The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [113]
Perhaps sensing her hesitation, Fahroz walked forward until she stood at the pier’s very edge. She beckoned Atiana closer, and when Atiana was at her side, she motioned toward the vastness of the lake. “Did you know that there is a lake like this in every Aramahn village?”
“Every village?”
“Every one that is still populated. Some have been drained by earthquakes. They were repaired if possible, but if it was not, if they ran dry, the village was eventually abandoned.”
Atiana struggled to understand why Fahroz was telling her this. “Not merely for lack of water...”
A sad smile touched Fahroz’s lips. “Nyet, not merely for lack of water. They connect us, these lakes. There was a time when we could speak to one another much as the Matri do now.” She stopped speaking and the silence lengthened between them, and Atiana realized that she was crying. “It is one of a dozen things—a hundred—that we do not understand since the islands were taken.” She said the words not with anger, but as simple fact, as if the War of Seven Seas had been no different than an earthquake draining one of their lakes and a village with it. “The babe you saw, if you care for it at all, if you care for the others—Aramahn or Anuskayan—then you will do this.”
“It may not work.”
“A choice I leave to the fates...”
Atiana had never felt close to the Aramahn—they had never been allowed to be a part of her or her sisters’ lives—but this woman, this leader of people, struck her deeply. She wished, somehow, that she could know as much as Fahroz did, that she could face the world with as much poise.
In the end, Atiana bowed her head. “I will share as I can.”
Fahroz nodded and led her back along the pier. “You may find taking the dark here in the village vastly different from the spire. It is the mountains, after all”—she motioned to the roof of the cavern—“that once acted as the spires do now. In those early days of exploration, they guided us from place to place, even if we weren’t yet sure where we were headed. They are our lifeblood, and we are theirs. You will be experiencing this place as many of the ancients did—or nearly so.”
The lake looked like it would chill her to the bone just as quickly as the drowning basin had.
“I will require a balm.”
Rehada motioned to the two women. “We have some at the ready.”
Fahroz disrobed. As soon as she was done, one of the women began rubbing a salve over her. Atiana disrobed as well, feeling more self-conscious than she had in years. Her skin was white as snow; it was expected of the gentry, but next to the darker skinned Aramahn she felt sickly and small. After the second woman rubbed salve over Atiana’s back, Atiana did the same over her front. It was similar to what the Matri used, except it smelled strongly of sage. Soon it was over, and she was left a woman naked in a place she hardly knew, ready to submerge herself in water that would take her life as soon as cradle her.
There were steps along the left and right sides of the pier she hadn’t noticed. Fahroz took the steps to the right, wading out into the water without hesitation.
Atiana followed, and although the water seized her ankles and calves and thighs, she waded forward, intent on controlling herself better than she had those days ago in Radiskoye’s drowning chamber. She leaned back. The woman caught and supported her. She felt like a fish out of water wriggling its way back toward the sea. “Is there nothing that could support me?”
“This is how it is done.”
A sliver of fear crept inside her, but she took deep breaths to calm herself. When she felt as ready as she would ever be, she allowed herself to sink beneath the water. She forgot that she was deep within Iramanshah, a veritable prisoner for the time being; she forgot about the Maharraht and the events of the day; she forgot about her embarrassment, her nervousness, her feelings of vulnerability; she forgot about Rehada, though this was the most difficult of all.
And soon...
She sees herself