The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [8]
He wondered if she felt the same. As they’d grown older, the sisters had become more and more vicious in their quest for revenge. Even after he and Borund had reached an age where they were looking well beyond the girls of Vostroma, they’d continued with renewed vigor, perhaps sensing the remaining time for balancing the scales was growing short. Once, at the beginning of Council, they’d put a dye in Nikandr’s food that had colored his mouth black for a week—teeth, tongue, gums, and all. He still shivered at the thought of trying to painfully scrape the stuff off night after night, and though Zhabyn had reluctantly forced each of the girls to apologize, they hadn’t bothered to tell him that scraping would have little effect and that in time it would wear off on its own. All three of them had made a point of catching Nikandr’s eye and smiling—genuinely enough so that it wouldn’t be considered taunting were they to be caught doing it but wide enough so that it was clear they were salting the very wound they had inflicted.
Without a word to the women near her, Atiana broke away and made a beeline toward him. She was now twenty years old—four years younger than Nikandr. The hair beneath her cap was powdered white, and she wore a subtle rouge upon her cheeks. They had always been pale-skinned, the sisters, and the rouge only served to draw attention to it, but he was surprised to see how much her face had filled in—her figure as well—since the last time he’d seen her three years before.
As she approached, Victania squeezed Nikandr’s arm and made her way to the gangplank.
“You were missed last night, My Lord Prince,” Atiana said. “This morning as well.”
Her tone was self-righteous, and it grated. “Duty called, My Lady,” Nikandr said, bowing deeply, “but fortunately we find ourselves here.”
“A pity I won’t be able to take the ship,” she said, glancing up at the masts.
“There’s nothing that would interest you, I’m afraid. She’s as bare as they come.”
Atiana raised one eyebrow. “Is that how you like them?”
Nikandr paused. “Is there a man that does not?”
A wry smile lit her face. “Perhaps you would grant me a tour.”
“I wouldn’t dream of robbing Gravlos of the pleasure.”
“But you worked on her, did you not? Is it not your right as well?”
Nikandr waved at the ship offhandedly. “A ship is a ship.”
She said nothing, and her face changed not at all, but she was weighing his words. She knew—knew how much he loved this ship. To speak of it in such a cavalier manner would speak volumes to someone like her, a woman who had always—despite what other faults she might have—been insufferably bright.
“I suppose you’re right. There’s much to do over the next few days. I doubt we’ll see much of one another until the dance.”
“Regrettably, that is most likely true.”
She glanced toward the gangway at a call from her Aunt Katerina.
Nikandr took her hand in his and kissed it. “Until the dance?”
She fixed her gaze on her hand, which was still held in his. Then she pulled it away and met his eyes. “I look forward to it.”
When they were growing up, the sisters had always had a subtle tone to their words. Sometimes it was Mileva, sometimes Ishkyna, and sometimes—though more rarely—it was Atiana. They would say something that sounded innocuous while in fact was steeped in meaning. Nikandr’s ear had come to recognize this tone, for more often than not it was meant as a challenge. She was daring him to unravel the mystery, daring him further to prevent her from winning.
“I await with bated breath,” Nikandr said.
The ceremony itself was short. A collective prayer for the Gorovna’s safe passage, a song written and sung for the occasion by one of Volgorod’s most famous troubadours, and for a select few a tour from the shipwright,