The Firebird's Vengeance (50 page)

Finally, the woman reacted. She dropped her spear, snatched up a coil of rope, and swinging her body in a practiced motion tossed it toward Bridget. It uncoiled in the air, playing out and out. Bridget lunged forward and caught the very end a bare handspan above the water, almost overbalancing into the river. Immediately, she wrapped the rope about her wrist, dug her heels into the bank, and began to pull. The boat was light, but the current was strong and the pebbly bank offered little for her to brace herself against. She strained with all her might, not yet softened by her time in an Isavaltan palace, and was able to pull the boat a painfully small distance toward the shore. The woman recovered her wits, grabbed a long pole from beneath the gunwales, and dug it into the river bottom, pushing toward shore. They pushed and hauled, and at last they were able to beach the boat on the bank of mud and gravel.

The woman began to clamber over the gunwale.

“No!” cried out Bridget. “Stay there! Don’t get out of the boat.”

The woman stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. Bridget took her first careful look at the other’s skin the color of golden tea, her dark, almond-shaped eyes, and her straight black hair and wondered if that was exactly what she was doing.

“Stay.” She gestured “stop” with both hands. The woman’s eyes narrowed, but she lowered her foot and stepped back toward the mast. Bridget instead climbed into the boat with her. The woman picked up her spear, but her hand shook. Bridget, both to show she was not afraid and that the woman had nothing to fear from her, turned her back to watch Sakra again, praying that she would not have to set the boat out into the river again. Praying that he would not fall to this monster. Praying for a miracle in a place of marvels and phantoms.

Please. Help me. Help him. Please, God, this once, hear me
.

The fight raged on. The weapons were little more than blurs as they struck, flew apart, and struck again. Sakra’s motions were spare and expert. There was nothing flowery, nothing without purpose. But the harder he fought, the broader the demon’s leer grew. Sakra struck home, and struck again, an arm, a wrist, a shoulder, but his blows had no effect. The demon didn’t even flinch. Bridget’s heart turned to ice.

Oh, God, God, please, don’t let him die
.

They were not alone anymore. Bridget had been told time and again life in the Shifting Lands attracted attention. She had been told passions, desires, wishes, roused the curiosity and the greed of the inhabitants of this place, and they would come to see what new thing passed among them. She had never seen evidence of this before, though, not as she did now.

They came down from the hills and emerged from the grass. They stepped out of the rocks on the bank and appeared out of the sky and thin air. They came from everywhere but the river itself. They were minute creatures, hump-backed, crooked, and brown like tree roots. They were tall and impossibly thin with gossamer wings. They were knights on horseback. They were wolves, crows, and ravens. They were men and women clothed in silk and gold, or completely naked. They were mighty birds of prey perched on rocks and on shoulders.

Their attention was all on Sakra and the demon. Bridget felt their eagerness, waiting for one to fall, waiting to claim the loser’s body and whatever other spoils their natures permitted them to take hold of. They crowded the far bank now, and there would be no way to launch the boat back on the river again without being seen, and even now some of them were turning their voracious eyes on Bridget and the woman in their beached craft.

The demon seemed to have wearied of the game and began to attack in earnest now. It was far taller than Sakra, and its reach was longer. It moved with the speed of lightning, its blade seeming to vanish as it swung down, only to reappear when Sakra made one more parry. Slowly, relentlessly, he pressed Sakra back, and it was all Sakra could do to angle his steps toward the river, toward the boat.

Some of the creatures around them grinned, some looked bored, others greedy. Not one frowned. Not one moved to help.

Sakra missed his footing and stumbled. The demon’s blade slashed at his head. He brought his sword up in a desperate parry, but the weight of the impact loosened his grip. His sword slipped and he rolled out of reach, only barely keeping hold of his weapon. Bridget snatched up the boat’s pole, ready to jump onto the bank. She could at least distract the thing, at least get Sakra into the boat …

Beside her, the woman cried out and pointed overhead. Reflexively, Bridget looked.

Over their heads, birds took shape, huge scarlet and blue forms. They spread their great wings and opened their curved beaks to let out cries that no human ear could hear. Sakra raised his free hand to the splendid winged creatures and shouted a word Bridget could not understand. The whole brilliantly plumed flock descended upon the Devil. The creature shattered into its hundred pieces, but each piece was now gripped tightly in the beaks and talons of Sakra’s birds. In the next moment, the birds rose into the air, bearing the struggling demons away with them into the emerald sky.

The woman watched with open mouth. As the sky engulfed the birds, her knees crumbled and she dropped to the boat’s deck. On the bank, the fabulous audience that had gathered began to stir. Bridget saw one great grey fox look straight at her.

“Help me!” cried Bridget to the woman, digging the pole into the riverbank. “Hurry!” The last was for Sakra. She did not dare call out his name where all these things could hear it.

Again, the woman showed she was quick to recover. She reversed her spear in her hands and jammed the butt of it into the riverbank. Sakra crawled to his feet, abandoning his sword in the mud, and launched into a stumbling run. As the current caught the boat again, he vaulted over the gunwale, and dropped into the bottom. Bridget thrust the pole into the other woman’s hands, and the woman continued digging it into the river bottom, pushing them out toward the center of the river. Bridget grabbed the steering oar and, relieved to find it handled much like the tillers she was used to, guided them into the current. The creatures on the bank swayed as if caught by the wind. Wings rose, ears flattened, mouths moved, hooves and paws stamped. One of the gossamer-winged beings launched itself into the air, rising shining into the emerald sky, inviting all to stop and stare, to stop thinking of what they were doing.

Bridget could barely feel the breeze. Her experienced eye spotted the main line and hauled the sail up, unfurling all the canvas. The snowy sail billowed for a moment, fell slack, and billowed again. The woman’s mouth moved, whether praying or swearing Bridget couldn’t tell. She wanted to do both. She wanted to collapse next to Sakra and make sure he was all right.

Think of Isavalta. Think of getting him home. That’s all that matters. Think of getting him home
. She gripped the tiller tight with both hands, feeling honest wood under her palm, feeling the familiar rush of water beneath the keel of the boat. She had lived most of her life around boats. She knew and trusted them. This was a good boat, well built, light but steady beneath her hand. It would take them home. The rigging was unfamiliar, but she could probably work it in a pinch.

Think of Isavalta
, she told herself, and she did, with all her heart and mind.

But something was wrong. She felt no weight. She felt no path.

Oh. No
.

The woman apparently knew something was wrong. She staggered to the mast, and looked down at the deck, at the scraps of cloth that had been a decorative cloth hanging from the mast, but which had been sliced in two by the demon’s sword. The woman picked up a scrap of cloth in each hand. As she looked at the shreds, the last of the color drained from her face.

She spoke, quickly, softly. Bridget did not understand the words, but she understood the fear. It came to the woman haltingly, as something she was not familiar with, but perhaps had seen too much of far too recently.

“She says this was a spell,” Sakra translated. He took one of the scraps and ran it through his fingers, looking at the sigils on it. “She says it was to take her to the court of Isavalta.”

Bridget swallowed. Her throat had gone completely dry. She reached out, concentrating fiercely on any memory she could draw up. She had walked this road before, alone. She could do this. She thought of her apartment in Vyshtavos, of walking through the house she had been given, of the first time Sakra had made her laugh. She remembered how she felt when she walked herself to Isavalta before, how her heart had been full of hope and anticipation.

“Can you find it?” asked Sakra.

Bridget swallowed again and the words turned to dust in her mouth. “No,” she said. “We’re lost.”

The forest closed in tightly around Anna and her father, leaving barely room for them and the silent brook that sparkled over rounded stones of red and grey. Movement and light still flitted between the trees, catching Anna’s eye, distracting her. She tried squinting, but that just made her eyes hurt worse. She was thirsty. She was tired. She wanted her father to say they were almost there. She wanted to be safe and home.

The path took a deep bend following the meandering brook. Father frowned, casting about, looking for what Anna could not say, but the expression on his face did not invite questions. He held her tighter, pinching her fingers together. It was hard to keep still. She tried looking at the brook, which she knew was the river. Maybe if she only looked a little, she could see where they were going, and how far it was.

Movement on the opposite bank made her look up, and Anna saw two people. A man and a woman, as clear and substantial as Father was. The woman was tall and strong-boned. She had auburn hair that tumbled over her shoulders and a kind face, with the skin and eyes of someone from northern climes. She wore a plain black dress. Beside her stood a man with dark gold hair, dressed in a high-necked black coat such as men of Isavalta wore.

“Who are they, Father?”

Father’s gaze flickered from the way ahead for an instant. “Ghosts, Anna,” he said, shaking her hand a little. “Only ghosts.”

They’re not like the other ghosts
, she wanted to tell him, but before she could speak, a woman’s voice rang through her mind.

Your mother lives, Anna
.

“What?” Anna twisted in her father’s grip, trying to see behind her better. The woman was reaching out a hand to her, her face sad, but filled with determination. “Father, they’re speaking to me.”

“They cannot. They are ghosts. They cannot touch you, Anna. We must keep going.”

Now she heard the man’s voice, deep and rich. As he spoke, the couple seemed to grow closer to her, even though Father strode quickly down the path.
Your mother is alive, Anna. She is crossing the Silent Lands right now. Her name is Bridget. You can call to her and she will hear
.

Anna grabbed Father’s sleeve. “They say my mother is alive.”

“They lie, Anna,” Father snapped. “They are trying to draw us off the path.”

“But who were they? Father, do you see them?”

“No,” he said without looking back. “They are menacing you because you are ignorant of the ways of this place. They hope to draw you to them and drink your spirit.”

“Why?” she asked, and then she thought,
If you can’t see them, how do you know they are ghosts?

“Because they are the dead and the dead hunger for what they are not and can never be.”

“Do you?” asked Anna very softly. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to hear her.

“I am your father,” was his only answer.

Anna snuck a glance over at the far bank. They were still there. They hadn’t moved, but they had kept up.

You’re ghosts
, she thought at them.
Nothing but ghosts. Go away
.

Look for your mother, Anna
, came the woman’s voice again.
Look for Bridget
.

“Do not listen, Anna,” ordered Father sternly.

But it was too late. The strange name rang in Anna’s mind, and she remembered how she had heard it from Father as well. Her eyes flickered from the path to the world beyond and for a moment she forgot to see only the forest and her father. The forest faded and where there had been a brook beside her, she saw the great river flowing, cutting a swath between the forty thousand forms that filled the kaleidoscope landscape, on it floated a boat, and in the boat she saw three human shapes. Because she looked, because for a moment she willed, there was no distance and she saw clearly. There was a woman with hair the color of the lady ghost who spoke to her. There was a man of Hastinapura in clothing from Isavalta, and there was a third woman with straight black hair and a black and red jacket, sitting in the bottom of the boat and clutching a spear.

“Mae …”

“No!” Father clapped a hand over her mouth.

Anna looked up at him, startled.

“Call no names here. You don’t know what you will bring.” He looked frightened and his face had gone pale. Not pale, thin. Anna blinked, and for an instant Father flickered in her sight like the other ghosts.

Anna shook her head. “But it’s my bodyguard. She’s here! She came for me!”

Father crouched down in front of her again, so his face was all she could see. He was still too pale, but at least he was solid again. He completely blocked her view of Mae Shan. “She’s serving her uncle, Daughter,” he said earnestly, angrily. “Not you. You’ve seen that.” He punctuated his words with a shake. “You killed her uncle. She will want revenge for that.”

“No, Father. Why …”

Father did not let her finish. He stood again, and again grasped her hand too hard. A wave of dizziness swept through Anna’s mind and brought a fog of tears to her eyes. “We must go before she finds us.”

He strode away. Anna ran to keep up, but the air was thin in her lungs and she was soon gasping. She could not keep her mind on how to see things anymore. The world was a blur, with too many images to focus on. She could see everything, but she could make out nothing. There was nothing for her to anchor herself to except a strange name and the river, and Mae Shan, who Father called a liar, and who she did not wish to see again, but did not wish to abandon.