The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (45 page)

Staring at the blade, feeling its heft, Nikandr recalled the source of the half-hidden memory he’d had at the edge of the village. He’d felt the same way five years ago on Ghayavand while walking the streets of Alayazhar. It had been the strongest as he’d stepped toward the tower. Sariya’s tower. It had happened when he’d realized the depth of the illusions that ran through the entire city.

The same thing was happening here—not an illusion, but the influence of one of the Al-Aqim. Muqallad’s power was spreading. Why, and why
here
, he didn’t know. He only knew that Soroush was now an integral part of it.

W
ith a guard on either side of him, Nikandr walked along a wide hallway in the upper reaches of Ashdi en Ghat. They led him to an empty room—more of a cavern. It had taken him hours to return to the village. Light filtered in through several natural breaks in the roof high above them, where Nikandr could hear the rain still falling. Along the floor were deep etchings in the stone. The gaps above carefully guided the water to the floor and into the etched channels. The water made hardly any sound at all. Barely a trickle.

The water rippled as it moved through the channels, creating a hypnotic effect. It felt as if the floor was moving, or that
he
was moving over the floor. The movements seemed purposeful but unfathomable until Nikandr realized that the course of movement mimicked the shimmering northern lights. Even here among the Maharraht there was beauty and art. As Nikandr watched, the floor shimmered like a veil, with certain spots glinting like stars in the northern sky. How long had it taken the vanaqiram to craft such a thing? How long must she have studied the sky in order to recreate it with such accuracy?

On the far side of the room, from some passage hidden behind a curve in the cavern’s wall, came Bersuq. He wore a brown turban. The cloth was crisp and richly colored, but Bersuq looked old and used and near to breaking. He bore with him a ledger. He was poring over it closely, flipping back and forth between two pages, but then he seemed to remember the business at hand, and he closed it with a snap. After setting it down on a shelf built into the stone, he walked across the room, taking care not to step in the channels of water.

The soldier on Nikandr’s right bowed his head and held out Soroush’s musket and his khanjar. Bersuq accepted them with stoicism, and yet, as Nikandr watched, he could see emotions playing subtly in his eyes and the set of his jaw.

“Leave us,” Bersuq said.

The soldiers did, their footsteps fading as Bersuq returned to the shelf and set the musket upon it.

“Where is he?” Bersuq asked without turning around.

“Taken. Taken by Muqallad, who has come to your island.”

Nikandr expected surprise at these words, but Bersuq merely stood where he was, his back to Nikandr as he cleaned Soroush’s knife with a kerchief he’d retrieved from his robes. “Soroush knew what he was doing when he left this village.”

“He
knew
Muqallad was here?

“
Yeh
.”

“Are you saying he
wanted
to be taken?”

Bersuq turned and regarded Nikandr with weary eyes, his voice hoarse, his posture hunched, as if the mantle of leadership weighed too heavily upon his shoulders. “He only suspected, but I think he wanted it to be so.”

Nikandr stepped further into the room, careful not to step upon the cracks where the rainwater flowed. “For the love of those who came before us, why?”

“Because he wished to see him. He wished to know Muqallad for himself before he decided.”

“Decided what?”

“Whether the children would be given to him. Whether those who still follow and believe in Soroush would be given as well.”

Nikandr stood there and stared, trying to piece together all that Bersuq was saying, all that he was implying. Clearly there was friction among the Maharraht. He had thought that the men from the south had been the cause—a power struggle for the mind and soul of their movement—but now he realized it was much deeper than this. Muqallad had come, and he was making demands, and few, it seemed, could agree on the right course of action. Bersuq and Soroush had already fought over it. The majority of the men from Behnda al Tib had left their island, most likely for the same reason. Even the men and women at the shore of the lake deep below where Nikandr now stood, the ones who hoped to heal the children, clearly could not quite bring themselves to side with the decision to hand these children over to Muqallad.

“His
son
lies below,” Nikandr said.

“What is one boy, even a son, against all that we have lost?”

“And yet you’ve given me leave to heal them.”

Bersuq stared down at the khanjar he held in his hands. He scraped his thumb against the tip absently. “I say ‘what is one boy,’ but he is bright. A shining star. Perhaps he will be the one to lead us to greatness. Perhaps he will be the one to lead us back to the path of learning. It’s a difficult thing to give up—not just Wahad, but all of the children.”

Nikandr lowered his voice. “But the men from Behnda al Tib.”

Bersuq’s eyes shot up. The fierceness Nikandr remembered had returned. “Do not speak of it outside of this room, son of Iaros, or I will have no choice but to give Rahid his wish.”

“They’ve aligned themselves with Muqallad.”

Bersuq shook his head. “The men who are here,
yeh
. Those that Thabash left behind in Behnda al Tib, who can know?”

“Why don’t you fight them?”

“Because there are too many who would join them. Muqallad is persuasive. He has told us that the time of enlightenment is near. How can we ignore those words from a man such as him, especially when it’s exactly what so many of us want to hear?”

“And yet you harbor doubts.”

The blade in Bersuq’s hands glinted from the incoming light. He stared at it, twisting it slowly back and forth. “I don’t know what to believe. He came those many months ago, just as some were taking sick.” He looked up, then, meeting Nikandr’s gaze with piercing eyes. “You’ve met him?”

“I have,” Nikandr said.

“Then you know the weight that surrounds him. The gravitas. He need but speak, and the world around him answers. He told us that we had been chosen, that our struggles all these years had not been in vain. He told us there were trials yet ahead, and that if we saw them through, we would be rewarded. We would all be rewarded.

“And then the sick became sicker, and the young—dozens of them—fell to the plague you saw at the lake. We came to Muqallad begging for his help, but he merely said that it was the first of many steps. He said those children had been chosen by the fates themselves, that they were now only one step from Adhiya, one step from vashaqiram. All we needed to do was give them to the fire, as they clearly wished.”

Nikandr shook his head. “The fire in Siafyan. It wasn’t meant to rid you of the wasting, was it?”

Bersuq was having trouble meeting Nikandr’s gaze. “It was done in preparation for a greater ritual, one that involves the children. Muqallad was pleased when it was done, but I”—he glanced toward the open doorway and lowered his voice—“I was sickened. How we could have...” He looked up to Nikandr, his eyes regaining some of their fierceness. “It is why you must hurry, son of Iaros. If you can heal them, then it will be clear to all that Muqallad was lying. They will believe me then, or enough will that the others won’t matter, and Muqallad will be cast aside.”

Above, from somewhere outside, came the soft fluttering of wings. Nikandr knew who it was immediately; he could feel her through the soulstone that lay against his chest.

“Muqallad will not take kindly to being cast aside.”

“If the fates will his vengeance against us, then it will be so, but I will not grant him children if his words are proven lies.” He held Soroush’s knife out, hilt first, until Nikandr took it. Then he raised his eyebrows as the sound of beating wings came again. “Speak with your Matra. Have her help if she would. You have one more day.”

After retrieving his ledger, Bersuq strode toward the tunnel.

“I need more time,” Nikandr said.

Bersuq stopped at the entrance to the room and spoke without turning. “I don’t have it to give. In one more day, perhaps two, Thabash will return.”

“
You
lead the Maharraht.”

“
Neh
, son of Iaros, I do not. That mantle belongs to Muqallad now. But with your help, that may all change.”

And with that he left.

As his footsteps receded, a rook hopped down to a natural stone ledge above him. It surveyed the room and then winged down to land on the floor near Nikandr’s feet. It cawed and pecked, and Nikandr worried over the sound, but when the rook shivered and flapped its wings, he realized that Atiana would have already searched the upper reaches of the village for prying ears.

“
Privyet
, Atiana,” Nikandr said.

“
Privyet
.”

The rook cawed and was silent for a time, and Nikandr wondered whether she was giving him time to speak.

“Atiana, I pray you, forgive my words on—”

“I haven’t come to discuss our past, Nikandr. I’ve come bearing news of Galahesh. News you should know.”

“But Atiana—”

The rook spread its wings, cawing fiercely, over and over again. The feathers shivered, as if from barely contained rage.

Nikandr sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Go on.”

“Arvaneh is not who we thought. She is none other than Sariya.”

Nikandr could only stare as a deep pit opened up inside him. Muqallad here, and Sariya on Galahesh.

“She’s pulling many strings, Nikandr. It was she that built the Spar, and now I’ve found a spire to the north of the straits.”

“To what purpose?”

“I don’t yet know. It’s all happening so quickly. But know this… We need you. You must leave Rafsuhan. Take to the winds and come home. Khalakovo must be prepared.”

“Would that I could, Atiana, but I can’t. I’m needed here.”

“You’re needed by the Grand Duchy.”

“Which is the exact reason I’m staying. This is too important to set aside.”

“They are
Maharraht
.” Even through the voice of the rook Nikandr could hear her disgust. He tried to explain. He told her of the children. He told her of Rahid and the Hratha and Muqallad’s manipulation. He told her of Soroush and Bersuq and their confessions to him. But nothing would sway her. “All of that means little if Hakan is preparing to sweep down on Vostroma when morning breaks.”

“He cannot. The straits stand before him.”

“Don’t be so sure. I know not what the spire is for, but I suspect... I
fear
that I’ve given Sariya more than I should have.”

“What could you have given her?”

“One of the times I spied upon her, I thought she wasn’t there, but I believe now that she was watching me, studying how I manipulate the currents of the aether.”

Nikandr worked it through in his mind. “And if she can learn to do the same…”

“She can control the storm that sits above the straits. To allow ships, for the first time, to fly over them. To give Hakan what he and the centuries of Kamarisi before him dearly wished they could have—a clear path to the islands.”

The rain outside fell harder. The water spilling into the channels was quickening. Thunder rang as he paced along the room, no longer caring if he stepped upon the channels.

“Have you told your mother?”

“Of course, but they are ill prepared. Three attacks from the south were orchestrated over the past week alone, and Father fears more. Ships are being brought in to help, but we are weak, Nikandr. You know this. Father will not ask it, but it would do him good to see you commanding a wing of ships. Even Hakan would pause if he knew you were near.” The rook arched its neck, then ducked low and tapped the stone softly with its beak, an act of supplication. “Come home, Nischka. Leave Rafsuhan behind. Let them quarrel amongst themselves. Let them weaken while we prepare for the coming storm.”

“Don’t you understand? This is
part
of that storm. We cannot ignore it, Atiana.”

“
I
can. And you can, too.”