The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [222]
Nikandr kneeled to look Nasim in the eye. “We are, Nasim. We are one.”
For a moment Nasim looked fragile, as if he wanted nothing more than to simply be held, to embrace someone that he loved, but then he turned on his heels and strode from the courtyard, never once looking back.
The suddenness of it made Nikandr feel lost. “I would see him again,” Nikandr said to Fahroz.
As the last of the Maharraht were carried out of the keep, Fahroz’s expression was deadly serious. “Do not place your hopes on such a thing, son of Saphia. As long as we are able, your paths will never again cross.”
Two Aramahn entered the courtyard carrying a length of canvas between them. They laid it down gently near the spire, and Fahroz motioned for Nikandr to approach. “Take care of her.” With that, she left, the rest of the Aramahn filing out behind her.
He had known Atiana was among the folds of heavy white cloth, but it was a vast relief when he kneeled and saw her face. Her clothes were beyond bloody, but her dress had been ripped away at her side, and a bolt of white cloth had been wrapped around her to stanch the bleeding. She was extremely pale, but her eyes were open, and she seemed more alert than he could have hoped for.
“It’s all right,” Nikandr said softly.
Atiana blinked and focused on him. A soft smile came to her lips, but then her head turned to one side and all trace of relief fled. She had spotted Rehada.
A tear leaked down Atiana’s face.
She seemed grieved. Truly, deeply grieved.
Nikandr understood it not at all, but he gripped Atiana’s shoulder and whispered into her ear that everything would be all right.
A strelet opened one of the stout iron gates of the Boyar’s mansion, and Nikandr rode out and into the streets of the old city. He passed the circle where the gibbets lay, the place that he had seen Rehada while those boys were being hanged. He had checked the court records and had come to suspect that the Aramahn boy that had been hung with the urchins was innocent of the charges—as he had claimed all along. He was not innocent of all things, however. He had been working for Rehada, Nikandr was sure; he had been her servant, running messages between Volgorod and Izhny, perhaps since Rehada had arrived on the island.
Nikandr shook his head as he reined his pony northward, toward Eyrie Road. He had been such a fool. He should have suspected Rehada shortly after they’d met. He had been wracking his brain for the last week, trying to piece together the clues that should have been apparent from the start, but he had so far been almost completely unsuccessful. Only in Malekh had he found any small link from Rehada to the Maharraht. She had covered her tracks well—either that or Nikandr had convinced himself that because of her beauty, because of how different her world was from his, that she could not possibly mean him harm.
He had been a fool, but he would not change any of it. He had loved her—he was man enough to admit that now—and had things gone differently, he might never have come to know her as he had.
“Nikandr!” The sound of another pony trotting came to him, muffled by the thin layer of snow upon the ground.
Nikandr slowed his pony, but did not turn around.
Ranos pulled alongside him and matched his black mare to Nikandr’s cream-colored gelding. “Where are you headed?”
“None of your business, brother.”
They continued to ride in silence for a time, moving from the older section of the city to one that was newer, with smaller, half-timber frames and small yards behind stout stone walls.
“I don’t blame you for being reticent—there is much for you to consider, I’ll admit—but when the sun sets on this day, it must end. I need you.”
“I am not a bookkeeper, Ranos.”
“You will be running the shipping