In the center of the braziers there was a collection of gold and silver plates and goblets, none of the same size or design, and all with the remains of some old meal dried and crusted along their edges and bottoms. And seated amidst this chaos and debris, was a woman.
Wren wasn’t sure what she had expected. A crone, a gibbering lunatic, a vicious old mother, a lady in mourning? But not this.
The woman sitting on the pile of skins, surrounded by chewed bones and dried wine, roasting between the braziers, was…
…beautiful. She looks like an ancient queen. What sort of witch can she possibly be? And why is she down here, living like this?
Wren stared at the woman’s blood-red dress, the crow feathers tied into the braids of her snow white hair, the silver bracelets on her wrists, and the necklace of tiny animal skulls hanging around her neck. The woman looked up, tilting her face to the light, revealing a thousand fine lines of age and worry, but her skin was still firm, her eyes keen, and her lips ever so slightly pink.
“Where is my son?” she asked in a deep, commanding voice.
Wren blinked. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
“Then get out!” The witch flung up her hands and a white wind blasted across the braziers and shoved the two near the alcove.
Wren stumbled back as the aether struck her flesh, and she instinctively threw up her own hands to shield her face, and the aether fell away, melting into the darkness. Slowly, she lowered her hands and looked at the woman, and felt the cool air tickling her tall furry ears.
Damn. The aether couldn’t move my scarf. I must have knocked it back myself. Stupid, clumsy…
“Lady Yaga, if you please!” Tycho said loudly from behind Wren. “We have something very important to discuss with you. And I’ve brought this young woman to meet you. She’s from Rus, too.”
“Ysland, actually,” Wren corrected him quietly.
“Right, Ysland.” Tycho nodded. “This is Wren Olgasdottir.”
“What the devil is wrong with your ears, girl?” the woman asked.
“I’ve, uh, I have an extra-”
“An extra soul, a portion of an animal, something thrust into you.” The witch rose to her feet. “Come here. Let me look at you.”
Wren swallowed and came forward.
“A fox soul,” the witch said, peering at Wren’s head. “But just a portion of it. A tiny scrap. And something else, as well. Something to keep the animal at bay, trapped in your silly ears and those pretty eyes of yours. What is it?”
Wren nodded. “That something else, the thing that keeps the fox under control, is another soul, a bit of a man’s soul.”
Don’t ask anymore. Not yet. Don’t make me say his name to you yet.
“Hm.” The witch turned away with a weary sigh. “Is that why you’re here? You want me to fix you? You want me to get it out of you?”
“Well, no.”
“Good, because I can’t. It can’t be done.”
“I know,” Wren said. “I know how it works. I know about soul-breaking and aether-craft.”
“Do you now?” The witch sat down on her pelts. “Then why are you here?”
Wren knelt at the edge of the rugs. “I’m here because I need your help. The city needs your help. There’s something coming, and I need your help to stop it.”
“We have reports, my lady, of an army marching on Constantia,” Tycho said. “An army of walking corpses. The undead. The deathless ones.”
The witch stared into Wren’s eyes. “You don’t say.”
“You don’t seem surprised,” Wren said. “Has this happened before?”
“In Rus, the dead often have a mind of their own,” said the witch. “That’s why the people burn their dead. At least, they do when they can.”
“And when they can’t?”
The witch smiled. “Then they call for me and my son to set things right.”
Wren nodded. “I see. But why does it happen at all? Is it because the aether freezes in the blood, and the ghost stays there, confused, thinking they might still be alive? And then they just drag their dead bodies around by the aether like puppets on strings?”
The older woman narrowed her eyes. “That’s exactly right. Although, the ghost in a frozen body is no more likely to rise from the grave than the ghost in a rotting body. The real question is, why are so many ghosts rising now?” The witch picked up an empty cup and considered the wine stain on the bottom for a moment. “Who has been teaching you about these things?”
“I’ve had several teachers,” Wren said, glancing away. “Why do you think the ghosts are rising now?”
“I don’t know.” The white-haired woman tossed her goblet aside. “Why does it matter?”
“It matters, my lady, because these corpses are attacking every person they come near,” Tycho said. “They’ve devastated entire towns, entire provinces, judging from the reports. Thousands are dead, and thousands more have fled. Some refugees are coming to the city, but most are fleeing into the hills. The farmers seem to think the deathless ones are drawn to cities, to people. And the more they kill, the more dead rise beside them.”
“Then destroy them, and be done with it,” the witch snapped. “Give them the sword, and give them fire. There’s no mystery in this. Cut their bodies to pieces. Take their heads. Burn their flesh. Once broken they cannot be healed, and once the aether melts, the ghost cannot cling to the flesh.”
“We tried that,” Tycho said. “I sent mounted archers to Saray. Many died, and many fled. And the ranks of the dead continue to swell. If they strike Constantia from the west while we are besieged by the Turks to the east, the city will fall.”
“Then the city will fall!” The witch glared at him.
Tycho frowned. “You swore to defend Constantia, before Lady Nerissa and Prince Vlad.”
“That was before those dogs took my son!”
Wren motioned Tycho to take a step back and she said, “Mistress, I swear to you I will do everything in my power to help you find your son. But I can’t do that if this city is overrun by the risen dead. We have to stop them first.”
“ You will help me?” The witch laughed. “What can you possibly offer, except for fleas and a slightly sharper sense of hearing?”
Wren glanced at Tycho and then back again. “I’ve studied aether-craft as well. Quite a bit, actually.” She slowly raised her right hand, drawing the aether in to herself, bundling the mists beneath her, and ever so gently, she lifted herself up from the pelts on the floor and floated in the air. And then, just as gently, she lowered herself back down and let the aether drift away. “What do you say now, Mistress?”
She could feel Tycho staring at her, but she kept her gaze on the old woman, and the old woman gazed back at her. The witch nodded. “Very well. We will try. And you may call me Baba Yaga, little sister.”
Chapter 9. Torture
Tycho climbed the stairs, straining to hear what was happening in the cellar behind him, but the women’s voices were too soft and distorted. So he emerged from the Tower of Justice into a cool afternoon in the Second Courtyard of the palace and paused to look at the men and women bustling about the paths and roads and stairs in front of him.
She floated. She floated in the air. She said she wasn’t a witch, she said that anyone could learn what she knew, but… she’s a witch.
He turned to his left, intending to return to the Chamber of Petitions, but he saw Salvator pacing along the portico at the entrance to the Third Courtyard toward the stables, and he angled aside to intercept his colleague.
“When I was a boy, I believed in magic,” he said abruptly as he caught up to the Italian. “In church, I always like the stories about miracles and portents. And at home, I always pestered Philo to tell me the old stories about the Olympians and the heroes of ancient Hellas. But somewhere along the way, I suppose I stopped believing. Fighting the Eranians, seeing ships in the sky, cannons, ironclad frigates, seireiken swords… It seemed like there wasn’t room left in the world for magic. Of course there were still wonders everywhere, but not miraculous ones. But this girl.” He shook his head.