The Firebird's Vengeance (37 page)

If it can be done, it will be the last thing I do
.

It would leave Luden in charge, blind, power-hungry Luden to shape a little court of his own with Korta and Nedu helpless against him and Sidor perhaps his willing partner. Daren might not die. He might recover yet. Even Medeoan had not been able to finish him off. He was not ready to meet the Grandfather yet.

Or I might die anyway, traitor to my oath to serve, and to my land that gave me life
.

Daren made his decision. It did not lessen the pain, but knowledge that pain would soon end made it easier to bear. He mustered his hoarded strength, and sat up.

“Lord!” cried Korta.

Daren did not waste his breath answering. He heaved his legs, as heavy and unresponsive as clay, over the side of the couch. The pain lanced through them a moment later, but at least it let him feel his knees and his feet. Clamping his teeth down on his tongue to keep from screaming, Daren stood.

“Lord Sorcerer, you cannot …” That was Luden. Daren ignored him. He knew what he needed. One agonizing step at a time he lurched down the length of the room toward the table that was set apart from all the others, the table covered with delicate wires and gears and gems wrapped in wires of copper and bronze. The ruin of the Portrait of Worlds lay before him. It filled the whole world. It was all that he needed.

It seemed Korta guessed what he was about. “My lord, the Portrait is broken.”

So am I
. He stood before the table, swaying back and forth, trying to see how he might do what must be done.

“Daren, do not do this.” Luden again. Was that true concern in his voice? Daren could not turn his head to see the other man’s face. He could only stare at the collection of delicate components in front of him, all neatly laid out on their squares of white and blue silk. The work of a century, and more, bent and broken and scattered.

He reached out a shaking hand and grasped one of the tiny sapphires. What it had once been, he did not know, but now it would serve for the palace. The sapphire was the imperial gem. Next, he pulled one of the silk squares toward him. The wires and gears that covered it tinkled delicately as they jumbled together.

“I have come to the wild place,” he whispered. “I have stood before the broken mirror and I have called it by its name.” Each movement seared him. His hands were so weak, the silk slid through them even as he tried to gather it up, to tie the knots, to begin the weaving. “I have called it the Portrait of Worlds, I have called the creator by his name, Tsepir Senoisyn Vinnetsavin, child of Vyshko and Vyshemir.” Cold swept through him. The walls seemed to grow close, listening with their suffocating stones.

No. Not now. He must not be cold. He must be fire. He must burn.

Daren reached within himself, he reached out. He forced his hands to move, to clutch the silk, to begin the knot. He coughed for breath, for air. He spat, for water. Metal and gems waited within the silk, that would do for earth. With fire, the whole world would be with him, and he could weave all together.

On the table beside the pieces of the shattered portrait lay the tools Daren had used to begin his painstaking repairs, the long pins of silver and gold, the tiny hammers, the snips, and the pliers, all made of the finest brass and copper. Steel, that child of iron, could not be used to mend or make a tool of magic.

Daren picked up one of the silver pins. It was the length of his middle finger and as thick as a piece of coarse twine.

“My lord!” cried Korta and Daren’s concentration faltered. He heard the slap of skin against skin and knew what had happened. Luden had seized the boy’s hand, had held Korta back.

Perhaps I misjudge
. It didn’t matter. He must not falter. He must reach inside, he must reach outside, he must gather all the world into himself and his weaving. There must be earth and air and water.

And fire.

Daren drove the silver pin into his hand.

The pain exploded inside him, making him see stars and flames. The blood ran hot down his wrist and Daren pressed his hand hard against his silken bundle and the uncompleted knot.

Hands moved against his hand. The whisper of silk crossed his skin. Korta? No. Luden. Tying the knot, binding his hand to the broken portrait. Finishing the working.

“I make the mirror whole again. I see the picture unbroken again. I see the fate of Urshila …” No. No. It cannot be that name. It must be the other. “I see the fate of Ulla Raadhar.” Beside him Luden started.
Yes, I knew. I know. I permitted her to remain, for I also knew where her loyalty lay
. Pain wracked him, robbing him of words and breath. He must not break. He must be whole. “I see her death and how it was accomplished.”

“This is my word …” Daren gripped the edge of the table with his one free hand. The feeling was leaving his hands. The fire was dying. The floor rocked beneath him. “My word is firm. This is my word and my word is firm!”

Before him the sapphire shone and sparkled. It glimmered like a tear-filled eye, and like an eye Daren could see the reflection in it. In that reflection he saw Urshila, Ulla, Urshila, and a bent, ancient woman in drudge’s clothes. He saw the witch’s eye, the bucket of water, how the old woman tricked Urshila near the water, and how Urshila died. He saw that same old woman bundle the corpse into a length of half-rotted cloth and coax another drudge to help her carry it out to the canal, and heave it in.

And with that seeing, he slipped to the floor before the others could catch him. He was nothing but pain now. The connection between flesh and spirit was dissolving, burned away by the fire he had set free.

“Did you see?” he whispered, barely able to hear his own voice for the roaring of the pain in his mind. “Did you?”

“Yes, Daren.” Luden took his hand. “It was enough. You can go now.”

And the lord sorcerer of Isavalta closed his eyes and gave himself over to the fire.

Sakra insisted he and Bridget try to snatch a few hour’s sleep. They put out all but one lamp and Bridget curled herself up on the horsehair sofa, trying to ignore how it itched. Used to sleeping wherever he could find a place, Sakra stretched out on the carpet in front of the stove.

Taking advantage of the dim light, Bridget watched him, taking in afresh the length and shape of his body. Her mind, tired of dwelling on fear and disaster, to her surprise began wandering in directions she had scarcely dared admit to herself she had traveled before. All things considered, it was late in the day for maidenly modesty, but as grim, as uncertain as things stood with them now, such ideas were hardly appropriate, or timely. She had much to prove, to herself and to him, to show that her words were not just desperation. It would take time, and given what waited in Isavalta for their return, God Almighty, given what waited in this flat with them now, that time might not be hers.

But if it was … surely it was permissible to dream of what might be, of his hand touching hers more than fleetingly, of drawing her fingers down his face, and his throat, of what love might be when it was more than a flash point on a night in summer, of when it was slow and gentle, and not a lie but a true thing.

Sakra was propped up on one elbow, and staring at her. The realization shook Bridget from her reverie and raised a hot blush in her cheeks.

What must he think of me now?
Everything she was thinking must have shown in her face. Lord, would she never stop making a fool of herself?

But nothing in Sakra’s expression said he thought her a fool. Instead, his eyes were as full of wishes as her own must have been; wishes for freedom, for knowledge, for permission, for love, and for the time to make all those wishes come true, oh, especially for time.

She thought he was about to speak, but instead, the air was broken by the unmistakable retching sound of someone struggling for air.

Bridget was on her feet and through the doorway to Aunt Grace’s room in an instant. Sakra followed close behind, carrying the lamp.

Aunt Grace lay on her narrow bed, whooping, and choking in a terrifying battle for breath. The fight arched her back like a bow, half lifting her up and then slamming her down again so the bed springs creaked and rang and the whole frame rattled from her struggles.

“My God.” Bridget ran to her aunt’s side. She grasped Grace, pulling her close to try to still the frantic straining. Grace’s eyes were wide with fear and strain. She coughed with a noise like a dog barking, but her throat did not clear.

“Fading,” she gasped, her whole body bucking against Bridget’s as every muscle in her strained to force her lungs into motion. “Fading!”

“What?” Bridget wasn’t sure who she was asking the question of. She tried to turn Aunt Grace’s face toward her, but her aunt fought the gesture, swinging her head wildly back and forth.

“She!”

Bridget managed to capture her aunt’s chin and turn her face toward the light. Grace was seized with a consumptive wheezing and her lips were tinged a dangerous shade of blue. Was she choking? She was not acting like it. What was happening? “Medeoan,” said Sakra. “Medeoan is fading.”

“What?” asked Bridget again. She forced Aunt Grace’s legs up, and bent her down so her head was between her knees. “Breathe, Aunt,” she ordered, rubbing Grace’s back frantically, trying to help her muscles to loosen, to work more normally. “Don’t try to talk. Breathe.”

Sakra tried to take Aunt Grace’s wrist and look for a pulse, but she flailed out at him.

“No! Not him!” If there were more words, they were broken apart by another spasm of barking coughs that shuddered right through Bridget.

Sakra stood back, his face grave to the point of fear. “The ghost, it has possession of her body. Its essence is dissipating, it will soon be gone. It is using Grace’s life to keep itself here.”

Blood speckled the coverlet. Grace’s hands had gone ice cold. She could not tolerate this much longer. “What can we do?”

Sakra looked away quickly and looked back again. His bruises seemed to deepen. “Can you see Medeoan at all?”

“Aunt Grace, look at me. Look at me.” Bridget tipped her aunt’s straining, terrified face up. Grace choked as she tried to swallow and Bridget trembled, but she concentrated, and she looked deep.

“Barely. She is still there.”

“You will have to reach for her, Bridget. You can see her and follow where she goes and convince her to let your aunt go.”

Bridget felt her own bone-deep weariness. She had spent herself into delirium and then into unconsciousness barely an hour ago. She quailed at the thought of having to draw on that part of herself again, but there was no choice. Grace huddled against her now, limp as a child, panting raggedly. “How?”

“I will send you.” He saw the question in her eyes, but did not wait for her to voice it. “For many years Medeoan believed you would help her. She never believed so about me, and will not be able to now.”

Aunt Grace’s spasming hand caught Bridget’s wrist.

“Help,” she wheezed. “All I wanted … was to help.”

Medeoan shone brightly in her aunt’s eyes at that moment, and Bridget could not tell who the words had come from. But Bridget had looked into the eyes of the dying before, and knew what she saw in Aunt Grace’s face.

“We must hurry,” she said to Sakra. “Have you the strength for this?”

“We have, if you will trust me.”

She nodded.

Sakra did not waste time with another word. He reached for the red band that tied his hair back and pulled it free. The dozens of braids cascaded around his shoulders, the beads rattling and clacking against each other. Aunt Grace’s grip convulsed painfully, digging her nails into Bridget’s skin, but Bridget did not pull away. Aunt Grace needed contact now, needed the warmth of life to help her hold on.

Sakra took Bridget’s free wrist and looped the red braid around it. Bridget made herself remain still, her mind open. She had some idea what was about to happen, and she strove to hold herself ready for it.

Sakra began to sing. His voice was deep and well trained and filled the dim little room with its richness, the strange syllables she could not understand rising and falling in steady waves. Winding the band around his own wrist he joined them together with the words and the silk. She felt the chill in the air and the deep current that came with the working of magic. Although she did not understand the words that evoked his magic, she felt their pull reaching under skin and bone, seeking the touch of her powers, her gifts.

She balked at first. She could not help it. The touch was too personal, too intimate, but she gained control of instinct, and reached inside, giving of herself to aid in this working.

Sakra’s power accepted the gift of her own, and his song wove it with his, shaping it, turning it into a lifeline for her to hold, to follow. She could see it now, shining in the dim light. She felt the pull of it, as if it were a physical bond like the one about her wrist. It drew her down and into herself even as the song pulled her outward. She looked toward Aunt Grace, and she saw Medeoan.

It was a moment of stark clarity. She saw Medeoan’s blue eyes, her greying hair, the deep lines of fury in her face, graven so much more starkly than the ones care had etched onto Aunt Grace’s. The two were bound, more tightly even than she and Sakra now. She had expected to see that it was Medeoan’s grip that held Aunt Grace so tightly, choking her, but Medeoan too was bound, and Aunt Grace clung tightly to the dowager’s ghost, as if her entire soul depended on the presence of the spirit of a stranger.

The lifeline, the path created by Sakra’s song and the weaving of their magics, led between these two, even though there was no way between. They were one, clinging together like two people drowning and dragging each other under, and yet Bridget knew she must follow. She must see the way. She reached for the place where her mind’s eye was and willed it to open, willed herself to see what was hidden, what was true beneath the illusions and the bindings, to see Medeoan and be seen by her, and with that sight, with all the presence of self that she could muster, she followed Sakra’s lifeline to that place where Grace and Medeoan walked.