As the lute and harp strummed a heavy chord, the crowd collectively clapped. In time, Atiana spun and brought one leg low over the ballroom floor, her dress flourishing as it did so. Nikandr jumped into the air, clearing her sweeping leg, and kicked both legs out, touching his toes with the tips of his fingers.
A collective gasp filled the room. Nikandr had jumped very high, partially to impress, but also to let Atiana know that he had accepted her challenge.
The second chord came, the crowd clapped, and Atiana repeated the low sweep of her leg. She was very good, Nikandr realized, her motions fluid. No doubt she had practiced only to drive her superiority home in front of as many people as she could manage. Nikandr jumped again, and the crowd murmured.
The progression continued, Atiana spinning, Nikandr leaping, as the pace of the music increased. It was a time where the two lovers were exploring their emotions after being lonely for so long, a celebration of their newfound love. The clapping came faster, the music more lively. The crowd became more animated, some people yelling “Hup!” as Nikandr leapt and kicked his legs straight out.
Typically the woman, even if she were more fit or a better dancer, would end the dance when she saw her partner begin to flag. Atiana would do no such thing.
Nikandr was no stranger to this dance, and certainly not to dancing in general, so he was able to continue for quite some time, but the demands on the male partner were great. His stomach began to tie in a knot and the muscles in his legs tired as the crowd clapped in a frenzy and the music marched on.
Still, Nikandr thought, her efforts would be taking their toll. Part of him hoped she would slip or be unable to sweep her leg, or that she would simply stop, her breath coming too quickly, but another part hoped that the challenge would not be so easy.
Nikandr’s breath came in ragged gasps as he dropped to the balls of his feet, ready to launch himself into the air once more. His thighs began to burn as if they’d been replaced with bright, molten lava.
He launched himself once more. And again, knowing he had only a few more in him.
And Atiana knew it. He caught that same little smile as she spun around once more.
She would fail, he told himself.
She would stumble.
She would fall.
Nikandr pushed himself harder than he ever had. He sounded like a wounded animal as hard as he was breathing, and he barely cleared her leg as he leapt into the air. He was no longer able to touch his toes, and he couldn’t extend his legs completely. It was an embarrassment to the form.
And then.
He could neither leap high enough, nor fast enough. He raised himself up, but Atiana’s leg caught his ankles, sending him sprawling to the floor.
The crowd went mad, clapping and yelling and laughing, some sending piercing whistles about the room.
CHAPTER 11
Nikandr’s knee flared with pain where it had struck the marble tile. He sat, nursing it as the crowd continued to roar.
Atiana stood over him, extending a hand while staring down at him. Laughing, Nikandr grabbed her hand and allowed her to help him to his feet.
The Vostromas clustered on the dais were all of them laughing or smiling. The rook was beating its wings against the air, twisting its head, a clear sign of displeasure.
As he stepped back and snapped his heels, a curious smile touched the corners of Atiana’s mouth. “It seems Vostroma has won this round,” Nikandr said.
The words were met with a raucous round of applause, particularly from the Vostromas. “Next year, Nischka!” a voice in the crowd shouted, referring to their anniversary dance, where couples would reprise this dance. Often the partner who had won would defer to the other, but Atiana would not yield-not in a year, not in ten-and Nikandr found a part of him that bore respect for that.
He spent most of the night dancing with the other women of Vostroma, but after a time, he and Atiana, as per custom, were allowed to leave the ball to speak with one another in something resembling privacy. They stood outside in the central hall with Atiana’s Aunt Katerina standing a good distance away, ready to act as chaperone. Whether it was the awkwardness of finding themselves together after what had happened with their dance or the fact that they were suddenly being watched not by a crowd but by a single person, Nikandr didn’t know, but neither he nor Atiana appeared ready to say anything to the other. It was intensely awkward, but he was pleased to see Atiana mirroring his own feelings.
“Would you care for a walk outside?” Nikandr asked. “A walk, nyet. But a ride would do nicely.”
And Nikandr, despite himself, smiled.
With Atiana riding to his left, Nikandr urged his pony along the road leading down toward Volgorod. Katerina hadn’t been pleased at all that they had wanted to ride, but it was the prerogative of the wedding couple, and so she could do little but put on a sour face and go along with them. With the recent attack, a full desyatni of streltsi were sent as well, five on the road ahead, and five behind. They stayed far enough away, and the two of them were used to such things, so it didn’t bother them overly much to have an escort. Atiana’s aunt, on the other hand, was a different story. As old as they were-Nikandr twenty-four and Atiana twenty-it felt strange to have a chaperone, but Katerina seemed to be taking her duty very seriously.
The city of Volgorod far below them was almost entirely hidden in the darkness, but there were a few taller buildings near its center that had lights in their windows, giving some sense of its size and shape. Somewhere amid them, Nikandr thought, was Rehada’s home. He managed to prevent himself from glancing over at Atiana, but felt conspicuous in doing so. A part of him wished he could ride to the city and spend the night with Rehada, but another found himself glad to be alone with Atiana. He had decided shortly after realizing the wasting had taken him that he would share it with his bride. He had not found it in himself to tell another soul, even Victania, but Atiana was different. She deserved to know, deserved the option of backing out of the marriage if she so chose. All she’d need to do was tell her father, and in all likelihood he would have the contracts declared dead.
“Come,” he said, pulling the reins of his pony over and heading northward over the tall grasses of the highlands. He needed to remove the sight of Volgorod, if only to get the feeling that Rehada was watching him out of his mind.
Atiana followed, and soon they had gone far enough that the city was hidden. Only the lights of Radiskoye could be seen, and he decided that that was the right of it, no matter how much he might wish for something else.
“I’ve always loved Radiskoye,” Atiana said.
“You have?”
“Don’t be so surprised. Galostina is too spare. Radiskoye is grand and stately.”
“Galostina is proud.”
In the moonlight, he could see her shrug. “Proud, perhaps, but she was built with only one thing in mind.” She pulled her pony to a stop and slipped down off the saddle to the snow-covered ground in one smooth motion. She began walking, leaving her pony to nibble on the exposed grass. “Was my father hard on you today?”
Behind them, Katerina pulled her pony to a stop. Nikandr couldn’t see her expression, but her stiff posture told him all he needed to know.
Nikandr dropped down to the ground and walked alongside her. “Your father? Nyet. He was kind, if a bit severe.”
She laughed. “My father is nothing if not severe.”
“There is something I would share with you,” he said.
She stopped, forcing him to do the same.
Nikandr stepped to one side, so Katerina couldn’t see, and pulled the stone from inside his shirt. He was surprised how difficult it was to share, particularly after how openly he once wore it. With the proximity to his mother-or perhaps the mausoleum-it glowed, but it was much dimmer than it should have been, and the cracks that ran through it could be seen clearly.
“So dim,” she said.
“The hezhan,” he told her. “When it attacked, the stone
cracked.”
“Does your mother know why it is so?”
“She does not.”
“Will you have another?”
“ Nyet,” Nikandr answered simply. He didn’t know what this gem had in store for him, and so he would honor it as he always had. “If you will, I would touch stones.”
She paused. In the darkness he had trouble reading her face, though when she pulled from her coat her own necklace, there seemed to be no hesitation in the movement. Her stone was bright in the darkness, and uniform in its intensity.
He held his out, wondering what she would think when she discovered his other secret.
She lifted her stone, and the two of them touched. Nikandr felt a brightening within his chest, a new connection that had not previously been there.
Atiana pulled away and grabbed her gut. By the light of the moon he could see the look of shock on her face. “The wasting?”
He slipped the stone back inside his shirt, though he could feel her still, however faintly.
“How long have you known?”
“Months.”
“Before the wedding was announced?”
“Shortly after.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I was not sure at first-” “But you became sure, and you held your tongue.” “I’m saying it now.” “When there’s little enough to do about it.”
“Atiana?”
Nikandr and Atiana both turned. Katerina was on her pony, sitting with that same prim posture. “Are you well?”
“I must go,” Atiana said with a clear note of finality.
“Atiana, please.”
He held his hand up to forestall her, but she slapped it away and walked past him. Soon, she was on her pony and riding back toward the road. Katerina sent him a chilling stare before pulling her reins over and calling after Atiana.
The desyatnik of the streltsi approached on his black mare. “My Lord Prince?”
“Accompany them back to the palotza,” Nikandr said.
“My Lord, my orders-”
“Come back for me if you will, but make sure they arrive safely. All of you.”
“My Lord-”
“Go!”
“Of course, My Lord.”
They left, and in little time he was alone with the moon, the silver landscape of snow and stone, and the sighing of the wind. He tied his pony to the snow-covered branch of a spruce, preferring to walk among the trees to clear his mind. He wandered in what he thought was an aimless path, but soon he stopped, his fear over what Atiana might do replaced instantly by dread.
He had arrived at the very place where he had spotted the Maharraht only two days before.
He slipped off his pony and moved to the edge of the cliff, stopping when he arrived at the position from which the Maharraht had leapt. He stared at the tree line far below and the shore beyond it as a brisk wind blew upward along the cliff, lifting his hair and blowing it about. They had been trying ever since the encounter on the Gorovna to determine what the Maharraht had been hoping to do-Father had sent a qiram to search for answers; two dozen streltsi had combed the area, hoping to find any small clues; Mother had searched as well-but those efforts had so far provided only the most tenuous of rationales for the presence of the Maharraht.
Somewhere behind him there came the sound of approaching footsteps, crunching softly over the snow. He thought at first it was the streltsi, but they hadn’t been gone long enough to have made it up to the palotza and back again, and so he wondered if it was the Maharraht.
Making as little sound as he could, he stepped into the cover of the trees nearby and crouched down. As the crunching came closer, he pulled the flintlock from its holster at his side and slowly pulled the striker until it locked into position with a heavy click.
Movement came further down the tree line. Nikandr trained the weapon on the dark form that stepped out from the trees, but then lowered it when he realized that it was not a man, but a boy.
He felt something deep within his chest, eerily similar to what he had felt when Nasim had been staring at his soulstone as they stood on the eyrie. He turned, pressing his hand against his chest to quell the dull-but-growing sensation while squinting ahead as Nasim moved to the edge of the cliff and stood where Nikandr had only moments ago. He stared downward, his arms hanging loose at his sides, showing none of the pain and discomfort he’d had on the eyrie.
Somewhere far below, a fox began to yelp. Another growled, but then began yelping as well. More and more joined in, and soon, the forest was filled with their calls.
A chill ran down Nikandr’s spine. He swallowed involuntarily; his throat felt as though it were closing up, his chest as if it were being pressed from all sides, as if he’d been thrust into the deepest part of the ocean. His breath came in short gasps-inhaling brought excruciating pain.
The horizon began to tilt, and he wondered in fascination whether he was about to die.
Then, of a sudden, the pain was gone, absent, replaced by a feeling of comfort and peace the likes of which he’d never felt.
And the wind rushes around him, carrying him aloft over the city that lies below. He allows it to carry him down toward a tall tower that shines by the light of the moon, a pillar of white standing tall against the varied landscape of the proud stone buildings around it.
He lands on the tower, and the wind subsides. He breathes deeply of the chill night air. He tilts his head back and studies the constellations as if he’d never seen stars before. He has come far in these past few months. He feels ready, at long last, to take the next step, to begin the healing of this place that has for too long been a little more than an open wound upon the world.
And it all came down to acceptance. He feels as though he is part of this island, as if it is a part of him. He feels as if he belongs. It is freeing beyond comprehension-not the notion that he is integral to this place, but the understanding — and it is in such opposition to the feelings that had been running through him only weeks ago that he giggles from the excitement.
“Why do you laugh?”
He turns. A woman steps up from the stairs built into the roof. Her long golden hair sways as she takes the last of the steps and stares at him with a humorless expression. It has been years since they saw one another-or has it been decades? — but her appearance has not changed. She is still the woman she was when the three of them ripped the island asunder over three hundred years before.
“I laugh because I am ready, Sariya. I am finally ready.”
She stares up at the constellation he’d been considering. It is Iteh with his harp, holder of the northern skies. “Muqallad has returned.”
A chill runs through him. His resolve, his satisfaction, both so complete a moment ago, begin to crumble.
She waits, speechless for a time. “Not so ready as you thought, then.”
He smiles. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“You’re fooling yourself. We need him, and you know it.”
“He will not bend. You know this.”
“He has returned…”
“To convince me to walk the path he’s chosen.”
She shrugs. “We will only know by speaking to him.”
He walks to the edge of the roof. The grit of the stone is alive beneath his sandals. The city below sprawls outward, nearly lifeless except for those few souls they’d managed to save when they’d torn the veil between worlds.
He has searched for a way to heal the damage they’d caused without Muqallad. After he’d left, after he and Sariya had banished him from the city, he’d hoped that the two of them would be enough. But he’d known all along, deep down, that three would be needed to heal what three had done.
“He will not listen.”
Sariya stands beside him. He can feel the warmth of her shoulder standing next to his. “We can but try.”
He nods, knowing she is right. “We can but try.”
As suddenly as the vision came, it faded, and the
discomfort returned. Nikandr stared at Nasim, but the light of the moon upon the white snow became so bright he had to squint against the sting in his eyes.
Nasim took one tentative step toward his position, and then he began to pace confidently forward.
A burning sensation built within Nikandr’s gut and expanded to fill his chest, his arms, his legs. He felt as if he would burst, so powerful had it become, and he found himself tightening his arms around his waist and gritting his jaw to hold off the pain.
“Nasim, don’t,” he cried, lowering his weapon.
The pain rose to new heights.
Nasim stopped at the edge of his spruce and crouched down, looking within.
While Nikandr aimed his pistol.
And pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 12
The pan flashed. Nikandr’s arm bucked, and he dropped the pistol into the snow. He hadn’t been able to hold his aim. The shot had gone wide.
The pain became too much. He pitched forward onto the ground.
He heard the crunch of footsteps as Nasim approached. He kneeled down and stared into Nikandr’s eyes, while Nikandr could do little but hold his stomach and wait. He couldn’t prevent Nasim from doing whatever it was he wished. Not anymore. The pain was too great. “Stop, Nasim, please.” Each inhalation felt like a searing iron.
The boy stared while Nikandr fought to draw breath. “Your stone was so bright,” he said.
Even through the haze of pain Nikandr was surprised. Ashanhad said that he rarely spoke, and when he did, his words were practically meaningless. He might have been lying, but Nikandr didn’t think so. For some reason, this place had brought out in him a moment of clarity.
“My-stone?”
“Blinding. Brighter than the sun.”
“On the-eyrie?” Nikandr shook his head, groaning through clenched teeth. “Not blinding. It was-hidden.”
The Winds of Khalakovo loa-1 Page 10
