Read The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya Online
Authors: Bradley P. Beaulieu
The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (3 page)
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 Aye
ş
e, 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.
PART I
CHAPTER ONE
N
asim 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 the 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.
