by Sarah Zettel
Perhaps I should have removed them from the palace altogether.
Ananda unlocked the nearest chest and lifted the flat heavy lid. She tried to examine the spools of thread that waited inside with the blocks of fragrant cedar wood to keep out the moths, but her eyes burned from lack of sleep and her head ached.
I do not want this, part of her cried. I want to sleep, to dream, to wake up in my old home with my ladies waiting and my sisters and mother nearby. I want to love a whole man with a kind family. I want to go home.
But she selected two spools of flaxen thread, one of green and another bright yellow, handing them to Kiriti, who waited patiently behind her. It was good thread but not the finest. Suitable for a difficult spell upon a refined soul, but it was not silk, or thread of gold, which were for the most subtle workings or those aimed at the most highly born.
It was an irony, Ananda knew, that she had so much knowledge of magic, but no power touched her soul. She was an ordinary mortal, her spirit split between walking the world and walking with the gods. After a time, she would be gathered completely into the other world. A sorcerer held their whole soul within their flesh, anchored completely into the one world, and so they could feel its pulses and rhythms more keenly, see the other worlds more clearly, and draw on that wholeness, that completeness of self, to spin and weave the magic that was variously thought to be either inside or outside them.
A soft scratching sounded on the door: one, two, three, and a pause, then twice more, another pause, then once. It was the signal she and Kiriti shared with Behule. Ananda nodded and Kiriti unlocked the door. Behule entered, breathless and pale in the faint candlelight.
Ananda gave her a moment to make her obeisance, and to catch her breath, before asking. “What did you learn, Behule?”
“The woman is to be lodged in apartments beside the dowager,” said Behule, her voice strained with the wonder of it. “There are all manner of stories flying about. They say she is a spirit power brought from the Silent Lands to cure the emperor. She is Avanasy’s daughter come to put an end to Hung-Tse. She is your daemon servant sent to kill Kalami and was apprehended by him.”
Of course such a tale would be included. Ananda brushed a loose hair back from her face. “Do any know the truth?”
“If they know, they are not saying, mistress.”
No, they would not. The dowager would wait for a suitable public occasion to make the announcement, like the feast celebrating the holy day four nights hence. In the meantime, she would let rumor and anticipation build, dropping tantalizing hints among her courtiers to keep them guessing. It was part of the way she kept her nobles off-balance and scheming about small things that she might control.
“My thanks, Behule.” Ananda reached into the chest for another spool of yellow thread. First they would adjust the loom for Medeoan’s spies to see. Then, she would think how to use the court’s ignorance to spread her own rumors.
“There is something else, mistress.”
Ananda straightened up, turning around with the spool of thread still in her right hand. “What is it?”
Behule cast about the room, looking for words. Her hesitation tightened Ananda’s heart. “Lord Master Oulo from Kasatan is here.”
“I know that. He comes for the holy day. We breakfast together tomorrow.” Ananda turned the spool of thread over in her fingers. What is the matter, Behule?
“I have made … promises to one of the body servants he has been assigned.”
As you have so many times before. “Is there a problem in keeping these promises?”
Behule shook her head. “No, mistress. In fact, he has already come to me with news.”
Ananda felt her mouth go dry. She had to clutch the spool tightly to keep from dropping it. “This must be very bad news indeed.”
Behule hung her head in an apology for being the bearer of bad tidings. “Lord Master Oulo spoke with the dowager when she formally received him today,” she said to the floor. “He gave her names.”
The spool of thread slipped from Ananda’s fingers and clattered to the floor. Her knees suddenly weak, she groped behind her for a chair. She could not see. She could not think of anything except the fact that the dowager knew. The dowager had a witness and now the dowager would no longer need magic to reach Ananda. She could use the high court. She could say that Ananda had listened to traitors. She could say that Ananda had contemplated the overthrow of the Isavaltan throne, and the Isavaltan judges would believe her.
Kiriti grabbed Ananda’s hands and sat her on the nearest stool, kneeling beside her. “Mistress, mistress, calm yourself. It is not as bad as it seems. You said Lord Master Oulo was new to the conspiracy. Lord Master Hraban is not a fool. He will not have told him much. These names cannot be that important.”
“You were there, Kiriti,” said Ananda flatly. “These names will include mine and Captain Nisula’s.”
Kiriti said nothing.
Ananda’s thoughts had snarled themselves together. She could follow no single thread. The dowager had the Avanasidoch, and now the dowager had a witness, and what did Ananda have? She had her ladies and she had her lies. What was she to do?
“The loom.” Ananda staggered to her feet, grasping at the only solid thought she had. “We must rethread the loom. Make a new pattern …”
Behule interposed herself between Ananda and the loom. “Princess, let us do this. You should get to your bed. In the morning you will know better what to do.”
Ananda did not feel tired. She felt on fire. Oulo was a traitor. The Avanasidoch slept beside the dowager. Avanasy was a legend, though her father had known of him. He died for Isavalta, for the child that Medeoan had been. His life had caged one of the great powers.
And now his daughter came to Medeoan’s side in the arms of her closest advisor. Now there were three powers arrayed against her, and should that not be enough, there was a traitor to speak her name in open court. Fear dizzied Ananda.
How much longer can I go on? How many days, how many hours before I am made like Mikkel? And how many days of that hell will I be forced to endure before I am finally killed?
“Please, mistress. I beg you.”
But Ananda just held up her hand, gulping long breaths of air to try to bring strength to her weakened blood.
“No. First … first we must silence this man, if we can.”
Ananda wore three braids in her black hair, no matter what other style was set upon her. Each of them bound a spirit, a small servant that she could call upon simply by loosening the tie. Sakra had plaited them with careful fingers and careful magic the day before they had left for Isavalta.
“Just in case the Moon’s Daughter should have need,” he’d told her with a smile. They had not known then how much need there would be.
Ananda had used one to foil an attempt to poison Kiriti. She had used another to try to heal Mikkel, but she had not been able to speak specifically enough about the task that needed to be done, and the spirit had escaped her.
Both of those braids she had herself redone as best she could, but there was no magic left in them.
Now her shaking hand reached for the third braid. Her ladies stood silently beside her. She picked the knot loose and let the thread fall to the floor. A hot wind swirled through the room, ruffling Ananda’s hems and the ends of her hair. When it stilled, a small creature, little bigger than a bullfrog, squatted in front of her. It had round eyes the size of gold coins, a pig-snout nose and a lipless slit of a mouth that showed a row of yellow fangs.
“You have called and I am come,” it announced. “I am bound to one task. Speak and let me go.”
Ananda licked her lips. She must think clearly. Medeoan and a long line of court sorcerers had woven mighty protections around the palace. There were limits to what magic could do here.
She might render him mute, but he could still write his testimony then. She steeled herself to give her orders. Of course, any spell she ordered laid, Medeoan would eventua
lly undo. But this would frighten Oulo, and Ananda could then work upon his fear.
“The man Lord Master Oulo Obanisyn Oksandrivin. You must render him deaf and blind, and you must be seen to do so.”
The creature flexed its knees, bobbing up and down several times as if testing the stone underneath it for solidity.
“It shall be done, mistress.”
Ananda bowed her head. Oulo was only a frightened man. Oulo feared for his people and his family and himself, and she understood such fears all too well. Now she would make him pay for the fault of human weakness.
“Go then,” she ordered her creature without looking up.
She heard claws skittering against stone, and the wind blew hot again, and then there was stillness.
Ananda tried not to imagine the dwarfish monster scuttling through the hallways, its eyes shining in the darkness. She did not want to think of it sitting on Oulo’s fat chest, reaching out hungrily for the lord master’s eyes. She did not want to hear tomorrow of how Oulo had awoke, screaming in a hoarse voice he himself could no longer hear. He had a wife, Ananda knew. She hoped the woman was strong, and would care for her husband well. Were there children? Would they one day be able to forgive her?
“Mistress, please, you must rest,” said Kiriti at long last. She put her hands under Ananda’s arm to help the empress of Isavalta stand.
For all the tension thrumming through her sinews, Ananda found she had no strength to protest. She took the lamp Behule handed her, and returned obediently to her bed, as if her mind had already been separated from her body. She shed the robe, leaving it lying where it fell, snuffed out the light and laid herself down, stiff and cold.
“I cannot do this anymore,” she whispered to the darkness. “I cannot live with this fear.”
She thought of running away. But even with the help of her loyal servants and those they could bribe, how far would she get when she must follow the snow-choked roads? Laying aside storms and cold, the dowager empress could track every movement on every road through her domain.
She thought then, quite calmly, of killing herself. Behule and Kiriti would be busy with the loom for some hours yet. The rest of her ladies slept soundly in the outer apartment. She could mount the west stairs to the solarium, and from there could throw herself from the window to the courtyard, and the kind stones below would break her skull and bones. It would be over in an instant and her soul would be whole in the palace of the Seven Mothers.
But that would leave Mikkel, as well as loyal Kiriti, Behule and constant Sakra, at the mercy of the dowager.
Which left only one way. Hraban. She would have to sanction his revolt. She would have to give the orders and take the throne from the dowager, out from under her dead body, in all likelihood. Sakra’s letter told her to do nothing rash, that he would soon be beside her, but Sakra did not know all. He did not know that Oulo had turned, and “soon” might mean a matter of days, or weeks, depending on what arose, be it a storm, or simply a delay with forgeries and passports. She could not wait. Not anymore. Medeoan no longer had a witness for her court, but she already had Captain Nisula’s name. If she chose to put Nisula to the question …
All the Mothers be at my side, Ananda prayed. I cannot let her take me. I cannot let her kill me.
Which meant she would need to send a message to Hraban to stay away from the holy day, and to begin to marshal his men. She would have to send another to Nisula to set sail from the southern coasts as soon as he could.
And after that, she would have to deal with the Avanasidoch.
A strange peace descended on her then, and a feeling like freedom. Ananda rolled over onto her side, and fell asleep.
• • •
Medeoan gazed at Avanasy’s daughter, lying still and pale in the great bed. The light from the four braziers blazing at full strength to help keep her warm only served to emphasize the unhealthy pallor of her skin. The surgeon had spooned broth and brandy down her throat, but could only say now that it was time and her gods that would have the healing of her.
She had her mother’s coloring, but all her father’s strength of feature. Medeoan touched Bridget’s cold hand tentatively, as if the younger woman might fade like a dream.
“Bridget Avanasidoch Finoravosh,” she whispered. “Be you welcome, daughter.”
“She does not know,” said Kalami.
“What?” Medeoan cocked her head toward him. He stood as far away from the bed as the privacy screens would allow. It seemed to Medeoan for a moment that his need for distance came from some distaste, but that could not possibly be true. Kalami knew as no other did that the Avanasidoch was the salvation of herself and of all Isavalta.
“She does not know who her true father is. Ingrid Loftfield died in childbirth and had no way to tell her. The man who raised her never knew the facts of her lineage.”
“And you have not told her?”
Kalami bowed his head, spreading his hands. “There is so much for her to believe, I thought to bring her here and show her this world before I told her of her part in it.”
It was then Medeoan realized she had not let go of Bridget’s hand. She laid it gently down on the coverlet. “She must be told upon waking, Lord Sorcerer,” she said without turning around. “Her destiny is heavy, and she must be prepared.”
“She will be, I promise.”
“There is so little time.” Medeoan brushed the wisps of hair back from Bridget’s forehead. “Even less than we thought.”
“Has something happened?” asked Kalami sharply.
“It has.” Reluctantly, Medeoan moved away from the bed. “Come with me, Lord Sorcerer.”
The servants swept before her, carrying lamps and candles to light her way and clear the corridor, to open the rooms and see that all was lit and comfortable. More spread out behind, extinguishing lights and closing doors when she did not choose to stop in any of the chambers they passed through. When they reached her private chamber, they lit the three fresh candles she had permitted to be placed there and cleared themselves out at once. This was the one room where none might stay without an express invitation, not even her ladies, who took up their posts beside the door and reverenced as she passed.
Kalami followed her, as obedient as any of the other servants. When the doors were closed behind them, Medeoan sat heavily on the divan and motioned him to a chair. Kalami perched himself on the edge of the seat, all anticipation for her news.
“Ananda, it seems, is consolidating her plans.”
Speaking of it again fatigued Medeoan, but she made herself continue. She told Kalami of Lord Oulo’s petition, and of his naming of Peshek as one of Ananda’s conspirators. Kalami rose and paced toward the nearest brazier. It had not been lit and the brass glinted dully in the meager candlelight. In normal circumstances, he never would have been allowed to stand while she remained seated, but there were none to see here, and she was too wearied to remind him of the fact.
“She must be stopped.”
“Bridget will stop her,” said Medeoan, rubbing the bandage on her palm.
“With respect, Grand Majesty” — Kalami turned from his contemplation of the empty brazier — “I do not think Bridget will be able to stop her in time.”
“What do you mean?” asked Medeoan sharply. “Do you doubt Avanasy’s daughter? Even in her ignorance the mark of her father shines through her. I see it plainly in her face.”
“You will see it even more plainly when she wakes,” said Kalami. “But, consider, part of what made Avanasy so great was his extensive experience. He was trained, not just powerful. Such training takes time, and as you yourself said, time is short.”
Medeoan nodded. Kalami was right. The conspiracy was happening now. She could not hope that Ananda had not heard from her spies that Avanasy’s daughter was coming to aid Medeoan. Her plans would be moving apace.
“With Lord Oulo’s evidence, we may arrest and try her for treason.” Medeoan’s hand curled around the edge of the d
ivan. The pressure of the wood against her bandages set off a fresh burst of pain and itching in her healing palms. “It could be done tonight, and there would be an end to it.”
“Grand Majesty.” Kalami knelt in front of her. “You know such a plan cannot succeed. Ananda is too well beloved. A public trial, especially one founded on the evidence of only a single witness, would stir unrest across the empire.”
“You say I am never to be rid of her?” demanded Medeoan.
Kalami’s eyes widened with trepidation. He feared her, he always had. But then, that was right. She was the empress of Isavalta, and her servants should fear her. That was the way it must be. “Grand Majesty, we spoke of how you might be rid of her. She must be utterly disgraced.”
Medeoan rose swiftly, pacing across the room to the brazier, even as Kalami had done. She did not want to be near him when he spoke those words, never mind the truth of them. She did not want to hear this.
“There must be another way.”
Kalami turned on his knees. “Then what way, Grand Majesty?” He stood. He was taller than she, but unlike many of the courtiers, he made no effort to hunch and hide his height. “She must be shown to the whole of Isavalta for what she is, and it must be you who shows them.”
Medeoan’s hands were cold, and the cold made her burns throb, but she did not move to call a servant to light the brazier. She had too much of fire in her life. Sometimes, she wanted to give orders that all the fires in the palace be extinguished so that she might sit cold and alone in the blessed darkness, free of the reminder of the living flame caged in the cellar. Each candle, each lamp, each brazier formed the plumage of Firebird and the sight of them sickened her down to her soul. It had taken all her concentration not to order the braziers taken away from around Bridget’s bed. For one wild moment she had believed the Firebird could reach Avanasy’s daughter through the flames. But that was nonsense. The Firebird could never touch Avanasy’s daughter.
Why did Kalami have to be right about how Ananda must be dealt with? Why could she not order his silence and dismiss them? He should not be here speaking such words to his mistress imperial. He should be at Bridget’s bedside.