Witchy Kingdom

by D. J. Butler

  “This is a mistake!” Stoach glared at Chigozie.

  Chigozie felt weary and afraid. The Zoman outrider might well be right. “We took you in. We will take in the child. We will take in all who seek mercy.”

  “And when this son of Simon Sword takes your mercy in his jaws and rends it apart, as he has just now rent his mother, because what he seeks is not mercy but conquest and the satisfaction of a bottomless lust? What then, Shepherd of the Merciful?”

  Chigozie looked down at the dead mambo Marie and realized that tears were coursing down his face. “It is required of me that I show mercy,” he said. “The promise I have of God is that He will show mercy to me, as I am merciful to others. I have no other promise.”

  * * *

  It took two nuns to lever Bill into position on his knees. He expected Cathy’s arrival at the hospital because she had promised she’d come, but at the appointed hour he wasn’t in his bed at all. He was kneeling opposite it, in the corner of the room.

  To take her by surprise.

  “Sister?” Cathy called when she saw Bill’s empty bed.

  Bill fired his pistol. Bang! With no ball in the weapon, he achieved a flash and a loud noise.

  Cathy wheeled, stared at him, and then smiled a slow and cautious smile.

  “The fireworks, my lady,” Bill explained. “And this is the fountain.”

  He threw a bowlful of clean water into the air—not splashing it on her, of course.

  “Bill?” she asked.

  “The masquerade ball.” He had offered Gazelem Zomas any price the man would name, but the foreign Firstborn prince had been unable to find a Venetian mask. In a rough imitation of what he would have liked to have, Bill raised a patch of gray-dyed wool over his eyes, tying it into place.

  The wool had holes cut into it for his eyes, but his vision was blurred by tears.

  “My, but you look like a fierce road agent,” Cathy said.

  “I have lived in stations high and low, in this life,” Bill admitted.

  “I rather like the idea of being romanced by a road agent.”

  “And my herald.”

  The young Catalan smuggler, Miqui, had stood waiting in a different corner. Now he approached and bowed deeply. “My Lady. General Sir William Lee begs that you will do him the honor of marrying him.”

  Cathy flew across the room to draw Bill to his feet. He bit his tongue to avoid yelping as pain shot through both legs.

  “Oh, Sir William,” she said. “I have said yes already. I have been saying yes for years.”

  * * *

  “Psst.”

  Kinta Jane opened her eyes. The air within the snow cave was close, starlight leaking in faintly through the doors.

  A broad-shouldered man knelt over her and she started; why would the giant wake her at night?

  “Psst.”

  But it was Gert Visser, not the giant Chu-Roto-Sha-Meshu, who liked to be called Mesh.

  Kinta Jane eased up on one elbow, to look around. She saw no sign of Mesh. She lay under one fur and Dockery lay under another. He breathed deeply.

  “The giant is gone,” Gert said. “We should go.”

  “The dogs,” she whispered.

  “They won’t bother us.”

  Kinta Jane heard canine whimpering outside the camp. “What did you do?”

  “Poison.” Gert shrugged and began backing out of the cave. “We need to go now. I don’t know when the giant will be back.”

  Kinta Jane climbed to her knees. She had slept in her coat, so she dug around under the fur, looking for her boots. “Wake Dockery,” she said.

  Suddenly, a long knife glinted in Gert’s hand, reflecting cold starlight. “Dockery stays.”

  Was it worth fighting for? Kinta Jane looked into her heart and found that it was. Dockery was competent; it was Gert who had upset the canoes on the Hudson. Dockery also had self-control—he had slept beside her without touching her, while Gert had sunk them with his hot temper.

  “Dockery,” she said loudly.

  “I been awake all this while,” Dockery said. “And lest you decide you want to stab one of us with that needle you got, Visser, I should tell you that I have a loaded pistol in each hand at this moment.”

  Visser snarled and exited the cave. Standing, he spat into the fire.

  “If you’re coming, you come now.” The big Dutchman turned away from the others—

  a huge spearhead suddenly sprouted in his lower back, and he was hoisted into the air.

  Mesh loomed out of the darkness. With two hands he held the spear that raised Visser six feet off the ground. The red light from the fading fire’s embers glowed infernally on his disconcertingly broad smile.

  “Shoot! Shoot!” Visser screamed, his legs kicking spasmodically.

  Mesh shoved the spear into the thick trunk of a pine tree and stepped back. The giant crouched and looked into the snow cave at Dockery. “Will you shoot me?”

  “I guess you heard what I said to Gert there,” Dockery said. “I was bluffing. You want me to show you?”

  Mesh threw back his head, opened his mouth, and laughed long and hard as Gert Visser kicked out the last of his life.

  “Come,” he said, when Gert was still. “We are being followed and must go.”

  “Gert Visser wasn’t your enemy.” Kinta Jane staggered from the cave and stood, numb. “He was our friend. He was trying to…he thought he was rescuing us.”

  “He wasn’t Dockery’s friend,” Mesh said. “And if he wanted to take you off alone into the storm that’s coming, I don’t think he was your friend, either. Besides, he hurt my dogs. Miserable, worthless person that I am, I have always taken good care of my beasts.” The giant shrugged, a gesture that blocked out multiple stars. “But if you want to try to save him, I’ll take him down.”

  Kinta Jane tugged at Gert’s hand and got no response. In the frozen winter air, the Dutchman was already growing cold.

  “No.” Kinta Jane gathered her pack. “Do we put on snowshoes?”

  “I am already wearing mine,” Mesh said. “You will ride the shu-shu.”

  Dockery had his moccasins on, and climbed out of the snow cave. “Is that some Anak word for mule?”

  Mesh chuckled, a sound like thunder on the horizon. “There,” he told them. “Beyond the trees. You will see.”

  Kinta Jane led the way. Beyond the trees the giant indicated, she smelled a musky animal scent. All she saw was an enormous ridge, a length of stone that raised the horizon several hands.

  Until the horizon moved.

  Her eyes adjusted, and she saw the shu-shu.

  Kinta Jane had seen elephants once. A wealthy Ferdinandian planter had brought a brace of them to New Orleans to exhibit, when she was a child. They both sickened and died, no one knew of what, but not before they had led several marching parades through the Vieux Carré and the Faubourg Marigny. Kinta Jane had watched through the wrought iron railing of a balcony alongside her half-brother, René.

  What she saw now were two elephants, only covered with thick hair, and their tusks were longer and curled.

  “Shu-shu,” she said.

  “Mastodon,” Dockery said. “Damn. I thought they were a folk tale, made up to frighten Anishinaabe children into eating their walleye.”

  The nearer mastodon turned and snuffled at Kinta Jane, sniffing her all over with the warm, moist tip of his long trunk. Then it raised its trunk to the sky and bellowed a long and obstreperous complaint.

  “He doesn’t like that it’s cold,” Mesh said. “That’s Uchu, he’s a whiner. The other one is Shash. She’s more patient…what do you call it, stoic? But don’t get her angry. She gets really violent when she’s mad. You don’t want to see that.”

  “No, we don’t,” Dockery agreed.

  Mesh shouted guttural syllables and both mastodons knelt. “Climb on,” he told them. “One on each. I’ll hand you each a dog to hold until they’ve stopped throwing up, and then I’ve got to put snow on the fire. We’
ll be gone in three minutes.”

  Kinta Jane climbed onto Shash’s neck and the beast stood back up. She found a harness strapped around the creature’s neck that gave her long stirrups into which to slide each leg; they were giant-sized, too big for her, but she made them work. She gripped the harness with one hand, and with the other received the dog Mesh handed her.

  The warmth radiating up from the mastodon was better than the fire had been.

  They started out, Mesh walking ahead on his snowshoes and leading both mastodons on a long rope.

  Kinta Jane looked back over her shoulder. She wasn’t sure, but she thought maybe she saw a thin string of lights, like a traveling party with lamps or torches, a few miles behind.

  This was not what the Franklin had planned. What had happened to Brother Odishkwa?

  And could she still meet Brother Anak?

  Or, more terrifying, had she in fact already met him?

  * * *

  The Assembly Hall of the Electoral Assembly was not the most impressive room Calvin Calhoun had ever been in; many rooms of the Palais du Chevalier in New Orleans were more ornately furnished, more opulent, more beautiful.

  But they weren’t larger. The Hall fell steeply toward a speaking platform, and its bare walls made for a stark appearance that was itself daunting. Behind the speaker’s podium was a small table. At that table sat Thomas Penn.

  He was taller than Cal would have guessed, and more handsome. He looked surprisingly youthful, for a man who must be, what, fifty years old? William Lee, for instance, looked much more weathered and lined than Thomas Penn.

  Penn had given Cal a glance when Calvin had first come in. Cal had then been questioned by a pair of clerks about the Elector’s Proxy papers he presented. They hadn’t asked at all about the paper Cal kept inside his fine red linsey-woolsey shirt, against his skin.

  The lawyer Rupp had written the secret document by candlelight at night in wayside inns.

  Not secret for long.

  The clerks interrogated Cal and then admitted him, at which point Cal had left Rupp and the Cahokian soldier Olanthes Kuta behind and entered the Assembly Hall. His knees knocked. He had traveled from east to west and back across the empire, had stood toe to toe and fought Lazars, and had killed a man in the Temple of the Sun on the Great Mound of Cahokia, but this…this was something else.

  He felt like a child, about to play the most outrageous game of make-believe ever. Only the stakes were high, the rules barely known to Calvin, and the other players were some of the most powerful men and women in the Empire.

  Or, like him, their proxies.

  He and Rupp had talked through the procedure repeatedly, and now Cal followed it to the letter. After Thomas banged his gavel and said the session was open, Cal kept raising his hand. Three times he was slow to the punch, so he listened to a short, formal motion that merged the Imperial and Dutch Ohio Companies (passed), the announcement of the impending wedding of Thomas Penn (informational only, no vote required, Cal sat out the smatter of polite Electoral applause), and a proposal to create three new Imperial towns (fiercely debated, with the vote postponed until a committee of five Electors, including Polk, could come back and report more detail on the matter).

  Finally, Cal was recognized, as “the Proxyholder of the Elector Calhoun, of Appalachee.” As he walked the high steps down to the speaker’s platform, Charlie Donelsen caught his eye and nodded.

  Calvin’s throat and mouth felt full of sand, but Lord hates a man as can’t talk when talking is what’s called for. He stood at the podium, unfolded his sheet of paper, raised his voice to its best, high-pitched tent-preaching note, and began to read.

  “As holder of the proxy of Andrew Calhoun, and at his direction, I hereby offer the following motions of impeachment under the Philadelphia Compact of 1784. First, that both Thomas Penn and Gaspard Le Moyne be removed as Electors of this Assembly, pursuant to article one, section seven of the Compact. Second, that pursuant to article two, section two, following his conviction and removal from this assembly, Thomas Penn be removed from the office of Emperor. Third, that a suitable candidate for Emperor be chosen by this body to replace Thomas Penn. So moved.”

  “Seconded!” Charlie Donelsen howled, gripping the desk before him so tightly his knuckles showed white, a hundred feet away.

  “Seconded!” called another voice. Cal looked, surprised, and saw an old man he didn’t know. Was purple the color of Johnsland? Could that be the earl?

  A roar went up from the Electors. Cal was conscious that Thomas Penn sat behind him, but he couldn’t turn his back. Raising the volume of his voice as loud as it would go, he shouted. If he didn’t read the particulars now, he might not be allowed to read them later.

  “In support of the motions, I allege the following particulars. First, that Thomas Penn ordered the murder of the then-Imperial Consort, King of Cahokia, and member in good standing of this assembly, Kyres Elytharias. Second, that Gaspard Le Moyne knew the foregoing, concealed it from this assembly, and extorted money from Thomas Penn in exchange for his silence. And third, that Thomas Penn personally murdered Hannah Penn, then Empress and member in good standing of this assembly. Which facts I will undertake to prove in any trial ordered and conducted by this body. I move that such a trial be held at the earliest possible opportunity, and I call for a vote.”

  “Seconded!” Charlie Donelsen yelled again. Half the Electors yelled with him, while the other half looked stunned.

  Behind Cal, he heard a gavel fall repeatedly onto wood, until the roar of the Electors fell to a manageable tumult.

  “Well, well, well,” Thomas Penn drawled in a gravelly, feline voice. “Appalachee squawks. Let us have a voice vote, then, one Elector at a time.”

  * * *

  Pulled through the veil in an embrace from the Lady Alena, Cathy froze in awe.

  Seven flames burned in the seven bowls of the Serpent Throne. Were there reptiles dancing in each of the seven flames?

  Light from the seven flames reflected off the polished gold of all four walls and the ceiling, off the throne, and off the walls—simple gold in which all light shone seemed dark by comparison. Cathy stood in a galaxy of stars. Was herself one of the stars.

  “Please leave her with me, Alena.” The voice was Sarah’s, and it came from the throne.

  Alena bowed and exited through the veil.

  Sarah descended from the throne. Was it a trick of the light, or did she detach herself from the throne, and then descend? She wore a simple linen dress, though the golden light shone on her dress as it burned in all the walls and the ceiling and the throne.

  Deep lines cut into Sarah’s face, but she smiled.

  “Your Majesty.” Cathy began to curtsy, but Sarah caught her arm and stopped her.

  “Please. In here, you are Cathy, and I am Sarah.”

  “You look…at home.” Cathy wanted to say tired or older, but thought better of it. And it was true, Sarah looked strangely in her element, standing before the Serpent Throne.

  Sarah laughed sharply. “I know what I look like. You’re kind.”

  “Come sleep,” Cathy said. “You haven’t left the throne in three days.”

  Sarah looked into the corner of the room, where Cathy saw only blank, gold-covered wall, and shuddered. “I don’t think I can.”

  Cathy controlled her breathing, and kept her composure, though she felt her heart race. “But you haven’t eaten. You aren’t sleeping.”

  “The throne feeds me,” Sarah said. “And she gives me rest. And she…connects me. Enlarges me.”

  Was the throne itself a woman, or did Sarah mean someone else? “I don’t understand.”

  “I am the throne,” Sarah said. “I am the city.”

  Cathy tried not to show her puzzlement. “You mean you can sense what is happening in the city.”

  Sarah hesitated, then nodded. “Every inch,” she said. “This city is mine, and I am hers.”

  Cathy wasn’t sure what to feel. Co
mpassion? Fear? Surprise? Bafflement? Keep your composure. “Tell me if you need anything else, Your…Sarah.”

  Sarah smiled, her face becoming unexpectedly warm. “I offer my congratulations, Cathy.”

  “What do you mean?” Cathy felt herself blush. “How do you know? Can you see it…looking at me?”

  Sarah shook her head. “I experienced Bill’s proposal to you.”

  Cathy felt tears in the corners of her eyes. “That man has a tender heart, beneath everything.”

  “I know.” Sarah’s voice contained a sad note.

  “And you…sensed these interactions? What else do you…sense?”

  “Within the Treewall, everything.” Sarah nodded. “And on the throne, I can truly see.”

  “You had a gift of vision from your father.”

  Sarah kept talking, as if she hadn’t heard Cathy. “I see the Heron King’s realm, Cathy. It is not far from here. Or rather, it is both just across the river, and also in another world entirely. I think he doesn’t see me. No, I know he doesn’t see me. But he has destroyed Cahokia’s sister realm, Zomas with its city Etzanoa of the white towers, and now he will turn his attention to us. He rides upon an earthquake, cloaked in thunder and lightning. His land is bloody, a kingdom of slaves and murder, and he would have us part of it.”

  “What is his land called?” Cathy asked. “What is that world?”

  Sarah stared into her face. “I am afraid to ask.”

  “Afraid…of knowledge?” That didn’t seem like Sarah at all.

  Sarah took a deep breath. “I’m afraid the answer might be Eden.”

  Cathy took both Sarah’s hands in her own and looked deeply into the girl-queen’s eyes, both the pale natural iris and the paler one, the eye that had been her witchy eye, but became her Eye of Eden. “Tell me what you need from me, Sarah.”

  “My councilors,” Sarah said. “Maltres Korinn, Sir William, Zadok Tarami. They will not be able to come in here. But with anointings that I now know—that I can teach to you—you will be able to bring them before the veil. I will see and hear you from here, and you will hear me through the curtain.”