The Spirit Gate

by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  It was Master Lukasha, come to take her on a tour of the city. Zakarij was not with him—he had other duties this afternoon—so the two of them began their walking tour just outside the gates of the palace. They chatted amicably at first, Lukasha pointing out this or that landmark and Kassia responding with honest, if distracted, pleasure and interest. She was both impressed and amused by the large plaques many of the civic buildings sported, proclaiming that this or that benefactor had been instrumental in its construction. Still, more and more her mind turned to the matter of Pater Honorius and his traveling spell. How could she bring up the subject with Lukasha when he knew nothing of Marija’s journal?

  When, after a while, they had fallen into a protracted, if companionable silence, Kassia finally screwed up her courage and opened her mouth to speak.

  “Tell me, Kassia,” said her Master, before even a whisper of sound had escaped her mouth, “what do you think of King Mishka?”

  Surprised, relieved, frustrated, Kassia shifted her mind to the new trail. “He seems . . . a very good statesman. A good king. He’s done much for the darughas—for Polia.”

  “And?”

  “I’m sorry, Master. Was there something in particular you wanted me to have noticed about him?”

  Lukasha chuckled. “I had hoped for a more personal assessment. What do you think of him as a man? As a soul?

  “He’s a good man, I think. Kind. Gentle. Intelligent. He seems to genuinely care about us—about his people.”

  “He certainly seems to care about you.”

  Kassia flushed, feeling as if the sun had burned her cheeks. “He was most grateful for the web spells.”

  “Kiska, are you teasing me or are you really so blind? Michal Zelimir looks at you with more than mere gratitude.”

  Hearing Lukasha put into words what she had not even allowed herself to notice, caused every drop of blood to drain from Kassia’s face. She met her Master’s eyes, fearful of seeing censure in them. “Are . . . are you certain?”

  Lukasha canted his head, fixing her with a bird bright gaze. “Quite certain. He spoke to me not an hour ago and was most effusive in his praise of your . . . considerable charms. He believes he is falling in love with you Kassia. How do you feel about that?”

  She felt . . . panicked. “I’m sorry, Master. I did nothing to encourage it. I realize how inappropriate it is. But we’ll be leaving soon and—”

  “Inappropriate? Is that what you call it?” He was all but laughing at her now. “Why inappropriate, child?”

  “Michal Zelimir is my king.”

  “Hmm. Yet you deem being loved by him ‘inappropriate’ rather than an honor? It would be an honor, Kassia. An honor no woman of Polia has yet known.”

  Kassia swallowed, trying to rein in her galloping heart. “Master, he’s to be married.”

  “Of course he is. And his advisers are expectant that he will marry one of several women they have selected for him—good political matches, all. Many of them women he has never met. Pity him, Kassia. You married for love and bore a child into love. Imagine what lies in store for Mishka.”

  Kassia could not imagine. The idea of marrying for expediency was abhorrent. The thought of marrying for politics, strange, alien. “I do pity him.”

  “It is more than marriage to a stranger he faces. At least one alliance would mean that, along with a wife, he will take a new religion.”

  Kassia glanced at him sharply. The bright spring day seemed suddenly darker and colder. “Would he really do such a thing?”

  “I have no answer, Kiska. I know only that the Bishop of Tabor will use every power at his disposal to force the issue.”

  “Master,” Kassia murmured, “about Bishop Benedict . . .”

  She stalled, not knowing how to complete the thought. But he was looking at her askance, a slight frown furrowing his brow, and so she pressed on, trying to scrape together words to describe what she had felt this morning returning from the cesia. “The bishop has . . . some sort of powers—some magic.”

  The frown deepened. “How do you know this?”

  Kassia’s heart quivered. She had expected him to laugh, to say, “Well, of course he does! Isn’t it obvious?” Instead, he seemed honestly perplexed. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, perhaps he was merely surprised that she had divined it.

  “I felt it. This morning as Mish— . . . as the king and I returned from our devotions. Benedict came out to meet him. He wanted to talk to him, and when the king refused, he pressed him—with magic. It was like lightning in the air—like cold fire. I could feel it around me, pulling at Mishka trying to divide us, to draw him to Benedict. But somehow, he fought it off. It didn’t affect him. He sent the Bishop away.” She puzzled at that. “It made me wonder if the king might have some gift of his own that I couldn’t sense.”

  Lukasha was no longer looking at her. Instead, he studied the stone walkway beneath his feet. He sighed deeply, then said, “Kiska, do you remember when you said, jokingly, I think, that it was too bad a ward couldn’t have a mind of its own?”

  She grimaced. “Yes. It was a silly thing to say.”

  “No, Kassia. It wasn’t at all silly. It was, in fact, quite astute. You were right. What Zelimir needed was a living ward. A ward that could protect him from the willful manipulation of others. A ward who could not only sense that manipulation, but resist it, defuse it. Someone he would allow . . . close to him.”

  He paused for a moment and she could feel him reading her. She held her breath. Was he about to suggest—?

  “I provided him with such a ward.”

  It took a moment for her to realize what he meant, but when the words sunk in, when they formed a coherent image, Kassia’s universe came to a complete halt. Her body continued to move; she breathed, walked, but within her head all was still.

  Finally, her lips formed words. “Master, what have you done?”

  “I have done what I could to protect my king. It worked. With you at his side, Benedict couldn’t touch him.”

  She had to be certain. “I am the ward?”

  “Yes. I daresay it’s the strongest warding spell I’ve ever produced. I was afraid your powers might interfere with it, but instead they amplify it. It is more successful than I had hoped.”

  “But Master, I will return to Dalibor in a week, and he will still be here, surrounded by the same people and faced with having to choose a stranger as a wife.”

  “He need not choose a stranger, Kiska.” His gaze was eloquent; there was no mistaking his meaning.

  Still . . . “Surely, you can’t mean . . . me.”

  “Why not? Why shouldn’t the King of Polia take a native daughter to wed? You are the essence of Polia, Kiska.”

  “I am shai, Master. There are those who would sooner see their lord married to a foreigner than to me. Besides which, I have no title, no land, no stature. I’m a commoner.”

  “There is nothing common about you, Kassia—a thing Michal well knows. As to your returning to Dalibor, I suspect he will not bear the separation.” He set a hand on her shoulder to stop her and turned her to face him. “Kassia, if he were to ask you to stay, would you do it?”

  She trembled. “My life is in Dalibor, Master—at Lorant—with Beyla, with you. I wish to become a Mateu.”

  “It would be a great service to your king, Kassia, and to your people. Close to him, you could protect him in ways no one else could—and there is no doubt he wants you close to him.”

  Something in his tone sent a swift chill up Kassia’s spine. A question pressed at her lips; she held it back. Instead, she asked, “What sort of ward did you place on me?”

  He raised his eyes to the clouds that scudded overhead. “It is a simple thing, really. A strong wall ward with an element of . . . webbing. I’m surprised that no one has tried it before. I suppose we all thought of wards as things one must set on inanimate objects, never on people. No one has ever considered that a ward might live and breathe and have volition . . . and
powers.” He inclined his head, giving her a searching look. “So you see why I ask you what you feel about Michal Zelimir.”

  “If you ask me if I love him, then the answer is ‘no’. I don’t know him well enough to love him.”

  He frowned slightly. “You once told me you loved your husband on sight, or very nearly so. What has time to do with love?”

  “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps the answer is that what was enough time for Shurik Cheslaf isn’t enough time for Michal Zelimir.”

  “And if he loves you? If he asks you stay in Tabor . . . if I ask you to consider it, for his sake and the sake of Polia?”

  Kassia put her hands over her ears. “Please, Master. No more. You have given me too much to think about and my mind reels. Let me go back to my rooms and rest.”

  “You will think about what I have said?”

  “I will think,” she agreed.

  She was silent during their return to the palace. Silent until they stood before the door to her rooms. Then, Lukasha took her by the arms and turned her to face him, bringing her face up so that he might look into her eyes. “Don’t think harshly of me, Kassia. What I did was unorthodox, I know. I should have asked your permission. But it worked. It has the potential to protect Zelimir from the political pressure that surrounds him.”

  “I don’t think harshly of you, Master,” she told him in all honesty. “But . . . I wish you had told me what you were doing. I would have willingly let you ward me to protect him.”

  He moved deeper into her eyes. “Would you have, Kiska? Ah, yes, I believe you would have. Forgive me, then, for my lack of faith.”

  Within the safe confines of her room, Kassia pressed cold hands against her flaming cheeks and tried to calm her soul. What she had told Lukasha was true—she did not love the king. Yet, there was something between them, something that vibrated in the air and brought vague disquiet to her soul. Perhaps it was the beginning of love, but it felt nothing like what she once had with Shurik.

  She tried to contemplate all that Master Lukasha had revealed to her, but she could not. In the end, she fled to the cesia again in search of composure and guidance.

  Chapter Twelve — Webs

  Though Kassia gave her Master’s wishes every consideration, she grew no more comfortable with them. Worse, she was no longer comfortable with her king. She must still be near him, for the Bishop, who now seemed to fathom her protective function, pecked at her self-conscious defenses, trying to slide past them. As if that were not enough to contend with, she could also feel a change in Zelimir’s regard. When his eyes were on her she knew without doubt that what had been simple fondness was now freighted with urgency and tension. She sensed the questions that threatened to escape his composure and feared that at any moment he would take her aside and ask her to declare her own feelings, perhaps even request that she stay in Tabor.

  At all costs, she avoided being alone with him, a difficult task, for her private attentions were something he obviously craved.

  Finally, she was compelled to take Zakarij into her confidence so as to enlist his aid. She feared he would think she’d taken leave of her senses and greet her fears with disbelief or even derision. His total lack of expression when she finished her tale came as a complete surprise.

  “Yes,” he said to her revelation that Zelimir believed he loved her, “I know. Actually, it’s quite hard to miss.”

  “Well, I missed it,” Kassia told him, irritated by his coolness. “I’m afraid to be alone with him, now. I’m afraid of what he’ll say to me. I’m afraid he’ll ask me to stay in Tabor.”

  Zakarij’s face at last showed some expression. He frowned. “Afraid? That’s a peculiar reaction to finding out that a king is in love with you. Most women would be pleased, or at least flattered.”

  Kassia sighed, pressing her back against the cool stone wall of the window embrasure in which they stood. It only just held her up; her bones felt as if they were made of willow wands.

  “I suppose I am flattered. But I’m not most women, Zakarij. Most women aren’t apprenticed to the realm’s foremost Mateu. Most women aren’t pursuing a life of religious study, or hoping to spend that life molding spells instead of bread dough. I have a destiny, Zakarij. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t believe it’s to be the concubine of a king, or even his queen.”

  “Then . . . you aren’t in love with him?”

  She shook her head, her eyes going to the small, iron-bound panes beyond which she could see the palace cesia. “I’m fond of him. I find him . . . charismatic and compelling and, of course, he’s very handsome. But I don’t love him.”

  Zakarij’s eyelids cloaked his gaze. “Perhaps in time . . .”

  “Perhaps. But I don’t think so. My heart . . . isn’t here.”

  “And where is it, then?”

  She didn’t answer him. “Help me, Zakarij.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Don’t let me be alone with him.” She put her hand over his where it rested against the window lattice. “Stay near me, Zakarij, please.”

  He met her eyes, his own giving up nothing. “I promise I shall not leave your side.”

  He was true to that promise. When Zelimir placed Kassia on his left hand at a meal, Zakarij put himself at her left hand. When she journeyed to the cesia for her morning devotions, he was at her side. He made himself party to every conversation and moved with her in a harmony so complete, he might have been her shadow.

  Her constant companion seemed to annoy the king at first, but as the week wore on and plans for the Solstice Festival and the parade of brides intensified, he seemed to become more and more distracted. Kassia, feeling once again like a mere member of Lukasha’s entourage, relaxed. Her Master never mentioned their conversation in the streets of Tabor or pressed her to reveal her further thoughts about Zelimir, and Kassia began to look forward with happy anticipation to their homeward journey.

  Then, on the eve of their departure, Lukasha announced that they had been invited by the king to stay through Solstice. He had accepted the invitation, apologizing to Zakarij for putting off his Investiture examinations, and dispatched the news of their delay to Lorant via kite. Master Yesugai, he said, was more than capable of handling the details of Dalibor’s village festival. Lukasha’s place was at his King’s side.

  While Kassia was still reeling from his announcement, Lukasha called her into the private parlor of his chambers.

  “I realize you are eager to return to Dalibor, Kassia, but we are needed here. There is the possibility that his marriage will require a heavy price of Zelimir. The last of the bride candidates will be arriving in the next day or so and he has asked me to help him . . . evaluate them. I, in turn, need your help. You were able to divine Bishop Benedict’s gift. If there are others who may pose an arcane threat to our king, we need to know. Further, I suspect that Benedict will use his gift to give the Lombard duchess an advantage over the others. You must prevent him.”

  “I understand. Then . . . the King’s invitation had nothing to do with me?”

  Lukasha’s sober expression lightened. “Dare I hope that is disappointment in your voice? Well, I wouldn’t say it had nothing to do with you. I am certain he . . . calculated your continued presence here to be a benefit derived from mine.”

  “Then he still believes . . .”

  “That he loves you? Of course, he does. Why would his feelings change? But after speaking to you, I counseled him to patience. I told him he should let time and distance clarify his emotions. I suggested that perhaps his affection for you was a reaction to the pressure he is enduring to wed a politically beneficial stranger. He agreed that he should meet the various candidates and, above all, keep an open mind. He promised he would say nothing to you of his feelings.”

  Kassia relaxed against the high back of her chair. “Thank you, Master. I was so afraid he’d . . .”

  Lukasha’s dismay was apparent. “Afraid? Then your feelings for Zelimir haven’t changed?”
>
  Kassia lowered her eyes. “Master, I don’t know what my feelings are. I’m confused.”

  “Might your confusion not be masking love?”

  “I’m drawn to him, certainly, but . . .” She shook her head. “With Shurik, I was so certain. This . . . “ She closed her eyes to free herself of her Master’s intent gaze, grappling for a moment with the chaos in her heart. Through will, she calmed it. “I’m sorry, Master. I want to protect him. I’d give my life to protect him, but—”

  Lukasha’s mouth tugged wryly at the corners. “It is I who should apologize. I . . . overstepped myself and placed you in a most awkward position. What I asked you to consider . . . clearly it was too much to expect.”

  A part of her wanted to rally to that call—to declare that nothing was too much to expect, that she was not the coward those words seemed to imply. But she couldn’t bring herself to protest—she was too relieved to protest.

  Lukasha, watching her face, said, “We will find other ways to protect Polia from those who would compromise her. Right after Solstice, we will return you to your studies and research. And to your son.”

  She parted from her Master with relief flooding every vein, and returned to her study of Marija’s journal. That had become a source of frustration, for she was at an impasse with the book. Obviously, it did not contain the traveling spell, but according to one of the other woman’s more cryptic notes, a tiny, crude drawing indicated where Pater Honorius had hidden it and where, centuries later, Marija of Ohdan had found it. Lamentably, Marija was no artist; the smudgy picture was indecipherable.

  Kassia’s study was interrupted again and again throughout the day. It wasn’t until late evening that she had any significant time alone with the journal. She tried looking at the drawing from every conceivable angle; she tried tracing it on a fresh sheet of paper. It was near dawn, and Kassia near wilting, when the scrabble of lines and squiggles and elemental symbols finally swam together in her head. This symbol was a Tree, and those the four points of the compass, and that wobbly rectangle a cesia altar, and this one a bench.