by Sarah Zettel
“Kalami brought her,” said Sakra, walking around to the other side of the table.
“Kalami?” Peshek’s eye narrowed. “Then how is she here with you?”
Bridget’s mouth quirked up and she smoothed her skirt down needlessly. “It seems Valin Kalami left out a few pertinent facts when he informed me of the situation here.”
She looked up again to see a delighted smile break out on Peshek’s face. It lit his entire face, and Bridget saw she had been right. Once, this had been an exceedingly handsome man. “You have the very trick of your mother’s speech.”
“I never knew my mother. She died when I was born.”
At those words, Peshek covered his eyes briefly, and then kissed the knuckle of his index finger. It reminded Bridget of a Catholic crossing themselves at the mention of death. “I feared it was so,” Peshek said. “She would never have stayed away otherwise. Or so I believed.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” said Bridget, to stop any other words from coming out, because for one awful instant she wanted to say, I’m not. “She … I …” Bridget puffed out her cheeks. Ridiculous. Say it. Here, she could say anything and be believed. “I have been visited by her shade, Lord Master Peshek. She said to tell you that you were doing the right thing.”
Peshek closed his eyes, letting out a long, slow breath. “Thank you, mistress,” he said. “I was losing my clearness of purpose.”
“I understand fully, believe me.” Not that I know what I’m talking about. She glanced at Sakra. Lord Master Peshek had come here to meet Ananda’s chief advisor. She could at the very least guess what was happening.
Sakra leaned forward, planting both hands on the table. “You must know, Lord Master, that Oulo has betrayed you. The dowager has been told that you have joined Hraban in his purpose.”
Bridget wondered at him saying this in front of her. But then, he had wanted her to stay, wanted her to see. She realized she could go straight to Kalami with what she saw and give further evidence of what was most certainly treason. She could have gone as soon as Sakra had told her who he was meeting, and Sakra surely knew that.
Sakra had given her power, not only over him, but over his allies.
While all this flitted through Bridget’s mind, the color drained from Peshek’s cheeks. All the light his smile had provided faded as well, leaving only the face of a tired old man behind.
“Well,” he said, running one hand through his grey hair. “I should have known this coming from Oban’s son. His father was many things, but a model of courage was not one of them.” He shook his head slowly, lowering his hand back to lay it on the table. Bridget saw it tremble. “I suppose Hraban felt he could not be too choosy. The Dowager Medeoan is still both loved and feared.” His face took on a shrewd expression. “What do you and your mistress mean to do about this treachery?”
“It has already been done. Oulo is dead.”
At those words, Peshek went very still. Bridget had the uncanny feeling that the old man was suddenly assessing the objects in the room for how they might be used as weapons.
“You can leave now, Lord Master,” said Sakra seriously, but Bridget noted how closely he watched Peshek as he spoke. “Word has been sent to Lord Master Hraban to ready his men. By the end of the holy days, one way or another, we shall have an end to Medeoan’s reign.”
“A palace coup in the dead of winter?” Peshek’s whole face changed. A calculating look came into his eye and his gaze went from Sakra to the tabletop. Bridget wondered what he saw there. Perhaps it was a map. If Peshek had known her … parents, he might have been a soldier in that long-ago war.
“There are worse plans,” Peshek acknowledged. He drummed his fingers against the table for a moment. “But you, and your mistress, should know, Agnidh Sakra, it will not hold. Winter will slow down the news and the reaction to it, but spring must come. When it does, we’ll have the oblasts pulling in six different directions, and Hung-Tse poised to fall on whatever’s left of the empire, and what will Ananda do about all that?” He cocked his head and his eye glittered shrewdly at Sakra. “Call on her father for help? That will go down beautifully. Especially in the south.”
Sakra again smiled his small smile. To her surprise, Bridget found herself liking the expression. It spoke of a man who understood the absurdity as well as the deadly seriousness of his position. “With that attitude, Lord Master Peshek, one wonders why you agreed to lend your support to this enterprise at all.”
“Yes, one does,” Peshek answered dryly. He wiped his palm across the table, erasing whatever he had seen there. “I think I did it because I hoped word would reach Medeoan,” he said to his hand. “I think I hoped …” Instead of finishing the sentence, he just shook his head again.
But apparently Sakra would not leave Peshek in peace any more than he would leave Bridget. “What did you hope?”
“I hoped I would open her eyes to the danger she has brought on herself, and on Isavalta.” He looked over to the windows. The black sky was turning grey in the east. Dawn, or almost dawn. Soon, the palace would begin to stir. The lowest of the servants were probably awake already. Warning bells tolled low in Bridget’s mind. Kalami was already awake. Perhaps he had already checked on her and found her gone. If he searched for her and found her here … she had no idea what would happen, or whether he could still be led to believe in her ignorance.
“Well, one thing we do know, Mistress Bridget,” Peshek said to her, speaking more quickly and more sharply than he had yet. He also knew what the coming dawn meant. “Whatever is said here, you must not be seen with Agnidh Sakra. If Medeoan knew you conspired with her enemies …” He stopped and rubbed his hands together. “It would not go well, for she is not herself these days.”
Here then was an opportunity for more answers. “Kalami told me she was senile,” said Bridget.
The statement startled Peshek. He frowned, both anger and confusion showing plainly on his face. “Why would Kalami do that?”
“Because Kalami is conspiring with Hung-Tse to break the empire apart,” Sakra told him quietly.
“What?” The word pulled Peshek to his feet.
Sakra met Peshek’s gaze without hesitation, and as he spoke, Bridget felt the lord master grow more and more still. “It’s true, and part of what I meant to tell you. Kalami is a Tuukosov partisan. His daughter is a hostage guest at the Heart of the World. He means to help Hung-Tse invade Isavalta with the condition that Tuukos be left an independent land again.”
Peshek’s hands folded in on themselves slowly to become fists. He turned away from Bridget and Sakra as if he could not even see them anymore, and Bridget caught a glimpse of the fury raging inside him. He stalked to the windows, seizing a casement in each hand. The glass rattled in its frame and Bridget thought he might tear the window free.
But this action left no feeling in her. Her feelings were all snatched up in the realization of how deeply Kalami had lied. He had told her he brought her here for the dowager, then told her the dowager was senile, told her he served the dowager, but he betrayed Isavalta. Told her that he held no grudge against Isavalta, yet wanted to bring it down.
And somehow he was going to use her to do it.
There were not enough curses in all the world to damp down the anger Bridget felt rush through her mind.
Gradually, Peshek regained control of himself and wiped his palms on his kaftan. “I’d kill him with my bare hands if I thought it would do any good.”
“You’d have to get there before me,” whispered Bridget.
Both men stared at her, and only then did Bridget realize she had spoken aloud. “Forgive me,” she said.
“There is no need, mistress,” said Sakra, and for some unaccountable reason, Bridget felt that her death wish for Kalami had drained the tension from her. Sakra returned to the other man. “If, Lord Master Peshek, you still had the dowager’s trust, you could stop Kalami now.”
“I still might, Sakra.” Pes
hek spoke to the windows, a faraway look in his aging eyes. “She has not arrested me yet. She probably means to do it quietly after our breakfast this morning. It may be that I can convince her to think again.”
“But you said she is not well — ” began Bridget.
“Medeoan and I have a long past.” Peshek cut her off. “It may stand us in good stead now. Failing that …” He tapped his index finger once against one diamond pane before turning on his heel to face Sakra again. “Failing that, it will be for you to do whatever you can. I ask …” He hesitated.
“What?” prompted Sakra gently.
As he struggled to find his words, Bridget remembered that it was supposedly a Hastinapuran who had endangered Isavalta before. If that was true, then Lord Master Peshek now had to ask a favor of one who still might turn out to be an enemy of his country. “I ask you to remember what she once was, Agnidh,” he said last. “What she did for the sake of her realm. Not with a whole heart, perhaps. Not without many regrets since, but she saved us, every last one of us. If your mistress shows any turning toward vengeance, I pray you …”
Sakra bowed from the waist, covering his eyes with his palms. “I hear your words, Lord Master, with the greatest attention and care.”
“Thank you, Agnidh. Well.” Peshek straightened his shoulders. “I am an old man who has just had much bad news. I think I will fall back on my privileges and retire for an hour or so before breakfast.” He reverenced toward Bridget. “I hope we will be allowed to speak again, mistress.”
Bridget inclined her head in return. “I hope so too, sir. I think … that is …” Bridget bit her lip briefly and then made her own decision. “I’d like to ask you some questions about … Ingrid and Avanasy.”
He did not miss her use of their names, but he let it pass. “I will be pleased to answer all such questions. Good morning.”
He turned then and retreated toward the doors, his back straight and his stride showing no signs of fatigue. He opened the door a crack, and froze.
“Kalami,” he said.
Chapter Thirteen
“Bridget, run, that way,” ordered Sakra, stabbing his finger toward the rear of the library.
Bridget did not have to be told twice. She hiked up her skirts and ran in the direction he pointed. In a moment, she saw why she had been so directed. Another door, less grand than the first, waited in the breach between two bookcases. Bridget dodged through it, closing it fast behind her. There was a small latch, too; she wondered about locking it, but no, Sakra or Peshek might need this exit.
Bridget turned, and found herself nose to nose with an old bear of a man, his white beard spilling across the front of his plain white kaftan. He looked like Santa Claus might just before he’d put on his red coat and hat.
“Good morning, daughter,” the Santa Claus said mildly. “Come to greet the dawn of this holy day?”
Bridget sucked in a deep breath, struggling to regain her composure. “Yes, sir,” she said, smoothing down her skirts. “I woke early.”
Santa Claus nodded his approval. “A fine habit, one that leads to other virtues. Come through then, and say your greetings.”
He led Bridget down a short, plastered, plain hall that opened into a great round chamber with a high dome for a ceiling. It was a church. It could be nothing else. The dome had been painted to depict the rising dawn in a cloud-filled sky. To waist height, frescoes showed landscapes — woods, mountains and plains. Between the two had been painted gilt-framed portraits of men and women in various attitudes, every last one of them crowned. The grandeur of the place was somewhat spoiled by stacks of evergreen and holly boughs and tightly lidded baskets. The smells of resin and straw filled the room.
The center of the room was taken up by two statues, both of them painted with vivid color and robed in real clothing. One, an auburn-haired man, held a pike raised in both hands, his eyes cast heavenward. The other, a golden-haired woman, spread her hands as if in welcome. One hand held a golden cup, the other held a dagger.
Santa Claus walked up to the statue and kissed the hem of the male’s garment, and then the female’s. He stood aside, obviously waiting for Bridget to do the same. Bridget, however, found she could not move. She did not feel any inherent sacrilege, but she did not know who these two were, or what they represented, and that made her uneasy.
“Forgive me, sir,” she said. “I mean no disrespect. I come from a great distance and I am unfamiliar with the customs and practices of Isavalta.”
Santa Claus’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? So far you do not recognize Vyshko and Vyshemir?”
Bridget stared up at the pair on the pedestal. It was impossible to say what the statues were made of. They had been lovingly painted with perfect flesh tones. Their blue eyes shone with fierce intelligence. They were not kind, these two. They were determined, and they were strong, but they were not kind.
“So far, sir,” Bridget said, suddenly finding it much easier to look at Santa Claus, “that I do not even know your proper title or how I should be addressing you.”
The man gave out a laugh, a bark of surprise and amusement. “Well, we are told that each of us is always student and teacher. I shall be delighted to hear of this far land. But if you’ll permit, first I shall teach you. My name is Bakhar Iakshimisyn Rostaviskvin and it is my honor to bear the title of Keeper of the Emperor’s God House.” He reverenced.
Bridget returned the gesture. “I am Bridget Loftfield Lederle.” She decided not to add the rest of the designation Sakra had trotted out for her. In part because she was not sure she could remember it all, in part because she wanted time to think about all that name meant in private before she was forced again to acknowledge it in public. “And once, I also had the job of keeper, though it was a lighthouse as opposed to a god house.” Her eyes swept the art and gold that adorned the curving walls. “And my quarters were none so grand.”
Keeper Bakhar followed her gaze. “Yes. It is often I have wished for a simpler house as well. I believe it would suit my holy master and mistress better.” His voice was heavy as he spoke, and Bridget had the distinct feeling he was not talking about the gilding. “I hope you’ll do me the favor of telling me of this lighthouse for which you were keeper.”
“I should be pleased to, sir.” With a shock, Bridget realized she truly would. So much that was strange had happened so quickly that thoughts of Sand Island seemed comfortable and safe. “But perhaps you should first tell me of your holy master and mistress,” she said quickly, realizing she had already forgotten their names. “So that I do not make an inadvertent error in courtesy or deportment.” This place was important. No people would put so much work into a church if there was not a deep core of devotion in them. Even better, this man, the keeper, seemed genuinely friendly. Here might be a source of information as good as any history Richikha could have read out to her.
Keeper Bakhar gazed fondly up at the statues, reminding Bridget of Mr. Simons looking on the crucifix in his church. Whatever his beliefs, this man held them dear.
“In those days, Isavalta was only one city on the riverbanks,” he said with the cadence of one reciting a set piece long memorized and much repeated. “And in the summer months the river gave them their freedom to hunt and fish and trade with the neighboring cities. Within the walls, all matters of law were decided by the great judge Vyshatan.
“It happened that summer that the river betrayed the city, allowing to come down its currents the invaders from Tuukos who laid siege to the city, causing great misery by penning all its people within its walls so that they could not reach their fields, nor even the riverbanks for fish. The people sought succor from their judge and went to him, begging that he take the title and crown of king and lead them in battle against the foe.
“But the judge saw the numbers of the Tuukosov, and he saw how they were mightily armed and how their siege towers grew, and he saw how nightly they drank blood and boasted that soon they would drink all the blood of Isavalta. His heart,
which was not a warrior’s, quailed within him and he told the people that if they made him king he would seek only peace because Isavalta could not prevail against such a host as waited outside its walls.
“The judge had two children who were twins and had just reached their adulthood. These were Vyshko and Vyshemir. They went to their father and reasoned with him long and hard to lead the people in battle. The walls would not hold forever, they said. The Tuukosov would not accept any peace that left one stone of Isavalta standing upon the next, nor yet the smallest child alive. Such were their songs in the darkness. But the judge turned his face away.
“Vyshko and Vyshemir then took counsel with each other. They saw it was true what their father said, that Isavalta, already so weakened, could not prevail against the Tuukosov. Not in open combat. After much consideration, they sent word to the chief of the Tuukosov asking if he would accept the greatest gift Isavalta could offer and leave in peace.”
Bridget found her attention lingering on the pike and the knife. These were not symbols that promised peace.
“That gift was Vyshemir’s hand in marriage,” the keeper went on. “The chief agreed, and ceremony was held with much celebration and sacrifice. The Tuukosov then withdrew their boats, and to all eyes appeared to make preparations to leave. But that night, as the chief took Vyshemir carnally to wife, he boasted to her how he would continue his siege and lay waste to the city.
“Afraid to her soul, when the chief slept, Vyshemir rose and went onto the deck of the ship and looked out across her city. Although it was dark, she saw the figure of her twin brother standing on the walls, and across that distance they stood in perfect sympathy and understanding. In that moment, divinity came to them. Vyshemir returned to the chief and lifting his knife from his belt she stabbed him in the heart, and then did the same to herself so that their blood mingled together. As she died, she cast herself into the river. Vyshko saw the river turn red with his sister’s blood and lifted his spear over the water, calling out to her in a mighty voice to reverse the treachery of the river. He called to the walls of Isavalta to lay claim to his bones that he might hold his city safe forever. With that cry, the walls took him as the river took Vyshemir.