Nikandr shook his head as he reined his pony northward, toward Eyrie Road. He had been such a fool. He should have suspected Rehada shortly after they’d met. He had been wracking his brain for the last week, trying to piece together the clues that should have been apparent from the start, but he had so far been almost completely unsuccessful. Only in Malekh had he found any small link from Rehada to the Maharraht. She had covered her tracks well-either that or Nikandr had convinced himself that because of her beauty, because of how different her world was from his, that she could not possibly mean him harm.
He had been a fool, but he would not change any of it. He had loved her-he was man enough to admit that now-and had things gone differently, he might never have come to know her as he had.
“Nikandr!” The sound of another pony trotting came to him, muffled by the thin layer of snow upon the ground.
Nikandr slowed his pony, but did not turn around.
Ranos pulled alongside him and matched his black mare to Nikandr’s cream-colored gelding. “Where are you headed?”
“None of your business, brother.”
They continued to ride in silence for a time, moving from the older section of the city to one that was newer, with smaller, half-timber frames and small yards behind stout stone walls.
“I don’t blame you for being reticent-there is much for you to consider, I’ll admit-but when the sun sets on this day, it must end. I need you.”
“I am not a bookkeeper, Ranos.”
“You will be running the shipping of our family.”
“I would do this family a greater service by flying a ship.”
“As you’ve made perfectly clear, but we can take no chances, not with Father being taken to Vostroma, not with Borund sitting on the throne of Radiskoye.”
Nikandr’s face burned as their ponies climbed up a curving stone bridge and down the other side. “Borund may find his seat difficult to keep.”
Ranos shook his head. “I will not discuss this again. Borund will be our liege for the next two years, and if anything happens to him-be it death from the plague or a fall from a height-Father’s life will be forfeit.”
Nikandr could still remember how the blood had drained from his face when he had learned what had happened. The battle for the eyrie had gone well, but Mother was horribly weakened. She had been the reason they could overpower the other Matri in the first place, but she had been left permanently crippled by her time with Nasim. With their communications restored, Zhabyn had been able to make better use of his superior numbers.
In little time they turned the tide, and Father had been caught off guard. His ship had been captured as well as that of Yevgeny Mirkotsk. Mirkotsk was offered his rightful place in the Grand Duchy if only Iaros would step down and allow Borund to take his place. It would be an arrangement that would last two years, during which time Iaros would become thrall to Vostroma. Mother would be forced to step down as well, though Nikandr knew that this was a much worse punishment than the one that awaited Father. Mother had been too close to the aether for too long to be separated from it now. She would die-Nikandr knew this-but there was no persuading Vostroma to allow anything different. They would kill her before they allowed her to take the dark again.
If there were no uprisings and if Khalakovo produced as they should, further sanctions would not be levied and Father’s title would be restored to him at the end of the two years.
A meeting had been held that very night in Radiskoye and Zhabyn had been selected as Grand Duke. He had accepted the newly made crown on Father’s throne.
Though his presence had been requested by Zhabyn himself, Father had not attended. He had elected to stay among the rooms on the lower levels that had such a short time ago been home to Nasim and Ashan, and later Atiana.
And now he was boarding a ship, ready to sail for Palotza Galostina.
Nikandr and Ranos continued their ride through the outskirts of Volgorod and up the slope toward the island’s central ridge. The wind was clearer here, unobstructed, and it cut through their heavy cherkesskas mercilessly, but neither of them spurred their ponies to move any faster. They were men of the Grand Duchy. The wind was a part of their bones.
They finally reached the ridge, at which point both of them stopped.
To the east stood Verodnaya. A third of the way down from the snowy peak was Radiskoye, a crystalline jewel among the hard black rock of the mountain. They could not see the palotza’s eyrie from this vantage, but they didn’t need to. The ship they were here to watch had already drifted upward from its perch and was now cutting westward. It was Vostroma’s largest ship. All sixteen of its masts took on sail, but Nikandr saw, even from this distance, the signs of battle upon the hull and the hastily repaired canvas. His father lay on board that ship, a prisoner to the man that had betrayed him.
It continued west, and though it was too distant for Nikandr to identify any individuals standing on the deck, there was, near the stern, someone holding a red bolt of cloth. It fluttered in the wind, and then it was released. It floated lazily behind the ship, making its way toward solid ground.
“And what pray tell is that?” Ranos asked.
“That, dear brother, is none of your business.”
Ranos studied Nikandr for a time. They had discussed Atiana many times over the past week, Ranos each time advising him to forget about her, but he knew as well as Nikandr that the cloth had been held by Atiana, that it had been sent as a sign of her love, and if Nikandr felt he should reserve some special place for her, then perhaps, after all of this, he deserved the right to do so.
“Farewell,” Ranos said softly.
This was not spoken to Nikandr, nor Atiana, but to their father.
“Farewell,” Nikandr repeated, for Father and Atiana, both.
When the ship had become no more than a mark on the horizon, Ranos pulled his reins over and began heading back toward the city. “Coming?” he said.
“I have business to attend to,” Nikandr said, and he spurred his pony in the other direction, toward Iramanshah.
Ranos said nothing in return. They had discussed how often he should visit the village, but on this particular day he was going to give him all the leeway he needed.
It took Nikandr three hours to reach Iramanshah. He was pressing to make it in such a short time, but it was necessary to get there by midday.
Ashan met him at the edge of the village.
“Come,” he said simply.
They continued through the narrow pass that led to the village and the valley that housed it.
“I leave tomorrow,” Ashan said simply.
Nikandr knew the day had been fast approaching. There were so many partings today that he was having trouble conceiving of just how much he would miss them all. Better for it to happen now, quickly. There was much for him to do in the days ahead, and it was best that he start it with a fresh mind.
“You go to look for Nasim?”
“ Da. He was spirited away three nights ago.”
Nikandr knew this already. He had felt it. The bond they shared lingered for days after, but then it began to fade, and he had known that they were taking him far, far away to a place where no one could manipulate him, to a place where he could be taught by the Aramahn mahtar in a way that they saw fit. The feeling had diminished over the course of the next day, and then, last night, it had simply vanished.
He didn’t know whether the feelings would reawaken when Nasim came near-perhaps they would cease altogether once they had been apart long enough-but Nikandr suspected that their bond would remain until one of them was dead.