Bradley Beaulieu - The Winds of Khalakovo

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.

It takes only one small slip, and the stone is inside.

Spit it out, Nikandr says.

There is a pause. Nasim stares up at the layer of clouds. Nikandr can taste the stone, taste the call of Adhiya. He can feel Nasim’s other half-the half he has been separated from since birth-resolve itself. It is now clearer than it has ever been, and there is an undeniable attraction to it.

Nasim forgets Soroush, forgets about the hezhan that have been summoned and the one that awaits.

Forgets Nikandr.

Nyet! Nikandr pleads. Please, Nasim, do not do this.

He can think of nothing save this rift-this gulf-that has defined his existence, that has caused him so much pain.

Nasim!

Ever so briefly, he glances over to Nikandr.

And then he swallows the stone.

A release of pleasure and ecstasy follows. Nasim has been fractured for so long that he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he’s been made whole.

So he screams.

The earth beneath him buckles. With a sound like rolling thunder, the curtain wall cracks. The remaining door at the gate splinters with an audible snap, sending shards of wood flying. The dhoshahezhan-the final spirit-begins to resolve on the far side of the courtyard.

Nikandr feels the world slow, or rather, feels the gears of this world and of the world beyond move as he has never felt them before. Nasim was made whole when he swallowed the final stone, but he was also granted something beyond any Aramahn before him, beyond even the hezhan themselves.

He regards the courtyard anew. He sees the dhoshahezhan fully formed as the telltale sparks of lightning arc over its frame. It feels akin to another, and the realization of this brings Nikandr’s presence to the fore of his mind.

A bright white flash of pain runs through Nikandr. It feels as though he has been thrown into the forge of life, to be recast as the fates see fit.

Nearby, Soroush kneels. He clasps his hands behind his back, and raises his head to the sky while his brother, Bersuq, pulls a curved khanjar from a sheath at his belt. Nikandr is confused, but as Bersuq steps forward, knife held tightly with both hands, he begins to see.

Bersuq is preparing to kill his brother. Just as Nasim sacrificed Pietr to open a channel for Nikandr’s return to Erahm, Soroush’s death will open a channel for Nasim to return to Adhiya. It will complete the cycle, tearing open the rift that runs through Duzol, and with it the neighboring rifts over Khalakovo and perhaps beyond.

Nikandr draws back into his own form. He hears gunfire, the shouts of men, the shots of cannons-but it is distant, as if from a dream. He rails against his bonds, screaming for Bersuq to stop. Bersuq pauses, staring into Nikandr’s eyes, and in that one small moment, Nikandr feels her.

Atiana.

She is near. He knows this to be true. And can it be? She is within Bersuq. She has assumed him.

The next moment, Bersuq has resumed his march toward Soroush, preparing to lay the blade across his exposed throat.

Atiana! Do not let him do this!

A moment later, in an explosion of stone and dust, the blast of a cannon shatters the center of the courtyard. Nikandr turns away, shielding his face, coughing uncontrollably, and when he turns back he can see nothing. The entire courtyard has been reduced to a thick haze of pale yellow dust.

Atiana watches through Bersuq’s eyes as a windship drifts over the keep. In the distance, two more float free of the clouds. The Maharraht have been idle, with orders to allow the ritual to proceed without interference, but now that the enemy has discovered them, they burst into action, raising their weapons and firing the keep’s four large cannons on the nearest of the windships.

Though she is held within Bersuq’s frame, trapped, she touches the aether still, and she can feel the shift well before the dhoshahezhan appears in the courtyard. The aether swells, pressing itself against the world as a spark of lightning materializes several paces away. The hair on Bersuq’s neck and arms rise as the spirit steps fully into the world. It is a gathering of lightning, balled up into a writhing form no taller than a man, but more powerful for it.