The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Her face turned sad and apologetic. She shifted until she was kneeling by his side and pulled him into an embrace. The simple gesture spoke of apology, of asking him for something he wasn’t yet ready to give. For a time they simply held one another, but Nasim began to feel smothered—not by her, but by this place, and the village around it.

  “Come,” he said, taking her hand.

  He led her out from the arboretum and together they walked for a time.

  The wind was unnaturally strong. It made the hems of their robes snap. It pushed them as they walked.

  Nasim thought he was leading her aimlessly through Mirashadal, but he soon realized he was taking a familiar path. They wound through the bulk of the village proper and came eventually to the ballast, the long spire of wood that dropped down from the upper portion of the village. Around the ballast was a railed walking path that wound its way lower and lower until at last they came to a platform—the lowest place in the entire village. He used to come here and put his head out over the edge of the platform. He would sit there for hours at a time, wondering what would happen if he simply leapt. Would Erahm save him? Would Adhiya?

  Many times he had slipped over to the other side of the railing and leaned out over open air. A simple slip of his hands was all it would have taken, and all the confusion and madness and pain and even ecstasy he’d experienced in Oshtoyets as he’d swallowed the stones would have been gone. Back then, all he’d wanted was a moment of peace. He had thought death would deliver him to his next life, and he’d begin again, perhaps poorer for resorting to taking his own life but at least free to begin again without the curse that Khamal had laid upon him.

  Dropping Kaleh’s hand, he sat on the planks, putting his legs out between the railing. Kaleh did the same, and for a short while it felt as though they were simply two children, sitting and measuring the wind.

  “I wonder why I cannot touch Adhiya,” Nasim said.

  “Because you prevent yourself from doing so.”

  “If that’s so, how is it that I can manipulate others?”

  “You were lost as a child, Nasim. You floundered in the sea. Is it any wonder you grabbed for that which might save you? Is it any wonder you would do the same after you woke?”

  In the distance, lightning arced within black clouds, lighting them from within. Long seconds later, the thunder came, rumbling and ominous.

  “Khamal bled himself,” Nasim said to her, hoping more than anything that she would be able to help unravel this mystery.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He cut his wrist. He fed his blood to one of the akhoz. It bled from him his power. It bled from him his soul.” The lightning arced again, longer, brighter. “He bled mine as well.”

  “You hadn’t even been born,” Kaleh said.

  “He took it just the same. He and I are connected. We’re practically one, and he sacrificed our most precious gift so that he could return unfettered by the bonds the survivors of the sundering had placed on him.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Nasim, unwilling to share so much, listened to the wind. A gull called, flying up from below the village to fight the gusts and land on a ledge above them.

  “I don’t blame you for keeping it to yourself,” Kaleh said. “I know what it’s like to hide secrets. The Landed man, Nikandr Khalakovo. I lied to him. I lied to Soroush as well. I led them to my father.”

  “Why?” Nasim asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  Nasim looked over, realizing that she was crying. Tears slipped along her cheeks and fell upon her robes.

  “I suppose it doesn’t,” Nasim answered, returning his attention to the horizon. “Did you know that Muqallad cast a spell over Khamal?”

  “Neh, I did not.”

  “It’s the reason I couldn’t return fully to Erahm, the reason I was caught between worlds. When Muqallad and Sariya conspired to murder him on top of Sariya’s tower, Muqallad drew upon Khamal, preventing me from being born fully. And so, while I know that Khamal wished to heal the rift, I don’t know how he meant me to do it.”

  The dark clouds were closer. A cold sleet began to fall, the sound like rashers in a frying pan.

  “Isn’t that what we all struggle with?”

  “What?”

  “Our purpose.”

  “That may be true, but most people have free will.”

  She stood and kissed the top of his head. “You have more choices than you realize, Nasim.”

  She took to the stairs, leaving him alone at the bottom of the village. Somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to rise, so he sat there and let the sleet bite him.

  When he was sure Kaleh could no longer see him, he stood and stepped over the railing as he’d done so many times before. He leaned out, wondering if the fates would cause his hands to slip on the slick wood. Below, the sea churned. If he fell, he would fall to his death—there would be no one to save him—and unlike those early days on Mirashadal, he knew now that he would not return. Death would not be a release. It would not lead to a new life. It would not be a beginning, but an end.

  As his breath flew white upon the wind, he felt as if he were the world itself. It, too, would one day cease to exist, and he wondered whether Muqallad’s plans would bring that about. He wasn’t even sure it would be a bad thing. After eons, perhaps the fates thought it time to slumber at last.

  Nasim’s grip tightened when someone spoke behind him.

  “Will you jump?” It was Ashan’s voice, and in it were notes of both forced amusement and hidden concern.

  “I don’t know,” Nasim replied.

  Ashan approached, his soft leather boots crunching over the sleet-covered platform. “It would be a shame. We haven’t had much chance to talk.”

  Nasim didn’t know what to say, so he remained silent.

  “I would like to work with you tomorrow.”

  “To do what?”

  “To heal you. I’ve spoken to Fahroz, and she believes we might be able to do it.” He said it so plainly, but the words held power, like thunder felt in one’s chest.

  Nasim’s grip began to loosen despite himself. He swung himself back over the railing and looked at Ashan, looked at his kind face, wondering if he could believe him. “How?”

  “Through Sukharam. You may not know it, but you chose wisely, Nasim. Very wisely.”

  The following day, Nasim headed toward the center of Mirashadal. At the wooden tower that stood there, women stood on the platform, not men. He didn’t understand the need to change, but he trusted that it was necessary.

  When he entered through doors at the base of the tower, he found an empty room. Thick, wavy windows were set into the wood, allowing in the yellow light of the morning sun.

  The only other person in the room was Sukharam. He looked over Nasim’s shoulder, perhaps wondering who else might have come. He seemed uncomfortable being left alone with Nasim, but then his face hardened.

  He’d changed… This was no longer the boy he’d found in Trevitze. That boy had been young and impressionable. He’d been a mere shadow of what he might become. This young man standing before Nasim was confident and brash. His back was straight, and he stared into Nasim’s eyes with a look bordering on defiance, a look that said he would no longer be used.

  Nasim didn’t blame him. He’d enticed Sukharam and Rabiah with promises of greatness, promises of saving the world. And what had he given them? He’d given them pain. He’d given them death. He was utterly undeserving of their trust.

  But he needed it now. He needed it desperately.

  “Rabiah died because of you,” Sukharam said. “We all could have died because of you.”

  “You’re right,” Nasim replied, “though I told you there was danger involved.”

  “You also said you’d be there for us.”

  Sukharam’s eyes were filled with so much hate. Nasim didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? Sukharam was right. He had abandoned them on Ghaya
vand. No matter how he might try to fool himself, he had abandoned them.

  He was saved from responding when Ashan stepped inside the room. He knew there was tension, for his gaze darted between them, but then he merely smiled his toothy smile and said, “Come.”

  “Where’s Fahroz?” Nasim asked.

  “Kaleh asked to speak with her. But it’s better that it’s just the three of us in any case.”

  He led them outside and down through the warrens of Mirashadal. The sky was overcast, the wind bone-chilling. Nasim knew the village well, but after a while he realized he no longer recognized the path they were taking. They wended their way down a long and winding walk to a massive, open space. Nasim’s mouth fell slack. It was like walking into a yawning cavern. The structure of the village surrounded them on all sides, but it was ingenious enough that wind and light flowed through the space. It was not so different from the feeling of hiding within a thicket—difficult to see into, not so difficult to see out. In all his months here, he’d never found this space. He marveled at it. It lifted him, made his heart open wide.

  “Sit,” Ashan said.

  Nasim did, choosing a spot such that he and Sukharam could kneel in the center of this grand place. “What are we to do?”

  “You will allow him to enter.” Ashan moved until he was standing behind Sukharam. “Open yourself to the world, Nasim. And open yourself to Sukharam. He will do the rest.”

  Sukharam seemed uncomfortable, but he placed his hands gently upon his knees. His eyes were still full of anger, but he composed himself. He breathed, his chest becoming full. After three measured breaths, three measured exhalations, he lifted his gaze to look on Nasim once more.

  The transformation was complete. He was calm. His eyes were gracious. His expression forgiving. He had many of the qualities that Nasim found so endearing in Ashan.

  Had Ashan done this in only a mere handful of days with Sukharam?

  Neh, Nasim realized. This was the real Sukharam. This was the Sukharam he should have seen long ago.

  Knowing it was time, feeling it in his bones, Nasim closed his eyes, allowed himself to take breaths that filled him with the brightness of day.

  He found no peace—thoughts of Rabiah kept invading his mind—but he somehow forged a cool and calm accord with the world, something he’d never managed to do before.

  This, he thought, was the way Ashan must feel all the time. If only he could become so wise.

  He felt a soft touch upon his shoulders. “Go further,” Ashan said.

  And with that touch he did. He realized that his constantly moving mind had prevented him from feeling Sukharam. He felt him now, felt his presence, felt his calmed thoughts and the doubts that stood behind them.

  And then something strange happened.

  The two of them settled into a rhythm. Their breathing began to match one another. Their thoughts faded until they were little more than one being, present in this place and time.

  All as the wind whispered through the boughs of Mirashadal.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Nasim feels Sukharam’s lives, not only those from his past, but his future as well. They do not come and then go like dreams half remembered; they build upon one another—dozens of lives, their memories and loves and regrets falling like leaves upon the forest floor.

  It is not disconcerting. It is, instead, enlightening. It feels like the coming day, like the brightening of the dawn. It feels like vashaqiram must feel. It is true enlightenment, and Nasim realizes at once that he has felt it before. He felt it as Khamal, when the world nearly ended three hundred years ago.

  Never before had he dreamt of the sundering—not once—but here a memory from Khamal is revealed to him. Sariya and Muqallad were there as well. They stood upon Sihyaan, the tallest mountain on Ghayavand. No one else was present—only the Al-Aqim.

  Between them, sitting on an obsidian pedestal, was the Atalayina. It was whole, pristine, impossible to look upon without feeling like one stood at the center of all creation. By the fates, it was beautiful. He wanted to hide this memory away, to return to it when he was more prepared, but it quickly began to fade. More of Khamal’s life came to him, some things he could remember dreaming before, some things he could not.

  Faster they came, until, like the lives of Sukharam, he remembered more of his own lives. Khamal’s memories overshadow the others at first, but this feeling recedes, and soon these lives, his past lives, are little more than links in a chain that drift into the dim and distant past.

  He feels nothing of his future, however. Nasim knew that he would die—truly die—when he faded from this world, but to see it like this, so stark in comparison to the fate of Sukharam, makes him feel small, makes him feel powerless to affect the world.

  As bleak as this realization is, it sheds light on his prior life, and more importantly, his connection to it. For the first time he can feel the spell of Muqallad weighing down on him like a stone. It presses against him like the depths of a hidden lake, preventing him from touching Adhiya.

  There is another link as well. This one he recognizes immediately. His link to Nikandr, still strong after all these years.

  As he reflects upon this a realization comes to him, one he never would have expected. By the fates who weave, the link to Nikandr acts in opposition to Muqallad’s. It saved him on Oshtoyets. Nasim knows this. What strikes him like a thunderclap is the fact that it has been doing so ever since. Every minute he doesn’t slip back into madness is due to his link to Nikandr. He acts like a length of driftwood, preventing Nasim from sinking beneath the waves.

  This bond had always felt like something he should be ashamed of—partially because Nikandr was Landed, but also because it had felt like it was keeping Nasim from standing on his own two feet. His shame is like a glowing brand, and it grows brighter as he thinks not just how he treated Nikandr, but Ashan and Sukharam and Fahroz and nearly everyone he’d come to know. Everyone except Rabiah. And Rabiah is now dead.

  He focuses on Muqallad’s spell, tugs at its threads, which are tied around him so tightly that the effort feels futile. As he pulls the threads away, new ones form like spider silk. He tries harder, becomes desperate to rid himself of Muqallad’s taint, but soon his efforts bring pain—they disturb the delicate balance he’s found—and he retreats.

  He is about to pull away, buoyed in defeat by the notion that he’d finally found the source of his inability to touch Adhiya, when he feels something in the village far below where he stands now.

  In the ballast tower, near the place where Soroush and Bersuq were kept prisoner for long months and years.

  Fahroz is there. She lies on the floor of the room.

  And Kaleh stands over her.

  A knife gripped tightly in one hand.

  Nasim woke.

  He stood immediately and began running for the nearest of the paths. “We must go! Fahroz is in trouble!”

  Ashan looked like Nasim had scared him nearly to death. “What did you see?”

  “Send help to the lowest section of the ballast tower!”

  “Wait!” Ashan called.

  Nasim heard them chasing after him. The paths here were not familiar, but he soon found some that were. In little time he was bolting through the village’s warrens, heading ever lower. On a wooden deck, a qiram kneeling with her young disciples stood as he ran past. She looked worried, even angry, when she heard the calls behind him, but Nasim moved on before she could react.

  He reached one of the lower entrances to the tower. He took the spiraling staircase downward, moving as fast as he dared.

  He came at last, breathless, to the room he’d seen in his dream, a dark place no longer used as a prison. A lone siraj lit the room. It cast deep shadows against Kaleh, who kneeled above Fahroz with the khanjar held over her chest.

  Nasim froze in the doorway. “Please, Kaleh! Stop!”

  Kaleh looked to him, her expression resolute.

  Then she turned back and thrust t
he knife into Fahroz’s chest.

  “Neh!” Nasim screamed.

  Fahroz jerked. Her eyes went wide, but she made no sound, as if she’d just been awoken from a vivid and horrifying dream.

  Kaleh turned back to him. Nasim shivered at the emotionless expression on her face.

  “Why?” Nasim asked, his hands shaking in front of him.

  The answer came moments later.

  The wall behind her, made from some of the stoutest, thickest wood in the entire village, opened like a wound. It yawned, wider and wider, until it was large enough for her to step into. He knew then that she’d killed Fahroz so she could open this portal. She was fleeing Mirashadal, and the qiram at the edge of the village had surely prevented her from doing so.

  Despite her words the day before, she was returning to Muqallad. That much was clear.

  Kaleh stood and squared herself, as if she thought he might attack. She glanced over his shoulder. She could hear—as Nasim could—others coming down the stairs. “Goodbye, Nasim an Ashan.”

  She took a step toward the gap in the wood, but the notion that she would leave after what she’d done so incensed him that he felt the blood pounding through his veins. His heart beat powerfully. Madly. An anger welled up inside him—an anger so intense it threatened to blind him with white rage.

  As Kaleh took another step, the world around him slowed.

  Her movements decelerated until they matched the pace of the tides, the pace of the seasons.

  Kaleh halts short of the opening. A shimmering curtain surrounds them, contains them.

  Nasim takes one stride forward. And another. Soon he stands just short of her.

  She holds in her left hand the knife, the blade still slick with blood. He reaches out to take it. Her hands are cold and stiff.

  As he touches them, he feels a stirring within her.

  Whether it is because of his touch, or because she’s learned what he’s done to her, he does not know, but her motion accelerates. Like a hare in spring, she is rousing from Nasim’s spell.