“I can rid you of it.”
“How?”
She steps forward. “You need but ask.”
He takes a step of his own, ready to accept. “Please.”
She smiles and places her hand over his heart, over his stone. “There is a cost. Your bond with Nasim will be broken.”
He shakes his head, confused.
“It is how he has come to find you, Hathshava. It is how your bond has remained intact over all this time, over all these leagues.”
Like a flower closing as dusk approaches, the elation inside him diminishes. He stares down at her hand. All he need do is ask. He can still find Nasim, can still find a way to reach him and to help Ashan heal the blight over Khalakovo...
A vision of Nasim comes to him. That young boy holding himself tightly about the chest, rocking himself from the pain. There are times when Nikandr is able to take that away, and if Sariya is right, he might be able to heal him completely.
He cannot accept her offer, not if it means abandoning Nasim.
He takes her wrist and pulls it away from his chest.
Sariya nods, a rueful smile on her face. “You must hurry,” Sariya says. She turns and walks toward the nearest window, toward winter.
And then she is gone.
He starts toward the far side of the room, ready to take the stairs down, to find Nasim and to run, to digest what Sariya has told him, but there are no stairs.
“Sariya!”
Winds tear at the tower. The windows rattle. A low rumbling thrums through the structure and up through his feet.
He stares at his stone again, knowing the only way out now is to listen to her words. Accept him. Give of yourself.
He holds the stone tight in his hand and closes his eyes. He casts himself outward, as he does with his mother.
I am here! I am here, Nasim!
A stone breaks from the wall and falls to the floor. Fine powder sifts downward from the ancient wooden planks above. A presence forms beyond the walls of the tower. It approaches, more curious than anything, but soon a sense of anger and revenge is palpable.
Accept him.
“Please, Nasim,” he whispers.
He opens his heart to this boy who seems lost among the world, but who also is at the center of the storm. So much depends on him, and yet he is nearly incapable of action, given only to those rare moments of lucidity.
Doubts begin to form as a crack is torn in the wall. The tower shifts and groans.
This cannot be what Sariya meant. He must accept Nasim for who he was. Must welcome him.
He does so, giving merely love, nothing else.
He feels the most tentative of touches, as he does before his mother finds him.
And his world goes dark.
Nikandr woke, lying on the ground with Pietr just next to him on the moss-covered cobbles. Nasim, kneeling between them, had one hand over Nikandr’s heart, the other over Pietr’s. Moments after Nikandr began to stir, he pulled his hands away and hugged himself tightly—a more familiar position. He refused to meet Nikandr’s eye. He only rocked back and forth while staring at Pietr with a grieved expression on his young face. Tears fell from his clenched eyes, and finally he fell forward across Pietr’s chest. “Forgive me!” he cried. “I’m so sorry! Please, forgive me!”
Nikandr stood, failing to understand why Pietr had been lying next to him until he realized Pietr’s chest was not rising with breath.
“He asked Nasim to do it.”
Nikandr looked up to find Ashan standing nearby. He had a look of pity on his face.
Ashan pointed to Nikandr’s chest. “He knew, at least a little, what that meant.”
Nikandr looked down and saw his soulstone. Under the bright light of sunset, the chalcedony stone glowed as brilliantly as it had inside the tower, but the feelings of ache, of being drawn slowly outward, remained. The havahezhan, the creature bound to him on the far side of the aether, was still there, preying upon him.
Nikandr kneeled next to Pietr. He stared into the older man’s face, at the light scars that ran though the black stubble on his chin and cheeks. He was unmoving, breathless, and yet in that moment he seemed full of life, so much had he granted to Nikandr. “Go safely,” he whispered, “and may the ancients protect you.” He leaned forward and kissed his cheeks, and then, knowing time was growing short, he stood. “We must hurry. Muqallad has awoken, and we have precious little time.”
Ashan glanced at the tower, a look of worry and recognition on his face, as if he saw for the first time what it might mean to confront Muqallad directly.
Then they were running through the streets, Nasim in tow. The boy was silent, his face streaked with tears.
“Nasim, can you hear me?” Nikandr asked.
Nasim didn’t respond. Other than his outburst of emotion over Pietr he seemed little different than before. Nikandr had hoped there would be some sort of catharsis, an awakening. Surely Nikandr would feel something as well—were they not linked, after all?—but Nasim, despite allowing them to rush him through the streets, seemed to have the same distant expression, the same lack of awareness of his surroundings, the same inability to communicate. It hadn’t been Nikandr’s appeal, then, that had saved him from the tower. It had been Pietr’s sacrifice.
All this way, all this time, lost lives and injury, and they’d failed.
They took the same path from the city they’d taken on their way in. Before they’d gone halfway toward the outskirts, however, the animal sounds of the akhoz rent the chill air. The call of one was echoed by many others, several chillingly close.
The sounds of their footsteps slapping the stone streets came nearer. Their panting—akin to that of a winded horse, heavy and long and wet—came louder.
Nikandr held Nasim’s hand, trying to force him to run faster, but he would not. In fact, his pace was beginning to slow. His tears were gone, but his look of regret remained.
And then he tripped.
Nikandr lost his grip, and Nasim fell heavily to the ground.
Nikandr stopped, looking at his soulstone and then Nasim. He could feel him now, through the stone, as surely as he’d ever felt anything.
And then movement caught his attention. Beyond Nasim, from behind a broken building of blond stone, came the misshapen form of a girl. She was naked and thin. The air above her wavered with heat. She appeared to be no older than twelve, though she had the same blackened lips as the other akhoz.
Another came, behind her. And another, to her right. Soon, they were all around, cutting off all hopes of escape. They closed in, drawing closer with a restrained gait and an intensity that Nikandr could only describe as hunger.
Nikandr crept toward Nasim, sure that the akhoz would charge and devour them if he moved too quickly. Then he felt a blinding pain in his chest, a pain so sharp it brought him to his knees. Ashan was at his side in moments, but he stopped when he realized that the akhoz were no longer advancing.
It was then—as the pain continued to burn inside him—that Nikandr noticed a man pacing up the street toward them. He was taller than Nikandr, with curly black hair that trailed down to his shoulders and rings of gold that were woven into his long black beard. He wore sandals of the finest leather. His outer robe was white with embroidery of silver threads woven through the cuffs and hem. His inner robe was the blue of the sky.
The akhoz parted as he approached.
Muqallad came to a halt near Nasim, who was writhing in pain with an expression of shock and wonder. He kneeled, and as he did the world around them slowed. The akhoz ceased moving. Ashan, turning toward Nikandr, froze. The few clouds in the sky continued to drift, and the air above the akhoz continued to waver—
—but all else is silent. All else is still.
The pain in Nikandr’s chest vanishes. He feels complete, whole, more than he has ever felt before. He remembers the lives behind him. Senses those that lie before. He feels... another life. One that crosses his at the junction in which he
now finds himself—on the island that holds centuries of his past life. The one from Hathshava.
“You have come,” Muqallad says to Nasim.
“Yeh,” Nasim replies, though it is through the other’s lips.
Muqallad raises his head, surprised. “Khamal.”
Nasim shakes his head. “No more.”
Muqallad’s dark eyes narrow. “Neh. You are different now, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
Muqallad smiles. “Reborn. As you had planned.”
“As I had planned...”
He stares into Nikandr’s eyes. His gaze is piercing, precise. “Why return?”
“We cannot escape our past,” Nasim replies.
“Neh, but we can forge our future.”
The confusion inside Nikandr swells. He feels as though he is both participant and bystander to this conversation, both actor and audience.
The air shimmers as Muqallad stands. It is clear, just as with Sariya, that he is slowly gaining control—over himself and his surroundings. He is entering Erahm once more, after having been banished since the moment of Khamal’s death. Fear wells up inside Nikandr. Nasim, as lucid as he is now, must know this. Why does he allow it?
But then he understands. Nasim is not merely allowing it. He wants Muqallad to enter the material world. He needs him to do so to regain himself and the pieces he left behind.
Perhaps Muqallad recognizes this, for there is a shift in the air, a sense that everything in this small space between worlds has stopped.
“That has always been your way,” Nikandr says, hoping to draw Muqallad’s attention. “Hasn’t it?”
Muqallad stares into Nikandr’s eyes, seems to grow as he does so. “Should we trust to the ancients, as you do?” From the corner of his eye, Nikandr sees the akhoz moving, ever so slowly. “Should we bury our dead”—Muqallad points to Nikandr’s chest—“with the stones that guided them through life? Or should we strive to better ourselves and pave the way for those who have yet to come?”
“We should honor ourselves, our families, and strive to understand those who are not the same.”
“As your family did with Nasim?”
“We are not perfect.”
“Neh, you are not.”
“Nor are the Maharraht,” Nikandr continues. “I used to think them an invention of my time. But now I wonder if the very seeds of their arrival weren’t sown on this island.”
Muqallad’s face goes red. He takes a step forward, and when he does, Nikandr rushes forward and takes him into a deep embrace.
Muqallad struggles. He is strong, but Nikandr holds tight, hoping that the mere contact will complete the process.
They fall to the ground. Muqallad screams in rage—perhaps also in pain—and then Nasim is standing over them both. His eyes are sharp and piercing. His face is angry.
“Not now,” Nasim says as he reaches down and touches Muqallad’s forehead.
Muqallad rears back. His whole body stiffens as his eyes roll back. His skin begins to wrinkle, and Nikandr releases him from the sheer terror of it. As he scrabbles away, Muqallad continues to wither. His arms curl around his waist, and his legs pull up toward his chest. He looks, in these last moments, like Nasim, pained and ignorant of the world around him.
His skin dries, turns gray, begins to flake. And then, as the wind picks up, it falls away as if he is so much sand being blown across the desert floor.
“Come,” Nasim says, holding his hand out to Nikandr. He tips his head toward the akhoz. “They will wake soon.”
The world is already speeding up. The akhoz shamble forward. Ashan is spreading his arms wide, his chest open to the sky.
Nikandr allows Nasim to pull him to his feet, and together they pull Ashan out through the akhoz.
By the time they have passed the circle of the akhoz, the world continues as it always has.
They ran, and with the akhoz slowed by the fall of their master, they quickly added distance between them. But Nikandr knew this was temporary at best. The akhoz were already gaining speed, and if anything, their anger rose to new heights as they howled in their pursuit.
They reached the edges of the city, where the buildings were more sparse. The road led to the trail that would take them higher toward the island’s central ridge and toward the remains of Nikandr’s crew, but before they had passed the last of the ruined stone buildings, a call came from behind—higher-pitched, more insistent.
An akhoz, the same girl as before, was frenzied in her pursuit and was now much closer than the pack further behind. She would be on them in moments.
Nikandr pulled his kindjal, not knowing what else to do. Ashan, the jasper gem upon his wrist glowing faintly, turned and raised his hands up high. The ground rose in a mound before the akhoz. They squealed as they were flung backward. A vanahezhan stood, fully formed, sidestepping to place itself in the path of the akhoz as she attempted to circumvent it to reach Nasim.
Nikandr had not expected even an arqesh like Ashan to be able to summon a hezhan—he should have only been able to use its powers on this plane— but surely it had something to do with the particulars of Ghayavand.
The akhoz’s blackened eyes widened and her lips pulled back, revealing the shattered remains of teeth, as the hezhan charged forward. The akhoz darted to one side and gripped the hezhan’s massive arm. A sizzling sound filled the air as the hezhan moaned and reared backward. Its arm dried in an instant and powdered to dust as the akhoz retreated once more.
She was not quick enough, however. The other arm of the hezhan pounded her across the head. It sounded like a hammer that butchers use to fell pigs before the slaughter. The akhoz flew through the air and landed in a heap, her head bent backward under her body.
She lay there, lifeless, as the other akhoz approached, and when Nikandr looked beyond to the city, he saw three more shamble from the streets—then another pair—all of them heading their way. They had only minutes to defeat the nearest of them and flee before they were overwhelmed.
The older akhoz leapt when it neared the vanahezhan. The beast was not ready for it, and the akhoz landed on its chest. The akhoz remained in place as it hugged the chest of the earth spirit and released a hoarse cry into the air. The hezhan moaned as the heat intensified to the point that Nikandr had to retreat.
Moments later, the hezhan’s body powdered just as its arm had, and parts of it began to ablate in a way that was eerily similar to Muqallad’s death.
Nikandr tried to advance with his kindjal, but the heat was too intense. However, when the hezhan finally fell to the ground, the heat dropped to almost normal levels. The akhoz was bent over, perhaps recovering itself after expending so much energy.
Nikandr did not hesitate. He advanced and struck, driving the knife deep into the exposed back of the akhoz.
The creature turned and knocked Nikandr away with a vicious swipe of its arm. The heat from the akhoz’s skin was not nearly as formidable as it had been moments ago, but it was still enough to burn Nikandr’s forearm. He fell away, and rolled back to his feet.
The akhoz screamed as he tried to reach the knife in his back, but each time he grabbed the hilt of the weapon, he screamed louder and pulled his hand away as if the kindjal were burning him.
Ashan was kneeling, his arms spaced wide and his hands flat against the ground. He was whispering and rocking rhythmically back and forth. There was a pool of water collecting before him, and it was starting to trickle downhill. Before it could go far, however, it rose up and took form. It looked vaguely childlike—reaching only Nikandr’s waist—but it was twice as wide as he was.
The jalahezhan rolled forward and struck the akhoz’s legs. A sizzling sound accompanied the water spirit’s efforts as it slipped higher and higher along the akhoz’s body. The akhoz screamed, still trying to rid himself of the knife while bearing down to create more heat. A white gout of steam rose as the two creatures fought for control.
The jalahezhan seemed to be holding its
own—the akhoz had been forced to the ground and water was gurgling into his mouth—but then the trailing akhoz reached it, and soon they had surrounded the water spirit. Moments later, the jalahezhan lost form and the water splashed to the ground. Steam rose. Their feet sizzled as they collectively turned and began moving up the trail.
Nikandr and Ashan and Nasim fled, but they were exhausted, and Ashan had already summoned two hezhan, something that must have sapped his strength sorely.
Finally, Ashan stopped, his breath coming in great gasps. He turned and faced the akhoz, opening his arms wide and tilting his head back to the sky while whispering words of prayer or perhaps commands in Mahndi. In the air before him the telltale signs of a dhoshahezhan formed. A crackling sound rent the air, which smelled suddenly acrid. Its shape—more elusive than when they were seen playing among lightning storms—was fluid, like an air spirit, but also more angular as the faint sparks of light brought on by its energy defined its boundaries.
Nikandr kneeled next to Nasim and turned the boy to face him. “Please. You must do something.”
But Nasim didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes were clamped shut and his face held a look of supreme discomfort, as if what he were doing was already taking too much. What effect it might be having, Nikandr had no idea. Perhaps without Nasim’s efforts they would be facing a score of akhoz and not just six.
Still, six, twenty, it mattered little if the dhoshahezhan could not save them, and Nikandr didn’t see how it could.
The akhoz once again surrounded the hezhan, preferring to deal with the thing that might harm them before dispatching their true prey. This was not so easy as the last, however. Blue-white lightning arced from the hezhan, through three of them, and back to the source. Two of them spasmed and dropped to the ground, unconscious or dead; the third fell to hands and knees, its torso convulsing as it fought to regain control of its body.
The other akhoz reared backward—a posture reminiscent of what Ashan had just done—and exhaled gouts of flame from their mouths. The muscles along their necks tightened like bowstrings, and their arms flayed backward as they released every remaining bit of breath within their lungs.
The Winds of Khalakovo Page 41