The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [162]
In little time, they had made their decision. Muwas would be burned—his ability to bond with spirits taken from him—and shortly after, they had all trekked up to the mountain to perform the ritual.
Muwas had come without argument, but when he’d reached the light of the sun, his outlook had changed. He became unsure of himself, and though some of his defiance remained in his eyes, it seemed more an act, whereas before it had been heartfelt.
The village elders gathered in a circle around him. Muwas stared at two of the Aramahn in particular. One was a young woman, not much older than Atiana. She wore a stone of tourmaline. A suuraqiram. The other, a man whose knees were so bad he was barely able to walk without help, wore a stone of opal. A dhoshaqiram. Together, they represented the opposed elements to water, and together, they would burn Muwas’s abilities from him, even though, in doing so, they would be giving up their own.
“Why?” Atiana asked in nearly a whisper. “Why sacrifice two, who can do so much good, so that one can no longer do harm?”
Rehada glanced over, perhaps judging whether or not the question was serious. “He cannot be allowed to commune with spirits—not in this life, in any case. Perhaps in another he will turn to the path of peace.”
“What do the hezhan care of peace?”
“You would rather we let him go?”
Atiana could feel the weight of the lake all over again, the burn as the water slipped hungrily down her throat. “He would have killed me, and he will kill again given the chance.”
“He may,” Rehada said.
“And you care so little for that?”
“I care that he is given a chance to learn.”
“The Maharraht will never learn. More turn to their cause every day.”
Rehada’s silence made Atiana turn.
“They will learn,” Rehada said, almost too soft to hear.
“You’re deceiving yourself if you believe that.”
Rehada turned, a mournful expression on her face as she met Atiana’s gaze. “What are we to do?”
Atiana was about to snap back a reply, but she held her tongue. Nearby, the tribunal clasped hands until the circle was complete. Muwas looked up at the ones who would lose their ability to bond, and Atiana saw in him not anger, not contempt, but a sadness she would never have predicted. She thought at first it was an act, a gesture meant to garner sympathy, but as the ritual continued, the expression deepened, became so palpable that Atiana could feel it in her chest.
“Please,” he said in Mahndi, glancing between the two of them. “Do not do this.”
The ritual continued. Atiana thought that he would show some outward sign of pain, that he would cry out, but he did not. He exhaled and fell to his hands and knees. The exhalation continued until surely there was nothing left in his lungs.
Then, all was silence.
The two Aramahn that had given of themselves bent over. The old man had to be held up by the two on either side of him. One by one, they dispersed, leaving Muwas alone with his past.
Atiana watched him closely. His legs were folded beneath him. His eyes were distant, searching.
What would it be like to lose such a thing? Like losing a limb? Losing a loved one? Would the memory of it fade with time or would it burn forever, a constant reminder of what he’d once had?
“Will he return to the Maharraht?” Atiana asked.
“That is what the village hopes.”
“So he can tell them of his pain...”
Rehada nodded as a tear slipped down her cheek. Muwas was studying Rehada now, and there was a strange look in his eyes. One of regret, perhaps, or a keen yearning—why, she couldn’t guess.
“Why do you cry?” Atiana asked.
“That should be obvious.”
“I want to hear it from you. Your words.”
Rehada turned impatiently. “We’ve all lost much this day, Atiana Radieva, even you.”
Atiana turned back to Muwas. She nearly began crying herself. “I believe you, daughter of Shineshka.”
The boom of a cannon brought Atiana out of her reverie. She looked