give in to her own fears. And yet already she can sense nothing outside the tower. She can feel neither the Matri nor the straits. She cannot feel the city, the bridge. She cannot feel Father.
She can feel Sariya, however. Her mind is focused to the northeast, toward Ghayavand. Within that room in the tower, Atiana moves to the window facing north. It looks out over a wide sea.
Atiana touches the glass.
And it is bitterly cold.
She turns.
And the world around her has taken shape. The walls of stone are gray. The sky outside is blue. The blanket upon the bed is a rich brown.
She knows she’s been taken by Sariya-taken by her tower-and she has no idea how to return. This creates a sudden need to leave this place. She feels it in her throat, a tightening that takes hold and threatens to cut off her air. She swallows and runs down the spiraling stairs. She picks up her pace, faster and faster until she’s flying down them to the lowest floor where a thick, ironbound door bars her passage to the outside.
She pulls the handle, but the door refuses to yield. She tries again and again, jerking at the handle, and all the while, welling up inside her is a fear that she will fall to the cold stone floor and never wake up.
She tries once more, not yanking, but pulling with all her might, and at last the door groans open and she is out into the cold, fresh air.
She sprints away from the tower, her feet thumping through the thick cover of snow. She does not stop, but continues into the nearby woods until at last the tower is lost from view. Only then does she pull up, gasping for breath, steadying herself against the rough bark of an ancient larch.
The forest-now that she’s able to consider it-stands serene. The wind blows, cold and biting, and yet she herself is not cold. The trunks of the trees sway, they creak. The sound is sharp and confusing, as if there is some infernal purpose behind it.
She heads northeast. She knows not why.
The way is slow, even beneath the trees, for the snow is thick. She tires as she trudges her way down a gentle slope, but then she hears voices, and she slows.
She recognizes one-Arvaneh, Sariya, who knows how many other names she might possess? And the other? A man’s voice, rich and light with the cadence of the Aramahn. There is something familiar about his voice, but she cannot place it.
She approaches carefully.
The forest opens up into a clearing, and within it stands a white monolith. The top of it stands tall over the tops of the ancient trees.
Sariya, her golden hair flowing softly in the breeze, stands near its base. As does a young man.
Atiana jerks as she recognizes him at last.
Nasim.
But what can he be doing here?
As Sariya and Nasim stare up at the monolith, Atiana feels the power emanating from within it. She feels it in her heart, in her gut. She feels it at the back of her throat. But it is not the power of Sariya. Nyet, this is something different, something foreign to this place. It is strong and ancient as the bones of the earth.
“There are those on Ghayavand who need me,” Nasim is saying.
“Ashan,” Sariya replies.
“Among others.”
“You may think him a bright star, Khamal, but had he been alive when we were at our height, he would have shined no brighter than a wisp.”
Nasim’s face turns angry. “I am not Khamal, and you may all have been bright-you may be bright still-but look where things have come from such brightness.”
“We can return to our greatness, Khamal. But if you feel that the path lies through Ghayavand”-she motions up to the monolith-“then so be it.”
And with that Sariya turns and leaves. Atiana hides behind the trunk of the tree, waiting until Sariya is gone. Atiana worries that she is allowing Sariya to gain access to her tower once more, but she cannot leave. Not yet.
Nasim watches Sariya go. Only after her form is lost through the trees does he consider the monolith once more. He reaches a hand up and places it against the white surface of the stone, and when he does, she feels the response from within. The power there knows him. It wants Nasim to find it.
But there is something else. A noose is closing around this place. She can feel it.
Nasim, Atiana calls out. Nasim, you cannot do this.
Nasim stops, looks through the forest, wondering where her voice is coming from.
But she cannot reveal herself. If she does, Sariya will know.
She knows what you’re doing, Atiana tells him. She’s allowing it.
He ignores her. When he reaches out to touch the monolith again, it begins to powder, white dust falling and blowing with the wind like the finest of snowfalls.
The wind blusters through the forest.
The stone crumbles, more and more of it sloughing away as the tops of the trees dance with the wind.
Nasim, run!
He does, and Atiana is ready to as well, but the scene before her gives her pause. The white dust of the monolith swirls like a dervish at the center of the clearing. She can feel its unfettered power, and it is terrible.
What in the name of the ancients has Nasim unleashed? And what might happen were Sariya to get her hands on it?
Atiana readies herself. She prepares to sprint forward to see what might be waiting when the swirling dies away, but the wind does not die away. The sand is drawn up. It spins and twists, and where it touches the trees, they spark. They smoke. They burn.
Some of it strikes Atiana’s skin, and like hot ash it scorches her. She staggers away, but the forest above her is now ablaze. She wants to follow Nasim, but already this place is beginning to falter. She cannot follow him, not if she wishes to live.
She heads back toward the tower.
And stops.
For in her hand is a stone. It is unlike anything she’s ever seen before. It is blue-the blue of the ocean shallows-and striated with bronze and copper and nickel. It is beautiful and heavy and deep. Holding it is like holding a piece of the world in her hands.
The fire is spreading. It has moved beyond her along the tops of the trees, and the wind now carries the smoke down to her. It chokes her, makes her eyes water.
She runs, but she is weak, and soon she begins to stumble and fall, coughing until her chest burns and her throat is raw. She can breathe better here, but she is so weak she can hardly move. The stone sustains her, however. She can feel it, lending her its strength. There is more hidden beneath its surface-much more-but she has no idea how to unleash it.
This is enough for now, she decides.
At last the winds shift. The thick haze of smoke is pulled away, and she sees standing just beyond the trees the tower she left to enter the forest.
As she watches, a crack forms near its foundation. It runs up the tower’s length, the stone shattering as it goes. Other cracks form. And widen. Stones along the topmost edge break and fall away.
With the stone lending her its strength, she stands-still coughing, still unable to catch her breath-and shambles forward, knowing she must get inside before the tower crumbles completely.
Larger pieces of stone, and even sections of the tower’s wall, fall away, striking the ground before her. Scree bites into her skin, drawing blood along her arms, her forehead, her cheeks. A larger piece cuts into her shoulder and knocks her down. She gets up, realizing she has lost the blue stone.
She looks for it frantically, feeling faint and afraid, until she sees a glimpse of it beneath a heavy stone.
She pushes it, but it is too heavy, and she cannot move it.
Nyet! she screams.
She gathers herself and tries again. And slowly the stone tips.
