The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [167]
Her eyes thin. “Khamal?”
“I am Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo. Khamal is the man you betrayed for Muqallad.”
She stands taller, but somehow it only makes her seem frail. She draws her arms in, glances through the nearby windows. “Has it been so long?”
“It has, and Nasim has done nothing to you. Give me the knowledge to reach him. To make him whole.”
She tries to smile, and fails, but her eyes regain their sharpness. “The answer is there,” she says, motioning with one hand toward his chest.
His stone is glowing as brightly as it had in the donjon below Radiskoye. He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”
“He calls to you.”
“What can I do?”
Outside, the sky has gone deep red. “Accept him. Give of yourself to him.”
“How?”
She motions to the windows. “Muqallad has awoken. He will come for Khamal, and for you.”
“Tell me how to reach him!”
She shakes her head.
Nikandr feels something deep within his chest, akin to the ache of the havahezhan. It has become familiar now, and more than that, it feels proper, even with the pain.
Sariya gazes at his chest. She reaches out, as if to touch his stone, but he pulls away.
“It has been with you for a long time.”
Nikandr nods, feeling something important in her words. “Since it crossed on Hathshava.”
She glances toward the windows. They have darkened further, leaving only the deepest of reds. The light coming from Nikandr’s stone casts Sariya in ghastly relief.
“It was with you well before then.”
Nikandr stares at her, confused. She must be confused, he thinks, but there is a depth of understanding in those beautiful blue eyes, an understanding that comes not in a fleeting handful of years on this mortal plane, but lifetimes, centuries. He knows that she is right. The hezhan has been with him since before Soroush summoned it. It had been with him since he’d had the wasting. Nyet. It was the cause of the wasting. It had been feeding on him, draining him through the aether, always there, always drawing from him like a reservoir no matter how meager its gain might be.
“I can rid you of it.”
“How?”
She steps forward. “You need but ask.”
He takes a step of his own, ready to accept. “Please.”
She smiles and places her hand over his heart, over his stone. “There is a cost. Your bond with Nasim will be broken.”
He shakes his head, confused.
“It is how he has come to find you, Hathshava. It is how your bond has remained intact over all this time, over all these leagues.”
Like a flower closing as dusk approaches, the elation inside him diminishes. He stares down at her hand. All he need do is ask. He can still find Nasim, can still find a way to reach him and to help Ashan heal the blight over Khalakovo...
A vision of Nasim comes to him. That young boy holding himself tightly about the chest, rocking himself from the pain. There are times when Nikandr is able to take that away, and if Sariya is right, he might be able to heal him completely.
He cannot accept her offer, not if it means abandoning Nasim.
He takes her wrist and pulls it away from his chest.
Sariya nods, a rueful smile on her face. “You must hurry,” Sariya says. She turns and walks toward the nearest window, toward winter.
And then she is gone.
He starts toward the far side of the room, ready to take the stairs down, to find Nasim and to run, to digest what Sariya has told him, but there are no stairs.
“Sariya!”
Winds tear at the tower. The windows rattle. A low rumbling thrums through the structure and up through his feet.
He stares at his stone again, knowing the only way out now is to listen to her words. Accept him. Give of yourself.
He holds the stone tight in his hand and closes his eyes. He casts himself outward, as he does with his mother.
I am here! I am here, Nasim!
A stone breaks from the wall and falls to the floor. Fine powder sifts downward from the ancient wooden planks above. A presence forms beyond the walls of the tower. It approaches, more curious than anything, but soon a sense of anger and revenge is palpable.
Accept him.
“Please, Nasim,” he whispers.
He opens his