them.”
This was of course a demand that a rescue effort be waged, for no mention of one had been made so far. Grigory had always been a bold young man-he was Stasa’s son after all-but he had never seemed so much like his father as he did just then.
Father did not balk at Grigory’s tone. He merely nodded and turned to the sotnik of the streltsi. “Take the ships. Have the Broghan scour the area around Radiskoye. The Tura should search the rest of the island. And have men accompany Grigory to the harbor. Send two waterborne ships to the cliffs and have them search for survivors.”
“Father,” Nikandr interrupted, “let me take the Broghan down to the sea. Help from Volgorod will arrive too late.”
“ Nyet. The winds at the base of the cliffs are too dangerous.”
Grigory stepped forward and pointed a finger at Father’s chest. “No effort will be spared, Khalakovo.”
Father turned calmly. “Take yourself away, Bolgravya, before I have you dragged and thrown in with the women.”
Grigory glanced at the nearby ships, knowing that any delay could mean the lives of his family below, and then he turned crisply and strode away.
“We cannot risk it,” Father said once he was out of earshot.
Nikandr lowered his voice. “But if there’s any chance that some survive, we should take it.”
“Nikandr is right,” Ranos said. “And despite Grigory’s brashness, think on what is going through everyone’s minds. It’s bad enough this happened in front of the entire Grand Duchy. If we’re to save any face, we need to show our best effort.”
“I cannot risk more lives,” Father said.
“Nikandr has done it before, Father. With Jahalan and Udra, he’ll be safe.”
Father hesitated, his gaze wandering to the smoke trailing up from the base of the cliff. He stepped forward and took Nikandr by the shoulders, and then pulled him into a tight embrace. “Go.” He kissed Nikandr on the forehead. “Save what can be saved, and come home safe.”
And with that Nikandr was off. Grigory and the three Bolgravyan wind-men who had leapt to safety joined him. Jahalan and Udra were already waiting near the ship. They assembled a crew from the available men and pushed off as soon as they were able.
Once the mooring ropes were released, a half-dozen men used poles to push the ship into the wind. Nikandr took the helm himself and ordered the sails set along all four mainmasts.
Flying this close to an island always held its risks. A windship, unlike a waterborne craft, had three keels, each of them a shaft of obsidian running through the center of the ship. One ran lengthwise; one ran from the starward mainmast, through the ship and down the seaward mainmast; and the final one ran from the landward mainmast to the windward. The ends of each shaft were attuned to the aether such that it would align in a particular manner, each end pulling along ley lines drawn by the complex arrangement of islands and sea. This close to a cliff face, the currents were little more than whorls of aether, shifting and swirling with no discernible pattern. This was the reason eyrie landings were so difficult and the most seasoned pilots were called upon to perform them.
If it were only the aether that they had to contend with, Nikandr would not worry so much; it was the added danger of the wind, which was at best unpredictable, at worst deadly. There was little to do about it now, however. They could not abandon any survivors to the seas, no matter what the risk might be.
Udra willed the Broghan to descend. Jahalan summoned the winds to push them away from the cliff face, but already they were being blown back toward it. Nikandr used the three levers on the bridge to control the ship’s alignment. Jahalan could only do so much; he used his bonded wind spirit, a havahezhan, to manipulate the winds, but fine control was impossible, so it was up to Nikandr to harness them properly and guide the ship away from the looming rock.
Finally they approached the sea. Spikes of rock jutted up from the water like the ragged teeth of a leviathan lying in wait just below the surface. Stasa’s ship lay in ruins between two of them, the massive hull shorn near its center. The masts were crooked and broken like the trunks of once-proud trees following a terrible cold snap. White, frothy water rose and fell with the surf. Bitterly cold spray flew off the crest of every wave and was thrown against the ship, against the exposed skin of the crew.
Men crowded the gunwales and scanned the water for any sign of survivors. For minutes on end, Nikandr struggled with the rudders, fighting the tendency of the wind to send them toward the rock. Jahalan was doing his best, but even one as strong and skilled as he could not coax the havahezhan bound to him indefinitely, especially when there were so many other wind spirits gathered in places like this, ready to foil the wishes of the Aramahn masters.
“There!” Grigory shouted from the gunwales. “Near the rock! Two of them!”
Grigory pointed toward two men who were clinging to the rocks, too weary to pull themselves higher.
“Ready-” Nikandr lost his breath when the wind threw the cold ocean spray into his face. “Ready the ropes!”
Four of the crew shimmied along the landward mainmast, carrying ropes that were fed to them from the deck. Nikandr ordered men to the windward mainmast so the ship’s delicate balance would be maintained. There was no need to speak with Jahalan and Udra. Jahalan knew his part-to keep the winds as steady as he could-and Udra stood ready to right the ship as the new weight was taken on board.
The wind buffeted the ship, first away from the rocks, then toward, then fiercely downward. All the while Nikandr guided the ship steadily closer to the stranded men. The crewmen on the mast heaved the ropes toward the rocks, but they had to be reeled in, because the survivors were either too weak to leave the safety of the rocks or too scared to brave the waters.
The cliff and the tall, jutting rocks prevented them from moving directly above the men, but Nikandr brought the ship as close as he dared.
The sound of the wind fades. The numbing cold and the tug of the wind soon follow until all of his senses have been robbed from him.
Until there is nothing.
Nothing save for a keen yearning. A summons.
It tugs at his soul. It clambers for life. It is a need so great that it threatens to overwhelm him. It is the call of the spirits beyond the veil. One has reached through and taken hold of his soul, but there are many, many more, ready to scratch and claw in any way they can for the life that lies within him.
The world slipped into view.
Grigory shouted from the gunwales. “What are you doing? Bring her in closer!”
Nikandr realized the Broghan was slipping away from the rocks, but he didn’t care. Jahalan was clearly concerned over Nikandr’s actions, but he continued to command the winds as he always had-with a steady hand.
He rails against the hezhan that hungers for him as others approach. Several men have already succumbed. Surely more will follow if they attempt to save the men on the rocks. Soon, if he allows it, the entire ship will be lost to the hunger of the spirits.
One of the two crewmen on the mast slipped free and fell to the white-capped waters below. Another man standing on deck near the head was screaming, scratching at his face, leaving dark runnels of blood. Nikandr understood what was assailing them. He also knew they had to flee, now, before they were all consumed.
“Rise, Udra, rise! Jahalan, hold steady!”
The ship rose immediately as the winds shoved the ship toward the rocks. Jahalan was ready-he commanded his havahezhan to thwart the elements yet again.
Grigory’s eyes went wide. “Are you mad?”He stalked over from the gunwales, his eyes in a craze. “You cannot leave! They are just there!”
“We cannot stay,” Nikandr replied, unable to articulate what had just happened.
“Your own man has fallen in the waters!”
When Nikandr did not reply, Grigory pulled the ornamental kindjal from its sheath at his belt and stalked toward Nikandr.
“Take her back!” he shouted, but before he could come within striking range, three streltsi swarmed in and
