The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (39 page)

Arvaneh had found her and sifted through her memories.

But why? What could she have wanted?

She didn’t know, but she knew this: Bahett had been lying to her from the beginning. The man beneath the willow had hinted as much, but she hadn’t quite believed it. Bahett had lied about Arvaneh. Lied about Hakan. And he had manipulated her masterfully at the stables. He’d forbade her to take the dark, knowing full well that it would force any one of the Vostroma sisters to do the opposite.

Most importantly, he’d lied about the reasons he wanted Atiana to come to Galahesh. It hadn’t been so he could learn more about Arvaneh. It had been so Arvaneh could learn more about
her
.

Bahett was staring at her. “Are you quite all right?”

The concern in his voice sounded genuine, but she was beginning to learn just how good an actor he was. It also made it clear what would happen if she were to let on that she knew what had happened. She would be killed, as simple as that. And it would happen as soon as could be arranged. This very night, most likely.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was merely trying to think where I might have gone wrong, but I swear to you, Bahett, she wasn’t there. I felt her not at all.”

“You were—” Standing near the mantle, he visibly calmed himself. “I’m sure you tried, but she has magics we do not understand.” He stepped forward, the light of dusk casting his face in stark and desperate relief. “This is merely one small hint of what she can do.” He was so close now that he was towering over her. His hands shook as he spoke. “There is time yet. I have made arrangements.” He turned and walked back to the chair.

“What sort of arrangements?”

“Your father arrives in two days. The following night we will have a grand celebration, and the day after that, your father and Hakan will be wrapped up in negotiations. That night, in Arvaneh’s drink will be placed a tincture. It will do little at first, but it will muddy her mind. She will retire early. It is then that you must watch her.”

Atiana already knew he was lying. “There’s to be a dinner that night with the wives who’ve come from Anuskaya. My absence will be noticed.”

He was already shaking his head. “You will take ill early in the meal.”

“I require Ishkyna.”

“Your caring sister will escort you from the room, making your apologies for you.”

“And what is it about this night that makes you think that it will be easier to watch her?”

“Your father’s arrival demands it. Hakan will rail against her control. He will need to be controlled more than ever. And,” Bahett continued, “there’s also the chance she will attempt to do the same to your father.”

“It cannot be so easy as that.”

“Who are you to say? This is exactly why we need you, Atiana.” He came to her and rubbed her shoulders, the old Bahett once more. “The Grand Duchy needs you. Galahesh needs you.” He took her hand and held it tenderly. “
I
need you.”

His touch made her skin crawl, and before she knew it she’d snatched her hand away. Too quickly.

He stared down, a glimpse of his other self returning. “Forgive me. The Kamarisi... I have seen much over the past week that makes me think that he considers Galahesh little different than the islands of the Grand Duchy.”

“A fruit ripe for the plucking,” Atiana said.

“Just so.” He swept to the door. “Three nights, Atiana. This may be our last chance.”

And with that, he left, leaving a rush of wind and a chill in Atiana’s heart.

She waited for a time, but then left the room and moved down to Ishkyna’s apartments. Ishkyna opened the door a crack, but when she saw who it was, she opened the door and allowed Atiana in.

Atiana could hear from the next room the bed creaking, blankets rustling.

“We must speak, Ishkyna.” She glanced at the bedroom door. “Alone.”

Ishkyna stared at Atiana for a long moment, then rolled her eyes. She stormed over to the bedroom door, opened it wide, and said, “Out!”

A minute later, a young man—a stablehand, if Atiana wasn’t mistaken—bowed his head and fled from the room.

“Now, what is so important”—Ishkyna fell into a chair across from Atiana—“that you need to interrupt my sleep?”

“There’s trouble, Shkyna.” Atiana told her everything Bahett had said.

“And this couldn’t wait until morning?”

“He was lying.”

She paused. “How do you know?”

“Because he was eager.
Too
eager. It’s a trap. They
want
me to watch Arvaneh.”

“But why?”

Atiana shook her head. “I think Arvaneh has what she wants from me, but I’m too big a prize to simply throw away. I think she’s planning on beguiling me as she has the Kamarisi.”

“Why wouldn’t she have done so already?”

“Because—” Atiana stopped. She couldn’t because she needed Atiana’s mind to be her own. But Arvaneh had given Atiana a suggestion. She was sure of it now. The urge to control the spires. She’d done so at Arvaneh’s bidding.

“What?” Ishkyna asked, concern coming to her face for the first time.

“You’re right. She
has
done so already. In the aether, she put a suggestion in my mind to work the aether through the spires. And when I did, she watched. That’s what she’s wanted all along, the knowledge of how to control the spires.”

“And now she has it?”

“Perhaps not. That may be why she wants me to take the aether again.”

Ishkyna shook her head, her long blonde hair swaying against her shoulders as she did so. “You can’t be thinking of going.”

“I am. But we will not be unprepared.”

K
hamal steps into the celestia. Standing along the edge in a wide circle are dozens of men and women, Aramahn one and all. They wear their robes of summer solstice, flax and lemon and gold. Outside the celestia, rain falls in sheets. The air is thick with the smell of it. The skies are dark, with lightning striking bold across the sky, the thunder soon following, raucous and fey.

By way of protest, Sariya and Muqallad have not come. The same can be said for some of their disciples, but by and large the people have been persuaded by Khamal’s words—that this is the only way.

In the center of the celestia stands a girl. Her name is Yadhan. She is thirteen, but she looks no older than ten. She, of all the children that remain in the city, seems most prepared for what Khamal is about to do.

He approaches her, motioning to the celestia floor. The girl glances toward her father, who merely nods. She stares with uncertain eyes at Khamal. Khamal smiles for her, though there is regret in doing so. He does not wish this upon her, but there is no other way, not if they are to halt the steadily marching progress of the rift.

“Lie down,” Khamal says, annoyed at the need to speak.

She does. She closes her eyes. Her nostrils flare. She swallows uncontrollably.

Her mother watches, her tear-filled eyes alternating between her daughter and Khamal.

Khamal does not acknowledge her. Doing so would give the impression that there is something wrong, that this is something to be consoled. It isn’t. This sacrifice is what Yadhan was made for—of this Khamal is sure. There is a part of him that wishes it didn’t have to be children, but they had already tried this ritual with five adults of varying ages. All of them had died. Only near the change to adulthood was it possible to create a vessel where the soul of the child and the soul of a suurahezhan, a spirit of fire, could coexist.

Khamal kneels by Yadhan’s side. When he does, twelve of the most gifted suuraqiram step forward and surround them. They begin a chant, a dirge from the Gaji that is often sung during vigil—a mourning period of three days and three nights in which a loved one’s death is honored and their procession to the life beyond is made easier.

Khamal chose this song not for himself, but because it holds meaning for Yadhan. She was born in the Gaji Desert, and so it will bring some sense of normalcy to this island and this city that has become little more than anathema to life.

As the dirge continues, Khamal takes his piece of the Atalayina from his robes. He holds it in his hand, feels its heft. He studies the delicate striations running through it and wonders once more if the fates are watching him. He has tried to do right by them. He thought—as did Sariya and Muqallad—that the world was ready. They were not so foolish as to believe
everyone
was ready—certainly that wasn’t the case; he did not even believe that the three of
them
were truly worthy—but he thought that by ushering in indaraqiram the rest of the world would follow, that they would
become
enlightened, as it was meant to be.

How wrong they’d been. How many had suffered.

And now there would be one more.

Yadhan watches with fearful eyes as Khamal places one hand on her chest. With the other he places the Atalayina upon her forehead.

With this she tightens. Her body rigors. Her neck muscles grow taut, and her arms and legs shake as though she’s been struck dumb.

Khamal can feel the hezhan now, the one that chose her. It is near. It’s so close it could cross the threshold into Erahm any time it chose. And yet it does not. It is drawn to Yadhan, but more than this, it is drawn to the stone. It wishes to touch it, to have it, to experience it, perhaps as it did on that night nearly one moon ago when the Al-Aqim ripped the world asunder.

Yadhan screams, shaking the stone, but Khamal keeps it in place, and though the throes of her agony seem to shake the very dome of the celestia above them, he does not yield. This is unfortunate but necessary.

A shift in the aether takes place.

The suuraqiram feel it too. Every one of them pauses momentarily before picking up the chant once more.

Yadhan goes silent. She falls slack to the stone and lies unmoving. Her breathing slows, but her eyes are moving beneath her lids, back and forth, as if she dreams. As if she’s having a nightmare.

“Leave us,” Khamal says.

The crowd stirs, but does not move.

“Leave us!”

The dirge abruptly ends, and the crowd begins to disperse.

Soon Khamal is alone with Yadhan. He watches her, but there is nothing to be seen in this manner, and so he places his hands upon her heart and head once more.

Inside, she has changed. She is no longer a soul being fed upon by the hezhan. She is something else. She is of both, and neither.

He knows that this has done more to her than simply bind her to a spirit. They have been bound to Erahm as an anchor, preventing Adhiya from approaching. It is working, but it brings Khamal little joy. This girl—her soul and the soul of the hezhan—have both been sacrificed. Truly sacrificed. Neither will return to Adhiya. Neither will resume the cycle of birth and rebirth.

They are lost, and some day, they will both be forgotten.

It is something he knew would happen, but to stare it in the face was something entirely different.

“Come,” he says.

Yadhan takes a deep breath. She releases it in a huff, not like a child, but like a winded animal.

Khamal swallows, wondering if the fates are watching him now. Wondering if they are laughing.

“Come,” he says again.

And this time the akhoz rises.

Nasim woke in their makeshift home. He stared up at the stone ceiling, covered in leafy vines.

He felt sick.

He had long tried to convince himself that he had no connection to Khamal, that he was not at fault over what happened on Ghayavand those many years ago, but as more of Khamal’s past was revealed, he felt a stronger connection, and it sickened him.

Khamal had not only been the one to come up with the idea of the akhoz, he’d been the first to transform a child into one. He had sacrificed them so that the rift might be halted, but that didn’t make up for the fact that he’d taken those children against their will. They might have agreed, but Khamal knew better. They were only putting on a brave face for their parents and for Khamal. With this ritual he was taking the soul of each child—and the soul of the hezhan that fed upon them—and sacrificing them like saplings to keep a dying fire aflame.