The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [45]
The boy stared while Nikandr fought to draw breath. “Your stone was so bright,” he said.
Even through the haze of pain Nikandr was surprised. Ashanhad said that he rarely spoke, and when he did, his words were practically meaningless. He might have been lying, but Nikandr didn’t think so. For some reason, this place had brought out in him a moment of clarity.
“My—stone?”
“Blinding. Brighter than the sun.”
“On the—eyrie?” Nikandr shook his head, groaning through clenched teeth. “Not blinding. It was—hidden.”
Nasim had somehow sensed Nikandr’s stone, even broken as it was, so in a way he didn’t doubt Nasim’s words, but they sounded like the ravings of a madman. It occurred to Nikandr that perhaps he’d seen it because it was broken. But that made no sense. And how could it have been blinding?
Nasim shook his head. “There was a hezhan.”
The pain began to ebb, and Nikandr let it as the snow began to melt against his cheek and hair. It was cold, but he was burning so badly he was glad for it.
“The havahezhan? The one that attacked my ship?”
He nodded, but that made no sense either. Nasim hadn’t even been on the island then.
“Lord Khalakovo!”
It was the desyatnik. The streltsi had returned.
Nasim jerked his head toward the sound, and the pain in Nikandr’s chest became white hot.
He opened his eyes, face buried in the snow, realizing he’d been knocked unconscious from the pain. He rolled onto his back, feeling an ache in his chest, but none of the feelings that had overwhelmed him moments ago.
Somewhere nearby, men were tracking slowly through the snow.
“Lord Khalakovo?”
They were close.
“Here,” he called weakly. “Over here!” he cried again, louder this time.
“To me!” the desyatnik called. “The Prince has fallen!”
They helped him to his feet and onto his pony, which they’d found and brought with them. His chest still hurt, but that was more from his muscles tensing like harp strings.
The desyatnik pulled his pony alongside Nikandr’s. He remained close, clearly worried Nikandr was going to tip over.
“You will not accompany me,” Nikandr told him. “Take your men and comb the countryside west of here. Send two along the road and the rest through the woods. Look for an Aramahn boy, eleven years old. If he’s found, bring him to the palotza. He is to come to no harm if it can be avoided.”
“My Lord Prince, if you were attacked—”
“I’m no longer in danger. He is on the run.”
The desyatnik nodded and ordered his men to spread out and sweep westward as Nikandr kicked his pony into action and headed for Radiskoye.
“It was just the boy?” Father asked.
Nikandr nodded. “Just him.”
The two of them were seated at the head of the long table in his audience room. Isaak stood by the fireplace, tending to the fire that acted as the room’s only source of light. Between Isaak and Father was a stand with Mother’s favorite rook, Yrfa. The bird was quiet; after a quick briefing from Nikandr, Mother had left to speak with Ranos in Volgorod and then to scan the grounds to the west to search for Nasim.
At a knock, Isaak opened the door and Jahalan entered. In the heavy shadows, with his sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, he looked as lean as death. “I was told there was trouble.”
Nikandr retold the tale he’d just told Father for Jahalan’s sake, everything from the point at which he’d left Atiana until the ride back.
“How could he have done this?” Father asked Jahalan.
Jahalan looked just as confused as Father. “You said a pain in your chest?”
“Da,” Nikandr replied.
“And the feelings before the pain—euphoria, you said—had you experienced such a thing before?”
Nikandr shook his head. “Nyet.”
Jahalan spread his hands, making it clear his thoughts on the subject were tenuous. “There are some among our people who feel euphoria when they become one with a place or a time.”
Father shook his head. “Explain.”
“The Aramahn hope to arrive at unity with the world around us, and most