Nikandr moved to his father’s side, kissed his forehead, and took the empty chair.
When Father spoke, it was with a soft voice, contemplative. “Zhabyn came to me today. He was more than passing curious over the ways in which you mean to honor Atiana.”
“Father?”
“He is concerned that his future son will be flying among the islands, chasing after meaningless pursuits.”
Suddenly, Zhabyn’s purpose became clear. The conversation he’d had with Borund where he’d told him about his desire to understand the blight—he
must have shared it with his father. “Borund doesn’t understand.”
“Neither, it seems, does his father.”
“But you do,” Nikandr said.
“I do, but we have seen few enough results.”
“That will come.”
“How soon, Nischka? This year? The next? Ten years?”
Nikandr wanted to laugh. He wouldn’t be alive in ten years if he didn’t find a cure for the wasting. “We knew it would take time.”
“And by then the blight might have moved on, as it has done with Rhavanki.”
“Can you deny that things are becoming worse, that the next time it returns it may well destroy us?”
“In truth, I know not. What I do know is that we have to protect our family now. This year. And to do that I had to seal your marriage.”
Nikandr shook his head. “What do you mean?”
“Zhabyn and I signed the papers today.”
His words were heavy, and it was clear there was more to the story than this. “And what might have changed Vostroma’s mind so easily?”
For the first time, Father turned to Nikandr. The wiry beard framing the lower half of his face and running down his gold-threaded kaftan gave him a truculent look. “The Malva will be given to them.”
“My ship?” The Malva was the ship he and Jahalan and Udra had been sailing the last two years to investigate the blight.
“My ship, Nischka, and I will do with it as I please.”
“I have many things planned.”
Father shook his head, his beard swaying back and forth over his kaftan. “Nyet. The Malva will be returned to us when the Gorovna is delivered to Vostroman shores, but when it does, you will no longer be given leave to go where you will. I need you to command a wing of the staaya. The Maharraht have become too bold.”
Nikandr’s stomach, which had been fine the entire day, chose that moment to wake itself from slumber. Like a yawning hole in the ground, nausea spread through Nikandr’s gut and chest, but the feelings were nothing compared to the sense of foreboding over what might be lost. “I will not shirk my duty if that is what you ask of me, but please do not ignore what Jahalan and I have done.”
“You have done well, Nischka, but the Malva is already his. You will sign your papers tomorrow, and then you will ensure that you spend more time with the Vostromas.”
“There is little choice.”
“And yet you found time to visit your woman in Volgorod, twice in the past week.”
Nikandr stared up at his father, angry over being watched so. “Father, forgive me, but I will see whom I please.”
Father smiled. “You are not your own man, Nischka. You have never been, and the sooner you get that into your head, the better off we’ll all be.” He stood, staring down at Nikandr. “In time, such things can be overlooked, but not now, and especially not during Council. All it will take is one more perceived insult—one more—and Zhabyn will take his contracts and grant them to another Duchy, no matter that it makes him poorer in the end.”
He made his way to the door, his slippered feet falling against cold marble tile. In the fireplace, a pile of coals crumbled, sending the sparks flying upward.
“Mark my words.” The door clicked open. “If I find that you’ve been visiting that Motherless whore again”—he stepped into the hall before turning, his expression so grim it made Nikandr cold—“she will not live to see another sunrise.”
CHAPTER 9
Rehada lay on her pillows, the redolence of Nikandr’s musky scent fading but still present. The embers in the nearby hearth crumbled, creating the faintest of sounds as sparks flew upward, and it reminded her of just how long she had been lying there, lamenting. She rose and threw three logs onto the nearly dead fire, lighting it with a simple summons of the spirit bound to her. She stared into the burgeoning flames, yearning for the freedom to be in Nikandr’s arms, knowing that such a thing could never be.
As these emotions played themselves out she realized she had allowed herself more fantasies than she had been willing to admit. Years ago, when she had arranged for their first encounter, she had hated him just as much as she hated all the Landed, perhaps more. He had been childish and full of himself, but his time among the winds and the growing blight had somehow tempered him, and she had found him to be interested in the ways of the Aramahn, more than she would have guessed. It had never occurred to her that she would have feelings for him, but like ivy, growing slowly but steadily, he had found a way into her heart.
And she hated herself for it, even more so now that Soroush had returned. She felt weak, as if she’d allowed the vines to creep between the mortar of her resolve, until the wall she’d thought so impregnable years ago was ready to crumble before her very eyes. What was worse was the fact that—even knowing how weak it was—she was unsure whether she wanted to repair it. Soroush had ordered her to come two days hence, surely to work against the interests of the Grand Duchy—or at the very least of Radiskoye—and she would go, but she found herself, more and more often, wishing that the fates would resolve these disputes so that her people might move closer to their destiny. So that she might.
After removing her robe, folding it carefully, and setting it on the carpet nearby, she retrieved the small leather bag Nikandr had placed on the mantel. Inside were a dozen tourmaline stones—the price they had agreed upon long ago. The stones would keep her for a season, perhaps more, and though it was relieving to have her supply doubled, it was still galling to find herself at the mercy of the Landed, even though she was also in a position to use them.
She released her bonded suurahezhan, an act as simple as a sigh. Like most of the Aramahn gifted with the ability to commune with spirits, she could not keep them for weeks or months at a time. She needed to release her bond after several days or a week, lest it grow too hungry and begin feeding off of her unnaturally.
After removing the old stone and fixing a new one into the hinged setting of her circlet, she sat before the fire and opened her mind to Adhiya, the world beyond. She ran her hands over the fire, giving herself to the flame to lure a hezhan closer. For a long time, she felt nothing except pain as the flames licked her skin, but eventually she felt a keening, a yearning for life that she coaxed toward her. It took time—it always did—but eventually the suurahezhan came close enough for her to offer herself to it.
It readily agreed, allowing itself to be bonded so that it could taste life. Erahm was the place from which it had come, the place to which it would one day return; it thirsted for the stuff of life that it was otherwise deprived of. As the bond was forged, the flames in the fireplace lost their hold on her until they felt like little more than the kiss of the sun on a warm, windless day.
The ritual was complete, but she did not stand. There was still work to be done.
She created a bond between herself and the fire, allowed it to run the length of her body, allowed the heat to lick her thighs, her stomach, her breasts, her lips. It suffused her frame, some of it pooling in the place between her thighs at the mere remembrance of Nikandr. She grit her jaw, angry over her lack of will, and lay down close enough to the fire so that she could feel the heat not only through her tourmaline, but through her natural senses as well.
When her mind was once more clear, she placed her feet into the flames. “I give of myself,” she said, “that I might be cleansed.”
And with that she
lay back and closed her eyes. At first, she felt only gentle warmth on the soles of her feet, but like the sun upon the obsidian shores of the north the heat built steadily, her link to the fire preventing her flesh from burning. It created a self-feeding cycle that made the pain more intense than if her feet had begun to burn.
Her body went rigid, but she forced herself to relax. She recalled all of the impure thoughts she’d had since her last cleansing a week before: joy when she’d heard of a fishing ship lost at sea, rapture when she’d learned of a small family that had succumbed to the famine, jealousy when an old
friend had taken the wind for further shores.
Lust for a man she knew she could never have.
She shook the thoughts of him away and instead focused on the pain. It washed over her and intensified as she fed it with renewed energy, and though the heat climbed higher than the stars, she never screamed, never allowed it beyond her mortal frame. This was her penance, the cost of the decisions she had made during her life. Her only hope was that she could atone for them in later lives.
She would, she muttered through the veil of pain.
She would.
The pain became so intense it was all she could think of, and still she pushed herself to keep her feet in place, to allow them to burn longer.
She deserved every second of it.
She opened her eyes and drew her legs to her chest as a long moan escaped her lips and tears slipped along her cheeks. Flames the color of the ocean shallows flickered along her ankles and feet, and for long moments, she rode the crest of the wave, swallowing hard, coughing, fighting the urge to snuff the flames as the heat bore deeper and deeper beneath her skin. She would not relent so easily; she would take what it would give, purify as much of herself as she could.
Finally the heat and the pain faded. When her feet had cooled enough to set them back upon the carpet, she curled into a ball and began to sob.
She wished she could fly on the winds and visit distant shores. She wished, only for a moment, that she had been born of the Landed, so she could do as she wished, when she wished. This was yet another thought that she would pay dearly for the next time she placed her feet to the flames, but for now, for now, she cherished it like a jewel in the nest of a rook.
The village of Iramanshah contained a celestia—an open air dome supported by thick pillars of clay-colored stone. Concentric steps led down to a floor that was complicated by a vast collection of lines and circles—indicators of various constellations and their positions at certain, significant days of the year. Dozens of Aramahn men and women, scattered like seeds, stood or sat, speaking softly with one another, sharing their experiences, their loves, their fears. It was a thing that Rehada missed dearly, and for a time she simply stood and watched, wishing she could take part in their conversations. She recognized a man she had met years ago on her second crossing of Mirkotsk, and she realized that she couldn’t remember his name. Had it been so long that she had begun to forget the names of those she’d met? And if she had forgotten him, what else might be lost to her? This was her history, her life...
She was pulled from her reverie by a golden voice.
Nearby, the seven mahtar—the village elders—were standing around a man with tousled brown hair. He wore an alabaster gem within the circlet upon his brow. On his wrists were tourmaline and opal, worked into beautiful golden bracelets, and though she could not see his ankles, she had no doubt there were two more gems: jasper and azurite.
This must be him, she thought. Ashan Kida al Ahrumea. As she stared— longer than she should have—one of the mahtar, a woman named Fahroz, noticed Rehada. She gave Rehada a look of disapproval while the others guided Ashan to an area free from prying ears.
“Have you reconsidered, then?” Fahroz said as she came near.
“Forgive me, but I have not.”
She allowed her gaze to roam the celestia. “Then please, why have you come?”
“Am I forbidden to speak to my people?”
“Play what games you wish. You know you are not welcome in Iramanshah.”
“Until I cross the fires for you.”
Fahroz frowned, causing the heavy wrinkles around her forehead and mouth to deepen. “It is not for me that you would cross the fires, Rehada. It is for you, for the lives you have lived and the lives you have yet to live.”
“Then perhaps I am here to contemplate.”
One of the other mahtar called to Fahroz. She turned, waved, and then returned her attention to Rehada. “That, I doubt, but I hope in my heart it is true. Think on what I have said, Rehada. Come to me if your thoughts change.”
“I will.”
Fahroz joined the others in their low conversation with Ashan. Rehada felt conspicuous as she made her way down the steps to the floor and to a boy that was lying down, arms and legs spread wide, near the center. She should probably not have come, but after Soroush’s sudden visit—and the news from Nikandr that Nasim had landed on the island—she could not help herself. This was a boy that held the hopes and dreams of the Maharraht in the palm of his hand, and she would know more of him, Soroush’s permission or not.
Nasim was staring up at the underside of the dome, which was layered with a dark mosaic of the nighttime sky at winter solstice. As she neared, she could see that his eyes were moving from constellation to constellation. His eyes would thin, and he would mumble something as if he were conversing with the stars, and then he would move on, his eyes widening. She sat cross-legged nearby, hoping he would take notice of her, and when he didn’t she simply watched, curious how long it would continue.
“Can you hear me, Nasim?” she asked. “Are you there?”
Nothing.
She continued to speak to him, but in the end decided it was a fruitless tack. Soroush had been unable to speak with him reliably in the years that he’d held him. How could she in mere minutes hope to do any better?
Instead of trying, she closed her eyes and opened her mind to the suurahezhan she had bound to her the night before. She let the world around her fade and bid the fire spirit to come. She could feel it on the far side of the aether, and as she communed with it, she asked it what lay nearby within the spirit world of Adhiya. But bonding with the hezhan was a wholly different thing from communicating with them, and it was not a skill with which she was particularly gifted. She tried for a long time, learning nothing.
She was startled by a tapping on her shoulder. Looking up, she realized that Ashan was standing over her.
Immediately she stood and bowed. Her heart was beating madly. “I am grateful our paths have crossed.” She had hoped to speak with him on this foray into Iramanshah, but she had had no idea she would be so cowed by his presence. Again she regretted she had never met one of the arqesh while she had been on the path of peace. Why was it only now, when she had tied her fate to that of the Maharraht, that the fates decided she should meet one?
She would contemplate this later, and hopefully learn from it, but for now she pushed the thoughts away and gave all her concentration to the task at hand.
Ashan bowed his head, smiling a wide, crooked smile. “I am Ashan Kida al Ahrumea.”
“My name is Rehada Ulan al Shineshka, and you are known to me.”
“I see you have met my young charge, Nasim.”
Rehada was surprised that he used his real name, but then again, he was arqesh, and would find it difficult to lie. Plus, no one on the island, except perhaps her, would know anything about Nasim. It was the unfortunate nature of the Aramahn and their ceaseless travels that so many of them were strangers to one another, even if they did have long memories.
“I can’t say that I’ve truly met him,” she replied. “He seems like a contemplative boy.”
Ashan chuckled. “I’ve heard him called many things before, but contemplative hasn’t been one of them.”
“What would you call him, then?”
“I would call him lost.”
“Lost.”
“Lost within the confines of his mind, constantly trying to find his way out.”
Rehada looked down at the boy and considered this. He continued to study the mosaics above. His lips moved, but she could hear no sound.
“And you’re helping him to find it?”
He shrugged. “As I can, though the path has been difficult.”
“If you’ve come to the island to learn, then perhaps I could help. I’ve been living here for nearly seven years.”
Ashan smiled that same crooked smile, as if he knew something Rehada did not. She should be grateful for any words she spoke with such a man, but she had to admit that the gesture was starting to annoy her.
“What is it you find so amusing?”
“I am not amused, daughter of Shineshka, but surprised. Your mother, in all her years, never stopped in one place for more than a season.”
“You knew her?”
“At one time I knew her well, though we lost touch shortly before you were born.”
“How did you know her?”
He raised his eyebrows. “She came to me often, and we discussed the ways of the world. We traveled together for a time, but then she met your father, far on the northern edge of Yrstanla. It was a cold and barren place, and I suppose at the time she wished for warmth more than she did learning.”
“She died, you know.”
“I heard. May she return to us brighter than before.”
Despite herself, Rehada smiled. She had left her mother when she was fifteen, nearly twelve years ago now, but she had always remembered her mother as a bright soul. It had been and was still a source of pride—one of the few that remained—coming from a woman such as her.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Rehada said as a new group of Aramahn entered the celestia and began seating themselves.
“I wasn’t aware that you had asked one.” That smile again.
The Winds of Khalakovo Page 8