The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya by Bradley P. Beaulieu Page B

stayed awake. The fire played against her dark skin, giving her a ruddy glow that only served to make her look more beautiful than she already was. The flicker of the fire lent depth to her eyes. It made her appear old, like one of the fates, and the way she looked at Nasim made him feel like she could stare right into his soul.
    “Are they here?” Rabiah asked.
    She meant Sariya and Muqallad, of course. “I can’t feel them, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    “Did you feel them when you were here last?”
    “I did, but I wasn’t the same then. This place affected me differently.”
    “They may have traps set on the celestia.”
    Nasim nodded. “They very well might have.”
    “And what of Ashan?” she asked.
    The fire between them snapped, sending a cloud of embers floating up and into the night sky. The embers mingled with the stars like gemstones—citrine and diamond against a field of obsidian dust.
    “I’m worried that he’s been taken,” Nasim said, still staring at the sky. “I’m worried they’ll use him against us.”
    Rabiah was silent for a time as she too stared up at the stars. Almadn stood brightly overhead, her amphora overflowing with wine. “You cannot allow it,” she said at last. “You can allow nothing to distract you from what needs to be done.”
    “I know,” Nasim lied.
    Though he was not at all sure of the answer. Ashan had done much for Nasim. He had cared for Nasim, taken him from Soroush when Soroush was trying to use him. He’d brought him to Uyadensk, where he’d met Nikandr, and he’d guided him from harm when the Landed were out for his blood. He was a man he would do much for, a man he might even die for, if it came to it. So he was not at all sure he could just leave Ashan to the fates if that’s where his path led him.
    “Even if we’re taken,” Rabiah continued.
    “I know,” Nasim lied again. “Now get some sleep.”
    Rabiah turned away, her back to the fire. She was quiet for a long time. He thought she’d gone to sleep, but then, as he was starting to nod off himself, he heard her say, “I’m glad you found me, Nasim.”
    “I’m glad I found you, too.”
    When Nasim finally fell asleep, it was with a warm feeling, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
    When morning came, the three of them headed north toward Alayazhar. They spoke not at all until they approached the outskirts of the wasted city. They could not yet see the sea and the oldest sections of the city, but there was a complex of broken stone buildings divided only by the streets and avenues and the dark shadows that defined them in the early morning light. Behind them, Sihyaan, the tallest mountain on Ghayavand, stared down at them, ponderous and brooding as if it disapproved of their voyage into a place that had become little more than a grave.
    “It cannot be so easy as to go to the celestia and find Khamal’s stone,” Rabiah said as they took to the first of the streets.
    The three of them walked side by side, Rabiah on his left, Sukharam on his right. The sand-colored stones they walked upon were amazingly well preserved. The stones were cracked—making the road look more like a layer of aged skin than cobblestones—but beyond this, other than some moss and the occasional tuft of wiry grass, it looked as though the sundering had occurred a dozen years before, not three hundred.
    “I didn’t say it would be easy.”
    “Khamal’s piece of the Atalayina will be hidden and trapped,” Rabiah continued.
    “I’m sure you’re right.”
    “Then how will we retrieve it?”
    Sukharam watched Nasim carefully for his answer.
    “We will see what we will see,” Nasim replied. “My hope is that Khamal prepared for this. He must have, or how could he have expected me to finish what he began?”
    Rabiah pressed. “What if he didn’t have time to complete it?”
    “He must have.”
    “What if he didn’t?”
    “He did.”
    “You can’t be sure.”
    “I know, Rabiah. I