The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  They would never return to Adhiya. They would never be reborn. They would simply be gone, one problem to hide another.

  Nasim could no longer shy away from the fact he was Khamal and Khamal was he. Did the Aramahn not preach that one builds upon himself to make better his next life? And if that were so, then one has a responsibility for what had occurred in his prior lives. The two lives were the same, facets of the same jewel.

  “Rabiah,” he said softly.

  He turned over and realized she was not in the house.

  He said it again, louder.

  He made his way outside. The sky to the east held a high, thin layer of clouds, colored bright yellow with the coming dawn. He called for Rabiah, shouted for her, and still she didn’t reply.

  They had returned from Shirvozeh near sunset last night. They had searched the house and, as Nasim had told her, had found no sign of Sukharam. Muqallad had taken him.

  You may have the one.

  Rabiah had been furious. “How could you have let Muqallad take him?” she’d spat.

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did! You wouldn’t allow him to join us. You brought us here for a reason, but since we’ve come you’ve been hiding behind your past. Hiding behind your fears. We are young, but we are strong, and you chose to throw that away so you could go after Ashan yourself.”

  Nasim had stared at her. Rabiah had always been so protective of him, and it was unbalancing to see that same fierceness turned against him.

  And what could he say? She was right. He’d failed them, and now he’d failed Ashan as well.

  She rushed forward. “Stop it!” she shouted, and using both hands she pushed him backward, hard.

  He fell onto the ground, staring up at her wild-eyed. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re hiding, Nasim. Hiding within your own walls. You can’t do it anymore. Not this time, not when Sukharam needs you so badly.”

  He’d shaken his head. “I can’t save him.”

  “You must!”

  “I can’t.”

  She stood there, arms at her side, shivering with impotent rage. She spat at his feet and turned away, and in moments she’d stalked off, lost behind the grassy hill to the south.

  A cold wind blew in off the sea that night. Nasim had gone inside the house, allowing Rabiah the time and space she’d needed. She’d returned hours later, well after the sun had gone down, well after true night had fallen over Ghayavand. He’d lain there in their stolen home, his back to her, pretending to be asleep. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to make it better.

  He was not Ashan. He was not Nikandr. He was no leader of men, to inspire with words and deeds. He was a child who had opened his eyes five years before to discover he was already eleven years old. He was an infant still. He never should have convinced them to come. He should have stayed with Fahroz and let her tell him what to do.

  Eventually, his thoughts still churning but his body exhausted, he’d fallen asleep.

  And now that he’d woken, Rabiah was gone. She’d abandoned him, and it was painfully clear what she’d gone to do. After gathering a few necessities, he began jogging toward Alayazhar.

  And then he began to run.

  His chest still heaving from the run into the city, Nasim paced the streets, moving swiftly but warily, ever closer to the tower. The wind was bitterly cold, a strange thing for Ghayavand. It seemed to be keeping the akhoz’s movement lower than it might otherwise have been, and for this he thanked the fates.

  He could feel them and their movements, and he used this knowledge to wend his way forward. He realized nearly two hours into his journey that he was taking nearly the same route that he had with Ashan and Nikandr and Pietr on their way to the very same tower. The central portion of the city did not look the same, though. Then, Sariya’s enchantments had still cast a glamour over the buildings and streets nearest the tower.

  Not so now.

  Now the streets were broken and decayed. The stone buildings lay shattered, ghosts of their former selves.

  At an intersection where three roads met, a marble statue of a woman, naked from the waist up, stared down at him. He paused, feeling as though it was one of the fates.

  Beyond the statue lay a wide thoroughfare, one of the primary spokes that radiated outward from the harbor. Broken stones with weeds growing between them lined the road. Buildings on either side—mostly stone, none with surviving roofs—watched him pass. They seemed angry at Nasim’s intrusion, or perhaps they were somehow protective of the akhoz, the only residents they’d known for the past three centuries.

  Here, at last, Nasim felt the one he’d been searching for.

  Most of Khamal’s memories were hidden from him, but he had found that once he’d had a dream, he could not only recall it well, he could remember the days that led up to the memories that filled the dream; he could remember the days that came after. After his dream that morning, the days beyond the ritual performed beneath the celestia’s dome opened to him, and as he’d run toward the city his plan had fallen into place.

  Two akhoz were somewhere ahead, perhaps in the great stone building he was headed toward. The building had housed, as near as he could tell, a bazaar, but now, despite the grandeur it had once laid claim to, it was little more than a broken shell.

  A form stalked out from under the archway that stood at the center of the bazaar’s grand facade. A girl, naked and dirty. She dropped to all fours, crab-crawling along the ground, her black lips pulled back, revealing dark, broken teeth.

  Nasim’s heart began to thrum. He had masked his presence, and still the akhoz caught his scent. It raised its head and released a long, sickening bleat to the sky above the city. An answering call came only a moment later, and soon after, another—this one a boy—entered the same archway.

  Together they crawled toward Nasim, sniffing the air, bleating softly as they came.

  And then they stood and charged.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The akhoz galloped more than ran, their long limbs loping over the ground faster than it appeared they could. Their lips were drawn back, their dark tongues hidden behind blackened teeth, making them appear vengeful and ravenous.

  Nasim’s sandals scraped over the ancient stone. His nerves willed him to flee. But he would not. This girl, this very girl, was the first of the akhoz. There was little that remained of Yadhan, but he recognized her by the shape and tilt of her head, her delicate features, and the small scar at the nape of her neck.

  And he’d also felt in his memories that a connection had been made to each of the akhoz that Khamal had created. In the nights that followed, Khamal had gone on to perform the ritual again and again, sacrificing more and more children to the grisly fate that awaited them. And they had held a bond with him, a loyalty. Surely part of this was borne from the piece of the Atalayina Nasim had found, but it was also a bond to Khamal, and if Nasim were right, that bond would still exist with him. It must—Khamal wouldn’t have allowed it to happen any other way—but that didn’t stop Nasim’s heart from beating like a blacksmith’s hammer.

  The akhoz were nearly on him when Nasim spread his arms wide. It was a gesture of supplication that Aramahn gave to hezhan before they communed.

  Both of the akhoz slowed, and when they came within four paces, they stopped. The girl, Yadhan, watched him with sightless eyes, while the other, the boy, shook his head so vigorously that Nasim wondered if he was tearing muscles.

  “I have need of you, Yadhan.”

  Yadhan shivered. She craned her neck back like a rook and released a bleating call into the chill morning air.

  Nasim kneeled, still holding his arms out wide. “I have need.”

  Yadhan pulled back her lips. Her tongue lolled like a freshly cut piece of meat.

  She crawled forward.

  The other, the boy, craned his head back, back, until Nasim thought his neck would break. Then brought it down hard against the stone before him. H
e did it again and again—black blood leaking from the many wounds he was inflicting upon himself—and it soon became clear that he was fighting against some hold Yadhan had placed on him.

  Nasim could not remember the boy’s imprint, nor could he feel any sort of loyalty from him, so he wondered if this was one of Muqallad’s or Sariya’s. It must be so, but if that were true, why would it bow to Yadhan? As foreign as it seemed to him, there must be some sort of hierarchy among the akhoz. Perhaps they followed the rule of the hezhan in the world beyond, or perhaps they followed the customs of the Aramahn from centuries ago. Whatever the reason, Nasim was glad for it, for it seemed to be keeping the akhoz at bay for the time being.

  Yadhan’s breath came sharply, quickly. She wheezed as she came to a halt at Nasim’s feet. And then she stood and faced him, crooked limbs and gaping maw. It was all Nasim could do not to retch from the stench that came with each exhaled breath.

  “I go to the tower,” he said. “Will you accompany me?”

  Yadhan seemed to consider these words. Her nostrils—more akin to a lizard’s than a girl’s—flared. She twisted her head around and waggled it back and forth in the direction of the tower.

  And then she turned back and bowed her head ever so slightly.

  The moment she did this, the other akhoz attacked.

  Time slowed.

  The akhoz reared back, pulling in a huge breath and releasing it toward Nasim. A great gout of fire blossomed from his mouth.

  As it hurtled forward, Nasim was transfixed, rooted to the spot.

  But Yadhan pushed him out of the way and stood in the path of the fire. It enveloped her—black smoke trailing up from her skin—and yet it only seemed to enrage her.

  She took two loping steps forward and then leaped upon the other akhoz. The boy fought, using his arms to try to bat her away, but Yadhan was a mongrel dog, jaws snapping, teeth bared. One hand was locked on his forehead, muscles as taut as cords, while the other grabbed his wrist and pinned him. Ignoring the boy’s free arm that clawed at her face, she lunged forward and bit deeply into his neck. Skin and flesh so dark it was nearly black was pulled away. She bit again and again, and soon the other’s attempts at fending her off weakened.

  And then stopped altogether.

  Yadhan’s chest heaved as she straddled him. She twisted her head around at an inhuman angle. Her gruesome look beckoned Nasim, telling him it was now safe to approach.

  Nasim did so, but he was forced to pull one arm across his mouth and nose to fight off the reek of rotted meat. As he kneeled next to the boy, Yadhan merely waited, her lungs working like a bellows, the wavering of heat coming from her mouth and nostrils.

  After kneeling and shrugging out of his robes—leaving the skin of his torso and arms exposed to the bitter wind—Nasim pulled his knife from the sheath at his belt, one he had carefully sharpened before returning to Alayazhar.

  The akhoz, perhaps sensing what was to come, began struggling once more. His head thudded against the stone beneath him and a mewling sound came from his throat, but Yadhan was strong—much stronger than Nasim would have guessed—and she held him still.

  Quickly, Nasim told himself. Quickly, but with a steady hand.

  He took a deep breath, his lips curling, and he leaned over the thing’s chest, mindful of Yadhan’s shriveled breasts and dark nipples.

  He pressed the tip of the knife against the boy’s throat and cut downward. The akhoz screamed, arching its head back and railing against Yadhan’s hold. Nasim drew the knife down toward the gut, exposing red flesh and white cartilage. Exposing bone. He sawed against the joints where rib met the rightmost portion of the sternum, taking care not to allow the knife to slip free and damage the beating heart beneath.

  One rib. Two. Three.

  Soon, all of them were free, and Nasim set the knife aside, which clattered with a metallic ring against the stone. Using both hands, he pulled the ribs apart, using all his strength until he heard a crack. All while the akhoz screamed.

  One more pull, another snap, and at last the heart was exposed. It was a shriveled thing, nothing like what a living heart should be. It pumped, the thing’s darkened blood now pooling within the cavity. He retrieved his knife with his right hand and with his left held the still-beating heart. It felt like malice, like hatred. Like regret.

  He turned away, still holding it.

  He coughed, then retched.

  Contain yourself, he told himself.

  He breathed deeply and turned back. As the akhoz writhed, screamed. It shook its head maniacally as he picked up the knife and used it carefully to slice one of the major arteries away. He did so again, and again, until at last it was free.

  He dropped the knife, sickened by it.

  The heart pulsed. Black blood pattered against the stones. It gathered in the spaces between them and ran like veins.

  Then the beating began to slow, as did the movements of the akhoz. He turned back and forced himself to watch. He owed the boy this, at least. He was once a child, no matter what he might be now.

  Finally, the beating stopped, and the body of the akhoz came to a rest.

  In that moment, the moment the akhoz passed, Nasim felt something, a shift in the aether, as if the strand of a spider web had just been plucked. The web still stood, but it had been weakened, and even if it was clear that there were dozens—hundreds—of other strands supporting it, it was just as clear that the web would never be repaired; it would only become worse, until eventually it would fail altogether.

  Nasim’s eyes began to water as he studied the heart. It was already shriveling, shrinking, hardening into a small, misshapen lump. It stopped when it was the size and hardness of a walnut.

  This, he knew, would allow him to reach Sariya’s tower. With the heart, the other akhoz aligned would not sense him, or at the very least would think him one of them. Who knew what might happen when he reached the tower? But at least he now could. It was the key to everything that lay before him. Muqallad had two pieces of the Atalayina. In Sariya’s tower lay the third, and it was imperative that Muqallad not gain it. Rabiah had known this as well, and surely she had made for the tower, hoping to retrieve the stone and take control of her life once more since Nasim—in her eyes—refused to do so.

  Nasim stood, leaving his robes as they were. It wasn’t that he didn’t need the warmth, or that he didn’t want it, but that he felt he didn’t deserve it. It was small penance for what he’d just done, but he would pay it just the same.

  “Come,” he said to Yadhan, shivering from the cold of the wind and the chill of drying blood on his arms. “There is one more we must gather.”

  With Yadhan at his side, Nasim treaded along the streets of the lower city. He could feel the akhoz nearby. Here there were many—the streets were thick with them—and they were aligned with Sariya—sentinels set to protect her demesne and the secrets that lay within.

  The two necklaces hanging around his neck and the shriveled hearts they held were a burden the likes of which he’d never shouldered. They rubbed against the skin over his own heart, making his skin crawl and his back bend.

  It was repulsive not only because of the way the hearts had been harvested, but because of the similarity he felt between this and the way the Landed wore their soulstones. He still had trouble sorting all of his memories from his time before Nikandr had healed him, but most of what he remembered of the Landed made him either angry or deeply, deeply sad.

  They were a selfish people. Thoughtless. They could no more see into the future than they could swallow the sea. And yet there was Nikandr. His memories of the Prince of Khalakovo were not altogether pleasant, but he held a certain empathy for him. He knew Nikandr like he knew no other, including Ashan, who had spent years trying to communicate with him when he could hardly tell the worlds apart.

  He thought about opening himself to Nikandr again. He could do so any time he chose. Part of him would welcome it. Even though he’d done it willingly and consciousl
y, he’d felt hollow ever since, as if a part of him had been stolen when Fahroz had taken him to Mirashadal.

  Feeling the bitter weight of his necklaces, he decided once again that allowing Nikandr back into his life would be a foolish thing. It didn’t matter what Nikandr’s intentions were; he was not his own man. He was controlled by his family, by the Grand Duchy, and for that reason alone he couldn’t be trusted.

  He approached the tower, and it made him wonder how Sariya and Muqallad had come to be at odds. It was clear that they were. If it were not so, Muqallad would have already had free access to the tower. She had left the island, or had been forced to, leaving Muqallad free reign over the city, and yet Muqallad had so far been unable to gain entrance. It was proof of how truly powerful Sariya had become, and also an indication of how little the Al-Aqim had trusted one another in the days or weeks or months leading up to the division that had formed between them.

  He also wondered how he was able to come so near the tower without her traps triggering. Did it hold meaning? It may simply be that the surprises still lay ahead, hidden, and revealed only when he came near—knowing Sariya as he did, Nasim thought this likely—but there was nothing to do now but move forward. He needed the remaining piece of the Atalayina. What he would do with it once he found it he wasn’t sure, but he knew he couldn’t leave it for Muqallad or Sariya to find.

  As he came to the street that surrounded the tower, many akhoz met him. They closed in, moving their heads from side to side, sniffing both Nasim and Yadhan.

  Yadhan craned her neck. Her nostrils flared, and Nasim thought surely she was about to attack, but he touched her arm, and she seemed to calm.

  Nasim scanned the area around the tower. He had expected to find Rabiah’s dead form on every turn of their journey here to the tower. Some small amount of relief greeted him at each turn when he didn’t find her, but there was still a certainty that he would, if not on this street, then the next, and if not the next, then certainly the tower grounds. But Rabiah wasn’t here, and it gave him hope that he would soon find her.