‘The egg, Olga,’ says Ptashka. ‘Give me the egg.’ She is staring at the memory bag slung over my shoulder.
Quickly, before Ptashka realises I don’t have the egg, I spread the map on the floor of the nest, and I plunge my hands—both of them—into the Blank.
At Bleak Steppe, I hadn’t felt anything when I tried to enter the Unmappable Blank. But then, it wasn’t mapped. This time, it’s different. This is Londonov’s map of the Blank.
As soon as my hands touch it, I feel the gritty bite of icy wind all around me. And a faint, fuzzy noise fills my ears. But I can still hear the flapping of the firebird flags and the impatient rustling of Ptashka’s feathers. I concentrate harder, but the cold slows my thoughts. Soon, all I can think about is how cold I am and how much I wish I could be back in Devora’s warm hut—or, even better, back in my bed at the Imperial Centre, piled thickly with blankets, with Mira snoring beside me and snow falling gently on the roof.
Snow falling gently. That’s it! That’s the soft, fuzzy sound. It’s the sound I heard every night at the Centre. The sound we heard every winter in Stolitsa, when the snow fell so thickly that the world was muffled and the city was dusted white. It’s the sound I heard when I was making snow angels with Mira, while we waited for the sled, the day we left Stolitsa for the Imperial Centre. I remember the snow angels and the way the snow tasted, clean and cold and spiced with dirt and pine needles, and the same taste fills my mouth now. It creeps up into my nose and I can smell it, too.
I breathe out, in a relieved sigh, because I know that I have found my way inside the map.
The nests and flags and turrets of Ptashkagrad have disappeared. I am in the Unmappable Blank once more. It stretches before me, white and vast. And I know that this is my one last chance to find the firebird’s egg.
I scan the vast, featureless whiteness. I feel lost. But I am not lost, because I have Londonov’s map. And the whiteness is not quite featureless. At my feet, emerging from the snow, is a tiny thread of frozen thread, so slender I barely notice it. I drop to my knees and scoop the snow away with my ice-cold fingers and soon I have uncovered a gleaming mound of frozen cobweb.
I have found the egg!
I tear at the stiff cobwebs until I feel the top of it, smooth and round and cold.
I try to pull it out of the hard-packed snow, but my hands come away filled with nothing.
I try again. And again. Every time it’s the same. The egg doesn’t move.
Tears are running down my cheeks and turning hard and icy.
How could I have ever thought I would be able to do this? I had hardly begun to learn my magic. And Mijska and Baba Basha told me it would take years of practice before I could use my magic to travel through a map and bring something back. And, in any case, I’m not good at things. Not like—and the thought comes bubbling up before I can stop it—not like Mira.
I remember how jealous Mira makes me feel when she dances, how awkward she makes me feel when she dances, how ugly she makes me feel when she dances.
I remember what I said to her, just before she was taken. ‘Just disappear,’ I said.
I remember how much I meant what I said.
And then I remember how much I love her.
I start to feel stronger.
I take hold of the egg again, and I can feel it begin to loosen. But I still can’t pull it out.
And then, from the deepest corner of my mind, a new thought rises: I don’t need to envy Mira. I’m just as special as she is, just as talented. I can walk through maps. I’m a yaga!
I feel magic coursing through my blood like electricity. I feel bright, brilliant, utterly right. And I know I can do it.
I grip the egg and pull.
It will take all the magic I have, but I know I can do it.
The egg comes free, and I hold it in my hands. I have the firebird’s egg, cold and heavy and in my hands. And for a moment I feel the full strength of my magic, and my wonderful ability.
And then the white snow and the prickling cold and the sharp clear taste of the Unmappable Blank fall away. I hang on to the egg as an empty expanse of nothingness spreads out all around me and a creeping emptiness takes hold inside of me, too.
I have done just what Basha said I would. I have pushed my magic to its limit. Have I lost it now? Is it gone? I feel drained and sad and exhausted.
But I have the egg. I clutch it tight in my hands as the emptiness takes over.
Then I blink. Above me is a blue sky, bright with red flags and gleaming nests. I hold the egg to my chest. I can feel it, warm now and somehow alive, and getting warmer. And in my pocket, inside my glove, the feather grows warmer, too.
Mira is staring at me open-mouthed. Her gaze travels to the egg. Her face creases with worry. ‘No,’ she says softly. ‘It can’t be true.’
Ptashka’s eyes are shining. Her wings are spread wide and the shadow she casts is large and dark. She takes off and circles the nest, never taking her eyes off the egg.
Mira tries to break free from the guard birds. ‘Don’t do it, Olga,’ she cries. But birds close rank and pin her back.
I hold out the egg.
Ptashka swoops. She snatches the egg in her talons and then she shoots up into the sky, higher and higher until she is just a tiny speck.
A silence falls over the roofs of Ptashkagrad. I crane my neck, following Ptashka’s flight. So does Mira. So do all the guard birds in the nest. So do all the birds in Ptashkagrad. Even the firebird banners have stopped flapping in the wind. They hang quiet and still.
The silence can’t last more than a few seconds, but it feels like it stretches for days.
Ptashka returns, flying low over the rooftops, still clutching the egg. She opens her beak and shrieks loud and victorious. The sound bounces off the roofs and echoes through the sky. And then, all at once, the other birds take up Ptashka’s cry. They launch out of the nest and off the rooftops and spin in wild circles, sending the clouds scattering.
Freed from the guard birds, Mira rushes over to me. ‘Oh, Olga,’ she whispers. ‘What have you done?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, trying to keep the tremble from my voice. ‘But I have something here. Something important.’
And I slip my hand into my pocket and into my glove. The feather—the firebird’s feather—is sizzling hot.
‘What is it?’ Mira presses. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, as I go to take the feather from its hiding place. ‘But I think I can—’
I stop. Frozen. A yaga can hatch a firebird’s egg with a firebird’s feather. But am I still a yaga? Or, did I stop being a yaga when I used all my magic? I feel suddenly very small and very powerless under the thick, dark, crowing cloud of birds.
‘Olga?’ says Mira in a small voice. ‘Aren’t you going to do something?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I don’t know if I can.’
She slips her hand into mine. ‘You can,’ she says stoutly. ‘I’m sure of it.’
I’m not sure of it. But Mira’s sureness is enough to make me take out the feather.
I can feel that the feather is glowing white-hot, but it doesn’t burn my hand at all. It casts a warm glow over the nest and the city’s roofline. It turns the clouds gold in the sky and burnishes the wings of the birds as they swoop and soar. Mira looks at me in awe.
I stand a moment, unsure what to do with the feather exactly, but it is like a compass finding true north. It swivels in my hand, pulling at my fingers, until it points right at Ptashka and the egg in her claws. From the tip of the feather shoots a golden spark, crackling like molten lightning. It finds the egg, and the egg breaks into a shower of ash.
Ptashka stops her triumphant swooping. She hovers, stunned and motionless, in the sky.
Slowly, the ash spreads out into a vast cloud. All the birds fall silent. My breath catches in my throat. This is not how I was expecting the egg to hatch. Something has gone wrong. Where is the burst of glor
ious flame I was waiting for? I watch as the ash is spread thinner and thinner by the wind. Soon it will be gone.
I turn to Mira and whisper, ‘I’m sorry.’
She goes to answer, but her words are swallowed by a deafening crack. The fine cloud of ash comes suddenly together, into a dark, swirling mass. With a loud, wild spark it ignites in a golden flame that blazes like fireworks in every direction and forms the shape of a huge, fiery bird. The bird stretches its claws, arches its neck, and spreads its golden wings wide.
It flies across the rooftops, unleashing tendrils of flame as it goes. Soon the air is filled with the smell of singed feathers, and the birds in the sky scatter, darting for cover wherever they can find it. They huddle under eaves and gutters. A whole flock takes shelter behind the broken clockface of an abandoned clock tower.
But Ptashka tears after the firebird as it soars above the domes of Ptashkagrad. With each beat of its wings, ashes and flame fall from the sky. The clouds are alight, streaked with orange and gold. The city’s yellow and crimson flags and banners flap brightly in the firebird’s wake.
It is glorious to watch. I am elated. But when I turn to Mira, she is white with fear.
‘Oh, Olga,’ she says. ‘What have you done?’
‘I’ve hatched the firebird,’ I say triumphantly. ‘I am a yaga, and I have hatched the firebird.’
‘Hatched?’ she whispers. ‘Unleashed, more like. What happens now?’
What is going to happen now?
The feather glows in my hand.
‘What happens now?’ I repeat Mira’s question to her. ‘What happens now, is that I’m going to use this feather…’
Mira looks up at me expectantly. The fear on her face is gone, replaced with a look of confidence. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but she trusts me.
I start again. ‘I’m going to use this feather to…to…’ I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’m going to tame the firebird.
The feather is alight in my hand, sparking and sizzling. I brandish it in the sky and hope for the best. It makes a pretty trail of sparks where I have waved it, but nothing more.
If only the feather were a map, I think desperately, then I would know what to do. I would wrap my hand tight around it, and think of the Imperial Centre, right down to the smallest detail: the way the ice blooms on the windows there on freezing mornings, the way the kitchen smells like mushroom soup, the way Father paces the observation deck, the way Anastasia’s diamonds and pearls jangle when she walks. And then, patiently, I would ask the firebird to take me there.
Mira grabs at my elbow, jolting me out of my thoughts. ‘Look!’ she breathes.
The firebird makes a wide circle in the sky and flies towards us, exploding the air with flames. It lands in the middle of Ptashka’s nest and looks at me with one golden eye. And I know it has understood what I want from it.
It dips its neck down low and I leap onto its back. I turn to call Mira, but she is cowering at the edge of the nest.
‘Mira,’ I say. From the corner of my eye, I see Ptashka a dark distant shape coming towards us. ‘Come on, Mira’ I shout.
But Mira shakes her head. The firebird is huge, bigger than a house, and it glows molten red. And even though it has let me onto its back, there is nothing tame or gentle about it. It is a wild creature, the wildest I have ever seen.
Given the choice, I wouldn’t ride a firebird, either. But Ptashka is much closer now: we don’t have a choice.
‘Come with me, Mira,’ I call. ‘You’ll be safe. It doesn’t burn.’
It’s true. Sitting astride the firebird feels the same as holding its tail feather: there is a glow of white heat all around, but flame feathers don’t burn me.
Mira just keeps shaking her head. Her eyes are glossy with tears.
Ptashka is close now—I can hear her shrieks of rage.
I hold out my hand to Mira. She finally reaches out to me as Ptashka lands on the nest’s edge. I grab her arm as the firebird launches into the air, and I haul her up behind me.
Riding the firebird is like riding a Catherine wheel, a streak of quicksilver, a meteorite burning through the atmosphere. Mira clings tightly to me, while the sky blurs around us and the ground recedes to nothing below.
Ptashka chases, flying faster than I ever thought possible. She darts and dives as she tries to catch one of the firebird’s feathers in her beak.
The firebird lets out a low, angry shriek, then turns its head back. From deep in its throat, I hear the same flinty rumbling noise that Masha made in the banya, and I know what’s coming next.
‘Get down,’ I hiss to Mira, as the firebird unleashes a tongue of flame from her beak at Ptashka.
Ptashka, scorched, retreats with a bloodcurdling screech, and we fly further and further into the sky, leaving her smaller and smaller behind us. Soon, it’s like she was never there at all.
The firebird settles into a steady rhythm, flying with deep powerful beats of its wings. Behind us burns a trail of golden flame and glowing cinders.
Soon, the Republic of Birds is far away. The High Stikhlos and the Borderlands unfurl below like a patchwork blanket. Mira’s arms are tight around my waist. I can feel her leaning into the space between my shoulder blades. I have never been so happy.
Afternoon stretches into evening and the sky mellows.
I turn to Mira. ‘We must keep all of this to ourselves,’ I say.
‘But, Olga,’ she says, ‘I want to tell everyone what you did. You were heroic.’
I feel myself flush.
‘You saved me. You found the firebird’s egg in the Unmappable Blank,’ she says. ‘And you kept it from Ptashka’s clutches.’
‘But you can’t tell anyone, Mira,’ I say. ‘You mustn’t. And you mustn’t tell anyone what I did with the map, either.’
‘It was magic, wasn’t it,’ she says, and I nod yes.
‘Olga,’ she says, ‘it was wonderful.’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘it’s done now. I won’t be able to do that, or anything like it, ever again.’
Mira wraps her arms around me even tighter. ‘It was still wonderful,’ she says in a muffled voice, and I fill with pride.
She’s right. It was wonderful.
We fly on, leaving a streak of fire across the sky.
‘But where are we now, Olga?’ Mira asks. ‘How will we find the way to the Centre?’
I reach to my waist and take her hand tight in my own. With my other hand, I take Londonov’s map from my pocket. I’m sad when my fingers touch it and there’s no spark, no shiver of cold, no sharp taste of pine. Nothing.
But in my other hand, I feel Mira’s curled fingers and her warm palm.
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her. ‘I know the way.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Mira Dances Again
WE SOAR OVER the Between and the Borderlands. I lean in close to the firebird urging it towards the Centre. I hardly need the map. I have it all inside my head. Soon the forest beneath us gives way to shale slopes. At last, the Imperial Centre for Avian Observation appears through swirling cloud. I sink into the softness and warmth of the firebird’s flame feathers. ‘Enough, now,’ I say. ‘Let us down. We’re here.’
The firebird circles the Centre and lands in a clearing behind the banya. I’m worried that its bright streak through the sky will have been seen—I shudder to imagine what Father might plan if he thought he could command the firebird. But no lamp switches on at the Imperial Centre and no curtain twitches at the Beneficent Home, either. A muffled crashing sound comes from the banya—probably just coals popping in the stove.
I sink my hands into the firebird’s sparkling, flamed feathers and marvel once more at their softness and gentle warmth. ‘Thank you,’ I say.
Mira flings her arms around the firebird’s neck. ‘Thank you,’ she says over and over, her voice muffled by feathers. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
The firebird launches up and flies away—away from
us, away from the Republic, and towards the deserted plains of the Infinite Steppe. It seems the firebird knows which way home is, too.
I clutch the glowing tail feather tight in my hand as the firebird’s bright trail of crackling flame disappears into the distance and the cinders and smoke scatter on the wind. Then, with trembling legs, Mira and I climb the ladder up to the Centre.
We walk into the parlour. Everything is quiet and still.
Anastasia is standing with her back to us, tending the fire. She turns when she hears us come in. At first, she does nothing, says nothing. She stands perfectly still as if she is in a dream and the slightest movement will jolt her out of it. She looks tired. Her face is thin and worn and her cheeks are blotchy, like she has been crying. I suppose we must look different too. I know my hair is matted with dirt and my face is grimy and my clothes are stained and torn and singed. And Mira is thin and exhausted.
And then Anastasia breaks out sobbing. ‘Aleksei! Aleksei! They’re here!’ she calls, and she falls into a half-swoon while, at the same time, scooping us both into the tightest embrace I have ever felt.
Suddenly, the Centre is bustling with activity. Anastasia weeps even more than she did at the end of The Weeping Woman at the Window. Father keeps finding excuses to reach out and touch me. I think he is checking to make sure that it’s really me—that I’m really here. At some point, the ladies of the Beneficent Home arrive, and they ply us with samovar after samovar of sweet tea and more mushroom soup than I ever wish to see again.
After a while, the attention is suffocating, and I am glad to creep off by myself to the banya, where Masha greets me with a hug.
‘I worried so,’ she sniffles. ‘I barely slept while you girls were gone. I don’t think anyone did. But I never lost faith.’ She wipes her eyes with her ragged skirt. ‘I always knew you’d come home.’ She steps back and wrinkles her brow. ‘But what a state you’re in!’ she gasps, and immediately fills a bucket with water. ‘It’ll take two stoves of water to get you clean,’ she says, happily.
As Masha sloshes water and snaps kindling, I tuck the firebird’s tail feather into the memory bag. It is still glowing and I hope Masha didn’t notice it. I peel off my clothes and, for the first time since I left the Centre, I let myself take stock of every scratch, every scrape, every bruise, every ache. My journey is written all over my body.
The Republic of Birds Page 17
