The jalahezhan reached two of the soldiers who were holding up their guns. It bore down on them, splitting around their simple defense and drowning them in moments.
The shot of a cannon brought Rehada’s attention toward the keep. A passing ship unleashed another cannon shot into the courtyard. Several more ships followed, each of them loosing blasts of their own.
The jalahezhan, perhaps sensing they were a greater threat, turned toward the oncoming ships. Droplets of water flew off of its body and up toward the nearest of them. More and more of it flowed like rain up and against the oncoming galleon, its body shrinking as it did so. It fell against the sails and the deck of the ship as the crewmen working frantically to prepare their dousing rods.
And then it reformed.
Musket fire snapped across the ship. Men shouted as the water spirit slipped around the men holding the dousing rods and attacked those that had yet to fire.
The vanahezhan had finished with the forward streltsi. Only two streltsi and the sotnik remained. Ashan was still trying to slow the approach of the vanahezhan. Rehada summoned the power of the suurahezhan once more, focusing a blast of heat against the spirit of earth.
The vanahezhan stopped. It seemed to gather its strength. A moment later the earth rolled before it like a wave upon the water. It traveled outward-tight and focused on Rehada and Ashan.
It struck, sending her flying. She landed with a thud as the wave of earth thundered onward and was lost among the sloping hills behind her.
She looked toward Ashan. He lay unmoving, unconscious or dead. The vanahezhan lumbered forward, mere moments from reaching him.
She poured everything she had left, but she had already given too much. She managed a gout of flame that lasted no longer than a breath, and then the suurahezhan released her, knowing she was now little more than a mere husk. The moment it did, however, it slipped back through the aether to Adhiya. The vanahezhan’s attack had weakened it-that and the demands Rehada had placed on it-and when it had released her, it had also released a critical bond that was keeping it squarely grounded to this world.
In a way she was glad, for she could no longer have controlled it, but in another it made her desperate, for she had been left utterly powerless to prevent the vanahezhan from reaching Ashan.
CHAPTER 65
The wind whipped around Nikandr, pushed harder and harder against his frame as he rushed toward the sea. His descent was slowing, but it seemed impossible to prevent himself from plummeting into the waves. Strangely, that only deepened his commitment to the hezhan. He released all of his worries, all of his hopes, and drew strength from the hezhan, asking-not demanding-that it help him.
The winds blew harder. It rushed up and around him, whipping his clothes and his hair. He slowed and halted in midair-only seconds from the water-and then he was flying upward along the cliff. The walls of Oshtoyets were high above him. He urged the winds to push him faster, knowing there was little time left. He had to reach Nasim to protect him somehow.
The wind roared in his ears as he crested the wall. In the center of the courtyard was the black spire towering five stories high, and at its base was Nasim, chained to a spike set into the obsidian stone. The Maharraht stood around the spire in a circle, chanting, but as Nikandr moved toward the battlements, one of them spotted him. Nikandr could not hear above the noise, but the Maharraht summoned another, who had an alabaster stone set into the circlet on his brow. He raised his hands, and immediately the winds shifted, pushing Nikandr over the courtyard.
And then the wind was utterly, inexplicably gone. He fell nearly two stories and crashed onto the stone, striking his head as he did so.
Pain resounded through him-especially along the back of his skull-as he woke to a low and rhythmic chanting. He tried to move, but cold metal held his wrists in place. His arms were pulled painfully above his head.
Soroush stood before him, his eyes serious, his long black beard blowing in the wind. “It is true that the fates are kind.” He did not seem smug, but rather grateful, as if he truly felt that the fates had smiled upon him.
“The day is not yet done,” Nikandr replied.
“But it is, Nikandr Iaroslov. It is.” He held the stone of opal between his fingers. “This was the first of the stones-I found it on Rhavanki-but did you know that you granted me the second?”
Nikandr shivered, knowing it was true.
“Rehada gave me the third. My brother the fourth. And your betrothed gave me the fifth. We are linked, you and I, through more than this struggle.” He paused, waiting for this all to sink in. “I wonder if we were not brothers in another life.”
An acid taste formed in Nikandr’s mouth. He spit to clear it.
Soroush smiled, not unkindly. “You may think not, but how can you not see what has become of the two of us and not wonder why we have been brought together? Or perhaps you think your ancestors have been watching over you. Have they, son of Iaros? Have they brought this into being?”
“The ancients cannot see all there is to see.”
“ Neh?” He regarded the glimmering jewel held between his thumb and forefinger. “But they must see what is coming now.”
“Nikandr?”
It was Nasim’s voice. Nikandr turned. He was unable to see Nasim, but he knew he was there. He could feel him-chained to another face of the spire.
“Please help me.”
Soroush seemed bothered by these words, but he quickly regained his composure. “He cannot, child.”
Soroush may have spoken more-Nikandr isn’t sure, because his awareness expands. He loses touch with the reality around him. His eyes roll back into his head, and he can no longer feel his body, but he can feel the granite cutting down through the cliff and the rivers running through the hills of Duzol.
He stands on the shores of Adhiya. He feels the heat of white fire, the cold of eternally shifting waters, the touch of wind and the solidity of earth and stone-through it all runs the essence of life. Like thread along a seam these elements draw Nasim tighter-the part of him that walks the lands of the spirits is bit by bit being drawn closer to his self in the mortal plane. This is by design-it is what Soroush has been planning to do ever since landing on Khalakovo.
The scene in the courtyard is shown through Nasim’s senses. The stone of opal-the last of the stones-glitters between Soroush’s fingers, inches from Nasim’s mouth.
Nasim dearly wishes to take it.
Do not, Nasim.
He hears Nikandr’s words, but the lure is simply too strong. This stone is part of him, just as the other four now are. It is with this realization that thoughts crystallize in Nikandr’s mind, thoughts that had been eluding him since the ritual started-these spirits, these elders, are aspects of Nasim, perhaps former lives, perhaps future ones.
Accept him, Sariya said. He must. He must do this, or all will be lost. He has been trying to remain grounded-trying to remain himself — while still helping Nasim, but this is not the way. He must give of himself that Nasim might live.
So he releases completely. He is a rock among the waters that Nasim might swim to, and Nasim finds that he is able to resist the call of the stone being offered to him, to resist that final aspect of himself, no matter how enticing it might be. In this small victory he finds courage.
A look of confusion plays across Soroush’s face. He strokes Nasim’s hair. “There is nothing to fear, child.”
Still Nasim disobeys. There is a light that sparks within him that has not been present until now.
Soroush’s face becomes not angry, but filled with intent. He presses a forearm against Nasim’s throat and with his other hand tries to force the stone into Nasim’s mouth.
Nasim resists, shaking his head back and forth.
Soroush strikes again and again.