did this, the Gorovna would slip free of the currents that ran between the islands, the currents that had been meticulously groomed and guided by the spires and by the delicate hand of the Matri over centuries. Outside of these shipping lanes, the aether swirled and eddied as unpredictably as it did at the base of the eyrie’s cliffs. Worse-the effect was often stronger, the aether swirling into unforgiving maelstroms that would rip the ship to pieces were Nikandr to engage the ship’s controls once more.
Once free of the stream that ran between the Khalakovan and Vostroman archipelagos, they would be forced to rely on the abilities of Jahalan to guide the ship like the Aramahn did in their tiny skiffs.
But really, despite his fears, there was no choice in this. If he didn’t, the Kavda would have them.
Before he could change his mind, he pushed all three levers forward until they locked into place, and the ship began to turn and drift windward.
CHAPTER 40
The Gorovna twisted in the wind, and though Nikandr had not said a word, it soon became clear to any experienced sailor what was happening.
Viggen’s voice cut through the mist from the stern of the ship. “Kapitan?”
“Silence on deck!” Nikandr shouted as loud as he dared.
Several more shots rang out from the Kavda, but they were further now and the shots went wide. A short while later, soft as a memory, Nikandr heard the order to come about. Soon the Gorovna would be out of reach, and it was doubtful the Kavda would brave the currents to chase them down. If they did, they might succeed in capturing or destroying their quarry, but more likely than not they would in the process become lost to the winds as well.
Jahalan guided them, being careful not to use too heavy a hand lest the havaqiram aboard the Kavda sense it. The mist began to recede. Nikandr could once again see the foremast clearly. The wounded crewman lay on his side at the stern, rolling his head from side to side while Viggen, kneeling over him, clamped his hand over the man’s mouth to keep him from screaming. Udra pulled a black-and-white scarf from around her neck and began binding the man’s wound. The deck around them was bloody and mangled from grapeshot.
They continued northward, a few calls from the Kavda coming to them from within the mist. The Gorovna had now completely drifted free from it, and as the distance increased, Nikandr saw how truly immense it was. It looked like a cloud the size of an island, churning as the wind pushed them onward.
“It must be Ashan,” Jahalan said.
Nikandr furrowed his brow. “Or Nasim.”
Jahalan laughed softly. “Or Nasim.”
Nikandr studied the northern sky for any sign of the skiff, but there was none. “Is Ghayavand truly a place between worlds?”
“Who can tell? Some doubt that it exists at all. Others say it is nothing but an island where powerful qiram once lived. Others believe a doorway once existed, but that it has since closed.”
“What do you think?”
“Me?”Jahalan’s face became pensive as he too studied the horizon.“I think that something as hidden as Ghayavand is as good as a myth.”
One more cannon blast interrupted the silence, but it was soft, distant, muted by the depths of the fog.
“And what if it were real? What would you do then?”
A genuine smile lit his face. “I would learn. The day we stop listening to the lessons around us…”
“Is the day we begin to die,” Nikandr said, completing the proverb. “So you always say, but I have heard of the riches of Alayazhar.” Jahalan, like Udra and dozens of other Aramahn, had pledged themselves to Khalakovo. They had found their place, as they say, and had dedicated themselves to teaching the Landed the ways of the world as seen through the eyes of the Aramahn.
“You mean to ask would I betray my oath. I would not, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t cry for my own loss.”
“Perhaps in the next life,” Nikandr said.
“Perhaps,” Jahalan replied. “Do you still believe the city you saw in your visions was Alayazhar?”
Nikandr shrugged. “Who can say? Perhaps it was something Nasim saw somewhere when he was younger. But it felt real, as if I were the one with the memories… Nyet, as if I were living it, then and there.”
“And what if we find this place? What then?”
“We find Ashan and we bring him back.”
“What of the wasting?”
Jahalan had said the words nonchalantly, perhaps hoping to ease into the conversation, but it struck Nikandr physically. He reeled, shocked and embarrassed that Jahalan had found him out.
“Who knows?” Nikandr asked.
“Only Udra and I, but the crew suspects.”
Nikandr wanted to laugh. “They consider it another ill omen, I expect.”
“They do.”
Nikandr arched his neck back and took a deep breath. “There is time for me yet. My only hope is to bring Nasim back home, to unlock the riddle within him.”
Jahalan turned to face Nikandr. He reached out and gripped Nikandr’s shoulder affectionately. “Best you take care of yourself, then. Eat, and make sure the crew sees you doing it. Throw up if you must, but do so in your own cabin.”
Nikandr nodded, thankful for having someone who knew, thankful at not having to hide it, at least some of the time. “I will.”
The following night, Nikandr retired to the kapitan’s cabin to ride out another coughing fit. The spells were not lasting as long as they once did, but they left him feeling much more weakened when they were done. It was as if his body had had enough and his defenses were crumbling.
Viggen knocked on his door with an offer of food. He accepted, but it took him nearly an hour to force down the meager ration he’d allowed for himself and the crew. With the prevailing winds largely controlling their direction, he had chosen to stay high above the water instead of dropping to fish. It was not food, in any case, that was the issue. It was liquids. Their supply of ale was beginning to run low.
That night, he forced himself to sleep, though it was difficult with the interminable ache in his chest. When he finally did fall asleep, it was deep.
As were his dreams.
At the fluttering wings of a bird, Khamal opens his eyes. He expects a gull, but finds instead a thrush with spotted wings and a fiery red breast standing on the tower’s parapet. He sees this as an ill omen. The thrush flaps down from the parapet to the wooden roof. It hops closer to Khamal’s feet, and then it alights, scared by the creaking sound of the hinged door that opens nearby.
Muqallad is first, followed by Sariya, who carries a curved knife, a ceremonial khanjar. She holds it as though it would bite, but her face is resolute.
They stand before him.
“Your last chance,” Muqallad says.
Khamal ignores him, giving all his attention to Sariya. She stares back, and though she acts strong, he can tell that she regrets what she has done-not enough to change her mind, but there is regret, and that is a start.
“Small consolation,” he says softly.
“What?” Muqallad replies.
“You have lived centuries longer than you’d ever imagined, and you still believe that you can force upon the world its destiny.”
“The fates knew well that they were ceding the world to us. They should not be surprised when a plan of their own devising bears fruit at last.”
Khamal views the horizon, feeling in his heart the tear in the world that runs through the islands. “Only when this is healed can the world move on.”
