Bradley Beaulieu - The Straits of Galahesh

The skiff lifted, and Rabiah summoned the wind to point them southward, away from Ushai’s incoming path. “We’re not ready.”

“We have no choice.”

“We’re not ready,” she repeated.

“We must be ready!” Nasim said. “Don’t you see? The hezhan. The crossing. There’s a rift, even here in the mountains of Yrstanla. The wasting has covered whole swaths of the continent to the south. It won’t be long before the same happens here. The rifts grow more frequent. They grow wider. Hezhan will start crossing soon, Rabiah. On their own, with no help from anyone. And when they do, they’ll feed, on the Aramahn, on the Landed, on the Maharraht. On children and fathers and mothers. They won’t care.”

From her position at the sails, Rabiah looked down at him. She was strong, but she was scared as well. Months ago, Ghayavand had seemed like a fool’s dream, but now it was real. It was there before both of them. She opened her mouth to speak, but Nasim talked over her.

“It’s time,” he said. “I’ve found the two of you at last. We are three, as were the Al-Aqim, as are the fates. As are the pieces of the Atalayina. We go to Ghayavand, daughter of Aahtel, and we go now.”

The wind picked up, and Rabiah harnessed it well. She looked down at him again while guiding them with strong and steady hands. She licked her lips. But then she nodded. “We go to Ghayavand.”

K hamal stands within a grand celestia. Its fluted pillars rise up to the massive dome high above the gathered assemblage. The firelight from the three large braziers reflects against the mosaics on the underside of the dome, making it glint like the heavens with golden stars in place of silver.

Not one of the dozens who stood watching is allowed onto the floor of the celestia. They stand one stair down, watching as Khamal approaches the girl lying at the center of the floor. Only when he kneels next to her do twelve men and women step forward. They are suuraqiram, the most gifted of those left on Ghayavand. They chant a song of Khamal’s choosing.

From his robes Khamal retrieves a blue stone. It is heavier than it appears and it is beautiful to behold. It feels as old as the earth itself, as old as the mountains. It feels as old as the fates, who are surely watching down from their home in the firmament. He wonders, though, are they smiling? Or do they weep over what Khamal is about to do?

He allows the stone to drop to the palm of his hand, and then he closes his fist around it if only to remove it from his sight, but the feeling that he is making a grand mistake does not fade, nor does the sense that he can no longer turn back.

He calms himself. He smiles for the girl, but she is fearful of him. Fearful of the stone.

He does nothing to comfort her. This is as much a test for her as it is for him.

Beyond the world of man, beyond the world of sky and earth, he can feel a spirit of fire, a suurahezhan. He does not beckon it. It comes of its own accord, hungering for life through the girl that lies before him.

He takes the stone and sets it upon the girl’s forehead.

Her body goes rigid.

And her screams echo through the night.

“Nasim, wake up.”

Nasim opened his eyes, blinking in the early light of dawn. These dreams-dreams that had been with him since a year after he’d been healed-were not so easily shaken. He’d seen this one many times before, but he’d never once seen what followed her screams. Despite this-or perhaps because of it-the girl haunted his waking hours. Who was she? What had Khamal done to her?

He knew it was part of the riddle he had to solve once he reached Ghayavand. He wished he knew more, but he suspected that more would be revealed to him once he reached the island. It must be so. The dreams were clearly a way for Khamal to pass Nasim his memories, and his desire for Nasim to return and complete his plans. Surely, when he came to the place where Khamal had died, he would learn more.

“Nasim!” Rabiah stood over him, her hand on the gunwales to steady herself. “Ushai is still following us.”

Nasim sat up, the dream fading only with reluctance. With Rabiah’s help, he stood and grabbed onto the skiff’s lone mast for support. Sukharam held the reins of the skiff’s lone sail, guiding them eastward. In the distance, near the horizon where the dark sea met the slate blue sky, he saw the sail of a skiff, golden in the early morning light. It was still leagues away, but there was no doubt as to who was harnessing the winds in order to follow them.

They had left the mountains four days ago, passing well beyond the Empire’s land and over the Sea of Tabriz. Rabiah and Sukharam watched him, waiting for his word, waiting for him to protect them.

Nasim motioned Sukharam toward the bedding and blanket he’d just vacated. “Get some rest. We’ll need you again soon.”

Nasim took the reins of the sail from him. Through Rabiah, he touched Adhiya. He felt the wind as it slipped over the smooth windwood hull of the skiff. He felt the gathering storm to the west. He felt the currents as they played over the dark blue sea. He called to a havahezhan, not the one that was nearest, but the strongest. It came to him, tentative as Nasim offered himself, offered a glimpse of Erahm. It seemed like such a simple thing at times, but this bond wore at him, as it did any qiram, as the hezhan drank from the world around him. As it did, it drained, sipping not only on the world, but Nasim as well.

But he was rested. He was ready, and he called upon the havahezhan to guide them eastward.

As the skiff bucked under the newfound wind, Nasim glanced down at Rabiah. She clutched her stomach. She swallowed and licked her lips. She always felt discomfort when he did this, but Nasim was more gifted than she once he’d managed to bond with a spirit. For the time being-at least until they lost Ushai in the storm to come-it was necessary.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her.

“Do not be,” she replied.

Throughout the morning, they added distance. Ushai’s ship was little more than a speck hovering just above the horizon. They lost sight of Ushai well before the storm caught up with them, and then, shortly after midday, it swept over them like an avalanche. Rain lashed down as they pulled on oiled coats. Nasim was less worried about Ushai as he was staying on course. He guided them as well as he was able, knowing he could adjust once he found the stars again, but not wanting to waste precious time and energy if he could avoid it.

The storm continued through the night and into the next day, and Nasim was growing exhausted. At last, when he thought he could take no more, the storm finally broke, and he allowed himself a rest.

Nasim had hoped they had lost Ushai in the storm, but Rabiah said she could feel her coming, and near dusk, they saw signs of her once again, close and coming closer.

Nasim took the reins again, this time using Sukharam to bond with a hezhan, but he had not yet recovered. He pushed hard once more, and again they added distance, but he found himself flagging much sooner than he’d hoped. Sukharam took a turn, but still Ushai gained on them.

“How can she do this?” Rabiah asked.

Nasim, sweat dripping from his brow as he glanced over his shoulder, shook his head. He cursed himself for a fool. “It’s the mule that wins the race up the mountain,” he muttered to himself, “not the dancing pony.

Sukharam looked at him, confused, but Rabiah answered with a look on her face like a scolded child. “We’ve pushed too hard. Ushai is calling upon her hezhan steadily, while we burn through ours in too little time. It’s easier on the hezhan, easier on her, and in the meantime we exhaust ourselves trying to break away.”