The scene outside the window is of an old Landed man in a boat. His grizzled and pockmarked face holds an expression of savage concentration as he uses scarred hands to secure an ebony-skinned cod onto a hook. He throws the fish-now attached to a line which in turn is attached to a pole resting in a sleeve on the gunwale-into the water and repeats the process on another line, and another, until he has four lines in. And then he waits, staring at the sea as he rests his chin upon his hands. Every so often he touches the tips of his fingers to one of the poles, perhaps praying to his fathers for a catch that might never come.
The window faces south, the direction of summer, of heat, of willfulness. That he uses such large bait gives clue to what he is searching for-a large catch. Too large. It speaks of a man who will not give up even though what he searches for is clearly beyond his means. This man has pride and a lifetime on the water to guide him, but he also has a desperation that says he will never get what he wants, that even if he does it will not be enough.
“Never,” comes the answer from his mouth, though it is with a sense of sadness, for he has known men like this.
She looks into his eyes with respect and a touch of anger. Her jaw is set grimly, as if she wishes this game to be over and done with. When she moves to the western window, she crosses her arms over her chest.
“Who will she become?”
The image-Nikandr draws in breath without meaning to-is of Rehada. She is younger than when they had first met, perhaps only twenty years old. She is standing before the burnt, smoking remains of a house, and she is staring at a blackened skeleton, its posture locked in the rigor of what must surely have been a very gruesome and painful death.
Others talk around her, and to her, but she pays them no mind. She has eyes only for the body, and he suddenly realizes the ironic joke that is being played on him. Here is he, gazing through the window of spring, of birth and growth, as Rehada looks upon what must surely have been her child. The look upon her face is one of cold surety, of ruthless calculation, and it wars with what he knows of her. She has always been warm, has in fact been open about her life around the islands and her decision to live upon Uyadensk… But she has never once mentioned a child. What else, then, has she lied about?
Who will she become?
He has seen such looks before, upon the faces of the enemy, of those who will not rest until the Landed have been pushed from the islands, and it suddenly strikes him the meaning of the word Maharraht. Its primary meaning is the forgotten, the shunned, but it stems from a beautiful desert flower that only blooms in spring, and in the ancient language of Kalhani-a language that the woman questioning him surely knows-it is akin to spring and rebirth.
“I know who she becomes,” he finally answers, a knot forming in his throat.
“Then say it.”
He swallows. Once. Twice. “Do not make me.”
“What is in a word?”
“A word can weigh heavier than stone.”
“Say it,” she says, her voice hard.
“Maharraht.”
Her smile is one of pleasure, as though a grand plan has just come together. She walks to the center of the room and stands near the bed. She spreads her arms wide and the views through all four windows change. He does not look, however. His mind is preoccupied with a woman he thought he loved, but he is forced to focus himself once more when she speaks her final question.
“How are they related?”
The scenes in the window show different people at different times in their lives. Two men, one woman, and a girl. There is nothing he can see that connects them-not their clothes, not their surroundings, not their mannerisms. He inspects each one closely, watching for any sign that might give him a clue, but he finds nothing, and his heart begins to beat heavily. He has come so far… He cannot come this close only to fail.
There is nothing of the smile Sariya had when this game first began. In fact, she seems sad as she watches him. Sad and lonely.
He realizes that she stands near the bed in the center of the room. The center for the Aramahn is no one direction; it is all directions. It is the cycle of life; it is rebirth. It is what has come before and what has yet to come. These images can be no other than her previous lives, and suddenly he realizes that she misses them. Somehow she has become trapped in this place. She is Ghayavand-part and parcel of this island-but it was not always so. She wants to be free from it, and if that cannot happen, she wants him to join her.
“They are you,” he says.
She runs her fingers over the sheets on the bed while stepping closer to him. She is stunning. The curve of her jaw, the line of her neck, skin soft and smooth, arms that might hold him forever.
“The things you might see.” The very words from her lips sing. “They would astound you. I will share all of it if you would remain.”
When he doesn’t open his mouth-he cannot for fear of acceding-she deems it a refusal and steps away from the bed. She approaches him with graceful steps until they are chest to chest. He feels the warmth coming from her, the swell of her breasts pressing against his ribs, the tickle of her hair as she leans in and nestles against his neck. The faint smell of jasmine taints the air as she places one warm kiss at the base of his neck, and as her arms wrap around him and caress his back, he feels himself harden.
“We would be one. Forever.”
He realizes as she speaks these words that he would not mind such a thing. He is young, but life on the islands has been hard. They would rule this place and no one would stand against them. No one.
CHAPTER 52
He leans down and kisses her. Her lips are moist and hot. He takes her in his arms and holds her tight as their kiss deepens, and soon he realizes that they are moving toward the bed. He removes his clothes as she slips the dress from her shoulders and allows it to pool about her feet. He picks her up and together they fall into the bed. He runs down the length of her, pressing kiss after kiss against her neck, her breasts, her stomach, and finally her thighs. She spreads her legs at the merest touch, and when he runs his tongue near her lips, she sucks in breath.
When he can stand it no more, he runs his chest along her stomach and breasts and kisses her once more, ready to enter her.
As he waits, prolonging the pleasure to the point of ache, something strikes him-he cannot feel her heartbeat. He can feel his own, which is beating madly, but he cannot feel hers. He leans down and kisses her cheek and ear, if only to gain a bit more time.
He knows not how, but it is true-no blood runs through her veins. And he realizes with a start where he is, who this woman is, his purpose here.
Where, he wonders with a growing sense of desperation, are Ashan and Nasim and Pietr?
“Come,” she whispers, reaching between her legs and stroking him with her hand.
He resists, and feels her tense beneath him.
Her grip tightens. “Come.”
He tries to pull away but she grabs the back of his neck and with a strength that belies her frame pulls him down until their lips are once again locked.
He twists away and falls from the bed. “ Nyet!”
She pauses, her expression no longer one of anger, but shock. She slips from the bed and stands over him. “What did you say?” “I said, nyet.”
Her eyes thin. “Khamal?”
“I am Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo. Khamal is the man you betrayed for Muqallad.”
She stands taller, but somehow it only makes her seem frail. She draws her arms in, glances through the nearby windows. “Has it been so long?”
“It has, and Nasim has done nothing to you. Give me the knowledge to reach him. To make him whole.”
