The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [153]
And so she held Fahroz’s gaze and nodded.
“Say it, child.”
“I will confess my daughter’s death.”
There was a tentative satisfaction in Fahroz’s heavy, wrinkled eyes, but it was not a mocking glance. Then her gaze drifted to Atiana. “The fates can be cruel at times, daughter of Shineshka, but I think in this they are right.”
Rehada turned, confused, and looked at Atiana, who was studying the massive celestia atop the nearby hill. Atiana turned then, perhaps sensing that she was being watched, and the moment their eyes met, Rehada understood exactly what Fahroz meant for her to do.
“Neh, Fahroz,” Rehada said quietly but firmly. “Anything but that. I will confess to you, to Hilal, to the entire village. Anything. But do not make me confess to her.”
Fahroz had already started shaking her head. “Those are my terms.”
The pain in her hands made Rehada realize just how tightly she had been gripping them. She stared at her palms, each of which now contained four crescent-shaped marks of blood. Rather than storm away, rather than hide, Rehada laughed. Fahroz was right. The Fates had finally caught up to her, as she knew it eventually would.
She breathed deeply and released it slowly. Finally she nodded, and Fahroz returned the gesture. And then the two of them hugged.
CHAPTER 47
Rehada held her arms at her side, conscious of her posture and bearing even though Atiana—standing nearly face-to-face with her—and Fahroz—watching from a comfortable distance—were the only ones witness to it. She grew conscious of the shaking in her hands and balled them into fists to cover it, but that might be interpreted by Fahroz as disobedience or lack of acceptance and so she relaxed them and simply hoped that Atiana wouldn’t notice.
She did, though. Atiana glanced down, and her face softened as if she were trying to comfort a cowardly child afraid of storm clouds and thunder. It made Rehada want to gouge her eyes from her face.
Fahroz had chosen for the confession one of the largest rooms in Iramanshah, a hall normally used for the immense meals during the solstice festivals, but this day it was entirely empty, the trestles and chairs stored away, leaving the three of them small and insignificant at its center. It was not something that would normally give Rehada pause, but this day it made her feel small, smaller than she had felt in a long, long time.
“Are you prepared to continue?” Fahroz asked in Anuskayan, her voice echoing in the immensity of the room.
“I am.” Those two simple words felt foul on her tongue. She hated that she was forced to speak in their language.
“Then tell the Lady Vostroma what you are confessing.”
“A hatred for the family Bolgravya.”
Her voice echoed away slowly as Atiana stared and Fahroz paced a circle around them.
Fahroz stopped for a moment while she was within Rehada’s periphery. “Come, Rehada...”
“A hatred for the Grand Duchy.”
Fahroz resumed her pacing. “For whom?”
Rehada closed her eyes and shook her head, but she opened them again immediately. “A hatred for the Landed.”
“And why do you hold hatred?”
“Because of the death of my daughter.”
“Deaths happen every day, daughter of Shineshka. Why would this one, even though it was your daughter’s, cause anger?”
“Because she was murdered unjustly by the streltsi of Nazakhov.”
“Murdered...”
“Da, murdered!”
“Tell Lady Vostroma what happened.”
Atiana had been prepared. She had been told, as would anyone that was to play the part of the witness, to stand still, to accept what was being told as the truth, and to speak only when spoken to. But her oh-so-sympathetic face spoke volumes, and it felt as if she were scoffing at a covenant that had been in place for eons—yet another affront the Landed would someday be held accountable for.
Rehada spoke of that day in cold terms, giving Atiana the facts, how she