She waits for the aether to call to her. Eventually she feels something, a disturbance, though it is nothing like the babe. This is more like the presence of the Matri. She slips back toward Iramanshah, and she drifts down into the cavern where her body still floats. She finds the old Aramahn woman floating in the darkness. Fahroz. She is in the aether, but it is like dipping her toe in the water. She wants to go deeper, but like a child hoping to fly with the mere flapping of her arms she is unable to. There lies within her a yearning and a deep sense of anxiety. She fears over what has come to pass, what will come to pass. She feels powerless to prevent the coming storm.
Atiana does not blame her.
She realizes, however, that the disturbance does not reside in Fahroz, but the lake in which she is submerged. There are similarities to what happened with the babe. The walls of the aether feel close, so different from the times where she is at peace with the shifting currents. Instead of free breath in an open field, it is dark water pressing against her, deep earth. She thinks at first it must be her that is causing it, but as she continues to float, leaving her mind aware and awake, she begins to doubt this conclusion.
But then, as soon as it had come, it is gone. She searches for long moments, but is unable to sense it again.
Knowing that time is moving quickly in the material world, she moves on toward Radiskoye. Saphia rests in the drowning chamber deep beneath the spire. Victania watches over her. And now Atiana understands why she was unable to speak with the Matra. Her attention is focused not on the islands, not even on Volgorod, but on an Aramahn boy who rests in a chamber among the lower levels of the great palotza. The boy seems unremarkable. He is colored blue, a gem of sapphire against the black velvet backdrop of the palotza’s interior.
It becomes clear that the Matri is not simply watching him. She is surrounding him. She hopes to assume him, as she would a rook, but she moves slowly so as not to disturb, to give him no warning when she finally knows his mind well enough to supplant it.
It is bold, what Saphia is doing, an affront of the worst kind, to supplant that which is most precious to the Aramahn: their soul. Such is the desperation of the Khalakovos.
A voice speaks within her mind. What are you doing, child?
She recognizes it immediately, but it has been so long since they’d spoken to one another that it feels strange, foreign.
It has not been so long, daughter, the voice says.
Mother, she replies.
In her first foray into the dark, she did not attempt to speak with her mother—it takes much concentration, and at the time it would have been too dangerous—but she is stronger now, more confident, and she finds herself able to strengthen the bond to her mother with no ill effects.
Her view of Nasim is another matter entirely. Try as she might, the vision begins to fade, and she realizes it is not a failure on her part. Her mother is pulling her consciousness away.
I asked you a question...
I am trying to speak with Saphia. To warn her.
They’ve had their warnings, child.
I mean to warn them of the Maharraht.
It matters not.
She can no longer sense Saphia or Nasim at all, but her mother’s presence is clear. She can feel three other Matri as well: Dhalingrad, Nodhvyansk, and Bolgravya.
Where are you? her mother asks. She moves closer—with an ease and an efficiency that is impressive—and then on toward Iramanshah.
Atiana blocks her way, barring her mother from moving forward. Fahroz placed herself in Atiana’s trust; even though this is her mother, she does not feel right breaking that trust so quickly. Were her mother nearer she would have succeeded in bulling her way past Atiana, but as distant as she is, such things are difficult, and Atiana holds her ground.
Mother’s presence retreats.
Do you test me?
The Maharraht are on the move, Mother. There are those, our family among them, who stand in harm’s way.
You are not in Radiskoye.
It is a statement, not a question, and in that one moment, Atiana feels her mother’s guard slip. She also feels thoughts that weigh heavily on her mind. She is worried because Atiana is not where she should be, because decisions have been made and are now being set into motion.
A feeling of dread grows within Atiana like a gathering storm. You are attacking the palotza?
A pause. It is nothing they’ve not been asking for since the moment Stasa died.
You would risk war over a boy?
Risk it? Khalakovo has demanded it, Atiana.
You cannot.
She does not wait for her mother’s response. She moves quickly toward Radiskoye.
Stop, child!
She rushes among the halls until she senses a rook. Without thinking, she pours herself into the bird. She feels its weak resistance. Worse, she feels her control over the aether slipping. Her arms lengthen. Feathers sprout. Her legs bend and contort, and her talons grip iron. She manages only a rough caw before she is drawn roughly away.
In the precious moments that follow, she is too confused to fight, and by then she is too far away. It does not prevent her from trying, though. Like a woman drowning beneath the waves, she flails for the surface, ready to gasp for breath.
But it is no use. The Matri have worked in concert for years. If their intent was to prevent one lone woman from assuming a rook, then it would be so.
She kicks one last time and feels her control betray her. She feels the island, the sea, the air above, the stars beyond. She feels herself breathe, her skin prickle, her bones ache...
CHAPTER 32
Atiana felt a beating upon her chest. Lips pressed to hers and air filled her lungs. She coughed. The beating ceased.
She was dying. She knew this in her heart.
She tried several times to open her eyes, but they wouldn’t respond. Neither would her voice comply when she willed it to speak. A simple word would do, any word, so that she could ground herself more fully in this reality.
And yet, despite the vague sense that she should be struggling for her own survival, it felt so peaceful that she no longer cared what the outcome might be. She would let death take her. She would welcome it with open arms.
She fell into herself, hoping it would be so if only to make the pain go away.
Then silence...
Followed by a single note, fading in and out of her consciousness.
Then a string of syllables, more song than voice.
Someone was speaking—who, she couldn’t guess.
They were speaking another language.
Mahndi.
She was still among them. She hadn’t died.
Her eyes finally fluttered open.
She licked her lips once ... twice ... still unable to speak.
“What...” The word came out in a croak. “What happened?”
The voices stopped. A face moved into her field of vision.
Fahroz.
“You nearly crossed to the other side, Atiana Radieva.” Her voice carried with it a completely unexpected note of concern.
Atiana’s bones ached. It felt as if someone were driving a spike through her hips as the Aramahn women levered her up. They forced upon her several sips from a steaming earthenware mug. She felt the mulled wine drift down her throat, down her chest, and it was the most wonderful feeling she could ever remember experiencing, except that its warmth suddenly made her fingers and toes feel deathly cold.
She began to shiver uncontrollably. “It is ... painful.”
“That is to be expected,” Fahroz said, wrapping a new, dry blanket around her shoulders. “Come. We will take you to a place where you can rest.”
She was allowed to pull on her clothes, but immediately after they left the great cavern and reentered the rounded hallways of Iramanshah. She could remember little of her time in the dark, but one thing was clear.
“I f-found no rift,” she said, her teeth chattering.
“We
can discuss that once you’ve rested.”
Atiana nodded, but more and more of her voyage was coming back to her. Her time in Radiskoye, her search while feeling the island.
Atiana sucked in a deep breath.
Fahroz tightened her grip on Atiana’s shoulders. “What is it?”
She could not answer, for she had remembered her battle with her mother and the other Matri. The ships allied with Father were ready to attack. Tonight. She had to get back to Radiskoye before it was too late. But she couldn’t tell Fahroz. There was no telling if they would allow her to leave, not with an attack imminent.
“The time in these tunnels weighs heavily on me.” She hoped Fahroz couldn’t hear the lie in her voice. “I can barely breathe from the weight of it. Please, I wish to be in clean air. Take me outside.”
“You shouldn’t go—”
“You will lead me from this mountain!”
They walked in silence for several paces, but finally Fahroz nodded. “Ushai will escort you. When you feel well enough, come inside and warm yourself.”
Fahroz and one of the women stopped. There was a bit of silence as, perhaps, they watched Atiana continue on with Ushai, and then she heard their footsteps receding.
The village was a labyrinth of maddening proportions. Every time Atiana thought she recognized a hallway, a room, a stair, she turned out to be wrong. When they finally reached the main gates and stepped outside into the valley that housed the entrance to the village, she released a breath of air she hadn’t realized had been pent up.
The sun was setting in the west, spreading golden light across the top of the valley’s ridge. In the stone-lined court that lay at the foot of the entrance’s stairs, a fountain bubbled. Several women stood in the water, chatting and washing clothes while their children played stones near its base. As was true for most Aramahn villages, several buildings were positioned near the entrance: a granary, a mill, several large animal pens, and the place Atiana needed the most, the stables.
“Might I walk for a time? Alone?” Atiana asked.
Ushai was not much older than Atiana. She stared at Atiana severely. Finally, she nodded and moved to the fountain and began scolding one of the children in Mahndi.
Atiana strolled around the fountain, holding the blanket tight around her frame. She was still chilled to the bone, and what she was about to do brought her no comfort in that regard. The ride to Radiskoye was going to be long and miserable.
And dangerous.
She had no choice, though. There was no way to warn them other than to ride there. So ride she would, setting sun be damned.
She bided her time, acting as if her walk was aimless. Finally Ushai began talking with the other women, and Atiana knew it was time. She made her way toward the stables, and when she reached it, she stayed a while—becoming, she hoped, part of the background.
When she thought it was safe, she ducked inside.
She had chosen her pony well. It attacked the inclining slope not with impressive pace but with a steadfastness that would hopefully get her to the palotza in time. She felt her stomach flutter as she glanced at the western sky. Little light remained, and that would be gone in less than an hour.
Now that she was out of the valley, and pursuit was hopefully far behind, she pulled the pony to a stop. She gripped her soulstone and tried desperately to reach Saphia. She felt nothing in return.
Her pony shivered her mane and stomped her forehooves.
“Be good”—Atiana patted the pony’s neck soothingly—“and take me home.”
And then she kicked her into a full gallop.
She rode like she had never ridden before. She rode until the night had robbed the western sky of all but an indigo swath. She was forced to slow to a trot, the stars giving barely enough light to keep her on the trail. She urged the pony into a faster pace as the moon rose in the cloudless sky. Her stomach churned as she came closer. She was sure she would arrive too late.
She crested the ridge running the full length of the island. She would be only an hour or more away now. She reached the spur in the road that led to the eyrie, then Volgorod itself, and still she rode, her pony’s breath coming hard and heavy.
By the time she reached the road leading up to Radiskoye, she saw it. She slowed her frantic pace, tears coming to her eyes.
By her ancestors, she was too late.
A fire rose in Radiskoye, tainting the clouds high above a tender shade of yellow.
CHAPTER 33
Nikandr returned to the cells deep beneath Radiskoye. He had taken a healthy amount of elixir before he’d come. He felt lightheaded because of it, as if he’d downed a mouthful of vodka.
He found Nasim staring at him as he entered. He had no doubt that it was due to the elixir, but he still felt watched and somehow vulnerable. He had never come to Nasim with ill intent. He’d only wanted to discover his nature—to find how, and to what degree, he’d been involved with the summoning of the suurahezhan. This time was different, and he found his heart beating at what he and Mother were about to do.
“Are you here, Nasim?”
Nasim stared at Nikandr as he moved into the room and took a chair at the table.
Nikandr pulled the necklace over his head and set it on the table, the heavy chain coming to rest with a sound like jingling coins.“Can you sense it?” He pushed the stone toward Nasim. “Do you remember what you did to me? Do you remember allowing the hezhan inside me?” Nikandr had thought on this much. The hezhan near the lake. His shared bond with Nasim must have allowed it. But perhaps it hadn’t merely been the bond. Perhaps Nasim had compelled it.
Nasim, as if in a daze, drew his eyes closed and opened them again. He swallowed and stared at the dead stone as if he were about to cry.
“Tell me about it, Nasim. Why did you do it?”
“The gap narrows.” Nasim’s voice was hoarse, and it came out so suddenly that it startled Nikandr.
“What gap, Nasim?”
“The gap within me. Within you.”
“I don’t understand.”
The look on Nasim’s face was one of profound misery, and when he turned and looked at Nikandr it was as if he were pleading with Nikandr to make it stop. “It hurts.”
Nikandr kneeled. “I know.” He pulled Nasim into an embrace. “I know, Nasim.” He rocked him, hoping to ease the life of a boy whose world was a living agony.
“It will soon close if we are not careful.”
“What will close? The gap?”
Nikandr felt Nasim nod. And then the boy stiffened, and a keening moan escaped him. Nasim always suffered in silence, so this took Nikandr by surprise. Nasim’s eyes were opened wide and he stared up with a look of wild fear. “They are coming.”
The hair on Nikandr’s arms stood on end. His breath sounded loud in his ears. “Who is coming?”
Nasim arched back and screamed. He tilted his head up toward the ceiling and threw his arms wide. His entire body shook, and Nikandr knew Mother had just assumed him.
He stood and grasped his blackened soulstone. “Mother, nyet! Please, let him go!”
Nasim fell to the floor, shaking, eyes clenched shut and neck muscles taut. The skin along his face and neck was blue.
Nikandr dashed from the room. Had he been able to reach the drowning chamber in time, he would have gone there, but he went instead to the only other place he thought could provide help.
The strelet at Ashan’s door opened it for Nikandr as he approached. Ashan was already near the door, a look of worry on his face.
“Bring him,” Nikandr said to the strelet.
The three of them raced down the hall. The moment they entered Nasim’s room, Nikandr lost his footing. He felt Ashan fall on top of him as piercing cracks rent the air like a series of musket shots going off in tight sequence. The floor shook. It felt as if the walls were about to buckle.
Nikandr stared in horror, wondering how this could be.
A great wedge of stone crashed into th
e corner bookcase, sending splintered wood and books about the room. The ground shook for a moment more, and then, blessedly, all was still except for a fine sifting of dust that was pattering to the floor near the corner.
Nikandr made it to his feet, surveying the damage. On the far side of the room, a gap wider than his fist ran from floor to ceiling. He and Ashan moved to Nasim, who was unconscious.
Nikandr heard footsteps coming from down the hall.
“Lord Khalakovo!” It was the strelet’s voice.
There was a pause, then a scuffle.
“Halt!”
Gunfire erupted. Two men cried out. There was silence for a moment, and then Nikandr heard a man draw in several wet, halting breaths. One final shot filled the air, and then the footsteps of many men approached.
“Who comes?” Nikandr said, getting to his feet. He hadn’t so much as a knife to defend himself, so he stood there, waiting, but all he heard were the sounds of men reloading their guns.
Then a man stepped into the open doorway, and for a moment Nikandr couldn’t believe his eyes.
It was Borund.
And he was aiming a pistol at Nikandr’s chest.
CHAPTER 34
Borund wore a thick cherkesska, the type one would wear on a long journey, and his cheeks were flushed as if he’d been in the elements.
Nikandr stared at the pistol, realizing he had come for Nasim. “Never did I think to see this day.”
“Then you’re as blind as your father.” He pointed to Nasim with his pistol. “You should have given him to us the day you found him.”
The Winds of Khalakovo Page 27