The Spirit Gate

by Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  Lukasha gestured toward the journal, still in Kassia’s hands. “These books contain the evidence of what you say?”

  Kassia nodded, holding the journal out to him, the excised pages tucked beneath the back cover. He took it, then held out the other hand for the Bible, which was in Zakarij’s possession. “Perhaps it is time someone did take responsibility for the destruction of such a magic. Leave these with me. When I’ve studied them, I’ll decide what’s to be done. You two have shouldered more than your share of this. Think of it no more.” He set the books down on his work table and smiled. “Celek is but days away, yet I think we might arrange a dual Investment/Accession ceremony for a new Mateu and a new Aspirant.”

  Exhilarated and warmed, Kassia threw her arms around her Master and embraced him fervently. Even in this moment of great frustration, he could still think of someone else, could consider her feelings and Zakarij’s.

  “Poor Kiska,” he said as she released him. “I hope you do not think too badly of your fallen heroine. I often think we are unfair to make of anyone a legend.”

  She shook her head and murmured something vague, but his words struck her. She hadn’t thought of how her personal feelings for Marija Boh-itu were affected by this rush of discovery. Now she did. She had come to love this woman she had never known, had come to think of her as a sister rather than a legend. So now, she did not so much see a hero who had fallen as a sister who had erred through human weakness. If she dared use the Twilight spell, Kassia thought, she would return to Marija’s youth and warn her against curiosity and arrogance.

  oOo

  The remainder of the week was pleasant enough. Kassia and Beyla spent much time in the midst of Zakarij’s family. She visited Asenka, who was beside herself with joy, and Janka who was grudgingly congratulatory. Devora baked her adopted daughter and grandson a wealth of beautiful things, and promised more for the wedding ceremony. Shagtai fashioned kites to celebrate their rise in station and announce their wedding. Lukasha, true to his word, said no more about the situation in Tabor, nor did he mention what decision he had come to regarding the Twilight magic. Neither Kassia nor Zakarij asked.

  On Celek eve, the courtyard at Lorant was awash in streamers and overflown with kites and banners. The great gates were thrown open and all the village invited to enter them. Asenka brought her family—even her husband was in attendance, more for the free food and drink, Kassia suspected, than out of any sense of family. At the hour of sunset, all congregated in the cesia for the dual ceremony. There, with the great stone columns awash with fiery light, Kassia ascended to the rank of Aspirant, then looked on with loving pride as Zakarij, dressed in the gleaming white robes of his new station, was invested as a Mateu.

  “It’s a strange feeling,” he confided in Kassia as he prepared to assume his new duties. “I’ve spent so much of my life studying for this, serving Master Lukasha. It’s hard for me to grasp that I’m no longer in preparation. I am a Mateu. I only wish I felt I was deserving of it.”

  “What do you mean?” Kassia asked him. “Of course you’re deserving of it. Look at what you’ve done to protect the king.”

  “None of which I could have done without you. You’ve tutored me, encouraged me, given me insights into things that were mysteries before. You even once saved my life.”

  “And so? Haven’t you done the same for me?”

  “When have I saved your life?”

  “If I had not loved you, Zakarij, I think I would have let Michal Zelimir make a concubine of me. I would have let him convince me it was my duty. I think I can say you saved my life . . . and Beyla’s. I hate to think what might become of a shai concubine’s fey son once there were legitimate heirs to fear him.”

  Zakarij ceased ordering his books for the move to his new personal offices and came to take her in his arms. “Might you have loved Michal Zelimir?”

  She shook her head. “No. Only I hadn’t expected to love anyone after Shurik. A companionable relationship with a king might not have struck me as such a bad thing.”

  “Companionable? From what I observed, Michal Zelimir’s feelings for you were a good deal more than companionable. I can’t pretend not to understand,” he added and kissed her.

  All concerns about Michal Zelimir melted away in that gentle, sensual assault. She gave herself over to the kiss, to the feel of his arms about her, to the caress of his hands. “Magician,” she called him, when at last he raised his head, and he laughed.

  Chapter Nineteen — Vortex

  A week later, Kassia had almost forgotten about Tabor. If there was bad news from that quarter, or good, Master Lukasha did not share it with her. He spent a great deal of his time closeted with Damek, who seemed even more smug than usual, if that were possible.

  A strange disquiet intruded into Kassia’s idyllic existence. She told herself it was guilt at leaving her Master to shoulder the worries of the realm alone. Finally, she undertook to contact Master Antal herself and received a hopeful report. Though he had tried, Benedict seemed unable to manipulate those of Zelimir’s advisers the Tabori Mateu had undertaken to protect. Further, things between the king and the girl from Bytomierz seemed to be quite amicable. Any day now, Master Antal told her, he expected to see their wedding kites flying over the courtyard.

  Pleased at the report, Kassia returned to the contemplation of her own wedding kites, which were due to be raised that very day. A month from then, at the Reaping, she and Zakarij—Master Zakarij, now—would be wed. It seemed that the Bishop of Tabor was not such an awesome foe as she had feared.

  The couple released their wedding kites as the Sun rose to its zenith. White and pale blue trimmed with gold, the two kites, joined by a gauzy golden sash, gave public testimony to private joy. Kassia held one string, Zakarij the other, while Beyla looked on, his face wreathed in smiles. He shared Kassia’s kite, a golden symbol placed on both fabric flanks to indicate that the woman of the pale blue kite had a son. Both kites carried stylized information about the couples’ families, ages and station in life. Kassia, her eyes on the kite, fingered the shiny new paiza that hung on a silken cord around her neck. Aspirant Kassia, it called her, of the family Telek. When she married Zakarij, that would also be added to the jade lozenge.

  There was a brief ceremony, during which words were spoken, a song was sung, and the couple braided their kite strings together before turning them over to Shagtai. Master Lukasha seemed content and at ease, and even the old kite master smiled. Kassia could not remember feeling so complete or so happy, and felt a brief pang of guilt that, for a longer time than she could have imagined, she had ceased to think of Shurik Cheslaf. She sent a prayer of thanksgiving heavenward, and took Beyla to the garden for his lessons.

  “Mama,” he said as they passed beneath the arbor in the garden wall, “when you and Zak are married, may I call him ‘Da?’”

  She gazed at him for a long moment, tears pressing for release. “I’m sure he’d love to hear you call him ‘Da’.” She led him to the stone bench within the circle of late summer roses, pulled him into her lap and began to speak to him about the balance in creation between Mat and Itugen. In the back of her mind she spared a thought for Michal Zelimir, far away in Tabor, and wondered what he would think when the news of her wedding reached him.

  oOo

  Benedict’s stomach rebelled noisily beneath the brocaded panel of his vestments. It had been in a high state of agitation since his confrontation with the shai in her so-called holy place. So had his soul and spirit. They were far more quiet about it, however, and caused him considerably less pain. He was furious to have been so soundly thwarted by the disjointed efforts of the Daliboran Mateu and his coterie of sirens and devils. Pater Julian was so badly frightened as to be useless; he couldn’t even bring himself to enter his own sanctuary, and Benedict had had to replace him during mass with a neophyte priest fresh out of the University of Paris.

  The only comfort he took in all of this was that neither the Mateu nor thei
r shai seductress had recognized the source of his power, naively assuming he would deal only in theurgy, and never have recourse to the so-called ‘black arts’. He hoped that would prove a costly mistake on their part. If they knew half of what he did about the ways of the ancient Polian shamans, they would surely recognize that his arcane powers arose from the same general source as did their own. The only difference was that Benedict cared very little what time of the magical “day” he called upon—Light, Darkness and Twilight were all the same to him. The distinction between the pagan Heaven, Earth and Hell was, to him, just so much superstition. His strength was in the recognition of that fact; he could make use of the letter of the shaman’s art without believing one bit in its spiritual foundation. He doubted any Mateu he had met could say the same, and it was that belief that hindered them from using the great well-spring of magic that lay, quite literally, just under their noses.

  It was not so much a matter of what they could not do, as of what they would not.

  Benedict had never revealed his study of shamanistic practices, of course, for it might have been construed as sacrilege or even blasphemy on his part. He had, in his younger days, been sent to the monastery of Zielona Gora. It was a cold, dreary, boring place hemmed in by the oppressive crags of the surrounding mountain range. There was nothing for him to do but pray, meditate, read, or do penance for neglecting one or more of the former sacred obligations. He found he enjoyed reading more than the other monkish pastimes. In that rarefied social atmosphere, a young Benedict found the scribblings of the monastery’s earliest inmates of extreme interest.

  He bided his time just now, waiting for an opportunity to glide through Zelimir’s gradually weakening ward. It worried him that the longer he waited, the closer to the king his pagan princess insinuated herself. He tapped the veil of resistance now and again, looking for a weak spot in its invisible fabric. He did that now as he moved toward a meeting with the king, but discovered no such weakness.

  The meeting was formal. Zelimir kept his distance from the Bishop and insisted that Chancellor Bogorja be in the room at all times. The subjects were various; the celebration of Advent, still several months away; the special mass Fiorella wished to celebrate on the next sabbath; her additional request that the king join her for mass and for the morning meal afterward.

  He was waiting for Zelimir’s reply when they were interrupted by a courier with the morning’s news, just brought in from the watch tower. Cursing the interruption, Benedict gritted his teeth while Chancellor Bogorja read the list of messages that had been relayed by kite from the nearest yam. He curled his lip in distaste when the announcement of the marriage of Aspirant Kassia Telek to the newly invested Mateu Zakarij was made, found his eyes pulled to Zelimir’s face by unexpected intensity of the younger man’s reaction. His Majesty was pale as the infernal stones of his cesia and began to tremble, whether with loss or rage, Benedict could not tell.

  “Majesty?” He interrupted the oblivious Bogorja’s droning to lay a gentle hand on the Emperor’s arm. “Majesty, are you unwell?”

  The Chancellor stopped reading and glanced at his lord’s ashen face. “Sire! What is wrong?”

  Zelimir made an effort to collect himself, then laughed brittlely. “Only sick of love, Chancellor.” He took a deep breath. “Somehow I didn’t believe she was serious about her Aspirant. I see I was wrong.”

  “The Lady Kassia, you mean, my lord?”

  Zelimir nodded, then gestured for Bogorja to leave the messages and depart. “I’ll read the rest of it later. I’m not in the mood for more good tidings at the moment.”

  The Chancellor hesitated. “Are you certain you wish me to leave, Majesty?” He glanced pointedly at Benedict.

  The Bishop was oblivious to Bogorja’s ill will, marveling, instead, at what his secret senses told him about the King’s state of mind. With the news of Kassia’s impending marriage had come a distinct, almost audible crack in the invisible armor she had placed around Michal Zelimir. The Bishop nearly gasped aloud at the realization that Zelimir, himself, had been partially in control of the ward. So, the little witch was learning to use others to externally focus her spells. He wondered if she even realized what she had done.

  Now, there was a chink in the armor she had given Zelimir. He had, for the merest moment, ceased to feed the ward his desire for its existence. In that moment, it had faltered.

  “Yes, yes. Go ahead,” Zelimir was saying. He made the dismissive gesture again, an almost petulant expression on his face. “I still have some things to discuss with the Bishop.”

  Bogorja bowed and left, throwing Benedict a parting glare, as if he suspected his king was being manipulated by the ecclesiastic.

  Benedict smiled. He hadn’t even begun.

  “About the Duchess’ invitation to mass, Your Majesty . . .”

  “Yes. I suppose so. Tell her, I’ll come.”

  “This news has hit hard, Majesty. I had not thought you were quite so attached to the young woman. For all that she is an exotic-looking thing, she is, after all, a commoner.”

  “I had not thought I was quite so attached to her either. It seems I was wrong.” He fixed the Bishop a penetrating look. “I had thought someone was manipulating me to feel so strongly for her.”

  “Who should do something like that?”

  “You, perhaps?”

  Benedict threw back his head and laughed with a gusto that surprised even himself. “I? Majesty, I assure you, I am the last person under heaven who would desire a liaison between the two of you. Would I have a demon marry a saint?”

  “I’m no saint, Your Grace.”

  “No. But you could be if you married a daughter of the Church and brought your entire populace under its banner. Men have been canonized for less.”

  Zelimir’s gaze dropped to his clasped hands, unfocused. “Right now, the subject of marriage is . . . extremely unpleasant. Perhaps what I want is diversion . . . Tell the Duchess Orsini I would be pleased to have her join me and the ladies Amadiyeh and Zofia for supper this evening in my private quarters.”

  The Bishop was stunned to inaction. Finally he murmured, “Her . . . companion—”

  “Of course. The presence of her chaperone is a given.”

  Benedict left the king with his mind galloping. That Zelimir now intended to take his decision of a consort seriously was obvious. That he intended to compare the three women was also obvious. Benedict had no idea how Fiorella would compare to the Turk and the Polian in those things that pleased a man like Michal Zelimir, but he did understand that she—and therefore he—was being given an opportunity to affect the king. The Bishop of Tabor would see to it that she affected him positively in the extreme.

  He went straightaway to the modest quarters the visiting Duchess had been given at her own request, and there, informed her of the King’s desire for her presence at a private supper.

  The young Duchess, seated in the radiance from a sun-filled window, hands folded demurely in her lap, raised dark brows and said, “Shall I also be in the company of these other women?”

  “I think this supper is something in the nature of a competition, my dear. Our king is at last facing the necessity of his marriage head-on. He will no doubt compare and contrast you. The most important thing is that you will be allowed close to him again. I shall, with your aid, take every advantage of that proximity.”

  “What do you mean, take advantage?”

  The Bishop rose from his chair and moved across the polished floor, watching his own reflection—a vague angelic billow of white in the golden wood. “God has granted me certain powers, my child. Powers with which I can influence the thoughts and feelings of other men. Powers that I can channel through other willing souls. When you dine with King Zelimir tonight, I can grant you the ability to take possession of his thoughts, to turn them ever toward yourself and away from your adversaries. With my power—which is the power of the most Holy Spirit—sustaining you, you can win Michal Zelimir to yourse
lf.”

  The girl was staring at him as if he had begun to caper like a madman. “Magic? You would involve me in magic? The idea is . . . repulsive, Your Grace. You would have me coerce the king? Seduce him with black arts?”

  The Bishop sighed. Dear God, how melodramatic the child is. “I speak of theurgy, Fiorella—divine magic. The magic that flows from our Lord.”

  “But, Your Grace—”

  “There is nothing to be frightened of, child. I am your Bishop. Surely you cannot believe I would ask you to do anything that runs counter to God’s holy will and purpose?”

  “I know nothing of such things.”

  “Would you marry Michal Zelimir?”

  Her dark eyes met his. No, she would not marry the pagan king, they said eloquently. But her lips quivered and expelled the lie. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “That is all you need to know. But Fiorella, you must really want it.”

  She flushed. “Your Grace, I—”

  He held up a restraining hand. “I know this is not what you might have hoped your future would hold—exile to a foreign land, marriage to a pagan man, a life surrounded by the coarse and the impure. But for the sake of these souls, Fiorella . . . Think of it. You would be doing the greatest work of the Church—the work of salvation. As Queen of Polia, you would bring the healing of salvation first to your husband, and then to all these poor benighted souls. Had you stayed in Lombardy and married some nobleman, certainly your creature comforts would have been greater, you would have remained in the bosom of your family, been surrounded by the familiar and the comfortable, but you would not win for yourself the crown of living martyrdom which is being offered to you now.”

  “It would be that great a thing?” she murmured, obviously somewhat intrigued with the idea.

  “History will record your selfless deed, child. The Church will call you blessed. Perhaps it will even proclaim you . . . a saint. Surely converting a pagan king constitutes a miracle.”