Nikandr’s stomach felt rank, and the closer he came to the tower, the more pronounced it became. He couldn’t shake the feeling that within the walls of that tower lay his doom. By the time they had reached its tall, wrought-iron fence, the feeling had become so pronounced that he was forced to grit his teeth against the pain.
He reached out and grabbed one of the rusted bars of the fence.
And the moment he does, he feels a change, as if the world has shifted from underneath him. The pain in his gut is no less painful, but he straightens and takes in the surrounding buildings, which are now complete, whole, pristine. The wind is hot and stifling where only moments ago it was cool, and there hangs in the air a sense of change, of coiled intent, like a lion in the moments before it leaps.
He pulls himself upright.
And only then does he realize that he is alone.
CHAPTER 51
He pulls open the gate. It swings soundlessly. The black iron is dark with a freshly oiled luster and not a single trace of rust.
Lining the stone path are dried bushes with bare branches and parched earth beneath. As he walks, leaves sprout and fill until the bushes are full and vibrant. The wooden door buried into the deep stone walls of the tower lays open, and he walks in without another thought. When he steps inside, he realizes something is different. Whether it has been this way since the destruction of Alayazhar or when he stepped into the tower, he is not sure, but he can now for the first time since leaving Khalakovo sense his soulstone. It feels much the same as it always has-a warmth within his chest not unlike the feeling of deep-seated contentment. It should provide comfort, but does not. The feelings ring false, another illusion in this ancient and ruined place.
Inside is a circular room that occupies the entirety of the lowest level. A set of stairs with an ornate stone banister hugs the interior curve of the wall. He takes this, feeling more and more uncomfortable the higher he rises. He climbs level after level, finding nothing but empty rooms and lonely thoughts, but there is always a yearning that urges him to go on like that final and inevitable march toward death.
The stairs lead to a room on the highest level. An ornate bed lies at its center. The bedding is pooled to one side, as if its owner had only just risen.
Like the cardinal directions of the compass rose, four windows are set into the stone walls; at one of these stands a woman. She has long golden hair that runs down past the small of her back and she wears not the robes of the Aramahn, nor the dresses of the Grand Duchy, but a simple yet elegant gown of roughspun silk. He notes that she is gazing north, the direction of winter, of water, indicating, perhaps, that she is a woman who owns a cool temperament. It could also mean that she hides her feelings, that her intentions would be difficult to discern.
She turns her head to look upon him. Golden hair and bright blue eyes. She is timeless. Ageless. She is beauty itself.
She returns her attention to the city. If she is concerned over his arrival she does not show it.
“Come,” she says.
He sees no gem upon her brow, though such things feel meaningless here. Gems are for the Aramahn. They are used to create a bond between human and hezhan, a link from Erahm to Adhiya. Who would say what such a thing would look like here? He was not even convinced he was still in Erahm.
Seeing no reason to deny her command, he joins her at the window. Through the clear but imperfect glass he can see the sprawling city as it climbs the long slope toward the valley walls. Wide thoroughfares as straight as arrows run from the tower outward, and they are lined by buildings that vary in style and color but add to the aesthetic appeal of the layout. Beyond the tower itself and the nearest of the buildings, the city is as broken as he knew it to be.
When she speaks again, she sounds as old as the island itself. “You have come from Hathshava,” she says.
It was the ancient name for Khalakovo-the island of Uyadensk in particular-and it was discarded once the Aramahn ceded the archipelago to the Landed. Suddenly, he feels conscious of his family’s role in displacing so many-he does not feel ashamed, only aware of the history as never before.
“I have,” he replies.
“And before that?” She looks upon him with a familiarity that cannot be explained until he realizes who she thinks he is. She believes she is looking upon the face of Khamal-or at least who Khamal had become when he was reborn.
“Before that… Alastra.”
“And before that?”
He shrugs. “I cannot remember.”
She turns to him, face pinched in annoyance. “You cannot?”
Outside, more of the buildings have become whole. It is as if she is waking and as she does more and more of the city is granted its previous glory. He wonders whether her memories, her perceptions, include the people who once lived here. Perhaps they will emerge from their homes, on their way to the shore or the hills to meditate upon their lives. Then again, perhaps when the city is complete she will remember what happened. Perhaps he will be lost here with her, caught within the trap Khamal had laid for her upon his death.
“Why have you come?” she asks.
“I’ve come for Nasim.”
She looks down, and though he can see nothing in the pristine courtyard below he wonders whether she is seeing something completely different, whether in her eyes Nasim and Ashan and Pietr were in that decrepit courtyard, searching for him.
When she speaks again, there is curiosity in her voice, and longing. “He is strange, this one.”
“He is.”
She turns suddenly, and stares fiercely at his stone.
Nikandr holds it in one hand, more conscious of it than he’s been since it cracked on the deck of his ship. “Nasim dimmed it on Hathshava.”
She smiles. For the life of him he cannot remember seeing a more beautiful face. “It was not dimmed at all.”
“It was.”
She looks up at him. Her eyes are the blue of the ocean deeps.“It became brighter than you could know. He did not spurn you that day. He did not harm you. He chose you.”
“Chose me for what?”
She reaches out, her fingers stopping just short of touching the smooth surface of the stone. “Perhaps he senses what is to come. Perhaps he feels you kindred. Perhaps he wishes to ground himself deeper in Erahm, so lost is he on the other side.”
“I am no more kindred to him than I am to you.”
This seems to startle her. She looks up, a frown complicating her features. “Then perhaps you did not come for him. Perhaps you came for me.”
“I did not know you existed before today.”
She smiles. “The fates care little about what you know. What matters is thatyou are here now, and that I have awoken. You wish for something. You hope to find a way to this boy. And I? I wish for something as well.”
“Tell me.”
“I wish to live… If you can answer me five questions, you can have the solution to your problem.”
“What sort of questions?”
“The sort you can answer, to be sure, but it will take insight, Hathshava. It will take insight.”
“And if I can’t answer them?”
She smiles. Her beauty, despite the peril, stirs fires deep within. “Then you will stay.”
“And if I refuse?”
She shrugs. “You know the way out.”
Doubt runs thick within him. He does not know what sort of questions she might ask, and he worries that she will trick him. But what is there to do? If he leaves, they might never get a chance to learn the true nature of Nasim. They might never learn how to heal the blight that is destroying the islands. The gains, he decides, outweigh the risks many times over.