by Sarah Zettel
“But how far along is this plan?” asked the Minister of Air. “It is possible that the Isavaltan empress did not leave as voluntarily as she claims. If they have already driven out their own empress …”
“That is a key point.” Dieu Han raised her finger. “It may be Isavalta is already conquered. It may be Isavalta is but a prelude for greater conquests.”
All looked toward the emperor, who signed to his Voice with energy. “I am finding it difficult to believe so much of our Brother Emperor Samudra. All his letters have been crisp and direct, saying he wishes no quarrel, that he has quarrels enough of his own to contend with.”
“There are more powers in Hastinapura than Emperor Samudra,” Dieu Han reminded him.
“You do not believe Chandra may have a hand in this?”
Oh, believe that much, thought Medeoan as her grip tightened on the mirror. The scents of summer and the touch of the fresh wind seemed incongruous. She was in a closed chamber, surrounded by pillars of cinnabar and the statues of the gods.
Dieu Han turned her head a little so she could regard the emperor owlishly from one eye. “It is Chandra whose son was sent to bed the Isavaltan empress.”
“You think he seeks to invade his own land from the north?”
“He spoke with great feeling of a single empire when he was a young prince,” said the Minister of the North, whose robes were white as snow and embroidered over with broad-winged geese and beautifully stylized gulls. “Our reports on this matter are most reliable.”
The emperor considered this for a moment. “But he does not hold the Pearl Throne.”
“That may make him safer for this work,” said the Minister of Metal slowly, as if testing a fresh idea. “All the blame must go to his brother Samudra, who does sit on the throne.”
All in the chamber fell silent for a long moment. Medeoan felt sweat prickling the back of her neck, even though it was not that warm. Tension tightened her throat and snatched at her breath.
“There is another possibility,” said Dieu Han finally.
The emperor cocked his head. “What is that?”
“It is all a trap.”
No. Medeoan felt herself go cold. No. That’s not what is happening. You cannot believe that.
The Elders did not stir. If she had spoken so in council in Isavalta, every lord master would have been shouting at once. As it was, the emperor just regarded her coolly and signed to his Voice. “How so, Mother?”
Dieu Han rubbed the chair arm with her palm as she put her thoughts in order. “This little girl, this sorceress, with her tale of woe and wrong. What if she seeks to trick us into committing our armies and our protection, and we lead them into the waiting arms of her forces? We are weak. We cannot here, in this room, pretend that we are not. What if the Isavaltans have discovered that and seek to maneuver us into a war we cannot win?”
Vyshemir protect me. Medeoan licked her lips. I spoke only the truth. You cannot believe I did any less.
“It is an elaborate ruse, if ruse it is,” said the Minister of Air.
“Of course it is.” Dieu Han spread her hands. “Would a simple plan suffice?”
“Her father spoke of exchanging emissaries, and quelled the pirates in Hastinapura’s waters,” the Minister of the North reminded them.
“Her father is dead, and she may now be ruled by her husband. We also have reliable reports from Vyshtavos, about how she seldom conducts any business, how all her thoughts are given to her own pleasures and none to her rule. The emperor is Chandra’s son. It may be he has persuaded his bride to yield her unwanted power to him.”
No, no, no. Medeoan wanted to shout out her frustration. I told you the truth!
“But why come alone?” asked the Minister of Metal. “Why in this state?”
“Because there is a limit to what one may safely carry through the Land of Death and Spirit,” replied the Minister of Fire, whose scarlet robes and tattooed skin were covered with representations of the phoenix. “Could she sail through with an escort of mortal soldiers? It would be dangerous. Could she take her court sorcerers into her confidence? It is not likely. We would know if her escort consisted only of magicians, and be alerted.”
Again the emperor tapped his knee. “These thoughts are unwelcome, but they are worthy. They must be given careful consideration.”
“Thoughts will only scatter us like leaves in autumn,” said Dieu Han firmly. “We must have facts.”
The Minister of the North bowed her head. “Vyshtavos is well protected. Even we may not see within its walls.”
“There are other places, and other eyes than our own that may be trusted,” said the Minister of Metal. His heavy robes glinted in the light, rivaling the draperies of the gods around them. “We must know how the ships and soldiers move in Isavalta. If there is to be danger in this year, they cannot now be idle, for their summer is short and their winter is long, and they must strike quickly before the ice comes so that they may have secure garrisons for the winter. Whether or not Medeoan is involved in the plan, if they mean to attack, they will now be on the move.”
At these words, the emperor frowned. “Minister of Earth, if the Isavaltans do mean to attack, how well may we withstand them?”
The Minister of Earth was robed in green. Tortoises adorned his robes and skin, picked out in sienna and sparkling gold. “Not well, Your Majesty. Our dealings with Hastinapura and the pirate fleets have left us drained, as the Isavaltans surely knew. If we now must face war from the north …” He shook his head.
As the Isavaltans surely knew? Tears pricked the corners of Medeoan’s eyes. As Kacha surely knew. Oh, Vyshko, Vyshemir. What if this is true? What if this is his plan?
The emperor nodded. “Very well. If it cannot be open conflict, what means can we employ?”
There was silence for a long moment before the Minister of the North said, “We must invoke one of the great protectors.”
“Not yet,” said the Minister of the South. Her robes were scarlet as were the Minister of Fire’s, and her phoenixes pursued white cranes across the cloth and her skin. “We must try to treat first with our enemies. The pirates may be turned to war on Isavalta.”
“For what payment?” countered the Minister of Air. “Will you return the islands of K’ien and Shai to their mercy, which is their capital demand? Will you hand them those bases and fortifications, those walls over which they may look with greed at the Heart of the World?”
Again the Elders fell into their profound silence. Medeoan found herself wishing they would shout, would argue, would do something, not just stand there like ciphers believing she came as the pawn of their enemy.
Oh, but you do come as that pawn, whispered a treacherous little voice in the back of her head. If Kacha’s moving troops to the southern border, what else could you be doing here?
Furrows creased the emperor’s brow. At length, a tiny smile appeared on his face. “Perhaps you should have chosen another for the throne, Mother. Look where I have led the Heart of the World.”
“I do not regret my choice, my son.” Dieu Han drew herself up straight. “If danger threatens from many directions, then it must be met at each turning. If there is conflict at the foot of the Pearl Throne, expose it. If Isavalta threatens the north, break it. If the child Medeoan is a treasure, keep her.”
“There is wisdom in what you say, Mother. Very well.” The Voice hardened, growing even more imperious. “Let our eyes be turned toward Isavalta to see what there is to be seen. As we strive for that understanding, let a letter be drafted to the emperor of Hastinapura protesting this attack by his representative in Isavalta. If we cannot muster mortal protection, we will summon the immortal.”
“And Medeoan?” inquired Dieu Han.
“Will be moved into the Heart where she may be kept more closely.”
Medeoan could not stand to listen anymore. She tossed the mirror and her spell net aside, burying her face in her hands for a moment before she remembered the wa
tchful, silent ladies behind her. She straightened up at once, but did not turn to look into her chamber. She did not want them to see her face, for she could feel that her chin trembled as badly as her hands as the full weight of her folly tumbled down on Medeoan’s head.
Since her second brother had died of his fever, Medeoan had wanted to run away from her destiny. She had imagined a free life, one where she lived separate from politics, free to enjoy her days and her companions without worrying whether it was her rank that made them stay beside her. Her parents had worked hard to train her for her appointed role, and she had responded by isolating herself from all those around her. All except Avanasy, and then Kacha.
So, what did I do when danger truly threatened? Medeoan ground her teeth together until the pain ran through her jaw. I thought of nothing but to run away. I did not think to find a counter to the spell Kacha would place on me. I did not think to gather my own loyal followers, no. I ran, and now I will be put under lock and key as strong as any Kacha could have devised for me, and I have left Isavalta without friend or protector under the hand of a bloody usurper!
She knotted all the muscles in her neck to keep her head from falling forward as the tears began to trickle down her cheeks. What have I done? Oh, Vyshemir, what have I done?
But there was no time for despair. She wiped her eyes quickly. She was about to be placed under arrest. They would be on their way shortly. They would take from her every means they could to work her will. Without sorcery, she would never be let out until Kacha paid a ransom for her, or until whatever conflict might come between Isavalta and Hung Tse had reached a resolution, and that might take years. She could not leave Isavalta alone under a false power for years. She could never leave Isavalta alone again.
Medeoan cast quickly about, but saw nothing to help. There was only the carved balcony rail, the sun-drenched garden beyond, the wooden verandah beneath her feet, the bench, the cup of tea, and the mirror, net and comb lying where she had discarded them. An idea came to her all at once and she snatched up the net. The spell woven into it would not be of much use should she need to escape, but the silken threads could be reknotted to provide the base for some more elaborate working. She wadded the net up into a fine ball, and then tucked it as deeply under the elaborate braid that held her hair in place as she could. A quick glance in the mirror showed her no trace of colored silk showing under her golden hair.
A breeze at her back and the rustle of cloth told her the chamber door had opened. Medeoan rose and turned, as calmly and smoothly as she could manage.
Dieu Han entered the room, with the Minister of Air standing impassively beside her. With them came six guards with their long-handled axes and their black, lacquered armor trimmed in Imperial saffron.
“What is this?” demanded Medeoan. “What has happened?”
“Oh, Daughter,” sighed Dieu Han, shaking her head. “I told you to be open with my son.”
The Minister of Air gestured once, and the soldiers moved forward to surround Medeoan.
She feared they might return her to the cells she had been held in before, but instead they took her into the very center of the Heart, placing her in a small chamber in the gilded tower. The room was bare stone with only a leather mattress resting on the floor. There was a window, low enough for her to look out of, so she could see the expanse of stone walls that surrounded her and the constant patrols of guards that traversed their battlements.
They took her clothes away and left her a shift of leather. They cut her hair. Medeoan almost cried out as they did. But they seized her braid and sheared it off right at the base of her skull. Her heart rose to the base of her throat, but the maids had done their work too well and the hidden netting did not fall.
Then they left her, taking her shorn braid with them.
Alone, Medeoan’s first thought was to undo her few remaining pins and pull her netting free. She clutched it in her hands. As little as it was, it was her only weapon, her only chance. They had left her nothing else but her ragged hair and the blood in her veins.
The leather shift chafed her skin as she moved to the window. She looked out on the neat walls and their guards, moving as precisely spaced as if they were driven by clockwork. She saw the splendid gardens and the majestic gates and beyond them the teeming city dissected by its own walls.
Loneliness settled like a stone into her heart. All she had in the world to aid her was a tangle of silken threads. And Avanasy. If Avanasy were here. If Iakush had found him. If, if, if …
Medeoan bowed her head. She would not weep. Even as she was, she was a great prince, and she would not weep anymore.
Avanasy, you will find me. You have never let me down. You will find me and we will be free, and together we will return to free Isavalta. My land. I have been shown the error of my ways, and I will never flee from my land again.
Chapter Fifteen
The time on the water acquired its own rhythm, and Ingrid found herself coming to relish it. She and Avanasy shared the work of canvas and tiller, fishing with drag lines for whatever the ocean felt like offering. She liked his boat and soon learned its strange rigging and its easy ways. In the evening, they would anchor off the coast. While they remained in Isavalta, if one of his maps showed there to be a village nearby, one or the other of them would hike inland to hear the news and barter for bread and other provisions. Although Ingrid found herself missing any number of things — sugar, coffee, white flour, more than one change of linen — the days still felt sweet.
Nights were spent cradled in each others’ arms and that was the sweetest of all.
Only two things kept the time from being perfect. The first was Avanasy’s growing anxiety to reach their destination. Every day he would scan the skies, looking for the messenger from Peshek. Every day his face would grow just a little more grave as the messenger failed to appear.
The second flaw was Ingrid’s dreams.
As soon as they had left the cove below Hajek’s village and reached the open water, Avanasy had given her the tiller and sail and gone below. Ingrid sailed them across calm seas in a steady wind, and wished that there was a little more for her to do so she would not have to wonder so much about what had happened to her, what would happen next, and how Avanasy was going to do what he needed to if he was going to have to keep worrying about her.
An hour or so later, Avanasy returned to the deck, looking tired but satisfied. In his hand he held a delicate, complex braid made of colored cloth, canvas threads and several strands of his hair, and hers. He tied his creation securely around her right wrist, and kissed the knot when he was finished.
“It should be a girdle, or a sash, but I have no time to weave you such before dark.” He met her eyes anxiously. “How do you feel?”
Ingrid considered, searching inside herself for an honest answer. “As if something has eased,” she said. “At least for now.”
“Good.” Avanasy kissed her. “Good.”
She knew he did not sleep that night for watching over her, and, in truth, she was hard pressed to give herself over to oblivion, but at last fatigue won out. She slept, and she stayed within herself, but she was seized with a straining and stretching, as if she were struggling against the bond that held body and soul together. It was the same every night after that. She would see things, fleeting as shadows in the darkness, and would feel them pausing to stare at her: a knight all dressed in red; the Vixen, who was the size of a cart horse; a snake, a tortoise, a huge chestnut horse, a dragon, a beautiful bird with trailing wings.
She would tell Avanasy of her dreams, and he would frown and reconsecrate her wristlet.
“They are spirit powers,” he told her. “You are seeing into the Land of Death and Spirit, and it is looking back at you. I don’t like it.”
Neither did Ingrid, in truth, but there was nothing to be done. Avanasy said there would be help in Hung Tse, perhaps even from the Nine Elders, depending on what Medeoan had been able to accomplish. Ingrid would b
e whole again, he swore, and with that, Ingrid worked hard to let herself to be content.
It was their tenth day on the water. Ingrid was taking her turn at the tiller. It was a good day, with a clear sky and only a few hazy clouds. The sea was blue and the swells were high, but regular, and the wind stiff and steady and smelling only of warm salt. The seabirds sported lazily over the low green coast.
Avanasy stood by the mast, one hand shading his eyes as he stared toward land. Then, he pointed toward an oddly cleft rise, where it looked like a single hill had been split open with a giant axe.
“Ngar-Chen,” he said. “That puts us about a day out from the mouth of the Sze-Leng River. From there we will be able to find our way to the Heart of the World. There may even be a riverboat, if we are lucky.” He came to stand beside her, one hand wrapping itself around the gunwale, the other touching the line, as if testing its tension. “Grant that we have not been too long.”
“Whatever we find, we’ll deal with it then,” said Ingrid. “Your empress arrived safely, you know that much.”
Avanasy nodded absently. He had tried several times over the past days to work a spell which would allow him to see Empress Medeoan, and possibly to pass a message to her, but there had been little success, even though his efforts would leave him drained and shaking. He had nothing of hers to create a bond between them, he told Ingrid when he had recovered from his first attempt, and working with the unshaped elements was chancy at best. He had been able to find traces that led him to believe she had reached the Heart of the World in safety, but beyond that he could see nothing.
“The Nine Elders will not permit prying eyes near their emperor,” he had said ruefully.
The wind shifted, tugging at line and canvas. Ingrid, in response, shifted her grip on the tiller and checked the ropes. All seemed well to her, but Avanasy had straightened up, and turned his gaze from the shore to the open sea.
“What is it?” she asked.