You’ll see soon enough.”
They passed over several arching bridges, through narrow walkways bounded by trellises and boughs and houses, all made of living windwood. They came to the center of the village, where a tower with a winding staircase stood. At the top, upon a platform, stood dozens of men wearing white and yellow robes and stones of alabaster. They were facing outward, each a mate of sorts to the women who stood at the edges of the village.
Fahroz caught his eye. She knew he was wondering just what had happened, but she seemed content to let the answers go unsaid, so he kept his questions to himself.
They took a set of stairs down and finally came to a round structure with oval windows set into it. He couldn’t see inside; the windows were covered by drapes the color of coriander. They came to a door, and Fahroz stopped. She motioned to it. “You can speak with her alone for a time if you like. Or you can join us.” She pointed to another, similar structure further along the path they were following.
Nasim nodded and the rest continued on, leaving him alone. He turned to the door, feeling suddenly anxious. Who could be here waiting for him?
He reached out, his hand hovering above the simple wooden handle.
Foolish, Nasim told himself. You’re being foolish.
He pushed the handle to one side. It struck home with a hollow thud, and he opened the door.
Inside was a room with carpets upon the floor and two small lamps upon the wall shedding the barest amount of golden light. He could not see anyone yet in the dimness, so he stepped inside. Only then did he see the form of a girl at the rear of the room. She was sitting, facing him, but his eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, so he could not see her features.
He closed the door and at last recognized her.
By the fates… It was Kaleh, the girl from Ghayavand, the girl who had helped him escape.
She was kneeling on the richly colored carpets, hands on her knees, eyes closed. Ages seemed to pass before she finished drawing breath, ages more before she finished her exhalation. She was young, perhaps only eleven, but there was something in her-especially now that she was tranquil and unmoving-that seemed ancient.
Nasim watched her for a time. She was taking breath, a ritual he had never managed to find peace with. It brought only memories of his younger years, when everything was confusion, everything was chaos. He envied those that had mastered it. It seemed to bring them such peace, a peace he hoped to one day find, but in the years since leaving Mirashadal, he had begun to wonder if he ever would.
“It’s taken you time to reach the village.”
Her voice made him jump. “What are you doing here?”
She opened her eyes slowly-as though she didn’t wish to disturb her own breathing-and gazed upon Nasim with emotionless eyes. “I’ve come to find you.”
For a moment, Nasim could not find words, and when he did, he could only manage one. “ Why?”
“Sit,” she said, motioning with one hand.
He did, crossing his legs instead of kneeling as she was. Only then was he able to see the bright red burns along the right side of her face. It traveled down her neck and was lost beneath the simple white shift she wore, but he could see red skin along her right wrist as well.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, forcing him to pull his gaze away from her wounds.
The words registered, but Nasim couldn’t comprehend her meaning.
“The girl in Alayazhar.”
Rabiah. She meant Rabiah.
“Were you close to her?” she asked.
It seemed so distant now, and it felt strange for Kaleh, a girl who barely knew him, to console him for the death of his friend, one that he loved so dearly. “Does it matter if we were close?”
She stared at him, her face unreadable. “I suppose it doesn’t.”
She said these words with such lack of emotion that it made Nasim’s blood boil. It felt as if she were dismissing Rabiah, dismissing what she had done in her life.
He stood and jabbed his finger down at her. “Why are you here?”
“I came for you.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve come to believe that Muqallad is
wrong.”
“Just like that?”
There was sadness in Kaleh’s eyes. “Sit.”
Nasim wanted to scream at her, and he didn’t even know why. She was someone who had helped him when she stood to gain little. He looked at the burns on her face and wondered if it had been punishment of some sort. As he stood there, her ancient eyes boring into his, the anger drained from him like snow beneath the summer sun.
When at last he managed to sit and face her, she said, “It’s not so simple as you think.”
“Things always seem that way, but what could be so complicated about leaving a man like Muqallad?”
“It is complicated, as you say, because he is my father.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
N asim felt the blood drain from his face. His fingers tingled and a ringing like struck crystal sounded in his ears.
“Muqallad is your father?”
She nodded, holding his gaze. She looked like a doe, ready to bolt.
If Muqallad was her father, then Sariya was her mother. By the fates above, a child borne of the Al-Aqim. What power she must hold. He had seen it with his own eyes, and still the possibility seemed ludicrous. Impossible.
“How old are you?”
She looked down at her hands, which she wrung for several moments before speaking. “I don’t know.”
“Sariya and Muqallad were awoken only five years ago.”
She stopped wringing her hands long enough to stare at them as if they belonged to someone else. “My mother tells me that I’ve grown faster than a child should. She thinks it’s because of Ghayavand.” She looked up to Nasim. “Either that or the spell Khamal cast over her before I was born.”
Nasim looked at her wounds again. They somehow seemed redder than moments ago. Angrier. “How did you get those burns?”
Kaleh turned her cheek to hide the burns from Nasim. “I came here to find you, but my father guessed my purpose. He followed through the doorway I created and fought the Aramahn to find me. I think he hoped that you would be here as well, for he stormed through the village, searching for you. In the end, he killed three before he fled under the threat of the others who came to protect the village.”
Nasim thought back to the men and women stationed around the village. “Will he return?”
“ Neh. He’s hampered by the bonds of Ghayavand. He can create doorways of his own, but not this far from Ghayavand, and with so many qiram warding the village, he won’t be able to break through again.”
“He has two pieces of the Atalayina now, doesn’t he? He’s fused them.”
“He has, which was why he was able to follow me, but even so, the bonds placed on all the Al-Aqim are strong. He will not be able to come again.”
“I’ve dreamed of those times, when the bonds were placed on the three of them.”
Kaleh smiled. She shifted from her kneeling position-wincing so badly Nasim cringed in sympathy-until she was sitting cross-legged like Nasim. For the first time, she seemed a child of her age. No longer were her eyes deep and ancient. Instead, they made her seem humble, as if she knew what she was about to ask was unreasonable.
“There’s a reason I came here, of all places,” she said softly. “I had hoped to find you. I had hoped to learn more of you, more of Khamal.”
“Why?”
“So that we can stop my father.”
Nasim stared. “Forgive me, Kaleh, but you have been with your father, preparing the way for the akhoz, for months and years. I know this.”
“I have done those things.” Her eyes went far away, as if she were reliving the ritual that took place on Rafsuhan, the one that had consumed the children of the Maharraht. “But I was fooled. Tricked.”
“Then what changed your mind?”
“I’m no fool,” she said sharply. “I’ve read texts-books and scrolls hidden away by my father. They spoke of his desires when he came to Ghayavand. They spoke of the desire of all who came to Alayazhar-for higher learning, for raising humanity above pettiness and anger and war. They spoke of a desire to find within ourselves the capacity to welcome all that we are, and to share. Our knowledge and our love and our pain.
“For years I was afraid to speak of these things, but months ago, I told him what I’d done. He wasn’t angry, but he told me that what we were doing was bringing the world to that higher place. I tried to believe him, but when I saw what he was doing to you that day at the celestia, it all changed. It cannot be what the fates wanted.” She shook her head. “It cannot.”
Nasim wanted to believe her, but could not. Still, if she were able to help him find his memories, it may shed light on the key to unlocking his own potential, or at the very least removing the walls Sariya and Muqallad had placed on him.
“How can Khamal’s memories help Muqallad?” he asked.
“Khamal left the island and was reborn. In a way my father hopes to do the same, for even with the Atalayina, he is bound to Ghayavand.”
“Sariya isn’t.”
“It mightn’t seem like it, but she is. She has her tower in Alayazhar. She took another in Aleke s ir, and yet another in Baressa. They are linked. They ground her to Ghayavand, but do not mistake this for her being free of it. She is bound as tightly as Muqallad is. The only difference is the way in which they pay for the small amount of freedom they’ve found. Only Khamal truly escaped.”
He didn’t escape, Nasim thought. He died, and I was born. “Why do you want to know Khamal’s secrets?”
“Because my father is close to doing the same thing. He hinted at it, but he refused to tell me details. He may have found what he needed from you at the celestia. But if we can find the secret too, we may be able to prevent him from escaping. We may even be able to bind him to Ghayavand forever.”
“He is your father.”
“Can a father do no wrong? Can he not be misguided?”
“Of course.”
“Then that is enough. I have been blinded, I will admit, but I will allow it no longer. Help me, Nasim. Help me to find Khamal’s secret, and together, we can stop him.”
“I’ve tried,” Nasim said, thinking of the horror contained within that dark place inside him that he’d never been able to go. “I’ve dreamed of him many times, but never the ritual he completed to be reborn and to grant me his power.”
“Then we will try together, but not today.” She glanced down with tired and haggard eyes at the burn on her wrist. “Perhaps not tomorrow, either.”
“Rest,” Nasim said as he stood and backed away toward the door. “I’ll see you again soon.”
Nasim didn’t see her again for days. He wandered the halls and paths of Mirashadal, reliving his past. He’d spent over two years here, but those first months had been confusing. He had been healed, but after walking between the worlds for so long, being relegated to only the material world was difficult. And then, when his mind had finally acclimated to Erahm, he longed for Adhiya. He wished for ways to touch it, but it had been cut off from him, and he grew despondent. Angry. He lashed out at all of those who tried to help.
But the Aramahn were patient, Fahroz especially so. She helped him to realize that he could touch Adhiya through others. He thought she was mistaken at first, for though they tried, he was unable to do more than sense Adhiya through the learned men and women that came to work with him. They tried and tried and tried again. And finally, it worked. The qiram acted as a conduit for him, after which he could begin to commune with the spirits, he could almost-almost-touch the stuff of Adhiya itself. For a time, he was appeased, but he still felt as though he’d been robbed of much on Oshtoyets. That anger had festered as it became clear he would never again have the ability to walk through the glorious plane of the spirit world. It had been that anger as much as his desire to mend the wounds Khamal had inflicted on the world that drove him from Mirashadal.
Now, as he took long walks around the village, feeling the sway of the walkways, smelling the scent of the sea, he realized just how much he
owed Fahroz. She had done so much for him, and all he had done was spurn her.
He tried to speak with her during meals in the great hall, to apologize. He stood before the door of her home so that he could share these thoughts. She would like them, he thought. He even saw her once, alone, walking down the winding ballast tower path, but then, just like every other time, he had backed down, embarrassed over what he’d done.
Four days after his arrival on Mirashadal, Kaleh found him sitting in one of the village’s many arboretums. It was a hidden place, more like a courtyard than a garden. The ground, such as it was, was a gnarled pattern of tightly packed roots. The trunks of the trees that circled the space stood side by side, with hardly a gap between them. The boughs curved up, moving amongst the other trees, until the branches reached up toward the sky, a crown of green leaves and swaying branches that made this place feel separate, hidden from the rest of Mirashadal.
There was only one archway leading into the arboretum, and it was through this that Kaleh came. She was limping, but she looked much healthier than she had days before.
“Good day to you,” she said, smiling.
“Good day,” Nasim said, smiling back.
He was sitting on a bench, another mass of roots that had been painstakingly shaped by the dhoshahezhan who had grown this village. Nasim patted the space next to him. Kaleh limped over and sat down.
“Are you well?” he asked, motioning to her right hand.
“Well enough. How are you?”
“Miserable.”
She frowned, shaking her head quizzically.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. I’d like to try, if you’re still willing.”
Her blue eyes searched his, perhaps surprised, perhaps pleased. Perhaps both. “Where?” she asked.
Nasim looked down at the roots beneath his feet. They looked hard and gnarled, but he knew that here in the arboretums they were soft as rabbit ears. “Here, if you don’t mind.”
She motioned for him to lie down. “Then sleep,” she said. “Dream, and I’ll guide you.”
The Straits of Galahesh loa-2 Page 45