The Winds of Khalakovo

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  She smiled as her body grew heavy. She reached up and brushed Nasim’s cheek. “Go well,” she tried to say, but the sounds were so soft she could barely hear them.

  She turned to Nikandr, who looked down on her not with a smile but with an expression of deep regret.

  “Do not be sad, Nischka,” she whispered. “We will meet again.”

  “You don’t know that,” he said.

  She managed to nod despite the pain that came with it. “We will.”

  And then, she could do no more than look upon the sky.

  She was ready.

  At last, the world, as it had before, as it would again, folded her into its sweet embrace.

  CHAPTER 67

  “Come.”

  Nikandr heard the words, but he couldn’t manage to turn away. Rehada stared unmoving at the sky. Her face had gone slack and she looked nothing like the woman he had—however imperfectly—come to know these past several years. It was painful to see her like this, but he could no more turn his gaze away than he could turn back the sands of time.

  “Come,” Ashan said, more forcefully. “There is another to attend to.”

  Finally, Nikandr complied, but before they could move from where they stood, the gates were pushed open and a dozen Aramahn men and women stepped inside. They took in the scene around them, looking to Nikandr like a tribunal ready to mete both judgment and punishment.

  “There is a woman,” Nikandr began.

  “She has been found.” It was Fahroz. But she looked so different. It felt as if he’d been gone from Khalakovo for years.

  She pointed toward the far side of the courtyard. Three score of Aramahn filed into the keep and began picking up the fallen Maharraht.

  Nikandr shook his head. “Leave them. The Duke, my father—”

  “Your father has no say in this.” The tone of her voice was emotionless, but her eyes were bright with anger. “These are our own, and will be treated as such.” She held out her hand, and Nikandr realized that she was motioning for Nasim.

  Nasim looked up at Nikandr, his eyes wide.

  Ashan stepped forward. “Do not do this, daughter of Lilliah. The boy has been through much.”

  “You have never known when you were wasting words, son of Ahrumea, but I tell you that you are doing so now. The boy comes with us.”

  Several qiram were there, their circlets aflame with the hezhan that were bonded to them. They were prepared to resist, if that was what it came to, but none of them appeared ready to welcome it.

  Ashan touched Nasim’s shoulders. “All will be well, Nasim. You must go with them.”

  “I will not.”

  Tension laced Nasim’s words. Nikandr knew what he could do—the evidence lay all around them—but something told him that the time had passed. Fahroz may have known this, but more likely she didn’t care. The Aramahn had risked much and were willing to risk more to ensure that Nasim was taken into proper care.

  Ashan kneeled next to Nasim until they were face to face. “You will be at home with them. And there is little left that I can teach you.”

  A tear leaked from Nasim’s eye and traveled down his cheek. It was followed quickly by another. “Do not lie, Ashan. Not to me.”

  Ashan smiled. “Lying is a thing with which I have become all too familiar. Better for us to be parted if only for that.” Nasim opened his mouth to speak, but Ashan talked over him. “We will see each other again—do not fear—but for now, you must go with Fahroz.”

  Nasim swallowed several times, and then turned to Nikandr. “We are one, you and I.”

  Nikandr knew this to be true. He could feel Nasim more strongly than ever before. Nikandr suspected it was due to the fact that Nasim now stood firmly in Erahm, but it was also because the rift had been healed. It was still there—like a fresh and aching wound—but it was no longer festering. Soon it would scar over and the healing of Khalakovo would begin.

  Nikandr kneeled to look Nasim in the eye. “We are, Nasim. We are one.”

  For a moment Nasim looked fragile, as if he wanted nothing more than to simply be held, to embrace someone that he loved, but then he turned on his heels and strode from the courtyard, never once looking back.

  The suddenness of it made Nikandr feel lost. “I would see him again,” Nikandr said to Fahroz.

  As the last of the Maharraht were carried out of the keep, Fahroz’s expression was deadly serious. “Do not place your hopes on such a thing, son of Saphia. As long as we are able, your paths will never again cross.”

  Two Aramahn entered the courtyard carrying a length of canvas between them. They laid it down gently near the spire, and Fahroz motioned for Nikandr to approach. “Take care of her.” With that, she left, the rest of the Aramahn filing out behind her.

  He had known Atiana was among the folds of heavy white cloth, but it was a vast relief when he kneeled and saw her face. Her clothes were beyond bloody, but her dress had been ripped away at her side, and a bolt of white cloth had been wrapped around her to stanch the bleeding. She was extremely pale, but her eyes were open, and she seemed more alert than he could have hoped for.

  “It’s all right,” Nikandr said softly.

  Atiana blinked and focused on him. A soft smile came to her lips, but then her head turned to one side and all trace of relief fled. She had spotted Rehada.

  A tear leaked down Atiana’s face.

  She seemed grieved. Truly, deeply grieved.

  Nikandr understood it not at all, but he gripped Atiana’s shoulder and whispered into her ear that everything would be all right.

  A strelet opened one of the stout iron gates of the Boyar’s mansion, and Nikandr rode out and into the streets of the old city. He passed the circle where the gibbets lay, the place that he had seen Rehada while those boys were being hanged. He had checked the court records and had come to suspect that the Aramahn boy that had been hung with the urchins was innocent of the charges—as he had claimed all along. He was not innocent of all things, however. He had been working for Rehada, Nikandr was sure; he had been her servant, running messages between Volgorod and Izhny, perhaps since Rehada had arrived on the island.

  Nikandr shook his head as he reined his pony northward, toward Eyrie Road. He had been such a fool. He should have suspected Rehada shortly after they’d met. He had been wracking his brain for the last week, trying to piece together the clues that should have been apparent from the start, but he had so far been almost completely unsuccessful. Only in Malekh had he found any small link from Rehada to the Maharraht. She had covered her tracks well—either that or Nikandr had convinced himself that because of her beauty, because of how different her world was from his, that she could not possibly mean him harm.

  He had been a fool, but he would not change any of it. He had loved her—he was man enough to admit that now—and had things gone differently, he might never have come to know her as he had.

  “Nikandr!” The sound of another pony trotting came to him, muffled by the thin layer of snow upon the ground.

  Nikandr slowed his pony, but did not turn around.

  Ranos pulled alongside him and matched his black mare to Nikandr’s cream-colored gelding. “Where are you headed?”

  “None of your business, brother.”

  They continued to ride in silence for a time, moving from the older section of the city to one that was newer, with smaller, half-timber frames and small yards behind stout stone walls.

  “I don’t blame you for being reticent—there is much for you to consider, I’ll admit—but when the sun sets on this day, it must end. I need you.”

  “I am not a bookkeeper, Ranos.”

  “You will be running the shipping of our family.”

  “I would do this family a greater service by flying a ship.”

  “As you’ve made perfectly clear, but we can take no chances, not with Father being taken to Vostroma, not with Borund sitting on the throne of Radiskoye.”

  Nikandr’s face burned as their po
nies climbed up a curving stone bridge and down the other side. “Borund may find his seat difficult to keep.”

  Ranos shook his head. “I will not discuss this again. Borund will be our liege for the next two years, and if anything happens to him—be it death from the plague or a fall from a height—Father’s life will be forfeit.”

  Nikandr could still remember how the blood had drained from his face when he had learned what had happened. The battle for the eyrie had gone well, but Mother was horribly weakened. She had been the reason they could overpower the other Matri in the first place, but she had been left permanently crippled by her time with Nasim. With their communications restored, Zhabyn had been able to make better use of his superior numbers.

  In little time they turned the tide, and Father had been caught off guard. His ship had been captured as well as that of Yevgeny Mirkotsk. Mirkotsk was offered his rightful place in the Grand Duchy if only Iaros would step down and allow Borund to take his place. It would be an arrangement that would last two years, during which time Iaros would become thrall to Vostroma. Mother would be forced to step down as well, though Nikandr knew that this was a much worse punishment than the one that awaited Father. Mother had been too close to the aether for too long to be separated from it now. She would die—Nikandr knew this—but there was no persuading Vostroma to allow anything different. They would kill her before they allowed her to take the dark again.

  If there were no uprisings and if Khalakovo produced as they should, further sanctions would not be levied and Father’s title would be restored to him at the end of the two years.

  A meeting had been held that very night in Radiskoye and Zhabyn had been selected as Grand Duke. He had accepted the newly made crown on Father’s throne.

  Though his presence had been requested by Zhabyn himself, Father had not attended. He had elected to stay among the rooms on the lower levels that had such a short time ago been home to Nasim and Ashan, and later Atiana.

  And now he was boarding a ship, ready to sail for Palotza Galostina.

  Nikandr and Ranos continued their ride through the outskirts of Volgorod and up the slope toward the island’s central ridge. The wind was clearer here, unobstructed, and it cut through their heavy cherkesskas mercilessly, but neither of them spurred their ponies to move any faster. They were men of the Grand Duchy. The wind was a part of their bones.

  They finally reached the ridge, at which point both of them stopped.

  To the east stood Verodnaya. A third of the way down from the snowy peak was Radiskoye, a crystalline jewel among the hard black rock of the mountain. They could not see the palotza’s eyrie from this vantage, but they didn’t need to. The ship they were here to watch had already drifted upward from its perch and was now cutting westward. It was Vostroma’s largest ship. All sixteen of its masts took on sail, but Nikandr saw, even from this distance, the signs of battle upon the hull and the hastily repaired canvas. His father lay on board that ship, a prisoner to the man that had betrayed him.

  It continued west, and though it was too distant for Nikandr to identify any individuals standing on the deck, there was, near the stern, someone holding a red bolt of cloth. It fluttered in the wind, and then it was released. It floated lazily behind the ship, making its way toward solid ground.

  “And what pray tell is that?” Ranos asked.

  “That, dear brother, is none of your business.”

  Ranos studied Nikandr for a time. They had discussed Atiana many times over the past week, Ranos each time advising him to forget about her, but he knew as well as Nikandr that the cloth had been held by Atiana, that it had been sent as a sign of her love, and if Nikandr felt he should reserve some special place for her, then perhaps, after all of this, he deserved the right to do so.

  “Farewell,” Ranos said softly.

  This was not spoken to Nikandr, nor Atiana, but to their father.

  “Farewell,” Nikandr repeated, for Father and Atiana, both.

  When the ship had become no more than a mark on the horizon, Ranos pulled his reins over and began heading back toward the city. “Coming?” he said.

  “I have business to attend to,” Nikandr said, and he spurred his pony in the other direction, toward Iramanshah.

  Ranos said nothing in return. They had discussed how often he should visit the village, but on this particular day he was going to give him all the leeway he needed.

  It took Nikandr three hours to reach Iramanshah. He was pressing to make it in such a short time, but it was necessary to get there by midday.

  Ashan met him at the edge of the village.

  “Come,” he said simply.

  They continued through the narrow pass that led to the village and the valley that housed it.

  “I leave tomorrow,” Ashan said simply.

  Nikandr knew the day had been fast approaching. There were so many partings today that he was having trouble conceiving of just how much he would miss them all. Better for it to happen now, quickly. There was much for him to do in the days ahead, and it was best that he start it with a fresh mind.

  “You go to look for Nasim?”

  “Da. He was spirited away three nights ago.”

  Nikandr knew this already. He had felt it. The bond they shared lingered for days after, but then it began to fade, and he had known that they were taking him far, far away to a place where no one could manipulate him, to a place where he could be taught by the Aramahn mahtar in a way that they saw fit. The feeling had diminished over the course of the next day, and then, last night, it had simply vanished.

  He didn’t know whether the feelings would reawaken when Nasim came near—perhaps they would cease altogether once they had been apart long enough—but Nikandr suspected that their bond would remain until one of them was dead.

  “I would thank you, son of Iaros.”

  Nikandr shook his head, ready to put off such compliments, but he stopped when Ashan raised his hand and smiled.

  “Not for saving us,” Ashan continued, “though there is that too. It is for befriending him, for leading him here. It is a greater gift than I had ever hoped for, and I’m sure Nasim feels the same way.”

  Nikandr couldn’t respond. He still wasn’t sure how he felt toward Nasim. As a friend. A father. A disciple. It was an uncomfortable mixture, one he was not ready to discuss.

  When they reached the large stone plaza before the entrance to the village, they found hundreds of Aramahn standing near the fountain, which for the first time in Nikandr’s memory was dry.

  Fahroz, holding a lit torch, stood by a small, shallow-sided skiff. Within it, wrapped completely by white cloth, was Rehada. The torch burned black smoke as Fahroz spoke words of hope, words that asked the fates for kindness to this child of the world, and hope that she had learned enough in this life to resume her path toward vashaqiram.

  Nikandr listened at first, but his mind began to drift to Rehada, their memories, and it was enough for him to simply wish her well.

  “It is fire that granted her,” Fahroz said, “and it was fire that took her.”

  She touched the torch to the bottom of the skiff. In moments a healthy flame had spread along the wood that had been stacked beneath Rehada’s white, bound form. Another qiram with a glowing opal held within the circlet upon his brow stepped forward and gently touched the hull of the skiff. Immediately the craft began to rise. It had no sail, and so was taken by the wind. It was slow, gentle at first, but the wind was stronger higher up, and it began to tug at the craft, making it bob as it slid eastward.

  It was not lost upon Nikandr that Atiana had traveled on another ship mere hours ago—though in the opposite direction. Ironic, but apropos.

  “Farewell,” Nikandr said as black smoke wafted ahead of the ship and across the blue sky.

  The Aramahn began to separate—first alone, then in pairs and in groups. Fahroz joined Ashan and Nikandr.

  There was an uncomfortable silence until Ashan finally bowed his head and said, “You
have business to attend to.” He stepped forward and kissed Nikandr’s cheeks. “Keep well, Nikandr, son of Iaros.

  “And you, Ashan, son of Ahrumea.”

  Soon, Nikandr was left alone with Fahroz. She made no form of greeting. She simply turned and headed into the village. “You should not come often.”

  “I won’t once I’m sure that she is well.”

  “She is as well as she will ever be.”

  Nikandr let the comment go.

  She led him deep into the bowels of Iramanshah, past the formed tunnels to the raw passageways that had been forged by Erahm herself. Finally, they came to a massive cavern with a black lake crowding a small stone beach. A pier lit brightly by siraj lanterns led a short way out into the water. Upon the pier stood Victania and Olgana, talking softly with one another, both of them peering down into the water.

  A rook, standing on a silver perch just next to them, flapped its wings as Nikandr approached. Then it stilled and was silent.

  When Victania noticed him, she spoke softly to Olgana, and Olgana left, bowing her head to Nikandr as she passed. Nikandr waited, hoping that Fahroz would leave as well, but she did not. She ruled here, and she would no longer stand by as the Aramahn were used, so she stood and watched as Nikandr made his way out along the pier.

  He stopped when he saw his mother resting below the surface of the dark water, a breathing tube rising above the surface. “Is she well?” he asked Victania.

  “Not well, but better than we had hoped.”

  Victania was watching Nikandr closely. He waited for her to speak, and grew uncomfortable when she did not. “Out with it,” he said.

  She placed a tender hand on his shoulder, waiting for him to look her in the eye. He obliged, and was surprised to find a look of regret in her eyes.

  “I am sorry, Nischka.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “There was more to them both than I would have guessed.”