The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) by Bradley Beaulieu

upon her—and him—constantly.
    She finishes and motions for him to drink his fill.
    He doesn’t wish to, but neither does he wish to die. As powerful as the two of them are, they must still drink, and they have no other source of water. He steps to the tree and presses his own lips against the rough bark. The smell of the wood is as strong as the heat of the desert—they’ve not risen so high to have escaped that—but the sap is cool, and it tastes sweet, like the juice of a melon, but with earthy, mineral overtones.
    When he finishes, he calls upon a spirit of life, a dhoshahezhan. It comes easily, willingly, feeding upon him, feeding upon the tree, even as it does his bidding. The flow of sap stops. The hole mends. And the hezhan is sent back from whence it came, beyond the veil to the land of Adhiya.
    “How much longer?” he asks the woman.
    She stares at him with bright blue eyes and smiles, but he knows it is forced. The handful of times he’s seen her truly smile, it was bright indeed—the moon itself, not the dim and distant star she offers him now.
    She points toward the dark peak. “We’ll reach the entrance before nightfall.”
    They rest for a time, eating honey and seeds that had been flattened into a sticky wafer. As they prepare to continue up toward the tomb, he notices a lump within the leather satchel at her side. There is something within that satchel. Something important. He’s looked upon it in the past, but for the life of him he cannot remember what it is.
    She sees him staring at her satchel, and it is in that one small instant that he remembers the radiance that comes from the stone that lays hidden from his gaze. It is a stone as old as the earth. As old as the worlds themselves. It created them, and one day it will destroy them.
    “May I look upon it?” he asks.
    For a moment there is mistrust and worry in her eyes, a look that speaks of insecurity, which is strange given the amount of power she wields. “You may not,” she says, and with that she turns and resumes her trek up toward the peak.
    He follows, wondering what it was he was just asking about.

    The sun sets as they come to an easy, upward slope. The peak juts up from this place, climbing quickly, harsh stone and black rock, an edifice that seems fit to house the fates themselves. They trek toward the base of it, and he realizes she reminds him of another. A woman tall and fair, her hair golden, her eyes a beautiful blue.
    Her name was Sariya, and she was fearsome and learned and wise.
    But she was also dead.
    Who then was this woman? Were they related? He remembers her daughter. Sariya’s daughter. She was young, a child where the one next to him is a woman grown. They must be the same, but how could this be?
    Had so much time passed since…
    He remembers a bridge. He remembers falling. He remembers holding a heavy stone in his hand. He remembers healing a man who had come to be a hidden and indescribable part of him, like memories both painful and sweet that shaped a man into the person he was.
    He remembers a girl crashing into him. They fell to the waves and plummeted through the sea. Down and down they went. He felt the stone, the Atalayina, slip from his grasp. It had been a moment of terror, not for himself but for the world.
    There was a shift. It itched the skin of his face and scalp. Made his bones ache. It brought them to a different place. He could tell, for the light was different, the water warmer. The very sound of it was different. When the girl pulled him with an arm around his neck, he let her, and when they broke the surface at last, he found himself in the center of a wide river. The land around him was rich with swaying fields of grass that seemed untouched by the hand of man.
    He recalls asking her one simple question. “Where have we come?”
    She looked at him, her brown hair plastered to her face. She looked as her mother had, regal and frightening while others would look bedraggled and sad. With