A Sorcerer’s Treason

by Sarah Zettel

  Ah, God, how am I going to get through tonight?

  The same way she was going to get through the door, possibly, by waiting in silence and letting events flow around her. The ladies opened the door. Kalami walked ahead, watching Bridget from the corner of his eye as he beckoned her forward. Bridget obeyed this silent command, with her ladies falling into step behind her. As Kalami took her fingertips again, she kept her eyes on the floor, hoping to be taken for watching the voluminous hems of her garment.

  Kalami steered her down the corridor. Other grandees of indeterminate rank filed along with them. The corridor was only dimly lit, so to Bridget, they were more impressions than people — a flash of emerald silk here, the glimmer of gold intertwined with silver, a blue gem, a spotted length of fur, a coppery braid. The gentlemen all seemed to be carrying swords or tiny golden maces in embroidered sheaths, while the ladies appeared to have taken to heart a fashion for flat-topped conical hats with lace veils hanging from them. Bridget, ridiculously, found herself feeling a bit out of fashion.

  At last, she and Kalami came to the mezzanine surrounding the pink marble staircase and the dramatically curved foyer that Richikha had told her was called the Rotunda. The entire hallway had made the transition from winter to vibrant spring. Flowering vines twined the massive staircase railings and butterflies spread their wings on the edge of the blossoms. Evergreen branches adorned the windows, and songbirds perched in those branches, their beaks opened and their breasts swelled as if they were about to sound forth. Huge urns brimming with yet more flowers lined the hall under yards of blue blunting that blocked out the darkening winter sky with the illusion of spring.

  It took Bridget a moment to realize that the flowers and birds were made of glass, cunningly fashioned and beautifully colored. Light from candles and torches glanced against the splendid ornamentation, and was reflected and passed on, making the evening hall wondrously bright.

  “Is this magic?” Bridget touched one delicate pink petal and found it hard as ice.

  “No.” Kalami shook his head. “Only great skill applied over many years.” He rested the fingertips of his free hand on the wing of a startling blue butterfly. “Many of these artisans were brought from my homeland.”

  Bridget kept her eyes on the delicately fashioned blooms, an uncomfortable realization spreading through her. Kalami’s people had been wronged. She knew that. They had been reviled, and conquered, and ground down by those same conquerors. If he had been honest with her, if he had told her what had happened to him instead of attempting to trap her, she might have stood beside him on the basis of that wrong. She might have never known what he truly was.

  Might he be acting out of fear? She risked a glance at him out of corner of her eye, and saw the melancholy in his expression as he gazed across the beauty of the scene. Might he only be trying to free his people and he cannot risk failure, so he must be cruelly, utterly sure of me?

  Maybe it was my fault, for not being forthright enough. Maybe …

  Maybe it didn’t happen at all. Maybe it was a dream. She had to pull her hand away from the flower she touched. That was what she’d tried to tell herself after Asa, when the realization of what she had done began to sink in. Maybe it was something other than it was, she told herself. More than just one night in the dark.

  She’d come to believe it then. She’d been wrong, then as well as now.

  Her thoughts turned. Where was Sakra? If he was free, he’d be nearby, she was sure of it. She just wished she could catch some glimpse of him. She’d feel a little less alone then.

  Bridget bit her lip and searched for something else to occupy her mind. If Kalami got a good look at her now, he would surely know how badly she was shamming.

  Between the urns of flowers stood hinged screens, painted with all manner of scenes in colors as vibrant as the glass flowers. Some seemed to be pastoral, images of birds and beasts, young men and women. Some seemed to be historical with nobility on thrones, scenes of battle and scenes of surrender.

  Kalami noticed her gaze on the paintings. “The history of Isavalta, painted for the contemplation of Their Imperial Majesties, and for all loyal folk as another year in the life of Eternal Isavalta begins.”

  He seemed about to add something else, but a new sound cut him off. Below the stairs and from the left, voices lifted in song — low rumbling basso profundos, soaring sopranos and all colors of bass, baritone, tenor and alto, blending together in ringing harmony. It seemed that the stones themselves shivered with the intensity of the sound. Bridget could make nothing of the words, she only knew that it was grand, and beautiful, and like nothing she had ever heard in her life.

  At some unspoken signal, the lights were doused and the hall plunged into darkness. Bridget pressed her fingers to her mouth to cover her gasp. Then she saw that the hall was not entirely dark. A series of new lights moved off to the left where the song emerged from. The voices grew stronger, filling the hall with an immensity of sound until the glass thrilled in sympathetic response. The birds truly did sing.

  It was a procession, Bridget now saw. Men and women in long coats of emerald green belted around with wreaths of holly. More holly crowned their heads. Each of them held a candle as thick around as Bridget’s wrist. Keeper Bakhar walked in the lead, carrying his candle in one hand and an ivory staff that was taller than he was in the other. As old as he appeared, Bridget detected no hint of querulousness in his voice as he joined the choir in their incomprehensible hymn.

  “What are they singing?” murmured Bridget.

  “They sing the names of the kings and emperors of Isavalta, and of all the household gods, calling on them to deliver protection to the house, and to bring back the spring.”

  After the choir walked an old woman with a ramrod-straight spine who could only have been the dowager, magnificent in a shimmering red coat that might have been woven of spun rubies. Behind her came Ananda, gowned, coated and veiled entirely in royal blue. Next to her, the only figure not carrying a candle, walked the emperor, dressed very like Kalami save that his clothes were entirely of gold, and in place of the hat, he wore a crown of sapphires.

  Behind them walked an array of old men, their coats and hats a plethora of festive colors.

  “The council lords,” Kalami murmured in Bridget’s ear. “When they have passed by, we must move to join the procession.”

  Bridget nodded absently. All her attention was focused on the emperor. She had to see what bound him. That was her salvation and her freedom.

  But he was so far away and wore so much shining gold that the candles caused every inch of him to gleam and glitter. She could see nothing but the reflection of the flame against his coat. If there was some nimbus of magical light under there, his costume succeeded in hiding it well.

  Curses formed in Bridget’s mind. The one night, the one time she needed desperately to see and she could not. Now what would she do?

  As the silent men with their glittering coats passed, Kalami took Bridget’s fingertips again and led her down the stairs. The other grandees gathered behind them, forming themselves into a great train for the procession. Bridget was keenly aware of their gaze boring into her back, wondering, perhaps, who this upstart was who got to walk before them, or more simply who this new face was and how she fit into the complicated puzzle that was the life of this palace. Not one of them had spoken to her. Perhaps it was because of the ceremony, or perhaps it was some point of etiquette — perhaps no one could acknowledge her until the dowager did. She would have to find an opportunity to ask Kalami. Any detail might help her at this point.

  The procession wound slowly through the palace, picking up more and more people as it passed through the chambers and halls. Bridget caught glimpses of the glowing glass blossoms, gilded birds, the flashes of eyes and faces painted on screens, but she had no ability to examine any of it, as much as she wanted to so she would have something to distract her from the warmth and pressure of Kalami’s fingers. Among all the
eyes, living and painted, she felt his the most acutely. They looked for signs that his spell was working. They waited to see that she had drowned under the depths of his magic. What would he do if he did not see what he was looking for?

  The procession turned a corner, and ahead Bridget could see what looked like a cave of light welcoming them. Huge candles, as tall as her shoulder and as thick around as her waist, lit the god house, their brilliance making it seem a room made entirely of gold and gems.

  When her eyes adjusted to the dazzle, Bridget saw that Vyshko and Vyshemir on their pedestal had also been dressed in robes of white and crowned over with holly. Vyshko’s robe had been belted with a magnificent girdle of golden beads. Silver flowers and twining vines encircled Vyshemir’s waist.

  The choir and the keeper divided around the statues to stand among the candles, the women going to the left side of the room, and the men going to the right. The hymn, already magnificent, swelled and echoed around the domed enclosure until Bridget could scarcely think for the overwhelming flood of it.

  Ahead of them, the dowager stepped up to the statues and placed something Bridget could not see at their feet. The dowager kissed the hem of Vyshko’s robe, and then the hem of Vyshemir’s, and stepped away. Empress Ananda followed the dowager’s example, laying a gift at the feet of the statues and kissing their robes. But when Ananda reached for the emperor’s hand, the dowager was already there and leading her son away. The emperor, Bridget noticed, made no obeisance, nor left any gift.

  The ritual was repeated by all the council lords, and the line moved forward slowly. Bridget felt a mild discomfort at the strange church, and its even stranger ritual. She had little use for Christianity, having found that Christianity had little use for her, but still, this was … not right. Their tale was so brutal, and told with such reverence.

  But then, who was she to say? Who knew how divinity manifested itself in this strange world?

  She and Kalami had almost reached the pedestal. Already, a heap of gifts buried the feet of the statues. Bridget felt something pressed into her hand. She looked down. It was a small gauze bag filled with what looked like dried currants and gilded almonds. She noted that most of the gifts around the feet of the statues were either food or fanciful representations of food. By now, she knew what was expected of her. She set the bag down among the other gifts, and kissed Vyshko’s robe, and then Vyshemir’s.

  Whoever you are, she prayed, whatever you may be, help me see what I must.

  As quickly as the prayer had come to her, Bridget’s inner eye snapped open and she saw …

  • • •

  Kalami was barely able to catch Bridget as she toppled over, her eyes wide open but seeing nothing in the room. All the Isavaltan lords and priests stared, and the long hymn of praise and groveling to their gods faltered.

  “It is the heat, the closeness of the room,” Kalami murmured, lifting his hand ostensibly to feel Bridget’s forehead, but in reality to close her eyes so none would see them open. The last thing he needed was for some fool to think this vision somehow divine and insist on her being allowed to wake in the god house and give witness.

  Kalami hoisted Bridget into his arms, carrying her through the crowd. He knew the dowager watched every movement. He had no time to get word to her. He had to get Bridget out of here. He reached the end of the procession where her ladies waited. The fat one just threw up her hands and lacked the wit even to bring her fan out to help cool their prostrate mistress. The tall redhead turned swiftly and began clearing a route through the remainder of the crowd directly toward one of the fainting rooms off the Great Hall. Once inside, she deftly arranged pillows on the sofa so that Bridget might be laid down comfortably.

  “You.” Kalami pointed at the fat one. “Find Her Grand Majesty’s chief lady-in-waiting and tell her Bridget Lederle is well. She was just momentarily overcome. You.” He pointed at the other twitterer. “Fetch water and wine. You will then retire to stand outside the door and admit no one until I say otherwise.”

  They both reverenced hastily and retreated, closing the door firmly behind themselves.

  Kalami turned his attention once more to Bridget where she lay on the sofa, her skirts trailing on the floor. Her eyes moved back and forth behind her now-closed lids. What do you see? It might be anything. She had admitted that she’d seen the past as well as the future. There was so much past he could not afford to have her yet know. Her visions had been a danger from the beginning. How much would love lead her to excuse?

  Was the spell even taking properly? The garter was more tightly woven than the braid, but it was still hastily made and spells of the heart were tricky things. It would be best if he checked now that the garter had been fastened properly, although it would leave him with a great deal to explain if Bridget woke suddenly, or if someone entered despite his orders.

  Carefully, Kalami folded back the layers of skirt until he exposed Bridget’s legs. They were sturdy, with little elegance about them, despite the fine woolen stockings. Bridget did not stir. She made no noise, wrapped tightly in whatever vision held her. He pushed back the lengths of linen, velvet and gilt past her knees to expose her unadorned thighs.

  Kalami clamped his jaw around a shout of rage, and forced himself to smooth Bridget’s clothing back into its proper position.

  He stood, folding his hands behind his back and clenching them into fists. What had gone wrong? Who had betrayed him? Was it that cowardly little seamstress who cared so much for her position? Had that clever little lady-in-waiting somehow meddled once more before he had struck her down? Or was it Bridget herself? Had those double-damned eyes seen what he planned? Did she already know? Did they show her even now? His right hand reached out, the fingers crooking themselves around the air. He should strangle her, here and now. End this game. He should have thrown her into her own lake, let it drown her, and gone to the dowager with a tale of sorrow. There were other powers in the world. He would find another to help him hold the Firebird in check.

  Bridget jerked upright, her eyes wide and staring.

  • • •

  When the temple faded from Bridget’s awareness, it was replaced by a vision of Mikkel, but not as she had seen him before. Here, his face was full of animation and anticipation. He stood beside a huge bed hung with blue velvet curtains. Men in livery divested him of his velvet coats and silken vest, leaving him in his hose and a single long shirt. Some other young men stood nearby, all of them joking and laughing. It was his wedding night, Bridget knew. Mikkel was being prepared to meet his bride, who would soon be led to their marriage bed.

  But all the laughing ceased as the dowager appeared around the edge of one of the wooden screens. Smiling herself, she waved her hand, dismissing all the men save her son. And when they were gone, she set down a bundle she carried and opened it.

  “A final wedding gift for you, my son.” She lifted out a silver girdle with a braided waistband, and what might have been a thousand elaborately knotted and beaded tassels hanging from it. Despite its beauty, horror clung to the thing like an odor. Bridget wanted to recoil, but she could neither move nor close her eyes.

  “It will help you please your new bride,” Medeoan said to her son. “And ensure that I have a grandson in nine months’ time.”

  “My mother imperial,” said Mikkel formally, struggling not to squirm. “I am honored to know that you are thinking of me, but I was hoping for some privacy at this time.”

  “Nonsense.” The dowager smiled and walked toward him, her gift held in both hands. “Who better to help a young man at this time than an old woman? Lift your shirt.”

  “Mother …”

  “Lift your shirt.”

  Mikkel rolled his eyes, but decided that the quickest way to be left alone was to obey. He gathered up the tails of his shirt, raising it to expose his well-formed torso. He did not see his mother’s mouth moving as she deftly wrapped the silver girdle around his waist. He did not see the knot she tied to seal the ch
arm. He did not see the way the girdle faded to transparency and was lost to the detection of the human eye.

  The dowager Medeoan laid her hands on her son’s elbows. “Lower your arms, Mikkel.”

  Mikkel did as he was told. His arms hung limp at his sides, his hands dangling. His whole being had gone slack. His eyes alone still moved, slipping this way and that, unable to rest on any one thing.

  Medeoan smoothed down the crumpled fabric of his shirt. “Now, my son, you will be safe.” She left him standing there for a moment while she crossed to the bed and turned back the blankets. “Get into bed.”

  Slowly, shambling, Mikkel shuffled to the bed, groped at its edge with both hands like blind man and climbed in. Medeoan smoothed the blankets over him, touched his cheek and left him.

  The real world rushed in to swamp the vision and Bridget jerked bolt upright.

  “Ah, you return to me.”

  She lay on one of the palace’s many silken divans. Kalami held her wrist. He must have been chafing it. She could not hear the choir anywhere, but beyond the room came the rush and clatter of busy movement.

  “Where …”

  “A fainting room off the Great Hall.”

  “Oh. Oh.” She settled back on the divan, but her heart refused to cease pounding. The dowager … the dowager did this thing to her son. She robbed him of his wits and blamed her daughter-in-law. Bridget could see the knot she tied even now. Bridget pressed her hand against her chest. She must tell. She must tell somebody.

  “What did you see, Bridget?”

  She opened her mouth, and closed it again. She must tell, she must, but tell Kalami? How could this have happened without his knowing? Maybe it had. Maybe the dowager had fooled him completely.

  But she saw again how much he looked like Asa, and remembered the other spell, the one wrapped around her wrist last night.

  The lie came to her then, fast, so that she could tell, and not tell.

  “I saw the emperor,” she said, clutching the collar of her fine dress. “I saw a silver girdle being tied around his waist …” She peered ahead, as if struggling to reconstruct the scene. Tell, tell, sang every instinct in her. But not him, she countered. Never him.