The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [55]
She stepped forward, feeling the heat from the fire against her stomach and thighs. The wood crackled and spit, sending steam and smoke into the sky. She put one foot forward to the edge of the snow-covered earth. A spike of fear rose up inside her with the knowledge that she wore no stone, but the stories of the ancients all spoke of qiram who were able to summon hezhan without the aid of such things. She would trust to them. Trust to her teachings. Trust to Soroush, who had never led her astray.
One more step forward, and she fell among the flames. The branches gave way, cracking loudly, as sparks swirled into the air. The heat soared, higher than she had ever felt, even during her times of penance. It seared her legs, her arms, the skin over her stomach and back. Her eyes were closed, but she forced them open, knowing she must face this squarely or lose herself to the pain.
Her breathing was labored, her lungs barely able to take breath. She managed to remain standing, but it felt like her skin was blistering, blackening, cracking. She felt no hezhan; she surely would have had she been wearing a stone. She tried to reach out, to call to one, but the things she felt were very different from the normal ritual. They were much more open now, without bounds, and it was frightening.
She was barely able to turn—so painful was the movement—and look up toward Soroush. To her surprise, his face was locked in an expression of pride.
“Soroush!” she cried as the pain became too great.
“Silence!”
She grit her teeth. Tried harder.
But it was no use.
She fell to her knees. The heat was no longer satisfied with burning her skin. It licked at her insides. She dropped to one hand, unable to prevent herself from curling up against the searing heat that was building inside her. If she were but to open her mouth, she could breathe flame; she could light the forest afire with but one brief sigh.
She reared back and spread her arms wide to the sky.
And released her building fury in a drawn-out cry.
She felt, while doing so, another presence. Something clean and white among the madness around her. She could feel him both in the flames of the material world and on the far side, in the shifting currents of Adhiya. He felt ancient, as old as the stars.
Suddenly the flames above her blackened with smoke. A sound like a rockslide filled her ears. She was thrust downward, hard, into the ashes. The sky above her clouded over, obscuring her vision. She heard a hollow thump, felt the heat above her plummet. She coughed against the glowing white embers swirling in the air, and when they finally settled, she was able to see what lay before her: a form as tall as a tree, as wide as a wagon. Stout and flaming.
A suurahezhan. It had crossed from the world beyond—to what purpose she did not know. Unlike the suurahezhan she used the tourmaline gems to bond with, she had no control over this creature, none whatsoever.
The hezhan stood, unmoving, perhaps taking in its new surroundings, but then it lumbered around and focused its attention up toward the palotza. It hesitated, and then began to stalk up the hill along the fault line.
Soroush spoke, but she could not understand him. Words made no sense.
“Quickly!” he shouted. “Search among the ashes.”
She did as he asked, not knowing what she was looking for. A moment later she felt something small and hard among the brittle embers and powdery ash. She picked it up.
A tourmaline—deep red, almost black, and beautiful beyond description.
“Daughter of Shineshka”—Soroush, so hasty a moment ago, paused and bowed his head—“rejoice, for never have you done so well.”
Rehada paid him little mind, nor did she wish to examine the stone. She had felt something deeper in the woods, and she could see among the shadows a boy poking his head out from behind a tree.
Nasim? Had that been him when she was at