A Sorcerer’s Treason

by Sarah Zettel

  “Like King Arthur,” Bridget said, smiling.

  “Who?”

  Bridget shook her head. “It would take too long to explain.”

  “Sakra has obviously heard the stories and has mistaken you for this legendary child.” Valin’s smile grew rueful. “Palace gossip has gone further afield than I anticipated.”

  It was a good answer. It explained much, but not all. “If I am supposed to be the daughter of some great man, how did Sakra know my mother’s name?”

  Valin shrugged. “The mother of Avanasy’s child is reputed to be a powerful sorceress. Perhaps he thought he might find her and corrupt her into his schemes, especially as he held the one he thought to be her daughter.”

  Bridget remembered, though, the soft way Sakra spoke when she said Ingrid Loftfield’s name. Hear that, my father-god. He recognized the name, she was sure of it.

  But she said nothing, hoping Valin would interpret her silence as acceptance.

  Valin rose and crossed toward the nearest brazier. “You need to know, Bridget,” he said, feeding some chips of charcoal into the flames. The fire hissed as each dark sliver fell. “This will not be the last time you will hear speculation that you are Avanasy’s daughter.”

  “I am familiar with how rumor works.” Even here, God almighty, even here.

  “I must tell you something that is painful to me.” He did not lift his head to look at her, only stared unblinking at the brazier’s refreshed flames.

  Bridget waited.

  “My mistress imperial,” he said softly. “I …” His face twisted with indecision. “It is tantamount to treason for me to say this, Bridget, but you must know. She is senile.”

  “Senile?”

  He nodded. “I do what I can, as do all her advisors and ladies, but it is becoming more and more apparent. This is the source of my, of our, desperation. This is why we had to bring you here.” He spread his hands. “Her decay renders her unable to concentrate. Without that ability, she cannot weave her magic. Without her magic she cannot defeat Ananda, and if she dies before Ananda’s power is broken …”

  Senile? Bridget had to work to keep her jaw from falling open. You promised me her protection, her honor, and now you say she is demented! Her hands clutched the velvet coverlet, gathering up bunches of the soft fabric. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she demanded.

  “I was afraid you would not come,” he said bluntly. “I am sorry.”

  Bridget heard the apology without one bit of her anger relaxing. “What else have you failed to tell me?”

  “That she may greet you as Avanasy’s daughter.” He hung his head again, as if the words weighed him down. “That was who she sent me to find. But that child does not exist.” He reached toward her, pleading. “I am sorry, I am so sorry, Bridget, but I beg you to understand, my whole world is in danger. I could not fail to bring aid.”

  “I see.”

  It made perfect sense, or as much sense as anything in this waking dream did. She wanted to believe it with every fiber of her being, because it would mean that Everett Lederle remained her father. The man who kept the light, who carried the oil cans, who taught her the name and purpose of each brass gear and spring in the pumps was her father. The one who sat with her on clear nights and watched the stars. The one to whom she carried pots of coffee during storms when he stood up in the tower, scanning the churning waters, looking for ships caught in a gale. The one who died, wheezing his life away in the bed in the keeper’s quarters, who would not let her sit by him nights, because the light was more important than he was.

  That was her father, not some golden man in a black coat.

  The man she had seen standing with the woman in the black dress as they sailed through the Land of Death and Spirit.

  No. No. No. Bridget pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

  But Sakra had recognized her mother’s name.

  “Bridget, please.” Valin grasped her hands and pulled them away from her face. “Understand, I lied because I had to. We need, I need, your help. Truly.”

  His face was honest, open, sad and a little desperate. His hands were warm and soft against her, holding her strongly, his very touch willing her to understand what was happening and why he had done what he had done. But as she gazed into his eyes, her vision flickered again, and she saw a reflection, this time of rage, laid over his pleading features.

  What is happening? She furrowed her brows. She couldn’t see, and she needed to see, she had to see!

  And she saw three men in coats of blue and gold, surrounding a great carved bed. On it, they spread sheets so white they all but glowed in the firelight. The cloth shimmered with threads of silver and gold, linen impregnated with precious metal.

  And poison. She felt it burning through her veins, twisting her gullet and seeping into her lungs. Whoever lay beneath those sheets would die. She would die, there was too much poison….

  “No!” she screamed. “No!”

  And she saw Valin standing beside her, his face anxious and without reflection.

  “What did you see?”

  Bridget stuffed her fist into her mouth, to stifle the sobs that threatened to burst out.

  “Tell me!” shouted Valin.

  Bridget swallowed and shook herself. It was a vision. Just a vision. That was all. She knew what to do.

  “I saw three men, all in blue coats with gold braid. One had black hair and a hooked nose. Another had red hair and a strawberry birthmark under his left eye. The third was an old man, mostly bald, but with strong hands. They were changing sheets on a bed carved with eagles and roses. The sheets were poisonous. Whoever sleeps in the bed is going to be dead before morning.”

  A spasm of anger crossed Valin’s face and for a moment he glared at her with complete and livid hatred. His jaw clamped, as if to hold in words that threatened to burst forth.

  “Ananda,” he spat at last.

  “She made the poison?”

  He nodded grimly. “The bed you describe is Emperor Mikkel’s. The men are her creatures. She has made them so. She means to kill her husband imperial.” His fist struck the mattress. “I knew this day would come but I did not expect it so soon.”

  “But …” Instinct made Bridget bite her tongue. Valin looked at her, and she said, “It couldn’t have anything to do with my coming here, could it?”

  Valin considered. “It might. I must go, Bridget. I must consult …” He stopped. “The other advisors.” He turned. “Servants will be sent to attend you and bring you food. Send word to me if you do not feel your strength returning. You are to be received formally by the dowager empress in three days, and you must be able to stand.”

  “I will be, Valin.”

  “Good. Forgive me.” He was already striding past the screens and out of her range of vision as he spoke.

  Bridget collapsed back on the pillows and stared up at the rich canopy.

  “Why,” she whispered to the velvet above her, “if Ananda has Mikkel completely bound to her will, does she need to kill him?”

  But the velvet had no answers, and neither did Bridget.

  • • •

  Kalami strode down the corridor, fighting to keep his hands from clenching into fists.

  So soon. She had heard the names so soon. He had meant to lead her gently into the truth as the bond between them strengthened beyond mere physical dependence.

  But, of course, it was Sakra who broke that plan. Sakra and Ananda, again.

  That was all right. That could be dealt with. Lies could be smoothed out and blended into truth. He had refined his abilities in that area across long years of practice. But the vision. She had seen how the plan for Mikkel would go forward. It was good fortune alone that prevented her from seeing that it was Medeoan who ordered those poisoned sheets to be laid out for her son.

  That he could not have covered with a quick lie.

  Sakra and Ananda he could counter. Sakra’s magic was great, and Ananda was clever,
but they did not have more at stake than he, and they had the imperial power against them. But Bridget’s visions, those were beyond his control. As long as Bridget remained doubtful of him, he was in danger from her inner eye, and the fact that she could now speak Isavalta’s court language. He cursed Sakra thoroughly for that. Kalami had expected to be Bridget’s only source of information for several months yet while she accustomed herself to the new tongue. But that advantage had also been denied him, which meant every moment Bridget stayed in clear possession of her faculties, the danger grew.

  So, Bridget could not be allowed to stay out of control. That was too bad. A willing follower was always better, but if there was no time for that, so be it.

  • • •

  The swan huddled on the rooftop in an empty stork’s nest. The chimney gave it but little warmth and it fluffed its feathers out, shivering miserably. It was cold. So cold. Why was it here in this place of snow and ice? Its wing hurt desperately. Why was it not in the warm south lands gliding on the gentle rivers? Had it not flown because it had hurt its wing? That must be what had happened. The dawn had just begun to lighten the horizon. It would fly with the first true light. It would find food and its wing would heal. It would fly to where there was food, and a mate and warmth, and all this strangeness would be long gone.

  A crow landed neatly on the roof’s peak, puffing out its own feathers as it settled there. The swan honked at it.

  Go away. This place is mine.

  In response, the crow cawed, and cawed again, and then it was no crow, but a tiny, wizened man in a feathered cape, balancing as easily on the point of the roof as the bird had. The swan did not care. Such a small thing held no terror for it. It only honked again.

  Go away.

  “Well now, sorcerer,” laughed the dwarf-crow. “How deep is this water in which you find yourself?”

  The swan snapped at him.

  “Manners, manners,” he admonished. “For that I might let you stay this way, but then how would I claim that favor you owe me?” The dwarf-crow leaned forward, stretching out his neck as a bird might. The swan wanted to snap at him again, but somehow did not dare. Instead, it shrank against the chimney, raising its near wing to ward the strange being away.

  “You are not all gone yet,” mused the dwarf-crow. “Or you would be nesting on the riverbank like a proper swan.” He nodded and pulled his head back down so it seemed to sit directly on his shoulders. “Well,” he sighed. “Your kind is ever more trouble than they are worth, but I like the idea of you and your mistress in our debt, so this far I will aid you.” He fixed the swan with his round black eyes. “Hear me, Sakra. You seek Ananda. Sakra, you seek Ananda.”

  Sakra lifted his head. Ananda? Ananda. She was in danger. He had been flying to tell her. Flying on a swan’s wings, which should have been his arms and he could not change, could not understand how to make the change. He stretched his strange, long neck to the sky and trumpeted out his confusion. Change. Danger. He did not understand, could not understand. Lost, cold, alone, but for the dwarf-crow that watched him, and Ananda. He must find Ananda.

  Again, the swan threw itself onto the wind, its wings spread wide, dipping and turning until it soared toward Vyshtavos.

  Behind it, a crow flew off in the opposite direction.

  Chapter Eleven

  ��I recognize the waiting is difficult, and that the labyrinth of courtly courtesy is confusing to one from so straightforward a life as you are, but I urge you to patience, Bridget,” read Lady Gali, the tallest and skinniest of the attendants Bridget had been assigned. She wore her red hair piled high on top of her head, which made her even taller, and, Bridget thought, made her face look more like a blunt wedge than anything else.

  “Rest and gather your strength. I will come again as soon as I may. It is signed only Valin.” Lady Gali announced that tidbit with great satisfaction, and around her, both of the other ladies responded with extended giggling.

  Bridget pressed her lips together to hold in a sigh, and smoothed down the skirts of her new dress — a thick, grey garment with sleeves that had needed to be tied on, and laces and overskirt died a purple so deep it was almost black. After a full day of lying in her sumptuous bed, she had regained strength enough to discover she was bored. Her apartments were grand on a scale she would never have conceived of, but they were extraordinarily devoid of items that might occupy one’s mind. After she had heard the story of the Marriage of Tovahne, which was painted across the ceiling, and the names and tales behind each of the three marble icons that stood on their gilded pillars in the apartment alcoves, and how the room’s plaster walls and thick carpets were a vast improvement over the old days of bare, gloomy stone, and proved she had no interest in embroidery, there was not much left, except to wait for the messages that arrived periodically. Once, the man came bearing a silver brooch made in the shape of a galloping horse with citrines for eyes and a garnet in its side the size of Bridget’s thumb. With it came the message that Lord Sorcerer Kalami would be pleased if Bridget Lederle would wear this next to her heart to show that she acknowledged Lord Sorcerer’s great regard for her.

  Every last one of her ladies had giggled as she accepted the gift, and Bridget had needed to swallow the urge to turn and admonish them to act their age, for heaven’s sake! Despite that, she now wore the brooch on her left shoulder.

  Bridget tapped her fingers on a gold-inlaid table and stared toward the tapestried curtain covering the door that led to the balcony. How cold was it out there? Could she ask for a coat of some sort and go for a walk? Just in the courtyard? Any change of scene would be welcome at this point. If she stood on tiptoe, she could just see out the one small thick window set beside the door, and catch glimpses of the lords and ladies in their fur robes and trains of sleighs and horses that seemed to be arriving every few minutes. The posture, however, was difficult to maintain, and even gilt and silver sleighs became a little dull when one’s toes began to ache.

  “Does my mistress wish to compose a reply?” inquired Richikha, the youngest, slightest and, conversely, least silly of the ladies. She dressed the most simply too, eschewing the bright tissues and gaudy laces the others preferred for a warm brown garment with a black bodice and white sleeves and laces. It seemed that her mother and grandmother had both been in service, and that, in fact, her grandmother had once waited on Empress Kseniia, the dowager’s mother.

  Now, there would be someone I should talk to, thought Bridget.

  “A reply, yes, of course.” Bridget turned her attention back to the waiting Lady Gali, who lifted her chin in silent reproach at being so neglected. Gali took her station at the writing desk, plucking a silver pen from its inkwell and holding it poised over the creamy paper that waited there.

  “Please tell Valin that I am feeling much recovered and am looking forward to his next visit. He will surely find me at home.”

  She paused to let Lady Gali note all that down. This was the third letter she’d had from Valin urging her to patience. After the scheduled presentation to the dowager, he said, they could meet and speak with his mistress imperial, and make plans for Bridget’s future. She had already received a formal letter from the dowager empress welcoming her to the palace and similar polite remarks, which Lady Gali had also read to her.

  Literacy, Bridget decided, is the next order of business. She picked up the dowager’s letter. Sakra had made it possible for her to speak the language, but she could not read a word of the angular alphabet, if indeed it was an alphabet. In truth, she thought as she ran her fingers across the page, it looked a bit like the Chinese characters she had seen in one of the histories from the lending library, although these were written in rows rather than in columns. The scarlet seal at the bottom was imprinted with the spread-winged eagle, the same that she had seen on the flag, and on the bedstead in her vision.

  Her vision. She rubbed her forehead. It still made no sense. This Ananda was supposed to be a daemon of cleverness. Why kill the man
from whom she derived her power? It would only make sense if she had already produced an heir.

  Perhaps she is about to. Bridget lifted her head. If the empress were with child, she could do away with the feckless emperor….

  But so soon? Before the impending birth had even been announced? Surely Valin would have told her if there was an heir in the making, and then, so many things could go wrong with a pregnancy, and infants could die so suddenly. Bridget shuddered at the memories that thought brought her. No, a daemon of cleverness would wait until she had two babies at the very least before killing their father.

  She laid the letter back down and rubbed her eyes.

  “Have you any more to add, mistress?” prompted Lady Gali.

  “No.” Bridget tapped her fingers on the gilded wood again. “That will be all for now.”

  Perhaps, Bridget thought, I should refuse to entertain such indelicate ideas. These are highborn people, after all. Her schoolteacher had complained that she was coarse in her manner and blamed it on her father’s refusal to shield his daughter from the language or stories of the sailors who visited or recuperated at the lighthouse.

  Everett Lederle had refused to shield her from such things. Her father. Or was he? Kalami said he was, but was Kalami to be trusted? She did not know, and what oppressed her was that there seemed to be no way for her to find out.

  She had asked the three ladies for stories of the sorcerer Avanasy, and she got them in abundance, from his miraculous birth, which was attended by all the gods of his household, to the way his spirit still walked the corridors of Vyshtavos and guarded the imperial family from danger.