The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “You should have gone with them.”

  Nikandr spun around and found the guard who had walked past him, the man Bersuq had sent to clear the way while Nikandr freed his men. He was one of the older Maharraht. Grizzled. Though most of his face was hidden in shadow, his eyes twinkled as he studied Nikandr.

  “You no doubt heard my answer.”

  “I did, but why would you consider such a thing for a boy that will most likely turn no matter what you do?”

  Nikandr stepped forward and placed the stone into the man’s hand. “Have you so lost your way that you need to ask me the question?”

  The Maharraht swallowed, incensed, but he stood taller a moment later. “I know why, I merely question why you would do it.”

  “He is only a boy,” Nikandr said.

  “Who will grow up to become your enemy.”

  Nikandr, after one last pause, turned and walked away. “Perhaps he will.”

  Nikandr, kneeling at the shore of the lake, touched Wahad’s shoulders.

  Nikandr represented wind.

  Near Wahad’s feet were Jahalan and Zanhalah, the old woman who had helped him with Wahad before.

  Together they represented water and life.

  The two others—a man and woman who had fathered three children together—kneeled by Wahad’s arms.

  They were fire and earth, and they completed the circle.

  Ever since returning from Siafyan and his encounter with the akhoz, Nikandr had considered the approach of bringing only the opposing elements of water and air against the fire that raged inside Wahad. Though he didn’t wish to discount the wisdom of these qiram, he found the strategy lacking. The boy was being taken by a suuraqiram—it seemed that it would take all of the elements, not just those opposing, in order to save him.

  The dying children had been moved far away in hopes of giving Nikandr and the others the room they needed to complete their ritual, but their coughs, their moans, could still be heard. This didn’t bother Nikandr. If anything, it was a simple reminder of why he was doing this, one that did not fluster, but in fact calmed him. Thoughts of Atiana and Galahesh and Khalakovo and his mother and his father had hounded him in the hours since his men had escaped, but the moment he’d reached the cavern of the lake, he had calmed. The sounds of pain from these children had allowed him to push all the other thoughts away, until all that remained was a singular focus toward a singular aim.

  Save one child.

  He stared down at Wahad, brushed the hair back from his forehead. His skin was hot to the touch, but he did not sweat. His eyes were closed, as they had been for days, and there was a crust over them. They had tried once to open his eyes, and Wahad had thrashed and struggled against the men holding him and beat his head against the ground. They’d released him shortly after, and he’d cried and moaned for hours afterward.

  Nikandr brushed Wahad’s hair one last time.

  Just one, he thought. That was all he wished for.

  “Let us begin,” he said.

  Together, they closed their eyes.

  Nikandr calmed himself, breathed deeper. He felt the touch of his vanahezhan on the far side of the aether, and through this bond he drew himself deeper into its world, drew it deeper into his. Other than this one spirit, he’d rarely felt another hezhan, but now he felt all four of those that were near. He suspected it was because of the rift and how wide it had grown on Rafsuhan, perhaps especially so here in Ashdi en Ghat on the shores of the lake.

  He did not ignore these other hezhan, but he focused his mind primarily on Wahad, on the pain he was feeling. After a time, he felt heat, like the touch of the sun on those rare days of summer when the wind was low. The feeling heightened until it was more like the heat from a bonfire burning nearby. Still it built, and he allowed it to take him.

  He wanted to scream, so strong was the sensation, but he did not. He simply accepted it, allowed it to become him. He could feel the hezhan that was taking over Wahad’s soul now. It was impossible not to once he knew what to look for. It was not merely sharing the experience of life in Erahm, as most hezhan were content to do. It was devouring him.

  But there was more. The boy was devouring the hezhan as well. They were becoming part of one another. They were forging something new from the substance of their souls.

  Nikandr let the knowledge wash over him, as well as the fear that followed, and soon he felt as though he were the one being devoured, not Wahad.

  The sun is bright among the walkways of Siafyan. Wahad takes them toward the home of Mehjoor, who is to join him on his watch. He stops short, however, when he sees the girl, Kaleh, at the end of the swaying bridge.

  She stands in his way, staring at him with a look of challenge, as if she ruled here, not the Maharraht who had been on this land for forty years.

  “What?” he asks, though he feels ungracious in being so blunt. In truth he knows her not at all, only that she came with the tall one, Muqallad.

  “Come with me,” she replies, and with that she turns and walks away.

  He hesitates for only a moment. She has done this before—spoken to children around the village, brought them to see the man that everyone assumes is her father. When they returned, they would not speak of their time with him. They would only say that they were sworn to secrecy, but Mehjoor and Wahad hide nothing from one another. Eventually Mehjoor spoke of his visit with Muqallad, of standing before him, of hearing his words.

  “What words?” Wahad asked.

  Mehjoor would not reply, but Wahad thought it was not because he chose not to, but because he couldn’t remember. Such is Muqallad’s power, and it makes Wahad fear him, but he cannot refuse this summons. Things are happening to the village; things are happening to the Maharraht. Everyone can feel it. Surely the rise of the Maharraht and the fall of the Landed is nearly upon them.

  They climb down the curving stairs built into the side of the great trees to reach the ground. From there, Kaleh heads south. When they enter the village circle, Bersuq is standing there with Thabash and Rahid and several others from the south. Thabash hardly notices him. Rahid watches with something akin to hunger. But Bersuq...

  Wahad nearly stops, but he doesn’t want Bersuq to know what he sees in his eyes. And yet at the same time Wahad doesn’t understand, for Bersuq is looking upon him with pity.

  Pity.

  Why? Why does Bersuq, the man who is hardest on him—especially since his father is still in the arms of the Aramahn—look upon him with pity? He had thought these visits to Muqallad some sort of honor, or perhaps some sort of test. But if that were so, Bersuq would look upon him with pride, or if not that he wouldn’t look upon him at all. He certainly wouldn’t look upon him with pity.

  The expression leaves as quickly as it came, and Bersuq speaks in low tones with Thabash and the others. Rahid continues to watch, however. It makes Wahad shiver.

  Eventually they move beyond the borders of the village square, and then the village itself. They hike through the forest, through the shorter larch and pine that cover the land here, and soon Wahad’s nerves are starting to tingle.

  “Where do we go?”

  Kaleh glances back, but does not otherwise respond.

  He grabs her arm and spins her around. “Where do we go?”

  “To the clearing.”

  “Why?”

  She stares up at him, her blue eyes bright. “You do not have to come.”

  He pauses. “I merely wish to know why. Why is it kept secret?”

  “You can ask Muqallad when you see him.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  Her eyes are hard, but as she studies him they soften. She glances over her shoulder, toward Siafyan, and then licks her lips. “The end is near, Wahad. Very near. Muqallad is choosing those who will be granted the honor of leading the way.” She peers into his eyes. “Are you ready for such a thing?”

  Wahad pulls himself straighter. “Of course I am.”

  Kaleh smiles sadly. “We
all think this. But there are trials ahead, and when they come it is not so easy to remain steadfast. To remain silent.”

  “I am ready. I’ve been ready since my naming day.”

  “You will become one of the chosen, you and the others who’ve already gone. You will pave the way for what is to come.” Her look becomes sober. “It requires sacrifice.”

  Though he tries to control it, Wahad finds his breath coming faster. His fingers tingle, and his chin quivers. A mix of fear and elation runs through him, something he’s never experienced and has no idea how to handle.

  “I’m ready,” he says again, glad that his teeth do not chatter as he speaks these words.

  “There’s no turning back once you enter the clearing.”

  “I understand.”

  She seems to measure him, but then nods. “Then come, and no more questions.”

  They reach the clearing, the one used most often for mid-winter vigils. Within it stands Muqallad, wearing light robes and boots of soft, white leather. His robes are brightly colored, and he is tall and muscular. He looks young—younger than Wahad’s own father—and yet his gaze is ancient, as old as the earth he treads upon.

  Wahad feels small. He feels as though he stands before one of the fates, not a man like his father or his uncle.

  “Has she prepared you?” Muqallad asks.

  “Yeh.”

  “This is no easy thing I ask of you,” Muqallad says.

  Wahad shakes his head. “It is. My lives have been led so that I could arrive at this moment. I am sure of it.”

  Muqallad smiles. And shows Wahad a blue stone he holds in the palm of one hand. “This, Wahad Soroush al Qediah, is one piece of the Atalayina. Do you know of it?”

  Wahad stares, confused at first, but then elation fills him and threatens to bubble over. He grips his hands to keep himself from looking like a small child before his grandfather. “I do.”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  “The Atalayina was the first stone, and it will be the last. It was created by the fates, each of them shedding one tear to create the three pieces. It was taken to the shores on Ghayavand and lost during the sundering.”

  Wahad seems pleased. “Good,” he says simply. “This is but one, and I will soon have the other two. And you, Wahad, will help unite them.”

  He begins walking to the center of the clearing. Wahad follows, more nervous than ever now that the moment draws near. He dearly wishes to ask questions, but does not. Muqallad will tell him what he needs to know. Of this he is sure.

  Muqallad stops in the center of the clearing and faces Wahad. “Spread your arms wide.”

  Wahad obeys.

  “Look to the sky.”

  Wahad does.

  Blue shines through among tall white clouds. They are majestic, towering. They are vengeful, not out of spite, but justice. It is proper, Wahad decides. This day has always been the right day for this.

  Muqallad raises the piece of the Atalayina. Wahad’s breath comes faster and faster, and nothing he does seems to quell it.

  “There are difficult days ahead, Wahad.”

  The blue stone arcs down toward Wahad’s forehead. Though it has not yet touched his skin, he can feel it—the power within, the power it draws from within him. He can feel as well the walls of the world growing thin. He can feel a hunger from beyond the veil, a hunger deeper than he ever expected.

  “At times you will feel confused and lost, but cast these doubts aside.”

  The stone touches his forehead.

  “You are bringing the world to its proper end.”

  The world rips.

  And Wahad screams.

  A searing brand touches his soul and fills him. Unbidden, his hands bunch into fists. His arms tighten until they shake. His body spasms in the throes of pain that wash over him and through him.

  It is a thing more beautiful than he has ever beheld, has ever experienced.

  He realizes that this is what it must be like. This is what vashaqiram feels like for those who achieve it. So few have done so, and yet Muqallad, fates bless him, is bringing this to them all.

  He is a man to be honored.

  A man to be cherished.

  He is the one who will bring the world to its final resting place, as the fates have decreed.

  Soon the pain begins to fade, begins to ebb, begins to shed from his soul like water. All too soon it is gone, and he begins to cry.

  He wishes for more. Already he aches for it.

  Muqallad touches his shoulder, and only then does he realize he is hunched over, hands on his knees, supporting himself as his lungs heave and tears shed from his eyes.

  “Stand, Wahad.”

  For long moments he cannot. The beauty. Gone. Gone...

  “Stand.”

  He does, and he stares into Muqallad’s strong face and knowing eyes.

  “Do not fear,” he says. “The end is near. Return to the village now. Go about your life. You will feel drawn here, but do not come again. Not until it is time.”

  Wahad nods and turns to leave. He makes it to the edge of the clearing.

  “Wahad?” Muqallad calls.

  He turns.

  “Speak of this to no one.”

  He leaves, knowing that this final command will be the most difficult to obey—not withholding the knowledge from those who do not know, but not speaking of it to those who do.

  He would share this. He would ask them of their experience and share with them his own. He would ask them if they, too, hunger for more.

  In the end, as he walks away from the clearing, he resolves himself to his fate, and as the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach grows, he relishes it, for it is a reminder of what he has seen.

  And what is yet to come.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Nikandr woke, though it was long moments before the notion of who he was and where he was had any meaning. These dreams were very much like the ones he’d had of Khamal through Nasim, but they felt much more real, much more present, perhaps because they were Wahad’s own memories.

  He knew already that he had failed to heal Wahad. Wahad, unlike so many of those with the wasting, did not want to be saved, and without that help there was nothing he could do.

  At Wahad’s feet, Jahalan stirred. The others did as well, but Nikandr waited until Jahalan met his eyes. “Did you see?”

  Jahalan nodded. He looked to the others, who did not answer, but they had shocked looks on their faces. Perhaps they had worked out Wahad’s past already, and Muqallad’s involvement in it, but to see it for themselves was something else entirely.

  At the entrance to the cavern, there was a commotion. A group of a dozen men, led by Rahid, strode in amongst the Maharraht children and those tending them. Bersuq was not with them, which was reason enough to give Nikandr pause, but then he realized who the man walking next to Rahid would be. This was Thabash Kaspar al Meliyah. Nikandr knew him by reputation only, but had never seen him until Wahad’s dream, and now he had returned to Rafsuhan. He was at least ten years Nikandr’s senior, but he was built like a bull. Despite his physical appearance, it was his eyes that stood out the most. They were nearly as dark as his clothes, which along with his reddish beard gave him the appearance of an animal of the night with wide, searching eyes that could dig into one’s soul if he wasn’t careful.

  Nikandr found his fingers itching to hold a sword, or better yet a pistol.

  As Rahid and the others came near, he stood, as did the four other qiram with him. Jahalan raised his hands, but it was Zanhalah, the old woman who had shared with him the name of her son, that stepped in Rahid’s path.

  “He has come to heal.”

  Rahid stopped only for a moment. In a blink he raised his hand and struck Zanhalah across the cheek so hard that she spun and collapsed to the ground. Jahalan moved to help her, but Rahid grabbed him and shoved him away. Jahalan stumbled on the sandy shore and fell as Rahid rounded on Zanhalah.

  “T
hey are not sick. They are chosen.”

  “They are tainted,” Zanhalah said, “touched by a man who failed to destroy one island, and so has come to try again.”

  Rahid pulled the khanjar from his belt and made to move toward Zanhalah, but it was Thabash that grabbed his hand and held him.

  “Now is not the time for judgment,” Thabash said. “Nor is it the time for punishment.”

  “I have suffered this”—he waved his hand about the cavern as if to implicate the whole of Ashdi en Ghat—“long enough.”

  “Their time will come, but not here, and not now. The children are nearly ready.”

  Rahid stared at Thabash’s hand and ripped his arm away. Then he sheathed his knife and stalked back toward the stairs. Three of the Maharraht that had accompanied him followed.

  Thabash stepped forward and faced Nikandr. He was shorter than Nikandr, but more heavily built.

  “You are the son of Duke Khalakovo?” Thabash asked.

  “I am.”

  “And you have come to heal these children.”

  “In a way.”

  “What way?”

  “I came to learn more of the rifts. These children were here, suffering, and I thought it my duty to help them if I could.”

  “Your duty...”

  Nikandr said nothing, which only seemed to anger Thabash.

  “Your father sent you, then?”

  “He did not.”

  “Of course,” he said, pacing in front of Nikandr. “Your father is still an honored guest in Galostina. Surely, then, your mother sent you.”

  “She did not.”

  “Is that so? Is she still hidden away in the bowels of Iramanshah?”

  Again Nikandr did not speak. He did not like how very much Thabash knew, but he wasn’t surprised. The Maharraht had spies everywhere, and many of those in Iramanshah knew of his mother’s presence.

  “It’s interesting how often we hear that we lost that day on Duzol, that you stopped Soroush from completing his goal, but what you fail to understand is that there is never a single goal in what we do, and that the fates watch over us, no matter how low the Landed might bring us.”

  “To say that we bring you low are the words of a fool,” Nikandr replied. “You bring yourselves low.”