by Sarah Zettel
Eliisa stood, visibly trembling. Medeoan set her basket down and drew out the shining girdle, taking a deep breath as she did. She ran the woven band through her fingers, breathing on its length, remembering the work of its making, and drawing up the magic in her soul. This was the completion of a spell that had been begun in those threads. She must concentrate. One silver girdle was to be her undoing. This one of gold would be her salvation.
Then, she had it, the connection between the girdle of her working, and the workings of her inner self. She felt it. This was a part of her, it had been shaped and was being shaped by her will, her desire, her soul. Medeoan opened her eyes.
“I made this girdle of my hand, of silver and gold I made it,” she murmured as she walked around the girl, winding the waistband of the girdle twice around the drab’s waist. The girl smelled of harsh soaps, strong grease, sweat, and fear. The wool of her skirt and overshirt prickled Medeoan’s delicate skin. Her body shook under the empress’s hands as Medeoan fastened the girdle about her. But the sorcery was stronger than Medeoan’s senses and the current of it carried her past all other realizations. “With my own hands I bind Eliisa Hahl to the girdle, and the girdle to the earth, and the mind and the soul and the heart of Eliisa shall be known to the work of my hands, to the hands that performed the work, to the soul that guided the hands.”
As Medeoan repeated the spell, Eliisa’s trembling eased. She swayed side to side with the rhythm of words she could only barely have heard. Finally, gently, as Medeoan’s quick fingers tied the final knot in the girdle, Eliisa’s knees crumpled and she slid gently to the ground. Medeoan dropped with her, cradling the girl’s fall.
Slowly, the stupor of the sorceries fell away from Medeoan. She looked down and saw Eliisa’s face. The girl’s eyes were closed and she seemed to be in a deep and peaceful sleep.
Vyshko and Vyshemir grant you rest, Eliisa, thought Medeoan, smoothing the girl’s headscarf. And may they grant you swift return of what I have just stolen.
Medeoan laid the girl on the cool grass as tenderly as she could manage. Swiftly, she undid the knot holding the girdle and drew it from Eliisa’s waist. She dropped it into her sewing basket and closed the lid. It would not do for her to handle the girdle for too long, not yet anyway.
“Captain Peshek,” said Medeoan loud enough for Chekhania to clearly hear. “You will see that this girl is dismissed and returned to her home.” Using her body as a shield, Medeoan slipped a small velvet bag from her sash and laid it on Eliisa’s breast. Peshek knelt beside the prostrate girl and retrieved it. The gold inside clanked heavily as Peshek stowed the bag in his coat.
“Forgive me, Imperial Majesty, I …”
Medeoan did not let him finish his sentence. “It is the shock of discovery, nothing more.” Another lie, but one Chekhania needed to hear.
Peshek reverenced as he was, on his knees, and this time asked no questions. Medeoan picked up her basket and turned her back on the girl and Peshek, using all her strength not to look back at them.
“Chekhania,” said Medeoan as the waiting lady fell into step behind her. “I need you to take a message to the emperor for me. You are to say to him, I have tested my working and it has performed perfectly. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mistress Imperial. At once.” She reverenced quickly and hurried away over the lawn. Medeoan watched her leave, and from the corner of her eye she saw Peshek cradling Eliisa in his arms and slowly bearing her away.
Medeoan set her jaw and turned away. She must not dawdle. She must return to her ladies so they could sit and sew together for a respectable length of time, a pretty picture of idleness and unconcern. Hopefully, sending Chekhania with a message to Kacha would reinforce her lies to him and continue the fiction of what the girdle was meant to be used for.
Now, though, there was one more thing to be done, one more wheel to be set in motion. After that, all she could do was to wait for dark and what would come with it.
The morning passed slowly. Despite the myriad items demanding her attention once she and her ladies returned from their sojourn out of doors, Medeoan felt the time creep past. But, at last, the midday meal was laid in the blue parlor so that she might dine in private, and so that, afterward, she might have an audience with her lord sorcerer. Kacha was having his meal with Ambassador Girilal, and that gave her some freedom, although not much, for his eyes and ears were still with her.
Lord Iakush was prompt, as ever, arriving just as the meal was being cleared away. The lord sorcerer was a precise, dark man, well but plainly dressed in a burgundy kaftan sashed and embroidered in black. He looked to be only a few years older than she herself, but Medeoan knew he was older than her father had been.
Lord Iakush knelt before her.
“Please rise,” she told him. “Sit with me.” Iakush did as he was bidden, and took the chair the footman positioned for him.
“Thank you, Imperial Majesty,” he said politely. Then, as was also polite, he waited for her to speak.
Medeoan glanced about. She was unaccustomed to taking note of her ladies, or the other servants. They were engaged with their own tasks, her ladies with their needlework, the footmen with clearing the meal and rearranging the room. There was no way to tell how well they were listening. Medeoan swallowed. She needed to speak. She needed to trust in her plan and her understanding. She could do nothing else.
She rubbed her hands together. “I find myself in need of your counsel, Lord Sorcerer.”
Iakush spread his hands. “I will be glad to offer what advice I can, Imperial Majesty.”
Medeoan leaned forward. She wanted to shout at the company to go away, to leave her in peace, to stop watching her. She controlled herself. “I need to find Lord Avanasy, yet that seems to be beyond my power.”
“Need to find …?” Lord Iakush, began, startled, but he recovered quickly. “Her Imperial Majesty means to revoke the exile?”
Medeoan nodded and pressed her palms tightly together. “That is what I want Lord Avanasy to believe, for it is the only way he will return here easily.”
Lord Iakush narrowed his eyes. “I do not understand, Imperial Majesty.”
Why is this so hard? I lied to Kacha without effort. Why can I barely speak now?
Because I know who Kacha is now, and I do not know who this man is before me. In truth, she had avoided him as much as possible since her parents’ funeral. She did not seem able to look at him without seeing him standing over her parents’ biers, saying the rites to keep their bodies safe in the earth.
Yet she did not replace him, even though Kacha had suggested it more than once. Remembering that, Medeoan gained courage.
“I have recently found evidence that Lord Avanasy was guilty of much more serious crimes than I had initially believed. I want him back here to answer for them directly, with his life.”
The lord sorcerer stiffened for a moment. She watched him attempting to relax himself, trying to think and assess what she might be leaving unsaid. “If I may ask, Imperial Majesty …”
Medeoan stopped him with a gesture. “No. You do not need to know what he has done, or has not done. You only need to tell me if you know where Lord Avanasy has taken himself.”
Iakush dropped his gaze, but Medeoan could see that it was not a mere show of humility. “I only know rumors, Imperial Majesty.”
Medeoan nodded. Well enough. He did not flatter, or make claim to knowledge he did not have. Such signs were no guarantee of loyalty, but they would have to be enough. All her energies were diverted to keeping Kacha’s suspicions quiet. She had no strength left to search for Avanasy, even though it was Avanasy she most needed.
Medeoan reached down to the ring at her waist and unhooked the bronze key which wound the works of the Portrait of Worlds. “Find him, Lord Sorcerer,” she said, holding out the key to him. “Even if he has gone beyond the borders of the Land of Death and Spirit, find him. Tell him I have forgiven him. Tell him I am in need of him. Tell him I am in danger,
for that was what he tried to make me believe before he was banished. Tell him what you must, but bring him back here. He must answer for what he has done.”
Medeoan watched Lord Iakush. His eyes were curious, he had questions he longed to ask, but he saw the key she held out to him. Handing such a key over was a sign of trust, and he was hungry for her trust. Her trust equaled power in the court and that key was a solid sign of that power. The position of a lord sorcerer under an emperor who was herself touched by magic was a precarious one. However, he would do as she asked because he would believe that her request proved she needed him.
She would have to hope that later he would do it because he understood the truth of this meeting.
“You will take him to Fortress Dalemar and await my representatives.”
Iakush received the key and reverenced, almost more to the object than to his empress.
“I will do my best, Imperial Majesty,” he said, tucking the key into the safety of his broad, black sash.
“Find him, Lord Sorcerer,” she told him earnestly. “I require his return.”
Iakush, recognizing the interview was at an end, knelt once more. She dismissed him and he left her there, alone with her servants and Kacha’s spies.
One more day. Medeoan closed her eyes. Only one more day. Then I will be free.
Chapter Six
Summer deepened, and Sand Island grew warm and green. The mosquitoes rose in the marshes, making morning and evening into special times of torture. There were a thousand hot, tedious tasks to be done, and the boats were always out, taking advantage of the long, calm days and the huge runs of fish. Grace was sunny, and carelessly defiant as she had ever been, but her midnight wanderings were over, and no one in the house felt inclined to speak of them.
So far, it was a perfect match to all the other summers Ingrid had known. Nothing at all had changed.
And yet, everything had, because Avan had begun to call on her. The first time he came by at dusk, after the boats had come in and the evening meal had been cleared away. Ingrid had given him coffee in the back kitchen. There, they’d sat and talked about small things — Grace’s health, how the fish were running, the nature and temperaments of the people on the island. The next time, he’d stopped by near dawn, just as the men were getting ready to go out. Papa and Leo had scowled when Ingrid invited him to sit down at the table and served out a portion of bread and porridge for his breakfast. But Avan had been unstintingly polite, asking their opinions on boats and nets, and the affairs of the town of Bayfield. Slowly, Avan found the thoughts Papa could not stand to keep to himself, and drew him out, word by word.
After that, his presence became part of the rhythm of her life. Mornings, he breakfasted with them. Evenings, when the work was done and the boats were back, he was there again, with her in the kitchen, talking in his low, strong voice of the events of the day, singing snatches of songs with her, telling stories, laughing when she teased him for his ignorance of local custom and history. He spoke no more of ghosts or of magic, and Ingrid was content enough to let the subject lie.
Then, at night when Grace snored softly beside her, Ingrid would lie awake and remember the touch of his hand against her skin. She wondered how it would be to have Avan beside her in the bed instead of her sister, and she both welcomed and feared the ache and restless anticipation that rose in her.
August came. The blueberries and raspberries were quickly stripped from their branches by birds and by questing fingers. Now the blackberries were coming into season and the women and children of the island were out in force, baskets on hips, and wearing their thickest clothes despite the heat. The men forsook the water for the day to help cut and clear brush for the fuel it provided and to help keep the island safe from the wildfires that plagued the mainland.
Ingrid worked side by side with Grace, keeping one eye on the berry canes and one on the little ones, making sure they put almost as much into the baskets as they stuffed in their faces. Mama was home by the stove, boiling the jams and syrups from the previous day’s labors in field and garden.
She was not in the least surprised when a shadow fell across her and Avan’s voice said, “Good afternoon, Ingrid.”
She turned, smiling up at him. Summer had burned him brown as bark, making his dark gold hair shine even more brightly than usual. He carried a long-handled scythe on his shoulder.
“Hello, Avan. How are you today?”
“Well, thank you.” He hesitated, looking hard at Grace and Ingrid’s smallest siblings. “I saw a good patch of berries as I came past. I … would be happy to show you the way.”
Which only caused Grace to giggle like a schoolgirl, without any attempt to hide it. Ingrid glowered at her.
“Oh, go on, Ingrid.” Grace waved her away. “It’s blackberries all the way through the marsh. If Papa asks, I’ll swear on my life it is.”
Ingrid felt her cheeks burn, but nonetheless she picked up the remaining empty basket. “Thank you, Avan,” she said, giving Grace one last hard look. “We can use all we can find.”
Avan tromped off through the thicket, and Ingrid followed. Gradually, the noise of chattering women and children and the distant calls of men’s voices fell away. The thicket turned to forest as the huge, ancient pines laid claim to the ground. The underbrush thinned, replaced by an unbroken carpet of brown needles. The calls of crows and humans all seemed equally far away. Ingrid and Avan were truly alone for the first time since Grace’s haunting ended.
Ingrid felt her heart begin to pound. Her mind raced off in a hundred directions, trying to guess what would happen next, and how she should prepare for it. At last, Avan leaned his scythe against a tree trunk. He stared at it for a moment, and turned to face her.
“Ingrid …” he began. Ingrid felt her throat tighten, and tried to tell herself she was being foolish. There was nothing to fear. This was what she had hoped for. The fear, however, would not leave. “I have some things I need to say to you,” he went on. “I …” He stopped again, running a hand through his bright hair. “I am blundering very badly. I must ask you to have patience.”
“Of course.” Ingrid hoped he did not hear how her own nervousness choked her.
“Thank you.” He looked around, saw nothing but tree roots and pine needles and shrugged irritably. “Will you sit awhile with me?”
In answer, Ingrid sat in the cleft formed by the roots of one of the ancient pines, smoothing her skirt down across her knees, and silently cursing her berry-blackened fingers and disordered hair. She wanted to be beautiful. She wanted to be calm and poised. Instead she was sweaty, disheveled and frightened to her core that Avan was about to ask her to marry him, and equally frightened that he would not.
Avan sat in front of her, crossing his legs tailor fashion. “Ingrid,” he said, as much to the ground as to her. “Since we laid the ghost that troubled your sister, you have not asked me about my magics, or about how I came to possess them.”
Ingrid swallowed hard, willing her throat to open so she could speak normally. “I thought you would tell me in your own good time.”
“And I thank you for trusting me so far.” The heel of his heavy boot scuffed the needles. “Will you hear a story?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.” He looked up at her and took a deep breath, like someone about to speak a parlor piece they had memorized with great effort. “Imagine if you will, that this whole world is like Sand Island, a single point of land in the midst of a vast sea. Imagine that it is not the only such island. There are others, an infinite number of others, each separate and complete in the sea, each alone without knowledge of its neighbors.
“Now imagine that one might sail that sea. If one had a chart and the proper knowledge of boats, one might travel from island to island. It would not be an easy journey, for that sea is cold and treacherous, and the way is very long, but it could be done by one who was trained in its ways.”
Ingrid felt herself begin to stare. What was this? Wa
s Avan mad after all? No, she could not believe it. This was a true thing he spoke of, like the ghost had been true, and the net he had made.
Ingrid cleared her throat. “And on one of these islands there is a place called Isa … Isav …”
“Isavalta.” Avan’s voice caressed the word, and Ingrid saw how loneliness dimmed his eye. “Yes. It is a vast and northern land. Bigger even, I think, than your United States. Some call it grim and wild, but it has its beauties.” He bowed his head for a minute, remembering. It was that remembrance that wiped all thought of madness from Ingrid’s mind. This was true. Every word of it.
“It is ruled by an emperor, and an empress. They had several children, but, as happens sometimes, two of them died, leaving only one, a girl, to inherit the throne.
“The girl, whose name was Medeoan, had been born a sorceress as well as a princess, and her parents wished her to be instructed in the ways of magic, and the powers of the spirits and the unseen folk. They summoned one of the masters of such knowledge to them, but he was an old man, even as sorcerers measured their years, and knew Grandfather Death waited nearby for him. So, he begged them to take his apprentice instead. It was thus the emperor and empress bound to their daughter a tutor who was a young man with more learning than wisdom. His name was Avanasy Finorasyn Goriainavin.”
Ingrid felt herself grow very still. Avan wasn’t looking at her. He stared at the needle-covered ground.
“The young man was proud of his new post, and did his best, studying as well as teaching, advising and making friends in the court whenever he could. Soon, however, he found that his student was gravely troubled by her destiny. She did not want to rule. She feared the responsibilities of her birth. He tried to be a friend as well as a teacher to her, and so the years passed.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She was most fair as she grew, and powerful in her magics, and the tutor came to realize that in his secret heart, he was in love with her.”
