The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [46]
“And the pain?” Father asked.
Jahalan turned to Nikandr. “You said the boy looked discomforted on the eyrie.”
“To put it mildly,” Nikandr replied.
“I cannot explain how a connection between you might have been made, but assuming it was, it would make sense that you would feel both Nasim’s euphoria and his pain, not just one or the other.”
“I was feeling his thoughts?”
“Not exactly. They may have been your thoughts, just triggered by Nasim. He acted as tuning fork, but what you saw, you saw from your own perspective, your own experiences.”
These words rang true, Nikandr thought. The experience hadn’t felt foreign, only out of place and unexpected.
“The boy mentioned a hezhan,” Father interrupted, looking at Nikandr. “He said nothing else?”
“Nyet.” Nikandr shook his head. “He heard the streltsi and ran. He must have been referring to the havahezhan.”
Father looked to Jahalan.
Jahalan pulled himself from contemplation and nodded. “I suppose it must be, but how could he have known? It was days before his arrival on the island.”
“Simple,” Father said. “He is Maharraht. They told him.”
“Nasim?” Jahalan considered the words. “I suppose he might be, but I doubt very much he would be in the company of Ashan if he were.”
“It is the only explanation.” Father said. “He traveled to the very spot from which the havahezhan was summoned, the place the Maharraht had gathered. It must be so.”
“As you say, but it doesn’t answer the more important question. How could he have done such a thing to your son?”
As they considered the question, Nikandr remembered the dream from the cliff. “There was a city,” he said, almost breathlessly. He stared at Jahalan, knowing he’d seen a vision of a place, a city that in all likelihood no man from the Grand Duchy had ever stepped foot within. “I was speaking to a woman, Sariya, and she mentioned another, a man name Muqallad. Have you heard of them?”
Jahalan shook his head. “I have not. You say it was a dream?”
“A dream, but very real. It felt like something Nasim had seen.” The words felt false. The one from the dream was a man grown... How could the memories have been Nasim’s?
“You may have seen one of your past lives,” Jahalan said.
Father snorted.
Jahalan looked hurt, but he held Nikandr’s eye.
Nearby, the rook flapped its wings and clicked its beak several times. It launched itself forward and landed on the back of the chair opposite Nikandr. “The boy is nowhere to be found.”
Father bristled. “Then we must—”
“Still your words, husband. I bring news. Ranos is sending a full sotni to cover the road to Iramanshah. With the fifty men we’ve sent in addition to the ten from Nikandr, it will be enough. If the boy can be found, he will be.”
“And Ashan?” Father asked.
“The Braga is in flight already. We will ask the mahtar for permission to speak with Ashan. If they agree, he will be brought to Volgorod, to the Oprichni’s house.”
Father’s gaze turned steely as he studied the rook. He glanced at Jahalan, shaking his head. “We should play no games of diplomacy with Iramanshah. The dukes will be arriving tomorrow.”
“I know who arrives on the morrow, husband, but there is little enough to present the mahtar with, and nothing of Ashan.”
“He is the boy’s keeper!” Father said.
“And what will that mean to them?”
Father fumed, but he knew Mother was right. It was forbidden to take the Aramahn by force unless laws had been broken. Even then, the Palotza was to present their evidence to the mahtar to let them decide if taking an Aramahn was warranted.
“What if they don’t agree?”
The rook stretched its neck back and released a series of harsh caws.
“Then it will be dealt with.” It pecked at the table and