His reserves were beginning to dwindle, and though he gave as much of himself as he could to the hezhan, he soon found himself unable to ascend.
And then he began to fall, slowly at first, but with growing velocity.
He tried one last time to find the Chaika, but he knew it was no use. But then, far below him, he found the light he’d seen from the perch. The Strovya. The kapitan had been told to remain dark throughout the infiltration and escape, but there it was, a lantern swinging back and forth on the deck.
He used the wind to push himself toward it, allowing himself to fall faster to conserve his strength while guiding himself in the right trajectory. Then, when he came within a hundred paces of the ship, he called upon the hezhan, giving more of himself than he ever had before.
The hezhan responded, but it was too late. He was falling too quickly, and there was nothing he could do.
But then he saw the sails. They were bowed, full of the strong northern winds.
Nikandr pushed himself toward it with his last strength.
He fell into the canvas just below the head of the sail, sliding downward, scraping against the seams, until the sail’s wide foot caught him like a butterfly in a net. The sail sprung back and threw him forward. His leg caught against the boom, sending him twisting through the air to land hard against the deck.
He felt something in his ribs give. Stars filled his vision for long moments. He stared upward at the sail that had saved his life and the blackness beyond, wondering at how close he had come to death.
A lantern approached, carried by the ship’s young kapitan. He was followed quickly by several crewmen.
“Douse the light,” a raucous voice called.
It was the rook, Vikra, giving Nikandr the answer to the question of who had ordered the lantern to be lit.
It came mere moments before he passed out.
Nikandr woke to Syemon, the ship’s pilot, who also served as the physic, hovering over him with a cup of vodka, administering it to him slowly. Nikandr coughed and waved the man away, realizing they’d moved him to the kapitan’s cabin.
He was beneath a blanket wearing only his small clothes. He tried pulling himself up, but thought better of it when the room started to spin.
“How long?” he asked.
“Only a few hours. You hit the deck hard, My Lord Prince, but not as hard as you might’ve.”
Syemon had a wicked scar that ran across his right eye. The color in his eye had gone nearly white, and it unnerved Nikandr. It made him feel as though the old gull could see right into his soul.
Though the man hardly needed any special insight into Nikandr’s abilities with the wind. The men whispered it in their bunks, and it had been passed through the ranks of Khalakovo, first as rumor and then as legend. No one spoke of it openly, and many of them secretly wanted to be with a kapitan that could control the wind; others were wary of it, claiming it wasn’t right for a Landed man to touch the wind as the Motherless wizards do.
“Bring Vikra to me.”
Syemon bowed his head. “Beg pardon, My Lord Prince, but the rook’s gone quiet.”
Nikandr nodded, pulling himself up in the bunk. The dizziness returned, but not so bad as before. “Then bring Soroush here.”
“My Lord?”
“Go on,” Nikandr said, nodding toward the cabin door.
Syemon left with a deep bow, and while Nikandr sat at the edge of the bunk, clearing his head, he heard the sounds of the men on deck, the kapitan calling to the men, the snap of canvas as a sail caught a whorl in the wind.
Outside the cabin door, the sounds of boots on the planking approached, and the door opened with a creak and a groan. Syemon stepped aside and allowed two of the streltsi assigned to the ship to half carry, half drag Soroush into the cabin before tossing him to the floor.
The heavy iron manacles on his arms and legs clinked as he pulled himself off the floor. He wore outer robes of white and inner robes of yellow. His beard was long and unkempt, but other than fresh abrasions along his cheek and jaw, he seemed to be in good health. His turban was gone, however, making him seem lost and alone and frail-qualities Nikandr would never have thought to associate with Soroush. It seemed as though the Aramahn had robbed him of much more than his freedom, but then he stared up at Nikandr, recognition flickered, and his eyes became as cold and piercing as they’d ever been.
“Remove his manacles,” Nikandr said, pulling one of the two chairs out from the kapitan’s desk and setting it next to Soroush. Syemon hesitated as Nikandr pulled out the other chair and sat in it heavily. “Then leave us.”
Syemon bent down, though he appeared hesitant to comply until Soroush held out his hands. Syemon unlocked the manacles, then he bowed and ushered the streltsi out, closing the door behind him.
“Please,” Nikandr said in Anuskayan, motioning to the empty chair.
Soroush pulled himself up off the floor slowly. He lowered himself to the seat of the chair, wincing as he went; then he leaned back and regarded Nikandr, nostrils flaring, eyes darting, his long hair and beard rolling down his chest.
For long moments Nikandr could do nothing but stare. He had never truly been alone with Soroush, and it was unnerving, no matter how much he might be in the advantage. This was a man who had orchestrated dozens of deadly attacks on the northern duchies and helped to supply many more in the south. Scores had died at his hands; hundreds had been wounded. And here Nikandr was, sitting in his company as if none of that had ever happened. Nikandr felt the weight of his father on him. He felt like a traitor, as if even speaking to Soroush, no matter the cause, was little more than high treason.
And yet they shared a very personal connection. Rehada. They had both loved her, and in her own way she had loved them as well, and if this were true, how could they not share a certain bond, tenuous though it may be?
Soroush must have felt it too, for he was studying Nikandr with something akin to contemplation. Or forbearance. Or mercy. Mercy. As if Nikandr might be spared from the judgment he’d long ago meted out to the Landed.
Nikandr took from the shelves above the kapitan’s desk a bottle of araq, something he had specifically asked to be placed here for this conversation. He poured two small glasses of the golden red liquid and set one on the desk near Soroush. The other he took back to his seat. He drank a healthy swallow of the bright, sweet liquor, hints of fig and pomegranate washing down his throat. To drink before he’d even formally offered the liquor to the man sitting across from him was considered very rude among the Landless, but Nikandr wanted him to understand the terms under which they were speaking.
Nikandr held his glass high and nodded toward Soroush’s. Soroush didn’t move, so Nikandr downed the rest of his drink in one swallow, slapped the glass down on the desk, and asked Soroush, “Do you know where I was before you took Nasim from Bolgravya’s ship?” He was referring to the time after Ghayavand, after Nasim had awoken. Grigory had hoped to bring Nasim back as a prize for Zhabyn Vostroma, but before he could the Maharraht had found his ship and whisked Nasim up from the deck.
“Have you come so far to ask me of Nasim?” His voice was scratchy, but it had the same liquid timbre he remembered.
“We had just come from Ghayavand. We had bonded-you know this-and together Nasim and I used our bond so that he might be healed, and in doing so heal the rift, just as you were trying to use him to rip it wide.”