by Sarah Zettel
“Mine,” said the Vixen, closing her fist around the bones.
Baba Yaga gazed at her shrewdly with one rheumy eye. “There will be those who did not think so.”
The Vixen bared her teeth in a fierce, wild smile. “I am counting on that.”
• • •
Bridget Lederle vanished in a rush of winter air and magic. For a moment, all Sakra could do was stand there gaping like a child with his dagger hanging useless from his fingertips. There was nothing, nothing in the tiny chamber she could have woven into a spell, not even the flames of the lantern provided enough fire to work with, and yet she vanished anyway.
Vanished. Escaped. To return to Kalami and tell all she had seen, and then to become his pawn or his pupil, or perhaps both. To become yet one more threat to Ananda.
That thought pulled Sakra upright, closed his mouth, and clenched his hand around his dagger’s hilt. He sheathed the knife inside his sash and his eyes scanned the stone floor. As he hoped, Bridget Lederle’s boots had left prints on the flagstones, faint traces of dirt and water, but it would be enough.
He retrieved a square of white silk from his cache in the other room. He had no time to carefully choose color, cut and weave. With each heartbeat the ethereal threads that reached from the prints to the woman who made them weakened. He knelt carefully, pressing the silk against the mud and meltwater. Again, his gaze swept the floor and, oh thank the Seven Mothers, found a long, auburn hair that had drifted down while Bridget Lederle worked her escape. Unbidden, the sight of how she had been at that moment filled his mind — tall and magnificent, rejoicing in her own power. How could such a one allow herself to be used by Kalami? Shaking his head, he plucked up the hair and rolled it into the stained silk.
Sakra returned to the cottage’s main chamber and knelt in front of the fire. He closed his eyes and willed himself to stillness, drawing up the magic from Earth and soul. He did not open his eyes. Working by touch, he swiftly tied three knots in the roll of silk.
“Where is she?” he breathed, tying the question into each knot. “Where is she?” With a fourth knot, he tied the ends the cloth together and, still without opening his eyes, he pitched it into the fire. Ashes puffed, sparks crackled and he felt the spell open. He opened his eyes and stared without blinking into the flames. The flames fell apart to show him a hubless wheel with many spokes turning slowly in midair. The wheel melted and changed, becoming the sharp face of a fox. In the next heartbeat, the flames snapped shut around the visions and became a normal kitchen fire again.
Sakra sat back on his heels. The wheel was the symbol for the Silent Lands, and the fox … the fox could only mean the lokai and perhaps even their queen, the Vixen, walked close by her.
Sakra pounded his thigh with his fist. There were too many threads, too many mysteries and shadows. Bridget Lederle said she had seen Kalami giving wine to foxes. Were those the same foxes that had sought to bespell Ananda in the wood? They must have been, for another fox had taken memories from Bridget while she was still on the far shore of the world. Had she gone to them, or been taken by them? Had Kalami made some deal with the lokai, the fox spirits? Was he that foolish? The Vixen played no games but her own. It was not possible she had truly allied herself to Kalami’s cause.
Whatever the answer to that particular riddle, Sakra had no time to pursue it now. Especially now that he had seen but the beginning of her powers, he could not permit Bridget Lederle to reach Kalami or his allies. He had to stop her. And if he failed in that aim, he had to be sure Ananda was warned.
Sakra got swiftly to his feet and flung open the door, letting in a blast of frigid air and a swirl of crystal snow. He raised his hand to his mouth and gave out the three rough calls he had been taught.
A shadow separated from the greater darkness and stepped onto the tiny patch of snow that Sakra’s firelight turned golden. A cunning brown face peered up at him from under a hood of black feathers.
“We told you,” the dwarf grinned at him. “We said that you would need more than stone and night to hold her.”
Sakra bowed low in the fashion of his own people, with his palms pressed over his face. “And I have paid for my failure to heed your wise words,” he said. “I crave your pardon.”
The dwarf laughed harshly. “At least your courtesy cannot be faulted, sorcerer.” The wind ruffled the feathers of his cloak, but if the dwarf felt the cold, he gave no sign. His breath did not even steam in the firelight. “Nonetheless, we held to our promises, and you have given payment. Why have you summoned me again?”
Sakra remained as he was, bowed and subservient. Among its own kind, this creature was a king, and Sakra would not make the mistake of showing too little respect. “For my carelessness, I must beg another favor.”
“There is always another favor.” The dwarf shook his head. “Once you have begun, your kind does not know when to stop.”
Sakra said nothing, accepting the rebuke. The crows’ king would either help or he would not. He would name a price, or he would not. No amount of beseeching from Sakra would change that.
“What is this favor?”
Sakra straightened and lowered his hands. “My mistress must be swiftly warned of this new danger. I ask that you send one of your people with a message to her.”
The crow king’s face creased. “You ask me to send one of my people to Medeoan’s home? Her hatred of other powers is so great that it might well snatch them out of the sky.”
“It is Ananda who will bring about the end of Medeoan’s reign,” countered Sakra. “She and Mikkel will not forget the powers that helped them in their time of need.”
The crow king’s black eyes glinted. “That is your promise, sorcerer?”
Sakra’s heart sank within him. Few things were more dangerous than making a promise to one of the spirit powers in this land. He had so far managed to keep his dealings to solid exchange; for each task honestly performed was given a ring, a song, a day’s memory. A promise, though, was only words, and words could be twisted and bent in so many ways, according to the skill of the workman. The crow king was extremely skilled.
Yet one more mistake I have made this day. “It is my sincere belief,” Sakra said. “I can only promise that I will not forget.”
The crow king smiled, an expression both sly and thoughtful. “No, you will not.” He raised his arms, his cloak spreading out like wings. “Make your message. You have my promise that it will reach your mistress’s hand, and her hand alone.”
And he was gone.
Sakra shut the door against the cold that threatened to sink into his bones and returned to the table by the fire. Never, not in a thousand lifetimes, would he become used to the wildness of this land. In Hastinapura, the spirit powers had all either been bound, or been consulted and parleyed with centuries ago. Their histories filled the scrolls of study and were known by heart by any true sorcerer. Here, they surrounded all things earth and flesh, and earth and flesh lived in an ignorance that was either cheerful or cocky. People, common people, could still lose their lives and their souls in bad bargains with the wild night and its children. It was terrifying. It was wondrous. It made life a continual dance on the edge of a precipice.
And just as tiring. Sakra allowed himself a moment of self-pity as he pulled ink and paper out of one of the large chests and set himself to write a warning to the Princess Ananda, yet again.
In truth, he longed to write to tell her to flee. But she never would. Her loyalty and her heart had been given, and she would not break that trust.
Nor would he.
The message was brief, and there was some measure of relief in being able to write openly. He closed the letter, tied it in silk ribbon and sealed it with his false seal, for there had been no promise that no careless eye would light upon the missive. Then he left it under a stone on the tabletop.
That done, Sakra knelt down in front of the largest of carved chests he had carried from Hastinapura. Inside waited scrolls copied in h
is own hand, books given to him by his mentors, lengths of silk, knotted and unknotted, threads, tools for cutting and weaving, pots of paints and dyes. The arsenal of a sorcerer. Sakra set all the histories and tomes aside and pulled out instead a blanket of silk and two white feathers.
Sakra had been ten when the ministers from the palace came into his father’s courtyard. He had watched from behind carved screens beside his mother and aunts as the ministers showed Father the horoscopes and detailed omens that said that he, Sakra, was not merely gifted, but destined to be one of the great sorcerers of his generation. They came with letters from the Pearl Throne commanding and requiring that Sakra be taken to the palace to be trained in all the arts of spirits and magic that he might become an advisor to the council, or possibly even the personal guardian of one of the imperial family.
Of course Father had said yes, and Sakra, torn between sorrow, fear and pride, had gone with the ministers. He had only been studying a year when they came for him again, this time to escort him deep within the women’s quarters. He had walked between the two old men, half-afraid that he would be struck blind if he looked too closely at the lovely and curious faces he passed. At last, they came to a chamber of carved ivory that was hung with red silks and glass mirrors. On a great bed in the center lay the empress. Confused, Sakra fell back on reflex and bowed. His hands were taken gently from his face and a bundle was placed in his arms. He stared, realizing he had been given an infant. He held it carefully, as his mother had taught him to do with his baby brothers.
“This is my daughter Ananda,” said the empress from her bed. “My first princess, my precious daughter. We give her into your protection, Sakra.”
The first princess, wrinkled and red, waved her tiny fists and blew a bubble at him, and Sakra could only smile.
From that time onward, Sakra spent part of every day with the princess. He helped care for her when she was sick, he helped teach her to read and sing and to watch the stars. He watched her grow from a spindly, boisterous girl to a quiet but sharp young woman, and he loved her as he would love a sister or a daughter, which was the proper way of things.
It was a good life, and it suited him. Because of his position, his family was esteemed and his brothers and sisters would have good marriages and prestige of their own. He liked the purpose of his life. Power without purpose too often turned in on itself and could eat out its own heart with restlessness and envy of what it could not touch. This was what had happened to Kalami there on his subjugated island when he was still a boy. Sakra was quite certain.
Despite the bone-numbing cold and the painful memories of how it had almost taken his life, Sakra opened the door. This spell would not work in a confined space. He spread the white silk blanket in front of the hearth and knelt on it. Laying the feathers aside, he selected several sticks of wood from the pile beside the fire. On the first, he carved the name of the Land of Death and Spirit so that the words twined into a circle. On the second, he carved his full name and the names of his father, his grandfather and the god whose son he had been made. The third was a stick of sandalwood brought from Hastinapura. He ran his hands over the smooth, fragrant bark, checking for flaws and finding none. From the second pile of wood, he pulled several green branches and laid them on the flames. After a moment, they caught and the smoke thickened. He then laid his three prepared sticks on the fire and sat back so that he was in the center of the blanket with the two feathers pressed between his palms.
It was risky, what he did, for the Vixen was wild, capricious and cruel. If she played some game with Kalami and Bridget Lederle, she would not care for it to be interrupted. He might bargain with her for possession of Bridget, but she would demand a price a thousand times greater than any the crow king could imagine. Still, he had to try. He could not leave Bridget Lederle free for Kalami to take for even a moment longer, lest the lord sorcerer secret her beyond his reach.
White smoke, thick and fragrant, billowed out of the fire, defying the chimney’s efforts to draw it upward. It wreathed around Sakra, sitting motionless on the silken blanket. He concentrated, drawing deeply on his magic, forcing the smoke to surround him so that he might shape it and at the same time allow it to carry his soul away. He closed his eyes and laced his fingers around the feathers.
When his eyes opened again, Sakra was in the Land of Death and Spirit, and he was a swan, with a long neck and white, graceful wings. He soared on the winds over the dark pine forests that stretched on forever. The scent of water reached him and he turned his flight toward it, dipping his wings and stretching out his neck. A wide, brown river cut through the trees. The river would be a more reliable route than the winds. Sakra dove and cupped his wings until he settled with the cool current against his belly.
In his mind, he concentrated on the Vixen, on all the tales he had heard of her and on the illustrations he had seen of her manifestations in the books of the Isavaltan imperial library when he had still had the freedom of the court. The current under him strengthened, carrying him forward, his wings neatly folded, his head erect and alert.
Movement on the bank caught his eye. A shadow stepped out of the trees. It was a fox the size of a cart horse and grey as a ghost. It held a swan in its jaws. Blood streamed from the fox’s mouth and stained the bird’s white feathers scarlet. The fox tossed its head and threw the dead swan into the river to drift in the current and leave scarlet rivers in the clear, green water.
Sakra spread his wings. He had expected some challenge, but the oldest laws sided with him. I only defended my mistress, said his heart’s voice to the fox. She was in peril. Would you not risk all for your queen?
The fox drew back its lips in a silent snarl. You carried a blade of cold iron. You led the men who spilled my brothers’ blood.
They attacked my mistress. I had right and cause.
You spilled my brothers’ blood, snarled the fox, so I too have rights.
The fox sprang, and Sakra launched himself into the air, but not fast enough. The fox’s jaws closed on his wing and his throat trumpeted in pain. His mind reached back for his body, willing himself back into the mortal world, but the pain distracted his concentration.
Be bound, growled the fox. By your soul’s blood and my spirit’s teeth, be bound. Be prey, and be afraid. See how well you serve your mistress as a voiceless bird.
Sakra trumpeted again, calling toward the world and his own body. This time, the call was heard and he dissolved from out of the fox’s jaws like the smoke that had brought him here.
Sakra woke before the fire, his mind whirling with panic and pain. The fox had bitten deep, leaving behind both blood and confusion. He knew only one thing. His mistress walked alone in danger, and he must reach her. She could not be alone. He could not fail her again, not now when so much more than just the mortal powers arrayed themselves against her.
Unaware of what was truly wrong, Sakra spread his mighty wings and launched himself through the open door.
• • •
The palace Vyshtavos never rested easily, thought Kalami as he stood in the dim antechamber contemplating the muraled alcove that held one of the palace’s many gilded house gods. Even through the painted, plastered and tapestried walls he fancied he could feel the gossip and schemes passing back and forth like drafts beneath the doors.
The chief game of Vyshtavos’s inhabitants was to try to guess what Her Grand Majesty, the Dowager Empress Medeoan would do next, and how they could make use of that action to advance their position within her court. But none of them would ever win that game, because none of them knew the whole truth about the palace, or about its mistress.
Behind him, a staff thumped once on the polished floor. Kalami wheeled around.
“Her Grand Majesty will see you,” announced the footman.
As the servant stood aside to let Kalami pass, Kalami noted that despite the late hour the man’s livery was crisp and his golden buttons were all polished. It was not often that Kalami had cause to envy a
servant. Now, however, as he strode forward, pushing his hair back and smoothing down the wrinkles in his salt-stained coat sleeves, he wished he had allowed himself time to change from his traveling clothes. Appearances were important to the dowager, but so was strict adherence to her instructions. She had ordered him to report immediately to her upon his return, no matter what the hour. As the dowager seldom slept the night through, Kalami had decided not to risk delay. It would be far better to face the coming storm now.
The dowager’s private study was primarily a place of desks and books. On any given day, she could be surrounded by as many as six secretaries copying down her official letters and documents. At the moment, however, there was only one man in a high-necked green coat, drowsing at the corner desk near a low fire in a brass brazier. Another fire, little more than coals, smoldered in the central firepit. It was not anything like enough to heat the room and the cold brushed against Kalami’s skin. What little light there was came from six candles in two branched holders the height of a tall man, each of which was made to hold a dozen or more tapers. Liveried servants stood by to tend the meager lights and two ladies-in-waiting sat by the door, ready to tend upon their mistress should she give the word.
Medeoan Edemskoidoch Nacheradavosh, the Dowager Empress of Eternal Isavalta, sat behind a writing desk of dark wood inlaid with ivory representations of the seals of each of the twenty oblasts that made up the Empire of Isavalta. Age had yellowed that ivory, and the wood was ink-stained and chipped. Like the dowager herself, it had grown old before its time, and might soon be cast aside.
Dowager Empress Medeoan was in truth only just beginning her middle years, but she looked much older. This was strange in a noblewoman, and unheard of in a sorceress. That blessing of soul that granted them magic also granted sorcerers a life that could last across an entire century or more. Its price was to render the getting of children by a sorcerous parent difficult at best, but Kalami had found his own solution to that problem, once for himself, and once for Medeoan.