The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (77 page)

Nikandr bolted in the direction she’d pointed.
Dear ancients, please don’t take her as well.
He crested the ridge and found her there, lying among the grasses.

He dropped to her side and shook her. “Atiana!” He shook her harder. “Atiana! Please wake!”

He tried for long minutes, calling her name. She breathed, but did not open her eyes. Did not call his name nor squeeze his hand.

She might be lost, he realized. Like Ishkyna, or worse. Her body might wither and die and her soul go wherever souls go when a Matra loses herself.

All of the energy left him then.

He held her tight in his arms, rocking her back and forth, as he hummed an ancient song. It was the tale of Anuskaya, the one every child was taught when they were young. It was all he could think of, but it felt right. As he was stroking her hair, he heard something flutter onto the matted grasses nearby. It was a bird with russet top feathers and a bright golden breast. A thrush. Just like the one he and Nasim saw in the valley of Shadam Khoreh.

He looked to it, confused, wondering if it could possibly be the same one. There were markings along the left side of its neck, three dots that together looked like a small black clover. It turned its head this way and that, hopped closer, and then it was up and away, flying westward toward Alayazhar.

The moment the bird flew out of sight, he felt Atiana’s arm twitch.

He sat upright immediately. He stared into her eyes but did not stop humming. He continued to rock her, and eventually she twitched again.

Then her cheek moved. And her lips.

And at last her eyes fluttered open. She stared up into his eyes and with no hint of emotion on her face said, “You’ll wake the dead, humming like that.”

He stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending, and then burst into laughter.

He held her tight to his chest, still rocking her, as his laughter filled the fields of green.

EPILOGUE

Nikandr walked over smooth, river stone gravel in the garden of Palotza Radiskoye on a day that was unseasonably warm. It had been so warm, in fact, for so many days, that the snow had melted around the palotza grounds. They were in the dead of winter, and yet the air smelled of early spring, and it was strange indeed to see the grounds clear when normally they’d be fighting to keep the paths clear of snow.

On Nikandr’s right was Atiana. She wore a green silk dress with small pearls in the pattern of a field of brightbonnets. She’d had it commissioned for this very day. He’d asked her why she’d chosen a field of flowers, but she’d merely smiled and said it was a dream she’d had. Her hair was stunning. One long braid wrapped her head like a circlet, while locks of hair were pulled and layered beneath, accentuating the beautiful colors of ivory and amber and cream. Strands of golden chain, bejeweled with citrine, were woven among the braids. It was beautiful, but he had to admit he could think of little else but pulling the hairpins and letting her hair fall over her bare shoulders.

Nikandr could hardly complain over her new attire, trussed as he was in a new cherkesska and a shirt that was altogether too fine for his liking. He was the Duke of Khalakovo now. He knew appearances had to be maintained, but still it irked.

At least he’d been able to wear his own boots. They were polished to a fine black sheen, but they were his, and they were comfortable, which tonight would be an important thing indeed.

To his left was Soroush. He wore the double robes of the Aramahn. The inner was burnt umber, the outer a rich bistre that reminded Nikandr of a forest of black walnut he and Soroush had ridden through on their way from Alekeşir to Izlo. Soroush wore his black, almond-shaped turban, the ragged tail falling down his chest in the style of the Maharraht. It was strange to see him like this, as if he were caught between his past and his future, but in truth everyone was caught this way, between old and new. It was true that it had always been so, but in the days since the restoration—as some had begun to call it—the idea felt more powerful than ever. The rifts were not completely healed. That might take months or even years, but they were healing, and one day soon the worlds would be back on their proper path.

Soroush had returned along with Borund on one of the few Anuskayan ships that had survived the attack over Ghayavand. Borund, with Soroush’s help, had convinced the kapitan of the Bolgravyan ship that they needed to retreat. Nikandr knew now that it had almost cost them everything. There needed to be deaths so that the gateway to the heavens would open. Had Nikandr succeeded in stopping the fleet, the gateway might never have opened.

The ancients work in strange ways, indeed.

Nikandr and Atiana had returned south with Borund to Vostroma as the remaining Matri spread word to the corners of the Grand Duchy. After a week on Vostroma—days in which Atiana helped Borund to put the House of Vostroma back in order—the two of them had flown to Khalakovo.

Council was called. The dukes had returned from the war front. Most had arrived only in the last few days. On the morrow, they would all discuss the passing of Leonid and who would take the mantle of Grand Duke. But not tonight. Tonight was a night for a different occasion.

The three of them continued toward the eyrie. On the perches were four yachts—some of the precious few remaining windships in Anuskaya. Moored to the last perch was a simple skiff, laden with supplies. It was there that they went, coming to a stop in silent agreement only when they’d come alongside the skiff.

“Where will you go?” Nikandr asked Soroush.

Soroush glanced eastward with a wistful look. The golden earrings pierced along the ruined remains of his left ear glinted beneath the lowering sun. “Wherever the winds take me. It’s been too long since I’ve circuited the world.”

“Will you return to the islands?” Atiana asked. “Tell us what you’ve seen?”

The look Soroush gave her was one of wry amusement. “I may come, but let’s see who remembers the name of Soroush Wahad al Gatha by the time I do.”

From the palotza came another Aramahn. Anahid, wearing bright yellow robes. Having already said her goodbyes, she walked to the skiff and stepped down into it, waiting for Soroush to finish so they could be on their way.

Atiana squeezed Nikandr’s arm, and then stepped forward, hesitating for a moment before taking Soroush into a long, heartfelt hug.

“Go well,” she said simply.

“And you,” Soroush replied.

And then Atiana was off, as simple as that.

Nikandr understood. They owed Soroush a great deal. And yet he’d taken much from the Grand Duchy. It was as bittersweet for Nikandr as it was for her. In some ways he didn’t want Soroush to leave. He’d come to value his advice, his opinion. He even enjoyed the stories of Soroush’s travels before he’d turned to the Maharraht. But in other ways he would be glad when Soroush was gone, because in him there were too many reminders. Of his days leading the Maharraht. Of the Battle of Uyadensk and the ritual on Oshtoyets. Of the horrors on Rafsuhan.

Not least were the memories of what had happened on Ghayavand. Ashan’s death. And Nasim’s ascension, if that was what had truly happened.

“Do you think he passed on to the heavens?” Nikandr asked.

They’d spoken of it many nights since the restoration four weeks ago.

“I do,” he said. “Do you truly have doubts any longer?”

“It’s just… It seems so…”

“Improbable?”

“Impossible.”

Soroush shrugged. “For a time, I thought the same. But look around you. The very world is impossible. It should not be, yet here it is.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Nikandr smiled and motioned toward the skiff. “I’ve set a cask of araq to aging in the cellars. When you return, come to Uyadensk, and we’ll open it.”

“It may age a very long time indeed.”

“Then it will be that much finer when we drink it.”

Soroush seemed put off by this offer, as if he’d had no intention of returning, but then he nodded. “That will be a fine day, Nikandr, son of Iaros.”

“It will indeed, Soroush, son of Gatha.”

They embraced, the two of them kissing cheeks in the manner of the islands, and then Soroush stepped down into the skiff.

“One more thing,” Nikandr said.

Soroush turned, expectant, while Nikandr reached inside his cherkesska pocket. He pulled out a leather bag tooled with the curving designs of the Aramahn. He held it out for Soroush.

Frowning, Soroush pulled at the strings holding it shut and pulled back the flap to reveal the bright blue stone within. He took the Atalayina out and stared at it, shaking his head. “This cannot be given to me.”

“It is yours now, Soroush. If you judge that someone else should have it, then so be it.”

Soroush’s jaw worked. He swallowed several times, and his eyes glistened. “Thank you,” was all he said.

“Go well, Soroush.”

“Go well, Nikandr.”

And then they were off. Anahid guided the skiff up and away from the eyrie, allowing the prevailing winds to bear them eastward.

In some ways, Nikandr envied them—it would be wonderful to see more of the world—but in another, he was glad to remain exactly where he was. He’d come home. He’d seen much of this world, and he’d come to realize how much he loved Khalakovo. It would take the rest of his life, but he would relish learning more of it. He’d found his place in the world at last.

He turned and began walking back toward the palotza, wondering what would become of the world now. It was a question that had haunted him since Ghayavand. From talking to the others, he’d pieced together much of what had happened in the two years since Galahesh. Sariya had clearly planned carefully for her time on Ghayavand. She’d known since reaching the Valley of Kohor that she would ascend to the heavens, and she’d made careful plans before doing so. She’d returned to Alekeşir. She’d manipulated the powers of the world—the Haelish, Yrstanla, and lastly, Anuskaya—so that they were a shell of what they once were. Nikandr suspected it was so that each would have time to reflect on what had become of them. They’d have time to heal the wounds that they’d caused one another as well so that perhaps, in time, accords could be formed. Lasting peace could be formed.

At least he hoped it was so.

With Nasim beside her, and the others, he thought it might.

But it was not completely up to the fates. The will of man was a factor as well. Each had a say in their own fate and the collective fate of all. Nikandr would remember this, and if he was able he would strive to forge a better world.

As always, when he thought of such things, he thought of his brother.
Would the scepter was still yours, Ranos.
It wasn’t the responsibility he minded—he’d been brought up in the halls of power, after all. He would shoulder it and hope to do as well as Ranos and their father, Iaros, had done. What he wanted—what he missed so dearly—was to ride with Ranos one last time, to hunt pheasant or grouse or ride the winds around Khalakovo as they’d done when they were younger.

But it was not to be. His brother had joined his father, and in this he found some small comfort. Father missed him as well. So let them rest. Nikandr would join them soon enough.

He stopped as he caught movement from the corner of his eye.

By the ancients who protect…

It was the golden thrush, sitting on a branch of one of the carefully shaped evergreen bushes in the garden. It stared at Nikandr intently. It called its beautiful song and then went silent. The clover-shaped mark was there, just below its beak on the left side of its neck. It was the very one he’d seen on Ghayavand, and surely the same one he and Nasim had found in Shadam Khoreh. Could it be any other?

As Nasim had done, Nikandr reached his forefinger out slowly. The bird sang again, staring sidelong, fluttering its wings and puffing up the golden feathers along its breast. He thought surely it was about to leap onto his outstretched finger—it would stare, then flap, then stare again—but then it launched into the air and flew up and over the walls of Radiskoye. And soon it was gone altogether.

Nikandr released a pent-up breath and stared into the brilliant, cloudless sky. In some ways he wished he could stare beyond it, to the heavens above. But in another, he was glad to be where he was. Home. With those he loved and who loved him.

“Nischka?” He turned and saw Atiana standing outside the thick palotza doors. “It’s time for our dance.”

After giving the depthless sky one last look, he strode toward her.

Indeed.

It was time to dance.

On Elemental Spirits and the Use of Stones

The Aramahn harness the elements by drawing spirits, or hezhan, close to the material world and bonding with them. They do this by way of specific stones, each of which is aligned with one of the elements. The men and women who are able to do this are called qiram. The specific name of the qiram is altered based on the type of spirit they’re able to bond with. Thus, a qiram who bonds with spirits of earth, vanahezhan, are called vanaqiram. Those who bond with spirits of fire, suurahezhan, are called suuraqiram.

Earth

Gem: jasper

Spirit: vanahezhan

Air

Gem: alabaster

Spirit: havahezhan

Fire

Gem: tourmaline

Spirit: suurahezhan

Water

Gem: azurite

Spirit: jalahezhan

Life

Gem: opal

Spirit: dhoshahezhan

The people of the Grand Duchy cannot bond with spirits. However, they do have magic of their own. They use chalcedony, and it can range in use by the peasantry to honor their dead to more formal use by royalty. The Matri use the stones in order to anchor themselves while in the aether. They also use them to find others with whom they’ve recently “touched stones.” Chalcedony grants no direct control over the elements, but the Matri do guide the ley lines that run between the spires in order to create stronger, more predictable currents for the ships to sail along.

On the Primary Directions of Windships