Read The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya for Free Online Page B

alone.”
    Anatoliy seemed unsure of himself, but when Nikandr did not waver, he nodded and set the lamp on the chest near the bed and closed the door behind him.
    As his creaking steps made their way down the stairs, Nikandr turned to Mirketta. He brushed her hair away from her face, feeling the burn of her skin.
    And then he pulled his soulstone from inside his shirt. He stared at the unmarred surface of the milky chalcedony. In the dimness of the room it glowed ever so softly.
    The stone was young, only five years old. He’d taken another after giving his first—the one he’d had since the day he’d been born—to Nasim. He didn’t regret what he’d done—far from it—but this stone was a constant reminder of what he’d given up. He would now leave only half his legacy to the crypts of Khalakovo when he died. But in a way it was fitting. The time of his youth felt distant to him—like a different life, so changed had the world become. And, he told himself while shifting to kneel over Mirketta, there was still much he could do. There was still much he could leave behind for the sons and daughters of Khalakovo.
    Not the least of which was this.
    He pulled the necklace over his head. After a brief word of prayer to the ancients, he lifted her shift and placed the stone against her bare chest, over her heart. Mirketta’s face had been still if not calm, but it grew worried as the stone rested there. This was not something he would have considered years ago—royalty did not give up their stones, to anyone—but he had found that it helped, and if he inherited some small amount of pain or discomfort from those he tried to heal, he would gladly accept that burden.
    After placing his other hand over the stone so that he could feel both it and her heartbeat, he closed his eyes and opened himself to the spirit that had been with him since it had been summoned by the Maharraht on the cliffs below Radiskoye.
    He had spoken not only to Jahalan about this, but many havaqiram. None of them had a clear explanation, some even doubted his claims, but the spirit was always there, waiting. He treated the hezhan with respect, as it seemed he should, for he considered this both gift and fortune, some small compensation from the ancients for what the Maharraht had done.
    He felt his breath release as he reached across the aether’s veil and touched the world beyond. His awareness expanded. He felt the draft in the room coming from the small window to his left, felt the wind as it ran across the rooftops and the streets of Ivosladna. He felt the clouds over the city and the larger currents of air as they drifted beyond the city and out to sea. It was at these times, when he had a foot placed firmly in both worlds, that he could touch those stricken by the wasting.
    He stared down at Mirketta, her face flush, her breathing shallow. Her eyes were sunken, and the rank smell of her breath told him that she had little time remaining—a few weeks, a month at the most.
    He could also feel something else near her—a spirit, in this case a vanahezhan. It drew upon her, slowly but surely, weighing her down and sapping her strength. He waited until he understood her well enough to approach, and then he drew upon her soul as his havahezhan led the other spirit away. Together, they began to separate the two. It was not easy, but neither was it dangerous for him. He’d done it dozens of times already, though he knew it was easier because most of the rifts had closed and those few that remained were narrow gaps—barely rifts at all.
    He and Atiana had been searching for more of them ever since the ritual over Duzol. He did not wish more of them upon the islands, but he knew there would come a day when they would return, and they needed to be prepared.
    He continued to draw the spirit away from Mirketta, but after a time, the vanahezhan began to resist. Mirketta’s breath came faster. She thrashed in her bed, and for the first time Nikandr began