Borund rested his musket easily in the crook of his arm. “I was beginning to wonder if you had the nerve to speak of it.”
“Atiana. I would like to extend my apology to you as well as your father, which I will when I see him again. I have acted the child. Had I acted as I should, Zhabyn might not have delayed the marriage.”
“Such a change of heart... You could hardly stand the thought of marrying her a week past.”
“I have had time to think on it, Bora. You, of anyone, should know how difficult it can be to accept the one chosen for you.”
Borund’s face reddened, and Nikandr realized at once he had made a mistake. Borund had married Nataliya Dhalingrad, daughter of Duke Leonid, and it had not been Borund who had been unreceptive, but his new bride. Borund had confessed years ago how cold she had been in their wedding bed, and how it had continued until Borund had beat her in a fit of anger. She now accepted his affections, but little more than that.
Nikandr continued, “Father is furious that he would be so taken to task in front of the entire Grand Duchy. He doesn’t deserve mistrust, especially when it was his wife who suggested the arrangement.”
The color in Borund’s face slowly faded as he reined his pony around a heather bush. “Father is merely being cautious.”
“Caution is all well and good, but his fears are unfounded.”
“Are they? Then answer me this, Nischka. Do you or do you not have the wasting?”
Nikandr felt his face go hot. Borund wasn’t even watching him, so sure was he of the answer. Nikandr wanted to deny it, but there was no point.
Atiana must have told him.
“I do, but that doesn’t mean our families cannot profit from this wedding.”
“It is not the disease I care about, but that you felt it necessary to hide the fact from us. Was Khalakovo so desperate for these contracts?”
Nikandr did not want to admit that that was true, even though both of them knew it was so. Vostroma needed it as well. Khalakovo had the deepest supply of windwood and alabaster among the islands—crucial to the flow of trade among the Duchies and to Yrstanla—but Vostroma had the shipping lanes. They needed one another, but they had been at odds for so many years that it had been difficult to overcome. If Nikandr wasn’t careful, he’d reopen those wounds.
“I am in the early stages, Borund. I had hoped to find a way...”
“To what? Cure it? When no one has so far been able to?”
Nikandr shrugged, feeling foolish.
“Set aside for the moment the wedding and your lies. There is the seat of a Grand Duchy to fill. Until that is resolved, there is little sense pursuing a union that would only get in the way.”
“I wonder what it would be getting in the way of. You were hardly viewing your sister’s marriage as a nuisance when Ranos showed you the ships that came with it.”
“Those wrecks with wings?”
“You know which ships I mean.”
“Ah, the ones you were so gracious in showing after making an ass of me in front of the entire eyrie.”
“It wasn’t—”
Borund pulled his pony to a stop and regarded Nikandr squarely. “Bolgravya is dead, Nikandr. There is treachery afoot, and my father is hardly unwise for waiting until we hear more of the affair. What I should be hearing instead of a shrill plea for the hand of Vostroma’s daughter is news on what you’ve found after your extensive enquiries.”
“We have been working diligently, Borund.”
“To what end? Why haven’t we heard more about the Motherless qiram and his boy that were spirited into the bowels of Radiskoye?”
Nikandr was not to give out any information of Ashan and Nasim, but this conversation had gone in the completely wrong direction. Borund was his oldest friend—at one time his best friend. If anyone in Vostroma’s camp would see sense, it was him.
“We found them three days after the attack. The qiram is strong, but neither Mother nor Jahalan were abletodetect aguided crossing. Your own mother corroborates that, does she not?”
Borund allowed himself a nod.
“And the boy is just a boy, a boy that has no talent with hezhan.”
As Borund stared, a cold wind passed over the meadow, making the grasses look like waves lapping against the taller heather. Even the tops of the pine trees swayed with a similar rhythm. Berza was sniffing along a rivulet—chasing a meadow mouse, perhaps.
“If this is so why have you not yet freed them?”
“Because of the seriousness. We have to be sure.”
Borund’s face steeled and his eyes thinned. “Then give the boy to us. Let Ellayah question him.”
“I told you, he is not the one. There is little talent within him, certainly none for an elder spirit.”
“Then there is nothing for him to fear. It will take little time—days, a week at the most—and if all is as you say, the boy will be returned, none the worse for the wear.”
Nikandr sat up in his saddle. “You are my friend, Borund, but be careful of your tongue. You are on Khalakovan ground, and our court rules here. Not your father’s. Not Leonid’s, nor his henchmen. Not even Stasa, ancients preserve him, could tell Khalakovo what to do. So, nyet, we will not give you the boy.”
“I understand your father, Nikandr, better than you think. He was always one to ignore the tides around him, to ignore the signs brought to him on the wind. You, I thought, were different. I can see, though, that you have fallen too close to the tree. I was embarrassed for Iaros when I first heard of your offer to come hunting. Had my father not bid me to accept, I would have refused, and I would have spat upon Khalakovo’s table for sending his son when duke should have sat with duke.”
“The meeting was my idea,” Nikandr said.
Berza, a dozen yards away, had resumed her half-crouch. She was pointing her muzzle toward the open field, but her ears were swiveling toward Nikandr.
“Then he has lost control of his own house. And if you believe—”
Borund raised his musket to his shoulder and pulled the striker to full-cock. Berza sprinted away over the meadow.
“—that I would raise friendship above my own family’s interests—”
Three grouse, fifty paces away, fluttered into the air.
“Borund! Don’t!” Nikandr pulled his reins over and kicked his pony into action.
Sparks flew from the hammer.
The gun cracked.
A brief flash of red against Berza’s brown coat.
A yelp.
And then she was lost among the tall grasses.
“—then you are sadly mistaken.”
Nikandr, his breath loud in his ears, pulled his pony up short, unable to comprehend what had just happened. He studied the grass for any sign of Berza, but there was none. The shot had been all too accurate.
“Think, Nikandr.” Borund urged his pony into a walk. He held the gun up, waited for Nikandr to meet his gaze, then threw it onto the ground between them.It landed with a dull thump. “One Landless boy against the entire Duchy seems like an ill exchange to me.”
And then his pony trotted away as Nikandr dropped from his saddle and sprinted across the meadow.
CHAPTER 27
Nikandr, carrying Berza, took the path just inside Radiskoye’s western wall to the eyrie. The streltsi on guard, clearly confused, said nothing.
Berza was heavy in his arms, a limp weight. She hadn’t deserved this. She had been a faithful friend to Nikandr her entire life. She had been loving and devoted, and well mannered save for her penchant for finding rats in the stable and eating them at the foot of Radiskoye’s grand entrance. Nikandr had never been able to rid her of that one love. Perhaps it had come from her inability to down the grouse she’d been trained to chase.
He followed a trail to a quiet place along the cliffs—a place he used to come as a child to study the water far below. In the manner of his people he set Berza down and whispered words to her departing soul. For some reason he felt sham
ed more than betrayed. He should have sensed Borund’s mood. He should have charged Borund’s pony, fouled the shot.
He was preparing to drop her over the edge when he heard the crunch of footsteps coming his way. When he turned he hoped to see Victania—he needed a friend just now—but instead he found Atiana coming his way, and as soon as he had he turned away. She was just about the last person he wished to speak with now.
She either didn’t sense his mood or purposely ignored it. She squatted down next to him, her dress folding over his right knee as she stared at the body of Berza. “Oh, Nischka... I had hoped they were lies.” She rubbed his back, a gesture that was wholly infuriating.
“What did he say?” Nikandr asked.
“He joined us late for midday meal, boasting at how well the hunt had gone, how true his one and only shot had been. Father asked what he had felled. Borund looked at him and smiled and...”
“Don’t hide it from me.”
“Nischka—”
“Tell me!”
Atiana shifted away, the stone crunching beneath her boots. “He barked like a dog. And then he set to eating his elk.”
Nikandr rubbed Berza’s coat tenderly, realizing he was powerless to avenge her death. There could be no repercussions. Not now. Not over a dog.
He wanted to ask Atiana to leave. He didn’t want the sister of the man who had done this to see his last farewell. But she had become more than that. She had come here when it was unwise to do so. If she wished to help him, then he would accept it gratefully, no matter what their future might be.
He picked Berza up, holding her in his arms while looking to the horizon. He heard Atiana whispering next to him, and when she was done, he tossed Berza from the edge of the cliff. He watched her fall, saw her splash into the white ocean waves, his eyes watering as the image of her running over the field and falling to a small spray of red played over and over within his mind.
He didn’t know how long he had been watching, but suddenly Atiana was pulling him away from the edge. She brushed dirt from the shoulder of his coat, and then looked up at him with a hardened expression.
He shrugged her away. “Did you tell him?”
“Tell him what?”
“Of the wasting?”
“Nyet.” Her confused expression was so masterful Nikandr wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth or not. “I would not have, Nikandr. I told you so that night.”
“Then how would he know?”
She shook her head. “I do not know. Perhaps he guessed.”
“We have barely seen one another, Atiana, and I have been careful.”
Her face grew cross. “I am telling you the truth.”
“Da, something the Vostromas are very good at.”
“We aren’t the ones hiding a disease that should have been revealed months ago. We aren’t the ones secreting away Aramahn that should be handed over.”
“You side with your father, then?”
“Why should I not? His demands are reasonable.”
Nikandr paused, breathing heavily, weighing his words. He was angry now that he had shared his last few moments with Berza. He should have sent her away—he should send her away now to rot with the rest of her family and their traitorous allies—but he realized she was the one small link he still had to the Vostroma family. And more than that, she was not his enemy.
“Ashan is innocent, Atiana. The boy—I am not so sure, but if he was involved, it was as a tool. He would not do something so violent.”
“How can you be sure?”
He pulled out his soulstone and showed it to her. She cringed, though whether this was from concern of his well-being or embarrassment that she might still marry a man with a broken past, he wasn’t sure.“When I first met him, he noticed my stone even though he couldn’t see it. We are connected, he and I. I know not how, but I do know this—that boy is no murderer.” He motioned toward the nearby cliff. “He is as innocent as Berza.”
She stared at the stone a moment longer, then met his gaze. “I believe you.”
“You do?”
“Strange things are happening. The blight. The wasting. When I took the dark for your mother, I saw a young girl die in her mother’s arms, taken by a hezhan. Who would have thought to see such things in our lifetime? If you say there is a link between you and the boy, if you say he is innocent, then I believe you.”
He was so shocked he found himself unable to speak for a moment. “Thank you, Atiana.”
Her eyes went far away. It was a look he knew well. It meant she was scheming. Calculating.
“What is it?” he asked.
“If it’s proof my father needs, there is one way you could provide it.”
“How?”
“The Matra could assume him.”
Nikandr sat across from Father in his drawing room, waiting for Mother to join them. A black rook, which had been sitting idly on the nearby perch, suddenly launched into a fit of flapping wings and cawing. The display ceased as soon as it had begun, but now there was a look of intelligence in the eyes that hadn’t been present moments ago.
“Good day, Mother,” Nikandr said.
The rook arched its head back and cawed once. “Quickly, Nischka. I have little time.”
“I wish to discuss Nasim.” Father opened his mouth to speak, but Nikandr talked over him. “There is little enough to report, which is why I needed to speak to you both.”
“Go on,” Father said.
“I want Mother to assume Nasim’s form.”
The moment Atiana had said it, Nikandr knew they had to try it. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He was surprised his mother hadn’t, until he realized that she probably had. It was a dangerous thing to do, made no less dangerous by Nasim’s unpredictable nature. And there were other considerations as well. It was a practice that had been used long ago by the earliest of the Matri against the Aramahn—sometimes to gain information, sometimes to control them for short periods. It was a practice that had been forbidden as part of the Covenant between the fledgling Grand Duchy and the Aramahn. Were they to resume the practice and be discovered, there would be serious repercussions from Iramanshah.
The rook flapped its wings several times.
“Impossible,” Father said as he reached up and stroked the black feathers of the bird’s breast. “Has Ranos not told you the steps Fahroz has taken?”
“All the more reason to do something now, before it’s too late.”
Aramahn were already refusing to work on Khalakovan ships. Some were still arriving, but word had already spread among the archipelago, and fewer ships bearing goods and food were arriving because of it. As hard as Volgorod had been hit by the blight, they could sustain no more than a few months without the Aramahn.
“That isn’t all,” Father said. “Zhabyn, as I feared, has delivered an ultimatum. Either we give him the boy by tomorrow morning or he and the traitor dukes leave to join the incoming fleet. He has threatened a blockade, allowing no ships to pass in or out until we give him up.”
“The same choice left to us by Fahroz.”
Father allowed himself a smile. He looked haggard, but then he turned casually toward Nikandr, a steely look in his eyes. “Barring a confession or conclusive evidence, we have two clear choices. We can give the boy to Fahroz or we can give him to Zhabyn, though the latter seems no choice at all. He will simply torture the boy to find the information he needs, and I have no doubt it will be skewed to his side of the conflict. Which leaves the Aramahn... It grates that they have demanded the boy, but they are in the right here. We have nothing to offer them for evidence, so if we assume the boy’s mind and word ever reached them that we had, we would be left with nothing.”
“It isn’t whether or not he had something to do with the crossing. It’s in what capacity. Who used him, and why? Can they do so again? And if so, when?”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“No one will know. We’ll find an excuse to keep Ja
halan and Udra away, and we can move Ashan to another cell. Even if Nasim understands what’s happening to him, he’ll most likely never tell a soul, and even if he does, it would be easy to deny.”
Father stared into Nikandr’s eyes, clearly doubting the soundness of this decision, but then the rook croaked and pecked at the crossbar it was standing on. “We will do it.”
Father looked shocked. “You are sure?”
The rook cawed. “You are right to worry over the threats we face from the dukes and the Aramahn, both, but I fear we have not been paying enough attention to what this boy might have done. What he might have leveraged here on Khalakovo to summon such a beast. If there is some small risk of giving offense, then I say the risk is worth it.”
Father considered this for a time, but then nodded. “It will be done. Tonight.”
CHAPTER 28
Rehada, flying high over the island under a bright and cloudless sky, adjusted her hold on the sail lines, maneuvering the skiff to a more westerly course. Unlike the larger Landed ships, the skiff had only a single keel running fore to aft that kept the craft aligned with the ley lines of the island below her. It was a simple craft, not so different from the ships used in the early days of exploration, granted life by the nature of the windwood hull and the dhoshaqiram shipwright who had cured and shaped it.
There was much to do today, but Rehada’s thoughts kept slipping back to her time with Nasim deep in the roots of Radiskoye. The heat. The pain. So intense. She had never been at the mercy of the elements in that manner. Always, even when she was young, even while she was learning, she had been in control. Even when she offered herself up to the flame in penance for her thoughts, she was in control. There, sitting with Nasim, she had been at his mercy.
And there was no doubt that he had been the one pulling the strings. The only question was whether or not he had understood what he was doing, whether it was malicious or not. She didn’t think so, mainly because of what had come before.
Over the years—especially when she was new to the ways of bonding—she had hoped through her bonding that she could understand more about the world beyond and so learn more about this life. She had hoped to learn what she could expect when she passed and how she might better prepare herself for her next life—all in hopes of one day reaching vashaqiram.
The Winds of Khalakovo Page 23
