They heard something in her voice, some small amount of hope, and five of them formed a guard in front of her. Two were sucked away by the raging wind, but the rest were able to escort her up toward the keep.
The jalahezhan had slithered down the hill, but the suurahezhan had moved faster. Rehada stood in its path, motioning the streltsi to stop and allow her to proceed.
The suurahezhan, wavering heat rising above the dark red surface of its skin, came to a halt before Rehada. It recognized her, and for the moment did not attack. Rehada threw aside her circlet-knowing this was no spirit to be enticed by mere stones-and spread her arms wide.“I am yours,”she said simply. Her mind was as resolute as it ever would be. There was no fear, only purpose and a willingness to give of herself.
The elder did not need her-it had already entered the world and had no need of a bridge-but it was intrigued, and it felt a kinship, the same kinship that Rehada felt with every bit of her heart.
Rehada stepped forward.
And felt the fire of the world.
It consumed her, gave light to the innermost recesses of her mind, those places she hadn’t wanted to visit, hadn’t wanted to uncover. But she had been ready for this-there was no longer anything left for her to hide.
The spirit felt this. It accepted her, and for the time being, granted her a bond.
She turned toward the havahezhan, which had sensed this new threat and was now twisting toward her. The Landed soldiers scrambled away, watching her with crazed eyes. They feared her, which was as it should be. She was flame. She was fire itself.
Her clothes burned away. She stood naked in the snow, pouring herself into one last effort as the havahezhan raged against her, hoping to knock her from her feet. But she was no mere candle to be snuffed by an errant breeze.
She could feel the pain of the wind spirit, could feel it slipping away toward Adhiya. Had it not been weakened already, it might have fought longer, but as it was, the suurahezhan was too strong, and soon the spirit of wind was lost, the last remnant of its existence a buffet of wind against the snow.
The vanahezhan was closing in, its earthen form looming large. Ashan had regained his feet. He seemed pained with exertion as he drew water up from beneath the earth, using the snow to infuse the earth spirit as it approached. More and more of its form was softened by the water, ablating it as the thing stalked forward.
The hezhan paused, however, and replenished itself with the muddy earth at its feet. It was slowed, but it would not be defeated. Not like this.
The jalahezhan reached two of the soldiers who were holding up their guns. It bore down on them, splitting around their simple defense and drowning them in moments.
The shot of a cannon brought Rehada’s attention toward the keep. A passing ship unleashed another cannon shot into the courtyard. Several more ships followed, each of them loosing blasts of their own.
The jalahezhan, perhaps sensing they were a greater threat, turned toward the oncoming ships. Droplets of water flew off of its body and up toward the nearest of them. More and more of it flowed like rain up and against the oncoming galleon, its body shrinking as it did so. It fell against the sails and the deck of the ship as the crewmen working frantically to prepare their dousing rods.
And then it reformed.
Musket fire snapped across the ship. Men shouted as the water spirit slipped around the men holding the dousing rods and attacked those that had yet to fire.
The vanahezhan had finished with the forward streltsi. Only two streltsi and the sotnik remained. Ashan was still trying to slow the approach of the vanahezhan. Rehada summoned the power of the suurahezhan once more, focusing a blast of heat against the spirit of earth.
The vanahezhan stopped. It seemed to gather its strength. A moment later the earth rolled before it like a wave upon the water. It traveled outward-tight and focused on Rehada and Ashan.
It struck, sending her flying. She landed with a thud as the wave of earth thundered onward and was lost among the sloping hills behind her.
She looked toward Ashan. He lay unmoving, unconscious or dead. The vanahezhan lumbered forward, mere moments from reaching him.
She poured everything she had left, but she had already given too much. She managed a gout of flame that lasted no longer than a breath, and then the suurahezhan released her, knowing she was now little more than a mere husk. The moment it did, however, it slipped back through the aether to Adhiya. The vanahezhan’s attack had weakened it-that and the demands Rehada had placed on it-and when it had released her, it had also released a critical bond that was keeping it squarely grounded to this world.
In a way she was glad, for she could no longer have controlled it, but in another it made her desperate, for she had been left utterly powerless to prevent the vanahezhan from reaching Ashan.
CHAPTER 65
The wind whipped around Nikandr, pushed harder and harder against his frame as he rushed toward the sea. His descent was slowing, but it seemed impossible to prevent himself from plummeting into the waves. Strangely, that only deepened his commitment to the hezhan. He released all of his worries, all of his hopes, and drew strength from the hezhan, asking-not demanding-that it help him.
The winds blew harder. It rushed up and around him, whipping his clothes and his hair. He slowed and halted in midair-only seconds from the water-and then he was flying upward along the cliff. The walls of Oshtoyets were high above him. He urged the winds to push him faster, knowing there was little time left. He had to reach Nasim to protect him somehow.
The wind roared in his ears as he crested the wall. In the center of the courtyard was the black spire towering five stories high, and at its base was Nasim, chained to a spike set into the obsidian stone. The Maharraht stood around the spire in a circle, chanting, but as Nikandr moved toward the battlements, one of them spotted him. Nikandr could not hear above the noise, but the Maharraht summoned another, who had an alabaster stone set into the circlet on his brow. He raised his hands, and immediately the winds shifted, pushing Nikandr over the courtyard.
And then the wind was utterly, inexplicably gone. He fell nearly two stories and crashed onto the stone, striking his head as he did so.
Pain resounded through him-especially along the back of his skull-as he woke to a low and rhythmic chanting. He tried to move, but cold metal held his wrists in place. His arms were pulled painfully above his head.
Soroush stood before him, his eyes serious, his long black beard blowing in the wind. “It is true that the fates are kind.” He did not seem smug, but rather grateful, as if he truly felt that the fates had smiled upon him.
“The day is not yet done,” Nikandr replied.
“But it is, Nikandr Iaroslov. It is.” He held the stone of opal between his fingers. “This was the first of the stones-I found it on Rhavanki-but did you know that you granted me the second?”
Nikandr shivered, knowing it was true.
“Rehada gave me the third. My brother the fourth. And your betrothed gave me the fifth. We are linked, you and I, through more than this struggle.” He paused, waiting for this all to sink in. “I wonder if we were not brothers in another life.”
An acid taste formed in Nikandr’s mouth. He spit to clear it.
Soroush smiled, not unkindly. “You may think not, but how can you not see what has become of the two of us and not wonder why we have been brought together? Or perhaps you think your ancestors have been watching over you. Have they, son of Iaros? Have they brought this into being?”
“The ancients cannot see all there is to see.”
“ Neh?” He regarded the glimmering jewel held between his thumb and forefinger. “But they must see what is coming now.”
“Nikandr?”
It was Nasim’s voice. Nikandr turned. He was unable to see Nasim, but he knew he was there. He could feel him-chained to another face of the spire.
“Please help me.”
Soroush seemed bothered by these words, but he quickly regai
ned his composure. “He cannot, child.”
Soroush may have spoken more-Nikandr isn’t sure, because his awareness expands. He loses touch with the reality around him. His eyes roll back into his head, and he can no longer feel his body, but he can feel the granite cutting down through the cliff and the rivers running through the hills of Duzol.
He stands on the shores of Adhiya. He feels the heat of white fire, the cold of eternally shifting waters, the touch of wind and the solidity of earth and stone-through it all runs the essence of life. Like thread along a seam these elements draw Nasim tighter-the part of him that walks the lands of the spirits is bit by bit being drawn closer to his self in the mortal plane. This is by design-it is what Soroush has been planning to do ever since landing on Khalakovo.
The scene in the courtyard is shown through Nasim’s senses. The stone of opal-the last of the stones-glitters between Soroush’s fingers, inches from Nasim’s mouth.
Nasim dearly wishes to take it.
Do not, Nasim.
He hears Nikandr’s words, but the lure is simply too strong. This stone is part of him, just as the other four now are. It is with this realization that thoughts crystallize in Nikandr’s mind, thoughts that had been eluding him since the ritual started-these spirits, these elders, are aspects of Nasim, perhaps former lives, perhaps future ones.
Accept him, Sariya said. He must. He must do this, or all will be lost. He has been trying to remain grounded-trying to remain himself — while still helping Nasim, but this is not the way. He must give of himself that Nasim might live.
So he releases completely. He is a rock among the waters that Nasim might swim to, and Nasim finds that he is able to resist the call of the stone being offered to him, to resist that final aspect of himself, no matter how enticing it might be. In this small victory he finds courage.
A look of confusion plays across Soroush’s face. He strokes Nasim’s hair. “There is nothing to fear, child.”
Still Nasim disobeys. There is a light that sparks within him that has not been present until now.
Soroush’s face becomes not angry, but filled with intent. He presses a forearm against Nasim’s throat and with his other hand tries to force the stone into Nasim’s mouth.
Nasim resists, shaking his head back and forth.
Soroush strikes again and again.
It takes only one small slip, and the stone is inside.
Spit it out, Nikandr says.
There is a pause. Nasim stares up at the layer of clouds. Nikandr can taste the stone, taste the call of Adhiya. He can feel Nasim’s other half-the half he has been separated from since birth-resolve itself. It is now clearer than it has ever been, and there is an undeniable attraction to it.
Nasim forgets Soroush, forgets about the hezhan that have been summoned and the one that awaits.
Forgets Nikandr.
Nyet! Nikandr pleads. Please, Nasim, do not do this.
He can think of nothing save this rift-this gulf-that has defined his existence, that has caused him so much pain.
Nasim!
Ever so briefly, he glances over to Nikandr.
And then he swallows the stone.
A release of pleasure and ecstasy follows. Nasim has been fractured for so long that he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he’s been made whole.
So he screams.
The earth beneath him buckles. With a sound like rolling thunder, the curtain wall cracks. The remaining door at the gate splinters with an audible snap, sending shards of wood flying. The dhoshahezhan-the final spirit-begins to resolve on the far side of the courtyard.
Nikandr feels the world slow, or rather, feels the gears of this world and of the world beyond move as he has never felt them before. Nasim was made whole when he swallowed the final stone, but he was also granted something beyond any Aramahn before him, beyond even the hezhan themselves.
He regards the courtyard anew. He sees the dhoshahezhan fully formed as the telltale sparks of lightning arc over its frame. It feels akin to another, and the realization of this brings Nikandr’s presence to the fore of his mind.
A bright white flash of pain runs through Nikandr. It feels as though he has been thrown into the forge of life, to be recast as the fates see fit.
Nearby, Soroush kneels. He clasps his hands behind his back, and raises his head to the sky while his brother, Bersuq, pulls a curved khanjar from a sheath at his belt. Nikandr is confused, but as Bersuq steps forward, knife held tightly with both hands, he begins to see.
Bersuq is preparing to kill his brother. Just as Nasim sacrificed Pietr to open a channel for Nikandr’s return to Erahm, Soroush’s death will open a channel for Nasim to return to Adhiya. It will complete the cycle, tearing open the rift that runs through Duzol, and with it the neighboring rifts over Khalakovo and perhaps beyond.
Nikandr draws back into his own form. He hears gunfire, the shouts of men, the shots of cannons-but it is distant, as if from a dream. He rails against his bonds, screaming for Bersuq to stop. Bersuq pauses, staring into Nikandr’s eyes, and in that one small moment, Nikandr feels her.
Atiana.
She is near. He knows this to be true. And can it be? She is within Bersuq. She has assumed him.
The next moment, Bersuq has resumed his march toward Soroush, preparing to lay the blade across his exposed throat.
Atiana! Do not let him do this!
A moment later, in an explosion of stone and dust, the blast of a cannon shatters the center of the courtyard. Nikandr turns away, shielding his face, coughing uncontrollably, and when he turns back he can see nothing. The entire courtyard has been reduced to a thick haze of pale yellow dust.
Atiana watches through Bersuq’s eyes as a windship drifts over the keep. In the distance, two more float free of the clouds. The Maharraht have been idle, with orders to allow the ritual to proceed without interference, but now that the enemy has discovered them, they burst into action, raising their weapons and firing the keep’s four large cannons on the nearest of the windships.
Though she is held within Bersuq’s frame, trapped, she touches the aether still, and she can feel the shift well before the dhoshahezhan appears in the courtyard. The aether swells, pressing itself against the world as a spark of lightning materializes several paces away. The hair on Bersuq’s neck and arms rise as the spirit steps fully into the world. It is a gathering of lightning, balled up into a writhing form no taller than a man, but more powerful for it.
Soroush kneels, baring his throat. Bersuq turns to him, pulling a khanjar from his belt. She doesn’t understand what is happening until she hears Nikandr’s voice. Atiana! Do not let him do this!
A moment later a cannon shot gouges the earth, and Bersuq is thrown to the ground. His ears ring, and he coughs uncontrollably as dust fills his lungs.
Nearby, the bright sparks of the dhoshahezhan shift. A white bolt of lightning flies upward and strikes one of the crewmen in the ship flying low above the keep. Through the haze, she can see it continue through one, two, three more before arcing sharply upward into the clouds. All four men fall from their perches, lifeless, two falling wide of the ship and plummeting toward the sea’s cold embrace.
The ship’s rear cannon belches flame and the shot passes through the hezhan. The iron fouls the spirit’s next bolt, which charges through several of the Maharraht on the walls. All of them fall-one jerking spasmodically before coming to a rest.
As Bersuq’s coughing begins to subside, he searches frantically for his knife. Knowing she has little time, Atiana exerts her influence over him once more. He fights, but there is little left within him that can withstand her frantic assault. He fights her every command, but still she forces him to walk to the spire. Nikandr is chained there. The muscles along Bersuq’s arms are tight as harp strings, but they obey.
Nikandr collapses to the ground, but he fails to see Soroush storming up behind him.
Atiana forces Bersuq to launch himself at Soroush. As she does th
e presence of the Matri coalesce around her. Her mother is chief among them.
Bersuq rails against the bonds within his mind as Atiana struggles to regain her composure. Help me, she pleads.
But they do not. They begin instead to pull her away.
Nyet! You know not what you do!
Atiana claws at them, tries to fend them off, but there are simply too many, and soon she loses her hold.
Nikandr coughed as he fell to the broken stones of the courtyard. Bersuq stood before him, his face a mixture of pain and rage and confusion.
Nikandr shielded his eyes as a bolt of lightning cracked through the air, striking the chain holding Nasim to the spire. The chains that held Nasim in place clanked as they fell to his sides.
The air was ripe with possibility, with hope. The rift was present-it was in Nikandr’s gut, in his chest-and he could feel how Nasim struggled with the place he was in, standing squarely at a fork in the path of both worlds. His face was in more pain that Nikandr had ever seen, but he did not cower. He did not flinch.
Nikandr looked down at his soulstone. It was as bright as it had been in the tower in Alayazhar. Accept him, Sariya had said. Give of yourself.
He had not known what that meant. But he understood now.
He wrenched the stone downward, breaking the chain. With Nasim watching, he held it out. It glowed brilliantly now, brighter than it ever had.
“You are sure?” Nasim asked.
“I am,”Nikandr replied, knowing that he was giving Nasim more than just a simple piece of chalcedony. This was part of him, as much as his father, his mother. His sister and brother. It was not an easy thing to surrender, but he did so gladly.
Nasim took it in his hands, staring at it for a good long moment. And then he placed it in his mouth.
But nothing happened.
Nothing.
By the ancients, what had gone wrong?
Atiana watches as Nasim consumes Nikandr’s stone. He glows whiter than he had before, but that is the only difference she can see. She can feel his pain even from this distance, even without trying to-so great has it become. How he is managing to contain it all she cannot imagine.
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