The room on the second level was richly appointed, but not nearly so rich as the room below. The next several floors were simpler still, but the sixth was the one that startled Atiana. It had little more than patterned carpets upon the floor and ironwork trees that held siraj stones to light the dim interior. It felt as if she were in an Aramahn village.
She continued up to the seventh floor, and here she found a circular room with four windows set into it. When she saw the windows and the bed and the carpeting, she knew that she was no longer in a tower within the city of Baressa. She had entered another place entirely-a place of Sariya’s making. Nikandr had spoken of the tower he had entered in Alayazhar, and surely what she saw before her was little different from what he’d seen. She wondered about the tower’s nature, whether it was something that granted her strength or whether it was something else entirely. Perhaps it was necessary. Perhaps Sariya could no longer exist without such a thing.
Sariya stood by one of the windows, the one facing east. When she turned, Atiana was struck once again by her beauty. Her long golden hair swayed with her movement. Her blue eyes fixed on Atiana. Her expression was not one of amusement or thinly veiled disgust-as it had been when Atiana had first arrived in Baressa-but was instead something like respect or admiration.
“It’s interesting, is it not?” Sariya asked. “No matter how carefully we lay our plans, the fates toy with us.”
She meant, perhaps, how she’d become lost in the aether after years of planning. Atiana didn’t know how to respond, so she remained silent.
“Interesting as well how greed can be our undoing.” As she said these words, she glanced at Atiana’s belt, at the purse that hung by her left hip. It was where Atiana had placed the Atalayina.
Seeing no reason to keep it hidden, Atiana took it out and held it up for Sariya to see.
Sariya underwent an interesting transformation as she stared. She had been calm since Atiana’s arrival, but also reserved-perhaps guarded, unsure how the coming conversation would unfold-but as she stared at the glittering blue stone, a subtle fierceness overcame her, like an owl at dusk.
“May I hold it?” she asked.
Atiana was loath to do this, but she had known this request would come, or if it didn’t, that the stone would be taken by force. She nodded and held the stone out. When Sariya stepped forward, Atiana could smell the scent of cardamom.
“Do you know,” she asked, taking the stone from Atiana’s palm, “what Muqallad hopes to do with this?”
Her words implied that she was not part of Muqallad’s plans. Atiana still worried that this was simply not true, but she had felt Sariya’s mind. She had, for however short a time, become a part of Sariya-just as Sariya had been a part of her-and there was no denying that her fears were unfounded.
“He wishes to create more akhoz,” Atiana replied.
“The akhoz had nothing to do with the stone,” Sariya said. “They acted as sacrifices only, providing him with a way to heal the stone. Neh, he wishes to bring about indaraqiram. Do you know what this is?”
“It’s the end of the world.”
Sariya could not seem to prevent herself from giving Atiana a patronizing smile. “In one sense it is the end of the world, but in another it is the beginning. We hope, through our efforts on this mortal plane, to learn, to attain higher wisdom, to become as perfect as we can be so that one day we might achieve vashaqiram-a perfect state of enlightenment. And if we can do this, we can teach others, so that they might do the same. And if enough can do so, we can bring the world to its next stage.”
“You sound as though you pray for his success.”
Sariya did not seem perturbed by this comment, but rather, thoughtful. “Any brightness in my eyes, daughter of Radia, stems from the hope that we can one day achieve indaraqiram. I do not, however, believe that Muqallad can deliver us to this goal. He hopes to force it, as if this world and the next can be bent to his will. It cannot, but there is a desperation that comes from standing face to face with your greatest failure for three hundred years.”
“And what of you?” Atiana asked. “You were in the same position as Muqallad and Khamal. What would you hope to do?”
“I?” Sariya stepped to the window and beckoned Atiana closer. “I merely hope to set the world right, so that I can leave it in some semblance of peace. I yearn for the other world. I desire it deeply. So deeply I dream of it. Some days I feel as though Adhiya touches my skin. I smell it on the wind and sense it in the skies. There are days where I swear I can taste it.”
Atiana approached the window. “Then why not go?”
To suggest suicide to an Aramahn was a grave insult-they believed that even in the lowest circumstances there are things to be learned, knowledge to be gained-but she needed to know this woman better if she were to have any hope of judging her.
Sariya’s face turned cross. “I stay because Erahm has need of me, and I would give her those things I have to offer, regardless of the pains I may suffer.”
Atiana reached the window. Outside stood the straits and the massive white arches of the Spar. The sun shone brightly upon much of it, but the far side and the city of Vihrosh were caught in a light fog that glowed brightly, as if the ancients themselves were shining down upon them. The scene was beatific, until Atiana noticed the wagons moving across the span of the bridge. They were supply wagons, she realized. Dozens of them. Those nearing the southern edge of the Spar bore munitions, and behind them were teams and teams of ponies pulling canons.
As a mixture of confusion and anger and-strangely-betrayal welled up inside her, Atiana shook her head. “You’re sending them to Vostroma.”
“You asked what I hoped to do. After the tearing of the aether on Ghayavand, the wards that were put into place held for some time. But over the years they weakened. Rifts were formed elsewhere. They were small at first, but over time they grew and spread until the worlds themselves became threatened. Muqallad hopes to use that to his advantage.” Sariya held the stone out to Atiana. “And all he needs is this.”
Atiana accepted the Atalayina, and when she did, it felt ten times heavier than it had moments ago.
Sariya seemed to sense this, for she nodded to the stone. “If he can fuse this, the third piece, to the other two, he will be able to rip the aether asunder, a thing from which neither world would, I fear, ever recover. Eons would pass before we could begin anew.”
“What does this have to do with bringing war to the islands?”
“Not war, Atiana. I do no more than I need to.”
“If not war, then what?”
“I have come to learn what happened on Khalakovo five years ago. You and Nikandr healed the boy-he who was Khamal. When you did this, it also healed the rift, did it not?”
Atiana merely stared, fearing to speak.
“It was one of many rifts that were open at the time, which were but a few of the ones that have opened and closed since. If Muqallad is to succeed, he needs to find a place where using the Atalayina will cause the rest to open wide.”
“That could only be Ghayavand,” Atiana said.
“ Neh, the wards around the island are weakened, but they are still very much in place.”
The answer, of course, was standing right before her.
She stared out the window.
At the Spar.
She thought of the confluence of aether centered here at the straits. It was a place of concentrated power, so strong that for centuries neither the Matri nor the Grand Duchy’s windships had ever been able to cross it.
“This may be the place he seeks,” Atiana said, “but that doesn’t answer the question. Why wage war against us?”