The Flames of Shadam Khoreh

by Bradley Beaulieu

  “My men should not have been so forceful.”

  Atiana watched a lone bird wheeling in the distant sky as the prow cut through the waves, waiting for him to get on with it.

  Habram stared toward the horizon. “You came to find Nasim, did you not?”

  “I did.”

  “And now he is gone. Taken from you by the fates. And yet Kaleh is here. As is Sariya.”

  “What of them, Habram of Kohor?”

  He chuckled. “What of them? Do all those who live among the islands ignore the tidings of the fates?”

  “I listen to my ancestors, for they guide me.”

  “And what do they tell you?”

  “They tell me to keep my faith, for it is something that can never be taken from me, and to find a way to heal the world.”

  Habram paused. “Then they are wise. But know this, Atiana of Vostroma, our paths need not cross. We seek the same thing.”

  “And yet you think Sariya will guide you there.”

  “I do. It was written by the fates before the Tashavir ever left Ghayavand.”

  “You were not there on Galahesh. I know her mind, Habram. She wanted the world to end. She wants it still. And if your hope is that she will take the Atalayina and walk to the shoulders of Sihyaan and mend what she and the Al-Aqim tore, then you are gravely mistaken. Worse, you are a fool.”

  “When she came to Kohor,” Habram said without a hint of annoyance in his voice, “she did not at first trust us, as we did not trust her. She took our minds, something I’m told you’re familiar with, and she found where the Tashavir were buried. Only after she’d learned this did she see that some would be loyal to the Al-Aqim. She remained with us for several months, and most of that time was spent in the Vale of Stars. She found something in that place, something that changed her. I could see it in her eyes. I knew it would happen—for such were the prophecies—but it was still wondrous to behold.”

  “That was no prophecy, Habram. That was a twist in history. Nothing more.”

  “What if I were to tell you she found something there that convinced her she could not bring about indaraqiram, that she no longer believed in the path she once followed?”

  Atiana turned toward him and waited until she’d met her gaze. “I would laugh in your face.”

  “And yet you believe that Kaleh can help to heal the rifts?”

  Atiana ran her hands along the stone of the gunwale, brushing away some of the sea salt that had collected there. “Ashan seems to think so.”

  He pursed his lips and then smiled, as if he knew something she didn’t. “I’ll offer you this bargain. Take to the currents of the dark once more. Go to Kaleh. Try to free her. If the fates will it so, she will be yours.”

  “And if Sariya rises instead of Kaleh?”

  Habram’s smile widened, the crow’s-feet along his eyes deepening. “Then we will have our answer, won’t we?”

  Atiana turned back toward the sea. Below the ship, white arms waved like the branches of a willow. “I will try to summon Kaleh from the depths of her mind. And I will try to smother Sariya while doing it. You know this.”

  “I do.”

  “I will kill her if I can, Habram.”

  Habram nodded.

  “I will require the Atalayina.”

  “Of course.”

  As the ship was pulled over a large wave, Atiana’s stomach lurched. She glanced toward the hatch that led down into the hold. “I will not attempt it while we’re at sea. When we reach Ghayavand, I will make preparations.”

  “Very well,” he said, and with that he walked away.

  It left Atiana feeling strange. She was alone here. Alone save for the help of a heathen wodjan.

  Then I’m alone indeed, Atiana thought.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  In a dank cellar filled with five rows of wine tuns, Styophan and Rodion followed the man in brown robes. He was the same one who’d opened the door at Brechan’s knocking the previous night, and he carried a bronze oil lamp in his shaking right hand. The flame wavered as he shuffled along the stone, but at last he stopped at a tun along the far wall. He leaned hard against one corner, and something groaned. It swung away with a thumping creak to reveal the entrance to a tunnel that looked no wider than Styophan’s own backside.

  “You want my men to go into that?” Styophan took the lamp and crouched down, putting the guttering flame of the bronze oil lamp he held near to the hole. It was dry. He could say that much, but it was hardly the width of a man’s shoulders. And who knew what it would be like as they continued on?

  The lanky man—Thirosh was his name—stood a few paces away, stretching his jaw while using one hand to smooth down the stubble on his cheeks and neck. The lines along the sides of his mouth and across his brow deepened as he leaned down and frowned into the tunnel. “Like it or not, that’s the tunnel that’ll take you to Irabahce.”

  “That’s no tunnel,” Rodion said. “That’s a burrow.” He looked at Styophan soberly. “That’s a bloody trap,” he said in Anuskayan.

  Thirosh’s frown deepened even further. “It’s no trap,” he countered in Yrstanlan. “It’ll take you to the tower of wives. Use it if you like.”

  “When’s the last time anyone’s used it?” Styophan asked.

  “I sent my son through early this morning. It took him time, but he says it’s clear.”

  Rodion shook his head. “Clear for ten-year-olds, maybe.”

  “Go or don’t,” Thirosh said, “but if you’re not going it’s best you return to your barges now before the sun comes up.”

  Styophan didn’t like the looks of it. A child might make it through, but his men? How was Mikhalai—broad Mikhalai—going to make it through there? He’d caused enough pain and death on this trip to last a lifetime, but what was he to do? What real choice was there? “We’ll go. Send down the rest.”

  “Well enough.” Thirosh left them, his shoes scraping against the cellar floor as he walked to the stairs.

  The others had been left upstairs in the courtyard until Styophan and Rodion had had a chance to look over the entrance. Two by two, they started coming down. He’d left only three at the barges. Three that had been taken by the wasting in the past few days, men that were already bad enough along that they’d be a liability, not merely from weakness, but from their incessant coughing. With Edik’s death in Avolina, they were now forty-six strong.

  It would have to be enough, Styophan thought. Forty or five hundred, what mattered was that they gained the element of surprise and held off the guards in Irabahce until they could escape with Prince Nikandr and the others.

  With his men gathered, Styophan walked past them, staring each in the eye before moving on to the next. “The janissaries of Irabahce are well trained,” he told them. “They’re hand-picked, some say by the Kamarisi himself. The Kiliç Şaik may be there as well. Fine swordsmen, every one of them. I saw them myself in Hael. But I tell you this. They haven’t seen the likes of Khalakovo. Not on these shores, not within those walls.”

  Some men nodded grimly at this. Others grit their jaws. Others merely stared. But he could tell. They were ready. They were ready to repay Alekeşir for what had happened on Galahesh, for what had happened when the Kamarisi’s ships stormed over the straits and destroyed many of the spires on Vostroma, even for what had happened centuries ago in the war of independence.

  “They will today,” Styophan continued, “for today we go to find our prince. We go to bring him home once more. We go, but the mountain is steep.”

  “Then we climb,” came the refrain.

  “The winds blow!” Styophan called.

  “Then we suffer!”

  “The blade is sharp!” he bellowed.

  “Then we bleed!”

  Styophan slapped his fist to his chest. His men did the same, the sound echoing in the confines of the cellar.

  “Then come! But carefully, men. For we go to shed the blood of Yrstanla.”

  Rodion led th
e way with a hooded lantern no larger than his fist. It had only a few hours of light, but it would bring them to the far side of the tunnel.

  Once Rodion’s legs were lost in the darkness, Styophan entered and began crawling along. He could see Rodion’s outline ahead lit by the small lantern. The air had smelled cool and earthy in the cellar, but here it smelled of minerals. He could taste it on his tongue. He heard those behind him entering the tunnel as he progressed, but with his body so tight against the tunnel he couldn’t so much as look behind to check on them.

  The ancients smiled on them for a time, for the tunnel widened, enough that they could make good progress. But not long after, the tunnel closed in again. There were places where it was so tight they came to an utter halt as first Rodion, then Styophan, then Mikhalai and the rest squeezed their way through. Like an impossibly long earthworm, they stretched and crawled, they tightened and lengthened in strange ways, crawling along their endless hole, bit by bit, coming closer and closer to a place that had never witnessed battle from an outside enemy.

  But they will today, Styophan thought.

  He had hoped that they could storm into the tower and take Nikandr and the rest before anyone was the wiser. But he knew in his heart it wouldn’t be so easy. Swords would be drawn. Lives would be spent.

  Do not fear, My Lord Prince. Your men are coming for you.

  By now Brechan and Datha and the Haelish would be preparing for their push into the city. They’d received robes from Thirosh, enough for all his men. When the time came, they would leave the barge, two by two, three by three, and if the quay master was there to witness it, they would kill him, quick and simple.

  They would weave through the streets by different routes, moving calmly but steadily until they surrounded the dome from which the Kamarisi would speak. Then, when they heard the silence, when they heard the rise of the Kamarisi’s young voice, they would tighten the noose and attack. There would be many men set to protect the Kamarisi, but those men would have no idea what they were up against. The soldiers of Yrstanla would fight, but they would lose, and their Kamarisi would die.

  Styophan didn’t know if their sacrifice would be worth it in the end, but there was little doubt that the address would draw attention away from Irabahce long enough for Styophan to make his way in, somehow find Nikandr, and carve their way out again.

  Ahead, the way sloped down. They crossed a place that was wet and slick, but little more than this. It was easy to slip past, but by the time he did, his janissary’s uniform and the layers beneath were damp, and it started to rob him of warmth.

  Behind him, he heard men coughing. He heard some talking until he passed an order back for silence. He’d told them as much before they’d left the barges, but this was a strange place. The constant darkness made him feel alone, as if this were little more than a grave and the world above had already forgotten about the men who crawled below.

  For hours they continued. Styophan’s shoulders and arms became sore from the slow but constant dragging. He found himself looking forward, hoping to steal a glance ahead to see if they were nearing the end, but he saw only Rodion outlined in golden light, and the few times he did manage to sneak a look, he saw only a glimpse of the tunnel wall, the blackness beyond.

  He resolved himself to creeping forward, gathering himself, creeping forward more, over and over, mindlessly.

  But then Rodion stopped. “I think I see something,” he whispered back. “The tunnel widens a few yards ahead.”

  “Pistol at the ready,” Styophan said.

  Rodion reached into his woolen coat and pulled out his wheellock pistol. Styophan did the same. They passed the word back that the end was near, and then, at word from Styophan, they moved forward as quickly and as silently as they could.

  “Quiet now.”

  The soft voice, clearly a woman’s, called from the end of the tunnel. Surely this was one of the women Thirosh’s son had gotten word to the night before, but Styophan couldn’t shake the feeling it was a trap, that they’d been betrayed before they’d even made it into the tower of wives.

  Rodion left, and at last—it had felt like days in that tunnel!—Styophan crept out and stood. Several paces from Rodion was a tall woman, nearly as tall as Styophan. She had chestnut hair and bright eyes and delicate lips. There was a clear resemblance to some of the women he’d seen in Hael, not the least of whom was Queen Elean, but in the set of her eyes and her strong cheekbones and the color of her skin he could see the women of central Yrstanla.

  “There were to be two,” Styophan noted.

  “I am Nabide. Serin is watching the door to the tower. But come. Only you, or one other. There is a problem.”

  She started to walk away but Styophan grabbed her by the elbow.

  She spun, her eyes afire, and snatched her arm away.

  “What problem?” Styophan asked.

  “Your prince has been taken from the tower.”

  “Where?”

  “Come, and I will show you.”

  Styophan nodded for Rodion to join him. Together they climbed up the nearby stairs. They went up one level to another cellar, but in this one there were windows set into the upper reaches of the stone walls. There was a curving stairwell here that led up into the tower, but Nabide took them instead to a rich oak cabinet built beneath the curving slope of the stairwell. Inside the cabinet was a lantern turned low. She set it to burn higher, and Styophan saw another, hidden stairwell built inside the larger one. It was very tight and he had to twist his shoulders in order to make the climb. He used his hands to guide him, as Nabide did ahead of him, and they went up and up—how many stories Styophan didn’t know—and eventually they came to a balcony that ran around the top of the tower. There was a low parapet to which Nabide crawled. Styophan and Rodion dragged themselves forward with as much care as Nabide had until the entirety of the kasir’s grounds was revealed to them.

  To the south, ahead of their position, was a massive stone building with a white dome and golden statues.

  Rodion’s eyes were wide. He looked breathless, and not from the climb. “Just look at it.”

  Indeed, Styophan thought. This one building was larger than any structure he’d ever seen. It dwarfed anything Volgorod had to offer. Even the State House in Evochka, the largest single building the islands had to offer, would be consumed by this monstrosity. And the embellishments. Golden statues of horses charging, of drakhen rearing, of men with wings and women with shield and sword.

  Beyond the kasir, a variety of towers were spread about the grounds. Most were minarets like the tower of wives, but there was one simple round tower, ancient by the looks of it, as if it among all the buildings of Irabahce had been built first. Beyond the buildings were lawns of green grass, ordered rows of trees, vineyards, mazes, ponds. It was easily ten times the size of Palotza Radiskoye.

  “Look to the red building.”

  Styophan saw it, a squat but wide building made from a stone the color of coral.

  “That is Bahett’s home. From there he conducts the business of the Empire in Selim’s staid.”

  “What of it?”

  “Your prince and another, an Aramahn with a black beard and a ruined ear, were taken there by the Kamarisi’s eunuchs.”

  “Why?”

  “We do not know, but the rest remain in the tower that Brechan told you of.” She pointed to the grey tower. There was a lot of ground between the two buildings, and it was not an easy path. There were walls and buildings between the two.

  “We have some time yet,” Styophan said in Anuskayan. “We’ll wait. If they return, we’ll go as planned, but if not, we’ll divide the men, Rodion. Vasiliy will go to the grey tower, while you and I go to find our prince.”

  “Da,” came Rodion’s reply.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  “I must return, or there will be questions,” Nabide said to Styophan, “but I’ve made arrangements. The cellars will remain safe. One of us will return if we hear that yo
ur prince has been returned to the tower, but do not let midday approach.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Styophan asked.

  She seemed surprised by the question at first, but then her gaze bore into him, and her look became grim. She pointed out to the red building where Nikandr had been taken. “The same reason as you.”

  “You may die.”

  Her smile softened, but her eyes were no less determined. “My entire life has been leading toward this one moment.”

  Styophan saw in her the fierce resolve that he’d seen on the battlefield many times. She would most likely die when all was said and done, but she didn’t care. Her mind was on her people—the people of Hael, no matter that she had the blood of Yrstanla running through her veins.

  Styophan nodded to her, and she nodded back.

  “Go with her,” Styophan said to Rodion. “Tell them what’s happened, and prepare them.” He pointed out to the kasir grounds. “Break them into two, thirty with you and the rest for Vasiliy. Explain the lay of the grounds to all of them, especially the stables there.” He pointed to the long wooden structure to the west of the kasir grounds. “We’ll meet there when we have what we’ve come for.”

  Rodion nodded soberly. “We’ll be ready.” And then he and Nabide took the stairwell down.

  Styophan waited as the sun rose and Kasir Irabahce came to life. Servants moved about the grounds and among the buildings. It was a hive of activity, surely due to the celebration planned for the Kamarisi’s return. These men and women were going on their way, oblivious to the fact that the Kamarisi would most likely never return to the kasir.

  Styophan was well aware of the fact that the time for the Kamarisi’s address was fast approaching. He could see, far to his left, the dome where Brechan and Datha and the rest of the Haelish men would descend.

  “Come, My Prince,” Styophan whispered to the chill morning air.

  But he did not, and it was less than an hour until the Kamarisi would speak. Perhaps Nikandr was being held so that Bahett could interrogate him or arrange for Nikandr’s ransom with the forces of Anuskaya. Why Soroush had been brought as well he had no idea, but it was clear Nikandr wouldn’t be returning to the tower.