“Up!” shouted the sotnik. “From the wall! Defend yourselves!”
A vanahezhan-the same one that Atiana had seen on the rocky shore-line-had stalked out of the great cloud of dust surrounding the fallen turret and was bearing down on the Olganya. A half-dozen Maharraht followed. Fear welled up within her as she recognized the two from the seashore. Their attention appeared fixated on the eyrie’s perches, however.
The rate of musket fire increased, both from the Olganya as well as from the Khalakovan soldiers, but the hezhan kept stalking forward, its huge arms held up before it as if it could feel the bite of the shots tearing into it.
Ranos pulled a pistol from a holster at his belt. Watching the garden closely, he pulled her before Iaros, who was wiping vainly at the dust on his fine golden coat. He looked up and stared at Ranos for a time before turning his head slowly toward Atiana. His face was smeared with dirt and bits of broken glass littered his graying hair and long white beard. He blinked, and Atiana thought surely he had struck his head, for there was a fresh wound on his forehead. Blood dribbled down his cheek and into his beard-a river of red against a snow-swept field.
Whatever disorientation he felt seemed to vanish the longer he stared at Atiana. “What, child, are you doing here?”
Atiana held her tongue. This was not a question to be answered lightly, not with the Duke measuring her so.
How it was that emotions had boiled over in a single day she couldn’t say, but she was not entirely surprised. Grigory had been beating the drums of war ever since Stasa’s death. Leonid had been of a similar mind, and although Father had nominally stepped within their circle, Atiana thought he would have been able to control them. None of this, however, gave her any clue as to why she had been abandoned.
“I came from Iramanshah, to warn you.”
“The Matra was attacked”-he glanced outside, toward the eyrie-“by the boy your father has stolen from these walls. Did you lead them here?”
Atiana was stunned. He meant the Maharraht. “ Nyet, I came to warn you.”
Iaros looked to his son.
Ranos shrugged. “We heard her just before they gained the wall.”
Atiana could see the muscles in Iaros’s jaw working.
“Please, I came-”
“ Da, to warn me. But”-Iaros turned, pointing toward the eyrie where the fighting had made its way onto the deck of the Olganya — “your father has committed murder within these walls.”
The blast from a cannon rose above all else, but Atiana could not tear her gaze from the eyes of Duke Khalakovo.
He, as well, seemed so intent on her that he barely noticed the world around them. “Your father has stolen away men who were not his. And yet he leaves his daughter here.”
Atiana had always been able to keep a straight face when being questioned. She was as competent in this as Ishkyna and even better than Mileva. But this was different. Truth was on her side, but Iaros wouldn’t believe a word of it.
Her throat had gone dry. “It-” She cleared her throat. “It must have been a mistake.”
“My son is on that ship.”
Atiana swallowed again. “I am sorry.”
Iaros’s expression hardened. He snatched Atiana’s arm and collected the pistol from Ranos and then marched her down the hall. Her heart was already beating heavily, but now she felt it pound within her chest. She felt blood course through her ears. Her fingers and toes began to tingle.
Pulling Atiana behind him, Iaros pushed open the heavy doors leading to the garden. The fighting had subsided. The Olganya had begun to pull away from its perch, while the two ships next to it were fully ablaze. The Maharraht had gained the ship, but as Iaros stalked forward, his grip like an iron shackle, an angry shout spoken in Mahndi came from the Olganya’s deck. A moment later two bodies fell downward beyond the far edge of the ship. They were followed moments later by a skiff.
A flurry of new shots rang out, and Atiana cringed. Two men-Soroush and the other from the beach-leapt from the ship to the perch, the tails of their turbans fluttering behind them like pennants. They landed, at which point one of them crawled onto the back of the other. The two slipped over the side of the perch and were lost from view.
After several more musket shots from Father’s men, all was silence save for the sounds of the wounded and the roar of the nearby fire.
Duke Khalakovo summoned a lungful of breath and shouted. “Zhabyn!”
Several moments of silence followed. Iaros’s grip on Atiana’s arm tightened, and she feared that if her Father did not show himself Duke Khalakovo would simply shoot her like a mongrel dog.
Finally Father came to the edge of the ship and looked down. The ship was beginning to list.
Iaros’s breath came in great heaves through his nostrils. She couldn’t look at him. All she could do was stare at Father, who looked down on her with a steely expression.
Iaros raised his pistol and pointed it at Atiana’s temple.
She could feel the barrel, could feel it in her bones, in every part of her being. Part of her wanted to cringe, to curl up into a ball and pray to her ancestors that the trigger would not be pulled. But she would not-she would stand tall and accept her fate. She was Vostroman, after all.
The seconds passed, and the ship continued to drift. The bowsprit had caught itself in the rear rigging of the ship next to it.
Her brother’s voice bellowed from the deck of the Olganya, “Nikandr, stop!”
And Nikandr’s form leapt from the deck of the ship.
CHAPTER 35
Nikandr’s shoulder flared in pain as he leapt. He grabbed the gaff rigging and slid downward. His hands slipped, but he caught the rope in the crook of his arm. It burned his skin until he slammed into the rigging block, barely catching himself.
He looked up as the heat from the fire below him intensified. Borund stood at the gunwale of the Olganya. A moment later, his father appeared next to him. They were in dire trouble. Without a havaqiram they would be at the mercy of the winds. It was possible to control a ship without a havaqiram, using the keels to control the heading of the ship against the prevailing winds, but the larger the ship, the more difficult it became. The Olganya was no Aramahn skiff, and would not respond well to such maneuvers.
Nikandr slipped over the side of the ship and made it to the nearby perch. The heat from both ships was strong-so strong that he was beginning to feel lightheaded. He held his sleeve to his mouth. He wished he could run toward solid ground, but the fire was licking the perch closer to the fore of the two ships. There was no way he would make it past them.
He felt something small strike his head. Then again.
He used his finger to probe his hair, worrying that embers from the fire were striking him, but the palm of his hand came away wet. More water fell, primarily on the Gorovna. The water cooled the air just enough for Nikandr to run the length of the perch. By the time he made it clear of the heat he was exhausted, and he couldn’t seem to clear the smoke from his lungs.
Two jalaqiram standing within the stone garden had their arms spread to the sky. Azurite gems glowed brightly in the dim light as they commanded the rain to fall against the ships. Rain hissed and steamed as it struck the Gorovna’s deck.
Nikandr saw Father standing nearby. With the blood along the side of his face, the dirt and glass in his hair and beard, the haggard look upon his face, it looked like he alone had defended Radiskoye against the traitor dukes. He stared at Nikandr with a strange mix of emotion on his face, so much so that Nikandr felt uncomfortable.
Ranos broke away from several soldiers and gave Nikandr a long hug, breaking the spell. “I didn’t know if I would see you again.”
