The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (76 page)

Would that you were here
, Nikandr thought.

The ship bucked, sliding this way or that under the fierce winds that howled through the rigging, stole warmth from the skin, threatened at all times to upend the ship. Only through Styophan’s skills as a pilot, and Nikandr and Anahid working together, had they been able to come this far. This storm was the strongest he’d ever seen in his time on the winds. He knew it was due to the spires falling. The seas and the winds seemed to be in a rage, seemed to be vengeful, as if the spires had controlled them too long and they were now taking their revenge.

Nikandr pinched his eyes, shook his head vigorously. This did little to shake the feelings of sleep that stole over him every time he began to relax. They’d been sailing for nearly two days, plotting a course wide of Alotsk and Balizersk, the next two islands in the Vostroman archipelago.

He’d felt craven in doing so, but the information he’d received from Fuad, the Yrstanlan kapitan, had been too valuable to do otherwise. He could not risk meeting the enemy and being killed or captured—not with information like this—and so they’d gone wide with only Anahid and Nikandr to act as dhoshaqiram and havaqiram. He wasn’t comfortable with more people learning of his abilities, but enough rumors had spread from what had happened to him in Oshtoyets that it would surprise few, and would merely confirm their fears of him as a Landless sympathizer.

At last, just as dawn was breaking, the mountains of Kiravashya appeared on the horizon.

“Where are the ships?” Anahid shouted above the wind.

Nikandr looked down at her. She hadn’t spoken in over a day, so lost in her duty was she. She was a slight young woman, and quiet, but she was diligent and gifted in the ways of a dhoshaqiram.

Nikandr returned his gaze to the massive island ahead. “I don’t know.”

He thought surely he would have seen windships scouring the island, destroying what was left of the resistance from the Grand Duchy, or at the very least he thought he would see ships patrolling—either Yrstanlan or Anuskayan—but to his surprise there were none. None at all.

As they came near, and they saw Beshiklova, the mountain that housed Palotza Galostina, Nikandr started to get the impression that this was all planned—the attacks on the outer islands. Word was that they had attacked Ildova and Tolvodyen first. He had seen the spire on Elykstava destroyed with his own eyes and now he wondered if they hadn’t already destroyed the ones on Alotsk and Balizersk, leaving only Kiravashya—the largest of Vostroma’s islands with the largest of the spires. If that were so, he wouldn’t be surprised to see the winds as wild as they’d been these past few days. It would probably continue for days, even weeks.

Strangely, Yrstanla’s gambit attacking the outer islands might have given the Grand Duchy time in which to recover.

Best we use it wisely
, he thought.

When they neared land, the bulk of Galostina and its towering black spire came into view. Three ships launched to meet them far from the palotza’s grounds. Nikandr ordered the men to hoist the white pennant so that it flew below the Vostroman flag.

As the ships neared, Nikandr could see battle scars—holes in their hulls, rips in their sails, missing rigging—and they were clearly recent. How many enemy ships had been felled, he wondered. How many lives had it cost? How many ships of Anuskaya had been lost?

The kapitan of the lead ship seemed relieved to find them an ally, but his face turned sour when he realized it was Nikandr who commanded the ship.

“Follow me to the palotza,” he shouted across the gap as they were readying to leave, “and do not straggle.”

Their approach to the rocky coast of Kiravashya brought with it more evidence of recent battle. A trail of flotsam could be seen among the waves, and when they came within a half-league of the coast, he saw the aft of a ship pointing up from the waters, the bow wedged in the rocks below the water’s surface. Within a shallow vale on the rising snow-swept landscape the remains of two ships lay. It was clear that they’d collided, their masts caught in the rigging of the other. How many had died when they’d fallen? Forty? Fifty?

As the sun rose fully, they approached Galostina’s eyrie, which looked down upon a wide green valley. It would be idyllic, Nikandr thought, if it weren’t for the wind threatening to uproot the trees. The island’s primary eyrie was higher up the mountain. The eyrie on its cliff face seemed to crouch, ready to leap and strike should the enemies of Vostroma approach, but the ships lashed to the perches spoke of the grievous wounds Yrstanla had inflicted. Even from this distance Nikandr could hear the sounds of industry—the hollow sound of wood being pounded as the ships were repaired, gang leaders calling out orders to their men, the
whoo-haa
call of men working a massive mast saw.

And then came Galostina. She had a larger eyrie than Radiskoye—ten perches in all. And seven of them were filled. As the escort ships flew toward the mountain, Nikandr guided them toward the berth where a man waved two black flags. A woman stood near the perch, waiting. It took him time to realize it was Mileva Vostroma, Atiana’s sister. She wore a fine white woolen coat and an ermine cap. The hem of her coat blew fiercely, making her look like a qiram summoning the winds that howled among the crevices of the massive palotza.

When Nikandr leapt down to the perch, Mileva met him and took him into an embrace. “The ships told us of your decision to head for Elykstava. We thought you’d been lost.”

It felt strange to have Atiana’s sister hug him, and perhaps it was the same for her, for she hugged him stiffly, awkwardly.

“I feared it was
Galostina
that had been lost.” Nikandr looked up to the signs of cannon fire that marked several of the palotza’s towers. The spire, both wider and taller than the spire over Radiskoye, was strangely intact. No cannon fire marred its surface, which was strange, considering the state of Galostina.

Mileva turned and looked at the damage as well, perhaps remembering the battle from the halls. “She nearly was.” She guided Nikandr toward the palotza. “Come,” she said as they entered through a set of brassbound doors. “There’s ill news, and someone you must see.”

“What’s happened?” he asked as they walked down a long central hallway. There were dozens of military men walking to and fro. Their conversation filled the space, making the tense atmosphere somehow more tense. Some noticed Nikandr and Mileva and bowed their heads, but most were too busy to take note. Mileva led Nikandr to a winding set of stairs that ran along the edge of a massive domed intersection of the two largest halls of Galostina. The dome towered six stories high, its gilt mosaics shining down on the marble balusters and golden lantern holders.

“Mileva, what’s happened?”

Still she waited until they’d reached the next floor before speaking. “It’s your father. He was wounded during the last attack two days ago. A colonnade collapsed, killing three of my father’s advisors and wounding seven others, including your father. He is sound of body, but he suffered a head wound. He’s woken only sporadically, and he’s become weaker over the last several days.”

The news was better than he’d feared, but his gut still churned, and it only became worse as Mileva led him up to the fourth floor and down another long hallway. There were more streltsi stationed here—nearly a dozen of them—all of them Khalakovan. They all bowed their heads low, reverently, as Nikandr approached.

Mileva stopped in front of an ornately carved door.

“I’m glad you’ve come.” Mileva stepped in and kissed his cheek. “We have need of stout men at times like these.”

Her words were spoken with a sincere admiration that shocked Nikandr. What had been happening in the halls of Galostina?

“Thank you,” he said.

“I’ll wait, and do not tarry. You’ll need to speak with Andreya when you’re done.”

Nikandr nodded and squeezed her hand, glad to have an ally in this place. He entered the room and found his father in a large bed. The bandages around his head were stained with blood. Most of it was dark, but the center was red, making him wonder how well the wound was healing. He sat in a chair by the bedside. The light coming from the windows behind him lit the landscape of his father’s face in bas relief, making it clear just how much pain he was in, even in slumber. Nikandr sat there for some time, knowing he should leave and speak with Andreya, but he could not. Not just yet.

Father never woke. His breathing was shallow, so shallow that the added time did nothing to make Nikandr’s feelings of unease settle. In fact, it made them worse.

At a soft knock at the door, he stood and kissed his father tenderly on the cheek.

Mileva was standing in the hall when he left the room, looking small and apologetic. How much she’d changed, Nikandr thought. The Mileva of old would never have acted like this.

“All will be well,” she said, though she knew no such thing.

“I know,” Nikandr replied, realizing in that one moment what might make her act this way. “Where is your father, the Grand Duke?”

“Taken,” she said, “by Hakan the Betrayer.” Her tone was bitter, and little wonder. With one barbarous act, Hakan had changed from provisional ally to sworn enemy.

“Can you sense him?” Nikandr asked, motioning to the soulstone that glinted in the dim light of the hall.

She pinched her lips before replying. “I cannot.”

“It’s the storms,” Nikandr said. “You’ll find him when they die down.”

“I know.” She smiled, an unconvincing gesture, and then motioned back the way they’d come. “Please.”

She took Nikandr down to the ground floor to a location in Galostina that was one of the earliest structures built. The original keep—which had over the centuries been absorbed by the larger palotza—was being used as the headquarters for the war. The room was windowless—the original windows having long since been bricked up. At the center of the room, surrounded by a dozen massive brass lanterns on tall stands, was a table with several men standing at it, all of them looking down at the maps arrayed there. Nikandr recognized Andreya Antonov, the polkovnik of Vostroma’s stremya, and Betyom Nikolov Vostroma, Zhabyn’s cousin and the admiral of the staaya. Duke Leonid of Dhalingrad was there as well, and when he realized Nikandr was approaching, he motioned to Andreya, who nodded toward his men. Most of the gathered men left the table, though not before they’d stared at Nikandr as if he were a deserter, and soon Nikandr was alone with Andreya, Betyom, and Leonid.

“I will leave you to it,” Mileva said, smiling and bowing her head before taking her leave as well.

“Well met,” Duke Leonid said to Nikandr. Leonid’s long white beard fell down his black kaftan. With his dark eyes, it made him look wild, a wolf in goat’s clothing. His expression was wholly uncharitable, which gave Nikandr pause. He had thought his presence here might be looked upon with some relief, but now he could see that at least for these men, who had always been loyal to Zhabyn, that wouldn’t be the case.

“My Lord Duke,” Nikandr said. He turned to Andreya, all but ignoring Dhalingrad. “I come bearing news.”

Andreya was a tall man. He was Father’s age, but he looked as fit as Nikandr. His trim beard was gray, darker near his jowls. His hair was lost beneath the fur cap he wore. “When have you last slept?”

Nikandr shook his head, unable to remember. “It’s been days.”

Andreya paused before speaking again. “The ships sent from Khalakovo arrived well ahead of you, My Lord Prince.”

“I was diverted to Elykstava—”

“Diverted,” Leonid scoffed, “with
three
of our ships.”

Duke Konstantin of Bolgravya reached the table. He bowed his head to Nikandr. It was an awkward gesture, more so than the other men, no doubt because of the history Nikandr had with his family, Grigory in particular. He said nothing, content for the moment to listen as the others questioned Nikandr.

“It seemed important,” Nikandr said carefully, “to determine the state of her spire.”

Andreya stared intently into Nikandr’s eyes, his expression stark and serious though not unkind. “When you had been given orders to come to Kiravashya.”

“Forgive me, Polkovnik, but the ships were mine to command.”

Duke Leonid bristled. “Those ships were needed
here
, Khalakovo, a fact I’m sure the Duke of Khalakovo shared with you before you left.”

“My Father, the Duke, lies upstairs.”

“He is the duke no longer,” Leonid said.

“A mongrel might leap upon the throne, Dhalingrad. Would you call him duke if you came across him lying there?”