by a stairwell that led down into the darkness.
“Careful now,” she said as she made her way down, taking the light with her, “and close the door behind you.”
Irkadiy, standing guard outside the tomb, nodded once before Ishkyna shut the door with a boom. After a cross look from the woman, the three of them descended the stairs down, down, down into the bowels of the Mount.
At the bottom of the stairs they came to a room with a copper tub at the center of it. Three covered wooden crates sat next to the tub. Ice was floating in the water, but Atiana could already tell that it wouldn’t be enough.
“Prepare yourself,” the woman said, motioning to marble shelves that were set into the well. Upon them were bolts of cloth the color of sandstone and a jar no doubt filled with rendered fat.
As Atiana began to undress, the woman opened the crates. Inside were fist-sized blocks of ice nestled within a thick layer of hay. She took all of the blocks from the first crate and dropped them into the water, then she took half of them from the second and dropped them in as well, until the surface of the water was covered like a frozen pond succumbing to the early warmth of summer.
Atiana took a deep breath as she folded her small clothes and placed them onto the shelf. Ishkyna helped her to spread the rendered goat fat over her body. The chill of it was welcome. She had too long been away from the aether, and she would welcome its embrace.
As she stepped into the tub, the cold water chilled her feet and shins. And when she sat down, she shivered for the first time, though she was able to quell this quickly. Several paces from the tub was an inlaid wooden door set into the wall opposite from the stairs. For some reason, as she stared at the door, she had the distinct impression that this tomb was connected to others-a maze of them interconnected deep beneath the kasir like an Aramahn village.
She took the breathing tube from Ishkyna.
“Dreams of honey,” Ishkyna said.
It was something they used to say to one another as children before they went to bed in their shared room in Galostina. Atiana tried to smile, failed, and lay down in the tub, the ice parting and returning to place with dull clacking sounds. The water was cold, but there was something about it. It didn’t have the bone-numbing chill that the water from the depths of Galostina or Radiskoye had. Perhaps it was the temperature, or the source of the water, or some quality of the water itself…
She stopped herself. She would never be able to take the dark if she allowed these doubts to fester. She had to accept the situation. She had to believe the water would hold her, would cradle her as she wandered through the aether.
She breathed through the tube, feeling suddenly self-conscious-like a girl taking the dark for the first time-but then she relaxed, forcing her breath to release more slowly, drawing it in with the pace of an achingly slow breeze, releasing once more, until inhalation and exhalation were equally measured.
Like the tides, she thought.
Like the measure of night and day.
Like the turn of the seasons.
And soon… Soon…
She floats through the aether. Already she feels drawn toward the straits. It tugs at her like a piece of flotsam among the waves.
She fights, realizing that it will mean her ruin if she is drawn to its center, the place the maelstrom was the strongest and most unpredictable. But try as she might, she cannot fight it. With the straits so near, so strong, she is pulled slowly but surely toward the gap in the island.
Knowing she cannot fight it-remembering as well the first tenet of life in the dark, that of submission-she allows herself to be pulled; she moves with it, faster and faster, until she whips past the straits, feeling the depth and power of the confluence below. How strong it is. How fearsome.
And how truly beautiful.
In the aether the tall cliffs are bright, blinding white. Chromatic whorls form and diffuse in moments. The water is dark as midnight, but above it the currents of the aether clash, driving their power high into the air. Lines of power arc over the straits as well. They shimmer and scintillate, towering high above Galahesh, glowing like the chromatic lights of the Great Northern Sea.
She remembers her purpose here.
Arvaneh. The tower.
She is on the northern side of the straits. As she drifts southward she once again finds herself at odds with the currents of the aether. They fight her every step, threaten to draw her downward. So she turns, using that movement to catch the whorls that are left in its wake. She slips like a salmon through a frothing white river.
At last, she approaches the tower. Arvaneh’s tower. She feels threatened, as though touching its stones would mean the death of her. But this is one of Arvaneh’s powers-fear, plain and simple-and Atiana will have none of it.
She crosses the walls.
And everything changes.
The typical silence of the aether is replaced by a low susurrus. The lights of the aether are dim, as if she’s lost her ability to see in the dark.
She does not sense Arvaneh, but she senses another, someone like her, waiting and listening in the dark.
Who’s there?
She receives no reply, but she feels them retreat.
It is not one of the Matri. Her mind is foreign, her movements clumsy.
Atiana moves quickly toward it. She catches up, and now she can sense the tendril that leads back east through the city, across the acres of towers and markets and homes, toward a hovel set among the battered remains of the Shattering.
She sees there a woman lying in a stone pool set into the earth. A feeling wells up inside her as she stares, wondering how this could be. The woman’s form is the diaphanous white of all living things in the aether’s midnight blue, but there are tinges of yellow and red and green. Most of all there is black. It is difficult to see against the aether’s dark hue, but it is there. This woman is clearly a qiram. She may even be arqesh, one who has mastered every discipline.
And yet this woman has managed to enter the aether, a skill that has been the domain of the Landed alone for centuries. Of the Aramahn, only Fahroz has ever been known to take the dark, and yet here is another.
Atiana seizes the woman. She can feel her surprise. She doesn’t know she’s been followed, and she is weak, defenseless against such an attack.
I asked you who you were.
Still there is no response. She could force the woman from the aether now if she so chose, but why? She needs to learn more.
She tightens her hold, feels the woman squirm beneath her grasp.
Ushai!
Atiana eases her hold.
My name is Ushai. Ushai Kissath al Shahda.
Atiana remembers her. She was a servant of Fahroz. She was the one who’d led her from the lake deep below the village of Iramanshah. It made sense, then. If Fahroz knew how to take the dark, surely she would have taught others. It is something she’d have to give more thought to.
Why have you come, Ushai?
I’ve come for the same reason as you, I suspect, daughter of Radia.
And why is that?
To study her.
Arvaneh?
Sariya. The Scourge of Ghayavand.
Atiana feels her body jerk in the basin. It cannot be, she says. Sariya is trapped.
