The Straits of Galahesh loa-2

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  As a mixture of confusion and anger and-strangely-betrayal welled up inside her, Atiana shook her head. “You’re sending them to Vostroma.”

  “You asked what I hoped to do. After the tearing of the aether on Ghayavand, the wards that were put into place held for some time. But over the years they weakened. Rifts were formed elsewhere. They were small at first, but over time they grew and spread until the worlds themselves became threatened. Muqallad hopes to use that to his advantage.” Sariya held the stone out to Atiana. “And all he needs is this.”

  Atiana accepted the Atalayina, and when she did, it felt ten times heavier than it had moments ago.

  Sariya seemed to sense this, for she nodded to the stone. “If he can fuse this, the third piece, to the other two, he will be able to rip the aether asunder, a thing from which neither world would, I fear, ever recover. Eons would pass before we could begin anew.”

  “What does this have to do with bringing war to the islands?”

  “Not war, Atiana. I do no more than I need to.”

  “If not war, then what?”

  “I have come to learn what happened on Khalakovo five years ago. You and Nikandr healed the boy-he who was Khamal. When you did this, it also healed the rift, did it not?”

  Atiana merely stared, fearing to speak.

  “It was one of many rifts that were open at the time, which were but a few of the ones that have opened and closed since. If Muqallad is to succeed, he needs to find a place where using the Atalayina will cause the rest to open wide.”

  “That could only be Ghayavand,” Atiana said.

  “ Neh, the wards around the island are weakened, but they are still very much in place.”

  The answer, of course, was standing right before her.

  She stared out the window.

  At the Spar.

  She thought of the confluence of aether centered here at the straits. It was a place of concentrated power, so strong that for centuries neither the Matri nor the Grand Duchy’s windships had ever been able to cross it.

  “This may be the place he seeks,” Atiana said, “but that doesn’t answer the question. Why wage war against us?”

  “Because the pressure that has built up here at the straits must be relieved. It is not war, but a means to an end. Hakan watches for him-he will prevent Muqallad’s arrival if he can-but Muqallad needs but little. With only a few of his servants he can perform his ritual anywhere on the island. The only way to stop him is to relieve the pressure, as Nasim did on Oshtoyets.”

  “But how?”

  “The spires, Atiana Radieva. The spires of the Grand Duchy. They must fall.”

  Atiana swallowed, felt the world around her recede. “What?”

  “It has already begun. Three spires have been destroyed, and more will follow.”

  “But if more of them fall… The storms will worsen. It will cost more lives.”

  “It has, and it will, but it is worth it.”

  “We depend on those spires.”

  “That may be true, but it is just as true that they cannot be allowed to remain standing. If you would save lives, I would ask you to take the dark, speak with your Matri. Tell them to agree to destroy the spires before we are forced to do it ourselves.”

  “I cannot do that.”

  “You are a daughter of the islands.” Sariya spoke these words like an accusation. “If you care for them at all, you will do this.”

  Before Atiana could react, Sariya snatched the Atalayina from her hand. Atiana tried to take it back, but Sariya drew her hand away, her eyes fierce. Atiana grabbed her wrist, but cried out and pulled away immediately. Sariya’s wrist had become as hot as a glowing brand.

  “Go, Atiana,” Sariya said. “Think on this carefully. Return to me if you change your mind, but make no mistake, one way or another, I will see them fall. Better that it be orderly, don’t you think, than to see so many die?”

  Atiana turned at the sound of the bootsteps upon the nearby stairs. Two guardsmen stood there, ready to lead her from the room. Before she left, Atiana looked back and saw Sariya staring out the window at the wagons moving steadily southward.

  As the guards led her down the tower stairs, Atiana’s emotions began to cool, and she found herself surprised not at what had happened but that she was seriously considering Sariya’s offer. By the time she had gone three levels down, she’d made up her mind.

  She stopped. The guards did not seem surprised. In fact, they parted easily as she took one hesitant step after another back up toward the top of the tower. It felt like a betrayal, walking back up those stairs, but she knew Sariya wasn’t lying-she’d felt it when they’d shared one mind-and she forced herself to continue, step after confusing step.

  When she once again stood on the topmost level of the tower, Sariya turned from the window to regard her. She did not revel in Atiana’s return, nor did she seem expectant. She merely waited for Atiana to speak.

  “I will do it,” Atiana said. “I will speak with the Matri, but I require help.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  W hen Nasim woke from his dream, it was to the feeling of warm tears streaming down his own face.

  Strong were the sounds of the surf. Strong was the scent of the sea. Stronger still were the memories of Alif, the boy Khamal had murdered to secure his release from the island. Khamal had murdered him, and now his soul was gone. Lost to the world. Khamal had not only made it possible by turning him into akhoz, he’d been the one to drive home the blade.

  It made Nasim sick to his stomach.

  How many had Khamal sent to this undeserving fate? Dozens, certainly-dozens of children taken by Khamal in order to protect Ghayavand, to prevent the rift from spreading.

  What made Nasim’s fingers shake was the fact that Khamal had sacrificed more than just Alif. He’d bled his own soul, and in doing so he’d bled Nasim’s as well. He’d taken all that Nasim could one day have been with the simple thrust of a knife.

  “Nasim?”

  He looked up, startled.

  Kaleh was kneeling near his head, as she’d been when he’d begun to dream-

  If only it had been a dream. It was a memory-a memory he knew to be all too real.

  In Kaleh’s blue eyes-her mother’s eyes-was concern, but there was hunger as well, hunger for the knowledge he’d gained. Surely she’d seen what he’d seen-her look was too knowing for it to be otherwise-but she didn’t know everything. She didn’t understand.

  Her face turned sad and apologetic. She shifted until she was kneeling by his side and pulled him into an embrace. The simple gesture spoke of apology, of asking him for something he wasn’t yet ready to give. For a time they simply held one another, but Nasim began to feel smothered-not by her, but by this place, and the village around it.

  “Come,” he said, taking her hand.

  He led her out from the arboretum and together they walked for a time.

  The wind was unnaturally strong. It made the hems of their robes snap. It pushed them as they walked.

  Nasim thought he was leading her aimlessly through Mirashadal, but he soon realized he was taking a familiar path. They wound through the bulk of the village proper and came eventually to the ballast, the long spire of wood that dropped down from the upper portion of the village. Around the ballast was a railed walking path that wound its way lower and lower until at last they came to a platform-the lowest place in the entire village. He used to come here and put his head out over the edge of the platform. He would sit there for hours at a time, wondering what would happen if he simply leapt. Would Erahm save him? Would Adhiya?

  Many times he had slipped over to the other side of the railing and leaned out over open air. A simple slip of his hands was all it would have taken, and all the confusion and madness and pain and even ecstasy he’d experienced in Oshtoyets as he’d swallowed the stones would have been gone. Back then, all he’d wanted was a moment of peace. He had thought death would deliver him to his next life, and he’d begin
again, perhaps poorer for resorting to taking his own life but at least free to begin again without the curse that Khamal had laid upon him.

  Dropping Kaleh’s hand, he sat on the planks, putting his legs out between the railing. Kaleh did the same, and for a short while it felt as though they were simply two children, sitting and measuring the wind.

  “I wonder why I cannot touch Adhiya,” Nasim said.

  “Because you prevent yourself from doing so.”

  “If that’s so, how is it that I can manipulate others?”

  “You were lost as a child, Nasim. You floundered in the sea. Is it any wonder you grabbed for that which might save you? Is it any wonder you would do the same after you woke?”

  In the distance, lightning arced within black clouds, lighting them from within. Long seconds later, the thunder came, rumbling and ominous.

  “Khamal bled himself,” Nasim said to her, hoping more than anything that she would be able to help unravel this mystery.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He cut his wrist. He fed his blood to one of the akhoz. It bled from him his power. It bled from him his soul.” The lightning arced again, longer, brighter. “He bled mine as well.”

  “You hadn’t even been born,” Kaleh said.

  “He took it just the same. He and I are connected. We’re practically one, and he sacrificed our most precious gift so that he could return unfettered by the bonds the survivors of the sundering had placed on him.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Nasim, unwilling to share so much, listened to the wind. A gull called, flying up from below the village to fight the gusts and land on a ledge above them.

  “I don’t blame you for keeping it to yourself,” Kaleh said. “I know what it’s like to hide secrets. The Landed man, Nikandr Khalakovo. I lied to him. I lied to Soroush as well. I led them to my father.”

  “Why?” Nasim asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  Nasim looked over, realizing that she was crying. Tears slipped along her cheeks and fell upon her robes.

  “I suppose it doesn’t,” Nasim answered, returning his attention to the horizon. “Did you know that Muqallad cast a spell over Khamal?”

  “ Neh, I did not.”

  “It’s the reason I couldn’t return fully to Erahm, the reason I was caught between worlds. When Muqallad and Sariya conspired to murder him on top of Sariya’s tower, Muqallad drew upon Khamal, preventing me from being born fully. And so, while I know that Khamal wished to heal the rift, I don’t know how he meant me to do it.”

  The dark clouds were closer. A cold sleet began to fall, the sound like rashers in a frying pan.

  “Isn’t that what we all struggle with?”

  “What?”

  “Our purpose.”

  “That may be true, but most people have free will.”

  She stood and kissed the top of his head. “You have more choices than you realize, Nasim.”

  She took to the stairs, leaving him alone at the bottom of the village. Somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to rise, so he sat there and let the sleet bite him.

  When he was sure Kaleh could no longer see him, he stood and stepped over the railing as he’d done so many times before. He leaned out, wondering if the fates would cause his hands to slip on the slick wood. Below, the sea churned. If he fell, he would fall to his death-there would be no one to save him-and unlike those early days on Mirashadal, he knew now that he would not return. Death would not be a release. It would not lead to a new life. It would not be a beginning, but an end.

  As his breath flew white upon the wind, he felt as if he were the world itself. It, too, would one day cease to exist, and he wondered whether Muqallad’s plans would bring that about. He wasn’t even sure it would be a bad thing. After eons, perhaps the fates thought it time to slumber at last.

  Nasim’s grip tightened when someone spoke behind him.

  “Will you jump?” It was Ashan’s voice, and in it were notes of both forced amusement and hidden concern.

  “I don’t know,” Nasim replied.

  Ashan approached, his soft leather boots crunching over the sleet-covered platform. “It would be a shame. We haven’t had much chance to talk.”

  Nasim didn’t know what to say, so he remained silent.

  “I would like to work with you tomorrow.”

  “To do what?”

  “To heal you. I’ve spoken to Fahroz, and she believes we might be able to do it.” He said it so plainly, but the words held power, like thunder felt in one’s chest.

  Nasim’s grip began to loosen despite himself. He swung himself back over the railing and looked at Ashan, looked at his kind face, wondering if he could believe him. “How?”

  “Through Sukharam. You may not know it, but you chose wisely, Nasim. Very wisely.”

  The following day, Nasim headed toward the center of Mirashadal. At the wooden tower that stood there, women stood on the platform, not men. He didn’t understand the need to change, but he trusted that it was necessary.

  When he entered through doors at the base of the tower, he found an empty room. Thick, wavy windows were set into the wood, allowing in the yellow light of the morning sun.

  The only other person in the room was Sukharam. He looked over Nasim’s shoulder, perhaps wondering who else might have come. He seemed uncomfortable being left alone with Nasim, but then his face hardened.

  He’d changed… This was no longer the boy he’d found in Trevitze. That boy had been young and impressionable. He’d been a mere shadow of what he might become. This young man standing before Nasim was confident and brash. His back was straight, and he stared into Nasim’s eyes with a look bordering on defiance, a look that said he would no longer be used.

  Nasim didn’t blame him. He’d enticed Sukharam and Rabiah with promises of greatness, promises of saving the world. And what had he given them? He’d given them pain. He’d given them death. He was utterly undeserving of their trust.

  But he needed it now. He needed it desperately.

  “Rabiah died because of you,” Sukharam said. “We all could have died because of you.”

  “You’re right,” Nasim replied, “though I told you there was danger involved.”

  “You also said you’d be there for us.”

  Sukharam’s eyes were filled with so much hate. Nasim didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? Sukharam was right. He had abandoned them on Ghayavand. No matter how he might try to fool himself, he had abandoned them.

  He was saved from responding when Ashan stepped inside the room. He knew there was tension, for his gaze darted between them, but then he merely smiled his toothy smile and said, “Come.”

  “Where’s Fahroz?” Nasim asked.

  “Kaleh asked to speak with her. But it’s better that it’s just the three of us in any case.”

  He led them outside and down through the warrens of Mirashadal. The sky was overcast, the wind bone-chilling. Nasim knew the village well, but after a while he realized he no longer recognized the path they were taking. They wended their way down a long and winding walk to a massive, open space. Nasim’s mouth fell slack. It was like walking into a yawning cavern. The structure of the village surrounded them on all sides, but it was ingenious enough that wind and light flowed through the space. It was not so different from the feeling of hiding within a thicket-difficult to see into, not so difficult to see out. In all his months here, he’d never found this space. He marveled at it. It lifted him, made his heart open wide.

  “Sit,” Ashan said.

  Nasim did, choosing a spot such that he and Sukharam could kneel in the center of this grand place. “What are we to do?”

  “You will allow him to enter.” Ashan moved until he was standing behind Sukharam. “Open yourself to the world, Nasim. And open yourself to Sukharam. He will do the rest.”

  Sukharam seemed uncomfortable, but he placed his hands gently upon his knees. His eyes were still full of anger, but
he composed himself. He breathed, his chest becoming full. After three measured breaths, three measured exhalations, he lifted his gaze to look on Nasim once more.

  The transformation was complete. He was calm. His eyes were gracious. His expression forgiving. He had many of the qualities that Nasim found so endearing in Ashan.

  Had Ashan done this in only a mere handful of days with Sukharam?

  Neh, Nasim realized. This was the real Sukharam. This was the Sukharam he should have seen long ago.

  Knowing it was time, feeling it in his bones, Nasim closed his eyes, allowed himself to take breaths that filled him with the brightness of day.

  He found no peace-thoughts of Rabiah kept invading his mind-but he somehow forged a cool and calm accord with the world, something he’d never managed to do before.

  This, he thought, was the way Ashan must feel all the time. If only he could become so wise.

  He felt a soft touch upon his shoulders. “Go further,” Ashan said.

  And with that touch he did. He realized that his constantly moving mind had prevented him from feeling Sukharam. He felt him now, felt his presence, felt his calmed thoughts and the doubts that stood behind them.

  And then something strange happened.

  The two of them settled into a rhythm. Their breathing began to match one another. Their thoughts faded until they were little more than one being, present in this place and time.

  All as the wind whispered through the boughs of Mirashadal.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  N asim feels Sukharam’s lives, not only those from his past, but his future as well. They do not come and then go like dreams half remembered; they build upon one another-dozens of lives, their memories and loves and regrets falling like leaves upon the forest floor.