Rehada approached, but then she stopped, gasping as she recognized him. He had a ruggedly handsome face and dark, commanding eyes. A ragged scar ran down from what was left of his ear to his neck and cheek. The upper part of the ear remained, and he wore a handful of golden earrings there.
This was Soroush, the leader of the Maharraht, and the father of her child.
He had always been a brazen man, but to come here when he was at such a disadvantage? Snow fell on his dark turban and the stone of jasper held within it. She knew the stone was useless-at least to Soroush-and she wondered if he wore it as a ploy or to remind himself of his past. Soroush was nothing if not steeped in the past.
She continued walking past him, and he stepped alongside her, the two of them falling into a pace that made it seem as if they had always been together. Still, there were feelings of anxiety and uncertainty welling up inside her. Had it been so long since she’d seen him that she could act this way? Had they fallen so far out of touch?
“You were told not to take a disciple,” Soroush said.
“I have been here seven years, Soroush. Questions were being asked.”
“Attachments, Rehada, are to be avoided.”
She scoffed. “Have you come this far to chide me over my urge to teach?”
They walked in silence for a time, their footsteps scuffing the light dusting of snow. She did not look toward him, but she could picture the muscles along his jaw working, as they had always done when she’d tested his patience.
“We have lost the boy,” Soroush said.
Then Rehada did look at him. His face was set in stone as he walked, refusing to return her gaze. “How?”
“I misjudged Ashan. He stole him away a month ago.”
“Then we are lost.”
“I do not believe so, not as long as Ashan is headed here to Khalakovo.”
“Can you be so sure that he is?”
“The rift over Rhavanki has nearly closed, while the one here over Khalakovo is widening.”
“That means nothing. If he suspects what you’re about, he’ll keep Nasim away.”
“I don’t think so. He believes that Nasim is the key to healing the rifts. He will bring Nasim here, and he will continue to study him. It is his only hope of unraveling his mysteries.”
They came to a larger street. Though there was some traffic-some peasants with baskets, others with carts-Soroush continued on as if he hadn’t noticed them. Rehada did so as well, so as not to draw attention.
“We cannot succeed without Nasim.”
Soroush nodded. “We shall see, but there is much to do in any case. Two days ago we gathered the first of the stones, and there are still four more to find.”
“You have learned so much?”
“We know how to find four, and the fifth may well indeed hinge upon Nasim.”
They were heading across an old walking bridge now. No one was in sight, but Rehada still felt terribly exposed.
Soroush stopped at the foot of the bridge, just before the street resumed its upward trek. His face was resolute, his body like stone. It made Rehada cold inside to see him like this. “Three days from now, take the road to Iramanshah at midday. Release your spirit the day before you come.”
Rehada was suddenly very aware of the beating of her heart. “What am I to do?”
“Can you not guess?” The expression upon Soroush’s face was not one of fervor, as she might have guessed, but of lamentation. “You will find for us our second stone.”
CHAPTER 5
Nikandr and Borund guided their ponies around the gallows where three young men hung from the ends of ropes. No doubt they had been taken for simple robbery, most likely for food. It was too common a scene in Volgorod of late. Ranos had taken a serious stance on such crimes-allow such things to go on, he’d said, and the city would devolve into chaos. And if Khalakovo’s largest city fell prey to such things, the rest would soon follow.
One of the boys was Aramahn, something he took note of not for its rarity but for the boy’s age. The Aramahn were, nearly to a fault, honest, and it seemed improbable that the boy had been caught stealing.
As they continued their way around the circle, Nikandr noticed a woman wearing black robes of mourning. She was a good distance away, and the wind was throwing the snow about, but he was sure it was Rehada. She seemed to notice him as well, for she immediately turned and strode down the nearest street and was lost from view moments later.
Had Borund’s presence made her act that way? They had agreed not to advertise their relationship, but in the instant their eyes had met she hadn’t seemed worried. She had seemed ashamed.
“How much longer?” Borund said irritably.
Nikandr glanced over, wondering if he’d seen. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you could no longer stand the cold, Bora.”
“I can”-Borund sniffed-“when necessary.”
“You were the one who insisted on joining me.”Nikandr guided his pony onto a wide street that hugged the River Mordova on its final stretch toward the bay. As they passed a small graveyard, where chips of chalcedony marked the myriad of gravestones, the smell of the sea grew stronger.
Borund’s frown deepened the creases on his brow, but beneath his bushy eyebrows his eyes twinkled. “That was when I thought we were visiting the shipyard. Had I known he was buried among the wharfs, I might not have been so hasty.”
“Well, we’re nearly there now.” Nikandr nodded ahead, where the river emptied into the bay and the street turned onto the long, curving quay.
A large fishing ship was pulling in to berth-probably the first of the day. A sizable crowd was pressing in around it. He wondered if his brother in the Boyar’s house knew how bad it was getting down here.
From a large boulevard several hundred yards further up, ten streltsi leading a large black wagon turned onto the quay and marched toward the ship. The soldiers wore fur hats and thick black cherkesskas buttoned high up their necks. Their muskets were slung over one shoulder while their tall berdische axes were held in readied hands. The desyatnik of the streltsi-a man whose hat was gray instead of black-shouted at the crowd, demanding room for the palotza. The wagon carried a handful of workmen in Radiskoye’s livery and was adorned with the Khalakovo family seal: a sailfish arcing high above a turbulent sea. It pulled wide and then arced around until its rear was even with the gangway of the fishing ship.
The crowd made way for the streltsi and the wagon, but did so grudgingly. Many would go away hungry, Nikandr knew. There simply wasn’t enough to go around. The fishing beds that had been so reliable in years past had gone dry; add to that the pitiful yield the crops were looking to have and one could easily predict outright famine this year.
Nikandr and Borund stopped short of the crowd and tied their ponies near a ramp leading up to the doors of an immense workshop. An ancient figurehead of a man gripping a hammer in one hand and a large pearl in the other hung above the doors, one of which was propped open. They found Gravlos within, walking alongside a fresh spar, a curl of wood falling free from the plane he was using to smooth the rounded but still-raw shape of it. His wooden leg thumped softly as he went. When he realized someone was standing in his doorway he stood and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his forearm. His face was severe, but he managed a kindly smile when he recognized them.
“Lose your way?” He set his plane on a nearby worktable, winking as he did so.
Nikandr’s entire body tightened as something splashed to his left. Borund backed up as well, staring at a large tun that stood just inside the workshop doors. It was as tall as Nikandr’s chest and was filled nearly to the top with water. Nikandr approached, but it was with a sickly sense of dread, like when he’d played find-me-if-you-can as a child late at night with Ranos and Victania in the dark and mysterious halls of Radiskoye. When he finally came
