The Usurper's Crown (29 page)

Kacha screamed. Pain coursed through him, and more pain as the magic flowed through flesh that could not stand it and yet could not resist. Yamuna forced their right eye open and looked down upon the Map of Worlds, and he saw how the air shimmered and shone. Each beautifully rendered symbol that represented the myriad realms of the Silent Lands lit up in its turn — the Wheel, the Cup, the Wing, the Skull, the Fox-showing a passage through Death and Spirit. Here, the domain of the
lokai
had been passed by, here the fey, here the realm of Baba Yaga, and all had fetched up on a place marked with an etching of waves encased in two concentric circles. A nameless, mortal place, but now Yamuna knew its whereabouts, and Avanasy …

Hold just a little longer, my prince
, directed Yamuna as Kacha’s scream forced itself out through clenched teeth. The fey lights hummed, a strange, hinting resonance, and lit upon the map of Isavalta, and Yamuna’s eye marked the spot, and in Hastinapura he threw back his head and laughed.

That laughter broke the spell, and Kacha reeled against the wall, barely missing a brazier as he slumped there, sweating and shaking, but standing upright nonetheless.

“What did you see?” he gasped.

The teacher is planning to return
. Yamuna laughed again.
Poor fool. He will be most surprised to find his mistress fled and his country turned against him
.

But Kacha could not laugh. Anger shot through him, as white-hot as the lingering pain. “He will not be surprised at all.”

What is your meaning, my prince?
inquired Yamuna, indulgently. Kacha set his jaw.

“I knew the man for three years before Medeoan exiled him. He was not only completely loyal and half-blind with love for his student, he was as stubborn as a stone. There is only one reason he would come back now. Medeoan has somehow sent for him.”

Yamuna’s voice fell silent. Kacha collapsed into the nearest chair. He felt as if his hand were back in the fire. A single, involuntary tear of pain trickled down his cheek. He waited for Yamuna’s anger and blame.

But instead, the sorcerer’s voice came to him thoughtfully.

If this is so, would she have told him where she was going?

Kacha’s eyes widened ever so slightly. The strength of his realization muted the intensity of the pain for a bare instant. “She might. She might even meet him herself. At the very least, she would send this Peshek to bring him to her or her allies.”

Then he will do us immeasurable good service
, said Yamuna.
For all we need do is be there to welcome him home and persuade him to lead us in the direction your wife has run
.

Despite his pain, Kacha too began to laugh.

It was full dark by the time Peshek reached his father’s gates. He’d been half-afraid he would have to stop on the road somewhere, spending another night out in the open, but the moonlight had made it possible for him and his exhausted hired horse to pick out the way.

After a few minutes of shouting, the sleepy porter opened the window and squinted out at him without seeing him at all.

“Come, Labko, you know me,” he said impatiently. The hired horse danced uneasily under him. Peshek patted its neck. This was the most spirit the beast had shown since he’d mounted its sagging back.

Belated recognition widened the porter’s eyes. “Master Peshek.”

Labko’s face vanished, and he shouted something indistinct. The shout was followed swiftly by a great creaking and sliding as the crank was turned and the great bolt was lifted so the gates could be cautiously pushed open. Peshek rode through as soon as there was room enough. A pair of boys wearing nothing but sandals and long-tailed shirts stared resentfully at him from under tousled hair. Peshek swung himself down onto the cobbles. He handed one of the boys his horse’s reins and took the lantern the other held.

When his father had retired from service in the house guard, he had been gifted with a thousand acres of land and twenty serfs by the emperor. By that time, Peshek himself was already in the guard, and consequently he had only visited the estate a handful of times, but he still knew his way across the yard and up the steps to the main door. Apparently his shouting had roused more than the porter, for the door opened as he approached and a rumpled servant looked at him like a startled rabbit before remembering to reverence.

“Is my father awake yet?” Peshek asked.

“He is in his room, sir,” the man stammered. It was more than suddenly being roused from sleep that unnerved him so, Peshek was sure, but he did not want to take the time to inquire. He needed to speak with his father at once.

He did take the time to stop at the gilded alcove that served as the god house and reverence to Ywane, who had gained his godhood when he hid the family from a warlord by burying them all and drawing them alive again from the earth. It would be wrong, now of all times, not to acknowledge his protection.

His father’s house was a place of dark wood, well fitted and beautifully carved, although he could only catch glimpses of the fine decorations as he marched through the narrow halls and up the zigzagging staircase with his flickering lantern. It was a new house with fireplaces and chimneys rather than fire pits, and windows in every room. He could hear some vague noises of the servants stirring, but mostly the house was quiet and dark. He knew his father’s door by the thin line of light that showed underneath it. Peshek knocked and did not wait for a reply before he pushed open the door.

Pachalka Ursulsyn Rzhovyn sat close to the low fire in an elaborately carved chair. Peshek had a brief moment to regard his father and think that he had not changed much from when they had last met. His long face was a bit leaner under its gray beard and his hair was a bit whiter, but his body was still powerful as he pulled himself to his feet and crossed the room to the door in three strides.

And swung his fist against Peshek’s jaw so hard that Peshek reeled backward and slammed hard against the wall.

“How dare you!” shouted Colonel Pachalka. “How dare you come here after what you have done!”

“Father …” gasped Peshek when he could speak again. He tasted blood.

But Pachalka’s fist came down again, and Peshek’s head cracked back against the wooden panel.

“Traitor!” spat Pachalka. “You betray your empress, your family, your very gods! There are no words low enough for what you have become!”

“No, Father!” Peshek held up his hands. He could feel the warm thread of blood trickling down from his rapidly swelling lip. “I swear …”

Pachalka lashed out again, but this time Peshek was ready for it and managed to block the blow with his forearm and shove his father backward, just far enough so he could dodge aside and put half the length of the room between himself and the old man.

Pachalka panted hard in his rage and Peshek seized the moment. “Father, listen to me. I swear, all I have done, I have done in the empress’s name and at her command. I don’t know who told you it was otherwise …”

“They came here looking for you not two days ago. Your own men. If I could have told them where you’d gone, I would have.” The words grated against Peshek’s skin, all the more painful because his father spoke them. Pachalka’s fists opened and closed at his sides, seizing on the empty air and strangling it, over and again.

“What did they tell you?” His lip was thickening and his words slurring, but at least father was talking, not raining down more blows.

“That you left your post and your duty without leave.” Which was surely sin enough in the old soldier’s eyes, and Pachalka all but spat as he said it. “That you’ve been carrying messages for a band of traitors in their fine castles who would use the words of this madwoman roaming the countryside saying she’s the true empress to throw our rightful ruler down from her throne.” His breathing was harsh in the room and Peshek could see nothing of his face but shadows and the firelight gleaming in his eyes, and for that moment he was glad. He did not want to see the fury twisting his father’s visage as he looked at his son.

“Honored Father,” said Peshek, holding out his open hand. “I swear on my mother’s grave that it is not true. It is part of a web of lies being woven over Isavalta by Kacha and his allies here and in Hastinapura. I came here to tell you all. I beg you to hear me.”

Pachalka stood like a statue where he was, and for long, agonizing series of heartbeats, Peshek thought his father would call down the servants to hold him fast. But then, Pachalka said softly and sternly, “I am listening.”

Peshek could not hold back his sigh of relief. Ignoring the pain in his mouth and the iron taste of blood, Peshek told his father how the empress had come to him in her need and what she had ordered him to do, and how he had done his best although he had agonized over it, but how he had seen where his duty lay, and how she had slipped from his charge, leaving him to spread word of her plight, and of Isavalta’s, against her return.

Through it all, his father simply stood where he was. The shadows that veiled his face flickered as the fire danced in the hearth.

“Can you prove what you say?” he asked finally.

For an answer, Peshek untied his sash. With his knife, he slit the end of the cloth open and then he drew out the folded and wrinkled letter written in the empress’s hand, signed and sealed with the soaring eagle that was the imperial crest. He watched as his father unfolded the letter and slowly, carefully read its contents.

At last, Pachalka lifted his eyes from the paper, but did not look at Peshek. Instead, he stared for a long moment into emptiness. Then, with trembling hands, he handed it back to his son. Peshek found he could breathe again. If his father had not believed the letter to be genuine, he would have kept it to be used as evidence against Peshek at the martial tribunal.

His father’s hands were still trembling, something, Peshek realized with a shock, he’d never seen before, as Pachalka turned and retreated to the chair he’d occupied when Peshek first came in. A silver mug of something, probably beer, waited on a side table and Pachalka downed its contents in a single draft. When he set it down again, his hands no longer shook.

He turned to face Peshek again, hands and eyes steady and his shoulders straight and square.

“Forgive me, my son. I should have thought better of you.”

Peshek shook his head. “There is nothing to forgive, Father. How could you doubt such honorable men? Especially when they told the truth. I did desert my post.”

“Will you sit, Peshek?” His father gestured to another chair.

“Gladly, Father.” Peshek dropped into the offered seat. In another moment he would have been the one trembling. He had not known he was so tired until this moment.

Pachalka returned to his chair. He was composed, but also more grave.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be able to shelter you, Peshek,” he said, his hand curling into a fist on the arm of his chair. “It is known there is a reward for you, and one of the servants is sure to talk.”

“I thought as much.” Peshek sighed. “In truth, it was one of the reasons I used the front door. I was hoping, when I’ve said my piece, you might throw me out that same way.”

A knowing gleam lit his father’s eye. “And send Kabak to meet you and bring you back in secret.”

“As you say, sir.”

“And what is this piece you wish to say to me?”

Peshek leaned forward, pitching his voice very low. “The empress will come back. The House Guard must be ready when she does.”

Pachalka did not flinch. “But not before.”

“Unless other orders come, no.”

Silence settled over the room. The fire crackled and sparked in the hearth, but Peshek and his father remained silent, considering strategies, searching for possibilities, divining the difficulties, and there were many.

“You had best go,” said Pachalka softly. “It would not do for you to be here too long.” He stood. “Ywane will guide you, my son, and after the moon has set, Kabak will meet you by the goose pond.”

And I will drag my father into a plot that could mean his death
, thought Peshek as he embraced Pachalka, receiving the old man’s kiss on his cheek.
And if I did any less, I truly would be guilty of betrayal
.

The house was dark when Ingrid stole back up the path to the front door. Fortunately, there was more than enough moonlight to see by, so she did not have to be bothered with a lantern. As softly as she could, she crept up the stairs to her bedroom, closing the door lightly behind herself.

“Ingrid, are you out of your mind?” came Grace’s furious whisper. “Where have you been?”

Ingrid nearly jumped out of her skin. She whirled around to see Grace sitting up in their bed, the covers drawn up around her chin against the chill. Even in the dim silver light, Ingrid could see the anger on her face.

Ingrid put her hand over her heart, as if the pressure could slow its beating. “Grace,” she began, hurrying to the bedside so she did not have to speak above a whisper. “I’ve been to see Avana … Avan.”

Grace’s eyes grew round. “You are out of your mind,” she snapped. “You almost have Papa won over. Are you going to throw it all away now?”

Ingrid lowered herself to sit on the edge of the bed. The springs creaked under her. “Grace, listen to me. I’m going to ask you to believe something very difficult.”

“More difficult than a ghost?” asked Grace lightly.

“Yes.” She told her sister then, everything that Avanasy had told her. Grace sat as still as a statue, listening.

“You can’t mean it,” whispered Grace when Ingrid had finally finished. “You can’t truly mean to go with him.”

Ingrid nodded. “I do.” Those two words made it all real, and Ingrid felt an unexpected rush of freedom wash through her. This was her decision. For the first time in her whole life, she had made a choice for herself alone, and it felt … fine. “I’ve promised. I only came back to get some things, and to tell you. You will have to find something to tell Mama and Papa …”

“No, Ingrid.” Grace seized her hand. “You can’t leave me like this.”