The Usurper's Crown

by Sarah Zettel

  “There is no time for this, Master Avanasy,” said Lien’s voice, sounding far sharper than Ingrid had yet heard it.

  They all turned, and Ingrid saw thunder and fear in Lien’s face.

  “The Phoenix has been unleashed. We must get away from here at once.”

  “No!” cried Medeoan before Avanasy could speak a word. “Master Lien, if this is the Firebird, it flies in Isavalta. I cannot leave my people …”

  “There is nothing you can do!” Lien shouted in reply. “It is one of the four immortal guardians. It will fly until it has destroyed Hung Tse’s enemies.” He swallowed hard. His face had gone deathly pale. “I must return home. I must warn Cai Yun …”

  “Master.” Avanasy’s wounded hand curled up. “Do not lose your way.”

  “You don’t understand.” Lien pulled himself roughly from Avanasy’s grasp. “The Phoenix will seek out Hung Tse’s enemies. After Isavalta, who is a greater enemy than myself? Than my niece who aids my vengeance out of loyalty? I must get her to safety …”

  What little color she had faded from the empress’s cheeks. “No,” whispered Medeoan. She knotted her fists and gritted her teeth hard.

  Avanasy turned to say something to the empress, but Ingrid did not hear it. Her ears were ringing and her eyes were filled up with memory — the house of bones on its taloned legs, the famine-thin hag with her black iron teeth, the growling dogs, the watching cat. Ingrid’s hand flew to her mouth. She began to tremble. Despite the golden heat radiating from overhead, the world about her had gone suddenly cold, and she could do nothing but shiver.

  “Ingrid, what is it?” Avanasy stretched his hand out toward her.

  “The … Old Witch,” gasped Ingrid from between her fingers. “Oh, God, oh, Mary, she told me. She told me she knew how to cage the Firebird.”

  Avanasy gaped. “She said this?”

  Ingrid nodded, pressing her hand against her mouth as if she were about to be sick. Gently, Avanasy urged her to sit. She thumped clumsily onto the ground, raising up a cloud of soot, unable to look anywhere but straight ahead, unable to see anything but Baba Yaga.

  “You have spoken with the Bony-Legged Witch?” said Medeoan, sounding half angry, half disbelieving.

  Again, Ingrid nodded. “She … called me to her. She has something she wants me to do. She said … she said that I would come to her a third time, that I would beg to be allowed to do this thing, because only she knew how to cage the Firebird.”

  “Is this true?” the empress demanded of Avanasy.

  “Yes.” Avanasy dropped to one knee at Ingrid’s side. “Oh, Ingrid, why did you not tell me?”

  Ingrid let her hand fall into her lap. “I meant to. At first, I didn’t want to add to your worries. Then, so much was happening …” She gestured vaguely at Lien and the empress. “As foolish as it sounds, I forgot.”

  “No. It is not foolish. It is easy to forget what happens in the Land of Death and Spirit. It is as when we walk in dreams.” He took her hand. “Do not reproach yourself.”

  “What did the Old Witch want of you?” asked Medeoan flatly.

  Ingrid shook her head. “I’m not sure. I can’t remember clearly. Something that had been stolen from her …” She tried to concentrate, but the memories slipped through her mind’s fingers like water. “I don’t know anymore. I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Avanasy. “We know the knowledge exists. We will seek it out.”

  “None of this matters,” said Lien, his cold voice cutting across whatever else might be said. “It is too late. The Phoenix has flown ahead of us. It has already burned the army of Isavalta.”

  Ingrid thought Medeoan was going to faint. The empress swayed on her feet, as white as the mists around their ship.

  Avanasy gripped the empress’s hand. “We can still save Isavalta. We will …”

  “You will stay to die!” shouted Lien. “Do you not hear me? The Phoenix will not permit your empire to survive. Your capital may already be on fire, you can’t know. We cannot wait here for you to come to your senses. I will not leave my child … my niece to its judgment.”

  “How do I find the Old Witch?” Ingrid asked, putting out one hand to push herself to her feet.

  Avanasy covered her hand with his free one. “Ingrid, no. I can’t let you do this. I don’t know what going alone into the Silent Lands will do to you. I have not had time to understand the whole of your … divided state. If you attempt this,” Avanasy’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper, “you may not be able to return to the mortal world. I will go and bargain with the Old Witch.”

  “With what?” said Ingrid. “I’m the one she wants. What else do you have to give her?”

  She knew nothing of Isavalta, except for some coastline and one fishing village. She had no obligations there, no family, except Avanasy, and Avanasy said she did not need to do this thing, that another way could be found. She could let that happen. She did not need to go back to that place, to face that … hag again. She did not need to acknowledge the split in herself before Avanasy could heal her. It did not have to happen.

  Yet, even as she told herself that as firmly as she could, she knew she lied. She knew what wildfires were. She had seen them on the mainland, the aftereffects of the loggers’ efforts. She had seen smoke blackening the sky and smelled the choking stench. She had heard the screams.

  No, she knew nothing of Isavalta, but she knew very well what had been visited upon the Isavaltans.

  “There is no other way, Avanasy,” said the empress.

  Avanasy’s face creased, at first, Ingrid thought, from anger, but then she knew it was from the effort to hold that anger back. “You would order this from one who is not even subject to you?”

  The empress did not flinch at this question. “I am not ordering her, she is freely offering.”

  “Do I have to take this off?” Ingrid asked, touching the braid on her wrist. “Or can I just … go as I am?”

  Avanasy wanted to protest. He wanted to rage, Ingrid was sure of it, but she also saw how terribly he knew that there was no other choice. Whatever must be done to cage the Firebird, it would surely involve magic, and strong magic at that. Even she could see that much. If he drained himself white to gain the secret of this working, the empress would be left alone to do what must be done afterward, and that could not be allowed either.

  “No,” he said sorrowfully. “If the Old Witch wants you, she will take you. All you need to do is speak her name. Do not remove the braid. It will, I think, lessen the disorientation and difficulty you will have as you move through the Silent Lands.” His fingers trailed gently around her wrist. “And as with the ring, the binding of the spell will help bring you back to me.”

  “I will set vigil for you myself,” announced Lien. “If you can do this thing, you will be saving my family’s lives.”

  “Well, then.” Ingrid faced Avanasy and smoothed down her apron. “I’d best get on with it, hadn’t I?”

  But Avanasy’s eyes glistened brightly. He grasped both of Ingrid’s hands and drew them up close to his chest. She could feel his heart beating hard and frightened, even underneath his woolen coat. “Listen to me, Ingrid. Courtesy is all where you are going. Do not fail to be polite, to anyone or anything. Accept nothing until you know the conditions under which it is given. Refuse nothing that is freely given, and trust your heart over your eyes.”

  “I’ll remember,” she told him gravely.

  “I love you.”

  “I’ll remember that as well.” She kissed him softly, feeling afresh how the warmth of his mouth was like no other heat there could be. Not even the fire still smoldering around her could burn her so deeply.

  Then, she let go of his hands and walked forward three short steps. She faced the blackened forest. The sooty wind teased at her disheveled hair.

  “Baba Yaga!” she cried out, as if she stood at the back door of her father’s house calling one of her little siblings in for supper. “I know
you’re out there! I’ll do what you want if you’ll tell me how to cage the Firebird. Do you hear me, Baba Yaga?”

  There was no transition. Ingrid was simply elsewhere and she did not understand how it could be so. Bewildered, she stared about her, and her confusion only deepened.

  This was not the Land of Death and Spirit as she had seen it before. These were not the dense pine forests lit by the directionless glow. These were ordinary pine trees hedged by fern and bramble. Birds called to one another overhead and mosquitoes whined uncomfortably near. High summer had passed, and the green leaves of the underbrush paled toward autumn’s yellow. The wind smelled of pine resin and fresh water, and she knew where she was.

  She was home. This was Sand Island. She was sure of it. If she headed south, she would come to her family’s house. How had she come to be home so suddenly? What had gone wrong?

  Ingrid didn’t know what to do. She had expected the fairy land, and the insistent tugging telling her where to go. Not to be home, not to be alone.

  Because no other idea came to her, she hiked up her skirts and trudged southward. She moved only because she could not stand still in the middle of the woods. Her mind was so awhirl with astonishment, she had no clear idea whether she thought movement itself could bring her answers, or whether it was merely an instinctual reaction to get clear of the mosquitoes the frost had not yet come to kill.

  In the distance, she heard someone humming a familiar tune. Ingrid broke into a run, shoving aside the brush and brambles with her elbows. There, in a small clearing, stood Grace, smiling her sunny smile and breaking dead branches into kindling.

  “Grace!” cried Ingrid, running up to her sister’s side.

  Grace turned and looked at her mildly, with no surprise or ruffling of her expression at all. “Hello, Ingrid. What are you doing here?”

  “Grace, I’m home,” Ingrid panted. “I’m back.”

  “Why?”

  “Wh … why?” Ingrid could only stammer in surprise. “Yes, why?”

  Ingrid stared at her sister. Grace just smiled, the careless smile that Ingrid knew so well.

  Why am I here? Ingrid rubbed her forehead. The sun warmed her shoulders. The scents and sights she had known all her life surrounded her. She had been away, she knew that, and there had been good reason, but now … now …

  “I came home,” she said uncertainly.

  “Well, good,” said Grace. “You can help me carry this.” She handed Ingrid a bundle of kindling wood.

  “Yes, all right.” Ingrid’s hands closed around the dead-wood. It smelled of earth and bark and pricked her hands. She tucked the bundle under one arm. Grace hoisted her own bundle on her shoulder and took Ingrid’s hand. She had forgotten what her sister’s touch felt like, that warm, light palm. She was a grown woman, but walking with Grace still felt like walking with a child, cheerful, careless, enjoying the moment.

  Grace swung their arms, and began to sing.

  “An old man come courtin’ me, fa-la-la-loodle!

  An old man come courtin’ me, hi-derry-down!”

  Ingrid grinned. They had sung this one together so often, she joined in instantly.

  “An old man come a-courtin’ me, all for to marry me,

  Maids when you’re young, never wed an old man!”

  Grace began to giggle, and Ingrid could not help herself. She began to laugh as well. It was so good here, so simple, walking with her sister, all forgiven, heading for home and hearth with nothing more complicated than a bundle of firewood to carry.

  “It’s when that we went to church, fa-la-la-loodle …”

  Ingrid faltered for a moment. What had needed to be forgiven? What had she done?

  “Look.” Grace broke off the song. “There’s Leo.”

  Leo stood beneath a birch tree, his scythe raised. Fresh-cut brush lay in heaps at his feet.

  “Be careful!” Ingrid cried at once, although she didn’t know why.

  Leo swung the scythe down, it tore through the tangle of brush and saplings, laying them flat on the ground.

  “So, you’ve turned up at last, have you?” he said, bringing the scythe around again. “I don’t suppose you remembered to think of your family while you were gone?”

  No, she hadn’t. She had been too busy, with … all that needed doing. She had been … on the mainland? In Bayfield? Farther? Had she gone to Chicago? Ingrid shook her head. It was wrong to return without a gift, that much was clear. But what did she have? She had left so much behind already.

  She groped in her apron pocket, and brought out a spear tip. She did not remember placing it there, but it didn’t matter. Leo would like this.

  “Here, Leo,” she said, extending it. “This is for you.”

  He shouldered the scythe and took the spear tip. He held it up to the light as if it was a coin of dubious quality.

  “Well, all right then,” he said, pocketing the shining piece of metal. “Better get on, the both of you. Mama’s waiting.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of home.

  Grace took Ingrid’s hand again. “That was a good gift, sister.”

  “Yes.” Ingrid fell into step beside her. She felt lighter and emptier at the same time. But she was happy. She was walking and singing with her sister. She was going home.

  “It’s when we were walkin’ home, fa-la-la-loodle!

  It’s when we were walkin’ home, hi-derry-down!

  It’s when we were walkin’ home, he let me walk alone.

  Maids when you’re young, never wed an old man!”

  “Look,” said Grace suddenly. “There’s Papa.”

  Ingrid looked, and there was Papa standing in the clearing with his gun. A rustling filled the long, blanched grasses and Papa aimed and shot, the gun sounding horribly loud in the still afternoon.

  What a strange time to be hunting rabbits, thought Ingrid, perplexed. Rabbits are all underground in the middle of the day.

  “What are you hunting, Papa?” she asked.

  Papa cracked open his shot gun and reloaded the breech. “What’s been lost,” he said tersely. “What are you hunting, young woman?”

  “What’s been stolen,” answered Ingrid promptly. But why? What does that mean?

  Papa just grunted and sighted along the barrel of his shotgun again. “And what have you brought home for your father?”

  Ingrid dug in her other apron pocket. This time, she brought out a tiny golden statue of a long-tailed bird in flight.

  “Here, Papa.” She handed it to him carefully, suddenly afraid she might drop the precious thing. She could not lose this. It was precious, but she didn’t know why, or where it had come from, or how it had come to be part of her.

  Part of me? This is part of me?

  Papa snatched the golden icon off her palm and turned it over, examining its workmanship before he tucked it into his shirt pocket. “I suppose that’ll do,” he grunted, not looking at them, but staring off across the clearing. “Get along, both of you. Mama’s waiting.”

  Grace took her hand and led her away, even as the grasses began to rustle again, and another shot exploded through the warm air.

  “Grace,” said Ingrid as her sister took her hand again, “what’s happening?”

  “We’re going to see Mama,” said Grace with a grin. This time, her teeth, bared as she smiled, seemed unaccountably sharp.

  “Its when that we went to bed, fa-la-la-loodle!

  It’s when that we went to bed, hi-derry-down!

  It’s when that we went to bed, he lay as if he were dead.

  Maids when you’re young, never wed an old man!”

  But this time Ingrid did not join in. She felt too hollow for singing. Where was she? She was with Leo, and with Papa, and with Grace, but what was with herself? She hunted what had been stolen, but she was led away to Mama. How was she to look for it if she was being led to Mama?

  “Look,” said Grace. “There’s Mama.”

  Ingrid looked. She saw the back of th
eir house, with the outbuildings and the chicken coop. Mama stood beside the big, iron laundry kettle, stirring it with the long, well-worn paddle. But no steam rose from the kettle. In the next moment, Ingrid saw why. No fire burned underneath the pot.

  “Well, you’re here at last,” said Mama grimly. “Lay the fire, you two.”

  Ingrid knelt beside the kettle and laid down her bundle of wood. “Mama, why are you stirring before the fire’s lit?”

  “I’m keeping fresh a past that’s gone missing,” she answered. “Why are you wandering loose in the woods?”

  “I’m looking for a heart that’s been stolen,” said Ingrid, laying out the wood to be ready for the fire. Why? Why? I don’t understand. Why am I saying these things? Why am I here? She stared at the pile of sticks. What is happening?

  “Light the fire, Ingrid,” said Grace, sitting back on her haunches and grinning at Ingrid with her oddly pointed teeth.

  Ingrid automatically reached in her pocket for matches, but her pocket was empty. “I can’t,” she said muzzily. “I must have given it away.”

  Grace shook her head and clucked her tongue. Above them, Mama stirred the kettle relentlessly. The liquid inside sloshed, making the sides of the great kettle ring.

  “You should not have given so much,” Mama grumbled. “I dare say you didn’t even bring anything for your poor mother.”

  Ingrid searched her pockets, unaccountably frightened, but there was nothing to be found.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “Really. I didn’t mean …”

  “Oh, Ingrid,” sighed Grace. “Whatever are we going to do with you? You have so much, and know so little of anything you carry. You’ll waste it all on trivialities, and never know what you could have been.”

  “Nothing else for it, then,” muttered Mama.