By the ancients, Borund was protecting him.
He wondered, then, why Viktor had been sent. Perhaps Borund’s place on the throne of Khalakovo was not so strong as Nikandr had imagined. Or perhaps Viktor had come of his own accord.
Whatever the reason, it was clear that Borund thought it certain that Nikandr would need to die as well were he to confess to bringing the Maharraht to the shores of Khalakovo.
Borund turned to the gallows, finality in his eyes.
“Bora, I would not have brought them if I feared they would harm us. You must know this.”
Borund licked his lips. He swallowed.
“I brought them to the very doorstep of Radiskoye. Why would I have done this if I thought they meant us harm?”
Borund raised his arm.
“Borund, don’t!”
And brought it back down.
The hangman pulled the lever.
The trapdoors swung, and seven mahtar fell, jerking against the ropes. Their arms flailed. Their legs kicked. And then one by one, they all went still, while the wind sighed through the garden’s short trees and the surf called up from the cliffs.
Nikandr didn’t know how long after the hanging Borund began to read, but he heard his low voice, reading in somber tones the contents of the proclamation. “Let it be known that as of this day, the sentence of death for Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo is to be stayed, pending his duty to the Grand Duchy, which takes precedence. Upon successful execution of those duties, the stay shall be writ permanent.”
Upon this, the expressions of the Vostroman royalty turned to distaste. Viktor stared hard enough that Nikandr thought he might pull his pistol, shoot Nikandr in the chest, and be done with it once and for all.
While Nikandr stared at Borund, confused, the royalty and the streltsi began to disperse.
Borund turned to him. “You are to take command of the Lihvyen.”
Nikandr stared, the words of Borund’s proclamation still swirling in his mind. “For what purpose?”
Borund gripped the scroll so tightly it creased in the middle. “They’re attacking the spires, Nikandr. Last night, they destroyed the one on Ildova, and Mother fears they’ve done the same thing to the spire on Tolvodyen.”
Nikandr was numb. He could hear the creaking of the ropes as the bodies swung in the wind. The notion that Yrstanla was attacking the spires didn’t make sense, and he could only think to ask one simple question. “Why?”
“We don’t know. It’s sent a wave of storms through the islands of Vostroma and Nodhvyansk… We’ve never seen the like.” Borund stared deeply into Nikandr’s eyes. “If you want to protect the Grand Duchy, as you say you do, then go. Use the gifts the ancients have given you. What few ships we’ve held back in the North are gathering. More ships will be outfitted from the merchants, but you must go now. Take the Lihvyen. Stop them from taking Vostroma.”
Nikandr looked up to the men and women swinging from the ropes of the gallows. “We are not done with this, Borund.”
“We’re done for now,” he said as he turned his back on Nikandr and began walking away. “If you’re still of the mind, take it up with me on your return.” The sky was gray and the wind was blustery. A scout ship had been sent out in advance of the wing of ships Nikandr now flew with. He commanded the Lihvyen and seven other ships-all that could be cobbled together from the ships that hadn’t already been sent to defend Vostroma.
Nikandr stood at the Lihvyen’s helm, working the levers of the rudder while Jahalan and Anahid stood amidships summoning the wind and controlling the Lihvyen’s heft. Near the helm stood a wooden perch. Upon it, tethered with a leather cord, was a black rook. It had been silent for nearly a day. Over the last three days, Victania and Mother and Borund’s wife, Nataliya, had assumed the form of the rook and spoke to him of the latest news-such as it was. None of them had so far been able to penetrate the storm surrounding Vostroma, and when the ships had approached the nearest of Vostroma’s islands the rook had gone silent. No doubt the Matri were trying to penetrate the storm, but had so far been unable to do so.
Nikandr reached up and pulled his soulstone out. It had been resting against his skin, the way he preferred it, but he had taken it out every few hours to see if he could sense something-anything-from the Matri. While holding himself steady against the helm and gripping the stone in his right hand, he opened his mind to the darkness between worlds. He called to his mother, to Victania. He called to Atiana, hoping in vain that she would hear him, that she would know that he would come to find her when he could. But as it had been every other time since the rook had gone silent, he felt nothing. Nothing at all. It left him feeling cold, colder than the bitter winter wind could account for.
Elykstava, the first of the islands in the Vostroman archipelago, sat east of their position. They had bypassed it on their way south, reasoning that the forces of Yrstanla would not have come so far north. There was part of him that wanted to continue past Vostroma and on to Galahesh, but he’d heard no word of Atiana or Ishkyna or their father, the Grand Duke. Another part of him wanted to go to Galostina to find his father, but this would be a foolish course of action as well. Yrstanla was attacking here, and if they’d learned anything in the past few days, it was that their spires must be protected at all costs.
Something caught Nikandr’s attention near the horizon. He took his telescope and studied the western sky carefully. He soon found it-a small, six-masted cutter flying well beyond the safety of the ley lines. It was most likely a ship of the Grand Duchy, one that had fled the battle or been sent north to bring news. As he watched it became clear that the ship was adjusting course to meet them.
They allowed the ship to approach, and indeed, they saw men of Anuskaya standing at the gunwales, waving their arms, cheering. And no wonder, Nikandr thought. Their ship seemed barely held together. Massive holes from cannon shot marked the hull, and the sails had been hastily repaired-no doubt only in the last few days-from innumerable tears and holes. The masts were generally in good shape, though its two starward masts both had lengths of iron buckled along sizable cracks to prevent the upper lengths from snapping entirely.
“It’s good to see you,” Nikandr called across the distance to the kapitan, a man of Vostroma, as it turned out.
“Not as good as it is to see you,” he shouted back. He held a canister in one hand, a tube of wood they transferred to the Lihvyen with a length of cord.
Nikandr opened it and found a note contained within-news from Andreya Antonov. Ranos and Father had squared off against him during the Battle of Uyadensk, but Nikandr was glad to see him still alive, for he was a shrewd tactician. He wrote much the same news as they knew already-that the spires on Ildova and Tolvodyen had indeed been destroyed. He feared that the next to go would be Pradosht, for the forces of Yrstanla had landed and positioned themselves well. No doubt they would soon take the fort there and destroy the tower with gunpowder, either from the stores they’d brought or the stores in the very fort they sought to take.
He asked that the Duchies of Khalakovo and Mirkotsk and Rhavanki spare no effort to send all the ships available and to connect to the fleet that had formed around Kiravashya. They hoped to stop Yrstanla there before they could get to Palotza Galostina, and so they asked all ships to make haste there to receive orders from Andreya.
Nikandr read it again before rolling it up and putting it back in the tube. No doubt ships had been sent with similar messages eastward for Dhalingrad, Lhudansk, and Khazabyirsk, and southward for Nodhvyansk and Bolgravya.
“Have you more to deliver?” Nikandr called loudly to the other kapitan, holding up the tube.