The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya)

by Bradley Beaulieu

  “It isn’t my place to say. The elders will reveal that to you when they’re ready.”

  “So you’ve said, but there must be something you can tell us. Is it to do with Nasim?”

  “I’ve told you, I’ve not seen the boy you speak of.”

  “But the elders might have. Or the others from your village.”

  “Perhaps, and you’ll know that once we arrive.”

  “Then tell me of Kohor.”

  Here Goeh paused. The chill night air rustled the leaves of the acacia above them. “It is a beautiful place. It lies in a wide valley of red sands and black mountains. The sun is bright and hot, but the night brings with it a cold that the skin welcomes. Kohor is ancient. More ancient than Tulandan. More ancient than Alekeşir. It is why the Kamarisi Haman ül Veşe became jealous and razed her to the ground. He couldn’t stand to have a city older than his own.”

  “Kohor has been a part of the Empire for more than four centuries.”

  “Six centuries, daughter of Radia. Six centuries. And she is much, much older than that. Two thousand years ago the first settlement was built. It is a place of learning. A place of sharing.” He motioned to Ushai’s sleeping form on the opposite side of the softly glowing fire. “Ushai’s mother came to Kohor, as do many others, for that is our birthplace—all of us—or near enough to it that it no longer makes a difference.”

  “Ushai has spoken highly of it, but she also said that it’s small.”

  “There are more measures of a settlement’s size than number of people she holds, or the land she occupies. Centuries ago Kohor was a place of high learning.”

  “It is no longer?”

  Goeh remained silent.

  “You’re very secretive, Goeh.”

  When he spoke again, his voice was filled with melancholy. “Had your most precious secrets been ripped from your breast, again and again, you would be secretive too.”

  “But you were sent to us for a reason.”

  “You speak truth, Atiana Radieva, but I’ll not be the one to share our purpose with you. The elders of Kohor will speak with you when we arrive.”

  Atiana paused, choosing her next words carefully. “Surely news of the wasting has reached Kohor.”

  Goeh turned his head toward her, but did not look at her. “We know of it.”

  “Then you also know that time grows short. Disease comes even to the desert if the amount of game we’ve seen is any indication. That jackal we killed the other day was sickly, and I’d be willing to bet the same is true all over the Gaji. Is it not so?”

  “It is.”

  “Then I would think you’d understand how dangerous it is to withhold information from me, from us. We’re here to help. We’re here to find our comrades, and with their help, return to Ghayavand and mend what was torn.”

  She saw Goeh turn to face her, and she suddenly wondered if he could see more than her silhouette in the darkness. “Given what you know about Nasim, about Kaleh, do you think it likely that the elders of Kohor would cast so wide a net and not wish to talk to you about them?”

  “They have seen Nasim.” She knew it was true, and yet she wanted Goeh to tell her of it, to tell her more of the elders’ purpose.

  But Goeh wouldn’t. Not this night, in any case. He merely returned his scrutiny back to the eastern horizon.

  Atiana stood. “Play games if you wish. Just know that you, as much as I or Soroush or Nikandr, hold the fate of the world in your hands.”

  She walked away, but heard him call behind her. “Don’t go far.”

  “I won’t,” she replied.

  She strolled beyond the hill behind which they were camped and took a wide path down to a vale. She went slowly, picking her path among the wiry trees and scrub brush. As she walked, she took out her soulstone and held it in her hand. “Hear me, Ishkyna.”

  Of all the Matri, only Ishkyna could hear her this far away, and it wasn’t merely because she had become more powerful than any of the Matri. It was because she was no longer chained to her mortal shell. Mere days after returning to Vostroma from the battle on Galahesh, Ishkyna’s heart had stopped beating. Everyone including Atiana had thought she had died in that same instant, but shortly after, the gallows crow, the bird Ishkyna had used to return to herself, had started cawing madly. It flapped around the room for the better part of an hour. Slowly, it dawned on her and Mileva and their mother, Radia, that Ishkyna was crying. Except she couldn’t cry. Not really. This was her sister’s lament finding its release in the only way possible—in the flapping wings and ceaseless cawing of this one, sad bird.

  Atiana began to fear that Ishkyna would die when the gallows crow did. It was irrational, she knew—no one could predict how long Ishkyna would live—but there were times when she found herself wanting to have the crow bound and taken and placed in a cage and cared for. There were others when she reckoned Ishkyna had lived beyond the time given to her, and if that were so—if she’d been granted time by the ancients—Atiana would cherish it and defer to their wisdom.

  “Ishkyna, please hear me.”

  She’d done this every night since entering the desert. They had agreed that they would not talk often. As gifted as Ishkyna was, it was still taxing for her to travel so far. Plus, she was needed at the war front. So they’d agreed to speak only every few weeks, but it had now been more than two months since they’d last spoken.

  She gripped her soulstone tighter, and there was a moment when, beneath the smooth surface of the stone, she thought she could feel a presence. Whether it was Ishkyna’s or not she wasn’t sure, but she wanted it to be, for she was desperately lonely. She thought Nikandr’s presence with her in the Gaji would be enough, but the truth was it wasn’t. Nikandr was slipping away from her, and she didn’t know if she had the strength to support both of them, to find Nasim, and to make their way to Ghayavand. Who knew what might happen then? How could they stop the world from tearing itself apart? It all seemed so much bigger than her. Bigger than any of them.

  She heard a rustle ahead, perhaps a bird flapping among the branches of a scrub tree. Perhaps the gallows crow.

  “Ishkyna?” she called softly.

  She gasped when she saw the silhouette of a man wending his way through the trees.

  Something deep inside uncoiled and raged at her to run. To flee. To call for the others. But before she could an acrid odor came on the wind. It was the smell of blood. Burnt blood. In an instant she was borne back to the ritual the Haelish woman had used, and she realized she’d misjudged. This was no man at all. It was the Haelish wodjan who was, for whatever unfathomable reason, aiding the Empire.

  Running would still be the wise thing to do, and yet Atiana found herself rooted. The wodjan had known Atiana would be here. She was headed straight for her, and she seemed to be alone, which meant she’d come for a reason, and Atiana would know what it was.

  “That’s far enough,” Atiana said.

  The wodjan stopped. They stood only ten paces apart. Atiana realized just how tall she was—at least a full head taller than Atiana—making her of a height with Nikandr. She was lithe, but Atiana would not call her thin.

  Atiana looked around the hills, expecting the janissaries to come marching out of the dark at any moment. “Where are the soldiers of Yrstanla?”

  “Near, but they will not find you.” Her accent was thick, and she spoke slowly. Clearly Yrstanlan was still new to her tongue.

  “But you’re here.”

  “Because I wish to be. I’ve led the men of Yrstanla near your path, but not exactly. At least for now.”

  “Are you not their servant?” Atiana asked.

  “Hael will never be the servant of Yrstanla.”

  “Then why have you come?”

  “To give you warning. For all of you, but you most of all.”

  “You make no sense. You’re aiding them.”

  The woman paused. She started to speak several times, but she couldn’t seem to find the right words. “I
brought them because it was needed.”

  “Needed? Why?”

  “The wodjana see many paths in our blood. You know this?”

  The Haelish believed in the fates, as the Aramahn did, but they also believed their wodjana could use rituals to see their own fate. They even believed they could affect their own fates, and the fates of others, if they chose the right paths.

  “I know of it.”

  “The world is in danger, and you hope to fix it.”

  “We do.”

  “And so do we.”

  She said it as if it were explanation enough for what she was doing. But it wasn’t. It didn’t begin to explain.

  “Are you here to help us?”

  “I come to put you on the right path.”

  “Which path?”

  “Our path. Your path. The path of the world. You go to Kohor, you and others, but you will not leave as you came.”

  Atiana felt her blood go cold. The wodjan—her voice, the way she spoke—made Atiana feel as though she’d been caught in something much larger than the two of them. It felt larger than the mere struggle to find Nasim and Kaleh and the Atalayina. It felt as if the decisions she made now, here in this valley in the middle of the desert night, would affect everything, even the fate of the worlds.

  But then she shook herself from it. This was preposterous. She couldn’t trust this woman. She couldn’t. And yet, there seemed to be something in her voice, a confidence that came from a deep-seated truth that was leading her to do this. Either that, Atiana thought, or this woman was a gifted actress, indeed.

  Atiana turned and looked back toward the hill. “I should call to my comrades. I should not let you leave.”

  “Do not.” Something glinted in the night—a knife the wodjan was holding above her head. When she spoke again, her voice was low and dangerous. “I saw you next to me, you know.” When Atiana paused confusedly, the wodjan continued. “In Andakhara. I felt your desire to enter the dreaming world.”

  The aether. She meant the aether. “I hoped to find my sister.”

  “You hoped to enter for yourself. You miss the land of dreams.”

  Atiana saw no reason to deny it. “I miss it very much.”

  The knife twisted in the dark, catching the light of the stars. “You can enter again. I can teach.”

  Atiana took two steps backward without meaning to. The wodjan meant for her to cut herself. To burn her own blood. “I would never.”

  A wicked chuckle came from the wodjan. “Do not be so quick to refuse. It is in you. I can feel it now, burning. I felt it even before I left Hael.”

  “You didn’t know who I was.”

  Again the chuckle came. “How little you know of the Haelish.” She began backing away. “I will return two days from now. Think on this, daughter of dreams. Think on it well.”

  “Wait. What is your name?”

  The woman paused. “My name is Aelwen.” And then she was swallowed by the darkness, and Atiana was alone once more.

  Atiana walked back up to their camp, infinitely colder than she’d been on the way down. Ushai was up, leaning against a rock with her bedroll behind her. She looked bedraggled, her eyes sunken and dark, still recovering from her treatment at the hands of the janissaries. “Who were you speaking to?”

  “No one,” Atiana replied. “I was calling for my sister.”

  For some reason this seemed to amuse Ushai, for she smiled a patronizing smile and said, “Did she answer?”

  “Neh,” Atiana replied. “She did not.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  For eight days did Styophan travel tied to the Haelish litter. He was untied when he needed to relieve himself, but on these occasions Datha and another Haelish warrior would walk with him. They tied a rope around his neck, which they held tightly and removed only when his ankles and wrists had been secured once more. Datha continued to give him water, but for food, at dawn and dusk they allowed him dried meat and berries and nuts with nothing in between.

  He hadn’t seen Anahid or Mikhalai or Rodion or the others since the attack inside Kürad’s yurt, and though he’d asked of them each day, Datha’s only answer was that he would see them when Kürad allowed it.

  “And when will that be?”

  “Who can say?” Datha would reply.

  Styophan came to understand that watching over Styophan was not only a punishment for Datha; it was a self-imposed one as well. He was deeply embarrassed by what had happened to Styophan and his men. His King had betrayed his word to Ranos Khalakovo, but what was worse: Kürad had betrayed his people as well. It wasn’t simply a matter of turning on the men of Anuskaya—men they didn’t know—nor was it a matter of simply betraying their word to the Duke of Khalakovo. They were deeply shamed because they’d betrayed them for their sworn enemy, Yrstanla.

  When night came, Styophan was untied and led toward a clearing where he was forced to help stand up one of the clan’s many yurts. The first few nights he had refused, but Datha had calmly told him that Anahid would pay the price if he refused. With Datha waiting patiently, his anger settled. He had no doubt that Datha would follow through on his threat, so he’d agreed. In setting the poles and helping to lay the skin walls and roof of the yurt that he would sleep in, Styophan came face to face with a dozen other men and women. Each night they’d been different, as if whoever happened to be nearby when camp began would help. He even saw Kürad helping to stand his own yurt some distance away. Their eyes had met in that one instant. Styophan found his fury returning, along with a burning desire to kill, but Kürad only stared back impassively and eventually returned to his work as if Styophan and his anger meant nothing to him.

  Styophan couldn’t help but feel the sense of community among these people. Everyone helped, and everyone seemed skilled at so many things—cooking, weaving, horse handling. Even in hunting the women and older children helped. More than once he’d seen a woman return from a forest with a bow in one hand and a gutted doe balanced across her shoulders.

  The yurts were stood quickly and efficiently, with space for a thousand or more of the Haelish. Styophan was always taken into the one he’d helped pitch. There he would lay for the night, untied. He would often lay awake, thinking of ways to avenge the death of his men, but any thoughts of vengeance were tempered by the fact that twenty Haelish warriors slept with him. Some would remain awake, smoking or talking in low voices while most fell asleep, but Styophan woke many times over the days to find all of them asleep. He might have tried to escape, but he had no idea where Anahid and his men were, and he would not leave them. And so he lay there, fuming, wondering why the ancients had so abandoned him and his cause. He couldn’t help but think of what Datha had said, that the King had allowed him to approach with weapons even knowing he was about to betray Styophan. He had done so because of their strange sense of justness, perhaps reasoning that allowing Styophan freedom to retaliate somehow evened the scales for what they’d done. Styophan wanted to spit, thinking of it, but he kept his face calm. There would come a time when he learned more, and then perhaps he could leave and find the others and somehow forge a path back to Anuskaya.

  He laughed, thinking of how far-fetched that seemed just then.

  Datha, sitting near the entrance smoking a pipe, turned and asked, “What do you find so amusing?”

  “I only wondered if I’ll ever see the shores of Anuskaya again.”

  “One never knows,” he replied, returning his gaze back to stare outside the yurt through the crack made by the entryway’s thick leather flaps. “Sleep. For tomorrow we push early and hard to reach the Place of Kings.”

  Styophan laid his head down, not at all comforted by those words.

  Styophan woke with a shudder.

  He stared wildly about the dark interior of the yurt, not understanding what had woken him. He shivered again when he realized someone was standing over him—a woman, judging from her outline. She beckoned him with her hand and tread carefully between the sleeping m
en until she reached the door. There, she pulled the flap to one side and beckoned again before stepping out into the cold.

  Styophan stood—adjusting the patch over his right eye, which had slid out of place while he was sleeping—and stepped carefully over the men and into the cold night air. Without speaking a word, the woman walked toward the nearby woods, her feet crunching softly on well-trodden snow. He followed, their footsteps becoming more hollow-sounding as they reached deeper, untouched snow. It was dark as they wound their way through the forest, but with the blanket of snow, it was easy to pick out the trees and the lithe form of the tall woman before him.

  When they were out of earshot of the camp, he called to her in Yrstanlan, “Who are you?”

  She did not respond, but merely kept walking.

  He stopped, refusing to be led like this.

  She continued on for a time, but then, when she realized he wouldn’t follow without an answer, she stopped and turned. “I am Elean, queen of this clan. Now come. The night grows short.”

  He remained where he was, but she ignored him, heading deeper into the forest. He thought of returning to the yurt, but that would be a thing done in spite only, and he couldn’t do that, not if there was more to be learned.

  He followed, and soon, far ahead, he saw golden light coming through the trees. When they came closer, he could see a bearskin in the middle of a small clearing with a brass lamp sitting in its center. Elean strode onto the bearskin. Only then, by the light of the lamp, did he realize she was wearing no shoes. He shook his head at the Haelish. Were his shoes taken from him, he would huddle and shiver, as any proper man would, but Elean did none of these things. She seemed completely at ease with the burgeoning winter.

  She motioned for him to step onto the skin. He did so and faced her. He knew she was tall, but it didn’t quite strike him until he stood eye-to-eye with this cruel yet graceful queen. Her eyes, as he’d seen when they’d first met in Kürad’s yurt, were sunken and dark. Her cheeks were drawn. Her appetite would be low by this point. She would keep down perhaps half of every meal she ate.