a heavyset man with a limp, and he stared at them all as if assessing them, as one might an enemy.
“They know,” Atiana whispered to Siha s.
He heard, for she felt him stiffen, but he did not turn his head away from the soldier standing in their way. “Where are they?” Siha s called to him.
He pointed to the far side of the straits. The city of Vihrosh, her stone buildings and red-tile roofs, were brightly lit by the noontime sun. “The Kamarisi and the Kaymakam of Galahesh wait for you at the gate to the old city.”
Siha s nodded, spurring his pony on.
The nine of them rode over the bridge, the hooves of their ponies clopping loudly in the relative silence. The smell of the sea grew stronger. The winds blew upward, swirling over the bridge, chilling them as they distanced themselves from the soldiers who eyed their passing with altogether too much interest.
“I don’t like this,” Atiana said.
“This is the way to Sariya.”
“They know we’re coming.”
“Did you think we could hide from the Al-Aqim forever?”
They reached the center of the bridge, where two squat stone towers sat, one on either side of the road. There, upon the central keystones, was the marking of blood that Atiana had seen only in the dark of the aether. It was dark brown, almost black. She could feel her nostrils flare, feel her gut churn at the memory of watching her father’s cold-blooded execution.
Again, as it had so often before, the image of the sword swinging down against his neck came to her. I will avenge you, she said to him, hoping he was near, hoping he could hear her. She could feel the touch of the aether, but could not sense her father. It made her feel as cold as a grave in a long-forgotten cemetery.
She looked to Irkadiy, who rode behind one of the other men. He nodded, granting her some small amount of strength. She wanted to turn back, to find another way that wouldn’t allow their enemies to take them as they wanted, but she could think of no other path. She had to get to Sariya. She would simply have to trust Ishkyna once they did. She nodded back to Irkadiy, telling him they would go on. He tried to smile, but he managed only a nervous twitching of his lips that reminded her of a much younger man-a callow youth holding a musket for the first time, a soldier new to the cough of the cannon-but then he swallowed, and the look was gone.
They continued on across the great bridge. Far below, the straits seethed, frothing white. The Spar was wide, but not so wide that Atiana felt safe on a pony with the wind as strong as it was, and so she was glad when at last they reached the other side. As they passed, the janissaries that held this side of the Spar merely touched their fingers to their foreheads and bowed, as if news of their arrival had already been passed to every soldier in Galahesh.
Siha s guided them through the empty streets of Vihrosh. It was not a large city, however, and they soon came to a gate with tall minarets on either side. The massive iron portcullis was drawn up. Beyond, Atiana could already see dozens, perhaps hundreds of men standing, staring at something Atiana could not yet see from her vantage.
And then Atiana heard a sound that sent chills along her spine. It was like the braying of an animal, or the fearful crying of a child-a child faced with something they could not comprehend, allowing only the most urgent of fears to burst from their lungs.
Siha s stiffened as another call came, this one louder than the first, and nearer.
“By the ancients,” Atiana said, “I’ve never heard something so tragic.”
Siha s said nothing, but she felt him shiver. His pony slowed instinctually, and when Siha s kicked its flanks, the beast became skittish and began to tug at the bridle.
As they passed through the gate, the scene beyond the Galaheshi soldiers was revealed. Hundreds of men and women wearing robes of black and gray and umber stood around a hill. These were the Hratha, Atiana knew, the sect of the Maharraht that had overthrown Soroush and his brother, Bersuq. They had been waging a protracted war against her own Duchy, and the Duchies of Bolgravya and Nodhvyansk, for decades.
And yet, it was not their presence that bothered her most.
At the top of the hill were dozens of children.
Nyet, Atiana thought. Not children. She had seen them in the aether, on Ghayavand and Rafsuhan. These were the akhoz, and they were now on Galahesh.
Sariya stood upon the hill’s summit near a tall post. She was facing the gate as if she had expected them to walk through at that very moment. Hakan ul Aye s e, the Kamarisi of Yrstanla stood next to her, his face calm, emotionless, barely registering that a princess of Anuskaya and the kapitan of his personal guard had arrived.
Standing next to them was a tall man wearing robes of ivory over inner robes the color of pearl. His hair and beard were black. This was Muqallad.
And between them was a girl, twelve, perhaps older-it was difficult to tell from this distance.
Muqallad lifted his hand and held it out as if he expected Atiana to take it.
The Hratha turned, and they parted, creating a lane for them to ride along.
Siha s did not spur their pony forward. He was like a spring, tight and coiled. She could feel it in his arms and shoulders and in the set of his spine.
“We must go,” Atiana whispered, and she knew it was so. They could no more turn around than they could summon the sun from the sky.
Siha s was breathing so rapidly she wondered if he would faint. But as she leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “We must go,” he flicked the reins and urged the pony forward.
The beast complied, and slowly they moved forward, she and his soldiers.
She glanced back to Irkadiy. Her countryman. A man who had urged her to abandon these plans.
His look was strong-Irkadiy was nothing if not strong-but it was a thin veneer, for just below the surface was an endless well of terror. He looked as though he could barely breathe, as though he were a drowning man clutching uselessly at the surface of the water.
Her feelings for him, so favorable only moments ago, soured the more she looked. He had tried to turn her away from this path. He had tried to betray her. Betray her! How dare he! For a mere moment, the anger building inside her like a hornet’s nest surprised her, but as she looked up to the hill, to Muqallad and Sariya, she knew she’d been a fool to trust Irkadiy. She’d been a fool to trust any of these men.
Somewhere in the distance she heard the call of the gallows crow, but it was drowned out by the braying of the akhoz. There were more of them than Atiana had realized. Dozens of them. They’d moved beyond the Hratha to crawl along the ground as if they wished to leap upon Atiana and the soldiers and their ponies but were prevented from doing so. She looked upon the faces of these creatures, knowing they had once been children, knowing they had once been innocent.
No longer, she thought. Now they were tools of the Al-Aqim.
As it should be…
They reached the hill at last. There were rough stone steps worked into it, allowing them to slip from their saddles and ascend to the top of the hill. Muqallad and Sariya watched closely, but little emotion showed on their faces. The girl, however, was different. She watched Atiana with an intensity that Atiana couldn’t understand.
The akhoz closed in behind and followed them up the hill. By the time she and Siha s and the rest reached the hill’s flattened summit, they were completely surrounded.
“Come,” Muqallad said over the braying of the akhoz.
Sariya, for some reason, did not speak. She looked pale, as if she could do little more than stand, as if even speaking would prove too much.
In the distance there came again, barely audible, a single, sad caw.
Atiana knew something was wrong, but she could no longer understand what. Muqallad looked at her with a fierceness that made her want to obey. Sariya licked her lips tremulously, as if behind those lips, behind those unsteady eyes, she was holding back a wave of pain she’d never before experienced. Sariya swallowed and shook her head, holding back her misery through sheer force of will.
Atiana wanted to step forward, wanted to take Muqallad’s hand. She felt she should, but there was something else she should do. Wasn’t there?
But then the girl stepped forward.
And took Atiana’s hand.
