The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [66]
The other dukes, of course, would have none of this talk. They believed it to be no more, no less, than assassination. The Maharraht were bent on their destruction. What better way to reach their goals than to throw the Grand Duchy into chaos during Council? Attempts had certainly been made before, and though the ancestors had been kind in that no duke had yet fallen to those attacks, others had—princes, boyars, posadni, polkovni, magistrates.
As the wind picked up, blowing the light snow into his face, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Nasim had been involved. He was a curious child, with powers that in all likelihood even his guardian didn’t understand. And the other night he had seemed innocent, albeit out of touch with reality. How could someone so unpredictable be such a crucial part of the Maharraht’s plans? Yet in this lay another problem: the Aramahn were able to commune with spirits across the void of the aether. A century ago it wasn’t all that uncommon to find those with the ability to guide them across the black and into the material world, but those days were long gone—as far as he knew, no Aramahn had been able to summon a spirit of any size for decades. The reduction in their abilities was felt to be part and parcel of the blight, the increase in storm activity, and the scarcity of fish and game. Had the Maharraht somehow uncovered some lost bit of knowledge? Had they now perfected it?
If so, it would seem that Mother would have sensed it. Father had questioned her mercilessly on this subject, and she claimed that she had sensed no summoning. Could she have been mistaken? Could her attention have been focused elsewhere? Mother was resolute, and the other Matri had apparently—grudgingly in some cases—agreed. Not that the Matri were always perfect. They weren’t. There had been times when they had been fooled by particularly gifted qiram, but those times had been in those now-ancient days when the Landed women were first learning to touch the aether. They were so much more aware now that Nikandr doubted they could be fooled in any significant way.
Udra finally opened her eyes. She touched a finger to the soot and rubbed it between her fingers. She drew in a long, slow breath. Satisfied, she set her palms against the burnt earth and closed her eyes, the heavy wrinkles along her eyes and mouth deepening.
He stalked over the grass and stopped just short of Udra. “For the love of the ancients, have you found nothing new?”
She opened her eyes, still keeping her palms to the burnt earth. Then she stood deliberately and regarded Nikandr. “Is this not important?”
“It is.”
“Then leave me to my work.”
“I would know what you’ve found.”
She stared at Nikandr as if she’d just sucked on a lime. He suspected it was because she had so far been unable to learn the nature of the crossing.
“The hezhan crossed, but no Aramahn drew it.”
“Then it crossed through a crease.”
“Neh.” She turned and regarded the burn. “There are indications that it was drawn.”
“But you said no Aramahn was present.”
She nodded. “That is what I said.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, and I never will if you don’t leave me to my work.”
“Nischka!”
Nikandr spun, ready to bite the head off the strelet who had spoken to him so, but he was surprised to find Ranos on his roan pony, beckoning him. A black rook on Ranos’s shoulder, thrown off balance by his movement, flapped several times before settling.
The day of the attack, a rook had been sent to Iramanshah to treat with the mahtar. They claimed that Ashan and Nasim had both gone missing. Nasim had left the night before the attack, and Ashan had gone searching for him. Neither had been seen since. Mother asked for permission to search Iramanshah and the lands around it themselves, and the mahtar had eventually agreed. Ranos had gone himself