The Winds of Khalakovo loa-1 Read online

  “Are we to make another go, My Lord?”

  This came from Viggen, a spry old sailor taking a turn at the helm. Nikandr had flown with him several times. He was an able sailor. More than able. Nikandr counted himself lucky that he’d been among those helping on the eyrie, but he hadn’t counted on how superstitious the man would be. Sailors were a superstitious lot to begin with, but Viggen was worse than most. He hadn’t taken the attack by the Maharraht lightly, and he considered it unlucky to take sail with so many having just died and the ship still steaming from the fire that had only just been put out.

  Viggen and the crew grumbled about how bad it was the entire next day-never to Nikandr directly, but amongst themselves and within earshot. Their fears, it seemed, were confirmed near sundown. A twinkling along the eastern horizon had drawn Udra’s attention.

  “That is a ship,” she said simply, “or I am an old gray gull.”

  A chill went down Nikandr’s frame as Viggen and the five other men who weren’t sleeping belowdecks spit downwind over the gunwale. Somehow, despite their precautions and the relative darkness, they had been spotted leaving the island. Nikandr looked up to the Gorovna’s starward mainmast. Its sails had been burned beyond repair. Even with them gone they might have foiled the pursuit, but they were chasing Ashan, and he had kept a steady course, west by southwest. There was really no choice in direction, and the trailing ship would know this by now.

  So the chase continued.

  “We’ll make another go,” Nikandr said to Viggen, “though I doubt the outcome will be any different.”

  Viggen lowered his voice so that only Nikandr could hear. “Begging your pardon, My Lord Prince, but do you still think it’s worth it?”

  “There are grand things at work,” Nikandr said just as softly, “things neither of us understand.”

  “As you say, My Lord.”

  Nikandr glanced toward the bow with purpose and waited until Viggen did the same. “That boy is at the center of them.” Nikandr coughed. “Better if we find the storm before it descends upon us unannounced.”

  He started to cough, hoping to stem the tide that would surely follow, but just as it had at random times over the past three days, the cough devolved into a fit that gripped his chest tightly until he felt like he could give no more. Only then did it recede, leaving him exhausted for hours on end, and just when he thought he had recovered, it would happen again.

  Udra did him a favor without knowing it. She said it was because of the fire, that it would soon pass, and Viggen agreed. “My brother was caught in a fire like that when he was a child. He coughed every day of his life until he died at fourteen.”

  Nikandr thanked him not to repeat the story. He knew, of course, that it was the wasting, but it had grown markedly worse since leaving Khalakovo. Shortly before the coughing began he would feel a constriction upon his heart. It would skip a beat, perhaps two, and the coughing would begin. As the fit progressed, he could feel the noose tightening around his heart until finally it was released. Soon after the coughing would cease.

  He pulled out his soulstone and stared into its cracked, smoky depths. He knew that the progression of the disease and the state of his stone were somehow related. He had thought for a long time that the stone was merely a canvas, painted with the events of his life, but now he knew differently. The stone, more and more over the years, was becoming a part of him-little different than his heart, his stomach, his liver. He also knew that the blight was in some way related. Things had grown progressively worse over the past decade, and this phenomenon, he had no doubt, would not have been possible in years past. The world was changing. And Nasim was the key to unlocking that riddle.

  On the sixth day, with the sun high but occasionally hidden by passing clouds, Nikandr sat on deck, his back to the gunwale, biting into the hardtack biscuits that were their only provisions besides weak ale. Jahalan had been summoning the winds, coaxing them into the right direction, perhaps attempting to feel for the location of the trailing ship, which had shown itself several hours ago, closer than it had been in the morning. Nikandr realized he could no longer see Ashan’s skiff. He took the telescope from the helm and moved to the bowsprit. He scanned the horizon, but found nothing.

  “Jahalan, where is he?”

  Jahalan opened his eyes. He was nearly sleeping on his feet. He rushed to the bow and took the telescope from Nikandr. “I don’t know,” he said after sweeping the horizon.

  They thought perhaps he was hiding among the clouds, but Ashan had never veered from his straightforward course. Had Nikandr been wrong all along? Had Ashan been toying with them in order to more easily lose them later?

  Nyet. That made no sense. Ashan was arqesh; had he wanted to he could have lost them that first night.

  Perhaps, then, he had changed his mind. Or perhaps he had finally realized that the Gorovna had been followed and it was too risky to lead Nikandr any further.

  “Ship, ho!”

  No sooner had the words come from the boatswain than the sound of a cannon broke across the stillness of the afternoon. Nikandr heard the whine of the grapeshot beneath the ship and a tight cluster of audible pops as it punctured one of the seaward sails. A moment later, the ship twisted counterclockwise, the telltale sign that the shot had ripped a sizable hole in the canvas.

  Abaft and above, exiting a thick bank of white clouds, was the Vostroman ship. How it had gained on them so much Nikandr didn’t know, but they were in for it now. Their position gave the Vostroman ship many options and the Gorovna few.

  Nikandr took over the helm’s controls. Udra was already sitting ahead of the controls, cross-legged, eyes closed and palms flat against the decking.

  “Bring us down, Udra. Quickly. Viggen, prepare the cannon. Jahalan…”

  “ Da,” Jahalan said as he moved to the mainmast. Once there, he opened his arms, and the alabaster gem on his brow glowed brighter. The winds gathered strength as another cannon shot rang out. This one crashed into the hull, a poor shot-they had most likely been told to take the Gorovna intact, along with her crew.

  Nikandr tilted the ship downward. With Udra suppressing the windwood’s ability to stay afloat and Jahalan’s winds, they were already picking up considerable speed, but the trailing ship-Nikandr recognized it now as the Kavda, a swift eight-masted caravel-was already closing the distance.

  Viggen and the boatswain manned the cannon at the bow. They trained it upward, and it roared to life, but even as Nikandr heard a satisfying crunch as the shot tore into their hull, two more blasts ripped into the Gorovna’s landward mainsail.

  “Give them wind, Jahalan!”

  “They have two havaqiram.” Jahalan’s voice was calm, but his words were clipped, the muscles along his neck straining.

  The wind-heading strong two points off the bow-swirled about the ship.

  “I can’t stop them!” Jahalan said, his face becoming red, his hands bunched now into tight fists.

  The ship was slowing. The winds were too unpredictable to capture. Soon they would be dead in the wind, helpless to stop the Kavda as they lowered grappling hooks and took the Gorovna in for the kill.

  Suddenly the air began to mist, and the temperature dropped from cool to frigid. In mere moments Nikandr was drenched.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It isn’t me,” Jahalan replied.

  He thought at first it was the qiram aboard the Kavda, but their wind masters wouldn’t do such a thing-the effect would be too debilitating to their line of sight.

  A frigid gust cut windward across the ship, and then-as suddenly as it had come-it was gone. It blew again, and vanished. Nikandr could barely see Jahalan, who stood only four paces away, but he could still see the look of confusion on his face.

  “I think we are beckoned,” Nikandr said.

  “Ashan?”

  “Who else?”

  Another cannon blast cut through the fog and tore into the decking at the stern. A man screamed, the soun
ds cutting through the fog like a knife.

  Another shot came moments later, and Nikandr realized the Kavda was using the sound to target them.

  “All quiet!” Nikandr shouted. “Viggen, shut that man up!”

  “Aye, My Lord.”

  The gust came again, blowing in the same direction, as a cannon shot ripped through the landward foresail.

  Nikandr stared down at the levers that allowed him to guide the bearing of the ship. He knew the situation was untenable. Even with the mist, the Kavda would soon correct their speed, they would close, and it would all be over.

  His breath came slowly, and he felt his fingers tingle as he realized what the wind was telling him to do. He could release the ship’s controls. The wind would carry them northward, toward uncharted territory. It was a decision that would wrest them from the jaws of the Kavda, but it was one that could ruin them just the same. If he did this, the Gorovna would slip free of the currents that ran between the islands, the currents that had been meticulously groomed and guided by the spires and by the delicate hand of the Matri over centuries. Outside of these shipping lanes, the aether swirled and eddied as unpredictably as it did at the base of the eyrie’s cliffs. Worse-the effect was often stronger, the aether swirling into unforgiving maelstroms that would rip the ship to pieces were Nikandr to engage the ship’s controls once more.

  Once free of the stream that ran between the Khalakovan and Vostroman archipelagos, they would be forced to rely on the abilities of Jahalan to guide the ship like the Aramahn did in their tiny skiffs.

  But really, despite his fears, there was no choice in this. If he didn’t, the Kavda would have them.

  Before he could change his mind, he pushed all three levers forward until they locked into place, and the ship began to turn and drift windward.

  CHAPTER 40

  The Gorovna twisted in the wind, and though Nikandr had not said a word, it soon became clear to any experienced sailor what was happening.

  Viggen’s voice cut through the mist from the stern of the ship. “Kapitan?”

  “Silence on deck!” Nikandr shouted as loud as he dared.

  Several more shots rang out from the Kavda, but they were further now and the shots went wide. A short while later, soft as a memory, Nikandr heard the order to come about. Soon the Gorovna would be out of reach, and it was doubtful the Kavda would brave the currents to chase them down. If they did, they might succeed in capturing or destroying their quarry, but more likely than not they would in the process become lost to the winds as well.

  Jahalan guided them, being careful not to use too heavy a hand lest the havaqiram aboard the Kavda sense it. The mist began to recede. Nikandr could once again see the foremast clearly. The wounded crewman lay on his side at the stern, rolling his head from side to side while Viggen, kneeling over him, clamped his hand over the man’s mouth to keep him from screaming. Udra pulled a black-and-white scarf from around her neck and began binding the man’s wound. The deck around them was bloody and mangled from grapeshot.

  They continued northward, a few calls from the Kavda coming to them from within the mist. The Gorovna had now completely drifted free from it, and as the distance increased, Nikandr saw how truly immense it was. It looked like a cloud the size of an island, churning as the wind pushed them onward.

  “It must be Ashan,” Jahalan said.

  Nikandr furrowed his brow. “Or Nasim.”

  Jahalan laughed softly. “Or Nasim.”

  Nikandr studied the northern sky for any sign of the skiff, but there was none. “Is Ghayavand truly a place between worlds?”

  “Who can tell? Some doubt that it exists at all. Others say it is nothing but an island where powerful qiram once lived. Others believe a doorway once existed, but that it has since closed.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Me?”Jahalan’s face became pensive as he too studied the horizon.“I think that something as hidden as Ghayavand is as good as a myth.”

  One more cannon blast interrupted the silence, but it was soft, distant, muted by the depths of the fog.

  “And what if it were real? What would you do then?”

  A genuine smile lit his face. “I would learn. The day we stop listening to the lessons around us…”

  “Is the day we begin to die,” Nikandr said, completing the proverb. “So you always say, but I have heard of the riches of Alayazhar.” Jahalan, like Udra and dozens of other Aramahn, had pledged themselves to Khalakovo. They had found their place, as they say, and had dedicated themselves to teaching the Landed the ways of the world as seen through the eyes of the Aramahn.

  “You mean to ask would I betray my oath. I would not, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t cry for my own loss.”

  “Perhaps in the next life,” Nikandr said.

  “Perhaps,” Jahalan replied. “Do you still believe the city you saw in your visions was Alayazhar?”

  Nikandr shrugged. “Who can say? Perhaps it was something Nasim saw somewhere when he was younger. But it felt real, as if I were the one with the memories… Nyet, as if I were living it, then and there.”

  “And what if we find this place? What then?”

  “We find Ashan and we bring him back.”

  “What of the wasting?”

  Jahalan had said the words nonchalantly, perhaps hoping to ease into the conversation, but it struck Nikandr physically. He reeled, shocked and embarrassed that Jahalan had found him out.

  “Who knows?” Nikandr asked.

  “Only Udra and I, but the crew suspects.”

  Nikandr wanted to laugh. “They consider it another ill omen, I expect.”

  “They do.”

  Nikandr arched his neck back and took a deep breath. “There is time for me yet. My only hope is to bring Nasim back home, to unlock the riddle within him.”

  Jahalan turned to face Nikandr. He reached out and gripped Nikandr’s shoulder affectionately. “Best you take care of yourself, then. Eat, and make sure the crew sees you doing it. Throw up if you must, but do so in your own cabin.”

  Nikandr nodded, thankful for having someone who knew, thankful at not having to hide it, at least some of the time. “I will.”

  The following night, Nikandr retired to the kapitan’s cabin to ride out another coughing fit. The spells were not lasting as long as they once did, but they left him feeling much more weakened when they were done. It was as if his body had had enough and his defenses were crumbling.

  Viggen knocked on his door with an offer of food. He accepted, but it took him nearly an hour to force down the meager ration he’d allowed for himself and the crew. With the prevailing winds largely controlling their direction, he had chosen to stay high above the water instead of dropping to fish. It was not food, in any case, that was the issue. It was liquids. Their supply of ale was beginning to run low.

  That night, he forced himself to sleep, though it was difficult with the interminable ache in his chest. When he finally did fall asleep, it was deep.

  As were his dreams.

  At the fluttering wings of a bird, Khamal opens his eyes. He expects a gull, but finds instead a thrush with spotted wings and a fiery red breast standing on the tower’s parapet. He sees this as an ill omen. The thrush flaps down from the parapet to the wooden roof. It hops closer to Khamal’s feet, and then it alights, scared by the creaking sound of the hinged door that opens nearby.

  Muqallad is first, followed by Sariya, who carries a curved knife, a ceremonial khanjar. She holds it as though it would bite, but her face is resolute.

  They stand before him.

  “Your last chance,” Muqallad says.

  Khamal ignores him, giving all his attention to Sariya. She stares back, and though she acts strong, he can tell that she regrets what she has done-not enough to change her mind, but there is regret, and that is a start.

  “Small consolation,” he says softly.

  “What?” Muqallad replies.

  “You have lived centuries long
er than you’d ever imagined, and you still believe that you can force upon the world its destiny.”

  “The fates knew well that they were ceding the world to us. They should not be surprised when a plan of their own devising bears fruit at last.”

  Khamal views the horizon, feeling in his heart the tear in the world that runs through the islands. “Only when this is healed can the world move on.”

  “Enough,” Sariya says. The word is short, clipped. She is shamed at being here, and she wishes to be done with it. Muqallad turns to her. “He will not change his mind, and we still have much to do.” Muqallad nods, beckons her closer.

  She hesitates, glancing to Khamal, but then complies.

  Together, they hold the khanjar. Each reaches out to touch one of Khamal’s shoulders, and for a moment, it is as it was when they worked together on this same tower, centuries ago, trying to take the world to a higher place, a higher plane.

  Khamal can feel the world around him, feel the power building within the two of them. They were surprised at how easily he gave in-with barely a fight. What they didn’t realize was how right it felt. They didn’t realize how freeing their betrayal might be. They were all trapped on this island from the moment the rift had formed, and though he had tried to find a way to repair it, he came to learn that he would not be able to do so while here. He also knew that he could never leave.

  Unless he dies.

  To do so means giving himself to the fates. He has come to terms with this. It feels right.

  But he cannot allow the two of them free reign while he’s gone. He will die, but he will be reborn, and he will see to it that he remembers, that he returns to finish what he started.

  The tip of the khanjar presses against his stomach, pierces his skin. He looks down, smiling.

  “Why do you smile?” Sariya asks.

  He stares into her blue eyes. “Someday I’ll tell you.”

  “ Neh,” Muqallad says, “you will not.”

  Together, they thrust the khanjar home.