by Sarah Zettel
He must see. He must know something, but we can’t be going there! That’s not Tuukos. It can’t be.
But she did not dare speak. She did not want Father to think she was questioning him again. She did not want to earn another blow.
They reached the pebbly shore. Father stopped right at river’s edge, the toes of his boots just touching the rippling water. He set her down and she folded her hands and bowed her head, as she had done when Master Liaozhai was angry at her. She wanted to show him she was obedient and understood her duty perfectly so he would not be angry anymore.
But why could she not see Mother? The question would not leave her.
“You must lead me into the river,” Father said. “Here and now. I cannot go farther as myself anymore.”
“Yes, Father.” She took his hand, screwed up her courage, and walked forward into the river. It was not truly water. It was the route back to the living worlds, and it was dry and cool and dimmed the light of the Shifting Lands. As she walked and the world blurred, whispers began in her ears, telling secrets, lies, truths, nonsense, and deep sense. All the voices of life surrounded her, growing louder, growing stronger as the world around her grew darker. She could feel nothing under her feet, and the touch of Father’s hand melted away.
She tried to cry out but could not. Her footsteps faltered. She was blind and there were only the unintelligible voices around her.
But one voice called clearly. “Come. Come to me.”
The voice grated in Anna’s ears. It sounded wrong, although she could not have said how. She did not want to follow it, but she had nowhere else to go.
“Come. Come to me.”
She could feel Father inside her heart again. He did not speak with words, but she felt him urging her toward the voice. This was the way he intended her to go. It could not be wrong then. She must not think that.
Gulping back her fear and confusion, Anna followed the low, grating call.
Chapter Twenty
Sakra pushed himself up slowly from where he lay on the deck. Bridget did not look at him. She stared out at the river. The banks changed on either side, shrinking and shriveling until they were nothing but barren rock, grey and lifeless. The thin wind blew straight through her, but gave her no air to breathe. Shadows drifted across the green sky like clouds. They were being watched. She felt that through every pore in her skin.
She set her fear aside. She thought of Prathad and Richikha. She thought of Mikkel, Ananda, and the lord master Peshek who had known her parents and had come to stay at Vyshtavos for several weeks in the middle of winter to talk to her and help her get settled. She thought of Sakra, of walking with him and talking late into the night, of him teaching her the names of the Isavaltan stars and the plants in the gardens and the streets of the town.
But there was nothing. The boat drifted down the river as boats on real rivers did when there was no guiding hand.
She tried again. She thought of the woods and gardens she had seen, of laboring over the elementary language and reading lessons Mistress Urshila set her and how she had struggled through them, sometimes late into the night, furious at her teacher for treating her like a child, and furious at herself for not being a better student.
Where are you? she thought to the whole world.
But the world did not answer. Another shadow scudded overhead. Something hunched and grey scuttled behind the rocks.
The woman was talking to Sakra, low and tense. Anger and fear warred with each other in her features. She tried to struggle to her feet, but the rocking motion of the boat robbed her of what little balance she had and she fell panting and coughing into the bottom. However long she had been here, it was too long. Her lungs were feeling the lack of air and her strength would soon ebb.
Sakra touched her arm, and said something else in her language.
“I will try to find what is left of the spell here to guide us,” he told Bridget, but his words and breathing were heavy.
Bridget bit her lip. She scanned the banks, searching for some sign. Stretching out with her sight to see past the jumble of grey stone. There had to be something. Something real and true she could see in this mist of illusions. There had to be.
On the right bank she saw the mirror image of the woman crouched beside her. She leaned heavily on her spear, and held out her hand, beckoning wearily.
On the right bank, she saw a withered, brown man with a great, ragged hole in his sunken chest. He grinned at her as if she were the funniest joke he’d ever seen. She saw other forms, indistinct and fleeting, behind and between the rocks. They watched and they waited. She could not see them, oh, no, not even with her vaunted, precious eyes, but they could see her quite well, her and Sakra and this stranger she had thought she was saving.
Something flashed overhead. Bridget winced, but did not look up. She dropped her gaze to the river water, willing herself to remember, to think only of Isavalta, but fear already nibbled at the back of her mind, and the knowledge that she had failed began to burrow into her heart. She felt Sakra’s magic writhing fretfully beside her like a sleeper caught in a nightmare, but it could not take form.
Again something flashed, in front of her this time, above the horizon, like a bird gliding above the waters. Bridget turned her mind inward, trying not to see. There was nothing to see. Mistress Urshila had been right. She had trusted too much to her eyes. She did not have enough learning. She had forgotten what little she had known and she had lost them. Lost Sakra, lost herself, lost this poor stranger and was trying to sift truth from illusion as if it were gold dust mixed in sawdust, not willing to believe, even now, it simply wasn’t there.
The woman spoke, Sakra answered, his magic stirred again, and fell still.
Flash. A shining form swooped over the river. A bird. A gull, but not a living gull. The bird wheeled closer, and Bridget saw it was a creature of crystal. Each feather was perfectly shaped from glass. It was a beautiful thing to watch as it dipped and dove, and rose again to circle overhead.
Stop, Bridget. Stop. She squeezed her eyes shut. It’s another trick. It wants you to follow it.
The woman was speaking again. Her words coming in gasps. Bridget’s eyes snapped open. The crystalline gull had landed on the prow of the boat. Sakra had planted both hands on the bench and was trying to heave himself to his feet.
The gull was clear glass with smoked glass on the cap of its head and the tips of its pinions. She could see the river right through the heart of it, blurred and distorted, green and brown and grey and white. Its eyes were onyx beads, and it looked at her first through one and then the other, and Bridget felt her mind stir, and a sensation — part inspiration, part power — unfolded, stretched, turned, and wheeled.
The gull opened its beak and threw back its head in soundless cry and launched itself into the air.
“Urshila.” Bridget lifted her hands away from the gunwales so she could shade her eyes and watch the flight of the crystalline bird as it turned overhead.
“What?” gasped Sakra.
“It is. It’s her. She’s come to show us the way home.”
“Bridget, do you see her?”
“No.” She shook her head, grinning absurdly. “She’s shown me. Sakra, please, trust in this.”
Sakra only looked defeated. “We have no other choice.”
Bridget clambered back to the steering oar and gripped the smooth wood again. Her skin seemed extra sensitive. She could feel each line of the grain beneath her palm. She turned her gaze overhead, catching hold of the glass seagull with her eyes and held it, willing her mind’s eye open for whatever it had to show her.
The gull hovered motionless for one moment, glinting in the clear green sky, and then folded its wings and dove fearlessly into the river depths, and with mind, sight, and soul, Bridget followed.
It was like plunging into a thick pool. The world went mossy green, then brown flecked with gold, then black, and with her mind’s eye wide open, she saw the gull leading t
hem on.
And she saw Mistress Urshila cold and dead on a flagstone floor.
And she saw Valin Kalami standing before the Old Witch, Baba Yaga.
And she saw the woman, the stranger in the boat, but she was running through streets filled with smoke and ash, clutching a young girl to her, and the girl had black hair and green eyes, and Bridget knew the child with all her heart.
And then the world opened up around them, and the prow of the boat slapped hard against a wave that sent up a shock of salt spray, and a thick, honest wind filled with the smell of salt blew Bridget’s tousled hair forward over her face and caught the sail, snapping the canvas out and singing through the lines. Ahead, breakers roared against a sandy beach that rose to form an island of winter-grey stone and spring-green forests.
Bridget grabbed hold of the steering oar, relief making her weak as water, and only instinct putting her hand to the line to haul the sail down before the wind drove them straight into the breakers.
They were in the living world and they themselves were alive and all of them dragging in great gulps of rich salt air.
But wherever they were, it was not Isavalta.
Grey stones stuck out of the earth like bones. Wind whipped her hair in front of her face, bringing with it the roar and the salt tang of the sea.
Where the world was not grey, it seemed to be all shades of green. Deep black-green for the moss on the boulders and cliffs, pale lime-green in the cups of the little flowers that grew in the shelter of the stones. Vivid emerald in the grass and the new leaves of the trees flashing out in the clean spring sun. The low hills that curved around in a cluster in front of her joined together to become one great mountain that rose up almost to the sky.
It was a place wholly different from any Anna had ever seen and as she gazed out at it, she felt her father’s love rising in her mind like mist from still waters. This was the place of his boyhood. He knew the names of the tiny flowers — veridian, maiden’s cup, moth’s heart. The hill at her right shoulder was Urho’s Barrow, and as the name came to her, so did the story of the giant buried beneath it. The forest that covered its broad slope was the perfect place to find whiteback mushrooms, pitcher moss, and everheart root for tea, for sleeplessness and easing a cramped stomach. Everything she could see caused meaning and longing to well up in her mind.
But at the same time, Anna could only blink stupidly at it all. I’m tired, Father.
Of course, Anna. Let me take you. The Holy Island is generous with food and shelter. I’ll show you.
She did not want to walk. She just wanted to sit down where she was, but she did not struggle. Under Father’s will, her feet moved lightly and all but ran her up Urho’s barrow until the trees engulfed them, turning the bright day into twilight, and reminding Anna, for all she saw everything through the warmth of her father’s love for each detail, of nothing so much as the deep woods of the Land of Death and Spirit.
Was Mae Shan all right? she wondered. Should she even be thinking about her? Would Father be mad?
But if Father knew her thoughts in the back of her own mind, there was no stirring, no touch, and best of all, no scolding. And he did not lie about the food. He knew where the squirrels kept their winter nuts and just how to crack them open. He knew about the tender hearts of reeds that grew by the streams of snowmelt that tasted tangy and salty. The whiteback mushrooms were peppery and the fiddlehead ferns were crisp and juicy. She wished for rice and tea, and a sweet cake, but she wasn’t hungry anymore, and Father wasn’t angry. The moss sheltered by old trees and new ferns was damp where she lay down, but she was cradled by memories of doing this a hundred times before and it didn’t seem so bad. Maybe the bad part was over now that they were on the Holy Island where Father always wanted to be. Maybe he’d be happy now and live contentedly in her heart and they’d have a home by the sea and he’d teach her to swim and to sail a boat …
Filled with the hopes of finding a life to replace the one she’d lost, Anna was able to settle deeply into sleep.
Anna, wake up.
Anna sat up, staring all around her, trying to remember why she was here in the woods. Her stomach felt sick. Her head was light.
Memory came back slowly. “What is it, Father?”
We are called. We must go.
Anna pushed her hair back irritably. Dead leaves fell onto the scuffed moss beside her. “I don’t hear anything.”
Anna, don’t argue. Let me take you.
Anna didn’t want to. It suddenly all seemed wrong. She didn’t feel good. She wanted tea. She wanted Mae Shan and Master Liaozhai. But Father pressed her to one side and made her legs stand up and start climbing up the hill. Anna tried to feel warm and safe. Father would take care of her. But all she could do was watch, and try not to feel the way her feet hurt, and the way her stomach ached.
Father made her climb steadily. If he could feel her discomfort, he ignored it. Memory of the blows he had given her in the Silent Lands kept Anna quiet. I must be good, she told herself. I must be good.
The slope got steeper. Rivers of stone ran between the tree roots, and great outcroppings jutted from the mountainside. One of those outcroppings had split open to make a cave, and Father took them straight inside.
The world went dark in an instant, and even Father had to stop. In charge of herself again, Anna swayed back and forth on tired legs and tried to catch her breath. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs. There were splashes of bright light in the back of the cave, but she couldn’t see straight.
Slowly, though, Anna’s vision cleared. Light and shadow resolved into sense, but her heart still pounded. She saw now that the orange glow was light reflected off damp stone and off a still pool worn into slick rock. The fire burned before an old man, naked to the waist, sweat shining on his skin the way the water shone on the cave walls. But where the walls were dark, he was pale, pale as death, pale as the bellies of the fish who lived in the depths of the ocean and never saw the light while they were alive.
Anna realized she should have felt scared, but she only felt sick.
As the old man seemed to take shape in front of her, the rest of her senses seemed to clear, and she knew what else was wrong. This place was filled with magic. It was as full of power as it was of air. It was not being drawn or called, it simply was, a whole great pool of magic unformed and unshaped, constant. How could that be? Magic had to be called. It required an act of will. Even in the most sacred spaces. And it had to be shaped, or it dissolved. It could not simply be captured like water in a bath, could it?
The old man spoke. His voice was high-pitched and broken. She didn’t understand his words, but Father did, and she heard them ring in her mind through him.
“Welcome, Daughter. Welcome, Son,” the old man said.
Kneel, Anna. Kneel.
She hesitated but Father bent her knees for her and bowed her head. Sounds filled her mind, and she realized they were words, the language of the Holy Island that Father had always said he’d teach her one day.
“Holy Father,” she said, awkwardly, for her tongue wasn’t used to shaping these sounds. “Bestow your blessing on your poor daughter.”
Anna looked up at the wrinkled creature before her. His cheeks and mouth were sunken in and his black eyes protruded. His hair hung in twisted clumps like snakes and his skin was loose on his bones. The kilt that was his only clothing was leather scraps sewn together with gut and smeared with soot and grease. His hands were black with ash and there was a stench that reminded Anna sharply of the city of T’ien while it burned.
This was a holy man? Anna thought about the clean temples, the monks and priests with their shaved heads, and the white faces of the gods and goddesses. They did not leer like this man. They did not grin with sunken gums. Anna trembled.
Do not be disrespectful, Daughter, warned Father sharply.
“You fear this old man?” the “holy father” lisped, and Anna saw his tongue was stained as black as his hands. “You fear
what you do not understand.”
Father gave her no words, and Anna was glad. She tried not to shake. She tried to remember that power, and holiness came in many forms.
“You have neglected this child, Valin Kalami,” said the old man. “You have given her education over to foreigners.”
Anna shrank back gratefully to give Father room to speak. “It was a matter of necessity, Holy Father. But she is home now.”
“Yes, yes.” The old man peered forward. His eyes were pale with cataracts and Anna wondered that he could see at all. “She is as you promised. New in her learning, great in her power. She will be a great seer for Tuukos.”
A thrill of fear ran through Anna at those words. A seer for Tuukos? What did that mean? Hesitantly she moved to touch Father, but the old man began to sway back and forth and she retreated again.
“Will be, will be,” he crooned. “Come from water, come through fire to call fire back again.” His whitened eyes stared into the darkness of the cave, but his hands began moving, like creatures with minds of their own, working among the bones and stones that surrounded him.
And Anna saw. A hundred images, a thousand opened in front of her. She saw a young man, tall and proud wearing a crown of horn with people kneeling at his feet. She saw the years parade past and the crowned man becoming shrunken, bitter, and mad. She saw the madness in waves and storms, a vision within a vision.
She saw the Phoenix in a golden cage.
She saw Father in a palace of stone talking with an old woman, urging her to something … she could not hear.
She saw Father in the dark lifting an infant from a cradle and wrapping a blanket around it as it slept.
She saw herself. She saw herself in the cave with a crown of horn on her head. She saw herself beneath the spreading wings of the Phoenix, her mouth open wide to scream. She saw herself beside a woman with auburn hair and green eyes in a plain grey dress. The woman wrapped her arms around Anna and wept.
