Free The Winds of Khalakovo by Bradley P. Beaulieu Page B

beyond the aether, was bound to him. The bracelets at his wrists, however, gave Nikandr pause. One of them contained a large glowing opal, the other a stone of dull azurite. Three gems. Three spirits could this man commune with—and two of them at once! Such a thing was not unheard of, but it was rare. Mladosh and the rest of the crew were lucky, indeed, to have taken aboard a man such as this.
    A young boy, perhaps ten or eleven years old, huddled close to Ashan. As carefree and confident as his guardian seemed to be, the boy was just the opposite. His arms were crossed tightly over his stomach. His gaze wandered the perch, the eyrie, even the bright white clouds, as if this were the last place on Erahm he wished to be. There was no circlet upon his brow, which was not strange in and of itself—most Aramahn never became proficient enough with spirits to bond with them. It only seemed strange that a man like Ashan would have a disciple with no abilities.
    Ashan must have felt Nikandr’s gaze. As he negotiated the plank, guiding the boy ahead of him, he smiled at Nikandr and nodded politely.
    As a group, the Aramahn were ushered to one side of the perch by an immigration clerk. He took each of their names in a thick, leather-bound journal before allowing them to continue on. He questioned Ashan for some time, as he was clearly a qiram of some renown. He spent a good deal of effort on the boy as well but seemed to get nowhere—the boy ignored him entirely while hugging his gut and gritting his jaw and blinking as if he were staring into the sun. Each time the official asked him a question, Ashan would reply, perhaps making excuses.
    Finally, his questioning complete, the official released them, at which point Nikandr dismissed Mladosh and fell into step alongside them. “I hear I have much to thank you for,” Nikandr said.
    Ashan waved as if it were nothing. “It was self-preservation, Nikandr, son of Iaros.”
    “Do I know you?”
    “We have not met, but I know you , certainly.”
    “Well, Ashan, son of Kida and Ahrumea, we owe you much. Never let it be said that the Khalakovos leave debts unpaid.”
    Ashan picked up his pace. They were just short of the busy quays, where it would be more difficult to speak, so Nikandr took Ashan by the elbow and slowed him until he stopped.
    “How may I repay you?”
    “There is no need to repay me for saving lives”—Ashan smiled, showing a healthy grin full of crooked and yellowed teeth—“not the least of which was mine.”
    The boy was still using his rail-thin arms to hold himself about the waist. He looked so miserable that Nikandr found himself wishing there was something he could do for him.
    Nikandr bent down and looked him in the eye. His stomach chose that moment to become queasy. Before he could manage it, a cough escaped him, but then he breathed deeper and forced the feelings down. “Are you well, boy?”
    Nikandr expected him to shrink and shy away, but he didn’t. If anything, he gained a certain sense of gravitas: the look of pain faded, and he began to stare into Nikandr’s eyes with a singular focus that was wholly discomforting.
    “As I explained to your official,” Ashan said sharply, breaking the spell, “Nasim has been dumb since he was a young boy. He rarely speaks, even to me, and when he does it is with words that have no meaning.”
    Nikandr stood, ignoring those staring eyes. “No meaning to you or to him?”
    “Indeed”—Ashan’s smile brightened—“that is the question. I believe they have profound meaning to him, but he cannot communicate his thoughts. They come out sometimes over the course of days. I thought I was a patient man before coming to know him, but now, after learning to piece together one small thought over the course of weeks... The word has taken on new meaning.”
    “He looks like he’s in pain.”
    Ashan smoothed the boy’s hair. “He is in pain, but he doesn’t complain, do you, Nasim?”
    Nasim was staring at