The same emotions took hold of her. She pulled him tight against her chest and ran her nails down his back. He thrust harder. She pulled his hair and bit his neck. Each thrust felt like an accusation. She cried out, knowing in her heart it was true. She had strayed from the path they had started on together, and after this night, they would walk on paths that would never converge, only cross.
As he spent himself inside her, releasing an urgent groan through clenched teeth, she held him tight and gripped his waist with her legs and pulled him deep inside her and surrendered a muffled cry of her own into his long black hair.
Slowly, they fell from the heights to which they had risen, and soon they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms.
When Rehada woke in the early morning hours, Soroush was snoring softly next to her. There was no light coming into the cavern, and the fire had gone cold, so she lit the darkness with the gem held within her circlet. Soroush’s face was filled with worry; she could tell from his eyes that he was dreaming.
As softly as she could, she pulled on her clothes and left the cave. The wind outside was cold. The ephemeral summer of the islands was coming to a close once more, and soon the winds of autumn would descend upon them, a harbinger of the bitter winds yet to come. The eastern horizon was awash in indigo, and it would soon be light. She had to be far away from here by the time he woke.
She had just started down the trail leading toward the lowland forest below her when she caught movement from the corner of her eye.
Soroush stood naked at the mouth of the cave.
She had been sure last night that he had decided to let her go, but as he stood there, his eyes judgmental and his stance rigid, she wondered whether he had changed his mind. She wondered whether, once she had given him what he wanted, he would kill her as he had done to so many traitors to the cause.
She realized that she didn’t care. If he would kill her, then it would be so. And yet, another part of her hoped that he would succeed. It was why, despite her better judgment, she had given him the azurite stone.
She turned and began walking away.
“I know where he is,” Soroush said. “I can feel him. We will have him before the day is out.”
She stopped in her tracks. She did not turn around, however. She couldn’t find it in herself to look at him-whether it was from fear of what he would do or a doubt that she lacked conviction to leave him she didn’t know. She realized in those small moments of silence just how lonely Soroush must be if he would call to her, even now, hoping that she might return.
“You need only one stone, then,” she said.
“ Neh.”
A chill ran down her spine. She turned, slowly, to find Soroush holding a rounded opal, beautiful to behold even in the thin morning light.
“How long have you had it?”
“Months,” he said simply. “I liberated it on Rhavanki when the first of the hezhan was summoned.”
The pieces began forming quickly within Rehada’s mind. “When will it happen?”
“Tomorrow.”
One day, then. One day was all that stood between Soroush and the culmination of his plans.
She turned away from him, knowing she must leave now. As she continued down the rocky trail, she could feel him watching her. She could feel the bond they once shared fading, slipping through her fingers like sand, and she was not at all sure that this was what she wanted.
But she had chosen, and so had he.
She headed south among the leafy trees as the sun touched the horizon. She had thoughts of returning to Iramanshah, but the truth was that she had no idea how she might be received. There was no telling what Muwas might have told them. It was ironic-though not surprising-that the people from whom she had worked so hard to distance herself, her own people, were not the ones she could turn to in this time of desperate need.
Her thoughts turned to Ashan and Nasim and Nikandr. Everything now rested with them, and she had learned practically nothing of them since they’d left Volgorod. It was with this dire need for information that her destination was resolved.
Radiskoye.
It was the last place she’d ever thought to find herself turning for help. It was a place she once, given the chance, would have burned to the ground. But times had changed. She had changed. And everything now rode on her ability to reach them.
CHAPTER 55
As Nikandr sat within one of the holds aboard the Kavda, the ship dipped and rose, dipped and rose. His stomach heaved. A pewter pot of water hung from a hook on the ceiling, but he didn’t have the heart to drink any more of it. It would only fuel his nausea.
They had been caught in a windstorm for over a day, but it felt like weeks. He had long since emptied his stomach onto the floorboards. He had thought himself a stout windsman, but he had always taken to the deck when things got bad. Never had he remained belowdecks-unable to gauge the winds-for more than a few hours at a time, and now that he had it had gotten to him.
Someone coughed. Nikandr looked up at Ervan and two of his men who were bracing themselves in the corner of the hold. They looked as sick as Nikandr felt. Other than Jahalan, Ashan, and Nasim-who were being kept in another hold somewhere on the ship-they were all that remained of the crew that he had brought with him on the Gorovna. He looked away, unable to hold Ervan’s gaze.
So many had died, but it was Pietr that occupied his mind the most. The others had died trying to save themselves, but Pietr-if Ashan was to be believed-had given himself willingly that Nikandr might live.
“Where do you think they’re taking us?” Ervan asked, his voice a croak.
It took Nikandr some time before he could reply, for his stomach always grew queasy with words. “I doubt-I doubt they would bring us to Vostroma. Grigory will-want to flaunt his prize”-he coughed-“in front of the dukes. And Vostroma, no doubt, will want to use me as a bargaining chip.”
Through the floorboards Nikandr could feel and hear wooden gears turning. Finally there came a heavy thud. Immediately the ship began to turn, to right itself so that it was once again aligned with the ley lines running from Vostroma to Khalakovo. They had reached the currents where the ship’s keel could once again be used to maneuver the ship-as it was meant to be-and even though this meant they were close to being handed over to the traitor dukes, Nikandr didn’t care. He would give almost anything for a break from the incessant movement.
Eventually, the ship began to glide more surely on the wind, and Nikandr took heart, taking it as a good omen despite their circumstances.
A short while later, a muffled cawing filtered down into the bowels of the ship. The rooks often called this way when landing on a ship, but the sounds kept going and going. It was ragged and raw and desperate, and he wondered whether someone was trying to kill the thing. Yelling could be heard over the bird’s caws, and though it was difficult to tell for certain, it sounded like Grigory. It continued for some time, the voice becoming higher in pitch and urgency.
Footsteps rushed down the hallway a short time later. Three streltsi opened the door and ordered Nikandr and Ervan up to the deck. They were led to the rear of the ship where standing over Nasim was Grigory holding a cocked pistol.
An old rook was flapping around the deck like a fish. After a moment, Nikandr recognized the old, miserable thing. It was missing one foot and had been with the Bolgravyas for more than two decades. Brunhald was its name, and it had seemed old when he had first laid eyes on it as a boy, now it seemed positively ancient-its feathers ragged, a bald patch on the back of its head, its beak chipped and misshapen.