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

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The forest—now that she’s able to consider it—stands serene. The wind blows, cold and biting, and yet she herself is not cold. The trunks of the trees sway, they creak. The sound is sharp and confusing, as if there is some infernal purpose behind it.

  She heads northeast. She knows not why.

  The way is slow, even beneath the trees, for the snow is thick. She tires as she trudges her way down a gentle slope, but then she hears voices, and she slows.

  She recognizes one—Arvaneh, Sariya, who knows how many other names she might possess? And the other? A man’s voice, rich and light with the cadence of the Aramahn. There is something familiar about his voice, but she cannot place it.

  She approaches carefully.

  The forest opens up into a clearing, and within it stands a white monolith. The top of it stands tall over the tops of the ancient trees.

  Sariya, her golden hair flowing softly in the breeze, stands near its base. As does a young man.

  Atiana jerks as she recognizes him at last.

  Nasim.

  But what can he be doing here?

  As Sariya and Nasim stare up at the monolith, Atiana feels the power emanating from within it. She feels it in her heart, in her gut. She feels it at the back of her throat. But it is not the power of Sariya. Nyet, this is something different, something foreign to this place. It is strong and ancient as the bones of the earth.

  “There are those on Ghayavand who need me,” Nasim is saying.

  “Ashan,” Sariya replies.

  “Among others.”

  “You may think him a bright star, Khamal, but had he been alive when we were at our height, he would have shined no brighter than a wisp.”

  Nasim’s face turns angry. “I am not Khamal, and you may all have been bright—you may be bright still—but look where things have come from such brightness.”

  “We can return to our greatness, Khamal. But if you feel that the path lies through Ghayavand”—she motions up to the monolith—“then so be it.”

  And with that Sariya turns and leaves. Atiana hides behind the trunk of the tree, waiting until Sariya is gone. Atiana worries that she is allowing Sariya to gain access to her tower once more, but she cannot leave. Not yet.

  Nasim watches Sariya go. Only after her form is lost through the trees does he consider the monolith once more. He reaches a hand up and places it against the white surface of the stone, and when he does, she feels the response from within. The power there knows him. It wants Nasim to find it.

  But there is something else. A noose is closing around this place. She can feel it.

  Nasim, Atiana calls out. Nasim, you cannot do this.

  Nasim stops, looks through the forest, wondering where her voice is coming from.

  But she cannot reveal herself. If she does, Sariya will know.

  She knows what you’re doing, Atiana tells him. She’s allowing it.

  He ignores her. When he reaches out to touch the monolith again, it begins to powder, white dust falling and blowing with the wind like the finest of snowfalls.

  The wind blusters through the forest.

  The stone crumbles, more and more of it sloughing away as the tops of the trees dance with the wind.

  Nasim, run!

  He does, and Atiana is ready to as well, but the scene before her gives her pause. The white dust of the monolith swirls like a dervish at the center of the clearing. She can feel its unfettered power, and it is terrible.

  What in the name of the ancients has Nasim unleashed? And what might happen were Sariya to get her hands on it?

  Atiana readies herself. She prepares to sprint forward to see what might be waiting when the swirling dies away, but the wind does not die away. The sand is drawn up. It spins and twists, and where it touches the trees, they spark. They smoke. They burn.

  Some of it strikes Atiana’s skin, and like hot ash it scorches her. She staggers away, but the forest above her is now ablaze. She wants to follow Nasim, but already this place is beginning to falter. She cannot follow him, not if she wishes to live.

  She heads back toward the tower.

  And stops.

  For in her hand is a stone. It is unlike anything she’s ever seen before. It is blue—the blue of the ocean shallows—and striated with bronze and copper and nickel. It is beautiful and heavy and deep. Holding it is like holding a piece of the world in her hands.

  The fire is spreading. It has moved beyond her along the tops of the trees, and the wind now carries the smoke down to her. It chokes her, makes her eyes water.

  She runs, but she is weak, and soon she begins to stumble and fall, coughing until her chest burns and her throat is raw. She can breathe better here, but she is so weak she can hardly move. The stone sustains her, however. She can feel it, lending her its strength. There is more hidden beneath its surface—much more—but she has no idea how to unleash it.

  This is enough for now, she decides.

  At last the winds shift. The thick haze of smoke is pulled away, and she sees standing just beyond the trees the tower she left to enter the forest.

  As she watches, a crack forms near its foundation. It runs up the tower’s length, the stone shattering as it goes. Other cracks form. And widen. Stones along the topmost edge break and fall away.

  With the stone lending her its strength, she stands—still coughing, still unable to catch her breath—and shambles forward, knowing she must get inside before the tower crumbles completely.

  Larger pieces of stone, and even sections of the tower’s wall, fall away, striking the ground before her. Scree bites into her skin, drawing blood along her arms, her forehead, her cheeks. A larger piece cuts into her shoulder and knocks her down. She gets up, realizing she has lost the blue stone.

  She looks for it frantically, feeling faint and afraid, until she sees a glimpse of it beneath a heavy stone.

  She pushes it, but it is too heavy, and she cannot move it.

  Nyet! she screams.

  She gathers herself and tries again. And slowly the stone tips.

  As the sound of the crumbling tower reaches new heights, she grabs the stone and sprints for the tower door. The door twists unnaturally. The supports buckle as she leaps toward the frame.

  And then she is through.

  Atiana knows immediately she has returned to Baressa. No longer is she caught by the spells that surround Sariya’s tower.

  She cannot for the moment feel Ishkyna’s presence, nor can she feel Ushai’s. She reaches out for them, but as she does she senses a disturbance near the Spar.

  The ceremony.

  The ceremony Father is attending.

  She rushes toward it and is relieved to find that little has taken place since she left. Either the ceremony has crawled at a glacial pace or little time has passed since she entered Sariya’s tower. Whichever the case, dozens are still gathered beneath the pavilion. The keystones have been set into place, and the Kamarisi is speaking to the assemblage on a platform carpeted in red and trimmed in gold.

  Father stands at the front of the crowd. Vaasak Dhalingrad and the men of their retinues stand patiently behind him. Near the back of these gathered men and women, spaced along the balustrade, are the men of the Kiliç Şaik, the Kamarisi’s personal guard. They stand at attention, legs spread, arms behind their backs, the plumes attached to their rounded turbans tossed wildly by the winds.

  The Kamarisi seems to be finishing. Many begin to clap, and in the manner of Yrstanla, Hakan raises the back of one hand to all who stand before him.

  Near the balustrade, one of the guardsmen steps forward toward those who stand at the rear of the tent—the streltsi of Vostroma and Dhalingrad. Before Atiana can understand what is happening, the lone guardsman has pulled his sharply curved kilij sword. This seems to be a signal of sorts, for in a flash, all of his men—a score of them—have pulled their kilij as well.

  Father, behind you!

  Her father reaches for his chest, grasping for his soulstone, whic
h lies hidden beneath his coat.

  Turn, Father, now!

  But it is too late.

  The men of Yrstanla cut the streltsi from behind.

  Many in the crowd scatter, their eyes wild and their mouths wide with shock. Father pulls his shashka, as does Vaasak and many of the men of Anuskaya, but the streltsi have already fallen, and they are faced with impossible odds.

  Do not fight! Atiana urges.

  She doesn’t know if her father heard her, but he lowers his sword at the command of the Kamarisi’s guard.

  Most of those who ran are herded back into the pavilion. All are relieved of their weapons.

  And then Father is led away from the pavilion by three guardsmen. Hakan follows. His face is serene, as if this all has gone according to plan.

  Father is brought to his knees with a sharp strike from the flat of one of the guardsmen’s blades. It is the one who first drew his sword, a man who Atiana saw with Sihaş in the kasir but does not otherwise know.

  As the two other guardsmen pull Father’s arms wide, holding him in a kneeling position, the first steps to Father’s left side.

  Hakan watches this. He speaks, eyes closed, as if reciting a chant.

  Or rendering judgment.

  And then Atiana realizes. Father has been positioned over the keystones. He’s been positioned over the centermost of them, the one that lies at the true center of the Spar.

  This is not a simple act of war. This is a sacrifice.

  They are consecrating the bridge.

  Father, fight them! Do not allow this!

  But he makes no move against them.

  She assails Hakan’s mind, trying to assume him as she would a rook, but the currents of the aether are too wild. Each time she tries, she nearly slips from the aether.

  Vaasak! she calls. Save him!

  She calls to others, but she already knows it is too late.

  The sword is lifted high.

  Hakan finishes his speech.

  And the sword swings low.

  Atiana sees the sword strike home, sees it sever the neck of her father. Sees his head roll across the stones.

  His blood spills, staining the central keystone.

  In the aether, Atiana stares. The world, so often wide and expansive in the dark, focuses tightly on her father’s body, on the blood still pumping from his neck, on his head as it rocks to a stop.

  Atiana is frozen. The scene before her is frozen, imprinted on her mind like blood upon stone. Shock gives way to horror. A thousand implications swirl through her mind, but she can focus on none of them. She can only think of one thing.

  Her father is dead. Gone forever. Taken from her by the whims of a sick and twisted emperor, the lord of a slowly dying state.

  And then Atiana’s mind fills with rage. Her emotions—vengeful and primal and brutal—make it more and more difficult to remain.

  She wants to stay, wants to rend Hakan’s mind to shreds, but in the end, her emotions run too high, and she is thrust from the aether as if it were repulsed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The clack and thunder of stones falling, the tower rumbling, woke Atiana from a deep sleep.

  She sat up, the water of the pool splashing around her.

  Her entire body clenched. She knew she should relax, but she couldn’t.

  She gripped her legs tight, shivering. She was colder than she had ever been.

  Another boom shook the building. And another.

  By the ancients who watch over, what was happening?

  The tower... The tower had been crumbling...

  She looked around, eyes wide.

  There was no tower here. She was in a pool of water. A young woman wearing the dress of a servant stood at the edge of it. “Can you hear me, My Lady Princess?”

  Atiana stared, unable to understand how she’d come to be here. Two soldiers wearing the stripes of Vostroma stood by an open doorway leading outside.

  “My Lady,” the woman said again, her voice more urgent. She waded into the pool in her black boots and rich wool dress and took Atiana by the shoulders and helped her to her feet.

  Only then did Atiana realize that there were others in the pool. They were submerged, naked, their breathing tubes still in place. For the life of her she couldn’t remember their names.

  “Please, My Lady, come.”

  As Atiana prepared to stand, she realized that she held something small and hard and smooth in one hand. She looked down and found the stone. The stone Nasim had liberated from the monolith. The stone Sariya had wanted at all costs. And here it was, with her.

  The events that had occurred outside Sariya’s tower came clear. She didn’t understand how it could have been, but she did know that it had been no dream. That had been Nasim himself, drawn, as she had been, into a world of Sariya’s making. And he had wrested from Sariya the thing she most desired.

  It did not sit well with Atiana that he could do such a thing—it seemed like too much power to rest within one soul—but Nasim was a special child. He’d spent years straddling the aether, walking between worlds. Could he not then walk the dark as she did? Perhaps he would even be better at it, as gifted as he had been with hezhan.

  She stared down at the blue stone. It was both beautiful and terrifying.

  When she looked up she saw the woman staring at it. Yalessa... Her name was Yalessa.

  Atiana palmed the stone—making it clear it was something not to be questioned—and took Yalessa’s hand to step with shaking legs from the pool. As she did it registered with her how broken this building was. She knew this place. It was the very same building where she’d first seen Ushai in the Shattering.

  Another boom shook the building. Atiana allowed Yalessa to put Atiana’s thick winter coat around her shoulders, and then she walked toward the open doorway. The streltsi held their muskets and berdische axes at the ready. They bowed their heads as Atiana approached and stepped outside ahead of her, both with their muskets resting at the top of their axes, ready to set them down and fire should the need arise.

  “My Lady,” Yalessa said, “don’t go outside!”

  “Wake them,” Atiana replied calmly. “It’s time we leave.”

  Yalessa seemed relieved by this. She bowed and moved to comply as Atiana stepped outside and into the adjoining courtyard. Within it were withered trees and a disused garden. Above, there was gray sky, the monotony broken only by the dark forms of windships sliding below the clouds. A dozen circled about one another. Almost directly overhead, cannon smoke belched from the side of one of them. Windwood flew from the hull of the ship it had targeted, the sound of the blast falling upon her moments later.

  Debris rained down over the courtyard, and the streltsi pushed her back beneath the overhang.

  As chunks of wood pattered onto the stones, Atiana remembered the events she’d seen from within the aether.

  Father.

  The ceremony at the Spar.

  Dozens of her countrymen had been there along with the Kamarisi and his courtiers. Father… Father was dead, but what about the rest? Had they all been killed?

  Six streltsi came running into the courtyard, boots stomping, bandoliers rattling in time. Two stopped at the archway that led to the streets of the Shattering. The remaining four continued with Irkadiy at their lead.

  “My Lady Princess, we must go. Now.”

  “The others aren’t ready.”

  “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

  Atiana turned and found Ishkyna standing in the shadow of the doorway. Ushai was there as well. Both of them looked as if they hadn’t slept in days.

  “My Lady,” Yalessa said, holding Atiana’s clothes and motioning to the interior.

  No sooner had Atiana nodded her head than musket fire broke out from the archway.

  The leg of one of the streltsi standing there buckled. He grunted in pain, aiming and firing his musket. Blood stained his pant leg where it was tucked into his tall leather boot, and then i
t began to spurt.

  “The Kamarisi’s men have come, My Lady.” Irkadiy’s face was hard, but as he glanced toward his man, she saw the pain and worry that roiled just below the surface.

  Atiana took time only to pull her boots on. The coat would have to do for now. She pulled it tight around her and cinched the belt and they were off, running toward the courtyard’s other exit.

  As they ran into the Shattering, Atiana looked back and saw a dozen janissaries dressed in the red turbans and the black coats of the Kamarisi’s personal guard. One of the soldiers spotted their escape, but he did not shout. He merely whistled and pointed, and his comrades ran up the street, half of them peeling away, heading southward to cut them off.

  Irkadiy led them into a round building, a scriptorium. They took the stairs that were just inside the foyer and went up three levels. Shelves were built into the walls, and were visible in many other rooms they saw as they ran. The shelves were largely empty, but every so often she would see a thick book, dusty with mold, and she wondered distantly why those particular books had been abandoned, why they had survived the scavenging that had taken place over the course of generations.

  At last they reached the highest level. A wooden ladder stood at the ready, one that had been prepared three days before. Irkadiy and one other strelet climbed the ladder first.

  Yalessa, eyes wide and movements rushed, made to follow them, but one of the streltsi put himself between her and the ladder. “They will make sure it’s safe,” he said.

  Five of the streltsi lined the balcony and brought their muskets to their shoulders, aiming their weapons down to the foyer below.

  Sounds came from the entrance three stories down.

  Two quick shots came from the streltsi, the sound of it deafening in the enclosed space. The other three fired shortly after, and they heard moaning and a cry of pain cut short by the musket fire.

  Irkadiy returned, waving them up. “Quickly now,” he whispered.

  As Yalessa took the ladder up, a musket shot struck the stone ceiling. Yalessa screamed as the shot scattered powder and bits of rock everywhere.

  Below, bootsteps could be heard running along the scriptorium halls, and then along the stone stairs leading to the second level.