There were five of them-mounted men bearing muskets and black cherkesskas and brown kolpak hats cut in the shorter style of the southern Duchies. They had tall, strong ponies, which were probably fresh. One of the streltsi raised his weapon and waved it back and forth above his head, a signal for her to stop.
Stopping was not something she could afford. They would undoubtedly take her to the eyrie for questioning.
She spurred her pony to a full gallop. Her loosely tied babushka was pulled from her head by the wind, revealing the circlet upon her brow. The men shouted as she summoned the spirit bonded to her through the tourmaline gem. She felt the warmth upon her brow first, then through her cheeks and scalp and neck. It quickly suffused her frame as her pony-already breathing heavily-galloped on.
The thrill of her bond ran through her from the pit of her stomach to the knot in her throat. She turned in her saddle and cast her hand over the landscape. In a tight line over the grass that lay between her and her pursuers, fire blazed.
The men were well trained. The flames had jumped over the well-traveled trail, allowing the streltsi a path through the fire. They continued on with little drop in pace and leveled their muskets once they were beyond the wall of flame. The first of them fired a moment later. A musket ball struck the earth ahead of her. Another shot whizzed by. The next struck her pony in the chest.
It fell to the ground, throwing Rehada from its back.
She had been prepared for this, and had slowed the pony’s gait. She rolled away and came to her feet, standing her ground as the ponies charged and another musket shot struck the earth to her right.
She drew from the suurahezhan again, giving some part of herself to the spirit as she did so. It was no small amount, and she had not drawn such energy from Adhiya in a very long time. She felt her knees buckle as a ball of fire formed between her arms. The heat of it was painful and beautiful and exhilarating in the same breath, and when she released it, it was with a sense of longing and loss.
The ball of bright orange flame shot forth, striking the lead pony and its rider. Both fell to the ground, the pony screaming, the rider diving away and rolling on the grasses in an attempt at snuffing the flames.
The fire had sprayed against another strelet. Rehada fed this from the suurahezhan, pulling as much as she could manage. It was more than she had ever drawn from a single spirit, and she was already weakening to the point that her heart began to skip beats, her world began to close in around her, her vision was invaded by bright sparks of light.
Despite this she reveled in the feeling of touching Adhiya, of communing with the spirit. She nearly allowed the hezhan to take her, and she realized-almost too late-that this must be yet another result of the rift that ran through Volgorod. She bore down, cutting herself off from the suurahezhan. It fought her, but she was not so young in the craft to be taken in this manner, and the spirit was not so old that it was overly powerful.
Still, as she released the connection, her vision blackened and the world was lost from view.
When she opened her eyes, she was staring up at the sky. The sound of licking flames could be heard, so it could not have been long. She propped herself up on her elbows and took in the scene as the sickening smell of roasted flesh swept over her.
All five of the ponymen were dead. Four of the ponies were as well, and her own was dying, its blood still leaking from just below its ribs as it took breath in a rapid and shallow manner.
One of the ponies was still alive, and she remembered-now that she had achieved some distance-preventing the fire from striking it, though at the time the notion had been nearly drowned by her thirst for more contact with the suurahezhan.
She walked to the pony, knowing the streltsi at the eyrie and the ships in the sky-even the host of Matri who patrolled the island-would soon come to investigate.
“Come,” she said to the pony as she ran her hand down its neck. “We have a ways to go, you and I.”
With her circlet hidden away in the pouch at her belt, Rehada walked alone, her arms in clear sight, on the cobbled road leading up to the Boyar’s mansion. A guard of a dozen streltsi stood along a low stone wall ahead. Beyond them stood the walls of the mansion itself. The stout walls held an imposing iron gate at its two entry points, and there were now several hastily constructed barricades of stone along the road leading up to the gates, forcing anyone who wanted to enter to veer back and forth before reaching the gates themselves.
A sotnik raised his hand as she approached.
“I wish to see the Boyar,” Rehada said.
He stood taller. “And what would he want with you?”
“I bring news of Atiana Vostroma, who escaped Radiskoye only days ago.”
His expression turned grim, and he glanced back at the mansion before speaking again. “You can give the message to me.”
She was already shaking her head. “I have just come from Iramanshah,” she lied. “I bear a message from Fahroz Bashar al Lilliah herself, meant for the Boyar’s ears only.”
“That is impossible,” he said flatly.
“It concerns a threat posed by the Maharraht.” This much, at least, was true.
“Then tell me and it will be relayed through proper channels.”
“I will not.”
He looked uncomfortable, glancing back toward the mansion several more times. In the end he frowned and said, “Wait here.”
And wait she did. She had known that the eyrie had been taken. She had known that the blockade had been circling the island and Radiskoye ceaselessly since the duke of Vostroma had staged his revolt. What she hadn’t known was that ground troops had moved in around the palotza. She had discovered this upon reaching Volgorod.
The traitor Dukes had landed Polkovnik Andreya Antonov, the head of Vostroma’s military, as well as two thousand streltsi. They had positioned themselves on the shallow plain that lay between Volgorod and Palotza Radiskoye, securing footholds close to each of the prized locations.
Ranos Khalakovo, as Boyar of the Island of Uyadensk and sitting Posadnik of the City, had responded in kind, organizing his not-inconsiderable number of troops to the edges of the city, ready to respond should Andreya issue the order to attack.
Rehada had no idea how she was going to reach Radiskoye. Attempting to take a windship, even a skiff, would be foolish to say the least. Her passage would be sensed and a ship would cut off her approach well before she reached the palotza. Travel by water would not work either, as the palotza-even though it was near the water’s edge-rested atop tall, unscalable cliffs. Travel by land, given the position of Andreya’s forces, had also been taken from her.
And so she found herself making a decision that at first seemed foolish, but felt wiser in increments in light of the fact that her eventual goal was to reach the Duke of Khalakovo.
The noon hour passed, and she grew worried that this was taking too long. Soroush had said that they would move tomorrow, meaning she had little enough time in which to find Iaros, to convince him of her earnestness, and to give them time to prevent what was about to happen. What could be done at this point she wasn’t sure-Zhabyn Vostroma had a stranglehold on the island-but she was certain she didn’t stand a chance by herself. Only Iaros had the wherewithal to negotiate a cessation of hostilities or organize an outright attack to buy them time to deal with Soroush.
When the sotnik stepped out of the mansion and began walking over the expanse of stone leading to the gates, he was accompanied by Nikandr’s sister, Victania. She wore a blue dress, extravagant for a peasant woman but clearly plain for the Princess. Two braids wrapped around her head and tied her long brown hair back like an Aramahn circlet. Her face was grim as she came closer and finally stopped several paces away. “I was told you wish to speak to my brother.” “I do.” “That you have some knowledge of the Maharraht? A threat?” Rehada nodded.