But if that was true—that there was some connection with the wasting—why had it chosen Stasa over Victania or Nikandr or one of the other nobles who had taken ill? Stasa was clearly in the final stages of the disease. Did that have some effect? Or perhaps his age had something to do with it; Stasa had lived a full life, and it was known that the hezhan thirsted for the experience of the real world.
The other dukes, of course, would have none of this talk. They believed it to be no more, no less, than assassination. The Maharraht were bent on their destruction. What better way to reach their goals than to throw the Grand Duchy into chaos during Council? Attempts had certainly been made before, and though the ancestors had been kind in that no duke had yet fallen to those attacks, others had—princes, boyars, posadni, polkovni, magistrates.
As the wind picked up, blowing the light snow into his face, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Nasim had been involved. He was a curious child, with powers that in all likelihood even his guardian didn’t understand. And the other night he had seemed innocent, albeit out of touch with reality. How could someone so unpredictable be such a crucial part of the Maharraht’s plans? Yet in this lay another problem: the Aramahn were able to commune with spirits across the void of the aether. A century ago it wasn’t all that uncommon to find those with the ability to guide them across the black and into the material world, but those days were long gone—as far as he knew, no Aramahn had been able to summon a spirit of any size for decades. The reduction in their abilities was felt to be part and parcel of the blight, the increase in storm activity, and the scarcity of fish and game. Had the Maharraht somehow uncovered some lost bit of knowledge? Had they now perfected it?
If so, it would seem that Mother would have sensed it. Father had questioned her mercilessly on this subject, and she claimed that she had sensed no summoning. Could she have been mistaken? Could her attention have been focused elsewhere? Mother was resolute, and the other Matri had apparently—grudgingly in some cases—agreed. Not that the Matri were always perfect. They weren’t. There had been times when they had been fooled by particularly gifted qiram, but those times had been in those now-ancient days when the Landed women were first learning to touch the aether. They were so much more aware now that Nikandr doubted they could be fooled in any significant way.
Udra finally opened her eyes. She touched a finger to the soot and rubbed it between her fingers. She drew in a long, slow breath. Satisfied, she set her palms against the burnt earth and closed her eyes, the heavy wrinkles along her eyes and mouth deepening.
He stalked over the grass and stopped just short of Udra. “For the love of the ancients, have you found nothing new?”
She opened her eyes, still keeping her palms to the burnt earth. Then she stood deliberately and regarded Nikandr. “Is this not important?”
“It is.”
“Then leave me to my work.”
“I would know what you’ve found.”
She stared at Nikandr as if she’d just sucked on a lime. He suspected it was because she had so far been unable to learn the nature of the crossing.
“The hezhan crossed, but no Aramahn drew it.”
“Then it crossed through a crease.”
“Neh.” She turned and regarded the burn. “There are indications that it was drawn.”
“But you said no Aramahn was present.”
She nodded. “That is what I said.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, and I never will if you don’t leave me to my work.”
“Nischka!”
Nikandr spun, ready to bite the head off the strelet who had spoken to him so, but he was surprised to find Ranos on his roan pony, beckoning him. A black rook on Ranos’s shoulder, thrown off balance by his movement, flapped several times before settling.
The day of the attack, a rook had been sent to Iramanshah to treat with the mahtar. They claimed that Ashan and Nasim had both gone missing. Nasim had left the night before the attack, and Ashan had gone searching for him. Neither had been seen since. Mother asked for permission to search Iramanshah and the lands around it themselves, and the mahtar had eventually agreed. Ranos had gone himself and was just now returning.
Sparing a frown for Udra, Nikandr mounted his pony and rode to meet Ranos. Together, they headed through the trees back toward the palotza road.
“What news?” Nikandr asked. Just then a wave of nausea struck him so fiercely he was forced to lean forward in his saddle to keep himself from vomiting over himself and his pony. He breathed deeply, pushing himself into a normal riding position.
Ranos was clearly lost in thought, for he answered as if nothing had happened. “They allowed me to search the rooms Ashan was given for his stay. There was nothing useful. A few blankets. A small telescope. Everything else he took with him when he left to find Nasim. And what’s worse, the mahtar refused our petition. If Ashan and Nasim are found, they claimed the right to take them into custody themselves until we present more evidence of their involvement.”
The nausea began to pass, and Ranos’s words began to sink in. It was not the best of news. A covenant had been drafted long ago, outlining the terms under which the Aramahn would lend their services to the Grand Duchy. Much of it related to the number of Aramahn that would be granted to each Duchy every month, their duties and compensation, which largely consisted of passage from island to island and a measure of the stones they used to bond with hezhan. It also detailed the strictures of how the Aramahn would be treated, especially with respect to those suspected of committing crimes under Grand Duchy law. Except in cases of a select few crimes, the Aramahn were to be given the option of trial by their own people, and they were to be allowed the right to decide punishment. The murder of the Grand Duke certainly qualified as serious, but there still needed to be some evidence tying the accused to the crime itself, and at this point they had practically no evidence whatsoever.
“Nasim is involved, Ranya. I’m sure of it.”
“That may be so, but they will claim, rightly, that the Maharraht were behind the attack, and without something concrete, they will have rights to withhold their qiram from service to Khalakovo.”
They came to the road where a dozen streltsi waited on ponies, ready to accompany Ranos toward Radiskoye. Every third man held a dousing rod instead of a musket. Six went on ahead, while the others fell to the rear.
“So what do we do?” Nikandr asked.
Ranos paused, the hooves of their ponies muffled by the thick blanket of snow over the road. “We find them before Iramanshah does.”
Five sotni had been sent to search for them, but even with five hundred men, it was doubtful they would be found. Three days had already passed and they’d found nothing. It would help their chances greatly if Mother could spend her time searching, but she could not. It was too important to monitor the land directly around the palotza for immediate threats. If she went too far afield, she risked missing another attack entirely, and that was something Khalakovo could not afford. So it would be left to the soldiers, and even if they numbered in the thousands, it would still be difficult to locate someone who wished to remain hidden. The mountainous island positively brimmed with small, hidden valleys that would be difficult to navigate before the summer thaw. And besides, it was entirely possible that they’d left the island; by now they could be on Duzol, Grakhosk, Yfa, even Kravozhny.
Ranos cringed as the rook on his shoulder cawed raucously and flapped its wings.
“They have been found,” the rook said.
“The Maharraht?” Ranos asked.
“The boy and his guardian, south of the lake.”
Nikandr reflexively looked northward—as did Ranos—to the high ridge above them.
The rook craned its neck as the feathers along its head and neck crested. “Send men to Jahalan and have him search the lake immediately. A larger ship will follow.” It cawed several more times as Mother left its body, surely to spread the word.
/> Ranos was looking at the men, probably deciding which he would send.
“I’ll take them,” Nikandr said before Ranos could order them to go alone. His heart was beating madly.
Ranos snapped his head toward Nikandr. “You cannot go, Nischka.”
“I must.”
“Leave this to the streltsi.”
Nikandr bowed his head to the men. “I will, but I can help.” He pulled his reins over, waiting for Ranos to give the word.
Ranos stared at him, clearly conflicted. He glanced up at the ridge, toward the lake, and then nodded to the four nearest men with muskets at the ready to follow him. “Be careful, Nischka.”
“I will, brother.”
The wind was bitterly cold near the peak, but there had been no time to find proper clothing. The skiff bucked with the currents, though Jahalan was doing his best to control them. The clouds had parted, and the snow had dropped to light flurries. They soared over the westward side of the mountain and saw the crystal reflection of the sun off the dark, deep lake nestled into a plateau about a third of the way down the shallow slope. They had made the circuit of the lake once, but so far they’d seen nothing.
Nikandr’s stomach had been strangely silent since he’d left the palotza, but it was beginning to grumble once more. He didn’t take his elixir out for fear that the streltsi would expect the traditional passing of the flask.
A forest of spruce and windwood and fir crowded most of the shoreline, but there was a wide meadow to the north, an area that led to a sheer cliff.
“Check near the meadow again,” Nikandr said.
Jahalan began adjusting the wind, pulling at the ropes tied to the skiff’s billowing sail.
They had just crossed the center of the lake when Nikandr felt something in his gut—a deepening of the wasting combined with an awareness that broadened well beyond the mundane senses. The wind was loud in his ears, but as time passed, he felt the currents about him, felt snowflakes drifting downward, felt the drifts shifting ever so slightly over the flat landscape of the frozen lake. He felt the wind as it funneled through the branches of the trees, over hills, into the dens of winter wolves.
It was similar to what he had felt with Nasim, but it was not so all encompassing as before. He guessed it was what a qiram must feel, as if his mind were now opened to the element of wind. It was unlike anything he’d experienced before. It was freeing, humbling, terrifying—all in the same breath.
“East, Jahalan,” he said in a deep, steady tone. “Head east.”
Jahalan glanced down at him from his struggle with the sail, but then complied. They followed the line of the cliff, which shallowed until eventually low and high ground met at a steeply falling slope. Folds of the mountain met there, and in spring a healthy stream would flow as the snow melted, but for now it created a natural pathway for anyone to trek downward from the heights of Verodnaya.
“There!” one of the streltsi shouted.
“Lower your voice,” Nikandr said, scanning the ground where the strelet had pointed.
And there they were—a half-dozen men in heavy winter robes making their way down the streambed. Nasim walked between the men. He moved easily, as if he’d been born among the mountains. Ashan was behind him. It was easy to tell, for he wore no turban where the others did. His brown curly hair was blown by the strong wind.
“Ready muskets... Jahalan, move in directly behind them and drop us down slowly.”
The streltsi trained their weapons over the edge of the skiff and pulled the hammers to full cock. Nikandr did the same with his own musket. He stared down the barrel, but found it difficult to concentrate. He had hoped his sense of the wind would weaken, for it made it nearly impossible to focus, but it was intensifying. Branches swayed. Snowflakes fell onto individual pine needles. Wind flowed through the folds of cloth in the Maharraht’s robes. He even felt Jahalan’s havahezhan manipulating the wind to control the direction of the skiff.
His mind was no longer wholly his own, and he wondered how he could sense such things. Even his mother could not see the bond to a qiram’s hezhan or the hezhan itself; she was limited to sensing the magic the qiram employed as it was drawn through the aether.
The skiff was now less than a hundred yards away. The men were itching to fire, but Nikandr withheld the order. Muskets were inaccurate, and he wanted to get as close as he could.
The Maharraht at the rear of the line—the very same one Nikandr had winged with his shot from the Gorovna—turned and scanned the sky above.
“Fire,” Nikandr said softly.
The Maharraht shouted in Mahndi.
Four muskets barked, the light from their pans flashing.
One of the Maharraht dropped. Ashan grabbed Nasim and ran for the nearby trees. Two Maharraht turned to face the skiff. They raised their hands, their eyes closed in a look of concentration. Wind began to howl around the ship, overwhelming Jahalan’s attempts to prevent it.
Nikandr sighted along his musket, aiming at the closest of the Maharraht wind masters, but at the last moment he adjusted, aiming it at Ashan.
He squeezed the trigger. The musket bucked just before the skiff was thrown roughly downward, and he lost sight of his target in the confusion.
Jahalan struggled against the sudden attack. Their descent was arrested, but the skiff still struck the ground hard. Nikandr held tight to the gunwale and lost his musket in the harsh landing. One of the streltsi screamed. Another was thrown backward. He hit his head on the thwart behind him and lay at the bottom of the skiff, unmoving, blood streaming from a cut beneath his blond hair.
The snow flew upward around them, turning the world white. The sound of it was like a roaring waterfall. Jahalan, who was within arm’s reach, lifted his hands and a great gust of wind shook the skiff and swirled the snow upward. He was trying to stave off the attack, but it wasn’t working.
More snow piled up around them. Nikandr recovered his musket and tried to reload it, but the wind was so strong there was no way he could prime the pan—the wind blew the powder away before he could close the frizzen. One of the two streltsi still conscious had managed to reload his weapon, but he had nowhere to aim. They could see only snow. Impossibly thick snow. It was already up to the gunwales, and climbing higher.
Jahalan screamed in rage or pain or frustration.
“Come!” Nikandr shouted. “This way!”
Jahalan allowed himself to be led out of the skiff. The snow was up to their chests, and though it looked to be powdery and easy to navigate, it was not. They sunk deeper with each step, and it seemed to be compacting as the seconds wore on. Before they had gone further than a dozen paces movement became nearly impossible. Nikandr tried using his musket to lever himself forward, but this got him nowhere.
The others were no better off. The snow continued to pile, reaching their necks, then their mouths. Finally it was up to their ears and they were fighting just to climb their way out of the rapidly deepening drift.
Nikandr struggled his way higher, but the snow, already tight against his body, became tighter with the movement. The snow piled above his head, sending his fear to new heights. The bright light of the sky dimmed. Then, as the snow continued to pile higher, it darkened, until all around him was blackness and the only thing he could hear was the desperate sound of his own breathing.
CHAPTER 19
As the howling of the wind began to deaden, Nikandr felt his bond to the wind intensify—the gusts around him, the whorl of the snow from hundreds of yards in every direction, the touch that the two Maharraht and Jahalan had with their hezhan—and it was then that he recognized a bond to one other.
Himself.
A hezhan.
Bound to him.
Impossible. He was not Aramahn, to bond with a spirit. He had no stone of alabaster; he had performed no ritual.
Why then? Why had a hezhan bound itself to him?
His breathing had begun to weaken. His body was deathly cold. His heart beat softly.
He fought against the elements, fought for life, and though his body did not answer the call, the wind did.
It blew from the west, swooping in and scouring the landscape behind them. It gouged at the snow where it was thin, biting at rock and soil when the snow had been scraped away. It ate at the drift where Nikandr and the others were buried, ablating it like the rare, summer sun against the winter pack. Large chunks cracked and were blown away, and soon, he was free down to the shoulders.
A hail of stone and ice struck him from behind. He willed the wind to stop, and just like that, it was gone. One last gust, and then silence reigned once more.
He was chilled to the bone. He ached like he had never ached before. He was also still encased in the snow, his arms barely able to move. More alarming than these sensations, however, was the fact that he could no longer sense the hezhan. It was gone, and rather than provide any sort of comfort, it felt as if a limb had gone missing, as if the hezhan had always been a part of him, and now that he’d been awakened to it, a deep yearning was all that remained.
Footsteps crunched across the snow. Nasim was walking toward him, alone. Ashan was nowhere to be seen. Nikandr’s shot must have struck true, though he hoped that it had only wounded him.
Nasim dropped to his knees and stared into Nikandr’s eyes.
He was crying.
The sun, casting dark shadows over much of his face, made the tears falling down his cheeks glint like stars.
“Why do you cry?” Nikandr asked.
He didn’t answer—Nikandr wasn’t even sure the boy had understood the question—but he began digging Nikandr out of the snow with his bare hands.
Finally, Nikandr was able to crawl out of his prison. Jahalan was out as well, and he moved to help the streltsi, but Nikandr kneeled before Nasim, who looked miserable. He was hugging himself, refusing to look Nikandr in the eye.
The Winds of Khalakovo Page 16
