A voice came from behind Nasim. “You will have help. Have no fear of that.”
Nasim turned and found no other than Ashan stepping into the room. There was an Aramahn man by his side. It was Majeed Bassam al Haffeh, an aide to Fahroz on Mirashadal, the one who oversaw her burial pyre and the ceremony that followed. His outer robes were violet, his inner robes a deep shade of yellow, not unlike the sun when it set behind thin clouds. Unlike Ashan, there was no hint of humor in his eyes. The cut of his short hair, the set of his jaw, the steel in his eyes, and though he was younger than Ashan by a decade at least, there seemed to lie within him a solemn burden that made him seem much older. It marked him as a serious man, a perfect replacement for Fahroz, no doubt hand chosen by the mahtar herself.
Ashan watched Nasim with a hint of a smile and a look of relief. Nasim had seen him on Mirashadal only a little more than a week ago, but as Nasim stood there, looking at this man who had tried to find a way to reach him when he was lost, something within him broke. He stepped forward and embraced Ashan like never before.
Ashan held him tenderly, stroking his hair. “What is this?” he whispered.
“You’ve done much for me. And what have I done but spurn you in return?”
“You could not have accepted me then. You had to grow, on your own.”
“But I caused you so much pain. I’ve caused pain in so many. They died because of me, Ashan. They died because I refused to learn from you, and then from Fahroz.”
Ashan pulled away and looked at him, the familiar smile bringing Nasim back from the edge of despair. “Had you not done what you’ve done, we might never have come this far. Muqallad may have already gained what he wanted most. You cannot decipher what the fates have in store for you, Nasim.”
“The road is bleak.”
“Bleak, but not lost.” His smiled widened and he shook Nasim gently. “We will find our way.”
Majeed had stood several steps behind Ashan, watching this exchange stoically, as if he feared coming too near to Nasim.
“And what of Mirashadal?” Nasim asked. “Will they not help?”
Majeed looked to Iaros. Clearly they had discussed this already. “We will not.”
For a moment Nasim felt weightless. “In the name of the fates, why?”
“Forgive me for saying it, Nasim, but a grave mistake was made on Duzol.”
Nasim felt the blood drain from his face. “I was saved on Duzol.”
Majeed nodded. He stood taller, as if these were words for an errant child who had yet to understand the way of things. “The fates should not be trifled with. Things should have been allowed to take their own course, without our interference.”
“Many others were saved as well…”
“And how many might die now?” Majeed glanced to Iaros and the rook again. “If the rifts had been allowed to widen then, there might have been many deaths upon Khalakovo, but we might have avoided that which lies before us. Sariya and Muqallad’s plans might have been dashed before they’d truly begun.”
“It might have happened sooner had the rifts been torn over Khalakovo.”
“And it might never have happened. This is my point, Nasim. The fates should be allowed to choose the course of the world. Not me. And not you.”
“What would Fahroz have done?”
Majeed’s eyes became harder. “You know better than anyone that Fahroz is no longer with us.”
Fueled by his anger, Nasim stepped forward and stared eye-to-eye with Majeed. “You would rather I lie down and allow Muqallad to do as he will?”
“I would rather Muqallad lie down of his own accord, but if he does not, then that is the path the fates have chosen for us.”
“Erahm may burn.” Nasim was practically shouting.
“Then perhaps Erahm was in need of cleansing.”
“Enough,” Iaros said. “I’ve allowed you to stay, Majeed, to observe, but that is all.”
“Come,” Ashan said to Nasim, guiding him back toward the stairs. “There is much to discuss before night falls and the assault begins.”
Nasim was not at all sure the duke would allow him to leave, but Iaros simply nodded.
As Nasim took to the stairs, this time with Ashan, his heart was working furiously. He had known there were many like Majeed among the Aramahn, but to have them stand aside for something so vital… It didn’t seem right.
Slowly, his anger cooled, and he realized how strange it felt to walk next to Ashan as an equal. For so long, in those rare moments of lucidity, he had felt as if Ashan were his savior- neh, his creator — and it had taken years for him to disabuse himself of the notion. It wasn’t because Ashan wasn’t deserving of honor and praise for stealing him away from the Maharraht; it was that Nasim couldn’t allow himself to place Ashan on such a pedestal. He was a man, like any other, and just as susceptible to weakness.
Perhaps Majeed had the right of it, Nasim thought. Perhaps he should step aside and allow the fates to play out these next series of moves.
Only… It felt so wrong… It felt as though laying his will aside was not what the fates wanted. Were they not given the ability to reason, the ability to choose, for a purpose? Had not the fates given up some of their power over man when they did this?
And that was the trouble, he thought. No one knew, certainly not him. The fates were inscrutable, leaving him as powerless as a chunk of ice in the floes of spring.
They reached the top of the stairs and stepped outside the squat building and onto the grounds of the bazaar. Ashan looked to the akhoz, who still huddled only a hundred paces away.
Ashan regarded them. Without turning to Nasim, he said, “Much has happened.”
“It has,” Nasim said, “and one day-”
Nasim didn’t finish, for just then a light lit the northern sky. A column of bright, roiling fire shot upward like an arrow to the layer of clouds high above Galahesh. He knew what it was immediately. He’d seen the same thing on the shores of Rafsuhan.
Muqallad was fusing the Atalayina. The stone was now being made whole, and all that stood between Muqallad and his goals was a short journey to the Spar.
“We must hurry,” Nasim said.
Ashan smiled sadly, revealing his crooked teeth. “This I know, Nasim. This I know.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
W ith the new moon shedding the barest amount of light, Nasim and Ashan and a full sotni of streltsi-a veteran group chosen by Iaros Khalakovo himself-hid in the remains of two buildings ruined by cannon fire.
Only minutes ago, a skirmish with the Kamarisi’s forces had died down. The janissaries had retreated further into the city, and Nasim now watched for any glint of light, any shift of shadow, as did the streltsi, who had their muskets resting on the upturned heads of their axes.
A flapping of wings came down the street from a darkened alley.
Two musket shots rang out, echoing among the buildings, and by the flash emitted by the muskets Nasim could see the crouched soldiers pointing their muskets skyward and the rook flapping above them.
Nasim cringed as a dozen shots rang out around him in rapid sequence. The acrid smell of the gunpowder filled the air, irritating his nose.
“Go,” the sotnik called, and two dozen men stormed over the broken wall and ran down the street, their muskets at the ready.
As the streltsi stalked forward, a cluster of bright white flashes marked their progress. A handful of shots were returned from the opposite side of the street, more of the enemy lying in wait.
The soldiers of Yrstanla had been wily. Twice the streltsi of Anuskaya had nearly been caught between retreating men and an ambush force that lay in wait. But their enemy hadn’t counted on the akhoz, nor the speed at which reinforcements could be called in. The Matri had been deadly efficient up to this point, coordinating the movement of the streltsi and the hussars to the position they were needed, and from a direction that would best exploit the enemy’s weaknesses. And so they had made steady progress, marching forward through the city, compressing the forces of the Kamarisi step by step.