The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (42 page)

Yadhan pulls at her arm. She is losing what strength she has left.

Nasim shivers with rage, but he realizes in his moment of panic that he can feel Adhiya. He can feel it through Rabiah. He coaxes the feeling, and it grows. It seizes his gut, and soon it is all he can do to remain standing. He grabs his midsection and curls inward, a gesture he’s intimately familiar with.

The aether, so present moments ago, vanishes, and he feels as though here in this one place the world is not divided. There are not two worlds. Only one.

He can touch the hezhan. They are not separate from him. They are part and parcel of his existence, and he of theirs. He does not bid them to come. He does not demand. It is
they
, it seems, who voice a call to action, and it is
he
that responds.

The place that lies at the center of him begins to warm. The feeling grows as the landscape around him brightens. The sun, which had been cold and cheerless, is now bright in the sky, piercing. The feeling swells until the blue sky peels away and all that is left is a searing brightness that fills him and the land around him.

Suddenly the world falls away.

He plunges into water.

The darkness of the lake surrounds him, as does the suffocating water.

He sinks, searching for Rabiah, as the surface above begins to mend, threatening to trap him here. He swims downward, and sees her reaching up toward him. He grabs her arm—giving her some small amount of the fires that rage within him still—and propels them both up toward the surface.

The ice has closed over, but he will not be denied. He breaks it with his fist, and soon he is at the edge, pulling Rabiah up and into the air.

She gasps, coughing and retching, but she is here, alive.

Yadhan helps them out from the lake. They gain the solidity of the ice as Nasim releases much of the heat within him. He does not, however, release it completely. He is afraid to. If he cannot retain his hold on it, he will lose it once more—of this he is sure.

Rabiah stares at him, unsure of herself, unsure of this place. Nasim knows she cannot stay. There is work to do yet, but she will die if she goes on.

“Take her back,” Nasim says.

Yadhan, her face serene and inscrutable, looks to Rabiah, and then she goes to the boy and guides him to Rabiah’s side. The boy seems surprised that Rabiah is here, but after a moment this passes, and he takes her hand.

“Go,” Nasim says. “I will find you.”

Rabiah does not argue, and as the boy leads her away, shivering and shaking, she nods.

Soon, they are lost behind the nearby ridge.

Nasim already knows that the boy will travel to the horizon after he returns Rabiah to Erahm. He will go, and it will not be to Adhiya. He will be lost to the world, lost to the next—and not just him, but the soul of the hezhan that had occupied him for so long. In a way it is a blessing—the two of them locked together, struggling with one another for so long, was cruel and inhuman—but in another it is sad. Profoundly sad. They will not learn or grow or teach. They will not be reborn to learn from their mistakes. They will never reach their higher plane.

Yadhan waits. She was able to lead Nasim here, but now she doesn’t know where to go. Neither does Nasim, but it seems probable that the stone would lie ahead, so they go on, to the far side of the lake and up the hill. When they reach the top, a plain lies before them and beyond it a forest, much of it towering spruce and larch blanketed in snow.

As he walks toward the forest, there is a hint of movement near its edge. A woman steps from behind the trees and walks through the snow, though as she comes nearer it is clear that she is not hampered by the snow’s depth as Nasim and Yadhan are. Instead the snow bears her as if she weighs nothing. Her feet draw from its surface only a dusting of snow, which swirls in her wake.

Her golden hair flows, and as she comes close, her blue eyes shine, bright against white fields and gray sky.

Nasim is worried at first, but when the woman smiles, his worries seem to melt.

“You are Nasim,” she says as she comes to a halt. Her eyes are for Nasim only; she does not glance at Yadhan, who, so brave before, now hides behind Nasim.

“Sariya,” Nasim says into the silence. His breath, soft and white, is taken upon the wind. “I didn’t think to find you here.”

W
hen Nikandr finally reached the entrance to the village and stepped outside, they squinted against the morning light. Even though it was early, and the sun little more than a wash of pale yellow in the east, it was still almost unbearably bright after being underground for so long. Jahalan stepped next to him and stretched, breathing deeply of the chill air.

There were often guards stationed near the entrance, but today there were none. Nikandr thought this a favorable sign, but before he’d gone ten paces he realized he was wrong. From the shadows of another doorway came four men, all of them wearing dark robes and turbans the color of night. They did not bear muskets, but each of them wore a curved shamshir and a khanjar at their belt, and they wore these weapons easily, as if they were old friends.

At the lead was Rahid. He stepped into Nikandr’s way, much as he had Bersuq’s the other day, and waited, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “And where does the man from Khalakovo think to go?”

Nikandr came to a halt. Jahalan, so often a man of calm, stood stiffly, his eyes watching Rahid and the other Hratha closely.

“We will return, if that is your fear,” Nikandr said.

The rings in Rahid’s nose glinted as he sniffed in a short, sharp breath. “Do the Landed find it so difficult to answer questions?”

“Bersuq gave us leave to go as we would.”

“Bersuq is not the only voice in Ashdi en Ghat.”

“What does that mean to me?”

“It should mean much.” Rahid took a step forward. If he drew his sword now, he could easily cut with it. Rahid looked him up and down, as if he was still offended at having to suffer a man such as Nikandr in the village, but Nikandr knew he was just trying to bait him.

“Speak your troubles to Bersuq.” Nikandr made to walk past him. “We have work to do.”

Nikandr didn’t wish to provoke, but he could not give a man like Rahid the upper hand. Men like him were ruthless, but they were also simple. Push them hard enough and they would often back down.

Rahid stepped back and drew his sword. He was fast, Nikandr realized. Very fast.

Rahid’s men drew their swords as well as Rahid leveled the tip at Nikandr’s chest.

“Enough, Rahid.”

Nikandr turned and squinted into the darkness of the tunnel, unable to find the source of the voice. A moment later Soroush stepped out and into the light, limping badly. His left forearm was bandaged. The area above his left eye had an angry red wound still scabbing over, and it was surrounded by a mass of bruises.

Soroush stepped in front of Nikandr, placing himself between him and Rahid. “Lower your weapon.”

Slowly, Rahid complied, his gaze alternating between Nikandr and Soroush. “Thabash will not be pleased, Soroush.”

Thabash was a name he’d only heard in reference to the attacks on the southernmost duchies, most often organized from Behnda al Tib, the Hratha stronghold. Nikandr shouldn’t be surprised to hear his name, but he was. Why had so many of the men from the south come to Rafsuhan? And why now?

Soroush merely nodded and guided Nikandr and Jahalan away. “Tell me when Thabash
is
pleased, and that will be a new day.”

Rahid stepped forward and placed his hand on Jahalan’s chest. “One will remain here.”

Jahalan began to protest, but Soroush held up his hand. “Don’t worry, son of Mitra”—he stared down at Jahalan’s wooden leg—“I will go with Nikandr.”

Jahalan looked abashed, even angry. His leg, and the troubles it caused him, was one of the few things that got Jahalan’s blood moving quickly. Nikandr wanted his old friend with him, but he could already tell that the Maharraht would not bend. “Stay,” Nikandr said to him. “Work with the children, and I will share anything we learn when I return.”

Jahalan finally relented, and Nikandr left with Soroush, who brought with him a musket and a bandolier. They left the confines of the valley and headed down the trail back toward the forest in which they’d hidden before coming to Ashdi en Ghat. Nikandr felt strange, walking in silence this way, a certain trust now implicit between them where only months ago each had considered the other an enemy. It was not merely the war they were waging—albeit in different ways—against the changes in the world. That merely gave them understanding of one another. They were bound instead by Wahad, Soroush’s son, the boy Nikandr had sworn to protect.

“What interest has Thabash in the north?” Nikandr asked.

“You can ask him when he arrives.”

“Thabash will most likely let Rahid do what he will with me, which means I’ll be taken to the nearest cliff and shot in the back.”

“Then best you hurry.”

“Are the Maharraht fighting?”

Soroush was silent as they walked, the only sounds their steps over the narrow trail they were following and the morning calls of the nearby thrushes. “Where do we go, son of Iaros?”

“Soroush, the lives of my men are at stake.”

Soroush whirled and stabbed his finger at Nikandr. “The lives of my
people
are at stake. You’ve seen the sick. You’ve seen the children.”

“
Yeh
, and I’ve seen your son.”

Soroush bit back his reply. He walked in silence, but his stride seemed to ease, as if he were thinking wistfully over the pleasant memories of his son. The Maharraht were strange this way—with the people of Anuskaya, Nikandr knew how they would react about death, but with the Maharraht, or any of the Aramahn, it was simply impossible.

“How is he?” Soroush asked.

“Not well, but I’m hopeful. Jahalan and I are doing what we can.”

“You see them, then. You see them, and still you would cast them aside so that your men would be safe.”

By
see
, he meant seeing them as real people. And he was right. Nikandr was beginning to do just that. “I do not
cast them aside
, Soroush. But I will do little good if Thabash—or worse, Rahid—runs a length of steel through my chest. We could take them away. We could try this elsewhere.”

“It would never be allowed.”

“It might…”

“
Neh
,” Soroush spat back. “Have you not guessed why the bulk of the Hratha left the island?”

“I assumed to return with those who left the island.”

“Not to return with them. To kill them. To make an example out of them.”

Nikandr worked this through. “They would kill their own sons and daughters, their brothers and sisters, because they seek a better life?”

“In the eyes of the Hratha, they’re spurning their old life.
That
is what cannot be allowed.”

Nikandr felt sick to his stomach. “Bersuq would listen to you if you asked.”

Soroush laughed. “Who do you think gave me these wounds?”

“What? Why would he
do
such a thing?”

“You are
Landed
, Nikandr.”

“He took me into the village. He showed me the children himself.”

“Because I asked that he did.”

Nikandr paused as these words sunk in. “And what did you grant him in return?”

“A simple request,” he said as he turned and began walking once more. His limp was still noticeable, but it had either warmed up or he was ignoring the pain. Likely it was both. “I was to take breath on Baisha”—he pointed to their right, to a tall black mountain—“and find my true answer.”

“The answer to what?”

“Whether or not you would be allowed to live.”

Nikandr let him walk in peace. The answer at which he’d arrived was clear, and he saw no need to reopen a wound that was clearly still fresh.

“Will you explain to me now,” Soroush asked after a time, “why there was such a burning need to leave the village?”