The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (52 page)

“We can make our way to Ghayavand.” Nasim knew it was so even as he said it. He’d seen it done before. He’d
felt
it. Kaleh had taken him by this method before, from Ghayavand to Rafsuhan. She’d done so again—or
Sariya
had done so—as they’d traveled to the Gaji in search of the secrets of Shadam Khoreh. And now Tohrab would do the same for them, if only they could escape the Kamarisi’s tower.

“Will you need much time?”

“I?” Tohrab shook his head. “Not I, Nasim. We would not make it, as weak as I am. It must be you.”

Nasim had often felt sensitive about what Khamal had done. In many ways he didn’t
want
to know Khamal’s thoughts, because in the years and decades after the sundering they had turned foul indeed, and yet this knowledge—which Khamal had surely known—felt like a thing that had been consciously hidden from him. It felt foolish to think so, but he felt insulted. Still, he was ready for this challenge, and he nodded to Tohrab. “But we cannot go without the others.”

“
Neh
. You cannot risk so many. You can bring one other, but that is all.”

“Only one?”

“One other. Three will carry enough risk as it is.”

Nasim felt himself go cold. Who, then? Who would he bring? Sukharam was the obvious choice. He was necessary for the ritual they would perform together on the very same spot that Khamal and Muqallad and Sariya had three hundred years before.

He didn’t want to leave Nikandr. There was still much to say to him that he’d never had the chance to. Nor, strangely enough, did he wish to leave Soroush behind. But leave them behind he would.

Ashan, however, was a different story. Ashan was wise. He brought calm to any situation, and those qualities would be treasured, especially as Nasim tried to convince Sukharam to join him on the path to Sihyaan.

“Two others,” Nasim said at last. “We will take Sukharam and Ashan.”

“That is unwise.”

“Unwise or not, we will do it. I will not leave them behind.”

“You will risk—”

“I will not leave them behind! Now tell me. Where can we do this? Where is the center of power?”

Tohrab swallowed. “There, Nasim, lies another problem.”

“Why?”

“We may travel to Ghayavand, but we will leave in our wake a rift.”

“A rift.”

“One will form as we cross.”

Nasim shook his head. “This makes no sense. Kaleh traveled like this many times with Muqallad.”

Tohrab’s ancient skin pulled back into a grim smile. The mere sight of it made Nasim shiver. “And where did Kaleh take him?” Tohrab asked.

“To…” Nasim stopped. The chill running through him deepened until he was shaking from it. “They went to Rafsuhan.” He stood straighter. “There was no rift over Rafsuhan before they went there, was there?”

“There was not.”

“But that took weeks. Months. This will all be over soon—we both know this. What will a few weeks matter if we can close the rifts on Ghayavand once and for all?”

Tohrab nodded. “You may be right. It may all be done soon. But the world stands at the brink. The rifts no longer form slowly. They no longer close as easily. Adhiya nearly touches Erahm where the rifts form, and when this one does, it will be like none other, save perhaps Ghayavand itself. Hezhan will cross. Men and women and children will die of the wasting in mere moments.”

“Then we must find another way.”

Tohrab’s eyes became sad. His frown deepened, though whether this was in disapproval of Nasim or the choices left to them, Nasim wasn’t sure. “Perhaps there is another. Perhaps. But Sariya, in Kaleh’s form, approaches Ghayavand even now. She has the Atalayina, Nasim an Ashan. She has what she’s been searching for over these past many months. She has what she’s
murdered
for. And now she’s ready to return to the place where the Al-Aqim nearly ruined the world. Would you risk that? Would you risk the fate of Erahm and Adhiya for those who live in this one place?”

Nasim suddenly felt more than this simple room bearing down on him. He felt more than the tower, or the kasir. He felt the weight of thousands, tens of thousands, who would be affected. The babes in the arms of mothers, the infirm in their beds, the hale in their fields of wheat, those who killed for coin. Vintners and chandlers. Whores and nurses. Beggars and money men. All of them would be affected. All of them would suffer. Even if he managed to do what he hoped atop Sihyaan, what would be left of Alekeşir?

“Why did you even tell me this?” Nasim asked.

“Because you should know.”

Nasim moved to the window and opened it, letting the chill air in. He welcomed it, for his face was flush. Looking out through the iron bars, he could see the rolling landscape of Alekeşir beyond the walls of the kasir. “The fates are cruel.”

Nasim heard a sad, gravelly chuckle coming from behind him. “Cruel indeed.”

Nasim turned back to Tohrab. “I won’t do it.”

Seconds passed in silence as the wind whistled through the trees outside. “Do you think that wise?”

“I don’t care if it’s wise. I won’t allow so many to die. We’ll find another way.”

Tohrab nodded. “So be it, but I tell you this”—Tohrab coughed, and it took him long moments to recover—“Sukharam doesn’t agree with you. We spoke while you were being questioned by the men of the tower. He wishes to go.”

“Even knowing what will happen?”

“He considers the price worth it.”

Nasim took a deep breath. “I’ll speak with him.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Atiana stared up into the darkness, her clothes piled next to her naked form. Her arms lay at her sides, her palms pressed flat against the stone. She’d been like this for hours, ever since finishing the meager meal of water and dried, salted meat the Kohori had lowered to her in a bucket.

She listened carefully to the sounds around her. At first she’d heard little—the whine of the wind above, the scrape of the guardsmen’s boots, the occasional buzz of a desert scarab. She had not realized it before leaving with Ushai, but she now knew how different the desert felt. In the years leading up to the destruction of the Spar on Galahesh, she’d been able to sense the aether even while awake. At first it had felt like a mere yearning for the dark, but she’d come to realize that those times when she felt it strongest were the times when the aether was near. It was with her in Galostina, when she took to the long stairwell down to the drowning chamber, but she felt it at other times, too, and she’d begun to coax the feelings, hoping to touch the aether as Nikandr’s mother, Saphia, was able to do.

She’d felt similar things few enough times since leaving Vostroma on their journey to the Gaji, and she’d been numb to it ever since approaching the mountains around the valley of Kohor, but in these last few days, the feelings had woken once more. She knew
something
had happened out there in the desert, she just didn’t know
what
, nor the role Nikandr and Ashan and the others might have played in it.

It was this more than anything—her desire to know what had become of Nikandr—that spurred her to reach out for the aether now. And yet, although the aether was close, she couldn’t quite touch it. It was as if she stood upon a threshold, unable to cross without the aid of drowning basins or the smoke from her own burning blood.

But then came movement, a shift of amber light. It came from her left. She turned her head—a strange feeling, as in the aether, she merely willed movement and it was so. Here she was still bound by her body, by her physical form.

She came to her knees and pressed her hands against the stone wall. Like coaxing herself back into a pleasant dream upon waking, she kept her breathing shallow and her eyes relaxed. She stared into the earth, well beyond the surface where her fingertips touched. She looked to the place where she’d seen the light.

And it came again. A burst of amber, like the arc of coruscating lightning running through a billowing bank of clouds.

For long breaths, it did not come again.

Still she breathed. Still she watched.

And then it came again, drifting further away now.

It was a vanahezhan, she knew, moving through the very bed of the desert. She could feel it in her fingertips as it slipped away, further and further, the yellow swath of light fading progressively more.

And then it was gone altogether.

This place had changed, she realized. It had changed greatly.

Nischka, what happened?
she asked of the dark stone wall.
What have you done?

She turned at the sound of scraping.

It had come from above. Something had moved, had shifted on the dry earth. And then she heard a groan followed by the distinctive sound of a body falling to the earth. It was no light sound, as of someone tripping. This was the full, solid thump that came when something of heft fell against the earth in one leaden motion.

Soon the door above her was pulled back and the ladder was lowered down. After slipping her clothes back on, she took the ladder warily up and into the dark desert night. The night was cold, and the breeze was brisk, but she felt it not at all. She was merely glad to be free of her imprisonment.

Nearby was the fallen form of one of the Kohori guardsmen in his dark robes. He lay there, unmoving, facedown in the dirt. Several paces away stood the woman. The wodjan, Aelwen. Even in the dim moonlight Atiana could tell her hair was unkempt and matted. She wore the same dress of buckskin tied with bits of bone that clacked when she moved.

The wodjan’s eyes glinted fiercely. “There are things you must know.” She moved to the fallen guard and squatted down. As she squatted, she moved back and forth, shifting her weight onto one leg and then the other as she peered closely at this man.

“What?” Atiana asked, tiring of her queer behavior.

“Help me with his clothes.”

“Why?”

Aelwen stood, stared at Atiana. “The time comes nigh, Child of the Islands. Would you worry over one that would draw your blood? Of one that would feed your homeland to the sea?”

Atiana had no idea what she was talking about, but she didn’t like it all the same. There was something foul afoot. Still, Atiana couldn’t allow herself to be taken by Ushai. She helped Aelwen to remove the man’s robes, then his thin white shirt and sandals.

With that, Aelwen stood over him, her legs straddling his chest. “The Kohori are moving soon.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere far away.”

“
Where?
”

Aelwen turned and stared at her again. “You would know better than I. I only know that I go with you.”

“You went with the men of Yrstanla.”

“They wanted the boy. And your Prince.”

“Nikandr?”

“As well as Nasim and Ashan. And now they have them. They take a different path than you and I, Atiana of Vostroma. We go together to a place we’ve never been, not in this skin. When we are done here”—she motioned to the body of the man lying at their feet—“I will find you again.” She glanced up at the moon. “Time grows short.”

Atiana grabbed the cool skin of Aelwen’s arm. The wodjan stiffened, glaring fiercely at Atiana’s hand, but Atiana held her tight. “Why have you come back?”

“Because I have seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“You and I. Linked. A child of Anuskaya and a daughter of Hael. Together we may set the world aright.”

“But what—”

“Enough,” she said, yanking her arm from Atiana’s grip. “There is much to do, and the Kohori do not sleep forever.”

From her belt she retrieved something small, a tusk, perhaps. With this in hand, she slipped from her dress and let it fall to the ground. She stood naked, her thin, bony form catching the silver light of the moon. She pulled a stopper from the top of the tusk and squatted down. Something dark dripped down from the upturned tusk. Atiana thought surely it was blood, but then she realized it was glinting in the moonlight, like dust from the crushed remains of stars.

She rubbed it over his naked form—his arms and chest, his legs and groin. She took great care around his eyes and cheeks and lips. And then she pulled a knife from her belt.

She bent down, moving slowly back and forth, arms akimbo, knees jutting at awkward angles.

She drew the knife along his stomach, along his rib cage, and then she plunged it deep.

The man’s eyes shot open. His pupils were dark wells surrounded by white. He looked around feverishly. Atiana thought he would cry out, but he uttered not a sound, and he moved not at all. Except for his eyes. His ceaselessly moving eyes.

Aelwen pulled the knife down toward his navel. The cut yawned open. Blood spilled. She reached in with her free hand. The knife followed, moving deep inside his chest, reaching up toward his heart.

His heart, Atiana realized.

She was cutting out his heart.

Spit filled Atiana’s mouth. She swallowed reflexively. Her stomach felt as though a dark pit were forming beneath it.

The man’s eyes widened further. They were filled with wonder, staring up at the gauzy veil of the heavens, as if he’d moved beyond the pain and was staring directly into the beyond. He shivered in eery silence, his whole body shaking like one does in the final days of the wasting.

Aelwen pulled out something dark. Something dripping.

Beneath her, the man stiffened. His shivering stopped.

And then Atiana heard a sound. A sigh. A release of breath as deep as a canyon.

Finally his eyes fell slack.

The wodjan saw this not at all, however, for she was transfixed by the heart she now held in her hand. After raising it up to the crescent moon, she brought it to her mouth and took one large bite. She chewed, took another bite, chewed again, repeating this until all of it had been devoured.

Atiana’s hands were shaking. She could not look upon this any more. She bent over, breathing deeply lest she vomit on the desert floor. She could not look upon Aelwen, and so she missed the first signs of the transformation, but the strange movements before her forced her to look up.

Aelwen already seemed taller. The wodjan brushed her hands over her hair, again and again, and each time she did, more of it fell like sheaves of wheat from the sickle’s swipe. It changed color as well, lightening until it was the same chestnut brown of the man’s hair. It even took on the same light curl. Aelwen stretched her hands to the sky, and when she did, popping and cracking sounds rent the still desert air. She did not grow taller so much as widen, until her shoulders had become as broad as his, her hips and chest and torso. When she looked at Atiana again, she looked no different than he had, even down to his cock hiding in the dark bushy hair between his legs.