The Winds of Khalakovo

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “But Borund said you have given Iaros a choice. If he steps down, you will not attack.”

  “First, Iaros would never do such a thing.” He downed the last of his vodka and slapped the mug down onto the table. “Never. Second, your brother has left out an important detail. We demanded the boy as proof of their sincerity.”

  “They don’t have the boy.”

  The grin that Grigory pasted onto his face was one that Atiana dearly wished she could wipe from it. “Just so.”

  “So our fathers and the other dukes would tear down the north so they can what? Install their own men in their stead?”

  “Is there any other choice?”

  “It cannot hold.”

  “Neither can the status quo. Did you know, Atiana, that while you were holed up in Radiskoye, there were food riots on Nodhvyansk and Bolgravya?”

  Atiana tried to hide her surprise. “I did not.”

  “One of them on Tolvodyen lasted four days. And while it is clear that the Maharraht are focusing their attention on Khalakovo—ancients only know why—they still have enough strength to stage a crippling raid on a keep in Dhalingrad.”

  “Times are hard.”

  “This is my point.” The vein along the side of Grigory’s forehead pulsed heavily. “There is no room for error in the seasons to come. If we do not do something, there will be nothing left. For anyone.”

  “So why not take what we want...”

  “Da! Why not? You may not have noticed while playing trump with your sisters, but Khalakovo has been lording their advantage over your father and the rest of us for decades. It is time that came to an end. It is time for the balance to shift.”

  As he reached forward to pour himself another drink, Atiana was drawn by something shifting within his shirt. She had seen his chain when he had walked out to meet her, but she had paid no attention. Nearly all the men in the Grand Duchy wore their soulstones on stout chains such as his, but she realized now that he didn’t wear just one chain; he wore two.

  One held Grigory’s stone, of course, but she knew now that the other held Nikandr’s. It only made sense. He was in an unfamiliar place in a dangerous time. He would want such a prize close at all times. Plus, it would feed his fragile ego, lording Nikandr’s stone like a prize. It was not normally done, as the stone, despite its long affiliation to Nikandr, would be imprinted with some of Grigory’s soul, his thoughts. When Nikandr was reunited with it, it would have a stain, a scent that would taint Nikandr’s life for years to come.

  Atiana quickly finished the last of her drink and placed the mug next to his. He paused, looking up at her with a harsh expression, but then he relaxed and filled both mugs a healthy amount.

  Atiana shrugged as she accepted hers from him. “It’s true. Khalakovo has been unrelenting in his diplomacy.”

  “You have a gift for understatement.”

  She allowed a smile to warm her face. “Well, then—how can I say this?— it’s good to be in a place where I’m wanted.” She held his gaze. “Assuming, of course, that I am wanted.”

  “Of you, I could say nothing else.”

  She glanced at the bed in the corner, utterly unsure of how she was going to get the necklace away from him. “It feels like years since I’ve been in a proper bed.”

  He stood, a token of gentlemanly behavior. “Do you wish to rest?”

  “I am more tired than I have ever been, Bolgravya.” She downed the last of her second glass of liquor, willing it to fill her so that she might be numb to at least a portion of what was to come.“But in all sincerity”—she stood, moving toward him until they were face to face; she set the mug down, allowing her free hand to run along the front of his shirt—“that is the furthest thing from my mind.”

  Nearly an hour later, they lay naked in his bed, Grigory snoring softly and Atiana fighting to stay awake. He had refused, even through their lovemaking, to remove his necklace. She had not forced the issue, for she hadn’t wished to draw attention to it, but the time was nearing where either she would be sent inland or he would be called away for further duty.

  She nuzzled closer, laying her hand on his hairless white chest, far away from the bandages that were wrapped around his right shoulder. When he did not stir, she picked up the soulstone that she had known to be deadened. She had seen it in the shattered hallway in Radiskoye just before Nikandr had left. How, then, had it regained life? Had it been that it had never been truly lifeless? Had it merely been a temporary effect? Nikandr had been so certain—surely if it had held even a single spark of life, he would have sensed it.

  She placed her hand on the stone and lifted it. She was careful not to let the chain tickle his skin, though given the amount of liquor he had imbued, she doubted he would feel something so subtle.

  She examined the chain and the setting. It was sound—as all such chains were made to be. She might be able to slip it over his head, but she would much rather remove only the stone, perhaps the setting as well, so that he would still feel the two chains around his neck and hopefully not notice the missing gem until it was too late.

  Seeing no real alternative, she slipped out from underneath the covers and stood next to the bed, holding it for a moment to steady herself from the haze of alcohol running through her. She searched the room for anything that might help her, but it was so spare. There was a well-stocked liquor cabinet, clothes, two fish oil lanterns, some simple pottery, several leather-bound books... There was also a stack of orders containing the signature of her father, Zhabyn Olegov Vostroma. She paged through them, intrigued, but they were mundane—all of them detailing the supplies that were to be given to Grigory and his ship from the hastily constructed supply house here on Duzol.

  Her heart jumped as Grigory shifted onto his side, both his stone and Nikandr’s slipping down into the soft bedding. And then she spied his clothes lying on the floor next to the bed. On his black leather belt was a sheath that held his ceremonial kindjal. Her eyes darted between the blade and the stones, then she padded forward and slipped the kindjal free of its pristine leather sheath. Holding it behind her, she slipped back under the covers. She eyed the stones, pulling Nikandr’s far enough away from Grigory’s so that she would have enough room to do what she needed to do. Once she was satisfied with its position, she placed the tip of the knife onto the heavy link that connected the stone’s setting to the chain itself. She held it with both hands and bore down on it with all her weight.

  Either the knife was not sharp enough or the metal was too strong, for all that happened was that it pulled the bedding far enough that it roused Grigory. He lifted his arm and scratched his neck, but then he drifted back to sleep.

  After counting slowly to thirty, she repositioned the stone and leaned on the knife again. She raised herself up higher and pressed her weight downward, hoping it would be enough to break the link. She tried again and again. On the fourth try, the link broke with an audible but muffled clink.

  And then she looked up as Grigory sharply drew breath.

  By the ancients, he was staring straight at her.

  CHAPTER 57

  Atiana was certain that Grigory would snatch the kindjal from her and plunge it into her chest—just as she had done with the necklace’s link—but when she realized he was staring into her eyes she knew that he didn’t yet understand what had woken him.

  The kindjal had plunged down into the mattress so that by and large it was hidden. She shot forward, onto his chest, covering the knife with her belly as she kissed him passionately. She slid the knife up and underneath her now-vacant pillow as she climbed higher, allowing her breasts to brush against his arm and then his naked chest.

  He grimaced in pain and pulled away, looking at her, not unkindly, but certainly not with the fervor of their one and only time between the sheets. He closed his eyes tightly and shook them open. “How long have I been asleep?”

  She smiled the smile of the love-struck while searching delicately but with a growing sense of u
rgency for Nikandr’s stone, which had slipped away in her attempts to divert Grigory’s attention. “Who cares?”

  “Atiana, please. Your father’s men should be arriving sometime today to transfer your one-time fiancé to a manor house down the hill.”

  “Nikandr is here?”

  He pulled the covers away and sat up, looming over her as she lay there. From the corner of her eye she saw the stone slip down into the depression his right knee was creating. She reached up and scratched his stomach to keep his attention riveted to her.

  He nearly doubled over—a ticklish man—and climbed over her to reach the floor. Immediately she released her hold of the knife, trusting that a man like Grigory wouldn’t adjust the pillows, and placed herself squarely on top of the stone.

  “Would that interest you?”

  Now that he was gone from the bed and pulling his clothes on, she allowed the expression upon her face to slip to one of concern, and then to anger. “Perhaps you didn’t hear what happened on Radiskoye’s eyrie, Griga, but a gun was held to my head, and Nikandr’s father had his finger on the trigger. I know in my heart the craven nearly ended a woman’s life because his son had been taken from him. I have words for his son—words about his father, words about Nikandr himself—that I would say to him before all of this is over.”

  “Then come, and we will visit him—”

  “They are words for Nikandr alone...”

  Grigory stopped as he was pulling on his belt. She thought he had noticed his knife missing, but he was staring directly at her. “Nyet,” he said with a satisfied smile. “Anything you wish to say to Nikandr you can say in front of your future husband.”

  She slipped from the bed as he was pulling his shirt over his head. In one smooth motion she positioned the stone beneath the pillow and pulled the knife out from underneath it. She embraced Grigory before he could fully pull the shirt on and slipped the kindjal into its sheath while hugging him tightly. “Fair enough,” she said, kissing him on the mouth as his head emerged from the confines of his shirt.

  “Enough.” He pulled away, favoring his wounded shoulder. “I have much to do. Get yourself dressed and meet me outside.”

  As he opened the door, two streltsi further up the hall looked in their direction. Grigory didn’t make an attempt to block their view of the room—or more importantly, Atiana standing naked within it. He closed the door behind him like a wolf who had just won his bitch... Nyet, she thought, like a young, impudent aristocrat who’d claimed the prize no one thought him capable of winning.

  She turned to the bed and spit upon it.

  And then she retrieved Nikandr’s stone before pulling on her clothes.

  The door before her clanked as the gaoler turned the keys. The immense door—after a hard shove from the gaoler—opened with a horrible groan. Atiana stepped inside. Dim light came from small windows worked into the stone walls.

  There were four cells in the tight space with a wide aisleway between them. All four were occupied, and in the dimness, Atiana was having trouble discerning where Nikandr was being held. Two crewmen occupied the leftmost cells. In the first cell on the right was an Aramahn man with a mop of curly brown hair and a short, ragged beard.

  In the final cell, lying on the straw layering the cell floor, was Nikandr, but he did not rise as she approached.

  “Stand, Khalakovo,” Atiana said.

  He jumped as she spoke. Her stomach churned as he rolled slowly over. Grigory had not mentioned that he was in such a state, and she realized that the information had been withheld for a purpose—Grigory had wanted to see her reaction as she laid eyes on him. Beyond her initial shock—which she hoped Grigory had not been able to see so well in the darkness—she hid her emotions well. She kept a steely gaze on Nikandr as he made it first to all fours, then to his knees. He breathed deeply, coughing painfully several times, before summoning the energy to pull himself up to his feet.

  His face was a mass of black and purple bruises. His lip was swollen and cut, and the blood that had leaked from a gash along the bridge of his nose ran down his face and into the stubble along his lip and chin and neck. She found it impossible not to let some emotion show while staring at him. She wondered how long it had taken them, how much it had hurt.

  But more than this, Nikandr looked frail, sunken. His eyes were dark, and his cheeks had started to draw inward. The wasting had progressed quickly in the time since she’d last seen him. He had looked, not whole, but vibrant still, in that hallway of Radiskoye before he’d left on his ship. She had still harbored visions of their future together, but now... How could anyone envision a future with a man that looked like he would be dead in the span of months, perhaps weeks?

  And yet she found, as she stared placidly into his eyes, that the feelings hadn’t diminished. They’d grown in strength. There was a certain fire within him, not unlike Victania, that one had to admire.

  “I see there is little enough left for me to do.”

  Nikandr staggered forward and grabbed the iron bars of the cell. He glared at her, then Grigory, without speaking.

  “Come, Nischka,” Grigory said. “Don’t tell me you aren’t going to wish us a fruitful marriage...”

  Atiana turned to Grigory. “I was under the impression that I was the one who would speak with him.”

  Grigory smiled and then laughed, showing the imperfect canines that hung high above his otherwise flawless teeth. He bowed his head and flourished a hand toward Nikandr, clamping his mouth in an exaggerated fashion.

  Atiana turned back to Nikandr and stepped up to the bars. Had she wanted to, she could have leaned forward and kissed his hands. “I had at one time thought our arrangement necessary.”

  Nikandr stared, perhaps confused.

  Atiana continued, “Perhaps in time I could have grown to stomach it, but after seeing how low your father will stoop, I have no doubt you’re already on your way to following in his footsteps. Grigory knew the day of the Grand Duke’s murder how gutless you were, but I had convinced myself it was otherwise.”

  When Nikandr spoke, it was with a scratchy voice that sounded like it hadn’t been used in weeks. “Grigory, it seems, is very wise.”

  “Do not jest, Khalakovo. As far as this war has come, there is little time left for such things.”

  “I wasn’t aware we were at war.”

  “Well you should have! It was inevitable, and you should have foreseen it—you as well as your mother and father.”

  The look of betrayal and hurt on his face drove a spike of regret through her heart. “Perhaps we should have murdered all of you in your sleep as your father and brother tried to do to us.”

  “If that had been his plan, Nischka, you would not be alive today.” She took a step forward and took his hand. He allowed her to take it, and she was glad, for it was the only thing she could think to do. She spit upon his hand, and, using a quick move, slipped the stone into his palm and closed his fingers around it.

  Nikandr stared at his fist, confusion plain on his face.

  “Surprised?” Atiana said. “Perhaps now you’ll run to your mother like you used to when we were children.” She turned and headed for the door. “I should have known even then, seeing how quick you were to beg for her help.”

  Grigory’s eyes were full of amusement and deep satisfaction, but she didn’t spare him more than a glance for fear she would spit in his face.

  She walked out, hoping Nikandr had the sense to keep the stone hidden until they were gone. Thankfully, Grigory followed, his lust for gloating apparently sated.

  She was moved within the hour to a manor house far down the hill near a small village called Laksova. Her father and the other dukes were supposed to have arrived before evening meal, but they were late. She wondered, late at night while listening to the cannon fire coming from Oshtoyets, whether it was because there was movement afoot on the part of the Khalakovos. She worried for Nikandr—many things could go wrong in any attempt to free him from his pr
ison.

  Long after the sounds of cannon and musket fire had ceased, she lay awake, unable to find sleep. The morning sun began to brighten the window of the bedroom. She went down for a breakfast of cheese and apples, and though the cheese was sour and the apples withered, she wolfed them down, ravenous after how little she had eaten over the past few days. Borund and Grigory entered the narrow eating hall as she was finishing her still-steaming cup of tea.

  Borund stood across the table from her, staring down at her as if she were still a little girl. “You should have been safe on Vostroma by now.”

  “I will not be told where to go, Bora. Not any longer.”

  “We are at war, Tiana. This is no time for your obstinate ways.”

  “It seems to me the men are the obstinate ones. If the Matri had been allowed to discuss this before Father sanctioned this foolish plan, we would all be having tea in Radiskoye, laughing at our foolishness.”

  Borund looked furious. “Is that what you think?”

  “Can there be any doubt?”

  “Perhaps, dear sister, you are thinking with your loins.”

  Both Borund and Grigory were staring at her with judgmental looks. Clearly they were waiting for her to confess.

  “If there’s something you wish to say, Borund, you ought to come out and say it.”

  “Did you arrange for Nikandr’s rescue?”

  With nonchalance, she raised her eyebrows and took a bite from the browned flesh of her half-eaten apple. “I wasn’t aware that he had been.”

  “You surely were,” Grigory said. His face was red now, and it took all the concentration Atiana possessed not to stare at his neck, at the chain that had not so long ago held Nikandr’s soulstone.

  “I most surely was not. It seems to me that he was in your charge, Grigory, not mine.”

  He was desperate to accuse her, but he could not—to admit that she had taken Nikandr’s stone would be admitting his own failure, and he would not do so before Borund, so he set his jaw and remained silent, pointedly keeping his eyes fixed downward.