“Decided what?”
“Whether the children would be given to him. Whether those who still follow and believe in Soroush would be given as well.”
Nikandr stood there and stared, trying to piece together all that Bersuq was saying, all that he was implying. Clearly there was friction among the Maharraht. He had thought that the men from the south had been the cause-a power struggle for the mind and soul of their movement-but now he realized it was much deeper than this. Muqallad had come, and he was making demands, and few, it seemed, could agree on the right course of action. Bersuq and Soroush had already fought over it. The majority of the men from Behnda al Tib had left their island, most likely for the same reason. Even the men and women at the shore of the lake deep below where Nikandr now stood, the ones who hoped to heal the children, clearly could not quite bring themselves to side with the decision to hand these children over to Muqallad.
“His son lies below,” Nikandr said.
“What is one boy, even a son, against all that we have lost?”
“And yet you’ve given me leave to heal them.”
Bersuq stared down at the khanjar he held in his hands. He scraped his thumb against the tip absently. “I say ‘what is one boy,’ but he is bright. A shining star. Perhaps he will be the one to lead us to greatness. Perhaps he will be the one to lead us back to the path of learning. It’s a difficult thing to give up-not just Wahad, but all of the children.”
Nikandr lowered his voice. “But the men from Behnda al Tib.”
Bersuq’s eyes shot up. The fierceness Nikandr remembered had returned. “Do not speak of it outside of this room, son of Iaros, or I will have no choice but to give Rahid his wish.”
“They’ve aligned themselves with Muqallad.”
Bersuq shook his head. “The men who are here, yeh. Those that Thabash left behind in Behnda al Tib, who can know?”
“Why don’t you fight them?”
“Because there are too many who would join them. Muqallad is persuasive. He has told us that the time of enlightenment is near. How can we ignore those words from a man such as him, especially when it’s exactly what so many of us want to hear?”
“And yet you harbor doubts.”
The blade in Bersuq’s hands glinted from the incoming light. He stared at it, twisting it slowly back and forth. “I don’t know what to believe. He came those many months ago, just as some were taking sick.” He looked up, then, meeting Nikandr’s gaze with piercing eyes. “You’ve met him?”
“I have,” Nikandr said.
“Then you know the weight that surrounds him. The gravitas. He need but speak, and the world around him answers. He told us that we had been chosen, that our struggles all these years had not been in vain. He told us there were trials yet ahead, and that if we saw them through, we would be rewarded. We would all be rewarded.
“And then the sick became sicker, and the young-dozens of them-fell to the plague you saw at the lake. We came to Muqallad begging for his help, but he merely said that it was the first of many steps. He said those children had been chosen by the fates themselves, that they were now only one step from Adhiya, one step from vashaqiram. All we needed to do was give them to the fire, as they clearly wished.”
Nikandr shook his head. “The fire in Siafyan. It wasn’t meant to rid you of the wasting, was it?”
Bersuq was having trouble meeting Nikandr’s gaze. “It was done in preparation for a greater ritual, one that involves the children. Muqallad was pleased when it was done, but I”-he glanced toward the open doorway and lowered his voice-“I was sickened. How we could have…” He looked up to Nikandr, his eyes regaining some of their fierceness. “It is why you must hurry, son of Iaros. If you can heal them, then it will be clear to all that Muqallad was lying. They will believe me then, or enough will that the others won’t matter, and Muqallad will be cast aside.”
Above, from somewhere outside, came the soft fluttering of wings. Nikandr knew who it was immediately; he could feel her through the soulstone that lay against his chest.
“Muqallad will not take kindly to being cast aside.”
“If the fates will his vengeance against us, then it will be so, but I will not grant him children if his words are proven lies.” He held Soroush’s knife out, hilt first, until Nikandr took it. Then he raised his eyebrows as the sound of beating wings came again. “Speak with your Matra. Have her help if she would. You have one more day.”
After retrieving his ledger, Bersuq strode toward the tunnel.
“I need more time,” Nikandr said.
Bersuq stopped at the entrance to the room and spoke without turning. “I don’t have it to give. In one more day, perhaps two, Thabash will return.”
“ You lead the Maharraht.”
“ Neh, son of Iaros, I do not. That mantle belongs to Muqallad now. But with your help, that may all change.”
And with that he left.
As his footsteps receded, a rook hopped down to a natural stone ledge above him. It surveyed the room and then winged down to land on the floor near Nikandr’s feet. It cawed and pecked, and Nikandr worried over the sound, but when the rook shivered and flapped its wings, he realized that Atiana would have already searched the upper reaches of the village for prying ears.
“ Privyet, Atiana,” Nikandr said.
“ Privyet.”
The rook cawed and was silent for a time, and Nikandr wondered whether she was giving him time to speak.
“Atiana, I pray you, forgive my words on-”
“I haven’t come to discuss our past, Nikandr. I’ve come bearing news of Galahesh. News you should know.”
“But Atiana-”
The rook spread its wings, cawing fiercely, over and over again. The feathers shivered, as if from barely contained rage.
Nikandr sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Go on.”
“Arvaneh is not who we thought. She is none other than Sariya.”
Nikandr could only stare as a deep pit opened up inside him. Muqallad here, and Sariya on Galahesh.
“She’s pulling many strings, Nikandr. It was she that built the Spar, and now I’ve found a spire to the north of the straits.”
“To what purpose?”
“I don’t yet know. It’s all happening so quickly. But know this… We need you. You must leave Rafsuhan. Take to the winds and come home. Khalakovo must be prepared.”
“Would that I could, Atiana, but I can’t. I’m needed here.”
“You’re needed by the Grand Duchy.”
“Which is the exact reason I’m staying. This is too important to set aside.”
“They are Maharraht.” Even through the voice of the rook Nikandr could hear her disgust. He tried to explain. He told her of the children. He told her of Rahid and the Hratha and Muqallad’s manipulation. He told her of Soroush and Bersuq and their confessions to him. But nothing would sway her. “All of that means little if Hakan is preparing to sweep down on Vostroma when morning breaks.”
“He cannot. The straits stand before him.”
“Don’t be so sure. I know not what the spire is for, but I suspect… I fear that I’ve given Sariya more than I should have.”
“What could you have given her?”
“One of the times I spied upon her, I thought she wasn’t there, but I believe now that she was watching me, studying how I manipulate the currents of the aether.”
Nikandr worked it through in his mind. “And if she can learn to do the same…”
“She can control the storm that sits above the straits. To allow ships, for the first time, to fly over them. To give Hakan what he and the centuries of Kamarisi before him dearly wished they could have-a clear path to the islands.”
The rain outside fell harder. The water spilling into the channels was quickening. Thunder rang as he paced along the room, no longer caring if he stepped upon the channels.
“Have you told your mother?”
“Of course, but they are ill prep
ared. Three attacks from the south were orchestrated over the past week alone, and Father fears more. Ships are being brought in to help, but we are weak, Nikandr. You know this. Father will not ask it, but it would do him good to see you commanding a wing of ships. Even Hakan would pause if he knew you were near.” The rook arched its neck, then ducked low and tapped the stone softly with its beak, an act of supplication. “Come home, Nischka. Leave Rafsuhan behind. Let them quarrel amongst themselves. Let them weaken while we prepare for the coming storm.”
“Don’t you understand? This is part of that storm. We cannot ignore it, Atiana.”
“ I can. And you can, too.”
Nikandr paused, knowing the words he was about to say would drive a wedge between them-even more than their argument had, more than her pending marriage had-and yet he said them anyway. “ Nyet, I cannot.”
He expected the rook to caw, to flap around the room as Atiana lost control as her emotions flew high. It did not, however. What it did do was much more disturbing. It stood completely still, one eye trained upon him, blinking once, twice, as thunder shook the air outside the chamber.
“You are needed, Khalakovo.”
Nikandr shivered at those words.
“I’m needed here.”
After one more brief pause, the rook flapped up to the ledge where Soroush’s musket lay, and then was gone in a rush of wings through the driving rain.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
W ith three streltsi walking ahead and another three behind, Atiana and Ishkyna strode among the stalls of the bazaar. Irkadiy was leading the guardsmen. He watched Atiana closely-making her feel overprotected-and yet it did little to silence her fears of being out in the open among so many in so foreign a place.
She’d finished speaking with Nikandr only that morning, and her anger was still high. But really, she should have expected it. He’d been invested in this-the rifts and the healing of those afflicted by the wasting-for so long he’d become blinded by it. He thought that what he needed to do to protect his homeland was to solve the riddle of the rifts, but there came a time when one had to fight the threat that lay directly before you. Later he could return to that if he so chose, but not now. Not when the Grand Duchy itself was threatened.
And yet, he was a grown man, a stubborn man at times, and there would be no changing his mind. Not until the events on Rafsuhan played themselves out.
As they wended their way toward the granite edifice that marked the center of the bazaar, Atiana watched among the dozens of stalls she could see, wondering who might be watching them, wondering if anyone was following or lay in wait ahead. The vendors behind their tables looked up as they approached, sensing money. Their hawkers bowed, displaying wares in their extended hands-trinkets of every imaginable color; kaftans and slippers of fine silk; kolpaks of worsted wool; glass pitchers, red or golden or blue, bright from the sun shining down through the cloth over the stalls; weapons and shields and armor, most of it decorative or so old they would be useless on the battlefield; the skins of animals, supple leather or striped fur or scaly hide. There were even curious inventions-clocks that struck the time on the hour; miniatures that when wound properly would play a lonely, foreign tune upon a tiny mechanical harp.
Atiana saw all of this, but she also found herself studying the vendors and buyers for things amiss. She never saw anyone openly staring at her, but she became convinced that they were watching her from the corners of their eyes, or spying upon her once she’d passed.
Only the food made her pause. There were spices and herbs and roots. There was smoked fish, sweetmeats, pickled goat’s feet. There were grapes and melons and beans, braided garlic and a sea of onions and potatoes. Nearly every stall that sold food-and a good many that didn’t-had hanging from their tents clusters of bottles filled with wine the color of garnet and ruby and evening primrose. It was a wonder that there was any shortage of food whatsoever among the islands, but no sooner had the thought occurred to her than the sheer number of people walking through the bazaar registered. There were hundreds of thousands in Baressa, and nearly as many on the island of Oramka to the north. There was food, but there was no shortage of mouths to feed, either.
The bazaar’s central structure was closer now, and it was more massive than Atiana had realized. It was called the Kirzan, the rock, and it had once been the seat of power on Galahesh, abandoned after the War of Seven Seas. The men of Yrstanla had always been a suspicious lot, and they had practically given it away after the peace treaties with the young Grand Duchy had been signed.
Early this morning she and Ishkyna had received a note from Vaasak Dhalingrad to come to the Kirzan at midday to discuss the arrangements of the new treaty, but Atiana knew it was no such thing. Something had happened. She just didn’t know what.
Beside her, Ishkyna walked soberly. She had looked at hardly a thing since entering the bazaar-she’d merely matched Atiana’s pace, staring straight ahead, allowing the sights and sounds and smells of the bazaar to wash over her like rain-but then she came to a stall selling matroyshkas, and she stopped. There were dozens of them, red and green and purple, but she looked at only one. A bright yellow doll with a patterned blue babushka. She opened it slowly, almost reverently, to reveal the second doll hidden within. She set the larger one aside and opened the others, each one smaller, hiding within the larger doll, until she came to one that was as small as her thumb. Her hands shook as she opened this last. She stared within the empty confines as Atiana came to her side.
“What is it?” Atiana asked.
Ishkyna ignored her. “How much?”
The old woman sitting behind the table, clearly a woman of the islands, had a scar along her throat. She did not smile nor stand up from her stool where she was carefully painting another matroyshka. She held up three fingers for Ishkyna to see, and then she went back to her painting.
Ishkyna carefully put the matroyshka back together again and reached inside the purse at her wrist. She pulled out a medallion of gold. It was a coin of Anuskaya, but it could easily buy every doll in the stall. Ishkyna placed it on the table. The dull thump the coin made on the cloth-covered table made the woman look up. She stared at Ishkyna, her eyes hard but not harsh. She glanced at Atiana then, and then the streltsi around them.
Ishkyna put the matroyshka in her cloth purse and walked away. The streltsi looked to one another, worried, but without saying a word the three ahead followed Ishkyna while the other three remained.
When Atiana looked back to the table, the coin was gone, and the woman had gone back to her painting.
When Atiana had caught up to Ishkyna, she asked, “Do you mind telling me what that was about?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“I know, but it’s important to you.” She meant that it would therefore also be important to her, but Ishkyna merely sniffed and kept walking.
Finally the bazaar fell away and the bulk of the Kirzan towered over them. It stood on the highest point of the bazaar, watching the land around sleepily, as a lynx watches the snowy field. At the top of the stairs, beneath tall colonnades, were brass-bound doors and two city guardsmen. The guardsmen took note of them, but little more than that, and they were soon through doors and into the interior, which held more stalls. These stalls, however, housed glass cases and refined men standing behind them. They stood wearing bright silk turbans and fine kaftans, waiting and smiling patiently if they weren’t already speaking with a patron, of which there were few.
Irkadiy led the way to a curving set of marble stairs that led to the second floor. There was a wide, open hall. The floor was covered in a variety of mismatched carpets that somehow complemented one another. Sitting at a large, round table in the center of the room were Vaasak Dhalingrad, Atiana’s father-
And Grigory Stasayev Bolgravya.
Atiana stared for long, confused moments, unable to comprehend Grigory’s presence, here of all places. Galahesh felt so foreign. To find someone so rooted in her past,
someone so vile to her, was as jarring as falling from the rigging of a windship. Nikandr’s refusal to return to Vostroma was even more infuriating than only moments ago. To have Grigory here only served to remind her of the distance that stood between her and her love, a gap as wide as the straits and getting wider.
Father rose after speaking low to Vaasak and Grigory. “Welcome, daughters.” As Atiana and Ishkyna approached, the other men rose and bowed while Father granted them a smile. He stepped in to kiss Ishkyna. The two of them touched stones, and then he turned to Atiana.
“What is he doing here?” Atiana asked before he could move to embrace her.
Ishkyna had not moved toward the table. She was staring at Grigory with a look of unbridled disgust. Ishkyna-even more than Mileva-had been protective of Atiana after learning what he’d done.
Father’s sleepy eyes glanced back to one side, toward the table. “Atiana,” he said, his voice low. “Had I been able, I would have strung him in the courtyard of Galostina for all to see, but such a thing wasn’t possible, nor is it possible for me now to tell his brother, the Duke, whom to send to represent him.”
“A dozen others could have taken his place.”
“Konstantin would beg to differ, and his stakes are high in this. There are few enough Bolgravyas left after what happened on Khalakovo. I would think of anyone you would understand this. Now come”-he held his stone out for her to touch-“we have much to discuss, and the sooner we have it done, the sooner Grigory will be gone.”
Atiana swallowed her next words, for they were petty. She detested that Grigory had crawled his way back into her life, but there was little enough to do about it now. She took her soulstone and touched Father’s. She felt the warmth within her chest expand ever so slightly. They had touched stones only weeks before, but it was nice to do so again after feeling so alone in this foreign place.
Father led them to the table and waited until she and Ishkyna had taken their seats. Grigory and Vaasak, who had stood at her approach, sat, followed at last by Father.
The Straits of Galahesh loa-2 Page 30
