The Usurper's Crown

by Sarah Zettel

  Inside a fence mended with bones, there stood a cottage on crooked, scaled, taloned legs. The cottage was called Ishbushka, and in it, an ancient witch with iron teeth sat at her loom of bones and spoke to her cat.

  “What do you see?”

  The cat sat on the windowsill, staring unblinking out the window. “I see another sorcerer walking from Isavalta.” The cat twitched its tail. “If this continues, soon Isavalta will have none of them left.”

  The witch stilled her shuttle, which was made of an ancient jawbone. She perused the pattern of her weaving, reading what was written there in a language only she herself knew. “What else do you see?”

  “His blood flows red.” The cat turned and began to clean its shoulder nonchalantly. “He has come early to the land of Death, but the grandfather waits for him. He will not reach the far shore.”

  The witch grunted and laid her long, bony finger a moment on her weaving. She nodded, satisfied with what she saw. “You will go to the grandfather, cat. You will send my greeting. You will ask him in my name to let the sorcerer pass.”

  The cat used its paw to smooth down its ears. “Grandfather Death will not be pleased to neglect one of his grandchildren so.”

  “Say it is a delay only,” said the witch. “This one has an important message that must be delivered. Say that in my name.”

  The cat turned to groom its shoulder.

  “There will be those who say you do this to protect the right and the order of things.”

  “They will be wrong. His message will bring the woman here. I have need of her.”

  The cat narrowed its emerald eyes as it gazed at her mistress. But the witch offered no explanation, and the cat asked no questions. She only leapt from the perch and silently padded out the cottage door.

  The morning after Leo Loftfield was injured, Avanasy returned gladly to his work. It was something to occupy him until the sun set, for there was still plenty of brushwood to be cut and cleared. Even so, his mind was distracted enough that he abandoned the scythe as too dangerous and contented himself with bundling the cut brush and stacking wood. The news from Ingrid’s home had been good. Leo would keep his leg, and was in fact awake, though he was still weak. He had stopped by the kitchen door this morning to speak a moment with Ingrid and say he would be back tonight. Perhaps it would be a good time to speak with her father, perhaps it would not, but he meant to sound the man out, so Ingrid’s parents would know without a doubt that his intentions were honorable.

  He would need to change his shirt, before he went to visit the Loftfields, and wash, and shave. Should he bring the ring with him? Ingrid had not said. He would have it, in case. The ring waited at the bottom of his chest. His mother had given it to him when he had gone to be apprenticed. It was a golden band, set with coral and rubies. Perhaps it was too much for a fisherman’s wife, but she would have it anyway. He would pass it off somehow, perhaps as an heirloom, or as paste, but he would tell Ingrid that it was real, and what its origins were. It would become one more tie between them. She’d smile when she saw it.

  Or would she? It was beautiful, but in the Isavaltan fashion. Even riches were much plainer here. Perhaps she would only find it garish.

  Avanasy had to laugh at himself. He was as nervous as a plowboy sending a bride gift to a milkmaid’s mother. It was ridiculous. Of course, Ingrid would smile, because it was a gift freely given, and that was her way.

  “You’re quiet,” said Everett Lederle, breaking in on his thoughts. Lederle worked beside him, gathering up newly trimmed branches and stacking them together to be bundled up and hauled away.

  “Things on my mind,” answered Avanasy. He stepped on the pile of branches in front of him so he could more easily loop the twine around it and tie the bundle securely.

  “Like Ingrid?”

  Avanasy paid careful attention to the knot he was tying. “And if it was?”

  Everett said nothing to that. He just wrapped some twine around another bundle of brush and tied off his own knot. He pulled the clasp knife from his pocket and slit the twine. Then, he straightened to face Avanasy, the knife still held in his hand. “She loves you,” he said flatly. “Use her badly and I will hunt you down like a dog. Understand me?”

  “Very well,” replied Avanasy, looking Everett in his face. The knife was nothing. Everett was not a man to use it without cause. Perhaps later, when some time had passed and wounds had healed, they could become friends. “Maybe you should know I mean to go to her father tonight and ask for her hand.”

  Everett drew in a long, low breath. He snapped the knife blade closed and returned it to his pocket. “That’s good then.”

  Everett returned to his work without another word, and Avanasy bent to his own. The sun continued its long, slow trek across the sky, finally settling into Lake Superior and leaving no light left to work by. Avanasy shouldered his scythe once more and trooped back to the shore with the other itinerant fishers, his heart riding high with the memory of Ingrid’s kiss. Part of him was greedy to know much more of her, but he was not that plowboy, and he could wait. Knowing what he did of her own birth, he could most definitely wait until they had been joined by the proper rites. There would be no shame for them. He would build her a proper house. They would wed and be feasted according to the expected custom. But then, ah, then, when once they were alone …

  Savoring his imaginings, Avan pushed open the door of his shack. He smelled salt and copper, and for a moment did not realize how wrong that scent was. It smelled of the sea shore. He froze. Lake Superior was freshwater, what was the scent of the sea doing here?

  Something dark crouched in the center of his dirt floor. Avan instantly took his scythe from his shoulder and hefted it.

  “What are you?” he demanded.

  “Avanasy,” grated a harsh voice. “Please. Avanasy.”

  The scythe thudded from Avanasy’s suddenly numb hands. The voice spoke to him in the court language of Isavalta, and it belonged to Iakush, the lord sorcerer.

  “My lord sorcerer.” He dropped to his knees. His eyes adjusted to the dimness and saw the dark stain spreading across Iakush’s white shirt. Blood. It could not be anything else. Then he became aware of something else by the pricking of skin and soul. The Grandfather, Death, had walked into the room behind him, and he came for Iakush.

  “Avanasy,” croaked Iakush again.

  “What has happened?” Avanasy laid his hand against the wound, but pressure would do no good. Too much blood had already been lost. “Tell me, Iakush.”

  “Kacha. You were right, from the first. Medeoan, Isavalta … all are in danger. Medeoan has fled, Kacha lies. He …” Iakush coughed. A stream of blood trickled from his slack mouth. “He has magics at his command, Avanasy. I don’t know how, but they are strong.” Death leaned closer. Avanasy felt the chill. “Medeoan sent … Medeoan …” Another cough racked him. “Ah, Grandfather, Grandfather, I hurt.”

  “Medeoan sent you?” Avanasy grasped his shoulders. “What of the emperor? The empress? Why have you left them?”

  But Iakush just shuddered. Death was too close. Avanasy made a decision. He lifted his bloody hand to his mouth and breathed on it, then he pressed it against Iakush’s lips.

  “Blood to breath, Lord Iakush Vtoroisyn Gabravin,” he whispered, steeling himself. “Yours to mine. My words, my breath, your blood, your words.”

  Avanasy reached inside himself to find the magic he needed to shape the weaving of breath and blood, but it would not rise. He strained himself, reaching deep with all his strength, reaching out as far as he could for the last vestige of the magics that had brought Iakush this far. He shook to his core and feared he was not strong enough to reach so far, but at last the magic rose, and the words wove it into shape.

  Pain. Blinding, searing, strength-robbing pain. Avanasy doubled across the lord sorcerer’s body. The cold of loss and death shot through him, along with all the fear in Iakush’s mind. But below that, he touched the lord sorcerer himself
, and he felt recognition, and then relief.

  The old emperor and empress are dead, Avanasy. I truly thought it was fever then, but now I think it was poison. Medeoan is empress. She is fled. She sent me for you. She needs you, Avanasy. The rest of us have failed her. Kacha will kill her or worse, I fear. Then Hastinapura will rule us all. You must meet her at Fortress Dalemar.

  They spasmed together, and Avanasy felt his heart squeezing itself to wring another drop of blood into his veins.

  Let me go, Avanasy. I’m done and I cannot bear this anymore.

  Avanasy lifted his hands away, and fell into darkness.

  Eventually, Avanasy woke to night’s cold and yet more darkness. A single shaft of silver moonlight squeezed through the plank boards of his walls and lit up his stack of kindling. Iakush lay beside him. The acrid stench of death filled the cabin until Avanasy could taste it. He struggled to his feet, weak as a kitten, and staggered out his doorway and down the shore.

  “Hey, Avan! You all right?”

  Avanasy only waved in response. Let whoever shouted think he was drunk. Let them think anything they wanted. He knelt, still shaking, at the edge of the lake and vomited into the water until his stomach was shriveled and empty and his whole mouth bitter with gall. He pushed himself sideways to cleaner waters and drank, and washed his face.

  Medeoan had fled. Medeoan was in danger, from Kacha. He’d known it. He’d known it and he’d left her, abandoned his trust because he could not bear to face his own shame. Now, the emperor and empress were dead and Medeoan gone, and where was he? He stared out across the black lake. Playing fisherman in a village of drudges and rude mechanicals. Playing at a life to which he had no claim.

  Oh, in Vyshko’s name. Ingrid.

  The moon was well up. It was late. He could not call on her tonight. She would think he had forgotten. She would think something had happened to him. That thought pulled him to his feet. She would think something had happened to him, and she would throw a shawl around her shoulders and she would …

  Cursing his weakness, Avanasy stumbled back to his cabin. He threw open the door, nearly fell again but caught himself against the stove. Ingrid knelt beside Iakush’s corpse. Even night’s darkness could not disguise her from him. She lifted her head at his clumsy entrance and her face was as white as the moon.

  “What happened?” she whispered fiercely. “Who is this? I came … I thought … I thought crazy things when you didn’t come. I thought maybe the ghost …”

  Avanasy summoned all the strength that remained to him. He pushed himself upright and walked to the bed. He pulled off the single blanket and laid it across Iakush’s body for a poor shroud. Ingrid rose slowly to her feet. Even in the faint moonlight he could see how her eyes glittered hard. He wanted to stand to face her, but his legs were already weakening. As slowly as he could manage, he sat in the rickety chair.

  Ingrid said nothing. He ran both hands through his hair. She was waiting for him. She had waited for him all night to fulfill a promise he had no right to make.

  “His name is Iakush,” said Avanasy. “He was the lord sorcerer to the imperial court of Isavalta. He … Medeoan sent him to find me.”

  “Why?”

  “It seems I was right.”

  She left the corpse and walked over to him, kneeling down so that they were eye to eye. “Tell me.”

  He did. He told her about coming back to find Iakush, and how he had delivered his message, and how Medeoan was gone, and his master and patron, the emperor was dead. His strength failed him then, and to his shame, Avanasy found that all he could do was bow his head and begin to weep. He wept for his exile, and for his acceptance of it. He wept for his belief that he could begin a new life. He wept for the good man dead on the floor at his feet whom he lacked the strength to save. He pounded the chair with his fist and even the pain of it could not stop the tears.

  Somewhere in the midst of this shameful weeping, Ingrid wrapped her arms around he shoulders and pulled him close, holding him while he poured out his grief.

  “Jesus, Avan, what the hell’s happened …” came a man’s voice from the doorway.

  “This is none of your business, Jan Iverksson,” snapped Ingrid. “Go home.”

  The sound of her harsh words reminded him where he truly was. Avanasy found his strength again and was able to force himself back into some semblance of composure.

  “You should not be here.” He pushed himself back from her. “Your family, they’ll think …”

  Ingrid sat on her heels and shrugged irritably. “I’m here now, and there’s nothing to be done about it. What are you going to do?”

  Avanasy spread his hands hopelessly. “I’m going back to Isavalta. I have to, Ingrid. My homeland is in danger. Medeoan … she sent for me. She needs my help, and she is my empress.”

  “Of course,” said Ingrid, but he heard how hollow her voice was.

  He slipped from the chair to kneel beside her and he took both her hands. They were so cold. He could not help but remember how warm they had been the previous afternoon, from the sun and from her delight at his proposal. “I had no right to speak to you as I did,” he said. As he spoke, sudden, hard anger filled him. Why had this happened tonight? Why had Medeoan not sent for him yesterday? Or a month ago? Or a month before that? Why now?

  “Did you mean it?” she asked steadily. “That you wanted to marry me?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you mean it still?”

  “With all my heart, Ingrid, I do.”

  She was silent than for a long moment, and he saw her bite her lip. “Then let me come with you.”

  “Ingrid, no.”

  “Yesterday, I agreed to become your wife, and when I said yes, I knew who you were and what your past was. I accepted it.”

  “But not this, Ingrid.” He swept his hand out toward Iakush’s corpse under its rough blanket. Iakush should have had a shroud of white linen and gold, and all he had was gray wool. “You never accepted this.”

  She stood, turning from him as she did, and walked away a few steps, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Avanasy stood as well, but swayed on his feet. He realized that the fear that filled him was the fear that she would say he was right, that she would walk out of his house and leave him alone.

  But she did not. She just turned around again to face him.

  “Avan …” she began, but then she stopped, and started over. “Avanasy, I never questioned how my life would be. I would help care for my family until one day I married someone from the island, or perhaps, if fate was especially bold, I would marry someone from Bayfield. Then, I would keep my own house and raise my own children.” Ingrid kicked at the dirt floor. “And that would be that. It would be a good life, hard, but life always is.”

  “You can do so still,” said Avanasy quietly. “Nothing prevents you.”

  Ingrid met his eyes. “Do you honestly believe that?”

  For a long moment, Avanasy did nothing but look into her moonlit gaze. He felt all the waves of his feeling swirl around them both — sorrow, regret, determination, fear, but all these rushed away and left only love.

  “No,” he said at last. “I do not believe that.”

  “Well then?”

  Avanasy folded his arms around her, pulling her into a hard embrace. He felt the thrill as Ingrid fell into it willingly, lifting her face to his kiss. She kissed back with a strength that left him dizzy with its heat. Avanasy kissed her cheek, her eyes, and buried his face against her shoulder, breathing her deeply. He held on, feeling the strength rushing between them — the strength of her body and the strength of his own heart which opened to her, and which he knew would never close to her again.

  “I don’t know what dangers there will be, Ingrid,” he said when he could speak again. “I am exiled, and to return is to court death. If High Princess Medeoan … if the empress is indeed fled her capital, very few will know that exile is rescinded. I am long months away, and much has changed. I may no
longer have friends where I go to look for them.”

  “When must we go?” asked Ingrid, pulling back just far enough to see his face.

  “I must go at first light, as soon as I can raise my sails.”

  Her eyebrows lifted in astonishment. “You have a boat of your own? Then why …”

  “Do I work for others?” The corner of Avanasy’s mouth twitched into a weak smile. “It is not a boat for normal seas, at least, not entirely. I did not want to risk its sails being damaged in rough work while there was still a chance …” He paused, and then remembered himself and who he spoke to. “While there was still a chance I might be summoned home again.”

  Ingrid nodded and stepped back from him. “But you’re tired. You should get some rest.”

  “I am, and it will get worse,” he admitted. “This is no easy journey we undertake. But delay, even a few hours, may cost lives and loyalties.” He caught her gaze. “Understand, Ingrid, this is not some squabble over fence lines that can be resolved in the court over in Bayfield. This is the game of kings we are entering.”

  Ingrid drew herself up. “My father fought in a very bloody war, sir. I know something of it. I have seen the dead myself, and fought for lives. You will not find me missish, or a fainting fool.”

  Avanasy allowed himself a brief, real smile. “That would be impossible.”

  “I’ll go back and get a few things together,” said Ingrid, picking up the shawl she had at some point discarded by the bed and wrapping it over her head.

  There was, Avanasy realized, one other thing that had to be said. “Ingrid, your family, they’ll believe you’ve run off with me.”

  “They’ll be right,” she said flatly. “I am running off with you. We are just going a little farther than is customary.”

  Knowing what this meant to her, and what it might cost, Avanasy held up his hand. “Wait.”