that led down to the valley floor, and Soroush was already two turns of the trail lower.
“Soroush, stop!” Nikandr shouted.
Soroush continued, refusing to look up.
Nikandr ran after him, taking care lest he slip over the edge of the narrow path. He could see the edge of the village now. The buildings, most of them wood, not stone, were less than a half-league ahead, but the fire was not coming from there. It was coming from a clearing in the forest not far from the base of the path.
By the time Nikandr reached level ground, Soroush was already lost in the woods. Nikandr pulled his pistol and watched as he ran, his breath huffing, his thighs burning. He pushed harder, hoping to reach the fire before Soroush.
As he approached, a scent came to him from the woods. It was the smell of burning flesh, and it was accompanied by the heartbroken sound of a grown man moaning and weeping.
When he reached the clearing, he stopped and was again forced to cover his nose and mouth. In the center of the clearing was a charred pile of bodies, all of them shriveled and blackened nearly beyond recognition. Soroush was on his knees before the horrific scene, his hands lifted to the sky, shaking, quivering. He though Soroush was simply crying from the pain of facing such tragedy, but he realized it was much more. This was a dirge for his people, an appeal for the dead. A lamentation.
Nikandr stood there, helpless, as this hardened man, this murderer of Landed men and women, cried for his people. Nikandr found himself filled with sympathy, but also with satisfaction. Satisfaction that Soroush now felt what he had felt, what so many of the Landed had felt for those who had fallen to attacks from the Maharraht.
He cursed himself a moment later for being so heartless. Whatever Soroush might have done, whatever the Maharraht had done to the Landed, women and children did not deserve to burn.
It seemed at first as if the entire village lay within this pile of charred remains, but then Nikandr forced himself to estimate their numbers and realized that there were only thirty, perhaps forty bodies. This village was one that could house three or four hundred. So where had they gone?
His men reached the clearing behind him. They had clearly been running, but they slowed as they came near, staring wide-eyed at the horror before them.
Nikandr went to Soroush. “Come,” he said.
When he did not, Nikandr laid a hand on his shoulder.
Soroush stood, slapping Nikandr’s hand away. He stood face-to-face with Nikandr, anger in his eyes-hatred and revulsion-and for a moment Nikandr thought Soroush might reach for his throat, but then he cleared the tears from his cheeks, took several deep breaths.
And trudged toward Siafyan without saying a word.
They reached the edge of the village near nightfall. The structures Nikandr had seen from the defile towered over him. They were not so much built as grown from the forest around them. The larch had been coaxed, bent and shaped by gifted dhoshaqiram into towers that interlaced with one another. Walkways crossed high above them, leading to empty archways that yawned in the coming darkness. The smell of the larch was strong here, but also floral, and pleasant, as if this too had been coaxed from the trees by the hand of the Maharraht. The wind was the only thing to be heard. No people, no children. No sounds of cooking or laughter or quarrels. Nothing save an exhalation as Siafyan and the forest around it prepared for the coming night.
They came to what Nikandr took as the central square. A fountain stood there-as was common in nearly all Landless villages-though no water emerged from it.
Perhaps he was respectful, or perhaps fear was preventing him, but Soroush seemed hesitant to approach- much less enter-the towers. Nikandr, however, thought it foolish to wait. There was no telling what might befall them during the night; better to investigate now than allow something to come upon them while they slept.
“May I enter?” he asked Soroush.
Soroush stared at the fountain. He pulled his attention from it-regretfully, it seemed-and met Nikandr’s gaze. After a moment of thought, he gave a motion of his hand, as if Nikandr were a child who had asked for a sweet.
Nikandr sent one of the streltsi and Jahalan to searching the lower levels of the village, and then he took to the towers himself, moving from room to room, which all seemed molded from the stuff of the trees themselves. The beautiful grain of the larch was revealed everywhere. Sculptures of stone and wood sat on shelves and mantles. Beds, chairs, blankets. All of it pristine.
All except the bark of the trees.
Nikandr almost didn’t notice, but as he was taking a winding pathway down from a tower to head back for the fountain, he steadied himself against the bark. It powdered beneath his touch. He stopped and stared, brushed more of the bark away. There was solid wood beneath, but it was clear that the trees themselves were beginning to desiccate.
He thought back to his time on Ghayavand. His ship, the Gorovna, had withered beneath his touch. It was a similar effect to this, though there were differences. This wood was still living, where the windwood of the ship was dead wood. Still, Nikandr was sure it had more to do with the nature of Ghayavand-the rifts it contained and the hezhan it housed-than anything else.
Nikandr caught movement from the corner of his eye.
Turning casually, he saw a form hidden behind one of the towers some distance away. He wasn’t sure, but he suspected it was the boy they’d caught watching them from the top of the defile.
He pretended as if he hadn’t noticed as he strode toward another of the massive towers.
But the boy sensed his intent. He ducked behind the tree and ran, his footsteps crunching softly against the cold ground.
“Stop! I won’t hurt you!” Nikandr ran after him, darting around the tree, losing him for a moment. But then he found him again, heading toward one of the tallest towers in the village. If he were to gain any height he could lose himself in the village for days.
Nikandr quickened his pace, but soon found that it wasn’t necessary. The boy was already losing speed. He was weak, perhaps from lack of food, perhaps from sickness. He paused as he gained the walkway circling up and around the tower, and then he collapsed.
By the time Nikandr came near, the boy had turned onto his back and was scrabbling away, fear plain on his face.
“Please,” Nikandr said, holding up his hands for the child to see. “I only wish to know what happened. Why are you-”
With night coming on, light was scarce, but Nikandr could see that he’d been mistaken. This was no boy at all; it was a girl. She wore a boy’s clothes, and her hair was wrapped up into a dark turban, but the set of her eyes, her lips, the line of her jaw. It was unmistakable now.
“Why are you here?” Nikandr asked.
She spoke in Mahndi. Nikandr knew the language well, but she was speaking so quickly, and her accent was thick enough that he couldn’t understand her.
He held up his hands to stop her. “Slower,” he said in Mahndi.
“I left when they began burning…” She waved toward the scene in the woods, the pile of smoking bodies. “They’d taken memma.”
“Why?” Nikandr asked. “Why were so many burned?”
“They’d been marked.”
“Marked by what?”
“By the taint. They said those who had been touched would die.”
“So they forced everyone there so they could burn them?”
She was already shaking her head. “ Neh. They went-”
She’d spoken so quickly he couldn’t understand her last word. “They what?”
“They went willingly.”
Nikandr stared, confused, but then her words settled over him like a thick blanket of snow.
Willingly, she’d said. They’d gone willingly.
By the ancients, what was happening on this island?
