The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “That isn’t what I mean. For years we spoke in letters only, and she would write of you longer than she needed to. She wrote of your family, your likes, your dislikes, your tendencies.”

  “Was that not her duty?”

  “Da, but when one knows a woman as well as I knew her, one can tell the difference.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you should know.”

  “You fathered a child with her.”

  Soroush paused in his brushing, staring at the dry earth in front of him as the light of the fire danced across his ruddy skin. “Does that mean she could never love another? Does that mean you cannot learn of her beyond her death? That you cannot perhaps love her more?”

  Nikandr took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. It felt good, knowing this, though he had trouble releasing his feelings of distrust to allow it to sink in.

  “Atiana told me of the time she crossed the fires in Iramanshah.”

  Soroush’s back stiffened. It was sacred, what Rehada had done, and it was something Atiana should not have shared. But she had, and it was something he felt Soroush should know.

  “She spoke of your daughter, Ahya. Of how she felt she had betrayed you when she told Ahya of your love for learning.”

  “Enough,” Soroush said, staring at Nikandr with cold eyes.

  “I say this so you’ll understand how envious I am of you.”

  For long moment Soroush studied him with his deep, piercing eyes. “Envious of what?”

  “You have lost much, son of Gatha, but you had much while it lasted.”

  Soroush stood, folding the cloth of his turban carefully and heading for space in the lean-to shelter they’d built from cut evergreen branches earlier in the day. “Go to sleep, son of Iaros. There’s much to do tomorrow.”

  Nikandr watched him sit beneath the lean-to and lie with his back facing the fire. Nikandr could not sleep, however. His thoughts had turned to Rehada and Atiana, both. Long into the deepening night, as the owls called and the trees sighed beneath the wind, memories of them haunted him.

  “My Lord Prince.”

  Nikandr woke from a deep sleep, blinking his eyes at the early morning light. Styophan was standing over him.

  “My Lord Prince, he’s gone.”

  Nikandr shot up, staring first at the lean-to where Soroush had gone to sleep and then toward the tree line. Only a few leagues away was Ashdi en Ghat.

  “Send Avil to track him.”

  “I’ve already sent him, but there can be no doubt as to where he went.”

  Nikandr could only agree. He sent Styophan away and began gathering his things for the day ahead. Kaleh, the orphan girl from Siafyan, was watching him from the other side of the fire she was coaxing back to life.

  “Did you see him go?” Nikandr asked in Mahndi.

  Staring down into the fire, she nodded.

  “Why didn’t you go with him?”

  She shrugged. “There is nothing for me in Ashdi en Ghat.”

  “Your people are there.”

  She looked north, back the way they’d come. “My people are there.”

  “I would not wish it, but you can go to them if you choose.”

  As she had many times over the past two days, she stared closely at his cherkesska, at his tall black boots. “Why have you come to Rafsuhan?”

  Nikandr could tell it was something she’d been wanting to ask but had only now summoned the courage to do so. “I have come to learn of the rifts.”

  “Like Nasim?”

  Nikandr was rolling his blanket, but he stopped when she said this. “How do you know of Nasim?”

  “You spoke of him last night, with Soroush.” She pointed at his chest. “He gave you your hezhan, you said.”

  “We didn’t speak of Nasim learning about the rifts.”

  “We do know of him, son of Iaros, even here.”

  He stared at her a moment longer, and then let go of his distrust. Of course Nasim would be known here. He’d be legendary. “I said I didn’t know if he’d given me my hezhan.” He continued rolling his blanket, making sure it was tight and free of needles. “And it isn’t mine. We share our lives with one another. That’s all.”

  “Is there no other place you could do so?” Kaleh asked as she poked at the embers with a stick.

  “Do what?”

  “Learn of the rifts.”

  “There is something growing here. Something terrible. I can feel it.”

  “So you have come to study us. Nothing more.”

  Nikandr stuffed the blanket into his pack and slung it over his shoulder. “What would you have me say? That I came to save you?”

  Her face grew cross. “We have no need of saviors, certainly not from Anuskaya, be he prince or no.”

  Nikandr bit his tongue as he finished his packing. He should have been more careful with his words. “What will you do, Kaleh, when we get to Ashdi en Ghat?”

  Her eyes narrowed, curious and confused. “You will still go?”

  “There is much to learn whether Soroush is willing to help me or not.”

  “The mahtar will not speak with you.”

  “As you’ve said.” The walrus tusk cartridges on his bandolier clacked as he ducked into it so that it hung across his chest. He finished by slinging his musket across one shoulder. “But I will try.”

  “They will kill you.”

  He held his hand out to her. “As you’ve said.”

  She dropped the stick she’d been using to coax the fire and took his hand.

  “Not everyone who was taken to the fire went willingly.”

  She said it while staring down at the ground, and it came so softly that Nikandr barely heard the words. He knew immediately who she was talking about.

  “There is no shame in fearing death.”

  “Is there not?”

  He bent down so that their eyes were of a level with one another. “There is not.”

  The rims of her eyes were red, and her nostrils flared, but she did not cry. She nodded once, and then began walking, still holding his hand.

  The entrance to Ashdi en Ghat was eerily similar to that of Iramanshah. It was dryer here, so the vegetation was more sparse, but like the valley leading to Iramanshah, the walls sloped up gently to two tall ridges that hid the village well. Nikandr practically expected the same sentries posted at the entrance, but here there were none.

  When they reached the dogleg in the valley, the view changed entirely. Instead of a lush green valley like Iramanshah, he came to a gulch with a dry creek bed running down its center. It was bounded on both sides by inhospitable rock faces, and in these were built the houses of the Maharraht. Dozens of homes with oval windows were built into the steep gulch walls. On and on they went for hundreds of yards until they were lost at another bend in the land. Stone stairways connected them, though they were crudely made. They looked almost natural, which was not an indication of the ability of the vanaqiram who had carved them, but rather their aesthetic.

  No one greeted them. No one stood in the windows. No one walked along the narrow pathways between homes. Just like Siafyan, it felt as though everyone had died in some ritual cleansing.

  The call of a thrush sounded from somewhere ahead. Not ten paces away—as if he were stepping out of the ground itself—a man bearing a musket rose up from behind a scrub bush. He trained his musket upon them as four others stood behind him from places Nikandr wouldn’t have thought could hide a man so completely.

  Nikandr raised his hands. As ordered, the streltsi behind him did the same. Jahalan merely waited, watching calmly as the Maharraht approached. From a doorway in the stone at the base of the rock face came three more men. They were a good ways away still, but Nikandr recognized one of them immediately.

  It was Bersuq, Soroush’s brother.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Bersuq had been at the ritual in Oshtoyets, and he’d been taken, along with Soroush, by the Aramahn. Nikandr hadn’t see
n him since. He’d thought Bersuq was still in Mirashadal, but here he was, and by the looks of things, he was now a man to be reckoned with. Bersuq had always been a hard man, one who gave no leeway when it came to the Maharraht’s objectives. Despite this singular focus, he had never seemed like a leader of men. Soroush, on the other hand, had seemed—no matter how distasteful the notion—a man who others would gladly follow.

  Two things became clear with these revelations: first, Soroush had known of Bersuq’s presence, and second, he had left to join his brother.

  Bersuq walked straight up to Nikandr, staring at him with a look of contempt. He was tall and imposing, and though he was older than Nikandr’s father, there was a fire within him that seemed inexhaustible.

  Walking to his left, and just behind, was a man Nikandr had never seen before but who seemed important. He was older than Nikandr, but not by many years. Golden rings pierced his ears, but it was the two golden rings piercing his nose that marked him as a man from the southern sect of the Maharraht, the Hratha.

  As was common among those islands far to the south of Bolgravya and Nodhvyansk, his clothes were drab—robes of leaden gray, ragged turban and tail of black. Still, as dull as his clothes may have been, his eyes were fierce. This more than anything was what made Nikandr take note—that and the fact that as far as Nikandr could tell he was the only one likely to claim allegiance to the southern sect. He seemed to take the entire scene in with but a glance, but then his gaze fell upon Kaleh, who met his gaze with something akin to fear. The man said nothing, however. He seemed content to allow Bersuq to deal with this as he would, but there was a clear note of judgment in the way he watched, as if he were preparing to weigh the words to come.

  As Bersuq came to a halt, he looked at Kaleh strangely as well, as if he were uncomfortable with her presence. He pointed to her, and ordered his men in Mahndi, “Take her to the village.”

  Two of the Maharraht approached Kaleh. They stopped short of touching her, however. They seemed nervous to be so close to her. Kaleh went willingly, though her eyes darted between Nikandr, Bersuq, and the others.

  Bersuq turned and bowed his head to Jahalan.

  It was telling that only after Jahalan had returned the gesture did Bersuq allow himself to speak further. “We ask that you go as well, son of Mitra.”

  “Neh. I would stay, son of Gatha.”

  Nikandr thought Bersuq might become angry, but instead he seemed respectful, perhaps even a bit sad that the fates had seen fit to place one of the Aramahn on the island with Nikandr.

  The man of the south, however, did not seemed pleased by this exchange. He remained silent still, but his jaw was tight, and though he tried to hide it he seemed to be looking upon Jahalan with something akin to disgust.

  “So be it,” Bersuq said, turning to Nikandr. “It is said that you’ve come to help.”

  This news could only have come from Soroush, of course, but it was telling that Bersuq refused to speak his name. “Where is Soroush?”

  “My brother is no concern of yours.”

  “He is. I brought him here from Mirashadal.”

  “So he said, but for now it is just you and I. Be glad I’ve listened to his words, for if I hadn’t, you and all of your men would already have passed beyond the veil.” He paused, his lips tight, as if he were still considering that very thing. “You told Soroush you could help.”

  “I did.”

  “How? How could you help?”

  “I know of the rift that has formed over Rafsuhan. I know that it is larger than what we saw on Uyadensk. I know that it will swallow you whole unless you leave or the rift closes.”

  As he spoke those words, Nikandr realized just how right they were. The men and women and children from Siafyan must have fled here, but if that were so, Ashdi en Ghat would be filled with life, and here it was, little more than a valley of ghosts. The lack of resistance as they’d come to the island, the lack of sentries, the dearth of people in both villages could only mean one thing: they had left. They’d left the island entirely, perhaps for farther shores, perhaps to join their brethren in the south. It all fit. In the last three years the attacks against northern Duchies had all but ceased while the attacks against Mirkotsk and Nodhvyansk and even Vostroma had increased in frequency and strength.

  “We know this as well, son of Iaros. What I haven’t heard is how you could help, if that is your aim.”

  “I’ve come to learn of the rift. To close it.”

  Bersuq’s face twisted in disgust. “It cannot be closed. Not by one such as you.”

  More that Soroush had told him. “I can learn. I can try. I can heal.”

  “Heal?”

  “I’ve done so before.”

  “You speak of Nasim. Nothing more.”

  “Neh. I’ve learned much, son of Gatha. You disregard it at the peril of your own people.”

  Bersuq studied Nikandr for a time, weighing his words. He looked to the streltsi, to Jahalan, and then back to Nikandr.

  The single word that followed seemed to come with great reluctance, but he spoke it just the same. “Come.”

  Bersuq turned, presumably to head back toward the village, but the man of the south stepped in his way. Bersuq stopped, though he seemed ill pleased by it. “Speak, Rahid.”

  “He will not be allowed into the village.”

  Bersuq was silent for a moment. He seemed not angry, but composed, and he appeared to want those words to settle between them before he spoke again. Indeed, Rahid seemed unsure of himself for the first time.

  “The Landed have never stepped foot in Ashdi en Ghat.”

  “In difficult times, we do what we must.”

  Rahid’s eyes narrowed. His stance shifted so that he was facing Nikandr more than Bersuq. “Difficult times, but they don’t call for this, Bersuq. I thought surely you would know the difference.”

  “How would I know?” Bersuq said. “I’m just a ruined old soldier.”

  With that he brushed past Rahid, forcing him to move out of his way. Bersuq’s men shoved Nikandr and the others into a line, and together they marched toward the gulch. Rahid did nothing to stop them, but his sharp eyes studied Nikandr, as though it would be important to him later.

  After passing several dark tunnels that burrowed into the earth, Bersuq led them into one of the open doorways. The temperature dropped. Siraj lanterns lit their way, revealing curving traceries on the floors and walls. It felt as though the earth itself had chosen all that Nikandr could see—not just the design, but the structure of the village.

  Eventually they came to a massive room, and within it were scattered hundreds of cots, nearly all of them occupied. The cots held both the young and the old. Each of them looked to be sick—perhaps, Nikandr realized, too sick to be transported by ship. These people were the last remnants of the Maharraht in the north. The rift had all but wiped them out or chased them away, something the Grand Duchy had been trying to do ever since they’d dug in on this and the nearby islands.

  There was a part of Nikandr that felt relief—relief that they no longer had the strength to attack Khalakovo and her neighboring duchies. But this also smelled foul, as if it would take but little before the same sort of scene played out on Mirkotsk or Rhavanki or, ancients forbid, Khalakovo.

  “It will take time, but I will try,” Nikandr said.

  “Neh,” Bersuq replied. “This is not the worst of it.”

  He led them deeper into the village, down, lower and lower. Nikandr realized they were heading to the lake, something he didn’t think would exist in a village of the Maharraht, but of course the roots of Ashdi en Ghat dug much deeper than this splinter group of the Aramahn. Of course the village would have a lake, otherwise it would have been abandoned, even by these militant people.

  Eventually they came to a stairwell that spiraled down into the earth. The sound of moaning—from many—traveled up from somewhere down below. The stairwell opened up into a cavern that swallowed the light of the sir
aj stones the Maharraht soldiers carried.

  At the foot of the stairs, which ended in bedrock, more stones, fixed to posts that were fitted into the red-hued stone, cast a brighter light than they were now used to. It illuminated not only the black and utterly still surface of the lake, it illuminated the source of the moaning. Lying upon the hard stone bed at the edge of the lake were a score of children, all of them naked, all of them shivering, though none of them seemed of a mind to do anything about it.

  Two women, both of them some years younger than Nikandr, chanted softly, their arms wide as if to encompass the children that lay before them. One wore a circlet with a stone of alabaster. The other wore a stone of azurite in a brooch pinned to her head scarf. Air and water, the spirits that stood in opposition to fire. If the same held true as it had on Ghayavand, the akhoz would be spirits of fire. Why this was Nikandr didn’t know. Even Ashan hadn’t known. But here it was again.

  “How long have they been here?” Nikandr asked.

  “Some only a few days. Some weeks. But the worst of them will turn soon.” Bersuq turned to face Nikandr squarely. “If your offer of help is real, they may yet live. They may yet be returned to the arms of their mothers—not whole, perhaps, but alive. Can you do this, Nikandr Iaroslov? Can you heal these children?”

  By the ancients, Nikandr thought, what was he to do now? He had hoped to learn of the rift, learn how to close it if he was lucky. But this... How was he to combat something even the wisest of the Aramahn had no answers for?

  “I can try,” he said weakly.

  Bersuq walked past Nikandr and took once more to the stairs. “You have three days,” he said, his words echoing and dying away as Nikandr stared at the moaning child at his feet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Why children?” Nikandr asked.

  Jahalan, who kneeled next to him on the cold stone near the lake, shook his head. “Not children. Adolescents.” Before them was a sleeping boy of thirteen, a boy who was early yet in his symptoms. He slept often, and when he woke he complained of aches and pains in his joints. The others—nearly two dozen in all—lay nearby, some moaning, some crying in pain, but most of them sleeping fitfully. “They are young men and women now. It is an important time in our lives. Most can now open themselves to Adhiya but few have learned which of the elements they most align with. They are, at this moment, open to all of them.”