She wanders to the wing the men from Yrstanla have been given. Mother declared them off-limits-they have ways of telling if they’re being spied upon, she said-but she doesn’t care. Whether it was her decision or not, she would see what sort of man he is.
As she draws closer to his room-the walls only subtly visible in the darkness of the aether-she finds him awake. He sits at a desk, a quill in his hand, but he isn’t writing, at least not at the moment. He merely taps the quill against the paper, over and over again, in a distinct rhythm, as if a concerto is playing absently in his mind.
She comes closer and reads not the flowing script of Yrstanla, but of Anuskaya. As the words register, she becomes cold-more chill than the drowning basin could ever make her.
How many nights must I wait? the words on the paper said. Come, Atiana. We must speak.
Before the words can sink in, Atiana senses another Matra nearby. She recognizes the presence immediately as Saphia. Atiana isn’t sure how long Saphia has been here, but there can be no doubt she’s read the note as well.
Atiana reaches out, strengthens their bond. Saphia could stop it at any time, but she allows it. As much as Atiana has grown over these years, Saphia has grown stronger. She was the strongest of the Matri already, but her time in the lake deep in the village of Iramanshah has somehow tempered her even further. At times, her powers seem to dwarf Atiana’s. And yet, as strong as her mind is, her body has grown frail. Just as Atiana can faintly feel her own body in the drowning chamber of Galostina, she can feel Saphia’s in the lake of Iramanshah. She is thin, weak, barely able to remain awake when she allows herself to leave the cold depths of the water.
A beautiful man, is Bahett, Saphia says.
You should not have come, Atiana replies. The others may sense you.
So you always say, but they have not once sensed me, not when I’ve meant them to look past. They are ham-fisted children, Atiana, and it’s best you come to realize that. Now come. There is something else you must see.
Atiana feels a pull on her soul. She is drawn away from Galostina, away from Kiravashya, away from Vostroma. She is pulled northward toward Galahesh. She had seen the city from the aether only once before, years ago, and only at the behest of her mother. She did not stay long because it was difficult then, but now, she is at relative ease.
There is danger, however. The aether swirls here, and the closer she comes to the straits that run through the center of the island, the more difficult it becomes, until at last she can go no further.
Yet still Saphia pulls, draws her closer. The hidden currents draw her thin, like smoke upon a growing breeze. She feels more and more of the Sea of Tabriz to the east, and the Sea of Khurkhan to the west. They are vast and deep and full of life. She knows that she’s being drawn too far, but there’s little she can do to prevent it. The aether and the storm that centers upon Galahesh have taken her.
Saphia!
She hears nothing. She feels instead the currents of the waters, the leagues that lie below. Feels the crust of the earth where it meets the impossibly dark depths. Feels the confluence as it struggles against Galahesh and the walls that stand high above the straits.
Saphia!
Slowly she feels herself drawn away from the edge. She is pulled inward, and it feels as though she is giving up a part of what she might be by doing this. The call of the aether is strong, especially when one has been drawn so wide and far.
Control yourself, child.
The borders of Galahesh enter her consciousness. She holds onto this like a piece of flotsam in the sea, and finally, at last, she is able to focus herself without the supporting hand of Saphia.
Thankfully, Atiana recovers faster than she would have guessed. I am no child.
There comes a laugh, an echo of the Saphia she once knew. Perhaps you are not. Saphia guides her attention toward Baressa, the massive city that sits along the southern edge of the straits at the center of the long island. It is much stronger than it has ever been. The whorls and eddies prevent me from approaching the city for more than a few minutes at a time, and even then it is difficult.
They have always been treacherous.
They have, but it has changed. It has become more dangerous. The cycle of the aether’s tides have become erratic and unpredictable.
Why are you telling me this?
That laugh came again. Your marriage to Bahett was surely arranged by the ancients.
What do you mean?
We must understand what is happening in the dark. Arrangements have been made with Bahett for a drowning chamber in the city, though he refuses to tell us why. It is the reason, I suspect, he has written you his note. Go to him when you wake. See what it is he wishes, but by no means are you to deny him. You must reach the island, Atiana, and you must find out more.
Many times in the past several years, Atiana had felt the weight of the islands bearing down on her, but never as much as it does now. Word has come that Yrstanla, for whatever reason, has rekindled its interest in the east. It is surely why his envoy, Siha s, has been sent when normally the Kaymakam of Galahesh alone would treat with the Grand Duchy. There is also the blight, which has lessened on Khalakovo and Rhavanki, but has grown worse on Vostroma and Nodhvyansk and Bolgravya. Atiana’s father spreads the wealth of the duchies as well as he can, and he treats with the Empire to make up the rest, but it is always too little. The widespread hunger sparked riots all across the islands at different times of the year, and rumors of revolution are heard more and more among the streets of every city in the Grand Duchy. Some of the more fortunate islands, like Mirkotsk and Lhudansk, have even spoken of ceding from the Anuskaya, acts that would spell complete ruin whether they succeeded in their attempts or not.
And now there is this. The disturbances of the aether.
Would it spread? Would it move through the islands, preventing them from communicating with one another? Such a thing might lead to a slower death, but it would be every bit as disastrous as revolution.
There is no choice in whether she will go to Galahesh or not, nor is there a choice in following through on her marriage with Bahett. There never was. They were simply too desperate to demand anything of Galahesh, or her mother, Yrstanla.
I will go to him, she tells Saphia, and I will go to Galahesh. We will discover what is happening, and we will survive, as we always have.
I hope you’re right, child. I hope you’re right.
This time, Atiana doesn’t complain about being called a child.
Bradley P. Beaulieu
The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya
CHAPTER SEVEN
N asim trudged along a mountain plateau. The sky was blue, the wind bitter, and the snow deep beneath his feet. To his right, behind him, stood the towering bulk of Nolokosta, the highest peak in the entire Sitalyan range.
He had wrapped his scarf around his head in such a way that he could see only through a narrow gap. It was necessary with the sun glaring down so strongly against the white snow. Had he decided on a shorter hike, he wouldn’t have bothered, but he’d been gone for nearly a day, hiking to the top of Nolokosta the night before and watching the sunrise this morning. Without the scarf, he’d already be blinded by the snow.
He’d brought Rabiah and Sukharam here first and foremost to escape the attentions of Ushai, but he’d also come because this was a place they could rest. He needed to prepare Sukharam. He needed to prepare himself. He needed to breathe before beginning their journey toward Ghayavand and all that entailed.
His trek took him through a shallow vale and toward a ridge that would bring him to the place where he’d left the others, a saddle between two long valleys. He was weary, not because the climb was difficult, but because the snow was fresh and soft as twice-ground flour. He wore the wide, wicker-laced snowshoes he’d bought in Trevitze before leaving. Even though it was slow going, the simple exertion and the connection to his body felt wonderful. He’d been fixated for so long
on finding first Rabiah and then Sukharam that he’d hardly rested more than a handful of days since leaving Mirashadal three years ago.
At last he crested the ridge and began hiking down toward their camp, such as it was. Their skiff was still nestled in a gentle fold of land where they’d set it down a week before. The white snow and black granite made it look like the windship was being cradled by a white-robed woman in repose. It was Rabiah who’d noticed it on their approach, and Nasim had thought it a fortuitous sign-the land itself was seeking to protect them-and so, after a quick flight to ensure no village or outpost was near, they’d landed and begun their preparations for Ghayavand.
Rabiah was sitting cross-legged on a snow bank beyond the skiff. Her hands were on her knees, and though she was facing away from him-toward the stunning green slopes of the eastern valley-he was sure her eyes were closed and her breathing was measured. Nasim admired her ability to do this. Taking breath. It was what he’d tried to do on top of the mountain, but as always, he’d found himself unable to calm his mind, unable to find the peace that so many Aramahn managed to find in such places. It had been so ever since he’d come to himself in Oshtoyets. Even in the idyllic meditation spaces of Mirashadal, Nasim had been unable to find peace. Perhaps it had something to do with the stone he’d swallowed-Nikandr’s soulstone-but he could feel no other effects, nor could he sense the stone itself, so he wrote it off as another ill effect of the fractured nature of his life-of his self — since being reborn.
Sukharam stood on an outcropping of black stone far from the skiff. His arms were wide. His face was turned up toward the sky. It was a pose Nasim had taught him before leaving, and Sukharam had excelled not only at this simple pose, but in the bonding of spirits. It was amazing how quickly he was able to reach them, to draw them near.
When Nasim had asked him about it, Sukharam had said that the last time he’d attempted to do so was when he was eight, when he was still traveling with his father, but he’d admitted to having little success then. Here on the mountain, he’d taken to it so quickly, not just with spirits of the wind but with all the hezhan, that Nasim wondered if he’d been lying-perhaps he’d stolen chances to touch the spirits during his time under the yoke of the orphanage. But Nasim soon thought better of his mistrust, attributing Sukharam’s abilities instead to the incredible potential within him that had surely blossomed as he’d grown older.
After they’d landed, he’d taught Sukharam for five days, and then, judging it enough for Sukharam to learn on his own, to simply absorb for a time, Nasim had left him with Rabiah.
Nasim slowed his pace while watching carefully. A fine dusting of snow lifted and funneled around Sukharam. A surge of pride welled up inside Nasim. Sukharam did not wave his hands to guide the snow, as some Aramahn did. Instead, he urged, and allowed the hezhan to do the rest, as was proper.
The closer Nasim came, the more he was able to feel Sukharam’s connection to Adhiya, and he was surprised to find that it wasn’t a spirit of wind Sukharam was communing with, but a jalahezhan, a spirit of water.
By the fates, he learned quickly…
The jalahezhan were difficult spirits to control. They were fluid, mercurial, sometimes capricious spirits. But here stood Sukharam, coaxing one to lift the snow from the ground as if it were merely the wind, and he was doing it so deftly that Nasim could barely tell the difference.
When Sukharam noticed Nasim approaching, the swirling snow spun away and fell in a swath along the finger of black rock he stood upon. He glanced behind him at the scattered snow, and then turned back to Nasim as if he’d been caught stealing honey from the pot. He stared at the ground, refusing to meet Nasim’s gaze.
Sukharam was embarrassed for some reason, but Nasim was more pleased than he could express. “Sukharam, look at me.”
He did.
“Try again,” Nasim said, “but this time, bind water and earth.”
Sukharam took in the landscape anew. His eyebrows pinched in concern. “Communing with only one spirit is difficult for me, kuadim.”
“There’s a time and place for humility, Sukharam, but it isn’t now, and it isn’t here.” Nasim began unwrapping the scarf around his face. He squinted from the sudden brightness. “Earth and water are sympathetic. They won’t wish to bond with one another, but you must act as the arbitrator. You must coax them.”
“Coax?”
Nasim smiled. “Make them see reason.”
“Forgive me, kuadim, but they aren’t children.”
Nasim opened his thick outer robe, allowing the chill mountain wind to cool the overheated skin of his chest. “I know, but they’re self-centered just the same. They must be made aware of one another, which is difficult, but once they are they will cooperate.”
Sukharam seemed doubtful. He flexed his hands while considering the granite beneath him. He licked his lips, and he tried.
No sooner had he closed his eyes than Nasim could feel the drawing of a jalahezhan, no doubt the same one he’d communed with moments ago. He tried to draw a vanahezhan as well, but the one nearest was rigid, uninterested.
Through Rabiah, Nasim had found that he could not only control spirits through others, he could draw them near as well, so that Rabiah, or now, Sukharam, could commune with them. He did this now, hoping only to draw the vanahezhan’s eye so that Sukharam could do the rest.
Deep below the surface of the earth, he felt a rumbling. The earth shook. The stones near his feet skittered. Nearby, a snowbank, twenty feet high if it was one, collapsed, revealing a long swath of an escarpment that was striated with layers the color of bistre and coal. Rubble fell away, but the clumps of stone and rubble were caught by a sudden uplift of snow. Soon the rock and snow and ice were swirling, but unlike the funnel Sukharam had created moments ago, these swirled in a tight column.
The column pulled tighter and tighter, slowing, compressing, glinting beneath the sun, until at last it came to rest. It looked like a monolith of rock and crystal, but Nasim could tell that it was held by the two hezhan, which were now entwined so inextricably that he had difficulty telling them apart.
But then a crack rent the air.
The earth bulged at the base of the pillar.
Nasim could feel the vanahezhan, closer than he had felt any spirit since Oshtoyets, when five elders had been drawn by Soroush into the material world.
He tried to prevent the vanahezhan from approaching, but it shrugged him away.
Sukharam had overextended. He’d allowed the spirit too close, and now it had seized him.
Nasim began to run toward Sukharam. “Fight it!”
The vanahezhan was crossing.
“Sukharam,” Nasim cried, “fight it!”
The pillar of rock and ice crumbled as the ground continued to rise. A low rumbling, like the opening of an ancient and massive door, emanated from the mound that was pulling itself upright. The hezhan unfurled its four arms, piercing sounds of snapping and cracking rending the calm of the snow-filled landscape.
The vanahezhan took one lumbering step forward. It was ungainly. It looked as though it would topple and fall and break apart, but it didn’t. It took another step as Nasim reached Sukharam. As soon as Nasim had grabbed him by the elbow, however, Sukharam crumpled to the ground, unconscious, as the pounding of the vanahezhan’s monolithic feet brought it nearer and nearer.
Nasim faced the hezhan, knowing he would never get Sukharam away in time. Sukharam was unconscious, which left Nasim unable to touch Adhiya. But the hezhan itself had a connection to the spirit world. He used this to push the hezhan away, push it back toward the rift that had allowed it to slip into Erahm. The vanahezhan would not be moved, however. It stood resolute, immovable.
Until Rabiah joined him. He couldn’t see her-he could see nothing but the hulking beast standing before him-but her imprint was unmistakable. Together they pushed, harder and more desperate, as the hezhan took another ungainly step toward Nasim.
It spread its arms, groaning, it
s eyes twinkling in the dark depths of its head.
But its hold on the material world was not so sure as it had thought. Rabiah and Nasim drove it slowly but surely toward the rift.
Then, without warning, it fell to pieces in a rush of crumbling stone as if it had been rotting from within for eons and had just now succumbed to the pressures of time.
Rabiah closed the rift-at least as much as she was able-and soon, the only thing Nasim could hear on the mountainside was the huff of his own breathing. As he stared at the mound of stone, gouts of his exhaled breath were swept away by the mountain air. Rabiah was transfixed, both of them afraid for a moment to move.
Rabiah was the first to recover. “Nasim, we must go.”
Nasim barely heard her. By the fates above, he had nearly killed Sukharam by pushing him to do something he wasn’t ready for.
“Nasim, we must go!”
Nasim looked to Rabiah, then Sukharam. “He’s in no condition-”
“There’s a skiff approaching.” She glanced over her right shoulder, southeast toward Trevitze. “It’s Ushai. I sensed her while I was taking breath. She’s leagues away still, but she’s coming fast.”
“How could she have found us?” Nasim asked.
Rabiah shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Nasim glanced in the same direction as Rabiah had, expecting to see Ushai sweeping in at any moment. Where would they go now? And how by the name of the fates would they throw Ushai off their scent? She was altogether too good at finding them. Desperation started to rise within him like the swelling sea, but then he came to a decision, one he probably should have made before now.
“Get the skiff ready,” he said.
The Straits of Galahesh loa-2 Page 6