“Ashan asked to be taken to the Vale of Stars.”
“The what?”
“One of the places of power here in the desert. A place where the mindful can learn much about themselves and the world.”
“Wouldn’t they want Ashan here?”
Ushai shrugged. “They wished to begin taking breath as soon as they were able, though in truth I think it was to shelter Sukharam.”
“From what?”
“From the Kohori. He has many of Nasim’s qualities, and for the time being, Ashan thought it best if Soroush and Nikandr sized up our hosts.”
“But you don’t agree.”
Ushai turned to Atiana and stared at her with placid eyes. “What does my opinion matter to anyone here?”
Nikandr was just finishing up their tale, telling the elders of their ride through the night. That was when Nikandr had learned of Atiana’s attempt at scrying, her attempt at using the secrets of the wodjan to reach the aether. He went on to relay just how closely the janissaries had come to catching them. Praise to the ancients for seeing fit they’d only lost one ab-sair during that ride. What sobered Atiana more than the rest of the tale, however, was the very end. He described how the warriors of Kohor had risen from the desert itself and struck the janissaries with a flight of arrows and driven them away.
These people were not afraid of death, nor were they afraid to deal it. And Atiana would be wise to remember that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Atiana knelt on a pillow near the round table they used for meals. Before her were dates and pistachios and olives and a soft, sour goat cheese whose taste reminded her of walking through the fields below Galostina during the summers of her youth. And when she spread the cheese on the warm flatbread and tasted it, she was reminded of those times when she would pull stalks of grass to chew on the sweet white ends. There was wine as well, a fruity red that felt unfinished on her palate, and too spicy by far, but she couldn’t deny that the sour-sweet taste of currants went well with the rest of the meal.
Nikandr knelt by her side, and Soroush sat across the table, while Vashti, the ancient woman who had helped Atiana after she’d woken, shuffled about the room, setting their table and clearing it when they were done. Atiana had tried to help her the first day, but Vashti had waved her away, shouting in Kalhani and pointing to the pillows when Atiana had tried to take away the plate of spiced flatbread she held in her hands. Vashti seemed a kindly old woman most times, but not when her blood was up—then she was a terror, and she held a grudge, scowling for hours afterward and snapping her fingers when she thought Atiana was moving too slowly or when she spoke out of turn.
Ushai was out in the desert, taking breath, a thing she’d taken to doing for many hours of each day. This place spoke to her, she said, in ways she’d never felt before. She’d been born here, but she and Soroush had still taken to wondering openly whether she’d lived past lives in this place. How else to explain such strong echoes, as she called them, of a place that had seen her leave mere months after her birth?
They’d been in Kohor for over a week, and they hadn’t been allowed to speak to the elders of the village again. Not since that first day had they seen the bulk of the Kohori. Since then, life had gone on, however tensely. Atiana heard them tending to the goats, saw them walking here and there about the village, but no one had come to speak to them again, and all attempts to speak to the elders had been met with requests to remain in the house they’d been given and to wait to be summoned.
Ashan and Sukharam were the exception. Both had been gone nearly the entire time since they’d arrived. They hadn’t seen Sukharam at all, but Ashan had returned twice, and both times it had been for only a few minutes.
“Where have you been?” Nikandr had asked on his first visit.
“With the elders,” Ashan had replied, rummaging through his things until he’d found a small, leather-bound journal.
“Do they know anything of Nasim or Kaleh? Where they’ve gone?”
“I suspect they do,” he’d said while walking toward the open doorway, “but they won’t speak of it. Not yet. Not until they’ve come to trust us.”
“And how long will that take?” Nikandr had called to his retreating form.
Ashan had stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Who can tell?”
He’d returned three days later, stopping only to tell them that he was making progress, that he believed the elders would soon tell him more. They were speaking at length with Sukharam, which pleased Nikandr not at all.
“We need to speak with them,” Nikandr had said sternly.
“Give them time,” Ashan had replied.
“We’ve been here for six days and all we’ve done is wait.”
“We’ve come this far, Nikandr, and we’ve learned much. We know that Kaleh and Nasim both live. We know they passed through this place. And given the confusion of the elders, we can be somewhat sure that Kaleh stole knowledge from these people. Now we need to figure out what. Most likely the elders already know, or at least they suspect, and now they’re deciding whether or not to share it with us. Let them come to know us. Let them come to know our purpose, and soon, they’ll share what they know.”
“How can they know us if they set us aside and refuse to speak with us?”
Ashan had raised one finger, a teacher before all else. “Don’t forget how much you told them on that first day. It gave them much to digest.”
“If Nasim or Kaleh are near, we must go. We must find them.”
“And where would you go?” Ashan had asked. “They will not tell us. Not until they’re ready. And they will not let us leave, not if they think we will betray them or this place.”
Atiana hadn’t understood what he’d meant by betraying this place but the argument had died shortly after and Ashan had been gone since, apparently working with Sukharam or speaking with the elders on his own.
Atiana took some of the bread and dipped it into the spiced sesame oil that set her mouth aflame if she wasn’t careful. She’d found the spice offensive at first, but after Vashti’s urgings to try it with the wine, she’d found that it brought out the flavor in the fruit, and that the oil itself had subtle flavors of primrose and sandalwood.
After seeing to their meal, Vashti shuffled out, leaving them in peace.
“I don’t like this waiting,” Atiana said. “There’s something happening in this place.”
Soroush slathered goat cheese onto a hunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. He looked like he was about to speak, but his words died as he looked over Atiana’s shoulder to the doorway beyond. Atiana turned and found Goeh walking toward their door. No longer was he shirtless. He wore the light kaftan of the Kohori men, making him seem more menacing somehow.
He stopped in the doorway, blocking it with his bulk, and bowed his head. “May I join you?”
Soroush nodded, and Goeh sat cross-legged before their table. He quickly declined, however, when Soroush waved toward the food. “The elders have spoken,” Goeh said after settling himself. “They do not believe what you’ve told them.”
Nikandr’s back stiffened. “It was the truth. All of it.”
Goeh held his hand up. “I believe you, but they do not. They believe…” Goeh paused, pursing his lips, as if searching for the right words. “This is difficult to explain. Your questions woke in Safwah memories she didn’t recall having beforehand. You saw how inquisitive she was with you, and I hope the reason is now clear. You tapped into memories that she now believes were stolen from her when this woman left.”
Atiana shook her head. “The one we look for is twelve, perhaps thirteen.”
Goeh shrugged. “Perhaps she’s the one you’re searching for and perhaps she isn’t, but she had another with her. A quiet young man that fits your description of Nasim.”
“What did he look like? Did she describe him?”
“She did not,” Goeh replied easily, “and she won’t. Not until she’s convinced your i
ntentions are pure.”
“We’ve come to find the Atalayina. We’ve come to find those who can help to save this world.”
Again Goeh raised his hand. “Safwah needs assurances, and she won’t get it from your words alone. Among our people, when there is doubt as to someone’s honesty or faith, there is a ritual we perform. The one in doubt sits in a smokehouse with the elders, and together, they take of tūtūn. Do you know of it?”
Soroush nodded his head. “It’s a special form of tabbaq that makes one … open to suggestion.”
Goeh tilted his head, a half agreement. “Open to suggestion, yeh, but more importantly, open to telling the truth.”
“It forces one to tell the truth,” Soroush countered.
Again Goeh tilted his head. His expression was one of pained regret, as though he felt the characterization of the tabbaq—and so his people—improper. “Truth is a quality we strive for. But there are times when we lie even to ourselves. Is it not so? Tūtūn allows us to find truths, even those that are buried deep within us.”
“And you wish us to take it?” Atiana asked.
Goeh turned to her. “One will suffice.” As he said these words, Atiana knew it wasn’t a matter of them choosing amongst themselves who should go. The Kohori elders had already chosen, and it was clear from Goeh’s dark gaze that they’d chosen her. A chill ran through her at the thought, not because she was afraid of what they would learn about her, but what she would learn about herself.
Before she could answer, Nikandr stepped in. “We won’t do it,” he said. “We’ve not harmed the people of Kohor. The elders should be grateful we’ve come, for ours is a story born of the desert, born of these people. Why should we be paid with suspicion and mistrust?”
“I would not put it so,” Goeh replied evenly, though it was clear from his expression he hadn’t taken kindly to Nikandr’s words.
“Neh?” Nikandr asked. “How would you put it?”
“My people value our history. We are part of this land and it is a part of us. We have not often stepped beyond the boundaries of the Gaji, and the last time we did so in any significant way was the exodus to Ghayavand.” He motioned widely with his hand, indicating the wide basin in which Kohor was centered. “Many left this valley and the world was nearly destroyed because of it. It is a stain upon us, one we are not yet free of, and we will not be distracted from our cause again.”
“And what cause is that?” Nikandr asked.
“Our secrets are our own,” Goeh replied easily.
“You speak from both sides of your mouth, Goeh. You ask us to speak truth—you demand it—and yet you’ll give no answers of your own.”
“It is you that have come to this place asking for our help.”
“We’ll leave, then, if you’ll offer no help to those who are trying to protect you.”
Goeh smiled wanly. “Sadly, leaving is no longer a choice open to you. The Kohori have saved your life thrice now. Each of you owes us much. Too much. So we will have our answers, Nikandr of Khalakovo, whether you agree to it or not.”
Nikandr stood. “Now you threaten us?”
Goeh stood as well. He towered over Nikandr, but Nikandr didn’t move an inch. “We do what we must,” Goeh said.
“Please,” Atiana said, standing as well.
Nikandr raised his palm to her. “Atiana, sit down.”
“I will not,” she said, turning to Goeh. “I will take the tūtūn, Goeh.”
“You will not!” Nikandr said.
“I will!” Atiana replied, her blood running hot now. “What are more questions when we’ve already told them the truth?”
Nikandr’s hands bunched into fists until his forearms shook. “This is intimidation! Coercion. I won’t stand for it!”
“If they asked you more questions, would you not answer them?”
“This is different.”
“Why? Because they’re asking it of me?”
“It is different”—his tone and the set of his jaw made it clear he felt this a deep betrayal on her part—“because they are not asking. They are demanding, and we’ve done nothing to deserve it.”
“I’m going, Nischka, whether you approve of it or not.”
Nikandr’s head reeled back. The hurt was plain in his eyes and on the sun-kissed skin of his face, and suddenly she felt as though the two of them were the only ones in the room. “Is this what we’ve come to?” he asked.
He was right to feel hurt, not because she’d volunteered to take the tūtūn, but because she’d been reticent about speaking to him of what had happened in the hills of the Gaji. She’d performed the rituals of the wodjan, thereby subverting her own beliefs and the teachings of the Matri. And then she’d hidden it from him, refusing to reveal the truth when she knew she should. Even here in Kohor she’d declined to speak of it, for she couldn’t quite find the words. It wasn’t something she was ready to face.
And now she’d agreed to reveal all these secrets to the Kohori, for surely this would come out in the ritual they would perform.
She strode forward until Nikandr was forced to turn toward her, and more importantly turn away from Goeh. She placed a hand on his chest and spoke to him in the same way he had—as though they were the only two there. “I’m sorry, Nischka. I should have told you all. And I will. But let me go with Goeh. We know now that Nasim and Kaleh were here. Let me take us beyond this place so that we can find them, or at the very least the Atalayina. Your pride, my pride, is not what’s important now. What’s important is that we move on, because the more days that go by the more the world slips from our grasp. I can feel it, and I know you can as well. So I will go, and I will put the elders at ease.”
Nikandr stared down into her eyes. He stared deeply, and though there was hurt there, she could see in him the love he’d had for her since she’d arrived on Khalakovo those many years ago. She loved him as well. True, there were divides between them, but they would be bridged—of this she was sure.
Nikandr licked his lips. He glanced up at Soroush and Goeh, and then nodded to Atiana.
“When?” Atiana asked Goeh.
“At sunset.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The walk to the western end of the village felt strange. The Kohori—at least near where they’d been housed for the past seven days—were so often hidden away, but tonight, as the sun neared the mountains far to the west, they stood in doorways, they watched from windows, making Atiana feel as though they were stripping her bare so that by the time she reached her destination, she would be all but defenseless, both physically and mentally.
Goeh led her, weaving among the redbrick homes, passing the tall obelisk in the village circle. Just as the sun slipped behind the mountains, they reached the edge of the village proper and entered the desert itself. Atiana didn’t understand at first where Goeh was taking her. She thought perhaps they would smoke beneath the stars in the immensity of this desert plain, but then she saw it, a hut of some kind, dark and hidden against the backdrop of the dark mountains and the burning copper sky.
The crunching sound of her footsteps against the rocky soil made her feel small and alone and, strangely, more exposed than she’d felt in the village. She didn’t like offering herself up to this sort of questioning. She’d been raised in the halls of power. Not until her time on Khalakovo, when Soroush and Rehada had caused the death of the Grand Duke Stasa Bolgravya, had she felt any slip in the control she’d grown to expect. She’d faced that challenge as well as she could, but she’d wondered in the weeks that followed the Battle of Uyadensk if she was made from the same cloth that others seemed to be made of—like Nikandr, or Nikandr’s mother, Saphia, or even Nikandr’s dead Aramahn lover, Rehada.
Atiana had hated Rehada when she’d first met her, not only because she was Nikandr’s lover, but because she was everything Atiana was not. Open. Daring. Welcoming of whatever the fates had in store for her. For years after leaving Khalakovo, Atiana had had difficulty in trying to do m
ore for Vostroma, more for the Grand Duchy. She’d done what she could, but there had always been something inside her that wanted her to pull back.
That had all changed on Galahesh. She knew the very moment the change had come. When she’d been assumed by Sariya, and when she’d assumed Sariya in return, she’d learned much of what Sariya was like. There were some of the things she’d seen in Rehada: confidence, a calm surety that what she was doing was right, a willingness to not only take what the fates would give her, but to forge her own path. Atiana hadn’t known it at the time, but those moments with Sariya had been a catalyst that had changed Atiana.
It was this, more than anything, that allowed her to set her fears aside and embrace what lay ahead. The memories of the Kohori watching her from their windows and doorways faded. Her feelings of discomfort dwindled until all that remained was an uncomfortable twinge somewhere deep in her stomach. If this was a trap, then so be it, and woe betide the men and women who’d brought it about.
“How many will question me?” she asked Goeh.
Goeh glanced her way. “Does it matter?”
“Does it matter if I know?”
He chuckled, a sound like the earth must make when it laughs. “Four others will question you, Atiana of Anuskaya. Four others, and you will make five. A propitious number. Do not fear over what they will ask of you. It’s best if you let the tūtūn embrace you.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then it will fight you. Believe me when I say that this is a fight you will not win.”
These words didn’t sit well with Atiana, but she kept a steady, trudging pace toward the hut. As they came closer she saw it for what it was—no hut at all, but more of a thicket, a mass of vines wound so tightly that she could barely see the light coming from within, even when she was mere paces away. At first it reminded her of something the Aramahn dhoshaqiram, masters of the spirits of life, might have created, but as Goeh ducked his head and stepped inside, she realized she was wrong. This did not look like it had been made with magic, as many of the wondrous creations of the Aramahn did, but rather as if it had been tended by hand to look just as it did. It lent the simple structure a feeling of acceptance and forbearance that the works of the Aramahn did not have.
The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) Page 22