When they reached the dogleg in the valley, the view changed entirely. Instead of a lush green valley like Iramanshah, he came to a gulch with a dry creek bed running down its center. It was bounded on both sides by inhospitable rock faces, and in these were built the houses of the Maharraht. Dozens of homes with oval windows were built into the steep gulch walls. On and on they went for hundreds of yards until they were lost at another bend in the land. Stone stairways connected them, though they were crudely made. They looked almost natural, which was not an indication of the ability of the vanaqiram who had carved them, but rather their aesthetic.
No one greeted them. No one stood in the windows. No one walked along the narrow pathways between homes. Just like Siafyan, it felt as though everyone had died in some ritual cleansing.
The call of a thrush sounded from somewhere ahead. Not ten paces away-as if he were stepping out of the ground itself-a man bearing a musket rose up from behind a scrub bush. He trained his musket upon them as four others stood behind him from places Nikandr wouldn’t have thought could hide a man so completely.
Nikandr raised his hands. As ordered, the streltsi behind him did the same. Jahalan merely waited, watching calmly as the Maharraht approached. From a doorway in the stone at the base of the rock face came three more men. They were a good ways away still, but Nikandr recognized one of them immediately.
It was Bersuq, Soroush’s brother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
B ersuq had been at the ritual in Oshtoyets, and he’d been taken, along with Soroush, by the Aramahn. Nikandr hadn’t seen him since. He’d thought Bersuq was still in Mirashadal, but here he was, and by the looks of things, he was now a man to be reckoned with. Bersuq had always been a hard man, one who gave no leeway when it came to the Maharraht’s objectives. Despite this singular focus, he had never seemed like a leader of men. Soroush, on the other hand, had seemed-no matter how distasteful the notion-a man who others would gladly follow.
Two things became clear with these revelations: first, Soroush had known of Bersuq’s presence, and second, he had left to join his brother.
Bersuq walked straight up to Nikandr, staring at him with a look of contempt. He was tall and imposing, and though he was older than Nikandr’s father, there was a fire within him that seemed inexhaustible.
Walking to his left, and just behind, was a man Nikandr had never seen before but who seemed important. He was older than Nikandr, but not by many years. Golden rings pierced his ears, but it was the two golden rings piercing his nose that marked him as a man from the southern sect of the Maharraht, the Hratha.
As was common among those islands far to the south of Bolgravya and Nodhvyansk, his clothes were drab- robes of leaden gray, ragged turban and tail of black. Still, as dull as his clothes may have been, his eyes were fierce. This more than anything was what made Nikandr take note-that and the fact that as far as Nikandr could tell he was the only one likely to claim allegiance to the southern sect. He seemed to take the entire scene in with but a glance, but then his gaze fell upon Kaleh, who met his gaze with something akin to fear. The man said nothing, however. He seemed content to allow Bersuq to deal with this as he would, but there was a clear note of judgment in the way he watched, as if he were preparing to weigh the words to come.
As Bersuq came to a halt, he looked at Kaleh strangely as well, as if he were uncomfortable with her presence. He pointed to her, and ordered his men in Mahndi, “Take her to the village.”
Two of the Maharraht approached Kaleh. They stopped short of touching her, however. They seemed nervous to be so close to her. Kaleh went willingly, though her eyes darted between Nikandr, Bersuq, and the others.
Bersuq turned and bowed his head to Jahalan.
It was telling that only after Jahalan had returned the gesture did Bersuq allow himself to speak further. “We ask that you go as well, son of Mitra.”
“ Neh. I would stay, son of Gatha.”
Nikandr thought Bersuq might become angry, but instead he seemed respectful, perhaps even a bit sad that the fates had seen fit to place one of the Aramahn on the island with Nikandr.
The man of the south, however, did not seemed pleased by this exchange. He remained silent still, but his jaw was tight, and though he tried to hide it he seemed to be looking upon Jahalan with something akin to disgust.
“So be it,” Bersuq said, turning to Nikandr. “It is said that you’ve come to help.”
This news could only have come from Soroush, of course, but it was telling that Bersuq refused to speak his name. “Where is Soroush?”
“My brother is no concern of yours.”
“He is. I brought him here from Mirashadal.”
“So he said, but for now it is just you and I. Be glad I’ve listened to his words, for if I hadn’t, you and all of your men would already have passed beyond the veil.” He paused, his lips tight, as if he were still considering that very thing. “You told Soroush you could help.”
“I did.”
“How? How could you help?”
“I know of the rift that has formed over Rafsuhan. I know that it is larger than what we saw on Uyadensk. I know that it will swallow you whole unless you leave or the rift closes.”
As he spoke those words, Nikandr realized just how right they were. The men and women and children from Siafyan must have fled here, but if that were so, Ashdi en Ghat would be filled with life, and here it was, little more than a valley of ghosts. The lack of resistance as they’d come to the island, the lack of sentries, the dearth of people in both villages could only mean one thing: they had left. They’d left the island entirely, perhaps for farther shores, perhaps to join their brethren in the south. It all fit. In the last three years the attacks against northern Duchies had all but ceased while the attacks against Mirkotsk and Nodhvyansk and even Vostroma had increased in frequency and strength.
“We know this as well, son of Iaros. What I haven’t heard is how you could help, if that is your aim.”
“I’ve come to learn of the rift. To close it.”
Bersuq’s face twisted in disgust. “It cannot be closed. Not by one such as you.”
More that Soroush had told him. “I can learn. I can try. I can heal.”
“ Heal? ”
“I’ve done so before.”
“You speak of Nasim. Nothing more.”
“ Neh. I’ve learned much, son of Gatha. You disregard it at the peril of your own people.”
Bersuq studied Nikandr for a time, weighing his words. He looked to the streltsi, to Jahalan, and then back to Nikandr.
The single word that followed seemed to come with great reluctance, but he spoke it just the same. “Come.”
Bersuq turned, presumably to head back toward the village, but the man of the south stepped in his way. Bersuq stopped, though he seemed ill pleased by it. “Speak, Rahid.”
“He will not be allowed into the village.”
Bersuq was silent for a moment. He seemed not angry, but composed, and he appeared to want those words to settle between them before he spoke again. Indeed, Rahid seemed unsure of himself for the first time.
“The Landed have never stepped foot in Ashdi en Ghat.”
“In difficult times, we do what we must.”
Rahid’s eyes narrowed. His stance shifted so that he was facing Nikandr more than Bersuq. “Difficult times, but they don’t call for this, Bersuq. I thought surely you would know the difference.”
“How would I know?” Bersuq said. “I’m just a ruined old soldier.”
With that he brushed past Rahid, forcing him to move out of his way. Bersuq’s men shoved Nikandr and the others into a line, and together they marched toward the gulch. Rahid did nothing to stop them, but his sharp eyes studied Nikandr, as though it would be important to him later.
After passing several dark tunnels that burrowed into the earth, Bersuq led them into one of the open doorways. The temperature dropped. Siraj lanterns lit their way, revealing curving traceries on the floors and walls.
