PRAISE FOR THE STRAITS OF GALAHESH
“Reading Bradley P. Beaulieu’s The Lays of Anuskaya series is like traveling through grand undiscovered country, being in a place that is familiar enough to understand and different enough to amaze. […] The Straits of Galahesh continues the breakneck pace of a fight for an entire world, touched by passion, love, and loyalty. As a reader, almost every chapter added to my sense of wonder and realization. I can’t recommend this fabulous fantasy series highly enough. Read it.”
—Brenda Cooper, author of Wings of Creation and Mayan December
“With The Straits of Galahesh, Beaulieu returns to the vibrant fantasy he introduced in The Winds of Khalakovo. A gritty book packed with big ideas and Byzantine politics, and inhabited by compellingly flawed heroes, Straits is the sort of fully realized epic one can sink into for days. It sings with action, magic, and heart—the perfect second act in a brilliant series.”
—Rob Ziegler, author of Seed
“The right combination of complex worldbuilding, compelling characters and supremely confident storytelling combine to produce this superb sequel to The Winds of Khalakovo...an exceptional series. Whether you’re a novice or a grizzled veteran of epic fantasy, you’re in for a wild, exhilarating ride.”
—Gregory A. Wilson, author of The Third Sign
PRAISE FOR THE WINDS OF KHALAKOVO
“Sailing ships of the sky! Bradley P. Beaulieu’s The Winds of Khalakovo is an energetic, swashbuckling novel with a distinctive flavor, a lush setting, and a plot filled with adventure, interesting characters, and intrigue. Exactly the kind of fantasy I like to read.”
—Kevin J. Anderson, New York Times bestselling author
of The Saga of Seven Suns
“Overlaid with the rich feel of Cyrillic culture, Beaulieu’s debut introduces a fascinating world of archipelagic realms and shamanic magic worked primarily by women. Verdict: Strong characters and a plot filled with tension and difficult choices make this a good option for fantasy fans.”
—Library Journal
“Elegantly crafted, refreshingly creative, TWOK offers a compelling tale of men and women fighting to protect their world. Politics, faith, betrayal, sacrifice, and of course supernatural mystery—it’s all there, seamlessly combined in a tale driven by intelligent and passionate characters whose relationships and goals a reader can really care about. A great read!”
—C. S. Friedman, bestselling author of the
Coldfire and Magister trilogies
“…a page-turner with twists, turns and palpable danger…”
—Paul Genesse, author of The Golden Cord
“In The Winds of Khalakovo Beaulieu navigates through a web of complex characters… dukes, duchesses, lovers, and more, while building a rich and intricate world thick with intrigue. He plots the course of Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo, a prince laden with disease and courtly responsibilities, and deftly brings the tale to a satisfying end that leaves the reader hungry for the next installment. Beaulieu is a writer that bears watching. I look forward to his next novel.”
—Jean Rabe, USA Today bestselling fantasy author
“Bradley P. Beaulieu is a welcome addition to the roster of new fantasy novelists. The Winds of Khalakovo is a sharp and original fantasy full of action, intrigue, romance, politics, mystery and magick, tons of magick. The boldly imagined new world and sharply drawn characters will pull you into The Winds of Khalakovo and won’t let you go until the last page.”
—Michael A. Stackpole, author of I, Jedi
and At the Queen’s Command
THE STRAITS OF
GALAHESH
THE STRAITS OF
GALAHESH
BOOK TWO OF THE LAYS OF ANUSKAYA
BRADLEY P. BEAULIEU
NIGHT SHADE BOOKS
SAN FRANCISCO
The Straits of Galahesh © 2012 by Bradley P. Beaulieu
This edition of The Straits of Galahesh
© 2012 by Night Shade Books
Cover art by Todd Lockwood
Cover design by Claudia Noble
Interior layout and design by Amy Popovich
Maps by William McAusland
Author photo by Joanne M. Beaulieu
Edited by Ross E. Lockhart
All rights reserved
First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-59780-350-2
Night Shade Books
Please visit us on the web at
http://www.nightshadebooks.com
This one is for Relaneve, my star, my bright and beautiful child.
May you one day know the kind of love I hold for you.
A SUMMARY OF THE WINDS OF KHALAKOVO,
BOOK ONE OF THE LAYS OF ANUSKAYA
As the story opens, the islands of the Grand Duchy are under siege from a blight to their crops and a deadly wasting disease that strikes royalty and peasants alike. A prince of the islands, Nikandr Khalakovo, is set to be married to Atiana Vostroma, a princess from a neighboring Duchy. A pall is cast against the nuptials, however, when a fire spirit attacks and murders the Grand Duke.
The gathered royalty demand justice, and Nikandr is sent to investigate. All signs point to a young autistic savant named Nasim, and it is this boy’s mysterious past that Nikandr becomes entangled with. Nikandr believes Nasim is not to blame for the attack. He believes instead that he was used as a tool by the Maharraht, a ruthless sect of the peace-loving Aramahn that want nothing less than the destruction of the Grand Duchy. As escalations rise over the murder of the Grand Duke, Nikandr and Nasim escape to the island of Ghayavand, a place that holds many secrets from Nasim’s past.
Meanwhile, Atiana is pressed into service as a Matra, a woman who submerges herself in ice-cold water and enters the astral realm of the aether, where she can project herself to tend to the defense of the Grand Duchy and to communicate with other Matri. While doing so, Atiana comes face to face with Rehada, Nikandr’s Aramahn lover. Atiana later learns that Rehada has only been posing as Nikandr’s lover, and that in reality she is a spy for the Maharraht. Not only has she been feeding the Maharraht information about the Grand Duchy for years, she’s been in league with Soroush, a sworn enemy of the Grand Duchy who hopes to open a rift that hangs over Khalakovo. Tearing open the rift would cause untold destruction to Khalakovo and the other islands of the Grand Duchy, but Soroush cannot do this alone. He must use Nasim and his unique abilities to tear the rift open. Rehada’s loyalties, however, are not so resolute as they seem at first. She has come to doubt the path of violence that Soroush and the Maharraht are following, and it is through this doubt that she begins to question her place in the Maharraht.
Nikandr learns more of Nasim’s past and returns with him to Khalakovo, hoping to heal the rift, but before he can do so, Soroush steals Nasim away. Nikandr is forced to return home to Khalakovo without him, and he finds that tensions among the nine dukes of the Grand Duchy have reached the boiling point.
A battle between the duchies ensues, providing the perfect cover for Soroush, who takes Nasim to a small keep on the nearby island of Duzol. There he begins the ritual he’s been planning for years. Using Nasim as a conduit, he will summon five elder spirits, and when all five have been summoned, the rift will be torn wide.
Soroush doesn’t count on Rehada, however, who turns away from the path of violence. She warns Nikandr of what Soroush is planning, and together, Nikandr, Atiana, and Rehada move against Soroush and the Maharraht. Soroush completes his ritual, but Nikandr has come to understand his bond with Nasim intimately. He and Atiana use this knowledge to draw Nasim fully into the material world, an act that heals not only the blight, but Nasim as well. Nasim is now as whole as he has ever been in his life, and he may fina
lly find it possible to learn and grow. The cost, however, is heavy. Nikandr’s father is captured by the traitor dukes.
As the story closes, the Khalakovo family cedes control of their Duchy to the new Grand Duke, and Nasim is taken away by his people for his own safety. Nikandr, however, knows that the rifts are not permanently closed, and he vows to find Nasim and complete what they have begun.
PROLOGUE
In the southern gallery of the capital’s sprawling kasir, Hakan ül Ayeşe, the Kamarisi of Yrstanla, stood at a marble balcony. The day was warm. Gardeners below tended to the rows of trees—lemon and fig and plum—that filled the southern acres. Far to the south, beyond the gardens, was a tall stone wall that had never been touched in battle. The wall was exactly three leagues long, and it separated Kasir Irabahce from the vastness of Alekeşir.
From beyond the wall, if the winds were calm and the noise from the palace was low, Hakan could hear the calls of hawking and barter that came from the spice market to the east, or the bazaar to the south. Today, however, was not such a day. Today, he heard the sounds of industry. Beyond the walking paths and the ordered rows of the vineyard, a dozen masons were spending their sweat on a gazebo that would house a bronze statue being made in his honor. He would not have wished it, but the city they’d taken in the ceaseless war with the Haelish barbarians to the west demanded celebration, even if the victory had been hollow. In weeks, perhaps months, the Haelish would have it back, for the Empire’s resources there were too thin, spread too far along their border with the lands of the Haelish kings.
Behind him, the doors to the gallery opened. He kept his eyes on the rows of red grapes, nearly ready for harvest. Mingled with the sound of approaching footsteps—hard leather scraping lightly over the white marble floor—was the faint patter of bare feet and the jingle of tiny bells.
The sounds stopped a respectful distance behind him. The leather uniforms of his guardsmen creaked.
“Leave her,” Hakan said.
More creaking, the guards bowing to their Lord, and the footsteps resumed, this time fading away until the door closed with a click that pierced the room.
Hakan turned and found the woman he’d summoned from the tower of the wives. She had joined his harem some three months ago. She was tall, nearly as tall as he, and beautiful beyond measure. She was graced with golden hair and striking blue eyes, so rare among the women of the Empire. Only far to the north, among the mountain tribes, were such women to be found, but they were too often coarse and unlearned. Arvaneh was refined, with a soft touch and a softer tongue—in both senses of the word.
The supple cloth of her white dress fell along her frame like a waterfall. From her ankles and hands hung chains with golden bells and ruby gems. On her head was an intricate gold headdress. Somehow it had never suited her.
“Remove the headdress,” he said.
She bowed and complied, setting the headdress on a nearby table. When she regarded him again, it seemed to him that her smile was too satisfied, as if removing the finery had been her idea all along.
He moved to the table and from a small glass pitcher poured raki into two golden chalices. He handed one to Arvaneh and kept the other for himself, motioning for her to follow him to the balcony. She complied, calm and confident, as she had always been.
At the balcony, he brought the raki to his nose, smelled the anise and clove that infused it, then took a healthy swallow. He saw Arvaneh do the same, and the tension inside him eased.
“Tell me, Arvaneh, from what part of the empire do you hail?”
“From a village near the western border of the Gaji.” She waved, as if it were nothing. “It is named Kohor, though you’ve probably never heard of it.”
“Is it not in the Empire?”
“It is, Kamarisi.”
He smiled. “I know of Kohor. What I don’t know is how you came to Alekeşir.”
She tilted her head, staring out over the garden as he’d been doing only moments before, except in her there was a clear hunger, a lust for life and the world that stood before her, whereas he had grown ... perhaps not weary, but certainly dissatisfied with life in the palace, in the city.
There was more as well. He couldn’t quite define it, but she seemed to be looking beyond the horizon. She seemed, in fact, to be looking beyond her years toward distant ages past. But then the look was gone, and she turned to him with a steely glint in her eyes. “There was nothing for me in the desert. I wished to see the world.”
“And yet you told me that you’ve remained here in the capital since your arrival six months ago.”
“That’s true”—she beckoned him with a smile—“but when one finds herself in the very center of the world, is there anything that might compel her to leave?” Upon saying these words, she studied him—she weighed him—deciding whether or not she should approach. She seemed to decide against it, perhaps sensing his mood, and he realized he had best be careful how much he revealed. Arvaneh was no one to fool with, not if what his seneschal had told him was true.
He watched as she took another drink. He mirrored her, if only to keep pretenses up.
She turned back to the garden, jaw set, apparently giving his question more serious thought. “Alekeşir is calm. Peaceful. Her roots dig deep into the earth. Why would I want to leave?”
“Perhaps there are places you don’t wish to return. Did you leave someone there? In Kohor?”
Her head snapped toward him, her blue eyes cold and judgmental. But then they softened. “The people of Kohor have long since forgotten me.”
“That I doubt.” He finished his drink. “I doubt it very much.”
As she stared, her eyes lost focus, and she shook her head to clear it.
“Do you feel very well?” he asked, taking her nearly empty chalice from her quivering hands. “Would you care to sit?”
She nodded. The bells on her wrists jingled. Her whole body began to shake. She didn’t go three steps before she collapsed to the ground, golden hair splaying across the floor.
Hakan crouched on the balls of his feet, staring into her eyes, which had gone soft, unable to focus. “Now, would you like to tell me who you really are?”
She blinked. Her body shivered.
“You can speak if you want to. It simply takes more effort. Devrim has been watching you, as have the other women. They know that you leave the tower at night. That you spy upon my room from the gardens. Why? Why do you do this?”
“I...” A horrible shiver ran down her frame, preventing her from speaking. She closed her eyes tightly and opened them again, somehow managing to fix them on him once more. “I only wished to know you.”
“For what purpose?”
She took a deep breath and released it in slow, halting increments. Blood trickled from beneath her left temple from where it had struck the floor. It trailed along the tile until it found a crease, and then it spread along the seam between the stones. “I wanted to know the sort of man you were.”
“Who sent you?”
“I came of my own free will.”
“Don’t lie. You may yet live. There is a counter to the poison, but I cannot use it if I think you’ve spoken even one more lie to me.”
She blinked, a slow and measured movement. Her breath was shallower than it’d been only moments ago. “I wouldn’t lie.” The words were soft, like the dying breeze of dusk.
Hakan cleared his throat, which felt suddenly constricted. He cleared it again. “There is more to the story. I would know, Arvaneh.”
“My name ... is Sariya...”
He was surprised to hear fire in her words. He had underestimated her reserves of strength. “Sariya. I would know before you pass. Are you an assassin? Were you sent by the Haelish kings? Or the crones who live in the desert?”
“I am ... my own woman. And I ... know much ... of you.”
“You know much...” Hakan wanted to smile, but something in her seemed primitive and ancient, and his heart withered at the notion
of taunting her. “What could you know of me?”
“I know ... where you go. I know that with victory in the west, as shallow as it may be, you’ve set your heart upon the east.”
Despite himself, he shivered. He had spoken of this to no one. The Haelish uprising, which had begun shortly before Hakan had been born, was a conflict that had plagued him for all of his years, and though it was not over, it was at a stalemate, and he had vowed to himself long ago that as soon as he was able, he would dedicate himself to reuniting the Old Empire. And that meant turning his sights toward the islands. Toward Galahesh and Anuskaya beyond it.
“How could you know?” he whispered.
“Do not fear, Kamarisi. I’ve told no one.”
Somehow, the effects of the poison were no longer spreading. Her voice had regained its verve. Her cheeks had regained their color, and her eyes were once again sharp.
Hakan swallowed again. The tightness in his throat remained. His mind felt muddled, as if he should be more angry at what she had told him. He shook his head to clear it, but as he did, a wave of dizziness swept over him. He pinched his eyes, hoping to clear himself of the malady, but it refused to ebb.
When he opened his eyes again, he was pressed against the cool marble tiles. Ahead lay the balcony at which he’d been standing only moments ago, but instead of finding Sariya lying there, she was now standing, staring down at him with eyes both calm and collected.
His breath released from his lungs, long and slow. Drawing the next breath was difficult, as if the air itself had turned to wine.
“What ... have you done?”
“I have done nothing, Kamarisi. This has all been your doing.” She smiled, her blue eyes glinting in the sunlight. She held in her hand the chalice from which she’d been drinking. “You wish to know who I am? Surely you’ve heard of the tales of Khalakovo? In the autumn of last year, a boy was brought to the islands by the Maharraht. They hoped to tear open the rifts that ran through the islands.”
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