The Usurper's Crown

by Sarah Zettel

  He drew the iron key out from under his shirt and unlocked his chest. From the very bottom, he drew out a small linen bag.

  “Everett would marry you in an instant, Ingrid,” he said as he straightened. “There would be no need for you to be alone should you choose to stay.”

  “Stop it, Avanasy.” She gripped his hand hard. “You say we go to somewhere life is difficult, and dangerous. What is life on this island?” She stabbed her finger toward the door. “I could die tomorrow from a wave swamping a boat, from the cut of a knife, or from a fever, or when old Johnny Keeter gets drunk and takes it into his head to go on another of his tears. If I stay here without you, the only difference is the kind of danger I would be in, and that I would be alone for the rest of my life.” She released him. “I am not romantic. Whatever this is we do together, it is not a fairy tale, but we will see it through.”

  “Then, accept this, my pledge.” He took the ring from the bag. Its gold and tiny rubies sparkled in the silver moonlight. “I love you, Ingrid Loftfield. Let that be the one enduring truth between us, and let this be the sign of it.” He slipped the ring onto her third finger, as he had observed was the way such things were worn here.

  She kissed him, the only pledge she had and far more dear to him than any scattering of rubies. Then, she threw her shawl over her head and hurried out the door to do what she must and swiftly return.

  Avanasy ran his hand through his hair again, trying to bring order to his thoughts. He was beyond wondering what he was doing. All was set in motion, and now he must ride the tide of it.

  Chapter Nine

  So, the little imperial cow has caught wind of her doom and strayed. Yamuna stared down at the parchment before him, pulled from the fire now and covered with Kacha’s writing. He had to admit, the boy had done well. His plan was sound, and the beginning of it well executed. The council of lords, for the moment, believed what they had been told.

  So, that much was done. Now, Medeoan must be found. Her lords were not powerless yet, and she might still rally them to her cause if she were not found and dealt with at once.

  Yamuna’s chamber possessed four balconies, one facing each of the cardinal points of the compass. Yamuna stepped out onto the one which faced the north. The rain fell hard against his leathery skin, but Yamuna ignored it. He pulled his knife from his belt and stabbed the tip of it into the index finger of his right hand. The pain was nothing; he had done himself much greater injuries, and would again. The blood was needed, so he released it, that was all. Then, he undid one of the hundred spell braids that bound his long, white hair and from it pulled out three white hairs. He twirled them in the fingers of his right hand, spinning them into a single thread, bound tightly with his blood, in the hand he had taken from Kacha.

  “Kacha tya Achin Ejulinjapad, your blood calls, your flesh calls, my will calls, you will answer me,” said Yamuna clearly to the north. “Kacha tya Achin Ejulinjapad, your blood calls, your flesh calls, my will calls. You will answer me.”

  Yamuna closed his left eye, and through his right eye, which once had been Kacha’s as his hand had been, he stared out past the rain, past the gray of the sky, past the veil of air and the curve of the earth, and he saw …

  A silver wine cup, a rug, a stone floor, a pit with a fire burning brightly. He knew cold and night, and a young man’s gnawing worry.

  Where is she? The thought took up the whole of Kacha’s mind. What is she up to? She had sworn him vows, and now she deserted him and her kingdom. A coward as well as a foolish child.

  At least the carpet had worked. The palace was at the moment under his control, but that might not last. Kacha slammed down the wine cup. His servants jumped, but he waved them back as he rose to pace around the fire pit. His plan was good, it was sound, but she was out there, and who knew where. There was so much that might still go wrong …

  All the secretaries were busy with announcements of the empress’s confinement, and missives about the false sorceress claiming her title. The council lords were preparing their own missives to the various magusates. There was nothing for him to do now but wait until Yamuna chose to, Yamuna chose to, Yamuna chose …

  Come now, my prince, the Sun’s Own Son, walk with me. Say you go to see your wife.

  The reflection of Kacha’s face in a night-blackened window showed Yamuna the prince’s sharp smile. The boy might be somewhat prone to his father’s hysteria, but he knew the worth of his advisers, and he relished his role. He saw a single empire under the sway of the Pearl Throne stretching across the length of the continent, with himself as ruler as soon as his father might be gotten out of the way, and Yamuna was happy to give him that toy.

  “I am going to consult with the empress,” he announced. “I need no company.”

  Despite that, a ruler was seldom alone. The house guard and footmen and waiting gentlemen all had to make sure doors were opened, lights lit or extinguished, movements announced, even if he did no more than walk through a door to the empress’s apartments, which adjoined his own.

  Medeoan’s outer apartment was an ideal of feminine tranquillity and gentle activity. The minor ladies-in-waiting sat by the fire conscientiously bent over their needlework, if they were not engaged with books or letters. Every one of them duly laid aside their amusements and labors to kneel before their emperor as he passed into the inner rooms. Some observed him slyly, covetously, or nervously, according to their own petty natures. Kacha made note of all such expressions against the time when they might prove useful.

  The chief of Kacha’s footmen knocked his staff against the carved door that led to the inner apartments that had been hastily converted from audience rooms to confinement rooms. After a moment, the door opened and Chekhania, whom he had caused to be raised to the position of head lady-in-waiting, appeared. She reverenced politely to the footman.

  “His Imperial Majesty requests an audience with the empress Medeoan.”

  “If His Imperial Majesty would deign to step within, I shall announce him at once to my mistress imperial.” Chekhania kept her gaze modestly on the floor as she spoke.

  The males all stood aside then, allowing the emperor to enter the inner chamber. Chekhania shut the door at once.

  Such an excellent custom, confinement, Kacha thought, knowing Yamuna would hear him. So useful in so many ways.

  In Isavalta, once a woman entered confinement, no man could come into her presence, save her husband or her father. That meant none of the multitude of servants and gentlemen surrounding Kacha had to be bemused or bound, and only a few of the ladies around the empress did, and then only those who, unlike Chekhania, could not be bribed.

  Here too there was gentle activity on every side, the endless round of reading, sewing and writing, tending to the chamber and to themselves, but if one looked into the ladies’ faces, one could see a hollowness behind their eyes and a distance in their manner. These were divided souls in truth. Through Yamuna’s patient magic, each had been severed from that half of their vitality that waited in the Land of Death and Spirit. Now, they could only wander lost in both worlds, ready to answer any order or command.

  Which would all be given by Chekhania, and were limited indeed, as none of the ladies would be expected to appear in public until the empress did.

  So, Chekhania told them Medeoan lay in her bed, and they tended the empty bed as if she did. They brought it food, they changed its sheets, they brought braziers to warm it, read poetry to amuse it, and reverenced in its presence. All this they did gladly, for it gave them the purpose in living which Yamuna’s work had deprived them of.

  “Does my Master Imperial wish to visit his wife or her works?” inquired Chekhania. She was a pale, plump woman, round of hip and bosom, and beautiful in the Isavaltan fashion. It was a fashion Kacha had grown to enjoy a great deal and his gaze lingered on her full breasts. He would enjoy the work of ensuring that she produced the infant that would be passed off as Medeoan’s when the time came.

  But
now, you must see your wife’s works, directed Yamuna, and Kacha told Chekhania so.

  Chekhania reverenced again and, although there was no need, she led Kacha to the small door that waited past the inner apartments. The door should have been locked, but only Medeoan could touch the key, so of necessity it remained open. It did not matter. Chekhania was as good as any key in these guarded surroundings, now that the lord sorcerer had been disposed of.

  To remind Chekhania of the various ways in which he appreciated her, Kacha paused before the inner door, wrapped his left hand around her neck, and kissed her hard. Yamuna permitted this for a long moment, for to keep Chekhania properly in her place, she needed to believe the emperor’s lusts controlled him, and that by her treachery she was gaining real power.

  Enough, said Yamuna at last, and Kacha released the woman and left her to mind the door.

  Inside the chamber, Kacha had to light the braziers himself. No servant, even under normal circumstances, would be permitted in this room. As the firelight brightened, Yamuna, even from his great distance, found a moment to stop and admire the map table that dominated the chamber.

  The Portrait of Worlds could not be duplicated, and it certainly could not be transported. So, a different tool had been created at the behest of the Isavaltan emperors. It was a table the length of the one that sat the council of lords, which had been covered with a brass sheet. The brass was then etched with carefully drawn and divined lines and symbols that represented the worlds and relationships sketched out in the dance performed by the mechanisms of the Portrait. Because the brass did not move, this tool was not as delicate or precise as the Portrait, but it was here and it would serve.

  It was said a sorcerer from the island of Tuukos had been smuggled in by Medeoan’s grandmother to make this table. They were known for drawing accurate and detailed astrological charts, and had, since their complete conquest by Isavalta, been forbidden to do so. Kacha, however, could well believe that such a canny woman would have had little trouble putting forbidden sorceries to work for the benefit of her new empire.

  Seeing it through Kacha’s eye, Yamuna regretted the necessity of killing the lord sorcerer. He would have liked to have the man’s secrets from him first, the secrets of this shining, engraved table, and most especially of the Portrait. Well, no matter. Avanasy would be found before all was done, that was not in doubt, and Avanasy could be made to tell the deeper spells concerning the detailed map and the exquisite mechanism. Until then, Yamuna’s own skills could well answer.

  Normally, some possession of Medeoan’s would be required, but as Kacha was her husband, bound to her through the tightest of all bonds save that of birth, he himself would serve as the token around which the spell could be woven.

  Kacha was used to stilling himself so Yamuna could work. He did so now, positioning himself directly in front of the center of the etched map of Isavalta. He relaxed himself, emptying his mind, making himself into the tool the sorcerer required.

  Yamuna caused Kacha’s right hand to take his left and place it palm down over the map of Isavalta. He reached inside himself, and pulled down his abundant magic, sending it outward across the bond of blood and flesh that tied him to Kacha. The power burned the young man, but he bore the pain proudly. Oh, it would be a pleasure to set him on the throne his father so coveted.

  The spell itself had to be worked in the Isavaltan fashion to be most effective, but Yamuna had made a great study of their forms.

  “This is my word.” Yamuna funneled the words to Kacha through the thoughts they shared, and Kacha, holding still under the burning that filled him inside, chanted them in time to his own heartbeat, weaving the words and the pain and the magic all into the pattern of the room. “Upon the island of the sun there grows a tree, and upon that tree grows a branch, upon that branch sits a bird of gold and that bird has two eyes of silver. As those two eyes of silver see the whole of the world, so may I, Yamuna dva Ikshu Chitranipad who is Kacha tya Achin Ejulinjapad see Medeoan Edemskoidoch Nacheradavosh. May I see where she walks in all the worlds mortal and immortal, speaking and silent, waking and sleeping. This is my wish and this is my word, and my word is firm.”

  Kacha burned, but he struggled against it, and he said the words again, and again. Yamuna stared, pushing the power through his resistant blood, willing their eye to see. For they must see. Alive or dead, the map must show them. The spell commanded, there was no will here to resist. There must be a sign or signal, and it must come soon.

  But Kacha cried out and his knees buckled, unable to stand against the pain, and Yamuna stilled the spell. Kacha dropped to the floor, panting, on hands and knees.

  “How?” Kacha demanded through gritted teeth. “She could not hide from you, you swore it. How then?”

  Yamuna considered. The little cow obviously knew secrets he did not. She was powerful, and she was well taught.

  Which gave him a new thought. It would take magic to vanish from the sight of the map. Her teacher would surely know which spell she used, and where she might go.

  Up. We must find Avanasy.

  For a moment, Yamuna thought the prince was going to try to refuse. But Kacha gritted his teeth and heaved himself to his feet, held his palms outstretched over the map, his whole body clenched to keep them there.

  Yamuna would have preferred to have a possession of Avanasy’s for this. It would have made things easier on Kacha. He did not wish the boy damaged. But there was no time to go casting about the palace for something that might remain of Medeoan’s former tutor.

  This is my word. Upon the island of the sun there grows a tree, and upon that tree grows a branch, upon that branch sits a bird of gold …

  Kacha screamed. Pain coursed through him, and more pain as the magic flowed through flesh that could not stand it and yet could not resist. Yamuna forced their right eye open and looked down upon the Map of Worlds, and he saw how the air shimmered and shone. Each beautifully rendered symbol that represented the myriad realms of the Silent Lands lit up in its turn — the Wheel, the Cup, the Wing, the Skull, the Fox-showing a passage through Death and Spirit. Here, the domain of the lokai had been passed by, here the fey, here the realm of Baba Yaga, and all had fetched up on a place marked with an etching of waves encased in two concentric circles. A nameless, mortal place, but now Yamuna knew its whereabouts, and Avanasy …

  Hold just a little longer, my prince, directed Yamuna as Kacha’s scream forced itself out through clenched teeth. The fey lights hummed, a strange, hinting resonance, and lit upon the map of Isavalta, and Yamuna’s eye marked the spot, and in Hastinapura he threw back his head and laughed.

  That laughter broke the spell, and Kacha reeled against the wall, barely missing a brazier as he slumped there, sweating and shaking, but standing upright nonetheless.

  “What did you see?” he gasped.

  The teacher is planning to return. Yamuna laughed again. Poor fool. He will be most surprised to find his mistress fled and his country turned against him.

  But Kacha could not laugh. Anger shot through him, as white-hot as the lingering pain. “He will not be surprised at all.”

  What is your meaning, my prince? inquired Yamuna, indulgently. Kacha set his jaw.

  “I knew the man for three years before Medeoan exiled him. He was not only completely loyal and half-blind with love for his student, he was as stubborn as a stone. There is only one reason he would come back now. Medeoan has somehow sent for him.”

  Yamuna’s voice fell silent. Kacha collapsed into the nearest chair. He felt as if his hand were back in the fire. A single, involuntary tear of pain trickled down his cheek. He waited for Yamuna’s anger and blame.

  But instead, the sorcerer’s voice came to him thoughtfully.

  If this is so, would she have told him where she was going?

  Kacha’s eyes widened ever so slightly. The strength of his realization muted the intensity of the pain for a bare instant. “She might. She might even meet him herself. At the very
least, she would send this Peshek to bring him to her or her allies.”

  Then he will do us immeasurable good service, said Yamuna. For all we need do is be there to welcome him home and persuade him to lead us in the direction your wife has run.

  Despite his pain, Kacha too began to laugh.

  It was full dark by the time Peshek reached his father’s gates. He’d been half-afraid he would have to stop on the road somewhere, spending another night out in the open, but the moonlight had made it possible for him and his exhausted hired horse to pick out the way.

  After a few minutes of shouting, the sleepy porter opened the window and squinted out at him without seeing him at all.

  “Come, Labko, you know me,” he said impatiently. The hired horse danced uneasily under him. Peshek patted its neck. This was the most spirit the beast had shown since he’d mounted its sagging back.

  Belated recognition widened the porter’s eyes. “Master Peshek.”

  Labko’s face vanished, and he shouted something indistinct. The shout was followed swiftly by a great creaking and sliding as the crank was turned and the great bolt was lifted so the gates could be cautiously pushed open. Peshek rode through as soon as there was room enough. A pair of boys wearing nothing but sandals and long-tailed shirts stared resentfully at him from under tousled hair. Peshek swung himself down onto the cobbles. He handed one of the boys his horse’s reins and took the lantern the other held.

  When his father had retired from service in the house guard, he had been gifted with a thousand acres of land and twenty serfs by the emperor. By that time, Peshek himself was already in the guard, and consequently he had only visited the estate a handful of times, but he still knew his way across the yard and up the steps to the main door. Apparently his shouting had roused more than the porter, for the door opened as he approached and a rumpled servant looked at him like a startled rabbit before remembering to reverence.