The Winds of Khalakovo

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “What might I do for the Boyar of Uyadensk?” Nikandr asked, bowing his head in mock sincerity.

  “Put on your uniform, Nischka, and come with me.”

  Nikandr took his brother in again. He was wearing his suit of office: the uniform of the Boyar. He ran to his room and retrieved his own, pulling it on as quickly as he could manage. “What’s happening?” he asked as he fell into step alongside Ranos.

  “The Aramahn... They have come once again to petition for the boy’s release.”

  “Why would that require my presence?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  They made their way to the first level of the palotza and traveled a long hallway to a chamber where Father held audience for matters of state. Dozens of Aramahn were waiting outside. Nikandr assumed they would shortly be allowed inside to speak with Father, but he was mistaken. When he opened the Duke’s entrance, he found the room packed wall-to-wall with robed Aramahn. There were some he recognized, but most he did not. This was not strange in itself given their transient nature, but the sheer number of them was. He had never seen so many of them in one place. Even in Iramanshah, large gatherings were rare, many of them preferring to meditate or to converse in small groups. They were an isolated lot, and this solidarity was troubling.

  At the head of the room was a raised table with a dozen chairs facing the audience. Father’s secretary was calling the room to order. The array of men were seated: Father first, Pavol Andreyov, Polkovnik of the Streltsi, Veliky Pytorov, Admiral of the Staaya, Ranos and the four posadni of Uyadensk, and finally Nikandr.

  “Who comes?” Father asked.

  At the front of the crowd stood the seven mahtar of Iramanshah, all of them aged and venerable, their time among the winds behind them. Fahroz stood at the center, the honored position, and when the sounds of the gavel died away, she stepped forward. Her eyes mirrored the fiery layers of her robes, which were colored a deep orange. “My name is Fahroz Bashar al Lilliah.”

  “State your cause.”

  “We have come to petition for the release of Ashan Kida al Ahrumea and Nasim an Ashan.”

  “Both are being held in the investigation of the death of Grand Duke Stasa Olegov Bolgravya.”

  “As we well know, Duke Khalakovo. What we do not know is what gave the Duchy cause to suspect them and what has been discovered since.”

  “As I’m sure you understand,” Father said in a rote manner, “with an investigation such as this is, our findings cannot at this time be shared.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  A murmur ran through the crowd, and Father stiffened, striking the gavel several times until order was resumed.

  “Will not.”

  “Under the terms of the Covenant—”

  “I know well the dictates of the Covenant, but it clearly allows us to defend ourselves against threats to the Grand Duchy.”

  “You speak, of course, of the threat the suurahezhan represents, that it could very well have been summoned and sent by one of our own.”

  Father remained silent.

  “I will assume your silence, My Lord Duke, to mean assent. What I believe you fail to understand is that we are just as concerned. We are not so naïve as to think that the Aramahn are incorruptible. Far from it. We have only to look to the Maharraht to find examples. And so I hope you will share what you know so that we can assist, so that we can root out the infection in our midst before it spreads.”

  Father was quiet for a time. Fahroz was speaking as if she believed the assumption that the Aramahn had been involved—in this lay her only hope to sway Father—but everyone in the room knew this was a sham. She was not lying, but she was trying to coax Father into sharing the information in any way she could or, failing that, make the entire Duchy look foolish for refusing.

  “Your request is noted but denied.”

  “We urge you to reconsider.”

  “Noted,” Father said.

  Fahroz nodded, as if she’d expected this answer. “We have been generous up to this point—”

  Father knocked the gavel thrice. “Generous?”

  Fahroz bowed her head respectfully, but this only seemed to raise Father’s hackles.

  “Consider it generous that I haven’t tossed the lot of you from these halls for coming here daily. Consider it generous that Ashan hasn’t been summarily hung based on the evidence we already have. Consider it generous that we grant you gems for communion.” Father stood, his face turning red. “But do not enter these halls and tell me that you have been generous with me.”

  Fahroz bowed her head again.“Generous, indeed, and so we will grant you time to reconsider. But take care, Duke. If too many suns rise without clear evidence against Ashan or Nasim, we will ask that all Aramahn refuse your generous gifts of gems, your generous offer of travel aboard your windships, your generous acceptance of our presence on these islands.”

  Father leaned down and slammed the gavel fiercely against the block as the din of the crowd rose to new heights. “Do not presume to threaten.”

  “That was no threat.”

  And with that Fahroz turned and strode from the room, the crowd parting for her as she passed. As one, the Aramahn began leaving through the far door. It was more than rude to leave without a request from the officer in residence—a final exclamation on the seriousness of Fahroz’s words.

  Father marched past Ranos and Nikandr to reach a door at the rear of the platform. He stepped inside and left the door open behind him. The other officers of state all stood and followed him. Ranos and Nikandr did as well, but the moment Nikandr stepped inside the room, Father was there, holding him back.

  “Your presence is not required here, Nikandr.” What he was saying, of course, was that Nikandr’s place was in the bowels of the palotza, speaking with Ashan and Nasim. “You have two more days.” And with that he closed the door.

  Nikandr felt a chill course down his frame.

  The sun had long since set over Radiskoye. Darkness lay heavy over the northern courtyard, but the moon gave enough light that Nikandr could see the outlines of the buildings, the shape of the wall that circled the palotza. It was cold, and he had nothing to do but wait, but he couldn’t find it in himself to return indoors. He paced along the stone walkway, looking every few moments toward the arch that led to the palotza’s main entrance.

  He heard the clop of hooves well before the crunch of wheels on gravel. An enclosed coach with a single horse approached. The driver pulled up when he reached him, taking down the bulls-eye lantern and moving to the door. He opened it and Nikandr stepped forward to help the lone occupant of the coach to navigate the steps.

  She wore a heavy cloak, and the cowl was pulled up over her head, hiding her face well. The driver had been given only the location of her home and a note. He might know her—enough in the palotza did—but he was a trustworthy man. He nodded to Nikandr and returned to the driver’s bench, pulling the neck of his cherkesska higher against the cold, as Nikandr led the woman inside.

  “Don’t you think it’s time,” Rehada said as the door closed shut, “that you share the reason for your summons?” She pulled her arm away as if she were insulted that he’d had the presumption to take it.

  “I need your help.”

  She pulled the cowl back, allowing it to fall around her shoulders. She stared at him with a curious expression. Disappointment?

  “Nasim?” she asked.

  Nikandr nodded. “Things have become serious. Fahroz has threatened to withhold the services of the Aramahn. It will start in a matter of days, a week at the most. Father has given me two days to reach Nasim. Somehow.”

  “And you want me to help?”

  He nodded.

  “I know nothing of him.”

  “You know enough. And you are observant. Another viewpoint would be of great service to me. And there is the matter of your alignment.”

  Rehada considered his words.“He may indeedbe alignedwith fire. If you wis
h, I will commune with my hezhan and see what comes of it.”

  Rehada acted strangely on the way to Nasim’s room. She was quiet, unreadable, as if she were guarding against emotion. As they approached, there was a clear note of expectation in her stance, in the way she looked at the door, as if this were something she was very much looking forward to.

  Nasim sat on a circular carpet that lay at the foot of the large bed. His legs were pulled up to his chest, and he was rocking back and forth slowly. If he noticed them, he gave no sign. His movement spoke of discomfort, and his face revealed the depth of it. His brow was furrowed, his lips pinched. His jaw worked. And his eyes... They were fixed upon a point on the far wall, well below a painting of a bleak, wooded landscape caught in the throes of winter. He seemed on the verge of crying, but there was a resoluteness to him that was immediately apparent. He seemed, in fact, noble.

  Nikandr had no idea that such pain could project from a child—this or any other. It was humbling, and he found himself wishing he could lift the misery from him.

  Rehada kneeled on the carpet. “Nasim?”

  He neither moved nor noted her presence. Nikandr doubted he was truly here in any case. More likely he was seeing things from the other side, from Adhiya, the land of hezhan, and he wondered what it would be like to truly see such a thing. He had had one inexplicable meeting with a hezhan, but that was probably as close as he was ever going to get to the world that lay beyond.

  Rehada reached out and touched his arm. “Nasim.”

  Nikandr sat in a chair at the round table in the corner.“He has not spoken since he arrived, but Ashan said he has done so in the past, sometimes for hours on end.”

  “This may take some time,” she said.

  He nodded, knowing that would be the case.

  Rehada closed her eyes.

  Nikandr was entranced as he watched. Rehada was nervous at first, tentative, but then her breath deepened. Her shoulders slumped. Her mouth fell slack. Their breathing fell into sync so completely that they seemed of one breath, of one mind.

  But then differences began to appear. Rehada’s brow furrowed. Her throat swallowed several times. Nasim began shaking his head, and the motion grew in frequency and intensity.

  A moan escaped Rehada. Her eyes were still closed, but they were clamped shut, as if she feared to open them. He knew she was communing with Nasim, but he had no idea what she might be seeing.

  “Rehada?” he asked.

  She didn’t respond.

  Nasim was shaking his head more fiercely.

  “Rehada?” he repeated as he kneeled next to Nasim and held him, trying to quell his violent motions. Nikandr felt heat and knew immediately it was coming from Rehada.

  “Rehada, wake up!”

  Smoke began to issue from inside her robes.

  “Rehada, wake up now!”

  It trailed out from her neck and along her face. Nikandr hauled Nasim away, hoping to break their bond.

  It seemed to have no effect.

  Then Rehada’s clothes began to burn.

  By the ancients, what was happening?

  He laid Nasim down in the corner and grabbed the sheets from the bed and threw them over her, hoping to smother the flames.

  But the flames grew, and Rehada began to scream.

  CHAPTER 25

  Nikandr swatted at the flames, hoping Rehada would wake on her own. He was nearly to the point of striking her to jar her from her trance when her eyes shot open.

  Her face turned purple. Her eyes were wide as they searched the room. A sound uttered from her throat, more like a rusted hinge than an inhalation. Then, finally, she took in a deep, rasping breath. She began coughing immediately after, pulling herself into a ball like a child afraid of the night.

  He continued to beat at the flames until finally all of them had been smothered. “Can you hear me?”

  She nodded weakly.

  “What happened?”

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes were wild, afraid. Her breathing was still coming in long, wheezing draws.

  “What happened?” he repeated. He hoped that by keeping her talking, it would prevent her from slipping back.

  “I found him,” she said. “But my hezhan rebelled.”

  “Rebelled?”

  She nodded, cringing as she touched her neck. “I fear it was some effect brought on by Nasim’s presence.”

  Nikandr’s expression became concerned. “What does it mean?”

  “It means that I will need to try again.”

  His heart sank. “There cannot be a next time, Rehada. I can’t allow you in again.”

  She stared into his eyes with a look that made it clear how disgraced she was. “It would be impossible to bring him to me.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He helped her to sit up. She looked down at the remains of her clothing, nearly all of which had been burned to cinders. Nikandr sent the gaoler to find clothes, and as he and Rehada waited, his sense that he’d made a terrible mistake by bringing Rehada here grew by the moment. Finally the gaoler returned with acceptable—if overly large—clothes for Rehada. She put them on and Nikandr led her back the way they had come.

  When they reached the large hallway, Nikandr froze when he realized they were being watched. One of the triplets—Ishkyna, he thought—was standing far down the hall, hair disheveled, the smile on her face fading as she looked between Nikandr and Rehada.

  One of the palotza’s guardsman was standing near her. His hand had been at the small of her back, but the moment he saw Nikandr, he dropped it and straightened.

  Ishkyna glared at Rehada with an expression that even from a distance could only be interpreted as severe disapproval, and then she took the guardsman’s hand and alighted the stairs, giving Nikandr one last look that dared him to make mention of it.

  Of anyone—even Atiana—Ishkyna was the last person he would have chosen to see him like this. Not only was she indiscreet. She was devious. Hopefully he could speak to her before she ran her mouth.

  “Was that her?” Rehada asked.

  “Nyet. Her sister, Ishkyna.”

  Rehada pulled her lips into a compressed line. “Is Atiana as pretty?”

  Nikandr shook his head, laughing softly. “Prettier.”

  Rehada smiled. “Then you have done well.”

  With that she turned and walked away, toward the door through which she had entered. Nikandr saw her into the waiting coach and nodded to the driver. He snapped the reins, and in moments the coach was gone.

  His stomach was beginning to turn as he returned to the cells. He took out his flask to take some of the elixir but was surprised to find that there was only one swallow left. He had refilled it only yesterday. Had he drank so much already?

  He finished it off and walked to Ashan’s cell and found him sitting cross-legged on the ornate carpet in the center of the large room. His hands rested on his knees. He watched calmly as Nikandr closed the door and collapsed into a nearby chair.

  Ashan seemed concerned—making it clear he had heard the commotion—but Nikandr wasn’t ready to speak of it. He needed a moment to let his stomach settle.

  “Do you know Rehada Ulan al Shineshka?” he finally asked.

  “I do. She is an accomplished suuraqiram, and a woman her mother can be proud of.”

  “She is a woman I care for deeply. At my request, she came, hoping to commune with Nasim. She woke from her trance not long ago, her clothes burning. She was unharmed, but it occurred while she was trying to reach Nasim. He seemed to become agitated just before it happened.”

  In their talks with one another, Ashan had always seemed like a carefree man. He could be serious, but more often than not he was quick to smile and light of heart. But now for the first time, as he considered Nikandr’s words, he seemed deeply troubled. “There is something I wish to share with you, son of Iaros, something that may be difficult for you to believe.” He took a deep breath before continuing.“Nasim is gifted, as you know,
and I have long been trying to understand how it might have come to be. When we are born, there is some part of us that is taken from our previous lives. A kernel only. A seed. It allows us, fates willing, to expand our awareness as the world grows older. Some retain more of their past, some less.

  “I no longer have any doubts that the first possibility is the one that applies to Nasim. We spoke of Ghayavand... It is a dead island, I told you, which is true. What I did not reveal are the reasons behind it. Over three centuries ago there was a troika of powerful arqesh, each as close to vashaqiram as any in our history. It was the end of the last age of enlightenment, and they believed the time was right to merge the two worlds.”

  It was one of several possible ways the Aramahn believed the world would end. Indaraqiram, the point at which Adhiya and Erahm become one, when all souls meld, both here and beyond. The Grand Duchy gave no credence to such beliefs, citing the failings of the most powerful of the qiram as proof. They believed, rightly, that one’s ancestors watched over a person, that by building one’s legacy, by paying homage to those that came before, that they would protect their progeny from beyond the grave. One day they would become more powerful than the fates, making them masters of their own destiny.

  “They were unsuccessful,” Nikandr said.

  Ashan granted that with a tilt of his head. “Da, but not completely so. There are many who believe that those three qiram lived on beyond the devastation they caused. The life they lived—halfway between Erahm and Adhiya—twisted their souls. Eventually they went mad from it. They fought with one another for supremacy, none ever quite able to swing the balance fully in their favor. Many feared that when one finally did win out that it would mark the beginning of the end of the world—the path of destruction instead of the path of enlightenment.”