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Her awareness spreads to the entire island, and there is one thing that is glaringly out of place.

The rift.

It glows against her senses like a brand, though it does not feel warm. Nor does it feel cold. It feels… wrong. It feels like an insult to this place, an injustice that must be righted, for surely it is a wound that will never heal on its own. The festering must be purged. Only then can the land begin to heal.

She moves in toward the strongest presence of the rift on the island. The spire. It is a mere branch in comparison to the massive trunk that towers above Radiskoye. She is certain that it is the weakest link on the archipelago. Tear it down and Radiskoye’s goes with it, and if Radiskoye’s goes, then so will all the others-the entire chain will devolve into little more than a gaping maw that leads directly to Adhiya. And then the spirits will avail themselves of anything they wish.

Like a ship in a gale, she finds it difficult to navigate. Her mind is thrown about by the aether, the currents as unpredictable as a cornered lynx. They pull at her, drawing her attention not to one place, but to everything. Du-zol-and the entire archipelago beyond it-feels more alive and also closer to death than she had thought possible.

It is the taint of the world beyond, she knows, yet still she finds it difficult to focus her attention, until she senses him.

Nasim.

He is chained to the spire. A spike has been driven into it. From this, manacles hang down and entrap his wrists. The spire itself is bright white against the backdrop of satin black. Most would be a dark blue, even against the spire, but Nasim is nearly as white. He does not fight; he does not scream. Every so often a shiver runs the length of his body, and his eyes move spasmodically beneath closed lids.

Men in ragged lengths of robes circle the spire, which stands in the courtyard of the keep. There are no men of the Duchy to be seen. She assumes they have been killed or are being kept in the donjon of Oshtoyets.

She recognizes two of the Maharraht-Bersuq and Soroush-the same two that raised the vanahezhan on the beach near Izhny.

Soroush approaches Nasim. In his hands he holds five stones, one for each of the aspects: jasper for earth, alabaster for air, tourmaline for fire, azurite for water, and opal for the raw stuff of life. All of them glow as brightly as the spire and Nasim.

The Maharraht are chanting, though she can hear no words. Soroush steps close to Nasim and presses the gem of tourmaline into his mouth. Water is forced down Nasim’s throat, and soon it is clear he has swallowed it, for he glows brighter.

Near Bersuq stands a brazier. From it stems a tuft of fire, the fire of Adhiya. In moments it has grown to the size of a man.

This is a crossing, happening as she watches, and in a blink it begins to burn her as if she’s been thrown into a blacksmith’s forge. She screams from the pain, and it intensifies until she no longer knows who she is.

And then, suddenly, it stops.

In the silence it is jarring to hear Nasim’s breathing. It comes softly at first-little more than a telltale sigh like a breeze blowing through the springtime grasses-but it intensifies, and there comes from him a tendril of gossamer light. It flows outward and reaches for Adhiya.

In the aether it is easy to forget that there are not only the dimensions of the physical world; there is another: a length of measure toward Adhiya that is so subliminal that it is often missed by even the most gifted Matra. She learned of such things from her mother, and she had long thought the information useless. But now she finds it invaluable. Essential.

She can sense where the tendril is headed: to a shadow on the other side that is shaped just like the bright imprint of Nasim on the mortal plane. As Soroush places the alabaster stone in Nasim’s mouth, the link grows stronger, and it is clear what they are attempting to do. Anecho of Nasim lives beyond the aether. He is of Erahm and Adhiya, both, and they are attempting to draw the two together. She does not know what will happen should they succeed; she only knows that it must be stopped.

Something familiar draws her attention. A soulstone. She pulls her attention away from the ritual and turns northward. A skiff comes, and within it sits Nikandr, but his mind is free of his body. He floats as the Matri do, and he is drawn toward the boy, Nasim.

There is something holding him back, however. The Maharraht within the courtyard-Soroush and Bersuq and the others-they are chanting; they are drawing about them energy that will keep Nikandr from reaching Nasim, and she knows that this cannot be allowed. She must break their hold on the keep. After that, it will be up to Nikandr and the ancients.

Then the suurahezhan shifts. It lifts its head and turns toward the skiff, its attention focused on Rehada in particular.

And there is nothing Atiana can do to stop it.

When Nikandr and his companions returned to their own skiffs, they found that one of its sails had been slashed, just as Grigory’s had. The other skiff, however, was still intact, and they discovered why a moment later.

The loud crack of a pistol rose above the distant sounds of the windship battle still raging to the south. The ball zipped past Nikandr and with a meaty thud bit deep into the chest of the strelet marching double-time behind him. A strelet in a gray cherkesska leapt into the boat, shashka in hand. He attempted to slash its sail, but Nikandr fired his pistol and the man crumpled, his sword slipping from his hand.

They took to the skiff, loading sixteen men. It was unwise, Nikandr knew, but he felt the risk was necessary. He needed to reach Duzol before Soroush could complete his plans, and he would need the men to help stop him once they arrived.

Ashan took the sail and raced them southwest. The storm was beginning to abate, but there was snow falling still. They came closer to the eyrie than Nikandr was comfortable with, but the risk of being spotted and fired upon was one they would have to live with.

As they passed the eyrie, two large ships passed above them. They were firing upon one another, but Nikandr could not tell which ships were aligned with which sides. They were a goodly distance away and the snow was thick enough to obscure details.

Soon they were over open water and rushing toward Duzol. Long minutes passed, without either island in sight, but then from the canvas of white ahead came the darkening mass of Duzol, and soon they could make out the cliffs, upon which sat Oshtoyets, the small keep where Rehada had said the Maharraht and Nasim would be found.

“Straight in, men!” Nikandr ordered, knowing this was no time for subtlety and hoping that at the very least surprise would be with them.

The keep came into view, its gray walls dappled in white. The spire in the courtyard, however, was quite different. Not a flake of white marred its smooth black surface. Wisps of steam rose along its sides.

“Turn away,” Rehada said.

“ Nyet, stay on course.”

“Turn away!” Rehada yelled.

Ashan, manning the skiff ’s sails, responded, drawing the wind from the north and shifting his stance to accommodate the way it pulled at the sails. But it was too late. From within the courtyard, Nikandr could see what Rehada had been worried about. The bright and burning form of a suurahezhan resolved there, and it was larger than the one that had killed Stasa Bolgravya. Its head was as high as the wall itself. Its form was ephemeral-shifting and sliding hypnotically-but it was still quite clear when it turned and focused its attention on their skiff.

On the walls stood many men-the remains of the Maharraht. They had muskets held at the ready, but they did not raise them to their shoulders. In fact they made no move to fire.

Within the courtyard stood Soroush.

And Nasim.

Nikandr could feel him. He was scared and lonely and in pain, but most of all he was worried; he was being used-he knew this-and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.