“Nasim...”
It was Rabiah’s voice, and it was full of wonder. And worry.
He felt the stones shift beneath his feet. The ley lines... They were moving like waves upon the water. He stepped toward the edge of the floor, feeling more calm than he’d felt in years. Sukharam and Rabiah practically ran, their eyes nervous and darting.
As the lines continued to alter, Nasim wondered if the previous view had been what the lines were like when Khamal had last been here, or perhaps how they’d been at the time of the sundering. Either way, his alarm began to grow the longer he watched.
The lines gathered tightly around Ghayavand. This was to be expected. The rifts had formed here. They had been contained by the Al-Aqim and the other qiram who had survived, but they had eventually begun to expand. When the ley lines were laid out like this, however, the rifts appeared as a confluence—a whorl or an aberration in the otherwise-orderly lines.
What was worrying was the fact that there were similar patterns being formed around the islands of Galahesh and Rafsuhan. Galahesh could perhaps be reasoned away. It was well known that the island—and the straits that divided it—acted as a channel that funneled aether from the Sea of Tabriz to the deep well in the Sea of Khurkhan. It acted as a crosswind to the aether that ran beneath the surface of the water—the shallows that ran from the Motherland, through Oramka and Galahesh and on to the islands of the Grand Duchy. But the whorls around Rafsuhan made no sense whatsoever.
It must be another rift. And a large one at that. So much was changing, he thought, and none of it for the better.
The lines finally stopped moving. The rift running through Rafsuhan was deep, but not so bad that it wouldn’t eventually close. The tightness around Galahesh, however, could not be sustained. Sooner or later, something was going to give, and he couldn’t escape the feeling that it was being done consciously, nor could he escape the fact that Sariya and Muqallad had recently found a way to break the chains that had kept them bound for so long.
“Come,” Nasim said to the others. “There’s nothing to fear any longer.”
Nasim led them to the center of the floor, and there Nasim squatted down and picked up the bracelet. The gold was heavy. The opal reflected the brightness of the day. He put it on, feeling something akin to familiarity. He remembered thinking once what it would be like to wear Ashan’s bracelets. He knew that he didn’t need such things, but it still felt good. It felt like he was one step closer to finding him.
He kneeled down and felt the plate. He tried to lift it, to twist it, to no avail. He tried for long minutes to feel for it, to see if there was some sign Khamal had left him to give some clue as to how to open it. But if he had, Nasim couldn’t sense it.
“Should we try to destroy it?” Rabiah asked.
Nasim shook his head, his eyes locked on the plate.
What? he asked himself. What might Khamal have meant him to do?
Sukharam cleared his throat, and when he spoke it sounded meek, as if he’d been afraid to break the silence. “He would have taken breath here, wouldn’t he? Perhaps kneel to it.”
When the words were spoken, Nasim knew it was so. It was so simple. This place, of all places, was special to Khamal. He would have taken breath here countless days. And when Nasim had returned to this place, it would be a gesture he might stumble upon if he didn’t guess it outright.
“He wants me to open it,” Nasim said.
“Who? Muqallad?”
Nasim nodded. “Can there be any doubt?”
“Why?”
“Because he can’t do it himself. He wants the piece of the Atalayina hidden within, and he’s offering Ashan in payment.”
Rabiah stared down thoughtfully. Sukharam looked between the two of them, then down to the plate. “We should take it.”
“Neh,” Rabiah said. “If he wants it, we should leave it.”
Nasim stared at the bracelet, felt its weight on his wrist. “Sukharam’s right. We must have it.”
Rabiah shook her head. “We can always come back for it. Let’s leave. Consider this more carefully.”
“Consider what?” Nasim asked. “This is what we came for. It is one of the three stones we need, and it’s powerful, Rabiah. It can help us against Muqallad.”
“You may be giving him exactly what he wants.”
“It’s a risk we need to take.” Still kneeling, Nasim placed his hands on the plate so that his hands and thumbs created a triangle, and then he kneeled down, touching his forehead in the center of the triangle.
He heard no sound, but he felt the plate vibrate momentarily beneath his fingers.
He sat up and pulled at the plate. It came up freely, and below it was a circular compartment set deep into the floor. He reached down—nearly to his shoulder—and felt something. His fingers tingled as he wrapped his fingers around it and pulled it up.
It was a blue stone the size and shape of a generous apple wedge. There was no mistaking what this was. It was a piece of the Atalayina, the very stone Khamal, Sariya, and Muqallad used centuries ago in their attempt to bring the world to indaraqiram, the state of complete understanding and bliss and oneness. The stone was very heavy for its size, and it felt ancient—as ancient as the world and the firmament above.
He stood and brought it over to one of the shafts of light shining down from above. He held it under the sunlight and examined it. He found it difficult to take his eyes from it. The blue of the stone was rich and deep. Copper striations ran through it like the ley lines of the celestia’s floor. Emanating from within was a feeling of immense power, as if the world itself depended on this stone, and it the world.
And yet…
That very same power felt distanced, as if it were too far for the likes of him to reach.
Sukharam stared at it with wonder in his eyes. “Do the other two feel the same as this?”
Nasim frowned.
“What is it?” Rabiah asked.
Nasim hesitated, embarrassed though he wasn’t sure that he should be. “I feel nothing. Or very little,” he amended, “which is more than passing strange since this had surely been Khamal’s piece of the Atalayina.”
Sukharam held out his hand. “May I hold it?”
Nasim did not feel possessive of it, but he also felt it too powerful for Sukharam to hold. And yet, here they were on this island where they hoped to unlock the secrets of these stones. He had chosen Rabiah and Sukharam for a reason.
He handed it to Sukharam. When their hands touched, Nasim felt for a split second a deepening of the world, but then it was gone as Sukharam took it and stared into its depths.
“Strange that so much has happened because of it,” Rabiah said, her eyes every bit full of wonder as Sukharam’s.
Not so strange at all, Nasim thought.
“Come,” he said, standing up. “There is much to do, and much to think upon.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Khamal stands beneath the celestia’s dome, facing southward. He spreads his arms wide, breathing deeply while staring up at the dome’s interior. The constellations patterned into the mosaics twinkle in the light of the dying sun.
Dawn tomorrow brings the summer solstice. It is a time of strength, of heightened expectations. It is an important time for Ghayavand, at least as far as the Al-Aqim are concerned. The akhoz become emboldened at such times, and it is more important than ever that Khamal take care so as not to be caught unawares.
But the solstice is made of more than ill tidings. It benefits him and his fellow arqesh, should they choose to avail themselves of it. He will use the dawn to his advantage, unleashing the first of the steps that will one day—hopefully one day soon—free him from this island prison once and for all.
Footsteps approach from the north, scratching over the gritty marble steps that circle the celestia. He doesn’t turn, but instead waits for Muqallad to approach.
“The cardinal points do not listen,” Muqallad says. “You should know this better th
an I.”
“They watch over the island, Muqallad.”
“Perhaps,” Muqallad says, stopping nearby, “but if they do they are little more than witnesses. Amused witnesses.”
Khamal takes one last breath, and then turns to face him. Muqallad wears a simple robe the color of the setting sun. His black, curly beard hangs almost as far as the wide leather belt that wraps his waist.
They rarely see one another, each of them preferring to meditate alone on their imprisonment and on the rifts and on the island itself, all in hopes of breaking the curse that’s trapped them all. They’ve seen each other even less since Muqallad returned from his exile. Khamal and Sariya had banished him for a time for his words and thoughts. He had wanted the Atalayina even then. He had wanted it so that he could finish what they’d begun. The sundering to him had merely been a mistake—in his eyes, the world could still be brought to indaraqiram.
For this, he had been punished, but on his return he had seemed contrite. He had seemed penitent. Khamal knew now that it had merely been to bide his time so that he could turn one of them to his side.
“I would speak with you,” Muqallad says, motioning away from the celestia.
Khamal looks up to Sihyaan, the island’s highest peak, where Sariya takes breath. Muqallad chose this time so that there was no chance they would be interrupted.
“Walk with me,” Muqallad says.
Together, they stride between two massive pillars of the celestia and take a bricked walkway that leads down from the hill toward the oldest part of Alayazhar. From this vantage they can see the blue swath of the sea on their left, and ahead, the northern reaches of the city, nearly all of it in ruins. The dark, snowless peak of Sihyaan looks down over the city, brooding and angry.
“We’ve been here too long, I think,” Muqallad says.
“And why do you say that?”
“We strive, all of us, for a way to heal the damage we’ve caused, but we do it in our own way. We’ve been searching for so long that I wonder if we’ve started to see one another as obstacles.”
“Is that how you see it?” Khamal asks.
“I?” Muqallad shakes his head. “Neh. Not I.”
“Me, then.”
Muqallad does not answer.
The wind blows upward from the base of the hill, bringing with it the smell of sea and sage as their footsteps crunch along the path.
“Sariya knows you have her stone.”
“It isn’t her stone,” Khamal replies. “Nor is it mine.”
“Of course. But there has been a shift in power because of it. It grants you something you shouldn’t possess.”
Khamal stops, forcing Muqallad to do the same. “I cannot give her the stone back.”
Muqallad squares himself to Khamal. His chin rises. His jaw juts ever so slightly. “None of us can be allowed to keep two pieces.”
“You spoke to me of taking all three, Muqallad.”
“I spoke not of taking them, but of working together.”
“To widen the rift. To bring about indaraqiram.”
Muqallad raises his hands, as if to forestall the argument. “I told you. I’ve thought better of such things.”
“Forgive me if I doubt your words.”
“I speak the truth, but I wouldn’t ask you to trust me.” He motions to Sihyaan with a look over his shoulder and a wave of his hand. “I ask you to trust Sariya.”
“She’s become too close to you.”
“She hasn’t,” Muqallad said.
“She visits you often, and you visit her.”
“She’s been trying to dissuade me, Khamal. And she’s succeeded. We will meditate, as we have. We will learn. We will heal what has been torn. It’s time we began to work together again. It’s time we trusted one another. And that begins with her stone.”
Muqallad steps in and hugs Khamal. The gesture is surprising, but also tender. They haven’t done so in years. Decades.
“Don’t believe me,” Muqallad says as he pulls away and grasps Khamal by his shoulders. “Believe her. Go to her when she returns and speak to her of it. It’s time we voiced our fears and brought them into the light of day. Only then can we move forward.”
Khamal doesn’t know what to say, but he can’t deny that he wishes to speak to Sariya as they used to. He also wants to believe that Muqallad speaks the truth, but he knows that these are lies spilling from his mouth. It’s why Khamal stole Sariya’s stone in the first place. She and Muqallad had already begun making plans against him. But they need that stone, and they don’t know where it is. They cannot risk forcing the issue, not while there’s a chance he’ll give it up willingly.
Khamal had hoped that he would be able to find a way to get Muqallad’s stone as well. But it’s too late for that. He needs to find a place to hide the stone so that they won’t find it, at least until his own plans bear fruit.
“I’ll speak with her,” Khamal says at last.
“Good,” Muqallad says. “That is good.”
Nasim woke, sweating.
The room was dark, and he could sense more than see Rabiah kneeling over him.
“It’s all right,” Rabiah said, stroking his hair.
It felt good, her tender touch, but it came so close on the heels of the bitter emotions he’d borne witness to that he pushed her hand away.
“It’s all right...”
He could hear the hurt in her voice, but there was nothing he could do about it. Not now.
“I’m here,” he said simply, giving her an indication that he was once more in command of his surroundings.
“Khamal?” she asked.
“Who else?”
“What did you see?”
He shook his head against the floor, feeling powerless. He pulled himself upright and shuffled along the floor until his back was against the wall of the small house the three of them shared. They’d found it on their long walk back from the celestia. It felt strange, sleeping in a home as ancient as this one, but they had needed something besides the skiff, so they’d taken it for their own.
He could make out Sukharam’s outline, and could tell he wasn’t breathing heavily, so he assumed he was awake. A part of him wished Sukharam wasn’t here—he wished he was alone with Rabiah—but he knew that such thoughts were foolish, selfish. He needed help, and what’s more, he needed to spread the knowledge that he gained to those he could trust. There was a strong likelihood that he wouldn’t make it out of this alive, and he couldn’t risk passing beyond the veil again without unlocking the riddles of the rift running through Ghayavand.
“Nasim?”
His gaze shot to Rabiah. He’d nearly forgotten she was there. He’d nearly forgotten where he was. Again. It was such an easy thing to do. Especially when he was afraid.
“Nasim, what did you see?” Rabiah asked, more forcefully this time.
“Khamal,” he said, swallowing to clear his throat. “Muqallad came to him in the celestia and confronted him. He’d stolen Sariya’s stone.”
“The one we found?”
Nasim shrugged. “Perhaps. It might be why I’m not able to feel it and Sukharam is.”
“Is that what has you upset?”
“Neh.” He paused, simply breathing, trying to put words to his thoughts. “It’s their nature. At one time they were thought to be akin to the fates. But that’s not how they were. They squabbled. They plotted. In the end, they murdered. What could have made them do such things?”
Rabiah took up the hem of her robe and picked at it. “I’m disappointed as well. If it could happen to them…”
“It can happen to anyone. Exactly. And if they could fall to such madness, because of the island, the Atalayina—”
“Then it could happen to us.”
Nasim shrugged. “I guess that’s how I feel. That, and I…”
“What?”
“I feel responsible.”
“For what Khamal did?”
“For what he did… For what he didn�
�t do…”
“He couldn’t stop them by himself.”
“I don’t know, Rabiah, but maybe he didn’t want to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ghayavand had become a prison for them. Every hour of every day they were faced with their grandest failure. It ate at Khamal, as I’m sure it did the others. As he was planning to escape, he felt eager.”
“He wanted to return so he could heal the rift.”
“Maybe, but there was also a sense that he would be free. Free of the shackles that bound him here. In his heart of hearts, he wanted to leave it all behind.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Nasim stared at the floor. “I don’t know.”
“It was three hundred years, Nasim. Anyone would grow weary of this place in that amount of time. But you’re not him. You’re not Khamal. You didn’t make those decisions. He did. Live up to your own promise, and your own promises.”
From a pocket sewn into his inner robe he retrieved the piece of the Atalayina they’d liberated from the celestia two days before. He spun it between his thumb and index finger. He could feel its power, but it was distant, unreachable, as it had been since he’d found it. He’d taken breath while holding it in his hands. He’d stared into its depths. He’d sat with the others with the stone between them, hoping to unlock its secrets, to no avail.
Rabiah reached out and touched his arm. “We don’t have to go to Shirvozeh today, Nasim. We can wait. We can prepare.”
“It’s time for us to go. Ashan is there. Somewhere.”
“We can take breath. We can—”
“We will go!”
Sukharam shifted. For no good reason, it infuriated him, though he had no one to blame but himself.
“Come,” he said, noting that the sky was beginning to lighten. “We’d best get ready.”
“As you say.” Rabiah nodded, holding the gesture in the manner of an Aramahn disciple. This, too, angered him, though he wasn’t sure why.
The Straits of Galahesh Page 14