Ashan pointed to Nikandr’s chest. “He knew, at least a little, what that meant.”
Nikandr looked down and saw his soulstone. Under the bright light of sunset, the chalcedony stone glowed as brilliantly as it had inside the tower, but the feelings of ache, of being drawn slowly outward, remained. The havahezhan, the creature bound to him on the far side of the aether, was still there, preying upon him.
Nikandr kneeled next to Pietr. He stared into the older man’s face, at the light scars that ran though the black stubble on his chin and cheeks. He was unmoving, breathless, and yet in that moment he seemed full of life, so much had he granted to Nikandr. “Go safely,” he whispered, “and may the ancients protect you.” He leaned forward and kissed his cheeks, and then, knowing time was growing short, he stood. “We must hurry. Muqallad has awoken, and we have precious little time.”
Ashan glanced at the tower, a look of worry and recognition on his face, as if he saw for the first time what it might mean to confront Muqallad directly.
Then they were running through the streets, Nasim in tow. The boy was silent, his face streaked with tears.
“Nasim, can you hear me?” Nikandr asked.
Nasim didn’t respond. Other than his outburst of emotion over Pietr he seemed little different than before. Nikandr had hoped there would be some sort of catharsis, an awakening. Surely Nikandr would feel something as well-were they not linked, after all? — but Nasim, despite allowing them to rush him through the streets, seemed to have the same distant expression, the same lack of awareness of his surroundings, the same inability to communicate. It hadn’t been Nikandr’s appeal, then, that had saved him from the tower. It had been Pietr’s sacrifice.
All this way, all this time, lost lives and injury, and they’d failed.
They took the same path from the city they’d taken on their way in. Before they’d gone halfway toward the outskirts, however, the animal sounds of the akhoz rent the chill air. The call of one was echoed by many others, several chillingly close.
The sounds of their footsteps slapping the stone streets came nearer. Their panting-akin to that of a winded horse, heavy and long and wet-came louder.
Nikandr held Nasim’s hand, trying to force him to run faster, but he would not. In fact, his pace was beginning to slow. His tears were gone, but his look of regret remained.
And then he tripped.
Nikandr lost his grip, and Nasim fell heavily to the ground.
Nikandr stopped, looking at his soulstone and then Nasim. He could feel him now, through the stone, as surely as he’d ever felt anything.
And then movement caught his attention. Beyond Nasim, from behind a broken building of blond stone, came the misshapen form of a girl. She was naked and thin. The air above her wavered with heat. She appeared to be no older than twelve, though she had the same blackened lips as the other akhoz.
Another came, behind her. And another, to her right. Soon, they were all around, cutting off all hopes of escape. They closed in, drawing closer with a restrained gait and an intensity that Nikandr could only describe as hunger.
Nikandr crept toward Nasim, sure that the akhoz would charge and devour them if he moved too quickly. Then he felt a blinding pain in his chest, a pain so sharp it brought him to his knees. Ashan was at his side in moments, but he stopped when he realized that the akhoz were no longer advancing.
It was then-as the pain continued to burn inside him-that Nikandr noticed a man pacing up the street toward them. He was taller than Nikandr, with curly black hair that trailed down to his shoulders and rings of gold that were woven into his long black beard. He wore sandals of the finest leather. His outer robe was white with embroidery of silver threads woven through the cuffs and hem. His inner robe was the blue of the sky.
The akhoz parted as he approached.
Muqallad came to a halt near Nasim, who was writhing in pain with an expression of shock and wonder. He kneeled, and as he did the world around them slowed. The akhoz ceased moving. Ashan, turning toward Nikandr, froze. The few clouds in the sky continued to drift, and the air above the akhoz continued to waver-
— but all else is silent. All else is still.
The pain in Nikandr’s chest vanishes. He feels complete, whole, more than he has ever felt before. He remembers the lives behind him. Senses those that lie before. He feels… another life. One that crosses his at the junction in which he now finds himself-on the island that holds centuries of his past life. The one from Hathshava.
“You have come,” Muqallad says to Nasim.
“ Yeh,” Nasim replies, though it is through the other’s lips.
Muqallad raises his head, surprised. “Khamal.”
Nasim shakes his head. “No more.”
Muqallad’s dark eyes narrow. “ Neh. You are different now, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
Muqallad smiles. “Reborn. As you had planned.”
“As I had planned…”
He stares into Nikandr’s eyes. His gaze is piercing, precise. “Why return?”
“We cannot escape our past,” Nasim replies.
“ Neh, but we can forge our future.”
The confusion inside Nikandr swells. He feels as though he is both participant and bystander to this conversation, both actor and audience.
The air shimmers as Muqallad stands. It is clear, just as with Sariya, that he is slowly gaining control-over himself and his surroundings. He is entering Erahm once more, after having been banished since the moment of Khamal’s death. Fear wells up inside Nikandr. Nasim, as lucid as he is now, must know this. Why does he allow it?
But then he understands. Nasim is not merely allowing it. He wants Muqallad to enter the material world. He needs him to do so to regain himself and the pieces he left behind.
Perhaps Muqallad recognizes this, for there is a shift in the air, a sense that everything in this small space between worlds has stopped.
“That has always been your way,” Nikandr says, hoping to draw Muqallad’s attention. “Hasn’t it?”
Muqallad stares into Nikandr’s eyes, seems to grow as he does so. “Should we trust to the ancients, as you do?” From the corner of his eye, Nikandr sees the akhoz moving, ever so slowly. “Should we bury our dead”-Muqallad points to Nikandr’s chest-“with the stones that guided them through life? Or should we strive to better ourselves and pave the way for those who have yet to come?”
“We should honor ourselves, our families, and strive to understand those who are not the same.”
“As your family did with Nasim?”
“We are not perfect.”
“ Neh, you are not.”
“Nor are the Maharraht,” Nikandr continues. “I used to think them an invention of my time. But now I wonder if the very seeds of their arrival weren’t sown on this island.”
Muqallad’s face goes red. He takes a step forward, and when he does, Nikandr rushes forward and takes him into a deep embrace.
Muqallad struggles. He is strong, but Nikandr holds tight, hoping that the mere contact will complete the process.
They fall to the ground. Muqallad screams in rage-perhaps also in pain-and then Nasim is standing over them both. His eyes are sharp and piercing. His face is angry.
“Not now,” Nasim says as he reaches down and touches Muqallad’s forehead.
Muqallad rears back. His whole body stiffens as his eyes roll back. His skin begins to wrinkle, and Nikandr releases him from the sheer terror of it. As he scrabbles away, Muqallad continues to wither. His arms curl around his waist, and his legs pull up toward his chest. He looks, in these last moments, like Nasim, pained and ignorant of the world around him.
His skin dries, turns gray, begins to flake. And then, as the wind picks up, it falls away as if he is so much sand being blown across the desert floor.
“Come,” Nasim says, holding his hand out to Nikandr. He tips his head toward the akhoz. “They will wake soon.”
The world is already speeding up. The akhoz shamble forward. Ashan is spreading his arms wide, his chest open to the sky.