The Usurper's Crown

by Sarah Zettel

  Perhaps Avanasy should have said those words to me. Iakush turned his slow gaze to Cestimir, who stood ready for any order he might give.

  But what order could he give? What provision could he make when he had no idea what was to come? He dismissed Cestimir with a wave to return to the business of unpacking.

  What provision could he make? Against he knew not what or whom? A thought came to him, and he almost dismissed it, but the same cold disquiet made him reconsider.

  There was a clothing press that Iakush had taken charge of himself during the journey and that had been set down beside his bed. Iakush unlocked it with a silver key and lifted the lid. Leaving his men to continue their chores, he removed his kaftan and his shirt. From the press, he lifted a shirt of blinding white linen. He had woven its cloth with his own hands, then cut and stitched that cloth. He slipped the shirt on over his head, fastening the buttons. Then, he put his kaftan back on, also paying particular attention to how he tied his sash. Only then did he emerge from his chamber and stride down the corridor to the council chamber in answer to the emperor’s summons.

  The council chamber of Vaknevos was a long, narrow room with a heavy table placed in its center and chairs on either side. On the low dais at the far end waited two chairs of gilded wood for the emperor and empress. Iakush entered to find the lords master and the emperor already assembled. His cautious gaze swept the room and found it as he remembered it, with one change only. A new carpet spread across the floor. Iakush’s eyes flickered to the other members of the council. Probably none of them noticed. But then, none of them was a sorcerer. They knew about knots and weaving, and all their power, but they didn’t comprehend it in their hands and their souls the way a sorcerer had to. They did not train themselves to notice every piece of cloth, of jewelry or carving that came into their view. They did not automatically try to decipher the pattern they noted, to see if it was a danger, or a hindrance, or perhaps, a help.

  This carpet was blue and gold, so it looked very much in place in the imperial council room. Its pattern was nothing so blatant as interlocking circles or diamonds. The gold lines snaked through the bright blue background like the outlines of a maze — seldom crossing, seldom touching, each line involved in its own swirls and waves, and yet all of them held together by the expanse of blue.

  It could be magical. It could be complexly and powerfully magical. Iakush felt the soles of his feet begin to itch, and his knees protested the need to bend, to touch it even through the cloth of his pantaloons, as he made the imperial reverence.

  “Thank you, Lord Sorcerer Iakush,” said Emperor Kacha. “Sit with us.”

  “Thank you, Imperial Majesty.” Iakush stood and backed into the waiting chair, sitting beside weathered, broad, Lord Master Seasta, Master of the Horse.

  Emperor Kacha mounted the dais and took his own seat, facing them all, his hands, the strong hand and the weak hand, resting on the chair arms. Still, Iakush found his attention straying to the empty chair beside the emperor.

  “I have two pieces of news for you, my lords master, and I desire your counsel,” said Emperor Kacha in his clear, precise voice. “The first is great good news for all of us, indeed for all of Eternal Isavalta. Her Imperial Majesty is with child.”

  “But this is wonderful!” cried out Lord Master Tsepier. “Vyshko and Vyshemir themselves must rejoice!”

  The other lords master raised their voices in a clamor to let sound their pious delight. Only Iakush sat still. His shirt cuffs had grown tight around his wrists, and the collar pressed close against his neck. Even his sash embraced him firmly.

  Iakush struggled to keep his countenance. There was magic here. It was in place at this moment, seeping up from some prepared source to work its maker’s will. That source most likely lay in the new carpet underfoot. Iakush could not help but feel a cold admiration for the sorcerer who sat before that carpet and tied knot after knot, securing his magic and his purpose in a thousand-thousand strands of wool.

  But who could be behind this magic? Avanasy? Was this the crime to which the empress had alluded? No. Surely not. If she had known so much, the carpet would not be here …

  Then who?

  “Our lord sorcerer remains grave,” said the emperor. “He understands the deeper significance of this news.”

  Iakush shook himself. Now was not the time for introspection. Now was the time to take careful stock of all the men around him, perhaps the emperor most of all.

  “Yes, Imperial Majesty,” Iakush said gravely. “It is not easy for a sorcerer, male or female, to bring forth a child. No part of a sorcerer’s soul touches the Land of Death and Spirit, which is the source of life’s beginning, as well as its end. This severance gives us our magic and our long lives, but it also denies us the ability to pass life on to another. Frequently the females die in the attempt.” That silenced all the lords, and settled them all back into their chairs.

  Emperor Kacha nodded, his dark face a very mirror of sober thought. “So Her Imperial Majesty has informed me, and that is the real reason I have called you here, instead of allowing the keeper of the god house to make the first announcement as is customary.” His withered hand waved toward the door. “For the sake of her own health and that of her child, Her Imperial Majesty has chosen to go immediately into confinement. She will correspond closely with her court, of course, and read letters and petitions with great attention, as she has always done, but, she has asked me to say, there will be no more public appearances before she has been safely delivered of our child.”

  The laces of Iakush’s shirt drew themselves tight against his chest. He imagined the room thick with magic like some invisible perfume, with all the lords master breathing it in deeply. To what end?

  “You will of course deliver our immediate congratulations,” announced fat Lord Master Goriain, Master of the Archives. “Are we to assume His Imperial Majesty will be coordinating the receipt of the petitions?”

  “I will, with your able assistance of course, Lord Master Goriain. Your secretaries and scribes will be much required in the coming months.”

  “I am here to serve.” His words were echoed by the other lords master, and Iakush knew what spell oozed from the carpet. Belief. Credulity. They would not question this sudden removal of the empress from the public scene, and probably they would not remember that they had not questioned it. In their own memories, they would each have behaved ideally. They would have closely questioned the emperor, satisfying themselves as to the truth and necessity of the situation. If the spell were thoroughly thought out, they might even remember having demanded to see her, and being escorted to her chamber. All that would build itself into their hearts and minds until no doubt remained.

  Iakush felt his collar constrict until he had to suppress a cough. Oh, yes. The maker of this carpet was very good, very strong, and very careful. This spell would do at least that much to these men, and perhaps more.

  And the purpose it served was Kacha’s.

  Iakush felt a burning rage rush through him. He wanted nothing more than to spring to his feet, his knife in his hand, to bring down this man who was doing this thing, who had done the gods only knew what to the anointed empress.

  But he could do nothing. He could only sit where he was and continue to listen to every poisonous word.

  “Which brings me to the other piece of news which I have,” said the emperor. “We have recently received word through the House Guard of a sorceress abroad in the land. She is mad, they think, or perhaps she is merely bold. She is claiming to be the Empress Medeoan, and making pronouncements in her name. Now, normally, such a thing would be ignored. She’d be picked up soon enough for vagrancy or some fraud, but I like not the timing of this appearance, nor does your empress. She asks me to convey to you how urgently we wish this woman silenced. You will coordinate with the lords master of the magusates, and she will be found and brought here before the lord sorcerer for judgment.” Emperor Kacha leveled his gaze fully on Iakush.
“And it will be a stern judgment, my lord, will it not?”

  Again Iakush shook himself. He felt as if his mind had been as tightly swaddled as his body. For all his protection, the spell leaked through, making concentration difficult. Of course what the emperor said was true. Iakush had read the empress’s declaration. He knew her words and hand very well and …

  No. That did not happen. That did not happen. We only sat and listened to the emperor speak. That is all.

  “It is unlawful for a sorcerer to impersonate any person of name,” Iakush said, choosing his words with care. He must not say too much, not now. His tongue might run away with him, clouding his mind yet further. He must speak only in absolutes. “Should any who is not utterly mad have the temerity to say that they are the empress herself, it must surely be judged an act of treason.”

  “Even if she be mad,” growled Lord Master Seasta, the muscles on his thick neck standing out from the force of his feeling, “it were better she was killed on sight, than that she be allowed to spread lies and treason, especially at such a time.”

  “There is much wisdom in those words, Lord Master Seasta,” mused the emperor with a nod. “What say you to that, Lord Sorcerer?”

  Iakush could barely speak at all. His collar choked him, his own magic drawing close and trying to stave off the spell that permeated the air and wormed its way into his blood. “With respect to His Imperial Majesty, I say that a thorough and openly witnessed examination will spark fewer rumors during this delicate time.” Delicate time, time of birthing, the empress lying in surrounded by her doctors and ladies, as they had seen her, looking up at him, trusting him, finally, as she had once trusted Avanasy …

  No. No. No. I never left this room. I never saw her. I see only Kacha, I know only that we are bespelled.

  “That is also a worthy thought, Lord Sorcerer,” said the emperor approvingly. “I will relay this counsel to Her Imperial Majesty. In the meantime, my lords master, and my lord sorcerer, I ask you to spread word of these matters among your people, and take counsel with them. Tomorrow at this hour we will meet again. I will have Her Imperial Majesty’s words, and we will together decide on the best plan of attack.”

  Tell him I am in danger, Medeoan had ordered Iakush. Now he understood. She had couched that message as a lie to convince him to lure back Avanasy. Now, though, Iakush knew it to be no less than the truth. Avanasy’s impending death sentence was the lie. She had done this thing so he would not only obey her, but so that he could not betray her.

  Iakush clenched his fist. She had not felt she could speak plainly to him, and whose fault was that? He had, after all, done nothing but stand by and watch as Avanasy was banished on a charge he had known could not be true. He’d been too bound up in his search for power. Too much love of power was a danger for any sorcerer, and Iakush had fallen to it without even noticing.

  That is what he tried to tell me. Tell him I need him.

  He’d told himself then that it was Avanasy who had been greedy for power, that Medeoan would come to trust him, Iakush. She did trust him, she looked up to him, he’d seen her handwriting, heard her speak, weak but flushed with inner delight as women with child often became …

  Iakush heaved himself awkwardly to his feet. Around him, the lords master made their reverences and departed in twos and threes, whispering urgently about what they had heard.

  Vyshemir’s knife, he told himself sternly, as he crossed his hands to reverence. From here you will go retrieve Vyshemir’s knife from Keeper Bakhar. Holdfast to that thought, Iakush, if no other.

  Vyshemir’s knife was in the keeping of the keeper of the emperor’s god house, but in the hands of a sorcerer who knew the proper words to say, it could be used to cut away illusion and bring truth to light. It could save him now.

  “Lord Sorcerer,” said the emperor. “Stay but a moment.”

  Wants to keep me here. The empress has some message … No. No. Vyshemir’s knife. From here I must go get Vyshemir’s knife.

  “Imperial Majesty?” Iakush made himself turn, made himself stay on the carpet with its power that reached out its magic to poison his thoughts. With an extreme effort of will, he made himself see Kacha. Kacha, not Medeoan. Kacha of Hastinapura. Kacha son of Chandra. Kacha who had been bargained away for peace, and was secretly harboring thoughts of conquest.

  The emperor had risen, and he walked casually down the dais to stand beside him. “Her Imperial Majesty particularly asked that you look deeply into this matter.”

  “I will do my best, Imperial Majesty.”

  Emperor Kacha clapped Iakush on his shoulder, and steered him toward the door, forcing him to walk down the carpet. “She knows well she is young in her power, and relies heavily on your judgment.”

  Vyshemir’s knife. Vyshemir’s knife will cure me of this affliction, will open my eyes.

  “She regrets that she has not said so before now, but her old teacher wounded her grievously, and she has not yet recovered from that.” Kacha paused in his stride and shook his head. “She asks you to forgive her this failing, and says that when she is able, she wishes to continue her instructions under your guidance. She assures you that none other will be named lord sorcerer while you remain true.”

  It would have been so easy to give in. With or without the enchantment, he could see that the emperor was giving him a chance for the prestige and responsibility that he had longed for. He now spoke the words Iakush had ached with his whole being to hear since the death of the old emperor and empress.

  It was in hope of those words that he had kept silent during the capricious exile of one who should have been as a brother.

  And now she was saying them. Now, she finally saw his worth and his position was secure. Now, he would be able to … to …

  No. Kacha speaks, not my empress. The knife, the knife, the knife, I must go claim the knife.

  “I am deeply honored, Imperial Majesty,” was all Iakush could make himself say.

  Kacha faced him squarely, looking Iakush straight in his eyes, laying his hand again on Iakush’s shoulder. “I also am trusting you, Lord Sorcerer. Once my lineage is secure, there will be numerous preferments and titles to be awarded. The empress needs no mere magical advisor. The duties, and the rewards of the office of lord sorcerer needs must become much greater during our reign.”

  The pressure of the spell was almost unbearable. Iakush fought to keep himself from shuddering as his mind and soul were squeezed as if by an invisible hand. “I live to serve.”

  “To serve your master and mistress, the emperor and empress of Isavalta,” said Kacha. The emperor did not blink as he watched Iakush.

  Iakush forced his shoulders to straighten. “I live, as we all do, to serve Eternal Isavalta.”

  “As we all do, Lord Sorcerer,” said the emperor. “You may go now. I will expect you here tomorrow with your fellows.”

  Iakush reverenced. Relief washed through him. He could get away from this. Vyshemir’s knife would save him. It would cut away this enchantment and restore his right memories.

  A cold pressure touched his side, and Iakush straightened, startled to see the emperor right beside him.

  “Did you think I would not know?” sneered Kacha. “Did you think I would be sent here if I could not see?”

  The emperor stepped back, and Iakush felt something warm and wet against his shirt. His hand sought it automatically, and came away covered with something red. He stared at his stained hand mutely. What could this be? No wine had been served. He had spilled nothing. What could be so red?

  The knot of his sash almost completely obscured the dagger’s hilt.

  “I should slit your throat,” said the emperor casually. “But you will be much easier to bury with a hidden wound. Far fewer people will have to be bemused. Now then, while you die, I will fetch you a physic. Perhaps you will live long enough to succumb to a fever.”

  Blood. Still staring at his hand, Iakush dropped to his knees. But his knees would not hold him
, and he sprawled against the carpet. Blood. His blood. Stabbed by the emperor. Dying. He was dying in the thick puddle of his own blood.

  Why? What had happened? He couldn’t remember. He had been obeying the empress. She had wanted him to go get Vyshemir’s knife …

  Vyshemir’s knife. Proof against enchantment. The pain began now, lancing up his side, clenching jaw and throat, burning hotter than the blood that spilled. Enchantment. Emperor. Treason and greed, and blood, everywhere so much blood. He couldn’t move, couldn’t stop the pain or the blood. He was dying for his foolishness, dying for his empress …

  No, not for her. She was not here. She was elsewhere, and she had asked him to take word to Avanasy.

  But he had no words, only blood.

  With one trembling hand, Iakush reached out and drove his finger into the blood. Haltingly, he tried to spit, and managed to drool a little spittle into the redness. He stirred them together. He coughed for breath. Mortal blood, mortal breath. These were the sources of the greatest power a single sorcerer could give. It would be enough. It would have to be.

  “Beyond life there is a forest,” he whispered, forcing his finger to move through the blood, drawing a wave that was the river, was a snake, was a ray of light, was all his hope borne on all his pain, was his last act, and he would complete this last act. “Within the forest there is a river. At the end of the river is another shore. On the other shore, there walks Avanasy Finorasyn Goriainavin. Breath and blood, carry me to the river. Vyshko and Vyshemir carry me to the river’s end. My heart’s blood, my breath, my life, carry me to Avanasy.” He retched. Pain burned hotter than his blood, but he was so cold. His hand shook, and he could not feel it anymore, let alone make it move. The room was going gray. “My heart’s blood, my breath, my life carry me to Avanasy Finorasyn Goriainavin. My heart’s blood carry me …”

  The room around him darkened, and vanished.

  The Land of Death and Spirit is a land of eyes. This is the first thing taught to any sorcerer of Isavalta. It is not possible to pass through it unobserved. There is no true distance there, no true shadow and no true light. Anything may be shown to those who wish to see. The places that do not shift and change are few, and they offer nowhere to hide beyond the boundaries of the mortal world.