A Sorcerer’s Treason

by Sarah Zettel

  “As you wish, mistress.”

  They flowed out of the shadows, a river of fur-covered bodies — red, brown, grey and white. Bridget saw pointy ears, bushy tails, sharp noses and bright eyes, but her overwhelmed mind could not resolve what she saw. They ringed her, tongues lolling from their laughing mouths, and Bridget saw that they were foxes. Dozens of foxes. Red foxes the size of small dogs crouched at the feet of white foxes the size of wolves. Brown and grey foxes peered around their shoulders, looking for all the world like they found her amusing.

  Bridget turned in a tight circle, keeping her club raised. They surrounded her. Kits peered at her from under a rotten log, adults crouched on their haunches or sat attentive with their ears turned forward, as if they were waiting to hear something interesting. Their stench filled the air, and Bridget had to swallow to keep from gagging. On the edge of the shadows, something grey and far too big, yet still shaped like a fox, paced back and forth, and Bridget could see the faint glow of its huge eyes. A soft warm wind that might have been its breath touched Bridget, and she smelled carrion.

  “Well?” she asked. “What do you want?”

  The foxes laughed, high-pitched, yipping laughs. The noise rolled over Bridget and she nearly staggered under its assault.

  One of the red foxes pointed its muzzle at her. “Be careful, little woman,” it said, and Bridget could muster no surprise on hearing it speak. “Ask no questions to which you do not want to know the answer.”

  “Most excellent advice,” said one of the white foxes, closing its mouth with an audible click of sharp teeth. “For instance, what if we should want to taste the dainty in front of us?”

  “It has come from a long way away.” The red fox whisked its tail back and forth. “I would wager none of us have ever tasted its like.” The kits under the logs squealed delightedly at this idea.

  I’m going to die. The phrase formed itself clearly and succinctly in Bridget’s mind. She shifted her grip on her club. Her heart should have been beating fast. She should have been breathing hard but the action seemed beyond her somehow. All she could do it was stand there, ridiculous with her dead branch, and wait for the foxes to make up their minds.

  “If you threaten me,” said Bridget, “then I may do whatever I can to save myself, may I not?”

  That earned her another chorus of yipping, squealing laughter. “An excellent point,” said the red fox. “And which of us will choose to feel the sting of her skills?”

  The white fox tossed its head contemptuously. “What could she do? She does not know what she may do, or even what she can do.”

  “She does not know who she is,” said one of the grey foxes, rubbing its whiskers with its paw.

  “She knows who she is,” replied the white fox. “She does not know where her blood has been.”

  “Let’s find out!” shrieked one of the kits.

  “Take her blood,” said the grey fox, pausing in its grooming. “Relieve her of her worry.”

  “Or give her new blood?” suggested the white fox. “Show her how much she has yet to learn.”

  “I am Bridget Lederle, keeper of the light for Sand Island,” said Bridget through clenched teeth. “That is all I need to know.”

  “She’s very sure,” said the red fox.

  “She’s very proud,” answered the white fox. “Very like her father.”

  A wave of dizziness passed over Bridget. Her knees tried to buckle. What was happening? What did they know of her father? What did they know of Everett Lederle?

  Or did they mean someone other than Everett Lederle?

  Do not be afraid to know. It changes nothing of your love for Everett Lederle, and it can only help you.

  “Enough!” shouted Bridget to drown out her own thoughts. “If you mean me harm, get on with it. If not, then let me pass!”

  “She should not shout,” said one of the kits, poking its nose out from under the log. Bridget saw how very green its eyes were. “She should not be rude.”

  A second wave of dizziness made Bridget teeter on her feet, but it passed, leaving behind an odd certainty as to what she should say next. “You should not delay me. Your mother will not be pleased.”

  The hackles rose on the nearest red fox. “Our mother? What do you know about our mother?”

  The foxes swam in front of Bridget’s vision. Stop this! She pressed her hand to her forehead. Leave me be!

  Do not be afraid …

  “The Vixen sent for me,” said Bridget. “And here I am.”

  “So you are.”

  A ripple of sound ran through the foxes, a combination of whispers, snuffling and the gentle whine that comes with an animal’s fear. A lane opened through them and a fresh shadow stepped out of the forest. A fox so huge that she dwarfed even the grey one on guard in the shadows picked a delicate path up to Bridget. Her coat was the color of the red stone cliffs on Devil’s Island. The tip of her tail and the blaze on her breast shined so white they burned Bridget’s eyes. The tips of her alert ears were level with Bridget’s shoulder. Her sea green eyes met Bridget’s without hesitation, and Bridget had to drop her gaze. She did not want to see what secrets lay in this creature’s eyes. At the same time, her branch fell from fingers gone suddenly numb. It landed on the bracken without making a sound.

  “Do you know me, Bridget Lederle?” the great fox asked mildly.

  Bridget saw the black, clawed paws standing toe to toe with her worn boots, but, she realized with a thrill of fear, she felt no breath from the creature against her skin.

  “You are, I assume, the Vixen.”

  “An excellent guess.” The Vixen sounded amused. “But do you know me?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Bridget, folding her hands across her apron. “I do not.”

  “I thought not.” The Vixen’s whiskers twitched. “And yet I know so much about you.”

  Slowly, Bridget lifted her eyes. “What do you know about me?”

  The Vixen opened her mouth in a grin, and paced a tight circle around Bridget. “I know that you are alone, that you are lost, and that you have no idea of the dangers of the place you are in.”

  Fear rose in Bridget. It wrapped around her like the cold thin air, smothering her ability to think. She clenched the fabric of her apron, as if its familiar roughness could anchor her somehow. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said politely. “But I also know that.”

  “I thought you might. You are a clever girl.” The Vixen stopped in front of Bridget and her green eyes gleamed. “As clever as your mother, I think.”

  Bridget’s hands tightened. Another person who would talk about her mother. She would not, could not, rise to this. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The Vixen took a step backward, and considered Bridget with her head cocked. “Clever girl,” she repeated. “Would you like my help?”

  The question lifted the hairs on the back of Bridget’s neck. “Forgive me, ma’am, but why would such an important person choose to help me?”

  “Because I believe you could help me.” The Vixen straightened up her head and both ears turned toward Bridget. “You know something of the healing arts. I smell it on you.”

  Bridget forced her hands to relax and smoothed out her apron. “I have cared for the sick and injured, yes.”

  “My three sons have been injured and I cannot save them. If you can, I will see you returned to the living world.”

  A light shone again in the back of the Vixen’s green eyes. It reminded Bridget of the light in Kalami’s eyes when he touched her mind, only one thousand times more intense.

  “Safely returned?” she asked. “With nothing new taken from me?” Her mind showed her the fox, the fox at the edge of the graveyard, and it had stared at her with green eyes and taken away her fears and the memory of her fears. The fox had wanted her here. Anger roared into Bridget’s blood, but she held it back, forced it down. Anger would not serve her, not here, not now. Not in the place of the Vixen’s power. How she knew that Bridget could not say,
but she knew it all the same.

  The Vixen nodded, as if satisfied. “Safely returned.” The light gleamed even brighter. “And I will see that you learn what is hidden from you.”

  Part of Bridget’s mind wondered if that was not more of a bargain than she really wanted to make. But the rest of her again felt the thinness of the air, and felt the lack of some vital thing. But even more than that, she felt how very alone she was here, surrounded by these mocking creatures and face-to-face with their gigantic queen.

  She could refuse, she knew it. She could choose to walk away from this. The Vixen had done her a wrong, and that left her the right to walk away. She had resources here, knowledge untapped. She shivered at the certainty that filled her. She felt as if her very soul hung in the balance, as if all the world would be changed by her decision. She could leave the Vixen to repent meddling with her. She could save the Vixen’s sons and accept the consequences.

  Can I leave even a wild creature to die when there is anything I can do?

  “Very well,” said Bridget. “I will do what I can.”

  “Yes.” The Vixen thrust her muzzle forward until her black nose brushed Bridget’s cheek like a damp kiss and Bridget heard her sharp sniff as she took in Bridget’s scent. “You will.”

  The Vixen fell back and turned away from Bridget. “Follow us.”

  Bridget, realizing that all her choices had for the moment been made, gripped her skirts, and followed.

  The foxes fell in step all around Bridget. They pressed against her on either side, snuffling at her heels. She had to walk carefully to avoid stepping on the paws of those in front of her. The outliers gamboled, chasing each other, and tumbling over each other in mock fights. Every now and then one of them would skip off into the forest, and once, one of those returned with a bird hanging limp and bloody in its jaws. Always, always, she could see the largest of the foxes slipping through the trees, shadows among shadows. Not once did the Vixen look back to see if Bridget followed.

  After what might have been an hour or a day, the trees up ahead drew their branches back like skirts to let the Vixen pass. Ahead, Bridget saw a round green hill rising from the ground like a bubble from a pot of boiling water. The Vixen slipped through a black crack in its side and her foxes flowed after her.

  It’s only a cave. Bridget swallowed against the tightness in her throat and stepped into the crevice.

  The world went black as suddenly as if the sun itself had been snuffed out. Bridget halted in her tracks. All she could see around her was the gleam of eyes and teeth. Her heart slammed against her rib cage.

  Safely returned, Bridget reminded herself even as the cold of the place seeped under her skin. She promised safely returned.

  Ahead, a green light flickered. It showed Bridget a rough floor of raw stone, and dank walls leaning in less than an arm’s length away on either side. Biting her lip, Bridget laid her palms against the chilly stone and picked her way forward as carefully as she would on the rocks beside the shores of Lake Superior.

  Gradually, the walls opened up to form a chamber of soil, roots and stone. The green light grew brighter. Now she could see that it came from a fire of emerald and sapphire flames dancing on the chamber floor. It gave off no heat and burned no fuel that Bridget could see. The foxes flowed forward, ringing the den like sentries. Those who could not fit clogged the passage behind her, making any thought of retreat impossible. Their eyes filled the whole world and their gaze touched her like a thousand fingers, making her skin crawl.

  Striving to maintain her calm, Bridget stepped into the Vixen’s den. A dimple carved by water had been lined with twigs, leaves and tufts of fur so red they could have come only from the Vixen herself. Stretched out on the strange bed lay three men, two of them with red hair and one with grey. All of them were naked, and all of them had been wounded. The first of the redheads had a long gash down his thigh; the second bled from his side. The gray-haired man had been stabbed through the gut and curled around the wound as if to protect it. The wounds were bad, not only because of their size and location but because all had become infected and oozed with blood and pus. Bridget’s hand went involuntarily to her nose to block out the smell of putrefaction.

  The Vixen trod gently around the edges of the nest, circling behind the three men. One of her foxes whimpered. Another yipped, and for the first time, the Vixen’s demeanor grew gentle.

  “My sons,” she said, nuzzling at the red hair of the closest. In response the man groaned and turned his head away. “Help them.”

  Bridget closed her mouth, and strode forward briskly. The foxes parted soundlessly to let her crouch beside the nest. Whatever else was going on here, these three obviously suffered. Fever blotched their skin red and white. She could feel the heat of it against her hands as she went from man to man, gently moving aside their hands so she could touch their wounds.

  Bridget frowned deeply. Now that she looked closely, what she had taken for great gouges were in reality little more than scrapes. Even the puncture wound Grey Hair suffered was less than a half an inch deep.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “These are not severe, or they should not be. How did they come to cause much distress?”

  “Cold iron,” said the Vixen, as if that were all the explanation that could possibly be needed. “Can you help them?”

  Bridget sat back on her heels, encouraged as much as she was confused. Had the wounds been what they first appeared, she was not certain she could have brought any relief. However, all that these men required was bathing and stitches, two services well within her abilities. She felt in her apron’s breast pocket, relieved to find that through all her trials, her sewing kit remained with her. “I will need clean cloths,” she said. “Warm water, and alcohol — ”

  “What is that?” interrupted the Vixen.

  How to explain? “Whiskey will do, if that’s all there is.”

  The Vixen trotted over to the fire and stared into it for a moment. Four of the kits came and pressed their noses against her flanks. She ignored them. Bridget could not help but notice how the green of the flames was the same green of her eyes. Bridget felt the air of the cave shift, and for a moment it grew even colder.

  Then, a shadow fell across Bridget’s hand and next to her she saw a pile of white cloths, a bowl of steaming, clear water, and a crockery jug that had been tightly corked and sealed with wax. Bridget broke the seal and pulled out the cork, taking a cautious sniff. The strength of the fumes made her eyes water. Bridget realized she was intolerably thirsty. For a moment, she considered taking a sip of the liquor, just to see what could possibly smell so strong, but she dismissed the idea. If anything, she needed her head as clear as possible.

  Using the cloths, Bridget washed each of the wounds, first with the water, then with the whiskey, and then with the water again. The men moaned and tossed under her ministrations, but their struggles were weak and she did not have to call for them to be held down. With every motion, she felt the weight of the foxes’ gaze on her. She did not look up as she stepped around the men, deciding it was better to concentrate on the torn flesh and the clotting blood. Despite that, she always she knew exactly where the Vixen stood to watch her. The fox queen’s presence dominated the cave and Bridget could feel it pressing against her like a hand laid on her shoulder.

  “Can you bring me silk thread?” asked Bridget, wringing out her last cloth and dabbing it against Gray Hair’s side. The man’s face screwed up tight from his private pain and he batted at her. Bridget held his hand back and applied her cloth firmly. A fox yapped, another snarled, but none interfered.

  “I can,” said the Vixen, and within three heartbeats, a spindle wound round with thread waited at Bridget’s right hand.

  When Bridget was satisfied that the wounds were as clean as she could make them, she drew out her sewing kit, selected a needle and threaded it with the Vixen’s silk. Silk would work much better for the task at hand than the c
otton stuff she had with her, as it was stronger and smoother. Setting her jaw in concentration, Bridget bent over the leanest of the two red-haired men and began to stitch his thigh closed.

  As she worked, a warm calm spread through her. Her thirst forgotten, she was able to concentrate on her work with an astonishing clarity. Calm turned to confidence, and then to delight at her craft as she moved from the first man to the second. She formed her stitches hastily, eagerly, but her mind was buoyed by the knowledge that she worked well, that the stitches would hold, that these men would be healed by her hands, and her skill. She barely realized that she had begun to work on the third wound. The world was red blood, white silk and living warmth under her hand, all bound together and knotted tight, until the red was gone and all that remained was the fresh white and warmth, and fire running through her veins where her blood should have been. Until the world spun, and her vision clouded, and she could no longer feel her hands to clutch the needle.

  Bridget felt the flash of pain as she fell upon the stone floor, and then the world went black.

  • • •

  Kalami would have preferred to pass through the Land of Death and Spirit as a shade rather than as flesh and blood. It was always perilous to enter the Silent Lands, but walking physically within them offered special dangers for temptation, confusion and entrapment, especially if one attempted it too often. Not a full day had passed since he had taken Bridget on this route, and like the living world, this world had rumors and struggles and powers that worked to their own ends. But if he had sent only his spirit forth, he could not have carried the empress’s ring, nor could he have touched Bridget, should she need help to return to the mortal world.

  So, Kalami walked the trackless forests of the Land of Death and Spirit with a stout ash pole in his hand as his anchor to the world, and in addition to the dowager’s ring he kept a small twist of red fox fur in his pocket. All mortal foxes carried something of the Vixen inside them. The connection this talisman gave him was tenuous, but it would be enough. If he was patient, and if he could keep his mind clear, the proper path would open before him. He would find the Vixen, and he would find Bridget.