by Sarah Zettel
“Say what you will, mistress,” said Ananda. “We are glad to hear it.”
“There was young lady who was assigned to attend me. When last I saw, her she was burning up with fever. It was Kalami’s doing that made her ill. I have not been able to see her since. If I could …”
“Of course,” said Mikkel.
“Behule, will you take her?” added Ananda. Behule, the woman who had brought Bridget into the room, reverenced.
“If I may also attend?” said Sakra, stepping forward. “If the fever is an enchantment …”
Mikkel nodded, and Ananda gestured to one of the servants in obviously hastily donned green and white livery to open a door in the far wall.
Without another word, Behule took the lead. These were not the corridors with which Bridget had grown at least passingly familiar. Gone were the gilding, murals and statuary. These corridors were narrow, the floors plain flagstone and the walls white or blue plaster with plain wooden trimming and rails, where there was any adornment at all. Although these halls were at least as much a maze as their grander counterparts, Behule seemed to know them well, leading Bridget and Sakra through the twists and turns without hesitation.
Down two flights of a stone and wood stair, they passed the cavernous kitchens full of the smell of food and liquors, and so much banging, barking, shouting and swearing that they were at least as loud as the Great Hall above. All here might be pleased to have their emperor restored to them, but they seemed less glad at having to prepare a late-night feast for the celebrants.
Beyond the kitchens waited long dormitories. Plainly furnished, they were little more than rows of neat beds with chests at their feet and a great stove at either end for warmth. They were as empty as the kitchens were full.
At the end of the dormitory, Behule opened a door to a separate room that held four truckle beds and a tiny porcelain stove of its own. Two grating windows for fresh air had been propped open, which rendered it cold, but the ventilation was surely more healthy than stagnation would have been.
Richikha lay in the bed nearest the stove. Bridget rushed to her side. The girl was sallow with the last rampage of the sickness. Sweat drenched the white sheets around her and where once she might have tossed and turned, now she lay deathly still, only her hands twitching and shivering in whatever delirium racked her fevered brain.
“Oh my God.” Bridget touched the girl’s forehead. Richikha’s skin was clammy, despite the heat sluicing from it with the perspiration. “We must get this fever down. Why hasn’t anyone …”
“She has had mustard plaster for her feet, and been rubbed with spirits of wine.” The plump mistress of the house made her way past Behule. “I’ve all but packed her in snow and sent for more, but it does no good.” She wiped her hands on the battered grey coat that obviously served as an apron. “I knew her mother. She was a good girl.” She shook her head, but it was with the stoical sorrow of one who has seen too many people die and come to terms with the fact that it was merely a thing that happened.
Bridget was not prepared to accept that.
“There must be something else.”
“There is.” Sakra sat on the edge of the bed and touched Richikha’s wrist. Richikha moaned and jerked her hand away. “If we’re not too late. I will need something of hers. Something she has worn.”
The mistress of the house frowned and was about to question, but Behule had no such reservations. She opened the trunk at the end of the bed and pulled out a brown velvet sash, which she handed across to Sakra.
“Sit her up.”
Bridget got her arms under Richikha’s and lifted the girl into a sitting position as gently as she could. She weighed nothing at all, the fever had taken so much from her already.
Sakra held the sash under Richikha’s cracked lips. “Breathe for me, Lady,” he murmured. Richikha’s breath came out in a wheeze, whether she heard him or not. “Very good, very good. Breathe again.” Bridget bit her lip and rubbed Richikha’s back as the girl rasped out yet one more breath.
Sakra began to chant, short clipped rhythmic syllables that Bridget could not understand. They repeated themselves over and over, winding around the room. As the chant rose and fell, lifted and subsided, Sakra began to knot the sash. His hands worked quickly, and cleverly. Bridget felt his words sink through her skin to her blood, quickening her heart.
Still chanting, Sakra rose to his feet. Behule seemed to know what was coming, because she picked up a rag and opened the lid on the stove. Sakra tossed the sash into the fire.
There came a puff of sparks, ash and smoke all mixed together. Richikha gasped. Her body went rigid against Bridget’s hands, and then she collapsed.
“No.” Bridget cradled the girl close, but then she too gasped, a sound of amazement. Richikha’s skin was cool. Her breath came quiet and even, without the distressing rattling wheeze that had been there but seconds before.
Sakra wiped perspiration from his brow. “She will sleep for a day. When she wakes, she will be recovered.”
“Thank goodness.” Bridget laid Richikha back down against her pillow and pulled up the covers. “And thank you, Sakra.”
Sakra spread his hands. “I am glad to be of service to you for a change.”
None of this seemed to impress upon the mistress of the house any good humor. She bustled forward, laying the back of her hand against Richikha’s forehead and wrist. “Well, if she is to sleep, master, mistress, perhaps you should leave her.”
“You are correct, of course.” Bridget gave way at once as she had often done with Mrs. Hansen. God almighty, how many years ago was that?
As Behule shepherded them out into the main dormitories, Bridget shared a smile with Sakra. His healing seemed to have strengthened rather than drained him, and she noted the way his warm eyes reflected in the firelight, and the fine shape of his mouth when it smiled.
But her eyes must have lingered too long there, because concern furrowed Sakra’s brow.
“Behule, run ahead and tell Their Imperial Majesties that we are returning.”
It seemed a strange order, but Behule only reverenced and did as she was bidden.
When Behule was well out of earshot, Sakra glanced toward the infirmary door, and then began to stroll very slowly away from it. Bridget, frowning herself, walked beside him. “What is it?”
But Sakra seemed unusually hesitant. “Something I think Kalami will have neglected to tell you,” he said. “Something of the nature of a sorcerer.”
“Well,” said Bridget with a sigh. “If it was an important truth, you can be sure he neglected to tell me.”
“Ha.” Sakra laughed once. “You must understand this. It is in our nature to be attracted to power. Power draws us. It calls us. Those of us who are trained from the time we are young are made aware of this, so we can distinguish between true feelings and false.”
Bridget knew instantly what he was talking about. “Oh, no.” She turned away at once, her hand flat against her stomach. “God almighty, will I never stop making a fool of myself in this place?”
“Please, Mistress Bridget,” said Sakra behind her. “I do not say this because I wish to cause you any distress.”
She raised her hand to stop his words, but did not turn around. “No, no. You are quite right to tell me.” She felt sick. How could she not realize it must be the magic again? After all that Kalami had done to her, how could she be so easily misled again?
“I tell you this because I did not wish it to be the spell between us that made you return my esteem for you.” Sakra stepped into her line of vision. “I wish whatever you may feel for me to be yours alone, and to be honest.”
He was quite serious, and quite calm, but there was something else about him. A feeling of hope lingered underneath his words. Bridget found that not only did she not know what to say, she had no idea what she wanted to say.
But whatever reply might have come, it was cut off by the sound of sandals slapping hard against stone and Behule
crying out, “Agnidh! Agnidh!”
Behule burst through the door and Sakra ran to meet her, grasping both her hands. Behule rattled out something in their own language, and Sakra responded with a word so sharp it could only have been a curse.
“What has happened?” asked Bridget striding swiftly forward.
Sakra turned to her, his face grim. “Kalami. The dowager. They have vanished.”
• • •
The door closed behind Sakra and treacherous Bridget, and gradually silence returned. The dowager opened her eyes. Prathad hovered over her. Loyal Prathad. Of course she would be the one to stay near.
“Water,” said Medeoan, touching her lady’s hand. “And some bread, Prathad. I need sustenance.”
“At once, Grand Majesty.” Prathad did not question. Prathad did not hesitate. She ran from the room to fetch her mistress food because her mistress required it. Prathad had always known her duty.
Medeoan closed her eyes and tightened her sinews. She sat up. No one else knew their duty. But Prathad did. The others had all abandoned her. All of them. Alive and dead, they had left her side and now she knew how alone she was. She should have known before. But she had been blind. That was her failing. All her life she had wanted to believe that others would be there for her, that others meant to keep their oaths. It was too late she learned they did not.
They had taken her keys. Medeoan stood. Of course they had. They thought that would keep her trapped here, weak and alone. Did they think the locks of Vyshtavos did not know her touch?
She spat on her fingertips and traced a sign over the lock for her treasure room. With a click, the tumblers turned and the door opened. She took up a lamp and entered the room, closing the door behind herself and making sure it locked again.
You’ve lost, laughed the distant voice of the Firebird. You’ve lost, old woman, and they’ll be coming for you. Then you will be the prisoner and I will be free.
“No,” said Medeoan. She faced the Portrait of Worlds. Magnificent. So much work, so much skill. It had served the emperors of Isavalta for a hundred years. She picked up a silver-shod staff that waited beside the door. Raising it over her head, she brought the butt of the staff crashing down into the heart of the Portrait, again, and again, sweeping it sideways, and smashing it down again, until there was nothing left but a tangle of torn wires and broken gears.
Medeoan set down her lamp beside the ruin and swept a length of silk off the full-length silver mirror that stood in the far corner. Into this she bundled a mirror of gold-framed glass, a golden lock and a silver key and a glass flask that contained water from seven separate wells. One of those wells stood beside Bridget Lederle’s lighthouse. Or so Kalami had told her. Perhaps he had lied in that as well.
She tied her bundle to her belt like any old peddler woman. Then, she bent to open the trapdoor, picked up the lamp and climbed down to the Firebird.
It was hot now in the darkness of the stairs, hotter than it had been when Bridget had stood beside her. Of course it was. Bridget had chosen to stand with Sakra, Ananda and the Firebird. They would not wish to make her uncomfortable.
You are a sad woman who has too long tormented herself for the sin of falling in love.
Medeoan felt her knees tremble and buckle. Awkwardly, she sat down on the steps. She stared at the blank features of the iron door and saw how the light from the Firebird that squeezed through the crack was so much brighter than the pathetic light from the lamp she had brought.
You are a sad woman who has too long tormented herself for the sin of falling in love.
Was that true? Could it possibly be true? No. Of course not. The Avanasidoch was like the rest of them. She knew nothing. She understood even less. Ananda had taken her. Ananda and Sakra had turned her.
She was Avanasy’s daughter and she was supposed to save Isavalta, not condemn Medeoan. Avanasy’s daughter with Avanasy’s understanding at the core of her soul.
That obviously was not the case. Her mother’s alien blood polluted her understanding. What else could she expect? Avanasy had allowed his loyalties to become divided, even if he saw the right in the end. She should have known that the blood in the girl was mixed. She should have taken that into account before she pinned all her hopes, expended all her strength, waited so long until she was sure her need was dire.
She spoke the truth, said the Firebird.
“No.”
You could not see it. You can never see it.
“No.”
They’re going to come for you, Medeoan. She knows where you are now. They are going to come for you, and I’m going to be free. And you know what I’m going to tell them? I am going to tell them they must give you to me, or I will burn the world down.
“Stop,” whispered Medeoan. “Please, stop.”
Let me out. That’s the only way you can save yourself now. Let me out.
Medeoan buried her face in her hands. Long-suppressed sobs racked her. How could they do this to her? After all these years. Kalami. She had trusted him so long, and he was just waiting for his moment to turn against her. Bridget. Bridget, her final hope of all, screamed at her, called her crude names, did not heed her birth and her heritage. Her son, her own son, chose his little witch over his birth and left her alone. All these years of struggle, of service, and they left her alone.
Slowly, Medeoan lifted her head. They left her alone. They betrayed her. Not one of those cowards and sycophants she had elevated to her court, whose fortunes she had made, lifted a finger to help her against her nearest and dearest enemies. They left her even more quickly than the others had. Well, let them pay.
Let them burn.
“Yes.”
Medeoan stood. Her knees were steady and her sight was clear. She walked to the iron door, and found it unlocked.
“Let them burn.”
For once, the door seemed to open easily. Medeoan stood in the threshold for a moment, bathing in the heat as a child might in the first rays of the summer sun.
“They will pay.”
As in a dream, Medeoan moved forward to the cage. Inside, the Firebird crouched, its neck stretched forward and its wings half-spread. It was waiting. It was ready. Ready for her. Ready for them.
The cage had no true door. Avanasy had closed it with his life, and Medeoan had locked it with her blood. Only blood could open it again. She curled her fingers around the bars.
Bridget should go first. Her betrayal was greatest, because she had betrayed not only Medeoan and Isavalta, but her father and her father’s memory.
“Yes.”
But there was another voice in the room. Fresh from Medeoan’s own memory, of Bridget standing before her like a fury in the darkness.
Let me tell you about my father…. He was an honest man. He lived alone, doing nothing but keep the light and try to save lives. All lives…. It made no difference to him … And he was worth a thousand of you.
She spoke of some stranger as she stood there not caring that Medeoan could have her killed with a word, with a gesture. But oh, she could have been speaking of Avanasy.
“She was a traitor. She is a traitor. Let her burn for what she has done to you.”
I tried, Avanasy. Medeoan’s hands squeezed the bars until they bit into her own callused flesh. I tried so hard. What happened that I must earn your daughter’s contempt?
“What right has she to judge you? You are the empress. Who is she?”
My final hope. My final betrayal.
“Let her burn.”
Bridget had stood before, eyes flashing even in the dim light from the dying lantern, saying so clearly that Medeoan was ready to kill her own son. Her own son. She had meant to keep him safe. Then she had come to believe that only death would keep him safe enough. Was this what she did now? Did she save him now?
“He will not save you. He has left you like all the others.”
Left her. Yes. He had left her. That was wrong. And he needed to pay, they all needed to pay. A knife hun
g on her belt near where her stolen keys had hung. It was a small thing, useful for breaking seals, and peeling apples. She fumbled for it now, pulling it free of its tiny cork sheath. She held the edge to her palm.
I am the empress of Isavalta! All lives are mine!
No. You are a sad woman who has too long tormented herself for the sin of falling in love.
I am the empress of Isavalta!
“Yes.”
All lives are mine!
“Let them burn.”
But why, why did she see Avanasy now? Why did she see him reach for her, as Bridget had said he did. He spoke, but she could not hear. He touched her, but she could not feel him. But he was there. Was it true? Had he always been there?
It doesn’t matter. I am the empress of Isavalta! All lives are mine. Let them burn. Let them burn. All lives are mine. Mine. I am the empress and I will let them burn.
No. Was that her thought, or was that Avanasy? She was the empress, and the Firebird crouched before her, waiting for her to destroy her empire.
“No!” Medeoan hurled the knife away from her. “No!”
The Firebird screamed and the sound cut through Medeoan’s bones. “You cannot let them go! You cannot let them live!”
But Medeoan only stumbled backward from the cage. She caught herself against the workbench and gripped its edge as she had gripped the bars of the cage.
“What am I doing?”
“What you must.” The Firebird raised its wings. “I am all you have left.”
Was that true? Medeoan stared at the Firebird — her nemesis, her protector, and in the end the only living thing that knew all her secrets, all her hopes and all her fears. Sakra had promised it freedom, but had laid conditions. If she freed it now, there would be no conditions, no promises, no refuge. Was that the final truth of this whole nightmare? That all must be punished alike for their failure in their duty? That Isavalta must burn?
No. There was one other truth. That truth was that she was still the empress of Isavalta, and she would protect her empire to the last. If the Firebird went free, it would find a way to burn Isavalta, no matter how many promises were laid on its back. She had heard its voice for years. It would find a way, and Isavalta would die. Mikkel would die.