The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (51 page)

“Why are you helping me?” he asked.

“Because Muqallad is using me. He would use you as well, and that, at least for now, I will not allow.”

“
How
is he using you?”

“You of all people should know. You were what gave him the clues he needed.”

“Clues to what?”

“Finding the way Adhiya and Erahm are linked.”

“They are linked through the aether.”

“That doesn’t answer the question of
how
they’re linked.”

“Then tell me.”

She pulled him down a tunnel where several siraj stones lit the way from sconces set into the walls. “That I cannot say.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t yet know whether I will allow Muqallad to use me further.”

“You have a choice?”

“Do you?” she asked, her eyes flat and judgmental.

“I don’t know.”

“And neither do I.” They came to the doors. “Get them, quickly. Muqallad is coming.”

Before Nasim could move, he heard the braying of one of the akhoz, far in the distance. It was picked up moments later by others, dozens of them. They were closing in already.

Nasim took a siraj from a sconce and went to the nearest door, which opened at his touch. Inside, sleeping, was Sukharam. He stood from his bed of matted hay, blinking at the light.

“Come,” Nasim said. “We have little time.”

Sukharam’s eyes were wild with fear, darting to the hall behind Nasim, and yet he stood his ground. “What of Rabiah?”

Nasim waved him to leave the room. “Not now, Sukharam.”

“Where
is
she?”

“She’s gone, Sukharam. Dead. Killed in Sariya’s tower.”

Sukharam lowered his arm, allowing the light to strike him full in the face. His look of anger became one of disgust, a mirror of Nasim’s own feelings.

The wails of the akhoz approached. They sounded hungry, and it made Nasim’s stomach turn. “We must
go
, Sukharam!”

Sukharam walked past Nasim, the cold air of the tunnels wafting by as he did so. “We’ll speak of this again.”

Nasim rushed into the next room. Ashan was lying on the floor, his face a mass of cuts and bruises and half-healed burns. Soroush was already standing, and looked as though he’d received no ill treatment whatsoever. Seeing him next to Ashan, who looked as though he’d been beaten for weeks, was strange indeed.

Soroush and Sukharam slipped Ashan’s arms around their shoulders and half carried, half dragged him from the room.

“This way,” Kaleh said as she continued down the tunnel. There, however, they came to a dead end.

“What have you done?” Nasim cried.

“Be quiet,” Kaleh said. With a touch of her finger, a small hole opened in the wall and widened.

Behind them, the akhoz rounded the corner. They went mad when they spied the five of them.

The hole widened until it looked like the open maw of an earthen beast. “Step inside,” Kaleh said. “Quickly.”

They did, without hesitation. As soon as the last of them were in, the walls began closing in again. The world darkened, and the stone pressed in around them.

Sukharam shouted in fright.

Nasim’s last thought was that Kaleh had betrayed them.

What followed was darkness and a freezing embrace as the cold stone pressed ever more surely against their frames. Nasim could not draw breath. He could not move.

A panic as deep as the earth had just begun to set when the earth shifted—

—and opened before them.

Light flooded into the space, making Nasim cringe like a newborn.

Ahead was a short, earthen tunnel that led to a forest of white birch. Nasim could see the trunks and the bed of fallen leaves that covered the forest floor.

“By the fates, where are we?” Sukharam asked.

In a croaky, long-neglected voice, Soroush replied, “We are returned to Rafsuhan.”

N
ikandr waited in the dark halls of Ashdi en Ghat, listening for the sound of footfalls. He heard them at last near midnight, the hour at which the Maharraht changed watches. One man—one of Bersuq’s most trusted—walked past with a siraj stone hanging from a leather cord. He turned his head toward the hallway where Nikandr lay in wait, but then continued on as if he’d seen nothing, as if he didn’t know that Nikandr was there.

“Is it time already?” the guard further down the hall asked.

“
Neh
,” said the other, “but I haven’t been able to sleep in days. Go. Get some rest. The ships will most likely return tomorrow.”

A pause. “What will become of
them
?”

“To that you already know the answer.”

When the first guard spoke again, his voice was lower. “There are times when I think Thabash’s arrival was an ill omen.”

“Silence,” hissed the one who had carried the stone past Nikandr. “Rahid has ears everywhere.”

“But sending ships to attack our own…”

“They weren’t sent to attack, merely to return the children that were taken away.”

“If you believe that, you’re a fool.”

“I do believe them.”

A short laugh echoed down the hall. “Listen to the words of Bersuq if you must—listen even to Rahid’s—but do not try to tell me that no harm was meant to those who fled.”

“We lead the life we lead.”

“We do, but why is it we must kill even amongst ourselves?”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Go. Find rest. You’ll think better under the light of the morning sun.” Footsteps approached Nikandr’s position again. He made himself small as the Maharraht approached. “This will look no better under the sun,” he said. “It may in fact look worse.” He passed the tunnel entrance with no stone in his hand, and soon his footsteps had faded.

All was silent for a time, then sounds came of the remaining soldier pacing further and further away in the opposite direction.

The light, however, remained.

With cautious steps Nikandr made his way forward, finding the siraj sitting on the stone floor of the cool, vacant tunnel. He picked up the siraj and made his way deeper, taking the directions Jahalan had given him earlier that day, and at last he came to a door set into the wall of the tunnel. He turned the handle and swung it soundlessly inward.

Resting on three pallets were his men: Styophan and Avil and Mikhalai. They looked to the doorway not with fear, but something akin to it. No doubt they understood that something was about to happen.

“It is well that you’re here, My Lord Prince,” Styophan said in Anuskayan. “Are we to leave?”

“
Da
, the three of you will go, and quickly.” Nikandr hugged Styophan and kissed his cheeks. “You will take the
Chaika
and return word of these events to Khalakovo.”

Styophan sent a confused glance back at Avil and Mikhalai. “My Lord Prince, we cannot leave you here. There’s talk of the Hratha returning.”

“I know, but I cannot leave.”

“Then we stay as well.”

“
Nyet
,” Nikandr said, raising his voice as loud as he dared among these tunnels. “Khalakovo has need of you. The Grand Duchy as well. There will be need of ships, and soon. But first, you will return to Ranos. Tell him what has happened here. Bid him send no men, and tell him I will return to Khalakovo as soon as I’m able.”

“You try to heal them, My Lord, but they don’t deserve it. They—”

“I will not speak of it!” Nikandr’s words echoed off into the distance. “Believe me when I say this is necessary. Ranos must understand what is happening. He must know of Muqallad and the rift. Tell him, and tell him to speak with the Aramahn. We will need their guidance in the weeks ahead.”

Styophan looked into Nikandr’s eyes, anxious, but willing to do as Nikandr bid him. “What will you do?”

“If I’m able, I will heal. If I’m not, I will leave.”

They both held the other’s gaze, knowing that in all likelihood it wasn’t in Nikandr’s power to do this. With Thabash came a singular mind, no matter that some of the Maharraht may doubt his purpose.

Styophan stepped in and hugged Nikandr. “Fare well, My Lord.”

“And you,” Nikandr said.

He hugged and kissed Avil and Mikhalai as well, and then they were off, taking the turns Nikandr gave them to reach the upper exit from the village.

Nikandr returned to the place where he’d found the stone and set it down.

“You should have gone with them.”

Nikandr spun around and found the guard who had walked past him, the man Bersuq had sent to clear the way while Nikandr freed his men. He was one of the older Maharraht. Grizzled. Though most of his face was hidden in shadow, his eyes twinkled as he studied Nikandr.

“You no doubt heard my answer.”

“I did, but why would you consider such a thing for a boy that will most likely turn no matter what you do?”

Nikandr stepped forward and placed the stone into the man’s hand. “Have you so lost your way that you need to ask me the question?”

The Maharraht swallowed, incensed, but he stood taller a moment later. “I know
why
, I merely question why
you
would do it.”

“He is only a boy,” Nikandr said.

“Who will grow up to become your enemy.”

Nikandr, after one last pause, turned and walked away. “Perhaps he will.”

Nikandr, kneeling at the shore of the lake, touched Wahad’s shoulders.

Nikandr represented wind.

Near Wahad’s feet were Jahalan and Zanhalah, the old woman who had helped him with Wahad before.

Together they represented water and life.

The two others—a man and woman who had fathered three children together—kneeled by Wahad’s arms.

They were fire and earth, and they completed the circle.

Ever since returning from Siafyan and his encounter with the akhoz, Nikandr had considered the approach of bringing only the opposing elements of water and air against the fire that raged inside Wahad. Though he didn’t wish to discount the wisdom of these qiram, he found the strategy lacking. The boy was being taken by a suuraqiram—it seemed that it would take all of the elements, not just those opposing, in order to save him.

The dying children had been moved far away in hopes of giving Nikandr and the others the room they needed to complete their ritual, but their coughs, their moans, could still be heard. This didn’t bother Nikandr. If anything, it was a simple reminder of why he was doing this, one that did not fluster, but in fact
calmed
him. Thoughts of Atiana and Galahesh and Khalakovo and his mother and his father had hounded him in the hours since his men had escaped, but the moment he’d reached the cavern of the lake, he had calmed. The sounds of pain from these children had allowed him to push all the other thoughts away, until all that remained was a singular focus toward a singular aim.

Save one child.

He stared down at Wahad, brushed the hair back from his forehead. His skin was hot to the touch, but he did not sweat. His eyes were closed, as they had been for days, and there was a crust over them. They had tried once to open his eyes, and Wahad had thrashed and struggled against the men holding him and beat his head against the ground. They’d released him shortly after, and he’d cried and moaned for hours afterward.

Nikandr brushed Wahad’s hair one last time.

Just one, he thought. That was all he wished for.

“Let us begin,” he said.

Together, they closed their eyes.

Nikandr calmed himself, breathed deeper. He felt the touch of his vanahezhan on the far side of the aether, and through this bond he drew himself deeper into its world, drew it deeper into his. Other than this one spirit, he’d rarely felt another hezhan, but now he felt all four of those that were near. He suspected it was because of the rift and how wide it had grown on Rafsuhan, perhaps especially so here in Ashdi en Ghat on the shores of the lake.