He had often wondered what it would be like to bring about an age of enlightenment. Khamal had tried with Muqallad and Sariya. They had failed, but might they not have learned from this? Might they not still succeed?
It was a noble goal, Nasim thought. A noble goal, indeed.
When they came to a large cavern, Nasim recognized the constellation that had been worked into the stone of the floor-Almadn, her amphora cradled as she dipped it into the spring of life. It was lit by a bright shaft of light that came down through an opening somewhere along the cliffs.
Nasim reached the center of the room. He stood upon the constellation and looked up, blinking, his thoughts suddenly confused and wild and directionless.
He turned and looked to Sariya, who favored her left side but otherwise seemed unaffected by her wound. He looked to Sukharam, who was staring at him with a look of confusion, as if he too were questioning those things he had been certain of only moments ago.
Nasim thought back quickly, wondering how Sariya could have done this. He realized in a moment what he should have known immediately. The spire in the forest vale. The interior was hollow. The entire structure was a tower-another manifestation of her tower in Alayazhar. It was Sariya’s haven, her source of power and strength.
Sariya met his eye. She still had a look of pain-the wound, at least, had been real-but there was a look of triumph as well, and a clear note of sadness, as if she’d hoped things wouldn’t have come this far, or that she and Muqallad might have found another way.
Neh, Nasim said to himself. She wasn’t sad over what had come before, but that which had yet to come.
Nasim heard footsteps approaching from one of the other tunnels. He turned and saw the shapes of forms in the darkness. As their images brightened from the shaft of light, Nasim’s breath caught in his throat. The sound was sharp, guttural, and it echoed about the cavern like the sound of chittering laughter.
Muqallad strode forward and into the wide space. Near his side, only a step behind, was Kaleh, and behind her were the akhoz, three or four or more-Nasim couldn’t tell; his eyes were drawn to Muqallad’s, and the two of them stared at one another for a good long while. Nasim remembered staring into those eyes many times before. These were Khamal’s memories, but at that moment they felt so much like his that he started to wonder who he was, and where. This place might be on Ghayavand. It might be on Galahesh. It might be in the desert wastes of the Gaji, where he and Sariya and Muqallad had traveled together to first find the Atalayina and then unlock its secrets.
He didn’t know who he was anymore, nor when he’d come to this place or why.
“Have you found the final piece?” Sariya asked.
He knew this was the third piece of the Atalayina, but he couldn’t remember when it had been lost, or who had taken it.
“We will have it soon.” As Muqallad spoke these words, he held his hand out and looked to Nasim.
It was a beckon, a summons, and Nasim knew that if he stepped forward and accepted his hand, he will have given up all he had striven for, all he had fought for since regaining himself in the keep of Oshtoyets.
“Nasim, stop!” This came from Sukharam, a boy he hardly knew.
He paused, his breath coming rapidly, his pulse beating heavily along his neck. He swallowed once. Twice.
“Nasim!” Sukharam called again. “Listen to me! You cannot do this!”
And then he stepped forward.
And took Muqallad’s hand.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
N ikandr woke as a hand shook his shoulder.
He blinked as the sounds of the wind and the feel of his weight upon the deck returned to him.
He stood before the Yarost’s starward mainmast, his arms hanging at his sides. Every part of him felt as if it were weighted with lead.
Anahid stood beside him, and after long moments he realized she had been the one who had touched his shoulder.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Off course,” she replied. Her face was dour, as if he had disappointed her in some way, perhaps because he was not Jahalan. “If you can find the strength, another day will see us to land, and then we can begin skirting it eastward.”
“I don’t know if I can stand another day.”
“You will, son of Iaros, or we’ll never reach Yrstanla.”
Nikandr took a deep breath. He stretched his jaw. He shook his head until his neck hurt. But none of it managed to drive away the sleep.
Anahid evaluated him with a long, searching look.
“I’ll make it.”
She looked doubtful. She appeared tired as well, exhausted even, but there was grim determination in her eyes. How the Aramahn managed to stay awake for such long periods, he would never know. “The winds will be stronger today as we reach the edge of the storms.”
“How do you know?”
“The tightness in my chest is finally leaving. I first felt it on our way across the neck, and it has been with me ever since.”
“I’ll be ready,” Nikandr replied.
“See that you are,” she said, nodding over his shoulder.
He turned sluggishly and found Styophan approaching with a steaming mug in his hand. Nikandr accepted it gratefully. It was filled with pyen, a tea that contained the fermented bark of a tree that grew in the lowland swamps of many of the Grand Duchy’s islands. They’d found it in the physic’s chest in the galley.
He took one large swallow. The scalding liquid burned its way down his throat, but he didn’t care. The pain served to wake him up, and the sooner he got the liquid into his gut, the better.
He was nearly ready to begin calling on his havahezhan when something caught his eye far out to sea. He moved to the windward gunwales and steadied himself while drinking his pyen. His eyes refused to remain steady, however, and no matter how forcefully he tried to remain awake, his eyes began to close.
And then it came again.
“Do you see it?” he asked Styophan when he stepped up to the gunwales at his side.
“What?”
“The darkness against the sea. Three leagues out”-he held his arm straight out-“there.”
Styophan stared. “ Nyet.”
After downing the last of his drink, Nikandr used his spyglass to watch for minutes more, but it never recurred. He didn’t like it, though. It was dangerous to fly so close to the sea. Any loss in lift or an unforeseen gust might drive you down on top of the waves, so Landed windships rarely did so, but the Maharraht would often fly this way because it made them more difficult to spot against the dark sea. Many of their ships’ sails were dyed gray to add to the effect.
In the end, there was nothing he could do about it. Even if he’d wanted to, there was no way he’d be able to catch up to the ship. He’d be lucky to bring them safely to the shores of Yrstanla.
“Son of Iaros?”
“Coming, Anahid.”
He returned to the mainmast and drew once more upon the wind, using it to guide the ship and her sails. As he had for the past seven days, he drove them onward, fighting the prevailing winds. Their only saving grace was that though the winds were normally unpredictable over the Sea of Khurkhan, they were generally heading northwest-an oddity he could only assume was due to the storms centered on the Vostroman archipelago-so all he need do was correct so that they were headed due north.
Were Jahalan with them, the two of them could have traded time at the mainmast.
But Jahalan wasn’t…
The image of his old friend often played through his mind when he was at his weakest. It did so now, haunting him as he fought to keep the ship headed in the right direction. Tears welled up in his eyes as snow began to fall, but he blinked them away and bent his will to the task ahead.
At least, he thought grimly, the memories of Jahalan were keeping him awake.
Past midday a fog rolled across the sea, dropping visibility to little more than an eighth-league.