The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [44]
Then, of a sudden, the pain was gone, absent, replaced by a feeling of comfort and peace the likes of which he’d never felt.
And the wind rushes around him, carrying him aloft over the city that lies below. He allows it to carry him down toward a tall tower that shines by the light of the moon, a pillar of white standing tall against the varied landscape of the proud stone buildings around it.
He lands on the tower, and the wind subsides. He breathes deeply of the chill night air. He tilts his head back and studies the constellations as if he’d never seen stars before. He has come far in these past few months. He feels ready, at long last, to take the next step, to begin the healing of this place that has for too long been a little more than an open wound upon the world.
And it all came down to acceptance. He feels as though he is part of this island, as if it is a part of him. He feels as if he belongs. It is freeing beyond comprehension—not the notion that he is integral to this place, but the understanding—and it is in such opposition to the feelings that had been running through him only weeks ago that he giggles from the excitement.
“Why do you laugh?”
He turns. A woman steps up from the stairs built into the roof. Her long golden hair sways as she takes the last of the steps and stares at him with a humorless expression. It has been years since they saw one another—or has it been decades?—but her appearance has not changed. She is still the woman she was when the three of them ripped the island asunder over three hundred years before.
“I laugh because I am ready, Sariya. I am finally ready.”
She stares up at the constellation he’d been considering. It is Iteh with his harp, holder of the northern skies. “Muqallad has returned.”
A chill runs through him. His resolve, his satisfaction, both so complete a moment ago, begin to crumble.
She waits, speechless for a time. “Not so ready as you thought, then.”
He smiles. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“You’re fooling yourself. We need him, and you know it.”
“He will not bend. You know this.”
“He has returned...”
“To convince me to walk the path he’s chosen.”
She shrugs. “We will only know by speaking to him.”
He walks to the edge of the roof. The grit of the stone is alive beneath his sandals. The city below sprawls outward, nearly lifeless except for those few souls they’d managed to save when they’d torn the veil between worlds.
He has searched for a way to heal the damage they’d caused without Muqallad. After he’d left, after he and Sariya had banished him from the city, he’d hoped that the two of them would be enough. But he’d known all along, deep down, that three would be needed to heal what three had done.
“He will not listen.”
Sariya stands beside him. He can feel the warmth of her shoulder standing next to his. “We can but try.”
He nods, knowing she is right. “We can but try.”
As suddenly as the vision came, it faded, and the discomfort returned. Nikandr stared at Nasim, but the light of the moon upon the white snow became so bright he had to squint against the sting in his eyes.
Nasim took one tentative step toward his position, and then he began to pace confidently forward.
A burning sensation built within Nikandr’s gut and expanded to fill his chest, his arms, his legs. He felt as if he would burst, so powerful had it become, and he found himself tightening his arms around his waist and gritting his jaw to hold off the pain.
“Nasim, don’t,” he cried, lowering his weapon.
The pain rose to new heights.
Nasim stopped at the edge of his spruce and crouched down, looking within.
While Nikandr aimed his pistol.
And pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 12
The pan flashed. Nikandr’s arm bucked, and he dropped the pistol into the snow. He hadn’t been able to hold his aim. The shot had gone wide.
The pain became too much. He pitched forward onto the ground.
He heard the crunch of footsteps as Nasim approached. He kneeled down and stared into Nikandr’s eyes, while Nikandr could do little but hold his stomach and wait. He couldn