“When I was what?”
Atiana stared, trying desperately to hide her fear.
Saphia pulled herself higher in her chair, staring down at Atiana with cold, piercing eyes. “When I was what?”
“When you were preparing to assume the boy.”
As Atiana laid there, she felt as if Saphia could lay her bare with little more than her will and a cold stare. “You understand, Atiana”—she let the words fall between them like a gauntlet—“it would be unwise to repeat such a thing...”
“I do, Matra.”
“The damage it could cause Khalakovo is immeasurable.”
“Of course, Matra. I would never think of mentioning it.”
“Yet you did, here, with me.”
“Of course. It was something you needed to know.”
Her voice lost some of its edge. “You were speaking of Iramanshah.”
“Da,” Atiana said, pausing to regain her composure. “I’ve thought on it much. The narrowing is related to all of these events. If I could take the dark once more, knowing what I know now, I’m sure I could find more.”
“Knowing what you know now...”
“Da, Matra.”
“Nyet. Rest. Regain your strength. When that is done, we will speak again of the dark.”
She rang a bell sitting on the table next to her, a signal that Atiana’s audience was at an end. Atiana knew already that Saphia, despite her promise to speak again of the dark, would never allow her to enter it again.
But Atiana needed to. If she was ever going to find out what was happening on Khalakovo, she would have to do so outside the walls of Radiskoye.
Olgana entered the room, preparing to take Saphia away, and Atiana realized she could not remain in this room and have any chance of escape.
“Please, Matra,” Atiana said as Olgana reached Saphia’s chair.
Saphia held up one hand, forestalling Olgana.
“This room weighs upon me, more than you can know.” She motioned to the dark, stone walls around her. “If I am to recover, I would see the sun.”
Saphia considered the room before resting her steely gaze on Atiana once more.
“Let it not be said that the Khalakovos do not repay their debts.” She waved her hand, and Olgana wheeled her around and steered her toward the door. “You will have your old rooms back.”
Days later, Atiana stood at the windows of the room she’d been prom-ised—the ones her family had been given upon their arrival—and drew back the curtains to stare out into the southern gardens. The sun had yet to rise, but its light could be seen on the horizon, pale yellow against the indigo sky. The windows opened to allow air to flow in those rare days of summer, but she could easily use them to leave the confines of her room. That would only deliver her into the garden, but the garden was all she needed.
After waiting for the pair of guardsmen to pass her window, she unlatched the window and opened it. It swung open soundlessly. She had tested it the day before, and after finding a light squeak she had used the rendered fat from her dinner of roasted chicken to grease the hinges.
She swung herself outside, mindful of the river rock that sat in the flower bed beneath the window. She slipped to the nearby hedges, watching the guardsmen along the wall. Their attention was turned outward, however— after the attack, they were still wary of a threat from the outside.
Moving as quickly as she dared, she made her way to the place where Nikandr had come with his dog, Berza. She had forgotten about the path that led down from the palotza to the cliffs below, but when she had kneeled next to Nikandr that day, consoling him for what her brother had done, she had noticed the uppermost reaches of it and remembered.
She moved through two squat, gray boulders to the thin path. She turned along the first of the switchbacks, feeling the wind press her against the stone face of the cliff before turning sideways and threatening to pull her from it entirely. The wind played tricks—as much for her as for the ships that found themselves too close to it—but she continued at a fast pace, unable to believe her luck.
Don’t count yourself lucky yet, Tiana, she told herself. There’s still a ways to go.
Nearly an hour later, she came to the end of the trail. It ended some hundred feet above the surface of the waves. Years ago, it had continued on all the way down to the sea itself, but the Khalakovos had considered it not useful enough to repair when a quake had ripped away a good portion of it. That only served to help her cause; no one would think to search for her here, thinking her incapable of braving the waters below.
Indeed. As she stared downward—the water churning, white and frothing with rage—she found herself doubting. Doubting that she could jump. Doubting that she could rise to the surface. Doubting that she could make her way westward to the shore and arrive in Volgorod unseen.
This was foolish, she thought. Why risk such a thing just to speak with a woman whom she wasn’t sure she could trust? Would Rehada help? Would she be able to help?
Perhaps, Atiana thought, and perhaps not, but she had to try, and all that stood in her way was the drop from this cliff.
The wind picked up, blowing scree against the side of her face. It bit her skin. Stung her neck.
She stared at the waves, crashing in unending rhythms. Her breath came quickly, and desperately.
She stared up, wondering if it were too late to return.
And then a bell began to ring, over and over, the alarm that she’d escaped.
She stared down, taking a full breath, releasing it slowly.
I can do this, she thought. I am a Matra, in mind if nothing else. I have taken the dark, and I have braved the currents beyond this world to return whole. If I can do that, I can brave the waters of this world.
“Ancients protect me,” she whispered.
And she leapt.
She arced downward with increasing pace, the sound of the surf breaking against her ears.
And then she crashed against the surface of the water.
CHAPTER 42
As the sun began to rise, the bell at Rehada’s door jingled. It rang again, and once more by the time she had managed to rub the sleep from her eyes and pull on her robe and make her way down the creaking stairs. When she opened the door, she stared, dumbfounded.
By the fates who live above...
Soroush had been right. No other than Atiana Radieva Vostroma stood before her, wearing a beaten woolen szubka around her shoulders and a simple cotton babushka to hide the color of her hair. She looked exhausted. The skin of her face was grimy with dirt. She was shivering from head to toe, yet she seemed hesitant to ask Rehada for entry.
“Come,” Rehada said, stepping out into the quiet street and guiding her in with an arm around her shoulder. “You’ll catch the hacking for sure, dressed as you are.”
She guided her to the sitting room, in the center of which was a mound of pillows. There were two chairs beneath the small round windows set high into the wall, but Atiana chose to sit among the pillows instead. Rehada guessed it was a ploy to put her more at ease—few women among the Landed gentry would do what she had just done—but she still gave her a small nod of approval before moving to the cart that held the liquor.
Rehada poured two glasses of vodka and diluted them with cider. “There have been riots,” Rehada said while holding the glass out.
Atiana accepted it. “I was careful.” She took a healthy swallow and swished the liquid around her mouth before downing the rest in one big gulp.
Rehada sat, sipping at her own drink. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”
“You nearly didn’t...”
“Why? What happened?”
Atiana shook her head, pulling the babushka off with a look that Rehada could only describe as defeated. “I—I’ve come because of the rift. We both know it’s the cause of the deaths—the children, the babies. What I don’t understand is why it’s happening or how we can halt its progression.”
“Why do you ca
re? Surely at this point you could leave and summon your father’s ships to save you.”
“I care because what happens here could happen anywhere. Vostroma, Yrstanla, Rafsuhan. Anywhere.”
Rehada looked this woman up and down, trying to weigh the truth of her words. The defeated look in Atiana’s eyes was gone. She stared back resolutely, and more than that—she seemed hopeful, as if something she had long considered out of her grasp had been placed before her and was now there for the taking. She seemed, Rehada finally conceded, sincere, and so she answered in the only way she could.
“What would you have me do?”
“I need to take the dark. With Radiskoye no longer an option, Iramanshah is all I can think of, but I’m afraid they will think me a spy and refuse me access. I need you to help.”
“That seems a simple thing.”
“There is more.” Atiana stood and poured herself another drink—no cider this time. “Nasim...” Her words trailed off, as if she were considering whether or not the line behind which she was standing should be crossed.
“Go on,” Rehada said softly.
“During the attack, he seized the Matra as easily as I would a moth and held her for days. He nearly killed her. I managed to turn his attention elsewhere, and I did it by pushing on the walls of the aether.”
Rehada frowned. “Pushing?”
“The babe that died... The same thing happened then—the feeling that the walls were closing in—and it happened again when I took the dark in Iramanshah.” Atiana shook her head while staring into the clear contents of her glass. “It is the key to these things—I feel it in my bones—but I need to take the dark again to unravel it.”
Rehada paused. “I am not a woman trusted in the halls of Iramanshah.”
“I know,” she replied, “but they will trust you in this. They must.”
Rehada wondered how much of this Soroush had seen.
Probably little, but he had always been one to listen to the signs around him, to heed them when they came. He was also one to put himself in a place to hear them, and she wondered if she could ever commit to the cause the way he had.
Probably not, she realized, but she could do this at least.
“Then come, Atiana Radieva. Come with me to Iramanshah, and we shall see what we shall see.”
The sound of gunfire lit the afternoon sky as they prepared to leave. Rehada had changed into sensible clothing, and Atiana already looked enough like a peasant—especially with her hair hidden—so they decided it best to leave her in the stolen, threadbare clothes she’d been wearing when she arrived. Rehada had no hezhan bound to her. She had released hers only the night before. Though she might have taken another, it would have been difficult, and she could not risk showing any propensity toward violence in front of Atiana. She could not risk revealing that she was Maharraht.
And besides, Rehada thought, it was probably best not to draw attention by wearing her circlet on a day like today. They would simply be two women, traveling out of the city toward the south of Uyadensk.
As they opened the door, two flatbed wagons trundled down the street, headed toward the center of the city, toward the sound of the fighting.
Rehada closed the door again, peering through the crack in the door to watch them. On the beds were a dozen men bearing crude weapons—long knives, scythes, pitchforks. Only a handful bore muskets, but these were the men that watched the buildings around them most closely, as if they expected to be attacked, or were perhaps looking for those that might run to the Boyar to report their location.
When they turned further up the street, Rehada led Atiana in the other direction, but she had been paying too much attention to the wagons. If she had been watching more closely, she would have seen the two men standing in the shadows down the street.
When she did see them, she already knew it was too late.
“Quickly,” Rehada whispered as they turned right and began heading downhill toward the river.
Atiana said nothing. She had seen them too.
When they reached the end of the alley, Rehada dared one look back.
The men had reached the mouth of the alley. They were moving quickly now.
“Run,” Rehada said.
They did, moving as quickly downhill as they dared. The stone buildings—mostly homes with small shops at the lower floors—were all two and three stories. One had a low stone wall fencing the yard and an iron gate. She leapt over the wall and grabbed a round stone. After motioning Atiana to duck down, she launched the rock across the street, down an alley that forked some twenty paces down.
She ducked down low, pulling Atiana with her, as she heard the heavy footsteps of the men approaching and the clatter of the stone as it skipped down the alley.
The soft pad of boots came nearer.
Atiana’s eyes were wide, and her chest was heaving with her rapid breath, but she seemed to have her wits about her. From inside the voluminous sleeve of her szubka, Atiana pulled a rusted kindjal. It looked worn, but its edge gleamed in the late afternoon light. She stared into Rehada’s eyes, making it clear she would fight if needed. Perhaps she was not so callow as she had seemed that time on the beach.
Rehada placed a hand on her wrist as the footsteps approached. In the distance, the sound of the river could be heard as the summer melt rushed toward the sea. Voices roaring in anger rose above it.
Then, without warning, the footsteps receded, and were gone altogether.
“Come,” Rehada said.
They were up and off once more. They raced downhill, and reached the river in short order. They stopped at the bridge that crossed it, for further uphill there was a crowd on another, larger bridge. They were stacking barrels beneath it, near the supports. They were stacking gunpowder, Rehada realized. They were going to destroy the bridge—one of the largest that crossed the river and the one used often by the Oprichni as they headed east to patrol the city.
Rehada whirled at the sound of men speaking in low voices. She thought it would be the streltsi, but she was wrong. It was a group of peasants hauling a hand-pulled cart. In the bed were three wooden casks containing what was most likely gunpowder.
Atiana took Rehada’s hand and began walking back up the way they’d come, but they stopped once more when they saw, coming toward them, the two guardsmen.
Rehada turned and began walking swiftly across the bridge.
“Stop, there,” came a voice behind her.
Rehada ran, Atiana following. Below, over the low stone wall, the Mordova coursed, creating a rush of sound.
Footsteps followed close on their heels.
A gunshot rang out. Rehada glanced behind and saw one of the guardsmen pointing a pistol at the nearby group of men, who looked on not with fear, but open hatred.
Rehada and Atiana managed to cross the river, to make it deeper into the city. The lowering sun sat behind a thick layer of clouds, casting the city in a pall, but it wasn’t so dark that they could easily hide. Plus their pursuers were close behind and gaining. They were eventually caught as they reached a narrow intersection crowded on all sides by tall stone buildings. Rehada was yanked back by her arm. She tried to free herself, then to push him away with her free hand, but he shrugged off her attacks.
Atiana had pulled her kindjal, and was facing her assailant warily. “We don’t wish to hurt you,” Atiana said.
The strelet lunged forward, but Atiana skipped backward and slashed at his wrist. He snatched his hand back, a thread of blood marking his wrist.
“You won’t be harmed,” the strelet said.
Atiana shook her head. “I’m a simple woman from Izhny, come to meet with my friend. Why would you chase us?”
The man paused, stood up straighter, confused. He looked to the other, as if he were considering her words.
“Watch him!” Rehada shouted, but too late.
Quick as a mongoose he darted in, twisting away from Atiana’s sharp thrust. In a blink he was inside her guard and leveri
ng her arm behind her back. Atiana screamed and the kindjal clattered against the cobbled street with a metallic ting.
“Don’t do this,” Atiana pleaded. “Tell them you weren’t able to find us. I’ll make both of you rich men.”
From the shadows of the alley they’d run down, the group of men were walking forward. Two were holding pistols, another a musket, and all of them were eying the streltsi with cruel eyes that spoke of emotion that had been bottled up inside for months, years—emotion ready to burst forth now that the blight had placed its heel upon their throat.
The strelet holding Atiana turned her toward them and backed up. “By the authority of your Duke, I order you to stand down.”
“Not this day,” an older man with graying hair said. Rehada recognized him. His name was Kirill. He was a butcher in the poorest part of Volgorod that also ran a drug den. He was not a man Rehada would wish to be rescued by. “You’ll be allowed to go unharmed, but you’ll not be taking them.”
“We are on the Duke’s business,” the strelet said, raising his pistol to point at the man. The other strelet did the same.
“One’s fired,” Kirill said, “leaving one shot between the two of you.”
Without speaking, the two streltsi began backing up.
Kirill angled his pistol lower, toward Rehada’s legs, and fired. The shot echoed in the cramped space as the strelet holding Rehada screamed. He tightened his grip around Rehada’s neck, favoring his right side.
“I said you’ll not be taking them.”
The men behind him fanned out. The one with the musket raised his weapon to his shoulder and sighted along the length of it. Rehada was reasonably sure he was aiming at the strelet’s head, but she was not so sure of his aim, nor of the strelet’s reaction if he sensed the man was about to fire.
“That one you can have,” the strelet holding Atiana said, motioning to Rehada, “but this one will be coming with us.”
Kirill paused at this, studying Rehada and Atiana in turn, but then he shook his head. “Nyet—”
The Winds of Khalakovo Page 33
