The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (50 page)

There was nothing but the bed to sit upon, so Nikandr sat up and backed into the corner. Selim smiled and nodded and sat down.

“Why is it allowed?” Nikandr asked. “Why can he treat the Kamarisi this way?”

Selim leaned down and set the candle on the floor. The light shone upon his face in a ghastly way, making him seem aged and decrepit. “You know little of life in the capital.”

“Enlighten me.”

“My father was not well loved. He pressed the war to the west from the moment he took the throne to the day he died. His attention may have been diverted when the Spar was built, but he never let his interests in the west wane. And the Kaymakam hated him for it. They hate me for the same reason. None of them will lift a hand against me, and they will not openly allow Bahett to do me harm, but if something were to happen to me, none would cry, for it would leave open the possibility that they could take up the wreath of the Kamarisi and place it upon their head, for they are all of royal blood, even Bahett himself.”

“Do they not wish to keep the throne from Bahett?”

Selim shrugged. “They do, but they all know Bahett doesn’t want the throne. He doesn’t love his life here in the center of the Empire, so far from his islands.”

“Bahett would not content himself with Galahesh, not after wielding such power.”

“
Hayir.
Not merely Galahesh. He wants your islands as well, Nikandr of Anuskaya. He wants his own empire to the east, and everything he’s done so far has been leading to that. He drew heavily on our resources from the west, something my father would never have done. He focused on the east to slow the brunt of Leonid’s fury, and since then he’s allowed a slow withdrawal as the army of Anuskaya expends its energy trying to take more and more land before the worst of our forces can be brought to bear.”

Nikandr chewed on these words. “Sariya hardly needs to control him, does she?”

“Perhaps, and perhaps not. She’s been far afield, and she is not what she once was. I believe she thought Bahett could not remain under her control so long without incentive of his own. Bahett wanted the islands, so she offered them to him.”

More and more pieces were falling into place. “Bahett is withdrawing the forces of Yrstanla on purpose?”

“Just so, and she’s moving some key pieces to Ghayavand.”

Nikandr had already been chill, but now he was cold, cold to the bone. “Why would she do that?”

Selim stared deeply into Nikandr’s eyes. “Why, to give Bahett his islands.”

Nikandr shook his head. “That cannot be the only reason.”

“Beyond Bahett’s goals, I don’t know why she would do this. But I do know that some of the Kohori have been sent there.”

“To what? Build a fleet?”

“Perhaps.”

“One couldn’t be built in so little time.”

“I am telling you what I know, Nikandr Iaroslov.”

Nikandr gave it more serious thought. Sariya had had months to build defenses. Build ships. Was she truly planning on attacking the islands for Bahett? Or was she preparing defenses for the eventual onslaught from the forces of Anuskaya? If that were the case, though, why build anything there at all? That would only bring attention to plans that she
should
want kept secret. Sariya was careful, though. Perhaps she didn’t wish to leave anything to chance. Perhaps she was building a fleet there in case the Dukes of Anuskaya discovered her plans for Ghayavand and sent ships.

“There’s little time left,” Nikandr said. “The wards once held up by the Flames of Shadam Khoreh are gone.”

“They are not all dead,” Selim said.

“True, one of the Tashavir remains, but the spell erected in Shadam Khoreh has fallen. Tohrab says that the wards on Ghayavand will remain for days, perhaps weeks, but soon they will fail altogether. Clearly that is what Sariya has been planning for all along.”

Through the cell window the sound of laughter came, then two women talking with one another loudly, as if drunk. From their tone—which was haughty and free of worry—Nikandr guessed they were two of the Kamarisi’s wives returning to their tower. Heavy shadows from the lone candle played along Selim’s neck as his throat convulsed. When he looked to Nikandr again, his momentary expression of worry was gone. “Time is growing short. Tomorrow I will address my people. Bahett will join me, and while we’re gone, you and whoever you say should come with you will be released from your cells. You will be led to Bahett’s apartments, and when Bahett returns from my address”—Selim’s eyes hardened—“you will kill him.”

“And what good will that do? Another regent will simply be appointed.”

“There will be another,
evet
, but it will take time. And even if it were done the very same day, it would be better than what we deal with in Bahett. With Bahett gone, I can do much.”

“I need only to be released that I can return to the Grand Duchy and Ghayavand.”

“You’ll need a good deal more than that. Bahett thought Sariya would return, but he is no longer sure. He will move, now, after taking care of you and the others. He will go east himself to ensure that Ghayavand is ready. He will ensure that your Grand Duke is sufficiently baited, sufficiently angered, so that the way is paved. And if that happens your only hope is that Sariya truly
is
gone. A thin hope indeed, Nikandr Iaroslov.”

Nikandr considered his words. There was a part of him that respected this young man, even though his father was an enemy of the islands—even though Selim himself would likely have been as well had Sariya not arrived in Irabahce. It was a bold plan he was offering, perhaps bold enough to catch Bahett and Sariya’s other allies off guard.

“And what happens when Bahett is dead?”

“You’ll be given stout horses and you’ll ride eastward to rejoin your countrymen. But there’s more. And this is important. Sariya came to Alekeşir twice. Once nearly two years ago, shortly after the battle for the Spar. The second was a year later, just six months ago. She returned with red-robed men, the qiram of Kohor. She was shaken when she came. I know not why, but something she’d found in the desert had alarmed her. After she left, Bahett let something slip when he thought I wasn’t near. Bahett was given a few of the Kohori, but most were being sent east, to Ghayavand. There they were making preparations.”

“And why not?” Nikandr said. “We know she plans to return there.”

“It’s a trap,” Selim said. “She plans to draw in the ships of Anuskaya, and when the time is right, the forces of Anuskaya will be baited. With such a threat on Ghayavand, your ships will be sent. Is it not so?”

Nikandr nodded, acknowledging the point. “If the threat is great enough.”

“You cannot let this happen. You must convince your Grand Duke not to attack, for if they do, Sariya will have what she wants.”

“And what is that?”

He shrugged. “I only know it is her desire. Prevent it, and then your Nasim and Sukharam can close the rifts.”

“To do that we would need the Atalayina.”

“Sariya will take it to Ghayavand. You must find her there and take it from her before all is lost.”

Nikandr couldn’t help himself. He started laughing. “Do you think all of this so simple?”

Selim smiled, but it was grim indeed for one so young. “We live in difficult times. The mountain is steep. Is that not what they say in Anuskaya? Well, it’s true. The mountain
is
steep, and we must climb, together, you and I, or all will be lost. When Bahett is gone, I will send documents ahead, telling the commanders on the warfront to retreat. It won’t last long, especially if the Kaymakam move quickly to replace Bahett, but it will be enough to give a pause in the battle, enough that you can convince your Grand Duke to give you men for an attack on Ghayavand. The rest will be up to you.”

Nikandr shook his head and chuckled sadly. “You’ve no idea how stubborn Leonid Dhalingrad can be.”

Selim stood and moved to the door. “You must convince him.”

“Oh, I will,” Nikandr said. “Believe me, I will.”

“Tomorrow near dusk, Nikandr of Anuskaya. Be ready.” And with that he left, locking the door behind him.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The air is thin and the sun is high when Khamal and the other Al-Aqim reach the final plateau. The crags of Sihyaan’s sheer black cliffs make her look like the dark steps to the heavens themselves.

As Khamal wipes the sleeve of his white robes across his brow, clearing it of sweat, Sariya navigates the last of the climb. Muqallad comes after her. All of them are breathing heavily, but they have expectant glints in their eyes. It feels as though their past lives have been leading slowly but surely like the steps of a child over stones in a stream toward this very moment, the crossing of a threshold, the waking of the world to a new dawn.

And yet Muqallad and Sariya seem tentative. Perhaps now that the ritual is upon them they wonder whether the timing is right. Khamal has no such doubts. He is sure the fates are shining on them. He’s never been more certain of anything in his life.

Muqallad points to a rock—grey, lifeless obsidian—that stands above the snowy grass. “Come.”

As they gather around it, Muqallad reaches out and touches the stone. The currents of the aether shift, and a vanahezhan approaches. The stone melts before their eyes, reforming into a pillar as black as the darkest night. The top of it is smooth like glass, and a hollow is set into it, one that will cradle the Atalayina. Sariya sets the Atalayina there.

And the moment she does, the wind tugs at their robes. It twists their hair. The land around them—a plateau of knee-high grass—looks like a white, frothing sea in the dead of winter.

But then the wind dies, until Khamal can feel little save the score upon score of elder spirits that have gathered in this place. They are older than any Khamal has ever communed with. By the fates, they feel as old as the world itself, as if they were the first the fates had drawn forth from the firmament and the stuff of stars.

They know, he realizes. They know the end draws nigh, and they’ve come to watch. Or help.

Or hinder, Khamal thinks.

He pushes these fears away. They all knew the danger in coming here. It could be no other way.

The three of them hold hands. Muqallad stands on his left.

Strong Muqallad. Wise Muqallad.

And on his right is Sariya.

Thoughtful Sariya, she of subtle mind.

As one, the three of them nod. They tip their heads skyward. Their eyes relax, half-lidded, and they open themselves to the world around them. Khamal has never felt as at peace with the world as he does now. Everything else has paled in comparison, and it is not due to the Atalayina. It is not due to the other Al-Aqim. It is due to the world itself. It is ready. He knows this now.

Slowly, the walls between worlds peel away. Adhiya is so close to Erahm one might reach forth and part the veil with the brush of a hand. But it isn’t proximity that they hope to bring about. It’s unification. The aether must be banished that the worlds might merge, and this, they soon discover, is no easy task. As they hold one another’s hands and draw upon the Atalayina, clouds form above. In moments the blue sky turns grey. They swirl as the ground rumbles, low and deep. The same is happening in Adhiya—the stuff of that world trembles at what is to come.

But there is more. Around the worlds, cradling them like the arms of a mother, is the firmament itself. And there…

There are those who watch. Those who’ve been waiting for this day for eons.

There are three.

The fates… The fates have come.

In anticipation they watch these three mortals who seek to alter the course the fates themselves have set.

Khamal did not know until that very moment that he’s felt them before. Every time he’s taken breath, every time he’s communed with a spirit, every time he reached across the aether to the world beyond, they were there. They were watching, taking note, neither helping nor hindering.

Do they think him worthy?

Do they think the three of them worthy?

Khamal does not know. He hopes it is so.

And yet, even as these thoughts come, he feels in the fates something he never expected. It is barely present, like the scent of orange blossoms on the day’s first breeze, but the longer they stand, staring up toward the sky, the stronger it becomes.

It is an ache. A yearning. A burning desire so strong the fates themselves can barely contain it.

Never in a thousand years would he have thought to find it so, but now that he has, he wonders how they could have hidden it from him all along.

Because he hadn’t known. He hadn’t known how to sense them at all, much less discern their mood. He’d been like a babe listening to the sounds of his parents, unknowing, uncaring that they’re trying so desperately to speak to him.

The worlds touch. The veil begins to part. The aether itself becomes so thin that the currents begin to rip it, to tear it apart. The hezhan that had been waiting so eagerly step through. The disciples of the Al-Aqim, waiting in anticipation in Alayazhar, are drawn across and into Adhiya.

Neh
, Khamal realizes. They are not drawn through. That distinction can no longer be made. In this place, on this island, the worlds are one.

And above—can it be?—the fates smile.

Khamal’s heart fills with joy. It is this, more than anything, that convinces him that all is as it should be.

The worlds are beginning to tear.

And the fates are
smiling
.

Nasim opened his eyes.

He was cold as he had ever been. Again, as it had been since he’d woken from Sariya’s spell, the dreams of Khamal were crisp and clear. He remembered them now as if they’d happened yesterday, or mere moments ago.

He shifted on the cot he’d been given the day before. When he did the chains that ran from the iron bands around his neck and wrists and ankles jingled. The iron was cold. It chafed the skin around his neck, especially near his left collar bone—a necessary consequence of the only position he’d found late last night that brought him some amount of comfort. He swung his bare feet over the edge of the cot and set them on the cold stone floor.