The Winds of Khalakovo Read online

  “Take her back!” he shouted, but before he could come within striking range, three streltsi swarmed in and seized his arms.

  Grigory’s countrymen broke away from the gunwales, ready to help their Lord Prince, but the crew of the Broghan took them by force, preventing them from interfering.

  “I am a son of Bolgravya! You will release me!” When they did not, Grigory turned to Nikandr. “Turn back, coward! There are lives to be saved!”

  Despite Grigory’s pleas, Nikandr knew he could not, and though his face burned with shame from the screams of the men below the ship, he would not throw away a ship—along with the lives of a score of men—when the spirits themselves had somehow risen against them.

  CHAPTER 17

  “My Lord Prince?” Isaak, the palotza’s seneschal, was standing in front of Nikandr with a look on his face that made Nikandr wonder just how long he had been standing there.

  Nikandr had always been a sure-footed man, but he’d had a terrible case of vertigo ever since his return to solid ground. It was another symptom of the wasting, one often associated with the latter stages of the disease, but Nikandr hoped that it had somehow been brought on by his strange experience and that it was merely lingering because of his condition.

  He couldn’t get the scene from the Broghan out of his mind.

  The crewman who had been attacked by the spirits, an old gull with a wide jaw and heavy growth of beard, was standing nearby. He was pressing a bloody kerchief against his self-inflicted wounds. He looked at Nikandr with something akin to solidarity—he understood Nikandr’s confusion—yet at the same time he looked embarrassed, as if he felt weak for admitting that he had succumbed to this unexpected attack.

  It mirrored Nikandr’s own feelings precisely.

  “I’ll be fine, Isaak,” Nikandr said. “I’m only a bit shaken. Where did you say I could find my father?”

  “I said His Highness would find you. He asks that you retire to the Great Hall to assist Ranos in staving off the wolves, as he put it.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  “Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Isaak asked.

  The sounds of screaming came to Nikandr again. Closing his eyes only made matters worse.

  Isaak stepped forward, lowering his voice. “Are you quite well, My Lord Prince?”

  Nikandr waved him away. “It’s nothing.”

  “There is trouble afoot, My Lord. Your father, the Duke, is with the Matra, and he’ll return as soon as he is able. If you’re well, as you say, then best you get to the Great Hall now, before things turn sour.” He turned and walked briskly away, and when he reached the end of the hallway, he turned. “The Great Hall, My Lord, the Great Hall.”

  Flanked by the old seaman, Nikandr made his way there. The doors stood open, and Nikandr entered as an argument played out at the head of the hall. Some noticed his entrance, but they remained silent as Nikandr and the crewman made their way to the dais. The screams of the men on the rocks, the silence as his man slipped free of the mast and fell to the sea, the clawing feeling he’d experienced as if his very soul had been held in the balance, all of it still swirled within his mind as if it were still happening.

  He paused, nearly retching at the discontinuity. He took deep breaths as Ranos shouted over the noise of the crowd. “I have told you thrice, Vostroma. We have secured Radiskoye, Nikandr and Grigory are attempting to find any survivors, and our Aramahn are searching for signs of foul play.”

  “Foul play?” Zhabyn barked. “Can there be any doubt?”

  “Spirits have crossed randomly before, Duke.”

  “And if you believe that’s the case here, then you’re less prepared to follow in your father’s footsteps than I thought.” Zhabyn stabbed a finger toward the eyrie. “What happened out there was murder. No more, no less.”

  Nikandr reached the dais. When Ranos took note of him, he tipped his head, indicating Nikandr should join him. “We don’t know that yet. Your blood is boiling, I know. Mine is as well. But we can discuss this further once more is known.”

  Voices rumbled about the room, clearly perturbed that Ranos was questioning the obvious.

  “Discuss?”

  This came from Duke Leonid of Dhalingrad, a heavyset man with a crooked shoulder and a long white beard that shook as he spoke.

  “You wish to discuss when the Grand Duke himself has been murdered on your very doorstep? This is a time for action, not wandering about asking polite questions while you hide your cock with your hand.”

  “Spirits cross when they will, Dhalingrad,” Ranos replied.

  “Not only when they will,” Duke Leonid said. “They can be summoned, as you very well know. It happened to your brother. This might have been planned days before Council”—Leonid opened his arms wide—“from within these very walls.”

  Ranos’s face turned hard, mirroring Nikandr’s own feelings. “If you have something to say, Dhalingrad, you’d better come out from hiding and say it.”

  “Dhalingrad hides behind nothing!”

  Then, striding through the open doors at the rear of the hall, came Grigory, his face a study in anger and indignation. When he reached the open area before the dais, he spit upon the floor and pointed his finger at Nikandr. “You have much to account for, Khalakovo.”

  Before Nikandr could speak, Ranos strode toward him. “Watch your step, Bolgravya.”

  “I will not, not when my father burned before my eyes, not when my blood has been offered to the sea.”

  “I told you what happened, Griga,” Nikandr said.

  Grigory’s look hardened at the use of his familiar name. “Do you expect me to believe that hezhan were attacking you?”

  “I do.”

  “When your own Motherless slaves say they felt nothing?”

  “I felt the hezhan as I feel my own thoughts. They were clamoring for us. Our man felt the same.”

  Nikandr motioned for the crewman at the head of the crowd to speak, but before he could summon the courage, Grigory scoffed. “He will spout any story you’ve fed him.”

  “I saved lives, including yours! They took one of my own men.”

  “Then you should be doubly ashamed for abandoning him!”

  Voices were raised, people taking sides, others looking for answers. Nikandr saw Borund, standing near his father. They had grown up together, had attended many Councils with one another. Borund had spent a summer on Khalakovo, and Nikandr had done the same on Vostroma. He was Nikandr’s closest friend among the aristocracy, a man Nikandr considered a brother. Ever since Borund’s arrival their relationship had been strained, different. Nikandr had written it off to his own reticence to marry Atiana, but the look on Borund’s face... He was staring at Nikandr as if he were looking upon a coward, as if he were ashamed that he had ever considered Nikandr a friend. It was a strange reality to be faced with, and it made Nikandr realize just how dangerous a position they were in. Tensions had been high. Distrust and the urge to look after one’s own family had been rising above the long-fought-for solidarity among the Duchies. If Borund were looking at Nikandr in this manner, what must the other dukes be thinking, especially those from the south, who typically aligned with one another?

  An echoing boom resounded through the room—once, twice, thrice. Everyone turned toward Zhabyn, who was slamming the heel of his boot against the wooden floor. Once quiet had been restored, he nodded to Nikandr. “Tell us what you know.”

  Nikandr complied, at least so far as he was able. Grigory interrupted several times, but each time he did Zhabyn stomped his foot, cowing the young man back into silence. When Nikandr was done, Zhabyn turned to the crewman and asked the same of him. And finally, it was Grigory’s turn. He relayed the events at the base of the cliff, painting Nikandr as a man more craven than anyone the islands had ever seen. It would seem, by the time Grigory was done, that Nikandr was responsible for everything from the presence of the suurahezhan to the very blight that threatened their way of life. Perhaps
that was Zhabyn’s plan, to allow Grigory to paint himself into a corner with his own words, relieving the pressure that was building on Nikandr and the Khalakovo family. Then again, given Zhabyn’s disapproving look toward Nikandr when Grigory finally fell silent, perhaps it wasn’t.

  “This is strange business,” Zhabyn said to Ranos, essentially waiting for an official reply.

  “Khalakovo was hurt as much as anyone by what happened here today.”

  “As anyone?” Duke Leonid said. “I think not.”

  The silence in the room yawned like a sleeping beast preparing to wake.

  “Don’t mince words, Dhalingrad,” Ranos said quietly.

  Before Leonid could continue, Duke Yegor of Nodhvyansk stepped out of the crowd, his arms wide. Yegor was young—Ranos’s age—and still impressionable, but his family had always been a friend of Vostroma.“He’s saying what we’re all thinking, that the one man who stands to gain the most from Bolgravya’s death is the man hosting this Council.”

  Ranos moved to the edge of the dais, perhaps ready to challenge Yegor for such an insult, but before he could, Father’s voice called out from behind him.

  “You’re saying I would kill my oldest friend?”

  Nikandr turned to find his father standing in the doorway that led to the hall’s antechamber. Before him, sitting in a padded chair fitted with wheels, was Mother.

  The entire assemblage went deadly silent and took to one knee. Father pushed Saphia Mishkeva Khalakovo forward, the wooden wheels thumping over the floorboards, until he reached the edge of the dais. When he stopped, everyone rose to their feet.

  “You’re saying,” Father continued, “that I would risk my youngest son and his new wife? You’re saying I would risk the lives of my own wife, my elder son, even yours to a rogue spirit such as that? I would sooner have fired a musket into Stasa’s chest than release a creature like that into my family’s midst.”

  Yegor opened his mouth to speak, but there came from the wheelchair a voice so rarely used it croaked with every utterance.“I have conferred with the other Matri,” Mother said. The effort, as small as it was, proved taxing; she breathed rapidly several times before continuing. “The crossing of the suurahezhan appears to be spontaneous.”

  As she recovered herself, Grigory opened his mouth to speak, but Father stomped his foot down hard, forcing him to silence.

  “An investigation will be conducted, and as we are on ... Khalakovan ground, my son Nikandr ... will undertake it.”

  The room began to murmur.

  “We will share with you our findings ... but until such time as it is complete ... you will remain welcome guests ... of Radiskoye.”

  Zhabyn Vostroma bowed his head. “Forgive me, Matra, but have all the Matri agreed to this?”

  Nikandr saw his mother smile, and it was wicked. “They have, Vostroma.”

  Grigory pulled Ivan from the crowd and placed the young man before him. “Forty of our countrymen are dead!” Grigory’s face went beet red. “Someone must pay!”

  “And they will,” Iaros said. “Khalakovo will find those responsible.”

  “Then start with your son! He left two of my men to die on the rocks below like a baseless thief!”

  Father glanced at Nikandr, but it was Mother who spoke. “My son has answered your questions. There was a tear in the aether ... made, perhaps, when the suurahezhan returned to the world beyond.”

  “I felt nothing,” Grigory said.

  Saphia laughed, and her face pulled back into a rictus of a smile. “Tell me, Grigory, when was the last time you spent time in your Matra’s chamber?”

  Grigory’s face went red. “I don’t have to touch the aether to know a lie when I hear it.”

  “Speak to your Matra. Discuss with her what happened. Until then, speak no more of my son.”

  Grigory opened his mouth to reply, but Father spoke over him.

  “And Khalakovo will find who is responsible, good Prince. Have no fear of that.”

  The entire room went silent. Grigory stared at Father for a long time, clearly enraged at being treated like a pup.

  “It had better be soon.” And with that Grigory marched from the room. Even with all his confidence it was strange watching him leave. Bolgravya had always had the largest retinue at Council. It felt like a herd of men should be leaving with him, but besides Grigory there was only the one sorry remainder of their strength: young cousin Ivan.

  Nikandr expected the tension in the room to drop, but strangely, it intensified.

  Duke Heodor of Lhudansk, a squat man with a piercing gaze, cleared his throat. “If there’s no one who will say it, then I will. We need to consider who will fill the seat of Grand Duke.”

  Father gave no outward sign of emotion at Heodor’s words. He, as the eldest reigning duke, should fill the imperial seat, but with Stasa’s blood staining their house, the vote would be in question.

  Duke Andreyo of Rhavanki shook his fist angrily. “The Grand Duke is dead not an hour, and you’re calling for his replacement?”

  “There is no sense ignoring what needs to be done,” Heodor said.

  Yegor pointed to the dais. “You might as well stand behind Khalakovo now, Lhudansk.”

  “Nyet, Heodor is right,” Zhabyn said. “The Grand Duke is dead.” He turned to Iaros, looking up at him on the dais as if he were a son who had disappointed him. “But the cause is in doubt. A vote cannot be held until the matter is settled.”

  Several of the dukes nodded, and Father nodded along with them. Nikandr knew his father well enough to know he would gladly take the mantle of Grand Duke, but he was also wise enough to realize that others would not be pushed. A week would pass, perhaps more, and they would find out what happened in the eyrie. Then, a vote would be held and honored.

  “We will wait,” Iaros said. “There is much to be done in any case, not the least of which is my son’s wedding day.”

  There were a few somber nods among the crowd, but most eyes turned to Zhabyn, whose rigid stance had not changed. “It would be best, I think, if the wedding were postponed as well.”

  Iaros eyed Zhabyn for long, uncomfortable moments, but it was Saphia that Nikandr watched closely. This was a grave insult indeed. Saphia had been the one to finally convince Zhabyn’s wife, Radia, that the marriage would be in the best interests of both families. It would benefit them at a time when their strength was dearly depleted.

  The decision, strictly speaking, wasn’t Zhabyn’s to make. The Matri had arranged it, and by tradition, only they could undo it. But Radia had never been a willful woman; if Zhabyn declared the marriage to be dead, she would follow, and then there was little Khalakovo could do except hold the offered ships and trade agreements as bait.

  When Saphia spoke again, she spoke slowly and deliberately.“Plans have been made, Vostroma. Documents have been signed.”

  Zhabyn didn’t flinch. “Winds change, Matra. Should we ignore them when they do?”

  Saphia seemed to lift herself up higher in the chair—an act that would take a supreme amount of will in her weakened state. During the pause that followed, the entire room seemed to lean forward. Finally, Saphia nodded once, politely, though there was no graciousness in the dour expression on her face. “A small delay will hurt little.”

  And with that she reached up and patted Father’s hand, which rested on her shoulder. Father then turned her chair around and strode from the room, Ranos and Nikandr behind them.

  CHAPTER 18

  It had been three days since the attack on the eyrie. Nikandr was out beyond the palotza walls, hiking down the trail the suurahezhan had taken, his fourth time doing so. He came to the spruce a thousand yards from the palotza’s walls where the husk of the burned streltsi had been found. The scent of cardamom still laced the air, one of the telltale signs of a suurahezhan.

  Little had remained of the man who had bravely charged forward to stop the threat of the suurahezhan from reaching those he had vowed to protect—a bit of cloth,
charred flesh, but by and large it had been little more than a blackened skeleton.

  The body had been taken away for interment two days ago, but Nikandr still whispered a prayer of thanks to the soldier, and for a life of honor and peace in the world beyond for the service he’d given. The poor soul had been on his stomach when he’d died, his arms stretched outward as if he’d been trying to claw his way across the frozen ground while burning to death.

  Nikandr took a long swig of elixir.

  The wasting had been troubling him all morning, and now he was getting the shakes. These symptoms normally passed after he’d taken a few mouthfuls, but today the effects were lingering. After tucking the flask back into his coat he continued downslope. A light, fluffy snow began drifting down from the bright but sunless sky. He had found three more clusters of streltsi, all of them similarly burned. Again he whispered prayers before continuing.

  Finally he came to the site of the crossing, an unremarkable clearing that lay at the base of a century-old landslide. Three streltsi, armed with tall muskets and berdische axes, stood guard by five stout ponies. When they saw Nikandr coming, they slapped their heels together and bowed their heads. Nikandr bowed back and continued on toward Udra.

  She was kneeling at the edge of a massive black stain that marred the surface of the clearing. Her eyes were closed, and every so often she would set her palms to the snow-covered ground before her and bow. Running across Udra’s path was a natural fault that still contained the charred remains of a large fire. The fault ran upward toward the palotza—a fact that seemed significant, though how, Nikandr couldn’t guess.

  It was strange how bent the suurahezhan had been on Stasa—strikingly similar to how the havahezhan had attacked Nikandr on the Gorovna. He knew it had something to do with the wasting—there could be no other explanation—but he didn’t know just what the connection meant. Did the wasting attract the hezhan in some way? Did it anger them? Or was it perhaps that they were looking for a way back to Adhiya, the spirit world? Those with the wasting might provide some channel that allowed them to return to their natural place.