The Winds of Khalakovo (25 page)

Atiana drew in breath as a twinkling came from the darkness below. They reached the shore of a large black lake, where water lapped ever so gently against the rough stones and gritty sand.

“You would find,” Fahroz said as she guided Atiana toward a stone pier, “the water as cold as your drowning basins.”

Atiana stopped, forcing Fahroz to do the same. “You wish me to take the dark? Here?”

“I believe you can, with our help.”

The lake felt foreboding—somehow ancient and raw, whereas the basin within the drowning chamber felt tamed in comparison.

“Did you not say it was important for Radiskoye to know as soon as possible?”

“I did, but—”

“Then take the dark. Warn them if you would.”

Fahroz led her out to the end of the pier. Lamps on decorative stone posts lit as they approached. The light was meager—beyond a certain distance the cavern swallowed it whole—but it was enough to shed light on the lake bed some two stories below the surface of the crystal-clear water.

Atiana shivered just looking at it. “Why would you offer this?”

The smile of Fahroz’s face made her seem patronizing, but Atiana doubted she meant it in such a way—she, like so many of her race, was unnaturally calm, and it could lead to a misinterpretation of their moods if one wasn’t careful. “I will admit that my goals are not wholly altruistic. Over the years, there have been some who have learned to touch the aether, as you have.”

Atiana glanced at the two women, who waited patiently on the shore, then she looked at Fahroz under an entirely new light. She wore no stone. This was common among the Aramahn—perhaps only one in twenty became qiram—but it
was
rare among the mahtar. Most who rose to that status had mastered two or three disciplines. Why, then, if Fahroz could bond with no spirits, had she been allowed to take that rank?

“You?” Atiana asked.

Fahroz nodded, her arms clasped before her. “I ask only to observe.”

“Toward what end?”

“Would you not agree, Atiana Radieva, that the islands have become a dangerous place to live? We would do well to understand it, to learn from it.”

“I go only to warn Radiskoye.”

“But you have seen more. The babe...”

“That was by mere chance.”

“Then perhaps luck will be with you again. Allow me to observe. Share with me what you find when you return.”

This was a strange position to be in. She was a visitor on these islands, after all. It felt as though she would be betraying the trust of the Matra were she to take the dark unbidden.

Perhaps sensing her hesitation, Fahroz walked forward until she stood at the pier’s very edge. She beckoned Atiana closer, and when Atiana was at her side, she motioned toward the vastness of the lake. “Did you know that there is a lake like this in every Aramahn village?”

“
Every
village?”

“Every one that is still populated. Some have been drained by earthquakes. They were repaired if possible, but if it was not, if they ran dry, the village was eventually abandoned.”

Atiana struggled to understand why Fahroz was telling her this. “Not merely for lack of water...”

A sad smile touched Fahroz’s lips. “
Nyet
, not merely for lack of water. They connect us, these lakes. There was a time when we could speak to one another much as the Matri do now.” She stopped speaking and the silence lengthened between them, and Atiana realized that she was crying. “It is one of a dozen things—a hundred—that we do not understand since the islands were taken.” She said the words not with anger, but as simple fact, as if the War of Seven Seas had been no different than an earthquake draining one of their lakes and a village with it. “The babe you saw, if you care for it at all, if you care for the others—Aramahn or Anuskayan—then you will do this.”

“It may not work.”

“A choice I leave to the fates...”

Atiana had never felt close to the Aramahn—they had never been allowed to be a part of her or her sisters’ lives—but this woman, this leader of people, struck her deeply. She wished, somehow, that she could know as much as Fahroz did, that she could face the world with as much poise.

In the end, Atiana bowed her head. “I will share as I can.”

Fahroz nodded and led her back along the pier. “You may find taking the dark here in the village vastly different from the spire. It is the mountains, after all”—she motioned to the roof of the cavern—“that once acted as the spires do now. In those early days of exploration, they guided us from place to place, even if we weren’t yet sure where we were headed. They are our lifeblood, and we are theirs. You will be experiencing this place as many of the ancients did—or nearly so.”

The lake looked like it would chill her to the bone just as quickly as the drowning basin had.

“I will require a balm.”

Rehada motioned to the two women. “We have some at the ready.”

Fahroz disrobed. As soon as she was done, one of the women began rubbing a salve over her. Atiana disrobed as well, feeling more self-conscious than she had in years. Her skin was white as snow; it was expected of the gentry, but next to the darker skinned Aramahn she felt sickly and small. After the second woman rubbed salve over Atiana’s back, Atiana did the same over her front. It was similar to what the Matri used, except it smelled strongly of sage. Soon it was over, and she was left a woman naked in a place she hardly knew, ready to submerge herself in water that would take her life as soon as cradle her.

There were steps along the left and right sides of the pier she hadn’t noticed. Fahroz took the steps to the right, wading out into the water without hesitation.

Atiana followed, and although the water seized her ankles and calves and thighs, she waded forward, intent on controlling herself better than she had those days ago in Radiskoye’s drowning chamber. She leaned back. The woman caught and supported her. She felt like a fish out of water wriggling its way back toward the sea. “Is there nothing that could support me?”

“This is how it is done.”

A sliver of fear crept inside her, but she took deep breaths to calm herself. When she felt as ready as she would ever be, she allowed herself to sink beneath the water. She forgot that she was deep within Iramanshah, a veritable prisoner for the time being; she forgot about the Maharraht and the events of the day; she forgot about her embarrassment, her nervousness, her feelings of vulnerability; she forgot about Rehada, though this was the most difficult of all.

And soon...

She sees herself floating in the water. She feels the cavern, its immensity, though in only moments the size of it seems natural—one small part of the mountain that contains it. She feels the streams that feed the lake, and in turn the streams that the lake feeds. She feels the bowels of Iramanshah, the winding tunnels, the rounded rooms, the traceries carved by the careful craftsmanship of men and women long since dead.

She expands her awareness. Unlike the last time, she is confident, though this in itself is cause for concern. She cannot take the aether for granted. She cannot...

The peaks of the mountains, the ridges that connect them, the forests and prairies and the brackish northern swamps enter her awareness. It allows her to suffuse herself among the bowels of the island. She dives deeper, so deep she can feel the heat of the world itself, still cooling from when the fires of the creation gave birth to the world and the stars. She feels the age of the land, and for a moment she feels as though she could tell its entire history, from inception to destruction at the hands of the long-dormant volcano. She knows this is dangerous. If she remains this way she will become part of the island, her body abandoned as her soul merges with the larger life that surrounds her, yet it is the only way she knows to find what she searches for.

She waits for the aether to call to her. Eventually she feels something, a disturbance, though it is nothing like the babe. This is more like the presence of the Matri. She slips back toward Iramanshah, and she drifts down into the cavern where her body still floats. She finds the old Aramahn woman floating in the darkness. Fahroz. She is in the aether, but it is like dipping her toe in the water. She wants to go deeper, but like a child hoping to fly with the mere flapping of her arms she is unable to. There lies within her a yearning and a deep sense of anxiety. She fears over what has come to pass, what
will
come to pass. She feels powerless to prevent the coming storm.

Atiana does not blame her.

She realizes, however, that the disturbance does not reside in Fahroz, but the lake in which she is submerged. There are similarities to what happened with the babe. The walls of the aether feel close, so different from the times where she is at peace with the shifting currents. Instead of free breath in an open field, it is dark water pressing against her, deep earth. She thinks at first it must be her that is causing it, but as she continues to float, leaving her mind aware and awake, she begins to doubt this conclusion.

But then, as soon as it had come, it is gone. She searches for long moments, but is unable to sense it again.

Knowing that time is moving quickly in the material world, she moves on toward Radiskoye. Saphia rests in the drowning chamber deep beneath the spire. Victania watches over her. And now Atiana understands why she was unable to speak with the Matra. Her attention is focused not on the islands, not even on Volgorod, but on an Aramahn boy who rests in a chamber among the lower levels of the great palotza. The boy seems unremarkable. He is colored blue, a gem of sapphire against the black velvet backdrop of the palotza’s interior.

It becomes clear that the Matri is not simply watching him. She is surrounding him. She hopes to assume him, as she would a rook, but she moves slowly so as not to disturb, to give him no warning when she finally knows his mind well enough to supplant it.

It is bold, what Saphia is doing, an affront of the worst kind, to supplant that which is most precious to the Aramahn: their soul. Such is the desperation of the Khalakovos.

A voice speaks within her mind.
What are you doing, child?

She recognizes it immediately, but it has been so long since they’d spoken to one another that it feels strange, foreign.

It has not been so long, daughter,
the voice says.

Mother,
she replies.

In her first foray into the dark, she did not attempt to speak with her mother—it takes much concentration, and at the time it would have been too dangerous—but she is stronger now, more confident, and she finds herself able to strengthen the bond to her mother with no ill effects.

Her view of Nasim is another matter entirely. Try as she might, the vision begins to fade, and she realizes it is not a failure on her part. Her mother is pulling her consciousness away.

I asked you a question...

I am trying to speak with Saphia. To warn her.

They’ve had their warnings, child.

I mean to warn them of the Maharraht.

It matters not.

She can no longer sense Saphia or Nasim at all, but her mother’s presence is clear. She can feel three other Matri as well: Dhalingrad, Nodhvyansk, and Bolgravya.

Where are you?
her mother asks. She moves closer—with an ease and an efficiency that is impressive—and then on toward Iramanshah.

Atiana blocks her way, barring her mother from moving forward. Fahroz placed herself in Atiana’s trust; even though this is her mother, she does not feel right breaking that trust so quickly. Were her mother nearer she would have succeeded in bulling her way past Atiana, but as distant as she is, such things are difficult, and Atiana holds her ground.

Mother’s presence retreats.

Do you test me?

The Maharraht are on the move, Mother. There are those, our family among them, who stand in harm’s way.

You are not in Radiskoye.

It is a statement, not a question, and in that one moment, Atiana feels her mother’s guard slip. She also feels thoughts that weigh heavily on her mind. She is worried because Atiana is not where she should be, because decisions have been made and are now being set into motion.

A feeling of dread grows within Atiana like a gathering storm.
You are attacking the palotza?

A pause.
It is nothing they’ve not been asking for since the moment Stasa died.

You would risk war over a boy?

Risk it? Khalakovo has demanded it, Atiana.

You cannot.

She does not wait for her mother’s response. She moves quickly toward Radiskoye.

Stop, child!

She rushes among the halls until she senses a rook. Without thinking, she pours herself into the bird. She feels its weak resistance. Worse, she feels her control over the aether slipping. Her arms lengthen. Feathers sprout. Her legs bend and contort, and her talons grip iron. She manages only a rough caw before she is drawn roughly away.

In the precious moments that follow, she is too confused to fight, and by then she is too far away. It does not prevent her from trying, though. Like a woman drowning beneath the waves, she flails for the surface, ready to gasp for breath.

But it is no use. The Matri have worked in concert for years. If their intent was to prevent one lone woman from assuming a rook, then it would be so.

She kicks one last time and feels her control betray her. She feels the island, the sea, the air above, the stars beyond. She feels herself breathe, her skin prickle, her bones ache...

CHAPTER 32

Atiana felt a beating upon her chest. Lips pressed to hers and air filled her lungs. She coughed. The beating ceased.

She was dying. She knew this in her heart.

She tried several times to open her eyes, but they wouldn’t respond. Neither would her voice comply when she willed it to speak. A simple word would do, any word, so that she could ground herself more fully in this reality.

And yet, despite the vague sense that she should be struggling for her own survival, it felt so peaceful that she no longer cared what the outcome might be. She would let death take her. She would welcome it with open arms.

She fell into herself, hoping it would be so if only to make the pain go away.

Then silence...

Followed by a single note, fading in and out of her consciousness.

Then a string of syllables, more song than voice.

Someone was speaking—who, she couldn’t guess.

They were speaking another language.

Mahndi.

She was still among them. She hadn’t died.

Her eyes finally fluttered open.

She licked her lips once ... twice ... still unable to speak.

“What...” The word came out in a croak. “What happened?”

The voices stopped. A face moved into her field of vision.

Fahroz.

“You nearly crossed to the other side, Atiana Radieva.” Her voice carried with it a completely unexpected note of concern.

Atiana’s bones ached. It felt as if someone were driving a spike through her hips as the Aramahn women levered her up. They forced upon her several sips from a steaming earthenware mug. She felt the mulled wine drift down her throat, down her chest, and it was the most wonderful feeling she could ever remember experiencing, except that its warmth suddenly made her fingers and toes feel deathly cold.

She began to shiver uncontrollably. “It is ... painful.”

“That is to be expected,” Fahroz said, wrapping a new, dry blanket around her shoulders. “Come. We will take you to a place where you can rest.”

She was allowed to pull on her clothes, but immediately after they left the great cavern and reentered the rounded hallways of Iramanshah. She could remember little of her time in the dark, but one thing was clear.

“I f-found no rift,” she said, her teeth chattering.

“We can discuss that once you’ve rested.”

Atiana nodded, but more and more of her voyage was coming back to her. Her time in Radiskoye, her search while feeling the island.

Atiana sucked in a deep breath.

Fahroz tightened her grip on Atiana’s shoulders. “What is it?”

She could not answer, for she had remembered her battle with her mother and the other Matri. The ships allied with Father were ready to attack. Tonight. She had to get back to Radiskoye before it was too late. But she couldn’t tell Fahroz. There was no telling if they would allow her to leave, not with an attack imminent.

“The time in these tunnels weighs heavily on me.” She hoped Fahroz couldn’t hear the lie in her voice. “I can barely breathe from the weight of it. Please, I wish to be in clean air. Take me outside.”

“You shouldn’t go—”

“You will lead me from this mountain!”

They walked in silence for several paces, but finally Fahroz nodded. “Ushai will escort you. When you feel well enough, come inside and warm yourself.”

Fahroz and one of the women stopped. There was a bit of silence as, perhaps, they watched Atiana continue on with Ushai, and then she heard their footsteps receding.

The village was a labyrinth of maddening proportions. Every time Atiana thought she recognized a hallway, a room, a stair, she turned out to be wrong. When they finally reached the main gates and stepped outside into the valley that housed the entrance to the village, she released a breath of air she hadn’t realized had been pent up.

The sun was setting in the west, spreading golden light across the top of the valley’s ridge. In the stone-lined court that lay at the foot of the entrance’s stairs, a fountain bubbled. Several women stood in the water, chatting and washing clothes while their children played stones near its base. As was true for most Aramahn villages, several buildings were positioned near the entrance: a granary, a mill, several large animal pens, and the place Atiana needed the most, the stables.

“Might I walk for a time? Alone?” Atiana asked.

Ushai was not much older than Atiana. She stared at Atiana severely. Finally, she nodded and moved to the fountain and began scolding one of the children in Mahndi.

Atiana strolled around the fountain, holding the blanket tight around her frame. She was still chilled to the bone, and what she was about to do brought her no comfort in that regard. The ride to Radiskoye was going to be long and miserable.

And dangerous.

She had no choice, though. There was no way to warn them other than to ride there. So ride she would, setting sun be damned.

She bided her time, acting as if her walk was aimless. Finally Ushai began talking with the other women, and Atiana knew it was time. She made her way toward the stables, and when she reached it, she stayed a while—becoming, she hoped, part of the background.

When she thought it was safe, she ducked inside.

She had chosen her pony well. It attacked the inclining slope not with impressive pace but with a steadfastness that would hopefully get her to the palotza in time. She felt her stomach flutter as she glanced at the western sky. Little light remained, and that would be gone in less than an hour.

Now that she was out of the valley, and pursuit was hopefully far behind, she pulled the pony to a stop. She gripped her soulstone and tried desperately to reach Saphia. She felt nothing in return.

Her pony shivered her mane and stomped her forehooves.

“Be good”—Atiana patted the pony’s neck soothingly—“and take me home.”

And then she kicked her into a full gallop.

She rode like she had never ridden before. She rode until the night had robbed the western sky of all but an indigo swath. She was forced to slow to a trot, the stars giving barely enough light to keep her on the trail. She urged the pony into a faster pace as the moon rose in the cloudless sky. Her stomach churned as she came closer. She was sure she would arrive too late.

She crested the ridge running the full length of the island. She would be only an hour or more away now. She reached the spur in the road that led to the eyrie, then Volgorod itself, and still she rode, her pony’s breath coming hard and heavy.

By the time she reached the road leading up to Radiskoye, she saw it. She slowed her frantic pace, tears coming to her eyes.

By her ancestors, she was too late.

A fire rose in Radiskoye, tainting the clouds high above a tender shade of yellow.