The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [183]
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...”
With that the ebony bird flapped away, up toward the ship that was already a half-league distant.
Atiana turned and regarded the formidable hill. Only the tip of the spire could be seen from her vantage. It was all serious climbing, unless she wanted to head further up the beach, but that would take too long, and her gut told her there was little time to spare.
Atiana stood in the courtyard of the small, stone-walled fort as the polupolkovnik left to inform Grigory of her arrival. Given its inhospitable nature, the dukes would no doubt have taken refuge in a large manor house a few leagues south, but she was sure that if Nikandr was being kept here that Grigory would remain as well. Even as a boy, he had always been one to gloat, and now, even though he was older, he felt the need to make a name for himself, to do things that would attract notice no matter