by Sarah Zettel
As the coffee finished, he went outside and laid a fire on the sand, lighting it with kindling of pine needles and splintered driftwood. The night was silent, except for the noises of wind and water. The other huts were dark and the men within them snoring loudly in their sleep. Avanasy laid his offerings out on the far side of the blaze and drew the scarf from his pocket. He spat on the knot and breathed across it, and tossed the scarf into the fire.
For a moment the fire burned bright blue, and a shower of sapphire sparks rose from the flames, then it shone red, and then white, but gradually, the pure white light faded, and the fire glowed golden again, as if it were nothing more than a blaze of driftwood. Avan sat down on a stone, and waited.
The moon had worked its way another inch up the dome of the sky when the rabbit came hopping down the beach. Its round black eyes reflected Avanasy’s firelight as it advanced, hopping tentatively forward a few inches at a time, pausing to sniff the air. At last, it sat up on its haunches, combing its ears and twitching its whiskers.
Avanasy stood, and reverenced in his best courtly manner to the creature.
“I would be honored, sir, on this chill night, if you would join me at my fire, and share my poor fare.”
The rabbit cocked its head to one side, considering. Then it hopped up to the plate bearing the smoked fish and bread. It used its teeth to drag one scrap of bread off the plate, and began to eat. It ate all that bread, and the next piece, and the next, and then all the fish.
Then, it ate the plate.
Avanasy held himself very still. The rabbit advanced on the tobacco, snuffling it eagerly, drew a leaf out and ate that, and the paper it was wrapped in, and the pipe. Still, Avanasy did not blink, although he could not hold back some regret that he was about to lose his coffeepot. The rabbit stuffed its face into the coffee mug and drank it dry, swallowing the cup whole when it was finished. It knocked over the pot with one blow of its paw and crawled halfway inside, guzzling up the hot brew.
Then, to Avanasy’s mild surprise, it withdrew its head, and sat up again on its haunches. And it was no longer a rabbit. Instead, it was a fat little man with copper skin and black hair bound in thongs hanging down past his shoulders. His ears were as long as his hair, and the lobes dangled down to his chest. His face was merry, and he smelled of sweat, tobacco, and coffee.
He belched loudly, the force of it shaking his long earlobes and making his round belly bounce. “You’re a long way from home, I think, magician,” he said.
Avanasy bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I am, sir.”
“And why have you come so far to set out such a feast for Nanabush, eh?” He leaned forward. “Must want something, eh?”
Again, Avanasy bowed. “I have heard it said it is ever the way with us.”
“Ha! Too true. Now, let me see if I can guess what ails you.” Nanabush tugged at one pendulous earlobe. “There’s a ghost, and there’s a girl, and she’s a fool and he’s a bigger one, and you’re the biggest fool of three.”
Avanasy said nothing.
Nanabush spat in the fire. “Knots and bindings, nets and weavings, that’s your business, and you want Nanabush to tell how to get yourself untangled.”
“Is there a way within my power to remove the haunting from the Loftfield family?”
“Nets and knots with you,” said Nanabush, picking up the coffeepot and squinting inside with one round eye to inspect the bottom for more liquid. “Always nets and knots. Poor tangled magician.”
Avanasy reminded himself of the absolute need for patience. “I believe I have had dealings with a relation of yours. She is queen of the lokai, the fox spirits, in my homeland.”
“The Vixen. Yes.” Nanabush held the spout of the coffeepot over his wide open mouth and let the last drop of liquid fall in. “She speaks of you.” He smacked his lips loudly and belched again.
“Of your courtesy, tender her my best respect.”
Nanabush stuffed his fist into the coffeepot, running one fat finger down along the bottom. “She says if you stay here you will live longer.”
“I thank you for that news.”
“Poor tangled magician.” Nanabush sucked on his finger thoughtfully. “You fish. I’ve seen you.”
Avanasy bowed. “It allows me to earn my keep.”
“And it is not that different from shore to shore?”
“No, but one must know the waters.”
Nanabush raised his finger to make his point. “And the fish themselves.”
He was getting close to an answer. Avanasy could feel it, but he must not appear too eager. “I have heard, sir, that you know the waters and the fish better than any.”
“Ha! It’s true, it’s true.” Nanabush tapped his finger on the edge of the coffeepot. “These waters are deep, and they’re dark. Many a soul is lost down there looking for the fish.”
“So I have heard,” said Avanasy gravely.
“But it’s not just the soul that one must find.” Nanabush shook his head, his earlobes flapping and flopping against his chest. “No. It’s the bones. The bones of the fish that must be found and warmed. Bones bind as tight as any net.”
“There is great wisdom in what you say.”
“Ha! You will profit from listening to Nanabush.” He shook his ears, tossing his lobes over his shoulders. “But others listen too. And others know things. The fish know that the dark of the moon is the time for fishermen, and they know that is the time for catching little fish, as well as big fish.”
“Things do not so much differ from shore to shore.”
“Not as much as some might think.” Nanabush contemplated the coffeepot one more time, then dropped it onto the sand and kicked it across to Avanasy. “Nets and knots. Stay clear of the bindings and you’ll live longer.” His eyes twinkled. “Unless, of course, it is the bindings and their undoing that save your life.”
Then there was only the rabbit, hieing itself fast across the sand and disappearing into the brush. Then, there was only Avanasy and his fire, and his empty coffeepot.
Avanasy picked up the pot. Well now he knew. Perhaps he knew too much. That was the risk of calling upon the spirits. He knew he could save Grace Loftfield. He had to raise the bones of the ghost at the dark of the moon, the very night the ghost would call Grace to him for the final, fatal time.
But, he also knew that should he ever return to Isavalta he would die. Unless, of course, he would live.
Nets and knots. Poor tangled magician.
Chapter Two
Medeoan stood at her mother’s bedside and willed her to keep breathing.
The empress’s private chamber was dark except for the light from the two braziers burning their pungent mixtures of charcoal and cleansing herbs which the physicians had prescribed as an attempt to clear the mucus from the empress’s lungs.
Without daylight, the rich apartment seemed as robbed of its vitality as the woman lying still and sallow under the layers of goose down and royal blue velvet. The skin sagged around her throat and jowls, hanging in folds like the heavy curtains around her bed.
At least her eyes were still open, thought Medeoan as she reached out to try to smooth her mother’s burning brow. At least some small sound still escaped her throat. Father lay in his own fever as if already dead. None of Medeoan’s tears or pleading could rouse in him any sign of life.
The waiting ladies had all retreated to give Medeoan and Kacha a moment in relative privacy with her mother, and now those ladies stood in the shadows like ghosts waiting to come out and lay claim to the dying empress. Medeoan remembered as a little girl being brought by her nurse before those five ladies, and not being sure which one she was supposed to reverence to and call Mother. She had burst into tears at her confusion. The closest, tallest lady, this lady who lay so slack in her bed, had come forward and taken her hand.
“There, there,” she’d said, smoothing Medeoan’s fingers. “Don’t cry. A great prince never cries where others can see, and you, my daughter, w
ill be a great prince.”
But not yet. Not yet. Medeoan’s throat tightened, even as she forced herself to gently cradle her mother’s hand. I will save you. I promise.
Normally, Medeoan’s sorceries were kept out of sight. She was well trained, yes, and well read and she knew her own strength. But her actions were to be those of the mortal world whenever possible. No one, Father had said in a particularly blunt moment, wanted a ruler who appeared to strive for more than mortal greatness. But all that was laid aside for this. The court sorcerers had proven themselves useless in this matter. If there was to be magical aid for her languishing parents, the task fell to Medeoan. Already she had worn her fingers to the nub from two days of preparations while the others milled about trying to trap the life that spilled from the imperial vessels.
You cannot die yet. I’m not ready. I will not permit it.
As Medeoan straightened up, Kacha pressed close behind her, reminding her of his warm presence, and trying to ease her shivering.
Medeoan kissed her mother’s hand. The skin was far too hot against her dry lips. “You must bear with this for a little while longer, Mother.” She tried to keep her voice steady. Mother’s eyes were wide and shining with their fever. The empress let her head fall sideways so that she could look at her daughter, but the only sound she could make was a rasping cough. The physics said that the fever had swollen her tongue so that speech was impossible.
Medeoan sighed as Kacha pulled her close, not caring about the eyes of the ladies who surely watched them from their places in the shadows. He lifted her hand from her mother’s, and she saw how his thoughts, as ever, were all for her.
“You have cut yourself,” he said, looking at the delicate red lines that spread across her fingertips.
Medeoan only shook her head. “The threads for the weaving. They wear on the skin after a while.”
But Kacha would not let the subject be dismissed. “You should rest before you go, beloved. You are exhausted.” He touched her forehead, perhaps searching for some trace of the fever that wracked her parents. As ever, the knowledge of his love sent a small thrill of delight through her heart.
Despite that, Medeoan shook her head. “They are too ill. An hour could make all the difference.”
“Then do it here,” Kacha urged. “Surely their home is a stronger place for them than the woodlands.”
“And if I draw out the sickness here, it stays here. I have to take it away from this house.” She smiled weakly and pressed her husband’s hand. “On these matters, I must ask you to trust me. I know how the magic must be worked.”
Kacha frowned down at their hands.
“What is it?” asked Medeoan.
He ran his thumb across her knuckles. “You know what magic Avanasy thought best to teach you. I wish you had some other advisor for this part of your life.”
Medeoan sighed. Kacha could not forgive. She would have been well pleased never to hear her old teacher’s name again, but Kacha could not bring himself to cease worrying about the wrongs Avanasy had committed, no matter how many assurances Medeoan gave him. “It was not only Avanasy who taught me,” she assured him. “Beloved, I ask you again, trust me in this. I will save them.”
“Of course, my heart.” He smiled. “In this I am but a few months old, whereas you have a lifetime of knowledge. I will be quiet.”
No, dearest, that will never do. “You must always speak your fears to me, and your hopes. How else am I to know my whole mind and my whole heart?” She laid her hand on his chest. “We are two halves of one being, after all.”
He lifted her wounded fingertips and gently kissed them. “Every time I look into your eyes, I am reminded of how much that means.” He released her. “Go. The lords can wait. I will sit vigil over your mother.”
“Thank you, beloved. I will be back before nightfall.”
She kissed him then, allowing herself a moment to savor again the passion his touch sparked in her, and then she turned away. To look back would be to see Mother, her skin yellow and sagging against her bones. She could not carry that image with her into the woods. Her workings could not be tinged with despair. She must be all hope, all determination now.
Straightening her spine, Medeoan marched out of the sickroom to join her escort.
Kacha watched his wife sweep out of the room. Truly, she was beautiful, and when she allowed herself to be, she was a power in her own right. What a consort she would have made. He shook his head. Well, the Mothers did not always place one where one would thrive.
He felt the empress’s gaze upon him. Kacha turned to face her. Her eyes were little more than dark holes in her yellow skull, they had sunken so far back. Her hands, so tenderly cradled a moment before by her daughter, plucked nervously at the coverlet, one of them struggling to lift itself up, to make some sign or gesture.
“Now then, Mother,” said Kacha, stepping close to the bedside. “Do not bestir yourself.” He leaned across her, hearing her breath rattle in her shriveled throat.
“The empress is overheated,” he announced to her shadowed waiting ladies, as he straightened up. “She asks for a bath. Let her physicians be advised to draw one.” He pointed to the first of the aging attendants. “And you had best make sure her broth and milk are cooled before they are brought in,” he said to the second. “And a change of clothing might be advised,” he added to the last two.
The women, one at a time, reverenced before his orders. They had been scolded into obedience of his words by Medeoan’s swift and accurate tongue, shortly after her mother had fallen prostrate to the fever. They removed themselves from the bed enclosure to go pass the orders to their underlings, which gave him only a few bare moments of true privacy with his mother-in-law.
“Forgive me, my mother imperial,” he whispered. “But this is necessary.”
From his kaftan, he drew a kerchief, and then a velvet bag. Using the kerchief to shield his one wizened hand, he pulled an amber bead about the size of his thumbnail from the pouch. The bead had been cunningly carved into delicate human hands, their fingers intertwined. If one looked closely, one could see how tightly those fingers gripped each other, as if they were the hands of corpses clenched in the rigor of death.
Kacha once again leaned over his mother-in-law. She shrank from him, burrowing as far as she could into her pillows and goose down coverings. Her fingers stiffened all at once, as if they sought to scream for the woman who could no longer make any noise beyond a rasping cough.
“Now then, Mother,” said Kacha softly. “It is but the work of a moment.”
Swiftly, he caught her behind the head. Her mouth opened to cry out, and he popped the bead inside it, pressing her dry tongue down so that the bead must roll back into her throat, then sealing her mouth shut with his other hand.
“Swallow, swallow, Mother,” he ordered her, massaging her throat with his free hand. “Swallow, and it will all be over.”
Swallow, damn you. I have not much time.
She pressed feebly against his grip, trying to rise. Her hands flapped on the ends of their wrists, but at last, he felt her throat convulse as she swallowed the bead, and the spell it had been fashioned to hold. He released her, and she fell back down on the pillow, her eyes wide, frightened, and accusing. At the sound of footsteps which signaled the return of the empress’s ladies, Kacha stepped away. Her first waiting lady rounded the edge of the screen, even as her empress’s eyes rolled up, and their lids drooped closed.
“No!” The woman screamed, grasping her mistress’s hand and pressing it against her breast. “Ofka, summon the doctors! She is in a stupor!”
Within moments, a flock of doctors and ladies surrounded the bed. Kacha stepped backward, letting them near her. Two of the court sorcerers hurried in to join the throng, and only then did Kacha allow himself a moment’s concern.
Yamuna, this had best be swift, or these fools will be able to hold her life until Medeoan does her work.
Kacha might find in his brid
e naive in many ways, but he held her magical skill in great respect. It was that skill that made her dangerous. If her suspicions were ever roused such that she would choose to use it against him, the plans laid for her and for Isavalta would be at grave risk.
Be swift, Yamuna. Be sure.
With all eyes and minds directed toward the revival of the empress, Kacha walked out of her apartments, unobserved, and strode quietly down the hall to look in on the emperor.
Medeoan, High Princess of Eternal Isavalta, stood beside the mossy pool, several hours by canal from the palace of Vyshtavos, clad only in her shift, trying not to shiver.
You’ll be warm enough soon, she told herself, as she watched Prathad, foremost among her waiting ladies, set the consecratory bowl down beside the pool. Beside it lay the cloth Mother had used to wipe Medeoan clean the day she was born, and next to that burned the stub of the candle Father had lit when she first drew breath.
Medeoan turned. Vladka, second among her ladies, held out the pillow upon which lay the girdle Medeoan had spent the last two days and nights weaving. The girdle’s plait had been made up of silken threads twined with her hair, as well as her parents’, and the blood and breath of all three of them tied together in the seven tassels that hung from its belt. She spat on the ends before she tied it around her waist.
Her parents were dying. The physics and the sorcerers turned their faces and said that Grandfather Death spoke to them, that he stood by the heads of their beds. Medeoan cursed them all. Her parents were not ready for death. She was not ready to surrender them. Not yet.
Prathad held out the silver knife with the golden hilt. It had been made over five hundred years ago by the first court sorcerer of Isavalta, when Isavalta was still merely one province among the northern countries. It was used only by the members of the royal family who were also born to magic.
