The Winds of Khalakovo Read online

  “Tell me, brother. Which one is Atiana?”

  Ranos considered them, the bridge of his nose pinching. “You have me there, but I tell you truly, any one of them would do.”

  As the last of the guests were arriving, Ranos and Nikandr wove their way to the head table. The contingent from Vostroma was respectable, but they were dwarfed by the Khalakovos, who had traveled from all seven islands and beyond to see Nikandr’s new bride. Only Mother was notably absent, but she was much too infirm to attend a function such as this for more than a few minutes. Better she stay in her cold basin deep beneath the Spire; as old as she was and as long as she’d been controlling the aether, that was where she was most comfortable.

  Everyone was seated—from highest ranking to lowest—and then food was rushed in by dozens of servants wearing simple black kaftans and dresses. It was interesting to note just how many people dove into the meal with a recklessness that spoke of ravenous hunger, particularly among the socialites and lower-ranked royalty. How many had forgone one or two meals to save a handful of rachma? Most had probably not eaten this well in years, even though they were of royal blood. One woman even took bread and slipped it into her knit purse, a woman Nikandr knew to be married to a wealthy merchant. At least, he was wealthy at one time... With the blight and the increasingly bold attentions of the Maharraht, their families’ fortunes may well have reversed. It had taken quite some time for the blight’s effects to trickle their way upward, but it was clearly being felt by everyone now.

  Nikandr’s appetite was not strong, but with so many people watching he forced himself to eat. It probably wasn’t a good idea, considering the dance that would immediately follow dinner, but Atiana was eating healthily, and something in him wouldn’t let her beat him, even at something as simple as that.

  When dinner finally ended, the center of the room was cleared. As was custom, Nikandr walked out to the empty floor and held his hand out as the crowd gathered round. The rook on its perch seemed to be watching intently now—Mother had joined the festivities, however briefly.

  A lute and a harp and a skin drum took up a dancing song as Atiana stood and made her way toward him, pulling pins from her hair as she came. The crowd whooped as her long hair fell about her shoulders, giving her a wild and most unladylike look. Her words from the eyrie rushed back to him. I look forward to it, she’d said. As simple as that. But the words had dripped with meaning.

  She arrived at the center of the floor, but rather than take Nikandr’s hand and wait meekly for the dance to begin, she pulled him into a tight embrace, the typical pose dancers took for this particular song.

  The crowd laughed. Nikandr felt his cheeks flushing, partly from the embarrassment of Atiana taking the lead, but more so from the sheer surprise of this woman—who had always been the meekest of the three—taking charge of the situation. He found himself not only impressed, but attracted to her. She was turning out to be vastly different than the girl from his memories.

  “Are you so eager to dance?” Nikandr said as the dance began.

  The scent of jasmine and facial powder laced the air as she leaned into him, chest to chest, and whispered, “Not to dance, Nikandr Iaroslov, but to teach you a lesson.”

  “And what lesson is that?”

  “That a Vostroma is no woman to be ignored.”

  “Were you ignored?”

  “Avoided. Snubbed. Choose the word you wish.”

  He found a smile coming to his lips, but he suppressed it. “And a dance will even the ledger?”

  “Nyet.” As they stalked in the opposite direction, she leveled upon him a steely gaze. “It merely begins to tip the scales, Khalakovo.”

  As the drum sounded a heavy beat, she spun on one heel and stood straight as a sword, her hair flaring before falling about her shoulders. All was silence. The preliminaries were over, and now the real dance would begin. The story the song painted was one of a young man and woman—two people that had wandered through life, searching for love but never finding it. It detailed a defining moment in their lives, one in which each of them saw through to the heart of the other for the first time, and their love began to blossom.What followed between the two lovers was grand, and the music played it so, slowly at first but with a steadily quickening rhythm.

  Atiana spun in a circle and took one step forward. She kicked her outer leg in a high arc, over Nikandr’s head as he dropped to a crouch. He balanced on the balls of his feet as she stared down at him.

  And there came that wicked little smile. The one she used when she wanted him to know that she’d tricked him. No one else would even notice, but Nikandr knew it all too well. The smile he’d suppressed earlier returned, and this time there was nothing he could do to stop it. Atiana had come to dance, and he had not been tested in a very long time indeed.

  As the lute and harp strummed a heavy chord, the crowd collectively clapped. In time, Atiana spun and brought one leg low over the ballroom floor, her dress flourishing as it did so. Nikandr jumped into the air, clearing her sweeping leg, and kicked both legs out, touching his toes with the tips of his fingers.

  A collective gasp filled the room. Nikandr had jumped very high, partially to impress, but also to let Atiana know that he had accepted her challenge.

  The second chord came, the crowd clapped, and Atiana repeated the low sweep of her leg. She was very good, Nikandr realized, her motions fluid. No doubt she had practiced only to drive her superiority home in front of as many people as she could manage. Nikandr jumped again, and the crowd murmured.

  The progression continued, Atiana spinning, Nikandr leaping, as the pace of the music increased. It was a time where the two lovers were exploring their emotions after being lonely for so long, a celebration of their newfound love. The clapping came faster, the music more lively. The crowd became more animated, some people yelling “Hup!” as Nikandr leapt and kicked his legs straight out.

  Typically the woman, even if she were more fit or a better dancer, would end the dance when she saw her partner begin to flag. Atiana would do no such thing.

  Nikandr was no stranger to this dance, and certainly not to dancing in general, so he was able to continue for quite some time, but the demands on the male partner were great. His stomach began to tie in a knot and the muscles in his legs tired as the crowd clapped in a frenzy and the music marched on.

  Still, Nikandr thought, her efforts would be taking their toll. Part of him hoped she would slip or be unable to sweep her leg, or that she would simply stop, her breath coming too quickly, but another part hoped that the challenge would not be so easy.

  Nikandr’s breath came in ragged gasps as he dropped to the balls of his feet, ready to launch himself into the air once more. His thighs began to burn as if they’d been replaced with bright, molten lava.

  He launched himself once more. And again, knowing he had only a few more in him.

  And Atiana knew it. He caught that same little smile as she spun around once more.

  She would fail, he told himself.

  She would stumble.

  She would fall.

  Nikandr pushed himself harder than he ever had. He sounded like a wounded animal as hard as he was breathing, and he barely cleared her leg as he leapt into the air. He was no longer able to touch his toes, and he couldn’t extend his legs completely. It was an embarrassment to the form.

  And then.

  He could neither leap high enough, nor fast enough. He raised himself up, but Atiana’s leg caught his ankles, sending him sprawling to the floor.

  The crowd went mad, clapping and yelling and laughing, some sending piercing whistles about the room.

  CHAPTER 11

  Nikandr’s knee flared with pain where it had struck the marble tile. He sat, nursing it as the crowd continued to roar.

  Atiana stood over him, extending a hand while staring down at him. Laughing, Nikandr grabbed her hand and allowed her to help him to his feet.

  The Vostromas clustered on the dais we
re all of them laughing or smiling. The rook was beating its wings against the air, twisting its head, a clear sign of displeasure.

  As he stepped back and snapped his heels, a curious smile touched the corners of Atiana’s mouth. “It seems Vostroma has won this round,” Nikandr said.

  The words were met with a raucous round of applause, particularly from the Vostromas. “Next year, Nischka!” a voice in the crowd shouted, referring to their anniversary dance, where couples would reprise this dance. Often the partner who had won would defer to the other, but Atiana would not yield—not in a year, not in ten—and Nikandr found a part of him that bore respect for that.

  He spent most of the night dancing with the other women of Vostroma, but after a time, he and Atiana, as per custom, were allowed to leave the ball to speak with one another in something resembling privacy. They stood outside in the central hall with Atiana’s Aunt Katerina standing a good distance away, ready to act as chaperone. Whether it was the awkwardness of finding themselves together after what had happened with their dance or the fact that they were suddenly being watched not by a crowd but by a single person, Nikandr didn’t know, but neither he nor Atiana appeared ready to say anything to the other. It was intensely awkward, but he was pleased to see Atiana mirroring his own feelings.

  “Would you care for a walk outside?” Nikandr asked.

  “A walk, nyet. But a ride would do nicely.”

  And Nikandr, despite himself, smiled.

  With Atiana riding to his left, Nikandr urged his pony along the road leading down toward Volgorod. Katerina hadn’t been pleased at all that they had wanted to ride, but it was the prerogative of the wedding couple, and so she could do little but put on a sour face and go along with them. With the recent attack, a full desyatni of streltsi were sent as well, five on the road ahead, and five behind. They stayed far enough away, and the two of them were used to such things, so it didn’t bother them overly much to have an escort. Atiana’s aunt, on the other hand, was a different story. As old as they were—Nikandr twenty-four and Atiana twenty—it felt strange to have a chaperone, but Katerina seemed to be taking her duty very seriously.

  The city of Volgorod far below them was almost entirely hidden in the darkness, but there were a few taller buildings near its center that had lights in their windows, giving some sense of its size and shape. Somewhere amid them, Nikandr thought, was Rehada’s home. He managed to prevent himself from glancing over at Atiana, but felt conspicuous in doing so. A part of him wished he could ride to the city and spend the night with Rehada, but another found himself glad to be alone with Atiana. He had decided shortly after realizing the wasting had taken him that he would share it with his bride. He had not found it in himself to tell another soul, even Victania, but Atiana was different. She deserved to know, deserved the option of backing out of the marriage if she so chose. All she’d need to do was tell her father, and in all likelihood he would have the contracts declared dead.

  “Come,” he said, pulling the reins of his pony over and heading northward over the tall grasses of the highlands. He needed to remove the sight of Volgorod, if only to get the feeling that Rehada was watching him out of his mind.

  Atiana followed, and soon they had gone far enough that the city was hidden. Only the lights of Radiskoye could be seen, and he decided that that was the right of it, no matter how much he might wish for something else.

  “I’ve always loved Radiskoye,” Atiana said.

  “You have?”

  “Don’t be so surprised. Galostina is too spare. Radiskoye is grand and stately.”

  “Galostina is proud.”

  In the moonlight, he could see her shrug. “Proud, perhaps, but she was built with only one thing in mind.” She pulled her pony to a stop and slipped down off the saddle to the snow-covered ground in one smooth motion. She began walking, leaving her pony to nibble on the exposed grass. “Was my father hard on you today?”

  Behind them, Katerina pulled her pony to a stop. Nikandr couldn’t see her expression, but her stiff posture told him all he needed to know.

  Nikandr dropped down to the ground and walked alongside her. “Your father? Nyet. He was kind, if a bit severe.”

  She laughed. “My father is nothing if not severe.”

  “There is something I would share with you,” he said.

  She stopped, forcing him to do the same.

  Nikandr stepped to one side, so Katerina couldn’t see, and pulled the stone from inside his shirt. He was surprised how difficult it was to share, particularly after how openly he once wore it. With the proximity to his mother—or perhaps the mausoleum—it glowed, but it was much dimmer than it should have been, and the cracks that ran through it could be seen clearly.

  “So dim,” she said.

  “The hezhan,” he told her. “When it attacked, the stone cracked.”

  “Does your mother know why it is so?”

  “She does not.”

  “Will you have another?”

  “Nyet,” Nikandr answered simply. He didn’t know what this gem had in store for him, and so he would honor it as he always had. “If you will, I would touch stones.”

  She paused. In the darkness he had trouble reading her face, though when she pulled from her coat her own necklace, there seemed to be no hesitation in the movement. Her stone was bright in the darkness, and uniform in its intensity.

  He held his out, wondering what she would think when she discovered his other secret.

  She lifted her stone, and the two of them touched. Nikandr felt a brightening within his chest, a new connection that had not previously been there.

  Atiana pulled away and grabbed her gut. By the light of the moon he could see the look of shock on her face. “The wasting?”

  He slipped the stone back inside his shirt, though he could feel her still, however faintly.

  “How long have you known?”

  “Months.”

  “Before the wedding was announced?”

  “Shortly after.”

  “And you said nothing?”

  “I was not sure at first—” “But you became sure, and you held your tongue.”

  “I’m saying it now.”

  “When there’s little enough to do about it.”

  “Atiana?”

  Nikandr and Atiana both turned. Katerina was on her pony, sitting with that same prim posture. “Are you well?”

  “I must go,” Atiana said with a clear note of finality.

  “Atiana, please.”

  He held his hand up to forestall her, but she slapped it away and walked past him. Soon, she was on her pony and riding back toward the road. Katerina sent him a chilling stare before pulling her reins over and calling after Atiana.

  The desyatnik of the streltsi approached on his black mare. “My Lord Prince?”

  “Accompany them back to the palotza,” Nikandr said.

  “My Lord, my orders—”

  “Come back for me if you will, but make sure they arrive safely. All of you.”

  “My Lord—”

  “Go!”

  “Of course, My Lord.”

  They left, and in little time he was alone with the moon, the silver landscape of snow and stone, and the sighing of the wind. He tied his pony to the snow-covered branch of a spruce, preferring to walk among the trees to clear his mind. He wandered in what he thought was an aimless path, but soon he stopped, his fear over what Atiana might do replaced instantly by dread.

  He had arrived at the very place where he had spotted the Maharraht only two days before.

  He slipped off his pony and moved to the edge of the cliff, stopping when he arrived at the position from which the Maharraht had leapt. He stared at the tree line far below and the shore beyond it as a brisk wind blew upward along the cliff, lifting his hair and blowing it about. They had been trying ever since the encounter on the Gorovna to determine what the Maharraht had been hoping to do—Father had sent a qiram to search for answers; two dozen streltsi
had combed the area, hoping to find any small clues; Mother had searched as well—but those efforts had so far provided only the most tenuous of rationales for the presence of the Maharraht.

  Somewhere behind him there came the sound of approaching footsteps, crunching softly over the snow. He thought at first it was the streltsi, but they hadn’t been gone long enough to have made it up to the palotza and back again, and so he wondered if it was the Maharraht.

  Making as little sound as he could, he stepped into the cover of the trees nearby and crouched down. As the crunching came closer, he pulled the flintlock from its holster at his side and slowly pulled the striker until it locked into position with a heavy click.

  Movement came further down the tree line. Nikandr trained the weapon on the dark form that stepped out from the trees, but then lowered it when he realized that it was not a man, but a boy.

  He felt something deep within his chest, eerily similar to what he had felt when Nasim had been staring at his soulstone as they stood on the eyrie. He turned, pressing his hand against his chest to quell the dull-but-growing sensation while squinting ahead as Nasim moved to the edge of the cliff and stood where Nikandr had only moments ago. He stared downward, his arms hanging loose at his sides, showing none of the pain and discomfort he’d had on the eyrie.

  Somewhere far below, a fox began to yelp. Another growled, but then began yelping as well. More and more joined in, and soon, the forest was filled with their calls.

  A chill ran down Nikandr’s spine. He swallowed involuntarily; his throat felt as though it were closing up, his chest as if it were being pressed from all sides, as if he’d been thrust into the deepest part of the ocean. His breath came in short gasps—inhaling brought excruciating pain.

  The horizon began to tilt, and he wondered in fascination whether he was about to die.

  Then, of a sudden, the pain was gone, absent, replaced by a feeling of comfort and peace the likes of which he’d never felt.