A Sorcerer’s Treason

by Sarah Zettel

  Bridget, or whatever it was, shifted. He stared at her, it, her? his eyes wide in horror.

  Hold, hold, you are losing yourself. You must hold!

  Kalami tightened his grip on the knife, but the sort of metal that he could carry with him into this land gave him no protection from its glamours.

  Tricked, tricked, tricked …

  He brought the blade down, but gently, against the skin of the throat that bared itself to him. A red thread followed the tip of the blade, and a gasp of surprise and pain.

  Blood, bright red blood, welled from the shallow cut. Kalami shuddered hard. No changeling could bleed. He sheathed his knife, trembling at the realization of what he had almost done.

  He lifted Bridget up and held her hard against his chest. The ash pole waited for them and Kalami strode after it. With his movement, it continued to scurry forward, a guide he could trust for it was of his own making. He gripped his mind as tightly as he gripped Bridget in his arms. The river lay before them. Its course would lead them back to the living world. The living world, sound and warmth waited for them. That was the goal, his goal, heart and mind. He wove that goal into a solid thing with the strength of his mind and soul and the frantic breath in his lungs.

  The trees opened and Kalami saw the river spreading brown and smooth between the mossy banks. Unable to restrain himself, he cried aloud and ran, a clumsy, heavy trot, until his boots splashed in the water. The forest around them blurred into meaningless shadows of green and black, and the world turned cold. Kalami closed his eyes, and opened them again.

  And they stood on the frozen beck that fed into the great river running down to Vyshtavos, the Winter Palace of Isavalta. His horse, tethered to the willow nearby, champed its bit and stamped its hooves impatiently.

  Ignoring the animal, Kalami fell to his knees, letting Bridget slip onto the snow. As swiftly as he could, he unbuttoned his coat and drew it around her. She was too pale, and too cold. He laid his hand on her chest. She breathed. She breathed!

  His touch, or perhaps it was the winter cold, stirred something in her, and her eyes fluttered open.

  “Dreams,” murmured Bridget, looking up at him with eyes that were unfocused, but otherwise clear. “Strange dreams.”

  “Yes, dreams,” he told her gently, drawing his coat over her. “In the morning you will wake.” Wake to me, and to your place in my dreams, Bridget Lederle.

  He realized he found her beautiful then. Her time in the Land of Death and Spirit had refined her. He had first seen her eight years ago through the mind of a hungry man named Kyosti, who saw only a tall young virgin who might be talked into laying herself down. He’d seen her himself only in the dark of the moonless night beside Lake Superior, and had been almost blinded by the power that spilled so casually from her into the unresponsive world. But when he had returned and seen her looming over him after she had pulled him from the killing lake, he saw a coarse, rawboned woman, a peasant roughened by hard work.

  Now, though, so close to death, she seemed fragile, with only the purity of the power in her soul keeping her alive. Perhaps he could refine these qualities. Perhaps she would not have to be simply his servant when he stood behind the throne of Isavalta.

  Kalami smiled and pulled Bridget close to his heart.

  Chapter Ten

  Medeoan looked down at the fat man who knelt before her on the cold black and white marble floor of the small audience chamber. The bright yellow silks that adorned the walls and were supposed to render a summery and welcoming air in the room just lent a bilious tone to the man’s already pale face. A bead of perspiration trickled out from under the jeweled band of his cap.

  “I humbly thank Your Grand Majesty for this audience.” He wheezed as he spoke.

  Medeoan inclined her head and gestured for the footman to bring a stool. “Be seated, Lord Master Oulo,” she said, sitting herself in a square chair, the legs of which had been carved with eagles’ talons each clutching a dark garnet. Another nod to her ladies and the secretary in the servants’ alcove told them to turn away and pay no attention to this conversation. “I would hear what you have to say.”

  The man climbed to his feet and settled himself on the carved and padded stool, which creaked a warning note under his bulk. “My mistress imperial, I am here to prove my loyalty to the throne of Eternal Isavalta. I am here to humbly beg that you give your consideration to my words.”

  Medeoan cut them off with a wave of her bandaged hand. “The heart of the matter, Lord Master. I have little patience with deputations from Kasatan.” In fact, the very sight of the man caused her hands to itch under their dressings, but she did not feel it necessary to say so at this time.

  The man made an effort to stiffen himself. “Mistress, I bring you news of rebellion and traitors.”

  Medeoan sat still as stone as Oulo poured out his tale. How Lord Master Hraban, hearing of her imprisonment of Kasatan’s reeves and deputies, had contacted Oulo to speak of rebellion. How Oulo had, with trepidation, exchanged various messages with Hraban. At last, Hraban became convinced that Oulo shared his cause and had invited him to Spavatan to meet some supporters, and Ananda herself.

  “Who are the supporters?” Medeoan barked out the question.

  Oulo bowed his head in the face of her anger. “A ship’s captain of Hastinapura, named Nisula, and Lord Master Peshek. There are others, but I have not yet been given their names.”

  The sound of that name stopped Medeoan’s heart for one painful beat. “Peshek? Peshek spoke against me?”

  Oulo bowed his head further.

  Anger seized hold of Medeoan then, turning the whole world red. Before she knew what she was doing, she had leapt up from the chair and seized Oulo by the collar, dragging him to his feet. “How dare you!” she shouted to the trembling man. Pain seared her palms but that was nothing compared with the anger searing her blood. “How dare you come here with such stories!”

  “I beg … I humbly plead …” All of Oulo’s chins quivered. “I thought only to warn my mistress imperial of a danger to Isavalta.” A tear trickled from the corner of one small eye. “Please, Grand Majesty …”

  Medeoan released Oulo’s collar and backed away, her hand pressed against her mouth. The man collapsed against the footstool, his hand grasping his throat. He must not see this. She gripped the arm of her chair. Her hands hurt; ah, by the breath of the gods, how they hurt. She took a deep breath, smelling the mint and saffron of the poultice her surgeon had used. She must collect herself. This fat little man must not see her indecisive or shaken. He must not be allowed to carry tales of weakness away with him.

  Medeoan drew herself up with the precision of a soldier coming to attention and dropped her hand to the keys at her waist. The touch of the cool metal eased some of the burning in her wounded skin.

  “What proof do you offer of this accusation, Lord Master Oulo?”

  Oulo swallowed audibly and his shoulders sagged. But then, he seemed to reach some decision and squared himself again, looking more as a nobleman should than he had any time since he entered her chamber.

  “It is said that Her Grand Majesty has means by which she may see into hearts and know what is written there.” Awkwardly, he dropped onto his knees again and bowed his head before her. “If she should choose to use them upon my unworthy person, she will know that I speak nothing but the truth.”

  Medeoan regarded him for a moment. He had ceased all his trembling, as if this final submission had led to a final confidence. She needed no spell to see that he spoke the truth to her now.

  Peshek. How could Peshek turn from her to the side of a Hastinapuran? Another trusted friend gone, stolen away by Ananda. Medeoan wanted to weep. How many more would she lose?

  How many more could she afford to lose?

  With that thought, Medeoan also reached a decision.

  “And if I were to look into your heart,” she said, returning to her chair and folding her bandaged hands in front of her, “what would I see
regarding the reason for this revelation?”

  Oulo lifted his head, the tentative beginnings of hope lighting his tiny eyes. “My mistress imperial would see that I would wish to ask for the release of my reeves and my deputies.”

  Ah. That would be it. “One of whom, is, I believe, your younger brother.”

  Oulo nodded.

  “Very well.” Medeoan raised her voice, gesturing with two fingers toward the servants’ alcove so that the secretary would take note of what she next said. “Leave. Return to Kasatan. You will receive word of my decision within two weeks.”

  For a bare instant, Oulo dared to look her in the eyes. Because he dropped his gaze hastily, Medeoan let the indiscretion pass.

  “My thanks and my duty, Grand Majesty.”

  Medeoan dismissed him with a gesture and did not watch as he left. Her mind was already traveling back through the years to Peshek as she first knew him, and as she most liked to remember him. He had been dashing then, with strong features and a ready grin that could turn fierce when his work became serious. She remembered him covered with the dirt and sweat of battle, emerging from the mountains where his forces had been harassing the troops her husband Kacha had meant to lead in a war against Hung-Tse which would have destroyed Isavalta. The war that had released the Firebird.

  But then, his true loyalty was always to Avanasy. How could I expect him to stay loyal to me when Avanasy is dead? Medeoan tightened her burned hand, despite the pain. Because I am his empress!

  She would level Peshek’s entire oblast, his province, for this treachery. She would burn Kasatan for bringing her this news. They would all pay for their conspiracies. She would not allow them to split her kingdom. She would not allow the empire to be threatened again.

  Let me go, whispered the Firebird’s voice. Let me go and I will burn them all for you.

  Medeoan’s head fell backward. Her hand burned still. When would Valin return to heal her? When would he bring Bridget Lederle and the rest her presence promised? “What else will you burn?”

  I will burn you. Let me go or I will burn you and all that is yours.

  Medeoan lifted her head again. It would be so easy. Release the Firebird. Let Peshek and Hraban burn for turning against her. Let Oulo burn for bringing her such news.

  But when the bird had flown back to its masters in the Heart of the World, what then? What of those who still remained loyal to Isavalta? No. She would do her duty still. She would do her duty even in the Land of Death and Spirit, and she would not be swayed.

  She opened her hand and looked at the bandages. She must think clearly. She now had evidence of the conspiracy against her. But she could not simply send in the guard to make arrests. Ananda had done her work too well. If she cut off these hands that had been lifted against her, yet others would rise to take their place. Even if she were publicly arrested and tried, Ananda would become a martyr to those who believed her lies, and a rallying point for the opportunists who saw only that she, Medeoan, was growing old well before her time.

  Tears stung her eyes, and in the back of her mind, Medeoan heard the Firebird laughing.

  • • •

  “Princess.”

  The urgent whisper and familiar touch lifted Ananda out of her dreams.

  “Highness, I think you should come see.”

  Behule stood at Ananda’s bedside, a lamp in one hand and a robe draped over her arm.

  “What is it?” asked Ananda, habit bringing her instantly awake. If Behule had noticed something amiss, it was sure to be urgent. Behule was one of the reasons Ananda’s sorcerous reputation had grown so strong. Behule was all eyes and ears. She knew the character of each of the empress’s guard, it seemed, and most of the household servitors.

  When Mikkel is restored and the dowager laid aside, you will be a free and noble woman, Behule, Ananda promised silently for the thousandth time as she stood to let Behule drape the brocade robe around her shoulders. I swear it.

  Behule kept the lamp low and shielded with her hand, giving Ananda’s eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. Swiftly, Behule led her through the linked apartments, to the outermost chamber. Kiriti stood beside the heavily curtained window that overlooked the courtyard. From outside rose the sound of voices and the clatter of rapid movement.

  Ananda raced across the room to Kiriti’s side.

  “Kalami returns,” was all her woman murmured as she stood aside.

  Behule extinguished the lamp so no light would show. Through the gap between the curtains, Ananda saw the courtyard washed in the dim light of the waning moon. A host of servants, including two footmen in rumpled livery, ran from the palace carrying a litter between them. Kalami on horseback waited in the middle of the yard. She could have told it was him even in the pitch darkness. He burned with plotting and arrogance. At the moment, he cradled something large in his arms. Ananda squinted. He handed his burden carefully to one of the footmen, who in turn lowered it onto the litter.

  Ananda held her breath.

  It was a woman in dark clothing, apparently in a complete faint, for she did not move as the fur rugs were thrown over her, nor as she was lifted and borne away into the palace. Kalami leapt to the ground, handed his horse’s reins to a waiting groom and strode after the litter.

  “So,” breathed Ananda, letting the curtain fall. “Why must I believe that new trouble is come?” She touched Behule’s hand. “Go and find out for me where this new guest is to be lodged. Hear what new gossip there may be of this.”

  “At once.” Behule handed Kiriti the lamp and turned to hurry away, but instead she froze. “Highness?” The query was strained.

  Ananda turned as well. In the shadows of the room she saw something stir, heard something croak, a sound like deep laughter. Her heart beat hard as her eyes adjusted slowly to the deeper darkness, and the shape stirred again. Her breath left her at a rush. The shape sat on one of the room’s low tables. It was a crow, black as pitch and night, its eye glinting in the sliver of moonlight that slid past the curtain.

  “Shall I chase it out?” asked Kiriti.

  “No, wait.” Feeling foolish, but mindful of Sakra’s teaching on how many ways this land was still wild, Ananda reverenced. “What news, good master crow?” she inquired.

  In response, the crow launched itself at Ananda. She screeched involuntarily and shrank away as the great bird flapped out the window.

  The window that was incapable of opening, and yet had in no way been broken by the passage of the bird.

  Ananda pressed her hand against her chest, as if she thought she could still her wildly hammering heart. A flash of something pale caught her eye. On the floor, a folded piece of paper lay under one black feather. She bent toward it, but Behule reached it first and handed it to her. The paper was a letter, and it was sealed with Sakra’s false sigil.

  Her hands shaking, Ananda broke the seal and unfolded the missive. “Behule, do not wait for this. Go find out what you can about the woman Kalami has brought.”

  The faint rustle of cloth told her Behule reverenced and raced for the door. Ananda could not take her eyes from the letter.

  First Princess, she read.

  Because of the messenger, this once I may be plain. Watch closely for Kalami’s return. He brings with him a powerful sorceress from beyond the world’s end. She is the daughter of Avanasy and Ingrid. She is summoned by the dowager and the lord sorcerer and she can only be meant to harm you.

  Do nothing rash though, I beg you. It may be they have misstepped in this.

  I will come to you as soon as I may.

  Courage, Ananda.

  He did not sign it.

  A powerful sorceress from beyond world’s end. Ananda read the words again with failing heart. Another danger. Another power on the dowager’s side. The daughter of Avanasy and Ingrid. The Avanasidoch. A figure from legend so great that most folk believed her to be only a wishful thought.

  Crossing the room, Ananda folded the letter and dropped it onto the c
oals of the firepit. It blossomed into orange flame for a moment, and then slowly blackened and fell to ash.

  “Princess?” inquired Kiriti, as tentatively as Behule had.

  Ananda straightened her back. “Come, Kiriti, I think we must change the loom.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  When Ananda had lived in the palace of the Pearl Throne with her family, she had no need to carry keys. All doors were open to her and she knew with precision where she might and might not go within the flow of daily life with her family and the court. Here, though, she carried keys for her chests, and keys for her chamber, and one small brass key to a door that should have led to a private study and shrine.

  Since the day of her wedding, however, desk, shrine and books stood out in the main room. Ananda paused before the onyx images of the Seven Mothers, arranged in their circle, each of them in a separate pose of their eternal dance. She bowed, raising her hands to her face and praying for the safety of herself and her people. Sometimes she felt she never stopped saying that prayer.

  Ananda unlocked the inner door. On the other side waited a spare, windowless chamber, its plaster walls painted a delicate blue. Kiriti hurried to light the candles and braziers. Ananda waited for the lights to rise and show her clearly the room’s central feature — a vertical loom hung with weighted threads. A weave of shades of grey and black waited half-completed in the frame. Beside it stood locked chests full of cloth and dozens of spools of different-colored thread. Several chairs and stools furnished the room. On each lay some useful tool — a spindle, a set of weaving cards, an embroidery frame, a cloth stuck through with tapestry needles.

  Magic could have been worked here by one who had a gifted soul. As it was, there were only Ananda and her ladies and it remained a place of lies. That was why she had removed the shrine. She would not have the Seven Mothers dance where there was no honesty.