by Sarah Zettel
What have you been through, Medeoan? Avanasy wanted to blurt out. He did not. He simply knelt, as was proper before his empress. The deck rocked under him and Avanasy swayed gracelessly as the ship slowly slipped forward.
The motion lifted Medeoan’s head. She glanced toward the ceiling and the sounds of men’s orders and creaking ropes. Then, she finally seemed to see him there, kneeling in reverence before her.
“There is no need for such between us, Avanasy,” she said, running a hand through her badly shorn locks. “I would have thought that much you would remember.”
“I’ve forgotten nothing,” he said, getting to his feet again. “Including the fact that you are now empress of Eternal Isavalta.”
“Such an empress as the world has never seen,” she snorted. “Crop-headed, imprisoned, alone …”
“Never alone,” he said, moving to her side.
“Oh, but I was.” She gazed up at him, and he saw the dark circles under her eyes. “You will never know … I’m sorry, Avanasy. I should have known you would not betray me. This is my fault.”
Hearing the dejection in her words, Avanasy knelt again, but this time it was so he could look directly into Medeoan’s eyes. They were under way. The ship rocked with its own easy motion as they moved out into the bay. They were making good their escape. His heart should have been light, but guilt grown old weighed it down.
“No. The fault is mine. I should have gone to your father with what I suspected. I should have …”
She smiled and straightened up a little, shaking her head to stop his words. “There are so many things we both should have done.” She ran both hands through her shorn hair again.
“I should have found a lady in the Heart of the World who knows how to cut hair!”
They laughed a little at that, but too soon Medeoan grew serious again. “He did not take the crown,” she said, staring out of the tiny porthole. “I gave it to him.”
“No, Medeoan.”
“Yes, Avanasy.” Her face hardened. “All I could think to do was run, and I did. I left Isavalta in his hands. I gave it to him.” She spat the words. “Because I was such a child, I couldn’t understand, I couldn’t accept who I truly was. I stood at the foot of my father’s throne and I swore to Vyshemir and Vyshko I would protect Isavalta, that I would be a true daughter, and at the first opportunity, I abandoned them.”
“The gods forgive, Medeoan,” he said, laying a hand on the edge of her bunk, as close as he dared come to touching her. “They know it was not them you ran from. They will welcome your return.”
“Yes.” She was not looking at him. She looked out the portal at the green-brown river and the brightening sky. Avanasy was not sure what she saw there, but it turned her expression to stone. “We will return together, and together we will make Kacha rue what he has done to Isavalta, and to me.”
It was then Avanasy saw the depths of the bitterness that had taken hold in Medeoan. Imprisonment had only fostered it. It had begun with Kacha, whom she had truly loved, and who had committed betrayal on top of betrayal. She had a right to her anger, he could not say otherwise, but it chilled him to the heart to see the hard light it sparked in her eyes.
“Medeoan, thinking too much on blame will not help you do what must be done,” he ventured.
She smiled mirthlessly. “I am sure you are right. But it is past time I opened my eyes …” She shook herself, and did not finish the phrase. “So, tell me, Avanasy, where have you been, and who is this woman you are traveling with?”
All that Avanasy had thought of saying crowded into his mind at that moment — the evasions, the careful words, the partial and more easy truths — but he pushed the babble of it aside. Instead, he settled into the cabin’s one chair and told her, fully and deliberately, of his time on Sand Island, of his life as a fisher, which at least made her smile, of the ghost and of Ingrid and her sister. He told her how, dying, Iakush found him there, and how he determined at once to return, but could not leave Ingrid behind.
“She is worthy of you then, Avanasy?” asked Medeoan softly.
“More than I am of her, I sometimes think.” He could not help but smile as he thought of Ingrid’s warmth and courage again.
Avanasy looked again into Medeoan’s eyes, and saw fresh pain there. His throat tightened. Vyshemir’s knife, what was she thinking? Cut off, alone, frightened, waiting for him to come to her, as she had been, what had happened in her heart? She was still so very young. Had a dream of love come to her, as it had once to him? He had found the truth of love in Ingrid, but Medeoan had only lost that love she thought she had. Had she hoped to turn to him?
While he looked into those eyes, he saw that this was true, and for a moment he was afraid that he might feel his old, reluctantly acknowledged love stirring. But he thought of Ingrid waiting for him, and he knew that other wistful, unformed love was now no more than tender memory.
He could only hope that he would find the words to make Medeoan understand.
But Medeoan only touched his hand and said, “What else?”
Relieved that the moment he had dreaded had passed so easily, Avanasy spun the tale to the end, bringing her news of Peshek’s continued bravery and his quest to raise a loyal army in Isavalta, of the certainty that Kacha meant to war with Hung Tse, and how that war had probably already begun, and how he was certain they had been permitted to escape.
Medeoan’s jaw worked itself back and forth. “He plays this game with my land?” she rasped. “With my people now? In my name?” She spat the final word. “And then, after all, he would blame me for his wars! I won’t leave enough of him left for his mother to mourn!”
The force of her words rocked Avanasy back.
“We need to be home,” she announced. “We need to find Peshek, and then Kacha.”
“Lien speeds us on the way. There is no one better able to sail through the Land of Death and Spirit.”
An unfamiliar, calculating expression crossed her face. “Avanasy, could he raise more than one crew of men?”
“I believe he can.”
“Good. We will speak to him as soon as we are safe in Isavalta. His men could come in useful to whatever force Peshek has managed to raise.” She stood, and as the morning’s watery light flickered across her, Avanasy saw how very much she looked like her father. “You will stand beside me then.”
“As ever, Imperial Majesty.” He bowed his head, and this time she did not reject the gesture.
“Thank you.” Even those words sounded stern. “There is nothing to be done at this moment. You should try to sleep. I’ll need you awake when we arrive.”
Avanasy rose and gave a formal reverence. “You should also sleep.”
“I’ll try, I promise,” she said, sounding a little more like the child he remembered. Avanasy let himself be content with that and showed himself out the door.
In the passage, he lifted his eyes to the gods. Vyshko, Vyshemir, protect your daughter. She is ready to become what she must be, but I beg you, do not let her forget what she should be.
“They are gone. We have failed.” Anh Thao, the Minister of the North, spoke the words. She, with the other Nine Elders, knelt on the dais, a gesture of apology and an admission of guilt all at once.
“We have searched the house of the pirate Lien, but they have already been taken away,” added Shaiming, the Minister of Metal. “Nothing has been learned from questioning his niece.”
Pa K’un held himself still and silent, letting the Nine Elders bask for a moment in his disapproval. Then, when he judged that moment had lasted long enough, he signed swiftly to his Voice. Seeing him ready to speak, the Nine Elders stood.
“We must turn our minds to what may be done about this invasion,” the Voice intoned solemnly. “And we must do so now. We have information that tells us the Isavaltans hasten toward Erh Huan. They mean to attack there, and if they do not have plans to attack soon by sea, they are fools.”
“If the story the three fro
m Isavalta told is true …” began the Minister of the North, but Pa K’un cut her off with a gesture.
“If it is true, then the security of Hung Tse will be the Isavaltans’ last consideration. The empress will return with her advisors to try to take her own land back. It may be she will be able to do so swiftly, but can we rely on that? Their winter comes early and hard. If she must stage a pitched campaign, she will not be able to do so until the spring thaw. That will give the usurper time to dig in on our borders, and prepare at home for her assault, if he has not already begun to do so.” The Voice spoke sternly, in good reflection of the emperor’s mood. “And if she has lied to us, and works with her Hastinapuran husband rather than against him, she has escaped with whatever information or advantage her magics were able to procure. No, Ministers, we have no choice. We must act swiftly.”
He did not say it. He was not permitted to say it. But as he gazed at the nine solemn faces before him, he knew they saw the direction in which his words led.
Xuan, the Minister of Fire, walked up a single step of the dais and knelt.
“I am ready,” he said.
The other eight said nothing at first. Xuan remained where he was, bent in obeisance and offering, ready to sacrifice all to make good his failure and to protect the Heart of the World.
“Let it be done,” whispered Chi Tahn, the Minister of Water.
“Let it be done,” whispered En Lai, the Minister of Earth. “Let it be done,” whispered Shaiming, the Minister of Metal.
Eight times the words echoed around the throne room. As the ministers spoke, the air seemed to thicken with the force of their resolve, until the hairs on the back of Pa K’un’s head stood up, and it seemed that the very images of the gods must shiver from the strength of it.
Pa K’un signed to his Voice. “Can it be done now?”
“It can,” answered the Minister of Air. “It has been prepared for these many years.”
The Voice looked to the emperor, and Pa K’un nodded.
“Then I also say, let it be done.”
The eight of the elders who still stood all bowed in unison. “Will Your Majesty deign to come with us?”
Again, Pa K’un inclined his head. With this as the signal, the Voice beckoned to the bearers with their black coats and saffron caps. They mounted the dais from the rear, carrying the poles which were their badge of office. The poles were fitted into slots on the sides of his throne and the emperor was lifted onto the shoulders of his servants. Already, the soldiers were assembled at the foot of the dais that he might have a proper escort.
The Nine Elders stood aside so that Pa K’un preceded them down the dais steps. As a result, the emperor had no opportunity to see how bravely the Minister of Fire walked toward his destiny.
There was only one place for such magic as this. The ministers and the imperial escort proceeded up the winding stairs of the Heart’s central tower, the Heart’s Spear. Only those who had the privilege of mounting the final stair could tell that the last chamber was open to the moon and stars. Silver light flooded down and filled the circular room with its polished floor inlaid in gold and ivory with maps of the heavens and ringed round with signs of protection for Hung Tse.
In the center of the chamber waited a stone altar the size and shape of a millstone, its top blackened by years of fires and its sides carved with prayers to the gods and the imperial ancestors. As his bearers lowered him, Pa K’un read those prayers, and wondered if either of the two boys who sat here before him would hear if he spoke those prayers aloud. He wondered if they would bless or curse him if they could.
The Minister of Fire stepped forward and knelt before the altar. He bowed and kissed the ground before it, remaining in the position of obeisance to pray. Then, at last, he stood straight, and stepped into the center of the altar. He stood there, still and seemingly unafraid, but Pa K’un could not believe that was so. He remembered his investiture as emperor. He had schooled himself to sit perfectly still through the hours of chants and formal declarations. He had appeared calm and strong, or so he had been told, but inside he had felt weak as water, even though he knew it was a glorious thing that was happening to him.
Even in the moonlight, Xuan’s tattoos shimmered brightly as if he were living flame himself rather than just flesh and blood.
The Minister of Earth and the Minister of the South joined their fellows in the circle. Each carried a shining bundle reverently in their arms. Xuan lifted his chin just a little higher. Then, he inclined his head once.
The Nine Elders bowed in return. Then, they lifted their voices and, together, they began to sing.
Pa K’un had studied many languages, but the spell tongue of the Nine Elders was known to them alone. It was never written down, and was only passed on when a new elder was chosen and invested with the robes, markings and name of the previous sorcerer who had held the office, and then it was passed on by magic. That particular ceremony had not been required, the emperor knew, for three hundred years. But then, neither had this one.
The nine voices rose higher, became more commanding. Even Pa K’un could feel the air shiver as the song wove the elders’ will into corporeal form. It grew bitterly cold for a moment, then, slowly, it began to warm, as if the song reached up to the stars themselves and pulled down their fire.
En Lai, the Minister of Earth, broke the circle, still singing high, ringing harmonies that soared above the other tones. He stepped onto the altar. The Minister of Fire did not move, did not look at him. En Lai lifted the burden he carried and draped it around Xuan’s shoulders.
It was a robe, stiff with golden embroidery. Phoenixes soared across scarlet cloth. They raised their trailing wings in triumph. They stretched their necks out in song. They spread their long tails out to wrap around Xuan’s body so that they encompassed him completely.
En Lai bowed again, and slowly, Pa K’un thought lovingly, tied the golden sash and returned to the circle.
The song deepened, strengthened, drawing its power from the stones beneath as well as the stars above. The night grew warmer. Pa K’un felt sweat begin to prickle his scalp and the back of his neck.
On the altar, Xuan sagged under the weight of the song of power and the robe that bound him. The song did not cease, but grew louder and stronger yet. Pa K’un, for all his years of training, could barely hold himself still. He had ordered this thing, but now he wanted to flee it. This was wrong. This tore at the fabric of what was and what must be. This power was too great, this song too loud. The gods heard this sound, and they answered, and their answers were not kind.
The Minister of the South stepped onto the altar with her burden. Xuan, no longer able to stand on his own, sagged against her. She bore his weight sturdily, singing her thread of this terrible, powerful web, and laid her burden across Xuan’s face. It was a mask, made of gold and etched with delicate feathers. It was a bird’s face she bound with scarlet ribbons over Xuan’s own. He arched his back from the weight and the pain and the burden of the song that pressed against him, but he made no sound. The Minister of the South returned to the circle, and Xuan collapsed in a heap of gold and beauty onto the stone.
The elders’ song grew louder yet. Pa K’un felt he could not stand it a moment longer. He must clap his hands over his ears, he must scream, he must leap up and break the circle. He must stop this. It was wrong, wrong. The song would tear the world open. It would shatter night and day around them. It was too huge, too loud, too terrible to be contained.
The emperor shot to his feet, and in that exact moment, the Phoenix rose from the altar.
It was dazzling. It shone like the sun as it lifted its wings, each feather a tongue of flame. The blue of the heart of the flame burned in its eyes. Pa K’un felt he would be blinded if he looked too long, but he could not turn his face away from the power and the unearthly beauty of this creature that rose, graceful as smoke, into the night sky, dimming the stars themselves with its blaze. It uttered one cry that pierced Pa K’un
’s ears through to his heart, and it flew, a star of impossible proportions rising from earth instead of falling from the heavens, toward the north.
Only when its blaze had faded could Pa K’un breathe again. He fell back on his chair, his strength gone. The afterimages of the Phoenix flickered brightly across his vision. Sometime, he could not have said when, the elders had ceased to sing. They clasped hands now, bowing toward the empty altar. There were only eight of them in that circle. Xuan, the Minister of Fire, was gone.
Pa K’un gathered himself back into the approved position of calm reflection, then, he too bowed toward the empty altar.
Thank you, Xuan, for your sacrifice. Thank you, immortal one, for answering our call. If there is a price, I will pay, but I beg you, burn these invaders from our door.
As his prayer winged skyward, a fierce cry echoed in the distance. Pa K’un knew then he had been heard, and he could not help but tremble.
Chapter Nineteen
The white crane soared through the sky. The long plains passed beneath it, giving way to rolling hills and ragged mountains. Inside the crane’s shape, the man, Yamuna, reveled in the freedom of his flight. Despite the cold of the bottled curse he carried around his neck, his heart was warm.
He remembered the day he took his oath to the Pearl Throne, and how heavily the words fell from his tongue. He remembered watching the sullen, petulent boy he was bound to serve and wondering how the old emperor could bear to call that his son.
Soon. Soon I will be transformed forever. Soon the Mothers will answer for my fate.
Avanasy sought his friend Peshek. So too did Yamuna. Last night, as he rested, his scrying showed him Peshek lurking in the woods of a mountain pass, getting ready to commit his own treasons. Avanasy would find him there. So too would Yamuna.
When they all met, it would be the beginning of the end.
“Majesty?” General Adka stepped into the dim imperial tent and knelt. Dawn was still too far off to bring any warmth to the air and his breath steamed in front of him, a white cloud in the flickering light of a single brazier. No servants were present. The emperor himself was nothing more than a shadow beside the dark lump of the bed.