The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Nikandr struck him again, the sound of it resounding through the deck. On the third strike, Grigory’s eyes went up in his head and his arms went slack.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  Atiana rode behind Sihaş on his pony over a snow-covered plain. After a night that had seemed endless, the sun was rising, and Atiana could see through the morning mist a keep that stood at the edge of the tall white cliffs.

  It brought Atiana no relief whatsoever. They had ridden throughout the night, weaving through the cold streets of Baressa, skirting the Shattering and heading west as quickly as they could manage. They heard sounds of pursuit several times throughout the harrowing ride, but when their pursuers had come too close, the gallows crow had led them safely through danger. Once they had reached the city’s outskirts, they had found the streets not just empty and silent, but eerily so.

  They may have found shelter, but Atiana’s mind was still afire. It was clear that Ishkyna wasn’t completely lost, and yet Atiana knew there was something deeply, deeply wrong. Ishkyna wasn’t acting normally, and she appeared to have risen in power sevenfold. To do what she’d done on the walls of the kasir and throughout the city… Ishkyna could never have done this. She was too undisciplined. Too uninterested in the aether to plumb its depths to such a degree.

  But even Saphia Khalakovo could not have done what Ishkyna had done with apparent ease, as if she were part of the aether.

  Perhaps she was. Atiana couldn’t know for sure, but she doubted Ishkyna had found her body lying in the upper reaches of the kasir.

  Nyet, Ishkyna had changed, perhaps for good.

  As they reached an escarpment and began taking a narrow but gently sloped path down toward the keep, Sihaş glanced back at her. He’d been doing such things ever since there had been enough light. The look in his eyes was not one of distrust, but of judgment. It was a weighing look.

  He doesn’t trust me, she thought. He was wondering whether she should be left so that he could return to the Kamarisi and free his lord. He might come to the conclusion that killing her would be wisest. Her mind went wild with the possibilities, but Sihaş merely turned back and guided their pony onward.

  His thoughts were anything but misguided. Ishkyna had revealed the truth. She had said that Atiana was still under Sariya’s spell, that she’d been under it for some time now—ever since the two of them had communed with one another in the aether—and yet, even knowing this, Atiana wasn’t sure. Ishkyna could be wrong, could she not? Atiana had been so close to Sariya. She had known her mind. Known it fully. As well as she knew her own.

  She shook her head vigorously.

  Had she been doing this all along? She couldn’t remember.

  Sihaş glanced back.

  “I’m fine,” she snapped in Anuskayan.

  His face grew incrementally more grim.

  “I’m fine,” she said, softer, this time in Yrstanlan.

  “You’re troubled.”

  “Of course I’m troubled.”

  “I only mean to say it’s understandable.”

  She didn’t respond, and after a time he cleared his throat. “The Kamarisi. I don’t know how I can reach him.”

  She didn’t know Sihaş well, but she knew him well enough to know that this was a plea for help, for understanding. He was a man of cold steel and hot blood. He knew nothing of the Al-Aqim and the Matri and their powers of the dark.

  Atiana’s attention was caught by movement near the top of the keep. Over the edge of the cliff, carried by the updrafts, was the gallows crow, its wings spread wide, motionless as it glided back and forth. For a moment it seemed like pure joy.

  Atiana hoped it was.

  Sihaş noticed her shift in attention and turned to look.

  “We will speak with her,” Atiana said, “and we will see what can be done for the Kamarisi.”

  They reached the keep, and Sihaş’s men took the ponies. Irkadiy joined Sihaş and Atiana on the second floor of the keep, a room filled with four beds and several old wooden chests. No sooner had they levered the lone window of the room open than the gallows crow flapped to the stones of the sill and rested there, taking in each of them in turn.

  It flapped down to the floor, cawing once, long and lonely.

  “Do not—” The crow cawed several times and pecked at the musty carpeting, kicking up dust to cloud the low sunlight coming in through the window. “Do not speak her name.”

  Atiana felt her fingers tingle, felt her insides twist.

  Do not speak her name. She meant Ishkyna, of course. Her sister was lost, and by the ancients, Atiana was not even allowed to speak her name.

  “The Kamarisi moves to secure the city,” the crow continued.

  “From whom?”

  “The men of Anuskaya have arrived by sea. One hundred sotnik or more, led by Iaros Khalakovo. They’ve brought ponies and cannons; even the hussar have come. They’ve already taken Baressa’s southern quarter, and they’re moving now to secure the Shattering.”

  Sihaş opened his eyes wide. “Ten thousand men…” The look on his face was one of wonder and respect and no small amount of relief. “Perhaps there’s hope yet.”

  Ten thousand, Atiana repeated to herself. It would leave the islands defenseless, not only against the Maharraht, but against the hordes of diseased and dying that were rioting among the cities of Kiravashya and the other islands. Surely Iaros and the other Dukes realized how dangerous it was to leave Vostroma unattended, but this was still a surprise.

  “There is more. The Hratha have arrived as well. They, along with Muqallad and the akhoz, have taken the old keep on the eastern end of Vihrosh.” The bird turned a cold eye on Atiana. “They’re preparing something, and it will happen soon, perhaps today, no later than tonight.”

  “What?” Irkadiy said. “What are they preparing?”

  “They have the third piece of the Atalayina. They will fuse it, or attempt to.”

  “Can we stop them?” Atiana asked.

  “Not by force of men,” the crow said, flapping its wings and craning its neck up toward the ancient wooden beams running along the ceiling. “Bahett’s men, and the Kamarisi’s, have moved to intercept the army of Anuskaya.”

  Upon saying the word Anuskaya, the crow devolved into a slow cawing. It sounded like the wracking cough of an old woman on her deathbed.

  Atiana felt a tear come unbidden to her eye. Dear Ishkyna, to not even be able to speak the name of your homeland…

  “Then how?” Atiana asked sharply, not only to draw back the attention of the crow, but to strengthen her own resolve.

  The crow was silent for a time. It seemed purposefully to be looking away from Atiana.

  “How?” Atiana said, louder.

  “There may be a way.” The crow met her eye with a baleful stare. “I believe Sariya needs you. The wounds inflicted by Ushai in the tower were deep. She is weakened, and can no longer complete the ritual as she planned.”

  Sihaş leaned forward. “What does she—”

  “Silence!” the rook cawed.

  Atiana held her hand up, a request for Sihaş and Irkadiy to remain silent. “What does she plan?” Atiana asked.

  “She and Muqallad will come to the Spar, but she can no longer draw upon the aether as she once did. You can get close to her, for she desires your power. She would use it to do what she cannot.”

  “And if she cannot have me?”

  “Come,” the crow said with some of Ishkyna’s biting tone. “You know better. The noose is tightening. It will be done in a day whether they have you or not.”

  “But if they cannot complete the ritual—”

  “They will still do it in the hopes that indaraqiram can be brought about. But believe me when I say that she would welcome you. I can bring you close, but it is not without danger.”

  Atiana knew the danger well. It was all she’d thought about since riding out from Baressa. If she returned, she would once again fall under Sariya’s spell.

 
“If we can,” the crow continued, “we will deceive her. It is the only way you can come close enough.”

  “Close enough to kill her, you mean.”

  The crow twitched and released a caw that sounded like low laughter. “Is there any other choice?”

  “How, then? How will we find her?”

  “With you in tow, the Kamarisi will welcome Sihaş with open arms. And then he will take you to the Spar.”

  “I don’t like it,” Sihaş said.

  “Nor do I!” echoed Irkadiy. “My Lady Princess, we should go to our countrymen. Let us join the push to take Baressa and the Spar and let Sihaş and his men work from behind the Kamarisi’s lines.”

  Sihaş, his dark brows pinched, glanced aside at Irkadiy. “He may be right. The time may have come to admit that the Kamarisi can no longer be saved, and if that is so, you would be safer with your people.”

  “If you do this”—the feathers along the back of the crow’s neck crested—“any chance to come near to the Al-Aqim will be lost, and mark my words: the battle will never reach them in time.”

  Atiana stood and moved to the window. The cold morning air drifted in through the gaps. She could not see Baressa—it lay hidden behind the ridge—but she could see two columns of smoke rising to the east. No doubt the battle lay there. She wanted nothing more than to go to her people, to return to a place of safety.

  The wind kicked up, rattling the pane momentarily, drawing her attention to the straits. She could see the tall cliffs on the far side and far below the white, churning water. The southern end of the Spar lay hidden by the turn of land, but she could see the northern landing and its elegant, towering arches that defied belief. They looked small from this distance. They seemed less threatening, as if her worries had been born of a dream. It felt—now that the sun was rising—as though her worries would fade, as nightmares do.

  But this was no dream. This was no figment of her imagination to be cast aside like childish fears.

  This was deadly serious, and she could no more abandon her cause than she could abandon her people.

  “I will go to Sariya,” she said at last.

  Irkadiy rose to his feet. “My Lady—”

  “There is no choice,” Atiana said. “If I return, our last, best chance will have been lost. I will go, and I hope you will join me.” This she said to Sihaş. Irkadiy would go with her, she knew, to the ends of the earth.

  Sihaş stood as well. He glanced to the window, and he too seemed to take note of the smoke rising in Baressa.

  But then he met Atiana’s eyes and nodded. “I will go,” he said, “and we will see what can be done.”

  As the men left to prepare, the crow flapped up to the windowsill. Atiana swung the window wide, and the smell of the sea came to her, strong and vibrant. The crow did not leave, however. It shivered for a moment and performed a strange dance, hopping on one foot, and then the other. Atiana could only assume Ishkyna’s control was slipping away now that she was alone with Atiana.

  “There’s one more thing,” the crow said, and cawed several times, low and sad.

  “What?”

  “Your man is come.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Nik—” It cawed again. “Nischka.” Leaning out beyond the sill, the crow dipped its head, pointing westward. “He flies even now.”

  And then the crow leaned out and winged above the tall snowy grass and out over the straits, cawing all the while.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  It felt strange to return to the streets of Baressa so soon after leaving them, but it was a different day, and it felt like a different time. The battle to the south of the city grew and by the time midday had struck, it had grown until it sounded like it had encompassed a good half of the city. She saw no battles, but she could hear it, cannons and the cries of men. She could smell the gunpowder on the wind.

  As transfixed as they were by the battle to the southeast, Atiana often found herself looking westward, toward Nikandr. Part of her wished she had her soulstone, if only to grasp it and to ask the ancients to spare him.

  Sihaş set a course toward the Spar. The streets were nearly empty. Only once in a great while did they see old men or women, or sometimes children, peek at them from behind corners or from the insides of their darkened homes. They came eventually to a line of men who were setting up hastily constructed barricades of rough stone, but Sihaş, showing his ring of office, was allowed to pass with little more than a cross look from the Galaheshi soldier who’d stopped them.

  Shortly after passing, a whistle alerted them. Another four men on ponies waved to Sihaş. They were dressed in the same uniform as Sihaş, red janissary coats with unadorned black turbans, boar tusk cartridges on their bandoliers and gleaming swords at their sides. They rode with an ease that made it clear these were seasoned men, and from the way they greeted Sihaş and the rest of his men, she knew they were part of the Kamarisi’s personal guard. They met and moved further away from the Galaheshi soldiers to speak in peace.

  “Where is the Kamarisi?” Sihaş asked.

  “He left the kasir early this morning with handpicked janissaries. They rode across the bridge and haven’t been seen since.”

  “Then that is where we go.”

  The soldier, a man ten years Sihaş’s senior, smiled and bowed his head. “As you say, My Lord.”

  When they reached the Spar, foot soldiers hailed them. “We were told to find you,” one of them said. He was a heavyset man with a limp, and he stared at them all as if assessing them, as one might an enemy.

  “They know,” Atiana whispered to Sihaş.

  He heard, for she felt him stiffen, but he did not turn his head away from the soldier standing in their way. “Where are they?” Sihaş called to him.

  He pointed to the far side of the straits. The city of Vihrosh, her stone buildings and red-tile roofs, were brightly lit by the noontime sun. “The Kamarisi and the Kaymakam of Galahesh wait for you at the gate to the old city.”

  Sihaş nodded, spurring his pony on.

  The nine of them rode over the bridge, the hooves of their ponies clopping loudly in the relative silence. The smell of the sea grew stronger. The winds blew upward, swirling over the bridge, chilling them as they distanced themselves from the soldiers who eyed their passing with altogether too much interest.

  “I don’t like this,” Atiana said.

  “This is the way to Sariya.”

  “They know we’re coming.”

  “Did you think we could hide from the Al-Aqim forever?”

  They reached the center of the bridge, where two squat stone towers sat, one on either side of the road. There, upon the central keystones, was the marking of blood that Atiana had seen only in the dark of the aether. It was dark brown, almost black. She could feel her nostrils flare, feel her gut churn at the memory of watching her father’s cold-blooded execution.

  Again, as it had so often before, the image of the sword swinging down against his neck came to her. I will avenge you, she said to him, hoping he was near, hoping he could hear her. She could feel the touch of the aether, but could not sense her father. It made her feel as cold as a grave in a long-forgotten cemetery.

  She looked to Irkadiy, who rode behind one of the other men. He nodded, granting her some small amount of strength. She wanted to turn back, to find another way that wouldn’t allow their enemies to take them as they wanted, but she could think of no other path. She had to get to Sariya. She would simply have to trust Ishkyna once they did. She nodded back to Irkadiy, telling him they would go on. He tried to smile, but he managed only a nervous twitching of his lips that reminded her of a much younger man—a callow youth holding a musket for the first time, a soldier new to the cough of the cannon—but then he swallowed, and the look was gone.

  They continued on across the great bridge. Far below, the straits seethed, frothing white. The Spar was wide, but not so wide that Atiana felt safe on a pony with the wind as strong as it was, an
d so she was glad when at last they reached the other side. As they passed, the janissaries that held this side of the Spar merely touched their fingers to their foreheads and bowed, as if news of their arrival had already been passed to every soldier in Galahesh.

  Sihaş guided them through the empty streets of Vihrosh. It was not a large city, however, and they soon came to a gate with tall minarets on either side. The massive iron portcullis was drawn up. Beyond, Atiana could already see dozens, perhaps hundreds of men standing, staring at something Atiana could not yet see from her vantage.

  And then Atiana heard a sound that sent chills along her spine. It was like the braying of an animal, or the fearful crying of a child—a child faced with something they could not comprehend, allowing only the most urgent of fears to burst from their lungs.

  Sihaş stiffened as another call came, this one louder than the first, and nearer.

  “By the ancients,” Atiana said, “I’ve never heard something so tragic.”

  Sihaş said nothing, but she felt him shiver. His pony slowed instinctually, and when Sihaş kicked its flanks, the beast became skittish and began to tug at the bridle.

  As they passed through the gate, the scene beyond the Galaheshi soldiers was revealed. Hundreds of men and women wearing robes of black and gray and umber stood around a hill. These were the Hratha, Atiana knew, the sect of the Maharraht that had overthrown Soroush and his brother, Bersuq. They had been waging a protracted war against her own Duchy, and the Duchies of Bolgravya and Nodhvyansk, for decades.

  And yet, it was not their presence that bothered her most.

  At the top of the hill were dozens of children.

  Nyet, Atiana thought. Not children. She had seen them in the aether, on Ghayavand and Rafsuhan. These were the akhoz, and they were now on Galahesh.

  Sariya stood upon the hill’s summit near a tall post. She was facing the gate as if she had expected them to walk through at that very moment. Hakan ül Ayeşe, the Kamarisi of Yrstanla stood next to her, his face calm, emotionless, barely registering that a princess of Anuskaya and the kapitan of his personal guard had arrived.