“The women of Vostroma are not accustomed to being treated like prized cattle.”
“But you are in a prized position, Atiana Radieva. There are dozens of women who would gladly take your place.”
She knew it was so. There were always duties expected of a young bride, some distasteful, some less so. “Of course, Matra. I’ll gladly help the family in any way I can.”
The silence in the room lengthened, broken only by the whuffle and snap of the fire. Saphia nodded, though even that small motion seemed taxing for her. “Good and good. You can tell your mother when next you speak with her.”
Victania closed the conversation shortly after, and Yvanna led Atiana away.
On the way out, she was amazed at how different the basin seemed. Before it had merely been an implement she would never need to use-not so different from needle and thread or a butter churn-but now it looked so much different, terrifying.
It was with a heavy heart that she left the room and took to the long flight of stairs. Moments later, the doors to the drowning chamber boomed shut behind her.
CHAPTER 14
The wind was bitter, and for the first time in years, Rehada truly felt it. She was trudging through the knee- deep snow behind Bersuq, Soroush’s older brother, along a game trail in the forest below Radiskoye. Despite working hard to climb the trail, despite the three robes she wore, her feet and hands were numb, and her teeth were chattering. Soroush had told her to release her spirit the night before, and so she had, but it felt strange to be without it. Everything felt different, as if she were walking in someone else’s body. Bersuq, who had pulled ahead of her, turned and barked, “Keep up.”
She had never felt a feeling of kinship toward Bersuq, even in the days of Ahya’s early childhood, but she didn’t begrudge him that. He was not unkind. He was simply hard.
She pushed herself as hard as she was able, and eventually the slope leveled off. Radiskoye could not be seen, but its presence could be felt. With the landing of the dukes commencing today, a dozen ships were patrolling the sky over the palotza and the mountain that housed it, Verodnaya.
The trail they followed was bordered by a ridge on their left and the forest to their right. The ridge was rocky and clear of trees, probably from some landslide years ago. Distant but still visible beyond the tree line was the outer wall of the palotza.
Rehada was startled when ahead of her, Soroush stood from a deep crevice. She calmed her nerves as she approached.
“Have you found it?” Bersuq asked.
“It has been difficult, but I think it will be best here.”
“Be sure,” Bersuq said as he scanned the sky above them. “The location is dangerous.”
Soroush nodded. “I am sure.”
For the next hour, she, Bersuq, and Soroush trudged into the nearby woods and brought firewood, throwing it into the crevice. The pile climbed higher and higher until it stood above ground nearly as high as Rehada.
They were nearly done when Soroush darted for cover of the spruce, waving Bersuq and Rehada to follow. No sooner had they hidden themselves than a Landed brigantine sailed overhead, its pair of landward masts barely clearing the tops of the trees. Rehada thought they had been spotted, but the two men watching from the lower masts were scanning the ground further east, toward Radiskoye.
The ship sailed on, turning westward toward the eyrie, picking up altitude and cresting the ridge above them. Finally it was gone.
Rehada felt her heart pounding. It reminded her of her first days on Khalakovo, her first few times with Landed men. Her first lies. This, acting in secret against the interests of the Landed, was no different; it felt just as shaming.
“Is it wise to taunt Radiskoye?” Rehada asked.
“It is past time.”
“All for a stone?”
“Not just a stone.” Soroush returned to the pile of deadwood and used flint and steel to spark the base of it to life. Soon the pile was burning high, the heat rising. “It is a facet, one of five.”
“To what end?”
Soroush stared into the fire, as if it would pain him to look upon her. “When we have them all, we will be able to tear the rift asunder. We will give to Adhiya what it wants, a taste of life.”
Praise be, Rehada thought. Before speaking with him at Malekh’s hanging, she had felt defeated. Her anger had overflowed, but it had felt directionless. Even after speaking with him, she worried that the tide had turned against them to the point that they would never realize their goal, never avenge the deaths of her people at the hands of the Landed. But now, with Soroush so self-assured, and with them so close to achieving what they had long worked for, she was enlivened.
Soroush turned and faced her. “The ancients never used stones to create a bond, did you know this?”
She shook her head.
“They bonded, and the stone was formed. It was a manifestation of their experience, not a tool to be used to control.”
“I do not control.”
He shook his head. “You don’t think of it in that manner, but you do. The hezhan does not come willingly-or not completely so. In the early days of this world, the bond was a way to share, to learn. What is it now?”
She found herself becoming angry, but Soroush did not mean for his words to be taken as such. He was young, but he was learned; he was wise, as wise as any arqesh. She thought on what he said, and it frightened her. To use no stone to create a bond… She had never done so, and the thought of attempting it was already making her palms sweat. “How will they know I have come?”
“Go with an open heart. Do not bring fear. Do not bring anger. Bring curiosity. Bring life. Bring a yearning for the things that have always eluded you.”
There was a part of her that wanted to ask him what would happen if a hezhan did not come, but she knew the answer to that. More importantly, she knew the question could not be entertained once she stepped into the fire, and so she set it aside and steeled herself while pulling the clothes from her frame. Naked, the wind tugged at her hair, and the sound it made through the trees behind her, a howling, seemed to laugh at what she was about to do. She had had doubts before-when her master had shown her the way of qiram. She had been afraid, but she had been raised by a strong mother. She had been given over to a wise teacher. She had traveled far and she had come to know the ways of flame. She would do this, no matter what the wind might say.
She stepped forward, feeling the heat from the fire against her stomach and thighs. The wood crackled and spit, sending steam and smoke into the sky. She put one foot forward to the edge of the snow-covered earth. A spike of fear rose up inside her with the knowledge that she wore no stone, but the stories of the ancients all spoke of qiram who were able to summon hezhan without the aid of such things. She would trust to them. Trust to her teachings. Trust to Soroush, who had never led her astray.
One more step forward, and she fell among the flames. The branches gave way, cracking loudly, as sparks swirled into the air. The heat soared, higher than she had ever felt, even during her times of penance. It seared her legs, her arms, the skin over her stomach and back. Her eyes were closed, but she forced them open, knowing she must face this squarely or lose herself to the pain.
Her breathing was labored, her lungs barely able to take breath. She managed to remain standing, but it felt like her skin was blistering, blackening, cracking. She felt no hezhan; she surely would have had she been wearing a stone. She tried to reach out, to call to one, but the things she felt were very different from the normal ritual. They were much more open now, without bounds, and it was frightening.
She was barely able to turn-so painful was the movement-and look up toward Soroush. To her surprise, his face was locked in an expression of pride.
“Soroush!” she cried as the pain became too great.
