The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [200]
But she was also the most gifted Matri of her generation. If anyone could overcome such odds, she could.
The gaoler entered the room nearly an hour later. It took Nikandr a moment to orient himself, so engrossed in concentration was he. The sunlight coming in through the small, high windows had started to dim.
The gaoler brought cold bowls of cabbage stew, though there was barely more than a handful with a small crust of bread soaking up what small amount of liquid there was. Still, after the meager meals he’d been given the last several days, he was glad to have anything to fill his stomach.
The gaoler left, closing the door behind him, and still Nikandr was silent. He dearly wanted to speak with Ashan, but he couldn’t risk it.
The sunlight dimmed until early dusk reigned. He began to despair. If Mother had heard him she most likely would have sent a ship to rescue him near dusk when it was still light enough to fly and when their arrival might be masked. If it became too dark, particularly with the overcast sky, it would be nearly impossible to mount a rescue. When full night finally arrived, he began to accept that he would not be saved.
He was startled some time later by the sound of the gaoler’s outer door opening. Two men talked, the door opened again, and then all was silence.
“Ashan,” Nikandr whispered, knowing they were finally alone.
Ashan was sitting in the corner of his cell furthest away from Nikandr.
His head was resting on his forearms, which were propped up against his bent knees. At Nikandr’s words he lifted his head and peered through the gloom. “Do not risk another beating, Nikandr.”
“I need to understand what happened on Ghayavand.” He held up his soulstone for Ashan to see. It glinted softly in the darkness.
“How did you?”
“Atiana. Now tell me, what does it mean? The stone was dead before I entered the tower, and now the life of it has returned, brighter than before. And I can feel Nasim... I can feel him just by touching the stone.”
“Sariya did nothing?”
“She was holding Muqallad back, preventing him from finding us.”
“Not us. Nasim.”
“Nasim, then.”
“And you said you had opened yourself to Nasim. Accepted him...”
“You know this. I’ve told you.”
Ashan frowned in concentration. “Pietr...”
Nikandr waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. He merely stared straight ahead, picking at his lips with thumb and forefinger.
“What about Pietr?”
Ashan shivered as he turned and looked at Nikandr. “In essence, Nasim sacrificed him.”
Nikandr coughed, trying and failing to understand the significance. “What of it?”
“He gave a life to draw you forth, creating a small rift in the aether which he used to draw you back. I wonder if the same could be done for Nasim.”
Nikandr coughed again, longer this time. The wasting seemed stronger here in Oshtoyets—either that or the disease was progressing faster. “I don’t understand.”
They were interrupted by the sound of the outer door opening once more. The gaoler was speaking with several men in his antechamber. Nikandr recognized one of them, and his blood went cold.
It was Borund.
They had come to take him away, and now it would be impossible to escape. Impossible.
Keys clanked in the door and Borund stepped in, followed by Grigory. Borund looked much thinner than he had weeks ago, though he had retained a certain heft. His dark beard was thicker as well, making him look more than a little like a wet bear.
“War doesn’t suit you, Bora.”
Borund laughed. The sound of it brought a host of fond memories from simpler times, but the look in his eye was the same as many—fear and distrust of those with the wasting. “I could say the same of you, Nischka.”
Nikandr shrugged. “I do like flying more than fighting.”
Borund waved at Ashan’s cell door, and then Nikandr’s.
“I beg of you, Borund, listen to reason. Surely Grigory has told you that the Maharraht have