“ Yeh! He has no right to even look upon it.”
As she said these words, Nikandr realized he knew this woman. “You are Ushai. You were once a disciple of Fahroz.”
She glanced at Nikandr, then turned her gaze back on Soroush. There was deep betrayal in her face, more than this stone could account for. And then Nikandr understood. She and Soroush were lovers. Or had been at one time.
“Whether you want to admit it or not,” Soroush said, “he has done much for us.”
“We don’t need him.”
Soroush shrugged and looked to Nikandr. “The fates have seen fit to bring us together once more. Who am I to deny them?” Ushai made to speak, but Soroush raised his hand. “Enough. He is here, and he will help us when we reach Galahesh.”
Ushai’s face turned to one of disgust. “He is a forgotten prince, lost among the seas. He can do nothing to help.”
Soroush stared up to Ushai and held out his hand. Ushai seemed angry at first, but then she softened and gently laid the Atalayina into the palm of Soroush’s hand.
“We shall see, Ushai.” Soroush stared into the depths of the Atalayina and smiled briefly. “We shall see what he can do.” Three days later-days filled with merciless winds and snow and hail-they approached the shores of Galahesh. Nikandr and Styophan stood at the bow of the Bhadyar, staring out into the gray fog that lay ahead of the ship. They flew low, close enough to see the white-tipped waves of the sea.
Nikandr was tense-tense because of the weather and the landing that would take place a little more than an hour from now. Soroush had brought seventy fighting men, a dozen of them qiram. They would land far to the north of Baressa and head south, some scouting ahead to find Muqallad’s hiding place, which they hoped would be somewhere near the Spar.
Visibility was down to a quarter-league, and the fog was becoming thicker. More than this, there was a source of discomfort in Nikandr’s chest. He’d woken with it this morning, and it had taken him some time to realize it was due to Nasim. He was to their southeast, somewhere on Galahesh.
The burning at the center of his chest told Nikandr something was wrong. It was akin to the feelings years ago on Uyadensk and Duzol, but this was different in that he’d felt nothing like it since Nasim had been healed. He didn’t know what this meant, but he was sure Nasim was in danger.
“The Spar will not be easy to bring down.” Styophan was leaning against the bulwarks, staring aft toward the three trailing ships.
“The keystones, Styophan. If we can destroy one, I hope it will be enough.”
“As you say, My Lord, but if it’s as simple as that, the Kamarisi will not leave it untended.”
“ Da,” Nikandr replied, “but we will try.”
Styophan, as if taking silent inventory of the men they had at their disposal, chose not to reply, but it was clear he considered their mission suicide.
Soroush, after passing out final orders, joined Nikandr and Styophan and looked beyond the sails and into the fog.
“Where will we land?” Nikandr asked.
They had decided that attacking the Spar directly-while containing an element of surprise-would be unwise. They had munitions aboard the ships, and they might fire them all at one point along the massive structure, but it was still questionable whether this would be enough. It would most likely only damage the bridge, and that was an unacceptable outcome.
Soroush pointed out into the fog. “There is a deep vale ten leagues northwest of the Spar. We’ll moor the ships there and head inland toward Vihrosh. Bahett, the Kaymakam of Galahesh, keeps several small storehouses filled with munitions. One is particularly vulnerable. It is there that we will go.”
Revulsion flared up within Nikandr. This was the sort of information the Maharraht painstakingly collected. No doubt they had similar details for each of the Grand Duchy’s cities. That it helped Nikandr now didn’t change the fact that Soroush and his followers were still enemies of Anuskaya.
Soroush must have known this as well, for he was watching Nikandr closely, as if he expected Nikandr to say something of it, as if he too knew they were still enemies and that if they lived beyond the days ahead their hostilities would resume.
It reminded Nikandr of their time on Rafsuhan, when the two of them were still feeling one another out. It reminded him, too, of Soroush’s abduction.
“Why did Muqallad take you?”
“What?”
“On Rafsuhan. He took you and left me. Why?”
He shrugged. “Who knows the mind of Muqallad?”
“What did he want with you?”
“Can you not guess?”
“My guesses are worth nothing.”
Soroush’s jaw set, and his eyes flickered with anger. “Why he took me is of no consequence.”
Nikandr’s first instinct was to bark back a reply, but the two of them, if not allies, had at least come to understand one another, and it was through this lens that Nikandr began to understand. “He wanted the hearts of the Maharraht.”
Soroush’s expression turned dark.
“He wanted the hearts of the Maharraht,” Nikandr repeated, “and Bersuq wasn’t delivering them.”
“My brother was loyal to his people.”
Nikandr bowed his head. “He was loyal, but also torn.”
“As I am torn.” Soroush said it so flatly that it took Nikandr aback. Muqallad had no doubt tried to convince Soroush that his cause was not merely worthwhile, but righteous. And Soroush had listened. Even now, there was doubt in his eyes.
A distant boom drew Nikandr’s attention. It drew Soroush’s as well. It had come three points off the windward bow. Another boom sounded moments later, and more as they continued on their southeastward heading.
“Come about,” Soroush ordered.
They did, followed by the three trailing ships.
But the sounds of battle continued to approach. They could hear the calls of men now, orders shouted in haste and fear. Given the cannons’ rate of fire it was clear that a ship was being chased by at least two others.
Soroush used hand signals to pass orders to his men-an upheld fist for absolute silence, an upturned palm to the pilot to bring the ship higher, three tight circles with the index finger to bring guns to the ready. The signals were similar to those used by the windsmen of Anuskaya, used when silence was absolutely necessary.
It was a near thing, but they were rising fast enough that they would most likely avoid being seen, but then Nikandr heard a voice in the fog, a call made in desperation to his men.
It was the voice of Grigory.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
N ikandr stood at the bow of the Bhadyar, his eyes fixed down toward the sea where the sounds of battle still raged.
He considered leaving Grigory to his fate-it was important they reach land without being discovered by the Hratha or the Kamarisi’s men, and Grigory’s betrayal still stung, more than he’d realized until now-but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t abandon his countrymen.
“Soroush, we must turn back.”
“ Neh, it cannot be risked.”
The report of a cannon shook the air.
“They are my blood.”
“I’m sorry, son of Iaros.”
“We must rescue them! They can help us!”
“What will help is to land and to worry about Muqallad. Blood or not, the Atalayina cannot be risked.”
Nikandr’s desperation turned to anger. He was ready to fight if need be, but as he stood there staring into Soroush’s stony eyes, he realized that his touch to Adhiya had returned. He could feel his havahezhan once more. Where it had gone he didn’t know, but for the time being he didn’t care. He drew upon it, more sharply than he had for some time.
The winds responded, snapping the sails and pulling the Bhadyar off the course the Maharraht qiram had set for them.
Soroush, realizing what was happening, pulled the khanjar, a dark length of steel, from his belt and stalked forward. “Stop, son of Iaros.”