“The janissaries will return.”
Grigory turned to the door and turned the handle. “Then best you get to your preparations.”
“You’re a coward.”
Grigory turned and aimed. Pulled the trigger.
The pistol roared in the small space. Wood bit deeply into Nikandr’s cheek.
The shot had gone wide, just next to Nikandr’s head and into the hull.
Grigory stared at Nikandr, then the hole where the musket ball had struck, and Nikandr was not at all sure he’d meant to miss. He appeared unsure of himself, perhaps sensing through the haze of liquor that he’d gone too far, but then it was gone, and he stormed out of the room.
Shortly after, Nikandr was taken by the Bolgravyan streltsi to the worst of the ships. Styophan and Vlanek and Jonis were all there. Everyone but Anahid.
The nine windworthy ships, plus the Yarost, departed soon after, leaving Nikandr and his men standing on the deck of a ship that had been stripped of everything valuable. Grigory had given them each a musket, and granted them twenty rounds of ammunition apiece. The rest they had taken.
As the ships flew off into the morning air, Nikandr stared up the cliff, wondering when the men of Yrstanla would return.
Nikandr glanced at Styophan, then to the men beyond him. Nikandr was glad that Grigory hadn’t in his rage decided to have any of them killed—or worse, killed them himself—but he’d left Nikandr alone on the shores of Yrstanla with no real hope of returning to Galahesh or Anuskaya.
“Take stock,” Nikandr said. “Search the ships and find if there’s any way we can make them windworthy.” Even as he spoke, Nikandr was shaking his head. Their ship, a six-masted brigantine, was the smallest of the three ships. He had hoped to find enough canvas to sail her, but he was nearly as worried as not that he would find the canvas. The ships were nearly worthless; it was a wonder that any one of them still held their loft. “Send Jonis and Mahrik to the top of the cliff. Have them prepare defenses.”
Nikandr paused, for Styophan was looking over his shoulder to the cliffs behind him. Nikandr turned and saw a large black bird sitting on a small outcropping near the ship’s stern.
“Go,” he said to Styophan without turning his head.
Styophan snapped his heels and left.
Nikandr walked along the deck slowly, keeping his eyes on the bird.
The bird was larger than a rook, and along its breast and wrapping around to its back was a streak of bright white feathers, but it had the same intelligent gleam in its eye that so many of the island rooks seemed to possess. By the time Nikandr reached the stern, he was within a few paces of the bird. It remained, watching him. He was sure that it had been assumed. He took out his soulstone necklace and held it in his hand. He cast his mind outward, as he did when he knew his mother or Atiana were near. He felt so little that he thought perhaps one of the Matri he hadn’t spoken to in years might have come—Duchess Rosa of Lhudansk or Ekaterina of Rhavanki.
Then he sensed something familiar, but it was so faint he thought surely he was merely wishing it were so.
“Atiana?” he said.
The bird studied him with an unblinking eye. It arched its head back and ran its beak down one wing and flapped its wings. He thought surely it would speak, that he would hear the cadence of Atiana’s words, but then the rook cawed—its voice much lower than the rooks of Anuskaya—and took wing. As it flapped and headed up and over the cliff, heading inland, he wondered whether he had imagined it all.
The day became bitterly cold, so cold that it was impossible for the men to work on the cliffs above. He called them in after midday, and bid everyone to stay within the ship. The enemy would not brave this weather in any case. They would be safe at least until the cold snap broke. But the winds became so fierce that he began to wonder about the wisdom of remaining within the ship. The hull was stout enough, but it was lashed to the cliffs, and the landward mainmast had received damage during whatever storms Grigory had experienced on their way north. With that and the constant rocking against the cliff—something that was never meant to be done for very long—he worried that remaining here would doom them as well. At least on the winds, assuming they could break away from the cliff, they could brave the weather. Here they would eventually be crushed against the stone rock face like grist in a mill.
He went up on deck as the sun began to set. The winds grew stronger the longer he watched. It forced him and the rest of the crew to hold to the ropes and the gunwales wherever they went. The farthest ship, a twelve-masted galleon, was rocking so badly he wondered whether it would last the hour. As its landward mainmast cracked, the ship’s stern twisted inward toward the cliff, then the wind shifted and threw it forward.
They couldn’t release from the cliffs—not in weather like this—and they couldn’t remain here. “Up, men!” he called down the hatch. “We go up to the top of the cliffs.” It was not something he relished, remaining out in the open in this weather, but there was no longer a choice.
Styophan ordered Jonis up the rope first to help those who would come next.
Level ground was only fifteen paces above them, but it was taking Jonis minutes to make the climb. The wind threw the rope back and forth, bashing him into the rock face as he climbed. He tried to fend it off with his legs, and they also tried to steady the rope from below, but the wind was howling so fiercely now there was little they could do.
Nikandr felt for his havahezhan, but for the first time in years he felt nothing. Nothing. He had often wondered when the bond with the spirit might be broken, and he was sure that it now had been after the days and days of a constant, draining bond.
Snapping and cracking sounds rose from the fore. The galleon two ships ahead was beginning to break apart. A large crack in the hull formed and widened. The gravel ballast spilled from inside as the ship was thrown back and forth.
“Hurry, Jonis!” Nikandr bellowed above the wind.
At last Jonis reached the top. As he slipped over the edge, Mahrik took to the rope, moving little faster than Jonis had. When he had made it two thirds of the way up, their ship tilted sharply, the landward side dipping down as the mizzen cracked neatly in two. The deck was nearly impossible to stand upon now. The men looked to one another, eyes wide, trying to hold back the fear but finding it impossible with the elements raging against them.
The ship directly ahead of theirs, a ten-masted barque, broke free of its mooring lines and floated out toward sea, but then the wind brought it rushing back again.
“Hold!” Nikandr yelled.
Just before the barque smashed into their ship.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Atiana sat in a hard, unforgiving chair with a pillow beneath her and a blanket across her lap. Ishkyna lay in the nearby bed, her skin pale, her breathing shallow. Atiana leaned forward and took her sister’s hand in her own. Ishkyna’s fingers were so cold—colder, it seemed, than the evening winds blowing outside the kasir.
Atiana held Ishkyna’s hand tighter, willing her to warm, as the memories of those few precious moments in the aether haunted her. She should have sensed what was happening. She should have tried harder to save her sister, but Ishkyna had never been strong in the ways of the dark, and she had paid for the inexperience. She was lost now, perhaps forever.
Atiana wondered if she had joined the other Matri that had become lost over the centuries. Many believed that those who became lost never died, even if their bodies perished. Atiana hoped not. The idea of living in such a state forever was not a pleasant one.
As she’d done every waking hour, Atiana pulled the soulstone necklace out from beneath Ishkyna’s nightdress and touched it with her own. She felt nothing—no momentary brightness, no glimpse of emotion, no sense of Ishkyna at all. It had been the same ever since their return from the tower, but that hadn’t kept Atiana from performing this one small ritual. It might be the very beacon Ishkyna needed to return to herself.
She held Ishkyna’s stone tend
erly, ran her hand over its smooth, glasslike surface. It was not dark like Nikandr’s had been years ago, but instead dim, as if she were merely lost and would one day find her way home. Such stones would remain this way forever, except in those rare cases where its owner would return. This was yet another possibility Atiana hoped would not come to pass, for most who returned were never the same.
It had happened to Atiana’s great-great-grandmother. She’d become lost for eight days and seven nights. She’d returned, screaming and thrashing in her bed for hours until finally she’d fallen asleep for two days straight. When she’d woken again, she could speak, but no more than a child of three. She was petulant, emotional, her moods swinging wildly between exuberance and rage. Often when the moon was full she would become inconsolable, and once she’d even taken a knife to her wrist. She’d been found, bloody and near death, crying to herself softly on the floor of her room.
She had been confined to a wheeled chair after that, and was rarely allowed outside her room in one of the high towers of Galostina.
Atiana took Ishkyna’s hand again, struggling with this cold reality. To be lost among the aether forever or to return a shell of what she once was seemed no choice at all. If it had to be one of these, she silently hoped Ishkyna would simply pass.
She watched the bedcover’s rise and fall slowly, wondering if the ancients would take her right then as punishment for such thoughts. The very thought—hoping for her sister’s death—shamed her greatly, but she also knew it was the very thing she would wish for in Ishkyna’s place.
Atiana shivered as a tapping came at the window.
She turned and saw by the golden light from the lantern at Ishkyna’s bedside the silhouette of a rook and the barest gleam from its eye. It tapped again and she heard a muffled caw, nearly lost among the sound of the wind scouring the towers of the kasir. It was Mileva. Atiana could feel her, even from this distance. It was not only an indicator that the storm was finally dying, but of just how strong Mileva had become. It had been only two days since her time in Sariya’s tower, and though the storm had abated somewhat, Atiana still wouldn’t have thought that Mileva could make her way here.
Atiana moved to the window and levered it open. The frigid wind entered the room as the rook flapped in noisily and dropped to the floor. It hopped forward and with three swift beats of its wings flew up to Ishkyna’s bed.
“How did you know?” Atiana asked.
“Vaasak told me.”
Of course, Atiana thought. Of course she would have spoken to Vaasak first. She fell into a nearby chair, the exhaustion she’d managed to stave off these past many days catching up to her at last.
The rook hopped along Ishkyna’s chest, swiveled its head to look closely at her soulstone, and then Ishkyna’s face. “How does she fare?”
“You saw her in the aether,” Atiana replied. “You would know better than I.”
“In the aether she is lifeless, as black as the bed she lies upon.”
“And yet she breathes, and her soulstone glows.”
“Of her stone I see little, but you are right. There is something, a single ember in a long-dead fire, and when I focus upon it, there are times when I feel as though I can sense her, as if she’s calling to me somewhere in the fog.”
Atiana felt her emotions getting the better of her. Being here with Mileva and Ishkyna both—one in the form of a rook, the other not really present at all—only served to remind her of brighter times. Always when they came together after being apart they slipped into a comfortable routine that felt—despite the biting remarks and rows that inevitably arose—like a comfortable blanket on a cold winter night. And now one of them had been taken away, perhaps never to return.
She’d been hiding these feelings since returning to Sariya’s tower, but now it was too much, and she broke down, sobbing uncontrollably into the palms of her hands.
Mileva said nothing. The rook remained on Ishkyna’s blankets, blinking those deep black eyes and watching.
“Have you no heart?” Atiana asked.
“It’s too soon to give up hope, and there’s little time to grieve.”
Little time, Atiana thought. Little time, indeed. There was still a host of ships sitting far off the coast of Kiravashya. “You have kapitans to speak to, do you not?”
“I do. More than you might guess.”
Atiana paused. She didn’t care for the way Mileva had spoken those words, nor the not-so-subtle meaning behind them. She was supposed to have spoken to the Kamarisi’s ships, to pass them messages that could only have come from the Kamarisi himself. But if she were speaking to more than just them, it could only mean one thing.
“You will betray the Kamarisi,” Atiana said softly.
“I made no promise to the Kamarisi.”
“Vaasak did. He guaranteed them safe passage.”
“They cannot be allowed safe return, Atiana. You should know that.”
“I know no such thing.”
The rook arched its neck back and released a series of mighty caws. “You speak of Sariya’s lies.”
“You know they’re not lies.”
“What I know is that Sariya is Al-Aqim. She is one of the three who broke the world. She, like no other Aramahn since, has found the way into the thoughts and emotions of men and women, both. There’s no telling how slyly she might place a thought or command into any one of us.”
“Including me.”
“Of course you!”
“She was lost in the aether, Mileva. When I found her, she didn’t know herself. She was spread as thinly as Ishkyna is now. She knew not who she was, nor where she was. She was laid bare.”
“Be not a fool, Tiana. Can you say for sure she wasn’t lying in wait? Can you say for sure she didn’t do this so that you would find the thoughts she wanted you to see? She desires the destruction of our spires. What better way to do it than if we were to lay down arms?”
“She had more than enough ships to do so.”
“Don’t be so sure. They were waiting for the winds to die down after the destruction of the lesser spires. Could she know that more ships would not arrive in time to aid us? Could she be sure they wouldn’t turn the tide?”
“There is still the matter of Muqallad.”
“Nikandr may worry of Muqallad, but I do not, not when there are so many threats that stand before us.”
“Be not a fool, you say. Well, be not dismissive. Nikandr spoke the truth when he warned you of Muqallad. He could destroy us all. You need only look at Nasim to see the sort of destruction the Al-Aqim might cause. He was but a boy, Mileva, an echo of the man he once was, and he nearly destroyed Khalakovo.”
“Muqallad is still a man, and he will be found, little thanks to Sariya or the Kamarisi. Yrstanla must be neutered and driven beyond the shores of Oramka. Then and only then will we have hope of defeating Muqallad’s plans.”
“You’re playing with fire.”
“Something you’re all too familiar with. It’s time to return home, sister. It’s time to recover and gather our strength and begin the rebuilding. We have plenty to worry about.”
Atiana had known it would be difficult to convince Mileva, but now she knew it was impossible. “You’re right.” Atiana collapsed back into the chair, allowing the exhaustion she felt to show through on her face. “You’re right.”
The rook hopped and flapped its wings. “Just like that, Tiana?”
“I’m not happy, Mileva. I’m worried more than I can say, but what can I do?”
The rook stared, its eyes boring into her. In the end, it hopped down to the floor and flapped up to the windowsill. Using its beak it pushed the window open, which Atiana had left unlatched. “When you see the devastation on Kiravashya, you’ll not be so quick to speak lightly of Sariya.”
Atiana remained silent as the bird leapt out and into the night. She waited until she could no longer feel Mileva’s presence in her soulstone, and then she stood and returned to Ishkyna’s side. S
he took her sister’s hand in hers, hoping, however irrationally, that Ishkyna would wake with this one insignificant gesture, but her eyes remained shut, her hand cold, and Atiana was somehow sure that Ishkyna would never wake, would never find herself.
She had always thought—foolishly, she knew—that she would be able to say goodbye when the time came. But there had been no time at all, and now it seemed there would never be.
She slipped her soulstone from around her neck, held it in the palm of her hand. The stone itself and the stout chain felt incredibly light. She couldn’t keep it, not if she were to leave the kasir and have any hope of remaining hidden in the streets of Baressa or the hills of Galahesh.
She had to leave, for there was no other choice. She would find no allies to the south of Baressa, so she would look to Sihaş, and perhaps the Aramahn if she dared to return to them.
She leaned forward and slipped the necklace around Ishkyna’s neck, hoping it would comfort her.
She kissed Ishkyna on the forehead and whispered into her ear, “Go well, sister.”
And then, through her tears, she left Ishkyna’s room.
Atiana watched the sleet fall against the stones of the courtyard. It was the worst storm since the spires had fallen. Warm wind blew in from the southwest, from the deserts of Yrstanla, which brought with it some warmth, but only enough at this time of year to alter the snow into something equally unpleasant.
She had been watching for nearly an hour and she feared that something had happened to Irkadiy. She waited for minutes more, eyeing the ramparts of the kasir’s inner keep for any signs of being watched. There were none, however; with so little to fear from within, every available man had been sent to the outer defensive wall.
Just as she was about to give up hope, a form resolved from the darkness. It moved quickly, threateningly. She opened the eye of her lantern and shined it ahead of her. She breathed a sigh of relief when she recognized Irkadiy’s face.
“Quickly,” he said, holding one hand up to block the light from her lantern. “The Kamarisi has stepped up the watch.”
The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya Page 57