Nikandr turned and saw two women approaching. One was Nikandr’s age, perhaps a bit older. She assisted the other, who seemed as old as the cavern that housed them. They wore stones of azurite. The Maharraht qiram—the few that remained on the island—had tried to commune with their spirits, had tried to fend off the suurahezhan from these children, but Nikandr and Jahalan had both reasoned that it made sense for them to try together. They would represent air, and the others would represent water, and hopefully they would be able to heal the boy who had been affected most recently, or, failing that, learn something that might help them in the future.
Bersuq had agreed, though grudgingly.
The four of them kneeled on opposite sides of the blankets upon which the boy slept—Nikandr above his head, Jahalan at his feet, the two women at his sides. The younger woman did not meet Nikandr’s eye, but the elder watched him carefully, her gaze appraising. They all held hands and closed their eyes, the women singing a song. It sounded ancient to Nikandr’s untrained ear, melodic and complex. He tried to allow the song to fill him, tried to commune with his hezhan in order to feel the world of Adhiya and through that contact the boy, but found that he could not. Perhaps it was the threat that hung over them—two of the three days Bersuq had granted them had already passed—or perhaps it was the sense that what was happening was preordained and nothing Nikandr could do would change it. He knew not what, but all too soon they had all woken from their trance and the women were kneeling, staring at him with hardened expressions on their faces. Even Jahalan looked grim, no doubt wondering if Nikandr could deliver on his promise.
“I need time. Time alone.”
Without speaking, the women stood and made their way to a girl—one of the worst off. “Always more time,” the young woman said to the other under her breath. The old woman glanced back, her face pinched, disappointed.
Jahalan hadn’t moved. He still watched expectantly near the boy’s feet.
“You may as well find food,” Nikandr said.
Jahalan paused, but he had already given Nikandr plenty of warnings of how short their time was running. He nodded and stood, making his way over to the women and the moaning girl.
Nikandr scooted along the floor of the cavern until he could look upon the boy’s face. He brushed away his hair. He felt how heated his skin was. It was a fever that never broke. How the children could live in this state for days on end he didn’t know.
While humming a song his mother used to sing to him, he continued stroking the boy’s hair, wondering what would come next—not for his own sake, but for Rafsuhan, for the Maharraht and the Aramahn and Anuskaya. The order of the world was changing, and he felt powerless to stop it.
Even his feeble attempts at healing the rifts seemed pointless in the face of what was happening here. With Atiana’s help, he had learned to heal some who had the wasting; much as he’d done with Nasim in Oshtoyets when he’d drawn him toward Erahm and away from Adhiya, he could do the same with those who had only recently contracted the wasting. It was even more effective with Atiana. She could somehow drive the walls of the aether farther apart than they normally were, allowing Nikandr to save those who would have been too difficult to save otherwise.
But this... What could he do? What could Atiana do? It felt—instead of the victim slipping toward Adhiya—as if the arms of Adhiya were reaching out beyond the aether to affect these children, and he hadn’t the first idea how to combat the effect. Surely it had something to do with the rift, but beyond this...
Nikandr tried twice more to commune with his spirit, and although he could feel it, something was preventing him from truly feeling the world through its eyes.
He left, disappointed in himself, and took the long and winding path up to the surface. The sun was lowering behind tall white clouds. Two Maharraht trailed him, their muskets at the ready.
“I would not leave my men,” Nikandr said to them.
Still, they followed him as he moved eastward and into the hills there. The hills were small, but tall and numerous enough that they created a curving maze one could easily get lost in if care wasn’t taken.
Ahead, movement drew Nikandr’s attention—the brush of beige against the brown of the dying shrubs—and then it was gone behind the hill.
He ran toward it, but slowed when he heard “Halt!” behind him.
He turned back. “Did you not see it?” he asked in Mahndi.
The man nearest him, his beard dark and his clothes darker, stared at him coldly. “It is only the girl, Kaleh.”
“What is she doing out here?”
“She refuses to live in the village.”
“Why?”
He shrugged quickly and angrily, as if he were insulted at having to answer Nikandr’s questions. “Who can say? Leave her.” He had his musket pointed down, but he held it in both hands, ready to pull it up at any moment.
Nikandr didn’t see that chasing after the girl was worth getting shot for, so he returned with the men to the village.
Nikandr woke to the soft moans of the Maharraht youth. The massive cavern had only one siraj lamp lit—an attempt to keep the time of the sun in darkness by the lake. He jerked his head, realizing someone was near, watching him. He sat up and found the old woman, the jalaqiram, who had attempted to help him with the boy earlier that day. She was staring down at him, the pits of her eyes and the crags of her skin heavy in shadow.
“I had three children once.” Her voice startled him. It was as old as the stone around them, as old as the bones of the earth. “The first was taken by Mirkotsk over forty years ago.”
Nikandr sat up, moving away. He stopped himself, however, after realizing how insulting this would be to her.
“What was his name?”
“You may not have his name. He died when he refused to sign his name to a ledger.” Nikandr opened his mouth to speak, but she spoke over him. “My second became a beautiful woman. She had two daughters of her own before she was killed in a firefight between the Haelish and the Empire far to the west.”
“What was her name?”
“You may not have that either. My third was a boy. He was killed on Yrlanda by your father’s men when he was accused of stealing fish. It was in the early days of the blight, and it had struck the island hard.” Before he could ask for his name, she continued, “His name was Iyesh, and he was good. He was kind. He would never have joined the Maharraht, which is what I chose to do after his death. He would be ashamed of me, but know this, son of Iaros: I would do it again in a moment. Fates willing, I would see you all driven back to your homeland.”
She paused, her breath coming low and ragged, as if she were more agitated than she’d been in years. “But there are scales to be tipped, are there not? I will pay for my thoughts and actions, if not in this life, then in the next. I have come to terms with that. There are scales for you as well, whether you know it or not.” By the shape of her silhouette he saw her point toward the boy they had tried to help earlier. “And you can tip yours back by reaching him.”
He found himself unable to speak. He didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded.
“Can you do what you say you can?”
“I think so, but—”
“Do not think, Nikandr Iaroslov. You either can or you can’t, and if you can’t you should leave while the others are away.”
“What others?”
The woman paused. He could see her wavering. A decision was being made before his very eyes, though he knew not what was at stake. “The men from Behnda al Tib. You’ve met one, Rahid, but there are more, and they will soon return.”
Nikandr suddenly felt the weight of the mountain above them. His own breath sounded loud in his ears. “And what will they do if they find one of the Landed in their midst?”
“They will kill you.”
She said it so baldly that there was little doubt that she was telling the truth. Clearly they had been here on the island already, and they’d gone for some pu
rpose that none of the Maharraht would make clear to him. It was also clear that there was a struggle going on, not just for Ashdi en Ghat, but for the heart of the Maharraht themselves.
It felt strange to have not only Soroush, but Bersuq trust him in this way. It was a signal of their desperation as the horror of the wasting dawned on them. But now Nikandr saw that they were also fighting off a challenge from Behnda al Tib. How ruthless were the men from the south that these people were somehow afraid of them?
Nikandr took a deep breath if only to clear the suffocating feeling that the mountain was bearing down on him. He wondered again, as he did many times each day, if he’d done the right thing in coming here. Too late to worry about that now, he told himself. A man who looks constantly over his shoulder will miss the path ahead.
“I will do it,” he said finally.
“Then come.” She held a shaking hand out to him.
He took her hand and stood, and together they made their way to the boy. They kneeled on his blanket, the woman at his feet and Nikandr at his head.
“What is his name?” Nikandr asked.
She appeared ready to deny him this, but then the tightness in her shoulders softened and she said, “His name is Wahad.”
Nikandr narrowed his eyes. “That’s the name of Soroush’s father.”
The light was dim, but Nikandr could see the old woman smile sadly. “He was named after his grandfather.”
Nikandr physically jerked back. “This is Soroush’s son?”
“Just so,” she replied softly, perhaps embarrassed over revealing this information.
He stared down at the boy. Even in the darkness, even in the deep shadows, he could now see the resemblance to Soroush and Bersuq, both. How could he have missed it?
The information did not help. It made things infinitely worse. To have the life of Soroush’s son in his hands... Why would Bersuq have allowed it?
And then he understood—why Bersuq had allowed him to come to the village, why he had granted him time among their dying children. Despite his anger over Soroush leading one of the Landed to the home of his people, he wanted to save his brother’s son from a fate that was worse than death.
“Are you ready?” the old woman asked.
“I am.”
Instead of holding Wahad’s hands, she placed her hands on his ankles, pulling them and fixing them in place. Nikandr mirrored her movements, gently pulling his head to elongate his neck and spine. Then he touched the boy’s forehead. Together, he and the old woman closed their eyes, and their breathing fell into sync—slowing in pace, deepening—as each of them began to slip toward the other world, the world of the spirits, the world where life was renewed. He felt his vanahezhan clearly now, and he even felt the woman’s jalahezhan. Both were near; both were bound by stones and the common bond to their host in Erahm.
Nikandr allowed himself to be taken by the hezhan. It was not so different from the way in which the hezhan feed from the living. He was simply turning the relationship around, using them to see into the world beyond.
And soon…
Nikandr feels as the hezhan feels. Its senses are not the same as those in the physical world. Instead of sight and taste and sound, there are impressions, emotions, senses that live beneath the surface, senses long forgotten by the minds of men.
He feels discomfort from the boy, or more accurately the creature that feeds upon him. He has come this far before, but this is different. He practically feels the emotion running through them—boy and hezhan, both. A seething. An anger. A yearning. It feels worse than any disease, for it both nourishes and feeds upon Wahad. He has become a conduit. A tool to be used and one day—if the boy is lucky—tossed aside.
And then he senses something beyond. In the world of Adhiya, it is difficult to determine distance and direction, but he knows it is near. It is something he has felt before, an ancient presence, and not simply a hezhan. It is something else, a man that walks between worlds, as Nasim once did. But how can that be? Nasim was unique, alone in the world with his abilities.
Suddenly he remembers. He saw this man on an island far away in a sea hundreds of leagues away. But he was trapped. How could he have escaped? How could he have come here? And why?
The understanding shakes him, and he is thrown from the dream.
A wind blew through the cavern, unbidden, but very much of his doing.
Nikandr stood, confused and angry and sick.
“Where are you going?” the old woman asked.
With the shades of Adhiya still upon him, he ignored her and staggered to where his old friend kneeled. He shook his shoulder. “Jahalan.” He shook him again, harder.
Jahalan woke, squinted up at him.
“We must go. Quickly.”
“Why?”
“Muqallad is here. He has come to Rafsuhan.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Atiana is still in the aether when her senses return to her.
When a Matra becomes overwhelmed, there are usually only two outcomes: she wakes exhausted and confused or, more rarely, she becomes lost, never waking from her time in the aether. Atiana wonders if she has become lost. Fear builds within her, but she can feel her body back in the drowning chamber beneath the cemetery. She nearly follows those fears to the point of wakefulness, if only to reassure herself that she is not lost.
So to be aware of herself as she floats through the straits comes as a strange surprise. The great standing cliffs to either side of her scintillate in the black. The Spar, a structure that has taken nearly five years and thousands of craftsmen to build, is nearly complete. It looms before her. She still feels some of the same raw and immense power she felt earlier, but there is a distinct feeling that it has ebbed, as if the pressure built to the bursting point, released, and finally receded. What caused the buildup and the eventual release she doesn’t know, but she is sure that her surge of feelings were caused by the peak of energy.
Surprisingly, she no longer feels the fear she once did. She feels as if she’s treading water; the depths below her are dangerous, and the waves may yet pull her under, but for the time being they have come to a mutual understanding.
She becomes aware of the spire to the south, the one that allows for the ease of travel between Galahesh and Vostroma. She knew of this. What piques her interest is the fact that she feels something similar to the north. This makes no sense, however. The northern side of the island has never needed a spire. Galahesh didn’t have the Matri to maintain one, but more importantly, the ley lines flowed naturally from the massive continent, through Oramka, and to the northern end of Galahesh. It was only at the straits that the aether clashed against the currents coming from Anuskaya to form an unpredictable maelstrom.
She widens her mind, casts herself outward, and attunes herself to the spires. The aether flows between them, just as it does along the islands of the Grand Duchy. The flow is little more than a trickle because of the straits, but she can sense it running from the north, down along the Spar until it bridges the gap at the center, and then continuing to the south. She wonders if she can guide the aether as she does in Galostina. She tries, coaxing the aether, and it responds. It flows faster. And when she releases it, the effect continues. It makes sense—this was what the spires were built to do—but it doesn’t answer the question of why the northern spire was built in the first place.
She feels something, a feeling similar to when another Matra is near. She casts outward, but feels nothing, and yet the sense that another is near continues. The memories of Ushai return. She pulls herself inward, focusing instead on Baressa and the Shattering. As she does, the feeling fades, and then is lost altogether. It must have been Ushai, and yet Atiana wonders if Arvaneh has woken.
She studies the tower again, but it is empty, as it was before.
The urge to continue the search for Ushai is strong, but exhaustion has long since set in, and she finds herself making small mistakes, slips of the mind. She must return and heal b
efore attempting to do more.
Atiana woke coughing and spluttering even though the breathing tube was still in her mouth.
Ishkyna, reading a journal by the light of a small lantern on a nearby table, stared down at her, her mouth turned down in disapproval. “Control yourself.”
Atiana sat up, having more trouble orienting herself than she had in some time. She should be in Galostina, not in this cramped space beneath a cemetery in Baressa. Shouldn’t she?
“How long?”
Ishkyna stood and held out a towel for Atiana to step into. “Eighteen hours, Tiana. You’ve been gone for nearly a day. You were to take only two or three hours.”
Atiana’s feet slipped on the slick stone tiles as she stepped out of the copper tub, but Ishkyna caught her with practiced hands.
Atiana looked at Ishkyna, and then she was overwhelmed by a surge of emotion. She took Ishkyna into a sudden, tight embrace.
Ishkyna yelped and tried to shove Atiana away. “You’re freezing!”
Atiana held her close for a moment more before stepping back and shaking her head, spraying Ishkyna with the chill water from the tub.
“Stop it!” Ishkyna cried. She took up Atiana’s robe from a shelf nearby and threw it at her. “This is serious business.”
The robe struck Atiana in the face. “Listen to yourself,” Atiana said as she shook out the robe and slipped into it. “Serious business…” She knew Ishkyna was right, but for some reason the real world felt far away. It felt good, like it was just the two of them when they were young, waking from a session in Galostina’s drowning chamber.
“It is. Now tell me what you found.”
Atiana took up the towel and began drying her hair. “Little enough.”
“Eighteen hours had better result in something better than that.”
She told Ishkyna about Arvaneh and Ushai and her time at the Spar.
The Straits of Galahesh Page 24