Returning to the lessons drummed into her so many years ago, she attunes herself with the spire. Her soul reverberates against its power. It drives her. She feels the whorls and eddies around the island. They are strong, but it is not so difficult to amplify them, to focus it southwest toward the spire on Duzol, and the two beyond that on Grakhosk and Yfa, and eastward to the other islands in Khalakovo. Soon, like a spider on her web, she is in tune with all seven spires, strengthening them, guiding the currents of aether among them. It is something that Saphia does without thinking, but for Atiana, it takes minutes, hours.
Some time later-she knows not how long-a whorl appears.
So lost is she in her task that she doesn’t recognize the source, but soon she comes to realize it is not so far from where she lies, nearly frozen, deep beneath the palotza.
She propels herself southwest of Volgorod, along the coast, beyond the eyrie and toward the shifting currents. She hovers outside a home sitting near the shoreline, hidden in a strip of forest. It is nearly black among the thin currents of the aether, and inside there is a woman, bright blue, nearly white. She kneels before a cradle, staring down at the babe lying within it. Though Atiana can hear no sounds, it is clear the tiny girl is crying-her mouth wide open, her eyes puffy, no doubt from the sheer intensity and duration of her fit. The babe’s imprint in the aether, like her mother’s, like all creatures of this plane, is blue, but there is a tinge of yellow, lending her a greenish tint.
Curious, Atiana floats closer, sensing a hunger from the child, a hatred. She has no idea how this could be, or why, but she does know one thing.
As surely as the wind blows, this child is dying.
CHAPTER 23
Though the child is dying, Atiana is powerless to prevent it.
The woman picks up the child and holds her against her bared breast, but the child will have nothing to do with it. The mother holds the babe tight and rocks her, shushes at her ear, but it helps not at all.
Mother, she calls. Mother, please hear me.
There is no response. She tries to reach Saphia, but she is asleep and will remain so for hours, perhaps even a day or more.
Currents swirl around the darkening babe. She is tainted blue still, and a tinge of green remains, but she is fading to midnight, the color of the stout brick walls or the thick pine beams running along the ceiling.
Pressure builds around Atiana. She feels tight, crowded. She is new to the currents of the dark. She knows this. But she knows that this should not be. The aether, though it stands between the worlds, is not bounded in such ways. Adhiya’s presence can be seen, but it cannot be felt. The same is true of Erahm. What then, could be pressing in on her so?
The pressure becomes worse. She feels constricted, choked, feels as though the breath is being pressed from her slowly but surely.
And then, as the light from the babe fades altogether, the feeling is gone.
She is unable to focus on these feelings, for she is too caught up with the emotions that are clear on the face of the mother.
Though she may not realize it yet, she holds a dead child. It is all Atiana can do not to call out. She might try to touch the woman, to give her some indication of what has happened, but before she can the woman realizes. She shakes the babe-not violently, but enough to wake a sleeping child. She begins to cry, and she shakes her daughter harder. She holds her up, listening for signs of life.
Then she leans her head back and unleashes her pain to the fates. She hugs the babe to her chest, tenderly yet fiercely, her whole body wracking from the realization.
Atiana feels ashamed that she cannot share in the woman’s grief. She watches for a long time, wishing she could have helped in some small way, but in the end she can no longer stomach the limitations of the aether, and she pulls away.
When Atiana woke, it was not like waking after a full night’s sleep, nor was it like stirring from a lazy daydream-it was more like those dreams she had had as a child where she was standing at the edge of the tall black cliffs near Vostroma’s palotza, staring down at the churning sea, her stomach bubbling with a mixture of excitement and fear. She was convinced in those dreams she could fly, though it would still take her long minutes to summon the courage to leap into the air like the wide-winged gulls flying far below her. Her stomach would lift as she plummeted, and she would wake with a gut-churning jolt to find herself sitting stock upright, breathing deeply in the cold air of the bedroom she shared with her sisters.
So it was now as she sat upright in the drowning chamber, frigid water splashing around her. She fully expected to find herself in the darkness of Galostina, but of course she did not. She was somewhere else entirely.
The light of the nearby fire was low, yet she was forced to clench her eyes in order to bear it. It took Atiana long moments-her eyes tearing and blinking involuntarily-until she realized Victania was sitting on a chair close to the fireplace. She was watching Atiana, silent, her face devoid of emotion.
And then the past came rushing back. The Matra’s summons. Her request. Atiana’s eventual capitulation.
Already her time in the dark was fading, a dream that only moment ago had been reality. As she had been taught, she began reliving the moments backwards, so that one link in the chain would reveal the next, and the next. It worked to a degree, but she was unable to remember everything. There was something crucial missing. Something terribly disturbing.
Her eyes began to acclimate.
“Do you require help?” Victania asked, her voice echoing against the harsh stone walls.
It was insulting, what Victania had just done. She knew as well as any that those who had just surfaced from the dark required help. Her question was an attempt to make Atiana feel small.
Atiana shook her head while struggling to gain her feet. The water dripped noisily from her arms and hair and breasts as she steadied herself on the basin’s stone walls. Her legs could hardly support her weight and her arms were little better. She stepped out onto the granite floor, and her knee buckled. She fell to the floor, her head crashing hard against the stone.
Victania was at her side in a moment, helping her to her feet. As Atiana steadied herself, Victania held out a handtowel, a brief look of regret on her face. When Atiana did not accept it, she motioned with it toward Atiana’s head. “You’re bleeding.”
Atiana took it, wincing as she pressed it against the lump that was already forming. Victania, using a large white cloth, scrubbed the goat’s fat economically from Atiana’s naked frame. Then she helped Atiana into a thick woolen robe.
It was warm-almost too warm after the bottomless cold of the water. Atiana’s skin began to prickle, but she let it, for it was a welcome tether to reality.
Victania motioned to the Matra’s padded chair, then made her way to the hearth, where a kettle hung from an iron hook. Using a thick woolen mitt, she poured steaming tea into the lone cup that waited on a wooden table. She raised one eyebrow when she realized Atiana hadn’t moved to take the offered seat. “She gave her permission if that’s what you’re worried about.”
It felt presumptuous to even consider taking Saphia’s chair, but she didn’t have it in her to do battle in her weakened state, so she sat and accepted the tea that Victania offered her.
Victania resumed her seat. She sat rigidly upright, as if it pained her to lean back in the chair. Atiana wondered if there were any position that would offer her comfort. She looked haunted from the wasting. Saphia might seem frail, but there was a silent strength to her, while Victania looked as if she were being eaten from the inside, as if her inner structure was now hollow and the next thing to go would be her thin and crumbling shell. One small bout with a cold, Atiana thought, and she would not be long for this world. She would have felt sorry if Victania didn’t lord herself over Atiana at every opportunity.
“You were gone quite a long time,” Victania said.
Atiana sipped from the sweet tea. The warmth of the liquid trailed down into her gu
t. It was too much, too soon, and her stomach rebelled. “How long?” She asked, setting the cup down.
“You’ve been under for well over a day.”
Atiana shook her head. It didn’t seem possible. “More than a day?”
“ Da. A passable length of time.” Was there a bit of envy in her voice? “What did you find?”
Atiana opened her mouth to speak, but she found that she could remember nothing. Her memories had already been muddled the moment she woke, but the shock of finding Victania here, the pressure of being questioned after her awakening, had caused her to forget.
“I don’t remember,” she admitted.
Victania took her in, from her bare feet to her head, a prim look of disgust on her face. “Think.”
She tried. She recalled the last few moments in the aether, as well as a strong feeling of discomfort, of grief, but the more she tried to pin the memories down, the more focused she became on the simple act of wakening.
“My mother, the Matra, asked you here to take the dark. Did they teach you so little-”
“Stop,” Atiana said. That one word, mother, had brought about the glimmer of memories.
“-the first thing you do-”
“Silence!”
Atiana glanced around the room, struggling to hold on to the faint memory of a mother holding her child. “There was a babe”-her words were practically a whisper-“in Volgorod.”
Victania watched carefully, but held her tongue.
Atiana shivered. Her eyes watered. She had not known the woman, but the aether made things seem more personal and emotional than they would have been under the light of the sun. She had felt, not that she was the woman, but that she had as much at stake in that child as the mother did. It was personal, and stepping out from under the aether’s spell had done nothing to lessen the feelings.
She told Victania the story, slowly, for the words came in fits and starts, and she feared if she spoke too quickly, it would all come out in one tearful gout. When she was done, she was finally able to meet Victania’s eyes. There was no shock in Victania’s expression, no sense that anything Atiana had said was new information.
“You know of this…” Atiana said softly.
“It has been happening for months.”
“To babes?”
“ Nyet. To the old, to the sick. It was only a matter of time before the young were affected too. Children will be next. And then…”
Victania didn’t have to finish. They both knew what was at stake. The blight had started by affecting the health of their crops, their game. Why wouldn’t it move on to the very people that inhabited the islands?
“Does my mother know this?”
“Of course.”
“Then why hasn’t she told me?”
“Because this news cannot be spread. The people look to us for protection.
There are already weekly disturbances in Volgorod, and scattered incidents in Tuyal and Erotsk and Izhny. How long do you think it would be before there are riots in the streets? How long before they march on Radiskoye to demand that we shelter them?”
Not long at all, Atiana thought, but it still hurt to be marked as an untrustworthy by her own mother. Then again, she had never shown the least bit of interest in taking the dark, nor in matters of politics-why would Mother trust her with the information?
Why would Saphia?
It was a clear sign of just how desperate things had become when the Matra of Khalakovo had been forced into depending on Atiana for the protection of her Duchy.
“There must be something we can do,” Atiana said.
Victania shook her head. “There is nothing, nothing save coming here to lend us your strength, to continue to give the Matra her needed rest during these troubled times.”
CHAPTER 24
Nikandr trudged up the stairs, fighting off another yawn, as crisp footsteps rose in volume behind him. “You didn’t think you’d be allowed to lay your head down, did you?”
Nikandr turned and found Ranos on the stairs below him. He looked to his left, to his room near the end of the long hall, dearly wishing he could just ignore his brother and get some sleep. The last few days felt jumbled, like all the minutes of all the hours spent in the donjon with Ashan and Nasim were piled on top of one another, none of them distinguishable from the others. It didn’t help that he and Jahalan had made no real progress. Ashan claimed that Nasim couldn’t have been involved in the summoning of the suurahezhan, though he also admitted that he hadn’t been there when it happened. Nikandr’s focus had been to find ways to reach Nasim, to find out what might have happened that day, and though Ashan was forthcoming about the tricks he used to reach Nasim, none of them had so far worked. Nasim was more cipher than boy.
“What might I do for the Boyar of Uyadensk?” Nikandr asked, bowing his head in mock sincerity.
“Put on your uniform, Nischka, and come with me.”
Nikandr took his brother in again. He was wearing his suit of office: the uniform of the Boyar. He ran to his room and retrieved his own, pulling it on as quickly as he could manage. “What’s happening?” he asked as he fell into step alongside Ranos.
“The Aramahn… They have come once again to petition for the boy’s release.”
“Why would that require my presence?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
They made their way to the first level of the palotza and traveled a long hallway to a chamber where Father held audience for matters of state. Dozens of Aramahn were waiting outside. Nikandr assumed they would shortly be allowed inside to speak with Father, but he was mistaken. When he opened the Duke’s entrance, he found the room packed wall-to-wall with robed Aramahn. There were some he recognized, but most he did not. This was not strange in itself given their transient nature, but the sheer number of them was. He had never seen so many of them in one place. Even in Iramanshah, large gatherings were rare, many of them preferring to meditate or to converse in small groups. They were an isolated lot, and this solidarity was troubling.
At the head of the room was a raised table with a dozen chairs facing the audience. Father’s secretary was calling the room to order. The array of men were seated: Father first, Pavol Andreyov, Polkovnik of the Streltsi, Veliky Pytorov, Admiral of the Staaya, Ranos and the four posadni of Uyadensk, and finally Nikandr.
“Who comes?” Father asked.
At the front of the crowd stood the seven mahtar of Iramanshah, all of them aged and venerable, their time among the winds behind them. Fahroz stood at the center, the honored position, and when the sounds of the gavel died away, she stepped forward. Her eyes mirrored the fiery layers of her robes, which were colored a deep orange. “My name is Fahroz Bashar al Lilliah.”
“State your cause.”
“We have come to petition for the release of Ashan Kida al Ahrumea and Nasim an Ashan.”
“Both are being held in the investigation of the death of Grand Duke Stasa Olegov Bolgravya.”
“As we well know, Duke Khalakovo. What we do not know is what gave the Duchy cause to suspect them and what has been discovered since.”
“As I’m sure you understand,” Father said in a rote manner, “with an investigation such as this is, our findings cannot at this time be shared.”
“ Cannot or will not?”
A murmur ran through the crowd, and Father stiffened, striking the gavel several times until order was resumed.
“ Will not.”
“Under the terms of the Covenant-”
“I know well the dictates of the Covenant, but it clearly allows us to defend ourselves against threats to the Grand Duchy.”
“You speak, of course, of the threat the suurahezhan represents, that it could very well have been summoned and sent by one of our own.”
Father remained silent.
“I will assume your silence, My Lord Duke, to mean assent. What I believe you fail to understand is that we are just as concerned. We are not so naive as to think that the
Aramahn are incorruptible. Far from it. We have only to look to the Maharraht to find examples. And so I hope you will share what you know so that we can assist, so that we can root out the infection in our midst before it spreads.”
Father was quiet for a time. Fahroz was speaking as if she believed the assumption that the Aramahn had been involved-in this lay her only hope to sway Father-but everyone in the room knew this was a sham. She was not lying, but she was trying to coax Father into sharing the information in any way she could or, failing that, make the entire Duchy look foolish for refusing.
“Your request is noted but denied.”
“We urge you to reconsider.”
“Noted,” Father said.
Fahroz nodded, as if she’d expected this answer. “We have been generous up to this point-”
Father knocked the gavel thrice. “ Generous?”
Fahroz bowed her head respectfully, but this only seemed to raise Father’s hackles.
“Consider it generous that I haven’t tossed the lot of you from these halls for coming here daily. Consider it generous that Ashan hasn’t been summarily hung based on the evidence we already have. Consider it generous that we grant you gems for communion.” Father stood, his face turning red. “But do not enter these halls and tell me that you have been generous with me.”
Fahroz bowed her head again.“Generous, indeed, and so we will grant you time to reconsider. But take care, Duke. If too many suns rise without clear evidence against Ashan or Nasim, we will ask that all Aramahn refuse your generous gifts of gems, your generous offer of travel aboard your windships, your generous acceptance of our presence on these islands.”
Father leaned down and slammed the gavel fiercely against the block as the din of the crowd rose to new heights. “Do not presume to threaten.”
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