“Silence!”
She grit her teeth. Tried harder.
But it was no use.
She fell to her knees. The heat was no longer satisfied with burning her skin. It licked at her insides. She dropped to one hand, unable to prevent herself from curling up against the searing heat that was building inside her. If she were but to open her mouth, she could breathe flame; she could light the forest afire with but one brief sigh.
She reared back and spread her arms wide to the sky.
And released her building fury in a drawn-out cry.
She felt, while doing so, another presence. Something clean and white among the madness around her. She could feel him both in the flames of the material world and on the far side, in the shifting currents of Adhiya. He felt ancient, as old as the stars.
Suddenly the flames above her blackened with smoke. A sound like a rockslide filled her ears. She was thrust downward, hard, into the ashes. The sky above her clouded over, obscuring her vision. She heard a hollow thump, felt the heat above her plummet. She coughed against the glowing white embers swirling in the air, and when they finally settled, she was able to see what lay before her: a form as tall as a tree, as wide as a wagon. Stout and flaming.
A suurahezhan. It had crossed from the world beyond-to what purpose she did not know. Unlike the suurahezhan she used the tourmaline gems to bond with, she had no control over this creature, none whatsoever.
The hezhan stood, unmoving, perhaps taking in its new surroundings, but then it lumbered around and focused its attention up toward the palotza. It hesitated, and then began to stalk up the hill along the fault line.
Soroush spoke, but she could not understand him. Words made no sense.
“Quickly!” he shouted. “Search among the ashes.”
She did as he asked, not knowing what she was looking for. A moment later she felt something small and hard among the brittle embers and powdery ash. She picked it up.
A tourmaline-deep red, almost black, and beautiful beyond description.
“Daughter of Shineshka”-Soroush, so hasty a moment ago, paused and bowed his head-“rejoice, for never have you done so well.”
Rehada paid him little mind, nor did she wish to examine the stone. She had felt something deeper in the woods, and she could see among the shadows a boy poking his head out from behind a tree.
Nasim? Had that been him when she was at her most vulnerable? Had he helped her?
Soroush held his hand out but stopped short of touching her. She would still be much too hot. “Come.”
She looked at him, suddenly angry over being disturbed.
“Come,” he said, more forcefully this time.
She stepped up from the crevice, but when she looked toward the trees again, the boy was gone.
CHAPTER 15
The rest of Atiana’s day proved to be just as tense as the morning-from luncheon, where they met the delegation from Khazabyirsk, all the way through to the greeting ceremony on the palotza’s eyrie.
Father came for her as the sun was peeking through tall, white clouds. Though he waved away any attempts at complimenting him, he looked grand in his tooled leather boots, his sheepskin cherkesska and ermine kolpak. Katerina came minutes later, and together they led Atiana and Mileva and Ishkyna from the palotza to the eyrie by way of a cobbled path. The eyrie was one of the oldest among all the islands, and it was one of the most breathtaking. It stood one thousand feet above the seashore. Each of its four perches were made of sculpted stone; the curved supports beneath them were filled with the intricate traceries of the Landless artisans. Two of the perches were occupied by Khalakovo’s royal yachts, but the other two remained clear, waiting for the incoming ships.
Three dozen royalty, including the contingent from Khazabyirsk, stood on the landing in their best finery, waiting for the first ship to dock. It was good to see that Khalakovo was taking their recent threat of the Maharraht seriously. By all accounts they hadn’t been seen again on the island, but still there were more streltsi than usual for the landing of council: both patrolling the curtain wall and standing at attention.
Nikandr, dressed in a fine gold kaftan and polished leather boots, stood behind his father. Zhabyn and Katerina bowed to Iaros, who, after waiting for a healthy pause, stepped aside, allowing Nikandr to take Atiana’s gloved hand in his.
He stepped in and kissed both cheeks with an iciness that surprised her.
She was still angry with him, yet she found herself wishing he would take her hand, to warm one small part of her on this cold spring day. She tried to forget Mileva’s words, but as she stood there, her hand aching from neglect, she couldn’t help but think of Rehada, his lover. Did he hold her hand? What had he told her about the wedding? Had they gossiped about her while lying in each other’s arms? Had she laughed when Nikandr told her what a poor wife Atiana would be?
Her hands, of their own volition, clasped themselves before her in a pose that was much like her sisters’. Mileva seemed to notice, but she returned her gaze to the retinue of Duke Rhavanki, who were just now stepping down the gangplank of his impressive yacht.
As ships came and left, Atiana had a growing awareness of being watched. Ishkyna, standing between her father and Mileva, was watching her. No one else might have noticed it, but Atiana knew Ishkyna better than anyone-even Mileva-and there was jealousy in her eyes. Ishkyna was jealous of her. It was an occurrence so rare that Atiana wondered if she were imagining it, but as the last of the ships approached, the feeling intensified, and she knew she must be right.
A willful Ishkyna was never a good thing, Atiana thought to herself, especially when you were the object of her attentions. She decided she would have to watch her sister carefully these next few days.
The Grand Duke’s ship was the last to arrive. The thing was absolutely massive for a yacht. It could practically double as a cargo ship; given the dire straits the islands had been in of late, perhaps that was the plan. Or it may have been the Grand Duke’s pride that had forced him into such an extravagant decision.
The Grand Duke himself, Stasa Olegov Bolgravya, a man who had seen seventy winters, stood at the bow wearing a heavy fur coat and a tall black hat. He had not come to the last council. He had made his excuses and had sent his first son, Konstantin, in his place. No one had thought much of it-it happened from time to time with all the dukes-but now everyone saw why he had refused to come.
The Stasa that stared at them all from the gunwales of his ship was not the same man. He had always been a large man, barrel-chested and meaty about the arms and legs. His face had been plump, his cheeks red. He had possessed steely eyes. He was quick to anger, and he rarely laughed, but when he did, his eyes held that same keen edge, as if he were granting you some favor by allowing the display of his mirth.
This Stasa was crooked. He listed to one side, as if the position pained him but was the least painful position he could find. His cheeks were drawn, and they sagged about his chin like an old bloodhound. His lips drooped at the edges, giving him a permanent frown. And his eyes… They were sunken eyes, defeated eyes, as if they were tired from the mere viewing of the world.
Why he hadcomewhen the wasting hadnearlytaken him already, Atiana couldn’t guess. Perhaps he knew his death was near and wished to meet his fellow dukes one last time. Perhaps there were agreements he wished to negotiate, a final show of power before the fates finally took him.
It was disheartening to see him like this. Among the squabbles of the dukes, Stasa had always ruled with something akin to fairness. It felt like the wasting, or the blight itself, had taken him, and with him gone it would only be a matter of time before the rest succumbed as well.
Atiana’s attention was caught by a motion from Nikandr. He was touching his neck with a curious look on his face, but when he noticed her watching he dropped his hand immediately. It must be his soulstone, though why it had attracted his attention now she had no idea.
