It was the Atalayina. Ishkyna stared at it openly, transfixed. Ushai, however, had somehow managed to calm herself, and the longer she stared at the stone, the more composed she seemed to become. She caught Atiana watching her, and some of the nervousness returned, as if laying her eyes on Atiana had reminded her of their purpose.
Atiana widened her eyes at the Aramahn woman, asking if she was all right. Ushai nodded once, carefully.
“Lie down.” As Sariya spoke these words, she spun the Atalayina in the air. It remained, spinning, twirling on some unseen axis, equidistant between the four pallets.
Sariya lay down, motioning for the others to do the same.
Atiana complied, and finally, so did Ishkyna and Ushai.
It took time-Atiana was not used to taking the dark without the help of the bitterly cold water of the drowning basins-but she found, as Sariya had said, the tower drawing her toward the aether. She had barely reached a level of calm when…
She wakes. She sees the form of the tower cast in the darkest blue. Sees herself and the other three women. Sariya has already crossed over. Her presence is strong. Her emotions ring clear. There is a certain pride in her heart that warms Atiana, though why she should care about the feelings of Sariya, she isn’t sure.
Ishkyna joins them soon after. The three of them pull one another near. Like strands in a braid they strengthen their mutual bond, and when Ushai joins them, they pull her closer. Ushai had always seemed, if not strong in the ways of the dark, at least competent. She had never seemed like a foal still learning her legs, but she did now.
Control yourself, Atiana says.
Ushai tries, but this only seems to make things worse.
Leave her, Ishkyna says. We’ll be fine on our own.
Don’t be so sure, Sariya replies. The storms over Galahesh are strong.
We will groom the paths between the spires, Atiana says, stopping them before they quibble. If she is still unable to come, she will remain.
They give one another silent assent, and together, they expand their awareness. They move beyond the boundaries of the tower. They feel the city of Baressa below them, quiet for the time being. They feel the Spar, the conduit it creates between the northern and southern land masses.
They have chosen their time well. It is low tide, and the way from the spire on the northern half of Galahesh to the one on the far southern tip is easy to groom. The ley lines toward the center of the island are guided, and these in turn guide the others until the way is made stronger. It strengthens the path to the spire on Kiravashya far to the east. It is the only spire that remains on the islands of Vostroma. It holds open, barely, the path northward to Khalakovo, and southward to Nodhvyansk. Take this one spire away, though, and it would be impossible to sail windships for months, perhaps years.
They’ve long since lost the art of grooming the ley lines without the help of the spires. It might be done, but who knows how to do it now? Perhaps Saphia can learn-perhaps Polina Mirkotsk, but even they will be able to do little against the strength of the storms that would follow the destruction of the spire above Galostina.
Together, they reach outward, toward Kiravashya. The storms over Galahesh are manageable, but when they move over open sea it becomes infinitely worse. Here the storms rage. It draws their minds outward, forces them to take in the full extent of it, and it is humbling. Even Sariya is cowed.
They try to move on, but the further they go, the more difficult it becomes, and it’s soon clear that Ushai is the cause. She’s lost her nerve, and if she tries to go further, she’ll drown in these waves, and she’ll take the others with her.
Go, Atiana snaps. Return to the tower and await us.
Ushai is shamed by this, but there is relief as well. Her presence soon dwindles and is eventually lost altogether.
Without speaking, they move forward once more. They can feel Kiravashya’s spire now. Like a bell in the distance, it rings, calling to them, and together they wend their way through the storms.
A presence grows in the distance. It is one of the Matri, but this woman is tired beyond any boundaries Atiana can fathom. She has been pressing to keep the connections alive between Vostroma and the distant archipelagos. Through her, Atiana can feel-barely-the touch of the other Matri. The connections are still alive then. The duchies, at least for the moment, are able to speak, to warn one another.
Mileva, Ishkyna says.
Atiana realizes that Ishkyna is right. Why didn’t she recognize her? Perhaps because, even in these few weeks since they’d seen one another, Mileva has grown in strength. The Mileva she’d known before leaving Vostroma for Galahesh-how long ago that seemed-could not have done this.
Sisters, comes Mileva’s weak reply. You’ve come. But how?
Mileva’s confusion is palpable, but then she feels the third presence. She doesn’t know who it is at first, but then it dawns on her.
How dare you bring her near!
We’ve come to warn you, Atiana says. Stand down. Prepare the island, and the others as well. The spire must fall.
She feels the shock within Mileva as she says these words, but she shares with her what she knows-her experiences, her memories, her fears and her hopes for the islands once the storm has passed. Again Mileva surprises her. She sifts through these memories quickly. She absorbs. She understands.
But she is vehement in her denial.
We cannot, Mileva says. We will not.
Through Sariya, Atiana feels-and she knows her sisters can feel as well-the dozens of ships that lie in wait far to the south of Kiravashya. They hold position near the edge of the shallows before the sea deepens and the currents of the wind and the aether become uncontrollable, unpredictable. It is a glimpse of the remaining strength of the Empire. It lies in wait for the hour when the winds have died down sufficiently for the battle to resume.
Atiana feels Mileva’s shock. In that moment, Atiana can sense how truly weak the remaining forces of the Grand Duchy are. They have not a third of the ships the Empire has. And once the last of Anuskaya’s ships fall, it will only be a matter of time until Galostina herself is taken.
And then the spire will fall.
Hundreds will die. Thousands. The seat of Vostroma’s power will fall to enemy hands. It is a bitter leaf to chew, but they all know what will happen if Anuskaya doesn’t surrender. Muqallad is coming-they know this now-and when he does, the scene upon Oshtoyets will be as child’s play.
The decisions made in the aether are not made alone. One is entwined, and it is sometimes difficult to pull away, to make decisions clearly. It is why the Matri often do not make decisions when they first meet; they merely discuss. Only after they remove themselves from the others-either by leaving the aether entirely or retreating to their own corner of the world-can they think clearly. With the three of them sharing so much, it is hard for Atiana to focus her mind on notions of loyalty and patriotism for Anuskaya.
Not so for Mileva. She pulls away easily, her anger flaring.
I will not bow and offer up our spire to Yrstanla like a lamb for the slaughter.
We have no choice, Atiana says.
There is always choice, Mileva replies, her mood cold. Yrstanla can pull their ships north of the straits, and then we can talk.
Sariya’s response is felt before she speaks. You have few ships, and the winds are beginning to quell. In another day we will attack. This is the only chance I granted to Atiana in the interest of avoiding further bloodshed, but make no mistake. I won’t hesitate to bring those ships to bear-all of them. The threat of Muqallad demands no less.
Whether we lie upon the ground wounded or not, I will not treat with the likes of you while a sword swings above our necks.
Her words are meant for Atiana as well. Mileva’s blood is up, and it seems to strengthen her will and revive her strength. She pushes the three of them away.