Bradley Beaulieu - The Winds of Khalakovo

He stopped when he saw his mother resting below the surface of the dark water, a breathing tube rising above the surface. “Is she well?” he asked Victania.

“Not well, but better than we had hoped.”

Victania was watching Nikandr closely. He waited for her to speak, and grew uncomfortable when she did not. “Out with it,” he said.

She placed a tender hand on his shoulder, waiting for him to look her in the eye. He obliged, and was surprised to find a look of regret in her eyes.

“I am sorry, Nischka.”

“Whatever for?”

“There was more to them both than I would have guessed.”

He didn’t really wish to speak of them-not so soon after saying good-bye-but this was a compassionate gesture from a sister who was not often given to them. “Thank you.”

She pulled himinto an embrace.“And thank you.” She was shivering, and he realized it was not from the cold.

She was referring to her condition. The wasting. The rift had begun to heal. All but those worst affected had already begun to show signs of health-Victania more than most-but Nikandr felt, as did Ashan, that few would be healed completely and that someday the rift would return, or a new one would form, and the disease would begin its steady march once more.

“Look at me,” Victania said.

Nikandr realized his eyes were unfocused; he was staring down into the depths of the lake. He regarded Victania and held her gaze.

“You should feel proud, dear Nischka. You have given us all a gift.”

“Would that I could switch places.”

“But you cannot.” Victania smiled, softening the severe lines of her face and exposing her true beauty. “You have been healed, thank the ancients.” She glanced to one side, toward Mother. “Now is the time to look to our future, not our past. We have been given a reprieve. Best we use it wisely.”

Nikandr nodded as he regarded their mother. He took in a deep breath of the frigid air and motioned for Victania to leave. “I would sit with her awhile.”

Victania nodded, giving him one last quick kiss on the cheek before following Olgana up the long flight of stairs and into the village proper.

Below the surface of the water, Mother’s form was lit in ghostly relief. He had come three times since she’d been moved from Radiskoye. Despite the threats from Zhabyn and Borund, there had been no choice in the matter. He was only thankful that Fahroz had agreed. Enough have died, she had said.

Mere moments from thinking these thoughts, the rook cawed, making Nikandr jump. “ Privyet, Nischka.”

“ Privyet, Mother.”

The rook raised its head and cawed again. A laugh. “Not so glum, my son. Things could have turned out far, far worse.”

“They could have also turned out far, far better.”

“Look not to what might have been. This is a time of healing. A time of preparation. The Khalakovos are not dead.”

“I know that well.”

“Then act like it. Your brother needs you, and even in times like this, we must prepare. The Vostromas will not hold these islands forever, and when we return to the seat of our power, we will rise higher than we ever have before.”

Empty words, Nikandr thought-Mother might not live the two years the Vostromas had agreed to, much less the years beyond that it would take them to actually relinquish control of Khalakovo. But more than this, there was something within him that Nasim and the conflict with the Maharraht had awoken. The rift had closed-everyone agreed-but this was not the end of it. Someday, another rift would form, perhaps worse than this one, and they might not have Nasim to save them when it did. The rifts must be studied, and that was where Nikandr felt he must be.

There was nothing to do about it now-his family needed him, so he would stay-but some day, some day not far from now, he would leave to discover what he could.

The rook flapped its wings. “Tell me how you summoned the boy.”

“I’ve told you that three times already.”

“It is important,” the rook cawed. “Tell me again.”

And so Nikandr did.