by Sarah Zettel
“Who, Bridget?” he asked, his face impassive. “Who do you see?”
“It’s not clear, it’s …” She sounded like a poor imitation of Aunt Grace at one of her séances, and she knew it, but she could think of nothing else to do. “It’s a woman.” She brought the words out in a rush, looking up at him with what she hoped was extreme earnestness. “A woman who is supposed to love him but doesn’t.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Ananda. It must be Ananda.”
“So.” Kalami stood, folding his hands behind his back. “You found it out. What all the sorcerers in the land could not do, you have done in a moment.”
“So it would seem.” A chill stole over Bridget. She could not put a name to the sensation that radiated from Kalami. Was he pleased? Did he suspect her lie?
Bridget tucked a few stray wisps of hair back under her veil.
“What do we do?” I must still tell, I must find some way.
Kalami made a show of considering. “We go to the feast,” he said at last. “I will speak to Her Grand Majesty as soon as may be.”
“But …” began Bridget, every bit the anxious female, and not at all interested in making this easy for him. There was something he was not saying. His expression was full of matters unspoken. “You can just break the spell, can’t you? Just cut it off him right now, now that you know?”
“Bridget, you must trust me.” Kalami took her hand again, holding it solicitously between his own. “This is an ancient and powerful magic. It must be undone with care, not crudely destroyed, or the shock of it might kill Mikkel.”
“Oh.” Liar. She knew that, although she could not have said how she knew. “Of course. I should have realized it would be something like that.”
His smile was warm, full of gentleness and understanding, and even a bit of pride, but it faded too soon away and the chill descended over Bridget again. “I am most concerned for you, Bridget. This vision … it could bring danger.”
“What danger?” she asked innocently. “I am already under your protection, am I not?”
“Of course. But … Ananda has her spies, and her allies. Rumor of you and your abilities, especially your visions, has already flown around the palace. I had hoped to have you more safe by now.” His eyes grew intense, even though his voice stayed mild. “But you have lied to me, and laid by my token, Bridget. Why did you do this?”
He knew. He knew she did not lie under his spell. The cold she felt came from him. It was the winter cold that lies beyond the blood heat of anger. It enveloped her and reached inside to squeeze her heart. She could make no answer and he kept his own silence, his eyes fixed on hers. He knew. He knew she felt his anger, and he knew she was afraid. He also knew, as she did, that she had nowhere to go. The snow held them all in this palace jewel box and locked the lid. Even if she might be tempted to try to escape, he would be right beside her. Here, he was a lord and she was stranger. All this shone in his eyes.
“We will attend properly to your protection before the night is out, Bridget,” he said, his voice full of a fresh promise that made her heart constrict further yet. She could not force any kind of reply.
Kalami smiled slightly at her silence. He extended his hand. “If you are recovered, we should go make our appearance in the Great Hall.”
Bridget’s skin prickled with revulsion, but she stretched out her hand. Kalami closed his fingertips over hers, and pulled ever so slightly, saying with that gesture that she must get to her feet, or be dragged to her knees.
Bridget stood as smoothly as her costume would allow. She met his eyes and made herself stand straight and tall. He would see no more weakness from her.
“Very good.” He reached his free hand to open the door. “You are wise, and you are attentive, Bridget, but do not forget you have much yet to learn. The sooner I am able to begin your teaching, the better it will be for all of us.” A smile took shape on his face but did not reach his black eyes. “Your ladies are outside the door, both of them gravely distressed. I’m afraid I had to deny them access to your person, lest they flutter and twitter you to death.”
Lest they hear something they were not supposed to. “It is a pity Richikha was taken ill,” she said lightly. “Of them all, she showed some sense.”
Kalami’s face was a study in gravity. “But not enough, or she would be at your side even now.” He spoke the words casually, and Bridget made herself smile in response. This then was to be her role. They were friends. Nothing was wrong. Nothing at all was wrong, even though she now had her confirmation of the cause of Richikha’s sudden fever.
Bridget managed to walk back into the company of her remaining ladies, who did indeed flutter and twitter about her, fanning her face, straightening her coat, her train, and her veil. Where was Richikha to read her face and know all that was wrong? Richikha had been taken from her by Kalami, so he would be sure she was left alone.
But she just smiled and shook her ladies off, tartly instructing them to help her with her dress so that she could sit down to dinner and stop making a spectacle of herself. For around them, the feast was obviously well under way. Wooden tables on stacks of wooden platforms framed the oblong hall, the table of the dowager sitting higher than all the others. Boys and girls in long, belted tunics of blue and gold, or green and white, darted between the tables with pitchers of liquors to fill the gilded goblets on the table. Liveried men carried in huge platters with joints of meat and whole geese in pastries. The smells of rich gravy and unfamiliar spices, liquor, human bodies and burning wax thickened the air and sent Bridget’s head spinning.
“Come, this way,” said Kalami.
He led Bridget and her ladies to one of the tables immediately below the dowager’s. Bridget thought she recognized some of the men there as the council lords who had walked by earlier, but again, while they nodded politely to Kalami, they did not speak, only casting sideways glances at Bridget.
“What do I do if I need to ask for the salt?” she whispered as she sat, Gali and Iadviga fussing to make sure her train was draped properly across the back of her chair.
“Ask me,” Kalami breathed back. “As you are new to the court, they may not acknowledge you until the dowager has done so officially.”
How well I am beginning to understand this place, thought Bridget, smoothing down her skirt. How frightening an idea that is.
As soon as she was settled, Bridget found herself descended on. Meats and pastries were paraded past her, a whole row of goblets in front of her was filled, each with a different-colored liquor.
At that moment, getting drunk seemed an attractive option. Bridget felt hemmed in. She was surrounded by people who could not or would not speak with her. Kalami’s chair was close enough to hers so that his arm brushed her sleeve, constantly reminding her of his presence. Even her ladies had retired to the back of the hall with those she supposed were other servants. Without consulting her, Kalami selected which cuts and which dainties were laid on her plate. She stared at the food, the odors arising from it no longer appetizing, just a miasma of strange scents that tightened her throat and stomach.
Yet, she was beginning to understand. She had seen so much, and she had seen more than Kalami knew. Could she make use of that?
Pressing her fingertips against her mouth, Bridget looked toward the high table, wishing desperately to see something that would give her hope. The dowager ate and drank without once looking at plate or cup. Her eyes remained focused upon the hall, sweeping back and forth across it, careful not to miss any detail of who spoke with whom. Ananda sat on her left hand, watching the dowager as closely as the dowager watched the court. The empress’s eyes went where the dowager’s went, and her attention lighted where the dowager’s did. The empress was trying to guess what the old woman next to her would do, Bridget now knew, trying to understand and anticipate her plans. Probably Ananda was trying to keep herself alive, or at least free of the sort of spell that held her husband, who slouched in the chair on the dowager’s right side. Sh
e too was trapped. Bridget wondered if the empress knew there was now another prisoner in the hall.
Where was Sakra? He must still be free, or Kalami would surely have said something. But if he was free and in hiding, he could do her no good.
Then, Bridget remembered how it had been when she saw Sakra in his swan’s shape. How all the court had stopped to listen to her words, and how Empress Ananda had been made free to act. Could she do such a thing again? But if she did speak, what could she say that would both tell the empress where her loyalties lay and get her away from Kalami?
Occasionally, Emperor Mikkel would pick up a piece of food, put it in his mouth and chew, but he did it without any apparent interest or enjoyment. He was eternally bored and indifferent, even to such intimate matters. Bridget wished she could see his waist. Was there a glowing ring around it where the girdle hung? Now that she knew where to look, would she be able to see it under the shimmering gold? She cursed herself silently. She should have been more attentive in the dark of the corridor while she hid and watched his delirium. Had she been able to say something earlier, this masquerade might already have ended.
“You must eat something, Bridget,” said Kalami, softly, kindly. “You do not wish to faint again, do you?”
Kalami was watching her. Bridget dropped her attention to her plate and picked up a silver knife. She speared a bit of meat, paté and pastry. It was savory and heavily peppered, burning her palate and throat as she swallowed. She reached for the nearest goblet, and found it full of weak, sour beer. Nonetheless, Bridget swallowed that as well, and fixed a polite smile on her face. It was apparently enough, for Kalami turned at least part of his attention to his own food.
At the high table, the dowager was saying something to a serving man who wore a gold chain around his neck. He, in turn, said something to two others of the servers, and they began directing the rest, who began clearing away the food and plates. Evidently the dowager was done eating. Consequently, everyone else was done as well.
In the meantime, people’s personal servants clustered around them, helping with hems and sleeves as their employers stood and filed out into a foyer painted with murals of a rolling summer countryside. Bridget found herself crowded beside Kalami, in the midst of people who reverenced to him, and stared openly at her. Ladies whispered behind their fans and men speculated behind their eyes. Despite all, Bridget wanted to laugh. She was being gossiped about. Of all the things that had happened to her since she came here, this was the one that was familiar and it felt almost comfortable.
Sakra’s face flashed in front of her, and Bridget pulled up short.
Kalami’s hand clamped down around her wrist; against all the proprieties of this court, he reminded her of his strength. “Are you all right? Do you have a vision?”
Bridget lowered her shoulders. “No, no, I’m fine, I …” She laughed. “This is ridiculous, but I thought I saw someone I knew. As if they weren’t all a world and more away.”
“Indeed.” But there was a frown in Kalami’s voice, and Bridget knew the lie had been far too weak. Now Kalami’s gaze swept the room, looking for who Bridget might have seen.
She swallowed, casting about for some way to distract him. Sakra was out there in the crowd. Bridget was amazed at the strength of the emotion that flooded her. Sakra could get to Ananda to tell her what was truly happening and what spell held the emperor. He was a sorcerer and would know how to safely undo it. Ananda would know who had helped her, and Bridget would be safe, just as soon as she was able to tell what she had seen.
But it was more than that. It was the knowledge that amid all this fear and entrapment, she did have a true friend and he was nearby. She was not alone, and all she had to do was find a way to tell him what was happening without Kalami interfering.
Oh, is that all? Bridget had to swallow a bitter laugh.
At that moment, the doors to the main hall swung open again. One of the liveried servants thumped a staff on the floor.
“Her Grand Majesty bids all assemble and pay witness to the actions of her court.” The man stood aside.
Kalami took possession of her fingertips with his. “I will walk you to the dais. When you are before the dowager, kneel. Keep your eyes on the floor. Do not stand until she tells you to. And keep your countenance whatever she says to you.” The fact that he would be watching her every moment was left unspoken.
Kalami led her up the strip of tapestry carpet that now marked the center of the hall. Eyes stared at her, before and behind, catching her up with the pressure of all their many gazes, and robbing her of all her breath. Soldiers waited around the edges of the room, their spear-tipped axes drawn and gleaming, and their swords and clubs sheathed at their hips. Useless women and calculating men filled every bit of space. Her stupid, elaborate dress weighed her down as surely as if she had been bound in chains. The face in which she had found hope of salvation had vanished into the crowd of strangers, and she could see nothing except her jailer, his allies and her fellow prisoners.
Bridget and Kalami reached the dais. The Keeper Bakhar stood before the dais, his ivory wand held to symbolically bar their way. His face seemed blurred, and Bridget looked again.
And she saw Sakra standing before her, carrying the keeper’s wand and holding it crosswise to block their path.
She nearly choked.
“I am the Lord Sorcerer Valin Kalami,” Bridget’s escort declared. “And I bring with me Bridget Lederle to honor the Eternal Empire of Isavalta, and do all rights and duties to her imperial stewards.”
“Let her pass, then.” Sakra stood aside.
Kalami let go of Bridget’s fingertips and nodded toward her. Play your part, he was saying to her. I am watching. This is my place, and you are my pawn.
Helpless rage swelled inside of her, but she kept her face still. Help stood so close she could reach out and touch him, and yet he might as well have been on Sand Island, because she could not reach him without Kalami and the rest of the world knowing.
Bridget lifted her chin, and her skirt hems, and climbed carefully up the three carpeted steps of the dais, keeping her eyes fixed steadily downward as she had been directed. She reached the last step and saw red velvet slippers brushed by red and gold hems. Again, as directed, she knelt.
“Bridget.” A dry hand touched first her left cheek, then her right. “At last, you are come to me.”
Two desiccated, wrinkled, and surprisingly callused hands grasped Bridget’s and raised her to her feet. Startled, Bridget lifted her gaze. Up close, Bridget could see the young woman the dowager had once been. She had been beautiful, and probably filled with a lively intelligence. Under the mask of age and the lines of bitterness, Bridget saw someone she could have liked. The impression was so strong she wondered for a moment where it came from, because she also saw a pinched old woman overburdened by the clothes she wore, and she did still know that this woman had trapped her only child into a permanent waking dream.
Past the dowager’s shoulder, Bridget saw Empress Ananda looking daggers at her. She wanted to speak to the empress, to tell her that she knew what it was to be afraid, to be surviving tonight on fraud, lies and pretense …
Fraud. Pretense. A desperate plan nibbled at the back of Bridget mind. Truth could only harm her now, but could fraud save her as it had the empress?
“At last,” the dowager said again, gripping Bridget’s hands painfully hard. Her entire face was filled with a look of desperate hope and utter starvation. “You are come to save me.”
“I …” Bridget struggled to think of something to say. “I will do my best, Grand Majesty.” At the last moment, she remembered the proper title.
“Yes.” The dowager pulled her close, until Bridget could smell the mix of wine and food on her too-warm breath. “That is the voice. I hear your father in you. Tomorrow, I shall show you his work, and your heritage.”
Bridget gaped, unable to think of any reply to this. She could only stare at this old woman, who had o
nce been a young girl, who was evil, and afraid, and desperate, and looking toward Bridget, and …
… And the three men in livery entering the bedchamber, the poisonous sheets carried under the arm of the leader. They folded back the eiderdown quilt, ready to lay out the trap.
And Bridget knew she must tell, and in the same flashing moment, she saw how she might escape. She would have to choose her words with care. She could not accuse too openly lest Kalami be able to turn her own words against her. He could speak so glibly, and held so much power, but then so did she. She would have to hedge and dissemble, but perhaps, perhaps …
The dowager had released Bridget and turned toward the assembly. Bridget’s heart pounded hard. The dowager opened her mouth, and so did Bridget.
Bridget screamed. She drew the noise out long and ragged, releasing all her fear and frustration into a piercing howl that rang around the hall and silenced every other noise. As she did, she fell to her knees, groveling on the carpet as if pressed there by some invisible force.
“The emperor!” she cried into the silence. “The emperor is in danger!”
A tide of voices washed over her, thousands of questions being asked. Someone knelt beside her, grasping her shoulders. The dowager. Bridget did not give her time to speak.
“See them!” She pointed toward nothing but air. “See them! They lay poison upon the emperor’s bed! Oh! Save him! Save him!” She dropped her face into her hands. “Somebody save him!”
Silence fell again for the space of one heartbeat, and then the room roared into life.
“What does she mean!”
“Who is she!”
“Grand Majesty! What is this!”
Then finally, the dowager’s voice. “Captain! Get your men to the emperor’s chamber! Bring to me whatever you find!”
“Grand Majesty, you cannot listen …”
Bridget lifted her head. The last voice was Kalami’s. He stood beside the keeper, beside Sakra, while the crowd boiled around them. All through the hall echoed variants on the same question. “Who is she? Who is she!”