“Well that isn’t likely any more, is it?”
“Don’t be so sure.” Mileva smiled, but it was unconvincing to say the least. “I hear Bahett is an easy man to look upon.”
After running her hands one last time over the cold obsidian, Atiana strode toward the palotza. “Don’t make light of my love for Nikandr.”
Mileva looked like she was about to respond with a biting reply, but then she pursed her lips and took Atiana’s hand. Squeezing it gently, she said, “Come. There is much to attend to.”
That entire day the palotza was aflutter with the arrival of the Kaymakam of Galahesh, and that night, they prepared for their welcoming celebration. Atiana stood at the open doors of the grand ballroom. Mileva was already seated next to her husband, Viktor. Ishkyna’s husband would not be present, which was apparently fine with Ishkyna, who was standing next to a man from the envoy’s retinue, a tall courtier with a closely cropped beard and a red silk turban. A ruby medallion with feathers of white decorated the center of the turban, just above his brow. Like many of the courtiers, he wore voluminous pants and a wide cloth belt. The sword hanging at his side seemed similar to those of the streltsi, but it curved more, and the hilt was carved like the head of a falcon, making it appear as if it would be clumsy and unwieldy in battle.
More people filed into the room, mostly relatives, both close and distant, of Atiana’s, but there were others as well: diplomats, officers of the staaya, men and women of business and industry. Father had gone to great lengths, hoping to impress upon the Empire that Anuskaya was no plum ripe for the plucking. But still, he could not be too ostentatious. The day’s events had to be reserved enough to give some sense of how seriously the islands needed the Empire’s assistance.
Atiana hesitated to enter. The memories of Nikandr were still fresh, and over the past few years she had found herself becoming ever more hopeful of some sort of reconciliation between her family and the Khalakovos. When she appeared at functions such as these she often found herself wanting him at her side, escorting her to this grand function. It should have been, she thought. It should have been so long ago.
“The Kamarisi would be pleased.”
Atiana turned to find an Yrstanlan, perhaps thirty years old, standing in the doorway. Unlike so many of the visiting courtiers, he was clean-shaven, and he wore a turban with no feathers—only a simple medallion with an emerald of the deepest, purest green.
“Forgive me,” Atiana said, “but why?”
“In the capital they say Galostina offers little in the way of beauty”—he stared into her eyes, clearly enough to make his point but with a wry smile, as if waiting for some sharp rejoinder—“but it is clear to me now that they were wrong.”
Despite herself, despite thoughts of Nikandr still fading from her mind, she immediately liked him. “I thank you.” She bowed her head and touched her forehead with one hand in the manner of the Empire. “Though I doubt they’ve ever found their way as far as Kiravashya.”
He stepped back and nodded, conceding the point. “Few now ever leave Alekeşir. A pity for them; more the pleasure for me.”
“And the Kamarisi, does he ever deign to leave his enclave?”
“He does, but he has many places he must visit.” He tilted his head and shrugged. “Perhaps after this I can convince him to come here.”
“And how would you do that?”
He bowed his head with that same wry smile. “The Kamarisi’s mind is his own, but he listens to the advice of those whom he trusts.”
The man, this elegant aristocrat, became distracted as a group of women in gowns and beaded headdresses filed into the room. As he watched them weave toward their table, Atiana took him in anew. The clothes of all the visiting dignitaries were fine, but his, even if they were a bit understated, were especially so. He wore a silk jacket the color of ivory that perfectly matched his citrine pants and goldenrod belt. The emerald in the brooch pinned to his turban was of a color and clarity that marked it as an imperial stone, one that would be given only to the Kamarisi’s most trusted advisors.
“Were Bahett ül Kirdhash to whisper in my ear, I would listen as well.”
Bahett bowed his head, but did not break eye contact. “To a woman like Atiana Radieva Vostroma, I would do more than whisper.”
“Be careful, My Lord. I am not yet your wife.”
“Your words may be true”—he took her hand and kissed it quickly—“but so were mine.” With that he walked away, leaving behind the scent of amber and sandalwood.
Across the room, Ishkyna was no longer speaking with the courtier, but with the Kamarisi’s envoy himself, Sihaş ül Mehmed. He was a tall man, handsome, with a thin scar that ran through his eyebrow and down to his cheek. The scar somehow made him look more attractive, not less. He was young, only twenty-four, a year younger than the Kamarisi himself, and if word from Irabahce were to be believed, he was well trusted, the cousin to one of the Kamarisi’s wives. It was anyone’s guess why he had been sent along with Bahett, but Atiana reasoned it was because he was brash, an effective counter to Bahett’s easy style.
Ishkyna spoke with him, a glass of white wine in her hand. She reached out, glancing occasionally toward Bahett. The envoy would not know, but Ishkyna was jealous; Atiana could tell in the way she stood, the set of her jaw. She was jealous of Atiana, first of her love for Nikandr and now of Bahett. She was nearly ready to go and speak with her, but just then father arrived with Aunt Katerina, and together they began speaking with Sihaş.
Father wore an impressive kaftan of gold and red. He wore the wide golden necklace of the Grand Duke, and he held himself proudly, but there was something in his bearing—a weight that had only seemed to grow heavier these past few years, and especially as this summit with Yrstanla approached. As Aunt Katerina listened to some story from Sihaş, Father’s eyes studied the room. Anuskayan mingled with Yrstanlan. It was cordial, but Father was tense. She could tell by the way he breathed and the way his half-lidded eyes scanned the crowd, never lingering.
Atiana felt a hand at her back. She turned to find Mother standing next to her. Like Father, she was studying the gathering crowd, but unlike him, she did so with a certain amount of disinterest. And then Atiana realized that she was not merely studying the crowd, she was pointedly not looking at Atiana.
“What is it, Mother?” she asked.
Mother glanced down at her once, quickly. “Bahett is charming, is he not?”
“All the charm in the world, which should give us pause.”
“It does, Tiana, but there are times when there is little room in which to negotiate.”
Atiana looked up at her. “There’s always room to negotiate.”
“True words, daughter.” She met her gaze and smiled. “It was not an easy thing you did.”
“Agreeing to marry Bahett or telling Nikandr?”
“Both, but know this… It was the right thing to do.” She turned back to look over the contingent from Galahesh. “And don’t look so glum. Their customs are not our own, but their women are treated with respect. More, I suspect, than some of our own give the women of the Grand Duchy.” She stared meaningfully at Ishkyna, who had never been treated well by her husband.
“I know it’s needed, Mother, but…”
Mother glanced over, a suffering look on her face. “More Matri will be found, Tiana. More will be taught. Bahett is in a unique position to help all of us. Even the Khalakovos.” Mother stepped closer to her until their shoulders were nearly touching. It was the closest thing to open affection she’d ever known from her mother. “And perhaps in time Bahett will allow you to return.”
And that, Atiana thought, was as close to an admission that Mother wanted Atiana to return as she was going to get. But it was also a lie. No such thing would happen. First wife or not, a princess of the islands or not, once she was given to Bahett she would be an Yrstanlan wife, meaning she would remain in Baressa until the end of her days.
“I would li
ke that,” Atiana said while fighting back tears.
CHAPTER SIX
Atiana, skin already prickling, breath releasing in a thin white fog, stepped into the drowning basin. The ice-cold water came up to her calves. The muscles of her legs tightened like cords drying in the summer sun. The muscles along the bottoms of her feet cramped until she was able to calm herself at last. She was thinking too much about Bahett and Nikandr and not about the task at hand. She forced her muscles to relax and she took in one long breath before accepting the breathing tube offered by her young handmaid, Yalessa. When she sat in the water, she was in control, and the drowning chamber once more felt like an old friend.
“Tea?” Yalessa asked. Her hair was plaited in a circle around her head, making it look like a crown of auburn hair and bright yellow ribbon. As a handmaid, Yalessa was attentive, but she was too free with her thoughts, a habit Atiana had been trying to rid her of.
“Rosehip, I think.”
Yalessa smiled, shivering in the cold of the stone room far below the lowest levels of Palotza Galostina. “Ovolla is making her squash biscuits. Would you like some?”
Atiana smiled, shivering and lowering herself further into the water. How she used to love those biscuits. “The tea will do.”
Yalessa was a good girl, and she thought she was helping, offering Atiana something to comfort her when she returned to the world, but in reality it was dispiriting. Atiana had avoided the dark when she was young, thinking she would never come to love it, but in the years since she’d become a Matra, in name and spirit both. She had come to love the aether, and the tea upon awakening, however grounding it might be, was also a reminder of how long she would be away from the aether once more.
She lowered herself completely, allowing the water to rush over her. She did not enjoy this transition—her body still stiffened to the point of pain—but she had long since grown accustomed to it, and she had learned how to relax herself once completely submerged.
She exhaled through the tube, releasing all the breath she could manage before drawing air with a slow, measured pace. After her lungs were full near to bursting, she exhaled again and drew breath with a pace that was slower still. She repeated this several times, breathing in and out, in and out, and soon... Soon...
She drifts. Drifts from her body in the basin. Allows the currents of the aether to take her. She watches Yalessa as she frets about the room, but the souls of those scattered around the palotza, especially those she touched stones with recently, draw her upward, outward, until the entirety of the palotza—even nearby structures—fills her mind. They dance blue in the black of the aether.
The currents shift. It feels distant, however, and ancient, as if the bones of the earth are calling her from some hidden, faraway vale.
Like a spider along its web, she shifts her perception, moves subtly and swiftly toward the disturbance. Soon she finds Sayyesh, her father’s most trusted qiram, adjusting the winds to drive a skiff toward the palotza’s small, northern eyrie.
As she looks upon him, his drawing of the winds causes tufts of white smoke to drift against the deep, dark blue of the aether. The color is a telltale sign of a havaqiram. The disturbance she felt must have been him, but it didn’t feel that way.
But she can no longer sense it. Only Sayyesh.
It must have been him, she thinks.
She pulls herself away, expanding her mind and drawing upon the currents that run toward and away from the spire. She aligns herself with the spire’s tone, its pitch. Like pulling a rope taut she strengthens it, aligns the currents with the other islands in the archipelago and even beyond, to Nodhvyansk, to Dhalingrad, to Khalakovo. And to the spire at the southern end of Galahesh.
Her tasks take hours, and when she is done, she is tired, but there is time now to wander, to watch. She pulls her consciousness home, dragging herself away from the immensity of the islands. It is discomforting—such is the lure of the aether—but the aether is no child to be trifled with. She cannot linger when her mind is spread so wide. If she does she risks becoming lost, no matter how many years of experience she has in the drowning basin.
As the bulk of Galostina looms before her, she cannot help but think of Lord Bahett and his mission and the pending marriage that lies between them like a gauntlet. There are parallels with her journey to Khalakovo five years ago, but that was a marriage within the Grand Duchy—she knew from an early age to expect such things. Her pending marriage to Bahett is a thing of her own making, and yet she feels foolish, as if she is making a grave mistake, despite the benefits the marriage would bring.
She wanders to the wing the men from Yrstanla have been given. Mother declared them off-limits—they have ways of telling if they’re being spied upon, she said—but she doesn’t care. Whether it was her decision or not, she would see what sort of man he is.
As she draws closer to his room—the walls only subtly visible in the darkness of the aether—she finds him awake. He sits at a desk, a quill in his hand, but he isn’t writing, at least not at the moment. He merely taps the quill against the paper, over and over again, in a distinct rhythm, as if a concerto is playing absently in his mind.
She comes closer and reads not the flowing script of Yrstanla, but of Anuskaya. As the words register, she becomes cold—more chill than the drowning basin could ever make her.
How many nights must I wait? the words on the paper said. Come, Atiana. We must speak.
Before the words can sink in, Atiana senses another Matra nearby. She recognizes the presence immediately as Saphia. Atiana isn’t sure how long Saphia has been here, but there can be no doubt she’s read the note as well.
Atiana reaches out, strengthens their bond. Saphia could stop it at any time, but she allows it. As much as Atiana has grown over these years, Saphia has grown stronger. She was the strongest of the Matri already, but her time in the lake deep in the village of Iramanshah has somehow tempered her even further. At times, her powers seem to dwarf Atiana’s. And yet, as strong as her mind is, her body has grown frail. Just as Atiana can faintly feel her own body in the drowning chamber of Galostina, she can feel Saphia’s in the lake of Iramanshah. She is thin, weak, barely able to remain awake when she allows herself to leave the cold depths of the water.
A beautiful man, is Bahett, Saphia says.
You should not have come, Atiana replies. The others may sense you.
So you always say, but they have not once sensed me, not when I’ve meant them to look past. They are ham-fisted children, Atiana, and it’s best you come to realize that. Now come. There is something else you must see.
Atiana feels a pull on her soul. She is drawn away from Galostina, away from Kiravashya, away from Vostroma. She is pulled northward toward Galahesh. She had seen the city from the aether only once before, years ago, and only at the behest of her mother. She did not stay long because it was difficult then, but now, she is at relative ease.
There is danger, however. The aether swirls here, and the closer she comes to the straits that run through the center of the island, the more difficult it becomes, until at last she can go no further.
Yet still Saphia pulls, draws her closer. The hidden currents draw her thin, like smoke upon a growing breeze. She feels more and more of the Sea of Tabriz to the east, and the Sea of Khurkhan to the west. They are vast and deep and full of life. She knows that she’s being drawn too far, but there’s little she can do to prevent it. The aether and the storm that centers upon Galahesh have taken her.
Saphia!
She hears nothing. She feels instead the currents of the waters, the leagues that lie below. Feels the crust of the earth where it meets the impossibly dark depths. Feels the confluence as it struggles against Galahesh and the walls that stand high above the straits.
Saphia!
Slowly she feels herself drawn away from the edge. She is pulled inward, and it feels as though she is giving up a part of what she might be by doing this. The call of the aether is strong, especia
lly when one has been drawn so wide and far.
Control yourself, child.
The borders of Galahesh enter her consciousness. She holds onto this like a piece of flotsam in the sea, and finally, at last, she is able to focus herself without the supporting hand of Saphia.
Thankfully, Atiana recovers faster than she would have guessed. I am no child.
There comes a laugh, an echo of the Saphia she once knew. Perhaps you are not. Saphia guides her attention toward Baressa, the massive city that sits along the southern edge of the straits at the center of the long island. It is much stronger than it has ever been. The whorls and eddies prevent me from approaching the city for more than a few minutes at a time, and even then it is difficult.
They have always been treacherous.
They have, but it has changed. It has become more dangerous. The cycle of the aether’s tides have become erratic and unpredictable.
Why are you telling me this?
That laugh came again. Your marriage to Bahett was surely arranged by the ancients.
What do you mean?
We must understand what is happening in the dark. Arrangements have been made with Bahett for a drowning chamber in the city, though he refuses to tell us why. It is the reason, I suspect, he has written you his note. Go to him when you wake. See what it is he wishes, but by no means are you to deny him. You must reach the island, Atiana, and you must find out more.
Many times in the past several years, Atiana had felt the weight of the islands bearing down on her, but never as much as it does now. Word has come that Yrstanla, for whatever reason, has rekindled its interest in the east. It is surely why his envoy, Sihaş, has been sent when normally the Kaymakam of Galahesh alone would treat with the Grand Duchy. There is also the blight, which has lessened on Khalakovo and Rhavanki, but has grown worse on Vostroma and Nodhvyansk and Bolgravya. Atiana’s father spreads the wealth of the duchies as well as he can, and he treats with the Empire to make up the rest, but it is always too little. The widespread hunger sparked riots all across the islands at different times of the year, and rumors of revolution are heard more and more among the streets of every city in the Grand Duchy. Some of the more fortunate islands, like Mirkotsk and Lhudansk, have even spoken of ceding from the Anuskaya, acts that would spell complete ruin whether they succeeded in their attempts or not.
The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya Page 6
