The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “How?” Nasim asked as he kneeled by her side.

  “I was betrayed,” she said.

  Nasim pulled away the pelt.

  She was naked beneath. Her chest and stomach were smeared with blood, and there, between her breasts, was a wound shaped like a mouth, parted like lips in the release of a gentle sigh. And the flesh inside… Nasim had difficulty looking at it, for it was a deep, deep red. And it was bottomless.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Nasim, holding the wolf pelt, reeled from the sight of the wound, from the pain Sariya must have been experiencing.

  He wanted to drop the pelt and leave her here—he wanted to leave this place and find Muqallad and the Atalayina and finish what he’d come to do—but there was an undeniable feeling of kinship with this woman, a woman he’d never truly met in this life—only in his last. But do not these things last? Do we not take what’s been given from our former lives? Do we not give what we can to the next? He couldn’t turn away from her—no matter that she had tried to deny him on Ghayavand, no matter that she had tried to take his life. They were alike in too many ways, and if she would help him before she passed, he would accept it.

  As he stared at the wound, he wondered how she could have lived so long, but then he felt her connection to the world beyond. It was subtle, and it was foreign to all he had learned about such things. He didn’t know if the spire afforded her a way to do this, but it was clear she was bonded to an elder spirit, but instead of the dhoshahezhan feeding upon her, she was feeding upon it. It was not so different from what the hezhan did with qiram or those afflicted with the wasting, but Sariya had somehow twisted the relationship around.

  If she continued in this way, she would feed upon the hezhan to the point that—just as those struck by the wasting would eventually die—it would be lost forever. Just as Nasim would one day be lost.

  “You cannot take the hezhan,” Nasim said. “I won’t allow it.”

  Sariya smiled, though it was a tremulous thing, and her eyes brimmed with tears and misery. “I will release it before the time comes.”

  “Sukharam is gifted—”

  She was already shaking her head. “It cannot be healed. The blade Ushai used was tainted.”

  “Ushai?” Nasim remembered her, remembered her attempts to join him as he flew toward Ghayavand.

  “She is Maharraht. She found her way to Atiana Vostroma, and from her to me.” Sariya’s smile deepened, though this simple act cost her. “I should have known.”

  “It’s difficult to guess the heart of another.”

  She seemed to consider these words as she pulled the pelt back into place. “Muqallad has arrived on Galahesh. He has the third piece of the Atalayina. And soon he will make them one. And then, Nasim an Khamal, he will have it done.”

  He ignored the use of Khamal’s name in the place of his father. “There is time yet.”

  “There is.” She coughed, a wet and sickening thing. “You must find him—this much is clear—but you will not go alone.”

  Nasim glanced down at the bloody pelt. “Stop. You’re too weak.”

  “I will join you.”

  “You can’t even stand.”

  She glanced above her, indicating the spire itself. “The tide has finally started to turn. I am gaining strength. I will be able to join you when the time is right.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “It will begin on tomorrow’s eve.”

  Tomorrow was Abistan, the day Iteh had been given his harp by the fates. Given that Muqallad had performed his last ritual on the autumnal equinox, it made sense that he would choose another important day to make the Atalayina whole.

  “You know where he is?”

  “Neh,” Sariya said.

  “Then how are we to stop him?”

  “Because I know where he will be.”

  Hours later, Nasim pulled on the oars of the boat. The freezing water sprayed against him as the boat rocked up and down, plowing through the waves. On either side of the boat, the walls of two massive white cliffs rose. They were strong and imposing, but there was a note of fragility, as if a part of them might shear off at any moment and come crashing down on top of them.

  Sukharam sat at the rear of the craft. His arms were wide and his eyes were closed. He was open to the churning waves funneling through straits. He was bonded with a jalaqiram, which he used to quell the waves, but not to any great degree; they could not afford to be capsized, but neither could they afford to be seen or sensed.

  Sariya lay wrapped in blankets at the bottom of the boat. She looked weak, and white, but she insisted that she be allowed to remain where she was. “Concentrate on the waves,” she’d said as they started. “Concentrate on the tide.”

  If all went well, they would be able to study the Spar for any signs of Muqallad or the Maharraht, for this was the place, Sariya was sure, that they would come. To the Spar. No other place afforded such a confluence of the aether. No other place was such a wellspring of power save Ghayavand, but there the spells that still stood would prevent the Atalayina from doing as Muqallad wished.

  It would be here, but Muqallad would have prepared for them. They had to be careful.

  They made slow progress, Nasim pulling at the oars, Sukharam quelling the waves, and Sariya using her bonded elder to cover their approach. There were no boats in the straits this day. The conflict was still too tense for trade to flow, and what there was would be moved along the Spar, not shuttled down to the water by the mule-driven lifts.

  Nasim had seen the Spar once, years ago, when the building of it had just begun. He remembered thinking how foolish it seemed to attempt such a thing, that the Kamarisi would most likely abandon the plan once he realized how much it would sap the Empire. Now he knew that the Kamarisi had been in thrall to Sariya, and the completion of the bridge had never been in doubt.

  It was more grand than Nasim could ever have imagined: as tall as the broad white cliffs of the straits, arch after magnificent arch towering up from the waves and holding the bridge as straight as the flight of a kingfisher.

  “It is there,” Sariya said, looking up toward the center of the Spar. “When the sun goes down, he will come.”

  “Why not simply alert the Kamarisi?”

  “Because the Kamarisi cannot help. Muqallad has had spies in Baressa for years, many I have yet to root out. If there is any chance Muqallad will have warning of our approach, it is a chance we cannot take.”

  They continued on in tense silence and after a long stretch of rowing came to a shallow inlet. At the end of it was a rocky beach.

  “There,” Sariya said, pointing toward a large set of boulders, most of them caked in ice from the spray of the waves.

  They landed the boat and approached the boulders, beyond which, Sariya said, lay the entrance to the tunnels that ran through the cliffs. The boulders were large, and their faces tricky to climb with the ice, forcing them to go slowly. Sariya grimaced as she climbed, even with their help.

  But at last they reached the top and found an easy climb down to the tunnel. It was dark and cold, but they carried small siraj stones to light their way. They walked for what felt like hours, though Nasim was sure it was little more than one. Somehow the closeness of the walls and the uncertainty about what lay ahead made time seem to slow.

  As they continued upward, Nasim sensed a faint presence. It took him a while to place it, but eventually he knew that the akhoz were here—somewhere far above him, and ahead.

  He was reminded of the tunnels in Shirvozeh, the village near Alayazhar. He felt as if he’d once again entered Muqallad’s demesne, as if he was granting him the upper hand before they’d even met on this island so far away from that other place.

  Nasim felt dizzy. He became aware of Sariya’s breathing, of Sukharam’s trek up the slick stone. He became aware of the earth and stone surrounding them. It felt oppressive as it never had before. He wondered what would happen to it if Muqallad had his way. Would
Erahm itself be gone? Or would it simply be wiped clean of the souls that inhabited it? And what of Adhiya? When the aether was lost, would the two worlds become one? Or would they be permanently divided from one another like ships lost in the wind?

  He had often wondered what it would be like to bring about an age of enlightenment. Khamal had tried with Muqallad and Sariya. They had failed, but might they not have learned from this? Might they not still succeed?

  It was a noble goal, Nasim thought. A noble goal, indeed.

  When they came to a large cavern, Nasim recognized the constellation that had been worked into the stone of the floor—Almadn, her amphora cradled as she dipped it into the spring of life. It was lit by a bright shaft of light that came down through an opening somewhere along the cliffs.

  Nasim reached the center of the room. He stood upon the constellation and looked up, blinking, his thoughts suddenly confused and wild and directionless.

  He turned and looked to Sariya, who favored her left side but otherwise seemed unaffected by her wound. He looked to Sukharam, who was staring at him with a look of confusion, as if he too were questioning those things he had been certain of only moments ago.

  Nasim thought back quickly, wondering how Sariya could have done this. He realized in a moment what he should have known immediately. The spire in the forest vale. The interior was hollow. The entire structure was a tower—another manifestation of her tower in Alayazhar. It was Sariya’s haven, her source of power and strength.

  Sariya met his eye. She still had a look of pain—the wound, at least, had been real—but there was a look of triumph as well, and a clear note of sadness, as if she’d hoped things wouldn’t have come this far, or that she and Muqallad might have found another way.

  Neh, Nasim said to himself. She wasn’t sad over what had come before, but that which had yet to come.

  Nasim heard footsteps approaching from one of the other tunnels. He turned and saw the shapes of forms in the darkness. As their images brightened from the shaft of light, Nasim’s breath caught in his throat. The sound was sharp, guttural, and it echoed about the cavern like the sound of chittering laughter.

  Muqallad strode forward and into the wide space. Near his side, only a step behind, was Kaleh, and behind her were the akhoz, three or four or more—Nasim couldn’t tell; his eyes were drawn to Muqallad’s, and the two of them stared at one another for a good long while. Nasim remembered staring into those eyes many times before. These were Khamal’s memories, but at that moment they felt so much like his that he started to wonder who he was, and where. This place might be on Ghayavand. It might be on Galahesh. It might be in the desert wastes of the Gaji, where he and Sariya and Muqallad had traveled together to first find the Atalayina and then unlock its secrets.

  He didn’t know who he was anymore, nor when he’d come to this place or why.

  “Have you found the final piece?” Sariya asked.

  He knew this was the third piece of the Atalayina, but he couldn’t remember when it had been lost, or who had taken it.

  “We will have it soon.” As Muqallad spoke these words, he held his hand out and looked to Nasim.

  It was a beckon, a summons, and Nasim knew that if he stepped forward and accepted his hand, he will have given up all he had striven for, all he had fought for since regaining himself in the keep of Oshtoyets.

  “Nasim, stop!” This came from Sukharam, a boy he hardly knew.

  He paused, his breath coming rapidly, his pulse beating heavily along his neck. He swallowed once. Twice.

  “Nasim!” Sukharam called again. “Listen to me! You cannot do this!”

  And then he stepped forward.

  And took Muqallad’s hand.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Nikandr woke as a hand shook his shoulder.

  He blinked as the sounds of the wind and the feel of his weight upon the deck returned to him.

  He stood before the Yarost’s starward mainmast, his arms hanging at his sides. Every part of him felt as if it were weighted with lead.

  Anahid stood beside him, and after long moments he realized she had been the one who had touched his shoulder.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Off course,” she replied. Her face was dour, as if he had disappointed her in some way, perhaps because he was not Jahalan. “If you can find the strength, another day will see us to land, and then we can begin skirting it eastward.”

  “I don’t know if I can stand another day.”

  “You will, son of Iaros, or we’ll never reach Yrstanla.”

  Nikandr took a deep breath. He stretched his jaw. He shook his head until his neck hurt. But none of it managed to drive away the sleep.

  Anahid evaluated him with a long, searching look.

  “I’ll make it.”

  She looked doubtful. She appeared tired as well, exhausted even, but there was grim determination in her eyes. How the Aramahn managed to stay awake for such long periods, he would never know. “The winds will be stronger today as we reach the edge of the storms.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The tightness in my chest is finally leaving. I first felt it on our way across the neck, and it has been with me ever since.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Nikandr replied.

  “See that you are,” she said, nodding over his shoulder.

  He turned sluggishly and found Styophan approaching with a steaming mug in his hand. Nikandr accepted it gratefully. It was filled with pyen, a tea that contained the fermented bark of a tree that grew in the lowland swamps of many of the Grand Duchy’s islands. They’d found it in the physic’s chest in the galley.

  He took one large swallow. The scalding liquid burned its way down his throat, but he didn’t care. The pain served to wake him up, and the sooner he got the liquid into his gut, the better.

  He was nearly ready to begin calling on his havahezhan when something caught his eye far out to sea. He moved to the windward gunwales and steadied himself while drinking his pyen. His eyes refused to remain steady, however, and no matter how forcefully he tried to remain awake, his eyes began to close.

  And then it came again.

  “Do you see it?” he asked Styophan when he stepped up to the gunwales at his side.

  “What?”

  “The darkness against the sea. Three leagues out”—he held his arm straight out—“there.”

  Styophan stared. “Nyet.”

  After downing the last of his drink, Nikandr used his spyglass to watch for minutes more, but it never recurred. He didn’t like it, though. It was dangerous to fly so close to the sea. Any loss in lift or an unforeseen gust might drive you down on top of the waves, so Landed windships rarely did so, but the Maharraht would often fly this way because it made them more difficult to spot against the dark sea. Many of their ships’ sails were dyed gray to add to the effect.

  In the end, there was nothing he could do about it. Even if he’d wanted to, there was no way he’d be able to catch up to the ship. He’d be lucky to bring them safely to the shores of Yrstanla.

  “Son of Iaros?”

  “Coming, Anahid.”

  He returned to the mainmast and drew once more upon the wind, using it to guide the ship and her sails. As he had for the past seven days, he drove them onward, fighting the prevailing winds. Their only saving grace was that though the winds were normally unpredictable over the Sea of Khurkhan, they were generally heading northwest—an oddity he could only assume was due to the storms centered on the Vostroman archipelago—so all he need do was correct so that they were headed due north.

  Were Jahalan with them, the two of them could have traded time at the mainmast.

  But Jahalan wasn’t…

  The image of his old friend often played through his mind when he was at his weakest. It did so now, haunting him as he fought to keep the ship headed in the right direction. Tears welled up in his eyes as snow began to fall, but he blinked them away and bent his will to the task ah
ead.

  At least, he thought grimly, the memories of Jahalan were keeping him awake.

  Past midday a fog rolled across the sea, dropping visibility to little more than an eighth-league.

  “Keep close watch,” Nikandr ordered Jonis, a sharp young officer who’d proven to have excellent eyes.

  They moved slower, partially because of the fog but also because Nikandr was nearing exhaustion. He found it progressively more difficult to commune with his spirit. It was not only growing tired, its demands upon him were also growing. Nikandr could feel his heart beat heavily, could feel it skip and his breath grow short if he drew upon the winds too fiercely. And the winds were starting to shift against them. They eddied for several hours past midday and then began to push against the ship head-on, stunting their progress. The best Nikandr could do was to slip northwestward as the wind tried to push them east. If the winds picked up any further, they would be lost, and the ship would be pulled back over the heart of the sea, and if that happened, there would be no returning.

  Nikandr drank more pyen, but it was having so little effect that he asked Styophan to bring him the last of it. He took the final pinch and packed it between his cheek and gums.

  He began to shake after this, and yet he felt no less tired. Then again, maybe he would have simply collapsed if he hadn’t taken it.

  An hour later, he leaned his head against the mainmast, his eyes closing of their own accord.

  He woke, only vaguely realizing that Styophan was holding him up.

  “Not yet,” Styophan said, rolling Nikandr’s shoulders to try to get his blood moving again. “We’re nearly there.”

  “I can’t,” he said, but the words were so soft he barely heard them. “I can’t.”

  “You can, My Lord.”

  When Nikandr didn’t respond, Styophan pressed him up against the mainmast and struck him across the cheek. Nikandr barely felt it.