seized his arms.
Grigory’s countrymen broke away from the gunwales, ready to help their Lord Prince, but the crew of the Broghan took them by force, preventing them from interfering.
“I am a son of Bolgravya! You will release me!” When they did not, Grigory turned to Nikandr. “Turn back, coward! There are lives to be saved!”
Despite Grigory’s pleas, Nikandr knew he could not, and though his face burned with shame from the screams of the men below the ship, he would not throw away a ship-along with the lives of a score of men-when the spirits themselves had somehow risen against them.
CHAPTER 17
“My Lord Prince?” Isaak, the palotza’s seneschal, was standing in front of Nikandr with a look on his face that made Nikandr wonder just how long he had been standing there.
Nikandr had always been a sure-footed man, but he’d had a terrible case of vertigo ever since his return to solid ground. It was another symptom of the wasting, one often associated with the latter stages of the disease, but Nikandr hoped that it had somehow been brought on by his strange experience and that it was merely lingering because of his condition.
He couldn’t get the scene from the Broghan out of his mind.
The crewman who had been attacked by the spirits, an old gull with a wide jaw and heavy growth of beard, was standing nearby. He was pressing a bloody kerchief against his self-inflicted wounds. He looked at Nikandr with something akin to solidarity-he understood Nikandr’s confusion-yet at the same time he looked embarrassed, as if he felt weak for admitting that he had succumbed to this unexpected attack.
It mirrored Nikandr’s own feelings precisely.
“I’ll be fine, Isaak,” Nikandr said. “I’m only a bit shaken. Where did you say I could find my father?”
“I said His Highness would find you. He asks that you retire to the Great Hall to assist Ranos in staving off the wolves, as he put it.”
“Where has he gone?”
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Isaak asked.
The sounds of screaming came to Nikandr again. Closing his eyes only made matters worse.
Isaak stepped forward, lowering his voice. “Are you quite well, My Lord Prince?”
Nikandr waved him away. “It’s nothing.”
“There is trouble afoot, My Lord. Your father, the Duke, is with the Matra, and he’ll return as soon as he is able. If you’re well, as you say, then best you get to the Great Hall now, before things turn sour.” He turned and walked briskly away, and when he reached the end of the hallway, he turned. “The Great Hall, My Lord, the Great Hall.”
Flanked by the old seaman, Nikandr made his way there. The doors stood open, and Nikandr entered as an argument played out at the head of the hall. Some noticed his entrance, but they remained silent as Nikandr and the crewman made their way to the dais. The screams of the men on the rocks, the silence as his man slipped free of the mast and fell to the sea, the clawing feeling he’d experienced as if his very soul had been held in the balance, all of it still swirled within his mind as if it were still happening.
He paused, nearly retching at the discontinuity. He took deep breaths as Ranos shouted over the noise of the crowd. “I have told you thrice, Vostroma. We have secured Radiskoye, Nikandr and Grigory are attempting to find any survivors, and our Aramahn are searching for signs of foul play.”
“ Foul play?” Zhabyn barked. “Can there be any doubt?”
“Spirits have crossed randomly before, Duke.”
“And if you believe that’s the case here, then you’re less prepared to follow in your father’s footsteps than I thought.” Zhabyn stabbed a finger toward the eyrie. “What happened out there was murder. No more, no less.”
Nikandr reached the dais. When Ranos took note of him, he tipped his head, indicating Nikandr should join him. “We don’t know that yet. Your blood is boiling, I know. Mine is as well. But we can discuss this further once more is known.”
Voices rumbled about the room, clearly perturbed that Ranos was questioning the obvious.
“Discuss?”
This came from Duke Leonid of Dhalingrad, a heavyset man with a crooked shoulder and a long white beard that shook as he spoke.
“You wish to discuss when the Grand Duke himself has been murdered on your very doorstep? This is a time for action, not wandering about asking polite questions while you hide your cock with your hand.”
“Spirits cross when they will, Dhalingrad,” Ranos replied.
“Not only when they will,” Duke Leonid said. “They can be summoned, as you very well know. It happened to your brother. This might have been planned days before Council”-Leonid opened his arms wide-“from within these very walls.”
Ranos’s face turned hard, mirroring Nikandr’s own feelings. “If you have something to say, Dhalingrad, you’d better come out from hiding and say it.”
“Dhalingrad hides behind nothing!”
Then, striding through the open doors at the rear of the hall, came Grigory, his face a study in anger and indignation. When he reached the open area before the dais, he spit upon the floor and pointed his finger at Nikandr. “You have much to account for, Khalakovo.”
Before Nikandr could speak, Ranos strode toward him. “Watch your step, Bolgravya.”
“I will not, not when my father burned before my eyes, not when my blood has been offered to the sea.”
“I told you what happened, Griga,” Nikandr said.
Grigory’s look hardened at the use of his familiar name. “Do you expect me to believe that hezhan were attacking you?”
“I do.”
“When your own Motherless slaves say they felt nothing?”
“I felt the hezhan as I feel my own thoughts. They were clamoring for us. Our man felt the same.”
Nikandr motioned for the crewman at the head of the crowd to speak, but before he could summon the courage, Grigory scoffed. “He will spout any story you’ve fed him.”
“I saved lives, including yours! They took one of my own men.”
“Then you should be doubly ashamed for abandoning him!”
Voices were raised, people taking sides, others looking for answers. Nikandr saw Borund, standing near his father. They had grown up together, had attended many Councils with one another. Borund had spent a summer on Khalakovo, and Nikandr had done the same on Vostroma. He was Nikandr’s closest friend among the aristocracy, a man Nikandr considered a brother. Ever since Borund’s arrival their relationship had been strained, different. Nikandr had written it off to his own reticence to marry Atiana, but the look on Borund’s face… He was staring at Nikandr as if he were looking upon a coward, as if he were ashamed that he had ever considered Nikandr a friend. It was a strange reality to be faced with, and it made Nikandr realize just how dangerous a position they were in. Tensions had been high. Distrust and the urge to look after one’s own family had been rising above the long- fought-for solidarity among the Duchies. If Borund were looking at Nikandr in this manner, what must the other dukes be thinking, especially those from the south, who typically aligned with one another?
An echoing boom resounded through the room-once, twice, thrice. Everyone turned toward Zhabyn, who was slamming the heel of his boot against the wooden floor. Once quiet had been restored, he nodded to Nikandr. “Tell us what you know.”
Nikandr complied, at least so far as he was able. Grigory interrupted several times, but each time he did Zhabyn stomped his foot, cowing the young man back into silence. When Nikandr was done, Zhabyn turned to the crewman and asked the same of him. And finally, it was Grigory’s turn. He relayed the events at the base of the cliff, painting Nikandr as a man more craven than anyone the islands had ever seen. It would seem, by the time Grigory was done, that Nikandr was responsible for everything from the presence of the suurahezhan to the very
