Bradley Beaulieu - The Winds of Khalakovo

If there were no uprisings and if Khalakovo produced as they should, further sanctions would not be levied and Father’s title would be restored to him at the end of the two years.

A meeting had been held that very night in Radiskoye and Zhabyn had been selected as Grand Duke. He had accepted the newly made crown on Father’s throne.

Though his presence had been requested by Zhabyn himself, Father had not attended. He had elected to stay among the rooms on the lower levels that had such a short time ago been home to Nasim and Ashan, and later Atiana.

And now he was boarding a ship, ready to sail for Palotza Galostina.

Nikandr and Ranos continued their ride through the outskirts of Volgorod and up the slope toward the island’s central ridge. The wind was clearer here, unobstructed, and it cut through their heavy cherkesskas mercilessly, but neither of them spurred their ponies to move any faster. They were men of the Grand Duchy. The wind was a part of their bones.

They finally reached the ridge, at which point both of them stopped.

To the east stood Verodnaya. A third of the way down from the snowy peak was Radiskoye, a crystalline jewel among the hard black rock of the mountain. They could not see the palotza’s eyrie from this vantage, but they didn’t need to. The ship they were here to watch had already drifted upward from its perch and was now cutting westward. It was Vostroma’s largest ship. All sixteen of its masts took on sail, but Nikandr saw, even from this distance, the signs of battle upon the hull and the hastily repaired canvas. His father lay on board that ship, a prisoner to the man that had betrayed him.

It continued west, and though it was too distant for Nikandr to identify any individuals standing on the deck, there was, near the stern, someone holding a red bolt of cloth. It fluttered in the wind, and then it was released. It floated lazily behind the ship, making its way toward solid ground.

“And what pray tell is that?” Ranos asked.

“That, dear brother, is none of your business.”

Ranos studied Nikandr for a time. They had discussed Atiana many times over the past week, Ranos each time advising him to forget about her, but he knew as well as Nikandr that the cloth had been held by Atiana, that it had been sent as a sign of her love, and if Nikandr felt he should reserve some special place for her, then perhaps, after all of this, he deserved the right to do so.

“Farewell,” Ranos said softly.

This was not spoken to Nikandr, nor Atiana, but to their father.

“Farewell,” Nikandr repeated, for Father and Atiana, both.

When the ship had become no more than a mark on the horizon, Ranos pulled his reins over and began heading back toward the city. “Coming?” he said.

“I have business to attend to,” Nikandr said, and he spurred his pony in the other direction, toward Iramanshah.

Ranos said nothing in return. They had discussed how often he should visit the village, but on this particular day he was going to give him all the leeway he needed.

It took Nikandr three hours to reach Iramanshah. He was pressing to make it in such a short time, but it was necessary to get there by midday.

Ashan met him at the edge of the village.

“Come,” he said simply.

They continued through the narrow pass that led to the village and the valley that housed it.

“I leave tomorrow,” Ashan said simply.

Nikandr knew the day had been fast approaching. There were so many partings today that he was having trouble conceiving of just how much he would miss them all. Better for it to happen now, quickly. There was much for him to do in the days ahead, and it was best that he start it with a fresh mind.

“You go to look for Nasim?”

“ Da. He was spirited away three nights ago.”

Nikandr knew this already. He had felt it. The bond they shared lingered for days after, but then it began to fade, and he had known that they were taking him far, far away to a place where no one could manipulate him, to a place where he could be taught by the Aramahn mahtar in a way that they saw fit. The feeling had diminished over the course of the next day, and then, last night, it had simply vanished.

He didn’t know whether the feelings would reawaken when Nasim came near-perhaps they would cease altogether once they had been apart long enough-but Nikandr suspected that their bond would remain until one of them was dead.

“I would thank you, son of Iaros.”

Nikandr shook his head, ready to put off such compliments, but he stopped when Ashan raised his hand and smiled.

“Not for saving us,” Ashan continued, “though there is that too. It is for befriending him, for leading him here. It is a greater gift than I had ever hoped for, and I’m sure Nasim feels the same way.”

Nikandr couldn’t respond. He still wasn’t sure how he felt toward Nasim. As a friend. A father. A disciple. It was an uncomfortable mixture, one he was not ready to discuss.

When they reached the large stone plaza before the entrance to the village, they found hundreds of Aramahn standing near the fountain, which for the first time in Nikandr’s memory was dry.

Fahroz, holding a lit torch, stood by a small, shallow-sided skiff. Within it, wrapped completely by white cloth, was Rehada. The torch burned black smoke as Fahroz spoke words of hope, words that asked the fates for kindness to this child of the world, and hope that she had learned enough in this life to resume her path toward vashaqiram.

Nikandr listened at first, but his mind began to drift to Rehada, their memories, and it was enough for him to simply wish her well.

“It is fire that granted her,” Fahroz said, “and it was fire that took her.”

She touched the torch to the bottom of the skiff. In moments a healthy flame had spread along the wood that had been stacked beneath Rehada’s white, bound form. Another qiram with a glowing opal held within the circlet upon his brow stepped forward and gently touched the hull of the skiff. Immediately the craft began to rise. It had no sail, and so was taken by the wind. It was slow, gentle at first, but the wind was stronger higher up, and it began to tug at the craft, making it bob as it slid eastward.

It was not lost upon Nikandr that Atiana had traveled on another ship mere hours ago-though in the opposite direction. Ironic, but apropos.

“Farewell,” Nikandr said as black smoke wafted ahead of the ship and across the blue sky.

The Aramahn began to separate-first alone, then in pairs and in groups. Fahroz joined Ashan and Nikandr.

There was an uncomfortable silence until Ashan finally bowed his head and said, “You have business to attend to.” He stepped forward and kissed Nikandr’s cheeks. “Keep well, Nikandr, son of Iaros.

“And you, Ashan, son of Ahrumea.”

Soon, Nikandr was left alone with Fahroz. She made no form of greeting. She simply turned and headed into the village. “You should not come often.”

“I won’t once I’m sure that she is well.”

“She is as well as she will ever be.”

Nikandr let the comment go.

She led him deep into the bowels of Iramanshah, past the formed tunnels to the raw passageways that had been forged by Erahm herself. Finally, they came to a massive cavern with a black lake crowding a small stone beach. A pier lit brightly by siraj lanterns led a short way out into the water. Upon the pier stood Victania and Olgana, talking softly with one another, both of them peering down into the water.

A rook, standing on a silver perch just next to them, flapped its wings as Nikandr approached. Then it stilled and was silent.

When Victania noticed him, she spoke softly to Olgana, and Olgana left, bowing her head to Nikandr as she passed. Nikandr waited, hoping that Fahroz would leave as well, but she did not. She ruled here, and she would no longer stand by as the Aramahn were used, so she stood and watched as Nikandr made his way out along the pier.