The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (60 page)

Why did Muqallad need Kaleh? And what did it mean that she’d helped Nasim escape? Was there now some hope that she would turn away from Muqallad’s path of violence? Or had it simply been a moment of weakness?

A tapping behind Nasim made him start. He turned in the chair, but could see nothing beyond the rectangular window but the blackness of the night.

He moved to the window and levered it open. With the bitterly cold wind blowing, a rook hopped inside. It flapped over to a wrought-iron perch in the corner of the room behind the desk, where it walked along and beat its wings and pecked at the crossbar. Nasim stared at the golden band about its ankle, wondering which of the Matri had come.

“Are you still dumb, child?”

Nasim shook his head, confused. “Nikandr isn’t here.”

“And that’s well. We have things to talk about, you and I.”

There was no doubt now that this was Saphia Khalakovo. Not only could he hear it in the way she spoke, he could feel her distantly in the aether. He was curious to know what she wished to speak about, but more than anything he was worried that she would try to assume him if he didn’t cooperate. It hadn’t worked out well for her the last time, but neither had it worked out well for him. He’d been struck by vivid, debilitating dreams in the days that followed, and he had often wondered whether something different might have happened on Ghayavand had he not been so incapacitated on his arrival.

The rook cawed. “You’re sure you’re well…”

“I am,” he answered simply, waiting for her to get to the point.

“Then tell me how you came to Rafsuhan.”

“Why?”

The rook arched its neck and flapped its wings. “Don’t be impertinent, boy. You’re better than that, unless I’ve missed the mark…”

Nasim took a deep breath and released it noisily. He didn’t wish to speak to this woman, but he saw no reason to withhold the information, so he told her what he could of his arrival on Ghayavand, his battles with Sariya and Muqallad, and his eventual flight. He glossed over Rabiah’s tale—those memories were his and his alone—but he told her of Alayazhar and Sariya’s tower and the akhoz. He told her of his flight through the village of Shirvozeh. He told her of Kaleh as well, a girl he wasn’t sure just how to measure. Was she friend or foe? And did it even matter now that he’d left Ghayavand?

“And what of the stones, the Atalayina?”

“What of them?”

The rook cawed again and flapped over to the desk. It turned its dark eye on him. It was not an easy thing to look at, that staring, unblinking eye. “You may be angry with me, Nasim, for what I did to you those years ago, but I don’t care. I did what I thought was right for my family, for my Duchy, and for Anuskaya.” Finally the rook blinked. “This is important. Vostroma is set upon by the forces of the empire. Galostina may not last the week. The woman, Sariya, was close to having a piece of that stone, but thanks to you it has fallen into the hands of Vostroma’s daughter. We have much to thank you for, it seems, but we have need of more—most likely
much
more by the time all is said and done—so grant me this one favor: answer my questions. It may very well help to protect the islands you seem so intent on saving.”

“I don’t care what you consider important, Matra. It isn’t your counsel I seek.”

The rook flapped its wings—hopping along the desk and shuffling the maps—and the caw it released sounded strangely like laughter. “And whose
do
you seek, pray tell?”

“My own.”

“Poor counsel, indeed. You may think you know what’s happening, but you don’t. I know this because
I
don’t know, and if I don’t, I’m sure that
you’ve
fared little better. We need one another, boy. You, the Landed, the Aramahn—even, it seems, the Maharraht. Muqallad will have his way with the world if given his way. Don’t let your wounded pride stand in the way of the greater good.”

Nasim had no wish to speak to the Matra, but what was worse, he didn’t
trust
her. She said she was concerned over the world and Muqallad’s plans for it, but that wasn’t true at all. She was concerned over the future of the Grand Duchy, nothing more.

He was saved from answering by Nikandr’s entrance. He closed the door and shook snow from his black cherkesska as he removed it and hung it on a hook. “I told you I wanted to be present if you were to speak with him,” he said to the rook.

“There are conversations I would have alone, Nischka.”

An uncomfortable stalemate followed, in which Nasim suddenly became conscious of where he was sitting. He stood, but Nikandr waved him back down.

“Stay,” he said, sitting across from him in the chair that would usually be reserved for guests in this cabin. “Are you well?”

“Well enough,” Nasim said.

“Would you care for tea? Or araq?”

“Get on with it,” the rook cawed.

“We’ve had no chance to speak, Mother.”

“And our time is short, Nischka.”

Nikandr glared at the rook, and then returned his gaze to Nasim as he sat deeper in his chair. “She speaks of our arrival on Uyadensk. There’s a delicate matter we must speak of.”

“The Maharraht,” Nasim said.

Nikandr nodded. “In part. It’s an important thing that’s about to happen. Something that’s never happened before. Nearly everyone on the
Bhadyar
have decided to offer themselves to the Aramahn in Iramanshah, hoping they’ll be allowed to rejoin their brothers and sisters.”

Nasim shook his head. “The Aramahn won’t allow it, not unless their qiram are burned. Even the children may be burned for what their parents have done.”

Nikandr nodded soberly. “They realize this, and yet all have still agreed to come.”

“Because of Muqallad?” Nasim shook his head. “They’ve lost their home, and they can’t head south to Hratha strongholds. Have you considered that they’re only looking for a place to rest and regroup?”

The rook released a harsh laugh.

Nikandr glanced over at the bird, a calculating look in his eye, but then he studied Nasim once more, weighing him. “You’ve grown, Nasim, but I wouldn’t have guessed you’d become so cynical.”

“I am older than my years, son of Iaros.”

Nikandr stared at him with a strange expression. Unlike so many over the years who had regarded him as if he were a callow youth in need of protection, Nikandr looked deeper, as if he considered Nasim an equal, as if
he too
were older than his years.

“The path to Iramanshah is not as easy as it first may seem,” Nikandr continued. “Borund Vostroma still sits the throne of Khalakovo, and he will not take lightly or kindly the landing of a Maharraht ship without his permission.”

“And still you will disobey?” Nasim said.

The rook pecked the table. “
Da
, boy, we will disobey. Vostroma has enough to worry about.”

“What we need to know is where you wish to go,” Nikandr said. “If you wish to join the Aramahn in Iramanshah, you will be allowed to go. But if you wish to remain with us, or go elsewhere, you will be allowed to do it with our blessing.”

“What my son neglects to tell you is the depth of our need. The Empire has apparently grown tired of leaving the islands in peace, and Muqallad…” The rook cawed. “Who knows what Muqallad is about?”

“If you would remain with us,” Nikandr said, “we will gladly accept your help, but you have earned the right to choose your own way—at least among the islands of Khalakovo, if nowhere else.”

Nasim felt off-balance. He felt as though Soroush and Nikandr were going to war over him again. He had been preparing to find his way on his own once more. Leaving Sukharam behind. Leaving all of this behind. And now here was Nikandr and his mother, the Matra, trying to manipulate him, no matter how subtle it might be.

He could not, he decided, allow them to do so. “I will go my own way,” he finally said. “I require only a skiff.”

“Think well on this child. Do not choose brashly.”

Nasim turned calmly to the rook. “I’ve had all the time I need.”

The rook let out a ragged, disgusted sound.

Nikandr glanced at the rook, but then returned his gaze to Nasim. He was surprised. He was disappointed. But in the end he simply nodded. “A skiff you shall have, Nasim an Ashan, and more if you wish for it. You need but ask.”

The rook hopped between them on the desk, shuffling the maps beneath its talons. “I ask you to reconsider, child. We—”

“Enough, Mother,” Nikandr said. “He’s made his decision. Go in peace, Nasim.”

“I would go now, if we are so close.”

“Of course.” Nikandr nodded. “But where? Where will you go?”

Feeling watched, feeling pressed, Nasim stood and moved to the cabin door. “Wherever the fates take me.”

U
pon his return to the
Bhadyar
, Nasim stepped off the skiff and found Soroush waiting for him.

“Come,” he said. “There’s someone who wishes to speak with you.” “Who?”

Soroush merely turned and headed to the stairs leading down into the forecastle. He came to Ashan’s door, motioned to it, and began walking away.

“I’ve thought on what happened since we last talked,” Nasim said.

Soroush stopped and without turning said, “You have?”

“I forgive you for what you did.”

“I don’t want your forgiveness, Nasim.”

“I know, but you have it just the same.”

Soroush paused for a moment, and then continued on without saying another word, leaving Nasim standing alone before Ashan’s door.

Nasim reached out and held his hand above the handle once more, and this time, though his hand shook, he was able to grasp it, to open it.

Inside the tiny cabin was a bed, a small table with a lit lamp, and a chair. Ashan sat at the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his head in his hands. As Nasim entered, Ashan looked up and smiled broadly, though the physical act of it seemed somehow to pain him. “By the fates who rule above, it does my heart good to see you, Nasim.”

Nasim backed the chair up until it rested against the far wall. Only then did he sit down.

Ashan’s smile faded. “I don’t blame you. I’ve done little to gain your trust.”

“That’s not true,” Nasim said. “You were the one who showed me the most kindness.”

“Kindness, perhaps, but in the end I think I was little better than anyone else.” Ashan held his forehead tighter and grit his teeth against the pain. “I searched for you,” he said after he’d finally recovered.

Nasim smiled. He almost wanted to laugh. “You won’t remember, but we’ve had this conversation before.”

Ashan looked confused but intrigued. “We have?”

Nasim explained the talk he’d had with Muqallad in Shirvozeh, the village near Alayazhar. “We spoke of your travels after I’d been taken to Mirashadal. We spoke of the Atalayina. And many other things.”

Ashan frowned. “It makes a certain sort of sense. He was trying to make you believe that it was truly me you were speaking to, and of course a man like Muqallad would find it difficult to lie.”

“He spoke to me again at the celestia as Soroush.”

Ashan’s frown deepened. “Did he?”

“He caught me like this and was rifling through my mind. For what, I do not know. It was Kaleh that saved me from his attentions, and she may have unwittingly done more damage to Muqallad than she knew of.”

“Because she prevented Muqallad from finding what he sought.”

Nasim nodded. “Still, we were harmed much that day. Muqallad followed us to Rafsuhan to fuse the pieces of the Atalayina together, and if the column of fire we saw above Rafsuhan was any indication, he succeeded.”

“Soroush said as much.” Ashan sat back in the bed until his back was propped against the wall, though judging by the look on his face it gave him no comfort. “Muqallad wants the Atalayina whole, which was why the three pieces were split among the Al-Aqim those many years ago. Each of them knew that none could be trusted with all three pieces.”

“The third now lies upon Galahesh with Atiana Vostroma.” He told him of his encounter with Sariya in her tower, how he’d spoken with Sariya, how the monolith had crumbled before him, how he’d prevented Sariya from taking the piece of the Atalayina by giving it to Atiana instead. What he didn’t share with Ashan was the story of Rabiah. His memories of her, particularly
those
memories, were still much too raw.