The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [224]
“Farewell,” Ranos said softly.
This was not spoken to Nikandr, nor Atiana, but to their father.
“Farewell,” Nikandr repeated, for Father and Atiana, both.
When the ship had become no more than a mark on the horizon, Ranos pulled his reins over and began heading back toward the city. “Coming?” he said.
“I have business to attend to,” Nikandr said, and he spurred his pony in the other direction, toward Iramanshah.
Ranos said nothing in return. They had discussed how often he should visit the village, but on this particular day he was going to give him all the leeway he needed.
It took Nikandr three hours to reach Iramanshah. He was pressing to make it in such a short time, but it was necessary to get there by midday.
Ashan met him at the edge of the village.
“Come,” he said simply.
They continued through the narrow pass that led to the village and the valley that housed it.
“I leave tomorrow,” Ashan said simply.
Nikandr knew the day had been fast approaching. There were so many partings today that he was having trouble conceiving of just how much he would miss them all. Better for it to happen now, quickly. There was much for him to do in the days ahead, and it was best that he start it with a fresh mind.
“You go to look for Nasim?”
“Da. He was spirited away three nights ago.”
Nikandr knew this already. He had felt it. The bond they shared lingered for days after, but then it began to fade, and he had known that they were taking him far, far away to a place where no one could manipulate him, to a place where he could be taught by the Aramahn mahtar in a way that they saw fit. The feeling had diminished over the course of the next day, and then, last night, it had simply vanished.
He didn’t know whether the feelings would reawaken when Nasim came near—perhaps they would cease altogether once they had been apart long enough—but Nikandr suspected that their bond would remain until one of them was dead.
“I would thank you, son of Iaros.”
Nikandr shook his head, ready to put off such compliments, but he stopped when Ashan raised his hand and smiled.
“Not for saving us,” Ashan continued, “though there is that too. It is for befriending him, for leading him here. It is a greater gift than I had ever hoped for, and I’m sure Nasim feels the same way.”
Nikandr couldn’t respond. He still wasn’t sure how he felt toward Nasim. As a friend. A father. A disciple. It was an uncomfortable mixture, one he was not ready to discuss.
When they reached the large stone plaza before the entrance to the village, they found hundreds of Aramahn standing near the fountain, which for the first time in Nikandr’s memory was dry.
Fahroz, holding a lit torch, stood by a small, shallow-sided skiff. Within it, wrapped completely by white cloth, was Rehada. The torch burned black smoke as Fahroz spoke words of hope, words that asked the fates for kindness to this child of the world, and hope that she had learned enough in this life to resume her path toward vashaqiram.
Nikandr listened at first, but his mind began to drift to Rehada, their memories, and it was enough for him to simply wish her well.
“It is fire that granted her,” Fahroz said, “and it was fire that took her.”
She touched the torch to the bottom of the skiff. In moments a healthy flame had spread along the wood that had been stacked beneath Rehada’s white, bound form. Another qiram with a glowing opal held within the circlet upon his brow stepped forward and gently touched the hull of the skiff. Immediately the craft began to rise. It had no sail, and so was taken by the wind. It was slow, gentle at first, but the wind was stronger higher up, and it began to tug at the craft, making it bob as it slid eastward.
It was not lost upon Nikandr that Atiana had traveled on another ship mere hours ago—though in the opposite direction. Ironic, but apropos.
“Farewell,” Nikandr said as black smoke wafted ahead of the ship and across the blue sky.
The Aramahn