The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya)

by Bradley Beaulieu

  Nikandr had to blink away the vision, for it made him feel dizzy if he looked at it for too long, as if he were floating among the stars, lost to the world forever.

  Safwah stepped to the edge of the lake, bent down, and touched the glasslike surface of the water. The water rippled but then stilled, as if it had frozen in place at her touch.

  “Stay close behind,” she said. And stepped into the water.

  Nyet, Nikandr thought. She hadn’t stepped into the water. She’d stepped onto it. It was supporting her weight, without so much as a splash or a ripple.

  Ashan and Sukharam followed, tentatively at first but then with growing confidence. Soroush went next, then Nikandr, and Goeh brought up the rear. It was the strangest sensation Nikandr had ever had, stepping out onto the surface of that lake. It gave ever so slightly, as if he were stepping upon the flesh of some strange, watery beast. He had the impression it would fail on the very next step, which made his gait odd and tentative, like a child stepping onto a frozen lake for the very first time.

  The cavern was dead silent. The only sound he heard was the sound of their own breathing. That and the occasional echo from somewhere behind—perhaps the clink of a sword sheath as it caught against the stone of the tunnels, or the momentary rattle of arrows in a quiver.

  The lake was wide—much wider than Nikandr had guessed. The largest of the hidden lakes of the islands were large indeed, but they were nothing compared to this place, this hidden reservoir in the middle of the desert.

  At last they reached the far shore. They stopped along a short lip of stone that, as far as Nikandr could tell, held no form of escape. They were trapped. Perhaps Safwah merely wished to keep them here for a time while the pursuit chased them in the wrong directions, but it made Nikandr supremely uncomfortable.

  When they’d all stepped onto the rocky shore, Safwah bent down and released a soft moan of pain as she touched the water’s surface. The only discernible effect Nikandr could see was the smallest ripple that caught the bare blue light, and yet, as it expanded outward, he could feel within his chest an expansion, an easing of pressure he hadn’t known was there. He breathed easier after that. Whatever she’d done, he trusted that she was keeping them safe.

  They sat, all of them weary. Sukharam practically collapsed, even with Ashan supporting him.

  “We’ll see to the boy first,” Safwah said. “And then I think it’s time I shared with you a tale, some of which you may already know.”

  She and Ashan pulled up Sukharam’s robes while Nikandr and Soroush held the siraj stones so the entry wound could be properly inspected. The arrow shaft was deep in his thigh.

  Sukharam stared into Safwah’s eyes with grim determination. He was poised—more poised than Nikandr had given him credit for—but he still glanced occasionally to his thigh and his breathing came in ever-shorter gasps.

  Safwah gripped his hand in hers and spoke to him in Kalhani, “Getham kal hiramal.”

  Sukharam visibly calmed. His breathing gained length if not steadiness, and a moment later, he licked his lips and nodded.

  Safwah, as simply as if she were plucking feathers from a goose, placed one hand against his thigh and pulled the arrow out.

  Sukharam did not cry out. He did not, in fact, seem to register the pain at all. If anything, he became more calm. Still, his forehead sweat, and his jaw was tight. He watched as Safwah set the broken arrow shaft aside and took a length of red cloth from a bag at her side and wrapped it around his leg.

  Soon Safwah had finished dressing the wound. The moment she pulled his robe back down and smoothed the wrinkles, Sukharam laid his head down and fell asleep.

  After leaving Sukharam to rest in peace, they sat upon the cold stone. When Goeh settled in beside her and set the siraj stones in the center of their rough circle, Nikandr realized just how much they looked alike. He thought back to the big man’s face when Safwah had fallen. His look had been one of extreme concern, not over someone he knew, but someone he’d known his whole life.

  By the ancients, Safwah was Goeh’s mother.

  The way he sat next to her now, the way he glanced at her, especially at the wound, made it seem obvious. But Safwah wouldn’t allow herself to show weakness, and once she even sent a glare at Goeh, a look that told him to calm himself and stop worrying about her.

  She began to speak not long after. “In the days of the sundering, there were three Al-Aqim. You know of them. In the early days, after the devastation, there were still many upon Ghayavand, those who wished to help, those who thought they might still turn the tide against the rifts that had been torn between our world and the next. It was not to be, of course. As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, hearts grew weary, and then despondent. Some left. Others came to Ghayavand, offering what help they could, but all looked to the Al-Aqim, who were gifted like no other. They were trusted still, and many thought they would some day lead us away from the edge of ruin.

  “They did not. They created the abominations, the akhoz. The qiram who remained on Ghayavand, to their great shame, agreed to it, feeling there must be sacrifice if the world is to live. And yet, they knew it was wrong, and the more children that were given to the Al-Aqim, the more turned against them. They were largely silent at first, these men and women, but then their voices grew in number and volume. The Al-Aqim began to withdraw. They hid themselves away with their pieces of the Atalayina, hoping to study them and uncover the secrets they’d failed to find before the sundering.

  “But the Al-Aqim were fools. They could not hope to find the secrets of the Atalayina separately. The stone needed to be mended. It needed to be whole before such a thing could happen, but the Al-Aqim began to distrust, not only the men and women who believed in them, but one another.”

  In the distance, there came a sound, so faint it was difficult to say what it might be. A rock falling. A creature stirring. A footstep. Safwah immediately went silent and all of them listened for a time. The sound was not repeated, and she went on, though quieter than before.

  “There was a woman, Inan. Hers was the first of the children taken, whose name was Yadhan. The first of the akhoz. Inan gave her daughter willingly though many doubts warred with her loyalties to Khamal and the other Al-Aqim. As time went on, she became incensed—at herself, at the Al-Aqim, at even the fates—though she hid this from all, Khamal in particular, who she’d learned much from over their years together. Inan was wise. Inan had been born here, in Kohor, as had Sariya and Muqallad, and she knew much of the lore surrounding the Atalayina. She knew enough to bind it, but in order to do so, many would need to band together.

  “One by one, then two by two, the qiram sided with Inan. They were known as the Tashavir—the stout, the resolute. Together they created the wards that still hold around Ghayavand. They muted the Atalayina, preventing the Al-Aqim from using it against them, and it bound the three of them to the island until such a time as the Tashavir returned to release them. Of all the qiram left on Ghayavand, Inan was the only one to stay behind so that she could deliver the news to Khamal and the others. What became of her, we do not know. We only know that she never returned to Kohor.

  “But the Tashavir did return. They came to Kohor even as they spent themselves to hold the wards in place, hoping that they or others could learn enough that one day they could return to Ghayavand and close the rifts. But ideas…” Safwah was silent for a time, and Nikandr realized she was crying. She sniffed and wiped away her tears before going on. “Ideas are a strange thing. They are born of one mind but do not content themselves with this. Sometimes they spread like blooming fields of poppy—bright to look upon, and we are better for having seen them—but other times they spread like a dark plague, causing death wherever they go. The notion that had already sprouted from the Al-Aqim, that the sundering was no mistake at all, took root within some few of the Kohori, and from there it spread over time. The sundering was meant to be, some said, even if only to themselves. They were silent, these fooli
sh men, these foolish women, but eventually their voices were raised. They said perhaps some should be sent to speak to the Al-Aqim, to treat with them.

  “Foolishness,” Safwah spat. Nikandr had the distinct impression she was no longer relaying a story. She was speaking to herself now, reliving the history of her people.

  “As time went on, some of the Tashavir abandoned the cause, and the walls around Ghayavand weakened. It had taken many to form the spells around Ghayavand, but with the foundations crumbling, they knew they must take steps to preserve them. Decades might pass before a way to heal the rifts was found. Lifetimes. And so it was decided that the Tashavir who remained would hide among the mountains. Fifty-five traveled to the valley of Shadam Khoreh, and there they were entombed, their bodies preserved. They lived at the very edge of Adhiya itself, preserving themselves since the day they were buried. They were strong and bright, these flames of Shadam Khoreh. They sacrificed themselves that the world might one day recover from the days of the sundering.”

  “Forgive me.” Ashan bowed his head reverently to Safwah. “But if this is so, why have you kept us from Shadam Khoreh?”

  Safwah chuckled lowly. The sound echoed ominously against the walls of the cavern. “And now the other part of the tale comes. We who protect the old ways, the Keepers of the Flame, are now few. Then the daughter of Sariya came to this village. Kaleh, she named herself. And she brought a boy, but she told us he was dumb and mute. And it seemed so, for he never spoke. Not once. She asked us of the history of this place, slowly wheedling more information from us. She spent much time in the Vale of Stars as well, taking breath for days at a time.”

  At this, Nikandr looked over to where Sukharam lay, remembering the look on his face when he’d left the Vale of Stars. Had he seen what Sariya had seen?

  “What I didn’t know then, what none of us knew, was that she was working her way into our minds. One by one, she found us, the Keepers, and chained our memories. The others she may have bound as well, I do not know, but when they learned her true nature, they surely rejoiced. For Kaleh was not Kaleh at all. She was Sariya, one of the Al-Aqim returned, and for them—those who believed the sundering was no mistake at all, but the next step toward a rebirth of our world—it was a grand sign.

  “Sariya took what she wanted from us. Knowledge of the Atalayina, knowledge of the Tashavir, but most importantly, the location of Shadam Khoreh, the valley where the Tashavir, fates willing, still remain hidden. She left us, but not before sending some away, and not before setting others to guard this village from presences like yours.”

  “If that’s so,” Nikandr said, “then why were we not simply killed when we arrived?”

  Safwah nodded to Goeh. “It was Goeh who found you, and it was those loyal to us, the Keepers, that saved you at the edge of the valley. When you arrived, the others did not wish to raise suspicion, so they bided their time, waiting, hoping we would find nothing. That is why we pushed to use Atiana as we did. She awakened within us our memories.”

  “But Atiana knew nothing of Kaleh and Nasim’s time here,” Nikandr said.

  “She didn’t have to. She told us of Kaleh and Sariya and Nasim. She knows Sariya well, perhaps better than anyone alive. From her memories, from her understanding, our memories that had been hidden were returned to us. But when the others realized this, they knew they couldn’t allow us to live. Nor could they allow you to live. They came for you, which is how I arrived at your home.”

  “But what happened to Atiana?”

  Safwah shrugged. “They took her. I barely escaped with Goeh’s help. The others may all be dead by now. Fates willing, it won’t be so, but you”—she looked to each of them in turn—“may now be our last hope. You must go to the valley. We’ll send help if we’re able, but it may take days for us to find out who lives while the others search for us.”

  “Why would she have brought Nasim?” Soroush suddenly asked. He was staring at the lake over Safwah’s shoulder, giving the impression he was speaking more to himself than anyone else. “Why bring one who is no ally of hers to such a place? Why not go herself?”

  Ashan shifted where he sat. “Nasim was needed in Shadam Khoreh.” He turned to Safwah. “Is it not so?”

  Safwah searched Soroush’s face, then glanced down at the siraj that lay between them as if searching for memories long hidden. “The tombs… They would not easily be opened by one such as Kaleh, even as powerful as she is. Nasim, however, is reborn of the Al-Aqim. Were he near, the tombs would open.”

  Nikandr shook his head. “But the Al-Aqim were the enemy of the Tashavir.”

  Safwah raised her hand to him as if scolding a child. “Not enemies. The Al-Aqim had been allowed to live. To consider what they had done. It was hoped that they would learn and find a way to repair the Atalayina and to close the rifts, and if they could do this, they would be able to leave Ghayavand and return to Kohor. The tombs would open for them, and the Tashavir would return to help as they could.”

  “And when the tombs have been opened?” Nikandr asked. “What will Kaleh do?”

  “She will kill them,” Soroush said, “one by one.”

  Safwah nodded. “That is what must be stopped. You must go to Shadam Khoreh. Find Nasim, but at all costs, you must save the Tashavir.”

  “And if we don’t?” Nikandr asked.

  “Then Kaleh will have what she wants. She will be able to return to Ghayavand, the Atalayina in hand, and rip the world apart.” Safwah glanced back to Sukharam, who was still sleeping on the glittering stone. “Carry him. He’ll sleep for a while yet.”

  She stood and moved to the cavern wall behind her. With but a touch the stone melted like ice, revealing another tunnel beyond. “Your ab-sair will be waiting for you at the end of this tunnel. The others will hound these caverns for a while yet, but they will expand their search to the desert, and when they do, you must be long on your way to Shadam Khoreh.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Styophan sat in the driver’s bench of a tall coach. Edik sat next to him wearing his janissary’s uniform. Behind the coach were thirty-seven of his men, marching two by two, their footsteps rising above the clop of the four horses pulling the coach and the jingle of tack and harness. Of the Haelish men who’d come with them there was no sign.

  Styophan wore his commander’s uniform. The rest wore the clothes of regulars. They traveled toward the city of Avolina. Its walls were made of stone, and it had the look of age about it. Avolina wasn’t so old as Alekeşir or the cities of Old Yrstanla, but it was old enough that it had outgrown its original walls. It was this feature, along with one other, that had made Styophan choose it. It was large enough that it would have many men moving through it: men from the outskirts of the Empire; men from the warfront; men coming from Alekeşir with official news and supplies.

  The other factor that had made them choose this route was the fact that the headwaters of the Vünkal, the very same river that bisected Alekeşir, ran through Avolina as well.

  The coach rattled on. The men marched behind sloppily, exactly as they’d been ordered. Styophan could see janissaries manning the wall. One called another over and pointed to the field Styophan and his men were crossing. A moment later they called down to ground level, presumably to more soldiers who were hidden behind the half-timber buildings that stood outside the wall. Styophan stroked his two-week-old beard. He’d grown it and cut it in the fashion of the region—mustached with tails, long hair along the chin but shaved along the cheek and neck. He had to admit he looked the part, but many of the men didn’t. They looked to him like streltsi posing as soldiers of Yrstanla, which was of course exactly what they were. Edik argued that the men of Avolina wouldn’t suspect; they’d merely look down on these simple soldiers from the outlands, men who either weren’t good enough to find posts in the cities or had been born far from civilization, both of which would be damning in their eyes.

  Styophan hoped he was right, for already he was feeling the weight of t
he stares as the men on the wall studied their approach.

  When they passed beyond a long building, a tannery from the smell of it, the city gate was revealed. It was open, but four men were standing at the ready, muskets in hand. He’d wondered for days if Avolina would have heard news of the coming war and the devastation at the fort.

  Clearly they had.

  “Hold,” one of the soldiers said in thick Yrstanlan when they approached.

  Edik pulled at the reins and the coach came to a stop.

  The men came to a rest as well. They stayed in their rows, but they looked about, concerned, some of them wide-eyed, as if they were worried what was to become of them.

  Good, Styophan said to himself.

  “You look grim, you do,” said the janissary as he looked Styophan up and down.

  Styophan handed him the first of the notes he’d written before leaving the fort. “For the Kaymakam.”

  Styophan was ready for the man to lock eyes with him, to stare deeply into his soul, ready for him to peel back this simple deception to learn the truth. With that one look he’d know that these were men of the islands, not soldiers from the wide-open spaces of the Empire. Styophan readied himself to pull his pistol and fire, readied himself to order his men to storm over these few soldiers of Yrstanla.

  But the janissary did not lock eyes with Styophan. He accepted the letter and inspected the seal carefully, then eyed Styophan as if he wondered how he’d come by such a thing. Styophan thought at first he recognized the seal itself. Each of the forts were given their own—he knew because he’d examined many that were left in the commander’s desk—but a man like this probably wouldn’t know them all.

  “You’ve come all this way?” He looked beyond the coach and down the line of men. “All of you?”

  Styophan ignored his questions. “The Kaymakam will want to see that.”