A Sorcerer’s Treason

by Sarah Zettel

  Despite her broken night and long day, Bridget did not feel in the least tired. Almost without thinking, she made her way to the tower door and lit the waiting candle. By its flickering illumination she climbed up the iron stairs to the great light.

  In the lamp room, all was well. The clockwork clicked and clacked, pumping the oil smoothly and allowing the beams to strike out across the black waters. The lake was fairly calm tonight. Faint ripples showed up as flashes of silver under moonbeam and lighthouse beam. The mineral oil burned with a clean, penetrating smell that reminded her of all the thousand other nights she had spent up here, tending her light and watching the water.

  And now, this man had come and he offered her … what? Madness? She could not believe any longer it was that simple. Magic then? A kind of magic that even she with her second sight had never dreamed of.

  But it was more than that. Bridget pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. He offered her a new life. A life away from Mrs. Simons and her black looks, and Mrs. Ludwig and her gossip, and even old Mrs. Hansen and her “Yes, Miss Bridget.” A life where no one knew who she was and what she’d done. A life where no one had ever seen her belly big with a bastard child, had never seen her weeping beside a tiny grave and yet still believed it was more than the hand of God that had laid the body in the coffin.

  What kind of life would it be, though? In a world strange beyond imagining, she had only his word that she would be welcomed. The patronage of a dowager? It sounded very grand, but she had read enough history to know that princes were fickle creatures and could easily change their minds about who their favorites were.

  And could she really leave Anna cold and alone in the ground with no one to tend her stone and pray for her infant soul?

  Then there was the light, of course. The light had to be kept. It had to shine, each and every night the shipping lanes were open.

  But that wouldn’t be for much longer. She could already smell snow on the wind. Soon the lake would freeze and all the ships would be laid up for the winter. She would be required to close down the light and move back to town for another long winter of gossip and sideways glances and the cruel emptiness that being alone amid a crowd of people could bring. Another winter of nothing to do but brush the snow from her daughter’s grave, and wait for spring and the resumption of her duties.

  Duty, responsibility, fault, guilt. These made up her life. They bounded it on every side and made her choices for her, or removed her choices from her.

  But now this stranger waited downstairs, and his promises offered to topple those boundaries. Bridget snorted and knotted her shawl between her fingers. She’d had that thought before with another man.

  That, however, had been in this world. But could she really believe this new world, this Isavalta, would be any better?

  Did she really have to believe it could be any worse?

  But what of Aunt Grace’s warning? Could she truly put any credence in that? There was still the fact of her hesitation when Bridget asked how this predicted danger might be avoided. She had not told the truth when she said Bridget must simply get rid of the man and go on about her life. Bridget had seen the lie in her face and felt it in that tiny pause. But what about the rest of the warning? What if Aunt Grace really did have the second sight, and hid it under her shams? Heaven knew Bridget had wished often enough she could hide hers.

  She would not waste her time believing it was affection for her that drove her aunt to make those extraordinary statements, but maybe, just maybe, Grace still loved her sister who lay in the graveyard. Maybe, she had just enough honesty in her to truly wish to help her niece, if only this once. Maybe she did see something and Bridget should send this man, this Valin Kalami, into Eastbay or Bayfield as soon as daylight returned.

  But, if she did that, would she ever forgive herself for closing this extraordinary door that had opened and locking it behind herself?

  The light shone across the water. The candle burned low in its holder. The moon rose, outlining the pines, the wavelets and the boulders on the shore. Bridget stood, hugging herself against the cold and letting the too solid past and the too often imagined future wash over her. She felt keenly aware of every sensation — the draft that touched her skin, the press of her toes against the rough wool of her stockings and the leather of her shoes, the weight of mother’s hand mirror in her pocket.

  Bridget pulled the mirror out and stared at her own reflection, lit up by the lamp from behind. Turned this way, and she had clear eyes, nose, skin, all features in good order. But turn that, she was a ghost of shadows floating over yet more shadows. Turn, she was herself again. Turn, she was gone.

  “Momma,” she whispered as she turned this way and that, trying to find some meaning, reach some decision from the movements of her reflection. “Momma, of all the things I’ve wanted to see, why haven’t I ever been able to see what I really need to know?”

  Turn, she appeared, bright, tired, whole, true. Turn, shadows only flitted and twisted across the glass so recently enchanted.

  Turn, turn, a child’s fortune-telling game, which showed more, the lit reflections or the shadows? Turn, and Bridget saw the shadows and the shadows saw Bridget, and they reached out to her in the turning, and she felt herself fall forward giddy and unafraid. Turn, turn, turn, turn …

  And she walked in a snowy forest with Momma by her side. Momma wore a white shirtwaist dress, as she did in the one photograph Bridget owned of her, but her hair was not swept up into the severe bun the photograph showed. Instead, a long braid swung down her back.

  Bridget felt no cold. The snow made no sound under her feet. It came to her that she did not belong here. Not as herself, not in this shape. She could not witness what had happened here as she was. She had to change before anything important could happen to her here.

  “Where are we going?” she asked softly, reluctant to break the silence that surrounded them.

  “To see something you should know about,” replied Momma. She also spoke softly, and her voice felt deeply familiar.

  “Where’s Poppa?”

  “He’s waiting for you to decide who you should be.” Momma reached out, and without touching the branches, pushed the bracken screen aside. In the clearing waited Valin Kalami in his long black coat. Bridget watched him as he set a heavy pack down in the snow. She was not the only one who stared at him, fascinated by his presence in this place where he had no more right to be than she. A fox watched him as well, staring at him from between a screen of twigs that would be ferns in summertime.

  “Get along now, dearest.”

  Bridget walked through the bracken up to Kalami’s side. She knew the change needed now, to understand what was so important that Momma had come all this way to show it to her. She settled down inside Kalami, and she was Bridget watching Kalami, and she was Kalami watching the fox, and the fox was all that he had hoped for. As she felt that hope, the world rushed in to swallow Bridget, and she felt the cold, and heard the trees and saw the fading daylight, and she was Kalami and Kalami spoke.

  “Good evening, Master Fox.”

  The red-brown animal stood out sharply against the fresh snow. Frost glinted on its whiskers and the cold light of intelligence shone in its green eyes. Wary but curious, it looked up at Kalami, taking his measure in the day’s thin, fading light. Behind it, the winter-bare underbrush rattled, but whether the sound meant amusement or warning, Kalami could not tell.

  Kalami had entered the thicket alone and on foot. His horse was tethered some yards back. The animal had caught wind of this particular fox long before Kalami had seen it. Despite Kalami’s skills as a rider and a sorcerer, he could not persuade the horse to come any closer to the fox.

  “Will you have a drink with me, sir?” The glittering snow creaked under him as Kalami knelt and pulled a round-bottomed flask from under his cloak. A plait of reeds had been woven all around the precious green glass. It made the flask easier to hold and harder to break. Kalami, who
had worked on weaving the plait for hours, sincerely hoped it would add a few other properties as well.

  Kalami took a swig of the wine, forcing himself to swallow despite the tightness in his throat. The fox stalked forward, its tail bristling. Kalami held the flask out for it, and its pink tongue lapped at the flask’s mouth for a moment. The fox regarded Kalami again.

  “And for my brothers?” the fox asked.

  “I would be honored if they would join us,” Kalami replied, gesturing to the clearing with its fence of skeletal trees as he would to a spare chair in his own house.

  The fox cocked its head. Its breath, Kalami noted distractedly, did not steam in the cold. Perhaps it did not have any. “Would you indeed be so honored, sorcerer?”

  “Sir, I would.” Kalami bowed his head. His heart hammered hard against his ribs, and he knew the fox heard every beat.

  The fox sat back on its haunches. In the next moment, a curtain of red and gold light obscured the animal. When the fey glow cleared, a lean, naked man covered in wiry, reddish-brown hair crouched in the fox’s place. The man’s chin was as pointed as his nose. His eyes glittered green as forest leaves in springtime. The intelligence behind those eyes was lively, but it was far from kind.

  “My older brother will be along by and by.” The fox-man sat back on the snow, seemingly unconcerned about the cold or the wet. “He will expect the same as I have had.” As he spoke, it seemed that the black branches overhead pulled themselves closer, waiting for a misspoken word as an excuse to snatch Kalami up.

  “I promise, there will be enough for all who want it.” Kalami suppressed a shiver. The cold seeped through his coat and hoes. That his every nerve was stretched tight did not help his comfort any.

  The fox-man seized the flask in his fine-fingered hand and tipped his head back. He poured the wine down his throat as if it were water and he were dying of thirst. The moments passed, and he kept right on drinking.

  I wove that spell taut and true, but can it hold up under this draining? It must, just for a little while longer. There are limits to the capacity of even such as he. That thought did little to comfort Kalami as the fox-man continued to drink.

  After what seemed an age, the fox-man lowered the flask and licked his lips with a red-stained tongue.

  “An excellent wine, Sorcerer.” He tossed the flask back to Kalami. “I commend you.”

  Kalami caught the bottle and inclined his head. The contents sloshed, and he found he could breathe again. Not yet drained after all. “Merely something to lighten the heart of a weary traveler,” he said with a deprecating shrug. “Had I known I would meet such an illustrious person when I set out, I would have brought better.”

  “You are too modest, I am sure,” replied the fox-man easily, reclining back on one hand. Kalami’s own cold hands tightened reflexively. The fox-man saw, and he smiled a thin, sharp smile. Then, one of his ears twitched. “Ah, here comes one of my brothers,” he said, keeping his green eyes turned toward Kalami. “We will see what his opinion may be.”

  The bracken rustled beside Kalami’s right shoulder. A shadow of movement glided between the snow-laden twigs that were the winter remains of fern and silver seal, and then a second fox paced into the clearing. This one carried a wide-eyed rabbit clutched tight in its jaws, its eyes bright with the success of its hunt.

  “Come brother,” said the fox-man. “What fare is that? Here we have a sorcerer with an excellent bottle of wine. I have already drunk my fill, and he swears that you may do the same.”

  The fox brother’s eyes gleamed. He tossed the rabbit carelessly to the ground. The rabbit lay there, stupefied, its biscuit-brown sides heaving, steam rising from both its nose and its bloody wounds. In the next moment, the rabbit turned into a white dove and flew away, leaving behind only a scattering of scarlet droplets and one white feather on the scuffled snow.

  Neither fox-man nor brother seemed to notice, and Kalami did his best to keep his attention where it needed to be. The brother also took the shape of a man, as tawny, naked and sharp-faced as the first. He showed blood-reddened teeth as he grinned.

  “Let us taste this wine, then.” Brother held out his hand.

  Kalami handed Brother the flask. His heart thudded in his chest, and the gleam in Fox-Man’s eye told Kalami plainly that he knew Kalami was afraid. Brother sniffed the wine, and squinted at the flask. Then, with one swift motion, he tore the plaited reeds that bound the glass.

  Kalami froze. No human hand could have slashed that plait, the plait holding the spell that filled the flask. With the reeds torn, the spell was broken, and the enchanted wine was gone.

  Brother raised the flask and shook it. Not a single drop swirled within. “Your bottle is empty, Sorcerer.”

  “What will our eldest brother say to that when he comes?” Fox-Man cocked his head toward Kalami. “You promised there would be enough for all, Sorcerer.” His green eyes gleamed so brightly with hunger and mischief that Kalami imagined he could feel their heat against his icy skin. “You have broken your word.”

  “And what,” said Brother, leaning forward so that his hands rested in the snow, “may we not do to one who has broken their word with us? By my mother’s heart, I am most insulted by this behavior.” His lip curled up and the growl from his throat was nothing human.

  “Perhaps he could be our next rabbit,” suggested Fox-Man, shifting himself so that he crouched on his feet. “To replace the one that flew away.”

  “Or a badger kit mewling for its mother as it stumbles along,” mused Brother, letting his jaw hang open in a silent laugh, so that Kalami could again see his bloodstained teeth.

  “A grouse.”

  “A pheasant.”

  Fox-Man licked his mouth with his wet, red tongue. “A sweet, sweet farmyard hen.”

  “Wait.” Kalami held up both hands, which, he was ashamed to see, had begun to shake. “Masters, I am humbled before you. Yet, give me the chance to make good my promise.” Speak well, man, or you end this day with body dead and spirit devoured. “There is, close at hand, the sweetest drink in the wide world.”

  “Sweeter than you, little sorcerer?” inquired Brother, leaning forward. Kalami could smell him now, the sharp scent of animal musk and human sweat. “With enough for all? Even for our eldest brother, who will be here so soon?”

  Kalami tried to calm his beating heart, but it was too late. The scent of his fear already filled the air, and the noses of the foxes twitched as it reached them. Fox-Man smiled and showed teeth as yellow as parchment, but sharp and sound. He stretched himself forward, planting hands and knees on the snow, the organ between his legs growing hard and red.

  “Let him be a rabbit,” Fox-Man breathed. “I want to run.”

  “But while you are hunting me” — Kalami spread his hands, fighting to keep himself from cringing — “will you let the woman slip by?”

  “Woman?” Fox-Man repeated. “What woman is this?”

  “The one that passes through your wood even now, hurrying to return home from her tryst.” Kalami’s words tumbled over themselves, before he regained control and slowed his speech. “Little more than a girl she is, but already fair as mortal woman may be. She rides scornful of your domain and rights, believing herself safe in her spells and trickery.”

  “Safe is she?” Brother’s bloody smile grew sly. “Safe from us?”

  “Not from us, Brother.” Fox-Man stroked Brother’s shoulder. “Nor yet from our eldest. A girl is a sweet thing, a sweet thing indeed.” His body even more clearly than his words showed his eagerness for such treat.

  “But the sorcerer has broken his word before.” Brother nodded at the flask where it lay. A few drops of wine had spattered from it, staining the white snow like the blood of the vanished dove. “Can we trust him now?”

  “That is a thought, Brother.” The Fox-Man tapped his sharp chin. “And if this lady stays on the road, how may such simple, honest folk as we come to converse with her in all her pomp and state?”
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  Now it was Kalami’s turn to cock his head and make his voice ingenuous. “Do you say that anything can slip past you in this forest?”

  Brother held up one long finger. “Ah, but you see, Sorcerer, the road is not part of the forest. The agreements that free the road are very old. Our mother would not be pleased if we broke them.”

  I feared this. Then Kalami stiffened. He felt eyes at his back, and they poured fear into him, as the gaze of a dog would frighten a cat, or, indeed, the gaze of a fox would frighten a barnyard hen.

  But I am neither of these things. I have begun this game, I will see it through. These creatures will not have me. There is too much to be done yet.

  Kalami steeled himself to make his last bid. “If I could persuade her to abandon the road,” said Kalami, “would you then consider my debt discharged?”

  The presence behind him grew stronger. He felt it loom close to his shoulders. He smelled its carrion-laden odor. His heart thumped so hard in his chest that its beat shook his entire frame, but Kalami did not allow himself to turn around. There was no telling what apparition waited there, calculated to freeze his very soul.

  “Our eldest brother likes this notion.” Fox-Man stroked the snow with one fine hand. “It suits my thinking as well.”

  “And mine.” Brother’s grin grew even wider.

  Relief rushed through Kalami and slowed the frantic pace of his heart. It will work yet, he thought, but he still did not dare to move.

  “There is an ash tree felled by lightning that lies across the road,” said Kalami, his gaze darting from one fox brother to the other, trying futilely to guess their thoughts. “Meet me there at dusk, and I will fulfill my promise.”

  “We know that place.” Fox-Man inclined his head without taking his gaze from Kalami. “We will be there, Sorcerer. See that you are also.”

  Before Kalami could blink, three foxes, two red and one grey, trotted silently through the underbrush, leaving him alone.

  Kalami retrieved his flask, stowed it again in the pouch he carried over his shoulder and forced his cramped and frozen legs to stand. He needed to hurry. If the empress and her train had already passed the fallen tree, he was undone.