The Winds of Khalakovo (41 page)

“You may not realize it, Nikandr Iaroslov, but you cannot bond a hezhan simply by willing it so.”

Nikandr’s heart began to sink, but it quickly turned to horror when he realized Nasim had opened the door to the cabin and was walking out onto the deck.

“Nasim,” he whispered harshly, “come back!”

They rushed forward just as a huge gust of wind blew across the deck. One moment, Nasim was framed within the cabin doorway, his hair and clothes whipping about, and the next he was whisked upward and away like a withered leaf by a brisk autumn wind. Nikandr ran to the doorway and was blown off his feet as the wind shrieked. He slipped along the decking and struck the gunwale, but he saw Nasim tumbling up into the sky.

“Nasim!”

He continued to fly higher in the sky toward one of the Maharraht ships.

The forward guns shot upward at the ship, but Nikandr screamed at them to cease firing. “Do not harm the boy!”

Grigory, standing near the center of the ship, looked at him, dumbfounded, and then stared upward as Nasim slipped over the top of the ship and was lost from sight. Immediately the ship turned to port and set a southward course to follow in the wake of its sister ship.

CHAPTER 56

When Atiana woke, it was to the sound of her door opening. By the light of early dawn she saw Kapitan Malorov standing there, his stubbled face grim, his eyes judgmental. “Come,” he said gruffly.

The air on deck was crisp, and the wind was strong. Summer had nearly ended, and soon the skies would be filled with high clouds and terrible winds in preparation for the long winter. Below the ship was an island. Atiana was confused at first—it should have taken days to reach Vostroma—but as she looked at the island she began to understand. This was Duzol, the smaller island south of Uyadensk. The shape of it was unmistakable, as was the small spire that rested in Oshtoyets, a keep standing on the edge of a broad set of white cliffs.

She turned and saw the larger island in the distance. She also saw a handful of circling windships—they looked like little more than insects from this distance.

She was ushered into a skiff, where an Aramahn woman, no older than Atiana, waited. Once she was aboard, the skiff ’s mooring ropes were released and it drifted away from the body of the old warship. The journey was silent as the woman fought with the ropes and the single sail to guide the ship landward. They reached the grassy flatland of Duzol’s coast in short order, and soon Atiana was left alone, watching the skiff as it floated up toward the ship.

Her attention was taken by the flapping wings of the old rook, Zoya. It winged down from beneath the ship and glided in an ungraceful arc as it fought the stiff wind every bit of the way. It beat the air as it landed, and then studied Atiana with something akin to amusement.

“Enough, Ishkyna. What have you done?”

“You give her too much credit,” said the rook.

“Mileva?”

The rook cawed. “Ishkyna and I spoke upon her return, and I must say I was so taken by your plight that I felt forced to help.”

“
Nyet
, sister. You felt guilty.”

“And why would I feel guilt?”

“For abandoning me,” Atiana said.

The rook clucked and bobbed its head. “Very well. Perhaps I felt you were owed something for what might have happened in Radiskoye. But perhaps one day you’ll thank me when you discover the new arrangements that Mother has made for you.”

“What arrangements?”

“I’m surprised our dear brother hasn’t told you.”

“Must you always play games?”

The caw it released was so loud it made Atiana cringe. “Your new husband, Tiana. Mother has decided it with Alesya.”

Alesya was Stasa Bolgravya’s wife and the Matra of Bolgravya. If Mother had made arrangements with
her
, it could only mean that Atiana’s marriage to Nikandr had been cast aside in favor of one of Alesya’s brood, and that, of course, meant that her hand had been promised to Grigory.

“Never,” Atiana said, and she meant it, more than she thought she might at such a thing. She had taken her marriage to Nikandr lightly, almost as more of a jest than anything else, but she had come to see a side of Nikandr that she never thought she would: he was a good man, an honest man, a man she could be proud of.

“Perhaps so, sister, but you had better begin to work magic if you hope to change your fate.”

“Why?”

“Because Nikandr is being held at the top of the cliff, in the donjon of Oshtoyets.”

“It cannot be.”

“He was found and captured by Grigory on Ghayavand.”

“And the boy?” If Nasim had been found, too, then there was a chance that they might be able to step away from the edge of war. They might be able to repair the damage caused by her father and the other headstrong dukes.

“The
Kavda
was attacked by the Maharraht. They took him.”

Atiana’s heart sank, more for the implications than the loss. The fact that the Maharraht had taken the boy would make it look like a rescue—as if the boy had been a tool of theirs from the beginning—and in truth she wondered if that might not be the case.

“Go,” the rook said. “Find a way to save your husband if you can, and I, in turn, will consider my debt paid. Oh, and give my regards to Grigory...”

With that the ebony bird flapped away, up toward the ship that was already a half-league distant.

Atiana turned and regarded the formidable hill. Only the tip of the spire could be seen from her vantage. It was all serious climbing, unless she wanted to head further up the beach, but that would take too long, and her gut told her there was little time to spare.

Atiana stood in the courtyard of the small, stone-walled fort as the polupolkovnik left to inform Grigory of her arrival. Given its inhospitable nature, the dukes would no doubt have taken refuge in a large manor house a few leagues south, but she was sure that if Nikandr was being kept here that Grigory would remain as well. Even as a boy, he had always been one to gloat, and now, even though he was older, he felt the need to make a name for himself, to do things that would attract notice no matter how overreaching they might seem.

Grigory arrived a few minutes later, still buttoning a coat that had once been fine but was now sullied by dirt and stains. It was clear that one arm was wounded, for he was using only one arm to button the coat while the other hung limp at his side.

“My dear Atiana. I was given no warning of your arrival.”

Atiana smiled. “As was my wish.”

“I don’t understand. Your father told me of your rescue only last night. He said that you were being brought back to Vostroma.”

“
Da
, that is what he believed.”

“Then forgive me, but how have you come to be here?”

“My dear Grigory, have you been informed of our pending marriage?”

Grigory’s awkward smile warred with the confusion in his eyes. “Of course.”

“And so have I, and if you think that I would allow myself to be carted away to safety before speaking with you, then you are sadly mistaken.”

His smile grew more confident. “I thought you would not approve.”

Atiana returned his smile, but she took care not to let things go too far—if her plan was to have any chance of success Grigory had to be convinced of her lies. “I don’t
know
if I approve, which is exactly the point.”

He laughed. “Do tell.”

Atiana shrugged and took a half-step closer so that she was just within arm’s reach. “There was a wisdom of sorts in the alliance with Khalakovo, but I had always thought that a marriage within the southern duchies would be wiser.”

The look on Grigory’s face was composed, but he was disappointed.

“And,” she continued, smiling briefly, “I have always thought that we were cut from the same cloth. Haven’t you?”

“I...” He swallowed. “I will admit that I have, but I must also admit that I never imagined you thought the same way. You have always seemed so... distant.”

“Out of necessity, Grigory. My mother told me when I was fifteen that I would one day be married to a man from the north. How could I reveal my true feelings knowing that? Now please, are you going to keep me in this infernal wind the entire day or are you going to invite me in for a drink?”

“Please”—he motioned toward the keep—“forgive me. Manners are the first thing to go in times of war.”

As they walked side by side toward the iron-studded door to the keep proper, Atiana said, “I had no idea we were at war.”

“Do you smell peace in the air?”

Atiana held her tongue as they headed inside. She had thought at first that Grigory was merely boasting for her benefit, but he seemed too proud of his words. “There will be little bloodshed in the days to come. Khalakovo will see reason.”

They walked down the short, cold corridor to a room that held little more than a table and an unkempt bed in one corner. If Grigory had been the one to capture Nikandr, then no doubt he would also have his soulstone, and she doubted that there would be any place that he would keep it other than here in his chambers—however temporary they may be. She did not see, however, an obvious place where it might be kept other than the wardrobe in one corner or the stout chest that sat at the foot of the bed.

Grigory closed the door and motioned her to the table. She took her own chair since Grigory didn’t seem willing to pull it out for her.

“If all there was to this story was Khalakovo you might well have been right.” From a small table behind the door Grigory retrieved a dark blue bottle of vodka and two glazed mugs. “But there is much more that we might gain.”

He poured two drinks, grimacing as his wounded shoulder was put to work, and handed one to her. As he sat, he downed half his drink, swishing it around noisily before swallowing.

Atiana sipped at hers, being careful not to raise her nose at the sour bite from the liquor. “If you attack, the other dukes will come to his aid.”

Grigory smiled. “When you wish to kill a wolf, you do not go stumbling through the forest after it. You set out meat and wait for the scent of it to drive the wolf beyond caution.”

“The dukes are no pack of wolves, Grigory, nor are their Matri.”

“They’ll have no choice. They cannot allow Khalakovo to fall.”

“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.