The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [63]
“Then you should be doubly ashamed for abandoning him!”
Voices were raised, people taking sides, others looking for answers. Nikandr saw Borund, standing near his father. They had grown up together, had attended many Councils with one another. Borund had spent a summer on Khalakovo, and Nikandr had done the same on Vostroma. He was Nikandr’s closest friend among the aristocracy, a man Nikandr considered a brother. Ever since Borund’s arrival their relationship had been strained, different. Nikandr had written it off to his own reticence to marry Atiana, but the look on Borund’s face... He was staring at Nikandr as if he were looking upon a coward, as if he were ashamed that he had ever considered Nikandr a friend. It was a strange reality to be faced with, and it made Nikandr realize just how dangerous a position they were in. Tensions had been high. Distrust and the urge to look after one’s own family had been rising above the long-fought-for solidarity among the Duchies. If Borund were looking at Nikandr in this manner, what must the other dukes be thinking, especially those from the south, who typically aligned with one another?
An echoing boom resounded through the room—once, twice, thrice. Everyone turned toward Zhabyn, who was slamming the heel of his boot against the wooden floor. Once quiet had been restored, he nodded to Nikandr. “Tell us what you know.”
Nikandr complied, at least so far as he was able. Grigory interrupted several times, but each time he did Zhabyn stomped his foot, cowing the young man back into silence. When Nikandr was done, Zhabyn turned to the crewman and asked the same of him. And finally, it was Grigory’s turn. He relayed the events at the base of the cliff, painting Nikandr as a man more craven than anyone the islands had ever seen. It would seem, by the time Grigory was done, that Nikandr was responsible for everything from the presence of the suurahezhan to the very blight that threatened their way of life. Perhaps that was Zhabyn’s plan, to allow Grigory to paint himself into a corner with his own words, relieving the pressure that was building on Nikandr and the Khalakovo family. Then again, given Zhabyn’s disapproving look toward Nikandr when Grigory finally fell silent, perhaps it wasn’t.
“This is strange business,” Zhabyn said to Ranos, essentially waiting for an official reply.
“Khalakovo was hurt as much as anyone by what happened here today.”
“As anyone?” Duke Leonid said. “I think not.”
The silence in the room yawned like a sleeping beast preparing to wake.
“Don’t mince words, Dhalingrad,” Ranos said quietly.
Before Leonid could continue, Duke Yegor of Nodhvyansk stepped out of the crowd, his arms wide. Yegor was young—Ranos’s age—and still impressionable, but his family had always been a friend of Vostroma.“He’s saying what we’re all thinking, that the one man who stands to gain the most from Bolgravya’s death is the man hosting this Council.”
Ranos moved to the edge of the dais, perhaps ready to challenge Yegor for such an insult, but before he could, Father’s voice called out from behind him.
“You’re saying I would kill my oldest friend?”
Nikandr turned to find his father standing in the doorway that led to the hall’s antechamber. Before him, sitting in a padded chair fitted with wheels, was Mother.
The entire assemblage went deadly silent and took to one knee. Father pushed Saphia Mishkeva Khalakovo forward, the wooden wheels thumping over the floorboards, until he reached the edge of the dais. When he stopped, everyone rose to their feet.
“You’re saying,” Father continued, “that I would risk my youngest son and his new wife? You’re saying I would risk the lives of my own wife, my elder son, even yours to a rogue spirit such as that? I would sooner have fired a musket into Stasa’s chest than release a creature like that into my family’s midst.”
Yegor opened his mouth to speak, but there came from the wheelchair a voice so rarely used it croaked with every utterance.“I have conferred with the other Matri,” Mother said. The effort, as small as it