Rehada was transferred to another man, who gripped her elbow forcefully.
Rehada felt someone’s hand reaching inside the large pocket of the cherkesska she still wore. “Your circlet will remain here,” the sotnik said. She guessed it was as much for the other man’s benefit as it was hers. “May the fates guide your way,” he said, offering her an ancient Aramahn saying at their parting. He kissed her forehead, quickly, tenderly, and then his footsteps receded and she was led deeper into the cave.
They came upon an incline and eventually stairs. She was terribly cold now, though she didn’t know why it had taken so long to register. The wind upon the open sea had been much colder, but the memories of the goedrun and the threat of dry heaving were the foremost in her mind. Now there was time to think. And feel.
She tripped several times, for the man said little while guiding her upward.
“It would go faster if I could see.”
“The blindfold remains,” he said gruffly.
The climb upward was interminably long. Sweat tickled her scalp. It ran down her forehead and the small of her back. Her legs burned terribly, to the point where she had to ask to rest several times on the ascent, until finally they came to a place that felt warmer.
“Wait here,” the gruff man told her. His heavy footsteps receded and another hushed conversation was held. Then a door opened and closed with a heavy and echoing thud.
She waited, standing, not knowing where the man had gone, not knowing where she was, though she assumed she now stood in the bowels of Radiskoye.
Now that she was still she realized it was not warm at all. It had merely been the exertion and the relative increase in temperature that had given her that impression. The sweat on her body was drying and the cool air of the room was beginning to sink deep beneath her skin, so she found herself shivering horribly, an impression she did not want to give.
She began to wonder why she was being left alone for so long. Though her hands were tied she could easily have taken the rope off, but she did not want to be found with it off after she had been told to keep it on, despite how foolish it seemed now that they had come so far. She had felt like this many times before-being placed in a position of subservience to the Landed. They seemed to revel in it-keeping the Aramahn beneath them-and she found some of her old hatred returning. She wondered if she had made a mistake by coming here, whether she should fabricate a story and let Soroush do what he would. Let fate take its natural course.
But she could not. This was not about her, or Soroush, or the guard who took enjoyment from stepping on her pride. This was about the world, Erahm, and her sister, Adhiya, and the course that the two of them would take from this point forward. If there was anything more important, she didn’t know what it might be.
The door ahead of her opened, and she heard only one set of footsteps enter the room. She thought at first it was the man who had led her up, but she smelled on the air the scent of myrrh, which the aristocracy of the Grand Duchy had seemed to favor in recent years, so she knew it must be someone of import, and since the footsteps had sounded heavy, like a man’s, she could only assume it would be one in particular.
“I hope you are well, Iaros son of Aleksi.”
There came a soft chuckle. Footsteps approached and finally the blindfold was pulled away.
She squinted momentarily, even though the only light was from a small copper lamp sitting on a nearby bench. There was a wooden rack with pegs that held several woolen sweaters and oiled canvas coats. Thick leather boots sat jumbled in one corner.
Iaros, strangely enough, wore a wool cherkesska, and not of the sort a duke would wear. It was simple and weatherworn, the kind of no-nonsense garb a traveling merchant might use. He looked the same as he had several years before, the only time she had seen him up close. He had a gray beard with a sprinkling of brown still remaining, trimmed so that it hung partway down his chest. He was balding, but there were tufts of hair on the very top of his head.
The strange thing was how composed he looked, how free of care even after everything that had happened. His palotza was besieged, his Duchy at grave risk and had been for weeks, but one would wonder whether he was going out for a ride in the countryside as little as he seemed to show it.
There were two doors. From behind the one Iaros had used to enter the room she could hear men gathering and talking softly.
“You were my son’s lover,” Iaros said, pulling her attention back to him.
She smiled, wondering whether he was trying to put her off balance. “I was not aware that our relationship had ended.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “and discuss it with Nikandr when I see him again.”
“And when might that be?”
She hoped that if he had any information about Nikandr that he would share it, but instead he simply frowned and shrugged his shoulders. “When the ancestors see fit to reunite us. Now you’ve come a terribly long way and through more than a little bit of danger to speak with me. What is it you want?”
She was hesitant at first-it felt like speaking with the enemy-but once she started, she found the floodgates opening wide. She told him of her knowledge of Nasim and how he had come to land on Khalakovo, how Ashan had stolen him away from the Maharraht, how he had summoned the suurahezhan and her assumptions as to why it had happened. She told him that Nasim would now have been recovered by the Maharraht. She told him of the grave danger Khalakovo was now in, and the ritual that Soroush would perform this very day at sunset. She knew that she was giving up more information than a woman like her should have, but she didn’t care.
Iaros’s expression changed little during the entire exchange, and when she was done, he combed his beard with his fingers, studying her face as the silence lengthened.
“You are Maharraht?” he asked plainly.
So conditioned was she to hide the truth that a denial nearly came from her lips before she could prevent it, but instead she took a deep breath and looked him in the eye and replied, “ Da.”
“Then tell me, why should I believe a word of this? Why shouldn’t I stand the gibbet in the courtyard above and let you hang from it?”
This was the moment she had feared the most-the point at which Iaros would have to decide if she was telling the truth. She had thought long and hard on how to convince him, but she knew that any profession of honesty would fall upon deaf ears. So she said the only thing she could.
“Because I love your son.”
Iaros’s head jerked back and his eyes widened momentarily. “Pardon me?”
“Perhaps such a thing is hard for you to believe, but it is so.”
“Does he return your love?”
“ Nyet,” she said flatly. “I do not think he does.”
“Then why? Why risk everything for a man who cares less for you than you care for him?”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. Nikandr was a bridge. A bridge I needed to return to myself. Strangely enough, Atiana served in much the same manner. I can no longer follow the path of revenge and hatred. I must follow the path of healing, for Nikandr, for my daughter, even for you.”
“So kind of you.”
“I don’t care whether you appreciate it or not.”
“Well, forgive me if I find this all difficult to believe, but perhaps there is a way to determine whether you’re telling the truth.”
“How?”
“We’ll ask Nikandr about it when we see him.”
She glanced at the door, hearing more men gathering behind it. “And how will we do that?”
Iaros nodded toward the door that would lead back down to the caverns. “Why, the same way you entered.”
CHAPTER 60
Nikandr knew that a soulstone had been placed into his palm-there was no mistaking the feeling of a stone once it touches the skin-but he had to admit that it didn’t feel like his. He knew enough to keep it hidden until Atiana and Grigory had left, though in an attempt to appear nonchalant, and after the beating he’d received from the streltsi, he nearly dropped it. His hands didn’t completely betray him, however, and soon, thankfully, they had left.