While they ate, Soroush told them of the miserable islands he’d taken breath on during his first circuit of the world, how he moved slowly from desolate island to desolate island, accepting rides on skiffs occasionally from Aramahn who had taken to the winds to circuit the world.
Atiana tore off a strip of juicy meat from the thigh of the hare. “When did you first take to the winds?”
“When I was twelve. My mother left us when I was seven. I remained with my father for five more years until the calling finally convinced me to leave him. Truthfully, though, I felt it years earlier.”
Atiana knew of their practices, of leaving their children when they were as young as seven or eight to do as they would, but it never failed to surprise her when she heard the tales. “He simply left you on an island in the middle of the seas?”
Soroush waggled his head while using his fingers to scoop hamma, a bean paste spiced with paprika and cumin and the sour seeds of a wizened fruit Goeh had found for them, into his mouth. “He didn’t leave me, not as you mean it. I asked him to go. It was time.”
“Were there others there?”
Soroush shook his head. “Looking back now, it was perhaps a foolish decision. The islands to the east of Anuskaya are mostly barren. There are birds. There are fish. And little else. Only when you near the western border of Yrstanla is there game to speak of.” He shrugged. “But I wished to be alone, and I wished for it to be so as long as the fates saw fit.”
“Meaning what?” Goeh asked, pausing from ravenous bites he was taking from his own pieces of hare.
“Meaning I had no way off the island.”
Atiana stared, unbelieving, but the look on Soroush’s face made it clear he wasn’t joking. “Did your father return for you?”
“Neh, nor did I wish him to. I learned much on that island”—he looked more deeply into Atiana’s eyes while the firelight glimmered in his eyes—“not the least of which was patience.”
Atiana finished her food and set the bones roughly aside. “I would never leave a child of twelve on an island by himself, much less my own son.”
Ushai, who had been sitting quietly and watching the exchange with an amused glint in her eye, sat up straighter. “That’s the difference between us,” she said. “The Aramahn allow the world to come to them while the Landed wish to take it. The trouble is, the world cares not for your desire to own it. It laughs at you, while we learn.”
Atiana stared into Ushai’s wide, striking eyes. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a short braid. She wore an Aramahn dress—simple in cut, the cloth dyed the subtle shades of lavender and amethyst. To Atiana it looked like a mask, as if every day she were hiding her true nature as Maharraht and that some day soon she would remove it and stab Atiana in the chest, grinning as she did so.
“And what do you learn by killing?” Atiana asked her.
She had expected remorse from Ushai—some token amount—but in this she was disappointed. Ushai stood, throwing the strip of bark she’d been chewing into the fire. “You learn much from death, Atiana of Vostroma. And you should know. But you and your Landed brothers and sisters are too busy to do even that, aren’t you?”
Atiana stood as well, and faced Ushai as her fingers flexed. “We are not proud of death.”
“Neh.” Ushai spat on the ground between them. “Only of the spoils.”
“Enough!” Soroush stood and stepped between them. He took Ushai by the elbow and led her away. Ushai went, but ripped her arm from Soroush’s grip. She glanced back once and stared into Atiana’s eyes.
The venom Atiana saw there…
Why were they allowing her to continue on this journey? Whether she was born in Kohor or not, they didn’t need such an abscess in their midst.
Atiana smoothed down her dress and looked to Goeh, who’d been watching the exchange with a steadily growing unease, but as he studied Atiana, his expression calmed and he smiled awkwardly. “Off to find your sister?”
Atiana nodded. “If she’s there to be found.”
“Then I bid you luck.”
As she was heading downslope, she came across Nikandr. He stopped, watching her carefully. He’d seen the exchange. He’d heard it.
She didn’t care. She walked up to him and grabbed his head with both her hands and pulled him into a long kiss.
She loved Nikandr—she felt this more passionately than she had at any time since leaving the islands—and she knew that deep down, beneath the black layer of yearning he wore around his shoulders like a mantle, he felt the same. He had not lost his love for her. It had merely been smothered by his feelings of loss.
She felt the tension release from him like rain. He melted in her hands. He placed his hands tenderly on her hips, kissed her as deeply as she was kissing him. He didn’t understand why she was doing this—how could he?—but he was allowing his feelings for her to rise to the surface.
She could drown in this. She wished it would go on forever, but she knew that it wouldn’t. This kiss would fade. His feelings would fade. And all too soon he would return to his brooding self, once again a prisoner to the knife that had cut his ties to Nasim and to Adhiya.
Unless she did something about it.
At last she pushed him away, the perfect seal on their lips parting with a smack, and she stared into his eyes.
“You must come back to me,” she said, still holding his head in her hands. “You must come back.” She moved one hand down to his shoulder. The other she placed over his heart. “I know you feel pain. I know that the loss of Nasim is like having a child ripped from your arms. I can’t pretend to understand it, but I know this, Nischka. If you continue as you have, you will die. You will lose yourself to the ache that you’ve been nurturing since the Spar was shattered.”
His eyes had slipped down to her hand that was now over his beating heart, but she shook his shoulder until he looked her in the eyes once more. “I’m here. I love you. Let me help, because I’ll not see you throw your life away.”
“I’m not—”
She put her hand over his lips. “Say nothing now, Nischka. Think on this carefully before speaking of it again.”
He stared deeply into her eyes and nodded. “I will.”
And with that she walked away.
She walked downslope, taking a different path than the one Soroush and Ushai had taken. After minutes of walking she came to a place with an outcropping of rock just off the trail that overlooked the valley below. She moved to this rock and sat, dangling her legs over the side, allowing her feelings of anger for Ushai and her ache for Nikandr to play themselves out. All the while she wondered if the Haelish woman, Aelwen, would come as she’d promised. Atiana wondered if Aelwen could find them so easily, but the proof was in their last meeting. She’d known, somehow, where Atiana would be. She’d known that Atiana would be alone as well.
Had she truly used her blood to see her own future? To see Atiana’s as well? She said the Haelish saw paths, many paths, and it was up to them to determine the right one. Or perhaps guide others so that the right one was chosen. Is this what the wodjan was doing with her? Manipulating her to find a certain path, one that she and her sisters had determined was the right one?
The right one for whom, Atiana wondered, Hael or Anuskaya?
Perhaps both, she thought. She hoped it was both.
“Tsss.”
Atiana looked behind her, unsure which direction the sound had come from.
“Tsss.”
She looked down and saw a vague outline in the dark. It was Aelwen, standing on the trail only a short drop from where she sat. How had she snuck up without Atiana seeing?
“Come,” Aelwen said.
Without a word, Atiana got up, walked down the trail, and followed. They walked until they came to the trough of the valley, and then Aelwen stepped off the trail and into a low cave. Atiana stopped at the entrance. For a moment the scattered brush in the immediate vicinity, the squat and heavyset trees, looked as t
hough they were hiding the enemy. But why would they be? Aelwen hadn’t brought them last time, and she had no reason to do so now.
Atiana ducked down and entered.
Inside was a space no larger than the interior of a coach. At the center of it was a dying fire that glowed a dull red. Two small rugs sat on either side of the fire, and on one of them was a brass censer and a knife no longer than the span of Atiana’s hand. The hilt of the knife was made of braided gold. It had the look of age about it, as if not just Aelwen had used it, but her mother and grandmother as well.
“Sit,” Aelwen said as she moved to the empty carpet.
Atiana complied, sitting with her legs folded under her. She did not touch the censer, nor the knife.
“Are the servants of the Kamarisi close?”
“Not close,” Aelwen said, “but not far.”
“You could lead them away from us, couldn’t you?”
“I could.”
“Will you?”
Aelwen’s face was dark under the ruddy light of the coals. “Is that why you came? To convince me to lead the janissaries away?”
Atiana took a deep breath and released it slowly. “I don’t know why I’ve come.”
Aelwen motioned to the knife and censer. “You’ve come to open a door.”
The knife’s blade glinted. “I suppose I have.”
“Then take it up, Atiana of Anuskaya. Take up the knife and put the censer before you.”
Atiana did, feeling as though she were betraying her mother, Radia, and her grandmother, Anastasa, by the mere act of it. Such things had never been taught in the halls of Anuskaya, nor would they ever be. And perhaps for good reason. This not only felt like she was betraying the tradition of the Matri, it felt as though she were giving Aelwen power over her. She hoped it wasn’t so—she would be careful to watch for any sign of it—but if this was something that might help her, or the others, she had to try it.
“Cut,” Aelwen said, “here.” She pointed to the place on her forearm just below her wrist. “Cut with the point, not deeply, but enough to draw good blood.”
And suddenly Atiana was afflicted with the same fear she’d had of the drowning basin years ago. She told herself that it was the bitter chill of the water she hated, but in truth it was the fear of the aether was welling up inside her. Was it true? Had she been gone from the aether so long that she now feared entering it again? It was an exotic and in some ways repulsive method to use, but it was a way, and that was what mattered. Wasn’t it?
Fear, Atiana thought. She had to master her fear.
After taking a deep breath, she rolled the sleeve of her shayla up and pressed the point of the knife against her skin. She continued to breathe while watching the point press deeper and deeper. She felt the heat from the fire, and also the coldness of the stone through the carpet beneath her. She heard her own breathing. Heard Aelwen’s. Heard the strange creaking of the insects in the dry valley outside the cave.
Knowing it would become no easier, she pressed the knife in, felt the bite and the burning sting. Blood slipped from the wound.
“Over the censer now,” Aelwen said.
Atiana moved her arm over the round brass censer. Her blood pattered against it, creating strange patterns, red against gold. She continued until the center of it was covered.
“Now place it on the flames.”
Atiana complied, and watched as the blood began to bubble and then smoke.
“Draw the smoke over you. Wash your body with it.”
Aelwen began drawing the smoke toward her.
“Do not!” Atiana called, louder than she’d meant. “This is mine alone.”
Aelwen’s eyes flashed, but she sat up straight, motioning for Atiana to continue.
Atiana did. She pulled the smoke toward her, ran it down her chest and over her legs as Aelwen had shown her. She drew it down one arm, then the other. Then she brought it over her head, and as she did so she breathed it in deeply. The smell of it was bitter and acrid and foul. She nearly stopped. She nearly stood and left this cave. But the look on Aelwen’s face was one of high anticipation. There was power here. Power in her own blood, and she would know what it was. It was important that she understand if only to understand more about the Haelish and their strange ways.
Slowly her mind began to broaden. She felt more of this cave, more of the surroundings outside. She felt the wiry bushes and the small scrub trees that dotted the landscape. She felt the stream that ran largely beneath the ground.
And soon. Soon…
She is in the aether. She has taken the dark.
She feels the hills around her now.
A valley lies to the west, and more to the south. Is that where they go? Is that where Kohor lies?
She feels more of the Gaji. Its vastness, its varying landscape. She feels Andakhara to the east and many more of the caravanserai that dot the desert plain’s massive eastern pan.
She is losing herself. She knows this. And yet she allows it, for this place feels so familiar she’s ready to cry.
How she’s missed it. Missed this place that once was the place she least wanted to be. While she was in the aether, she felt connected to so much more than in the waking world.
And yet she knows she isn’t asleep—not as she is in the drowning basin. She is awake, drawing smoke over her frame to keep herself in this place. It feels wrong, and it makes her notice all the differences. It feels more raw, as though she’s becoming part of the stuff from which the world was made. It feels foreign as well, as though it is the domain of the wodjana, not the Matri of the islands, and it is this realization that makes her lose control.
Her mind goes wild, and in her fever she reaches eastward, toward Anuskaya, for help.
Ishkyna, she calls. Ishkyna!
But her sister does not hear.
She must leave.
She cannot remain.
With one last act of desperation, she pulls herself inward, back toward the Gaji, back toward the hills, back toward the cave in which she kneels.
And she woke.
Shivering. Her stomach turning at the smell of burning blood, so much so that she leaned forward and vomited over the fire, over the smoking censer.
Before she knew what was happening, Aelwen was by her side, rubbing her back. She realized her wound had been treated, a cloth bandage wrapped around her forearm, near her wrist. How long had she been gone?
“You did well for your first time,” Aelwen said. “It comes easier after this.”
Atiana was already shaking her head. “I won’t be doing this again.”
Silence followed, and then a low rumbling sound filled the cave. At first Atiana wasn’t sure what it was, but then she realized it was Aelwen. She was laughing. “Will you not?” she asked.
Atiana shrugged off her help and got to her feet. “I will not.” As she moved toward the cave’s entrance, Aelwen’s laughter only grew.
She’d made it outside when she heard Aelwen call. “Atiana?”
She should have kept moving. She should have hiked back to her camp and lain with Nikandr and forgotten all about this.
But she didn’t.
She stopped and looked back. “What?”
“I’ll come to you tomorrow,” came the wodjan’s soft voice, “just in case you change your mind.”
With her face burning in shame, Atiana walked back up the trail toward camp.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The wind blustered as Nikandr and his companions rode their massive ab-sair along the dry hills of the western Gaji. Nikandr was trying to control his breathing, but it was becoming difficult. He was distracted, perhaps because they were nearing the valley in which Kohor lay. The desert overflowed with strange stories about that valley—that in the hills around it one could find the walking dead, that on the darkest night of the month one could speak and hear the fates answering back, that it held a secret place where the makers of the world still slept. Whatever the reason, Nikandr watche
d his surroundings closely. He became aware of the ground, for as the ab-sair plodded onward, it felt as though their cloven hooves were hammering the earth, summoning from it a sound like the echoes of the forging of the world. He became aware of the dry, mineral scent and the overpowering smell of the flowering bushes—adwas, Goeh had called them.
More than anything, though, Nikandr felt the wind. The air. The open sky above them. Rarely were there clouds, only an open maw of blue so wide and deep it felt as though he would surely fall into it, never to return.
He couldn’t help but think of Atiana the night before. The way she’d kissed him. The way she’d held her hand over his heart, as if she held his life in her hands.
And perhaps she did.
She’d been right. She hadn’t even said it out loud, but he’d found himself on an overhang, one that had looked down on the shallow valley to the west of their camp. He’d remained there for hours without realizing it. It had felt much shorter, but each and every moment had been filled with that same ache. He’d thought about leaping, thought about calling to the wind to save him. But the hoot of a desert owl, so near he’d felt it on the back of his neck, had jarred him.
He’d returned to camp, shamed again at what he’d been thinking of doing, unsure how to break the cycle. And then he’d walked into Atiana’s kiss.
It had jarred him. It made him think over the days since leaving Galahesh, the days on the mainland as they trekked toward and then into the Gaji. As he lay on his bedroll that night he saw his slow slide toward this, what he’d become, and he’d vowed to change it. He just had no idea how. Not yet. But he would find a way.
He began to look for a way to retreat, a way to find himself alone, if only to howl his frustration at the uncaring sky. There was something about being among the others that confused him. He wasn’t able to concentrate on his feelings of loss. And for better or worse—no matter how much they might want to help, no matter how wise they collectively were—they couldn’t help him. He had to work his way beyond his burning desire to touch Adhiya once more. Atiana could help once he found the path. But he had to get there first.
The Flames of Shadam Khoreh (The Lays of Anuskaya) Page 15
