“May your ancestors keep you,” were the last words she heard before she was underwater.
She had difficulty at first-her mind was running wild with possibilities, with fears and emotions-but she focused on her breath, on the expansion and contraction of her ribs, the elongation of her spine, and the way the water cradled her.
And soon… Soon…
She wakes in the impenetrable darkness of the aether. Unlike the previous times, she sees little-faint overtones of midnight blue, nothing more. Slowly, as she allows herself to fall deeper, the colors coalesce: the handservant standing over the basin; the Matra herself, lying in her bed; the fire in the nearby hearth, which glows not yellow and orange but a deep, deep red.
The Matra’s form is dark-almost entirely black-but there is color to her still. It might say nothing about whether or not she is truly lost to the winds, however. It may be because she has so recently passed.
The stone around the Matra’s neck is dim. Atiana moves forward, opening her mind to allow the Matra’s soul to touch hers, but there is nothing. No response. Not even a faint glimmer. Just the cold embers of a once-raging fire.
She touches the stone, and there is the briefest of flashes. She feels a thread leading from the stone, but she is prevented from following it.
What are you doing here, child?
It is the Duchess Polina Mirkotsk. She is not strong in the ways of the dark, but she has always been good at speaking through it, so there is little wonder that they set her as the watchdog.
I am trying to help the Matra, Saphia.
Who allowed you into her chamber?
Yvanna, now begone.
Atiana tries to drift outward, to follow the trail leading away from Saphia, but Polina stops her.
Polina speaks softly to the other Matri, bidding them to verify Atiana’s words. No doubt one of the others would assume one of the palotza’s rooks and ask; Atiana only hoped they didn’t ask Victania.
I do not have time to wait, Atiana says. The Matra’s life depends on it.
Nyet, Polina says.
Tell whomever you wish in Radiskoye, but do not stop me in this. You know she is close to death. I am near where you are far, too far to do anything to help her. Is it not so?
Silence.
I can feel her, Duchess. Let me go to her, please, to do what I can.
Polina is unsure of herself. One of the others-perhaps Lhudansk-advises caution, but Polina ignores her and her presence retreats.
Do not betray us, Vostroma.
Atiana says nothing in return. She turns to Saphia. She is faint, her presence distant. Atiana touches the Matra’s stone once more, feeling wind and the open sea. She keeps herself within the stone, knowing this is the key to finding the Matra, but like a single note plucked from a harp, the feeling is beginning to fade.
Desperation pushes her toward haste, but this has never been the way with the aether. She keeps the sound of the note in her head, however faint, and allows it to carry her.
When she opens her eyes again, she finds herself far from any island, floating on the winds like the liberated seed of a thistle. Nearby, an Aramahn skiff floats. There are only two aboard. Ashan sits at the helm, guiding the winds into the billowing sail above him. He seems at peace-a man who has come to grips with the world around him. On deck with Ashan is the boy, Nasim, and it is to him that the connection from the Matra terminates. The thread, rather than being thin, is thick and vibrant, as if the connection originates from the boy, not the other way around. Nasim is sleeping, but his head and shoulders-even his legs-jerk and twitter as if he is trying to waken but cannot quite do so.
And then she sees them.
Dozens of havahezhan, wind spirits, float about the skiff. They trail about in lazy arcs, always circling back. She thinks at first it must be at Ashan’s bidding, but then she realizes they are coming for the boy.
They pause for brief moments in their circling, and it is at these times that Nasim’s body spasms. She cannot understand what is happening, but it seems as if they are feeding on him. Preying upon him. Does the boy realize it? Does he allow it? Has it been so all along?
This seems doubtful given the scrutiny he received at the hands of the Matra. And so it seems it must be something particular to his departure from Radiskoye or his time on the wind.
Or the tether that exists between him and the Matra.
The thought makes her go cold.
The hezhan are feeding, but it is the Matra’s soul-not Nasim’s-that they feed upon.
She moves into the path of the tether, and opens herself to it. The writhing rope leading to the boy brightens, and she realizes that she has added herself to it. She senses both Nasim and the Matra, though Saphia’s terminus is very, very faint. She feels a tug at her breast as one of the havahezhan swoops in and swallows another piece of the Matra’s soul.
Atiana rages against it, for it has taken a bit of her as well. She wonders how the Matra could have taken it for so long. It must have been this way ever since Nasim left the palotza five days ago.
She knows not what to do. She is helpless against such things. She feels herself becoming lost, and the more she tries to direct her awareness, the tighter the hold Nasim seems to have upon her. Soon she is forced to stop altogether for fear of losing herself to the power of this boy.
The wind spirits continue to feed. The Matra’s soul is nearly extinguished, perhaps all the quicker because the hezhan somehow sensed more meat upon the bone. They swoop in, hungrier. They take larger bites, and with each one she feels weaker.
She tries to fend them off, but they only become more animated, and swoop in faster.
Her chest aches. Her bones ache. She screams and tries to wake, but it is not possible. Not any longer.
Nasim sleeps, and yet he appears to be screaming. Ashan attempts to wake him. He looks about the craft, over the water, perhaps sensing something, but there is nothing he can do. Either that or he chooses not to.
The bites continue, and it is clear that she is lost. She is no Matra of five decades; she is a child, and she will not be able to pull herself from this no matter what she tries.
CHAPTER 39
When the sun rose on Nikandr’s fifth day on the wind, he saw near the horizon-as he had on the four previous mornings-the telltale sign of Ashan’s skiff. He had come to understand that Ashan was allowing himself to be followed. Three times on the first day Jahalan had summoned all the winds he dared in an attempt to catch up to the skiff, but every time they closed in, the winds would push them away. They had tried again the following day, hoping Ashan was tiring, but the same thing happened, and by this time Jahalan was nearing exhaustion. Nikandr thought they would lose the skiff, but it always stayed just on the edge of sight, a dark speck on the cloudy white horizon.
“Are we to make another go, My Lord?”
This came from Viggen, a spry old sailor taking a turn at the helm. Nikandr had flown with him several times. He was an able sailor. More than able. Nikandr counted himself lucky that he’d been among those helping on the eyrie, but he hadn’t counted on how superstitious the man would be. Sailors were a superstitious lot to begin with, but Viggen was worse than most. He hadn’t taken the attack by the Maharraht lightly, and he considered it unlucky to take sail with so many having just died and the ship still steaming from the fire that had only just been put out.
Viggen and the crew grumbled about how bad it was the entire next day-never to Nikandr directly, but amongst themselves and within earshot. Their fears, it seemed, were confirmed near sundown. A twinkling along the eastern horizon had drawn Udra’s attention.
“That is a ship,” she said simply, “or I am an old gray gull.”
A chill went down Nikandr’s frame as Viggen and the five other men who weren’t sleeping belowdecks spit
