Nikandr quickened his pace, but soon found that it wasn’t necessary. The boy was already losing speed. He was weak, perhaps from lack of food, perhaps from sickness. He paused as he gained the walkway circling up and around the tower, and then he collapsed.
By the time Nikandr came near, the boy had turned onto his back and was scrabbling away, fear plain on his face.
“Please,” Nikandr said, holding up his hands for the child to see. “I only wish to know what happened. Why are you-”
With night coming on, light was scarce, but Nikandr could see that he’d been mistaken. This was no boy at all; it was a girl. She wore a boy’s clothes, and her hair was wrapped up into a dark turban, but the set of her eyes, her lips, the line of her jaw. It was unmistakable now.
“Why are you here?” Nikandr asked.
She spoke in Mahndi. Nikandr knew the language well, but she was speaking so quickly, and her accent was thick enough that he couldn’t understand her.
He held up his hands to stop her. “Slower,” he said in Mahndi.
“I left when they began burning…” She waved toward the scene in the woods, the pile of smoking bodies. “They’d taken memma.”
“Why?” Nikandr asked. “Why were so many burned?”
“They’d been marked.”
“Marked by what?”
“By the taint. They said those who had been touched would die.”
“So they forced everyone there so they could burn them?”
She was already shaking her head. “ Neh. They went-”
She’d spoken so quickly he couldn’t understand her last word. “They what?”
“They went willingly.”
Nikandr stared, confused, but then her words settled over him like a thick blanket of snow.
Willingly, she’d said. They’d gone willingly.
By the ancients, what was happening on this island?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
B ahett, dressed in a fine white kaftan and a red silk turban with a massive pearl set into it, stood near Atiana’s door. “Someone will come within the hour,” he said.
Ishkyna stood next to him, waiting impatiently and holding a mask with iridescent black feathers affixed to it.
“Bahett, I love my sister. But masks or not, you’re making a mistake if you think that anyone will confuse the two of us.”
“It isn’t so hard,” Ishkyna said. “All I need do is pout and bite my tongue no matter what is said.”
Atiana fixed her eyes on Bahett, if only to avoid gazing upon Ishkyna’s smug face. “You see?”
“She has promised her best behavior.”
“I’m not yet ready,” Atiana said.
“You must be ready. Arvaneh and the Kamarisi will both be occupied, as will nearly everyone else who’s come to Baressa. They won’t expect you to do something so quickly.”
“That’s because it would be foolish to do so. The aether is a storm here. I need time to assess it properly. This is no time to dive into the water like a child driven mad with boredom. We must take our time, or all of this will be for naught.”
Bahett came to her and took up her hands. His skin was soft-the hands of a man well used to the life of a Kaymakam. “All I ask is that you try. If you cannot but step into the aether, then so be it. Can you do this for me?”
She squeezed his hands and released them. “I will do it for the Grand Duchy.”
“Of course,” Bahett said, bowing his head.
“Go,” Atiana said.
“Come, Bahett.” Ishkyna raised her mask to her face and widened her eyes at Atiana. “It’s time I become as dull as I can possibly be.”
After one apologetic smile, Bahett rushed out. Atiana stepped outside her room onto a small balcony. The hour was late, but far away on the southern horizon ships could still be seen heading toward the eyrie. Most would be bringing in provisions, and perhaps a few final members of royalty. Most of the dignitaries from the islands had already arrived and would be preparing for the reception.
It felt strange to be separated from them, and even stranger to be spying upon her hosts. She was not averse to it-the Kamarisi and his consort needed watching-but ties with Galahesh had always been strong, primarily between the Vostromas and the line of Kirdhash. In many ways, they had always seemed like the tenth Duchy-perhaps not to anyone who’d grown up on a more distant archipelago, but certainly to anyone who’d been raised on the shores of Vostroma.
A knock came at her door, and Yalessa stepped in. “He’s come.”
Atiana merely nodded. She followed Yalessa outside, and there, waiting for them, was a bald man, no older than Atiana. He stood meekly, clasping his hands together. He was a mute, and most likely castrated as well.
Atiana had always felt uncomfortable around the slaves of Yrstanla, but there was little choice in the matter now. Galahesh allowed few slaves, but with so many visiting from the capital, the kasir was thick with them.
They traveled down through little-used hallways and stairwells until they reached the ground floor. Throughout the walk, Atiana did not see a single other soul-clearly Bahett’s doing.
They left the kasir through the door reserved for the servants and continued until they reached a high wall built from ragged, sharp stones. Atiana knew that inside lay the graveyard. She dearly hoped that this was not where the servant was taking them, but she knew in the same breath that it was.
They followed a stone-lined path. Near the top of the wall, spaced every few paces, were round holes, like windows meant to allow the dead to look out upon the living, upon the lives they once led. One section of the wall was marred by hundreds of pockmarks and several larger holes-signs of battle, Atiana knew, and somewhat recent, as the revealed stone was still bright, where the rest was dull and gray.
Even the walls have tales to tell, she thought.
They eventually came to a tall iron gate. The servant opened it soundlessly, and together they walked through the elaborate stone mausoleums. The early stars were out, the day having been reduced to a haze in the west. She had been to the cemetery only twice before. Both times had been for funerals, and she had found the experience unnerving, seeing so many houses for the dead crowding the landscape like crows before the feast. She had never been here at dusk, however, and it made the experience all the more chilling.
“How much further?” she asked.
The slave turned and motioned ahead with his hands, bobbing his head apologetically.
They turned down a row bordered by stone tombs with peaked roofs and crouching lions that stared hungrily down at them.
“Do you have a light?” Atiana asked.
The slave shook his head, this time not bothering to turn around.
Atiana stopped.
“What is it?” Yalessa asked.
Atiana stared down the row, feeling something crawl along her spine as she watched.
Something wasn’t right.
The servant turned. She could no longer see his face in the darkness, only a patch of white where his face once was. He raised his arm and beckoned her.
She looked to the roofs, to places hidden by the corners of the mausoleums.
The servant gestured toward the end of the row.
She couldn’t go. Something terrible awaited her there. She just knew it.
The servant stepped forward, holding one hand out to her.
The simple gesture drove fear through her like a knife. She grabbed Yalessa’s wrist and ran, not the way they’d come, but deeper into the graveyard. She sidled between two of the tombs, and then ran toward the southeast corner.
Yalessa knew enough to keep quiet, but when they came to a rest behind a massive family tomb, she whispered to Atiana. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Atiana said.
Atiana’s lungs and throat were burning, but she forced herself to slow her breathing. And she listened. There were no signs of pursuit. There were no sounds at all, except for the servant, far in the distance now, gru
nting something that sounded like please in Yrstanlan.
Atiana was beginning to feel foolish. It had only been a feeling, a premonition, but she had come to rely on such things in the years since she’d embraced the aether.
Yalessa began to speak, but Atiana placed a hand over her mouth. In the distance, at the peak of one of the tombs, there was a silhouette-a shoulder or a head outlined by the dim light coming from the west.
Atiana watched, and it did not move, and she thought surely it was merely another statue.
“Should we return?” Yalessa asked.
Atiana turned back to the tomb, a shiver running through her.
The silhouette was gone.
“Quickly now,” she whispered.
“My Lady, we’re going the wrong way.”
She gripped Yalessa’s hand fiercely as they ran, willing her to silence.
Atiana led her around the large tomb. They followed a haphazard trail, dashing through several more rows, cutting between tombs, then running and slipping down a narrow path between two massive stone statues, all in a desperate attempt to throw their pursuers off the scent.
At last they came to an area where there were no tombs. A circle of standing stones, no higher than Atiana’s waist, stood around a small field of grass, and in the center of the field was a willow, tall and swaying in the breeze. Standing beneath the vine-like branches was a man, tall by the look of him. She could see no other details. It was too dark.
She slid sideways along the paving stones set into the mossy earth. Yalessa gripped her hand so hard it hurt.
Atiana heard a faint click, then again. It was soft, but the sound carried like a knife in the dark.
Moments later two more forms-one on either side of Atiana-slid out from between the tombs.
Atiana had only a short knife at her belt, useless here, but she drew it just the same and stepped toward the form beneath the willow.
“Who are you?”
“Be quiet,” he said, “and come. Leave the girl with my men.”
He spoke Anuskayan, though his accent was thick with Yrstanlan.
Atiana thought quickly. She did not want to leave Yalessa, as scared as the girl was-and Atiana herself felt hardly any braver-but these men could have already killed them had they wished to. “Go,” she whispered to Yalessa, who continued to hold onto her hand for dear life. “Go,” she said louder. “All will be well.”
Yalessa left, shivering, as the men closed in beside her. Atiana stepped toward the willow. The man parted the vines and she stepped inside. The darkness became pronounced; the only thing she could see was the faint imprint of willow leaves swaying. The rustle of the leaves was just loud enough to cover their conversation.
“Who are you?” Atiana asked again.
The man was silent, making it clear this was not a question he would answer, at least not yet. “Let us speak instead of why you’re here.”
“Those are my reasons alone.”
“Yours and Bahett’s.”
“It’s no secret the Kaymakam and I are to be married.”
“This has nothing to do with your marriage.”
The wind blew the willow vines, tickling Atiana’s ankles and the hem of her dress. “I would know with whom I’m speaking before I say one more word.”
“Consider me a friend for now.”
“That’s not good enough.”
In the darkness, she saw him shift his weight from one hip to another, perhaps choosing his words carefully. “I’m a man loyal to the Kamarisi.”
“Then why are you sneaking about his cemetery?”
“It’s not the Kamarisi’s. It’s Bahett’s, the Kaymakam’s, and it is him I do not trust.”
“And by that you mean you do not trust me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you meant it.”
Again he was silent for a time. “You’ve come here at Bahett’s bidding, and if I didn’t know who you were, I wouldn’t think much of it. A princess from a foreign land, a woman who’ll soon become his ilkadin, would have every right to visit the cemetery, perhaps paying respect to relatives who died here long ago. But it is known that you are Matra, and this is what gives me pause.”
He was coming altogether too close to the mark for comfort. “Who was chasing me?”
“Men who wished to bid you good fortune for your wedding day.” She could hear the sneer in his voice.
“I begin to wonder if they are allies of yours, meant to scare me into telling you secrets.”
“A shrewd thought, My Lady Princess. They were allies once, and not so long ago. They are men fiercely loyal to the Kamarisi.”
“And you are not?”
“We’re every bit as loyal. We merely differ on how we think the Kamarisi should be protected.”
“Why?” Atiana asked. “Why does the Kamarisi need such protection?”
A series of clicks came from beyond the willow tree. A moment later, more clicks came from the space before her. She could see little, but she thought she saw his shoulder and arm moving, perhaps from something he was manipulating in his hand, a device of some sort.
When he spoke again, his voice had risen in pitch, and it was subtly faster than before. “He needs protection because he is not himself. And do you know why?”
This was all strangely similar to the conversation she’d had with Bahett in Galostina. This man knew she had come here at Bahett’s request. What he didn’t know was how much Bahett had told her. She thought of lying. She also thought that telling the truth might give him reason to kill her. But she didn’t think this was the case. His motives, strangely enough, felt sincere. And she needed to understand how his purpose differed from Bahett’s.
“He needs protection because the Lady Arvaneh has enthralled him.”
“Which is why Bahett brought you here. A Matra, from the shores of Anuskaya, here just as Lady Arvaneh arrives…”
Atiana didn’t answer. He’d come close enough to the truth. It was she that had contacted Bahett, but now she wondered how much Bahett had looked upon the overture as good fortune. Suddenly it felt like she’d been manipulated into the whole thing, though she knew that wasn’t the case. It couldn’t be…
“It’s said,” he continued, “that the Matri cannot spy upon Baressa or beyond it because of the straits. Is it so?”
“Tell me first why the others, the ones you were so recently allied with, would wish me dead.”
“It must be for the same reason,” he said, more to himself than her. “They see you as a threat.” She saw his head turn, focusing on her once more. There was a pregnant pause where she felt him staring at her in the darkness, his mind working through the implications. “Who is it you’ve come to spy upon?” He spoke these words slowly, the timbre of his voice low and resonant.
Atiana tried to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. She had a primal urge to run. So strong was it that she’d taken a step back before realizing it. She composed herself, forced her breathing to remain steady, as she did in the drowning basin after submerging herself in the bone-chilling water. “I’m here to spy on no one.”
“Come, My Lady.” He took a half step forward. “We both know that isn’t true.”
And then she understood. He thought she was there to spy on him, or his allies, or both. He thought her an ally of Bahett, and Bahett a puppet of the Kamarisi. Surely he thought she was there to protect the Kamarisi. He didn’t understand that Bahett was acting beyond the orders of his Lord.
“You don’t understand,” Atiana said.
He took another half step forward. “Who have you come to spy upon?”
She took one step back. The vines were at her back now, swaying, brushing against her hair.
Another series of clicks came. They were short, and very, very soft.
Atiana heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being pulled from its sheath. “You must go.”
She shivered as he approached, but he merely guided her quickly,
though not roughly, out from beneath the willow, spreading the vines for her as she went. “Go to the break in the wall. Tell Bahett you were attacked, and that you ran for safety.”
“And if he asks who was chasing me?”
“Tell him the truth”-he stepped away, his form receding into the darkness-“that you don’t know.”
“I would trust the Kirdhash family a hundred times before I trust you.”
Yalessa was brought to Atiana’s side by two black forms. They left, speeding along the path behind the mysterious men.
“We’ll speak again,” he said. And with that he was gone, lost behind the pale echo of the tombs.
“Come,” Atiana said, taking Yalessa’s hand.
They fled, but before they’d gone twenty paces, there was the clash of steel, only a few rows away.
Atiana went as quickly as she could. The fighting reached a fervor, but it began to fade as they made their way slowly toward the break in the wall.
At last, they found it. It stood ahead of them like an open maw, the landscape pitch-dark beyond it.
“Ancients preserve us,” she said softly as she and Yalessa climbed over the broken stone and made their way slowly but surely back toward the kasir.
As the sounds of battle slowed and then died altogether, she had no idea who might have prevailed, but she found herself praying.
Praying that the mysterious man at the willow had died.
CHAPTER TWENTY
W hen Atiana returned to the kasir, she summoned Bahett’s seneschal, a wizened old man who seemed as likely to trip on the hem of his robes as take another step. She spoke with him for two hours, and he was nearly ready to pull Bahett from the masquerade, but Atiana begged him not to. She didn’t want anything to seem amiss, especially since she and Yalessa hadn’t been harmed.
When she finally made it back to her rooms, she downed a small carafe of warmed vodka to calm herself before bed. She did manage to fall asleep, but when she awoke a short while later the effects of the liquor had passed and she found herself wide awake. The words of the man from the willow kept playing through her mind. They had been laced with truth, and yet each time she worked it through, she decided he was lying. Clearly he was an agent of the Kamarisi, or Arvaneh herself, set to turn her against Bahett and his allies.
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