The Flames of Shadam Khoreh

by Bradley Beaulieu

  Control yourself, a voice says.

  The voice is Ishkyna’s. The mere realization shakes her, as does the growing presence of others. Mileva is with her. Saphia Khalakovo is here as well, along with her daughter, Nikandr’s sister, Victania. More and more minds make their presence known—not merely the Duchesses, not merely their daughters, but many others, two score or more, resting within their drowning basins throughout the islands. Some are near and some are far. Some are strong while others maintain tentative holds on the aether. They have come in the hour of Atiana’s greatest need, though she could not have hoped for it.

  They all take a moment to bond with one another. Atiana strengthens those who are weak, sharpening their hold on the dark. Their consciousness expands beyond anything Atiana has ever felt. It encompasses the entirety of the seas and the islands that lie within them. Even Yrstanla feels small compared to this.

  But they all know they’ve spread themselves too far. With Atiana now guiding them, they tighten their focus, drawing in toward the Sea of Tabriz and Ghayavand within it, and finally to the mountain of Sihyaan and Sariya who stands upon it, drawing on the power of the Atalayina.

  It is the stone that holds their collective attention.

  In the aether it is not merely bright; it saps their souls. It makes one ache in a way that Atiana can’t quite comprehend. It’s as if a part of her is slipping away toward Adhiya even now, and she knows it’s the same for the others. Already she feels some of them, the weakest, are losing their hold. They try to buoy one another, but it isn’t enough, because the first of them, the Duchess Ekaterina Rhavanki, slips toward the blackened void.

  Save me, sisters!

  They reach for her. They try to keep her in place, but in her desperation Ekaterina loses control. A primal scream resounds through them. It fades, though slowly, and then the Duchess is completely and utterly gone.

  Styophan motioned for his men to slow. Further away, partially obscured by the tall grasses in which he crouched, Rodion waited for a sign. Styophan took a deep breath. He was well aware that he and Rodion were the only two soldiers left from their mission to Hael. He was surprised they’d survived Alekeşir, but the ancients—and perhaps the fates—work in strange ways. In truth he wasn’t worried over his own life. Nor was he worried over Rodion’s. They had both been ready to give their lives for Anuskaya from the moment they accepted the mission westward. He simply didn’t wish to throw their lives away—or worse, for his actions to help the enemies of Anuskaya in any way.

  Motion at Styophan’s left side caught his attention. Kaleh crouched there, watching the way ahead warily, not with a look of fear, but of resolve. They were as ready as they were going to be. Styophan nodded to Rodion. Rodion returned the nod and then was off, slipping low and quickly through the grasses with his nine men.

  Styophan then took Kaleh and the rest of his men—twelve more—toward a depression in the land, a natural place from which to begin their attack. They moved quickly, all of them spying the rise above them. The men of Kohor were facing inward, watching those at their center instead of facing outward toward any threats that might present themselves. He didn’t understand why, but he wasn’t about to question it. At the top of the rise was Ushai. Nasim and Sukharam were held nearby by two of the Kohori men whose red robes flapped in the fierce wind.

  Styophan waited, staring at the empty black hole in the sky. The world felt as if it were ending, here and now. He could feel it on his skin, a prickling that felt like death’s hand clutching for him.

  Atiana was to give him a sign that she was ready, but they’d agreed that he would go if he felt it necessary. He could wait no more. He brought his musket to his shoulder, sighted along its length, aiming carefully at the one who held Nasim. And then he pulled the trigger.

  The musket kicked. The Kohori man fell, clutching his side. The sound of more musket shots rattled the air, followed by the grunts and cries of their enemy. Few of them fell, however. One dropped and was lost among the grasses, then another further along the slope. The rest, however, seemed to be affected only momentarily by the musket shots that had struck home. They turned, drawing their swords and scanning the ground around them.

  That was when Styophan and his streltsi stood and charged.

  “For Anuskaya!” they called in unison.

  Nikandr watched in horror as the galleon was taken by the twisting and thickening branches. The crewmen screamed in pain. Some died from the constricting vines. Others still lived, but they were trapped, pinned in place by the will of the Kohori.

  The other windships desperately tried to stop the advance of the tree-ships. As each one approached and its branches unfurled, cannon-fire would blast a few of them free, sending them down toward the roiling sea, and when the branches reached the ship, the streltsi and windsmen aboard would hack at them desperately with shashkas and axes. Some even threw themselves at the branches, grabbing onto them and weighting them down so they couldn’t grab the ship.

  All of it only served to delay Sariya’s forces. Sooner or later, the vines would gain a foothold on the ship, and then they would split and grow and spread throughout the ship, grabbing men and rigging and sails alike. And then they would squeeze, gripping the windship like a hand crushing an overripe peach.

  Most of the Anuskayan ships had not yet been trapped. They were spread out in a ragged line, firing at the enemy, hoping to save those ships that had fallen to the animated trees.

  “Son of Zhabyn,” Sayyed said as he gripped Borund’s wrist. “They’re being taken.” He pointed up to the impenetrable darkness. “For that.”

  Nikandr realized it was true. He could feel their souls slipping toward the passage between worlds. Sariya was using their deaths to widen it.

  Borund pointed to one of the largest of the nearby warships, a ship that flew the black and orange of Bolgravya. “Quickly, Nischka, take me to them. Take me there, then go.”

  Nikandr nodded. The ships had to be made to flee. It was the only way to stop Sariya’s plans. He summoned the wind to bring their skiff toward the Bolgravyan ship. The streltsi there trained muskets on Nikandr—one of them even fired, the shot punching through the canvas over Nikandr’s head—but then Borund stood and waved at them. “Stand down!” he called. “Stand down! The Duke of Vostroma commands you!”

  And the men of Bolgravya did.

  Nikandr brought the skiff in until the crew could pull them in with ropes. When the skiff had been brought tight against the gunwales, Borund stepped across, and Soroush rose to do so as well. “I can do little on the island, son of Iaros. But here, I may be able to help.”

  “How?”

  “The men of Bolgravya,” Soroush replied. “They may not believe Borund, but they might believe me when I tell them that the Kohori, all of them, are willing to die this day. With luck, we will draw them all away. Now go.”

  Soroush stepped onto the ship’s deck and kicked the skiff away.

  Nikandr waved to Soroush. Soroush nodded in return and then was off, following Borund to speak with the kapitan of the ship.

  Nikandr summoned the wind and guided the skiff toward Sihyaan. The Kohori ships were moving quickly now. More were pressing in toward the windships of Anuskaya. Nikandr could feel them drawing upon their bonded spirits, working to keep the hezhan at bay, carefully drawing upon their powers while preventing them from entering this world.

  All it would take, though, was a tug, a pull, and in this Nikandr saw an opportunity. He drew those havahezhan toward Erahm. It felt as if a thread were running from him to the gathered spirits, and when they felt him tugging, they were drawn toward and into the material world.

  Two of them crossed, then three and four, each manifesting within one of the Kohori tree-ships. He could see them, twisting and swirling within the protected center. One of the Kohori raised his hands, trying to regain control, but he was drawn up through the branches and tossed to the wind. He flew down toward the sea as the hezhan slipped through bra
nches and twisted toward another of the floating ships.

  Nikandr had pushed too hard, though. He was having a fight of his own now. His havahezhan, perhaps emboldened by the crossings of the others, fought him, trying to reach Erahm itself.

  Nikandr pushed back desperately. He couldn’t allow the hezhan to cross. Not now.

  But then something caught Nikandr’s eye. The boughs and branches of one of the nearby tree-ships had unfurled, had spread wide, and the red-robed qiram within was staring straight at Nikandr. He was drawing on something, but Nikandr knew not what. Not until the skiff began to creak and tick. The wood dried and warped. It crumbled, just as Nikandr’s ship, the Gorovna, had when he’d first traveled to Ghayavand.

  And soon, the entire skiff was soft as dry-rotted timber, and Nikandr and Sayyed fell clean through the hull.

  Atiana tries desperately to hold the Matri in place. They strengthen one another, and in this Ishkyna is the strongest of them all—she touches each of them, after all, as much a part of the aether as its midnight-blue essence—but she is also the most vulnerable.

  Careful, sister, Atiana tells her. Do not spread yourself so thin.

  I know my business, Ishkyna replies. See you take care of yours.

  Ishkyna is strong, as are many of the other Matri, but soon more begin to slip toward the void. Iriketa Bolgravya, the daughter of the Duchess Alesya, is taken. And then Alesya, in trying to save her daughter, is swept up and lost as well.

  Suddenly Rosa Lhudansk cries out. Fear and desperation run through them all, but Rosa is voicing it for them. It is a grave mistake. To give voice to one’s fears is to be lost in the aether, especially here in so violent a place. She is soon lost, her mind drawn away until they can feel her no more.

  Atiana feels herself beginning to worry, and there lies danger. She cannot allow it—none of them can—or the aether will have them all.

  They are forced to draw away from the Atalayina. Only then are they able to gain some sense of stability. They all know it may be fleeting, but for now, it is enough.

  With the desperation gone, Atiana can sense what’s happening beyond the shores of Ghayavand. The men of Anuskaya are dying. Their souls are being lifted and are passing through the gap between worlds. They go to Adhiya, surely, as all souls do, but they’re also widening the gap above.

  Surely this is what Sariya wanted all along. But why? Atiana doesn’t understand.

  She knows that they must close it, however. The only question is how.

  The Atalayina is the key, of course. It is allowing Sariya to open the way to the heavens.

  Near the stone, Nasim is still held in place. But he is screaming. He’s looking around wildly—to the skies more often than not—and she knows he’s trying to tell them something.

  Hold, sisters. Hold a moment longer.

  And then she slips into the mind of the robed Kohori man who’s holding Nasim. The warrior from the desert fights her, but he is easy to overpower. He wasn’t expecting this and his mind is in rapture now that Sariya is so close to undoing the world.

  Through the man’s ears she can hear Nasim shouting among the crack of gunfire and the clash of swords.

  “You must keep the way open!” he cries.

  She releases Nasim, and he stumbles away. He looks back at her only for a moment. “Quickly, Matra,” he says. “Prepare your sisters. We need but little time, and you must give it to us!”

  And then he faces Sukharam and spreads his arms wide. As Atiana slips back into the aether, the other Kohori releases Sukharam—Ishkyna’s doing. Nasim gathers the currents of a havahezhan, which cast a blinding white against the aether’s midnight blue. The scent of burning mace and cloves comes strongly. She even sees the form of the wind spirit coalesce around Nasim. An instant later, a wind pushes both of the Kohori men away like leaves in the gales of autumn.

  For a moment she doesn’t understand what Nasim meant. Keep the way open. But she need only to look at the blackened hole in the clouds above and it all comes clear, or enough of it for her to understand Nasim’s intent. She’d been wrong. She and Nikandr and all the others—they’d been wrong about Sariya. She wasn’t trying to destroy the world. She was trying to save it. She can hardly believe what she and the other Matri are about to do, but it’s clear that it must be done.

  For a moment, she stares in wonder at Nasim. So much has this young man been through. Returning to the world by the hand of Khamal. Coming to his own mind with the help of Ashan and Nikandr. He’s hardly had the chance to live, and now comes this. She dearly hopes he is ready for what is to come.

  Go well, she wishes him, and then rejoins her sisters.

  When the Kohori men had been blown far down slope, Nasim lowered his hands. He turned to Sukharam, ready to ask him of Kaleh, if he’d felt her, but he stopped, for he sensed her nearby. There was fighting all around. Men firing muskets and pistols, more fighting with swords, but among them strode a young woman. She looked so much older than when he’d seen her only a few short weeks ago.

  Her hair was long and brown. It flowed in the fierce wind as she stepped lithely among the fighting men. She went untouched, as if she knew what they would do and when they would do it.

  In this moment, in this place, she was her mother’s child.

  Indeed, as she strode forward her eyes fixed on the Atalayina. Her look spoke of hunger, as though she would swallow it if she could. But she could not. They were each and every one of them caught up in the stone’s great pull.

  When at last she reached their side, she looked at Sukharam and then Nasim in turn. Her gaze felt weighty, as if she looked well beyond the years the three of them had lived. “My mother is trying to ascend.”

  Nasim nodded. Sukharam, however, seemed unsure of himself.

  “You know it to be true,” Kaleh said to both of them, “and you know she must succeed.” She paused. “And we must follow.”

  Sukharam glanced at Sariya, shaking his head. “Neh. We must stop her.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Nasim said, “and well you know it. The way has been opened, and now there is only one choice left to us.”

  Sukharam balked, his jaw grinding as he worked through the implications, but when he looked to Kaleh, he must have seen something within her, something that lent him courage, for his eyes softened and his breath released. “I’m scared,” he said.

  “As am I,” Kaleh said.

  “As am I,” Nasim said. And it was no lie. He had no idea what lay in store for them, for any of them, but he would do this, for though Sariya opened the way, though she was the first to cross, she could not be left on her own to rule the ways of the world.

  Together, they held hands—Kaleh between Nasim and Sukharam—and walked toward Sariya. Even in this cold place, Kaleh’s hand was warm.

  Through the eyes of Ushai, Sariya stared at them. “My children.”

  “We are not your children,” Kaleh says.

  “But you are,” Sariya replied. “You all are.”

  Nasim stepped toward her. Sariya looked ready to say something, perhaps to warn him away, but she must have seen something in Nasim’s eyes that gave her pause, for the words died on her lips.

  Nasim knew he could not have found the way to the heavens on his own. And neither, he suspected, could Sukharam or Kaleh. The three of them were powerful, but they had not the years of study and meditation that Sariya had, nor the intimate knowledge of the Atalayina and its inner workings. They needed her, but that didn’t mean they would leave her to her own devices. The three of them—he, Kaleh, and Sukharam—had been chosen, or perhaps they’d chosen their own way. Whatever the case, they would follow Sariya. It was the only way to ensure that the world would be cared for properly. The fate of the worlds could not be left to one and one alone. There had to be more, as surely the fates had wished.

  “Go, Sariya Quljan al Vehayeh, but know that when you do, you will not go alone.”

  Sariya’s face had been supremely confident mo
ments ago, but now that mask of confidence began to crack. Her brows pinched. She gazed upon the sheer blackness above, working Nasim’s words through her mind, working them against the plans she’d laid so meticulously these past many years.

  And then understanding came to her. Nasim knew, for her searching eyes went still. She went utterly rigid. She even began to shake. Sariya, shaken like a newborn foal.

  She pulled her gaze down and stared into Nasim’s eyes. Her lips trembled. She looked as though she were about to speak.

  And then her mortal shell—Ushai—collapsed in a heap.

  She was gone, and she hoped to leave them all behind. Already Nasim felt the way closing, but indeed, as he had bade them, the Matri fought to keep the way open. Nasim moved to the obsidian pillar where the Atalayina rested. Sukharam and Kaleh followed, for they knew as well as Nasim did that the way would not remain open for long. The stone glowed beautifully. It was so bright it felt as though it could swallow him in place of the blackness above. Together, they tried to ascend, as Sariya just had. They worked with one another, searching for the heavens above. They could feel it, tantalizingly close, but the moment they tried to ascend they knew that the way was too narrow. Sariya was working against them now from the other side.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Nikandr fell through the sky with bits of the skiff trailing above him. He called upon the wind to save him, but the hezhan was already too close. He couldn’t draw it closer without pulling it across.

  So he did.

  He abandoned himself. He gave himself completely to the hezhan.

  He felt it cross over, even as he plummeted downward. The rocks were below. The rocks and the frothing surf. But he accepted this. For once, he felt truly like a part of the world, a part of both worlds, and if this was his time to cross, then so be it.