The Iron Khan by Liz Williams, Marty Halpern, Amanda Pillar, Reece Notley Page A

here asking for help. Can you help us?”
     
    “We are held here,” the akashi said, sighing. “All of us desert spirits are closely attached to place; we are woven into the landscape. We akashi are bound to this temple complex, for instance. We cannot leave it — we would wither and die. If we could be freed, we could act.”
     
    “It’s the same for all of us,” Raksha said. “Including the Khan. You’re right. Except for you, Omi.”
     
    Except for me, and someone from Hell.
     
    “Is there a way of freeing you?” Omi asked. “It seems to me that your goals and those of the Khan are the same, but from opposite sides. He seeks warriors to do his bidding, and so do you, except that the warriors you need are yourselves.”
     
    “Believe me, we’ve tried,” the akashi said. “This temple holds many archives — some of them were ransacked and stolen by people from the West over a hundred years ago now. But documents still remain and my sisters and I have spent years going through them in search of a spell, or anything that might liberate us. The only thing we’ve ever found is a mention of a charm, very far away.”
     
    “Do you know where?” Omi asked.
     
    “There is a map,” the akashi said. “It is not clear. Mice ate part of it. But I can show it to you, if you like.”
     
    Omi agreed. He was not optimistic: it seemed to him that the constant shift and change of the desert over the centuries was not conducive to information remaining the same. With Raksha in close attendance, he followed the akashi down a ladder that traversed the length of the Buddha’s body. The statue was at least thirty feet high and Omi took a moment to admire its builders, their dedication in this lonely place.
     
    The archive was housed in the back of the caves, via a passage which led through into a modern office. It was strange to see Raksha and the akashi in this contemporary setting and Omi, fearing tactlessness, was nonetheless compelled to say as much.
     
    “Do the monks know you are here?”
     
    The akashi smiled. “They know our likenesses adorn their walls — and even the t-shirts that they sell.”
     
    “That wasn’t quite what I meant.”
     
    “They may glimpse us out of the corners of their eyes, or in their dreams,” the akashi said. “But you know, these are holy men. Celibates. If they see us — well. The human mind is prone to conjuring fantasies. Especially — no disrespect — the male mind.”
     
    “I see.”
     
    “Our very nature hides us. Many years ago — more than two hundred — one of my sisters fell in love with a monk.” The akashi’s beautiful face betrayed sadness. “They ran away together. They did not get far. She was killed by the spell that binds us here and he pined away. Their bones lie hidden by the sand.”
     
    “A tragic story,” Omi said.
     
    “If you find a way to break this spell, Omi, you will not be the only one who is thankful for it,” the akashi said. She took a handful of scrolls out of a cabinet, the parchment so fragile and ancient that Omi feared they would disintegrate within the minute. The akashi unscrolled one of the documents onto the table as Omi and Raksha looked over her shoulder.
     
    The temple complex was outlined in a series of small black boxes. There was also a hole and, spread out across the map, scratches which indicated the desert and its environs. Omi saw hills he did not know, and finally, at the bottom of the map, faint marks.
     
    “Those are dunes,” the akashi said.
     
    “How do you know?”
     
    “A bird told us, on its way north.” The akashi’s face was sad. “They still come to speak to us, but there are fewer of them these days. The climate is changing, even in these lands.”
     
    “If they are dunes,” Omi said, “they will almost certainly have altered over the years.”
     
    “That is so. The charm is held here — ” She pointed to a small indigo dot. “But the oasis this represents has been here