by Sarah Zettel
She also had not heard him coming, for she did not look back.
Kalami held himself still a moment, deciding how to proceed. He remembered what the seer had told him. If she had overheard any of their conversation, he would have to work very, very carefully.
“Anna,” he said.
Anna jerked and whirled around. She stared at him with a look of utter horror.
Carefully, gently, Kalami walked up to his daughter. She stood poised on the edge of flight, but seemed mesmerized at his approach.
“Anna, I’m sorry.” He knelt down so his eyes were even with hers. “I did not mean to frighten you.”
She had been weeping. Her eyes were red and swollen and her cheeks were white. She said nothing, just looked back over her shoulder, trying to decide whether to run.
“You heard me talking with the Holy Father, didn’t you?” he asked.
Anna sniffled. “You said …”
“I know, I know.” He held up his hand. He did not touch her, not yet. She was not ready for this yet. “I’m so sorry, Anna, I should have found a way to warn you as soon as I realized what was happening.”
Anna made no reply, but she was listening.
“The seer is mad, Anna. Things are very bad here. I had to speak as I did or he would know I doubted him. He’s very powerful and if he became angry he could hurt us both.”
Anna licked her lips. She wanted to believe. He could feel how badly she wanted to. He wanted to pull her close, to feel her heartbeat and her blood rushing beneath her skin. He wanted to drain all the fear from her into himself and know what it was to feel as she felt.
What it was to live.
“We should get away from here,” she said, breaking his reverie. “Please, Father.”
“We will, Anna,” said Kalami soberly, “but we have to plan carefully. If we don’t, he’ll break the working that holds me in this body and I’ll be gone forever.”
Anna swallowed visibly. She had not thought of that. “What do we do?”
Kalami sat back on his heels. “For the moment we pretend to obey him. It will be very difficult. He wants us to bring the people who are coming in the boat to him.”
“Mae Shan?” Her voice was a whisper. He could barely hear it over the wind. He leaned close, and that was a mistake, because now he caught the scent of her skin and even of her tears, and he wanted to touch her, to pull her to him, to return again to her mind, to own it this time.
“Yes, I’m afraid Mae Shan too.”
“And … Bridget?”
“Yes.”
Belligerence appeared in Anna’s face for the first time. She must be very close to the edge. “He said she’s my mother, like the ghosts in the Shifting Lands.”
Kalami looked away, pretending to search for words in the patterns of the fern and the tree limbs. “Anna, I’m sorry, I had to lie to you. I meant to tell you the truth when you were older. She is your mother.”
Anna said nothing to that. Nothing at all.
“She is a cruel and pitiless woman, Anna, and very powerful. It was she who killed the dowager of Isavalta.”
“Killed?”
He nodded. “She was in the pay of the dowager’s mad son.”
Anna ducked her head.
What is she thinking? Kalami knew if he held her close, he would find the answer. He would reach inside her and know her blood and heart, and they would be his. Life would be his.
Stop. Stop. Control yourself.
“You killed Lien Jinn,” Anna said.
Anger rose in him, and Kalami pushed it aside with difficulty. “Anna, listen to me. I did not know at first how very bad your mother was, and by the time I did … you were already born, and all I could do was protect you from her. That was part of the reason I had to send you to Hung-Tse. The Heart of the World was one of the only places where the magic was powerful enough to hide you from her.”
“My mother.” Anna whispered the words as if she had never heard them before and was trying to understand what they meant.
“Anna, I’m so sorry, but there’s no time to lose.” Kalami laid a hand on her shoulder, careful to be gentle, careful to be reassuring. She was afraid, and that would not do. He needed her trust. He needed all of her. “You must be strong, Daughter. This will all be over soon, and then we will be truly together, you and I. I swear it to you.”
Anna bit her lip. She must have fallen as she made her way down the slope, he now saw, because her chin was scraped, and there was a small split in her lip. He watched the red blood as if he had never seen anything so beautiful.
Anna did not seem to notice. She was too absorbed in making her own decision. He was able to refocus himself on her eyes, and her white, white face before she looked up at him again.
“What do we have to do?” she said.
Kalami smiled. “All you have to do is come with me. I need your mother and the others to see you are with me. It will stop them from trying anything dangerous while we take them to the seer so he can take care of them. I will have to say some very bad things. I will have to threaten you.”
“To kill me?”
“You will be safe, I promise you. I won’t leave you alone for a second. You must trust me. I am not going to let anything happen to you.”
“Because you need me?” Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks.
How much had she overheard? Far too much, damn the disobedient girl. Kalami forced his temper down again.
“Because I love you, Anna, because you are my child.” He gathered her to him, hugging her, stroking her hair. Distantly, he felt her tears wetting his shirt. He held her for as long as he dared, then he gently pushed her away, standing her upright, with both his hands on her shoulders. “Are you ready to be strong now, Anna?”
She nodded, wiping at her face with her sleeve. Kalami reached out and brushed away a tear that she had missed.
“This is the last thing, I promise. Once the seer has these three, he will be distracted and we will be able to escape. Now, it will be very hard for you to hear me lie to Mae Shan, but you must remember she wants to take me away from you. You must not forget that for a second.”
She nodded slowly. “I will remember.”
“Then let us go, Anna.” Kalami straightened up and with his hand still on her shoulder, he steered her down the mountainside.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Foxwood was only half a day’s ride from Vyshtavos. Mikkel’s great-great-grandfather had insisted his palace be built nearby, to show that he was not afraid of any power, mortal or immortal. Mikkel had always noted he had not built it too close, however.
For the past hour, Mikkel had been alone on the roads. People had passed him, heading toward the palace, looking for news or solace from the emperor. No one recognized him. He rode alone, carrying nothing but the battered pike, wearing nothing finer than a coat of good brown wool sashed with a broad band of deep blue.
“You should have some hint about you,” Ananda had said as she tied the sash around his waist, her eyes lowered to hide the tears. “That is the way it always is in those ballads.”
The roads were still sloppy with the rasputitsa rains, and the horse at times had more waded than trotted. The poor animal was on the verge of exhaustion now, despite the fact that Mikkel had gotten off and walked what felt like half the way. His boots were solid mud up to his calves.
It is a damned damp time of year for the Firebird to plague us, he thought wryly as he pulled his foot free from the muck yet again. You’d think it would come in autumn when the fields are being burned.
The first shadow of the Foxwood fell across his horse. The creature whickered and danced a little, signaling its extreme reluctance to walk under the ancient trees.
Intelligent animal. Mikkel dismounted. He did not tie it. Today he would force no one to do anything they did not want to do. Not even a horse.
He shouldered Vyshko’s pike, and walked into the woods, being very careful to keep to the middle of the roa
d. The trees were huge, and hoary with moss. No woodsman, no charcoal burner, no hunter had ever roamed between these trees. This was not the emperor’s wood, nor did it belong to any lord master. This wood was wholly the property of another. Not even his mother had forgotten that. Undisturbed for thousands of years, the trees grew so thickly their branches intertwined, blocking out all the remaining sunlight. Mikkel wished for a lantern before remembering that as things were, it would do no good.
Mikkel had not gone fifty yards down the wooded road when he saw the flash of wild, green eyes. A red fox about the size of a small dog stepped up to the edge of the road. It paused with one forepaw raised, as if ready to flee. Then, it set that paw down and bowed its head in what Mikkel realized was a parody of a courtly reverence.
Mindful of where he was, Mikkel reverenced in return.
“Emperor of Isavalta,” said the fox. “What do you seek here?”
“I seek an audience with the V … the queen of the lokai,” replied Mikkel, pulling out all his best court manners. “If Her Majesty should deign to grant so impertinent a request.”
“She has in fact been expecting you.” The fox’s right ear twitched, although Mikkel could hear nothing. “She sends her apologies for not being here to greet you herself, but has sent me to see to your needs.”
“Then she knows why I have come?”
“She does.” The fox nodded, a vaguely ridiculous gesture on such a creature. Mikkel had long years of practice at not laughing during an audience, and it stood him in good stead now.
“Does Her Majesty then know where the Firebird is?”
“I am to take you to it,” replied the fox. “If His Majesty Imperial will follow me?” It turned itself around and raised its paw again, preparing to set off into the trees.
Mikkel did not move. “Master Fox, forgive me, but it has long been the agreement between our peoples that the forest is yours, and only the road is ours to travel freely.” The trees were home to the lokai, and very few could walk into the forest and walk out again. This place had almost taken Ananda from him. Only Sakra having the foresight to arm himself and some of her guard with cold iron had saved her life.
Was that light in the fox’s eye humor? Or was it memory? Mikkel suppressed a shiver. What if this was one of the foxes that had nearly taken Ananda?
It does not matter. You have already gone too far. You cannot let it matter.
“I have been instructed to grant you safe conduct, Majesty,” the fox said. “No one of our people will harm or hinder you while you are in our lands and I myself will see you return safely to your road.”
No spirit power would lie about an obligation, Luden had said. Mikkel hoped he was right.
“Thank you, Master Fox.” Mikkel shouldered the pike again. “If you would please lead the way.”
Mikkel thought the fox’s gaze lingered on his hand that was clutching the pike so hard his knuckles had surely gone white. The creature, however, said nothing. It only trotted away into the ancient trees and Mikkel followed.
It was even darker between the trees than it had been on the road. He could not see anything clearly. All the trees were the same, and Mikkel soon felt dizzy trying to keep track of direction. He could not tell whether he had walked a short way very slowly or a long way very quickly. He soon realized that the only way to keep his wits from spinning was to keep his attention on the fox. For all it moved swiftly, its feet making no noise on the pine needles and decaying leaves, it seemed to be the only fixed point in a world where distances alternately compressed and expanded around him like a concertina.
Then, for the first time in days, Mikkel smelled smoke. The fox led him out of the trees, and Mikkel knew if he turned his head, he would see the forest had vanished. Ahead of him waited a small hill that had perhaps once been wooded, but now its slope was nothing but ash and char. At the very top remained the burnt stump of what had once been a tree thicker around than his waist. On the jagged lip of that stump perched the Firebird.
Mikkel had heard the Firebird was enormous, that it could blot out moon or sun when it flew across the sky, but this creature atop the hill was no bigger than a wren.
“I thank you for your pains, Master Fox.” Mikkel reverenced to his guide. The fox bowed its head politely, and settled down into the tall grass at the edge of the burned patch to wait for Mikkel to come back, or not, as the case might be.
Mikkel shifted his grip on the pike and began to climb. The ash was still warm and slippery underfoot, and it was hard to stay upright. More than once he had to use the Holy Means of Isavalta’s Deliverance as a walking stick, and he hoped if he met Vyshko soon the god would forgive him. Heat and ash rose up around him with each step, getting into eyes, nose, and hair.
At last, hot, sweaty, and filthy and feeling more like a pig keeper than a prince, Mikkel gained the crest of the hill and stood before the Firebird. It seemed hardly bigger than a candle flame. Yet, its living fire burned so brightly and so steadily that he soon had to look away and blink back his tears. It was as painful as looking into the sun.
This tiny, beautiful creature was the thing so brimming with hate it would condemn his people to darkness and starve them all to death.
It was surveying the valley and seemed to take no notice of him. Mikkel knelt. The ash was hot enough to sting his knees through the cloth of his trousers, but he stayed as he was with his head bowed, waiting to be acknowledged.
At last, the Firebird spoke. “You are her son.”
“I am.” Mikkel raised his head. The Firebird’s eyes were blue, he saw, like the sapphires in the imperial crown, or the very heart of the hottest flame.
The Firebird looked at the pike. “Do you think to kill me with that?”
“I do not want to.”
The Firebird blinked its blue eye, and the pike’s wooden shaft burst into flame. The fire bit into his skin at once, and Mikkel dropped the pike, scrambling backward, holding his hand.
The Firebird watched the weapon burn. After a time, the fire simply winked out, and there was nothing left of Vyshko’s pike but the metal tip.
The Firebird again turned its blazing blue eye toward Mikkel, and Mikkel bowed.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I should not have brought a weapon here. It was presumptuous, and one more thing for which I must ask your forgiveness.”
The Firebird seemed to have to consider that for a moment. “You have come to beg for forgiveness?”
“Yes.”
That did not seem to be the answer the Firebird was expecting. It hesitated a moment before giving its answer. “No.” The word flared like a fresh coal. “There can be no forgiveness for what you and yours have done.”
Mikkel drew his shoulders back. He did not want to speak these words. Ananda forgive me. I am no clever peasant boy. I am only myself.
“I offer my life in apology.”
“Do you?” it whispered.
The Firebird began to grow. It rose up like a sheet of flame from the stump. It became the size of a hawk, of an eagle, of a swan. The heat from it was more than Mikkel could bear, but he made himself stand his ground. The Firebird spread out its wings to embrace him in flame. “Do you offer your life to me?” it roared.
Mikkel fell to his knees. Vyshko grant me your strength. Ananda forgive me. “Yes!”
Flame was all around him. Mikkel screamed but somehow, against all instinct, did not run. He smelled burning, closed his eyes, held his breath, and waited to die.
And then the heat was gone. Mikkel’s eyes opened. The Firebird, once again the size of a wren, sat before him. His hair felt singed. His face hurt. His hands hurt, but he was alive.
“Why?” demanded the Firebird. “Why would you come here? You are the seed of my captor. Why would you ask my forgiveness if you were not afraid of me?”
The urge to run washed over Mikkel even more strongly. The pain was growing, as if his body was only slowly beginning to realize how close the fire had come.
He
made himself sit down in the ashes. It was not dignified, but it would keep him from bolting.
“I dreamed once,” he said. “I dreamed I saw a beautiful bird in the garden outside my window, but I couldn’t reach it. I tried and I tried, but I couldn’t reach it, and the bird was crying, in my dream, because its leg was tangled in some twine that had gotten wrapped around the branch it was sitting on.” He sounded mad. This was ridiculous; this would do nothing. But it was all he had. “And I wanted to free the bird, but I could not, because I was in a cage myself, and when I woke, I was blind.” He lifted his head, and dared to look the Firebird in the eye. “She caged me too. I know something of what you suffered, and I am sorry. I am here to do whatever you want, to earn forgiveness. I am the last of the blood that wronged you. Spare my people. Take your revenge on me.”
Tentatively, hesitantly, the Firebird stretched out its neck. “You would do this?”
“I would.”
But before he could speak another word, the Firebird screamed. It was a sound like tearing metal. It launched itself into the air, becoming again the curtain of flame. Mikkel fell backward, crying out in pain and in fear.
“No! Liar! You lied!” It screamed with an anguish that stopped Mikkel’s heart.
And it was gone.
Mikkel was on his feet, looking around for enemy or attacker, but there was none. He was alone on the burnt-out hill, his own burns setting their pain more deeply into his skin and the horrified scream of the Firebird echoing in his soul.
The fox who was his guide began to pick its way up the hill, stopping frequently to shake ashes from its paws.
“What happened!” Mikkel cried.
The fox did not answer immediately. It nosed the stump where the Firebird had perched and sniffed around the charred and blackened roots. Then, it looked into the sky.
“Someone is trying your mother’s trick,” said the fox. “May their gods help them.”
