could the others on the ship. Above all, it was pointless. He could do nothing to help her-assuming help was needed at all.
Their ship was drawn downward into a thickening curtain of white. They landed without incident, though as soon as they did they heard a long, ragged line of musket fire come to them through the swirling snow. The shouting of men-a battle cry-and cannon fire sounded in reply. From a further distance-muted by the weather-were more cannon shots. The nearer conflict must be the battle for Volgorod, and the farther was surely Ranos’s desperate attempt to wrest back the eyrie. With those two loci and their relative distances judged by the cannon fire, it didn’t take long for Nikandr to determine where they were. He had judged the distance well. They were no more than a half-league from the site of the suurahezhan’s crossing, the event that had started all of them on this long and winding path.
As the streltsi gathered their equipment and readied themselves, Nikandr beckoned Rehada and Ashan and the two Aramahn from the second skiff.
“Can you do anything about the snow?” Nikandr asked Ashan.
“You wish me to stop it?”
“ Nyet, I’d like more to cover our approach.”
Ashan nodded. “I’ll see what can be done.”
Atiana felt her legs move, felt them lead her about the ship. She tried to stop, to simply stand still, but when she did her muscles, her very bones, screamed in pain, and she was forced to relent. She tried to speak, and once even managed a guttural sound, but then Grigory’s mother exerted her control once more, relegating Atiana to watching as she decided what Atiana would do.
Atiana should have been able to protect herself from the Matra’s attack, but Alesya had hidden her intentions well. It made Atiana wonder how many times Alesya had done this before. Plenty, she thought, and there was a growing certainty within her that Alesya would not allow her to pass this information along to anyone. When the need for her had passed she would take an unfortunate fall, she would tumble into the sea, and Grigory would deliver grave apologies to Vostroma for their loss.
Alesya had rooted from her mind the location of the rift and had bid Grigory to set sail for it. She wanted him to prevent whatever it was that Khalakovo was planning with the Maharraht. She wanted for him to return the hero, to set up Bolgravya as the savior in this conflict.
As the ship flew through the snow toward Volgorod, the sounds of cannon fire broke. A massive clipper came abaft of the Kavda. The boatswain issued a recognition signal, receiving the correct answer in reply. The clipper, a battle-tested ship flying the colors of Nodhvyansk, settled into line with the Kavda. As it did, Atiana could feel the presence of a soulstone.
Nikandr’s soulstone.
Atiana was confused. This was a phenomenon spoken of in the annals of the Grand Duchy, but not in recent years. To feel someone, anyone, outside the bounds of the aether was extremely rare, and Atiana assumed it was related to her proximity to the rift-or perhaps the weather, which, after hours on deck, had left her numb, much as she would be while taking the dark. Whatever the reason, she knew with certainty that Nikandr was aboard a ship off the windward bow. She desperately tried to hide this from Alesya, but it was not something she had learned how to do. To think about hiding something was to think about the thing itself, and that was all it took for Alesya to sense what she had learned.
Alesya forced Atiana to turn from the gunwale and address Grigory, who stood near the helm. “Nikandr is nearby.” She pointed. “Just there.”
“How can you be sure?”
Alesya raised Atiana’s arm and touched her breast, where her soulstone lay. “There is more of a bond between Atiana and Nikandr than I would have guessed.”
Grigory frowned, but then he threw his arm toward the pilot and pointed in the same direction that Atiana had. “Change course.”
“ Da, Kapitan.”
And so they followed.
Cannon fire broke out, and a wounded Vostroman ship took shape from within the thick of the white snow and sped past them. Not long after, three ships could be seen, heading in the same direction as the Kavda.
Three more ships appeared, and soon after they were spotted all three broke off in different directions.
“Which?” Grigory asked Atiana.
Again she tried to hide the information by focusing on other things: the cold, the snow, her anger at being held prisoner within her own skin, but it was useless.
“The center,” Alesya said, pointing.
They followed the brigantine as the clipper behind them angled starward to pursue one of the other ships. Cannon fire tore into the hull. Surprisingly, Alesya’s fear stood out strongly. She ducked down, putting her hands over her head as the concussion traveled along the deck.
For a moment, Atiana could move again. She crawled forward of her own free will, but the next moment found herself trapped once more. Alesya forced her to stand. She composed herself, anger and embarrassment emanating from her.
In the confusion, Nikandr’s ship was lost in the drifting snow. Grigory called out for the Kavda to drop in pursuit. One moment everyone was grabbing onto ropes or railings or rigging, and the next moment Atiana’s stomach was in her throat. She held onto the rope of a nearby deadeye and held on for dear life, sure the ship would crash to the ground.
“She’s ahead, Kapitan,” a crewman shouted, pointing off the windward bow.
The ship leveled off, and Alesya was able to restore control once more.
She could see through the snow the barest hint of the ship’s form, but she could also feel Nikandr somewhere below. The feeling was beginning to fade, though she didn’t understand why.
Alesya forced her to the gunwale. Far below, there were two skiffs, barely visible. They were lost among the currents of snow a moment later.
“Nikandr is on one of the skiffs, along with a score of streltsi.”
“Prepare the skiffs!” Grigory shouted. “Quickly.”
“ Nyet. Let them go.” Alesya stared downward, into the swirling snow. “Allow Nikandr to think that he hasn’t been seen.” She turned back to Grigory. “ Then we’ll fill our skiffs and send them hunting.”
Nikandr watched as the streltsi spread out in rows of four and began marching forward, muskets at the ready. The snow was falling so heavily he could see little more than white. The snow was already a foot deep and getting deeper by the moment, making the going slow and arduous.
The site of the suurahezhan’s crossing was less than a mile ahead. So far there had been no sign of the Maharraht, but the sounds of the battle for the eyrie and Radiskoye had shown no signs of letting up.
Then he heard it. Chanting, from a single voice. He signaled to the sotnik to slow the men, and to spread them out. They obeyed silently, all except the sotnik and his two desyatni.
The snowfall had eased. They could see dozens of yards ahead of them. The ground was white except for the blackened face of a small outcropping of rock and the handful of scrub brush that dotted the terrain.
Nikandr turned to Ashan, whose forehead was pinched in concentration. He looked to Nikandr and shook his head. There was nothing, apparently, he could do to help.
If Ashan were powerless, Nikandr wondered if it had more to do with the rift than the Maharraht.
He waved for the men to lower themselves to the ground. They did so, crawling through the deep snow until they saw a depression in the terrain. A man sat in the middle of it. His eyes were closed, and he was chanting softly. He wore a black turban dusted with snow. Upon his brow was a brown gem of jasper, sparkling brightly despite the relatively dim light.
The sotnik turned to Nikandr and pointed his finger at the Maharraht, cocking his thumb like a musket.
Nikandr shook his head. He didn’t want to do anything rash. They had no idea where Nasim might be, and he refused to jeopardize him needlessly. He turned to Rehada, who was studying the man with a piercing stare. She was conflicted-sadness and doubt clearly warring within her.
Nikandr moved to her side and whispered to her, “Who is he?”
He never heard her response.
A series of sharp cracks resonated beneath him. He could feel it running along his hands and knees.
