already that Saphia, despite her promise to speak again of the dark, would never allow her to enter it again.
But Atiana needed to. If she was ever going to find out what was happening on Khalakovo, she would have to do so outside the walls of Radiskoye.
Olgana entered the room, preparing to take Saphia away, and Atiana realized she could not remain in this room and have any chance of escape.
“Please, Matra,” Atiana said as Olgana reached Saphia’s chair.
Saphia held up one hand, forestalling Olgana.
“This room weighs upon me, more than you can know.” She motioned to the dark, stone walls around her. “If I am to recover, I would see the sun.”
Saphia considered the room before resting her steely gaze on Atiana once more.
“Let it not be said that the Khalakovos do not repay their debts.” She waved her hand, and Olgana wheeled her around and steered her toward the door. “You will have your old rooms back.”
Days later, Atiana stood at the windows of the room she’d been prom-ised-the ones her family had been given upon their arrival-and drew back the curtains to stare out into the southern gardens. The sun had yet to rise, but its light could be seen on the horizon, pale yellow against the indigo sky. The windows opened to allow air to flow in those rare days of summer, but she could easily use them to leave the confines of her room. That would only deliver her into the garden, but the garden was all she needed.
After waiting for the pair of guardsmen to pass her window, she unlatched the window and opened it. It swung open soundlessly. She had tested it the day before, and after finding a light squeak she had used the rendered fat from her dinner of roasted chicken to grease the hinges.
She swung herself outside, mindful of the river rock that sat in the flower bed beneath the window. She slipped to the nearby hedges, watching the guardsmen along the wall. Their attention was turned outward, however- after the attack, they were still wary of a threat from the outside.
Moving as quickly as she dared, she made her way to the place where Nikandr had come with his dog, Berza. She had forgotten about the path that led down from the palotza to the cliffs below, but when she had kneeled next to Nikandr that day, consoling him for what her brother had done, she had noticed the uppermost reaches of it and remembered.
She moved through two squat, gray boulders to the thin path. She turned along the first of the switchbacks, feeling the wind press her against the stone face of the cliff before turning sideways and threatening to pull her from it entirely. The wind played tricks-as much for her as for the ships that found themselves too close to it-but she continued at a fast pace, unable to believe her luck.
Don’t count yourself lucky yet, Tiana, she told herself. There’s still a ways to go.
Nearly an hour later, she came to the end of the trail. It ended some hundred feet above the surface of the waves. Years ago, it had continued on all the way down to the sea itself, but the Khalakovos had considered it not useful enough to repair when a quake had ripped away a good portion of it. That only served to help her cause; no one would think to search for her here, thinking her incapable of braving the waters below.
Indeed. As she stared downward-the water churning, white and frothing with rage-she found herself doubting. Doubting that she could jump. Doubting that she could rise to the surface. Doubting that she could make her way westward to the shore and arrive in Volgorod unseen.
This was foolish, she thought. Why risk such a thing just to speak with a woman whom she wasn’t sure she could trust? Would Rehada help? Would she be able to help?
Perhaps, Atiana thought, and perhaps not, but she had to try, and all that stood in her way was the drop from this cliff.
The wind picked up, blowing scree against the side of her face. It bit her skin. Stung her neck.
She stared at the waves, crashing in unending rhythms. Her breath came quickly, and desperately.
She stared up, wondering if it were too late to return.
And then a bell began to ring, over and over, the alarm that she’d escaped.
She stared down, taking a full breath, releasing it slowly.
I can do this, she thought. I am a Matra, in mind if nothing else. I have taken the dark, and I have braved the currents beyond this world to return whole. If I can do that, I can brave the waters of this world.
“Ancients protect me,” she whispered.
And she leapt.
She arced downward with increasing pace, the sound of the surf breaking against her ears.
And then she crashed against the surface of the water.
CHAPTER 42
As the sun began to rise, the bell at Rehada’s door jingled. It rang again, and once more by the time she had managed to rub the sleep from her eyes and pull on her robe and make her way down the creaking stairs. When she opened the door, she stared, dumbfounded.
By the fates who live above…
Soroush had been right. No other than Atiana Radieva Vostroma stood before her, wearing a beaten woolen szubka around her shoulders and a simple cotton babushka to hide the color of her hair. She looked exhausted. The skin of her face was grimy with dirt. She was shivering from head to toe, yet she seemed hesitant to ask Rehada for entry.
“Come,” Rehada said, stepping out into the quiet street and guiding her in with an arm around her shoulder. “You’ll catch the hacking for sure, dressed as you are.”
She guided her to the sitting room, in the center of which was a mound of pillows. There were two chairs beneath the small round windows set high into the wall, but Atiana chose to sit among the pillows instead. Rehada guessed it was a ploy to put her more at ease-few women among the Landed gentry would do what she had just done-but she still gave her a small nod of approval before moving to the cart that held the liquor.
Rehada poured two glasses of vodka and diluted them with cider. “There have been riots,” Rehada said while holding the glass out.
Atiana accepted it. “I was careful.” She took a healthy swallow and swished the liquid around her mouth before downing the rest in one big gulp.
Rehada sat, sipping at her own drink. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”
“You nearly didn’t…”
“Why? What happened?”
Atiana shook her head, pulling the babushka off with a look that Rehada could only describe as defeated. “I– I’ve come because of the rift. We both know it’s the cause of the deaths-the children, the babies. What I don’t understand is why it’s happening or how we can halt its progression.”
“Why do you care? Surely at this point you could leave and summon your father’s ships to save you.”
“I care because what happens here could happen anywhere. Vostroma, Yrstanla, Rafsuhan. Anywhere.”
Rehada looked this woman up and down, trying to weigh the truth of her words. The defeated look in Atiana’s eyes was gone. She stared back resolutely, and more than that-she seemed hopeful, as if something she had long considered out of her grasp had been placed before her and was now there for the taking. She seemed, Rehada finally conceded, sincere, and so she answered in the only way she could.
“What would you have me do?”
“I need to take the dark. With Radiskoye no longer an option, Iramanshah is all I can think of, but I’m afraid they will think me a spy and refuse me access. I need you to help.”
“That seems a simple thing.”
“There is more.” Atiana stood and poured herself another drink-no cider this time. “Nasim…” Her words trailed off, as if she were considering whether or not the line behind which she was standing should be crossed.
“Go on,” Rehada said softly.
“During the attack, he seized the Matra as easily as I would a moth and held her for days. He nearly killed her. I managed to turn his attention elsewhere, and I did it by pushing on the walls of the aether.”
