The Usurper's Crown (11 page)

“Ingrid.”

Ingrid whirled around to see Avan standing behind her. He leaned heavily on a pole of roughly trimmed hemlock, her makeshift bandages still swaddling his hands. Even with nothing but fire and starlight she could see he was far too pale.

“You are not well. You should not have come.”

“I fear I could not help myself,” he said ruefully. “Bring the net. It is time.”

Ingrid retrieved the net from its hasty hiding place. As she brought the bundle to the edge of the water, she watched Avan walk in a widdershins circle around Grace. He seemed to be struggling under some great burden. She could hear his rasping breath even over the sound of the wind in the trees.

“Now, Ingrid. Now!”

With all her strength, Ingrid cast the net into the water. It spun into the air, fanning open to display its whirl of patterned snowflakes. It dropped onto the black water where it floated for a moment among the flecks of moonlight, and then sank from sight.

At that same moment, the ghost rose.

He shined like the stars and the white coals of Ingrid’s fire. He should have been magnificent, but loneliness rolled from his presence in choking waves. He huddled frightened in the midst of his own light and it was all Ingrid could do to stand where she was and watch him, balanced on the lake’s tiny, night black waves. Abandoned, abandoned by God to the cold of the lake, and all he wanted was some small warmth. That was all. Surely, that was not too much.

Grace climbed to her feet. “I am here. I am yours, as I promised.”

“No.” Avan spoke the word in a whisper, but nonetheless it carried across the water, and Ingrid knew the ghost heard it as clearly as she did. “She is not yours.”

“You cannot keep her from me,” replied the ghost, lifting his dripping head. The holes where his eyes should have been were as black as the waves, and without any trace of moonlight in them.

“I have drawn my circle about Grace Hulda Loftfield,” said Avan heavily, and Ingrid had presence of mind enough left to think this a strange reply. “I have walked five times around her and each circle is a wall of stone and locked with an iron key. The key is hidden in the egg of a duck, in the bottom of the spring, beneath the white stone, at the roots of the tree, on the Isle of Shukerepia, in the river of Zagovory, at the end of the world, on the shores of the Land of Death and Spirit.” Avan’s voice faltered, but he straightened and began again. “I have drawn my circle …”

“Grace!” cried the ghost. “He cannot hold you. Come to me, my own! Come here now.”

Grace screamed as if she was being torn in two. Avan’s voice droned on and on in his strange recitation. Ingrid felt as if all the air had become a riptide drawing her forward, and it was all she could do to stand against it. She didn’t dare move to put her arms around Grace, because if she did, she might break the circle. But Grace screamed and screamed and would not stop, and the ghost called and Avan called and there was not enough air in the whole world to breathe because of the weight of their calling.

Then, the lake began to churn white with foam, and, impossibly, the net she had cast out rose again, something bulky tangled in its rope. Ingrid added her own cry to the cacophony and launched herself forward, grabbing the net and hauling it to shore. Bones, gray with rot, heavy with water and despair, clacked dully against each other.

All the world fell suddenly silent, and it seemed that all light vanished. Ingrid gasped and clutched at the net. The bones clacked again, and she saw the flicker of her fire on the beach. How had it gotten so far away?

“Where do you go with my bones, woman?” asked a voice from the darkness.

“Away from here.” Ingrid grit her teeth and struggled toward the fire. The bones were so waterlogged she felt like she must be pulling half the lake behind her.

“You have no right.”

“I have every right. She’s my sister.”

“Don’t answer him,” said another voice, a tired voice, a weak voice, but compelling nonetheless. “This way, keep walking. Don’t let the bones touch you.”

“Give back my bones.”

“Don’t answer. Walk toward me.”

“Give back my bones!”

“This way. You are almost here.”

The bones were so heavy, the drag so powerful. Ingrid was strong, but she was tired, and the burden hung awkwardly. She heaved the net up behind her. One wet, soft bone brushed Ingrid’s skirt.

“
Give me my bones!
”

The cry reached through her like a hand and clenched itself around Ingrid’s heart. Cold, instant and burning, tore through her flesh and veins and the pain seized her so hard she could not even scream.

“Mine!” shrieked the ghost. “You steal all that is mine, mine, mine!”

“Ingrid! Ingrid Anna Loftfield! Come here!”

Name. Her name, it tugged, toward the voice, toward the fire. The fire she could see, the fire she had built. But she couldn’t make it carrying the bones. They were too cold. She had to let them go. The cold squeezed her heart and the voice cried in her ears “mine, mine, mine, mine!”

No
, thought Ingrid desperately, as she took another step forward, and another.
Mine. My bones, my heart, my sister, my fire. Mine
.

“Thief!” cried the ghost.

“Thief!” croaked Ingrid in reply. Too cold. She shook. She couldn’t hold the net any longer. It was heavy as the whole world and cold as death. She couldn’t feel her fingers or her feet anymore. But was the fire closer? Was it close enough to warm her? If she could reach the fire, if only …

“Grace is here, Ingrid. She needs you.”

Yes. Grace. Grace needed her, needed the bones, needed the fire. The name sent a sliver of strength to Ingrid’s collapsing heart. She could do this. She must. She dragged herself and her burden forward.

She couldn’t breathe. Hands tightened around her throat, crushing her windpipe. Ingrid tried to scream and her hands dropped the net to rise to her neck and try to claw at her attacker, but she touched nothing but cold and air. She saw now, she saw the glowing, distorted face of the ghost, she saw the fire, just inches away, and she saw Grace straining against her prison, and she saw Avan drive his knife into the ghost’s ribs.

The chokehold faltered, and Ingrid collapsed beside the net. The cold fell again, crushing, killing, and with the last of her strength, she shoved net and bones into the fire.

The flames exploded outward as if she had thrown a bomb. In that single instant, Avan raised his arms high in exaltation, Grace threw herself backward from the water and the ghost dissolved in the circle of his own light. In the next heartbeat, the roar and the heat bowled Ingrid over until she lay flat on her back in the sand, blinking stupidly up at the stars.

Stars. She could see the stars. Hands, heart and throat tingled painfully with the memory of the clutching cold, but they were hers again. Ingrid got her hands under her and pushed herself upright.

“Ingrid! Oh my God, Ingrid!”

“Grace?”

It took her a moment to focus, and in that moment, Grace launched herself into Ingrid’s arms, almost knocking her over again.

“Grace!” cried Ingrid. They clung to each other, laughing and hugging. Grace pulled back for a moment, and Ingrid saw her sister fully and completely in herself again. Her eyes shone with all the familiar spark. Ingrid hugged her close again, tears prickling her own eyes. “My God, Grace, you’re back. You’re safe.”

“I knew you’d find me,” said Grace. “Part of me was always trying to call to you, but, I couldn’t make any noise. His voice …” She shuddered. “It was so loud.”

“Shhhh.” Ingrid stroked her fair hair. “Over and done with now. Now there’s only Papa to fear.”

“Tush,” said Grace lightly. “I’ll take care of that, don’t you worry. We’ll all be sitting around the table at breakfast, you’ll see.”

“All …” Ingrid found her head had cleared enough to admit more than one thought at a time, and she moved gently past Grace.

Avan stood at the very edge of the water. Ingrid could see nothing but his silhouette. She patted Grace’s hands and got to her feet, pleased to find herself steady, if aching, and went to his side.

Another step and he’d have been in the water. Wavelets lapped around his boots. Both bandaged hands clenched the hemlock pole, and fresh blood stained the linen. In the faint glow from the remains of the fire she could see on his face the same straining look that had possessed Grace so recently.

“Avan?” she asked, although her throat had gone dry. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” He shook himself and turned toward the shore, using the pole like a cane. “Fear not for me. Your sister?”

“We both owe you … I could never begin to repay… .”

Avan shook his head again, dismissing her words.

“Trust Ingrid to find me a genuine Finnish sorcerer.” Grace laughed again, but in the next breath she pressed her hand against her head, swaying dangerously. “I don’t think I’m well yet.”

“You’ve been in bed a month solid. It would be a wonder if you were not weak.” Ingrid took her arm, but she hesitated. Avan still hunched against his pole, staring across the water. She could not simply leave him. “I must get my sister home. Can you walk?”

Avan straightened his back, and his grip on the pole loosened, answering her question better than words. “I can,” he assured her. “All is right.”

“I will come and look in on you in the morning.”

Avan opened his mouth, then closed it, seeming to think the better of his words, but then he did speak. “I would be glad of that.”

With a shock, Ingrid realized she would too. “Then I will,” was all she said before she turned and led Grace up the bluff.

Avanasy stood on the edge of the freshwater sea and stared out across the waves, doing nothing but lean on his makeshift staff and think over what had passed. He remembered the rush of freed power, the strangely savory struggle to raise power buried deep, and the unrelenting determination of one woman.

“She’s brave that one,” said a voice behind him.

“Yes.” Avanasy knew the voice. Once a soul had heard the voice of a spirit power, they did not forget it. If he turned around, there would be a large rabbit sitting on the sand, probably combing its ears, or otherwise looking harmless.

“Strong, too,” Nanabush went on. “Tell you true, magician, I did not think she’d manage.”

“I believe she could manage anything she set her mind to.”

“Pity about the family. They offer poor exchange to a giving heart.”

Avanasy turned from the water. The rabbit sat on the silver sands, its nose whiskers twitching to take in the scent and feel of the night wind. If anyone else had been close enough to see, they would have wondered indeed how a rabbit could cast a shadow in the shape of a fat man. “She has a suitor. Why has she not accepted him?”

“The suitor isn’t suited.” The rabbit shrugged. “How much more reason can there be?” It cocked its head. “Will you give her better exchange?”

“I have nothing to give.”

“Nothing you can give or nothing you will give?” inquired Nanabush. “What ghost calls you from the lake, sorcerer?”

Medeoan. Medeoan moved somewhere beyond those waters, having banished him from her future. Out in the vastness of the universe, Isavalta, his home, turned on its own wheel, he having banished himself from its future. It turned and did not stop for his urging, or his leaving. It turned and did not look back. Which was the proper way. Which, indeed, was the only way.

“None.” Avanasy faced inland. His eyes easily found the track Ingrid had taken with her sister. Memory of her proud carriage, swift eyes, and soft and gentle hands rose warmly and effortlessly in his mind. “None at all.”

Chapter Four

The rains had come to Hastinapura. They poured down in steady sheets of water, turning all the world silver and slick. Every window and door of the Palace of the Pearl Throne had been thrown open to welcome the cool and damp. The myriad sounds of rain wormed through all the carved screens of black wood and lacelike ivory. The dancers in the temple changed their songs and sacred steps to honor Chitrani who was the Mother of the Rains, and so the wheel turned within and without and the patterns were laid down afresh.

Chandra
tya
Achin Ireshpad knelt on a silken cushion in his private apartment. He stared out at the endless fall of the rain obscuring the usual view of the lush gardens and meditated on the nature of the palace and its patterns.

Those patterns served Hastinapura, keeping the land safe and in accord with the world shaped by the dances of the Seven Mothers. Those patterns served his brother Samudra even as Samudra served those patterns.

Those patterns should have served Chandra, had Samudra’s greed not overwhelmed them both, had Samudra not distorted the flow of history.

Footsteps sounded lightly on the marble floor behind him. Chandra did not turn. He heard the rustle of cloth and a brief smacking sound as the floor was kissed.

“I am sent to say that the First of All Queens asks the Brother of her Heart to come sit beside her.”

Chandra stayed still and silent for a moment longer. The rain had its own patterns, woven by the falling drops. If one could understand all that complexity, the thousands of millions of droplets and their paths, one could surely understand the whole world. One could see how to return to an earlier point and rectify one’s mistakes.

“I am sent to say …”

“Yes, yes, I hear.” Chandra sighed. “You may tell the First of All Queens the Brother of her Heart follows.”

The slave kissed the floor again and scuttled away with a mouselike patter of sandals.

The First of All Queens. Chandra snorted as he rose smoothly, allowing his robe to fall neatly into place before he took his first step. Samudra kept only one true queen. Oh, there was a stable of concubines for appearances, girls and women taken on as part of treaties and to aid alliances with noble families. They lived well in the quarters, but it was known that Samudra visited them but rarely, choosing to prove his manhood in acts of destruction rather than generation.

By the time Chandra reached the corridor, the slave had long since vanished. The corridor’s arches of black wood flew high overhead, contrasting with the walls of carved red sandstone and the white marble floors. It was said that when the palace was built each vein of the marble was scrutinized to make sure it would run in the correct direction to weave itself into the whole.