The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (47 page)

Thankfully none of his own men had been infected so far. He knew that was merely the ancients shining down on them, but it could not last forever. Something had changed in the world. He could feel it, and so could Datha. The very
air
felt heavier. There were times when Styophan felt it harder to breathe, harder to pick himself up and make his way through the hours.

“You wished to speak,” Datha prompted.

Styophan realized he was staring at the sick men, and several of the Haelish warriors had stopped what they were doing and were staring back, their faces hard.

“I did,” Styophan said, turning self-consciously to Datha. For a moment, Styophan could think of no way to begin. After a long, uncomfortable silence, he said simply, “The ways of the world are strange.”

Datha frowned at this. “Something happened today? On your walk?”

Styophan nodded slowly, and seeing no way to approach it gently, went straight to the point. “I saw my lord, the Prince of Khalakovo, Nikandr Iaroslov. He was being taken in a cage to the Kasir.”

“Your lord. Here.”

“
Evet
.”

Datha rubbed the stubble along his cheek and laughed grimly. “Did he see you?”

“
Hayir
, but the boy, Nasim, the one I told you about, did. By now he would have told Nikandr.”

“Strange days, indeed, Styophan.”

“You see why I’m concerned. They cannot be left for the Kamarisi, or Bahett.”

“Cannot?”

“Cannot,” Styophan said. “We must save them, Datha. We must bring them to safety and return them home. My Lord left for the Gaji nearly two years ago to find Nasim, and now, at last, he has. He may even have found the Atalayina.”

Datha frowned, all trace of humor gone. “And what is that to me?”

Styophan turned and pointed to the men at the far side of the hold. “Look to your warriors for your answer. Without ever having lifted a sword against the Kamarisi, they’re dying. Your women and children are dying as well. Mine too. And it’s because of the rifts. My Lord Khalakovo has gone to heal it, and Nasim is the key. If you abandon them now, you’ll be turning your back on your own people.”

“We came for a purpose.”

“True, but things change in war. You adjust as the enemy adjusts. And make no mistake, the withering is an enemy every bit as dangerous as Yrstanla.”

Datha’s face reddened. The veins in his neck stood out. “The Kamarisi must die, and if we can find Bahett, he’ll be put to the sword as well. Yrstanla must be taught that Hael is no plaything of theirs. They must learn that from this day forward, to touch our lands will be to lay the life of their greatest lords, even here in Alekeşir, on the block, and that we, the men of Hael, are the arm that holds the sword above their neck.”

Styophan found himself breathing heavily, but if his blood was up, Datha was worse—his breath came in great gasps, his nostrils flared, and his eyebrows arched as if Styophan were a rat he meant to stomp.

“You cannot do this alone,” Styophan said slowly.

Datha’s breathing hitched. His eyes narrowed. “We could.”

Styophan shook his head. “You
need
us, as we need you.”

The meaning was clear to Datha. Styophan was not only threatening to withhold the help of his men. He was threatening Datha directly. If he didn’t agree, it would be a simple matter of alerting the city guard. And then it would all be over.

Datha rose from the table, striking his head against the low ceiling. His back bowed as he stared down at Styophan. “You would break your vows?”

“My vows are to my Lord Duke and his family first,” Styophan said as he stood as well. “All others come second.”

In a blink, Datha had grabbed Styophan’s shirt while drawing his knife with his other hand.

Styophan reached over Datha’s massive hand and grabbed his two smallest fingers. He wrenched them up and away, and from there it was a simple matter to twist Datha’s arm around.

Datha was quick, though. He crouched, relieving the pressure on his hand and yanked it away from Styophan sharply. Styophan lost his grip, and Datha spun, knife in hand. Styophan backed away as Datha rounded the table at which they’d been sitting.

“Think!” Styophan shouted. “We can find my lord, free him and the others, and still take the Kamarisi.”

Datha either didn’t listen or didn’t care. He stalked forward as Styophan backed toward the stairs.

The other men made room, doing nothing to stop Datha or Styophan.

Datha swung the knife, but he overreached in the cramped space. Styophan grabbed his wrist and swung his arm high. He stepped to his right, preparing to bring Datha’s arm behind his back, to force him to drop the weapon, but Datha was again too fast. He dropped the knife, grabbed Styophan’s left arm, and yanked him sharply backward and down, forcing him down against the planks. Styophan tried to twist away, but soon Datha had slipped his arm around Styophan’s neck.

Styophan reached for the knife, but it was too far away.

Stars filled his vision as Datha’s arm tightened.

He couldn’t breathe.

He tried to struggle away, but he could already feel himself weakening.

“Enough,” a voice called.

Datha’s arm did not relent.

“Enough!”

At this Datha finally pulled away, shoving Styophan’s head roughly against the floor. Styophan immediately began coughing and sucking in breath noisily.

A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet.

He looked up and saw a face he recognized, but long moments passed before he understood.

It was King Brechan. Lord of the Haelish. He’d come to Alekeşir.

“How?” Styophan croaked.

“With bright paint and without my crown…”

Brechan left the rest unsaid. It seemed impossible. Styophan had thought Brechan a man impossible to miss. And yet he’d traveled with him all this way?

He had to admit he’d been concerned largely with his own men, making sure they were safe, especially after what had happened to his ships. He hadn’t watched the ranks of the Haelish closely at all.

“Why have you come?”

Brechan did not smile, but there was a certain mirth in his eyes. Not to mention a deep-seated hunger. “I would taste the blood of a Kamarisi.”

Styophan shook his head. This was a foolish thing, indeed, but he had to admit he wouldn’t mind having a man like Brechan by his side as they made their way into Irabahce.

“You believe in this boy?” Brechan asked.

“I believe in my Lord Prince, and he believes in Nasim. That’s enough for me.”

Brechan eyed Styophan for long moments. He turned to Datha and regarded him as well. He looked the warrior up and down, as if weighing his argument. When he turned back to Styophan, his face was grim but resolute. He put out his hand like the thrust of a knife, holding it there until Styophan grasped his forearm and the two of them shook.

“Come,” Brechan said, “there’s something I would show you.”

In an alley near the center of Alekeşir, not so distant from the dome Styophan had viewed earlier that day, King Brechan of Hael, dressed in a shapeless brown robe, knocked thrice upon a heavy, brassbound door. The air smelled of damp and mold. The door led into a building of stone, part of an old estate that now served as a winery. Its distinguishing feature—for it looked very similar to the other buildings in this quarter of the city—was a tall minaret that wound up into the star-filled sky.

Styophan waited, watching the darkened alley closely, ears peeled, as Brechan knocked again.

Styophan had been nervous every single step since leaving the barge. Nervous that the quay master would spot them, nervous they would stumble across the city guard, nervous the inhabitants of the city would wake and spy them walking along their streets and call the janissaries down upon them. But the city was strangely silent in the small hours before the sun rose. Most of the lamps had gone dark, leaving Alekeşir in near darkness save for the light of the waxing moon.

The door opened, creaking lightly. In the doorway stood a tall man—not nearly as tall as Brechan, but tall just the same. He wore simple brown robes and held a clay candle holder with two stubby candles burning within it. He looked to Brechan, then to Styophan, and finally he nodded and stepped aside.

Brechan led the way, walking into a hallway that flickered and waved under the light of the candle. Without a word, the robed man closed the door behind them and handed the candle holder to Brechan. After one final nod, he shuffled away as if longer strides would pain him.

“Come,” Brechan said, and he led Styophan down a wide hall on their right that led to a set of tight, curving stairs. The stairs led up and up and up, and at the end of it they reached the minaret’s belfry. Both of them ducked around the eight brass bells that occupied much of the tight space. Ropes slipped down from the yokes and through holes in the wooden floorboards. Styophan had heard these bells. They rang thrice per day at least, once at sunrise, once at midday, and once at sunset, each with its own distinctive ring.

From the open window Styophan could see the landscape of the city for leagues around. It was a study of shades in bistre and buttercream.

And Kasir Irabahce was laid bare.

“Do you see the tower of wives?”

Styophan looked across the expanse of the kasir. There were a dozen tall towers and minarets, but there was one near the center of the complicated cluster of buildings that was elegant. Even from this distance and in the dimness of the night, he could see the glint of gold paint as it shone off the balconies ringing each level.

“What of it?”

“There is a tunnel that leads there. If you want your prince, and your young Nasim, that is the way to reach them.”

“It cannot be so easy as that.”

“
Hayir
, not so easy as that. But there are women within the tower. Women with ties to Hael. They are not women the young Kamarisi trusts as yet, but they live within the tower, and if I ask for it, you will find your way in. From there, it will be a simple matter to forge a path to the smaller tower beyond it. The path is not straight. There will be blood. But I am sure you will find them there.”

Fast-moving clouds swept across the moon, darkening the landscape, but Styophan could see the tower Brechan was referring to: a squat tower perhaps four stories high. “You’re sure?”

“The Kamarisi has always kept prisoners of import there.”

“You’ve never been to Alekeşir,” Styophan said.

Brechan had merely to look up to the roof of the bell tower, as if to show Styophan the reach of the Haelish kings, and the implications played themselves out. Styophan looked over the city, and suddenly Alekeşir took on a completely different complexion. How many who lived here had the blood of Hael running through their veins? How many silently refused to bend knee to the Kamarisi? Whether the reason was blood or money didn’t matter. The point was that Brechan had power, even in the heart of the Empire. “Why, then, would you risk the attack during the Kamarisi’s address as we’d planned?”

“Because attacking him there is something all will see. I would not have the Kamarisi’s death hidden. I would not have them pretend that it was illness, or betrayal from within. I would have the entire Empire know that Hael has come. That our blades will be brought to bear against any who dare tread upon our lands.”

“And you would give that up for my prince?”

Brechan paused, and when he spoke again, his words were grim. “
Hayir
, I would not.”

The clouds had moved on, and Styophan could see the mischievous glint in Brechan’s eyes. He was smiling a wicked smile, a smile that said he had plans, a smile that could easily turn to a snap and a growl.

“You’re still going to the dome,” Styophan said. “You’re still going to kill the Kamarisi.”

“
Evet
, son of Anuskaya.” He slapped Styophan on the shoulder. Hard. “I am.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

In the moments before dawn, Nikandr stared out through the thick iron bars of his cell and breathed in the chill morning air. The eastern sky was a burnished gold, the kasir and the towers of the city beyond dark as coal. He was sweating despite the chill.

In his right hand he held the alabaster stone given to him by Ashan. He’d been holding it so tightly for so long his hand hurt, but he didn’t relax his grip. He refused to, because for the first time in over eighteen months, he could feel something.

He felt the wind, not merely on his face, or on the skin of his neck or the back of his hands; he felt it in his heart, in his gut. He felt it running
through
him, not merely around him. He felt the swells of air as low clouds blew across the city. As he knew his own mind, he felt the currents guide the flurry of snow over the orchards below. He felt the gust near the top of the wall beyond as a knot in his stomach. Strongest of all, though, was a kink of wind within a courtyard to his left. It played near the base of a tall tower. Snow was lifted like leaves on an autumn gust; it toyed for long moments along the circular black lines decorating the pavement.

It was a hezhan, Nikandr knew, and it was near to crossing over from Adhiya into Erahm. Its movements were rhythmic, though not in a way Nikandr was accustomed to. It twisted and rose, turned and disappeared, only to lift the snow near the sculpted trees that graced the yard. At one point it picked up five leaves. The snow described the rough shape of a man as the leaves circled the air like a crown. Nikandr could see the shape of a chest, shoulders, legs. Every so often he could even see the hint of an arm and a hand before a twist in the wind obscured it once more.

It strode across the courtyard, a king striding forth to meet his subjects.

Come
, Nikandr called to it.
Take me.

But the havahezhan did not.

Nikandr knew he was trying too hard, but he knew no other way to do it. This was a thing like breathing, like eating.

Nyet
, he thought.
Not like breathing. It is like love or desire. How can I give those up?

In a gust the hezhan was gone. Nikandr waited as the sun continued to rise, hoping it would return, but soon it was clear it had returned back across the veil to Adhiya. He loosened his grip on the alabaster stone, and the cramping in his hand eased. He could still feel the other hezhan, but they were distant now, and he was sure that if he’d had no success with one that had been so near, so tantalizingly close, he’d have no success with the others.