by Sarah Zettel
Bridget. Kalami felt his jaw tighten. How had she come to be here? Had Sakra given her to the Vixen? Or had the Vixen taken her? There was no way to know until he found her, and perhaps not even then. Bridget herself might not know what had happened, and there was no guarantee the Vixen would tell them the truth. Whatever had happened, it could not but be dangerous to his careful plans. If Sakra had actually entered into some bargain with lokai … Kalami ground his teeth together. It could be disastrous, and it would be small comfort when he stood in the ruins of his ambitions to know that bargains with the great powers usually cut down the bargainer.
Kalami stepped through a screen of birch trees into one of the rare clearings of these deep woods. The sky spread green and sunless over him and the waist-high grass bent silently under a wind he could not hear or feel.
Testing each step with his ash pole, Kalami waded into the grass as a man might ford an uncertain river. As he neared the center of the silent meadow, the light dimmed and shifted, growing deep and red as the twilight at day’s end. Kalami hesitated a bare instant, but then made himself keep walking. Paying too much attention to the unknown in this place could cause that same unknown to pay attention to you.
Ahead of him, the ferns and low tree branches swayed and parted. A man dressed entirely in red rode into the clearing on a horse the color of old blood. His breastplate shone bright scarlet, as did the helmet that obscured his eyes and the ribbons that streamed from the javelin he rested on the stirrup of his red saddle.
Kalami’s hand tightened involuntarily around his walking stick, but he focused his gaze past the strange red knight toward the trees that were his goal.
Despite that, the Red Knight pulled his great horse to a halt in Kalami’s path.
“I bring you a message from my mistress, servant of Isavalta.”
Kalami, left with no choice, halted. Keeping one hand wrapped firmly around his ash pole, he folded the other over his breast and reverenced. “I am honored to receive it,” he said. In this place, courtesy could mean the difference between life and death. “Would it please you, sir, to let me know who your mistress may be?” It was good sign that this knight had not used Kalami’s name. Names could have power, even in the mortal world. Here, they were weapons.
“My mistress is the mistress of Ishbushka,” said the knight. “She’s the Old Witch, Bony Legs, the One with the Iron Teeth.”
The Red Knight’s words made Kalami’s blood go cold. This creature came from Baba Yaga.
“My mistress says,” the Red Knight went on, “she requires your attendance and your attention.”
Again, Kalami made his reverence. “Sir, with all due respect to your mistress, I am on an urgent commission and cannot tarry.” There were many ways to become lost in the Land of Death and Spirit, and letting one’s attention stray too long from one’s errand was only one of them. Baba Yaga was powerful enough that he could not safely refuse her, yet he could not safely accept.
The knight extended his javelin, butt first. “Take this as a token of your acceptance, and you will cross her path without you leave yours.”
I have no time for this! Kalami wanted to shout. Every moment Bridget, untrained and unprotected, stayed in this place she was in more danger of becoming irrevocably lost to it. He had no time for games no matter how great the players might be. But he held his tongue and grasped the javelin the knight offered him.
As soon as Kalami touched the smooth, wooden shaft, the Red Knight wheeled his horse around and galloped noiselessly back into the trees, vanishing like a thought. As he did, the light around Kalami brightened, becoming the same pale green it had been when he started his journey.
Kalami settled the javelin on his shoulder and strode forward, thumping his staff with each step in an impatient punctuation for the delay. Eventually, he did again broach the tree line and was plunged into the shadow of the forest, his footsteps turning a little toward his left shoulder. Would this take him to the Vixen or to Baba Yaga? He no longer knew and his anger was causing his resolution to falter. Kalami planted his ash pole firmly on the leaf-covered ground and stared at its base for a moment, drawing deep breaths of the thin air around him and focusing his will. He had a task at hand. Only by fixing his mind upon it would it ever be completed.
Calmer, Kalami lifted his gaze and had to stifle a shout. Baba Yaga squatted in front of him in an ancient mortar that was chipped and grey with filth. She clutched the pestle in both bony hands, and Kalami could not help but see that its dingy sides were stained with what looked very much like blood.
“You go to the Vixen, Valin Kalami,” said Baba Yaga. With each word he could see the black iron of her teeth. “You go to fetch Ingrid Loftfield’s daughter for your dowager.”
Kalami reverenced as best as he was able with his hands full. Evidently, he was not of such a kind that Baba Yaga would waste her time with courtesies for him. “Nothing may be hidden from you, Great Mother.”
Baba Yaga did not even blink at this flattery. “The Vixen will give the woman to you. You will give her to me.”
Kalami hesitated. What if he did? It was nothing he had not thought of. With Bridget lost, the empress with no one left to turn to but himself, and the secret of the Phoenix’s cage, the true power of the Isavaltan throne would burn in his hands.
Burn. Burn away his life as it had the empress’s. Without the shield of Bridget’s power, he would soon be as old, as feeble and as mad. No. Kalami shook himself. This was his desire being summoned to work against him. If he could not safely leave Bridget with the Vixen, he could not give her to Baba Yaga.
“Your offer is generous.” Kalami bowed. “But I must decline.”
“Beware,” breathed the witch. “You too have power, I can taste it. Your own heart and its hate tempt and blind you. You stand to lose all.”
“I stand to gain all,” replied Kalami coolly. “Why should I hazard a throw with so dangerous an ally?”
Baba Yaga bared her iron teeth. “Give me the woman, little sorcerer. Give her to me and you will prosper. Do not — ”
“I have done you no harm, accepted no gift, offered no insult or challenge.” Kalami spread his hands. “You cannot lawfully wound me, even here.”
“But nor will I forget, little sorcerer, little man. Nor will I ever forget.”
Kalami bowed once more. “I would take my leave of you, Great Mother. My thanks and my duty.”
Mumbling, the witch snatched the javelin from his hand, stuffed it into the mortar beside her and pushed away with her pestle. As her servant had before her, she vanished completely.
Kalami did not dare stay still any longer. Although he strode away with back and shoulders straight, he felt sick inside. Baba Yaga held him in her eye now. Was there power enough in any world to turn that eye away? Why should he not just give her what she wanted? He was a fool, a fool …
Stop! Kalami told himself fiercely. Did you truly believe you could seek to gain possession of one of the great powers without risk? Without anger or danger? Is it true then what they say of your people, that you will cower when the shadows grow too thick and the stakes too high? You will have Bridget, the Phoenix and whatever remains of the dowager. You will meet whatever challenge Baba Yaga chooses to raise and you will defeat it with your new tools. You will release your people from bondage and lead them to rule, not just over their oppressors, but over the three empires. Isavalta will be slave to their will and yours….
“Such big thoughts for such a small mind.”
Kalami pulled on the reins. A bright red fox sat beside a rotting log that was covered in moss and crumbling leaves.
“Good day, Master Fox,” Kalami said, pulling together his best manners. “I crave — ”
“You do.” The animal scratched its ear. “We heard your cravings roaring through the woods like a murder of crows. You woke all our kits in their burrows and set them to howling with your cravings. I must tell you, sir” — it drawled out the word — “our mother is not
pleased.”
Kalami bowed low. “Of your courtesy, then, master, allow me to make my apologies to her in person.”
But the fox had gone very still except for the tip of its tail, which twitched restlessly. “We want no more mortal kind here,” it said. “What if I were to say our mother bids you go.”
“Your mother would never be so rude to an official messenger,” said Kalami sternly. “And she will be angered when she hears how you have spoken to me.”
The fox snarled, a low rumble of sound and a flash of white teeth, and Kalami felt himself relax. If he had misjudged his response, the creature would already be at his throat. As it was, he saw two other shadowy forms retreat into the darkness. He only had to keep calm and wait, despite the fact that the growl from the red fox in front of him continued on until he felt the tremor of it in his bones and the beating of his heart.
“Come then, and see what manner of welcome you may have.” The fox whisked around and trotted into the trees.
Holding the ash pole in front of him, Kalami followed the fox.
Because the mistress of the domain willed it so, the journey was a gentle one. Trees lifted their branches and flattened their roots so that Kalami could walk as easily as if he were on a cobbled street in Biradost.
The fixed points in the Land of Death and Spirit were few, but gradually the trees drew back to reveal a green hill that echoed in his mind as a solid and substantial thing. He could even hear the grass whispering to the dry wind. Even so, he knew that the shadows of the black crevasse that opened into the hill concealed yet more illusion, but that was only to be expected. This was the Vixen’s home and he would see only what she permitted him to see.
“You must leave your stick here.” The fox looked over its shoulder and grinned at him. “Its wood will not bear the touch of our mother’s stone.”
Meaning the touch of ash wood against the mound would pull Kalami instantly back into the mortal world. But Kalami had been ready for this. He lifted the pole and brought it down swiftly against his knee so that the wood splintered in two. He tossed one half aside and stowed the other under his coat.
The fox sniffed at him, as if he had somehow cheated at the game, but it made no further comment as it led Kalami into the darkness.
His progress through the black tunnel was mercifully short. Kalami had heard accounts of those the Vixen kept walking for days. Perhaps she was amused at his cleverness of how to keep his talisman of ash about him, or, more likely, she had just hit on some more interesting game.
You are on a legitimate errand from an anointed queen. The Vixen cannot interfere with you, Kalami reminded himself as the clear green light broke the darkness and he emerged into the cave that was the Vixen’s den.
Kalami saw Bridget at once. She was the only other human thing here. She sprawled on her back in a nest of loam and leaves, one arm cast across the Vixen’s forepaws. The Vixen lay on her side, cradling Bridget in the arch of her belly as if Bridget were one of the Vixen’s kits.
“What do you think of my new daughter?” asked the Vixen lightly. “She is a bit pale and wan, but time will mend that, I think.”
“Only if by mending you would have her become a ghost.” Kalami reverenced to remove the sharp edge from his words. “Great Queen, I bring you greetings from my mistress imperial, Her Grand Majesty the Dowager Empress Medeoan Edemskoidoch Nacheradavosh of Eternal Isavalta. A thing of some value to Her Imperial Majesty has become lost in your vast realm and she craves your assistance, one monarch to another, to aid in her search for it. In return, she offers this token of sisterly esteem and friendship.” Kalami held up the gold and emerald ring.
The Vixen sniffed the air, scenting whatever aura clung to the ring, but at the same time, she whisked her tail across Bridget’s torso like a living blanket.
“What if I have already found this precious thing?” she inquired coyly.
Kalami resolutely kept his gaze on the Vixen. Bridget’s skin was too white. He could see the blue of her veins against her throat. She had already been here too long. If he did not reclaim her soon, she would be nothing but a wraith.
“If you have found that which Her Imperial Majesty claims, then I humbly beg you to honor my mistress’s request and return it to her keeping.”
The Vixen lifted her muzzle, considering. “And why should I do that?” she asked, leveling her vivid gaze on Kalami.
Behind the Vixen, Kalami saw three foxes approach, two reds and a grey. They were of normal fox size and looked like toys beside their enormous mother. Kalami’s heart hammered hard at the base of his throat. Were they the three from the wood? The three he sent after Ananda, to face Sakra and his braided swords? Did they know how far his plot had gone?
If they did, he died, here and now, if he was lucky.
“Because no living thing of the mortal world can last here in the Silent Lands, Great Queen. It will only fade like snow in the sun and you will be left with nothing. Not so Her Imperial Majesty’s gift.” He held the ring aloft to catch the green light that glinted from its gold. He did not know the ring’s provenance, but Medeoan would not have sent it if she had not been certain it would catch the Vixen’s fancy. Whatever faults he laid at her imperial door, Medeoan was as shrewd as any spirit.
The Vixen sniffed again. Her tail waved back and forth across Bridget, stroking her. Bridget stirred in her stupor, moaning a little. Her jaw opened, hanging slack. Kalami imagined he could hear her heart, and with each beat, a little of her soul, a little more of her power, leached away into the Land of Death and Spirit, like water into parched soil.
But then, the Vixen whisked her tail away from Bridget. “Perhaps you are right,” she allowed. “Perhaps she is too frail to become one of my foxes.” She leaned down and licked Bridget’s eye. Bridget winced, but did not wake, and turned her face away. “Come then, take your precious thing.”
Kalami reverenced again and laid the ring at the Vixen’s feet. She covered it with one paw. Taking that gesture as acceptance, Kalami lifted Bridget in his arms. She did not stir at the movement.
“I thank you on behalf of my mistress imperial, Great Queen, and beg your leave to depart.”
The Vixen inclined her head. Very carefully, Kalami turned again toward the darkness. Bridget lay cold and heavy against his chest. It was the weight that gave him hope. She was still in her own flesh. She could be saved, if he could return her to the living world soon enough.
Gaining as tight a hold around Bridget as he could, Kalami marched into the darkness.
• • •
“You gave her to him.”
“Do you reproach me, my son?” The Vixen rolled over onto her back, exposing belly and teats to her oldest red child.
“No, my mother.” He turned his neck, offering his gleaming white throat to her. She pawed it gently. “I just wonder at you refusing your revenge.”
“Did I?” the Vixen stretched lazily. “Into Medeoan’s court, which harbors those who wounded you, I have just sent a sorceress of unknown power. Before she left my side, I gave her a gift which she will find most useful among all those spells and illusions with which she who is pleased to call herself my fellow has surrounded herself.” The Vixen’s voice grew grim, and the shadows around her curdled. “She will, I think, be sorry to have claimed as her own someone who can now see through all such trappings.” The Vixen bared her teeth to her darkness and her visions. “Yes, she will be sorry that her house harbors those who wounded my children.”
• • •
Kalami emerged from the cleft in the hill and found his piece of splintered ash pole lying where he had thrown it. Grateful, he lowered Bridget to the ground. She still did not stir. Her chest neither rose nor fell. Only the pale pink in her white cheeks betrayed the fact of life yet within her.
Kalami spat upon the ash wood. “I would go home. Lead us to the river.” He cast the stick in front of him so that it fell on the ground and began to roll. It rolled through the grass and toward
the trees. Kalami lifted Bridget once more and followed the stick. The nameless river that cut through all the Silent Lands was the one reliable passage between them and the mortal worlds. From the banks of the river, he could not fail to bring them home.
Kalami wrapped his arms tightly around Bridget. The more contact she had with flesh and blood here, the better she would be. Was it his imagination, or did she feel lighter now? Suspicion lanced through him. Had the Vixen tricked him? Given him a changeling, a painted stock, instead of the flesh-and-blood woman?
Had he been so stupid?
Trees rose in front of them as the stick rolled and skittered its way through the forest, following the unrelenting pull of mortal reality. Kalami sucked in his breath and lengthened his stride to follow.
What lay in his arms was definitely lighter, and warmer too. Kalami ground his teeth together. A changeling. A sham, a ruse, and he had been taken in by it. Traded away Medeoan’s ring for a trick, perhaps a trap. Perhaps the Vixen did know, her sons had told her and this was her revenge, and if Kalami took it back to Isavalta her treachery would be unleashed and all his plans would be drowned in its flood.
The only sound was his harsh, angry breathing. Even the branches made no noise as they slapped at his sides and brushed across his hair. His thoughts took up that single, broken rhythm. He’d been tricked, been tricked, been tricked.
With a wordless roar, Kalami cast the illusion to the ground. It lay there, like the dead thing it was, the sham of life fading further from it cheeks. He would cut the thing, open it, gut it entirely and find out what spell lay within. He would leave it on the ground beside the changeling shell. He grasped his knife and raised it high. He’d been tricked, he’d been tricked, he’d been tricked …
Unless you are being tricked now.
The thought stayed his hand. Tricked, tricked, tricked, the thought pulsed through him with the beat of his heart now. But by whom? In what way? The forest swam in front of his eyes. He was losing his way, tricked, tied in knots, his own knots, the knots of others, his mask peeling away in layers so that he would become tangled.