The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [43]
Atiana pulled away and grabbed her gut. By the light of the moon he could see the look of shock on her face. “The wasting?”
He slipped the stone back inside his shirt, though he could feel her still, however faintly.
“How long have you known?”
“Months.”
“Before the wedding was announced?”
“Shortly after.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I was not sure at first—” “But you became sure, and you held your tongue.”
“I’m saying it now.”
“When there’s little enough to do about it.”
“Atiana?”
Nikandr and Atiana both turned. Katerina was on her pony, sitting with that same prim posture. “Are you well?”
“I must go,” Atiana said with a clear note of finality.
“Atiana, please.”
He held his hand up to forestall her, but she slapped it away and walked past him. Soon, she was on her pony and riding back toward the road. Katerina sent him a chilling stare before pulling her reins over and calling after Atiana.
The desyatnik of the streltsi approached on his black mare. “My Lord Prince?”
“Accompany them back to the palotza,” Nikandr said.
“My Lord, my orders—”
“Come back for me if you will, but make sure they arrive safely. All of you.”
“My Lord—”
“Go!”
“Of course, My Lord.”
They left, and in little time he was alone with the moon, the silver landscape of snow and stone, and the sighing of the wind. He tied his pony to the snow-covered branch of a spruce, preferring to walk among the trees to clear his mind. He wandered in what he thought was an aimless path, but soon he stopped, his fear over what Atiana might do replaced instantly by dread.
He had arrived at the very place where he had spotted the Maharraht only two days before.
He slipped off his pony and moved to the edge of the cliff, stopping when he arrived at the position from which the Maharraht had leapt. He stared at the tree line far below and the shore beyond it as a brisk wind blew upward along the cliff, lifting his hair and blowing it about. They had been trying ever since the encounter on the Gorovna to determine what the Maharraht had been hoping to do—Father had sent a qiram to search for answers; two dozen streltsi had combed the area, hoping to find any small clues; Mother had searched as well—but those efforts had so far provided only the most tenuous of rationales for the presence of the Maharraht.
Somewhere behind him there came the sound of approaching footsteps, crunching softly over the snow. He thought at first it was the streltsi, but they hadn’t been gone long enough to have made it up to the palotza and back again, and so he wondered if it was the Maharraht.
Making as little sound as he could, he stepped into the cover of the trees nearby and crouched down. As the crunching came closer, he pulled the flintlock from its holster at his side and slowly pulled the striker until it locked into position with a heavy click.
Movement came further down the tree line. Nikandr trained the weapon on the dark form that stepped out from the trees, but then lowered it when he realized that it was not a man, but a boy.
He felt something deep within his chest, eerily similar to what he had felt when Nasim had been staring at his soulstone as they stood on the eyrie. He turned, pressing his hand against his chest to quell the dull-but-growing sensation while squinting ahead as Nasim moved to the edge of the cliff and stood where Nikandr had only moments ago. He stared downward, his arms hanging loose at his sides, showing none of the pain and discomfort he’d had on the eyrie.
Somewhere far below, a fox began to yelp. Another growled, but then began yelping as well. More and more joined in, and soon, the forest was filled with their calls.
A chill ran down Nikandr’s spine. He swallowed involuntarily; his throat felt as though it were closing up, his chest as if it were being pressed from all sides, as if he’d been thrust into the deepest part of the ocean. His breath came in short gasps—inhaling brought excruciating pain.
The horizon began to tilt, and he wondered in fascination whether he