Atiana, wearing a lush red robe, was still toweling her hair when he entered the room. The old woman remained, awkwardly watching this exchange. Atiana shooed her away and shut the door, nearly catching the lantern in it. After a humph, the woman’s shuffling footsteps picked up and faded away, leaving Nikandr alone with Atiana at last.
Atiana stepped in and gave him a tender hug. She didn’t exactly approve of what he’d been doing with his newfound abilities-finding those afflicted with the wasting and healing them-but she was setting that aside for him.
For his part, he was drained emotionally. He hardly knew what to feel. All he knew was that holding her now was like basking in the summer sun. He pulled her close, feeling her skin, which was chilled to the bone. He could smell the earthy smell of the rendered goat fat that would have protected her skin while she was submerged beneath the water. He could also smell the jasmine perfume she liked to wear.
The emotions that had been roiling through him since leaving Mirketta had been with him until now, but the truth was that he was so glad she was here that he felt nothing but relief and the deep connection he and Atiana shared. Their love had started on Uyadensk, when they were to be married, but it had grown since they’d parted after the ritual on Oshtoyets. They’d seen one another several times a year since then, and each time, he found that his feelings for her had grown since the last time they’d held one another in their arms, since they’d last kissed, since they’d last made love.
“Why have you come so far?” he asked.
She stepped back, staring into his eyes, perhaps to judge his sincerity. “If you think I would let a year pass without seeing you, Nikandr Iaroslov”-she stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the neck-“you are sadly mistaken.”
He looked down at her, her porcelain skin and her bright eyes. Her hair fell down her shoulders and back, making her look more primal than he had ever seen her. She looked nothing like a princess.
She took a step back with a beckoning look.
He reached for her and she stepped away.
He didn’t want to smile, and yet he did. He stepped forward, and she slid back, never taking her eyes from him.
She moved one hand down to the sash that kept her robe in place.
He pulled at his cherkesska, allowing it to fall from his shoulders as her robe slipped from hers.
He stepped toward her, and when she tried to dance away, he grabbed her wrist. She fought him, tugging, trying to make him lose his grip. She twisted her arm, crouched down, until he pulled her hard and brought her body up against his.
She embraced him then, her lips locking on his. Her skin was freezing to the touch, but she moved as though she were on fire, kissing his neck and chest, biting his ears and lips.
She pulled the clothes from him, never allowing his skin to go without her lips, her tongue, her teeth.
They fell upon the bed, the frame creaking.
She threw him back, pulling the last of his clothes from him and straddling his waist as she leaned forward, chest to chest.
She felt warmer now, and he could feel her heartbeat rising with his.
She slipped one hand between his legs and massaged him as he ran his hands over her shoulders, her back, her breasts.
And then he was inside her. She rode him, slowly at first but all too quickly-the two of them heaving breath in time with the other, bed moaning, headboard thumping against the wall-they fell into one another’s arms as they rode the wave with one another. He shuddered and felt her constrict around him, over and over again.
They stayed in one another’s arms for long hours after that. Both of them knew that there were things that needed to be discussed, but neither wanted to discuss them. Not in the dark of the night.
The morning, Nikandr thought.
Morning is the time for sharing secrets.
“I’ve found Soroush.”
Nikandr opened his eyes, unsure who had spoken those words. He looked down to the floor, to the robe and his cherkesska lying there.
“You what?” He rolled over to find her sitting up against the headboard.
“I’ve found him,” she said again, her face serious.
He sat up carefully.
“You didn’t want me to go after him.”
“I didn’t,” she said. “I don’t.”
“Then why-”
“Because you think it’s important.”
Nikandr could think of nothing in that moment except Mirketta, how he had failed to save her. His worst fear since he’d learned of the rifts was that he’d be powerless to prevent them from spreading and affecting the entire Grand Duchy, and now he had a chance to do something about it, to prevent things from becoming worse, assuming he could learn more.
And that was the crux of it. He’d learned-from Atiana and others-that a rift had formed over Rafsuhan. And it was deep. If he was ever going to learn about the rifts, he needed something like that, except Rafsuhan was distant and difficult to reach, but worse, it was an island of the Maharraht. Nikandr would never be allowed access to it.
Not unless he had someone like Soroush to speak for him.
“Where is he?”
“Mirashadal.” She paused, waiting for the name to sink in. It was the fabled floating village of the Aramahn. It was also the place Nikandr thought the most likely destination for Nasim and Soroush and the others that had been taken from Oshtoyets after the ritual.
“It’s real,” Atiana continued. “Even now it floats above the northern seas, less than a thousand leagues from where we sit.”
“It’s true, then…”
“ Da. I’ve seen it, and I’ll lead you to it if you wish, but I’m still not certain any of this is wise.”
She was speaking not of Soroush, but what Nikandr planned to do with him. “The rift over Rafsuhan is the only one we’ve found of any size, Atiana.”
“Soroush will kill you given the chance. He’d kill all of us.”
Nikandr shook his head. “You misjudge him. There’s only one thing Soroush cares about more than our destruction, and that’s his people.”
“So you’ve said, but he may merely look at it as another reason the Grand Duchy must fall.”
“He may, but in the meantime he’ll be given the chance to help them. It’s something he won’t be able to ignore. Take me to the village, Atiana. Take me to Mirashadal.”
Atiana pulled her legs up to her chest and stared at him over her knees. “I will take you, if that is your wish.”
She wanted him to return to Khalakovo, or better yet, to join her on Kiravashya. Nikandr’s father was there. He was now a trusted and valued member of Zhabyn’s council. Nikandr could go there. He might not be able to marry Atiana, but at least they would be near one another. And in time, who knew?
But he could not abandon this cause; as much as he wanted to be with Atiana, now and forever, there were greater things to consider.
“It is my wish,” he said.
She paused. There was sadness in her eyes, but no surprise.
“Then I will go.” She breathed deeply and released it slowly, her eyes searching him for something, though he knew not what.
“Say it, Atiana.”
“I have-” She swallowed and tried again. “I have news.” As she spoke these words, she raised her chin so that they could see one another eye-to-eye. It was premeditated, something done to give her the confidence she lacked to broach this new subject-or so it seemed to him-and yet she still found herself unable to begin.
He reached out to touch her, but she shied away.
“I’m to be married,” she blurted out.
The words struck him. They echoed in his mind. But the worst part was not their implication, but the way in which Atiana was staring at him, as if the words were a cudgel she’d very well meant to strike him with.
“Married to whom?” Nikandr asked.