A Sorcerer’s Treason

by Sarah Zettel

  Peshek stood. His jaw worked back and forth to chew over whatever emotion possessed him. One of her ladies hissed in wordless surprise. Peshek circled the table and slowly, without taking his gaze from her, he knelt at her feet. “Grand Majesty, you fear Hastinapura too much. They seek peace. Their overtures are genuine.” His trembling hands reached out to seize the hem of her garment, the ultimate acknowledgment of imperial oversight. Medeoan gripped the arms of her chair. “You have been ill advised, Majesty, your fears preyed upon. It weakens your realm. If I could but persuade you to heed the Council of Lords rather than — ”

  Medeoan’s hands, so recently healed, smarted from the bite of the wood, but she did not loosen her grip. “Rather than who, Peshek?”

  Peshek let go of her hem but stayed on his knees. He lifted his eyes to look right at her, a liberty she would not have permitted anyone else. “Rather than the lord sorcerer, Grand Majesty,” he said, and his voice did not tremble. “He is but one voice that speaks to its own purpose. I could show you letters and papers, produce good witnesses to — ”

  I will not hear this. Medeoan leapt to her feet and stalked away from his false acknowledgments of her rank. “The lord sorcerer has stood by me when none other would,” she said to the wall. She would not turn and look at him with his background of fire from which she heard the laughter of the Phoenix. “He has done me greater service than any. He has spoken to me the truth when all else I hear is cowardice and flattery. When even you plot with Ananda to poison me, he stands firm of mind and purpose.” Her fists opened and closed, looking for something to grasp, to rend and tear. “How dare you speak one word of the lord sorcerer?”

  “Because I know what I say to be the truth.”

  Medeoan felt her shoulders droop. Despite the cold, the Firebird murmured in the back of her mind, its whispers feeding her despair like tinder.

  But she lifted her head. With the truth at least she knew how to act. It was better so.

  She turned to face him. The years of loyalty he had given her before this fall deserved that much. “I had meant for you to be at my side when I raised Avanasy’s daughter to her birthright. I had meant that you would help welcome her, teach her of the empire, and her father, and her place in its history.”

  Peshek hung his head. “I am sorry, Grand Majesty. I see now how grievous have been my mistakes.”

  “It is too late for such regret, Lord Peshek.”

  “Yes, I know.” Peshek climbed slowly to his feet like the old man he was. He dusted off his knees and pulled down the hem of his kaftan. Even now, he was proud of his appearance.

  “You will be under guard in your rooms until the trial can be convened,” Medeoan told him.

  He reverenced, acknowledging her right to dispose of him as she would. “May I leave now, Grand Majesty? I find I have no stomach left.”

  Medeoan made a “come hither” gesture over Peshek’s shoulder. One of the footmen opened the door, letting in Captain Chadek and four of the house guard. Without a word they surrounded him, one on each side, while Chadek bowed to Medeoan with a soldier’s salute.

  Medeoan acknowledged the gesture with only a hint of a nod. Her attention was all on Peshek, mostly hidden from her by axes and blue coats. “I asked you to marry me once.”

  “I remember,” he answered so softly she could barely hear.

  “But you would not.”

  “No.”

  She should not speak so. There were too many years. Even the Firebird strained for the answer. But she had to know. This she could not leave behind her in the silence. “Is that one of your mistakes, Peshek?”

  Peshek straightened his shoulders and for a moment, Medeoan saw that man who had risked himself to buy the time she needed to save Isavalta. “No, Medeoan,” he answered. “It was not.”

  Medeoan closed her eyes. She could not look on him anymore, not until she could write the word “traitor” across the place his name occupied in her heart. “Take Lord Master Peshek away,” she said, without opening her eyes.

  “Grand Majesty.”

  Medeoan did not move again until the sound of the marching boots and the closing door had ceased to ring in her ears.

  Closer, whispered in the Firebird. Closer still. You will set me free and together we will burn.

  • • •

  Outside, the snow continued to fall. Bridget watched it from her room’s one small, thick window. The courtyards tiles had long since vanished under the powdery blanket. So had the first three steps leading up to the yard’s main door. Fingers of snow reached up the walls toward the lowest window frames, and Bridget felt sure the drifts themselves would reach that high before the night was over. The white whirlwind that was a combination of blowing snow and falling snow kept her from even seeing the gate to the outside, no matter how hard she squinted.

  Kalami could not have arranged a more effective trap if he had tried.

  Bridget let the heavy velvet curtain fall in front of the window. And to think I began this journey saying I would not regret any of it.

  Despite the fact that she had slept through several hours of the morning, the day had passed with agonizing slowness. Kalami had not even sent her a note. Bridget had considered seeking an audience with the empress, but could not think of what she’d say once she got there. She had no evidence of any wrongdoing on Kalami’s part. He had, in fact, done nothing to her. He had only frightened her. As fantastic as this world was, she could not bring herself to try to convince anyone to rely on the word of the ghost she alone had seen.

  And then there was her vision. What if Empress Ananda had arranged for those poisoned sheets to be placed on the emperor’s bed? Sakra had talked openly of killing someone who had betrayed the empress. What if she really had grown weary and desperate enough to do away with the emperor? Admittedly, to Bridget’s mind it made no sense, but how much of the whole picture did she see? Bridget drummed her hands restlessly on the back of the carved chair. What if Ananda was a poisoner? If she was willing to kill for the expediencies of power, how far could Bridget trust her if Bridget placed herself in the empress’s power? Because she could not trust Kalami did not mean she could trust his enemies.

  Because I wish you to know that, despite all, I am your friend. Sakra’s words echoed in Bridget’s mind. He had meant them. Eyes and heart had both shown her that. He held out his hand to her, and she yearned to take it, but did she dare? He served the empress, and who knew what necessity might drive Ananda to do?

  “Mistress?”

  Richikha stood behind her. The young woman had managed to maintain her professional demeanor during the whole day when the other two ladies alternated between nervousness and disdain at Bridget’s silence, distraction and turns at staring out the window.

  “Your dress has arrived,” Richikha went on.

  Past her shoulder Bridget saw the heavy, sparkling costume on its frame flanked by its attendant seamstresses — the older with her hands folded in front of her, and the younger carrying piles of white fabric that Bridget assumed to be undergarments. They might have appeared out of thin air for all Bridget had heard them enter.

  “You must begin the final fitting now, mistress, or nothing will be ready for the presentation,” Richikha prompted when Bridget did not immediately move.

  “Of course.” She steeled herself mentally. She knew from dressing in what the Isavaltans considered everyday clothes that this was going to be a lengthy task. Still, she welcomed the distraction. Her mind had been running over the same paths for hours, which had accomplished nothing except to sink her spirits ever lower.

  Gali and Iadviga rearranged the bed screens to shield the larger than usual number of people. While they did, Richikha expertly stripped off Bridget’s outer dress and shifts until Bridget stood in her drawers and undershirt. She lifted her chin and tried not look awkward, remembering that this was simply how things were done here. The youngest seamstress laid the great pile of underclothing on the bed and picked up the first
shift. As she did, the golden gleam of unexpected light caught Bridget’s left eye. She turned to look at it more closely, and it skittered off to the corner of her field of vision as the girl walked forward with the shift.

  “What is that?” Bridget asked.

  “Mistress?” The older of the two seamstresses froze in the act of removing the golden coat from the dress stand.

  “That.” Bridget plucked the shift from the girl’s startled arms and turned it upside down, rifling through the yards of ruffles and flounces. The light gleamed a little more brightly. Bridget closed her right eye and squinted her left, trying to see better. “That light.”

  “Light, mistress?” The junior seamstress bent swiftly and took the linen from Bridget’s hand. She leaned close, examining each stitch. “It must be the candlelight shining through the cloth, mistress, there is nothing here.”

  “But there is.” Bridget reclaimed the length of cloth from her. “I can see it.” She threaded the fabric through her clenched fingers, until, out of the corner of her left eye, she saw the light shining between them. The fabric bunched there, as if something lay inside the hem. “Here,” she said. “There is something here.”

  “Permit me, mistress.” The older seamstress took the length of fabric, running it carefully through her long, supple fingers. She frowned hard. “There is something …”

  She pulled a pair of scissors from the bundle of tools that hung at her waist, flipped the cloth over and swiftly slit the hem.

  Out tumbled a braid of red and white thread, curved into a loop and its two ends knotted together. Bridget moved to pick it up.

  “If I may, mistress.” Richikha’s hand darted out in front of Bridget’s and snatched up the braid. Bridget stood slowly; so did the oldest seamstress. Bridget would not have been the junior seamstress at that moment for anything. The look her superior gave her could have peeled paint off a board.

  Richikha examined the braid as carefully as the senior seamstress had examined the hem that concealed it. Belatedly, Bridget realized what it must be. It was a spell of some sort.

  Her heart thudded against her ribs. It was a spell of some sort, sewn into the dress meant for her.

  Richikha lifted her head, a mischievous smile on her face. “Mistress, you should be flattered.”

  “I should?” said Bridget stiffly.

  Nodding, Richikha held up the braid for all to see. “You have an admirer. This is a love charm.”

  Bridget felt her cheeks go instantly pale. “A what?”

  “A love charm.” Richikha laid the object out on her palm and stepped forward so that Bridget might inspect it more closely. Bridget had to work to keep from backing away from the thing as if it were a poisonous snake. “You see, someone here had gathered some of your hair.” Richikha traced the auburn strands in the braid. “And here is the hair of your admirer.” She pointed to several thick black strands. “Both knotted together, as you see, with the colors of passion and fidelity, and bound in a circle.”

  Bridget’s chest heaved out of control. Black hair, bound together with hers. Black hair, like Kalami’s.

  “Can … can anyone do this?” she stammered.

  “Anyone can make a semblance of such a thing,” said Richikha dismissively. “But it would take a sorcerer to create a true spell.”

  She knew that. It would have to be a sorcerer, like Kalami.

  “Mistress, I offer my deepest apologies.” The elder seamstress reverenced, the hands crossed at her breast both bunched into fists. “Whoever permitted this to happen will be turned out at once.”

  The younger seamstress blanched pure white.

  Bridget strode over to her. All the other women drew back their skirts. “Who gave you this?”

  “Mistress … I — ”

  Bridget grabbed the girl by the shoulders and shook her until the scissors and pincushions on her belt rattled. “Who did this!” Bridget shouted, heedless of the distress and her eyes. “Tell me or I will throw you out of here and I won’t be using the door!”

  “He told me … He said …” The girl began to weep, tears tracing thick trails down her sunken cheeks.

  “Who!”

  “The lord sorcerer,” she cried.

  Kalami. Bridget went cold. It was true. Kalami really did this.

  The young seamstress tried to raise her hands to bury her face in them, but Bridget grabbed her wrists.

  “What else did he give you to do?” Bridget searched the girl’s face with both eyes, looking for any trace of blur or reflection that would indicate a lie. “Did he give you more of these?” She stabbed her finger toward the braid in Richikha’s hands.

  “There was to be a pair of garters made,” she said. “The braid was to work until the garters could be finished and then …”

  And then I would love him. He would have made me love him. And what would that have made me do? She turned away, laying her hand on her belly, suddenly ill. Oh, God, what have I come to? What have I done?

  Why would he do such a thing to me?

  He would do it because he knew she doubted him. She had not been so clever as she had hoped, and he had seen the cracks between her words. He needed her, he had said so many times, and he would not risk her straying over to the side of his enemies. So he meant to force her feelings, force her back into the whirl of desire and confusion that had gripped her once before, the whirl that she so desperately longed for and so much feared. He meant to force that on her, to take her mind and her judgment, her will and choice away.

  The world swam in front of Bridget’s eyes.

  “Mistress, you are overwrought. Sit here and regain your breath.” Richikha took her hand and led her to a chair. Bridget sat clumsily, torn between anger, disbelief and despair.

  “You may leave us now,” she heard Gali say to the seamstresses. “You will be recalled when our mistress is recovered.”

  Bridget did not see them leave. She just knotted her fists in her lap and stared straight ahead of her.

  “Mistress, do not take it so.” Iadviga’s soft hands took Bridget’s and patted them. “It is extremely flattering. The lord sorcerer himself is so captivated by you that he would charm you thus. It is a symbol of his love and regard — ”

  “Love!” shouted Bridget, snatching her hand away. “Love that leaves you no choice, no will, no freedom! God almighty, give me eternal hatred before you give me love like that!”

  None of the ladies said anything. This apparently was a new thought for their pretty heads.

  What am I going to do? Bridget clamped her jaw around the question. Confront him? If he knows this failed to work, what will he try next? A philtre? A piece of bread like Sakra? I can’t stop eating.

  Can I escape? I escaped Sakra. And how far did I get? I do not know how to navigate that other place, and the Vixen is waiting out there. Her fists tightened until her fingernails pressed painfully against the skin of her palm. What am I going to do?

  “Mistress?” Richikha again. Bridget made herself turn and look at the girl. She fidgeted. “Mistress, what should I …?” She held out the braid, the spell.

  “Throw it on the fire,” spat Bridget. Richikha bobbed a reverence and moved to the firepit. “Wait!” Bridget cried. Richikha froze, wide-eyed. “Wait,” she said more gently. “That will break the spell, won’t it? Kalami would feel that?”

  “Yes, mistress,” said Richikha, sounding much more confident now that she was back on familiar ground. “A sorcerer will always feel their own spell break.”

  “How did you come to know so much?”

  Richikha’s cheeks pinked up just a touch. “My family has served in the imperial palace for three generations, mistress. One learns how … things are done.”

  Bridget considered. Her knowledge of magic was scanty. Her readings of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen were years away. She gritted her teeth. She was being courted, lied to and caged because she was supposed to have so much power, and now that she needed it she ha
d no idea how to make use of it. Her eyes strayed to the room’s main door with its soft glitter of magic and she remembered how heavy the air felt when she made her promise. Caged indeed. She did not even dare open that door.

  “Is there … some way to make that thing safe?” Her hands gone cold. She rubbed them together, trying to start her circulation again. “Without breaking the spell? Just … make it safe for me to touch?”

  Iadviga fluttered her round hands, and Gali shot Richikha a glare that clearly said, You’re getting above yourself. Richikha ignored them both.

  “Most certainly, mistress,” she said primly, folding her hands in front her. “But you would need a true sorcerer …” She stopped in the middle of the word. “I beg your pardon, mistress.”

  “That’s all right. Just tell me what I need to do.”

  Richikha’s blush deepened. “I must confess I do not know the particulars, mistress. Only generalities. I have seen black cloth bags used to contain spells, but I do not know the kind of cloth that is needed, nor the knot that must be used to tie the ribbon.” She dropped her gaze, fiddling with her overskirt. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Bridget whispered. She did not miss the tight satisfaction that showed both on Gali’s face and Iadviga’s at Richikha’s failure.

  She realized that she had another problem. All three of these women had seen what happened. This was juicy and valuable gossip, and this place seemed to thrive on rumor as much as Eastbay and Bayfield did. They would talk, and as soon as they did, Kalami would know his attempt to ensnare her had failed.

  Her only hope was to offer them something more valuable than gossip. Gossip, however, commanded a high price and she had next to nothing. She had the silver brooch Kalami gave her, the clothes on her back and …

  Her eyes lit on the golden coat with its embroidery of pearls. A plan formed amid the whirl of her thoughts, even as Richikha, ever practical, carried the charm to the bedside table with its various wooden caskets for jewels and combs and shut it into the smallest of them.

  She clasped her hands together and met each of her ladies’ eyes in turn. “You have all been very patient with me since I came here, and have done at your duty under difficult circumstances. I do not wish you to think I am ungrateful, or that I have not noticed.” Iadviga smiled at the words, and Gali let her perpetually stiff neck relax a little. Only Richikha looked wary, as if she realized what might be coming. “Now I am in desperate need of your help.” She leaned forward. “It cannot become known that I have discovered what was hidden in my shift. It would …” She stopped and started again. “It would very much embarrass the lord sorcerer, would it not, if he were known to have planted such a thing?”