The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (65 page)

Nikandr pulled on his sword belt and boots and cherkesska, and then stepped out of the tent and into the cold morning air. They were entering the deepest part of winter, but still, Nikandr was surprised at how raw the wind was. The mainland was often warmer than the Grand Duchy, but this rivaled anything winter among the islands had to offer. He didn’t have to travel far, however, only to the large command tent.

Inside, the dukes were gathered. Yevgeny and Konstantin and Yegor and Borund. Andreyo Rhavanki had been struck by the wasting, but his son, Alaksandr, stood in his place. Had Andreyo Rhavanki been present, Nikandr might have summoned him to the meeting last night as well; but as sick as he was, barely able to recognize the loved ones who tended to his needs, getting Alaksandr on his side would be all but impossible.

At the center of these men was a large wooden chair. Heodor Lhudansk stood to one side of it, Aleg Khazabyirsk to the other. These two duchies had allied themselves most closely with Dhalingrad. At one time both had been allies of Nikandr’s father, Iaros, but after Stasa Bolgravya had died on Khalakovo’s eyrie, their allegiance had slowly but surely shifted toward the south, and to Leonid Dhalingrad especially.

In the chair—a throne in effect—sat Leonid. He looked even more twisted and bent than Nikandr remembered. His white beard hung down his chest and pooled in his lap like a sleeping cat. He stared as Nikandr approached and bowed, more than displeased at how shallow it had been.

“The Grand Duke wishes to speak with me?”

It took Leonid several wheezing breaths before he spoke. “You leave the war for a mission of your own choosing. You see fit to be gone for seven seasons. You make your way to Alekeşir and back. And when you return, you do not make the leader of this war, the leader of your sovereign state, aware of your presence.”

“I thought it best not to disturb His Imperial Highness.”

Leonid’s breath rasped in, his breath rasped out, and all the while his eyes bored into Nikandr. Did he have the wasting, Nikandr wondered, or was it a less deadly malady? Whatever the case, he looked shrunken and small, like a wet possum staring at him with blackened eyes. This was a strange reality to be faced with. In his mind, he saw the Leonid of old. He had never been physically imposing, but his sharp tongue and his unbending will had always marked him as one to think twice about crossing.

That man is still there
, Nikandr reminded himself. He couldn’t underestimate Leonid’s ability to inflict harm.

“You thought it best not to disturb, yet thought it wise to speak with other dukes before coming to me.”

Nikandr knew a meeting such as this had been a likelihood. Matri would be watching the camp at all hours. Any of the Matri allied with Dhalingrad might have seen Nikandr speaking in Borund’s tent and informed the Grand Duke. The Matri wouldn’t know what Nikandr had spoken of—they couldn’t hear while in the aether—but Leonid wouldn’t rest until he was satisfied he’d learned everything, and that made him more dangerous than ever.

“I wished to tell them news, Highness, news of the ships that can be found on Ghayavand even now. Dozens of them. Ships of war. Ships flown by the powerful qiram of Kohor. Ships massing at the command of Bahett ül Kirdhash.”

“At
Bahett’s
command…”

Nikandr nodded. “The Kamarisi is dead, killed by one of King Brechan’s own. But the events on Ghayavand were set into motion long ago by Sariya.” He went on to tell his tale once more, though this time the reaction was infinitely different. When he’d told the dukes last night, they’d listened, even if there had been a note of mistrust in their eyes. As he told the Grand Duke, however, Leonid’s eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. It seemed all he could do to keep his lips from rising in disgust. Yet when he’d finished, Leonid did not bark. He did not dismiss Nikandr’s words. He merely nodded, as if he were giving the story due consideration.

This was not merely unexpected. It gave Nikandr pause. Leonid had never believed in Nikandr’s mission to the Gaji. He’d thought Ranos foolish to allow it. But in the end he hadn’t forbidden Nikandr from going, most likely because he thought Nikandr would never return.

If reports were to be believed, however, Leonid had been furious over Ranos’s orders for Styophan. He hadn’t thought the Haelish worth treating with, and even though Khalakovo’s ships weren’t needed against Yrstanla—nearly all of the Empire’s ships had been decimated in a furious storm before the events at the Spar—he’d inflicted harsh levies against Khalakovo and demanded all of Khalakovo’s fighting ships be stationed on Galahesh as recompense. Ranos had fought to keep as many ships as he could near Khalakovo’s shores should the remains of the Maharraht resume their attacks, but it had still left Khalakovo woefully unprotected.

For as long as Nikandr had known him, Leonid had been a man quick to pick up the sword when pen would do, and yet here he was, listening calmly to Nikandr’s story, even nodding from time to time, as if caught up in the tale.

This was how Nikandr knew that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

When he’d finished, Leonid ran his hand down his white beard. He adjusted it until it ran just so down his chest. Then he shifted in his chair and regarded Nikandr anew. “The boy you left to rescue. He is dead?”

“Nasim,” Nikandr said. “Ishkyna believes he left through a portal, as Kaleh did when she fled Galahesh with Nasim.”

“And Alekeşir. What state is it now in?”

“Decimated, Your Highness. Half the city is destroyed and little now remains of Irabahce. I’ve never seen the like.”

“And what now, Nikandr Iaroslov? Where would you go? What would you do?”

“I would go to Ghayavand.”

Leonid smiled, a wicked looking thing as Nikandr had ever seen. “To see if they have made their way there. Your Kaleh and Nasim.”

“As it please Your Grace.”

“And the Kohori. You say they’re on the island.”

“They are, but they are baiting us—”

Nikandr stopped, for Leonid had raised his hand. “They are baiting us, as you say, so that we will come to them.”

“The Matri have seen it.”

“Saphia, your mother, has seen it.”

“Others can make their way now. The path is not so treacherous as it once was with the outer wards now fallen.”

Leonid smiled. It was a humoring gesture, but for anyone who looked upon him, he would seem accommodating. Nikandr prayed the gathered dukes could see the lie in his eyes, in the way he smiled. This was not the Leonid Nikandr knew. It was all an act for their benefit.

Somehow he knew what Nikandr had asked of the other dukes. He knew of Nikandr’s plans. And he was pretending to consider Nikandr’s warning so that they wouldn’t find him unreasonable. So that they wouldn’t call for Council.

I’ve been betrayed
, Nikandr realized.

Nikandr searched the eyes of the other dukes. Borund looked confused. Konstantin as well. Yegor looked curious, as if he’d figured it out and was trying, as Nikandr was, to piece things together.

But Yevgeny. Yevgeny Mirkotsk—his father’s closest ally for decades—met Nikandr’s eyes and then looked down.

As if he were embarrassed.

Nyet
, Nikandr thought. Not embarrassed. Ashamed.

He’d told Leonid. He’d gone to him after Nikandr had pleaded for his help and told the Grand Duke everything. Nikandr couldn’t believe it for a moment, but now it only made sense. Leonid treated the duchies that didn’t fall in line ruthlessly. The effect of his new levies hadn’t affected Khalakovo as much as the other duchies for the simple fact that Khalakovo was resource rich, especially with windwood. With the number of ships lost in the battles with Yrstanla two years ago, dozens of new ships had been commissioned, and Khalakovo had received the lion’s share of the contracts.

Mirkotsk had not been so lucky. They’d become the convenient substitute for Leonid’s anger. Yevgeny had done the only thing he could—he’d caved to curry favor. And now, with Yevgeny gone, Nikandr no longer had the votes. Council or not, Leonid would have his way.

Unless, Nikandr thought…

Unless Leonid were thought of as unreasonable. That was half the reason the dukes hadn’t committed last night. They wanted to give Leonid a chance to show what stuff he was made of. Well, Nikandr knew what he was made of. Hatred and anger and bile. That was what roiled inside Leonid Dhalingrad. That and a desire to retain the mantle of Grand Duke at all costs now that it had finally landed on his shoulders.

“That is the extent of it, Your Grace,” Nikandr said at last. “Leave Ghayavand alone. Watch for them if you will, but leave the rest to me. Grant me a ship and I’ll take the men of Khalakovo to the island.” Leonid opened his mouth to speak, but Nikandr talked over him. “Do not worry over the ship. Ranos will be bringing one here shortly.”

Leonid’s black eyes narrowed. “And who granted him leave to come?”

“I did. I knew His Grace would see the wisdom in my decision, so I bid him come.”

“
Your
decision.”

“By Your Grace’s leave, of course.”

Leonid stood, an act that looked as painful as it was slow. The other dukes watched the exchange uncomfortably. All except Borund. Borund was watching Nikandr with the look he’d had on Radiskoye, the one that had pleaded with Nikandr to remain quiet. It had been moments before he’d ordered the hangman to release the lever on the nearby gallows, condemning the seven Mahtar of Iramanshah to swing in the wind with ropes around their necks.

As Leonid shuffled forward, Borund gave Nikandr another warning. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

But Nikandr didn’t care. He couldn’t let this go, not now, and not for a man like Leonid Dhalingrad.

“Your Grace shouldn’t trouble himself in his state,” Nikandr said. “If you’ll grant me leave to go, I’ll begin making preparations. I merely need a writ with your seal, if you please.”

“Enough!” This came from Leonid’s son, Vadim. He took two long strides forward, and this time he pulled his black-handled kindjal from its sheath at his belt.

Nikandr made no move to retreat. He’d take a cut from Vadim if that’s what it came to—the image it would leave on these dukes would be valuable, indeed—but Leonid raised his hand and pressed it against his son’s broad chest before Vadim could get close enough to strike.

“All is well, my son.” Leonid turned to Nikandr and with an effort that seemed almost insurmountable pasted on a smile. “All is well.” His eyes wavered as he spoke, the left one ticking, as if Leonid could hardly believe the words coming from his own mouth. “You’ve done the Grand Duchy a great service, Nikandr Iaroslov, and you’ve done well to bring this news to us, the dukes of the Council. We will consider what you’ve said, and in due time, we’ll give the proper orders.”

He stepped forward and patted Nikandr on the shoulder. Nikandr wanted to say more. He wanted to force Leonid’s hand, but he couldn’t think of a way to do so without damaging his own cause.

“Rest now,” Leonid said as he passed. “Rest, and you’ll know our decision soon enough.”

And then the Grand Duke left. Vadim followed, glaring with hate-filled eyes at Nikandr. And then the other dukes began filing out.

Soon Nikandr was left alone with Borund, the tent silent as a mausoleum. “Why did you do it?” Borund asked. “You should have waited to speak with me.”

“You?” Nikandr laughed, the sound of it grim and humorless. “The man who sat on Khalakovo’s throne, bleeding us dry for your father?”

“Whether you believe it or not, what I did was necessary for the Grand Duchy. Not Vostroma. Not Khalakovo. But for the Grand Duchy.”

“This is necessary, too.”

“Which is why I listened. But Yevgeny…”

“I know,” Nikandr said, “and now I’ve made a mess of things.”

“
Da
,” Borund said. “You have.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

As cold rain continues to fall, Atiana stares at the white tower nestled in the copse of larch trees. “Have you seen this before?”

“Once, but only in the distance. I chased it, but when I came to the hill where I’d seen it, it was gone.” There is something in Kaleh as she watches the tower. It isn’t fear—Kaleh has been through too much to be afraid of Sariya—but respect, certainly, and an expectancy that makes Atiana think that she is glad this will soon be over, one way or the other.

Atiana touches Kaleh’s shoulder. “I will go to her.”

“Then I will go as well.”

“
Neh
,” she replies. “Keep watch, but do not approach. We cannot allow her to take us both.”

Kaleh looks between the tower and Atiana. “Once you’re inside, I won’t be able to help you. You’ll be on your own, truly.”

Atiana searches for Mileva, but cannot sense her. “I know.”

As Atiana walks down the hill, the smell of the brightbonnets fades. The rain turns to hail, pelting her mercilessly as she treads onward. Halfway down she turns to look for Kaleh, but the girl is gone. For reasons Atiana can’t fully express, this lightens her heart.

When she reaches the copse of larch, the hail eases and turns to rain, then stops altogether. Above, the sun shines down from between two banks of clouds. It brightens them but does little to brighten Atiana’s heart.
This is dark business, for which rain is better suited.
As she nears the tower and rainwater patters down from the branches of the larch, the door at the base of it creaks open.

The moment she steps across the threshold, however, the rain picks up again, harder than before, and a streak of lightning strikes the field she’d been walking across moments ago. It blinds her as the pounding of thunder reverberates through her chest and limbs and even her teeth.

Better
, Atiana thinks grimly.
A meeting such as this calls for thunder.

Inside, as she suspected, the room at the base of the tower is bare and empty. She goes up the stairs that hug the interior wall. Level after level is empty, just as it was below. When she reaches the seventh floor she finds Sariya standing on the far side of a room with rich rugs layering the floor. If the position of the lowering sun can be believed, Sariya is staring through the northern window. It feels strange to admit that north and south exist in the world of dreams, but it cannot be ignored. Directions have too much meaning for the Aramahn and even more for Sariya, the last of the Al-Aqim.