A Sorcerer’s Treason

by Sarah Zettel

  “Keeper Bakhar, I admire your faith.” Sakra squared his shoulders. Not iron, not stone, air. Air, and there was no shelter in the air, however much one wanted there to be. “But you are hiding behind it. We both know the gods permit all matter of disaster to befall their children, especially when their children have ceased their worship.”

  “No,” said Bakhar again. “I cannot take your word over that of Her Grand Majesty.”

  “Keeper Bakhar, you know how torn the dowager empress’s mind is. You have been a good friend to Ananda since she arrived, why will you not listen to me?”

  Sakra saw the hopeless look on Bakhar’s face and realization drew him to his feet. “No.”

  The keeper only shrugged and turned his face away. “I’m sorry.”

  “You will not help me because I and my mistress are of Hastinapura,” said Sakra, speaking the words the keeper would not. Anger surged through him and he had to turn away before Bakhar saw the fury in his eyes.

  “I was here when Kacha worked his ill,” said Bakhar to his back. “When he was finally overthrown, I took oaths to stand by Empress Medeoan and I believed in them.” The keeper stopped and then went on more slowly, “The interests of your people are not the interests of mine. How can I desert my empress to stand by you?”

  “Ananda is your empress!” Sakra slammed his fist against the wall. Ignoring the pain, he spun to face the startled keeper. “You all speak of Kacha. Let me tell you of Kacha.” Sakra rubbed his sore hand, grinding the knuckles that had struck the wall into the palm of his other hand. “Kacha was a pawn. No, he was less than a pawn, he was a puppet. His pride and his arrogance were pulled like strings by a sorcerer named Yamuna. Yamuna forgot his oath to serve and sought instead to rule.”

  “We know of Yamuna,” answered the keeper impassively.

  “I don’t believe you do.” Sakra tried to rein in his anger without avail. “If you did you would know how violently I curse his name. He thought he grasped that infinity which is beyond all of us who must live and die, no matter how deeply the magic is rooted in our spirits. Your ancestors may become gods, but mine may not.” He stabbed his finger toward the god house. “Such striving is forbidden to us by the Seven Mothers but Yamuna disregarded them.” Slowly, he lowered his arm before it could begin to tremble. “He ignored his place in life, and his very nature, and as a result Ananda has walked hand in hand with Grandfather Death since she arrived here.”

  Bakhar’s face remained stony. “Godhood is a gift. A miracle, not a thing to be striven for.”

  “It matters not.” Sakra slashed his hand through the air between them, but then made himself stand still. How could he be stone and iron in a time of air? It was too hard, and yet he must make this man understand. He took a deep breath. He also must stop thinking of air, stone and iron. He must bring himself all the way out of the spell and think clearly, or Ananda would be left alone tomorrow.

  “You must understand, I do not serve Hastinapura,” he said softly. “I serve Ananda herself. It is Ananda’s wish that she become a good and loyal empress of Isavalta. That is what we have struggled for these five long, cold years.” He spread his hands. “She is ready to give up because she is tired and she is afraid and now comes another weapon to be used against her.” His hands curled into fists, but he lowered them and made them unknot themselves. He could not make another unseemly display. The keeper already believed the worst of his nature. Air … angry words, would not convince Bakhar of anything. Why were they suddenly all he had? “You people have told yourselves so many lies that you cannot see past them anymore to the fact that your dowager in her youth did something foolish and dangerous that has cost lives. She will not admit this to herself and she clings to her mistake as if it was salvation. When will you open your eyes?”

  Bakhar waggled his head back and forth. Sakra saw that he wished to deny the allegations and wondered if so essentially honest a man would be able to find the words.

  In the end, all the keeper said was, “I did not realize you thought so little of us.”

  Sakra hung his head. “What am I to think of you?”

  “You could think that, like you, each of us is trying to serve our lords and our gods,” Bakhar suggested.

  “If you ask me to believe that of you, good keeper, I can very easily.” Sakra felt himself smile sadly. “You cannot ask me to believe that of such as Kalami.”

  “The lord sorcerer is not of Isavalta,” said Bakhar quickly. “He is of Tuukos.”

  Sakra had to turn his face away. He did not want Bakhar to see the disgust that flickered through his eyes. “Well then, perhaps you can decide which you like less, Hastinapura or Tuukos.” He rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe the anger out of them.

  “Perhaps,” said Bakhar softly, “I would not be so troubled if you had shown yourself to be more devoted to this house.”

  So, there it is. This is not about my people, or even Ananda. This is about you and me. “You will not help me because I have never kissed the hem of Vyshko’s robe?”

  “You mistress does.”

  Evidently, it was as well he did not know about the shrine Ananda kept in her chambers. “My mistress must. They are her gods now. I am still free to do the rites of the Seven Mothers and no others.”

  To that, Bakhar remained silent. He again fingered the folds of the nearest robe, as if testing the weave of the cloth. Was that his own robe for the ceremony? Sakra wondered. Was he thinking of his place, of his duty? Sakra could not read his eyes. “They say that your mistress has a double,” said Bakhar. “They say that this double lives in the great palace of Hastinapura as Princess Ananda would have had she stayed there. They say that she leads Ananda’s life and worships and sacrifices in Ananda’s place.”

  “This is true,” said Sakra. “In this way no honors are left undone and Ananda’s spirit will be drawn to the proper place when her time comes.” Bakhar just looked at him, and understanding came to Sakra. “So, this is the root of it then. Neither one of us truly worships the ones you serve, therefore we may not be trusted in the final reckoning.”

  Bakhar said nothing.

  Sakra stepped away, stunned into silence. This man, so astute, so honest, so involved in affairs of the court, how could he not see beyond the confines of his golden house? How could he sit there and say he would refuse to work for the safety of his land because Sakra had not bowed before the proper images?

  So, they stood and faced each other, and Sakra knew how he could bring an end to this insanity. He could go into the god house and kneel before the statues and make his devotions. The Mothers would permit. The Mothers would forgive, because Sakra’s first duty in life was to the help and protection of their daughter Ananda.

  And yet, he could not make himself move.

  So, who is the most blind and the most stubborn here? Sakra clenched his jaw. “You said the dowager has long ago ceased to come here.”

  To this, Bakhar returned only silence.

  “Perhaps it is enough that she performs the proper motions on the proper days,” said Sakra, aware that the words he spoke were dangerous. He might even now drive this man beyond his reach, but he did not stop. “Perhaps that is what you consider worship. If so, is not Ananda’s worship equally pious?” Bakhar’s head bowed slowly, as if Sakra’s words beat him down. “Perhaps you are just afraid.”

  “There is much here to be afraid of,” whispered Bakhar. “You are not the only one who spent a lifetime in court. I fear the dissolution of the empire. I fear the overthrow of what is right.” There was no strength behind his words, only a dull certainty. “I grew up hearing from my grandfather of the blood feuds and the warlords. I will not help bring that time back.”

  “But the longer you continue to do nothing,” said Sakra, “the closer that time comes.”

  Bakhar closed his eyes for long moment. “Wait here.” He stood but his back remained bowed. Walking like the old man he was, he left the vestment room for the god house, closing the door fir
mly behind himself.

  Sakra stared at its blank wooden surface for a moment, and then, aware that he was violating Bakhar’s privacy, he gently turned the knob and opened the door just a crack so that he might see.

  Bakhar lay prostrate at the foot of Vyshko’s and Vyshemir’s pedestal. He was speaking, a long unbroken string of syllables that Sakra could not understand. Bakhar knocked his forehead against the floor and whispered yet more urgent words, clearly begging his gods for some favor, some sign.

  Something red dropped to the floor in front of Bakhar. At first, Sakra thought it was a holly berry, but he looked again and saw that it was a drop of liquid. Another drop followed, splashing against the first. Bakhar saw it as well and his eyes grew round with wonder as he pushed himself up just far enough so that he could lift his head and raise his eyes to the tip of Vyshemir’s dagger.

  A thin trickle of blood ran down the steel blade. Another drop fell soundlessly to the floor. Sakra felt his jaw fall open. Bakhar’s face shone with pure wonder. He reached forward and pressed his first two fingertips into the miraculous blood and then pressed them against his lips, his eyes closed in holy rapture.

  Then the blood was gone, from the dagger and from the floor, but when Bakhar got himself to his feet and returned to the vestment-room door, Sakra still saw stain of it on his mouth.

  Sakra stood back, but did not even attempt to close the door. He could not bring even so small a lie to sully this moment.

  Bakhar turned toward Sakra, but he eyes were still far away. “I cannot permit you to take my place in the ceremony,” said Bakhar, his voice clear yet soft. “You could not even begin to properly perform the rites. But after that is over, you may come to me and perform what magic you need to work your illusion.”

  Sakra bowed, giving Keeper Bakhar the salute of trust. “Thank you, good keeper.”

  Bakhar inclined his head and Sakra reverenced in the Isavaltan fashion. He left the man there. This was not a time when his company could possibly be desired. But as he hurried through the house, Sakra paused before the gods on the pedestal.

  Mothers permit, he thought, and he bent his head swiftly down to kiss the hem of Vyshemir’s robe.

  Something wet fell against his hand, and he drew back startled, expecting blood, but what he saw was a drop of water pure and clean. Slowly, he pressed his hand to his lips as he had seen Bakhar do, and he tasted the salt of the gods’ tears.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the end, it took Gali and Iadviga several hours to get Bridget dressed. She barely managed to hold herself still under their ministrations. None of the primping and fussing could distract her from the fact that Richikha was not there.

  At some point in the night, Bridget had fallen asleep huddled in the middle of the great bed. Richikha had woken her gently, and, despite all the anger and fear that had rushed into her upon opening her eyes, Bridget had at once seen that fever flushed Richikha’s face.

  Richikha had waved away all her protestations and closed Kalami’s garter in the wooden box. She carried both out to the snow-covered balcony and buried them under the drift that had formed there.

  That, however, was all she had been able to do before she collapsed into a chair, her eyes far too bright, and the heat coming palpably off her skin.

  By then, the other two had woken. Gali had sent for the mistress of the house, who in turn called for a pair of footmen to lift Richikha’s pallet as a stretcher, and bear her away. The only thing anyone had been able to tell Bridget since then was that Richikha was resting comfortably.

  Bridget knew that Kalami was responsible, but she could not even leave the room to see Richikha and tell her so. She had to be made ready to get through the charade of the evening. She could not neglect that, or her promise to him. Not now that she was supposed to be so mindlessly in love. The thought of raising Kalami’s suspicions shot terror through her. Her fear sickened Bridget, but she stayed where she was and submitted to the ministrations of her remaining ladies who had been too foolish to become a danger.

  First, her hair had to be combed, scented and dressed with pearls and threads of gold. Then, she had to be given a sponge bath in a basin of rosewater, an operation she insisted on performing herself, much to her ladies’ amusement. Then, her hands had to be given a separate special bath in ass’s milk. Then, it was on with the layers of undergarments to be fussed and twiddled and adjusted.

  Kalami thought he had her, but Kalami was not ready to leave much to chance. Garters came in pairs. He might be weaving another even now, and what would she do if he presented it to her when he came tonight? Bridget had to close her eyes against that idea.

  Bridget winced and held her breath as they tied on the underskirt. They tightened the laces and she made herself think carefully of Kalami. No tenderness came over her, no sentimental maundering. He had tricked her and lied to her. He had surely poisoned Richikha, and he had sought to rob Bridget of her freedom. All Bridget felt about him was anger and fear.

  Secure in her contempt, Bridget was able to relax a bit while her ladies wrestled her into the heavy overgarments, lacing, hooking and engaging in further fussing and adjusting. At long last came the veil of gold tissue and silver thread, followed by the diadem of gold with its chains of pearls that hung over her ears and looped across the back of her head. The arrangement hid her hair so effectively, Bridget wondered at all the time taken to dress it.

  For a final touch, Iadviga pinned Kalami’s brooch on Bridget’s left shoulder, and Bridget tensed again. But no, she felt no love. She let herself breathe.

  The ladies held up the sheet of polished bronze to show her to herself. Bridget drew in a long breath. She had expected to find herself ridiculous. Part of her had hoped for passable, even pretty, but the figure in the gold-toned mirror was regal. This was no fairy-tale confection of a princess; rather, she was a queen in all her pomp and state.

  That impression lasted for all of one heartbeat, after which, despite all the fear and anger that lay so heavy on her mind, it was all Bridget could do to keep from laughing at herself.

  Iadviga and Gali, who were already done up in their best, did not seem to find any of this funny at all, and took it upon themselves to instruct Bridget in the arts of standing, sitting, reverencing and turning around (backing up was not even to be considered because of the train) in the costume.

  A knock sounded on the door and Iadviga hurried to answer it. When she stood aside, Kalami crossed the threshold. The lord sorcerer was also obviously dressed in his very best. His burgundy velvet coat was practically a robe, hanging all the way down to the ankles of his polished black boots. Jet black fur trimmed the velvet, and the belt that encircled his waist was gold and carbuncles. More carbuncles were set into the buttons of the coat. Underneath the wide, black fur trim of his coat, she could see he wore a shirt of blinding white, the collar and cuffs of which had been embroidered with scarlet, green and gold. The hat on his head had something of the shape of a bishop’s miter, only much more abbreviated. It too was jet black and set with gold.

  He looked regal, and he reverenced to Bridget only after he permitted himself a long look at her.

  “I knew you would be fair, Bridget,” he said, and she felt the caress in his words like the glide of a knife’s edge against her skin. “But I did not know you would be breathtaking.”

  Bridget stilled her knees and hands, which began to tremble at the sound of his voice and the memory of how much she had wanted his touch, although such timorousness might have been appropriate. She was supposed to be undone for love of this man, after all.

  “I am glad you like it,” she made herself say, hoping that she did not sound too weak. “You yourself look splendid.” Which was flattery, but also the whole truth. His velvet glowed in the light of the braziers. His hair had been combed back and styled so that it shone thick and full under the jeweled black hat. The burgundy set off the rich tan of his skin, making Bridget feel anemic beside him.

  “Have a
ny of your ladies thought to inform you of what to expect this evening?”

  Bridget cast a smiling glance at Gali and Iadviga. “No. They have been busy informing me how to handle the acreage of fabric.” She smoothed down some of the brocade needlessly.

  The joke apparently met with Kalami’s approval as much as her appearance. He smiled as he strolled over to stand as close beside her as the spreading hems of her skirts would allow. “Did they tell you that you should give me your hand so I might take your fingertips, thus?” He lifted her hand up and closed the tips of his fingers around hers. “Where is my token, Bridget?” he whispered low so that only she could hear.

  Bridget’s stomach turned over, but she managed to lean close and say into his ear, “It is around my leg, as a garter should be, sir. Would you like to see?”

  “Very much,” he replied. “But we must not shock your ladies.” He drew back to look laughing into her eyes. Bridget managed to drop her gaze demurely until she felt she had herself under control. When she looked up into his face again, she was startled by a sensation of deep familiarity, and wondered where that familiarity came from.

  In the next minute she knew, and the realization sent an icy shock down her spine.

  He looked like Asa. Her baby’s father. The brown skin, the dark eyes, the chiseled features. God almighty, how had she not seen it before?

  “Are you all right, Bridget?” He appeared concerned. Bridget could not begin to guess what he had seen on her face in that moment.

  “Yes, fine, thank you.” It took all her strength not to pull away from him. No, he was not Asa. He was worse. Asa had sought only her seduction, Kalami had sought her imprisonment. He was far, far worse than Asa.

  Bridget took refuge from her thoughts in what little humor she still possessed. “I am just curious how are we to get through the door linked like this?” She lifted their hands.

  He laughed, and Bridget covered her mouth as if to politely hide her own laugh.