by Sarah Zettel
Her uncle had never told her a single one of these stories.
The banks slipped by in the brightening dawn. Dark figures, alone or in crowds, moved in and out of the deepest shadows that remained. Other boats scudded down the broad river, but they ignored her. Mae Shan stuck by her oar, trying to steer a straight course and watching the boom swing slightly in the wind and wondering if she should bring the sail in a little, and when she would move beyond the world.
As the sun rose higher, the sky became covered with a grey haze that seemed too lazy to gather itself into clouds. The wind blew cold and Mae Shan shivered under her quilted jacket, wishing for her padded armor.
They say in Isavalta it is so cold that people wear their coats to bed.
Movement on the bank caught Mae Shan’s eye. A figure, this one brighter than the others had been, dashed down the bank. The sleeves and hems of her robe streamed out behind her. Clearly a woman of good family. Behind her ran a cluster of thick armed thugs, and they were gaining.
Don’t look, said part of Mae Shan’s mind. Don’t dwell on it. You have a greater errand.
The woman on the bank stumbled and it was clear, even from this distance, that she would soon fall. Mae Shan cursed, and groped for the boat’s anchor. She tossed it into the river. It splashed into the water, and then Mae Shan noticed what was truly wrong.
The splash made no sound. It was as though she had been suddenly and completely deafened. The woman on the bank stumbled again. Her hair had come loose and fell like a curtain over her eyes. Her feet were bare. The thugs drew closer. The boat swayed at anchor, and in all the world there was no sound, not even the slap of waves against the boat’s hull. Mae Shan stared as one of the thugs snatched at the woman’s flowing sleeve, and remembered how another name for the Land of Death and Spirit was the Silent Lands.
Believe nothing you see.
Cursing again behind clenched teeth, Mae Shan hauled the anchor stone up. The rope was completely dry. The stone made no noise as it dropped to the deck. Current and wind took hold again and pulled the boat forward. On the bank, the woman tripped and finally fell and the thugs descended. Mae Shan looked to the steering oar, and decided it was useless to try to steer a river when you could not trust what you saw. She sat herself down on the bench and gripped the rail, grimly pointing her gaze forward and trying with all her soul to trust to Uncle Lien’s spell.
The banks around the river changed slowly. What had been a house when she glanced at it a moment before became a hoary tree, its branches heavy with ruby fruits. Mae Shan’s stomach rumbled. What had been a temple became a palace, its doors open and inviting and faintly seen figures waving welcome to her. Her exhaustion doubled. What had been other boats turned to beasts, great swans and cranes. She glimpsed a horse with a fish’s tail broaching a wave. A scaly back that could have belonged to a dragon slipped past the hull.
Mae Shan squared her shoulders to attention and pointed her eyes ahead, calling on all her training and discipline. Believe nothing you see, she repeated to herself. Motion and fantasy tugged at her vision, but she held herself still, despite the scents of broiling meats and fresh fruit that drifted on the soundless wind.
It’s just another long watch. It will soon be done.
But from the corners of her eyes, she could see the banks change again. They grew closer. They grew darker, rising high above the boat to become cliffs of limestone hung with vines and dotted here and there with bright clusters of flowers. Something moved among the vines. Mae Shan’s gaze flickered upward before she could stop it. Tiny figures climbed up and down the vines like monkeys, but the figures did not have monkeys’ faces. They had the faces of dogs, or devils, or humans with wide, white eyes. They pointed and mocked at her, and she knew if she could hear, she would be surrounded by raucous laughter echoing through the stone chasm.
A gout of water erupted in front of the boat. Mae Shan started backward. Another gout leapt up to starboard, and two more to port. Something dark whizzed past. Mae Shan ducked. The thing bounced off the rail and landed in the water, raising another silent splash.
The grotesque creatures had stopped laughing and were now throwing stones, leering openmouthed at her in their anger.
She felt the wind of the eerily silent missiles as they breezed past her ears to splash into the water or glance off the rails or the bowsprit. They came from all sides. Mae Shan ducked down, covering her head with her hands, but it was no good. The missiles breezed past her knuckles and elbows. The little boat had no hold. There was no place for her to take shelter. She huddled in the bottom of the boat, feeling it shudder as the rocks bounced off rail, bow, and stern. Her back felt naked, but she could see no canvas or other covering she could use.
Mae Shan?
The sound of a voice was so startling, Mae Shan looked up. The monkey demons gaped and grinned, and hurled more of their dark missiles at her, but above them, on the edge of the cliff, Mae Shan saw a slender woman dressed in fine silks standing beside a youthful figure robed entirely in white.
Wei Lin. Even from this distance, even as the boat drifted farther away down the current, Mae Shan knew it was Wei Lin. Of course. It was the third day. Wei Lin’s deeds had been recorded and now the Last One was taking her to Heaven.
Was it the nature of the land that made her feel the boat moving, without Wei Lin drifting farther away?
Why are you here, Mae Shan? Wei Lin’s voice reached Mae Shan through the windows of her mind, not through her ears. You are not dead.
“No,” she said and her voice sounded loud and hollow as it rang through the canyon. It seemed to enrage the monkey demons. They swarmed lower on their vines, baring their long fangs, lunging out as far as legs and arms would stretch. They swung down low, shaking fists and waggling tongues. Some jumped from vine to vine, swinging ever lower. Mae Shan saw hunger in their eyes.
You are a divided, living soul, Mae Shan. You are bringing danger to yourself. Go. Leave here.
“I’m trying, Wei Lin.” The sail was full, the current moved, the boat stayed in the middle of the river, but the missiles rained down, splashing up the river water on all sides.
“Wei Lin … I’m sorry …”
I know. Let go of regret, Mae Shan. It holds you to me. I love you, my sister. Do not seek after me anymore.
Seek after you? Mae Shan closed her mouth around the words. Had she been? Was it possible her own desires guided the course of this river and her boat? These were the Shifting Lands as well as the Silent Lands, who knew what might shape them?
The Last One laid a slender hand on Wei Lin’s arm.
I must go, Mae Shan. Hold to your duty, Sister. Do not try to follow me.
The Last One turned away, and Wei Lin, folding her hands into her sleeves, followed peacefully and obediently behind.
Mae Shan could not take her eyes from her sister’s retreating form. Wait, she wanted to shout. She had so much more she wanted to say. She wanted to touch her sister’s hand once more, to bid her farewell properly, to ask her to thank Uncle Lien for all he had done when he too reached Heaven.
But the demons left her no time to gather herself. The missiles and the leering redoubled. The winged creatures swooped low, pelting the deck with their stones and making huge, teary eyes at her in mockery as they clutched their chests and beat their breasts, wagging and sobbing. The boat sailed on, but they followed behind, laughing at her grief, throwing their rain of stones down.
Mae Shan could stand no more.
I’ll teach you to keep your distance at least.
She picked up her bow and removed the silk casing from the string. She strung the weapon and selected an arrow. Her actions seemed to amuse the demons, because they wagged their heads and bodies even more furiously, swooping close to the masts and rails, laughing their silent, jeering laughs, mocking Wei Lin’s piously folded hands and bowed head.
Mae Shan sighted carefully along the arrow shaft, picking out one of the largest demons with the biggest grin
. Let them watch him fall and see how much they laugh then.
She loosed the arrow. The big demon threw up its arms as the shaft approached, and sank deep into its chest. Its jaw went slack and its eyes went blank, and its wings folded and it plummeted toward the river.
But before it reached the water it spread its wings again, swooping up to the deck, and landing neatly on the rail. With one clawed hand, it pulled the arrow from its own chest and snapped the shaft in two.
For a moment, Mae Shan could only stare. Other demons settled on the rails, on the mast, on the bow.
Give nothing, Uncle Lien had said. Take nothing. And this was why. Until she had given these creatures something of herself, they did not, perhaps could not, touch her. But memory came too late, and they were all around her now, landing on mast and rail. They smelled of corrupted flesh, and their eyes glowed like golden lanterns.
The largest demon bowed in mocking thanks and hopped lightly onto the deck. Mae Shan tossed the bow aside. The demon grinned and slunk closer. Mae Shan snatched up the spear and swung it wide, sending the demons scuttling quickly back for a single heartbeat.
Wait for me, Wei Lin, she thought grimly. I won’t be long.
The Vixen sat on her high, green hill, waiting. Foxes and kits frisked in the grass at her feet, snapping playfully at each other’s noses and tails. The Vixen lifted her nose, and the playing stopped at once. All ears pricked up. All muzzles turned.
A white fox and a red kit trotted through the summer-green grass. The other foxes parted for them, recognizing this pair as two of their own. The new arrivals fawned at the feet of the Vixen, rubbing their chins against her paws. She lapped the forehead of the elder, and gently nuzzled the younger.
“What did you see?” she asked.
“The dead man has hidden himself within his daughter,” said the white fox. “He looks out of her eyes and tells her what to do.”
“And she obeys?”
“She tries.”
“Pity,” said the Vixen. “But if he chooses to involve an innocent, there is little that can be done. Has he brought his daughter into the homelands?”
“Even now.”
“Very well.” The Vixen’s eyes glinted in the green light and she stood, her tail whisking to and fro.
“Mother, there is more to tell.”
“Speak, then.”
“The girl has a bodyguard, who treated us fair and showed mercy, despite the urging of her own mistress and the dead man.”
“Did she?”
The white fox nodded. “She has come into the homelands and is even now in danger.”
“Foolish woman. Do you beg a boon for her?”
“Mother, I do.”
The Vixen considered. She looked first one way, and then the other, and not even the lokai who waited on her word and her pleasure could tell all that she saw.
“So many fools,” she sighed. “The father seeks to use up the daughter and the mother who freed the father seeks the child she doesn’t know she endangered, and all forget the true danger and ignore the true blessing.” She considered a moment longer. “Very well, my child, we will grant your boon. There may be advantage here yet.”
“And the dead man?”
“He will run about for a time.” She snapped her teeth. “But he cannot expect to escape because of a pair of careless eyes. Come.” She trotted down the hill and her children followed, eager to learn what new game their mother played.
Chapter Eighteen
Mikkel stood on one of Vyshtavos’s many balconies and looked out over the gardens. Just this morning they had been silent and empty. Now they were a sea of mud and people. They huddled in makeshift encampments. Children ran back and forth, calling to each other or their parents. The blue coats and gilded helmets of the house guard flashed here and there. They moved through the crowds, measuring out bread and cold soup from kettles to people lined up with bowls or pots, some with nothing but their empty hands.
The cobbled courtyard was full of the earliest arrivals. Every hand that could be spared was clearing out the palace’s lower rooms. Commander Chadek was on the verge of apoplexy, but Mikkel and Ananda had held firm. They would bring as many people into the palace as they could, if for no other reason than a mob on the grounds thinking it was warmer and drier inside might become tempted to try to take what they wanted. People who saw they might at least get a turn at shelter would be more patient.
He could still see the green robes of the god house acolytes moving among the people, cheering them along, listening where needed, praying, singing. Bakhar’s people were devout, and strong.
Mikkel found himself wondering if the gods they all worshiped were as good and strong, and a moment later cursing himself for doubt.
It was going to be night again soon. The sun was just three fingers above the horizon. Lord Daren was dead. Mistress Urshila was dead. They had severed the head of the murderess from her body not an hour ago. The Tuukosov woman had laughed as the ax came down. Bridget and Sakra were a world away, if they were that close, and Ananda was trying hard to be strong, but she felt the lack of one of her most loyal servants.
And here he stood — imperial, detached, magnanimous, hungry, frightened, and useless. He had sat with the Council of Lords all morning, and had accomplished exactly nothing. The only answer was they had to wait. They had to let the sorcerers, those who remained alive, work. They had to pray. There was simply not enough known about the Firebird or what it had done, and even an emperor could not change that.
Or could he?
Mikkel looked down at the crowd. This was just the beginning. This was two days of darkness. How many would there be after three, after a week, after a month? How soon could they find new sorcerers to come to court and help the four who struggled through the ancient texts, arguing with themselves? When would the first news come that people had started to die?
Patience, Imperial Majesty, they said. It is not bad yet. We have time.
It is not bad yet, but it will become so, Mikkel protested inside himself. And we only hope we have time.
The sun had dipped a little farther down. The blue of the sky deepened its hue. Mikkel thought of spending another night staring into the darkness, feeling Ananda pretending to be asleep beside him, hoping that would coax him toward unconsciousness. He thought of waiting and watching that crowd who came to him for help swelling until even the imperial grounds could not hold them all.
No. Mikkel straightened himself up. No.
Walking so quickly his entourage had to scramble to catch up, Mikkel headed down to the god house.
The chamber was a masterpiece of gilt and murals made to house the images of Vyshko and Vyshemir who stood in white robes on their pedestal of black and red marble. The doors to the library and its windows had been thrown open, but the light was dimming quickly in here. He could, however, still see Vyshemir as she held out her cup and her knife and Vyshko who held his pike high over his head, his face fierce and triumphant.
Mikkel kissed the hem of Vyshko’s robe reverently, and then looked up into the god’s eyes.
Were you afraid? he asked silently. When you stood on the walls and knew it would be the last thing you ever did? Who did you pray to, you who were about to become divine?
“Imperial Majesty?”
Bakhar, keeper of the emperor’s god house, stood diffidently beside the little door that led to the vestments room. He was a portly man with a white beard that flowed down his chest like foam. Mikkel had never known anyone more devout and more humble in the sight of the gods.
As Mikkel looked toward him, Bakhar knelt.
“Forgive me, Majesty. I did not mean to intrude, but I wished to know if there was anything I could do to help.”
“Please, stand,” said Mikkel. “And there is,” he added as the keeper got to his feet with the swiftness of a much younger man. “I need Vyshko’s pike.”
Bakhar’s face went blank with surprise. “Majesty,” he began carefully.
“If I may ask …”
“No,” said Mikkel, and he knew he sounded more tired than anything else. “But I need the pike. You will get it from the cask, please.”
He was Vyshko’s heir. The holy artifacts could not be withheld from him. Bakhar reverenced deeply and went to the golden casket that lay in the largest of the god house’s alcoves. Unlit candles surrounded it, waiting for the moment when the fire returned. Bakhar bowed three times before the casket, murmuring prayers. He raised the lid and lifted out a long package of pure white silk. Cradling it in both arms like an infant, he crossed the floor and knelt before his emperor, holding out the silken package with head bowed, lips still moving in prayer.
Mikkel took what he was offered and unwrapped the silk. He had seen the pike before, when he was declared an adult and when he ascended the throne. So he was ready for the fact that it was a battered, unimposing weapon with spots of rust and chips out of its wooden shaft. But the tip was still sharp, and when he took it into his hands, he could still feel, or imagine he felt, the thrum of the god’s power inside it, waiting for the time of danger, waiting until it was needed, as it had been once before.
The god house door eased open. Mikkel looked up, expecting to see one of the guards or a page. Instead, Ananda walked into the dimming house.
“My Husband Imperial, I was told …” she began. Then she stopped, staring at the kneeling keeper, and at the ancient pike and the white silk draped across Mikkel’s arm.
She kissed the goddess’s hem without looking at it. “What are you doing, Mikkel?”
Mikkel nodded to Keeper Bakhar, who hesitated a bare instant, probably thinking he might offer himself as mediator for whatever might come next. He quickly thought the better of it, though, reverenced hastily and removed himself back to the vestment room and his private offices.
