When she had come down from the mountain that day, she had decided that she would begin Ahya’s training. Perhaps not that day; perhaps not in a month; but soon.
How had she forgotten such a thing? She had remembered Ahya’s burgeoning abilities-that had always been a thing of pride-but she had completely forgotten, until the point where Fahroz began walking away, that she had been ready to walk with her daughter toward a higher consciousness.
The answer came almost as quickly as had the question: the pain in thinking of how her daughter’s promise had been snuffed from the world had eclipsed many things. It had been too painful to consider, and so she had buried it, hoping it would never resurface again.
Suddenly she realized that she was on the ground, and that Atiana and Fahroz were kneeling next to her.
There was a keening in the room-a long wail of pain, and it took her long moments of rocking slowly back and forth to realize that it came from her. No one else. Her. Cries of regret for a child so pure.
“I did not grieve because it was something I could not face,” she said through her sobs.
Fahroz combed her hair away from her face. “That’s right, child.” She helped Rehada to her feet, and when Rehada had composed herself to some small degree, she motioned for Atiana to take her place once more.
“Why did you come to Uyadensk?” Atiana asked.
“I came because I wished to know a place-another place-as well as I had known Nazakhov.”
“But why Uyadensk?”
Rehada shrugged. “It is as good a place as any to know.”
“By those standards, Nazakhov would be even better since you knew it so well already.”
“I will never face Nazakhov again.”
“You give it more meaning than it has,” Fahroz interrupted. “It is only an island.”
“It is a storehouse of misery.”
Fahroz shook her head. “That is why you have been here for so long, is it not? You hope that Uyadensk will replace Nazakhov, that it will heal those wounds that never properly closed and have been festering ever since.”
Rehada shivered. Fahroz had come extremely close to the mark, and it was less than comforting.“I wish to know a place and to move on with my life. Moving from island to island no longer held any allure.”
“What is the name of your daughter’s father?” Atiana asked.
“Soroush Wahad al Gatha.”
“He is Maharraht, is he not?”
Rehada nodded. “He is.”
“What do you feel toward Anuskaya?”
“Anger, and resentment.”
Her words echoed off into the immensity of the room. When all was silence, Fahroz stopped her pacing next to Atiana and faced Rehada. “Come, daughter of Shineshka.”
“I know I can never have her back, but I want in my heart for the Duchy to provide that for me. In my heart of hearts I hope to dismantle the islands, one by one. I wish to watch every single Landed man, woman, and child drown in the seas, swallowed whole, for what they have done to my child.”
“Ahya will be reborn,” Fahroz said.
“But what will she be then? Half of what she was? Less? She could have been great.”
“She will be. As will we all one day.”
Rehada wanted to stalk forward and beat the knowing look from her face. “Forgive me, daughter of Lilliah, but it is difficult at times to look beyond this life. Even more so to the one beyond that.”
“Are you Maharraht?” Atiana blurted into the ensuing silence.
Her words echoed in the chamber- aharraht, harraht, rraht.
Everything she had said up to this point had been the truth. All of it. And she had debated with herself nearly every moment since agreeing to come here and confess: would she reveal this secret? Much rode upon this one answer, and in truth it pained her to think of lying at a time when she was speaking of her daughter so intimately. It felt too much like betrayal, a thing she could live with in almost anyone. Anyone but Ahya.
But the way Atiana had spoken those words. So sharp. So demanding. She wondered whether Fahroz had asked her to speak it thus. She doubted it now. Such traits were ingrained in the aristocracy of the islands from their birth onwards. Atiana could no more escape it than Rehada could her past. And so, though it was a betrayal, she lied.
“ Nyet.”
“Are you Maharraht?” Fahroz repeated, perhaps displeased with the pause.
“ Nyet,” Rehada repeated.
A time passed where Rehada refused to move her gaze from Atiana. She did not attempt to force a certain expression, as so many people do when they lie; she simply stared and allowed some small amount of the contempt she held for this woman to show through.
Fahroz seemed appeased, for she asked Atiana to step closer. When they were close enough to touch, to hug, she said, “Now forgive her.”
This was the thing she had feared ever since her daughter’s death. She had told herself that whatever happened, she would not forget what they had done. She would not allow the Landed to be free of their responsibility in this, and in forgiving Atiana, she was doing just that. But now that she had come this far she had no choice.
“I forgive you,” Rehada said softly.
“Again.”
“I forgive you.”
Fahroz stood behind Atiana and regarded Rehada.“Do you feel her words, daughter of Radia?”
“I do not,” Atiana replied.
“I forgive you,” Rehada said, pouring as much feeling into her voice as she could.
“If you do not wish to forgive, Rehada, then perhaps we should stop this now.”
“ I forgive you.”
“Hold her,” Fahroz replied.
Rehada stepped forward and put her arms around Atiana. She tried to hug her warmly, but it was impossible. She would rather strangle her.
“Now say it again.”
Rehada did. Over and over, and she found herself tightening her hold of the Vostroman princess. As she did, as she called out those words, a memory came to her that she had not thought of for years-possibly since it had happened. Ahya, not quite six years old, was walking over a snow-swept field running her hands over the tips of the winterdead grass. Her head hung low, and her shoulders wracked rhythmically. Rehada had known all too well why she was crying. She had told Ahya a secret about her father, Soroush, who would in two months’ time be taking to the winds once more. Rehada had said that he was a man that found it difficult to love and that her mother would be her guardian until her fifteenth birthday, when she would be free to take the winds as she chose.
“He doesn’t love me?”
Rehada had smiled. “Of course he does, but perhaps not as much as he does his quest for understanding.”
Ahya had been quiet for days after that comment, and Rehada had felt terrible about it, but she refused to leave her child unprepared for her father’s departure as she had been when she was a child.
Ahya had confessed what she had said to Soroush, and Soroush had been deeply hurt. It became clear that he loved Ahya more than Rehada would have guessed, and her thoughts about his devotion to his daughter cut him deeply. He was a hard man, and he felt it was the best for her. It was his way of loving her, so that she would be prepared for the world to come, so that she would be ready to embrace the journey before her and move closer to vashaqiram.
Rehada had caught up to Ahya in the field and walked beside her as the bitterly cold breeze played among the stalks of grass.
Then suddenly Ahya had turned, tears streaming down her cheeks, and embraced her. “I’m sorry, Memma. I’m sorry.”
As they had hugged, Rehada began to understand. Ahya thought she had driven a wedge between them by telling a secret. But in truth, there was nothing to be ashamed of. It was something she should have told Soroush herself. Her daughter had been honest where she should have been, and she was deeply embarrassed over it.
“Child, stop your tears. There is nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.”
; Ahya had buried her head into her shoulder and said, “Please. Please forgive me.”
Rehada had leaned her head in close to Ahya’s ear and whispered. “I forgive you.”
Rehada came out of her dream whispering those words to Atiana. She felt her own tears creeping down her cheeks and leaking, salty and hot, into the corners of her mouth.
“I forgive you,” she said one last time, to Ahya, not to Atiana.
And then she felt Fahroz’s hand on her shoulder. “Enough, Rehada. It is enough.”
She pulled away and found the older woman crying nearly as hard as was she. There were no tears in Atiana’s eyes, but there was a certain shock there, and a faint look of apology. Rehada was not, surprisingly, angry at this. She had shed too much of that emotion already this day and so she simply nodded to her.
“Come,” Fahroz said while walking toward the doors, “let us go to the lake.”
CHAPTER 48
Atiana had been sure, in that small instant after Rehada had confessed that her daughter had been killed on Nazakhov, that she had somehow orchestrated the attack of the suurahezhan on Radiskoye’s eyrie. But as the questioning continued, she became less convinced, and when the Aramahn beauty had begun crying upon her shoulder, she was not at all sure that Rehada could be turned to such violence… It seemed as though she had locked her emotions away for so long that it would be inconceivable for her to perform murder and still hold such feelings inside. Surely, if that had been so, they would have been released like vapors from a bottle.
Still, the entire experience had been jarring. She hadn’t known that Rehada had been a mother, and certainly hadn’t known what sort of pain she had gone through. It was strange, once again, to be faced with a different reality than the one she had pictured for Nikandr’s lover.
One thing bothered her about this, though. Clearly Rehada had harbored resentment for the Landed since her daughter’s regrettable death. Why, then, would she remain here in Uyadensk and flirt with the aristocracy? Why wouldn’t she simply take to the winds or stay with her own kind? Perhaps what she said was true: that she wished to know a place as she had Nazakhov. But that didn’t explain her attraction to Nikandr. It may be that she wanted to use him, to place herself in a position of power that she could achieve in no other way.
The thoughts fled as they moved deeper into the village toward the lake. It had not been long since Atiana had taken the dark, but as always, a churning in her gut began to rise as the ritual approached.
The lake, once they reached it, felt different. The first time, it had been a unique experience. She had known about the lakes in the villages, but she had had no idea what sort of power they held. She wondered if the Matri knew that they could be used in the same way as the drowning chambers. Surely they must, but who would use them? Only a handful of Aramahn in all the world could do such a thing; Fahroz was perhaps their most adept and still she was like a child to Atiana, who in turn was like a child to the longstanding Matri.
Despite these assurances, the lake seemed like a weakness, something that should be dealt with. In time, if she had any say over it, she would.
Fahroz and Rehada led the way to the shoreline. They waited as Atiana disrobed, at which point they worked together to rub the rendered goat’s fat over her body.
She lay back in the freezing water and with the other two women’s arms holding her, floated free. She fought against the urge to shiver, to stiffen, and found that this time it was much easier than any of the others had been. She wondered if, in time, she would begin to yearn for the aether as Saphia did.
She relaxed and fell deeper into the embrace of the water as the constricting tube through which she breathed became less and less of a hindrance. And soon… Soon…
Her mind expands to fill the lake and the cavern that holds it. It is an easy thing to do, and for the first time there is pleasure-a release that occurs at the moment of crossing-and she thinks immediately to Saphia and her constant desire to wander the aether. Is this the first sign that the same will happen to her?
The transition occurs faster than in times past, but it is no less easy. The winds seems more turbulent, and she wonders if that is due to her lack of mastery or the state of the island.
She moves beyond the lake, hoping to find a frame of reference from which she can view the rift. She failed to find it the last time, but she is not so inexperienced as she was then. She thinks about her past failures, but she is convinced that things will be different now.
As she searches, she feels the presence of another. It is not like the feeling of communing with one of the Matri. Instead, it is the feeling of a soulstone, one she has touched in recent weeks, and she realizes with a start that it is Nikandr’s. As the winds of the aether rage around her, beckoning her to give of herself more fully, she allows herself to be drawn toward the stone. It is dangerous, what she does. She is not so experienced yet that she can take this shift lightly. She knows that if she does not maintain awareness of herself in Iramanshah, she might be lost forever, but she is well grounded in the lake, and Nikandr’s light is bright. It will make, she hopes, the return journey easier; her body in the lake and his stone will act like spires for a windship, anchoring the ley lines so that she might traverse them home.
She finds herself hovering above an island, not unlike any of the dozens of others sprinkled around the Great Sea, but she soon realizes that this is vastly different. Worlds different.
She can feel with the lightest touch the hezhan that inhabit the island. They are spread thinly in most places except for one location-a city nestled between two arms of a mountain that travel down to the sea. The city is large, but it is also bereft of life. Gone from its houses are roofs and walls. Stone fences lay shattered. The taller buildings closer to the center are broken and torn; some are mere husks.
The hezhan move about the city, perhaps searching-for what she does not know. As she approaches, she realizes she was wrong. These are not hezhan. They are of Adhiya, but they are also of Erahm. Their colors-blue mixed with tendrils of red-remind her of the babe she saw, the one that had been… assumed by the vanahezhan. She has not thought of it before, but the act of assuming a bird like the rooks is eerily similar to what she sees here, only it is a hezhan assuming a human instead of a human assuming an animal, and it forces her to rethink the very nature of the hezhan.
One of the creatures moves faster, and she is drawn toward it because nearby there are four men, and one is Nikandr. They hide in a building as the creature stalks toward the open doorway. It sniffs the air and appears ready to step inside. She knows that if this happens it could mean the life of all four of them, but she does not know how to prevent it. She moves around one side and tries to call its attention toward her. If it notices her efforts, it does not show it.
A moment later it opens its darkened mouth and calls soundlessly to the sky, and when it does, there is a subtle shift in the aether. She feels, in that one small moment, a lattice of connections that span the entire city. It starts near the water-at a tall tower that is strangely intact-and spreads outward like the shattering impact of a stone upon a pane of leaded glass.
She was ready to search for the rift on Khalakovo, but here is something so much larger, so much more dangerous. She wonders, staring at it, whether this could happen to Khalakovo. Could something spread so far? Or would it take intervention of some sort?
As she studies the faint but powerful lines of the web covering the city, she realizes that there are telltale signs she might look for on Khalakovo. The aether lies between worlds; it is neither of Erahm nor Adhiya, and yet of both, for it stands between them, separating them, binding them. When she rides the aether, she remains at its center-the safest place. But these tendrils that spread from one world to the other are in fact easier to discern near the edges. If she can expand her awareness, as dangerous as that is for a novice, she might be able to find it more easily.
She returns her attention to Nikandr and the men, she se
es that the creature has left. It pains her to leave, but she knows that she must.
Ancients keep you, my love, she whispers, and allows herself to be drawn back toward Iramanshah.
As she nears the island the presence of others become known to her. It is the other Matri, but like a blind woman grasping ineffectually for an intruder she is unable to find them.
Mother, she wills. Saphia.
They do not answer, but the sense that she is being watched grows. She wonders whether having gone to Ghayavand has anything to do with it. It feels no different than the times she had been in Radiskoye or Galostina, but that doesn’t mean that there is not some primal shift in perspective that occurs when drifting through the aether from within the confines of Iramanshah.
She tries to relax her mind further while keeping tight rein on the aether. Again the winds buffet her, and she uses this to attempt to locate the source of the disturbance. She tries for long moments, refusing to think about the time she has already spent. She must act quickly, but not recklessly, and she cannot allow her thoughts of the material world to affect her or she will be thrown from the aether in moments.
As she had in Ghayavand, she allows her vision to expand as she navigates the currents. At the edge of her vision, she sees it, and though it is impossible to look upon it directly she can perceive a white line as thin and bright as a distant lightning strike running the length of the island. By and large it runs beneath the ground, trailing, perhaps, the hidden inner workings of stone. There are several places, however, where it rises to the surface, and even one where it swirls above ground like a dust demon.
She approaches, and as she does, faint thoughts come to her. She is sure that it is the Matri communing with one another, but she is again unable to discern their thoughts to any coherent degree, so she focuses on the swirling energy before her.
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