The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [151]
“What will happen when one of them dies?”
Ashan was silent as they reached the edge of the plateau they walked upon. Nikandr stopped and looked. And his mouth fell open.
The land descended quickly and reached out into the dark sea with two long and verdant arms. Nestled in the deep valley where the two arms met was a city—a city every bit as large as Volgorod. Rounded towers vaulted into the sky, and dozens—hundreds—of smaller buildings hugged the form of the mountain, creating a crescent of pale brown stone against the bright green landscape.
The size of the city was a shock, but it was the state of it that was more alarming. The towers, the buildings, even from this distance, looked like broken and empty husks, as if each had been systematically dismantled from within. It was not unlike a wasp nest would look after carrion beetles had finished devouring the interior, wasps and all.
“What happened?”
“Hubris, son of Iaros. Hubris.”
CHAPTER 46
When Rehada and Atiana reached the Valley of Iramanshah, the crack of a cannon cast itself over the valley walls, echoing faintly after that first startling report. In the sky above, two ships were gliding toward an Aramahn skiff. The skiff surely could have outmaneuvered the ships, could have outraced them as well, but they would not risk the guns of the Landed ships—neither the ones on the ships chasing them nor the ones that would harry Iramanshah were they to escape.
The soldiers aboard the schooner lashed the skiff to the larger ship as they turned northward to return to the long line of ships further out to sea.
“Why do they take them?” Rehada asked Atiana, who rode nearby on a dun pony.
“As a warning to Khalakovo: no one will be allowed to land, nor to leave.”
“As if a handful of Aramahn could change the balance.”
“They could be spies or messengers, bringing word to Khalakovo’s allies.”
“Your mother would bring word to them, would she not?”
“It might be too dangerous. The other Matri could interfere with or listen to their communication. Or worse, they might attack. I have a feeling all of the Matri are taking great care while treading the dark.”
“Even the Duchess Khalakovo? She is the strongest, is she not?”
“She is, but that doesn’t mean she could fend off a concerted attack from the others. She runs herself ragged in peacetime.” Atiana glanced up at the ships, which were small against the background of the high gray clouds. “It will be worse now.”
They continued to the village in silence, and they were met by two unarmed men at the gates. As she had been instructed, Rehada asked to speak with Muwas, at which point one went to fetch him. They were led to the courtyard outside the tall doors. They waited for some time, but at last Muwas stepped through the doors and guided Rehada away from Atiana to speak quietly by the fountain. Atiana watched them warily, with no little amount of anxiety in her eyes.
“What has happened?” Rehada asked as she motioned to the water within the fountain, which—normally a sign of life and vibrancy—lay still.
Muwas’s expression was dour. “There have been deaths. One mahtar and two children were taken by the wasting. All three died early this morning.”
Rehada shook her head. “You are sure?”
“There is no room for doubt.”
This was unexpected. Muwas’s mood was perfectly understandable now, for Rehada was feeling the same thing. She had viewed the rift and the wasting as the vengeful will of Adhiya coming to right the wrongs perpetrated against the Aramahn for these many years, but if they were taking even the chosen ones and innocent children, then what were they to think? This could no longer be viewed as a sword, ready to be taken up by the Maharraht.
Muwas stared at Atiana coldly. “As for the princess, I will take her to the lake.”
“I was to take her.”
“Soroush no longer considers that wise, and I agree. You have not been welcome inside these walls for some time, Rehada, something you should have corrected