Baba Yaga squatted in the threshold, as gaunt and tattered as the spirit of famine. She leaned on her filthy pestle that was as thick around as both of Ingrid's arms. Two huge, black mastiffs waited at her side. Both bared their yellow fangs, and Ingrid could feel their growls, low and sullen, vibrating through the air.

"I have need of you, woman," she said, and Ingrid could see the black iron of her teeth as she spoke.

Ingrid stiffened. This place was all bone and blood, and she was in danger. She knew that. But she also knew boundaries had been crossed here, and wrong had been done. It made a difference.

"So I gathered," she said simply, and tried to hold back her relief at being able to speak. The witch's regard seemed to have made her more solid, more real in this place of horrors and fancies, and that idea sent a tremor of fear through Ingrid.

"I will not be brooked." The witch thumped her pestle on the floor, and the whole house shuddered. "Aid me and you will have aid in return. Cross me and you will be held until you yield. There is nothing else."

"What could you possibly need me for?" Ingrid spread her hands.

"You will find me the Vixen and bring back what she has stolen from me. When that is done, you may depart."

"I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Nonetheless. You will do this thing I ask."

The words fell against Ingrid like a weight, pressing her down until it was a struggle to think of anything else. Images of foxes and meadows, and a round green hill flashed unbidden through her mind, and she remembered with crystal clarity the creature who had spoken to her when she was here before, who had sent her off to the Old Witch, just to see what would happen. She knew all at once that her other half could lead her to the Vixen again, and she would do this thing because the Old Witch bade her, and because she could do nothing else.

But there was the crossing of boundaries, that bit of wrong, that bit of freedom.

"No," said Ingrid.

Baba Yaga pointed one long, crooked finger at Ingrid. On either side of her, the mastiffs raised their hackles. "I give you this last warning, woman. I know your name, I know your future and your past. I see the warp and weft of your tapestry life. Without me, your death is sure. Think carefully before you wake my anger."

It was too much, it was too strange and the fear of it too great. Despite that, she would not place herself in the power of this creature, this hag. She could not. But she could not move.

Then the witch's head went up as if she had caught some strange scent. She bared her iron teeth in a death's head grin.

"So, your man thinks to take a hostage. Thinks to have and keep what is mine in exchange for you."

Avanasy? Some caution outside herself kept Ingrid from saying his name out loud.

Baba Yaga snapped her teeth and they came together with a hollow clang.

"You try my patience, you two. This is the second time you have refused me and he has tried to pull you from me. Very well." She turned her black, black gaze on Ingrid, and for a moment Ingrid felt she would burn to a cinder from the heat of it. "There will be a third time, and you will beg to do my bidding, because only I know how the Firebird may be caged. Go freely. I am done with you. Now, you may see if you can find your own way home."

At those words, Ingrid found she could not stay still. The dogs advanced, snarling. The house lifted itself up onto its legs, and without feeling her own movement, she was outside the gate, which swung shut with the slow straining of dry and rusted hinges.

And they all faded away, leaving her alone beside a brook in a piney wood staring at her own double.

Avanasy? she choked. Her voice was gone again. What substance she had possessed had dissolved, leaving behind only vapor and desperate sensibility.

What am I to do? she thought toward her double, and knew that other self was consumed with anxiety. Why can't you speak to me?

For a moment, she thought to cross the brook that separated them, but as soon as it entered her mind, the thought filled her with loathing. It was more wrong to go closer to her reflection than it was her being here in the first place. She did not know why this was so, only that it was.

Ingrid wished she could cry. She wished she could scream, but all releases seemed denied her. Already, she was drifting, pulled by some current she could not feel. It was as if the bank flowed and the brook stayed still.

No! She steeled herself again. No!

That act seemed to root her in place, at least for a moment. It occurred to Ingrid that if she failed to will herself to some destination, her destination might be chosen for her, and who knew what else was out here. It might even be worse than Baba Yaga.

Ingrid lifted her eyes to her other self, and wrapped her determination around herself. She willed herself to turn, to follow the current of the brook at her feet. Her other self turned with her, and together, side by side in the silence that this spirit land enforced, they began to travel downstream.

Avanasy ached. His hand ached from holding his knife. His shoulder burned from the blow it had taken. His soul ached from seeing Ingrid still and lifeless on the sands.

His prisoner's body pulled against the iron knife that held him pinned, and his encased spirit pulled against Avanasy's command enforced by that iron. He pulled toward his mistress, and his mistress would know it soon, if she did not already. Grimly, Avanasy held on, because to let go would be to leave Ingrid alone. Overhead, the stars wheeled toward morning, and his pain settled into his bones, and he still held on.

Then, the rider lifted his head as if he heard a distant sound.

"Your woman is free," he said. "You may not hold me any longer."

"But she has not returned," croaked Avanasy. His hand had begun to go numb with cold and effort. All he could feel now was the pain that throbbed in time to his heartbeat.

"My mistress did not take her," sneered the knight. "And now my mistress does not hold her. You have no more right to me, and even your iron cannot claim me."

The pull which Avanasy had fought all night turned into a sudden wrench, and Avanasy cried out, but he could not hold on and the rider tore himself free. Before Avanasy could stumble to his feet to try to strike out again, the rider snatched his black javelin up from the ground where it had fallen, and was gone.

For a moment, Avanasy only stared at the suddenly empty night. Then, he roared out in wordless frustration and stabbed his knife deep into the ground. But it changed nothing. Ingrid's body still lay abandoned.

He crawled to her side and cradled her head against his chest. He had to think. He must think clearly. Where could she be now? What path could she have taken? The Rider said Baba Yaga had not to pulled her forth. This must be true or by the laws that governed bargains between the mortal world and the Land of Death and Spirit he would not have been able to break the hold Avanasy placed on him. All the magics Avanasy knew were for binding that which was already together. He knew no spell to call a spirit back into its body. Not a divided spirit. Even if he could go in search of her, could he find her in the vastness of the Silent Lands? Did he have the strength to walk that road now?

"Oh, Ingrid," he breathed as he held her yet more tightly. "I will try. I must. But, love, help me to find you."

Ingrid felt the current again, a gentle undertow to her awareness. At first, she tried to steel herself against it, but then she realized this current had a familiar touch. She looked across to her other self and that other self nodded once.

Avanasy.

Ingrid pushed forward. The world around her had grown thick and sluggish again. She was no longer vapor as she had been, but nor was she yet solid. Movement was difficult, even with the current. She had weight now, but not flesh. Will, but not strength, and she was growing tired.

Help me. Love, reach for me. Please, I'm here.

Soft, so soft Avanasy almost did not feel it, Ingrid's breath blew across his hand. He froze, his heart pounding, but no other breath came. He chafed her wrist gently. "Here, love. Here, please, I am here."

He pressed two fingers against her wrist, and felt the tiniest trace of living warmth. Beyond that, there was the flutter of a heartbeat, and another. But that was all.

"Yes. Here." He drew her even closer. "Here."

Her breath touched his cheek again, and her chest rose and fell, once, and again.

"Yes." He kissed her mouth, breathing into her with his breath, and willing her with all his strength to find her way home.

Weight and form, distant but real. Ingrid felt her sluggish blood in the netting of her veins, the frame of her bones and the binding of her sinews. But it was all too far away, and she was so tired. What had she done to become so tired? She could not reach out, but she knew where her hands were. She could not cry out, even though now she knew where her voice lay. She was weighted down with weariness and fear, struggling through a world that grew thicker with each passing instant.

But then, then, she felt Avanasy's kiss, and she felt her being, flesh and spirit, yearn to respond, but she did not know how.

But the weight was hers, and the will was hers, and she could feel her hand. She would raise her hand, she would touch him. She would hold him. She would.

Avanasy, almost not believing what he saw, watched, filled with hope and fear, as Ingrid's hand struggled to lift itself.

"Yes." He kissed her again. "Yes, love. Come back to me."

Ingrid felt herself sinking into the ground, into the weight of her flesh, into the sluggish flow of her own blood, and into Avanasy's embrace. She was still so cold, so far away, and yet, too, she felt the warmth of her bones gathering around her. She could raise her hand now, could touch his cheek, and feel its warmth and roughness underneath her palm as her hand traced its way down his back to his shoulder to his arm to his hand where he held her. She kissed him and held him close, for if he let her go now she would fly away again.

"Hold me, hold me," she said and she knew she spoke with her true voice. Avanasy gathered her close in his arms, kissing her endlessly, taking her breath, breathing again into her. She felt him weary, and in pain, yet she also knew his desire quickened his blood, as her desire quickened hers, growing insistent, pulling her home, and she embraced him, wrapping his hands around her so he might caress her, the warmth and strength of his touch bringing her closer to him still.

She had no other thought - no care for propriety, or fear of abandonment. She wished him close, wished no barrier between them, and he knew her need and he laid her down and covered her and she was able to wrap herself around him so that they could lie close, and closer yet, and she knew nothing but joy, and she opened her eyes and she saw Avanasy and she was whole and alive and for that one moment they were together in life and love, and the morning star shone down from a brightening sky, and Ingrid knew this was all the blessing that they would ever need. This was their true marriage, whatever ceremony might come afterward.

For a while after that she slept. She woke at last to the dawn, and the feel of Avanasy stroking her hair. She turned to look up at him, and found him gazing down at her, and his cheeks were wet with tears.

"You found me," she rasped, her voice dry in her throat.

Avanasy shook his head. "No, you found your own way. I think it must be ever so with you."

She took his hand to still it and also to pull herself up. She was covered in sand, and hungry as a bear, but she didn't care. "Do you know what happened?"

"I think I do. I think that touch of the ghost that troubled your sister loosened your soul from your body."

Not even reflex made her say that was impossible. She was far beyond doubting any word he spoke of sorceries and spirit. "But ... why now? It's been months."

"Until now you have not been in a place where magic and spirit dwelt openly, and I brought you here without thought."

"Can you ... undo this?"

"No," he said simply and bitterly. "Not yet. I do not understand it. It should not be possible. I would have to consult with ... others. A way may be found. Until then, though, I think I can bind you together so that the danger is at least lessened."

"Then we had better do that. I do not want to see that ... old witch again anytime soon, thank you very much." She wondered if she should tell him what Baba Yaga had said, about seeing her future and her past, but she looked in his eyes and saw how much he already blamed himself for what was happening, and how real his pain, physical and spiritual, was. She decided to wait. The witch sought to discomfort her, and him. She thought to frighten Ingrid into doing her bidding.

Ingrid set her jaw. Well, I for one will not play into your hands.

But those thoughts made Ingrid shiver, and a small voice in the back of her mind wondered if somehow they had been overheard.

Chapter Twelve.

The house guard captain gave his horse its head, guiding the animal only with his knees while he raised his javelin. As the horse raced by the posts that had been set up on Vaknevos's great, green lawn, the captain neatly spitted the small brass rings hanging from their threads - one, two, three, four. He missed the fifth, but wheeled the horse tightly around and sent it galloping back to capture the fifth ring. Holding his javelin high for the roar of approval from the assembled nobles and courtiers, he walked his sweating horse up to the dais with the imperial canopy, reverenced from the saddle, and dropped the rings into a heap of similar trinkets at the emperor's feet.

Kacha acknowledged the gesture with a bow of his head. At his back, the lords master laughed over their various wagers. Ambassador Girilal, for whose benefit this display ostensibly had been arranged, applauded politely before reaching again for the tiny cup of clear, peppery liquor set out on the refreshment tray for him. Girilal was developing quite a taste for the stuff, Kacha noted. It was a taste that perhaps should be nurtured.

Out on the lawn, the servants had hung fresh rings from the waiting posts. The invited guests who did not merit a spot on the dais milled about behind the temporary fences of blue-and-gold ribbons while other servitors dispensed drinks and dainties among them. When all was ready, Nausha, the commander of the Imperial House Guard, raised his hand, sending the next officer charging out.

"These seem a well-trained and disciplined group," remarked Girilal. "I confess, I am quite impressed."

"I was myself when I first saw them," Kacha acknowledged. The officer on the field had tossed aside his pike with its catch of rings and drawn his sword. Riding back down the lawn at full tilt, he clove a spitted apple neatly in twain as he thundered past.

Kacha lifted his cup to the officer as he wheeled the horse again to take aim at another set of apples already stuck into place. "We have taken great care to keep them actively employed so that they will be ready for whatever may come."

"A wise policy," said Girilal blandly. "Especially in a land known for its fractious provinces."

Kacha pursed his lips. On the field, the officer slashed left and right, never once missing his mark. The cheers rose up to shake the day. "Not so fractious as you might believe. This empire offers great advantages in peace and security for those who accept their part in her."

"And, of course, they nurture great love for their empress." Girilal nodded toward the empty chair that stood at Kacha's left side. "And her soon-to-be heir."

"Of course," acknowledged Kacha, and his right hand twitched. Girilal was probing, but for what?

The officer on the field finished his run and rode his sweating horse sedately past the imperial dais to make his reverence and receive the nod of approval in return. Behind them, there was more laughter, and more wagers proposed and accepted. They were content, his council lords. Regular meetings in the room fitted out with Yamuna's carpet kept their minds calm. The ranks of the House Guard swelled, and the newer officers could be safely charged with keeping order among the oblasts and the cities. Eventually, they could be trusted with more extensive duties, should such be necessary. There where whispers, here and there, of potential difficulties that would have to be dealt with, if what was to come could not sufficiently distract the troublemakers.

On the lawn, the setup for the next run was complete. The council lords finished their current round of betting to watch the next officer. Girilal reached again for his liquor cup.

In that moment of relative stillness, a very different cry rang out across the lawn. This was no soldier's bellow as he charged, no shout of triumph from a betting noble. This was a harsh, rattling cry torn from a worn throat desperate to be heard.

"News! News!"

Hoofbeats thudded across the lawn. Exclamations rose from the assembled crowd. Commander Nausha barked two orders and a rank of mounted officers assembled themselves in front of the dais while the armed guard that flanked the emperor and the council came at once to attention, their hands slapping onto the pommels of their swords.

A single rider careened across the lawn. Foam flew from the horse's mouth, and the rider slumped low across its neck as if he lacked the ability to hold himself upright. Yet, he mustered the strength to cry again.

"News! Imperial Majesty! News!"

Commander Nausha rapped out another order and the front rank of horsemen moved forward to intercept the rider, but Kacha got to his feet.

"Hold!" he called. "Let him approach!"

Another order rang out. Smartly, the mounted ranks parted to let the stranger enter the Imperial presence, but none of the soldiers on the dais removed their hands from their swords, nor did Commander Nausha relax at all.

As the rider drew nearer, it could be seen he wore the black coat and green trim of the Sol'uyche oblast, one of the most southern provinces. His boots were caked with mud, and more mud spattered his coat and helmet. He had lost one glove and that hand, where it clenched the reins, had been slashed and battered and fresh blood oozed out between the scabs.

The crowd on the lawn had gone completely still. Only the horses stamped and shifted restlessly, jingling their harnesses and snorting out their disapproval.

The rider halted his trembling, sweating horse and lifted a paper white face to Kacha and the assemblage on the dais. He tried to lift his naked hand to make the reverence, but Kacha waved the gesture away.

"Imperial Majesty," the man gasped. "I am come from the border. From Miateshcha. My commander sent me across into Hung Tse to see ..." He tried to draw a deep breath and it ended in a rattling cough. "Hung Tse is sending its troops on the border. I overheard a band of raiders. They said ..." Again, his words were lost in a wracking cough. "They said there would soon be no work for them to do, because the soldiers of the Heart of the World would level all before them." He managed to take one shaky breath. "I have ridden many days to bring you word, Imperial Majesty ..."

The man's strength gave out at last, and he slumped forward over his horse's neck. Commander Nausha glanced at Kacha for permission, which Kacha gave with a sharp nod. Nausha ordered forward a clutch of soldiers who gently slipped the rider off his horse and bore him away. Another took charge of the trembling beast and led it after its master. Its head hung so low that its mane all but brushed the ground.

But Kacha had no time to think more on the fallen rider. Behind him, the voices of the council were rising from murmurs to demands for explanation. The crowd on the field sounded like the surging of the ocean.

He lifted his voice to carry across the field. "This is grave news indeed. The empress must be alerted at once. But be sure," he raised his hands, "no threat to Isavalta will go unanswered!"

"Strike them down!" shouted someone from the crowd.