The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (38 page)

“Foolishness,” Safwah spat. Nikandr had the distinct impression she was no longer relaying a story. She was speaking to herself now, reliving the history of her people.

“As time went on, some of the Tashavir abandoned the cause, and the walls around Ghayavand weakened. It had taken many to form the spells around Ghayavand, but with the foundations crumbling, they knew they must take steps to preserve them. Decades might pass before a way to heal the rifts was found. Lifetimes. And so it was decided that the Tashavir who remained would hide among the mountains. Fifty-five traveled to the valley of Shadam Khoreh, and there they were entombed, their bodies preserved. They lived at the very edge of Adhiya itself, preserving themselves since the day they were buried. They were strong and bright, these flames of Shadam Khoreh. They sacrificed themselves that the world might one day recover from the days of the sundering.”

“Forgive me.” Ashan bowed his head reverently to Safwah. “But if this is so, why have you kept us from Shadam Khoreh?”

Safwah chuckled lowly. The sound echoed ominously against the walls of the cavern. “And now the other part of the tale comes. We who protect the old ways, the Keepers of the Flame, are now few. Then the daughter of Sariya came to this village. Kaleh, she named herself. And she brought a boy, but she told us he was dumb and mute. And it seemed so, for he never spoke. Not once. She asked us of the history of this place, slowly wheedling more information from us. She spent much time in the Vale of Stars as well, taking breath for days at a time.”

At this, Nikandr looked over to where Sukharam lay, remembering the look on his face when he’d left the Vale of Stars. Had he seen what Sariya had seen?

“What I didn’t know then, what none of us knew, was that she was working her way into our minds. One by one, she found us, the Keepers, and chained our memories. The others she may have bound as well, I do not know, but when they learned her true nature, they surely rejoiced. For Kaleh was not Kaleh at all. She was Sariya, one of the Al-Aqim returned, and for them—those who believed the sundering was no mistake at all, but the next step toward a rebirth of our world—it was a grand sign.

“Sariya took what she wanted from us. Knowledge of the Atalayina, knowledge of the Tashavir, but most importantly, the location of Shadam Khoreh, the valley where the Tashavir, fates willing, still remain hidden. She left us, but not before sending some away, and not before setting others to guard this village from presences like yours.”

“If that’s so,” Nikandr said, “then why were we not simply killed when we arrived?”

Safwah nodded to Goeh. “It was Goeh who found you, and it was those loyal to us, the Keepers, that saved you at the edge of the valley. When you arrived, the others did not wish to raise suspicion, so they bided their time, waiting, hoping we would find nothing. That is why we pushed to use Atiana as we did. She awakened within us our memories.”

“But Atiana knew nothing of Kaleh and Nasim’s time here,” Nikandr said.

“She didn’t have to. She told us of Kaleh and Sariya and Nasim. She knows Sariya well, perhaps better than anyone alive. From her memories, from her understanding, our memories that had been hidden were returned to us. But when the others realized this, they knew they couldn’t allow us to live. Nor could they allow
you
to live. They came for you, which is how I arrived at your home.”

“But what happened to Atiana?”

Safwah shrugged. “They took her. I barely escaped with Goeh’s help. The others may all be dead by now. Fates willing, it won’t be so, but you”—she looked to each of them in turn—“may now be our last hope. You must go to the valley. We’ll send help if we’re able, but it may take days for us to find out who lives while the others search for us.”

“Why would she have brought Nasim?” Soroush suddenly asked. He was staring at the lake over Safwah’s shoulder, giving the impression he was speaking more to himself than anyone else. “Why bring one who is no ally of hers to such a place? Why not go herself?”

Ashan shifted where he sat. “Nasim was needed in Shadam Khoreh.” He turned to Safwah. “Is it not so?”

Safwah searched Soroush’s face, then glanced down at the siraj that lay between them as if searching for memories long hidden. “The tombs… They would not easily be opened by one such as Kaleh, even as powerful as she is. Nasim, however, is reborn of the Al-Aqim. Were he near, the tombs would open.”

Nikandr shook his head. “But the Al-Aqim were the enemy of the Tashavir.”

Safwah raised her hand to him as if scolding a child. “Not enemies. The Al-Aqim had been
allowed
to live. To consider what they had done. It was hoped that they would learn and find a way to repair the Atalayina and to close the rifts, and if they could do this, they would be able to leave Ghayavand and return to Kohor. The tombs would open for them, and the Tashavir would return to help as they could.”

“And when the tombs have been opened?” Nikandr asked. “What will Kaleh do?”

“She will kill them,” Soroush said, “one by one.”

Safwah nodded. “That is what must be stopped. You must go to Shadam Khoreh. Find Nasim, but at all costs, you must save the Tashavir.”

“And if we don’t?” Nikandr asked.

“Then Kaleh will have what she wants. She will be able to return to Ghayavand, the Atalayina in hand, and rip the world apart.” Safwah glanced back to Sukharam, who was still sleeping on the glittering stone. “Carry him. He’ll sleep for a while yet.”

She stood and moved to the cavern wall behind her. With but a touch the stone melted like ice, revealing another tunnel beyond. “Your ab-sair will be waiting for you at the end of this tunnel. The others will hound these caverns for a while yet, but they will expand their search to the desert, and when they do, you must be long on your way to Shadam Khoreh.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Styophan sat in the driver’s bench of a tall coach. Edik sat next to him wearing his janissary’s uniform. Behind the coach were thirty-seven of his men, marching two by two, their footsteps rising above the clop of the four horses pulling the coach and the jingle of tack and harness. Of the Haelish men who’d come with them there was no sign.

Styophan wore his commander’s uniform. The rest wore the clothes of regulars. They traveled toward the city of Avolina. Its walls were made of stone, and it had the look of age about it. Avolina wasn’t so old as Alekeşir or the cities of Old Yrstanla, but it was old enough that it had outgrown its original walls. It was this feature, along with one other, that had made Styophan choose it. It was large enough that it would have many men moving through it: men from the outskirts of the Empire; men from the warfront; men coming from Alekeşir with official news and supplies.

The other factor that had made them choose this route was the fact that the headwaters of the Vünkal, the very same river that bisected Alekeşir, ran through Avolina as well.

The coach rattled on. The men marched behind sloppily, exactly as they’d been ordered. Styophan could see janissaries manning the wall. One called another over and pointed to the field Styophan and his men were crossing. A moment later they called down to ground level, presumably to more soldiers who were hidden behind the half-timber buildings that stood outside the wall. Styophan stroked his two-week-old beard. He’d grown it and cut it in the fashion of the region—mustached with tails, long hair along the chin but shaved along the cheek and neck. He had to admit he looked the part, but many of the men didn’t. They looked to him like streltsi posing as soldiers of Yrstanla, which was of course exactly what they were. Edik argued that the men of Avolina wouldn’t suspect; they’d merely look down on these simple soldiers from the outlands, men who either weren’t good enough to find posts in the cities or had been born far from civilization, both of which would be damning in their eyes.

Styophan hoped he was right, for already he was feeling the weight of the stares as the men on the wall studied their approach.

When they passed beyond a long building, a tannery from the smell of it, the city gate was revealed. It was open, but four men were standing at the ready, muskets in hand. He’d wondered for days if Avolina would have heard news of the coming war and the devastation at the fort.

Clearly they had.

“Hold,” one of the soldiers said in thick Yrstanlan when they approached.

Edik pulled at the reins and the coach came to a stop.

The men came to a rest as well. They stayed in their rows, but they looked about, concerned, some of them wide-eyed, as if they were worried what was to become of them.

Good
, Styophan said to himself.

“You look grim, you do,” said the janissary as he looked Styophan up and down.

Styophan handed him the first of the notes he’d written before leaving the fort. “For the Kaymakam.”

Styophan was ready for the man to lock eyes with him, to stare deeply into his soul, ready for him to peel back this simple deception to learn the truth. With that one look he’d know that these were men of the islands, not soldiers from the wide-open spaces of the Empire. Styophan readied himself to pull his pistol and fire, readied himself to order his men to storm over these few soldiers of Yrstanla.

But the janissary did
not
lock eyes with Styophan. He accepted the letter and inspected the seal carefully, then eyed Styophan as if he wondered how he’d come by such a thing. Styophan thought at first he recognized the seal itself. Each of the forts were given their own—he knew because he’d examined many that were left in the commander’s desk—but a man like this probably wouldn’t know them all.

“You’ve come all this way?” He looked beyond the coach and down the line of men. “All of you?”

Styophan ignored his questions. “The Kaymakam will want to see that.”

“You’ve said as much.” He looked for a moment like he was to pick a fight, but Styophan stared him down. The janissary blinked. He stared at the letter as if by doing so he could burn it, and then he barked, “Wait here,” and left, storming past the other men as though each and every one of them had profoundly disappointed him.

Edik glanced sidelong at Styophan with a look that anyone else might interpret as relief. Styophan knew Edik too well, however. His was the face of a bloodthirsty man. Styophan had forbidden him from trying to seek retribution against the Haelish. Edik would never disobey, but neither would he forget, and if he could soothe the fires of vengeance by blooding the men of Avolina, he would gladly do so.

“Time enough in Alekeşir,” Styophan had told him.

Now, as Edik stared coldly at the janissaries, he leaned back into the wagon’s bench. It creaked loudly, the only sound besides a hammering that came from somewhere inside the walls.

The commander returned, but he hadn’t more than framed himself in the gate than he waved his hand at Styophan to follow and walked back the other way. Styophan clicked his tongue and snapped the horses’ reins, and soon the line was marching into Avolina. They passed homes of two and three stories. The city felt cramped, as did the streets, which were filled with people walking with baskets or children playing with barrel rings or men bearing lumber and tools. They parted for Styophan’s coach, but did so only grudgingly.

Edik leaned closer and spoke under his breath. “They don’t much like those from the edges of the Empire, do they?”

“Would
you
if they constantly failed to stop the barbarians from killing your women and stealing your children?”

“Point taken.”

They passed a central square where a tall stone building stood—no doubt the house of the Kaymakam—but the soldier didn’t stop there. He continued to the river an eighth-league further. There were warehouses here, and a dozen piers, some with ships, and two with low, flat barges on them.

Exactly what Styophan had been hoping for.

He stared carefully along the river, especially northward, but all he saw was a placid brown surface that twisted like a carelessly tossed rope toward the stone wall. Stout iron bars barred entrance from the water beyond, but they were cleverly set into the towers on either side to hinge inward and allow entry by river. Styophan doubted it saw much use, however. Avolina was the last large city along the Vünkal. Beyond, the river grew too narrow and shallow for use by any but the smallest watercrafts. It would be the southern river gate that saw use, for through it trade would come from Alekeşir and other cities along the Empire’s largest river.

The commander stopped at a wide-open space along the main thoroughfare. He did not speak. He merely held his hands behind his back and stood at the ready, as if for inspection.

Minutes passed. Then more. Many came to see the men from the outlands that had gathered at the river. Men bearing carts filled with hay or potatoes or cages filled with chickens. Carpenters working on the roof of one of the warehouses stopped and stared. Urchins and children, many of whom showed signs of the wasting—dark circles beneath their eyes, thin, coughing—ran through the area, but more and more lingered near the edges of the street, sensing something was about to happen.

Then a procession of thirty soldiers came from the house of the Kaymakam. They marched with an odd gait—one leg arcing high, the opposite arm swinging up as the other, bearing the curved kilij swords of Yrstanla, swung back. The swords they bore were of high quality. The well-oiled blades gleamed under the sun. Each had a wheellock pistol at his belt, and their sheaths were a beautiful brown leather, tooled with the eight-pointed star common to the region. They moved in behind the lone officer, fifteen to a side, and waited, swords in hand, unmoving, their eyes staring beyond Styophan and his men.

“Trouble,” Edik said softly.

Styophan shook his head furtively. “Sixty would be trouble. Thirty shows us they’re not to be taken lightly. Thirty from his personal guard will show that the Kaymakam keeps his men well trained and at the ready. A show for the Kamarisi, whom he now knows we’re off to see.”

After several more minutes, a palanquin approached the river. It was borne by eight bald men, each of them nearly identical to the next. They marched quickly but steadily and set the palanquin down in front of the lone soldier, who bowed and stepped aside.