by Sarah Zettel
Her father was a liar and he was using her. Did Anna understand that yet or did she, in the way of a child, try to reconcile her father’s behavior with the fact that he said he loved her?
Mae Shan didn’t think Kalami even heard her whisper. He was facing wild-eyed Bridget. “You are nothing. A receptacle for power, for seed. You are a thing to be used, and you will be used.”
Bridget went so still she might herself have been made of glass. Mae Shan had seen such anger before. It was the place beyond fury where everything in sight becomes a potential weapon. It was the moment where one knows quite coolly that one will destroy another, and the only thing holding Bridget still was the presence of her daughter.
“Remember this, Anna. Whatever happens next, whatever you come to think of me, remember what was said and done here.”
Bridget turned to the Holy Father, monk or madman, whatever he was. “Will you let my daughter go?”
“No,” he answered. “If you wish to save her, you will help us fashion a cage for the Firebird.”
“I don’t know how.” Bridget bit off each word.
This did not disconcert the ancient and wizened man in the least. “You do not have to. Kalami does. All that is required is your living power and your mortal breath. You will play the role your father Avanasy played for Medeoan. Your life will seal the cage.”
Sakra opened his mouth.
“And here is the southerner to say he also is a sorcerer, he will do this thing in her stead,” said Kalami before Bridget could speak. “Oh, no, Sakra. Your life has other uses.”
“Am I to know what these uses may be?” Sakra asked evenly.
As Kalami shifted his attention to Sakra, Bridget bowed her head, turning minutely toward Mae Shan.
“What is the Firebird’s name?” she breathed.
Mae Shan held herself still, hoping to convey with silence and rigidity that she did not understand.
“Hung-Tse has fallen. Isavalta will fall,” Kalami said to Sakra. For a moment he was lost in his dreams for his future and his people. He did not see his daughter turned toward the prisoners, watching, listening. “We cannot permit Hastinapura to stroll north and take all it wants, can we? We must understand their minds and their magics. We must talk for a very long time, you and I.”
“His name. He was a man,” hissed Bridget urgently. “What is his name?”
“Xuan, Minister of Fire …”
“No,” whispered a small voice in the language of Hung-Tse. “Seong. His name was Seong.”
“Anna!” Kalami’s hand came down hard and heavy upon her shoulder. “I have told you what that woman is, you will not speak to her. I will not let her lie to you anymore.”
“Kalami.” The Holy Father lifted his head to the stars and the waning quarter moon. “This is the time that was foreseen. Now you will call the Firebird. Now it will all begin.”
“Watch, Anna,” said Kalami, his smooth, light voice shaking with eagerness. “See again what power you are to be heir to.”
The old man, the Holy Father, picked up Mae Shan’s spear, and grinning like a monkey, he hunched down between Mae Shan and Anna.
“Do not mistake me, soldier,” he said softly. “This place is my place, my power is here. It has been my place for hundreds of years. I am faster here than you, and far, far more deadly. Try to reach the girl and you will die, and the one beside you will die. Our daughter is more valuable than either of you.”
“The glass is beautiful,” said Sakra, conversationally. “Your people can indeed work miracles.”
“We will again.” The Holy Father grinned. “We will be whole again and we will rebuild.”
Kalami was laying the gold ore into the crucible fire. Bridget was watching Anna watching her. Light flickered over her face as if over polished marble.
“But glass is fragile. There is much it cannot endure,” Sakra went on. “Sudden heat, then sudden cold, it may shatter like a dream of the future.”
“This is no dream, Southerner,” hissed the old man. Beyond him, Anna stared at her parents, her glimmering father, her stony mother. “I have seen what will be. I have nurtured it and readied it. I knew all would be as it is now. I did not even mourn the death of my most loyal son, for I knew he would return to me as he is now, to finish what was begun.”
Sakra shook his head slowly, without ever taking his gaze off the madman. “Visions show what may be. Visions change. Visions break like hot glass plunged into snow.”
The old man sat back, laying the spear across his bony knees. “Your words are meaningless, Southerner. They are without power or shape, but they may distract. You will be silent now.”
Sakra closed his mouth.
“Mae Shan,” Kalami called her name. “Come here.”
Mae Shan, feeling detached from herself as her thoughts swirled into fresh understanding, stood and walked to the crucible. The heat was great, breaking out fresh sweat on her forehead. Bridget too dripped in perspiration, but hers was mixed with tears of anger, Mae Shan had no doubt. She tried to catch Bridget’s eye.
Did you hear? Did you?
“Hold out your arm.”
Mae Shan thought she knew what was coming, but she was unprepared for the swiftness and the brutality of it. The black knife slashed out, cutting through layers of cloth as if they weren’t there and down deep into the flesh of her forearm. Blood poured forth, spilling onto the fire and the melting gold, pumping her life out to the rhythm of her own frantic heart. The pain came a moment later and Mae Shan cried out, falling to her knees clutching the wound she knew could be fatal, and her blood flowed onto the grass, forming a stream to surround the crucible.
“You will shape the gold and the fire, Bridget Lederle, breathe deep and bring us the cage.”
The world throbbed. Mae Shan tried to tighten her sleeve around her wound, but she did not have the strength left in her hands to tie any knot. Her vision began to fail, becoming a fog of blood and pain. Overhead, she saw Bridget plunge her hands into the fire of the crucible. Was this new thrumming in the air Bridget’s power, rising to do her bidding? Bridget had a plan. Mae Shan tried to think what it could be, how she could help. She was dying. There was nothing left for her to fear either, and she was ignored, and it was her chance, her chance had come and she was too weak, too hurt.
What is his name?
Shattered, like hot glass plunged into snow.
I’m sorry, Mae Shan.
“Your time is now, my son. Declare yourself. Call the Firebird to us.”
Kalami stepped forward, his face and eyes shining with triumph. He flung his head back and raised his arms to the sky.
“Come! The fire of the earth, the fire in the stone, calls you! I, Valin Kalami, call you! You know me! Come to me!”
So much power poured through those words, even Mae Shan could feel it. It was power cold as death, power of soul and memory without reservation. Sorcerers who spent themselves too freely would die. Kalami had passed that danger and shaken it off and now had no reason to hold anything back. It felt as if he reached into the sky and beyond. Kalami who had once stood before the sacred guardian and declared he would hold it forever imprisoned for his own ends now called it to heel like a dog.
And it came.
It spread its fire overhead, blocking out the stars. Heat seared Mae Shan’s eyes and blistered her skin. It was beautiful. It was holy. Its white beak opened in a scream of rage that burned her soul as its heat burned her flesh, rocking her with fresh pain, boiling the blood that ran down her arm.
Goddess of Mercy, forgive me, forgive me. I am too weak. My understanding too small.
Then as her mind and vision swam, she saw Bridget raise up her arms. Fire ran from her as blood ran from Mae Shan, leaving only her skin, only her hands, only her will.
Kalami staggered, and the Holy Father rose up and gripped the spear. Kalami shouted and whatever he said, Bridget’s hands were forced down slowly, fighting for every inch, but still they plunged again i
nto the flames.
The Firebird spread its wings over them all, screaming in its fury, and on the ground where Mae Shan crouched, her blood ran away into the pool of stars. And there was the heat, the terrible raging heat, and Kalami shone like a god, and Mae Shan’s weakening mind thought she was back in the Heart of the World, watching it burn, and seeing Wei Lin burn and longing only for cold water.
And she knew.
The Firebird screamed its rage. Bridget shaped the gold into bars with her bare hands and trapped power, and Mae Shan staggered to her feet. With the last of her strength, she threw herself against Valin Kalami, and fell sprawling into the grass. Kalami staggered backward, and fell into the pool of stars.
Kalami shattered.
The enchanted glass burst into a thousand jagged pieces, merging with the water, and vanishing. Someone screamed over the metallic roar of the Phoenix. Maybe it was Wei Lin.
No. It was Tsan Nu leaning over Mae Shan.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t die. Don’t leave me. I’m sorry, Mae Shan.”
“Help your mother,” Mae Shan told her. It was the most important thing in the world. It was the only thing left. “Help her.”
Then she was running away, like water, like blood, running down the passages of the Heart of the World, looking for Wei Lin, and finding only darkness.
Anna watched Mae Shan’s head fall onto the grass. The Phoenix soared overhead, and she didn’t even look. The whole world had gone red, gold, and orange, and she remembered the stink of burning from before, and she couldn’t see it.
Mae Shan wasn’t moving, and she didn’t know what to do.
Anna.
It was Father. Mae Shan had broken the glass body that held him, and now his spirit was trapped again, but in the pool this time, for ghosts that died suddenly could be trapped where they were, especially by water. And he called to her.
Anna, help me.
Power ran everywhere, straining, shaping, reshaping. Mother was reaching up to the Phoenix, trying to encompass it with her power. She’d needed a name. Names were used in transformation. Was she trying to change it?
Anna, I can’t stay here. You must help me, or we’ll fail.
Father. He loved her. He’d saved her.
The seer was on his feet, screaming and waving his spear. Anna couldn’t even understand him. The Hastinapuran launched himself forward without even bothering to stand up and knocked the seer down, and the two of them rolled on the ground, wrestling for Mae Shan’s spear.
All because of Father, of what he’d done and made her do.
Remember this, the woman, Bridget, her mother, had said. Whatever happens next, remember this.
He’d cut Mae Shan’s arm. He’d held a knife to Anna’s throat. He’d told her he would have to do these things and why. He’d warned her.
Help your mother, Mae Shan said. Help her.
Mae Shan was almost dead, bloody and almost dead, lying with her own blood around her, like her uncle Lien Jinn had.
Help me, Anna!
Anna catapulted herself forward, colliding with the woman Bridget, with her mother. Too angry, too frightened, too broken-hearted to think, Anna reached. She reached outside to pull the magic down, and there was so much, she could have suffocated in it, but she held, and she rode the current of it, shaping it by wish and need, with fire and air and love. She wrapped her arms around Bridget, and poured the torrent of her magic into this stranger, her mother, her only hope to save her friend.
Stop him, stop him. Don’t let him kill Mae Shan!
Bridget reached out, catching up the tides of magic, the generations of life and death, hope, fear, breath, and stillness. The cup of her soul filled and strained and cried out from the pain of such power. She could not grasp it all. She had no choice. She must hold, must shape, must weave the pattern of nothing more than air and will. She must call the fire down.
Her body’s eyes were blind. There was too much fire. She could not see. But her mind’s eye, her second sight, saw the Firebird, wailing aloud for vengeance and betrayal.
She tried to fling the net of her will around it, but it withered and fell before the strength of the fire.
It’s too strong, too huge. I’m not strong enough.
Fear broke Bridget’s nerve and let the power spill out useless and unformed and she felt the terror of death. But then, something caught at her. Thin arms wrapped tight around her waist, and power, bright, vivid, strong, and frantic, poured into her, launching her spirit high, catching her up, ordering her to try, try, keep trying. She must. She must do this thing. She must live. She must save Mae Shan.
Anna. She must save Anna, and she knew what was happening. Her daughter had made her choice, and was now loaning Bridget all the power she had to give so Bridget could save her friend.
The knowledge of Anna beside her gave the final strength she needed. With her soul, her hands and vision, and all the magic that filled them she reached out into the living fire. The guardian screamed in pain, and Bridget echoed that scream, but she closed her will and spirit around the heart of the Firebird. She felt it beat, she felt it burn. It was wildness, it was vengeance, and yet, and yet …
Inside, at the core, there was a place that was still cool, a place that was lost and lonely and tired. Bridget bolstered by her daughter, reached to that single cool place amid conflagration of the Firebird heart.
I am here to bring you home, she tried to say. I am here to bring you to safety.
She cupped herself around the coolness and felt it tremble.
Now, Anna. Pull.
She felt her daughter tremble, but she also felt her call out, and she pulled. Slowly, as if she were a great weight, instead of a thing of air and fear, Bridget felt herself slip away from the fire. The cool spark, the essence she held struggled. It cried out. Bridget tightened herself around it. Anna’s pull faltered.
I bring you freedom. Freedom!
But the essence cried out in its fear and lunged against her. The shell of will that was Bridget cracked.
Anna!
Anna pulled. Bridget clamped herself tight against the essence of the Firebird heart with the last of her strength. The fire burned through her, seeking what she stole, but Bridget began to shape the essence. She drew on the fire that surrounded her. The flames felt soft as clay under her hands. She made two arms, a trunk, two legs, a man’s head. She indented hollows for eyes. She drew out a nose and ears.
Remember, she willed the cool spark at its center. You once wore this shape. Remember.
Her second sight showed her the man. He was small and slender, he had fine hands and a long face and a snubbed nose and chin. He had thick brows and long hair worn in a queue down his back.
Remember. You were Xuan and you were Seong.
She did not understand what this meant, but Anna did, and through the power, through the will to help and hold, her knowledge came to Bridget.
You began as Seong, but you became Xuan again. Over and again, you were Xuan. You always returned to Xuan.
There were tattoos. They swirled and wove their patterns on arms, on torso, on legs and face. There were robes, as heavily woven with symbols as the flesh was colored with them. There was the life, given in sacrifice, but always sought again, always returned to.
Remember.
That is gone, wailed the Firebird. That is no more.
It is here. Remember. See. Let me show you.
She gathered the flames together, shaping them with care, hands obeying the vision before her mind’s eye. Pain made her weak, but need held her to her work. To lose this was to lose life, to lose Anna, to lose Sakra, to lose herself. No. Not again.
Remember. It is here. I’ll how you.
And Anna pulled and Bridget held, and slowly, the flames shrank from around them and solidified. Cooled by the human heart that was still within the guardian, and became flesh. Painfully, Bridget felt her heart beat, her lungs stir. Slowly, she found the eyes of her own body again, and was a
ble to will them to open. She looked into the dark eyes of a stranger in robes of red and orange with the Firebird, harmless in gold thread, embroidered across them.
She fainted at his feet before the pain could reach her.
Chapter Twenty-three
The Vixen stalked toward the sacred grove, she paused, one foot raised, ears turned forward. Nothing moved. Seemingly relaxed, she trotted forward, pausing to nose around the bases of the scarlet trees, taking in the scents of the past and the future.
The grass did not even rustle beneath her feet as she came to the aftermath. Human bodies lay scattered in every direction. The child collapsed against her mother. Before them huddled Xuan, the Minister of Fire, small, middle-aged, and merely human once more. The woman soldier lay sprawled beside the rainwater pool, staining its waters red with her blood. The two sorcerers, one old, one young, fell side by side, the younger still with his hands on the shaft where it protruded from the chest of the elder.
The spring wind blew. The Vixen sneezed. “Dear me,” she murmured to herself. “How very untidy.”
Picking her way between the fallen humans, the Vixen walked up to the edge of the pool. She paused once, briefly to breathe across Bridget Lederle’s face, and once to lap at Mae Shan’s wounded arm. She sat down by the edge of the pool, and scratched her chin with her hind foot.
“Valin Kalami,” she said. “I think you had better come out of there.”
The ghost rose from the pool of night, naked and shivering with the cold and fear of his second death.
“No!” he wailed when he saw her and her fangs and hungry eyes. “No! You have no more claim on me!”
“Nor has she.”
The Vixen cocked her head, baring her fangs as she did. Behind her, Baba Yaga leaned on her pestle, her two great mastiffs at her sides.
“You are wrong,” the Vixen flattened her ears against her skull. “He shed the blood of my children, there is no renouncing that claim.”
