Bradley Beaulieu - The Straits of Galahesh

To do this, his tie to Nikandr must be severed. Their shared link was why Nikandr had been able to commune with the havahezhan. It was why Nasim had been so limited, as well, and even though he was now able to touch Adhiya, it was not as complete as it might be. His bonds to Nikandr and Muqallad saw to that.

Severing his tie was not so easily done, however. He would gladly give of himself, even if it meant he would pass from this world, never to return, but he refused to do so if it delivered the world to Muqallad.

He remembered how it had felt in Oshtoyets, that small keep on the rocky coast of Duzol those many years ago. He had been at the heart of all things. It had felt as though he could reshape the world.

And so it was now

He only needed to embrace it.

He pulled a knife from Soroush’s belt and strode forward, wishing there were another way.

To sacrifice himself would be easy.

But this…

He didn’t know, even now, if he could do it.

He drew the world around himself like a cloak, like a burial shroud. The other times he’d done this, it had been beneath his consciousness, but now he was fully aware of what he was doing.

Time slowed. Muqallad’s movements became a crawl.

Nasim stepped forward and kneeled before Nikandr until they were face-to-face. He looked into Nikandr’s handsome face, saw the small scar above his left eyebrow. He knew in that instant that it had been caused by an errant swipe of a fire brand, swung by his brother, Ranos. His eyes were a deep brown with the smallest traces of green, like hidden forest vales in the growth of spring. He’d looked at Nikandr before, but never in such an intimate way. It made Nasim supremely uncomfortable, but he owed Nikandr this for what he was about to do. Nikandr was not his father-he was nothing like Ashan-nor was he his brother. And still, he owed Nikandr much. Certainly he owed him this, an honest look into his soul before he took his life.

Nikandr blinked. There was fear and uncertainty in his eyes, but there was also a resolve that made Nasim proud.

Nikandr swallowed, his gaze dropping to the khanjar before meeting Nasim’s eyes once more. And then he nodded.

With one hand Nasim held Nikandr’s shoulder, and with the other drove the knife into Nikandr’s chest. He drove it until it could go no further.

Nikandr stared, eyes wide and tearing. He looked down. His lips were parted, releasing his final breath. His head quivered, and spittle fell onto the blackened stone.

He met Nasim’s eyes one last time.

The look on his face was one of understanding. He tried to smile, but failed to do so. He coughed once, and then leaned to one side, holding himself, barely, against the roadway of this massive work of man.

Nasim lowered him down until he laid face up, staring at the sky, the knife quivering from his chest. His eyes opened and closed. He swallowed once, twice, and then lay perfectly still.

The wind once more began to howl. The clouds once more began to swirl.

And Muqallad stared down, his eyes aflame.

He was coming to the realization that he had lost what he had sought, but in his mind there might still be time.

He held the Atalayina high and reached for Nasim.

Nasim rolled away and reached his feet as a bolt of lightning coursed forth from Muqallad’s outstretched palm.

Nasim caught it in his own hand and delivered it to the world beyond. It was easy now, and Muqallad knew the tables had turned.

Muqallad stepped forward and grabbed Nasim’s robes. He blocked the weak strike of Nasim’s fist, twisting his arm until he was forced down to roadway stones. As Muqallad held the Atalayina high, perhaps readying to smash it against Nasim’s skull, Nasim saw something large and dark and swift rushing toward the bridge.

Muqallad had no more time than to turn and look before the windship crashed into the Spar.

N ikandr stared at the handle of the knife. It rested over his chest, moving in time to his heartbeat. He should grasp it, he thought. He should try to remove it. He managed to bring one hand to it, but the simple act of touching it brought searing white pain the likes of which he’d never known.

He had time only to look up at a rush of movement at the edge of his vision before the world around him erupted.

Something massive crashed into the Spar at the exact place where the explosion had weakened it.

A ship. It was a ship.

The hull buckled, collapsing like a house of cards as the ship drove down onto the keystones. The masts cracked. The sails were thrown downward. In a mere instant the front half of the ship transformed from a structured and ordered thing into a massive, tangled collection of splintered beams and rope and sail. The bodies of men flew and were dashed against the white stone.

The landward foremast snapped at the hull, throwing the bulk of the mast and her sails sharply forward. Muqallad turned to meet this threat just as the mast’s topgallant swung down against the bridge, narrowly missing him. But the topgallant yard caught Muqallad squarely across the head, crushing him and throwing him down against the Spar’s roadway in a mass of red.

The rear half of the ship groaned, hanging in the air momentarily before the keystones gave way. The structure beneath the roadway weakened as if it were little more than a pile of stones succumbing to the sea, and then it gave way entirely. It created a gap where the keystones had been, and it widened quickly, moving closer and closer to the section upon which Nikandr lay.

And then roadway fell out from underneath him.

He plummeted, grabbing ineffectually at empty air as the wound in his chest burned white hot. The underside of the Spar receded, faster and faster, until the wind threw him about and sent him twisting and turning and tumbling toward the sea.

The desperate part of him wanted to claw for his havahezhan, but he knew the moment Nasim had driven the knife home that that link was gone. He’d felt it snap-his connection to Nasim, his connection to Adhiya.

Something flashed in the sky above him.

He lost it, found it again a moment later. Something burning brightly.

It came nearer. It was a person, but the wind was whipping him about so fiercely he couldn’t tell who.

But then the wind began working on him. He could feel it slowing him down, and suddenly he was hovering in the air not two paces from Nasim.

Nasim tumbled once, but then steadied as he drifted closer. His control was now absolute, and they were close enough that if they reached out to one another, their fingers might just barely be able to touch.

Nasim was holding the Atalayina, and it glowed as brightly in his hand as it had in Muqallad’s. He was close enough to embrace. With one hand he held the Atalayina high. And with the other pulled the knife free.

Nikandr screamed. Clutched at his wound.

He blacked out for a moment, and when he woke, Nasim was pressing the Atalayina against his chest as if it were a bolt of cloth meant to staunch his wound.

The Atalayina chilled Nikandr to his core. It was as cold as night, the feeling as wide and limitless as the firmament. The cold filled him, changed him, made him feel whole in ways he could not remember feeling before, and for a moment, the world opened up before him, was laid bare. He saw Erahm and Adhiya and the aether in between. Breath slipped from his lungs at the beauty of it all.

But then the feeling was gone, and the wind began to change. It buffeted them in new and unexpected ways, and Nasim was suddenly and violently pulled away. The Atalayina was pulled away as well, and the moment it was no longer touching his skin, Nikandr felt alone and abandoned and forgotten. It felt as though he’d never been born.