It is here that the suurahezhan crossed over. She knows because of Nikandr’s description of the place and also because of the tinge of red that remains on the ground beneath the swirling storm of energy. This is the rift that spans the aether and binds Adhiya to Erahm. It is why the spirits have been crossing, and surely the presence of such a thing would cause other effects-the imbalance of the two worlds touching might cause poor crops, might it not, as well as the erratic behavior on fishing grounds?
She places herself in the locus of the crossing, hoping to sense more than she can while spread so thinly. It is a difficult thing, for the aether is wide and lends itself naturally to a widening of one’s self, to a thinning of the senses, and as she focuses, she feels the pull of the aether upon her. She becomes disoriented. She can feel not just this island-Duzol and Grakhosk and Yfa are the strongest-but others as well: Kravozhny and Yrlanda and even little Ishal far to the east. Beyond these she can feel the pull of the other archipelagos. Mirkotsk and Rhavanki and her motherland, Vostroma.
She takes hold of the aether before she is pulled too far, before her mind snaps over the immensity of it all. Experiencing so much is beyond her. It is beyond even the Matri, she is sure.
She realizes, as she moves away from the location and considers it from a safe distance, that it was the rift that had pulled her so. She had known that it had spread among the islands, but she had no idea how interconnected it was. The sense that she has found something truly important is breathtaking, but it is also unnerving. She has found it, yet it is completely foreign. It is an act of nature. How can she hope to combat this? How can any of them?
As she considers moving closer to the swirl of light, she hears the voices once more. She is surprised, however, to feel the mind of her mother.
Daughter, is that you?
Her first instinct is to hide, but she does not know how to do such a thing, and after thinking about it for a moment it seems cowardly.
It is I, she says.
The feeling of her mother intensifies, and as it does, so do four other presences. She has not spoken with any of them in some time, but she knows them to be the other Matri, the ones currently aligned against Khalakovo: Dhalingrad, Khazabyirsk, Nodhvyansk, and Bolgravya. She wonders why their presences feel so near when Saphia and the other Matri might be able to sense them. But then she feels a disturbance in the aether, an echo of life crossing over. It feels distant, but only because her mind is so focused on the rift. As she expands to encompass more of the island, she feels them. Deaths. Many of them. It is centered on Volgorod’s eyrie, but there is more coming from Radiskoye.
It can mean only one thing: her father has lost his patience and the blockade has progressed to all-out war.
Child, where are you? A moment later, she feels her mother’s surprise-she knows that Atiana lies within the lake in Iramanshah. What are you doing there?
She debates whether to reveal her true purpose, but in the end she realizes it would do more harm than good. Whether she likes it or not, Mother is too loyal to Father, and the chance that she would betray her confidence is too great.
She portrays a sense of indignance that she hopes is enough to fool her mother. I have been trying to find a way to reach you since I left Radiskoye.
She feels a probing as her mother attempts to read the truth in her thoughts, but Atiana is not so young as she once was. She is able to harden the walls around her, enough to make her mother back away.
Remain where you are, was her mother’s terse reply.
Her presence recedes. The others remain, little more than watchdogs ready to bark.
She no longer cares. She attempts to flee, to return to her form, but the Matri stand in her way. They hold her in place, preventing her from moving.
Release me, she shouts, but they do not listen.
The time is long past, Bolgravya says, for you to be chained.
This can mean only one thing: someone will be sent to Iramanshah to fetch her. She tries to widen her awareness, but the Matri push back. They tighten their grip. They press.
Nyet, Atiana realizes. It is not the Matri. It is something in Iramanshah…
Her shell. Her body, floating in the lake…
Something is wrong.
She attempts to return, but there is a presence that surrounds her. It is cold, fluid. As she tries to pin it down, to understand it, it slips free, always pressing, always bearing down.
She cannot breathe.
The air releases from her lungs, and she finds herself unable to draw even the smallest of breaths through the simple wooden tube that touches her lips.
She can feel her body though she still rides the currents, and she marvels at the feeling of being in both worlds at once. It is in this moment that she realizes that the veil to Adhiya has been pulled aside.
It is a glimpse of pure beauty.
Pure pain.
Pure madness.
She knows that a hezhan has found her. It preys upon her as the vanahezhan preyed upon the babe.
She rails against it. Thrashing in her terror.
And she wakes.
Seeing, towering above her, the liquid form of a jalahezhan.
CHAPTER 49
Atiana fell back into the water.
Her skin was numb, her muscles slow to respond, but her fear helped her to put distance between her and the beast.
As she did, she could still feel the presences around her-not only the hezhan, but Rehada in the water behind her, Fahroz on the stony beach, and a man, further in the recesses of the lake.
She remembered him, the one Rehada had been speaking to before they’d entered the village. Muwas. He was controlling the spirit. She could feel, even now, the connection that snaked between them, a cord of aether that allowed him to force his will upon it.
She could feel as well a concentration of aether below her-something that lay on the lake bed-though what it was she couldn’t guess.
Then Rehada was at her side, pulling her up by her arm. “In the lake!” Rehada shouted.
A blast of water struck Atiana in the chest, sending her beneath the surface. Something slick grabbed her ankle and pulled her, dragged her down against the rough surface of the lake bed. Her legs and back were scraped by sharp stone. She screamed, losing what little air she had in her lungs.
A hand gripped hers.
She slipped free as the rush of the water pulled her deeper.
She kicked and thrashed and fought. She gained the surface and drew breath, managing only a whisper of air before she was pulled under. Water invaded her throat, her lungs.
She coughed reflexively, which did nothing but draw in more water.
She kicked, but the hezhan had her.
She was pressed down against stone. The pressure built. What little air she had in her lungs escaped, bubbling upward, barely visible against the orange glint of the siraj lamps along the shore.
She could still feel the hezhan. Could still feel Muwas. Could still feel the stone on the lake bed and the walls of the aether closing in. They were drawn in tight, much as they were with the babe and Nasim.
Desperate, she pushed against them, as hard as she could manage.
The aether widened. Adhiya and Erahm were distanced. And she felt in her mind the cord between Muwas and the hezhan snap.
Immediately the pressure against her chest eased. The water stilled.
She was disoriented, but she followed the light. Stars blossomed in her vision, and the world began to fade.
A warm hand gripped her wrist, pulled her up and out of the water. She was thrown over someone’s shoulder, which pressed into her stomach with each ungainly step forward. Water expelled from her lungs and splashed into the surface of the lake below her. As they reached the shallows, she began spluttering, spitting the last of the water from her lungs, and then a coughing fit overcame her. It seemed to last forever, her body wracking painfully from the force of it.
But then at last it faded. Above her
, a stout Aramahn man stood. Next to him was Rehada and Fahroz.
“Muwas,” Atiana said, her voice hoarse. “He lies deeper in the lake. There. It was he that summoned the hezhan.”
The burly quram moved to the edge of the water. He closed his eyes and opened his palms to the water. As his head tilted back, a wind began to blow. It was cold, but not so cold as Atiana had been in the water, and to her it felt good in the darkness of this place.
After a moment, the prow of a boat could be seen approaching. It turned lazily as it was pushed by the wind to the shore. When it finally arrived, the Aramahn man stepped to its side and hoisted from its confines the unconscious form of Muwas.
Atiana stood upon a grassy hill high on the mountain that held the village of Iramanshah. Ahead, the ground sloped upward until it reached a ridge where a dozen obsidian stones stood sentinel. Only paces away, a crowd of Aramahn stood in a circle around Muwas. He kneeled in the center of this tribunal of the village elders, staring at them defiantly as the light of the glowing stones lit his face in ghastly relief.
Rehada stood nearby, the wind tugging at her robes-this day as much an outsider as Atiana.
Atiana had watched far below in the darkness near the lake as the village elders had gathered and discussed what had happened in hushed voices. They had granted Muwas a chance to defend himself, but he had refused to do so. He had merely stared at them, claiming it was for them that he was doing this. “You should be on your knees,” he’d said. “You should hail me as a martyr, not seek to dim the brightness of my flame.” The elders had looked upon him with sadness, which had only emboldened him.
In little time, they had made their decision. Muwas would be burned-his ability to bond with spirits taken from him-and shortly after, they had all trekked up to the mountain to perform the ritual.
Muwas had come without argument, but when he’d reached the light of the sun, his outlook had changed. He became unsure of himself, and though some of his defiance remained in his eyes, it seemed more an act, whereas before it had been heartfelt.
The village elders gathered in a circle around him. Muwas stared at two of the Aramahn in particular. One was a young woman, not much older than Atiana. She wore a stone of tourmaline. A suuraqiram. The other, a man whose knees were so bad he was barely able to walk without help, wore a stone of opal. A dhoshaqiram. Together, they represented the opposed elements to water, and together, they would burn Muwas’s abilities from him, even though, in doing so, they would be giving up their own.
“Why?” Atiana asked in nearly a whisper. “Why sacrifice two, who can do so much good, so that one can no longer do harm?”
Rehada glanced over, perhaps judging whether or not the question was serious. “He cannot be allowed to commune with spirits-not in this life, in any case. Perhaps in another he will turn to the path of peace.”
“What do the hezhan care of peace?”
“You would rather we let him go?”
Atiana could feel the weight of the lake all over again, the burn as the water slipped hungrily down her throat. “He would have killed me, and he will kill again given the chance.”
“He may,” Rehada said.
“And you care so little for that?”
“I care that he is given a chance to learn.”
“The Maharraht will never learn. More turn to their cause every day.”
Rehada’s silence made Atiana turn.
“They will learn,” Rehada said, almost too soft to hear.
“You’re deceiving yourself if you believe that.”
Rehada turned, a mournful expression on her face as she met Atiana’s gaze. “What are we to do?”
Atiana was about to snap back a reply, but she held her tongue. Nearby, the tribunal clasped hands until the circle was complete. Muwas looked up at the ones who would lose their ability to bond, and Atiana saw in him not anger, not contempt, but a sadness she would never have predicted. She thought at first it was an act, a gesture meant to garner sympathy, but as the ritual continued, the expression deepened, became so palpable that Atiana could feel it in her chest.
“Please,” he said in Mahndi, glancing between the two of them. “Do not do this.”
The ritual continued. Atiana thought that he would show some outward sign of pain, that he would cry out, but he did not. He exhaled and fell to his hands and knees. The exhalation continued until surely there was nothing left in his lungs.
Then, all was silence.
The two Aramahn that had given of themselves bent over. The old man had to be held up by the two on either side of him. One by one, they dispersed, leaving Muwas alone with his past.
Atiana watched him closely. His legs were folded beneath him. His eyes were distant, searching.
What would it be like to lose such a thing? Like losing a limb? Losing a loved one? Would the memory of it fade with time or would it burn forever, a constant reminder of what he’d once had?
“Will he return to the Maharraht?” Atiana asked.
“That is what the village hopes.”
“So he can tell them of his pain…”
Rehada nodded as a tear slipped down her cheek. Muwas was studying Rehada now, and there was a strange look in his eyes. One of regret, perhaps, or a keen yearning-why, she couldn’t guess.
“Why do you cry?” Atiana asked.
“That should be obvious.”
“I want to hear it from you. Your words.”
Rehada turned impatiently. “We’ve all lost much this day, Atiana Radieva, even you.”
Atiana turned back to Muwas. She nearly began crying herself. “I believe you, daughter of Shineshka.”
The boom of a cannon brought Atiana out of her reverie. She looked up, the memories of her time in the aether returning in a flash. She recalled her fight with the jalahezhan. She knew that she had caused Muwas to release his bond with that spirit. What she had forgotten was her mother’s promise to find her.
Against the solid white cloud cover, sails rose above the ridge. It was a smaller ship, only six masts, but it mattered little. She had already been seen by the men on deck. Their commander shouted, and only then-as the words washed faintly over her-did Atiana realize that it was her brother who had given the command. His beard was fuller, and he seemed to have become more gaunt in the weeks since she’d seen him, but there was no doubt.
Four ropes snaked down from the ship. Eight streltsi slipped along them quickly and efficiently to the ground. They swung their muskets off their shoulders and advanced through the circle of obsidian stones.
Rehada watched the streltsi, the muscle along her jaw working feverishly. Her fists were bunched, and her eyes were filled with more hate than she had ever seen among the peace-loving Aramahn.
Atiana touched her arm.
Rehada jumped and looked down upon Atiana with a look not unlike the one she had favored the streltsi with, but then she seemed to recognize Atiana, and her face relaxed.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” Atiana whispered.
Before Rehada could respond, one of the streltsi shouted for them to lie down.
“ Nyet.” Borund’s voice. “There is no need for any such thing. They will come quietly, won’t you, sister? You and the woman, both…”
“Rehada Ulanal Shineshka will go nowhere.” Fahroz placed herself in Borund’s path. “She has done nothing, nor has Atiana Radieva Vostroma.”
Borund motioned for his men to stop.
Fahroz’s face was red and her eyes were fierce. “You come bearing weapons into an Aramahn village.”
“Atiana is a daughter of Vostroma, and she will come with us.”
“Atiana can do as she will, as can Rehada, but if they wish to stay, they will both be allowed to do so.”
Borund took one step forward. Atiana could tell by his posture alone that he was tense as catgut and might be pushed too far if Fahroz didn’t back down. “Their presence is requested by the Duke and Duchess of Vostroma.”
A handful
more Aramahn stepped out of the tunnel, their faces angry. Upon seeing them, several streltsi trained their weapons upon them. Borund had a look of desperation about him, though why that was Atiana couldn’t guess.
There was no clean way out of this. Borund would not leave this place without her. She had no choice but to go with him.
“I will go,” she said simply, hoping to jar Borund out of his state of mind.
“Of course you will, sister,” he said, his attention fixed on Fahroz.
Atiana ignored him. “Fahroz, I would go with my brother.”
Fahroz nodded and waited for Rehada to give her own answer.
Rather than reply directly, Rehada moved in and embraced Atiana. “Forgive me,” she whispered, and then she stepped back to Fahroz’s side.
Atiana stared, confused. When they had hugged, she had felt, just as she had felt in the cold water of the lake, the locus of aether. It was now in Rehada’s robes, secreted away.
Perhaps Rehada saw her watching, staring at the precise location of whatever it was she had hidden. She looked uncomfortable, and she crossed her arms in front of her, feigning a chill.
It was Atiana who shivered, however. Rehada had lied to her. She knew now that whatever it was-stone or jewel or some unearthly remnant of the jalahezhan-Rehada had wanted it all along. She had wanted it before coming to the village. Before stepping into the chamber for her confession. Before lying to Atiana so completely.
She knew now what she should have known from the beginning.
She knew that Rehada was Maharraht.
CHAPTER 50
Nikandr watched as Nasim walked forward several more steps over the rubble littering the streets. His eyes were closed, as they had been since entering the city over an hour ago, but he had so far unfailingly led them deeper toward the center of Alayazhar.
Nikandr glanced up at the sun, which had already begun to descend. “We’re taking too long,” Nikandr said when Nasim had remained in the same place for an interminable amount of time.
Ashan held his hand up and whispered, “I asked for silence.”
The Winds of Khalakovo loa-1 Page 38