“Bahett is not the Kamarisi.”
“Nor would the Kamarisi take me as his wife. Bahett is the key.”
“He keeps a harem, Atiana.”
“And I will become his ilkadin. The first wife. Do you know what kind of power they wield?”
“Their wives, even the ilkadin, are little to the power Bahett can wield.”
“He will listen to me.” She said those words with such passion that it made Nikandr realize just how serious she was. This was no discussion. She’d already made up her mind. She only wished to tell him of it in person from some sense of personal honor.
“We’ll not be allowed to see one another,” Nikandr said.
“We can see one another…”
“ Nyet.” Nikandr waved to the bed. “Not like this.”
He saw her swallow, but she did not otherwise answer. She knew, as he did, that they could perhaps see one another at functions, perhaps at a personal meal with Bahett in attendance, but were they caught with one another in carnal lust-especially on Galaheshi soil-both of their lives would be forfeit.
Nikandr stood, away from the bed, and stared at her. “You cannot do this, Atiana!”
“Our first duty is to our families, Nikandr, then the Grand Duchy.”
He found his jaw tightened to the point of pain. “And I am not family. Is that it?”
“You are my love, but I will see the Grand Duchy healed. As you would.”
“Is that why you told me of Soroush first? To test me?”
“You’ve made your position clear for years, Nikandr.”
“Do you think I wouldn’t marry you in a moment given the chance?”
“I know that you would, but we are not in that position, are we? We must do what we must do.”
“And you must go whoring off to Galahesh?”
Atiana stood from the bed and slapped him across the face.
His head wrenched to one side. The entire left side of his face stung, and it did not subside as he turned back to look at her. She stared at him with a look he’d never seen, not since they were children, and then it had only been the petulance of youth. This was a look of deep-seated pain, and resentment that might never be wiped clean.
She began pulling on her clothes as he seethed. He wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t find the words. Only as she was leaving the room did he reach out to her.
“Atiana!”
But then she was gone.
CHAPTER FIVE
Atiana climbed up the stair from her cabin to the deck of the Zveazda. The wind was brisk, and it was pushing the ship about, but Hathenn, the ship’s havahezhan, was strong, and she guided them in with little trouble.
As landsmen began lashing the ship and the windsmen began securing the last of her sails, Atiana stepped down and onto the ship’s perch, glad to be on solid land once more. As she walked toward the palotza, she silently thanked the ancients that her sisters had not come, nor Father or Mother. She needed to be alone, so she walked to the vast yard to the south of the massive palotza to the spire.
She stared up, marveling at it, wondering why she had ever left. The trip to Mirkotsk had been foolish, or if not foolish then at least ill-advised. How had she expected Nikandr to react? Exactly as he had, she thought. She didn’t deserve the words he’d spit at her, but neither had he deserved to learn of her decision in such an abrupt manner. She’d meant to tell him the moment she saw him, but she had missed him so much. She had only wanted one more night together-as their life might have been-before telling him of her decision to marry Bahett.
She stepped forward and touched the smooth surface of the obsidian, stared into its mottled black depths. She could not feel the same sense of power that she could while taking the dark, but she liked to think that there were echoes of it at the very least, some small trace of the power that emanated from it in the aether. She had been out for nearly two weeks now. She would enter again-tonight, perhaps tomorrow-and guide Nikandr to Mirashadal, and when she did, she knew it would feel like saying goodbye, much more so than the way they’d left one another in Ivosladna.
“You’ve not seen the spire before?”
Atiana turned and found Mileva standing near the old stone fence surrounding the spire. Behind her stood the rookery and beyond that the bulk of Galostina. The wind tugged at the hem of Mileva’s heavy woolen dress, blew the ermine collar against her neck momentarily. Mileva’s cheeks were already pink from the cold winter winds.
“You’re fortunate to have arrived when you did,” Mileva said. She nodded pointedly over Atiana’s shoulder.
Atiana turned and saw in the distance, gliding serenely beneath gray skies, no less than four twelve-masted barques accompanied a smaller, eight-masted brigantine, the one that surely carried the Kaymakam of Galahesh and the Kamarisi’s personal envoy. It would seem that Yrstanla had changed little-an opportunity to show strength should never be passed by.
“Did you see him?” Mileva asked.
She meant Nikandr, of course. Atiana had not admitted to her mother the true purpose of her trip. Surely she suspected, but she hadn’t raised objections because Atiana had been the one to offer her hand to the Kaymakam of Galahesh. She had confessed everything to Mileva and Ishkyna, however. They had chided her, but she could tell that behind their remarks they were sad over it.
“I saw him,” Atiana replied.
“And?”
“You’ll be pleased, Mileva. It was exactly the sort of farewell you said it would be.”
Mileva glanced up to the approaching ships, her face serious and thoughtful, but not sad. “I’m not pleased, Tiana. I’m sorry. I had hoped that at least one of us would manage to find love.”
“Well that isn’t likely any more, is it?”
“Don’t be so sure.” Mileva smiled, but it was unconvincing to say the least. “I hear Bahett is an easy man to look upon.”
After running her hands one last time over the cold obsidian, Atiana strode toward the palotza. “Don’t make light of my love for Nikandr.”
Mileva looked like she was about to respond with a biting reply, but then she pursed her lips and took Atiana’s hand. Squeezing it gently, she said, “Come. There is much to attend to.”
That entire day the palotza was aflutter with the arrival of the Kaymakam of Galahesh, and that night, they prepared for their welcoming celebration. Atiana stood at the open doors of the grand ballroom. Mileva was already seated next to her husband, Viktor. Ishkyna’s husband would not be present, which was apparently fine with Ishkyna, who was standing next to a man from the envoy’s retinue, a tall courtier with a closely cropped beard and a red silk turban. A ruby medallion with feathers of white decorated the center of the turban, just above his brow. Like many of the courtiers, he wore voluminous pants and a wide cloth belt. The sword hanging at his side seemed similar to those of the streltsi, but it curved more, and the hilt was carved like the head of a falcon, making it appear as if it would be clumsy and unwieldy in battle.
More people filed into the room, mostly relatives, both close and distant, of Atiana’s, but there were others as well: diplomats, officers of the staaya, men and women of business and industry. Father had gone to great lengths, hoping to impress upon the Empire that Anuskaya was no plum ripe for the plucking. But still, he could not be too ostentatious. The day’s events had to be reserved enough to give some sense of how seriously the islands needed the Empire’s assistance.
Atiana hesitated to enter. The memories of Nikandr were still fresh, and over the past few years she had found herself becoming ever more hopeful of some sort of reconciliation between her family and the Khalakovos. When she appeared at functions such as these she often found herself wanting him at her side, escorting her to this grand function. It should have been, she thought. It should have been so long ago.
“The Kamarisi would be pleased.”
Atiana turned to find an Yrstanlan, perhaps thirty years old, standing in the doorway. Unlike so many of the visiting co
urtiers, he was clean-shaven, and he wore a turban with no feathers-only a simple medallion with an emerald of the deepest, purest green.
“Forgive me,” Atiana said, “but why?”
“In the capital they say Galostina offers little in the way of beauty”-he stared into her eyes, clearly enough to make his point but with a wry smile, as if waiting for some sharp rejoinder-“but it is clear to me now that they were wrong.”
Despite herself, despite thoughts of Nikandr still fading from her mind, she immediately liked him. “I thank you.” She bowed her head and touched her forehead with one hand in the manner of the Empire. “Though I doubt they’ve ever found their way as far as Kiravashya.”
He stepped back and nodded, conceding the point. “Few now ever leave Aleke s ir. A pity for them; more the pleasure for me.”
“And the Kamarisi, does he ever deign to leave his enclave?”
“He does, but he has many places he must visit.” He tilted his head and shrugged. “Perhaps after this I can convince him to come here.”
“And how would you do that?”
He bowed his head with that same wry smile. “The Kamarisi’s mind is his own, but he listens to the advice of those whom he trusts.”
The man, this elegant aristocrat, became distracted as a group of women in gowns and beaded headdresses filed into the room. As he watched them weave toward their table, Atiana took him in anew. The clothes of all the visiting dignitaries were fine, but his, even if they were a bit understated, were especially so. He wore a silk jacket the color of ivory that perfectly matched his citrine pants and goldenrod belt. The emerald in the brooch pinned to his turban was of a color and clarity that marked it as an imperial stone, one that would be given only to the Kamarisi’s most trusted advisors.
“Were Bahett ul Kirdhash to whisper in my ear, I would listen as well.”
Bahett bowed his head, but did not break eye contact. “To a woman like Atiana Radieva Vostroma, I would do more than whisper.”
“Be careful, My Lord. I am not yet your wife.”
“Your words may be true”-he took her hand and kissed it quickly-“but so were mine.” With that he walked away, leaving behind the scent of amber and sandalwood.
Across the room, Ishkyna was no longer speaking with the courtier, but with the Kamarisi’s envoy himself, Siha s ul Mehmed. He was a tall man, handsome, with a thin scar that ran through his eyebrow and down to his cheek. The scar somehow made him look more attractive, not less. He was young, only twenty-four, a year younger than the Kamarisi himself, and if word from Irabahce were to be believed, he was well trusted, the cousin to one of the Kamarisi’s wives. It was anyone’s guess why he had been sent along with Bahett, but Atiana reasoned it was because he was brash, an effective counter to Bahett’s easy style.
Ishkyna spoke with him, a glass of white wine in her hand. She reached out, glancing occasionally toward Bahett. The envoy would not know, but Ishkyna was jealous; Atiana could tell in the way she stood, the set of her jaw. She was jealous of Atiana, first of her love for Nikandr and now of Bahett. She was nearly ready to go and speak with her, but just then father arrived with Aunt Katerina, and together they began speaking with Siha s.
Father wore an impressive kaftan of gold and red. He wore the wide golden necklace of the Grand Duke, and he held himself proudly, but there was something in his bearing-a weight that had only seemed to grow heavier these past few years, and especially as this summit with Yrstanla approached. As Aunt Katerina listened to some story from Siha s, Father’s eyes studied the room. Anuskayan mingled with Yrstanlan. It was cordial, but Father was tense. She could tell by the way he breathed and the way his half-lidded eyes scanned the crowd, never lingering.
Atiana felt a hand at her back. She turned to find Mother standing next to her. Like Father, she was studying the gathering crowd, but unlike him, she did so with a certain amount of disinterest. And then Atiana realized that she was not merely studying the crowd, she was pointedly not looking at Atiana.
“What is it, Mother?” she asked.
Mother glanced down at her once, quickly. “Bahett is charming, is he not?”
“All the charm in the world, which should give us pause.”
“It does, Tiana, but there are times when there is little room in which to negotiate.”
Atiana looked up at her. “There’s always room to negotiate.”
“True words, daughter.” She met her gaze and smiled. “It was not an easy thing you did.”
“Agreeing to marry Bahett or telling Nikandr?”
“Both, but know this… It was the right thing to do.” She turned back to look over the contingent from Galahesh. “And don’t look so glum. Their customs are not our own, but their women are treated with respect. More, I suspect, than some of our own give the women of the Grand Duchy.” She stared meaningfully at Ishkyna, who had never been treated well by her husband.
“I know it’s needed, Mother, but…”
Mother glanced over, a suffering look on her face. “More Matri will be found, Tiana. More will be taught. Bahett is in a unique position to help all of us. Even the Khalakovos.” Mother stepped closer to her until their shoulders were nearly touching. It was the closest thing to open affection she’d ever known from her mother. “And perhaps in time Bahett will allow you to return.”
And that, Atiana thought, was as close to an admission that Mother wanted Atiana to return as she was going to get. But it was also a lie. No such thing would happen. First wife or not, a princess of the islands or not, once she was given to Bahett she would be an Yrstanlan wife, meaning she would remain in Baressa until the end of her days.
“I would like that,” Atiana said while fighting back tears.
CHAPTER SIX
Atiana, skin already prickling, breath releasing in a thin white fog, stepped into the drowning basin. The ice-cold water came up to her calves. The muscles of her legs tightened like cords drying in the summer sun. The muscles along the bottoms of her feet cramped until she was able to calm herself at last. She was thinking too much about Bahett and Nikandr and not about the task at hand. She forced her muscles to relax and she took in one long breath before accepting the breathing tube offered by her young handmaid, Yalessa. When she sat in the water, she was in control, and the drowning chamber once more felt like an old friend.
“Tea?” Yalessa asked. Her hair was plaited in a circle around her head, making it look like a crown of auburn hair and bright yellow ribbon. As a handmaid, Yalessa was attentive, but she was too free with her thoughts, a habit Atiana had been trying to rid her of.
“Rosehip, I think.”
Yalessa smiled, shivering in the cold of the stone room far below the lowest levels of Palotza Galostina. “Ovolla is making her squash biscuits. Would you like some?”
Atiana smiled, shivering and lowering herself further into the water. How she used to love those biscuits. “The tea will do.”
Yalessa was a good girl, and she thought she was helping, offering Atiana something to comfort her when she returned to the world, but in reality it was dispiriting. Atiana had avoided the dark when she was young, thinking she would never come to love it, but in the years since she’d become a Matra, in name and spirit both. She had come to love the aether, and the tea upon awakening, however grounding it might be, was also a reminder of how long she would be away from the aether once more.
She lowered herself completely, allowing the water to rush over her. She did not enjoy this transition-her body still stiffened to the point of pain-but she had long since grown accustomed to it, and she had learned how to relax herself once completely submerged.
She exhaled through the tube, releasing all the breath she could manage before drawing air with a slow, measured pace. After her lungs were full near to bursting, she exhaled again and drew breath with a pace that was slower still. She repeated this several times, breathing in and out, in and out, and soon… Soon…
She drifts. Drifts from her body in the
basin. Allows the currents of the aether to take her. She watches Yalessa as she frets about the room, but the souls of those scattered around the palotza, especially those she touched stones with recently, draw her upward, outward, until the entirety of the palotza-even nearby structures-fills her mind. They dance blue in the black of the aether.
The currents shift. It feels distant, however, and ancient, as if the bones of the earth are calling her from some hidden, faraway vale.
Like a spider along its web, she shifts her perception, moves subtly and swiftly toward the disturbance. Soon she finds Sayyesh, her father’s most trusted qiram, adjusting the winds to drive a skiff toward the palotza’s small, northern eyrie.
As she looks upon him, his drawing of the winds causes tufts of white smoke to drift against the deep, dark blue of the aether. The color is a telltale sign of a havaqiram. The disturbance she felt must have been him, but it didn’t feel that way.
But she can no longer sense it. Only Sayyesh.
It must have been him, she thinks.
She pulls herself away, expanding her mind and drawing upon the currents that run toward and away from the spire. She aligns herself with the spire’s tone, its pitch. Like pulling a rope taut she strengthens it, aligns the currents with the other islands in the archipelago and even beyond, to Nodhvyansk, to Dhalingrad, to Khalakovo. And to the spire at the southern end of Galahesh.
Her tasks take hours, and when she is done, she is tired, but there is time now to wander, to watch. She pulls her consciousness home, dragging herself away from the immensity of the islands. It is discomforting-such is the lure of the aether-but the aether is no child to be trifled with. She cannot linger when her mind is spread so wide. If she does she risks becoming lost, no matter how many years of experience she has in the drowning basin.
As the bulk of Galostina looms before her, she cannot help but think of Lord Bahett and his mission and the pending marriage that lies between them like a gauntlet. There are parallels with her journey to Khalakovo five years ago, but that was a marriage within the Grand Duchy-she knew from an early age to expect such things. Her pending marriage to Bahett is a thing of her own making, and yet she feels foolish, as if she is making a grave mistake, despite the benefits the marriage would bring.
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