The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [111]
“You have taken the dark?” She said it as if she didn’t believe Atiana could do so in a hundred years.
“I did,” Atiana said, pulling herself upright.
Rehada’s eyes thinned. “Then you were mistaken.”
“I was not. I was there in that woman’s home when the vanahezhan drew the life from the wailing babe she held in her arms.”
“Was the babe sick?”
“I don’t know.”
Rehada pulled a strand of hair from her mouth. “Perhaps the hezhan was simply curious. Perhaps the babe was near death and was close to crossing the aether to reach their world. Perhaps that’s what drew it to the babe and not some ridiculous explanation such as yours.”
Atiana wanted to bark back a reply, but what Rehada was saying made sense. Perhaps the babe had been sick. Perhaps, in those moments before its death, it had attracted the notice of the hezhan and had given it the crease it needed to enter this world.
But it seemed strange after what had happened on the eyrie. Physical manifestations of spirits were once common among the qiram, but now they were so rare that even the wisest among the Landless knew little of them. And here, on Khalakovo, there had now been three in the span of a fortnight.
The shore was distant, and the place where she’d turned off the road to Izhny was barely visible, but she thought she could see—though she could not say for certain—two men standing among the trunks of the birch and alder.
Perhaps they were watching them leave.
When Atiana turned back, she found Rehada looking as well. One moment, there was a look of profound worry on her face, but then it was gone.
A violent shiver ran through Atiana, not only from the cold.
After the incessant cold of the skiff, the frigid air within the village was unwelcome. Atiana had been pacing the length of a small room deep within Iramanshah for nearly an hour. After Rehada had landed the skiff, a mahtar named Fahroz had taken Rehada away while Atiana had been led into the heart of the mountain.
The only light present in the room was a glowing blue gemstone. She could see through the doorway to the far side of the stone corridor, but beyond a scant few paces, all was darkness.
An Aramahn man stood outside her room, not to force her to stay, but to prevent her from becoming lost in the darkness should she try to leave. She wouldn’t have in any case—she needed their help. Radiskoye needed to know what she’d seen.
But who will you inform? she asked herself. Your family or Nikandr’s? She struggled with that question for a long time. In the end, instead of answering it, she stalked out into the hallway and faced the Aramahn.
“I would speak with Fahroz,” she said.
He turned to her, his brown eyes placid. “And Fahroz dearly wishes to speak with you.”
“Then take me to her.”
“I cannot.”
She tried to walk past him, but he motioned to the room behind her. “Please, she begs your patience.”
“I am a daughter of Vostroma!”
“Then I would have credited you,” said a voice behind her, “with more composure.”
Atiana turned to find Fahroz—a mature but vibrant woman—walking toward her with a glowing stone, a siraj, in her hand. She wore a black shawl with intricate tracery running through it. Unlike many of those who rose to the rank of mahtar, she wore no stone. Instead, a gold chain with a medallion hanging from it was strung across her brow.
“Where is Rehada?” Atiana asked, seeing two Aramahn women she’d never met before standing behind Fahroz.
“She has left.”
Atiana paused, feeling small and alone. That such feelings were caused by Nikandr’s lover made her doubly angry over it. “Why?”
“That, I’m afraid, will remain between me and her. There are more pressing matters, are there not?”
Atiana pulled herself higher. “I need to return to Radiskoye. They are in danger, which I’m sure you’re well aware of by now.”
“Radiskoye has little reason to expect favors from Iramanshah.”
“They must be warned.”
“Is that so?”
Atiana stared into Fahroz’s eyes, knowing that she had been the one to take up the cause of the Aramahn. From the accounts, she had stood