The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [83]
But just like everything else on the islands, the aether had become unpredictable. The Matri had had to work harder to control the currents, which was the main reason that those weaker in the craft were practically useless, and masters like Saphia were taxed more heavily each time they took the dark. Most believed the blight to be a drought that would one day pass, but Atiana wasn’t so sure. What if it never passed? Or passed so many years from now that it made little difference? What would become of the Duchies of Anuskaya? Would they be forced to live only among their own archipelagos, forgoing the dangerous flights to the farther islands? How many would die from starvation as conditions worsened and they were cut off from trade?
“If it’s a simple matter of ability,” Atiana said, “then Ishkyna or Mileva would do better. They seemed to enjoy it.”
“Ishkyna is an unbroken filly, always trying to prove herself, always pulling at her reins. And Mileva is too cunning for her own good.”
“Which leaves me.”
“Which is no small matter. Take the dark, child. The Matri will guide you, as they have in the past. There is little to fear now that the winds are calm.”
“Mother says there is always something to fear in the dark.”
Saphia began to laugh, splashing tea over the shawl on her lap. The servant came quickly with a napkin and dabbed the wet spots, making sure to send a wicked glance in Atiana’s direction while doing so.
“This is another reason I think you’re ready. You recognize the need for balance—hold the reins too tightly, and the aether will fight you; loosen them overly much, and it will trample you roughshod.”
Atiana stood there, cold and perfectly unwilling to become colder, but also out of reasons not to. “Very well,” she finally said.
Atiana knew she was no fledgling needing protection from the cold, but the abilities of the drowning basin to steal warmth was something even the stoutest of women could not prepare for, and so when she stripped she was—despite the nearby fire—already shivering, and as the servant woman spread the rendered goat’s fat over her arms and breasts and stomach, it grew worse.
“Control yourself,” Saphia snapped, “or you’ll fail before you’ve dipped one toe into the basin. The storms have been strong of late, but if you keep to the spires, they will guide you.”
Atiana nodded.
“And remember what you see, Atiana Radieva. It is important.”
And with those words came some amount of control. Nerves calmed. Muscles relaxed. Blood flowed more freely, and finally she was able to control the shivering to a degree.
She stepped to the edge of the basin—now empty—as the servant woman pulled a lever on the wall. Water from the mountain’s internal streams flowed through a channel and began filling the basin. The water rose slowly. It was all Atiana could do to control her breathing. She managed to only by telling herself that once she entered the dark her body would become a faint memory.
Until she woke...
But she would deal with that when the time came.
The basin full, Atiana stepped inside. The cold clawed at her feet and ankles and calves. She knew it was foolish to enter the basin in slow increments, so she laid back until it was up to her neck. She grew rigid from it, her muscles rigoring painfully. Her left foot began to cramp. She flexed her toes against the pain as the breathing tube was pressed into her mouth. She drew in desperate lungfuls of air through the tube as her body screamed at her to rise from the basin, to extricate herself from the water’s iron grip.
But she could not allow such thoughts to control her. She was Vostroman.
She would not bend.
She slowed her breathing, relaxed muscles so tense they were nearing the breaking point. Her skin became numb, and at the same time—as it had so many years ago—the aether began to suffuse her frame, providing