The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (73 page)

“It’s interesting, is it not?” Sariya asked. “No matter how carefully we lay our plans, the fates toy with us.”

She meant, perhaps, how she’d become lost in the aether after years of planning. Atiana didn’t know how to respond, so she remained silent.

“Interesting as well how greed can be our undoing.” As she said these words, she glanced at Atiana’s belt, at the purse that hung by her left hip. It was where Atiana had placed the Atalayina.

Seeing no reason to keep it hidden, Atiana took it out and held it up for Sariya to see.

Sariya underwent an interesting transformation as she stared. She had been calm since Atiana’s arrival, but also reserved—perhaps guarded, unsure how the coming conversation would unfold—but as she stared at the glittering blue stone, a subtle fierceness overcame her, like an owl at dusk.

“May I hold it?” she asked.

Atiana was loath to do this, but she had known this request would come, or if it didn’t, that the stone would be taken by force. She nodded and held the stone out. When Sariya stepped forward, Atiana could smell the scent of cardamom.

“Do you know,” she asked, taking the stone from Atiana’s palm, “what Muqallad hopes to do with this?”

Her words implied that
she
was not part of Muqallad’s plans. Atiana still worried that this was simply not true, but she had felt Sariya’s mind. She had, for however short a time, become a
part
of Sariya—just as Sariya had been a part of her—and there was no denying that her fears were unfounded.

“He wishes to create more akhoz,” Atiana replied.

“The akhoz had nothing to do with the stone,” Sariya said. “They acted as sacrifices only, providing him with a way to heal the stone.
Neh
, he wishes to bring about indaraqiram. Do you know what this is?”

“It’s the end of the world.”

Sariya could not seem to prevent herself from giving Atiana a patronizing smile. “In one sense it is the end of the world, but in another it is the beginning. We hope, through our efforts on this mortal plane, to learn, to attain higher wisdom, to become as perfect as we can be so that one day we might achieve vashaqiram—a perfect state of enlightenment. And if we can do this, we can teach others, so that they might do the same. And if enough can do so, we can bring the world to its next stage.”

“You sound as though you pray for his success.”

Sariya did not seem perturbed by this comment, but rather, thoughtful. “Any brightness in my eyes, daughter of Radia, stems from the hope that we can one day achieve indaraqiram. I do not, however, believe that Muqallad can deliver us to this goal. He hopes to force it, as if this world and the next can be bent to his will. It cannot, but there is a desperation that comes from standing face to face with your greatest failure for three hundred years.”

“And what of you?” Atiana asked. “You were in the same position as Muqallad and Khamal. What would
you
hope to do?”

“I?” Sariya stepped to the window and beckoned Atiana closer. “I merely hope to set the world right, so that I can leave it in some semblance of peace. I yearn for the other world. I desire it deeply. So deeply I dream of it. Some days I feel as though Adhiya touches my skin. I smell it on the wind and sense it in the skies. There are days where I swear I can taste it.”

Atiana approached the window. “Then why not go?”

To suggest suicide to an Aramahn was a grave insult—they believed that even in the lowest circumstances there are things to be learned, knowledge to be gained—but she needed to know this woman better if she were to have any hope of judging her.

Sariya’s face turned cross. “I stay because Erahm has need of me, and I would give her those things I have to offer, regardless of the pains I may suffer.”

Atiana reached the window. Outside stood the straits and the massive white arches of the Spar. The sun shone brightly upon much of it, but the far side and the city of Vihrosh were caught in a light fog that glowed brightly, as if the ancients themselves were shining down upon them. The scene was beatific, until Atiana noticed the wagons moving across the span of the bridge. They were supply wagons, she realized. Dozens of them. Those nearing the southern edge of the Spar bore munitions, and behind them were teams and teams of ponies pulling canons.

As a mixture of confusion and anger and—strangely—betrayal welled up inside her, Atiana shook her head. “You’re sending them to Vostroma.”

“You asked what I hoped to do. After the tearing of the aether on Ghayavand, the wards that were put into place held for some time. But over the years they weakened. Rifts were formed elsewhere. They were small at first, but over time they grew and spread until the worlds themselves became threatened. Muqallad hopes to use that to his advantage.” Sariya held the stone out to Atiana. “And all he needs is this.”

Atiana accepted the Atalayina, and when she did, it felt ten times heavier than it had moments ago.

Sariya seemed to sense this, for she nodded to the stone. “If he can fuse this, the third piece, to the other two, he will be able to rip the aether asunder, a thing from which neither world would, I fear, ever recover. Eons would pass before we could begin anew.”

“What does this have to do with bringing war to the islands?”

“Not
war
, Atiana. I do no more than I need to.”

“If not war, then what?”

“I have come to learn what happened on Khalakovo five years ago. You and Nikandr healed the boy—he who was Khamal. When you did this, it also healed the rift, did it not?”

Atiana merely stared, fearing to speak.

“It was one of many rifts that were open at the time, which were but a few of the ones that have opened and closed since. If Muqallad is to succeed, he needs to find a place where using the Atalayina will cause the rest to open wide.”

“That could only be Ghayavand,” Atiana said.

“
Neh
, the wards around the island are weakened, but they are still very much in place.”

The answer, of course, was standing right before her.

She stared out the window.

At the Spar.

She thought of the confluence of aether centered here at the straits. It was a place of concentrated power, so strong that for centuries neither the Matri nor the Grand Duchy’s windships had ever been able to cross it.

“This may be the place he seeks,” Atiana said, “but that doesn’t answer the question. Why wage war against us?”

“Because the pressure that has built up here at the straits must be relieved. It is not war, but a means to an end. Hakan watches for him—he will prevent Muqallad’s arrival if he can—but Muqallad needs but little. With only a few of his servants he can perform his ritual anywhere on the island. The only way to stop him is to relieve the pressure, as Nasim did on Oshtoyets.”

“But how?”

“The spires, Atiana Radieva. The spires of the Grand Duchy. They must fall.”

Atiana swallowed, felt the world around her recede. “What?”

“It has already begun. Three spires have been destroyed, and more will follow.”

“But if more of them fall… The storms will worsen. It will cost more lives.”

“It has, and it will, but it is worth it.”

“We
depend
on those spires.”

“That may be true, but it is just as true that they cannot be allowed to remain standing. If you would save lives, I would ask you to take the dark, speak with your Matri. Tell them to agree to destroy the spires before we are forced to do it ourselves.”

“I cannot do that.”

“You are a daughter of the islands.” Sariya spoke these words like an accusation. “If you care for them at all, you will do this.”

Before Atiana could react, Sariya snatched the Atalayina from her hand. Atiana tried to take it back, but Sariya drew her hand away, her eyes fierce. Atiana grabbed her wrist, but cried out and pulled away immediately. Sariya’s wrist had become as hot as a glowing brand.

“Go, Atiana,” Sariya said. “Think on this carefully. Return to me if you change your mind, but make no mistake, one way or another, I will see them fall. Better that it be orderly, don’t you think, than to see so many die?”

Atiana turned at the sound of the bootsteps upon the nearby stairs. Two guardsmen stood there, ready to lead her from the room. Before she left, Atiana looked back and saw Sariya staring out the window at the wagons moving steadily southward.

As the guards led her down the tower stairs, Atiana’s emotions began to cool, and she found herself surprised not at what had happened but that she was seriously considering Sariya’s offer. By the time she had gone three levels down, she’d made up her mind.

She stopped. The guards did not seem surprised. In fact, they parted easily as she took one hesitant step after another back up toward the top of the tower. It felt like a betrayal, walking back up those stairs, but she knew Sariya wasn’t lying—she’d felt it when they’d shared one mind—and she forced herself to continue, step after confusing step.

When she once again stood on the topmost level of the tower, Sariya turned from the window to regard her. She did not revel in Atiana’s return, nor did she seem expectant. She merely waited for Atiana to speak.

“I will do it,” Atiana said. “I will speak with the Matri, but I require help.”

W
hen Nasim woke from his dream, it was to the feeling of warm tears streaming down his own face.

Strong were the sounds of the surf. Strong was the scent of the sea. Stronger still were the memories of Alif, the boy Khamal had murdered to secure his release from the island. Khamal had
murdered
him, and now his soul was gone. Lost to the world. Khamal had not only made it possible by turning him into akhoz, he’d been the one to drive home the blade.

It made Nasim sick to his stomach.

How many had Khamal sent to this undeserving fate? Dozens, certainly—dozens of children taken by Khamal in order to protect Ghayavand, to prevent the rift from spreading.

What made Nasim’s fingers shake was the fact that Khamal had sacrificed more than just Alif. He’d bled his own soul, and in doing so he’d bled Nasim’s as well. He’d taken all that Nasim could one day have been with the simple thrust of a knife.

“Nasim?”

He looked up, startled.

Kaleh was kneeling near his head, as she’d been when he’d begun to dream—

If only it
had
been a dream. It was a memory—a memory he knew to be all too real.

In Kaleh’s blue eyes—her mother’s eyes—was concern, but there was hunger as well, hunger for the knowledge he’d gained. Surely she’d seen what he’d seen—her look was too knowing for it to be otherwise—but she didn’t know everything. She didn’t understand.

Her face turned sad and apologetic. She shifted until she was kneeling by his side and pulled him into an embrace. The simple gesture spoke of apology, of asking him for something he wasn’t yet ready to give. For a time they simply held one another, but Nasim began to feel smothered—not by her, but by this place, and the village around it.

“Come,” he said, taking her hand.

He led her out from the arboretum and together they walked for a time.

The wind was unnaturally strong. It made the hems of their robes snap. It pushed them as they walked.

Nasim thought he was leading her aimlessly through Mirashadal, but he soon realized he was taking a familiar path. They wound through the bulk of the village proper and came eventually to the ballast, the long spire of wood that dropped down from the upper portion of the village. Around the ballast was a railed walking path that wound its way lower and lower until at last they came to a platform—the lowest place in the entire village. He used to come here and put his head out over the edge of the platform. He would sit there for hours at a time, wondering what would happen if he simply leapt. Would Erahm save him? Would Adhiya?

Many times he had slipped over to the other side of the railing and leaned out over open air. A simple slip of his hands was all it would have taken, and all the confusion and madness and pain and even ecstasy he’d experienced in Oshtoyets as he’d swallowed the stones would have been gone. Back then, all he’d wanted was a moment of peace. He had thought death would deliver him to his next life, and he’d begin again, perhaps poorer for resorting to taking his own life but at least free to begin again without the curse that Khamal had laid upon him.