The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (79 page)

Without speaking, they move forward once more. They can feel Kiravashya’s spire now. Like a bell in the distance, it rings, calling to them, and together they wend their way through the storms.

A presence grows in the distance. It is one of the Matri, but this woman is tired beyond any boundaries Atiana can fathom. She has been pressing to keep the connections alive between Vostroma and the distant archipelagos. Through her, Atiana can feel—barely—the touch of the other Matri. The connections are still alive then. The duchies, at least for the moment, are able to speak, to warn one another.

Mileva
, Ishkyna says.

Atiana realizes that Ishkyna is right. Why didn’t she recognize her? Perhaps because, even in these few weeks since they’d seen one another, Mileva has grown in strength. The Mileva she’d known before leaving Vostroma for Galahesh—how long ago that seemed—could not have done this.

Sisters
, comes Mileva’s weak reply.
You’ve come. But how?

Mileva’s confusion is palpable, but then she feels the third presence. She doesn’t know who it is at first, but then it dawns on her.

How dare you bring her near!

We’ve come to warn you,
Atiana says.
Stand down. Prepare the island, and the others as well. The spire must fall.

She feels the shock within Mileva as she says these words, but she shares with her what she knows—her experiences, her memories, her fears and her hopes for the islands once the storm has passed. Again Mileva surprises her. She sifts through these memories quickly. She absorbs. She understands.

But she is vehement in her denial.

We cannot,
Mileva says.
We
will
not.

Through Sariya, Atiana feels—and she knows her sisters can feel as well—the dozens of ships that lie in wait far to the south of Kiravashya. They hold position near the edge of the shallows before the sea deepens and the currents of the wind and the aether become uncontrollable, unpredictable. It is a glimpse of the remaining strength of the Empire. It lies in wait for the hour when the winds have died down sufficiently for the battle to resume.

Atiana feels Mileva’s shock. In that moment, Atiana can sense how truly weak the remaining forces of the Grand Duchy are. They have not a third of the ships the Empire has. And once the last of Anuskaya’s ships fall, it will only be a matter of time until Galostina herself is taken.

And then the spire will fall.

Hundreds will die. Thousands. The seat of Vostroma’s power will fall to enemy hands. It is a bitter leaf to chew, but they all know what will happen if Anuskaya doesn’t surrender. Muqallad is coming—they know this now—and when he does, the scene upon Oshtoyets will be as child’s play.

The decisions made in the aether are not made alone. One is entwined, and it is sometimes difficult to pull away, to make decisions clearly. It is why the Matri often do not make decisions when they first meet; they merely discuss. Only after they remove themselves from the others—either by leaving the aether entirely or retreating to their own corner of the world—can they think clearly. With the three of them sharing so much, it is hard for Atiana to focus her mind on notions of loyalty and patriotism for Anuskaya.

Not so for Mileva. She pulls away easily, her anger flaring.

I will not bow and offer up our spire to Yrstanla like a lamb for the slaughter
.

We have no choice,
Atiana says.

There is always choice,
Mileva replies, her mood cold.
Yrstanla can pull their ships north of the straits, and then we can talk.

Sariya’s response is felt before she speaks.
You have few ships, and the winds are beginning to quell. In another day we will attack. This is the only chance I granted to Atiana in the interest of avoiding further bloodshed, but make no mistake. I won’t hesitate to bring those ships to bear—all of them. The threat of Muqallad demands no less.

Whether we lie upon the ground wounded or not, I will not treat with the likes of you while a sword swings above our necks.

Her words are meant for Atiana as well. Mileva’s blood is up, and it seems to strengthen her will and revive her strength. She pushes the three of them away.

And strangely, it works. Atiana feels a gap form, a distancing, as if Mileva can no longer stand to be so closely tied to them. Even knowing Mileva’s strength in the aether, Atiana is surprised. Sariya is Al-Aqim, Atiana’s abilities still outstrip Mileva’s, and though Ishkyna is the weakest of the three, together they should have been able to prevent Mileva from doing so.

This is when Atiana first senses the bitter cold through the haze of the aether. It is a draining, like a trickle of blood from a wound she didn’t know she had.

The feeling grows. It saps her strength. It takes from her what little warmth there is in the aether, until all around her feels like the coldest and darkest part of winter.

Atiana knows only moments after Sariya does that it comes from the tower, and the moment that realization comes to her, she knows it happened because of Ushai.

Sariya withdraws so quickly Atiana and Ishkyna cannot follow, and soon they are left alone. And now, not only is the supporting presence of Sariya gone, but so is the Atalayina.

Ishkyna!

Atiana can feel her slipping away, blown like a feather on the wind by the forces of the aether.

Ishkyna, hear me! Follow my voice!

But she can’t. She drifts further away, her mind drawing and thinning like smoke.

Atiana feels the same happening to her. She’s cast adrift over the Sea of Tabriz.

How massive it is. How dark and deadly. She can feel its depths, feel the cold touch of its embrace. It pulls her downward, no matter how much she might like to reach the surface.

But there is one thing that brightens the borders of her mind. Anger… Anger over what has happened. Anger that—however improbably—Ushai
arranged
for this to happen. Her emotions were so plain when they entered the tower, and now Atiana knows why: betrayal was on her mind, not the imposing presence of Sariya nor the task that lay before them.

Only betrayal.

And it spurs Atiana to find her way back.

She detects the barest of scents—Sariya. She moves toward it, pulling herself inward slowly but surely. The sea retreats. The mass of Galahesh lies before her. And then Baressa.

And finally the tower.

When Atiana woke, she remembered everything. Never had she recalled her time in the aether so completely, so vividly.

But as sharp as her memories were, her body was dull. It did not respond to her commands. For long moments all she could do was stare at the stone ceiling of the room she lay within—she and Sariya and Ishkyna.

At last she was able to roll her head to one side, toward Sariya.

Sariya was staring at Atiana with wide blue eyes. Blood stained her dress along her chest and ribs, a puddle collecting there and slowly expanding across the stone floor toward Atiana.

Sariya coughed. Blood slipped from between her lips, slid lazily along the dark skin of her cheek. Her eyes were the eyes of a frightened child.

One of the Al-Aqim, Atiana thought, brought to this…

She had not been afraid, but she was now.

Sariya’s lips moved. She was trying to speak, but Atiana could not hear her words.

Then, finally, her voice reached Atiana’s ears.

“
Istizhar
.”

It was a single word, spoken not in Mahndi, but in the mothertongue, Kalhani. It meant, simply,
help
.

A
tiana watched as Ushai hunched over the Atalayina, which spun in the space between the four pallets. Ushai glanced at Atiana—nothing more than this—and then returned her attention to unraveling the spells Sariya had placed on the gem. Why she hadn’t simply killed Sariya, Atiana didn’t know. Perhaps she feared that the stone, as it had been in Ghayavand, would be lost in the tower. Perhaps she feared
she
would be lost as well, unable to escape unless she was able to leave before Sariya perished.

Atiana realized this was an altogether too real possibility. Worse, though, was the knowledge that she had been betrayed by a woman she had come to trust, a woman she had believed to be one of the Aramahn.

“You may not have it,” Atiana said.

Ushai glanced again. “There you are wrong.” With an opal glowing brightly within the circlet upon her brow, Ushai reached out and grasped the Atalayina.

The hair rose along the back of Atiana’s neck and along her arms. A sizzling sound rent the air, and Ushai was thrown backward. She struck the granite floor and slid toward the far wall.

A sound came like leaded crystal tinkling against stone.

The smell of burned flesh came to Atiana as she rolled over. Her body was sluggish, and it was a mighty struggle to simply prop herself on hands and knees. She looked around, confused. Sariya was gone. She had simply vanished.

Ushai, grimacing in pain, made it to her feet. The fingers of her left hand were blackened. Blood oozed between cracked skin. It dribbled on the floor, the sound of it like the last pattering of rain after a sudden summer storm. The pain she was experiencing was plain on her face, but she seemed to think Atiana posed no threat, for she strode forward and kneeled next to her.

The Atalayina lay on the floor, not spinning, but lifeless. Inert.

Ushai had grasped the stone knowing she would trigger the spells that protected it. She had done so knowing she might be harmed, but she’d clearly thought the risk worth it.

Ushai shivered as she reached down and picked up the stone. Her lower lip quivered and her eyes watered from the pain. And then she met Atiana’s eyes with a defiant gaze that reminded her of another who had done so in the same manner. Rehada… Rehada had looked at her this way on the mountain above Iramanshah, and she had done so knowing Atiana had discovered her secret.

“You are Maharraht,” Atiana said, the words thick on her tongue.

Ushai blinked. Tears sped down her cheeks and fell to the floor to mingle with her blood. Atiana knew the tears came from more than her pain.

In the end, Ushai merely grit her jaw, glanced to where Ishkyna lay, and took the nearby stairs, down and out of sight.

As Atiana slid over the floor toward Ishkyna, she heard no sounds of resistance, no cries for help. But she cared nothing for this, nor did she care that Sariya had vanished; for the moment all she cared about was Ishkyna, who still breathed but would not wake when Atiana shook her.

“Ishkyna?” Atiana called, shaking her harder. “Ishkyna!”

But nothing she did mattered. She would not wake, because her mind had been taken. She was lost among the aether, and there was no telling when, or if, she would find her way home.

The following day, Atiana stood in the opulent receiving room of Kasir Yalidoz, less than a quarter-league from Sariya’s tower where the horrific events with Ishkyna had occurred.

At the head of the room, seated in Bahett’s throne of office, was Hakan ül Aye
ş
e. Beside Atiana was Vaasak Dhalingrad, the envoy father had appointed, and beside him Siha
ş
ül Mehmed. Both had been freed from their cells in the lower levels of the kasir.

Bahett stood to Hakan’s left, watching this meeting with great interest. The rest of the expansive room was empty. No others would be allowed to witness this meeting. Were it known that Hakan was treating with the Grand Duchy after murdering the Grand Duke, there would be chaos in the courts of Yrstanla.

Atiana had just finished relating the tale of the tower. It was the third time Hakan had heard it, but the repetition was necessary. He had trouble remembering what had happened. He would ask her to repeat the simplest of things, and even when she had, she doubted he fully understood. She had little doubt now that what Siha
ş
had told her—that Sariya had beguiled him—was true. What was unknown was how long her spells would remain, and what he would do when finally he returned to himself.

And this was the true danger. The Kamarisi had always been bellicose; it simply hadn’t, until now, been directed toward the Grand Duchy.