He paused as the others left. He had been having trouble eating, and his ribs were gaunt. They had already seen him in the bath house, but it was dim there, and steamy. Outside it would be bright, his condition more evident. But, he realized, there was nothing to draw attention to a problem like trying to cover it up-act confident, his father had always told him, and they will believe it is true-so he caught up to the others quickly, stepping into the snow as if nothing at all were the matter.
After so long in the heat, the cold was invigorating. One by one, the men tossed their towels onto the nearby racks and slid onto the fresh blanket of snow that covered the shallow steps down to the lower level of the terrace. They slid, turning like penguins as they went. Young Edis took a running leap onto it, twisting and hollering as he went. Zhabyn took a more stately approach, catching himself carefully with his hands and then thrusting forward, sliding slowly down after the other men.
Without a word being spoken between them, Borund and Nikandr both took two loping steps and dove toward the terrace railing. For a split second Nikandr thought about ceding the lead, but if Borund sensed he was doing such a thing it would cause more damage than could possibly be mended, and so he launched himself with all his might, sliding and laughing as he went. They used their arms to continue the slide, moving closer and closer to the railing. He was clearly going to make it there first-Borund’s belly had become too rounded for him to keep his speed up-but then Borund grabbed Nikandr’s wrist and yanked him backward. The underhanded trick gave him enough momentum to reach the railing first, and when he did, he slapped it soundly and rolled onto his back, laughing all the while.
“You were always too skinny for your own good!”
Nikandr gave him a sour look and slapped the wooden railing, only then allowing himself to roll around in the snow, cooling skin that had spent the last hour building and storing the heat of the bathhouse. He got to his knees and looked over at Borund. “Fat will get you in the end, Bora.”
Bora stood and turned so that his large, hairy backside was staring Nikandr in the face. “It already has, Nischka!”
The other men laughed as Nikandr grabbed a handful of snow and whipped it at Borund. Borund tiptoed away, howling and grabbing one cheek as the laughing increased.
“Enough,” Zhabyn said as he approached.
There was an indulgent smile on Zhabyn’s face, but no laughs, not from the Duke of Vostroma. There never were.
He held two towels. One of them he handed to Nikandr; the other he ran down his beard, which was flecked with snow and sweat. After scrubbing the back of his neck and his hairy chest, he wrapped it around his waist and waited until Nikandr had done the same.
“We haven’t yet had a chance to talk, you and I.”
“ Nyet, My Lord Duke,” Nikandr said, bowing his head, “something I’ve been hoping to remedy.”
They had seen one another early this morning when Nikandr had finally signed the marriage documents, but they’d hardly spoken a dozen words to one another. Zhabyn had seemed furious, his face stern, his jaw set grimly, and Nikandr had been nervous to say anything for fear of angering Father or Zhabyn or both. The signing had finished with Zhabyn leaving the room with only a perfunctory nod to Father on his departure.
Thankfully he seemed to have cooled since then. He had greeted Nikandr in the bath cordially if not warmly, and now he was regarding Nikandr with something like acceptance. He motioned to the corner of the terrace, a place far from the other men. “This would seem like the perfect time, my young Prince.”
They strode together and stood near the railing, both of them staring out across the island and the churning green seas below. There was little wind, but the cold was beginning to invade the soles of Nikandr’s feet.
In the silence that followed, Nikandr found himself edgy and uncomfortable. When he was very young, he had been petrified of Zhabyn, and though those feelings had eventually been replaced with a mixture of awe and resentment, traces of that scared little boy had stubbornly remained. Even now, though he was a Prince, an heir to the scepter of Khalakovo, he felt inadequate standing before him.
He also recognized that it was time for these feelings to stop. Zhabyn had never been an overly kind man, but neither had he been cruel, and Nikandr vowed to right his unwarranted feelings; they were the remnants of his youth, nothing that should be allowed to taint the relationship with his second father.
“I am most sorry for yesterday, My Lord Duke. Much has happened over the last few days, and I will admit that my mind wasn’t in the right place, but I tell you that it is now.”
Zhabyn continued to stare out over the sea. “Five years from now who will remember such a thing?”
You will, Nikandr thought.
“I would speak with you of the Gorovna,” he continued.
“I know the imposition the attack has created for you-”
Zhabyn shook his head, drops of water falling from his beard. “That matters little. I care more that the Maharraht have been found on Khalakovan shores. What do you think they were after?”
“The obvious answer would be the ship, to destroy it, or if they were very lucky to take it from us on its maiden voyage.”
“And the answers that lie below the surface?”
“With Council upon us, one could assume that they hoped to catch nobility on the ship. But if it were that simple, why not wait until all the dukes had arrived? Why tip their hand?”
“Go on.”
“There’s Borund and myself… Perhaps it was one of us in particular.”
Zhabyn nodded, as if he’d already been thinking along these lines. “Borund has told me that the hezhan seemed to hone in on you as soon as it reached the ship.”
Nikandr hesitated, for he wasn’t sure he wished to share this information, but the urge to reconcile with Zhabyn pushed him onward. “That same moment, just before it attacked, my soulstone glowed brighter.”
Zhabyn stared at Nikandr’s chest, though his stone was back in his rooms. “And what does the Matra have to say about that?”
“She is as confused as we are.”
“That I doubt, my young Prince.” He frowned, returning his attention to the sea. “Why? Why attack a prince?”
“Perhaps it was meant to be a signal of their power, to murder a prince on the very doorstep of Radiskoye. Yet I cannot shake the feeling that they didn’t know about the ship, that they were interrupted in their true purpose.”
“To summon a hezhan?”
Nikandr shrugged as the light wind died. The warmth of the sun could be felt on his back and shoulders. “Perhaps, though I wonder if they were caught off guard there as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have no real reason to think this, but it may have been an experiment of sorts. The spirit they summoned may have been more than they bargained for.”
“Perhaps, but the question still remains… Why?”
“I wish I knew, Your Grace.”
Zhabyn looked over at him and smiled. It seemed to Nikandr that there was respect in his eyes, and gratitude. “Well, I’m sure your father’s men will keep us safe. I only wanted to thank you for what you did. It was bold thought and actions that saw my son safely home. I fear he would not be here today”-he waved one hand, indicating where Nikandr and Borund had slid along the snow-“able to take baths, were it not for you.”
Nikandr bowed his head, remembering how angry Borund had seemed about the scene by the harbor and the attack by the Maharraht. He realized, then, that Borund had perhaps felt inadequate himself. He had always taken to bullying his way through problems; perhaps he had felt upstaged by Nikandr.
“Atiana.” Zhabyn finally turned to face Nikandr. “My daughter.”
“Your Grace?”
“When my wife first told me of the arrangement she had made with your mother, I was disappointed.”