Bradley Beaulieu - The Winds of Khalakovo

Nikandr shook his head. “Leave them. The Duke, my father-”

“Your father has no say in this.” The tone of her voice was emotionless, but her eyes were bright with anger. “These are our own, and will be treated as such.” She held out her hand, and Nikandr realized that she was motioning for Nasim.

Nasim looked up at Nikandr, his eyes wide.

Ashan stepped forward. “Do not do this, daughter of Lilliah. The boy has been through much.”

“You have never known when you were wasting words, son of Ahrumea, but I tell you that you are doing so now. The boy comes with us.”

Several qiram were there, their circlets aflame with the hezhan that were bonded to them. They were prepared to resist, if that was what it came to, but none of them appeared ready to welcome it.

Ashan touched Nasim’s shoulders. “All will be well, Nasim. You must go with them.”

“I will not.”

Tension laced Nasim’s words. Nikandr knew what he could do-the evidence lay all around them-but something told him that the time had passed. Fahroz may have known this, but more likely she didn’t care. The Aramahn had risked much and were willing to risk more to ensure that Nasim was taken into proper care.

Ashan kneeled next to Nasim until they were face to face. “You will be at home with them. And there is little left that I can teach you.”

A tear leaked from Nasim’s eye and traveled down his cheek. It was followed quickly by another. “Do not lie, Ashan. Not to me.”

Ashan smiled. “Lying is a thing with which I have become all too familiar. Better for us to be parted if only for that.” Nasim opened his mouth to speak, but Ashan talked over him. “We will see each other again-do not fear-but for now, you must go with Fahroz.”

Nasim swallowed several times, and then turned to Nikandr. “We are one, you and I.”

Nikandr knew this to be true. He could feel Nasim more strongly than ever before. Nikandr suspected it was due to the fact that Nasim now stood firmly in Erahm, but it was also because the rift had been healed. It was still there-like a fresh and aching wound-but it was no longer festering. Soon it would scar over and the healing of Khalakovo would begin.

Nikandr kneeled to look Nasim in the eye. “We are, Nasim. We are one.”

For a moment Nasim looked fragile, as if he wanted nothing more than to simply be held, to embrace someone that he loved, but then he turned on his heels and strode from the courtyard, never once looking back.

The suddenness of it made Nikandr feel lost. “I would see him again,” Nikandr said to Fahroz.

As the last of the Maharraht were carried out of the keep, Fahroz’s expression was deadly serious. “Do not place your hopes on such a thing, son of Saphia. As long as we are able, your paths will never again cross.”

Two Aramahn entered the courtyard carrying a length of canvas between them. They laid it down gently near the spire, and Fahroz motioned for Nikandr to approach. “Take care of her.” With that, she left, the rest of the Aramahn filing out behind her.

He had known Atiana was among the folds of heavy white cloth, but it was a vast relief when he kneeled and saw her face. Her clothes were beyond bloody, but her dress had been ripped away at her side, and a bolt of white cloth had been wrapped around her to stanch the bleeding. She was extremely pale, but her eyes were open, and she seemed more alert than he could have hoped for.

“It’s all right,” Nikandr said softly.

Atiana blinked and focused on him. A soft smile came to her lips, but then her head turned to one side and all trace of relief fled. She had spotted Rehada.

A tear leaked down Atiana’s face.

She seemed grieved. Truly, deeply grieved.

Nikandr understood it not at all, but he gripped Atiana’s shoulder and whispered into her ear that everything would be all right.

A strelet opened one of the stout iron gates of the Boyar’s mansion, and Nikandr rode out and into the streets of the old city. He passed the circle where the gibbets lay, the place that he had seen Rehada while those boys were being hanged. He had checked the court records and had come to suspect that the Aramahn boy that had been hung with the urchins was innocent of the charges-as he had claimed all along. He was not innocent of all things, however. He had been working for Rehada, Nikandr was sure; he had been her servant, running messages between Volgorod and Izhny, perhaps since Rehada had arrived on the island.

Nikandr shook his head as he reined his pony northward, toward Eyrie Road. He had been such a fool. He should have suspected Rehada shortly after they’d met. He had been wracking his brain for the last week, trying to piece together the clues that should have been apparent from the start, but he had so far been almost completely unsuccessful. Only in Malekh had he found any small link from Rehada to the Maharraht. She had covered her tracks well-either that or Nikandr had convinced himself that because of her beauty, because of how different her world was from his, that she could not possibly mean him harm.

He had been a fool, but he would not change any of it. He had loved her-he was man enough to admit that now-and had things gone differently, he might never have come to know her as he had.

“Nikandr!” The sound of another pony trotting came to him, muffled by the thin layer of snow upon the ground.

Nikandr slowed his pony, but did not turn around.

Ranos pulled alongside him and matched his black mare to Nikandr’s cream-colored gelding. “Where are you headed?”

“None of your business, brother.”

They continued to ride in silence for a time, moving from the older section of the city to one that was newer, with smaller, half-timber frames and small yards behind stout stone walls.

“I don’t blame you for being reticent-there is much for you to consider, I’ll admit-but when the sun sets on this day, it must end. I need you.”

“I am not a bookkeeper, Ranos.”

“You will be running the shipping of our family.”

“I would do this family a greater service by flying a ship.”

“As you’ve made perfectly clear, but we can take no chances, not with Father being taken to Vostroma, not with Borund sitting on the throne of Radiskoye.”

Nikandr’s face burned as their ponies climbed up a curving stone bridge and down the other side. “Borund may find his seat difficult to keep.”

Ranos shook his head. “I will not discuss this again. Borund will be our liege for the next two years, and if anything happens to him-be it death from the plague or a fall from a height-Father’s life will be forfeit.”

Nikandr could still remember how the blood had drained from his face when he had learned what had happened. The battle for the eyrie had gone well, but Mother was horribly weakened. She had been the reason they could overpower the other Matri in the first place, but she had been left permanently crippled by her time with Nasim. With their communications restored, Zhabyn had been able to make better use of his superior numbers.

In little time they turned the tide, and Father had been caught off guard. His ship had been captured as well as that of Yevgeny Mirkotsk. Mirkotsk was offered his rightful place in the Grand Duchy if only Iaros would step down and allow Borund to take his place. It would be an arrangement that would last two years, during which time Iaros would become thrall to Vostroma. Mother would be forced to step down as well, though Nikandr knew that this was a much worse punishment than the one that awaited Father. Mother had been too close to the aether for too long to be separated from it now. She would die-Nikandr knew this-but there was no persuading Vostroma to allow anything different. They would kill her before they allowed her to take the dark again.