— and opened before them.
Light flooded into the space, making Nasim cringe like a newborn.
Ahead was a short, earthen tunnel that led to a forest of white birch. Nasim could see the trunks and the bed of fallen leaves that covered the forest floor.
“By the fates, where are we?” Sukharam asked.
In a croaky, long-neglected voice, Soroush replied, “We are returned to Rafsuhan.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
N ikandr waited in the dark halls of Ashdi en Ghat, listening for the sound of footfalls. He heard them at last near midnight, the hour at which the Maharraht changed watches. One man-one of Bersuq’s most trusted-walked past with a siraj stone hanging from a leather cord. He turned his head toward the hallway where Nikandr lay in wait, but then continued on as if he’d seen nothing, as if he didn’t know that Nikandr was there.
“Is it time already?” the guard further down the hall asked.
“ Neh,” said the other, “but I haven’t been able to sleep in days. Go. Get some rest. The ships will most likely return tomorrow.”
A pause. “What will become of them?”
“To that you already know the answer.”
When the first guard spoke again, his voice was lower. “There are times when I think Thabash’s arrival was an ill omen.”
“Silence,” hissed the one who had carried the stone past Nikandr. “Rahid has ears everywhere.”
“But sending ships to attack our own…”
“They weren’t sent to attack, merely to return the children that were taken away.”
“If you believe that, you’re a fool.”
“I do believe them.”
A short laugh echoed down the hall. “Listen to the words of Bersuq if you must-listen even to Rahid’s-but do not try to tell me that no harm was meant to those who fled.”
“We lead the life we lead.”
“We do, but why is it we must kill even amongst ourselves?”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
“Go. Find rest. You’ll think better under the light of the morning sun.” Footsteps approached Nikandr’s position again. He made himself small as the Maharraht approached. “This will look no better under the sun,” he said. “It may in fact look worse.” He passed the tunnel entrance with no stone in his hand, and soon his footsteps had faded.
All was silent for a time, then sounds came of the remaining soldier pacing further and further away in the opposite direction.
The light, however, remained.
With cautious steps Nikandr made his way forward, finding the siraj sitting on the stone floor of the cool, vacant tunnel. He picked up the siraj and made his way deeper, taking the directions Jahalan had given him earlier that day, and at last he came to a door set into the wall of the tunnel. He turned the handle and swung it soundlessly inward.
Resting on three pallets were his men: Styophan and Avil and Mikhalai. They looked to the doorway not with fear, but something akin to it. No doubt they understood that something was about to happen.
“It is well that you’re here, My Lord Prince,” Styophan said in Anuskayan. “Are we to leave?”
“ Da, the three of you will go, and quickly.” Nikandr hugged Styophan and kissed his cheeks. “You will take the Chaika and return word of these events to Khalakovo.”
Styophan sent a confused glance back at Avil and Mikhalai. “My Lord Prince, we cannot leave you here. There’s talk of the Hratha returning.”
“I know, but I cannot leave.”
“Then we stay as well.”
“ Nyet,” Nikandr said, raising his voice as loud as he dared among these tunnels. “Khalakovo has need of you. The Grand Duchy as well. There will be need of ships, and soon. But first, you will return to Ranos. Tell him what has happened here. Bid him send no men, and tell him I will return to Khalakovo as soon as I’m able.”
“You try to heal them, My Lord, but they don’t deserve it. They-”
“I will not speak of it!” Nikandr’s words echoed off into the distance. “Believe me when I say this is necessary. Ranos must understand what is happening. He must know of Muqallad and the rift. Tell him, and tell him to speak with the Aramahn. We will need their guidance in the weeks ahead.”
Styophan looked into Nikandr’s eyes, anxious, but willing to do as Nikandr bid him. “What will you do?”
“If I’m able, I will heal. If I’m not, I will leave.”
They both held the other’s gaze, knowing that in all likelihood it wasn’t in Nikandr’s power to do this. With Thabash came a singular mind, no matter that some of the Maharraht may doubt his purpose.
Styophan stepped in and hugged Nikandr. “Fare well, My Lord.”
“And you,” Nikandr said.
He hugged and kissed Avil and Mikhalai as well, and then they were off, taking the turns Nikandr gave them to reach the upper exit from the village.
Nikandr returned to the place where he’d found the stone and set it down.
“You should have gone with them.”
Nikandr spun around and found the guard who had walked past him, the man Bersuq had sent to clear the way while Nikandr freed his men. He was one of the older Maharraht. Grizzled. Though most of his face was hidden in shadow, his eyes twinkled as he studied Nikandr.
“You no doubt heard my answer.”
“I did, but why would you consider such a thing for a boy that will most likely turn no matter what you do?”
Nikandr stepped forward and placed the stone into the man’s hand. “Have you so lost your way that you need to ask me the question?”
The Maharraht swallowed, incensed, but he stood taller a moment later. “I know why, I merely question why you would do it.”
“He is only a boy,” Nikandr said.
“Who will grow up to become your enemy.”
Nikandr, after one last pause, turned and walked away. “Perhaps he will.”
Nikandr, kneeling at the shore of the lake, touched Wahad’s shoulders.
Nikandr represented wind.
Near Wahad’s feet were Jahalan and Zanhalah, the old woman who had helped him with Wahad before.
Together they represented water and life.
The two others-a man and woman who had fathered three children together-kneeled by Wahad’s arms.
They were fire and earth, and they completed the circle.
Ever since returning from Siafyan and his encounter with the akhoz, Nikandr had considered the approach of bringing only the opposing elements of water and air against the fire that raged inside Wahad. Though he didn’t wish to discount the wisdom of these qiram, he found the strategy lacking. The boy was being taken by a suuraqiram-it seemed that it would take all of the elements, not just those opposing, in order to save him.
The dying children had been moved far away in hopes of giving Nikandr and the others the room they needed to complete their ritual, but their coughs, their moans, could still be heard. This didn’t bother Nikandr. If anything, it was a simple reminder of why he was doing this, one that did not fluster, but in fact calmed him. Thoughts of Atiana and Galahesh and Khalakovo and his mother and his father had hounded him in the hours since his men had escaped, but the moment he’d reached the cavern of the lake, he had calmed. The sounds of pain from these children had allowed him to push all the other thoughts away, until all that remained was a singular focus toward a singular aim.
