Bradley Beaulieu - The Straits of Galahesh

And they did. They added their strength to Ashan’s. The hail beat down once more, but not as much as Nasim would have guessed. There was someone working against them; a qiram somewhere beyond the line of janissaries was sapping the strength of their hezhan. Nasim thought it might be many of the Hratha’s qiram working in concert, but he soon realized it was only one.

Kaleh.

He pressed, more than he ever had since his awakening, giving more and more of himself, if only he could turn the tide against her. But she was strong, nearly as strong as Muqallad himself.

Ashan, favoring his right side, stood and grabbed Nasim’s elbow. “Nasim, you’re losing yourself!”

He didn’t listen. He couldn’t. There was so little time. He could feel the power building at the Spar already.

As the wind howled through the streets and a red dawn lit the sky, Nasim felt the hunger of a vanahezhan. It was feeding upon him to such a degree that it may soon consume him.

But this was what he needed. He needed to draw it as close as he could. When tears filled his eyes and stars danced in his vision, when he lost the feeling in his hands, when his mouth began to water so much that it hurt, he opened the way to it and stepped aside. The hezhan, feeling the way clear to Erahm, passed beyond this portal and into the material world.

Ahead, the cobbled street split. A massive form lifted, and for a moment it was all falling dirt and gravel and dust. But then its four arms broke away from its body, and its head lifted from a chest as large as a skiff. The clack of toppling rocks accompanied its legs lifting from the earth and bringing the beast to its full height-nearly as tall as a nearby two-story building.

This, Nasim knew, was an elder, a creature that had been in Adhiya for eons, choosing to stay instead of being reborn. It looked down at Nasim, but Nasim could do nothing more than point toward Kaleh and the soldiers of Yrstanla. The other hezhan were continuing to feed upon him, and he was no longer able to control it. He felt his legs weaken, felt his breath go shallow. He coughed as the world began to tilt.

And then at last it became too much, and Adhiya swallowed him whole.

When Nikandr woke, he was lying on the cold ground. His mind was muddied. It took all his will to simply open his eyes, and pushing himself off the ground felt nearly impossible. But he tried and managed to roll over so that he could see the landscape.

His head pounded, pain radiating from the top of his forehead. He could feel the dried blood along the right side of his face, could taste it in his mouth. The sun had not yet risen, but dawn was approaching. Ahead was a wide circle built by Aramahn hands. It was clean and bright, and decorated with traceries that reminded him of the organic curves of a seashell. Five akhoz crouched nearby, but they weren’t watching him; they were watching the far side of the circle where Muqallad stood with Sariya and dozens of Hratha. Hunger seemed to fill the akhoz. He could see it in the way they crouched, like wolves sensing weakness in their prey.

Nikandr knew that Atiana was not herself. She was strained. She was under attack, and through his soulstone he knew that Mother and Mileva and Ishkyna were the aggressors.

And suddenly he remembered it all: the landing at the storehouse, the flight from the akhoz, the rush into Vihrosh with Styophan and the remains of his men and the Maharraht. He recalled the battle. He recalled the Hratha. He recalled the sounds of men dying.

And Atiana’s betrayal…

Nyet. Not her betrayal. She had been taken by Sariya, or Muqallad, or both.

For long moments he struggled with what to do. Should he attack Sariya? Attack Muqallad? He reached down to his soulstone to ask for guidance from the ancients.

And realized he had two soulstones.

By all that was good, Ishkyna had given him the key to helping Atiana…

But he had to hurry.

He struggled and was able to reach his hands and knees. One of the akhoz turned at his movement, a girl with shriveled skin along her flat chest and an eyeless face. She pulled her lips back and heaved out a breath that was half snort, half moan. The others turned now. All five were watching him, their arms and necks twitching as he reached his knees.

He could only assume that Atiana’s influence kept them at bay.

But what would happen when he freed her? If he freed her…

She stood on a weathered auctioneer’s stage not far away. It had wooden ramps going up either side and a set of raised steps where the auctioneer would call to the crowd. She was looking toward the Spar, but she didn’t look normal. Her whole body was crooked and tilted, as if she were one of the infirm, nursing pains in her back and hips and knees. And she was shivering-not the shiver of someone who was cold, but the shiver of one with a fever: inconsistent, and occasionally violent.

The sounds of distant battle from the far side of the Spar echoed over Vihrosh. Fire licked up into the sky from among the buildings near the bridge’s landing.

The akhoz turned and looked with hungry expressions. They crept away from Nikandr, leaving him unwatched.

Atiana sank to her knees.

And Nikandr was freed, at least enough to stand and run.

He loped toward the platform, making it to the first of the planks before two of the akhoz noticed and loped after him.

The two necklaces swung from his neck. He felt for Atiana’s more delicate chain and pulled it over his head. When he reached the top of the platform, the first of the akhoz grabbed at his ankle. He fell and slid along the well-worn planks.

“ Nyet!” he cried.

Atiana was only paces away.

He scrabbled, knowing he would never make it to his feet. Something heavy fell on him from behind. He felt searing pain as the akhoz bit the flesh of his shoulder. He swung his elbow and caught it across the temple, sending it momentarily sprawling.

The other akhoz had recovered and snatched his leg, sunk its blood-crusted talons into his flesh.

He cried out as he reached Atiana at last and used his hands to pull her toward him as he kicked the akhoz.

He swung her necklace up and over her head. The nearest akhoz snatched for it, but he was too quick. He pulled it down around her neck as the two akhoz fell upon him, shrieking and baring their teeth.

With Atiana’s concentration fixed wholly on Mileva, Ishkyna swoops in like an owl in the dead of the night, silent with talons bared.

Atiana feels a deep and sudden pain, deeper than she knew pain could go, but as soon as she tries to find Ishkyna, to take control, her sister vanishes.

Atiana returns her attention to Mileva, forcing her to stumble and nearly slip from the aether. Ishkyna returns just in time, but darts away when Atiana reacts. And so it goes, whenever Atiana bends her will on Mileva, Ishkyna returns and then dissipates like so much smoke upon the wind.

You are Ishkyna! Atiana rages, hoping that by invoking her name, her identity, she will once again become lost. You are my sister! Daughter of Radia, a Princess of Vostroma!

I was those things, but I am no longer.

And then, like a slow leak in the hull of a waterborne ship, Atiana realizes how fully Ishkyna has invaded her consciousness. It is nearly complete, but it isn’t like what Atiana did to Nikandr. Rather, it is a cleansing. Ishkyna is pulling back the curtains to allow the light in.

It is Sariya’s influence, however, that tilts the balance back. She has been weakened, but she also knows the end is near, and this gives her strength. She pushes, harder than she ever has before, and traps Ishkyna before she can escape.

Ishkyna rails against the bonds placed against her. Mileva tries to defend her, but with Sariya and Atiana working together, the tide is turning back.