by Sarah Zettel
“Evidently not,” snapped the other woman. “You send for the lord sorcerer, you send for the southerner, but you do not send for your teacher. I can only hope this is misguided courtesy on the part of a student determined to be careful of my age and greying head.”
Bridget accepted the rebuke. Mistress Urshila Daromiladoch Jarohnevosh had been brought to court, recalled actually, specifically to teach Bridget the art of sorcery. She had been one of the court sorcerers in the early days of Medeoan’s reign. She had also been expelled with the others when Valin Kalami came into power as Lord Sorcerer. One of the acts the current emperor and empress had undertaken was to recall all those who still lived and restore to them their titles and positions.
Bridget believed Mistress Urshila to be powerful and learned. She also knew the older woman was of two minds about her assignment. Bridget had balked at the idea of becoming an “apprentice,” and this was clearly not a response Mistress Urshila expected or welcomed. But when Sakra had point-blank refused to teach Bridget, saying that as she was going to live in Isavalta she needed to learn Isavalta’s magics, Bridget was left with little choice. Mistress Urshila herself was under imperial order and had even less choice.
Despite their uneasy relationship, Bridget acknowledged Urshila to be a thorough, if exacting teacher. She had begun their training by insisting Bridget learn the language of Isavalta by rote.
“But I speak perfectly …” Bridget had said.
“You speak the language of Isavalta because of an enchantment,” countered Mistress Urshila. “If that enchantment is undone, then what?”
Which, Bridget had to admit, was not something she had considered.
She tried to be a good student. She knew she had a great deal to learn and she did wish to learn. But she was not a child, and she would not be treated, or taught, like one. Her new teacher, however, seemed determined to do exactly that.
Mistress Urshila sat down in the nearest chair, her back straight as a poker. She gestured impatiently to Richikha, who hurried forward with a cup of the smoky, sweet tea favored by Isavaltans as a morning beverage.
“So,” Urshila said between sips. “What did the louai’s queen say to you? Exactly.”
Bridget smoothed down her overfrilled nightdress. She was not going to be given the time to make herself decent, obviously, but it was no good protesting that fact to Mistress Urshila. She took another chair next to the firepit, accepted a cup of tea from Prathad, and told Mistress Urshila of the Vixen and the Phoenix. Bridget was quite sure her teacher had heard all of that from other sources, or she would not have been so outraged. Then, although it tested Bridget to do so, she told Mistress Urshila of the conversation she and Sakra had held afterward.
Mistress Urshila listened in stony silence. Her tea cooled untouched in its cup.
When Bridget fell silent, Mistress Urshila set the cup carefully down on the table Richikha had placed at hand for the purpose. “No.”
Bridget blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Mistress Urshila sighed in exasperation. “No, you will not cross into the Land of Death and Spirit to return to your home.”
Very carefully, Bridget set her teacup down. Her hand had clutched it convulsively, and she feared it might shatter. “But it is the only way I can be certain …” she tried.
“Nonetheless,” replied Mistress Urshila implacably.
“Because you tell me so?” Bridget heard the warning note in her own voice.
Mistress Urshila nodded once. “Because I tell you so.”
Bridget stood. She paced halfway around the firepit before she was able to trust herself enough to turn and say, “You do understand that this is my daughter we are speaking of?”
Urshila also stood. “It is not. It is your power and its use.”
Bridget stared at Mistress Urshila. It was not often she had to look up into the eyes of another woman, but Mistress Urshila was taller than her by at least three inches. The weight of three centuries of life had not stooped the sorceress one bit.
Bridget took a deep breath. “Mistress, I did not ask your permission.”
“You should have,” Mistress Urshila rapped back. “You are apprenticed to me. I say how you may exercise your powers.”
Bridget strove to keep a civil tongue. This woman was, after all, doing her duty as she saw it. Bridget could understand that. “If I was a girl of fourteen, perhaps …”
“In art you might as well be. You cannot even speak one language of Isavalta, let alone properly study the laws and principles of the power you sling about so carelessly.” The sorceress’s color deepened as her anger rose again. “You hold conversation with the Vixen — the Vixen! — without consulting me. You are ten times a fool and more ignorant yet than that.”
“I have dealt with her before …”
Mistress Urshila gestured sharply, cutting off Bridget’s words. “She has dealt with you, for her own purposes and to her own ends. That is all she ever does. The moment you forget this, or disregard it, you are lost to her games.” Urshila planted both fists on her hips. “You cannot even keep that much in your head.”
Bridget swayed on her feet. Her temper was coming dangerously close to betraying itself. “Mistress, this is a dangerous time. No one else may be spared to go on this errand. It is not something I can disregard.”
Mistress Urshila regarded her sternly for a long moment, but something in her eyes softened. “I understand more than you think I do, Bridget Lederle. You were tossed early and alone into an ocean of dark circumstance.
“By raw strength and good luck, you won through, and this has been to the benefit of us all. You consult with emperors and you are courted by power and the Vixen herself comes to warn you — not the lord sorcerer, but you — of what is to come. Why should you not stand confident before them all?
“But this is the seduction and this is the danger that we all face no matter how weak our powers. Power attracts. It pulls and it changes. No matter how blessed a sorcerer’s sight, power and the closeness of power clouds it. You are very much in danger of going blind.”
Bridget stared at her teacher. Did the woman truly not understand? This was not about magic. It had nothing to do with power. It was about Anna.
She threw up her hands. “What would you suggest I do then? If my daughter is still alive?”
“If your daughter is alive …” Mistress Urshila emphasized the “if” with forced patience. “She will remain so until you learn the laws and rules of the power you wield. You do not seem to realize that as you are, you pose a danger to your child.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Bridget. How could this woman even think such a thing? She was Anna’s mother.
“Is it?” Mistress Urshila arched her brows. “How do you know?”
Ludicrous. The woman is attempting to prey on my doubts. “I think I know myself that well,” Bridget answered primly.
Mistress Urshila walked up to Bridget until she was mere inches away. Her eyes were wide and grey. “Do you?” she asked softly. “Here, in this place, in this world, in this condition that is so wholly new to you? Do you still know yourself.”
Bridget met Urshila’s steady, unblinking gaze for as long as she could. But, to her shame, she had to look away at last. She wrapped her arms around herself, but what she was trying to hold in she could not say.
I am still myself. For all the changes around me, I am still myself. That is all that matters.
But she did not say this to Mistress Urshila, who clearly would not have accepted the statement if she had. “Sakra will be walking with me,” she said instead, although a small voice in the back of her head reminded her that she did not know if this was true. Sakra had not yet spoken to Ananda.
Mistress Urshila, however, was as ready to dismiss that assurance as she was all the others. “The doubling of your power does not make you safer. It puts you more at risk. It will call things to you that Sakra will not see.”
That, at least, Bridget had an ans
wer for. “My vision will keep us in safety. I cannot be deceived by magic.”
Urshila bowed her head and pressed the heel of her palm against her brow. She held that pose for a long time. When at last she lifted her gaze, she sighed deeply and said, “In the mortal world, you see through illusion. That is not the same. The Shifting Lands do not produce illusion. Each thing you see there, in each shape it takes, including the clarity of air, is part of the truth of that thing.”
Now it was Bridget’s turn to be dismissive. “I have walked the Shifting Lands before, I know to keep my wits about me.” I have, after all, found my own way from Wisconsin to Isavalta, or have you forgotten? She let that challenge stand in her gaze. She remembered too well the strange forests and planes, the beauteous illusions. But she had felt the road with heart and instinct and she had held to it, and come safe again to the shores that had taken her in.
“Because last time nothing happened and no power felt the need of you. But the first time, miss? What happened then?”
Bridget swallowed. The Vixen had taken her then. She had her foxes waylay Bridget because she wanted the healing that Bridget could give. In return, she had enhanced Bridget’s second sight.
“She did me no harm,” said Bridget, but even she knew that was no argument.
“None that you yet know,” countered Urshila. “But it has only been a few months, and here she is again to keep you in her game.”
“She came to warn us that the Firebird is seeking revenge!”
“Did she?” replied Urshila calmly. “She came to help us all, did she? And just, incidently, to tell you the one piece of news guaranteed to drive you insane?”
Bridget snorted in disgust, and was embarrassed by the sound. Mistress Urshila did not understand. She could not, and there was no way to explain. “It does not matter why she did it. It is done, and I have to know if it is the truth.”
Mistress Urshila shook her head. “Snared so easily and you still declare your blessed sight will keep you safe.”
Bridget realized her mouth had gone dry. There was sense in what Mistress Urshila said, she could hear it, she could understand it, but she could not make herself listen. She stepped away, trying not to catch sight of Richikha or Prathad who were in their usual corner, waiting to be needed, pretending not to hear. What were they thinking? What was she herself thinking? She wrapped her arms tightly around herself. She did not look back at her teacher.
“Sakra says we must go to Wisconsin,” she said softly. “He says the only way to be sure of what has happened to Anna is to work a scrying from the graveside.”
“You listen to that southerner before you will heed me.” The accusation in Urshila’s voice was plain.
Bridget bridled. Say what she would of Bridget, this woman would not impugn Sakra. She swung around. “That southerner is a skilled and dedicated sorcerer.”
Mistress Urshila’s mouth tightened into a smirk. “From a land where the powers are tamed and the gods hold court over decisions of law. Oh, no, miss, that is not eternal Isavalta and he does not know Isavalta’s ways.”
Bridget rested the tips of her fingers on the table’s edge. She tried not to shake. She tried to stop her ears against Mistress Urshila’s words and the fears they raised. Think of Anna. Think of Anna, alive and well and in your arms again. Can anything else really matter? I will find my way. I have done so before and I will do it again. “I am going,” she said flatly.
“Then you are no more my apprentice.”
Bridget drew herself up straight. “I will be sorry to lose your services.”
For a moment Urshila stared at her, as if she could not believe her ears. “Like that. As if I were a nursery tutor.” Bridget opened her mouth, but Mistress Urshila’s eyes flashed with such grim and sudden anger, the words died in her throat. “You understand nothing. I pray to Vyshko and Vyshemir that we survive your foolishness.”
With that, Mistress Urshila turned on her heel and swept out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind her. The boom of it echoed around the stone chamber, filling Bridget’s ears with a sound like an omen as she stood alone, clutching the collar of her nightdress and trying not to be afraid.
Chapter Eight
Mistress Urshila Daromiladoch Jarohnevosh, who three hundred years before had been born under a very different name, stormed down the corridors of Vyshtavos, clenching and unclenching her fists as if she sought to throttle the air around her for not giving way fast enough.
The idiocy of the woman! The stubborn, persistent idiocy! How could the gods permit such power and such deadly naivete to exist in one person?
Servants fluttered away on either side of her, giving her the widest berth the hall allowed. It was only when she realized she had no idea where she was going that Urshila slowed her pace and forced herself to think.
What she wanted to do was go directly to the lord sorcerer. He could advise the emperor that the woman Bridget was a danger and should be closely confined until she could be brought under control. Urshila realized her anger was making her puff like a bellows. This would not do. None of this. She drew herself up and collected herself.
The emperor would not listen to the lord sorcerer if he said such things. No one would. Bridget Lederle had saved Isavalta from Kalami and Medeoan. No one would hear what a danger she was.
Least of all Bridget herself.
She was a gift to us from the Vixen. Vyshemir’s knife, even the southerners should know not to accept such gifts.
Urshila smoothed her hair back. She had not even taken the time to veil herself decently. Now she must take the time to think. The first course was obvious. If Bridget Lederle was so ruled by the southern sorcerer, she must try there first.
Urshila took her bearings. It had not taken long to accustom herself to the ways of the palace again. She tried not to note that the polished marbles and woods seemed less bright than when she first walked these halls, proud to be called to the service of the old empress. She tried not to look at the slender, pale boy and his Hastinapuran wife and wonder if they understood what strength their station required of them, and if they did, whether they possessed even a portion of that strength.
Medeoan had been mad. Medeoan had banished Urshila from the palace and the imperial cities, but Medeoan at least was strong.
Medeoan was also the one who allowed Bridget Lederle to be brought here in the first place, Urshila reminded herself.
She’d come to the long gallery, with the gilt-framed portraits of the kings and queens who had ruled Isavalta as it grew to take in all the north lands and become an empire. They all looked down on her with severe and dignified eyes. Styles of painting and posing had changed across the centuries, but that stern gaze did not. The largest portrait of all hung over the central hearth. Painted life-sized and full-length, there stood the first empress, Nacherada Banconidoch Taidalavosh. Crowned in gold and sapphires, she stood straight and tall. One strong hand held the golden rod that symbolized the temporal rule of Isavalta, the other clutched the worn shaft of Vyshemir’s knife, saying whose spiritual daughter she was.
The artist had gotten her eyes exactly right. Even when they were no more than blue paint on wood, Nacherada’s eyes could still make you feel you were being peeled apart and examined for flaws.
Had Mother Nacherada known of Urshila’s flaws? Had she seen into Urshila’s veins and seen the nature of the blood there? She had never said anything.
Others had. Oh, yes, down the years, others had a great deal to say.
And therefore will you now keep silent? Empress Nacherada seemed to ask. For thirty years you held your tongue, hoping to be brought back into high service. Now that you are here, will you serve?
Urshila dropped her gaze and hurried on.
The southerner had been housed as close to the imperial apartments as propriety allowed. No page or guard stood outside his door however, so Urshila had to raise her fist and knock, and wait. Her toe tapped impatiently and she stilled it. She wou
ld not make such a show for whatever servant answered her knock.
To her surprise, the door opened to reveal Sakra himself. If he was surprised to see her, he did not show it. He just stood back to give her room to enter.
Urshila stalked into the room, curious in spite of herself. She had never been here before. The Hastinapurans were said to love displays of opulence and sensuality. Nothing of the kind was on display here, however. The place was almost stark. The bed was well covered, but narrow and unscreened. The furnishings were as plain as anything the palace might offer. There were only two real luxuries. The floor was thickly carpeted with woven tapestries, adding warmth and muffling her footfalls, and against the back wall waited a series of shelves filled with scrolls and thick folios. A writing desk had been set up beneath the window overlooking the courtyard. A cracked and flaking vellum scroll, carefully weighted so it remained open, lay ready for copying along with sharpened pens and pots of fresh inks.
Ah, yes. That was something else the southerners were said to love. They wrote everything down, obsessively, so that any might read it. They understood many things, but not, it seemed, the power of secrets.
Remember your manners, Urshila reminded herself. You did come here seeking help.
She faced the southerner, folding her hands across her chest and bowing her head, a reverence between equals.
“Sakra dva Dhirendra Phanidraela.”
The sorcerer bowed in the fashion of his country, with his hands pressed over his eyes. It was said to be a sign of trust and respect, and Urshila supposed this was so. “Mistress Urshila Daromiladoch Jarohnevosh,” he said. “How can I help you?”
How indeed? She pushed the wisps of hair that had fallen across her brow back again. “I need to speak with you about Bridget Lederle.”
Sakra’s eyebrows rose. “How so?” He gestured to one of the straight-backed chairs pulled up by the firepit that was a bright bed of coals.
Urshila did not move. “I don’t pretend to understand your ways, Master Sakra, and I do not pretend to like you.”