Jahalan screamed in rage or pain or frustration.
“Come!” Nikandr shouted. “This way!”
Jahalan allowed himself to be led out of the skiff. The snow was up to their chests, and though it looked to be powdery and easy to navigate, it was not. They sunk deeper with each step, and it seemed to be compacting as the seconds wore on. Before they had gone further than a dozen paces movement became nearly impossible. Nikandr tried using his musket to lever himself forward, but this got him nowhere.
The others were no better off. The snow continued to pile, reaching their necks, then their mouths. Finally it was up to their ears and they were fighting just to climb their way out of the rapidly deepening drift.
Nikandr struggled his way higher, but the snow, already tight against his body, became tighter with the movement. The snow piled above his head, sending his fear to new heights. The bright light of the sky dimmed. Then, as the snow continued to pile higher, it darkened, until all around him was blackness and the only thing he could hear was the desperate sound of his own breathing.
CHAPTER 19
As the howling of the wind began to deaden, Nikandr felt his bond to the wind intensify-the gusts around him, the whorl of the snow from hundreds of yards in every direction, the touch that the two Maharraht and Jahalan had with their hezhan-and it was then that he recognized a bond to one other.
Himself.
A hezhan.
Bound to him.
Impossible. He was not Aramahn, to bond with a spirit. He had no stone of alabaster; he had performed no ritual.
Why then? Why had a hezhan bound itself to him?
His breathing had begun to weaken. His body was deathly cold. His heart beat softly.
He fought against the elements, fought for life, and though his body did not answer the call, the wind did.
It blew from the west, swooping in and scouring the landscape behind them. It gouged at the snow where it was thin, biting at rock and soil when the snow had been scraped away. It ate at the drift where Nikandr and the others were buried, ablating it like the rare, summer sun against the winter pack. Large chunks cracked and were blown away, and soon, he was free down to the shoulders.
A hail of stone and ice struck him from behind. He willed the wind to stop, and just like that, it was gone. One last gust, and then silence reigned once more.
He was chilled to the bone. He ached like he had never ached before. He was also still encased in the snow, his arms barely able to move. More alarming than these sensations, however, was the fact that he could no longer sense the hezhan. It was gone, and rather than provide any sort of comfort, it felt as if a limb had gone missing, as if the hezhan had always been a part of him, and now that he’d been awakened to it, a deep yearning was all that remained.
Footsteps crunched across the snow. Nasim was walking toward him, alone. Ashan was nowhere to be seen. Nikandr’s shot must have struck true, though he hoped that it had only wounded him.
Nasim dropped to his knees and stared into Nikandr’s eyes.
He was crying.
The sun, casting dark shadows over much of his face, made the tears falling down his cheeks glint like stars.
“Why do you cry?” Nikandr asked.
He didn’t answer-Nikandr wasn’t even sure the boy had understood the question-but he began digging Nikandr out of the snow with his bare hands.
Finally, Nikandr was able to crawl out of his prison. Jahalan was out as well, and he moved to help the streltsi, but Nikandr kneeled before Nasim, who looked miserable. He was hugging himself, refusing to look Nikandr in the eye.
“Nasim, they’re gone. All is well.”
Nasim began shaking his head slowly, but then with more speed, until it seemed he was possessed. Nikandr pulled him into an embrace, holding his head so he wouldn’t shake it so. “Nasim, it’s all right.”
“There are so many,” Nasim said. “So many.”
“So many what?” Nikandr asked.
Nasim gazed over the snow-swept landscape, his eyes watering, a look of inexpressible fear on his face. “I can’t stop it.” His expression turned to one of discomfort, and then outright pain. He gripped himself tighter, and then he groaned and doubled over in pain.
“Nasim?” Nikandr caught him as he fell. He turned him around, but Nasim was unconscious.
The caw of a rook caught Nikandr’s attention. He looked up and saw one of the palotza’s birds winging over the landscape. Beyond, cresting the high ridge behind the lake, was a windship.
Jahalan crunched over the snow, looking down at Nasim with an unreadable expression. “There is something altogether disconcerting about that boy, son of Iaros.”
Nikandr looked down. Nasim’s face, even while sleeping, was troubled. “Of that, Jahalan, there can be no doubt.”
The gaoler opened the door, stepping back and bowing as Nikandr entered the room. Ashan lay on a lush bed set against the far wall.
They had found him beyond the tree line in a gully, unconscious and bleeding from a leg wound. The Maharraht were nowhere to be found, not that they had searched overly long for them. The search would resume in the morning. The important thing was that they had Nasim and Ashan.
“Leave us,” Nikandr said, holding his hand out for the gaoler’s iron ring of keys.
The gaoler handed them over and left, closing the door behind him.
Nikandr moved a chair over to Ashan’s bedside. It creaked when he sat down, and Ashan woke with a jerk.
He stared at Nikandr, a look of fear and confusion on his face, but as he took in his surroundings, his expression calmed. “A rather elegant room for a prisoner, is it not?”
Thechairgroaned as Nikandr relaxed against the chair back. “There have been a number of occasions when aristocracy were… accommodated in these rooms.”
“As prisoners.”
“As very welcome guests.”
Gritting his teeth, Ashan pulled himself up in the bed, resting against the headboard. “It would not do to give them a hovel in which to stay, now would it?”
“It most certainly would not. Now why don’t you tell me how you came to be with the Maharraht on the far side of the mountain.”
Ashan nodded with a small smile, as if he were about to tell an old friend a long and complicated tale. “Nasim,” he began. “He acted strangely after meeting you on the eyrie. He seemed out of sorts. Troubled. He even mumbled your name several times. Names are difficult for him to relate to, and so he hardly ever repeats them, even mine.
“It lasted until that night when we reached Iramanshah. He went to sleep next to me, and when I woke, he was missing. He has done so before, though I usually found him nearby. This time he was simply gone. I spent the following days tracking him through the forests around Verodnaya, coming close but never quite finding him. It was only hours ago-” He glanced around the room. “It was only hours wasn’t it?”
Nikandr nodded. “Why didn’t you seek help from Iramanshah?”
“I thought he would be close. And by the time I found his trail, it seemed foolish to leave it and return for help. I did eventually find him, but unfortunately Soroush had found him first, so I allowed myself to be taken rather than let Nasim go alone.”
“As simple as that?”
