the wreckage of the ship as fist-sized hailstones broke and sprayed against the earth.
For nearly an hour it continued, sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, but then at last the hail-if not the wind-subsided and they were able to search once more.
They found six men alive, though all had sustained terrible wounds, and most likely two of them would not last until morning.
As the others searched the surrounding land for bodies that had flown free of the ship, Nikandr climbed the Lihvyen’s deck, which was tilted at a sharp angle. As he came amidships, he heard moaning coming from the lower square sail of the starward mainmast. He slid down to it and hiked up to the Spar until he reached the source. After pulling the sails away, he found Anahid, unconscious. He called to her, but she would not wake, but thank the ancients she seemed to have sustained little damage. She must have been thrown into the sail as the ship crashed. Or it may have been Jahalan’s final act, protecting his cousin before he was consumed by the spirit of the wind.
Nikandr called men over to help him get her down. It was easy enough. They simply pulled the remains of the sail taut and allowed her to slip slowly down to the ground.
As Nikandr slid along the canvas himself, he saw something lying near the wreckage. He recognized Jahalan’s peg leg immediately, but the rest of him was lost beneath a section of the ship’s bulwark and hull that had broken away. As he pulled the wreckage away, his jaw tightened to the point of pain.
Jahalan lay there in the snow and the hail, broken and twisted. Just like the Lihvyen. Everyone would have died, Nikandr thought, had Jahalan not slowed its descent. Because of him, seven souls had been given a new chance at life.
“Goodbye, dear friend,” Nikandr whispered.
“My Lord Prince?”
Nikandr looked up. Styophan stood several paces away, staring down at Jahalan with a sadness that Nikandr wouldn’t have expected from him. He had never spoken with Jahalan with anything akin to friendship, but the ties of the crew-Landed and Landless alike-grew deep over time.
“What is it?” Nikandr asked.
“There are men coming.” He pointed eastward. “Men of Anuskaya.”
Nikandr stared eastward. The hail was beginning to abate, allowing him to see further down the gentle slope leading toward the sea. Two dozen men wearing not the uniforms of the streltsi, but the heavy, oiled coats of farmers and shepherds, were marching toward them. Many bore muskets, but some had only swords and axes to hand. Their muskets were held at the half-ready, and they were scanning the landscape as they came, as if they expected the forces of Yrstanla to leap from the boulders that dotted the landscape.
“Tell them what’s happened,” Nikandr said. “Have them help if they would, but otherwise let them stand aside while we finish.”
Styophan nodded, glancing down once at Jahalan before turning away and heading for the men.
Nikandr kneeled by Jahalan’s side, wondering if he’d already crossed over. He combed Jahalan’s wet hair from his forehead, brushed the dirt and grime and ice from Jahalan’s gaunt face, until at last he looked like the man Nikandr remembered.
Many things could have gone through Nikandr’s head-they should be going through his head, he thought-but he could think of nothing more than the time Jahalan had nearly died on the shores of Ghayavand. He’d been saved by the Gorovna’s windsmen that day, and whether it was borrowed time he’d been living on since or whether Nikandr should be furious that he hadn’t lived longer, he wasn’t sure. He only knew that his dear friend was gone, and that he would miss him.
After leaning down and kissing his forehead, Nikandr said, “Go well,” hoping dearly Jahalan could hear him.
The windows rattled as Nikandr entered the office of Dyanko Kantinov Vostroma. Sleet struck the diamond- paned glass so harshly that Nikandr wondered whether they were going to shatter from the force of it. As Nikandr took a seat before Dyanko’s desk, the wind died down, but it seemed only to be taking an inhalation in preparation for another onslaught. The wind had not let up since they’d left the wreckage of the ships and returned here to Skayil, Elykstava’s only sizable village.
Nikandr looked to the rook on the iron stand in the corner of the room. Telling was the fact that the rook had a golden band around its leg. A man like Dyanko-even though he was the Boyar of Elykstava and the Posadnik of Skayil-would not normally be afforded such an honor. The golden band marked it as one of Galostina’s, which meant that it had probably been sent when the hostilities with Yrstanla erupted, or perhaps when the first of the spires had been felled.
“What news from Galostina?” Nikandr asked as he accepted a healthy serving of vodka from Dyanko.
Though his round cheeks and that nose were already flushed from drink, Dyanko took a drink himself and poured another before sitting down and facing Nikandr. “The bird has not spoken since it arrived two days ago.” Dyanko squeezed his eyes shut tight and then reopened them, blinking several times before focusing on Nikandr once more. He looked as though he could slump forward onto his desk at any moment, snoring before his head hit the wide leather blotter.
“When did you sleep last, Dyanko?”
“I’ll do well enough, Khalakovo.” He took the last of his vodka in one fierce swallow and focused on Nikandr carefully. “Now would you please tell me what happened to the spire?”
Nikandr sat deeper into his chair. “I don’t like your tone, Vostroma. I was sent by your Lord to assist in what ways I could.”
“And a fine job you’ve done of it.”
“I came upon a keep that had already been taken. Where were your men?”
“Sent to the fighting, as you should have been. Why were you, the vaunted Hawk of Khalakovo, so far behind them?”
“My business is my own.”
“Would that your business had led you away from Elykstava.”
“I destroyed three ships that lay off your coast.” Nikandr stood, slapping the glass of vodka onto Dyanko’s desk untouched. The liquor splashed over his desk, wetting the disheveled pile of papers that lay there. “I found your keep taken and risked the lives of my crew to stop the Kamarisi’s men from destroying your spire. Three of my ships are lost, dozens are dead, and you wish that my business had led me away?”
When Dyanko answered, his eyes were heavy and bloodshot. It was only with difficulty that he looked up to Nikandr. “Trouble follows you, Nikandr Iaroslov. Even you must admit that.”
“You’re drunk,” Nikandr said, turning away. “Sleep it off if you would, but you will first authorize a ship for me to take to Kiravashya. I intend to leave at dawn.”
Nikandr headed for the door but stopped when the rook suddenly cawed in the corner. Both he and Dyanko turned to the bird. For long moments the rook craned its neck backward until its beak was digging into its dorsal feathers. It shivered and its eyes fluttered. A clucking sound emanated from its throat as if a hunk of rotted meat were stuck in it.
Then, without warning, it fell from the perch and landed on the floor with a hollow thump. It tried to flap its wings, tried to regain its footing, but the bird was either too weak or too disoriented to do so.
Nikandr moved toward it until Dyanko scooped the bird up and fell back into his chair. He stroked the bird’s head and back tenderly and made soft clucking sounds into its ear, and strangely the bird calmed itself.
The bird stopped rubbing its head against Dyanko’s fingers. “I come for Nik…” It was quiet for a time, but then it seemed to regain itself. “I come for Nikandr Iaroslov Khalakovo.”
Nikandr knew immediately it was Mother. He could hear it in the way even those few words had been spoken, and he could feel it in his chest, though it was terribly faint.
“I’m here, Mother.”
The rook did not respond. It returned to its bestial self, blinking slowly, making a creaking sound like the hinges of some ancient and forgotten chest. But then it began flapping its wings furiously. It bit Dyanko’s fingers. He howled and dropped the rook, and the moment he did, it flapped into the air, cawing loudly over and over again.
It landed on Nikandr’s shoulder and from this position stared at Dyanko. “He has men in the donjon, Nischka. Two of them. Men from Yrstanla.”
