Read The Winds of Khalakovo Online
Authors: Bradley P. Beaulieu
Tags: #Fantasy, #Comics & Graphic Novels, #Epic, #General, #Fiction
The Winds of Khalakovo (51 page)
Nikandr listened at first, but his mind began to drift to Rehada, their memories, and it was enough for him to simply wish her well.
“It is fire that granted her,” Fahroz said, “and it was fire that took her.”
She touched the torch to the bottom of the skiff. In moments a healthy flame had spread along the wood that had been stacked beneath Rehada’s white, bound form. Another qiram with a glowing opal held within the circlet upon his brow stepped forward and gently touched the hull of the skiff. Immediately the craft began to rise. It had no sail, and so was taken by the wind. It was slow, gentle at first, but the wind was stronger higher up, and it began to tug at the craft, making it bob as it slid eastward.
It was not lost upon Nikandr that Atiana had traveled on another ship mere hours ago—though in the opposite direction. Ironic, but apropos.
“Farewell,” Nikandr said as black smoke wafted ahead of the ship and across the blue sky.
The Aramahn began to separate—first alone, then in pairs and in groups. Fahroz joined Ashan and Nikandr.
There was an uncomfortable silence until Ashan finally bowed his head and said, “You have business to attend to.” He stepped forward and kissed Nikandr’s cheeks. “Keep well, Nikandr, son of Iaros.
“And you, Ashan, son of Ahrumea.”
Soon, Nikandr was left alone with Fahroz. She made no form of greeting. She simply turned and headed into the village. “You should not come often.”
“I won’t once I’m sure that she is well.”
“She is as well as she will ever be.”
Nikandr let the comment go.
She led him deep into the bowels of Iramanshah, past the formed tunnels to the raw passageways that had been forged by Erahm herself. Finally, they came to a massive cavern with a black lake crowding a small stone beach. A pier lit brightly by siraj lanterns led a short way out into the water. Upon the pier stood Victania and Olgana, talking softly with one another, both of them peering down into the water.
A rook, standing on a silver perch just next to them, flapped its wings as Nikandr approached. Then it stilled and was silent.
When Victania noticed him, she spoke softly to Olgana, and Olgana left, bowing her head to Nikandr as she passed. Nikandr waited, hoping that Fahroz would leave as well, but she did not. She ruled here, and she would no longer stand by as the Aramahn were used, so she stood and watched as Nikandr made his way out along the pier.
He stopped when he saw his mother resting below the surface of the dark water, a breathing tube rising above the surface. “Is she well?” he asked Victania.
“Not well, but better than we had hoped.”
Victania was watching Nikandr closely. He waited for her to speak, and grew uncomfortable when she did not. “Out with it,” he said.
She placed a tender hand on his shoulder, waiting for him to look her in the eye. He obliged, and was surprised to find a look of regret in her eyes.
“I am sorry, Nischka.”
“Whatever for?”
“There was more to them both than I would have guessed.”
He didn’t really wish to speak of them—not so soon after saying good-bye—but this was a compassionate gesture from a sister who was not often given to them. “Thank you.”
She pulled himinto an embrace.“And thank
you
.” She was shivering, and he realized it was not from the cold.
She was referring to her condition. The wasting. The rift had begun to heal. All but those worst affected had already begun to show signs of health—Victania more than most—but Nikandr felt, as did Ashan, that few would be healed completely and that someday the rift would return, or a new one would form, and the disease would begin its steady march once more.
“Look at me,” Victania said.
Nikandr realized his eyes were unfocused; he was staring down into the depths of the lake. He regarded Victania and held her gaze.
“You should feel proud, dear Nischka. You have given us all a gift.”
“Would that I could switch places.”
“But you cannot.” Victania smiled, softening the severe lines of her face and exposing her true beauty. “You have been healed, thank the ancients.” She glanced to one side, toward Mother. “Now is the time to look to our future, not our past. We have been given a reprieve. Best we use it wisely.”
Nikandr nodded as he regarded their mother. He took in a deep breath of the frigid air and motioned for Victania to leave. “I would sit with her awhile.”
Victania nodded, giving him one last quick kiss on the cheek before following Olgana up the long flight of stairs and into the village proper.
Below the surface of the water, Mother’s form was lit in ghostly relief. He had come three times since she’d been moved from Radiskoye. Despite the threats from Zhabyn and Borund, there had been no choice in the matter. He was only thankful that Fahroz had agreed.
Enough have died,
she had said.
Mere moments from thinking these thoughts, the rook cawed, making Nikandr jump. “
Privyet
, Nischka.”
“
Privyet
, Mother.”
The rook raised its head and cawed again. A laugh. “Not so glum, my son. Things could have turned out far, far worse.”
“They could have also turned out far, far better.”
“Look not to what might have been. This is a time of healing. A time of preparation. The Khalakovos are not dead.”
“I know that well.”
“Then act like it. Your brother needs you, and even in times like this, we must prepare. The Vostromas will not hold these islands forever, and when we return to the seat of our power, we will rise higher than we ever have before.”
Empty words, Nikandr thought—Mother might not live the two years the Vostromas had agreed to, much less the years beyond that it would take them to actually relinquish control of Khalakovo. But more than this, there was something within him that Nasim and the conflict with the Maharraht had awoken. The rift had closed—everyone agreed—but this was not the end of it. Someday, another rift would form, perhaps worse than this one, and they might not have Nasim to save them when it did. The rifts must be studied, and that was where Nikandr felt he must be.
There was nothing to do about it now—his family needed him, so he would stay—but some day, some day not far from now, he would leave to discover what he could.
The rook flapped its wings. “Tell me how you summoned the boy.”
“I’ve told you that three times already.”
“It is important,” the rook cawed. “Tell me again.”
And so Nikandr did.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Winds of Khalakovo
was years in the making, and there are many people to thank. As I was thinking about who, exactly, should be included in this note, there was a strong urge to add as many people as I could—friends and family who supported me, fellow writers who critiqued not this book, but the earliest of my scribblings, instructors at the various workshops I’ve attended, writers who’ve influenced my work, and so on and so on—but it occurs to me that I have a few books in which to thank everyone, so for the time being I’m going to set aside this page for those who directly influenced this book.
There were several people that read very early versions of the novel—a handful of chapters only—and though I feel that I inflicted upon them something that wasn’t ready to read, their feedback helped to crystallize my thoughts, and for that I am grateful. Thank you Paul Genesse, Sarah Kelly, Kelly Swails, and Ian Tregillis for those quick but crucial reads.
The gang from Starry Heaven 2009 was of immense (immense!) help in taking this novel to the next level. Many exuberant thank yous go to Sarah Kelly (again), Rob Ziegler, Bill Shunn, GregVan Eekhout, Sandra McDonald, Sarah Prineas, Jon Hansen, and Gary Shockley. Very special shout outs go to Debbie Daughetee and Deb Coates for reading the entirety of Part I, and to Eugene Myers, bless his soul, for reading not only the first fifty pages at Starry Heaven, but the entire manuscript after I completed it later that year.
There are many people to thank at Night Shade Books. Thanks to Jeremy Lassen for taking a chance on this not-quite-traditional epic fantasy. Thanks to Ross Lockhart, my editor, who championed this story and combed the manuscript countless times, looking for the hobgoblins that plagued it. Thanks to Holliann Russell, who copy-edited
Winds
with a deft hand, indeed. Thanks to John Joseph Adams for working so hard to get the word out. To Adam Paquette, a standing ovation for a cover piece that seemed to spring straight from my own imagination. And thank you to the rest of the crew at Night Shade, who do some things I’m aware of but many more that I’m not. You all deserve a healthy round of applause (and more beer).
Thanks to my agent, Russell Galen, and the fine folks at Scovil, Galen, and Ghosh. Like publishers, agents do a million things that I’m never even aware of, all with my future in mind. Though I see but little, I know that I’m in good hands, now and in the future, and for this I thank you all.
The biggest thank you of all, saved for last, goes to my good friend and brother writer, Paul Genesse. Thank you, Paul, for reading and critiquing so many versions of the manuscript and for talking with me at length about the ins and outs of this story.
Winds
would not be what it is today without your help.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bradley P. Beaulieu fell in love with fantasy the moment he started reading
The Hobbit
in third grade. From that point on, though he tried reading many other things, fantasy became his touchstone. He always came back to it, and when he started to dabble in writing, fantasy—epic fantasy especially—was the type of story he most dearly wished to share. In 2006, his story, “In the Eyes of the Empress’s Cat”, was voted a Million Writers Award notable story, and in 2004, he became a winner in the Writers of the Future 20 contest. Other stories have appeared in
Realms of Fantasy
,
Intergalactic Medicine Show
,
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
, and several DAW anthologies.
Brad lives in Racine, Wisconsin with his wife and two children. By day, Brad is a software engineer, wrangling code into something resembling usefulness. He is also an amateur cook. He loves to cook spicy dishes, particularly Mexican and southwestern. As time goes on, Brad finds that his interests are slowly being whittled down to these two things: family and writing. In that order...
For more, please visit www.quillings.com.
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