Bradley Beaulieu - The Straits of Galahesh

“A home that is threatened.”

The rook paused as the wind blew through the narrow walkway. “There’s no need to be cold, Nikandr. You know I agree.”

“Then help me.”

“I do.”

“I need more.”

“That’s why I’ve come.” The rook paused, and then took wing. It flew north, away from the inn where Nikandr had taken a room.

The way she’d said those words… That’s why I’ve come… Almost as if she were standing right beside him.

He walked down the street. The buildings became homes with proper lawns, and then they became manors. When Nikandr reached the final bend in the road, he looked up and saw that the road led to a keep that had been converted into a boarding house. He knew this place. It was old, one of the few places outside the palotzas and the proper keeps of Mirkotsk that held a drowning chamber beneath the structure’s lone turret.

As he climbed the hill, he could see a room on the third floor. A lamp was lit within, and he could see a silhouette standing at the window. It was a silhouette he hadn’t seen for months, but as he looked upon it, a sudden sense of relief and anticipation swept over him.

When he reached the keep, the heavy service door set into the old wooden gate creaked open before he could knock. A squinting woman with a bullseye lantern leaned outside and eyed Nikandr while shining the lamp up and down his frame. After a grunt and a look of disapproval, she waved him inside and led him up to the keep’s third floor.

Atiana, wearing a lush red robe, was still toweling her hair when he entered the room. The old woman remained, awkwardly watching this exchange. Atiana shooed her away and shut the door, nearly catching the lantern in it. After a humph, the woman’s shuffling footsteps picked up and faded away, leaving Nikandr alone with Atiana at last.

Atiana stepped in and gave him a tender hug. She didn’t exactly approve of what he’d been doing with his newfound abilities-finding those afflicted with the wasting and healing them-but she was setting that aside for him.

For his part, he was drained emotionally. He hardly knew what to feel. All he knew was that holding her now was like basking in the summer sun. He pulled her close, feeling her skin, which was chilled to the bone. He could smell the earthy smell of the rendered goat fat that would have protected her skin while she was submerged beneath the water. He could also smell the jasmine perfume she liked to wear.

The emotions that had been roiling through him since leaving Mirketta had been with him until now, but the truth was that he was so glad she was here that he felt nothing but relief and the deep connection he and Atiana shared. Their love had started on Uyadensk, when they were to be married, but it had grown since they’d parted after the ritual on Oshtoyets. They’d seen one another several times a year since then, and each time, he found that his feelings for her had grown since the last time they’d held one another in their arms, since they’d last kissed, since they’d last made love.

“Why have you come so far?” he asked.

She stepped back, staring into his eyes, perhaps to judge his sincerity. “If you think I would let a year pass without seeing you, Nikandr Iaroslov”-she stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the neck-“you are sadly mistaken.”

He looked down at her, her porcelain skin and her bright eyes. Her hair fell down her shoulders and back, making her look more primal than he had ever seen her. She looked nothing like a princess.

She took a step back with a beckoning look.

He reached for her and she stepped away.

He didn’t want to smile, and yet he did. He stepped forward, and she slid back, never taking her eyes from him.

She moved one hand down to the sash that kept her robe in place.

He pulled at his cherkesska, allowing it to fall from his shoulders as her robe slipped from hers.

He stepped toward her, and when she tried to dance away, he grabbed her wrist. She fought him, tugging, trying to make him lose his grip. She twisted her arm, crouched down, until he pulled her hard and brought her body up against his.

She embraced him then, her lips locking on his. Her skin was freezing to the touch, but she moved as though she were on fire, kissing his neck and chest, biting his ears and lips.

She pulled the clothes from him, never allowing his skin to go without her lips, her tongue, her teeth.

They fell upon the bed, the frame creaking.

She threw him back, pulling the last of his clothes from him and straddling his waist as she leaned forward, chest to chest.

She felt warmer now, and he could feel her heartbeat rising with his.

She slipped one hand between his legs and massaged him as he ran his hands over her shoulders, her back, her breasts.

And then he was inside her. She rode him, slowly at first but all too quickly-the two of them heaving breath in time with the other, bed moaning, headboard thumping against the wall-they fell into one another’s arms as they rode the wave with one another. He shuddered and felt her constrict around him, over and over again.

They stayed in one another’s arms for long hours after that. Both of them knew that there were things that needed to be discussed, but neither wanted to discuss them. Not in the dark of the night.

The morning, Nikandr thought.

Morning is the time for sharing secrets.

“I’ve found Soroush.”

Nikandr opened his eyes, unsure who had spoken those words. He looked down to the floor, to the robe and his cherkesska lying there.

“You what?” He rolled over to find her sitting up against the headboard.

“I’ve found him,” she said again, her face serious.

He sat up carefully.

“You didn’t want me to go after him.”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I don’t.”

“Then why-”

“Because you think it’s important.”

Nikandr could think of nothing in that moment except Mirketta, how he had failed to save her. His worst fear since he’d learned of the rifts was that he’d be powerless to prevent them from spreading and affecting the entire Grand Duchy, and now he had a chance to do something about it, to prevent things from becoming worse, assuming he could learn more.

And that was the crux of it. He’d learned-from Atiana and others-that a rift had formed over Rafsuhan. And it was deep. If he was ever going to learn about the rifts, he needed something like that, except Rafsuhan was distant and difficult to reach, but worse, it was an island of the Maharraht. Nikandr would never be allowed access to it.

Not unless he had someone like Soroush to speak for him.

“Where is he?”

“Mirashadal.” She paused, waiting for the name to sink in. It was the fabled floating village of the Aramahn. It was also the place Nikandr thought the most likely destination for Nasim and Soroush and the others that had been taken from Oshtoyets after the ritual.

“It’s real,” Atiana continued. “Even now it floats above the northern seas, less than a thousand leagues from where we sit.”

“It’s true, then…”

“ Da. I’ve seen it, and I’ll lead you to it if you wish, but I’m still not certain any of this is wise.”

She was speaking not of Soroush, but what Nikandr planned to do with him. “The rift over Rafsuhan is the only one we’ve found of any size, Atiana.”

“Soroush will kill you given the chance. He’d kill all of us.”

Nikandr shook his head. “You misjudge him. There’s only one thing Soroush cares about more than our destruction, and that’s his people.”

“So you’ve said, but he may merely look at it as another reason the Grand Duchy must fall.”

“He may, but in the meantime he’ll be given the chance to help them. It’s something he won’t be able to ignore. Take me to the village, Atiana. Take me to Mirashadal.”