When she once again stood on the topmost level of the tower, Sariya turned from the window to regard her. She did not revel in Atiana’s return, nor did she seem expectant. She merely waited for Atiana to speak.
“I will do it,” Atiana said. “I will speak with the Matri, but I require help.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
W hen Nasim woke from his dream, it was to the feeling of warm tears streaming down his own face.
Strong were the sounds of the surf. Strong was the scent of the sea. Stronger still were the memories of Alif, the boy Khamal had murdered to secure his release from the island. Khamal had murdered him, and now his soul was gone. Lost to the world. Khamal had not only made it possible by turning him into akhoz, he’d been the one to drive home the blade.
It made Nasim sick to his stomach.
How many had Khamal sent to this undeserving fate? Dozens, certainly-dozens of children taken by Khamal in order to protect Ghayavand, to prevent the rift from spreading.
What made Nasim’s fingers shake was the fact that Khamal had sacrificed more than just Alif. He’d bled his own soul, and in doing so he’d bled Nasim’s as well. He’d taken all that Nasim could one day have been with the simple thrust of a knife.
“Nasim?”
He looked up, startled.
Kaleh was kneeling near his head, as she’d been when he’d begun to dream-
If only it had been a dream. It was a memory-a memory he knew to be all too real.
In Kaleh’s blue eyes-her mother’s eyes-was concern, but there was hunger as well, hunger for the knowledge he’d gained. Surely she’d seen what he’d seen-her look was too knowing for it to be otherwise-but she didn’t know everything. She didn’t understand.
Her face turned sad and apologetic. She shifted until she was kneeling by his side and pulled him into an embrace. The simple gesture spoke of apology, of asking him for something he wasn’t yet ready to give. For a time they simply held one another, but Nasim began to feel smothered-not by her, but by this place, and the village around it.
“Come,” he said, taking her hand.
He led her out from the arboretum and together they walked for a time.
The wind was unnaturally strong. It made the hems of their robes snap. It pushed them as they walked.
Nasim thought he was leading her aimlessly through Mirashadal, but he soon realized he was taking a familiar path. They wound through the bulk of the village proper and came eventually to the ballast, the long spire of wood that dropped down from the upper portion of the village. Around the ballast was a railed walking path that wound its way lower and lower until at last they came to a platform-the lowest place in the entire village. He used to come here and put his head out over the edge of the platform. He would sit there for hours at a time, wondering what would happen if he simply leapt. Would Erahm save him? Would Adhiya?
Many times he had slipped over to the other side of the railing and leaned out over open air. A simple slip of his hands was all it would have taken, and all the confusion and madness and pain and even ecstasy he’d experienced in Oshtoyets as he’d swallowed the stones would have been gone. Back then, all he’d wanted was a moment of peace. He had thought death would deliver him to his next life, and he’d begin again, perhaps poorer for resorting to taking his own life but at least free to begin again without the curse that Khamal had laid upon him.
Dropping Kaleh’s hand, he sat on the planks, putting his legs out between the railing. Kaleh did the same, and for a short while it felt as though they were simply two children, sitting and measuring the wind.
“I wonder why I cannot touch Adhiya,” Nasim said.
“Because you prevent yourself from doing so.”
“If that’s so, how is it that I can manipulate others?”
“You were lost as a child, Nasim. You floundered in the sea. Is it any wonder you grabbed for that which might save you? Is it any wonder you would do the same after you woke?”
In the distance, lightning arced within black clouds, lighting them from within. Long seconds later, the thunder came, rumbling and ominous.
“Khamal bled himself,” Nasim said to her, hoping more than anything that she would be able to help unravel this mystery.
“What do you mean?”
“He cut his wrist. He fed his blood to one of the akhoz. It bled from him his power. It bled from him his soul.” The lightning arced again, longer, brighter. “He bled mine as well.”
“You hadn’t even been born,” Kaleh said.
“He took it just the same. He and I are connected. We’re practically one, and he sacrificed our most precious gift so that he could return unfettered by the bonds the survivors of the sundering had placed on him.”
“Then what happened?”
Nasim, unwilling to share so much, listened to the wind. A gull called, flying up from below the village to fight the gusts and land on a ledge above them.
“I don’t blame you for keeping it to yourself,” Kaleh said. “I know what it’s like to hide secrets. The Landed man, Nikandr Khalakovo. I lied to him. I lied to Soroush as well. I led them to my father.”
“Why?” Nasim asked.
“Does it matter?”
Nasim looked over, realizing that she was crying. Tears slipped along her cheeks and fell upon her robes.
“I suppose it doesn’t,” Nasim answered, returning his attention to the horizon. “Did you know that Muqallad cast a spell over Khamal?”
“ Neh, I did not.”
“It’s the reason I couldn’t return fully to Erahm, the reason I was caught between worlds. When Muqallad and Sariya conspired to murder him on top of Sariya’s tower, Muqallad drew upon Khamal, preventing me from being born fully. And so, while I know that Khamal wished to heal the rift, I don’t know how he meant me to do it.”
The dark clouds were closer. A cold sleet began to fall, the sound like rashers in a frying pan.
“Isn’t that what we all struggle with?”
“What?”
“Our purpose.”
“That may be true, but most people have free will.”
She stood and kissed the top of his head. “You have more choices than you realize, Nasim.”
She took to the stairs, leaving him alone at the bottom of the village. Somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to rise, so he sat there and let the sleet bite him.
When he was sure Kaleh could no longer see him, he stood and stepped over the railing as he’d done so many times before. He leaned out, wondering if the fates would cause his hands to slip on the slick wood. Below, the sea churned. If he fell, he would fall to his death-there would be no one to save him-and unlike those early days on Mirashadal, he knew now that he would not return. Death would not be a release. It would not lead to a new life. It would not be a beginning, but an end.
As his breath flew white upon the wind, he felt as if he were the world itself. It, too, would one day cease to exist, and he wondered whether Muqallad’s plans would bring that about. He wasn’t even sure it would be a bad thing. After eons, perhaps the fates thought it time to slumber at last.
Nasim’s grip tightened when someone spoke behind him.
“Will you jump?” It was Ashan’s voice, and in it were notes of both forced amusement and hidden concern.
“I don’t know,” Nasim replied.
Ashan approached, his soft leather boots crunching over the sleet-covered platform. “It would be a shame.
