The Lays of Anuskaya: The Complete Trilogy by Bradley P. Beaulieu

Author:Bradley P. Beaulieu
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9781939649195
Publisher: Quillings Literary
Published: 2017-07-25T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Nikandr slept fitfully, thinking of Hilal. He knew the other six mahtar as well, but he knew Hilal the best. He’d taken Fahroz’s seat after she’d left with Nasim for Mirashadal. He was a gentle man. A learned man. But most of all, he was a caring man. He, much like Ashan, seemed to embody the calmness of center that the Aramahn were ever searching for.

Had it been Hilal who thought of the idea of offering themselves for the lives of the Maharraht? It had been a day Hilal most likely thought he’d never see: so many Maharraht forsaking their ways and taking up the life of an Aramahn once more. Many of the children would never have been exposed to any other life, and here they were being offered to the people their parents had betrayed in their quest to drive the Landed back to the Motherland.

And now, in order to protect them, Hilal had given himself. He and the other mahtar. In a way, it made sense—the Aramahn were quick to sacrifice themselves for the greater good—but that made it even more discouraging. This was an unprecedented event. One or two Maharraht had returned to the fold of the Aramahn over the years, but never so many at once. It might even have become a bridge to peace. But not now, not if those six men and women were killed.

In the end, Nikandr couldn’t sleep. He woke well before the four Vostroman streltsi came for him. When they did, he pulled on his cherkesska and followed them, hoping to speak with Borund away from others where he might at least listen to reason.

When he came at last to the long hall that led past Radiskoye’s central garden, he could see through the leaded glass windows that a gibbet had been stood in the center of the courtyard. He could see men gathered there, but he didn’t realize that none of them were Khalakovan until he stepped out from the hall and into the chill morning air. The smell of the sea filled the air, and the sound of the surf rose up from the base of the cliffs far below the eyrie of Radiskoye.

A handful of Vostroman royalty watched him pace forward. Borund and Viktor were among them, and they were flanked by two dozen streltsi wearing the seal of Vostroma. Their faces, to a man, were judgmental, angry, as if Nikandr had somehow called down the fury of Yrstanla on their homeland. He thought surely there would be at least one representative from Khalakovo. Ranos or Victania or Yvanna. But there were none.

As Nikandr was led forward, a portion of the courtyard previously blocked by a jutting corner of the palotza came into view. Here the gallows stood, and when he saw it against the backdrop of the eyrie and the cold grey sky, he stopped, his fingers going cold. Through the shrubs in the nearby garden, the wind whined before dying down once more.

Four men and three women stood on a raised wooden platform, Hilal and Amra and Saeeda and the rest.

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