A Sorcerer’s Treason

by Sarah Zettel

  Mikkel jerked backward, as if she showed him a serpent. “Get it away from me!”

  Ananda instantly tossed the thing away. “I’m sorry, husband. I’m sorry. It’s gone.”

  But Mikkel would not be comforted. “She’ll tie it again,” he cried. “She will. I felt it every day. It was so heavy around my soul. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t see for the weight of that thing….” His arms crept up to cover his head.

  “Hush, Mikkel, hush.” Ananda eased his arms back down, and to her relief, he let her. “It is destroyed. I cut it off you. The spell is done and there is no remaking it.”

  “She … she did that to me … she said … she said …”

  “She lied, Mikkel,” said Ananda as firmly as she could. “She lied, and it’s over.”

  “I want to believe you.” His voice rasped in his throat and he gripped her hands hard. “I want to.”

  But I don’t know if I can. Ananda bit her lip. She wanted to cry. This was not the Mikkel she’d hoped for, strong and confident, emerging from his spell to take the burdens from her shoulders and sweep away all the obstacles. She had dreamed of him enfolding her in his arms, and speaking in a strong voice, telling her what they must do. For once having someone else say what must be done.

  Ananda set aside her selfish, girlish wishes. “Can you at least trust me, Mikkel?”

  He had to stare at her a moment, and her heart plummeted as she saw the fear in his eyes. But he sees, she tried to tell herself. He sees again.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “I can, I will, trust you.”

  “I hope Your Majesty Imperial will also find it in you to trust me.”

  Ananda spun on her knees. Captain Chadek. She had forgotten him. He knelt, his ax laid flat on the floor in front of him and his hand over his heart.

  “Good captain Chadek,” said Ananda. “Stand up. Your service is most welcome to us.”

  Mikkel squinted at the man. “Chadek? I remember you. You …” He shook his head. “I am glad to see you here.”

  “I most humbly thank Your Majesties Imperial.” Chadek reclaimed his ax and stood, but his hand remained over his heart. “We must make this transformation known as quickly as possible, Majesties Imperial.”

  Happiness wrenched Ananda’s heart, but now she knew to temper it with caution. There were still hurdles to be gotten over. The dowager still waited out there. Somewhere. She grasped Mikkel’s hands.

  “You must be strong, Mikkel. We must walk down to the Great Hall and show the court that you are restored.” She pulled his hands close to her breast. “The dowager” — she could not bring herself to call that fiend “your mother” — “may be there.”

  A single, violent shudder wracked Mikkel’s frame. “You will not let her touch me? You will not leave me alone?”

  “No, Mikkel. I swear it.”

  “No one will lay a hand upon Your Majesty Imperial,” said Chadek solidly.

  Mikkel nodded, but the fear lingered around his face. Without a word, she raised him to his feet, and smoothed his shirt. Chadek turned his face away while Ananda dressed herself and Mikkel, haphazardly, until they were decent, if not precisely presentable.

  Then Ananda swallowed her distaste, and bent to pick up the severed girdle.

  “No!” cried Mikkel, starting backward.

  “We must, Mikkel. It’s how we prove you’re free.”

  Now he swallowed, but he also nodded. Ananda tucked the girdle into her belt and with as much firmness of purpose as she could manage, she took the requisite two steps away from him, and held out her hand for him to take.

  Mikkel looked at her hand. He looked at Captain Chadek, waiting with his hand over his heart, and he looked again into Ananda’s eyes.

  “I forgot so much,” he said. “But I could not be made to forget that I loved you. I knew that if I could only find you, all would be well. Whatever you saw outwardly, please know that all I did was search for you.”

  As Mikkel spoke, the trembling left his limbs, and in his eyes, his clear, beautiful eyes, she saw that love which she had missed for so long. Mikkel squared his shoulders, and as he took her hand, he smiled and his mouth shaped her name.

  “Let us go, my wife,” he said. “Let us show the world that I am free.”

  • • •

  A new world blossomed around Bridget, light and darkness, heat and chill slowly separating and resolving into their proper forms. From the corners of her eyes, she saw the stone walls, the workbench with its tools and ores, the dark crucible and the stack of fuel.

  But dominating all the cold, cavelike room was the golden cage hanging from its iron chain. Inside it fluttered a tiny bird, not much bigger than a finch, that burned like a living coal.

  The bird flapped its delicate wings, and Bridget saw how they flickered exactly like fire.

  “Help me,” said the bird. “Open the cage. She will not open the cage.”

  Bridget walked forward. Warmth bathed her like a blessing. As in her dream, she saw that the cage had no door in its braided bars. What she had not seen before was how the gold was blackened and charred. Pockmarks and ash stains marred its perfection. She stretched one hand toward the battered cage, and she saw …

  And she saw eight people in robes of heavily embroidered silk standing in a circle around a flat stone. Their faces and hands were so heavily decorated with bright tattoos they barely seemed human. A ninth stood upon that stone. This ninth was draped in scarlet silk embroidered with gold and amber feathers, and wore a mask shaped like a bird’s face to the fire. The masked person staggered as if in pain, or horribly confused. The others surrounded him and, to Bridget’s horror, he vanished in a burst of flame.

  And she saw a palace, its roof tiled red, green and gold. A great golden tower rose from its center. Over it streaked the Firebird, the Phoenix, the bird in the cage before her grown impossibly huge. It flew like a living comet, and behind it the palace burned.

  Slowly, the outside world faded back into view. Bridget found herself leaning against the rough stone wall, and panting as if she had just run a full mile.

  “So that is what it is to see with your eyes.”

  Bridget pushed herself away from the wall, ready to run. Kalami. Kalami had found her.

  But no. It was Sakra who stepped out of the shadows into the light cast by the Firebird. Relief flooded Bridget, only to be washed away by concern. Sakra looked pale. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he touched his right wrist delicately. A thin black line encircled it, overlaying a ring of white blisters.

  “What happened?” asked Bridget, appalled.

  “I followed you. It was difficult.” But he was not looking at her. He was looking at the tiny bird in its golden cage. “I now see why.”

  “Free me,” pleaded the bird.

  It was then that Bridget saw what was wrong. The cage had been meant to hold a much larger creature. That tiny finch should have been able to slip through the bars and fly away. It was not braided gold that held in place.

  Sakra bowed to the bird, covering his face with both hands. As he did, he spoke in a language that Bridget could not understand. At his words, the bird spread its wings. It blurred and changed, growing until it filled the cage. In so doing, it ceased to be fragile and instead became glorious.

  Bridget had once seen a picture of a bird of paradise, with its gleaming white plumage and seemingly yards of tail. The Firebird looked like that now, except that all its plumage glowed, flickered and burned, but was not consumed.

  “I accept your respects, Agnidh,” said the bird. Its voice was no longer a whisper. It roared like a bonfire. “Now let your actions also speak of respect and free me.”

  “Don’t!” said Bridget without thinking. “It’s going to burn down the whole world if it can.”

  “You speak of a vision,” said Sakra. It was a statement. Not a question. “If you will, please tell me what you saw.”

  “I …” Bridget hesitated. Even as she looked again at the cage with t
he Firebird shining so grand and regal behind its twisted bars, she saw again. She saw flames rising from summer wheat, and she saw hearths strangely dead and cold. She saw Avanasy, the golden man in his black coat, crumple to the ground beside the golden cage standing empty and open, and yet she saw the bird rising joyously in the night sky, and she saw it flying over a frozen village and bringing warmth, and she saw it alight on the golden roof of a temple where the bells rang brightly and the people danced with joy to see it there.

  Too many images, too much. Bridget could make no sense of them. Was she seeing the past or the future? Both? She didn’t know. Was she seeing things that must come to pass, or were these things that only might be?

  “What is happening? Somebody, tell me what is happening.” She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to clear them. A hand touched her shoulder, but she knocked it away. She wanted answers. She wanted to end this blur of visions. Someone here knew what they all meant. Someone here must know.

  “Bridget, be calm,” said Sakra. “You’re safe here. Open your eyes.”

  Yes. Bridget gulped a deep breath of air. She was being ridiculous. Her visions could not hurt her, no matter how strange or confusing. She opened her eyes again, and saw Sakra, and the Firebird in its cage.

  And she saw Avanasy.

  He stood with his hand on the cage. His face was solemn as he looked at her, and stretched out one hand, beckoning? Welcoming? She could not tell.

  “You …” she began.

  “What is it, Bridget?”

  “Avanasy,” she said, because she could not help herself. “He is here.” Of course. His life had helped shape the cage. How could he be kept from this place? The cage must tug at him, draw him back to it. Kalami had said a sorcerer’s soul was undivided in life. Surely, it was a strange thing that Avanasy’s must be divided in death.

  “Your father is here,” said Sakra, his voice soft with awe.

  “Don’t call him that!” snapped Bridget. She did not want to see this man, but she could not close her eyes to him. Very well, he had revealed himself to her. Let him hear what she would say. “He’s my mother’s lover. He’s … he’s … My father is Everett Lederle.” The ghost nodded solemnly.

  “He would speak with you, Bridget,” said the Firebird. “I can hear where you cannot. He says you must free me.”

  Bridget stared at the ghost. He inclined his head again.

  “He says that this confinement was never meant to be forever. He says a great wrong has been done.”

  Avanasy watched Bridget, and she saw how strong his face was. She remembered the images, the memories Momma had showed her. She wanted to blame Avanasy for the troubles that had plagued her life, but suddenly, she was just tired. How long had it been since she slept? She brushed her hair back. How much longer would it be before she could sleep?

  She faced the ghost of the man who fathered her, beside the cage he created to trap this brilliant, dangerous creature, and she did not know what she believed, or what she wanted, beyond sleep. She very much wanted sleep.

  “Bridget,” said Sakra. “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

  This golden man was Momma’s lover. This was the one responsible for her bastardy and Poppa’s heartbreak, and he had the nerve to come here and tell her what to do.

  And she saw destruction, and she saw rejoicing, and she saw her father’s ghost waiting for her to decide what to do. Sakra had not moved. He would not move until she spoke. She knew that instinctively. He would believe whatever she said next, and he would act on it. She could count on him now when the rest of the world spun uncertainly around her. Everything was now up to her. She could have her revenge on Avanasy right now, and she could watch his face while she defied him.

  The ghost, Avanasy, bowed his head, and waited for her. The whole world waited for her to make up her mind.

  The bird was so beautiful in its cage, and there stood her father, the man Momma loved, who had crossed the Land of Death and Spirit because he loved her so, and for the first time, Bridget thought she felt the touch of that love. Tears pricked her eyes. Forgiveness. Forgiveness offered, forgiveness received, in his eyes, in her heart. Too much. It was too much. She did not want to cry, she did not want to feel this.

  Oh, but she did. She wanted it so much.

  Again, Sakra touched her shoulder and this time Bridget not only permitted the gesture, but welcomed it. “Accept this gift, Mistress Bridget,” said Sakra softly. “Even I can feel the strength of it. Set yourself free of your cage, and then together, we will free the Phoenix from the cage that holds it.”

  “But Poppa,” whispered Bridget, yearning for the ghost before her to understand. How could she do this without betraying Poppa?

  “Love is infinite. It is sea and stars and the ever-blowing wind,” said Sakra. “It is all-embracing and so may be all who love.”

  At those words, Bridget’s heart snapped in two. The grief, anger and fear, held so close for so long, poured out in a great flood. Bridget sobbed once, but that was all.

  “Father,” she whispered.

  Avanasy left the cage, left the Firebird, and came to her. She felt his warmth touch her cheeks, her hair, and the one tear that fell from her eye. She felt love, and she felt strength, deep understanding and forgiveness, and all these flowed into her empty, broken heart and for a moment, Bridget knew peace.

  Tell Momma, she wanted to say. Tell Momma what happened here. Tell Momma I love her and that I’m sorry. But she looked into the eyes of Avanasy’s soul and saw that Momma already knew. The enormity of her feelings staggered her and Bridget clutched at Sakra’s hand without thinking. Sakra steadied her, but remained silent, asking nothing, letting her keep this moment to herself.

  Avanasy drew away, returning to his place by the cage. He laid both hands on the bars. Bridget knew what he wished of her and she straightened her shoulders.

  “I see,” said Bridget. “I see both destruction and blessing.” She turned to Sakra. “I cannot tell which is the true future.”

  Sakra inclined his head. “Yet, if we can release the Phoenix, we will rob the dowager of the foundation of her power,” he said.

  But it could burn, and it could freeze. So many lives could be ruined, so many might die as the Firebird took its revenge. “Can we possibly do so in safety?”

  “Yes.” Absolute certainty filled his voice.

  “Well then,” answered Bridget briskly, smoothing down her skirts. “How shall we manage it?”

  “By claiming a promise in return for that freedom.” Sakra moved past her to face the cage and its prisoner. He stood beside the ghost he could not see, but Bridget thought she noted approval from Avanasy.

  For itself, the Firebird only stared contemptuously at Sakra and it said nothing.

  “You will promise to do no harm to any realm of my mistress, or her family, to harm no person or place under the protection of her, or any of her lineage or heritage.” Sakra moved still closer to the cage, heedless of the heat and the bird’s long, sharp bill. “Swear this by the fire from which you sprang, and you will go free.”

  Even as Sakra spoke those words, Avanasy threw out his hand in warning. Before Bridget could speak, a tortured creaking of metal and a great, cold draft cut through the room. “You may not make any promise here.”

  Medeoan. She swept into the chamber and grasped Bridget, pulling her back from Sakra, Avanasy, and the cage.

  “Are you well, Bridget? Has he hurt you?”

  “No one has hurt me,” Bridget tried to extract herself from the dowager’s grip, but Medeoan held her fast.

  “But they kidnapped you down here,” said Medeoan. “They tried to ensnare you with their lies, but you saw past them.” She smiled, and fear stabbed at Bridget’s heart. Whatever the dowager saw, it was not in this room. She saw a world she was building inside her mind, and she found it a pleasant place. What would she do when she found out it was not real?

  Bridget looked to Avanasy’s ghost. He stretched out both
hands toward Medeoan, his mouth moving soundlessly, and it seemed to Bridget that he would weep if he could. She wished desperately she could hear, or that the Firebird would speak, but the bird pressed itself against the back of the cage and only hissed at the dowager.

  “Grand Majesty,” began Sakra carefully. “Surely this is not the place to discuss such things. Your Council of Lords is doubtlessly waiting for you to decide what must be done about the lord sorcerer.”

  “The lord sorcerer is nothing,” spat Medeoan. “He is a traitor. He tried to make a toy of the throne of Eternal Isavalta.” She drew herself up. “He failed, as your mistress failed, southerner. As you failed. Isavalta stands despite you all.”

  Avanasy covered his face with his hands.

  “Free me,” roared the Firebird. “Let me take my lawful vengeance on this woman!”

  But Medeoan did not seem to have heard. “Now you have seen the Firebird,” she said to Bridget urgently. “With your visions you have seen the danger it presents.” Bridget said nothing. Her throat had become too dry for speech. “I know that you have,” said Medeoan, touching her cheek kindly. “I see the terror on your face. You see that it cannot ever be released, not in Isavalta, not in any land if people are to remain living. I cannot go on. The re-creation of the cage is too much for me. So, who can I trust save Avanasy’s daughter?” The dowager lifted Bridget’s hand, holding it up to the flickering light of the Firebird. Avanasy reached forward, laying his hand over theirs. Bridget felt the warm urgency of his touch, but could it reach Medeoan inside the walls of delusion she built around herself? “All that is left of him is inside you. His blood, his being is in your veins. His understanding runs through you in the core of your soul. You must understand, as he would have understood, all that I have done I have done for Isavalta, to keep the empire safe. You must see that.”

  Her eyes glittered in the living firelight, and she thrust her face forward, willing Bridget to believe what she said, to see the world as she herself saw it. Desperation surrounded her like a deep fog, and Bridget found a moment for pity. She knew what guilt could do, especially when you were young, but this woman asked too much.