“Descend!” Grigory yelled. “Descend!”
Nikandr ducked out of sight as Grigory turned and ran toward the fore of the ship.
Clearly he hoped to gain speed by dropping down near sea level, but if he wasn’t careful, they would end up in the sea, not riding the currents above it.
As the ship began its descent, another volley howled in from the attacking ships. A series of groans and cracks ren the air. The starward main mast was tilting to port. Some of the rigging snapped and the mast fell to the deck, shattering the wooden railing. Without the mast connected to the bulk of the ship, the windwood had lost its buoyancy quickly but was still acting as weight upon the ship.
Nasim, two rungs lower, began to whimper. Ashan held him close, shushing into his ear.
“Prepare yourself,” Nikandr said to Ashan. “On the next volley, we will move quickly and quietly to the kapitan’s cabin.”
The next volley crashed into ship moments later. Nikandr climbed out and ran aft to the ship’s rear cabin as another shot struck the yardarm and sails just above him.
Ashan followed with Nasim in tow. The door was not locked, and they ducked inside as quickly as they could. No alarms were raised, so it appeared they were safe for the moment.
Chopping sounds rang throughout the ship-the crew attempting to hack the rigging lines. It wouldn’t work, Nikandr thought to himself. They were going to fall into the sea and then he would die in this cabin. It was possible Grigory and some of his crew would be captured by the Maharraht and be held for ransom, but it was just as likely that once they had found Nasim-dead or alive-the rest would be left to the sea.
As Nikandr began searching the cabin for his soulstone and for Ashan’s gems, the ship’s descent began to slow-the workings of Grigory’s two havaqiram, no doubt, but it would be too late.
Then a sound of cracking wood and whipping ropes and the hollow thud of tackle was heard. All three of them were thrown against the floorboards as a ragged cheer rose on the deck. Their deceleration slowed, but Nikandr could no longer tell whether they had leveled or had started to climb again.
He found what he was looking for in a small, unlocked chest in the lowest drawer of the kapitan’s desk. He pulled his soulstone on and gave the bracelets, anklets, and circlet to Ashan.
Ashan stared at them. “What can we hope to do now?”
“You can summon the winds as you did on Zhabyn’s ship. We’ll take a skiff and escape.”
Ashan was already shaking his head. “I released the bond to my havahezhan on Ghayavand. It is not so easy to forge another.”
“You must try, Ashan. It is our only hope.”
“There is much you must do before you can-”
“If you cannot, then we must submit to the Maharraht.”
“You may not realize it, Nikandr Iaroslov, but you cannot bond a hezhan simply by willing it so.”
Nikandr’s heart began to sink, but it quickly turned to horror when he realized Nasim had opened the door to the cabin and was walking out onto the deck.
“Nasim,” he whispered harshly, “come back!”
They rushed forward just as a huge gust of wind blew across the deck. One moment, Nasim was framed within the cabin doorway, his hair and clothes whipping about, and the next he was whisked upward and away like a withered leaf by a brisk autumn wind. Nikandr ran to the doorway and was blown off his feet as the wind shrieked. He slipped along the decking and struck the gunwale, but he saw Nasim tumbling up into the sky.
“Nasim!”
He continued to fly higher in the sky toward one of the Maharraht ships.
The forward guns shot upward at the ship, but Nikandr screamed at them to cease firing. “Do not harm the boy!”
Grigory, standing near the center of the ship, looked at him, dumbfounded, and then stared upward as Nasim slipped over the top of the ship and was lost from sight. Immediately the ship turned to port and set a southward course to follow in the wake of its sister ship.
CHAPTER 56
When Atiana woke, it was to the sound of her door opening. By the light of early dawn she saw Kapitan Malorov standing there, his stubbled face grim, his eyes judgmental. “Come,” he said gruffly.
The air on deck was crisp, and the wind was strong. Summer had nearly ended, and soon the skies would be filled with high clouds and terrible winds in preparation for the long winter. Below the ship was an island. Atiana was confused at first-it should have taken days to reach Vostroma-but as she looked at the island she began to understand. This was Duzol, the smaller island south of Uyadensk. The shape of it was unmistakable, as was the small spire that rested in Oshtoyets, a keep standing on the edge of a broad set of white cliffs.
She turned and saw the larger island in the distance. She also saw a handful of circling windships-they looked like little more than insects from this distance.
She was ushered into a skiff, where an Aramahn woman, no older than Atiana, waited. Once she was aboard, the skiff ’s mooring ropes were released and it drifted away from the body of the old warship. The journey was silent as the woman fought with the ropes and the single sail to guide the ship landward. They reached the grassy flatland of Duzol’s coast in short order, and soon Atiana was left alone, watching the skiff as it floated up toward the ship.
Her attention was taken by the flapping wings of the old rook, Zoya. It winged down from beneath the ship and glided in an ungraceful arc as it fought the stiff wind every bit of the way. It beat the air as it landed, and then studied Atiana with something akin to amusement.
“Enough, Ishkyna. What have you done?”
“You give her too much credit,” said the rook.
“Mileva?”
The rook cawed. “Ishkyna and I spoke upon her return, and I must say I was so taken by your plight that I felt forced to help.” “ Nyet, sister. You felt guilty.” “And why would I feel guilt?”
“For abandoning me,” Atiana said.
The rook clucked and bobbed its head. “Very well. Perhaps I felt you were owed something for what might have happened in Radiskoye. But perhaps one day you’ll thank me when you discover the new arrangements that Mother has made for you.”
“What arrangements?”
“I’m surprised our dear brother hasn’t told you.”
“Must you always play games?”
The caw it released was so loud it made Atiana cringe. “Your new husband, Tiana. Mother has decided it with Alesya.”
Alesya was Stasa Bolgravya’s wife and the Matra of Bolgravya. If Mother had made arrangements with her, it could only mean that Atiana’s marriage to Nikandr had been cast aside in favor of one of Alesya’s brood, and that, of course, meant that her hand had been promised to Grigory.
“Never,” Atiana said, and she meant it, more than she thought she might at such a thing. She had taken her marriage to Nikandr lightly, almost as more of a jest than anything else, but she had come to see a side of Nikandr that she never thought she would: he was a good man, an honest man, a man she could be proud of.
“Perhaps so, sister, but you had better begin to work magic if you hope to change your fate.”
“Why?”
“Because Nikandr is being held at the top of the cliff, in the donjon of Oshtoyets.”
“It cannot be.”
“He was found and captured by Grigory on Ghayavand.”
“And the boy?” If Nasim had been found, too, then there was a chance that they might be able to step away from the edge of war. They might be able to repair the damage caused by her father and the other headstrong dukes.
“The Kavda was attacked by the Maharraht. They took him.”
Atiana’s heart sank, more for the implications than the loss. The fact that the Maharraht had taken the boy would make it look like a rescue-as if the boy had been a tool of theirs from the beginning-and in truth she wondered if that might not be the case.
“Go,” the rook said. “Find a way to save your husband if you can, and I, in turn, will consider my debt paid. Oh, and give my regards to Grigory…”