The Winds of Khalakovo loa-1

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  She pulled her pony to a stop as she came closer, her heart immediately beginning to race. Through the trees she saw two Maharraht heading into the woods to the west of the home. They were old, perhaps as old as Father. Both wore loose trousers tucked into leather boots. They had a tight inner robe wrapped by a wide belt of cloth, and an outer robe that trailed nearly down to their ankles. Instead of the traditional cap many of the men on the island wore, they wore turbans, with the trailing ends hanging down over their shoulders and along the front of their chests. One of them was carrying two shovels, the other a pick.

  Her pony pulled at the reins. Atiana immediately loosened them and smoothed the hair along his neck-she could not afford to be heard, now of all times.

  She scanned the landscape behind her. She set her gaze through the alder and ivory-skinned birch, toward Volgorod. She should let these men go. A woman had no business following men like this.

  And yet this seemed too important to ignore. They had come to the very home she had seen in the aether. What connection did they have with the baby, to the hezhan that had taken her life?

  She had to know.

  She grasped the soulstone at her throat and closed her eyes.

  Saphia.

  She waited for a moment, but the only response she heard was the sound of the surf and the rustle of the wind through the trees.

  Matra, I need you.

  She knew the Matra might be far afield, spying on one of the other islands, or she might be deep in communion with the other Matri. Either way, it didn’t make much difference right now.

  She pulled the pistol from its holster at her waist. When the men were lost from view, she tied her pony deeper into the woods and padded after them.

  They were not moving quickly, and it took her little time to catch up. They walked until they reached the edge of the wood, at which point they trekked into the jumbled landscape of tall, rounded boulders that split the forest from the water. The air smelled of sea and earth, both. The tide was low, so the rocks would be slippery, but the men navigated them with ease.

  Atiana kept pace until they stopped between several large boulders. The nearby surf broke white and frothy against the rocks before crashing apart into rivulets, frothing to a stop near her feet.

  The older Maharraht crouched and with his eyes closed ran his hands over the rocks. There was a golden setting at the center of his brow, worked into his turban, and within the setting was a gem of jasper. A vanaqiram, then, a master of earth. Atiana had seen few in her life. Very rare were earth spirits, and rarer were those who could control them. She studied the gem closely. It was difficult to tell, as the jasper was striated and blood red in color. It seemed lifeless, and so she could only assume that he was unbonded.

  The other man had a horrible scar where the lower half of his left ear should have been. The crest of his ear was festooned with a half-dozen golden earrings. This close, she realized who he must be. Everyone on the islands knew of him. He could be no other than Soroush Wahad al Gatha, the leader of the Maharraht.

  The very thought made what little courage she had left drain from her. But what could she do now? To leave would be to alert them to her presence.

  The older one, apparently satisfied, stood, and the two of them spoke in Mahndi to one another. Atiana knew little of the language, but it sounded harsher than the way Father’s servants spoke it. After a short discussion, they set to work digging in the rocky soil using the shovels they’d brought. The going was slow at first, but once they hit the sandy-clay soil, they went much faster. Soon they had formed what Atiana could only describe as a grave.

  After tossing the shovels aside, the two hugged, then kissed, and then the one with the graying beard laid down in the pit. Atiana’s eyes widened as Soroush began pushing the mounded soil back into the hole. In little time, the moist earth had been piled upon the buried man. Soroush moved himself a few paces away, and there he crouched, closed his eyes, and began humming an ancient and arrhythmic melody.

  Atiana grasped her soulstone. Matra, please, hear me.

  But she sensed that the Matra would not.

  She gripped the pistol, gaining some small comfort from it. She debated on whether to fire upon Soroush while he was alone. She could reload and take the other as he crawled from his grave- if he crawled from his grave. She pulled the striker to full-cock, pouring a bit of powder into the pan for good measure. She was a decent shot, but she had never fired at someone.

  These men were ruthless, she told herself. They would kill her without a thought if they found her. She was merely protecting the interests of her family.

  Which family? she asked. Khalakovo or Vostroma? Lately, she had felt as if she were of neither, but here, as she readied her aim, she felt as though she belonged to both.

  She trained the pistol on the Maharraht. Fire now, she told herself, fire. But her arm was shaking so badly she was sure she would miss. Using two hands only seemed to make matters worse.

  And then the earth shivered. A great crack rent the sound of the pounding surf. Atiana felt it in her feet and in her bones. Another crack pierced the air, and this time she felt the rock move. She leapt away, hoping she could make it far enough that she wouldn’t be spotted, but she lay there awestruck as the rock she had been standing on unfolded into a tall, stone beast. Much of it was a mottled gray color, but its front-the portions of the hezhan that had moments ago been folded within itself-was black as night and glittering, as if it had swallowed the midnight sky, stars and all. It stood on two massive legs, and it had four oddly segmented arms attached to a chest the size of a wine tun.

  She raised her pistol, aimed at the thing’s face. She squeezed the trigger. The pan flashed as the gun pounded her wrist and forearm. A cloud of scree exploded from its head. For a moment everything stood still. But then the dust and rock cleared and it was obvious that her ill-advised shot had done nothing.

  She thought the beast would step forward and place one foot upon her chest and press the life from her, but instead it turned and began digging at the earth where its master lay buried. Soroush helped, though while he was doing so he would every so often glance her way.

  Atiana backed away, preparing to run, but before she had taken three steps the other raider stood from his grave, covered in wet earth, staring straight at her. His eyes were hard, as if he were furious that he’d been discovered even though Atiana had seen little. The vanahezhan raised its arm-

  Atiana’s eyes went wide, and she scrabbled away as quickly as she could.

  — and the earth flew upward in great gouts, plowing ever closer to Atiana. The sound of it was like a landslide.

  She leapt, but the spraying rocks tore into her left leg. She screamed while rolling away. When she found her feet, she had trouble standing, so sharp was the pain in her knee.

  The hezhan raised its palm once more, and Atiana readied herself to dodge, but before she could the water among the rocks in front of her began to hiss. Steam rose up and filled the air, and in a flash everything around her was as hot as a steam bath and the air was thick with fog.

  The ground shook with the footsteps of the vanahezhan. It resolved out of the fog, mere paces away. Atiana tried to run toward the relative safety of the larger rocks, but the pain in her leg allowed her little more than a shambling gait. The beast followed, knocking aside a massive boulder with a swat of two of its trunk-thick arms. She retreated further, but the beast was catching up. Soon, she had no more rock to hide behind. There was only open land between her and the forest. The sound of the surf suddenly intensified, but Atiana could spare no time to look.

  The vanahezhan picked up a huge boulder and prepared to launch it at Atiana. The rock itself began to hiss, and the front of it began to glow dully red. It cracked in half as the beast attempted to throw it. It crashed into the beach halfway to Atiana.

  Footsteps crunched over the stone behind her. Atiana turned and saw a woman-an Aramahn woman-running toward her from out of the mist.
“Come quickly,” the woman said as she grabbed Atiana by the wrist and led her toward the water. She was beautiful. She had long black hair cut straight across the brow. A glowing tourmaline gem rested in the center of a circlet upon her brow.

  Atiana couldn’t believe her eyes. She had only a few descriptions of the woman, but she had no doubts. For reasons known only to the ancients, Nikandr’s Aramahn whore had come to save her.

  CHAPTER 31

  “Into the water,” Rehada said, her voice tight.

  Atiana could do little but obey. The vanahezhan was already pounding its way toward them. Steam rose from the hissing rocks, covering their retreat. They had gone a dozen paces into the surf when Rehada said, “Swim.” She yanked Atiana’s arm, pulling her off balance. “Do not allow your feet to touch the seabed.”

  Through gritted teeth Atiana sucked in a lungful of breath as the icy water enveloped her. She swam backward as the vanahezhan reached the edge of the water and stopped. It swayed its head back and forth like a bloodhound. Then it raised its four arms up high and brought them down together against the beach. A great plume of water and rock and mud rose up into the sky.

  The fog around them was thick, and soon they lost sight of the hezhan entirely.

  “It will not find us as long as we don’t touch the rock,” Rehada said.

  “Grand. Then all we need do is swim to Duzol and we’ll be safe.”

  “It will leave soon enough.”

  “How do you know?”

  “They know they have been discovered. When they do not find us, they will hide.”

  “How can you be so sure they won’t find us?”

  “I can’t.” Rehada leaned into the water and began to swim in a direction parallel to the shoreline.

  Atiana was forced to decide whether she would follow, but there was little choice, and she soon began swimming after Rehada. The water was numbing, drawing away her energy, but she was still high with fear, and so they were able to go quite a long distance. The fog finally dissipated. As they swam beyond it, it rose up behind them white and thick while the way ahead was clear and bright under a cloudless sky. They headed for land after seeing no one on the shore, and by the time they dragged themselves out of the heavy surf, Atiana’s arms and legs were leaden. She kissed her soulstone, not particularly willing to show weakness in front of Rehada but even less willing to ignore her ancestors, who had clearly been watching over her this day.

  “Come,” Rehada said, “this is no time to rest.” And then she was off toward the trees.

  Atiana gritted her teeth against the pain throbbing up her left leg and limped after her. They moved as quickly as they could, Atiana often looking behind them to see if anyone was following.

  “That was Soroush, wasn’t it?”

  Rehada ignored her.

  Atiana grabbed Rehada’s arm and turned her around. “What was the leader of the Maharraht doing here?”

  The Landless woman jerked her arm free and stared down at Atiana. Atiana hadn’t realized how tall she was until just then.

  She resumed walking, forcing Atiana to keep pace. “You were foolish to follow them.”

  Atiana’s mind swam with questions. “How did you come to be there on the shore?”

  “I followed you.”

  “From Volgorod?”

  “From the eyrie. I was taking breath in the hills above it.”

  Taking breath was the Aramahn term for meditation. It was possible that she had met newcomers on the eyrie-the Aramahn often did so to acclimate those who had arrived-but something in her story smelled foul.

  “I was nowhere near the eyrie.”

  “You were near enough.”

  “I saw no one.”

  “Nevertheless, I saw you.”

  “Then tell me why you followed me.”

  They had nearly reached the house. Rehada stopped and faced Atiana after taking a good long look behind for signs of pursuit.

  “You know who I am.” She stated it flatly, barely a question at all.

  Atiana nodded.

  “I was curious.”

  “Curious…”

  Rehada swallowed. This tall, beautiful woman was somehow cowed. “I should not be speaking of this.”

  Atiana remained silent, a demand that Rehada continue.

  “Your husband has spoken of you, and… I know my place in the world.

  I know it is not with Nikandr. He will be with you. But I was curious to see the one who would take him away from me.”

  It felt strange hearing these words from a woman who had bedded the man who would be her husband. If anyone had asked her the day before how she would have reacted, she would have said she’d have the woman’s eyes put out. But here, standing before her, there was a strange sense of camaraderie that she would never in a thousand years have predicted. She could not be angry with a woman who was jealous of her. But neither could she speak to her of Nikandr-it made her stomach feel queasy just thinking about it.

  “We should go.”

  Rehada agreed. In little time they had reached the wagon trail that led from the house to the short pier. Atiana made to go after her pony, but Rehada stopped her.

  “Leave it. We cannot remain on the ground, not when they could still find us, perhaps with reinforcements.”

  “Then how-”Atiana stopped, for she had just realized how Rehada had spotted her, and how she hadn’t known. She had been on a skiff, the smaller windships the Landless use to fly between islands and ferry themselves from Volgorod to Iramanshah.

  Once they had reached a thick copse of trees near the beach, Atiana saw it: a craft shaped like an overturned turtle with a single mast in its center. They entered, and once Rehada had placed several opals into the small brass fittings worked into the hull, the vessel lifted into the sky.

  “Where will we go?” Atiana asked.

  Rehada wore leather gloves. She used them-already looking completely at home-to hold the two ropes tied to the lower corners of the simple, triangular sail that billowed ahead of them. “I will take you to Iramanshah. A healer will look at your leg, and you can arrange transportation to Volgorod.”

  As long as it was alone, Atiana thought.

  Her earlier acceptance of Rehada was starting to wear thin; she wanted, at the moment, to be anywhere Rehada was not.

  She tried to study the landscape for signs of pursuit, but the winds were playing with the ship, making her stomach turn, and so she kept her eyes on the horizon until the skiff had settled into the wind. The currents were easterly here, and they grew stronger the higher they rose into the sky, but the sail and the ship’s keel were guiding the ship northward.

  The house was soon lost from view, but Atiana could see the beach where she and Rehada had fought with the vanahezhan.

  “Why wouldn’t they follow in a skiff of their own?”

  Rehada stared down at Atiana coldly. “I would think that was obvious.”

  Atiana stared back, shivering. The wind was strong, especially this high up, and her clothes were still wet. She realized they were growing warm, and then she realized why.

  “ Nyet!”she shouted, refusing to allow this woman to warm her. She would freeze to death first.

  Rehada, the tourmaline gem upon her brow still glowing, shrugged and returned her attention to the sails.

  Immediately, the temperature plummeted.

  “If they didn’t want to attract attention from the Matra,” Atiana said after a time, shivering once more, “they wouldn’t have summoned a vanahezhan on her doorstep.”

  “That was different.”

  “Why?”

  “The place where it was summoned marked, I believe, a location where a vanahezhan had left this world.”

  “You mean entered it.”

  “ Nyet. Left. The spirits are tied to this world as surely as we are tied to theirs. They hunger when they’ve been too long without it, and when they finally get a chance to experience it, it lingers with them, and they remain near the pla
ce where they exited our world and returned to theirs.”

  “But how could a vanahezhan have entered our world?”

  Rehada stared toward the horizon. “I do not know.”

  The wind began to whistle louder in Atiana’s ears. She knew why the raiders had come. She knew how the vanahezhan had created a crease in the aether.

  Rehada was pulled forward, nearly against the mast, but she regained her footing as the skiff tumbled through the air.

  “Do the spirits hunger for us?” Atiana asked.

  Rehada frowned. “Hunger?”

  “For life, for our souls.”

  “They thirst for a taste of this life, not for any particular part of it.”

  “Perhaps they’ve changed.”

  “Why would they?”

  “The blight… It’s changed everything. Why not the spirits as well?”

  “ Nyet,” Rehada said flatly. “Hezhan do not do this. There is an imbalance, but it will heal.”

  “That house back there”-Atiana motioned outside the skiff, back the way they had come-“I saw a babe two nights ago, taken by a vanahezhan.”

  “ You have taken the dark?” She said it as if she didn’t believe Atiana could do so in a hundred years.

  “I did,” Atiana said, pulling herself upright.

  Rehada’s eyes thinned. “Then you were mistaken.”

  “I was not. I was there in that woman’s home when the vanahezhan drew the life from the wailing babe she held in her arms.”

  “Was the babe sick?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Rehada pulled a strand of hair from her mouth. “Perhaps the hezhan was simply curious. Perhaps the babe was near death and was close to crossing the aether to reach their world. Perhaps that’s what drew it to the babe and not some ridiculous explanation such as yours.”

  Atiana wanted to bark back a reply, but what Rehada was saying made sense. Perhaps the babe had been sick. Perhaps, in those moments before its death, it had attracted the notice of the hezhan and had given it the crease it needed to enter this world.