Bradley P. Beaulieu
The Winds of Khalakovo
PART I
CHAPTER 1
In a modest home in the center of Volgorod, Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo sat in a simple wooden chair, considering the woman sleeping on the bed nearby. Dawn was breaking, ivory light filtering in through the small round window fixed high into the opposite wall. His woolen cherkesska lay across his lap, ready for him to slip into. His boots were already on.
The rumpled bedcovers left half of Rehada’s form uncovered. His eyes traced the curve of her shoulders, the soft valley of her spine, the arch at the small of her back. Her dark skin blended with the blanket and sheets-cocoa against crimson and cream. The air inside the room was chill, but Rehada would be warm, and he wanted nothing more than to slip beneath the covers, to return to her arms, however foolish it might be considering the family that had landed on the island the night before and the events of the coming day.
He gripped the arms of the chair, readying himself to head for the eyrie, when Rehada stirred. He paused, wondering what her mood would be now that the day had come.
She turned over, her dark eyes focusing on him slowly. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. “Will you see her?”
Nikandr shook his head. “I doubt she will brave the weather.”
Rehada paused. “Is she so frail?”
“Frail?” The hint of a smile touched his lips. “ Nyet. The Vostromans are not frail. But I fear she looks upon this marriage in the same manner as I.”
“And how is that?”
“Have I not told you?” he chided.
“Tell me again.”
He stood and took a step toward the door. “As an unwelcome obligation.”
She leaned on one elbow. The covers draped over her waist, accentuating the bow of her hip, the lines of her thighs. A mole marked her left breast, just above the nipple. Anyone else might think there was little emotion inside her, but Nikandr knew the signs. She was hurt.
He glanced up at the window and the brightening sky. He could, perhaps, justify a short delay.
He was nearly ready to go to her when his stomach clenched. That painful, familiar feeling had returned, and it was all he could do to mask it from Rehada.
It was a scene they’d played out a handful of times already. She studied him, confused but unwilling to voice her concerns when he was so clearly unwilling to share. Words of explanation nearly slipped from his mouth, but as he’d done so many times before, he remained silent. This was not something he could share with her. Not yet.
“Go,” she said, turning away from him and lying down. “And give your bride a kiss for me.”
The pain was growing worse-perhaps a sign from the ancients. Either way, he was late.
He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, and though he left without another word, the scent of her jasmine hair haunted him throughout the cold and empty streets.
As his pony crested the snow-covered hill, Nikandr squinted from the reflection of the morning sun. The walrus tusk cartridges on the bandolier across his chest clacked as he shifted position in the saddle. Although the wind was brisk and bitter, it had been a long ride and he had long since grown accustomed to it.
The road ahead lay empty-a change from the previous hour, which had brought a score of wagons and coaches heading in the opposite direction toward Volgorod. He could not yet see the eyrie on its high cliff, but its presence could be felt. A dozen ships, waiting for their berth, held position among the burly white clouds. The ships bore goods or dignitaries, or both, in anticipation of the coming Council. Most would return home immediately in hopes of flying the circuit again before Council finished three weeks hence, but some-those whose homes were too distant or whose master’s only purpose was to treat with the gathered royalty-would remain for the duration.
As Nikandr continued down the slope, a massive galleon belonging to the Duchy of Mirkotsk climbed and arced northward, passing high overhead. Four masts were affixed in each of the primary directions: starward, landward, seaward, and windward, sixteen in all. It was a large ship, difficult to pilot, but that was no excuse for the way it was heeling to its windward side. He cupped his hands to his mouth and called like a gull, wishing it safe journey. Moments later, several of the men hanging among the lower rigging waved.
Soon the eyrie came into view. It lay at the edge of the sea, affixed to a towering gray cliff that separated the dark waters from the steady rise of the hills beyond. From this distance the five long quays built into the face of the cliff looked like natural stone ledges, but he knew that each had been built painstakingly by Aramahn stone masons over the course of a decade. The quays each held twelve stout perches that were supported by graceful sweeps of stone as they extended outward from the cliff; they were used to moor, lade, and unlade the windships. The eyrie was-as troubling as it sometimes seemed-the heart of commerce for Khalakovo, the goods it brought the life blood. Windsmen and landsmen-hundreds of them-unladed the cargo and hauled it along the ramps leading up from the quays to the eyrie’s grand courtyard-a cluster of offices, warehouses, and auction squares that stood on a wide plateau at the edge of the cliff.
A coach pulled by four ponies passed Nikandr on the road, the driver bowing his head as he passed. Nikandr waited for it to crest the hill behind him before retrieving a silver flask from inside his woolen cherkesska. After downing a healthy swallow of the bittersweet brew, he shoved the flask back into his coat. The warmth of the draught suffused his gut, doing its best to quell the feelings of unease that had been his constant companion over the last two months.
He kicked his pony into a trot and covered the last half-league quickly. Once inside the eyrie’s courtyard, he steered his pony toward a handful of stone buildings near the first of the cannon emplacements. Wagon wheels clattered over the cobblestones as drivers maneuvered through the space. Gulls circled above, while below an auctioneer called out to a small crowd of men wearing fine wool coats. After giving his pony over to a stable boy, Nikandr entered the lobby of the administration office and found the eyrie master, Aleksei, among the orderly rows of desks on the far side of the brass-and-marble counter. Aleksei was inspecting a ledger while a younger man looked nervously on. When he finally pulled his nose from the ledger, and the man beside him nodded and ran off, Nikandr caught his eye with a wave of his hand.
Aleksei was a balding man with a trim black beard. He wore spectacles upon his nose and-despite the chill interior of the building-a sheen of sweat upon his brow. His expression upon recognizing Nikandr was a mixture of exasperation and relief, but then it turned to one of businesslike seriousness as he pulled his spectacles from around his ears, bowed his head, and motioned Nikandr to join him in his office.
Nikandr stepped into the austere room and turned his gaze to the iron perch in the corner beyond Aleksei’s impeccably neat desk. Resting on the perch was an impressive black rook with a golden band about its ankle. The band made it clear that this bird was a member of the palotza’s rookery, a beast ready to serve Nikandr’s mother, Saphia, should the need arise. Thankfully Nikandr could not feel her presence through the chalcedony soulstone around his neck, so he knew her attention was currently elsewhere.
Were there a choice, Nikandr would have held this conversation outside of his office, but he couldn’t speak to Aleksei where there was any risk of being overheard-not about this-and he didn’t wish to raise Aleksei’s curiosity by calling him away from his normal duties.
“My Lord Prince…” Aleksei swept around to the front of his desk and set the ledger down, motioning to the polished leather chair across from him. “What might I do for Palotza Radiskoye.”