Suddenly the mast was pulled sharply windward. One of the galleon’s yards had slipped beneath the foremast’s shrouds.
“Cut the shroud!” he yelled.
Only Styophan remained on deck. He pulled his shashka and sliced it across the heavy ropes of the shroud. With four quick swings the shroud snapped up and away, and at last they were free.
Their brigantine floated out to sea, twisting in the wind like the seed of a sycamore. Nikandr leaned forward and kissed the mast, silently thanking the ship for its kindness.
By the time he’d climbed down to the deck, the Bhadyar had moved directly above them. The havaqiram above was skilled-Nikandr knew this much-for he was able to match both the pace and the slow spin of their ship. Nikandr and the others grabbed and steadied the rope ladders the Maharraht lowered, and in short order they were up and onto the deck of the Bhadyar.
Nikandr sat in Soroush’s cabin at the rear of the ship, sipping bitter araq from a sandalwood cup.
Soroush had asked him here once Nikandr’s men were all safe. He’d given him the araq to warm him up, but then had gone to see to the safety of the other ships. Nikandr had never been inside a cabin such as this. He’d been involved with the capture of four Maharraht ships; three of them had previously been Grand Duchy ships and one had been a ship built by the Maharraht themselves, but he’d never been inside one of the kapitans’ cabins. Colorful glass baubles hung from the ceiling, their colors mirrored by the carpets layering the floor. In one corner, a shisha was held in place by twine, and next to it was a shallow box with a hinged lid that no doubt held a variety of tabbaq.
Soroush returned some time after Nikandr’s second cupful, and by then Nikandr was finally beginning to feel the effects of the strong, fragrant liquor. “Your man from the cliff is safe,” he said, “but we could not find the one who fell.”
Nikandr nodded grimly. He wished they could have gone to the base of the cliffs to search for Mahrik, but it would have been foolish to do so with the storm as strong as it was. Most likely he’d fallen against the rocks below, or if he’d somehow made it to the sea he would quickly have been overwhelmed by the crashing waves.
“My thanks to you for saving us,” Nikandr said in Mahndi.
Soroush sat in the kapitan’s chair and poured himself a cup of araq. His turban and his beard twinkled with the gleam of melting snow. “A pity Mahrik could not be saved.”
Nikandr looked at him closely, surprised he remembered Mahrik’s name. He wondered just how heartfelt those words were, but he could sense no deception, and it made him wonder just how much the experience on Mirashadal and Rafsuhan had changed Soroush. This was a man that had led the Maharraht for years. He had always seemed ruthless, steadfast in his belief that for the Aramahn to be free the Landed must die. And now here he was, lamenting-genuinely-a Landed windsman he hardly knew.
“How did you find us?” Nikandr asked.
Soroush, staring beyond his cup of araq, took long moments to formulate his response. “We were skirting the edge of the Empire’s lands when we came upon a bird. A gallows crow.”
“A black bird with a white hood.”
“ Yeh.” Soroush’s eyes were distant, as if he were reliving the moment. “It landed on a shroud and stared directly at me. One of the crew tried to scare it away, but it remained. Only when a musket was trained on it did it take flight, but it returned shortly thereafter and landed near the helm. Again the men wanted to kill it-fearful it was a bird sent by the Matri-but I forbade them.” Soroush’s voice became softer, almost reverent. “I came to the helm, and the bird pecked at the levers. I realized it was always pecking at the leftmost. Slowly, I pushed it inward, and the crow cawed furiously, but as I pulled it out, and the ship turned windward, it remained silent. Until we were heading on the bearing that took us directly over your position.” Soroush paused, shaking his head. “It must have been one of the Matri, but it never spoke. Why would this be?”
Nikandr shrugged. “I saw it as well, less than an hour before you came upon us. I thought I felt one of the Matri as well, but it was faint. Very faint. And then the bird left.”
“Whoever she was, you owe her your life. We would not have come upon you in the direction we were headed.”
“But why? Why are you here?”
“We’ve been skirting the Sea of Khurkhan for over a week, and the days before that we were watching the islands to the east.”
While giving Soroush a questioning look, Nikandr took a swig of his araq, swirling it around in his mouth before swallowing.
“We had hoped to find the Hratha,” Soroush said. “After leaving you on Uyadensk we returned to Rafsuhan, but found almost no one. They had murdered any they could find before leaving the island.”
“What of Muqallad and the children?”
Soroush grit his jaw. There were tears welling in his eyes, but he blinked them away. “They were no longer children. They were akhoz, and of them we could find no sign. Those few that survived by hiding in the woods said that Muqallad left the island the day after the ritual.”
“With the Hratha?”
Soroush shook his head. “Thabash returned to Siafyan and there gathered more ships and men. And then he headed northwest, across the Sea of Khurkhan.”
Nikandr thought back to the glint he’d seen on the sea days before. It must have been Thabash and his men. “They’re headed for Galahesh,” Nikandr said, knowing it was true.
Soroush nodded and finished his araq, his lips pulling back from the bite of it. “I believe they go to meet Muqallad.”
“And to find the final piece of the Atalayina.”
“Perhaps,” Soroush said, “but they will not find it.”
“What do you mean?”
While drawing in a deep breath, Soroush glanced toward the door, then down at his desk. He seemed to come to some decision, for he leaned down, opened the drawer, and retrieved from it a satchel of the softest goat leather. After setting this on the desk and closing the drawer, he opened the satchel’s drawstring and pulled out a stone that was unmistakable. He set it on the desk near Nikandr. The knock it made against the wood sounded as though it were made of lead, not stone.
Nikandr picked it up. It was indeed heavy, more like pure gold than stone. The copper lines that ran through the blue stone lent it a raw beauty and an undeniable feeling of age, as if the stories about the fates having created it along with the worlds were true. He remembered Bersuq as he’d held the other two pieces-sisters to this one-above his head. He remembered Bersuq’s will as he’d kept himself from crying out, until eventually it had become too much and he’d released his pain to the uncaring sky.
He was also uncomfortably aware of what this stone would mean to Soroush. His brother had died in fusing the other two for Muqallad. Nikandr wasn’t sure in those waning moments whether Bersuq had questioned his decision. Surely he must have, and if he had thought this way, what must Soroush think? If he believed Bersuq had been misled, it would only fuel Soroush’s determination.
“How did you come by it?” Nikandr asked.
Before Soroush could respond, soft footsteps approached the cabin door. The door opened, and in stepped a woman in robes of blood red. She wore a simple headdress of silver and pearls, and at the center of her brow rested a stone of alabaster, softly glowing in the dim light. She was striking, especially her eyes, which were bright and piercing, as if she could understand one’s very nature with but a glance.
She stared down at the stone Nikandr held in his hands. One of her hands was heavily bandaged, but with the other she stepped forward and snatched it from him. “You would share this with him?”
Soroush leaned back in his chair, as calm as a frozen lake. “You would rather I kept it hidden?”