The Straits of Galahesh loa-2

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “That’s madness!”

  “It was dangerous, true, but Father needed leverage should things go sour with the Kamarisi. We know he arrived on the southeastern shores of Yrstanla. He was headed north, but the winds were rough and getting rougher. I wasn’t able to find him again before the first of the spires were felled, and now… Now it’s impossible.”

  Nikandr leaned back, making his chair creak. In the fireplace, a log crumbled, the embers releasing sparks into the air. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Do you believe the words of the kapitan from Yrstanla?”

  He nodded carefully. “I do.”

  “Do you believe Andreya is right in keeping you here?”

  Nikandr glanced over to his father. This was treasonous talk. He hadn’t agreed to join Andreya-not yet, anyway-but Mileva certainly had.

  “You don’t have to answer,” Mileva continued, “but you could use Grigory’s ships. You could find the men you need to destroy the Spar, and Konstantin might have his brother back.”

  “And you your sisters and father.”

  “The Grand Duchy needs them, Nischka. You can’t deny it.”

  “I need no incentive to find them.”

  “And yet Andreya’s words hold you back.”

  “They make sense.”

  Mileva stared at him. One moment the firelight was playing against her porcelain skin, and the next she was standing in a rush, as if she found this conversation suddenly distasteful.

  “The Yarost is the first ship on the third quay of the eyrie.” She turned and strode toward the door. “It will be empty and unguarded, but only this one night. And I will be in the drowning basin.” She opened the door, pausing for one brief moment on her way out. “Choose wisely, Nikandr, and quickly.”

  And then she was gone, leaving Nikandr alone with his thoughts.

  He sat alone, wondering how wise this could be. The ships of Yrstanla would return soon. They could not give the Grand Duchy too much time to recover, and the wind, though still strong and unpredictable, was beginning to subside, at least enough that stout ships of war could be put to sail. In a day, perhaps two, they would return, and Nikandr didn’t want to be missing when that happened. As Andreya had said, they could focus on Galahesh after the battle.

  “Nikandr.”

  Nikandr turned, realizing the softly spoken name had come from his father. He moved to the bedside and took his father’s hand in his.

  “I’m here, Father.”

  “Go,” Father said.

  “Go where?” Nikandr had spoken the words before he realized that his father had heard everything that he and Mileva had talked about.

  Father coughed and turned his head, though even this simple act seemed to pain him. “Go. Find Grigory. Find the others if you can, but at all costs destroy the Spar.”

  The moon was a sliver in the nighttime sky, giving Nikandr and the others plenty of cover as they slipped quietly from the halls of Galostina and into the frigid air. A dozen, they numbered: he and Anahid, Styophan and nine of his best men. Nikandr felt his hezhan and called upon it to still the winds as the men unlashed the lone skiff from the ship they’d flown in early that morning. Was it truly the same day? It felt like he’d been here for a week.

  As they filed in and released the mooring ropes, Nikandr watched the palotza carefully, particularly the doors and the towers along the curtain wall that protected Galostina everywhere except at the eyrie, where the protection was a sheer drop of hundreds of feet to the valley floor.

  He saw no one. Relief began to fill him as they dropped below the level of the eyrie, but when they began to rise and fly toward the mountain, he could see clearly a doorway of the palotza and within it, framed by the faint light coming from within, the silhouette of a man. They were too far away for him to have any idea of who it might be, but a moment later, the door closed, leaving the palotza in darkness save for the handful of lantern-lit windows.

  “Who was it?” Styophan asked.

  “Who can say? But best we put the wind beneath our sails as quick as may be.” And so they did. As the wind blew fiercely-tossing the ship about-Nikandr drew upon his hezhan as he’d rarely done before, partially to combat the winds but also to hasten them toward the eyrie. He felt it in his gut, in his chest, the hezhan hungering, feeding off of him. He coughed, stifling the discomfort. They needed this speed.

  They reached it before fifteen minutes had passed, but it still felt too long. A swift pony could have reached the eyrie by now.

  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

  A tiana 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 pallets.

  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.