The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (94 page)

Sariya merely stares at the burning hill. She seems to remain standing by force of will alone, though this final step seems to have granted her some small amount of strength.

On the hill, the body of the Kamarisi smokes. His skin blackens and then bursts into flame, as does the post he hangs upon. A moment later, the fire licking up from the akhoz pulls into a maelstrom centered on this burning man—centered on the stone he holds in his hands. The fire spins and is drawn upward like yarn from a skein. The thread thickens until a column of flame thrusts into the sky through the layer of clouds high, high above.

It rages on and on, the akhoz shrieking and barking and mewling while the fire rages. The Hratha watch, eyes bright, jaws set grimly. They stare at the sky, faces lit by the roiling column of gold and ivory flame.

Some time later—perhaps minutes, perhaps hours—the akhoz blacken. They still hold their twisted and pained positions, but are now little more than husks. A wind blows across the grounds, lifting the apple-sweet smell from the blackened remains. Some begin to ablate like the ash from a smoldering fire. Their forms collapse into clouds of powder, black and red and white, lifted by the updraft. More and more are consumed thus, their dark remains tainting the wavering column, which now burns amber and rust.

And then, in a sudden lift of wind and ash and gusting fire, the column burns itself out, until at last the sky breathes a sigh of relief.

The hill is utterly silent. Ash rains down on everyone like snow as the sun lowers in the west. Without a word being spoken, the Hratha close in around the site of the ritual.

Muqallad and Sariya and Kaleh stride up toward the hilltop. Atiana is close behind. The ash becomes ankle deep. Atiana wades through it—the ashes are warm, but little more, as if the Atalayina had stolen as much from the akhoz as it could—and she wonders briefly who these children might have been, who their mothers and fathers were, but then they reach the center of the ash, and there they find a mound filled with larger blackened chunks that somehow remained intact.

Muqallad sifts through the remains with his foot, until a glint of blue shines through. Atiana’s heart sings at seeing it. But she doesn’t yet know if the stone has been made whole.

As she holds her breath, Muqallad reaches down and picks it up. He blows upon it softly. The dust and ash fall away, revealing a stone as bright as any Atiana has ever seen. It does not glow, but it has a way of catching the light from the setting sun. It twists it and reflects it back in unexpected ways. It is powerful and beautiful, both.

Muqallad turns and holds it above his head.

And the Hratha burst into a cheer that is long and stirring and numinous.

Atiana, however—as caught up in these emotions she might be—remains silent.

As she stares at the Atalayina, now whole, she can shed only tears of joy.

For it is the most beautiful thing she has ever beheld.

W
ith the crow leading the way, the streltsi brought Nasim to a building near the center of the bazaar—the Kirzan, the massive central building and one of the oldest in this section of the city.

“Let me down,” Nasim said to the strelet, “or I won’t be responsible for what they do.”

The soldier, who had often sent nervous looks to the akhoz that galloped in a pack behind them, nodded and pulled his pony to a stop, at which point Nasim slipped to the ground and raised his hands to the akhoz. They stopped, their skin twitching, their lungs pumping like bellows, their necks straining as if collared.

“Rest,” Nasim said to them, meaning their minds as much as their bodies. Blood lust was upon them, and it would not do to have them remain so among allies. “Rest,” he said again, and motioned them to the empty stalls of the bazaar.

They complied, and slowly, their jerky movements began to quell. They settled down into crouches. Some laid upon the ground in groups. Others merely stood, their gaze never veering from Nasim as their lips drew back into sickening grins.

Nasim, as satisfied as he could be, turned and left them.

Near the building stood a gathering of several older men with long gray cherkesskas adorned with dozens of brightly colored medals. One of them had a beard that hung partway down his chest, and in his gray hair was a nasty gash that looked only halfway healed. There was a resemblance—not striking, but unmistakable—to Nikandr. This could be none other than his father, Iaros.

There were many streltsi surrounding these men, and they moved forward with muskets and shashkas at the ready.

“Let him through,” Iaros called.

The streltsi parted, watching Nasim pass with mistrustful eyes, while the hoary old men waited with grave looks on their faces. These were hardened and seasoned men; they were not cowed by the presence of the akhoz, but they couldn’t help but glance every so often to the stalls where the akhoz waited. None of them knew what he might do with them, or even if he had complete control, but to their credit neither they nor their guard seem overly phased.

As Nasim came near, most of the military men—no doubt polkovniks in the Grand Duchy’s staaya—stepped back, allowing Iaros to approach Nasim. Iaros did not hold out his hand, as so many of the Landed seemed to do. Nor did he seem dismissive of Nasim. He merely stared as if Nasim were a curiosity he had long ago given up any hope of finding.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“You are the Duke of Khalakovo,” Nasim said, “Iaros, son of Aleksi, son of Vasham.”

Iaros raised his eyebrows—not so much, Nasim thought, because he was impressed that Nasim knew of him and his family, but that Nasim knew anything at all. He must have thought Nasim would be little better than the lost child he had heard so many stories about. “I thought we might never meet, you and I.”

Nasim didn’t know what to say to this—nor did he know why the Matra had brought him here—so he remained silent.

Iaros turned to the men behind him and waved his hand. They all bowed their heads. One of them, however, an old, decrepit man with distrustful eyes and a long white beard, watched longer and more intensely than the others before turning and leaving.

With them gone, Iaros waved his hand toward the immense stone building. “Join me.”

Nasim, seeing no reason not to go, fell into step beside the duke.

As they took the steps up, Iaros spoke. “The Matra tells me you’ve just returned, though we both wonder from where.”

“I came from Ghayavand.”

They stepped into the building, their footsteps echoing in the harshness of the interior. “And how did you return?”

His final memories of Rabiah were still too close, still too dear, for him to share. “That must remain with me.”

Iaros turned his head with a frown—perhaps wondering if he’d erred in his measure of Nasim’s character—but then the look was gone, and he motioned to a dark set of stairs leading below ground. “Fair enough,” he said as they took the stairs down.

The way was lit by guttering whale oil lanterns. The stairwell continued on and on, deeper than Nasim would have guessed. It felt as though they were drilling into the earth, never to return.

“Where are we going?” Nasim asked.

“I want you to see what we’re doing, and I want you to see who’s doing it.”

“And why do you care if
I
see it?”

“Because we find ourselves at another crossroads, do we not? As we were on Khalakovo?” They took one last turn, and were greeted by a set of heavy iron doors at the base of a long set of stairs. “Except this time Anuskaya is not aligned against you. It’s important for you to know this.”

“Do you think I would throw in my lot with Muqallad? Or the Kamarisi?”

“I don’t know what you would do, but the ancients have seen fit to bring you here, and so I think it’s important that you know before you leave.”

Nasim laughed. “You seem to know where I’m going. I wish you’d share it with me.”

“Are you not here to stop Muqallad?”

“I suppose I am, though I know not where he is.”

“He is on the far side of the straits, in Vihrosh, and unless I’m sorely mistaken he will soon move to the Spar.”

“How can you be so sure?”

They reached the landing at last. Once there, Iaros stopped before the doors and turned to Nasim. “Because the spire of Kiravashya has fallen. Fallen by our own hands.”

“What?” Nasim shook his head. “
You
felled it?”

“
Da
.”

“Forgive me, son of Aleksi, but
why
? You need the spires.”

There was a glint in Iaros’s eye that made it clear just how fiercely he loved the Grand Duchy. “Their ships were many. Too many. We knew we could not stand against them, so we lured them to the spire, and we brought it down. All of their ships were destroyed in the maelstrom that followed, and in the meanwhile, we had already set sail on seaborne ships toward Galahesh.”

Nasim shook his head, lamenting the deaths that had been lost in the trap the men of the Grand Duchy had laid, but there was a part of him that was relieved at this turn of events.

He thought back to the feeling of intent upon the wind. The inhalation. What would happen when the world exhaled, he didn’t know, but he knew it would be terrible, and he knew it would be soon.

“The only ones that remain are the two here on Galahesh,” Iaros continued. “They stand on opposite ends of this island. On opposite sides of the straits… We came to the island in the hopes of stopping Hakan before the spire could be destroyed, and now it may be too late. But make no mistake”—he reached over and opened both doors, swinging them wide so that Nasim could see the room beyond—“we will try.”

Inside the room were dozens of people, nearly all of them women. Most were huddled around a set of eight basins at the center of the room. They were positioned like the points of a compass rose. Many of the women were old—around the age of the Duke of Khalakovo—and Nasim realized that these women were not merely Matri, they were by and large the Duchesses, the women with the most experience in the aether. There were some who were younger, however. One he thought he recognized as Atiana, but he soon realized his mistake. It was one of her sisters, Mileva or Ishkyna.

“So many of them here,” Nasim said breathlessly, beginning to understand just how cunning Iaros had been. “They couldn’t have crossed the seas after the spire had fallen. The seas would have been too dangerous.”

“
Da
. The time for hiding in the palotzas of the islands was over. We knew the place to fight was here, where our enemies are.”

“But if they’re taken… The islands will be defenseless.”

Nasim was interrupted by a flutter of wings. A rook flew from the stairs behind them and landed on the floor near Iaros’s feet. “We do not shrink from duty. If we are taken, our daughters will take up our cause.”

From the far side of the room, a servant came toward them, wheeling Saphia Khalakovo before him. Nasim realized with a start—the rook… It was Saphia, and yet here she was, outside of the bitterly cold water in one of the drowning basins.

The bird flapped up to land on Saphia’s shoulder. Saphia herself was glass-eyed. She did not look to Nasim, nor notice as Iaros took her from the servant and rubbed his hand along her shoulder affectionately.

“We have come to it,” the rook said. “We need you, Nasim.”

“I—I had not thought to find help.”

“And yet here it is. Muqallad has come. The Kamarisi holds the Spar, at least for now. And unless I’m mistaken, he has all the pieces of the Atalayina.” The rook turned its head toward the basins and clucked twice. “We move against Sariya, but we need
you
to stop Muqallad.”

“I am only one.”

A voice came from behind Nasim. “You will have help. Have no fear of that.”

Nasim turned and found no other than Ashan stepping into the room. There was an Aramahn man by his side. It was Majeed Bassam al Haffeh, an aide to Fahroz on Mirashadal, the one who oversaw her burial pyre and the ceremony that followed. His outer robes were violet, his inner robes a deep shade of yellow, not unlike the sun when it set behind thin clouds. Unlike Ashan, there was no hint of humor in his eyes. The cut of his short hair, the set of his jaw, the steel in his eyes, and though he was younger than Ashan by a decade at least, there seemed to lie within him a solemn burden that made him seem much older. It marked him as a serious man, a perfect replacement for Fahroz, no doubt hand chosen by the mahtar herself.