He’d brought Rabiah and Sukharam here first and foremost to escape the attentions of Ushai, but he’d also come because this was a place they could rest. He needed to prepare Sukharam. He needed to prepare himself. He needed to breathe before beginning their journey toward Ghayavand and all that entailed.
His trek took him through a shallow vale and toward a ridge that would bring him to the place where he’d left the others, a saddle between two long valleys. He was weary, not because the climb was difficult, but because the snow was fresh and soft as twice-ground flour. He wore the wide, wicker-laced snowshoes he’d bought in Trevitze before leaving. Even though it was slow going, the simple exertion and the connection to his body felt wonderful. He’d been fixated for so long on finding first Rabiah and then Sukharam that he’d hardly rested more than a handful of days since leaving Mirashadal three years ago.
At last he crested the ridge and began hiking down toward their camp, such as it was. Their skiff was still nestled in a gentle fold of land where they’d set it down a week before. The white snow and black granite made it look like the windship was being cradled by a white-robed woman in repose. It was Rabiah who’d noticed it on their approach, and Nasim had thought it a fortuitous sign—the land itself was seeking to protect them—and so, after a quick flight to ensure no village or outpost was near, they’d landed and begun their preparations for Ghayavand.
Rabiah was sitting cross-legged on a snow bank beyond the skiff. Her hands were on her knees, and though she was facing away from him—toward the stunning green slopes of the eastern valley—he was sure her eyes were closed and her breathing was measured. Nasim admired her ability to do this. Taking breath. It was what he’d tried to do on top of the mountain, but as always, he’d found himself unable to calm his mind, unable to find the peace that so many Aramahn managed to find in such places. It had been so ever since he’d come to himself in Oshtoyets. Even in the idyllic meditation spaces of Mirashadal, Nasim had been unable to find peace. Perhaps it had something to do with the stone he’d swallowed—Nikandr’s soulstone—but he could feel no other effects, nor could he sense the stone itself, so he wrote it off as another ill effect of the fractured nature of his life—of his self—since being reborn.
Sukharam stood on an outcropping of black stone far from the skiff. His arms were wide. His face was turned up toward the sky. It was a pose Nasim had taught him before leaving, and Sukharam had excelled not only at this simple pose, but in the bonding of spirits. It was amazing how quickly he was able to reach them, to draw them near.
When Nasim had asked him about it, Sukharam had said that the last time he’d attempted to do so was when he was eight, when he was still traveling with his father, but he’d admitted to having little success then. Here on the mountain, he’d taken to it so quickly, not just with spirits of the wind but with all the hezhan, that Nasim wondered if he’d been lying—perhaps he’d stolen chances to touch the spirits during his time under the yoke of the orphanage. But Nasim soon thought better of his mistrust, attributing Sukharam’s abilities instead to the incredible potential within him that had surely blossomed as he’d grown older.
After they’d landed, he’d taught Sukharam for five days, and then, judging it enough for Sukharam to learn on his own, to simply absorb for a time, Nasim had left him with Rabiah.
Nasim slowed his pace while watching carefully. A fine dusting of snow lifted and funneled around Sukharam. A surge of pride welled up inside Nasim. Sukharam did not wave his hands to guide the snow, as some Aramahn did. Instead, he urged, and allowed the hezhan to do the rest, as was proper.
The closer Nasim came, the more he was able to feel Sukharam’s connection to Adhiya, and he was surprised to find that it wasn’t a spirit of wind Sukharam was communing with, but a jalahezhan, a spirit of water.
By the fates, he learned quickly…
The jalahezhan were difficult spirits to control. They were fluid, mercurial, sometimes capricious spirits. But here stood Sukharam, coaxing one to lift the snow from the ground as if it were merely the wind, and he was doing it so deftly that Nasim could barely tell the difference.
When Sukharam noticed Nasim approaching, the swirling snow spun away and fell in a swath along the finger of black rock he stood upon. He glanced behind him at the scattered snow, and then turned back to Nasim as if he’d been caught stealing honey from the pot. He stared at the ground, refusing to meet Nasim’s gaze.
Sukharam was embarrassed for some reason, but Nasim was more pleased than he could express. “Sukharam, look at me.”
He did.
“Try again,” Nasim said, “but this time, bind water and earth.”
Sukharam took in the landscape anew. His eyebrows pinched in concern. “Communing with only one spirit is difficult for me, kuadim.”
“There’s a time and place for humility, Sukharam, but it isn’t now, and it isn’t here.” Nasim began unwrapping the scarf around his face. He squinted from the sudden brightness. “Earth and water are sympathetic. They won’t wish to bond with one another, but you must act as the arbitrator. You must coax them.”
“Coax?”
Nasim smiled. “Make them see reason.”
“Forgive me, kuadim, but they aren’t children.”
Nasim opened his thick outer robe, allowing the chill mountain wind to cool the overheated skin of his chest. “I know, but they’re self-centered just the same. They must be made aware of one another, which is difficult, but once they are they will cooperate.”
Sukharam seemed doubtful. He flexed his hands while considering the granite beneath him. He licked his lips, and he tried.
No sooner had he closed his eyes than Nasim could feel the drawing of a jalahezhan, no doubt the same one he’d communed with moments ago. He tried to draw a vanahezhan as well, but the one nearest was rigid, uninterested.
Through Rabiah, Nasim had found that he could not only control spirits through others, he could draw them near as well, so that Rabiah, or now, Sukharam, could commune with them. He did this now, hoping only to draw the vanahezhan’s eye so that Sukharam could do the rest.
Deep below the surface of the earth, he felt a rumbling. The earth shook. The stones near his feet skittered. Nearby, a snowbank, twenty feet high if it was one, collapsed, revealing a long swath of an escarpment that was striated with layers the color of bistre and coal. Rubble fell away, but the clumps of stone and rubble were caught by a sudden uplift of snow. Soon the rock and snow and ice were swirling, but unlike the funnel Sukharam had created moments ago, these swirled in a tight column.
The column pulled tighter and tighter, slowing, compressing, glinting beneath the sun, until at last it came to rest. It looked like a monolith of rock and crystal, but Nasim could tell that it was held by the two hezhan, which were now entwined so inextricably that he had difficulty telling them apart.
But then a crack rent the air.
The earth bulged at the base of the pillar.
Nasim could feel the vanahezhan, closer than he had felt any spirit since Oshtoyets, when five elders had been drawn by Soroush into the material world.
He tried to prevent the vanahezhan from approaching, but it shrugged him away.
Sukharam had overextended. He’d allowed the spirit too close, and now it had seized him.
Nasim began to run toward Sukharam. “Fight it!”
The vanahezhan was crossing.
“Sukharam,” Nasim cried, “fight it!”
The pillar of rock and ice crumbled as the ground continued to rise. A low rumbling, like the opening of an ancient and massive door, emanated from the mound that was pulling itself upright. The hezhan unfurled its four arms, piercing sounds of snapping and cracking rending the calm of the snow-filled landscape.
The vanahezhan took one lumbering step forward. It was ungainly. It looked as though it would topple and fall and break apart, but it didn’t. It took another step as Nasim reached Sukharam. As soon as Nasim had grabbed him by the elbow, however,
Sukharam crumpled to the ground, unconscious, as the pounding of the vanahezhan’s monolithic feet brought it nearer and nearer.
Nasim faced the hezhan, knowing he would never get Sukharam away in time. Sukharam was unconscious, which left Nasim unable to touch Adhiya. But the hezhan itself had a connection to the spirit world. He used this to push the hezhan away, push it back toward the rift that had allowed it to slip into Erahm. The vanahezhan would not be moved, however. It stood resolute, immovable.
Until Rabiah joined him. He couldn’t see her—he could see nothing but the hulking beast standing before him—but her imprint was unmistakable. Together they pushed, harder and more desperate, as the hezhan took another ungainly step toward Nasim.
It spread its arms, groaning, its eyes twinkling in the dark depths of its head.
But its hold on the material world was not so sure as it had thought. Rabiah and Nasim drove it slowly but surely toward the rift.
Then, without warning, it fell to pieces in a rush of crumbling stone as if it had been rotting from within for eons and had just now succumbed to the pressures of time.
Rabiah closed the rift—at least as much as she was able—and soon, the only thing Nasim could hear on the mountainside was the huff of his own breathing. As he stared at the mound of stone, gouts of his exhaled breath were swept away by the mountain air. Rabiah was transfixed, both of them afraid for a moment to move.
Rabiah was the first to recover. “Nasim, we must go.”
Nasim barely heard her. By the fates above, he had nearly killed Sukharam by pushing him to do something he wasn’t ready for.
“Nasim, we must go!”
Nasim looked to Rabiah, then Sukharam. “He’s in no condition—”
“There’s a skiff approaching.” She glanced over her right shoulder, southeast toward Trevitze. “It’s Ushai. I sensed her while I was taking breath. She’s leagues away still, but she’s coming fast.”
“How could she have found us?” Nasim asked.
Rabiah shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Nasim glanced in the same direction as Rabiah had, expecting to see Ushai sweeping in at any moment. Where would they go now? And how by the name of the fates would they throw Ushai off their scent? She was altogether too good at finding them. Desperation started to rise within him like the swelling sea, but then he came to a decision, one he probably should have made before now.
“Get the skiff ready,” he said.
Rabiah nodded and ran.
Nasim kneeled next to Sukharam and levered him around his shoulders, picking him up and moving across the snow as quickly as he was able.
By the time he reached the skiff, his legs and chest burning from the exertion, Rabiah had the sail unfurled and the reins in her hands.
“Where will we go?” she asked.
Nasim set Sukharam in to the confines of the skiff as gently as he could. “We go to Ghayavand,” he said as he slipped over the edge and collapsed between two of the thwarts.
The skiff lifted, and Rabiah summoned the wind to point them southward, away from Ushai’s incoming path. “We’re not ready.”
“We have no choice.”
“We’re not ready,” she repeated.
“We must be ready!” Nasim said. “Don’t you see? The hezhan. The crossing. There’s a rift, even here in the mountains of Yrstanla. The wasting has covered whole swaths of the continent to the south. It won’t be long before the same happens here. The rifts grow more frequent. They grow wider. Hezhan will start crossing soon, Rabiah. On their own, with no help from anyone. And when they do, they’ll feed, on the Aramahn, on the Landed, on the Maharraht. On children and fathers and mothers. They won’t care.”
From her position at the sails, Rabiah looked down at him. She was strong, but she was scared as well. Months ago, Ghayavand had seemed like a fool’s dream, but now it was real. It was there before both of them. She opened her mouth to speak, but Nasim talked over her.
“It’s time,” he said. “I’ve found the two of you at last. We are three, as were the Al-Aqim, as are the fates. As are the pieces of the Atalayina. We go to Ghayavand, daughter of Aahtel, and we go now.”
The wind picked up, and Rabiah harnessed it well. She looked down at him again while guiding them with strong and steady hands. She licked her lips. But then she nodded. “We go to Ghayavand.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Khamal stands within a grand celestia. Its fluted pillars rise up to the massive dome high above the gathered assemblage. The firelight from the three large braziers reflects against the mosaics on the underside of the dome, making it glint like the heavens with golden stars in place of silver.
Not one of the dozens who stood watching is allowed onto the floor of the celestia. They stand one stair down, watching as Khamal approaches the girl lying at the center of the floor. Only when he kneels next to her do twelve men and women step forward. They are suuraqiram, the most gifted of those left on Ghayavand. They chant a song of Khamal’s choosing.
From his robes Khamal retrieves a blue stone. It is heavier than it appears and it is beautiful to behold. It feels as old as the earth itself, as old as the mountains. It feels as old as the fates, who are surely watching down from their home in the firmament. He wonders, though, are they smiling? Or do they weep over what Khamal is about to do?
He allows the stone to drop to the palm of his hand, and then he closes his fist around it if only to remove it from his sight, but the feeling that he is making a grand mistake does not fade, nor does the sense that he can no longer turn back.
He calms himself. He smiles for the girl, but she is fearful of him. Fearful of the stone.
He does nothing to comfort her. This is as much a test for her as it is for him.
Beyond the world of man, beyond the world of sky and earth, he can feel a spirit of fire, a suurahezhan. He does not beckon it. It comes of its own accord, hungering for life through the girl that lies before him.
He takes the stone and sets it upon the girl’s forehead.
Her body goes rigid.
And her screams echo through the night.
“Nasim, wake up.”
Nasim opened his eyes, blinking in the early light of dawn. These dreams—dreams that had been with him since a year after he’d been healed—were not so easily shaken. He’d seen this one many times before, but he’d never once seen what followed her screams. Despite this—or perhaps because of it—the girl haunted his waking hours. Who was she? What had Khamal done to her?
He knew it was part of the riddle he had to solve once he reached Ghayavand. He wished he knew more, but he suspected that more would be revealed to him once he reached the island. It must be so. The dreams were clearly a way for Khamal to pass Nasim his memories, and his desire for Nasim to return and complete his plans. Surely, when he came to the place where Khamal had died, he would learn more.
“Nasim!” Rabiah stood over him, her hand on the gunwales to steady herself. “Ushai is still following us.”
Nasim sat up, the dream fading only with reluctance. With Rabiah’s help, he stood and grabbed onto the skiff’s lone mast for support. Sukharam held the reins of the skiff’s lone sail, guiding them eastward. In the distance, near the horizon where the dark sea met the slate blue sky, he saw the sail of a skiff, golden in the early morning light. It was still leagues away, but there was no doubt as to who was harnessing the winds in order to follow them.
They had left the mountains four days ago, passing well beyond the Empire’s land and over the Sea of Tabriz. Rabiah and Sukharam watched him, waiting for his word, waiting for him to protect them.
Nasim motioned Sukharam toward the bedding and blanket he’d just vacated. “Get some rest. We’ll need you again soon.”
Nasim took the reins of the sail from him. Through Rabiah, he touched Adhiya. He felt the wind as it slipped over the smooth windwood hull of the skiff. He felt the gathering storm to the west. He felt the currents as they played over the dark blue sea. H
e called to a havahezhan, not the one that was nearest, but the strongest. It came to him, tentative as Nasim offered himself, offered a glimpse of Erahm. It seemed like such a simple thing at times, but this bond wore at him, as it did any qiram, as the hezhan drank from the world around him. As it did, it drained, sipping not only on the world, but Nasim as well.
But he was rested. He was ready, and he called upon the havahezhan to guide them eastward.
As the skiff bucked under the newfound wind, Nasim glanced down at Rabiah. She clutched her stomach. She swallowed and licked her lips. She always felt discomfort when he did this, but Nasim was more gifted than she once he’d managed to bond with a spirit. For the time being—at least until they lost Ushai in the storm to come—it was necessary.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her.
“Do not be,” she replied.
Throughout the morning, they added distance. Ushai’s ship was little more than a speck hovering just above the horizon. They lost sight of Ushai well before the storm caught up with them, and then, shortly after midday, it swept over them like an avalanche. Rain lashed down as they pulled on oiled coats. Nasim was less worried about Ushai as he was staying on course. He guided them as well as he was able, knowing he could adjust once he found the stars again, but not wanting to waste precious time and energy if he could avoid it.
The storm continued through the night and into the next day, and Nasim was growing exhausted. At last, when he thought he could take no more, the storm finally broke, and he allowed himself a rest.
Nasim had hoped they had lost Ushai in the storm, but Rabiah said she could feel her coming, and near dusk, they saw signs of her once again, close and coming closer.
Nasim took the reins again, this time using Sukharam to bond with a hezhan, but he had not yet recovered. He pushed hard once more, and again they added distance, but he found himself flagging much sooner than he’d hoped. Sukharam took a turn, but still Ushai gained on them.
The Straits of Galahesh Page 7