desert?”
“I am… my own woman. And I… know much… of you.”
“You know much…” Hakan wanted to smile, but something in her seemed primitive and ancient, and his heart withered at the notion of taunting her. “What could you know of me?”
“I know… where you go. I know that with victory in the west, as shallow as it may be, you’ve set your heart upon the east.”
Despite himself, he shivered. He had spoken of this to no one. The Haelish uprising, which had begun shortly before Hakan had been born, was a conflict that had plagued him for all of his years, and though it was not over, it was at a stalemate, and he had vowed to himself long ago that as soon as he was able, he would dedicate himself to reuniting the Old Empire. And that meant turning his sights toward the islands. Toward Galahesh and Anuskaya beyond it.
“How could you know?” he whispered.
“Do not fear, Kamarisi. I’ve told no one.”
Somehow, the effects of the poison were no longer spreading. Her voice had regained its verve. Her cheeks had regained their color, and her eyes were once again sharp.
Hakan swallowed again. The tightness in his throat remained. His mind felt muddled, as if he should be more angry at what she had told him. He shook his head to clear it, but as he did, a wave of dizziness swept over him. He pinched his eyes, hoping to clear himself of the malady, but it refused to ebb.
When he opened his eyes again, he was pressed against the cool marble tiles. Ahead lay the balcony at which he’d been standing only moments ago, but instead of finding Sariya lying there, she was now standing, staring down at him with eyes both calm and collected.
His breath released from his lungs, long and slow. Drawing the next breath was difficult, as if the air itself had turned to wine.
“What… have you done?”
“I have done nothing, Kamarisi. This has all been your doing.” She smiled, her blue eyes glinting in the sunlight. She held in her hand the chalice from which she’d been drinking. “You wish to know who I am? Surely you’ve heard of the tales of Khalakovo? In the autumn of last year, a boy was brought to the islands by the Maharraht. They hoped to tear open the rifts that ran through the islands.”
“The rifts… are a myth.”
Sariya smiled, a gesture that revealed perfect ivory teeth. “They are all too real, Kamarisi, and they are spreading. The boy, Nasim, was reborn of a man named Khamal. He was one of the Al-Aqim, one of those who broke the world. And I am another. My name is Sariya Quljan al Vehayeh.”
Hakan blinked. His eyes were slow to open. His breath was shallower than it had been only moments ago.
“Fear not,” Sariya said. “The end has not yet come. There is more yet to do.” He didn’t understand what she meant, but at the moment he didn’t care. All he could think about was his life being snuffed out here on the cold tiles of the kasir, the place he’d thought safest for him in all the world. “The antidote,” he said.
“Ah, this?” She opened her other hand. In her palm rested a glass phial. She made no move to render it to him. Instead, she kneeled on the balls of her feet, as he had done-or thought he had done. “You will have it, Kamarisi, though it bears a price.”
“What…” His fingers were numb. It was all he could do to force his lungs to draw breath. “What is it?”
“Something you will gladly pay… I wish to help. I wish to guide you eastward.”
“Why?”
She smiled, and when she did, she became more beautiful a woman than he’d ever seen. “My reasons are my own. Suffice it to say there is a jewel in the crown of Anuskaya I would have back.”
He could no longer feel his lips, nor his fingers nor his toes. He tried to take a deep breath, but could not. His lungs refused him. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a weak groan. His mind was alive with fear-he was too young to die; there was so much yet to do-but his body cared not at all. It seemed content to take its final rest.
He fought against the will of his body.
And nothing happened.
Sariya waited, staring down at him with a cruel smile. He knew that she could have forced him to drink it, but she wanted him to ask.
He fought harder, pouring himself into one small movement, something he hoped she would understand as assent. With one last push, he felt his head move up and down-a nod, though terribly weak; he wasn’t even sure she would recognize it as such.
Apparently she had, for she kneeled next to him and rolled him onto his back. Lying there, looking up at her as she pulled the glass stopper from the phial, she looked like a mother caring for her sick child. He thought he should hate her for what she had done, but he didn’t. To him, she was a guiding star.
She would give to Yrstanla her children lost in the War of Seven Seas. He was certain of it, and for this he was undyingly grateful.
As the liquid poured down his throat, he felt relief like he never had before. It was like being reborn.
When it was all down, Sariya kissed his forehead and tenderly stroked his hair. “Together, Hakan ul Aye s e, we will do well. Together, we will build a bridge the likes of which the world has never seen.”
The Kamarisi, blinded by his love, could only smile at the wonder in her eyes.
PART I
CHAPTER ONE
Nasim strode down a dirt road. It was bordered on its left by a steep hillside and on its right by a series of hovels with earthen roofs that looked as though they would fall to the next stiff wind. Only far ahead where the road curved to follow the hill were there buildings of any note-a compound of three taller buildings surrounded by a high stone wall with an archway built into it.
The iron gates set into the wall were swung wide, and when Nasim finally reached them, he found a woman waiting for him just inside. He stepped into the yard, and she shut the gates behind him. In one hand she held an iron ring with dozens of keys on it, but she did not lock the gate.
For this Nasim was glad.
“You’re late,” she said in Yrstanlan. Her dialect was heavy and rolling, something Nasim was not yet used to, new as he was to the northern edges of the Empire. She wore a drab gray dress and a threadbare dolman mantle with voluminous sleeves. Her face was severe. Worry lines made her appear old-older than Nasim guessed she actually was.
“You said to be sure I wasn’t followed. That takes time.” He glanced meaningfully at the orphanage behind her. “Take me to them.”
She weighed Nasim with her eyes. Her lips were tight and furrowed, a gesture that seemed natural for her. He was as tall as she, but she managed to look down on him just the same. Nasim was only sixteen, whereas she had seen at least forty years. There was something about age that lent weight and authority, even if it wasn’t deserved.
The matron glanced toward the mountains over Nasim’s shoulder, apparently trying to determine whether the payment Nasim had promised was still worth it, but then she stiffened her lip and turned and led him to the porch of the largest of the three buildings. She stepped up to the heavy wooden door. “They’re eating,” she said while unlocking it and pulling it open. “Don’t say a word. Just nod to the one and I’ll pull him out.”
He stepped in after her and this time she used her keys to lock the door. This made him nervous, but there was nothing to do about it now. She led him down a drab hallway of brick and plaster and into a room that was filled with children and the soft clink of cutlery and plates. The smell of cabbage and onion and cumin filled the air. Four dozen children were spaced on benches, bellied up against two long trestle tables, all of them eating, none of them saying a word, even when they’d realized someone new was in the room.
