The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (16 page)

Nikandr ran toward the edge of the perch. The Aramahn moved to intercept him. Nikandr reached it first and stared downward, searching frantically for what Atiana had been referring to.

The Aramahn grabbed his arms, began pulling him back.

He fought desperately, trying to keep himself near the edge.

But they had him, and they dragged him away.

And then he saw it. A glimmer of light, far, far below.

He railed against the Aramahn. They were strong, and there were two of them, but they were hindered by their wish to do no harm, while he was not. After a violent surge in one direction, he sent them off balance. He rushed forward, placing his boot behind one man’s leg. The man went down as Nikandr twisted his arm sharply. He punched the other man in the throat and twisted beneath the man’s grasp, spilling him awkwardly.

Freed, he sprinted toward the end of the perch. Anything to give him extra distance from the bulk of the village below.

“Do not!” the havaqiram shouted, raising his arms.

Nikandr kept running.

And he leapt.

For a moment the blackness before him simply held, motionless.

And then he was plummeting downward, wind whipping past him, tugging at his hair and clothes. The sound of the wind gained until it was a roar.

He opened his bond to his hezhan, but nothing happened. He continued to plummet, and he wondered when he would meet the sea and his death.

But then the wind responded. It was already rushing past, but now it
pressed
upon him. He could feel himself slowing. He spread his arms wide, and like a gull on the cliffs below the eyrie, he rode the wind southward.

Drawing upon the hezhan to such a degree drained him, as if there were only so much the hezhan could allow before it drew upon
Nikandr
for sustenance. He looked up to orient himself and from the few lights and the simple black immensity of it found the bulk of Mirashadal. He searched for the
Chaika
, squinting against the terrible wind, but could not find it. He tried to gauge how far the ship might have been pushed by the qiram on the perch; he scanned the skies, hoping they had been able to light a lamp, but he saw nothing.

His reserves were beginning to dwindle, and though he gave as much of himself as he could to the hezhan, he soon found himself unable to ascend.

And then he began to fall, slowly at first, but with growing velocity.

He tried one last time to find the
Chaika
, but he knew it was no use. But then, far below him, he found the light he’d seen from the perch. The
Strovya
. The kapitan had been told to remain dark throughout the infiltration and escape, but there it was, a lantern swinging back and forth on the deck.

He used the wind to push himself toward it, allowing himself to fall faster to conserve his strength while guiding himself in the right trajectory. Then, when he came within a hundred paces of the ship, he called upon the hezhan, giving more of himself than he ever had before.

The hezhan responded, but it was too late. He was falling too quickly, and there was nothing he could do.

But then he saw the sails. They were bowed, full of the strong northern winds.

Nikandr pushed himself toward it with his last strength.

He fell into the canvas just below the head of the sail, sliding downward, scraping against the seams, until the sail’s wide foot caught him like a butterfly in a net. The sail sprung back and threw him forward. His leg caught against the boom, sending him twisting through the air to land hard against the deck.

He felt something in his ribs give. Stars filled his vision for long moments. He stared upward at the sail that had saved his life and the blackness beyond, wondering at how close he had come to death.

A lantern approached, carried by the ship’s young kapitan. He was followed quickly by several crewmen.

“Douse the light,” a raucous voice called.

It was the rook, Vikra, giving Nikandr the answer to the question of who had ordered the lantern to be lit.

It came mere moments before he passed out.

Nikandr woke to Syemon, the ship’s pilot, who also served as the physic, hovering over him with a cup of vodka, administering it to him slowly. Nikandr coughed and waved the man away, realizing they’d moved him to the kapitan’s cabin.

He was beneath a blanket wearing only his small clothes. He tried pulling himself up, but thought better of it when the room started to spin.

“How long?” he asked.

“Only a few hours. You hit the deck hard, My Lord Prince, but not as hard as you might’ve.”

Syemon had a wicked scar that ran across his right eye. The color in his eye had gone nearly white, and it unnerved Nikandr. It made him feel as though the old gull could see right into his soul.

Though the man hardly needed any special insight into Nikandr’s abilities with the wind. The men whispered it in their bunks, and it had been passed through the ranks of Khalakovo, first as rumor and then as legend. No one spoke of it openly, and many of them secretly wanted to be with a kapitan that could control the wind; others were wary of it, claiming it wasn’t right for a Landed man to touch the wind as the Motherless wizards do.

“Bring Vikra to me.”

Syemon bowed his head. “Beg pardon, My Lord Prince, but the rook’s gone quiet.”

Nikandr nodded, pulling himself up in the bunk. The dizziness returned, but not so bad as before. “Then bring Soroush here.”

“My Lord?”

“Go on,” Nikandr said, nodding toward the cabin door.

Syemon left with a deep bow, and while Nikandr sat at the edge of the bunk, clearing his head, he heard the sounds of the men on deck, the kapitan calling to the men, the snap of canvas as a sail caught a whorl in the wind.

Outside the cabin door, the sounds of boots on the planking approached, and the door opened with a creak and a groan. Syemon stepped aside and allowed two of the streltsi assigned to the ship to half carry, half drag Soroush into the cabin before tossing him to the floor.

The heavy iron manacles on his arms and legs clinked as he pulled himself off the floor. He wore outer robes of white and inner robes of yellow. His beard was long and unkempt, but other than fresh abrasions along his cheek and jaw, he seemed to be in good health. His turban was gone, however, making him seem lost and alone and frail—qualities Nikandr would never have thought to associate with Soroush. It seemed as though the Aramahn had robbed him of much more than his freedom, but then he stared up at Nikandr, recognition flickered, and his eyes became as cold and piercing as they’d ever been.

“Remove his manacles,” Nikandr said, pulling one of the two chairs out from the kapitan’s desk and setting it next to Soroush. Syemon hesitated as Nikandr pulled out the other chair and sat in it heavily. “Then leave us.”

Syemon bent down, though he appeared hesitant to comply until Soroush held out his hands. Syemon unlocked the manacles, then he bowed and ushered the streltsi out, closing the door behind him.

“Please,” Nikandr said in Anuskayan, motioning to the empty chair.

Soroush pulled himself up off the floor slowly. He lowered himself to the seat of the chair, wincing as he went; then he leaned back and regarded Nikandr, nostrils flaring, eyes darting, his long hair and beard rolling down his chest.

For long moments Nikandr could do nothing but stare. He had never truly been alone with Soroush, and it was unnerving, no matter how much he might be in the advantage. This was a man who had orchestrated dozens of deadly attacks on the northern duchies and helped to supply many more in the south. Scores had died at his hands; hundreds had been wounded. And here Nikandr was, sitting in his company as if none of that had ever happened. Nikandr felt the weight of his father on him. He felt like a traitor, as if even
speaking
to Soroush, no matter the cause, was little more than high treason.

And yet they shared a very personal connection. Rehada. They had both loved her, and in her own way she had loved them as well, and if this were true, how could they not share a certain bond, tenuous though it may be?

Soroush must have felt it too, for he was studying Nikandr with something akin to contemplation. Or forbearance. Or mercy.
Mercy
. As if Nikandr might be spared from the judgment he’d long ago meted out to the Landed.

Nikandr took from the shelves above the kapitan’s desk a bottle of araq, something he had specifically asked to be placed here for this conversation. He poured two small glasses of the golden red liquid and set one on the desk near Soroush. The other he took back to his seat. He drank a healthy swallow of the bright, sweet liquor, hints of fig and pomegranate washing down his throat. To drink before he’d even formally offered the liquor to the man sitting across from him was considered very rude among the Landless, but Nikandr wanted him to understand the terms under which they were speaking.

Nikandr held his glass high and nodded toward Soroush’s. Soroush didn’t move, so Nikandr downed the rest of his drink in one swallow, slapped the glass down on the desk, and asked Soroush, “Do you know where I was before you took Nasim from Bolgravya’s ship?” He was referring to the time after Ghayavand, after Nasim had awoken. Grigory had hoped to bring Nasim back as a prize for Zhabyn Vostroma, but before he could the Maharraht had found his ship and whisked Nasim up from the deck.

“Have you come so far to ask me of Nasim?” His voice was scratchy, but it had the same liquid timbre he remembered.

“We had just come from Ghayavand. We had bonded—you know this—and together Nasim and I used our bond so that he might be healed, and in doing so heal the rift, just as you were trying to use him to rip it wide.”

Soroush stared, his eyes hard.

“I’ve changed since then,” Nikandr continued. “I was sick with the wasting, but then I was healed, and though Nasim was taken away, I still felt him”—he tapped his chest—“here. Ancients willing, I’ll feel him again some day, but until then I’ve taken to the winds, using what Nasim gave me to study the rifts as you once did.”

At this Soroush’s eyes went wide—only for a moment, but it was there. He looked over Nikandr’s shoulder, to the dark cabin windows, where the wind lightly whined. He looked as though he wanted to ask a question, but he kept his mouth closed, his jaw set.

“I know more about the rifts than anyone alive, except for perhaps you. Or Nasim or Ashan. I’ve found small ones. Large ones. There are webs of them—so many small threads interconnected that it boggles the mind. Did you know that? That they connect to one another?”

Soroush took the glass of araq and took a sip.

“Of course you did. It was why you attacked Duzol instead of Uyadensk. You hoped that by tearing one you would rip open the other, and the others beyond that. Perhaps the whole of the islands would be affected,
da
?”

“Tell me what you’re after, son of Iaros, or you can send me back to the hold.”

“I’ve searched for rifts everywhere. Khalakovo, Vostroma, Mirkotsk, Rhavanki.” He paused. “Even Rafsuhan.”

And here Soroush’s eyes sharpened. They became deeply distrustful and he sat straighter in his chair, the legs creaking as he did so.

“
Da
,” Nikandr said. “There is a rift on Rafsuhan. Already large, and still growing.” He paused again, hoping Soroush’s love for his people would overcome his hatred for Nikandr. “It will grow larger than the one on Uyadensk, Soroush. Much larger. I can feel it already.”

His hands, still holding the glass in his lap, were shaking. “And you would have me
help
you?”

“The rift is already causing sickness among your people. If you take me there, provide for my protection, perhaps we can learn more of it. Perhaps we can close it.”

“You care nothing about them.”

Nikandr stared deeply into his eyes. “You will find it hard to believe, but I do, son of Gatha. But it isn’t merely about the people of Ashdi en Ghat or Siafyan. The rifts are spreading everywhere. Everywhere. Even as far as the Empire. It will not stop on its own. I know this now. Whether you love the Grand Duchy or you hate it, you must realize that if something isn’t done, all of Erahm will suffer.”

“If the fates will it, then it will be so.”

“It will not stop here. Adhiya will be next. Or perhaps first. Who knows how these things work?”

“If the fates will it…” He left the rest of the proverb unsaid.