Bradley Beaulieu - The Straits of Galahesh

Rabiah, lying on her blanket, her head propped up by her hand, stared intently at Nasim as well.

“Tomorrow we go to Alayazhar. There is a celestia on a ridge near the bay. More than anyone’s, the celestia was Khamal’s. It was his demesne, his source of strength and the place he felt most comfortable. If there was any place he would have left me clues, it would be there.”

Sukharam asked more about the island, the last time Nasim had been here, the memories he’d inherited from Khamal; and Nasim did the best he could to appease him, but what Sukharam was looking for wasn’t something Nasim could grant. He wanted to know what they would do and how they would do it. These were perfectly reasonable questions. Nasim just didn’t know how to answer them.

“We’ll know more tomorrow,” Nasim finally said. “Get some rest. It will be a long hike to the city and back.”

Sukharam eventually fell asleep, but Rabiah stayed awake. The fire played against her dark skin, giving her a ruddy glow that only served to make her look more beautiful than she already was. The flicker of the fire lent depth to her eyes. It made her appear old, like one of the fates, and the way she looked at Nasim made him feel like she could stare right into his soul.

“Are they here?” Rabiah asked.

She meant Sariya and Muqallad, of course. “I can’t feel them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Did you feel them when you were here last?”

“I did, but I wasn’t the same then. This place affected me differently.”

“They may have traps set on the celestia.”

Nasim nodded. “They very well might have.”

“And what of Ashan?” she asked.

The fire between them snapped, sending a cloud of embers floating up and into the night sky. The embers mingled with the stars like gemstones-citrine and diamond against a field of obsidian dust.

“I’m worried that he’s been taken,” Nasim said, still staring at the sky. “I’m worried they’ll use him against us.”

Rabiah was silent for a time as she too stared up at the stars. Almadn stood brightly overhead, her amphora overflowing with wine. “You cannot allow it,” she said at last. “You can allow nothing to distract you from what needs to be done.”

“I know,” Nasim lied.

Though he was not at all sure of the answer. Ashan had done much for Nasim. He had cared for Nasim, taken him from Soroush when Soroush was trying to use him. He’d brought him to Uyadensk, where he’d met Nikandr, and he’d guided him from harm when the Landed were out for his blood. He was a man he would do much for, a man he might even die for, if it came to it. So he was not at all sure he could just leave Ashan to the fates if that’s where his path led him.

“Even if we’re taken,” Rabiah continued.

“I know,” Nasim lied again. “Now get some sleep.”

Rabiah turned away, her back to the fire. She was quiet for a long time. He thought she’d gone to sleep, but then, as he was starting to nod off himself, he heard her say, “I’m glad you found me, Nasim.”

“I’m glad I found you, too.”

When Nasim finally fell asleep, it was with a warm feeling, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

When morning came, the three of them headed north toward Alayazhar. They spoke not at all until they approached the outskirts of the wasted city. They could not yet see the sea and the oldest sections of the city, but there was a complex of broken stone buildings divided only by the streets and avenues and the dark shadows that defined them in the early morning light. Behind them, Sihyaan, the tallest mountain on Ghayavand, stared down at them, ponderous and brooding as if it disapproved of their voyage into a place that had become little more than a grave.

“It cannot be so easy as to go to the celestia and find Khamal’s stone,” Rabiah said as they took to the first of the streets.

The three of them walked side by side, Rabiah on his left, Sukharam on his right. The sand-colored stones they walked upon were amazingly well preserved. The stones were cracked-making the road look more like a layer of aged skin than cobblestones-but beyond this, other than some moss and the occasional tuft of wiry grass, it looked as though the sundering had occurred a dozen years before, not three hundred.

“I didn’t say it would be easy.”

“Khamal’s piece of the Atalayina will be hidden and trapped,” Rabiah continued.

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Then how will we retrieve it?”

Sukharam watched Nasim carefully for his answer.

“We will see what we will see,” Nasim replied. “My hope is that Khamal prepared for this. He must have, or how could he have expected me to finish what he began?”

Rabiah pressed. “What if he didn’t have time to complete it?”

“He must have.”

“What if he didn’t?”

“He did.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“I know, Rabiah. I know. The best I can do is go and hope that Khamal has prepared the way.”

Rabiah was not pleased with the answer. Neither was he, but it was the best he could do. Nasim could tell that Sukharam was uncomfortable with this exchange. He wanted more assurance that what they were doing was the right thing. Nasim wanted it as well, but the cold truth was they had no such thing. They would have to move forward and learn as they went, trusting to the fates to protect them.

They approached an arcing stone bridge that crossed a clear stream. Part of it had collapsed, forcing them to walk single file to cross over it. As they continued on, they reached a section of the city that was markedly older, where the buildings were more densely packed. They were also taller, more grand, and in general their state of decay was greater.

It reminded him of his walk with Ashan and Nikandr and Pietr as he guided them through the maze of akhoz toward Sariya’s tower. He half expected Ashan to step out from behind one of the buildings, to call out to them on the road, but of course he did not. Ashan was here-he could feel it-but not close. He only hoped that something hadn’t happened to him.

He could sense the akhoz. They were hidden among the broken buildings, wandering, stalking, living out their miserable lives in this forgotten place. The feeling was not nearly so strong as it had been. Perhaps it was another symptom of the effect Nikandr’s soulstone had had on him, or perhaps it was because he was now more distanced from Adhiya; whatever the reason, he could not tell where they were, or how close, only that they were here.

Soon they crested a hill, and below them, spread like a grand quilt before the bright blue waters of the bay, was the old city, the original settlement that had been rebuilt to contain the grandest structures. Near the bay was the white tower, Sariya’s tower, and though the magic of its presence had largely dissipated, the tower itself seemed whole. Pristine. This was the place Sariya had focused all of her energies over the final decades of her time here on Ghayavand. It was there that Nasim might find answers, but it was not a place he would go.

Not yet.

He looked further up the ridge that ran along the water’s edge. There, on a hill overlooking the city, was the tall dome of the celestia, the place Khamal went most often to take breath. As he raised his arm to point toward the celestia, a long call like the baying of a mule only infinitely more disturbing came from one of the nearby streets.

Rabiah shot nervous glances between Nasim and the city. Sukharam looked as if he were ready to turn and run back over the hill, but to his credit, he pulled himself up and waited.

“The akhoz,” Nasim said. “They are the lost, the forgotten, and they will try to prevent us from entering the city.”