The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (101 page)

Only three akhoz remain, and to these he raises his hand and calls above the wind, “Come… Come, my children.”

The akhoz crouch and bare their teeth. They bark and snarl and stretch their necks as if they’re suddenly afflicted. One of them turns and looks back to the four souls who approach from the far side of the blackened tower. Nasim is there, as well as Ashan and Soroush and Ushai.

Two of the akhoz mewl and crawl toward Muqallad, but the other sprints toward Nasim. He does not gallop on all fours like the akhoz often do. Instead, he runs, as a child might. In that moment he looks like nothing more than a small, naked boy.

Before he can go more than ten paces another bolt flies from the Atalayina, but it strikes ground short of the akhoz. Another blinding strike is sent forth, but this too is foiled.

Nasim has one hand raised, and he walks ahead of the others. There is something about him that seems different. No longer does Atiana see a boy who cowers from the world, who wonders how he might find his way through it. Instead she sees a young man, confident and strong. Transcendent.

But Muqallad is not weak, and he holds the Atalayina.

Atiana beckons her sisters.
Come
.

Sariya, knowing the time approaches, grows desperate. She rises up, stronger than Atiana would have guessed she could be. She rails against Atiana and her sisters, and she surfaces at last. “Beware, Muqallad! The Matri have come!” With those simple words, she is overcome with pain, and she falls to her knees, clutching her side.

With Ishkyna and Mileva at her side, Atiana advances. The three of them know one another so well that they are able to fend off Muqallad’s clumsy attacks. He is not weak, however, and he stands against them.

And then his presence is gone. Simply gone.

Atiana searches desperately, until she realizes the Atalayina is the power behind this. Muqallad has somehow drawn his presence from the aether so that he exists only in the material world.

Muqallad turns, holding the Atalayina high. It is bright and blue. Power emanates from it like the light of the sun.

And then the world slows. The wind stills. A shimmering builds at the edges of her vision, and her mind feels leaden.

With a raised hand, Muqallad calls out to Nikandr. “Come,” he says. It is soft, for the wind can no longer be heard beyond a low susurrus at the edge of hearing. The clouds above have not stopped swirling, but they move so slowly that Atiana wonders if they are real. If
this
is real. Perhaps it is all a dream…

And yet she knows it is not. She knows this is the power of the Atalayina.

Nikandr goes to him.

Sariya, however, does not. She has fallen to the ground. She still holds her side, but she is weak and near to death.

Muqallad looks down at her with something akin to sadness or regret, but then he turns, beckoning Nikandr to follow. Together the two of them leave Sariya lying on the ground like a forgotten she-bitch and walk toward the blackened center of the Spar.

Stop!
Atiana calls to Nikandr.

But he doesn’t look back. Not once.

Please, Nischka! Stop!

She calls to him over and over, but she knows that his mind has been taken. She doesn’t understand how at first, but then she sees it, the tendril that connects him to Nasim. The connection that was formed between them years ago. It thinned when Nasim woke in Oshtoyets, but it had never been severed, and here it is now, being used against him.

Nikandr, please wake!

But he does not heed her calls.

Nikandr tried to deny Muqallad, but the command had come not just from him; it had been amplified by the Atalayina. Nikandr could feel it, glowing like a brand against his will, and he could do nothing but shrink from it.

He followed Muqallad to the center of the Spar, where one tower stood proud. The other was ruined, with only crumbling remains.

“I nearly lost him,” Muqallad said to Nikandr as he beckoned him to kneel.

Nikandr complied, staring up into Muqallad’s dark eyes.

“Had he been taken years ago, all of my plans would have been lost. But you,” Muqallad said. “You saved him. You sheltered him.”

And then Nikandr understood. He didn’t mean Nikandr had saved Nasim in any physical sense. He meant that Nikandr had saved his soul and mind through their bond.

Muqallad held out one hand.

Nikandr stared at it—his right hand. In his left Muqallad held the Atalayina. The stone glowed so brightly it was blinding, even compared to the light of the sun hanging over the horizon. He knew that if he took Muqallad’s hand, it would give him what he needed to reach Nasim.

He couldn’t do that—not to Nasim.

But neither could he resist.

He put all of himself into defying Muqallad’s will, and still his arm lifted. He could hear Atiana’s voice, but it was so distant that he heard only disjointed portions of her desperate pleas.

Smiling, Muqallad took Nikandr’s hand, and the moment he did, Nikandr felt the connection between him and Nasim grow stronger, more vibrant, like the thread of a web caught with morning dew.

He felt Nasim approach. He was being drawn by this thread, drawn by the will of Muqallad and the power of the Atalayina.

He wanted to call to Nasim, to warn him away. He wanted to wake him from this spell.

But he could not. He was trapped by these events as surely as Nasim.

On the horizon, the sun stood upon the edge of the world. The skies over the Spar were swirling, as if
this
place were the very center of all that ever was and ever would be.

But then something caught Nikandr’s attention. Over Muqallad’s shoulder, beneath the swirling clouds, was a ship.

And it was hurtling toward the Spar.

It took him a moment to realize it was the
Bhadyar
.

But Soroush was
here
, Nikandr thought. The Maharraht had abandoned their ships at the hidden bay…

With a sudden and shocking clarity, he realized who had come.

Grigory…

Grigory had come with the men who’d been left behind, men too wounded to fight.

Nikandr marveled at the very thought of it.

Nasim watched as Nikandr kneeled on the blackened roadway. He was caught as everyone else was.

Nasim understood now. The Al-Aqim needed to die for this ritual to be complete. Sariya had already fallen, succumbing to the wound inflicted by Ushai. Muqallad had hoped that the ritual on the beach of Alayazhar would free Khamal’s link to the Atalayina. Nasim had been saved by Rabiah, but now Muqallad would finish what he’d started, and the only way Nasim could prevent it was by coming to himself once and for all.

To do this, his tie to Nikandr must be severed. Their shared link was why Nikandr had been able to commune with the havahezhan. It was why
Nasim
had been so limited, as well, and even though he was now able to touch Adhiya, it was not as complete as it might be. His bonds to Nikandr and Muqallad saw to that.

Severing his tie was not so easily done, however. He would gladly give of himself, even if it meant he would pass from this world, never to return, but he refused to do so if it delivered the world to Muqallad.

He remembered how it had felt in Oshtoyets, that small keep on the rocky coast of Duzol those many years ago. He had been at the heart of all things. It had felt as though he could reshape the world.

And so it was now

He only needed to embrace it.

He pulled a knife from Soroush’s belt and strode forward, wishing there were another way.

To sacrifice himself would be easy.

But this…

He didn’t know, even now, if he could do it.

He drew the world around himself like a cloak, like a burial shroud. The other times he’d done this, it had been beneath his consciousness, but now he was fully aware of what he was doing.

Time slowed. Muqallad’s movements became a crawl.

Nasim stepped forward and kneeled before Nikandr until they were face-to-face. He looked into Nikandr’s handsome face, saw the small scar above his left eyebrow. He knew in that instant that it had been caused by an errant swipe of a fire brand, swung by his brother, Ranos. His eyes were a deep brown with the smallest traces of green, like hidden forest vales in the growth of spring. He’d looked at Nikandr before, but never in such an intimate way. It made Nasim supremely uncomfortable, but he owed Nikandr this for what he was about to do. Nikandr was not his father—he was nothing like Ashan—nor was he his brother. And still, he owed Nikandr much. Certainly he owed him this, an honest look into his soul before he took his life.

Nikandr blinked. There was fear and uncertainty in his eyes, but there was also a resolve that made Nasim proud.

Nikandr swallowed, his gaze dropping to the khanjar before meeting Nasim’s eyes once more. And then he nodded.

With one hand Nasim held Nikandr’s shoulder, and with the other drove the knife into Nikandr’s chest. He drove it until it could go no further.

Nikandr stared, eyes wide and tearing. He looked down. His lips were parted, releasing his final breath. His head quivered, and spittle fell onto the blackened stone.

He met Nasim’s eyes one last time.

The look on his face was one of understanding. He tried to smile, but failed to do so. He coughed once, and then leaned to one side, holding himself, barely, against the roadway of this massive work of man.

Nasim lowered him down until he laid face up, staring at the sky, the knife quivering from his chest. His eyes opened and closed. He swallowed once, twice, and then lay perfectly still.

The wind once more began to howl. The clouds once more began to swirl.

And Muqallad stared down, his eyes aflame.

He was coming to the realization that he had lost what he had sought, but in his mind there might still be time.

He held the Atalayina high and reached for Nasim.

Nasim rolled away and reached his feet as a bolt of lightning coursed forth from Muqallad’s outstretched palm.

Nasim caught it in his own hand and delivered it to the world beyond. It was easy now, and Muqallad knew the tables had turned.

Muqallad stepped forward and grabbed Nasim’s robes. He blocked the weak strike of Nasim’s fist, twisting his arm until he was forced down to roadway stones. As Muqallad held the Atalayina high, perhaps readying to smash it against Nasim’s skull, Nasim saw something large and dark and swift rushing toward the bridge.

Muqallad had no more time than to turn and look before the windship crashed into the Spar.

N
ikandr stared at the handle of the knife. It rested over his chest, moving in time to his heartbeat. He should grasp it, he thought. He should try to remove it. He managed to bring one hand to it, but the simple act of touching it brought searing white pain the likes of which he’d never known.

He had time only to look up at a rush of movement at the edge of his vision before the world around him erupted.

Something massive crashed into the Spar at the exact place where the explosion had weakened it.

A ship. It was a ship.

The hull buckled, collapsing like a house of cards as the ship drove down onto the keystones. The masts cracked. The sails were thrown downward. In a mere instant the front half of the ship transformed from a structured and ordered thing into a massive, tangled collection of splintered beams and rope and sail. The bodies of men flew and were dashed against the white stone.

The landward foremast snapped at the hull, throwing the bulk of the mast and her sails sharply forward. Muqallad turned to meet this threat just as the mast’s topgallant swung down against the bridge, narrowly missing him. But the topgallant yard caught Muqallad squarely across the head, crushing him and throwing him down against the Spar’s roadway in a mass of red.

The rear half of the ship groaned, hanging in the air momentarily before the keystones gave way. The structure beneath the roadway weakened as if it were little more than a pile of stones succumbing to the sea, and then it gave way entirely. It created a gap where the keystones had been, and it widened quickly, moving closer and closer to the section upon which Nikandr lay.