The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) (74 page)

Sariya stood at the pedestal, the Atalayina held above it with a steady hand. Only when the last of the Kohori were in place did she set the Atalayina on the pedestal. She breathed deeply, spread her arms wide with her palms lifted toward the sky. Above, the clouds churned and swirled. The Atalayina glowed a brilliant blue, so bright it was difficult to look upon.

Sariya, who was using Ushai’s body as a vessel, went rigid. Her whole frame shook. Nasim and Sukharam and the Kohori all stared in awe as a beam of light shot upward toward the clouds. Where the beam touched the clouds, they parted, but instead of showing the blue sky beyond, a blackened sky was revealed, a sky dark as the dead of night. The beam continued up and up and up until at last it was swallowed by the darkness.

In the distance, the sounds of cannon-fire grew. Muskets joined in, distant snaps of gunfire among the boom of the cannons. The windships of Anuskaya had closed with the living ships of the Kohori. Men were dying now. Many of them. And it made a certain sort of sense as Nasim felt the worlds close in. Adhiya drew near, at least in this one place. The aether as well. It felt as though the three were now one. Three facets of the same jewel.

Neh
.
Not merely three.
There were other facets as well. The heavens beyond. Nasim could feel those as well, for the Atalayina was opening a pathway to them. Sariya was reaching up to touch the very heavens, as he’d known she would. He’d realized it on the bridge outside of Shirvozeh. The fates had abandoned the heavens in preparation for others to take their place, and Sariya was now fulfilling that promise, a promise made three hundred years before.

Sariya didn’t want to destroy the worlds.

She wanted to
replace
the fates.

With the Atalayina and with the knowledge she’d gained in Kohor and elsewhere, she was the only one who could open the pathway to the heavens where the fates once lived.

She was not quite there, however. The path was not wide enough for her to ascend. But then souls of the fighting men of Anuskaya began to slip through from Erahm to Adhiya. More and more fell, their undying spirits slipping over to the world beyond, and it widened the gateway above.

The deaths were unfortunate, Nasim thought, but necessary, for the pathways
had
to open. There was no other way for Sariya to take her place in the heavens.

Atiana sits cross-legged in the grass below the shoulder of Sihyaan.

Kaleh stands nearby, watching. The young woman will go with Styophan and the streltsi of Khalakovo, who stand at the ready nearby. She might stay to help protect Atiana, but truly, her place is with Nasim and Sukharam.

Aelwen busies herself with a fire. What she’s doing, or why, Atiana no longer cares.

“Go,” Atiana tells the streltsi.

Styophan nods to his men, and they begin marching at the double, muskets at their sides, all of them wary-eyed, all of them in awe of what’s happening around them. Styophan pauses, however, staring down at her with his one good eye, as if he’s unsure of her orders.

“I will give you a sign if I can,” she tells him, “but use your best judgment.” He nods, but before he can follow his men, she speaks on. “You have been a good soldier, Styophan Andrashayev. A good son of Khalakovo.”

This makes him pause. His nostrils flare for a moment. The veins on his forehead stand out. His eye searches hers, perhaps weighing the sincerity in her words. And then he is off, following his men. Kaleh takes one last look, and then pads off as well, trailing quietly behind the men of war.

No sooner have they left than a bright blue light streaks up and into the billowing clouds over Sihyaan, parting them and revealing a darkness that is nothing like the aether. It is not the midnight blue she has always seen. It is black—a depthless black—and wider than the worlds. It feels as though it will widen like some unspeakable maw until it swallows them all.

She begins to float upward toward it without even realizing it’s happening. She fights to remain in place, but soon she is flailing, trying ineffectually to keep from being drawn toward it.

Sister!
Atiana, you must regain yourself!

Atiana hears the words, but can think of little but the blackened sky and the hole between worlds. It is like nothing she’s ever sensed. It is not of Adhiya, nor Erahm, nor the aether itself. It is of something
other
, though what, she cannot guess.

You are a Matra of the Grand Duchy!

Atiana knows this voice, but cannot place it. It is too distant, her mind too fixated on the depths of the darkness above her. But then an earthy scent of incense comes to her. It fills her mind and grounds her, pulls her back and away from the gateway. It is Aelwen, she realizes. She’s burning something to keep Atiana grounded. How Aelwen might have known of the danger Atiana has no idea, but she has since given up on trying to understand the ways of the wodjana.

Control yourself,
a voice says.

The voice is Ishkyna’s. The mere realization shakes her, as does the growing presence of others. Mileva is with her. Saphia Khalakovo is here as well, along with her daughter, Nikandr’s sister, Victania. More and more minds make their presence known—not merely the Duchesses, not merely their daughters, but many others, two score or more, resting within their drowning basins throughout the islands. Some are near and some are far. Some are strong while others maintain tentative holds on the aether. They have come in the hour of Atiana’s greatest need, though she could not have hoped for it.

They all take a moment to bond with one another. Atiana strengthens those who are weak, sharpening their hold on the dark. Their consciousness expands beyond anything Atiana has ever felt. It encompasses the entirety of the seas and the islands that lie within them. Even Yrstanla feels small compared to this.

But they all know they’ve spread themselves too far. With Atiana now guiding them, they tighten their focus, drawing in toward the Sea of Tabriz and Ghayavand within it, and finally to the mountain of Sihyaan and Sariya who stands upon it, drawing on the power of the Atalayina.

It is the stone that holds their collective attention.

In the aether it is not merely bright; it saps their souls. It makes one ache in a way that Atiana can’t quite comprehend. It’s as if a part of her is slipping away toward Adhiya even now, and she knows it’s the same for the others. Already she feels some of them, the weakest, are losing their hold. They try to buoy one another, but it isn’t enough, because the first of them, the Duchess Ekaterina Rhavanki, slips toward the blackened void.

Save me, sisters!

They reach for her. They try to keep her in place, but in her desperation Ekaterina loses control. A primal scream resounds through them. It fades, though slowly, and then the Duchess is completely and utterly gone.

Styophan motioned for his men to slow. Further away, partially obscured by the tall grasses in which he crouched, Rodion waited for a sign. Styophan took a deep breath. He was well aware that he and Rodion were the only two soldiers left from their mission to Hael. He was surprised they’d survived Alekeşir, but the ancients—and perhaps the fates—work in strange ways. In truth he wasn’t worried over his own life. Nor was he worried over Rodion’s. They had both been ready to give their lives for Anuskaya from the moment they accepted the mission westward. He simply didn’t wish to throw their lives away—or worse, for his actions to help the enemies of Anuskaya in any way.

Motion at Styophan’s left side caught his attention. Kaleh crouched there, watching the way ahead warily, not with a look of fear, but of resolve. They were as ready as they were going to be. Styophan nodded to Rodion. Rodion returned the nod and then was off, slipping low and quickly through the grasses with his nine men.

Styophan then took Kaleh and the rest of his men—twelve more—toward a depression in the land, a natural place from which to begin their attack. They moved quickly, all of them spying the rise above them. The men of Kohor were facing inward, watching those at their center instead of facing outward toward any threats that might present themselves. He didn’t understand why, but he wasn’t about to question it. At the top of the rise was Ushai. Nasim and Sukharam were held nearby by two of the Kohori men whose red robes flapped in the fierce wind.

Styophan waited, staring at the empty black hole in the sky. The world felt as if it were ending, here and now. He could feel it on his skin, a prickling that felt like death’s hand clutching for him.

Atiana was to give him a sign that she was ready, but they’d agreed that he would go if he felt it necessary. He could wait no more. He brought his musket to his shoulder, sighted along its length, aiming carefully at the one who held Nasim. And then he pulled the trigger.

The musket kicked. The Kohori man fell, clutching his side. The sound of more musket shots rattled the air, followed by the grunts and cries of their enemy. Few of them fell, however. One dropped and was lost among the grasses, then another further along the slope. The rest, however, seemed to be affected only momentarily by the musket shots that had struck home. They turned, drawing their swords and scanning the ground around them.

That was when Styophan and his streltsi stood and charged.

“For Anuskaya!” they called in unison.

Nikandr watched in horror as the galleon was taken by the twisting and thickening branches. The crewmen screamed in pain. Some died from the constricting vines. Others still lived, but they were trapped, pinned in place by the will of the Kohori.

The other windships desperately tried to stop the advance of the tree-ships. As each one approached and its branches unfurled, cannon-fire would blast a few of them free, sending them down toward the roiling sea, and when the branches reached the ship, the streltsi and windsmen aboard would hack at them desperately with shashkas and axes. Some even threw themselves at the branches, grabbing onto them and weighting them down so they couldn’t grab the ship.

All of it only served to delay Sariya’s forces. Sooner or later, the vines would gain a foothold on the ship, and then they would split and grow and spread throughout the ship, grabbing men and rigging and sails alike. And then they would squeeze, gripping the windship like a hand crushing an overripe peach.

Most of the Anuskayan ships had not yet been trapped. They were spread out in a ragged line, firing at the enemy, hoping to save those ships that had fallen to the animated trees.

“Son of Zhabyn,” Sayyed said as he gripped Borund’s wrist. “They’re being taken.” He pointed up to the impenetrable darkness. “For that.”

Nikandr realized it was true. He could feel their souls slipping toward the passage between worlds. Sariya was using their deaths to widen it.

Borund pointed to one of the largest of the nearby warships, a ship that flew the black and orange of Bolgravya. “Quickly, Nischka, take me to them. Take me there, then go.”

Nikandr nodded. The ships had to be made to flee. It was the only way to stop Sariya’s plans. He summoned the wind to bring their skiff toward the Bolgravyan ship. The streltsi there trained muskets on Nikandr—one of them even fired, the shot punching through the canvas over Nikandr’s head—but then Borund stood and waved at them. “Stand down!” he called. “Stand down! The Duke of Vostroma commands you!”

And the men of Bolgravya did.

Nikandr brought the skiff in until the crew could pull them in with ropes. When the skiff had been brought tight against the gunwales, Borund stepped across, and Soroush rose to do so as well. “I can do little on the island, son of Iaros. But here, I may be able to help.”

“How?”

“The men of Bolgravya,” Soroush replied. “They may not believe Borund, but they might believe me when I tell them that the Kohori, all of them, are willing to die this day. With luck, we will draw them all away. Now go.”

Soroush stepped onto the ship’s deck and kicked the skiff away.

Nikandr waved to Soroush. Soroush nodded in return and then was off, following Borund to speak with the kapitan of the ship.

Nikandr summoned the wind and guided the skiff toward Sihyaan. The Kohori ships were moving quickly now. More were pressing in toward the windships of Anuskaya. Nikandr could feel them drawing upon their bonded spirits, working to keep the hezhan at bay, carefully drawing upon their powers while preventing them from entering this world.

All it would take, though, was a tug, a pull, and in this Nikandr saw an opportunity. He drew those havahezhan toward Erahm. It felt as if a thread were running from him to the gathered spirits, and when they felt him tugging, they were drawn toward and into the material world.

Two of them crossed, then three and four, each manifesting within one of the Kohori tree-ships. He could see them, twisting and swirling within the protected center. One of the Kohori raised his hands, trying to regain control, but he was drawn up through the branches and tossed to the wind. He flew down toward the sea as the hezhan slipped through branches and twisted toward another of the floating ships.

Nikandr had pushed too hard, though. He was having a fight of his own now. His havahezhan, perhaps emboldened by the crossings of the others, fought him, trying to reach Erahm itself.

Nikandr pushed back desperately. He couldn’t allow the hezhan to cross. Not now.

But then something caught Nikandr’s eye. The boughs and branches of one of the nearby tree-ships had unfurled, had spread wide, and the red-robed qiram within was staring straight at Nikandr. He was drawing on something, but Nikandr knew not what. Not until the skiff began to creak and tick. The wood dried and warped. It crumbled, just as Nikandr’s ship, the
Gorovna
, had when he’d first traveled to Ghayavand.

And soon, the entire skiff was soft as dry-rotted timber, and Nikandr and Sayyed fell clean through the hull.

Atiana tries desperately to hold the Matri in place. They strengthen one another, and in this Ishkyna is the strongest of them all—she touches each of them, after all, as much a part of the aether as its midnight-blue essence—but she is also the most vulnerable.