The rest of Atiana’s day proved to be just as tense as the morning-from luncheon, where they met the delegation from Khazabyirsk, all the way through to the greeting ceremony on the palotza’s eyrie.
Father came for her as the sun was peeking through tall, white clouds. Though he waved away any attempts at complimenting him, he looked grand in his tooled leather boots, his sheepskin cherkesska and ermine kolpak. Katerina came minutes later, and together they led Atiana and Mileva and Ishkyna from the palotza to the eyrie by way of a cobbled path. The eyrie was one of the oldest among all the islands, and it was one of the most breathtaking. It stood one thousand feet above the seashore. Each of its four perches were made of sculpted stone; the curved supports beneath them were filled with the intricate traceries of the Landless artisans. Two of the perches were occupied by Khalakovo’s royal yachts, but the other two remained clear, waiting for the incoming ships.
Three dozen royalty, including the contingent from Khazabyirsk, stood on the landing in their best finery, waiting for the first ship to dock. It was good to see that Khalakovo was taking their recent threat of the Maharraht seriously. By all accounts they hadn’t been seen again on the island, but still there were more streltsi than usual for the landing of council: both patrolling the curtain wall and standing at attention.
Nikandr, dressed in a fine gold kaftan and polished leather boots, stood behind his father. Zhabyn and Katerina bowed to Iaros, who, after waiting for a healthy pause, stepped aside, allowing Nikandr to take Atiana’s gloved hand in his.
He stepped in and kissed both cheeks with an iciness that surprised her.
She was still angry with him, yet she found herself wishing he would take her hand, to warm one small part of her on this cold spring day. She tried to forget Mileva’s words, but as she stood there, her hand aching from neglect, she couldn’t help but think of Rehada, his lover. Did he hold her hand? What had he told her about the wedding? Had they gossiped about her while lying in each other’s arms? Had she laughed when Nikandr told her what a poor wife Atiana would be?
Her hands, of their own volition, clasped themselves before her in a pose that was much like her sisters’. Mileva seemed to notice, but she returned her gaze to the retinue of Duke Rhavanki, who were just now stepping down the gangplank of his impressive yacht.
As ships came and left, Atiana had a growing awareness of being watched. Ishkyna, standing between her father and Mileva, was watching her. No one else might have noticed it, but Atiana knew Ishkyna better than anyone-even Mileva-and there was jealousy in her eyes. Ishkyna was jealous of her. It was an occurrence so rare that Atiana wondered if she were imagining it, but as the last of the ships approached, the feeling intensified, and she knew she must be right.
A willful Ishkyna was never a good thing, Atiana thought to herself, especially when you were the object of her attentions. She decided she would have to watch her sister carefully these next few days.
The Grand Duke’s ship was the last to arrive. The thing was absolutely massive for a yacht. It could practically double as a cargo ship; given the dire straits the islands had been in of late, perhaps that was the plan. Or it may have been the Grand Duke’s pride that had forced him into such an extravagant decision.
The Grand Duke himself, Stasa Olegov Bolgravya, a man who had seen seventy winters, stood at the bow wearing a heavy fur coat and a tall black hat. He had not come to the last council. He had made his excuses and had sent his first son, Konstantin, in his place. No one had thought much of it-it happened from time to time with all the dukes-but now everyone saw why he had refused to come.
The Stasa that stared at them all from the gunwales of his ship was not the same man. He had always been a large man, barrel-chested and meaty about the arms and legs. His face had been plump, his cheeks red. He had possessed steely eyes. He was quick to anger, and he rarely laughed, but when he did, his eyes held that same keen edge, as if he were granting you some favor by allowing the display of his mirth.
This Stasa was crooked. He listed to one side, as if the position pained him but was the least painful position he could find. His cheeks were drawn, and they sagged about his chin like an old bloodhound. His lips drooped at the edges, giving him a permanent frown. And his eyes… They were sunken eyes, defeated eyes, as if they were tired from the mere viewing of the world.
Why he hadcomewhen the wasting hadnearlytaken him already, Atiana couldn’t guess. Perhaps he knew his death was near and wished to meet his fellow dukes one last time. Perhaps there were agreements he wished to negotiate, a final show of power before the fates finally took him.
It was disheartening to see him like this. Among the squabbles of the dukes, Stasa had always ruled with something akin to fairness. It felt like the wasting, or the blight itself, had taken him, and with him gone it would only be a matter of time before the rest succumbed as well.
Atiana’s attention was caught by a motion from Nikandr. He was touching his neck with a curious look on his face, but when he noticed her watching he dropped his hand immediately. It must be his soulstone, though why it had attracted his attention now she had no idea.
Stasa’s son, Grigory, stepped onto the forecastle deck and made his way to stand by his father’s side. Though he was fourth in line for the scepter of Bolgravya, he had learned the lessons of a prince well. As he swept his gaze over the crowd, he kept his face stern, as if it were his iron fist that ruled the islands, not his father’s.
A moment later a broad-winged rook flew over the eyrie, cawing loudly. “A suurahezhan approaches! Prepare! Pre-” It never completed those last words, for it dropped from the sky as if it had been shot. It struck the ground heavily and lay there, twitching. Then it went still.
The crack of a musket was heard. A soldier shouted orders, and then two more muskets rang out. The soldiers who had fired immediately sprinted along the wall, looking over their shoulders at something that had clearly shaken their resolve.
Then, over the curtain wall, flowing like flames over a burning log, came a form twice as tall as Atiana. It looked vaguely manlike, but its chest was compact, its arms long and fluid, its head little more than a featureless mound. Its form shifted-growing here, shrinking there. It burned orange with wisps of yellow and white, and though it was still twenty paces away she could feel the heat of it against her skin. The sound was like a heavy wind as it blew through winterdead trees.
The eyrie devolved into bedlam.
Shouts and screams filled the air. Several of the royalty pulled their pistols and fired. Many retreated along the stone pathway toward the palotza. Others edged toward the cliff and the perches, while a select few pulled shashkas from the sheaths at their belts. Nikandr, pistol in hand, stepped in front of Atiana and edged her backward while keeping his eyes fixed forward.
The wind shifted, bringing with it an acrid and choking scent. Atiana’s eyes began to tear as more musket shots rang out, some from the curtain wall and a few from Bolgravya’s ship. It was impossible to tell if the hezhan was affected as it plodded through the garden, singeing the squat evergreen bushes as it went. Where the musket balls struck the hezhan’s skin-if skin was what the gaseous surface could be called-it darkened as embers did when struck with water, but then it quickly returned to its previous brightness, all evidence of the wound gone.
Two jalaqiram, Aramahn water masters, rushed forward, calling in their lyrical language. The one closest to the fiery beast spread his arms wide, and the azurite gem on his brow glowed brighter. A pool of water built around his feet, but before he could use it, the suurahezhan charged forward and brought him to the ground with both casket-sized hands, snuffing the life from him in an instant.
A handful of streltsi rushed out from the palotza carrying dousing rods, circles of pure iron with long, leather-wrapped handles affixed to them. They were typically used against enemy qiram, but they were effective against hezhan as well. As the musket fire continued the streltsi surrounded the spirit, attempting to fence it in using the rods. For a moment, it seemed to be working. The suurahezhan paused, its form shrinking as its color turned deep red. Then, like a cornered dog, it shot between two of the soldiers. A deep moan escaped the creature as the iron struck its arms and sides. Where the metal touched the hezhan turned deep red, almost black, but the price had apparently been worth it. It was free of its containment.
It charged forward as more shots hit home, passing mere yards away from Atiana. Nikandr was sure to place himself between her and the creature, but she still felt the heat of it on her face as it passed. Once it was clear it was headed for the ship, Nikandr pushed Atiana with a firm hand toward the palotza.
“Go,” he said, alternating glances between her and the hezhan.
She backed up, but found it impossible to turn away from the unfolding carnage. The five streltsi on Bolgravya’s ship were reloading their muskets. The suurahezhan waded forward, the heat of its body burning right through the rigging. In seconds the soldiers were dead, and the fire was raging higher through the yacht’s sails.
The Grand Duke’s wind master, standing near the center of the ship, moved her arms forward, palms facing the suurahezhan. A cyclone built around the spirit, pulling air away, but before it could have any discernible effect, the suurahezhan reared back and blasted a gout of flame toward her. She was buffeted backward and over the edge of the ship’s railing, gone in the blink of an eye. With one last gust the winds dissipated.
The Grand Duke had backed up from the gunwales, but now with the hezhan so close he retreated to the ship’s starward mainmast. The hezhan followed, its footsteps thumping hollowly against the windwood deck.
Many men tried to use their tall axes to protect him, but the creature was of one mind-it no longer appeared to care if it came into contact with iron. Dozens of strikes hit home, darkening the creature’s skin, but it plodded onward.
Grigory ran forward, drawing his shashka from its scabbard, but several streltsi grabbed him, preventing him from reaching his father. Few of Stasa’s retinue had been on deck, preferring to leave the decks clear for the crew, but now many were climbing up and heading for the ship’s side. With the gangway still in its away position, the crew and passengers were leaping to the safety of the perch.
The suurahezhan, standing over Stasa, crouched and stared into Stasa’s eyes. With one huge wail, and a heat that Atiana had never felt before, the creature reared up, facing the sky and throwing its arms wide. Stasa’s soulstone was aflame-much brighter than a soulstone ought to be. Moments later, the mainmast was ablaze, and the entire center of the ship was engulfed in a column of crackling orange fire. Stasa was lost in it, though there was a brief moment where Atiana thought she could hear his cries, high and desperate, mingling with the wail of the suurahezhan. They were eerily similar in those brief moments, but then both were cut short.
The suurahezhan’s form seemed to be drawn into the flame. And then it was gone altogether, leaving behind a raging fire that had burned away a healthy portion of the mainmast and eaten a wagon-sized hole through the decking.
The boom of a cannon shook Atiana’s entire body. They had been aiming at the hezhan, but the creature was now gone and the shot clipped the weakened mainmast. The mast cracked and began to lean toward the windward side.
Then the ship began to descend. People were continuing to leap to the safety of the perch, but the acceleration was already increasing. Atiana saw Grigory’s sister launch herself from the gunwales, but she didn’t leap far enough. She fell screaming a moment later.
Grigory was still fighting against the men who were holding him back. Tears streamed down his anguished face. Nikandr stood near the edge of the quay, swinging a rope. He tossed it to the deck and shouted at the soldiers to take hold. They pleaded with Grigory to come, but he ignored them. Over a dozen men anchored the rope behind Nikandr and took up the call, their voices becoming more and more insistent as the pace of the ship’s descent increased.
Atiana thought surely Grigory had decided to spend his last moments with his father, but just as the ship’s main deck was dropping from view, he seemed to sense for the first time what was happening around him. He looked toward the perch, and then stood and grabbed the rope. The men on the eyrie bore down to hold Grigory and the soldiers. As they began heaving in time to pull them to safety, the ship’s tall, flaming sails slipped from view. Then it was gone, leaving only black smoke curling high into the cloud-stippled sky.