The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya)

by Bradley Beaulieu

  I’ve been betrayed, Nikandr realized.

  Nikandr searched the eyes of the other dukes. Borund looked confused. Konstantin as well. Yegor looked curious, as if he’d figured it out and was trying, as Nikandr was, to piece things together.

  But Yevgeny. Yevgeny Mirkotsk—his father’s closest ally for decades—met Nikandr’s eyes and then looked down.

  As if he were embarrassed.

  Nyet, Nikandr thought. Not embarrassed. Ashamed.

  He’d told Leonid. He’d gone to him after Nikandr had pleaded for his help and told the Grand Duke everything. Nikandr couldn’t believe it for a moment, but now it only made sense. Leonid treated the duchies that didn’t fall in line ruthlessly. The effect of his new levies hadn’t affected Khalakovo as much as the other duchies for the simple fact that Khalakovo was resource rich, especially with windwood. With the number of ships lost in the battles with Yrstanla two years ago, dozens of new ships had been commissioned, and Khalakovo had received the lion’s share of the contracts.

  Mirkotsk had not been so lucky. They’d become the convenient substitute for Leonid’s anger. Yevgeny had done the only thing he could—he’d caved to curry favor. And now, with Yevgeny gone, Nikandr no longer had the votes. Council or not, Leonid would have his way.

  Unless, Nikandr thought…

  Unless Leonid were thought of as unreasonable. That was half the reason the dukes hadn’t committed last night. They wanted to give Leonid a chance to show what stuff he was made of. Well, Nikandr knew what he was made of. Hatred and anger and bile. That was what roiled inside Leonid Dhalingrad. That and a desire to retain the mantle of Grand Duke at all costs now that it had finally landed on his shoulders.

  “That is the extent of it, Your Grace,” Nikandr said at last. “Leave Ghayavand alone. Watch for them if you will, but leave the rest to me. Grant me a ship and I’ll take the men of Khalakovo to the island.” Leonid opened his mouth to speak, but Nikandr talked over him. “Do not worry over the ship. Ranos will be bringing one here shortly.”

  Leonid’s black eyes narrowed. “And who granted him leave to come?”

  “I did. I knew His Grace would see the wisdom in my decision, so I bid him come.”

  “Your decision.”

  “By Your Grace’s leave, of course.”

  Leonid stood, an act that looked as painful as it was slow. The other dukes watched the exchange uncomfortably. All except Borund. Borund was watching Nikandr with the look he’d had on Radiskoye, the one that had pleaded with Nikandr to remain quiet. It had been moments before he’d ordered the hangman to release the lever on the nearby gallows, condemning the seven Mahtar of Iramanshah to swing in the wind with ropes around their necks.

  As Leonid shuffled forward, Borund gave Nikandr another warning. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

  But Nikandr didn’t care. He couldn’t let this go, not now, and not for a man like Leonid Dhalingrad.

  “Your Grace shouldn’t trouble himself in his state,” Nikandr said. “If you’ll grant me leave to go, I’ll begin making preparations. I merely need a writ with your seal, if you please.”

  “Enough!” This came from Leonid’s son, Vadim. He took two long strides forward, and this time he pulled his black-handled kindjal from its sheath at his belt.

  Nikandr made no move to retreat. He’d take a cut from Vadim if that’s what it came to—the image it would leave on these dukes would be valuable, indeed—but Leonid raised his hand and pressed it against his son’s broad chest before Vadim could get close enough to strike.

  “All is well, my son.” Leonid turned to Nikandr and with an effort that seemed almost insurmountable pasted on a smile. “All is well.” His eyes wavered as he spoke, the left one ticking, as if Leonid could hardly believe the words coming from his own mouth. “You’ve done the Grand Duchy a great service, Nikandr Iaroslov, and you’ve done well to bring this news to us, the dukes of the Council. We will consider what you’ve said, and in due time, we’ll give the proper orders.”

  He stepped forward and patted Nikandr on the shoulder. Nikandr wanted to say more. He wanted to force Leonid’s hand, but he couldn’t think of a way to do so without damaging his own cause.

  “Rest now,” Leonid said as he passed. “Rest, and you’ll know our decision soon enough.”

  And then the Grand Duke left. Vadim followed, glaring with hate-filled eyes at Nikandr. And then the other dukes began filing out.

  Soon Nikandr was left alone with Borund, the tent silent as a mausoleum. “Why did you do it?” Borund asked. “You should have waited to speak with me.”

  “You?” Nikandr laughed, the sound of it grim and humorless. “The man who sat on Khalakovo’s throne, bleeding us dry for your father?”

  “Whether you believe it or not, what I did was necessary for the Grand Duchy. Not Vostroma. Not Khalakovo. But for the Grand Duchy.”

  “This is necessary, too.”

  “Which is why I listened. But Yevgeny…”

  “I know,” Nikandr said, “and now I’ve made a mess of things.”

  “Da,” Borund said. “You have.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  As cold rain continues to fall, Atiana stares at the white tower nestled in the copse of larch trees. “Have you seen this before?”

  “Once, but only in the distance. I chased it, but when I came to the hill where I’d seen it, it was gone.” There is something in Kaleh as she watches the tower. It isn’t fear—Kaleh has been through too much to be afraid of Sariya—but respect, certainly, and an expectancy that makes Atiana think that she is glad this will soon be over, one way or the other.

  Atiana touches Kaleh’s shoulder. “I will go to her.”

  “Then I will go as well.”

  “Neh,” she replies. “Keep watch, but do not approach. We cannot allow her to take us both.”

  Kaleh looks between the tower and Atiana. “Once you’re inside, I won’t be able to help you. You’ll be on your own, truly.”

  Atiana searches for Mileva, but cannot sense her. “I know.”

  As Atiana walks down the hill, the smell of the brightbonnets fades. The rain turns to hail, pelting her mercilessly as she treads onward. Halfway down she turns to look for Kaleh, but the girl is gone. For reasons Atiana can’t fully express, this lightens her heart.

  When she reaches the copse of larch, the hail eases and turns to rain, then stops altogether. Above, the sun shines down from between two banks of clouds. It brightens them but does little to brighten Atiana’s heart. This is dark business, for which rain is better suited. As she nears the tower and rainwater patters down from the branches of the larch, the door at the base of it creaks open.

  The moment she steps across the threshold, however, the rain picks up again, harder than before, and a streak of lightning strikes the field she’d been walking across moments ago. It blinds her as the pounding of thunder reverberates through her chest and limbs and even her teeth.

  Better, Atiana thinks grimly. A meeting such as this calls for thunder.

  Inside, as she suspected, the room at the base of the tower is bare and empty. She goes up the stairs that hug the interior wall. Level after level is empty, just as it was below. When she reaches the seventh floor she finds Sariya standing on the far side of a room with rich rugs layering the floor. If the position of the lowering sun can be believed, Sariya is staring through the northern window. It feels strange to admit that north and south exist in the world of dreams, but it cannot be ignored. Directions have too much meaning for the Aramahn and even more for Sariya, the last of the Al-Aqim.

  As she steps forward, Atiana feels a probing. Sariya reaches beyond these walls as well, perhaps wondering how Atiana came to this place. Sariya doesn’t turn as Atiana reaches the middle of the room. She speaks not a word. She doesn’t have to. There is an undeniable feeling of sisterhood between them. They have been enemies, true, but the two of them understand the aether like few ever have. They have also shared their lives with o
ne another, albeit unwillingly, when Sariya became lost in her tower on Galahesh. In some ways Sariya knows Atiana better than anyone, even Nikandr or Mileva or Ishkyna. It’s an uncomfortable conclusion, especially when Atiana stands in a world of Sariya’s own making.

  “I was trapped on this island for centuries,” Sariya says, “and yet those days feel shorter than the handful of years I’ve been gone from Ghayavand.”

  Sariya turns, and Atiana gasps.

  There are changes about Sariya… She had always been so beautiful, so youthful, that it seemed as though nothing could take those qualities from her, but here she stands, her skin lusterless, her eyes sunken. Deep wrinkles form in the skin around her lips as she smiles, and she looks down at herself, as if to acknowledge all that Atiana sees.

  Again, Atiana feels her probing. She goes farther now, perhaps searching for Kaleh, searching for the bounds of her imprisonment.

  “Your Nischka did this to me. Did you know?”

  Atiana shakes her head, failing to comprehend how anything Nikandr might have done could have resulted in this.

  Sariya glances to the eastern window on her left. “Did you know that Nikandr came to me? Here in this very room?”

  “Not in this room,” Atiana replies. “It was in your tower in Alayazhar.”

  Sariya laughs, more the croak of an old crone than the sound of a vibrant woman. “Make no mistake. It was here.”

  “Neh,” Atiana replies, her voice stronger than Sariya’s. “This is a vastly different place than the tower you created on Ghayavand. That was a place that gave you knowledge and strength. It was the place where you learned the secrets of the world, where you returned after taking breath on Sihyaan. It was a place that nurtured you for years before the sundering, and for decades afterward. This place”—Atiana waved to the room around her—“this is a place of decay. It draws from you, not the other way around. This will become your grave, daughter of Vehayeh.”

  “Do you think so?” She turns back to the window, the northern, the direction the Aramahn associate with winter, with end of life, but also rebirth. “I wonder.”

  Atiana approaches and stares through the window. There she sees not the empty landscape she expected, but a boy sitting on a mountaintop with his back to a pillar of obsidian nearly hidden by tall grass. Sage-colored moss grows on the face of the exposed stone, making it difficult to recognize, but it is not so different from the one that she’d seen on the hillock before she’d taken the dark.

  It takes her long moments to realize the boy is Sukharam.

  “Why does he cry?”

  “Why, indeed?” Sariya glances her way, regards Atiana from head to foot. “Do you know that after I woke from the sundering, I remembered almost nothing from the ritual? I recalled only white light, the shattering of the Atalayina. I knew we had failed, and little more. But there was a lament within me, Atiana, daughter of Radia. A lament so deep it nearly smothered me.” Sariya turns away from the window and stares into Atiana’s eyes, and Atiana wonders about her apparent age. In this place, Sariya controls all. She can make herself as young as she wishes to, as Kaleh can, so why doesn’t she? What has changed: her ability to control her appearance or her will to do so?

  “At the time,” Sariya continues, “I thought our collective failure was the sole source of our pain—not merely our failure to reach indaraqiram, but that we’d torn the veil between worlds.”

  “And now?”

  “Now?” Sariya takes in a deep breath, and her eyes go distant. “It was all there before us. We had only to look.” Tears well in her eyes and slip down her cheeks. “I nearly died on Galahesh, at the foot of the Spar. It brought me to the very edge of the veil, not between Erahm and Adhiya, but between our worlds and the heavens above. I looked beyond the veil, and I saw it.” Her lips quiver. “The fates. They had gone, fled to another realm. Either that or we killed them that day. The reality of it matters little. What matters, daughter of Radia, is that we failed. We failed ourselves. We failed the Aramahn. We failed you and the people of the desert and those who live on the wide plains of Yrstanla. We failed, for without the fates, the world is truly doomed.” She points out the window, where Sukharam is staring up at the sky in pain and bewilderment. “He knows that now. That is why he cries. He has realized the world can no longer be saved.”

  Atiana shakes her head. “It can be saved.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “It must be so.”

  “And why is that?”

  “We have lived three hundred years since the sundering. If the fates were dead, all would have been lost long before now.”

  “If you take a man from the helm of a windship, does it begin to list that very moment? Does it immediately fall to the ground? Or does it continue along its path until eventually crashing to the earth?”

  “We have the ancients.”

  “Yeh, your ancients. They protect you, do they not?”

  “They do!”

  “And who protects them? Who do you think were there when the first of your ancients crossed to the other side?”

  “The fates may have given us life, but we decide our own paths.”

  Sariya nods. “That doesn’t contradict their ways, Atiana. They granted us free will. But there are many paths to the same place, are there not? So it is with the fates. We choose, but they guide what choices are available. Whether you like it or not, we cannot go on forever without them. The world cannot go on.”

  “So what will you do? Remain here in this place, locked in Kaleh’s mind, refusing to let her go?”

  The smile on Sariya’s face is humoring. “Neh, I will not do that.”

  “Then release her.”

  “If I do that now, I will die, and I would see the end of the world. Kaleh will remain mine.” The way Sariya speaks those words… They seem distant, as if she is looking not to the days ahead, but to the eons beyond.

  “I will fight you.”

  “You are welcome to try. But you will have to find me first.”

  Suddenly the probing, which hasn’t ceased since Atiana first felt it, grows much stronger.

  And then there is nothing.

  And Sariya is gone.

  Atiana is left alone in the tower, which is now bare and nearly ruined. Through the window she sees not Sukharam but the same landscape she saw upon entering. And then she hears a rumble, a sifting of dirt and stone.

  She flees down the levels of the tower as more of it crumbles and falls away. She reaches the doorway ahead of the tower’s collapse—clearly Sariya doesn’t wish for her to die—but it’s still a shock. As the rubble settles and a cloud of dust rises into the air and drifts on the wind, it feels final. It feels like a note heralding the end of all things. Sariya may get her wish after all, Atiana realizes. She removed the world of the Tashavir, and now, with the wards gone, she will simply watch as the rifts open wide and the end of the world comes at last.

  Is she right? Could the fates truly have died when the sundering occurred?

  It doesn’t matter, Atiana decides. She cannot simply wait for the world to end. She won’t.

  “She’s gone.”

  Atiana turns and finds Kaleh standing behind her. “What?”

  “I can no longer feel her at all. She’s escaped, Atiana Radieva.”

  Atiana goes cold. The probing. Sariya was searching for something, not merely reaching out for the boundaries of her imprisonment. And then it all falls together.

  She was tricked from the beginning.

  It started with Habram and Bahett and their pleas to have Atiana merely speak to Sariya. They had allowed Atiana to demand help. And that connection, her own connection to Mileva, is what allowed Sariya to escape.

  Rarely has she had difficulty leaving the aether, but it is so now. She tries to pull back, to rise above the currents of the dark to reach her own form, but finds she cannot.

  She rails against her bonds. She reaches out for Mileva, for Kaleh. She searches for some way to
escape.

  But there is no escape. She has been trapped as surely as Sariya had been only moments ago.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Atiana walks along a gully. By her side, a stream gurgles on its way toward a forest of impossibly tall trees. As she jogs into the trees, a fecund scent fills the air. There is no wind. The trees, their leaves and branches, move not at all. She goes further into the forest and finds a place where there are walkways and homes within the trees above. This is the village of Siafyan on the Maharraht island of Rafsuhan. Atiana has never been to Siafyan, but she flew through it in rook form when Nikandr rescued Soroush from the floating village of Mirashadal and brought him there.

  How long ago that seems now.

  Atiana has been trapped in Kaleh’s dream for what seems like days. She knows Kaleh has been driven into hiding. She just has to find where. She decides she’s been looking in the wrong places and starts to push herself to touch Kaleh’s mind, to find her greatest fears, her greatest source of pain. Those are the places she will find Kaleh.

  And she must find Kaleh if she’s ever to leave this place, for Kaleh, much like Nasim, is bound up in this tale of the sundering, and unless Atiana is sadly mistaken, Kaleh will have more to say about it before all is done.

  She wanders aimlessly though the village, calling Kaleh’s name, and then continues to the forest beyond. She realizes she’s walking toward the clearing. She had never seen this place of misery, but Nikandr had told her about it—the clearing where the children, the akhoz, had been sacrificed by Muqallad. The akhoz were chained to posts and burned while Bersuq held the two pieces of the broken Atalayina. Their sacrifice, the heat from their dying souls, had fused the two pieces together, and Muqallad had moved on, leaving them like the forgotten embers of a still-warm fire.

  Atiana has often wondered how Kaleh viewed that time and that place. Did she justify the pain and anguish of the children as a necessary inconvenience? Or did she see herself in the eyeless faces of those children?

  How confusing it must have been for her to have aged so strangely. She was clearly a gifted child. Yet still, a child—no matter how smart and how perceptive—cannot absorb years upon years of experience.