did.
And then he remembered his vision of Nasim, on the ship, just before it had plummeted into the sea. He had known of their connection, their link, for some time, but it had always seemed to be at Nasim’s discretion. Why, Nikandr thought, could it not work the other way?
He closed his eyes.
He reached out.
Nasim, he called. Nasim, please hear me.
Nothing. And the vanahezhan had nearly reached the bank. Pietr turned, ready to run.
Nikandr had become accustomed to the sensations that Nasim created when they were linked. It was one of disorientation, but also of connection to the world. That was the key, he realized.
He opened his mind to the air and its loamy scent, its kiss upon his wet skin and the clouds above. To the earth, the feel of it as it pressed against the water, and the water pressed against it, the way it held the trees in its grip, its massive presence as it rose toward the peaks of the island.
And he feels him.
He is near. So near.
He wants to ask Nasim for his help, but he cannot. He feels only the world around him, the cool touch of the water, the rippling waves and the tug of the current. He can feel the stones that lie along the riverbed, the rivulets that feed this greater body and the coursing mass of fresh water that flows out for hundreds of yards into the salty sea.
On the other side, just beyond the veil, is a jalahezhan. It watches, curious. It would be so simple to draw him across, to bring his aid. This seems wrong, somehow-a violation-but he does so anyway, for his need is great.
Nikandr shook his head, the vision that was so clear a moment ago vanishing. He watched as the massive spirit of earth gained the edge of the bank. As it began climbing out, a tendril of water snaked upward along one leg and wrapped around its waist. The vanahezhan turned and pounded four fists simultaneously into the water, sending white, frothing water high into the air. It resumed its climb up the bank, and to Nikandr its movements seemed desperate now. The thick cord of water was still around it, and the tendrils, like quickly growing vines, hungrily climbed the length of its leg. The sad cries of the creature were cut off as it was pulled backward and under the water.
The water churned as Nikandr gained the opposite shore. He ran into the forest just as the tree was grabbed by two black arms and pulled beneath the surface. The gouts of water continued to fly, and the pool was now swirling violently with the detritus of the tree and the vanahezhan. The last Nikandr saw was the tree breaking the surface in a rush and then bobbing there as the water churned and roiled.
Nikandr pointed Pietr upriver. Nasim was somewhere in that direction, he was sure. He could feel him.
After about half a league, they came across a shallow ford. Nikandr crossed, and they continued uphill toward a ridge they could see through the breaks in the trees. They heard movement. Someone was running ahead, hidden among the dense foliage. The tall trees were much less prevalent here, but that only meant that the going was much slower, as grass taller than men and ferns the size of a skiff now dominated the landscape.
And suddenly, the forest stopped. Ahead, a dozen paces away, was bare rock leading to the edge of a precipice.
Nasim stood there, his back to Nikandr. He turned, somehow sensing their presence, before resuming his watch of the landscape below.
“Nasim?” Nikandr said as he took a step forward. He didn’t know why, but he had the distinct impression the boy was preparing to leap from the edge of the cliff.
Pietr crept forward, preparing to rush Nasim, until Nikandr grabbed his arm and shook his head.
“Nasim, can you hear me?”
Nasim turned to face Nikandr. His heels were touching the sharp edge of the rock. A wave of vertigo passed over Nikandr just watching him.
“Step away, Nasim. I want to talk to you.”
The wind tugged at the simple black vest the boy wore, and played with his short brown hair.
“Where is Ashan?” Nikandr asked, taking another small step toward Nasim.
“They are near.”
“Who is?”
He looked into Nikandr’s eyes with a serious expression. “Sariya.” He glanced back over the cliff. “And Muqallad.”
“Do not be afraid, Nasim. We won’t let them harm you.”
Nasim shook his head. “I was meant to return here, to find them. But you know this, do you not?”
Nikandr nodded. “Where can we find them?”
Nasim pointed to the ridgeline to the north. “In Alayazhar.”
Moments later, the wall of plants nearby parted, and Ashan stepped out from behind a large fern, brushing off his arms as he did so. His curly hair was tousled by the wind, and his robes were rumpled and dirty, but otherwise he looked little different from the first time they’d met on the eyrie.
As Nikandr stared at him and the calm expression on his face, all the confusion-the frustration and the rage that had built over the days since leaving Khalakovo-boiled over. He stalked forward and struck Ashan across the face.
Ashan stared at Nikandr, his eyes wild with shock and pain. Nikandr stepped in and drove a punch up and into his gut. Ashan doubled over.
Nikandr allowed him to fall to the ground.“My men died for you! Udra, a woman who has caused you no harm, is dead because of you!”
“We cannot make our way to the horizon without passing through the field of heather.”
It was a common saying among the Landless-a message of focusing on the present, not the future; on the here, not the far-but it grated, and Nikandr nearly kicked him as he lay there, defenseless. “We are not heather!”
“I know this, son of Iaros,” Ashan said as he came to his feet. “I only mean to say that I feel your pain, and I wish that I might have been able to prevent it.”
“It was because of you that our ship crashed!”
“ Neh.” He wiped the back of his hand across his lips, which were bleeding. He spit a wash of red to clear his mouth. And again. “It is the island you must look to, and the arqesh who still battle for its supremacy.”
“My Lord Prince?” It was Pietr’s voice.
Ashan looked over Nikandr’s shoulder, and his eyes went wide. When Nikandr turned, he found Nasim standing at the very edge of the cliff. His arms were spread wide as the wind from far below rushed up the cliff, playing with his hair and snapping the fabric of his sleeves.
“Nasim, come,” Ashan said softly. “It is not yet time.”
“How can you be sure?” he asked without turning around.
“Because we haven’t reached the tower.”
Nasim turned and faced Ashan with a curious look on his face. “True.” He walked forward as if he were taking a stroll and then took Nikandr’s hand. “Then we had better find it.”
As Nikandr allowed himself to be pulled along, his anger drained away. It was replaced by deep shame at attacking a man who would probably never raise a hand to defend himself. Making it worse was the realization that Ashan was also someone who had done things to protect him and his men on the journey here, a journey Nikandr himself had elected to embark on.
Ashan fell into step. Pietr followed up the rear. Part of Nikandr still wanted to be angry with Ashan, but too much of their predicament felt like Nikandr’s fault, not Ashan’s.
“I saw a tower,” Nikandr said, “in my dreams.”
Ashan nodded. “Nasim has spoken of it over the months I’ve known him. In fits and starts, he’s laid out the story of his life here on Ghayavand. The tower is where he and Sariya lived, until their defenses were finally breached by Muqallad.”
“I thought all three of them were warring for control of Ghayavand.”
“They were, but Sariya and Nasim-or Khamal, as he was known then-were driven by need, a common cause
