Europa (76 page)

Wren opened her eyes. “She’s down there.”

Tycho nodded. “Can you use your power to lift the stones?”

She shook her head as she reached down and picked up a small rock, and tossed it away. “Aether can only touch the spirit, not the flesh, and definitely not a stone.”

She threw aside another rock, and another. Tycho and the four guards climbed up beside her, and they all began tossing the bits of debris away from the tower stairs.

After a quarter hour, they had managed to throw, carry, or push aside most of the rubble covering the entrance to the cellar and found the way down blocked by one last block of masonry, a large section of wall that had not broken and now stood at a slight angle in the stairwell itself, leaving gaps that only a mouse could get through.

The six diggers sat down to rest.

“You know,” said Tycho. “The floor under us still solid, so the ceiling over Yaga’s head is probably still intact as well. She’s trapped for the moment, but she may not be hurt at all.”

Wren nodded. The thought had occurred to her as well, but there was no way to know for certain and she didn’t want to guess or assume. She wanted to know. She knelt by one of the gaps around the fallen wall and called down, “Yaga! Hello? Can you hear me? It’s Wren!”

There was no answer.

“Look for tools,” Tycho said to his men. “Hammers, shovels, anything. Maybe we can break up this wall, or pull it out of the way somehow.”

The guards nodded and wandered off in separate directions.

Wren sat down by the top of the stair to wait, and Tycho sat beside her. After a moment he said, “What you did before in the cistern, to save the Duchess, to save all of us, that was… the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my life.”

She wanted to smile. She wanted to enjoy that moment, but she was too tired and worried and distracted.

What happened to Yaga? Where is everyone else? What am I supposed to do next?

Wren reached over and took his hand. “Thanks.”

Boots thumped and crunched across the gravel courtyard behind them, approaching at a quick step, and Wren turned, hoping to see one of the guards returning with some remarkable device for clearing huge walls but instead she something more familiar. “Omar?”

The Aegyptian’s face was paler than usual and his eyes were a bit narrower, and his lips a bit thinner. But he strode along quite quickly and came to stand at the bottom of the rubble, and looked up at her. “I thought I might find you here. But I didn’t think the damage would be this bad. At least, I’d hoped the palace would be spared, somehow.” He looked ill.

Wren stood up. “Are you all right?”

Omar shrugged and glanced away, squinting at the quietly burning ruins all around them.

“Vlad?” Tycho asked. “Koschei?”

“Vlad is fine. So is his brother.” Omar hesitated. “Koschei is dead.”

Wren swallowed.

Koschei is dead?

She pointed to the broken wall behind her. “Yaga is trapped in here. The men are looking for tools to get her out.”

Omar grimaced and climbed up the rubble to stand beside her. “Move back,” he said softly as he drew his seireiken. The sword’s blinding light swept over the destruction, painting the near sides of the stones white and the shadowed sides black. And then Omar slammed the tip of the sword into a fine crack in the broken wall, and a small chunk broke away. He struck the wall again, and another piece fell. Bit by bit, he chipped away at the stone until the pieces were small enough for them to lift, and they cleared the entrance to the stair in silence.

Down in the cellar the only light came from Omar’s sword and it revealed that while the ceiling had remained intact, one of the walls had toppled into the room, dropping several large stone blocks onto the legs of the white-haired woman stretched out on the pile of carpets in the center of the space.

As Omar moved to deal with the stones, Wren knelt beside the woman’s head, gently stroking her silvery hair back from her wrinkled face. “Yaga? Can you hear me? We’ve come to take you out of here. And there’s someone else here. Omar. I mean, Grigori. Grigori is here, too.”

Yaga sighed and her eyes opened halfway. “Grigori?”

Omar continued clearing the rocks. “I’m here.”

But the old woman didn’t look at him. She looked up at Wren and said, “I’m tired, little sister.”

“I know. You still need more sleep.”

“No, not that.” Yaga shook her head. “I’m tired of all this. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to slip away into the quiet places, the dark places, and sleep forever.”

Wren glanced at Tycho and Omar, who could only give her sympathetic looks in reply. Wren said, “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I’m ready to die now, you silly girl.” Yaga stared up at the ceiling through lidded, unfocused eyes.

“What about your son, Koschei?” Wren asked.

Do I tell her that he’s already dead? He was her entire world yesterday, but now, everything has changed.

Omar paused in his work and glanced at them.

“He’s a grown man,” Yaga whispered. “And I’m a grown woman. And this is my life, and my choice. I want to die now, please.”

Wren leaned back and looked at Omar again. “What should I do?”

He took half a step back, his face lined with age and worry in the harsh light of the seireiken. “Do whatever you think is right. Stop asking me. She’s talking to you, not me.”

Useless.

Wren looked down at Yaga again. “All right.”

Yaga pulled the necklace from inside her dress and pressed the little golden heart into Wren’s hand. “Take it.”

Wren looked at the sun-steel pendant. “I can’t destroy this. I can’t release your soul. We’ll need Omar’s sword. Your soul can rest in the seireiken.”

Yaga grimaced. “Is there no other place? Your ring, perhaps?”

Wren glanced down at the golden band of Denveller and she thought of the eight valas already in there, and what it might be like to have Baba Yaga among them.

“My ring? Not one of your bracelets?”

Yaga laid one of her thin hands on Wren’s arm, and she smiled. “Your ring.”

Wren nodded. “All right.”

The last time someone gave her soul to this ring, she bit off the end of her own tongue and smashed her bloody face on it.

She held out her hand with the ring toward the old witch. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

Omar pushed aside the last of the stones and gently moved Yaga’s broken legs up closer to where she was sitting. The old Rus woman winced and pressed her hand to her foot for a moment, and then exhaled and opened her eyes. “It’s fine now. Thank you, Grigori.” And she turned her back to him.

“Well, I guess I’ll just need a small cut, a little blood,” said Wren.

“Don’t be squeamish, child.” Yaga took one of the small bird skulls dangling from her necklace and ripped its beak across her open palm, releasing a small red sea into the center of her hand. “Quickly!”

Wren shivered as Yaga reached out and wrapped her bloody hand around Wren’s fingers, and the ring of Denveller. As the blood faded into the golden ring, the old woman’s face went gray and slack and she fell over on her blankets, dead. Wren looked from the body to the ring on her finger and back again.

“Mistress?” she whispered.

“Am I your mistress now?” Yaga cackled from the ring, and her face shimmered out of the shadows for a moment, and then vanished again.

“Is she in there?” Omar asked.

Wren nodded. “It’s done.”

“Almost.” Omar picked up Yaga’s necklace from the carpet and held it over his seireiken. The pendant glowed white hot, and then faded to dull gray, and Omar slipped the dead metal into his pocket. “It was only a tiny shred of her soul. It won’t matter much to her that it’s here in my sword with me instead of in your ring with you.”

“Are you sure?” Wren asked.

Omar shrugged. “Remember, there’s a shred of my soul in your body right now, keeping that fox of yours under control, and I’m not suffering much for it, am I?”

“I guess not.” Wren stared at her ring for another moment and finally let her hand fall to her side. “It’s sort of sad. For two months, all she wanted was to see her son again. But they missed each other by a few hours, and now they’re both dead, and never had the chance to say goodbye.”

“Not exactly.” Omar held up his seireiken. “He was here. He saw the whole thing.”

“What? You mean
you
killed him?”

“I did.” The Aegyptian sheathed his bright sword and crossed the shadowy cellar to the bottom of the stairs. “And that shred of Yaga’s soul in here with him will leave them some small connection for the rest of time. It’s more than Koschei deserves. But Yaga… I can’t help feeling I owed her more than this.”

Wren looked at Tycho, who could only shrug and offer his hand, and she took it and followed him up the stairs into the light.

Wren stood in the wasteland of broken stone and drifting smoke that used to be the Palace of Constantine and gazed up at the three enormous skyships hovering above the two cities.

“I see flags,” she said, peering up through her blue glasses at the bright sky. “Blue flags flying from the ships.”

“Imperial banners,” Omar said. “I suppose that means Darius bought them, instead of making some sort of unholy alliance with Marrakesh. It’s a good sign, actually. If they were flying Mazigh flags, it would mean the war was spreading across Ifrica as well.”

The one airship still cruising over Constantia began dropping bombs over the distant harbors to the north of the palace. Wren watched the tiny black specks tumbling through space and the bright flashes of fire on the ground and the small clouds of dust and smoke rising from the waterfront.

Across the river, the other two airships were slowly circling the burning district near the shore, chasing each other like a pair of sharks around an unseen school of flying fish.

“What happens now?” Wren asked.

“More fighting,” Tycho said. “Followed by some negotiations, skirmishes, alliances, betrayals, more negotiations, and eventually a ceasefire, if we’re lucky.”

“And if we’re not lucky?”

“They take Constantia.”

“Oh.”

Omar cleared his throat and the others looked at him. “I have to find someone,” he said. “She was in the palace, and I suppose she left during the evacuation, but I somehow doubt she’s hiding in some shelter somewhere. I have to go. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He gave Wren a long worried look. “Stay safe.” And he strode away.

Wren glanced at Tycho. “I wonder who—”

“It’s Nadira,” Yaga said, her tiny voice whispering from the Denveller ring. “He’s looking for Nadira, the Damascena. But he won’t find her. She left before the bombs began to fall and I don’t think she’s coming back. But let him go. He needs some time alone.”

“I’m sorry about Koschei,” Wren said.

“No, you’re not,” the ghost said. “But thank you for saying it.”

Wren looked at Tycho again and saw him staring at her. “It’s all right, I’m just talking to… you know, her.”

He nodded. “Well, I guess we should be getting back to the cistern to tell the Duchess what’s going on out here.”

Across the courtyard, a couple of the Hellan guards emerged from the shadows with ropes and shovels. The sounds of the bombs falling and exploding echoed across the city.

“More hiding?” Wren took a few steps toward the distant airships. “More of this? More things burning and people screaming?”

Tycho followed her. “I’m afraid so.”

“And all because you have a church and they have a temple?” Wren sighed.

It’s all so stupid. It’s not over gold or food, or even revenge. They’re killing each other over the gods, as though the gods could be made or unmade by a sword or a fire.

Whatever exists in paradise or the nine hells won’t change just because a different person sits on the throne of Constantia.

And meanwhile, people are dying.

Soldiers.

Fishwives.

Children.

She kept walking across the courtyard past the broken columns and burnt timbers and shattered windows. “I have a better idea. Come on.”

They walked together through the ruins of the palace and out into the wide snowy park beyond. She glanced at him, and he smiled at her, and she could tell he wanted to say something, but he didn’t, and she didn’t ask what was on his mind. Eventually they reached the sea wall, which had been teeming with young soldiers and younger marines just a few hours earlier and now were bare and silent. They climbed the iron stairwell in the north watch tower and stepped out onto the platform high above the water and looked out across the channel at the burning homes of Stamballa and the burning homes of Constantia.

They look exactly the same, don’t they?

Wren pushed her glasses up her nose. “We need to make the airships go away. And then make the warships go away.”

Tycho laughed. “Yes, that would be nice.”

“Then I’ll make them go away.” Wren placed her hands on the cold stones of the wall in front of her.

It’s still the middle of the afternoon, still too warm. But Yaga could gather the aether in the daylight, and the valas taught me to pull it from the earth. It should be enough.

“Wait, what are you going to do?” Tycho put his hand on hers. “You said you can only move aether, and souls. You can’t move ships.”

“No, I can’t. But there are people in those ships, aren’t there?” Wren nodded up at the flying behemoths. “Remember how I pushed Omar and the marines across the water, and they pulled their boats with them? Well, this is exactly the same. Only bigger.”

“Wren, you don’t have to do this. In fact, I don’t want you to do this,” Tycho said. “This war has been going on for years, and this siege is just one more battle. There’ll be more. More people will die. It’s the way of things, I guess. But it’s not your responsibility. It’s not your fight. And there’s no need for you to dirty your hands with it.”

“I know it’s not my fight,” she said softly. “It’s my choice. Now get behind me. I don’t want to pull your soul out of your body by accident. You’d die, and I’d be sad. So get down.”