The Winds of Khalakovo loa-1

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  Soroush is raging, perhaps demanding that the Maharraht fire upon him, but Nasim raises a finger, issues a thought, and the dhoshahezhan sends a bolt of lightning through him.

  The keep’s gates are shattered and ruined. Through them file a dozen streltsi led by Grigory. Several train their weapons on the Maharraht, but their weapons do not fire. A moment later they drop them as if they’ve been burned.

  The Maharraht smile-Nasim, they believe, has joined them-but moments later the same happens to them, leaving everyone weaponless with an elder spirit standing in their midst.

  Atiana is loosely connected to the Matri, but her mother begins to slip from her consciousness. She realizes too late that she is attempting to assume Nasim.

  Nyet! Atiana pleads.

  She knows what she is about, the other Matri tell her.

  She does not! Atiana shouts. Do not allow her to do this.

  We cannot abide this boy-

  Atiana does not listen. Something else has drawn her attention. She has realized how present the walls of the aether are-they are close, as they were along the rift on Uyadensk, but they are not close enough. What Nikandr has done will not complete the cycle. The walls are still too far apart for him to bridge the gap.

  She calms herself.

  As she did with the babe, as she did with Nasim before, she touches the walls, but unlike those other times she does not push them away. Instead she draws them inward.

  And they obey.

  Moments later a surge of energy courses through her.

  Nasim collapses as a storm is unleashed upon the aether. She can feel the emotions of the other Matri, but also of the Maharraht, of the streltsi, of Grigory, of Rehada somewhere outside the walls. And Nikandr.

  But she cannot feel Nasim’s.

  Or Mother’s.

  The pain grows within her until it reaches beyond the heights of the clouds, beyond even the stars.

  And she woke.

  Woke to the sound of the cold, bitter wind, her heart barely beating, her skin numb to the world.

  This cannot be, she thought sadly as she lay there, listening once again to the sad sound of the shore, to the soft breeze playing among the boughs of the pine.

  She turned her head and looked upon the trees-tall and green and proud. She stared at them a good long while, wondering where the world might take her.

  This was a good place to die, she decided-whether she was taken into the house of her ancestors or returned to Adhiya in preparation for the next life, she could be proud of what she had done.

  CHAPTER 66

  The musket shots around Rehada had stopped. The streltsi-only the sotnik and two others remained-were out of ammunition. They limped forward and placed themselves between her and the lumbering vanahezhan, protecting her, but they made no move to do the same for Ashan, who lay unconscious a dozen yards away.

  “Please,” Rehada said, “save him.”

  The sotnik, blood streaming along the side of his eye and down his cheek from a vicious cut to his forehead, looked down at her with dispassionate eyes. “I’ll not waste more lives.”

  The vanahezhan was now only a handful of strides away from Ashan.

  “He’s done his best to save you.”

  “There’s nothing we can do.”

  The vanahezhan had reached Ashan. Rehada ran forward, crying out and waving her arms, hoping to distract it, even if only for a moment. The hezhan, however, was of a singular mind. It stared down-perhaps curious over an arqesh like Ashan-but then reared up and raised its arms over its head.

  But then the ground it stood upon broke, crumbling beneath its feet. It stumbled, trying to regain its footing as more and more earth gave way. A sinkhole had opened up like some great, gaping mouth. And then, as quick and deadly as a landslide, the edges of it snapped closed with a resounding boom.

  Rehada scanned the horizon, knowing Ashan could not have done such a thing. The clouds were beginning to break apart, revealing here and there the dark blue sky. Skiffs were slipping down between them-not just a few, but dozens, then hundreds.

  The Landed caravel was still under attack. All three topsails were fluttering loose. Another broke free of the ship completely and floated on the unseen currents. She could not see the jalahezhan, but the ship suddenly began to tilt. Then the nose dipped landward. It was already low in the sky, nearing the ground, and the tilting of the forward portions of the ship caused the bowsprit to gouge a long trench into the earth.

  Rehada watched in horror as the twelve-masted ship crumbled while rolling onto its side-masts snapping and cracking in the cold wind. It slid against the snow and muddy earth for a hundred paces before finally coming to a halt.

  The jalahezhan emerged from the bowels of the ship. Perhaps sensing the newest threat, it sprayed itself against the incoming skiffs. A dozen were weighted down, and they dropped like kingfishers. Several twisted in the air like maple seeds, throwing the Aramahn within them to the fate of the winds. They plummeted and struck the earth not far from the ruined windship.

  The qiram reacted quickly. Wind was pulled from the sky to mingle with the elder. It was difficult to follow with the naked eye, but there were telltale signs of motion-sprays of blue water flowing between skiffs. A sound like the sigh of the surf drifted down from the unassuming battle, but it grew in volume until it resounded like the mighty crash of water against the cliffs below Radiskoye.

  And then, in the span of a heartbeat, the sound was gone.

  She felt someone at her shoulder. It was the younger of the two remaining streltsi, holding a cherkesska for her to wear over her naked form. She took it gladly. Even had she a bonded spirit, she was in no state to summon even a meager amount of warmth.

  She waved to the sotnik. “We must go to the keep. Quickly.”

  The sotnik paused only to retrieve a musket and to load it with ammunition retrieved from the dead. His two streltsi did likewise, and then they were off, moving as quickly as they could toward the keep.

  Off to the northwest, four large ships of the Grand Duchy had moved in and were holding position. Nearly a dozen skiffs were launched, each bearing a score of soldiers, but before they could move more than a dozen yards, they were blown back by a fierce wind.

  Rehada shaded her eyes and stared southward. This was the Aramahn’s doing. They would not allow the Landed to approach the keep-not while things were still tenuous.

  Dozens upon dozens of Aramahn skiffs were now heading toward their position. Without speaking, Rehada and Ashan and the soldiers picked up their pace-they were all eager to reach the keep’s interior before the Aramahn could do anything to prevent it.

  Inside, the fallen lay everywhere. Grigory’s men stood just inside the gates. The Maharraht were atop the wall and at the base of it. Some were clearly dead, but many were alive-lying down, eyes closed, breathing shallowly.

  “Check them,” Ashan said to the sotnik.

  The sotnik pointed for his men to check the Maharraht upon the wall. As they moved to obey, Rehada saw the sotnik pause and level a severe expression on Nasim. He seemed angry, this man, but in the end Rehada wrote it off as curiosity over the boy who had been at the center of this raging storm.

  She gave it little thought as she moved toward the spire, where Nasim lay. Nasim watched her approach, but he said nothing. She might have thought he was still in the state he’d always seemed to be in, but she knew better. His expression of pain-a nearly constant companion-had been replaced with a look of serenity. It looked strange upon him, though she was glad that he had somehow-even if it lasted only for a short time-found peace.

  Ashan looked down upon Nasim, and then to Soroush and Bersuq, who lay next to one another. Ashan seemed confused as he studied them, perhaps wondering what had come to pass within these walls.

  “Rehada?”

  She turned.

  And her breath caught.

  For long moments, she could only stare. Nikandr was standing in a doorway leading into the keep pr
oper.

  “How?” she asked.

  He did not answer. He merely strode forward and took her into a deep embrace. It was warm, and tender, and though she felt many eyes upon them, she did nothing to stop it.

  Finally she pulled away, though it was with great reluctance. She walked with him back toward the spire and kneeled to get a closer look at Nasim. She brushed a stray lock of hair away from his eyes. “Are you here with us?”

  Nasim studied her intently with his bright brown eyes. “Atiana lies upon the beach.” He turned to look at Nikandr. “There is time yet to save her.”

  Nikandr smiled and nodded. “We will, Nasim.”

  And then Rehada heard a click.

  She spun toward the gates and found the sotnik sighting along the length of his musket. For a split second she thought he was aiming at her.

  But then she understood.

  She began moving, already knowing it would be too late. He had all the time in the world.

  She fell across Nasim as the gun roared. She felt something bite the small of her back. It burned bright white and she spasmed while holding tight to Nasim.

  “ Neh!” Nasim shouted as Nikandr screamed in rage.

  Another musket was fired. Was it right above her? She could no longer tell.

  Her thigh felt warm. It had been so cold for so long she didn’t realize how badly it would tingle. She felt it along her shin as well, and then the pain became so great that she was forced to roll off Nasim and onto her back.

  She stared up at the sky. The swiftly moving clouds were continuing to break. Bits of blue could be seen, and the sun, lowering to the west, shone down upon her for the first time that day.

  Nikandr kneeled over her. He was speaking but she couldn’t tell what he was saying. Nasim was there as well. His face was not full of sorrow, as she had expected, but instead hope. She knew somewhere within herself that he was being brave for her-just as Malekh had been those many weeks ago. He had stood upon the gallows and smiled upon her. How could she not do the same for Nasim?

  She smiled as her body grew heavy. She reached up and brushed Nasim’s cheek. “Go well,” she tried to say, but the sounds were so soft she could barely hear them.

  She turned to Nikandr, who looked down on her not with a smile but with an expression of deep regret.

  “Do not be sad, Nischka,” she whispered. “We will meet again.”

  “You don’t know that,” he said.

  She managed to nod despite the pain that came with it. “We will.”

  And then, she could do no more than look upon the sky.

  She was ready.

  At last, the world, as it had before, as it would again, folded her into its sweet embrace.

  CHAPTER 67

  “Come.”

  Nikandr heard the words, but he couldn’t manage to turn away. Rehada stared unmoving at the sky. Her face had gone slack and she looked nothing like the woman he had-however imperfectly-come to know these past several years. It was painful to see her like this, but he could no more turn his gaze away than he could turn back the sands of time.

  “Come,” Ashan said, more forcefully. “There is another to attend to.”

  Finally, Nikandr complied, but before they could move from where they stood, the gates were pushed open and a dozen Aramahn men and women stepped inside. They took in the scene around them, looking to Nikandr like a tribunal ready to mete both judgment and punishment.

  “There is a woman,” Nikandr began.

  “She has been found.” It was Fahroz. But she looked so different. It felt as if he’d been gone from Khalakovo for years.

  She pointed toward the far side of the courtyard. Three score of Aramahn filed into the keep and began picking up the fallen Maharraht.

  Nikandr shook his head. “Leave them. The Duke, my father-”

  “Your father has no say in this.” The tone of her voice was emotionless, but her eyes were bright with anger. “These are our own, and will be treated as such.” She held out her hand, and Nikandr realized that she was motioning for Nasim.

  Nasim looked up at Nikandr, his eyes wide.

  Ashan stepped forward. “Do not do this, daughter of Lilliah. The boy has been through much.”

  “You have never known when you were wasting words, son of Ahrumea, but I tell you that you are doing so now. The boy comes with us.”

  Several qiram were there, their circlets aflame with the hezhan that were bonded to them. They were prepared to resist, if that was what it came to, but none of them appeared ready to welcome it.

  Ashan touched Nasim’s shoulders. “All will be well, Nasim. You must go with them.”

  “I will not.”

  Tension laced Nasim’s words. Nikandr knew what he could do-the evidence lay all around them-but something told him that the time had passed. Fahroz may have known this, but more likely she didn’t care. The Aramahn had risked much and were willing to risk more to ensure that Nasim was taken into proper care.

  Ashan kneeled next to Nasim until they were face to face. “You will be at home with them. And there is little left that I can teach you.”

  A tear leaked from Nasim’s eye and traveled down his cheek. It was followed quickly by another. “Do not lie, Ashan. Not to me.”

  Ashan smiled. “Lying is a thing with which I have become all too familiar. Better for us to be parted if only for that.” Nasim opened his mouth to speak, but Ashan talked over him. “We will see each other again-do not fear-but for now, you must go with Fahroz.”

  Nasim swallowed several times, and then turned to Nikandr. “We are one, you and I.”

  Nikandr knew this to be true. He could feel Nasim more strongly than ever before. Nikandr suspected it was due to the fact that Nasim now stood firmly in Erahm, but it was also because the rift had been healed. It was still there-like a fresh and aching wound-but it was no longer festering. Soon it would scar over and the healing of Khalakovo would begin.

  Nikandr kneeled to look Nasim in the eye. “We are, Nasim. We are one.”

  For a moment Nasim looked fragile, as if he wanted nothing more than to simply be held, to embrace someone that he loved, but then he turned on his heels and strode from the courtyard, never once looking back.

  The suddenness of it made Nikandr feel lost. “I would see him again,” Nikandr said to Fahroz.

  As the last of the Maharraht were carried out of the keep, Fahroz’s expression was deadly serious. “Do not place your hopes on such a thing, son of Saphia. As long as we are able, your paths will never again cross.”

  Two Aramahn entered the courtyard carrying a length of canvas between them. They laid it down gently near the spire, and Fahroz motioned for Nikandr to approach. “Take care of her.” With that, she left, the rest of the Aramahn filing out behind her.

  He had known Atiana was among the folds of heavy white cloth, but it was a vast relief when he kneeled and saw her face. Her clothes were beyond bloody, but her dress had been ripped away at her side, and a bolt of white cloth had been wrapped around her to stanch the bleeding. She was extremely pale, but her eyes were open, and she seemed more alert than he could have hoped for.

  “It’s all right,” Nikandr said softly.

  Atiana blinked and focused on him. A soft smile came to her lips, but then her head turned to one side and all trace of relief fled. She had spotted Rehada.

  A tear leaked down Atiana’s face.

  She seemed grieved. Truly, deeply grieved.

  Nikandr understood it not at all, but he gripped Atiana’s shoulder and whispered into her ear that everything would be all right.

  A strelet opened one of the stout iron gates of the Boyar’s mansion, and Nikandr rode out and into the streets of the old city. He passed the circle where the gibbets lay, the place that he had seen Rehada while those boys were being hanged. He had checked the court records and had come to suspect that the Aramahn boy that had been hung with the urchins was innocent of the charges-as he had claimed all along. He was not
innocent of all things, however. He had been working for Rehada, Nikandr was sure; he had been her servant, running messages between Volgorod and Izhny, perhaps since Rehada had arrived on the island.

  Nikandr shook his head as he reined his pony northward, toward Eyrie Road. He had been such a fool. He should have suspected Rehada shortly after they’d met. He had been wracking his brain for the last week, trying to piece together the clues that should have been apparent from the start, but he had so far been almost completely unsuccessful. Only in Malekh had he found any small link from Rehada to the Maharraht. She had covered her tracks well-either that or Nikandr had convinced himself that because of her beauty, because of how different her world was from his, that she could not possibly mean him harm.

  He had been a fool, but he would not change any of it. He had loved her-he was man enough to admit that now-and had things gone differently, he might never have come to know her as he had.

  “Nikandr!” The sound of another pony trotting came to him, muffled by the thin layer of snow upon the ground.

  Nikandr slowed his pony, but did not turn around.

  Ranos pulled alongside him and matched his black mare to Nikandr’s cream-colored gelding. “Where are you headed?”

  “None of your business, brother.”

  They continued to ride in silence for a time, moving from the older section of the city to one that was newer, with smaller, half-timber frames and small yards behind stout stone walls.

  “I don’t blame you for being reticent-there is much for you to consider, I’ll admit-but when the sun sets on this day, it must end. I need you.”

  “I am not a bookkeeper, Ranos.”

  “You will be running the shipping of our family.”

  “I would do this family a greater service by flying a ship.”

  “As you’ve made perfectly clear, but we can take no chances, not with Father being taken to Vostroma, not with Borund sitting on the throne of Radiskoye.”