The wind rustled the thin bushes along the sides of the hill. Sukharam pulled his arms around his waist. He looked small and lost, and Nasim began to doubt whether Sukharam were made of stern enough stuff to come.
“Take your time, Sukharam, son of Hadir and Dahanan. Make your decision before the sun rises. Return to us if you will. If not, fare you well.”
Nasim stepped down the hill, wending his way along the path, his feet crunching against the flaked stone, but before he had gone ten paces, Sukharam called out to him. “I would come, Nasim. I would join you.”
“Even knowing what you know?”
“Especially knowing what I know.”
“Tell me why.”
“My parents were taken from me when I was young. My mother died from the wasting. My father was hung by the courts of Alekeşir for refusing a summons. I was taken and sold to the orphanage two days later. I do not remember my father well, my mother even less, but I remember this. We are ephemeral, here in Erahm and in Adhiya, both. There is so little time for us to do something great. Sometimes there is no time at all.” Sukharam paused. “If there is something I can do to help us—to help all of us—then I would do it, or die in the trying. This is what my parents left me—the notion that in giving, we receive—and I cherish it.”
Nasim smiled, for his words rang true. “Then come.”
They left before dawn the next morning.
CHAPTER THREE
The sun hung low over the western end of Ivosladna in the Duchy of Mirkotsk. Long shadows stretched over the capital square that sprawled near the old stone wall of the posadnik’s mansion. The weather had already turned cold in the northern islands, but the last few days had brought with it a small reprieve from the bitter winds and early snows.
Still, Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo pulled the collar of his cherkesska up. Two young streltsi wearing the gold-and-red tassels of Mirkotsk walked along the stone cobbles of the square, the echoes of their boot heels clicking among the monstrous buildings surrounding it. They glanced at Nikandr, but he stumbled and caught himself, as a man too deep into his cups might do, and they laughed and kept on moving.
He waited as a pair of ponies clopped past the street in front of him and then ducked into a narrow lane that led down a steep slope toward the river. When he came to the first intersection, he waited, but not for long. To his right, from a doorway not far down the alleyway, a bearded man with a wine-colored kaftan waved to him. It was Anatoliy, the nephew of Duke Yevgeny Mirkotsk.
Nikandr made his way into his home. Only after the door was closed did Nikandr step in to hug him. They kissed cheeks and held one another by the shoulders, slapping each other several times.
“You look well, Nischka.” Anatoliy’s long black beard waggled as he spoke. He was thin—practically emaciated—and despite his warm greeting, his eyes were sunken and dark and filled with worry.
“And you look miserable, Toliy.”
Anatoliy smiled, ignoring the gibe. “I’m grateful you could come.” He motioned to the next room, and the two of them stepped into his sitting room, where a small fire lay dying in the fireplace. Nikandr unwrapped his scarf and took off his coat. After setting it onto the back of one of the two chairs, he sat while Anatoliy poured two healthy servings of vodka into wide pewter mazers. He handed one to Nikandr before lowering himself carefully into the other chair, as if his body had only enough energy left to perform this one final act.
“Where is Kseniya?” Nikandr asked carefully.
“She could not bear to be here.”
Nikandr thought that statement through. “Does she not approve?”
Before Nikandr had finished speaking, Anatoliy was already shaking his head. “She stands with me in this, but she cannot be here when you... When you try.”
“And Mirketta? How is she?”
Anatoliy glanced up toward the second floor, where his daughter would be resting. “Not well.”
“You gave her the elixir?”
“Da.”
“When?”
“An hour ago, as you instructed.”
Nikandr looked through the wavy glass of the nearby window. He could see little more than the building across the street, lit by the pale light of the dying sun. “We’ll give her some time yet.”
Anatoliy released a deep breath, and with it some of the tension he was clearly harboring was released. “Thank you for coming. I wouldn’t blame you if you’d decided not to.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Nikandr said. “But what of Yevgeny?”
Anatoliy’s smile in the darkness of the room was grim. “My uncle, the duke, would not wish to hear of your presence in this house, but he will not ask me of it, nor protest if he learns of Ketta’s sudden return to health.”
Nikandr shook his head. “I fear the same cannot be said of Borund. He will protest when he hears of it. And loudly.”
“Borund can go fuck a goat.”
Nikandr laughed, raising his glass and taking a healthy swallow of vodka. “Da. He can do that, and sooner rather than later.”
Anatoliy laughed ruefully, sitting deeper in his chair. He looked defeated as he stared into the fire. “It is unfortunate what has become of us,” he said, though he seemed to be saying it more to the darkness of the room than he was to Nikandr. “But what are we to do? The empire looms to the west, and here we are five years after the conflict, weaker than we were before.”
The conflict was how most referred to the Battle of Uyadensk and the blockade that preceded it. Most had never heard of Nasim or what he’d done, or if they had they didn’t believe that he’d saved Khalakovo from ruin. All they knew was that they were worse off. Hungrier. Less safe.
Nikandr swirled his vodka and clacked the mazer down on the arm of his chair. “It would not be so if Zhabyn did not tax our coffers bare and demand every stone we mined.”
“You sit in a different seat than I” — Anatoliy bowed his head respectfully— “of this there can be no doubt, but from what My Lord Duke tells me, there is little choice in the matter. The tributes have become more dear.”
“The Kamarisi has become greedy.”
“Perhaps, but Yevgeny tells me they are in little position to make unreasonable demands. It is their war with the Haelish, not greed, that forces their hand. The war is twenty years old if it is a day, and now news has come that late this summer much of the bountiful land to the west was raided or burned. They are not desperate, but they must be careful, now more than ever, with the food they grant. So if the Grand Duchy comes to them yet again, our hands folded, asking to be fed, it will cost us, and dearly.”
“I suppose I should not be surprised, but you would think the Kamarisi would have long ago settled a dispute that is nearly as old as he is.”
“It is not a simple matter of pride. If they lose the land to the Haelish, the Wredes will become emboldened.”
“If they would merely ask for our help…”
Anatoliy’s smile was suddenly fierce. “Such a thing the Kamarisi will never do. Within a fortnight he would find a knife in his back and a cousin upon his throne.”
Nikandr raised his mazer in salute. “We learned much from them, did we not?”
“Traditions handed down are difficult to set aside.”
Nikandr finished his vodka and stood. “Come. The elixir will have done its work by now.”
Anatoliy, for the first time since Nikandr had entered his home, showed vigor as he stood and lit a small lamp. He led Nikandr up the creaking stairs to a small bedroom with a single bed. Lying there was a girl of fourteen, bedcovers kicked away, her blonde hair and shift damp with sweat. She was calm, however—the primary effect of the elixir he’d had delivered to Anatoliy earlier in the day.
“I’ve said it in letters, Anatoliy, but I say it again. This may kill her.”
Anatoliy’s eyes searched about the room, looking for courage, or insight. Like so many others Nikandr had seen, he was making a decision for his daughter knowing i
t was risky, but knowing as well that doing nothing was just as dangerous. Those taken by the wasting did not heal of themselves. At least, not often. Nikandr could see in him the same sense of desperation that Nikandr himself had felt years ago, first when he’d been searching for a cure for Victania, and then again as he’d searched for himself. It was strange to Nikandr, the feeling that he himself had now become a potential cure, another of the long list of things that Anatoliy had no doubt tried. It was a measure of Anatoliy’s desperation—in some ways no different than the grub Nikandr had eaten, and in other ways much worse—that he had contacted Nikandr in the first place.
“She will die if I do nothing, Nischka.” He motioned to Mirketta, a simple but tender gesture. “Do what you can for her.”
“I will,” he said, gripping Anatoliy’s shoulder. “Now, please, leave us. I must have peace and quiet.”
“I would stay, Nischka.”
“Nyet,” Nikandr said. “If I do this, I do it alone.”
Anatoliy seemed unsure of himself, but when Nikandr did not waver, he nodded and set the lamp on the chest near the bed and closed the door behind him.
As his creaking steps made their way down the stairs, Nikandr turned to Mirketta. He brushed her hair away from her face, feeling the burn of her skin.
And then he pulled his soulstone from inside his shirt. He stared at the unmarred surface of the milky chalcedony. In the dimness of the room it glowed ever so softly.
The stone was young, only five years old. He’d taken another after giving his first—the one he’d had since the day he’d been born—to Nasim. He didn’t regret what he’d done—far from it—but this stone was a constant reminder of what he’d given up. He would now leave only half his legacy to the crypts of Khalakovo when he died. But in a way it was fitting. The time of his youth felt distant to him—like a different life, so changed had the world become. And, he told himself while shifting to kneel over Mirketta, there was still much he could do. There was still much he could leave behind for the sons and daughters of Khalakovo.
Not the least of which was this.
He pulled the necklace over his head. After a brief word of prayer to the ancients, he lifted her shift and placed the stone against her bare chest, over her heart. Mirketta’s face had been still if not calm, but it grew worried as the stone rested there. This was not something he would have considered years ago—royalty did not give up their stones, to anyone—but he had found that it helped, and if he inherited some small amount of pain or discomfort from those he tried to heal, he would gladly accept that burden.
After placing his other hand over the stone so that he could feel both it and her heartbeat, he closed his eyes and opened himself to the spirit that had been with him since it had been summoned by the Maharraht on the cliffs below Radiskoye.
He had spoken not only to Jahalan about this, but many havaqiram. None of them had a clear explanation, some even doubted his claims, but the spirit was always there, waiting. He treated the hezhan with respect, as it seemed he should, for he considered this both gift and fortune, some small compensation from the ancients for what the Maharraht had done.
He felt his breath release as he reached across the aether’s veil and touched the world beyond. His awareness expanded. He felt the draft in the room coming from the small window to his left, felt the wind as it ran across the rooftops and the streets of Ivosladna. He felt the clouds over the city and the larger currents of air as they drifted beyond the city and out to sea. It was at these times, when he had a foot placed firmly in both worlds, that he could touch those stricken by the wasting.
He stared down at Mirketta, her face flush, her breathing shallow. Her eyes were sunken, and the rank smell of her breath told him that she had little time remaining—a few weeks, a month at the most.
He could also feel something else near her—a spirit, in this case a vanahezhan. It drew upon her, slowly but surely, weighing her down and sapping her strength. He waited until he understood her well enough to approach, and then he drew upon her soul as his havahezhan led the other spirit away. Together, they began to separate the two. It was not easy, but neither was it dangerous for him. He’d done it dozens of times already, though he knew it was easier because most of the rifts had closed and those few that remained were narrow gaps—barely rifts at all.
He and Atiana had been searching for more of them ever since the ritual over Duzol. He did not wish more of them upon the islands, but he knew there would come a day when they would return, and they needed to be prepared.
He continued to draw the spirit away from Mirketta, but after a time, the vanahezhan began to resist. Mirketta’s breath came faster. She thrashed in her bed, and for the first time Nikandr began to worry that he would lose her.
The first few times he had done this, he would settle his mind and anchor himself more fully for an extended fight, but he had come to realize that this was foolish, especially for a spirit like the vanahezhan. That was merely playing to the strengths of a spirit of stone and earth, and so he allowed himself, and Mirketta, to soar, to drift upon the winds that surrounded them. It had little effect at first, but soon, and with growing effect, she and the spirit began to part.
Mirketta’s hold upon her physical form was weak, however, and he soon felt her slipping away from her mortal coil. He tried to pull back, but this allowed the vanahezhan a stronger hold, and now that it had been awoken it fought him fiercely.
Mirketta! he called to her. Mirketta, hear me!
She continued to drift. He became desperate, but this made him careless. He calmed himself, focused on the winds once more. He tried for minutes, for hours, hoping to coax the hezhan away. He even felt, near the very end, Mirketta awaken and fight as well. For a time it worked, but she was too weak and she had already expended what little energy she had.
Then, at last, there was no question as to the outcome.
Adhiya opened its arms and embraced her. Her presence faded.
And then all was still.
CHAPTER FOUR
Nikandr was deathly afraid to open his eyes. Yet he already knew what he would see.
When he did open them, he saw Mirketta lying there. Still.
Her breath no longer came. Her blood no longer coursed. Her flame no longer burned.
He held her hand for long moments, tears slipping down his cheeks as he stared at Mirketta’s delicate features. He’d tried this ritual many times. He’d managed to save twelve souls, but he’d failed seven of them. Now eight. Eight deaths, and the same questions always haunted him.
Who might they have become?
He’d last seen Mirketta when she was three, but by all accounts she had grown into a fine young dancer. Could she have found herself in the ballet houses of Ivosladna or Volgorod or Evochka? Might she have mothered fine children, as her mother had? What friendships had just been lost? What joys she might have experienced? What pain?
He was shaken from these thoughts by a tapping at the nearby window. He wiped the tears from his eyes with his sleeve. The sun had set. He could see nothing but darkness. But he knew who was there.
After retrieving his stone and kissing Mirketta’s forehead, he whispered to her, “Go well, dear child,” and then made his way over to the window.
From the golden light of the lamp he could see the flapping wings of a rook, and then the outline of a head, and finally the intermittent glint of an eye blinking in the dark. Now that he wore his stone once more he could feel Atiana’s presence. It felt strange to have her here after what had just happened—especially so soon after—but it was good that she was near, even if it was only in the form of a rook.
He wondered why she’d come, though. And why now? He left Mirketta’s room and took the stairs down. Anatoliy met him at the bottom of the stairs, but he knew already what had happened.
Nikandr had difficulty finding the words. He’d been so confident when he came—perhaps too confident—and he’d allowed Anatoliy to feel some of it. He
could see now this had been a grave mistake.
“I’m sorry, Anatoliy.”
Anatoliy had seemed fragile before, and in many ways that was true, but a subtle change had overcome him. Now that the outcome was sure, he was stronger, perhaps in anticipation of finding his wife and breaking the news. Surely in the small hours of the night this would change, but Nikandr hoped for Anatoliy’s sake, and for his wife’s, that his courage would hold for a while longer.
“There was fight in her, but she was too weak,” Nikandr continued. “When she went, she went quickly, and painlessly.” He didn’t know whether the last was true, but he saw no point in adding to Anatoliy’s grief.
Anatoliy took one deep, quavering breath, and pulled Nikandr into a deep embrace. He did not kiss Nikandr’s cheeks, but when he pulled away, Nikandr could see the pain and gratitude warring within him. “Thank you for trying, for coming here when my uncle, the duke, frowned upon it. But thank you most of all for caring for her.”
“Please, go to Kseniya,” Nikandr said, pulling him into a deep embrace. “You should be with your family.”
The two of them kissed cheeks, and then they parted. Anatoliy nodded. “I will.”
Nikandr took up his cherkesska and pulled it on in one smooth motion. From the floor above, the tapping sound came again, louder.
Anatoliy glanced up the stairs and smiled grimly. “Our duties follow us, do they not?”
“They do.”
After one last hug, Nikandr opened the door and stepped outside, pulling the collar up around his neck, more for the warmth than to hide his appearance. Soon he was back among the streets, walking toward the northern end of the city, where he’d taken a room. As he walked, a flapping sound came from behind him, and a rook landed on his shoulder. It dug in its talons to remain in place, though it seemed tighter than it needed to be.
The rook nipped his ear, a gesture Atiana had taken to. “I’m sorry, Nischka. She was young and strong once, but the wasting had taken too much from her.”
The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya Page 4