To the Towers of Tulandan
Page 5
She stood and stared at her opened hands.
By the fates above, what had she become?
She sullied her sister’s name. She sullied everything she’d ever believed in. But she would do so no longer.
Soroush would find Ashan. He would take Nasim back, for his plans hinged on that boy. What Soroush would do with him she didn’t yet understand, but she knew she couldn’t allow it.
She would never be able to repair the damage she’d caused, but she could protect Nasim. That, at least, she could do.
So she stood and made her way toward Kirishci.
As the wind gusted across the blue of open sea, Khadija bid the dhoshahezhan, the spirit of life to which she was bonded, to lift the skiff higher in the sky. Hours before dawn she had stolen the skiff from the island’s large eyrie built into the tall cliffs to the east of Kirishci. It was not a simple matter, but there were many to choose from among the dozen ships that had been berthed there. It had simply been a matter of watching and judging them carefully, choosing the one tied to the ship least guarded.
With the morning sun now high in the east, she was well out to sea. Rhavanki’s northernmost islands lay southeast of her, little more than a series of dark smudges on the horizon. She was headed west. Ashan might have taken a skiff as she had, but more than likely he had stowed aboard one of the Landed ships for another duchy. With Nasim as unpredictable as he was, Ashan would want some protection, and that meant he would hide in the relative anonymity that could be found in the holds of the Grand Duchy’s ships. Khadija had learned that the only ship departing today was headed west toward the Duchy of Khalakovo, and so she had followed, sure that Soroush would as well.
Sure enough, near midday she saw a ponderous ship flying high, catching the best winds as the havaqiram aboard it guided the ship on the kapitan’s chosen course, just as Khadija was doing now with the sail of her single-masted skiff. The ship was large, a twelve-masted barque from the look of it. Three masts ran up from the deck, three more to the landward and windward sides, and three more down toward the sea. It was large enough that it would be fitted with two, perhaps even three cannons—any more than that and the heavy iron would throw off the delicate balance needed to guide the ship along the ley lines.
Khadija drew further upon her bonded havahezhan, gathering the winds to bring her closer, and while she did she scanned the horizon carefully, looking for Maharraht ships. She knew Soroush would be coming for Nasim. It was just a matter of the time and place they would choose for their attack.
When she’d come within a league of the ship, she thought perhaps Soroush would wait until after sunset, but then she saw them, three ships flying low near the horizon. Their sails dyed a dark grey, making them more difficult to spot as low as they were flying. They were distant yet, but they were ahead of the barque and on a bearing that would allow them to intercept. Three ships Soroush had brought, and they would be filled with fine windsmen, battle-hardened. The soft merchant vessel ahead wouldn’t stand a chance against them. Not without help.
No sooner had she drawn upon her havahezhan to summon more wind than the very air around her changed. Her skin felt clammy. The sky became overcast, then a mist formed, and soon she was in a fog so thick that she lost sight of the barque ahead.
She used the ship’s last bearing as a guide, and in the still air she could hear orders being called, the ship changing course as they sensed the trap the Maharraht had laid, but she soon realized that she had misjudged the Landed crew. After a few moments she could hear nothing. With attack imminent they would have turned to hand signals to pass orders about the ship. Soon she had lost track of the ship entirely.
Khadija was trying to judge how close the Maharraht ships would be—and wondering whether she’d passed the Landed ship—when she heard a resonant boom roll across the seas. It came from above her skiff, and slightly behind. She gripped the skiff’s mast and used her dhoshahezhan to grant lift to the windwood hull, bringing her higher as more cannon-fire shook the air around her.
The wind was playing games, throwing her skiff about. She knew it was because the Maharraht qiram were foiling those aboard the Landed ship, preventing them from using the wind to maneuver. Soon the barque would be a plum ripe for the picking, and the three Maharraht ships would surround it and slowly pick it apart until it surrendered.
But again the Landed crew surprised her. They were sharp and quick to battle. As two ships resolved in the fog ahead, one of them, a small ten-masted schooner, was dropping down toward the sea, its hull caved open in several places.
Khadija summoned wind to help drive the ship downward faster, but only until it was clear that the ship would strike the waves below. Then she reversed the direction of the wind, buoying the ship so that those onboard would not be killed outright and would stand a chance at survival. For many years she had been a woman used to dealing death, but she would do so no longer, not if it could be helped.
Cannons shook the heavy air, ripping into the hull of the Landed ship. A chained shot streaked in from the clipper and struck the starward foremast a third of the way down its length. The mast snapped, sending the sails and rigging crashing down and fowling many of the windward sails. The ship would be nearly impossible to maneuver; as well as the Landed crew had fought, the outcome was no longer in doubt.
Unless something changed.
Khadija asked herself if she truly wished to do this, to stop Soroush from achieving his goals. But she already knew the answer. As much as anyone, she was responsible for Nasim’s safety.
She stood and gathered the wind about her before leaping over the side of her skiff. She opened her arms wide and used the wind to carry her upward. The clipper loomed larger and larger before her and soon she had wrapped her arms around the seaward mainmast, the one that hung straight down from the ship toward the sea, the one through which an obsidian core ran, catching the ley lines and helping to orient the ship. She called upon her dhoshahezhan and worked against the qiram on the deck above her. She pushed hard, knowing that the other would quickly work against her. The windwood lost some of its buoyancy, and soon it was sinking, sinking toward the grey sea below.
There were shouts from above. Men and women moving into skiffs. But Khadija paid them no mind. She concentrated wholly on the bond she had forged with the spirit of life, working desperately to sap the lift from the windwood. She coughed as she clung to the mast. Using the spirits to drain lift was like losing oneself, and she was pushing so hard she felt as if she were being drawn across the aether to the world beyond.
She grew lightheaded. Her skin began to prickle and tingle as the world around her spun. And still she pushed, for the dhoshaqiram on the deck of the ship was strong indeed. He was refusing to give up, though his brothers and sisters in arms were preparing the ship’s two skiffs.
He might be strong, but Khadija refused to bend. She pushed even harder than before, screaming to stay awake as blackness closed in around her.
She could see now that the ship would crash into the sea. She released her hold on the spirit of life. If she didn’t, it would have consumed her, or she would have passed out and fallen into the sea below to drown.
As the ship continued to drop, she shook her head violently in hopes of clearing her mind. Only as the ship neared the waves was she able to leap free and summon the wind one last time. The wind carried her like a seed in spring toward the skiff she’d left floating in the skies. She was nearly at her limits, and she thought surely she would never make it, but with one last push, she caught the gunwale and hauled herself over it as the wind finally gave out in a sharp gust that sent the skiff twisting and tumbling.
She raised herself up, staring at the remaining Maharraht ship, a wounded schooner, that was being pushed forcefully away by someone on the Landed barque. Khadija looked to that massive ship and thought she could see a boy looking over the side of the ship down at her.
It was Nasim, she knew, but he made no sign of recognition.
He did not wave, nor, she suspected, did he smile. No doubt she was just some oddity that had caught his attention for a moment and nothing more.
The wood of the gunwale exploded next to Khadija.
She jerked back reflexively and scanned to her left.
There, not a hundred strides from where she sat, was a skiff filled with a dozen Maharraht, the ragged tails of their dark turbans fluttering in the wind. One of them had fired a musket at her. Bersuq. And he looked ill pleased that he had missed. He took another loaded musket from one of the other men and sighted along it. Khadija could feel it pointed at her chest. He would not miss again.
But then Soroush laid his hand on the barrel.
Bersuq stared unbelieving at his brother. He seemed ready to disobey, but then he lifted the musket and rested the butt against his thigh, the barrel pointing at the thinning white clouds above.
Khadija ignored him, though. She stared into Soroush’s eyes, and Soroush stared back, not with a look of betrayal, but of consideration, as if he were contemplating, even now, the lessons that had been laid before him this day.
Above, another cannon shot came from the barque toward the retreating ship, and a musket shot was sent down toward them, more warning than threat.
Khadija looked along the gunwale of the barque one last time, but Nasim was gone, and she never did see Ashan. She didn’t care, though. She’d done what she’d set out to do this day, and she hadn’t done it for Ashan’s approval.
As the barque limped on a westerly heading, she guided her skiff quickly eastward, allowing the prevailing winds to help her. The Maharraht did not give chase. And soon she was on her own in the skies, the wind and the setting sun her only company.
It was peaceful, she realized—more peaceful, in fact, than at any time since her sister’s death. This wouldn’t last. Her violent days in the Maharraht would come back to haunt her. As would her inability to support Mirilah when she had most needed it. Khadija was no longer Aramahn, nor was she Maharraht. She was of both, and of neither, and it was these things she would contemplate on her way around the world.
It might take her years to circle the world, but when she did, as she’d decided early that morning, she would go to the place she’d always dreamt of. She would go to the Towers of Tulandan, that place of ancient knowledge. She would learn, and in time, she might even teach.
And for now, that was enough.
About the Author
Bradley P. Beaulieu is the author of The Lays of Anuskaya, a tale that begins in The Winds of Khalakovo, continues in The Straits of Galahesh, and concludes with The Flames of Shadam Khoreh. In addition to being an L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Award winner, Brad’s stories have appeared in various publications, including Realms of Fantasy, Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, Writers of the Future 20, and several anthologies from DAW Books. For more, please visit www.quillings.com.
The adventure begins in The Winds of Khalakovo…
Among inhospitable and unforgiving seas stands Khalakovo, a mountainous archipelago of seven islands, its prominent eyrie stretching a thousand feet into the sky. Serviced by windships bearing goods and dignitaries, Khalakovo’s eyrie stands at the crossroads of world trade. But all is not well in Khalakovo. Conflict has erupted between the ruling Landed, the indigenous Aramahn, and the fanatical Maharraht, and a wasting disease has grown rampant over the past decade. Now, Khalakovo is to play host to the Nine Dukes, a meeting which will weigh heavily upon Khalakovo’s future.
When an elemental spirit attacks an incoming windship, murdering the Grand Duke and his retinue, Prince Nikandr, heir to the scepter of Khalakovo, is tasked with finding the child prodigy believed to be behind the spirit summoning. However, Nikandr discovers that the boy is an autistic savant who may hold the key to lifting the blight that has been sweeping the islands. Can the dukes, thirsty for revenge, be held at bay? Can Khalakovo be saved? The elusive answer drifts upon the Winds of Khalakovo…
The adventure continues in The Straits of Galahesh…
West of the Grand Duchy of Anuskaya lies the Empire of Yrstanla, the Motherland. The Empire has lived at peace with Anuskaya for generations, but with political turmoil brewing and the wasting disease still rampant, opportunists from the mainland have begun to set their sights on the Grand Duchy, seeking to expand their empire.
Five years have passed since Prince Nikandr, heir to the scepter of Khalakovo, was tasked with finding Nasim, the child prodigy behind a deadly summoning that led to a grand clash between the armies of man and elder elemental spirits. Today, that boy has grown into a young man driven to understand his past—and the darkness from which Nikandr awakened him. Nikandr’s lover, Atiana, has become a Matra, casting her spirit forth to explore, influence, and protect the Grand Duchy. But when the Al-Aqim, long thought lost to the past, return to the islands and threaten to bring about indaraqiram—a change that means certain destruction for both the Landed and the Landless—bitter enemies must become allies and stand against the Al-Aqim’s horrific plans.
Can the Grand Duchy be saved? The answer lies hidden within the Straits of Galahesh…
The adventure concludes in The Flames of Shadam Khoreh…
Nearly two years after the harrowing events of The Straits of Galahesh, Atiana and Nikandr continue their long search for Nasim. The clues they find lead them to the desert wastes of the Gaji, where the fabled valley of Shadam Khoreh lies.
But all is not well. War has moved from the islands to the mainland, and the Grand Duchy knows its time may be limited if Yrstanla rallies its forces. Worse, the wasting disease and the rifts grow ever wider, threatening places that once thought themselves safe. The dukes believe their only hope may be to treat with the Haelish warriors to the west of Yrstanla, but Nikandr knows that the key is to find Nasim and a lost artifact known as the Atalayina.
Will Nikandr succeed and close the rifts once and for all? The answer lies deep within the Flames of Shadam Khoreh.
Strata is a stand-alone novella by two Writers of the Future Award winners.
It’s the middle of the twenty-second century. Earth’s oil and gas reserves have been spent, but humankind’s thirst for energy remains unquenched. Vast solar mining platforms circle the upper atmosphere of the sun, drawing power lines up from the stellar interior and tight-beaming the energy back to Earth. For most of the platforms’ teeming masses, life is hard, cramped—and hot. Most dream of a return Earthside, but a two-way ticket wasn’t part of the benefits package, and a Sun-Earth trip doesn’t come cheap.
Kawe Ndechi is luckier than most. He’s a gifted rider—a skimmer pilot who races the surface of the sun’s convection zone—and he needs only two more wins before he lands a ticket home. The only trouble is, Kawe’s spent most of his life on the platforms. He’s seen the misery, and he’s not sure he’s the only one who deserves a chance at returning home.
That makes Smith Pouslon nervous. Smith once raced the tunnels of fire himself, but now he’s a handler, and his rider, Kawe, is proving anything but easy to handle. Kawe’s slipping deeper and deeper into the Movement, but Smith knows that’s a fool’s game. His own foray into the Movement cost him his racing career—and nearly his life—and he doesn’t want Kawe to throw everything away for a revolt that will never succeed.
One sun. Two men. The fate of a million souls.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Also by Bradley P. Beaulieu
Praise for Bradley P. Beaulieu
Dedication
To the Towers of Tulandan
About the Author
The Winds of Khalakovo
The Straits of Galahesh
The Flames of Shadam Khoreh
Strata
ive.