Nasim didn’t understand what Ashan meant, but when he put his mind to it, the answer was obvious. “Mirashadal.”
Ashan’s smile widened. “You were always very bright.”
Nasim shook his head, nearly laughing. “It would be good to see Fahroz once more.”
“You are wise, Nasim.” Ashan stood and rubbed his head, as he had many times when he was young. “You are wise, indeed.”
Nasim woke at dawn the following morning. He prepared himself to leave, packing away his few belongings into a bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He went quietly through the room as many of the refugees from Rafsuhan slept. A small girl, no more than five, opened her eyes at his departure. She watched him go, brushing away her black bangs from her eyes, but she didn’t call out.
He made his way up to the deck. Soroush was manning the helm, adjusting the keel levers, watching Nasim from the corner of his eye. When he finally did look at Nasim, he didn’t nod and he didn’t smile; he merely watched and then turned away, his attention returning to the attitude of the ship.
Nasim headed aft, to the windward side of the ship where a skiff sat waiting. Sukharam sat in the confines, watching him with a serious expression that was also the tiniest bit hopeful.
Nasim shook his head as he approached. “You cannot come.”
“It isn’t up to you.” This came from behind Nasim. He turned and found Ashan approaching. “It’s his choice,” Ashan continued. “He deserves to learn from those who would teach him, the same as you.”
Ashan stepped into the skiff as Sukharam stared up at Nasim with a hardened expression and said, “I go despite you, not because of you.” With that he shifted away on the thwart and hugged the far side of the skiff.
Nasim balanced himself against a nearby belaying line as the sting of their words settled in. He should have been the one to teach Sukharam. But he had failed utterly.
Ashan waited, his hand held out, smiling. When Nasim didn’t accept his offer of help, his smile faded and his eyes grew serious. “It’s your choice, Nasim. You don’t have to come.”
You’re wrong, Nasim thought.
Yesterday when Ashan had made the offer, he’d felt like he was making a choice. And here, standing near this skiff, felt like another. But there really was no choice. He’d been trapped from the moment Khamal had died. Despite what had happened on Oshtoyets-or perhaps because of it-he felt as though he’d been walking his entire life in the footsteps Khamal had left for him.
And this was merely one more step.
He nearly turned away, nearly considered returning belowdecks. But he did not. He was trapped, well and truly.
He took Ashan’s hand and stepped into the skiff.
What could he do now but find out why?
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Two points off the landward bow of the Chaika, by the bare light of the moon, the coast of Uyadensk came into view at last. Nikandr had hoped the snowstorm had enough strength to cover their arrival, but it had abated shortly before nightfall. Still, movement around the palotza would be low, and if Victania’s plan had worked, she would be the one in the drowning chamber tonight. And even if she wasn’t, the attention of the other Matri would be focused on Vostroma as the battle with Yrstanla widened and intensified.
The ship reached the shores of the island and headed inland toward the valley that housed Iramanshah. They plotted a course that avoided the villages on the northern side of the island. It made their approach painfully slow, but it was necessary. He couldn’t risk Borund hearing about this, at least until it was too late for him to do anything about it.
The Chaika and the Bhadyar continued until they came to the meadow east of the valley’s entrance. As the Bhadyar filled their skiffs with the men, women, and children who would be left here in Iramanshah, Nikandr took his own skiff down.
When he reached solid ground and slipped over the side of the skiff, he saw the outline of two men near the entrance to the valley. One was hunched with age. His name was Hilal, and he was one of the seven mahtar of Iramanshah. A younger man stood by, holding his arm. Hilal was blind and infirm and needed help to walk, yet when Nikandr approached, the young man bowed and stepped away, leaving Nikandr and Hilal alone.
“I thought they might not come, son of Iaros,” Hilal said.
“Your thoughts echoed my own,” Nikandr replied.
The skiffs were just now dropping from the Bhadyar. Nikandr wondered what those men and women would be feeling. To say it was difficult would be to insult their sacrifice. But he had wondered often since learning of their decision: would this be freeing for them after following the path of violence for so many years? Or would it taste bitter? Would they hate themselves for falling back into a life they had long ago rejected?
“These last many months on Rafsuhan were trying for them,” Nikandr said as the skiffs touched down.
“Of this there can be no doubt.” Hilal was silent for a time. “Did you know that Fahroz came to the village?”
Nikandr felt a chill run through him, and he wondered if Hilal could sense such things. “Did she?”
“ Yeh. She left only days ago.”
“And what did she want?”
“She wanted to speak with you. She hoped to see Nasim as well.”
Nikandr shook his head, laughing lightly. “Nasim left my care only days ago with Ashan. He wouldn’t tell me his destination, but I suspect he’s gone to find Mirashadal.”
“The fates work in strange ways,” Hilal said in his faraway manner, leaving Nikandr to wonder whether his words were meant as question or statement.
The Maharraht approached. “I must go,” Nikandr said, “but I hope we can speak again.”
“I hope so as well. Fare well, son of Iaros.”
“Fare well, son of Sadira.”
Nikandr turned and headed down the well-worn path toward the Maharraht skiffs. He stopped when he recognized the form of Zanhalah. She looked toward him, but she did not call out, she did not wave, and if Nikandr had been close enough to see her face, he was sure that she would not be smiling. Many more came, few of them acknowledging Nikandr’s presence.
He did not feel like a savior to these people, but he felt he deserved more than cold shoulders and suffering silence. But the Maharraht were proud, and this was a difficult step for them, so he let it be.
The last to come was Soroush. It was difficult to tell his mood, as dark as the night was. Nikandr thought he seemed regretful, though for what Nikandr wasn’t sure.
“Will you still return to Rafsuhan?” Nikandr asked.
“There are more who would come, hiding now in the hills and the forests. I would see them home.”
Nikandr found it interesting he used the word home to describe the Maharraht returning to the fold of the Aramahn, but he said nothing of it.
An uncomfortable silence hung in the air between them. Nikandr thought of asking him of his intentions. He wanted to ensure that Soroush wouldn’t return to wage war against the Grand Duchy; a part of him still wanted to take Soroush back to Radiskoye, to see him hung for what he’d done, but these were empty thoughts at best. He owed Soroush his life, and what was more, he’d never thought to see the Maharraht splinter as they had. They’d been so resolute since their formation, and yet here they were, dozens of them, not only turning their backs on the Hratha, but forsaking the ways of violence.
Only the ancients knew if it would hold, but he hoped it would.
Nikandr was ready to break away when he felt a presence through the soulstone at his neck. He reached for the stone as a chill washed over him. It was not Mother, nor was it Victania. It was another of the Matri, and the presence felt strong, which meant it was most likely Nataliya, Borund’s wife.
“What is it?” Soroush asked.
“You must go,” Nikandr said. “Quickly. Head west for a day, as we agreed.”