Hours passed before Nasim’s dizziness faded. With a groan, he pushed himself off the cold stone floor onto his hands and knees. He breathed deeply, clearing his head, before standing and looking about the room. The akhoz were gone. Muqallad was gone.
Rabiah was gone.
He stood in the darkness, hands bunched into fists, fighting the urge to scream because he saw no point in it. In the end, though, he gave in. He released an unending lament for his foolishness, for his presumption, until his throat was raw.
He had brought them here on a fool’s errand. He had hoped that through his renewed understanding of the island, and his teachings, that they would find the stones and enough knowledge to be able to close the rifts, something that the three arqesh who had torn it wide had been unable to do in the centuries following the devastation of the sundering.
Why? Why had he thought he could teach? Why had he thought he knew enough to overcome such obstacles?
Because he was foolish. Worse, he had valued their lives too poorly. Neither Rabiah nor Sukharam had had the best of lives before he’d found them, but that hadn’t given him the right to uproot them, take them where he would. Better if he had let them choose their own path, or seen to it that they found their way into the hands of trusted Aramahn.
Such as Fahroz…
Who had only been trying to protect him. Who had only been trying to teach him the ways of the world, a world he still did not truly comprehend. Would that he had listened to her, stayed in Mirashadal until the time was right.
The only trouble was that the time may never have seemed right. He was terrified then of what he had to do, and by the time he’d stolen away from the floating village, he’d known that he would never overcome that fear, not without simply facing it.
And so he had gone. He had left, and he had traveled the world, and he had found two children that, given time, given the right sort of knowledge and insight, would have become great. But now he-not the fates, and not their cruel masters-had cut their lives short.
“Stop!” he bellowed into the darkness.
The words came back to him, softer and softer, until silence reigned once more.
“Stop,” he said again.
He had to get a hold of himself. He had to make a plan. He had to find Ashan.
But where? Muqallad hadn’t said. Which meant, of course, that he expected Nasim to piece together the clues in order to find him.
When he thought about it, though, the answer was simple.
He moved to the edge of the room, warding with his hands. He was blinded now, not only by the light but by his inability to call upon a hezhan. It was something that disturbed him-disturbed him deeply-but he couldn’t afford to let his mind wander down those paths, and so he stepped forward, trusting to his memories.
Indeed, as he found the tunnel that led to the eastern reaches of the village, he had no trouble at all remembering the way to the lake. It was ingrained in him, infinitely brighter than the memories of his distant and oh-so-hazy childhood. As he wended his way through tunnel after tunnel, a fear took seed and grew within him, and soon the fear had turned into a certainty. Ashan was at the lake. He knew it. But what had Muqallad done to him? What tortures had he endured?
He shuffled forward, mindful of the darkness. Then he began to jog, and then run while touching his hands to the stone walls to guide him.
As he went, memories flooded over him, memories of walking through this village as Khamal. And they didn’t feel like memories from dreams, they felt real, they felt like his memories. This had happened several times in the past several years-moments of lucidity of Khamal’s life-but they had always been ephemeral and disjointed, and when he tried to guide them toward answers-what Khamal had done, how he had planned to pass his knowledge to Nasim-the memories had drifted away like dreams on the edge of waking.
This time felt different, however. The memories felt stronger, perhaps because of his return to the village, or perhaps because of his encounter with Muqallad. He coaxed the memories toward Sariya, toward the piece of the Atalayina Muqallad had mentioned. And more came to him. He remembered strolling the beach, climbing the rocks to the city proper. He remembered stepping up to the tall white tower. Sariya’s tower. He remembered putting his hand on the black iron gate.
But there his memories faded, and the more he tried, the more distant they became, even those things that moments ago had been so clear.
He continued through the village, moving with foolish haste. He came to a stairwell and flew along the steps, heedless of the danger. At last the cavern opened up before him and a pinpoint of light shone in the distance. It was coming from the center of the lake. He continued down to the shore, and finally, his breath coming in ragged gasps, he stopped.
A trickle of water fell somewhere in the distance. The air was chill, and it smelled of copper. He stared toward the light, unable to see anything but the stone and the isle upon which it rested.
“Ashan?” he called. His name echoed into the distance.
There was no reply.
He waded into the water. It was frigid, but nothing like it had been centuries ago. Ghayavand had warmed since then.
He swam, feeling watched. He grew tired but pushed on, and as he did the water became colder and colder until he was numb from it.
When he gained the isle at last, he dragged himself onto it and stared at the source of light. It was no siraj. It was a pinpoint of light hanging in the air.
He turned to the water, scanning carefully beneath its surface. He found nothing. Ashan wasn’t here. He despaired. This was the place. It must be.
He was nearly ready to give up when he saw something deep beneath the surface-something little more than a lighter shade of black.
The thought of returning to the water brought him no joy, but he had to be sure…
He dove beneath the surface, swimming in broad strokes, lower, lower, until he was able to feel for the shadow he’d seen.
He felt cloth. Then a limb. And a shoulder.
And then he touched skin.
And the world shifted.
Khamal swims below the surface of the bay, clearing his mind of the troubles that lay ahead. His long strokes pull him onward as the cold waves first tug, then push.
He breaks the surface. Far ahead stands the tower. Sariya’s tower.
He swims toward it, seeing no further need to delay. When at last he reaches land, the sensation of the waves and the fluidity of the water fade like autumn rain, and he is left with the weight of the land beneath, the hardness of it, its brittle nature. It isn’t jarring as it was so many years ago; it feels right, as if all the parts of the world are a part of him and he a part of them. Would that he had known as much before he had touched the surface of that deep blue stone.
Khamal steps toward the tower, he slips past the guards Sariya placed. Had her mind been with her in the tower above, she might have sensed him, but she is far afield, as she often is. As he touches the stone, he feels a sense of regret, not only for what he is about to do, but for allowing Sariya to see what he can now do. This too saddens him-the simple fact that the three of them have come to distrust one another to the point that they would hide information. At one time they had shared everything, all in the hopes of repairing what they had broken, but as the years had worn on, they had begun to form their own opinions on how that wound might be healed.
The stone he touches fills him. His skin hardens. His sight dims. A mineral scent assaults him. He does not feel himself move upward; rather, he feels the world move around him, and for a moment-a moment only-he is the center of all things. When he steps away from this state, it is with regret. He has come to love stone and earth more than any other.
He is within a room, standing on a red-and-umber carpet of the finest weave. Four windows set into the walls
