one tear to create the three pieces. It was taken to the shores on Ghayavand and lost during the sundering.”
Wahad seems pleased. “Good,” he says simply. “This is but one, and I will soon have the other two. And you, Wahad, will help unite them.”
He begins walking to the center of the clearing. Wahad follows, more nervous than ever now that the moment draws near. He dearly wishes to ask questions, but does not. Muqallad will tell him what he needs to know. Of this he is sure.
Muqallad stops in the center of the clearing and faces Wahad. “Spread your arms wide.”
Wahad obeys.
“Look to the sky.”
Wahad does.
Blue shines through among tall white clouds. They are majestic, towering. They are vengeful, not out of spite, but justice. It is proper, Wahad decides. This day has always been the right day for this.
Muqallad raises the piece of the Atalayina. Wahad’s breath comes faster and faster, and nothing he does seems to quell it.
“There are difficult days ahead, Wahad.”
The blue stone arcs down toward Wahad’s forehead. Though it has not yet touched his skin, he can feel it-the power within, the power it draws from within him. He can feel as well the walls of the world growing thin. He can feel a hunger from beyond the veil, a hunger deeper than he ever expected.
“At times you will feel confused and lost, but cast these doubts aside.”
The stone touches his forehead.
“You are bringing the world to its proper end.”
The world rips.
And Wahad screams.
A searing brand touches his soul and fills him. Unbidden, his hands bunch into fists. His arms tighten until they shake. His body spasms in the throes of pain that wash over him and through him.
It is a thing more beautiful than he has ever beheld, has ever experienced.
He realizes that this is what it must be like. This is what vashaqiram feels like for those who achieve it. So few have done so, and yet Muqallad, fates bless him, is bringing this to them all.
He is a man to be honored.
A man to be cherished.
He is the one who will bring the world to its final resting place, as the fates have decreed.
Soon the pain begins to fade, begins to ebb, begins to shed from his soul like water. All too soon it is gone, and he begins to cry.
He wishes for more. Already he aches for it.
Muqallad touches his shoulder, and only then does he realize he is hunched over, hands on his knees, supporting himself as his lungs heave and tears shed from his eyes.
“Stand, Wahad.”
For long moments he cannot. The beauty. Gone. Gone…
“ Stand.”
He does, and he stares into Muqallad’s strong face and knowing eyes.
“Do not fear,” he says. “The end is near. Return to the village now. Go about your life. You will feel drawn here, but do not come again. Not until it is time.”
Wahad nods and turns to leave. He makes it to the edge of the clearing.
“Wahad?” Muqallad calls.
He turns.
“Speak of this to no one.”
He leaves, knowing that this final command will be the most difficult to obey-not withholding the knowledge from those who do not know, but not speaking of it to those who do.
He would share this. He would ask them of their experience and share with them his own. He would ask them if they, too, hunger for more.
In the end, as he walks away from the clearing, he resolves himself to his fate, and as the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach grows, he relishes it, for it is a reminder of what he has seen.
And what is yet to come.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
N ikandr woke, though it was long moments before the notion of who he was and where he was had any meaning. These dreams were very much like the ones he’d had of Khamal through Nasim, but they felt much more real, much more present, perhaps because they were Wahad’s own memories.
He knew already that he had failed to heal Wahad. Wahad, unlike so many of those with the wasting, did not want to be saved, and without that help there was nothing he could do.
At Wahad’s feet, Jahalan stirred. The others did as well, but Nikandr waited until Jahalan met his eyes. “Did you see?”
Jahalan nodded. He looked to the others, who did not answer, but they had shocked looks on their faces. Perhaps they had worked out Wahad’s past already, and Muqallad’s involvement in it, but to see it for themselves was something else entirely.
At the entrance to the cavern, there was a commotion. A group of a dozen men, led by Rahid, strode in amongst the Maharraht children and those tending them. Bersuq was not with them, which was reason enough to give Nikandr pause, but then he realized who the man walking next to Rahid would be. This was Thabash Kaspar al Meliyah. Nikandr knew him by reputation only, but had never seen him until Wahad’s dream, and now he had returned to Rafsuhan. He was at least ten years Nikandr’s senior, but he was built like a bull. Despite his physical appearance, it was his eyes that stood out the most. They were nearly as dark as his clothes, which along with his reddish beard gave him the appearance of an animal of the night with wide, searching eyes that could dig into one’s soul if he wasn’t careful.
Nikandr found his fingers itching to hold a sword, or better yet a pistol.
As Rahid and the others came near, he stood, as did the four other qiram with him. Jahalan raised his hands, but it was Zanhalah, the old woman who had shared with him the name of her son, that stepped in Rahid’s path.
“He has come to heal.”
Rahid stopped only for a moment. In a blink he raised his hand and struck Zanhalah across the cheek so hard that she spun and collapsed to the ground. Jahalan moved to help her, but Rahid grabbed him and shoved him away. Jahalan stumbled on the sandy shore and fell as Rahid rounded on Zanhalah.
“They are not sick. They are chosen.”
“They are tainted,” Zanhalah said, “touched by a man who failed to destroy one island, and so has come to try again.”
Rahid pulled the khanjar from his belt and made to move toward Zanhalah, but it was Thabash that grabbed his hand and held him.
“Now is not the time for judgment,” Thabash said. “Nor is it the time for punishment.”
“I have suffered this”-he waved his hand about the cavern as if to implicate the whole of Ashdi en Ghat-“long enough.”
“Their time will come, but not here, and not now. The children are nearly ready.”
Rahid stared at Thabash’s hand and ripped his arm away. Then he sheathed his knife and stalked back toward the stairs. Three of the Maharraht that had accompanied him followed.
Thabash stepped forward and faced Nikandr. He was shorter than Nikandr, but more heavily built.
“You are the son of Duke Khalakovo?” Thabash asked.
“I am.”
“And you have come to heal these children.”
