The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (81 page)

“
Neh
!” Sukharam said. “I won’t be left behind again.”

He cannot come.

The voice was insistent, desperate.

He felt upon him the same feelings that he’d had in the ballast tower of Mirashadal. He felt as though he could slow the world, to deal with it as he would. He could leave Sukharam behind, and so keep him safe. But as he looked at his friend, this youth he’d plucked from his previous course in life, he knew he couldn’t abandon him again. Rabiah had died, and he would give anything to have her back, but he couldn’t leave Sukharam behind. He would give Sukharam to the fates.

“Come,” he said. “She’s not far.”

If he wondered who Nasim meant, he didn’t ask. Perhaps he already knew. He was bright, after all, brighter than Nasim gave him credit for.

Near the bottom of the slope, the trees fell away, leading to a tall black spire. It was not so high as the ones on the islands, probably so that it could remain hidden—insomuch as a tower like this could
be
hidden.

“What’s this?” Sukharam asked.

Nearby, tracing a trail along the dark gray stones, were drops of blood, long since dried. They were little more than black stains now that led to the entrance to the spire.

Nasim couldn’t recall an
entrance
to the spires of the Grand Duchy, but his mind was so muddied then he couldn’t be sure if there were any or not. Still, he thought not, and he wondered why this one would have been built with one.

He may not enter!

“He will,” Nasim spoke aloud.

Sukharam looked worried and confused, but he remained silent.

Nasim walked up to the short corridor leading into the stone. He could feel wards against them, but Sukharam raised his hand and spelled them away.

Sariya was weak, Nasim realized. Much weaker than he ever would have guessed.

They came to a set of winding stairs, and they climbed, up and up, much further, it seemed, than the tower was tall. All was darkness for a long time, but at last they saw a golden light coming from above. The stone here was not dark gray and opaque as it had been outside. It was like blackened crystal, or burnt honey, and the edges were as sharp as knives.

At a landing, they halted. A room lay ahead. From it came the source of the light, a beautiful golden siraj that spun at the center of the room.

Nasim stepped inside, not slowly as he might have in years past, but confidently. He knew who he was, and it gave him a strength of purpose he’d never had before. Sukharam followed closely. He seemed to take heart in Nasim’s stature, for he stood taller, and strode with confidence.

In the corner they found a layer of black and gray animal hides—wolves, Nasim thought—with a woman lying upon them.

“Sariya,” Nasim said.

It seemed to take a supreme effort for her to turn her head and gaze upon him with her bright blue eyes. She was covered by a wolf pelt, and there was a dark stain at the center of it. By the fates, she’d bled so much it had leaked through the hide.

She didn’t speak. Nasim wondered if she
could
. Her eyes considered Sukharam. She seemed to weigh him, seemed to weigh Nasim’s decision to bring him, and then she came to peace with it, for she looked upon Nasim once more and smiled. It was a smile filled with pain. It was a smile that said she knew what lay in store for her. It was a smile that said she would take what might be offered to her, but also that she would do what she could before she passed beyond these shores.

“How?” Nasim asked as he kneeled by her side.

“I was betrayed,” she said.

Nasim pulled away the pelt.

She was naked beneath. Her chest and stomach were smeared with blood, and there, between her breasts, was a wound shaped like a mouth, parted like lips in the release of a gentle sigh. And the flesh inside… Nasim had difficulty looking at it, for it was a deep, deep red. And it was bottomless.

N
asim, holding the wolf pelt, reeled from the sight of the wound, from the pain Sariya must have been experiencing.

He wanted to drop the pelt and leave her here—he wanted to leave this place and find Muqallad and the Atalayina and finish what he’d come to do—but there was an undeniable feeling of kinship with this woman, a woman he’d never truly met in this life—only in his last. But do not these things last? Do we not take what’s been given from our former lives? Do we not give what we can to the next? He couldn’t turn away from her—no matter that she had tried to deny him on Ghayavand, no matter that she had tried to take his life. They were alike in too many ways, and if she would help him before she passed, he would accept it.

As he stared at the wound, he wondered how she could have lived so long, but then he felt her connection to the world beyond. It was subtle, and it was foreign to all he had learned about such things. He didn’t know if the spire afforded her a way to do this, but it was clear she was bonded to an elder spirit, but instead of the dhoshahezhan feeding upon her,
she
was feeding upon
it
. It was not so different from what the hezhan did with qiram or those afflicted with the wasting, but Sariya had somehow twisted the relationship around.

If she continued in this way, she would feed upon the hezhan to the point that—just as those struck by the wasting would eventually die—it would be lost forever. Just as Nasim would one day be lost.

“You cannot take the hezhan,” Nasim said. “I won’t allow it.”

Sariya smiled, though it was a tremulous thing, and her eyes brimmed with tears and misery. “I will release it before the time comes.”

“Sukharam is gifted—”

She was already shaking her head. “It cannot be healed. The blade Ushai used was tainted.”

“Ushai?” Nasim remembered her, remembered her attempts to join him as he flew toward Ghayavand.

“She is Maharraht. She found her way to Atiana Vostroma, and from her to me.” Sariya’s smile deepened, though this simple act cost her. “I should have known.”

“It’s difficult to guess the heart of another.”

She seemed to consider these words as she pulled the pelt back into place. “Muqallad has arrived on Galahesh. He has the third piece of the Atalayina. And soon he will make them one. And then, Nasim an Khamal, he will have it done.”

He ignored the use of Khamal’s name in the place of his father. “There is time yet.”

“There is.” She coughed, a wet and sickening thing. “You must find him—this much is clear—but you will not go alone.”

Nasim glanced down at the bloody pelt. “Stop. You’re too weak.”

“I will join you.”

“You can’t even stand.”

She glanced above her, indicating the spire itself. “The tide has finally started to turn. I am gaining strength. I will be able to join you when the time is right.”

“And when will that be?”

“It will begin on tomorrow’s eve.”

Tomorrow was
Abistan
, the day Iteh had been given his harp by the fates. Given that Muqallad had performed his last ritual on the autumnal equinox, it made sense that he would choose another important day to make the Atalayina whole.

“You know where he is?”

“
Neh
,” Sariya said.

“Then how are we to stop him?”

“Because I know where he
will
be.”

Hours later, Nasim pulled on the oars of the boat. The freezing water sprayed against him as the boat rocked up and down, plowing through the waves. On either side of the boat, the walls of two massive white cliffs rose. They were strong and imposing, but there was a note of fragility, as if a part of them might shear off at any moment and come crashing down on top of them.

Sukharam sat at the rear of the craft. His arms were wide and his eyes were closed. He was open to the churning waves funneling through straits. He was bonded with a jalaqiram, which he used to quell the waves, but not to any great degree; they could not afford to be capsized, but neither could they afford to be seen or sensed.

Sariya lay wrapped in blankets at the bottom of the boat. She looked weak, and white, but she insisted that she be allowed to remain where she was. “Concentrate on the waves,” she’d said as they started. “Concentrate on the tide.”

If all went well, they would be able to study the Spar for any signs of Muqallad or the Maharraht, for this was the place, Sariya was sure, that they would come. To the Spar. No other place afforded such a confluence of the aether. No other place was such a wellspring of power save Ghayavand, but there the spells that still stood would prevent the Atalayina from doing as Muqallad wished.

It would be here, but Muqallad would have prepared for them. They had to be careful.

They made slow progress, Nasim pulling at the oars, Sukharam quelling the waves, and Sariya using her bonded elder to cover their approach. There were no boats in the straits this day. The conflict was still too tense for trade to flow, and what there was would be moved along the Spar, not shuttled down to the water by the mule-driven lifts.

Nasim had seen the Spar once, years ago, when the building of it had just begun. He remembered thinking how foolish it seemed to attempt such a thing, that the Kamarisi would most likely abandon the plan once he realized how much it would sap the Empire. Now he knew that the Kamarisi had been in thrall to Sariya, and the completion of the bridge had never been in doubt.

It was more grand than Nasim could ever have imagined: as tall as the broad white cliffs of the straits, arch after magnificent arch towering up from the waves and holding the bridge as straight as the flight of a kingfisher.

“It is there,” Sariya said, looking up toward the center of the Spar. “When the sun goes down, he will come.”

“Why not simply alert the Kamarisi?”

“Because the Kamarisi cannot help. Muqallad has had spies in Baressa for years, many I have yet to root out. If there is any chance Muqallad will have warning of our approach, it is a chance we cannot take.”

They continued on in tense silence and after a long stretch of rowing came to a shallow inlet. At the end of it was a rocky beach.

“There,” Sariya said, pointing toward a large set of boulders, most of them caked in ice from the spray of the waves.

They landed the boat and approached the boulders, beyond which, Sariya said, lay the entrance to the tunnels that ran through the cliffs. The boulders were large, and their faces tricky to climb with the ice, forcing them to go slowly. Sariya grimaced as she climbed, even with their help.

But at last they reached the top and found an easy climb down to the tunnel. It was dark and cold, but they carried small siraj stones to light their way. They walked for what felt like hours, though Nasim was sure it was little more than one. Somehow the closeness of the walls and the uncertainty about what lay ahead made time seem to slow.

As they continued upward, Nasim sensed a faint presence. It took him a while to place it, but eventually he knew that the akhoz were here—somewhere far above him, and ahead.

He was reminded of the tunnels in Shirvozeh, the village near Alayazhar. He felt as if he’d once again entered Muqallad’s demesne, as if he was granting him the upper hand before they’d even met on this island so far away from that other place.

Nasim felt dizzy. He became aware of Sariya’s breathing, of Sukharam’s trek up the slick stone. He became aware of the earth and stone surrounding them. It felt oppressive as it never had before. He wondered what would happen to it if Muqallad had his way. Would Erahm itself be gone? Or would it simply be wiped clean of the souls that inhabited it? And what of Adhiya? When the aether was lost, would the two worlds become one? Or would they be permanently divided from one another like ships lost in the wind?

He had often wondered what it would be like to bring about an age of enlightenment. Khamal had tried with Muqallad and Sariya. They had failed, but might they not have learned from this? Might they not still succeed?

It was a noble goal, Nasim thought. A noble goal, indeed.

When they came to a large cavern, Nasim recognized the constellation that had been worked into the stone of the floor—Almadn, her amphora cradled as she dipped it into the spring of life. It was lit by a bright shaft of light that came down through an opening somewhere along the cliffs.