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

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  She comes to the wide thoroughfare that leads to the Spar. She hears the battle beyond the bridge, hears the screams of individual men rising above the calls and cries of war. She sees the brightness of the cannon flashes against Baressa’s tallest buildings.

  Ahead are those she left earlier to set her trap. Muqallad and Sariya stand near the first stones of the Spar, but they have not yet stepped foot upon it. Why, she does not know. Nearer, the girl, Kaleh, watches. She looks as though she wishes to approach, but Muqallad summons her and she leaves. She cannot hear Muqallad’s words, but he points to the Spar, and immediately after Kaleh begins to first walk and then jog across the impossibly long bridge.

  As she does, Atiana feels something—a shifting of wind in the dark of the aether—and it comes from the Spar.

  She strides forward, steps up onto a wooden stage in the abandoned yard of an auction house, and from here she can see much of the Spar unobstructed. The upper reaches of its white stone are difficult to discern against the white cliffs beyond, but the tall, elegant arches are easy to see.

  Atiana closes her eyes, casts herself outward, searching for the source of the disturbance. The sight of the Spar fades and is replaced by the blue-black of the aether. She moves like a marlin through the ocean depths, flitting along the Spar, searching its arches and the supports structures beneath the road deck and the squat towers at the center where the keystones were recently dropped into place. But there is nothing. Nothing.

  And yet she knows there must be.

  Have you found it?

  It is Sariya.

  Not yet, she replies. Sariya is weak, but has the strength yet to cast herself into the aether. If she bonds with Atiana, they might find the source together. Join me, Atiana says.

  The two of them meld their minds with one another. It is not so easy to do, partly because they are unaccustomed to one another, but mostly from the wound Sariya took from Ushai’s blade. She is so close to parting the veil it is a wonder she can draw breath much less navigate the currents of the dark. Still, she is Al-Aqim, and she has strength yet. It allows Atiana to search more thoroughly, to sense the subtle shifts in the currents of the dark.

  She was wrong earlier. There is something on the Spar—she can feel it in her bones, a familiarity that is as much a part of her as her skin or her blood. And yet, save for the blackness of the keystone where her father was murdered, the bridge is pristine. It is empty and untouched. When she breathes the air of the aether, however, she notes the familiar scent of those with whom she once bonded, with those she once shared such intimate thoughts as only sisters in the ways of the dark can share.

  The Matri are here. They have moved beyond the chaos of the fallen spire. How, she cannot guess, but she knows it is so, and they are hiding something at the center of the Spar.

  She casts outward, hoping to find them, but she does not. Her anger begins to rise. She must control it. She can already feel her grip on the aether slipping. It is dangerous, especially here at the straits where the currents of the dark are building and compressing like a wound infected.

  As she tries to regain herself, the dark buffets her. It draws her down into the gap of the straits until she is staring upward at the Spar and the midnight blue of the sky above. She feels the currents of the sea swarming. She feels the weight of the cliffs pressing in. She feels the men dying in the streets of Baressa as swords slice through flesh and bite into bone.

  She’s losing herself. She knows this.

  And she also knows the Matri are causing it.

  She has lasted this long only through the grounding that Sariya provides her, but Sariya is weak.

  The Matri must be found, and there are clues for her to do so. She has long been accustomed to searching for them after taking the dark, and though they try to hide, she can sense them. Their trail is marked like blood upon the forest floor.

  She follows their trail back toward Baressa. She passes the raging battle near the center of the massive city. And then she comes to the bazaar. It is large and sprawling, little more than a collection of stalls and carts and tents, but at its center there is a building—an old, massive structure where the rarest of items can be found.

  It is there, she realizes. The Matri are in that building, and if she is any judge, they have not yet noticed her.

  She is no fool. She cannot hope to approach them directly. With Sariya, she is a match for any one of the Matri, but the twisted cord of individual threads trailing back from the Spar make it clear that there are many working together, perhaps seven or eight of them.

  She must be careful.

  She allows her mind to diffuse outward. She thins her consciousness so that she encompasses the entirety of the bazaar. She cannot allow herself to go further lest she be drawn back toward the maelstrom in the straits.

  She sinks, allowing herself to drop as slowly as a dandelion seed on the wind of summer’s waking. She feels the Matri lying in a room deep beneath the building. There are eight. And they are unaware.

  She descends upon them, pressing down furiously. Bound as they are, they are all affected, and Kseniya and Polina succumb in those first moments. She feels their fear and their desperation, and then their minds slip from the aether like sand through the fingers of an outstretched hand.

  Those who remain, six of them now, fight back, but they are disoriented. Atiana slips in and attacks, pulling back as they turn to meet her. With two of the stronger ones missing, the weakest are especially vulnerable, and Atiana knows just who they are.

  She swoops in on Iyana. Iyana has always been a petulant woman, and Atiana baits her. She drifts away from the others, hoping to surprise, but Atiana is ready, and she smothers Iyana the moment she’s far enough away to single out.

  Rosa and Zanaida are more difficult. They have always been close, and it reflects in the aether. They support one another, and so Atiana is forced to pry them away from the rest. The others return quickly, hoping to bring them back into their circle, but before they can Atiana draws Rosa’s mind outward and toward the straits. Zanaida does not wish to follow, but she feels as though she cannot abandon Rosa, and so both are dragged forward. The closer they come to the straits, the more unstable they become, and soon they too are gone.

  Only three are now left, and they know their only hope is to stay together. They do not expect Atiana to fight them directly, however. She rushes in, singling out Ekaterina. She expends much of her energy, but she manages to rip Ekaterina away, and from there it is merely a matter of bearing down on her until she retreats.

  Saphia and Mileva are the only two who remain. They are the strongest of the Matri. Saphia’s mind is still bright, whereas Mileva’s is muddled by Atiana’s sudden and vicious attack.

  Atiana presses down on Saphia before Mileva has a chance to recover. Saphia fights. Atiana’s mind is drawn outward like oil upon the water. She is weakened, and she nearly slips from the aether as the Matri did only moments ago, but Sariya is still with her. She supports Atiana, and together they turn the tide.

  Saphia falls, almost too easily.

  There is no time to wonder, however, because Mileva is next. She is nearly as strong as Saphia, and her mind has regained its sharpness. Atiana withdraws, and Mileva comes for her, her anger at having been attacked by her own sister making her overly bold. It is perfect. She overreaches, and Atiana has her.

  Something is wrong, though.

  Atiana knows Mileva well. Even guarded as she is, Atiana can sense the satisfaction within her.

  Satisfaction, Atiana realizes, of a plan that has worked all too well.

  This is when Ishkyna strikes.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  Nasim felt in his chest the battle cry of the Anuskayan streltsi as a rush of janissaries attacked their line. Hundreds of soldiers met with the clash of musket fire and the rattle of weaponry and the full-throated cries of desperate men.

  Nasim had known that these streltsi were veterans, but he had no idea just how
brutally efficient they could be. The janissaries had formed a well-disciplined line, but when they met the streltsi of Khalakovo, they were divided into small groups. Like this, they were less able to rely on their comrades, and the streltsi, working in concert, would close in on a small group, taking down one or two men, before wheeling to attack another pocket of the enemy. The streltsi had all fired their muskets, but these men were equipped with wheellock pistols as well, and they used them whenever a janissary officer would call to rally his men. One by one, the enemy leaders fell, leaving their line a writhing, chaotic mess.

  One of the streltsi assigned specifically to Nasim shouted, “Behind!”

  Nasim turned and saw dozens of janissaries approaching from the rear.

  The akhoz were close, but still too far away. Cyhir, the akhoz that had accompanied Nasim throughout the night, loped forward, but he was flung through the air and nearly torn in two as the shot from a cannon caught him fully in the gut. A gout of black flesh and blood sprayed from Cyhir’s ruined body as some of the shot grazed Nasim’s shin and thigh. Nasim crumpled, holding his leg, simultaneously sickened by what had happened to Cyhir and grateful he’d escaped with nothing more than skin-deep leg wounds.

  Nearby, Ashan called rain down upon the enemy. Blood still welled from the wound to his shoulder, and his skin was as white as alabaster, but he somehow managed to remain calm through all of this and commune with a jalahezhan. The rain soon turned to sleet, and then hail the size of fists pummeled down on them.

  The soldiers slipped and fell and ducked their heads for cover, but the fury of the hail was already beginning to ease.

  Nasim, favoring his right leg heavily, stood and used Ashan’s link to call upon the spirits of other jalahezhan. He still found himself forced to touch Adhiya through others, but now, since his death and rebirth on Ghayavand—if that’s what it truly was—the way was much clearer, and with Adhiya so close, the spirits of water were able to feed upon him much more easily and much more heavily than they otherwise could have done.

  Nasim let them.

  It felt glorious to bond so closely with these spirits, something he hadn’t done since finding himself. So heady was their touch that he nearly lost himself in their hunger to taste of the material world. He knew this was the last thing he could allow to happen, so he rose up and stood against their wishes. He commanded them. He asked that they give of themselves.

  And they did. They added their strength to Ashan’s. The hail beat down once more, but not as much as Nasim would have guessed. There was someone working against them; a qiram somewhere beyond the line of janissaries was sapping the strength of their hezhan. Nasim thought it might be many of the Hratha’s qiram working in concert, but he soon realized it was only one.

  Kaleh.

  He pressed, more than he ever had since his awakening, giving more and more of himself, if only he could turn the tide against her. But she was strong, nearly as strong as Muqallad himself.

  Ashan, favoring his right side, stood and grabbed Nasim’s elbow. “Nasim, you’re losing yourself!”

  He didn’t listen. He couldn’t. There was so little time. He could feel the power building at the Spar already.

  As the wind howled through the streets and a red dawn lit the sky, Nasim felt the hunger of a vanahezhan. It was feeding upon him to such a degree that it may soon consume him.

  But this was what he needed. He needed to draw it as close as he could. When tears filled his eyes and stars danced in his vision, when he lost the feeling in his hands, when his mouth began to water so much that it hurt, he opened the way to it and stepped aside. The hezhan, feeling the way clear to Erahm, passed beyond this portal and into the material world.

  Ahead, the cobbled street split. A massive form lifted, and for a moment it was all falling dirt and gravel and dust. But then its four arms broke away from its body, and its head lifted from a chest as large as a skiff. The clack of toppling rocks accompanied its legs lifting from the earth and bringing the beast to its full height—nearly as tall as a nearby two-story building.

  This, Nasim knew, was an elder, a creature that had been in Adhiya for eons, choosing to stay instead of being reborn. It looked down at Nasim, but Nasim could do nothing more than point toward Kaleh and the soldiers of Yrstanla. The other hezhan were continuing to feed upon him, and he was no longer able to control it. He felt his legs weaken, felt his breath go shallow. He coughed as the world began to tilt.

  And then at last it became too much, and Adhiya swallowed him whole.

  When Nikandr woke, he was lying on the cold ground. His mind was muddied. It took all his will to simply open his eyes, and pushing himself off the ground felt nearly impossible. But he tried and managed to roll over so that he could see the landscape.

  His head pounded, pain radiating from the top of his forehead. He could feel the dried blood along the right side of his face, could taste it in his mouth. The sun had not yet risen, but dawn was approaching. Ahead was a wide circle built by Aramahn hands. It was clean and bright, and decorated with traceries that reminded him of the organic curves of a seashell. Five akhoz crouched nearby, but they weren’t watching him; they were watching the far side of the circle where Muqallad stood with Sariya and dozens of Hratha. Hunger seemed to fill the akhoz. He could see it in the way they crouched, like wolves sensing weakness in their prey.

  Nikandr knew that Atiana was not herself. She was strained. She was under attack, and through his soulstone he knew that Mother and Mileva and Ishkyna were the aggressors.

  And suddenly he remembered it all: the landing at the storehouse, the flight from the akhoz, the rush into Vihrosh with Styophan and the remains of his men and the Maharraht. He recalled the battle. He recalled the Hratha. He recalled the sounds of men dying.

  And Atiana’s betrayal…

  Nyet. Not her betrayal. She had been taken by Sariya, or Muqallad, or both.

  For long moments he struggled with what to do. Should he attack Sariya? Attack Muqallad? He reached down to his soulstone to ask for guidance from the ancients.

  And realized he had two soulstones.

  By all that was good, Ishkyna had given him the key to helping Atiana…

  But he had to hurry.

  He struggled and was able to reach his hands and knees. One of the akhoz turned at his movement, a girl with shriveled skin along her flat chest and an eyeless face. She pulled her lips back and heaved out a breath that was half snort, half moan. The others turned now. All five were watching him, their arms and necks twitching as he reached his knees.

  He could only assume that Atiana’s influence kept them at bay.

  But what would happen when he freed her? If he freed her…

  She stood on a weathered auctioneer’s stage not far away. It had wooden ramps going up either side and a set of raised steps where the auctioneer would call to the crowd. She was looking toward the Spar, but she didn’t look normal. Her whole body was crooked and tilted, as if she were one of the infirm, nursing pains in her back and hips and knees. And she was shivering—not the shiver of someone who was cold, but the shiver of one with a fever: inconsistent, and occasionally violent.

  The sounds of distant battle from the far side of the Spar echoed over Vihrosh. Fire licked up into the sky from among the buildings near the bridge’s landing.

  The akhoz turned and looked with hungry expressions. They crept away from Nikandr, leaving him unwatched.

  Atiana sank to her knees.

  And Nikandr was freed, at least enough to stand and run.

  He loped toward the platform, making it to the first of the planks before two of the akhoz noticed and loped after him.

  The two necklaces swung from his neck. He felt for Atiana’s more delicate chain and pulled it over his head. When he reached the top of the platform, the first of the akhoz grabbed at his ankle. He fell and slid along the well-worn planks.

  “Nyet!” he cried.

  Atiana was only paces away.

  H
e scrabbled, knowing he would never make it to his feet. Something heavy fell on him from behind. He felt searing pain as the akhoz bit the flesh of his shoulder. He swung his elbow and caught it across the temple, sending it momentarily sprawling.

  The other akhoz had recovered and snatched his leg, sunk its blood-crusted talons into his flesh.

  He cried out as he reached Atiana at last and used his hands to pull her toward him as he kicked the akhoz.

  He swung her necklace up and over her head. The nearest akhoz snatched for it, but he was too quick. He pulled it down around her neck as the two akhoz fell upon him, shrieking and baring their teeth.

  With Atiana’s concentration fixed wholly on Mileva, Ishkyna swoops in like an owl in the dead of the night, silent with talons bared.

  Atiana feels a deep and sudden pain, deeper than she knew pain could go, but as soon as she tries to find Ishkyna, to take control, her sister vanishes.

  Atiana returns her attention to Mileva, forcing her to stumble and nearly slip from the aether. Ishkyna returns just in time, but darts away when Atiana reacts. And so it goes, whenever Atiana bends her will on Mileva, Ishkyna returns and then dissipates like so much smoke upon the wind.

  You are Ishkyna! Atiana rages, hoping that by invoking her name, her identity, she will once again become lost. You are my sister! Daughter of Radia, a Princess of Vostroma!

  I was those things, but I am no longer.

  And then, like a slow leak in the hull of a waterborne ship, Atiana realizes how fully Ishkyna has invaded her consciousness. It is nearly complete, but it isn’t like what Atiana did to Nikandr. Rather, it is a cleansing. Ishkyna is pulling back the curtains to allow the light in.

  It is Sariya’s influence, however, that tilts the balance back. She has been weakened, but she also knows the end is near, and this gives her strength. She pushes, harder than she ever has before, and traps Ishkyna before she can escape.

  Ishkyna rails against the bonds placed against her. Mileva tries to defend her, but with Sariya and Atiana working together, the tide is turning back.