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I do not have time to wait, Atiana says. The Matra’s life depends on it.

Nyet, Polina says.

Tell whomever you wish in Radiskoye, but do not stop me in this. You know she is close to death. I am near where you are far, too far to do anything to help her. Is it not so?

Silence.

I can feel her, Duchess. Let me go to her, please, to do what I can.

Polina is unsure of herself. One of the others—perhaps Lhudansk—advises caution, but Polina ignores her and her presence retreats.

Do not betray us, Vostroma.

Atiana says nothing in return. She turns to Saphia. She is faint, her presence distant. Atiana touches the Matra’s stone once more, feeling wind and the open sea. She keeps herself within the stone, knowing this is the key to finding the Matra, but like a single note plucked from a harp, the feeling is beginning to fade.

Desperation pushes her toward haste, but this has never been the way with the aether. She keeps the sound of the note in her head, however faint, and allows it to carry her.

When she opens her eyes again, she finds herself far from any island, floating on the winds like the liberated seed of a thistle. Nearby, an Aramahn skiff floats. There are only two aboard. Ashan sits at the helm, guiding the winds into the billowing sail above him. He seems at peace—a man who has come to grips with the world around him. On deck with Ashan is the boy, Nasim, and it is to him that the connection from the Matra terminates. The thread, rather than being thin, is thick and vibrant, as if the connection originates from the boy, not the other way around. Nasim is sleeping, but his head and shoulders—even his legs—jerk and twitter as if he is trying to waken but cannot quite do so.

And then she sees them.

Dozens of havahezhan, wind spirits, float about the skiff. They trail about in lazy arcs, always circling back. She thinks at first it must be at Ashan’s bidding, but then she realizes they are coming for the boy.

They pause for brief moments in their circling, and it is at these times that Nasim’s body spasms. She cannot understand what is happening, but it seems as if they are feeding on him. Preying upon him. Does the boy realize it? Does he allow it? Has it been so all along?

This seems doubtful given the scrutiny he received at the hands of the Matra. And so it seems it must be something particular to his departure from Radiskoye or his time on the wind.

Or the tether that exists between him and the Matra.

The thought makes her go cold.

The hezhan are feeding, but it is the Matra’s soul—not Nasim’s—that they feed upon.

She moves into the path of the tether, and opens herself to it. The writhing rope leading to the boy brightens, and she realizes that she has added herself to it. She senses both Nasim and the Matra, though Saphia’s terminus is very, very faint. She feels a tug at her breast as one of the havahezhan swoops in and swallows another piece of the Matra’s soul.

Atiana rages against it, for it has taken a bit of her as well. She wonders how the Matra could have taken it for so long. It must have been this way ever since Nasim left the palotza five days ago.

She knows not what to do. She is helpless against such things. She feels herself becoming lost, and the more she tries to direct her awareness, the tighter the hold Nasim seems to have upon her. Soon she is forced to stop altogether for fear of losing herself to the power of this boy.

The wind spirits continue to feed. The Matra’s soul is nearly extinguished, perhaps all the quicker because the hezhan somehow sensed more meat upon the bone. They swoop in, hungrier. They take larger bites, and with each one she feels weaker.

She tries to fend them off, but they only become more animated, and swoop in faster.

Her chest aches. Her bones ache. She screams and tries to wake, but it is not possible. Not any longer.

Nasim sleeps, and yet he appears to be screaming. Ashan attempts to wake him. He looks about the craft, over the water, perhaps sensing something, but there is