“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 place 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.
But it seemed strange after what had happened on the eyrie. Physical manifestations of spirits were once common among the qiram, but now they were so rare that even the wisest among the Landless knew little of them. And here, on Khalakovo, there had now been three in the span of a fortnight.
The shore was distant, and the place where she’d turned off the road to Izhny was barely visible, but she thought she could see—though she could not say for certain—two men standing among the trunks of the birch and alder.
Perhaps they were watching them leave.
When Atiana turned back, she found Rehada looking as well. One moment, there was a look of profound worry on her face, but then it was gone.
A violent shiver ran through Atiana, not only from the cold.
After the incessant cold of the skiff, the frigid air within the village was unwelcome. Atiana had been pacing the length of a small room deep within Iramanshah for nearly an hour. After Rehada had landed the skiff, a mahtar named Fahroz had taken Rehada away while Atiana had been led into the heart of the mountain.
The only light present in the room was a glowing blue gemstone. She could see through the doorway to the far side of the stone corridor, but beyond a scant few paces, all was darkness.
An Aramahn man stood outside her room, not to force her to stay, but to prevent her from becoming lost in the darkness should she try to leave. She wouldn’t have in any case—she needed their help. Radiskoye needed to know what she’d seen.
But who will you inform? she asked herself. Your family or Nikandr’s? She struggled with that question for a long time. In the end, instead of answering it, she stalked out into the hallway and faced the Aramahn.
“I would speak with Fahroz,” she said.
He turned to her, his brown eyes placid. “And Fahroz dearly wishes to speak with you.”
“Then take me to her.”
“I cannot.”
She tried to walk past him, but he motioned to the room behind her. “Please, she begs y
our patience.”
“I am a daughter of Vostroma!”
“Then I would have credited you,” said a voice behind her, “with more composure.”
Atiana turned to find Fahroz—a mature but vibrant woman—walking toward her with a glowing stone, a siraj, in her hand. She wore a black shawl with intricate tracery running through it. Unlike many of those who rose to the rank of mahtar, she wore no stone. Instead, a gold chain with a medallion hanging from it was strung across her brow.
“Where is Rehada?” Atiana asked, seeing two Aramahn women she’d never met before standing behind Fahroz.
“She has left.”
Atiana paused, feeling small and alone. That such feelings were caused by Nikandr’s lover made her doubly angry over it. “Why?”
“That, I’m afraid, will remain between me and her. There are more pressing matters, are there not?”
Atiana pulled herself higher. “I need to return to Radiskoye. They are in danger, which I’m sure you’re well aware of by now.”
“Radiskoye has little reason to expect favors from Iramanshah.”
“They must be warned.”
“Is that so?”
Atiana stared into Fahroz’s eyes, knowing that she had been the one to take up the cause of the Aramahn. From the accounts, she had stood faceto-face with Iaros Khalakovo—no simple feat—and demanded the return of the mysterious boy and the arqesh.
In the end, it was Atiana who flinched first.
Fahroz turned and began walking away. “Are you coming?”
The two women parted, allowing Atiana to follow. They made several turns, passing rooms both large and small, but rarely did Atiana see another light. Iramanshah, like all of the villages, had dwindled in population if not in grandeur. She had been to the one on Vostroma only once, and it had seemed like a sad reflection of what it once was, but also somehow proper, as if the fading of the Aramahn were a necessary part of the rise of the Grand Duchy. She had been young, then. Now, she was not so naïve as to think that the Grand Duchy could live without the Aramahn—they needed one another, as surely as wildflowers needed bees.
Fahroz took them down a long, curving set of stairs. It felt strangely familiar, though for a long time she couldn’t place why.
It struck her as they neared the bottom. “Where are we going?”
“You said you needed to warn Radiskoye.”
“I do.”
They reached the landing and took the single tunnel that led out from it. The tunnel, which was carved as the rest of the corridors had been, became rough, natural. Soon after, they reached the first of a set of wide, rough steps that seemed to be hewn by hand instead of guided by the skills of a vanaqiram. Shortly after, the tunnel opened up into a massive cavern. Atiana could see the rough stone wall on her left and the stairs ahead of her, but the space to her right was fathomless and black. The roof of the cavern, which had provided some small amount of grounding, faded from view the further they went.
Atiana drew in breath as a twinkling came from the darkness below. They reached the shore of a large black lake, where water lapped ever so gently against the rough stones and gritty sand.
“You would find,” Fahroz said as she guided Atiana toward a stone pier, “the water as cold as your drowning basins.”
Atiana stopped, forcing Fahroz to do the same. “You wish me to take the dark? Here?”
“I believe you can, with our help.”
The lake felt foreboding—somehow ancient and raw, whereas the basin within the drowning chamber felt tamed in comparison.
“Did you not say it was important for Radiskoye to know as soon as possible?”
“I did, but—”
“Then take the dark. Warn them if you would.”
Fahroz led her out to the end of the pier. Lamps on decorative stone posts lit as they approached. The light was meager—beyond a certain distance the cavern swallowed it whole—but it was enough to shed light on the lake bed some two stories below the surface of the crystal-clear water.
Atiana shivered just looking at it. “Why would you offer this?”
The smile of Fahroz’s face made her seem patronizing, but Atiana doubted she meant it in such a way—she, like so many of her race, was unnaturally calm, and it could lead to a misinterpretation of their moods if one wasn’t careful. “I will admit that my goals are not wholly altruistic. Over the years, there have been some who have learned to touch the aether, as you have.”
Atiana glanced at the two women, who waited patiently on the shore, then she looked at Fahroz under an entirely new light. She wore no stone. This was common among the Aramahn—perhaps only one in twenty became qiram—but it was rare among the mahtar. Most who rose to that status had mastered two or three disciplines. Why, then, if Fahroz could bond with no spirits, had she been allowed to take that rank?
“You?” Atiana asked.
Fahroz nodded, her arms clasped before her. “I ask only to observe.”
“Toward what end?”
“Would you not agree, Atiana Radieva, that the islands have become a dangerous place to live? We would do well to understand it, to learn from it.”
“I go only to warn Radiskoye.”
“But you have seen more. The babe...”
“That was by mere chance.”
“Then perhaps luck will be with you again. Allow me to observe. Share with me what you find when you return.”
This was a strange position to be in. She was a visitor on these islands, after all. It felt as though she would be betraying the trust of the Matra were she to take the dark unbidden.
Perhaps sensing her hesitation, Fahroz walked forward until she stood at the pier’s very edge. She beckoned Atiana closer, and when Atiana was at her side, she motioned toward the vastness of the lake. “Did you know that there is a lake like this in every Aramahn village?”
“Every village?”
“Every one that is still populated. Some have been drained by earthquakes. They were repaired if possible, but if it was not, if they ran dry, the village was eventually abandoned.”
Atiana struggled to understand why Fahroz was telling her this. “Not merely for lack of water...”
A sad smile touched Fahroz’s lips. “Nyet, not merely for lack of water. They connect us, these lakes. There was a time when we could speak to one another much as the Matri do now.” She stopped speaking and the silence lengthened between them, and Atiana realized that she was crying. “It is one of a dozen things—a hundred—that we do not understand since the islands were taken.” She said the words not with anger, but as simple fact, as if the War of Seven Seas had been no different than an earthquake draining one of their lakes and a village with it. “The babe you saw, if you care for it at all, if you care for the others—Aramahn or Anuskayan—then you will do this.”
“It may not work.”
“A choice I leave to the fates...”
Atiana had never felt close to the Aramahn—they had never been allowed to be a part of her or her sisters’ lives—but this woman, this leader of people, struck her deeply. She wished, somehow, that she could know as much as Fahroz did, that she could face the world with as much poise.
In the end, Atiana bowed her head. “I will share as I can.”
Fahroz nodded and led her back along the pier. “You may find taking the dark here in the village vastly different from the spire. It is the mountains, after all”—she motioned to the roof of the cavern—“that once acted as the spires do now. In those early days of exploration, they guided us from place to place, even if we weren’t yet sure where we were headed. They are our lifeblood, and we are theirs. You will be experiencing this place as many of the ancients did—or nearly so.”
The lake looked like it would chill her to the bone just as quickly as the drowning basin had.
“I will require a balm.”
Rehada motioned to the two women. “We have some at the ready.”
Fahroz disrobed. As soon as she was do
ne, one of the women began rubbing a salve over her. Atiana disrobed as well, feeling more self-conscious than she had in years. Her skin was white as snow; it was expected of the gentry, but next to the darker skinned Aramahn she felt sickly and small. After the second woman rubbed salve over Atiana’s back, Atiana did the same over her front. It was similar to what the Matri used, except it smelled strongly of sage. Soon it was over, and she was left a woman naked in a place she hardly knew, ready to submerge herself in water that would take her life as soon as cradle her.
There were steps along the left and right sides of the pier she hadn’t noticed. Fahroz took the steps to the right, wading out into the water without hesitation.
Atiana followed, and although the water seized her ankles and calves and thighs, she waded forward, intent on controlling herself better than she had those days ago in Radiskoye’s drowning chamber. She leaned back. The woman caught and supported her. She felt like a fish out of water wriggling its way back toward the sea. “Is there nothing that could support me?”
“This is how it is done.”
A sliver of fear crept inside her, but she took deep breaths to calm herself. When she felt as ready as she would ever be, she allowed herself to sink beneath the water. She forgot that she was deep within Iramanshah, a veritable prisoner for the time being; she forgot about the Maharraht and the events of the day; she forgot about her embarrassment, her nervousness, her feelings of vulnerability; she forgot about Rehada, though this was the most difficult of all.
And soon...
She sees herself floating in the water. She feels the cavern, its immensity, though in only moments the size of it seems natural—one small part of the mountain that contains it. She feels the streams that feed the lake, and in turn the streams that the lake feeds. She feels the bowels of Iramanshah, the winding tunnels, the rounded rooms, the traceries carved by the careful craftsmanship of men and women long since dead.
She expands her awareness. Unlike the last time, she is confident, though this in itself is cause for concern. She cannot take the aether for granted. She cannot...
The peaks of the mountains, the ridges that connect them, the forests and prairies and the brackish northern swamps enter her awareness. It allows her to suffuse herself among the bowels of the island. She dives deeper, so deep she can feel the heat of the world itself, still cooling from when the fires of the creation gave birth to the world and the stars. She feels the age of the land, and for a moment she feels as though she could tell its entire history, from inception to destruction at the hands of the long-dormant volcano. She knows this is dangerous. If she remains this way she will become part of the island, her body abandoned as her soul merges with the larger life that surrounds her, yet it is the only way she knows to find what she searches for.
The Winds of Khalakovo Page 26