The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (84 page)

“Those husks? They’re useless, Grigory.”

“They are ships of the Grand Duchy, and you will guard them with your life.”

“The janissaries will return.”

Grigory turned to the door and turned the handle. “Then best you get to your preparations.”

“You’re a coward.”

Grigory turned and aimed. Pulled the trigger.

The pistol roared in the small space. Wood bit deeply into Nikandr’s cheek.

The shot had gone wide, just next to Nikandr’s head and into the hull.

Grigory stared at Nikandr, then the hole where the musket ball had struck, and Nikandr was not at all sure he’d meant to miss. He appeared unsure of himself, perhaps sensing through the haze of liquor that he’d gone too far, but then it was gone, and he stormed out of the room.

Shortly after, Nikandr was taken by the Bolgravyan streltsi to the worst of the ships. Styophan and Vlanek and Jonis were all there. Everyone but Anahid.

The nine windworthy ships, plus the
Yarost
, departed soon after, leaving Nikandr and his men standing on the deck of a ship that had been stripped of everything valuable. Grigory had given them each a musket, and granted them twenty rounds of ammunition apiece. The rest they had taken.

As the ships flew off into the morning air, Nikandr stared up the cliff, wondering when the men of Yrstanla would return.

Nikandr glanced at Styophan, then to the men beyond him. Nikandr was glad that Grigory hadn’t in his rage decided to have any of them killed—or worse, killed them himself—but he’d left Nikandr alone on the shores of Yrstanla with no real hope of returning to Galahesh or Anuskaya.

“Take stock,” Nikandr said. “Search the ships and find if there’s any way we can make them windworthy.” Even as he spoke, Nikandr was shaking his head. Their ship, a six-masted brigantine, was the smallest of the three ships. He had hoped to find enough canvas to sail her, but he was nearly as worried as not that he
would
find the canvas. The ships were nearly worthless; it was a wonder that any one of them still held their loft. “Send Jonis and Mahrik to the top of the cliff. Have them prepare defenses.”

Nikandr paused, for Styophan was looking over his shoulder to the cliffs behind him. Nikandr turned and saw a large black bird sitting on a small outcropping near the ship’s stern.

“Go,” he said to Styophan without turning his head.

Styophan snapped his heels and left.

Nikandr walked along the deck slowly, keeping his eyes on the bird.

The bird was larger than a rook, and along its breast and wrapping around to its back was a streak of bright white feathers, but it had the same intelligent gleam in its eye that so many of the island rooks seemed to possess. By the time Nikandr reached the stern, he was within a few paces of the bird. It remained, watching him. He was sure that it had been assumed. He took out his soulstone necklace and held it in his hand. He cast his mind outward, as he did when he knew his mother or Atiana were near. He felt so little that he thought perhaps one of the Matri he hadn’t spoken to in years might have come—Duchess Rosa of Lhudansk or Ekaterina of Rhavanki.

Then he sensed something familiar, but it was so faint he thought surely he was merely
wishing
it were so.

“Atiana?” he said.

The bird studied him with an unblinking eye. It arched its head back and ran its beak down one wing and flapped its wings. He thought surely it would speak, that he would hear the cadence of Atiana’s words, but then the rook cawed—its voice much lower than the rooks of Anuskaya—and took wing. As it flapped and headed up and over the cliff, heading inland, he wondered whether he had imagined it all.

The day became bitterly cold, so cold that it was impossible for the men to work on the cliffs above. He called them in after midday, and bid everyone to stay within the ship. The enemy would not brave this weather in any case. They would be safe at least until the cold snap broke. But the winds became so fierce that he began to wonder about the wisdom of remaining within the ship. The hull was stout enough, but it was lashed to the cliffs, and the landward mainmast had received damage during whatever storms Grigory had experienced on their way north. With that and the constant rocking against the cliff—something that was never meant to be done for very long—he worried that remaining here would doom them as well. At least on the winds, assuming they could break away from the cliff, they could brave the weather. Here they would eventually be crushed against the stone rock face like grist in a mill.

He went up on deck as the sun began to set. The winds grew stronger the longer he watched. It forced him and the rest of the crew to hold to the ropes and the gunwales wherever they went. The farthest ship, a twelve-masted galleon, was rocking so badly he wondered whether it would last the hour. As its landward mainmast cracked, the ship’s stern twisted inward toward the cliff, then the wind shifted and threw it forward.

They couldn’t release from the cliffs—not in weather like this—and they couldn’t remain here. “Up, men!” he called down the hatch. “We go up to the top of the cliffs.” It was not something he relished, remaining out in the open in this weather, but there was no longer a choice.

Styophan ordered Jonis up the rope first to help those who would come next.

Level ground was only fifteen paces above them, but it was taking Jonis minutes to make the climb. The wind threw the rope back and forth, bashing him into the rock face as he climbed. He tried to fend it off with his legs, and they also tried to steady the rope from below, but the wind was howling so fiercely now there was little they could do.

Nikandr felt for his havahezhan, but for the first time in years he felt nothing. Nothing. He had often wondered when the bond with the spirit might be broken, and he was sure that it now had been after the days and days of a constant, draining bond.

Snapping and cracking sounds rose from the fore. The galleon two ships ahead was beginning to break apart. A large crack in the hull formed and widened. The gravel ballast spilled from inside as the ship was thrown back and forth.

“Hurry, Jonis!” Nikandr bellowed above the wind.

At last Jonis reached the top. As he slipped over the edge, Mahrik took to the rope, moving little faster than Jonis had. When he had made it two thirds of the way up, their ship tilted sharply, the landward side dipping down as the mizzen cracked neatly in two. The deck was nearly impossible to stand upon now. The men looked to one another, eyes wide, trying to hold back the fear but finding it impossible with the elements raging against them.

The ship directly ahead of theirs, a ten-masted barque, broke free of its mooring lines and floated out toward sea, but then the wind brought it rushing back again.

“Hold!” Nikandr yelled.

Just before the barque smashed into their ship.

A
tiana sat in a hard, unforgiving chair with a pillow beneath her and a blanket across her lap. Ishkyna lay in the nearby bed, her skin pale, her breathing shallow. Atiana leaned forward and took her sister’s hand in her own. Ishkyna’s fingers were so cold—colder, it seemed, than the evening winds blowing outside the kasir.

Atiana held Ishkyna’s hand tighter, willing her to warm, as the memories of those few precious moments in the aether haunted her. She should have sensed what was happening. She should have tried harder to save her sister, but Ishkyna had never been strong in the ways of the dark, and she had paid for the inexperience. She was lost now, perhaps forever.

Atiana wondered if she had joined the other Matri that had become lost over the centuries. Many believed that those who became lost never died, even if their bodies perished. Atiana hoped not. The idea of living in such a state forever was not a pleasant one.

As she’d done every waking hour, Atiana pulled the soulstone necklace out from beneath Ishkyna’s nightdress and touched it with her own. She felt nothing—no momentary brightness, no glimpse of emotion, no sense of Ishkyna at all. It had been the same ever since their return from the tower, but that hadn’t kept Atiana from performing this one small ritual. It might be the very beacon Ishkyna needed to return to herself.

She held Ishkyna’s stone tenderly, ran her hand over its smooth, glasslike surface. It was not dark like Nikandr’s had been years ago, but instead dim, as if she were merely lost and would one day find her way home. Such stones would remain this way forever, except in those rare cases where its owner would return. This was yet another possibility Atiana hoped would not come to pass, for most who returned were never the same.

It had happened to Atiana’s great-great-grandmother. She’d become lost for eight days and seven nights. She’d returned, screaming and thrashing in her bed for hours until finally she’d fallen asleep for two days straight. When she’d woken again, she could speak, but no more than a child of three. She was petulant, emotional, her moods swinging wildly between exuberance and rage. Often when the moon was full she would become inconsolable, and once she’d even taken a knife to her wrist. She’d been found, bloody and near death, crying to herself softly on the floor of her room.

She had been confined to a wheeled chair after that, and was rarely allowed outside her room in one of the high towers of Galostina.

Atiana took Ishkyna’s hand again, struggling with this cold reality. To be lost among the aether forever or to return a shell of what she once was seemed no choice at all. If it had to be one of these, she silently hoped Ishkyna would simply pass.

She watched the bedcover’s rise and fall slowly, wondering if the ancients would take her right then as punishment for such thoughts. The very thought—
hoping
for her sister’s death—shamed her greatly, but she also knew it was the very thing
she
would wish for in Ishkyna’s place.

Atiana shivered as a tapping came at the window.

She turned and saw by the golden light from the lantern at Ishkyna’s bedside the silhouette of a rook and the barest gleam from its eye. It tapped again and she heard a muffled caw, nearly lost among the sound of the wind scouring the towers of the kasir. It was Mileva. Atiana could feel her, even from this distance. It was not only an indicator that the storm was finally dying, but of just how strong Mileva had become. It had been only two days since her time in Sariya’s tower, and though the storm had abated somewhat, Atiana still wouldn’t have thought that Mileva could make her way here.

Atiana moved to the window and levered it open. The frigid wind entered the room as the rook flapped in noisily and dropped to the floor. It hopped forward and with three swift beats of its wings flew up to Ishkyna’s bed.

“How did you know?” Atiana asked.

“Vaasak told me.”

Of course, Atiana thought. Of course she would have spoken to Vaasak first. She fell into a nearby chair, the exhaustion she’d managed to stave off these past many days catching up to her at last.

The rook hopped along Ishkyna’s chest, swiveled its head to look closely at her soulstone, and then Ishkyna’s face. “How does she fare?”

“You saw her in the aether,” Atiana replied. “You would know better than I.”

“In the aether she is lifeless, as black as the bed she lies upon.”

“And yet she breathes, and her soulstone glows.”

“Of her stone I see little, but you are right. There is something, a single ember in a long-dead fire, and when I focus upon it, there are times when I feel as though I can sense her, as if she’s calling to me somewhere in the fog.”

Atiana felt her emotions getting the better of her. Being here with Mileva and Ishkyna both—one in the form of a rook, the other not really present at all—only served to remind her of brighter times. Always when they came together after being apart they slipped into a comfortable routine that felt—despite the biting remarks and rows that inevitably arose—like a comfortable blanket on a cold winter night. And now one of them had been taken away, perhaps never to return.

She’d been hiding these feelings since returning to Sariya’s tower, but now it was too much, and she broke down, sobbing uncontrollably into the palms of her hands.

Mileva said nothing. The rook remained on Ishkyna’s blankets, blinking those deep black eyes and watching.

“Have you no heart?” Atiana asked.

“It’s too soon to give up hope, and there’s little time to grieve.”

Little time, Atiana thought. Little time, indeed. There was still a host of ships sitting far off the coast of Kiravashya. “You have kapitans to speak to, do you not?”