The Winds of Khalakovo (11 page)

“What sort of tea does she favor upon awakening?”

Atiana lowered her gaze. “Forgive my outburst, dear Victania. I have only just completed the voyage here, and I fear the length has made me testy.”

Victania’s eyes did not soften. “Difficult voyage or not, see to it that you curb your tongue. The Matra will not stand for it.”

“Of course not.”

Victania turned to Yvanna. “You can prepare her?”

Yvanna nodded.

“Good.” She turned on her heel and headed into the room with the servant woman, leaving Atiana alone with Yvanna in the cold, dark antechamber.

“Forgive her,” Yvanna said as she blew warmth into her cupped hands. “She’s very preoccupied with your wedding. She doesn’t say it, but she wishes the best for you both.”

Atiana smiled, not wanting to offend. “She
does
hide it well.”

“Make no mistake, if she didn’t care for you, she would tell you so.”

Atiana had her doubts. Victania knew as well as everyone else that this marriage was crucial for both families. Atiana’s father needed ships to bring goods to Yrstanla, and as light as their coffers were, the only sensible way to get them was by marriage. And Khalakovo had been one of the worst struck by the blight. Nearly two-thirds of their cabbage and potato crops, if reports were to be believed, had been devastated in the last several years. Now more than ever it needed its precious wood and spices and gemstones to be sold in the Motherland. They would need much to weather the coming storm.

A shiver traveled down Atiana’s frame as one of the great doors suddenly opened. Victania motioned them into the room known as the drowning chamber. At the far end of the long, low room, Saphia Mishkeva Khalakovo sat in a wooden chair a goodly distance from the fireplace. An amber-colored stone of chalcedony rested in the circlet upon her brow. Victania stood next to her, a comforting hand upon the Matra’s shoulder.

Every one of the nine families had a room like this, and Khalakovo’s looked eerily similar to Vostroma’s: dark-as-night stone, Aramahn tracework running along the support columns, a basin sitting in the center of the room, all of it laid out almost exactly the same as Galostina’s chamber. The only difference seemed to be the iron lantern holders spaced about the room and the marble busts of the Matri from Khalakovo’s past.

Atiana strode forward as confidently as she could manage. When she stood before Saphia’s chair, she kneeled, waiting to be kissed, hearing only the Matra’s labored breathing.

“Stand, child,” Victania said. “She cannot kiss you.”

Atiana complied, realizing just how much Khalakovo’s Matra had sacrificed for her station. Sunset had already fallen on her fiftieth year, but she looked much, much older. The bones of her hands and wrists stuck out as if she’d been starving herself for months. Her eyes were recessed deeply into their sockets, and her cheeks were little more than hollows. Her white hair was damp and stringy from her time in the cold water that allowed her to touch the aether. She was leaning a bit to one side, and Atiana realized that Victania was standing there, not in any statement of solidarity, but to ensure that her mother didn’t tip over.

Despite all this, there was a regal quality in the way she held her head, the way her steely gaze evaluated Atiana. It gave proof to the supreme effort of will that
any
Matra needed, much less Saphia, the woman who had tamed the aether the longest in memory.

She looked not so different from Victania, both in form and bearing. The difference was that where Victania
demanded
respect, Saphia knew it would be given to her.

A golden perch stood behind the Matra’s chair, and a tall rook rested upon it. Rumor had it that so strong was Saphia’s connection to the aether that she could assume a rook for some time after leaving it, but the rook seemed inattentive, uninhabited.

“Touch stones.” Victania’s expression and words were filled with impatience.

Atiana hurriedly pulled at the chain around her neck to retrieve her soulstone. She touched this to Saphia’s circlet, and both stones brightened briefly. She couldn’t help but think of when she’d touched stones with Nikandr, but unlike then, Atiana could feel a strong connection with Saphia, stronger than the one with her own mother hundreds of leagues away.

“Your voyage has delivered you healthy and whole.” Saphia’s voice was a horrible croak.

“It has, Matra, thank you.”

Saphia nodded, a satisfied expression on her face. “It will be good to have another woman in Radiskoye. Too often it teems with men.”

“As you say, Your Grace.”

“Do you know why I’ve brought you here?”

“I assumed it was to meet in the flesh.”

“There is that,” Saphia allowed. “Can you think of nothing else?”

“Well, there is the pending marriage...”

Saphia barked out a short laugh, an act that brought on a coughing fit. Victania supported her mother until she had regained herself. “
Da
, there is that as well.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing else I can think of, Matra.”

Saphia’s gaze shifted to Yvanna momentarily. “The last several months have made us aware of a small yet growing problem. One of my good daughters is losing the ability to touch the aether.”

Yvanna, staring at the floor and holding one hand tightly in the other, looked embarrassed. Victania, however, was staring at Atiana, daring her to make mention of it.

“Like the other Matri, I have found the currents more and more difficult to tame, but I never thought the ability could be lost outright.”

“And now you think it can?” Atiana asked.

“A year ago, Yvanna could have stayed under for hours. Now, she cannot stand it for more than a handful of minutes.”

Disturbing news, indeed. The aether was what connected the islands. It was what allowed them to ride the winds with their ships, but it also acted as their primary path of communication. Collectively, the Matri touched the aether to commune with one another, to trade information and to make important decisions. Each of the nine families had one who performed the duty primarily, but all had at least two others trained in harnessing the currents in case the Matra took ill or—ancestors protect them—died.

“Why does that concern me?” Atiana asked.

“Because, dear child, I chose you in part because of your strength in the dark.”

Atiana felt her face pale, and she prayed that in the dimness of the room no one had noticed.

“I have little ability,” she finally said.

“You do. You
and
your sisters. You just haven’t been allowed to use it.”

It was true that she hadn’t lain in those cold basins for years—beyond Mother, it was Aunt Katerina and Borund’s wife who held those duties, and Atiana was only too glad to cede it to them. To be rubbed in animal fat and submerged in water colder than the bones of the world itself was not something she would willingly do, and here was the mother of the man she was about to be married to telling her she would need to do just that.

“We were told we were too heavy-handed.”

“That may be so, but consider this: at least you have the ability. Control can be learned. Raw ability cannot.”

“Forgive me, Matra”—she tried to keep the desperation from her tone— “but my mother told me I would not need to.”

“She should not have.”

“You assured her I would not be needed in this capacity.” She could hear her voice rising in volume.

“I told her that I expected you to be trained.”

“But—”

“Are you a member of this family or are you not?”

“The wedding has not—”

“Your father has signed documents. You are Khalakovan now whether you like it or not, and your family’s needs take precedence over your own. Or do they teach you different in the halls of Galostina?”

“I will fail, Matra.”

“You will try, and that is the end of it.”

Atiana bit her tongue. She was sure that Mother had inquired about the need to take the dark, knowing her innate fear of it, and she was just as sure Saphia had chosen her words carefully so Mother would come away with the answer she’d been seeking while Saphia would be able to claim later that there had been an unfortunate misunderstanding.

Misunderstanding or not, it didn’t change the fact that she was now bound to the Khalakovos. There was no backing away from this request. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps in time, once she had her feet under her.

“So I was chosen for marriage simply for my ability.”

Saphia smiled, an expression that looked truly evil on such a skeletal face. “Not only for that, child. You have other redeeming qualities.”

“Such as hips ready to bear children?”

Saphia laughed again, a thoroughly unpleasant sound. “And a father with shipping contracts to Yrstanla. Do you find any of these reasons distasteful?”

“The women of Vostroma are not accustomed to being treated like prized cattle.”

“But you are in a
prized
position, Atiana Radieva. There are dozens of women who would gladly take your place.”

She knew it was so. There were always duties expected of a young bride, some distasteful, some less so. “Of course, Matra. I’ll gladly help the family in any way I can.”

The silence in the room lengthened, broken only by the whuffle and snap of the fire. Saphia nodded, though even that small motion seemed taxing for her. “Good and good. You can tell your mother when next you speak with her.”

Victania closed the conversation shortly after, and Yvanna led Atiana away.

On the way out, she was amazed at how different the basin seemed. Before it had merely been an implement she would never need to use—not so different from needle and thread or a butter churn—but now it looked so much different, terrifying.

It was with a heavy heart that she left the room and took to the long flight of stairs. Moments later, the doors to the drowning chamber boomed shut behind her.

CHAPTER 14

The wind was bitter, and for the first time in years, Rehada truly felt it. She was trudging through the knee-deep snow behind Bersuq, Soroush’s older brother, along a game trail in the forest below Radiskoye. Despite working hard to climb the trail, despite the three robes she wore, her feet and hands were numb, and her teeth were chattering. Soroush had told her to release her spirit the night before, and so she had, but it felt strange to be without it. Everything felt different, as if she were walking in someone else’s body. Bersuq, who had pulled ahead of her, turned and barked, “Keep up.”

She had never felt a feeling of kinship toward Bersuq, even in the days of Ahya’s early childhood, but she didn’t begrudge him that. He was not unkind. He was simply hard.

She pushed herself as hard as she was able, and eventually the slope leveled off. Radiskoye could not be seen, but its presence could be felt. With the landing of the dukes commencing today, a dozen ships were patrolling the sky over the palotza and the mountain that housed it, Verodnaya.

The trail they followed was bordered by a ridge on their left and the forest to their right. The ridge was rocky and clear of trees, probably from some landslide years ago. Distant but still visible beyond the tree line was the outer wall of the palotza.

Rehada was startled when ahead of her, Soroush stood from a deep crevice. She calmed her nerves as she approached.

“Have you found it?” Bersuq asked.

“It has been difficult, but I think it will be best here.”

“Be sure,” Bersuq said as he scanned the sky above them. “The location is dangerous.”

Soroush nodded. “I am sure.”

For the next hour, she, Bersuq, and Soroush trudged into the nearby woods and brought firewood, throwing it into the crevice. The pile climbed higher and higher until it stood above ground nearly as high as Rehada.

They were nearly done when Soroush darted for cover of the spruce, waving Bersuq and Rehada to follow. No sooner had they hidden themselves than a Landed brigantine sailed overhead, its pair of landward masts barely clearing the tops of the trees. Rehada thought they had been spotted, but the two men watching from the lower masts were scanning the ground further east, toward Radiskoye.

The ship sailed on, turning westward toward the eyrie, picking up altitude and cresting the ridge above them. Finally it was gone.

Rehada felt her heart pounding. It reminded her of her first days on Khalakovo, her first few times with Landed men. Her first lies. This, acting in secret against the interests of the Landed, was no different; it felt just as shaming.

“Is it wise to taunt Radiskoye?” Rehada asked.

“It is past time.”

“All for a stone?”

“Not just a stone.” Soroush returned to the pile of deadwood and used flint and steel to spark the base of it to life. Soon the pile was burning high, the heat rising. “It is a facet, one of five.”

“To what end?”

Soroush stared into the fire, as if it would pain him to look upon her. “When we have them all, we will be able to tear the rift asunder. We will give to Adhiya what it wants, a taste of life.”

Praise be, Rehada thought. Before speaking with him at Malekh’s hanging, she had felt defeated. Her anger had overflowed, but it had felt directionless. Even after speaking with him, she worried that the tide had turned against them to the point that they would never realize their goal, never avenge the deaths of her people at the hands of the Landed. But now, with Soroush so self-assured, and with them so close to achieving what they had long worked for, she was enlivened.

Soroush turned and faced her. “The ancients never used stones to create a bond, did you know this?”

She shook her head.

“They bonded, and the stone was formed. It was a manifestation of their experience, not a tool to be used to control.”

“I do not control.”

He shook his head. “You don’t think of it in that manner, but you do. The hezhan does not come willingly—or not completely so. In the early days of this world, the bond was a way to share, to learn. What is it now?”

She found herself becoming angry, but Soroush did not mean for his words to be taken as such. He was young, but he was learned; he was wise, as wise as any arqesh. She thought on what he said, and it frightened her. To use no stone to create a bond... She had never done so, and the thought of attempting it was already making her palms sweat. “How will they know I have come?”

“Go with an open heart. Do not bring fear. Do not bring anger. Bring curiosity. Bring life. Bring a yearning for the things that have always eluded you.”

There was a part of her that wanted to ask him what would happen if a hezhan did not come, but she knew the answer to that. More importantly, she knew the question could not be entertained once she stepped into the fire, and so she set it aside and steeled herself while pulling the clothes from her frame. Naked, the wind tugged at her hair, and the sound it made through the trees behind her, a howling, seemed to laugh at what she was about to do. She had had doubts before—when her master had shown her the way of qiram. She had been afraid, but she had been raised by a strong mother. She had been given over to a wise teacher. She had traveled far and she had come to know the ways of flame. She would do this, no matter what the wind might say.

She stepped forward, feeling the heat from the fire against her stomach and thighs. The wood crackled and spit, sending steam and smoke into the sky. She put one foot forward to the edge of the snow-covered earth. A spike of fear rose up inside her with the knowledge that she wore no stone, but the stories of the ancients all spoke of qiram who were able to summon hezhan without the aid of such things. She would trust to them. Trust to her teachings. Trust to Soroush, who had never led her astray.

One more step forward, and she fell among the flames. The branches gave way, cracking loudly, as sparks swirled into the air. The heat soared, higher than she had ever felt, even during her times of penance. It seared her legs, her arms, the skin over her stomach and back. Her eyes were closed, but she forced them open, knowing she must face this squarely or lose herself to the pain.

Her breathing was labored, her lungs barely able to take breath. She managed to remain standing, but it felt like her skin was blistering, blackening, cracking. She felt no hezhan; she surely would have had she been wearing a stone. She tried to reach out, to call to one, but the things she felt were very different from the normal ritual. They were much more open now, without bounds, and it was frightening.

She was barely able to turn—so painful was the movement—and look up toward Soroush. To her surprise, his face was locked in an expression of pride.

“Soroush!” she cried as the pain became too great.

“Silence!”

She grit her teeth. Tried harder.

But it was no use.

She fell to her knees. The heat was no longer satisfied with burning her skin. It licked at her insides. She dropped to one hand, unable to prevent herself from curling up against the searing heat that was building inside her. If she were but to open her mouth, she could breathe flame; she could light the forest afire with but one brief sigh.

She reared back and spread her arms wide to the sky.

And released her building fury in a drawn-out cry.

She felt, while doing so, another presence. Something clean and white among the madness around her. She could feel him both in the flames of the material world and on the far side, in the shifting currents of Adhiya. He felt ancient, as old as the stars.

Suddenly the flames above her blackened with smoke. A sound like a rockslide filled her ears. She was thrust downward, hard, into the ashes. The sky above her clouded over, obscuring her vision. She heard a hollow thump, felt the heat above her plummet. She coughed against the glowing white embers swirling in the air, and when they finally settled, she was able to see what lay before her: a form as tall as a tree, as wide as a wagon. Stout and flaming.

A suurahezhan. It had crossed from the world beyond—to what purpose she did not know. Unlike the suurahezhan she used the tourmaline gems to bond with, she had no control over this creature, none whatsoever.

The hezhan stood, unmoving, perhaps taking in its new surroundings, but then it lumbered around and focused its attention up toward the palotza. It hesitated, and then began to stalk up the hill along the fault line.

Soroush spoke, but she could not understand him. Words made no sense.

“Quickly!” he shouted. “Search among the ashes.”

She did as he asked, not knowing what she was looking for. A moment later she felt something small and hard among the brittle embers and powdery ash. She picked it up.

A tourmaline—deep red, almost black, and beautiful beyond description.

“Daughter of Shineshka”—Soroush, so hasty a moment ago, paused and bowed his head—“rejoice, for never have you done so well.”

Rehada paid him little mind, nor did she wish to examine the stone. She had felt something deeper in the woods, and she could see among the shadows a boy poking his head out from behind a tree.

Nasim? Had that been him when she was at her most vulnerable? Had he
helped
her?

Soroush held his hand out but stopped short of touching her. She would still be much too hot. “Come.”

She looked at him, suddenly angry over being disturbed.

“Come,” he said, more forcefully this time.

She stepped up from the crevice, but when she looked toward the trees again, the boy was gone.