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He waited for what felt like an interminable period of time, convinced that the moment he looked at what he now held in his hand the gaoler would peer inside the room and discover it the very same moment he did.

He did not speak. That had been the excuse the gaoler had needed the last time to enter the room and beat him senseless with two Bolgravyan streltsi. Ashan had pleaded for them to stop, but the only thing that had done was to shift some of their attention to him. They had exercised some restraint with the older man, and for that Nikandr was glad.

As the minutes passed he realized that the stone was indeed his, but it had been tainted, and it didn’t take much to figure out why. Grigory, that baseless spawn of a goat, had worn it. He had done it so that Nikandr could feel his presence, so that he would always feel it. It would fade with time, as the memories would, but there would always be a part of Grigory imprinted upon the stone.

He could feel something else as well. Nasim… He was not imprinted upon the stone as Grigory was. Rather, it was more like Victania described the aether, how she could feel others at a distance though they were hundreds of leagues apart. This was how it felt with Nasim-as though he could call out and Nasim would answer. The only trouble was that he had no idea how to do such a thing.

He turned his back toward the door and opened his palm carefully. And there it lay. His stone. As alive as it had been after Nasim had somehow reawakened it. He wondered where the boy was now. The Maharraht wanted to use him to widen the rift, to create a gap that would lay waste to Uyadensk and perhaps the entire archipelago.

He could not risk speaking with Ashan. Not now. The only real course of action was the one that Atiana had given him: he had to reach his mother. You should have foreseen it, she had said, as well as your mother and father. She had clearly been referring to the attack that would be launched against Radiskoye. Her words were a warning to get out of this fort tonight, not only because they were apparently ready to move him but because an attack was imminent.

He gripped the stone tightly and closed his eyes, calling out to his mother. As always, he felt nothing in return. He never knew whether his calls had been heard until a rook found him or she told him so later. It was the nature of the aether, and there was more than a small chance that she would not hear him at all. The blockade had surely taken its toll. She had most likely been riding the winds for days by now, and her attention might be completely absorbed by other tasks. He also had no idea how strong she was after Nasim had attacked her. It was possible she was no longer as sharp as she once was.

But she was also the most gifted Matri of her generation. If anyone could overcome such odds, she could.

The gaoler entered the room nearly an hour later. It took Nikandr a moment to orient himself, so engrossed in concentration was he. The sunlight coming in through the small, high windows had started to dim.

The gaoler brought cold bowls of cabbage stew, though there was barely more than a handful with a small crust of bread soaking up what small amount of liquid there was. Still, after the meager meals he’d been given the last several days, he was glad to have anything to fill his stomach.

The gaoler left, closing the door behind him, and still Nikandr was silent. He dearly wanted to speak with Ashan, but he couldn’t risk it.

The sunlight dimmed until early dusk reigned. He began to despair. If Mother had heard him she most likely would have sent a ship to rescue him near dusk when it was still light enough to fly and when their arrival might be masked. If it became too dark, particularly with the overcast sky, it would be nearly impossible to mount a rescue. When full night finally arrived, he began to accept that he would not be saved.

He was startled some time later by the sound of the gaoler’s outer door opening. Two men talked, the door opened again, and then all was silence.

“Ashan,” Nikandr whispered, knowing they were finally alone.

Ashan was sitting in the corner of his cell furthest away from Nikandr.

His head was resting on his forearms, which were propped up against his bent knees. At Nikandr’s words he lifted his head and peered through the gloom. “Do not risk another beating, Nikandr.”

“I need to understand what happened on Ghayavand.” He held up his soulstone for Ashan to see. It glinted softly in the darkness.

“How did you?”

“Atiana. Now tell me, what does it mean? The stone was dead before I entered the tower, and now the life of it has returned, brighter than before. And I can feel Nasim… I can feel him just by touching the stone.”

“Sariya did nothing?”

“She was holding Muqallad back, preventing him from finding us.”

“Not us. Nasim.”

“Nasim, then.”

“And you said you had opened yourself to Nasim. Accepted him…”

“You know this. I’ve told you.”

Ashan frowned in concentration. “Pietr…”

Nikandr waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. He merely stared straight ahead, picking at his lips with thumb and forefinger.

“What about Pietr?”

Ashan shivered as he turned and looked at Nikandr. “In essence, Nasim sacrificed him.”

Nikandr coughed, trying and failing to understand the significance. “What of it?”

“He gave a life to draw you forth, creating a small rift in the aether which he used to draw you back. I wonder if the same could be done for Nasim.”

Nikandr coughed again, longer this time. The wasting seemed stronger here in Oshtoyets-either that or the disease was progressing faster. “I don’t understand.”

They were interrupted by the sound of the outer door opening once more. The gaoler was speaking with several men in his antechamber. Nikandr recognized one of them, and his blood went cold.

It was Borund.

They had come to take him away, and now it would be impossible to escape. Impossible.

Keys clanked in the door and Borund stepped in, followed by Grigory. Borund looked much thinner than he had weeks ago, though he had retained a certain heft. His dark beard was thicker as well, making him look more than a little like a wet bear.

“War doesn’t suit you, Bora.”

Borund laughed. The sound of it brought a host of fond memories from simpler times, but the look in his eye was the same as many-fear and distrust of those with the wasting. “I could say the same of you, Nischka.” Nikandr shrugged. “I do like flying more than fighting.”

Borund waved at Ashan’s cell door, and then Nikandr’s.

“I beg of you, Borund, listen to reason. Surely Grigory has told you that the Maharraht have stolen the boy. They’re planning something. They’re going to widen the rift that runs through Uyadensk. Let me go to my father and warn him. It’s not too late to bring this to a close before the very course of our lives changes forever.”

Grigory began to speak, but Borund raised his hand, giving Nikandr a clear indication that Zhabyn Vostroma was still very much in command. “Too late, Nischka. It was too late the moment you refused to hand over that boy, and to claim now that he is an enemy of Khalakovo reeks of desperation.”

Two streltsi picked Ashan up and led him out of the donjon as the gaoler unlocked Nikandr’s door.

Nikandr did not try to argue. Anything he said now would only cement Borund’s opinion. The only hope he had now was to speak with Zhabyn, to convince him that a trade with his father was in his best interests. Perhaps he would agree to give Nikandr over if Father agreed to give up Radiskoye. The decision could not be allowed to stand, but it would give Nikandr the time he needed to locate the Maharraht and stop them.