The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (7 page)

He and Atiana had been searching for more of them ever since the ritual over Duzol. He did not wish more of them upon the islands, but he knew there would come a day when they would return, and they needed to be prepared.

He continued to draw the spirit away from Mirketta, but after a time, the vanahezhan began to resist. Mirketta’s breath came faster. She thrashed in her bed, and for the first time Nikandr began to worry that he would lose her.

The first few times he had done this, he would settle his mind and anchor himself more fully for an extended fight, but he had come to realize that this was foolish, especially for a spirit like the vanahezhan. That was merely playing to the strengths of a spirit of stone and earth, and so he allowed himself, and Mirketta, to soar, to drift upon the winds that surrounded them. It had little effect at first, but soon, and with growing effect, she and the spirit began to part.

Mirketta’s hold upon her physical form was weak, however, and he soon felt her slipping away from her mortal coil. He tried to pull back, but this allowed the vanahezhan a stronger hold, and now that it had been awoken it fought him fiercely.

Mirketta!
he called to her.
Mirketta, hear me!

She continued to drift. He became desperate, but this made him careless. He calmed himself, focused on the winds once more. He tried for minutes, for hours, hoping to coax the hezhan away. He even felt, near the very end, Mirketta awaken and fight as well. For a time it worked, but she was too weak and she had already expended what little energy she had.

Then, at last, there was no question as to the outcome.

Adhiya opened its arms and embraced her. Her presence faded.

And then all was still.

N
ikandr was deathly afraid to open his eyes. Yet he already knew what he would see.

When he did open them, he saw Mirketta lying there. Still.

Her breath no longer came. Her blood no longer coursed. Her flame no longer burned.

He held her hand for long moments, tears slipping down his cheeks as he stared at Mirketta’s delicate features. He’d tried this ritual many times. He’d managed to save twelve souls, but he’d failed seven of them. Now eight. Eight deaths, and the same questions always haunted him.

Who might they have become?

He’d last seen Mirketta when she was three, but by all accounts she had grown into a fine young dancer. Could she have found herself in the ballet houses of Ivosladna or Volgorod or Evochka? Might she have mothered fine children, as her mother had? What friendships had just been lost? What joys she might have experienced? What pain?

He was shaken from these thoughts by a tapping at the nearby window. He wiped the tears from his eyes with his sleeve. The sun had set. He could see nothing but darkness. But he knew who was there.

After retrieving his stone and kissing Mirketta’s forehead, he whispered to her, “Go well, dear child,” and then made his way over to the window.

From the golden light of the lamp he could see the flapping wings of a rook, and then the outline of a head, and finally the intermittent glint of an eye blinking in the dark. Now that he wore his stone once more he could feel Atiana’s presence. It felt strange to have her here after what had just happened—especially so soon after—but it was good that she was near, even if it was only in the form of a rook.

He wondered why she’d come, though. And why now? He left Mirketta’s room and took the stairs down. Anatoliy met him at the bottom of the stairs, but he knew already what had happened.

Nikandr had difficulty finding the words. He’d been so confident when he came—perhaps
too
confident—and he’d allowed Anatoliy to feel some of it. He could see now this had been a grave mistake.

“I’m sorry, Anatoliy.”

Anatoliy had seemed fragile before, and in many ways that was true, but a subtle change had overcome him. Now that the outcome was sure, he was stronger, perhaps in anticipation of finding his wife and breaking the news. Surely in the small hours of the night this would change, but Nikandr hoped for Anatoliy’s sake, and for his wife’s, that his courage would hold for a while longer.

“There was fight in her, but she was too weak,” Nikandr continued. “When she went, she went quickly, and painlessly.” He didn’t know whether the last was true, but he saw no point in adding to Anatoliy’s grief.

Anatoliy took one deep, quavering breath, and pulled Nikandr into a deep embrace. He did not kiss Nikandr’s cheeks, but when he pulled away, Nikandr could see the pain and gratitude warring within him. “Thank you for trying, for coming here when my uncle, the duke, frowned upon it. But thank you most of all for caring for her.”

“Please, go to Kseniya,” Nikandr said, pulling him into a deep embrace. “You should be with your family.”

The two of them kissed cheeks, and then they parted. Anatoliy nodded. “I will.”

Nikandr took up his cherkesska and pulled it on in one smooth motion. From the floor above, the tapping sound came again, louder.

Anatoliy glanced up the stairs and smiled grimly. “Our duties follow us, do they not?”

“They do.”

After one last hug, Nikandr opened the door and stepped outside, pulling the collar up around his neck, more for the warmth than to hide his appearance. Soon he was back among the streets, walking toward the northern end of the city, where he’d taken a room. As he walked, a flapping sound came from behind him, and a rook landed on his shoulder. It dug in its talons to remain in place, though it seemed tighter than it needed to be.

The rook nipped his ear, a gesture Atiana had taken to. “I’m sorry, Nischka. She was young and strong once, but the wasting had taken too much from her.”

“I know.” He walked, the sound of his boots rising above the sounds of revelry coming from the building on his right. Through the window, Nikandr could see a group of men laughing, two of them striking massive steins against one another, throwing beer into the air.

Atiana was silent for a time, but Nikandr knew she was merely giving him time to deal with Mirketta’s death. “I’m tired, Atiana. Say what you’ve come to say.”

“You were to tell me if you agreed to heal another.”

“It’s difficult to get word to you. You know this. And I didn’t wish to make Anatoliy wait.”

“I know you too well,” the rook replied. “You came to help Anatoliy, but you wished to study the rifts over Petrochka as well.”

Nikandr shrugged. “If there are clues on this island, I would study them.”

“I told you the rift was not wide.”

“It doesn’t matter. We need to know more. And soon. I can feel it, Atiana. The world has been taking a deep breath these last many years, and soon that breath will be released. I would not be unprepared when it does.”

“Neither would I, but there are realities to deal with as well.”

Nikandr had nearly reached the far side of the capital square when a tavern door creaked open. Several men filed out, one of them wearing the uniform of a polkovnik, the second highest rank in the military of the Grand Duchy, beneath only the duke himself. The rook immediately flapped up and away as the men headed across the square. The polkovnik glanced at Nikandr, his brows furrowing momentarily, but then one of the men started a drinking song, and the others picked it up. Soon they were past him and Nikandr was up and into the higher reaches of the city.

On a wide street with tall iron fences on either side, the rook flapped down and landed on his shoulder again.

“What realities?” Nikandr said.

“My father, for one. He wants you where you shine the most—at the helm of a ship, commanding other ships.”

“He doesn’t think I
shine
. And he doesn’t command me, Atiana.”

“He is the Grand Duke.”

“I know this well.”

The rook flapped to keep its balance as he took a short set of stairs between two tall stone houses. “Your father agrees with him. He wants you home.”

“A home that is threatened.”

The rook paused as the wind blew through the narrow walkway. “There’s no need to be cold, Nikandr. You know I agree.”

“Then
help
me.”

“I do.”

“I need more.”

“That’s why I’ve come.” The rook paused, and then took wing. It flew north, away from the inn where Nikandr had taken a room.

The way she’d said those words…
That’s why I’ve come…
Almost as if she were standing right beside him.

He walked down the street. The buildings became homes with proper lawns, and then they became manors. When Nikandr reached the final bend in the road, he looked up and saw that the road led to a keep that had been converted into a boarding house. He knew this place. It was old, one of the few places outside the palotzas and the proper keeps of Mirkotsk that held a drowning chamber beneath the structure’s lone turret.

As he climbed the hill, he could see a room on the third floor. A lamp was lit within, and he could see a silhouette standing at the window. It was a silhouette he hadn’t seen for months, but as he looked upon it, a sudden sense of relief and anticipation swept over him.

When he reached the keep, the heavy service door set into the old wooden gate creaked open before he could knock. A squinting woman with a bullseye lantern leaned outside and eyed Nikandr while shining the lamp up and down his frame. After a grunt and a look of disapproval, she waved him inside and led him up to the keep’s third floor.

Atiana, wearing a lush red robe, was still toweling her hair when he entered the room. The old woman remained, awkwardly watching this exchange. Atiana shooed her away and shut the door, nearly catching the lantern in it. After a
humph
, the woman’s shuffling footsteps picked up and faded away, leaving Nikandr alone with Atiana at last.

Atiana stepped in and gave him a tender hug. She didn’t exactly approve of what he’d been doing with his newfound abilities—finding those afflicted with the wasting and healing them—but she was setting that aside for him.

For his part, he was drained emotionally. He hardly knew
what
to feel. All he knew was that holding her now was like basking in the summer sun. He pulled her close, feeling her skin, which was chilled to the bone. He could smell the earthy smell of the rendered goat fat that would have protected her skin while she was submerged beneath the water. He could also smell the jasmine perfume she liked to wear.

The emotions that had been roiling through him since leaving Mirketta had been with him until now, but the truth was that he was so glad she was here that he felt nothing but relief and the deep connection he and Atiana shared. Their love had started on Uyadensk, when they were to be married, but it had grown since they’d parted after the ritual on Oshtoyets. They’d seen one another several times a year since then, and each time, he found that his feelings for her had grown since the last time they’d held one another in their arms, since they’d last kissed, since they’d last made love.

“Why have you come so far?” he asked.

She stepped back, staring into his eyes, perhaps to judge his sincerity. “If you think I would let a year pass without seeing you, Nikandr Iaroslov”—she stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the neck—“you are sadly mistaken.”

He looked down at her, her porcelain skin and her bright eyes. Her hair fell down her shoulders and back, making her look more primal than he had ever seen her. She looked nothing like a princess.

She took a step back with a beckoning look.

He reached for her and she stepped away.

He didn’t want to smile, and yet he did. He stepped forward, and she slid back, never taking her eyes from him.

She moved one hand down to the sash that kept her robe in place.

He pulled at his cherkesska, allowing it to fall from his shoulders as her robe slipped from hers.

He stepped toward her, and when she tried to dance away, he grabbed her wrist. She fought him, tugging, trying to make him lose his grip. She twisted her arm, crouched down, until he pulled her hard and brought her body up against his.

She embraced him then, her lips locking on his. Her skin was freezing to the touch, but she moved as though she were on fire, kissing his neck and chest, biting his ears and lips.