Nightfell Games (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 5)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

  Something bit me on the breast. I yanked the bird-skull out of my inner pocket.

  "What the blazes you do that for?" I asked.

  "You don't want to go in there," said Zora.

  I frowned. "I wasn't going to."

  "Are you certain, Princess?" asked Zora, and I imagined a feathery eyebrow rising in mockery.

  Rather than face continued condemnation, I moved down the hallway, leaving Zora hanging around my neck. We’d passed through a couple more hallways when I had a spark of vision. I saw the overlapping faces of Morwen Hightower and Rowan Blade hovering against the plain doorway to my right.

  Before considering the consequences, I threw the door open, expecting to find them. Instead, the room was empty. It looked like the inside of a country cabin.

  Then I took a second glance. Hanging in the middle of the room were two hazy shapes. I approached, keeping my hand on the door so it would stay open, until I had to let go. I expected the door to bang shut behind me, but it stayed open.

  I circled the ghostly figures. It was the rest of the Baba Yaga triad in some sort of stasis. They looked like they weren't entirely in this world, phased out, like seeing someone in the reflection of a dusty window as it caught the sunlight.

  A spectral umbilical cord ran from the two figures into the floor, as if they were connected to the bones of the hut. It made sense. They used the hut for travel and business. They must be tied to it so they would always return when it was their turn.

  When I realized I'd been away from the main room too long, I left, closing the door behind me. To my relief, I found my way back without Neva knowing that I'd disobeyed.

  I sat on the bench and tapped on the glass hookah pipe with my fingernail. The substance in the chamber had a sweet smell.

  When I was bored, I leaned back and closed my eyes, only to be woken by a sudden exclamation from Zora.

  "Brook horse," she said.

  "What do you speak of?" I asked.

  "Oh, sorry," said Zora. "I'm used to being alone. Brook horse. Nell's a brook horse, not a rusalka. It's similar. They're cousins of a sort, but not the same."

  "How do you know?" I asked. "And what is it? The name sounds tantalizingly familiar, but I cannot place it."

  The skull was quiet for a bit. "I'll think of it eventually, but I know I'm right."

  "Well, that's good to know, but I think I should rest. The excitement has worn off and I'd like to sleep a bit," I said. "But while I'm sleeping, see if you can remember anything about brook horses that might help us find her a new home."

  "Yes, Madam," said the bird-skull.

  I tucked Zora back into my jacket. I didn't want Neva to see her.

  I startled awake when I felt the presence of Neva. She stood directly in front of me. Though her arms were by her side, I had the feeling that her fingers had been about to caress my cheek before I woke.

  "We're here," said Neva, looking down her enormous nose. She was wearing the black sheath-like dress. It almost seemed like she was just a nose on a pole.

  "Where exactly is here?" I asked, sliding out to the side so I could stand without bumping into her.

  "The Sky Lands."

  "Sounds beautiful. What am I acquiring this time, O' Mistress of Collection? The tears of an angel? A moonbeam captured in a smile?" I asked, the words souring as they passed my lips.

  I wasn't sure what was making me so petulant, except that I was tired of the contest. The corner of Neva's lips ticked with the implication of a smile while remaining a thoroughly judgmental squeeze-lipped line.

  "The tail feather of the Firebird," she said, without a trace of irony.

  "This task seems delightfully simple compared to the others, which means that you have not fully explained the task," I said, crossing my arms.

  Her lips ticked a second time. Then she threw me a pair of silvery rings. "You will need those to traverse the Sky Lands. Slip them around your ankles. They come off in the same way when you want them to."

  The cold silver rings seemed unremarkable. Except the cold material and faint lines on their surface reminded me of the gauntlet. There was no obvious way to “slip” them around my ankle, as the ring was complete. So I crouched down and pushed one against my flesh, hoping a gap would appear. A cry of surprise slipped my lips when the silvery ring wrapped around my ankle, then squeezed until it was firmly against my flesh. The ring felt alive. I repeated the task with the second ring on my other ankle.

  Neva marched to the door, her boots striking against the wooden floor. She smelled like sweet smoke as she passed.

  The door flung open as she neared and a fierce wind blew into the front room, flinging my hair around my face. I hooked a strand out of my mouth and squinted into the bright light.

  When I approached the door, she stopped me by grabbing my forearm. Her touch was electric.

  "One last item," she said.

  "There always is, isn't there," I replied.

  Neva glanced out the open door, while the wind tried unsuccessfully to tease her hair away from its oppressive bun. "Only the virtuous may claim a feather from the Firebird."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  At first glance, the Sky Lands were a foggy, light-hazed place. The hut stood on a mist-choked hilltop. Other similarly fog-draped hills surrounded me. The clouds were low, almost right above the hut.

  When I reached my hand up, vapor swirled around it, catching reflective light like tiny mirrors. I couldn't see where the sun was at, but the amount of light suggested it was the middle of the day.

  I stepped off the front porch. I had the sensation of falling and wheeled my arms to catch myself when my boot hit the spongy soil. I couldn't see the earth beneath the fog, as it weaved around my legs like a feline, but I could feel its semi-solidness beneath the soles of my boots.

  Above me in the mist there was a crackle of sparks, like tiny firecrackers at Independence Day, or a rapid release of static from a woolen sweater on a cold day. The dryness of the air confused me. The overflowing mist, like foam from an overfull mug of beer, should have suppressed any electricity from forming.

  I took tentative steps forward. It was disconcerting not being able to see where I was placing my boots. Like wading into a dirty lake and expecting the bottom to fall away at any moment.

  When I was fifty feet or so from Neva's hut, I looked back. A mountain of mist stretched into the sky behind the hut. It seemed like we were in a cave made of fog. Shimmers of electricity burst from the edges of the clouds at random moments, but taken together they formed a backdrop of sound.

  It was when I reached the edge of my "hilltop" that I realized my understanding of the Sky Lands was completely wrong. I'd been thinking of them as fog-covered hills.

  When I looked down from the edge, seeing not a white valley, but empty sky beneath me, and further below, thick clouds floating through an endless expanse, only then did I understand the meaning of the name Sky Lands.

  With a shaking hand, I pulled Zora from the inner pocket. The bird-skull made a lipless whistle.

  "What a wonder," said Zora. "How are you even standing?"

  The realization caught in my throat. Suddenly, I began to sink through the fog, the mist swirling around my chest and then my face. I flapped my arms, trying to grab a hold of something, anything. My descent quickened. Before long, the whiteness smothered me. It was both warm and cool.

  Then I was plunging through the open sky. I was falling. A thin cloud rushed up towards me. I passed through it, exploding it into nothing.

  Fear seized my thoughts in its terrible teeth. I'd never been afraid of heights, but I couldn't even get a scream out.

  "Katerina," said Zora, trying to get my attention. The bird-skull was bouncing against my chest as we fell. "You'd better do something fast."

  I looked down. A massive cloud bank lay below me. I was afraid of what would happen if I hit it. Somehow I'd been standing on the cloud above, so it must have had some solidity. But then, why did I fall? />
  Suddenly, I realized what had happened. Though it was like trying to tie a knot with mittens, I concentrated my thoughts, convincing my feet that I was standing on solid ground. I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking about the feel of loamy soil beneath my toes, of wet mud squishing between them on a hot summer day.

  Wind was no longer buffeting my face. When I opened my eyes, I found myself standing in the middle of the air. Part of my brain told me that it was impossible, and I fell another dozen feet before I could convince myself that it was possible.

  "How are you stopping yourself?" asked Zora.

  "Those silvery bands provide some sorcery that allows me to walk on air, though it requires my focus," I said while concentrating.

  "Better than falling," said the bird-skull. "Which I realize is a sensation I'm unused to. No wonder you wingless land-beasts are afraid of heights."

  "But didn't you fly before?" I asked.

  "Falling and flying are as unrelated as sitting in a chair and driving a steam carriage," replied the bird-skull.

  Standing was one matter, but walking was another. When I attempted to step forward, lifting and then setting my boot down, I fell again. It took me a half-dozen tries before I could make forward progress.

  Then I practiced walking and eventually running. The trick was imagining an invisible landscape beneath my feet. I wasn't perfect, as every fifth or sixth step knocked me a little off-kilter, but I wasn't afraid of falling anymore.

  I wiped beads of sweat from my forehead with a swipe of my jacket sleeve and gazed at the cloudscape. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the flash of sorcery.

  At a distance that seemed both near and impossibly far, I saw sickly yellow jets arcing through the air, chasing the fleeing form of a crimson bird. Pavel had found the Firebird and was in pursuit, launching sorcerous blasts as he climbed through the sky.

  The Firebird soared away, quickly outpacing my son. It streaked through the clouds, the turbulent flames from its majestic plumage curling away in bright yellows, oranges, and reds.

  It disappeared into the clouds, its illumination reflecting colors of the flame against the pale canvas, like a burgeoning storm implying lightning. Pavel followed, the mist swallowing him.

  As quickly as they'd appeared, they were gone. The sounds of their battle reached me like thunder after the flash, suggesting the distance between us was greater than I hoped.

  I had no desire to battle my son, but since he was on the trail of the Firebird, I set off in that direction. By the time I reached the clouds they'd disappeared into, I was winded. Rather than plunge into their sightless depths, I made my way up and over the cloud, hoping to learn where the battle had taken them.

  As the day, or whatever it was since I never did see a sun, wore on, I marched from cloud to cloud, always behind the chase. The three dimensional aspect of our contest made the potential options for flight exponential and with no land beneath our boots, the chase did not have to conform to mere topography, leaving me always guessing wrong.

  Eventually, I began to realize that I had not seen the Firebird or Pavel in quite some time and I had no idea where to find the hut. Which meant that I had no way to rest, since staying upright required concentration. Unless I was prepared to catch a nap while falling through the sky, hoping there was no ground far beneath us.

  It made me wonder how such a being, the Firebird, found rest, or mated and laid eggs. Or did it endlessly burn through the sky, the magic of its feathers sustaining it? Or were there oases of solidness in this weightless land?

  I stopped looking for the Firebird and started exploring the clouds, hoping to find solid ground. Previously, I'd been avoiding the floating mist, because it blocked my vision and kept me from following the chase.

  I explored the mammoth thunderhead nearest. There was no sign of lightning, except the static that stayed constant. I'd grown used to feeling the tiny shocks against my bare skin—even my eyelids and lips—as I passed near the clouds.

  Inside the cloud, vision was reduced to ten to fifteen feet in front of me. The pops and crackles of static disappeared the deeper I went, while the smell of ozone grew stronger, like the streets after a heavy lightning storm.

  The sameness of the view lulled me into a meditative state. I pondered the last words of Neva before I left the hut. Only the virtuous may claim a feather from the Firebird.

  A chuckle left my lips. I'd never been virtuous in my life, not in the Christian sense, though possibly in the meaning that Franklin had developed with his thirteen virtues. I tried to remember them, ticking them off on my fingers as I went, simultaneously keeping the image of firm ground beneath my feet.

  What were they? Temperance. I was not inclined towards alcohol. Silence, which I did not follow, at least to the expectation of my fellow nobles in Russia who preferred me as silent as a babe. Moderation. I was never one to waste. Justice, which has always depended on whose side you stand. I was sure Catherine's husband did not think of what we did to him as justice, despite the rejoicing of the people. Chastity? Ha. Did it count if you had no opportunity to practice the venery? Humility. Tranquility. I didn't have time for them. Industry and Resolution. Those were two I could appreciate. Thusly make a plan and carry it out, brooking no delays and smashing all barriers that keep you from your goal.

  The other virtues—how many had I remembered?—escaped my memory. It was quite remarkable that Ben had deemed to follow these, though even he admitted that he only practiced a few at each time. Was that a lawyerly way around his own precepts or an acceptance of the frailty of man?

  None of that helped me here, because I doubted that the Firebird recognized Franklin's Virtues. Rather, the phrase probably meant that only a virgin could take a feather, which left both Pavel and me out. But I did not think Neva would send us into this place with no chance of success. Probably, the words she used were chosen for particular effect.

  I worried what that meant for us. I worried what that meant for me. Each time we'd met, my son had suggested that I was fighting for the wrong side and that if I knew the truth, I would come back to Russia willingly. Did he think that because of my heritage? That I was really from Otherland?

  It'd always been my son's view that one's history defined a person. Which was why he resisted my efforts to culture him in Europe, to erase the stain of Imperial Russia. That had been Peter the Great's intention when he built Saint Petersburg. To break away from Russia's history.

  In the same way, I came to America to embrace its ideals, rather than my history, but always that past came back to haunt me. Could I truly escape? Was I destined to return to Mother Russia, much as those transformed by Matka's potions could not escape their true heritage?

  That was the core of it: are we defined by where we were born and who our parents were? It seemed that way for Nell, whose power overcame her sense of family as she drowned her brother Bram. I hoped she resisted those urges while I toiled in this impossible place.

  "Zora," I said, "do you know anything about the Firebird that might be of particular use?"

  "Only through reputation, that it's the most peevish of birds," replied Zora.

  "I wouldn't have guessed it," I said, perplexed.

  "Well, you would be irritable if your delicate parts were always on fire and everyone always wanted a magical feather," said Zora.

  I wasn't sure if Zora was being serious, but any further questions died on my tongue when the air around me changed. I didn't know what it was at first until I realized I could see much further than previously. We'd come upon a space inside the cloud and I heard running water.

  "It's like a cave made of cloud," I said, glancing all around to find the source of the sound.

  When my boot hit something solid, I knew I'd found sanctuary. I tested it with my hand, finding it frozen. The center of the cloud had condensed into a giant ice crystal. When my feet were on solid ground, I stopped concentrating, half expecting to fall through the sky again.

  When I stayed
put, I exhaled my relief, realizing how much effort it had been to maintain the illusion of solidity beneath my boots. Then I found the water, which was coming out through a crack in the cloud. It was hard to find, as everything was a shade of white or gray, but eventually I traced the source by sound.

  Using my hands as cups, I drank my fill of the cool, delicious water. Sated, I sat against the frozen cloud and found a comfortable position. Before long, I fell asleep, and dreamt of falling, falling, falling...

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When I woke, I knew that I was being watched. I lay curled upon my side, facing the cloud wall, so I couldn't see who or what it was. My right side was frozen from the constant contact with the icy ground.

  With deliberate, granular movements, I rotated around until I could see the Firebird standing on a pillar of crystallized cloud. Its plumage radiated crimson light, casting a red haze across the cave, defining its boundaries. The oasis was much smaller than I’d first thought.

  The Firebird regarded me with black, alien eyes, tilting its head as it watched. Once I sat up, I kept as still as possible, hoping to understand why it had come to me.

  The bird was tall. Larger than a Great Raven, but not as big as the Gamayun. Its feathers shimmered with an inner glow as if each barb was made of a million tiny jewels, each one burning with a miniscule fire.

  The bird-skull moved against my chest, but did not speak. Zora was trying to get my attention, but I was afraid to look down and let the Firebird get away.

  "Greetings," I said softly.

  The Firebird tilted its head again, then snapped it to the left, facing away from me. I was confused by the motion until Pavel came stumbling into the oasis. Upon seeing me and the Firebird, he hesitated. The Firebird burst from its perch, disappearing into the white gloom above. The crimson light faded from the room like an ink bloom in reverse.