Bradley Beaulieu - The Winds of Khalakovo

Learn, she tried to say. Learn, even in death, and you will be rewarded in the next life.

The strelet finished by reading the judgment of the magistrate.

From the corners of her eyes, she saw the seven other Aramahn turn their backs on the gallows, not from any lack of courage, but in protest, as a sign of disapproval. She, however, refused to turn away no matter how much she might wish to do so.

The rest of the crowd had not brought rotten vegetables or mud, as she had seen happen so often in the cities of the Empire to the west, nor did they shout epithets. They merely watched in silent condemnation.

The plumes of breath from each of the boys came white upon the wind, but unlike the two next to him, Malekh’s face had transformed into a look of confusion, as if the things he had been sure about only moments ago had been brought into doubt.

Go well, she wished him, nodding once.

The strelet, his reading now complete, stepped back. As soon as he had, the other soldier pulled a thick wooden lever. The doors beneath the boys fell away with the clatter of wood. The rope snapped taut, and all three of them bounced once before swinging awkwardly in the wind.

When they came to rest, the crowd began to disperse, but Rehada remained, watching her young man swing for long moments, storing the image deep within her heart so that she might retrieve it when it was needed most. So lost in this effort was she that when two ponies entered the circle from a nearby street, breaking her trance, she wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Even then, she watched them from the corner of her eye and paid them little mind.

This was a mistake.

She should have noted their courtly dress, should have noticed the train of children following them, hoping for a coin or two. When she did look, she realized one of them was staring at her. Nikandr. The Prince upon the Hill.

Her face burned as she turned away and walked toward the nearest street. He had been on the far side of the circle, and the wind had been blustery. She was wearing clothes that he wouldn’t be accustomed to seeing her wear. It was possible, just possible, that he hadn’t recognized her.

But she knew in her heart that he had, and it made her anger burn even higher. To be found out by Nikandr because she had, in one of her few acts of compassion, come to bid a friend farewell, was galling, not because she and Nikandr had lain together, but because she had worked so hard to conceal her true self from him.

No matter. If he discovered she was Maharraht, she would welcome it. She was sick of hiding it in any case, especially from him.

She turned and headed up one of the curving streets that led uphill toward the Bluff, the section of Volgorod that held her home. The street, as far as she could see, was empty. The light of the sun angled in between the tall stone buildings, leaving much of her path in shadow.

She stopped when she saw someone sitting at the entryway to an alley.

He wore two sets of robes: a black inner robe that was wrapped by a wide belt of gray cloth and an outer robe that fell to the tops of his brown leather boots. It was his turban and beard, more than anything, that marked him as one of the Maharraht. His beard was cut long and square. The turban was almond-shaped and ragged; its tail hung down along the front of his chest like a sash of honor.

It was dangerous to dress this way on Khalakovo, one of the most powerful of the Duchies, and downright foolish to come into the city. These were the clothes worn-not exclusively, but most often-by the Maharraht, the sect of the Aramahn that were bent on the destruction of the Grand Duchy and their Landed ways.

Rehada approached, but then she stopped, gasping as she recognized him. He had a ruggedly handsome face and dark, commanding eyes. A ragged scar ran down from what was left of his ear to his neck and cheek. The upper part of the ear remained, and he wore a handful of golden earrings there.

This was Soroush, the leader of the Maharraht, and the father of her child.

He had always been a brazen man, but to come here when he was at such a disadvantage? Snow fell on his dark turban and the stone of jasper held within it. She knew the stone was useless-at least to Soroush-and she wondered if he wore it as a ploy or to remind himself of his past. Soroush was nothing if not steeped in the past.

She continued walking past him, and he stepped alongside her, the two of them falling into a pace that made it seem as if they had always been together. Still, there were feelings of anxiety and uncertainty welling up inside her. Had it been so long since she’d seen him that she could act this way? Had they fallen so far out of touch?

“You were told not to take a disciple,” Soroush said.

“I have been here seven years, Soroush. Questions were being asked.”

“Attachments, Rehada, are to be avoided.”

She scoffed. “Have you come this far to chide me over my urge to teach?”

They walked in silence for a time, their footsteps scuffing the light dusting of snow. She did not look toward him, but she could picture the muscles along his jaw working, as they had always done when she’d tested his patience.

“We have lost the boy,” Soroush said.

Then Rehada did look at him. His face was set in stone as he walked, refusing to return her gaze. “How?”

“I misjudged Ashan. He stole him away a month ago.”

“Then we are lost.”

“I do not believe so, not as long as Ashan is headed here to Khalakovo.”

“Can you be so sure that he is?”

“The rift over Rhavanki has nearly closed, while the one here over Khalakovo is widening.”

“That means nothing. If he suspects what you’re about, he’ll keep Nasim away.”

“I don’t think so. He believes that Nasim is the key to healing the rifts. He will bring Nasim here, and he will continue to study him. It is his only hope of unraveling his mysteries.”

They came to a larger street. Though there was some traffic-some peasants with baskets, others with carts-Soroush continued on as if he hadn’t noticed them. Rehada did so as well, so as not to draw attention.

“We cannot succeed without Nasim.”

Soroush nodded. “We shall see, but there is much to do in any case. Two days ago we gathered the first of the stones, and there are still four more to find.”

“You have learned so much?”

“We know how to find four, and the fifth may well indeed hinge upon Nasim.”

They were heading across an old walking bridge now. No one was in sight, but Rehada still felt terribly exposed.

Soroush stopped at the foot of the bridge, just before the street resumed its upward trek. His face was resolute, his body like stone. It made Rehada cold inside to see him like this. “Three days from now, take the road to Iramanshah at midday. Release your spirit the day before you come.”

Rehada was suddenly very aware of the beating of her heart. “What am I to do?”

“Can you not guess?” The expression upon Soroush’s face was not one of fervor, as she might have guessed, but of lamentation. “You will find for us our second stone.”

Nikandr and Borund guided their ponies around the gallows where three young men hung from the ends of ropes. No doubt they had been taken for simple robbery, most likely for food. It was too common a scene in Volgorod of late. Ranos had taken a serious stance on such crimes-allow such things to go on, he’d said, and the city would devolve into chaos. And if Khalakovo’s largest city fell prey to such things, the rest would soon follow.

One of the boys was Aramahn, something he took note of not for its rarity but for the boy’s age. The Aramahn were, nearly to a fault, honest, and it seemed improbable that the boy had been caught stealing.