The Winds of Khalakovo (28 page)

PART II

CHAPTER 36

The day was warm and humid in the lowland swamps of Uyadensk, one of the first true days of summer. White-barked trees crowded the waterways, their roots exposed and arthritic, their canopy shielding out the sun. Clouds of biting insects swarmed everywhere, breaking only when dragonflies swooped through them to feed. All manner of sounds could be heard, from the croaking of frogs to the screech-screech of insects to the melodic call of the sparrows that plagued the upper reaches of the canopy.

Rehada had entered the swamp with the first light of dawn. It was nearly midday already, and there was some ways to go yet. She had traveled the swamp many times, but the last had been some years ago, and she was beginning to doubt her memory. She should have come across the island by now.

Well used to the balance of the thin raft, she drew her pole up from the putrid water and allowed it to slip through her hands until striking bottom. She used it to propel the raft through a narrow artery that seemed familiar.

In the distance, the boom of cannon fire played across the swamp. It had been four days since the attack on the palotza. The traitor dukes had been making these not-so-subtle reminders of their presence ever since their retreat from Radiskoye and the commencement of the blockade. It had taken several days for word to trickle down to Volgorod. The fight had been vicious—duke attacking duke as well as Maharraht. Rehada knew that Soroush had been after Nasim and Nasim alone, but some claimed that the traitor dukes had hired the Maharraht as mercenaries. Others believed they had come to finish what they’d started with the Grand Duke.

Some rumors, spread by Radiskoye, said that all the Maharraht had been killed, the all out attack an indication, the palotza claimed, of their growing desperation. Others spoke of another hezhan that had been summoned. The people of Volgorod, already tired and hungry, were becoming fearful over what this might mean. With the blockade now in full effect, preventing aid from coming in from Yrstanla or the outlying Duchies, unrest was threatening to spill over into all-out revolt.

Rehada had feared that Soroush’s body would be counted among the dead. Later she heard that some of the Maharraht had escaped, and she knew in her heart that he had not died, but her relief soon gave way to fears over what Soroush would do to her in retribution. She had stolen Atiana away from him, and there had been no time to explain. She could only hope that he would listen to reason when she saw him again. And see him she must. Allowing him to come to her was not an option; she must seek him out.

He hadn’t shared where he and the Maharraht had hidden themselves, but when he had come to her after Malekh’s hanging, she had smelled the rot of vegetation and noticed on his boots the remains of a bright green algae that only grew in the lowland swamps.

Relief washed through her when, shortly after midday, she came to a broad bank of land. It was the tip of a long island, one of the largest in the swamp and the only one that had enough stone to form natural caves.

She pulled the raft up onto the bank and headed inland, warding the tall grasses away from her body as she went, careful to avoid the webs of the bright yellow spiders. She was obvious in her approach; she would be watched, and she would not wish the guards to kill her before they knew who she was.

As she was heading toward a rise, where the first of the caves would be, a Maharraht dropped down from a massive cypress. He was young, no more than fourteen, as were most that joined the Maharraht these days.

He didn’t appear threatening. He merely pointed toward the caves and said, “He hoped you would come.”

He led her to a camp that was set up beneath a group of ancient willows. A dozen Maharraht were gathered around a small fire, one of them cooking flatbread over a baking stone. Several were eating, others conversing. They looked thin, these men, emaciated, but their eyes were sharp, and none of them looked defeated.

They all stopped what they were doing as she approached. Their expressions were not unkind, but neither were they charitable. She nodded to them, and most bowed their heads in return.

Her young guide took her to the edge of a hillock. Beyond a stand of grasses, set into a face of exposed rock, was a hole that led into the earth. He motioned to it, then turned and left.

Rehada got onto hands and knees and crawled into the hole. Once she was inside, the temperature dropped. For a while the way ahead was pitch dark, but then her eyes adjusted and she saw faint light up ahead. She heard words being spoken, too soft to distinguish, and they stopped as she came near.

She reached a small, natural cavern lit by a glowing pink stone, a siraj, set onto a ledge. Her fears had eased when the boy had told her she was expected, but when she saw Soroush lying there in the cavern, wounded, all of them returned in a rush. He lay on a blanket padded by folded grasses. One thigh was wrapped in bandages dark with dried blood. His head was propped up by a rolled blanket. He was watching her, but the effort of contorting his neck seemed to cause him pain, and he rolled his head back until he was staring at the roof of the cavern.

Bersuq sat cross-legged nearby, as did another—an old, barrel-chested man with as much gray hair poking out from under his cap as there was black. His name was Muwas. Rehada had met him when she was twelve. He had been leaner then, but she recalled his stocky frame and the odd way he waddled when he walked.

They remained seated, staring at her as she approached.

“Leave us,” Soroush said.

Muwas stood and bowed his head to Rehada before stepping past her. Bersuq, however, gave Rehada a severe expression, weighing her.

“Go,” Soroush repeated.

Bersuq, silent as the earth, stepped past her, leaving the air scented with his heavy musk.

Rehada kneeled and placed a long, tender kiss on his forehead. “What happened?”

“I took a musket shot to the leg and passed out as Bersuq was taking me to safety. I nearly died in the waters below the palotza before Muwas found me and pulled me to the boat.”

“And Nasim?”

Soroush shook his head. “We nearly had him, but he escaped with Ashan. Your Prince left in a ship shortly after to chase him down.”

“He is not my Prince.”

“As you say.”

“Will you have them followed?”

He considered for a time, his chest rising and falling. “I don’t think it will be necessary. Ashan goes to Ghayavand, and if the fates are kind, he will return here with Nasim.”

“What makes you think he won’t run?”

“Because Ashan cares too much. If he can unlock Nasim’s secrets, he will return to close the rift. And if that happens, those secrets will be unlocked for us as well.”

“And if we
don’t
find him?”

“Then the fates have chosen our course. Now tell me”—he turned his head with obvious discomfort—“for I cannot think of an answer that will appease Bersuq. Why did you take the woman?”

“She is Princess Atiana Vostroma. Nikandr’s bride.”

Soroush smiled, and then laughed. “And you
saved
her?”

“I didn’t know if she had been followed. She saw little enough that the Landed didn’t already know. It seemed unwise to beg the entire Duchy of Vostroma—not to mention Khalakovo—to come hunting after us.”

He stared into her eyes, considering her words, but then he relaxed into the roll beneath his neck. “There have been times when I’ve thought the fates were set against us, but then something like this happens, and it renews my faith.”

“What do you mean?”

“Open the satchel there.”

He motioned to the other side of the fire, where Bersuq had been sitting. She upended the soft leather satchel, and three stones poured out onto the woolen blanket: jasper, alabaster, and tourmaline. The jasper must have come from the beach when the vanahezhan had been summoned, and the tourmaline, of course, she had liberated herself. She stared at the stone of alabaster, stopping just short of touching it. She knew from Soroush that this had been liberated when the havahezhan had been summoned. It had been the one to attack Nikandr.

Soroush was watching her carefully. “I have been blessed, I think, to be with Nasim for as long as I have. He did not mean to, but he taught me many things. It is because of him that I can sense the rifts, the places where the hezhan can cross. It is because of him that I know of the stones. And I’ve also been able to sense, starting with young Khalakovo on his ship, those souls that are brightest, that will attract the hezhan. We have known that the Landed are aligned with the hezhan, as we are. What we
didn’t
know was how hungry the hezhan would be for them. Nikandr. Stasa Bolgravya. The babe taken by the wasting. And now Atiana Vostroma.”

Rehada’s head jerked back. “Atiana?”

“She is of water. Azurite. It is she that will bring the fourth stone to us.”

“But how?”

“By drowning her, Rehada. There is one place on the island where the veil is so thin that her death is all it will take.”

Rehada felt the blood drain from her face. The look in his eyes as he stared at the stone above him was one of satisfaction, of something akin to smugness. He believed that the fates had shined on them, but also that this was her reward for taking Atiana without his leave.

“Where must I bring her?”

“To the lake in Iramanshah.”

CHAPTER 37

As the door to her cell opened, Atiana remained seated at the lone table. She was expecting her noon meal. She hadn’t been spoken to by anyone from the Khalakovo family since she’d been placed here—only guardsmen bearing food and clearing her chamber pots and providing water and the occasional clean dress to wear—so she expected nothing but more of the same. A strelet
did
enter—the serious one she saw most often—but he merely bowed his head and stepped to one side, allowing Yvanna Khalakovo to stride in with a silver tray.

As the strelet closed the door, Yvanna set the tray down and sat across from Atiana. The lids of her eyes were heavy. She seemed unable to focus, but then she seemed to remember who and where she was, and she motioned to the tray, almost angrily. “You
must
be hungry.”

The tray held a plate covered by a polished silver dome, ornate utensils, and a carafe of white wine sitting next to an empty wine glass. The scent of roasted goat and onion and garlic was heavy in the air. Atiana was not merely hungry—she was ravenous—but she refused to show it in front of Yvanna, so she stood instead and moved to her bed.

“What is it you want?” Atiana asked.

Yvanna took a deep breath, seeming to gain a bit of vitality as she did so. “I need to speak to you of the dark.”

“What of it?”

“You know of the boy, Nasim? The one who—”

“Of course I know of him.”

“Of course—of course you do. Did you ever see him?”

She meant in the aether, but Atiana had not seen him long before Mother and the other Matri had pulled her away, so she shook her head, confused over why Yvanna would ask.

“I need the truth.”

“I saw him, but only for a few moments, just before Saphia tried to assume him.”

If Yvanna was concerned by Atiana’s knowledge of the forbidden practice, she didn’t show it. “He is... He is powerful, Atiana. More powerful than any of us could have guessed.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft, as if she feared being overheard. “Mother
did
try to assume him. He stood against her and won. She’s been unconscious since.”

“Her need must have been great to take such a risk.”

“The Matra wanted some sense of what he was about, whether he had anything to do with the summoning of the suurahezhan.”

“How is she now?”

“She has not woken since the night of the betrayal.”

“Is that what they’re calling it?”

One eyebrow on Yvanna’s elegant face rose. “What would
you
call it?”

So deep was her shame over what her father had done that Atiana could not respond.

Yvanna’s anger drained away, and she suddenly became reluctant to meet Atiana’s eyes. “She grows weaker every day. My difficulties with the dark continue, and I would ask...” Yvanna licked her lips. “I would ask for you to take the dark, to see if you might help.”

Atiana tilted her head. “Victania is trained in the dark, is she not?”

Yvanna
did
meet Atiana’s eyes then. There was no anger, only resignation. “She is no longer able to.” She smoothed the tablecloth absently. “Perhaps from the wasting. Perhaps from the storms over Khalakovo. No matter what she does, she wakes within minutes of slipping under.”

“Is it the same for you?”

“
Nyet
. I can no longer enter. Victania has the potential to be as strong as Saphia, but she tries too hard. The aether has come to mistrust her, or she mistrusts it, and she overcompensates.”

“And you wish
me
to help?”

“She was to be your mother.”

“She is head of the family that is holding me hostage.”

“You are a member of a sisterhood. You cannot turn your back on it now.”

“A rather convenient perspective, don’t you think? The Grand Duchy has been split, and here I stand with one leg on either side. What I do here might tip the conflict in your favor.”

“You are thinking like the men.”

“I sit here because of the men.”

“It is a baseless conflict.”

“Yvanna, come. When has reason ever stood in the way of politics?”

“My mother
needs
you.”

Atiana paused, remembering the way Saphia had spoken to her. She had not been kind, but neither had she been harsh. She had been matter-of-fact, and that was something to be valued among the halls of the Duchies.

“If you need it,” Atiana said at last, “I will try.”

Yvanna stood, a grateful smile on her face. “Then come.”

They were heading for the door when the strelet unlocked it. Victania strode in, her face a picture of rage. As she stared at Atiana and Yvanna, she seemed to gather strength, like an approaching storm cloud before it unleashes its fury. “You would come to
her
for help?”

“We need her, Victania.”

“We need many things, Yvanna, but a forgotten Vostroman whelp isn’t one of them.”

“Would you abandon your mother to her fate?”

“Leave us, Yvanna.”

Yvanna stood, pulling herself to her full height, which was still a half-head shorter than Victania.

Victania stabbed her finger toward the door. “I said leave us!”

Yvanna glanced at Atiana, a brief look of apology on her face, and then she strode from the room.

“I would help your mother if I could,” Atiana said.

“You are deranged,” Victania said as she stepped forward, “if you think I would let you near my mother. It is because of
your
family that she is ill.”

Atiana met her, refusing to be cowed. “It is because of her presumption. Nasim is no rook to be assumed as she will.”

Victania’s hand lashed out and struck Atiana across one cheek. Her cheek flared white with pain as her head snapped to one side.

“Do not think to judge my mother,” Victania said.

Atiana’s chest heaved as she fought down her anger. She nearly raised her fist, but thought better of it—it was the very thing Victania was hoping for. Instead, she sat at the table, ignoring Victania as she began eating the food from her tray. She refused to meet Victania’s gaze, so she couldn’t judge her reaction, but she could sense the tightness in Victania’s stance, could hear the rapid pace of her breathing.

She thought it a small victory, but when Victania strode from the room, her footsteps echoed down the hallway in sharp, satisfied strokes, making Atiana feel small and defeated.

Two days passed. The routine of the previous days resumed: meals and water brought only by the guardsmen. She nearly asked them to speak to Yvanna, but decided against it, wagering that Victania had left strict orders to be informed of any such overture.

Late on the third night, Atiana heard the door to her cell being opened. She woke, groggy, to find Yvanna standing at the door.

“The Matra?” Atiana asked.

Yvanna nodded. “She is gravely ill. Please, if you care for her at all, you will come.”

“What of Victania?”

“She hasn’t slept properly in weeks, but she sleeps now. We won’t be disturbed.”

“Then I will come.” She dressed and together they moved quickly and quietly down the hall. The strelet and the gaoler were gone, and Atiana asked no questions. “What can I do?” she asked as they took the stairs up.

“Be quiet,” Yvanna whispered.

Yvanna stopped at a landing and pressed something behind a marble statue of a rearing horse. The wall behind it swung inward, and soon they were taking one of the tunnels that threaded its way through the interior of Radiskoye. They continued and took a steep set of stairs downward, and then another set upward before Yvanna spoke again.

“Her breathing is shallow. There are times when she moans and we think she’s ready to wake, but she does not. Each time, she returns to her slumber, weaker than before. I fear she will live only a day or two more if this continues.”

“And you believe the solution to this lies in the aether?”

“It must be so. I have tried to take the dark, but each time it becomes more painful, and I see little or nothing. Victania managed to take the dark for nearly an hour, but she was unable to find her.”

“What do you mean,
unable to find her
?”

“That is all she said.”

They reached a fork, where Yvanna turned left. The draft in the tunnel became markedly stronger, chilling Atiana’s skin. The tunnel here was cut directly from the rock, the smooth whorls in the stone indicative of an Aramahn mason’s hand.

“Has there been news from my father?” Atiana asked.

“Little. With no Matra, negotiations have been slow, but the Lord Duke has spoken with your father.”

“Has he asked of me?”

“I don’t know—My Lord Father has not deigned to share it with me—but do not worry. As long as the blockade continues and we aren’t attacked, I imagine your release becomes more and more a likelihood.”

Atiana had resigned herself to living here on Khalakovo as Nikandr’s bride, but these last few days had been an entirely different matter. She felt abandoned. Forgotten. Betrayed. Not by Father, but by Ishkyna and Mileva.

She had thought long and hard on how such a thing could have happened, and the only answer was that they had told Father that all was well, that Atiana would be safely away with the rest of the family.

Yvanna stopped suddenly.

“What is it?”

“Be quiet!” Yvanna whispered.

Far ahead, a dim light shone in the tunnel. Yvanna waited, perhaps wondering—as Atiana was—who was coming to meet them.

Atiana took a step back, preparing to flee.

“Stay where you are,” Yvanna said. “It’s only Olgana.”

The pace at which the light was approaching quickened, and a voice filtered up to them. “Lady Yvanna, please come quickly!”

Yvanna rushed down the hallway, perhaps feeling the same sense of dread that was building within Atiana. Olgana’s face became visible as they approached. She looked like she feared for her life... Or someone else’s...

“What is it, Olgana?”

She swallowed hard, her chest heaving like an overworked bellows. “It’s the Matra, Yvanna. I think she’s dead.”