The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [169]
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