A Sorcerer’s Treason

by Sarah Zettel

  Iadviga’s hand flew to her mouth at the implications of this statement. Gali considered, her eyes flickering back and forth, before she nodded her agreement. Richikha just watched Bridget carefully. Oh, she was the sharp one, that was for certain.

  “If we all make it through the holy days without the presence of this … charm being revealed,” said Bridget, “I promise you will all of you divide the pearls trimming the hem and sleeves of my outer coat that I wear to the presentation.” That had to be at least a hundred pearls. Surely that was more than enough to go around.

  Apparently they thought so too, from the stunned looks on all three faces. Gali recovered first and reverenced.

  “Our mistress is too generous.”

  Your mistress is frightened and desperate. Bridget licked her lips. “Now, Gali, Iadviga, I need you to get to that senior seamstress and convince her not to make a fuss. Tell her I’m ready for my fitting, and everything must go forward quietly. All right?”

  “At once, mistress.” Iadviga reverenced, her voice filled with glee. Oh, please, let Gali calm her down.

  Gali’s sour expression told Bridget she had every intention of doing just that. With another round of reverencing, the senior ladies retreated, leaving Bridget facing Richikha.

  “And how may I serve, mistress?” Richikha asked.

  “Your task is more difficult,” said Bridget. “I need you to get a message to someone without being discovered.”

  Richikha’s eyes glittered. Bridget wondered if she was thinking of rewards beyond even a double handful of pearls. “I should be honored to serve, mistress.”

  Not stupid, not unkind, but possibly for sale. It is good to know that as well. “It must go to Empress Ananda’s sorcerer Sakra.”

  At this, Richikha’s brows lifted. “That will be difficult, mistress, but I believe it may be done.”

  “Very good.” Bridget nodded soberly. “It must say this. He must come to me tonight before midnight. I am in need of his help. It must warn him that Kalami … the lord sorcerer has enchanted the threshold. I don’t know how, but I cannot leave this room in safety.”

  Richikha eyed the threshold, looking nervous for the first time. “It shall be as you say, mistress.”

  Bridget took the girl’s hand to bring her attention back. “I am going to be placing all my trust in you, Richikha,” she said, watching Richikha’s face to make sure each word sank in. “And if I get through the next few days, secrets, freedom and mind intact, I am going to be exceedingly grateful.”

  Bridget watched the slow spread of Richikha’s smile and knew her guess had been correct. Richikha dreamed of wealth, and saw here her chance to claim it.

  “I am honored to serve.” She reverenced. “You may leave all to me.”

  Richikha hurried from the chamber. Alone, Bridget found her eyes inexorably drawn to the box where Richikha had put Kalami’s charm. She wondered how close she could safely come to it, how long she could be in its presence before … before …

  She swallowed again, and realized her fingers were toying with the silver brooch Kalami had given her.

  A wave of nausea swept over her and she fumbled with the brooch, struggling to get it off her dress. She wanted nothing of Kalami’s near her. She tossed it onto the table, looking around the room for some inspiration, anything. The chamber was magnificent, with its frescoes and draperies and the carved wooden screens surrounding the beds, but it was utterly strange and its vastness right now made Bridget feel profoundly alone. She wanted to reproach herself deeply and bitterly for believing … for believing she knew not what. That a better life was possible. For believing yet again in the promises of a stranger.

  But there was no time for that. She needed to make her decisions. She stared hard at the brooch, putting her hand over her right eye. It did not shine in any unusual way. So it was probably safe. She could wear it as part of her disguise without harm.

  Bridget picked the cold piece of silver up and turned it over in her fingers. And if he believes me to be in love with him, he may relax and go careless. Her hand closed around the brooch. So much the better.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bridget dreamed.

  She stood before the golden cage. Inside the Firebird burned with all the colors of flame. Its sapphire blue eyes pleaded for release as its wings stretched over its head, battering the cage, fanning her with heat. It needed to fly. It wanted to sing for joy at the sight of the sun. It had languished here in the dark for almost thirty years. Bridget saw all these things in its eyes and her heart melted within her.

  Bridget touched the beautiful woven bars, looking for the latch, for the door. But there was none. The cage was a single, solid working of gold without any break or bar.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to the bird. “I don’t know what to do.”

  The bird crumpled in on itself, cowering under its own bright wings. Misery rolled off it, carried by the waves of heat. Unable to stand the touch of such suffering, Bridget wrapped her fingers around the bars, seeking to bend the delicate gold work.

  Then, as in a vision, she saw the palace ablaze, its timbers and tapestries consumed in flame. Overhead, the Firebird winged its way into the night. She saw whole fields burning with clouds of black smoke billowing over the devastation, and the bird singing aloud for the joy, not for sight of the sun, but for sight of its work. But then too, she saw a summer forest burning and people fleeing before the raging fire, and she saw the Firebird dive into the heart of the flames, and draw all that fire into itself, rising again bright into the sky while the people stood awestruck at the sight.

  Bridget backed away from the cage, her hands out to ward away the heat and the visions. “Which is true?” she asked the Firebird. “What are you?”

  What I am called to be, said the bird.

  “But which is true?” cried Bridget, for she saw them again, images of destruction and images of salvation, and yet she saw the bird burning in its cage. “I don’t know which is true!”

  “You must wake up now,” said another voice.

  No! The bird threw itself against the bars, and Bridget felt its sorrow tear into her. Do not leave me here!

  “Wake up, Bridget.”

  Bridget awoke with a gasp, shooting bolt upright as if from a nightmare. A shout and a crash sounded beside the bed. Bridget scrambled across the opposite side, gasping again as her bare feet hit the cold floor.

  “Who is that!” she shouted. The room was pitch black. She could see nothing. She backed away without thinking, bumped into one of the screens that shielded the bed, stumbled, tried to catch the screen to steady herself, and sent it crashing over, toppling herself along with it. She scrabbled against the fallen screen to pull herself upright again, and in the dim glow of the fire’s banked coals, she saw Sakra standing on the other side of the bed.

  No one else had woken. No one else had even moved. The ladies lay in their beds. She could hear the gentle snoring.

  Sakra. He shimmered vaguely in the combination of faint moonlight and fainter firelight from the banked coals in the firepit and braziers. Sakra, whom she had asked to come see her. Begged to come see her, because of Kalami’s charm discovered in her shift. She had allowed the ladies to put her to bed for the appearance of things, but she had meant to stay awake until he came. Evidently, she had failed in the resolve.

  Embarrassment heating her cheeks, Bridget clutched at the neck of her nightgown.

  “You must forgive me, sir,” she said. “But where I come from, when a man comes into a decent woman’s bedroom at night, the scene requires that she scream and order him out at least twice.”

  Sakra blinked at her for a moment, but then he reverenced politely. “From your adherence to this point of decorum I must assume it is required even when the man has been invited.”

  “Appearances must be maintained, you understand.” Bridget smoothed down her sleeves fussily.

  Sakra tilted his head to the side in order to give the most careful
consideration to this idea. “It would appear the principles of this type of drama are universal.”

  “This I can readily believe.” Bridget nodded. “So.” She folded her hands. “We may take it as written, and proceed.”

  They regarded each other then, and to Bridget’s surprise, Sakra burst out laughing. He gave himself over to it fully, throwing back his head and letting his shoulders shake. It was such an open, honest sound, Bridget felt herself grinning in reply, and she saw how he must look when he was untroubled — tall and graceful, and at ease with himself. For that one moment, she felt warmth in her heart.

  “Ah, mistress,” said Sakra when he could speak again. “I expected so many things from you, but not humor.” He wiped his eyes. “Forgive me, it has been a long time since I had occasion to laugh.”

  For all this noise, however, not one of the ladies on their truckle beds woke. Gali rolled over, but she only sighed and continued to snore.

  “Your doing?” Bridget nodded toward the sleeping forms.

  “Yes,” replied Sakra. “It will be at least another hour before the spell holding them unravels.” He glanced about him at the moonlit darkness. “We may have a light, if you prefer.”

  “Of course.” Bridget made her way over to one of the braziers and uncovered the coals, feeding in fresh slivers of charcoal. The room’s illumination turned from faint silver to faint gold. “Poor Richikha,” she breathed, looking down at the peacefully sleeping girl under her eiderdown covers. “She is forever falling asleep when she should not.”

  Sakra stood beside Richikha’s bed, holding one hand out flat overhead as if to feel her breath against his palm. “I do not believe it is her fault.”

  Bridget frowned. Sakra still seemed blurred in her vision, despite the fresh light. “Last night, you didn’t …”

  “No,” said Sakra, but his voice sounded strained. “I did not, but I am the least of the powers at work in this place.” All at once, the sorcerer’s face spasmed, and he dug the heel of his hand into his side.

  “Are you ill, sir?” Reflexively, Bridget hurried forward, both hands outstretched.

  Sakra threw up his own hand to stop her at a distance. He shook his head. “Not ill.” But he gasped the word, and it was another moment before he could straighten up. When he did, he was still breathing heavily.

  Suspicion bubbled up in Bridget’s mind. She closed her right eye.

  Sakra vanished.

  “What is this?” she said, backing away. “You are not here.”

  Sakra straightened up, staring at her. “But I am.”

  “You are an illusion, or a disguise.” She circled the firepit, putting it between her and this semblance of Sakra. “You are not here.”

  Sakra held up both hands. “I assure you, mistress, I am here and I am Agnidh Sakra. I can offer proof of this.”

  “Then do so,” countered Bridget, measuring with a glance the distance between her and the door.

  He spread his hands in acquiescence. Despite the blurring of her vision, Bridget saw his shoulders had remained crooked up. Whether this was from pain and strain, or the worry at being discovered, she could not tell. “Why do you say I am not here?” asked Sakra.

  “Because I cannot see you with my left eye,” answered Bridget at once. She bit her tongue. Of course. This was Sakra, and she had to answer him. The spell between them still stood.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Sakra waved the apology away. “You grow cautious, mistress, that is good thing. I would you could explain this seeing further to me, but my time is limited.” He gave her a half-smile. “As you may have guessed. Your lady said you sent to me because of a charm.”

  Bridget nodded. “It’s in the small box beside the bed.” She gestured toward the nightstand. “I don’t … that is, I thought I should not touch it.” She hated the uncertainty in her voice.

  Sakra, however, did not seem to notice it. “Very wise.” Whatever ailed him, it affected his stride. Sakra hobbled across the room toward the the box. As he moved, Bridget’s right eye saw that three locks of his hair had come loose, or been undone from, their braids. She wondered at that, but thought the better of taking the time now to ask.

  When Sakra carried the box back to the patch of light cast by the brazier, Bridget saw sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.

  “You are not well,” she insisted. “What is the matter?”

  “I am well. I am required to concentrate on …” Instead of finishing the sentence, he shook his head. Bridget was not sure if that meant that he did not wish to tell her too much, or that he did not have the strength to speak right now. He set the box on one of the gilt-inlaid tables. “I must pray your patience if this makes me enigmatic.”

  Bridget raised her eyebrows, but closed her mouth. Sakra lifted the box lid and Bridget stepped back, as if even the sight of the charm could cause Kalami’s will to be worked on her.

  “Crude,” muttered Sakra, lifting the thing from its resting place. “And easily countered. I’m surprised. The lord sorcerer usually takes much more care with his workings.” He ran his fingers over the braid, as if checking the fineness of the thread and the complexity of the weaving. “I do not believe you told me where you found this.”

  Bridget found his choice of phrasing odd; then it dawned on her that he was avoiding asking her a question. As long as he asked nothing, she could not be compelled to say anything she did not wish to.

  “I saw it hidden in the hem of the shift I was supposed to wear tomorrow evening.”

  Sakra stared at her incredulously. “Forgive me, mistress, you cannot mean that you saw this,” he said, choosing his words with care. “You mean to say it was tied to the hem, or sewn along it in some fashion, or that you that you saw the shape of it through the fine fabric.”

  “No.” Bridget shook her head. “It glows in my left eye.”

  Sakra just stood there, staring, his breath coming fast and shallow. It wheezed far too loudly in the stillness for him to be in good health. Both wonder and pain warred with each other on his face. His mouth moved, as he sought words, but nothing came out but a cough that made his crooked shoulders shake.

  Bridget’s patience snapped. “Will you at least sit down, sir? Yes, it glows. I see it with my left eye, even as I cannot see you in that eye now, and as I did see you inside the shape of the swan. I saw it through the cloth of the shift.” She strode over to him, planted both hands on his shoulders and pushed him down until he sat on the nearest footstool.

  Sakra swallowed. His shoulders shivered from the effort of keeping him upright. At the same time, his fist closed around the braid. “Bridget …” He coughed again, doubling over with a fresh spasm. “You may save us all.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me, but no one will tell me how.” She crouched down until she was eye-level with him. “You are the only one who has been honest with me since I got here. Tell me what to do.” He opened his mouth, but she waved away his next words. “Never mind this business about the questions. I’ll answer whatever you ask, and I will trust you not to pry.” Speaking those words was a balm to her tired self. In all this cold, complex world this man had shown her trust and proven himself worthy of trust.

  “Thank you, mistress.” Sakra swallowed a couple of times as another wave of pain struck him. “The emperor is enchanted, you knew this?”

  “Yes.”

  “The enchantment is something he wears.” Sakra fingered the braid. “You will see him tomorrow night. If you could see where the spell is …”

  Bridget sat back on her heels. “Oh, my God.”

  Sakra frowned. “What?”

  Bridget pounded her fist against her thigh. “I saw him last night. I should have known. I should have looked more closely …” She shook her head, pulling her thoughts and her determination back together. “Too late for that. Tomorrow night I will pay much closer attention. Then what will we do?”

  The prospect of action seemed to ease whatever struggle went on inside
him. “We will arrange some way for me to get word to you. I …”

  Another crash cut through the room, this time making them both jump. Golden lantern light fell across them, and Bridget winced, throwing up her hand to shield herself from the sudden brightness. She heard footsteps on stone — soft soles and boots together — and she felt a breeze that must have been movement from Sakra.

  “Bridget, mistress, are you hurt?”

  Bridget straightened up, lowering her hand and blinking, only to see Kalami striding toward her. Two members of the house guard stood by the door with lanterns and gnarled clubs. Two more flanked Sakra, one at his back and one between him and the balcony door. Both of them had their clubs out and crouched ready to spring should he move. Sakra himself stood stock-still, his hands splayed at his sides. His skin was now slick with sweat and it seemed to Bridget that the outline of his form shimmered in the lantern light.

  What is happening to you? What have you done to yourself? Bridget wondered, but Kalami was in front of her, frowning hard and waiting for his answer. She made herself look at him, not at Sakra. If she looked at Sakra, the concern she felt would show in her face, and she knew it. That was not something she could permit Kalami to see.

  She folded her arms across the front for nightgown. “I am perfectly all right, thank you.”

  “Did he give you anything? Anything at all?” Kalami’s eyes swept her from unbound hair to bare feet as if to discern any change.

  Bridget just shook her head. For a moment, she thought Kalami was going to search her nightdress, but then his eyes fell on the box, and the braid inside it. Cold rage flickered across his face, and Bridget met his gaze calmly. Very well, now he knew. What would come next would come. He would not see her flinch from it.