The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [104]
As always, death was making her question the choices she had made, her decision to join the Maharraht and their thirst to reclaim a thing that was said to be owned by no one: the land itself. If anything, the land owned you. She questioned whether or not she could continue with such willful hatred.
But then she remembered her daughter’s blackened skin in the smoking wreckage of the house—her clawed hands and curled-up form. She had been told of the streltsi, how they had chased a pair of Maharraht to a simple home on the outskirts of a village not unlike Izhny. The Maharraht had taken refuge and had refused to leave. The couple that lived there—a couple Rehada knew well—had been watching Ahya while Rehada took breath on the tallest mountain on Nazakhov. Hoping to protect both Ahya and the Maharraht, they had shut the doors to Bolgravya’s soldiers and refused to open them. Rather than force their way in, the soldiers had secured the doors and set the structure ablaze. The windows were too small to crawl from. They had no chance to escape.
Rehada had returned hours later from a time of extreme peace. She had felt, before being told what had happened, like she had made great strides toward an understanding of this island. It was exhilarating. So many of her experiences had combined on that mountaintop, and she felt as though the road had been paved for even more in coming travels. But then she had found the blackened ruins of a home where her daughter had been trapped by the soldiers.
Rehada’s stomach turned while the memories of that day played within her mind. She knew she had lost lifetimes of progress on her way toward vashaqiram with the decision she had made—along with Soroush—to join the Maharraht. But the ways of the Landed could not continue. She was glad she could do this, that her brothers and sisters might be spared; she was glad to sacrifice so that the entirety of her people would not have to suffer the same.
Soroush released a short, piercing whistle. Bersuq scanned the ground over Rehada’s shoulder.
Rehada turned and found Gierten standing near the corner of the cottage, training a musket on Soroush. Soroush darted to one side while Bersuq sprinted toward her, releasing a melodic war cry as he went.
She changed her mind, aiming for Bersuq. She squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened. She looked incredulously at the musket, as if it had betrayed her, and then she threw it at Bersuq, who dodged easily and grabbed her by the hair. In one quick motion, he was behind her, his arm locked around her throat. Bersuq tightened his hold. Gierten’s face went bright red. Mere moments later, her eyes closed and she went limp. Bersuq lowered her to the ground, where she remained, unconscious, the musket lying just next to her.
As Bersuq began dragging Gierten toward the trees, Soroush rounded on Rehada. “A pretty hole you’ve dug for us,” he said in Mahndi. “What were you doing?”
Rehada stared down at the men, shaking her head. More and more to atone for, she thought to herself. “We should leave.”
“Answer my question.”
“I hoped to secure the stone,” she lied, “to leave no evidence behind.”
“You should have left it to us.”
“I have been careful to construct a life here, Soroush, a life free of suspicion. I would not wish it to unravel in a matter of days.”
“Your life here is nearly at an end, Rehada.”
“Think well on this, Soroush. All of this could still fall around our ears. I still have Nikandr’s trust. Would you throw that away for nothing?”
He paused, breathing heavily, glancing eastward toward Radiskoye. “That will not matter after tonight.”
“Why?”
“We are taking Nasim back.”
She paused. Things were moving so quickly. She did not trust Nasim, but she wasn’t yet sure she wanted him in Soroush’s hands. “You are