A Sorcerer’s Treason

by Sarah Zettel

  What am I to do? When his madness comes and goes with such control? Can that truly be madness? Or is it something else? Cold disquiet formed inside her. What else could it be? Surely the laws of God and nature did not permit such things as sorcerers.

  No, Bridget Lederle? Why would those laws permit your second sight and yet forbid other such miracles?

  At last, Bridget closed the door behind her. Whatever the name of the man in the bed, he had promised her proof positive of his assertions.

  She would give him his chance to display that proof.

  Chapter Three

  That evening, as the sun sank behind the island’s trees and the light faded, Bridget installed Mr. Simons in the parlor with a book and a pot of coffee and told him she would be a while attending to her duties. Johann had elected to stay in the winter kitchen with Mrs. Hansen and Samuel, so to catch them up on all the latest doings in Eastbay and on the mainland. As she passed by on her way to the tower, he was giving them an enthusiastically detailed account of the accident that called Dr. Hannum away to the lumber camp.

  Bridget filled the reservoir with oil she had carried up earlier, wound the works and lit the wicks. She stayed there for several minutes to make sure the beam was strong and steady, noting that she could see the light from Devil’s Island burning brightly — a sign that caused her to hope for another clear night. Then she went back down the long spiral stairs, to the second floor and the stranger’s room.

  He seemed much more alert this time, sitting up straight with a small smile on his face. The hurricane lamp at his bedside created reflections in his rich, black eyes.

  “What you requested.” From the deep pockets in her apron, Bridget drew a handful of colored cloth strips that she had been saving to braid into a rag rug. Then she brought out the silver-handled mirror that was the only thing she had of her mother’s.

  “Thank you, mistress,” said the stranger solemnly as he received them. “You may perhaps wish to sit down. This will take some few moments.”

  Bridget sat in the bedside chair, back straight, hands folded. She had left the door open a crack, just in case a prompt retreat should be required. She also kept an ear open for footsteps on the stairs, for she did not wish to be seen encouraging a lunatic. But none came. The household with all its additions remained oblivious of whatever he was about to do.

  The stranger spread out the cloth scraps on the quilt in front of him. With a smoothness of motion that indicated long practice, he began to weave the scraps in and out of each other, knotting their ends tightly together.

  After a moment, Bridget realized he was fashioning a small net. It seemed to be ordered not just by the pattern of knots, but by the colors of cloth, with the more reddish strips occupying one half and the more bluish occupying another.

  As the stranger worked, sweat beaded his brow. His lips moved constantly, as if he recited some litany or prayer. Not once did he stop, not even when the drops of perspiration trickled down his cheeks and splashed onto the bedcovers.

  Bridget didn’t move. The faint remains of the daylight faded away, leaving them alone with only the candle and the lamp to see by. It seemed to her that the room grew steadily colder and more stale. The air became thin and chill to breathe, as if some vital element had been sucked from it. Goose pimples prickled her flesh, and the the nape of her neck itched. The stranger’s breathing grew labored. He blinked fiercely to clear the perspiration from his eyes, but his fingers did not stop moving. Bridget forced herself to hold still.

  At last, the stranger fell back against the pillows. The net held loosely in his fingers was roughly two handspans across and as delicate and complex as any spider’s web.

  “So hard,” he murmured between gasps for air. “Never so hard …” He wiped at his face.

  Bridget did not move. Her own heart labored in her chest, although she could make no guess as to what distressed her. At least it was again easy to breathe.

  When he had collected himself, the stranger spread his net on the quilt and laid Momma’s hand mirror faceup in its center.

  For a moment, Bridget saw the faint, candlelit reflection of the plastered ceiling, a fold of the quilt and the stranger’s hand drawing away. Then all became blank and silver, as if the mirror saw nothing but a dense fog.

  “What is this?” Bridget leaned forward.

  “My proof,” said the stranger, pushing himself up a little straighter.

  While Bridget watched, amazed, a swirl of color shone through the silver mist. The color strengthened and gradually separated until it became a great, sprawling edifice of grey stone with pillars and towers. The whole of the construction seemed to be covered in fantastic scrollwork and gargoyles. She was certain she heard the tolling of iron bells rising from the mirror, the distant shouts of men, and even the barking of dogs.

  Her hands clutched each other, but she forced herself to sit calmly.

  “This is the palace Vyshtavos, the winter home of my mistress, Her Grand Majesty, the Dowager Empress Medeoan of Isavalta.” The stranger ran his finger along the edge of the mirror and the mist swallowed the image whole. In another moment, it cleared to reveal an aging woman, her hair quite grey under its veil of gold tissue, but her back still straight. She wore robes of silver fur and rich purple velvet, embroidered all over with silver thread. She paced down a corridor of polished stone hung with embroidered tapestries that depicted feasts, hunts and dancers in bright costumes. Bridget’s mind tipped. She recognized this woman. This was the woman Bridget had seen in her private vision, giving the stranger his belt buckle.

  As Bridget watched the old woman, she saw that all the while her thin hands clasped and unclasped, as if seeking to capture something elusive.

  “What grieves her?” asked Bridget, startled by the sound of her own voice.

  “Her son, the Emperor Mikkel Medeoansyn Edemskoivin.” Again his finger traced the mirror’s rim and again the vision changed. In place of the old woman, it showed a well-formed young man in a long coat of fur-trimmed red velvet. A jeweled cap was perched on his thick, dark blond hair. He stood beside a chessboard whose pieces were carved of coral and ivory. He picked up one of the pawns and stared at it, without intelligence, or even recognition, showing in his otherwise handsome face. Then, he dropped the piece carelessly down upon the board and wandered away, his hands tucked up into his velvet sleeves. His whole attitude made Bridget think of a little boy, slouching away with his hands in his pockets.

  “This is an emperor?” she said incredulously.

  The stranger nodded. “I knew him well, once. He was a most excellent and able prince. Full of sound judgment and discretion, even as a boy.” His voice caught in his throat. “Beloved by the people, and even more so by his illustrious mother, who saw that he was trained and educated in every good science and art. She required him to attend council meetings as soon as he was old enough to talk, so that he might be raised wise in the ways of good governance.” His eyes grew distant, seeing something other than the vision he displayed for Bridget.

  “What happened to him?” she asked.

  “Ananda.” The stranger spoke the word as if it were poisonous, and changed the vision once more.

  This time it showed a chamber hung with tapestries as the corridor had been. These were mostly country scenes — trees and hills and a variety of animals. The room was full of women, some in dress similar to the dowager’s, but less rich, and others in gowns of draped silk. They were engaged in a variety of activities — writing with silver pens, needlework, spinning, reading. One played a small flute, another a drum. The soft tune became faster and more insistent, until a lady in drapings of royal blue silk with a thread of gold braided through her dark hair rose to her feet. She began to dance, turning and laughing, swaying her hips and shoulders in complete abandon. Bridget had never seen anything like it. In that moment she didn’t know whether to be shocked or envious at the sight of such shamelessness.

  The sour look on the stranger’s f
ace told her plainly which emotion he suffered. He glanced up to see Bridget’s gaze on him, and looked quickly away, staring out the window at the night and the steady glow of the lighthouse beam.

  “The Princess, the Empress, Ananda was brought from the country of Hastinapura to be Emperor Mikkel’s bride.” Kalami’s voice was low and harsh, as if he fought to hold his anger back. “Their marriage was to conclude a peace between Hastinapura and the Empire of Isavalta. There is need for peace, as both are threatened by the Empire of Hung-Tse, which lies between our lands.” He dropped his gaze to the quilt on the bed, where his hands lay, clenched into fists. “It was also to be a guarantee against a repetition of those wrongs that Hastinapura had visited upon Isavalta when Medeoan first came to the throne.” He shook his head. “I should have seen,” he whispered. “I should have known they would only see our search for peace as weakness.

  “We welcomed Ananda and the peace her presence promised.” The stranger struggled with the words as a combination of anger and exhaustion shook him. “But we were misled. She has no thought but the advancement of Hastinapura and her father’s cause in all things. His cause, it seems, is our conquest.”

  The stranger lifted his gaze from the quilts and met Bridget’s eyes. “Ananda is a sorceress of such power that all the dowager’s skills cannot counter her. She has enchanted our emperor with a spell of love and bemusement so deep, he will do only what she tells him. And we can do nothing, nothing! without we jeopardize his life.”

  Bridget looked again at the mirror. Ananda spun on her slippered toes, and paused suddenly, her head thrown back. In that moment, Bridget recognized her as well. Ananda was the frightened girl Bridget had seen in golden robes. Bridget’s throat tightened and she was forced to swallow before she could speak another word.

  “This is a fascinating narration,” she allowed. “And what you show me …” She waved at the mirror. “Is beyond comprehension. But why are you here instead of back in … your own country?”

  The stranger — Valin Kalami was his real name after all, Bridget supposed — picked up his net with trembling hands. He began plucking at the knots, unweaving the net he had made with such care.

  “I told you, Ananda is so deep, so strong and calculated that my mistress can do nothing against her. She has insinuated herself into the hearts of the nobility and the common people, through flattery, and, no doubt, a liberal distribution of her charms, both physical and magical.” He jerked two strings apart. “So, my mistress was forced to seek elsewhere for help. She wove herself a vision that would allow her to see the one who could save her son, indeed, save all of Isavalta.” The net parted under his fingers. He dropped the colorful scraps into a heap in his lap.

  “My mistress saw a woman, beyond the Land of Death and Spirit, who kept a great light at the edge of a sea of fresh water. She saw that if this woman came to Isavalta, Ananda would be laid low, and Isavalta and Mikkel would be returned to the dowager’s keeping.”

  Bridget laughed, unable to help herself. “You are playing a game with me, sir.” She waved her hand as if to clear his words from the air before her. “What on Earth, or any other world, for that matter, could I do?”

  Kalami lay back against his pillows and contemplated her for a moment. His eyes were empty of any but reflected light. Still, Bridget found herself growing warm under their careful consideration. “To begin with, I suspect once you are in Isavalta you will prove to be a sorceress of such power that even Ananda will tremble.”

  Bridget shook her head, incredulously. “Now I know you are playing with me.”

  “No.” He held up a hand to stop her protests. “You have visions of the mind, do you not?”

  Bridget felt herself pale. “How can you know that?”

  “I saw you when you touched my belt buckle.” Bridget’s gaze strayed to the windowsill, where the golden oval gleamed in the lamplight. “Despite your unwillingness to speak of it, your eyes at that moment looked on something other than the contents of this room.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Bridget, unwilling to let the conversation dwell on her, “the occasional insight is paltry compared to what I saw you do here.” She gestured at the mirror.

  “Not so,” replied Kalami. “Visions, unasked for and with no spell woven to call them, are among the deepest gifts granted to a soul cradling magic.” For a fleeting instant, something hardened behind his words, and Bridget found herself wondering if it might, of all things, be jealousy. “Properly taught in a world where natural law is amenable, you would be among the greatest sorcerers who ever lived.”

  Bridget felt the corner of her mouth turn up into a half-smile. “You came here to flatter me, sir?”

  “If it brings you to Isavalta, mistress, yes I did.” His face was nothing but earnest. “I will reason, flatter, entreat, bribe, if necessary, whatever I must do to convince you to return with me.”

  Bridget shifted her gaze to the hurricane lamp, the window curtains, the darkness outside, the bare floor, all the everyday things that surrounded her. All the everyday things that reminded her where she was, and who she was. The rest was air, fantasies, nonsense. The beam shone, lighting the world, and showing nothing had changed, or would change. What Valin Kalami said could not be true, none of it. She was Bridget Lederle, Everett Lederle’s daughter, no matter what the wagging tongues in Eastbay and Bayfield said. She was the keeper of the light on Sand Island, a folly-ridden woman, and, occasionally, she was a seer. Nothing else was true or possible.

  Except, it seemed that something else was, and he was looking steadily at her.

  He means to take you away with him. Aunt Grace’s voice rose unbidden in her mind. He’s a danger to you. Could it be true?

  Bridget’s fingers twisted in her lap. “I am to return with you to do what, exactly?”

  “That I do not know,” he admitted. “To meet the dowager first. To be trained in the ways of magic. After that …” He shrugged. “It must be as events unfold.” He met her eyes again, and reached out his fingertips to touch her wrist. “I can tell you this much, it is a noble life I take you to. I see the way of it here for you. Your work is hard, your house small and lonely.”

  His remarks stiffened Bridget’s spine. She moved her hand away. “I am quite content, thank you.”

  “I doubt it not, but you could be more than that.” He smiled, drawing his own hand back onto the quilts where it belonged. “The patronage of the dowager, and your own gifts and beauty, will earn you many friends. You will be feasted, your opinion sought, gifts bestowed, entertainments provided. It will be a rich life and full, mistress, I promise you that.”

  Of all that fine speech, one word stuck in Bridget’s mind, somewhat to her embarrassment. “Beauty?”

  “Your wondrous beauty.” His dark eyes sparkled. “Has no one spoken to you of that?”

  Bridget’s cheeks heated and she knew they were turning pink. “Not in many years.”

  “Then the men of this land are fools.” His hand slashed through the air, dismissing them entirely. “In Isavalta, the poets will compose great themes upon your graces.”

  “Now you do flatter me,” said Bridget, uncomfortable that those shallow words had touched her at all. Vanity. After all these years, it still squirmed in her bosom. Asa’s praise of her beauty had led her to open her door and her bed to him, and where had that left her?

  Bridget stood. “I must think about what you have said.”

  Valin Kalami picked up Momma’s mirror and held it out to her. “Promise me in truth you will do that,” he begged softly.

  Bridget grasped the mirror’s handle, her suntanned fingers brushing his brown ones. “I give you my word.” She clenched her hand around the mirror, as if she was afraid of what it might do next.

  “Then with that I must be content.” Kalami sank down into the bed and his eyes closed. “I swear, I have not slept so much since I was a babe as I have upon arrival in your world. It is very hard to live here.”

  �
��I will let you rest.” Bridget turned to leave, but she paused, her free hand resting against the window frame. “I have only one more question. If you truly are from some other world, as you say, where did that performance you gave Mr. Simons come from?”

  “Ah.” Kalami’s eyes drifted open. “That was someone your Samuel overheard.”

  Anger, sharp and sudden, rose in Bridget. She turned on the stranger, the silver mirror held out in front of her as if she meant to swing it down. “If you touched Samuel — ”

  “No, no, I did him no harm, I swear it,” said Kalami hurriedly. “I only looked at his memory. I knew I would need a tale. I could not permit you to send me away thinking me merely mad. I had to be able to put on a show of familiarity for whomever you brought to examine me.”

  “Well.” Bridget took a deep breath and lowered the mirror slowly. “You made an excellent job of it.”

  “Thank you, mistress.” His head inclined in what Bridget suspected to be the suggestion of a bow.

  Still clutching the mirror tightly, Bridget left the room.

  Down in the parlor, Mr. Simons had fallen asleep, his book dangling from his fingertips. Bridget removed the book and returned it to the library cabinet. She laid a knitted coverlet over the priest. Given his domestic situation, this was probably not the tenth, or the thousandth, time he’d fallen asleep in a chair rather than making his way to bed. There was a candle and matches on the table beside him. He knew where his room was. He could shift for himself if he cared to, for from the silence emanating from the kitchen, Bridget guessed Mrs. Hansen had already gone to bed.

  Is it that late? Bridget glanced at the clock on the wall. The moonlight glinted off the hands and showed her it was coming on half past eleven. It didn’t seem like it should be anything near so late. Had Kalami’s … magic, bent time as well as vision? The idea disturbed her. She shook herself. More likely she had been so caught up in what was happening that she failed to notice the passing of time.