The Straits of Galahesh loa-2

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  The kapitan of the lead ship seemed relieved to find them an ally, but his face turned sour when he realized it was Nikandr who commanded the ship.

  “Follow me to the palotza,” he shouted across the gap as they were readying to leave, “and do not straggle.”

  Their approach to the rocky coast of Kiravashya brought with it more evidence of recent battle. A trail of flotsam could be seen among the waves, and when they came within a half-league of the coast, he saw the aft of a ship pointing up from the waters, the bow wedged in the rocks below the water’s surface. Within a shallow vale on the rising snow-swept landscape the remains of two ships lay. It was clear that they’d collided, their masts caught in the rigging of the other. How many had died when they’d fallen? Forty? Fifty?

  As the sun rose fully, they approached Galostina’s eyrie, which looked down upon a wide green valley. It would be idyllic, Nikandr thought, if it weren’t for the wind threatening to uproot the trees. The island’s primary eyrie was higher up the mountain. The eyrie on its cliff face seemed to crouch, ready to leap and strike should the enemies of Vostroma approach, but the ships lashed to the perches spoke of the grievous wounds Yrstanla had inflicted. Even from this distance Nikandr could hear the sounds of industry-the hollow sound of wood being pounded as the ships were repaired, gang leaders calling out orders to their men, the whoo-haa call of men working a massive mast saw.

  And then came Galostina. She had a larger eyrie than Radiskoye-ten perches in all. And seven of them were filled. As the escort ships flew toward the mountain, Nikandr guided them toward the berth where a man waved two black flags. A woman stood near the perch, waiting. It took him time to realize it was Mileva Vostroma, Atiana’s sister. She wore a fine white woolen coat and an ermine cap. The hem of her coat blew fiercely, making her look like a qiram summoning the winds that howled among the crevices of the massive palotza.

  When Nikandr leapt down to the perch, Mileva met him and took him into an embrace. “The ships told us of your decision to head for Elykstava. We thought you’d been lost.”

  It felt strange to have Atiana’s sister hug him, and perhaps it was the same for her, for she hugged him stiffly, awkwardly.

  “I feared it was Galostina that had been lost.” Nikandr looked up to the signs of cannon fire that marked several of the palotza’s towers. The spire, both wider and taller than the spire over Radiskoye, was strangely intact. No cannon fire marred its surface, which was strange, considering the state of Galostina.

  Mileva turned and looked at the damage as well, perhaps remembering the battle from the halls. “She nearly was.” She guided Nikandr toward the palotza. “Come,” she said as they entered through a set of brassbound doors. “There’s ill news, and someone you must see.”

  “What’s happened?” he asked as they walked down a long central hallway. There were dozens of military men walking to and fro. Their conversation filled the space, making the tense atmosphere somehow more tense. Some noticed Nikandr and Mileva and bowed their heads, but most were too busy to take note. Mileva led Nikandr to a winding set of stairs that ran along the edge of a massive domed intersection of the two largest halls of Galostina. The dome towered six stories high, its gilt mosaics shining down on the marble balusters and golden lantern holders.

  “Mileva, what’s happened?”

  Still she waited until they’d reached the next floor before speaking. “It’s your father. He was wounded during the last attack two days ago. A colonnade collapsed, killing three of my father’s advisors and wounding seven others, including your father. He is sound of body, but he suffered a head wound. He’s woken only sporadically, and he’s become weaker over the last several days.”

  The news was better than he’d feared, but his gut still churned, and it only became worse as Mileva led him up to the fourth floor and down another long hallway. There were more streltsi stationed here-nearly a dozen of them-all of them Khalakovan. They all bowed their heads low, reverently, as Nikandr approached.

  Mileva stopped in front of an ornately carved door.

  “I’m glad you’ve come.” Mileva stepped in and kissed his cheek. “We have need of stout men at times like these.”

  Her words were spoken with a sincere admiration that shocked Nikandr. What had been happening in the halls of Galostina?

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “I’ll wait, and do not tarry. You’ll need to speak with Andreya when you’re done.”

  Nikandr nodded and squeezed her hand, glad to have an ally in this place. He entered the room and found his father in a large bed. The bandages around his head were stained with blood. Most of it was dark, but the center was red, making him wonder how well the wound was healing. He sat in a chair by the bedside. The light coming from the windows behind him lit the landscape of his father’s face in bas relief, making it clear just how much pain he was in, even in slumber. Nikandr sat there for some time, knowing he should leave and speak with Andreya, but he could not. Not just yet.

  Father never woke. His breathing was shallow, so shallow that the added time did nothing to make Nikandr’s feelings of unease settle. In fact, it made them worse.

  At a soft knock at the door, he stood and kissed his father tenderly on the cheek.

  Mileva was standing in the hall when he left the room, looking small and apologetic. How much she’d changed, Nikandr thought. The Mileva of old would never have acted like this.

  “All will be well,” she said, though she knew no such thing.

  “I know,” Nikandr replied, realizing in that one moment what might make her act this way. “Where is your father, the Grand Duke?”

  “Taken,” she said, “by Hakan the Betrayer.” Her tone was bitter, and little wonder. With one barbarous act, Hakan had changed from provisional ally to sworn enemy.

  “Can you sense him?” Nikandr asked, motioning to the soulstone that glinted in the dim light of the hall.

  She pinched her lips before replying. “I cannot.”

  “It’s the storms,” Nikandr said. “You’ll find him when they die down.”

  “I know.” She smiled, an unconvincing gesture, and then motioned back the way they’d come. “Please.”

  She took Nikandr down to the ground floor to a location in Galostina that was one of the earliest structures built. The original keep-which had over the centuries been absorbed by the larger palotza-was being used as the headquarters for the war. The room was windowless-the original windows having long since been bricked up. At the center of the room, surrounded by a dozen massive brass lanterns on tall stands, was a table with several men standing at it, all of them looking down at the maps arrayed there. Nikandr recognized Andreya Antonov, the polkovnik of Vostroma’s stremya, and Betyom Nikolov Vostroma, Zhabyn’s cousin and the admiral of the staaya. Duke Leonid of Dhalingrad was there as well, and when he realized Nikandr was approaching, he motioned to Andreya, who nodded toward his men. Most of the gathered men left the table, though not before they’d stared at Nikandr as if he were a deserter, and soon Nikandr was alone with Andreya, Betyom, and Leonid.

  “I will leave you to it,” Mileva said, smiling and bowing her head before taking her leave as well.

  “Well met,” Duke Leonid said to Nikandr. Leonid’s long white beard fell down his black kaftan. With his dark eyes, it made him look wild, a wolf in goat’s clothing. His expression was wholly uncharitable, which gave Nikandr pause. He had thought his presence here might be looked upon with some relief, but now he could see that at least for these men, who had always been loyal to Zhabyn, that wouldn’t be the case.

  “My Lord Duke,” Nikandr said. He turned to Andreya, all but ignoring Dhalingrad. “I come bearing news.”

  Andreya was a tall man. He was Father’s age, but he looked as fit as Nikandr. His trim beard was gray, darker near his jowls. His hair was lost beneath the fur cap he wore. “When have you last slept?”

  Nikandr shook his head, unable to remember. “It’s been days.”

&nb
sp; Andreya paused before speaking again. “The ships sent from Khalakovo arrived well ahead of you, My Lord Prince.”

  “I was diverted to Elykstava-”

  “Diverted,” Leonid scoffed, “with three of our ships.”

  Duke Konstantin of Bolgravya reached the table. He bowed his head to Nikandr. It was an awkward gesture, more so than the other men, no doubt because of the history Nikandr had with his family, Grigory in particular. He said nothing, content for the moment to listen as the others questioned Nikandr.

  “It seemed important,” Nikandr said carefully, “to determine the state of her spire.”

  Andreya stared intently into Nikandr’s eyes, his expression stark and serious though not unkind. “When you had been given orders to come to Kiravashya.”

  “Forgive me, Polkovnik, but the ships were mine to command.”

  Duke Leonid bristled. “Those ships were needed here, Khalakovo, a fact I’m sure the Duke of Khalakovo shared with you before you left.”

  “My Father, the Duke, lies upstairs.”

  “He is the duke no longer,” Leonid said.

  “A mongrel might leap upon the throne, Dhalingrad. Would you call him duke if you came across him lying there?”

  The potbellied Betyom looked on this exchange in silent acceptance, but Konstantin jumped in. “My Lord Duke. My Lord Prince. Please, we shouldn’t waste time bickering. We don’t know when Yrstanla will return.”

  “Very well,” Leonid said slowly, as if he were humoring Konstantin, who was twenty years his junior. “What news from Elykstava?”

  “We captured a kapitan of one of the ships that attacked the spire. He confessed that their admiral was worried over an attack on the Spar. He recommended they not overcommit their ships, but the Kamarisi would not allow anything other than a full attack.”

  “What of it?” Betyom asked.

  “They’re overextended, admiral. If we can destroy the bridge, we can cut off any hope of reinforcements arriving.”

  “This is senseless,” Leonid said, motioning to the map before him. “Their ships are here. What good would destroying the Spar do now?”

  “Reinforcements could still be moving toward Galahesh, and it would cut off their lines of supply and their route of escape.”

  Leonid frowned. “We need not worry about their escape, Khalakovo. We need to save Galostina and her spire, not the spire on Elykstava, which we had already decided to give them if they chose to take it, nor the spires on other, nearby islands, nor a bridge a thousand leagues from where we stand. Galostina’s spire. That is all that matters, and you’ve lost us three ships in her defense.”

  “I would not give up the spires so easily,” Nikandr said. “They lost three ships on Elykstava as well, and we found critical information. If we could send ships, we might stand a good chance of taking the Spar.”

  “We have no ships to spare,” Andreya said.

  “I would need only five or six-”

  Andreya’s flat look made Nikandr stop. “Have you come to serve,” he said, “or have you come to dictate?”

  Nikandr looked at each of the men in turn, who looked at him as if he were a raw strelet who had yet to learn the ways of the wind. He had hoped that they might be convinced, but now he saw that they never would be. They might trust him to fly a ship, but beyond this they trusted him not at all.

  “I’ve come to deliver vital information, and to serve in a way that helps the Grand Duchy.”

  Andreya stood taller. “With the Grand Duke gone, I decide what helps the Grand Duchy.”

  “ Nyet, Polkovnik.” Nikandr couldn’t help but think of the proclamation that Borund had read in Radiskoye. He had stepped over a line by saying these words, but he was done with hiding from men who sought to control him, a prince of the Grand Duchy. “With my father unconscious and my brother out of reach, I am Khalakovo.”

  Duke Leonid looked as if he wanted to spit at Nikandr’s feet, but Andreya seemed to be weighing his words carefully. His eyes were not angry-there might even be a touch of respect in them-but it was also clear that if it came to it, Nikandr’s claim to authority or not, he would take from Khalakovo the resources he needed. “I understand that you hope to protect us, My Lord Prince. But you fail to understand the situation. Yrstanla has retreated, most likely to weather the storm they’ve unleashed. But have no doubt-the moment the storm abates, they will return for the spire, and when they do, it will be all we can do to stop them. We have need of men like you, men who can command a ship and command a wing. I cannot afford to have you missing from the coming battle.”

  “We might save the island only to lose the Grand Duchy.”

  “Just now, My Lord Prince, Kiravashya is the Grand Duchy. Now leave. Think on what I’ve said.” He returned his attention to the maps before him. “And find some sleep. You look terrible.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  N ikandr woke in the chair sitting next to his father’s bed. The room was dark. Only the smallest amount of light came from the crescent moon through the high window. As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes he realized he’d slept through the entire day.

  He was ravenous, but he didn’t want to leave his father. Not just yet. He’d barely had any time with him before he’d fallen asleep.

  He lit the small lamp at the bedside and for a time simply stared as his father’s chest rose and fell slowly. He looked old. He looked weary and white, as if he’d already begun taking small but unyielding steps toward the beyond. Nikandr was proud of him, though. He’d been brought to Vostroma little more than a thrall, but as his counsel had proven more and more invaluable, he’d risen in Zhabyn’s circle, even among the misgivings of men like Leonid Dhalingrad, to become the Grand Duke’s most trusted advisor.

  He felt bad for Mother, who despite spending nearly all of her time in the aether had come to cherish her time with Father outside of it.

  Still, they were born of the islands; they were hard, and they spent time with one another as they could, speaking when Mother took the form of one of Galostina’s rooks. Though her ban from using the aether had never formally been lifted, it had eased to the point that two years after the ritual of Oshtoyets, Nikandr had brought Yrfa here to Galostina so that Mother could assume her favorite bird to speak with Father.

  A soft knock came at the door.

  Nikandr rose and opened it, and to his surprise found Mileva standing in the hall.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  She took a padded chair near the fireplace and warmed her hands as Nikandr moved his own chair over from the bedside. Mileva’s pale skin turned ruddy under the light of the low fire, making her look, momentarily, like one of the Aramahn. She leaned, elbows on knees, staring into the fire. In that small instant Nikandr could see the young Mileva. Many a night had he seen her do the very same thing among the halls of Radiskoye or Zvayodensk or Belotrova.

  But then Mileva seemed to catch herself. She turned sharply, though not unkindly, toward Nikandr, and sat back in her chair. She crossed one leg over the other, and now she seemed like little more than a Duchess upon her throne, elegant and beautiful and cunning. Her eyes twinkled under the firelight.

  “Has Atiana found you?” Mileva asked.

  “I haven’t spoken to her in weeks. Not since leaving Rafsuhan.”

  “She’s contacted no one on Kiravashya, nor any of the Matri we spoke to before we lost contact. Mother has tried to find her, but with the storms…”

  “My mother found me near Elykstava, though I think it cost her dearly.”

  “Thank the ancients for women like Saphia.”

  “You speak so reverently, Leva.”

  “No matter what you might think, I’ve always held your mother in high regard.” Nikandr chuckled, but Mileva seemed offended. “How could I not? Especially now?”

  She meant, of course, because she was now a Matra herself, not just in name but in deed. She had become strong-not as strong as Atiana, but
strong just the same. Nikandr had often wondered what the Matri shared with one another among the aether. It was completely foreign to him, but there could be little doubt the aether created a sense of sisterhood that could never have been born in the waking world.

  “You’re worrying over Atiana and Ishkyna,” Nikandr said.

  “Of course I am,” she snapped, a bit of the old Mileva returning.

  “They yet live.”

  “I know, Nischka, but I wonder under what circumstances? Surely the Kamarisi has them. What might he do to get what he needs? What would he stop at to find the weaknesses of the Grand Duchy?”

  “Little.”

  “Little, indeed. And here we sit while Leonid and Andreya rule in my father’s place.” She glanced over at the bed. “Your father, were he to wake, might have made a difference, but without him there is nothing to keep Leonid in check. I think he prays for Father’s death that he might take the Grand Duke’s mantle.”

  “There is Konstantin.”

  She paused before speaking. “ Da, there is Konstantin.” The way she spoke those words, and the way she looked into Nikandr’s eyes, he knew. She and Konstantin were lovers. Konstantin had long been married, and for all who saw him with his wife, they would say he was happy, but here he was, a thousand leagues from home… Perhaps it was simply a romance of convenience, but the way Mileva had spoken those simple words, it made him think that she wished her mother had chosen another for her hand in marriage.

  Mileva’s eyes narrowed, as if she realized it was time to come to the point.

  “They didn’t tell you of Grigory, did they?”

  “What of him?”

  “He was sent weeks ago with ships. He was to position them along the coast of Yrstanla such that they could be called to attack the northern stretch of Galahesh, should the need arise.”

  “So why didn’t he?”

  “He was sent across the downs, around the Sea of Khurkhan.”