The Winds of Khalakovo (17 page)

He was holding in one hand a stone of red jasper. When she had propped herself like he was, he slid it toward her. “Take this to the woman you were speaking with today.”

Rehada picked it up and examined it. It seemed unremarkable. “Why?”

“It will accelerate the wasting. Bersuq believes that when someone of stone dies, he will be able to summon his vanahezhan.”

“Gierten doesn’t have the wasting.”

He shook his head, slowly but seriously. “
Neh
, but the babe does.”

“How can you know?”

“I know.”

Rehada felt the blood drain from her face. The babe. Gierten’s ninemonth-old daughter.

“The Matra will take notice.”

He nodded, a sober gesture. “We hope that it is so.”

“But why?”

“Because it is nearly time.”

She pressed him for more, but that was all he would say on the subject. He pulled himself from the bed and began to dress. He stopped as he picked up his turban cloth. “Do you find this distasteful?”

The babe has done nothing to us, she thought. The words were on her tongue, ready to speak, when Soroush cut her off.

“The fates play strange games, do they not?” He began wrapping the cloth around his head. “The babe had two cards played against her. She is of earth, and she was born to the Landed. That is enough.” He finished with his robes and stared down at her while cinching them around his waist.

She returned his gaze, emotions warring within her. She had resolved herself that doing what she did on this island might lead to deaths, even those of children. She might even be called to take up the knife herself. But to inflict something upon a babe when her Ahya had suffered the very same fate. It didn’t seem right.

But Soroush’s smoldering expression of anger reminded her of how strong she needed to be. He was an undying flame, a ceaseless wind. If he could do all that he did, even after losing his ability to commune with hezhan, then she could give up one child.

“What must be done?”

“Place the jasper near the babe. The stone will do the rest.”

She stared at the jasper, an unremarkable stone the color of salmon flesh. Such a dangerous game they were playing. It felt like they were stepping in the paths of the fates, and it rested uneasy in Rehada’s gut. But perhaps that was what needed to be done, as the fates had so far seemed unwilling to aid their cause.

“It will be done,” she said shortly.

He nodded once, and then was gone.

Rehada approached the house, her heart thumping madly.

Gierten was sitting on the front porch in a chair, her hands working quickly to repair the fishing net that lay across her lap. A basket was nearby, the same one that had been hanging from the donkey two days before.

Gierten looked up, her thin face staring at Rehada with a mixture of confusion and charity. “Rehada, welcome. What brings you?”

Rehada shook her head. “I was on my way to Izhny, and I thought I’d stop by to offer you a present for your daughter.”

Gierten waited, her hands pausing in their work, as Rehada stepped onto the porch.

Rehada could see the babe from the corner of her eye, but she couldn’t find it in herself to look at her just yet. Instead she held out a string with a piece of coral in the shape of a windwood tree. She had made it for Ahya, and though parting with it was like chopping off a finger, she would give Gierten’s babe something to guide her in her next life. “We give them to our children for luck. I have no need for it anymore, so I hope you’ll accept it for Evina.”

Gierten didn’t move, and she looked like a woman who was about to make excuses for a gift that made no sense to her, but Rehada talked over her before she could protest.

“You would be doing me a favor. It brings only bad memories. It would please me to know that it was doing some good in the world instead of dredging up the past.”

Gierten paused for a moment, and then she smiled. She accepted the gift, nodding once. “It would be an honor. Thank you.”

Before she lost heart, Rehada kneeled before the babe, palming the stone of jasper in one hand. “Do you mind if I held her?”

She plunged her hands into the basket and picked Evina up without waiting for permission, leaving the stone among the folds of the padding blanket at the bottom as she did so.

She held the baby, staring into her eyes, fighting off the tears that were threatening to surface. She knew she should be rocking the babe, should be bouncing her on her hip and telling Gierten what a wonderful child she had, but she could not. She could not go so far as that when she had just condemned this child to die with the simple act she’d just performed.

She laid the baby back down as quickly as she’d picked her up, to the confused looks of Gierten. Then she made her excuses and left, unable to stare Gierten in the eye any longer.

It had been so simple. Soroush dealt with death often; perhaps it came easily to him. But it was shocking just how much this simple act shook Rehada. By the time she had reached the path leading back to the road between Izhny and Volgorod, she was running, her tears flowing freely.

CHAPTER 21

Atiana stood before the tall windows in Radiskoye’s solarium, staring at the maelstrom raging outside. Cold rain fell down along the thick glass in heavy sheets. Lightning flashed. In the ghostly image that quickly faded she could see the blinding brilliance of a dhoshahezhan. They often slipped into the world for split seconds during lightning strikes, but it seemed to her that there were many more than one would normally see. The unseasonable storm had settled over the islands two nights ago and hadn’t budged since. It had brought life on the island, especially the palotza, to a standstill. Father and several of the other dukes thought it strange timing after the suurahezhan, but Khalakovo’s Matra claimed it was benign, a coincidence.

“As likely a coincidence as Stasa’s death,” Father had said. But their own wind master, Kaeed, doubted Saphia was lying. Father’s reply had been to send Kaeed away and to recount all the ways he’d been wrong over the years.

Each of the families had been given their own wing of the palotza, but the solarium had become a council chamber of sorts for those dukes that stood behind Zhabyn and Grigory in this slowly building crisis. Borund and Grigory were sitting on a curving couch, listening to Duke Leonid boast about his son’s exploits over the southern seas.

She returned her attention to the skies, drawn to the lightning and the ghostly images, losing herself as the chill from the windows settled over her skin.

“You’ll catch your death.” Borund came to a halt next to her. In one hand he held a snifter filled with a healthy amount of rosemary vodka, which he handed to her before wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He was warm, and it felt good to be held.

She took a sip, feeling the pleasant burn trail down her throat. “Then you’ll just have to protect me,” she said, handing the snifter back.

“Don’t I always?” Borund replied.

Atiana smiled and tipped her head until it rested on his shoulder. “Soon you won’t have to.”

Borund went silent and deathly still.

“He
will
be my husband, Borund.”

“Things are not so clear as they were a week ago.”

“How surprising you’ve sided with Father.”

“This Council smells foul, Tiana. I know you sense it too.”

Atiana pulled away and faced him. He wore a brown kaftan, and his beard had grown longer, giving him the look of a scowling bear.

“Why are men so distrustful?”

“Because there’s always trouble about, especially when you’re not looking for it.”

Atiana reached up and smoothed the cloth of his kaftan. “Don’t think it isn’t appreciated, but really, I think there’s little enough to worry about.”

“There you’re wrong, sister. Trouble has come, and it’s already started to simmer. Father has ordered two more ships sent to Khalakovo.”

Atiana’s brow creased. “What of Leonid and Bolgravya?”

“Them as well.”

“Why?”

“To prevent Khalakovo from dictating terms.”

“They’ve done nothing of the sort.”

“Tiana, just because a dog has never bitten you is no reason to believe it won’t someday do so. It’s why you put them on a leash and whip them when they misbehave.”

“This is madness. Everything will be resolved shortly.”

“If that is so, then the ships will be sent home. No harm done.”

“Perhaps no harm, but certainly insult. Saphia will learn of it.”

Borund shrugged. “The offense to Khalakovo is a risk we’re willing to take.”

“We are
guests
here.”

Borund snorted anddowned therestof thevodkainone gulp. “Guests... Have you not been here these last five days? We have heard nothing from the Khalakovos since Stasa’s death. Nothing. Ranos has come twice, and he did little more than prattle about inquiries. Nikandr came once to ask me to hunt with him. To hunt! As if we were still boys hoping to while away our time far from the foolishness of Council. And Iaros, that coward, has hidden himself away ever since that farce of a speech by the Matra. Nothing will come of their inquiries. They will attempt to blow this over as if it had never happened, and then—mark my words—they will attempt to install Iaros as Grand Duke, and they’ll expect us to smile as he takes his seat.”

Borund’s face had filled with color as he talked until he was positively red. She had had no idea he was so angry over the matter. He had, for the last several years, become progressively more absent from Galostina as he shouldered more of the shipping contracts to Yrstanla. Their time together had become by necessity more brief and perfunctory. Here, with the death of the Grand Duke so fresh in everyone’s minds and tempers starting to rise, she realized how similar to their father he had become.

As she worked this through in her mind, another realization struck her full in the face: she had become protective of
Nikandr
, even against Borund. She had come to Khalakovo dutifully, ready to fulfill the needs of her family. She hadn’t expected to feel more for Nikandr than that. Yet the way he had tried to best her at the dance those many nights ago—he had been obstinate about it, true, but she also felt like he had been doing it to win her over, like he had truly wanted to show everyone in the room that he would win her affection. Perhaps she was fooling herself, but she felt in her heart she was right.

Aunt Katerina waved Atiana over. “Come, niece. I grow tired of winning.”

Katerina and Ishkyna were sitting at a large ebony table pitting their skills at trump against those of Mileva and Grigory’s young cousin, Ivan. Katerina wore a fine black dress and her dark hair was tucked under a beaded cap. Her traditional raiment contrasted sharply with Atiana and her sisters, who wore embroidered dresses of emerald green, their hair high and powdered with lazy ringlets falling near their ears. Ivan, a boy of only fifteen, looked like a peasant among queens, but he didn’t seem to mind—or notice for that matter—for he could be caught staring doe-eyed at Mileva as often as he did his cards.

Atiana’s stomach was turning too much for her to sit still for any amount of time, but before she could decline, the doors of the solarium opened, and in strode Father, bootsteps echoing, looking as cross as he ever had.

Without saying another word, Borund moved to meet him. Katerina stood as well, her dress sighing as it slid over the parquet floor. “What news?” she asked.

Father glanced at Atiana and then pulled Borund and Katerina away to speak with Grigory and Leonid.

A shiver traveled along Atiana’s frame. Father had been treating her as if she’d already married Nikandr, as if Ishkyna’s prediction of shifting allegiances had already come true. She moved casually to the card table and took the vacant chair, doing her best to feign indifference.

“Don’t mind him,” Ishkyna said while dealing the cards with practiced ease. “He only fears you’ll let something slip should you ever be allowed to meet Nikandr again.”

Atiana sorted her hand, unwilling to admit that Father had gotten to her over the last few days. “I bid three.”

Ivan, having paid much more attention to the three sisters than he did his own hand, quickly ordered his cards. “Four,” he said, more of a question than a statement.

Ishkyna glanced at Ivan and rolled her eyes. She leaned in toward the table. “It’s just us, Tiana. You don’t have to hide the fact that you’re enamored of him. I bid six.”

“Ah, but she does, Shkyna,” Mileva said. “What would good Bolgravya think if she were to show any outward sign of affection toward Khalakovo? Seven.”

Ivan’s face went bright red. Had he been older—or had hotter blood run through his veins—he would have stood from the table and left, but he was clearly enamored of the sisters, Mileva in particular.

Atiana set down her cards, allowing Mileva to capture the blind. “Show some respect.” She squeezed Ivan’s wrist tenderly. “He has lost much this week.”

“Ivan knows how much respect I have for him and his family. It was a warning for
you
, sister.” Mileva finished selecting her final hand and they began playing, the sisters moving quickly, practically without thought, Ivan choosing his cards carefully, often looking to Mileva for approval as if she could somehow see his cards before he played them.

“And why would I need a warning, Leva?”

“Because,” Ishkyna answered forher, “it’s clear to everyone you’re chafing at the bit to gallop for Khalakovo when you
should
be headed home.”

Atiana slapped her highest trump onto the table and swept in the trick. “I had a notion that this
was
my home now.”

Mileva took the next. “The longer we stay, sister, the likelier it will be that your wedding bed will forever stay cold.”

Atiana wanted to scoff, but there was a ring of truth to those words. She had thought the matter would be settled within a day, but then came rumor that the Khalakovos had found a Landless qiram and were questioning him deep beneath the palotza. They neither confirmed nor denied the rumor, but Leonid had men asking about Volgorod for news, and they said that some of the Landless had come to the palotza, treating with Iaros to have their kinsman back.

“Perhaps if you spoke with young Khalakovo, away from prying ears.”

Atiana did not look at Ivan. She knew that this was as much for his ears as it was for hers. “And just how would I do that?” she asked, providing the requisite nibble on the bait.

Mileva shrugged. “There are hidden hallways in Radiskoye, are there not, as there are in Galostina? I would even wager that Zvayodensk has a tunnel or two hidden away from curious eyes.”

Ivan blushed again, playing a pitiful, off-suited card.

“Perhaps,” Ishkyna said, playing a high trump, “but who will be left to tread them?”

As Mileva played her final card, winning the trick and the hand, Ivan’s face changed. Instead of a deep red, his face went white. After staring at the table for a time, meeting no one’s eyes, he stood, bowed, and without a single word strode away.

“Really, Shkyna,” Atiana said. “The boy has just lost a dozen in his family, and dozens more countrymen.”

“And we lost two cousins and a ship only a month ago. That is life among the islands. The sooner Ivan learns that, the better off he’ll be.”

Atiana raked in the cards and tumbled them into the deck, unable to deny the truth in her sister’s words. When she was young she had been heartbroken at the frequent deaths in the family, but she had soon learned to put such things in perspective. She realized, too, that Ishkyna had played Ivan well. He was angry now, and would probably tell others what the sisters had brewing. It would no doubt come back to Father, and then
he
would expect that she would have already gone to question Nikandr.

But she didn’t care if she was being manipulated by her sisters or if her father would have expectations. She wanted to see Nikandr. So late that night she demanded a simple dress of one of their servants. She donned it and left her bedroom to the sounds of whispering from her sisters. She held a small, unlit lamp in one hand even though there were whale oil lamps set on ornate marble tables along the hallway. The passageway to her left led to Radiskoye proper—the most obvious way to reach Nikandr, and also the most watched. She turned instead to her right and padded down the hall until she reached another, smaller hallway where Father and the other dukes were housed. She came to a small linen closet and opened it. After stepping inside, she felt among the shelves of sheets and pillow cases for the catch Mileva had assured her was there. She found it at the back of the bottommost shelf. It clicked and the entire rear of the closet creaked backward at her touch.

After lighting her small lamp, she entered the secret passage. Stairs immediately took her downward. She guessed it to be two stories, perhaps more. It was difficult to tell with no landmarks to guide her. She reached the bottom, and by the flickering light of her lamp she could see a narrow stone tunnel running to the right. She followed it, holding her arms tight to her side, partly because of the cramped space and partly because of the horrible draft. Her lamp was equipped with a glass shield, but it still guttered and threatened to go out if Atiana moved too quickly.

She tried to retain her sense of direction, but the tunnel took several turns, and none of them at right angles to one another, and so soon she had no idea where she was going. She finally reached a fork in the passage, and was forced to stop. Mileva hadn’t mentioned such a thing, and so she had no idea which one she should take. What if there were more? What if she got lost in these tunnels and never found her way out again? Who knew how extensive they were? Radiskoye was among the largest of the palotzas; she might find herself caught in a place from which no amount of screaming would rescue her.

She took the right-hand fork, vowing that she would head back if she came across any more. But after another, she told herself that she could find her way back as long as she consistently chose one direction to follow. It happened a third time, and still Atiana went on, taking several flights of stairs upward.

Thankfully this tunnel came to an end.

She searched for a latch and eventually found it. On the other side was the rear of a similar closet within the bath house. One large pool was set into the floor here, and another smaller one, for children, lay beyond it. She had been here a few times and knew that it lay two levels below the floor where the Khalakovos slept. She was nearly there.

She padded to the bath house door and opened it slowly. The hallway was empty, so she left the bathhouse and walked to the main stairwell serving this wing of the palotza. She took it two levels up.

And stopped.

For sitting on a bench was a large black rook. It watched her closely with intelligent eyes, and by the time she had taken two steps forward, she knew that Saphia had assumed the bird, and that she had been found sneaking about like a thief in the night.