Beyond the garden was a well-tended graveyard bordered with a low stone wall. Inside were a dozen cairns, each of them marked with a tall piece of obsidian shaped like Radiskoye’s spire. They held no words of remembrance, but they had a small, uncut chalcedony stone near the top.
Gierten wore a skirt and a man’s shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up beyond the elbows, revealing grossly thin arms. She was using a wood-handled trowel to pull the weeds among the potatoes and onions. Every so often she gathered enough of the weeds that she would toss them behind her onto a large pile.
Gierten was alone; Evina’s basket was nowhere to be seen.
The cairns… One of them was small, and the earth beneath it was dark, fresh. By the fates, she had come too late.
Rehada began backing away, hoping Gierten wouldn’t notice. She moved one step. Two.
And then a voice spoke from behind Rehada. “What’s this?”
She turned and found a man, perhaps forty, staring at her. His name was Ruslan, and he was Gierten’s husband. She had seen him at the midsummer festivals in Izhny. He wore simple peasant clothes, and a string of small blue mackerel hung over his shoulder.
Gierten turned and wiped her brow with the back of a grimy hand, regarding Rehada with a wholly uncharitable look. Her cheeks were sunken. Her eyes had dark bags beneath them. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was listless and gray.
“I merely came to see how Evina has been faring.” She tried to make it sound as if she didn’t already know that Evina was dead, but she knew it sounded unconvincing.
“ She brought the necklace?” Ruslan said to his wife, though he stared hard at Rehada.
Gierten nodded.
Rehada willed herself not to look at it, but she could see a fisherman’s knife within a sheath at his belt. “I’ve made a mistake. Please, I’ll leave. I won’t trouble you again.”
She made for the path, but he stepped in her way. Her heart was pumping madly, and she was just touching the aether to summon her bonded spirit when Gierten grabbed the circlet from around her brow. Instantly her connection was broken, leaving her stomach lurching from the loss of contact.
She felt instantly cold, and her skin prickled along her legs and arms. Ruslan pointed to the circlet. “It’s forbidden to use them against us.” “I would not have. I swear to you.”
“You were. It was glowing.”
“I should leave.” She backed away, ready to run. The circlet and the gem could be replaced. “I’m sorry to have caused any trouble.”
She stopped when she heard footsteps coming from behind. A balding man with damp white hair hanging down in loose curls stood by the corner of the house. “You had something to do with my granddaughter, didn’t you, you filthy Motherless wretch?”
“ Nyet, I-”
Rehada turned to run, but Ruslan grabbed her around the neck.
She tried to scream, but the only thing that came out was a muffled caw, like a diseased and dying gull. She kicked, but the older man stepped in and punched her in the gut. The air rushed from her lungs as pain blossomed in her stomach and ribs. She fought for air, to no avail. Nothing was coming, and the man’s hold prevented her from breathing. They dragged her toward the house. She kicked viciously, catching the old man off guard. Her heel connected hard with the left side of his face. He shouted and doubled over, holding his ear.
Ruslan threw her to the ground and pulled the thin boning knife from its sheath. He grabbed for her hair. She recoiled, kicking at his legs, but the other man had recovered, and he moved around behind her and grabbed her shoulders.
“Let her go,” Gierten said, still holding the circlet tightly in both hands.
“Get yourself down to the shore,” Ruslan said. “I’ll get you when we’re done.”
“She’s been kind… She wouldn’t have harmed Evina…”
Before she could say anything else, Ruslan stalked forward and slapped her across the face. “Get yourself down to the shore!”
Gierten held her cheek, a frightened look on her face. She glanced at Rehada, saying nothing, and then she turned and walked down the gravel path.
“Please don’t leave-”
The old man struck Rehada, hammering her ear so hard it began to ring.
“That’s for the kick. Now stop fighting or it won’t go well at all.”
Rehada didn’t listen. She kicked and thrashed, spun around on the ground, trying to loosen their grip on her. She screamed.
Ruslan managed to lay himself over her legs and climb up until he was straddling her waist. His father pinned her arms over her head.
“Please don’t do this. You don’t know who I am.”
“Don’t I?” He reached down with the knife. “You’re Landless. You’re nothing.”
“She is Maharraht-”
Gierten’s husband looked up just in time to see Soroush rushing forward with a khanjar gripped tightly in one hand.
“-and she is worth more than you and all your ancestors.”
CHAPTER 29
Soroush drove the khanjar deep into the fisherman’s gut while fending off a hurried counterattack. Ruslan’s eyes went impossibly wide. His face reddened. The knife fell from his grip and thumped softly against the earth. He grabbed at Soroush’s wrist, trying to pull the khanjar free, but Soroush was strong, and the man was already beginning to weaken.
The older man had been too shocked to move, but then he dove for his son’s knife. He never reached it. He was pulled backward and off of Rehada by Bersuq.
Rehada scrabbled away and reached her feet.
Bersuq was nearly fifty, but still he grabbed the other man around the waist and flipped him to the ground as if he were felling a lamb. He drew his own khanjar-a curving blade with runes worked along its length-and brought it down hard into the old man’s chest.
A ragged inhalation of breath accompanied the man’s panicked attempts at removing the blade, but mere moments later he fell back, lifeless. Rehada, breathing heavily, her fingers tingling, studied his face as she approached. As Bersuq pulled the knife free and stood, she reached his side, seeing details in the man she hadn’t noticed before-the deep lines in his tanned face; the spots along his brow from his days on the sea; his rough, gnarled hands; the scars that ran through the light white stubble covering his chin and neck.
His soul, even now, was crossing over to Adhiya, to join the hezhan until such a time as the fates decided he should return. She wondered if he would be reborn as Aramahn or Landed. There were those among her people, especially the Maharraht, that believed Landed returned as Landed, Aramahn as Aramahn. It was foolishness-an attempt to further divide the peoples of the world-and as it always did when she saw the loss of life, it reminded her of her daughter’s passing, of the day she would pass, of how much had changed for her people over the last few generations.
As always, death was making her question the choices she had made, her decision to join the Maharraht and their thirst to reclaim a thing that was said to be owned by no one: the land itself. If anything, the land owned you. She questioned whether or not she could continue with such willful hatred.
But then she remembered her daughter’s blackened skin in the smoking wreckage of the house-her clawed hands and curled-up form. She had been told of the streltsi, how they had chased a pair of Maharraht to a simple home on the outskirts of a village not unlike Izhny. The Maharraht had taken refuge and had refused to leave. The couple that lived there-a couple Rehada knew well-had been watching Ahya while Rehada took breath on the tallest mountain on Nazakhov. Hoping to protect both Ahya and the Maharraht, they had shut the doors to Bolgravya’s soldiers and refused to open them. Rather than force their way in, the soldiers had secured the doors and set the structure ablaze. The windows were too small to crawl from. They had no chance to escape.
Rehada had returned hours later from a time of extreme peace. She had felt, before being told what had happened, like she had made great strides toward an understanding of t
his island. It was exhilarating. So many of her experiences had combined on that mountaintop, and she felt as though the road had been paved for even more in coming travels. But then she had found the blackened ruins of a home where her daughter had been trapped by the soldiers.
Rehada’s stomach turned while the memories of that day played within her mind. She knew she had lost lifetimes of progress on her way toward vashaqiram with the decision she had made-along with Soroush-to join the Maharraht. But the ways of the Landed could not continue. She was glad she could do this, that her brothers and sisters might be spared; she was glad to sacrifice so that the entirety of her people would not have to suffer the same.
Soroush released a short, piercing whistle. Bersuq scanned the ground over Rehada’s shoulder.
Rehada turned and found Gierten standing near the corner of the cottage, training a musket on Soroush. Soroush darted to one side while Bersuq sprinted toward her, releasing a melodic war cry as he went.
She changed her mind, aiming for Bersuq. She squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened. She looked incredulously at the musket, as if it had betrayed her, and then she threw it at Bersuq, who dodged easily and grabbed her by the hair. In one quick motion, he was behind her, his arm locked around her throat. Bersuq tightened his hold. Gierten’s face went bright red. Mere moments later, her eyes closed and she went limp. Bersuq lowered her to the ground, where she remained, unconscious, the musket lying just next to her.
As Bersuq began dragging Gierten toward the trees, Soroush rounded on Rehada. “A pretty hole you’ve dug for us,” he said in Mahndi. “What were you doing?”
Rehada stared down at the men, shaking her head. More and more to atone for, she thought to herself. “We should leave.”
“Answer my question.”
“I hoped to secure the stone,” she lied, “to leave no evidence behind.”
“You should have left it to us.”
“I have been careful to construct a life here, Soroush, a life free of suspicion. I would not wish it to unravel in a matter of days.”
“Your life here is nearly at an end, Rehada.”
“Think well on this, Soroush. All of this could still fall around our ears. I still have Nikandr’s trust. Would you throw that away for nothing?”
He paused, breathing heavily, glancing eastward toward Radiskoye. “That will not matter after tonight.”
“Why?”
“We are taking Nasim back.”
She paused. Things were moving so quickly. She did not trust Nasim, but she wasn’t yet sure she wanted him in Soroush’s hands. “You are sure?”
“I am sure.”
Bersuq had returned after dragging the men’s bodies into the forest. He motioned to Soroush. “Toward the westward shore.”
Soroush glanced in that direction, and then faced Rehada squarely. “Return to Volgorod. Wait for word.”
They left, trudging through the forest undergrowth carrying two shovels and a pick. When the two of them could no longer be seen, Rehada stepped inside Gierten’s simple home. A wooden table and chairs occupied one corner, a potbelly stove another. The hearth was made from rounded stone and aged mortar. The mantel held several pieces of carved bone, a hobby of Ruslan’s, perhaps. A hand-woven rug covered the floor nearby, and a rocking chair sat by the window near the front door.
An entire home, wiped away in an instant. What had they done to deserve it?
They’d done nothing. They had had the misfortune, as Soroush had put it, of being born Landed. When would all of this end, she wondered. And what would come of the rift? If Soroush had his way, Nasim would be back in his hands soon. Would he wipe away the life on Khalakovo as he’d done in this simple fisherman’s home? Would they return enlightened? Or would it continue the cycle of discontent that seemed to have gripped the world?
She took a deep breath, readying to leave, when she noticed movement among the trees. A woman dressed in Landed riding clothes was moving stealthily through the forest. She moved with a certain grace, but she was no woodsman, and her raiment was fine. Fine enough for royalty.
It struck her all of a sudden. This woman was strikingly similar to the pale, blonde-haired beauty she’d seen in the halls of Radiskoye. And for good reason. This was no other than Atiana Vostroma. What would she be doing here, and what would have possessed her to follow two Maharraht?
Rehada nearly let her go, nearly let her walk into the jaws of the wolf that would meet her on the nearby shore, but too much blood had been spilled this day, and she realized with a numb sense of horror that she was jealous of this woman. She had taken something of Rehada’s, no matter how tenuous her hold had been, and she didn’t like it. Those were the exact emotions she had been trying all her life to root out.
So she followed this foolish Vostroman woman to see what she was about.
CHAPTER 30
The coach taking Atiana and her sisters to Volgorod jumped as it struck an excessively large hole in the road. Ishkyna pounded the roof, her expression making it clear she would gladly have replaced the roof with the driver’s head.
“I don’t see why you couldn’t go by yourself,” Ishkyna said as she settled herself back into her seat.
“You can walk back to the palotza if you’d rather.”
Ishkyna rolled her eyes. “You’re as sensitive as an open wound these days, Tiana. I was only wondering why you couldn’t just ask Father for permission.”
Atiana nearly unleashed her bottled up anger on Ishkyna for telling Borund of Nikandr’s disease, but Ishkyna would only deny it. Atiana would bide her time. She would even the scales.
Borund had kept it quiet until after his hunt with Nikandr, then he’d told everyone who would listen, acting as if it were the greatest insult imaginable. Many supported his position-largely, she suspected, because Father was the one everyone assumed would take over the mantle of Grand Duke. The wasting was often hidden by royalty-some for reasons of vanity, others because they perceived it as weak. Stasa himself had hidden just how bad the disease had become.
Grigory had been only too pleased to hear this news. He spoke longer and louder than even Borund, telling everyone how craven Nikandr was. He stopped short of demanding a duel, however-even Borund would think twice over that. Nikandr was known by everyone to be an expert shot.
Atiana didn’t like hearing their words. Though she and Nikandr hadn’t been formally married, she felt as if she were honor-bound to defend him. There was also the feeling that it had been something she and Nikandr alone had shared. As far as he knew, he hadn’t told anyone else, and even though she’d stumbled upon it accidentally, it felt like something special, something cherished. It was a foolish thought, she knew, but still she harbored no small amount of resentment toward Ishkyna for letting it out.
The coach crossed a stone bridge, the sound from the ponies’ hooves going from a soft thumping to a rhythmic clatter and back again. Atiana turned her back to Mileva, who sat in the seat next to her, and Mileva began pulling at the cords of her dress.
“I’ve seen twenty winters.” Atiana slipped out of the dress, pulled off her dainty shoes and began pulling on her riding trousers. “I have no inclination to ask Father for something that is mine by right.”
Ishkyna laughed. “Which is exactly why you told him we’d be visiting Lady Kirelenko the entire day.”
Mileva tapped Ishkyna’s knee. “Come. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of a diversion, and what Father doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” She turned to Atiana, who was just now pulling on a gun belt, complete with an ornate flintlock pistol. “It is only for a look around, isn’t it? We won’t be hearing news about a Motherless woman floating face-down in the bay, will we?”
Atiana felt her face flush. “Would you blame me if you did?”
Yesterday Ishkyna had seen Nikandr speaking with the Landless woman inside the palotza, and then saw them embrace. It had been no perfunctory gesture, Ishkyna had said. It had been filled with desire-on the woman’s pa
rt if not Nikandr’s, she was quick to amend.
Rehada and Nikandr had apparently been quite close over the past few years. They had tried to keep their relations a secret, but there was no such thing among the aristocracy. In truth, Atiana didn’t really blame him for it. The fact that he retained a lover was no surprise at all, but to be faced with her presence in Radiskoye, to be presented with her name and a description of her dark beauty, was another thing entirely.
Mileva stared at Atiana with the expression she used when they were alone-as if she were the only sister allowed to pass moral judgment.
“Enough,” Atiana said. “If I have a mind to be alone in a city I’ve seen precious little of since I arrived, that’s my prerogative.”
“Well, we’ll be sure to keep your little secret,” Ishkyna said.
“Don’t you always?” Atiana asked.
“Always.”
After Atiana pulled on her fitted cherkesska, she was dropped off at the central square near Volgorod’s state buildings. Ishkyna and Mileva continued in the carriage toward Lady Kirelenko’s while Atiana continued on foot. When the carriage was finally out of sight, she headed to an inn near the edge of the old city that kept ponies. She bought one for the day and headed west. The buildings, many of them four stories or higher, were made of stone. That changed to curving streets and smaller brick homes that looked exactly like one another, and finally the land began to open up into farmland as it rose steadily toward the high ridge running the entire length of the island.
Atiana followed the southwesterly road and took to the grasses once she came close to the eyrie. The fewer people that saw her, the better. She saw nothing of the eyrie itself, for the bulk of it was facing toward the sea. It took her another hour of riding, but finally she came to a small set of wagon tracks that veered off the main road that led toward the small fishing village of Izhny. The wooded trail led her to the sea. An empty pier jutted out into the water of the cove. The wind was brisk, but not unpleasantly cold. The trail continued through the thickening trees and, far ahead, led to a simple, earth-covered home.
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