“And so you plan to go south.” Warmth was beginning to return to Atiana’s extremities, but this only served to make her aware of how cold she truly was. She began to shiver fiercely as she allowed the coat to drop and pulled a shirt over her naked frame.
“Da,” Irkadiy replied. “We’ll be able to see them pass along the grounds. Once they do, we will make our way and—”
“Nyet,” Atiana said. “We will head north.”
“My Lady,” Irkadiy said, lowering his voice, “that way lies the city.”
“I must see what became of the Spar.”
“We will be trapped.”
“My Father, your Lord, was there on that bridge, Irkadiy.” She accepted the leggings from Yalessa and pulled them on quickly. “We will see what became of it.”
“My Lady—”
“They will have the ground from here to Svoya covered,” Atiana continued, “both by land and by air. Our only real choice at this point is to head south by sea.”
“You may be right, but to go there now would be foolish. We might as well give ourselves up to the Kamarisi’s guard.”
She slipped back into the coat and belted it, feeling more herself than she had in quite some time. “We go, Irkadiy, and we go now.”
“Forgive me, but we will not.”
Atiana stepped up to him. “Who gave you your orders, Irkadiy, son of Adienko?”
“Your father, the Grand Duke himself.”
“The Grand Duke is dead, Irkadiy. He died on the Spar. Beheaded by the Kamarisi.”
Irkadiy’s nostrils flared, and he swallowed reflexively. He snapped his heels and bowed his head to Atiana. “I’m sorry, My Lady Princess.” He turned to Ishkyna and snapped his heels again. “Most sorry.”
Atiana sent an apologetic glance at Ishkyna. She hadn’t wanted her to find out this way, but she needed to shake Irkadiy’s resolve. Ishkyna seemed rigid as she met Atiana’s gaze. She’d seen. She’d seen in the aether, but she’d only just now remembered.
Atiana turned back to Irkadiy, waiting until he calmed himself. “Who would you take orders from now?”
He measured her, and then Ishkyna. No doubt his orders had been to protect them at all costs, but so much had changed.
“We go to the Spar,” Atiana continued, “as secretly as we may. If you deem it too risky to take a cage down to the sea, so be it. We will hide in the city until we’re able to make plans to reach Svoya another way.”
He paused another moment, his men looking to him, ready to act however he decided. The silence was lengthening, and then, in the distance behind them, they heard the report of a musket. It was followed quickly by another. And then there was shouting and several more shots in tight sequence.
Irkadiy looked back the way they’d come.
“Kozyol!” he breathed to himself. “Come.”
And they were off again, heading through the connected buildings until they reached a half-ruined wall in a grand entryway to the north of the estate.
“Ancients,” Irkadiy said as he came to a stop.
The others stopped as well, all of them staring up through a massive hole in the wall before them.
When Atiana reached their side, she felt the blood drain from her face. She could feel her heartbeat pulsing in her neck, pounding as the scene over the city came clear.
A column of smoke, wide and thick, rose up from beyond the city’s center—certainly somewhere close to the Spar. But this was not what had shocked her. It was the scores of ships she saw heading south across the straits. Some were small ships—yachts and the like. Others were larger barques. But there were at least two dozen massive galleons flying with them. And none of them seemed to have any trouble at all with the straits even though they were passing directly over it.
“How many?” Ishkyna asked.
Irkadiy glanced back at her. “With the others I saw earlier, perhaps fifty or sixty.”
Atiana was shaking her head. That matched the ships they had available in the south. But only thirty or so were ready to come quickly to their aid. With this many ships heading toward Vostroma, her homeland would be overwhelmed in days, perhaps less.
“Did you warn them?” Atiana asked.
Ishkyna looked to her, angry at hearing the accusation in her voice. “Did you?”
“I was—”
She wasn’t able to finish the thought, for just then a meaty thump struck Yalessa in the chest. Her young handmaid spun and fell as the sound of the musket-fire reached them.
It had come from outside.
Their pursuers had found them. They hadn’t been fooled at all. They’d either guessed where they’d been headed or there were enough of them that they could cover all of the exits from this massive estate—Atiana wasn’t sure which scared her more.
Atiana dropped to Yalessa’s side as Irkadiy and the others fanned out and moved to the holes where windows once stood. Yalessa gasped wetly for breath. The wound bubbled red. She stared up at the ceiling blinking rapidly as Atiana held her hand and called her name.
No one on the islands was a stranger to battle. Atiana knew what this wound meant for Yalessa. She leaned forward, kissed her forehead, and whispered into her ear. “Your story will be told.”
She didn’t know if Yalessa had heard, for by the time she straightened, Yalessa’s eyes had gone lifeless and the blood had stopped pumping so fiercely from her wound.
The streltsi had positioned themselves and were just then peering around the corners.
They pulled back just in time.
A handful of shots came whizzing in, several striking the stone window frames.
They returned fire, and immediately another of the streltsi was felled.
He did not scream, for the shot had caught him in the throat.
He lay there on the dirty marble floor, staring up at Atiana, holding his neck as bright red blood coursed from between his fingers. His eyes were scared. As the firefight continued, she smiled, trying to console him, but the fear never left him, not until he slumped to one side.
Atiana took up his musket and moved to another window. She looked out carefully and saw, standing behind a low stone wall not thirty paces away, two dozen soldiers.
“They may not kill you if we lay down arms, My Lady,” Irkadiy called.
Atiana was already sighting down the barrel of the musket, training it on a man near the center. She knew what Irkadiy said was true, but the two of them—two princesses of Vostroma—would only give the Kamarisi another tool to use against the Grand Duchy.
She swallowed hard. She could not allow herself or Ishkyna to be used this way.
She squeezed the trigger.
The pan flashed and the musket bucked like a skittish colt.
She’d been trained long ago, and she’d been a fairly good shot, but she had forgotten just how powerful these weapons could be.
Her shot missed.
She pulled back as a musket shot struck the wall outside her window.
She reloaded as quickly as she was able, and when she brought the weapon up again, she saw that several men were running low toward the base of the wide marble stairs that led to the entrance.
She aimed and squeezed.
The musket kicked again. This time a man fell.
And then she heard the bootsteps coming from behind. There were many, coming from the hall they’d run down only a short while ago. The soldiers that had chased them from the scriptorium had found their way here at last.
Atiana was in the midst of reloading when seven of them reached the bannister overlooking the entrance hall.
Irkadiy turned and raised his musket.
But he was too late. One of the janissaries fired and struck Irkadiy in the shoulder.
He crumpled to the ground.
“Irkadiy!”
Two more shots came in, one striking the marble floor near Irkadiy’s head, the other missing another of the streltsi.
“Lower your weapons,” said one of the Kamarisi’s
men. He was the same one Atiana had seen earlier, the one that had spotted them as they ran from the courtyard.
There were tense moments as the streltsi neither fired nor lowered their weapons.
Atiana was nearly ready to tell them to comply when a trickle of water came down from the ceiling above the soldiers. The trickle increased to a stream, and then a deluge. No sooner had the men looked up than a section of the roof collapsed.
It crashed down on them, stone and ancient wood crumbling, wounding one of them and causing several others to back away. This did them little good, however, for the water was slithering over the floor like a snake.
One of the soldiers fired his musket at the twisting column of water, which did little but spray water in a wide fan. A moment later, the water had wrapped around his legs, then his chest, and then it drove against his face, entering his mouth and nose. He reared back, flailing his arms, trying to bat the water away.
Atiana looked to Ushai. She wore a circlet with a stone of azurite, which glowed dully. It seemed strange for the gem to shine so little. As hungrily as the jalahezhan was taking the lives of the soldiers on the balcony above, it felt as though it should be as bright as the sun, not idly glowing like a bedside candle.
Two of the Kamarisi’s guard drew their kilij swords—blades with a sharp bend halfway down their length—and used them to cut at the twisting jalahezhan. Another drew a pistol and aimed it at Ushai.
Before he could draw the trigger, the snake flicked its head, and a tendril of water splashed across the pistol. When the guardsman squeezed the trigger, the weapon merely clicked, the powder wet.
Three shots came in quick succession against the heavy wooden door. The door was stout, but the wood was brittle. A moment later, it crashed inward, bringing three men with it.
One was felled by a point blank shot from Ishkyna.
Three of the streltsi charged, screaming the names of their fathers and bringing their berdische axes arcing downward. Both of the Kamarisi’s men were felled, but more came in after—five, then six, with more rushing forward now that the door had been breached.
Atiana watched only for a moment. It was going to be a slaughter unless she did something.
She raised her hands, but before she could shout their surrender, she heard the sounds of a renewed firefight. A handful of musket shots fired. Then more, and more, until it seemed that an entire war was being fought outside the doors. She could see outside the windows several dozen men advancing quickly across the estate grounds from the west. The men they were attacking—the Kamarisi’s guard—had been positioned to defend against fire from the estate. They weren’t at all prepared for an attack along their flank.
“Hold!” Atiana called. “Hold, for help has arrived.”
More gunfire rained in near the entrance, and several shots flew in through the nearby window. She could see men in dark garb and ivory-colored turbans.
“Pull back!” the leader of the Kamarisi’s guard called.
His men obeyed, retreating quickly up the stairs. Another of them dropped from gunfire, but the rest reached the second level and retreated down the hallway from which they’d come.
The men in dark garb rushed in through the open doorway, firing at the retreating men. They saw Atiana and the streltsi, and one of them with a thick moustache and black beard waved to her. “Come quickly,” he said in thick Anuskayan.
They were soon out and onto the grounds as the firefight was pushed ever eastward.
“Stay low,” the man with the thick beard said. “The danger is not yet over.”
They crouched as they ran, some shots still coming in from the Kamarisi’s guard, but soon they were beyond the grounds and into the northern buildings of the Shattering. They reached one—a domed building—and were led inside.
At last Atiana saw who her savior had been, for Sihaş stood there among several men.
Seeing Atiana, he spoke low to the others and then came to her. “You should have left the city while you had the chance,” he said.
“I would not have. The fight is here.”
He stared at her soberly. “It is, My Lady Princess, but it’s much larger than you could have guessed.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
As Nikandr was led around the edge of the clearing, many of the children—the akhoz—on the outermost row of posts craned their necks and followed his movement. They could no longer see, and yet they seemed drawn to him. He had no idea why this should be, but it made his skin crawl.
The men of the Hratha led him to a tree where a spike had been nailed into the trunk. He fought, but the Hratha yanked the chain between his wrists viciously when he did, the shackles biting deeply and drawing blood. When they reached the tree, the Hratha threw the chain up and over the spike, securing Nikandr. Just as the akhoz were.
Bersuq watched all of this with dispassionate eyes. He seemed to acknowledge that he had betrayed Nikandr, that he had allowed the Hratha to do this to him, but then he turned his head back toward the clearing, making it clear that in the end, they were on different sides of a conflict bigger than the one playing out here in the clearing.
The Hratha that had brought Nikandr here to the clearing moved to another group of men. Rahid was there, and when his men arrived, he looked back at Nikandr, tilting his head to listen to the quiet words of his men.
The day grew longer, but nothing happened. Midday passed, which would have been an auspicious time to perform this ritual. There seemed to be some concern among those gathered. Most watched through the trees to the west, waiting expectantly. A group of men were dispatched, presumably to search for Muqallad.
And then at last, as the sun was beginning to set, Muqallad came. He was flanked by many of the Hratha, and a few of the men from Siafyan. Kaleh was with him as well. They reached the edge of the circle, and Muqallad stopped. He turned to Nikandr and walked toward him. Strangely, he had cuts along his forehead and on one side of his nose. His left eye was half red where it should be white, and a host of bruises marked the left side of his neck and jaw.
When he stopped a few paces away, Nikandr realized that Muqallad was staring at Nikandr’s chest, where his soulstone should have been. Nikandr realized in this instant that he could feel Nasim. It was weak, very weak, but he could feel him. It was the first time in years he’d felt anything like it.
Muqallad must have sensed it too, though how this could be he had no idea. “We will speak when this is done,” Muqallad said, and with that he turned and strode into the clearing.
The sun was touching the tops of the trees now, a time that was perhaps more auspicious than high noon, for he could think of nothing more apt than the setting of the sun for what was about to happen to these children.
Muqallad walked over the ashes, over the bones, to the center of the clearing. He held up his hand and in them held two stones, both of them blue and brilliant even under the setting sun. “Who will take them?” he asked.
After only a moment’s hesitation, Bersuq strode forward and bowed his head. Muqallad handed him the stones, and without returning the bow walked from the clearing to stand at its edge.
Bersuq situated himself at the center of the posts. After taking in the faces of the akhoz, he held the stones aloft and began to chant. The rest of the gathered men and women—including Muqallad—soon picked the chant up. The roots of the words were both familiar and foreign, but the cadence drove a spike of fear through Nikandr’s heart. Surely the words were Kalhani, the mothertongue. It was an ancient language, and indeed, this ritual felt as if it were tied to the making of the world, as if the fate of Erahm hinged upon it.
With so many eyes turned toward the clearing, Nikandr was able to look up to his chains. He pulled down upon them, hoping to pull the spike free, but it had been driven too deeply into the wood.
The akhoz began to moan. The sounds came louder at the end of each recitation of the chant. Bersuq held the stones high above his head, pressing the two pieces together. The
stones seemed to draw in the breath, draw in the voices and guttural calls of those nearby. There came a tugging within Nikandr’s chest, and his heart skipped a beat as the first of the children burst into flame. It was a girl on the outer ring. As her hair singed and burned and her skin lit like burning scrolls, the pitch of her moaning rose, as if the pain somehow excited her.
Soon the two next to her were aflame, and then the two beyond them. And so it went, more and more of the outer ring lighting like torches, until the circle was completed. The flame then leaped to the middle ring, and at last the innermost ring. The chanting rose higher as the akhoz burned bright like beacons. Nikandr could feel it now, even from this distance.
The smell of it—burning hair and burning skin—filled the clearing. It made him retch. His mouth filled with saliva, and he spit to clear the taste of it.
Bersuq had somehow been spared from the flames. Surely he was protected by the suuraqiram nearby, but it could not last long. His body twisted from the pain, but he continued to hold the pieces of the Atalayina above him.
The chanting rose higher. The calls of the akhoz became little more than inhuman screams rising above the sound of the roaring flames.
Bersuq could not last forever. Soon it became too much. He screamed, still holding tight to the Atalayina. His robes caught fire, and then his hair and his beard. He shivered from the pain as his screams became a piercing cry that rose above all other sounds.
Nikandr followed the black smoke up and into the sky, if only to be free from this horrific vision for a few moments. That was when movement among the clouds caught his eye. Flying low, above the trees to the north, was a ship. He recognized it immediately. It was the Chaika.
A moment later, the ground near the outer ring of akhoz blossomed into a high plume of fire and dirt and ashes, a resounding boom coming a split-second later. Three of the posts flew up and outward, the akhoz still attached. They twirled lazily until they struck the ground near the feet of the chanting Maharraht.
Muqallad raised his hands, but as he did another cannon shot shattered the ground in front of him. Two Maharraht nearby were thrown wide of the blast. What happened to Muqallad, Nikandr didn’t see, for the crowd was now in disarray. Some were taking up muskets and firing on the ship while the qiram drew upon their hezhan. Others continued to chant, so lost in the ritual were they. But most took cover in the nearby trees.
The Straits of Galahesh Page 38