days on end he didn’t know.
While humming a song his mother used to sing to him, he continued stroking the boy’s hair, wondering what would come next-not for his own sake, but for Rafsuhan, for the Maharraht and the Aramahn and Anuskaya. The order of the world was changing, and he felt powerless to stop it.
Even his feeble attempts at healing the rifts seemed pointless in the face of what was happening here. With Atiana’s help, he had learned to heal some who had the wasting; much as he’d done with Nasim in Oshtoyets when he’d drawn him toward Erahm and away from Adhiya, he could do the same with those who had only recently contracted the wasting. It was even more effective with Atiana. She could somehow drive the walls of the aether farther apart than they normally were, allowing Nikandr to save those who would have been too difficult to save otherwise.
But this… What could he do? What could Atiana do? It felt-instead of the victim slipping toward Adhiya-as if the arms of Adhiya were reaching out beyond the aether to affect these children, and he hadn’t the first idea how to combat the effect. Surely it had something to do with the rift, but beyond this…
Nikandr tried twice more to commune with his spirit, and although he could feel it, something was preventing him from truly feeling the world through its eyes.
He left, disappointed in himself, and took the long and winding path up to the surface. The sun was lowering behind tall white clouds. Two Maharraht trailed him, their muskets at the ready.
“I would not leave my men,” Nikandr said to them.
Still, they followed him as he moved eastward and into the hills there. The hills were small, but tall and numerous enough that they created a curving maze one could easily get lost in if care wasn’t taken.
Ahead, movement drew Nikandr’s attention-the brush of beige against the brown of the dying shrubs-and then it was gone behind the hill.
He ran toward it, but slowed when he heard “Halt!” behind him.
He turned back. “Did you not see it?” he asked in Mahndi.
The man nearest him, his beard dark and his clothes darker, stared at him coldly. “It is only the girl, Kaleh.”
“What is she doing out here?”
“She refuses to live in the village.”
“Why?”
He shrugged quickly and angrily, as if he were insulted at having to answer Nikandr’s questions. “Who can say? Leave her.” He had his musket pointed down, but he held it in both hands, ready to pull it up at any moment.
Nikandr didn’t see that chasing after the girl was worth getting shot for, so he returned with the men to the village.
Nikandr woke to the soft moans of the Maharraht youth. The massive cavern had only one siraj lamp lit-an attempt to keep the time of the sun in darkness by the lake. He jerked his head, realizing someone was near, watching him. He sat up and found the old woman, the jalaqiram, who had attempted to help him with the boy earlier that day. She was staring down at him, the pits of her eyes and the crags of her skin heavy in shadow.
“I had three children once.” Her voice startled him. It was as old as the stone around them, as old as the bones of the earth. “The first was taken by Mirkotsk over forty years ago.”
Nikandr sat up, moving away. He stopped himself, however, after realizing how insulting this would be to her.
“What was his name?”
“You may not have his name. He died when he refused to sign his name to a ledger.” Nikandr opened his mouth to speak, but she spoke over him. “My second became a beautiful woman. She had two daughters of her own before she was killed in a firefight between the Haelish and the Empire far to the west.”
“What was her name?”
“You may not have that either. My third was a boy. He was killed on Yrlanda by your father’s men when he was accused of stealing fish. It was in the early days of the blight, and it had struck the island hard.” Before he could ask for his name, she continued, “His name was Iyesh, and he was good. He was kind. He would never have joined the Maharraht, which is what I chose to do after his death. He would be ashamed of me, but know this, son of Iaros: I would do it again in a moment. Fates willing, I would see you all driven back to your homeland.”
She paused, her breath coming low and ragged, as if she were more agitated than she’d been in years. “But there are scales to be tipped, are there not? I will pay for my thoughts and actions, if not in this life, then in the next. I have come to terms with that. There are scales for you as well, whether you know it or not.” By the shape of her silhouette he saw her point toward the boy they had tried to help earlier. “And you can tip yours back by reaching him.”
He found himself unable to speak. He didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded.
“Can you do what you say you can?”
“I think so, but-”
“Do not think, Nikandr Iaroslov. You either can or you can’t, and if you can’t you should leave while the others are away.”
“What others?”
The woman paused. He could see her wavering. A decision was being made before his very eyes, though he knew not what was at stake. “The men from Behnda al Tib. You’ve met one, Rahid, but there are more, and they will soon return.”
Nikandr suddenly felt the weight of the mountain above them. His own breath sounded loud in his ears. “And what will they do if they find one of the Landed in their midst?”
“They will kill you.”
She said it so baldly that there was little doubt that she was telling the truth. Clearly they had been here on the island already, and they’d gone for some purpose that none of the Maharraht would make clear to him. It was also clear that there was a struggle going on, not just for Ashdi en Ghat, but for the heart of the Maharraht themselves.
It felt strange to have not only Soroush, but Bersuq trust him in this way. It was a signal of their desperation as the horror of the wasting dawned on them. But now Nikandr saw that they were also fighting off a challenge from Behnda al Tib. How ruthless were the men from the south that these people were somehow afraid of them?
Nikandr took a deep breath if only to clear the suffocating feeling that the mountain was bearing down on him. He wondered again, as he did many times each day, if he’d done the right thing in coming here. Too late to worry about that now, he told himself. A man who looks constantly over his shoulder will miss the path ahead.
“I will do it,” he said finally.
“Then come.” She held a shaking hand out to him.
He took her hand and stood, and together they made their way to the boy. They kneeled on his blanket, the woman at his feet and Nikandr at his head.
“What is his name?” Nikandr asked.
She appeared ready to deny him this, but then the tightness in her shoulders softened and she said, “His name is Wahad.”
Nikandr narrowed his eyes. “That’s the name of Soroush’s father.”
The light was dim, but Nikandr could see the old woman smile sadly. “He was named after his grandfather.”
Nikandr physically jerked back. “This is Soroush’s son?”
“Just so,” she replied softly, perhaps embarrassed over revealing this information.
He stared down at the boy. Even in the darkness, even in the deep shadows, he could now see the resemblance to Soroush and Bersuq, both. How could he have missed it?
The information did not help. It made things infinitely worse. To have the life of Soroush’s son in his hands… Why would Bersuq have allowed it?
And then he understood-why Bersuq had allowed him to come to the village, why he had granted him time among their dying children. Despite his anger over Soroush leading one of the Landed to the home of his people, he wanted to save his brother’s son from a fate that was worse than death.
