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She nodded. “He is arqesh.”

Nikandr jerked back involuntarily. “He has mastered all five hezhan?”

Rehada stared down with a look that made it clear he had disappointed her. “He has also come to terms with this life and the one that has come before and the one that will come next. He has traveled the world and seen every one of its mysteries. Among all the islands, there are only six like Ashan.”

“You’re saying you would expect no less from a man like him?”

“I’m saying Ashan is closer to vashaqiram than I will ever be, and that I have no right to judge him.”

Vashaqiram was the state of mind all Aramahn searched for. It was complete calm, understanding, forgiveness, and many more things Nikandr did not yet comprehend. It was why they roamed the world as they did, moving constantly from place to place.

Rehada had taken on a look of introspection, one he’d rarely seen from her. She often talked of having given up her quest of wandering the world, of having learned enough to be comfortable on Khalakovo. But he knew better. She too often became like this when faced with tales of travel to the other archipelagos or to the Motherland, Yrstanla.

Rehada’s expression darkened. “Why do you come to me late at night to ask me of a wanderer?”

“I saw him only today, mere hours ago, and I wondered—”

She rolled off of him and set her glass of vodka aside. “There was a time when you came here for me...”

Nikandr stared, confused. “I only thought you might—”

“Your thoughts...” She stood, her face cross. “I see where your thoughts are, son of Iaros. They are not here, nor are they on an arqesh. They are on the Hill, a place you should be now.” She glanced meaningfully at the entrance to her home, waiting for Nikandr to take her meaning.

“I would stay, Rehada.”

“Your wife wouldn’t think so well of that.”

“She’s not my wife.”

“A point she, I fear, would beg to differ.”

He nearly protested, but he had come here for solace, not to fight with a woman he paid for her company. He gathered his things and left without another word, but as Rehada shut the door behind him and the wind howled through the city streets, he found himself not just alone, but lonely—lonelier than he had ever been.

Nikandr treaded through the cavernous hallways of Radiskoye toward his room. The faint and familiar creaks of movement could be heard somewhere in the floors above—Radiskoye in slumber.

When he reached the second floor he paused, seeing light coming from beneath the door of his father’s drawing room. He went to it and opened the door, finding Father seated in a padded armchair, one leg crossed over the other. He was holding the wooden bowl of an ivory-tipped pipe with a stem as long as his forearm. He puffed on it, staring into the dying embers in the nearby fireplace. He looked weary and old, words rarely leveled against him.

An oil painting of Nikandr’s great-great-grandfather stared down from the mantel, his serious face cast with heavy shadows. Gold leaf decorated the room, especially along the wainscoting border and the carved wooden columns above the mantel. To say that it felt ostentatious, especially after the lush simplicity of Rehada’s home, was an understatement, and to Nikandr it felt foreign and familiar, both.

Nikandr moved to his father’s side, kissed his forehead, and took the empty chair.

When Father spoke, it was with a soft voice, contemplative. “Zhabyn came to me today. He was more than passing curious over the ways in which you mean to honor Atiana.”

“Father?”

“He is concerned that his future son will be flying among the islands, chasing after meaningless pursuits.”

Suddenly, Zhabyn’s purpose became clear. The conversation he’d had with Borund where he’d told him about his desire to understand the blight—he

must have shared it with his father. “Borund doesn’t understand.”

“Neither, it seems, does his father.”

“But you do,” Nikandr said.

“I do, but we have seen few enough results.”

“That will come.”

“How