Suddenly the reason for the blood on Leonid’s hands became vitally important. The pieces of the puzzle began falling into place. And so Nikandr knew, well before Vadim returned, who he would bring from the tent, but he still wasn’t prepared to see him like this: turban gone, hair snarled and matted, blood painting his chest from a wealth of cuts, none deep enough to mortally wound. Steam rose from his scalp and his bloody, sweaty skin.
Soroush looked up, lips quivering, eyes unable to focus. Then he seemed to recognize Nikandr, and his expression turned to one of shame, as if he’d failed Nikandr by being captured.
Soroush was a careful man. He wouldn’t have been found or caught easily. Leonid must have sent one of the Matri to find him.
The shock of seeing him like this was beginning to wear off, and the implications were setting in. Treason, Leonid had said. They had found the man who had once commanded the northern tribes of the Maharraht. No matter to them that Soroush had foresworn those destructive ways. No matter that Soroush had helped to save them all on Galahesh. Leonid would use him to hang Nikandr. He would then take Khalakovo as Zhabyn Vostroma had once done, but this time there would be no giving it back. Nikandr’s family would be murdered, any who could be found—Saphia, Victania, Ranos’s son and daughter, any who posed a threat—while men of House Dhalingrad would be set in their place.
Nikandr realized the connection he’d had with the havahezhan had faded. The spirit was now crossing back over to Adhiya. He tried to summon it, to bond with it once more, but it did not hear him, or did not heed. Either way, he was soon there, alone, in the camp of the Grand Duchy.
It created in him a desperation he’d never felt before, a desperation to save his family and the world in one fell swoop.
He kicked his pony into action. The mare jolted forward as Nikandr pulled his shashka free. He swung it up over his head, oblivious to all else, focusing only on Leonid and his white beard and his bloody red hands.
Leonid’s eyes went wide.
Nikandr saw a flash of movement on his right side.
Something rose up in a blur and struck him across the head.
He fell backward off his pony and into the mud.
As darkness swept in around him, as the shouting of the men faded, the face of the man that had swung the musket fixed in his mind.
Borund.
It was Borund.
Once again betrayed by Borund.
He embraced this singular thought—betrayed by Borund once again—as the darkness finally took him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
When Nikandr woke and lifted his head, the mere motion summoned a series of painful waves that crashed against the side of his skull. Slowly the pain receded. He tried to touch it, but his wrists were weighted down. He was in heavy chains that clinked and rattled as he moved. He sat up on the cot, realizing he was in a tent. Khalakovo’s tent. But now it was completely bare. The chains around his hands and ankles were wrapped around the central pole.
He bent over so that his hands could reach his head. A gentle touch to the crown of his head produced more pain. He found dried blood and a wound that felt as big as a galleon.
He fell in and out of sleep, but some time later, the flaps to the tent opened, and two men of Dhalingrad stepped in. Nikandr didn’t recognize them, but they wore the stars of a polkovnik.
“Come to take me to the dance?”
The first one, a man with jowls and greying stubble, frowned and stepped forward. “Watch your tongue, Khalakovo, or I’ll give you a lump to match the one the Prince of Vostroma gave you.”
“You would strike a Prince of the Realm?”
“Prince no longer,” he said as he unlocked the chains. “Now you’re a traitor, like your brother before you.”
Strangely, this brought no sense of anger to Nikandr. If anything, it calmed him, for he knew the end was near. He had failed, but he would join his family in the afterlife. He would look upon them and tell them his tales, such as they were, and he would help Khalakovo from beyond, no matter what Leonid Dhalingrad might do to him here.
The streltsi led him outside. The entirety of the camp seemed to be abandoned, and he soon found out why. Beyond the next rise, thousands were gathered around a lone oak tree in the middle of a wide field. They parted as Nikandr came. So many, Nikandr thought. Leonid wanted to gloat before he saw Nikandr swing, but he wanted it on display as well. He wanted every man present to see Khalakovo brought low.
The soldiers parted, many watching with hard stares, though some few looked upon with something akin to sympathy. Or perhaps it was worry. Worry over what this meant, not merely for Khalakovo or Dhalingrad, but for the Grand Duchy itself.
At last, Nikandr reached the place where Leonid and his son stood. The dukes were gathered as well. They stared on with faces of stone. Nikandr met Borund’s eyes, and Borund stared back. He blinked, then glanced to Leonid as if he were now unsure about what he’d done. Had he thought that Nikandr might not be hung? Perhaps so. Perhaps he’d thought he was protecting Nikandr in his own way, as he’d done on Radiskoye.
The streltsi used the chains to drag Nikandr to the tree. Soroush, standing naked and shivering, was already there. Strung around his neck was a rope that went up and over a low-hanging bough. The other end was tied to the horn of a pony’s saddle. Another pony waited next to it, and another rope, similarly tied, stood waiting, swinging in the breeze next to Soroush. Two polkovniks held the ponies’ reins, calming them, preventing them from bolting, but as Nikandr was maneuvered into place, one of the ponies stamped. The other followed suit, as if they couldn’t wait to run and string the two of them high. Soroush didn’t look at Nikandr. He didn’t look at anyone. He stared at the horizon, drawing the world around him like a blanket, as if he was barely able to keep in the pain from the dozens of wounds he’d sustained.
As the rope was slipped over Nikandr’s head and tightened snugly around his neck, the eyes of those gathered bore into him. Leonid, wearing the mantle of Grand Duke, a heavy black cloak with golden trim, stepped to the center of the circle, just before Nikandr. His face was sour, as if something distasteful were stuck between his teeth. “Your final words,” he finally said, as if even a trifle such as that were something too precious for Nikandr.
“A moment.” The voice had come from among those gathered at the front. The crowd began to murmur.
“Silence!” Leonid’s son, Vadim, called.
The crowd calmed, and all looked to Yevgeny Mirkotsk, who had been the one to speak. All except Leonid. He barely turned his head, as if Yevgeny were little more than a mewling child. “Speak your peace, Mirkotsk.”
“You’ve hung a rope around the neck of a duke.”
“Around the neck of a traitor,” Leonid corrected.
“A duke deserves a trial.”
Leonid turned to face Yevgeny fully now. “It has already been decided.”
“New information has come to light. Soroush helped us on Rafsuhan. He helped us on Galahesh. He helped Nikandr and Atiana to save thousands of lives, perhaps tens of thousands.”
“Who told you this?”
“I did,” a deeper voice said.
Nikandr blinked. It was Borund. Borund had come to his defense.
“And what do you know of it?” Leonid spat.
“I have men who saw what happened on the Spar. Soroush was there, and he helped defeat Muqallad. The reasons he did this are known only to him, but the fact remains.”
“That he did so proves nothing. He was in league with Muqallad, as we all know.”
Borund pulled himself taller. “If that had been so, he would have admitted as much to you.”
“He did admit it.”
At this, a rook came flapping down from somewhere above in the tree. It cawed as it soared over the crowd and landed on Borund’s shoulder. “He did not,” the rook said.
Leonid stared warily into the rook’s black eye. “Who speaks?”
“It is I, Radia Anastasiyeva Vostro
ma.”
All around heads bowed to the Matra, but still a murmur ran through the crowd. This time Vadim did nothing to stop it—Radia, like Borund’s father, Zhabyn, had always been a friend to Dhalingrad.
The rook craned its neck and pecked at the medals on Borund’s chest. “Your questions were heard, Dhalingrad. As were his answers.”
“What of it? The Maharraht lie as easily as you or I breathe.”
“And yet no lies passed his lips. You asked of his involvement with the Maharraht, before and after the incident with the boy, Nasim, on Duzol. You asked of his involvement with Nikandr on Rafsuhan, how his brother, Bersuq, was taken by Muqallad, and how he took his people to Iramanshah afterward. You asked of his involvement in saving Nikandr on the shores of Yrstanla, and how he brought the kegs of gunpowder to the Spar. On it goes, Dhalingrad. His involvement with Nikandr since. Their time in the Gaji, their travels to Alekeşir, the chase they led here. And all the while he told the truth, even when you asked him of those he killed in the name of his war.”
“Just so!” Leonid said, spittle flying as he spoke. “Did you hear him admit how many died? Dozens by his own hand! Hundreds by his command!”
“All the more telling that he told the truth, and that he told the truth after. He gave no indication that he was planning more such attacks. He gave no indication that he was plotting against the Grand Duchy, nor that he would ever do so again. And he gave no indication that Nikandr was doing such. And upon this you pressed him mightily, Leonid. You know this. As do I, for I heard his words. I heard his pain.”
“What care you of Soroush Wahad al Gatha?”
“I care nothing for him. I care that a Prince of the Realm has been strung up like a fish, ready to be hung from a line like a baseless criminal. And I care that you have hidden much from the dukes in order to do it.”
“This is a time of war, Matra.”
“The Covenant governs us all, even in times of war.”
“Play with words if you like. These men will not unseat me. They know the sort of man the leader of the Maharraht is.” Leonid’s voice rose in volume and pitch as he looked about the gathered dukes. He scanned each of them in turn: Konstantin, Borund, Yegor, Heodor, Aleg, Alaksandr. And finally Yevgeny. His eyes bore into him as he sneered. “They know what he’s capable of. They know the sort of man he is, and those who associate with him. That he gave no confession means nothing. It means nothing more than that the Maharraht are singular of mind and purpose, and that even by pain of blade or hammer they are not swayed. That is how he hides the truth of his allegiance.” Leonid pointed toward Nikandr without taking his eyes from Yevgeny. “That is how he hides his alliance with this so-called Prince of Khalakovo.”
The rook took wing, cawing so fiercely Nikandr thought Radia had been rejected from its form, but then it landed on Borund’s shoulder once more and regarded Leonid. “A prince must have a trial.”
“He will not,” Leonid replied.
“He will,” Yevgeny said.
Yevgeny was resolute; his voice spoke it like a clarion call. Borund was as well. And Konstantin and Yegor. But with Nikandr’s own vote thrown in doubt, it was four against four. And when that was the case, the Grand Duke’s voice cast the deciding vote. It would take only one more, but Alaksandr was standing in for his father, and Heodor Lhudansk and Aleg Khazabyirsk were too closely aligned with Leonid to vote against him.
Or were they?
Heodor was a man who put the law of the land above all else. It was why his own allegiance had shifted. Years ago, he’d brought a trade dispute to Nikandr’s father, Iaros, claiming that, under the agreement, the taxes being levied against the windwood supplied to Lhudansk were too dear. Iaros had denied Heodor, claiming new agreements superseded it, but Heodor had insisted. It led to a severing of ties and had pushed Heodor to side with first Stasa Bolgravya as the Grand Duke and then Zhabyn Vostroma.
But it was that very narrow way of reading such things that Borund and the others might have counted on. Indeed, Heodor was watching Leonid fiercely beneath his black, bushy brows.
Leonid must have sensed the shift in the wind as well, for his face grew red. “You would deny me?”
The dukes were silent, waiting for Leonid to back down. As they stared on, as the wind blew through the bare branches of the tree above, Leonid’s face calmed. His skin lost its hue. And a cold calculation entered his eyes.
Before Nikandr knew what was happening, he’d pulled the ornate wheellock pistol from his belt. He whipped around and pointed it at the rightmost pony.
Then he fired.
The bullet took the pony in the rump. The pony jolted forward.
Nikandr grabbed the rope with both hands a mere moment before he was hauled up.
The screaming of the pony was quickly drowned out by the rush of blood through his ears, and then a high-pitched tone that sounded like a call from the world beyond. He saw the grey sky above through the black of the branches. He saw the beating of wings, the rook taking flight, though why it would do such a thing he had no idea.
Though he fought to keep the noose from cinching, it had been pulled tight when the pony had bolted. He was still rising into the air until at last he could go no further. The bough prevented him. But that only pulled the rope tighter.
He heard voices above the ringing. Or thought he did.
They sounded like his father. Like Ranos. Like the calls of those taken by the wasting. The rifts, they said. Why haven’t you closed them?
He could feel more as well.
A hezhan. Standing just on the other side of the divide between Erahm and Adhiya. It was there to welcome him, he was sure, to the life beyond. And yet it was close enough to touch. He could feel its expanses, feel the way it caressed the wind of the world.
He could feel the stone of alabaster in his cherkesska pocket, a source of power, a way to ease his path to Adhiya. But he didn’t need it anymore. He knew with certainty what would happen when he called to the hezhan.
Come, he said to it. Come, and you shall taste of this world.
And this time, it did.
It’s like the feeling he has when he reunites with Atiana. A love deeper than he can hold in his mind at the mere thought of her. It is only when he sees her, smells the scent of lilies in her hair, feels the first touch of her hand upon his skin, that it all comes rushing back.
And this hezhan…
The one he was bonded to before was completely different. This one is deeper. Older. The tree his body hangs from is but a child compared to it. The nearby city of Izlo is little different. This spirit is older than the hills in which Soroush was found, older than the nearby river that wends its way across the landscape.
Welcome, Nikandr calls to it.
He hears no response, but he feels its glee. It rejoices as it embraces the material world. And Nikandr rejoices as well. Never has he felt Adhiya so clearly, not even while he was on Rafsuhan trying to heal the children there. This is deeper, as if he’s in Adhiya already.
Am I dead? he wonders. Have I crossed over?
He feels the wind as it courses through the branches of the tree, as it makes the ancient oak sway. And now, at last, he draws upon it. He calls it down upon those gathered. It howls with glee. It revels in the men who cower from it, at the ponies who fear it.
The rope around his neck tightens. It will soon snap his neck.
But only if he allows it.
He directs the wind, forces it against his swinging frame. It lifts him, carries him like a newborn babe up and over the thick lower bough. The pony, temporarily freed of restraint, bolts forward. Like a daisy tied to a summer ribbon, Nikandr is dragged along with it, still aloft, until he calls on the wind again. He calls upon a gust to blow against the pony, to tip it over, so that he can pull the rope free.
Stars swim in the air before him, and for long moments his breath refuses to return to him, but the stars begin to fade as the wind bears him down to the ground.
; Movement draws his attention.
There, at the tree, Soroush swings, as Nikandr had moments ago. This time when he calls upon the wind it is no different than a lift of his arm, a cupping of his palm to cradle Soroush over the bough and set him down on the ground.
He turns now toward the assembled men. The dukes are upon their knees covering their faces as snow and mud are lifted and driven against them. None can look upon him, so strong has the wind become.
Good.
Let them cower.
He strides toward Leonid, who lies upon the ground, his arms over his head. He allows the wind to wane here at the center of things. Around him it still howls, but here, like the calm eye of a monsoon, the wind blows as idly as a springtime breeze.
“Stand,” Nikandr calls to Leonid.
It takes Leonid long moments to pull his arms away, to regard Nikandr. When he does it is with a look of naked contempt. “Unmasked at last,” he says as he props himself onto his heels and stands.
Nikandr waits until he’s recovered himself, until he pulls himself taller. “You killed my father. I would hear it before this is done.” Leonid glances to those around them. “Only the two of us can hear one another.”
“Your father?” At that Leonid begins to laugh, and he seems unable to stop it. “Allow him to sweep in and take the mantle from me? You’re joking, child. And you! A duke? You’re but a mewling prat traipsing among your betters. A lover of motherless whores and beggars. And when this wind dies, which it shall, whether I live to see it or not, you’ll be taken from this world and forgotten by all who knew you.”
Nikandr feels something rise in his throat. He swallows, trying to clear it. Fails. For months after his father’s death he wanted nothing more than to stick a knife in Leonid’s side and watch him bleed, as his father bled. But now is not the time to call upon that score. As much as he hates it, he needs Leonid. He needs him to call off the ships, for only in that might they affect the outcome of what’s happening on Ghayavand.
The Flames of Shadam Khoreh Page 54