Unable to sleep, he left his cabin and wandered the deck. Several men stood watch, with Viggen tending the helm. Jahalan normally slept on deck, but when Nikandr moved toward the forward patch of deck where he normally laid out his blanket, Nikandr found him sitting there, studying the sky. Nikandr waited, not wanting to interrupt, but just as unwilling to return to his cabin.
“Come,” Jahalan said, making space for Nikandr to sit.
“I saw the city again,” Nikandr said as he sat on the blanket. “I can feel it. We’re coming closer.” He studied the stars for a time as a chill wind blew abeam the ship. “Khamal died in my dream. He was murdered by the others-Muqallad and Sariya.”
Jahalan was already shaking his head. “They were arqesh.”
“Meaning what? That they could not have found it in themselves to commit murder?”
“Just so.”
“The Maharraht murder.”
“The Maharraht are not arqesh. They are selfish, thinking only of themselves.”
“They claim they are doing it for you. For all of us.”
“ Da, they claim this. But what they’re really doing is alleviating their own fears, their built-up hostility toward the Landed. Were they really doing it for the Aramahn, they would help. They would preach forgiveness. They would teach through kindness.”
“You don’t teach.”
Jahalan turned his head to regard Nikandr. “I abandoned the path to vashaqiram long ago.”
“And yet you feel angry over the Maharraht.”
“They are an affront to our history.”
“But not your future?”
“The fates lead us where they will. We are no longer the people we once were. Neither are you. Why hold on to such things? What does it gain us?” “It gains us our legacy.” “ Da, your legacy. Where would the Landed be without that?” “Be careful, Jahalan.”
Jahalan paused. “I am sorry, Nikandr. I know you put your faith in your ancestors, but even you will admit that they have helped you little these last many years.”
“They see well beyond what we can see.”
They were interrupted by Viggen’s calls for reports from the crewmen manning the rigging.
When they were done, Jahalan continued, “I have been thinking of this chase we’re on, of your dreams as well.”
“And?”
“I think we should turn back while we have the chance.”
“There’s little enough to fear now. Ashan is leading us.”
“All the more reason to abandon the chase. He’s taking us for his purposes. Or perhaps the boy’s. Either way, it’s foolish for us to go on. Ghayavand is a place the living should no longer be. Nasim-if your dreams are right-may have a place there, and Ashan may be able to keep himself alive, but the rest of us will not be so lucky. It’s a place where the worlds are torn, and believe me when I say that Adhiya will not welcome us with open arms.”
“We all go to Adhiya, do we not?”
“In our own time, and in our own ways, but we go now to a place that should be left alone until the world sees fit to heal it, not before.”
“Perhaps it has already healed.”
“If you believe that you are a fool.”
Nikandr laughed softly. “Perhaps I am. But I cannot abandon him now.”
“You don’t owe him anything.”
“It’s not him, though I do feel as though I owe him something. You must have felt it. Nasim is entangled with the future of Anuskaya, perhaps the future of the world. I cannot abandon him, not now. We are linked too closely.”
“Your father needs you, as does your Duchy. If you value them, you should return home, where you can do some good.”
Nikandr stood. “I have always valued your advice, Jahalan, but in this you are wrong. We will go to the island, and we will bring Nasim back if we are able.”
“You do so not just at your peril, Nikandr, but mine as well. And Viggen’s. And the rest of the crew.”
“Then so be it.”
CHAPTER 41
Atiana floats along the wind, her awareness encompassing the sea, the air, the islands hundreds of leagues away. She is no longer of her body. She is of the world, no different than the clouds or the currents of the sea.
But there is something, a scent that reminds her of who she used to be. Who she is. But how can this be? How can Nikandr be among them in the aether?
It doesn’t matter. He is present, and that is enough. Through him, she can feel another. The boy. Nasim.
She is not experienced in navigating the dark, and yet she knows what she is seeing has not been noticed before-at least by the Matri. There is an imprint of Nasim in Adhiya and an echo in Erahm. He walks between worlds…
Such a thing cannot be-she knows this-and yet here it is.
And it explains much. His confusion. How else would a boy grow up when struggling to understand the very world that holds him? His pain. How could he not be torn? His attraction to Nikandr, a lodestone, a raft among the waves.
It is because of Nasim that Saphia was attacked. It is because of him that Atiana is attacked now. He has allowed the hezhan to follow-or perhaps he doesn’t even realize. Either way, they feed upon her, as they do the Matra. If she could draw him closer to Adhiya, the hezhan may not be so easily able to follow.
She pushes with all her might, as she did with the babe. She has little strength, but she feels it working. The worlds, at least in this one small place, are pushed further apart. Nasim slips toward Nikandr and toward the physical world.
And then her strength is lost.
She woke once, though she was unable to open her eyes. She lay there on the edge of sleep, on the edge of waking, for a long time, and she heard people speaking-most likely of her-but try as she might she was unable to rouse herself to wakefulness.
She dreamed of storms wracking the island. At first she thought it was Kiravashya, where she had been born and raised, but she came to realize it was Khalakovo’s largest island, Uyadensk. The storms were so fierce that they wiped the island clean. Gone was the city; gone was Palotza Radiskoye; gone was Iramanshah and the tiny fishing village of Izhny; everything was gone, and afterward it felt how the beginning of the world must have felt: pristine and full of hope.
As she had hours or days before, she woke several more times, and again she was unable to wake fully. She tried. She railed, but whenever she did she would slip backward into her dreams, and her screams of impotent rage would be directed toward Mileva or Ishkyna or Father for leaving her here.
And then the cycle would begin anew.
She shivered as something brushed the skin along her forearm. She had difficulty opening her eyes, but when she saw who sat next to her bed, her lethargy faded.
“Matra,” Atiana said, pulling herself up in her bed. She took in the room, realizing she had been returned to her cell deep beneath the palotza.
Saphia studied her with sharp eyes. Her skin was pink and healthy. She leaned to one side in her chair, perhaps to ease her pain, but otherwise she seemed more hale than she’d been in years. “Are you well, child?” she asked. Her voice was not scratchy, an indication that she had been awake and free of the aether for some time.
“I am tired. Nothing more. May I ask what news?”
“The blockade continues. My husband has been treating with your father, to no avail.”
Atiana shook her head. “He won’t back down, not with Bolgravya and Dhalingrad pushing him so, but neither will he go to war over me.”
“Over you, nyet, but there is more in the balance. The failed abduction of Nasim. The wounded and dead. But more than anything, the reasons behind your marriage. We are all of us in trouble, and I think it strikes your father worst of all.”
Not wishing to admit the truth of it, Atiana didn’t respond.