wrapped around his right shoulder. When he did not stir, she picked up the soulstone that she had known to be deadened. She had seen it in the shattered hallway in Radiskoye just before Nikandr had left. How, then, had it regained life? Had it been that it had never been truly lifeless? Had it merely been a temporary effect? Nikandr had been so certain-surely if it had held even a single spark of life, he would have sensed it.
She placed her hand on the stone and lifted it. She was careful not to let the chain tickle his skin, though given the amount of liquor he had imbued, she doubted he would feel something so subtle.
She examined the chain and the setting. It was sound-as all such chains were made to be. She might be able to slip it over his head, but she would much rather remove only the stone, perhaps the setting as well, so that he would still feel the two chains around his neck and hopefully not notice the missing gem until it was too late.
Seeing no real alternative, she slipped out from underneath the covers and stood next to the bed, holding it for a moment to steady herself from the haze of alcohol running through her. She searched the room for anything that might help her, but it was so spare. There was a well-stocked liquor cabinet, clothes, two fish oil lanterns, some simple pottery, several leather-bound books… There was also a stack of orders containing the signature of her father, Zhabyn Olegov Vostroma. She paged through them, intrigued, but they were mundane-all of them detailing the supplies that were to be given to Grigory and his ship from the hastily constructed supply house here on Duzol.
Her heart jumped as Grigory shifted onto his side, both his stone and Nikandr’s slipping down into the soft bedding. And then she spied his clothes lying on the floor next to the bed. On his black leather belt was a sheath that held his ceremonial kindjal. Her eyes darted between the blade and the stones, then she padded forward and slipped the kindjal free of its pristine leather sheath. Holding it behind her, she slipped back under the covers. She eyed the stones, pulling Nikandr’s far enough away from Grigory’s so that she would have enough room to do what she needed to do. Once she was satisfied with its position, she placed the tip of the knife onto the heavy link that connected the stone’s setting to the chain itself. She held it with both hands and bore down on it with all her weight.
Either the knife was not sharp enough or the metal was too strong, for all that happened was that it pulled the bedding far enough that it roused Grigory. He lifted his arm and scratched his neck, but then he drifted back to sleep.
After counting slowly to thirty, she repositioned the stone and leaned on the knife again. She raised herself up higher and pressed her weight downward, hoping it would be enough to break the link. She tried again and again. On the fourth try, the link broke with an audible but muffled clink.
And then she looked up as Grigory sharply drew breath.
By the ancients, he was staring straight at her.
CHAPTER 57
Atiana was certain that Grigory would snatch the kindjal from her and plunge it into her chest-just as she had done with the necklace’s link-but when she realized he was staring into her eyes she knew that he didn’t yet understand what had woken him.
The kindjal had plunged down into the mattress so that by and large it was hidden. She shot forward, onto his chest, covering the knife with her belly as she kissed him passionately. She slid the knife up and underneath her now-vacant pillow as she climbed higher, allowing her breasts to brush against his arm and then his naked chest.
He grimaced in pain and pulled away, looking at her, not unkindly, but certainly not with the fervor of their one and only time between the sheets. He closed his eyes tightly and shook them open. “How long have I been asleep?”
She smiled the smile of the love-struck while searching delicately but with a growing sense of urgency for Nikandr’s stone, which had slipped away in her attempts to divert Grigory’s attention. “Who cares?”
“Atiana, please. Your father’s men should be arriving sometime today to transfer your one-time fiance to a manor house down the hill.”
“Nikandr is here?”
He pulled the covers away and sat up, looming over her as she lay there. From the corner of her eye she saw the stone slip down into the depression his right knee was creating. She reached up and scratched his stomach to keep his attention riveted to her.
He nearly doubled over-a ticklish man-and climbed over her to reach the floor. Immediately she released her hold of the knife, trusting that a man like Grigory wouldn’t adjust the pillows, and placed herself squarely on top of the stone.
“Would that interest you?”
Now that he was gone from the bed and pulling his clothes on, she allowed the expression upon her face to slip to one of concern, and then to anger. “Perhaps you didn’t hear what happened on Radiskoye’s eyrie, Griga, but a gun was held to my head, and Nikandr’s father had his finger on the trigger. I know in my heart the craven nearly ended a woman’s life because his son had been taken from him. I have words for his son-words about his father, words about Nikandr himself-that I would say to him before all of this is over.”
“Then come, and we will visit him-”
“They are words for Nikandr alone…”
Grigory stopped as he was pulling on his belt. She thought he had noticed his knife missing, but he was staring directly at her. “ Nyet,” he said with a satisfied smile. “Anything you wish to say to Nikandr you can say in front of your future husband.”
She slipped from the bed as he was pulling his shirt over his head. In one smooth motion she positioned the stone beneath the pillow and pulled the knife out from underneath it. She embraced Grigory before he could fully pull the shirt on and slipped the kindjal into its sheath while hugging him tightly. “Fair enough,” she said, kissing him on the mouth as his head emerged from the confines of his shirt.
“Enough.” He pulled away, favoring his wounded shoulder. “I have much to do. Get yourself dressed and meet me outside.”
As he opened the door, two streltsi further up the hall looked in their direction. Grigory didn’t make an attempt to block their view of the room-or more importantly, Atiana standing naked within it. He closed the door behind him like a wolf who had just won his bitch… Nyet, she thought, like a young, impudent aristocrat who’d claimed the prize no one thought him capable of winning.
She turned to the bed and spit upon it.
And then she retrieved Nikandr’s stone before pulling on her clothes.
The door before her clanked as the gaoler turned the keys. The immense door-after a hard shove from the gaoler-opened with a horrible groan. Atiana stepped inside. Dim light came from small windows worked into the stone walls.
There were four cells in the tight space with a wide aisleway between them. All four were occupied, and in the dimness, Atiana was having trouble discerning where Nikandr was being held. Two crewmen occupied the leftmost cells. In the first cell on the right was an Aramahn man with a mop of curly brown hair and a short, ragged beard.
In the final cell, lying on the straw layering the cell floor, was Nikandr, but he did not rise as she approached.
“Stand, Khalakovo,” Atiana said.
He jumped as she spoke. Her stomach churned as he rolled slowly over. Grigory had not mentioned that he was in such a state, and she realized that the information had been withheld for a purpose-Grigory had wanted to see her reaction as she laid eyes on him. Beyond her initial shock-which she hoped Grigory had not been able to see so well in the darkness-she hid her emotions well. She kept a steely gaze on Nikandr as he made it first to all fours, then to his knees. He breathed deeply, coughing painfully several times, before summoning the energy to pull himself up to his feet.
His face was a mass of black and purple bruises. His lip was swollen and cut, and the blood that had leaked from a gash along the bridge of his nose ran down his face and into the stubble along his lip and chin and neck. She
