The Straits of Galahesh

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  And then roadway fell out from underneath him.

  He plummeted, grabbing ineffectually at empty air as the wound in his chest burned white hot. The underside of the Spar receded, faster and faster, until the wind threw him about and sent him twisting and turning and tumbling toward the sea.

  The desperate part of him wanted to claw for his havahezhan, but he knew the moment Nasim had driven the knife home that that link was gone. He’d felt it snap—his connection to Nasim, his connection to Adhiya.

  Something flashed in the sky above him.

  He lost it, found it again a moment later. Something burning brightly.

  It came nearer. It was a person, but the wind was whipping him about so fiercely he couldn’t tell who.

  But then the wind began working on him. He could feel it slowing him down, and suddenly he was hovering in the air not two paces from Nasim.

  Nasim tumbled once, but then steadied as he drifted closer. His control was now absolute, and they were close enough that if they reached out to one another, their fingers might just barely be able to touch.

  Nasim was holding the Atalayina, and it glowed as brightly in his hand as it had in Muqallad’s. He was close enough to embrace. With one hand he held the Atalayina high. And with the other pulled the knife free.

  Nikandr screamed. Clutched at his wound.

  He blacked out for a moment, and when he woke, Nasim was pressing the Atalayina against his chest as if it were a bolt of cloth meant to staunch his wound.

  The Atalayina chilled Nikandr to his core. It was as cold as night, the feeling as wide and limitless as the firmament. The cold filled him, changed him, made him feel whole in ways he could not remember feeling before, and for a moment, the world opened up before him, was laid bare. He saw Erahm and Adhiya and the aether in between. Breath slipped from his lungs at the beauty of it all.

  But then the feeling was gone, and the wind began to change. It buffeted them in new and unexpected ways, and Nasim was suddenly and violently pulled away. The Atalayina was pulled away as well, and the moment it was no longer touching his skin, Nikandr felt alone and abandoned and forgotten. It felt as though he’d never been born.

  He dropped toward the water, limp, unable to do anything but let the currents of wind take him. Nasim, flailing wildly at the air with a horror-stricken expression, was too far away to do anything.

  “Neh!” he screamed while trying and failing to come closer to Nikandr.

  And then a slight form barreled downward like a cormorant diving for the sea. It was Kaleh, Nikandr realized. She struck Nasim mid-air, and the Atalayina was knocked from his grasp to float free of the twisting, turning forms.

  The two of them crashed into the sea.

  Mere moments before Nikandr did.

  He fell deep, the sound of it raucous in his ears. The air was pressed from his lungs. He flailed in the dark, not understanding which way was up. The salty water of the sea forced its way into his lungs, and he coughed, drawing in more while trying desperately to pull himself up toward the surface.

  He kicked. He stroked his arms. All as the salt water burned his throat and mouth and lungs.

  Ages seemed to pass, but at last he broke through to the surface. The waves fell down upon him mercilessly, pulling him under. He coughed reflexively, water spilling from his throat.

  He tried to stay above the waves, but it was impossible. He was weak. So weak. And the waves threw him about, always tossing him back beneath the surface. He kicked. He pulled, but his strength was beginning to fail.

  He grew angry and desperate, kicking at the crest of each wave to look for Nasim. He managed to call to him once, but heard nothing in return. There was detritus from the ship that had crashed into the Spar—some of which was still falling and striking the sea around him—but of Nasim he saw nothing.

  And then it became too much. His anger was spent, and the waves once more began to drag him down.

  Again and again the water fell upon him. Filling his mouth, slipping down his throat and into his lungs before he could clear the water away. He was beyond desperation. He was despondent, accepting, for he knew the end was near.

  Until he heard a crash nearby.

  He felt the water roil around him. He felt it push him upward. It lifted him, a column of water above the roiling sea. Not far away was a large piece of the ship’s hull, tilting and turning on the sea-tossed waves. On it was a man, and through his wracking coughs he realized it was Ashan.

  He could see a wide area of the straits now, and he scanned the water desperately. “Nasim!” he called. “Nasim!”

  He tried again and again as the water bore him toward Ashan. He searched, shouting until his throat was raw, but he received no answer, and saw no signs.

  The column of water deposited Nikandr down upon the plank. Ashan, his face pinched with concern, moved quickly with strong arms to pull Nikandr to the center of the makeshift raft. In the clouds high above the Spar, a maelstrom spun. Dirt and debris caught by the wind rained down, biting the skin of his scalp and hands as he cowered from it.

  Again Ashan called upon the water to bear them swiftly across the channel toward the northern cliff. Massive pieces of the Spar, which was still breaking up, crashed into the sea, sending plumes of water high into the air. On the far side of the straits, a column of stone calved from the cliff face, crumbling as it fell. When it struck the water, a massive wave formed and spread outward, consuming the distance toward the opposite set of cliffs.

  Their raft reached a break in the cliffs, a shallow inlet. Ashan lifted them high on the mound of water as the worst of the massive waves crashed below. As they subsided, he set them down on a shelf of stone twenty feet up from the chaos below.

  As the wind continued to rage, as the debris rained down, Nikandr looked to the sea for Nasim or for Kaleh, and though he searched and called through the harrowing hours that followed, he never found them.

  Nikandr hoped to find Atiana on the northern side of the Spar, so when the storms finally died down, he asked Ashan to take him there. They flew up on currents of wind, and Ashan set them down near the Spar’s landing not twenty paces away from the auction house platform where he’d slipped Atiana’s soulstone necklace around her neck.

  “We should divide our efforts,” Ashan said as he waved to Nikandr. “There are those I would search for as well.”

  Nikandr wandered the streets of Vihrosh, asking questions of those he saw. Few braved the streets early on, but as time passed, more and more came out of their homes and began asking for news and inspecting the damage to their city. He spent hours, asking everyone he could if they’d seen a woman matching Atiana’s description, but they all shook their heads.

  The storm—so fierce only a few hours before—seemed to have burned itself out entirely, so that by the time Nikandr gave up the search, the clouds cleared and the sun shone down. It was a strange reality to be faced with—a beautiful day after the devastation he’d witnessed.

  When he returned to the Spar, Ashan stood at the landing with a young man of fourteen or fifteen. Ashan introduced him as Sukharam, and apparently he’d traveled far with Nasim.

  “Do you think him dead then?” Sukharam asked. Clearly Ashan had told him of the final moments on the Spar and the water below.

  “I hope not,” Nikandr said.

  The boy’s eyes became more intense, almost angry. “Do you think him dead?”

  It was a question he probably deserved an answer to, but Nikandr wouldn’t be pushed. Not now.

  “I hope not,” he said again, and walked past the two of them.

  He made his way to the broken end of the Spar and leaned out over the shorn edge to stare at the water below. He still had his soulstone. He had cast outward with it several times on his walk through Vihrosh, hoping to feel Atiana, and now he did so again. As it was before, he could not sense her, but neither could he sense anyone else—not his mother nor father nor any of the Matri. No one. The stone felt deadened, though
whether this was due to their deaths or some artifact of the destruction of the Spar and the grand release of energy that followed he wasn’t sure.

  Ashan stepped up beside him and stared down toward the water as well. His foot shifted a stone, which flew down toward the sea, its arc curving as the wind took it. “Sukharam was brusk, but he had a point.”

  Nikandr shook his head sadly. “I don’t know if he died.” Where the knife had cut through his coat and shirt, he could reach through and touch the raw wound that Nasim had healed with the Atalayina. The subtle feeling that he was connected to Nasim was gone. And he was poorer for it. He’d always felt that he would one day find Nasim, that they would help one another close the rifts.

  But now…

  Now he didn’t know if that would ever be possible. Muqallad and Sariya had been stopped, but the world had been left in a terrible state. Who knew what would happen tomorrow?

  Movement along the Spar caught Nikandr’s attention.

  A skiff floated up and away from Baressa, making its way steadily toward the Spar, toward their location. After a wait that seemed like days, it crossed the gap at the center of the Spar and came to a rest nearby. Anahid was in the skiff, guiding it.

  And Atiana was there as well.

  As she swung over the side of the skiff, Nikandr rushed forward and swept her up in a deep embrace. He held her tight, a rush of emotions soaring inside him.

  “I thought you were gone,” he whispered.

  He heard her sniffling. “I thought the same of you.”

  When at last they pulled away, she smiled and brushed away his tears. He brushed away hers and drew her in again, kissing her warm, salt-laced lips.

  After taking his hand, she led him into the skiff. She beckoned to Ashan and Sukharam as well, and soon all four of them were inside, flying back toward the city.

  “Nikandr,” Atiana said, taking his hands in hers. She gripped them tightly as she sat on the thwart. “I have grave news.” Nikandr felt his insides go weak, but Atiana, with intent emotion, held his gaze, giving him strength. “My father is dead. Sacrificed by the Kamarisi before the first ships crossed the Spar.”

  Nikandr stared, shocked to hear these words. “It cannot be so.”

  She shook her head, squeezing his hands so that he would let her finish. “Your father… He came to lead the charge. He commanded brilliantly, but in the end the Galaheshi elite broke through and rushed the commanders huddled behind the lines.

  “They retreated, but your father was taken by a musket shot.” She paused, steeling herself, giving Nikandr time to absorb this. “He’s dead, Nischka. He lasted only minutes after taking the wound.”

  Nikandr felt himself go cold and distant. The sound of the wind faded in his ears. He felt Atiana’s hand on his knee, felt her move to sit on his thwart and hug him, and even though he hugged her back, none of it felt real, especially those words: He’s dead, Nischka.

  Anahid flew them up to Kasir Yalidoz and landed the skiff in the center of the grand patio. Anahid glanced at the kasir but refused to leave the skiff. “You have much to do,” she said, “and I would speak with Ashan.”

  Nikandr nodded numbly, grasping Ashan’s offered hand and kissing him on the forehead. “Thank you,” he said.

  He nodded a kind farewell to Sukharam, but as he passed Anahid, he leaned in and kissed her as well. “And you.”

  She smiled for him, but in that smile there was only sadness, not joy.

  Inside the kasir, dozens of men were gathered, men of the Grand Duchy. The conversation in the room dropped to a whisper as Nikandr and Atiana entered. All eyes were upon them.

  Without being given a command, the crowd parted, creating an aisle toward a central table where Konstantin Bolgravya and Leonid Dhalingrad stood. As Atiana and Nikandr walked side by side toward them, the polkovnik, Andreya Antonov, and his aides bowed their heads and left.

  Konstantin stepped forward first, kissing Atiana’s hand and then taking Nikandr into a tight embrace. As they kissed one another’s cheeks, he said, “It’s a wonder you’re alive.”

  “It is a wonder even to me, My Lord Duke.”

  Konstantin glanced to Atiana, who nodded soberly. “I’m sorry for your loss, Nischka. Iaros was a great man.”

  “Thank you,” Nikandr replied, though he knew how emotionless his words must sound.

  At a clearing of Leonid’s throat, Konstantin bowed his head and returned to Leonid’s side.

  To Nikandr’s great surprise, Leonid stepped forward as well. The Leonid Nikandr knew would have stood there and waited for Nikandr to approach him. The old duke held Nikandr by the shoulders, staring at him with a comforting look. It looked strange on Leonid, this hawk of a man, and it warred with his haggard eyes and long white beard that made him look more like one of the haunting statues that graced the Grand Duchy’s mausoleums. They hugged and kissed cheeks, but instead of releasing him, Leonid held him tight and whispered into his ear. “I am sorry for your loss, Nischka. It was your father that saw us through this war. Because of him, we now stand victorious.”

  As he rubbed Nikandr’s shoulders compassionately, a notion came to Nikandr. It was foolish. Preposterous. And yet it was something he couldn’t shake, and when Leonid pulled Nikandr back and stared deeply into his eyes, it began to set like clay.

  Nikandr knew… Knew his father’s death had not been from some act of war. Knew it hadn’t been an accident. He knew it had been planned, and the one who’d set that plan in motion was staring at him as if he were his own son.

  With Zhabyn and Iaros both dead, the mantle of Grand Duke would fall to Leonid. Council would be held, but there was no doubt as to what the outcome would be, especially since Leonid had been the one to finish this battle. He would be the one to reap the rewards.

  “I hope you’ll bring my regrets back to Khalakovo with you,” Leonid said.

  “Where is my father?”

  At this, Leonid’s eyes changed. Though it would be imperceptible to everyone else, Nikandr saw them harden, and his expression of sympathy faded. He released Nikandr and snapped his fingers. A page boy came forward and bowed. “Take what time you need,” Leonid said, “but then return. There is much to do before the city is secured.”

  With those simple words, Nikandr understood that Leonid meant to take Baressa, to take Galahesh as another island in the Grand Duchy. It was a bold move. The Kamarisi was dead, but his eldest son would now take the throne, and he would bend his will against Anuskaya in order to take back what was his.

  But really this was the only course of action Leonid could take. He was not one given to diplomacy. He saw things only as property to be won, held, or coveted. Perhaps in time they could have settled this dispute peaceably with Yrstanla. But not now. Not unless another duke was given the mantel.

  There was this and much more to consider, but for the time being Nikandr could concentrate on none of it.

  He wanted only to look upon his father.

  To say farewell.

  In a room deep beneath Kasir Yalidoz, Nikandr held Atiana’s hand. The two of them stood before the bodies of their fathers, which had been wrapped carefully in white cloth and set upon slabs of bright white marble. Three lanterns hung from nearby posts. Wooden coffins rested beyond the marble slabs, ready to accept the bodies of the dukes for transport back to Vostroma and Khalakovo.

  Nikandr shivered from the cold. Atiana, next to him, had not shivered once since they’d been led down into this massive cellar. They had been here a long while already, both of them standing in silence, saying their mute farewells to these strong men. Nikandr’s feelings before coming here were a confused jumble, as though he hadn’t enough room to grieve for so many, but now that he was here, he was focused not only on his own grief, but Atiana’s as well.

  “Go well,” Atiana said softly. Her words echoed into the darkness.

  “Go well,” Nikandr said as well.

  He took Atiana into an embrace. “I’m sorry, Atiana.”
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  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Nyet. I’m sorry for what I did to you in Ivosladna. I’m sorry I didn’t come when you asked for my help.”

  She held him tighter, and then released him. By the golden light of the nearby lanterns, he saw her smile sadly.

  They walked back toward the stairs and took the long flight up to ground level.

  “There is war ahead,” Atiana said.

  “And perhaps a long one,” he replied. “We cannot allow Yrstanla to have either Galahesh or Oramka now. Both must be secured.”

  They reached the top of the stairs and stepped out through the doors, where an honor guard was set to watch—two Vostroman streltsi and two Khalakovan, each in full regalia. The soldiers bowed deeply and closed the doors behind them with a boom.

  Atiana led Nikandr toward the stained-glass doors. They strode through these and out to the grand patio, where a cold wind blew. They walked to the edge, where they could look over the expanse of Baressa and the straits beyond. Nikandr leaned on the balustrade, staring at a column of smoke that rose to the northwest, the remnant of a fire that had stared during the fierce battle. “Where is Soroush?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see him after the ship crashed. He must have left with Ushai and the remains of the Maharraht before our streltsi arrived.”

  Nikandr shook his head, looking north toward the Spar. He could see much of its length and the large gap at its center. His mind was still fresh with the chaos of those final moments. The destruction was incredible, and surely Muqallad was dead, but it still didn’t feel like things had been decided.

  “No matter what becomes of the war,” Nikandr said, “there is still Ghayavand. The rifts will continue to widen.”

  “And there is the matter of the Atalayina.” She meant not only the Atalayina, but Nasim as well. He was their best chance at closing the rifts once and for all. “He’s powerful,” Atiana continued. “He might have lived.”