The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [94]
Nasim, apparently oblivious to Nikandr’s presence, sat up straighter and smiled as if he were an artisan completely lost in his work. He motioned one hand toward the center of the creation. And then, Nikandr felt a clutch at his heart as the center of it flared to life.
Nikandr fell to his knees, grabbing his chest as pain blossomed from within.
CHAPTER 26
Khamal stands on a stony beach, watching the waves roll in. The day is cloudy, an omen not altogether unexpected. His relationship with Muqallad has always been this way. Why should this day be any different?
The stones crunch as he squats, and while he runs his hand along the rocky shore, feeling the weight of it, the water mingles among the stones with gentle sighs.
Out to sea, the water begins to swirl. It froths and boils, and Khamal can feel it as he touches the stone. A form can be seen moving up from the depths, and soon the surface of the water breaks, and Muqallad begins to rise.
His hair is black and curly. His beard is braided with golden rings woven into the strands, making him look like a king from beneath the sea. His eyes are dark, and he is bare-chested. He stares at the island, failing to see Khamal from the shroud Khamal had placed over it long ago—when Muqallad had left.
Khamal finds a single rock among the countless others, a rock of reddish hue, with striations of black and silver. He stands and holds it out at arm’s length.
And Muqallad turns. He stares straight at Khamal, though surely he cannot yet see through the shroud.
He has learned much. Perhaps too much.
But what is there to do now?
Khamal allows the stone to drop. And the shroud falls away.
Together they walk toward the city. As they fall into step, neither he nor Muqallad leads the other. They talk, of their travels, of knowledge gained, of loves found and regrets discovered. It is as if the past five decades had never occurred, so easy is it to speak to him.
As it was of old.
But as they reach the edge of Alayazhar, they both go silent. Among the streets, though they cannot be seen, are the akhoz, the wanderers, the lost. The forgotten. It had been Muqallad’s idea long ago to shroud the city in illusion, painting it as whole and pristine when in reality it was a broken and tragic thing. Khamal allows the veil to fall away, only for a moment. There are three of them, all children once, standing nearby. They are naked. Their lips are black. Where their eyes once were is now smooth skin. They raise their noses to the sky, somehow still able to smell them despite all their attempts to mask their scent. As Muqallad and Khamal continue, the akhoz scrabble after, their noses to the sky, their lips pulled back in rictus grins.
Khamal allows the illusion to fall back into place. He has never been able to look upon them for long.
They approach a tower, a pinnacle of ivory that stands near the harbor. The air between them grows even more tense. Both of them know who awaits here. Both of them remember what happened.
When they come to the black iron gates surrounding the tower, the wooden door at the tower’s base opens. There stands Sariya, she of the golden hair, she of the blue eyes and graceful face. She is a child of autumn, a child of the dying day. A child of indecision. Khamal should have thought of this when they agreed, together, to banish Muqallad from the island.
Muqallad opens the gate and holds it for Khamal. As Khamal steps through, Sariya studies him, and the skin beneath her brow pinches. It is a momentary