The Usurper's Crown

by Sarah Zettel

  But the mirror drank in the blood until every trace of red was lost.

  Avanasy’s soul plummeted. Medeoan raised her face to his, and her skin had gone paper white. He saw the flash of triumph in Kacha’s eyes, his scars standing out very white against his dark skin, and Avanasy knew like a sickness in him that he was lost, and that the fault for the loss was his own. He had grossly, stupidly, fatally underestimated how well Kacha’s father had prepared his son for the role he was to play.

  “Get out.” Medeoan’s voice shook with her fury. “I ban you, I banish you. If I find you within my country again, you will be killed!”

  “Medeoan …”

  “Do not speak my name! Be grateful I do not have you killed here and now for the traitor you are! Get out!”

  As the memory of her cry made its echoes in his mind, Avanasy made himself watch Medeoan, trembling with excitement, complete the journey to her waiting husband. Part of him mused that this voyeurism must be his own punishment for his arrogance. This was how he sought to deepen his own guilt and at the same time justify his fatal boldness.

  And it is just as useless. He watched the court, resplendent in its golds, silks, and velvets, reverence, bowing deeply from the waist with their hands crossed upon their breasts.

  Medeoan will not yield.

  Those words had been spoken by Edemsko, the emperor of Isavalta. Medeoan’s father, relieved that his only living child had finally ceased to sigh against the burdens her birth had placed on her. Avanasy had felt a traitor going to the emperor in private to ask that Medeoan’s order of exile be rescinded. But how could he not? Now that he had seen the depth to which Kacha had laid his plans, how could he abandon her? So, he had finally managed to work his way past Iakush, the lord sorcerer, and gained audience with Medeoan’s father to lay all his suspicions before the emperor.

  But Emperor Edemsko was not one of those who believed the heir to the throne should be kept from power. Medeoan had never been supposed to be the heir. Her older brothers had been stout princes, but one had been thrown from his horse into a freezing canal, and the other had succumbed to fever, leaving only Medeoan to take up the burden. No effort of the court sorcerers could produce another living child from the empress’s womb. So, from her youth, the emperor forced Medeoan to attend council sessions. He had insisted she have practice in direct governance, knowing that she would rule when he was gone. Now that she had seen fit to give an order of her own, he would not overrule her, even when that order was to exile the teacher the emperor had chosen for her.

  Avanasy watched Keeper Bakhar gesture with one strong hand so that the court could rise and watch as he placed Kacha’s mismatched hands into Medeoan’s fair ones.

  No, he said in the silence of his own mind. No, Medeoan. Stop. His eyes turned involuntarily to the emperor and empress. They sat on their thrones on the dais behind the keeper, laden with pride, sphere, scepter and crown. They glittered more brightly than even the gods. Today, the royal regalia seemed no burden as they watched their daughter tilt her happy face toward her husband. No doubt, they were blessing fortune that political necessity could be married to happiness. Isavalta, fledgling Isavalta, Isavalta called eternal but really just a babe in its new borders, would be safe now. This union, this happy union, would assure it. There were plenty of other sorcerers at court. Kacha would be well watched, by them, and by the emperor’s own informants. Were it true that Medeoan was in danger, it would be seen well before any plan could be completed. Such a discovery might even be useful during future negotiations with the Pearl Throne of Hastinapura.

  “Now I do call on those all here assembled to bear witness.” Medeoan’s voice rang strong and clear through the god house. “High Princess Medeoan Edemskoidoch Nacheradavosh being well pleased with the form and the offerings of Kacha tya Achin Ejunlinjapad do take his hands under the watchful eyes of Vyshko and Vyshemir, now and forever, as husband and consort, as Beloved Prince before the Pearl Throne of Hastinapura and High Prince of Eternal Isavalta.”

  “Let Vyshko and Vyshemir hear,” intoned Keeper Bakhar. “Let all pray to Vyshko and Vyshemir for their aid and blessing.”

  Avanasy closed his eyes. He did not want to see the contentment glowing on Medeoan’s face. He did not want to see the satisfaction of her parents.

  Stop this. Stop her, he prayed, but whether he prayed to her mortal parents or immortal ones, he did not himself know.

  But no word broke the holy silence. There was only the rustle of cloth, the occasional sigh, and one badly suppressed cough. If the gods watched, they watched in silence.

  “It is done, Avanasy,” said a quiet voice in Avanasy’s ear.

  Avanasy stiffened. Slowly, refusing to betray any fear, he straightened and turned around. Behind him stood Captain Peshek Pachalkasyn Ursulvin, fresh and stern in his best uniform coat. Peshek’s breastplate had been so brightly polished that Avanasy could see his own comical look of surprise in its surface. He gripped his poleax in one hand, and carried a bundle of cloth in the other.

  No words came to Avanasy, so he just spread his hands. In response, Peshek shook his head.

  “Our good keeper thought you might need help getting out of here today.” He pressed the bundle into Avanasy’s hands. “Put this on.”

  The bundle proved to be a guard’s coat and helmet. Through the door, Avanasy heard Keeper Bakhar speaking again, extolling all the duties of a virtuous consort toward their sovereign. To be strong, to be constant, to bend mind and skill to the service of the sovereign, who in turn would shape them to work for the good of Eternal Isavalta.

  Yet, the solemn, celebratory words said to Avanasy only that all was done. No one mortal or divine had seen fit to intervene.

  “You will be much more use to all of us alive,” said Peshek earnestly. “You have friends enough, Avanasy. There are plenty among the high families who do not trust this treaty with Hastinapura. You can be well hidden.”

  Avanasy shook his head. “No. This is my fault. I accept my punishment.” He slung the coat on over his plain kaftan and pantaloons. Its hems brushed the top of his boots, hiding his everyday clothes. The helmet shadowed his face, and Peshek passed him the pike to complete the hasty disguise.

  “At least I will know you are alive somewhere, then,” muttered Peshek. “Before, you simply made a mistake. Now, you’re playing the fool.”

  As ever, there was too much truth in Peshek’s words. “Then let me play my role as I see fit.”

  Peshek let out a derisive snort, but said nothing else. He held silent even as Avanasy turned back to his spy hole in the door and made himself look on Medeoan, his student, his responsibility, his sovereign, and his judge, one last time. A cluster of rose petals had fallen from her crown and lay like a puddle of blood beside the hem of her wedding gown. An omen? Avanasy did not know whether to wish it was so, or that it was not so. He only knew that he could stay no longer. Peshek, as he had been so many times before, was right in this. He should already have been gone, but he could not bear to leave while any hope remained. But now the choir raised its voice in song, and Medeoan stood on tiptoe to kiss Kacha full and warmly on the mouth. Now there would be prayers and more exhortations. Hours of ceremony were yet to come, and none of it meant anything. Medeoan had spoken her acceptance, and that was what mattered before the law and the gods.

  Avanasy turned and nodded to Peshek. Peshek rolled his eyes heavenward to say finally, but no word passed his lips. He simply lead Avanasy through the vestry, silently opening the side door to the library and striding through. Peshek carried the authority of the House Guard in his straight back and measured gait. No door could be closed to him, especially today when it was so important that the palace be absolutely secure. Avanasy made himself copy Peshek’s demeanor.

  The library with its long walls of books and windows was deserted. Indeed, the whole palace was still. In the courtyard, the patrols of the house guard stood at attention. Even the servants had paused in their preparation of
the feast so that their minds could be occupied in prayer and thanksgiving for the wedding they were not allowed to witness because there was no room left in the god house. None would stir until the bells rang. None but himself and Peshek, who would die as surely as Avanasy would if they were caught now. The realization that Peshek’s safety hung in the balance put speed into Avanasy’s steps. If he should die, that was one thing, but Peshek was loyal to Medeoan and Isavalta, and she was going to need such loyalty.

  Outside, the spring sun was warm, but the breezes were chill. For all it was beginning to deck itself out in green and blossomed finery, the world still remembered winter. The canal that flowed past the marble steps of the palace had thawed, however, and it had been a full two weeks since word had come to him that the ice on the great river had cleared. That was all that mattered. He could leave now, leave eternal Isavalta, leave the world and sail for the shores that waited beyond the Land of Death and Spirit. There he would never have to hear the name of Medeoan spoken. There, only memory would speak of how she had turned on him, or how he had failed her, and memory would fade.

  Chapter One

  Sand Island, Wisconsin, 1872

  The bed frame creaked, and Ingrid Loftfield instantly opened her eyes. Moonlight streamed in through the mended curtains, laying a silver skin across the room’s sparse furnishings. It was more than enough to show Ingrid the silhouette of her sister Grace climbing out of their sagging bed. Unblinking, Grace rounded the bed’s foot. Ingrid held her breath. Grace’s hand strayed out to pick up her knitted shawl from where it hung on the post, but her eyes did not turn to see what her hand did. All her attention remained fixed on the bedroom door as she padded across the bare boards and out into the hall.

  Ingrid kicked back the quilt and jumped to her feet. She pulled off her nightgown to reveal her dark skirt and work shirt. Her jaw firmly set, she bent down to stuff her feet into her worn boots.

  Tonight she would find out what ailed her sister.

  “She just wants a good shaking,” their brother Leo had announced.

  “You’re too free with the girl.” Papa had glowered at Mama. “You should not let her go galloping across to Bayfield whenever she pleases. It’s some man, you see if it isn’t.”

  “You must watch her, Ingrid,” Mama had whispered in the back kitchen as she banked the fire for the night. “The Devil’s finally got to her.”

  Devil or man, I will have my answer. Stepping as lightly as she could, Ingrid followed Grace into the hallway. Her sister was already down the stairs. Grace did not look back once as she slipped soundlessly out the front door.

  Ingrid herself was halfway down the stairs. A floorboard creaked behind her. Ingrid twisted to see back over her shoulder. Her mother stood at the top of the stairs, a candle in her hand, and her face pale with some emotion Ingrid found she could not name.

  “What is it, Mother?” she heard Papa’s gravelly voice call.

  “Nothing,” Mama called back. “Nothing at all.”

  Ingrid swallowed hard, and hurried out after her sister into the chill of the late-spring night. The brisk wind smelled of pine resin and the ever-present cold of Lake Superior. Grace all but flew down the footpath toward the rutted track that served as Eastbay’s main road. Gathering up her hems, Ingrid followed, her teeth gritted until they ached.

  Tonight we put a stop to this.

  The settlement of Eastbay popped up here and there out of Sand Island’s wilderness like a cluster of spring mushrooms. It called itself a town, but it was little more than a scattering of dwellings connected by meandering dirt paths. Despite the fat, full moon that lit the night, the houses seemed blind and distant. Even the forge squatted darkly back in the woods. The trees loomed large and all the night noises — the rustling, hooting, rushing sounds — filled in all the empty spaces, leaving Ingrid with the unaccustomed sensation of being a trespasser. This is not your place, the whole world seemed to say to her. Go back to your bed until the daylight comes. Leave her to us.

  But Grace hurried on before her, a pale ghost in her flannel nightdress, and Ingrid could not even think of turning back. Mama was trusting her to find out what was happening, and to do it quickly. If Papa found out Grace had gone out of sight of the house, unaccompanied, at night, Grace’s life would be made unbearable, whatever the reason turned out to be.

  Grace’s illness had begun in May, just as the island’s short, late, spring was beginning to warm toward summer. Grace had been across on the mainland in Bayfield, earning a little extra by doing for Mrs. Hofstetter who had just been delivered of twins. Papa had objected to her going, but Grace had just faced him with her sunny smile and said — “Well, Papa, you can lock me in the shed if you choose, but unless you do, I’m going.”

  Grace could do that. Grace could smile, and laugh, and glide her way through any storm of shouts or tears. Sometimes it was maddening, but most of the time Ingrid clung to her sister like a sailor clinging to a lifeline. She willingly shouldered Grace’s share of the work around house and field so that Grace might go to Bayfield. So that Grace might keep that easy smile.

  Then, a squall had come up, suddenly, as they would in the spring, and Everett Lederle had burst into the back kitchen to tell Ingrid he had seen a great, gray wave swamp the small tug carrying Grace back home.

  Ingrid had run then too, her skirts hiked about her knees so she could keep pace with her father and brother, sprinting through the driving rain down to the bay to help launch the boats and bend her back to row against the waves toward where the tug had last been sighted.

  Lake Superior was the provider for everyone on the island, but it was also their collective enemy. No one would be left to its mercy while there was any chance she might be saved.

  They pulled Frank and Todd Johanssen out of the frigid, grasping waters, but although they strained their eyes and shouted until their voices were hoarse, there was no sign of Grace.

  Ingrid was blind with tears and rain when her father ordered them back to shore. Shaking, she’d climbed over the gunwale onto the sand, brushing aside all the hands that reached out to help. She would have to be steady when they told the little ones. Fiercely, she’d knuckled the water from her eyes, just in time to see a white shape burst from the gray lake. Leo saw it as well and threw himself into the water, grasping Grace by her shoulders before she could disappear beneath the surface again. Amid the cheers of their neighbors, Leo had dragged Grace shivering to the shore. Coats and oilskins had been thrown over her, and her family had led her home to a bright fire and a warm, dry bed.

  She’d been sick for a time after that, to no one’s surprise. Mama had tended her with mustard baths for her feet and strong tea for her stomach. After three weeks, though, Papa began to ask what could possibly still ail the girl, and Mama urged Grace to come to the breakfast table. Leo and Papa frowned, sure she must be better by now, and equally sure she was lazing. But Ingrid looked at Grace’s pale cheeks, and saw how listlessly she picked at her porridge, and Ingrid knew in the depth of her heart something was still wrong.

  The color in Grace’s cheeks did not return, nor did the saucy light that used to dance in her eyes. Instead, her skin remained as white as if she had just been pulled from the lake. If left to herself, she would stand at the front window gazing across the tiny, weed-choked yard. Mama or Ingrid could nag or cajole her into lending a hand with the work, but they found they had to keep a sharp eye on her, or her mind would drift and the copper tub for the laundry would be overturned, or on baking day the fire would be built so unevenly the loaves came out charred lumps.

  “What is the matter with you, Grace?” Ingrid finally demanded in exasperation.

  “I don’t know,” said Grace, tears brimming in her dimmed eyes. “I don’t know.”

  Ingrid hugged her sister hard then, and let the matter drop.

  After another two weeks of this, over even Papa’s grim objections, Mama summoned the doctor from Bayfield. He could find no crack in Grace’s sku
ll, nor any irregularity in her eyes, heart, or breath. Nor did he find what Ingrid suspected was the greatest fear — that Grace was with child. He simply counseled patience and packed up his black bag.

  But that same night, Grace began walking in her sleep. They found her first in the front room, kneeling on the horsehair settee and staring out the window. On the next night, she was standing in the front yard, staring hungrily at the closed gate. On the next, she was halfway down the track toward the bay, for all that Mama had locked and barred the doors for the night. When they questioned Grace afterward, she could give no answer, no hint of a reason for her behavior. In fact, she stopped talking at all. During the day, she would not get out of bed unless lifted bodily. She would not eat. Only Ingrid sleeping in a chair before the front door kept her inside at night.

  It was desperation that had made Ingrid decide to follow Grace instead of barring her way tonight. Papa was talking about sending Grace away, and Mama’s tears told Ingrid that she would wail about such action, but she would not stop it. Mama’s tears only came when she was not going to take any other step.

  Now, the darkness itself seemed to part for Grace’s effortless, hurrying feet. All the purpose that had drained from her during the daylight had returned and even when she took a sharp right turn off the road, her gait was sure and unhesitating. Ingrid was left to stump behind her, blessing the full moon and cursing the brambles and tree branches snatching at her hems and elbows.

  Where are you going? Ingrid thought, torn between frustration at her sister’s silent purpose, and fear that her noise would wake Grace from her trance at any moment. If Grace woke, she might simply return to her stupor, leaving Ingrid still without answers. Much farther and you’ll be in the lake.

  Indeed, the shore was in sight. Lake Superior spread out black and silver below the gentle rise which Grace had climbed. Ingrid ducked behind a wild blueberry bush, catching her breath and narrowing her eyes suspiciously. Grace, if this truly is because you are meeting some fisherman, it’s not Leo you’ll be getting your shaking from.