The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [51]
They entered at the base and descended a long, spiraling set of stairs. Atiana’s anger with Ishkyna was slowly being replaced by fear of the meeting that lay before her, and the deeper they went, the more her stomach began to turn. She wasn’t ready for this. She didn’t know how she would measure up to the woman Mother spoke of with such reverence.
The stairs landed within a circular room with two sets of intricately carved doors. Two pairs of streltsi guarded them, berdische axes and curved shashkas at the ready. An old servant woman, standing by the doors straight ahead of them, bowed as Victania and Yvanna turned to Atiana.
“She will be weak,” Victania said, “for she has only just removed herself from the aether.”
Atiana wanted to bite her tongue, but Victania’s mothering tone and the row with Ishkyna had frayed her nerves. “I am well aware of what the aether does to a woman.”
“Oh?” Victania pursed her lips as her gaze traveled Atiana’s length. “Tell me, then, how long does my mother require a warm fire before her joints begin to ache?”
She swallowed the first response that came to her mind. “I do not know, My Lady.”
“What sort of tea does she favor upon awakening?”
Atiana lowered her gaze. “Forgive my outburst, dear Victania. I have only just completed the voyage here, and I fear the length has made me testy.”
Victania’s eyes did not soften. “Difficult voyage or not, see to it that you curb your tongue. The Matra will not stand for it.”
“Of course not.”
Victania turned to Yvanna. “You can prepare her?”
Yvanna nodded.
“Good.” She turned on her heel and headed into the room with the servant woman, leaving Atiana alone with Yvanna in the cold, dark antechamber.
“Forgive her,” Yvanna said as she blew warmth into her cupped hands. “She’s very preoccupied with your wedding. She doesn’t say it, but she wishes the best for you both.”
Atiana smiled, not wanting to offend. “She does hide it well.”
“Make no mistake, if she didn’t care for you, she would tell you so.”
Atiana had her doubts. Victania knew as well as everyone else that this marriage was crucial for both families. Atiana’s father needed ships to bring goods to Yrstanla, and as light as their coffers were, the only sensible way to get them was by marriage. And Khalakovo had been one of the worst struck by the blight. Nearly two-thirds of their cabbage and potato crops, if reports were to be believed, had been devastated in the last several years. Now more than ever it needed its precious wood and spices and gemstones to be sold in the Motherland. They would need much to weather the coming storm.
A shiver traveled down Atiana’s frame as one of the great doors suddenly opened. Victania motioned them into the room known as the drowning chamber. At the far end of the long, low room, Saphia Mishkeva Khalakovo sat in a wooden chair a goodly distance from the fireplace. An amber-colored stone of chalcedony rested in the circlet upon her brow. Victania stood next to her, a comforting hand upon the Matra’s shoulder.
Every one of the nine families had a room like this, and Khalakovo’s looked eerily similar to Vostroma’s: dark-as-night stone, Aramahn tracework running along the support columns, a basin sitting in the center of the room, all of it laid out almost exactly the same as Galostina’s chamber. The only difference seemed to be the iron lantern holders spaced about the room and the marble busts of the Matri from Khalakovo’s past.
Atiana strode forward as confidently as she could manage. When she stood before Saphia’s chair, she kneeled, waiting to be kissed, hearing only the Matra’s labored breathing.
“Stand, child,” Victania said. “She cannot kiss you.”
Atiana complied, realizing just how much Khalakovo’s Matra had sacrificed for her station.