Many times in the past several years, Atiana had felt the weight of the islands bearing down on her, but never as much as it does now. Word has come that Yrstanla, for whatever reason, has rekindled its interest in the east. It is surely why his envoy, Siha s, has been sent when normally the Kaymakam of Galahesh alone would treat with the Grand Duchy. There is also the blight, which has lessened on Khalakovo and Rhavanki, but has grown worse on Vostroma and Nodhvyansk and Bolgravya. Atiana’s father spreads the wealth of the duchies as well as he can, and he treats with the Empire to make up the rest, but it is always too little. The widespread hunger sparked riots all across the islands at different times of the year, and rumors of revolution are heard more and more among the streets of every city in the Grand Duchy. Some of the more fortunate islands, like Mirkotsk and Lhudansk, have even spoken of ceding from the Anuskaya, acts that would spell complete ruin whether they succeeded in their attempts or not.
And now there is this. The disturbances of the aether.
Would it spread? Would it move through the islands, preventing them from communicating with one another? Such a thing might lead to a slower death, but it would be every bit as disastrous as revolution.
There is no choice in whether she will go to Galahesh or not, nor is there a choice in following through on her marriage with Bahett. There never was. They were simply too desperate to demand anything of Galahesh, or her mother, Yrstanla.
I will go to him, she tells Saphia, and I will go to Galahesh. We will discover what is happening, and we will survive, as we always have.
I hope you’re right, child. I hope you’re right.
This time, Atiana doesn’t complain about being called a child.
Bradley P. Beaulieu
The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya
CHAPTER SEVEN
N asim trudged along a mountain plateau. The sky was blue, the wind bitter, and the snow deep beneath his feet. To his right, behind him, stood the towering bulk of Nolokosta, the highest peak in the entire Sitalyan range.
He had wrapped his scarf around his head in such a way that he could see only through a narrow gap. It was necessary with the sun glaring down so strongly against the white snow. Had he decided on a shorter hike, he wouldn’t have bothered, but he’d been gone for nearly a day, hiking to the top of Nolokosta the night before and watching the sunrise this morning. Without the scarf, he’d already be blinded by the snow.
He’d brought Rabiah and Sukharam here first and foremost to escape the attentions of Ushai, but he’d also come because this was a place they could rest. He needed to prepare Sukharam. He needed to prepare himself. He needed to breathe before beginning their journey toward Ghayavand and all that entailed.
His trek took him through a shallow vale and toward a ridge that would bring him to the place where he’d left the others, a saddle between two long valleys. He was weary, not because the climb was difficult, but because the snow was fresh and soft as twice-ground flour. He wore the wide, wicker-laced snowshoes he’d bought in Trevitze before leaving. Even though it was slow going, the simple exertion and the connection to his body felt wonderful. He’d been fixated for so long on finding first Rabiah and then Sukharam that he’d hardly rested more than a handful of days since leaving Mirashadal three years ago.
At last he crested the ridge and began hiking down toward their camp, such as it was. Their skiff was still nestled in a gentle fold of land where they’d set it down a week before. The white snow and black granite made it look like the windship was being cradled by a white-robed woman in repose. It was Rabiah who’d noticed it on their approach, and Nasim had thought it a fortuitous sign-the land itself was seeking to protect them-and so, after a quick flight to ensure no village or outpost was near, they’d landed and begun their preparations for Ghayavand.
Rabiah was sitting cross-legged on a snow bank beyond the skiff. Her hands were on her knees, and though she was facing away from him-toward the stunning green slopes of the eastern valley-he was sure her eyes were closed and her breathing was measured. Nasim admired her ability to do this. Taking breath. It was what he’d tried to do on top of the mountain, but as always, he’d found himself unable to calm his mind, unable to find the peace that so many Aramahn managed to find in such places. It had been so ever since he’d come to himself in Oshtoyets. Even in the idyllic meditation spaces of Mirashadal, Nasim had been unable to find peace. Perhaps it had something to do with the stone he’d swallowed-Nikandr’s soulstone-but he could feel no other effects, nor could he sense the stone itself, so he wrote it off as another ill effect of the fractured nature of his life-of his self — since being reborn.
Sukharam stood on an outcropping of black stone far from the skiff. His arms were wide. His face was turned up toward the sky. It was a pose Nasim had taught him before leaving, and Sukharam had excelled not only at this simple pose, but in the bonding of spirits. It was amazing how quickly he was able to reach them, to draw them near.
When Nasim had asked him about it, Sukharam had said that the last time he’d attempted to do so was when he was eight, when he was still traveling with his father, but he’d admitted to having little success then. Here on the mountain, he’d taken to it so quickly, not just with spirits of the wind but with all the hezhan, that Nasim wondered if he’d been lying-perhaps he’d stolen chances to touch the spirits during his time under the yoke of the orphanage. But Nasim soon thought better of his mistrust, attributing Sukharam’s abilities instead to the incredible potential within him that had surely blossomed as he’d grown older.
After they’d landed, he’d taught Sukharam for five days, and then, judging it enough for Sukharam to learn on his own, to simply absorb for a time, Nasim had left him with Rabiah.
Nasim slowed his pace while watching carefully. A fine dusting of snow lifted and funneled around Sukharam. A surge of pride welled up inside Nasim. Sukharam did not wave his hands to guide the snow, as some Aramahn did. Instead, he urged, and allowed the hezhan to do the rest, as was proper.
The closer Nasim came, the more he was able to feel Sukharam’s connection to Adhiya, and he was surprised to find that it wasn’t a spirit of wind Sukharam was communing with, but a jalahezhan, a spirit of water.
By the fates, he learned quickly…
The jalahezhan were difficult spirits to control. They were fluid, mercurial, sometimes capricious spirits. But here stood Sukharam, coaxing one to lift the snow from the ground as if it were merely the wind, and he was doing it so deftly that Nasim could barely tell the difference.
When Sukharam noticed Nasim approaching, the swirling snow spun away and fell in a swath along the finger of black rock he stood upon. He glanced behind him at the scattered snow, and then turned back to Nasim as if he’d been caught stealing honey from the pot. He stared at the ground, refusing to meet Nasim’s gaze.
Sukharam was embarrassed for some reason, but Nasim was more pleased than he could express. “Sukharam, look at me.”
He did.
“Try again,” Nasim said, “but this time, bind water and earth.”
Sukharam took in the landscape anew. His eyebrows pinched in concern. “Communing with only one spirit is difficult for me, kuadim.”
“There’s a time and place for humility, Sukharam, but it isn’t now, and it isn’t here.” Nasim began unwrapping the scarf around his face. He squinted from the sudden brightness. “Earth and water are sympathetic. They won’t wish to bond with one another, but you must act as the arbitrator. You must coax them.”