When she ducked inside, she found a small coal fire at the center of the hut. As Goeh had said, there were four others, all of them women. Safwah was among them, her grey eyes piercing, the golden chains running from her ear to her pierced nose shining under the light of the coals. She seemed every bit as fierce as she’d been in the village. The others were no different. It felt like a tribunal for crimes she hadn’t known she committed—quite the difference from the way Goeh had described it.
There was something reassuring about them, however. They reminded her of the Matri, and in this she found comfort.
After motioning Atiana to sit on a pillow near the fire, Goeh opened a wooden box near the wall. Within was a lumpy substance that looked like decomposed leaves. It smelled that way as well, but when Goeh sprinkled it over the fire, a scent like autumn fires and fresh-cut cedar and vanilla and chestnuts filled the air. The scent was heady. Much of the smoke trailed up and out through the many small holes between the vines, but when Goeh took a folded blanket, and threw it over the outside of the hut, the air became thick with it.
Atiana’s stomach became queasy, and at first she thought she was going to throw up under the critical stares of these old matrons, but the feeling ebbed, and she began to feel wider, and deeper somehow. Her awareness expanded to fill this small space, to fill the space beyond, until she felt as though she were looking down upon this valley, down upon the world.
When she heard words being spoken, she had no idea who had uttered them. She thought at first it was her mother, but she wasn’t here, was she? Mother was home, on Vostroma.
She heard herself answer, though she didn’t even know what had been asked. She knew from her answers that they were asking her of her past, of her life on the islands before she had met Nasim and Sariya and Muqallad. She gave answer after answer, but for the life of her she couldn’t hear them asking the questions. All she heard were unintelligible mumblings that made her chest vibrate.
How long this went on she didn’t know, but eventually she gave them an answer that made her fall into a memory she didn’t remember having. She told them of her ability to touch the aether, and the moment she did, she recalled her time in the hills to the east of Kohor. She’d bled herself. She’d cut her arm and bled onto the censer away from the others so that she could try to enter the aether as she’d done when fleeing Andakhara.
It was an embarrassment, what she’d done, a betrayal of the Matri and their ways, but she’d already touched the aether once, and they’d been cut off from Ishkyna and Mileva for so long. She had to learn more.
Kneeling over the smell of her own burning blood, she’d felt herself fall into the aether as she had so many times in the drowning chamber of Palotza Galostina. It had startled her, but once she was there, she felt perfectly at ease. Her only fear was that she would be drawn back too soon.
She cast herself outward, searching for the other Matri, and eventually she’d felt the first tentative touch of another. It was Ishkyna, and she felt stronger than Atiana would have guessed.
What are you doing, sister? Ishkyna asked. She was surprised. More than surprised.
Atiana opened her mind to the memories of the wodjan. This was no easy thing. Most Matri could not share memories in this way, even those that had known one another for years, even decades. Most could only share emotions and speak with one another as they would when together. Others, like Grigory’s mother, Alesya, could assume another and rifle through their thoughts and memories, but such a thing was a grave insult, and it was a vulgar tool, a bludgeon. Something like this—an exchange of one’s own experiences—was an intricate thing and a difficult balancing act to maintain. Any slip on either Matra’s part and they might be thrown from the aether, unable to reenter for days or even weeks. But such was Ishkyna’s skill, and their familiarity with one another, that they could do this now without much thought.
Ishkyna’s driving emotion was for a long time simple shock.
Bloodletting, Tiana?
It is a path to the aether. Another path. And with you gone for so long, I felt it—
Dear sister, Ishkyna snapped. Have you ever considered it might give her power over you?
Atiana paused. She hadn’t. She’d never considered it might grant the wodjan some hidden power. I sensed nothing, she said lamely.
And how would you know what to look for?
She wouldn’t. How could she? I had to reach you, Ishkyna.
This is a perversion, Tiana! And it’s dangerous. You mustn’t do it again. Promise me.
You know me well enough to know that it would be a lie.
Ishkyna paused. Then promise me you’ll consider what I’ve said.
I will, sister, but tell me what news. They might have tried to do the same thing Ishkyna had just done, but this was no simple thing. Ishkyna no longer had a living body to return to. She had no anchor. She wandered the aether like the currents of the great wide sea, spreading herself wide and thin, or sometimes narrow and fierce. Were Atiana to try to sift through Ishkyna’s memories, her awareness would likely be drawn over an area so wide she might never recover.
The war continues, but Yrstanla has brought more to bear. They’ve pulled their troops from the west, Tiana. Nearly all of them so they can focus our efforts on us.
But the Haelish.
Da. The Haelish. They’ve made amends, it seems, and no thanks to your precious Nischka.
What could Nikandr have had to do with that?
You should ask him that very thing. Despite Leonid’s orders, Ranos sent ships to Hael to treat with them. And what came of it? A front reinvigorated with not only men, but purpose. The war with Hael was a long-standing thing, a thing the Kamarisi and his Kaymakam had long grown weary of. But this? The war with the Grand Duchy? With Bahett guiding the hand of Hakan’s young son, he has come with vengeance and a will to retake his homeland, and the Kaymakam are following him, perhaps even more than they’d followed Hakan. Already they’ve pushed us back a hundred leagues, fully half of the territory Leonid had taken.
A sizzle within the hut pulled Atiana back from these memories. More tūtūn was being thrown onto the fire, but she couldn’t tell who was doing it. The hut was dark, but more than this, she couldn’t focus her eyes. She saw little more than an orange glow reflecting against the sweat-lined skin of an old woman. The image swam before her, and her eyes fluttered closed as she heard them asking her about Sariya, about their time together on Galahesh in the city of Vihrosh. She heard herself speak more clearly than her memories felt to her, but she recalled the pain of her deeds. She watched Sihaş die, taken by the ravenous akhoz. Her stomach twisted painfully at the vision of her own hand pulling the khanjar across Irkadiy’s throat. Kind Irkadiy. Watchful Irkadiy. Dear ancients, forgive me for what I’ve done.
The matrons of Kohor asked her about these deaths, but they focused closely on the point at which Kaleh had taken Atiana’s hand, for it was then that she had fallen to Sariya’s will. They asked her of those moments, both before and after, over and over until it felt like a chant, a ritual she was performing for these women.
Why were they so interested in Sariya?
She didn’t know, and soon she slipped back to her memories of Ishkyna.
There’s more, Ishkyna had said.
Her tone had been serious and grave.
What’s happened? Atiana had asked.
It’s mother. She’s been taking to the drowning basin more often, and staying longer than she aught. For days at a time she goes now, refusing to allow Mileva to spell her.
She misses father, Atiana said.
Ishkyna did not reply. They both knew it was true. She had never been a strong woman, and with father gone, she had fallen into darker and darker moods. Borund had returned from Khalakovo to take up the mantle of duke, but much of his time was spent on Galahesh and sometimes Oramka, seeing to the affairs of the war. When she was out of the drowning basin, Mileva was often in it, and Atiana was in the wastes of the Ga
ji, lost to her.
And Ishkyna… Well, she and Mother had never had a strong relationship to begin with, and Atiana knew that the few times Ishkyna had tried to console Mother in the aether, Mother had sent her away, sometimes forcibly.
If you were home, it would do her well, Ishkyna said.
We are hunting for Kaleh. For the Atalayina.
They will return to Ghayavand, Tiana. Borund has offered to send ships there to set up an outpost.
Kaleh is here somewhere. You said so yourself.
I said I felt her, but that was just after the Spar was broken. She could be anywhere now. You know this.
There are things we can learn.
Be that as it may, Mother could use your presence in the basin. So could Mileva. There are troubled times ahead, and I no longer think it wise to risk you and Nikandr and the others over a girl whose trail, even if found, is months old. Come back to Vostroma, Atiana. Let’s meet the confrontation that’s staring us in the face and prepare for Kaleh’s return to Ghayavand. For she will come. You know this as well as I. We must be ready when she does.
Atiana was struck by her sister’s words, for she was using the exact same argument Atiana had used against Nikandr when he’d gone to Rafsuhan. Nikandr had remained despite her pleas, and she’d been furious with him for it. Was Ishkyna in the right? Should she abandon this and return to her family?
There was sense in what Ishkyna was saying. They risked much by continuing on this path, especially considering how closed the people of Kohor were and how tightly they held their secrets. And her mother did need her. Atiana had known that when she left Vostroma, but things had clearly become worse.
She nearly told Ishkyna that she would speak to Nikandr, that the two of them would return to the islands. She felt the words ready to spill from her, but then she realized just how forcefully and suddenly the notion had come to her, and a sudden rage built within her, like oil thrown onto a smoldering fire.
Atiana shoved her away, and like morning fog beneath the rising sun, Atiana’s mind cleared. You would manipulate me? Your own sister?
To Atiana’s surprise, Ishkyna didn’t seem chagrined, but instead cross that she’d been rebuffed. Sometimes people need manipulating, Tiana.
How many others have you done this to, Ishkyna?
Ishkyna remained obstinately silent.
Dear ancients, you consider this acceptable?
And now, finally, there was some sense that Ishkyna was embarrassed.
Go, Atiana said. Tell Mother we’re close to Kohor and that we’ll return when we’re able.
I’ll tell her nothing. Any mention of you will only serve to remind her that you’re gone. Think on what I’ve said, Atiana.
These memories faded with the feeling of cool air on her skin. The smoke in the hut was beginning to clear, but this did nothing to clear the haze over Atiana’s mind. She floated for hours longer. She felt herself falling, but her head did not strike the ground. Someone loomed over her. The elder, Safwah. She smiled—or was it a grimace? Her teeth looked like tombstones, her mouth like an open grave. Atiana wanted to thrust her away, but she hadn’t the strength to do so.
“Sleep,” Safwah said.
She’d said it in Mahndi, and it made Atiana wonder whether she knew that language well. Perhaps she did and she’d hidden it from Atiana. Or perhaps she knew only a handful of words.
The roof of the hut, a winding knot of thick vines, distorted and contorted above her. She heard more words, the women speaking in some foreign tongue. Or perhaps it was Mahndi after all—she could no longer tell—she only knew the tone of their voices had risen in pitch, had taken on an urgency that hadn’t been present during the questioning. She knew not of what they spoke, but she knew this: whatever she’d told them, whatever they’d gleaned, it had made them nervous.
And that, it seemed to Atiana, was cause for great concern.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Styophan stood before the grand yurt, the largest of Clan Eidihla’s and nearly as large as King Brechan’s. Two of Queen Elean’s guards stood beside him, but neither had so much as touched him on the walk from the yurt where he’d spent the night with Rodion and Edik and Galeb. Anahid had been led to a different place. For her own good, Datha had told her the night before, after it had been confirmed that Bahett had escaped with many of his guardsmen.
Styophan could hear voices from inside the yurt, but they were low enough that he could make out only a handful of words. They were speaking in Haelish, of course, so even if they were closer, it would do him little good.
After drawing in a deep breath and smelling the unique tabbaq the Haelish favored, Styophan released it white upon the wind. The day was bitterly cold, the coldest of the young winter. The inland weather was nothing like what they saw on the islands in the depths of winter’s chill, but still it seeped beneath his cherkesska, it snuck through his thick leather soles and chilled his feet, and it served to remind him of just how far away from home he was.
He stared up at the arched doorway, where a complex arrangement of deer antlers was hung.
What am I doing here, Roza, when I should be home with you?
His mission here had not seemed foolish when he’d been given it by Duke Ranos, but it seemed foolish now. Nearly all of his men dead. Four of the five ships he’d been granted gone, perhaps the fifth one as well. Two of his men murdered heartlessly for the rituals of these heathens. And why? So that the Haelish could draw attention from the war to the east? He’d rather be leading his men against the endless ranks of janissaries along the coast of Yrstanla, not treating with the fickle kings and queens of a land he cared nothing about.
The leather flaps at the entrance parted. A woman Styophan’s age—no more than thirty years old—stood there watching him with dark eyes. She wore the bracelets of a wodjan. Dozens of golden bands ran the length of her forearm, twisting like snakes as she beckoned him. Styophan couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been one of the ones to take a knife to Vyagos or Oleg. Had she stood above them and watched while they screamed? Had she pulled his steaming entrails out and laid them out over the ground? He didn’t know the answers, but it didn’t lessen the urge to gouge her eyes from her head.
See if you can look into the future then.
Had he known for certain, he would have taken her down then and there and strangled the life from her, no matter that the queens had summoned him. But damn him, he didn’t know, and so again he could do nothing.
The wodjan’s eyes pinched as she beckoned again. Styophan stepped inside and onto the animal skin floor of the yurt. He backed away from the wodjan as soon as he was able, if only to keep his emotions in check. The guards did not follow. For now, he’d be alone with those gathered within, which appeared to be seven queens and a handful of wodjana who stood behind them like a murder of gallows crows.
The queens were kneeling around a brazier that held a low-burning fire. “Please,” Elean said in Yrstanlan, motioning to the empty space opposite her.
Styophan complied, glancing at each of the queens in turn. Each wore a crown made from braided wood with emeralds and rubies worked cunningly into them. Elean’s crown, however, was different. It took Styophan a moment to recognize it. It had been Kürad’s. He had worn it last night in the ceremony at the menhir. It now sat on Elean’s head, surely because—for now at least—she would speak for her clan. The fire cast enough light that he could see stains of blood upon the vines and thorns. Why she wouldn’t have cleansed it before wearing it he didn’t know. Nor did he care to.
Elean watched him expectantly, as if she were waiting for him to bid them greeting, but if that were the case, she would wait until the end of the world, for he would grant these women nothing.
Elean seemed to reconcile with this, for she nodded to him, a gesture so slight it was difficult to recognize it as such. “I regret I could not find my way to you again after the forest.”
Styophan blinked. He glanced to the other women�
�the queens and the wodjana—but none of them seemed phased by this news. “Surely you could have, had you chosen.”
“I might have, but appearances were important.”
“Meaning what, you couldn’t be known as associating with a man from the islands?”
“Meaning,” Elean said, her voice rising, “that no one could suspect that you’d had a chance to look upon me so intimately.”
“Because of impropriety?” Styophan found his voice rising in pitch and volume. It was all he could do to remain seated, talking respectfully. “A poor reason, indeed, Queen Elean.”
“Not impropriety, Styophan of Anuskaya, but because you had to come to the information on your own. The kings had to believe your words.”
Styophan thought back to that night when he’d inspected Elean on that bearskin rug in the middle of the snow-covered forest. A branch had snapped only moments after he’d finished his inspection. Convenient, he thought, though he wished he’d recognized it then.
And from there more and more fell into place, until he landed on a realization that should have come to him well before now. It hadn’t been Bahett’s doing at all. The poisoning of the queens hadn’t come from Yrstanla. It had come from Hael, from the queens themselves. “You wanted me to implicate Bahett—”
The queens stared on. Brechan’s wife, Queen Dahlia, coughed, but she had a look on her face that was just as triumphant as it had been the night before, when she’d bared herself for all to see.
“—and you needed me to come to it on my own,” Styophan continued softly, more to himself than these gathered women. “You needed me to convince the kings of Bahett’s guilt.” He began shaking his head. “But why? If you suspected Bahett of foul doing, you could have simply told the kings of it.”
“It wouldn’t have worked,” Dahlia said. She stared at him from deep-set eyes. “They needed to hear it from a man like you.”
The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) Page 23