She’d felt something like it once before when the rift on Duzol had been at its widest and Soroush had begun his ritual with Nasim. It felt the same then, as if there were some yawning gash between the worlds that might swallow her whole if she came too close. And yet there was one important difference. Within the keep of Oshtoyets, she was drawn toward the rift. Had she wanted to, she surely could have entered it, and who knew what might have happened then? Ghayavand, on the other hand, prevents her from reaching it. There are seals, guards set to protect it from unwanted eyes. Nikandr thinks this is Nasim’s doing, or at the very least Khamal’s-the arqesh he had once been-but Atiana isn’t so sure. She knows Nasim, knows his scent, and there is not a single trace of him in the wards that stand against her.
She tries again to enter Ghayavand. She tries harder than she has in the past. Perhaps if she can sense Nasim, she might be able to convince Nikandr to abandon his plans. But it is not to be. She is rebuffed, as she always is, and she retreats exhausted toward home.
Palotza Galostina is old, the oldest of all the palotzas. She was built and rebuilt over the course of centuries. The drowning chamber lies a hundred yards below the surface of the cold and bitter landscape. It is toward this chamber that she heads, shifting in the aether, watching the twinkling souls of those with whom she has touched stones. Her father. Mileva and Ishkyna. Aunt Katerina. They are all within the palotza’s walls, safe from the elements. But there is something else that attracts her, a shifting of light near the spire, the obsidian tower that she uses to guide the aether as part of her daily regimen.
She wills herself closer.
Against a canvas of midnight blue, near the base of the spire, the aether ripples. Lightning strikes the spire’s tip, and it flashes, blinding her momentarily. When her vision clears, she approaches the base. A woman stands there. She wears the dress of an Aramahn, with doeskin boots and long, straight hair.
Atiana cannot hear-the aether is deadly silent-but she can see the woman’s mouth moving. She is whispering, mumbling, while staring up and down the length of the spire, as if accounting for its dimensions, its history, its power.
Atiana thinks to assume a rook, to warn the palotza guard, but this woman… There is something about her. Though she hardly seems older than Atiana, she has the look of someone ancient, of someone who long ago came to know the intricacies of the world. Fahroz Bashar al Lilliah possesses some of these same qualities, but even she pales in comparison to this woman.
The woman is arqesh. Atiana knows this. But for some reason there seems to be little peace within her.
The woman continues to stare as a storm rages over the island. Lightning strikes again, and she turns her head. She looks toward Atiana, not directly, but close enough that Atiana fears she has been discovered. The woman cannot harm her, and yet she fears for her life just the same.
Atiana moves quickly toward the closest of their rooks, Zoya. Assuming the rooks is second nature, especially at times like this when she’s lost any sense of her own body. As she slips into the rook’s form, Atiana extends Zoya’s wings, she flexes her talons and inherits her sharp eyes.
Zoya fights. She caws. She stands upon a golden perch near the base of the palotza’s curving grand stairwell and struggles to retain herself while pumping her wings and hopping along the length of the perch.
But Atiana soon wins. After two quick beats of her wings, Atiana launches herself from the perch, flapping and gliding toward the far end of the hall. She lands at the feet of the two streltsi who guard the door.
“Open it,” she says.
“At once, Matra.”
Soon she is out in the driving rain. She flaps hard to gain altitude, to crest the ridge that runs near the palotza grounds, and then she’s off, winging hard toward the spire.
She hears the rain now, and when lightning strikes, branching in the sky before her, she hears the thunder, feels it in her chest and talons and wings.
She searches for the woman, but cannot find her.
She caws, the rook momentarily regaining control as her emotions run high. She regains control and circles the spire. She caws again and again as she searches the grounds frantically.
In the end, however, she searches in vain.
The woman is gone.
The next day, after recovering from her turn in the drowning basin, Atiana took to the halls of Galostina, striding with purpose toward Bahett’s apartments. She thought at first she would take to the palotza’s hidden passages, to keep prying eyes from knowing her business, but the more she thought about it, the more the idea irked her. This was her home, and if she wished to speak with the man she had chosen to marry, she would walk in the open, head held high, and meet him face-to-face.
At the tall, arched entrance to the wing Bahett and his entire retinue had been given, two Yrstanlan janissaries wearing burgundy coats and tall white turbans bowed their heads. They said not a word, making Atiana wonder what they’d been told. Did they think her little more than his wife already? And if they knew, who else knew? Did Bahett think her some sort of servant? A woman to be beckoned when he willed it?
She stopped for a moment, and nearly turned around.
How dare he!
But she knew she couldn’t turn away. The way in which he’d left the message made her think that perhaps the Kamarisi’s position was not so strong as everyone seemed to think.
Gritting her teeth, she bowed to the janissaries and continued to his apartments. When she arrived, two more guardsmen bowed respectfully. They showed no hint of amusement on their faces, and one opened the door for her respectfully. She entered and found Bahett sitting at the same desk she’d spied him at two nights earlier.
Two women, wearing the loose, flowing clothes popular in the center of the Empire, stood as Atiana entered the room. They bowed and backed out to another room, closing the door behind them.
Bahett continued to write in his journal, completely ignoring her, as if she’d already become part of his harem.
“Do you wish me to leave, My Lord?”
He shivered as he turned toward her-perhaps confused at finding someone other than his servants standing in his room-but then he smiled. After setting aside his quill, he stood and bowed low to her. “Please, forgive me. I was lost in thought.”
“So I take it.”
He paused, unsure how to proceed for a moment, but then he motioned her to the place the two women had just vacated, a vast pile of pillows with palettes of amber and crimson and persimmon. Atiana found them still warm, which was like a nettle beneath her backside. Only when she’d sat did he turn to a cart filled with liquor and pour two glasses of what looked to be raki.
She took the heavy, leaded glass he offered and sipped from it while he poured his own. The taste was not so different from araq, the liquor the Aramahn favored so much, though it was stronger, more filled with smoke and the spices of anise and clove. “How did you know when I was taking the dark?”
He fell into the pillows across from her and took a healthy swallow of his own drink. “In truth I didn’t, but your sisters are not so easy to miss-Ishkyna especially-and there are few other Matri to account for.”
She stared down at him, lying there as if he was fully expecting to bed her once the drinks were done and the foreplay of conversation was over.
He caught her look, and then stared at the pillows.
And then he laughed.
“We can get chairs if you like, sit on opposite sides of the room…”
She felt her face burn. “We’re not accustomed to such behavior.”
“The islands are cold, Atiana, but the blood of the Landed runs hot. Do we have to pretend it does not?”
“Chambermaids may be lulled by your beauty, Bahett”-she set her glass on the travertine floor nearby-“but believe me when I say that I am not.” She stood, but he reached out and grabbed her wrist, preventing her from rising.
“Please,” he said, rising in one smooth motion to sit cross
-legged on a pillow the color of coral. “There are important things to discuss.”
Slowly, so as not to offend, she pried his hand from her wrist, but she remained where she was. His face was earnest. There was even a note of panic in his eyes. If there were even a chance it was important to Vostroma and the Grand Duchy, she would hear it.
“Thank you,” he said, situating himself as if it pained him to sit upright.
She motioned for him to continue with a nod of her head. “Please.”
“The Grand Duchy is headed for difficult times-even more difficult than she’s had over these past many years.” He paused for effect. “Her coffers are low. Her shoals offer fewer and fewer fish. Her fields are worse, and her people, let’s face it, have begun to starve-”
Atiana found herself seething at these words. “Her people are strong and her ships mighty. Her will is indomitable.”
“Conceded, daughter of Radia, but she cannot stand forever, not without the help of the Empire.”
“Your point?”
“My point is to make you painfully aware of your position, because-trust in me-the Kamarisi is very aware.”
Atiana paused, choosing her words carefully. “The Kamarisi has been our ally since he came to power, as had his father and his father’s father before him. We aided Yrstanla when the hordes in the hills stood at the doorstep of Aleke s ir herself. We traded her stones and windwood when we had no need to do so. Power rises and falls, Bahett. Better to weather the storm with an ally than to brave it alone.”
“Your words are pure gold,” he said, bowing his head, “but I fear the Kamarisi will never listen to them.”
“Then your words smack of either betrayal or deception, both of which would lead to the gibbet were I to share this conversation with my father.”
For the first time since the conversation began, fire lit within Bahett’s eyes. “I do not lie, Atiana, and I am fiercely loyal to the Kamarisi.”
“Then explain yourself.”
“When I am done, you will be left with a choice, but whatever you decide, you cannot tell anyone. It would bring ruin on us all.” His eyes bore into her, and he paused to let the words sink in. “On us all, Atiana. Do I have your word?”
“If it does not leave me betraying my own family, I will keep our words between us.”
This seemed to appease him, for he nodded and continued. “A year ago a woman came into the Kamarisi’s harem. She was beautiful, as are they all, but she was of the Aramahn.”
Atiana could not help but think of Rehada, a woman she had loathed, but had somehow-through everything that had happened on Khalakovo-come to respect.
“There was power within her,” Bahett continued. “Everyone could see it. I think it’s why the Kamarisi agreed to keep her, even after she exhibited these qualities.”
“He doesn’t keep qiram?”
“He does not. In the past, it has led to… regrettable circumstances. But no matter. The Kamarisi kept her, and she rose in favor. She went to him often, and even began to accompany him on official functions. The Kamarisi made the decision to come to Galahesh this month, and the woman, Arvaneh, has joined him while the ilkadin remains in Aleke s ir.”
Atiana raised her brows. Traveling to a place where treaties of such import might be signed was the place of the ilkadin, the Kamarisi’s first wife, who was by all accounts an exacting mistress. Word had reached even the islands of the ruthless ways in which she defended her authority. Women of the harem had been whipped and scarred; some had even been found floating in the muddy waters of the Vunkal, their bodies ravaged, all for overstepping their bounds. Influence, indeed, if Arvaneh had begun to supplant her in even the smallest of ways.
“He has spoken to me of his intent. He will discuss the treaties your father and I and Siha s may draft in the coming days. He may even sign it. But then he will come, with all the power that can be spared, and he will take the islands back.”
“He will not win.”
Bahett was already shaking his head. “Remember how this conversation began, Atiana. He will win. Have no doubt about this.”
“Then again, I ask you, why would you reveal this to me?”
“Because the Kamarisi is not himself. He has been taken by this woman. As has the ilkadin. As have his generals.”
“And why not you?”
He raised his thin eyebrows. “Have you not noticed that the Kamarisi has sent his own man to the proceedings? He no longer trusts me. Or she doesn’t. Either way, I will soon be left out in the wind while the lion’s share of the negotiations are given to Siha s.”
“You still have considerable power, Bahett. You would not be here if you didn’t.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps I do. Perhaps I do not. What I do know is this: if the Kamarisi comes for the Grand Duchy, he will win, but in doing so we will give up his hold on the west. The Haelish have been massing again, and this time, with so much being diverted toward the taking of the islands, we will be overrun.”
“Is the Empire so fragile?”
“I would not put it so bluntly. Our resources are considerable, but they have also been drained for decades. We cannot sustain two wars along with our other, tenuous borders. Not now.”
“Then why would the Kamarisi do it?”
“Have you not been listening? It is Arvaneh. She has taken hold of him. His will, his mind. It is not his desires that drive him, but hers, and she has decided that she wants these islands-for what purpose I do not know. The point is that she does, and she doesn’t care what happens to Yrstanla as long as she gets it. And I tell you this as well: it was Arvaneh, not the Kamarisi, who wanted the bridge built over the straits.”
“The Spar?” Atiana asked. “Why would she care that a bridge is built over the Straits of Galahesh?”
“She takes no council with me, Atiana.”
“Then what would you have of me?”
“Come to Galahesh. In Baressa you will be well watched, but there is a place… I have had a drowning chamber made there.” He paused. “For you.”
“You would have me spy on them for you?”
The hint of a smile came to his lips, quickly hidden. “Would you not have done so long ago had you had the power?”
He was speaking, of course, of her inability to tread close to, or beyond, the straits. She and all the Matri before her-for generations-had wished to watch over Galahesh, but it was simply not possible, not without risking one’s life in doing so. But if she were there, in Baressa, the distance she would need to travel in the aether would be greatly reduced. It might work. At the very least, it was worth the attempt.
“What do you wish to know? Specifically.”
“I wish to understand her nature.”
“Before you have her killed?”
He did not answer, but his eyes-the color of a rich bay stallion-were deadly serious.
Atiana was already shaking her head. “There are a dozen others you could find who would be better suited.”
“I wish it were so, Atiana, but it is not. The few who see things as I do are too afraid. The rest are either too loyal to the Kamarisi or they are powerless to oppose him.”
Atiana stared into his eyes, trying to weigh the truth in his words. There was no doubt that in time the Kamarisi could crush the Grand Duchy if he so chose. What did it matter to her, or Father, if Yrstanla was in turn done in by his ambitions?
“Did you not tell me,” Bahett continued, “that were Bahett ul Kirdhash to whisper in your ear, you would listen? Well, I’m whispering now, Atiana, none too softly.”
She considered for only a moment longer. “I will go with you to Baressa, and we will see what this Arvaneh is about.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T en days later, Atiana watched from the deck of her Father’s windship as the city of Baressa came into view. She had been to the city a half-dozen times, but never from the air. She’d insisted over the kapitan’s protestations that it was too dangerous.
“I wi
ll soon live here, Kapitan,” she’d said. “I will see it from a ship before that happens.”
The kapitan had grudgingly agreed, but had told her that they could not come too near the straits, and if any sort of wind picked up, he’d take the ship back to the eyrie at the southern end of the island straight away.
Baressa was massive, much larger than Evochka, which was the largest city in not just Vostroma but the entire Grand Duchy. It wasn’t surprising. Baressa was three centuries older than Evochka. One could still see the mix of architecture that had developed over the years-squat stone manses near the Mount, the spiraling minarets of Kasir Yalidoz, the sprawl of the bazaar with her rows and rows of tents and ramshackle buildings. As large and as populous as the city was, there was still one section to the southwest that remained a gutted husk of what it once was-a reminder from the War of Seven Seas, the Grand Duchy’s twenty-year war of secession with Yrstanla. Why the line of the Kamarisi had never replaced it was anyone’s guess, though if Atiana had to guess she would say that it was an indicator of their penchant for draining their coffers for the wars they waged in the west.
Beyond the city-barely visible from this distance-was a jagged line that bisected the island. The line revealed the ivory cliffs of the straits. To Atiana it looked like the island had ripped, half of it striving to remain with the Empire, the other half reaching for the Grand Duchy. It was not so far from the truth. Many on Galahesh had family and interests on both the continent and the islands.
Behind her, the old kapitan approached. “This is as close as we dare, My Lady Princess.”
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