The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [129]
“Is it the same for you?”
“Nyet. I can no longer enter. Victania has the potential to be as strong as Saphia, but she tries too hard. The aether has come to mistrust her, or she mistrusts it, and she overcompensates.”
“And you wish me to help?”
“She was to be your mother.”
“She is head of the family that is holding me hostage.”
“You are a member of a sisterhood. You cannot turn your back on it now.”
“A rather convenient perspective, don’t you think? The Grand Duchy has been split, and here I stand with one leg on either side. What I do here might tip the conflict in your favor.”
“You are thinking like the men.”
“I sit here because of the men.”
“It is a baseless conflict.”
“Yvanna, come. When has reason ever stood in the way of politics?”
“My mother needs you.”
Atiana paused, remembering the way Saphia had spoken to her. She had not been kind, but neither had she been harsh. She had been matter-of-fact, and that was something to be valued among the halls of the Duchies.
“If you need it,” Atiana said at last, “I will try.”
Yvanna stood, a grateful smile on her face. “Then come.”
They were heading for the door when the strelet unlocked it. Victania strode in, her face a picture of rage. As she stared at Atiana and Yvanna, she seemed to gather strength, like an approaching storm cloud before it unleashes its fury. “You would come to her for help?”
“We need her, Victania.”
“We need many things, Yvanna, but a forgotten Vostroman whelp isn’t one of them.”
“Would you abandon your mother to her fate?”
“Leave us, Yvanna.”
Yvanna stood, pulling herself to her full height, which was still a half-head shorter than Victania.
Victania stabbed her finger toward the door. “I said leave us!”
Yvanna glanced at Atiana, a brief look of apology on her face, and then she strode from the room.
“I would help your mother if I could,” Atiana said.
“You are deranged,” Victania said as she stepped forward, “if you think I would let you near my mother. It is because of your family that she is ill.”
Atiana met her, refusing to be cowed. “It is because of her presumption. Nasim is no rook to be assumed as she will.”
Victania’s hand lashed out and struck Atiana across one cheek. Her cheek flared white with pain as her head snapped to one side.
“Do not think to judge my mother,” Victania said.
Atiana’s chest heaved as she fought down her anger. She nearly raised her fist, but thought better of it—it was the very thing Victania was hoping for. Instead, she sat at the table, ignoring Victania as she began eating the food from her tray. She refused to meet Victania’s gaze, so she couldn’t judge her reaction, but she could sense the tightness in Victania’s stance, could hear the rapid pace of her breathing.
She thought it a small victory, but when Victania strode from the room, her footsteps echoed down the hallway in sharp, satisfied strokes, making Atiana feel small and defeated.
Two days passed. The routine of the previous days resumed: meals and water brought only by the guardsmen. She nearly asked them to speak to Yvanna, but decided against it, wagering that Victania had left strict orders to be informed of any such overture.
Late on the third night, Atiana heard the door to her cell being opened. She woke, groggy, to find Yvanna standing at the door.
“The Matra?” Atiana asked.
Yvanna nodded. “She is gravely ill. Please, if you care for her at all, you will come.”
“What of Victania?”
“She hasn’t slept properly in weeks, but she sleeps now. We won’t be disturbed.”
“Then I will come.” She dressed and together they moved quickly and quietly down the hall. The strelet and the gaoler were gone, and Atiana asked no questions. “What can I do?” she asked as they took the stairs up.
“Be quiet,” Yvanna whispered.
Yvanna stopped at a landing and pressed something behind a marble statue of a rearing horse. The wall behind it swung inward, and soon they were taking one of the tunnels that threaded its way through the interior of Radiskoye. They continued and