They went on ahead, catching up with Soroush, while Nikandr mounted his own horse. Nikandr sent one last glance toward the woods where he’d heard Mikhalai coughing.
“Go well, brave soul,” he whispered, then whipped the reins.
Two weeks out from Alekeşir, as Nikandr coaxed a fire to life for evening camp, he felt something from his soulstone, a presence, one of the Matri, but not Ishkyna. A moment later, a rook flapped down through the winterdead trees and landed on the fallen log he was sitting on.
By the ancients, it was Yrfa, his mother’s favorite rook.
The bird cawed once, then clucked and pecked the soft white bark. Nikandr could only stare for a moment. This was like a memory, so long had it been since they’d spoken. And the feeling in his chest. It was like the brightness of spring after long, dark winter.
Despite himself, a broad smile came over him. “It’s good to see you, Mother.”
Styophan, who was nearby tending to the horses while Rodion and Soroush hunted, bowed his head and took his leave, grabbing their water skins and heading for the nearby stream.
The feeling in Nikandr’s chest broadened as the rook looked him over, its head swiveling in twitchy movements. “Nischka,” the bird called in a long, low moan. “You’ve been gone too long, my son.”
Too long, indeed, Nikandr thought. The war and the recovery of the islands had taken the Matri’s attention, and by then Nikandr and Atiana and the others had traveled too far. Then, the only one who could find them was Ishkyna, but she was too often needed closer to Anuskaya, and so communication had been sporadic at best.
Years ago it would have been impossible for a Matra to have traveled this far, and even more difficult for her to assume a rook while doing so. But then the Spar on Galahesh had been built. Since then, since Muqallad and Sariya’s failed ritual, the ruined center of the bridge had been rebuilt, and the fluctuations of the aether had settled to the point that the Matri could cross. They could assume rooks and speak from distances much greater than they’d ever thought possible. Strange, Nikandr thought, to have profited from that bridge, a thing that had been created to destroy not merely the islands, but the entire world.
The rook flapped closer, and Nikandr ran his fingers down its neck, as his father once had. “I’m returning home, Mother.”
As welcome as his mother’s presence was, it highlighted something that had been missing since the earthquake in Alekeşir. “I thought Ishkyna would have returned long before now.”
“Ishkyna is not well.”
Nikandr waited for further explanation, but apparently he wasn’t going to get it. “What happened?”
The rook cawed. “She’ll be fine, Nischka. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because you go into the jaws of the wolf.”
Nikandr adjusted the kindling, stoking it higher. “Leonid Dhalingrad is no wolf.”
“He is the Grand Duke.”
“And he murdered my father.”
The bird nipped Nikandr’s wrist and then hopped away. “We’ll not have this argument again. The time hasn’t yet come to deal with Leonid. He’s too well protected at the warfront.”
Nikandr took a deep breath. He knew that when he saw Leonid again he would want to take his revenge on him. He’d felt the fool for months after leaving Galahesh two years before. He’d suspected what Leonid had done—a musket shot from a friendly position was indistinguishable from one shot by the enemy—he’d just been so surprised by it. Killing another duke was a bold and cowardly move, even for Leonid, and for days afterward he had come to doubt his instincts, but the more he thought about it, the more he knew he was right. The man who had examined his father, a well-known physic from Volgorod, had said that the musket shot had entered between Iaros’s shoulder blades. And several men that Nikandr had talked to who had seen him fall had said that he was facing the line, rallying the men of Khalakovo and Mirkotsk and Rhavanki forward.
He’d been shot from behind, where only the men of Anuskaya had been positioned. The only question remained was who would do such a thing? The answer was simple: the man who stood to gain the most.
“Things will only get worse if Leonid leaves the warfront.”
“You’ve come to accuse him, then? To attack him in front of the entire stremya?”
“I’ve come to give them warning.”
“What warning, Nischka?”
“We cannot go to Ghayavand.”
The rook was motionless for long moments, its black eye blinking every so often. “Why?”
“Because Sariya wishes us to go there. The Kamarisi told me himself.”
“Selim told you, or Bahett?”
“It was Selim.” Nikandr told her of their strange conversation beneath the dome with the eunuchs and the twirling iron chain. He told her about Selim’s suspicions of Sariya, how Bahett was hoping to sweep over the islands as the forces of the Grand Duchy were occupied with the land war with Yrstanla, how Selim suspected the Kohori were on Ghayavand and how he had planned to help Nikandr before he was killed.
The rook cawed raucously. To anyone else it might sound as if the animal was frightened or alarmed, but Nikandr knew it was the sound of his mother laughing. “Selim tricked you. The Kohori are on Ghayavand. And they’ve already attacked the islands.”
Nikandr stared at the rook. “What?”
“Mirkotsk and Khalakovo and Vostroma were attacked two days ago. And yesterday it was Dhalingrad and Nodhvyansk. Each time strange ships came, ships formed in the shape of a spearhead. They came and they rained fire down on the villages, killing dozens in each, wounding hundreds more.”
Nikandr stood and paced on the opposite side of the fire. “Why? Why did they attack? Did they take anything? Gain some advantage over us?”
“These may be the first volleys in a war against us, Nischka.”
Nikandr stopped his pacing and faced the rook across the burgeoning fire. “It’s a trick. Sariya’s luring us. She wants us to come to Ghayavand.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know her better than most, Mother. Better than you. Certainly better than Leonid.”
The rook pecked at the smooth bark of the log and cawed. “They’re making preparations even now. We saw them, Nischka. Me and the other Matri, including Leonid’s wife, Iyana. He will never back down now, and I don’t know that he should.”
“We can prepare our ships. We can wait. But we cannot go to that island. It is exactly what Sariya wants. Again.”
“Why? Why does she want this?”
Nikandr could only shrug. “I don’t know.”
The rook cawed and arched its neck back. “It was a trap she laid for you, and you’ve fallen into it.”
“Nyet,” Nikandr said. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Sariya wants the men of Anuskaya to come to Ghayavand. And it isn’t so that she could give Bahett what he wants. Sariya is drawing us there.”
“Then I ask you again, why?”
“I don’t know, but we cannot give her what she wants. Give me time to go there. Let me and my men go and discover her plans.”
“You and your Maharraht?”
Nikandr glanced through the trees beyond the rook where Soroush had gone. “He is not Maharraht. Not any longer.”
“He isn’t Maharraht for the present. There’s a difference.”
“I won’t defend him to you. He has saved my life many times over.”
“Do not trust him, Nischka.”
“On Soroush, I keep my own counsel.”
“Well enough”—the rook cawed and hopped along the log—“but you overlook the obvious. Leonid will believe none of this.”
“Of course he won’t.”
“Then why go? Skirt the warfront, Nischka. Go to Trevitze. I’ll prepare a ship for you there.”
“I can’t. Sariya can’t be left to her own devices. I will go to Ghayavand, but not before making sure Leonid leaves Ghayavand alone
.”
“You have a plan, Nischka?”
“I do, Mother, and I need your help.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Nikandr heard sounds of battle hours before he saw it. He and the others rode well off the road along the grassy plains dotted with bushes that were thick with ice. A freezing drizzle had swept over the plains last night. When the sun had risen, they’d found themselves in a wonderland of grass blades trapped in crystal.
There was no wind to speak of. Which made the sounds of their travel conspicuous, especially during the lulls in battle in the city ahead. Near midday, however, the sounds of battle stopped. As the minutes passed, Nikandr was sure the hostilities would resume. Even if one side or another retreated, the other would press. Why would they simply stop in the middle of a bright day?
Soon they came to a rise, where they could see the city of Izlo below them. A pair of horses galloped out from the walled city, moving westward along the road Nikandr and the rest had left. The riders saw Nikandr and his three companions—one of them even pointed, warning the other—but they didn’t change course. They simply kept riding. Most likely these were men heading toward Alekeşir with news. Strange that there were no lines of streltsi to stop them, nor any mounted hussari to keep them from riding as they willed. He wondered if it had anything to do with the attacks on the islands.
Far to their right, to the south of Izlo, a line of Anuskayan soldiers and cannons could be seen. “You should not come,” Nikandr told Soroush.
Soroush smiled, the earrings on his ruined left ear glinting as he took in the forces of Anuskaya. Then he tipped his head back and laughed. A good, deep laugh that Nikandr hadn’t heard from him—or anyone, for that matter—in months. “I fear you’re right, son of Iaros.” He pointed beyond Izlo. The land in this part of the world was largely flat, but in the distance a clump of snow-topped hills rose above the land like scheming lords. “I’ll wait for you for three days there. Come to the base of the hills and I’ll find you. If not, I go to Ghayavand.”
Nikandr felt uncomfortable saying farewell. They’d been companions now for over two years. He’d saved Soroush’s life several times and Soroush had done the same for him. They might never see one another again. There was still a question hanging between them. The Maharraht… Would Soroush return to them once this was all done? Maybe he would, and maybe he wouldn’t. The question, for the time being, was immaterial. Soroush was dedicated to closing the rifts, as Nikandr was. They could take up that question when—if—they made it through this alive.
He urged his horse forward and clasped arms with Soroush. “Go well, son of Gatha.”
“Go well,” Soroush returned.
Next Nikandr guided his horse over to Styophan’s. He held Styophan’s gaze. It was impossible to look at Styophan’s face, to see the black leather patch over his eye, and not be reminded of all Styophan had done for him, for Khalakovo, and for the Grand Duchy. He nodded, and Styophan nodded in return. Nikandr then took in Rodion, weighing him and finding a stout soldier ready to follow his commander wherever he was needed. He nodded once more, Rodion returning the gesture, and then pointed east. “Go with Soroush. Follow the line of hills toward Trevitze. The Zhostova will find you, three or four days from now.”
Nikandr had told his mother to summon the ship for Styophan. Fitting since it was one of the five ships he’d commanded on his way west to Hael. Nikandr needed someone on Ghayavand. Nasim might already be there. The Kohori and Sariya were headed there. And that meant Atiana would be there as well.
Styophan nodded. “If she’s on the island, I’ll find her. And Nasim and Ashan if I can.”
“Ancients preserve you,” Nikandr said.
“And you.”
The two of them leaned in and kissed cheeks. Nikandr did the same with Rodion, and then the three of them—Soroush, Styophan, and Rodion—were off, riding northward so that they could skirt the city before heading east toward the hills.
Late that night, while Nikandr sat by a small fire less than a quarter-league from the camp, he heard footsteps approaching. He stood and whistled like a woodland thrush, the kind that run thick through the islands in the summer. A return whistle came, and soon Nikandr saw him, a soldier of Vostroma wearing a long cherkesska, black boots, and a grey kolpak hat.
Nikandr stared openly. “Andreya?”
It was. Andreya Antonov, the polkovnik of Vostroma’s stremya, and one of Grand Duke Leonid Dhalingrad’s inner circle. He approached and dropped a sack near the log Nikandr had been sitting on. His beard had grown longer, not to mention greyer, but he still had that steely look. Most odd was the fact that he was wearing the uniform of a sotnik. It looked worn, but it wasn’t cut in the style of Andreya’s younger days as a junior officer, which meant he’d borrowed someone else’s. Andreya Antonov, reduced to sneaking through his own camp to meet with Nikandr, someone he clearly did not trust to speak with his Duke.
Nikandr couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing before he could stop himself. This pleased Andreya not at all, but before he could object, Nikandr stepped in and hugged him vigorously and kissed his cheeks as if he were Nikandr’s own brother. “By the ancients it’s good to see you.”
Andreya frowned when they parted. “I wish I could say the same. Your arrival at the warfront is a strange one, Khalakovo.”
Nikandr smiled. “My journey has been strange. Why would the ancients see fit to change that now?”
“And where have the ancients led you?”
Nikandr opened the sack and found the uniform he’d requested. He slipped out of his coat—the coat of a janissary—and started pulling off his shirt. “To a desert so vast it would swallow the islands. To the very heart of the Empire.”
“And now you wish to speak not only to My Lord Duke, but to the Dukes of Bolgravya and Lhudansk and Mirkotsk as well.”
“I do.”
“A smarter man than I might think you were conspiring.”
“A mistrustful man, Andreya.” He pulled off his boots and baggy sirwaal pants and quickly took up the pants from inside the sack. The night wind was freezing against his skin, but it felt wonderful to rid himself of the garb he’d worn in the desert. It felt as though he were becoming a man of the islands again. “I merely wish to speak to the men who make the decisions for our good state.”
“And yet you’ve excluded our Grand Duke.”
“All will be revealed to Leonid in good time. For now, let’s say that this is a matter that only certain dukes need consider.”
“And what is that, Nikandr? What should they consider?”
“I’ll speak to Your Lord Duke and no other, Andreya.”
“You’ll speak to me if you wish to see him on your terms.”
“I will not. What I learned in Alekeşir concerns us all. All of Anuskaya. And Borund will learn of it first, he and the others I’ve asked for.” Nikandr paused. “Assuming they wish to hear it.”
Andreya took in a deep breath and exhaled, his breath lit by the meager firelight. “Very well.”
With that he turned and walked away.
Nikandr finished pulling on the uniform, that of another sotnik, and ran to catch up to Andreya. They trudged over the even terrain and in short order came to open land. Ahead, spread over acre upon acre of landscape, were ordered rows of tents, campfires with men huddled around them, stands of muskets resting nearby. To the left, visible largely because of the whiteness of its walls, was the city of Izlo. Nikandr would have expected to see lanterns here or there in the city, but there were none. It made it seem more a forgotten ruin than a besieged city in the plains of Yrstanla.
Soon they were among the tents. Many of the men were sleeping, but there were those that remained awake, nursing the fires, passing cups around the circle. Some looked up, but few did so for long. Near the center of the camp was a large circular area where nine large tents stood. A tenth, much larger than the others, sat at the center, the command tent where Leonid would be. The others would
be the tents of the duchies. One would be for Khalakovo, though Nikandr knew that Ranos was elsewhere. He’d been stationed on Galahesh with what remained of Anuskaya’s common fleet. Exiled, in effect, perhaps due to Nikandr’s reputation or because he’d disobeyed Leonid in sending Styophan west.
Hopefully he was already on his way here. If Mother had reached him, if he believed the words Nikandr had told her to relay to him, he would come.
Andreya led Nikandr to the tent of Bolgravya. Andreya went first and Nikandr stepped in after. In the center of the tent, to the left of the long central pole, a brazier burned low, casting the gathered dukes in light like the dying of autumn. There was Yevgeny Mirkotsk, a man who had always stood by Khalakovo, as his father had, and his father’s father. He watched Nikandr’s entrance with something akin to disfavor. Although he was a strong ally of Ranos’s, he had never quite approved of what Nikandr had done on Oshtoyets. No matter that it had likely saved the lives of many of his men; no matter that it had closed the rifts that would soon have threatened the islands of his homeland. To him, Nikandr was too entwined with all that had happened then—and since—to completely trust him.
Nikandr nodded to Yevgeny, who nodded in return.
Next to him stood Konstantin Bolgravya, a man only a handful of years older than Nikandr. He looked healthy, and his bright eyes seemed accepting, almost pleased, of Nikandr’s presence. Strangely enough, Konstantin was probably his closest ally in this tent. He’d asked Nikandr to save his brother, Grigory. Not directly, of course. He wouldn’t have placed himself in a position where Nikandr could have said no directly. Instead he’d sent his lover, Mileva Vostroma, to pose the question for him. Nikandr had agreed, because it had given him a slim ray of hope to make his way to Galahesh to save Atiana. He’d even found Grigory, but Grigory had refused Nikandr’s help. In fact, he’d imprisoned Nikandr and then abandoned him to die for having the impudence to bring a note penned by Konstantin himself, a note that had somehow heightened the embarrassment of being saved by Nikandr, whom Grigory hated above all others. Grigory had later died at the Spar on Galahesh, but he’d died bravely. He’d commanded the ship that had crashed into the Spar, breaking it and killing Muqallad, effectively saving Galahesh, the islands, the entire world from Muqallad’s plans. As strange as it was—and as hard as it was for Nikandr to admit—Grigory had died a hero. Konstantin had somehow seemed relieved when he’d learned of it, and he had thanked Nikandr in private.
The Flames of Shadam Khoreh Page 49
