The Straits of Galahesh Read online

  “The rifts ... are a myth.”

  Sariya smiled, a gesture that revealed perfect ivory teeth. “They are all too real, Kamarisi, and they are spreading. The boy, Nasim, was reborn of a man named Khamal. He was one of the Al-Aqim, one of those who broke the world. And I am another. My name is Sariya Quljan al Vehayeh.”

  Hakan blinked. His eyes were slow to open. His breath was shallower than it had been only moments ago.

  “Fear not,” Sariya said. “The end has not yet come. There is more yet to do.” He didn’t understand what she meant, but at the moment he didn’t care. All he could think about was his life being snuffed out here on the cold tiles of the kasir, the place he’d thought safest for him in all the world. “The antidote,” he said.

  “Ah, this?” She opened her other hand. In her palm rested a glass phial. She made no move to render it to him. Instead, she kneeled on the balls of her feet, as he had done—or thought he had done. “You will have it, Kamarisi, though it bears a price.”

  “What...” His fingers were numb. It was all he could do to force his lungs to draw breath. “What is it?”

  “Something you will gladly pay... I wish to help. I wish to guide you eastward.”

  “Why?”

  She smiled, and when she did, she became more beautiful a woman than he’d ever seen. “My reasons are my own. Suffice it to say there is a jewel in the crown of Anuskaya I would have back.”

  He could no longer feel his lips, nor his fingers nor his toes. He tried to take a deep breath, but could not. His lungs refused him. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a weak groan. His mind was alive with fear—he was too young to die; there was so much yet to do—but his body cared not at all. It seemed content to take its final rest.

  He fought against the will of his body.

  And nothing happened.

  Sariya waited, staring down at him with a cruel smile. He knew that she could have forced him to drink it, but she wanted him to ask.

  He fought harder, pouring himself into one small movement, something he hoped she would understand as assent. With one last push, he felt his head move up and down—a nod, though terribly weak; he wasn’t even sure she would recognize it as such.

  Apparently she had, for she kneeled next to him and rolled him onto his back. Lying there, looking up at her as she pulled the glass stopper from the phial, she looked like a mother caring for her sick child. He thought he should hate her for what she had done, but he didn’t. To him, she was a guiding star.

  She would give to Yrstanla her children lost in the War of Seven Seas. He was certain of it, and for this he was undyingly grateful.

  As the liquid poured down his throat, he felt relief like he never had before. It was like being reborn.

  When it was all down, Sariya kissed his forehead and tenderly stroked his hair. “Together, Hakan ül Ayeşe, we will do well. Together, we will build a bridge the likes of which the world has never seen.”

  The Kamarisi, blinded by his love, could only smile at the wonder in her eyes.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  PART II

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  GLOSSARY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  about the author

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  Nasim strode down a dirt road. It was bordered on its left by a steep hillside and on its right by a series of hovels with earthen roofs that looked as though they would fall to the next stiff wind. Only far ahead where the road curved to follow the hill were there buildings of any note—a compound of three taller buildings surrounded by a high stone wall with an archway built into it.

  The iron gates set into the wall were swung wide, and when Nasim finally reached them, he found a woman waiting for him just inside. He stepped into the yard, and she shut the gates behind him. In one hand she held an iron ring with dozens of keys on it, but she did not lock the gate.

  For this Nasim was glad.

  “You’re late,” she said in Yrstanlan. Her dialect was heavy and rolling, something Nasim was not yet used to, new as he was to the northern edges of the Empire. She wore a drab gray dress and a threadbare dolman mantle with voluminous sleeves. Her face was severe. Worry lines made her appear old—older than Nasim guessed she actually was.

  “You said to be sure I wasn’t followed. That takes time.” He glanced meaningfully at the orphanage behind her. “Take me to them.”

  She weighed Nasim with her eyes. Her lips were tight and furrowed, a gesture that seemed natural for her. He was as tall as she, but she managed to look down on him just the same. Nasim was only sixteen, whereas she had seen at least forty years. There was something about age that lent weight and authority, even if it wasn’t deserved.

  The matron glanced toward the mountains over Nasim’s shoulder, apparently trying to determine whether the payment Nasim had promised was still worth it, but then she stiffened her lip and turned and led him to the porch of the largest of the three buildings. She stepped up to the heavy wooden door. “They’re eating,” she said while unlocking it and pulling it open. “Don’t say a word. Just nod to the one and I’ll pull him out.”

  He stepped in after her and this time she used her keys to lock t
he door. This made him nervous, but there was nothing to do about it now. She led him down a drab hallway of brick and plaster and into a room that was filled with children and the soft clink of cutlery and plates. The smell of cabbage and onion and cumin filled the air. Four dozen children were spaced on benches, bellied up against two long trestle tables, all of them eating, none of them saying a word, even when they’d realized someone new was in the room.

  Hanging on the wall like decorations were two dousing rods—little more than wrought-iron circles with a rod through the center used to hold them. They were much more than decoration, Nasim knew. They would be used to quell any of the abilities of these children, should any find within themselves the talent and the will to use it, but they could be used against Nasim as well.

  Two other women sat at the heads of the tables. They stared at Nasim, but neither was surprised by his presence. Their reaction made it clear that this was nothing out of the ordinary, and it enraged him.

  Pulling his dark brown bangs from his eyes, he paced along one wall, staring carefully at each of the children. They were not dirty—it was clear they had been bathed—but there was evidence of their hours in the nearby iron mines: black around their ears, in the corners of their eyes, under their fingernails, even at the corners of their mouths. The children did not stare back at him, which was a relief. They seemed to know that he was after one of them, and he could feel their desire to be taken away from this place, if only for a day or two.

  But he could only take one—the one he’d heard rumor of nearly two years ago in the capital of the Empire. He’d come to Trevitze in search, and he’d nearly given up hope of finding the child who’d stirred such feelings of power within him, but then, as the children had been riding back to the orphanage on wagons, Nasim had felt a hollowness in his gut. It had yawned open as they came closer and subsided as they traveled uphill toward the orphanage.

  He’d experienced this before, many times in fact, though rarely so strong. Only on one other occasion had it been as such, and when it had, he had found Rabiah and convinced her to join him.

  He’d talked with Rabiah for days before she’d finally agreed to join him. This time, he thought, little convincing would be needed.

  The yawning feeling returned, though for some reason it was muted. He traveled up the length of the table, concentrating carefully on the children sitting on the opposite side. When he rounded the end of the room and came back along the other, he stopped halfway down. Sitting across from him, staring down into his mealy stew, a half-eaten crust of bread in one hand, was a boy, fifteen years old, maybe sixteen. He was not Yrstanlan. Nasim would know even without the void in his gut.

  It was not rare for the Aramahn to be taken against their will—war, plague, criminal executions all played their part—but for some reason this boy having been taken and forced to work below ground, all day, for nothing, set Nasim’s blood to burning.

  “What is your name?” Nasim said in Mahndi.

  The boy’s head snapped up, but he immediately pulled his gaze back down to his bowl.

  A whisper spread among the children until the snap of a narrow length of wood against the head of the table brought them back to silence.

  The matron stalked between the two tables to the center of the room and stared at Nasim. “You will be silent.”

  “What is your name?” Nasim said again, ignoring her.

  “You will be silent!”

  Nasim regarded her. Outside the orphanage she had seemed muted, somehow, perhaps small under the stare of the sky and the mountain peaks, but here, inside her domain, she seemed arch and menacing, like a black widow at the borders of her web.

  Taking the small pouch of coins he had prepared for her, Nasim threw it over the heads of the children. It landed with a dull clink near her feet. “Take your money, but order me no more.” He set his sights on the boy. “Give me your name,” he said for a third time, “unless you wish to remain here with them. If that is your choice, I will honor it.”

  The boy glanced to one side, mindful of the matron behind him. After a moment filled with consequence, he swallowed, placed his hands on the table, and pushed himself up from his bench. He glanced at Nasim, but was unable to hold his gaze long. “My name is Sukharam,” he said in imperfect Mahndi. “Sukharam Hadir al Dahanan.”

  The matron grabbed his shoulders—“Do you think he is for sale?”—and shoved him back down. “Do you think this a house of slaves where children can be bought for the pittance you tossed at my feet?” Her face was grim. She could still be bought—it was the kind of woman she was—but Nasim’s insults had raised the price.

  Nasim walked to the end of the room and approached the space between the two tables. The matron dug her hands into Sukharam’s shoulders, who winced in pain but made no sound.

  “Release him,” Nasim said.

  She dug her fingers in further. A whimper escaped Sukharam’s lips, which were drawn into a grim line.

  The barest of drafts ran through the room. Nasim drew in a long breath, staring at the woman with a calmness he hadn’t felt in ages. He wore no stones. Ever since the ritual on Oshtoyets, the small keep on the island of Duzol, he had been unable to use such things or commune with hezhan on his own, but through Sukharam he could feel a hezhan. Slowly his awareness grew. As a blind man hears the wind through the trees, as he feels the current of the water running over and around his feet, as he feels the weight of the very earth below him, Nasim felt the havahezhan, and he beckoned it.

  It came, pulling at the air like the drawing of breath. It was easy now to discern the currents in the room. The air was chill, and already getting chillier. He could see the women stare into the corners, into the hearth along the right side of the room.

  The expression on Sukharam’s face was one of confusion and growing discomfort. Soon he would reach for his gut, as Nasim had done so often in his childhood. Nasim had never felt right doing this—using someone without permission—but were he to ask Sukharam now, he would not understand; he would be unable to answer, so for the time being Nasim would have to assume his answer would be yeh and give apologies later if he’d been wrong.

  “Release him,” Nasim repeated.

  The matron looked back to the women, who seemed too petrified to move. “Get the rods!”

  They stood and grabbed the wrought-iron dousing rods from the wall. One came up behind the matron, protecting her. The other sidled along the wall, keeping a close eye on Nasim as she went. The children began to rise until the matron shouted, “Sit!”

  Time was running out.

  Calling upon the havahezhan, Nasim summoned the wind. This was only a distraction, however. He called upon a dhoshahezhan as well, using it to touch the life that remained in the wood of the tables and benches. He pushed, drawing upon it more than he should, and a moment later he heard a ticking sound that steadily grew.

  With increasing ferocity, the benches and tables cracked and snapped. Splinters flew, causing the children to stand and cringe and scatter from the benches. The planking along the floor buckled as the children stepped upon it, causing them to fall between the joists that supported the tongue-and-groove flooring.

  The effect stopped as it neared the dousing rods, however. If the matrons were able to surround him with the rods, his ability to commune with the spirits would dissipate like smoke, but they were hampered now by the crumbling flooring and screaming children.

  Nasim allowed the effect to continue up through the walls, to the ceiling. The plaster popped. Cracks ran through the entire room. And yet it was only when the structure itself groaned that the matron yelled, “Enough!”

  Nasim willed the effect to fade, though not completely. A slow sifting of dust continued to fall from the ceiling. A piece of plaster fell and crashed to the floor between them.

  The matron flung the boy away from her while staring upward, wondering if the floor above was ready to come crashing down. “Enough!”

  Finally, though
the hezhan was reluctant to allow it, Nasim brought everything to a standstill. He looked around the room, at the children who watched him in abject fear, at the damage he’d caused in mere moments.

  It had gone too far. So much had been this way since he’d awoken after the ritual in Oshtoyets five years ago. He had struggled to find a way to touch Adhiya, finding that only through others could he do so, and then imperfectly. Too often it was more than he wished, or too little.

  Still, he wished he hadn’t needed to resort to communing with hezhan. He wished he were able to speak more convincingly—as Ashan had always seemed able to do, or Nikandr—but he could not. He knew his limitations, and there was more at stake than the damage to an orphanage in one small corner of the Empire.

  “Are you ready, son of Dahanan?” Nasim asked Sukharam, who cowered at his feet.

  Sukharam looked up and stared into Nasim’s eyes. A bit of courage seemed to spark within him at those words. “I am.”

  “Then come”—he offered Sukharam his hand—“for there is much to do.”

  After the barest moment’s hesitation, Sukharam stood and took it.

  With Sukharam at his side, Nasim walked the cold streets of Trevitze, heading toward the city square and the hovel he’d rented beyond it. As he neared the rise that would give him a clear view of the square below, he saw a girl waving from the shadows of an alley.

  “Quickly,” Rabiah said.

  Nasim could hear people talking on the street. They were still hidden behind the rise, but they were coming closer. He moved quickly and quietly, pulling Sukharam by the wrist. Sukharam, thankfully, heard the urgency in Rabiah’s voice and remained silent.

  They made it to the alley and hunkered down, using a fat rain barrel to hide behind. Dusk had fallen on Trevitze, but there was still enough light to see down the alley if one’s eyes were sharp.

  The voices approached, and soon several men and a robed woman walked by. One of the men wore a white turban of the style that many of Yrstanla’s ruling class wore; it was large and curved, like an olive on a thumb.

  It was not he that made Nasim’s heart jump. It was the woman. Her name was Ushai Kissath al Shahda, and she had been following Nasim for months. He remembered hearing her name during his short time in Iramanshah. He had heard it again several times during his stay in the floating village of Mirashadal, so when he heard it once more in the slums of Alekeşir, he had known that Fahroz had sent others to find him, to return him to her care. Nasim and Rabiah had fled the capital the very same day, and from then on, from village to village and city to city, every time Nasim thought he had lost her, Ushai would turn up again, though thankfully he or Rabiah—who had become very adept at sensing the signs of pursuit—found her, and they had fled once more.