A Sorcerer’s Treason

by Sarah Zettel

  Medeoan walked back to the Firebird. She was still just tall enough that if she stood on her toes and stretched out her thin, old woman’s arms, she could reach the iron hook and lift down the cage.

  “What are you doing?”

  It was heavy. She had forgotten how heavy. She had to grasp the ring at the top with both hands and lug it a gracelessly to the workbench. The bird itself weighed nothing, but the cage was heavy with gold, life and death. The bird screeched out its indignity and flailed its wings, trying to keep its balance. The flames brushed Medeoan’s skin, leaving behind lines of soft pain.

  She set the cage down beside the crucible. With clumsy fingers she undid her bundle and laid out the things she had brought — the mirror, the lock, the key and the flask of waters.

  “You cannot.”

  Medeoan did not answer. She unstoppered the bottle and with the greatest care poured the waters onto the mirror until they made a thin clear film across the glass. She set the bottle aside. She took up the lock and opened it with the key, and set both of these above the mirror. Water flowed between all worlds. A mirror could see everything and could not be deceived. The lock and the key could open the door she needed.

  Medeoan reached inside herself and pulled her magic forward.

  “Stop this, Medeoan. You will kill us both.”

  Medeoan picked up the knife from where it lay on the floor. Metal was another of the elements that existed everywhere. She had carried the little thing so thoughtlessly for so many years; now it was proving so useful.

  She touched the knife blade to the golden ring at the top of the firebird’s cage.

  “As soon as you die, the cage dissolves. You are only freeing me.”

  Medeoan focused on the waters coating the mirror. She reached inside herself, past the voices, past the confusion, past the weariness that weighed her down. She met there the magic her heart drew from inside, from outside, from all the worlds. That too was the truth. That too was hers, even here, even now at the very end.

  She stretched her free hand out flat over the water and over the mirror.

  “Take us,” Medeoan ordered them. “Take me.”

  Medeoan reached down, through the mirror and through the water. The water twined around her wrist, twisting itself into a thread that pulled her inexorably forward. It drew her through the wall, through the stone, through the dirt beyond, up through the ice and through the snow and through the darkness of night. It drew her through the silence that was the Land of Death and Spirit. But that place could not touch her, for she held fast to the water and the magic that threaded all around her, alive with its purpose.

  She heard the Firebird cry out. She felt it reach out toward the thread of water with its living fire, seeking to sever the bond, seeking to leave Medeoan stranded here between world and world. But the cage held, and the cage prevented, as the cage had prevented so much across the long years. There was nothing around her but glimpses of green and brown, blue and gold. She saw the river pass under her body. She glimpsed eyes — green, yellow, wide, curious, angered. But none reached her. There was only the thread, and a blur of colors.

  Then, the world went white.

  Cold surrounded her, blessed, blessed cold. Her shoes touched the earth, but Medeoan found she could not stand and she fell forward, measuring her length in drifted snow. She lay there for a moment, gasping from exertion. Eventually, she was able to push herself to her knees, and climb slowly, shaking, to her feet.

  The world was indeed white. White snow covered the ground. More snow turned the trees that surrounded the small clearing where she stood white as well. Down a sharp slope at her back, snow frosted ice and slush that turned the huge lake sluggish. The sky itself was white with clouds that promised yet more snow.

  The only part of the world that was not white was the stone dwelling with its single tower in front of her. That was all brown stone with shuttered windows and closed doors.

  Still shaking from cold, and from the journey, Medeoan turned to see what had become of the Firebird.

  The bird hunched at the bottom of its cage, its wings beating the bars in panic. Steam rose where its heat melted the snow around it, but Medeoan, as close as she was, barely felt any warmth at all. The creature was smaller as well, the size of an owl rather than the size of an eagle, and it seemed to Medeoan that it burned less brightly, but perhaps that was only her hope that saw.

  “What have you done, Medeoan? What are you doing?”

  Medeoan did not answer. She fastened her knife back to the chain around her waist, picked up the cage, which had grown light enough for her to carry in one hand, and slogged through the snow to the stone house.

  The front door was wooden, white and locked. Medeoan spat again against her fingers, and traced the sign over the lock, and traced it again. It should have opened the lock instantly, but Medeoan only felt the metal tremble under her fingers. She leaned on the door, drawing all her will and magic to her. She traced the sign again and the lock shivered. She leaned harder. Something snapped and the door gave way, sending her stumbling inside. She caught herself against the corner of the wall, and leaned there panting for a long moment until she could reclaim enough strength to stand on her own again. She retrieved the Firebird’s cage. She did not close the door.

  Up a short flight of stairs waited some sort of dingy sitting room. The metal stove in the corner was stone-cold, with a good stack of wood beside it. She did not touch either. She set the Firebird’s cage down underneath one of the windows. She dragged one of the stiff chairs to the middle of the room where she could see both cage and door clearly, and she sat.

  The room was already cold. The draft from the open door curled around her ankles, and lifted itself up to touch her knees, her hands, her throat. She noted this almost absently. Her attention was on the Firebird.

  In the world where they were both born, the Firebird was immortal, sustained by fire and magic. Here, in this abandoned house in the dead of winter, there was no fire, and all the magic this world possessed was buried deep in its heart. Here the Firebird was not immortal. Here, it could die, and once dead, it could not rise to take its revenge on Mikkel and Isavalta for her deeds.

  The bird had huddled in on itself, head, neck and wings all drawn as close to its body as they could be. It glowered up at her with its bright blue eyes. She felt no heat from it. No heat at all.

  “You would die alone of cold rather than free me?” whispered the Firebird.

  “It is the only way I will know that Isavalta will remain safe.”

  Motion outside the window caught Medeoan’s eye. She saw with grim satisfaction that the first flakes of snow had begun to fall.

  She leaned back in the chair, relaxed, confident, and waited for the icy wind to do its work.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The snow had begun again at dawn, the fat flakes falling slowly and lazily, but persistently. Gradually, the wind picked up, pulling them down ever faster. Now they were tiny white crystals caking his eyebrows and stinging what little of his cheeks showed above his white silk mask. He was grateful for the covering they gave what scant tracks his skis made, but their haze almost caused him to miss his destination; the opening in the trees that would be the road again in spring.

  Now was not the time to miss the road through the Foxwood. His protections were few, and his need for swiftness great. The Portrait of Worlds could find him. He needed a town, a croft, anyplace he might find shelter, and time to weave his new charms and hide his destination.

  Despite this knowledge, it felt good to be out on skis again. Kalami glided forward, swinging his pole in an easy rhythm, the hiss of his skis blending with the hiss of the snow. The cold, white world with only the dark tree trunks to break the snowy landscape felt much like his childhood home and it gave him heart. If all went well and the snow stayed firm, it should take him four days to reach Camaracost and Havosh’s warehouse. Camaracost was far enough to the south that its port would be open and he
could take ship for Hung-Tse. At the Heart of the World, they would hear the news of the holy days in Vyshtavos, and welcome it. He could help with the ordering of the troops for spring. He would be beyond even the dowager’s reach there. From there he could plan, and he could finish what he had begun. He could speak to the Nine Elders about releasing his daughter from their care and bringing her with him when he returned to Tuukos, to the newly freed Tuukos.

  He would see Isavalta burn yet. Kalami smiled behind his mask. From Camaracost, he would call Bridget to him. There were magics that would call to her heart’s blood and make her come to him. She would crawl on her knees to reach him, and he would let her. Then, he would watch while she took the dowager apart, whatever was left of the dowager. Would her son throw her in the cells? It would be most unfilial, but Kalami could not blame him if he did …

  A pine loomed up before Kalami’s eyes. With a shout, he just managed to veer to the right, the lowest branches snatching at his shoulder. He twisted sideways, bringing the pole firmly down and sending up a spray of snow all around him. Panting, he cast swiftly about him to gain his bearings. If he had left the road …

  But no, the broad lane, an undulating path of white, still lay under his skis. He had strayed only to the very edge, distracted by his daydreams.

  Eat something, Kalami, he counseled himself. Drink. You cannot afford to let your mind wander here.

  Kalami unslung his pack and dropped it into the snow. He had to strip off his outer mittens to expose his knitted gloves so that his fingers would be free to work the lacings.

  “To see you now, sorcerer, one would doubt you knew aught of imperial halls.”

  Kalami jerked upright, stumbling backward, his skis robbing him of balance. The Vixen sat underneath the pine tree, her tail curled around her feet, looking to be a normal-sized fox. Her mouth hung open so that her face appeared to be smiling and she to be laughing at him.

  “How came you here?” he asked, to cover his confusion, and calm his sudden fear. “This is the road.”

  “Perhaps it is, perhaps it is not. Perhaps the tips of your skis are not on the road, and so you no longer have its protection.” She got to her feet, her mouth still open and laughing. “Shall we take the question to court, sorcerer?” Her mouth closed, and he felt the touch of her steady, green gaze. “Or shall you and I settle the question here?”

  Kalami closed his own mouth and remembered to whom he spoke. He stretched out his leg, and reverenced deeply. There were so many possible reasons for her presence here. If she knew who had led her sons into the trap, she might be here to kill him. If she wanted him to perform some service for her, to acquire Bridget for her, all might yet be well. She might even simply be here because he passed through her wood and she was bored.

  His only hope was that she was in a humor to reveal to him her purpose.

  Kalami pulled down his scarf so that his words would sound clear. “Forgive me, madame.” He kept his eyes averted. It was dangerous enough to meet her gaze in the Land of Death and Spirit; here, it could be fatal. “The sight of your magnificence robbed me for a moment of both wit and courtesy.”

  The Vixen snapped her teeth. “But not for long.”

  “I hope, at least, my courtesy has returned. May I offer you what poor food I have with me?” He swept a hand toward his half-opened pack.

  “Shall we break bread, sorcerer?” The idea seemed to amuse her. “Will you place on me the obligations of guest to host? Will I accept them?”

  “Only you, madame, know that.”

  “Yes.” Again her jaw fell open to laugh at him. “It is not written on the chart you carry, is it?”

  “I only wish it had been. Then I might have been able to prepare better for this meeting.”

  “Or against this meeting,” suggested the Vixen.

  “I would not say so, madame.”

  “No,” she remarked thoughtfully. “I don’t imagine you would.”

  Kalami decided to adopt a pose of injured innocence. The more he could draw the Vixen into conversation, the better his chances to get what he needed. Or, at least, so he hoped. The snow still fell hard, and the wind burned cold against his cheeks. The daylight would not last, and he needed to reach shelter before nightfall. That was the great irony of his situation. He needed to stay on the roads to have their protection, but while he was on them, he could be so easily found.

  Kalami had no doubt at all that the Vixen knew all of this.

  Kalami spread his hands. “Might I ask what I have done to merit the favor of your attention?”

  The smile was gone from the Vixen’s demeanor. “I am sure you would say that you did but serve your mistress.”

  Kalami longed to declare that he served no one but his people. He wanted to shout that truth to the winter winds and let the whole world hear it. But that was no good. Who knew what this creature might do with such a revelation? The laws and duty of service as understood by the powers were his only defense against what had been done. “I serve, as I must.”

  “Your mistress holds strings of many servants.” The Vixen’s voice was low, almost a growl. “She shelters the one who led the swords against my sons. She will pay for that, and you will bear my message to her.”

  The one who led the swords … Sakra! She was not here for him, she was here because of Sakra? Was that who she was trying to reach when she stalked the palace? Not Bridget at all, but Sakra.

  How could the Vixen not know that Sakra was not Medeoan’s servant but her enemy? Was she trying to trick him? No. The palace was relatively young, but it was well protected. The Vixen would have no eyes within its walls. She would see only what went on outside, and from the outside it appeared Medeoan ruled all, and thus the oldest laws held her responsible for all.

  Kalami decided to risk everything on a single throw. This was his chance. The Vixen’s anger still made it possible for him to win the game and win it now.

  “Madame.” Kalami forced his voice to be calm. The Vixen would sense his rising eagerness, but he could at least for himself preserve the illusion that he remained composed. “Would you bring down the dowager Medeoan for her transgressions?”

  The Vixen cocked her head. “That is a strange question for a loyal servant.”

  “Madame will recall that I said I serve as I must.” Kalami permitted himself a small smile. “I did not say whom I served.”

  “No, you did not.” The Vixen’s tail swished, scattering tiny flurries of snow. “And if I did wish to bring down the dowager Medeoan, as you say?”

  Kalami bowed humbly. “I know how it might be done.”

  “Do you? How?” The Vixen’s whiskers twitched with interest. Kalami risked another quick look at her. The snow fell all around, but not one flake clung to her bright red coat. It was said such a one as she never came fully into the mortal world. He was now prepared to believe that.

  “It must be known to you that the dowager in her youth caged the Phoenix of Hung-Tse,” said Kalami. “And that she keeps it still.”

  The Vixen sneezed. Kalami took the sound to be dismissive. “Such a thing could hardly be kept secret from those with ears to hear.”

  He bowed again in the face of her derision. “If you were to take me to the place where the Firebird is kept, I would promise you that Medeoan and all her house would fall.”

  A light sparked in the Vixen’s green eyes. Kalami tore his gaze away, for he suddenly felt that those eyes would draw him in, and that the light would consume him. He looked instead at the unbroken snow and all the ranks of trees beyond. One way or another, he must finish this dance soon. He had grown soft in the palace, and he did not know if he could endure a second full night in the open.

  “So.” The Vixen pointed her muzzle into the air, as if the falling snow held more interest for her than he did. “If I take you to the Firebird, you will bring down Medeoan’s dynasty? You promise me this?”

  Kalami hesitated. The ice on which he walked right now was very thin indeed. He
ran his mind back over the conversation. Where was the trick? Where was the hidden meaning? Had all things been spoken plainly or did he just think they had?

  Steeling himself, Kalami said, “Take me to the Firebird and Medeoan’s house, and the whole of the empire of Isavalta will fall. I promise.”

  A fox’s face was not made to grin, and yet the Vixen did grin, a sly, sharp smile that Kalami felt like the gentle grip of teeth at his throat.

  “Very good, sorcerer.”

  In front of his eyes, the Vixen changed. What his eye saw as a fox blurred, lengthened and paled. When he could see her clearly again, she was a woman with black hair that spilled down to her feet. She wore a robe of grey fur, belted around with a girdle of braided hair. Her skin was a perfect honey brown and the features of her face were noble. Her eyes, though, remained her own: bright green, and dangerous.

  “Come, sorcerer,” she said, holding her hand out for him to take in the fashion of Tuukos, not the Isavaltan court. “Leave your skis. Walk with me.”

  So, Kalami removed his skis, tying their straps to his pole so that he could sling them over his shoulder with his pack. Then, he took her hand and laid it on top of his so that his forearm supported hers, and they might walk closely together in the manner of two who were more than friends. Her hand was warm against his, and softer than he might have expected. Her scent was sharp, like her smile and her glance, but more enticing than either. He felt his body stir in response. It was nothing, he told himself. Merely the Vixen teasing with him. Yet the feeling did not diminish, born as it was in part by lust long withheld, and in part by the attraction of power.

  Kalami felt nothing of the transition to the Silent Lands. One moment they were in the Foxwood, walking with measured steps across drifts that should not have supported them. The next, they were in the piney woods, walking on a mossy bank beside the river which made no sound despite the fact that Kalami could see it rippling over rounded stones.