by Sarah Zettel
“You wish me to understand you?” Bridget pulled her hand away. “Help me understand what you did to your son.” Avanasy stayed beside Medeoan. He was saying something, his ghostly hands stroking hers, urging her to some action she could not hear and that, for all her power, she could not feel.
The dowager drew back. “I kept him safe. He was falling in love with her, just as I did with my husband Kacha. I had to keep him but where he could not be touched by her.”
“But you agreed to the marriage,” said Bridget. She did not look at Sakra. Medeoan seemed to have forgotten him. Good. Let her forget. It gave him a chance, although what sort of chance Bridget couldn’t guess. He had neither the time nor the space to work any spell here. Perhaps between the two of them they could overpower the old woman, but Bridget could not even now imagine Sakra doing so without some extreme provocation.
“To my shame, I did agree.” Medeoan bowed her head. She paced away from Avanasy, who stayed still where he was, his hands falling useless to his sides. “I used my son for political needs. I had thought only to keep him safe until Ananda revealed herself for the traitor she was. Then, I would be able to use that proof to keep the treaty, and yet send her back to her relatives.”
The dowager turned away, rubbing her hands back and forth, as if despite the living heat of the Firebird, she was still cold. Bridget remembered the cold she had pulled around herself to keep Momma away. How much colder must the dowager be to keep from feeling Avanasy? “I had not thought it would take so long. I did not know how clever she truly was.” The dowager turned toward Bridget again. “And I did not know that Kalami pursued his own aims when he urged me to use this particular spell.”
“And that makes it all right?” asked Bridget, astonished.
“No. But you must understand — ”
“I must understand nothing!” Bridget swept out both her hands. She should not say this. The woman was mad. Bridget should not speak so, but she did not wish to stop and no one, living or dead, moved to silence her. “I’ve seen what you have done. You robbed your son of his free will. You tried to falsely accuse an innocent, frightened girl of your crime. You stand here excusing yourself from all of it, saying you must keep the empire safe, and yet you do not notice that one of your provinces is so unhappy they are trying to rebel. And you ask that I feel sympathy for you? Out of some familial obligation, to a man I never even knew existed until I came here?” Avanasy watched her calmly, taking no new hurt from her words. Bridget stood before the dowager. So much had happened, so much changed and newly understood, even in the last few moments. She would not stand in silence and let this woman, these people, tell her what was so about herself. Not ever again. “I never knew my mother’s lover. I believe he was a good man who did his best and died for his country.” The words sounded strange in her ears, but she knew them for the truth, and Avanasy standing so near, and yet held back by such an unimaginable gulf, accepted her words. “Let me tell you of the father I did know. He was a honest man. He lived alone, doing nothing but keep the light and try to save lives. All lives. The fool millionaires on their toy yachts, or the working sailors on the timber ships. It made no difference to him. That was all the magic there was in him, and all the nobility. And he was worth a thousand of you.” Her chest was heaving now, and more emotions than she could name swirled through her. “You say you have given your life to your country. I see no such matter. You have given other people’s lives. First Avanasy’s, then your son’s, and now you would give mine. And you ask me to be glad of it. You ask me to bow down and accept your burden with a, ‘Thank you, mistress.’ Then what?” She threw up her hands. “What else will you do to keep the throne from your son and his wife because you don’t trust them? How many people will die in that effort? Will you kill him now?” She stopped, and the slow horrible realization came over her. “But you already tried to, didn’t you? Those sheets were yours, not Ananda’s, and not even Kalami’s. That was you. Your plan.” The dowager said nothing, she just turned her face away. “How am I supposed to understand that?”
“He would have understood.” The dowager brushed shaking hand across her forehead. “Mikkel always understood the needs of the throne come first.”
“How could he have understood anything? You took his understanding away from him, as you meant to take his life!” She stabbed a finger at the dowager. “His life! Not yours. It was not yours to take!”
“All lives are mine!” screamed Medeoan. “I am the empress of Isavalta!”
“No.” Bridget shook her head. “You are a sad woman who has too long tormented herself for the sin of falling in love.”
The dowager stared at her in utter disbelief. “How can you speak so to me?”
Bridget shook her head. “I don’t know. Perhaps it is because my father stands beside me.”
Medeoan began to shudder. “No.” She backed away. “No.” She lifted her hand as if to ward Bridget away. “That is a lie, the creature’s lie. Avanasy is not here. Avanasy waits in the Land of Death and Spirit. He knows all that I have done and he sent you to be my salvation. That is what is true.”
“No, Medeoan.” Bridget wished there were some way to be kind, wished with all her heart that Medeoan would stop, would accept, would give way and spare herself this pain. “I see him. He stands beside the cage. He reaches toward you and he begs you to give up this useless struggle before any more damage is done.”
As Bridget’s words hung in the air, the dowager gave a wordless cry of pain. She swung away, throwing herself against the workbench. Bridget didn’t move. When Medeoan looked up again, Bridget saw utter heartbreak in her eyes, and she knew what had happened.
So too did Sakra. “She’s done it,” he breathed. “Ananda has freed him. It’s over.” For the first time, Bridget heard true happiness and relief in his voice. “She’s free.”
“No,” said Medeoan, pain bleeding from her face and leaving behind only shock, as if she had just been told her child had died. “No. He was safe. She could not get to him. He was safe.”
The dowager’s knees collapsed, and Bridget, acting on reflex alone, caught her before she could fall.
“It’s all right,” she murmured soothingly, even as she looked over the top of the dowager’s head at Sakra, and Avanasy, who had turned away. “It’s all right.”
Sakra nodded. “Come, Grand Majesty. Let us leave this place.” But he was not looking at her either, he was looking at the Firebird. For once, the bird only folded its wings. It too knew all had changed, and that change brought it patience, but that patience would not hold for long.
“Come, Grand Majesty,” Bridget said. “Let me help you.”
“There is no help,” whispered Medeoan, clutching Bridget’s hands in a painful grip as Bridget led her through the door to a darkened stairway. “Not anymore.”
There was no answer Bridget could make to that, so she concentrated on helping the dowager climb the stairs. Sakra had paused to collect a lantern, and now he went before them. The dowager saw nothing. Her eyes had closed. Whether it was against the light, against the knowledge of what had happened, or what was to come, Bridget could not tell.
Poor woman, thought Bridget. She had only wanted to be other than what she was and to do other than what she had done. These were things Bridget could well understand.
The stairway ended at a ladder leading to a trapdoor. Wordlessly, Sakra helped Bridget place the dowager’s hands and feet. Medeoan seemed to have fallen into a stupor, and they had to all but heave her up to the chamber waiting above. Sakra supported Medeoan against his shoulder while Bridget closed the door and replaced the stone that covered it. Kalami was still about. What if he should gain the Firebird? Bridget did not even want think about it. She straightened up, and had the impression of having climbed into a jewel box, so much glitter, gold and silver surrounded her. The delicate sculpture of filigree, gems and clockwork which was the room’s centerpiece took her breath away, but there was no time to stare. Inste
ad, she took the dowager under her elbows, and led the old woman step by step into the main apartment.
Where, of course, her ladies were waiting, and the guard was waiting, and all of them sprang into action at once; the guard leveling their axes, mostly at Sakra, and the ladies running forward and taking Medeoan from Bridget so they could lay her down on the nearest sofa.
“What have you done!” cried one of them, chafing the dowager’s wrists.
Bridget opened her mouth, but Sakra spoke first.
“Listen,” he said.
Bridget listened; so did all the others, too surprised to do anything else. Straining her ears, she heard a deep clanging. Bells. She felt herself smiling at the distant, dark, musical, familiar sound. Somewhere above them, iron bells tolled hard and long.
“Your emperor is free,” said Sakra to the guards and ladies. “May I be the first to congratulate you all.”
He bowed, his hands over his face. It was an absolutely vulnerable position. Any of the house guard could have cut his head off right there.
But not one of them moved. Now Bridget heard a new sound. It reverberated through the doors, even through the stones of the walls, growing and swelling and coming ever closer.
Cheering. A great mob of people was cheering and shouting at the top of their lungs.
The lady nearest the door ran to it and threw it open. Instantly, a crowd of men, still in their holiday finery, most with gold chains about their necks, spilled into the room.
“The emperor!” cried one thin man who wore a bunch of gold keys hanging from his belt. “Grand Majesty, the emperor is free!”
The guards put up a mighty cheer, and the ladies cried out their thanks to the gods. Guards and ladies, liveried servants and nobles from the crowd outside swung each other around, dancing and cheering, tears streaming from their eyes.
Medeoan did not move. She lay utterly still on the sofa, only the rise and fall of her chest betraying the fact that she still lived.
“What has happened?” demanded a burly man who had been much tanned by both sun and wind. Then he recognized Sakra. “How dare you come here! What have you done!”
“Her Grand Majesty is not well,” said Bridget, stepping between the burly man and Sakra. “The news has overwhelmed her.” Now was not the time to say why. Not with all that cheering and carrying on. The whole palace was going mad for joy. No. If she spoke the truth now, and they believed her, the giddy crowd might well become a mob. Whatever Medeoan deserved, it was not that.
“Let her ladies attend her,” suggested Sakra. “Let her physics be called. Surely, my lords, Their Imperial Majesties need all their ministers with them now.”
“My father watches over her,” said Bridget. The words might lay a strain on her credibility, she knew, but she had to say something. She was not about to let these men take Sakra into custody. There was no control right now. She felt that. Who knew what might be decided in such a mood?
“We are summoned!” cried someone out in the corridor. “To the Great Hall! To the Great Hall!”
Another cheer went up, accompanied by the sounds of pounding feet, and a tide of bodies swept past the doors, servants, nobles, guards, ladies, all snatching each other up to run with the crowd. The council lords hesitated only a bare moment longer, and rushed back to join them.
Leaving Bridget, Sakra and Medeoan alone in the midst of the fading cheers.
One lady only still knelt beside her mistress, her face creased in pain.
“I knew,” she breathed, taking the dowager’s hand. “What she had done. She tried so hard, you know.”
“I know,” said Bridget. “But it’s over.”
“Yes.” The lady looked up at them. She was not young, Bridget saw. Heavy lines of both anger and sorrow creased her face. How long had she served here? Bridget found herself wondering. How much had she kept her silence about?
“What will you do?” asked the lady.
“Go to the Great Hall,” said Sakra. “Will you watch her?”
The lady nodded mutely.
Sakra closed the door to the jewel-box room, trying the knob to make sure it locked. Then he bent down beside the dowager, and undid the clasp that held her key ring to her belt. Very careful not to touch any of the keys, he lifted the ring away from her and stood up. The lady made no protest.
“Come, Bridget,” said Sakra, holding out his hand. “Their Majesties Imperial will wish to know what has happened, and thank you for your part in it.”
“Yes.” Bridget took his hand gladly. There was little enough they could do for this shattered woman, now that all was about to be revealed, but they could give her this last moment of privacy.
Together, Bridget and Sakra walked into the corridor, closing the door tightly behind themselves, leaving the dowager to her last loyal servant, and hurrying forward to see how Mikkel and Ananda greeted their court.
Chapter Eighteen
The Great Hall was in pandemonium. The entire population of the palace seemed determined to cram itself into that one room. Most of them still wore some semblance of their court garb, but others had rushed to join the celebration in sleeping attire and fur robes. But no one cared. It was a loud, chaotic and joyous. Officials from the god house, whom Bridget recognized by their holly-belted robes, raised their voices in song. Every other voice was also lifted, whether in prayer, praise or urgent questioning. The house guard had evidently given up trying to keep order. Instead, they merely flanked the room, contenting themselves with keeping the crowd away from certain doors. Bridget wondered whether these led to more private apartments, or to such places as the wine cellar.
What Bridget did not see was the emperor or the empress. For that matter, she did not see Keeper Bakhar or Captain Chadek.
“Avanasidoch!” somebody shouted. “The Avanasidoch!”
Bridget found herself instantly seized upon and dragged into the crowd. Hands passed her from person to person to be kissed, to be shouted at, to be cried upon. Someone stuffed a crown of holly on her head. More bodies pushed her from behind until she found herself stumbling onto the dais amid a mighty and dizzying cheer. The whole room spun and Bridget could not breathe for warmth and confusion, and for one ludicrous moment she feared she might faint. She found herself searching the swimming sea of faces for Sakra, but she had lost track of him as well.
What do I do now? She pressed both palms against her cheeks, trying to regain her calm.
Fortunately, no one seemed to have any idea of her making a speech, or any such thing. They seemed content to have her on display before them like another icon and to continue with their cheers and their dancing. Small knots of people had fallen on their knees before the holly-belted choristers, their hands raised and their eyes streaming with tears as they joined the hymns with loud, wobbly voices.
“Mistress?” said a soft voice in Bridget’s ear. She jumped and spun. Beside her stood a brightly dressed, dark-skinned woman whom Bridget recognized as one of Ananda’s ladies.
The woman smiled and made a swift reverence. “If you will come with me, mistress.”
Bridget did not even attempt to make herself heard. She just nodded and followed as the woman led her behind the tapestry that hung at the rear of the dais, depositing her holly crown on a chair as she passed. The tapestry screened off a tiny private area, and a small door. The woman opened the door and stood aside, waiting for Bridget to walk through.
“Thank you,” breathed Bridget as she passed the lady.
It was much quieter on the other side. The room was small one, its floor inlaid with the imperial eagles, and its walls painted with golden willows. Ananda and Mikkel sat in matching carved chairs. Lord Master Peshek stood beside them, so too Captain Chadek. So did Sakra. The dowager was not there, and her absence seemed as profound as this silence after all the jubilant shouting in the Great Hall. Bridget could not help but notice that there was as much green and white livery among the guards and the servants waiting patiently at their posts as t
here was blue and gold.
Recognizing the ceremonial importance of this quiet tableau, Bridget knelt.
As soon as she had done so, however, Ananda rose and came to take Bridget by both her hands and raised her up.
“Mistress Bridget,” she said. “Let me welcome you again to Vyshtavos, and let me apologize for any misgivings I have had. I am keenly aware I owe you both for the life of my staunchest friend, and the freedom of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor.”
Bridget felt her cheeks reddened. “It was not so much, Majesty Imperial. It was that I could not help but see.”
Ananda’s mouth worked up into a half-smile. “There are many who see, but choose to close their eyes. Let me make you known to the emperor.”
Bridget had no time to say anything else. Ananda led her to stand before Emperor Mikkel. Curiosity caused Bridget to take a good look at him before she remembered the proprieties of this place and dropped her gaze. He was pale, and thinner than she had thought he would be. Certainly, much thinner than he had been in her vision of his wedding night. But his eyes were focused and his whole manner bespoke careful attention. The great ring of keys that had adorned the dowager’s belt now hung from his.
Ananda introduced her by the whole long name that Sakra had once used, and Bridget was rather pleased that she managed not to squirm at it. She caught Sakra’s eye with the barest glimpse from her own and he returned to her that half-smile that spoke so well of both levity and gravity.
“Mistress Bridget,” said Mikkel. His voice was hoarse, as if rusty from disuse. “I also am keenly aware of what a great debt I owe you. I hope that in the coming weeks I shall be able to begin to repay it. For now, I ask you to accept my deepest thanks.”
“I do so gladly, sir. You should be aware, however, that I had a great deal of help.”
She heard the smile in Mikkel’s voice. “We have already tendered our thanks to Agnidh Sakra, and will be doing so again.”
Bridget folded her hands. “Oh yes. But there were others. In fact …” She hesitated.