Bradley Beaulieu - The Winds of Khalakovo

The hole that had opened up inside him filled. The feeling of a yawning, bottomless pit vanished in a moment. The wind began to die. The sound faded, and eventually, he could breathe again. He retched several times, but thankfully nothing came up. It would have been understandable-to vomit after such a strange encounter-but he didn’t care for the entire crew, plus Borund, to see him in that state; it would bring too many unwelcome questions.

Moments later he was finally able to stand. When he opened his eyes, a final gust buffeted him, and then all was calm. He scanned the rigging and sky for any telltale signs of the hezhan, but it was clear the creature was gone, and he could only thank the ancients that they had somehow watched over him.

He pulled out the heavy gold chain that held his soulstone, knowing now that it had been the source of the strange sensation against his chest. He stared at it, dumbfounded.

The stone was smoky and gray and somewhat transparent, whereas before it had been cloudy and white with a low radiance to it. He polished the surface against his coat, thinking it had become dirty. But he soon came to realize that the encounter with the hezhan had altered it, perhaps for good. Why had it shone so brightly when the hezhan had been close? Had the stone somehow destroyed the spirit? Had it been damaged while doing so?

Seeing Borund watching him, Nikandr kissed the stone as though he were thanking the ancients and stuffed it back inside his shirt.

The Gorovna eased back into balance as the breeze bore them southward like a seed upon the wind. The crew, seeming to realize the danger had passed all at once, cheered and whipped their woolen hats in circles over their heads. Even Borund appeared to be caught up in the emotion as he rushed forward and took Nikandr in a bear hug, lifting him from the deck.

“Let go of me, you big ox!”

“Ha ha!” Borund twirled him around several times before finally setting him back down. “How did you do it?” he asked with a grin as wide as the seas.

Nikandr could only shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Then you’re the luckiest man I know, Nischka!” Borund picked Nikandr up and twirled him around again, laughing the whole time.

“Enough!” Nikandr said.

Borund set him down as the cheering finally began to subside.

“Set sails, men. Let’s go home.”

The crew did so, and though at first they did not sail smartly, the master soon brought them in line with his booming voice while Gravlos steered for the shipyard.

Nikandr, meanwhile, moved to the gunwale and scanned the island below for some small sign of the skiff. There could be no doubt that they had been Maharraht. What wasn’t clear was the purpose behind their attack. The Gorovna might have represented a juicy prize had they been able to take it-even juicier with Nikandr and Borund aboard-but in attacking they had also announced their presence. Why settle for two princes when Council was upon them? Why not wait for the ships of the incoming dukes?

Nikandr continued searching for a long while-both for the answers to his questions and for the escaped men-but as he had feared, he found neither.

High within Palotza Radiskoye, the setting sun angled in through deeply recessed windows. It fell upon a tall black rook, which unlike the golden band around its ankle or the silver perch upon which it stood, seemed to absorb the light completely, making it black as night in the dying light of day. It did not preen nor move along its perch, but instead studied Nikandr with an intelligent gleam in its eye. It was Mother’s favorite, Yrfa, the one she inhabited most often, though whether this was due to some form of affinity or because the bird happened to be the easiest to assume, he didn’t know.

“You sensed nothing?” Nikandr asked.

“Nothing,” the rook replied, “until the hezhan had entered this world.” The words, though spoken through a primitive tool, had the cadence and inflection of his mother’s voice.

A gold chain swung lazily from Nikandr’s hand in time with the beating of his heart. Hanging from the end of the chain was his soulstone pendant-still darkened, an effect that had proved all too permanent. He pressed his fingers to his chest, recalling the sharp pressure as he was blacking out. “How could they have done such a thing?”

“There was a similar occurrence when I was still young to the ways of the aether. Four years into the Great Drought, a havahezhan crossed. It was two days after the equinox, and harvest was still in full celebration in Izhny. It headed straight for the festival grounds. It ripped three children limb from limb before vanishing.”

Nikandr shivered, wondering if the hezhan had been about to do the same to him. He rubbed the smooth surface of the stone, barely able to sense the cracks. It had been given to him at birth; since his blooding day he had never been parted from it. It had held the tale of his life, his essence; now, he didn’t know whether his legacy had been tarnished, or worse, wiped away altogether. Even damaged as it was, the stone would one day be placed in the family’s mausoleum beneath the palotza. It was something he-like any member of a royal family-looked forward to leaving behind when he died. He had imagined it would be a grand stone, one that would outshine all of those around it, but now… Now he would be leaving behind a shadow, a silhouette, and it shamed him that he had allowed such a thing to happen.

There was one small consolation-he had feared that the stone and the abilities it granted had been permanently damaged, but when he had returned to Radiskoye he found that he could sense Saphia, his mother, and she in turn could sense him. He had no doubts, however, that when he traveled beyond a certain distance their mutual bond would attenuate and then vanish altogether.

“Why only children?” Nikandr asked.

“I cannot say. The hezhan are drawn to certain people, perhaps as they are drawn to the Aramahn. But that spirit, even though it had fully crossed, appeared dim to me, as if I were looking through a pane of dusty glass. The hezhan that crossed today, I saw it as bright as a full moon against the midnight sky.”

“You were young then. Inexperienced.”

The rook’s head dipped and craned upward. “ Da, but I do not think that was the cause. Things have been strange these last few years, Nischka. The fishing, the fields, the game-all struck by the blight longer and harder than we could have imagined. And at the same time the wasting grows worse. Perhaps this crossing is but another facet of the same jewel.”

Nikandr stared levelly at the rook, wondering if she had guessed his mind. He suspected that the hezhan attacked him because of the disease. After all, there were others on the ship with soulstones. Why not them? He alone had the wasting, and his symptoms had intensified the moment the hezhan had been summoned. There must be some sort of connection. But he could not voice his concerns no matter how burning they might be. His shame at hiding the disease for so long was too great.

The door opened, and in stepped his father, Iaros. He wore an embroidered kaftan the color of emeralds that ran down to his ankles. The tips of his silk slippers poked out from beneath the hem. His beard hung down to his chest and, like his hair, had only a token amount of the brown color that had not long ago been dominant. His soulstone, glowing faintly beneath his beard, seemed mocking.

Father nodded in greeting and paced over to the perch, holding out one finger. The rook ran its beak along his finger several times, and then he smoothed down the rook’s breast feathers.

These signs of affection were reserved for Mother; there were none for Nikandr as he stared down gravely. “The ship is in bad shape, Nischka.”