Bradley Beaulieu - The Straits of Galahesh

“Borund can go fuck a goat.”

Nikandr laughed, raising his glass and taking a healthy swallow of vodka. “ Da. He can do that, and sooner rather than later.”

Anatoliy laughed ruefully, sitting deeper in his chair. He looked defeated as he stared into the fire. “It is unfortunate what has become of us,” he said, though he seemed to be saying it more to the darkness of the room than he was to Nikandr. “But what are we to do? The empire looms to the west, and here we are five years after the conflict, weaker than we were before.”

The conflict was how most referred to the Battle of Uyadensk and the blockade that preceded it. Most had never heard of Nasim or what he’d done, or if they had they didn’t believe that he’d saved Khalakovo from ruin. All they knew was that they were worse off. Hungrier. Less safe.

Nikandr swirled his vodka and clacked the mazer down on the arm of his chair. “It would not be so if Zhabyn did not tax our coffers bare and demand every stone we mined.”

“You sit in a different seat than I” — Anatoliy bowed his head respectfully- “of this there can be no doubt, but from what My Lord Duke tells me, there is little choice in the matter. The tributes have become more dear.”

“The Kamarisi has become greedy.”

“Perhaps, but Yevgeny tells me they are in little position to make unreasonable demands. It is their war with the Haelish, not greed, that forces their hand. The war is twenty years old if it is a day, and now news has come that late this summer much of the bountiful land to the west was raided or burned. They are not desperate, but they must be careful, now more than ever, with the food they grant. So if the Grand Duchy comes to them yet again, our hands folded, asking to be fed, it will cost us, and dearly.”

“I suppose I should not be surprised, but you would think the Kamarisi would have long ago settled a dispute that is nearly as old as he is.”

“It is not a simple matter of pride. If they lose the land to the Haelish, the Wredes will become emboldened.”

“If they would merely ask for our help…”

Anatoliy’s smile was suddenly fierce. “Such a thing the Kamarisi will never do. Within a fortnight he would find a knife in his back and a cousin upon his throne.”

Nikandr raised his mazer in salute. “We learned much from them, did we not?”

“Traditions handed down are difficult to set aside.”

Nikandr finished his vodka and stood. “Come. The elixir will have done its work by now.”

Anatoliy, for the first time since Nikandr had entered his home, showed vigor as he stood and lit a small lamp. He led Nikandr up the creaking stairs to a small bedroom with a single bed. Lying there was a girl of fourteen, bedcovers kicked away, her blonde hair and shift damp with sweat. She was calm, however-the primary effect of the elixir he’d had delivered to Anatoliy earlier in the day.

“I’ve said it in letters, Anatoliy, but I say it again. This may kill her.”

Anatoliy’s eyes searched about the room, looking for courage, or insight. Like so many others Nikandr had seen, he was making a decision for his daughter knowing it was risky, but knowing as well that doing nothing was just as dangerous. Those taken by the wasting did not heal of themselves. At least, not often. Nikandr could see in him the same sense of desperation that Nikandr himself had felt years ago, first when he’d been searching for a cure for Victania, and then again as he’d searched for himself. It was strange to Nikandr, the feeling that he himself had now become a potential cure, another of the long list of things that Anatoliy had no doubt tried. It was a measure of Anatoliy’s desperation-in some ways no different than the grub Nikandr had eaten, and in other ways much worse-that he had contacted Nikandr in the first place.

“She will die if I do nothing, Nischka.” He motioned to Mirketta, a simple but tender gesture. “Do what you can for her.”

“I will,” he said, gripping Anatoliy’s shoulder. “Now, please, leave us. I must have peace and quiet.”

“I would stay, Nischka.”

“ Nyet,” Nikandr said. “If I do this, I do it alone.”

Anatoliy seemed unsure of himself, but when Nikandr did not waver, he nodded and set the lamp on the chest near the bed and closed the door behind him.

As his creaking steps made their way down the stairs, Nikandr turned to Mirketta. He brushed her hair away from her face, feeling the burn of her skin.

And then he pulled his soulstone from inside his shirt. He stared at the unmarred surface of the milky chalcedony. In the dimness of the room it glowed ever so softly.

The stone was young, only five years old. He’d taken another after giving his first-the one he’d had since the day he’d been born-to Nasim. He didn’t regret what he’d done-far from it-but this stone was a constant reminder of what he’d given up. He would now leave only half his legacy to the crypts of Khalakovo when he died. But in a way it was fitting. The time of his youth felt distant to him-like a different life, so changed had the world become. And, he told himself while shifting to kneel over Mirketta, there was still much he could do. There was still much he could leave behind for the sons and daughters of Khalakovo.

Not the least of which was this.

He pulled the necklace over his head. After a brief word of prayer to the ancients, he lifted her shift and placed the stone against her bare chest, over her heart. Mirketta’s face had been still if not calm, but it grew worried as the stone rested there. This was not something he would have considered years ago-royalty did not give up their stones, to anyone-but he had found that it helped, and if he inherited some small amount of pain or discomfort from those he tried to heal, he would gladly accept that burden.

After placing his other hand over the stone so that he could feel both it and her heartbeat, he closed his eyes and opened himself to the spirit that had been with him since it had been summoned by the Maharraht on the cliffs below Radiskoye.

He had spoken not only to Jahalan about this, but many havaqiram. None of them had a clear explanation, some even doubted his claims, but the spirit was always there, waiting. He treated the hezhan with respect, as it seemed he should, for he considered this both gift and fortune, some small compensation from the ancients for what the Maharraht had done.

He felt his breath release as he reached across the aether’s veil and touched the world beyond. His awareness expanded. He felt the draft in the room coming from the small window to his left, felt the wind as it ran across the rooftops and the streets of Ivosladna. He felt the clouds over the city and the larger currents of air as they drifted beyond the city and out to sea. It was at these times, when he had a foot placed firmly in both worlds, that he could touch those stricken by the wasting.

He stared down at Mirketta, her face flush, her breathing shallow. Her eyes were sunken, and the rank smell of her breath told him that she had little time remaining-a few weeks, a month at the most.

He could also feel something else near her-a spirit, in this case a vanahezhan. It drew upon her, slowly but surely, weighing her down and sapping her strength. He waited until he understood her well enough to approach, and then he drew upon her soul as his havahezhan led the other spirit away. Together, they began to separate the two. It was not easy, but neither was it dangerous for him. He’d done it dozens of times already, though he knew it was easier because most of the rifts had closed and those few that remained were narrow gaps-barely rifts at all.

He and Atiana had been searching for more of them ever since the ritual over Duzol. He did not wish more of them upon the islands, but he knew there would come a day when they would return, and they needed to be prepared.