by Sarah Zettel
Ananda managed to draw her attention away from Mikkel, slumped and distant now, and focus again on the dowager. “I knew nothing.” She cocked her head. “Did you?”
A spasm of anger crossed the dowager’s features, and Ananda felt she had succeeded in touching a sore spot. “How would I come to know the affairs of your servants?”
“I must confess, I do not know that either,” said Ananda pleasantly, spreading her hands wide to show her confusion. “Is my mother imperial finished with me?” She did not want to leave. She wanted to grab Mikkel and drag him to Sakra. But she could not. Not yet. Not here. She knew that. Yet, as much as she longed to stay beside him, to see whether he could recognize her again, if she stayed much longer, her strength would fail her. She knew that as well.
“There is but one other thing, Daughter Imperial.”
Ananda knew what was coming. The dowager would now tell her how Lord Master Oulo had been taken ill. She would hint and probe to try to find out how Ananda had managed it. Ananda would reply with innuendo and hints of her own. The lords master would tell their tales, and the war of rumor would go on. She stiffened her back to try to ready herself for this new battle.
“Lord Master Oulo died suddenly this morning.”
Ananda felt her heart plummet. “Died?” she choked out the word. “How …?”
“He woke, devoid of sight and hearing. The physics were called. It seems the shock of it stopped his heart.” Medeoan bowed her head in a pretense at grief.
The council lords had surely already heard the news, but all of them kissed the knuckles of their right hands anyway. Puppets, thought Ananda, as her cold hands clutched the arms of her chair. Puppets all of them. What does it matter I cut one of their strings?
Her heart cried at that fleeting thought, for she knew what it meant. It meant she was changing, finally and truly. She was becoming what she had so long pretended to be, and if she were not freed, not stopped soon, it would be too late. She would become as bad as the dowager, or worse.
Dutifully, Ananda kissed her own knuckle. She did not let any emotion show in her face. Ice. Rock and ice. “I am sorry to hear it, Mother Imperial. Will there be mourning tonight?”
“There will.” The dowager’s eyes bored into Ananda’s. I know you did this thing, said the dowager’s whole being. I will still find my way to you. “I trust you will attend.”
“Of course,” Ananda answered evenly. She did not flinch. She did not blink. She did do this, and she would let Medeoan see the truth of it, even if no one else could. I have power. Even now, I have power.
“Then I believe that we are finished,” said the dowager at long last.
Ananda rose, and all eight of the council lords got to their feet with her, reverencing to her even as she reverenced to the dowager. Each gesture was equally empty. Having held the pose for the requisite number of seconds, Ananda turned and walked down the long strip of carpeting toward the door.
“Daughter Imperial.”
Ananda stopped. She did not want to turn around. She wanted nothing more than to be away from here. She wanted to go somewhere Mikkel could not see her and weep for Lord Master Oulo, who for all his faults did not deserve what she had done to him. At the moment, however, she had no choice. Mindful of her train, as Kiriti and Behule were not allowed in this room, she turned fully and reverenced again. “Mother Imperial?”
“Have you heard whether Lord Peshek has arrived yet?”
Despite all her resolve, Ananda felt her face fall. She could only hope that the dowager was too far away to see it. “I do not believe he has, Mother Imperial.”
The dowager looked down at her hands in a gesture of feigned awkwardness. “I hope that you will do me the favor, as he is so old and valued a friend from the days when the regalia were in my hands, that you will permit me the honor of officially welcoming him.”
The dowager’s face was absolutely guileless. It was merely a polite request, a favor as she said. How could it be anything else?
Except that everything the dowager did had a double purpose, and the dowager had been listening to Lord Master Oulo and surely, Oulo had given her Peshek’s name. Until the official welcome had been made, Ananda could not be seen speaking with Peshek. She could not warn him about what the dowager knew.
Yet, in front of the council lords and the keeper of the god house she could not refuse this. She was as powerless as Mikkel, slumped and dreaming beside his mother. Ananda swallowed, realizing that the dowager had not brought her here to chastise her in front of the council, or even to inform her that she had murdered Lord Master Oulo. The dowager had brought her here so that she would not be able to be the first to greet Lord Master Peshek.
“All shall be as my mother imperial desires,” Ananda said, her voice hoarse with anger at herself for not realizing this sooner.
However it was delivered, the answer was the correct one and the dowager nodded, satisfied. “You have my thanks, Daughter Imperial.”
They bowed their heads to each other, and Ananda was permitted to leave. She said nothing to Kiriti and Behule, who waited outside the council chamber door for her. Instead, she breezed past them, heading down the broad corridor to the rooms she had seen were given to Sakra and letting them fall into silent step on either side of her.
She had not dared commandeer the very best quarters for Sakra. Depending on the mood of the dowager, she might have provoked a house arrest for him. But she had been able to ensure a sound room facing the courtyard, on the same floor as her own chambers, with rugs and fresh linens and a good fire. Behule had recommended a man named Jeros to wait on him. Ananda was not sure whether he was bribable, or merely one of the many Behule strung along with her personal charms, and did not choose to ask.
Much to her relief, when Jeros opened the door and stood back to admit her, she saw Sakra sitting upright on the narrow bed with its wooden half-canopy.
“How goes it with you, Sakra?” asked Ananda in the Hastinapuran court language as she stepped up to the bedside. Jeros came forward with a chair for her, reverenced and retired a discreet distance with Kiriti and Behule. Ananda fell into the chair, all her reserves spent.
Concern shone in Sakra’s eyes. “What has happened?” He kept his tone light and his posture relaxed.
Ananda pushed herself upright, and, struggling to match Sakra’s mild voice, she told him what had become of Lord Master Oulo.
“I used the last of my spell braids to kill him, Sakra,” she said, tears stinging her eyes. “I murdered a man, and it left me with nothing when you needed my help most of all.”
“You did not purpose his death, Ananda,” murmured Sakra. “And you were right, you had to silence him.” He longed to reach for her, to wrap his arms around her as he had when she was a child. She could see that plainly in his face and in the way his shoulders tensed, but he did not dare move. Jeros could only be trusted so far. “I will be well by tomorrow night, Princess. Then, we will find some way to bring this battle to an end.”
Ananda wiped her hand across her eyes. She did not dare to believe it could be so. “Are you sure you will be well enough, Sakra?”
The ghost of a smile played around Sakra’s mouth. “I have had some very strong tonic.”
“The woman?”
Sakra nodded. “She may be the most powerful mortal sorcerer I have ever met.”
Ananda heard the hushed awe in his voice. He wanted to understand this new power, she knew that. That was his essential nature — ever curious and thirsty for knowledge. It did not make what she had to do next any easier. Despite her regret over what had happened to Oulo, despite her own exhaustion, there was something that she had to say. She had known she must give this order since this morning, and nothing that had happened since changed that.
She glanced across the servants. Kiriti and Behule had engaged Jeros in some low conversation. Good. Jeros could not understand what she and Sakra said, but her ladies could. They must have nothing to tell if, the Mothers
forbid, they were put to the question.
Ananda leaned close to Sakra. “I may … I might … if she …” She could not say the words, but she had to. But if she did, would she not be as bad as the dowager, caring nothing for lives lost to her own needs?
But if she did not, would she not just as surely die herself?
Sakra, though, knew what she meant to say, and to his credit, his shock showed only in his eyes. “Princess …”
“It might be the only way.” Despite the certainty of her statement, she could not look into his stunned eyes. Instead, she looked at his strong hand where it lay on the bedspread. I cannot ask this. I must. I cannot. “Do you know what she saw today?” she asked, trying to explain. Sakra did not answer. “She saw that I could not heal or help my own servants.”
“You played the ruse well.” Sakra moved his hand as if he thought to touch hers, but he remembered Jeros and stilled it. “She saw you testing her.”
“You did not see her eyes.” Ananda shook her head. “It was she who was testing me. She knows. It may already be too late. She may have already told Kalami and the dowager.” Her voice trembled. She could not help it. This was the day she had feared. Now they would try all the normal means to do away with her. Now the dangers were poison, and distant magic, the things against which she had no defense. She would die, and Mikkel would be left alone.
“Did the dowager speak of this to you in the council chamber?” She had sent Kiriti to let Sakra know of her summons.
“No. She wished only to quiz me about whether I had sent for you against the order of banishment, to watch my face as she told me what had happened to Lord Master Oulo, and she wished to keep me from speaking to Lord Master Peshek.” Which was bad enough. Which was more than bad enough.
Sakra could not fail to realize the danger of this. Despite that, when he spoke again his voice was steady and firm. “The dowager has wanted to be rid of you for so long, do you think that she would fail to expose you before the council lords if she knew of your ruse?”
“Then it is only a matter of time.” Ananda’s voice shook again. She was going to die. Mikkel would be his mother’s toy forever, and she was going to die. “I tell you, Sakra. This woman, this Bridget, knows.” She clamped her jaw shut until she was certain again of her voice. “If she speaks, we will be at the end, and we need more time. With time, Hraban and his rebellion can help us in a coup. Medeoan can die during the revolt. Once she is dead, her living, working spells will be broken. Mikkel will be restored and we will be free.”
Ananda had no idea what Sakra saw as he looked at her. She only knew how sweet the thought of freedom tasted. She had savored the distant scent of it for so long only to be disappointed time and again. Now she would decant it for herself and she would drink it fully down and she would share the cup with Mikkel.
At last, Sakra spoke, his voice soft and pleading. “Ananda, I understand, believe me, I do, but I beg you, give me this night before you order me to take her life, and before you give any such order to Behule.” Before she could speak, he rushed ahead. “I believe Kalami and the dowager may have misjudged this new power they have brought to them. Her loyalty and understanding are by no means certain.”
“And?” Ananda asked wearily.
Sakra slipped his hand forward across the blankets until his fingertip just brushed the side of her hand. “They have forgotten she is a free-willed woman as well as a power. They have lied to her and hidden the truth. Once she sees that, I believe, all will change.”
Ananda looked at their hands, so close together. She wanted to believe him, but she was so tired and she feared for Mikkel. After what happened in the council chamber, Medeoan might be strengthening the spell that held him. She might be doing anything to him. Ananda had failed to see the plan for keeping her away from Lord Master Peshek. What else had she failed to see?
She lifted her gaze and stared for a long time into Sakra’s eyes. He offered her hope, a chance to keep from finally becoming what she feared, bloodless and ruthless. Why did she not seize it at once? In Sakra’s eyes, she saw there concern for herself, and a longing to know the truth about this new sorceress, this new woman. But there was something else, some desire, some hope she could not recognize. What was going on in Sakra’s mind? She could not tell, and that realization filled her with a fresh unease. “And you mean to show her the truth?”
“If I can.”
Ananda gripped the edge of the bed frame as if she meant to tear the wood in two. She must trust him. It did not matter what she thought she saw in him. She must trust Sakra. If she could not trust Sakra, she would surely run mad. “Very well. This night, but no more. If the revolt is to move forward, we cannot afford delay. If you cannot turn her …”
Sakra bowed and pressed his hands over his face before she could speak the words that lay so heavily on her tongue. Ananda watched, numb and distant. It would not work, it could not work. Whatever hopes Sakra harbored, they were misplaced. Kalami and the dowager were too canny to bring to themselves a power of which they were not certain. If this Bridget was not fully their creature, she would be before long, and then Ananda would have no shelter, unless it could be Mikkel’s restoration. In her heart, though, she believed that Mikkel could not be restored until the dowager was dead.
But she owed it to Sakra, who had kept her whole and alive for so many years, to give him a chance before she had to turn to strangers for her counsel.
He remained bowed, waiting for her to acknowledge his gesture. She sighed, touching his forehead.
“I know you will do your best.”
Sakra raised his head, the lines of his face grave. “Ananda, you have held strong for so many years. I beg you, do not give way to despair now. If you order the death of an Isavaltan noble, you will begin to become all that they had ever feared of Hastinapurans.”
“I do not want to,” she told him. “But neither will I be one of those long-suffering queens from the ballads who dies for love and honor and does not lift a finger to save herself.”
Her words sparked the faintest trace of a smile in Sakra’s eyes. “That is not in your nature, no,” he agreed gravely.
She returned his smile, for just a moment. “If this new creature cannot be turned, then the river of their plans has crested,” she said seriously. “And I cannot wait for it to drown me, or Mikkel. Hraban’s revolt offers us a chance. If necessary, I will beg my father to assist it.”
Sakra drew back from her words. “The Isavaltans will never accept you if it be by conquest,” he said softly. “It must not come to that.”
“Then,” she said as she stood, “we must make sure that it does not have to.”
Chapter Twelve
Sidor Taduisyn Ladonivin, private soldier of the Imperial House Guard, stood beside the door of the small tearoom and tried to stay awake. The corridor was completely dark, and he had not been left with so much as a brazier. His sergeant said this would be an exercise in discipline, and so it was. Sidor was determined to see it through, but at the same time, his mind seemed determined to wander. Most particularly, it wandered back to his cottage beside the barracks, where his wife, Manefa, slept. In just a few hours he would be relieved from this duty. He would walk through the snow and the crystal cold to their door. He would lift their infant son from Manefa’s arms and lay him in the cradle. He would slip into bed beside her, wrapping his arms around her ample waist and pulling her close. She would smile in her sleep, and then … and then …
A high, thin sound startled Sidor from his reverie. His head jerked up, but the sound was already gone. He shook his head and snapped himself back to attention. Daydreaming. Almost night dreaming in the darkness. He tried to concentrate on listening for sounds from inside the room. He had been told who was in there, but they had a difficult foreign name and he had forgotten it quickly. He did not need to know anyway. What he needed to know was that the lord sorcerer had said they were firmly, but with great respect, to be prevented from leaving the r
oom before the lord sorcerer returned for them. That was Sidor’s duty, and he would see to it. Only then would he return to Manefa and the warmth and comfort of their marriage bed.
Then he heard the thin sound again. This time he recognized it. It was a baby’s cry. He knew it from the nights his son woke, hungry, or soiled. He knew it in his heart as any father did. A moment later, he realized it was not any infant’s cry. That was his son.
But was happening? Was Manefa out of her mind? To bring the infant here? He was not three months old yet. He had not even been named. What was she thinking? Something had to be wrong. Something had to be disastrously wrong.
Sidor hesitated. He had his duty. He was stationed here and he could not leave his post. But his son’s cry grew louder. He could not shut it out. Something had happened to the child, to Manefa. The room behind the door was silent. Its occupants were surely sound asleep. His son was crying louder. Why couldn’t Manefa quiet him?
Sidor could not stand still any longer. He did not stop to think that this was a ridiculous fear, even impossible. He did not stop to think that if Manefa had trouble she would go to one of the other cottages and get help from another soldier’s wife, or that if he were truly needed elsewhere, a runner would have been sent for him. Sidor knew only that his son cried out in the darkness and that he would not leave him.
Shouldering his ax, Sidor jogged down the corridor toward the south stairs. At every step, his son’s cry grew louder and more insistent. This was not just discomfort. This was pain. Sidor broke into a run.
The south stairs led down to the Rotunda. His son’s cry came from outside the door. His son and Manefa were out there in the bitter, killing cold. Only vaguely aware that there should have been more guards on duty here, Sidor heaved back the bar and pushed the door open. The winter wind whipped around him as he sprinted out into the courtyard.