“Nasim is involved, Ranya. I’m sure of it.”
“That may be so, but they will claim, rightly, that the Maharraht were behind the attack, and without something concrete, they will have rights to withhold their qiram from service to Khalakovo.”
They came to the road where a dozen streltsi waited on ponies, ready to accompany Ranos toward Radiskoye. Every third man held a dousing rod instead of a musket. Six went on ahead, while the others fell to the rear.
“So what do we do?” Nikandr asked.
Ranos paused, the hooves of their ponies muffled by the thick blanket of snow over the road. “We find them before Iramanshah does.”
Five sotni had been sent to search for them, but even with five hundred men, it was doubtful they would be found. Three days had already passed and they’d found nothing. It would help their chances greatly if Mother could spend her time searching, but she could not. It was too important to monitor the land directly around the palotza for immediate threats. If she went too far afield, she risked missing another attack entirely, and that was something Khalakovo could not afford. So it would be left to the soldiers, and even if they numbered in the thousands, it would still be difficult to locate someone who wished to remain hidden. The mountainous island positively brimmed with small, hidden valleys that would be difficult to navigate before the summer thaw. And besides, it was entirely possible that they’d left the island; by now they could be on Duzol, Grakhosk, Yfa, even Kravozhny.
Ranos cringed as the rook on his shoulder cawed raucously and flapped its wings.
“They have been found,” the rook said.
“The Maharraht?” Ranos asked.
“The boy and his guardian, south of the lake.”
Nikandr reflexively looked northward-as did Ranos-to the high ridge above them.
The rook craned its neck as the feathers along its head and neck crested. “Send men to Jahalan and have him search the lake immediately. A larger ship will follow.” It cawed several more times as Mother left its body, surely to spread the word.
Ranos was looking at the men, probably deciding which he would send.
“I’ll take them,” Nikandr said before Ranos could order them to go alone. His heart was beating madly.
Ranos snapped his head toward Nikandr. “You cannot go, Nischka.”
“I must.”
“Leave this to the streltsi.”
Nikandr bowed his head to the men. “I will, but I can help.” He pulled his reins over, waiting for Ranos to give the word.
Ranos stared at him, clearly conflicted. He glanced up at the ridge, toward the lake, and then nodded to the four nearest men with muskets at the ready to follow him. “Be careful, Nischka.”
“I will, brother.”
The wind was bitterly cold near the peak, but there had been no time to find proper clothing. The skiff bucked with the currents, though Jahalan was doing his best to control them. The clouds had parted, and the snow had dropped to light flurries. They soared over the westward side of the mountain and saw the crystal reflection of the sun off the dark, deep lake nestled into a plateau about a third of the way down the shallow slope. They had made the circuit of the lake once, but so far they’d seen nothing.
Nikandr’s stomach had been strangely silent since he’d left the palotza, but it was beginning to grumble once more. He didn’t take his elixir out for fear that the streltsi would expect the traditional passing of the flask.
A forest of spruce and windwood and fir crowded most of the shoreline, but there was a wide meadow to the north, an area that led to a sheer cliff.
“Check near the meadow again,” Nikandr said.
Jahalan began adjusting the wind, pulling at the ropes tied to the skiff’s billowing sail.
They had just crossed the center of the lake when Nikandr felt something in his gut-a deepening of the wasting combined with an awareness that broadened well beyond the mundane senses. The wind was loud in his ears, but as time passed, he felt the currents about him, felt snowflakes drifting downward, felt the drifts shifting ever so slightly over the flat landscape of the frozen lake. He felt the wind as it funneled through the branches of the trees, over hills, into the dens of winter wolves.
It was similar to what he had felt with Nasim, but it was not so all encompassing as before. He guessed it was what a qiram must feel, as if his mind were now opened to the element of wind. It was unlike anything he’d experienced before. It was freeing, humbling, terrifying-all in the same breath.
“East, Jahalan,” he said in a deep, steady tone. “Head east.”
Jahalan glanced down at him from his struggle with the sail, but then complied. They followed the line of the cliff, which shallowed until eventually low and high ground met at a steeply falling slope. Folds of the mountain met there, and in spring a healthy stream would flow as the snow melted, but for now it created a natural pathway for anyone to trek downward from the heights of Verodnaya.
“There!” one of the streltsi shouted.
“Lower your voice,” Nikandr said, scanning the ground where the strelet had pointed.
And there they were-a half-dozen men in heavy winter robes making their way down the streambed. Nasim walked between the men. He moved easily, as if he’d been born among the mountains. Ashan was behind him. It was easy to tell, for he wore no turban where the others did. His brown curly hair was blown by the strong wind.
“Ready muskets… Jahalan, move in directly behind them and drop us down slowly.”
The streltsi trained their weapons over the edge of the skiff and pulled the hammers to full cock. Nikandr did the same with his own musket. He stared down the barrel, but found it difficult to concentrate. He had hoped his sense of the wind would weaken, for it made it nearly impossible to focus, but it was intensifying. Branches swayed. Snowflakes fell onto individual pine needles. Wind flowed through the folds of cloth in the Maharraht’s robes. He even felt Jahalan’s havahezhan manipulating the wind to control the direction of the skiff.
His mind was no longer wholly his own, and he wondered how he could sense such things. Even his mother could not see the bond to a qiram’s hezhan or the hezhan itself; she was limited to sensing the magic the qiram employed as it was drawn through the aether.
The skiff was now less than a hundred yards away. The men were itching to fire, but Nikandr withheld the order. Muskets were inaccurate, and he wanted to get as close as he could.
The Maharraht at the rear of the line-the very same one Nikandr had winged with his shot from the Gorovna — turned and scanned the sky above.
“Fire,” Nikandr said softly.
The Maharraht shouted in Mahndi.
Four muskets barked, the light from their pans flashing.
One of the Maharraht dropped. Ashan grabbed Nasim and ran for the nearby trees. Two Maharraht turned to face the skiff. They raised their hands, their eyes closed in a look of concentration. Wind began to howl around the ship, overwhelming Jahalan’s attempts to prevent it.
Nikandr sighted along his musket, aiming at the closest of the Maharraht wind masters, but at the last moment he adjusted, aiming it at Ashan.
He squeezed the trigger. The musket bucked just before the skiff was thrown roughly downward, and he lost sight of his target in the confusion.
Jahalan struggled against the sudden attack. Their descent was arrested, but the skiff still struck the ground hard. Nikandr held tight to the gunwale and lost his musket in the harsh landing. One of the streltsi screamed. Another was thrown backward. He hit his head on the thwart behind him and lay at the bottom of the skiff, unmoving, blood streaming from a cut beneath his blond hair.
The snow flew upward around them, turning the world white. The sound of it was like a roaring waterfall. Jahalan, who was within arm’s reach, lifted his hands and a great gust of wind shook the skiff and swirled the snow upward. He was trying to stave off the attack, but it wasn’t working.
More snow piled up around them. Nikandr recovered his musket and tried to reload it, but the wind was so strong there was no way he could prime the pan-the wind blew the powder away before he could close the frizzen. One of the two streltsi still conscious had managed to reload his weapon, but he had nowhere to aim. They could see only snow. Impossibly thick snow. It was already up to the gunwales, and climbing higher.
