by Sarah Zettel
So simple an action seemed an exhausting task, but Sakra wanted so much for it to be true that he struggled against his weariness and his eyes fluttered open. But he did not see moonlight reflected on the warm grain of teak that was the floor of the palace. He saw instead starlight turning snow to silver and his own hand silhouetted black against that snow as it reached for the demon’s talisman lying on the ice. He blinked his crusted eyelids a few times, trying to understand.
Slowly, his sluggish brain remembered where he was and what had happened.
I am freezing to death, he thought calmly.
But he was ready for this. He had known it was a possibility and he had prepared. All he had to do was return to his hovel. All he had to do was stand and walk. Yet, all he could do was lie as he was, as sprawled and undignified as Xiau-Li in his dirty corner, and die.
Forgive me, Ananda. I am failing you again.
He stared at his arm and the black cord that tied him to the demon’s severed foot. He had spun that thread after a fast of three days. His stomach had ceased to hurt, the hunger becoming only a dizzy awareness of absence. He only felt pain in his scalp from where he had pulled the hairs. This dying was like that. Only a small pain, this one in his heart instead of his scalp. A small pain from the knowledge that Ananda would be alone.
Perhaps it would be all right. Perhaps she had reached Mikkel by now and freed him.
But perhaps she had not. And she was not truly alone. The dowager and Kalami were with her, and she did not know how they might be turned against each other. Only he knew that, and if he died here, naked in the snow, his ghost would watch them tear her apart.
With a will honed by years of instruction and trial, Sakra forced his legs to draw up underneath him. He cried out as if he had been burned, but he stood. Gray blurred the edges of his vision, but he could still see the open door of the hovel, and the low orange light of the coals that must be what was left of his fire. He shoved one leaden foot forward, plowing a path through the snow. His left leg would not move, no matter how hard he urged it, so he dragged it behind him, limping and lurching toward the doorway like a wounded deer. Every movement plunged him deeper into a fog of pain but he stumbled ahead, held upright only by the knowledge that if he fell he would not be able to stand again.
Something slammed hard against his left foot, shooting a bolt of pain up his leg. His knee collapsed, pitching him forward. He measured his length across the threshold of the hovel, his arms splayed out on the stone floor, his legs trailing in the snow. Ahead of him rose the curved copper sides of the bath he had prepared.
Ananda alone, he made himself think. Ananda alone with the dowager and Kalami. My failure. My fault.
It was enough, barely, but it was enough. His arms pushed him up far enough that he could get his knees under him and he could crawl. With the last of his strength, he forced his hands to grab the edge of the bath and heave him over the side, so that he splashed like a stone into the water.
Had it not cooled enough, the shock would have killed him. As it was, waves of pain racked his body and sent pins and needles stabbing through every fiber of him. But slowly, the water cooled and his body warmed and he was able to pull all himself into a whole again; body, mind and spirit, so that he could lift himself from the bath, cross to the hovel’s second room, cast off his soaking breechclouts and crawl under the pile of fur rugs heaped on his bed.
At long last, warmth without pain came over him, bringing comfort and peace. Now he could sleep. In the morning he would find a way to intercept Kalami as he returned to Isavalta, and discover what he meant to do with the Avanasidoch.
Sakra’s fingers knotted around the cord that bound him to the demon’s foot. In the morning, all would be put right.
Asleep, he did not see the fox steal through the open door to stare at him, saliva dripping from its hungry jaws. But as it slunk forward, the foot twitched on the end of its tether, and the fox froze, one paw raised. The foot twitched again, and the fox seemed to think the better of what it did, and it slipped back out into the night.
Chapter Seven
Bridget closed the door to the keeper’s quarters behind her, twisted the key in the lock, and then tucked the key under the mat. The other key had already gone to Bayfield with Mrs. Hansen and Samuel. She had told the Lighthouse Board as much in the letter she had sent with the Hansens, which had also announced her resignation and advised them of the need to look out for a new keeper. The Board would have until May to find a replacement for her. Surely, that would be enough time. Bridget tilted her chin to stare up at the curtained windows at the top of the light tower. The light would be lit when the ice cleared. No ship, no sailor, would be left without its guidance.
“Bridget?”
Bridget turned to face Kalami, Valin. A slight heat rose in her cheeks at having been caught woolgathering. “This has been my home for a very long time,” she said by way of explanation. “It is difficult to think of handing it over to a stranger.”
Valin regarded the brownstone house with its octagonal tower through half-lidded eyes for a moment.
“This is your past.” Valin turned away from the lighthouse, and with those four words dismissed Bridget’s entire life. “I am come to take you to your future.”
He wore the same clothes that he had worn the day she pulled him out of the lake — leather hose, linen shirt, a woolen overtunic, and the black, wide-skirted coat with the high collar and embroidered cuffs. The belt with its gleaming golden buckle was wrapped around his waist underneath the coat.
This was the first time Bridget had seen him so got up since the night she had pulled him from the lake. Since then, he had worn old, ill-fitting clothes that had belonged either to her father, or to Samuel. The nights they had sat in the parlor while she read or sewed, and he labored over his torn canvas, she had felt the scene was almost normal. Anyone walking in would think they were husband and wife, enjoying domestic tranquillity.
Anyone who hadn’t seen what she had seen, and who didn’t know what she was about to do.
Valin smiled, as if he had heard her thoughts and they amused him. He gestured toward the jetty stairs and bowed, waiting for her to precede him.
Bridget managed a smile and squared her shoulders. She tucked her rope-handled board chest under one arm and started down the stairs. She said she would do this thing, and do this thing she would. During the past six weeks she had wavered so many times between anticipation and apprehension that vacillation seemed a permanent part of her being. Even now, as she descended the stairs to Valin’s repaired boat, both feelings surged within her. But she did not look back. The decision was made.
The boat that floated beside the jetty was indeed a gaudy thing. Valin had spent at least as much time on remaking the designs of green, blue and black paint that covered its red sides as he had on a patching the hole in its hull.
“They should have protected me from the rocks,” he told her one day in November when she had come down to watch him work. He was short of breath, as if he had been running, or digging ditches, rather than just wielding a paintbrush. “I did not make them strong enough. I do not want to make the same mistake while you are in my charge.”
Then he saw how Bridget’s eyes flickered from him to the swirling lines of paint. “Magic,” he said, “is a thing woven. The design traps the magic, channels it, gives it shape and form, and allows it to be directed into the living world.”
“But where does the magic come from?”
Valin had given her one of his gentle smiles. “Ah, Bridget, you ask one of the deep questions. Some say it comes from the soul of the sorcerer himself. Some say it waits around us to be drawn in by the gifted. The honest, of which I try to be one, say that they do not know.” He mopped his brow and looked at his handiwork. “Philosophy and the deeper mysteries are not my special study. I try only to serve my mistress imperial by the strength of my art.”
The boat had a single mast and a lanteen rig, from which Va
lin could hoist the triangular sail he had labored over repairing. “This will catch the wind to sail us beyond the edge of the world,” he had said as he stitched the new seams in the torn canvas.
That too had been hard work, mostly performed by the light of the open woodstove in the parlor. After ten minutes plying the large, curved needle, Valin’s hands would begin to shake and then he would have to lean back in the chair and catch his breath.
“Is the …” Bridget had hesitated to use the word “magic.” She still could not bring herself to fully believe what was happening in front of her, although all her actions were performed as if she believed without question. “… your work so difficult?”
Valin had shaken his head. “This should be a relatively simple matter. It is this world that makes it hard. You will see the difference when we reach Isavalta.”
The boat rocked as Bridget stepped aboard. It had a sharp prow and narrow stern, telling Bridget at once it was for ocean waters rather than lake waters. Its keel was too sharp for the lake, and its hull too narrow. It was made for slicing through waves that came in swells, not wallowing on top of the waves that could come from any direction. Despite that, it seemed to have done well enough so far, and would only have to last a little longer on Superior.
She stowed her small box of possessions in the cramped hold among the water casks and chest of various tools, materials, ropes and provisions while Valin made certain of his ropes and knots. He was muttering to himself about the nature of his splicing when she emerged. The smile he turned to her now was rueful.
“It is a good thing my old master is not here to see this work. I would be given a clout on the ear for my sloppiness.”
“As long as it holds for our journey,” said Bridget, stepping over the sternmost bench. “I am certainly not going to complain of its looks.”
A look flickered across Valin’s face then, and for a minute Bridget thought she saw anger in his dark eyes, but it quickly faded. “Oh, we will reach Isavalta safely, Bridget. I swear that to you.” He moved to cast off from the jetty then and she heard him mutter, “I have not come this far to fail in that.”
Bridget helped catch up and coil the mooring ropes. Valin used one of the steering oars to push the boat off and start them drifting toward open water. Bridget climbed into the bow and watched while Valin raised the sail to catch the frigid wind. Because of its depth and breadth, Superior took a long time to freeze. The ice had not come here yet, as it had on the smaller lakes farther south, but it would close in soon.
The sail flapped and billowed, filling out until it blocked blue lake and grey sky. Still, Bridget could see past it to where Sand Island sprawled green and rust red, filling the horizon. Was that a glint of pale sunlight on the light tower? Or was it a tear in her eye?
Valin’s voice lifted above the wind and cut across her thoughts. “Do you remember what I told you of the Land of Death and Spirit?”
“Yes,” said Bridget, wiping a hand in front of her eyes and hoping Valin would think it was only the spray that bothered them. “I am to ignore whatever I may see.”
“Much of what you will see is false.” Valin’s voice was strained, stretched tight like the ropes holding the sail, from which he would not take his gaze. “All of it will be confusing. Trust me, Bridget. Trust in the boat that carries you, but place no trust in anything beyond that. Only we sorcerers may steer through the Outer Land. Ungifted mortals must wander lost in its confines, so too must the unlearned.” He bared his teeth to the wind. “If nothing else, hold fast to that thought. I cannot lose you.”
Bridget opened her mouth to make some reply, but, around her, the world changed.
In front of her eyes, Lake Superior melted into a bank of white mist. In the next moment, the mist stretched and settled, spreading low across the water until all the waves were obscured by a strange, cold fog.
There was no sound. The world around them lay as profoundly silent as night and death.
New islands rose on either side of the boat, mounds of green so vivid it hurt Bridget’s eyes to look at them. A single craggy tree crowned each island and each tree grew golden fruit that shimmered underneath a sky suddenly gone black as pitch. Smells of warmth and honey reached Bridget as a gentle breeze wafted off the strange islands, and her mouth began to water.
What would fruit of gold taste like? she wondered, and her mouth longed to find out. But Valin’s words rang in her mind and she clutched the boat’s rail.
The mist around them parted and the water became so smooth and green that Bridget was no longer certain that they did sail across water. Was it now a lawn that they glided over? Men and women strolled about that lawn, many wearing fantastical garb of vivid silk, or flowing robes of gold or blinding whiteness. Some could not be bothered with clothing at all. Some wore crowns on their shining hair, some went bareheaded, while others covered their faces with glittering masks, and yet others had great gossamer wings drooping from their shoulders.
As Bridget and Valin passed, the people turned to look at the boat sailing between them. Nothing but contempt showed in their cold eyes. Shame washed through Bridget and she ducked her head. She was not fit to be seen among these noble creatures. She was fit for nothing but to throw herself into the water. The water that would cleanse her, and allow her to rise again, worthy at last to join them and receive their approval. Only the deep green water could wash her clean.
“Hold fast, Bridget!” called Valin, his voice as harsh as any crow’s in the profound silence. But it was enough. Bridget closed her eyes and knotted her hand around the railing. A splinter dug into her palm and she welcomed the brief pain. What she saw was illusion, temptation. It was nothing. Nothing at all.
Then, the warm wind blew cold again, and stiffened to whip strands of Bridget’s hair across her face. The boat rocked sharply, and she thought she felt the low grating under her heels and hands of the keel scraping stone.
Her eyes flew open. Now they sailed on a brown river through a dense pine forest. Nothing but moss grew between the black trunks. Eyes peered between the trees — glowing animal eyes, curious human eyes, eyes large and eyes small, eyes curious, and eyes hostile. All of them silent, so silent she felt she could not bear it anymore. Something moved in the deep shadows, and for a moment, Bridget thought she saw a house on chicken legs stalk by. But that could not be. None of this could be. Bridget hid her face in her hands. She was not here. She was not doing this. This was not happening. She was home, in bed, in the lighthouse, waiting for the tugboat from the mainland to come take her away to Mrs. Neilsen’s boardinghouse for the winter.
Bridget woke. She opened her eyes to the infinitely familiar contents of her darkened room. The comfortable weight of the quilts warmed her, and the lumps of her old mattress shifted underneath her. Rain pounded insistently against the windows.
What a strange dream. Bridget sat up and rubbed her temple, as if she could rub away the fear and ache inside her head. Finally, the enormity of what she was about to do had begun to drive her out of her mind. But it could not turn her from her duties. She and Kalami were to leave for this place, Isavalta, tomorrow, but tonight she was still the keeper of the light. All was darkness outside her window. She did not see the light shining. She must get up and go to the light to make sure that it still burned. That was her responsibility. If the light went out, there would be disaster. Lives would be lost. She could not permit that, even if this was her last night as keeper.
Bridget threw back the covers and got to her feet.
“No! Bridget, no!”
But she had to get to the light. It had gone out. Disaster waited. She had to climb the tower. It waited for her, behind the iron fire door, tall on its chicken legs there on the bank. The light had gone out and it was for her to light it, only her, without her there would be death, more death, too much death …
No, Bridget!
Bridget froze. It was a woman’s voice that commanded her. She blinked and saw again the river and the
pine forest. A woman in a severe dress of black taffeta with a cameo brooch pinned to its high collar waited on the mossy bank. Her hair had been brushed back into a tidy bun, a style too severe for her kind face. She clutched her hands together and her pale face looked pained. Bridget felt her heart grow sad at the sight of that pain. She wanted to tell the woman she was all right, she would be well, that she loved her.
Bridget reeled backward, the bench catching her hard against the back of her knees. She fell onto it, pressing one hand against her chest.
What’s happening? What is this?
Her gaze sought out the woman again, and now Bridget saw a man standing next to her. He was tall and darkly golden, and had one arm wrapped about the woman’s shoulders. He wore a black coat of a style that matched Valin’s. At his feet sat a golden cage and inside, a bird of flame battered its wings against the bars. Bridget smelled smoke and ash. She shook her head, clasping her hands together as if trying to hold on to herself. The man and the woman watched her with solemn eyes as she sailed away, and their sadness somehow removed all her desire to leave the boat.
“What is this place?” breathed Bridget as she raised her hands to her cheeks, surprised to find them wet.
“This is where the souls of the living are called when their bodies die,” said Valin, his voice tight with some emotion Bridget could not name. He sounded hollow, as if this place robbed his voice of its vibrancy. “This is where the immortal and the intangible dwell.”
