Shouts were raised as more flashes sparked in the darkness. Each shot illuminated, for one split second, the man who had fired the weapon-prone bodies facing the trail, eyes sighting along the length of a barrel. There were at least a dozen, and based on the rate of fire, Nikandr assumed they had each brought two loaded muskets with them.
Five streltsi, and one of the soldiers driving the wagon, dropped in the opening volley. Two of the remaining men returned fire. The other kicked his pony with a “Yah!” and was off after Grigory and Borund, who had also given their ponies free rein.
One more of the soldiers was shot before the remaining two dropped their weapons and raised their hands above their heads.
Nikandr heard a man’s voice call from the darkness. “Quickly,” he said. Soldiers were now approaching the wagon. “Prince Nikandr Iaroslov…” the voice called.
“I am here,” Nikandr said.
Up the hill, a large bell began clanging within the walls of Oshtoyets. It would be only moments before the soldiers in the fort were on them.
The soldier, bearing the stars of a desyatnik, hopped up to the wagon, stepping past Ashan to take a key from the driver. He used it to unlock the chains that secured Nikandr and Ashan to the iron rings. “Where is the other?” he said, referring to the key that would release their manacles.
“I don’t have it,” the driver said quickly. “Prince Grigory kept them for himself.”
Using his pistol, and that of his second-in-command, he shot first Nikandr’s and then Ashan’s manacles free.
“Quickly, My Lord,” the desyatnik said, motioning Nikandr to the steep downward slope to the northwest.
Nikandr needed no reminder of how little time they had before the pursuit was on them. He leapt down and then he and Ashan and the soldiers were off, running down the mountain at a speed that made Nikandr fear he would break an ankle at any moment. Ashan, despite his age, held up well, and all of them made it down to a plateau before the sound of galloping ponies could be heard from the trail behind them. The sound of barking dogs came as well.
“Halt,” the desyatnik called. “Reload, one musket only.”
They did, and they were as quick, even in the darkness, as Nikandr had ever seen. In less than twenty seconds, they were done, and as a group they descended along the next slope.
The barking dogs, perhaps eight or nine of them, were gaining on them quickly. When it was clear they would not be able to outrun them, the desyatnik called for another halt and for the men to line up their shots. In fits and starts, a dozen shots rang out, and a good many of the dogs were felled; but three made it through, leaping upon the men, who defended themselves with muskets at the ready.
Two soldiers cried out, but the others pulled long knives from the sheaths strapped to their thighs and stabbed the dogs until all of them lay dead or dying. They continued without pause, though it was with no small amount of regret since most of the dogs-perhaps all-had been Khalakovo’s. It was a terrible betrayal to kill beasts that had been raised to protect his father’s land.
The pursuit was gaining on them. Nikandr spared a quick glance, seeing only silhouettes-perhaps a dozen of them-with more following on foot.
The first shots rang out as they reached a gently sloping land that led down to the seashore. A waterborne ship waited in the distance. More shots were fired, and one of the men to Nikandr’s right was struck. He grunted-no more than this-and on they went. Another shot struck the ground near Nikandr’s feet. He cringed reflexively as a spray of loose gravel pelted his legs and chest and face.
The ponies had reached open land behind them, and they were now galloping wide, clearly hoping to cut them off before they could reach the ship.
They had not counted on the men from the ship.
A half-dozen shots rang out, accompanied by flashes of white. Three ponies fell. The enemy reined in and fired into Nikandr’s group-ignoring the ship-as their reinforcements on foot began to close in. One soldier screamed and fell. Immediately two others shouldered their weapons and lifted him up, supporting him while moving as quickly as they could manage.
“Reload,” the desyatnik called as more shots came in from the ship. They did so on the run, and as they finally neared the water’s edge, the desyatnik ordered them to fire. Most did so, the others continuing into the surf.
Two rowboats waited. The soldiers levered themselves in as return fire came from the shore. They rowed furiously as the men on the ship attempted to suppress the fire of the men in pursuit. Another soldier was shot through the chest, but finally they rowed beyond the far side of the ship so that it would shield them from any more incoming fire. Immediately, the firing from the deck ceased as well-the men taking cover as the ship, which had already put on a good amount of sail, headed westward toward open sea.
“All quiet,” came a voice that was soft but nonetheless carried over the entire ship.
By the time they reached the deck, the men on the shore had given up. Minutes later, nearly a league out to sea, Nikandr saw the barest form of a windship scouring the waves. Their ship had veered from their initial course, however, and was now heading in a northerly direction.
Minutes passed, and slowly it became clear that the pursuing ship would not find them. And finally, Nikandr breathed a sigh of relief he’d been holding since the first shot had been fired outside the keep.
Nikandr couldn’t sleep, partly because of his wounds, partly because of his inherent distaste for waterborne craft, and partly because he was so unsure about what the coming day would bring. Kapitan Lidan would tell him little except that he had been ordered to take the desyatnik and his men to the coast of Duzol and to bring him southeast when they returned.
“But there is nothing to the southeast,” Nikandr said.
“The Matra said you’d be transferred.”
“To what?”
“I’m sorry, My Lord Prince, she didn’t say.”
Most likely there hadn’t been time to arrange anything more complex. It was probably wise, as well, not to tell the man too much in case they were caught. There would probably be a windship sent to pick him up. He only hoped it came sooner rather than later, for his stomach’s sake if nothing else.
He abandoned his cabin well before dawn. The air was bitterly cold and blustery. As the sky brightened in the east, the black wings of a bird could be seen heading toward them from the south. It became clear that it was a rook, but it did not land. It only turned and flew southward again, a sign that they should follow. If Nikandr had judged their speed correctly, they were heading toward the Shallows, an area directly south of Uyadensk that had a mass of sandbars spread over an area nearly as large as Duzol.
As the sun rose, a high layer of clouds rushed in from the west. Not long after, snowflakes began to fall-an ill omen for the day to come.
Two airships were spotted off the portbow flying low over the sea. At first he thought they belonged to one of the traitor dukes, but then he recognized a ship he had sailed on three different occasions-a massive four-masted galleon known as the Hawk of Rhavanki. Then he saw where they were headed: a mass of seven windships anchored in the sandbars.
Clearly an important gathering had been called, and it made a certain sort of sense-the traitor dukes would be scouring the islands, all of them, in search of Nikandr and in hopes of suppressing any incoming resistance. Father’s only hope for surprise was to avoid such places and to have the allied Matri mask their presence from the others.
Ashan stood on deck, watching. He had a concerned look on his face, as if this was the last thing he had hoped for.
Nikandr stepped close to him and spoke softly, even though he was among allies. “In the cell last night, you said that Nasim would be healed if I drew him across.”
“That is what I believe.”
“Why? What does the rift have to do with it?”
“It is only at the rift, Nikandr, the deepest part, that we will have any hope of success.”Ashan glanced around the deck, then up to the rigging, making sure no one was close enough to hear.
“And my stone?”
“That is what will draw him. He will see it and you will draw him to our world.”
They fell silent as Kapitan Lidan joined them. He pointed up to the sky, to a skiff that was headed their way. “Best you get ready.”
Soon they were on the skiff and headed toward the Zhabek, a ship of Mirkotsk nearly as large as the Hawk. The snow had begun to fall more heavily, though it was still only a light snowfall. On deck, Nikandr was surprised to see several dukes: Andreyo Rhavanki, Heodor Lhudansk, and Aleg Khazabyirsk were speaking beneath the helm, and they were not dressed in their rich coats of office, but the long, dark cherkesskas cut in the style of the windsmen. Each had the designs of their Duchy and other badges of honor upon their left breast.
“What is happening?” Ashan asked. His face was tight, the wind whipping his curly hair about his forehead and cheeks.
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
“But Nasim…”
“I’ll do what I can, Ashan. For now you must trust me.”
Father stepped out from the kapitan’s cabin along with Yevgeny Mirkotsk. He came to a standstill, however, when he noticed the incoming skiff. Nikandr couldn’t help but notice his reaction. It was one of anger, of disappointment, as if it were Nikandr who was to blame for everything that had happened.
The skiff dropped its sails and was reeled in at the stern of the ship, and when Nikandr disembarked onto the aftcastle, Father was there waiting for him. He pulled him to the landward side. As Ashan stepped calmly onto deck, he was met by several streltsi, who led him amidships.
Father studied Nikandr with a cross look on his face, hands clasped behind his back as the chill wind tugged at his beard and hair.“Do you realize what might have happened, leaving as you did?”
“I know what it did cost, Father, and I still believe it was the right thing to do.”
“Because of the blight…”
Nikandr had been ready to argue against his father’s position. To hear him leap to the very reason for Nikandr’s flight from Radiskoye those weeks ago made him feel as if he’d slipped on a rain-slick deck.
“ Da, because of the blight.”
“And what have you found?”
“I believe it can be healed.”
“Through the boy?”
Nikandr cocked his head, confused. “How did you know?”
Father looked to the stairs leading down from the aftcastle and made a beckoning motion with one hand. The soldier standing there immediately bowed and left.
“What is it?”
Father did not reply, but a moment later the strelet returned with Rehada in tow. Snow fell across the ship. White snowflakes landed on her black hair before melting away. When the strelet had brought her to their side and left, Rehada met Nikandr’s eyes only for a moment, as if she were embarrassed to acknowledge his presence in front of his father.
“What has happened?” Nikandr asked, sure that Rehada’s presence meant something momentous was about to happen.
Father looked up to the sun, which lay behind a large gray cloud limned in white.“When the sun strikes noon, a battle will begin such as the islands haven’t seen since the War of Seven Seas.”
Nikandr still hoped, perhaps foolishly, that bloodshed could be avoided. “We could speak with them. They might-”
Father held up his hand, forestalling him. “They will not listen to reason. Not now. Not when their advantage has been pressed so far. We will attack, for truly there is no choice left to us.”
“The Matri…”
“Are as prepared as they will ever be. Everything has been arranged, Nischka. Now, there is something I would very much like for you to discuss with your dear friend, Rehada.”
“And what would that be?”
“She has confessed to me that she is Maharraht.”
Nikandr’s blood rushed to his face. He had known this since Ghayavand, but some small part of him had still held hope that it had been a lie. He looked to Rehada, but she refused to meet his eye.
“For years she has been plying from you secrets that should have remained safely within the walls of Radiskoye. Yet she came to me through no small amount of danger to tell me of Nasim and the plans the Maharraht have drawn.
“So, I put it to you, Nischka. Weigh the truth in her words. If you think she can be believed, then so be it. Take her to find the boy and bring him back if you can. But if you believe she is lying, that she works for our enemy still, then you will tell me so, and we will settle this before the hour is out.”
With that Father walked away, his bootsteps heavy on the deck, leaving Nikandr alone with a woman he had come to love-a woman he loved still. It pained him to see her cowed, a woman who had always burned brightly from within, but then it occurred to him just how gifted she was at acting.
“Is it true?”
She finally raised her head and looked him in the eye. “ Yeh.”
“All that time?”
She nodded. “I was Maharraht well before I landed on Khalakovo.”
“How, Rehada? Why?”
She shook her head. “I will not repeat the litany of reasons here. Some day, if the time is right, I may do so. But I won’t defend myself.”
“You had better.”
“I won’t.” She stood taller, her eyes fierce. “When you see your wife again, ask her of my history.”
“Atiana?”
Rehada’s long black hair played in the wind as she stared at him with dark, pained eyes.
Nikandr felt his heart hardening. “My father was deadly serious.”
She leaned over and spat at his feet. “Kill me if you will, son of Iaros. I have no fear of dying.”
Nikandr felt himself gritting his jaw, felt the tightness in his chest and stomach. He forced himself to breathe deeply and release it. He waited until the tightness eased before speaking again. “Tell me at the least why you changed your mind.”
She stared at him, as hard as ever, but then her look softened ever so slightly. “Because there are things greater than the Maharraht, greater than the Grand Duchy.”
“No grand words, Rehada. Not now.”
“We stand on a precipice. Soroush would push us over the edge-all of us-if only to begin the world anew. I no longer believe there is wisdom in such a course, no matter how much I might once have wished to do the same. There is something in Nasim, something precious, something Soroush would use against you. If he’s allowed to go through with his plans, it will be destroyed. I have no doubt of this, and it’s something I would see saved. That is why I have come. Not for you. Not for Khalakovo. Not even for the Aramahn. It is for Nasim and the worlds he walks between.”
Nikandr stood still, breathing, weighing her words. There was truth in her words, but he realized that he should not be allowed such judgment. She had been Maharraht since before the day they had met and he had failed to uncover the truth of it. He was the wrong person to be standing here, determining if she should live or die. She may very well be orchestrating a trap for the Maharraht that might lead to something worse. With the wrong decision he might give the Maharraht exactly what they wanted.
But he also knew, as he stood there looking into her defiant eyes, that he was trapped. She had pulled him into her net long ago, and he could no more order her death than he could his father’s-not when everything rang so true-and he realized that his father must have known this as well.
Father wanted to believe her words.
And with that, he knew what he must do, and he left Rehada to render his decision.