He glances to the east, where the sun’s first rays are cresting the horizon. “Come,” he says. “It is time.”
Nasim woke, jostling back and forth. The sky above him shook. It took him some time, but he realized he was in someone’s arms. He looked up and found Ashan grimacing as he carried Nasim away from the battle. Behind them, a dozen akhoz followed, galloping over the ground on all fours like a pack of mongrel dogs. There were no soldiers-no streltsi of Anuskaya, no janissaries of Yrstanla.
Over the tops of the smaller buildings, Nasim saw a gout of fire strike the vanahezhan he’d summoned. The skin of the vanahezhan’s chest steamed and cracked like parched earth.
Ashan was nearing the Spar’s wide, circular landing.
“Put me down,” Nasim said.
Ashan kept running.
“Put me down!”
Ashan stopped, and finally did put Nasim down. His glanced at his own shoulder, shaking, as if he were about to pass out. How he had managed to carry him so far, Nasim couldn’t guess.
Ashan smiled as widely as he was able, revealing crooked teeth. “I’ll be well.”
“Then come. We must hurry.”
Together they took to the bridge, both of them moving slowly, Nasim from the wound to his left leg and Ashan from the shot to his shoulder. As they passed beyond the cliff and over the straits, the currents of the wind became chaotic. The wind gusted and howled, pressing against them as they made their way along it. It was so strong it threatened to knock them from their feet if they weren’t careful.
They moved lower to the ground, and could see others approaching the center of the bridge from the far side. A cadre of men and women wearing robes of black and gray-the Hratha, led by several Nasim already recognized: Muqallad and Sariya and Atiana.
And Nikandr, from whom he could still sense their shared bond. He was shocked. He thought it had been severed on Ghayavand, but here it still was, a tendril thin as spider’s silk.
The wind intensified. It was so loud Nasim could barely think. Two of the akhoz fell and were whisked off of the bridge. They twisted and clawed at empty air, twisting and tumbling until they were lost from sight.
Nasim drew upon a havahezhan to counter these winds-Ashan helped as well-but it was a constant tug o’ war, the two of them pulling this way and that in reaction to the chaotic ways of the winds.
They made slow progress, but three more akhoz were lost. The remaining seven Nasim unleashed. They stayed low as they sprinted forward, their calls nearly lost among the thunder of the wind. The Hratha-only two or three dozen were left now-ran forward to meet them. They raised their muskets, but Ashan called down rain to foil their shots. Only two managed to fire, and one of the akhoz dropped. It was up again in a moment, limping after the others.
The akhoz leapt upon the warriors. They belched fire as the Hratha’s curved shamshirs arced and spun. Their war calls dimly mixed with the braying of the akhoz.
Nasim and Ashan were now within a hundred paces of the Spar’s midpoint, which was marked by two squat towers on either side of the roadway.
From these towers, a score of men emerged-by the fates, they were the Maharraht.
As they ran toward the Hratha and the akhoz, two final forms emerged from the left tower. The first was Soroush, and the second was Ushai, the qiram Nasim had seen those many weeks ago on his flight toward Ghayavand. Her left arm was bandaged heavily, but she otherwise seemed hearty and hale. How she had come to be here with Soroush, he couldn’t guess, but there was no time to wonder.
They both appeared ready to chase after Soroush’s men, but when they spotted Nasim they stopped. Soroush glanced at the tower, then down at the roadway, and finally he beckoned to Ushai and began sprinting toward Nasim and Ashan.
They hadn’t taken ten long strides when an explosion rocked the Spar. Stone flew into the air, and the center of the bridge became little more than a roiling cloud of black smoke and bright flames.
Nasim was struck by something-he knew not what. It propelled him backward, throwing him down roughly against the roadway. A sound like worlds breaking came immediately after, and for long moments he could only blink his eyes and stare at the stones flying outward and the rubble raining down.
His ears rang.
His fingers were numb.
He pushed himself up so that he could sit and look upon the devastation. The wind had not yet cleared the air fully, but he could see through the dust and smoke the remains of the left tower. It was crumbling before his very eyes. The bulk of it collapsed and fell toward the cold embrace of the churning white waves, leaving only one low portion of wall, as if the destruction of the world had already begun.
At last the wind drew the dust away, and the roadway was revealed. Nearly half of it had been devoured by the explosion, but the rest remained.
It remained…
By the fates, Soroush had failed.
And that meant Muqallad could still complete his plans.
Atiana feels the explosion in her chest. She falls, but the sensations are distant, like a memory from her childhood.
She walks through the currents of the aether more than she does the world of Erahm, and the feeling is heady.
Ahead, the akhoz are the first to recover, but the Maharraht are not far behind. Together they attack what remain of the Hratha, killing many of them before Muqallad reaches his feet. He raises one hand, the one holding the Atalayina, and a bolt of searing white lightning arcs from it to the nearest of the akhoz. It slips through three of them, and one of the Maharraht, felling them in an instant.
Atiana feels the walls of the aether here. They are so close she can almost reach out and touch them. As she did on Oshtoyets years ago, she pushes them away in hopes that Muqallad’s summoning will become more difficult, but the pressure is too great. She forces Sariya to help her, and Ishkyna joins as well. The gap does indeed widen, but it does nothing to stop Muqallad from drawing upon a dhoshahezhan again and again until all of the Maharraht lay dead.
Only three akhoz remain, and to these he raises his hand and calls above the wind, “Come… Come, my children.”
The akhoz crouch and bare their teeth. They bark and snarl and stretch their necks as if they’re suddenly afflicted. One of them turns and looks back to the four souls who approach from the far side of the blackened tower. Nasim is there, as well as Ashan and Soroush and Ushai.
Two of the akhoz mewl and crawl toward Muqallad, but the other sprints toward Nasim. He does not gallop on all fours like the akhoz often do. Instead, he runs, as a child might. In that moment he looks like nothing more than a small, naked boy.
Before he can go more than ten paces another bolt flies from the Atalayina, but it strikes ground short of the akhoz. Another blinding strike is sent forth, but this too is foiled.
Nasim has one hand raised, and he walks ahead of the others. There is something about him that seems different. No longer does Atiana see a boy who cowers from the world, who wonders how he might find his way through it. Instead she sees a young man, confident and strong. Transcendent.
But Muqallad is not weak, and he holds the Atalayina.
Atiana beckons her sisters. Come.
Sariya, knowing the time approaches, grows desperate. She rises up, stronger than Atiana would have guessed she could be. She rails against Atiana and her sisters, and she surfaces at last. “Beware, Muqallad! The Matri have come!” With those simple words, she is overcome with pain, and she falls to her knees, clutching her side.
With Ishkyna and Mileva at her side, Atiana advances. The three of them know one another so well that they are able to fend off Muqallad’s clumsy attacks. He is not weak, however, and he stands against them.
And then his presence is gone. Simply gone.
Atiana searches desperately, until she realizes the Atalayina is the power behind this. Muqallad has somehow drawn his presence from the aether so that he exists only in the material world.
Muqallad turns, holding the Atalayina high. It is bright and blue. Power emanates from it like the light of the
