The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  As snowflakes the size of petals fell over Baressa, Atiana strode along the edge of a pool that had not quite frozen over. A thickening blanket of snow was building around the edge where ice had formed, but in the center, white snowflakes fell against the water’s black surface, melting in the blink of an eye. They looked like souls falling against the aether, slipping through the dark to the other side, and it made Atiana wonder if this was indeed what it was like when souls reached Adhiya and when they returned once more to Erahm.

  How might she go? How might Nikandr?

  Would it be quick, like these snowflakes? Or might it be slow and painful and filled with misery, like those dreadful hours on Duzol after she’d been shot in the chest?

  The sound of approaching footsteps, muffled by the snow, pulled her attention away from the pool. Walking down the path between two broken buildings was Irkadiy.

  “My Lady Princess,” he said bowing his head. “Please, come.”

  She followed along a path that led her down a row of stone buildings that were now little more than gutted shells. They were deep in the Shattering, the swath of Baressa that had been left as it was after the greatest and final battle of the War of Seven Seas. It was a land that had been considered fouled, for it had been one of the few great battles the Empire had lost over its long, grand history.

  They followed tracks in the snow that were already becoming obscured by the heavy fall. They came to an area that was not nearly as devastated as the one they’d just come from. They made for a depression circled by columns. Many of the columns were intact, whole, but those nearest Atiana were broken, little more than white fingers clawing skyward. As Atiana and Irkadiy walked through it she realized it had been a celestia, which made it clear that this had once been an area where Aramahn had lived.

  Beyond the ruins lay a stone building that bore the mark of the Yrstanla stonemasons from centuries past—it was grand, but it was also stark and serious. Inside, the light was dim, and at the northern end the roof was broken, snow swirling within and piling in the corners. At the other end stood three streltsi in dark gray cherkesskas and kolpak hats, and between them, sitting on the ground, was Ushai, the Aramahn woman who had been treading the dark the last time Atiana had been searching for Arvaneh. She did not cower, but she watched the men closely as Atiana approached. Then she seemed to recognize Atiana, and her eyes went wide.

  As Atiana neared, the bruises and cuts on Ushai’s face came clearer. Ushai stared up at her defiantly, but she shivered as she did so, and not from the cold.

  Atiana turned to Irkadiy. “What have you done?”

  Irkadiy bowed his head. “My Lady Princess, she tried to escape.”

  “So you beat her?”

  “Most important, My Lady. Those were your words.”

  Atiana lashed out and slapped him.

  The muscles along his jaw worked, but his eyes were impassive. “We do what we must.”

  It was a common saying among streltsi. “We are not at war with the Aramahn,” she said.

  He bowed his head. “As you say, My Lady.”

  “Go,” she said.

  Irkadiy looked back to the broken section of the wall where they’d entered, but didn’t otherwise move.

  “Go!”

  “Forgive me, My Lady Princess, but your father said never to leave your side.”

  She swallowed, wishing she’d shown more self-control. “You can watch from the entrance, but I will speak with her alone.”

  She waited as he stared, perhaps calculating just how far he could push his orders, but then he nodded to his men and they trudged away, leaving her alone with Ushai.

  “Ushai, I’m sorry.” Atiana kneeled and stared closer at her wounds. There were abrasions along one cheek, a cut on her lip. One eye was red and swollen. It would blacken within a day. “Did you resist them?”

  Ushai’s jaw worked. She stared over Atiana’s shoulder to the streltsi beyond. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  Atiana’s head jerked back before she could think to stop it. This was something she hadn’t expected. The Aramahn cherished peace. Or they had. She wondered if this was an indication of what the Aramahn had been driven to or if this was yet another splinter that was forming, one that was not bellicose like the Maharraht but would defend their interests more vigorously. Even a year ago most Aramahn would not lift a hand to defend themselves, even if it meant death for themselves or another.

  Atiana paused, feeling small in the face of Ushai’s pain. “I sent the streltsi because I need your help. I go tonight to confront Sariya.”

  “That would be unwise, daughter of Radia.”

  “Which is why I needed to speak to you. You know of her, and I would have you share it”—she glanced back toward the soldiers—“if you would have her stopped.”

  “You will not be able to stop her. She wants you to take the dark.”

  “I know.”

  Ushai shook her head. “She is no simple qiram who has learned the skills of the dark.”

  “Which is why I need your help so desperately. Come with me. Come with me tomorrow night, and together, you and I will break down the walls Sariya has put in place.”

  Ushai hesitated. Her eyes were angry, indignant, but after a pause she steeled herself and nodded.

  Atiana smiled and held out her hand. Ushai took it, and together they made their way out and into the cold of the Shattering.

  The dinner meant to honor the arrival of Atiana’s father was as grand an occasion as she had ever seen. It was held in a room four times the size of the largest ballroom in Galostina, and twice as tall. The light from twelve golden chandeliers cast a warm glow against the filigreed ceiling. Hundreds of men and women milled about the room. The servants—all of them women, many of them Bahett’s wives—had jewels worked into their hair, and wore dresses of the most supple silk. They held trays filled with food. Some offered skewered medallions of cooked antelope with dark red centers, harvested, they said, from the steppes of central Yrstanla. Others brought mouthwatering fruit, bright with color, or cooked tubers—nothing like the potatoes of the islands—marinated in oil and capers and dill. There were dozens of other delectables, but Atiana found herself unable to eat. She was studying the crowd, watching for one particular man that would allow her to complete her preparations for the following night.

  She saw him enter as a bell was rung softly from the center of the room—Sihaş ül Mehmed, the Kamarisi’s personal envoy. The bell was struck again, and the conversation began to die down as people made their way toward their seats. Atiana intercepted Sihaş at the stairs that led up to the raised head table.

  When Sihaş realized that it was he Atiana wished to speak to, he stepped aside to allow the others access to the stairs. “My Lady Princess,” he said, bowing his head.

  “My Lord,” Atiana said, smiling, “I wonder if you might do me the honor of allowing me to sit by your side.”

  “You don’t wish to sit with your family? Or with Bahett?”

  “Father is always a bore at such things. Of Ishkyna, it may surprise you, I’ve had my fill. And Bahett?” Atiana leaned to her left, allowing Sihaş to see where Bahett sat, or more to the point, who sat next to him. It was Meryam, Bahett’s ilkadin. “We are not yet married, and as this is her final dinner with her title, she will sit at his side.”

  He smiled and offered her his arm. “Then I would be honored.”

  After a slight shuffling of chairs, she and Sihaş were seated. Once everyone was settled, the bell was rung again. Shortly after, Father and Hakan and a select few others entered the room and made their way to the head table. Bahett was among them, and he watched Atiana curiously when he saw her sitting with Sihaş. She wasn’t sure whether it was because she wasn’t sitting next to him or because Sihaş was the man she was sitting next to. Either way, the look was gone a moment later, and he gave her a pleasant smile.

  She smiled back, but her attention was soon drawn to
Arvaneh. Her golden hair was tied behind her head in a complex braid ornamented with bright amber jewels. The bodice of her dress was aubergine, the skirt layer upon layer of deep reds. It was not her beautiful raiment that drew the attention, however. It was the band of gold across her forehead and the string of crystals that hung down from it, covering her eyes like a veil. Rather than make her seem hidden, it made her stand out. It seemed as though she could look upon anyone without reciprocity. Indeed, she seemed to be staring at Atiana even then. She nodded, and Atiana was forced to do the same.

  Arvaneh and Hakan were the last to be seated. As soon as they were, the woman at the center of the room—Ebru, Bahett’s second wife—struck the bell one last time. With her higher vantage, Atiana could see that there were no tables where Ebru stood; they had been cleared in a circle around her. She wore a beautiful, formfitting dress of red. Her fingers bore rings that sparkled under the light of the chandeliers. Dozens of bracelets circled her wrists. She stood, back straight, chin high—the pose of a dancer—and brought the mallet high above her head, ready to strike. As she snapped her arm into place, the bracelets made a sound like the rattle of coins, and when she did, others around the room did the same. Bahett’s other wives, now free of their trays, had bracelets as well, and they had brought their arms high in time with Ebru.

  Small gasps of pleasure came from the room as the guests looked around them, understanding at last what was happening.

  Ebru struck the bell—it rang more faintly than before and yet still filled the room—and then she snapped her arm to the ready position. The others snapped their arms in response, taking a long, sinuous stride forward.

  Again the bell was struck, and again the women strode. As they moved in unison toward the center, more servants, all of them men, wound through the tables, bringing the first course—an intoxicating mixture of sugared sage and salted pear. As the head table began to eat, Atiana leaned in and spoke low to Sihaş. “I know it was you who came to me by the willow.”

  The sounds of forks clinking against plates, of the bell and the shink of the dancers’ arms, came to Atiana clearly, almost dreamlike, as she waited for Sihaş to respond.

  When he did not, she spoke again, “I know it was—”

  “I would not say that so loudly if I were you.”

  Atiana had made sure that those to her right and to Sihaş’s left were engaged in conversation. “If I speak too softly, good Sihaş, it will attract more attention.”

  Sihaş seemed suddenly disinterested in his meal. He merely pushed it around his plate with his fork. “I know what you plan to do tomorrow night as well.”

  “Then you also know a trap has been laid for me.”

  His silence was telling.

  “You were willing to let me walk into it,” Atiana said.

  “I wish you no harm, but there is more to consider.”

  “Such as?”

  “We must know Arvaneh’s plans. It was decided that you would be allowed to go, and that we would watch.”

  “With no intervention from those who claim to be mindful of Hakan’s true purpose.”

  Bahett’s wives had reached the center of the room. There, they began a slow but complex ritual, moving around one another, hooking arms and spinning about, as men standing at the corners of the room beat large skin drums. The beat was thunderous at times and subtle, almost tender at others. It was a rhythm that felt deep as the ocean or light as summer rain, and the dancers echoed it well.

  “In truth, I hope that you will come to no harm, but there are casualties in war, My Lady.”

  “This is why we need to speak, Sihaş. I will not offer myself as a sacrifice.”

  “I cannot help you in the dark.”

  At those words, Atiana glanced over to the head table, the same point at which the drumbeat quickened and the intensity of the dancing increased. Arvaneh seemed transfixed by it.

  “That isn’t the sort of help I require,” Atiana continued.

  “Then what?”

  “I need protection, both during and once it’s done.”

  “You have your streltsi.”

  “Hakan has allowed few enough in the kasir, Sihaş. You know this. We need others to watch over us as we study Arvaneh.”

  “If you do it in secret, there will be no need.”

  “It will hardly be in secret. In all likelihood Arvaneh will know we have come.”

  “It is not the time for boldness, My Lady.”

  “It is, My Lord. My father has arrived on these shores, and there is something afoot. I can smell it. And Arvaneh is the key. Isn’t this what you’ve been searching for as well?”

  “Evet, but we are not ready. Hakan has begun to fear those close to him. He sent a kaymakam away from the kasir two days ago, and we found out this morning that he has been lost on the road to Ramina. He was one of our most careful, and still Hakan found him out.”

  The beat of the drum had become frenetic, even ardent. The dancers swung about, dresses flaring, legs arcing. They had surrounded Ebru in her red dress, she with the bell and the rings of gold. They began to lean in and scratch at her. Only one or two at first, but as Ebru tried to escape the circle, the others pulled her back in and more began to feed upon her. She fought, rising above the tide, but there were too many, and she was drawn back down. She fell to the floor, and as she did, the men, who had been beating their drums furiously, raised their mallets up and struck once. The note reverberated around the room. All eyes were fixed on the dance.

  “You must be ready,” Atiana said. “There is no time to wait.”

  The drums beat again, and one of the remaining women—the women in white—fell to the floor.

  “Two more days, My Lady Princess. That’s all I ask.”

  Another beat, and another woman fell.

  “I cannot delay. We go tomorrow night.”

  The drumbeats continued. Each one, each collapse of a dancer, felt like a heartbeat, like blood dripping upon the floor, like her last chance was slipping from her grasp.

  “Then you go alone.”

  Atiana stared at the floor, where not a single dancer remained standing. “So be it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Nasim stares into Sariya’s deep blue eyes.

  “Why would you not think to find me here?” she asks.

  “Because you were not on Ghayavand.”

  She motions to the forest, and Nasim falls into step alongside her. Unlike Sariya, who moves like a bee over a field of wildflowers, the going is difficult for him. He trudges, the deep snow thumping as each footstep breaks the surface.

  She glances down—no more than this—and Nasim’s steps are light upon the snow. Yadhan, however, continues to struggle, and she appears more and more uncomfortable with this exchange. Sariya pays so little attention to her that Nasim wonders if Sariya knows she’s there.

  With a simple but elegant motion, Sariya sweeps the air with one hand, as if to indicate the entirety of this place they walk within. “Does the aether stop at the borders of Ghayavand? Is it bound by land or sea?”

  Nasim takes in the terrain once more. He thought this a place that Sariya carved from her dreams, made real by her will over the course of centuries and the peculiarities of the aether that Sariya had managed to uncover, but now that he looks, he realizes how similar it is to the land of dreams that embraced him in his younger years. The aether is the land of dreams, after all, the place where Adhiya and Erahm touch. If Sariya tried hard enough, could she not have unraveled its secrets?

  “Where are you?”

  “Why, do you wish to join me?”

  “I don’t know where I wish to go.”

  Sariya smiled. “Then come.”

  They continue into the woods. They pass well into the trees before Nasim realizes Yadhan has not followed. She watches from the edge of the forest, ducking beneath the lowest branches to watch him, unwilling to take even a single step into the trees.

  Nasim doesn’t want to contin
ue alone, but he cannot allow Sariya to sense his worry. If she senses weakness, all will be lost.

  They come to a rise, and soon the trees part, revealing a white monolith standing tall and proud, as if it considers itself the lord of all it surveys. It is taller than any of the trees that stand outside the clearing.

  Sariya considers the stone, for the time being ignoring Nasim.

  And then Nasim realizes.

  The stone. The piece of the Atalayina. The one he’d hidden in Sariya’s tower. He feels it within the strata of rock that forms the monolith, and he is sure that Sariya feels the same. He is confused, for his memories tell a different story. Khamal dropped it onto the floor of Sariya’s bedroom within her tower. How, then, had it become trapped within the monolith that stands before him?

  But of course, this place, its nature… He stands in the aether, true, but he also stands in a place of Sariya’s making. This is her demesne. By Sariya’s hand it would have been formed and reformed until—as improbable as it seems—the tower and everything within it would have expanded, bringing into being all that surrounds him, including this monolith.

  Now it is a riddle to be solved. Sariya has isolated the Atalayina, separated it from the rest, giving her time to remove the stone without damaging it. Surely she sensed the stone in the weeks after her awakening. Had she the power, she would already have retrieved it, making it clear she hasn’t yet unraveled Khamal’s spell. This is why she brought him here, to retrieve the Atalayina for her.

  But of course, this is also a trap. Sariya will not let him have it. “I must return the stone to Ghayavand,” Nasim says.

  “Ghayavand is Muqallad’s now. Take the stone and come with me to Galahesh.”

  Nasim turns in the snow and looks back through the trees the way they’d come. “There are those on Ghayavand who need me.”

  “Ashan?”

  “Among others.”

  “You may think him a bright star, Khamal, but had he been alive when we were at our height, he would have shined no brighter than a wisp.”

  “I am not Khamal,” Nasim says sharply, “and you may all have been bright—you may be bright still—but look at what has come from your radiance.”