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

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