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“Ranos?”

“Has begun the attack on the eyrie.”

“Then we’ll be alone?”

The rook tilted its head backward and cawed as grape shot whizzed through the air above them. “It appears so, Khalakovo, but it may not hold.” It flapped its wings and took to the air. “It may not hold,” it repeated as it flew over the edge of the ship and dropped from view.

Ashan, who hadn’t moved during the fighting, woke himself and climbed the stairs to reach the aftcastle. “We have reached land,” he said to Nikandr.

“After the next cannon shot, drift down as we agreed,” Nikandr called, “and prepare the skiffs.”

At the calls from the ship’s master, two dozen streltsi stormed up from belowdecks and moved themselves into the two skiffs waiting on either side of the deck.

The aft cannon fired, but its aim was too low and it tore a meaningless hole into the hull of the Kavda. As soon as the shot had been fired, every-one-the crew and Rehada and Ashan-grabbed onto whatever they could. The next moment, the dhoshaqiram allowed much of the buoyancy to leave the windwood, and the Adnon plummeted.

As soon as the Kavda was lost from view, the waiting streltsi filed into the skiffs. Ashan, Rehada, and Nikandr moved to the one on the landward side. Once they were seated, the crewmen above began cranking the windlass like madmen, letting out the stout ropes that held the skiff secure. The other skiff followed suit, and soon they were floating free of the ship’s seaward sails.

The wind was strong. It threatened to swing them into the sails, but these men were seasoned. They raised the skiff ’s sails quickly and released the catches on the two steel clamps securing the ropes.

Ashan, working alone, used the two ropes attached to the lower corners of the sail to guide the ship. He was their lone havaqiram, but he was exceptional, and he guided the ship forward and downward smoothly and quickly. The other skiff, steered by a younger havaqiram, was having trouble with the wind, but he was a man Father had sworn by, and he seemed to be holding his own.

The Adnon, now far above and ahead of them, was nearly lost from sight, but the Kavda had lowered further-perhaps overcompensating for the sudden drop of the Adnon. Nikandr was sure that they would launch skiffs of their own, but they continued doggedly. Nikandr was watching the deck closely when a silhouette stepped to the gunwales and looked downward through the swirling snow.

He could not be sure-he could see no clear details-but something inside him knew that it was Atiana. He nearly called out to her, but it was a foolish notion, quickly discarded. She would not hear him, and if she could, so could the others on the ship. Above all, it was pointless. He could do nothing to help her-assuming help was needed at all.

Their ship was drawn downward into a thickening curtain of white. They landed without incident, though as soon as they did they heard a long, ragged line of musket fire come to them through the swirling snow. The shouting of men-a battle cry-and cannon fire sounded in reply. From a further distance-muted by the weather-were more cannon shots. The nearer conflict must be the battle for Volgorod, and the farther was surely Ranos’s desperate attempt to wrest back the eyrie. With those two loci and their relative distances judged by the cannon fire, it didn’t take long for Nikandr to determine where they were. He had judged the distance well. They were no more than a half-league from the site of the suurahezhan’s crossing, the event that had started all of them on this long and winding path.

As the streltsi gathered their equipment and readied themselves, Nikandr beckoned Rehada and Ashan and the two Aramahn from the second skiff.

“Can you do anything about the snow?” Nikandr asked Ashan.

“You wish me to stop it?”

“ Nyet, I’d like more to cover our approach.”

Ashan nodded. “I’ll see what can be done.”

Atiana felt her legs move, felt them lead her about the ship. She tried to stop, to simply stand still, but when she did her muscles, her very bones, screamed in pain, and she was forced to relent. She tried to speak, and once even managed a guttural sound, but then Grigory’s mother exerted her control once more, relegating Atiana to watching as she decided what Atiana would do.

Atiana should have been able to protect herself from the Matra’s attack, but Alesya had hidden her intentions well. It made Atiana wonder how many times Alesya had done this before. Plenty, she thought, and there was a growing certainty within her that Alesya would not allow her to pass this information along to anyone. When the need for her had passed she would take an unfortunate fall, she would tumble into the sea, and Grigory would deliver grave apologies to Vostroma for their loss.

Alesya had rooted from her mind the location of the rift and had bid Grigory to set sail for it. She wanted him to prevent whatever it was that Khalakovo was planning with the Maharraht. She wanted for him to return the hero, to set up Bolgravya as the savior in this conflict.

As the ship flew through the snow toward Volgorod, the sounds of cannon fire broke. A massive clipper came abaft of the Kavda. The boatswain issued a recognition signal, receiving the correct answer in reply. The clipper, a battle-tested ship flying the colors of Nodhvyansk, settled into line with the Kavda. As it did, Atiana could feel the presence of a soulstone.

Nikandr’s soulstone.

Atiana was confused. This was a phenomenon spoken of in the annals of the Grand Duchy, but not in recent years. To feel someone, anyone, outside the bounds of the aether was extremely rare, and Atiana assumed it was related to her proximity to the rift-or perhaps the weather, which, after hours on deck, had left her numb, much as she would be while taking the dark. Whatever the reason, she knew with certainty that Nikandr was aboard a ship off the windward bow. She desperately tried to hide this from Alesya, but it was not something she had learned how to do. To think about hiding something was to think about the thing itself, and that was all it took for Alesya to sense what she had learned.

Alesya forced Atiana to turn from the gunwale and address Grigory, who stood near the helm. “Nikandr is nearby.” She pointed. “Just there.”

“How can you be sure?”

Alesya raised Atiana’s arm and touched her breast, where her soulstone lay. “There is more of a bond between Atiana and Nikandr than I would have guessed.”

Grigory frowned, but then he threw his arm toward the pilot and pointed in the same direction that Atiana had. “Change course.”

“ Da, Kapitan.”

And so they followed.

Cannon fire broke out, and a wounded Vostroman ship took shape from within the thick of the white snow and sped past them. Not long after, three ships could be seen, heading in the same direction as the Kavda.

Three more ships appeared, and soon after they were spotted all three broke off in different directions.

“Which?” Grigory asked Atiana.

Again she tried to hide the information by focusing on other things: the cold, the snow, her anger at being held prisoner within her own skin, but it was useless.

“The center,” Alesya said, pointing.

They followed the brigantine as the clipper behind them angled starward to pursue one of the other ships. Cannon fire tore into the hull. Surprisingly, Alesya’s fear stood out strongly. She ducked down, putting her hands over her head as the concussion traveled along the deck.

For a moment, Atiana could move again. She crawled forward of her own free will, but the next moment found herself trapped once more. Alesya forced her to stand. She composed herself, anger and embarrassment emanating from her.

In the confusion, Nikandr’s ship was lost in the drifting snow. Grigory called out for the Kavda to drop in pursuit. One moment everyone was grabbing onto ropes or railings or rigging, and the next moment Atiana’s stomach was in her throat. She held onto the rope of a nearby deadeye and held on for dear life, sure the ship would crash to the ground.