surely taken its toll. She had most likely been riding the winds for days by now, and her attention might be completely absorbed by other tasks. He also had no idea how strong she was after Nasim had attacked her. It was possible she was no longer as sharp as she once was.
But she was also the most gifted Matri of her generation. If anyone could overcome such odds, she could.
The gaoler entered the room nearly an hour later. It took Nikandr a moment to orient himself, so engrossed in concentration was he. The sunlight coming in through the small, high windows had started to dim.
The gaoler brought cold bowls of cabbage stew, though there was barely more than a handful with a small crust of bread soaking up what small amount of liquid there was. Still, after the meager meals he’d been given the last several days, he was glad to have anything to fill his stomach.
The gaoler left, closing the door behind him, and still Nikandr was silent. He dearly wanted to speak with Ashan, but he couldn’t risk it.
The sunlight dimmed until early dusk reigned. He began to despair. If Mother had heard him she most likely would have sent a ship to rescue him near dusk when it was still light enough to fly and when their arrival might be masked. If it became too dark, particularly with the overcast sky, it would be nearly impossible to mount a rescue. When full night finally arrived, he began to accept that he would not be saved.
He was startled some time later by the sound of the gaoler’s outer door opening. Two men talked, the door opened again, and then all was silence.
“Ashan,” Nikandr whispered, knowing they were finally alone.
Ashan was sitting in the corner of his cell furthest away from Nikandr.
His head was resting on his forearms, which were propped up against his bent knees. At Nikandr’s words he lifted his head and peered through the gloom. “Do not risk another beating, Nikandr.”
“I need to understand what happened on Ghayavand.” He held up his soulstone for Ashan to see. It glinted softly in the darkness.
“How did you?”
“Atiana. Now tell me, what does it mean? The stone was dead before I entered the tower, and now the life of it has returned, brighter than before. And I can feel Nasim… I can feel him just by touching the stone.”
“Sariya did nothing?”
“She was holding Muqallad back, preventing him from finding us.”
“Not us. Nasim.”
“Nasim, then.”
“And you said you had opened yourself to Nasim. Accepted him…”
“You know this. I’ve told you.”
Ashan frowned in concentration. “Pietr…”
Nikandr waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. He merely stared straight ahead, picking at his lips with thumb and forefinger.
“What about Pietr?”
Ashan shivered as he turned and looked at Nikandr. “In essence, Nasim sacrificed him.”
Nikandr coughed, trying and failing to understand the significance. “What of it?”
“He gave a life to draw you forth, creating a small rift in the aether which he used to draw you back. I wonder if the same could be done for Nasim.”
Nikandr coughed again, longer this time. The wasting seemed stronger here in Oshtoyets-either that or the disease was progressing faster. “I don’t understand.”
They were interrupted by the sound of the outer door opening once more. The gaoler was speaking with several men in his antechamber. Nikandr recognized one of them, and his blood went cold.
It was Borund.
They had come to take him away, and now it would be impossible to escape. Impossible.
Keys clanked in the door and Borund stepped in, followed by Grigory. Borund looked much thinner than he had weeks ago, though he had retained a certain heft. His dark beard was thicker as well, making him look more than a little like a wet bear.
“War doesn’t suit you, Bora.”
Borund laughed. The sound of it brought a host of fond memories from simpler times, but the look in his eye was the same as many-fear and distrust of those with the wasting. “I could say the same of you, Nischka.” Nikandr shrugged. “I do like flying more than fighting.”
Borund waved at Ashan’s cell door, and then Nikandr’s.
“I beg of you, Borund, listen to reason. Surely Grigory has told you that the Maharraht have stolen the boy. They’re planning something. They’re going to widen the rift that runs through Uyadensk. Let me go to my father and warn him. It’s not too late to bring this to a close before the very course of our lives changes forever.”
Grigory began to speak, but Borund raised his hand, giving Nikandr a clear indication that Zhabyn Vostroma was still very much in command. “Too late, Nischka. It was too late the moment you refused to hand over that boy, and to claim now that he is an enemy of Khalakovo reeks of desperation.”
Two streltsi picked Ashan up and led him out of the donjon as the gaoler unlocked Nikandr’s door.
Nikandr did not try to argue. Anything he said now would only cement Borund’s opinion. The only hope he had now was to speak with Zhabyn, to convince him that a trade with his father was in his best interests. Perhaps he would agree to give Nikandr over if Father agreed to give up Radiskoye. The decision could not be allowed to stand, but it would give Nikandr the time he needed to locate the Maharraht and stop them.
Waiting in the crisp evening air of the fort’s courtyard were a dozen mounts and a flatbed wagon. Borund and Grigory mounted ponies as the streltsi guided Ashan and Nikandr up to the rear of the wagon and chained them to heavy iron loops bolted through the bed.
They left, tack jingling, hooves clomping, with Borund and Grigory at the fore, followed by four mounted streltsi, the wagon, and four soldiers at the rear. Flying as a captive to Grigory on the Kavda had felt strange, but it had been a relatively private affair. Here, being dragged in the open on the bed of a wagon like a criminal being taken to the gallows was much more personal, much more public. Grigory turned in his seat several times to look at him though the sun had long since set and there was only a faint amount of light in the western sky.
The trail leading down toward the manor house was not in disrepair, but neither was it often used, and so the ride was rough.
They were only minutes away from the fort when, in the brush to the right of the trail, a light flashed, followed immediately by the crack of a musket.
A split-second later, the strelet riding furthest ahead dropped from his saddle and thumped to the ground.
CHAPTER 61
Shouts were raised as more flashes sparked in the darkness. Each shot illuminated, for one split second, the man who had fired the weapon-prone bodies facing the trail, eyes sighting along the length of a barrel. There were at least a dozen, and based on the rate of fire, Nikandr assumed they had each brought two loaded muskets with them.
Five streltsi, and one of the soldiers driving the wagon, dropped in the opening volley. Two of the remaining men returned fire. The other kicked his pony with a “Yah!” and was off after Grigory and Borund, who had also given their ponies free rein.
One more of the soldiers was shot before the remaining two dropped their weapons and raised their hands above their heads.
Nikandr heard a man’s voice call from the darkness. “Quickly,” he said. Soldiers were now approaching the wagon. “Prince Nikandr Iaroslov…” the voice called.
“I am here,” Nikandr said.
Up the hill, a large bell began clanging within the walls of Oshtoyets. It would be only moments before the soldiers in the fort were on them.
