The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  On a wide street with tall iron fences on either side, the rook flapped down and landed on his shoulder again.

  “What realities?” Nikandr said.

  “My father, for one. He wants you where you shine the most—at the helm of a ship, commanding other ships.”

  “He doesn’t think I shine. And he doesn’t command me, Atiana.”

  “He is the Grand Duke.”

  “I know this well.”

  The rook flapped to keep its balance as he took a short set of stairs between two tall stone houses. “Your father agrees with him. He wants you home.”

  “A home that is threatened.”

  The rook paused as the wind blew through the narrow walkway. “There’s no need to be cold, Nikandr. You know I agree.”

  “Then help me.”

  “I do.”

  “I need more.”

  “That’s why I’ve come.” The rook paused, and then took wing. It flew north, away from the inn where Nikandr had taken a room.

  The way she’d said those words… That’s why I’ve come… Almost as if she were standing right beside him.

  He walked down the street. The buildings became homes with proper lawns, and then they became manors. When Nikandr reached the final bend in the road, he looked up and saw that the road led to a keep that had been converted into a boarding house. He knew this place. It was old, one of the few places outside the palotzas and the proper keeps of Mirkotsk that held a drowning chamber beneath the structure’s lone turret.

  As he climbed the hill, he could see a room on the third floor. A lamp was lit within, and he could see a silhouette standing at the window. It was a silhouette he hadn’t seen for months, but as he looked upon it, a sudden sense of relief and anticipation swept over him.

  When he reached the keep, the heavy service door set into the old wooden gate creaked open before he could knock. A squinting woman with a bullseye lantern leaned outside and eyed Nikandr while shining the lamp up and down his frame. After a grunt and a look of disapproval, she waved him inside and led him up to the keep’s third floor.

  Atiana, wearing a lush red robe, was still toweling her hair when he entered the room. The old woman remained, awkwardly watching this exchange. Atiana shooed her away and shut the door, nearly catching the lantern in it. After a humph, the woman’s shuffling footsteps picked up and faded away, leaving Nikandr alone with Atiana at last.

  Atiana stepped in and gave him a tender hug. She didn’t exactly approve of what he’d been doing with his newfound abilities—finding those afflicted with the wasting and healing them—but she was setting that aside for him.

  For his part, he was drained emotionally. He hardly knew what to feel. All he knew was that holding her now was like basking in the summer sun. He pulled her close, feeling her skin, which was chilled to the bone. He could smell the earthy smell of the rendered goat fat that would have protected her skin while she was submerged beneath the water. He could also smell the jasmine perfume she liked to wear.

  The emotions that had been roiling through him since leaving Mirketta had been with him until now, but the truth was that he was so glad she was here that he felt nothing but relief and the deep connection he and Atiana shared. Their love had started on Uyadensk, when they were to be married, but it had grown since they’d parted after the ritual on Oshtoyets. They’d seen one another several times a year since then, and each time, he found that his feelings for her had grown since the last time they’d held one another in their arms, since they’d last kissed, since they’d last made love.

  “Why have you come so far?” he asked.

  She stepped back, staring into his eyes, perhaps to judge his sincerity. “If you think I would let a year pass without seeing you, Nikandr Iaroslov”—she stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the neck—“you are sadly mistaken.”

  He looked down at her, her porcelain skin and her bright eyes. Her hair fell down her shoulders and back, making her look more primal than he had ever seen her. She looked nothing like a princess.

  She took a step back with a beckoning look.

  He reached for her and she stepped away.

  He didn’t want to smile, and yet he did. He stepped forward, and she slid back, never taking her eyes from him.

  She moved one hand down to the sash that kept her robe in place.

  He pulled at his cherkesska, allowing it to fall from his shoulders as her robe slipped from hers.

  He stepped toward her, and when she tried to dance away, he grabbed her wrist. She fought him, tugging, trying to make him lose his grip. She twisted her arm, crouched down, until he pulled her hard and brought her body up against his.

  She embraced him then, her lips locking on his. Her skin was freezing to the touch, but she moved as though she were on fire, kissing his neck and chest, biting his ears and lips.

  She pulled the clothes from him, never allowing his skin to go without her lips, her tongue, her teeth.

  They fell upon the bed, the frame creaking.

  She threw him back, pulling the last of his clothes from him and straddling his waist as she leaned forward, chest to chest.

  She felt warmer now, and he could feel her heartbeat rising with his.

  She slipped one hand between his legs and massaged him as he ran his hands over her shoulders, her back, her breasts.

  And then he was inside her. She rode him, slowly at first but all too quickly—the two of them heaving breath in time with the other, bed moaning, headboard thumping against the wall—they fell into one another’s arms as they rode the wave with one another. He shuddered and felt her constrict around him, over and over again.

  They stayed in one another’s arms for long hours after that. Both of them knew that there were things that needed to be discussed, but neither wanted to discuss them. Not in the dark of the night.

  The morning, Nikandr thought.

  Morning is the time for sharing secrets.

  “I’ve found Soroush.”

  Nikandr opened his eyes, unsure who had spoken those words. He looked down to the floor, to the robe and his cherkesska lying there.

  “You what?” He rolled over to find her sitting up against the headboard.

  “I’ve found him,” she said again, her face serious.

  He sat up carefully.

  “You didn’t want me to go after him.”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “I don’t.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because you think it’s important.”

  Nikandr could think of nothing in that moment except Mirketta, how he had failed to save her. His worst fear since he’d learned of the rifts was that he’d be powerless to prevent them from spreading and affecting the entire Grand Duchy, and now he had a chance to do something about it, to prevent things from becoming worse, assuming he could learn more.

  And that was the crux of it. He’d learned—from Atiana and others—that a rift had formed over Rafsuhan. And it was deep. If he was ever going to learn about the rifts, he needed something like that, except Rafsuhan was distant and difficult to reach, but worse, it was an island of the Maharraht. Nikandr would never be allowed access to it.

  Not unless he had someone like Soroush to speak for him.

  “Where is he?”

  “Mirashadal.” She paused, waiting for the name to sink in. It was the fabled floating village of the Aramahn. It was also the place Nikandr thought the most likely destination for Nasim and Soroush and the others that had been taken from Oshtoyets after the ritual.

  “It’s real,” Atiana continued. “Even now it floats above the northern seas, less than a thousand leagues from where we sit.”

  “It’s true, then...”

  “Da. I’ve seen it, and I’ll lead you to it if you wish, but I’m still not certain any of this is wise.”

  She was speaking not of Soroush, but what Nikandr planned to do with him. “The rift over Rafsuhan is the only one we’ve found of any size, Atiana.”

  “Sor
oush will kill you given the chance. He’d kill all of us.”

  Nikandr shook his head. “You misjudge him. There’s only one thing Soroush cares about more than our destruction, and that’s his people.”

  “So you’ve said, but he may merely look at it as another reason the Grand Duchy must fall.”

  “He may, but in the meantime he’ll be given the chance to help them. It’s something he won’t be able to ignore. Take me to the village, Atiana. Take me to Mirashadal.”

  Atiana pulled her legs up to her chest and stared at him over her knees. “I will take you, if that is your wish.”

  She wanted him to return to Khalakovo, or better yet, to join her on Kiravashya. Nikandr’s father was there. He was now a trusted and valued member of Zhabyn’s council. Nikandr could go there. He might not be able to marry Atiana, but at least they would be near one another. And in time, who knew?

  But he could not abandon this cause; as much as he wanted to be with Atiana, now and forever, there were greater things to consider.

  “It is my wish,” he said.

  She paused. There was sadness in her eyes, but no surprise.

  “Then I will go.” She breathed deeply and released it slowly, her eyes searching him for something, though he knew not what.

  “Say it, Atiana.”

  “I have—” She swallowed and tried again. “I have news.” As she spoke these words, she raised her chin so that they could see one another eye-to-eye. It was premeditated, something done to give her the confidence she lacked to broach this new subject—or so it seemed to him—and yet she still found herself unable to begin.

  He reached out to touch her, but she shied away.

  “I’m to be married,” she blurted out.

  The words struck him. They echoed in his mind. But the worst part was not their implication, but the way in which Atiana was staring at him, as if the words were a cudgel she’d very well meant to strike him with.

  “Married to whom?” Nikandr asked.

  “Bahett ül Kirdhash.”

  “The Lord of Galahesh? The Kaymakam?”

  “The same.”

  He wanted to leave the bed. He wanted to leave the room. “Your mother arranged for it?”

  “Nyet.”

  “Your father?”

  “Nyet, Nikandr. I arranged for it.”

  Nikandr shook his head, confused. “You arranged for it?”

  “The Grand Duchy is dying, Nikandr. By slow increments every day, she is dying. We need grain. We need livestock. Yrstanla has become more hesitant to deliver. But were we to strengthen the bonds between Kiravashya and Alekeşir, they would begin to flow again, at least long enough for us to recover.”

  “Bahett is not the Kamarisi.”

  “Nor would the Kamarisi take me as his wife. Bahett is the key.”

  “He keeps a harem, Atiana.”

  “And I will become his ilkadin. The first wife. Do you know what kind of power they wield?”

  “Their wives, even the ilkadin, are little to the power Bahett can wield.”

  “He will listen to me.” She said those words with such passion that it made Nikandr realize just how serious she was. This was no discussion. She’d already made up her mind. She only wished to tell him of it in person from some sense of personal honor.

  “We’ll not be allowed to see one another,” Nikandr said.

  “We can see one another…”

  “Nyet.” Nikandr waved to the bed. “Not like this.”

  He saw her swallow, but she did not otherwise answer. She knew, as he did, that they could perhaps see one another at functions, perhaps at a personal meal with Bahett in attendance, but were they caught with one another in carnal lust—especially on Galaheshi soil—both of their lives would be forfeit.

  Nikandr stood, away from the bed, and stared at her. “You cannot do this, Atiana!”

  “Our first duty is to our families, Nikandr, then the Grand Duchy.”

  He found his jaw tightened to the point of pain. “And I am not family. Is that it?”

  “You are my love, but I will see the Grand Duchy healed. As you would.”

  “Is that why you told me of Soroush first? To test me?”

  “You’ve made your position clear for years, Nikandr.”

  “Do you think I wouldn’t marry you in a moment given the chance?”

  “I know that you would, but we are not in that position, are we? We must do what we must do.”

  “And you must go whoring off to Galahesh?”

  Atiana stood from the bed and slapped him across the face.

  His head wrenched to one side. The entire left side of his face stung, and it did not subside as he turned back to look at her. She stared at him with a look he’d never seen, not since they were children, and then it had only been the petulance of youth. This was a look of deep-seated pain, and resentment that might never be wiped clean.

  She began pulling on her clothes as he seethed. He wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t find the words. Only as she was leaving the room did he reach out to her.

  “Atiana!”

  But then she was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Atiana climbed up the stair from her cabin to the deck of the Zveazda. The wind was brisk, and it was pushing the ship about, but Hathenn, the ship’s havahezhan, was strong, and she guided them in with little trouble.

  As landsmen began lashing the ship and the windsmen began securing the last of her sails, Atiana stepped down and onto the ship’s perch, glad to be on solid land once more. As she walked toward the palotza, she silently thanked the ancients that her sisters had not come, nor Father or Mother. She needed to be alone, so she walked to the vast yard to the south of the massive palotza to the spire.

  She stared up, marveling at it, wondering why she had ever left. The trip to Mirkotsk had been foolish, or if not foolish then at least ill-advised. How had she expected Nikandr to react? Exactly as he had, she thought. She didn’t deserve the words he’d spit at her, but neither had he deserved to learn of her decision in such an abrupt manner. She’d meant to tell him the moment she saw him, but she had missed him so much. She had only wanted one more night together—as their life might have been—before telling him of her decision to marry Bahett.

  She stepped forward and touched the smooth surface of the obsidian, stared into its mottled black depths. She could not feel the same sense of power that she could while taking the dark, but she liked to think that there were echoes of it at the very least, some small trace of the power that emanated from it in the aether. She had been out for nearly two weeks now. She would enter again—tonight, perhaps tomorrow—and guide Nikandr to Mirashadal, and when she did, she knew it would feel like saying goodbye, much more so than the way they’d left one another in Ivosladna.

  “You’ve not seen the spire before?”

  Atiana turned and found Mileva standing near the old stone fence surrounding the spire. Behind her stood the rookery and beyond that the bulk of Galostina. The wind tugged at the hem of Mileva’s heavy woolen dress, blew the ermine collar against her neck momentarily. Mileva’s cheeks were already pink from the cold winter winds.

  “You’re fortunate to have arrived when you did,” Mileva said. She nodded pointedly over Atiana’s shoulder.

  Atiana turned and saw in the distance, gliding serenely beneath gray skies, no less than four twelve-masted barques accompanied a smaller, eight-masted brigantine, the one that surely carried the Kaymakam of Galahesh and the Kamarisi’s personal envoy. It would seem that Yrstanla had changed little—an opportunity to show strength should never be passed by.

  “Did you see him?” Mileva asked.

  She meant Nikandr, of course. Atiana had not admitted to her mother the true purpose of her trip. Surely she suspected, but she hadn’t raised objections because Atiana had been the one to offer her hand to the Kaymakam of Galahesh. She had confessed everything to Mileva and Ishkyna, however. They had chided her, but she could tell that beh
ind their remarks they were sad over it.

  “I saw him,” Atiana replied.

  “And?”

  “You’ll be pleased, Mileva. It was exactly the sort of farewell you said it would be.”

  Mileva glanced up to the approaching ships, her face serious and thoughtful, but not sad. “I’m not pleased, Tiana. I’m sorry. I had hoped that at least one of us would manage to find love.”

  “Well that isn’t likely any more, is it?”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Mileva smiled, but it was unconvincing to say the least. “I hear Bahett is an easy man to look upon.”

  After running her hands one last time over the cold obsidian, Atiana strode toward the palotza. “Don’t make light of my love for Nikandr.”

  Mileva looked like she was about to respond with a biting reply, but then she pursed her lips and took Atiana’s hand. Squeezing it gently, she said, “Come. There is much to attend to.”

  That entire day the palotza was aflutter with the arrival of the Kaymakam of Galahesh, and that night, they prepared for their welcoming celebration. Atiana stood at the open doors of the grand ballroom. Mileva was already seated next to her husband, Viktor. Ishkyna’s husband would not be present, which was apparently fine with Ishkyna, who was standing next to a man from the envoy’s retinue, a tall courtier with a closely cropped beard and a red silk turban. A ruby medallion with feathers of white decorated the center of the turban, just above his brow. Like many of the courtiers, he wore voluminous pants and a wide cloth belt. The sword hanging at his side seemed similar to those of the streltsi, but it curved more, and the hilt was carved like the head of a falcon, making it appear as if it would be clumsy and unwieldy in battle.

  More people filed into the room, mostly relatives, both close and distant, of Atiana’s, but there were others as well: diplomats, officers of the staaya, men and women of business and industry. Father had gone to great lengths, hoping to impress upon the Empire that Anuskaya was no plum ripe for the plucking. But still, he could not be too ostentatious. The day’s events had to be reserved enough to give some sense of how seriously the islands needed the Empire’s assistance.