Soroush stared, his eyes hard.
“I’ve changed since then,” Nikandr continued. “I was sick with the wasting, but then I was healed, and though Nasim was taken away, I still felt him”-he tapped his chest-“here. Ancients willing, I’ll feel him again some day, but until then I’ve taken to the winds, using what Nasim gave me to study the rifts as you once did.”
At this Soroush’s eyes went wide-only for a moment, but it was there. He looked over Nikandr’s shoulder, to the dark cabin windows, where the wind lightly whined. He looked as though he wanted to ask a question, but he kept his mouth closed, his jaw set.
“I know more about the rifts than anyone alive, except for perhaps you. Or Nasim or Ashan. I’ve found small ones. Large ones. There are webs of them-so many small threads interconnected that it boggles the mind. Did you know that? That they connect to one another?”
Soroush took the glass of araq and took a sip.
“Of course you did. It was why you attacked Duzol instead of Uyadensk. You hoped that by tearing one you would rip open the other, and the others beyond that. Perhaps the whole of the islands would be affected, da?”
“Tell me what you’re after, son of Iaros, or you can send me back to the hold.”
“I’ve searched for rifts everywhere. Khalakovo, Vostroma, Mirkotsk, Rhavanki.” He paused. “Even Rafsuhan.”
And here Soroush’s eyes sharpened. They became deeply distrustful and he sat straighter in his chair, the legs creaking as he did so.
“ Da,” Nikandr said. “There is a rift on Rafsuhan. Already large, and still growing.” He paused again, hoping Soroush’s love for his people would overcome his hatred for Nikandr. “It will grow larger than the one on Uyadensk, Soroush. Much larger. I can feel it already.”
His hands, still holding the glass in his lap, were shaking. “And you would have me help you?”
“The rift is already causing sickness among your people. If you take me there, provide for my protection, perhaps we can learn more of it. Perhaps we can close it.”
“You care nothing about them.”
Nikandr stared deeply into his eyes. “You will find it hard to believe, but I do, son of Gatha. But it isn’t merely about the people of Ashdi en Ghat or Siafyan. The rifts are spreading everywhere. Everywhere. Even as far as the Empire. It will not stop on its own. I know this now. Whether you love the Grand Duchy or you hate it, you must realize that if something isn’t done, all of Erahm will suffer.”
“If the fates will it, then it will be so.”
“It will not stop here. Adhiya will be next. Or perhaps first. Who knows how these things work?”
“If the fates will it…” He left the rest of the proverb unsaid.
“If you believed that, you would never have become Maharraht.”
Soroush’s jaw clenched. “My people will leave.”
Nikandr shook his head. “Some may leave, but you have settled in your cities. Many will stay, and they will suffer. And not only that, it will lead to a burden in their next life. And the one after that. You cannot want this for our world.”
Something in him seemed to break then. He breathed out. His jaw unclenched. His eyes softened. “You will not change them.”
“Your words are true,” he said in Mahndi, using the Landless phrasing.
Soroush sat there, looking at his glass, the araq within golden and inviting. But then the wind picked up again, and it drew his attention. He looked up at the ceiling, or perhaps past it to the deck above, and his mood seemed to change. “How were you saved?”
Nikandr shook his head. “What do you mean?”
“You fell to the ship. I heard the men talking. How could you have lived?”
Nikandr thought of lying. He thought of telling him that the havaqiram had harnessed the winds, used them to stop his descent and send him into the ship’s sails. But such a thing felt wrong, and he would have to tell Soroush of his newfound abilities at some point.
He reached inside his shirt and pulled out his soulstone necklace. He held it up for Soroush to see. “Nasim left me with another gift as well.”
Soroush stared at the chalcedony stone, shaking his head back and forth ever so slightly.
“I can touch Adhiya. I can bond with a hezhan.” He twisted the necklace between his fingers, making the stone spin before allowing it to fall against his chest. “I can feel it even now.”
“You?” He squinted, incredulous. “A qiram?”
“I do not know what to call it,” Nikandr said, unwilling to place that mantle upon his shoulders.
He looked down to his araq, then back to the soulstone. Then he stood and whipped the glass down to the corner. The glass shattered, the liquor splattering against the whitewashed wood. “You think I would help you?”
Nikandr rose to meet him.
Soroush reached out to snatch Nikandr’s soulstone, but Nikandr grabbed his wrist. Soroush tried again, but he was weak.
And then his other hand shot to Nikandr’s neck.
Soroush squeezed as Nikandr fought to pull him away. He finally managed to do so, his fingers raking across Nikandr’s throat, as the streltsi stormed in through the cabin door and grabbed Soroush by the arms.
“You think I would help you?” He spit on the floor between them. His eyes were crazed. He looked at Nikandr with such hatred, such venom, that if Soroush had been able he would surely have struck Nikandr dead.
Nikandr nodded to the streltsi. They left with Soroush, closing the door behind them, and as the sounds of their retreat diminished, Nikandr continued to stare at the door, his chest heaving with breath.
All as the wind outside howled.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A tiana pulls away from the currents of the north. She still feels Nikandr’s stone, bright like a lantern in the fog. He is distant, though, and as she retreats toward Kiravashya, he fades and is lost altogether.
It was painful to witness his fall and near death, not only because she cares for him deeply, but because she feels going to Rafsuhan-with or without Soroush’s help-is a fool’s errand. But she also understands that Nikandr believes it is the only way to learn more. And, she admits, Nikandr has a way about him of convincing others to follow him, of making them believe he is in the right. If anyone can convince Soroush to help, it will be him.
Before returning home, she stops roughly halfway. To the east is Khalakovo. To the west, and due north of Vostroma, lies the island of Ghayavand. She’s tried dozens of times to penetrate the shroud that surrounds it. At first it was nearly impossible to even sense. It felt as though there was simply open sea-no land at all to ground her-but eventually she came to sense its boundaries, and then she tried to move beyond them. Each and every time, however, she was rebuffed. There was something-something very strong-that kept her at bay, far from the shores of the island.
She’d felt something like it once before when the rift on Duzol had been at its widest and Soroush had begun his ritual with Nasim. It felt the same then, as if there were some yawning gash between the worlds that might swallow her whole if she came too close. And yet there was one important difference. Within the keep of Oshtoyets, she was drawn toward the rift. Had she wanted to, she surely could have entered it, and who knew what might have happened then? Ghayavand, on the other hand, prevents her from reaching it. There are seals, guards set to protect it from unwanted eyes. Nikandr thinks this is Nasim’s doing, or at the very least Khamal’s-the arqesh he had once been-but Atiana isn’t so sure. She knows Nasim, knows his scent, and there is not a single trace of him in the wards that stand against her.
She tries again to enter Ghayavand. She tries harder than she has in the past. Perhaps if she can sense Nasim, she might be able to convince Nikandr to abandon his plans. But it is not to be. She is rebuffed, as she always is, and she retreats exhausted toward home.