The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Nikandr glanced at the rook, but then returned his gaze to Nasim. He was surprised. He was disappointed. But in the end he simply nodded. “A skiff you shall have, Nasim an Ashan, and more if you wish for it. You need but ask.”

  The rook hopped between them on the desk, shuffling the maps beneath its talons. “I ask you to reconsider, child. We—”

  “Enough, Mother,” Nikandr said. “He’s made his decision. Go in peace, Nasim.”

  “I would go now, if we are so close.”

  “Of course.” Nikandr nodded. “But where? Where will you go?”

  Feeling watched, feeling pressed, Nasim stood and moved to the cabin door. “Wherever the fates take me.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Upon his return to the Bhadyar, Nasim stepped off the skiff and found Soroush waiting for him.

  “Come,” he said. “There’s someone who wishes to speak with you.” “Who?”

  Soroush merely turned and headed to the stairs leading down into the forecastle. He came to Ashan’s door, motioned to it, and began walking away.

  “I’ve thought on what happened since we last talked,” Nasim said.

  Soroush stopped and without turning said, “You have?”

  “I forgive you for what you did.”

  “I don’t want your forgiveness, Nasim.”

  “I know, but you have it just the same.”

  Soroush paused for a moment, and then continued on without saying another word, leaving Nasim standing alone before Ashan’s door.

  Nasim reached out and held his hand above the handle once more, and this time, though his hand shook, he was able to grasp it, to open it.

  Inside the tiny cabin was a bed, a small table with a lit lamp, and a chair. Ashan sat at the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his head in his hands. As Nasim entered, Ashan looked up and smiled broadly, though the physical act of it seemed somehow to pain him. “By the fates who rule above, it does my heart good to see you, Nasim.”

  Nasim backed the chair up until it rested against the far wall. Only then did he sit down.

  Ashan’s smile faded. “I don’t blame you. I’ve done little to gain your trust.”

  “That’s not true,” Nasim said. “You were the one who showed me the most kindness.”

  “Kindness, perhaps, but in the end I think I was little better than anyone else.” Ashan held his forehead tighter and grit his teeth against the pain. “I searched for you,” he said after he’d finally recovered.

  Nasim smiled. He almost wanted to laugh. “You won’t remember, but we’ve had this conversation before.”

  Ashan looked confused but intrigued. “We have?”

  Nasim explained the talk he’d had with Muqallad in Shirvozeh, the village near Alayazhar. “We spoke of your travels after I’d been taken to Mirashadal. We spoke of the Atalayina. And many other things.”

  Ashan frowned. “It makes a certain sort of sense. He was trying to make you believe that it was truly me you were speaking to, and of course a man like Muqallad would find it difficult to lie.”

  “He spoke to me again at the celestia as Soroush.”

  Ashan’s frown deepened. “Did he?”

  “He caught me like this and was rifling through my mind. For what, I do not know. It was Kaleh that saved me from his attentions, and she may have unwittingly done more damage to Muqallad than she knew of.”

  “Because she prevented Muqallad from finding what he sought.”

  Nasim nodded. “Still, we were harmed much that day. Muqallad followed us to Rafsuhan to fuse the pieces of the Atalayina together, and if the column of fire we saw above Rafsuhan was any indication, he succeeded.”

  “Soroush said as much.” Ashan sat back in the bed until his back was propped against the wall, though judging by the look on his face it gave him no comfort. “Muqallad wants the Atalayina whole, which was why the three pieces were split among the Al-Aqim those many years ago. Each of them knew that none could be trusted with all three pieces.”

  “The third now lies upon Galahesh with Atiana Vostroma.” He told him of his encounter with Sariya in her tower, how he’d spoken with Sariya, how the monolith had crumbled before him, how he’d prevented Sariya from taking the piece of the Atalayina by giving it to Atiana instead. What he didn’t share with Ashan was the story of Rabiah. His memories of her, particularly those memories, were still much too raw.

  Ashan took this all in and worked it through, as he always did. “It’s too bad you couldn’t have brought it to Ghayavand.”

  “If I’d done that, Muqallad would most likely have it now. Better that it lies hidden on Galahesh for now. With any luck she may think that I still have it.” Nasim worked at the problem further, more than he had at any time since leaving Rafsuhan. “What I don’t understand is what the two of them are doing. Why is Sariya pulling strings on Galahesh when she could be with Muqallad, helping him?”

  Ashan drummed his fingers against his knee absently. “I wonder if they’re working together at all. Had it been so, they might have been able to find the stone in her tower. Which makes me wonder if they now oppose one another.”

  Nasim shook his head. “There was a map on the celestia floor. Did you see it?”

  Ashan nodded.

  “What you probably didn’t see was that it showed the progression of the ley lines and how they were compressing around not only Ghayavand, but Galahesh. The straits are certainly the cause, and now Sariya has built a bridge over them. Saphia Khalakovo told me just now that Sariya’s using it to attack the islands. She wouldn’t do so merely to take Anuskaya, to rule over the Duchies, for to do so would be to ignore Muqallad’s plans.”

  “Perhaps she’s fooling herself. Perhaps she wishes to live the life she gave up those many years ago.” Ashan said these words with a mischievous glint in his eye. This and the beginnings of a smile that made it clear that he was impressed with Nasim. Perhaps he’d thought Nasim would still be simple, or callow, or at least confused in certain ways like he’d been years ago, but Nasim had grown. He’d left so much of that behind.

  “Sariya may be many things,” Nasim replied, “but she is no fool. The fact that Galahesh is the very place Muqallad will bring the Atalayina nearly rules out the possibility that she’s planning to oppose him. The greater question is how Muqallad hopes to widen the rift once he’s made the Atalayina whole. It troubles me that he posed as others, and that he searched through my mind as he did. What could he have been looking for?”

  “As for the disguises, it seems to me he was merely trying to get what he wanted,” Ashan said.

  “Perhaps, but he could have done so merely by forcing my hand. He had you. He had Rabiah and Sukharam.”

  “Meaning you would have handed the Atalayina over?”

  Nasim looked into Ashan’s eyes, but couldn’t hold them. He was too ashamed. “Of course I wouldn’t.”

  “There’s no need to be ashamed, Nasim. That would have been the right thing to do.”

  “That doesn’t make it easier, Ashan.”

  “I know…”

  “And then there is Kaleh to consider,” Nasim said, more to change the subject than anything else.

  “There is Kaleh,” Ashan echoed. “She is the one who caught me. Or at least, allowed Muqallad to catch me. I saw her near the celestia, and I was so confused as to how a child could have come to Ghayavand that I didn’t notice Muqallad until it was too late.”

  “She helped us once,” Nasim said. “She may help us again.”

  Ashan reared back, stretching his ribs and grimacing. “Perhaps she will, but we cannot count on it. So the question remains, where do we go?”

  “We?” Nasim asked.

  “I would join you. I learned much about the Atalayina before I made my way to Ghayavand. If we find the pieces, I hope to teach you.”

  “Are you offering to be my kuadim?”

  Ashan smiled, showing his crooked teeth. “I suppose I am.”

  There was a part of Nasim
that wanted no one near him. A part that wanted simply to run. But these were not things he could run from, and it would be good to stand at Ashan’s side once more, no matter how confusing or painful it might have been in the past.

  “Then I think,” Nasim said slowly, “I accept.”

  Ashan laughed. “You think?”

  “I accept, Ashan. I accept.”

  “That’s good. And I have an idea of where we can learn more, from people who may, in the end, decide to do more than simply teach us.”

  Nasim didn’t understand what Ashan meant, but when he put his mind to it, the answer was obvious. “Mirashadal.”

  Ashan’s smile widened. “You were always very bright.”

  Nasim shook his head, nearly laughing. “It would be good to see Fahroz once more.”

  “You are wise, Nasim.” Ashan stood and rubbed his head, as he had many times when he was young. “You are wise, indeed.”

  Nasim woke at dawn the following morning. He prepared himself to leave, packing away his few belongings into a bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He went quietly through the room as many of the refugees from Rafsuhan slept. A small girl, no more than five, opened her eyes at his departure. She watched him go, brushing away her black bangs from her eyes, but she didn’t call out.

  He made his way up to the deck. Soroush was manning the helm, adjusting the keel levers, watching Nasim from the corner of his eye. When he finally did look at Nasim, he didn’t nod and he didn’t smile; he merely watched and then turned away, his attention returning to the attitude of the ship.

  Nasim headed aft, to the windward side of the ship where a skiff sat waiting. Sukharam sat in the confines, watching him with a serious expression that was also the tiniest bit hopeful.

  Nasim shook his head as he approached. “You cannot come.”

  “It isn’t up to you.” This came from behind Nasim. He turned and found Ashan approaching. “It’s his choice,” Ashan continued. “He deserves to learn from those who would teach him, the same as you.”

  Ashan stepped into the skiff as Sukharam stared up at Nasim with a hardened expression and said, “I go despite you, not because of you.” With that he shifted away on the thwart and hugged the far side of the skiff.

  Nasim balanced himself against a nearby belaying line as the sting of their words settled in. He should have been the one to teach Sukharam. But he had failed utterly.

  Ashan waited, his hand held out, smiling. When Nasim didn’t accept his offer of help, his smile faded and his eyes grew serious. “It’s your choice, Nasim. You don’t have to come.”

  You’re wrong, Nasim thought.

  Yesterday when Ashan had made the offer, he’d felt like he was making a choice. And here, standing near this skiff, felt like another. But there really was no choice. He’d been trapped from the moment Khamal had died. Despite what had happened on Oshtoyets—or perhaps because of it—he felt as though he’d been walking his entire life in the footsteps Khamal had left for him.

  And this was merely one more step.

  He nearly turned away, nearly considered returning belowdecks. But he did not. He was trapped, well and truly.

  He took Ashan’s hand and stepped into the skiff.

  What could he do now but find out why?

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Two points off the landward bow of the Chaika, by the bare light of the moon, the coast of Uyadensk came into view at last. Nikandr had hoped the snowstorm had enough strength to cover their arrival, but it had abated shortly before nightfall. Still, movement around the palotza would be low, and if Victania’s plan had worked, she would be the one in the drowning chamber tonight. And even if she wasn’t, the attention of the other Matri would be focused on Vostroma as the battle with Yrstanla widened and intensified.

  The ship reached the shores of the island and headed inland toward the valley that housed Iramanshah. They plotted a course that avoided the villages on the northern side of the island. It made their approach painfully slow, but it was necessary. He couldn’t risk Borund hearing about this, at least until it was too late for him to do anything about it.

  The Chaika and the Bhadyar continued until they came to the meadow east of the valley’s entrance. As the Bhadyar filled their skiffs with the men, women, and children who would be left here in Iramanshah, Nikandr took his own skiff down.

  When he reached solid ground and slipped over the side of the skiff, he saw the outline of two men near the entrance to the valley. One was hunched with age. His name was Hilal, and he was one of the seven mahtar of Iramanshah. A younger man stood by, holding his arm. Hilal was blind and infirm and needed help to walk, yet when Nikandr approached, the young man bowed and stepped away, leaving Nikandr and Hilal alone.

  “I thought they might not come, son of Iaros,” Hilal said.

  “Your thoughts echoed my own,” Nikandr replied.

  The skiffs were just now dropping from the Bhadyar. Nikandr wondered what those men and women would be feeling. To say it was difficult would be to insult their sacrifice. But he had wondered often since learning of their decision: would this be freeing for them after following the path of violence for so many years? Or would it taste bitter? Would they hate themselves for falling back into a life they had long ago rejected?

  “These last many months on Rafsuhan were trying for them,” Nikandr said as the skiffs touched down.

  “Of this there can be no doubt.” Hilal was silent for a time. “Did you know that Fahroz came to the village?”

  Nikandr felt a chill run through him, and he wondered if Hilal could sense such things. “Did she?”

  “Yeh. She left only days ago.”

  “And what did she want?”

  “She wanted to speak with you. She hoped to see Nasim as well.”

  Nikandr shook his head, laughing lightly. “Nasim left my care only days ago with Ashan. He wouldn’t tell me his destination, but I suspect he’s gone to find Mirashadal.”

  “The fates work in strange ways,” Hilal said in his faraway manner, leaving Nikandr to wonder whether his words were meant as question or statement.

  The Maharraht approached. “I must go,” Nikandr said, “but I hope we can speak again.”

  “I hope so as well. Fare well, son of Iaros.”

  “Fare well, son of Sadira.”

  Nikandr turned and headed down the well-worn path toward the Maharraht skiffs. He stopped when he recognized the form of Zanhalah. She looked toward him, but she did not call out, she did not wave, and if Nikandr had been close enough to see her face, he was sure that she would not be smiling. Many more came, few of them acknowledging Nikandr’s presence.

  He did not feel like a savior to these people, but he felt he deserved more than cold shoulders and suffering silence. But the Maharraht were proud, and this was a difficult step for them, so he let it be.

  The last to come was Soroush. It was difficult to tell his mood, as dark as the night was. Nikandr thought he seemed regretful, though for what Nikandr wasn’t sure.

  “Will you still return to Rafsuhan?” Nikandr asked.

  “There are more who would come, hiding now in the hills and the forests. I would see them home.”

  Nikandr found it interesting he used the word home to describe the Maharraht returning to the fold of the Aramahn, but he said nothing of it.

  An uncomfortable silence hung in the air between them. Nikandr thought of asking him of his intentions. He wanted to ensure that Soroush wouldn’t return to wage war against the Grand Duchy; a part of him still wanted to take Soroush back to Radiskoye, to see him hung for what he’d done, but these were empty thoughts at best. He owed Soroush his life, and what was more, he’d never thought to see the Maharraht splinter as they had. They’d been so resolute since their formation, and yet here they were, dozens of them, not only turning their backs on the Hratha, but forsaking the ways of violence.

  Only the ancients knew if it would hold, but he hoped it would.

  Nikandr w
as ready to break away when he felt a presence through the soulstone at his neck. He reached for the stone as a chill washed over him. It was not Mother, nor was it Victania. It was another of the Matri, and the presence felt strong, which meant it was most likely Nataliya, Borund’s wife.

  “What is it?” Soroush asked.

  “You must go,” Nikandr said. “Quickly. Head west for a day, as we agreed.”

  Soroush did not question, nor did he linger. The two of them merely nodded to one another and went their separate ways.

  As the bulk of the Maharraht walked down the path toward Iramanshah, Soroush’s skiffs returned to the Bhadyar, and soon the ship was away. The Chaika took wing and headed back out to sea the way they’d come. They rounded the island and approached the eyrie from the south, so as to pretend that they had come directly from Rafsuhan. Nikandr thought surely there would be a ship sent to find them, but none came, and by the time the sun rose in the east, he hoped that the Matra he’d sensed had not understood what she was seeing. Perhaps she was too far away to see clearly. Or perhaps she’d seen Nikandr and reasoned that whatever was happening was innocent.

  The sun had risen fully by the time they approached the eyrie. Early morning light shone bright against the massive cliffs and the long stone quays. The eyrie held five dozen perches, but there were only a dozen being used, and these only by smaller crafts unfit for flying between the duchies. The ships of war had already flown westward toward Vostroma.

  After the eyrie master had signaled them their berth and they’d moored to the perch, Nikandr left the ship, planning to head for the stables to fetch a pony, but he hadn’t even finished navigating the quay when he saw his brother Ranos and several men in gray cherkesskas and square woolen caps—the uniform of the Staaya—approaching him.

  He knew immediately. He knew that Nataliya had seen him. Knew that Ranos had been alerted. Knew that he and his men were now in grave danger.

  Ranos looked haggard. His beard and mustache were trim, as always, but his eyes were dark and the skin along his cheeks and neck seemed to sag, giving the impression of a man who was eating less and drinking more. These past few years serving under Borund had not been kind to him.