The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [96]
“I was pleased to hear that you’d decided to join me,” Nikandr said as they crested a grass-covered knoll.
They had both been awkwardly silent since leaving the palotza. For Nikandr’s part, he was angry with Borund but trying not to let it show. Father had told him early that morning that Mother had sensed ships coming from the south, ships meant to bolster the position of Vostroma and his allies.
Borund, no doubt, was angry for his own reasons.
“It was time to talk, da?”
They approached a meadow, which was blooming with snapdragons and brightbonnets. Both Borund and Nikandr pulled their ponies to a stop. Berza, Nikandr’s mottled brown setter, had pulled up short and was standing stiff—crouching a bit, begging to be set free. Borund maneuvered his flintlock off of his lap, but Nikandr raised a finger, telling him to wait and see.
Nikandr couched the stock up against his shoulder, sighted to the center of the meadow, and pulled the flintlock back. As soon as the striker clicked into place, Berza bolted into the meadow. She leapt gracefully over a small thicket of heather, scaring two red grouse into flight. Nikandr led the lead male and pulled the trigger. A moment later, sparks shattered against the pan. The musket kicked and the crisp air exploded.
Black bits of tail feather splashed against the blue sky, but the bird continued with its mate beyond the forest—insulted, perhaps, but otherwise unharmed.
Borund started laughing—a chest-heaving affair—but then recovered himself at Nikandr’s look.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been to the fields,” Nikandr said.
“No doubt! Even with that nifty trick you taught my dog, you managed to miss.”
When they were young, Khalakovo’s master of hounds had gifted Borund with a puppy. He loved it and begged his father to let him take it home, but Zhabyn refused, and so Borund had had to settle for visiting with her during his rare visits to Khalakovo. The dog—no thanks to Borund—had grown up to be an excellent hunter, and she’d sired a progeny that all seemed to have the same excellent traits as their matriarch, but that didn’t stop Borund from claiming all of them as “his dogs.”
“Laugh while you can,” Nikandr said, as he spurred his pony into action, “you’ll have your chance soon enough.” They galloped away, Berza jumping ahead through the meadow. Nikandr took a deep breath before speaking. “But we have more to speak of than grouse.”
Borund rested his musket easily in the crook of his arm. “I was beginning to wonder if you had the nerve to speak of it.”
“Atiana. I would like to extend my apology to you as well as your father, which I will when I see him again. I have acted the child. Had I acted as I should, Zhabyn might not have delayed the marriage.”
“Such a change of heart... You could hardly stand the thought of marrying her a week past.”
“I have had time to think on it, Bora. You, of anyone, should know how difficult it can be to accept the one chosen for you.”
Borund’s face reddened, and Nikandr realized at once he had made a mistake. Borund had married Nataliya Dhalingrad, daughter of Duke Leonid, and it had not been Borund who had been unreceptive, but his new bride. Borund had confessed years ago how cold she had been in their wedding bed, and how it had continued until Borund had beat her in a fit of anger. She now accepted his affections, but little more than that.
Nikandr continued, “Father is furious that he would be so taken to task in front of the entire Grand Duchy. He doesn’t deserve mistrust, especially when it was his wife who suggested the arrangement.”
The color in Borund’s face slowly faded as he reined his pony around a heather bush. “Father is merely being cautious.”
“Caution is all well and good, but his fears are unfounded.”
“Are they? Then answer me this, Nischka. Do you or do you not have the wasting?