The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [192]
She drew from the suurahezhan again, giving some part of herself to the spirit as she did so. It was no small amount, and she had not drawn such energy from Adhiya in a very long time. She felt her knees buckle as a ball of fire formed between her arms. The heat of it was painful and beautiful and exhilarating in the same breath, and when she released it, it was with a sense of longing and loss.
The ball of bright orange flame shot forth, striking the lead pony and its rider. Both fell to the ground, the pony screaming, the rider diving away and rolling on the grasses in an attempt at snuffing the flames.
The fire had sprayed against another strelet. Rehada fed this from the suurahezhan, pulling as much as she could manage. It was more than she had ever drawn from a single spirit, and she was already weakening to the point that her heart began to skip beats, her world began to close in around her, her vision was invaded by bright sparks of light.
Despite this she reveled in the feeling of touching Adhiya, of communing with the spirit. She nearly allowed the hezhan to take her, and she realized—almost too late—that this must be yet another result of the rift that ran through Volgorod. She bore down, cutting herself off from the suurahezhan. It fought her, but she was not so young in the craft to be taken in this manner, and the spirit was not so old that it was overly powerful.
Still, as she released the connection, her vision blackened and the world was lost from view.
When she opened her eyes, she was staring up at the sky. The sound of licking flames could be heard, so it could not have been long. She propped herself up on her elbows and took in the scene as the sickening smell of roasted flesh swept over her.
All five of the ponymen were dead. Four of the ponies were as well, and her own was dying, its blood still leaking from just below its ribs as it took breath in a rapid and shallow manner.
One of the ponies was still alive, and she remembered—now that she had achieved some distance—preventing the fire from striking it, though at the time the notion had been nearly drowned by her thirst for more contact with the suurahezhan.
She walked to the pony, knowing the streltsi at the eyrie and the ships in the sky—even the host of Matri who patrolled the island—would soon come to investigate.
“Come,” she said to the pony as she ran her hand down its neck. “We have a ways to go, you and I.”
With her circlet hidden away in the pouch at her belt, Rehada walked alone, her arms in clear sight, on the cobbled road leading up to the Boyar’s mansion. A guard of a dozen streltsi stood along a low stone wall ahead. Beyond them stood the walls of the mansion itself. The stout walls held an imposing iron gate at its two entry points, and there were now several hastily constructed barricades of stone along the road leading up to the gates, forcing anyone who wanted to enter to veer back and forth before reaching the gates themselves.
A sotnik raised his hand as she approached.
“I wish to see the Boyar,” Rehada said.
He stood taller. “And what would he want with you?”
“I bring news of Atiana Vostroma, who escaped Radiskoye only days ago.”
His expression turned grim, and he glanced back at the mansion before speaking again. “You can give the message to me.”
She was already shaking her head. “I have just come from Iramanshah,” she lied. “I bear a message from Fahroz Bashar al Lilliah herself, meant for the Boyar’s ears only.”
“That is impossible,” he said flatly.
“It concerns a threat posed by the Maharraht.” This much, at least, was true.
“Then tell me and it will be relayed through proper channels.”
“I will not.”
He looked uncomfortable, glancing back toward the mansion several more times. In the end he frowned and said, “Wait here.”
And wait she did. She had known that the eyrie had been taken. She had known that the blockade had been circling the island and Radiskoye ceaselessly since the duke of Vostroma had staged his revolt. What