The Usurper's Crown

by Sarah Zettel

  “Yes, Captain?” Medeoan rested her fingertips on the reading table, as if she might need to steady herself.

  Peshek ventured a glance toward her face, but quickly recovered his discipline and dropped his gaze again. “You may also trust Keeper Bakhar. He too is a friend of Lord Avanasy’s.”

  Bakhar. Thank goodness. I don’t know if I could bear it if the attendant of the gods turned against me.

  A thought struck her. Peshek would be a great help, but he could not provide all she needed. Nor could Keeper Bakhar. There would have to be a third. “What of the lord sorcerer?”

  Captain Peshek shifted his weight. “Understand, Majesty, I am only a soldier, an unimportant member of the guard …”

  “I understand, Captain.” Medeoan felt tired. She did not want to have to ask these questions.

  “I do know Keeper Bakhar believes him to be loyal to you,” finished Peshek quickly.

  “Thank you, Captain,” she said again, and again he reverenced. This time, however, he turned smartly on his heel and left, as protocol dictated.

  Just this once, let me have judged a man rightly. Medeoan bowed her head. I cannot do this alone.

  Two days. Only two days, and yet all of two days. It was just one more space of time to endure, she tried to tell herself. She had endured more and for longer than this, playing her part as required. She could do anything for just two days.

  Kacha held himself still while his waiting gentlemen stripped the heavy Isavaltan finery from him, replacing it with a linen nightshirt and a plain, if voluminous, indigo velvet robe. The formal reception and subsequent feast for the new ambassador had lasted until well after dark, but he was not yet tired, which was just as well. There was more work to be done tonight.

  On the whole, the reception had gone well. As Yamuna had predicted, Uncle Samudra had sent Girilal to act as the new ambassador. Girilal was a concession to old wounds at court, as he was known to have disapproved of the disruption of the succession Samudra had initiated. This disapproval could be worked on much more easily than Tanmay’s loyalties. It had been a constant struggle to keep Tanmay from realizing that Harshul, Kacha’s bound-sorcerer and Uncle Samudra’s spy, had not reached Isavalta alive. That was not a report which could be permitted to reach the Pearl Throne.

  Soon Kacha would find time to be alone with Girilal. He would make the new ambassador understand the situation here in Isavalta, and show him all the benefit his plans would bring to Hastinapura, including restoring the rightful line of succession. Ambassador Girilal would see the truth, and Kacha felt sure it would not take him long to do so.

  Despite Kacha’s confidence in his new ambassador, worry still gnawed at him. Medeoan had been too quiet, too with-drawn, this evening, as if she had something on her mind. But she had confided nothing to him. He must have this matter, whatever it might be, out of her soon. If she was ceasing to speak her whole mind to him, it might be the first sign she was slipping from his control, as Yamuna had said she might. If that were so, he would need to make use of the artifact Yamuna’s magic and his bribery had ferreted out. The best time for that would be during the change of households, a time at which the empress could become ill for so many different reasons, and during which the fewest number of people would have their eyes on her.

  It must be done, Yamuna’s voice had whispered to him. It is better that it be done sooner. You have done well in cementing your alliances, my prince. The lies are in place, and her power wanes. It is better it be done before she realizes what she has lost and struggles to regain it.

  Kacha waved his man away and tied the sash on his night robe himself. He did not wish to dispute Yamuna, who had been so right about so much, but Kacha wondered if Yamuna realized how frequently the rulers of Isavalta appeared in the public eye. Matters here were not as they were at home, where that which was most precious was most carefully concealed and protected. Here, the reasons for the empress remaining confined were far fewer and would be examined much more closely. Here, many different sorcerers would be working to find the cure for any “illness” which struck, as opposed to just one bound-sorcerer. Kacha was not certain Yamuna believed how close they had come to failure with the old emperor and empress. The court sorcerers and Medeoan had almost saved them, even at the bitter end. He had felt Yamuna’s workings strain to hold against all the efforts of the Isavaltan magicians.

  They would have to tread very carefully with Medeoan, and haste would only make the path more difficult to navigate.

  Kacha turned to his manservant. “I’ve a mind to visit my lady wife. You may retire. I doubt your services will be required again tonight.”

  The man was, of course, far too disciplined to so much as smile at that. He bowed low with his palms over his eyes, following the custom of Hastinapura. Kacha touched the man’s head as he passed, giving his approval with that gesture for the man, and the other servants, to be about their business. He crossed the cold, stone apartment to the connecting door, knocked once and entered his wife’s chamber.

  The flock of ladies surrounding Medeoan was on its feet and performing deeply respectful reverences as soon as he appeared. Medeoan herself sat by the fire, her head bent and her hand busy at some task he could not see. She did not look up as he entered.

  “Beloved?” he inquired, as he moved softly forward. The worry that had touched him earlier drew closer.

  Then, he felt the tingling in his right hand, and behind his right eye. Fear settled over him. Whatever Medeoan did, there was magic to it. She sat deep in concentration over some spell. As he approached, he could see she worked with a pair of weaving cards; thin, square pieces of wood with holes in their corners through which threads could be strung to make a small hand loom. The threads in question were very fine and glittered silver and gold in the firelight. As her hands manipulated the threads, her breath labored in her throat. This working was taking its toll on her strength.

  What are you doing, Medeoan? thought Kacha as he sank into the chair beside her. The ladies, receiving no orders, rose from their reverences and set to the night’s business of readying their mistress’s bed. Kacha caught the lady Chekhania’s eye, questioning. She replied with a small shake of her head. Whatever Medeoan did, his best spy among the ladies knew nothing of it.

  Medeoan must have become aware of his presence because her breathing gradually eased, as did the uncomfortable tingling in Kacha’s hand and eye. At last, her hands stilled their weaving and she lowered her work, looking up to smile at him.

  “Forgive me, beloved,” she said, dabbing at the sheen of perspiration that covered her brow. “I am at a working here.”

  “I guessed as much.” Kacha leaned close. His right hand twitched. She was weaving a golden band, about an inch across, shot through with silver. “What is this you are making, beloved?”

  “Remember how I said I was thinking about how to be more certain of the loyalties of the lords master?” Medeoan fingered her work. She had not even completed four inches of whatever it was she labored over. “When it is done, this will be a girdle which will help us in those determinations.”

  “Really?” Kacha felt a stab of foreboding in the back of his right eye. “How will it work?”

  “At midsummer, when the new appointments are named, the loyalty oaths are renewed. We will declare that each lord master who takes the oath must wear the girdle as he does.” Medeoan touched the piece of weaving again, as if to check for flaws. “If one is not sincere, the girdle will slip off his waist.” Her smile grew arch. “Am I not clever? Is it not a good notion?”

  Clever enough to be truly dangerous, if only you knew it. “An excellent notion, beloved,” he said, both surprised and pleased that she should have thought of such a thing. “But will not such an open display of your power make your lords master nervous? You have said to me that they are not pleased at the thought they will be ruled over by a sorcerer.”

  “They are not pleased that they will be ruled over by a man of Hastinapura
either.” An unfamiliar note crept into Medeoan’s voice. For a moment, she sounded fierce. “But that is who has been set over them, and we must make sure that they know we are secure in our rule, and that there is no deceiving us.”

  Kacha found himself answering her smile easily. Perhaps his earlier fears had been unfounded. That would be as well. Despite Yamuna’s counsel of the need to hold her harmless, having Medeoan whole and articulate at his side would cause much less gossip and speculation than having her mute and bewildered. “The midsummer appointments will thus allow us to take even better measure of our allies than I had thought.”

  “Yes. No one will be able to hide from us,” she said firmly, laying her hand over his. “You always know what to say. You will be able to find us some way to explain this so the lords master will not be too disturbed.”

  “I will set my mind to it,” he assured her, stroking her arm lightly. “But it is late. Shall we go to bed, you and I? We could discuss that, and many other things.”

  Medeoan sighed and rubbed her eyes. “You must forgive me, beloved. This is a difficult sorcery. It will leave me profoundly weary. I wish to have it finished before we leave for Vaknevos, so that I am not overtaxed and a nuisance on the journey.” She shook her head ruefully. “And if I am too often absent before the day itself, there will be talk we do not want.”

  “All of this is well thought of. I will leave you to your work.” Kacha stood, and a new possibility occurred to him. “Shall I make your excuses to the ambassador tomorrow?”

  At that, Medeoan looked deeply relieved. “Yes. Please. I am sure you can open whatever negotiations are required.”

  Excellent, thought Kacha to himself. This would mean he could easily interview Girilal in private, and ascertain how best to approach him concerning the ultimate plans for Isavalta.

  And perhaps now would be a good time to return to another matter.

  “Beloved,” he said, letting his fingertips linger over hers. “While you are of mind to discuss the security of our rule, I would ask if you have reconsidered recalling Avanasy.”

  Medeoan turned her face away, her cheeks turning red. “Do you still believe …”

  “I believe that while he is alive, he is a danger to you, my love. He knows your powers so well, he held your confidence for so long … who can say what he is doing with that knowledge? Beloved …” He touched her cheek, turning her back toward him. Her eyes were damp and her mouth was set in an unusually stern line. “It is only when he is secured under the hand of those we know are loyal that you will be safe from him.”

  And only when he is dead we will truly be sure of him, added Kacha to himself.

  Medeoan took his hand, pressing it against her cheek. “Very well, husband,” she whispered.

  Kacha smiled broadly and drew her to him, kissing her long and deeply. She clung to him with the desperate strength that possessed her when she gave in to him on some matter that pained her.

  He disengaged her gently, keeping hold of both her hands. “Shall I give the orders?” he asked gently.

  She shook her head. “I will see to it. This was my doing, let mine be the undoing.”

  “I am as one of your guard.” Kacha rose and gave her a soldier’s reverence. “I live only to serve you.”

  “I thought you lived to love me.” Medeoan pushed out her lower lip petulantly.

  Knowing his part well, Kacha kissed that lip. “That as well. I shall seek my lonely bed this night, and let you get on with your good work.” He kissed her forehead for good measure, and left.

  So, wife, you have bought yourself some time. Kacha paused by the door and looked back at Medeoan, who had already reclaimed her weaving. And you have bought it for me as well. I thank you for both.

  But watch her, cautioned the voice that never seemed to leave the back of his mind. Now more than ever, watch her closely. That girdle she weaves might be used as easily against you as against any.

  I’ve thought of that, answered Kacha silently. It could also easily be taken from her to be my own tool when I bind her thoughts forever.

  In the morning, the household of Vyshtavos began in earnest to prepare itself for the annual move to the summer palace. Legions of scullions and house servants were loaded onto wagons under the watchful eye of the aides to the Mistress of the House. They were then sent to assist the workers already there in opening and preparing Vaknevos. Half of Medeoan’s ladies and half of Kacha’s gentlemen were sent ahead in barges to make sure the imperial needs would be met without awkwardness or delay once the move was completed. Those who remained were doubly busy, not only in seeing to their masters, but in supervising the organizing and packing necessary for removing the imperial couple to the summer palace, and for securing the belongings, furnishings and necessaries that must be left behind over the summer.

  Dispatches had to be written, inventories had to be reviewed, orders and letters had to be conveyed to various parties. There was almost none among the council and the high household who did not need to be spoken to.

  A thing Medeoan was counting on. She was being watched, she was sure of it. Even when Kacha left her side to attend his own duties, she felt eyes staring at the back of her neck, reading over her shoulder, straining to catch every nuance of her work.

  Could he tell what she truly did? Could Yamuna’s hand and Yamuna’s eye discern so much?

  I am only tired, she tried to tell herself. The working has been hard and slow, and that is what has me worried.

  The girdle was complete and lay in the basket with her sewing. Fatigue weighed Medeoan down. She had slept for only a handful of hours during the past two days, and it was only the thrumming of her nerves that kept her moving.

  She had brought her entourage out onto the banks of the canal this morning by declaring that she and her ladies required some fresh air after all their time shut up indoors like bees trapped in their hive. Now, they sat in the willow grove, underneath the canopy that had been set up for them, their sewing on their laps and plates of white breads and fresh fruits before them. The birds sang and the wind blew fresh and strong across the grasses bringing them all the scents of early summer, and Medeoan could enjoy none of it.

  Where is Peshek? she kept thinking as she stared at the linen in her lap. Where is he?

  Unable to sit still any longer, Medeoan rose and began to stroll as calmly as she was able down the bank. The shadows of the willows played across her skin. Chekhania followed behind her in decorous silence. Beyond hearing the rustle of her skirts and her footsteps on the grass, Medeoan felt her there. She was watching Medeoan carefully, surely looking for something to report to Kacha.

  Medeoan clenched her fists. She could not permit these fears to take over her mind. She had to be able to think clearly. She needed all her wits about her for tomorrow.

  “Mistress?” said Chekhania.

  Medeoan turned, and as she did, she saw Captain Peshek walking across the lawn with a thin, gray girl beside him.

  “Chekhania,” said Medeoan, despite her mouth becoming suddenly dry. “Bring me my basket.”

  “Mistress.” Chekhania reverenced and hurried to do as she was bid. Medeoan did not watch her. She kept her gaze on Peshek, and on the young woman whom he brought with him.

  That she was not a true Isavaltan was the first thing that Medeoan saw. Her hair, where it showed under her headscarf, was coal black, as were her almond-shaped eyes. Her nose was long and straight and her skin had a dusky overtones. Peshek had brought Medeoan a Tuukosov, a native of Tuukos, the dark island in the northern sea. That was well considered. The Tuukosov had few friends in Isavalta, so this girl would be missed less than even the lowest scullion of mainland birth.

  “Drab” was a good term for the girl. She was bone-thin and the sleeves of her gray shirt had been rolled up to expose knobby wrists and elbows. Her headscarf had once been brightly and elaborately embroidered, but the colors had faded from many washings, and a number of threads had come loose, spoiling th
e symmetry of the design.

  Peshek had a hand on the girl’s shoulder for reassurance, but she trembled like a leaf in the wind. She stared mutely at Medeoan for a moment, and then recovered herself enough to drop to her knees.

  “You may stand,” said Medeoan as gently as she could.

  The girl, eyes wide with terror, looked at Peshek. In turn, Peshek took her hand, lifted the girl to her feet. He had left his helmet behind for this duty, and for the first time Medeoan got a look at his full face and was surprised at how handsome he truly was. Surely, he had charmed this girl into coming with him.

  “What is your name?” Medeoan asked.

  Again, the girl stared at Peshek, who nodded and gestured for her to speak.

  “Eliisa Hahl,” the girl stammered. The name told Medeoan nothing. Had Eliisa been Isavaltan, her name would have said something of her heredity. But the Tuukosov took clan names instead of heredity names and kept their family histories as if they were a dangerous secret. Still, Medeoan could tell this much; this was a poor girl, possibly an illegitimate girl, and certainly one who had never before been prized for what she knew.

  Chekhania arrived with the sewing basket. Medeoan took it from her and motioned Chekhania away. The waiting lady stepped back a polite distance, but not so far, Medeoan noted, that she could not see all that occurred.

  “Now, Eliisa, your empress has a great favor to ask of you.” The words came awkwardly to Medeoan. This girl, this drab, was about her own age, and her eyes were filled with fear. The empress gripped the rough handle of the basket. “I am going to tie a girdle about your waist. It will do you no harm, but as I work, I must ask you to think of your life as it has been so far. Will you do that for me?”

  Eliisa thudded back down on to her knees, her face hidden in her hands. Medeoan looked to Peshek, and Peshek took the girl’s elbow, whispering gently in her ear. Probably he was repeating Medeoan’s promise that Eliisa would come to no harm. Of all the things she had said, Medeoan wished that one was not the lie.