The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [204]
As the streltsi gathered their equipment and readied themselves, Nikandr beckoned Rehada and Ashan and the two Aramahn from the second skiff.
“Can you do anything about the snow?” Nikandr asked Ashan.
“You wish me to stop it?”
“Nyet, I’d like more to cover our approach.”
Ashan nodded. “I’ll see what can be done.”
Atiana felt her legs move, felt them lead her about the ship. She tried to stop, to simply stand still, but when she did her muscles, her very bones, screamed in pain, and she was forced to relent. She tried to speak, and once even managed a guttural sound, but then Grigory’s mother exerted her control once more, relegating Atiana to watching as she decided what Atiana would do.
Atiana should have been able to protect herself from the Matra’s attack, but Alesya had hidden her intentions well. It made Atiana wonder how many times Alesya had done this before. Plenty, she thought, and there was a growing certainty within her that Alesya would not allow her to pass this information along to anyone. When the need for her had passed she would take an unfortunate fall, she would tumble into the sea, and Grigory would deliver grave apologies to Vostroma for their loss.
Alesya had rooted from her mind the location of the rift and had bid Grigory to set sail for it. She wanted him to prevent whatever it was that Khalakovo was planning with the Maharraht. She wanted for him to return the hero, to set up Bolgravya as the savior in this conflict.
As the ship flew through the snow toward Volgorod, the sounds of cannon fire broke. A massive clipper came abaft of the Kavda. The boatswain issued a recognition signal, receiving the correct answer in reply. The clipper, a battle-tested ship flying the colors of Nodhvyansk, settled into line with the Kavda. As it did, Atiana could feel the presence of a soulstone.
Nikandr’s soulstone.
Atiana was confused. This was a phenomenon spoken of in the annals of the Grand Duchy, but not in recent years. To feel someone, anyone, outside the bounds of the aether was extremely rare, and Atiana assumed it was related to her proximity to the rift—or perhaps the weather, which, after hours on deck, had left her numb, much as she would be while taking the dark. Whatever the reason, she knew with certainty that Nikandr was aboard a ship off the windward bow. She desperately tried to hide this from Alesya, but it was not something she had learned how to do. To think about hiding something was to think about the thing itself, and that was all it took for Alesya to sense what she had learned.
Alesya forced Atiana to turn from the gunwale and address Grigory, who stood near the helm. “Nikandr is nearby.” She pointed. “Just there.”
“How can you be sure?”
Alesya raised Atiana’s arm and touched her breast, where her soulstone lay. “There is more of a bond between Atiana and Nikandr than I would have guessed.”
Grigory frowned, but then he threw his arm toward the pilot and pointed in the same direction that Atiana had. “Change course.”
“Da, Kapitan.”
And so they followed.
Cannon fire broke out, and a wounded Vostroman ship took shape from within the thick of the white snow and sped past them. Not long after, three ships could be seen, heading in the same direction as the Kavda.
Three more ships appeared, and soon after they were spotted all three broke off in different directions.
“Which?” Grigory asked Atiana.
Again she tried to hide the information by focusing on other things: the cold, the snow, her anger at being held prisoner within her own skin, but it was useless.
“The center,” Alesya said, pointing.
They followed the brigantine as the clipper behind them angled starward