The Winds of Khalakovo (20 page)

CHAPTER 25

Nikandr swatted at the flames, hoping Rehada would wake on her own. He was nearly to the point of striking her to jar her from her trance when her eyes shot open.

Her face turned purple. Her eyes were wide as they searched the room. A sound uttered from her throat, more like a rusted hinge than an inhalation. Then, finally, she took in a deep, rasping breath. She began coughing immediately after, pulling herself into a ball like a child afraid of the night.

He continued to beat at the flames until finally all of them had been smothered. “Can you hear me?”

She nodded weakly.

“What happened?”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were wild, afraid. Her breathing was still coming in long, wheezing draws.

“What happened?” he repeated. He hoped that by keeping her talking, it would prevent her from slipping back.

“I found him,” she said. “But my hezhan rebelled.”

“Rebelled?”

She nodded, cringing as she touched her neck. “I fear it was some effect brought on by Nasim’s presence.”

Nikandr’s expression became concerned. “What does it mean?”

“It means that I will need to try again.”

His heart sank. “There cannot be a next time, Rehada. I can’t allow you in again.”

She stared into his eyes with a look that made it clear how disgraced she was. “It would be impossible to bring him to me.”

“I’m afraid so.”

He helped her to sit up. She looked down at the remains of her clothing, nearly all of which had been burned to cinders. Nikandr sent the gaoler to find clothes, and as he and Rehada waited, his sense that he’d made a terrible mistake by bringing Rehada here grew by the moment. Finally the gaoler returned with acceptable—if overly large—clothes for Rehada. She put them on and Nikandr led her back the way they had come.

When they reached the large hallway, Nikandr froze when he realized they were being watched. One of the triplets—Ishkyna, he thought—was standing far down the hall, hair disheveled, the smile on her face fading as she looked between Nikandr and Rehada.

One of the palotza’s guardsman was standing near her. His hand had been at the small of her back, but the moment he saw Nikandr, he dropped it and straightened.

Ishkyna glared at Rehada with an expression that even from a distance could only be interpreted as severe disapproval, and then she took the guardsman’s hand and alighted the stairs, giving Nikandr one last look that dared him to make mention of it.

Of anyone—even Atiana—Ishkyna was the last person he would have chosen to see him like this. Not only was she indiscreet. She was devious. Hopefully he could speak to her before she ran her mouth.

“Was that her?” Rehada asked.

“
Nyet
. Her sister, Ishkyna.”

Rehada pulled her lips into a compressed line. “Is Atiana as pretty?”

Nikandr shook his head, laughing softly. “Prettier.”

Rehada smiled. “Then you have done well.”

With that she turned and walked away, toward the door through which she had entered. Nikandr saw her into the waiting coach and nodded to the driver. He snapped the reins, and in moments the coach was gone.

His stomach was beginning to turn as he returned to the cells. He took out his flask to take some of the elixir but was surprised to find that there was only one swallow left. He had refilled it only yesterday. Had he drank so much already?

He finished it off and walked to Ashan’s cell and found him sitting cross-legged on the ornate carpet in the center of the large room. His hands rested on his knees. He watched calmly as Nikandr closed the door and collapsed into a nearby chair.

Ashan seemed concerned—making it clear he had heard the commotion—but Nikandr wasn’t ready to speak of it. He needed a moment to let his stomach settle.

“Do you know Rehada Ulan al Shineshka?” he finally asked.

“I do. She is an accomplished suuraqiram, and a woman her mother can be proud of.”

“She is a woman I care for deeply. At my request, she came, hoping to commune with Nasim. She woke from her trance not long ago, her clothes burning. She was unharmed, but it occurred while she was trying to reach Nasim. He seemed to become agitated just before it happened.”

In their talks with one another, Ashan had always seemed like a carefree man. He could be serious, but more often than not he was quick to smile and light of heart. But now for the first time, as he considered Nikandr’s words, he seemed deeply troubled. “There is something I wish to share with you, son of Iaros, something that may be difficult for you to believe.” He took a deep breath before continuing.“Nasim is gifted, as you know, and I have long been trying to understand how it might have come to be. When we are born, there is some part of us that is taken from our previous lives. A kernel only. A seed. It allows us, fates willing, to expand our awareness as the world grows older. Some retain more of their past, some less.

“I no longer have any doubts that the first possibility is the one that applies to Nasim. We spoke of Ghayavand... It is a dead island, I told you, which is true. What I did not reveal are the reasons behind it. Over three centuries ago there was a troika of powerful arqesh, each as close to vashaqiram as any in our history. It was the end of the last age of enlightenment, and they believed the time was right to merge the two worlds.”

It was one of several possible ways the Aramahn believed the world would end. Indaraqiram, the point at which Adhiya and Erahm become one, when all souls meld, both here and beyond. The Grand Duchy gave no credence to such beliefs, citing the failings of the most powerful of the qiram as proof. They believed, rightly, that one’s ancestors watched over a person, that by building one’s legacy, by paying homage to those that came before, that they would protect their progeny from beyond the grave. One day they would become more powerful than the fates, making them masters of their own destiny.

“They were unsuccessful,” Nikandr said.

Ashan granted that with a tilt of his head. “
Da
, but not completely so. There are many who believe that those three qiram lived on beyond the devastation they caused. The life they lived—halfway between Erahm and Adhiya—twisted their souls. Eventually they went mad from it. They fought with one another for supremacy, none ever quite able to swing the balance fully in their favor. Many feared that when one finally did win out that it would mark the beginning of the end of the world—the path of destruction instead of the path of enlightenment.”

Nikandr remembered the rush of the wind as he flew down to the tower, the feelings of oneness with the city around him, the island, the sea and the world.

Nikandr swallowed. “You’re suggesting that Nasim was one of the three.”

Ashan nodded. “I believe this to be true. There are many signs.

Nasim’s ability to walk between worlds, the way the aether shifts around him...”

“The way the hezhan cross when he is near?”

“
Nyet
. Do not make the mistake of discounting Soroush. He has discovered many secrets from Nasim, not the least of which is the ways in which the aether has shifted. There are rifts that have been forming for years. They may be the cause of the blight, of the wasting.”

“All this from one boy?”

“Not from one boy, but from his
absence
on Ghayavand. If I am right, his death would have caused a severe imbalance around the island, not only from his absence but from the renewed battle between the other two.”

“Preposterous,” Nikandr said, leaning back in his chair. “Nasim is no more than twelve. The blight has been building for decades.”

“When we pass, we are not reborn immediately. We live a life there before returning. No one knows how long. The arqesh who was Nasim could have easily spent that time in Adhiya before returning. Since his rebirth he has been struggling to understand the world, but it is no longer with the perspective of a man who had the time to absorb the ways of flesh and bone. He was raised struggling, always, to tell the difference between the material and the spiritual. It is what causes him such pain, his inability to reconcile the two while living within the shell of a boy.” Ashan stared at Nikandr meaningfully. “Until he met you...”

“Our link?”

“Just so. He has taken great strides. You have provided a grounding for him, allowing him to relate to the world around him in ways he never has before. The nature of this connection still eludes me, but it certainly exists.”

Nikandr grabbed his gut as a wave of nausea washed over him. He was tired and at the moment unable to hide the effects of the wasting. Surprisingly, he found that he didn’t really wish to in front of Ashan. The man had a calming influence, a way of making one want to confess.

“I didn’t tell you everything the other day.” Nikandr pulled his soul-stone out from beneath his shirt. Though only days ago he had worn it openly, he had come to feel exposed when it was not tucked away. “I have the wasting.”

Ashan eyed the stone. He seemed to be looking at it anew, revising his assessment.

“Stasa Bolgravya,” Nikandr continued, “had been struck as well. In him the disease was very advanced, whereas in my case it is early. Still, it is a connection that may have been overlooked. That day we found you near the lake, I
felt
a havahezhan, and unlike the ship where I had been attacked, I could control it, as a qiram must do. I’ve thought on it much, and it may be that Nasim was the one in control, not I, but I have no doubt that I would have felt nothing were I not near him. It is as if Nasim is at the heart of a storm, and all those that come near are drawn toward it.”

“Can there be any doubt as to Nasim’s nature?”

Nikandr didn’t know what to think, but he had to admit the possibility was real. “What if it is so? What would you propose we do?”

“Give me time. Let me speak with the two of you together.”

“You don’t understand.” Nikandr tucked the stone back into his shirt. “The halls of Radiskoye grow tense. The dukes ask thrice each day over the progress we’ve made.”

“What do you tell them?”

“We tell them to wait, that we will soon find resolution.”

“And do they believe you?”

Nikandr shook his head. “At first they were content to let us conduct the investigation as we saw fit, but they are now requesting that they be allowed to ask the questions.”

If there was any concern in Ashan’s heart at these words, he did not show it. “Will you allow it?”

“I think my father may already have agreed were it not for your brethren. They have come, in numbers greater every day. I have just come from their latest appeal for your freedom.”

Ashan smiled—a genuine gesture, it seemed to Nikandr. “Shall I prepare for my departure?”

Nikandr chuckled sadly.

Ashan pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them, not unlike what Nasim did when the worst of his pains were upon him. “Allow me to speak with them.”

“Father will not allow it.”

“Fahroz will give you a week, perhaps, but no more.”

“
Da
, and then they will call the qiram away from our fishing ships. Then trade ships. Then the military. It would seem to put pressure on me to get an answer from you.”

“I know you not well at all, son of Iaros, but I know you better than that. I would tell you what I know of Nasim—I think you know this—but the answers still lay hidden. I need more time.”

“Haven’t you been listening? We don’t
have
time.”

“Last month, Nasim began to scream when he saw a woman’s red scarf. He was inconsolable. The month before that he laughed hysterically at a dead turtle we found lying on the beaches of Samodansk. He does these things, and there is little to connect them. I must consider carefully before I speak.”

“I thought I made our situation clear.”

“A situation every bit as clear as mine, My Lord Prince.”

“Were the Duke of Vostroma to be given the boy, believe me, he would find evidence, one way or another—the dukes that rally beneath his flag will allow nothing less. They will make the boy talk or they will hang him as a traitor to the Grand Duchy and fabricate the rest. Either way, your young charge will be dead, and you will never be able to say that you were powerless to prevent it.”

“You know in your heart that Nasim is innocent.”

“Innocent or not, Nasim was involved. Silence now leads to the gibbet. We have waited so long to give the dukes news that they believe Khalakovo was in league with you. They believe we arranged for the murder of Stasa.”

“Preposterous.”

“Not at all. Our history is rife with murder. It gives everyone pause that an arqesh would be involved, but you are a man, like they are. No matter how peaceful you prove yourself to be, they will always think you capable of it. The only way to help Nasim now is to give me answers so I might convince the other dukes that this was merely—”

Nikandr stopped, for there was a feeling within his chest, a discomfort that felt like heartburn. He swallowed, unable to speak.

Ashan stared, clearly confused.

The feeling of discomfort intensified, and suddenly Nikandr knew unerringly the direction from which it came. Ashan glanced toward Nasim’s room and stood as Nikandr backed away toward the door. Ashan looked like he wanted to accompany him, but Nikandr stepped outside and ordered the guardsman to lock it. Then he rushed up the hall to Nasim’s room.

Nasim was sitting on the floor, cross-legged. The carpet had been rolled up and sat against the bed. The floor was made of hard granite tile. Nasim was working a piece of the tile—pulling it upward, thinning it, shaping it like clay, until it was as thin as a cord. It pulled away from the floor when he gave it a sharp jerk. Then he placed it among dozens of others, all of them forming an impossibly complex sculpture made from the stuff of the floor itself. It was similar to the skills of the vanaqiram, the Aramahn stone masters—they altered the form of stone to recreate it in ways both practical and beautiful. These cords, however, when Nasim released them, did not remain still. They moved, flowing like strands of kelp in a calm sea.