“Please don’t do this. You don’t know who I am.”
“Don’t I?” He reached down with the knife. “You’re Landless. You’re nothing.”
“She is Maharraht-”
Gierten’s husband looked up just in time to see Soroush rushing forward with a khanjar gripped tightly in one hand.
“-and she is worth more than you and all your ancestors.”
CHAPTER 29
Soroush drove the khanjar deep into the fisherman’s gut while fending off a hurried counterattack. Ruslan’s eyes went impossibly wide. His face reddened. The knife fell from his grip and thumped softly against the earth. He grabbed at Soroush’s wrist, trying to pull the khanjar free, but Soroush was strong, and the man was already beginning to weaken.
The older man had been too shocked to move, but then he dove for his son’s knife. He never reached it. He was pulled backward and off of Rehada by Bersuq.
Rehada scrabbled away and reached her feet.
Bersuq was nearly fifty, but still he grabbed the other man around the waist and flipped him to the ground as if he were felling a lamb. He drew his own khanjar-a curving blade with runes worked along its length-and brought it down hard into the old man’s chest.
A ragged inhalation of breath accompanied the man’s panicked attempts at removing the blade, but mere moments later he fell back, lifeless. Rehada, breathing heavily, her fingers tingling, studied his face as she approached. As Bersuq pulled the knife free and stood, she reached his side, seeing details in the man she hadn’t noticed before-the deep lines in his tanned face; the spots along his brow from his days on the sea; his rough, gnarled hands; the scars that ran through the light white stubble covering his chin and neck.
His soul, even now, was crossing over to Adhiya, to join the hezhan until such a time as the fates decided he should return. She wondered if he would be reborn as Aramahn or Landed. There were those among her people, especially the Maharraht, that believed Landed returned as Landed, Aramahn as Aramahn. It was foolishness-an attempt to further divide the peoples of the world-and as it always did when she saw the loss of life, it reminded her of her daughter’s passing, of the day she would pass, of how much had changed for her people over the last few generations.
As always, death was making her question the choices she had made, her decision to join the Maharraht and their thirst to reclaim a thing that was said to be owned by no one: the land itself. If anything, the land owned you. She questioned whether or not she could continue with such willful hatred.
But then she remembered her daughter’s blackened skin in the smoking wreckage of the house-her clawed hands and curled-up form. She had been told of the streltsi, how they had chased a pair of Maharraht to a simple home on the outskirts of a village not unlike Izhny. The Maharraht had taken refuge and had refused to leave. The couple that lived there-a couple Rehada knew well-had been watching Ahya while Rehada took breath on the tallest mountain on Nazakhov. Hoping to protect both Ahya and the Maharraht, they had shut the doors to Bolgravya’s soldiers and refused to open them. Rather than force their way in, the soldiers had secured the doors and set the structure ablaze. The windows were too small to crawl from. They had no chance to escape.
Rehada had returned hours later from a time of extreme peace. She had felt, before being told what had happened, like she had made great strides toward an understanding of this island. It was exhilarating. So many of her experiences had combined on that mountaintop, and she felt as though the road had been paved for even more in coming travels. But then she had found the blackened ruins of a home where her daughter had been trapped by the soldiers.
Rehada’s stomach turned while the memories of that day played within her mind. She knew she had lost lifetimes of progress on her way toward vashaqiram with the decision she had made-along with Soroush-to join the Maharraht. But the ways of the Landed could not continue. She was glad she could do this, that her brothers and sisters might be spared; she was glad to sacrifice so that the entirety of her people would not have to suffer the same.
Soroush released a short, piercing whistle. Bersuq scanned the ground over Rehada’s shoulder.
Rehada turned and found Gierten standing near the corner of the cottage, training a musket on Soroush. Soroush darted to one side while Bersuq sprinted toward her, releasing a melodic war cry as he went.
She changed her mind, aiming for Bersuq. She squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened. She looked incredulously at the musket, as if it had betrayed her, and then she threw it at Bersuq, who dodged easily and grabbed her by the hair. In one quick motion, he was behind her, his arm locked around her throat. Bersuq tightened his hold. Gierten’s face went bright red. Mere moments later, her eyes closed and she went limp. Bersuq lowered her to the ground, where she remained, unconscious, the musket lying just next to her.
As Bersuq began dragging Gierten toward the trees, Soroush rounded on Rehada. “A pretty hole you’ve dug for us,” he said in Mahndi. “What were you doing?”
Rehada stared down at the men, shaking her head. More and more to atone for, she thought to herself. “We should leave.”
“Answer my question.”
“I hoped to secure the stone,” she lied, “to leave no evidence behind.”
“You should have left it to us.”
“I have been careful to construct a life here, Soroush, a life free of suspicion. I would not wish it to unravel in a matter of days.”
“Your life here is nearly at an end, Rehada.”
“Think well on this, Soroush. All of this could still fall around our ears. I still have Nikandr’s trust. Would you throw that away for nothing?”
He paused, breathing heavily, glancing eastward toward Radiskoye. “That will not matter after tonight.”
“Why?”
“We are taking Nasim back.”
She paused. Things were moving so quickly. She did not trust Nasim, but she wasn’t yet sure she wanted him in Soroush’s hands. “You are sure?”
“I am sure.”
Bersuq had returned after dragging the men’s bodies into the forest. He motioned to Soroush. “Toward the westward shore.”
Soroush glanced in that direction, and then faced Rehada squarely. “Return to Volgorod. Wait for word.”
They left, trudging through the forest undergrowth carrying two shovels and a pick. When the two of them could no longer be seen, Rehada stepped inside Gierten’s simple home. A wooden table and chairs occupied one corner, a potbelly stove another. The hearth was made from rounded stone and aged mortar. The mantel held several pieces of carved bone, a hobby of Ruslan’s, perhaps. A hand-woven rug covered the floor nearby, and a rocking chair sat by the window near the front door.
An entire home, wiped away in an instant. What had they done to deserve it?
They’d done nothing. They had had the misfortune, as Soroush had put it, of being born Landed. When would all of this end, she wondered. And what would come of the rift? If Soroush had his way, Nasim would be back in his hands soon. Would he wipe away the life on Khalakovo as he’d done in this simple fisherman’s home? Would they return enlightened? Or would it continue the cycle of discontent that seemed to have gripped the world?
She took a deep breath, readying to leave, when she noticed movement among the trees. A woman dressed in Landed riding clothes was moving stealthily through the forest. She moved with a certain grace, but she was no woodsman, and her raiment was fine. Fine enough for royalty.
It struck her all of a sudden. This woman was strikingly similar to the pale, blonde-haired beauty she’d seen in the halls of Radiskoye. And for good reason. This was no other than Atiana Vostroma. What would she be doing here, and what would have possessed her to follow two Maharraht?
Rehada nearly let her go, nearly let her walk into the jaws of the wolf that would meet her on the nearby shore, but too much blood had been spilled this day, and she realized with a numb sense of horror that she was
