The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

Nasim laughed. “You seem to know where I’m going. I wish you’d share it with me.”

  “Are you not here to stop Muqallad?”

  “I suppose I am, though I know not where he is.”

  “He is on the far side of the straits, in Vihrosh, and unless I’m sorely mistaken he will soon move to the Spar.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  They reached the landing at last. Once there, Iaros stopped before the doors and turned to Nasim. “Because the spire of Kiravashya has fallen. Fallen by our own hands.”

  “What?” Nasim shook his head. “You felled it?”

  “Da.”

  “Forgive me, son of Aleksi, but why? You need the spires.”

  There was a glint in Iaros’s eye that made it clear just how fiercely he loved the Grand Duchy. “Their ships were many. Too many. We knew we could not stand against them, so we lured them to the spire, and we brought it down. All of their ships were destroyed in the maelstrom that followed, and in the meanwhile, we had already set sail on seaborne ships toward Galahesh.”

  Nasim shook his head, lamenting the deaths that had been lost in the trap the men of the Grand Duchy had laid, but there was a part of him that was relieved at this turn of events.

  He thought back to the feeling of intent upon the wind. The inhalation. What would happen when the world exhaled, he didn’t know, but he knew it would be terrible, and he knew it would be soon.

  “The only ones that remain are the two here on Galahesh,” Iaros continued. “They stand on opposite ends of this island. On opposite sides of the straits… We came to the island in the hopes of stopping Hakan before the spire could be destroyed, and now it may be too late. But make no mistake”—he reached over and opened both doors, swinging them wide so that Nasim could see the room beyond—“we will try.”

  Inside the room were dozens of people, nearly all of them women. Most were huddled around a set of eight basins at the center of the room. They were positioned like the points of a compass rose. Many of the women were old—around the age of the Duke of Khalakovo—and Nasim realized that these women were not merely Matri, they were by and large the Duchesses, the women with the most experience in the aether. There were some who were younger, however. One he thought he recognized as Atiana, but he soon realized his mistake. It was one of her sisters, Mileva or Ishkyna.

  “So many of them here,” Nasim said breathlessly, beginning to understand just how cunning Iaros had been. “They couldn’t have crossed the seas after the spire had fallen. The seas would have been too dangerous.”

  “Da. The time for hiding in the palotzas of the islands was over. We knew the place to fight was here, where our enemies are.”

  “But if they’re taken… The islands will be defenseless.”

  Nasim was interrupted by a flutter of wings. A rook flew from the stairs behind them and landed on the floor near Iaros’s feet. “We do not shrink from duty. If we are taken, our daughters will take up our cause.”

  From the far side of the room, a servant came toward them, wheeling Saphia Khalakovo before him. Nasim realized with a start—the rook… It was Saphia, and yet here she was, outside of the bitterly cold water in one of the drowning basins.

  The bird flapped up to land on Saphia’s shoulder. Saphia herself was glass-eyed. She did not look to Nasim, nor notice as Iaros took her from the servant and rubbed his hand along her shoulder affectionately.

  “We have come to it,” the rook said. “We need you, Nasim.”

  “I—I had not thought to find help.”

  “And yet here it is. Muqallad has come. The Kamarisi holds the Spar, at least for now. And unless I’m mistaken, he has all the pieces of the Atalayina.” The rook turned its head toward the basins and clucked twice. “We move against Sariya, but we need you to stop Muqallad.”

  “I am only one.”

  A voice came from behind Nasim. “You will have help. Have no fear of that.”

  Nasim turned and found no other than Ashan stepping into the room. There was an Aramahn man by his side. It was Majeed Bassam al Haffeh, an aide to Fahroz on Mirashadal, the one who oversaw her burial pyre and the ceremony that followed. His outer robes were violet, his inner robes a deep shade of yellow, not unlike the sun when it set behind thin clouds. Unlike Ashan, there was no hint of humor in his eyes. The cut of his short hair, the set of his jaw, the steel in his eyes, and though he was younger than Ashan by a decade at least, there seemed to lie within him a solemn burden that made him seem much older. It marked him as a serious man, a perfect replacement for Fahroz, no doubt hand chosen by the mahtar herself.

  Ashan watched Nasim with a hint of a smile and a look of relief. Nasim had seen him on Mirashadal only a little more than a week ago, but as Nasim stood there, looking at this man who had tried to find a way to reach him when he was lost, something within him broke. He stepped forward and embraced Ashan like never before.

  Ashan held him tenderly, stroking his hair. “What is this?” he whispered.

  “You’ve done much for me. And what have I done but spurn you in return?”

  “You could not have accepted me then. You had to grow, on your own.”

  “But I caused you so much pain. I’ve caused pain in so many. They died because of me, Ashan. They died because I refused to learn from you, and then from Fahroz.”

  Ashan pulled away and looked at him, the familiar smile bringing Nasim back from the edge of despair. “Had you not done what you’ve done, we might never have come this far. Muqallad may have already gained what he wanted most. You cannot decipher what the fates have in store for you, Nasim.”

  “The road is bleak.”

  “Bleak, but not lost.” His smiled widened and he shook Nasim gently. “We will find our way.”

  Majeed had stood several steps behind Ashan, watching this exchange stoically, as if he feared coming too near to Nasim.

  “And what of Mirashadal?” Nasim asked. “Will they not help?”

  Majeed looked to Iaros. Clearly they had discussed this already. “We will not.”

  For a moment Nasim felt weightless. “In the name of the fates, why?”

  “Forgive me for saying it, Nasim, but a grave mistake was made on Duzol.”

  Nasim felt the blood drain from his face. “I was saved on Duzol.”

  Majeed nodded. He stood taller, as if these were words for an errant child who had yet to understand the way of things. “The fates should not be trifled with. Things should have been allowed to take their own course, without our interference.”

  “Many others were saved as well…”

  “And how many might die now?” Majeed glanced to Iaros and the rook again. “If the rifts had been allowed to widen then, there might have been many deaths upon Khalakovo, but we might have avoided that which lies before us. Sariya and Muqallad’s plans might have been dashed before they’d truly begun.”

  “It might have happened sooner had the rifts been torn over Khalakovo.”

  “And it might never have happened. This is my point, Nasim. The fates should be allowed to choose the course of the world. Not me. And not you.”

  “What would Fahroz have done?”

  Majeed’s eyes became harder. “You know better than anyone that Fahroz is no longer with us.”

  Fueled by his anger, Nasim stepped forward and stared eye-to-eye with Majeed. “You would rather I lie down and allow Muqallad to do as he will?”

  “I would rather Muqallad lie down of his own accord, but if he does not, then that is the path the fates have chosen for us.”

  “Erahm may burn.” Nasim was practically shouting.

  “Then perhaps Erahm was in need of cleansing.”

  “Enough,” Iaros said. “I’ve allowed you to stay, Majeed, to observe, but that is all.”

  “Come,” Ashan said to Nasim, guiding him back toward the stairs. “There is much to discuss before night falls and the assault begins.”

  Nasim was not at all sure the duke would allow him to leave
, but Iaros simply nodded.

  As Nasim took to the stairs, this time with Ashan, his heart was working furiously. He had known there were many like Majeed among the Aramahn, but to have them stand aside for something so vital… It didn’t seem right.

  Slowly, his anger cooled, and he realized how strange it felt to walk next to Ashan as an equal. For so long, in those rare moments of lucidity, he had felt as if Ashan were his savior—neh, his creator—and it had taken years for him to disabuse himself of the notion. It wasn’t because Ashan wasn’t deserving of honor and praise for stealing him away from the Maharraht; it was that Nasim couldn’t allow himself to place Ashan on such a pedestal. He was a man, like any other, and just as susceptible to weakness.

  Perhaps Majeed had the right of it, Nasim thought. Perhaps he should step aside and allow the fates to play out these next series of moves.

  Only… It felt so wrong… It felt as though laying his will aside was not what the fates wanted. Were they not given the ability to reason, the ability to choose, for a purpose? Had not the fates given up some of their power over man when they did this?

  And that was the trouble, he thought. No one knew, certainly not him. The fates were inscrutable, leaving him as powerless as a chunk of ice in the floes of spring.

  They reached the top of the stairs and stepped outside the squat building and onto the grounds of the bazaar. Ashan looked to the akhoz, who still huddled only a hundred paces away.

  Ashan regarded them. Without turning to Nasim, he said, “Much has happened.”

  “It has,” Nasim said, “and one day—”

  Nasim didn’t finish, for just then a light lit the northern sky. A column of bright, roiling fire shot upward like an arrow to the layer of clouds high above Galahesh. He knew what it was immediately. He’d seen the same thing on the shores of Rafsuhan.

  Muqallad was fusing the Atalayina. The stone was now being made whole, and all that stood between Muqallad and his goals was a short journey to the Spar.

  “We must hurry,” Nasim said.

  Ashan smiled sadly, revealing his crooked teeth. “This I know, Nasim. This I know.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  With the new moon shedding the barest amount of light, Nasim and Ashan and a full sotni of streltsi—a veteran group chosen by Iaros Khalakovo himself—hid in the remains of two buildings ruined by cannon fire.

  Only minutes ago, a skirmish with the Kamarisi’s forces had died down. The janissaries had retreated further into the city, and Nasim now watched for any glint of light, any shift of shadow, as did the streltsi, who had their muskets resting on the upturned heads of their axes.

  A flapping of wings came down the street from a darkened alley.

  Two musket shots rang out, echoing among the buildings, and by the flash emitted by the muskets Nasim could see the crouched soldiers pointing their muskets skyward and the rook flapping above them.

  Nasim cringed as a dozen shots rang out around him in rapid sequence. The acrid smell of the gunpowder filled the air, irritating his nose.

  “Go,” the sotnik called, and two dozen men stormed over the broken wall and ran down the street, their muskets at the ready.

  As the streltsi stalked forward, a cluster of bright white flashes marked their progress. A handful of shots were returned from the opposite side of the street, more of the enemy lying in wait.

  The soldiers of Yrstanla had been wily. Twice the streltsi of Anuskaya had nearly been caught between retreating men and an ambush force that lay in wait. But their enemy hadn’t counted on the akhoz, nor the speed at which reinforcements could be called in. The Matri had been deadly efficient up to this point, coordinating the movement of the streltsi and the hussars to the position they were needed, and from a direction that would best exploit the enemy’s weaknesses. And so they had made steady progress, marching forward through the city, compressing the forces of the Kamarisi step by step.

  But there was no time to waste. Muqallad had fused the Atalayina and would now set his sights on the Spar. Up to this point the Kamarisi’s forces had given ground steadily, but Ashan said that these were only delaying tactics. They had given up as much ground as they were going to give. Now the real fighting would begin, and it would be fierce, because they were not so spread out as they once were. There were no longer gaps in their lines, and if one was made by force of arms, they would be able to plug it quickly. Plus, with them so tightly packed, the advantages they’d gained from the Matri would be minimized. Soon, the battle would devolve into a chaotic frenzy waged step by bloody step to reach the Spar.

  The unseasonably warm night air grew chaotic from the clatter of reloading muskets. The weather continued to be still—unnaturally still. The last of the spires had been destroyed, and it had left not storms, but a world breathless, as though Erahm were raising its sword before unleashing its fury. Nasim could feel it on his skin—it had started as a tickle, but he had long ago begun to itch, and it was growing as the night progressed.

  With muskets reloaded, all became silence. Minutes later, the caw of a rook came high above them. “At the well ahead, a dozen lie in wait.” It was Saphia. She had been assigned to them especially, though the Matri had warned them that any of the others might speak through the rooks, in case Saphia was hurt.

  For the soldiers, and even Ashan, this meant little—one Matri or another made no difference—but Nasim still was not wholly comfortable having the lone Matra who had tried to assume him so near.

  Another flurry of musket fire came, followed by the urgent calls of men as they waged a quick but fierce battle with swords and axes. Soon it was clear the battle was moving further away. The enemy was in retreat.

  They would wait, however, until the Matri told them it was safe.

  One of the akhoz shuffled closer to Nasim. By the looks of him he had been a young boy when he’d been turned, only eleven or twelve. He would have been promising, indeed, had he been allowed to live.

  The boy ducked his head and scrabbled closer. Nasim reached over and touched the taut skin of his head. The moment he did, a memory came unbidden, a memory of this child, scared and frightened, succumbing to the curse of the akhoz hundreds of years before. Nasim did not welcome many memories of Khamal, but this one he embraced; it was painful, but he accepted the pain gladly, if only to honor the sacrifice this boy had made those many years ago.

  His name was Cyhir, and he had been one of the first.

  His skin burned Nasim’s hand, but Nasim had found that such things were welcome conduits to Adhiya. The way to the world beyond had largely been closed to him since his awakening five years ago. Only through others had he been able to reach it. But now, since Rabiah had saved him on the beach below Alayazhar, he’d found the way to Adhiya still difficult, but more open than ever before.

  He opened himself to the pain in his fingers, a heat that would blister the skin of normal men. His instinct as the heat rose was to pull away, but he forced it to remain in place, for through the pain he could feel the suurahezhan in Adhiya that would heed his call if needed. Beyond the suurahezhan he could feel spirits of the wind. He could smell them in the subtle shifts of the dead night air. He could feel the vanahezhan in the earth he stood upon and the jalahezhan trapped beneath the city. Dhoshahezhan were near as well, though they were the most distant, the most difficult for him to reach.

  Ashan touched his arm. “It is not yet time, and we don’t want to warn Muqallad if it can be avoided.”

  He was right. Nasim lifted his hand from Cyhir reluctantly, savoring the last of the heat as it dissipated.

  The rest of the akhoz were far behind him, spread throughout the city. Try as he might, Nasim was unable to keep them from releasing their chilling calls to the night sky. The smell of blood was upon them, and though they obeyed Nasim’s command to remain, they did so unwillingly, so rather than keep them in one place, Nasim had decided to spread them out so as to confuse the Kamarisi’s forces that had set up a perimeter around the S
par’s southern end.

  Nasim peered through the darkness. He looked up at the bright sliver moon. The night was already well on its way toward sunrise, the likely time Muqallad would begin the ritual.

  “This is taking too long,” Nasim said.

  “Patience,” Ashan said. “There is still time to be patient.”

  He grit his teeth. They waited, longer and longer. He was nearly ready to stand and begin moving on his own if no one else would follow when at last, calls came from the sotnik for his men to pull back, to allow the enemy to flee so as not to be caught off guard.

  He and Ashan moved with the streltsi that had been left to guard them. They treaded down a winding street that led to a large square with a tight cluster of buildings at its center.

  The rook fluttered down and landed near the sotnik’s feet. “Wait here. It will begin soon,” it said before flying off once more.

  The Matra meant the diversion. They would be making a large push to the center and the right flanks of the Kamarisi’s forces. They hoped that it would draw enough men from the left flank that they could sneak through with little to no resistance.

  Deep within Nasim’s chest, he felt his bond to the man he’d been connected to since his awakening. Nikandr. He was somewhere ahead, though exactly where he could not guess. Balancing the pull of Nikandr was the taint of Muqallad’s spell. By the ritual on the stone, he’d been freed from many of its effects, but he was still held back, and he wondered now whether he would ever be free.

  He started at the thundering sound of cannon fire coming from the east. The soft crack of muskets that followed sounded like the sizzle of a pinecone thrown into a fire. It sounded distant and somehow innocent, but he knew that however innocent it might sound, men were dying.

  Near him, Cyhir stopped and sniffed the air. Like a feral animal he strained his neck. Had Nasim not placed a hand on his shoulder he surely would have begun to bray. As it was, he stretched his head one way, then the other, then back again, like a mongrel dog straining at a leash.

  Nasim peered into the darkness of the streets that led out of the square, wondering if the men of Yrstanla were lying in wait. It felt as though a musket were trained on the crown of his head. He scrunched his brow and the feeling faded, but the longer he stayed there, just waiting, the more pronounced it became. He had just succumbed to rubbing his forehead to clear the feeling away when a rook flapped down and landed near his feet. He hadn’t expected one so soon. They had gone no more than three hundred paces from the sight of the short skirmish.