“Give me your gunpowder,” Rehada said to the sotnik.
He complied without question, unfastening and handing her one of the wooden cartridges hanging from leather cords along the front of his bandolier.
“All of them,” she said while pouring the contents into her lap.
He handed the cartridges as quickly as he could, and Rehada added their contents-ten cartridges’ worth-to the one in her lap, hoping it would be enough.
“A spark,” Rehada said.
From a small leather bag on his bandolier he pulled out a piece of flint and held out his kindjal. “Run the knife-”
“I know,” she snapped, snatching both of them away as the boat tipped upward. There were no tentacles above the water, but by the silver light of the moon she could see many-two dozen or more-floating alongside the boat.
“Behind me, quickly.”
The sotnik complied as Rehada closed her eyes and focused her mind upon the stone set within her circlet. Through it she could feel, barely, Adhiya, though she could not yet feel a hezhan waiting for her. She began to chant, forcing away the danger of the moment, the closeness of the streltsi, utter strangers to this ritual. She forced away the cold, the wind, the spray of the water against her face and instead focused on herself and the stone. She willed herself into it, asking a spirit to hear her plea, asking it to bond with her.
She promised it life, a view of the world it had left, the world it would one day return to. She promised it a bond that would last as long as it wished. She would feed it as she could, and it in turn would feed her.
The rocking of the boat, the screaming of the men, invaded her senses for a moment, but she blocked them out once more.
Take me, she called. Take me, and you will be rewarded.
And she felt it. The barest touch of a suurahezhan, the only form of spirit-ever since she was young-she had ever been able to bond with.
She called it closer, allowing it to see her more clearly, to hear, to touch.
And when it did, she ran the knife, hard and quick, down the length of the flint.
Her world went white.
She heard a sound like a hurricane blowing through a forest. She smelled burnt wool. She felt heat, though it was not, she knew, the heat from the gunpowder; it was the heat of the suurahezhan filling her. It suffused every pore, every bit of bone and muscle, every drop of blood. She was aflame. She was fire itself.
It felt good and true, and when she opened her eyes there was a strange moment of reorientation-along with the realization that she was in the material world and not, sadly, the land beyond.
The circlet upon her brow was lit with a pale orange flame. She willed fire to course from her hand to the tentacles wrapped around the ship and two of the soldiers. One whipped up and arced back into the water, splashing loudly. The other had been wrapped around the thigh of a strelet, and when it pulled back, the man came with him, falling hard against the bottom of the boat and then pulled sharply out and away. A heavy thud was accompanied by a sharp crack as the man’s head snapped backward as it struck the gunwale. He did not shout as he flew limply through the air. Then the tentacle shot under the surface of the dark water, and he was gone.
Over a dozen dark cords flew into the night sky, and Rehada could see in the water a bare silhouette of the white creature lying only a few paces beneath the surface of the water. She could see its body shaped like the head of a spear; she could see the darkened and moving orb that must be its eye.
As the tentacles descended she focused all of her energy tightly, and like the gunpowder she had used to attract the suurahezhan, released it upward and outward in a spray of bright white fire that burned emerald green at the edges. Many of the tentacles were burned outright, their withered ends falling into the ship, twitching and curling, the pincers underneath still biting the streltsi.
The tentacles slapped below the water. In a great heave the beast drew them inward while shooting downward. In moments it was lost from sight.
The sotnik ordered the boat cleared as he moved toward the fore of the boat and pulled off his bandolier and then his cherkesska. As the men began removing tentacles and flicking them overboard with booted feet or the tips of their knives, the sotnik offered Rehada his coat, turning his eyes away as he did so. Only then did she realize that her clothes had been burned away. Only some scraps at her wrists remained, and some cloth-her skirt-that had pooled around her feet. She took the coat and pulled it on quickly, suddenly feeling very exposed out on the sea among these men. Soon the boat was clear, and all of them were breathing heavily as the wind howled over the waves.
The sotnik returned to his previous position, looking up at Rehada with a look of relief and gratitude. He motioned to the thwart in front of him and waited patiently as Rehada sat.
“My thanks go to you-all of our thanks-but I must have your circlet if we’re to continue.”
Rehada stared at him levelly. “You will not have it.” She was still full with the feeling of the suurahezhan running through her; she would not give up the spirit so shortly after summoning it.
“I have my orders.”
“I saved your lives.”
He bowed his head. “And I am grateful, but there was no question as to how you’d be entering the palotza.”
“You will take me as I am…”
He looked at her, then to the men behind her, who had taken up the oars once more-now four strong instead of six-and were waiting for orders. “Turn ’round, men. Turn ’round.”
The streltsi did as they were ordered, dipping the starboard oars into the water and pulling hard.
“Stop,” Rehada said, but they did not listen. “Stop!” Only when she had pulled off the circlet did the sotnik nod and the streltsi pull their oars from the water. It felt like betrayal-another in a long list of them-but she could not abandon her cause. Not now. She handed the circlet to the sotnik and waited as he tied the blindfold around her head.
The boat turned and began moving steadily. The rocking had never ceased, but it was more marked now, and Rehada once again found herself fighting off nausea as they continued through the night.
They reached a cave of some kind. She could tell because the wind dropped, as did the waves, and the sound of the oars slapping in the water-as well as the grunting of the men-began to echo. The effect deepened the further they went, and eventually they ran aground.
Rehada was led out of the boat and along a short, sandy stretch. The sand turned to stone, and then Rehada was pulled to a stop. Footsteps receded, a low conversation was held somewhere up ahead, too soft to hear and too difficult to understand with the echoing.
Rehada was transferred to another man, who gripped her elbow forcefully.
Rehada felt someone’s hand reaching inside the large pocket of the cherkesska she still wore. “Your circlet will remain here,” the sotnik said. She guessed it was as much for the other man’s benefit as it was hers. “May the fates guide your way,” he said, offering her an ancient Aramahn saying at their parting. He kissed her forehead, quickly, tenderly, and then his footsteps receded and she was led deeper into the cave.
They came upon an incline and eventually stairs. She was terribly cold now, though she didn’t know why it had taken so long to register. The wind upon the open sea had been much colder, but the memories of the goedrun and the threat of dry heaving were the foremost in her mind. Now there was time to think. And feel.
She tripped several times, for the man said little while guiding her upward.
“It would go faster if I could see.”
“The blindfold remains,” he said gruffly.
The climb upward was interminably long. Sweat tickled her scalp. It ran down her forehead and the small of her back. Her legs burned terribly, to the point where she had to ask to rest several times on the ascent, until finally they came to a place that felt warmer.
“Wait here,” the gruff man told her. His heavy footsteps receded and another hushed conversation
was held. Then a door opened and closed with a heavy and echoing thud.
She waited, standing, not knowing where the man had gone, not knowing where she was, though she assumed she now stood in the bowels of Radiskoye.
Now that she was still she realized it was not warm at all. It had merely been the exertion and the relative increase in temperature that had given her that impression. The sweat on her body was drying and the cool air of the room was beginning to sink deep beneath her skin, so she found herself shivering horribly, an impression she did not want to give.
She began to wonder why she was being left alone for so long. Though her hands were tied she could easily have taken the rope off, but she did not want to be found with it off after she had been told to keep it on, despite how foolish it seemed now that they had come so far. She had felt like this many times before-being placed in a position of subservience to the Landed. They seemed to revel in it-keeping the Aramahn beneath them-and she found some of her old hatred returning. She wondered if she had made a mistake by coming here, whether she should fabricate a story and let Soroush do what he would. Let fate take its natural course.
But she could not. This was not about her, or Soroush, or the guard who took enjoyment from stepping on her pride. This was about the world, Erahm, and her sister, Adhiya, and the course that the two of them would take from this point forward. If there was anything more important, she didn’t know what it might be.
The door ahead of her opened, and she heard only one set of footsteps enter the room. She thought at first it was the man who had led her up, but she smelled on the air the scent of myrrh, which the aristocracy of the Grand Duchy had seemed to favor in recent years, so she knew it must be someone of import, and since the footsteps had sounded heavy, like a man’s, she could only assume it would be one in particular.
“I hope you are well, Iaros son of Aleksi.”
There came a soft chuckle. Footsteps approached and finally the blindfold was pulled away.
She squinted momentarily, even though the only light was from a small copper lamp sitting on a nearby bench. There was a wooden rack with pegs that held several woolen sweaters and oiled canvas coats. Thick leather boots sat jumbled in one corner.
Iaros, strangely enough, wore a wool cherkesska, and not of the sort a duke would wear. It was simple and weatherworn, the kind of no-nonsense garb a traveling merchant might use. He looked the same as he had several years before, the only time she had seen him up close. He had a gray beard with a sprinkling of brown still remaining, trimmed so that it hung partway down his chest. He was balding, but there were tufts of hair on the very top of his head.
The strange thing was how composed he looked, how free of care even after everything that had happened. His palotza was besieged, his Duchy at grave risk and had been for weeks, but one would wonder whether he was going out for a ride in the countryside as little as he seemed to show it.
There were two doors. From behind the one Iaros had used to enter the room she could hear men gathering and talking softly.
“You were my son’s lover,” Iaros said, pulling her attention back to him.
She smiled, wondering whether he was trying to put her off balance. “I was not aware that our relationship had ended.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “and discuss it with Nikandr when I see him again.”
“And when might that be?”
She hoped that if he had any information about Nikandr that he would share it, but instead he simply frowned and shrugged his shoulders. “When the ancestors see fit to reunite us. Now you’ve come a terribly long way and through more than a little bit of danger to speak with me. What is it you want?”
She was hesitant at first-it felt like speaking with the enemy-but once she started, she found the floodgates opening wide. She told him of her knowledge of Nasim and how he had come to land on Khalakovo, how Ashan had stolen him away from the Maharraht, how he had summoned the suurahezhan and her assumptions as to why it had happened. She told him that Nasim would now have been recovered by the Maharraht. She told him of the grave danger Khalakovo was now in, and the ritual that Soroush would perform this very day at sunset. She knew that she was giving up more information than a woman like her should have, but she didn’t care.
Iaros’s expression changed little during the entire exchange, and when she was done, he combed his beard with his fingers, studying her face as the silence lengthened.
“You are Maharraht?” he asked plainly.
So conditioned was she to hide the truth that a denial nearly came from her lips before she could prevent it, but instead she took a deep breath and looked him in the eye and replied, “ Da.”
“Then tell me, why should I believe a word of this? Why shouldn’t I stand the gibbet in the courtyard above and let you hang from it?”
This was the moment she had feared the most-the point at which Iaros would have to decide if she was telling the truth. She had thought long and hard on how to convince him, but she knew that any profession of honesty would fall upon deaf ears. So she said the only thing she could.
“Because I love your son.”
Iaros’s head jerked back and his eyes widened momentarily. “Pardon me?”
“Perhaps such a thing is hard for you to believe, but it is so.”
“Does he return your love?”
“ Nyet,” she said flatly. “I do not think he does.”
“Then why? Why risk everything for a man who cares less for you than you care for him?”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. Nikandr was a bridge. A bridge I needed to return to myself. Strangely enough, Atiana served in much the same manner. I can no longer follow the path of revenge and hatred. I must follow the path of healing, for Nikandr, for my daughter, even for you.”
“So kind of you.”
“I don’t care whether you appreciate it or not.”
“Well, forgive me if I find this all difficult to believe, but perhaps there is a way to determine whether you’re telling the truth.”
“How?”
“We’ll ask Nikandr about it when we see him.”
She glanced at the door, hearing more men gathering behind it. “And how will we do that?”
Iaros nodded toward the door that would lead back down to the caverns. “Why, the same way you entered.”
CHAPTER 60
Nikandr knew that a soulstone had been placed into his palm-there was no mistaking the feeling of a stone once it touches the skin-but he had to admit that it didn’t feel like his. He knew enough to keep it hidden until Atiana and Grigory had left, though in an attempt to appear nonchalant, and after the beating he’d received from the streltsi, he nearly dropped it. His hands didn’t completely betray him, however, and soon, thankfully, they had left.
He waited for what felt like an interminable period of time, convinced that the moment he looked at what he now held in his hand the gaoler would peer inside the room and discover it the very same moment he did.
He did not speak. That had been the excuse the gaoler had needed the last time to enter the room and beat him senseless with two Bolgravyan streltsi. Ashan had pleaded for them to stop, but the only thing that had done was to shift some of their attention to him. They had exercised some restraint with the older man, and for that Nikandr was glad.
As the minutes passed he realized that the stone was indeed his, but it had been tainted, and it didn’t take much to figure out why. Grigory, that baseless spawn of a goat, had worn it. He had done it so that Nikandr could feel his presence, so that he would always feel it. It would fade with time, as the memories would, but there would always be a part of Grigory imprinted upon the stone.
He could feel something else as well. Nasim… He was not imprinted upon the stone as Grigory was. Rather, it was more like Victania described the aether, how she could feel others at a distance though they were hundreds of leagues apart. This was how it felt with Nasim-as thoug
h he could call out and Nasim would answer. The only trouble was that he had no idea how to do such a thing.
He turned his back toward the door and opened his palm carefully. And there it lay. His stone. As alive as it had been after Nasim had somehow reawakened it. He wondered where the boy was now. The Maharraht wanted to use him to widen the rift, to create a gap that would lay waste to Uyadensk and perhaps the entire archipelago.
He could not risk speaking with Ashan. Not now. The only real course of action was the one that Atiana had given him: he had to reach his mother. You should have foreseen it, she had said, as well as your mother and father. She had clearly been referring to the attack that would be launched against Radiskoye. Her words were a warning to get out of this fort tonight, not only because they were apparently ready to move him but because an attack was imminent.
He gripped the stone tightly and closed his eyes, calling out to his mother. As always, he felt nothing in return. He never knew whether his calls had been heard until a rook found him or she told him so later. It was the nature of the aether, and there was more than a small chance that she would not hear him at all. The blockade had surely taken its toll. She had most likely been riding the winds for days by now, and her attention might be completely absorbed by other tasks. He also had no idea how strong she was after Nasim had attacked her. It was possible she was no longer as sharp as she once was.
But she was also the most gifted Matri of her generation. If anyone could overcome such odds, she could.
The gaoler entered the room nearly an hour later. It took Nikandr a moment to orient himself, so engrossed in concentration was he. The sunlight coming in through the small, high windows had started to dim.
The gaoler brought cold bowls of cabbage stew, though there was barely more than a handful with a small crust of bread soaking up what small amount of liquid there was. Still, after the meager meals he’d been given the last several days, he was glad to have anything to fill his stomach.
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