Then something bears down on her and smothers her will. In the time it takes her to flick her wrist toward the akhoz, she has forgotten her allegiance to this soldier of Khalakovo.
The akhoz abandon their attack on the two Maharraht, who have fallen to the cobblestones, moaning in pain, bleeding their lifeblood. The akhoz charge Styophan and the streltsi who stand by him, shashkas at the ready. The first is cleaved through its ribcage where it has no arm to defend itself. Styophan kicks the akhoz free and drives his sword tip-first through the second. This one, a girl who might have been twelve or thirteen when she was changed, is run through, but she reaches out, snatches his jaw, and pulls herself forward until she’s able to pierce his right eye with a long, claw-like thumb.
Styophan screams, writhing, trying to shake her away. His comrades step in, and the girl leaps to another man, darting forward until she’s high enough to latch her jaws onto his throat.
The last of the battle rises to a bloody frenzy in its closing moments. More and more of the Maharraht and the soldiers of Anuskaya fall, and at last it is ended, and all Atiana can hear is the ragged breathing of the akhoz; all she can feel are the stares of the Hratha as they wait for her.
She ignores them, gazing down upon the soldier, Styophan. Blood pours from his ruined eye, from the jagged cuts along his scalp and face from the akhoz. She watches his chest rise and fall slowly with breath. It won’t be long before he passes the veil. She should care that he is about to die, but the truth is she does not. All she feels is a cold satisfaction that the end is finally near. What does it matter if one more is lost before the time has come?
And yet, she’s unwilling to order his death, not when he’s no longer a threat. Let him lie here in the streets. Let him pray to his ancestors if he wishes. That will be a good enough death for this soldier of Anuskaya.
One of the Hratha approaches, but she turns and points him back toward the Spar, then she beckons the akhoz and motions to Nikandr. “Take him.”
The nine that remain obey, lifting Nikandr and bearing him on their backs like food for their burrow. The Hratha in their dark robes and black turbans walk ahead and behind, watching for any signs of the enemy who might be lying in wait. She knows already that the city is all but deserted of military men. All that remain are the huddling inhabitants of this doomed place.
There is something that draws her attention, however.
Ishkyna.
She moves through the aether like a moth, barely visible as she flits near the flame. Atiana wants to find her, to rend her as a cat rends meat, but she cannot-not unless Ishkyna falters and comes too close.
For now, Atiana ignores her and heads for the bridge, moving through the old city with its graceless stone buildings. Under the growing light of dawn, they look like things long ago abandoned, the sad remnants of man. She wonders whether the buildings will remain-and the roads and the eyries and the homesteads-or will they be gone? Will they be burned as the akhoz were, forging the world anew as the Atalayina had been?
And what of the world beyond? Will it too burn?
She supposes it will.
The light in the east makes her think of nothing but the kindling of the fires that will soon consume the world. The wind, as if heeding the call of the coming dawn, rushes along the streets. The last of the spires fell upon Kiravashya yesterday, and though the weather has been strangely still since then, it now builds. The wind is strong and getting stronger, and soon it will be a gale the likes of which has never been seen.
The skin between her breasts itches. The tips of her fingers tingle. She can hardly wait.
She comes to the wide thoroughfare that leads to the Spar. She hears the battle beyond the bridge, hears the screams of individual men rising above the calls and cries of war. She sees the brightness of the cannon flashes against Baressa’s tallest buildings.
Ahead are those she left earlier to set her trap. Muqallad and Sariya stand near the first stones of the Spar, but they have not yet stepped foot upon it. Why, she does not know. Nearer, the girl, Kaleh, watches. She looks as though she wishes to approach, but Muqallad summons her and she leaves. She cannot hear Muqallad’s words, but he points to the Spar, and immediately after Kaleh begins to first walk and then jog across the impossibly long bridge.
As she does, Atiana feels something-a shifting of wind in the dark of the aether-and it comes from the Spar.
She strides forward, steps up onto a wooden stage in the abandoned yard of an auction house, and from here she can see much of the Spar unobstructed. The upper reaches of its white stone are difficult to discern against the white cliffs beyond, but the tall, elegant arches are easy to see.
Atiana closes her eyes, casts herself outward, searching for the source of the disturbance. The sight of the Spar fades and is replaced by the blue-black of the aether. She moves like a marlin through the ocean depths, flitting along the Spar, searching its arches and the supports structures beneath the road deck and the squat towers at the center where the keystones were recently dropped into place. But there is nothing. Nothing.
And yet she knows there must be.
Have you found it?
It is Sariya.
Not yet, she replies. Sariya is weak, but has the strength yet to cast herself into the aether. If she bonds with Atiana, they might find the source together. Join me, Atiana says.
The two of them meld their minds with one another. It is not so easy to do, partly because they are unaccustomed to one another, but mostly from the wound Sariya took from Ushai’s blade. She is so close to parting the veil it is a wonder she can draw breath much less navigate the currents of the dark. Still, she is Al-Aqim, and she has strength yet. It allows Atiana to search more thoroughly, to sense the subtle shifts in the currents of the dark.
She was wrong earlier. There is something on the Spar-she can feel it in her bones, a familiarity that is as much a part of her as her skin or her blood. And yet, save for the blackness of the keystone where her father was murdered, the bridge is pristine. It is empty and untouched. When she breathes the air of the aether, however, she notes the familiar scent of those with whom she once bonded, with those she once shared such intimate thoughts as only sisters in the ways of the dark can share.
The Matri are here. They have moved beyond the chaos of the fallen spire. How, she cannot guess, but she knows it is so, and they are hiding something at the center of the Spar.
She casts outward, hoping to find them, but she does not. Her anger begins to rise. She must control it. She can already feel her grip on the aether slipping. It is dangerous, especially here at the straits where the currents of the dark are building and compressing like a wound infected.
As she tries to regain herself, the dark buffets her. It draws her down into the gap of the straits until she is staring upward at the Spar and the midnight blue of the sky above. She feels the currents of the sea swarming. She feels the weight of the cliffs pressing in. She feels the men dying in the streets of Baressa as swords slice through flesh and bite into bone.
She’s losing herself. She knows this.
And she also knows the Matri are causing it.
She has lasted this long only through the grounding that Sariya provides her, but Sariya is weak.
The Matri must be found, and there are clues for her to do so. She has long been accustomed to searching for them after taking the dark, and though they try to hide, she can sense them. Their trail is marked like blood upon the forest floor.
She follows their trail back toward Baressa. She passes the raging battle near the center of the massive city. And then she comes to the bazaar. It is large and sprawling, little more than a collection of stalls and carts and tents, but at its center there is a building-an old, massive structure where the rarest of items can be found.
It is there, she realizes. The Matri are in that building, and if she is any judge, they have not yet noticed her.
She is no fool. She cannot hope to approach them directly. With Sariya, she is a match for any one of the Matri, but the twisted cord of individual threads trailing back from the Spar make it clear that there are many working together, perhaps seven or eight of them.
She must be careful.
She allows her mind to diffuse outward. She thins her consciousness so that she encompasses the entirety of the bazaar. She cannot allow herself to go further lest she be drawn back toward the maelstrom in the straits.
