The Straits of Galahesh: Book Two of The Lays of Anuskaya (9 page)

Mileva looked like she was about to respond with a biting reply, but then she pursed her lips and took Atiana’s hand. Squeezing it gently, she said, “Come. There is much to attend to.”

That entire day the palotza was aflutter with the arrival of the Kaymakam of Galahesh, and that night, they prepared for their welcoming celebration. Atiana stood at the open doors of the grand ballroom. Mileva was already seated next to her husband, Viktor. Ishkyna’s husband would not be present, which was apparently fine with Ishkyna, who was standing next to a man from the envoy’s retinue, a tall courtier with a closely cropped beard and a red silk turban. A ruby medallion with feathers of white decorated the center of the turban, just above his brow. Like many of the courtiers, he wore voluminous pants and a wide cloth belt. The sword hanging at his side seemed similar to those of the streltsi, but it curved more, and the hilt was carved like the head of a falcon, making it appear as if it would be clumsy and unwieldy in battle.

More people filed into the room, mostly relatives, both close and distant, of Atiana’s, but there were others as well: diplomats, officers of the staaya, men and women of business and industry. Father had gone to great lengths, hoping to impress upon the Empire that Anuskaya was no plum ripe for the plucking. But still, he could not be too ostentatious. The day’s events had to be reserved enough to give some sense of how seriously the islands needed the Empire’s assistance.

Atiana hesitated to enter. The memories of Nikandr were still fresh, and over the past few years she had found herself becoming ever more hopeful of some sort of reconciliation between her family and the Khalakovos. When she appeared at functions such as these she often found herself wanting him at her side, escorting her to this grand function. It should have been, she thought. It should have been so long ago.

“The Kamarisi would be pleased.”

Atiana turned to find an Yrstanlan, perhaps thirty years old, standing in the doorway. Unlike so many of the visiting courtiers, he was clean-shaven, and he wore a turban with no feathers—only a simple medallion with an emerald of the deepest, purest green.

“Forgive me,” Atiana said, “but why?”

“In the capital they say Galostina offers little in the way of beauty”—he stared into her eyes, clearly enough to make his point but with a wry smile, as if waiting for some sharp rejoinder—“but it is clear to me now that they were wrong.”

Despite herself, despite thoughts of Nikandr still fading from her mind, she immediately liked him. “I thank you.” She bowed her head and touched her forehead with one hand in the manner of the Empire. “Though I doubt they’ve ever found their way as far as Kiravashya.”

He stepped back and nodded, conceding the point. “Few now ever leave Aleke
ş
ir. A pity for them; more the pleasure for me.”

“And the Kamarisi, does he ever deign to leave his enclave?”

“He does, but he has many places he must visit.” He tilted his head and shrugged. “Perhaps after this I can convince him to come here.”

“And how would you do that?”

He bowed his head with that same wry smile. “The Kamarisi’s mind is his own, but he listens to the advice of those whom he trusts.”

The man, this elegant aristocrat, became distracted as a group of women in gowns and beaded headdresses filed into the room. As he watched them weave toward their table, Atiana took him in anew. The clothes of all the visiting dignitaries were fine, but his, even if they were a bit understated, were especially so. He wore a silk jacket the color of ivory that perfectly matched his citrine pants and goldenrod belt. The emerald in the brooch pinned to his turban was of a color and clarity that marked it as an imperial stone, one that would be given only to the Kamarisi’s most trusted advisors.

“Were Bahett ül Kirdhash to whisper in
my
ear, I would listen as well.”

Bahett bowed his head, but did not break eye contact. “To a woman like Atiana Radieva Vostroma, I would do more than whisper.”

“Be careful, My Lord. I am not yet your wife.”

“Your words may be true”—he took her hand and kissed it quickly—“but so were mine.” With that he walked away, leaving behind the scent of amber and sandalwood.

Across the room, Ishkyna was no longer speaking with the courtier, but with the Kamarisi’s envoy himself, Siha
ş
ül Mehmed. He was a tall man, handsome, with a thin scar that ran through his eyebrow and down to his cheek. The scar somehow made him look
more
attractive, not less. He was young, only twenty-four, a year younger than the Kamarisi himself, and if word from Irabahce were to be believed, he was well trusted, the cousin to one of the Kamarisi’s wives. It was anyone’s guess why he had been sent along with Bahett, but Atiana reasoned it was because he was brash, an effective counter to Bahett’s easy style.

Ishkyna spoke with him, a glass of white wine in her hand. She reached out, glancing occasionally toward Bahett. The envoy would not know, but Ishkyna was jealous; Atiana could tell in the way she stood, the set of her jaw. She was jealous of Atiana, first of her love for Nikandr and now of Bahett. She was nearly ready to go and speak with her, but just then father arrived with Aunt Katerina, and together they began speaking with Siha
ş
.

Father wore an impressive kaftan of gold and red. He wore the wide golden necklace of the Grand Duke, and he held himself proudly, but there was something in his bearing—a weight that had only seemed to grow heavier these past few years, and especially as this summit with Yrstanla approached. As Aunt Katerina listened to some story from Siha
ş
, Father’s eyes studied the room. Anuskayan mingled with Yrstanlan. It was cordial, but Father was tense. She could tell by the way he breathed and the way his half-lidded eyes scanned the crowd, never lingering.

Atiana felt a hand at her back. She turned to find Mother standing next to her. Like Father, she was studying the gathering crowd, but
unlike
him, she did so with a certain amount of disinterest. And then Atiana realized that she was not merely studying the crowd, she was pointedly
not
looking at Atiana.

“What is it, Mother?” she asked.

Mother glanced down at her once, quickly. “Bahett is charming, is he not?”

“All the charm in the world, which should give us pause.”

“It does, Tiana, but there are times when there is little room in which to negotiate.”

Atiana looked up at her. “There’s always room to negotiate.”

“True words, daughter.” She met her gaze and smiled. “It was not an easy thing you did.”

“Agreeing to marry Bahett or telling Nikandr?”

“Both, but know this… It was the right thing to do.” She turned back to look over the contingent from Galahesh. “And don’t look so glum. Their customs are not our own, but their women are treated with respect. More, I suspect, than some of our own give the women of the Grand Duchy.” She stared meaningfully at Ishkyna, who had never been treated well by her husband.

“I know it’s needed, Mother, but…”

Mother glanced over, a suffering look on her face. “More Matri will be found, Tiana. More will be taught. Bahett is in a unique position to help all of us. Even the Khalakovos.” Mother stepped closer to her until their shoulders were nearly touching. It was the closest thing to open affection she’d ever known from her mother. “And perhaps in time Bahett will allow you to return.”

And that, Atiana thought, was as close to an admission that Mother
wanted
Atiana to return as she was going to get. But it was also a lie. No such thing would happen. First wife or not, a princess of the islands or not, once she was given to Bahett she would be an Yrstanlan wife, meaning she would remain in Baressa until the end of her days.

“I would like that,” Atiana said while fighting back tears.

A
tiana, skin already prickling, breath releasing in a thin white fog, stepped into the drowning basin. The ice-cold water came up to her calves. The muscles of her legs tightened like cords drying in the summer sun. The muscles along the bottoms of her feet cramped until she was able to calm herself at last. She was thinking too much about Bahett and Nikandr and not about the task at hand. She forced her muscles to relax and she took in one long breath before accepting the breathing tube offered by her young handmaid, Yalessa. When she sat in the water, she was in control, and the drowning chamber once more felt like an old friend.

“Tea?” Yalessa asked. Her hair was plaited in a circle around her head, making it look like a crown of auburn hair and bright yellow ribbon. As a handmaid, Yalessa was attentive, but she was too free with her thoughts, a habit Atiana had been trying to rid her of.

“Rosehip, I think.”

Yalessa smiled, shivering in the cold of the stone room far below the lowest levels of Palotza Galostina. “Ovolla is making her squash biscuits. Would you like some?”

Atiana smiled, shivering and lowering herself further into the water. How she used to love those biscuits. “The tea will do.”

Yalessa was a good girl, and she thought she was helping, offering Atiana something to comfort her when she returned to the world, but in reality it was dispiriting. Atiana had avoided the dark when she was young, thinking she would never come to love it, but in the years since she’d become a Matra, in name and spirit both. She had come to love the aether, and the tea upon awakening, however grounding it might be, was also a reminder of how long she would be away from the aether once more.

She lowered herself completely, allowing the water to rush over her. She did not enjoy this transition—her body still stiffened to the point of pain—but she had long since grown accustomed to it, and she had learned how to relax herself once completely submerged.

She exhaled through the tube, releasing all the breath she could manage before drawing air with a slow, measured pace. After her lungs were full near to bursting, she exhaled again and drew breath with a pace that was slower still. She repeated this several times, breathing in and out, in and out, and soon... Soon...

She drifts. Drifts from her body in the basin. Allows the currents of the aether to take her. She watches Yalessa as she frets about the room, but the souls of those scattered around the palotza, especially those she touched stones with recently, draw her upward, outward, until the entirety of the palotza—even nearby structures—fills her mind. They dance blue in the black of the aether.

The currents shift. It feels distant, however, and ancient, as if the bones of the earth are calling her from some hidden, faraway vale.

Like a spider along its web, she shifts her perception, moves subtly and swiftly toward the disturbance. Soon she finds Sayyesh, her father’s most trusted qiram, adjusting the winds to drive a skiff toward the palotza’s small, northern eyrie.

As she looks upon him, his drawing of the winds causes tufts of white smoke to drift against the deep, dark blue of the aether. The color is a telltale sign of a havaqiram. The disturbance she felt must have been him, but it didn’t feel that way.

But she can no longer sense it. Only Sayyesh.

It must have been him, she thinks.

She pulls herself away, expanding her mind and drawing upon the currents that run toward and away from the spire. She aligns herself with the spire’s tone, its pitch. Like pulling a rope taut she strengthens it, aligns the currents with the other islands in the archipelago and even beyond, to Nodhvyansk, to Dhalingrad, to Khalakovo. And to the spire at the southern end of Galahesh.

Her tasks take hours, and when she is done, she is tired, but there is time now to wander, to watch. She pulls her consciousness home, dragging herself away from the immensity of the islands. It is discomforting—such is the lure of the aether—but the aether is no child to be trifled with. She cannot linger when her mind is spread so wide. If she does she risks becoming lost, no matter how many years of experience she has in the drowning basin.

As the bulk of Galostina looms before her, she cannot help but think of Lord Bahett and his mission and the pending marriage that lies between them like a gauntlet. There are parallels with her journey to Khalakovo five years ago, but that was a marriage within the Grand Duchy—she knew from an early age to expect such things. Her pending marriage to Bahett is a thing of her own making, and yet she feels foolish, as if she is making a grave mistake, despite the benefits the marriage would bring.

She wanders to the wing the men from Yrstanla have been given. Mother declared them off-limits—they have ways of telling if they’re being spied upon, she said—but she doesn’t care. Whether it was her decision or not, she would see what sort of man he is.