The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [216]
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