The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [191]
The old rook arched her neck far back and then pecked the floor three times. “We shall see, Atiana Radieva. We shall see.”
She pecked twice more, and Atiana felt herself go dizzy. She could feel, as she had in the aether from time to time, Alesya’s presence, but unlike the aether, where the Matri felt distant, it now felt as if Alesya were staring down upon Atiana with a hand upon her throat, refusing to allow her to move.
“What are you doing?”
This is what comes of betrayal such as yours, girl.
The intensity of the feelings grew, as did the sensation that she was being choked. She began to sense Alesya’s emotions—a seething anger at Atiana’s allegiance to Khalakovo and pure satisfaction that she would now be forced to pay for it.
Then the pain quickly became too much, and Atiana’s world went dark.
CHAPTER 58
When Rehada neared the cliffs that housed Volgorod’s massive eyrie, she heard the boom of cannon fire. It blasted the air as she spurred her pony onward along the plateau that would lead her past the eyrie and on toward Volgorod. A dozen windships crisscrossed the island in an attempt to intimidate and to search for signs of organized resistance. She knew she had been seen along her journey from the northwestern part of the island—it was impossible not to be—but she had stopped in a house she kept in Izhny to retrieve a set of peasant clothes for her ride east. She hoped that the men in the windships would consider one lone woman riding on a sickly pony beneath their notice, and so far that had held true.
From Izhny she had made a calculated choice: take the slower northern route and avoid any potential conflict or take the more navigable southern one and put herself within reach of the forces of the traitor dukes that held the eyrie. She knew that the eyrie had been taken, knew that their men would be stationed there in force to protect the jewel they had seized, and yet she still did not consider it an unwise decision until she was surprised by the sound of hoof beats coming fast behind her. She was on a slow decline, the wind driving the tall grasses around her like waves upon the sea, and she could see from this vantage neither the eyrie ahead nor the decline toward Izhny behind. It was the blindest part of the journey, and her assailants must have known this as well.
There were five of them—mounted men bearing muskets and black cherkesskas and brown kolpak hats cut in the shorter style of the southern Duchies. They had tall, strong ponies, which were probably fresh. One of the streltsi raised his weapon and waved it back and forth above his head, a signal for her to stop.
Stopping was not something she could afford. They would undoubtedly take her to the eyrie for questioning.
She spurred her pony to a full gallop. Her loosely tied babushka was pulled from her head by the wind, revealing the circlet upon her brow. The men shouted as she summoned the spirit bonded to her through the tourmaline gem. She felt the warmth upon her brow first, then through her cheeks and scalp and neck. It quickly suffused her frame as her pony—already breathing heavily—galloped on.
The thrill of her bond ran through her from the pit of her stomach to the knot in her throat. She turned in her saddle and cast her hand over the landscape. In a tight line over the grass that lay between her and her pursuers, fire blazed.
The men were well trained. The flames had jumped over the well-traveled trail, allowing the streltsi a path through the fire. They continued on with little drop in pace and leveled their muskets once they were beyond the wall of flame. The first of them fired a moment later. A musket ball struck the earth ahead of her. Another shot whizzed by. The next struck her pony in the chest.
It fell to the ground, throwing Rehada from its back.
She had been prepared for this, and had slowed the pony’s gait. She rolled away and came to her feet, standing her ground