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.
Nasim, apparently oblivious to Nikandr’s presence, sat up straighter and smiled as if he were an artisan completely lost in his work. He motioned one hand toward the center of the creation. And then, Nikandr felt a clutch at his heart as the center of it flared to life.
Nikandr fell to his knees, grabbing his chest as pain blossomed from within.
CHAPTER 26
Khamal stands on a stony beach, watching the waves roll in. The day is cloudy, an omen not altogether unexpected. His relationship with Muqallad has always been this way. Why should this day be any different?
The stones crunch as he squats, and while he runs his hand along the rocky shore, feeling the weight of it, the water mingles among the stones with gentle sighs.
Out to sea, the water begins to swirl. It froths and boils, and Khamal can feel it as he touches the stone. A form can be seen moving up from the depths, and soon the surface of the water breaks, and Muqallad begins to rise.
His hair is black and curly. His beard is braided with golden rings woven into the strands, making him look like a king from beneath the sea. His eyes are dark, and he is bare-chested. He stares at the island, failing to see Khamal from the shroud Khamal had placed over it long ago-when Muqallad had left.
Khamal finds a single rock among the countless others, a rock of reddish hue, with striations of black and silver. He stands and holds it out at arm’s length.
And Muqallad turns. He stares straight at Khamal, though surely he cannot yet see through the shroud.
He has learned much. Perhaps too much.
But what is there to do now?
Khamal allows the stone to drop. And the shroud falls away.
Together they walk toward the city. As they fall into step, neither he nor Muqallad leads the other. They talk, of their travels, of knowledge gained, of loves found and regrets discovered. It is as if the past five decades had never occurred, so easy is it to speak to him.
As it was of old.
But as they reach the edge of Alayazhar, they both go silent. Among the streets, though they cannot be seen, are the akhoz, the wanderers, the lost. The forgotten. It had been Muqallad’s idea long ago to shroud the city in illusion, painting it as whole and pristine when in reality it was a broken and tragic thing. Khamal allows the veil to fall away, only for a moment. There are three of them, all children once, standing nearby. They are naked. Their lips are black. Where their eyes once were is now smooth skin. They raise their noses to the sky, somehow still able to smell them despite all their attempts to mask their scent. As Muqallad and Khamal continue, the akhoz scrabble after, their noses to the sky, their lips pulled back in rictus grins.
Khamal allows the illusion to fall back into place. He has never been able to look upon them for long.
They approach a tower, a pinnacle of ivory that stands near the harbor. The air between them grows even more tense. Both of them know who awaits here. Both of them remember what happened.
When they come to the black iron gates surrounding the tower, the wooden door at the tower’s base opens. There stands Sariya, she of the golden hair, she of the blue eyes and graceful face. She is a child of autumn, a child of the dying day. A child of indecision. Khamal should have thought of this when they agreed, together, to banish Muqallad from the island.
Muqallad opens the gate and holds it for Khamal. As Khamal steps through, Sariya studies him, and the skin beneath her brow pinches. It is a momentary thing-there one moment and gone the next-but Khamal knows instantly that he has been betrayed.
“My Lord Prince!” the guard stood at Nikandr’s side.
Realizing where he was and what had happened, Nikandr waved him away and stood. Thankfully the pain was already beginning to subside.
“My Lord?” He was staring at Nikandr’s chest.
Nikandr looked down. Something was glowing beneath his shirt. He pulled out his stone, and found it to be glowing just as brightly as the light from within Nasim’s living sculpture.
“Leave us,” Nikandr said to the guard. “And speak of this to no one.”
“Of course, My Lord.”
When the guard had stepped into the hall and closed the door, Nikandr met Nasim’s eyes. There was an awareness Nikandr hadn’t seen in him before, an awareness that spoke of a clear grounding in reality.
“That was you, wasn’t it? You were Khamal.”
Nasim’s face became tortured, and Nikandr felt fortunate that he couldn’t remember the things that seemed to haunt the boy so. “I was many people.”
“Do you remember them all?”
Nasim shook his head. “Not all.” He smiled, a fleeting thing. “Not yet.”
“Does Ashan know these things?”
“He may. He is wise. Wiser than I have ever been, I fear.” Nasim pulled his knees up to his chest, the position now eerily familiar. “Will you kill him?”
Nikandr was confused at first, but quickly came to understand that he meant Ashan. “I would not wish it.”
“But it is not in your hands.”
He debated lying to Nasim, if only to calm him. This sudden clarity in the boy was an opportunity he did not want to waste. But the Aramahn valued honesty above almost everything-excepting perhaps the sanctity of life-and the boy seemed to know much more than Nikandr would have guessed only minutes ago.
The light within the living sculpture, which had been sparkling white, shifted so that red was mixed in, and the fronds seemed to quiver rather than wave.
“It could be. I need only discover what happened when the suurahezhan crossed to this world. Can you tell me about that day?”
Nasim blinked several times. He looked lost in thought, perhaps recalling the events in his mind.
“Please,” Nikandr urged. “Tell me what happened. Was it you that summoned the suurahezhan?”
He was shaking his head, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of some growing discomfort or if it was in answer to his question. “She was there.”
“Who was there?”
Nasim’s face transformed from a boy deep in thought to the expression he’d worn so often since coming to the palotza, a blank expression that told Nikandr that this moment of lucidity had passed.
“Nasim?”
Nearby, the delicate structure of stone crashed to the ground. As the cords struck the floor, they shattered into hundreds of pieces. His soulstone dimmed until it was just as it had been before its sudden resurgence.
“Nasim?” Nikandr prompted. “Nasim, can you hear me?”
He tried for long minutes, but Nasim had gone back to whatever place so occupied his mind, and Nikandr, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out what any of this meant.
He touched his chest-the pain still fading-and felt his flask. A numbness spread through him, the kind one feels when struck with something so certain that it didn’t seem possible.
The elixir…
He had used it each time he’d felt a connection with Nasim. The eyrie.
The cliff. The frozen lake. Here in the donjon of Radiskoye. It had to be the reason, though why that could be he had no idea.
Nikandr rode next to Borund on a well-worn trail along the southern border of Khalakovo’s largest forest. The ground tapered slowly down to the sea. The day was bright if not warm, and it was good to feel fresh wind upon his
