Bradley Beaulieu - The Straits of Galahesh

“Nikandr,” Atiana said, taking his hands in hers. She gripped them tightly as she sat on the thwart. “I have grave news.” Nikandr felt his insides go weak, but Atiana, with intent emotion, held his gaze, giving him strength. “My father is dead. Sacrificed by the Kamarisi before the first ships crossed the Spar.”

Nikandr stared, shocked to hear these words. “It cannot be so.”

She shook her head, squeezing his hands so that he would let her finish. “Your father… He came to lead the charge. He commanded brilliantly, but in the end the Galaheshi elite broke through and rushed the commanders huddled behind the lines.

“They retreated, but your father was taken by a musket shot.” She paused, steeling herself, giving Nikandr time to absorb this. “He’s dead, Nischka. He lasted only minutes after taking the wound.”

Nikandr felt himself go cold and distant. The sound of the wind faded in his ears. He felt Atiana’s hand on his knee, felt her move to sit on his thwart and hug him, and even though he hugged her back, none of it felt real, especially those words: He’s dead, Nischka.

Anahid flew them up to Kasir Yalidoz and landed the skiff in the center of the grand patio. Anahid glanced at the kasir but refused to leave the skiff. “You have much to do,” she said, “and I would speak with Ashan.”

Nikandr nodded numbly, grasping Ashan’s offered hand and kissing him on the forehead. “Thank you,” he said.

He nodded a kind farewell to Sukharam, but as he passed Anahid, he leaned in and kissed her as well. “And you.”

She smiled for him, but in that smile there was only sadness, not joy.

Inside the kasir, dozens of men were gathered, men of the Grand Duchy. The conversation in the room dropped to a whisper as Nikandr and Atiana entered. All eyes were upon them.

Without being given a command, the crowd parted, creating an aisle toward a central table where Konstantin Bolgravya and Leonid Dhalingrad stood. As Atiana and Nikandr walked side by side toward them, the polkovnik, Andreya Antonov, and his aides bowed their heads and left.

Konstantin stepped forward first, kissing Atiana’s hand and then taking Nikandr into a tight embrace. As they kissed one another’s cheeks, he said, “It’s a wonder you’re alive.”

“It is a wonder even to me, My Lord Duke.”

Konstantin glanced to Atiana, who nodded soberly. “I’m sorry for your loss, Nischka. Iaros was a great man.”

“Thank you,” Nikandr replied, though he knew how emotionless his words must sound.

At a clearing of Leonid’s throat, Konstantin bowed his head and returned to Leonid’s side.

To Nikandr’s great surprise, Leonid stepped forward as well. The Leonid Nikandr knew would have stood there and waited for Nikandr to approach him. The old duke held Nikandr by the shoulders, staring at him with a comforting look. It looked strange on Leonid, this hawk of a man, and it warred with his haggard eyes and long white beard that made him look more like one of the haunting statues that graced the Grand Duchy’s mausoleums. They hugged and kissed cheeks, but instead of releasing him, Leonid held him tight and whispered into his ear. “I am sorry for your loss, Nischka. It was your father that saw us through this war. Because of him, we now stand victorious.”

As he rubbed Nikandr’s shoulders compassionately, a notion came to Nikandr. It was foolish. Preposterous. And yet it was something he couldn’t shake, and when Leonid pulled Nikandr back and stared deeply into his eyes, it began to set like clay.

Nikandr knew… Knew his father’s death had not been from some act of war. Knew it hadn’t been an accident. He knew it had been planned, and the one who’d set that plan in motion was staring at him as if he were his own son.

With Zhabyn and Iaros both dead, the mantle of Grand Duke would fall to Leonid. Council would be held, but there was no doubt as to what the outcome would be, especially since Leonid had been the one to finish this battle. He would be the one to reap the rewards.

“I hope you’ll bring my regrets back to Khalakovo with you,” Leonid said.

“Where is my father?”

At this, Leonid’s eyes changed. Though it would be imperceptible to everyone else, Nikandr saw them harden, and his expression of sympathy faded. He released Nikandr and snapped his fingers. A page boy came forward and bowed. “Take what time you need,” Leonid said, “but then return. There is much to do before the city is secured.”

With those simple words, Nikandr understood that Leonid meant to take Baressa, to take Galahesh as another island in the Grand Duchy. It was a bold move. The Kamarisi was dead, but his eldest son would now take the throne, and he would bend his will against Anuskaya in order to take back what was his.

But really this was the only course of action Leonid could take. He was not one given to diplomacy. He saw things only as property to be won, held, or coveted. Perhaps in time they could have settled this dispute peaceably with Yrstanla. But not now. Not unless another duke was given the mantel.

There was this and much more to consider, but for the time being Nikandr could concentrate on none of it.

He wanted only to look upon his father.

To say farewell.

In a room deep beneath Kasir Yalidoz, Nikandr held Atiana’s hand. The two of them stood before the bodies of their fathers, which had been wrapped carefully in white cloth and set upon slabs of bright white marble. Three lanterns hung from nearby posts. Wooden coffins rested beyond the marble slabs, ready to accept the bodies of the dukes for transport back to Vostroma and Khalakovo.

Nikandr shivered from the cold. Atiana, next to him, had not shivered once since they’d been led down into this massive cellar. They had been here a long while already, both of them standing in silence, saying their mute farewells to these strong men. Nikandr’s feelings before coming here were a confused jumble, as though he hadn’t enough room to grieve for so many, but now that he was here, he was focused not only on his own grief, but Atiana’s as well.

“Go well,” Atiana said softly. Her words echoed into the darkness.

“Go well,” Nikandr said as well.

He took Atiana into an embrace. “I’m sorry, Atiana.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“ Nyet. I’m sorry for what I did to you in Ivosladna. I’m sorry I didn’t come when you asked for my help.”

She held him tighter, and then released him. By the golden light of the nearby lanterns, he saw her smile sadly.

They walked back toward the stairs and took the long flight up to ground level.

“There is war ahead,” Atiana said.

“And perhaps a long one,” he replied. “We cannot allow Yrstanla to have either Galahesh or Oramka now. Both must be secured.”

They reached the top of the stairs and stepped out through the doors, where an honor guard was set to watch-two Vostroman streltsi and two Khalakovan, each in full regalia. The soldiers bowed deeply and closed the doors behind them with a boom.

Atiana led Nikandr toward the stained-glass doors. They strode through these and out to the grand patio, where a cold wind blew. They walked to the edge, where they could look over the expanse of Baressa and the straits beyond. Nikandr leaned on the balustrade, staring at a column of smoke that rose to the northwest, the remnant of a fire that had stared during the fierce battle. “Where is Soroush?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him after the ship crashed. He must have left with Ushai and the remains of the Maharraht before our streltsi arrived.”

Nikandr shook his head, looking north toward the Spar. He could see much of its length and the large gap at its center. His mind was still fresh with the chaos of those final moments. The destruction was incredible, and surely Muqallad was dead, but it still didn’t feel like things had been decided.