I mean to warn them of the Maharraht.
It matters not.
She can no longer sense Saphia or Nasim at all, but her mother’s presence is clear. She can feel three other Matri as well: Dhalingrad, Nodhvyansk, and Bolgravya.
Where are you? her mother asks. She moves closer-with an ease and an efficiency that is impressive-and then on toward Iramanshah.
Atiana blocks her way, barring her mother from moving forward. Fahroz placed herself in Atiana’s trust; even though this is her mother, she does not feel right breaking that trust so quickly. Were her mother nearer she would have succeeded in bulling her way past Atiana, but as distant as she is, such things are difficult, and Atiana holds her ground.
Mother’s presence retreats.
Do you test me?
The Maharraht are on the move, Mother. There are those, our family among them, who stand in harm’s way.
You are not in Radiskoye.
It is a statement, not a question, and in that one moment, Atiana feels her mother’s guard slip. She also feels thoughts that weigh heavily on her mind. She is worried because Atiana is not where she should be, because decisions have been made and are now being set into motion.
A feeling of dread grows within Atiana like a gathering storm. You are attacking the palotza?
A pause. It is nothing they’ve not been asking for since the moment Stasa died.
You would risk war over a boy?
Risk it? Khalakovo has demanded it, Atiana.
You cannot.
She does not wait for her mother’s response. She moves quickly toward Radiskoye.
Stop, child!
She rushes among the halls until she senses a rook. Without thinking, she pours herself into the bird. She feels its weak resistance. Worse, she feels her control over the aether slipping. Her arms lengthen. Feathers sprout. Her legs bend and contort, and her talons grip iron. She manages only a rough caw before she is drawn roughly away.
In the precious moments that follow, she is too confused to fight, and by then she is too far away. It does not prevent her from trying, though. Like a woman drowning beneath the waves, she flails for the surface, ready to gasp for breath.
But it is no use. The Matri have worked in concert for years. If their intent was to prevent one lone woman from assuming a rook, then it would be so.
She kicks one last time and feels her control betray her. She feels the island, the sea, the air above, the stars beyond. She feels herself breathe, her skin prickle, her bones ache…
CHAPTER 32
Atiana felt a beating upon her chest. Lips pressed to hers and air filled her lungs. She coughed. The beating ceased.
She was dying. She knew this in her heart.
She tried several times to open her eyes, but they wouldn’t respond. Neither would her voice comply when she willed it to speak. A simple word would do, any word, so that she could ground herself more fully in this reality.
And yet, despite the vague sense that she should be struggling for her own survival, it felt so peaceful that she no longer cared what the outcome might be. She would let death take her. She would welcome it with open arms.
She fell into herself, hoping it would be so if only to make the pain go away.
Then silence…
Followed by a single note, fading in and out of her consciousness.
Then a string of syllables, more song than voice.
Someone was speaking-who, she couldn’t guess.
They were speaking another language.
Mahndi.
She was still among them. She hadn’t died.
Her eyes finally fluttered open.
She licked her lips once… twice… still unable to speak.
“What…” The word came out in a croak. “What happened?”
The voices stopped. A face moved into her field of vision.
Fahroz.
“You nearly crossed to the other side, Atiana Radieva.” Her voice carried with it a completely unexpected note of concern.
Atiana’s bones ached. It felt as if someone were driving a spike through her hips as the Aramahn women levered her up. They forced upon her several sips from a steaming earthenware mug. She felt the mulled wine drift down her throat, down her chest, and it was the most wonderful feeling she could ever remember experiencing, except that its warmth suddenly made her fingers and toes feel deathly cold.
She began to shiver uncontrollably. “It is… painful.”
“That is to be expected,” Fahroz said, wrapping a new, dry blanket around her shoulders. “Come. We will take you to a place where you can rest.”
She was allowed to pull on her clothes, but immediately after they left the great cavern and reentered the rounded hallways of Iramanshah. She could remember little of her time in the dark, but one thing was clear.
“I f-found no rift,” she said, her teeth chattering.
“We can discuss that once you’ve rested.”
Atiana nodded, but more and more of her voyage was coming back to her. Her time in Radiskoye, her search while feeling the island.
Atiana sucked in a deep breath.
Fahroz tightened her grip on Atiana’s shoulders. “What is it?”
She could not answer, for she had remembered her battle with her mother and the other Matri. The ships allied with Father were ready to attack. Tonight. She had to get back to Radiskoye before it was too late. But she couldn’t tell Fahroz. There was no telling if they would allow her to leave, not with an attack imminent.
“The time in these tunnels weighs heavily on me.” She hoped Fahroz couldn’t hear the lie in her voice. “I can barely breathe from the weight of it. Please, I wish to be in clean air. Take me outside.”
“You shouldn’t go-”
“You will lead me from this mountain!”
They walked in silence for several paces, but finally Fahroz nodded. “Ushai will escort you. When you feel well enough, come inside and warm yourself.”
Fahroz and one of the women stopped. There was a bit of silence as, perhaps, they watched Atiana continue on with Ushai, and then she heard their footsteps receding.
The village was a labyrinth of maddening proportions. Every time Atiana thought she recognized a hallway, a room, a stair, she turned out to be wrong. When they finally reached the main gates and stepped outside into the valley that housed the entrance to the village, she released a breath of air she hadn’t realized had been pent up.
The sun was setting in the west, spreading golden light across the top of the valley’s ridge. In the stone-lined court that lay at the foot of the entrance’s stairs, a fountain bubbled. Several women stood in the water, chatting and washing clothes while their children played stones near its base. As was true for most Aramahn villages, several buildings were positioned near the entrance: a granary, a mill, several large animal pens, and the place
