The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Nasim could not yet see the akhoz, but they were close. He could hear their feet slapping against the stone floor at the edge of the room.

  “I have a simple trade for you to consider.” He glanced to one side of the room, then the other. “Speak to Ashan. Ask him where the stone in the white tower has been hidden. If you can find it, you may have both the girl and Ashan back.”

  The akhoz crept in. They seemed strangely fearful of the light coming from the siraj. They covered their lidless faces and crouched forward, crawling like crabs over the floor. One reached for Rabiah, but Nasim stepped forward and batted away its hand. Another came, ducking away from his strike and snatching Rabiah’s robes.

  “Leave her!” Nasim shouted. He kicked at the akhoz who had a hold of her, and the creature hissed like a mountain cat.

  More crept in, a dozen or more.

  “Leave her!” Nasim tried to call upon a vanahezhan through Rabiah, but found that he could not. He no longer sensed it at all. In fact, he could no longer sense Adhiya. It was simply gone.

  One of the akhoz tilted its head back and bleated. Another joined in, and another, until all of them were sounding the same call, which made Nasim’s stomach twist and churn. His mouth watered and he became dizzy, so much so that he fell to the floor.

  The bleating stopped, but the effect did not, and he found himself unable to raise his head without a swooning effect storming in and forcing him to lie back again.

  Footsteps approached. “Find the stone, Khamal.”

  Rabiah was lifted from the floor. The footsteps resumed and began to fade away.

  “Find it, and we can finish what we started.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Hours passed before Nasim’s dizziness faded. With a groan, he pushed himself off the cold stone floor onto his hands and knees. He breathed deeply, clearing his head, before standing and looking about the room. The akhoz were gone. Muqallad was gone.

  Rabiah was gone.

  He stood in the darkness, hands bunched into fists, fighting the urge to scream because he saw no point in it. In the end, though, he gave in. He released an unending lament for his foolishness, for his presumption, until his throat was raw.

  He had brought them here on a fool’s errand. He had hoped that through his renewed understanding of the island, and his teachings, that they would find the stones and enough knowledge to be able to close the rifts, something that the three arqesh who had torn it wide had been unable to do in the centuries following the devastation of the sundering.

  Why? Why had he thought he could teach? Why had he thought he knew enough to overcome such obstacles?

  Because he was foolish. Worse, he had valued their lives too poorly. Neither Rabiah nor Sukharam had had the best of lives before he’d found them, but that hadn’t given him the right to uproot them, take them where he would. Better if he had let them choose their own path, or seen to it that they found their way into the hands of trusted Aramahn.

  Such as Fahroz…

  Who had only been trying to protect him. Who had only been trying to teach him the ways of the world, a world he still did not truly comprehend. Would that he had listened to her, stayed in Mirashadal until the time was right.

  The only trouble was that the time may never have seemed right. He was terrified then of what he had to do, and by the time he’d stolen away from the floating village, he’d known that he would never overcome that fear, not without simply facing it.

  And so he had gone. He had left, and he had traveled the world, and he had found two children that, given time, given the right sort of knowledge and insight, would have become great. But now he—not the fates, and not their cruel masters—had cut their lives short.

  “Stop!” he bellowed into the darkness.

  The words came back to him, softer and softer, until silence reigned once more.

  “Stop,” he said again.

  He had to get a hold of himself. He had to make a plan. He had to find Ashan.

  But where? Muqallad hadn’t said. Which meant, of course, that he expected Nasim to piece together the clues in order to find him.

  When he thought about it, though, the answer was simple.

  He moved to the edge of the room, warding with his hands. He was blinded now, not only by the light but by his inability to call upon a hezhan. It was something that disturbed him—disturbed him deeply—but he couldn’t afford to let his mind wander down those paths, and so he stepped forward, trusting to his memories.

  Indeed, as he found the tunnel that led to the eastern reaches of the village, he had no trouble at all remembering the way to the lake. It was ingrained in him, infinitely brighter than the memories of his distant and oh-so-hazy childhood. As he wended his way through tunnel after tunnel, a fear took seed and grew within him, and soon the fear had turned into a certainty. Ashan was at the lake. He knew it. But what had Muqallad done to him? What tortures had he endured?

  He shuffled forward, mindful of the darkness. Then he began to jog, and then run while touching his hands to the stone walls to guide him.

  As he went, memories flooded over him, memories of walking through this village as Khamal. And they didn’t feel like memories from dreams, they felt real, they felt like his memories. This had happened several times in the past several years—moments of lucidity of Khamal’s life—but they had always been ephemeral and disjointed, and when he tried to guide them toward answers—what Khamal had done, how he had planned to pass his knowledge to Nasim—the memories had drifted away like dreams on the edge of waking.

  This time felt different, however. The memories felt stronger, perhaps because of his return to the village, or perhaps because of his encounter with Muqallad. He coaxed the memories toward Sariya, toward the piece of the Atalayina Muqallad had mentioned. And more came to him. He remembered strolling the beach, climbing the rocks to the city proper. He remembered stepping up to the tall white tower. Sariya’s tower. He remembered putting his hand on the black iron gate.

  But there his memories faded, and the more he tried, the more distant they became, even those things that moments ago had been so clear.

  He continued through the village, moving with foolish haste. He came to a stairwell and flew along the steps, heedless of the danger. At last the cavern opened up before him and a pinpoint of light shone in the distance. It was coming from the center of the lake. He continued down to the shore, and finally, his breath coming in ragged gasps, he stopped.

  A trickle of water fell somewhere in the distance. The air was chill, and it smelled of copper. He stared toward the light, unable to see anything but the stone and the isle upon which it rested.

  “Ashan?” he called. His name echoed into the distance.

  There was no reply.

  He waded into the water. It was frigid, but nothing like it had been centuries ago. Ghayavand had warmed since then.

  He swam, feeling watched. He grew tired but pushed on, and as he did the water became colder and colder until he was numb from it.

  When he gained the isle at last, he dragged himself onto it and stared at the source of light. It was no siraj. It was a pinpoint of light hanging in the air.

  He turned to the water, scanning carefully beneath its surface. He found nothing. Ashan wasn’t here. He despaired. This was the place. It must be.

  He was nearly ready to give up when he saw something deep beneath the surface—something little more than a lighter shade of black.

  The thought of returning to the water brought him no joy, but he had to be sure…

  He dove beneath the surface, swimming in broad strokes, lower, lower, until he was able to feel for the shadow he’d seen.

  He felt cloth. Then a limb. And a shoulder.

  And then he touched skin.

  And the world shifted.

  Khamal swims below the surface of the bay, clearing his mind of the troubles that lay ahead. His long strokes pull him onward as the cold waves first tug, then push.

 
He breaks the surface. Far ahead stands the tower. Sariya’s tower.

  He swims toward it, seeing no further need to delay. When at last he reaches land, the sensation of the waves and the fluidity of the water fade like autumn rain, and he is left with the weight of the land beneath, the hardness of it, its brittle nature. It isn’t jarring as it was so many years ago; it feels right, as if all the parts of the world are a part of him and he a part of them. Would that he had known as much before he had touched the surface of that deep blue stone.

  Khamal steps toward the tower, he slips past the guards Sariya placed. Had her mind been with her in the tower above, she might have sensed him, but she is far afield, as she often is. As he touches the stone, he feels a sense of regret, not only for what he is about to do, but for allowing Sariya to see what he can now do. This too saddens him—the simple fact that the three of them have come to distrust one another to the point that they would hide information. At one time they had shared everything, all in the hopes of repairing what they had broken, but as the years had worn on, they had begun to form their own opinions on how that wound might be healed.

  The stone he touches fills him. His skin hardens. His sight dims. A mineral scent assaults him. He does not feel himself move upward; rather, he feels the world move around him, and for a moment—a moment only—he is the center of all things. When he steps away from this state, it is with regret. He has come to love stone and earth more than any other.

  He is within a room, standing on a red-and-umber carpet of the finest weave. Four windows set into the walls in the cardinal directions allow him to look upon the city and the land around it.

  Sariya—

  Sariya is here.

  She lays upon a bed at the center of the circular room. Her hair is splayed over the rich blanket, making her look as if she has taken her final slumber.

  But then his foot shifts in only the slightest degree.

  And she wakes.

  She sits up immediately, facing him with a confused and cross expression. She stares at the wall behind him, perhaps trying to determine its nature and whether Khamal has weakened it to allow him future entrance.

  And then the stone hardens. He can feel it in his bones and in the core of his chest. She has altered the tower so that he cannot leave, and he fears that nothing within his power will be able to undo what she has just done.

  She has learned.

  And hidden.

  Her blue eyes burn with anger. “Why have you come?”

  “Has Muqallad not told you?”

  “I would hear it from your lips, not his.”

  Khamal takes a step toward her. She slips off of the bed on the near side, watching him closely. Never has her expression or her stance been so defensive, as if she fears he would attack her. He, an Al-Aqim, attacking another. The very notion is mad, but then again, never had he stolen something from her.

  “He tells me that you’ve convinced him to abandon his plans.”

  Her eyes search him. She is trying to sense whether the Atalayina is with him, but the Atalayina is curious this way. It cannot be sensed easily—even a stone one has held for centuries—as if the stone itself refuses to offer its allegiance to anyone. It remains neutral, always.

  “Why did you steal it?”

  Khamal takes another step forward. “I thought it best. For now.”

  She steps back, maintaining the distance between them. “I didn’t need to convince him to abandon his plans. He’d already convinced himself.”

  “He told me as much.”

  “He no longer covets the stones. Neither do I. It’s time we returned to working with one another.”

  “We did, for decades, and it only served to drive us apart.”

  Sariya licks her lips. “I didn’t wish for that to happen.”

  “I know,” he says.

  This time when he steps forward, she does not retreat. Three gliding steps would bring them together. He found himself wanting to take another step. Neh. It was more than this. It was a desire. A need.

  This is Sariya. Her tower. He has not come unprepared, and still she nearly managed to beguile him in moments. Indeed, she has learned. Even without the Atalayina she is fearsome.

  He was prepared for this, but it saddens him that she has taken this step. She would never have done so if she and Muqallad weren’t working against him. She would have felt resentment at what he’d done, but she would never have thought to enter his mind, to force his hand.

  He shuffles forward, allowing a subtle confusion to show on his face. She steps forward as well. They could touch if they so chose, but they do not, but he can feel the heat from her, and he imagines she can feel his. He swallows, fighting the urge to take her into his arms.

  But she is not so easy to resist.

  When she opens her mouth to speak, he sweeps forward and takes her into his arms. He leans down and kisses her. Her lips are warm, though he knows it is only because she wills it so. Her heart beats slowly now, as does his own. They were all changed forever the moment the rift was torn between the worlds, but it did not take away their desires or their emotions.

  He kisses her more deeply. He does this at first because he needs her mind elsewhere. He can feel her breath quickening, feel her tongue as it licks his parted lips, feel her hips and thighs as they press against him, and soon he is leading her toward the bed not for the reason he came, but because it has been so long since they were with one another.

  He wonders if she understands his mind. Probably she does. Probably she knows that he will never give her the stone willingly. And she doesn’t care. She wants this as much as he does. This is a bittersweet parting. A farewell.

  They fall against the blankets as she bites his neck. He pulls from his robe the stone. He presses her down against the bed. Sariya, taken by the moment, grabs his hips and grinds against him. A rush of pleasure courses through him as he drops the stone from the edge of the bed. He summons a puff of air, enough to set the stone down on the floor soundlessly. He lifts himself onto his knees, staring down at Sariya as he pulls off his robes. As Sariya does the same, he spares one glance toward the floor and sees the stone being drawn into it.

  He, too, has learned. Sariya will not be able to discern the disguise—she is not gifted in this way. Muqallad may sense the Atalayina, but he will not be able to remove it, not before Khamal’s plans are triggered. And then the two of them will sleep until he returns.

  He lowers himself down until they are skin against skin. He pulls her legs over his arms and slides downward. Sariya’s breath comes in ragged gasps. She is like a summer storm now, hot and wild and wet. As he slips inside her and rocks, she grabs his hair and kisses him so deeply that he wonders if she will ever let him go.

  He cares not what the answer is.

  He feels her tightening around him. Her eyes are clenched, her head thrown back, leaving him to kiss her chin and neck and breasts. A long moan escapes her—an echo of his own—and as they reach their heights together, Sariya scratches his back and pulls him deep inside her.

  They collapse, sweating and panting. Exhausted. Sated.

  She turns to him, kisses his neck tenderly. Never has she looked so beautiful.

  “Will you stay?”

  Her words are like honey, tempting and sweet. He wishes he could. He wishes none of this had ever happened, that they had continued toward their own enlightenment and allowed the world to proceed as it would. He wishes he had traveled the world with Sariya. He wishes he had made children with her. He wishes he could have passed his knowledge down to them before he’d stepped beyond the veil in preparation for his next life.

  But all of this had happened. And here they were, two people who had been of one purpose now violently opposed to one another.

  And so he gives her the only answer he can give.

  “I cannot.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Nasim shook his head, clearing the vision away. He was still below the surface of the
freezing water. Precious seconds passed as he struggled to remember where he was and who lay before him.

  At last the memories returned. He snatched a handful of cloth and kicked off the bed of the lake, and then he swam, holding Ashan with one arm, scissoring his legs. The surface was near. He knew this. And yet the seconds dragged on.

  His breath was failing him. He began to exhale. He tried to stop it, but he couldn’t.

  Finally he broke the surface, spluttering and coughing. He heard nothing from Ashan, nor did he feel movement, but he could see him now, his hair plastered against his forehead and cheeks.

  “Ashan!”

  Nasim slipped his arm around Ashan’s neck and swam for the isle. When he reached it he dragged Ashan higher, bit by bit, until he was halfway out of the water. Nasim was too exhausted to do any more than this.

  “Ashan, please wake.”

  Ashan’s cheeks were deathly cold—somehow colder than the water itself.

  “Ashan, please!”

  He slapped Ashan. Then again, harder. He rubbed his face and arms and chest and legs, hoping to warm him, to let him know that help had come, such as it was.

  After placing his hand against Ashan’s chest, he forced himself to stop, to feel, to simply be aware. He could feel the most telltale sign of his heart beating. It was impossibly slow, but it was there. How Muqallad could have done such a thing he had no idea.

  Ashan suddenly spluttered, water spraying into the air and glinting under the dim light. Long wracking coughs escaped him, and for a good while that was all he could do. Then he turned toward the light, his face confused, and finally he looked upon Nasim.