by Sarah Zettel
So there are limits to your knowledge after all. Urshila folded her arms. “Contrary to the normal way of these things, Honored Mother, my mother was the Isavaltan, not my father. She fell in love. She gave up everything she had and everything she was to marry him. She tried very hard to be a good Tuukosov, but she was still despised, and the fact that her children were only half-breeds kept any of the True Blood from aiding us when my brother was condemned to be hanged.”
Her reward for her bluntness was to see surprise in Senja’s wrinkled face, and sadness as well. Urshila’s mouth pressed into a thin smile.
“The murhata hanged your brother, and it is the Tuukosov you hate?”
“The Tuukosov were our neighbors and family. The murhata were as much our overseers as anyone else’s.” She let that truth shimmer in her eyes and watched it take Senja aback. “So tell me, Honored Mother. Tell me the truth of Vyshko and Vyshemir. Tell me what it truly is to be from the Holy Island.”
Now Senja’s face had sunken deeply in on itself and her shoulders hunched farther down. She seemed to be feeling every one of her long years. For a moment, Urshila thought she might already have won, that the old woman would surrender in the face of the evidence.
She did not, but nor did she look at Urshila as she spoke.
“It began when raiders from Gesilo attacked the Holy Island. They burned and they plundered, and they carried off twenty sons and daughters from the clans to … discourage revenge.
“The Gesilan raiders fled to Isavalta, which was then only a single city on the banks of a river. For the right to ransom the captives, the Isavaltans granted them shelter.
“The clan heads met and it was decided that Isavalta could not be attempted at the time, and although the mothers tore out their hair and howled, it was decided to pay the ransom and negotiate their children’s release, though it might take years.
“It did take years, but eventually all the captives were returned but one; a girl named Virve. Her captor conceived a love for her, and also conceived two children by her. These were Vyshko and Vyshemir. He would not part with Virve, or her children, no matter what the offered price.
“But Virve had told her children the truth of their blood, and when it became evident to her that they were both sorcerers, she hid this truth from her captor. She had the children taught in deepest secret so that one day they might be able to free her, and themselves.
“At last, the Tuukosov saw there was no way to free Virve but war. They brought the long boats down the river and laid siege to the city. Their only demand was the return of those of their own blood.
“But in the halls of Isavalta it was decided that they would pretend to give in to this demand, and then when the Tuukosov guard was down, they would all be put to the sword and the boats manned with Isavaltan sailors who would return to the Holy Island and wreak havoc for the temerity shown by those who would not abandon their own.
“This evil policy was overheard by Vyshko and Vyshemir and brother and sister conceived a plan. None know how, but Vyshemir escaped from her father and made her way out to the boats. She told the clan heads what the Isavaltans had planned, and then what she and Vyshemir had planned in response, and that it would cost three lives: hers, her brother’s, and one other. Vivre’s father offered his life up to make their working possible.
“The rest of the tale is as it is told by the Isavaltans. Vyshemir created the great sea, Vyshko the walls, but they did it to protect Tuukosov from the murhata, not the other way around, and their work held for five hundred years.
“That is the truth of the murhata.” Anger heated Senja’s voice. She met Urshila’s eyes, and Urshila saw utter certainty there. “Even their gods are nothing but stolen, misunderstood images. They stole their empire from other, weaker neighbors, they stole their history and their magic. They stole half of yourself from you. They, not we, stole your brother’s life. They made your mother afraid to stand by her heart and condemned you to a servant’s life waiting on their pleasure.
“You could choose to help punish those thieves. You could make a new choice, here and now. There is time yet, Daughter, for you to use your skills justly and make whole your wounded past.”
Urshila’s world tipped. The force of Senja’s sincerity pushed away her own certainties. Her speech in the old tongue was a reminder of home, when home was small and close and warm and filled with smiles and the safety of family. It made her life and schemes as a courtier seem brittle by comparison.
Her arms were still folded, and now she gripped her elbows tightly, hugging herself to herself. She had come here with one mind, but now she was split in two, cloven again into Tuukosov and Isavaltan, each side drenched in their blood hatred for the other.
She thought of her brother’s body twisting in the warm summer wind on a day when there would be no night except in her mother’s heart.
She thought of the members of her father’s clan standing mute as the soldiers hauled on the rope.
She thought of the ones she had seen in the streets of Biradost and other towns, the ones with dark hair and dark eyes, kicked and cuffed and forbidden to enter where “decent” folk might walk freely.
She thought of the dowager empress, with her angry, terrified eyes, ordering Urshila’s expulsion, condemning her to thirty years of poverty for no reason that existed outside her own mind.
Then she thought of something else. She thought of Bridget Lederle sitting before the Council of Lords.
“It was Kalami who convinced her to finally kill Mikkel,” Bridget had said, her voice thick with sorrow and sickness. “They could blame his death on Ananda, and that way they’d be able to get rid of her without risking war.”
It was Kalami who convinced Medeoan to kill Mikkel, her son. He had convinced a mother, a woman whom he had helped drive mad, to kill her own child.
Was there any act, any blood price high enough to transform such a thing into justice?
Urshila lowered her arms, smoothing down her dress. “Honored Mother,” she said, “you implied you had news that could save Isavalta. Will you give me that freely, or do I have to go to the lord sorcerer and make confession of all our secrets?”
The hope, the certainty, that radiated from Senja dampened. “Then that is the only reason you came?”
Urshila’s mouth tightened into a mirthless smile. “Honored Mother, what other reason could there be?”
Senja sighed again and ran a hand through her hair, looking very old indeed. She had probably known one too many defeats in her life. Urshila was sorry to give her another, but she could not and would not justify what had been done in Tuukos’s name.
“Very well,” said Senja. “If that is all you will do, it will have to be enough. Come here and look.” She pointed at the bucket and the witch’s eye.
Urshila leaned over and saw the glass sphere shining at the bottom of the clouded liquid. She cleared her mind, ready to see what the eye might show. Quick as a fish, Senja’s hand darted into the water and splashed a great handful into Urshila’s face.
Sputtering, Urshila reeled back. For a moment, she just stood there, blinking hard and shocked at the cold and the stench of the water.
But blinking did not clear her sight, and her arms went cold even as she reached up to try to wipe the water away. The dim room swam before her eyes, and her mind began to reel.
Poison, she thought. Magic.
Her hands had gone numb. She could not feel them work her fingers to make a warding sign. She could see nothing but a blur of grey. The cold crept down into her throat, cutting off voice, breath, and strength.
She felt her knees buckle, felt her knees hit the floor, then her shoulder.
Then there was nothing more.
Senja watched Urshila crumble into a heap on the grimy stone floor. She wiped her hand dry on an ancient, yellow cloth, then laid that cloth aside so she would remember not to touch it.
Slowly, for her old bones were heavy with regret, she crouched down beside
the woman who had once been Ulla. She could still hear her breathing, rasping and shallow.
“What did you think I would do?” she asked. “What did you think I would have to do? I knew what you had done. There was no time to search your rooms for the working. Your death will break it. I tried, Ulla, you cannot say I didn’t try. If you’d been willing to help us, you could have lived. I am sorry, Daughter.”
Urshila, Ulla, tried to stir, but she was too weak. Senja felt the Grandfather’s silent presence in the room, and stood.
“We must have Kalami back, you see,” she said, to the dying woman, to the Grandfather, to the regret in her heart that she had not been able to make Ulla understand. “He brings the daughter, and the daughter is the surety of the mother. We will finish the work Kalami began. Bridget Lederle will give us the Firebird and all its power, for what would she not do to reclaim her lost child?”
Chapter Fifteen
Daren, lord sorcerer of Isavalta, lay on a couch in his workroom, struggling to breathe. The action took all his concentration, robbed all other thought of meaning, and made any other movement impossible. He was aware that others moved around him. Occasionally they spoke, but their words were increasingly difficult to understand. Nor could he understand why they kept the room so dark, and so cold.
No. Wait. That was why he was here instead of his own bed. The dark. The cold.
The Firebird.
“Lord Daren?”
He had fallen into vision and from there into dream so many times he seldom knew where his mind was anymore. The present stepped carefully around him, occasionally whispering in his ear. But when he tried to answer, it was from under the weight of his pain and he found it nearly impossible to understand what he was saying.
“No. I will try. He would want to know. Lord Daren?”
Whose voice? Urshila? No. This was Korta. He had not heard Urshila speak in … a long time.
Why should he think of her now? Had he dreamed? A dream of a gull rising up from the cellars of the palace, and soaring into the night, like the Firebird, was it the Firebird? Was it just a dream and a memory of his vision that caused him so much pain?
“Lord Daren, Mistress Urshila is dead.”
Dead? Urshila dead? No, she was the gull rising up to meet the Firebird, watched by Valin Kalami.
Who was dead. Who was dead? Urshila was dead. Kalami was dead. Why was Kalami watching Urshila?
“They found her with a witch’s eye in her hand. She drowned herself. She was Tuukosov.”
You didn’t know that? No. Of course not. It was not discussed. Did Urshila even know Daren himself knew?
“She betrayed us, Lord Daren.”
No. This is wrong. Wrong.
“We think she was trying to finish what Valin Kalami started. She might have managed to bring the Firebird back here. We are searching her rooms now to find what working might have made the summons so we can construct the banishment.”
No. That is not right. It was Medeoan who brought this on us. It was we who brought it on ourselves. What we did and what we permitted to be done. If we do not understand that, we will never rid ourselves of this darkness.
The pain was so heavy. His body was unmarked, he knew. This pain was on his soul, on his mind that had seen the Firebird pass overhead and been seared by its fire. But they were wrong. Urshila did not do this thing. He had to tell them that. He had to find mouth, find breath and speak.
“Rest yourself, Lord Daren.” Hands on his shoulders, pressing him back, adding their weight to the weight of the pain.
“No.”
Whose voice was that? Was that straggling whisper his voice?
“Lord Daren?”
Eyes. I have eyes to see the world. I will find my eyes.
It hurt. He was so tired. Dreams dragged at him. But for a moment, he focused his will, and he opened his eyes.
Korta leaned over him, his face creased with concern. Beyond him, Daren could just see ancient Luden, books piled around him in crooked stacks.
Where were Sidor and Nedu? Oh, yes. They were searching Urshila’s room for what wasn’t there.
Never mind. No time to think on them. “Urshila.” His voice grated in his throat. Pain made his mind’s eye see red.
“We none of us knew.” Luden hobbled closer. He seemed smaller than he had and more deeply hunched. What new weight was he carrying? “Rest yourself, Daren. She can do no more than she has. We will unearth her plan and unravel it.”
No! He wanted to shout and pound his fist. But all his anger gave him only enough strength to say, “Not Urshila. Not her plan.”
Korta licked his lips. “She’s Tuukosov, Lord Daren,” he said gently, as if reminding a child of a forgotten promise. “She did this and killed herself before we could discover her and make her talk.”
Did they believe Urshila was that much of a fool? Vyshko and Vyshemir look down with mercy. They did. Because she was Tuukosov and Kalami was Tuukosov.
And because she was Tuukosov, they would not try to discover who had truly killed her and why.
“A seeing,” Daren croaked. “Did you …” It hurt. It hurts. I must speaks. “… work a seeing?”
“There was no need, Daren.” Luden. Daren heard feet shuffling across the floor, and Luden’s face came into view, sinking close enough that even Daren’s tear-clouded eyes could make him out clearly. “It was all before us. I too am stunned, but it brings us that much closer to the answers we need.”
No! Disbelief robbed him of his strength ebbing for a moment and he had to close his eyes. A hand, it must have been Korta’s, laid itself upon his brow.
“He’s failing,” Korta whispered.
“Yes,” agreed Luden. What lay behind that neutral tone? Anger overrode his pain for just a moment. Did Luden think to become lord sorcerer once the Grandfather had taken Daren to the Land of Death and Spirit? So be it, but while Daren breathed he was still lord sorcerer. He could still command. He would.
Daren forced his eyelids back. “Work a seeing, Korta. Find …” Fresh pain lanced through his lungs as he spoke. “Find what happened to her.”
Then, Daren saw the flash in Luden’s ancient eyes, and knew he had made a mistake. It was Luden he should have spoken to, not the boy. Luden would take it as an insult.
Ah, Vyshko and Vyshemir, even now the games of power must be played. Why have we been made thus?
Luden straightened, his face becoming nothing but a white haze. “The lord sorcerer is tired from his affliction. He does not truly understand the facts. You will continue with your work, Korta.”
“But, Master …”
He could not even see Luden anymore, but the old sorcerer’s words fell heavily against his ears. “We cannot work a seeing without fire, Korta. Were the lord sorcerer well, he would remember this. Come, now. We must be ready when Master Sidor and Mistress Nedu find the Tuukosov’s summoning.”
No fire. Had he the strength, Luden would have cursed gods and Firebird both. The summoning of a true vision required all the elements. Without fire there was no stability to the working, no clarity. His blood and soul burned with pain that was dragging away his life by inches, but there was not one true flame to be summoned.
Or was there? Daren’s frame shuddered. He had been touched by the Firebird. He burned within. Could he summon the fire of his pain? Could that ephemeral flame be used to bring the vision of what had happened to Urshila, and what was happening to Isavalta?
If it can be done, it will be the last thing I do.
It would leave Luden in charge, blind, power-hungry Luden to shape a little court of his own with Korta and Nedu helpless against him and Sidor perhaps his willing partner. Daren might not die. He might recover yet. Even Medeoan had not been able to finish him off. He was not ready to meet the Grandfather yet.
Or I might die anyway, traitor to my oath to serve, and to my land that gave me life.
Daren made his decision. It did not lessen the pain, but knowledge that pain would
soon end made it easier to bear. He mustered his hoarded strength, and sat up.
“Lord!” cried Korta.
Daren did not waste his breath answering. He heaved his legs, as heavy and unresponsive as clay, over the side of the couch. The pain lanced through them a moment later, but at least it let him feel his knees and his feet. Clamping his teeth down on his tongue to keep from screaming, Daren stood.
“Lord Sorcerer, you cannot …” That was Luden. Daren ignored him. He knew what he needed. One agonizing step at a time he lurched down the length of the room toward the table that was set apart from all the others, the table covered with delicate wires and gears and gems wrapped in wires of copper and bronze. The ruin of the Portrait of Worlds lay before him. It filled the whole world. It was all that he needed.
It seemed Korta guessed what he was about. “My lord, the Portrait is broken.”
So am I. He stood before the table, swaying back and forth, trying to see how he might do what must be done.
“Daren, do not do this.” Luden again. Was that true concern in his voice? Daren could not turn his head to see the other man’s face. He could only stare at the collection of delicate components in front of him, all neatly laid out on their squares of white and blue silk. The work of a century, and more, bent and broken and scattered.
He reached out a shaking hand and grasped one of the tiny sapphires. What it had once been, he did not know, but now it would serve for the palace. The sapphire was the imperial gem. Next, he pulled one of the silk squares toward him. The wires and gears that covered it tinkled delicately as they jumbled together.
“I have come to the wild place,” he whispered. “I have stood before the broken mirror and I have called it by its name.” Each movement seared him. His hands were so weak, the silk slid through them even as he tried to gather it up, to tie the knots, to begin the weaving. “I have called it the Portrait of Worlds, I have called the creator by his name, Tsepir Senoisyn Vinnetsavin, child of Vyshko and Vyshemir.” Cold swept through him. The walls seemed to grow close, listening with their suffocating stones.
