The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  It was Atiana.

  And she was near.

  She was out there in the night, with the akhoz and the Hratha. But there was something terribly, terribly wrong. He knew this, for he knew Atiana, and this was not she.

  “What is it?” Soroush asked.

  Nikandr did not want to admit it to Soroush, but he saw no reason to withhold it. He pointed toward the base of the hill, at the black shapes of the nearest buildings. “Atiana is out there.”

  The firefight continued in the distance, but it was softer now, like a memory beginning to fade. Soroush looked to the city of Vihrosh, to the Spar beyond. And then he turned to Nikandr. “Had I not been so blinded with rage, I might have listened to my heart, and Rehada might have been saved.”

  Nikandr looked to the Spar himself, the shadows of its arches barely visible against the dark gray of the white cliffs. By the ancients who guide, what should he do? But when he gripped his soulstone and felt Atiana, felt the taint upon her, he knew what he must do.

  He nodded to Soroush.

  Soroush took up a coiled rope and tossed it over the side. “Anahid, lower the skiff.”

  After only a brief pause, Anahid did.

  Nikandr felt like he was abandoning them, but he could no more deny this need than he could the need to breathe.

  “I’ll find you at the Spar.”

  Soroush nodded.

  And Nikandr slipped over the side.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  Nikandr padded along snowy ground with the twenty or so men who remained of the battle trailing behind. Styophan moved alongside him with an awkward gait that spoke of the pain he was experiencing. He was wounded. His shoulder had been bound hastily, but he had strength in him yet to fire a musket, and that was all Nikandr could hope for at a time like this.

  They had headed deeper into the forest to the north of the city and circled back in the hopes that Atiana would be held at the rear of the train marching steadily toward the Spar.

  Among the chill and distant calls of the akhoz, Nikandr’s anxiety had grown worse. Normally when he felt Atiana—or anyone else with whom he’d touched stones—he could sense, however faintly, their mood. Whether they were happy or sad or angry, it shone through their shared connection like a scent upon the wind. But in Atiana he could feel nothing—only her presence—and it terrified him. It was as if she were dead, lying in a room so that he could see her, feel her, but could not communicate with her.

  As they left the forest and entered the fields surrounding Vihrosh, he could tell that she was close. She might be near the center of the city now, and he was sure that if she were there, then so would be Muqallad and Sariya. They pushed, marching at the quick, and came to the edge of the city as the sound of battle on the far side of the straits rose to new heights.

  As they entered a square with decorative trees, a bird winged down and landed on the cobbled street. It was the gallows crow. “She has been taken,” it said. “You must hurry. You must save her.”

  The way the bird spoke those words, it reminded Nikandr of someone, but the thought seemed preposterous. “Ishkyna?”

  The crow cawed over and over, a low, sad sound. “Speak not her name!”

  Nikandr didn’t understand, but he knew better than to question her. “How?” he asked. “How can I save her?”

  “I failed her. Sariya’s hold on her was stronger than I had guessed—much stronger—and now the Atalayina has her in its grasp. She is lost in its depths.” The crow stumbled and fell to the ground, its wings trying ineffectually to help it remain standing. He could see something clutched in one of its talons, which it dropped onto the cobbles. The thing clinked and made a shink sound as the crow hopped away. “Take it to her, Nischka. I hope it will return her to herself.”

  With that the crow shivered along its whole length. It regained its feet and flew off in a rush, as if it had just then awoken to find itself among men in a place it had never been.

  Nikandr reached down and found a necklace, a soulstone necklace, and he knew just by touching it that it was Atiana’s. How the crow had come by it, and how Atiana had lost it, he didn’t know, but he was glad to have it. It gave him hope.

  “Hers?” Styophan asked.

  “Da.”

  “What do we do now?”

  Nikandr pulled Atiana’s soulstone necklace over his head. It felt good to have it resting next to his own. “What is there to do but go on?”

  They resumed the chase, faster than before. Light began to fill the eastern sky. Gone were all but the brightest stars on the horizon, the weakest replaced by a swath of indigo that foreshadowed the dawn. They knew when they were coming close from the calls of the akhoz. Few had appeared at the battle at the munitions building, which made sense, for if the ritual was anything like the one on Rafsuhan, most would have been sacrificed to make the Atalayina whole.

  They came to a place where six roads met at a large circle with a lawn at its center with a lone, towering larch. This was the heart of Vihrosh. The ponderous stone buildings were old remnants of the power that Vihrosh had once held as the seat of Yrstanla’s power here on Galahesh. On the far side of the larch, running down the opposite street toward the circle, was the silhouette of a woman.

  “Nikandr!” Atiana called. There was a desperation in her voice that he didn’t understand.

  Until he saw the creatures bounding after her.

  He sprinted toward her, his men close behind. They passed the larch and reached the entrance to the street in little time. The akhoz behind her uttered sickening brays that made Nikandr’s skin crawl. They galloped along the cobblestones like dogs. In moments they’d be on her.

  “Down, Atiana!” Nikandr called as he skidded to a halt and swung his musket up to his shoulder.

  Atiana either didn’t listen or hadn’t heard, and the first of the akhoz leapt upon her back, driving her to the ground.

  It cleared a path for him. He fired at the second akhoz. Styophan, standing to his left, fired as well, as did two Maharraht.

  Two akhoz dropped, writhing on the ground as the one that had leapt on Atiana fought with her, snarling and clawing as Atiana screamed.

  Nikandr charged forward, pulling his shashka.

  Atiana twisted away and kicked at the akhoz. It rolled away momentarily, but it gave Atiana enough leverage to kick again, this time much harder.

  The akhoz was much smaller than Atiana, and it was sent reeling backward. It struck the cobblestones while releasing a sound that was half growl, half mewl. It spun over and was back on all fours when Nikandr swept in and brought his sword down hard, aiming for its neck. The creature ducked, receiving a cut across its shoulder blade. It scrabbled away, but Nikandr lunged forward and drove his sword through its gut.

  It screamed to the night sky. The sounds echoed among the buildings. It grasped at the sword blade, slicing its fingers open as it clawed for Nikandr’s hand. He jerked the sword free, and at last it collapsed to the ground.

  “Atiana,” Nikandr said as he stepped close to her.

  She stood, the whites of her eyes visible in the early morning light. She stared at him as if she didn’t know him.

  Nyet, he thought, as if she were afraid of him.

  “Atiana,” he said, softer this time. He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.

  It was then that Nikandr realized that all of them—he, Styophan, the Maharraht—all of them were in a narrow stretch of street, one easily defended on both sides.

  “Reload!” he shouted, while Atiana stared at him with uncaring eyes.

  The men responded, but too slowly. Dark forms slid into the street from an alley ahead. They swept in behind.

  One of the Maharraht brought his weapon up.

  Three muskets flashes came from the men ahead, and in that brief moment, Nikandr could see that they were Hratha, their black robes merging with the deep shadows.

  The Maharraht grunted and fell to the ground. As he wheezed, a gurgling sound coming fr
om a chest wound, the Hratha called in Mahndi, “Lay down your arms.”

  Nikandr had no intention of obeying. The Hratha could not be trusted, especially now with all their plans so close to fruition.

  He drew upon his hezhan, pulling the wind to swirl through the narrow street. Dust and dirt stung him as he grabbed Atiana’s wrist and pulled her back toward the edge of the alley.

  The Maharraht and the men of Anuskaya took this as his answer, and those that had already reloaded fired.

  The Hratha returned fire, and Nikandr saw a glowing stone of jasper upon one man’s brow. Another of azurite glowed a deep shade of blue. A cracking sound rent the ground. It shook the street and the nearby buildings.

  Nikandr held Atiana close as he called upon the wind to drive the Hratha back. He saw several raise their muskets, but only two shots were released.

  Nikandr opened himself wider. He stepped away from Atiana and spread his arms wide. The presence of the hezhan filled him. He felt the flow of the wind through the streets of the city and called upon it to converge here. He called upon it to scour the Hratha from their path.

  The wind answered, hungry for the breath of man, but just as it rose to a gale, Nikandr felt a rising fury within him. His mind went wild, memories of walking on the fields below Radiskoye coming to him, of planing curls of wood as he worked on the helm of the Gorovna, of those nervous moments before he’d touched stones with Atiana years ago when they were to be married. Those and a thousand more came unbidden. He had no control over them, and soon after he felt his muscles going slack.

  He realized in a distant and disconnected way that this was no illness, that this was something being done forcibly to him.

  He was being assumed, he realized, and he couldn’t at first understand who would attack him in such a way.

  Stars filled the field of his vision as his knees gave way and he tipped toward the ground. As the ground rose up, he had a sudden moment of crystal clarity. He knew who had done this to him.

  He knew without a doubt.

  It was Atiana.

  He would have felt betrayed if it hadn’t been for the stone-hearted indifference radiating from her.

  He willed his arms to arrest his fall, but they refused him, and he struck the ground like a tree felled. And then the darkness, held at bay for so long, finally embraced him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  Atiana watches as Nikandr falls to the ground.

  He goes limp. Beneath him, strangely, are two glowing soulstones, not one. She kneels down to inspect them, but the akhoz are hungry. They shuffle toward him until she holds her hand up for them to stop.

  Two of the Maharraht charge her, and she’s forced to back away.

  “My Lady Princess!” This comes from a strelet at the head of a group of soldiers. Atiana has seen him before. This is Styophan. For years he’s been Nikandr’s steadfast second, a loyal soldier who would protect him above all things.

  “Please wake!” Styophan runs toward the Maharraht, dropping his musket and pulling his eagle’s-head shashka from its sheath. The sword gleams for a moment in the early morning light. “Call them away!” he pleads, just before the first of the akhoz leaps through the air toward the Maharraht standing before him.

  The first of the akhoz loses an arm to a fierce swing of a blade from the first of the Maharraht, a young man with bright eyes and a black beard. The akhoz falls to the ground from the force of the swing, but it is up again moments later, blood pouring from its wound as it ducks beneath another hasty swing by the Maharraht. It is within the young man’s guard now, and it is vicious, grabbing the Maharraht’s sword arm and snarling forward toward his throat.

  “Princess Atiana! You must wake!”

  She looks toward Styophan. For a moment, she remembers who she was, remembers that she came to this place for a different purpose. She came to kill, perhaps, but not these men. Not this man.

  Then something bears down on her and smothers her will. In the time it takes her to flick her wrist toward the akhoz, she has forgotten her allegiance to this soldier of Khalakovo.

  The akhoz abandon their attack on the two Maharraht, who have fallen to the cobblestones, moaning in pain, bleeding their lifeblood. The akhoz charge Styophan and the streltsi who stand by him, shashkas at the ready. The first is cleaved through its ribcage where it has no arm to defend itself. Styophan kicks the akhoz free and drives his sword tip-first through the second. This one, a girl who might have been twelve or thirteen when she was changed, is run through, but she reaches out, snatches his jaw, and pulls herself forward until she’s able to pierce his right eye with a long, claw-like thumb.

  Styophan screams, writhing, trying to shake her away. His comrades step in, and the girl leaps to another man, darting forward until she’s high enough to latch her jaws onto his throat.

  The last of the battle rises to a bloody frenzy in its closing moments. More and more of the Maharraht and the soldiers of Anuskaya fall, and at last it is ended, and all Atiana can hear is the ragged breathing of the akhoz; all she can feel are the stares of the Hratha as they wait for her.

  She ignores them, gazing down upon the soldier, Styophan. Blood pours from his ruined eye, from the jagged cuts along his scalp and face from the akhoz. She watches his chest rise and fall slowly with breath. It won’t be long before he passes the veil. She should care that he is about to die, but the truth is she does not. All she feels is a cold satisfaction that the end is finally near. What does it matter if one more is lost before the time has come?

  And yet, she’s unwilling to order his death, not when he’s no longer a threat. Let him lie here in the streets. Let him pray to his ancestors if he wishes. That will be a good enough death for this soldier of Anuskaya.

  One of the Hratha approaches, but she turns and points him back toward the Spar, then she beckons the akhoz and motions to Nikandr. “Take him.”

  The nine that remain obey, lifting Nikandr and bearing him on their backs like food for their burrow. The Hratha in their dark robes and black turbans walk ahead and behind, watching for any signs of the enemy who might be lying in wait. She knows already that the city is all but deserted of military men. All that remain are the huddling inhabitants of this doomed place.

  There is something that draws her attention, however.

  Ishkyna.

  She moves through the aether like a moth, barely visible as she flits near the flame. Atiana wants to find her, to rend her as a cat rends meat, but she cannot—not unless Ishkyna falters and comes too close.

  For now, Atiana ignores her and heads for the bridge, moving through the old city with its graceless stone buildings. Under the growing light of dawn, they look like things long ago abandoned, the sad remnants of man. She wonders whether the buildings will remain—and the roads and the eyries and the homesteads—or will they be gone? Will they be burned as the akhoz were, forging the world anew as the Atalayina had been?

  And what of the world beyond? Will it too burn?

  She supposes it will.

  The light in the east makes her think of nothing but the kindling of the fires that will soon consume the world. The wind, as if heeding the call of the coming dawn, rushes along the streets. The last of the spires fell upon Kiravashya yesterday, and though the weather has been strangely still since then, it now builds. The wind is strong and getting stronger, and soon it will be a gale the likes of which has never been seen.

  The skin between her breasts itches. The tips of her fingers tingle. She can hardly wait.

  She comes to the wide thoroughfare that leads to the Spar. She hears the battle beyond the bridge, hears the screams of individual men rising above the calls and cries of war. She sees the brightness of the cannon flashes against Baressa’s tallest buildings.

  Ahead are those she left earlier to set her trap. Muqallad and Sariya stand near the first stones of the Spar, but they have not yet stepped foot upon it. Why, she does not know. Nearer, the girl, Kaleh, watches. She looks as though
she wishes to approach, but Muqallad summons her and she leaves. She cannot hear Muqallad’s words, but he points to the Spar, and immediately after Kaleh begins to first walk and then jog across the impossibly long bridge.

  As she does, Atiana feels something—a shifting of wind in the dark of the aether—and it comes from the Spar.

  She strides forward, steps up onto a wooden stage in the abandoned yard of an auction house, and from here she can see much of the Spar unobstructed. The upper reaches of its white stone are difficult to discern against the white cliffs beyond, but the tall, elegant arches are easy to see.

  Atiana closes her eyes, casts herself outward, searching for the source of the disturbance. The sight of the Spar fades and is replaced by the blue-black of the aether. She moves like a marlin through the ocean depths, flitting along the Spar, searching its arches and the supports structures beneath the road deck and the squat towers at the center where the keystones were recently dropped into place. But there is nothing. Nothing.

  And yet she knows there must be.

  Have you found it?

  It is Sariya.

  Not yet, she replies. Sariya is weak, but has the strength yet to cast herself into the aether. If she bonds with Atiana, they might find the source together. Join me, Atiana says.

  The two of them meld their minds with one another. It is not so easy to do, partly because they are unaccustomed to one another, but mostly from the wound Sariya took from Ushai’s blade. She is so close to parting the veil it is a wonder she can draw breath much less navigate the currents of the dark. Still, she is Al-Aqim, and she has strength yet. It allows Atiana to search more thoroughly, to sense the subtle shifts in the currents of the dark.

  She was wrong earlier. There is something on the Spar—she can feel it in her bones, a familiarity that is as much a part of her as her skin or her blood. And yet, save for the blackness of the keystone where her father was murdered, the bridge is pristine. It is empty and untouched. When she breathes the air of the aether, however, she notes the familiar scent of those with whom she once bonded, with those she once shared such intimate thoughts as only sisters in the ways of the dark can share.