the roof collapsed.
It crashed down on them, stone and ancient wood crumbling, wounding one of them and causing several others to back away. This did them little good, however, for the water was slithering over the floor like a snake.
One of the soldiers fired his musket at the twisting column of water, which did little but spray water in a wide fan. A moment later, the water had wrapped around his legs, then his chest, and then it drove against his face, entering his mouth and nose. He reared back, flailing his arms, trying to bat the water away.
Atiana looked to Ushai. She wore a circlet with a stone of azurite, which glowed dully. It seemed strange for the gem to shine so little. As hungrily as the jalahezhan was taking the lives of the soldiers on the balcony above, it felt as though it should be as bright as the sun, not idly glowing like a bedside candle.
Two of the Kamarisi’s guard drew their kilij swords-blades with a sharp bend halfway down their length-and used them to cut at the twisting jalahezhan. Another drew a pistol and aimed it at Ushai.
Before he could draw the trigger, the snake flicked its head, and a tendril of water splashed across the pistol. When the guardsman squeezed the trigger, the weapon merely clicked, the powder wet.
Three shots came in quick succession against the heavy wooden door. The door was stout, but the wood was brittle. A moment later, it crashed inward, bringing three men with it.
One was felled by a point blank shot from Ishkyna.
Three of the streltsi charged, screaming the names of their fathers and bringing their berdische axes arcing downward. Both of the Kamarisi’s men were felled, but more came in after-five, then six, with more rushing forward now that the door had been breached.
Atiana watched only for a moment. It was going to be a slaughter unless she did something.
She raised her hands, but before she could shout their surrender, she heard the sounds of a renewed firefight. A handful of musket shots fired. Then more, and more, until it seemed that an entire war was being fought outside the doors. She could see outside the windows several dozen men advancing quickly across the estate grounds from the west. The men they were attacking-the Kamarisi’s guard-had been positioned to defend against fire from the estate. They weren’t at all prepared for an attack along their flank.
“Hold!” Atiana called. “Hold, for help has arrived.”
More gunfire rained in near the entrance, and several shots flew in through the nearby window. She could see men in dark garb and ivory-colored turbans.
“Pull back!” the leader of the Kamarisi’s guard called.
His men obeyed, retreating quickly up the stairs. Another of them dropped from gunfire, but the rest reached the second level and retreated down the hallway from which they’d come.
The men in dark garb rushed in through the open doorway, firing at the retreating men. They saw Atiana and the streltsi, and one of them with a thick moustache and black beard waved to her. “Come quickly,” he said in thick Anuskayan.
They were soon out and onto the grounds as the firefight was pushed ever eastward.
“Stay low,” the man with the thick beard said. “The danger is not yet over.”
They crouched as they ran, some shots still coming in from the Kamarisi’s guard, but soon they were beyond the grounds and into the northern buildings of the Shattering. They reached one-a domed building-and were led inside.
At last Atiana saw who her savior had been, for Siha s stood there among several men.
Seeing Atiana, he spoke low to the others and then came to her. “You should have left the city while you had the chance,” he said.
“I would not have. The fight is here.”
He stared at her soberly. “It is, My Lady Princess, but it’s much larger than you could have guessed.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
A s Nikandr was led around the edge of the clearing, many of the children-the akhoz-on the outermost row of posts craned their necks and followed his movement. They could no longer see, and yet they seemed drawn to him. He had no idea why this should be, but it made his skin crawl.
The men of the Hratha led him to a tree where a spike had been nailed into the trunk. He fought, but the Hratha yanked the chain between his wrists viciously when he did, the shackles biting deeply and drawing blood. When they reached the tree, the Hratha threw the chain up and over the spike, securing Nikandr. Just as the akhoz were.
Bersuq watched all of this with dispassionate eyes. He seemed to acknowledge that he had betrayed Nikandr, that he had allowed the Hratha to do this to him, but then he turned his head back toward the clearing, making it clear that in the end, they were on different sides of a conflict bigger than the one playing out here in the clearing.
The Hratha that had brought Nikandr here to the clearing moved to another group of men. Rahid was there, and when his men arrived, he looked back at Nikandr, tilting his head to listen to the quiet words of his men.
The day grew longer, but nothing happened. Midday passed, which would have been an auspicious time to perform this ritual. There seemed to be some concern among those gathered. Most watched through the trees to the west, waiting expectantly. A group of men were dispatched, presumably to search for Muqallad.
And then at last, as the sun was beginning to set, Muqallad came. He was flanked by many of the Hratha, and a few of the men from Siafyan. Kaleh was with him as well. They reached the edge of the circle, and Muqallad stopped. He turned to Nikandr and walked toward him. Strangely, he had cuts along his forehead and on one side of his nose. His left eye was half red where it should be white, and a host of bruises marked the left side of his neck and jaw.
When he stopped a few paces away, Nikandr realized that Muqallad was staring at Nikandr’s chest, where his soulstone should have been. Nikandr realized in this instant that he could feel Nasim. It was weak, very weak, but he could feel him. It was the first time in years he’d felt anything like it.
Muqallad must have sensed it too, though how this could be he had no idea. “We will speak when this is done,” Muqallad said, and with that he turned and strode into the clearing.
The sun was touching the tops of the trees now, a time that was perhaps more auspicious than high noon, for he could think of nothing more apt than the setting of the sun for what was about to happen to these children.
Muqallad walked over the ashes, over the bones, to the center of the clearing. He held up his hand and in them held two stones, both of them blue and brilliant even under the setting sun. “Who will take them?” he asked.
After only a moment’s hesitation, Bersuq strode forward and bowed his head. Muqallad handed him the stones, and without returning the bow walked from the clearing to stand at its edge.
Bersuq situated himself at the center of the posts. After taking in the faces of the akhoz, he held the stones aloft and began to chant. The rest of the gathered men and women-including Muqallad-soon picked the chant up. The roots of the words were both familiar and foreign, but the cadence drove a spike of fear through Nikandr’s heart. Surely the words were Kalhani, the mothertongue. It was an ancient language, and indeed, this ritual felt as if it were tied to the making of the world, as if the fate of Erahm hinged upon it.
With so many eyes turned toward the clearing, Nikandr was able to look up to his chains. He pulled down upon them, hoping to pull the spike free, but it had been driven too deeply into the wood.
The akhoz began to moan. The sounds came louder at the end of each recitation of the chant. Bersuq held the stones high above his head, pressing the two pieces together. The stones seemed to draw in the breath, draw in the voices and guttural calls of those nearby. There came a tugging within Nikandr’s chest, and his heart skipped a beat as the first of the children burst into flame. It was a girl on the outer ring. As her hair singed and burned and her skin lit like burning scrolls, the pitch of her moaning rose, as if the pain somehow excited her.
Soon the two next to her were aflame, and then the two beyond them. And so it went, more and more of the outer ring lighting like torches, until the circle was completed. The flame then leaped to the middle ring, and at last the innermost ring. The chanting rose higher as the akhoz burned bright like beacons. Nikandr could feel it now,
