The Usurper's Crown

by Sarah Zettel

  So much noise and stench and mud. So many people, and not one of them knowing or caring who she was, and only Peshek to stand between her and the whole wide world of them.

  I can’t do this. Part of her shivered. I don’t know how. She gripped the bundle tighter yet. But I will.

  As bad as this was, the first part of their journey had been worse, for they had followed the imperial canal, and Medeoan had to bow her head and shut her eyes to keep from watching the barges, bright with pennants and heavy with the members and belongings of her household, row past. What if, despite all, someone recognized her? What if one of the guards Kacha had surely called out by now spied them on the bank? Fear had wrung tears from her eyes before Peshek turned them away from the canal, and Medeoan could breathe again, if only a little.

  Now the sun was going down, and Medeoan was torn between exhaustion and a sort of wretched excitement.

  “Here, mistress,” Peshek said. “Now we shall have some relief.”

  He nodded indicating the way in front of them, and Medeoan looked up. At last, they had almost reached the city wall, and she could see the great gate standing open. A fresh breeze cut through the miasma of the city and Medeoan felt her heart lift a little.

  It sank again instantly as she saw the ranks of the house guard standing on either side of the gate. Of course, how foolish. The guards kept an eye on everyone leaving the city, as they did on all those entering. Surely they were looking out especially for her. Medeoan bowed her head and bit her lip.

  The mule, however, never slowed. A shadow passed over her, and all the noise of their fellow travelers pulled together and concentrated for a moment. Then, the shadow passed, and all the sound spread out on the wind again. Medeoan raised her head.

  They had passed through the gate. Ahead of them, the road spread out and branched. The carts and riders, the men and women under their yokes, the herders with their birds and beasts sprawled out, spilling like water from a stream into a pond.

  “That simple,” murmured Medeoan. “How can it be this simple?”

  “It isn’t, mistress,” replied Peshek, thumping the mule’s side to urge it onward at a better pace. “The Emp … your husband can hardly sound a general alarm to say to all the world you are missing. Any search for you will be done quietly, and it will be under the auspices of the commander of the House Guard, I promise you. We must take care to be in a safe house before dark.”

  “As you say.” Medeoan shivered again. The sun was still high enough to give warmth, and indeed, the city streets had been stifling, but Medeoan remained cold. The countryside rolled gently away from the city walls, cut by the arrow-straight canals with their stone bridges. Suddenly profoundly tired, she longed for the comfort and ease of water travel, but she said nothing. Peshek had seen her safe so far. She must trust him just a little farther.

  Only a few buildings dotted the landscape immediately beyond the city walls, so the lockkeeper’s house was easy to spot. It was a two-storied, clapboard structure with a steeply pitched roof waiting beside a broad stone arch of a bridge. As they approached, Medeoan could hear the rush of the water through the lock’s works.

  She must have passed the place a hundred times during her life, but she did not think she had ever truly seen it before. The house and the yard around it seemed neatly kept. The pens for the chickens and goats looked sturdy, as far as she could judge such things. The whitewash on the fence and house was fresh, and the door to the home was gaily painted red with green knots and waves over all for protection and serenity.

  As they approached the gate, a stout woman emerged, wiping her hands on her embroidered apron. Peshek halted the mule, and gestured for Medeoan to wait where she was. Accustomed now to doing as he said, Medeoan waited patiently while Peshek opened the gate and walked forward to greet the woman. They conversed for some minutes. Medeoan could hear none of it, but the woman’s gaze kept darting from Peshek to Medeoan and back again.

  At last, the stout lockkeeper’s lady gave a harsh bark of laughter at something Peshek said and shouted inside the house. A little boy, as jug-shaped as his mother, came running out. She pointed him at Medeoan, and he trotted up to take the mule’s reins while Peshek followed close behind and took Medeoan’s hand to help her down.

  “It will have to be one room, mistress,” said Peshek apologetically as he accompanied her up the dirt path to the house. “They know me well here, so I cannot claim you as a sister.”

  “Good greeting, mistress,” boomed the woman as she looked Medeoan keenly up and down. “You’ll be tired after traveling all day with this ruffian, I’ll be bound.” She cuffed Peshek affectionately. “I’ve a room ready for you to take your ease, now. Come along with me.”

  Without waiting for reply, she led them into the dim house. Medeoan had an impression of scrubbed wood, the smell of boiled vegetables and the rush of wind and water from outside. She climbed the narrow stairway that squeaked and creaked beneath her hostess. At the top, the woman stood aside and let Medeoan, followed by Peshek, enter the first room on the right.

  There was not much to see. Medeoan turned around and took in the rough, whitewashed walls, the single bed with its lumpy pallet under the rough woolen blankets, the table and chair, the hearth and the stand for the chamber pot.

  Peshek nodded to the hostess, who closed the door with a look that came very close to a leer.

  “I’m sorry, mistress,” said Peshek quickly. “If there was anything better to be had …”

  Medeoan waved her hand to cut him off. “This will do very well, Captain,” she murmured. “I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

  Peshek bowed, his hand over his heart. “I live to serve. We will wait here for a handful of days while I find us safe messengers to gather news and send out word to your loyal servitors.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Then, feeling utterly trivial and lost, she said, “Is there any chance of supper?”

  There was. Turnip stew, hard bread and dark beer, but Medeoan ate gratefully while their hostess laid a fresh fire in the hearth. When they were done and the crockery cleared outside the door, Peshek laid his knife, sword and knout within easy reach, took one of the blankets from the bed and rolled himself up in it so his body blocked the threshold and he faced the wall. It was as much privacy as he could afford her. Peshek would never leave her alone, even in a house he knew.

  Medeoan unwrapped her headscarf, undid her apron and took off her clumsy shoes. Except for that, she laid herself under the covers, stockings and all. She stared into the darkness, willing herself to stay awake. Despite the long, terrifying day, staying awake proved to be quite easy. All the sounds were strange; the night birds, the call of the distant watch on the city walls, the lapping water. Peshek’s heavy breathing was nothing like her ladies’, and even less like Kacha’s. The pallet’s straw bit into her skin even through her clothes, and she had an ugly suspicion that was not all that bit her. Without braziers to surround her bed, the room grew steadily colder, despite the fire, until Medeoan could see her own breath in the slices of moonlight the loose shutters allowed in.

  The night deepened. Peshek’s breathing grew slow and regular. The moonbeams lengthened on the floor. One by one, the birds outside silenced, and Medeoan judged her time was right.

  Slowly, so as to rustle the straw as little as possible, Medeoan reached for her bundle. Pulling it toward her, she spat on her two fingers and rubbed them against the knot tying the cloth. It fell open at once. The tiny pile of belongings inside seemed pathetic. How could she get by with so little?

  Medeoan did not permit herself to dwell on it. Instead she drew out the god’s eye amulet she had woven against this night. It really should be tied around Peshek’s neck, but she did not trust herself to be able to slip it over his head without waking him. Nearby would have to do.

  Medeoan wrapped the amulet’s blue thong around the bedstead. Raising her magic, she breathed across the knot as she tied it.

  “Night and moon k
eep watch over Peshek Pachalkasyn Ursulvin and grant him sound sleep until you surrender the sky to Day and his sister Sun.”

  The knot finished, she spat on it to seal it shut. She paused to listen. Peshek’s breathing deepened. For the first time, he began to snore.

  Medeoan scrambled from her cold bed. Peshek did not stir. She took the sealed letter she had prepared for him and laid it on her pillow where he was sure to see it. Then, taking a deep breath, she lifted the gold-and-silver girdle out of the bundle.

  Fixing her mind firmly on the need to reach the Heart of the World, Medeoan tied the girdle securely around her waist.

  Eliisa Hahl cast a longing look around the room. It seemed a crime to abandon so stout a bed already paid for, and by a man who kept his hands to himself, of all the miracles! Still, there was no help for it. She reclaimed apron and scarf, and moved to tie up her bundle, and paused upon seeing her purse lying on the cloth. What fool had left so much money lying loose! As soon as she had time, she’d sew it into her waistband, but now there was nothing for it but to tie the purse up under her skirt and hope it would be safe enough.

  The captain lay across the threshold, snoring in far too genteel a manner for a soldier. Well, he was an officer, after all. She leaned across him and pushed the door gently open. The captain did not stir. Hiking her skirts high, Eliisa stepped over him. She closed the door gently, and nimbly hurried down the stairs, making no more noise than a cat.

  So far and all’s well, Eliisa thought as she emerged into the night. Her gaze skimmed the length of the canal and she briefly considered making off with one of the boats, but decided against it. There was no point in theft when there was money to pay the way. So, instead, she fastened her bundle to her girdle like a peddler woman and strode back toward the town.

  Peshek woke, rubbing his hand hard across his eyes and face. The first thing he noticed was that it was full light, which was strange because he was long accustomed to waking before dawn. The second thing he noticed was that the empress was not in her bed.

  Peshek was beside the bed with his sword in his hand before he knew he had moved. His eye took in the tidy bedclothes, the flattened pillows, the unlatched door, the knotted amulet on the bedpost, and the folded paper, and his heart froze.

  “Oh, no, Majesty. Please, no.” Peshek had faced bandits, bears, and all manner of violent drunkards without fear, but now his hand shook as he picked up the folded paper and he found his mouth had gone completely dry.

  Peshek broke the seal to open the letter. His breath catching in his throat, he read:

  Loyal Captain Peshek,

  Forgive the necessity of this ruse. It is the only way to hide my escape from my husband and the magics he has available to him. I may be found while I walk any of Isavalta’s roads as myself, and I may also be found if I travel by sorcerous means through the Land of Death and Spirit.

  You must go to Fortress Dalemar and await Avanasy. I have sent Lord Iakush to bring him home. Tell him what has happened. If all goes well I will send you word from the Heart of the World.

  The letter was unsigned except for a crude sketch of a spread-winged eagle, the imperial symbol.

  Gods of my fathers, thought Peshek, clamping his fingers around the letter so it would not tumble to the floor. What have I done?

  The autocrat, the embodiment of the imperial, was the life and soul of Isavalta. When the keeper of the god house presented them to Vyshko and Vyshemir, they became Isavalta. Protecting their health and life was protecting the health and life of the land. Any order, all orders, no matter how incomprehensible, had to be followed, save one. Never was the autocrat to be left unguarded. Peshek had been taught this cardinal rule since he was ten years old and inducted into the house guard by his father.

  I should have stayed awake. I should never have closed my eyes.

  But he had not. Which left only the question of what he should do next.

  Carefully, Peshek refolded the missive. “I should slit my own throat,” he muttered to the empty room.

  Answering for what he had done before his gods and his ancestors certainly seemed a more attractive option right now than watching Isavalta fall to the hands of a foreign emperor. But he had orders. The question was, which should he disregard — those orders he had just been given or the one order that stood above all others? Should he chase after the empress, and be her guard, would she or no? Or did he obey her and go wait for Avanasy?

  Now, my son, I will tell you a great truth about dealing with the nobles. His father’s voice echoed back to him across the years. You do what they tell you, but you never, ever get involved in their schemes. They know what they are doing, and you don’t. You are shelter for them, like the walls of the palace. Do the palace walls mix themselves in the doings of their inhabitants? They do not. And you, my son, are surely as smart as a pile of stone.

  So, he had his orders. He would go wait for Avanasy. Avanasy could find the empress in an instant if he needed to. Peshek had no magic in him, and knew no other sorcerer he trusted, and so had no choice.

  Vyshko and Vyshemir watch out for her. Peshek buckled on his sword and knife, and sheathed his knout. He wanted a shave, and food, but what he needed was a canal boat to Biradost, and a fast horse from there.

  Be there, Avanasy. Don’t fail us, or I’ll have to spend eternity haunting you for it.

  Chapter Eight

  Iakush, the Lord Sorcerer of Isavalta, stood on the balcony of his private apartments in the summer palace of Vaknevos and gazed down the cliffs to the lake. The view was stunning. The lake lay like a great sapphire in the midst of a landscape of emerald velvet. Its breeze freshened all the air, and as summer warmed it would prove to be lusciously cool in the torrid evenings. He always enjoyed the days here.

  This day, however, he could not relax. Something was wrong, and he did not know what it was.

  First, he had failed. Despite a full day closeted with the Portrait of Worlds, he had not been able to find Avanasy. Working with the Portrait was no easy matter, and required a deep familiarity with its ways, but still, he should have been able to find something. Even Avanasy, with all his cunning, could not have covered his tracks so completely. Now the Portrait was miles away from him, and he would have to find some other way to carry out the empress’s orders.

  Wrapping himself in his wounded pride, Iakush had meant to have a private word with Empress Medeoan as they journeyed, to assure her that he would find Avanasy and carry out her will. But he had not been able to see the empress. Emperor Kacha would let none near her curtained litter where it had been placed on the raised deck of the barge, saying she needed complete quiet until the physicians met her at Vaknevos.

  “Respectfully, Majesty.” Iakush had reverenced as best he could in the confined aisle of the rocking barge. “I do have knowledge in the healing arts. I may be able to bring her ease from whatever troubles her.”

  “I thank you for your concern,” the emperor replied smoothly. “But I believe rest is what will be most beneficial.”

  “Majesty …” Iakush began again.

  “I have said all I mean to, Lord Sorcerer.”

  He had spoken the words mildly, but Iakush had heard them before, and knew better than to pursue the matter any further. So, he reverenced again, and made his way back down to the common benches that he shared with the other members of the Council of Lords. The lords master eyed him, but said nothing, and Iakush was content to have it so.

  As he took his place on the padded bench and watched the banks of the canal pass, he noticed who did not travel on the barge. Not one of the empress’s waiting ladies was in evidence. Not even Chekhania, who traveled constantly at Empress Medeoan’s side.

  It was then that the first stirrings of disquiet settled into his blood. They stayed with him all the rest of the voyage, and even now, when his room was filled with the cheerful bustle of his servitors setting his chamber to rights and his eyes were filled with the beautiful and tranquil sight of the lake b
efore him. Something was happening, something of which he was not being told, and it was happening too soon after the empress had petitioned him to find Avanasy again to be mere chance.

  “Lord Sorcerer?” called his man Cestimir. “My lord, you are summoned.”

  Iakush turned. Beside Cestimir stood a boy in a kaftan of royal blue bound with a gold sash. The page boy reverenced and said, “Lord Sorcerer, I am sent to say that the Council of Lords is summoned by His Imperial Majesty, and that your attendance is required.”

  At those words, the disquiet that had filled Iakush turned still colder, and yet he could not have clearly said why. Perhaps it was because it was only the emperor who convened the council. That was a thing that had never happened before.

  “Tell His Imperial Majesty I will not fail him.”

  Again, the boy reverenced, and he hurried away.

  Iakush stared at the door as it closed behind the page. Unbidden, memory of Avanasy standing before him in his room in Vyshtavos rose up.

  “Why will you not at least look?” Avanasy had demanded.

  Iakush remembered how he had waved the imperial tutor’s words away. “Because there is nothing to see.”

  “My lord sorcerer.” Avanasy’s voice had strained to remain calm while pronouncing the title. “Clearly, there is something not right. Kacha’s hand, his eyes, the fact that he brings no sorcerer with him, when we know …”

  “His Highness,” Iakush spoke the two words clearly, “was badly injured in his youth, and his bound-sorcerer will be arriving once the marriage has been made.”

  Avanasy had pulled back then. “I did not know this.”

  “Lord Avanasy, sometimes I wonder if you do not have an inflated opinion of how much you do know.”