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

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  He brought the skiff up beneath the Yarost, the ship Mileva had told him about. He was sure it would be well outfitted—the threat of Yrstanla required it—but he was also sure Konstantin would have had it provisioned with extra rations and extra munitions in case Nikandr took this bait.

  They came even with the deck, and though the wind was still strong—especially as it swept up along the mountainside to blow among the moored ships—Nikandr and the others moved quickly and efficiently. They had discussed this over and over before leaving the palotza. One by one, they leapt over to the ship as Nikandr and Anahid held her steady.

  Then Anahid was over and finally Nikandr made the leap himself, his men catching him and steadying him as he used his hezhan to reverse the wind and push the skiff away. It twisted like a leaf on a pond, floating away until he was sure that he could release it and leave the winds to do the rest.

  By then the men had already begun preparing the ship, most moving to the perch to release the mooring ropes. They were only half done when lights appeared above at the eyrie master’s house and an alarm bell began to ring.

  Clang-clang-clang-clang.

  “Quickly, men!” Nikandr called.

  He joined in, forgetting the winds as he leapt over to the perch and helped Styophan with one of the last three mooring ropes. They were heavy, and though they worked as fast as they could, he could already hear the shout of men, hear their footsteps as they worked their way down from the upper quay. They would arrive in little time, and when they did, Nikandr and the rest wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Nikandr moved to the middle of the perch. The first of the streltsi, each bearing a musket, were already rounding the last of the switchbacks. Nikandr allowed his hands to fall to his side. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He felt the rage of the wind, felt it course up along the hills and valleys until funneling up toward the snowcapped peak of Beshiklova with an energy he’d rarely felt.

  As the bell continued to clang, Nikandr bid the wind to give him all that it could. He directed it as the walls of a valley would. He bid it to heave itself against the quay.

  It did. It rushed against the streltsi as they were leveling their weapons. The wind blew them like autumn leaves, pushing them against the cliff at their backs. The sound of it… Nikandr had never heard the like, the shrieking as it ran through the rigging of the eyrie’s ships, the pound of canvas as sails came loose, the hollow thudding as ships were thrown against their perches. The insistent and fearful orders of the sotnik were nearly lost among the gale, but Nikandr knew they were readying themselves.

  “The ship is free!” he heard Styophan shout.

  Nikandr didn’t care.

  Rarely had he felt so deeply connected to his hezhan. Perhaps he’d felt this way in those first few encounters on Uyadensk, when he’d not known the nature of the hezhan, nor his bond to it, but those times had been brought upon by his link to Nasim. Since then he’d been nervous to draw too heavily upon the spirit, but he did not feel so now. Whether it was an abandon that came from desperation or a trust that had been slowly built over the years he didn’t know, but he allowed the hezhan to take more of him than he ever had before.

  “We’re free!” Styophan shouted, this time at the top of his lungs.

  He knew he should release the hezhan, at least enough that he could move to the ship, but for the moment he couldn’t. He was lost. Lost among the winds. Lost in the in-between space between Erahm and Adhiya.

  Had Jahalan felt this way when he’d communed with spirits? Did Atiana feel like this while taking the dark?

  Had he been more aware, he might have seen the men on the perch to his left. He might have seen them train their muskets. He might have seen the flare as the gunpowder flashed in the pan.

  Searing pain sliced across his shin, just below the knee.

  He cried out, buckling and falling to the stone perch.

  He heard the buzzing sound of a musket shot whip past his head.

  The wind died in one final gust as his men dragged him toward the ship.

  The Vostroman streltsi along the quay set their muskets on the top of their berdische axes and sighted along them.

  Nikandr’s bond was not yet broken, however. It had been shaken, but he was able to draw upon it again, forcing it to assault the streltsi before they could fire.

  Too late. The crack of four muskets rose above the howl of the wind.

  One of his men cried out. Nikandr heard him fall to the deck.

  “Help me,” Nikandr asked Styophan. “Quickly before they can reload.”

  With his arm around Styophan’s shoulder, he managed to stand, managed to call upon the wind to push the Yarost away from the perch. A lantern came arcing from the ship next to them. It dropped against the deck, spilling oil and lighting the deck in a wide swath.

  “Douse those flames!” Styophan called.

  The fire was bright enough that Nikandr could see the streltsi clearly now.

  And they could see him.

  They paused, all of them frozen. They had thought that Yrstanla had come. They thought themselves under attack from the West. They had not expected men of the Grand Duchy, much less a prince of the realm, to steal into the eyrie and take one of their ships.

  Two of the men had finished reloading. They lined up their muskets once more, training them on Nikandr.

  But their sotnik stepped in the path of their shot, waving his hands, forbidding them to fire.

  Reluctantly they lowered their weapons, but the looks of shock and disgust on their faces were telling. Nikandr’s abilities were not common knowledge, but they could clearly see that he was summoning the winds.

  Only his hand-selected men had known before. But now…

  Now the entire Grand Duchy would know.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Atiana climbed the stairs to the top of Sariya’s tower. She had expected basins with women to attend to her and Ishkyna and Ushai, but there was no one besides Sariya herself.

  Sariya turned from the window she was examining. Outside, Atiana thought she saw the view of another city entirely beyond the pane of wavy glass, but when she blinked, it was gone. Sariya walked forward, her simple white robes trailing softly over the stone floor. “Lie down,” she said, motioning to the center of the room where four pallets with brightly colored blankets lay.

  Ishkyna, standing next to Atiana, scoffed. “We need basins.”

  Sariya regarded Ishkyna anew. She glanced to Atiana, perhaps weighing just how different the sisters were, but then the look was gone, and she was cold indifference once more. “The tower will see to your needs. Prepare yourselves as you have always done, and we will reach the dark together.”

  Ishkyna paused, looking to Atiana for her answer.

  Atiana nodded to Ishkyna and moved to the furthest position, the one facing the westward window. Ishkyna approached the southern position, Ushai the eastern. Ishkyna seemed at ease, though it was easy for Atiana to tell from the stiff way in which she walked, the way her eyes took in the room, that she was nervous. Ushai was openly fearful. She swallowed constantly. Her gaze darted about the room, particularly to the windows and Sariya.

  As Atiana kneeled upon the bedding, Sariya closed her hand around the empty air between the four pallets. She had grabbed at nothing—Atiana was sure of it—but a moment later something twinkled bright and blue in the palm of her hand.

  It was the Atalayina. Ishkyna stared at it openly, transfixed. Ushai, however, had somehow managed to calm herself, and the longer she stared at the stone, the more composed she seemed to become. She caught Atiana watching her, and some of the nervousness returned, as if laying her eyes on Atiana had reminded her of their purpose.

  Atiana widened her eyes at the Aramahn woman, asking if she was all right. Ushai nodded once, carefully.

  “Lie down.” As Sariya spoke these words, she spun the Atalayina in the air. It remained, spinning, twirling on some unseen axis, equidistant between the four pallet
s.

  Sariya lay down, motioning for the others to do the same.

  Atiana complied, and finally, so did Ishkyna and Ushai.

  It took time—Atiana was not used to taking the dark without the help of the bitterly cold water of the drowning basins—but she found, as Sariya had said, the tower drawing her toward the aether. She had barely reached a level of calm when…

  She wakes. She sees the form of the tower cast in the darkest blue. Sees herself and the other three women. Sariya has already crossed over. Her presence is strong. Her emotions ring clear. There is a certain pride in her heart that warms Atiana, though why she should care about the feelings of Sariya, she isn’t sure.

  Ishkyna joins them soon after. The three of them pull one another near. Like strands in a braid they strengthen their mutual bond, and when Ushai joins them, they pull her closer. Ushai had always seemed, if not strong in the ways of the dark, at least competent. She had never seemed like a foal still learning her legs, but she did now.

  Control yourself, Atiana says.

  Ushai tries, but this only seems to make things worse.

  Leave her, Ishkyna says. We’ll be fine on our own.

  Don’t be so sure, Sariya replies. The storms over Galahesh are strong.

  We will groom the paths between the spires, Atiana says, stopping them before they quibble. If she is still unable to come, she will remain.

  They give one another silent assent, and together, they expand their awareness. They move beyond the boundaries of the tower. They feel the city of Baressa below them, quiet for the time being. They feel the Spar, the conduit it creates between the northern and southern land masses.

  They have chosen their time well. It is low tide, and the way from the spire on the northern half of Galahesh to the one on the far southern tip is easy to groom. The ley lines toward the center of the island are guided, and these in turn guide the others until the way is made stronger. It strengthens the path to the spire on Kiravashya far to the east. It is the only spire that remains on the islands of Vostroma. It holds open, barely, the path northward to Khalakovo, and southward to Nodhvyansk. Take this one spire away, though, and it would be impossible to sail windships for months, perhaps years.

  They’ve long since lost the art of grooming the ley lines without the help of the spires. It might be done, but who knows how to do it now? Perhaps Saphia can learn—perhaps Polina Mirkotsk, but even they will be able to do little against the strength of the storms that would follow the destruction of the spire above Galostina.

  Together, they reach outward, toward Kiravashya. The storms over Galahesh are manageable, but when they move over open sea it becomes infinitely worse. Here the storms rage. It draws their minds outward, forces them to take in the full extent of it, and it is humbling. Even Sariya is cowed.

  They try to move on, but the further they go, the more difficult it becomes, and it’s soon clear that Ushai is the cause. She’s lost her nerve, and if she tries to go further, she’ll drown in these waves, and she’ll take the others with her.

  Go, Atiana snaps. Return to the tower and await us.

  Ushai is shamed by this, but there is relief as well. Her presence soon dwindles and is eventually lost altogether.

  Without speaking, they move forward once more. They can feel Kiravashya’s spire now. Like a bell in the distance, it rings, calling to them, and together they wend their way through the storms.

  A presence grows in the distance. It is one of the Matri, but this woman is tired beyond any boundaries Atiana can fathom. She has been pressing to keep the connections alive between Vostroma and the distant archipelagos. Through her, Atiana can feel—barely—the touch of the other Matri. The connections are still alive then. The duchies, at least for the moment, are able to speak, to warn one another.

  Mileva, Ishkyna says.

  Atiana realizes that Ishkyna is right. Why didn’t she recognize her? Perhaps because, even in these few weeks since they’d seen one another, Mileva has grown in strength. The Mileva she’d known before leaving Vostroma for Galahesh—how long ago that seemed—could not have done this.

  Sisters, comes Mileva’s weak reply. You’ve come. But how?

  Mileva’s confusion is palpable, but then she feels the third presence. She doesn’t know who it is at first, but then it dawns on her.

  How dare you bring her near!

  We’ve come to warn you, Atiana says. Stand down. Prepare the island, and the others as well. The spire must fall.

  She feels the shock within Mileva as she says these words, but she shares with her what she knows—her experiences, her memories, her fears and her hopes for the islands once the storm has passed. Again Mileva surprises her. She sifts through these memories quickly. She absorbs. She understands.

  But she is vehement in her denial.

  We cannot, Mileva says. We will not.

  Through Sariya, Atiana feels—and she knows her sisters can feel as well—the dozens of ships that lie in wait far to the south of Kiravashya. They hold position near the edge of the shallows before the sea deepens and the currents of the wind and the aether become uncontrollable, unpredictable. It is a glimpse of the remaining strength of the Empire. It lies in wait for the hour when the winds have died down sufficiently for the battle to resume.

  Atiana feels Mileva’s shock. In that moment, Atiana can sense how truly weak the remaining forces of the Grand Duchy are. They have not a third of the ships the Empire has. And once the last of Anuskaya’s ships fall, it will only be a matter of time until Galostina herself is taken.

  And then the spire will fall.

  Hundreds will die. Thousands. The seat of Vostroma’s power will fall to enemy hands. It is a bitter leaf to chew, but they all know what will happen if Anuskaya doesn’t surrender. Muqallad is coming—they know this now—and when he does, the scene upon Oshtoyets will be as child’s play.

  The decisions made in the aether are not made alone. One is entwined, and it is sometimes difficult to pull away, to make decisions clearly. It is why the Matri often do not make decisions when they first meet; they merely discuss. Only after they remove themselves from the others—either by leaving the aether entirely or retreating to their own corner of the world—can they think clearly. With the three of them sharing so much, it is hard for Atiana to focus her mind on notions of loyalty and patriotism for Anuskaya.

  Not so for Mileva. She pulls away easily, her anger flaring.

  I will not bow and offer up our spire to Yrstanla like a lamb for the slaughter.

  We have no choice, Atiana says.

  There is always choice, Mileva replies, her mood cold. Yrstanla can pull their ships north of the straits, and then we can talk.

  Sariya’s response is felt before she speaks. You have few ships, and the winds are beginning to quell. In another day we will attack. This is the only chance I granted to Atiana in the interest of avoiding further bloodshed, but make no mistake. I won’t hesitate to bring those ships to bear—all of them. The threat of Muqallad demands no less.

  Whether we lie upon the ground wounded or not, I will not treat with the likes of you while a sword swings above our necks.

  Her words are meant for Atiana as well. Mileva’s blood is up, and it seems to strengthen her will and revive her strength. She pushes the three of them away.

  And strangely, it works. Atiana feels a gap form, a distancing, as if Mileva can no longer stand to be so closely tied to them. Even knowing Mileva’s strength in the aether, Atiana is surprised. Sariya is Al-Aqim, Atiana’s abilities still outstrip Mileva’s, and though Ishkyna is the weakest of the three, together they should have been able to prevent Mileva from doing so.

  This is when Atiana first senses the bitter cold through the haze of the aether. It is a draining, like a trickle of blood from a wound she didn’t know she had.

  The feeling grows. It saps her strength. It takes from her what little warmth there is in the aether, until all around her feels like the coldest and darkest par
t of winter.

  Atiana knows only moments after Sariya does that it comes from the tower, and the moment that realization comes to her, she knows it happened because of Ushai.

  Sariya withdraws so quickly Atiana and Ishkyna cannot follow, and soon they are left alone. And now, not only is the supporting presence of Sariya gone, but so is the Atalayina.

  Ishkyna!

  Atiana can feel her slipping away, blown like a feather on the wind by the forces of the aether.

  Ishkyna, hear me! Follow my voice!

  But she can’t. She drifts further away, her mind drawing and thinning like smoke.

  Atiana feels the same happening to her. She’s cast adrift over the Sea of Tabriz.

  How massive it is. How dark and deadly. She can feel its depths, feel the cold touch of its embrace. It pulls her downward, no matter how much she might like to reach the surface.

  But there is one thing that brightens the borders of her mind. Anger… Anger over what has happened. Anger that—however improbably—Ushai arranged for this to happen. Her emotions were so plain when they entered the tower, and now Atiana knows why: betrayal was on her mind, not the imposing presence of Sariya nor the task that lay before them.

  Only betrayal.

  And it spurs Atiana to find her way back.

  She detects the barest of scents—Sariya. She moves toward it, pulling herself inward slowly but surely. The sea retreats. The mass of Galahesh lies before her. And then Baressa.

  And finally the tower.

  When Atiana woke, she remembered everything. Never had she recalled her time in the aether so completely, so vividly.

  But as sharp as her memories were, her body was dull. It did not respond to her commands. For long moments all she could do was stare at the stone ceiling of the room she lay within—she and Sariya and Ishkyna.

  At last she was able to roll her head to one side, toward Sariya.

  Sariya was staring at Atiana with wide blue eyes. Blood stained her dress along her chest and ribs, a puddle collecting there and slowly expanding across the stone floor toward Atiana.