The Winds of Khalakovo

by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “And Nasim?”

  Soroush shook his head. “We nearly had him, but he escaped with Ashan. Your Prince left in a ship shortly after to chase him down.”

  “He is not my Prince.”

  “As you say.”

  “Will you have them followed?”

  He considered for a time, his chest rising and falling. “I don’t think it will be necessary. Ashan goes to Ghayavand, and if the fates are kind, he will return here with Nasim.”

  “What makes you think he won’t run?”

  “Because Ashan cares too much. If he can unlock Nasim’s secrets, he will return to close the rift. And if that happens, those secrets will be unlocked for us as well.”

  “And if we don’t find him?”

  “Then the fates have chosen our course. Now tell me”—he turned his head with obvious discomfort—“for I cannot think of an answer that will appease Bersuq. Why did you take the woman?”

  “She is Princess Atiana Vostroma. Nikandr’s bride.”

  Soroush smiled, and then laughed. “And you saved her?”

  “I didn’t know if she had been followed. She saw little enough that the Landed didn’t already know. It seemed unwise to beg the entire Duchy of Vostroma—not to mention Khalakovo—to come hunting after us.”

  He stared into her eyes, considering her words, but then he relaxed into the roll beneath his neck. “There have been times when I’ve thought the fates were set against us, but then something like this happens, and it renews my faith.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Open the satchel there.”

  He motioned to the other side of the fire, where Bersuq had been sitting. She upended the soft leather satchel, and three stones poured out onto the woolen blanket: jasper, alabaster, and tourmaline. The jasper must have come from the beach when the vanahezhan had been summoned, and the tourmaline, of course, she had liberated herself. She stared at the stone of alabaster, stopping just short of touching it. She knew from Soroush that this had been liberated when the havahezhan had been summoned. It had been the one to attack Nikandr.

  Soroush was watching her carefully. “I have been blessed, I think, to be with Nasim for as long as I have. He did not mean to, but he taught me many things. It is because of him that I can sense the rifts, the places where the hezhan can cross. It is because of him that I know of the stones. And I’ve also been able to sense, starting with young Khalakovo on his ship, those souls that are brightest, that will attract the hezhan. We have known that the Landed are aligned with the hezhan, as we are. What we didn’t know was how hungry the hezhan would be for them. Nikandr. Stasa Bolgravya. The babe taken by the wasting. And now Atiana Vostroma.”

  Rehada’s head jerked back. “Atiana?”

  “She is of water. Azurite. It is she that will bring the fourth stone to us.”

  “But how?”

  “By drowning her, Rehada. There is one place on the island where the veil is so thin that her death is all it will take.”

  Rehada felt the blood drain from her face. The look in his eyes as he stared at the stone above him was one of satisfaction, of something akin to smugness. He believed that the fates had shined on them, but also that this was her reward for taking Atiana without his leave.

  “Where must I bring her?”

  “To the lake in Iramanshah.”

  CHAPTER 37

  As the door to her cell opened, Atiana remained seated at the lone table. She was expecting her noon meal. She hadn’t been spoken to by anyone from the Khalakovo family since she’d been placed here—only guardsmen bearing food and clearing her chamber pots and providing water and the occasional clean dress to wear—so she expected nothing but more of the same. A strelet did enter—the serious one she saw most often—but he merely bowed his head and stepped to one side, allowing Yvanna Khalakovo to stride in with a silver tray.

  As the strelet closed the door, Yvanna set the tray down and sat across from Atiana. The lids of her eyes were heavy. She seemed unable to focus, but then she seemed to remember who and where she was, and she motioned to the tray, almost angrily. “You must be hungry.”

  The tray held a plate covered by a polished silver dome, ornate utensils, and a carafe of white wine sitting next to an empty wine glass. The scent of roasted goat and onion and garlic was heavy in the air. Atiana was not merely hungry—she was ravenous—but she refused to show it in front of Yvanna, so she stood instead and moved to her bed.

  “What is it you want?” Atiana asked.

  Yvanna took a deep breath, seeming to gain a bit of vitality as she did so. “I need to speak to you of the dark.”

  “What of it?”

  “You know of the boy, Nasim? The one who—”

  “Of course I know of him.”

  “Of course—of course you do. Did you ever see him?”

  She meant in the aether, but Atiana had not seen him long before Mother and the other Matri had pulled her away, so she shook her head, confused over why Yvanna would ask.

  “I need the truth.”

  “I saw him, but only for a few moments, just before Saphia tried to assume him.”

  If Yvanna was concerned by Atiana’s knowledge of the forbidden practice, she didn’t show it. “He is... He is powerful, Atiana. More powerful than any of us could have guessed.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft, as if she feared being overheard. “Mother did try to assume him. He stood against her and won. She’s been unconscious since.”

  “Her need must have been great to take such a risk.”

  “The Matra wanted some sense of what he was about, whether he had anything to do with the summoning of the suurahezhan.”

  “How is she now?”

  “She has not woken since the night of the betrayal.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it?”

  One eyebrow on Yvanna’s elegant face rose. “What would you call it?”

  So deep was her shame over what her father had done that Atiana could not respond.

  Yvanna’s anger drained away, and she suddenly became reluctant to meet Atiana’s eyes. “She grows weaker every day. My difficulties with the dark continue, and I would ask...” Yvanna licked her lips. “I would ask for you to take the dark, to see if you might help.”

  Atiana tilted her head. “Victania is trained in the dark, is she not?”

  Yvanna did meet Atiana’s eyes then. There was no anger, only resignation. “She is no longer able to.” She smoothed the tablecloth absently. “Perhaps from the wasting. Perhaps from the storms over Khalakovo. No matter what she does, she wakes within minutes of slipping under.”

  “Is it the same for you?”

  “Nyet. I can no longer enter. Victania has the potential to be as strong as Saphia, but she tries too hard. The aether has come to mistrust her, or she mistrusts it, and she overcompensates.”

  “And you wish me to help?”

  “She was to be your mother.”

  “She is head of the family that is holding me hostage.”

  “You are a member of a sisterhood. You cannot turn your back on it now.”

  “A rather convenient perspective, don’t you think? The Grand Duchy has been split, and here I stand with one leg on either side. What I do here might tip the conflict in your favor.”

  “You are thinking like the men.”

  “I sit here because of the men.”

  “It is a baseless conflict.”

  “Yvanna, come. When has reason ever stood in the way of politics?”

  “My mother needs you.”

  Atiana paused, remembering the way Saphia had spoken to her. She had not been kind, but neither had she been harsh. She had been matter-of-fact, and that was something to be valued among the halls of the Duchies.

  “If you need it,” Atiana said at last, “I will try.”

  Yvanna stood, a grateful smile on her face. “Then come.”

  They were heading for the door when the strelet unlocked it. Victania s
trode in, her face a picture of rage. As she stared at Atiana and Yvanna, she seemed to gather strength, like an approaching storm cloud before it unleashes its fury. “You would come to her for help?”

  “We need her, Victania.”

  “We need many things, Yvanna, but a forgotten Vostroman whelp isn’t one of them.”

  “Would you abandon your mother to her fate?”

  “Leave us, Yvanna.”

  Yvanna stood, pulling herself to her full height, which was still a half-head shorter than Victania.

  Victania stabbed her finger toward the door. “I said leave us!”

  Yvanna glanced at Atiana, a brief look of apology on her face, and then she strode from the room.

  “I would help your mother if I could,” Atiana said.

  “You are deranged,” Victania said as she stepped forward, “if you think I would let you near my mother. It is because of your family that she is ill.”

  Atiana met her, refusing to be cowed. “It is because of her presumption. Nasim is no rook to be assumed as she will.”

  Victania’s hand lashed out and struck Atiana across one cheek. Her cheek flared white with pain as her head snapped to one side.

  “Do not think to judge my mother,” Victania said.

  Atiana’s chest heaved as she fought down her anger. She nearly raised her fist, but thought better of it—it was the very thing Victania was hoping for. Instead, she sat at the table, ignoring Victania as she began eating the food from her tray. She refused to meet Victania’s gaze, so she couldn’t judge her reaction, but she could sense the tightness in Victania’s stance, could hear the rapid pace of her breathing.

  She thought it a small victory, but when Victania strode from the room, her footsteps echoed down the hallway in sharp, satisfied strokes, making Atiana feel small and defeated.

  Two days passed. The routine of the previous days resumed: meals and water brought only by the guardsmen. She nearly asked them to speak to Yvanna, but decided against it, wagering that Victania had left strict orders to be informed of any such overture.

  Late on the third night, Atiana heard the door to her cell being opened. She woke, groggy, to find Yvanna standing at the door.

  “The Matra?” Atiana asked.

  Yvanna nodded. “She is gravely ill. Please, if you care for her at all, you will come.”

  “What of Victania?”

  “She hasn’t slept properly in weeks, but she sleeps now. We won’t be disturbed.”

  “Then I will come.” She dressed and together they moved quickly and quietly down the hall. The strelet and the gaoler were gone, and Atiana asked no questions. “What can I do?” she asked as they took the stairs up.

  “Be quiet,” Yvanna whispered.

  Yvanna stopped at a landing and pressed something behind a marble statue of a rearing horse. The wall behind it swung inward, and soon they were taking one of the tunnels that threaded its way through the interior of Radiskoye. They continued and took a steep set of stairs downward, and then another set upward before Yvanna spoke again.

  “Her breathing is shallow. There are times when she moans and we think she’s ready to wake, but she does not. Each time, she returns to her slumber, weaker than before. I fear she will live only a day or two more if this continues.”

  “And you believe the solution to this lies in the aether?”

  “It must be so. I have tried to take the dark, but each time it becomes more painful, and I see little or nothing. Victania managed to take the dark for nearly an hour, but she was unable to find her.”

  “What do you mean, unable to find her?”

  “That is all she said.”

  They reached a fork, where Yvanna turned left. The draft in the tunnel became markedly stronger, chilling Atiana’s skin. The tunnel here was cut directly from the rock, the smooth whorls in the stone indicative of an Aramahn mason’s hand.

  “Has there been news from my father?” Atiana asked.

  “Little. With no Matra, negotiations have been slow, but the Lord Duke has spoken with your father.”

  “Has he asked of me?”

  “I don’t know—My Lord Father has not deigned to share it with me—but do not worry. As long as the blockade continues and we aren’t attacked, I imagine your release becomes more and more a likelihood.”

  Atiana had resigned herself to living here on Khalakovo as Nikandr’s bride, but these last few days had been an entirely different matter. She felt abandoned. Forgotten. Betrayed. Not by Father, but by Ishkyna and Mileva.

  She had thought long and hard on how such a thing could have happened, and the only answer was that they had told Father that all was well, that Atiana would be safely away with the rest of the family.

  Yvanna stopped suddenly.

  “What is it?”

  “Be quiet!” Yvanna whispered.

  Far ahead, a dim light shone in the tunnel. Yvanna waited, perhaps wondering—as Atiana was—who was coming to meet them.

  Atiana took a step back, preparing to flee.

  “Stay where you are,” Yvanna said. “It’s only Olgana.”

  The pace at which the light was approaching quickened, and a voice filtered up to them. “Lady Yvanna, please come quickly!”

  Yvanna rushed down the hallway, perhaps feeling the same sense of dread that was building within Atiana. Olgana’s face became visible as they approached. She looked like she feared for her life... Or someone else’s...

  “What is it, Olgana?”

  She swallowed hard, her chest heaving like an overworked bellows. “It’s the Matra, Yvanna. I think she’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 38

  “Dead?” Yvanna asked.

  “Please, hurry!”

  They rushed down the tunnel, practically running. They took the slope as fast as they could handle, and several times on their harrowing run Atiana nearly tripped. When they came at last to the end, the tunnel opened up into a long hallway—impossibly tall and intricately decorated by Aramahn hands. They stepped out from behind a statue of a stout man wearing a thick coat and cloak, but they did not pause to close it. They continued down a hall with several shorter spurs diverting from it. Among each of these were glowing stones set into ornate marble plaques. They had come to Radiskoye’s mausoleum, where the soulstones of those dead but not forgotten were mounted.

  They hurried to the end, where two large doors lay open. They were into the stairwell that lay deep beneath the spire and into the drowning chamber moments later. Far across the room lay a bed, and in it—illuminated dimly by the fire in the hearth—was the Matra.

  They reached her side, all of them breathing heavily. Olgana moved to the other side of the bed and stroked the Matra’s hair as Yvanna put two fingers to the pulse point of her neck. Yvanna closed her eyes and waited. Long moments passed, certainly long enough for Yvanna to discover the truth of the matter. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she opened her eyes. She sniffed several times, composing herself before speaking. “The Matra is dead.”

  Olgana opened the Matra’s robe and pulled from its recesses her soulstone. Yvanna gasped. The chalcedony stone was dark. Saphia’s had always been brilliant, brighter than any Atiana had seen, including her own mother, who had been treading the aether nearly as long as Saphia had. But there had been the briefest of flashes when Olgana had touched the setting.

  Yvanna seemed not to notice, however. “It cannot be...”

  “The stone,” Atiana said breathlessly. “Did you not see it?”

  “See what?”

  “When first you touched it, it glowed, however briefly.” Atiana stepped closer, opening her mind to the aether, as she supposed Saphia did while she was outside of the drowning basin. She passed her hands over the gem, feeling nothing at first, but when her fingers brushed its surface, she felt the cool touch against her skin, like a ripple in an underground lake.

  “I see nothing,” Yvanna stated flatly.

  “It is there.” Atiana still had the stone, and she was
trying desperately to keep her mind open for any small sign, but the harder she tried, the more numb and clumsy her senses seemed to become. “And there will be more to see in the aether.”

  Olgana looked to Yvanna, who looked nervously down at Saphia. She seemed ready to send Atiana back to her cell, perhaps afraid of what it might mean if Atiana were caught, Yvanna having freed her.

  But then she looked up to Atiana, perhaps realizing how vulnerable all of them were. She needed Atiana, and she knew it. After taking a deep breath, she nodded to Olgana in response.

  Atiana moved to the drowning basin and undressed as Olgana prepared the jar of goat fat. Atiana was rubbed down hastily but efficiently, and then Olgana moved to the lever that allowed the chill mountain water into the sluice.

  Water crept up the sides of the drowning basin while Atiana took deep, measured breaths. She had nearly resigned herself to the fact that she wouldn’t be taking the dark, and now that she found herself here, about to do just that, she felt unprepared, unbalanced. But there was nothing for it.

  When it was high enough, she stepped into the bone-chilling water and lay down before her fears had a chance to take hold. Olgana inserted the breathing tube. Atiana stared into Olgana’s eyes, hoping she hadn’t promised too much. But Olgana seemed to understand, for she leaned over and kissed the crown of her head, and then lowered Atiana into the water.

  “May your ancestors keep you,” were the last words she heard before she was underwater.

  She had difficulty at first—her mind was running wild with possibilities, with fears and emotions—but she focused on her breath, on the expansion and contraction of her ribs, the elongation of her spine, and the way the water cradled her.

  And soon... Soon...

  She wakes in the impenetrable darkness of the aether. Unlike the previous times, she sees little—faint overtones of midnight blue, nothing more. Slowly, as she allows herself to fall deeper, the colors coalesce: the handservant standing over the basin; the Matra herself, lying in her bed; the fire in the nearby hearth, which glows not yellow and orange but a deep, deep red.