Bradley Beaulieu - The Straits of Galahesh

The heavy iron manacles on his arms and legs clinked as he pulled himself off the floor. He wore outer robes of white and inner robes of yellow. His beard was long and unkempt, but other than fresh abrasions along his cheek and jaw, he seemed to be in good health. His turban was gone, however, making him seem lost and alone and frail-qualities Nikandr would never have thought to associate with Soroush. It seemed as though the Aramahn had robbed him of much more than his freedom, but then he stared up at Nikandr, recognition flickered, and his eyes became as cold and piercing as they’d ever been.

“Remove his manacles,” Nikandr said, pulling one of the two chairs out from the kapitan’s desk and setting it next to Soroush. Syemon hesitated as Nikandr pulled out the other chair and sat in it heavily. “Then leave us.”

Syemon bent down, though he appeared hesitant to comply until Soroush held out his hands. Syemon unlocked the manacles, then he bowed and ushered the streltsi out, closing the door behind him.

“Please,” Nikandr said in Anuskayan, motioning to the empty chair.

Soroush pulled himself up off the floor slowly. He lowered himself to the seat of the chair, wincing as he went; then he leaned back and regarded Nikandr, nostrils flaring, eyes darting, his long hair and beard rolling down his chest.

For long moments Nikandr could do nothing but stare. He had never truly been alone with Soroush, and it was unnerving, no matter how much he might be in the advantage. This was a man who had orchestrated dozens of deadly attacks on the northern duchies and helped to supply many more in the south. Scores had died at his hands; hundreds had been wounded. And here Nikandr was, sitting in his company as if none of that had ever happened. Nikandr felt the weight of his father on him. He felt like a traitor, as if even speaking to Soroush, no matter the cause, was little more than high treason.

And yet they shared a very personal connection. Rehada. They had both loved her, and in her own way she had loved them as well, and if this were true, how could they not share a certain bond, tenuous though it may be?

Soroush must have felt it too, for he was studying Nikandr with something akin to contemplation. Or forbearance. Or mercy. Mercy. As if Nikandr might be spared from the judgment he’d long ago meted out to the Landed.

Nikandr took from the shelves above the kapitan’s desk a bottle of araq, something he had specifically asked to be placed here for this conversation. He poured two small glasses of the golden red liquid and set one on the desk near Soroush. The other he took back to his seat. He drank a healthy swallow of the bright, sweet liquor, hints of fig and pomegranate washing down his throat. To drink before he’d even formally offered the liquor to the man sitting across from him was considered very rude among the Landless, but Nikandr wanted him to understand the terms under which they were speaking.

Nikandr held his glass high and nodded toward Soroush’s. Soroush didn’t move, so Nikandr downed the rest of his drink in one swallow, slapped the glass down on the desk, and asked Soroush, “Do you know where I was before you took Nasim from Bolgravya’s ship?” He was referring to the time after Ghayavand, after Nasim had awoken. Grigory had hoped to bring Nasim back as a prize for Zhabyn Vostroma, but before he could the Maharraht had found his ship and whisked Nasim up from the deck.

“Have you come so far to ask me of Nasim?” His voice was scratchy, but it had the same liquid timbre he remembered.

“We had just come from Ghayavand. We had bonded-you know this-and together Nasim and I used our bond so that he might be healed, and in doing so heal the rift, just as you were trying to use him to rip it wide.”

Soroush stared, his eyes hard.

“I’ve changed since then,” Nikandr continued. “I was sick with the wasting, but then I was healed, and though Nasim was taken away, I still felt him”-he tapped his chest-“here. Ancients willing, I’ll feel him again some day, but until then I’ve taken to the winds, using what Nasim gave me to study the rifts as you once did.”

At this Soroush’s eyes went wide-only for a moment, but it was there. He looked over Nikandr’s shoulder, to the dark cabin windows, where the wind lightly whined. He looked as though he wanted to ask a question, but he kept his mouth closed, his jaw set.

“I know more about the rifts than anyone alive, except for perhaps you. Or Nasim or Ashan. I’ve found small ones. Large ones. There are webs of them-so many small threads interconnected that it boggles the mind. Did you know that? That they connect to one another?”

Soroush took the glass of araq and took a sip.

“Of course you did. It was why you attacked Duzol instead of Uyadensk. You hoped that by tearing one you would rip open the other, and the others beyond that. Perhaps the whole of the islands would be affected, da?”

“Tell me what you’re after, son of Iaros, or you can send me back to the hold.”

“I’ve searched for rifts everywhere. Khalakovo, Vostroma, Mirkotsk, Rhavanki.” He paused. “Even Rafsuhan.”

And here Soroush’s eyes sharpened. They became deeply distrustful and he sat straighter in his chair, the legs creaking as he did so.

“ Da,” Nikandr said. “There is a rift on Rafsuhan. Already large, and still growing.” He paused again, hoping Soroush’s love for his people would overcome his hatred for Nikandr. “It will grow larger than the one on Uyadensk, Soroush. Much larger. I can feel it already.”

His hands, still holding the glass in his lap, were shaking. “And you would have me help you?”

“The rift is already causing sickness among your people. If you take me there, provide for my protection, perhaps we can learn more of it. Perhaps we can close it.”

“You care nothing about them.”

Nikandr stared deeply into his eyes. “You will find it hard to believe, but I do, son of Gatha. But it isn’t merely about the people of Ashdi en Ghat or Siafyan. The rifts are spreading everywhere. Everywhere. Even as far as the Empire. It will not stop on its own. I know this now. Whether you love the Grand Duchy or you hate it, you must realize that if something isn’t done, all of Erahm will suffer.”

“If the fates will it, then it will be so.”

“It will not stop here. Adhiya will be next. Or perhaps first. Who knows how these things work?”

“If the fates will it…” He left the rest of the proverb unsaid.

“If you believed that, you would never have become Maharraht.”

Soroush’s jaw clenched. “My people will leave.”

Nikandr shook his head. “Some may leave, but you have settled in your cities. Many will stay, and they will suffer. And not only that, it will lead to a burden in their next life. And the one after that. You cannot want this for our world.”

Something in him seemed to break then. He breathed out. His jaw unclenched. His eyes softened. “You will not change them.”

“Your words are true,” he said in Mahndi, using the Landless phrasing.

Soroush sat there, looking at his glass, the araq within golden and inviting. But then the wind picked up again, and it drew his attention. He looked up at the ceiling, or perhaps past it to the deck above, and his mood seemed to change. “How were you saved?”

Nikandr shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“You fell to the ship. I heard the men talking. How could you have lived?”

Nikandr thought of lying. He thought of telling him that the havaqiram had harnessed the winds, used them to stop his descent and send him into the ship’s sails. But such a thing felt wrong, and he would have to tell Soroush of his newfound abilities at some point.

He reached inside his shirt and pulled out his soulstone necklace. He held it up for Soroush to see. “Nasim left me with another gift as well.”