The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (36 page)

“Then they don’t. We will find Nasim if he is to be found. We will find Kaleh and, fates willing, the Atalayina as well. These people know more than anyone of the stone. They’ll help us to uncover its secrets.”

“Why does any of that mean I should give up the one I love to be questioned like a thief?”

“Do you remember the mahtar who were hung in the garden of Radiskoye?”

He could still see them, swinging in the wind after Borund had ordered the hangman to throw the lever. “Why would you dredge that memory up?”

“Do you imagine—after hearing of such a thing—the people of the island would be easily trusted?”

“I know what you’re getting at, Ashan, but—”

“Do not brush this aside, Nikandr. It was your people who did that deed. And here you are, hands clasped, begging the people of Kohor to help you when they know nothing of you. They guard their secrets closely, and you would have them forget centuries of such behavior and grant you your wish upon your arrival?”

“This is important.”

“To them as well, more than you know, which is why they must take care.”

“What, then? What are they hiding, Ashan? You must know something by now.”

“They are hiding their history, which to them is more than simply the past. It is who they are. It is why they live.” Before Nikandr could protest, Ashan put his hand on Nikandr’s shoulder. “Be at ease, Nikandr Iaroslov.”

Nikandr took a moment. He
tried
to listen to Ashan. He released his worries over the Kohori, released his worries over Atiana, and for a moment, with Ashan’s hand holding him steady, he was able to breathe easily, to shed some of the tension that had been wound so tightly within him since long before arriving in this valley.

Ashan took his hand away and reached into a bag at his belt, the one that held the stones he used to bond with the hezhan. He held up a pale colored stone—alabaster, the kind used with spirits of the wind. “Do you know why we use alabaster for havahezhan?”

“It is the stone to which they’re attracted.”

Ashan shook his head. “It’s because alabaster lightens the mind. It allows you to truly feel that which lies around you.” He took Nikandr’s hand, placed the stone into the center of his palm, and then closed Nikandr’s fingers around it. “If you’re open to it.”

Nikandr felt the stone, felt the smoothness and its small imperfections. “Why help me now?”

“Perhaps I was wrong.” Ashan shrugged, an apology. “Perhaps the fates wish you to reach Adhiya. Perhaps after all these years it is time to share with those who would accept such knowledge. Who am I to deny them?”

Nikandr didn’t know what to feel. He considered Ashan a great friend. A true friend. And yet he’d withheld something he knew was terribly important to Nikandr.

His thoughts were interrupted by movement to his left. Over Ashan’s shoulder, at the entrance to the tunnel leading down into the ground, was Sukharam. His white robes stood bright against the glittering background of the dark soil. He said nothing. He appeared to be waiting.

“What is it?” Nikandr asked.

“I’ve found him,” he replied.

Nikandr’s fingers began to tingle. “Found who, Sukharam?”

“Nasim,” he said. “I know where he is.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“Where?” Nikandr asked Sukharam. “Where is Nasim?”

Under the growing yellow light of dawn, Nikandr could see the confusion on Sukharam’s face. His eyes searched the fading stars, then the desert around him, and finally the long line of mountains in the distance. “To the south”—he lifted his hand and pointed—“Three days hike, perhaps more.”

Ashan studied Sukharam with a look of grave concern that seemed to be less about the news Sukharam had shared and more about the way he was acting.

“What is it, Ashan?” Nikandr asked.

Ashan jerked his head to Nikandr as if annoyed by the interruption, but then he shook his head, which was apparently the only answer Nikandr was going to get.

“What lies there?” Nikandr pressed Ashan. “What lies south?”

“I don’t know. We’re at the western edge of the Gaji. There are hills, valleys, tall black peaks. All of it barren. There are no settlements that I know of.”

“There must be something.”

Ashan stepped toward Sukharam, keeping his gaze fixed on the southern range. The sun lit the peaks like brands, making it look as though flaming suurahezhan stood atop them ready to bar passage for anyone who sought to cross. When Ashan motioned Sukharam back toward Kohor, Sukharam merely stared into his hands as if some deep mystery lay within them. He was crying, Nikandr realized. Tears flowed down his cheeks like diamonds.

At last Sukharam allowed himself to be guided away, but not before gazing south one last time. Nikandr knew that look—a look of weighing appraisal, as if he weren’t at all sure he wanted to
find
Nasim.

When Nikandr returned to their mudbrick home, he desperately hoped Atiana would already be there. He was disappointed, however. It was an hour past dawn—over eight hours since Atiana had been taken away. Ushai was sitting at the table, eating charred flatbread with pungent goat cheese slathered over it.

“Has she been here?” Nikandr asked.

Ushai shook her head, apparently unconcerned over Atiana and Nikandr’s obvious anxiety.

Nikandr moved to his bed and began gathering his clothing and shoving them into his pack. “Get ready.”

She took another bite of her bread. “Why?”

“Because we’re leaving.”

Ushai sat unmoving, chewing her food as if he’d done nothing more than wish her good morning.

Nikandr paused and stood up straight. “Get ready, Ushai, unless you wish to be left behind.”

Soroush entered just then, saving the two of them from a confrontation that had been brewing since long before they’d entered the desert. Soroush, his pepper-grey hair hanging down over his shoulder, stared between the two of them while dusting off his robes. “What’s happened?”

“Sukharam found Nasim,” Nikandr said.

With practiced ease, Soroush twisted his long hair into a rope and rolled it on top of his head and then began wrapping his turban cloth around his head. He was already backing up toward the entryway. “Are you coming?” he asked Ushai.

“I’ll be along shortly.”

“I’ll get the ab-sair ready,” Soroush said, not taking his eyes off of Ushai. Then he was gone, moving quickly toward the stables where their ab-sair had been taken.

Ushai stood and left without saying another word, but before Nikandr could call her back, Ashan and Sukharam entered, and they all quickly got to packing their things. Nikandr hadn’t seen Ashan this unsettled in a long time, not since their time together on Ghayavand years ago.

And then Nikandr realized. All this time, Ashan had not
truly
expected to find Nasim alive. He’d thought they might find Kaleh and the Atalayina or he wouldn’t have followed them this far, but it was clear he’d thought Nasim long since dead, lost in the water below the Spar on Galahesh.

Finished, Nikandr swung the packs onto the table with a crash. “Take those to the stables.” He slung his bandolier over one shoulder and grabbed his musket from where it leaned against the wall. “I’m going to find Atiana.”

Ashan grabbed his wrist, forestalling him. “I’ll go with you, but leave the musket with Sukharam. The shashka as well.”

“I must have her back, Ashan.”

“You won’t, not if you come with weapons at your side, or worse, held in your hands. Let Sukharam take them to the stables and we’ll find Atiana together.”

Nikandr didn’t wish to be without his musket—the mere holding of it made him feel more at peace—but Ashan’s words rang true. He handed the musket to Sukharam, then the bandolier and his sword, and then left with Ashan. They’d not gone twenty paces down the beaten path toward the stables when Safwah shambled out from behind two homes further up the trail.

Nikandr and Ashan ran to her. A swath of blood marked one side of her face, and across the bridge of her nose was a jagged gash.

“What’s happened?” Nikandr asked.

Safwah’s eyes looked straight through Nikandr. They darted back and forth, sifting through a myriad of possibilities, trying desperately to choose the right one. Then her eyes focused on Nikandr, though it seemed to take all her will. “You must follow,” she said, “all of you.”

“Where’s Atiana?”

“Not now.”

She tried walking past him, but Nikandr grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around. “I must know.”

“She’s been taken, son of Iaros. I know not where. And if you remain, you’ll be taken too.” She jerked her arm from his grasp. “Now come.”

Before Nikandr could open his mouth to speak, an arrow came streaking in from Nikandr’s right and struck her through her back.

Safwah screamed and fell to her knees, clutching for the black shaft of the arrow that had buried itself just above her right hip.

Nikandr reached down for her as another arrow dug into the dry path near his feet. A third speared through Ashan’s robes, altering the arrow’s path to send it wobbling into a dry bush a dozen paces away.

Nikandr no more than saw the forms of three Kohori men standing in their red robes with bows drawn back than he felt something strange inside his chest. That old familiar feeling, a feeling he’d thought lost to him long ago, had returned. He had no time to wonder about it, however, for the wind gusted around him. The Kohori released their arrows—so quickly after their first volley!—but Nikandr lost sight of them as dust rose up with the sudden howling wind.

There was a split second as Nikandr recognized the path of the speeding arrows. He expected one of them to punch into his chest, but the arrow never struck. It was the wind. Ashan had summoned the wind and fouled the shots.

Nikandr reached down, ready to lift Safwah in his arms if need be, but she was as strong a woman as he had ever seen. With his help, she reached her feet. As the wind roared and sand and stone bit their skin, she pointed toward the home Nikandr and Ashan had left only a short while ago. He slipped Safwah’s arm over his shoulder and half-carried her as she walked. He could feel the warmth of her blood as it leaked from the place the arrow entered her back. It must have been excruciating, but the old woman merely gritted her teeth and hobbled stubbornly on.

Ashan followed, guiding the wind with his havahezhan, covering their retreat.

But the wind was now starting to die. It no longer bit as terribly, and the sound of it had ebbed.

“They’re working against me!” Ashan yelled.

Nikandr shot a glance behind him and saw, through the haze of dust and sand, red forms running toward them—four of them, with veils covering their faces. Their swords were drawn, curving shamshirs that shone copper against the red tint of the dust.

Ashan faced them, his arms spread wide. He was trying to draw on another of his bonded hezhan, but nothing was happening.

And all the while the Kohori drew closer. They slowed now, spacing themselves wide.

Nikandr left Safwah and rushed to Ashan’s side, pulling the short kindjal from his belt. “What do you want?” he called to the Kohori.

The approaching men did not respond.

A sharp whistle came from the right. Nikandr turned as the sound of running footsteps came to him. A flash of black. A sheathed sword spinning lazily through the air. He caught it, his own shashka. He pulled it from the sheath as Soroush rushed forward and met the nearest of the Kohori, his own sword bared.

Their blades clashed as Nikandr rushed forward, engaging the one closest to him. Steel rang as they traded fierce blows. An attack came in sharply toward Nikandr’s neck. He beat the sword away and pierced the warrior’s robes. The man grunted and retreated, his eyes fierce behind the veil across his face. A second joined him, and Nikandr was forced to retreat.

One of the four, however, was holding back. His arms were spread wide, as Ashan’s were. His face turned up, and though Nikandr couldn’t see his eyes through the dimness brought on by the cloud of reddish dust, he was sure his eyes would be vacant as he drew upon one—perhaps
more
than one—hezhan. He was countering Ashan, and soon, if they weren’t careful, more of the Kohori would come.

They had to find Atiana and leave, and they had to do it soon.

Nikandr saw Soroush retreating from the swordsman with whom he was engaged. He no more than glanced at the Kohori with whom Nikandr was trading blows and Nikandr knew what he was going to do. Soroush darted in, sending a low attack toward the knees. The moment the Kohori moved to block the swing, Nikandr lunged, aiming for his chest. The Kohori leaned away just in time and caught the sword in his cheek instead. He reeled, trying to recover his defensive stance, but Soroush was already there. He stabbed the Kohori through his stomach.

It had all happened in an instant. Before the other two could recover, Nikandr and Soroush retreated, positioning themselves to protect Ashan. Nikandr could already see four more warriors coming, though. At a short bark from the Kohori, the two with whom Nikandr and Soroush were engaged glanced back and retreated two steps, waiting for their brothers to join them.

Six of them, Nikandr thought. Six, plus a qiram.

And then another resolved from the swirling dust. And this one was huge.

It was Goeh, Nikandr realized. Ancients protect them if they had to face that monstrosity.

The thought had no more blossomed in his mind than Goeh took one of the warriors ahead of him down with a huge swing of his sword across the man’s thighs. The warrior dropped, screaming, while the other three turned to face him.

Again Nikandr felt something in his chest, a hollow ache that might never be filled. He glanced back and saw Safwah standing next to Ashan. By the ancients, the arrow that had been in her back was now out. She held it before her, the fletching near her chest, the head pointing toward their enemies.

And then she released it.

The dark arrow hung in the air for a moment, then sped forward as if shot from a musket. In the blink of an eye it covered the distance between Safwah and one of the warriors engaged with Goeh. It sunk into the warrior’s back, exactly where Safwah herself had been struck.