The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  A lantern approached, carried by the ship’s young kapitan. He was followed quickly by several crewmen.

  “Douse the light,” a raucous voice called.

  It was the rook, Vikra, giving Nikandr the answer to the question of who had ordered the lantern to be lit.

  It came mere moments before he passed out.

  Nikandr woke to Syemon, the ship’s pilot, who also served as the physic, hovering over him with a cup of vodka, administering it to him slowly. Nikandr coughed and waved the man away, realizing they’d moved him to the kapitan’s cabin.

  He was beneath a blanket wearing only his small clothes. He tried pulling himself up, but thought better of it when the room started to spin.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Only a few hours. You hit the deck hard, My Lord Prince, but not as hard as you might’ve.”

  Syemon had a wicked scar that ran across his right eye. The color in his eye had gone nearly white, and it unnerved Nikandr. It made him feel as though the old gull could see right into his soul.

  Though the man hardly needed any special insight into Nikandr’s abilities with the wind. The men whispered it in their bunks, and it had been passed through the ranks of Khalakovo, first as rumor and then as legend. No one spoke of it openly, and many of them secretly wanted to be with a kapitan that could control the wind; others were wary of it, claiming it wasn’t right for a Landed man to touch the wind as the Motherless wizards do.

  “Bring Vikra to me.”

  Syemon bowed his head. “Beg pardon, My Lord Prince, but the rook’s gone quiet.”

  Nikandr nodded, pulling himself up in the bunk. The dizziness returned, but not so bad as before. “Then bring Soroush here.”

  “My Lord?”

  “Go on,” Nikandr said, nodding toward the cabin door.

  Syemon left with a deep bow, and while Nikandr sat at the edge of the bunk, clearing his head, he heard the sounds of the men on deck, the kapitan calling to the men, the snap of canvas as a sail caught a whorl in the wind.

  Outside the cabin door, the sounds of boots on the planking approached, and the door opened with a creak and a groan. Syemon stepped aside and allowed two of the streltsi assigned to the ship to half carry, half drag Soroush into the cabin before tossing him to the floor.

  The heavy iron manacles on his arms and legs clinked as he pulled himself off the floor. He wore outer robes of white and inner robes of yellow. His beard was long and unkempt, but other than fresh abrasions along his cheek and jaw, he seemed to be in good health. His turban was gone, however, making him seem lost and alone and frail—qualities Nikandr would never have thought to associate with Soroush. It seemed as though the Aramahn had robbed him of much more than his freedom, but then he stared up at Nikandr, recognition flickered, and his eyes became as cold and piercing as they’d ever been.

  “Remove his manacles,” Nikandr said, pulling one of the two chairs out from the kapitan’s desk and setting it next to Soroush. Syemon hesitated as Nikandr pulled out the other chair and sat in it heavily. “Then leave us.”

  Syemon bent down, though he appeared hesitant to comply until Soroush held out his hands. Syemon unlocked the manacles, then he bowed and ushered the streltsi out, closing the door behind him.

  “Please,” Nikandr said in Anuskayan, motioning to the empty chair.

  Soroush pulled himself up off the floor slowly. He lowered himself to the seat of the chair, wincing as he went; then he leaned back and regarded Nikandr, nostrils flaring, eyes darting, his long hair and beard rolling down his chest.

  For long moments Nikandr could do nothing but stare. He had never truly been alone with Soroush, and it was unnerving, no matter how much he might be in the advantage. This was a man who had orchestrated dozens of deadly attacks on the northern duchies and helped to supply many more in the south. Scores had died at his hands; hundreds had been wounded. And here Nikandr was, sitting in his company as if none of that had ever happened. Nikandr felt the weight of his father on him. He felt like a traitor, as if even speaking to Soroush, no matter the cause, was little more than high treason.

  And yet they shared a very personal connection. Rehada. They had both loved her, and in her own way she had loved them as well, and if this were true, how could they not share a certain bond, tenuous though it may be?

  Soroush must have felt it too, for he was studying Nikandr with something akin to contemplation. Or forbearance. Or mercy. Mercy. As if Nikandr might be spared from the judgment he’d long ago meted out to the Landed.

  Nikandr took from the shelves above the kapitan’s desk a bottle of araq, something he had specifically asked to be placed here for this conversation. He poured two small glasses of the golden red liquid and set one on the desk near Soroush. The other he took back to his seat. He drank a healthy swallow of the bright, sweet liquor, hints of fig and pomegranate washing down his throat. To drink before he’d even formally offered the liquor to the man sitting across from him was considered very rude among the Landless, but Nikandr wanted him to understand the terms under which they were speaking.

  Nikandr held his glass high and nodded toward Soroush’s. Soroush didn’t move, so Nikandr downed the rest of his drink in one swallow, slapped the glass down on the desk, and asked Soroush, “Do you know where I was before you took Nasim from Bolgravya’s ship?” He was referring to the time after Ghayavand, after Nasim had awoken. Grigory had hoped to bring Nasim back as a prize for Zhabyn Vostroma, but before he could the Maharraht had found his ship and whisked Nasim up from the deck.

  “Have you come so far to ask me of Nasim?” His voice was scratchy, but it had the same liquid timbre he remembered.

  “We had just come from Ghayavand. We had bonded—you know this—and together Nasim and I used our bond so that he might be healed, and in doing so heal the rift, just as you were trying to use him to rip it wide.”

  Soroush stared, his eyes hard.

  “I’ve changed since then,” Nikandr continued. “I was sick with the wasting, but then I was healed, and though Nasim was taken away, I still felt him”—he tapped his chest—“here. Ancients willing, I’ll feel him again some day, but until then I’ve taken to the winds, using what Nasim gave me to study the rifts as you once did.”

  At this Soroush’s eyes went wide—only for a moment, but it was there. He looked over Nikandr’s shoulder, to the dark cabin windows, where the wind lightly whined. He looked as though he wanted to ask a question, but he kept his mouth closed, his jaw set.

  “I know more about the rifts than anyone alive, except for perhaps you. Or Nasim or Ashan. I’ve found small ones. Large ones. There are webs of them—so many small threads interconnected that it boggles the mind. Did you know that? That they connect to one another?”

  Soroush took the glass of araq and took a sip.

  “Of course you did. It was why you attacked Duzol instead of Uyadensk. You hoped that by tearing one you would rip open the other, and the others beyond that. Perhaps the whole of the islands would be affected, da?”

  “Tell me what you’re after, son of Iaros, or you can send me back to the hold.”

  “I’ve searched for rifts everywhere. Khalakovo, Vostroma, Mirkotsk, Rhavanki.” He paused. “Even Rafsuhan.”

  And here Soroush’s eyes sharpened. They became deeply distrustful and he sat straighter in his chair, the legs creaking as he did so.

  “Da,” Nikandr said. “There is a rift on Rafsuhan. Already large, and still growing.” He paused again, hoping Soroush’s love for his people would overcome his hatred for Nikandr. “It will grow larger than the one on Uyadensk, Soroush. Much larger. I can feel it already.”

  His hands, still holding the glass in his lap, were shaking. “And you would have me help you?”

  “The rift is already causing sickness among your people. If you take me there, provide for my protection, perhaps we can learn more of it. Perhaps we can close it.”

  “You care nothing about them.”

 
Nikandr stared deeply into his eyes. “You will find it hard to believe, but I do, son of Gatha. But it isn’t merely about the people of Ashdi en Ghat or Siafyan. The rifts are spreading everywhere. Everywhere. Even as far as the Empire. It will not stop on its own. I know this now. Whether you love the Grand Duchy or you hate it, you must realize that if something isn’t done, all of Erahm will suffer.”

  “If the fates will it, then it will be so.”

  “It will not stop here. Adhiya will be next. Or perhaps first. Who knows how these things work?”

  “If the fates will it…” He left the rest of the proverb unsaid.

  “If you believed that, you would never have become Maharraht.”

  Soroush’s jaw clenched. “My people will leave.”

  Nikandr shook his head. “Some may leave, but you have settled in your cities. Many will stay, and they will suffer. And not only that, it will lead to a burden in their next life. And the one after that. You cannot want this for our world.”

  Something in him seemed to break then. He breathed out. His jaw unclenched. His eyes softened. “You will not change them.”

  “Your words are true,” he said in Mahndi, using the Landless phrasing.

  Soroush sat there, looking at his glass, the araq within golden and inviting. But then the wind picked up again, and it drew his attention. He looked up at the ceiling, or perhaps past it to the deck above, and his mood seemed to change. “How were you saved?”

  Nikandr shook his head. “What do you mean?”

  “You fell to the ship. I heard the men talking. How could you have lived?”

  Nikandr thought of lying. He thought of telling him that the havaqiram had harnessed the winds, used them to stop his descent and send him into the ship’s sails. But such a thing felt wrong, and he would have to tell Soroush of his newfound abilities at some point.

  He reached inside his shirt and pulled out his soulstone necklace. He held it up for Soroush to see. “Nasim left me with another gift as well.”

  Soroush stared at the chalcedony stone, shaking his head back and forth ever so slightly.

  “I can touch Adhiya. I can bond with a hezhan.” He twisted the necklace between his fingers, making the stone spin before allowing it to fall against his chest. “I can feel it even now.”

  “You?” He squinted, incredulous. “A qiram?”

  “I do not know what to call it,” Nikandr said, unwilling to place that mantle upon his shoulders.

  He looked down to his araq, then back to the soulstone. Then he stood and whipped the glass down to the corner. The glass shattered, the liquor splattering against the whitewashed wood. “You think I would help you?”

  Nikandr rose to meet him.

  Soroush reached out to snatch Nikandr’s soulstone, but Nikandr grabbed his wrist. Soroush tried again, but he was weak.

  And then his other hand shot to Nikandr’s neck.

  Soroush squeezed as Nikandr fought to pull him away. He finally managed to do so, his fingers raking across Nikandr’s throat, as the streltsi stormed in through the cabin door and grabbed Soroush by the arms.

  “You think I would help you?” He spit on the floor between them. His eyes were crazed. He looked at Nikandr with such hatred, such venom, that if Soroush had been able he would surely have struck Nikandr dead.

  Nikandr nodded to the streltsi. They left with Soroush, closing the door behind them, and as the sounds of their retreat diminished, Nikandr continued to stare at the door, his chest heaving with breath.

  All as the wind outside howled.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Atiana pulls away from the currents of the north. She still feels Nikandr’s stone, bright like a lantern in the fog. He is distant, though, and as she retreats toward Kiravashya, he fades and is lost altogether.

  It was painful to witness his fall and near death, not only because she cares for him deeply, but because she feels going to Rafsuhan—with or without Soroush’s help—is a fool’s errand. But she also understands that Nikandr believes it is the only way to learn more. And, she admits, Nikandr has a way about him of convincing others to follow him, of making them believe he is in the right. If anyone can convince Soroush to help, it will be him.

  Before returning home, she stops roughly halfway. To the east is Khalakovo. To the west, and due north of Vostroma, lies the island of Ghayavand. She’s tried dozens of times to penetrate the shroud that surrounds it. At first it was nearly impossible to even sense. It felt as though there was simply open sea—no land at all to ground her—but eventually she came to sense its boundaries, and then she tried to move beyond them. Each and every time, however, she was rebuffed. There was something—something very strong—that kept her at bay, far from the shores of the island.

  She’d felt something like it once before when the rift on Duzol had been at its widest and Soroush had begun his ritual with Nasim. It felt the same then, as if there were some yawning gash between the worlds that might swallow her whole if she came too close. And yet there was one important difference. Within the keep of Oshtoyets, she was drawn toward the rift. Had she wanted to, she surely could have entered it, and who knew what might have happened then? Ghayavand, on the other hand, prevents her from reaching it. There are seals, guards set to protect it from unwanted eyes. Nikandr thinks this is Nasim’s doing, or at the very least Khamal’s—the arqesh he had once been—but Atiana isn’t so sure. She knows Nasim, knows his scent, and there is not a single trace of him in the wards that stand against her.

  She tries again to enter Ghayavand. She tries harder than she has in the past. Perhaps if she can sense Nasim, she might be able to convince Nikandr to abandon his plans. But it is not to be. She is rebuffed, as she always is, and she retreats exhausted toward home.

  Palotza Galostina is old, the oldest of all the palotzas. She was built and rebuilt over the course of centuries. The drowning chamber lies a hundred yards below the surface of the cold and bitter landscape. It is toward this chamber that she heads, shifting in the aether, watching the twinkling souls of those with whom she has touched stones. Her father. Mileva and Ishkyna. Aunt Katerina. They are all within the palotza’s walls, safe from the elements. But there is something else that attracts her, a shifting of light near the spire, the obsidian tower that she uses to guide the aether as part of her daily regimen.

  She wills herself closer.

  Against a canvas of midnight blue, near the base of the spire, the aether ripples. Lightning strikes the spire’s tip, and it flashes, blinding her momentarily. When her vision clears, she approaches the base. A woman stands there. She wears the dress of an Aramahn, with doeskin boots and long, straight hair.

  Atiana cannot hear—the aether is deadly silent—but she can see the woman’s mouth moving. She is whispering, mumbling, while staring up and down the length of the spire, as if accounting for its dimensions, its history, its power.

  Atiana thinks to assume a rook, to warn the palotza guard, but this woman… There is something about her. Though she hardly seems older than Atiana, she has the look of someone ancient, of someone who long ago came to know the intricacies of the world. Fahroz Bashar al Lilliah possesses some of these same qualities, but even she pales in comparison to this woman.

  The woman is arqesh. Atiana knows this. But for some reason there seems to be little peace within her.

  The woman continues to stare as a storm rages over the island. Lightning strikes again, and she turns her head. She looks toward Atiana, not directly, but close enough that Atiana fears she has been discovered. The woman cannot harm her, and yet she fears for her life just the same.

  Atiana moves quickly toward the closest of their rooks, Zoya. Assuming the rooks is second nature, especially at times like this when she’s lost any sense of her own body. As she slips into the rook’s form, Atiana extends Zoya’s wings, she flexes her talons and inherits her sharp eyes.

  Zoya fights. She caws. She stands upon a golden perch near the base of the palotza’s curving grand
stairwell and struggles to retain herself while pumping her wings and hopping along the length of the perch.

  But Atiana soon wins. After two quick beats of her wings, Atiana launches herself from the perch, flapping and gliding toward the far end of the hall. She lands at the feet of the two streltsi who guard the door.

  “Open it,” she says.

  “At once, Matra.”

  Soon she is out in the driving rain. She flaps hard to gain altitude, to crest the ridge that runs near the palotza grounds, and then she’s off, winging hard toward the spire.

  She hears the rain now, and when lightning strikes, branching in the sky before her, she hears the thunder, feels it in her chest and talons and wings.

  She searches for the woman, but cannot find her.

  She caws, the rook momentarily regaining control as her emotions run high. She regains control and circles the spire. She caws again and again as she searches the grounds frantically.

  In the end, however, she searches in vain.

  The woman is gone.

  The next day, after recovering from her turn in the drowning basin, Atiana took to the halls of Galostina, striding with purpose toward Bahett’s apartments. She thought at first she would take to the palotza’s hidden passages, to keep prying eyes from knowing her business, but the more she thought about it, the more the idea irked her. This was her home, and if she wished to speak with the man she had chosen to marry, she would walk in the open, head held high, and meet him face-to-face.

  At the tall, arched entrance to the wing Bahett and his entire retinue had been given, two Yrstanlan janissaries wearing burgundy coats and tall white turbans bowed their heads. They said not a word, making Atiana wonder what they’d been told. Did they think her little more than his wife already? And if they knew, who else knew? Did Bahett think her some sort of servant? A woman to be beckoned when he willed it?

  She stopped for a moment, and nearly turned around.

  How dare he!

  But she knew she couldn’t turn away. The way in which he’d left the message made her think that perhaps the Kamarisi’s position was not so strong as everyone seemed to think.