Save one child.
He stared down at Wahad, brushed the hair back from his forehead. His skin was hot to the touch, but he did not sweat. His eyes were closed, as they had been for days, and there was a crust over them. They had tried once to open his eyes, and Wahad had thrashed and struggled against the men holding him and beat his head against the ground. They’d released him shortly after, and he’d cried and moaned for hours afterward.
Nikandr brushed Wahad’s hair one last time.
Just one, he thought. That was all he wished for.
“Let us begin,” he said.
Together, they closed their eyes.
Nikandr calmed himself, breathed deeper. He felt the touch of his vanahezhan on the far side of the aether, and through this bond he drew himself deeper into its world, drew it deeper into his. Other than this one spirit, he’d rarely felt another hezhan, but now he felt all four of those that were near. He suspected it was because of the rift and how wide it had grown on Rafsuhan, perhaps especially so here in Ashdi en Ghat on the shores of the lake.
He did not ignore these other hezhan, but he focused his mind primarily on Wahad, on the pain he was feeling. After a time, he felt heat, like the touch of the sun on those rare days of summer when the wind was low. The feeling heightened until it was more like the heat from a bonfire burning nearby. Still it built, and he allowed it to take him.
He wanted to scream, so strong was the sensation, but he did not. He simply accepted it, allowed it to become him. He could feel the hezhan that was taking over Wahad’s soul now. It was impossible not to once he knew what to look for. It was not merely sharing the experience of life in Erahm, as most hezhan were content to do. It was devouring him.
But there was more. The boy was devouring the hezhan as well. They were becoming part of one another. They were forging something new from the substance of their souls.
Nikandr let the knowledge wash over him, as well as the fear that followed, and soon he felt as though he were the one being devoured, not Wahad.
The sun is bright among the walkways of Siafyan. Wahad takes them toward the home of Mehjoor, who is to join him on his watch. He stops short, however, when he sees the girl, Kaleh, at the end of the swaying bridge.
She stands in his way, staring at him with a look of challenge, as if she ruled here, not the Maharraht who had been on this land for forty years.
“What?” he asks, though he feels ungracious in being so blunt. In truth he knows her not at all, only that she came with the tall one, Muqallad.
“Come with me,” she replies, and with that she turns and walks away.
He hesitates for only a moment. She has done this before-spoken to children around the village, brought them to see the man that everyone assumes is her father. When they returned, they would not speak of their time with him. They would only say that they were sworn to secrecy, but Mehjoor and Wahad hide nothing from one another. Eventually Mehjoor spoke of his visit with Muqallad, of standing before him, of hearing his words.
“What words?” Wahad asked.
Mehjoor would not reply, but Wahad thought it was not because he chose not to, but because he couldn’t remember. Such is Muqallad’s power, and it makes Wahad fear him, but he cannot refuse this summons. Things are happening to the village; things are happening to the Maharraht. Everyone can feel it. Surely the rise of the Maharraht and the fall of the Landed is nearly upon them.
They climb down the curving stairs built into the side of the great trees to reach the ground. From there, Kaleh heads south. When they enter the village circle, Bersuq is standing there with Thabash and Rahid and several others from the south. Thabash hardly notices him. Rahid watches with something akin to hunger. But Bersuq…
Wahad nearly stops, but he doesn’t want Bersuq to know what he sees in his eyes. And yet at the same time Wahad doesn’t understand, for Bersuq is looking upon him with pity.
Pity.
Why? Why does Bersuq, the man who is hardest on him-especially since his father is still in the arms of the Aramahn-look upon him with pity? He had thought these visits to Muqallad some sort of honor, or perhaps some sort of test. But if that were so, Bersuq would look upon him with pride, or if not that he wouldn’t look upon him at all. He certainly wouldn’t look upon him with pity.
The expression leaves as quickly as it came, and Bersuq speaks in low tones with Thabash and the others. Rahid continues to watch, however. It makes Wahad shiver.
Eventually they move beyond the borders of the village square, and then the village itself. They hike through the forest, through the shorter larch and pine that cover the land here, and soon Wahad’s nerves are starting to tingle.
“Where do we go?”
Kaleh glances back, but does not otherwise respond.
He grabs her arm and spins her around. “Where do we go?”
“To the clearing.”
“Why?”
She stares up at him, her blue eyes bright. “You do not have to come.”
He pauses. “I merely wish to know why. Why is it kept secret?”
“You can ask Muqallad when you see him.”
“I’m asking you.”
Her eyes are hard, but as she studies him they soften. She glances over her shoulder, toward Siafyan, and then licks her lips. “The end is near, Wahad. Very near. Muqallad is choosing those who will be granted the honor of leading the way.” She peers into his eyes. “Are you ready for such a thing?”
Wahad pulls himself straighter. “Of course I am.”
Kaleh smiles sadly. “We all think this. But there are trials ahead, and when they come it is not so easy to remain steadfast. To remain silent.”
“I am ready. I’ve been ready since my naming day.”
“You will become one of the chosen, you and the others who’ve already gone. You will pave the way for what is to come.” Her look becomes sober. “It requires sacrifice.”
Though he tries to control it, Wahad finds his breath coming faster. His fingers tingle, and his chin quivers. A mix of fear and elation runs through him, something he’s never experienced and has no idea how to handle.
“I’m ready,” he says again, glad that his teeth do not chatter as he speaks these words.
“There’s no turning back once you enter the clearing.”
“I understand.”
She seems to measure him, but then nods. “Then come, and no more questions.”
They reach the clearing, the one used most often for mid-winter vigils. Within it stands Muqallad, wearing light robes and boots of soft, white leather. His robes are brightly colored, and he is tall and muscular. He looks young-younger than Wahad’s own father-and yet his gaze is ancient, as old as the earth he treads upon.
Wahad feels small. He feels as though he stands before one of the fates, not a man like his father or his uncle.
“Has she prepared you?” Muqallad asks.
“ Yeh.”
“This is no easy thing I ask of you,” Muqallad says.
Wahad shakes his head. “It is. My lives have been led so that I could arrive at this moment. I am sure of it.”
Muqallad smiles. And shows Wahad a blue stone he holds in the palm of one hand. “This, Wahad Soroush al Qediah, is one piece of the Atalayina. Do you know of it?”
Wahad stares, confused at first, but then elation fills him and threatens to bubble over. He grips his hands to keep himself from looking like a small child before his grandfather. “I do.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“The Atalayina was the first stone, and it will be the last. It was created by the fates, each of them shedding
