The Firebird's Vengeance

by Sarah Zettel

  Sakra regarded her in silence for a moment. “I thank you for your honesty, at least,” he said at last. He sat in the second chair. The coals gave off waves of heat, making the room uncomfortably stuffy on this pleasant spring morning. Again, he gestured to the other chair.

  Urshila still did not sit. She was too agitated. She just gripped the chair back, and tried to keep her temper under control. “You too are a sorcerer, and raised and trained properly as one, as far as the ways of your country allow.” Sakra said nothing to that. Urshila took a deep breath. This was ridiculous. This was humiliating. If her apprentice would not obey, she should have simply walked away and made it known the ‘prentice was ungovernable. She had done so before. But this was not an ordinary student. She noticed her knuckles turning white where they gripped the chair. “I am asking you to stop Bridget Lederle in her new enterprise. It is dangerous and foolhardy and not just to herself as she seems to believe.”

  The southerner was silent for another long moment, and Urshila felt her spine stiffening, getting ready for his refusal, which would surely be reasoned and so politely delivered. She would have to go to Lord Daren next.

  “You are right,” said Sakra.

  Urshila was taken aback, and surprised. Her hands slowly released the chair back. “Then you will speak to her?”

  Sakra shook his head. “No.”

  Urshila clamped her teeth down around a shout. “And why not?” she asked with as much calm as she could muster.

  Sakra looked down at his hands. Urshila steeled herself, getting ready to unearth the lie he was surely about to weave. “Because,” he said, “I believe it is more dangerous for her to remain in such distress.”

  Which was not the sort of answer she was expecting. Still, it was not acceptable. “That is your affection for her speaking, not your sense.”

  Now Sakra looked up at her, and his gaze was remarkably steady and open. “It is both.” There was an undercurrent of tension to his words, as if saying this were difficult for him. Against her will, Urshila felt herself wondering if this southerner was an honest man after all. “She is badly distressed and distracted. This is a dangerous state for anyone with power. Unless and until the fate of her daughter is known, she will not be able to bring her thoughts and spirits back into some sort of order.”

  “If she cannot govern herself …” began Urshila, but Sakra cut her off quickly.

  “Then what?” he asked.

  Urshila closed her mouth. If she cannot govern herself, she should be confined, or returned to this place called Wisconsin, where she is no danger. But with the little learning she had, was there anyplace the woman would not be a danger? One glance at Sakra told her that this thought had crossed his mind as well.

  “You have not spoken so to her,” she said slowly.

  Sakra seemed to know exactly what she was referring to. “I admit, I have not.”

  “Will you?”

  “I hope I do not have to.” Sakra’s smile was small, and entirely without levity. “And yes, Mistress Urshila, that is my affection speaking. I am not the first man whose conscience and heart have gone to war.”

  “No,” admitted Urshila. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “And what if the child is alive, what then?”

  “Then I pity those who have secreted her from her mother.” A muscle in Sakra’s right cheek twitched. Urshila wondered what expression he was holding back. “I hope Bridget’s reason can continue to govern her passions well enough while she seeks the child out.” He shook his head. “There are still several things about this that she cannot even bring herself to consider, and should any of them be true …”

  Urshila studied him for a moment, trying to divine what he had not said. “You truly think Kalami stole the child? Why would he do that and then not tell her while he was trying to lure her to Isavalta? The child would have been the most tempting bait.”

  Again, Sakra turned his gaze from her. For a long moment, he watched the glowing coals with their subtly shifting shades of orange, grey, and white. He was, Urshila realized, deciding how much to tell her. Would he lie? Or just omit an essential truth to protect Bridget?

  Slowly, Sakra said, “I think Kalami had other reasons for taking the child.”

  Urshila narrowed her eyes. Several half-formed notions dropped into place at once. “You think Kalami was the father?”

  Sakra shrugged, for the first time betraying faint signs of irritation. “I think Bridget’s powers are attractive beyond telling, especially to one so greedy for power. I think he was aware that Bridget’s mother was able to conceive under the attentions of a sorcerer of Isavalta. He may have wondered if the same would be true of Bridget, and the idea of a child from three generations of sorcerers was irresistible, especially when he believed he could eventually harness all that power to the purposes of Tuukos.”

  Urshila held herself still at the mention of the place she still instinctively thought of as Holy Island. “If he was the father, why did she not recognize him when he came to her on Medeoan’s errand?”

  Sakra’s mouth worked back and forth, again deciding what he would say. “I think there were reasons, and I think she would not thank me for speaking of them.”

  Urshila gave one short, sharp laugh. “Would she thank you for any portion of this conversation?”

  “No,” he admitted, and looked back to her with a shrewd eye. “But nor would she thank you.”

  Urshila waved her hand, acknowledging his words as true but wishing them quickly gone. She was tired. Worry was beginning to gnaw more deeply at her bones. If this child Bridget Lederle was determined to seek out was the daughter of Valin Kalami, there were implications of blood and power Sakra had no way of understanding. Nor did anyone else in this court.

  Implications she had no way to speak of.

  “We would be safer if she had never been found,” Urshila muttered.

  Sakra stood. He was not tall, and he had to lift his chin to look into her eyes, but he was a presence. He had his own certainties. She could feel them radiating from him as she might feel his magic during a working. “Mistress Urshila,” he said in tones of careful respect, “Bridget Lederle is not just a power. She is a woman of conscience and sense. She has thrown in her lot with Isavalta, and she will not willingly betray that trust or easily change her loyalties.”

  He believed it. He was not blind, nor dishonest. He believed what he was saying. What if he was right?

  But what if he is wrong? “I hope it is as you say, Master Sakra.” She realized her shoulders had slumped and she straightened them. “Thank you for hearing me out.”

  Sakra inclined his head and made no move to stop her or to have the last word as she left him there.

  The door closed behind her. Urshila stood alone in the dim hallway for a moment, trying to sort out the whole of what she had heard, and what she had said. She had seen the true face of Ananda’s bound-sorcerer in there, and she had not expected to. He served at his best, that much was clear, but he still served the empress. What if she decided not to serve Isavalta?

  And what of this child? This child who might be not just Bridget’s child, but Kalami’s child? Even with the danger of the Firebird looming over them all, if this child was out in the world, as untutored and unguided as her mother, it would be a threat almost as grave. Perhaps the mother should go out and find her. They would bring her back here, and then at least the threats would be gathered together under one roof, where there were sorcerers who could teach and, if necessary, oppose them.

  Urshila bit her lip. Does anyone on the Holy Island know Valin Kalami had a child?

  She needed to think. She had been away from politics and intrigues for thirty years. Even she could not pretend that was not a significant amount of time. Her mind no longer ran quickly down such channels.

  Urshila turned on her heel and strode again down the corridor to the north stairs. She descended them and with nothing more than a glower caused the house guards stationed at the doors to
open them for her, letting in the fresh spring breeze.

  The day outside was clear, despite the slight chill. The green grass had begun to poke through the mud, bringing with it the first of the snowdrops and crocuses. The fresh air went straight through her, clearing and calming her mind, as it always did.

  Careless of her shoes, Urshila wandered down to the canal’s edge. The wind prickled her skin and the back of her neck, waking up her thoughts, brushing away the inconsequential. The canal flowed black and sluggish past the banks that were still speckled with the last, stubborn patches of snow.

  The cool air settled her thoughts into more reasonable patterns. What was the harm in letting Bridget and the southerner, Sakra, go in search of a child that might not exist? It was a harsh thought, but if they failed, or were lost in the attempt, Isavalta might be better off. If they succeeded and brought the child back, she would be under proper supervision, her powers advisably watched and channeled.

  In the meantime, she and Lord Daren could solve the riddle of the Firebird, which would bring them more prominence in the eyes of the new emperor, and more power at the court to order the doings of its sorcerers as was best.

  Urshila sighed sharply and gazed out across the canal. Given a little time it seemed she could indeed still scheme like a courtier.

  The work yards stretched out behind Vyshtavos like the pale train of a worn dress. The smells from the tannery and brewery drifted to her on the wind, making her nose twitch. Workmen, bonded to imperial service, came and went along muddy paths, fetching water from the partially thawed canal or dumping slops into the freshly thawed water.

  Urshila lifted her hems to step across one of the mucky workmen’s paths. As she did, an ancient woman tottering along with remarkable speed under a yoke of slop buckets from the kitchens, the contents of which were still steaming in the damp air.

  “And where are you going, Little Daughter?” she croaked in a shrewd but raspy voice. “Does the spring call you out?”

  Urshila froze, hems knotted in both hands. The woman who looked up at her with a wrinkled, leather-brown face did not speak low Isavaltan dialect. Instead, she spoke the language of Tuukos.

  Urshila swallowed, and made herself answer in Isavaltan. “You mistake me, Honored Mother.” She bit her tongue. She should not have used the honorific.

  The old woman’s eyes sparkled mischievously. She set the noisome buckets down and straightened her bowed back. “I think not, Daughter. You have the True Blood.”

  She had already given herself away. Urshila licked her lips and glanced up toward the yards. Only the workmen, serving women, and artisans came and went. But who knew who watched from the palace? Still, there was no one close enough to hear. “My blood is old, Mother,” she said softly in her native tongue. “My blood does not remember where it is from.”

  That only earned her a look of mocking surprise. The woman was taller than she had initially seemed. Urshila had the sudden suspicion she made herself smaller to seem more harmless. “Your blood has a poorer memory than your tongue?”

  Now it was Urshila’s turn to smile. “My blood is far slower.” No one was using this path. Others trudged up and down in the distance, up to their ankles in the mud. No one spared them a glance. Not even the soldier who passed by the yard’s high fence.

  Of course, the fact of Urshila’s gaze darting back and forth was not missed by the old woman. She jerked her chin toward Vysthavos’s stone walls. “And if they knew up at the palace of this slow blood of yours?”

  But she already knew the answer to that as well as Urshila did. Urshila did not bother to suppress her impatient sigh. “Honored Mother, what is it you want?”

  The old woman shrugged. “Words, Daughter, words only.”

  Urshila raised her eyebrows. “What have we had up until now?” Honored Mother, I am older than you. I have played this sort of game for a very long time. I can wait.

  The old woman squinted up at her, as if attempting to see directly into her mind. Urshila kept her face a studied blank. At last, the old woman gave in. “They say things are changing on the Holy Island,” she said softly. Getting to the heart of the matter, she seemed to become cautious as well.

  “So I have heard.” This is why you delay and endanger me, Mother? For court gossip?

  “They say the new emperor has given new orders, and that this new Lord Master, this Peshek, is a decent man.”

  Those in charge of the household might have organized the expulsion of all those of Tuukosov blood from the palace, but at the same time, Emperor Mikkel had sent one of the few Lords Master he could trust absolutely up to the Holy Island to, among other things, lift the ban against speaking the old language, and start bringing the punishments for crimes by those of the old blood more into line with the rest of the empire. “He has and he is,” was all she said aloud. She wanted to be on her way. She should have never stopped for this crone. She had too much else to do.

  But the old woman was not done with her yet. “Is the emperor sincere?”

  Always an excellent question with emperors. “He knows what it is to be in harsh bondage.”

  Now the old woman looked over her shoulder. They were still out of earshot of the others whose business took them out into the muddy spring. “Will he give the island its freedom?” she asked softly, as if she did not believe their foreign tongue was enough to protect such words from being overheard and understood.

  Urshila knew what she should answer. She should attest to the eternity and indivisibility of Isavalta. It was the only answer that could not be interpreted as treasonous. But for a moment, the old woman did not look shrewd, or mischievous, she only looked worried, and a little homesick. Something inside Urshila softened. “I believe he will give it freedom.” And with that we must be content.

  That thought, however, did not seem to occur to her interrogator. “Is that answer the same as what I asked?” She turned the words so they had a cutting edge.

  All Urshila could do was laugh. “Trade words with a sorcerer, Mother, and you will come away with a bad bargain.”

  “What are the words of the lord sorcerer?”

  “Many, and few to the point. I must go, Honored Mother.” She gathered her hems up again and stepped over the path onto the relatively dry grass on the other side.

  “But how far, Daughter,” said the old woman to her back, “and where to?”

  Urshila knew she should just keep walking and pretend she’d never heard those words or any others this morning. Now was not the time to argue the fate of Tuukos. Despite knowing all this, she turned, she bent close to the old woman, and she whispered, clearly and fiercely, “Mother, listen to me. My mother left Tuukos when I was a child. Do you have any idea how old I am? I’ll lay you long odds I remember the year of your birth. And for all that time and more have I been ashamed of the blood in me. Look elsewhere for your liberation. I am not Valin Kalami.”

  There. She’d said it. The man was no savior, failed or otherwise. It was only luck that the emperor did not use what he had done to start up the slaughters again. Luck and, as much as she hated to admit it, the influence of his southern wife.

  The old woman pursed her lips and for a moment Urshila thought she was going to spit. Instead she just moved closer, so close Urshila could smell her sour breath. One crabbed hand shot out and gripped her arm tightly. “Such shame. Yet where were you when Kalami threatened Isavalta? You sat quiet in your exile then. If you love Isavalta so much, why did you not challenge the lord sorcerer? No, do not answer me, Daughter.” The old woman pushed her away again. “Answer yourself.”

  With surprising dexterity, the old woman reclaimed her burden and hobbled away. Urshila stared after her with the words “Because I did not wish to die” poised on her lips, but some small, treacherous part of her brain was already wondering if that was the whole of the truth.

  Urshila fixed her gaze rigidly ahead. She wanted to turn back and return to the palace, but that would feel too much like retrea
t. She had come out to walk and think, and walk she would.

  Should she say anything of this? How would she do so without giving herself away? Daren had already spent the past few months sniffing about for those of Tuukosov heritage in the work yard and sending them packing.

  Which made her wonder how it was that old woman, whose name she had not bothered to ask, remained in service. Perhaps she too wore a mask of name and language. In which case she was a fine one to reproach Urshila.

  If the new rulers knew their servants were being turned out without cause, they were doing nothing about it. The new chatelaine was certainly doing nothing. A word in her ear, perhaps …? And then have Daren hear about it and wonder why she cared? She had just gained the palace again after thirty years. Thirty years that should have been as nothing. Sorcerers were patient. They could afford to be. She knew that patience and the virtues of it, but there had been thirty years of isolation and poverty, because no one of name would have her in their household after she had been dismissed from imperial service. Thirty years as a midwife and a caster of horoscopes for milkmaids.

  Why had she not worked against Valin Kalami? Why had none of them? Before Medeoan took the throne, there were a dozen sorcerers in the imperial court. After she ascended and took Kalami as her lord sorcerer, not one of them, not a single one lifted a finger to stand against him.

  So angry? So frightened? So jealous? So patient?

  So ready to let Isavalta fall for the sake of wounded pride?

  Perhaps because we saw Isavalta rise and are not afraid to see it fall to the whims of emperors, despite all our oaths of loyalty. She bit her lip. Perhaps there is something to the way these southerners do things after all. Without families, children, or countries, perhaps it is necessary to bind us to some cause other than ourselves.

  But even as she thought that, she tasted bitterness like a trace of gall in the back of her throat. Did she want to be chained? To be walled in and imprisoned in a life that was not hers?

  Did she want Isavalta or Tuukos? Peace or power?

  And how much longer was she willing to wait while emperors rose and fell, taking her fortunes with them?