Through his chalcedony stone, Nikandr could feel the wind master’s bond to his hezhan. He could feel his own as well. It called to him, begged him to draw upon it so that it could experience Erahm through Nikandr. He did so now, combating the winds that were summoned by the Aramahn.
As the wind died down, one of the Aramahn turned and addressed him. “Your ship is gone, son of Iaros. It is best you come with us.”
Nikandr didn’t know what to do. He searched the skies behind them again, but the dark beyond the siraj stones lining the perch was complete.
Where had the other ship gone? Had it been taken already?
What about Atiana? He hadn’t heard her, nor could he feel her through his stone.
The Aramahn came closer. His robes of green and gray whipped about his knees and calves. His face was both serious and sad. “Please. You’ve done enough this day.”
“What I did was necessary.”
“You wear cloth over your eyes, and yet you claim to see the stars.”
Nikandr looked to the other perches. Few of them had siraj stones, but those that did were achingly empty. He should have come with more ships. He should have come bearing weapons.
Nyet, he told himself. He couldn’t have done such a thing, not to people that bore him no ill will, who would refuse to harm him even if he killed one of their own.
He stepped forward, ready to give himself to them, to wait, perhaps, for a ransom. They would not keep him forever…
But then a flapping of wings came. At the edge of the light, far beyond the end of the perch, was a flurry of wings darker than the surrounding sea.
A harsh caw came from Vikra. “Below, Nischka! Below!”
The havaqiram turned and raised his arms. The winds responded with the howl of a gale, blowing the rook end over end and out to sea.
Nikandr ran toward the edge of the perch. The Aramahn moved to intercept him. Nikandr reached it first and stared downward, searching frantically for what Atiana had been referring to.
The Aramahn grabbed his arms, began pulling him back.
He fought desperately, trying to keep himself near the edge.
But they had him, and they dragged him away.
And then he saw it. A glimmer of light, far, far below.
He railed against the Aramahn. They were strong, and there were two of them, but they were hindered by their wish to do no harm, while he was not. After a violent surge in one direction, he sent them off balance. He rushed forward, placing his boot behind one man’s leg. The man went down as Nikandr twisted his arm sharply. He punched the other man in the throat and twisted beneath the man’s grasp, spilling him awkwardly.
Freed, he sprinted toward the end of the perch. Anything to give him extra distance from the bulk of the village below.
“Do not!” the havaqiram shouted, raising his arms.
Nikandr kept running.
And he leapt.
For a moment the blackness before him simply held, motionless.
And then he was plummeting downward, wind whipping past him, tugging at his hair and clothes. The sound of the wind gained until it was a roar.
He opened his bond to his hezhan, but nothing happened. He continued to plummet, and he wondered when he would meet the sea and his death.
But then the wind responded. It was already rushing past, but now it pressed upon him. He could feel himself slowing. He spread his arms wide, and like a gull on the cliffs below the eyrie, he rode the wind southward.
Drawing upon the hezhan to such a degree drained him, as if there were only so much the hezhan could allow before it drew upon Nikandr for sustenance. He looked up to orient himself and from the few lights and the simple black immensity of it found the bulk of Mirashadal. He searched for the Chaika, squinting against the terrible wind, but could not find it. He tried to gauge how far the ship might have been pushed by the qiram on the perch; he scanned the skies, hoping they had been able to light a lamp, but he saw nothing.
His reserves were beginning to dwindle, and though he gave as much of himself as he could to the hezhan, he soon found himself unable to ascend.
And then he began to fall, slowly at first, but with growing velocity.
He tried one last time to find the Chaika, but he knew it was no use. But then, far below him, he found the light he’d seen from the perch. The Strovya. The kapitan had been told to remain dark throughout the infiltration and escape, but there it was, a lantern swinging back and forth on the deck.
He used the wind to push himself toward it, allowing himself to fall faster to conserve his strength while guiding himself in the right trajectory. Then, when he came within a hundred paces of the ship, he called upon the hezhan, giving more of himself than he ever had before.
The hezhan responded, but it was too late. He was falling too quickly, and there was nothing he could do.
But then he saw the sails. They were bowed, full of the strong northern winds.
Nikandr pushed himself toward it with his last strength.
He fell into the canvas just below the head of the sail, sliding downward, scraping against the seams, until the sail’s wide foot caught him like a butterfly in a net. The sail sprung back and threw him forward. His leg caught against the boom, sending him twisting through the air to land hard against the deck.
He felt something in his ribs give. Stars filled his vision for long moments. He stared upward at the sail that had saved his life and the blackness beyond, wondering at how close he had come to death.
A lantern approached, carried by the ship’s young kapitan. He was followed quickly by several crewmen.
“Douse the light,” a raucous voice called.
It was the rook, Vikra, giving Nikandr the answer to the question of who had ordered the lantern to be lit.
It came mere moments before he passed out.
Nikandr woke to Syemon, the ship’s pilot, who also served as the physic, hovering over him with a cup of vodka, administering it to him slowly. Nikandr coughed and waved the man away, realizing they’d moved him to the kapitan’s cabin.
He was beneath a blanket wearing only his small clothes. He tried pulling himself up, but thought better of it when the room started to spin.
“How long?” he asked.
“Only a few hours. You hit the deck hard, My Lord Prince, but not as hard as you might’ve.”
Syemon had a wicked scar that ran across his right eye. The color in his eye had gone nearly white, and it unnerved Nikandr. It made him feel as though the old gull could see right into his soul.
Though the man hardly needed any special insight into Nikandr’s abilities with the wind. The men whispered it in their bunks, and it had been passed through the ranks of Khalakovo, first as rumor and then as legend. No one spoke of it openly, and many of them secretly wanted to be with a kapitan that could control the wind; others were wary of it, claiming it wasn’t right for a Landed man to touch the wind as the Motherless wizards do.
“Bring Vikra to me.”
Syemon bowed his head. “Beg pardon, My Lord Prince, but the rook’s gone quiet.”
Nikandr nodded, pulling himself up in the bunk. The dizziness returned, but not so bad as before. “Then bring Soroush here.”
“My Lord?”
“Go on,” Nikandr said, nodding toward the cabin door.
Syemon left with a deep bow, and while Nikandr sat at the edge of the bunk, clearing his head, he heard the sounds of the men on deck, the kapitan calling to the men, the snap of canvas as a sail caught a whorl in the wind.
Outside the cabin door, the sounds of boots on the planking approached, and the door opened with a creak and a groan. Syemon stepped aside and allowed two of the streltsi assigned to the ship to half carry, half drag Soroush into the cabin before tossing him to the floor.
The heavy iron manacles on his arms and legs clinked as he pulled himself off the floor. He wore outer robes of white and inner robes of yellow. His beard was long and unkempt, but other than fresh a
brasions along his cheek and jaw, he seemed to be in good health. His turban was gone, however, making him seem lost and alone and frail-qualities Nikandr would never have thought to associate with Soroush. It seemed as though the Aramahn had robbed him of much more than his freedom, but then he stared up at Nikandr, recognition flickered, and his eyes became as cold and piercing as they’d ever been.
“Remove his manacles,” Nikandr said, pulling one of the two chairs out from the kapitan’s desk and setting it next to Soroush. Syemon hesitated as Nikandr pulled out the other chair and sat in it heavily. “Then leave us.”
Syemon bent down, though he appeared hesitant to comply until Soroush held out his hands. Syemon unlocked the manacles, then he bowed and ushered the streltsi out, closing the door behind him.
“Please,” Nikandr said in Anuskayan, motioning to the empty chair.
Soroush pulled himself up off the floor slowly. He lowered himself to the seat of the chair, wincing as he went; then he leaned back and regarded Nikandr, nostrils flaring, eyes darting, his long hair and beard rolling down his chest.
For long moments Nikandr could do nothing but stare. He had never truly been alone with Soroush, and it was unnerving, no matter how much he might be in the advantage. This was a man who had orchestrated dozens of deadly attacks on the northern duchies and helped to supply many more in the south. Scores had died at his hands; hundreds had been wounded. And here Nikandr was, sitting in his company as if none of that had ever happened. Nikandr felt the weight of his father on him. He felt like a traitor, as if even speaking to Soroush, no matter the cause, was little more than high treason.
And yet they shared a very personal connection. Rehada. They had both loved her, and in her own way she had loved them as well, and if this were true, how could they not share a certain bond, tenuous though it may be?
Soroush must have felt it too, for he was studying Nikandr with something akin to contemplation. Or forbearance. Or mercy. Mercy. As if Nikandr might be spared from the judgment he’d long ago meted out to the Landed.
Nikandr took from the shelves above the kapitan’s desk a bottle of araq, something he had specifically asked to be placed here for this conversation. He poured two small glasses of the golden red liquid and set one on the desk near Soroush. The other he took back to his seat. He drank a healthy swallow of the bright, sweet liquor, hints of fig and pomegranate washing down his throat. To drink before he’d even formally offered the liquor to the man sitting across from him was considered very rude among the Landless, but Nikandr wanted him to understand the terms under which they were speaking.
Nikandr held his glass high and nodded toward Soroush’s. Soroush didn’t move, so Nikandr downed the rest of his drink in one swallow, slapped the glass down on the desk, and asked Soroush, “Do you know where I was before you took Nasim from Bolgravya’s ship?” He was referring to the time after Ghayavand, after Nasim had awoken. Grigory had hoped to bring Nasim back as a prize for Zhabyn Vostroma, but before he could the Maharraht had found his ship and whisked Nasim up from the deck.
“Have you come so far to ask me of Nasim?” His voice was scratchy, but it had the same liquid timbre he remembered.
“We had just come from Ghayavand. We had bonded-you know this-and together Nasim and I used our bond so that he might be healed, and in doing so heal the rift, just as you were trying to use him to rip it wide.”
Soroush stared, his eyes hard.
“I’ve changed since then,” Nikandr continued. “I was sick with the wasting, but then I was healed, and though Nasim was taken away, I still felt him”-he tapped his chest-“here. Ancients willing, I’ll feel him again some day, but until then I’ve taken to the winds, using what Nasim gave me to study the rifts as you once did.”
At this Soroush’s eyes went wide-only for a moment, but it was there. He looked over Nikandr’s shoulder, to the dark cabin windows, where the wind lightly whined. He looked as though he wanted to ask a question, but he kept his mouth closed, his jaw set.
“I know more about the rifts than anyone alive, except for perhaps you. Or Nasim or Ashan. I’ve found small ones. Large ones. There are webs of them-so many small threads interconnected that it boggles the mind. Did you know that? That they connect to one another?”
Soroush took the glass of araq and took a sip.
“Of course you did. It was why you attacked Duzol instead of Uyadensk. You hoped that by tearing one you would rip open the other, and the others beyond that. Perhaps the whole of the islands would be affected, da?”
“Tell me what you’re after, son of Iaros, or you can send me back to the hold.”
“I’ve searched for rifts everywhere. Khalakovo, Vostroma, Mirkotsk, Rhavanki.” He paused. “Even Rafsuhan.”
And here Soroush’s eyes sharpened. They became deeply distrustful and he sat straighter in his chair, the legs creaking as he did so.
“ Da,” Nikandr said. “There is a rift on Rafsuhan. Already large, and still growing.” He paused again, hoping Soroush’s love for his people would overcome his hatred for Nikandr. “It will grow larger than the one on Uyadensk, Soroush. Much larger. I can feel it already.”
His hands, still holding the glass in his lap, were shaking. “And you would have me help you?”
“The rift is already causing sickness among your people. If you take me there, provide for my protection, perhaps we can learn more of it. Perhaps we can close it.”
“You care nothing about them.”
Nikandr stared deeply into his eyes. “You will find it hard to believe, but I do, son of Gatha. But it isn’t merely about the people of Ashdi en Ghat or Siafyan. The rifts are spreading everywhere. Everywhere. Even as far as the Empire. It will not stop on its own. I know this now. Whether you love the Grand Duchy or you hate it, you must realize that if something isn’t done, all of Erahm will suffer.”
“If the fates will it, then it will be so.”
“It will not stop here. Adhiya will be next. Or perhaps first. Who knows how these things work?”
“If the fates will it…” He left the rest of the proverb unsaid.
“If you believed that, you would never have become Maharraht.”
Soroush’s jaw clenched. “My people will leave.”
Nikandr shook his head. “Some may leave, but you have settled in your cities. Many will stay, and they will suffer. And not only that, it will lead to a burden in their next life. And the one after that. You cannot want this for our world.”
Something in him seemed to break then. He breathed out. His jaw unclenched. His eyes softened. “You will not change them.”
“Your words are true,” he said in Mahndi, using the Landless phrasing.
Soroush sat there, looking at his glass, the araq within golden and inviting. But then the wind picked up again, and it drew his attention. He looked up at the ceiling, or perhaps past it to the deck above, and his mood seemed to change. “How were you saved?”
Nikandr shook his head. “What do you mean?”
“You fell to the ship. I heard the men talking. How could you have lived?”
Nikandr thought of lying. He thought of telling him that the havaqiram had harnessed the winds, used them to stop his descent and send him into the ship’s sails. But such a thing felt wrong, and he would have to tell Soroush of his newfound abilities at some point.
He reached inside his shirt and pulled out his soulstone necklace. He held it up for Soroush to see. “Nasim left me with another gift as well.”
Soroush stared at the chalcedony stone, shaking his head back and forth ever so slightly.
“I can touch Adhiya. I can bond with a hezhan.” He twisted the necklace between his fingers, making the stone spin before allowing it to fall against his chest. “I can feel it even now.”
“You?” He squinted, incredulous. “A qiram?”
“I do not know what to call it,” Nikandr said, unwilling to place that mantle upon his shoulders.
He looked down to his ara
q, then back to the soulstone. Then he stood and whipped the glass down to the corner. The glass shattered, the liquor splattering against the whitewashed wood. “You think I would help you?”
Nikandr rose to meet him.
Soroush reached out to snatch Nikandr’s soulstone, but Nikandr grabbed his wrist. Soroush tried again, but he was weak.
And then his other hand shot to Nikandr’s neck.
Soroush squeezed as Nikandr fought to pull him away. He finally managed to do so, his fingers raking across Nikandr’s throat, as the streltsi stormed in through the cabin door and grabbed Soroush by the arms.
“You think I would help you?” He spit on the floor between them. His eyes were crazed. He looked at Nikandr with such hatred, such venom, that if Soroush had been able he would surely have struck Nikandr dead.
Nikandr nodded to the streltsi. They left with Soroush, closing the door behind them, and as the sounds of their retreat diminished, Nikandr continued to stare at the door, his chest heaving with breath.
All as the wind outside howled.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A tiana pulls away from the currents of the north. She still feels Nikandr’s stone, bright like a lantern in the fog. He is distant, though, and as she retreats toward Kiravashya, he fades and is lost altogether.
It was painful to witness his fall and near death, not only because she cares for him deeply, but because she feels going to Rafsuhan-with or without Soroush’s help-is a fool’s errand. But she also understands that Nikandr believes it is the only way to learn more. And, she admits, Nikandr has a way about him of convincing others to follow him, of making them believe he is in the right. If anyone can convince Soroush to help, it will be him.
Before returning home, she stops roughly halfway. To the east is Khalakovo. To the west, and due north of Vostroma, lies the island of Ghayavand. She’s tried dozens of times to penetrate the shroud that surrounds it. At first it was nearly impossible to even sense. It felt as though there was simply open sea-no land at all to ground her-but eventually she came to sense its boundaries, and then she tried to move beyond them. Each and every time, however, she was rebuffed. There was something-something very strong-that kept her at bay, far from the shores of the island.
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