The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The Atalayina lay on the floor, not spinning, but lifeless. Inert.

  Ushai had grasped the stone knowing she would trigger the spells that protected it. She had done so knowing she might be harmed, but she’d clearly thought the risk worth it.

  Ushai shivered as she reached down and picked up the stone. Her lower lip quivered and her eyes watered from the pain. And then she met Atiana’s eyes with a defiant gaze that reminded her of another who had done so in the same manner. Rehada… Rehada had looked at her this way on the mountain above Iramanshah, and she had done so knowing Atiana had discovered her secret.

  “You are Maharraht,” Atiana said, the words thick on her tongue.

  Ushai blinked. Tears sped down her cheeks and fell to the floor to mingle with her blood. Atiana knew the tears came from more than her pain.

  In the end, Ushai merely grit her jaw, glanced to where Ishkyna lay, and took the nearby stairs, down and out of sight.

  As Atiana slid over the floor toward Ishkyna, she heard no sounds of resistance, no cries for help. But she cared nothing for this, nor did she care that Sariya had vanished; for the moment all she cared about was Ishkyna, who still breathed but would not wake when Atiana shook her.

  “Ishkyna?” Atiana called, shaking her harder. “Ishkyna!”

  But nothing she did mattered. She would not wake, because her mind had been taken. She was lost among the aether, and there was no telling when, or if, she would find her way home.

  The following day, Atiana stood in the opulent receiving room of Kasir Yalidoz, less than a quarter-league from Sariya’s tower where the horrific events with Ishkyna had occurred.

  At the head of the room, seated in Bahett’s throne of office, was Hakan ül Ayeşe. Beside Atiana was Vaasak Dhalingrad, the envoy father had appointed, and beside him Sihaş ül Mehmed. Both had been freed from their cells in the lower levels of the kasir.

  Bahett stood to Hakan’s left, watching this meeting with great interest. The rest of the expansive room was empty. No others would be allowed to witness this meeting. Were it known that Hakan was treating with the Grand Duchy after murdering the Grand Duke, there would be chaos in the courts of Yrstanla.

  Atiana had just finished relating the tale of the tower. It was the third time Hakan had heard it, but the repetition was necessary. He had trouble remembering what had happened. He would ask her to repeat the simplest of things, and even when she had, she doubted he fully understood. She had little doubt now that what Sihaş had told her—that Sariya had beguiled him—was true. What was unknown was how long her spells would remain, and what he would do when finally he returned to himself.

  And this was the true danger. The Kamarisi had always been bellicose; it simply hadn’t, until now, been directed toward the Grand Duchy.

  As Atiana’s story came to a close, and she spoke of Sariya’s departure, Hakan seemed to understand at last. He was handsome, and the gleam of brightness had always rested within his eyes, but now there was something more—perhaps calculation over what all this would mean for Yrstanla as he weighed the choices before him.

  “What of Arvaneh?” Vaasak asked. “Has she not been found?”

  “There’s no need for pretense,” Hakan replied. “She is Sariya of the Al-Aqim. And she has not been found.”

  “One might wonder, were they in my place, where that leaves us.”

  “In a difficult position.”

  Vaasak stared at Hakan, his hard eyes evaluating the man who still had the power to ruin the islands. The question wasn’t whether he wanted the islands. The question was whether he would risk it.

  “I don’t wish to admit it,” Hakan said at last, “but I was not of my own mind. Even you will admit that you would be hard-pressed to stand against one of the Al-Aqim.”

  “The Grand Duchy already has.”

  He was speaking of Nasim, a subject that had come up early in the conversation.

  “Then you know their power,” Hakan continued. “Sariya may be gone, but Muqallad is coming. As Atiana has told us, she is Maharraht, and there are certainly more about the city and the countryside.” He paused, bowing his head in Atiana’s direction. “Would that I had Matri of my own to look for them.”

  He refused to meet Vaasak’s eyes as he spoke these words. He would be asking for many things over the course of this conversation, but begging the man he had effectively imprisoned—whether he had been sound of mind or not—was not something he could do.

  Vaasak considered this, his head lifting, but his face clearly relieved. “If the Grand Duchy can be set aright, Kamarisi, there may be some aid that could be lent.”

  It was the first hint Vaasak had given that he would be willing to bargain with Hakan for the safe return of the peoples of Anuskaya.

  Hakan considered this for a time, glancing not at Bahett, but Sihaş, for confirmation. This was a strange shift in power, indeed, but it shed some light on just how much Hakan valued each of these two men.

  Sihaş bowed his head ever so slightly, at which point the Kamarisi turned his head to Vaasak and smiled.

  “What ships we have will be set to scouring the land and sea around Galahesh for the Maharraht, but certainly a few can be spared to return you and your countrymen back to Vostroma.”

  “And certainly, assuming the storms have died down enough for me to speak with the Matri, the ships of Yrstanla will be granted safe passage in their return to Galahesh.”

  The problem standing before Hakan was a difficult one to solve. He had ships amassed that could attack Vostroma. They could defeat the remains of the staaya now housed in the eyrie of Kiravashya, but he had no way to reach them, no way to issue them orders. He had no way to order them home or to continue on to the other islands. They were, for the moment, isolated from his command, at least until such time as Sariya returned—if she returned. Add to this the fact that Hakan clearly didn’t believe in Sariya’s cause—he had, after all, been cast under her spell unwillingly—and it all added up to a powerful man who simply wished to retreat, to return to the things that had occupied him before the building of the Spar had begun.

  Hakan, of course, knew this. Everyone in the room knew it. As strange as it seemed, Vaasak was now the one who stood in control of this conflict.

  “A grant that would be most appreciated,” Hakan said, not deigning to tip his head in thanks, but with a subtle expression of contrition that did much the same.

  “We’re missing the point,” Atiana said. “We must look beyond the return of ships.”

  Hakan turned to her. “You speak of Muqallad, of course.”

  “He’s here, or soon will be, and he will then have all three pieces of the Atalayina.”

  Hakan sniffed. “It is not clear that he will come to Galahesh.”

  “There can be no doubt.”

  “Who can know the will of Muqallad? Who can know where he will go?”

  Atiana wanted to grab his silver kaftan and shake him. “I tell you, he comes here.”

  “If he does, we will find him. We will root him out, he and his Maharraht.”

  “As you rooted me out?”

  Hakan nodded, a gesture so patronizing Atiana wanted to scream. “If you hadn’t noticed, good princess, you have been in the care of the Kasir for days now.”

  “You are a fool if you ignore the threat Muqallad poses.”

  The words echoed into the far reaches of the room. Hakan’s face reddened.

  Atiana knew she had crossed a line when she spoke those words, but she didn’t care.

  Vaasak stood stiffly beside her.

  Hakan’s eyes narrowed as he stared intently at Atiana. Suddenly it felt like the two of them were alone to fill the immensity of this room—she representing the Grand Duchy, he the Empire.

  “A shadow was laid over my mind for years—such is the power of the Al-Aqim—but the shadow lingers no longer, Atiana Radieva. I am the heart of Yrstanla. I am her thought. Her blood. And now that I can see, I tell you that Muqallad will be foun
d.”

  Atiana did not speak. There was nothing to say. The Kamarisi would try to find Muqallad or he would not, but she bore no illusions that Muqallad would allow himself to be found. He was too careful, and they knew too little of his plans.

  She did know one thing, however.

  She couldn’t leave. She couldn’t return to Vostroma while this was still undecided. Vaasak would leave on the morrow, and though she wasn’t sure how she would manage it, she knew, as surely as the winter winds blew cold, that she wouldn’t be going with him.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  While Sukharam slept, Nasim manned the sails. The coastline of Galahesh lay ahead. They had flown in toward the northern half and so Nasim could not see the straits, but he could feel it. In fact, he’d been able to feel it for days, but it had since grown tenfold, starting as a tickle in his chest and growing to a constant burning feeling. He could feel the closeness of Adhiya as well, and further inland, where he supposed the massive bridge stood, there was a yawning hole that felt large enough to swallow the island whole.

  These things were similar to what he’d felt on Ghayavand, which was surprising. The island was still protected by the wards, and Galahesh was not so protected, which made Nasim wonder just how close to the edge this place was. How little might Muqallad have to do to open the rifts once and for all? Then again, Nasim knew that Muqallad considered it insufficient to simply call down destruction upon the world. He wished to bring about indaraqiram. Whether or not he could do this wasn’t the point. Muqallad believed it was possible, so he would try to bring Erahm and Adhiya together. He would try to merge them. Anything else would be abject failure. And so he would be careful. He would ensure that conditions were perfect. This, more than anything, convinced Nasim that there was still time to thwart his plans, even though he now had one of the secrets he’d been searching for ever since Khamal had died at the top of Sariya’s tower.

  Drawing upon Sukharam’s abilities, Nasim raised the skiff. He could see over the top of wooded land the southern cliffs. He wondered if Kaleh was there with Muqallad. She had betrayed him, and yet she felt more like a sister to him than anyone ever had. He hoped, though he knew it was foolish, that if he could talk to her, he might be able to lead her from the path Muqallad had set her on.

  Nasim shifted the ropes tied to the lowest corners of the billowing, triangular sail. He called upon the winds to shift and the skiff began to turn as it headed for land.

  When he did, Sukharam woke and pulled himself up and sat on a nearby thwart. He crossed his arms over his stomach and leaned over his knees.

  “Should I stop?” Nasim asked.

  Sukharam shook his head. “I can feel him,” he said after a time, his voice scratchy.

  “Muqallad?” Nasim asked.

  Sukharam nodded, pointing toward the straits. “He’s there… Somewhere.”

  “And the Atalayina?”

  His brow creased in thought. “Of the stones I feel nothing.”

  “They may no longer be separate. By now Muqallad might have recovered the third piece and fused it to the other two.”

  Sukharam shook his head. “We would have felt it.”

  “Perhaps, and perhaps not. The Atalayina has always been difficult to sense, even for those who know how.”

  “Have you considered—” Sukharam coughed and shifted to ease his discomfort. “Have you considered whether you’d like it to be or not?”

  Nasim stared westward. They were close enough now that the gulls were visible as they flew near the mouth of the straits. They’d discussed the Atalayina for days now, and what it might mean if it were whole. If they were able to retrieve it—and there was no guarantee they could—they might be able to use it to free Nasim. And then, if the fates were kind, they might be able to stop Muqallad once and for all.

  As tempting as the thought was, he also knew the Atalayina was the key to Muqallad’s plans. So what would he wish? That the Atalayina was whole so that he might be able to ensure his own victory, or that it remained broken in the hopes that it was the only way in which Muqallad might achieve his?

  “I think,” Nasim said at last, “it is a decision I will leave to the fates.”

  The winds blew more fiercely for a moment, drawing Sukharam’s brown hair across his face. He stared intently to the forest far north of the straits.

  Nasim felt it as well, a presence, though he couldn’t define it any better than that. It was already fading, however, and soon it was little more than a scent upon the wind. It faded so completely that Nasim wasn’t sure whether it had been real or not.

  “What was it?” Sukharam asked.

  “It’s strange,” Nasim said, more to himself than Sukharam. “It felt like Khamal did upon the shore, just before he drove the knife into Alif’s chest.” Nasim was so taken by the memory of Alif’s cries that he had to shake his head to clear them. “It feels as Khamal did, when he had one foot in Adhiya and one in Erahm.”

  “Is it not what you felt when you were young?” Sukharam asked.

  “Neh. The world was new to me yet. On the beach, it felt…” Nasim stopped and started over. “Khamal felt as though he had lived all the years of the world. It felt as though he would live to see the end. It was timeless and ancient. Nothing about it was new.”

  “What, then, could it mean?” Sukharam asked as he stood and took the sail from Nasim. Nasim released the havahezhan and Sukharam bonded with another. He called upon the winds to halt their progress, the skiff floating in place as he waited for Nasim’s answer.

  “I don’t know, but we shall go there.”

  “We should find the Atalayina,” Sukharam said.

  “The path to the Atalayina may very well lie through those woods.” Sukharam studied the gap of the straits, then the woods. He seemed unconvinced, but in the end he nodded and called upon the winds to blow them northward.

  They landed in the forest an hour later. The sun was a bright brass coin behind a cheerless layer of clouds. They left the skiff and set a path through the woods toward the feeling that Nasim could once again feel in his gut. It grew worse the further they went, until Nasim was dizzy from it.

  The tall spruce trees gave way to a downward slope of larch and alder. A stream could be heard running to their right, hidden behind the tall grasses and cattails that hugged the streambed.

  “I don’t feel right about this,” Sukharam said.

  Nasim looked over and realized he was holding his stomach. His face was white, his eyes wary of the way ahead.

  He cannot come.

  Nasim started. He looked around the forest, wondering where this voice had come from, but then he realized that it had been called from within him. What chilled him to the bone was the knowledge that he’d heard this voice before. Many times. He’d heard it in his dreams.

  “Remain here,” Nasim said.

  “Neh!” Sukharam said. “I won’t be left behind again.”

  He cannot come.

  The voice was insistent, desperate.

  He felt upon him the same feelings that he’d had in the ballast tower of Mirashadal. He felt as though he could slow the world, to deal with it as he would. He could leave Sukharam behind, and so keep him safe. But as he looked at his friend, this youth he’d plucked from his previous course in life, he knew he couldn’t abandon him again. Rabiah had died, and he would give anything to have her back, but he couldn’t leave Sukharam behind. He would give Sukharam to the fates.

  “Come,” he said. “She’s not far.”

  If he wondered who Nasim meant, he didn’t ask. Perhaps he already knew. He was bright, after all, brighter than Nasim gave him credit for.

  Near the bottom of the slope, the trees fell away, leading to a tall black spire. It was not so high as the ones on the islands, probably so that it could remain hidden—insomuch as a tower like this could be hidden.

  “What’s this?” Sukharam asked.

  Nearby, tracing a trail along the dark gray stones, were drops of b
lood, long since dried. They were little more than black stains now that led to the entrance to the spire.

  Nasim couldn’t recall an entrance to the spires of the Grand Duchy, but his mind was so muddied then he couldn’t be sure if there were any or not. Still, he thought not, and he wondered why this one would have been built with one.

  He may not enter!

  “He will,” Nasim spoke aloud.

  Sukharam looked worried and confused, but he remained silent.

  Nasim walked up to the short corridor leading into the stone. He could feel wards against them, but Sukharam raised his hand and spelled them away.

  Sariya was weak, Nasim realized. Much weaker than he ever would have guessed.

  They came to a set of winding stairs, and they climbed, up and up, much further, it seemed, than the tower was tall. All was darkness for a long time, but at last they saw a golden light coming from above. The stone here was not dark gray and opaque as it had been outside. It was like blackened crystal, or burnt honey, and the edges were as sharp as knives.

  At a landing, they halted. A room lay ahead. From it came the source of the light, a beautiful golden siraj that spun at the center of the room.

  Nasim stepped inside, not slowly as he might have in years past, but confidently. He knew who he was, and it gave him a strength of purpose he’d never had before. Sukharam followed closely. He seemed to take heart in Nasim’s stature, for he stood taller, and strode with confidence.

  In the corner they found a layer of black and gray animal hides—wolves, Nasim thought—with a woman lying upon them.

  “Sariya,” Nasim said.

  It seemed to take a supreme effort for her to turn her head and gaze upon him with her bright blue eyes. She was covered by a wolf pelt, and there was a dark stain at the center of it. By the fates, she’d bled so much it had leaked through the hide.

  She didn’t speak. Nasim wondered if she could. Her eyes considered Sukharam. She seemed to weigh him, seemed to weigh Nasim’s decision to bring him, and then she came to peace with it, for she looked upon Nasim once more and smiled. It was a smile filled with pain. It was a smile that said she knew what lay in store for her. It was a smile that said she would take what might be offered to her, but also that she would do what she could before she passed beyond these shores.