The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [107]
Her pony pulled at the reins. Atiana immediately loosened them and smoothed the hair along his neck—she could not afford to be heard, now of all times.
She scanned the landscape behind her. She set her gaze through the alder and ivory-skinned birch, toward Volgorod. She should let these men go. A woman had no business following men like this.
And yet this seemed too important to ignore. They had come to the very home she had seen in the aether. What connection did they have with the baby, to the hezhan that had taken her life?
She had to know.
She grasped the soulstone at her throat and closed her eyes.
Saphia.
She waited for a moment, but the only response she heard was the sound of the surf and the rustle of the wind through the trees.
Matra, I need you.
She knew the Matra might be far afield, spying on one of the other islands, or she might be deep in communion with the other Matri. Either way, it didn’t make much difference right now.
She pulled the pistol from its holster at her waist. When the men were lost from view, she tied her pony deeper into the woods and padded after them.
They were not moving quickly, and it took her little time to catch up. They walked until they reached the edge of the wood, at which point they trekked into the jumbled landscape of tall, rounded boulders that split the forest from the water. The air smelled of sea and earth, both. The tide was low, so the rocks would be slippery, but the men navigated them with ease.
Atiana kept pace until they stopped between several large boulders. The nearby surf broke white and frothy against the rocks before crashing apart into rivulets, frothing to a stop near her feet.
The older Maharraht crouched and with his eyes closed ran his hands over the rocks. There was a golden setting at the center of his brow, worked into his turban, and within the setting was a gem of jasper. A vanaqiram, then, a master of earth. Atiana had seen few in her life. Very rare were earth spirits, and rarer were those who could control them. She studied the gem closely. It was difficult to tell, as the jasper was striated and blood red in color. It seemed lifeless, and so she could only assume that he was unbonded.
The other man had a horrible scar where the lower half of his left ear should have been. The crest of his ear was festooned with a half-dozen golden earrings. This close, she realized who he must be. Everyone on the islands knew of him. He could be no other than Soroush Wahad al Gatha, the leader of the Maharraht.
The very thought made what little courage she had left drain from her. But what could she do now? To leave would be to alert them to her presence.
The older one, apparently satisfied, stood, and the two of them spoke in Mahndi to one another. Atiana knew little of the language, but it sounded harsher than the way Father’s servants spoke it. After a short discussion, they set to work digging in the rocky soil using the shovels they’d brought. The going was slow at first, but once they hit the sandy-clay soil, they went much faster. Soon they had formed what Atiana could only describe as a grave.
After tossing the shovels aside, the two hugged, then kissed, and then the one with the graying beard laid down in the pit. Atiana’s eyes widened as Soroush began pushing the mounded soil back into the hole. In little time, the moist earth had been piled upon the buried man. Soroush moved himself a few paces away, and there he crouched, closed his eyes, and began humming an ancient and arrhythmic melody.
Atiana grasped her soulstone. Matra, please, hear me.
But she sensed that the Matra would not.
She gripped the pistol, gaining some small comfort from it. She debated on whether to fire upon Soroush while he was alone. She could reload and take the other as he crawled from his grave—if he crawled from his grave. She pulled the striker to full-cock, pouring a bit of powder into the pan for good measure. She was a decent shot, but