The Winds of Khalakovo by Bradley P. Beaulieu Page A

was her history, her life...
    She was pulled from her reverie by a golden voice.
    Nearby, the seven mahtar—the village elders—were standing around a man with tousled brown hair. He wore an alabaster gem within the circlet upon his brow. On his wrists were tourmaline and opal, worked into beautiful golden bracelets, and though she could not see his ankles, she had no doubt there were two more gems: jasper and azurite.
    This must be him, she thought. Ashan Kida al Ahrumea. As she stared— longer than she should have—one of the mahtar, a woman named Fahroz, noticed Rehada. She gave Rehada a look of disapproval while the others guided Ashan to an area free from prying ears.
    “Have you reconsidered, then?” Fahroz said as she came near.
    “Forgive me, but I have not.”
    She allowed her gaze to roam the celestia. “Then please, why have you come?”
    “Am I forbidden to speak to my people?”
    “Play what games you wish. You know you are not welcome in Iramanshah.”
    “Until I cross the fires for you.”
    Fahroz frowned, causing the heavy wrinkles around her forehead and mouth to deepen. “It is not for me that you would cross the fires, Rehada. It is for you, for the lives you have lived and the lives you have yet to live.”
    “Then perhaps I am here to contemplate.”
    One of the other mahtar called to Fahroz. She turned, waved, and then returned her attention to Rehada. “That, I doubt, but I hope in my heart it is true. Think on what I have said, Rehada. Come to me if your thoughts change.”
    “I will.”
    Fahroz joined the others in their low conversation with Ashan. Rehada felt conspicuous as she made her way down the steps to the floor and to a boy that was lying down, arms and legs spread wide, near the center. She should probably not have come, but after Soroush’s sudden visit—and the news from Nikandr that Nasim had landed on the island—she could not help herself. This was a boy that held the hopes and dreams of the Maharraht in the palm of his hand, and she would know more of him, Soroush’s permission or not.
    Nasim was staring up at the underside of the dome, which was layered with a dark mosaic of the nighttime sky at winter solstice. As she neared, she could see that his eyes were moving from constellation to constellation. His eyes would thin, and he would mumble something as if he were conversing with the stars, and then he would move on, his eyes widening. She sat cross-legged nearby, hoping he would take notice of her, and when he didn’t she simply watched, curious how long it would continue.
“Can you hear me, Nasim?” she asked. “Are you there?”
    Nothing.
    She continued to speak to him, but in the end decided it was a fruitless tack. Soroush had been unable to speak with him reliably in the years that he’d held him. How could she in mere minutes hope to do any better?
    Instead of trying, she closed her eyes and opened her mind to the suurahezhan she had bound to her the night before. She let the world around her fade and bid the fire spirit to come. She could feel it on the far side of the aether, and as she communed with it, she asked it what lay nearby within the spirit world of Adhiya. But bonding with the hezhan was a wholly different thing from communicating with them, and it was not a skill with which she was particularly gifted. She tried for a long time, learning nothing.
    She was startled by a tapping on her shoulder. Looking up, she realized that Ashan was standing over her.
    Immediately she stood and bowed. Her heart was beating madly. “I am grateful our paths have crossed.” She had hoped to speak with him on this foray into Iramanshah, but she had had no idea she would be so cowed by his presence. Again she regretted she had never met one of the arqesh while she had been on the path of peace. Why was it only now, when she had tied her fate to that of the Maharraht, that the fates decided she should meet one?
    She would contemplate this later, and hopefully