“I hope not,” Nikandr said.
The boy’s eyes became more intense, almost angry. “Do you think him dead?”
It was a question he probably deserved an answer to, but Nikandr wouldn’t be pushed. Not now.
“I hope not,” he said again, and walked past the two of them.
He made his way to the broken end of the Spar and leaned out over the shorn edge to stare at the water below. He still had his soulstone. He had cast outward with it several times on his walk through Vihrosh, hoping to feel Atiana, and now he did so again. As it was before, he could not sense her, but neither could he sense anyone else-not his mother nor father nor any of the Matri. No one. The stone felt deadened, though whether this was due to their deaths or some artifact of the destruction of the Spar and the grand release of energy that followed he wasn’t sure.
Ashan stepped up beside him and stared down toward the water as well. His foot shifted a stone, which flew down toward the sea, its arc curving as the wind took it. “Sukharam was brusk, but he had a point.”
Nikandr shook his head sadly. “I don’t know if he died.” Where the knife had cut through his coat and shirt, he could reach through and touch the raw wound that Nasim had healed with the Atalayina. The subtle feeling that he was connected to Nasim was gone. And he was poorer for it. He’d always felt that he would one day find Nasim, that they would help one another close the rifts.
But now…
Now he didn’t know if that would ever be possible. Muqallad and Sariya had been stopped, but the world had been left in a terrible state. Who knew what would happen tomorrow?
Movement along the Spar caught Nikandr’s attention.
A skiff floated up and away from Baressa, making its way steadily toward the Spar, toward their location. After a wait that seemed like days, it crossed the gap at the center of the Spar and came to a rest nearby. Anahid was in the skiff, guiding it.
And Atiana was there as well.
As she swung over the side of the skiff, Nikandr rushed forward and swept her up in a deep embrace. He held her tight, a rush of emotions soaring inside him.
“I thought you were gone,” he whispered.
He heard her sniffling. “I thought the same of you.”
When at last they pulled away, she smiled and brushed away his tears. He brushed away hers and drew her in again, kissing her warm, salt-laced lips.
After taking his hand, she led him into the skiff. She beckoned to Ashan and Sukharam as well, and soon all four of them were inside, flying back toward the city.
“Nikandr,” Atiana said, taking his hands in hers. She gripped them tightly as she sat on the thwart. “I have grave news.” Nikandr felt his insides go weak, but Atiana, with intent emotion, held his gaze, giving him strength. “My father is dead. Sacrificed by the Kamarisi before the first ships crossed the Spar.”
Nikandr stared, shocked to hear these words. “It cannot be so.”
She shook her head, squeezing his hands so that he would let her finish. “Your father… He came to lead the charge. He commanded brilliantly, but in the end the Galaheshi elite broke through and rushed the commanders huddled behind the lines.
“They retreated, but your father was taken by a musket shot.” She paused, steeling herself, giving Nikandr time to absorb this. “He’s dead, Nischka. He lasted only minutes after taking the wound.”
Nikandr felt himself go cold and distant. The sound of the wind faded in his ears. He felt Atiana’s hand on his knee, felt her move to sit on his thwart and hug him, and even though he hugged her back, none of it felt real, especially those words: He’s dead, Nischka.
Anahid flew them up to Kasir Yalidoz and landed the skiff in the center of the grand patio. Anahid glanced at the kasir but refused to leave the skiff. “You have much to do,” she said, “and I would speak with Ashan.”
Nikandr nodded numbly, grasping Ashan’s offered hand and kissing him on the forehead. “Thank you,” he said.
He nodded a kind farewell to Sukharam, but as he passed Anahid, he leaned in and kissed her as well. “And you.”
She smiled for him, but in that smile there was only sadness, not joy.
Inside the kasir, dozens of men were gathered, men of the Grand Duchy. The conversation in the room dropped to a whisper as Nikandr and Atiana entered. All eyes were upon them.
Without being given a command, the crowd parted, creating an aisle toward a central table where Konstantin Bolgravya and Leonid Dhalingrad stood. As Atiana and Nikandr walked side by side toward them, the polkovnik, Andreya Antonov, and his aides bowed their heads and left.
Konstantin stepped forward first, kissing Atiana’s hand and then taking Nikandr into a tight embrace. As they kissed one another’s cheeks, he said, “It’s a wonder you’re alive.”
“It is a wonder even to me, My Lord Duke.”
Konstantin glanced to Atiana, who nodded soberly. “I’m sorry for your loss, Nischka. Iaros was a great man.”
“Thank you,” Nikandr replied, though he knew how emotionless his words must sound.
At a clearing of Leonid’s throat, Konstantin bowed his head and returned to Leonid’s side.
To Nikandr’s great surprise, Leonid stepped forward as well. The Leonid Nikandr knew would have stood there and waited for Nikandr to approach him. The old duke held Nikandr by the shoulders, staring at him with a comforting look. It looked strange on Leonid, this hawk of a man, and it warred with his haggard eyes and long white beard that made him look more like one of the haunting statues that graced the Grand Duchy’s mausoleums. They hugged and kissed cheeks, but instead of releasing him, Leonid held him tight and whispered into his ear. “I am sorry for your loss, Nischka. It was your father that saw us through this war. Because of him, we now stand victorious.”
As he rubbed Nikandr’s shoulders compassionately, a notion came to Nikandr. It was foolish. Preposterous. And yet it was something he couldn’t shake, and when Leonid pulled Nikandr back and stared deeply into his eyes, it began to set like clay.
Nikandr knew… Knew his father’s death had not been from some act of war. Knew it hadn’t been an accident. He knew it had been planned, and the one who’d set that plan in motion was staring at him as if he were his own son.
With Zhabyn and Iaros both dead, the mantle of Grand Duke would fall to Leonid. Council would be held, but there was no doubt as to what the outcome would be, especially since Leonid had been the one to finish this battle. He would be the one to reap the rewards.
“I hope you’ll bring my regrets back to Khalakovo with you,” Leonid said.
“Where is my father?”
At this, Leonid’s eyes changed. Though it would be imperceptible to everyone else, Nikandr saw them harden, and his expression of sympathy faded. He released Nikandr and snapped his fingers. A page boy came forward and bowed. “Take what time you need,” Leonid said, “but then return. There is much to do before the city is secured.”
With those simple words, Nikandr understood that Leonid meant to take Baressa, to take Galahesh as another island in the Grand Duchy. It was a bold move. The Kamarisi was dead, but his eldest son would now take the throne, and he would bend his will against Anuskaya in order to take back what was his.
But really this was the only course of action Leonid could take. He was not one given to diplomacy. He saw things only as property to be won, held, or coveted. Perhaps in time they could have settled this dispute peaceably with Yrstanla. But not now. Not unless another duke was given the mantel.
There was this and much more to consider, but for the time being Nikandr could concentrate on none of it.
He wanted only to look upon his father.
To say farewell.
In a room deep beneath Kasir Yalidoz, Nikandr held Atiana’s hand. The two of them stood before the bodies of their fathers, which had been wrapped carefully in white cloth and set upon slabs of bright white marble. Three lanterns hung from nearby posts. Wooden coffins rested beyond the marble slabs, ready to accept the bodies of the dukes for transport back to Vostroma and Khalakovo.