The Winds of Khalakovo

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “What do you think?”

  “Me?”Jahalan’s face became pensive as he too studied the horizon.“I think that something as hidden as Ghayavand is as good as a myth.”

  One more cannon blast interrupted the silence, but it was soft, distant, muted by the depths of the fog.

  “And what if it were real? What would you do then?”

  A genuine smile lit his face. “I would learn. The day we stop listening to the lessons around us...”

  “Is the day we begin to die,” Nikandr said, completing the proverb. “So you always say, but I have heard of the riches of Alayazhar.” Jahalan, like Udra and dozens of other Aramahn, had pledged themselves to Khalakovo. They had found their place, as they say, and had dedicated themselves to teaching the Landed the ways of the world as seen through the eyes of the Aramahn.

  “You mean to ask would I betray my oath. I would not, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t cry for my own loss.”

  “Perhaps in the next life,” Nikandr said.

  “Perhaps,” Jahalan replied. “Do you still believe the city you saw in your visions was Alayazhar?”

  Nikandr shrugged. “Who can say? Perhaps it was something Nasim saw somewhere when he was younger. But it felt real, as if I were the one with the memories... Nyet, as if I were living it, then and there.”

  “And what if we find this place? What then?”

  “We find Ashan and we bring him back.”

  “What of the wasting?”

  Jahalan had said the words nonchalantly, perhaps hoping to ease into the conversation, but it struck Nikandr physically. He reeled, shocked and embarrassed that Jahalan had found him out.

  “Who knows?” Nikandr asked.

  “Only Udra and I, but the crew suspects.”

  Nikandr wanted to laugh. “They consider it another ill omen, I expect.”

  “They do.”

  Nikandr arched his neck back and took a deep breath. “There is time for me yet. My only hope is to bring Nasim back home, to unlock the riddle within him.”

  Jahalan turned to face Nikandr. He reached out and gripped Nikandr’s shoulder affectionately. “Best you take care of yourself, then. Eat, and make sure the crew sees you doing it. Throw up if you must, but do so in your own cabin.”

  Nikandr nodded, thankful for having someone who knew, thankful at not having to hide it, at least some of the time. “I will.”

  The following night, Nikandr retired to the kapitan’s cabin to ride out another coughing fit. The spells were not lasting as long as they once did, but they left him feeling much more weakened when they were done. It was as if his body had had enough and his defenses were crumbling.

  Viggen knocked on his door with an offer of food. He accepted, but it took him nearly an hour to force down the meager ration he’d allowed for himself and the crew. With the prevailing winds largely controlling their direction, he had chosen to stay high above the water instead of dropping to fish. It was not food, in any case, that was the issue. It was liquids. Their supply of ale was beginning to run low.

  That night, he forced himself to sleep, though it was difficult with the interminable ache in his chest. When he finally did fall asleep, it was deep.

  As were his dreams.

  At the fluttering wings of a bird, Khamal opens his eyes. He expects a gull, but finds instead a thrush with spotted wings and a fiery red breast standing on the tower’s parapet. He sees this as an ill omen. The thrush flaps down from the parapet to the wooden roof. It hops closer to Khamal’s feet, and then it alights, scared by the creaking sound of the hinged door that opens nearby.

  Muqallad is first, followed by Sariya, who carries a curved knife, a ceremonial khanjar. She holds it as though it would bite, but her face is resolute.

  They stand before him.

  “Your last chance,” Muqallad says.

  Khamal ignores him, giving all his attention to Sariya. She stares back, and though she acts strong, he can tell that she regrets what she has done—not enough to change her mind, but there is regret, and that is a start.

  “Small consolation,” he says softly.

  “What?” Muqallad replies.

  “You have lived centuries longer than you’d ever imagined, and you still believe that you can force upon the world its destiny.”

  “The fates knew well that they were ceding the world to us. They should not be surprised when a plan of their own devising bears fruit at last.”

  Khamal views the horizon, feeling in his heart the tear in the world that runs through the islands. “Only when this is healed can the world move on.”

  “Enough,” Sariya says. The word is short, clipped. She is shamed at being here, and she wishes to be done with it.

  Muqallad turns to her.

  “He will not change his mind, and we still have much to do.”

  Muqallad nods, beckons her closer.

  She hesitates, glancing to Khamal, but then complies.

  Together, they hold the khanjar. Each reaches out to touch one of Khamal’s shoulders, and for a moment, it is as it was when they worked together on this same tower, centuries ago, trying to take the world to a higher place, a higher plane.

  Khamal can feel the world around him, feel the power building within the two of them. They were surprised at how easily he gave in—with barely a fight. What they didn’t realize was how right it felt. They didn’t realize how freeing their betrayal might be. They were all trapped on this island from the moment the rift had formed, and though he had tried to find a way to repair it, he came to learn that he would not be able to do so while here. He also knew that he could never leave.

  Unless he dies.

  To do so means giving himself to the fates. He has come to terms with this. It feels right.

  But he cannot allow the two of them free reign while he’s gone. He will die, but he will be reborn, and he will see to it that he remembers, that he returns to finish what he started.

  The tip of the khanjar presses against his stomach, pierces his skin. He looks down, smiling.

  “Why do you smile?” Sariya asks.

  He stares into her blue eyes. “Someday I’ll tell you.”

  “Neh,” Muqallad says, “you will not.”

  Together, they thrust the khanjar home.

  Khamal tips his head to the sky and screams. He feels the warmth of his own blood, already trailing down his stomach. He feels the touch of Adhiya even now. And it is in this moment that he is free.

  He binds the island, binds this tower, so that neither Sariya nor Muqallad will be allowed to leave. They will be trapped. They will wait for his return, and if the fates are kind, he will return a wiser man than he is now.

  Muqallad stares into Khamal’s eyes. He knows. He knows, and he works to prevent what is happening.

  “Help me!” through gritted teeth he shouts.

  But it is too late. Khamal slips free of his mortal frame, and in doing so, cements the spell around the tower.

  Nikandr woke, sweating, his chest so constricted he could hardly breathe. He could not find it in himself to cough. He was too weak, and he felt as though once he started, he would not stop until he was dead. And so he lay there holding his soulstone tightly in one hand, breathing shallowly, feeling the gentle tug of the wind upon their ship until slowly, slowly, the feeling of tightness faded.

  He swallowed and took in a deeper breath. To be so caught by this spell made him feel powerless. It was something he resented. But he also felt grateful. He was alive, and so there was hope that he would weather this storm.

  He kissed his soulstone and stood, testing his breath for a moment before unlatching one of the landward windows and peering into the night. Nasim’s ship lay in this direction. He was sure of it. He didn’t need the stars to feel where Nasim was now, some many leagues ahead of them.

  Unable to sleep, he left his cabin and wandered the deck. Several men stood watch, with Viggen tending the helm. Jahalan normally slept on deck, but when Nikandr moved t
oward the forward patch of deck where he normally laid out his blanket, Nikandr found him sitting there, studying the sky. Nikandr waited, not wanting to interrupt, but just as unwilling to return to his cabin.

  “Come,” Jahalan said, making space for Nikandr to sit.

  “I saw the city again,” Nikandr said as he sat on the blanket. “I can feel it. We’re coming closer.” He studied the stars for a time as a chill wind blew abeam the ship. “Khamal died in my dream. He was murdered by the others—Muqallad and Sariya.”

  Jahalan was already shaking his head. “They were arqesh.”

  “Meaning what? That they could not have found it in themselves to commit murder?”

  “Just so.”

  “The Maharraht murder.”

  “The Maharraht are not arqesh. They are selfish, thinking only of themselves.”

  “They claim they are doing it for you. For all of us.”

  “Da, they claim this. But what they’re really doing is alleviating their own fears, their built-up hostility toward the Landed. Were they really doing it for the Aramahn, they would help. They would preach forgiveness. They would teach through kindness.”

  “You don’t teach.”

  Jahalan turned his head to regard Nikandr. “I abandoned the path to vashaqiram long ago.”

  “And yet you feel angry over the Maharraht.”

  “They are an affront to our history.”

  “But not your future?”

  “The fates lead us where they will. We are no longer the people we once were. Neither are you. Why hold on to such things? What does it gain us?”

  “It gains us our legacy.”

  “Da, your legacy. Where would the Landed be without that?”

  “Be careful, Jahalan.”

  Jahalan paused. “I am sorry, Nikandr. I know you put your faith in your ancestors, but even you will admit that they have helped you little these last many years.”

  “They see well beyond what we can see.”

  They were interrupted by Viggen’s calls for reports from the crewmen manning the rigging.

  When they were done, Jahalan continued, “I have been thinking of this chase we’re on, of your dreams as well.”

  “And?”

  “I think we should turn back while we have the chance.”

  “There’s little enough to fear now. Ashan is leading us.”

  “All the more reason to abandon the chase. He’s taking us for his purposes. Or perhaps the boy’s. Either way, it’s foolish for us to go on. Ghayavand is a place the living should no longer be. Nasim—if your dreams are right—may have a place there, and Ashan may be able to keep himself alive, but the rest of us will not be so lucky. It’s a place where the worlds are torn, and believe me when I say that Adhiya will not welcome us with open arms.”

  “We all go to Adhiya, do we not?”

  “In our own time, and in our own ways, but we go now to a place that should be left alone until the world sees fit to heal it, not before.”

  “Perhaps it has already healed.”

  “If you believe that you are a fool.”

  Nikandr laughed softly. “Perhaps I am. But I cannot abandon him now.”

  “You don’t owe him anything.”

  “It’s not him, though I do feel as though I owe him something. You must have felt it. Nasim is entangled with the future of Anuskaya, perhaps the future of the world. I cannot abandon him, not now. We are linked too closely.”

  “Your father needs you, as does your Duchy. If you value them, you should return home, where you can do some good.”

  Nikandr stood. “I have always valued your advice, Jahalan, but in this you are wrong. We will go to the island, and we will bring Nasim back if we are able.”

  “You do so not just at your peril, Nikandr, but mine as well. And Viggen’s. And the rest of the crew.”

  “Then so be it.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Atiana floats along the wind, her awareness encompassing the sea, the air, the islands hundreds of leagues away. She is no longer of her body. She is of the world, no different than the clouds or the currents of the sea.

  But there is something, a scent that reminds her of who she used to be. Who she is. But how can this be? How can Nikandr be among them in the aether?

  It doesn’t matter. He is present, and that is enough. Through him, she can feel another. The boy. Nasim.

  She is not experienced in navigating the dark, and yet she knows what she is seeing has not been noticed before—at least by the Matri. There is an imprint of Nasim in Adhiya and an echo in Erahm. He walks between worlds...

  Such a thing cannot be—she knows this—and yet here it is.

  And it explains much. His confusion. How else would a boy grow up when struggling to understand the very world that holds him? His pain. How could he not be torn? His attraction to Nikandr, a lodestone, a raft among the waves.

  It is because of Nasim that Saphia was attacked. It is because of him that Atiana is attacked now. He has allowed the hezhan to follow—or perhaps he doesn’t even realize. Either way, they feed upon her, as they do the Matra. If she could draw him closer to Adhiya, the hezhan may not be so easily able to follow.

  She pushes with all her might, as she did with the babe. She has little strength, but she feels it working. The worlds, at least in this one small place, are pushed further apart. Nasim slips toward Nikandr and toward the physical world.

  And then her strength is lost.

  She woke once, though she was unable to open her eyes. She lay there on the edge of sleep, on the edge of waking, for a long time, and she heard people speaking—most likely of her—but try as she might she was unable to rouse herself to wakefulness.

  She dreamed of storms wracking the island. At first she thought it was Kiravashya, where she had been born and raised, but she came to realize it was Khalakovo’s largest island, Uyadensk. The storms were so fierce that they wiped the island clean. Gone was the city; gone was Palotza Radiskoye; gone was Iramanshah and the tiny fishing village of Izhny; everything was gone, and afterward it felt how the beginning of the world must have felt: pristine and full of hope.

  As she had hours or days before, she woke several more times, and again she was unable to wake fully. She tried. She railed, but whenever she did she would slip backward into her dreams, and her screams of impotent rage would be directed toward Mileva or Ishkyna or Father for leaving her here.

  And then the cycle would begin anew.

  She shivered as something brushed the skin along her forearm. She had difficulty opening her eyes, but when she saw who sat next to her bed, her lethargy faded.

  “Matra,” Atiana said, pulling herself up in her bed.She took in the room, realizing she had been returned to her cell deep beneath the palotza.

  Saphia studied her with sharp eyes. Her skin was pink and healthy. She leaned to one side in her chair, perhaps to ease her pain, but otherwise she seemed more hale than she’d been in years. “Are you well, child?” she asked. Her voice was not scratchy, an indication that she had been awake and free of the aether for some time.

  “I am tired. Nothing more. May I ask what news?”

  “The blockade continues. My husband has been treating with your father, to no avail.”

  Atiana shook her head. “He won’t back down, not with Bolgravya and Dhalingrad pushing him so, but neither will he go to war over me.”

  “Over you, nyet, but there is more in the balance. The failed abduction of Nasim. The wounded and dead. But more than anything, the reasons behind your marriage. We are all of us in trouble, and I think it strikes your father worst of all.”

  Not wishing to admit the truth of it, Atiana didn’t respond.

  “You don’t have to reply—I know how dire the situation is on Vostroma—but now that a wall has been erected between north and south, it will be difficult to tear down.”

  “Has my father asked of me?”

  “Through your mother he has demanded your return, and fo
r the death of the Grand Duke he has asked for the ships that were promised as well as the alabaster.”

  Atiana couldn’t help but chuckle ruefully. “For the good of Bolgravya, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  She wanted to ask if her father had asked of her well-being, but she knew better. She was still—no matter how well the Khalakovos might be treating her—in the awkward position of political prisoner, and Father was not a man who would show any outward signs of concern or affection, even for his daughter, even now, and though it burned, Atiana knew he was right.

  Saphia drew in a deep breath. “I came to speak with you of your time in the dark.”

  Atiana’s memories were faint, nearly to the point of forgetting them altogether, but she was getting better at stitching her time in the dark together. She worked backward from the end, telling Saphia her story in bits and pieces. As she did, the entirety of her memories returned.

  Saphia considered her words. “Nasim’s hold on me seemed no harder for him than toying with a mouse. And in the end, when I was released, I don’t believe he understood what he’d done. He seemed to forget me in as little time as it had taken to seize me.”

  Atiana paused, Saphia’s words reminding her of those final moments with Nasim. “There was something more...”

  Saphia’s gaze sharpened. “Go on.”

  “I don’t know whether you felt it, Matra, but Nasim... He walks between worlds.”

  “What do you mean?” Saphia’s words were clipped.

  “He lives in Erahm and Adhiya, both. I felt it when I followed the trail from you to him. It is why he is such a troubled child. I believe it is why he didn’t understand what he’d done to you, and why he forgot you so quickly. He thinks you and I are as ephemeral as the hezhan.”

  Saphia frowned. Her gaze became distant, perhaps reliving the horror of the past week in her mind, but then she seemed to focus once more on Atiana. “How did you secure my release?”

  “I pushed on the walls of the aether.”

  “Pushed?”

  “I know no other way to explain it. I felt the walls close in around him, just like with the babe in Izhny, just like in Iramanshah when you were...”