Thankfully he seemed to have cooled since then. He had greeted Nikandr in the bath cordially if not warmly, and now he was regarding Nikandr with something like acceptance. He motioned to the corner of the terrace, a place far from the other men. “This would seem like the perfect time, my young Prince.”
They strode together and stood near the railing, both of them staring out across the island and the churning green seas below. There was little wind, but the cold was beginning to invade the soles of Nikandr’s feet.
In the silence that followed, Nikandr found himself edgy and uncomfortable. When he was very young, he had been petrified of Zhabyn, and though those feelings had eventually been replaced with a mixture of awe and resentment, traces of that scared little boy had stubbornly remained. Even now, though he was a Prince, an heir to the scepter of Khalakovo, he felt inadequate standing before him.
He also recognized that it was time for these feelings to stop. Zhabyn had never been an overly kind man, but neither had he been cruel, and Nikandr vowed to right his unwarranted feelings; they were the remnants of his youth, nothing that should be allowed to taint the relationship with his second father.
“I am most sorry for yesterday, My Lord Duke. Much has happened over the last few days, and I will admit that my mind wasn’t in the right place, but I tell you that it is now.”
Zhabyn continued to stare out over the sea. “Five years from now who will remember such a thing?”
You will, Nikandr thought.
“I would speak with you of the Gorovna,” he continued.
“I know the imposition the attack has created for you-”
Zhabyn shook his head, drops of water falling from his beard. “That matters little. I care more that the Maharraht have been found on Khalakovan shores. What do you think they were after?”
“The obvious answer would be the ship, to destroy it, or if they were very lucky to take it from us on its maiden voyage.”
“And the answers that lie below the surface?”
“With Council upon us, one could assume that they hoped to catch nobility on the ship. But if it were that simple, why not wait until all the dukes had arrived? Why tip their hand?”
“Go on.”
“There’s Borund and myself… Perhaps it was one of us in particular.”
Zhabyn nodded, as if he’d already been thinking along these lines. “Borund has told me that the hezhan seemed to hone in on you as soon as it reached the ship.”
Nikandr hesitated, for he wasn’t sure he wished to share this information, but the urge to reconcile with Zhabyn pushed him onward. “That same moment, just before it attacked, my soulstone glowed brighter.”
Zhabyn stared at Nikandr’s chest, though his stone was back in his rooms. “And what does the Matra have to say about that?”
“She is as confused as we are.”
“That I doubt, my young Prince.” He frowned, returning his attention to the sea. “Why? Why attack a prince?”
“Perhaps it was meant to be a signal of their power, to murder a prince on the very doorstep of Radiskoye. Yet I cannot shake the feeling that they didn’t know about the ship, that they were interrupted in their true purpose.”
“To summon a hezhan?”
Nikandr shrugged as the light wind died. The warmth of the sun could be felt on his back and shoulders. “Perhaps, though I wonder if they were caught off guard there as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have no real reason to think this, but it may have been an experiment of sorts. The spirit they summoned may have been more than they bargained for.”
“Perhaps, but the question still remains… Why?”
“I wish I knew, Your Grace.”
Zhabyn looked over at him and smiled. It seemed to Nikandr that there was respect in his eyes, and gratitude. “Well, I’m sure your father’s men will keep us safe. I only wanted to thank you for what you did. It was bold thought and actions that saw my son safely home. I fear he would not be here today”-he waved one hand, indicating where Nikandr and Borund had slid along the snow-“able to take baths, were it not for you.”
Nikandr bowed his head, remembering how angry Borund had seemed about the scene by the harbor and the attack by the Maharraht. He realized, then, that Borund had perhaps felt inadequate himself. He had always taken to bullying his way through problems; perhaps he had felt upstaged by Nikandr.
“Atiana.” Zhabyn finally turned to face Nikandr. “My daughter.”
“Your Grace?”
“When my wife first told me of the arrangement she had made with your mother, I was disappointed.”
With the warmth long since having left and the cold beginning to invade, Nikandr began to shiver. “As you say, Your Grace.”
Zhabyn forced a smile and slapped Nikandr on the shoulder. “I was wrong, young Prince, and I’m not afraid to admit it. Anyone who protects my son like this will surely do so for his wife.”
Nikandr smiled.
“Is it not so?”
“Of course I would, Your Grace. Of course.” He said the words, hoping he might someday think more of her than simply a woman he needed to protect.
Zhabyn seemed to notice, for his smile faded and he stared at Nikandr with a serious glint in his eye. “That is good.” He slapped him on the shoulder one more time.
Then he did something most strange. He glanced over at the other men, who were still rolling around in the snow, and Nikandr swore it was Borund he was spying. He leaned in toward Nikandr and said, “I can understand your reluctance, you know.”
“Your Grace?”
Zhabyn smiled, the most genuine smile Nikandr could ever remember him wearing. “Don’t tell my son, but I was horrified when my mother told me of my marriage to Radia.”
“Surely you’re only being kind.”
“ Nyet, I am not. I nearly refused, though I knew in the end it would be done whether I wanted it or not.”
Nikandr blinked, at a complete loss for words.
“But know this… Radia has been more than I could have dreamed for. She is a good woman, a good mother to her children, and she is a beacon to our family.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Nikandr said simply. He had to bite his tongue. Radia had long been known to be the most subservient of the Matri. No doubt Zhabyn’s high estimation of her stemmed from her willingness to bend to his will following their marriage.
Behind them, the other men were heading inside. Steam from the bath billowed outward as they opened the door and filed in.
“Come,” Zhabyn said as he guided Nikandr toward the door, “you’re shivering. Time to get warm.”
The day continued with Nikandr meeting and greeting each and every member of the Vostroma contingent except Atiana, which included, unfortunately, Mileva and Ishkyna, who seemed too polite and much too pleasant. He kept eyeing them, wondering what they were up to, until it occurred to him that that might be exactly what they were after. He tried to ignore them after that, but it was impossible-one or the other or both kept inserting themselves into his conversations.
It felt as though the rest of his life would be spent answering questions about his plans for Atiana, his plans for family and livelihood. It was endless and painful beyond description, not in the mere voicing of it, but in light of the fact that he doubted he would live to see those years. The wasting was growing within him. He knew this. And despite whatever small hopes he might harbor of finding a cure, he understood deep down that he might very well die before he saw his first child born.
Eventually-thank the ancestors-it was time to prepare for dinner. He changed into the shirt and kaftan made for him for this night. He kept his own boots, however. There was to be a dance, and he would not engage in battle with Atiana wearing unbroken boots. After downing a healthy portion of the elixir-and an herbed biscuit to mask the odor-he left for the grand ballroom.
